#also i love when he wears the dressing gown with clients

[doingbad]

CLIENT: I didn't help you solve the case.

HOLMES: No, but you did much more than that. It was your timely warning [plot spoiler] saved the life of my dear friend and colleague, Doctor John H. Watson.

WATSON: That's very nice of you, old man.

HOLMES: Thereby enabling us to continue our long and happy association together.

[mountainsandmayhem]

BDSMaid - Chapter 6

Series Summary: After recently graduating you take what is supposed to be a job to save money before you go back to university to get your law degree. Your best friend offers you a job cleaning luxury homes for clients you’ll never know. Easy. Simple. Mundane. Until one of your clients is home and everything you felt was missing in your life starts to fall into place. This goes against the NDA you signed and you could get fired. Or worse, you could fall in love. 

CW: 18+ MDNI. In order to avoid spoilers, all tags are under the cut in small red lettering. Reader does have some body descriptions so more of an oc than female reader.

AN: I don't think I understood the term "labour of love" until right now. I'm emotionally exhausted yet so fucking proud at the same time. Thank you @lotusbxtch for fixing all my grammar and formatting. I also couldn't of done this without @mermaidgirl30 , @littlevenicebitch69, @alltheirdamn, and @for-a-longlongtime (even if you did just try to distract me with Santi the entire time LOL)

Word Count: 14.6k (sorry, grab a snack or two)

Series Masterlist | My Masterlist | AO3

CW: use of petnames, mention of losing a spouse, mentions of child abuse (mostly verbal), use of nick names (baby, sweet girl, etc.), dirty talk, spanking, sexual activity in public, kissing, protected p in v, oral (female receiving), consumption of alcohol, mutual pining, mentions of falling in love, Dom/sub dynamics.

You: 911, I need to go buy a dress, but ya’ll can’t ask me what it’s for Laren: no strings attached shopping? Fuck yeah!  You: I’m serious though Laren: Dude, I won’t ask you as long as you don’t ask about the hickey on my neck Jamie: Damn, my dad’s in California so I can’t leave the office. You: hmm…maybe we just tell each other one secret each Laren: oh sorry, forgot I have to vacuum my cat today, can’t shop You: fine, no asking about the hickey. Pick you up at noon? Jamie: Have fun. I need a sugar daddy. Odette: booo! I’m studying. Someone alert me when we learn about the hickey. 

You

Laren’s jaw drops as you step out of the dressing room, the soft silk of the floor length black gown skims against your body. Your eyes trail down the thin straps along your shoulders and down the deep v that sits low on your sternum. You’ve never appreciated your small breasts until now. The risque cut has a soft and romantic feel. Somehow, so does the long slit up your one leg, stopping much higher than most black tie venues would find acceptable. You spin to take in the way the silk dips low on your back. Yeah, Joel Miller is going to love this. 

“You look stunning. I’m not gonna ask, but whoever you’re wearing that for is going to fall in love with you. I might fall in love with you.”

You laugh at her, watching as she tugs the collar of her sweater up to cover the very prominent purple hickey on her pulse point. If only she knew how ridiculous that statement really was. Joel Miller, your dom, falling in love with you. It’s impossible. 

The big box that you stuffed the small, pink and bedazzled box in snickers in your mind then taunts you in her uppity British accent. He loves you, remember how he held your hand so tenderly through that last orgasm? “It’s a date”, “It’s only you”. 

You shake your head and run your hands down your torso and hips, the silk feeling like water under your hands. 

“Wow, that dress was made for you.” The peppy store clerk says as she rounds the corner to the dressing room. “Oh! I have just the accessory, if you don’t mind me showing you?”

You nod and then look over at Laren through the mirror. The two of you haven’t been friends for that long, but it doesn’t take a genius to realize she’s not wearing her massive engagement ring, plus that giant love bite; something is off. “I’m not gonna ask about the hickey, but are you ok?”

“Ya - I’m fine, why?” Her phone goes off in her purse for what feels like the hundredth time since you picked her up. She hasn’t looked at it once and this newest alert doesn’t change that.  

“No reason. I’m here for you though. I hope you know that.” The corners of her mouth lift, but that vivacious sparkle in her eye doesn’t make an appearance. 

You spend longer than you ever had getting ready on Friday. You’ve shaved, exfoliated and moisturized every inch of your skin. You painted your fingers and toes with a fresh coat of pearly white polish, noticing that the skin around your cuticles on your hands isn’t picked clean. For the first time in your life, your anxiety hasn’t needed its usual outlet; picking and pushing at your nails until they’re clean. Even with the last few days kicking your ass, Mister Miller made it better, made you better.

After about three hours, you’ve completed the look: big loose curls, one side pinned behind one ear with a gold clip, exposing the soft slope of your neck that Joel loves to press his lips to. You’ve opted for a neutral glam look; a light smokey grey eye, flirty lashes, a touch of blush and highlighter and a nude lip. 

You keep the jewelry simple, just thin gold hoop earrings and two dainty golden chains, the accessories that the sales girl picked out. The first chain is the longest; one end loops tight to your throat then lays down your sternum, a small clip on the other end holds it in place to the lacy black thong you bought for the occasion. The second chain wraps around your exposed thigh. A few small crystals dangle off the garter. It feels perfect for a sex club, almost like you’re being tied up in gold. 

After wrapping the gift you bought for Joel today you debate taping the dress in place. It’s a sex club, surely a nip slip isn’t the worst thing that can happen. However, Joel would probably forcefully remove anyone who got a peek. As tempting as it is to witness that, you decide to save his sanity for one more day and after placing the last piece of tape you hear the rev of his engine coming down your street. Butterflies erupt in your stomach, it’s been weeks since you’ve heard that sound. That deep rumble will probably always fill you with an excited anticipation of seeing Mister Miller. 

You agreed to let him pick you up tonight since Odette is out. You slip your perfectly pedicured toes into black heeled sandals, working the small golden buckle around the ankle quickly as Joel’s shiny black Jag parks in front of your building. You watch from the window as he gets out of the driver's side door, flowers wrapped in brown paper clutched in his hand. A man that size doesn’t look like he’d fit in that sleek sports car. 

Even from your birdseye view from the fourth floor he looks absolutely gorgeous. You’re sure once he’s right in front of you he’ll be devastatingly handsome, especially once he’s added the gift you got him. Similar to you, he’s in all black tonight. 

The beep of his car locking and the buzz of your door go at the same time and you excitedly hit the button to let him up. It feels like hours before there’s a light knock on your front door. After a shaky breath, you open the door.

Fuuuuuck me, you think as you take him in and actively stop yourself from drooling.

He looks as hot as sin dressed in all black, the lapels of the jacket and the tie slightly silky against the flat black of the rest of his clothing. He’s the living, breathing epitome of JMKink right now. Dressed like that matte black letterhead he still leaves you notes on when you clean for him. You lick your lips as your eyes trail back up his tie. Fuck, you want him to wrap it around your wrists. 

He steps into your front entrance and the apartment feels so much smaller; almost like he takes up every bit of space and simultaneously sucks all the air out of you. His hair is parted to the side, trimmed neatly around his ears, curls perfectly placed. You’re sure it was effortless on his part, just running his fingers through it after getting out of the shower, towel wrapped low on his hips. Your mouth waters as you continue to just stare at one another. 

Joel

“Wow,” he finally manages to rasp. His throat feels like it's full of sand all of a sudden. He clears it gently before continuing. “You look…you’re always beautiful, but you are…”

His eyes travel up and down your body again, he’s feeling lost for words which is not something that happens to him often. He watches your bottom lip slip between your teeth, waiting for him to form a thought.

“Sorry, sweet girl, I need a second here.” He places the bouquet of wildflowers on the small table at the entry then reaches out towards you. He actually feels like he might die if he doesn’t kiss you soon. The whorls and calluses of his fingers drag down the warm, soft skin of your arm gently before he closes his hand around yours. Usually, he loves how small your hand looks in his, but he’s finding it impossibly hard to break eye contact with you right now. As he steps in closely you smile sweetly at him and he’s surrounded by the smell of mint, lavender and something distinctly you. “You look life-alteringly gorgeous. I’m not sure if that’s a word, but wow, Freckles.”

You place your free hand on his chest and he’s sure you can feel how hard his heart is pounding behind his chest. Fuck, he wouldn’t be surprised if you could hear his heart at this point. He cups your face with his other hand and presses his lips to yours, reveling in the way you melt into him, parting your lips and letting him deepen the kiss. He swallows the quiet moan that you make just for him. You pull away too quickly for him, an excited smile across your face.

“I got you something!” You spin and he’s left breathless again by the low back of the dress and the way the silk skirt sways with your hips. 

“You didn’t have to do that,” he says, following you into the living area of your small apartment. “I don’t want you spending your money on me, sweetheart.”

You spin again and his cock twitches as he catches just how high the slit of the skirt is, and the golden jewelry wrapped around your thigh. In your hands is a large, light brown box tied with a black ribbon. “Technically, I spent your money on you,” you say with a wink. “Open it.”

He steps in close, watching your face go from excited to downright giddy as he pulls at the ribbon. He slips the lid off the box and stares down at the exact same black Stetson that he sent with Tiffany. His heart stops beating as the memories, both good and bad, flood through him. This is the same hat he wore the night he met her, the night of their first date, the night he told her he loved her for the first time, the night he married her. Joel Miller doesn’t believe in signs from the universe, but this? This is something. 

No, he thinks as emotions start to clog his throat. This was Tiffany. 

He blinks away the tears that threaten to form behind his eyes and whispers your name. “Thank you, sweetheart. I - I used to have a hat just like this.”

When he looks back at you your brows are furrowed together, a genuine curiosity across your face. “Used to?”

He clears his throat again, “Yea, it’s complicated, but this - this means more to me than you could ever know.”

He slips his hands into the box, the felt of the brim spreads a warm comfort up his hands and forearms. He swallows hard as he realizes it’s the same comfort he feels when he has you in his arms. 

Oh my god…I think, no, I know. I love you.

It hits him so hard that he has to clutch the hat tighter in his hands to ground himself as he pulls it from the box. He knew he was falling, he knew the second he saw you. He can’t push it down anymore. 

“I’m sorry if I overstepped, Joel.”

He turns the hat over in his hands, the black satin liner exactly like his old one. He looks up at you, no longer able to stop the smile or the tears that flood his lash line. Your lips part as your eyes dance around his. 

“No, baby, you didn’t. I’ve, well, I’ve been really missing this hat lately.”

“You gonna try it on, cowboy?” The sultry flirtiness of your voice feels sweet on his skin and after a shallow breath he brings the hat up to his head. As the satin slips over his hair a calm confidence washes over him. His eyes meet yours and your flirty smile turns shy as you blush under his gaze. He’s whole again. 

“So?”

“I’m gonna have to fight the women off, I think.” You say softly.

He laughs, moving the box from your hands back to the table and then cradling your face in his hands. “I’ll only be looking at one woman, my sweet girl.” His lips meet yours gently, your tongue swiping softly against his lip as your slant into the kiss. 

I love you.

You

You weren’t sure what kind of reaction you’d get from Joel giving him the hat, but his eyes welling up and his breathing getting all shaky was not what you expected. Something about that hat called to you when you saw it. When you picked it up, the soft felt against your palms reminded you of how it feels to be in Joel’s hands. 

He breaks the kiss with a sigh and glances around your apartment. Months ago you would have felt shy or self conscious about Joel in your space, so wholly different from his, but he has never judged you for anything, and you feel yourself becoming more and more comfortable with him which is not a feeling you’re used to. His eyes fall to the scratched wooden coffee table that you got for free from Craigslist.

“You have college letters,” he says proudly, looking back at you.

Your arms cross across your body subconsciously, like they’re trying to shield you from the possibility of being rejected again. “Ya, the last two came today. I’ll open them later.”

“Baby, let's open them! It could be good news.”

He looks so goddamn handsome, in a suit that probably costs more than the entire contents of your apartment and his new black Stetson hat. His expression is encouraging, that same look from his kitchen when you ate some toast; prideful and empathetic. 

“I’m scared,” you almost blurt, wishing you could be smoother with this man. “I don’t want to ruin tonight. If these are both no’s, I don’t know how great of company I’ll be tonight.”

“Freckles, I’m not going to force you into anything you don’t want. But I think you’ll be thinking of the letters either way.”

“Ah, my consent stands even for mail,” you joke.

“Well, it's a federal offense to open someone else's mail so…” Joel winks and flashes a devastating smile your way. 

“Ok,” you close your eyes and take a deep breath. He’s right, you’ll be wondering all night what those letters say, and Joel has a way of making you forget, making you feel understood, important and cared for. “Do it.”

As if he’s a child on Christmas morning and you just gave him the ok, he snatches up the University of Austin and Berkeley letters, almost vibrating as he says, “Which one first?”

You start to pace the few steps of your living room, wringing your hands together as your heels click on the cheap laminate hardwood. “Austin, I’ll be less upset by a no from them.”

The tear of the envelope sounds like a dagger to the ribs as you go to grab the flowers Joel brought for you, desperate for something to do besides stand there. 

“It’s a thick envelope..” Joel says as he slides the letter out.

“Ya, I’ve learned that that doesn’t mean shit,” You say sardonically.

Joel laughs in surprise, “Always shocks me to hear that pretty little mouth swear.”

“Yea?” You ask, “Open the fucking letter, you’re killing me.”

Joel snorts as his strong fingers gingerly fold open the letter. His eyes shoot to yours, “You got in!”

“W-What?” You drop the flowers on the counter top and cover your mouth.

“Sweet girl, you got in. I’m - I’m so fucking proud of you.”

You stand frozen on the spot. It’s not the school you wanted, you want Berkeley, but it doesn’t matter what that letter says now, because either way, you’re going to be a lawyer.

“Oh my god,” you breathe as Joel's arms pull you in for a tight hug.

“Congratulations, baby girl.” His lips press to hair and you start to laugh. “What’s so funny?”

You both part from the hug as you fight to stop tears of pure joy from ruining your makeup. “It’s just…you know, for a second there I actually thought that I wasn’t smart enough. Me? I have a 4.0, I graduated early, I’ve been top of my class for years and I actually thought that I wouldn’t get in.”

Joel's eyes dance, a big smile across his face as he watches you fill a vase. “Open the other one.”

He keeps his eyes on you as he opens the next letter. As he folds open the thick eggshell coloured paper you plunge the flowers into the cold water, his face drops and you prepare yourself for the worst, “You got in. Baby, you - you got in.”

You - Four Years Prior

“So what? You think that getting into your fancy university in Texas means you can just leave Arizona whenever you please? Your mom needs you, you can’t just leave.” Your dad is in his patchwork recliner, a beer in his hand despite it being nine in the morning. The hot June morning heating the small house to an uncomfortable stifle. 

“I’ve contributed as much as I can, dad. Two months from now I’m not going to have any time to myself. I deserve some time doing what I want.”

Your dad snorts, legs slamming the leg rest down on the recliner. “You’re an ungrateful little bitch, aren’t you?”

That should sting, it would to anyone else, but you’ve been called every name possible by your father. You see him now for what he truly is, a loser. He can’t hold a job, hasn’t been able to for years. When you were younger, you thought you were the apple of his eye. He’d show up to every school function, every award ceremony, all the little things. You were eight when you realized he didn’t even speak to you at those functions, just walked around bragging about how he was the reason you’ve achieved whatever you were being celebrated over. It was his time to shine, his award, not yours.

“I’m going,” you say, hoisting your duffle bag of clothing over your shoulder. You’ve always wanted to go back to California. You went once with your mother when you were nine or ten, and the minute you got to the beach and felt the warm sand between your toes everything went quiet. It’s called out to you ever since.

As you spin towards the front door you hear the groan of your dad standing up. Fear spikes in your veins, your heart slamming in your ribs. He’s never hit you, but with the redness of his face as he called you names this morning you wouldn’t put it past him. 

“Like fuck you are!” He bellows as a hard object strikes the back of your head, followed by warm liquid soaking through the back of your t-shirt.

One of your hands cups the back of your head as you bolt towards your recently purchased, and slightly rusted, SUV. “Get back in here right now you little cunt! You stole money from me for that vehicle, didn’t you?”

You can’t help but laugh as you get in the front seat. You don’t bother locking the doors, you know he’s barely out the front door without looking. He’s not strong enough, and definitely too drunk, to overpower you. You throw the vehicle into reverse and yell out the window, “You don’t have any money for me to steal, Doug!”

You hit his first name hard, knowing damn well how much it will enrage him. You drive away without looking back, and you only stop once for gas for the next ten hours. 

The sun is setting as you reach the motel in Newport Beach. You head straight for the beach, kicking off your sandals and letting your feet sink into the cool sand. Your phone vibrates in your pocket, “Mom” across the screen in bold letters.

“Hi,” you say sheepishly, still feeling like a child even though you aren’t.

“Get our ass home, right fucking now. You’re supposed to be contributing to this family and somehow you had enough money to buy a car? And a trip to California? Mark my words, young lady. If you don’t walk back through that door by this time tomorrow, I will come there and get you myself!”

A lump forms in your throat. You’ve spent your whole childhood trying to get them to see you. Contributing? None of your friends had to contribute, they all got to be kids. You’re going to be making a lot of money as a lawyer one day, and they can go fuck themselves if they think they’re getting a single penny of that money.

“I’m afraid I won’t be doing that, mother.”

“You’re in for a rude fucking awakening, little girl. Just because you were the smartest person here, does not mean you’ll be the smartest person anywhere else. The world is going to chew you up and spit you out, and your father and I will not be here to fix you.”

“I don’t see how that’s any different than now. Good bye.”

You hang up before she can respond and look out over the water. The sun is setting in a kaleidoscope of peaches, marigolds and lavenders. You block your parents' numbers before snapping a picture of the sunset and setting it as your background. A sense of calm washes over you as the waves crash along the shore. You walk towards the water and dip your feet in, the water washing away the last eighteen years of your life. You’re free.

You - Present Day

A whispered ‘holy shit’ is all you can muster as realization washes over you. Your dream school - and you got in. You can go to the beach and listen to the ocean, feel the sand under your feet. You can feel as free as you did almost four years ago. You lock eyes with Joel. Can you really leave him? 

“I can’t believe I got in. To two schools. I’m going to be a lawyer.” Excitement floods your body. You can worry about deciding later, even though deep down you already know what you're going to choose. Right now, you can just be happy and proud. He reaches a hand out to you and you step into the living room to take it. He pulls you in, wrapping you in his strong arms. 

“I know I said this already, but I am so god damn proud of you, sweet girl. No one deserves this more than you. I want to celebrate this with you soon, please?”

“Well,” you say with a hint of mischief, pulling back to look at him, “We are going to be at the club.”

His eyes flash with something you’ve never seen before. “Ya - the club.”

“Oh my god. We’re late, Joel!” You push out of his hold. This is his big night, his five year anniversary of owning his club.

“Baby, stop,” he pulls you into his arms again and cups your face. “I don’t care. Just let me kiss you until you need to reapply that lipstick, and then we can go.” His lips crash passionately into yours. “I’m so fucking proud of you, sweet girl,” he gasps between kisses.

Joel wasn’t lying. He really did kiss you until your lips were swollen and you had to touch up not only your lipstick but the bit of highlighter on your nose; he also needed to participate, taking one of your makeup wipes to his nose, chin and lips before opening the door to his Jag for you and speeding off to the club.

Upon entering the club, the two of you were separated almost immediately. Joel was whisked away to the stage where he, Tommy and who you assume is Tess are now. The stage is lit up as he gives a speech and thanks everyone. A glass of champagne is handed to you as you stand along the edge of the bar. Everyone claps and as he tries to make his way back to you is pulled into a handshake from a very wealthy looking older man. You smile into your glass of expensive pink champagne as the woman from the stage approaches you.

“Hi! I’m sorry for having to steal him the moment you two walked in.” She extends a perfectly manicured hand out to you. “I’m Tess.”

You go to introduce yourself and she cuts you off as she continues. “Oh, I know who you are. Joel will probably kill me, but we have all been very interested to meet you.”

“All?” you say, swallowing nervously.

She shrugs. “No one has ever seen him this, hmm, this relaxed before. He’s usually here or across the street barking orders. You don’t become as successful as him without a little stress, but since you came along he seems different. Happy.”

You blush, watching him engrossed in a new conversation, his eyes often meeting yours across the room. “Look,” Tess says, stepping closer and lowering her voice. “I hang around the Millers way too often and I could really use some girl talk. Is that ok?”

“Tess, if there’s one thing I’m good at, it’s girl talk.” You smile at her and then turn to the bartender. “Two tequila shots, please!”

She takes a breath, looking at Joel and then back at you. “I’m just going to cut right to the chase. I didn’t think I’d live to see the day where Joel wore a black cowboy hat again.”

You raise an eyebrow at Tess, this could be your chance to get an explanation around his response. You know you weren’t imagining his eyes getting glassy, and he did say it means more to him than he could ever tell you. “I got him that hat.” 

Tess’s jaw drops and panic rises in your chest. “What? Why? What’s wrong with the hat?” 

“Tequila first,” she says as the shots slide across the shiny black marble bar top. A shiver racks through Tess after she swallows, you don’t flinch. “I don’t know if it’s my place…”

“It’s girl talk, he’ll never know.” You state, sucking at the lime. Tess clears her throat and motions to the bartender for another round. The next time she speaks it’s a hushed, sad voice, just barely above a whisper.  

“He, umm - well, he had a hat just like that growing up. Wore it all the time actually. He had it on the night he met Tiffany, and pretty much every important day in his life since then. Their first date, their wedding. Shit, I’m pretty sure there’s a picture of Sarah as a newborn in that hat. He also wore it the last time he held her.” Her voice trails off and heartbreak for her friend lines her features. “He…she loved it so much that he sent it with her.” 

You swallow hard and glance past Tess’s shoulder to Joel across the club. The moments of time between each of your heartbeats are filled by memories of his reaction. Tess continues, “Look, maybe you're like Joel. Maybe you don’t believe in astronomy or signs from the universe, but I don’t think you finding that hat was a coincidence.”

You aren’t like Joel; you do believe in signs. You thought you were going crazy when you found that hat today. It literally called to you from inside the store. It wasn’t on display in the window. No, you heard someone call your name behind you and when you looked over your shoulder the hat was all you could see. Could that voice have been from the wife he lost too early? You catch Joel’s gaze across the room; something about him, even before you knew him, comforted you. As your mind starts running through the depth of what that hat means to him he winks, you think you might be falling for him. 

All of this means something. It has to mean something. Right? 

“Girl talk stays between us?” You ask shyly.

“Absolutely!” Tess exclaims, you like her more and more and can see yourself being very good friends with her, even if she is almost twice your age.

“Tequila first,” you say in the same way she did earlier. 

She clicks her glass against yours and then on the bar top before slamming the shot back. “I hate tequila,” she rasps while sucking the lime.

“I can’t talk to my girlfriends about this. I don’t know if you know how me and Joel met, but one of my best friends is sort of my boss and I would get fired from my job for knowing him.” Tess nods, and orders you both a glass of what you’re sure is very expensive rosé. “Sometimes Joel says things that make me feel like maybe we are more than a sub and a dom, but that’s ridiculous, right? It’s the heat of the moment.”

“Babe, do you know how long Joel has been doing this?” She asks gently.

You shake your head and take a sip of your wine.

“Years…at one point, being a dom was how he made money. He’s a professional.”

Her words feel like a lead weight in the pit of your stomach, bile starts to burn at your throat. The whiplash of thinking he’s falling, and knowing that you are, and now dealing with this is almost too much. Joel has moved onto a conversation with yet another guest. “Right, he’s good. He’s supposed to make me feel wanted. I think I’m just not used to someone being there.”

“That’s not what I’m saying,” Tess’s hand comes to grab yours, squeezing reassuringly. “Professional doms don’t say things in the heat of the moment. They don’t give false hopes. If he’s calling you his or struggling to follow limits, that’s Joel speaking, not his dom alter ego.”

The silence after her words is thick between you. He doesn’t say things in the heat of the moment? You swallow the lead weight that’s made its way from your stomach to your throat, your mind racing through all the things Joel has said to you. My sweet girl. It’s a date. It’s only you. 

“Hey,” Tess says, shaking your hand to bring you back. “This DJ sucks, should we go take over the booth?”

You smile, grateful not only for her words of wisdom but now the way she’s able to stop you from spiraling. “Yes, this is a club AND a friday afterall!”

She smiles at you mischievously as she reaches over the bar for the bottle of rosé and then links arms with you as you both practically skip to the booth. “Owning a club is so fun, I recommend everyone try it,” she proclaims through a laugh.

When you reach the booth she waltzes right up to the DJ, “We need dancing music, it’s Friday, it’s a club, and it’s a fucking party!”

“Sorry, Tess. I can’t do that. Joel wanted background music only.” The DJ, who barely looks old enough to be in a club says, his eyes wandering to the low cut of your dress. A few months ago you probably would have been endeared by that look, but you have a real man now. A real man who loves you, says the sparkling box of feelings. 

Tess snorts and then tuts at the poor guy. “Joel won’t appreciate you ogling what belongs to him like that. So play Best Friend by Saweetie or I’ll be sure to let him know.”

His eyes snap back to his booth set up, one hand held up in defeat, the other pushing a few buttons and then turning the volume dial up. You and Tess laugh, taking sips straight from the bottle as you move to the dance floor. This is what you need, a friend to help you dissect what’s been happening. A friend who understands the dom and sub relationship, but more importantly, understands Joel. Does him having feelings change how you feel about university? You’ve always seen yourself going to Berkeley, that’s been the dream, but now? 

Maybe you should just end this now before your feelings grow too far out of control. The box of feelings laughs. You have no idea how deep you are in this, do you?

Joel

I’m gonna kill that little shit. Frustration rolls through his body as the music grows louder and as he turns to shoot daggers at the DJ he sees you and Tess. Your beautiful face is lit up in a large smile as you sip directly from a $400 bottle of rosé. His anger dissipates as you move your body with a sexy sway, lost in the music. 

Joel moves towards the bar, never taking his eyes off of you. Your arms stretch over your head as you shake your ass, the slit of your dress exposing your soft thigh. His palm tingles at the thought of how good you feel against him. The smooth warmth of your leg against the rough calluses of his fingers. 

I love you. 

Joel orders a whiskey and then walks towards the edge of the dance floor, his free hand tucked into the pocket of his pants as he watches you. As the song changes your eyes find him and you crook a finger at him, when he shakes his head you stick your bottom lip out and give him big doe eyes. He shakes his head again as Tess hands you the half drank bottle of wine. The pink tone of the wine casts a romantic glow across your exposed chest as you take a small sip. His cock stirs to life in his pants, remembering how those lips felt wrapped around him. He shakes his head at you again and takes a long pull from his drink. You stick your tongue out at him and spin away from him, wiggling your hips while glancing over your shoulder. 

I fucking love you.

You spin back towards him and crook your finger at him again, mouthing ‘please?’. He stays rooted to the spot. Joel doesn’t dance, especially not to this kind of music. His heart flutters as you start to walk over to him, everything moves in slow motion, the sexy way your dress clings to your hips with each movement, the flash of your thigh, the slight bounce of your breasts with each step. It feels like hours have passed by the time you stop in front of him. 

“Please come dance with me.” You say, fluttering your lashes slightly.

He grabs the expensive bottle of wine from you and places it on the tall table beside him. “This is very expensive wine.”

“That was Tess’s doing,” you smile.

“I’m sure it was, because you’re my good girl, aren’t you?” His hand strokes your cheek and he clocks the goosebumps that rise on your skin.

“Please come dance, Mister Miller?”

“I don’t dance, sweet girl.”

You pout again and he wants to suck that perfect bottom lip between his teeth so badly. “What if you just stand there and I dance around you?”

One day he’s going to have to learn how to say no to you, but today won’t be that day. He takes the last sip from his glass and puts it beside the wine. You bounce excitedly on the balls of your feet as he holds a hand out to you. You lead the way, the dance floor now full of people, heading back towards Tess. Joel’s hands come to your hips as you grind against him for the last few bars of the song. 

A slow twang of guitar starts off the next song. Joel spins you to face him. “This I can dance to.” He whispers, pulling you in close, one hand low on your back, the other holding yours to his heart. 

You smile up at him, “Full of surprises, aren’t you, sweet cheeks?”

At this angle the brim of his hat blocks out everything except for you; not that he needs something to block out the rest of the world when he’s around you. I love you.

“For the right woman I can be, freckles.” He says warmly as you melt into his body.

The two of you continue to dance in a comfortable silence. He watches your lips as your tongue glides across them and just as he’s about to lean in and taste you you speak. “I don’t think I said this yet tonight, but congratulations. This is a huge accomplishment and I’m so proud of you and grateful that you brought me into this space. I hope it’s not too bold, but this has done exactly as I hoped. I feel - freer almost, if that makes sense.”

“Good,” his lips press to your forehead. “And thank you.”

Your neck cranes forward, towards the tangled mess of your hands against his chest. Your lips pressing to the knuckle of his thumb. The gesture shoots straight to his heart.  

“I’ve been feeling a bit bad though. You’ve had to go to two events for me this week.” You go to protest but he cuts you off. “What would you be doing tonight if it wasn’t for this?”

You hum in thought. “Any bar where there’s an open mic night or a local band.”

“That so? Do you participate in the open mic?” 

“No, absolutely not, but I enjoy music and watching people do things they’re passionate about.”

He raises an eyebrow at you. “Let’s go then.”

“What?”

“Let’s go. I’ve said thank you to all the VIP’s. Let's go do your thing.”

You

“Can we do that?” You ask, trying not to let the smile that’s pulling at your cheeks win.

Joel laughs quietly. “It’s my party, I can do what I want. They can all stay, but the longer I stay here the more I’m going to be pulled away. And you’re the only person at this party that I want to talk to.”

That’s Joel speaking, not his dom alter ego.

The boulder is growing in your throat again as you croak, “We’re dressed awfully fancy for a local bar.” 

Joel smiles down at you, his eyes soft. You start memorizing every detail of his face. Everything surrounding the two of you went fuzzy the second he pulled you into his arms. This man, dressed in all black, blurs the edges of everything around you, sucking you in and making you feel like the only person he sees. The slow country song that you didn’t even hear starts to come to end. “I don’t care. Any more concerns?”

He doesn’t care, he’ll never care, he just wants to be with you. The box of feelings that's grown exponentially over this evening inches its way out of the shadows, and you can’t deny it anymore. 

You’re falling in love with Joel Miller. 

“Let’s go,” you say, excitement replacing the lump in your throat.

Joel wastes no time, peeling your bodies apart and pulling you towards the exit. He doesn’t look back as Tommy calls his name, only stopping at the front desk to grab your purse. You feel giddy, almost as if the two of you are doing something wrong. He opens the car door for you and then hops into the driver's seat. You pull out your phone, ignoring him as he comments on your cracked screen being a hazard, and check for open mic nights, finding one in a small bar just a few streets over. 

The bar is small, about ten tables crammed together and then a few stools along the bartop. The stage is only big enough for one person, a few guitars on stands, a stool, and the mic stand. The lighting is low, different neon signs above the bar doing the majority of the work. You’re way overdressed and the looks you get from the packed bar further prove it. 

Joel pulls you through the crowd towards the bar. You were feeling slightly tipsy dancing with Tess, but there is something so sobering about being pulled into Joel's arms. And now that you’ve realized you’re falling in love with him, his next question is very welcome.

“Can I buy you a drink?”

“Yes, please.” You smile sweetly, plastering your front to Joel’s side as he squeezes into the bar. “I’ll just have whatever you’re having.”

“Two old fashioneds,” he says deeply to the bartender. You stifle a giggle, “What?”

“You just give me so much ammunition sometimes.”

He swats at your ass and then squeezes, not caring who may or may not see. It’s exhilarating getting to just be yourselves away from the club and you have a feeling you’ll quickly become addicted to this. “Mighty thin ice, baby.” 

The raspy voiced woman with crazy curly hair finishes her set as Joel pays for the drinks. It appears that most of the crowd was here to see her, a few tables free up and the place doesn’t feel so crowded. The MC for the night gets back onto the stage. 

“Alright, if anyone else wants to show us what they’ve got tonight I’ll be by the bar.” There’s a few cheers and some clapping as the bar empties out drastically, only about twenty people are left. Joel pulls out a chair for you and then sits beside you.  

“Thank you for the drink,” you say, bringing the liquid to your lips and taking a small sip. The warmth of it heats all the way down to your belly, a familiar feeling when you’re around Joel.

“Of course,” he nods, sipping his. “So? Do you come here often?”

You laugh, leaning forward on your arms, noticing the way Joel’s eyes bounce from your face to your breasts; now pushed together for him. “What a line! But no, I have never been here. I kinda like it though.”

The MC’s voice fills the room, welcoming a brave soul to the stage. A tall man in cowboy boots and a shiny buckle joins the stage, carefully picking a guitar from the rack before he begins singing. You can tell by the warmth along the side of your face that Joel is watching you and not the man on the stage. 

“He’s pretty good,” you say, looking back towards Joel. It’s almost unfair how he can still look so sexy in the neon glow of the lights above the bar. 

“Mediocre,” he says with a scoff and sips his drink.

You glance around, “Ok, well you listen to this mediocre man, I’m going to find the washroom.”

You feel Joel’s eyes on your back as you walk away. The gender neutral bathroom is surprisingly clean and you giggle to yourself at the interaction you had once Joel was no longer looking at you. You try to act natural as you head back to the table, sitting down and smiling at Joel.

His eyebrow arches, “What did you do?” 

God you hate how well he knows you. There’s no hiding anything from this man. Regardless, you stifle the fit of giggles that are right on the tip of your tongue, “Nothing! I had to pee. Is that not allowed?”

You raise your glass to your lips, trying to hide the smile as the MC heads back up to the stage. “You did something bad, I can tell.”

“Ladies and gentlemen, we have another performer tonight. Please welcome to the stage Joel Sweet Cheeks Miller.”

Joel shoots a teasing glare at you as you start hollering, “Woo! Sweet cheeks!!” You clap your hands loudly. He lets out a sigh, pushing himself up and then grabbing his drink before heading to the stage. 

He steps up, running his fingers over the guitars before choosing a black acoustic. He puts his Old Fashioned on the stool and loops the guitar over his head. Your body reacts in a way you didn’t think it would. Fire erupts on your belly, you take a sip of your drink to try to put it out but the heat of the liquor only makes it worse. He adjusts the knobs on the guitar after hitting the strings a few times and then looks up at you and crooks two fingers, calling you to him. You obey, practically floating to the man you’re falling in love with. 

Joel bends at the hip, taking his cowboy hat off and placing it on your head. His voice is a gravel filled whisper as he says, “I’m going to spank that pretty little ass of yours in that washroom you were looking for after this.”

“Yes, Mister Miller.” You rasp.

He stands back up, and clears his throat before starting. “This is, well, this is the largest audience I’ve ever played in front of so, go easy on me.”

His hand pushes back the few curls that have fallen onto this forehead before he strums at the guitar. 

If I ever were to lose you I’d surely lose myself

His voice is like stepping into a hot bath, full of warmth and comfort.

Everything I’ve found here I’ve not found by myself

He doesn’t break eye contact with you, only glancing away occasionally when he moves his fingers along the cords. 

Try and sometimes you’ll succeed To make this man of me All my stole missing parts I’ve no need for anymore

You stare up at him, lips slightly parted, as everything falls into place. 

And I believe And I believe ‘cause I can see Our future days Days of you and me

You could go to Berkeley and do great, probably middle of the pack, but you’d reach your goals. You’d become a lawyer and leave school with a handful of job offers. Or…you could stay. You could stay and be the top of your class here. You could stay and continue being with Joel. 

Back when I was feeling broken I focused on a prayer You came deep as any ocean Did something out there hear?

The box of feelings starts to vibrate, making it almost impossible to breathe.

All the complexities and games  No one wins, but somehow they still played All the missing crooked hearts They may die, but in us they live on

You’re staying. You’re going to the University of Texas at Austin School of Law.

And I believe And I believe ‘cause I can see  Our future days  Days of you and me

And just like that, the box of feelings explodes like one of those worms in a can of fake peanuts.

When hurricanes and cyclones raged When winds turned dirt to dust When floods they came, the tides they raise Even closer, became us

This wasn’t part of your plan, but you can’t let this go.

And all the promises at sundown I meant them like the rest

You hear his voice, ‘It’s only you, sweet girl’ and ‘your consent is the most important thing to me.’

All the demons used to come ‘round I’m grateful, now they’ve left.

‘Does it look like I own things that aren’t perfect’, ‘tell me, tell me you’re perfect’.

So persistent in my ways Hey, angel, I’m am here to stay

‘I’m here for you’.

No resistance, no alarms Please, this is just too good to be gone

You’re not falling in love. No, you’re already so madly, deeply, insanely in love with this man that it hurts and feels amazing all at the same time.

And I believe And I believe ‘cause I can see Our future days Days of you and me

You suck in a breath for what feels like the first time since he started singing, your chest practically heaving at the release of emotion you’re experiencing. 

You and me It’s just, you and me

You’re not sure if people are clapping, you can’t hear anything over your own voice in your head screaming out ‘I love you’ over and over again. Joel hops off the stage, his eye flashing onyx as he growls, “punishment time, my sweet girl.”

Joel

The way your eyes sparkled as he sang and the way you’re following him now, your warm fingers laced in his as he pulled you gently to the bathroom, almost have him convinced that you feel the same way he does.

He locks the door, then jiggles the handle to make sure it’s secure. He’s shared subs with other men and women, he’s used the rooms for people to watch at the club; fuck, one time he even made one sub kneel completely naked at his feet while he sat at the bar of the club. But someone seeing you, something that is all his, ignites a protectiveness that he’s only ever felt for two other women. 

You giggle mischievously as he steps close, plucking his hat off your head and placing it back on his. “What did I say I was going to do to you, baby?” 

He watches your bottom lip disappear between your teeth before you say, “You were going to spank me.” 

He spins you roughly by your hips, pulling your back flush to his chest before walking you over the pedestal style sink. He watches in the mirror at the tell tale signs of your building arousal. Your cheeks flush, the pink creeping down your neck and exposed chest. He sees the way your eyes glass over, cock drunk before even getting it. Joel loves how easy you are to turn on, loves even more that it’s just for him.

No, I just love her.

He stops, the soft light above the mirror lighting the two of you up in yellow glow. The small bathroom is clean, but dark. White and black checkered floor with white walls; hopefully thick walls, but he has ways to keep you quiet while he punishes you. 

His lips come to the exposed side of your neck, hovering just above where he can see your pulse quickening. He hears the hitch of your breath as he inhales your lavender scent. He slips into full dominant mode, keeping his voice a deep growling whisper, “Hands on the edges of the sink, sweet girl.”

You obey him without hesitation, leaning forward and wrapping your hands around the shiny white sink. His eyes lock on yours through the mirror as he fists the soft silk of your skirt. His palms tingle at the thought of getting to feel you soon and his cock jumps at the thought of your heart-shaped ass being pink with his handprints. 

As the skirt crawls to be just above your knees he says, “How many should you get for that little stunt?”

He watches the goosebumps that spread across your skin. “Five?” Your voice is sweet and innocent with the ask.

The skirt starts to hike up higher, the long slit could give him easy access, but he’s playing a role right now, and he knows that the anticipation makes it better so much better for his sub. “Not much of a lesson in five. How about ten.”

It’s not a question and he knows you know it. He’d be lying though if he said he didn’t want to see if you’d fight him just a little bit. Brat taming is not his thing; granted neither is spanking a sub he’s fallen in love with in a bathroom of a dingy bar while wearing a six thousand dollar suit. 

A shiver runs through your body as he exposes your ass. The lacy black thong sends his thoughts into overdrive. God damn, what I wouldn’t give to fuck this woman, just once. 

“Do I have your consent to spank you ten times?”

You nod, “Yes, Mister Miller.”

He takes one of your wrists in his hand and brings it back to hold your skirt up and then repositions himself to be beside you instead of behind you. He takes you in, bent over with your ass exposed, pupils blown out. Your chest rises and falls with shallow, shaky breaths. He’s going to have to keep you quiet.

A hand clamps around your lips and your eyes widen. “If you want me to stop, drop the skirt. Got it?”

You nod into his palm as the first slap fills the room. Your skin is soft and warm under his touch as he makes contact again. By the third strike, his hand around your mouth muffles a squeal. The fourth spank lands on your other cheek and a quiet husky moan rumbles against your lips and his palm.

“You’re supposed to be my sweet girl,” he taunts as another loud slap fills the room. He’s been watching you in the mirror the entire time, enjoying the way you try to keep eye contact; but now, at the halfway mark of your spanking, your eyes are hooded with need. He looks down your ass, grinding his hips into your side at the sight of his bright red handprints tattooed on your cheeks. “Fuck, you look so good all marked up.”

He spanks you again watching the jiggle of your ass and how it ripples down your leg. Your back arches as you whimper quietly. “Atta girl,” he says proudly, smiling to himself. “Three more.”

Joel administers the last three spankings quickly, two on one cheek and one on the other. The sound of his palm on your flesh goes straight to his cock each time, he’s practically rutting into your hip bone to relieve some of the ache. He’s given a lot of spankings in his time as a dom and his body has never reacted this way. I’m so goddamn in love with her, I should keep spanking her for making me feel like that, but if I don’t taste her right now I’m going to go insane. 

His hand grabs your skirt while his other drops from your face. Your breaths come in fast, like you just ran a marathon. He guides you to stand and then spins you around, a hiss leaves your lips, “It’s cold,” you whisper, making eye contact with him. 

He takes his hat off and places it on your head before kneeling down in front of you.

You

The cool porcelain soothes the delicious burn along your ass, but the burn quickly spreads through your body as the man you’ve realized you’re in love with kneels in front of you. His voice has an edge of desperation as he says, “I need to taste you, please baby.”

What is he doing to me? He has to know what he’s doing to you, right? Did he mean the lyrics of that song or is it just the only song he knows? However, at this moment, you’re just as desperate for him. 

“Yes,” you nod frantically as you speak, “Mister Miller. Please.’

His mouth connects with your lace covered cunt. Licking over the thin fabric, teasing you with light but mind numbing pressure. Joel Miller always looks good, tall and broad, tanned skin that crinkles slightly around his eyes when he smiles, but when he’s on his knees in front of you it ignites something low in your belly. His curly dark hair is soft to the touch and you bring your hand to his scalp now. He groans at the feeling of your hands on him and continues to lick at your clit through your panties. 

The black cowboy hat falls over your eyes, your other hand raises to hold it out of the way. Even with the decision to stay here for law school, you don’t want to miss a second of the salacious acts playing out right in front of you. 

“Oh god, Mister Miller,” you whisper, trying to stay as quiet as possible. 

He moves to kiss at your thigh, hooking a finger around the gusset of your soaked lace. “This fucking garter, sweet girl. Been drivin’ me crazy all night,” he growls between kisses.

He pulls your panties to the side and your nipples harden under your dress as the cool air hits your throbbing pussy. “Fuck,” he practically whimpers. “You smell so good. Taste so good, too.”

His mouth latches around your clit, sucking it between his lips and everything goes fuzzy as the burn in your lower belly starts to spread. “Ohgodohgood, f-fuck.”

The tip of his tongue flicks against your swollen aching clit with each suck and you start to panic over how you’re going to keep quiet while you come. One of his fingers that pulls your thong out of the way teases at your entrance, gathering your arousal, before he pushes it inside of you to the first knuckle. He looks up at you, eyes flushed onyx as he swallows down everything you give him. 

“Mister Miller,” you hum as he pushes his forefinger the rest of the way in. When he curls it forward you release the grip on his salt and pepper curls and clamp your hand around your mouth.

He pulls away, a dimple carving out his cheek as he smirks. “Feels that good?” He flicks gently at your clit and you moan in agreement into your hand. “Good fuckin’ girl.”

Joel sucks your clit back into his mouth, pumping his thick finger against the spongy spot that makes you melt and the heat bursts into tingling pleasure as your orgasm washes over you. Your eyes roll into the back of your head as you fight to keep quiet, grinding your hips unabashedly against Joel’s face. He’s relentless with his ministrations and you bite at your palm as another wave rolls through you. 

The spasms of your pussy around his finger slow and you’re finally composed enough to drop your hand, grabbing his shoulder as your knees threaten to give out. Joel slips his finger out from you, placing light, lingering kisses on your mound before standing. His hands find your hips, holding you steady. 

“Kiss me,” you slur, feeling drunk off the pleasure.

Your arms loop around his neck as he kisses you. His lips taste like you and you lick at the heady sweetness. You slant your head, kissing him deeper. His body goes soft, relaxing into the kiss. You could do this with him forever, and for once it’s not the box of feelings saying that. The contents of that box have coated your entire brain with the love it housed for the man you’re not even supposed to know exists. The two of you break apart, both panting for air. You break the silence first.

“Take me to the club.”

“We can’t go back there. I’ll just get sucked back into the crowd.” His nose runs up and down yours, dark chocolate brown eyes never leaving yours. 

“I need more, Mister Miller. Please, take me.”

“Shit,” he huffs. “Come with me.”

Joel

This is so incredibly stupid, he thinks as he pulls into his neighborhood. The moment the two of you got back into his car you leaned over onto his shoulder and closed your eyes. He should take you to your apartment. You must be exhausted from all the studying and working you’ve been doing. Plus, he kept you out late for two nights. He pulls up onto his driveway, and the slight bump from the curb causes you to stir. He parks in the driveway and watches as you blink and register where you are. 

“I can take you home if you want.”

“No, I want to be with you.” Your eyes widen and you start to do that thing where you ramble, only to dig yourself deeper.

Joel chuckles and then leans forward, pressing your lips to your forehead to stop you. “I knew what you meant, baby girl.”

He gets out of the car and then comes around to open your door. When you left the bar tonight you tried to open your door, again, and he scolded you gently. He smiles to himself that you’ve listened finally, that or you’re just too tired and he should really be taking you home. But when he helps you out of the car and meets your gaze again you look anything but tired. Need and arousal flood his system as he takes you in, lips slightly parted and eyes dancing around his face. Your words from the bathroom ring in his ears. I need more, Mister Miller.

He snaps, lips slamming against yours, your hands immediately finding the curls at the nape of his neck; the only hair you can reach because of the cowboy hat still proudly perched on top of his head. He lifts you, moaning at the feeling of your toned thighs wrapping around his waist. He moves on instinct, closing the car door and walking into the house while the two of you fervently kiss in a mix of tongue and teeth. You nip at his bottom lip as he walks into the marble foyer. He closes the garage entry door and presses you against it, sucking your bottom lip into his mouth, His cock is painfully hard behind his pants.

