The CyberBarony of San Sebastian

Fandom Bulwer-Lytton Marvel Edition!!

cincoflex — Fri, 17 Aug 2012 14:47:25 GMT

Oh we have some MARVEL-ous entries! The lovely Ufgator1977, the magnificent Starhawk2005 and the sublime VR_Trakowski submitted entries and I threw something in as well. I'm putting them under the cut to save space but please come take a look at some amazingly bad sentences. You'll laugh; you'll cry; you'll feel vaguely nauseous and need to take a Gas-X. Our three catagories were: General, Smut/Romance and Bad Puns. Nobody submitted any Angst since that comes naturally with sentences like this.

My thanks to all the wonderful folks who made this possible, and if you've got a late entry, pop it into the comments, okay?

GENERAL

Ufgator1977

Thor was more than happy to show Captain America up close and personal just what it meant to "ride the lightning."

Starhawk2005

After Loki had imprisoned Jane Foster in the cell, made up to look like an ordinary bedroom, she set quickly to work – sheets yanked from the bed, drawers emptied of underwear, shirts, pants, and even socks, and she interwove and braided everything together, trying to create a rope long enough to get out the window and down to the ground – but when Loki returned unexpectedly, he stared down at her work, rolled his eyes dramatically, and haughtily told her not to get her panties in a twist.

Cincoflex

It was only after they’d cleaned out his locker and found the jockstraps that the Avengers realized that cards weren’t the only Captain America items Coulson had collected.

When Loki ran for mayor he was the dark horse.

At Karaoke Night, it was impossible to stop Thor from choosing ‘If I had a Hammer’ while Bruce refused to do ‘It’s Not Easy Being Green.’

'Avengers Assemble' was the official call, but Fury preferred his original cry: 'Avengers get your collective ASSES in gear!'

Hawkeye was the team’s leading authority on wind velocity, marksmanship, and unfortunately, pigeon crap.

Bruce didn’t think that turning into the Hulk and tearing his way through the lab qualified as ‘creating a Super Collider’ but Tony pointed out that he did tend to reduce things to particles that way.

Natasha was neither black nor a widow but the Hulk could vouch she was hard to stomp on, and under the cover of darkness, Clint knew her love bites were painful.

A weary anger grew in Banner when Thor directed him to a fanfiction site and he found Hulk, slashed!

Loki was confused; he’d hope to find an online parenting class when he’d clicked on the My Little Pony website.

Deep in the basement of Stark Tower, down under Tony’s fancy-pants penthouse with its ooh-la-la state of the art accommodations, past the guest room levels none of which were quite as luxurious as Tony’s quarters oh no; beyond the floors of high technology equipment that nobody really understood except Mr. High and Mighty Stark, down under the entire wing given over to someone’s collection of Iron Man armor, deeper below in the bowels, hell, the fucking RECTUM of the Avenger’s HQ, Bruce Banner brooded, wondering if it was possible he might be harboring a little resentment.

Natasha woke in a sweat, clutching the sheets; she hated her recurring nightmare and hoped nobody ever attacked her using a giant can of Raid.

SMUT

Starhawk2005

The scent of her sexual perfume hung heavy in the room as Loki coaxed Jane Foster’s legs apart – he did not hurry, despite her desperate moans (he enjoyed seeing how many noises he could bring forth from a frustrated female; the more, the merrier he became), and instead he teased her cream-white thighs with languid strokes of his fingers, waited as she writhed and panted, waited until his own engorged manhood throbbed mightily in his breeches – finally, inevitably, he parted her folds and sent his tongue forward to tiptoe through the two lips.

As Loki pushed Darcy back roughly into the stone castle wall, as they kissed and groped like crazed teenagers on cocaine and alcohol and many other drugs known to reduce inhibitions and good sense – and there are many others that could be added to that list – and as his arousal became more and more evident, not to mention all the layers of stiffened leather armour pushed hard against the soft curves of her body, Darcy reflected that at the moment, she was really trapped between a rock and a hard place.

Cincoflex

Pepper loved Tony, but wished he would stop referring to his penis as ‘the organic Stark Tower.’

Many a volunteer fangirl wanted to be on Loki’s staff.

BAD PUNS

VR_Trakowski

“The bad news is,” Bruce said with a frown, “we have wanna-be villains dressing up--they’re doing the Hokey Loki.”

Phil Coulson’s death was a perfect example of what would come to be known as an Avengers Tragedy.

Natasha hit the target square on and gave Hawkeye a haughty look; he put an arrow through her bullet hole and gave her an archer one.

“Well,” Maria said as she ran a hand over Nick’s chest, “I can see why you dropped the second ‘r’.”

No one had imagined that interrupting the Colonel and Iron Man during their private “conference” would result in such stark fury.