“I need you,” you whine after your lip is free from his mouth.

“What do you need?”

You kiss at his neck, hands moving to loosen his tie. “I need you to fuck me, please, Mister Miller.”

I love you. 

He keeps you pinned to the door, his one hand grabbing yours and pinning them above your head. How many times is he going to have you in the position, fighting against what you’re begging for? Hopefully, it never stops.

“My sweet girl, you know I can’t do that.” It physically hurts him to turn you down.

You pout at him before speaking, “Then just be naked with me, I need to feel your skin on mine. Please?”

He kisses you again and starts to move the two of you towards the stairs. Between kisses, he says, “What happened to that shy girl who couldn’t even tell me she wanted me to dominate her?” 

You laugh against his lips, “She’s been corrupted.”

“I’m a bad man,” he hums with a laugh and walks up the stairs with you plastered to his chest; one hand around the globes of your ass, the other tucking your head into his neck so he can see where he’s stepping. The moment you reach the top of the stairs he pulls your face back to his to kiss you again.

“This is where it happened,” you say, as he passes the office. 

“Where what happened?” He says, pulling back to look at you, his eyebrows draw in in confusion and the black Stetson he forgot he was wearing falls forward slightly. You take the hat off his head, looking at him all wide-eyed and amused. 

“The corruption,” you say with a wink. Joel snorts in response and then his lips are back on yours. He has missed having this mix of passion and humour with someone.

When he passes over the threshold of his bedroom he places you on your feet. He told himself he wouldn’t ever have you here. No, not told, promised, because he knew what having here would mean. But you made him fall in love with you anyway. The air in the bedroom feels thicker, and his breathing quickens as he looks at you. The only light that trickles in is from the hallway. He takes in your sparkling eyes, your lips, puffy from his kisses and light nips; the perfect curls of your hair are slightly dishevelled and truthfully - he has never found you more beautiful. 

I love you. 

You

Butterflies assault your stomach as you stare at Joel. He takes the hat from you and tosses it gently on the foot of the bed behind you. The room is deafeningly silent, only the sounds of both of your quickened breathing and thundering heartbeats fill the void. You stand frozen, the heels of your strappy black sandals sinking into the plush carpet of his bedroom. You remember when you carried his sheets to the washing machine just a few weeks ago, being surrounded by the delicious scents of ash and leather. You had no idea who Joel was then, the man in this house was just a fantasy in your mind. You wait for him to make the first move. Finally, his thick fingers find the zipper along your side. 

“Are you sure about this?” He says, his voice is hoarse, and you can tell he’s nervous. You wish knowing that would calm you, but truthfully it just makes your heart burst even more. This morning, the thought of anyone, but especially Joel, having feelings for you was ridiculous, but now you aren’t so sure it’s that absurd after all.

“Yes, Mister Miller. I just - I need…” he watches you patiently. Playing with the small metal zipper pull. 

“Don’t be shy, sweet girl. Just tell me what you need.” 

“I need to feel your skin against mine. Please.” 

He pulls at the zipper as his lips meet your neck. “I love when you ask so politely. My good girl, aren’t you?” 

“Mm-hmm,” you hum, fighting the sway of your legs to stay upright. 

If he’s calling you yours, that’s Joel speaking. Not his dom alter ego. 

Joel’s fingers come to the thin straps along your shoulders. The warmth of his hands against your skin causes you to shiver. He drags the straps down your arms and then frowns at the tape holding the dress to your chest. He tugs gently and you gasp at the pull of the tape. Before you can protest, the sting is soothed by his lips, kissing the sore, pink skin. He does the same thing after tugging the other side and the silky black dress pools at your feet. 

You watch the muscles of Joel’s throat flex as he swallows, eyes trailing down your body. “Turn around.”

You spin on the balls of your feet, careful to not catch your heels on the carpet. “So you need to feel me, is that right, sweet girl?” 

You nod your head. “Yes, Mister Miller.” 

One of his hands comes to gently rest on your shoulder and instinctively lean into his touch. His fingers whirl around as he traces down your shoulder blade and then back up to your neck. “I can’t believe how beautiful you looked tonight. I kept getting pulled away from you every time I tried to get back to you. It was killing me to be away from you.” 

You let your eyes close as his fingers run down your spinal column. You feel his heat leave your back and then his lips sponge kisses along the globes of your ass, his hands holding your hips possessively.

“You were such a good girl tonight. Outside of the little singing stunt,” he says between kisses. Every spot that took the punishment of his palm is given attention. “But you paid for that, didn’t you sweet girl?” 

You giggle quietly before saying. “Yes, Mister Miller. Thank you, but I can’t promise I won’t do it again.” 

“Good,” he laughs, standing up behind you. You hear the unmistakable sound of his silk tie being pulled off. “Because I don’t want you to ever stop teasing me.” 

He tosses the tie towards his dresser. Before you know it, he’s spun you around and lifted you into his arms again. Your body knows just what to do, your legs clamping around his waist on their own. He captures the squeak that leaves your lips with his mouth. Nothing makes you melt faster than the feel of Joel’s lips on yours. They’re soft but firm, his tongue warm against yours as he takes what he wants from you and there’s no way you’re not going to let him. 

He sits you on the dresser and plants his hands on each side of you as your hands move to work the buttons on his shirt. His lips never leave yours. 

“I need you,” you whine as you get the first few buttons undone. The heat of his chest skimming against your fingertips has a fresh wave of arousal coat your already soaked pussy. 

Joel moans needily at your confession as he pulls back slightly. He rips at his shirt, buttons burst before he tears it off and stands shirtless in front of you. Your eyes trail down his strong broad chest, stopping on the prominent bulge behind his pants. Your hands fly to his belt. He watches you with rapt fascination as you work the buckle and then the button of his pants. 

As you move to the zipper, his fingers go to the lace of your panties. He growls as he splits the fabric. 

“Joel!” You gasp. “Those were thirty dollars!” 

He grabs your leg, placing the ball of your foot on his chest,unbuckling your shoe. “I just ruined an $800 dress shirt. I’ll buy you more.” 

The shoe hits the floor and he grabs your other foot, his eyes locking to yours as he commands, “And it’s Mister Miller. I’ve been lenient with you. Another mistake and you will be punished - severely.” 

For such harsh words, he’s being so careful with the small golden buckle on your shoe. “Yes, Mister Miller,” you say sweetly, batting your lashes innocently. 

“Feet up on the dresser. Spread your legs for me, sweet girl.” 

You lean back slightly, hands being used as an anchor behind you, placing your heels on the edge of the dresser. Cool air hits your drenched cunt and you fight yet another shiver. You’re spread wide for Joel, every single thing on display for him. He looks at you like you hung the moon and your heart flips behind your ribs. You suddenly feel like you did the first time the two of you spoke in his kitchen, his gaze is too much, too intense, and it becomes nearly impossible for you to not yell out that you love him, so you look away, your eyes falling to his strong chest.

“Eyes up here,” he murmurs as he takes the smallest step back. 

Your mouth goes dry as you look back up at him. In your peripheral you can see his hands going to his belt, the sound of the buckle jingling tempts you to look down. “Atta girl, stay right here with me.”

You stay in his warm coffee brown pools, flecks of gold and honey appearing as the soft light of his bedroom hits him. I love you.

He bends slightly, his pants and boxers falling to the ground. You try to swallow once, twice, never leaving his gaze as the rest of his clothing comes off. You swear that time stops, the two of you are suspended in a moment that’s all yours. He steps forward and you can feel the heat of his skin against your entire body, you melt into his warmth.

“You want to look, don’t you?” he taunts.

“Yes, Mister Miller,” you hum.

 The soft tip of his cock gently nudges at your clit and you gasp. “Look down, baby.”

You peel your eyes away from his, looking down to see where his body caresses against yours. The tip of his impossibly hard cock, precum glistening as it leaks for you, pressing lightly to your soft and swollen clit. His piercing lays flat against his pelvis and you remember what he said about there being benefits to it. You try to memorize the sight in front of you. As filthy and debauched as this is, it’s also passionate and beautiful; it's the epitome of Mister Miller and your time with him. 

“Fuck, sweet girl. Your pussy is so pretty…and soft.” You watch as he wraps his hand around the thick base of his cock and rocks his hips. His cock slides easily along the warm folds of your drenched cunt, you swear you can feel the ridge of the underside of the tip as he says,  “Who has you this turned on? Huh, sweet girl?”

“You,” you whimper as your legs start to tremble.

“God damn,” his voice now matching yours, “How’d I get so lucky.”

This time you know he’s not asking you a question, yet you hum in agreement as his cock slides back over your clit, the swollen nub relishing in the friction and the feel of him against you. You hope he’s going to keep going, you want to feel him inside of you more than you need oxygen. Instead, his other hand slips between the two of you, his strong digits teasing at your entrance. He slides along your clit again as one of his fingers pushes inside of you. 

“Is this ok?” He whispers.

“Yesyes - fuuuuck, Mister Miller.” A bead of pre cum lands on your mound at the sound of pleasure passing your lips. 

“Such a good girl for me. Already learning how to take me so well.” His finger slips out as a second joins it. “She’s begging for it, tryin’ to suck me in. So tight, my gorgeous sweet girl.”

Your foreheads meet and it all becomes too much again. You close your eyes as his fingers finally fill you. “Don’t stop,” you whine desperately.

His hips pick up their pace, pressing harder along your most sensitive spots. You get that floating feeling again. He’s so close to exactly how you need him, how you want him. The voice from your now-exploded box of feelings adds, “For the rest of your life”. 

You keep your eyes closed, sparks of pleasure occasionally flickering behind them. You’re getting closer to your high with every press of his body against yours. You know if you opened your eyes you’d be able to fall over the edge, but you aren’t ready to be done imagining how it would look if his cock was doing what his fingers were right now. 

“I can feel you’re getting close, baby. Clenchin’ my fingers so hard.” His voice is full of admiration, not a tone you’re used to hearing in moments like this. You used to think that you had a first love, and while none of your exes ever mistreated you, they also didn’t look at you or speak to you the way Joel Miller does. 

His pace increases again as he curls his fingers forward, your body jolts up with the newly applied pressure behind your clit. You grip his shoulders to ground yourself, the inside of your thighs start to ache, but you’re not going to let your feet fall from the dresser. Truthfully, the burning ache only seems to intensify the pleasure at the apex of your thighs.

“Open your eyes, watch how good your pussy looks against me.”

“I ca-can’t. ‘M so close. I don’t - oh fuck - don’t wanna be done.” 

“Just because you come, it doesn’t mean we are done, sweet girl. I’m not ready to be done. I want you to come as many times as you need to.” He presses his cock down against your clit harder as he speaks.

Before you can even take your next breath your orgasm washes over you. It hits hard and for a second you think your throat is constricted, but just as the wall of your pussy relaxes and begins to flutter, a euphoric scream frees itself from your airway. You start to pant, your body falling back to rest on the wall behind you. Joel falls forward with you, and just when you think you’re about to come down from your high, the pressure at this angle sends the strongest wave of your orgasm through you and you begin to gush around his fingers. 

“That’s my good fuckin’ girl. Soak me.” Pride swells in his eyes as you chant his dominant name like a prayer. Your breathing starts to even and he slows his fingers and hips, ensuring not to send you into any overstimulation. I’m not ready to be done yet. He slowly removes his fingers, then wraps his arm around you to pull you up. Your feet fall from the dresser and the relief your muscles feel causes you to let out a pleasurable sigh.

Joel

He needs more, so much more, but waits for you - taking a few slow breaths in time with yours. When he sees you coming back down to earth he slides the tip of his cock up and down. At this angle, there’s no risk of accidentally slipping so he runs himself along every part he can reach. 

“Kiss me,” you mumble, bringing your face towards his. He captures your lips in a sweet kiss, a kiss he’s sure you can tell isn’t the way a dom kisses his sub. He realizes at that moment that he’s never kissed you that way. No, he’s always kissed you with everything he had, giving himself to you piece by piece. 

More. His inner voice growls. I’ll never come back up for air now.

Joel whispers your name between kisses and you both pull back just enough to see each other's faces. “When we got here, you said you wanted me to fuck you. Do you still want that?”

He watches your eyes dance around him. Confusion, fear, excitement and arousal line yours before you pull back from him. He scolds himself for saying it. Of course you’re going to panic, this is supposed to be a safe space. He set a complete ban on sex before he even met with you the first time. It’s right there, in his dom profile; because that’s what he is, he’s your dom. You can come here and beg for it, because you know it’s a safe place where it won’t happen. 

He prepares himself for you to slap him or yell at him. Instead, you say, “Mister Miller, I don’t want you to do anything that you don’t want to. This was a hard limit for you, and where I very much want to, I don’t want you to break any promise to yourself.”

He let his eyelids fall shut, for the first time, he doesn’t want to be Mister Miller. He wants to be Joel. 

I love you.

Goosebumps break out along his skin as you drag your hands up to his neck, fingers scraping along the back of his scalp. “Talk to me.”

“Just call me Joel,” he says through the boulder that’s lodged in his throat. 

He feels your warm lips meet his cheek, kissing him softly before you clear your throat quietly and then whisper into his ear. “Please fuck me, Joel. Fuck me or I might die or go insane.”

“Again,” he growls.

“Fuck me, Joel.” You say, louder and with more conviction than the last time.

He scoops you off the dresser, your soft naked thighs tightening around his waist and he steals your squeal with his lips, kissing you hard with hurried passion. He’ll worry tomorrow about what getting you to call him Joel means, all he knows at this moment is that he needs to hear that you need him just as much as he needs you. 

  He lays you on the bed, pressing down into your warmth. He can feel how wet you are as you grind up into him. His lips grow hungrier, kissing every bit of your face and neck he can reach, relishing in the feel of your hands running up and down his biceps, your short nails scraping his skin occasionally. 

“Are you sure you want to do this?” He asks before fusing his lips to your neck.

Your feet fall to the bed and you arch into him. “Yes, Joel.” 

He raises to his knees, unclipping the chains around your body and then working with you to slip your ruined panties off. He reaches over to the bedside table to get a condom, using his teeth to peel the foil open and sliding it on. You’re always completely at his mercy, but this time he’s wholly at yours. One of his hands grips your hip, the other wraps around his cock as he takes in all your soft smooth skin, and memorizes the constellations that your freckles make along your body. Your breasts heave with each shallow inhale and shake beautifully with each exhale. Finally, his gaze meets yours, your eyes filled with every emotion he’s feeling. 

“There’s no safeword anymore, my sweet girl. If you tell me to stop, I will.”

You nod as he lines himself up, the warmth of your tight entrance calling to him. Joel pushes gently, your hips rising to encourage him. His balls tighten at the feeling of you wrapped tightly around the tip. 

“So tight, sweet girl.” He falls forward, both forearms beside your head to keep his weight off of you. 

The two of you rock in tandem, working more of him into you. “Oh god, Joel. More,” you moan.

There was a time when he told you to only call him Joel, it was the only name you could use that would keep this side of him from taking over. But now, hearing your voice say his name in the needy little vibrato, it’s having the same effect as when you call him Mister Miller. He’s sure you know exactly how he feels, and he’s now certain that you feel the same way. 

Your hips grind into his and pleasure spikes through his entire body. He’s fully seated inside of you now, your tight pussy squeezing him sweetly. He buries his face into your neck, lavender hypnotizing him. Everything he can see, hear, smell and feel is you. His sweet girl. 

“More, please, more.” You whine, circling your hips. 

His jaw flexes as he fights his body’s instinct to come. He pushes down with his hips to still you. “I need a minute, sweet girl. Shit - you feel too good.”

Your soft giggle at his confession causes your pussy to flex tighter around him. A shiver runs up his spine, “Baby, please don’t. Just stay still, please.”

He pulls himself away from your neck, his hips flexing forward. He watches your eyes widen as his piercing presses right where it’s meant to. You gasp and clench his hips with your thighs. He smirks, now flooded with desire and determination to fuck you until neither of you can walk. 

“Ready?” He says, his voice deep.

“I think - Joel, fuck - I might…” 

His animalistic side kicks in, he pulls out to the tip and then slams back in, swivelling his hips so his piercing stimulates your clit, which he’s sure still must be sensitive from earlier, before pulling back and repeating. 

“Think you might what?” He demands, keeping his gaze locked on yours as he fucks you.

“I’m gonna - gonna come.” You moan between thrusts.

“So fuckin’ needy. Aren’t you?” You met each of his thrusts with a flick of your hips. Even with the condom, you feel better than he could have ever imagined. All the things he wants to do to you run through his mind; he wants to take you from behind, or watch your tits bounce as you ride him, he pictures you strapped to the spanking bench in his room at the club. But right now he just wants to worship every inch of you. He wants to show you how you should be treated and loved. 

The words are on the tip of his tongue. I love you. 

He shifts his weight, one arm hooking under your leg so he can take you deeper. “Sweet girl, I want to feel you come on my cock.” 

“Fuckfuck don’t stop.” He peppers your jawline with kisses. 

“Kiss me,” he whispers. He tilts his head, parting his lips for your warm tongue. Joel starts fucking you faster. He breaks the kiss, “Come for me, baby girl.” 

“Are we going to be done if I do?” You ask. 

“No, baby.” He huffed a laugh, his hand pushing the hair away that’s started to stick to your forehead. “Never. I’m never going to be done with you.” 

“Joel - oh my god.” He feels you getting tighter and tries to distract his thoughts. He’s not ready to be done, but he’s not young anymore so he can’t risk finishing quite yet. “Your - your piercing.”

“Let go,” he says into your lips. He feels it then, that infinitesimal tightening of your pussy around his length before it begins to flutter. Your whine fills his head. He watches the pleasure fill your face, he swears he can see the clouds that form around your vision as you look deep into his eyes and succumb to your high. Your soft body quivers beautifully underneath him, “That’s my girl.”

The primal need to fuck you hard into his mattress simmers his skin. Not yet, not this time. She’s too perfect right now. 

“Tell me how it feels, sweet girl.”

Between pants you moan out, “So good, Joel.”

Your body begins to slow beneath him as your orgasm crests and he gives himself a mental pep talk to hold on just a bit longer. His cock is achy with the need to come, and it’s going to be slightly tortuous to stop, but he wants to take you at least one more time before you both fall into what is sure to be an exhausted sleep. 

His lips come to your shoulder. “I love fucking you. Your pussy was made for me.”

Your nails scrape at his back. “It’s t-too much. Fuck. Sorry…sorry.”

Joel stills his hips, releasing your leg and pushing his weight off of you, but doesn’t pull away. Your eyes are clenched tight, “Look at me, sweet girl.”

Your eyes pop open, pupils blown in pleasure and love. There’s no denying it now, he knows you feel the same. “Don’t be sorry.”

Your cheeks flush slightly, “But you’re not, you didn’t yet.”

“If you can’t say it, you shouldn’t be doing it.”

“You didn’t get to come yet,” you whisper.

“I don’t want to yet. I’m going to let you catch your breath and then you’re going to climb onto my lap and really learn what that piercing can do.” He winks and then gives you a small smile before slipping out of you. He rolls onto the mattress beside you, removing the condom and dropping it into the waste bin beside the bed. 

He hears you hiss, panic clogs his throat as he whips back towards you. “What’s wrong?”

You nod towards his almost impossibly hard cock. “That looks painful.”

“I’m ok, sweet girl.” He pulls you in, melting at the way your body molds so perfectly to his. He kisses your forehead, “You’re incredible.”

“You too.” You nuzzle deeper into him, your warm breath hitting his chest and your leg wrapping around his. 

There’s a few minutes of comfortable silence before you speak, “Hey Joel?”

“Mm-hmm?”

“I think we should ditch the condom.” He pulls back as you look up at him, “You have a vasectomy. I have an IUD. We had recent test results as per the club's rules.”

Joel swallows. Not wearing a condom, even though he had his vasectomy over a decade ago, has never been an option. Another rule of JMKink is that you have to be wearing a condom during all penetrative activities; even if the person you’re fucking is your husband or wife. It hits Joel then that the only person he’s felt that intimately before is Tiffany. 

“Are you sure? I know the chances of getting pregnant are very slim, but you got into law school today, I don’t want to risk anything.”

“I’m sure,” you hum. “I’m also sure that you should put that cowboy hat back on for the next round.”

[cierraonline]

IT’S ABOUT CONFIDENCE

Chapter one : It’s about confidence

Warning: none

Masterlist | previous chapter | next chapter

SEPTEMBER 13, 2021

MANHATTAN, NEW YORK CITY  

“Ahhh, it’s time!” Kimora walks into her booked hotel room at The Mark, the hotel synonymous with the Met Gala.

The Met Gala is an annual fundraising event and fashion show that benefits the Costume Institute of the Metropolitan Museum of Art (the Met) in New York City. But for Kimora West, this was like a Christmas holiday all in one day. Since she was five, Kimora dreamed of walking the carpet in a beautiful gown with grace. All eyes on her, wondering, How does she embody empowerment? What is her secret? And now, today was her day—and it meant even more to her because it was also her twentieth birthday.

“Is that my muse?” Karl Lagerfeld, German fashion designer and creative director for Chanel, calls out from the back room.

“I don’t know, are you talking about me?” Kimora smiles, greeting everyone that was present for preparation with a wave. She moves toward the bedroom, where the designer and the dress stand, both tall and beautiful in their own ways. “Stop!” Kimora pauses, staring the dress down, her eyes scanning over each inch of the masterpiece before her. “I’m not wearing that, am I?”

“Made just for you, inspired by you, darling,” Karl walks over with the help of his black designer cane, pulling the girl into an embrace.

“N-no,” Kimora shakes her head, accepting the hug. “I know we discussed and sketched out the dress with it being covered in pearls… B-but that dress right there deserves to be in a museum, not on me.” Kimora breaks away from the hold to take a few steps forward and get a closer look at the dress. “And the hat… oh my God. You’ve out done yourself. Younger me would be jealous right now.”

“Beautiful people deserve beautiful dresses,” Karl smiles. “A dress that creates a statement. A statement that lets everyone know you are here.”

“I know we need to get started, but I just can’t stop admiring it,” Kimora smiles, looking at the designer. “I feel like I need to handwrite a thank-you note to everyone on your team.”

“Just putting on the dress and shining bright like a diamond on that carpet is enough.”

“You guys,” Kimora turns to look at the camera that belongs to Vogue, as they’ve chosen her to broadcast her getting ready for the Met Gala. “Karl has always been there for me when it comes to anything custom and always manages to knock it out of the park… But this right here is just another level.”

“She’s a muse and a goddess, therefore she needs to be seen as one. And this dress right here will show that,” Karl tells the camera. “We’ve been walking together since she was fourteen, and each time we did a project, she’d say, ��I can’t wait to see what you do when I get invited to The Met.’ And I’m like, sweetheart, it’s already planned out. Who needs a theme when you have extravagant glamour?”

“Fairy God-mother is going to die when he sees this piece,” Kimora pulls out her phone and calls her personal stylist, Law Roach, American fashion stylist or in his words image architect. Best-known for his work with artists such as Zendaya, Céline Dion, Anya Taylor-Joy and Kimora West.

“Hey, Princess!” Law answers his phone with a bright attitude, showing his comforting smile—the first thing that allowed the young woman to let down her guard when they first met.

“Hey, God-mother!” Kimora greets. “Are you around anyone? I want to show you my dress.”

“I just finished picking out Zendaya’s accessories,” the stylist informs one of his in-suite clients.

“Hey, Mora!” The mentioned Black beauty calls out from a distance.

“Hey, Z!” Kimora blows a kiss, showing love to one of the free-spirited young people in Hollywood she’s actually close with. “Okay… only you and Z can see… Look what Karl created just for me,” Kimora flips the camera on her phone, and instead of showing her face, she reveals the masterpiece that the German designer created…just for her.

“Oh my God!” The two gasped, looking at the screen.

“I want to say it’s beautiful, but it’s more than that… It’s you, like that dress was made just for you,” Law compliments the dress and the young business owner.

“Why, thank you,” Karl and Kimora take the compliment at the same time, causing them both to laugh at their dynamic, which has been built over a decade. “I’m letting you go. We have to start getting ready since I’m the last to enter.”

“Good luck. You’re going to look amazing,” Law concludes, knowing that he and Zendaya also have to get ready to leave.

“Happy Birthday, Mora!” Zendaya calls out.

“Thank you, baby,” the call ends, and the now-young woman looks to the designer. “Let’s do this.”

XXX

THE METROPOLITAN MUSEUM OF ART  

MANHATTAN, NEW YORK  

“For months, designers and stylists have been collaborating with our celebrated guests to achieve sectoral glory for this,” Gwendoline Christie speaks, as the actress and model Ashley Graham hosts the opening of the full production. “The first Met Gala back from lockdown due to the Coronavirus pandemic.”

“And now, after thousands of hours of planning and fitting their creations, we are moments away from being revealed.”

“I am Gwendoline Christie, and I’ll be with Ashley Graham all night, interviewing some of the most notable figures in the world. They’ll line up here in the tunnel as they await their big moment.”

“They’ll make their way up these stairs as photographers, journalists, and even other guests shout their names and capture every detail. And once they reach the top, they’ll find our co-host, Lala Anthony.”

“That’s right,” the camera switches over to television personality Lala Anthony. “We’re here to talk with everyone from this year’s co-chairs—Timothée Chalamet, Billie Eilish, Naomi Osaka, and Amanda Gorman—to the entire guest list that’s been kept under wraps until tonight. This is the 2021 Met Gala red carpet.”

XXX

“Now the doors to The Met have officially closed, and we’re at our last guest: reality television personality, business entrepreneur, and creator of Skims, Kimora West, partnered with Chanel and creative designer Karl Lagerfeld,” Gwendoline Christie states, watching the two enter the room. Instead of the normal flashes that had been occurring all night, the room stayed a blinding white, as the flashes never stopped, wanting to capture every angle. This commotion causes the guest that were still on the staircase to look over and pause at what they were witnessing

“Kimora West is here to make a statement… and I think… nope, I know she just did with that masterpiece,” Ashley Graham gawked, looking at the influencer’s silhouette in the dress.

XXX

As the night went on, Kimora received praise and hushed whispers of compliments about her assemble from figures in different industries, some she knew and others she met that night. Long story short, the young woman knew she would be the topic of discussion and the standard when it came to the Met Gala from now on.

But just like beautiful things, there are ugly factors. And for Kimora, that would be having to use the bathroom, where she’d have to get out of the airtight dress, squat to use the toilet, make sure she doesn’t poke herself with the nails glued onto her gloves, and get the head-to-toe dress back on without damaging it—since she was already asked to donate her dress to the museum.

“Do you need help?” Georgina, invited as a plus-one since she is Kimora’s best friend and assistant, asked, standing outside the stall, holding the influencer’s personal items like her phone and makeup retouch bag. She simply waited, offering assistance if needed.

“No, I should be fine,” Kimora tells her, managing to pull the dress down off her waist and gently into a large plastic garbage bag on the floor so the dress wouldn’t touch the bathroom floor. “The event is endling in like five minutes, and then I’m getting changed in the car to head to the after-party. Can you just find the location and order me DoorDash to deliver to the next place? I think it’s just cocktail hour, and I’m starving.”

“Ooo, what are we in the mood for?” Georgina smiled, pulling out her best friend’s phone and opening the food delivery app. “Shake Shack?”

“Oh my Heavenly Pink God, yes please,” Kimora moaned at the thought of eating food from her favorite place every time she comes to the Big Apple. “This might seem fatass of me, but can you order me 3 chicken sandwiches, two order of fries, and a cookies-and-cream milkshake? I usually would follow my diet, but I haven’t eaten in like a week to make sure I fit in this dress.”

“Your fatass is beautiful,” Georgina waved off her best friend’s nonsense. “You need to start eating more. It’s unhealthy.”

“I know!” Kimora groans. “I just want everything to be perfect down to every detail, including my body… Just so no one can say I didn’t earn it and that it’s just nepotism or something… you know?”

“I don’t,” Georgina shook her head. “But I know my best friend, and I know it’s just the Kardashian in you, trying to be perfect in order to be liked by society. Which you are. In fact, you’re voted the most liked and tolerable out of everyone in your family… which weirdly includes North and Mason. I’m going to step out into the hallway since the reception in this bathroom is just terrible. Scream if you need me.” With that, Georgina walked out of the bathroom, just as up-and-rising pop star Billie Eilish walked in, with one goal in mind: make sure she didn’t look like a disaster. As the girl stared at herself in the mirror, reflecting on her appearance after the Met Gala carpet and event, she wondered what in her right mind had made her think it was okay to wear a dress and Marilyn Monroe-inspired Old Hollywood makeup. Too deep in her head, she hadn’t heard a toilet flush, letting her know she wasn’t alone, nor did she see Kimora walk out and watch the blonde stare deeply at herself.

Kimora walked forward, thinking sudden movement would snap the blonde out of her trance, but it didn’t. Even with turning on the sink to wash her hands, the noise had no effect on the girl. “You know, by now, everyone is past drunk because the food here is literal shit, so they have nothing else better to do than drink. They won’t notice what you really look like now—just a remembrance of what you looked like before,” Kimora offered a small smile.

“Huh?” The blonde finally stepped out of her trance and removed her eyes from her reflection, looking at the girl standing next to her.

“Get out of your head,” Kimora stated, before walking out of the bathroom. Watching the girl leave, Billie scoffed.

“Like you can understand, you’re a Kardashian.” She rolled her eyes, reverting her gaze back to her reflection in the mirror.

“Actually, I’m a West,” Kimora walked back into the bathroom, causing Billie’s eyes to widen, not thinking the girl had actually heard her words. “Plus, beauty isn’t actually about looks,” Kimora walked behind the girl, placing her makeup pouch on the counter, and trailed her hands on the blonde’s waist, traveling toward the back of the light pink, Old Hollywood classic-inspired dress. She untied it. “It’s about confidence,” she tightened the corset strings. “And when you have confidence, you stop worrying about whether you’re pretty enough because others tell you without asking.” She finished the tie with a bow.

“Are you saying I have low confidence?” Billie’s right eyebrow lifted.

“Yup,” Kimora emphasized, turning the girl to face her. “But it’s okay because everyone new to this level of fame has low confidence,” she said, taking out her red lip liner and beginning to mark the girl’s lips. “You’re trying to figure out your place in this new world. You’re filled with anxiety because you believe one wrong look or one word said wrong, and Hollywood will send you packing back home… News flash, it’s not about what you look like or pronounce wrong. It’s about how you treat your fans. They are the only ones who can send you packing, and by looking at how fast you got invited, I doubt that will be happening anytime soon.” She picked up the ruby red M.A.C matte lipstick and gently placed it on the girl’s baby-pink, plumped lips. “Studies show, the color red releases hidden confidence one didn’t know they had in them.” She softly turned the blonde back around to the mirror so she could see her retouched appearance. “And as a ‘Kardashian,’ I think you look absolutely beautiful and breathtaking,” Kimora smiled at the girl, watching Billie glance at herself with the light in her eyes she had at the beginning of the night. With one last feather-like touch, Kimora walked out of the bathroom, leaving the girl by herself, in which she mentally agreed with Kimora’s words.

XXX

Like many celebrities who attend the Met Gala, Kimora found herself with Georgina by her side at some random lounge surrounded by cameras… well, her for some reason, as she ate her crispy chicken sandwich. To Kimora, she didn’t see what the need for photography and video was for. But to those who had their cameras and phones in action at that moment, it was iconic. What other status beauty do they know that would sit in a popular lounge, where food is prohibited, wearing a custom ruby-red designer dress, hair and makeup meant for a goddess, pigging out on messy fast food and a milkshake, besides the world’s classic sex symbols like Marilyn Monroe, Anna Nicole Smith, and Pamela Anderson?

Especially when she’s the first young, mixed, or appearance-wise black-labeled sex symbol in American culture. That had many big figures in the industry and randoms at home ranging from men to women all waiting, itching for the day she turned eighteen years old to express their deep admiration for the young woman—just like they did with the Olsen twins…but bigger.

“That’s so weird!” Billie called out to her friend as they watched the scene people were causing with their flash photography and phones pointed at Kimora West. “All she’s doing is eating because she’s hungry. Like, you don’t need to record her. There’s no reason for all that,” Billie commented.

Little did the Grammy-award-winning singer knows, the beginning of her words were recorded by a cellphone and uploaded to social media with controversial words under it, in hopes of starting a backlash against her.

taglist @billiesrighthand @bilswildflower @bilsluckyheart @billiesgoodgirll @billsvip @billieshrry @dandelions4us @factsbybriggs @rhearipley-69 @cierraonline @amberg1998 @crystalblue88 @mercurylvd @saffsblog @ihavenoideayimhere @umadirectioner @harajukub4rb1e @sun81rise @jamiemundy7773 @cyberdreamlanddeer @steampunkprincess147 @zendayasredbottoms @efemerous @lady0ftheflowers

[virgo-dream]

[KICKS DOWN DOOR] DID SOMEBODY SAY DREAMLING HEADCANON?

Let me try and think of something I've not seen before but 100% fervently believe to be true!!! ok ok---

Dream is def. a clotheshorse. Look at that battle skirt, god. Hob is not, 'least not in modern days. Headcanon: after they get together Dream is absolutely a sniffy little cunt about Hob's clothes. They're so banal. We've had Dream being cozy and fuckable in Hob's stolen sweaters and footie shirts. Let's have Hob being taken to a bespoke tailor's shop that may or may not exist in the Waking world and/or the mortal plane, strictly speaking. Dream is the owner and operator, and Hob the only customer. Hob doesn't just put up with it in some sweet, Hobbishly indulging way - he fucking loves it. He's a hedonist. Loves the feeling of expensive fabrics against his skin, the line of tailored clothes transforming his unchanging body, loves Dream's proprietary little smirk at dressing Hob. Loves the way Dream looks at him all the time now, knowing and pleased and heated. He's always loved good clothes. But these are great clothes. It gets so out of control that Hob has to tell his colleagues Dream is a tailor, because there's no way he'd be able to afford this otherwise. If he didn't have, you know. Boyfriend privileges. "You are a tailor though, sort of," says Hob, a bit soused after a faculty party, dressed like liquid sex in a gunmetal grey suit, "S'just, the fabric of the collective unconsciousness and all the words we've ever written." Dream is starting to smile when Hob adds, "Also, you brought this upon yourself." 'This' being Dream, reluctantly agreeing to produce a bespoke prom dress for department chair's daughter. Headcanon: due to his own hubris Dream accidentally spends the rest of that decade of Hob's 'life' moonlighting (daylighting?) as a reclusive fashion designer with a reputation for utter brilliance and eccentricity, who takes all his commissions exclusively by referral and vets clients, bizarrely, through his (now tenured, imagine that) history professor husband.

Dream enjoys it rather more than he expected. It's a little like designing dreams - or, in a few memorable cases, nightmares - for humans to wear. He understands the stories and power of clothing. He is soothed to be asked, over and over, for such a trivial boon: something to wear that they've been dreaming of. He enjoys having work in the Waking.

Mostly, though, he likes to look at Hob Gadling, marvel and living story, wearing his clothing. Wearing him. Moving through the world in sleeve and collar of his making, and saying, to all who look and all who ask: I am his.

Well, I knew I could count on you for some quality fashion headcanons Gloam!!! Border Country sends its regards I guess!!!!

But honestly, wouldn't he though? Because if you think about it, every piece of clothing ever designed had to be visualised or daydreamed in some way by the mind of a designer, and if it goes through the Dreaming, it is Dream's by proxy. So yeah, every couture design, every Gucci runway, every weird ass Balenciaga ready to wear monstrocity and every Schiaparelli gown has Dream's designing hands involved somehow.

And I can also imagine Dream making all of Hob's clothes, including the softest t-shirts and sweatpants, the silkiest pyjamas, the most comfortable jeans that are never too tight and never too loose either. And when he can't be around, Dream makes sure the clothes hug Hob in just the right way, to remind Hob that he's there, in spirit, as humans like to say, and that he'll try to be around as soon as possible.

Can you imagine Hob having a bad day and Dream just......... manifesting the softest most gentle clothes around him to hold him in bed as he would until he can be there himself? Or whenever Hob finds a student crying, there's always a handkerchief in his pocket, and somehow whenever any of his students wipe their tears with them they just have the most restorative night of sleep ever?

Dream making a suit for Hob to defend yet another thesis, and the suit being so comfortable and making Hob feel so so so confident it's insane.

Aaaaah the many many love languages of Dream of The Endless and his husband Hob Gadling whose love language is just Dream

[love-in-the-time]

Sub Rosa: Casanova/Isabelle, M for sex and language.

Title: Sub Rosa Author: love-in-the-time Rating: M Summary: 1740. Casanova and Isabelle meet again in Rome for the election of the new pope. The death of Clement XII has left a vacuum of leadership in Italy and the political powers of the western world gather to witness, Casanova for the Doge of Venice, Isabelle as Ambassador of Lilliput. The conclave lasts six months. The Latin phrase “sub rosa” is used in English to denote secrecy and confidentiality, and has been used since ancient Rome. NOTE: This takes place after my three-part Casabelle series, so please find that on the fiction masterpost for some Casabelle context.

NOTE: This is as historical as I could make it-- the clergy and political figures are accurate, as well as the information regarding the progress of the conclave and ultimately the result. But what really matters is the Casabelle.

ALSO AT AO3 FOR THOSE WHO PREFER A LINK :)

Rome April 28th, 1740

Isabelle, Queen of Lilliput and the Small Isles, Papal Legate of the same and chief foreign minister to Theodore, King of Lilliput and the Small Isles, arrived in Rome at St. Peter’s Basilica on a gloomy, wet day of soft April rain. She pulled up astride her white mare Athena, who shied away from the bright red robes of the cardinals crossing the piazza in front of her in a group. She looked to her right, to her chief escort Sir Gavin Newhouse, a middle-aged knight dressed in light armor with a sword strapped to his side. There were various standard-bearers behind her, flying the blue-and-gold gryphon of Lilliput and the Queen’s Arms.

“It seems we have arrived the same place we left,” Isabelle comments. “It was raining just like this when we left the King’s Yard.”

“Spring in Rome is wet, my queen,” says Sir Gavin, a bit grimly. “Let us hope we will not be here to enjoy it long.” He dismounts his dark charger and holds out a hand to Isabelle. “Let me escort you inside, Your Grace,” he says. “The sooner we meet these strange cardinals the better.”

Isabelle sighs softly, and takes her knight’s hand. She swings down onto the wet cobblestones, heavy black velvet falling around her feet. Her gown is black, in deference to the recent death of the previous Pope Clement XII, but made of gorgeous materials, beaded with jet and black diamonds. In her finely-coiffed red hair is the same regal tiara she is accustomed to wearing, a declaration of her rank and importance, with a black lace veil thrown over her hair. And her shoes, hidden under the swirling skirts of her mourning gown, are made of soft black leather with fine gold buckles. Black pearls grace her ears and wrists, and the large diamond of her wedding ring rivals any of the jewelry worn by the princes of the church.

She attracts much notice walking through the courtyard into the great hall of the Apostolic Palace. The room, vaulted and marbled with bright murals and gold, is filled with almost exclusively men, religious and lay alike, and most of them have no idea who she is. “Am I to be presented to these cardinals?” Isabelle asks Sir Gavin.

Sir Gavin purses his lips and shrugs. “The conclave has already been in session for two months now, so they are not receiving visitors. With deference, my queen, they are unlikely to welcome you as a client of a heretical church and a layperson. Queen or no.”

This is a depressing fact, one that Isabelle had had plenty of time to contemplate on her journey across the Channel to Calais, thence on horseback to Paris and then over the Alps, a journey she didn’t fancy making again. All told it had been seven weeks of travel, even with her reduced retinue. Tradition dictated that the Queen of Lilliput was also its ambassador to the highest courts in Europe, and that includes the court of the Vatican. Unenthusiastic as she was about religion in general, Isabelle has come to do her duty to the people of Lilliput and its isles, to preserve trade and diplomatic relations with all the allies of Lilliput in a time when shifting politics could change their trade routes and therefore their fortunes forever. It is no small assignment, and Isabelle is aware that she will face difficulties even with a short conclave.

As near as she can tell, the Italian cardinals would never love her nor Lilliput, not even the Savoyard clergy who were at the doorstep of Europe to Italy. The Spanish prelates, depending on who was in power among the Italians, would either love or hate her, forgetting Katherine of Aragon and her English queenship. The Germanic bishops would be inclined to show her more favor with the Hanovers on the English throne, and the French bishops and cardinals would be cordial, if not welcoming. She is, after all, not strictly British, only geographically near the island.

In any case her duty is to preserve diplomatic relations between Lilliput and her allies and do it all while being charming, beautiful, astute, utterly unreadable, and always on her guard. She had no doubt she would receive numerous offers of all sorts of unsavory natures, recalling a proposition made to her by a Spanish nobleman at the wedding of Barbara of Portugal to Ferdinand VI, and offers of dishonest income made by countless incompetent and devious courtiers. In her twenty-five years as queen, Isabelle has watched Europe seethe and buckle and heave from the shores of her small and peaceful island. It is only on such grand occasions as the death of a pope that Lilliput is forced to ride the waves of European politics, and here is its queen, her small but determined fleet with its sails to the winds of change.

In the end (after a forty-minute wait) Isabelle is greeted by Giovanni Braschi, the assistant to Cardinal Ruffo, bishop of Porto and Santa Rufina. He is a northern Italian bishop, and his layman assistant is courteous but not charming to Isabelle. “I regret, Your Grace,” he says, in his elegantly accented English, “that the college of cardinals is long since confined and so you will not receive much a diplomatic welcome from the prelates themselves.”

“I would not stand on ceremony at such a time as this,” Isabelle says. “The world turns on its axis once again.”

“It’s the will of God,” Braschi says. “You will have made the journey for nothing today, Your Majesty, if I may be frank with you. There is no man of sufficient rank to escort you and in any case women are not welcome in the inner palaces of the Vatican unless they are nuns.”

Isabelle smiles to herself. She is certainly no nun. “My mission here is to ensure the love between Lilliput and the Church does not alter,” she says demurely, though she is no nun, and Braschi has noticed. “It will be my honor to treat with God’s elect when his will is revealed to us.”

Braschi gives her a knowing smile. “Lilliput is a sovereign client of the Church of England,” he says. “As long as you have a monarch you have a head of your church.”

Isabelle spreads her hands, lifts her brows, and says, “Are we not all children of the same god? Some may seek him other ways, but the land and sea and sky are all his creation and we who live upon it are obliged to steward it as best we can, in peace and prosperity.” It’s a diplomatic answer, and Isabelle, the consummate queen, has many of them in store.

Braschi is charming but not inclined to any special kindness towards a woman he felt should not be entirely welcome in Rome, and in the sphere of business that was clearly the realm of men. “Have you any children, Your Majesty?” he asks, starting to walk in the direction of the exit of the grand hall once again.

“A daughter of twenty-four years,” Isabelle says, preparing to defend herself against the charge of no male issue in patriarchal Rome. “But we have no Salic Law in Lilliput and so she is prepared to inherit the throne.”

“I see.” He is clearly unimpressed, and Isabelle has an acute sense that most of the important men she will meet on this trip will be like this “Perhaps your men will be kind enough to escort you back to your palazzo until there is news,” he says, with a final air.

Isabelle gives him a nod, reminding him of her status, and he bows, albeit less deeply than he might to a more Catholic sovereign. Isabelle proceeds out the enormous double doors with her knight behind her. Her retinue is still waiting in the courtyard, and she fumes silently as she remounts her horse. She looks to her guard and says, “They will not be kind to us here.” In silence they ride off the in the direction of the Via Lata, where Isabelle has rented a palazzo. Her tenancy would continue as long as the conclave, and no one had any idea how long it would go on.

Isabelle dismounts at the doors of her rented house, now staffed by familiar faces, and is greeted by the three ladies she has brought with her from Lilliput, two young women and Lady Mary Newhouse, the wife of Sir Gavin. Lady Mary is about forty, a bit younger than Isabelle, buxom and brunette and smiling. She has been Isabelle's chief lady in waiting since Isabelle was first brought to Lilliput as an abducted teenaged bride. She has assumed responsibility for the education of the two junior ladies in waiting, and has three strong grown sons at the court of Lilliput.

The palazzo is large, easily as large as any of Isabelle's city properties in Lilliput, and has been furnished and decorated according to her rank. The stables have been made ready to house her horses and carriage, her staff already busy in the kitchen and laundry. She smiles at Lady Mary, relieved. “If nothing else is familiar to me on this journey, at least I know I can rely on you all,” she says gratefully. She retreats to her private rooms, taking her ladies with her.

“I fear,” she says seriously to the three of them, as they seat themselves in her chamber, "that we have come to a place that will not be kind to us.”

The two younger maids of honor, Anna Stafford (honey blonde and blue-eyed) and Katherine de Guise (dark and slender like her family, raised in her early life at the court of Louis XV), look at each other apprehensively, and then to their queen. “What do you mean, Your Grace?” Katherine asks. Lady Mary stands up to bring wine and glasses for all of them.

“I mean that we are from a nation that does not recognize the sovereign authority of the Church,” Isabelle says. “And we are not here to bow to the papal tiara and repent the error of our ways in refusing to do so previously. My duty here is to preserve diplomatic relations with Rome as the papacy changes hands. We do not know who they will elect nor if that person will be friendly to us and our interests.”

Lady Mary pours a glass of wine for her queen and says, “And do you perceive immediate danger, Your Majesty?”

It’s an astute question, and Isabelle shakes her head. She accepts the glass of wine from Lady Mary and sighs. “Not physical. Only danger of being kept out of the chain of events. Due to my sex, no doubt, and my crown which is neither bestowed nor blessed by those men in red robes.”

“They called Elizabeth a heretic in her own lands,” Lady Mary reminds Isabelle, who smiles. “And Rome hated her too. And yet she thrived, and so shall we, to the best of our abilities.”

There is a small silence, and then Anna, her voice small, says, “Your Majesty, if there is danger perhaps it is better if you’re out of the fray.”

Isabelle shrugs, smiling gently at her maid of honor. “Whatever the conflict may be, my dear, you are safe with me. I didn’t bring you here to put you in harm’s way.” She looks around for a clock. “It’s nearly six o’clock. Have we any plans for our supper?”