When it came to Odin, the Bifrost was always a Thor subject.

Thor’s discovery of Loki’s Goddess of War: The Angry Years portfolio prompted a miffed Sif GIF riff tiff and not a few biffs, but it was over in a jiff.

Cincoflex

Jane didn’t think much of her old slave Princess Leia costume but given the reaction of her lover she realized she truly was a sight for Thor eyes.

Nick Fury and Odin didn’t see eye-to-eye.

Even though Hawkeye was a straight arrow, sometimes Thor made him quiver.

Starhawk2005

It surely wasn’t easy, being the suitor of Loki’s daughter, as she demanded only the most interesting and hard-to-attain gifts from all the Realms – the Casket of Ancient Winters from Jotenheim, a complicated six-wheeled device from Vanaheim, a compact fluorescent lightbulb from Midgard, the Infinity Gauntlet from Asgard, and so on – truly, he thought, the road to Hel is paved with good inventions.

New chapter "The Stagging of Steve Rogers"

cincoflex — Fri, 10 Aug 2012 21:26:08 GMT

Can be found here:
http://www.fanfiction.net/s/8403006/2/The_Stagging_of_Steve_Rogers

or

http://archiveofourown.org/works/480138/chapters/840300

New chapters!

cincoflex — Mon, 06 Aug 2012 15:11:21 GMT

New chapters for both Torden Stein
http://www.fanfiction.net/s/8224105/6/Torden_Stein
or
http://archiveofourown.org/works/435834/chapters/832497

and 221C
http://www.fanfiction.net/s/8337499/6/221C
or
http://archiveofourown.org/works/463845/chapters/831810

Now that I'm on vacation--CHALLENGE!

cincoflex — Sat, 28 Jul 2012 15:33:34 GMT

I want to have some fun. The majority of you out there have seen at least one Marvel movie, and it dawned on me that it might be a blast to offer up:

That's right, The Fandom Bulwer-Lytton Challenge, but this time in a special Marvel Edition!

What's Bulwer-Lytton you ask?

This festival is inspired by the Bulwer-Lytton Contest (http://www.bulwer-lytton.com/) an event that honors horribly written sentences, and encourages people to write them. It's fun, and I've found that in the process of deliberately trying to be bad, I'm more aware of what it takes to be a GOOD writer.

A word about bad sentences:

In this challenge, bad sentences don’t mean misspellings or poor grammar per se. The sentences here are generally well-written on a technical basis, and have all the things we expect in a sentence, like subject/verb agreement and proper tenses.

What we mean by bad sentences are ones that made a terrible joke, or put forth an image that’s so funny and /or awful at the same time that you can’t help but laugh.

For example, (and I’m paraphrasing a sentence from the Bulwer-Lytton contest here):

Avengers

Natasha had the kind of body that made men want to have sex with her.

In reading that you snicker, because it’s so . . . “Duh!” in terms of summing up what's clear about Black Widow. Yes, it’s obvious, but it’s also funny and bad because it’s so obvious.

Or, another example:

Avengers

Phil Coulson was a pit bull when it came to idiots; the quiet kind who looked all sweet and mellow, tongue hanging out, just standing there, waiting for you to pet them, but who was inwardly planning on several fingers and maybe a thumb too, for lunch.

See? That sort of twisted imagery is just the sort of thing that makes the perfect sentence for a festival like this.

There are other examples here: http://www.bulwer-lytton.com/ and over at CSI_BL. Feel free to look at some wonderfully hideous past offerings and see what we mean by ‘bad’ in all its glory!

For those of you willing to give it a try---(Copied and modified from the original Bulwer-Lytton Fiction Contest rules.)

The rules for Fandom_BL Marvel Edition:

DEADLINE IS AUGUST 17TH

Each entry must consist of a single sentence but you may submit as many entries as you wish.

Sentences may be of any length BUT WE STRONGLY RECOMMEND THAT ENTRIES NOT GO BEYOND 50 OR 60 WORDS, and entries must be "original" (as it were) and previously unpublished.

Entries will be organized by Marvel Movie (Iron Man 1&2, Hulk, Thor, Captain America, Avengers) and should fit into the categories of:

General
Angst/Character Death
Smut/Romance
Bad Pun

Submit your entries in an Email to: Cincoflex@aol.com in the following format: Fandom name/category/sentence. Please include your online name, so we can give you the credit.

Think of ALL the things you could write about Loki, or Nick Fury, or Darcy or JARVIS! You folks out there are some of the most creative and enthusiastic writers in fandom, so come on, go for it--one sentence at the very least, yeah?

New chapter!

cincoflex — Sun, 15 Jul 2012 01:19:21 GMT

http://www.fanfiction.net/s/8224105/5/Torden_Stein

or

http://archiveofourown.org/works/435834/chapters/792377

A question

cincoflex — Sat, 07 Jul 2012 20:27:11 GMT

Does anyone out there use or have any experience with Scrivener? I'm curious about the product and would love to know about it from a person, not a site.