“If Your Majesty pleases, there is an invitation from the Cardinal de Rohan, to view his art and have a meal among the luminaries,” Lady Mary says, bringing a folded sheet to Isabelle from the footman at the door. “I was unsure if you would want to accept it so I told the messenger we would reply in time.”

Isabelle unfolds the fine paper and reads the delicate hand. “The Cardinal Armand-Gaston-Maximilien de Rohan extends his most cordial greetings to the Lady of the Small Isles and bids her attendance this night at nine of the clock to his private gallery and supper party,” she murmurs. She looks up at her ladies. “Well. We’ll have to make a good impression on the French. Technically, we are not British.”

“A good sign, Your Grace,” Lady Mary says. “We may cultivate goodwill everywhere we go, and if we must rely on small distinctions, so be it.”

Isabelle smiles. “I am proud to have you with me, ladies.” She turns a contemplative face to the letter. “We had better eat something. And we’d better pull a robe à la francaise out of my wardrobe.” She gestures to the footman at the door. “Please tell the Cardinal de Rohan we accept his invitation with gratitude.” The young man bows and leaves the room.

Anna goes to bring cheese, wine, and bread, and Katherine and Mary begin to open the various trunks of Isabelle’s clothing that accompanied them to Rome. “Here,” says Anna, lifting the lid of one of the cedar chests. “Some of your French dresses.”

Isabelle comes to stand before the chest and says thoughtfully, “Shall we really dress French or be charmingly Lilliputian after all?”

“A novelty?” Lady Mary considers. Then she shakes her head. “Better to flatter His Eminence with French gowns. After all, you’ll be speaking French to him.”

Isabelle has her ladies pull out six of the French gowns she has brought with her, and together they inspect their choices. “Too flowery?” Isabelle asks, long since used to simple brocades, indicating a cream gown embroidered with blossoms in many colors. “Appropriate for the season, though.” She moves on to a pale tawny gown striped in maroon and sashed with a matching fringed belt, and then to an aquamarine gown embroidered all over with fleurs-de-lis and with gold fringe at the sleeves. “The nights aren’t too warm yet,” she adds. “I will need a shawl and proper shoes.” Isabelle has a special fondness for Kashmiri shawls and has a large collection of them with her in her trunks.

“A tribute to the French and Persian alliance is wise,” Lady Mary says mischievously, and Isabelle smiles back.

In the end Isabelle chooses the cream dress, a deep purple Kashmiri shawl heavily embroidered with paisley designs, and pearl-and-amethyst jewelry. She hangs a miniature Lilliputian gryphon from her belt alongside a simple golden cross (an outward show of piety sure to reflect well on her), and a simple yet outstanding tiara, to remind her French host he has invited a queen, whatever he may think of her religious leanings.

The young footman returns a half an hour later with directions to the French Cardinal’s palazzo and a sealed letter addressed to Isabelle. “From the Cardinal,” he tells Lady Mary. “For Her Majesty.”

Isabelle is being laced into her corset when Lady Mary returns with the letter. “A communication from His Eminence,” Lady Mary says. “For your eyes only.”

Isabelle frowns but takes the letter. As her ladies work around her she reads the handwritten paragraphs, and then laughs a bit derisively. “Ah, the diplomacy of men,” she says.

Her ladies work in expectant silence, smiling at their queen. “I extend my hand in grace and benevolence to an anointed queen of a sovereign nation,” Isabelle quotes, and grimaces. “How generous of him. He imagines himself my equal.” She allows her ladies to help her into her skirt, bolstered by the ridiculous panniers to widen her hips and add to the illusion of a tinier waist. They tie it securely at her back and reach for the bodice, with three-quarter sleeves decorated with matching cream fabric blossoms at the elbow. There is a short train at the back and Isabelle steps into soft cream leather slippers with a small heel. She has long since perfected the walk of fashionable ladies whereby they seem to glide across the floor without dirtying their skirts, and can rival the best of Versailles’s courtiers with her flawless French and her dancing skills. Her three attendants are equally fluent, and all of them dress in the royal blue of Lilliput with a golden fleur-de-lis and a gryphon pendant on demure chains around their necks.

Isabelle inspects herself in a polished silver mirror as her ladies conclude with placing her jewelry and finishing her hair. “Charming,” Katherine says. “You will certainly make a positive impression with His Eminence.”

“He does love beautiful women,” comments Lady Mary. “What a joy to have no part in such tantrums of men deprived of sex.”

Isabelle laughs. “Careful, Mary, in front of my innocent maids,” she quips, and Anna and Katherine blush a bit. She adjusts the gryphon pendant at her waist. “Chins up,” she instructs them. “Into the French lion’s mouth.”

The carriage ride to the palazzo is short enough, with Sir Gavin and her two knights riding alongside, from the Via Lata to the Via Sacra, where the palazzo of Cardinal de Rohan is lit in the Roman night with torches and candles. Isabelle and her ladies are handed into an enormous salon lit by chandeliers, filled with people, and covered in glorious paintings from floor to nearly the ceiling. There is sculpture everywhere, and the large windows are opened to the warm evening. The afternoon rain has faded into a mellow navy sky with a misty pearl moon. Isabelle looks around herself at the gathered society and does not recognize anyone.

“Votre Majesté,” a voice says smoothly behind her. Isabelle turns and comes face to face with the Cardinal de Rohan, an elderly man swathed in red silk with a round, full face and a head of greying curls. “Welcome, my lady, to the Via Sacra.”

Isabelle, sang-froid as ever, drops the Cardinal a deep curtsy, the gesture of an accomplished princess full of grace, which her ladies mimic. Rohan extends his hand with the large ruby ring, expecting Isabelle to kiss it, which she does not do. She merely bows her head over his hand. “I am honored to have been included in such a gathering, Your Eminence,” she says graciously. She will outwit this man at his own game. “There can be nothing more comforting than the presence of art and those who appreciate it in an unfamiliar land.”

“Our common language,” the Cardinal says, still smiling. “I would not dream of having you believe that France is so uncouth as to snub her allies, especially at such a time as this. His Majesty King Louis is anxious that his cousin monarch should remember the love he bears Lilliput.”

Cousin and not sister, as he would have no doubt referred to another Catholic monarch, Isabelle notes. She smiles anyway, and bows her head again. “We are all children of the same god,” she says.

“I will endeavor to see it that way,” de Rohan says, his smile growing fixed. “Please, eat and enjoy. You will find I have brought my best art for the best eyes in Rome.”

Isabelle curtsies again, even though the cardinal does not outrank her, and says, “I thank you, Your Eminence. We are most grateful.” She keeps the same smile on her face until he turns away, and then looks to her ladies behind her.

“Don’t be too subservient,” Lady Mary murmurs. Isabelle nods.

“Well, then, ladies,” she says. “Let us look at portraits by candlelight and drink fine wine and smile.”

The room is full of people dressed in gorgeous silks and brocades, discussing all manner of subjects. Isabelle gets very little acknowledgement from them but for a few diplomats she recognizes here or there. The room is truly magnificent, however, and there are paintings hung nearly to the ceiling. There are sculptures everywhere, and servants circling the room with jugs of wine and delicacies on silver trays. There are plenty of candles and so the room is well-lit. Isabelle stops in front of a magnificent portrait of King Henry III. It is detailed and exquisite, down to the reflections of the light on the jewels on his clothes.

She is offered a glass of wine by a passing servant and accepts it gratefully, indicating her ladies to take one as well. She sips what turns out to be delicious Burgundy wine, a deep, mellow red. In the light of a flaring torch someone notices her face and stops in his tracks.

Giacomo Casanova, chief historian to the doge of Venice, in Rome as part of the retinue of the Patriarch of Venice Francesco Antonio Correr, has been invited in his official capacity to the Cardinal’s salon. Strictly speaking he is there to document the event for the doge: the guest list, the menu, what art was displayed, what persons of quality he conversed with, the atmosphere of the room and the concurrent events in the Vatican.

His assignment has just been elevated.

As politely as he can, he makes his way across the crowded salon. He hangs back for a moment to observe her in the firelight, the flash of her smile as she converses with her ladies, the colorful flowers embroidered on her dress, the tiara crowning her hair and sparkling even in the low light.

Then he breathes, and steps forward. “Your Majesty,” he says, with a bow full of reverence.

Isabelle stops in mid-sentence and looks at the man in front of her, dressed in a a suit of fine red cloth and buff breeches. As he straightens up her face changes to an expression of frank amazement. “Signor Casanova,” she says.

“I had not thought to see you in Rome,” Casanova answers. I had not thought to see you ever again, he thinks. “I confess myself overwhelmed.”

“What an unexpected joy,” Isabelle says, and she is sincere. Her smile blossoms across her face, and it is like a sense memory for Casanova, something he has never forgotten. He smiles in return. “How many years is it now?” Isabelle asks. “It must be nearly ten.”

“Eight years, Your Grace,” Casanova says, and in his tone there is a hint of his old playfulness and intimacy, but only a hint. Isabelle remembers his little nickname for her, the single sweet syllable of “Iz.”

“Have you come to Rome to see which prelate will win the melee?” Isabelle asks. Casanova laughs.

“I have, Your Grace,” he says. “I’m the chief historian for the doge now. I came in the retinue of the Patriarch, but really I’m here to make sure Venice is informed.”

Lady Mary clears her throat behind Isabelle, a delicate but diplomatic sound, and Isabelle turns to introduce her ladies. “This is Lady Mary Newhouse, whom I’m sure you will remember from your visit to Lilliput,” Isabelle says, and Lady Mary curtsies. “And these are my maids of honor Anna Stafford, and Katherine de Guise.”

Casanova bows to them all, and kisses Lady Mary’s hand. “I do indeed remember Lady Mary. Good evening.” He is impeccably polite to each of her ladies and Anna and Katherine are quite charmed despite their nervousness at their unfamiliar surroundings. “When did you arrive?” he asks Isabelle, who sighs.

“Earlier today,” she says. “And went straight to the Apostolic Palace to present myself as I thought was proper, and was told that I was not welcome without a proper escort, nor would I be truly welcome in the circle of those informed, so I regret that perhaps my mission is an impossible one.”

Casanova raises his eyebrows over his glass of wine. “Is that so?” he says thoughtfully. “Your Grace, will you take a turn with me outside in the gardens?”

Isabelle puts her hand in the crook of his elbow. “If it will not damage the reputation of Venice to be seen with a heretic and a virago, I would love that.”

Lady Mary, Anna, and Katherine follow them at a discreet distance out into the moonlit gardens, where fountains are flowing and the night air has a cool edge to its warmth. Assured that no one is listening, Casanova smiles widely at Isabelle.

“Truly it has been too long, my lady,” he says. “What are you doing here? I thought Lilliput is a client of the Anglican church.”

“We are,” Isabelle says. “But it turns out we are also an essential port of trade for much of Europe due to our strategic location and our liberal trade laws. And both Catholics and Protestants must trade.”

“Indeed,” Casanova says. “And why does the queen lower herself to such an assignment as diplomatic relations with the church? Have you no suitable ambassador?”

Isabelle shrugs. “Traditionally, the queen treats with the Vatican. It’s been that way since long before I was born. Something to do with the bridge between Mother Church and the queen as mother of her people.” She shrugs again. “All I know is I sailed from King’s Yard to Calais, rode through France and over the Alps, and then down the countryside to Rome, at risk of my life and health, and that of my ladies and knights, to come to a place where I have been explicitly told that my work will be difficult if not impossible. So you see my dilemma, and on my first night in this strange land.”

Casanova is silent. “It’s true that most Catholics will be wary of you,” he says. ”But you need not be excluded entirely.”

Isabelle nods. “I plan to fulfill my social obligations and I will be as diligent as I can. I owe my people that.”

“I see your sense of duty is still as strong as ever,” Casanova says. “An honorable thing. I remember that about you.”

Isabelle smiles genuinely. “Thank you, Signor.”

“Listen,” Casanova says. “I will come and see you tomorrow afternoon. Do you have a house?”

“In the Via Lata,” Isabelle answers. “Will you run a risk being seen visiting me?”

“Hardly anyone knows you’re here,” Casanova shrugs. “And in any case, the same thing happens in the Apostolic Palace every day. Nothing at all.”

“How long have you been here?”

“Venice is not far from Rome,” Casanova says. “Hundred fifty leagues. You traveled an unimaginable distance in comparison.”

“Two months,” Isabelle laughs. “It was a massive undertaking. I hope for success.”

“I can help you if you’ll receive me tomorrow.” Casanova slows and stops, and bows to Isabelle. “I’ll come at four in the afternoon. Your two months on the road will not have been for nothing.” He looks back at her ladies. “Let me take you back inside. I’m sure they’re going to serve the supper soon.”

And to her immense credit, though Casanova would not be able to sit with her, he watches her laugh and smile and charm her way through the supper, even going so far as to dance a courante with the Cardinal, who seems charmed despite her heresy. One of Isabelle’s great abilities is to make anyone feel as though they were in her confidence, and as though she could not imagine a more pleasant prospect than conversing with whomever she was speaking to.

She tolerated the various attempts at conversion that inevitably came her way from one zealous priest or another throughout the evening. She admired the plethora of incredible sculpture owned by the cardinal, and guarded her ladies as well as they guarded her.

Around two in the morning Isabelle pays her respects to the cardinal and departs with her ladies and Sir Gavin, feeling as if she has made a success of the evening. A little socializing can only do her good, even on her first day. And the addition of the presence of Giacomo Casanova must be a good omen, she thinks.

Lady Mary, who remembers Casanova from his visit to Lilliput, regards her gently-smiling queen from across the carriage. Isabelle is looking out the window at the darkness, an expression on her face that Mary doesn’t normally see. Isabelle is always good-natured and willing to laugh, but in Lilliput especially she is subdued and conscious of etiquette. She has no idea that Casanova has offered to help Isabelle, only that it seems he has come back to court her queen again. Katherine and Anna, who were children the last time Casanova met the queen, have no notion of who he is and was to the queen.

But Lady Mary is also the queen’s closest friend, and the person for whom Isabelle’s daughter is named. In private they talk like sisters, laughing uproariously and sharing confidences, which has placed Mary in a very privileged position indeed throughout her time in service at the court of Lilliput. She is well-liked by King Theodore and respected among the courtiers, for Lilliput and the Small Isles are too small for the usual intrigues and machinations of Europe’s larger courts. Mary has always been accustomed to a gentle, peaceful court, and has an acute aversion to schemes. Despite this aversion, however, she kept the first liaison between Isabelle and Casanova a discreet secret, and can be relied upon to do the same this time (should it be necessary), and instruct the younger maids to keep their silence.

Isabelle, meanwhile, is a princess of a larger court and has found the lack of manipulations a welcome relief. She remembers her father’s ducal court in Ireland, and, troubled by the famine that is affecting her brother’s court now, has been sending grain and money from Lilliput to ease the suffering of her birthplace. She has instructed that aid to continue throughout her sojourn in Italy, and that is one her anxieties as she travels. There are many things on her mind as they pull up in front of the palazzo, and Isabelle leads her ladies into the house.

They help her undress and the two younger maids retire to their own room. Lady Mary pours Isabelle a last glass of wine, and sits with her by candlelight in the queen’s private room. “Giacomo Girolamo Casanova,” Mary says. “An unexpected surprise, my lady.”

Isabelle smiles at Lady Mary over her glass. “Among many today,” she says. “What did you think of the company?”

Mary considers as she pours herself a glass of wine too. “Pretentious,” she says thoughtfully. “Some of them ignorant, some of them wise. The French cardinal seemed to favor you, though.”

“And we do good business with the French if nothing else,” Isabelle muses. “It can’t hurt to show them that Protestants are just as capable of humanity as anyone else, whatever their impulses.”

“What strange impulses!” Mary says, and Isabelle laughs. “Imagine what it must be like for those men, confined to celibacy.”

“Oh, I hardly think they’re confined,” Isabelle says, rolling her eyes. “Do you know how many of these highborn women are mistresses of cardinals? It’s practically an honor. These men have dozens of children. I hear the Cardinal Ottoboni had sixty at last count, before he died and could beget any more, the old lecher.”

Mary laughs in surprise. “Oh!” she says. “And how many mistresses? Isn’t it amazing, how these men believe their cocks will change us fundamentally as people?”

Isabelle joins her laughter. “Let me tell you, but for my daughter, I’d let them keep their cocks. Being a nun is no better, of course, but the arrogance is astounding.”

“Even Signor Casanova?” Lady Mary asks slyly.

Isabelle smiles. “Even Signor Casanova, though he asks nothing of me.”

She sleeps uneasily that night, in the unfamiliar bed, with Lady Mary alongside her as her bedfellow. She dreams of trying to get into a locked house, dreams of trying to eat rotting food, dreams of being lost. In the morning she wakes to the sun pouring through her windows, an Italian sun, much more golden and less well-mannered than the watery sunshine of the British isles. Lady Mary is already up and about, dressed for the morning in her usual chemise and close bodice. “Will you break your fast, my lady?” she asks, smiling at Isabelle, who is blinking awake in a bed she is just remembering is not her own.

“Oh, er. Yes,” Isabelle says. “Some bread and cheese and wine, if you please. I have no stomach for meat.”

Sleepily, Isabelle eats breakfast with her ladies moving quietly around her. This first full day in Rome is bright with sunshine if not with promise, and Isabelle looks around her at her surroundings.

Her room is fine enough, the entire house fine enough for her, though perhaps not quite to her station as a queen. She has an obligation to entertain the finest luminaries present in Rome, just like the Cardinal, but she is operating at a distinct disadvantage. She can not be certain who will attend, who will even acknowledge her. In any case, she must lay out the money and see what comes of it.

“My lady?” Lady Mary says, breaking her thoughts. “Have you any plans for the day?”

Isabelle shakes her head. “I thought we might make it our business to learn the layout of Rome, at least in our area, so that we may be well-versed when we speak to those around us who are more familiar. Beyond that, we will receive Signor Casanova at four o’clock. Go down to the kitchen and tell the chef to prepare us some pastries,” she adds to Anna, who bobs a curtsey and goes out of the room.

Once her meal is concluded she asks for maps and journals, and sets to studying the streets and the neighborhoods. With the help of Sir Gavin and a local lawyer’s clerk hunted down by Lady Mary, Isabelle quickly learns the layout of Rome and which noble, prelate, and merchant lives where. She insists that Anna, Katherine, and Lady Mary listen with her for their own protection. She learns of the Judaeorum Borgo, the Jewish quarter, and the crossing of the Tiber at various points. She learns where not to go, and doesn’t realize that five hours have passed as she has worked and taken notes. It’s only when she tunes into the clock chiming three times that she looks up.

“Three o’clock?” she says, and reaches up to massage her shoulder where it is cramping. She puts down her pen and sighs. “Enough academics for the time being.” She stands up and gestures to Lady Mary, who produces a purse heavy with gold.

Though Lilliput is small, it is not poor, and Isabelle has a virtually unlimited budget at her hands. “For your help, and for your silence,” she tells the clerk, who makes her a deep bow when he feels the weight of the purse. “I thank you.”

The man, of whom Isabelle realized she had never asked his name (perhaps for the better, she considers), leaves through her side entrance, and Isabelle watches him emerge into the busy street of the Via Lata. She doesn’t know if her caution is unwarranted, but she has no intention of taking advantage of her anonymity in this way.

Isabelle turns back to her ladies. “I need to change my dress to receive Signor Casanova,” she says. “He’s a foreign dignitary from the court of the doge and we must show him due courtesy.”

Lady Mary smiles to herself, but she, Anna, and Katherine assist Isabelle in dressing more properly. She chooses a rust colored overgown over a creamy white skirt made of fine lawn. Lace trim adorns her sleeves and low neckline, which Isabelle adjusts to have the most pleasing effect. Katherine, always dextrous with her mistress’s hair, weaves in several large ruby combs to match her dress. Recalling the utter opulence of the night before at the French cardinal’s residence, Isabelle opts for simple jewelry and soft tan leather shoes beaded with brown and white patterns. Between dressing and hair and jewels, it is nearly four o’clock when she finishes and instructs her maids to bring the best wine she has. Her cook, a man whom she considers a magician and who travels with her retinue wherever she goes, has conjured up cream tarts, fruit pastries, and a profiterole decorated with spun sugar and drizzled with strawberry glaze. Lady Mary places Murano glass wineglasses on the table for both the queen and Signor Casanova. Isabelle looks pleased at the spread, and smiles at Lady Mary.

“What luck that you have a friend in Italy, my lady,” Lady Mary says, and she and Isabelle smile at each other.

“What a relief,” Isabelle says a moment later, the smile fading from her face. “I feared this mission was a loss and I had been sent here on a fool’s errand. But perhaps it can be done.” She smooths her bodice and skirt. “How do I look?”

“Charming, as always,” Lady Mary says. “You’re lovely, and if he was smitten once there’s no reason to assume he won’t be again.”

Isabelle shakes her head. “Sufficiently charming is fine for me. If I succeed here with his help, so much the better for both of us.” She breathes deeply. “Let the work commence.”

And because he is the same Giacomo Casanova as nearly ten years before, when the clock chimes four, the bell outside the palazzo clangs right on time. The footman allows Casanova into the palazzo, where he bows and asks for “Her Grace Queen Isabelle.”

And he is led into Isabelle’s presence chamber, where she has artfully set herself up with her ladies scattered through the room, sitting easily on her chair with her dress displayed to full advantage. She makes as if to rise, but Casanova simply bows over her hand and says, “My queen.”

“Please, sit,” Isabelle says, glowing despite herself, gesturing to the seat across from her. “Welcome.” She pours him wine herself, and indicates to Mary, Anna, and Katherine that they need not serve.

For a few minutes they drink the good wine and eat the pastries, smiling and making small courteous talk. Isabelle finds herself looking the handsome Venetian over, appreciating the way her memory coalesced around him, and the new details about him. “All right,” Casanova says finally, finishing his glass. “I did come here for more than wine.” He smiles at her and withdraws a leather file from under his jacket. “These are my writings thus far. The same reports I give the doge. They’re the rough copies, of course, but if I’m going to disclose state secrets to a heretic ruler, you can’t expect a fair version.”

Isabelle smiles, but then looks very solemn. “Are you sure you want to do this?” she asks. “This is much more serious than I thought.”

Casanova shrugs. “Stay out of the court scrutiny as best you can, which shouldn’t be hard because you aren’t a Catholic. If hardly anyone knows you’re here, why would they suspect?”

“But I have to entertain,” Isabelle says. “I’m expected to hold receptions and make my case to the cardinals and the new pope.”

“Perhaps it’s not the custom of the Small Isles to have such extravagant display,” Casanova says. “Perhaps the sovereign of her nation sees fit to continue the example she sets for her people of prudence, quietude, and modesty.” His eyes drift down her bodice.

“Modesty,” Isabelle grins at him and the years fall away. “That will not cover my social obligations.”

“Aye, I saw you dancing last night,” Casanova laughs. “You’re obliged indeed.” He glances back at the ladies seated across the room and Isabelle takes his hint.

“Ladies?” she calls over to them. “Would you please leave us? Perhaps go down to order our supper?”

Lady Mary only nods, and takes the younger maids with her. Isabelle thinks how lucky she is to have such loyalty, and how she will reward Mary when they return to Lilliput. Perhaps a new title for her and her husband. He has been a good captain of the guard and his wife an unfailing steward of her life.

“No use revealing state secrets to those who don’t need to hear them,” she tells Casanova. “Shall we?”

He grins at her. “Of course.”

“Oh.” Isabelle stops him for a moment with an outstretched hand. “Before we begin, would you come with me?”

She leads him to a table by the window, where sunlight is pouring in onto a vase of flowers. Isabelle pulls a rose out of the bouquet, and holds it over her head. “The Romans have a phrase,” she begins. “And it stands for total secrecy and reliability. In Latin it’s sub rosa.”

Casanova says it at the same time. “Under the rose,” he adds.

“Can we agree that it will be our cipher?” Isabelle says, and then she smiles warmly at him. “I knew you would know.”

“My lady, I will shower you in roses, and I will keep you safe besides,” Casanova tells her. He reaches out to take the rose from her, holds it over his own head for a moment, and then kisses her hand. “I am no less secret than I was eight years ago.”

Isabelle gives him a glowing look and they go back to the papers he has brought with him. “There’s a lot to know,” he tells her. “We began in February with thirty-two cardinals. The interests are many.” He hands her several sheets of parchment. “These are letters written between some Cardinals. If the Patriarch received one, I copied it and archived it.”

“Valuable documents,” Isabelle says, reading over his elegant hand with pleasure. “Much to be disputed, I see.”

“There are a few factions,” Casanova continues. “The Zelanti are the faction that Venice is part of, and Ruffo and Petra are our leaders. They want no secular interference at all. You’ll meet Braschi eventually, he’s Ruffo’s assistant.”

Isabelle recognizes the name. “I met him yesterday, when I arrived at the Apostolic Palace. He was... cordial.”

Casanova nods dismally. “One doesn’t expect much more than that from him these days. Serious business.” He points to the letter again. “Then there is the Spanish faction, and the Imperialist faction. Cardinal Niccolò del Giudice is the head of the Imperial interest, along with Cardinal Sigismund Kollonitz of Vienna.”

Isabelle starts to write steadily as Casanova talks. “The Spanish don’t want an Imperialist pope, and the Imperialists don’t want a Spanish pope. So they seek a compromise. There was one earlier, in February. Everyone thought Ottoboni would win, but he died before we even arrived from Venice.”

Isabelle nods. “I heard. And was it an assassination?” she asks.

“No, just an old fat man who overindulged in sex, wine, food, and politics,” Casanova shrugs. “God calls us all at the appointed time, and his time was appointed.”

“I heard he had sixty children,” Isabelle says, and Casanova laughs.

“Sixty-three, I believe,” he says. “There’s no way to know for sure, of course, for what cardinal would admit to having sons and daughters in such a time as this? When all must compete in the arena of virtue, at least on the outside, no bastards can exist. Even Rodrigo Borgia pretended to be his children’s uncle.”

“Distasteful,” Isabelle says. “Our clergy can marry, and if you ask me that’s the solution to much of the church’s problems.”

“Ah, but you were never much for church anyway,” Casanova says, and she smiles.

“That is true,” she says. “Never saw the point. But here it’s a geopolitical earthshaker, and we all must shake with it. The papal tiara is a symbol of far more than spiritual authority.”

“Yes,�� Casanova agrees thoughtfully. “Bit worrying.”

Isabelle leans forward to retrieve the wine jug and refills their glasses. “You look very queenly in that gown,” Casanova says, his eyes wandering down her décolletage.

Isabelle merely lifts one shoulder in a small shrug. “I am a queen,” she tells him, and looks at his lips briefly. “But you knew that.”

“Aye,” he says. “I do know that.” He refocuses. “The French are represented by Cardinal Tencin, and he is sending letters to Cardinal Fleury at Versailles. Word has it he’s competing with the ambassador the Duc de Saint-Aignan for credibility in the French court. I also made you a list of everyone who has arrived thus far and is in conclave. Everyone’s been late. We only managed Zinzendorff six days ago. He’s got gout and he says the doctors want him to have fresh pig entrails as part of the treatment.”

Isabelle grimaces. “Ew,” she says. “Medicine is so strange.”

“He wanted to be able to bring live pigs in with him,” Casanova says, and Isabelle makes a short amused sound.

“That’s got to be a metaphor,” she says, and they both laugh. “So where do we stand now?”

“The younger cardinals against the older,” Casanova says. “And of course one court against the other. Tencin seems to feel it’s his duty to make sure the Camerlengo and the Spanish cardinals stick together in order to influence Cardinal Corsini.”

“The Papal Nephew,” Isabelle says. “I know that name.”

“Indeed. Tencin says Corsini has enough supporters to exclude anyone from the vote that he pleases, and that he’s necessary to anyone who wishes to get elected. I don’t know if they want to apply the formal exclusiva, which is a bold move, but they’ve determined that Ruffo is to be excluded, which doesn’t sit well with us Venetians. It’ll be a parade of eunuchs until we find the one we want to give the hat to.”

Isabelle snorts with laughter. “Your irreverence is very uplifting, Signor.”

“Will you call me Giac again?” Casanova asks. He looks so sincere that Isabelle can’t help her smile. “It’s been a long time since I heard you say it. I never expected to hear it again.”

“Giac,” Isabelle says, and he smiles softly. “Thank you for today.”

“I am at your service,” Casanova says. “Your Grace.”

“Iz,” she tells him. “If you have your name, I want mine.” And he leans forward to kiss her, like a sense memory.

Isabelle feels her anxiety drain away, and reaches forward to caress his face. He’s come to help her, and to sustain her in her work. For a long moment they just relearn each other, familiar and unfamiliar at the same time.

It’s Casanova who pulls away first and says, “I don’t want your ladies walking in on us.” But he looks so smitten, and then so incredibly aroused, that Isabelle doesn’t want to stop.

“I know,” she says reluctantly.

“Another time, and soon,” he says meaningfully. “Much will change here and none of us knows when this question will resolve. In the meantime, my lady, I will keep you informed as best and as completely as I can.”

“Giac, wait,” Isabelle says. “Listen to me.” She regards him seriously and solemnly, even through the joy of the kiss. “Listen. I will keep you safe and I will pay you for your help. I don’t want you risking your life for me.”

“Every day is a risk in politics,” Casanova says placidly. “I am at your service. You owe me nothing.”

“No,” Isabelle says. “For this I owe you everything. And I will see you enriched and I will minimize all risk to you as best as I can. You can hardly be seen telling state secrets to me.” She gets up from her seat and goes to the chest at the foot of her bed. Inside she gathers up a purse and fills it with gold ducats, a heavy clinking bag. She brings it to him, and puts it in his hands, and gives him another kiss.

“A minor queen I may be,” she says, “and a heretic, and an unnatural woman, but I am still a queen. And a woman nonetheless.”

“I am honored to know you both,” Casanova says, and slips the purse into a pocket. “I thank you, my queen. My Iz.” He stands up with her and gathers most of the papers again, leaving her copies of letters and the list of cardinals in attendance.

“When will I see you again?” Isabelle asks.

“Why, I am at your service,” Casanova grins suggestively.

“Oh, that,” Isabelle says, smiling back. “But on official business?”

“Let us aim for a weekly retreat into the pleasures of mutual discourse,” he says, making “mutual discourse” much more naughty and fun with his tone. “Though there may be precious little news.”

“Shall we say Saturday afternoons like this?” Isabelle asks. “That way you will be at mass in the morning with no one the wiser.”

“Do you attend mass, my lady?” Casanova asks in surprise.

“Where and when I am required, or it is politic to do so,” Isabelle shrugs. “You know I don’t care about the church one way or another, whatever church it is. My mission is purely secular, and ecclesiastical men affect me not at all.”

“Then I will rest assured you will be fine here,” Casanova says. “But if you need anything, my lady, let me be your first friend.”

“You are, and you have been,” says Isabelle. “And I can’t tell you my joy and comfort at your presence.” She makes a pleased noise as Casanova wraps her up and kisses her again, trailing down to her breasts.

“I will come to you Saturdays,” he promises her, his lips and tongue on her skin. “And in such a way will you have what you need to negotiate your trade compromises. You have my word.” He reluctantly lets her go and bows. “I am sure our paths will cross in this frantic social scene.”

Isabelle is lit up with desire and relief, and kisses him one last time, gripping his hands in hers. “I will wait for that every day.” She sighs and looks around them. “The less time you spend here, the better, at least for now.”

Casanova steps back and makes her a deep bow full of genuine reverence. “Four days from now, then,” he says. “It will be Saturday. And if anything has happened, you will know.”

Isabelle watches him mount his horse in the courtyard of the palazzo and ride off, and turns back to the empty chamber. She has much to do. Letters, treatises, invitations already extended to answer. This entire journey is a game, she reminds herself, and her stakes are high. The economic well-being of Lilliput depends on its relationship with the continent and its leaders, including the Pope.

In such a way the weeks turn into a month, and May wears on without any further progress. Casanova keeps his word and visits every Saturday afternoon at four o’ clock, early enough to be done in time for evening obligations, and late enough to be concluded with most regular business for the day. He is polite and charming to her ladies as always, and Isabelle dismisses them the same way every week. They regain the intimacy they had discovered briefly when Venice came to negotiate their new trade agreement for dyes and the fine wool of Lilliputian sheep. They’ve been stopping short of sex for the sake of efficiency and minimizing his time and risk, but both of them are getting tired of resisting the urge.

The factions have come no closer to a resolution, and of the fifty-five cardinals now in the conclave, forty-four are Italian, so there is much dissent, and this is compounded by the misbehavior of the prelates. Cardinal Corsini, the Papal Nephew, is bored and irascible without his mistresses and worldly comforts, and machinations by the French and Italian lobbies are running high. Casanova has brought her a list of “acceptable cardinals” for the papacy (in an unsigned dispatch marked with the drawing of a rose, like all their correspondence) as enumerated by the French cardinal Fleury, stationed at Versailles but in constant contact with Rome. Depending on which of them gained power (if the French had their way), Isabelle would know which factions to court and offer her trade terms. The French would buy their fabrics, and rely on Lilliput for their low tariffs and access to the calm seas between them and the continent. The Germanic states, at least the Catholic Holy Roman Empire, would be interested in their alliance with Lilliput to maintain their shipping lanes, and if the Spanish cardinals would look her way, the goodwill of the Italians would matter less, whomever they elected.

Isabelle keeps her profile low, receiving ambassadors and legates in quietly rich splendor. She wears the gryphon of Lilliput ever-present on her belt or necklace, and the enormous gold ring of queenship on her right ring finger. Her ladies are always present (always listening, particularly Lady Mary), dressed demurely and engaged in embroidery or reading. She succeeds with the French, given her reception at Cardinal de Rohan’s house, and he had apparently recommended her as “une femme très jolie et agréable avec un sens aigu des affaires,” which apparently is high praise. Lilliput will increase its exports of woad and saffron to France, and make the French a handsome and generous offer on shipping fees. She negotiates first pick on French produce and fashions. She can hardly doubt the news will spread.

She is in her antechamber reading when she is brought the news of the accession of Frederick II, the new Prussian monarch. He has no great reputation for religiosity, but Prussia is a Protestant state, and Isabelle can hope that maintaining her Catholic Germanic allies will be less important with a dominant Prussian state who will gladly do business with her country. She breathes a sigh of relief.

“One less problem to worry about,” Lady Mary remarks as she helps Isabelle clear the table of her reading material, stacks of folded missives all unsigned and marked with a rose in black ink. All of them from Casanova as soon as he receives word of anything relevant. His page will be richly rewarded, Isabelle thinks. The boy, called Franceschino, has been nothing but reliable and discreet at all times. He can’t be more than twelve, but he is already clever and makes himself scarce, while somehow hearing every bit of gossip he can. Isabelle likes him very much and is liberal with her payments to him. She will sponsor his education at the conclusion of her Roman journey.

It is in early June that she receives an invitation from Cardinal von Schönborn to attend the premiere of a new opera in Rome, L’Alidoro. It’s being staged at the Teatro Argentina and Isabelle has been invited to occupy a box of her own. Unused to such honors from her peers thus far, she accepts the invitation. A German-Austrian cardinal will be a help with her relations with Charles, the Holy Roman Emperor. He is old and failing, with a woman poised to succeed him, but Isabelle will take any advantage she can. Maintaining the trade relationship between Lilliput and the world at large is vital. Lilliput is not quite self-sustaining, and even early capitalism has made its mark on their economy. In short, she will attend the opera, and be a splendid and pleasing presence, and speak cordially and candidly to the cardinal, reminding him of the long and fruitful trade relationship of their two kingdoms.

At their next Saturday meeting she puts the invitation before Casanova, who has one of his own. “I highly recommend that you attend,” he says. “The Holy Roman Empire is a collection of powerful states with plenty of money.” He follows her into her chamber from the receiving room and shuts the door behind them.

“What will that do to my dinner with Belluga y Moncada?” Isabelle asks. “The interests of the Spanish are counter to the interest of the Germans.”

“Ah, the Spanish are working in conjunction with the French,” Casanova says, pulling her up against him. “If the French like you, the Spanish will be receptive.”

Isabelle makes a disgusted face. “What an awful cesspit the Vatican is. None of this has to do with holiness.”

“That’s why it’s such a tedious business,” he agrees. “It’s not about piety at all.” He reaches up and touches her face, smoothing away the worried expression that replaces her distaste. “Have you had such a bad time here?”

“No,” Isabelle says, giving him a very meaningful smile indeed. “The pleasure of your company more than compensates for the heat and the boredom and the rancid sewers and the lecherous old churchmen.” Casanova makes an amused sound at that.

“Oh, at your service,” he tells her, his hand going back to resting comfortably on her behind. “I would like to take you to the opera tonight, as my invitation is for me personally and not connected to the Venetian delegation.”

“Ah, you’ll be pleased to know I’ve been given my own box,” Isabelle says. “And so I formally invite you, Signor Casanova, to join me. Special consideration.”

“I accept,” Casanova says, squeezing her behind. He gives her a look full of intention, and she bites her lip. After a moment he says, “We’ve been very diligent, Iz.” He leans his forehead against hers. “I know you’re looking out for me and my safety but I’m not made of stone.”

Isabelle kisses him thoroughly. “Nor am I,” she says. “I fear for your safety but I’m mortal too.”

In response, he dances her over to the daybed against the far wall of the room sits her down, and kneels, his hands rubbing up and down the outside of her thighs. He pushes her layers of skirts up her legs. “It’s a good sign you were invited,” Casanova says as he undoes the ribbons keeping her stockings up. “It means the German bishops are open to negotiations, even with Frederick in Prussia.”

“That is good,” Isabelle says, watching him, anticipating.

“It also means that you’ll be in good company,” he continues. “And the Germans have good relations with the French, who probably recommended you, and thus the Spanish will be willing to give you a try.” He kisses one thigh and then the other. “They need thirty-seven votes to elect now, and Corsini is losing influence with the college daily.” He runs his tongue between her legs, and Isabelle inhales. She puts a hand on the back of his head and presses him a little closer.

“I’ll never remember all this,” she says, and moans as he settles in.

“Then I shall tell it all to you again,” Casanova says, and dives back under her dress. He licks and tastes her until Isabelle clamps a hand over her mouth and muffles herself, trying to be as quiet as she can as she comes.

That makes him hard, hard, hard, and he drags a hand across his face and undoes his britches. Isabelle reaches down to stroke his cock, and he smiles against her mouth. “I remember,” she says, pulling him up and over her. He pushes in easy and slow, just like she remembers, and her knees go up high and wide around his hips. “Oh, Giac.”

It’s been nearly ten years but they’re in no rush, and Isabelle grips his behind as he fucks her, to be as close to him as she can. He takes his time with her, and both of them are smiling and breathless at the end.

“You have earned that,” Casanova tells her.

She laughs. “You too.” She looks him over with a tender face, pushing his hair out of his face. “I’ve been waiting for that.”

“Oh, me too,” he says. He props himself on his elbow and rests his head on his hand. “So you’ve invited me to your box tonight?”

“In so many ways!” Isabelle says, and they both laugh. “But yes, tonight you don’t have to sit in the stalls. I only have my ladies anyway. Who will sit with the heretic?”

“I will,” Casanova volunteers. “Fuck what everyone else says.” He grins at her. Isabelle strokes his cheek.

“How much time have we got?” she asks.

“Show starts at ten, but there’ll be the banquet before,” he says. “And you’ll get a chance to talk to the Italians if they’re there.”

“Who shall I seduce?” Isabelle asks. “The Italians? The Savoyards?”

“Seduce them all,” Casanova says. “I can promise you the Savoyards will regard you with less trepidation, and the Italian cardinals are easy to sway with charm and good looks.”

Isabelle makes a moue of distaste.

“The cardinal’s biretta means nothing to them when it comes to women.” Casanova fingers the fine lace of Isabelle’s neckline, running his hand down the stiff boning of her corset. “Any beauty, even a woman who is not beautiful, is fair game for them-- they are aristocrats.” He grins at her. “You will be successful with some if not all. Every man loves gold. And in a proper gown you’ll be a sensation.”

“Do I dress?” Isabelle asks.

“Oh, Iz, your best and nothing less,” he says. “This is your chance to display the wealth of Lilliput. Bring your ladies and dazzle them. Wear diamonds.”

With that advice they part for the afternoon and Isabelle calls her three ladies to her. She speaks to them seriously and candidly about their role in the evening and the expectations placed on her as queen. “You will have to wear formal dress,” she says. “And you will be tired and full of food. The opera will go late and we will be required to shine for every moment of it.”

Anna and Katherine have made a good adjustment to Rome, and have bloomed with the spring around them. They have followed their queen through her stay, curtseying to innumerable important presences, flirting demurely with various men, resisting the advances of courtiers and commoners alike, attached to the cause of Lilliput.

Lady Mary, on the other hand, has grown sick and pale in the mounting Roman heat. Isabelle has watched her worriedly for a few days, unsure what the problem could be. She suspected at first that Lady Mary might have been pregnant since she had vomited, but Sir Gavin confirmed that she was not.

“Mary?” Isabelle says, drawing her chief lady-in-waiting out of her thoughts. “Are you all right?”

Mary lifts her head, as if it is heavy, and nods. She looks exhausted, and her skin is starting to take on a yellow tinge. “My lady,” she says. “I’m sorry, I am only tired. I will be well enough for the opera tonight.”

“You are ill,” Isabelle says.

It is a flat statement, said gently but matter-of-factly. Mary finally nods, as if relief is heavy too. “I am ill.”

“Then I will take Katherine and Anna with me tonight, and you will rest,” Isabelle rules. “I won’t oblige you beyond your ability.”

Unexpectedly, Lady Mary’s eyes fill with tears. “Thank you, Your Grace.”

“What’s wrong?” Anna asks, jumping from her seat to come and kneel before Lady Mary.

“I feel horrible,” Lady Mary says. “I can hardly stand to eat, I’m cold and then hot and then cold again.” She starts to weep, and folds in on herself. “I’ve tried, Your Grace, truly I have--”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Isabelle stops her gently. “You are my friend, and you are ill. I will call a doctor.”

She calls a page to her, and sends him with a note to Casanova’s lodgings about a mile away. I fear my lady is grievously ill, and that Rome may kill her without the attention of a physician, the note says.

And within a half hour, there is a man in sober black dress, bearded and wearing a small skullcap, ringing the bell at her door. Her footman opens the door suspiciously.

“Who are you?” he asks.

“I am Yakov Ben Moshe,” the man says. “I am a doctor. I was sent here for Lady Mary Newhouse.”

The footman narrows his eyes but lets the man enter. “I will call my lady,” he says. “Do not leave the foyer.”

Ben Moshe nods slightly, and the footman gives him a disdainful look.

Up in her chamber Isabelle is helping Mary into her bed, removing her bodice and skirt down to her shift. The footman appears at the door and bows. “My queen,” he says. “There is a doctor here for Lady Mary, but I cannot allow him to treat her.”

Isabelle looks up in surprise. “And why not?”

“He is a Jew,” the footman says. “He should not be allowed to touch a good Christian lady such as Lady Mary.”

Isabelle drops the bodice she is folding and strides up to face her footman. “If I had known you were such a vile creature I would have expelled you from my service in Lilliput and never bothered to bring you with me here,” she says.

The man sniffs in response.

“Do you see that my lady is ill?” Isabelle demands. “Do you spit on her life? For the sake of your hatred? Leave my presence. When we return to Lilliput you will find other employment, for I will not have people like you in my service. Send the doctor to us immediately.”

The footman bows stiffly and turns to go.

“What a pig,” Isabelle says to Anna and Katherine, and strokes Lady Mary’s hair back from her forehead.

Ben Moshe appears at the door and Isabelle rises. He bows to her and says, “Your Majesty.”

“Can you help my friend?” Isabelle asks anxiously. She remembers herself and nods politely to him, but Lady Mary is her main concern.

Ben Moshe nods and comes to stand beside the bed. “My lady,” he says to Lady Mary, “will you permit me to examine you? As your modesty allows?”

Lady Mary nods, and Ben Moshe begins to examine her gently, feeling her pulse, her temperature, her glands, her skin texture, peering into her eyes and nose and mouth. “Have you vomited?” he asks. Mary nods. “And do you have chills?” Again Mary nods. “And trouble breathing?” A third time, Mary nods.

Ben Moshe palpates her abdomen through her shift, and Isabelle grows more and more anxious in the silence. “My queen,” he says finally, “Your lady has malaria.” He extends Lady Mary’s arm to show an angry red mosquito bite, surrounded by hives.

Isabelle gasps. Anna and Katherine back away from the bed.

“It’s not contagious from human to human,” Ben Moshe reassures the younger girls. “But she is suffering with it.”

Isabelle looks to her ladies. “We will stay and care for her instead of going to the theatre,” she says. “There can be no opera while my friend suffers.”

“No,” Mary croaks from the bed. “If you decline the invitation from the Cardinal you will lose the Germanic states.”

Isabelle feels her throat constrict with emotion. “Fuck the Germanic states,” she says, surprising everyone.

“No,” Mary repeats. “My queen, Isabelle, the Holy Roman Emperor can and will cut you off from Europe. Lilliput must do business with Charles. He is old, and he is frail, but he is the emperor, and without his goodwill the rest of the Catholic Germans may shun you too.” She swallows against her dry and burning throat. “Frederick alone will not keep your trade afloat.” The long speech seems to have exhausted her. She closes her eyes for a long moment.

“What can you do for her?” Isabelle asks. “No price is too great.”

Ben Moshe is already opening his small satchel. “Ironically, Your Grace, for all your footman’s discourtesy, the remedy is known as Jesuit’s powder. It’s made from the bark of a tree in the New World.”

“Will it cure her?” Isabelle asks.

“It will certainly not harm her,” the doctor says. “It can only help. But as for her life...” He looks uncertainly down at the prostrate figure of Mary on the bed. “That is in the hands of the god who determines all. If He calls her to Him, it will be for His own reasons.”

Isabelle works hard to keep the sneer off her face at that. She trusts neither the Christians nor the Jews nor any religion to speak accurately of the existence of a higher power, and relies instead on the evidence of things seen. She clears her throat. “I will put my hopes in this Jesuit powder,” she says firmly. She reaches down into the pockets of her gown and retrieves a pouch of gold. Not a large one, not like she would give Casanova for his state secrets, but one that is clearly heavy. “If you will give me the store of powder in your possession, and keep your silence about this visit, I will be sure to make a donation much larger to your synagogue.”

Ben Moshe looks mildly perturbed. “My lady, I am a doctor, and you are not Jewish. You may pay me for my services, but beyond that we can have no further dealings. My people are vulnerable in Rome, and drawing attention to them will only make it worse, especially if you are disliked among the Catholics.”

Isabelle nods. “Then I will cause no trouble for you. Where I live, everyone is a citizen, regardless of faith.” She hands the doctor the purse and in exchange she takes a large vial of beige colored powder.

“What need for my silence?” Ben Moshe asks.

Isabelle shakes her head, and then she changes her mind. “We are Protestants,” she says. “Well, my country is Protestant, officially, and we are not much liked among the Catholics here.”

Ben Moshe gives a small, ironic smile. “We share some of the same troubles. But only some.” He bows to Isabelle and her ladies. “Dose her with the powder mixed in wine three times daily. Monitor her fever and if she convulses make sure she cannot bite through her tongue.”

There is a small, horrified silence. “We will do so,” Isabelle says, and Anna and Katherine shift nervously behind her. Ben Moshe backs from the room, with a last bow, and Katherine sits on the bed beside Lady Mary and takes her hand.

“I will stay with her,” she says to Isabelle.

Isabelle looks between her three ladies. “Will you be afraid?” she asks.

“No,” Katherine says. “And neither will Mary, for she has us.”

Lady Mary has slipped into sleep, her breathing regular. Her skin is hot and her lips are pale. Isabelle takes the ever-present jug of wine and pours a glass and mixes a spoonful of the powdered bark into it. “Give it to her now,” she says to her ladies, and together they rouse Mary and Isabelle helps her drink. Mary coughs, retches, but swallows. She grimaces.

“Foul,” she says hoarsely, and looks up at Isabelle. “You must show me your dress before you leave.”

Isabelle gives her friend a teary smile. “I promise.” She looks to her younger ladies. “To our task,” she says.

Isabelle takes Casanova’s advice and dresses magnificently. In a tribute to her Germanic hosts she wears a robe á l’allemande in a deep blue-green silk, her neckline low and sweeping around her shoulders, her bodice gracefully pointed at the bottom and trimmed in gold ribbon. Her sleeves are gathered at the crook of her elbows, with gold lace stitched to the edges, and there is a copious floral embroidery with pearls scattered throughout. She is ablaze with diamonds, from her earrings to her enormous ring of queenship. For this evening she wears a tiara made up of sapphires and diamonds, a gift from Theo's mother years before. Around her shoulders, though unnecessary for the warm Roman evening, is a mantle of red damask lined with cloth of gold, embroidered with repeated gryphons of Lilliput.

She stands before Mary, who opens her eyes briefly. “A queen to be reckoned with,” Mary says, her voice cracked. “Will you give me water?” she asks everyone at large.

Anna comes to her with a large glass of water and helps Mary sit up to drink it. Mary is feverish and flushed, and Isabelle feels another pang of guilt at leaving her. “Are you sure I should go?” she asks Mary, coming to sit beside her one last time.

“You’ve gone through the trouble of putting the dress on,” Mary says, the words a little easier with water. “You look magnificent. Perhaps you will secure the trading rights with the Spanish on the strength of that dress alone.”

Isabelle laughs, but regards her friend solemnly. “I will be thinking of you every moment,” she tells her, and kisses Mary’s brow. She winces. “You are so hot,” she says worriedly.

“I feel cold,” Lady Mary says. “Bring me a souvenir.” She is already falling asleep again, and Isabelle leaves the room quietly. She orders the staff to send for her immediately if anything should happen, and to send word to Casanova if the doctor was needed again.

In the courtyard her carriage is waiting; not her usual, which is a little the worse for the wear after its journey from Lilliput to Rome. It is a fancier one, ordered on purpose for the occasion. Isabelle grins at the splendid vehicle.

“They’ll have to sign a treaty when they see this,” she says to her young ladies. Anna is wearing a pink gown with bright blossoms embroidered on the bodice, and Katherine is in cream striped with purple. Neither of them are very sure of the intricacies of the trade negotiations, relying on Lady Mary to interpret for them. Without her, they will be largely silent.

When they pull up at the palace of Cardinal von Schönborn, they are amidst the glittering coaches and clothes of the richest in Rome, and Isabelle reminds herself to hold her head high. She makes sure her young ladies are beside her, and steels herself for the breach.

They pass through yet another set of massive doors into the palazzo of the cardinal, and Isabelle is immediately greeted by a young priest in a magnificent black habit. “Your Grace,” he says, with a smile that does not quite reach his eyes.

Isabelle makes him a small nod. “Father,” she replies. Her ladies curtsey only slightly, and Isabelle sees the young priest notice. But they owe him nothing more than the ordinary respect. They are not Catholics, and he is not a prelate.

“The Cardinal has asked me to bring you to him when you arrive,” the priest says. He is smooth, ordinary-looking and somewhat anonymous. “I am Father Aloysius.” No further identification seems to be forthcoming.

Isabelle follows the cleric with a growing sense of unease, her ladies behind, but affects to remain as gracious as she can. She is led directly to the high seat where the cardinal sits.

He is a fat man, with fat white sausage curls in his long hair, a red skullcap, and a voluminous red silk robe, which must have been stifling in the summer heat. For a moment they regard each other, queen to prelate, one standing on her dignity as an anointed royal, the other on his loyalty to an institution which rejects her but of which he is a prince. After a hesitation, the cardinal bows first, and Isabelle gives him a slight curtsey. “Your Eminence,” she says. “I thank you for your kind invitation.”

She knows the other priests and guests have noticed who flinched first.

“You are most welcome, Your Grace,” the cardinal says, just as smoothly as his assistant priest. “This opera is a once-in-a-lifetime chance for someone from an island so small and disconnected from the mainland of Europe! When do you ever get such good theatre in Lilliput?”

There is a general low laughter, and Isabelle clears her throat gracefully. “Your Eminence will surely be aware that Lilliput is home to one of the oldest surviving Roman theatres in the world?” she says. “We have many fine theatres and stages of our own, but it’s true that I would not otherwise be able to see this particular opera.” She looks placidly around at the various clergymen and courtiers standing around her and for a moment she wishes for Casanova to be beside her. They look like a ring of wolves.

“Your Grace, you must have some wine,” the cardinal says. ”It’s hot and you will need the refreshment. Don’t worry, it’s not communion wine.”

Another ripple of laughter. Isabelle dislikes being made fun of, especially in light of the need for successful trade negotiations with this thoroughly unpleasant man and his cohort. She accepts a glass of wine for herself and gestures to each of her ladies to take one, but the Cardinal declines and waves the server away. “I would be honored, Your Grace, if you would join me for a turn around the grounds,” he says. “I would like to show you the improvements we’ve made to the gardens and moat.”

As it’s night out, Isabelle wonders how much they will see, or if she will end up pushed into the moat.

They walk. “Your English is splendid, Your Eminence,” Isabelle says. “I am quite flattered that you have chosen to speak with me in my native tongue.”

Von Schönborn regards her curiously. “I don’t do business with women,” he begins thoughtfully. “But you are the ambassador that has been sent, and so I owe you the courtesy of a reception. As it happens... I am loath to reject the attentions of such a beautiful ambassador.”

Isabelle’s smile curdles in the dark but is perfectly placed when she looks back at the Cardinal. “I thank you, as the temporal attractions of women are said to be beyond your ken as a prince of the Church,” she says, and the cardinal notes her tone. She is teasing enough, but he hears her intention.

“I note your dress and your mantle,” he says. “And your two virgins who follow you around like little cherubs.” The two girls are trailing behind at a discreet distance, bordered by two or three priests. More wolves. “You are clearly a woman of great means. We have many of those in Germany. And in Italy. And all of them know their places as wives and mothers.”

“I am both of those things,” Isabelle says. She is irritated by his implication that she is unnaturally outside her gender role, a fact she has been painfully aware of the entire time.

“Then surely it is holier to be at home with your husband and children,” the cardinal says. He sounds neutral, a deliberate understatement to see if he can anger her. Isabelle doesn’t grant him the pleasure.

“Tradition dictates that I act as the wife of the state and the mother of my people by ensuring that our trade remains stable and increases, so that all may live well. We are a small state, but our money is mighty.” Isabelle indicates her tiara. “As fine as any diamond owned by any lady on this continent.”

“You need not compare yourself to them,” von Schönborn says disinterestedly. “You came here to negotiate the goodwill of the Holy Roman Empire.”

“I did not come here to discuss the weather,” Isabelle says. “And if the goodwill of Charles turns on the goodwill of his excellent cardinal, why then, sir, what else is my mission here but to charm you and make you think well of me?”

There is a silence, and then the cardinal bursts out laughing. “What a whore!” he exclaims, and Isabelle stops in her tracks.

“What?” she asks, almost unsure if she has misheard.

“I said, what a whore,” Von Schönborn repeats. “You think you can... charm me into recommending you to my master?”

Isabelle begins to walk again, pulling slightly ahead of the cardinal.

“Oh, don’t be such a spoilsport. I respect whores,” Von Schönborn says after a long moment of silence. “Their product is never anything but what they say, they negotiate well, and if they are pleasing to look at and their pussies are ripe, why, then, they are successful.”

Isabelle swallows bile and says nothing.

“I have no interest in your royal pussy, don’t worry.” There’s a slight sneer on his face. “You came here for money.”

“I am no different than any other trade ambassador in that way,” Isabelle says. “If you cannot muster the respect you owe a sovereign princess, if my femaleness offends you, there will be no need to consider me as anything but a trade ambassador. Do with that as you will.” She is taking a risk, knowing that Prussia alone won’t sustain their Germanic trade routes. Her anger threatens to choke her, but she conjures a smile again. “Lilliput has long had a good relationship with the Holy Roman Empire. The changing of the guard in Rome surely shouldn’t have any effect on it.”

Cardinal von Schönborn smiles at her in the half-light. “If we get a German pope, he will likely disallow trade with Protestant states such as yours. A sizable bite from your economy, I think.”

“So our wool is Protestant?” Isabelle asks. “Do you freeze in winter differently than we?”

“Doesn’t the East India Company prop up your economy?” the cardinal asks, and Isabelle considers this. It hasn’t been mentioned before, but as a nation in close proximity to England, Lilliput benefits enormously from the prosperity of the East India Company.

“Not entirely, Your Grace, and we consider it prudent to participate in the affairs of Europe,” Isabelle says. “We are, after all, in this together.”

The cardinal laughs again. “No. We aren’t. You’re going to hell for being a heretic, and a shrewd negotiator, and an unnatural woman, and I will go to Heaven, for I am a man of the true God. I will inform my master of your expertise.” He looks her over. “Fortunately for you, you’re beautiful, and on that, madam, you will have to trade. For most men here will grant you nothing else, clergy or no.” He strides ahead, and Isabelle stops, waiting for her younger ladies to catch up. Without Mary, Isabelle is unable to vent immediately, and so she merely gestures for them to follow her back into the reception. She is shaken.

Katherine brings her mistress a glass of wine and Anna hands her a jeweled fan. Isabelle seats herself in a discreet corner and breathes out. “Pig,” she says, an echo of earlier. “He is a pig in red silk and I despise him.”

“The Holy Roman Empire depends upon the Church,” Anna says quietly, and Isabelle turns to look at her maid-in-waiting.

“Go on,” she says.

“If the Emperor wishes to remain the Emperor, he must maintain the goodwill of the Vatican,” Anna says. “Therefore it is in the interest of the cardinal to be entirely on the side of the Church, and reject all semblance of alliance with non-Catholic states, including yours.”

“But we’ve traded with the Empire for centuries--”

“Of course,” Anna says. “Forgive me, Your Grace. What I meant was that in social situations, in the eyes of the world, the cardinal likely feels it’s prudent not to participate in the affairs of Lilliput.”

“You were listening,” Isabelle says, smiling a little.

“I was,” Anna says. “We both were.” She squeezes Katherine’s hand and they smile furtively at each other. “That man is a bad man, and he called you a whore,” she continues. “But he says he respects whores, and so he will speak to the Emperor on your behalf.”

Isabelle sighs. “What a horror I have brought you ladies in to,” she says. “I promise when we are home and settled you will have peace.”

The girls shrug. “We are honored to serve,” Katherine says. “As Your Majesty requires, so we will obey.”

Isabelle smiles fondly. “I can’t hide in this corner any longer,” she says. “Let us take a turn around the hall and show our faces. It will doubtless be noted that I am here and took a private walk with the cardinal.”

Isabelle is right, but only temporarily. In a few moments Casanova arrives, wearing a rust-colored suit and immaculately-coiffed long brown wig she has never seen on him before. It’s close to his natural color, so doesn’t seem too jarring, but she is surprised anyway.

“Good evening, Your Grace,” he says, kissing her hand. “I hope your evening has been tranquil so far.”

“No such luck,” Isabelle says, watching him straighten up with delight despite her distress. “You look very fine tonight, Signor.”

He grins at her. “Thank you.” Then, lower and more concerned, “What has happened?”

“The cardinal is a rotted carcass,” Isabelle says. “He was vile to me.”

Casanova’s face turns serious. “What did he say?”

“He called me a whore, but told me he respects whores because they never lie about what they’re selling.” Isabelle shrugs. “He says he will speak on my behalf to the Emperor to continue our trading agreements, so I suppose my mission is accomplished, though he’s been allowed to be frightfully disrespectful in the process. If we were in Lilliput he’d have been jailed.” She looks around at the gathered crowd and says, “Should you be seen with me?”

Casanova waves a hand. “I’m a historian and a librarian, I don’t matter to anyone here. My invitation was a formality to maintain goodwill with the Doge, at least on the surface.”

“Where does the conclave stand?” Isabelle asks.

“A standstill,” Casanova says. “In fact, we’ll all begin attending masses for the election of a Pope in order to speed the process along. Daily.”

“Ah, so they will murmur to the air and supplicate the altar, and those old men will do as they please no matter what,” Isabelle says. “Doubtless it will be expected of me to show up at these masses.”

“To a few, my lady, for optics,” Casanova confirms. “But you can sit with me, and we’ll have a jolly time while we ignore the mass completely.”

Isabelle smiles, feeling her anxiety ease. She looks down at herself. “If I am a whore, at least I am a well-dressed whore. Let us eat.”

Casanova pulls at her arm gently to stop her from walking away. “You are the purest thing I know,” he says. “You could never be a whore.” He offers his arm and escorts her to the buffet tables, crowded with heaps of delicacies and meats and pastries.

Most of the guests don’t pay them any mind, but here and there are suspicious faces. Casanova keeps a close eye on their company, and when they have eaten and drunk their fill, the assembled guests pile into their respective modes of transport again and drive to the theatre. “Did you come in a carriage?” Isabelle asks Casanova as people swarm around them.

“Horseback,” he says. “I’ll ride myself and keep lookout around your carriage.”

“Sir Gavin is outside,” Isabelle says.

“He’s a good knight,” Casanova says, “but allow me the honor of assisting him. I know Rome.”

Isabelle sits as calmly as she can in her carriage, her two maids looking out the window at the dark streets around, lit with enormous torches.

The Teatro Argentina is lit as bright as daylight in the hot Roman darkness. Isabelle and her ladies are just one of a flow of humanity in through the grand doors, and are escorted to a box on the far right of the theatre, Casanova trailing behind as guard and escort. He dares the guards to say a word as he steps into the box behind the ladies, and Sir Gavin gives him a nod. The door closes behind them and the guards step into place in front of it.

“Security is good at least,” Casanova remarks, seating himself comfortably next to Isabelle. “And as I’m here on the exclusive invitation of the Queen herself,” he spreads his hands. “No one can tell me otherwise.” He lowers his voice so only Isabelle can hear him. “I have a pistol.”

Isabelle looks at him with her eyebrows raised. “Do you anticipate a real threat?”

“Not in any seriousness, no,” Casanova says. “But it’s tenuous. This is a vacuum of leadership in a pack of wolves. I’m just being cautious. Especially since you said the Cardinal was unkind.”

The overture of the orchestra swells over the conversation of the gathered audience and Isabelle glances at the stage. “I don’t care about this opera,” she says. “I’ve never even heard of this composer.”

Casanova grins at her. “Everyone’s going to talk through it anyway,” he shrugs.

“They do that in Lilliput too,” Isabelle says. “Except when that strange fellow came through with his series of plays about all his heroic deeds. He says he saved a woman from drowning on a ship. And that he was president of an island. It was very odd.”

“President of an island?” Casanova looks skeptical. “I think you had a lunatic with a passion for pyrotechnics.”

Isabelle laughs.

The opera is a typical Italian production, lavishly costumed and the plot full of comic conceits, and Isabelle and Casanova converse for most of it, laughing and eating from the tray of sweetmeats and cheeses they’d been served.

When the final scene concludes there is a round of enthusiastic applause over the conversation, and Isabelle joins in halfheartedly, tapping her fingers against her opposite palm and looking around to be sure her ladies are fine. Casanova grabs her hand as she claps and holds it, as if he can’t resist. She smiles at him. “Thank you for your company,” she says, and makes a small curtsey. Anna and Katherine pretend not to notice as Casanova kisses her hand. “I hope you enjoyed the royal box.”

Both girls burst out laughing and so does Casanova. Isabelle grins. “A double entendre lost on no one,” she says. “All right, all right. Let’s go find our carriage.”

There is a knock at the door of the box, and a page enters. ���My lady,” he bows. “You have been invited to the box of Cardinal Belluga y Moncada.”

Isabelle is scheduled to dine with this particular cardinal in four days, but an early invitation can’t hurt. She gathers her skirts around her, and her ladies and Casanova follow her with her guard. 

The cardinal is seated in magnificence, with an entourage of priests around him. He is a thin, ascetic man despite the luxury around him, his pointed chin covered with a goatee. His hair is cropped short and he wears the red skullcap over his tonsure. “Ah, Señora,” he says, rising from his seat as Isabelle and her ladies and guard enter. “An honor.”

Isabelle makes him a shallow curtsey, with more respect strictly than is due to his rank, which is below hers. “I thank you for your kind invitation to dinner, Your Eminence,” she says. It’s tiring to be so courteous to men who have mistreated her. Perhaps this man would be different.

“Please, sit,” the cardinal says. “And your ladies.” He gestures to chairs and footstools set up, and Isabelle seats herself across from him. “Welcome to Italy.”

“Thank you, it has been quite an edifying experience,” Isabelle says. She withdraws an exquisitely-jeweled fan and opens it one-handed, an elegant gesture that ensures the candlelight falls on the fine cream silk, sandalwood, and multicolored gems along its golden spines. Lilliput, small but mighty.

“Now, I have read that you are queen of a nation that is not Catholic,” the cardinal continues. “A shame, as you will surely not see the promises of heaven made to you by God through his one true church. Even the most beautiful of us can be condemned to hell.”

Isabelle is unimpressed by the preaching. “But, you have not come to discuss salvation,” he adds. “You have come to discuss business.”

“Yes, I have,” Isabelle says. “And business is done by all of us, no matter who or where we worship, so let us find common ground there.”

The cardinal makes a gesture of assent. “Indeed. Now,” he says, folding his hands at his middle, “the French cardinal rhapsodized about your charm and beauty, and even the German cardinal admits a grudging admiration for you. You seem to be making a very good impression on my colleagues.”

Isabelle only smiles and says, “My lord cardinal, if you would be so kind as to provide me with some of your secretary’s writing materials so that we may both ensure accuracy of tonight’s conversation?”

“And I foresee,” the cardinal says, gesturing to the flock of crow-black priests behind him, “you will endeavor to make a good impression on me. Why are you, a woman, sent here to do the job of a man?”

Isabelle lifts one shoulder in a shrug. A page approaches to provide Isabelle with a quill and paper, and a polished teakwood lap desk on which to lean. Improvisatory but necessary, Isabelle reflects. “As the church is the mother of Catholic Europe, so I am the mother of my people, no matter their faith. And who better to care for their people than two mothers? Surely we are the most qualified.”

The cardinal looks momentarily impressed. “A diplomatic answer. But you are dealing with the men who represent this mother church, who make up her body and blood.”

“And I am the body and blood of Lilliput,” Isabelle says simply. “Should I fear you, Your Eminence?” she asks. “You make it sound as if the men who guard their mother are a threat to me.” She gestures to the door, where her knights are standing outside. “They go with me everywhere, but the threat has never come from within the church.”

“Oh, a threat to a good and gentle queen will never come from the church,” Belluga y Moncada says. “We do not seek to harm you, your country is so small as to be diplomatically insignificant to us. But your ports, your trade laws... those are not insignificant.”

“Then may we meet on those terms?” Isabelle asks. “I have often said to Catholic clergy that if they cannot respect my rights as a sovereign princess because my crown was not granted by the Vatican, they can respect me as an ambassador of trade and economics. Money, after all, unites us.”

“This is true,” muses the cardinal. “And you are clever enough to understand that. Most of you women are content to be married, have babies, and stay out of the affairs of men.”

“I have married, and had a child besides, but I am afraid I am constrained to deal with the affairs of men by my position,” Isabelle says. “And as I do my duty to my country, I meet those doing their duty on equal footing and with equal respect.”

The cardinal laughs. “All right, all right, you’ve made your case for why I should not call you a heretic, even though you are. You have an invitation to my palace for a few days from now. I would like to have the negotiations concluded so that you cannot ruin my fun.”

Isabelle laughs. “I can certainly appreciate that.” She is relieved he seems to be such a simple man. “Then let us negotiate. The opera is over. What are your terms?”

“Well,” the cardinal says. “I have been instructed by my master His Majesty Phillip V, to maintain a friendly relation with the Small Isles as we depend on you for your harbors and exports. We own much of the New World, and we rely on the Small Isles to process much of our wool and spices. You are not your English neighbors.”

“That is so,” Isabelle says. “We are not.”

“Then truly much of your work is done already, as I have been predisposed to be agreeable to you.” Belluga y Moncada gestures to one of the priests arrayed around him, and that priest produces a small wooden box from his cassock. He opens it and within is a magnificent jeweled cross, made of gold, exquisitely worked, and studded with matched sapphires. “It is not a crucifix, since I hear you abhor such idolatry,” the cardinal says. “But surely it is a symbol of our shared faith in commerce.”

Isabelle smiles. “It is a generous gift, my lord cardinal, and I regret greatly that I will have to wait until the banquet to return the favor.”

The cardinal waves a hand. “I need nothing from you in return except the promise that you will grant more favorable terms to my king than to the others. You will lower our port taxes, and you will grant Spain the first usage of the ports over any of the other empires. In return we will give you a percentage of some of our export wealth, both in cash and in kind. You will therefore gear your portage laws to the benefit of the Spanish empire.”

Isabelle sits back in her seat. “Those are grand terms indeed.” She folds her hands in her lap. “And for what reason should Lilliput grant you such goodwill?”

“Why, because we are an empire, and you are a collection of small rocks in the middle of the sea,” Belluga y Moncada says simply. “We can overwhelm you.”

“So can many of the others represented here at this gathering of the church,” Isabelle says, gesturing to the room at large below them, where the audience is chattering and lively, drinking and eating. “Has the Spanish king such ambitions of acquiring Lilliput as his own?”

The cardinal shrugs. “He has no ambitions, no, but he will absolutely enforce his terms for trade should you not comply with his demands. And with such a cut of our New World wealth, why, you would do well to abolish our port taxes entirely, as such a gift will enrich you beyond what you are collecting now from us.”

“You assured me that there is no threat from either within the church or outside it,” Isabelle says thoughtfully, outwardly unperturbed. “Then let us negotiate a number, one that will satisfy our port requirements, and mollify your king so that he does not waste his naval resources on a collection of rocks in the middle of the sea.” She arranges her skirt even more picturesquely, waiting, and then asks delicately, “And your percentage?”

“His Majesty is prepared to offer two percent of his profits from the grain exports of the peninsula, in addition to the first pick of our furs,” the cardinal says, “and a two percent share in our silver mines in San Luís Potosí.”

“Two percent? Hm,” Isabelle says, as if considering it, and then says, “That works out to a large sum, Your Eminence, but you will surely be aware that His Majesty will be seeking to profit rather than break even on this... very special advantage you are seeking over your fellow sovereign states.”

“Of course,” the cardinal says. “And we are prepared to offer other things if His Majesty will be flexible.”

Isabelle nods, smiling. “We are a small nation but a mighty one.” She accepts a glass of champagne from a butler and regards the cardinal as he wipes his face dry in the night heat. She wills herself not to sweat too much, in case they are inclined to see it as weakness or anxiety. “His Majesty will be favorable to a four percent offset of your grain profits, and a six percent share in your silver mines, in exchange for waiving your port taxes for twenty years.”

“Twenty years,” the cardinal muses. “You do business like a man.”

Isabelle’s smile settles in place. “I look forward to our dinner being free of business talk, then, Your Eminence.”

The cardinal toasts her. “His Majesty King Phillip is an old man,” he says next. “He may be ten more years in this world, he may not. Shall we renegotiate on the occasion of his death, or will you continue the terms for the full twenty years upon the succession of his heir?”

“Should His Majesty meet his end before the contract’s lifetime has expired, Lilliput will be pleased to renegotiate terms with the new government, keeping the old in place until a new agreement is reached.” Isabelle waves her fan less rapidly than she could strictly wish for in the hot theatre.

“Ah, Your Highness is uncomfortable,” the cardinal says. He turns to the page at the door and says, “Do bring us the refreshments.”

A moment later the page returns with lemon and elderflower ices on a tray, with various chilled fruits arranged on a plate. “A miracle,” Isabelle says. “Ices in the Roman summer.”

“Enjoy,” says Belluga y Moncada. He makes sure Katherine and Anna are served the cool ices too, and for a few moments they all enjoy the relief.

“So,” Isabelle says, the fine golden spoon clinking against the china dish. “When did King Phillip decide his rights with Lilliput were so vital?”

“The New World is a gold mine, quite literally,” says the cardinal. “Surely you know that. Lilliput has a superior navy and has never sent a ship west?”

Isabelle shrugs. “My husband the king has not sought to make a conquest in decades. We sustain ourselves.” Theodore’s diplomatic strategy had always been the same, and in that way he was a good king; keeping his tiny island nation invisible and yet essential, like air. Isabelle agreed with him. Europe is a beast they are not prepared to contend with in any reality, especially not against the international alliance of its Catholic nations who would be only too pleased to stomp on a small heretic nation.

“Oh, if only for the chance to chronicle its beauty,” the cardinal expounds. “They are forming a nation, and there are cities built in the latest styles, and the land is rich. Surely you have heard of New Spain’s wealth, the Aztecs and Incas all converted to Christianity and civilized, our viceroy of New Granada newly formed.” He looks quite satisfied. “You would be foolish not to participate at least in some small form.”

Isabelle can see the sense in this. “It would be a great benefit to us to make use of the Ports of Lilliput, to utilize your superior insurance brokers for our cargo, and to mutually enrich ourselves through our partnership,” the cardinal continues. “If you are amenable, I would be happy to sign a treaty with you before the banquet. My secretary can draft a document.” He gestures to one of the many anonymous prelates in black behind him. “Everything will be as we have agreed.”

Isabelle puts down her spoon and gestures to her knights, standing by the door. “I thank you,” she says to Belluga y Moncada. “You have been a gracious host and a good negotiator. It is always a pleasure to engage in business with a man who keeps his integrity at the forefront. Please, come and join me at my palazzo so we may sign an accord. I will send you an invitation in writing.” She rises to her feet, folds the papers she has written on into the pocket of her gown, and drops him her usual graceful curtsey (even though she did not owe him that courtesy), and her ladies follow her.

“Good night, Your Highness,” the cardinal says, rising also to his feet, taking her hand and kissing it. “If there is a wise god in his heaven, I will trust his prudence in appointing one such as you to a throne.”

Isabelle gives him a searching look that is almost involuntary, a result of years of diplomatic experience. The cardinal doesn’t flinch under her scrutiny, and so Isabelle decides he is either a master liar or he is telling the truth about his monarch’s intentions. She leaves the box wither her ladies who are palpably relieved to be going, to discover Casanova waiting outside the door in a chair, slouched at his ease. “Ah,” he says as she emerges. “I presume negotiations were successful.”

Isabelle smiles at him. “It went as well as I could have hoped for not having a secretary on hand. This was somewhat of a power move, but I believe I held my own. In any case, preliminary terms have been reached, and both sides stand to benefit. We will meet again for final negotiations. At which point we will negotiate higher. The New World is apparently a gold mine. Literally.”

Casanova looks impressed. “The Lilliputian constitution got it right appointing their queen as papal legate.” He escorts her down the staircase towards the exit, her ladies in front of them.

“Well,” Isabelle says, “this queen, anyway.” She rolls her shoulders as she walks, to ease the tension, tilting her head side to side. The gesture is so ordinary, coming from one so bedecked in finery, that Casanova can’t help the smile on his face. He hands her into her carriage, and then her ladies, and mounts his own horse, brought to him by a valet of the theatre.

“Come,” Isabelle says out the carriage window. “You shall escort us home.”

Sir Gavin, from the front of the carriage, says, “Oi!” and Isabelle laughs. 

“Don’t you worry, Sir Gavin, you are still the Lion of Lilliput,” she says. “Signor Casanova is only a guide.”

They proceed through the streets, Anna and Katherine beginning to droop in the seats for exhaustion. They had diligently followed their mistress the entire evening, saying little and listening much. They had been exquisitely charming. Isabelle smiles at them proudly. “Well done tonight, girls,” she says. “Another step forward has been taken.”

When they pull up to the house, the front door is open and the butler is standing out front, wringing his hands. Isabelle and her girls climb down from the carriage. “My lady,” the butler says, making a perturbed bow. “I... I am sorry to tell you that the lady Mary has died while you were gone.”

“What?” Isabelle exclaims, and rushes into the palazzo before the man can say anything else. Sir Gavin overtakes her on the stairs and sprints into the chamber where Mary is lying.

“Oh, god,” he says, falling to his knees next to the bed. Mary is lying with her eyes closed, her face and lips pale. 

“Oh, Mary!” Isabelle says, rushing to the other side of the bed to take her cold hand. “What happened?” she demands of the maids, who are whey-faced with fear and panic.

“She convulsed,” one of them stammers. “We gave her the wine and powder mixed exactly as the doctor said, and an hour later she... she had a seizure, Your Majesty. We could do nothing.”

Tears roll down Isabelle’s face, and Gavin is weeping openly, his hand on his wife’s head. “Oh, my poor Mary,” he says. “My poor girl.”

Casanova, Anna, and Katherine come running into the room. The girls dissolve into floods of tears at the sight of Lady Mary lying pale on the pillows. Isabelle backs away from the bed and turns to Casanova, the heartbreak written all over her face. The triumph of her encounter with the cardinals of Spain and the Holy Roman Empire is forgotten immediately, immaterial and now absurd and stupid. “Why did we come?” she asks him, reaching for his hand. He grips her hand and pulls her into an embrace. Isabelle is perfectly still and her face hardens in determination.

“What do we do now?” Anna asks.

“We get a priest,” Sir Gavin says. “I don’t care that there’s no Anglican minister here, my Mary won’t rest easy without a blessing.” He is distraught, wide-eyed. “Her soul deserves the reward for every good thing she showed to everyone here on this wretched earth.”

“I can bring a priest,” Casanova says. Everyone looks to him, and Isabelle nods. He leaves them to gather around the bed again, pulling Isabelle aside. “I might not be able to find a Protestant priest here,” he tells her.

Isabelle shakes her head fiercely. “Who fucking cares,” she says, her voice broken at the seams. “Who even fucking knows if there’s a god, Giac. Fuck it. Gavin wants it for comfort. Funerals are for the living.”

He leans down and kisses her cheeks. “I’ll be back,” he promises.

Isabelle goes back to her friend’s bedside. Anna and Katherine are afraid to be around a dead body, she can see, and so she sends them to change out of their fine clothes. 

“Oh, god,” Sir Gavin says to her when the girls have disappeared. “Poor Mary. What have we done to her?”

Isabelle shakes her head. “I don’t know, Gavin. I’m so sorry.”

“Rome killed her,” Sir Gavin says darkly. “Let us hope this next pope outlives you, Your Majesty, so that we never need come back to this foul place again. Rome is a pit and that’s double for the Vatican.” He wipes his eyes. “I will complete my service to you here, my lady, but when this is done I will retire from your guard. I have lost my most precious resource.”

Isabelle nods silently. There is nothing to say. Mary is dead.

About an hour later Casanova returns with a black-robed priest who is holding a basket covered in purple cloth. He greets the queen and her retinue gently, and drapes a black vestment around his neck. The basket contains all the necessary elements of the Catholic last rites, which neither Isabelle nor Gavin place great store in. “Did she die unshriven?” the priest asks. 

“We had been to mass this morning, Father,” Isabelle lies smoothly, expertly. “But it was malaria.”

The priest nods. He removes a vial of oil from his basket. “She has already died and so the last rites may not be given,” he explains. “But I will bless her and send her soul to rest.” He draws a cross on Mary’s forehead in the oil, which smells of frankincense, and murmurs in Latin over her. He lays his hands over hers and concludes his murmurings with a quiet “amen.”

“Where will you bury her?” the priest asks next. “She has died in a holy precinct but there is scant room for burials.”

Gavin swallows hard. “We will bury her where she is from. We cannot leave her here in Rome.” He turns to Isabelle. “We have no friends here.”

Isabelle shakes her head ever so slightly and turns to the priest. “We thank you for your kindness, Father. We are grateful. Please tell me your church so I can make a donation.”

Unlike the Jewish doctor, the priest is perfectly happy to accept. “Santa Maria Via Lata,” he says. “We will be most grateful. You do a service to the whole world this way, my lady.”

“Oh,” Isabelle says with a faint air of amused scorn. “I have no doubt about that.”

Her disdain goes unnoticed by the self-satisfied priest who wishes them the comfort of the Lord in their grief and departs, convinced his mumblings have had an effect.

“How can we bring her back to Lilliput?” Isabelle asks Gavin after a small silence. “It’s two months’ journey. Over mountains and oceans.”

She can see the tension in Sir Gavin’s jaw when she says that. “How will I go on without her?” he asks finally. “How can I abandon her to this sewer? Rome killed her. Am I to leave her in the arms of her murderer?”

“How will you bring her back to Lilliput?” Isabelle asks again. “And how will we know when we will be able to go home? We have no idea when the conclave will end.”

“Oh, god!” Sir Gavin says. “Fuck these fucking Catholics and their endless performance! None of this means a thing!”

Casanova emerges from where he had been sitting in an unobtrusive corner, comforting Anna and Katherine. He reaches out to put a hand on Gavin’s shoulder. “The churchyard will give her a spot in the mausoleums if you need them to.”

Sir Gavin gives him a hard look. “She will never rest in this filthy city,” he says roughly. “Now why don’t you let me watch her for the night?” He turns and gives Isabelle a small bow. “I’ll wake her tonight, Your Majesty, and in the morning we will find her a coffin.” His voice comes apart at the seams at that sentence, and Isabelle nods silently again. She gestures to Anna and Katherine, but Katherine shakes her head.

“We will wake her too, Your Majesty,” she says. “Let us help you change your gown and we will sit the night with Sir Gavin.”

Isabelle allows them to remove her gown and jewels, staring numbly at the wall as Anna and Katherine help her into her night robes, wiping tears as they go. When she is left alone with Casanova in her chamber, Isabelle goes to her small table by the fire and attempts to pour herself a glass of wine. She fills the cup about halfway but instead of drinking from it she hurls it against the wall, causing the glass to shatter. She weeps, collapsing into the chair by the fire, burying her face in her hands.

She feels Casanova’s arms go around her and she clings on, turning her face into his shoulder. For a while all she can do is hold on, as the grief for her friend, the anxiety and pain and fear of the past months, spills forth in a completely human, un-queenly way. Casanova is even more enchanted. He sheds tears with her, grateful to be with her in any moment, even the saddest.

When she pulls back eventually Isabelle wipes her eyes and breathes. “I’m sorry,” she says. “I didn’t mean to--”

Casanova leans forward and wipes the tears from her cheeks. “No apology.” He sits with her on the bed. “Tell me about her.”

Isabelle draws in a deep breath. “She was my best friend,” she says, and a few fresh tears fall. “She was all I had when Theo abducted me from my father’s house and I was so afraid.” She wipes her face and sniffs. “I relied on her. She was there when I gave birth to my daughter. She was there when I had no one. And I’m responsible for her death.”

“No,” he says immediately. “No. You are not.”

“I am,” Isabelle says, and sobs again. “I brought her here. She didn’t want to come. She said she didn’t think she’d come back and I insisted, and--” she puts her face in her hands and weeps for her friend until she is tired, and then she allows Casanova to help her into her bed. He climbs in beside her, discarding his shoes, hose, and doublet on the floor beside the bed. He wraps her up and Isabelle rests her head on his chest. She breathes deeply, shakily.

“You need to rest,” Casanova tells her. “In the morning you will send Franceschino to the church and pay for masses to be said for her soul for the next year. It will be good publicity.”

Isabelle is quiet. “Fuck the church,” she says finally. “Fuck Rome.” Her voice is bitter. “Fuck it forever. Even if the next pope dies before me, I will never come back here.” Tears come again, tears she thinks she’ll shed for a long time. “It’s hard work to be a queen,” she says, clutching onto Casanova’s hand. “And the worst part is it never goes away.”

He smiles. “Remember all those years ago I told you I would run away with you to my father’s house in Tuscany?”

He feels her nod against his shoulder. “I would still do it, Iz,” he says tenderly.

She laughs in the midst of the tears. “You know why I can’t.”

“Yes,” he says, kissing her forehead. “I do know.”

It is five o’clock in the morning when he slips out of her bed and her chamber, Isabelle asleep at last. He rides back to the Venetian delegation's palazzo in the gray light of the Roman dawn, returning the suggestive smile of the guard at the door who says, "Made a night of it, did you?"

The undertaker arrives at the Lilliputian palazzo at 9 in the morning, alongside an unexpected Anglican minister, who had been summoned by Casanova just before he crawled into his own bed, exhausted from the emotional night. He'd had to do a bit of networking to find the man, but the cleric was an elderly Englishman who had been living in Rome for years as part of an academic consortium bridging the Catholic and Protestant churches. His name is John Fischer, and he comes to the mourning palazzo with gentle words and the Book of Common Prayer, which gives Sir Gavin some relief.

Isabelle is awake, though drawn and pale, dressed in the same black dress she'd presented to the Vatican in all those months ago. Anna and Katherine are also in black, never having thought to have a use for the mourning dresses traditionally included in every noblewoman's train for emergencies just such as this.

Sir Gavin refuses to allow the undertaker to take Mary's body. He demands the coffin be sealed and adamantly refuses to let it be moved from the palazzo. He demands that they store it in the cellar of the building in order to take it back to Lilliput at the conclusion of the conclave. Isabelle has no choice but to consent. Gavin weeps at the side of the coffin as Reverend Fischer conducts the funeral rites, and then the coffin is brought down the stairs to the stone cellar of the building, and Isabelle and her ladies retire to her chamber again.

She goes to her escritoire and pulls out a fresh sheet of paper, writing a short note of thanks to Casanova, and inviting him for the funeral supper that night. She seals it and draws the sign of the rose on the back, as their correspondence has always been marked, and sits quietly in the room with her young ladies.

"When will we go home?" Katherine asks in a small voice. Anna sniffs in response to the question and Isabelle feels her heart wrench again.

"I can send you home with Sir Gavin," she says. "I'll stay here with a reduced guard and hire a maid. You can go home."

"His Majesty would be very displeased to know you let your staff go," Sir Gavin says. "Your ladies and I were brought here to accompany you, and protect you."

"And I am the mother of my people and I have failed to protect you," Isabelle says.

"No," Sir Gavin repeats. "We will bring the casket back with us when we return home. I will not leave her here in this godless place. But neither will I leave you here in this place, Your Majesty. What if they kill you next?"

There is a silence. "Then I will reward your loyalty when we are home again," Isabelle says, moved by his resolve.

July wears on, hot and oppressive. After the solemn funeral supper, Sir Gavin keeps a black band around his arm and a black ribbon tied around his sword. Isabelle and her ladies wear black despite the relentless sun, and send their regrets to various functions due to being in mourning. For about a fortnight they stay in the palazzo, Casanova coming and going only at night. Finally, near the end of July, he comes to Isabelle at sundown, bowing courteously to her ladies as always. Anna and Katherine, who are sworn to secrecy and loyal to their mistress, have never commented on his presence or what they thought their mistress might have been doing with him.

That evening, Casanova comes to her with a proposition. "I want to take you out somewhere," he says. "Somewhere no one will know either of us."

"Why?" Isabelle asks.

"So we can have a pint and a laugh. You need it," he says. "Somewhere with no ladies, no guard, no obligations, just beer and music and anonymity."

Isabelle looks around her empty bedchamber, her ladies sitting decorously outside her door for privacy. "Where?"

"There's a place called Osteria del Sole in the Subura," Casanova says. "They play music every night and have a singalong. I thought it might appeal to you." He reaches out to push the hair from her face. "Take some of the pressure off you."

"How can I sing?" Isabelle asks. "How can I celebrate?"

"Mary deserves it," Casanova says. "You don't think she'd want a good old knees-up for her wake? She can't want you to suffer in silence. You or Gavin."

"He's going to suffer forever," Isabelle says. "His wife is dead."

"Pay tribute to your friend," he urges. "Go and smile and laugh and tell good stories about her to a bunch of strangers you'll never see again, and you don't have to be a queen. Just for a night."

Isabelle is quiet for a moment. "Right," she says. "We didn't get to give her the proper sendoff she deserves."

"I'll come back for you in an hour when it's dark," he says. "Don't dress up." He kisses her affectionately and leaves.

She comes to him in an ordinary navy blue dress and white chemise, not too extravagant, but also not too plain. It sets off her hair to great advantage, and she wears simple pearl earrings. Her shoes are flat and practical, and her cloak is made of dark but fine stuff. She looks like a merchant’s wife. “Shall we go?” she asks him, and he offers his arm.

He brings to her to the Osteria del Sole, a dark wooden tavern in the middle of the Subura. It’s considerably less fancy than any place she’s been so far, and Isabelle settles right in, sliding onto the edge of a bench at a wooden table near the door. The landlord comes bustling up with an enormous pitcher and says, “One for each?”

Casanova toasts his queen, and they bump tankards and drink deep. Isabelle grins at him and wipes her lips with her hand. “So, Signor, why the Osteria?”

“Do you know it?” They both have to talk loudly over the din of conversation.

“No,” Isabelle says. “But as my guide, what do you think recommends this place?”

Casanova considers. “No one knows us here,” he says. “We can do whatever we like. The ale is passable, and the music is excellent.”

“Yes,” Isabelle looks around. “When?”

Casanova nods to the clock. “Around now, usually. So let’s drink.”

As if on cue someone starts playing a mandolin. They start to sing various folk songs, which everyone joins in on, until Isabelle is into her third pint. Then a tune strikes up to general applause, a raunchy song about a soldier and a sailor who wanted to marry the same girl. Isabelle sings along loudly and then between the third and fourth verses she holds up her hand. “Hold on, those aren’t even the words!” she hollers, over the music.

The singing stops and the mandolin player smiles at the beautiful buxom redheaded queen. “Well, my lady,” he says to her, his fingers still strumming. “What are they, then?”

Isabelle climbs onto the table. “I’ve never heard such an innocent version of the lyrics before,” she says. “That’s not the original refrain.”

“And how do you know this, my lady?” asks the mandolin player, and the men in the tavern are all turning their eyes to the pretty woman standing on the table. 

Isabelle strikes a pose. “I am a queen, and I had a royal education.” The men smile at her as she holds the pose, all of them ready to believe anything she says. Then she drops the pose and waves a hand at them. “I’m fucking with you, boys! I’m a sailor’s brat and I learnt it off a girl I met in a port when I was ten years old.” She points to Casanova. “I married up.”

Casanova smiles at her, delighted with her inventions. “He’s a scholar and a gentleman,” she says, coming over to stand in front of him. She gives him a tender, affectionate smile. “Most of the time.”

The men positively hoot with laughter. “Anyway, play it again,” she says to the mandolin player, with all the playful air of a lady, and the music starts again. And Isabelle sings, in her melodious alto voice, the filthiest words Casanova has ever heard to a song in his life, and that was saying something. By the end his face has a silly in love smile, and all the other men are looking pretty smitten themselves. Isabelle makes an impeccably royal curtsey to a raucous round of applause. “Where’s my beer?” she calls, and three men at once hold up full pints to her. She laughs, hops down, and takes her own pint from a smiling Casanova, on whom she bestows a joyful kiss. “My hero,” she says to him. She picks up her pitcher. "Listen, men," she says. "My best friend died two weeks ago, and I never even got to say goodbye, so let's give her a toast, eh?"

The people in the tavern raise their own glasses.

"To Mary," Isabelle says. "She was my best fucking friend in a cruel world and she died unfairly, like too many women do." Her voice catches with grief. "She held me upright and I'll be grateful to her until we meet again."

"To Mary!" the tavern roars, and Isabelle downs a huge swallow of ale with tears in her eyes. "Right!" she says to Casanova. "Good! It's what she deserves." She wipes her face dry with her sleeve and smiles.

He grins even more at her, and kisses her again. In the firelight she looks like an ordinary, happy woman. Beautiful and content, unburdened for the moment by their political cares.

After a few more songs, a card game gets started, with Isabelle at the head of the table, perched on Casanova’s lap and winning handily at faro. “That’s sixty ducats, mate!” she says to the latest loser, who pays up with a grin.

“I give you sixty ducats and my heart besides,” the man says, and Isabelle blows him a kiss and circles her hips firmly against Casanova’s under the table. He squeezes her hip with his hand and pushes closer.

She wins a few more games, drinking another two pints besides, and buys the entire tavern a round with her winnings, tucking the rest away into the bodice of her dress. Casanova looks greedily at the big swells of her breasts over the top of neckline. She looks positively sensual, he thinks.

They stumble out into the street at three in the morning, thoroughly drunk and laughing. Casanova hails a carriage and pays the driver a gold piece to take them to the Via Sacra and keep silence about where he goes. He and Isabelle are let back into the palazzo by a sleepy maid who curtsies to the queen and retires. Casanova backs her into the door of her room, shutting it behind them and pressing against her. He kisses her, leading with his tongue, and pulls down at the bodice of her dress. His fingers undo her laces quickly, and he yanks down. There is the clatter and clink of coins as gold and silver fall onto the floor. Casanova pulls off her fine chemise and latches on to one of her breasts. Isabelle pushes his head closer and shuts her eyes.