Update

cincoflex — Thu, 05 Jul 2012 23:55:11 GMT

Update on FFN and AOE 3

http://archiveofourown.org/users/cincoflex

Serenade updates

cincoflex — Sun, 01 Jul 2012 14:53:03 GMT

Man, I'm sorry--I've been posting this to FFN and Archive of Our Own!

If you'd like to catch up, all thirteen chapters so far of this story are here:

http://archiveofourown.org/users/cincoflex

Thanks!

Avenger fic: Serenade pt 3

cincoflex — Sat, 09 Jun 2012 18:22:09 GMT

Story: Serenade
Author: Cincoflex
Fandom: Avengers 2012
Pairing: Steve Rogers/OC

Summary: Everyone on the team seems to have someone special except Steve, and that's about to change.

Author's Notes: This is for Lovellama who is not only a terrific beta, but also a romantic and generous person! Bonus points if you recognize the doctor.

He didn’t remember the ride back to his apartment. Steve drove on autopilot, his brain and body too caught up in tender turmoil for the mundane issues of rain and direction. By the time he parked in the garage and made his way to his apartment he was short of breath and shaking, stumbling into the dark entryway as he dropped his keys on the floor.

Steve pressed his back against the nearest wall, needing its support as he closed his eyes. His senses were on fire, still caught up in the physical ache for Lauren, and without a moment of hesitation, he yanked on his fly buttons, popping them open as he skimmed his palm along the iron ridge of his erection.

He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been this stiff or desperate; probably back around the time Dillinger had been gunned down outside the Orpheum, when being fourteen meant being a living hard-on. Steve gave a sob of a laugh and stroked himself, swelling against his fingers and wishing they were Lauren’s. He tightened his grip, stroking the veiny shaft as he thought back over the last half hour, the images and scents coming in a rush that threatened to overwhelm him.

Lauren, soft and warm, curves pressing against him, hot and luscious, her perfume and the scent of her skin like sugar . . . kissing her, God, feeling her lips open under his and sliding his tongue into her mouth . . . . He groaned, fingers tightening as his cock swelled rampantly. Need coursed through Steve’s body; raw and undeniable need, driven on by memory and desire.

He wanted her. Naked, under him, clinging to him and giving herself to him, holding him, wanting him as much as he wanted her. Steve had never before let himself admit to lust this way; it seemed obscene, but here in the dark with the taste of Lauren in his mouth it was right and dangerous and perfect. This was what lay at the core, this primitive urge that lay buried in the heart of every man.

Steve stroked himself harder, slipping his other hand to cup his balls, his breathing erratic now, his hips rocking with every pump. Wild images flared in his mind of Lauren kissing his body, of her breasts bared to his touch and kisses. He wanted to touch her, to undress her himself and uncover those curves and hollows only briefly glimpsed until now. More than that, Steve gritted his teeth as he acknowledged he wanted to slide into her, drive himself deep until . . . until . . .

Hard spasms rocked his big frame, and the heavy sprays of thick hot semen splattered in heavy ribbons on the carpet, splashing across his slacks and boots as Steve groaned mindlessly. When the last pleasure-filled shudder died away he let his head fall back, knocking against the wall, gasping for breath. Steve let go of his softening prick and wiped his palm down one thigh, his mind blank.

He sat in the dark for nearly an hour, dozing a little, not thinking of anything. When he’d done that long enough, Steve got to his feet and showered, scrubbing himself under the scalding heat. He pulled on boxers and lay down, waiting until morning.

Doctor R agreed to see him first thing, and Steve made his way to her office, which overlooked Central Park. The weather had cleared, promising to be hot, but he didn’t notice as a receptionist waved him in. Doctor R came over and hugged him, her tiny size as always reminding him of a garden gnome.

“Steve, come in, come in,” she ordered softly. He did, making his way to the chair just off to the side of her desk, dropping himself into it bonelessly. Doctor R pulled up a low ottoman and sat herself, looking towards him with sympathetic patience, waiting for him to say something.

When he’d first come to see her it had taken a while for him to deal with her German accent; for him the war hadn’t ended yet. But she was understanding and patient, and now Steve hardly noticed it at all. She looked at him with her bright sparrow eyes, and he gave a sigh.

“The date,” he began, heavily. “I went to go hear Lauren sing.”

Doctor R gave a nod. “And was she good?”

Steve gave a faint smile. “She was great. A real crooner’s voice, actually. I recognized almost all the songs.”

“That was comforting then.”

“Yeah.” He looked around, not exactly avoiding her eye, but not quite ready to meet it either. “I took her home. It rained.”