He fucks her deliciously on her bed, pushes her knees as far apart as they’ll go, and roars in satisfaction when he comes, Isabelle moaning underneath him. He drops gently onto her, burying his face in her neck. After a long blissful moment Isabelle says, “I had the time of my life tonight.”

“Me too,” Casanova says, kissing her. He rolls onto his back next to her. “We should do this again.”

Isabelle laughs. “We should do this again. Rome is boring during the day.”

“Ah, you don’t see what I see,” Casanova says. “The Holy See is in silent turmoil.”

“Well, the better for me, then,” Isabelle says contentedly. She toys with his fingers. “Shame tomorrow’s going to be more of the same.”

“Maybe,” Casanova says. “Maybe those old men will do something.”

“I doubt it,” Isabelle says, shaking her head. “At least, I hope they don’t, as it gives me more time with you.”

"Oh, Iz," he says. "Lilliput is certainly missing their queen. It's been months."

"Are they truly no closer?" Isabelle asks. "Even for a bunch of cloistered men in dresses this is much too long for political fuckery."

"I suspect they're just trying to narrow it down to the most acceptable candidate," Casanova says. "I hear rumors about a man for Bologna called Prospero Lambertini. He's a lawyer but he's never done any diplomacy."

"Wise," Isabelle says. "So he's never had the opportunity to give offense."

Casanova shrugs. "He'd be my choice," he says. He looks out the window to see the sun coming up. "Right," he says. "I'm going back to the Venetians, Iz. Meetings today."

"All right," she says. "Thank you. You made me feel better."

"I adore you," he says, kissing her a few last times and getting to his feet. He's dressed and gone in a few minutes, out the kitchen door and back to his regular life.

In the end Casanova is right. On the evening of August seventeenth, there is a massive commotion from the plaza of the Vatican, and Isabelle and her ladies run to the balcony to hear bells ringing and people cheering. "Habemus Papam!" someone shouts, and Isabelle nearly collapses with relief.

"It's happened, it's over," she says. "They elected a pope."

"Finally!" Katherine and Anna exclaim, hugging each other with excitement and relief. "We can go home!"

Instead of celebrating with her ladies, Isabelle goes back inside to start to prepare a list for leaving Rome. "We are going home as soon as we can," Isabelle says. "Immediately, the first day we can leave, we're leaving." She turns to the maids in her room. "In the morning you'll need to start packing our clothing. We anticipate no longer than five days to a week longer in Rome."

Th next thing she does is write a note to Casanova, to be hand-delivered by her page, asking him to come to see her in two days, since he'll be needed to record events for his master. She seals it, inscribes the rose, and sends the boy out.

Then she writes her official letter to the court of Lilliput, informing them of the election, though the letter will reach home only a week or so before her. At least they'll know to expect her.

Rome is chaos for the next few days, and Isabelle, dressed in black, forbids her ladies to leave the palazzo. She attends the necessary Mass with Sir Gavin alongside her, making herself as unobtrusive as possible among the crush of spectators. She does not see Casanova among the throngs, but there are so many people there it's nearly impossible anyway.

Casanova arrives at the house in the evening of the second day, dressed ordinarily in breeches, shirt, and coat. He isn't wearing a wig or any formal costume, and he looks tired. "At last," he says to Isabelle as he drops into a chair in her private chamber. "The masquerade ends, at least for a little while."

"What says the Venetian delegation?" Isabelle asks.

"They're relieved, as are we all," Casanova says. "The good news is, since this man has no diplomatic ties at all, all your treaties and negotiations will stand."

Isabelle sighs, a weight off her shoulders. She has been positively overwhelmed with paperwork regarding the trade agreements she'd struck and the treaties made. She'd managed to do well for her small island nation, and no doubt the Lilliputian Parliament would think their decision to send her to the Vatican a prudent one. And since none of them would ever experience the gilded-over horrors of Rome, Isabelle will merely remember their callousness in the future, whatever that might mean for them. She will need to send a dispatch to Lilliput that will precede her by days or a week, to alert the court and the king she is returning.

"Iz," Casanova says, bringing her out of her thoughts. "That means we're all going home."

"Yes," she says. "I can't pretend I haven't been desperate to get out of here."

"Rome's a shithole," he says. "I'll be sad to lose you again."

Isabelle smiles a little. "I'll be on the throne of Lilliput 'til I die," she says. "You'll know where to find me."

"They'd try you for treason if we ever got found out," Casanova says. He leans forward to kiss her. "Go home, and let me know when you leave so I can see you off."

Two days later a letter with the sign of the rose arrives at the palazzo where Casanova has been lodged with the Venetian delegation. It simply says Dawn tomorrow.

The process of loading their belongings is made slower by the need to include Lady Mary's casket, which Sir Gavin stands by ceaselessly as they pack and load. On the day of their departure Isabelle is out of bed at four in the morning, Katherine and Anna flitting around her in equal anticipation and anxiety to get moving. They dress Isabelle in a blue-and-cream colored traveling gown and braid and pin her hair out of the way.

The train of their belongings stands in the yard of the palazzo, their six horses snorting at the bits, their breath puffing in the cool morning air. It has all been prepared overnight by the hired staff of the house, and Sir Gavin performs his final inspection of them as the sun breaks over the horizon. Isabelle circles the palazzo inside to make sure nothing is left behind.

The journey home will be long and arduous as it was to arrive. The Lilliputian delegation must cross the Alps into France and sail across to the Small Isles, southwest of England. The summer weather means the crossing will be less dangerous, but still a hard journey.

Casanova arrives to the stables a little before six AM. He is alone, smiling in the pale rosy dawn light. Isabelle breathes a sigh of relief to see him, and takes his arm to walk a short distance away behind the stables. Once they are alone Casanova takes her hand and kisses it firmly, the back and the palm. "I don't know if it's fate or what it might be," he says. "But I have loved every moment."

"You redeemed this entire experience for me," Isabelle says. "Where would I have been without your protection and your help?"

"I would do it all again," he says. "Whatever the risk." He bends down to kiss her lips. "Remember, I still have my estate in Tuscany. Anytime you want to run away."

Isabelle smiles. This will always be their private joke. "I'll send you a rose," she says. She kisses him again, knowing that it will be the last one for a long time, if ever again. "Thank you," she murmurs to him.

And with that Casanova walks her back around and helps her mount her horse. The Lilliputian delegation will ride north to the mountains and cross the Alps. "Goodbye, Iz," he says, one last time.

"Goodbye, Giac," she says. "Take care of yourself for me, won't you? By order of the Queen."

"I hear and obey," he says, only half-joking, his hand resting on her leg. "Safe travels."

He watches them leave the yard in a massive line, and mounts his own horse to go. Perhaps the heaving, shifting political landscape of Europe will bring them together again, or he will have reason to sail to the Small Isles for research or diplomacy. Perhaps life will simply put them in each other's paths again.

The Lilliputian delegation arrives back in their kingdom after a seven-week journey. Isabelle is hailed as a diplomat, a stateswoman, a proper queen, by her people. She debriefs her husband and his council, and presents the treaties and agreements she has forged with the rest of Europe at large. Her work is done.

Six months later, a letter with the sign of the rose on it arrives at Casanova's house in the Tuscan countryside. He smiles immediately at the sight, tips the messenger well, and goes to read his letter at his desk. It is a thank you letter, written from Isabelle's palace in the capitol of Lilliput, accompanied by a royal favor constructed of Isabelle's colors twisted into a lovers' knot, containing a coiled red hank of hair, and perfumed with her sandalwood and rosewater. It is signed simply, Iz.

[sartorialadventure]

(from the source:)

Debutante ball gowns, prom dresses, quinceañera gowns : the outfits we wear for special occasions often hold a special place in our memory. However, Polly Duxbury's debutante dress is more than just special to Duxbury—it is part of American history because of the person who created it.

The dress was designed by Ann Lowe, an acclaimed African American dress designer who was happiest when she created in cloth. "All the pleasure I have had, I owe to my sewing," Lowe told a reporter for Ebony in 1966, "I wish I were physically able to do all the work myself."

Born in Clayton, Alabama, in 1898, Ann Lowe (née Cole) was the daughter and granddaughter of accomplished seamstresses. "She learned from them," said curator Nancy Davis. "She was really gifted, but she was also part of this lineage of seamstresses . . . and really capable ones." When Lowe was a child, she loved to play with the scraps left over from her mother's work, sewing and shaping them to transform them into flowers.

As a child, Ann Lowe would transform the scraps from her mother's work as a dressmaker, sewing and shaping them into flowers. Years later, flowers would be a hallmark of an Ann Lowe dress. One debutante brought her dress to Lowe for repairs when her date snipped a flower off of the dress and wore it as a boutonniere.

In 1914, when her mother died suddenly, young Ann Lowe, only 16 years old, completed her mother's commissions—including one for the First Lady of Alabama. Lowe continued to pursue her passion for design and sewing. When a wealthy Floridian invited Lowe to Florida to make dresses, Lowe recalled "I picked up my baby and got on that Tampa train."

In 1917 Lowe studied at New York's S.T. Taylor Design School. With racial segregation the common practice even in the North, Lowe "was separated from the other students and had her own space where she worked," Davis said, "but her work was so exceptional that she was used as an example."

After earning her diploma, Lowe continued to work as a designer for the social elite. "I love my clothes and I'm particular about who wears them," Lowe later told Ebony magazine, "I am not interested in sewing for . . . social climbers. I do not cater to Mary and Sue. I sew for the families of the Social Register." Lowe's clients included the du Ponts, the Roosevelts, the Rockefellers, and the Auchinclosses (famous today for family member Jacqueline "Jackie" Bouvier, better known as First Lady Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis).

Mrs. Auchincloss brought her daughter Lee Bouvier, Jackie's sister, to Ann Lowe to order her wedding gown. However, Lee and her mother soon canceled the order. They heard another designer, Pauline Trigère, would cost less. Ultimately the Trigère dress cost more, and when Jackie announced her engagement to then Senator John F. Kennedy, it was Ann Lowe who designed the bridal gown, as well as dresses for the bridal party.

The newly married Mr. and Mrs. Kennedy with members of their wedding party in 1953. Lowe designed both the bride's gown and the attendants' gowns. Jackie Kennedy’s wedding dress features trapunto. "Trapunto is a layering of fabrics to create a dimensional effect—it was a technique Lowe was well known for," Davis said. Photograph by Toni Frissell, courtesy of Library of Congress, Library of Congress Prints and Photographs Division.

When Lowe arrived in Newport, Rhode Island, to deliver the bridal party's dresses, the staff at the front door would not let her enter, telling her to use the back door. Lowe reportedly countered, "I'll take the dresses back" if she had to use the back door—and walked through the front door.

While a poorly timed flood wasn't typical for Lowe, the dramatic story of the Kennedy wedding gives us a window into Lowe's daily struggles. Lowe's prices were lower than her competitors'. Lowe's son, Arthur, helped her manage the business. After he died in a car accident in 1958, making ends meet became a struggle. "Too late, I realized that dresses I sold for $300 were costing me $450," Lowe said. She ended up owing money to friends, to suppliers, and to the IRS. "The Internal Revenue agents finally closed me up for non-payment of taxes. At my wits end, I ran sobbing into the street," Lowe said. In 1962 she declared bankruptcy. Someone anonymously paid Lowe's IRS debt. Many believe it was Jackie Kennedy—who would have discovered both the dramatic story of completing her wedding dress and Lowe's financial struggles. Lowe picked up her sketchbook and went back to work.

During her career, Lowe had her own label and a store on 5th Avenue. She worked for designer Hattie Carnegie. Her dresses were sold in Neiman Marcus, Henri Bendel, and Saks Fifth Avenue. At Saks, Lowe became the head designer of The Adam Room, a special in-house boutique that catered to the social elite. It was there that Polly Carver Duxbury ordered an Ann Lowe dress for her debutante gown. [The dress at the top of the post]

"The quality of this dress? Unbelievable," said curator Nancy Davis. "All the seams are lined with lace. There's an amazingly complex interior structure that the dress is built around—the slip and bra are built in. According to Polly Duxbury, the fit is absolutely glorious—it's like your skin. The slip has tulle along the hem, which gives it shape. This kind of really detailed, really high-end work is very time-intensive."

Looking at the interior of the dress, one can better understand why Lowe was so sought-after, and why she struggled financially. "Everything is so perfect—and she didn't charge enough for the cost of the fabrics or the handwork that went into them," Davis said. "Sewing was her lifeblood. It was her gift, but also her being. She just wanted to sew. She just wanted to make beautiful dresses that gave her clients joy." Indeed, Lowe told a reporter for the Saturday Evening Post in 1964, "I like for my dresses to be admired. I like to hear about it—the oohs and ahs as they come into the ballroom. Like when someone tells me, 'the Ann Lowe dresses were doing all the dancing at the cotillion last night.' That's what I like to hear."

(another article with some more photos)

• Dress.

Date: 1967

Designer/Maker: Ann Lowe

Place of origin: United States: New York, New York City

Medium: Silk, cotton, velvet.

[omg-foreverfilledwithweird-posts]

A Siren Song

Pairing: Robert Dubois/ Bloodsport x Reader

A/N: so I just finished watching the new Suicide Squad for the second time and I’m even more obsessed now than I was the first time I watched it. It’s a brilliant film with actually good humor, a non-sexualizing and actually empowering view on Harley Quinn (that leg scene?? y'all-), the rats?? Rat-catcher 2?? THE SHARK?? FLAG?? Who looked really good in this movie, he might be another contender for a story as well as Harley Quinn so lmk ;) but Bloodsport immediately piqued my interest because it’s Idris Elba and he’s gorgeous, I loved the complexities of his character and I want to write for him and no one else has done it yet?? so shoutout to @honey-im-emotional​​ for the support and push to do it! also love The Bodyguard movie, helped with the inspo <3 and i’m so sorry all of my stories are similar but I HAVE A TYPE enjoy and feedback is always appreciated loves and there will be SPOILERS so be warned, also if you want a Harley one next lmk ;) (it’s so long I’m so sorry lol)

Summary: You’re a highly targeted member of the royal family, the last in your line. Bloodsport is hired to be your bodyguard to both watch and assassinate the men after you. He believes it’s below his pay-grade, but reluctantly agrees, doing so to the best of his abilities. But the closeness brings more intimacy than you two expected, and sparks fly.

Warnings: foul language, sexual content, smut, choking, light bdsm, fluffy fluff, dirty dancing, dirty talk, violence and bad guys getting murdered, mentions of Harley x Reader (y’all sexy dance and kiss), reader likes women, dom! Bloodsport, age gap, alcohol consumption, jealousy, heavy kissing, slight angst, just a good time honestly

Word Count: 3,825

You dangle from the ceiling with your aerial silk, fitting your leg in the loop you’ve created, and dangling upside down. The rope wraps around your waist as you hang gracefully from your marble walls, flying. Your friend Harley Quinn taught you how to do this years ago, it now being your favorite form of exercise and relaxation when you need a moment to clear your head. 

As you lightly spin, twirling and dancing in the air with your chandelier reflecting light everywhere, a dazzling fairy floating in a sea of stars. You hear footsteps approach and move to hang upside down, facing towards the grand door. Robert Dubois, a.k.a Bloodsport, walks forward to stand directly in front of you. 

You have known him a few weeks or so now, him having to watch your every move and tracking down your family’s killers. He stands and meets your eyes as you dangle, hair falling below you.

“Hi,” you giggle, face flushed with heat. “I probably look ridiculous right now.”

He composes himself so he doesn’t crack a smile, but you see his lips twitch when he speaks, “No, Mrs. y/l/n.”

“I have a first name, you know,” you grin widely. “I’m younger than you, which hardly warrants such a professional title.”

“My apologies, y/n,” he fixes himself.

“It’s alright,” you ease, filling him with a sense of softness he hasn’t felt in a long time. You flip and land on your feet, letting go of your silks. 

You don’t notice as his eyes glaze over your body in your sports bra and shorts, something his cold, calculated stare should never succumb to, but he does anyway and he kicks himself for doing it. You’re his client and should therefore remain as such, no conflict of interest or thoughts other than to protect. He didn’t want this job, hell, he still doesn’t know why he said yes. Maybe it was the money. Or maybe it was upon seeing you that first time, in that star-studded gown the night of a charity gala you were attending, the way the diamond littered fabric hung over your figure, absolutely dazzled. The way you looked at him and smiled, like you were used to with all the other nobles and adoring fans. But he let himself believe it was different.

He can’t do that anymore, however, because he can’t allow for any complications. And falling for his boss is certainly a complication. 

You look at him and your eyes widen with realization, “Oh, I’m sorry. Let me cover up.”

You grab a tee shirt and toss it over your exercise clothes. He looks down as you do so and clears his throat. This brings a small smile to your face.  

“You called me in here,” he gestures to the necklace charm hanging around your neck that you can squeeze and send an instant distress signal whenever you need it. “What can I do for you, y/n?”

“Wanted you to spot me,” you tease, a smile overtaking your delicate features. You have a sort of stunning beauty about you that takes him by surprise every time he lays eyes on you. Which is often. You lay on your yoga mat and sit up straight with that same damned smile. 

“I’m here to do a job, y/n,” he says, his deep, honeyed voice coating the way he says your name like heat to sugar. “Not aid you in your workout routine.”

“What? Your assassin training didn’t include sit ups?” you smile, tongue in cheek.

“No, but if you need a way to kill a man with a book,” he presses a foot over both of yours as you begin to do sit ups. “Then I’m your man.”

“Yeah, you and John Wick,” you breathe out with a laugh. “And shouldn’t you be in here watching me already? Not by the door?”

“This room has no windows and no other door or entrance besides the one I was standing by. I thought you would want privacy,” he averts your gaze. “I’m sure it’s a hard thing to come by these days for a woman like yourself.”

You stop what you’re doing and look up at him, blinking, “Well, you’d be right,” you tuck your hair back. “So thank you.”

He meets your eyes, bordering on a smile, “You’re welcome.”

“Is that a smile I see?” you chuckle.

The smile shines, “It was a diversion. And you failed.”

You laugh loudly, “Will the next diversion be an actual laugh?”

“Wouldn’t be a proper diversion if you knew what it was.”

You tap his feet so he’ll get the hint and let you up. You rise to your feet and dust yourself up, “I appreciate your spotting.” You press a hand to his chest and hum. Warmth radiates from your palm and he inhales sharply. “For someone who wasn’t trained, you sure are a fast learner.”

He looks at your hand and back to your eyes, heat sprouting from where your hand touches. His hand flexes at his side as he looks around the room, to the door, seeing if it’s closed. 

“I-” he cocks an eyebrow then settles. “I think I should go.”

He watches you look at him with wounded eyes, brow lowered, you open your mouth then close it. 

You nod, moving away from him, “Right.”

You move to walk away when he stops you, mouth by your ear, voice dropping an octave when he whispers, “Just so you know-” you tilt your head up almost instinctively to hear him better. “-my assassin training did include reminding people who they are when they’ve forgotten their place.”

You look up at him fully now, “You work for me, remember?”

“I work for money. And you didn’t hire me. I was employed by Mrs. Waller to keep you alive,” he cocks his head slightly. 

“So it would be frowned upon by her when you’re unable to walk if you touch me like that again.”

You couldn’t believe he had just said that. Your eyes widen and your cheeks once again heat up, blushing. Your chest gets hot when he doesn’t break the stare like he’s calling your bluff, and fuck, did he do just that. You turn away from him.

You can hear the smile in his voice, “That’s what I thought.”

~~~

“Robert said that!?” Harley exclaims, eyes wide. Her jaw is dropped as she does her mascara aggressively in the mirror. “He’s usually so...”

You tug down your tiny halter top over your head, your bright, flattering makeup complementing the colorful swirling pattern, “An empty void with no emotion?”

She nods emphatically, agreeing, “Exactly! I had no idea he had it in him?” she raises her brow and smooths down her leather black and red dress, “Or that he wanted to put it in you-”

You slap her arm, chastising, “You don’t know that. It might have been a threat to actually paralyze me in a very not sexual way.”

“I say both are arousing,” she shrugs, platinum curls bouncing.

You roll your eyes with a small smile aimed at the floor, “Anyway-” you slip a belt through your tight jeans, hitting at your waist when you cinch it in. “We should get going if we want to get to the club on time.”

She pauses. “Y/n. Are you sure we should be doing this?”

You do a double take, “You’re telling me that we shouldn’t sneak out and have a good time?”

“I know the irony is apparent,” she looks at you with a knowing stare. “But not if it means you’re in danger. Which you are.”

“I know,” you frown. “But I’ve been locked in this house for months, I miss going out and having a life. I’m tired of being coddled.”

“I know, sweetheart,” she sighs, looking past herself in the mirror to flash me a sympathetic smile. She thinks for a beat and finally spins around, “Alright, screw it, doll, let’s go paint the town.”

You buzz with excitement, grinning, “Yay! Thank you, thank you! I wonder who will be djaying...” you trail off. 

Harley’s face falls and her mouth goes in a solid, straight line, looking past your shoulder, “I don’t think anyone will be.”

You laugh, completely oblivious, “Of course there will be. There has to be music. Dancing in silence would be pretty fucking awkward.”

“This moment is pretty fucking awkward.”

“What do you mean?”

A deep, irritated voice sounds off behind you, “Because you’re not going.”

You jump out of your skin, “Shit, Robert! You scared the hell out of me!”

“You’re not going to that club,” he folds his arms over his chest. You look over him and his casual, night wear: a loose tee and low hanging joggers. You almost wipe your mouth from salivating. Your outfit elicits the same reaction.

You pinch your eyebrows together, “You can’t tell me what to do.”

“Yes, I can. I’m tasked with protecting you.”

“Yeah. And nowhere on your job description does it say ‘become my parent’. There’s not an opening now just because I don’t have one. I am a grown ass woman and I have been a prisoner in my own home. The same home where...” you pause, a lump in your throat at the reminder of your family’s passing. You shake it off, “I’m just tired. I want a piece of my life back. You can either stay here or come. Either way I’m going.”

He gives you a quick once over and contemplates his options before dropping his arms to his sides and letting out a long exhale.

“Fine.”

You somewhat relax at his defeated tone, “Fine, what?”

He relents, “You can go, but I’m coming with you. But if anything happens to you, I’m not to be blamed. I will leave your ass in that club.”

You grin and jump up to give him a tight hug around the neck. He stiffens before slowly rubbing your back. You sink into his embrace, feeling like you were floating in water, now above the surface as he brings you back to oxygen. Harley smiles at the exchange and she winks theatrically. 

He glares. 

It’s not long before you three arrive at the club, music blaring and colorful lights flashing over the crowded floors. From his stare and intimidating aura, the club staff thought he was a bouncer and let you all in immediately. But before he was roped into working, the three of you bee-lined to the bar. 

“The prettiest and strongest drink ya got, sugar,” Harley smiles at the pretty bartender.

“And what if that’s me?” she responds, ebony hair falling onto one shoulder.

“Then I’ll have to drink you later,” Harley gives her a flirty once over and you roll your eyes.

The bartender grins and gestures towards me for my order, I answer quickly, “Scotch on the rocks.”

Robert looks at you, poorly covering his shocked expression. “Really?”

“Yeah, why?” you look up at him.

“Didn’t peg you for a straight liquor type, Ms. y/l/n,” he finally lets his hidden laugh show through, butterflies erupting in your chest. The diversion definitely worked, whatever you were thinking about before this has immediately left you.

“Then this is going to be the first surprise of many tonight, Mr. Dubois,” you return the smug look as he orders the same thing. You both share a look.

The bartender slides you all your drinks, each of you taking a long swig for liquid courage for the night. Harley’s favorite Doja Cat song comes on and she gasps, clapping excitedly when she grabs you by the wrist, pulling you on the dance floor, “Come dance with me.”

You mouth a small ‘sorry’ to Bloodsport who you left at the bar, he shakes his head with a smile over the rim of his glass, watching you guys’ drinks. 

She dances wildly, jumping up and down, spinning to let her hair fall in many beautiful angles. She’s a powerful force and your greatest friend. She puts her arms around your neck and the two of you move in time with the music.

“So...” she motions to Bloodsport who’s being forced into a conversation with a woman at the bar. The woman puts her hand on his and he visibly shrinks back and whispers something to her that causes the most horrid look from the woman and for her to walk quickly away. You smile at the relief that interaction has brought you.

“So what?” you spin her around and pull her back.

“Quit with the good dancing, or I’m gonna fuck you myself,” she teases with a lightheaded giggle.

You smile, “We’ve tried that already, remember?”

“Too much history, I know, I know. Doesn’t mean it wouldn’t be nice...” she whispers into your neck, kissing the soft spot under your chin. Your skin heats up under her touch as she drags her hands down your sides, pulling you close to her so that you’re flush against her chest.

You give into her and kiss her slowly, her soft lips melt into your own when her hands tug in your hair. Harley and you have always had a complicated friendship, with enough sexual attraction to fuel a nuclear bomb, but not enough romantic. You love each other but not in the way you both need. You were in love with Robert and she is continuing to explore her sexuality because she likes women and so do you. So as she trails her hot mouth down your neck in the middle of dozens of bustling bodies and you lock eyes with an angry Bloodsport, you knew exactly what she was doing.

You whisper, out of breath, “Are you trying the jealousy trick?”

“It worked in college, didn’t it?” she kisses your cheek, smiling gently against your skin. “And it’s working now.”

“I think you’re just obsessed with kissing me,” you kiss her back.

“It was a win-win situation, doll,” she grins devilishly and you can’t help but agree. “So when you’re done with him, come see me. But right now, I have a sexy bartender lady to drink up.” You grip her hand and let her make her way to her next conquest.

Robert had seen the tail-end of your kiss, his deft fingers clenched around his whiskey glass. He knows he shouldn’t let this sort of thing affect him, something as juvenile and simple as jealousy. But he couldn’t stop that feeling of being stuck, unable to think about anything except the fact that it wasn’t him with his hands on you like that, lips marking you as much as he pleases. Sadness washed over him in a tidal wave and he set his glass down, about to get up to leave when he spotted a man eyeing you from the door. He looked familiar and it wasn’t just attraction he sensed in his eyes but something far more sinister.

A few more men followed suit and began making their way to you in the middle of the dance floor. He had no time to consider the facts, just to get you out of there as soon as possible. 

You feel a rough hand tug your arm and turn to face who you think to be Dubois, you smile, “Enjoy the show?”

“Very much,” an unknown voice answers, and you look up, eyes wide. “Now why don’t you come with me for a little talk, beautiful.”

“Get the fuck off of me,” you yank your arm back, slamming your heel down into the perpetrator’s foot. More men surround you on all sides, making it impossible for you to escape or use your subpar martial arts skills. Aerial yoga was a very different ballpark than kicking ass. And you were just a beginner.

You poorly punch a man in the face, only making them all angrier when you’re grabbed from all sides, being dragged towards the exit kicking and screaming. You didn’t want to be that helpless damsel in distress, but as all of these men, men you recognized from your family’s death, were surrounding you, you couldn’t breathe. Their hands felt familiar, grabbing your arms like they’d done that night before you hid in the secret door in the dining room. You had watched these faceless men through a hole in that door, stifling your cries when bullets sprayed the room your family was having dinner in. So while they were coming after you and pulling you outside, it’s all you felt. That same feeling when he wasn’t near.

Drowning.

There’s a hand that pulls you back and you watch, dazed, as Bloodsport puts every man who touched you on the ground. It’s filled with swift yet aggressive and barbaric movements, controlled, expert chaos and it happens within moments. His chest is heaving when he looks down at you and scoops you up in his arms. You’d object in any other circumstances, but this time, head against his chest and tucked in his arms, you were okay.

His voice rumbles against your side, “We’re going home.”

~~~

Harley’s tears hit your shoulder as you sympathetically pat her back.

“I’m so sorry, y/n. I shouldn’t have left,” she sniffles loudly. “I should’ve been there.”

You laugh softly, fitting your head into her shoulder, “It’s okay, Harls. It’s not your fault, there was no harm done.”

“There could have been,” she sighs. “I’m not letting you convince me to go out next time, you’re staying here forever.”

You roll your eyes with a smile, “Alright.”

She gets up and sniffs, wiping at her nose that’s now flushed from crying, “Good because I’m serious.”

“I know,” you laugh again, hugging yourself in a hoodie much too large for you, (because you stole it from Rick Flagg) swallowing you whole. 

Your eyes wander down the hall to where Robert is no doubt pacing around in your bedroom, the only room not laden with cameras (ironically for privacy). You kick at the floor in your fuzzy socks and think of an excuse to go check on him, even though you’re probably the last person he wants to see right now. You, frankly, don’t care.

“I’m gonna go-” 

“Check on Robert?” she finishes. “I know, honey. I was a psychiatrist, I’m not stupid.”

You crack a smile and grip her arm affectionately as you walk past her towards the bedroom. You don’t even take the risk of knocking for fear he’ll lock it and try your luck with just simply opening it. You see him, shirtless with a towel over his shoulder, a low hanging towel wrapped around his waist, while nursing his knuckles. He looks you over once you enter the room, trained eyes on you and the intimidation is definitely working already when he takes the damp towel on his shoulder and dabs the cuts on his skin.

He remains silent and you move to sit down on your bed, the awkward squeak filling the already high-tension atmosphere, thick enough to make your ears pop like you’re in an airplane too far up in the sky.

“I’m sorry,” you say quietly, drawing his eye. 

He hums and steps into your bathroom, washing off his hands. 

You frown at his lack of response, “Are you really going to pout this whole time? Because honestly, it’s beneath you, Robert.” You lean forward, watching as he walks out of the bathroom, still half naked, still silent. 

The silence is beginning to slowly kill you, especially when he looks this good, water droplets running down his chiseled torso from a hot shower. You didn’t let your mind wander because if the reaction your body is giving from the image before you was any indication, you want him. He walks in the room once again, mouth in an amused yet firm line. 

In actuality, he was ashamed of himself. Not so much of you. He would’ve left as that despair overcame him back in that bar. He would’ve left you there and abandoned his mission, leaving you to be hurt. If it hadn't been for those men, you could’ve been killed and it would be his fault. He alerted Waller of the attack, making up a lie about the two of you going for a walk at night and getting ambushed there rather than at a club. There’s a hit on each of those men being taken out as we speak as well as a search for their boss. Even though that still got him chewed out. He couldn’t imagine what she’d do to him if she found out the truth.

Robert walks slowly towards you, leaning against the bed frame, gesturing for you to continue. You watch him, distracted, as he wraps a bandage around his knuckles.

“I shouldn’t have kissed her to get a rise out of you, that was hurtful,” you exhale your words, quiet enough he wouldn’t be able to hear you if you weren’t within a breath of one another. You hang your head, “And it was stupid to go out in the first place when I am in this much danger. I could’ve been killed, and you could have been hurt. I’m sorry.”

He represses a laugh at the idea of him getting hurt, when the two of you both know that would never happen. But as the silence from him grows thicker, the more you start to ramble.

“Okay, this silent treatment isn’t going to work for much longer. I don’t know what game you’re playing, but you need to stop.”

He gives you a look that says ‘make me’. But you both know you couldn’t if you tried, and vice versa. He thinks of you as a siren, one of those alluring creatures in old sailor tales that lured unsuspecting men to their painful deaths. As if he has no control of the way he feels about you. Which in a way he does, but he knows better. He knows better than to fall under your enchanting song, but he can’t help but be pulled beneath the surface of the water. 

Robert tenses when you move forward and the hoodie falls off one of your shoulders, revealing more of your chest, the smooth skin that lays there. 

His chest tightens when you look up at him and sigh.

“But thank you for saving me,” you say, both because you think that’s what he wants to hear but also because you mean it, you wouldn’t be here at all if he didn’t come with you.

He licks his lips and nods his head in simple recognition. He appreciated the apology, truly he did, but a part of him enjoyed the way you continued to ramble on, so he remained silent. This was an old interrogation tactic he learned when he served, keeping quiet always got people talking. He looks down at you and leans to meet your face, hands on either side of you. 

“I don’t know what else you wish for me to say,” you admit quietly, fiddling with your hands.

He didn’t know either but whatever you would say, he would listen.

“So I take it you’re not mad anymore?” you infer from his relaxed posture, heart beating out of your chest, fast enough that it catapults to your throat. 

He tilts his head down so he’s an inch before your mouth, breath fanning over your face. when he tugs you up to your feet, hands gripping the sides of your waist when he pulls you close. Your heartbeats began to sync up, chest to chest.

“I’m fucking furious, sweetheart.”

You meet his eyes, looking up in that seductive stare of yours you never knew you were capable of until him, and close the distance, kissing him lightly. His arms falter by your side and it’s the first time you’ve seen him hesitate, losing his cool. It’s the most gentle thing he’s ever experienced, everything in his life being forced, hostile, and malicious, while your soft lips against his are anything but. You kiss him like he’s not the monster he thinks himself to be. 

“Then let me make it up to you.”

“Fuck,” he grips your sides harder, palm moving to push you closer with his hand flat against the small of your back. “We shouldn’t.”

You search his face for uncertainty, but all you sense is a profound sense of clarity, in the both of you. “I know.”

“Will you regret this?”

You shake your head, hand against his cheek, “No.”

His dark eyes fall to your lips, pupils filling his dark brown irises, lust blown, “You’re so good, baby. You’re too good for me.”

Before you can tease him about the new nickname and object to that, his lips have crashed against your own. His hand slides up to cup the side of your face, drinking you in with his intoxicating kiss. You hum, content, against his feverish mouth and he opens it, vulnerable and on display. You feel his guard still up, tense and calculated, so you rest your hand against his chest. You press a kiss to his eyelid, his cheek, his nose, his chin, his jaw, his neck. He softens beneath you, groaning aloud as his hands tighten. 

“You don’t need to be afraid with me,” you whisper to him, tender fingers trailing down his shirtless chest, hot skin against hot skin. It’s enough to make you sweat.

He exhales and captures your bottom lip with his own, holding your face in both of his hands. The kiss grows heated and rushed, like you’re running out of time, as if at any moment those men would come back and find you and take you away from him again. His tongue expertly works with your own, licking the pout of your bottom lip, and coaxing you open. He slides his hand down between your legs, dipping his finger to find the slick in the middle of your thighs. You moan into his mouth, his other hand at the back of your neck when he buries his face in your shoulder. He kisses you there, the crook where your neck meets your collarbone, that damned sensitive spot. You succumb to his touch. His beard tickles your skin and you gasp when he sucks hard, a bruise forming.

You breathe a laugh, “Everyone will see if you leave a mark,” you tug on his hair when you thread it through his coarse curls. 

He falls under your spell and there’s something so ironically beautiful about this trained assassin with a heart of gold and the scars to show for it, being so open with you.

His hands, his entire life, have been forced to be instruments of death and violence. But as they slide down your figure, holding your face, and pulling you into him, they’re his greatest gift. He’s surprisingly tender with you. 

But then he has enough and pushes you down on the bed, arms trapping you on both sides.

He responds bluntly, “I don’t care.”

You part your legs for him and he releases a shaky breath. He slowly unzips your sweatshirt and it falls off you just as you do the same and tug his towel down. Both of you are bare before the other as you take a moment to drink each other in. You were just as, if not more, beautiful than he imagined you to be. 

“You’re so beautiful,” he says quietly as his hand drapes down the line of your figure. He touches you how someone would handle a glass vase filled with flowers. 

You take his face in both of your hands and kiss him, “So are you.” 

“I don’t think you know what you do to me, baby.” His hand finds your breast and squeezes while he kisses your neck.

You moan when he uses his other hand to grip your neck, thumb against your pulse point, “If it’s anything like how I feel right now, then yes, I do.”

He lifts his head up to watch your face as he chokes you, softly so he doesn’t hurt you but hard enough to play with your breath. His thumb opens your mouth and your legs tremble. 

“So I take it you’re into choking, my love?” You nod excitedly, unable to speak, and his grip tightens. 

You let out a squeak and he releases, face etched with worry, kissing your neck where he touched you. “Did I hurt you? I’m so sorry.” 

You shake your head and smile comfortingly, “No, baby, I’m okay. I’ll tap out if it’s too rough, I promise,” you tease.

His grumbling voice deepens, “Good... because, darling, right now all I want to do is bury my face in between those gorgeous thighs of yours.”

You inhale sharply when he opens your legs once again, looking up at you and you nod in consent.

“I need words, beautiful,” he smirks with his mouth just above your center. 

“Yes, please,” you breathe out and he responds with a swift lick to your pussy. He looks up at you and when he catches your eye, it’s as if the sensation grows stronger and your head hits your pillow.

“I’ve barely even touched you,” he mumbles into you and you feel his smug smile in your thigh. His fingers dip into you as he flattens his tongue and crooks them towards himself, you grip your sheets.

“Don’t... flatter yourself,” you sigh out. “I-it’s just been awhile.”

He removes his mouth and fingers from you, “So anyone can make you feel like this?”

You enjoy the feeling you get when he looks at you like that, his eyes dark and dominant, so you play along and nod. “Yes, in fact, I’ve had better.”

He licks his lips and gets up from the bed. He opens his drawer and you sit up to look what he grabs: a belt. Your heart beats excitedly in your chest even though you know you shouldn’t be. He gets back on the bed and climbs over you.

Robert looks at you, “Hands.”

You extend them to him wordlessly, watching as he ties your wrists together and puts them over the bedpost so you’re trapped there, unable to move.

“Now,” he holds himself above you, pressing a kiss to your lips. “You’re to stay tied up until I say so, anything like that again and they get tighter. Nod if you understand me.”

You nod emphatically. You had never seen this side of Robert before, so in control and not afraid to go too far, it was so unbelievably sexy. 

The best part was he didn’t tie it tight enough, afraid of hurting you, so you could easily slip out your hands at any moment.

He kisses, painfully slow, down your chest and wraps his lips around your nipple. He swirls his tongue around the erect bud and you gasp, desperate to touch him. He looks up at you from you chest as he switches to the other, massaging the unattended one as he sucks, the pleasurable feeling overwhelming you. So much so you have to clench your thighs together, longing for some sort of relief for the tension building in your abdomen.

“Baby, please,” you whine, squirming beneath him.

He shuts you up with a bruising kiss while his hand slips down to enter you, two fingers in already. He pumps them in and out of you before sliding back down the expanses of your body and letting his mouth latch onto your clit. He sucks hard and you stifle a loud moan that would surely alert everyone in the home of your arousal. He holds you down against the bed with a palm flat against your stomach as you begin to lift your pelvis. His tongue enters you while his fingers take over, stimulating you with gentle rubs and flicks. But just before you feel that euphoric release, his actions cease and you’re left hot and flustered. 

“Robert,” you look at him with a deep frown.

He grins, “Y/n...”

You blow hair out of your eyes, “I hate you.”

“No you don’t.” He puts his lips near your ear, “Are you ready?” You nod as he pushes himself inside you and you bite back a moan into his shoulder. 

You finally have enough, slip your hands out, and he pinches his brow, unable to hide his shock before you bring him down to press your lips against his. He melts into you, arms wrapped around you while he holds you close, filling you out in all the right places. He quickens his pace and you whine into his mouth, nails digging into his skin. You wrap your legs around his torso and he hits you so nicely. He was right, it’s the best you’ve ever had. He rises and looks at you, lips swollen and red from kissing, eyes clear and pupils large, and face flushed with heat. Your hair is in messy tendrils at all angles and you’ve never been more attractive.

“You’re doing so good,” he praises in your ear, placing kisses across your jaw. “Taking my cock so well.”

You whimper and his movements stiffen as he approaches release and so do you, walls tightening around him. He reaches down and rubs your clit with his expert fingers. You finish together, mouths open and hands all over each other’s bodies. It overcomes you in a tingling, perfect sensation, it continues on, leaving you aching and wanting more.

He rubs his knuckles over your cheek, softly and adoringly he looks at you. You tuck yourself into his arms under the blankets. Everything you both have wanted for a long time, laying right in front of you.

“Still want to make me not walk?” you tease, looking up at him.

He kisses your eyelids and you giggle, “Fuck yes.”

Part 2?

[mediaevalmusereads]

The Prince and the Dressmaker. By Jen Wang. First Second, 2018.

Rating: 4.5/5 stars

Genre: graphic novel, lgbt+ literature

Part of a Series? No

Summary: Prince Sebastian is looking for a bride―or rather, his parents are looking for one for him. Sebastian is too busy hiding his secret life from everyone. At night he puts on daring dresses and takes Paris by storm as the fabulous Lady Crystallia―the hottest fashion icon in the world capital of fashion!

Sebastian’s secret weapon is his brilliant dressmaker, Frances―his best friend and one of only two people who know the truth: sometimes this boy wears dresses. But Frances dreams of greatness, and being someone’s secret weapon means being a secret. Forever. How long can Frances defer her dreams to protect her friend?

***Full review under the cut.***

Content Warnings: forced outing

Overview: I was really excited when this book first came out, so I don’t know why it took me so long to acquire a copy. I was in the mood for something light, and an all-ages lgbt+ comic sounded like just the thing. Overall, I really enjoyed this book, particularly because of the relationship between the two protagonists. Wang does a fabulous job of putting one’s ambition in conversation with the other’s secret identity, and the art was bright and dynamic to match. While there are probably some things I could criticize here and there, I enjoyed the reading experience so much that this book gets a high rating from me.

Writing/Art: Wang’s art appears to be very simple, yet manages to convey a lot of movement and emotion using only a few lines. Not only does fabric seem to billow and flow while characters move through space, but facial expressions are also easily readable and establishes mood. None of the panels felt stiff, and the art wasn’t so simplistic that it was boring to look at. Instead, Wang seemed to know exactly how to use linework.

I also appreciated that Wang didn’t design Sebastian in a way that would make it easier for him to “pass” as Lady Crystallia. Sebastian has a long, pointed nose and large ears, and Wang never tries to hide them. As a result, the focus for Sebastian was less on passing and more on feeling fulfilled and enjoying fashion.

Plot: The plot of this book follows Frances, a working-class teenager working as a seamstress, who is hired to be the personal dressmaker for a mysterious employer. At the beginning of the book, Frances designs a dress for a client - one that is both scandalous and admired. This dress catches the eye of Prince Sebastian, who hires Frances to make similar gowns for his alter ego - Lady Crystallia.

What I liked most about this plot was the way Frances’ ambition to be a well-known designer complimented (and later clashed) with Sebastian’s desire to freely love fashion and wearing gowns. The two protagonists form a strong friendship that is mutually supportive, and I loved that so much of the book was focused on building each other up. It was also very easy to want to root for each character and for all the twists and turns in their relationship to have an emotional impact on me as the reader.

That being said, I do want to warn readers that there is a forced outing. It’s not so bad that I think it’s problematic; after all, being outed is a reality for a lot of queer people. But if you’re someone who doesn’t want to read about that, maybe skip this book.

Characters: Sebastian, the prince, is easy to like because his struggle for freedom and acceptance is sympathetic. Sebastian has a number of things going on in his life: not only does he want to wear dresses, but his parents are strong-arming him into selecting a fiancée so that he may one day inherit his military-hero father’s kingdom. Both plights are ones that a reader may easily see as oppressive, so seeing Sebastian get any amount of freedom and pleasure is satisfying. I also really appreciated that Sebastian’s closeted status was both a problem and something understandable; Sebastian is rightfully very anxious about being outed, and while most readers can probably be sympathetic, his anxiety does cause some problems for Frances, who can’t be recognized for her work because of the threat it poses to Sebastian’s identity. This conflict made Sebastian’s character development a little richer, and I liked that he had to consider what was really important in his life.

Frances, the dressmaker, is also easy to like because she has a goal. Frances longs to be a well-known designer, and while she gets some recognition for her work for Lady Crystallia, she can never really become a big name because doing so would threaten Sebastian’s secret. Watching Frances try so hard to follow her dreams made me root for her; I loved hearing about her fashion inspirations as well as her visions for the future, and I was heartbroken whenever she experienced a setback. Seeing her try to remain loyal to Sebastian without giving up on herself also made her arc a little richer, and I think it complimented Sebastian’s nicely.

Supporting characters were all charming in their own way. Sebastian’s parents, the king and queen, were a little pushy and over-bearing, but it was clear that they loved their son, so it was hard to dislike them completely. Peter Trippley, the son of a prominent department store owner, was also likable in that he was willing to extend his help to Frances and even encouraged her to keep designing. While he has different ideas about fashion, he’s never a malicious character, so it was fun to see Frances develop her own little professional network. There weren’t any characters I hated, though Princess Juliana (Sebastian’s fiancee) and her brother weren’t the most accepting of characters. I do wish Wang had done something with them, since they just kind of fall out of the narrative. I don’t necessarily want to see them punished, but they are loose threads that could have been tied up.

TL;DR: The Prince and the Dressmaker is a charming all-ages lgbt+ comic featuring a strong relationship between two very likable protagonists and dynamic art. With its focus on ambition and acceptance, this book is a must-read for enthusiasts of queer fairytales and turn-of-the-century fashion.

[siren-dragon]

Cultural Studies -- The Cat Returns fanfic

Hello again, guess who wrote another one-shot! Anyway, this prompt came to me (along with several others, lol) so I decided to write something for it. Also, big thanks to everyone who enjoyed my first story. Also, Haru’s outfit is based on the yukata from the Love Nikki game and I may draw something for this story at a later date. Anyway, please enjoy!

AO3 story link    Tagging: @mysticsoulgirl

Prompt: Summer Fireworks Festival

=======================================================

Though the Sanctuary, and by extension the Cat Bureau itself, experienced many a visitor wishing for assistance with one thing or another- it wasn’t exactly a stationary place. True, anyone could follow Muta from the Crossroads and through the twists and turns of Japan’s alleys to locate the entryway arch, but that wasn’t truly the Bureau’s physical location. Anyone who was in need could find the Sanctuary entrance, all they had to do was merely look for it. So, while Baron was not unaccustomed to a variety of clients (even if the quantity seemed to have diminish over the years), it was always a study in new cultures when a guest appeared. Even when the cat figurine made a point to be open and courteous to a visitor, there were often a few things he gained new knowledge of.

“A fireworks festival? I’m afraid I’ve not heard of such a thing before.” He spoke, handing Haru a now size-appropriate cup thanks to the Bureau’s magic.

The dark brunette offered a small word of thanks and a bright smile before continuing. “Really? Oh, they’re great fun. Originally it was started as a festival for the dead; to mourn the lost one while celebrating life. But nowadays it’s just a fun activity to watch while eating festival food with friends.”

“Did I hear someone mention food?” Muta spoke, closing the front door behind him. “Hey Chicky, you bring any snacks with you today?”

From the upstairs balcony came a snort of displeasure. “You ever think of anything aside from your stomach,” Toto drawled, rolling his eyes at the cat’s one-track mind.

“What was that birdbrain?!”

“Oh, come on, think of a new insult piggy-cat!”

Before the fight could escalate anymore Haru, now a more convenient size for Baron’s home, rose from her seat on the sofa and lifted a bag where the scent of sugar and fresh fruit wafted throughout the room. “If you two are going to fight, then Baron and I will eat this by ourselves- including the mulberries I got special for you Toto.”

Both cat and crow immediately silenced themselves before tossing a glare at the other, “You got lucky, big chicken.”

“Sure thing, marshmallow.”

Baron sighed, taking out the necessary cutlery before Muta decided to forego the use of utensils. “Muta, have you experienced such festivals in the Human Realm?”

“What festivals?”

“The fireworks festival coming up this weekend,” Haru clarified as she handed Toto the collection of mulberries she brought.

It was here that the ex-con feline grinned, “oh yeah. Gotta love summer festivals in Japan with all their fried food and sweets. Best time to be a cat.”

Toto snickered, “why am I not surprised; you only think from your stomach.”

“Shut up!”

“There’s also games where you can win prizes and some shops as well. And at the end there is large fireworks show everyone watches to celebrate the summer season.” It was here that Haru’s excited smile seemed to dim slightly, “I was going to go with Hiromi, but she has a family reunion to attend. And my Mom will be out of town during that weekend- so I’ll just be watching it from my house.”

As a figurine being made out of wood, anything associated with fire was typically something Baron tried to actively avoid. And while he would deny it fervently later onto a rather smug looking Muta and Toto, the slightly disheartened expression on Haru’s face sent a rather unpleasant sensation through his chest sent nearly all thoughts of self-preservation out the window. It reminded him of their previous adventure in the Cat Kingdom; with her clad in a fine, pale-yellow gown and wearing a look of absolute despair despite it having been her so called “wedding day”. And so, it was not 2 seconds later that he found the words tumbling from his lips without any kind of second thought.

“Perhaps we can accompany you to this festival instead, Haru.”

That certainly caused the brunette to stare at him in surprise, yet a spark of joy danced within her caramel eyes. “Really? You guys would want to go with me?”

“Hey, if there’s food then you can count me in.” Muta shrugged, finishing his slice of chiffon cake.

Toto nodded, “I’m sure it’d be a great experience; what with the lack of clients to the Bureau.”

Haru beamed brightly with sheer delight, “Thank you everyone, I’m sure you all will love it!”

When Haru had finally left for the day, a definite spring in her step, Muta couldn’t help but turn a sly grin to his fellow feline. “Well, that was rather generous of you to volunteer us for something you didn’t even know about till 30 minutes ago.”

“I’m not sure what you are inquiring Muta. It was quite clear that Miss Haru was looking forward to this festival and it would be unbecoming of a gentleman to allow her to merely remain home alone and miss the event entirely.”

Toto nodded, “I have to say, I agree with Baron on this one. But I don’t think it was that difficult to persuade you after that melancholic expression crossed her face.”

Baron gave a displeased frown to his colleague’s rambunctious laughter, which did nothing to hide the slight tint of pink beneath his cream-colored fur. Honestly, since when was chivalrous behavior become a source of mockery? And yet… the sight of Haru’s joyful smile was more than worth it.

“So, are you going to wear a yukata?”

“A what?”

That answer only made the hefty white cat laugh louder.

 ======================================================

“Muta… are you quite sure that this garment is placed on correctly.”

“If the picture is anything to go by, then yeah. Besides; you can’t wear a suit with tails to a summer festival- you’ll stick out too much.” The large cat answered, glancing down at the newspaper advertisement in his hands before looking back to his much shorter friend. “Hmm, I think that’s right.”

“You idiot, tie for the sash is supposed to be in the back.” Toto commented, taking the advertisement with his beak to compare the image to Baron’s new attire. “See, there isn’t a giant bow in the front.”

“Okay first, it’s called an obi and second, stop butting in birdbrain!”

“I wouldn’t have to if you knew what you were doing, fluff-ball!”

Baron was going to attempt to silence their bickering before the sash about his waist loosened slightly causing the robe to flutter open and expose part of his chest and collarbone before the ginger feline took hold of the garment’s sides and quickly held them closed. He briefly wondered if it would perhaps be better to merely wear his typical suit before a knock sounded on the door- halting Muta and Toto’s argument. The crow quickly flew toward the door and swiftly opened the door to reveal Haru. She too was clad in a traditional yukata of navy blue with ivory and cream-colored stars swirling around a crescent moon at the hem of the dress before continuing upward. The sash wrapped around her waist took on a pale blue color while the right sleeve of her dress shifted colors; with the stars now dark and the fabric white shade. Though her hair was cut short, it was still pinned back by a blue, yellow, and orange silk flower with the latter two colors matching the shade of his own fur. To be perfectly honest, she looked quite breath-taking.

“Baron are you wearing a yukata?” She grinned, noticing his change of attire immediately which only made the statuette cling to the folds of the loosened robe all the more tightly. “I didn’t even know you had one!”

“Well, Muta saw fit to inform me this is the traditional attire for a summer festival so it is a recent addition to my wardrobe. However, I seem to be having a bit of trouble actually dressing.” He answered, unable to prevent the sigh from leaving his lips at his current dishevelment.

Haru giggled, placing her small bag on the sofa before approaching him. “Don’t worry, it’s always challenging for a first-timer. Here, you just need a little bit of adjusting…”

Despite his attempt to remain calm at the innocent offer, Baron couldn’t help the heat rushing to his face as Haru approached and began shifting the obi about his waist he had attempted to tie on earlier. He still kept his hand clenched about the folds of the yukata as Haru expertly straightened the robe, to which he gave her a very grateful smile. Soon he was now properly clothed, even wearing the haori properly before Haru stepped back to admire her handy work (though Baron felt a slight twinge of disappointment at her shift away from him). “There we go, a perfect fit.”

“Thank you, Haru. And may I say, you look lovely as well.”

She beamed at his reply as she moved to retrieve her bag. “Thanks Baron. But if you wanted to wear a yukata, I could have helped you find one.”

Muta shook his head, “that would have ruined the surprise Chicky. Plus, nothing was more amusing than watching Baron try to put it on.”

“As always, your assistance is greatly appreciated Muta.” Baron replied dryly, remembering the past hour where both his friends tried to guide him in how to wear the clothes.

As they walked through the archway of the Sanctuary, Muta walked ahead of them now on all fours while Toto took to the skies. However, as soon as Baron exited alongside Haru, he grew till he was once more a head taller than the dark-haired young woman instead of a foot-tall figurine. But the fact that his feline appearance remained gave Haru pause- knowing most would not really take the appearance of a half-cat man kindly (even if people believed it to be a ridiculously realistic mask). But it seemed her thoughts were rather evident on her face, because Baron was quick to assuage her fears. “Do not worry Haru, there is a spell in place masking my real appearance. You are the only one who can see the truth.”

“I didn’t know you can use such spells, Baron.” She asked curiously.

He nodded, offering his arm to her which she gladly accepted. “Yes, though I am afraid they are only temporary. But I thought this would make our evening engagement far more enjoyable without any disturbances from bewildered onlookers.”

“It’s no trouble at all, actually I think it’s a good idea. It does make me curious as to how your disguise looks.”

Baron paused and gestured to the glass window of a shop they were walking past, “see for yourself.”

Turning to the window, Haru looked at Baron’s reflection nearly jumped in alarm upon not seeing the familiar feline characteristics she had come to cherish. Instead, the face of a young man who looked a few years older than herself gazed back at her from the reflection. His hair was a light tawny blonde the same shade as Baron’s fur, perfectly coiffed to suit the Creation’s usual debonair attire. Where once fur and whiskers existed was now fair skin and a rather amused smile taking in her slightly bewildered expression. Yet despite the disguise, Haru took comfort in the fact that Baron’s eyes were still the same shade of mint-green.

“That is rather impressive, if a bit shocking at first.” She laughed a little nervously.

Baron frowned, “does it bother you too much?”

“No, it’s not that,” she answered with a shake of her head before beaming up at him. “I just prefer you the way you are, that’s all.”

It was the second time in the past few days that Baron found his words failing him once again at her kind, yet honest words.

 ======================================================

Perhaps the first thing that caught Baron’s attention were the vibrant banners illuminated by dozens of lights and lanterns. The street was lined with colorful booths, each hosting a different attraction as friends and families traveled back and forth to every single one. It was a rather jarring change from the peace and quiet of the Cat Bureau, but as he glanced down at the excited grin on Haru’s face as she enthusiastically explained each booth’s function, Baron couldn’t help the pleased smile drifting across his face. “So then, what would you recommend we do first?”

“Food, I’m starving!” Muta cried from about their legs before he bolted down the street, causing several people to laugh at the rather large cat obviously following the scent of frying food. “Takoyaki, here I come!”

Haru laughed, “well, food always is a good choice. Though we’d best pace ourselves, festival food is great, but not exactly healthy.”

“Then I shall follow your lead, Haru.” Baron added, glancing around briefly with a bit of confusion drifting across his face, “I must admit, I thought a fireworks festival would have more of that particular attraction.”

“That happens at the end of the night, mainly because it’ll be darker and it’ll give us a chance to see most of the booths before we have to find seats to watch the fireworks. But we’d best find Muta before he manages to pilfer too many snacks.”

Baron chuckled, “I think it’s more of his charming attitude that wins him such favors.”

Haru couldn’t help but laugh at that, and judging from the faint cawing above their heads, Toto heard it as well. “Well, we’d best hurry before that charm gets a bit carried away.”

The couple soon found their way further into the festival and managed to find Muta, who looked rather smug at having charmed a piece of taiyaki from a group of teenage girls. True to her word, Haru managed to procure a few treats for them all to try, ranging from takoyaki to kakigori to some onigiri before they walked to where Toto waited upon a nearby but isolated tree. Muta had nearly claimed all of the takoyaki while Toto took a liking to the plain onigiri and the roasted chestnuts Baron was eating. Though Baron was not overly found of the deep-fried food, he couldn’t deny that the kakigori Haru offered was quite delicious.

As the sun soon sank below the horizon and the sky turned dark with the coming night, many people started moving away from the bright lights of the festival stalls to await the oncoming fireworks display. “We don’t really want to be too close to all the larger crowds, so we’ll stay on the outskirts instead.” Haru informed them, taking a seat beside the grass. “And I wanted to thank you guys again, for coming with me.”

“Nonsense Haru, this was most enjoyable and we were happy to accompany you.”

“Even though you had to forgo your suit?” She replied with a teasing grin.

Baron gave a slightly sheepish look, “I will admit that dressing did pose quite the challenge, but well worth the effort.”

“Even still, thank you for being such a good sport about it. And I’m glad you had a good time.” Haru chimed happily, turning to look at the ever-growing groups awaiting the final event of the festival. “Hopefully we’ll be able to see everything with so many people…”

“Well, we merely need a seat with a view; and I believe I may have a solution.”

“What do you mean by that?”

The ginger gentle-cat only offered her a hand with a secret smile, “Just trust me.”

At the familiar words, Haru rested her hand upon his and watched as the world around them seemed to stretch upward as her height plummeted to its usual size whenever she visited the Bureau. Toto then landed beside them, offering a place upon his back with Baron holding on tightly the Stone Creations black feathers and Haru wrapping her arms about his waist. Once they were situated on the now gigantic crow, Toto rose high into the air (though not before snatching Muta in his claws much to the large cat’s displeasure while muttering something that sounded like “always a showoff.”) before gliding through the evening sky.

They were only flying for a few minutes before a high-pitched whistle sounded only to be followed by a large explosion of white and gold lights as the fireworks show began. Haru watched in silent amazement as they soared the atmosphere as each of the colorful illuminations danced around them like falling stars. She a joyful laugh at sheer sight of the fireworks show from a literal bird’s eye perspective, “alright, now this is a view.”

“I must agree,” Baron added, though it was hard to hear over the sound of the fireworks.

Moving her head forward, Haru placed a gentle kiss upon Baron’s fur-covered cheek before leaning to rest her cheek against his back. “Just for the record, this is the best fireworks festival I’ve ever been to.”

And for the third time in Haru’s presence, Baron found himself at a loss for words as a pleasing warmth started to overcome his face. Yet as he turned to watch the brilliant lights display with the young woman beside him, he had to admit that it certainly was an enjoyable evening.

[fuckthesworld]

FREEDOM TO DESIRE

CEO MITCH RAPP AU

MITCH RAPP x Reader

Warnings: SMUT and unprotected sex!

Rapp Corporation was the leading marketing firm in the world. Companies like Disney, Sony and Southwest paid millions of dollars to be associated with it. It represented actors, athletes, business moguls and small businesses. While it was in high demand it was also reasonable - sponsoring schools and nonprofit organizations around the world.

The single person driving the reigns to the crazy international kingdom that resided in London was Mitch Rapp . That’s right. He was part of a decade of strong, successful businessmen.

And he was your boss.

You had literally stumbled into the job of personal assistant. Literally. You were walking out of a coffee shop, resumes in hand when you ran into his large, hard frame. You landed on your ass and when you were able to recover, you were looking into the deepest chocolate eyes you had ever seen. His bright white teeth clashed against his tan skin, his dark locks perfectly framing his face.

Then you remembered that you had spilled coffee on one of the most powerful, young bachelors in the world.

You had also spilled coffee all over your resume and you groaned in realization, the expensive fresh pages coated in thick lakes of coffee. He had helped you pick up the lost keys to your future, taking a second to read over your resume and offered you a job. He was on the way to meet someone about being his personal assistant and you did just get your masters in public relations. You could intern while still making money and if you showed promise he promised to promote you.

Sometimes life really does work out in your favor. Sit in that for five seconds then remember that your boss is one of the sexiest, most successful young CEO’s in the world.

Not only is he attractive but he has the work ethic of an ox. And it made working for him damn hard. Probably harder than managing the clients he had. He was constantly in meetings, constantly leaving early in the morning and late in the evening. Going to galas and charity events, charming new people. He opened up smaller chains in areas in the world stricken by poverty to try to help increase job opportunities. He volunteered at schools and hospitals. He spent his Thanksgiving and Christmas and any other holiday of giving providing food for those in need. Always. He’s always been like this.

Mitch wasn’t just a CEO. Wasn’t even human.

He was a goddamn saint sent from heaven to wreak havoc on earth.

It was on such an occasion that he had asked you to attend one of his events - a large gala celebrating 50 years of business with his father and grandfather.  The whole legacy under one roof. You didn’t understand why you were asked to attend. As his assistant sure you had to manage the media and who visited him. But that had been hours ago. The night was now thriving off the rich and famous drunkenly dancing and teasing each other. Mitch never drank more than two glasses of anything at events like these so you didn’t have to babysit him. But you also wanted to go home if he didn’t need you and that he refused.

You watched him as he laughed along with two of his most trusted partners, Scott Mccall and Derek Hale as they sipped expensive champagne and spoke lowly among each other. Mitch was wearing a tailored blue suit, his white  button up popping against a black tie. His slight beard had grown since he shaved it these past two days and was now a short beard and all you could think about was how it would feel between your legs.

You shook your head, returning your eyes to your blackberry. You had to get it together. Everyone teased you that he had a thing for you. He never had women assistants. Preferred men to ensure that things stayed professional. Never offered people jobs on the spot either.

There was just something about you they would tease.

Well he sure as hell wasn’t making a move so until he did it would have to stay a mystery.

“You’re still working for him.”

The soft voice takes you off guard and you jump a bit, breaking from your thoughts as  your eyes fall on your assailant. Standing in a dark red gown, her pale skin contrasting with her perfectly coiffed dark hair is Katrina Mendes. 

Ex-girlfriend of Mitch Rapp.

She takes a seat beside you, the soft smell of Chanel wafting off her skin as she continues.

“Didn’t think a fragile little thing like you would survive a man like him.”

You knew what she was doing. Her younger sister, Annika , had warned you about this months ago. When you had accidentally ran into her at a golf tournament with Mitch. She loved him still. Despite the fact that she married someone new, moved across the world, she still loved and wanted him. Didn’t want anyone else to claim him.

You were a threat. You were beautiful,  intelligent. charming and apparently upon Scott’s teasing, he spoke about you a lot. Katrina hated you. And reminded you every time she saw you.

“Surprised you’re here. Thought you’d be back in America with your husband. Oh wait, he’s in Japan with his mistress of the month.”

It was no secret her husband cheated on her. She even laughed about it but deep down you knew it killed her inside. Killed her that she chose a man like that over a man like Mitch. It made you even empathize for her…until she opened her mouth and you were reminded that karma was real.

She narrows her eyes at you before deliberately taking the large flute of champagne in her hand and slowly tilting it on your dress. On your $3,000 dress you had charged on your credit card that you had planned on returning tomorrow. You had only bought the navy blue gown to try to impress Mitch, hoping he would be charmed by the way it looked on your body.

It hadn’t and now, on top of rejection, she had ruined it and put you $3,000 in the hole.

“Have fun returning your De la Rented dress.” she smirks at you as you stand, the champagne trailing down the front of the long gown. You try to bite back tears, try not to bring too much attention to yourself as you pat at he gown down with a napkin before looking at her.

“I really hope you’re happy making other people’s life miserable Katrina. Because from what I hear, you used to be an awesome person and now, now you’re just a lonely bitch.”

You don’t notice the crowd of people who have been crowding around, watching the small scene unfold. Don’t see Mitch head toward you as you make your way down to the hallway to the family restroom. You don’t realize the tears that have been falling down your cheeks until you feel him grab your arm, turning you gently toward him.

“Y/N…” your name sounds different on his tongue and the way he’s looking at you has you sobbing harder. You try to push him away as he draws you to him, his large sculpted arms surrounding you as he whispers,

“Just let it all out.”

You don’t know why you’re crying. Maybe it’s the fact that you’ve wasted $3,000 on a dress that had made little impact in your life. Maybe its because you’ve been up since 4:30 because of him, trying to make his night perfect. You missed having a social life. Missed your mom and dad and siblings. Missed your small loft in London.

Missed all of this because of him and he didn’t even give a damn.

The thought drives your sobs deeper and his grip tightens around you as you cry harder, his large hands rubbing your back. His mouth hushes you and he rocks you before you start to calm down, your sobs tampering off and you pull away, shaking your head. You want to apologize for your unprofessionalism and you also wanted to tell him he could take his assistant job and fuck off but then his left hand is hooking under your chin as he tilts your head up to you.

“I can pay for your dress. I’m sorry she ruined it. But holy hell Y/N what did you expect when you wore something like this?”

His right hand that has never left your body tampers down your back as he pulls you closer to him.

“You’ve been driving everybody mad wearing this,” he eyes are shifting now, darkening around the pupils as he licks his lips. “It should be a condemned sin.”

His voice has dropped an octave and the deep bass draws a shiver up your spine. You give your lip a light bite and he gives a short groan, the pad of his thumb brushing over the exposed skin. His hand tightens around your waist as he whispers,

“You should be a condemned sin.”

You’re looking up at him confused, trying to register what he was saying. He watches you back, trying to get a read on you before he straightens, pulling from you.

“I hope you’re feeling better.” he croaks, backing away as he takes you in one last time before he turns on his heel. You stop him, your hand shooting for his arm. You walk around him, his hair covering his pinched eyes as you whisper,

“What do you mean by that Mitch?”

He doesn’t look at you as he manages out,

“I’ve drank too much. I shouldn’t…” he looks at you and groans. “You just, I should have asked you out and not have offered you a job.”

The words takes you off guard as he takes a deep sigh.

“You’re so goddamn sexy and smart and I felt terrible ruining your resumes,” he was referencing your encounter months ago. “That offering you a job was the best I could do. I thought you’d get burnt out and quit and then I could ask you out but you’re so damn good. So damn good at everything you do so I’ve been stuck pretending I don’t care when all I want is you.”

Your dumbstruck as he looks at you and groans, shrugging out of your embrace.

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that. We can leave, if you want.”

He’s looking past you and you’re trying to process it all.

He really did like you.

You grab his neck, drawing him down to you, your lips pressing against his. It catches him off guard for only a second before he’s registering your actions, his hands grabbing your hips as he pushes you flush against a wall. His kisses are needy and desperate as his tongue teases your mouth open and you are consumed by him. Your hands move to his hair, his beautiful dark tresses getting tangled in your delicate fingers as he moans in your mouth, pushing his hips into your naval.

You moan feeling his erection brush against you and he pulls away, his eyes frenzied with lust.

“Not here.” his voice is hoarse and deep as he grabs you and basically drags you into the family restroom you were seeking out earlier. He shuts the door, locking it before grabbing you and slamming you against the door. He lifts you, your long gown getting lost around him as your legs hooks around his waist and his mouth is on your collarbone, sucking on the skin.

“You are so damn gorgeous,” he mumbles along your skin, his mouth nipping at your neck. “Do you know that? Do you know that you’ve been driving me fucking insane in this dress” his hands trail up your gown, his hot fingers clashing with your cool thighs and his mouth has found yours. “Drove me insane the moment I picked you up and you were wearing this.” His hands ghost over your center and you give a small yelp, as he pulls back to look you in the eye.

“You’re not wearing any underwear.” he bites his lips as he glides his fingers up your wet folds and you shiver as you stumble out,

“I always run out of clean underwear and you came so early to pick me up I couldn’t go and buy a pair.”

His hands slowly traces up and down your pussy and he watches your face twist in pleasure.

“How many times have you worked with me without any panties on?”

“Honestly?” you bite down on your lip as his thumb slowly starts to tease against your clit and your hips rock against his finger. “Like most of the time. You don’t give me enough time to do my laundry.”

Your words are soft, barely coming in a whisper and he growls, sticking a finger into you as he begins his slow assault into your tight walls.

“You are so fucking wet,” he whispers as he looks at you, a wicked grin on his face. “Are you always this wet for me princess?”

You give a weak nod as he inserts another finger and you buck against him, your hands digging into his shoulders.

“I thought I smelled you the other week when we were at dinner.” You knew what he was referencing. He had taken you out for dinner after a long day at the office at a trendy sushi spot. He had been talking to you as his nimble fingers gracefully picked up one sushi after the other, the raw fish placed carefully in his mouth. You don’t know why it turned you on but it did. You wanted to know what those fingers would feel like in you, his mouth over yours.

Now you knew.

“Did I smell you princess?” he whispers a grin gracing his face and you give another weak nod and he growls, inserting a third finger in you. You arch your back against him, hands stuck in his hair as his mouth attacks your neck again.

“Tell me what had you so turned on so much?”

You give a weak mewl in silence and he pulls his fingers out, causing you to whine. He looks up at you with hooded eyes shaking his head.

“You have to use your words princess.”

“I was thinking about you finger fucking me.” you manage out, biting your lip as your cheeks flush over. He smiles as he sticks his fingers back in you, watching your face contort in pleasure again. His fingers curls up and hits you in that sweet spot and you feel your body tensing, clawing for release.

“Were you?”

You give a quick nod and he chuckles, his mouth getting close to your ear. His fingers are merciless know, pumping into you faster as his thumb brushes against your clit and you can feel that tension in your stomach build up.

“Wanna hear a secret princess?” he whispers against the shell of your ear and you hum, your body starting to give in to the pleasure he was delighting you to. “I’ve jacked off to you every night since I’ve met you, cumming all over my body from the thought of my dick being filled to the rim in you.”

That was all you needed. Between his fingers and the image of him jacking off to you your screaming his name, your fingers tangled in his hair as your walls flutter around his fingers. He groans, coaxing you through your climax as he watches you before he pulls from you, inserting all three of his fingers in his mouth. He gives a low moan as he sucks your essence off and pulls his fingers out with a pop before your leaning into him for a kiss.

He shifts, carrying you to the bathroom counter and slamming placing you down. He yanks at his suit, pulling down his pants and boxers as his cock springs free.

“Tonight I’ll make love to you the way you deserve,” he promises as he lines himself up at your entrance. “I’ll have you begging my name by the time I’m done with you but right now I just need you.”

His cock is teasing your folds as you look up at him, your eyes darkening as you thrust your hips forward. He stops you, something dark flickering in his eyes.

“What do you want princess?” he whispers and you moan as your hands pull at his shoulders.

“I want you.”

“You want me to what?” a satisfied smirk sits on his face and you rub your folds against his twitching cock.

“Want you to fuck me with your big fucking cock.”

He groans as he slowly thrusts into you, grabbing your hands and intertwining them with yours as he raises them above your head. His head falls in the crook of your neck as he bottoms out in you, his hair tickling your shoulders and you both give a satisfied moan. You rock your hips against him, enjoying the way he fills you to the brim and he moans as he pulls from you, his hips rocking out of you before slamming back in.

“Goddamn you are tight..” he whispers as he lifts himself enough to look at you, then his mouth is hot on yours as his body claims you.

His hips snap into you, desperately chasing after your orgasm before he lifts your leg and you’re getting hit in that special spot that has you screaming out his name.

“That’s right princess. Want you to cum all over my big cock.” he whispers, his hips in a frenzy as he watches you unwind underneath him. His finger finds your clit and flicks the sensitive area and you’re screaming his name again, your body shaking as you find sweet release. His hips are sloppily slapping against your as your walls tighten around before there milking him  his body shaking uncontrollably as your arms find your way around his body.

You wait a beat before saying,

“Soooo…I’m guessing I have to quit. This is the highest level of conflicted interest if I’ve ever known one.”

He chuckles, his face tucked in your shoulder before pulling away and kissing you.

“I don’t want you to quit.”

“Wouldn’t that be -”

“Unless you want to. You’re free to work in any of our departments. You’re way too good to be an assistant.” he’s rambling, something he does when he’s nervous and you chuckle, leaning up and kissing him. He relaxes as you pull away, his lips tugged between your teeth before you whisper.

“Let’s worry about it tomorrow. I should at least get a year under your belt before we talk about commitment.”

He chuckles, wiggling against you and there’s a soft knock on the door and you both freeze before you hear Scott’s voice.

“…….so uhhh, I don’t mean to interrupt you two but ummmm,” he clears his throat though you can hear the humour in his voice. “Your dad is looking for you Mitch. For a photo.”

Mitch groans and you laugh, giving a lock of his hair a tug.

“Give us a minute Scott. We need to….make ourselves decent.”

“Uh huh.” You know he’s smiling as he walks away and Mitch’s eyes are glinting at you mischievously.

“How long do you think he’s been standing out there hearing you scream out my name?”

“Mitch! That’s your best friend!” you say in mock surprise and he laughs, shaking his head.

“Scott’s always had a thing for you.” he nuzzles his face in your neck before muttering. “Besides I have another round in me.”

His shimmies his hips against yours and you gasp at his dick hardening in you.

You both make it out of the bathroom thirty minutes later.

[cinn-crose]

Sway with me. [part 1]

As Rosa entered the ballroom, she expected her and Artem to have a great time; why would she be jealous this fast? [pairing: Artem + MC]

also psst psst a hint of sub artem + angst

When marimba rhythms start to play,

Dance with me, make me sway.

Rosa entered the ballroom, her gown swaying slowly. Hidden identities behind masquerade masks, yet she could easily recognize the people in the ball.

A man was taking photos; he wore a suit, and his hair is tinted a golden orange. "Luke, obviously," she whispered, sighing. "He still took his photography camera with him..."

Another man sipped from a glass of wine; his white, silky hair was rather messy. Rosa noticed the pair of glasses in his suit pocket. "You can't wear your glasses over your masquerade mask, obviously, Vyn." The image of Vyn wearing his glasses over a masquerade mask made her giggle softly.

Another man wearing a suit seemed to be teasing a group of people. His voice was rather loud, and he kept laughing loudly. "Marius, same as always.." she rolled her eyes, heading to the food bar.

She picked up a small plate filled with cheese of different types, paired with biscuits and chocolate. Rosa wasn't the type to crave expensive food, but this time, it was an exception.

"Madame." A deep voice spoke behind her, his warm breath against her skin. In surprise, she gasped, her eyes widening.

Like a lazy ocean hugs the shore,

Hold me close, sway me more.

"Artem!" Rosa said, her voice hinting that she is reprimanding him. "You just like surprising people, don't you." She knew how much Artem loved suddenly appearing behind her, making her jump, and sometimes even drop files she carried, or books she was reading.

"Rosa, you should.. wear this." Artem handed her a soft silk masquerade mask, a red feather sticking out of the left side. "It's a masquerade, afterall."

Artem wore an expensive retailed suit; He also wore a black masquerade mask, complimenting his dark suit. His tie clip looks polished and even more expensive. Artem adjusted his tie, looking away from her. "What? Is there something on my face?"

"Yes.." Rosa replied, getting closer to Artem's cheek.

Like a flower bending in the breeze,

Bend with me, sway with ease.

Now, Artem expected a kiss from the woman. He closed his eyes, smiling. As Rosa noticed such, she smirked. "Yes, there is something on your face." She pretended to wipe something off his face.

"Oh, ah—" Artem stuttered, a tint of pink on his cheeks; he seemed quite embarrassed. "Why, what were you expecting me to do?" Rosa spoke up, raising an eyebrow.

When we dance, you have a way with me,

Stay with me, sway with me.

"N-Nothing. Anyways," He sighed, fixing his tie. "I'd like to invite you to the wine section of this ball." Confused, Rosa looked at Artem. "But your alcohol toleration—?"

"No need to worry about that. Besides, a client is looking for us," Artem looked at his watch, holding out a hand for her.

"Shall we go, m'lady?"

MC graciously accepts his hand, allowing him to lead her to the other side of the ballroom.

"Let me introduce you to our client," Artem starts, stopping infront of a woman. She seemed young, an age or two younger than the attorney; she wore a dress that exaggerates her neck and shoulders, paired with high heels. "This is Selena, a representative from the Pax group." Rosa smiled at her, taking a wine glass from the table. "I am MC, a lawyer from the Themis Law Firm," she introduced herself, pouring a serving of wine for herself and Artem.

Other dancers may be on the floor,

Dear, but my eyes will see only you.

"I know you; you defended Marius Von Hagen on court, yes?" Selena asks, looking at Rosa, then at Artem; his attention was on the younger attorney. "..my alcohol tolerance is low," he whispered, fixing his tie. "I don-"

"MC!" Luke came running to the small group, giggling to himself. "They have a toast section! There are so many spreads and-"

"If you want to," Selena immediately said, clearing her throat; Luke and Rosa's attention diverted to the woman. "you two can go to the bread section, I have something to discuss with Artem."

"Oh?" Artem looked back at Selena, putting down the glass of wine Rosa gave him. "If so, my partner here needs to listen as well," he continued in a low, serious voice.

Selena could only sigh, crossing her arms. "It's a personal matter, Artem. Besides—"

"'Mr. Wing' would be a more appropriate way to address me," Artem cut her off, noticing something suspicious. "You're.. not even an acquaintance, Selena. If anything, you are our client." Artem forced himself to be cold, shocking both Luke and Rosa.

Only you have that magic technique;

When we sway, I go weak!

"..If you can excuse us, um-" Luke looked back at his friend, clearing his throat. "We're going to the bread section. Right, MC?" He smiled awkwardly, avoiding Artem's gaze.

The younger lawyer could only nod, looking back at Artem. "We- we have to go. Bye!" Rosa walked away fast, following Luke. "It.. seems like Artem and his client will argue, that's why I wanted to bring you away from the chaos," he whispered, heading to another section of the ballroom.

"Let's stay here for now," Luke said, fixing her masquerade mask. "Marius is busy with talking to some businessmen." To prove his statement, he pointed at Marius, who seemed bored as two men in suits spoke to him.

"Well, seems like he's bored," Rosa commented. "Marius isn't the type to talk about business matters, especially at balls like this."

As time went on, Luke and her danced together, ate snacks together, and participated in card games, yet they were careful on how much they would bet. This whole time, Rosa wished to have done all these activities with Artem; she watched the whole time as Artem and Selena talked, and Artem kept looking flushed, his cheeks constantly tinted with pink.

I can hear the sounds of violins,

Long before it begins.

Now, Rosa was getting jealous. She wanted to know what the two were talking about; afterall, that's her task as Artem's partner, to know any business consults Artem deals with.

She waited until Luke was distracted by Marius, listening to them as they debated on the best spread for toast. MC carefully walked over to Artem and Selena, trying not to make it seem obvious.

Make me thrill as only you know how,

Sway me smooth, sway me now.

"A- And, well, I deal with missing person cases," Artem stuttered, looking down. "Good boy. And your partner, what does she deal with?"

She realized that Artem was too focused on Selena and her little remarks, making him accidentally spill information related to the Themis Law Firm; she noticed how drawn he was to her compliments, as well as the little touches Selena would do.

He's drunk again, isn't he.. Rosa thought to herself, noticing how Artem acted sweet and dazed all of a sudden, resulting in him not collecting his thoughts properly.

Rosa cleared her voice, the two people looking back at her. Artem put his wine glass down, his cheeks quite red, now. "Oh- MC!" Selena laughed nervously, looking back at Artem. "I.. have to go, now-" Quickly, Selena walked away, walking towards a small group of men wearing black clothes.

"Artem, you're intoxicated," his partner says, sighing. "I heard your conversation with this.. 'client' of yours. Did you give out information?"

"I- I didn't!" Artem said in a hurry, frowning. Rosa could only raise her eyebrow in doubt. "Oh, really? Then why did Luke overhear Selena talking to a bunch of men who are apparently interested in milking out information from the Themis law firm?"

".." Artem could not respond; he fixed his tie, clearing his throat.

[time skip alleluia]

The ball is finally over. Marius agreed to take Luke home, while Vyn stayed longer, for he had to investigate a small matter.

"Why don't you stay at my apartment for tonight?" Artem approached Rosa who was sitting on a couch by herself. "Alright; but let's.. discuss certain matters."

The two attorneys finally reached Artem's home. Their voices were quite strained after hours of arguing; it was surprising, really, how Artem didn't crash the car.

"You didn't know she was flirting with you?!" She said loudly, yet she minded the tone of her voice. "Artem, you gave out information from the Stellis Law Firm!"

"Shut!" Artem yelled back, opening the door to his home, grumbling. "Besides, it's.. very late at night. There is no use to arguing."

Rosa changed to the clothes she had packed earlier before arriving at the ball; she asked Artem to keep the packed clothes in his car. In the meantime, Artem removed his vest and coat, still wearing the white long-sleeved polo, paired with a tie.

She sat down on Artem's bed, waiting for his arrival. The woman had to share the bed with Artem; afterall, he lived alone. She ran downstairs, heading to the kitchen. Rosa planned to wash her face first before heading to bed.

"Artem, do you have spare towels?" Rosa asked, peeking through the kitchen. She watched as Artem cut an apple and put it on a ceramic bowl. "On the very bottom drawer, Rosa," Artem replied, adjusting the heat of the stove.

She ran back upstairs, walking over to the bottom drawer of Artem's nightstand.

MC gasped— she realized she opened the wrong drawer. She should've opened the drawer of the bathroom, or perhaps the storage room. When she opened the bottom drawer of Artem's nightstand, Rosa found rather.. questionable items Artem owns.

part 2 here!

[be11atrixthestrange]

Do You Believe In Magic? [Chapter 4]

Do You Believe In Magic?

Let me tell you a tale, dear reader, about a woman I once met on a train. Her name was Hermione Granger, and although intelligent and driven, she didn’t believe in magic, not even on Christmas. In fact, she hated everything about Christmas — snowstorms, travel delays, holiday carols, and worst of all, Hallmark movies. Imagine her confusion when, after our chance encounter on that train, her life transformed into a romantic comedy, forcing her to live the very tropes she hated. Fortunately, what she lacked in holiday spirit, she made up for in ambition, and she was determined to make sense of her nightmare and find a way out. But lucky for me, dear reader, I am also ambitious, and I was determined to have a little fun. ------------------------------

Chapter 4

The snow was still pounding down when Hermione awoke the next morning. Her room smelled vaguely like peppermint and pine, and the faint sound of Christmas music filled the air. To her surprise, she didn't mind the noise. It was well-suited to the new decor of her room — an array of wreaths, twinkling lights, and a pot of poinsettias. Previously, Hermione would have been horrified to awake to a new aesthetic, as it would have indicated that someone entered her quarters in the middle of the night to redecorate. However, this idea only caused her mild concern, which was overshadowed by the fact that she found the new ornamentation rather delightful. Maybe Hermione Granger was beginning to soften to the spirit of Christmas.

Before you scoff, dear reader, remember how I told you to suspend your disbelief? I think it's worth another reminder.

Hermione yawned and rubbed her eyes before pressing herself to a seat. Her feet landed in a pair of fuzzy slippers that were coincidentally awaiting on the floor. She glanced over to her bedside table before remembering there was no clock, nor was there any sense of urgency. There was, however, a Peppermint Almond Mistletoe Mocha steaming from the table. How it arrived there did not cause her any more concern than the thought of a late-night decorator.

Her adjustment to the more peculiar aspects of life in a romantic comedy might appear rather sudden. You might be wondering — how could these odd, impossible nuances fade to the background so quickly? The truth — and I assure that you already know this, is that it doesn't take long for novelty to wear off. There were certain conveniences to Hermione's new world, such as the precise placement of her slippers, the fact that the Peppermint Almond Mistletoe Mocha was still the perfect sipping temperature, and the way time just worked itself out. If you're accustomed to running water, electricity, or even a microwave, you might be familiar with how easy it is to start taking luxuries for granted.

But Albus! Wouldn't she be a little more concerned about her intruder? Hermione has more sense than this!

Sure! But it's Christmas! Even the most logical people were taught to welcome a stranger of the night during the holiday season. I don't know about you, but I baked mine mince pies! You'll find that most people are okay with breaking and entering if the intruder leaves them gifts.

And reader, there was most definitely a gift. On a hanger by the closet draped the most beautiful gown Hemione had ever seen. It was periwinkle blue with just enough lace and sparkle to enhance the glisten of Hermione's eyes when she saw it. She rose to her feet to get a closer look, snagging a robe on the way to wrap herself in warmth.

Hermione was never one for dresses — in fact, she really only dolled up when it was expected of her. Usually, the expectation came in the form of a wedding, or a work-related gala where she had potential clients to impress. But for a boy? Never!

Ron Weasley wasn't a boy, however. He was a man. A man she was pretending to fall in love with. Of course she had to wear the dress tonight. She smiled at the thought of Ron's reaction. If he was as committed to the act as she was, his face would show it, and her stomach fluttered at the thought. It was pretty easy to write off the flutter of excitement as pride in a well-executed plan, but reader, you and I both know what it really was.

A tapping on the door grabbed Hermione's attention. It was softer, somehow hollower than a knock, and the source was much lower to the ground. Confused, Hermione wandered to the door and glanced through the peephole, only to see an empty hallway.

Weird.

Just as she turned away from the door, the tapping sounded again. She put her eye up to the peephole, and again, nothing. She squinted at the empty hallway when the sound came one more time, its source invisible to her.

She tentatively opened the door and peeked outside. When she saw no one, she took a cautious step into the hallway to peer down the corridor. That's when a sharp object suddenly stabbed her ankle, causing her to jump backward.

"Ow!"

She looked at her feet to see a small, scrawny-looking barn owl staring up at her through beady little eyes. Tied to the owls' legs was a rolled up piece of paper. The owl lifted its leg expectantly, so Hermione knelt down to untie it, only slightly confused as to why — or how — an owl was delivering a letter.

As soon as she freed the owl from the letter, it squawked its appreciation and hopped back down the hallway. Hermione gaped after it for a moment, before shaking her head and turning her attention to the note. She unrolled the paper and smiled at the messy scrawl.

Hermione,

I apologize for Pigwigeon. He's in a mood. Keeps telling me that owls aren't supposed to deliver letters, but I keep encouraging him not to sell himself short. He's a smart bird!

Anyway, sorry if he pecked you.

I'm just writing to let you know that we are ready for the ball! Somehow, all the decorations appeared overnight. Call it a Christmas miracle!

That means you and I only have one task tonight — to fall in love! Should be rather simple, don't you think?

I'll meet you at the foot of the stairs whenever you're ready. Can't wait to see you in your dress. I bet you'll look beautiful.

Let's do this!

Ron

Hermione smiled at the note, her cheeks warming in response. She couldn't help but notice something odd about Ron's phrasing. There was no mention of pretending to fall in love — surely that's what he meant, right?

She reminded herself not to overthink it. Of course that's what he meant. Ron said it would be rather simple — and falling in love for real was anything but simple.

Her heart pounded at the thought of what pretending would entail. Maybe a dance or two, some light banter, and possibly a kiss? Her palms began to sweat, and she wondered how it had suddenly become so warm in her room. Was there a glitch in the heating system?

It crossed her mind this time, that her jitters had less to do with the external temperature, and more to do with the thought of kissing Ron, but she pushed that thought away almost as quickly as it arrived. It's no wonder, dear reader, that Hermione denies the existence of magic. It appears she's also willing to dismiss true facts, even when accompanied by hard evidence!

Hermione stood and pocketed Ron's letter before wiping her sweaty palms on her robe. She turned toward the dress and smiled, letting the sparkles distract her from any anxiety about her upcoming date, which in her mind, wasn't a real date at all. Of course not.

"Well. Time to get ready," she muttered to herself as she crossed the room toward the closet and vanity, her stomach fluttering beyond her control.

x

Hermione spent most of the day getting ready, and surprisingly, dolling herself up was a stress-free experience. This was a miraculous feat considering Hermione's hair usually resisted any efforts to be subdued, preferring instead to swell around her head like protective bubble wrap. Pulling it away from her face into an elegant bun allowed her natural beauty to shine through. When she donned her dress and makeup, the effect was rather pleasant. She still looked like herself, but in an elevated, sophisticated way. A little bit alluring, if you will. But instead of feeling like the dash of lipstick and eyeshadow turned her into a new person, it was just an extension of herself.

And that dress — the periwinkle blue color would look so lovely next to Ron's vibrant red hair, as well as his eyes, the look in which she can't wait to see.

On a final thought, she reached for her bun, and pulled it loose. Her hair fell toward her shoulders, more bouncy and curly than ever. Instead of trying to restrain it, why not let it roam free? The ball was a chance to let her hair down figuratively, as well as literally, after all.

She smiled at her reflection and twirled in the most un-Hermionelike way before slipping into her heels and making her way to the door, the butterflies in her stomach fluttering somewhere between excitement and nervousness. She couldn't tell which one she felt more, and frankly she didn't care. All she could think about was the fact that Ron was awaiting her at the bottom of the stairs.

Hermione gathered herself with a few deep breaths to calm her rising heart rate, then made her way into the hallway.

Overnight, the stairs had been transformed. Garland and tinsel wrapped around the banister and a set of candles adorned each step. Although it should be still daytime, the lighting resembled that of a romantic candlelit evening. She didn't question it. Time was fluid in this world.

She gasped when she reached the end of the hallway. At the bottom of the stairs stood Ron, dressed in a black suit and a periwinkle blue tie that somehow matched her dress perfectly. She beamed when she saw him, and he returned her smile with a sparkle in his eye.

"Hello, Hermione," he called from the bottom of the stairs. "I see you got my letter."

"I did."

Although Hermione knew there were more people in the building — literally everyone was snowed in, after all, at that very moment — they felt like the only two people in the world. She glided down the stairs toward Ron without ever breaking eye contact, and reached for his extended hand once at his level.

"Shall we?" he asked as he linked his arm around hers.

"We shall."

Ron and Hermione continued into the cafe, which was unrecognizable to the one she walked into that first evening. A giant Christmas tree stood by the window decorated in lights, ornaments, and a gnome sitting on top, cackling maniacally to the tune of Jingle Bells. Normally, this would have annoyed Hermione and broken the elegance of the event, but for some reason, dear reader, it seemed to work. Upon closer look, each ornament corresponded to a resident of Ottery St. Catchpole.

"Looking at the tree?" asked Ron.

"Yeah. That gnome is—"

"Tradition," he said, almost with an air of defensiveness.

"I was going to say lovely," Hermione continued, noticing Ron flash a relieved smile. "Do I have an ornament too?"

"Of course."

They approached the tree and Hermione scanned the artwork for something that resembled her. She recognized Ron's ornament immediately — a Peppermint Almond Mistletoe Mocha with the letter R on it. There were others too — a stack of notebooks for Ron's brother Percy, an elegant tiara like the one his pretty blonde sister-in-law was wearing, a set of colorful corks for Luna and a toad for Neville. There were matching sets of playing cards for the twins, a hat and funky beard for Hagrid, and a pair of glasses for Harry.

She was surprised that she recognized who each ornament corresponded to, but she shouldn't have been. Something about this town was so memorable. Everyone seemed to leave their mark.

"Is this one mine?" asked Hermione, pointing at a little red train. In the window of the train was a girl, looking out the window longingly. Beside the girl, you could see the faint outline of a pointy hat and lustrous white beard — myself, dear reader.

"Yes, that one is yours. Do you like it?"

"I love it."

"You can keep it."

Hermione smiled at the ornament, making a mental note to take it with her before the night ended. "Who is that man?"

"Which man?" asked Ron, squinting at the ornament.

"The man next to me on the train."

Ron chuckled. "I don't see a man, Hermione."

"You don't?" She pointed to my outline. "Right there."

"Nope. I don't see it. But I know exactly who you're talking about."

Hermione pondered his response before asking, "Then who is it?"

Ron shrugged. "He's not really a man so much as a spirit."

"A spirit?"

"The spirit of Christmas," Ron said definitively. "It's best not to question it. Just believe."

Hermione smiled at her ornament one last time. Notably, dear reader, there was no eye-rolling, or scoffing. I guess we must have grown on her.

Ron wrapped an arm around Hermione, and the pair turned away from the tree to admire the rest of the decor. Candles, mistletoe, Christmas lights, bells, reindeer, even a sleigh completed the individual decorations, but the full effect was even greater. The butterflies that had been fluttering inside Hermione's stomach all day settled into a comfortable warmth, and she couldn't help but feel like she was at home.