Doctor R said nothing, perched on her little ottoman, gaze compassionate. Steve dropped his head into his hands, resting his elbows on his thighs.

“I kissed her. We both wanted it, Doc, but it was like . . .” he struggled for a moment, “like I was starving! Like I wasn’t kissing her but devouring her, her face, her lips, her tongue . . . I’ve never felt anything like that! I didn’t think I’d be able to stop. I didn’t want to stop . . .” he ran out of breath, shoulders shaking a little.

Doctor R reached over and lightly patted one of his knees, her touch gentle and firm. “That’s perfectly normal, Steve. You are a healthy and virile man with a working libido. Did she rrrrrrespond in kind?”

Steve blushed, the pink hue washing over his cheeks. “Ahhh, yeah. That was part of the problem. I don’t think she wanted to stop either.”

Doctor R considered this a moment, her eyes twinkling. “So. You and she have a mutual physical attraction between you. Biological chemistry.”

Steve nodded, shoulders slumping. “You could say that. I went home and . . .”

“Masturbated,” Doctor R prompted gently. “A verrrry good and healthy option. And now?”

“Now I think I’m going nuts,” Steve muttered. “Doc, I’ve never felt this way about anyone before! I loved Peggy, and I wanted her, but there was a war on, and we both had other duties, other obligations! I could put thoughts of Peggy aside because I had a job to do. But Lauren . . . she’s always in my head, Doc. I think about her when I’m not with her, I worry about her and Joe, I want her to be safe and happy and sometimes, like last night, I just want her . . .”

“And this is a wonderful thing,” Doctor R pointed out. “You are rrrrrejoining the world now, Steve. You have feelings for this young woman that are normal and natural. As humans we rrrrequire rrrrelationships, and I’m very glad to see that you are making steps in that direction.”

“Doc, I’m seventy years older than she is, and not exactly ‘normal’ compared to other people,” Steve snapped, running a hand through his hair. “And on top of that, I’m still . . . .” he trailed off, not wanting to say it aloud, but Doctor R gave a patient smile.

“A virgin, yes. It’s not something to be ashamed of, Steve, and in your case, I don’t believe that your hibernation actually counts in terms of aging. You have the body and mindset of a young man. A young man from a different era, true, but certainly not that of an octogenarian. Believe me, I know!” she chuckled.

There was a moment of silence between them, and Steve gave a soft sigh of his own. “I need to tell her. It wouldn’t be right for this to go any further without her knowing.”

“I agree,” Doctor R nodded. “If you intend to pursue this rrrrelationship, then you must be honest with her.”

“Fury,” Steve murmured tonelessly. “I don’t want to have to ask permission, Doc. I have a right to my own damned life!”

“Yes, you do,” Doctor R agreed. “A fundamental right to your own happiness. If you will give me permission to talk to Nicholas, I will put in my rrrecommendations as soon as possible.”

Steve shot her a look of hope mingled with pragmatism. “You knew this was going to happen, didn’t you? That’s why he arranged these sessions with you. Not just because I needed to be brought up to speed on this decade, but because--”

“But because eventually you would need to start living,” Doctor R agreed. “Super soldier or not, you are a human being with needs like the rrrest of us. You have been alone for a very long time, Steve. I can’t promise that this rrrelationship will work out, but the fact that you are rrreaching out is wonderful.”

“What if—” he began hesitantly, but Doctor R patted his knee again, interrupting him.

“We will make a plan,” she told him pertly. “You are a soldier; you know about objectives and goals. Go home and wrrrite, Steve. List what you want and the best ways to accomplish them. Be very honest with yourself. Take as much time as you need to get the list exactly rrrright. I will talk to Nicholas, and meet with you on our rrregular day, yes?”

“But Lauren . . . I don’t know if I can face her yet,” Steve admitted, blushing again. “After kissing her like that . . .”

“You need a little time,” Doctor R agreed. “A few days, but no more than that.”

A soft chime broke in, and she looked up, noting the time with a start. “Oh! I’m sorry Steve but I have another appointment this morning.”

“That’s okay. Thanks so much for seeing me on short notice,” Steve told her, rising up. “I really appreciate it.”

“Not to worry!” Doctor R told him, giving him another hug. “You are doing very well, and I’m proud of you. Now go and make your list and think about what you will say to Lauren when you see her in a few days.”

Steve nodded and made his way out of the office, feeling lighter.

Avengers fic: Serenade pt2

cincoflex — Thu, 07 Jun 2012 23:57:23 GMT

Story: Serenade
Author: Cincoflex
Fandom: Avengers 2012
Pairing: Steve Rogers/OC

Summary: Everyone on the team seems to have someone special except Steve, and that's about to change.

Author's Notes: This is for Lovellama who is not only a terrific beta, but also a romantic and generous person!