Somewhat surprisingly, attending the ball with Ron Weasley felt rather natural, as if the pair had been friends for a long time. It might have been the help of the free flowing champagne and endless appetizers that led Hermione to feel comfortable enough to nod her consent when Ron tugged her hand toward the dance floor. It had been too long since Hermione had danced with a boy, but under the influence of delicious food, a bit of alcohol, and a whole lot of Christmas spirit, there was no reason to overthink the way her arms naturally wrapped around Ron's neck, or the placement of his trembling hands on her lower back.

Everything just seemed right, even the way Ron's ears turned pink, and her palms began to sweat. Her gaze couldn't seem to decide which to focus on more — Ron's cerulean blue eyes, or his lips, which looked so gentle and soft. She probably shouldn't have been looking at his lips, but to be fair, he was looking at hers too.

Reader, if you're that these two obviously wanted to kiss, you'd be right! Unfortunately, things aren't always that easy.

"Oh, Hermione!" came the voice of Molly Weasley. Hermione turned to see Ron's mum accompanied by his dad rushing across the dance floor to greet her. "You look beautiful, darling."

Molly threw her arms around Hermione in a warm, motherly embrace that she returned with enthusiasm. Maybe she had forgotten how different a mother's hug felt around the holidays.

"Thank you, Mrs Weasley," she muttered against the woman's shoulder.

"Nonsense! Call me Molly."

She let go of Hermione, giving her hands a loving squeeze before letting go. The look on Molly's face was one of pride, and it made Hermione's cheeks fire up.

"It was lovely to meet you, Hermione," said Mr Weasley with a hug of his own. He then turned toward his son and gave him a clap on the shoulder. "Hold onto this one."

"Erm, thanks Dad."

The older couple linked arms and made their way back to the dance floor. Ron turned to Hermione and opened his mouth to speak, but was interrupted by Harry and his sister, Ginny.

"Glad to see you've made it!" said Harry, who reached for Ron's hand and pulled him into a brotherly hug. "Wonderful job, planning this ball."

Hermione resisted the urge to say she didn't do anything — it was all set up over night, as if by magic, but she figured this would be the time everyone in this town conveniently didn't believe in magic, preferring instead to give her the undeserved credit.

Her thoughts were interrupted by Ginny's sudden embrace. "Not sure how my brother managed to convince you to be his date," she muttered playfully. "Good for him though! Love to see it."

WIth another smile, the couple made their way back into the throng of party goers.

Now alone, Ron smiled at Hermione and winked, sending her heart fluttering. "I think we're doing a pretty good job, don't you?"

"I do too."

He reached for her hand and their fingers interlaced. Just as he was about to tug her onto the dance floor, a snarly voice interrupted.

"What was that, Weasley?"

Ron groaned, and the pair spun around to face Draco Malfoy, sneering at them with his arms crossed. "You're doing a good job of what?"

"Nothing, Malfoy," said Ron. "Stop eavesdropping. It's creepy."

"Pretending, right?" said the silver-haired man. "You two aren't for real."

"What the fork does that mean?" asked Ron.

"Why would a high profile lawyer from the city date a weasel like you?" Malfoy chuckled as he watched Ron's face turn red, knowing he had hit a sore spot. "It's not like you have much to offer, anyway. You're just a barista. And she doesn't even belong here."

"Shut up," said Ron through gritted teeth.

Hermione's hands formed fists in response to Malfoy's taunt. The first pang came from the thought that she didn't belong. Sure, she felt that way at the beginning, and wouldn't have cared to be rejected by this town. But after their welcoming embrace, she wanted to belong.

But even more hurtful, was Malfoy's jab at Ron. Just a barista? He was so much more than that. A few days ago, she might have assumed — mistakenly, dear reader — that Ron's status as a small town barista was beneath her. But after getting to know him, she realized just how wrong she was. How someone like Malfoy, who had presumably known Ron even longer, could think differently was beyond her.

"What is that supposed to mean?" asked Hermione. She stepped forward and stood up as tall as she could.

Malfoy laughed. "You know what it means."

"No. I don't. Please explain."

The silver-haired man studied her for a moment before nodding. "Alright, Granger. I'll bite. I think you're just pretending to like Ron because you're convinced that it's the only way out of this heck-hole. You'd never date a barista. You want someone who makes money. Not lattes."

"They're called Peppermint Almond Mistletoe Mochas," defended Hermione, without flinching at any of Malfoy's words. "And they're delicious."

Malfoy cackled. "Listen to you. You don't even believe yourself."

Hermione narrowed her eyes at the man. Everything he was saying was technically true. But why didn't it feel that way?

You and I both know why, reader. And Hermione was just starting to realise! How odd that for someone so smart, it took her this long.

"You're right," she said, eliciting a gasp from the crowd that had formed a circle around them. "I was pretending."

Ron looked questioningly at her, but she ignored him.

"I knew it!"

"But I'm not pretending anymore." Hermione glanced around her, suddenly self conscious of the deafening silence that had overtaken the room. "I thought that if I planned this ball, faked Christmas spirit, and pretended to fall in love, the snowstorm would end, and I would be able to go home." She cleared her throat before continuing. "But I don't want to go home."

From the corner of her eye, she could see a grin break across Ron's face.

"And," she said, her voice wavering, "I think I really did find love."

There were a few whoops and cheers from the crowd when she admitted it, but someone remained unconvinced.

"Bullshark," said Malfoy. "Prove it."

"How?"

"Kiss him."

The idea of kissing Ron made Hermione's heart gallop inside her chest. At that moment, dear reader, she knew she wanted to kiss him. I mean, wouldn't you?

There was one problem. She didn't want to kiss him like that. It needed to be real.

"No. I won't," she said. A pang of guilt washed over her when she saw Ron's face fall.

"I told you!" said Malfoy. "You can't prove it."

"Kissing Ron in front of all of these people just because you told me to would mean nothing. How would that prove anything? It would be like… like kissing YOU."

Malfoy's eyes lit up. "Alright then. If it would mean nothing, then why don't you kiss me?"

"Excuse me?"

"Since it doesn't prove anything, you have no reason not to."

Hermione's throat clenched at the thought of kissing the other man, but he had a point. Luckily, she had a plan. She took a deep breath, then stepped closer. "Okay. You're right."

"Hermione," said Ron through gritted teeth. "What are you doing?"

"Trust me," she muttered back.

"You don't have to do this," he urged. "Please don't do this."

Hermione ignored him, and took another step closer to Malfoy. "Draco," she said sweetly. "Close your eyes. I'm going to kiss you now."

Malfoy eagerly shut his eyes and pursed his lips in anticipation.

The room was silent as everyone watched, wondering what Hermione was about to do. Was she really going to kiss him?

Then to everyone's surprise, Hermione recoiled her still-clenched fist, and slammed it right into Malfoy's face. He stumbled backward and tripped over a decorative log — which had conveniently rolled into its place right behind him — and fell to the floor.

The crowd erupted into applause again, followed by a few more cheers and whoops. Sure, Hermione felt a flash of guilt when Malfoy stood up and ran off with his hands clutching his bloody nose, but it was gone soon after he disappeared through the back door.

"Granger!" said the voice of Ron's brother Fred. "Nice punch!"

Hermione high-fived Fred when his twin George spoke up. "We've wanted to put him in his place for years. Thanks for finally doing it!"

"I guess we needed some of that city grit in this ol' town," came Hagrid's gruff voice. He patted Hermione on the back with such force that he might have dislodged an obstruction, had she been choking.

And then, dear reader, it was as if Hermione's punch had broken the floodgates and unleashed the full extent of Christmas spirit into the room. The party became alive with cheer, the music grew louder as couples rushed onto the dance floor, and laughter filled the air.

And even more notably, it stopped snowing.

Maybe Malfoy had been the barrier to Christmas cheer all along, not Hermione.

"The storm! It's over!" exclaimed Luna, pointing at the clear windows outside. The snow had settled into a beautiful white blanket, calm and peaceful, just waiting to be trampled and played in.

"Snowball fight!" yelled Fred, resulting in a mass rush toward the door.

Ron approached Hermione and wrapped an arm around her shoulders. "You were amazing," he said. "So convincing."

Right. Convincing. Lest I remind you, dear reader, she was merely acting.

Upon his contact, Hermione became even more aware of the fact that she did not kiss Ron when she had the chance. She couldn't help but wonder if he thought the same thing.

Now that the doors were opening and closing freely, the cafe had become rather drafty. Ron tugged off his jacket and draped it around her shoulders. She was pleased to see that his sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, and she had the immediate desire to run her fingers along his forearms.

"What do you think?" he asked, interrupting her lustful fog. "Would you like to dance? Or watch the snowball fight?"

Hermione looked outside to see her new friends frolicking away. Harry and Ginny pummelled snowballs at Fred and George, while Luna and Neville laid on their backs making snow angels, paying no attention to their sopping wet clothes.

Inside, Molly and Arthur twirled on the dancefloor, along with Bill, Fleur, Minerva, Charlie, Percy, and a smattering of other Ottery folks, whom Hermione couldn't wait to meet. Hopefully, she'd get the chance to.

Then she looked at Ron, and realized that she did not want to go outside, nor did she want to dance. Her next question was bold. In fact, dear reader, it was so bold that it surprised her. But her experience in this new world taught her a lesson. Hermione was so accustomed to living conservatively in the present as to preserve the future, but who knew if she'd even be here tomorrow? The thought made her heart sink, but it also filled her with determination.

It was now, or never, after all.

"I think I'd like to go back up to my room," she said in a soft voice. She confidently ran a finger up and down Ron's forearm, which was draped around her shoulder, and smiled as his ears turned pink. "Would you like to join me?"

Ron's ocean blue eyes lit up when he answered. "I was hoping you'd ask."

x

As Hermione led Ron up the stairs to her room, she kept watch on him in her peripheral vision. A part of her wondered if he interpreted her invitation as a bluff.

Another part of her wondered if she meant it that way.

She lifted the hem of her dress over her knees to avoid tripping over the final few steps and could have sworn she saw a look of lust cross Ron's face. If he was still pretending, he was doing a very good job of it.

His hand found its way to her lower back as they turned the corner, causing her arms to break out with goosebumps, and her stomach to flutter like snowflakes. It appeared that she was quite good at pretending, too.

When they reached her door, Hermione turned toward Ron, but she found herself unable to say anything at all. He appeared to be facing the same dilemma, as he shoved his hands into his pockets and his shoulders bounced with a shrug of uncertainty.

"So," she said. "Do you think the Christmas Spirit of Ottery has been restored?"

"Oh, absolutely. But what about us?" asked Ron. "Do you think we were convincing enough?"

Hermione shrugged. "I think so, don't you?"

Ron nodded and offered her a goofy, lopsided smile. "I do too."

And then they just stood there. Ron's hands were still shoved into pockets, and Hermione had one hand on the door, but she made no effort to turn the knob. It was almost as if they were waiting for something, dear reader. If they were expecting this romantic comedy to suddenly end — as that was the entire reason for this charade — they were mistaken. It wasn't time for that yet.

It looked more like they were stalling because they didn't want this story to end, but neither wanted to be the one to suggest it continue. That's okay, dear reader, as I was prepared to help.

"What's that?" asked Hermione as something green and leafy appeared in her peripheral vision above.

"Oh, look at that," said Ron. "Magic."

The mistletoe hung in mid-air just above them, its appearance somehow both commanding and subtle. A suggestion, if you will.

"Should we… erm," asked Ron, motioning toward the mistletoe.

"Well, we have to. In order to be convincing, right?"

"Right. We definitely should, then."

There was a moment of hesitation, dear reader, that could have easily been mistaken as dread, but I knew better. It was nothing but the nervous bashfulness that precedes any first kiss when there's hope for many more.

Ron was the one to lean in first. One of his hands found her waist while the other reached behind her head, his fingers tangling into her hair. There was a brief smile on Hermione's face before their lips met and warmth spread through their bodies.

Hermione's arms wrapped around Ron's neck, and she gave in to his gentle press, which guided her body against his. Every moment of the last few days had felt so out of place, so wrong, yet this kiss was nothing but perfection. All thoughts of mistletoe and pretending faded to the back of her mind as the kiss turned from chaste and innocent into something a bit more heated. Ron pivoted so that Hermione's back made contact with her door and pressed his firm body into hers as their lips found a rhythm. Maybe by its own accord, her hand slid from his neck to the doorknob, threatening to turn it at any moment and cause them to tumble into her bedroom.

I'll have you know, my lovely reader, that some not-so-innocent thoughts were running through Hermione's head. One, that the butterflies she'd been denying were very much real. Two, that there were some needs her career just couldn't satisfy. And three, Ron's dress clothes looked amazing on him, but they'd look even better crumpled up on the floor by her bed.

The click of the doorknob alerted Ron to the possible escalation of events, and he broke away. He glanced at the handle, then back at Hermione, who looked at him with raised eyebrows. Red spread up his neck and into his ears, and his eyes sparkled with delight and anticipation.

"Are you sure?"

Hermione nodded.

"You're really committing to the act, you know."

Hermione tangled her fingers into his hair. "I'm not acting."

Ron pressed his forehead to hers. "You're not?"

She shook her head. "No. Are you?" Her voice was a whisper now.

Ron smiled his lopsided smile. "Fuck no. I was never acting."

Swearing normally offended Hermione — but the novelty of Ron's exclamation only took her by surprise. She had become so used to hearing nonsensical versions of common curse words that it caught her attention. "Ron… you swore!"

"Must be a climactic moment," said Ron before pressing his lips back against hers.

With that, dear reader, Hermione turned the knob the rest of the way, and the pair burst through the door and into her bedroom.

Unfortunately, I'll need to pause here, my friend. Although I'd love to continue the story, I have no choice but to leave you with your imagination, because this tale is for general audiences, and I can assure you what happened in that bedroom was most definitely not.

But I will tell you one thing — I think they found their magic.

[devendrasbeard]

Only If For A Night

Prompt: They’ve had a few drinks Relationships: Eskel/Jaskier Rating: E Content Warnings: Drunkness, Drunk Kissing, Drunk Confessions Summary:  Eskel is a private driver for a very famous and very successful fashion designer. Having seen the more private side of his boss, he eventually develops feelings for him. One night of drunken confessions can bring a massive change to their professional relationship.

Also on ao3!

"My dear friends, acquaintances, sponsors and clients!" Jaskier's happy voice, amplified by several speakers around the small stage, echoed across the hall. "Thank you for gathering here tonight, so that you'll be the first ones to see, admire, and buy the newest designs from my Dandelions collection!"

A round of applause and excited gasps was heard as a group of androgynous models dressed in wonderfully flowy gowns joined Jaskier on the stage. The clothes were kept in a gender neutral fashion, the fabrics thin as if made of morning mist, but at the same time vibrant with colors, their ethereal vibe contrasted with black hemming at the edges.

"In the next hour the models will be available for you, so that you can get a feel of the clothes, talk about how comfortable of a wear these are. You can even try something on, if the models let you!" Jaskier continued into the microphone. "Just remember - these are real people, not coat hangers! I expect respect towards them and no stepping over any boundaries!"

Eskel stood at the far end of the hall, leaning comfortably against a wall, now and then taking a sip from his glass of water. The day was very hot as for late May, so he was wearing a simple white buttoned up shirt with short sleeves and some black slacks instead of his usual suit ensemble. He loosened the knot in his thin black tie, as he watched Jaskier walk down from the stage and fall into the embrace of his enthusiastic friends.

He liked watching Jaskier, his boss, from afar. Jaskier was fierce, flamboyant and bubbly around his friends, at events, and in front of the media people, but when he thought nobody was looking, his face turned pensive, sometimes even sad. That melancholic, brooding side of Jaskier showed up mostly in the evenings, when the lights went out, his friends went home and it was just him and Eskel driving him home. Eskel liked that side of him.

A few hours into the after party Jaskier approached him, hugging a whole bottle of bourbon to his chest. His cheeks were flushed, blue eyes glistening, his elaborate hairstyle already mussed a little. "Fuck me if this isn't the best collection I've made so far."

Eskel nodded, trying to suppress a chuckle. Whenever Jaskier was tipsy, he forgot about any conventionalities and talked to Eskel as if he was his long time buddy, not his private driver. "It's really good." Eskel admitted. "Need my assistance with anything?"

Jaskier placed a warm palm on Eskel's chest, his bright blue eyes looking up at him. "I wanna go home, my head feels dizzy from all the hugs, fake kisses and congratulations."

"You're sure it's the congratulations and not the bourbon?" Eskel cocked his head, raising a brow in amusement.

"Hey!" Jaskier's long finger was now poking at Eskel's chest. "I pay you to drive me around, not to judge my life's choices."

"Let's go then, I'll drive you home," Eskel nodded and led Jaskier to the door, desperately trying not to wrap a protective arm around his boss' frame.

****

Jaskier ducked his head through the partition divider, resting his chin on his hands. The strong smell of alcohol mixed with Jaskier's flowery cologne hit Eskel's nose. "Do you like me, Eskel?" He whispered, too close to Eskel's ear.

Eskel shot him a quick glance through the rearview mirror, clearing his throat. "How do you mean?"

"Am I likeable?" Jaskier pouted and cocked his head to the side, to lay it on the cold metal frame of the divider. "Do you like me as a person? I know I am trying to be a good boss and I hope you're satisfied with the work you're doing here for me and that I'm not a pain in the ass for making you drive me around... But am I likeable as a person? Can you even look at me as a person and not your boss, slash famous designer?"

Eskel huffed, feeling goosebumps creeping up his neck. So today's drunk Jaskier's mood was philosophical. Through his last year of driving Jaskier around he's seen him in every sorry state - from being awkwardly horny after a hook up gone wrong, through being insanely euphorical and singing at the top of his lungs in the back seat, to being absolutely shit-faced, making Eskel stop the car every five minutes, so that he could get out and barf on the sidewalk.

But Jaskier asking him if Eskel liked him caught him off guard. What was he supposed to say to that? That ever since he started working for him, he wanted to wrap his arms around Jaskier and kiss him so hard he'd forget his own name? That his heart fluttered everytime Jaskier sent him that deep look and loving smile when they accidentally locked eyes in the rearview mirror? That he's been yearning to spend every second of his life with him? That he loved everything about him - his generosity, his laugh, his creative mind? This wasn't Eskel's place, he was just Jaskier's employee, yet he felt compelled to say something. "You're a good person, Jaskier." He tried.

"Then how come that on the day my newest collection premieres..." He stopped, interrupted by a series of hiccups. "Why is that, that people hug me and kiss me and yet..." He plopped dramatically onto the back seat and sighed. "Why am I yet again going home alone?"

Eskel sighed, a feeling of a thousand needles prickling on his skin. He wanted to pull Jaskier up and wrap him in a tight embrace and scream at the top of his lungs that he was there for him, always, forever! Instead he sighed again, turned to Jaskier for a second and asked, "Should I put your fave music on?"

"Yes, please," Jaskier mumbled. "Thank you, Esk."

****

"We're here," Eskel turned to Jaskier after he parked the limo outside of Jaskier's apartment building. "Is there anything else I can do for you tonight?"

Jaskier smiled at him, sitting splayed all over the backseat, his hair a mess and his shirt already halfway open, giving Eskel more than a sneak peek of his thick chest hair and the several necklaces dangling on his torso. Eskel swallowed thickly, his mouth suddenly dry, and then Jaskier leaned forward and whispered, "You can come upstairs with me."

Eskel's eyes widened, a hotness creeping up his neck. It was all he ever wanted, but he felt he shouldn't do it tonight, not with Jaskier in this state of mind. He had to think and be reasonable for them both. "Jaskier... You're drunk and tired, I don't think that's a-" A warm finger on his lips shut him up.

"That bottle of bourbon won't empty itself," Jaskier tried for a seductive smile which turned out pretty wonky, but still managed to tug at Eskel's heartstrings. "C'mon, just one drink? You can probably drive after one drink?"

Eskel huffed, his mind racing and trying to weigh all the pros and cons of the situation he's gotten himself into. Jaskier looked at him with pleading eyes, not saying anything, waiting for Eskel's move. "Okay, one drink."

They got out of the car, Jaskier propping himself up on Eskel's shoulder as they entered the building. "Good morning, Jerome," Jaskier addressed the concierge with a wide smile.

"It's midnight, Mr. Pankratz," the concierge rolled his eyes, the look on his face indicating he's seen Jaskier in this state more than once.

As soon as they got into Jaskier's penthouse, Jaskier moved straight to the alcohol cabinet, leaving Eskel in the middle of the spacious living room. Eskel looked around the place, admiring all the art pieces on the walls and various trinkets scattered around the furniture. But the view from the vast windows was what truly mesmerized him - he moved towards the glass walls, gazing down at the night city, so calm and otherworldly from here.

"Thank you for joining me," Jaskier's voice next to him startled him a little. "I really didn't want to be home alone tonight," he added quietly.

"No problem," Eskel smiled at him, noticing that now besides the bourbon bottle, Jaskier was also nursing a flask of red wine. He held both up for Eskel to choose his drink from. Eskel took the wine bottle and asked, "Should I fetch us some glasses, or do I just chug straight from the bottle?"

Jaskier patted his shoulder lightly, laughing too loud, as if Eskel told a joke, then hiccuped a little. "I'll get us some glasses, you..." he waved towards the sofas and armchairs, "you make yourself comfortable."

Eskel didn't get to sit yet when he heard the sound of breaking glass and a sharp hiss coming from the kitchen. He jumped up, leaving the wine bottle on the table and moved towards Jaskier.

"It's nothing, it's nothing," Jaskier was already kneeling on the floor, clumsily collecting the broken pieces of a wine glass. "Guess everything went too smoothly for me today."

The sigh that left Jaskier's lips sounded more like a broken whimper and Eskel's heart physically hurt at the sight of his famous and successful boss looking so small and pitiful in the middle of his kitchen. He felt like crying. "Leave it, I'll clean it up," he offered. "Maybe you should go to bed, lay down a little?"

Jaskier looked up at him, the gaze of his blue eyes unfocused. He pointed at Eskel with his index finger while standing up. "No, you-... You've promised me that one drink!"

"Fine."

****

Two hours later Eskel knew he wasn't going to make it home that night. The wine bottle in his hands was almost empty, and he felt slightly light-headed and dizzy, but not drunk. Jaskier, on the other hand, was already edging on wasted, his shirt now unbuttoned, cheeks red, his words incoherent and slurry.

"Y'know, I'm fully aware of my... My pre... my pry... My privilege," he blurted out, "but yet I give myself permission to feel miserable from time to time... And now is the day!" he gestured with his hand, in which he held the bourbon bottle, spilling a little on the table.

"Okay, I'll take this," Eskel grabbed the bottle from him as Jaskier plopped back onto the sofa.

"How do you know who's your friend?" Jaskier asked, his gaze focused on the ceiling as if he was trying to find an answer there. "People hug me and kiss me and invite themselves into... Into my life and then what? They want free stuff, they want contacts with my famous friends, they want..." He stopped and looked over at Eskel, his blue eyes sad and pleading, as if he waited for Eskel to give him a solution.

"Look for those who stick around when the lights go out, when the party's over... For-for those who ask you how you feel and not what you can give to them." He felt the hotness of embarrassment creep up his neck, his ears turning red. He was talking about himself and he only gave himself permission to do so because Jaskier was drunk and wouldn't remember it the next day.

"That's... wise," Jaskier nodded and reached out with his hand to pat Eskel's cheek. Then his eyes narrowed as if he was trying to remember something important. "You never asked me for anything."

Eskel cleared his throat, and turned his face away from Jaskier, to hide his unease. "I'm... I'm fine. I'm happy with my job."

"Yeah? What do you do for a living?" Jaskier asked.

That caused Eskel to chuckle, and Jaskier followed with his pearly laugh, although he didn't know what was going on, and in a moment they were both laughing loudly and snickering like children. Jaskier patted Eskel's knee several times before leaning back onto the sofa.

"Jaskier, I work for you. I drive you around, remember?" Eskel said, wiping tears of mirth from the corner of his eye.

"Right." Jaskier nodded. "I hope I pay you well."

"You're a good boss," Eskel smiled. They locked eyes for a long moment, not saying anything. Jaskier licked his lips subconsciously and Eskel had to look away, the sight causing a warm feeling to coil in his stomach. "Alright, boss, time to get you to bed," he cleared his throat. "I'll crash on the couch if you don't mind, can't really drive now."

"Oh no no, no sleepin' on couches in my house! I have guest rooms for guests!" Jaskier stood up abruptly, too quickly for the drunken state he was in. His foot kicked the table leg and he wobbled a little, losing his balance.

He landed in Eskel's lap, Eskel instinctively putting a protective arm over him to save him from falling over and onto his back. Jaskier grabbed Eskel's shoulder for balance and suddenly their faces were incredibly close. So close Eskel could smell Jaskier's cologne, now suppressed by the tangy scent of bourbon. He was so close that Eskel could see those tiny crows feet forming at the corners of Jaskier's eyes, he could notice his flared nostrils and the wet shimmer on his lips. He swallowed audibly.

"Whoo, that was close. Thank-... Thank you," Jaskier laughed lightly and squeezed his shoulder. In a silent reply, Eskel caressed Jaskier's back gently, so delicately as if he didn't want Jaskier to feel it. But apparently Jaskier did, because he leaned forward and pressed a soft butterfly kiss to Eskel's lips. He pulled away and looked Eskel deep in the eyes, while undoing his tie. "Could you... Can you, just for tonight, forget that I'm your boss?" he asked quietly.

Eskel looked at him wide eyed, frozen in place and unable to speak. But when Jaskier gave his tie one last slight tug, he was lost. He's been waiting for that little sign, for a nod of permission, and as soon as he got it, he launched forward, pushing Jaskier off his knees and pressing him down onto the sofa with his weight.

He kissed him, reluctantly at first, but when Jaskier let out the first quiet whimper of pleasure, Eskel was all lost on him. He pressed his lips to Jaskier's, with his eyes closed, trying to put into that kiss all that yearning and longing he'd felt for Jaskier for months.

Jaskier was under him, sighing and panting, arching into Eskel’s touch. Responding to every kiss with passion. Eskel moaned into Jaskier's mouth as his hands roamed under his already open shirt, caressing the soft skin on Jaskier's sides, skimming over his chest hair and slightly tugging at the multiple necklaces on his neck.

Jaskier sat up and fumbled with the buttons on Eskel's shirt, his now clumsy fingers too uncoordinated to undo them. He tugged desperately at the shirt, causing two buttons to pop off and fall to the floor. They both looked at them, Jaskier with a hint of embarrassment, Eskel amazed with Jaskier's strength. Jaskier pulled at Eskel's shirt and dragged him into another heated kiss. "Off! Just take that shirt off," he demanded between kisses.

As he stripped off of his shirt, Eskel noticed how Jaskier's eyes glistened and how he licked his lips lusciously, before launching himself at Eskel. He peppered his face, neck and chest with kisses, murmuring "You're beautiful" and "I love you so much" between kisses, making Eskel writhe with pleasure and whine with emotions, because he so wanted Jaskier to mean it.

"Can I take you to the bedroom?" Jaskier asked while tugging at the waistband of Eskel's slacks. "God, why is the belt so complicated?" He threw his hands up losing his balance and landing on the floor. Eskel reached out to help him up, only to be dragged down to the floor right next to Jaskier.

"Okay, bedroom it is," he laughed into Jaskier's mouth, who already managed to slot their lips in another heated kiss.

****

Eskel woke up with his head feeling very heavy, his mouth dry as if he'd eaten sand. He sat up, rubbing at his eyes, taking in the situation. He was naked, with only the bedsheets tangled around his legs. Jaskier was sleeping next to him, lying on his stomach, one hand draped comfortably around Eskel's waist. He was equally naked, his perky ass sticking out from under the covers.

Eskel watched him mesmerized, noticed how beautifully lean and supple Jaskier's body was, he watched how he moved slightly with every breath... And then tiny bits of memories of last night hit him like a wave. He remembered the passionate kisses Jaskier showered him with, how unbelievably soft and pliant Jaskier's body was under his touch, he recalled the weight of Jaskier's cock on his tongue and how wonderfully he moaned Eskel's name with his hand tangled in Eskel's hair...

One part of him wanted to leave before Jaskier would wake up, spare him the awkwardness of a morning after. They never planned on something like that, after all they were boss and employee, they just let alcohol get the best of them. The other part of Eskel wanted to stay, to savour the moment of absolute intimacy and vulnerability between them. That other part wanted all this drunken mishap to turn into something more than just a one night stand.

Then Jaskier stirred next to him, waking up, pulled himself closer to Eskel's chest and murmured a soft "Good morning." He sat up, dragging one hand through his disheveled hair, taking in the sight of their naked bodies. "So... I guess last night ended up better than expected?" He shot Eskel an embarrassed smile. "Did we... You know. Go all the way?"

"I honestly don't know," Eskel admitted sheepishly, pulling the bedsheets up to cover the both of them. "Are you okay, Jaskier? You didn't go easy on the bourbon last night."

"I'm fine," Jaskier waved him off, but his eyes narrowed and he worried his lower lip and Eskel knew he was trying to recall what happened last night. "I hope I didn't take advantage of you?"

"Everything I did, I did because I wanted to," Eskel said firmly, though he felt the hotness on his cheeks and ears at the memory of their naked bodies tangled together and Jaskier moaning so sweetly into his ear.

"Yeah?" Jaskier scooted even closer to him under the bedsheets. "Care to remind me what did you actually do?"

Eskel exhaled deeply, feeling Jaskier's hot breath on his neck, making his own skin feel too tight. The memory of Jaskier's body arched beautifully under Eskel's touch flashed before his eyes, and he cleared his throat. "I'm... I'm pretty sure I sucked you off."

"Oh." Jaskier's face was painted with astonishment, but only for a moment. In the next he was already straddling Eskel's lap, braiding his fingers in his dark hair, looking him deep in the eye. "I think it's only fair if I return the favour now?"

Before Jaskier moved down on him, Eskel grabbed his hands and made Jaskier face him. "Listen..." he started, mouth extremely dry, more of nervousness than hangover. "You said some very weighty things to me yesterday, that I really wished were true... But I know this could be just the alcohol's doing." He huffed, pressing his eyes shut. "If it's not what you meant, or how you feel about me, I'd rather leave now."

Jaskier sighed, deeply, but he didn't lower his gaze. He intertwined their fingers and placed a kiss on the top of Eskel's palm. "I remember one thing vividly from last night," he said. "And that is feeling loved and wanting to give as much love as possible back." He kissed the fingers on Eskel's hand. "If you felt the same, I'd rather you stayed. Forever, if possible?"

------

@witcher-rarepair-summer-bingo

[thiswasinevitableid]

93. I hire your matchmaking services but all the people you set me up with are horrible and I’m demanding a refund and you’re asking me for one more chance??? what are you going to do? be my date?

Indruck, nsfw, please!

Here you go! I was inspired by @kriskukko's incredible art for the orc designs in this, and I highly recommend checking them out!

“Indrid? Some from Kepler House is here to speak with you.” Ned pokes his head into Indrid’s rooms.

“Drat” Indrid hisses, dressing gown whipping about him as he scrambles to put the apartment in order while also dragging his notes on the man in question to the forefront, “I didn’t forsee anyone coming by today, goodness, he had his first engagement with Lady Austens daughter last night, what on earth could they need to see me for?” He tosses his spare pens aside, landing them in his second set of house slippers.

“Well, dear boy, given the luck you’ve had with them lately-”

“It’s not luck, it’s simply very unlikely futures. Please just, just stall whoever it is a moment, Leo is usually patient and-”

“I’m afraid I cannot do that my friend.”

“Why not? I watched you once talk an entire flock of constables away from your door. Praytell, why can Ned “Silver Tongue” Chicane not get rid of a single attendant?”

“Because the attendant ain’t here this time.”

Indrid slams the drawer of his desk, looking up as an orc in a deep brown suit steps into the room, tossing his hat onto the table. He’s shorter than Indrid and Ned (stout and strong, according to the notes Indrid received), wavy black hair streaked with grey at the front. One eye is blue, the other brown, and both regard the harried matchmaker with casual annoyance.

“Mr. Newton, I, ah, I was not expecting you to visit me.”

“Yeah, well, I didn’t expect to be on a date where she found me so damn dull she hailed a cab as soon as dinner was done. I was already in town on some business for Minerva, so I decided to come tell you I ain’t in need of your services anymore.”

“I beg your pardon? Your benefactor employed me to find you a suitable match and I intend to do just that. I know there have been missteps, but such things are to be expected when searching for one’s lifelong partner.”

“Uh huh. And the fact I’m Lady Minerva’s chosen heir, which means there are a bunch of folks waitin to mimic my style and choices, has got nothin to do with it.”

“I, ah, I can’t say that I’m ignorant of the potential repercussions of being the one assigned to locate a spouse for you.”

“Which is the long way of sayin you know damn well that if I decide to stop askin you for help, no one with money is ever gonna come to you again.”

There’s a determined set to his rounded jaw, and a glimpse at the future suggests Indrid will have better luck with a different tactic

“....were they really so awful?”

“Yes. They were rude, or thought I was rude, or thought I was dull, or we just had fuck-all in common.”

“Have you considered you might just be a tad more demanding than average?”

“It ain’t demandin to want the person I spend the rest of my life with to actually like me.” He sighs, “I’m sorry, Mr. Cold, but unless you got a real winner up your sleeve, I’m done.”

All responses, all timelines show Duck ending his time as Indrid’s client and walking out the door.

“You could try me!”

“Really?” Duck looks deeply unconvinced.

“I will admit it’s unorthodox, but I, I foresee us having a perfectly nice time together. It will let me prove that I am capable of choosing companions for you.”

The shorter orc looks him up and down more deliberately and Indrid fights not to draw his dressing gown tighter. He will not be intimidated by some newcomer from across the sea.

“Okay, I’ll make you a deal. I got to go to this concert tomorrow; someone from Kepler house is expected to show and Minerva is busy. You’re comin with me.” He holds Indrid’s gaze, daring him to renege on his offer.

Indrid summons his best, professional grin, “I’ll see you tomorrow, then.”

---------------------------------------

Indrid smooths his waistcoat and jacket as he steps from the cab, tucks a strand of his silver hair behind his ear. It’s his only concession to the nerves skittering up and down his spine.

Gatherings such as these are nothing new to him; he goes to them to gather new information and new clients, to remind the well-to-do families of London and beyond that he is the matchmaker extraordinaire. But there is always the moment between when they see him and when they recognize him, when every face in the room wonders why someone like him dares to enter their space.

Somewhere in Indrid’s ancestry is a love story between an orc and a goblin. His silver hair, very angular features, and complete lack of tusks or fangs is the proof. The red eyes don’t help--they unsettle everyone who sees them--but his mother insists they’re evidence of other orcs gifted with rare magic on her side of the family. He wears red spectacles over them just to be safe; he rather likes how the color stands out against his skin, and his glasses let him avoid prying questions.

Duck is waiting for him under the awning outside the music hall; he’s in a grey day suit this time, looking just as understatedly handsome as he did yesterday morning. Indrid must admit his desire to save his reputation is not the only reason he agreed to this; he cannot understand why Duck is having such trouble meeting his match. He’s good looking, moneyed, American--an exotic background in the eyes of the average, sheltered upper-class orc--but still has family history here in England. All Indrid’s matches showed a high probability of success. The point of failure must lie with the orc himself.

“Afternoon, Mr. Cold.” Duck smiles with everything but his eyes.

“Indrid is fine, given the reason for our meeting.”

Duck nods. Indrid wishes the ground would swallow one of them up. When the pavement fails to oblige, he offers his arm. The shorter orc takes it, both of them doffing their hats as they step inside.

“I, uh, like the earring.” Duck indicates the moth cuff on Indrid’s left ear, a stark contrast to the single gold hoop in his own.

“Thank you. A friend gave it to me. I, ah, I rather enjoy working moths into my wardrobe; I find them fascinating.”

“Y’know, back home we got moths that look like hummingbirds.”

“Really?” Indrid’s ear twitches, “how big?”

Duck holds up his hands to indicate the size. Indrid is about to demand details when they’re waylaid by their hostess and pulled into a cluster of families. Indrid breathes deep, feeling crowded in, and notices Duck routinely being cut off in conversation or given disapproving looks behind his back. Yes, Indrid supposes his manners are a bit rough, but there’s no harm in that. Too, everyone seems far more interested in the goings on at Kepler House and with Lady Minerva than with Duck himself. By the time they’re seated, their arms feel locked together from shared tension.

The violinists are quite good; Indrid enjoys strings, his recordings of them being his favorite music to listen to while drawing. But his mind is so consumed by futures and by thoughts about the orc beside him that he struggles to focus on the music. Duck is having a similar issue, though he hides it well; were they not side by side, Indrid would miss the way he fidgets with the knee of his trousers.

“Are you alright?” He whispers under the applause.

“N-ye-uh. Fuck. I, the musics real nice but I gotta say I’m gettin kinda bored. But I got no fuckin clue if leavin will piss everyone here off.”

“Intermission is soon. When it comes, keep quiet and follow my lead.”

When the guests rise to stretch their legs and fetch refreshments, Indrid guides Duck to their hostess.

“I’m so very sorry, but I’m afraid my stomach is rather angry with me and it’s best if I go home. Duck has agreed to accompany me so I do not pass out in the street. I’m sure you understand.”

She nods, and in a matter of moments they’re out on the street, each breathing deeply.

“Thanks for that.”

“My pleasure.”

“Guess I oughta just head back to the hotel.” Duck sighs.

“You could. But, ah, we’re not far from Kew Gardens and the weather isn’t miserably cold for once. If you’d like-”

“Hell yeah. Wait, fuck, sorry, tryin to swear less in public.”

“I don’t really mind.” Indrid starts them down the street.

“Lots of them do” Duck tips his head back towards the concert hall, “I mean, at least that rule is easier to figure out. It’s not that there aren’t weird rules and class stuff back home, but I grew up learnin them. Here I always feel like I’m one move away from makin an ass of myself. No one’ll say anything because of Minerva, but I know if it weren’t for her, none of ‘em would give me the time of day. It makes every interaction so goddamn stressful.”

Indrid twinges with sympathy, “When I first started in these circles, I wrote myself notecards and had Ned test me on them.”

Duck giggles, so absurd and loud it draws stares from passersby, “why? You seem to know your stuff.”

“I didn’t come from money, and I don’t always read social situations the way others expect. It was learn or live as a penniless artist for all my days.” As the gardens come into view he adds, “I know the basics of your life in America but if you weren’t here, what would you be doing there?”

“Workin in the Yosemite valley. I was a ranger there for a few years before Minerva called me here.”

“What was that like?”

Duck tells him as they wander the first stretches of the gardens. He’s midway through a tangent about bears when he stops.

“Holy fuck, you’re really still listenin.”

“Of course I am, this is fascinating.”

His companion smiles, “Glad you think so. But it ain’t polite for me to dominate the conversation like this. Now you gotta tell me what you do when you’re not gettin fancy folks together.”

“...You promise you will finish the story about the bear and the tent later.”

“You know it.”

Indrid knows that time passes more quickly with good company, but he’s still startled when the sun sets. The Savoy, where Duck is staying, is closer than his home, so their cab stops there first.

Duck pauses halfway out the door, “Meet me here for dinner tomorrow?”

Indrid grins, “I’d like nothing more.”

--------------------------------

“I didn’t know the line even went this far.” Indrid watches the moors race by them out the window of the train.

“You and me both.” Duck rotates his map, glances at the letter he received a week ago, “okay, once we get off at Amnesty, we need someone to take us down Greenbank road. The house is at the end of it, somewhere around here.” He taps a patch of moor miles from anything else. Indrid studies his fingers and is glad that, of his more rugged habits, one he elected to keep was letting his nails stay claws rather than filing them down.

“My visions suggest that as long as we don’t ask anyone to drive us out after dark, we should have no trouble reaching it.”

Indrid tries not to be too giddy at the prospect of spending weeks and weeks more or less alone in the countryside with Duck. They’re going because an anonymous note informed him that he did indeed have a family estate and--once they determined that the house near Dartmoor did indeed legally belong to him--it was decided he would go to see how the old place was doing and perhaps take up residence.

He asked Indrid to come without even glancing up from the telegram from the solicitor. Indrid agreed without looking away from his drawing. If two months of semi-courtship in a crowded city got them close enough for that, Indrid dares to hope that being out here together will bring them closer still.

Amnesty is small, as they both expected, the air chilly and fog threatening to swallow whole buildings as they make their way to the Lodge where they’ve been told they can find a driver. When Duck asks the young woman working the counter for help getting to Greenbank Hall, she quirks her lips in a frown.

“I’m not sure there’s even a place called that around here….OH! Do you mean Beacon House?”

“Maybe?” Duck looks at Indrid, who quickly looks at the futures.

“Yes, it seems we do.”

“Okay. Since it's still light, I should be able to find someone to get you out there. If it comes down to it, I can, like, drive you out myself.”

They end up being driven by a friendly young man named Jake, who deposits them and their bags on the steps of the massive house with a friendly wave farewell.

“Agh” Indrid shivers as they step through the newly unlocked doors, “I think it’s actually warmer outside.”

“No kiddin. Damn fog means it’s already gettin too dark to see too. I’ll go get some kind of fire started, you see if you can find some lanterns or candles so we ain’t trippin all over ourselves.”

Indrid begins his search, comes to the kitchen and finds some matches and a candle. The solicitor arranged for food and other supplies to be brought in ahead of time, so in theory lanterns should be somewhere nearby. He’s just glad that the paltry light shows no signs of rodents getting into their food.

When he gets upstairs, he discovers two things; one, all the lamps are gas, so he’s able to light them easily. And two, a mother tortoiseshell cat is nesting with her kittens on a guest bed.

“Well, that explains the lack of mice.”

Footsteps behind him, “Got a fire goin in the sittin room, if you wanna pick a room for yourself I can light one th--awwwww” Duck moves past him towards the cat, who hisses at him, “now, there ain’t any need for that, missy. I ain’t gonna hurt you or your babies. But we oughta bring you somethin more’n mice to eat.”

“I saw some tinned food in the pantry.”

“Perfect, lemme go find a bowl.”

----------------------------------

Beacon House has seen better days, but Indrid discovers the houses loss is his gain. Duck decides they can do many of the repairs themselves, and sets about ordering supplies from London or bringing them in from Amnesty. The few times they need help, the cook and several others from the Lodge come to assist in the project. These gatherings are far more pleasant than any Indrid had to attend for work (well, except for the ones where he was with Duck). And they always end before dusk.

Indrid occupies himself with figuring out why. There was no mention of this house when he first researched Duck, and even using the local name turns up very little. It’s not until he finds a diary belonging to one H. Newton in the library that he understands.

October the 15th, 1805

I fear the worst is upon me. I cannot leave the house, dare not even peer out the windows for fear of what I shall see. Lucy says it is my health, that we should travel to warmer regions so it will improve. But I know it is not so simple. Were we to flee, it would merely wait for our return. It may even waylay us before we reached town. I am cursed. We are cursed. We always will be.

Beneath the words is a hastily sketched image; yellow eyes and sharp fangs peering from between the bars of the front gate.

There are no more entries.

Indrid is unsure whether to raise the matter with Duck. On the one hand, he wishes him to know of any possible dangers. On the other, his friend is so very content these days, coming in from some project or other with grime on his skin and a smile on his face. Indrid’s own desire to stay with him here, in a house he can pretend is theirs, threatens to drown out all other reasons.

Eventually, his conscience shouts it down while he and Duck are on their evening walk.

“Oh yeah, Barclay told me about that a few days ago. Some ghost apparently wanders around the moor at night; got somethin to do with a murderous ancestor.”

“That does not alarm you.”

“You know I don’t believe in curses and destiny or anythin like that. People make up all kinds of stories when they’re alone in wild places.”

Indrid’s foresight guides his arm, gripping Duck and keeping him from moving forward.

“Does that look like a story?”

Directly ahead of them, a tor rises like a spike. Atop it, revealed by the rising moon, is a gigantic, fur-covered shape.

“See” Duck whispers, “were we back home, I’d say that was a bear.”

“And now?”

“Given there ain’t been bears in this part of the world in decades, I say we get the hell outta here.”

They take off back down the slope, the hall a collection of yellow squares of light in the darkening distance. A howl splits the air behind them and Indrid quickens his pace, keeps his eyes on the future in hopes of protecting them both.

This means he doesn’t see the burrow in the path until his ankle goes sideways in it.

“‘Drid!”

“Under no circumstances are you to try and help meAH!” He yelps as Duck swings him over his shoulder and continues his flight towards the house. As he’s bounced about, Indrid watches a glowing shape bounding closer.

“Thank fuck.” Duck crosses the gate, slams them closed, and lowers Indrid to his feet. Nothing glares at them from the path. But a growl creeps from the shadows and follows them until they shut the door.

------------------------------------------

“How’s the ankle?” Duck drops his coat on the chair opposite Indrid before tending to the fire.

“Better than yesterday. I should be up and moving tomorrow, if the futures are to be believed.”

“You know you don’t gotta rush. I’m happy to take care of you.”

Indrid picks at the ends of the blanket in his lap, “but I miss being able to aid you with work.”

“There’ll be lots of time for that. We got plenty to do to get the house to where we can live in it full time.”

“We?”

Duck goes completely still, then fails to put the fire poker back in place three separate times. When he finally meets Indrid’s eyes, he looks worried.

“‘Drid? What’s your endgame? With, uh, with me?”

“I…” Indrid grabs his teacup, intending to drink it to buy time and finds it empty, ‘I...I don’t know. I, I wanted to prove to you that I could find you a companion who made you happy, hoping you would give me another chance to locate your perfect match. But lately I, ah, I struggle to see that plan working. As I do not wish you to have any match but me.”

Duck moves across the rug, shadows on his face making it hard to read.

“I know that shows great selfishness on my part. If that is not something you wish to have in your life I, I…” he shrinks back as Duck leans down, certain this is the timeline where he accuses him of being a conniving monster.

“Funny you should say you’re bein selfish” Duck braces his arms on either side of the chair, “because I’ve been beatin myself thinkin’ I was selfish for keepin you out here so long.”

“Keep me here forever.” Indrid whispers. Duck smiles, closes the remaining space between them. His lips are still a bit chilly from working outside; Indrid does everything he can to warm them with his own.

The shorter orc straddles him and he whines so needily that Duck snickers in reply.

“What’s wrong darlin? Kissin too much for you?’

“On the contrary; it is far too little, but my injury means my ability to drag you to my bed and beg for more is greatly impeded.”