He knew Lauren was up to something; she always blushed when trying to change the subject, and seeing her going pink was fun. Steve gave her his best semi-stern look as he leaned on the counter, and she giggled.

“Okay, okay, it’s the little bar at the Doubletree. Their regular is on vacation and she suggested I fill in for her. I’m scared to death, but I think I’m ready,” she confessed.

Steve nodded, running through his schedule in his head. “I’m pretty sure I can make it,” he told her, painfully aware of the empty hours of his evening. “What time?”

“Steve, no! You don’t have to come see me make a fool of myself!” she blurted, reaching out to touch his arm, her fingers light.

“You’re going to be great and I wouldn’t miss it for the world,” he grinned. “Want me to give you and Joe a ride?”

“Grampa’s got poker at Phil and Lucy’s, and anyway he doesn’t know yet. I haven’t exactly told him.”

That explained the guilty look, Steve realized. He shook his head lightly. “Lauren, Lauren—you know he’ll be proud of you too!”

“It’s not the being proud part, it’s the crowd and the nerves,” she replied, shrugging one shoulder up in embarrassment. “Steve, if I bomb . . . I don’t want him to see it. I don’t want to have him watch me go down in flames.” To emphasize her point she sent one little hand on a downward glide to hit the counter, and Steve winced inwardly at his own memories.

“Okay, I can understand that, I guess,” he gave a reluctant nod. “But you’re not going to bomb; you’ve got talent and a great voice. You’ll have them eating out of your hand.”

“Thanks,” she murmured in that breathless way and when she smiled Steve felt slightly giddy deep inside. He pushed both hands onto the counter to try and recover.

“So . . . what time should I pick you up?”

“What? No—you don’t have to do that!” she protested. “I can get the bus.”

“That might be okay to get there but you’ll be done by what, eleven? You’re not riding the bus at that hour; not alone,” Steve informed her earnestly. “It’s no trouble to drive you.”

“This wasn’t about getting a ride from you,” Lauren murmured, and she busied herself with refilling one of the napkin holders.

“I know, but if I’m going to see you anyway, it just makes sense to be able to take you there and bring you back,” he pointed out. “And if you still want to keep it from Joe—which I don’t think you should—but if you do, then you can tell him we’re going to a movie.”

It wasn’t manipulation, he argued with himself; the buses weren’t safe after dark, and the chance to be with Lauren was too good to miss. She was look at him now, and he liked the way her cheek dimpled when she smiled.

“Okay,” she conceded sweetly. “It would help to have someone in my cheering section, and if you’re going that way . . . about nine or so. I’ll need to get there a little early.”

They made plans, arranging to meet back at Time Was. Steve found himself feeling pleasantly nervous, and it was only a few hours later while brushing his teeth after his workout shower that he realized why.

It was the first time he’d made a date he had a chance of keeping.

That hit like a soft punch below the belt, and for a long couple of moments he stared at his foamy-mouthed reflection in the mirror, wondering why he felt guilty. Peggy had moved on with her life years ago; he’d accepted that . . . hadn’t he?

Steve rinsed out his mouth and leaned over the sink, gripping it tightly. Peggy Carter had grieved for him, and in time she’d gone on to get married and live a long, productive life without him. He’d faced that reality and mourned what could have been, but now and then Steve felt the splinters of doubt prodding him in tender places.

He fished out his cell phone and dialed a number. “Hi. I uh, I just wanted to tell you I’m going on a date.”

“That’s vonderful Steve!”

“Thanks. Right now though . . . it doesn’t . . . feel wonderful.”

“Ahhh. You are rrremembering Peggy, and the date you never kept.”

“Yeah,” Steve admitted, carrying the phone into his bedroom and sitting on the edge of the bed. “Tell me Doc, why is it my head and my body can’t get on the same team?”

“They are; you are simply experiencing some doubt about your own ability to move forward. Tell me—if Peggy had been the one to face certain death, what do you think she would have told YOU to do, Steve?”

It didn’t take much thought. “She would have told me to go on and have a good life.”

“Exactly! Her feelings for you were such that she would vant you to be happy, and that would most certainly mean giving yourself permission to find it, yes?”

Steve thought back to Peggy—fierce, proud, and compassionate. “Oh yeah.”

“Good. My advice is to do just that. Peggy is gone and you are here. This date is just an opportunity to start moving. Have a lovely time, and I will talk to you soon.”

Steve sighed, feeling a hell of a lot better. “Thanks doc. ‘Night.”

“Good night!”

*** *** ***

The piano player for the lounge was a bony beanpole named Mel Fein, and he had glasses as thick as lighthouse lenses. Luckily he could play on pure instinct, and when he turned his myopic gaze towards her, Lauren tried not to giggle at his magnified eyes.