“Good thing we live alone.” Duck pulls the blanket from Indrid’s lap, nibbles his ear as the seer catches on and begins frantically undoing the buttons of Duck’s workshirt and shoving his suspenders. When at last he pushes it open he loses himself a moment, tipping forward to tongue at the golden ring in Duck’s left nipple.

“AHheh, gettin right to it. Good” Duck unbuttons his pants, “because I’ve been wantin to fuck you since before we even came out here.”

“Oh I see” Indrid purrs, “you lured me into the countryside to sully my virtue.”

Duck laughs, full throated, as his tusks catch in the firelight, “You forgettin the time we got drunk instead of goin to the opera and you told me you convinced two sailors to take you home?”

“Only if you’ve forgotten telling me about the young ranch-hand you gave several rides to” Indrid nibbles along his neck, his twitching oddly in their quest to grind against him without jostling his ankle.

“Not a chance. But I don’t care about reminiscin right now; right now, I got the best lookin fella in the world beggin for my dick.”

“I’m not begging.” Indrid tilts his head back to help Duck get his shirt open some.

“Not yet.” Duck grins, then shoves his hand down his trousers.

“Ohhhhhyes” Indrid reaches for him.

“Keep your hands on the armrests until I say you can move ‘em.”

“But, but” it’s hard to argue when he’s trying to stare a hole through Duck’s remaining clothes. His partner notices and makes a show of moaning louder.

“Only good boys get to watch the show. You gonna be good for me?”

“The best.”

Duck kisses the tip of his nose, then wiggles and kicks his pants and underwear off. Indrid can only watch, growing more envious by the moment, as he fucks himself open and rubs a thumb along his cock. Indrid tries bucking his hips, only to discover Duck is keeping himself out of reach.

“Cruel creature.” Indrid groans.

“Cruel? I’m giving you a seat to the best show in town.”

“I’d rather you take the best seat in town.”

Duck laughs, is still doing so when he bends to kiss him. Indrid whimpers, nails digging into the upholstery to keep his promise of good behavior. Duck notices.

“Good boy.”

“AHHHnnnthankyou, thankyouthankyouthankyou” Indrid moans as Duck drops his weight into his lap, grinding on his clothed cock with abandon. He flings Indrids hands up to his shoulders. The seer glides them up to his hair, burying them there where he’s now certain they’ve always belonged. Duck mirrors him, lips only leaving his to bite the tip of his ear.

“Fuck, Indrid, that’s it darlin, lemme ride you like the sleek little beast you are.”

He whines, loses his thoughts as Ducks hips quicken.

“I know ‘Drid, you like bein mine, like that I’ll bounce on this fuckin perfect dick as often as you want as long as you’re my good, sweet, ohsweetfuck, fuck, darlin’” Duck drops his forehead to Indrid’s shoulder with a groan as he cums, soaking the fabric of his pants. Before Indrid can think about stopping, Duck picks up again with as much force as before, growling in his ear to be a good little social climber and cum for his lord.

Indrid cums at that with a chirping sound he thought he’d stopped making long ago, legs spasming from the force of his climax. Unfortunately, this means his pleasure is chased by a burst of pain. He whimpers, flinches, and Duck spots the problem.

“Oh, oh darlin I’m sorry” He drops to the floor, rubbing Indrid’s thighs, “thought the position would keep you from hurtin.”

“Apparently not. I, I want you to know I don’t regret it in the slightest.”

Duck smiles, relieved, and rests his head on Indrid’s stomach, “Guess you did find me a match, huh?”

Indrid bends slowly, nuzzling his hair with a hum, “Yes, I believe so.”

[lacetulle]

Hi, love your blog, you're a beacon on Tumblr, and I've found some of my favorites through you. Aka Iris van Herpen and Richard Quinn. Do you ever do plus sized designers? Especially plus size in their sort style? Thank you!

First off, thank you! I love hearing about people finding designers through the blog!

Secondly, I’m going to answer your question and expand on what other anonymous questions have asked in the last couple of days.  I’ve mentioned before that I answer questions in the order I receive them and this one was next on the list.  However in the last 48 hours I’ve gotten five messages about plus size fashion, so in effort to not make a bunch of repetitive posts, I figured I’d combine a couple answers here. So as a warning, this is going to be a long answer, and you might not care about all of it.

As for your question, Iris van Herpen and Richard Quinn are more avant-garde on the runway compared to other designers, and I personally have not seen any plus sized designers doing what they do. Obviously the fashion industry is so deeply skewed towards thin models, that any designer that showcases plus size models on the runway are typically put in a nice gown or a day dress. That’s how far behind the industry is in making fashion for plus sizes…just to put a plus sized model in a simple dress or gown is groundbreaking. And it’s ridiculous, really. It’s long overdue.

In regards to Iris van Herpen: the great thing is that she does couture. And couture is made to order with the client’s measurements.  So there’s no reason why anyone who isn’t a sample size couldn’t wear something from her. That being said, I haven’t seen anyone curvy wearing her designs, but there’s a first time for everything. As for Richard Quinn, he has fun runways and other fun runways that have inclusive models would be Chromat and The Blonds, but they don’t sell every day fashion the way Quinn does. Chromat has always been big on inclusivity, especially on the runway. But the brand is geared towards swimwear, bodysuits, and some sports wear.  At times they’ll put out casual wear, but it’s not always guaranteed. The Blonds have started showcasing plus size models, however the brand isn’t mass produced. I grew to know them by seeing the bodysuits they’ve designed for big names in the music industry. I think you have to do custom orders with them. It’s interesting because I’ve noticed they were inclusive, due to the clients attending the shows - they were all shapes and sizes - but it wasn’t until a few seasons ago that they showcased a plus sized model in a show.

(The Blonds Spring 2018, Chromat Spring 2018)

As for specific designers, here’s a small list:

Courtney Noelle is a brand who caters to plus sizes and Courtney has some beautiful designs. She’s not afraid to use color, patterns, or sequins.

Adrianna Papell is a great designer for more dressy styles.

Ashley Nell Tipton won her season of Project Runway and her runway show was made up entirely of plus sized models. Her designs are specifically for plus sized women.

Good American launched in 2016 with inclusivity in mind and they even let you choose what model you’d like to see their pieces on. I believe they launched as a denim company, but have quickly expanded into active wear, as well as jumpsuits and dresses. (Side note: I am by no means a Kardashian fan and I know Good American was co-founded by Khloe. Good American might be the only tie to the Kardashians that I like.)

Savage X Fenty by Rihanna is a fantastic brand for lingerie for people of all sizes. Plus, when she does her shows, she stays true to the brand and makes sure the shows are inclusive. It’s always been refreshing to see.

I find most of what I post from runway shows and collection lookbooks. Christian Siriano, Tadashi Shoji, and Cushnie are the biggest names I know of that regularly showcase plus sizes and I’ve definitely posted them on here during their respective fashion weeks. But of course, these models few and far between in the grand scheme of fashion week, so they get buried in the mix.  

Christian Siriano and Tadashi Shoji have been known to design red carpet looks for stars who don’t fit the sample sizes. They’ve both spoken about how they’re happy to take the business from other big name designers that refuse to dress non-sample sized women. Cushnie is one of my favorites for a number of reasons, but I’ve always loved that Carly Cushnie has always been inclusive.  She even released a special collection at Target and it still stays true to her brand of designing for people of all sizes. Alexander McQueen and Michael Kors are known for having a plus sized model or two in every show. Tommy Hilfiger has also jumped on the inclusion train as well in the last few years and he’s pretty great at having a number of models rather than having just a token one.

(Cushnie Spring 2019, TOMMYNOW Spring 2019, TOMMYNOW Spring 2019, Alexander McQueen Fall 2020)

Other people have asked me about plus sized gowns/dresses and the biggest names are the ones I mentioned above: Siriano and Shoji. They always have gowns for plus sized women in their shows. These are just a few of my favorites.

(Christian Siriano Spring 2018, Christian Siriano Fall 2018, Tadashi Shoji Fall 2020, Tadashi Shoji Fall 2019)

These websites have great options for plus sized fashion from a variety of brands:

In terms of swimwear, Swimsuits for All is a great source. Ashley Graham even has a swim line through this site.

City Chic has plenty of options ranging from day wear to gowns.

Eloquii was started as line from The Limited and then became a huge independent brand (although Walmart acquired them a few years ago, so so much for independence). They’re great for casual wear to work wear and all that in between.

Saving the best for last is 11 Honoré. They have changed the game in terms of having designer clothing for everyone. They work with brands to provide inclusive sizes. They’ve partnered with Siriano, Kors, Prabal Gurung - all brands who had already dipped their toes in the plus size market.  But 11 Honoré is also willing to work with designers who want to integrate their collections into more inclusive sizing but don’t know the best way to go about it. I believe Mara Hoffman went into extended sizing with the help of 11 Honoré. There are some big names on 11 Honoré.  Monique Lhuillier, Badgley Mischka, Jason Wu, Carolina Herrera, Marchesa, and Marc Jacobs are just some of the few you can find on the site. I honestly cannot say enough good things about what they’ve done to get designers on the ‘inclusive sizes’ train.

I know this was all a really long read, but while the industry has taken strides towards being more inclusive in sizing and representation on the runways, it still has a long way to go. Hopefully showcasing these designers, websites, and brands are a stepping stone to finding pieces that make you feel good!

[ratedbangtann]

The Game ~ KNJ (18+)

↳ summary - “Behave yourself tonight, _____,” he warned. “I mean it. Too far, and I’ll be forced to act.” 

“Of course, dear. I’ll play fair, I promise,” you smiled, fluttering your perfectly permed eyelashes at him.

And with that, the game was on…  

↳ rating - explicit/18+

↳ word count - 8.3k

↳ pairing - namjoon x reader

↳ genre - established relationship, alternative universe, CEO Namjoon, angst, smut

↳ warnings - teasing (oh, so much…), flirting with others, angry Joon, rough Joon, manhandling, oral sex (m receiving), throat fucking, dirty talk (incl. name calling), unprotected sex, rough sex

↳ a.n - okay so yeah hi it's been nearly 5 months since i posted an au please don't hate me life has been ROUGH but here have this little gem that was commissioned by a lovely twitter follower of mine.If you'd like your own commission or to leave me a tip, head over to https://ko-fi.com/ratedbangtann (i just lost my job thanks to corona so anything helps, honestly) **************************************************

Your husband’s words echoed around inside your head, a strangely sadistic little grin on your face that only you knew the reasoning behind.

“Behave yourself tonight, _____.”

You had promised you would, but were you being entirely truthful? Absolutely not. On a night like tonight, how could you possibly not use your charms to get ahead? That was the foundation of your company, after all; the charms you had used on your husband and his clients to merge your small business with his much larger enterprise.

Of course, you hadn’t done this with malice, and you certainly hadn’t expected to fall in love with the CEO of the company you flirted your way into… Not until he called you out on your charm, made light of it, and explained that actually, he saw you as a very smart and beautiful woman with a drive that precluded any other potential businesses he was contemplating to taking on.

Four years of happy marriage later, you had become co-CEO of Kim Enterprises – a main hub for all things fashion and retail, with 32 different brand names coming under the Kim umbrella; including your very own line of gorgeous evening wear.

Tonight, yourself and your husband were holding a company event at a hotel, hiring out the ballroom to bring together the heads of each of these little companies you had dominion over in order to impress a handful of investors to buy shares in Kim products. This was your specialty, and you were certainly going to whip out your charm tonight.

However, in the back of the Bentley that had driven you and your partner to the ball, your husband was already way ahead of you…

*************************************************

He looked handsome, as always. His silver hair perfectly quaffed and styled with a side part, round-rim glasses poised on the end of his nose, sharp grey suit fitted perfectly to his wide shoulders and thick arms. His hand had been affectionately poised on your bare knee for the duration of the ride, the flesh of your right leg beautifully displayed through the slit in your evening dress – from your own company, of course.

Just five minutes away from your destination, you felt his grip tighten a little, and slide a little further up your thigh, enjoying the softness of your skin on the inside of your leg. He was staring down at his own hand, watching his thumb draw circles on your skin with a look of deep thought on his face.

“You look a little apprehensive, Joonie. Are you alright?” you had asked, concern laced in your tone with perhaps a little mischief. He hummed in response, not looking up at you and instead still very much intent on his thumb grazing your skin.

“You look so beautiful in that dress tonight, my love…” he smiled to himself, pride swelling in his chest that it was you he got to call his wife. “No doubt, you’ll turn some heads.”

You smirked; this was the start of laying down his rules… You knew it was coming. It sent thrills through you every time.

“Thank you, it’s from the Fall line. Taking it out on a test run, shall we say…” you smiled sweetly.

It really was a stunning dress; sleek and fitted pearlescent silk with a little fabric tapering in the waistline. The straps themselves were strings of pearls, thin over the shoulders and draping in loops down your chest, cleavage beautifully displayed with the low hanging stones and fabric. The pearl straps continued to drape over your back also, hanging lower than in the front in another loop. The fabric exposed your back to just where your back dipped in, the pearls hanging down over the top of your butt.

It was an extremely sleek and sexy gown, expertly tailored to hide potential flaws and accentuate perfections. And that’s why you picked it tonight.

“It’ll definitely be an advantage in your tactics tonight, I’m sure,” he smirked, his eyes finally darting up to meet yours. “I have mine too though, just so we’re clear.”

“I don’t doubt it,” you laughed quietly, shaking your head with a smile. “But the dress is not the only tactic I have up my sleeve, my love. You’ll see…”

His thumb stopped its rotations then, his grip tightening just a little more in response.

“Behave yourself tonight, _____,” he warned. “I mean it. Too far, and I’ll be forced to act.”

“Of course, dear. I’ll play fair, I promise,” you smiled, fluttering your perfectly permed eyelashes at him.

And with that, the game was on…

************************************************

You stood and laughed with the small group of investors that you had attracted into a corner of the ballroom. The dress and your charming reputation proceeded you and worked like a beautiful spider’s web, drawing in the most naïve of flies until they stuck – it was then that you could make your moves.

Three men were stood in front of you, all of them middle-aged, wealthy bachelors of sorts. Mr Song, CEO of a cosmetics company you were hoping you could persuade to come on board and partner with Kim Enterprises; Mr Kang, an investor who made his money buying and selling shares of companies throughout Korea, and Mr Garcia, a Korean-American entrepreneur looking to invest in more Korean companies to impress his elderly Korean mother, unhappy with his choices to continue his late father’s American legacy.

Frankly, it seemed like an easy sell. You knew you could get Mr Garcia to come around very easily; he was in a rush to invest, hoping to improve his foreign relations and his relationship with his dear mother.

Mr Song had shown an interest in selling part of his company to Kim Enterprises for years, but it had never felt like the right time to introduce a cosmetics line into your empire; Namjoon agreed. Focus on fashion, on the clothing and accessories retailers to begin with. When you had enough, cosmetics could be introduced. You’d kept Mr Song at arm’s length, dangling the carrot in front of the donkey for him to follow you; and he had, willingly.

But Mr Kang? He knew the market very well, he knew his investments, he was careful and very picky with what he chose to buy into. But when he did, he really invested; billions of won at a time, in fact. If you could just crack his outer shell, you were sure he would drop his guard a little, and you could sweet talk him around.

You had a few tactics of course that included, but were not limited to; laughing at their jokes with a coy giggle, fluttering your eyelashes a little, giving them side eye smiles, pushing your hip out and elongating your leg to show it off through the slit in your dress, touching their arms when you were talking directly to one of them, making little provocative jokes followed by a delicate wink and a sip of your champagne flute…

All these things combined? They worked incredibly well, as did the compliments you would slide in, directed at the men themselves or at their business endeavours. They seemed incredibly receptive to you, taken in by your beauty and your confidence as many men often were; including your husband, who had been eyeing you from the bar across the ballroom for a while.

He himself was focussed on his own investors; female, of course. But he wanted to watch you deal with yours first, he wanted to watch his competition – you – claim your prizes before he made any moves on the female investors he was hoping to win over. And of course, keeping to himself was always a viable option in these games you played at corporate events. It kept him mysterious and aloof, striking at opportune moments and asking these women for a dance, or if they would like to join him for a drink; if he kept to himself all night, then these women would feel particularly special. ‘Who, me? He wants me?’ they would think. All part of his plan.

But for some reason, tonight he was distracted. He couldn’t tell why, but his eyes were fixated on you even more so than usual. Perhaps it was the way Mr Garcia seemed to have taken an interest in you, standing a little closer than the others… he kept pushing his hair back too, trying to flip is off his forehead in that typical ‘movie heartthrob’ way, but honestly it was just laughable from where Namjoon was standing. Every time you touched his arm and laughed at his joke, he shuffled a little closer, and it was starting to bother Namjoon.

He wasn’t the one you should have to focus on… He was an easy catch, desperate to invest. So why were you paying so much attention to him? Namjoon didn’t understand… Unless you genuinely were enjoying flirting with the youngest of the three potential business partners. Oh, his blood boiled at the thought.

But what he didn’t know, was that you already had Mr Song hooked on your line. He was in, whether he’d verbalised it yet or not. Mr Kang, however, was a little more reserved, although he did enjoy your attention. You had quickly calculated though that he was someone who got what he wanted, and it infuriated him when he didn’t get it. He would do anything to get what he wanted… So, you paid extra attention to Mr Garcia, starving Mr Kang of your attention that he so clearly wanted.

Doing so made him work harder, would make him eventually think that it was his idea to invest in order to get your attention back on him. So far, it was working. He was trying to land more jokes, make you laugh at his one liners the way you laughed at Mr Garcia’s…

But Namjoon didn’t get your game, didn’t understand what you were doing. He saw you getting closer to Mr Garcia and it enraged him, immediately jumping to a wrong conclusion as men so often do.

Now, he wanted to strike. He was ready to start his game.

Leaning against the bar, he necked back the rest of the expensive scotch in his glass, slamming the glass to the bar and pushing off in search of a particular young lady he knew was a potential investor; So Soomin.

Soomin was an easy target; new money. She was a fashionista, a blogger mostly with a large Instagram following. Her profile skyrocketed when she began dating a famous idol, as did her net worth. And although that relationship came to a sticky end, it was the idol’s career that suffered, and not hers. Hers has only blossomed into modelling and investing. She was new on the scene, fresh and a perfect advertising opportunity, and investment opportunity also.

Namjoon had spotted her sat at a table on the edge of the dancefloor, in a stunning navy blue sequin gown. She was most certainly beautiful in reality also, just as her photos portrayed her. She was sat talking to an older woman, a woman Namjoon recognised from Kim Enterprises as a very loyal board member for the public relations department. She must be working her magic on Soomin too, seeing her as the perfect walking advertisement.

But Namjoon could work his magic too. He strode over to her, confidently stepping through those dancing on the dancefloor to make his entrance. As he stepped up to her table, her head turned to look at him immediately, and her face changed from relatively serious to a very sweet and flirtatious smile.

“Good evening, Ms So,” he bowed nice and low, respectfully greeting her. She dipped her head as he straightened back up. “Kim Namjoon, Kim Enterprises.”

“Ah, of course. Pleasure, Mr Kim,” she chirped, her eyes glittering under the dim lights of the room.

“I wondered if you would be interested in a dance?” Namjoon offered his hand, ignoring the look of ‘here we go again’ from his employee – of course everybody at Kim Enterprises was aware of the marriage between you two, and yet unaware of the games you played at events such as these that kept the fire of need burning hot within you both. They saw you as a pair who used their attractions to get what they wanted, but of course, they dare not speak up.

“That sounds lovely, if you’ll excuse me Mrs Cheong,” she bowed her head to the woman and took Namjoon’s hand, stepping ahead of him to pull him onto the dancefloor in a display of confidence.

It caught your eye; specifically, the sparkle of her dress caught your eye. Clearly, a woman who liked to make a statement. And behind her was… your husband? Smirking and quite clearly checking her out.

Now, it’s fair to note that in your entire relationship with Kim Namjoon, neither of you had ever been unfaithful, and neither of you had ever planned to. There were of course limits, and plenty of trust. This game that you played with each other was to keep that fire lit; and boy, was it raging right now.

Namjoon carefully took Soomin’s hand with one of his, placing his other on her waist, and began to sway to the smooth jazz being played by the hired band. He smiled down at the beautiful woman, and from what you could see, he was enjoying a flirty conversation with her.

She would giggle and hide her face behind her hair a few times, Namjoon tucking it back behind her ear. He would smirk and arch his eyebrows suggestively. But the moment that made you snap? He leaned down and whispered something into the woman’s ear, to which her eyes widened momentarily, and she was grinning and laughing again.

Your boiling point had been reached. The game had now stepped up.

“Hm, you know what?” You started, interrupting Mr Garcia’s little conversation with Mr Kang, bringing the attention of all three men back to you. You quickly necked the rest of your champagne and smiled up at Mr Garcia. “I want to dance.”

“If you don’t mind, Mr Garcia, I would like to take this one?” Mr Kang piped up, seemingly out of nowhere. You looked at him, a little shocked, but smiled and took his open hand that he had offered you.

“Don’t worry, you’ll get your turn,” you turned back to look at Mr Garcia, winking in his direction before allowing Mr Kang to direct you to the dancefloor. As the oldest of the three men you were working so easily this evening, he was most definitely the most chivalrous. He guided you like a gentleman, stepped aside to let you step onto the dancefloor first, gracefully placed his hand high enough on your waist to be respectful, the other in your hand and much like the other duos scattered around, you began to sway to the music. You remained in pleasant silence, dancing with the older man for a few minutes.

“You know, I’m aware of what you’re up to, Mrs Kim,” he smirked, averting his gaze to be interested in something in a far corner.

“Up to?” you asked, remaining calm and collected as if you had absolutely no idea what he was accusing you of.

“Yes, it’s quite clear to me. It’s quite amusing, honestly. I appreciate that you use your strengths to your advantage in business. You most definitely had me for a while, I was definitely very willing to invest for your attention. But you gave yourself away,” he looked back down at you, clear amusement on his slightly aged features.

“How so?” you asked, dropping the innocence and yet remaining charming.

“I saw your face falter when you spotted your husband over there, dancing with the pretty young woman in the blue dress. And now suddenly, you wish to dance? I ask myself, why on earth would you not simply walk up to him and tap him on the shoulder to take her place? Why would you ask Mr Garcia to dance?” Ah, busted… “This is some kind of game to you, isn’t it? Between you and your husband, I mean.”

You were lost for words; no one had caught on before, but the slip in your persona had been noticed. Damn.

“Tell you what,” he began to proposition, “if you can win this little battle with him tonight, make him jealous enough that he is the one to step to you, then I’ll invest heavily into Kim Enterprises. That’s a promise,” he grinned. And suddenly, the gleam in your eye was back.

“You want in on this, huh?” you laughed, stepping just a little closer to him.

“As long as I don’t get a fist in the face, I’m happy to help you win your game Mrs Kim,” he smirked, his hand slowly starting to sink a little lower, resting on your hip.

“We have a deal, Mr Kang. But just so you are completely aware, I am completely loyal to my husband. I wouldn’t want you to misunderstand at all; this is just good sport. Just flirting,” you outlined with a playfully warning tone.

“Absolutely. I’m not interested in separating a marriage. I won’t try to kiss you or woo you in any way. Just good sport,” he mirrored. And now, you had stepped up to Namjoon’s level, with another key player involved.

Across the dancefloor, Namjoon was happily chatting, happily flirting with Soomin. They were discussing business amongst general chit chat, flirting happily and dancing away, when Namjoon caught a familiar figure in the corner of his eye; you.

He turned strategically in his dancing with Soomin to get a better look and low and behold, there you were just a few metres away from him, on the dancefloor with Mr Kang and looking… rather cosy, shall we say.

He didn’t like how low his hand was on your waist, on those curves of yours that he adored so much. He didn’t like that your hand wasn’t on his shoulder or his arm, but snugly half tucked into the inside of his tuxedo jacket, lying flat on his chest. He didn’t like the mesmerised looked you seemed to have in your eyes as you gazed up at him. And he most certainly didn’t like the smirk of arrogance on his face either…

Namjoon was only partly listening to Soomin talking about the timeline of her modelling career, eyes intently focussed on watching you dance with Mr Kang seemingly unbothered by the fact that he was metres away with another woman in his arms. It was like you were lost in the arms of the silver fox of the business world, and it infuriated him.

He noticed the grip on your hip tightening a little as you giggled at whatever poorly constructed joke he must have been telling you. He watched as you lifted your hand from his chest and tapped the end of his nose playfully with a perfectly manicured finger.

It was the tiny little details that were starting to make his eyebrow twitch and his tongue press against the inside of his cheek.

He watched for what felt like hours but could only have been a maximum of twenty minutes, the music changing pace and flowing from one theme to the next three themes, but it was all background noise to him. Until Soomin’s narcissistic bubble finally popped, and she noticed the attention was no longer on her.

“Is everything alright, Mr Kim?” she asked, tapping his shoulder and watching his pupils adjust as he focussed back in on her.

“Hmm? Yes, fine. Apologies, you were saying?” he brushed it off as nothing, managing to convince her enough to start babbling on yet again about herself. But when Namjoon looked up to keep tabs on you, you were nowhere to be found on the dancefloor.

His head whipped around, panicked with anger bubbling in his chest. Where the hell had you gone? Where had he taken you?

A quick scan of the ballroom found you, sat at a lone table in the corner, Mr Kang closely sat beside you. He leaned forward and whispered something in your ear, and Namjoon watched as you swatted his shoulder with a playful giggle, your hand dropping to rest on his knee which had found its way between yours, the slit in your dress exposing your beautiful thigh.

No, this was too far. He had warned you before, and you had promised to play fair, but this wasn’t fair at all… If he had to watch that man touch your knee, your thigh… He couldn’t bear it. His jealousy, his ownership of the woman he loved had ignited his primal self, and he needed to come and claim you again, to show you and everyone else that you were his.

Without so much as a glance down at Soomin, Namjoon dropped his hands from her and began marching towards you sat at the table with Mr Kang.

“N-Namjoon?” she called after him, confused and annoyed that she had been cut off mid-sentence. But again, he paid no mind, intent and focussed on getting between you and the man with his hand on your bare fucking thigh.

At the table, Mr Kang was the first to spot Namjoon, quickly approaching with a face like thunder. His eyes widened momentarily, before settling back on you, a smirk on his features.

“Congratulations,” he mumbled to you smugly just as you heard the stomp of Namjoon’s loafers getting closer to your chair. Your head snapped up to look at him, and there he was – and oh, did he look pissed. You were half expecting steam to be shooting out of his nose and ears.

“Ah, Namjoon! I wondered where you had been all evening. This is Mr Kang. I’m sure you’re aware of his stellar reputation in investmen-“

“May I speak with you privately?” Namjoon interrupted, popping his tongue into the inside of cheek, eyes darkening.

“Is something the matter?” you asked innocently, cocking your head to one side. Namjoon’s eyes darted down to the hand still comfortably laid on you, although now it had shrunk back to just rest on your knee. Your eyes followed his, looking up at Mr Kang briefly – who was smiling sweetly as if nothing were the matter – and then back to Namjoon.

“There’s an opportunity that has come up, I need to discuss with you immediately. It’s quite time sensitive. Mr Kang, if you’ll excuse me, my wife and I need to have a private discussion,” he barked, like a guard dog defending its prey from another equally hungry canine. Then without hesitation, Namjoon took your hand in his with assertive dominance and guided you out of the large double doors to the ballroom.

As you were navigated through the tables you turned back to see Mr Kang smiling and waving at you, giving you a thumbs up. He knew you had won the game. He was going to invest. Perfect.

But now to deal with Namjoon.

Your husband was dragging you now, out of the view of the investors and business partners and alone together in the hotel corridor. You let him take you, thrills already building and anticipation heightening. At the end of the corridor you noticed a lattice shutter and an open silver chamber behind it; a service elevator. Was that where Namjoon was headed?

Apparently so. Without letting go of your arm he pulled the metal lattice gate open and practically threw you in, stepping in himself and slamming it shut behind him, pressing the button to the left hand side marked ‘8’ and there he stood, silent and motionless as the elevator kicked to life.

With his back to you and his hands clasped behind him, you were suddenly very aware of the anger in his demeanour, the dominance in his posture. He stood unmoving, not bothering to look back at you once, not saying a single word as you steadied yourself and hung onto the railing along the back wall. The silence seemed deafening, louder than the chatter and the music that you had experienced throughout the night.

The ride up to the eighth floor seemed agonisingly slow, every silent second dragging. You knew Namjoon had booked a room in the hotel for that evening so you wouldn’t need to go home after the event, so assumed that must be where he was taking you.

The elevator ground to a halt and Namjoon ripped open the lattice gate, letting it slam against the edge before turning and gripping your wrist again, pulling you and pushing you until you were both on the opposite side of the threshold and he could slam the gate shut once again. And then he began walking, leaving you stood in shock that he wasn’t dragging you this time, just expecting you to follow suit.

You folded your arms across your chest for a second and waited, wondering if he would turn and tell you to follow him, or come back to grab your arm but he did neither, simply stomping his way down the long hall with white walls and gold trimmings, luxurious red rug rolled out with gold detailing. Beside each room’s door was a small mahogany table with a white and gold marble vase, fake red arrangements inside. Fancy, but you’d expect nothing less from a hotel of this calibre.

You realised quickly Namjoon wouldn’t turn around, wouldn’t wait for you, and with a huff of annoyance you unfolded your arms and followed behind him, the pearls on your dress rattling as they hit each other in the quiet of the corridor. Three doors from the end of the corridor, he stopped and turned to room 804, slipping a key card out of the inside of his jacket and into the slot as you approached him. He disappeared from view, entering the room and almost letting it shut behind him, if you hadn’t been quick enough to stop it with your healed foot.

“You know, Mr Kang is really a very nice man…” you began to speak as if nothing was wrong, entering the room and closing the door behind you, flipping the lock. But before you could continue, your shoulders were being pulled to spin you around, and pushed back against the door.

Namjoon loomed over you, his eyes dark and angry, arms either side of your head now, trapping you.

“Is he, now? Is that why you looked so cosy with him on the dancefloor, hm?” Sarcasm dripped from his voice, his head tilting in mock query.

“Just as much as you and that man-eating model? Don’t try and take the high road, Namjoon,” you defended with a smirk. “We both know the game we play, for good sport…” You leaned in, lifting your lips to his ear in order to whisper to him…

“And I think I won…”

Namjoon closed his eyes for a moment, his jaw locking and teeth grinding, a deep breath quickly exhaling through flared nostrils. He hated losing. He hated it so much. But admitting he had lost was even worse.

He said nothing, but instead you felt two strong hands on the tops of your arms, gripping them and pulling you from the door, dragging you further into the room before he could push you down onto the couch of the open hotel suite. You didn’t have time to admire the royal blue upholstery and French renaissance style before he was slotting his knee between yours and towering over you. You let your back sink into the back of the couch, sat upright with your thighs parted by his.

He ran his fingers through your hair, letting the fingertips gently glide down your jawline and eventually grip your chin with a hold that you couldn’t wriggle from.

“You went too far, ______. I warned you…” His voice was significantly darker than usual; deeper and more threatening than most would have heard from him.

“I was simply trying to get us an investment, Mr Kim. But I think your pathetic little display of dominance may just have ruined that,” you argued, although of course it wasn’t true. You only wanted to rile him up further, to aggravate him into giving you frankly what you can only describe as a good, hard fucking. It was working, too. You saw his eye twitch.

“You just don’t know when to stay quiet, do you?” he scoffed. You simply looked down at his lips and back up to him, as if you say “oh, yeah? Try me.” He didn’t like that.

So instead, he swooped his head down to plant a ferocious and bruising kiss to your lips, his hand coming to push the back of your head into him further. He wasted no time in parting your lips, messily exploring and taking ownership in the way he had wanted to all damn evening. His fingers curled into your hair, short nails lightly dragging at your scalp and adding to all the sensations you felt all over your body.

Namjoon was always so skilled with his kisses, having you succumb to him very quickly like a warlock casting a spell. You felt yourself move to his every whim, sinking further and further. It was when you moaned into his kiss that he knew he had you under his thumb.

He let go of you and moved to stand, seemingly in a rush to get some kind of payback or comeuppance for the way you had teased him tonight. He shook his tuxedo jacket from his shoulders and unfastened the zipper – and just the zipper – of his slacks, reaching in to pull his half-hard length through the opening in his underwear and the hole in his trousers, slowly tugging at it a few times to full arousal.

In this position, with him stood with one leg between your thighs and you sat directly in front of him, you were at the perfect height for what he wanted from you… He squeezed himself each time he came close to his tip, allowing for a small bead of pre-cum to gather. He pushed his hips out until all you could focus on was the sight of his delicious pre-cum.

“For you, Madam,” he smirked when your eyes met, his hand reaching out to run his finger under the length of the straps of your dress and gripping the strings of pearls that gathered in front of your breasts like reins, “seeing as you like pearls so much.”

And then he pressed the little pearl of precum to your lips, coating them like a gloss before pushing the tip of his cock past them and sitting it on the flat of your tongue.

“Let’s see you talk shit with a mouthful,” he smirked, fingers weaving into your hair once again and gripping tight, pulling at the roots to move your head and have you begin to bob on his length, encasing the impressive size in the warmth of your mouth and throat. You gladly took it; you could never deny your man since the first head you had ever given him. He’d practically declared his love to you for the entire twenty minutes whilst you showed him what a blow job was supposed to feel like.

You just had a thing for making your husband feel exceptionally good.

“Fuck, see? You can be a good girl,” he praised, grunting and beginning to piston his hips back and forth whilst still moving your head. “Just needed putting back in your place again.”

The chords of pearls on your dress rattled as they rocked with your body, hitting each other noisily with each forward and back motion. You relaxed your throat easily to take him, although with his girth and length combined it was always a snug fit. You could feel each ridge of the vein on the side of his shaft, the drag of his uncut foreskin on your tongue. It wasn’t common for a Korean man to remain uncircumcised, but it was never something that bothered you. In fact, it seemed to only encourage some more imaginative ways to please him.

But there was no time for intricate details, no space for you to move your tongue and focus on the spots that made him weak when he was moving at such a pace and filling your mouth and throat over and over again. You could do nothing but bob your head the way he was moving it and flutter your eyelashes innocently up at him with a sparkle behind them. It drove him crazy, to see you so pliant and taking him so well. He loved the way your lips wrapped around him, how you took the opportunity to try and hollow your cheeks to vary the pressure you put on him. All of it was so perfect…

“Fucking shit, ______,” Namjoon groaned, his head falling back and his eyes closing in bliss. You hummed against him, sending vibrations through his length and you were sure you could feel the vein pulse harder as his thighs tensed in his slacks. Knowing what you were doing to him, the pleasure you were giving him right now… well, it was turning you on considerably. If he were to peel back the rather beautiful ivory lingerie you had decided on, then he would be all too aware of the arousal this was causing.

“You wanted this, huh?” he asked, gritting his teeth and tightening his grip in your hair. “That’s why you’ve been acting up. My little cock slut was just desperate to get fucked huh, is that it?” His hips increased in speed and power. You were no longer moving, simply kept still by his hold as you tried to keep from gagging. You were good at this, at letting him use your throat like a fleshlight. You’d had plenty of practise after all.

All you could do was hum in affirmation, sending another wave of vibrations along his shaft. A rumbling groan erupted from his throat and he bit his lip, pulling his cock out of your throat completely. You gasped for breath, now able to take in more through your mouth for longer.

“You want my cock that badly, hm? In here?” he reached between your legs with his free hand, using the slit in your dress to his advantage and placing his palm flat over your damp panties. You whimpered a little at the contact, flinching but never daring to look away. Without having to think your head nodded on autopilot, desperate for him to give you what you wanted.

He smirked and stood back, lifting you by gently tugging at your hair to stand. He spun you around, easily finding the zipper on the low back of the dress and unzipping it, letting the straps of pearls fall down your arms and the dress come clattering to the floor with a loud rattle. A beat of silence passed in which you weren’t sure what he was doing, but you weren’t quite brave enough to turn your head to see, let alone ask him.

But had you seen him, you would have noticed the way his eyes were scanning every single beautiful curve of your body, every inch of smooth skin right down to his favourite part of you; that incredible round ass of yours. And in the lingerie you wore for him? Oh, it was beautiful. The ivory tones complimented your skin tone in the most marvellous way, and Namjoon couldn’t help himself from salivating at the sight.

He snapped himself out of his trance quickly though, manoeuvring you to kneel on the couch and bend over the fancy upholstery arm. Before you were really even comfortable, your panties were being tugged down and falling to your knees and a swift and harsh spank landing on your ass. Joon always loved watching that little jiggle…

Behind you, you heard fumbling, the rustling of Namjoon’s shirt being untucked from his pants, his tie being undone, and his buttons being popped open. But the fabric never hit the floor, and his pants remained unaltered.

Waiting was driving you crazy, so to taunt him even more you leaned down fully on the arm of the couch and wiggled your bare behind up in the air.

“Impatient little girl, hm? Don’t worry, you’ll be full in no time,” he growled, positioning himself with one knee up on the couch and pulling on your hips to line himself up with your dripping core.

He dragged the tip through your folds a few times before he pushed in, agonisingly slowly but at least you were finally getting some attention. When buried completely to the hilt, his hips pressed firmly against your ass and his grip on the flesh of your hips tightened, fingertips digging in as he adjusted to your warmth and the pleasure it brought him.

Even after four years of marriage – six since you had begun your office romance – he still revelled in the way you felt around him, still marvelled at how stunning you looked from every angle. He’d never tire of you, completely intoxicated and hooked; and this explained exactly why he was so possessive of you. No other man could have you; you were his.

Now that you finally felt full, your eyes fluttered closed and enjoyed the feeling. By now, you were used to his size and the way it filled you, but it didn’t mean it brought you any less pleasure than that first night you spent together. Your jaw dropped as he dragged himself back out of you, a high pitched moan spilling from your throat. His hands tightened on your hips, digging into the flesh as he used it as leverage to slam back into you harshly, jolting you forward and pushing a cry from your lips.

“Is that better, baby? This what you wanted?” he grunted, his hips now snapping against yours rhythmically. “You wanted my attention, hm? You got it, Babygirl…”

The force he used against you was intense, the slapping sounds deafening despite him never even removing his trousers – he knew you liked it when he was still at least partially dressed in his suits. It somehow upheld his aura of dominance, of power and leadership.

You couldn’t help but moan with each thrust, his length hitting every wall inside you, every sensitive nerve sending pulses of extreme pleasure through your pelvis and spanning out like lightning bolts through the rest of your body. You’d wanted this all night, been doing everything in your power to rile him up and get him to this point. This was the whole point of the game, and whilst he wouldn’t admit it just yet, you knew you had won.

“F-fuck… Namjoon…” you groaned, the upholstery on the couch brushing against your breasts. Hearing you groan his name ignited a fresh fire fuelled by lust in his gut, his hips changing their angle to hit you more directly against that spot inside you that sent you crazy. He pounded into you with an unforgiving speed, over and over and over again until he decided he was bored of that angle, that position. He wanted your full attention just as much as you wanted his.

So without warning, he pulled out of you and sat back against the opposite arm of the couch. You whined in disappointment, turning your head to see him watching you with his arm draped over the back of the couch, his other hand stroking himself slowly, and his lips pulled into an infuriating smirk.

“Come and get it, Babygirl,” he taunted, and rather than fight him on it you did as told, too worked up to deny yourself. You kicked your heels to the floor and pulled the panties draped around your knees off whilst Namjoon shuffled and laid down flat on the couch. The shirt he was wearing spilled open, exposing his well-toned chest and abs to you. You wasted no time, straddling his hips and positioning yourself to take him again, to let him stretch you out so perfectly like before.

Only this time, you were in control, and he didn’t seem to mind that – wanted it, even. Some of his favourite positions included ones in which you were the one moving, using his cock to make yourself feel good. He’d get lost in watching you, the way every part of your body moved, the way your eyes shut, and mouth fell open. And already, he was hypnotised by the way you rolled your hips against him, trying to move as fast as possible and as fluidly as possible to make sure he hit every nerve ending.

Your hands fell flat onto his pecks – those glorious, solid pecks – to keep yourself from collapsing forward, overwhelmed by pleasure. He reached up to your breasts, feeling the weight of them in his hands bouncing with every movement. He growled like an animal, sitting up and latching himself to one of your nipples, tongue flicking and teeth nipping at the sensitive nub. He continued to growl deep in his throat like a man possessed, his own length throbbing and pulsating inside you.

“J-Joonie… Mm, feels so good…” you practically sang, threading your hands through his hair and messing it up in an instant, holding him against you. You bucked your hips against him as fast as you could, clenching your walls on purpose to make him lose his mind. He did just that, letting go of your breast and falling back against the couch, his hands over his face and a long, wanton moan rumbling from his chest.

You kept clenching around him every time his cock would slide out of you, creating a drag that was absolutely mind blowing and has him sucking air through his teeth every time.

Suddenly his hands slapped down onto your thighs, fingertips digging in and his feet planting themselves flat on the couch behind you for leverage as he bucked his hips up into you. He furiously pounded into you from below, losing his composure. Your head dipped forward and all your weight went into your wrists, still holding you up by your hands flat on his pecks. He gripped your arms then, grunting with rapid breaths from exertion.

“Hey… Hey, ______,” he snapped his fingers in front of your face a few times to get your attention, “Eyes on me, Babygirl. Understand?”

“Uh… uh-huh,” was all you could muster with the force of every thrust and the roll of your hips in time with them. You could only hold eye contact for a moment or two until one particularly perfect thrust and then your head fell forward again. Namjoon didn’t like that, his hand coming to reach for your chin to hold your head up, forcing eye contact between you.

“Naughty girl… can’t follow basic commands,” he grunted, his fingers tightening on your chin and pushing on your cheeks. “I said, eyes… on… me,” he punctuated each word with a thrust, having you biting down on your lip and digging your nails into his pecks. You could only stare into his eyes as the both of you moved in sync. His were dark, so clouded with lust and hooded with passion that the heat in your abdomen started to swell impossibly.

Somehow, he kept up his pace. His thighs – however thick and muscled – must surely have been burning with his movements as yours were. His abs must have been screaming at him to slow down, but he didn’t, not even for a second. And now, he had slipped a hand down between your legs to circle your clit, adding yet another rush of heat.

You could feel yourself growing wetter, a sure sign of an impending orgasm. Namjoon clearly felt it too, judging by the way he looked down at the two of you connected and muttered out a ‘oh fuck…’ followed by a sharp intake of breath. He was starting to show tell-tale signs of his own climax approaching; he’d sucked his cheeks in in that way that made him look pissed off, but in fact was him simply tensing his jaw. His biceps were tensing under the sleeves of his open shirt and you could feel the pecks underneath your hands tensing also.

And my god, were you close too…

“G-gonna cum, please… please let me cum,” you begged between pouted lips forced together by his hand clutching your jaw. With or without his permission it was all about to unfold so quickly you couldn’t hold it off.

“Cum Babygirl, cum with me. Want you to feel the way I fill you up…” With his permission, letting go was easy. You squealed and whimpered as your nerves set alight, the heat spreading and igniting, filling your veins like hot lava. Your pussy clenched over and over, pulsing around his length and sending him further into his own ending, not quite there but so, so very close.

He let go of your chin, letting you break eye contact and fall forward onto his chest. He quickly wrapped his arms around you, still lifting his hips up to ride you through it and get himself off. He held you tight against him, whispering how good you felt in your ear, how perfect you were, how much he’d wanted you all night, that you were his and his alone.

Slowly, the heat dissipated, the fire cooling and leaving you light-headed and breathless, and Joon just kept on going, desperate for his own orgasm. You did your best to help him along, mustering all your energy to purposefully clench around him. Tilting your chin up, you were able to bury your face in the crook of his neck and nuzzle into the skin just under his shirt collar, kissing him just where his mole was. You nibbled and sucked and mouthed at the skin, feeling the tendons in his neck tensing.

And then he was groaning out loud, letting go completely. His hips stuttered and jerked unevenly, and you could feel pulse after pulse along his shaft. A new heat filled your pelvis; his seed spilling inside you, painting your walls white and creating a lude noise as he came to a halt.

His legs fell back down onto the couch whilst his arms loosened their grip on you, but still cradled you close to him; no way would he want to let you go right now.

“Fuck, babe… Fuck,” he sighed. It took a few moments for you to lift your head to see the blissed-out look on his face, eyes shut and sweat dripping from the ends of his messed up hair. You laid together like that for a while, catching your breath and enjoying the high you both felt.

“Hey Joonie…” you whispered, giggling when he opened one eye to look down at you. “Gotcha.”

He sat up a little then, resting back on his elbows as you sat upright, still straddling him. You had to clench a little extra hard to stop from leaking his own cum back onto his lap… You wouldn’t want to ruin such an expensive suit.

“What do you mean, gotcha?” he asked, brows furrowed.

“The game. I won,” you grinned, reaching out to fix his hair sticking up in strange directions.

“B-but… I got you to come with me, I must have made you jeal-“ You pressed your finger to his lips.

“Who felt so threatened by Mr Kang that he just had to intervene, thus, already losing at his own game?” you smirked. He couldn’t argue with that.

“Well be fair, he was getting very cosy, and you weren’t stopping him…” he complained.

“Sure, but um… Mr Kang was in on it.” You got off him then, standing up to head to the en-suite bathroom to freshen up, but he caught your wrist.

“He was what?” he asked, confused and irritated. You turned to face him again and leaned over him.

“In. On. It,” you sounded out slowly. “If I could get you to break, if I could win, he promised to invest heavily.” The smarminess was laced in your voice. You knew you had won. You got everything you wanted tonight; investment, and a decent, hard, jealousy fuelled fuck with your husband.

Namjoon’s jaw dropped, his grip falling from your wrist as he sat back against the couch with a heavy thump. He shook his head in disbelief, a smile forming as he watched you walk away and into the bathroom. But you popped your head out of the doorway, catching his attention again.

“Oh, and uh… as you were dragging me out, he gave me the thumbs up. Mr Kang will definitely be investing in Kim Enterprises,” you winked.

“Oh you, little…” he couldn’t hide his happiness at the investment, a grin spreading across his face. He didn’t mind that he’d been beat, not when such a huge business transaction was about to unfold. He didn’t even mind that he’d been played; not by you at least. Not by his incredibly gorgeous, sexy and genius wife.

“You…” he stood up, jogging towards you and shedding his shirt to the floor, “are impossible,” he laughed, chasing you into the bathroom and slamming the door shut behind him. Your night was only just beginning.

You had definitely won this game.