“Okay sweetheart, what’s your repertoire?” he croaked kindly. “Bacharach? Streisand hits? Maybe some watered down disco?”

“Uh, I was thinking some Sinatra and Peggy Lee,” Lauren countered softly. “Stuff that’s a little more . . .”

“Torchy,” Mel supplied happily. “You got it, doll-face. I think you and I are gonna get along fine. Key of C okay with you?”

“Perfect,” she agreed, handing him some sheet music. He took it, grinning as he looked over the scores, nodding in approval at the titles.

“Hoo-boy, the classics. These take me back.” Mel peered up at Lauren, smiling. “This the lineup you want?”

“If that’s okay.”

“Works for me, Toots. Whenever you’re ready.”

Lauren took a breath, smiled out at the audience and felt her heart sink a little. Four. Only four people out there—two businessmen, a lady on her laptop, and Steve. Ah well; had to start somewhere.

She sang. It was easy to work with Mel, who clearly loved the songs as much as she did. He took her through Black Coffee and You’d Be so Nice to Come Home to and My Funny Valentine without missing a beat, his long fingers keeping the tunes soft under her voice. Lauren tried to sing to everybody, but her gaze kept going back to Steve, who sat ramrod straight at his table, his palms caressing the glass of Pepsi between his big hands. By the time she worked her way through In the Wee Small Hours of the Morning, she knew that not only was Steve the only one listening to her, but that he was also the only one that mattered.

The songs flowed, and suddenly the words meant so much more as Lauren crooned them, saying things she’d only dreamed about to the man out there in the shadows. It was almost arousing to be able to tease and confess, to bare herself heart and soul this way.

And given how he kept his eyes on her the whole time, Lauren hoped the feeling was maybe a little bit mutual, although she couldn’t really tell. By the time she’d started Daddy, though, she felt Steve’s gaze smolder a bit. She gave it her best low tease, making her way through the verses and gave a few sways of her hips for emphasis. By the time she finished, even Mel behind her clapped, grinning.

The businessmen applauded politely; the woman with the laptop didn’t bother glancing her way. Steve however, was looking at her as if . . . well as if she was an apple pie he wanted to gobble up. Lauren blushed at that while she said goodnight and went to thank Mel.

“Wonderful workin’ with you,” he croaked back, grinning. “You got the chops, kid. I’m gonna put in a word with the manager so we can get you back. Loved that last one—you did Julie proud, ya did!”

“Thanks.” Impulsively Lauren hugged him. “You made it a lot of fun!”

Steve walked over, and before she even looked up Lauren could feel the heat coming off of him. He was smiling shyly, but there was something about the way he studied her that made Lauren want to lick her lips. “You liked it.”

“I more than liked it,” he murmured back, picking up her backpack and swinging it over his shoulder. “You were terrific.”

He was so earnest, his gaze so direct that Lauren found it hard look back at him. “Thanks for being out there, Steve; you were a lifeline!”

“Wouldn’t have missed it for the world!” he told her, grinning, and she slipped her arms around him, hugging him hard. The minute she did, Lauren sighed; Steve was all warm muscle with a hint of aftershave, a pillar of a man. Dizzily, crazily she wondered for a moment what he’d look like without a shirt.

God she hoped she’d get a chance to find out.

It started to rain halfway through the ride back home, and Lauren clung more tightly to Steve as he slowed the motorcycle down in response, and she squirmed a bit, feeling the vibrations all through her in a way she didn’t really need at the moment. Having her arms around his waist was tempting enough, but being bounced as well didn’t help at all, not with the way she was feeling about him.

It wasn’t just that he was handsome. Heck, it wasn’t about Steve being handsome—it was about him being so . . . everything else. Being sweet, and kind, and considerate, and funny, and gentle. Being good to grandpa. Being a little bit lost and a little bit lonely too. Lauren understood that last part pretty damned well herself, but seeing it in Steve made her want to just . . . well . . . love him.

When they reached the Time Was, Steve rolled the big bike into the side alley and parked it, then helped her off and hurried with her to the awning that covered the side door that led to the upstairs apartment. The light was on, so Grandpa was home, Lauren noted with mingled relief and disappointment. She had hoped to invite Steve in for a private moment, but now that wasn’t likely.

She reached for the backpack on his shoulder, suddenly aware that she probably looked like crap all wet from the rain, but Steve didn’t let it go. Instead, he looked at her, his own hair darker and plastered down from the rain.

“I had a good time tonight,” he told her. “Best time in . . . well, years.”

“Me too,” Lauren replied. She felt a shiver of fear in her stomach as a sudden mad impulse surged through her. She wanted this, wanted it so badly . . . “Steve . . .”

He moved closer under the awning, bending a little to hear her, and Lauren raised her head moving closer as well, passing that daring point of being misunderstood, looking up at Steve and hoping, hoping . . .

The press of his lips was so exquisitely soft, and Lauren shivered. The minute his mouth touched hers, she gave a sigh that mingled with his, and then the kiss melded and grew, becoming their kiss, a hungry, urgent thing, quiet but intense. She savored it, pressing against him and trying to slow the frantic beat of her heart.

They kept kissing breathlessly, nuzzling together, lost to the rain and the dark and the cold, swept up in this new paradigm. Lauren felt fire racing through her, heat flaring between them at a barely controlled level making her achy and breathless and hungry. Steve scooped her up; she felt her feet leave the ground, and Lauren clung to him, shyly parting her lips and letting her tongue touch his. He groaned in surrender, making her wriggle---

“Lauren, did you forget your k—whoa! Sorry kids, sorry . . . I’ll just . . .” came Joe’s voice as the door opened a crack and closed again.

In a rush, Lauren found herself standing again, reality slamming back in the cold, wet chill of the rainy night. She looked up at Steve, who seemed just as reluctant to let her go, and licked her lips. “Do, do you want to come in?” she asked him.

Steve shook his head, flinging raindrops as he did so. “I . . . can’t stay,” he told her gruffly, eyes never leaving hers. “Lauren . . .” but he didn’t finish whatever it was he wanted to say. He touched her cheek and turned, striding off into the downpour and she watched him go before taking a deep breath. Lauren touched her mouth, remembering Steve’s kisses, locking the sensation away before turning to the door and going inside.

Honeyed Moon (2/4) rated R

cincoflex — Thu, 07 Jun 2012 23:31:51 GMT

Story: Honeyed Moon
Author: Cincoflex
Fandom: Avengers 2012
Pairing: Loki/Oc

Summary: Loki returns to meet his in-laws. Still crackfic, with overtones of life.

A/N: As always, I give massive praise to my Betas, VR_Trakowsi and Lovellama for both encouraging and correcting me. Any mistakes here are my own; they did their best to keep me readable! Banner art is from the Internet--beautiful, huh? If you know who made it lemme know so I can give credit.

“Dragon’s claws are tipped with venom,” Thor announced. His voice sounded odd over the phone, and Cynara suspected it was on speaker, wherever he was. “Their poison can wound the Jötunn because it chills them.”

“I thought venom burned,” Cynara mused.

“Dragon venom burns those with heated blood. Those born in frost are frostbitten by it,” Thor replied. “Had I had been clawed, I would fever as the wound festered. Loki is not of my body’s blood, so for him, he will freeze.”

She felt a flare of panic. “Uh, okay, so what should I do to help him?”

“Warmth,” came the reply. “Also, horseradish.”

“Excuse me? Horseradish?”

Thor laughed. “Yes. Heat must be applied within and without. Pepper is good, and the fiery sauce of the ta-cos. Anything that brings fire to the belly will help one such as Loki.”

“Uhhh, okayyyy.” Cynara muttered. She knew Thor had a sense of humor, but she hoped this wasn’t some bizarre manifestation of it.

“Trust me, Cynara Sigyn-Laufeyson—heat will be good. Do not let him grow cold. Loki may be a weight upon my heart, but for all that I still call him my brother.”

She appreciated that, and promising to take the advice, hung up. After a moment, Cynara wandered into the kitchen, trying to remember if she had any horseradish.

It was a small kitchen; the entire house was compact for a two story, built back in the Twenties, when living on Staten Island was considered living in the country. The landlord had done a few necessary repairs and improvements, but for the most part the house still had a lot of original features and to Cynara’s eye, charm. She liked it much better than the apartment she’d originally lived in, and the bonuses of having both a back yard—even if it was only the size of a postage stamp—and a view of the Atlantic Ocean went a long way in offsetting the commute to Manhattan by ferry each day.

Catsup, mustard, mayo, soy sauce, ah! Horseradish, tucked behind a bottle of maple syrup on the refrigerator door. Cynara pulled it out and looked for an expiration date. Finding none, she rummaged in the cupboard for a can of chicken soup, talking to herself. “I’m not sure these really go together.”

She dug out one of the heating pads from the cupboard in the hall closet and was at the top of the stairs when her phone rang again; recognizing the number, Cynara gritted her teeth before answering. “Hi mom.”

“Hi hon. Just wanted to remind you about bringing the potato salad tomorrow,” he mother burbled. “You know how Harry loves your potato salad!”

“Oh. Tomorrow . . .” a rush of panic and guilt hit her; she noticed Loki sitting up in bed now, looking pale but rested. “Um, I’m not sure I can make it, Mom. My . . . husband is in town.”

“That’s wonderful, about time!” came the enthusiastic reply. “Oh ‘Nara sweetheart, you’ve got to bring him so we can finally MEET our son-in-law! I’ll tell Harry to pick up another steak! Ohh, he’s not vegetarian, is he?”

“Wait mom—I don’t think he is, but--” Cynara tried to protest, but the phone suddenly flew out of her hand, zooming swiftly from her grasp and through the bedroom doorway to Loki’s outstretched fingers. He cradled it to his ear and smirked.

“No, I’m not vegetarian at all,” he murmured.

Cynara scrambled into the room and over the mattress, trying to reclaim the phone, but Loki twisted away from her listening intently before speaking again. “We’d be delighted to come, of course. Family is all important.” He fended off a further grab and added, “Yes, your accent is very lovely too. Tomorrow then. Thank you,” and handed the phone to Cynara who glared daggers at him before putting it to her ear.

“Mom?”

“Oh he sounds so suave!” came her mother’s comment. “All right it’s settled then. We’ll see you two around three tomorrow, with potato salad! Be careful driving over the causeway, honey!”

“Mom?” but she had already hung up. Cynara turned a glare on the man beside her. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

He flashed her a careless grin. “Meeting my in-laws?”

“No!” Cynara wailed. “No! Look, my mom is okay; she pretty much loves everyone, but Harry . . .”

“If she does not love Harry, why did she marry him?”

“No—what I mean is that Harry is a lot more cynical,” Cynara muttered. “Look, my mom and step-dad are retired and happy, okay? They don’t really need to know that there’s an Asgard, or that most of Manhattan was leveled because of your machinations, Husband. They really don’t need the stress!”

“I should have known that you would be ashamed of our marriage,” Loki replied in a melancholy tone, his gaze distant. “Ashamed of me.”

It was a low blow, and even as she moved to deny it, Cynara caught a glimpse of something sly deep in his green eyes. “Stop it! You’re not going to put words in my mouth, and you’re not going to make me feel guilty for wanting to protect my mother! And I’m not ashamed of you, all right? You are a god, and brilliant in your own twisted way, and . . and . . .”

“Yes?” He prompted, rolling over and pinning her down against the mattress, dimples deep again. Cynara tried to scowl up at him, her fluffy hair splayed all over the pillows.

“And a huge pain in the ass,” she finished. “But I promised to love and honor you, not to obey you.”

“Two out of three is a good start,” Loki considered before dipping his head to kiss her. His mouth was cold, and Cynara shivered, lightly squirming to break the kiss and cup his face.

“You need heat.”

“Yes,” he agreed quietly. “The poison is working through me as I knew it would. I should be healed by tomorrow, though.”

Cynara sighed. “If you keep the heating pad on, and if you drink all the soup I make you and if you are better, then fine, okay, I’ll take you to Perth Amboy tomorrow, although I can’t really believe you want to go.”

Loki gave her a peculiar glance, and she realized why it struck her as so odd; his expression was both serious and touched with a tiny hint of delight. “Wife, I did not lie to your mother. Asgardian or human; family IS all.”

Cynara stared at him for a moment longer, and sighed again.

*** *** ***

She fed Loki a mug of chicken noodle and horseradish soup in bed, which he seemed to enjoy, and his elegant table manners surprised her. Somehow she’d thought of the banqueting halls and feasts of Asgard to be hugely messy affairs, with bones tossed over shoulders, and sloshed steins of mead spilling everywhere and told him so.

He laughed. “That’s hardly proper behavior for gods, now, is it? Oh some of the rowdier ones might get drunk and slovenly, but there are some standards that are universal. Besides, one makes a stronger impression when civilized.”

“I suppose,” she replied, shuffling out of her clothes and climbing into bed next to him. “What size are you?”

He shot her a suggestive look and Cynara blushed, elaborating. “In clothing. You’ll need something to wear for tomorrow, and the green leather would be a little . . . much, husband.”

“I could always simply alter my form,” he offered, but Cynara shook her head.

“I don’t want you to stress yourself.” Privately she worried that he might forget his focus and end up naked; not a bad thing in private, but certainly not something she wanted anyone else to see, much less her mother.

“You humans, always so concerned with appearances,” he sniffed. Cynara gave him a dry look and eloquently mimed a long pair of horns, stretching her hands high over her head.

Loki shrugged. “Advertising.”

“Bragging.”

He set the mug on the nightstand. “That sounds like a demand for proof, wife.”

Cynara did her best to look innocent of the charge, but couldn’t keep a straight face when Loki pulled her to him. The chill of his torso made her shiver, but he gave a sigh, eyes half-open as he smiled. “So very warm, this soft skin of yours . . .” as he spoke, he let his palms slide down her ribs, his fingers stroking along the shallow trough of her spine.

She shivered. “Mmmm, are you well enough . . . ?”

He gave her a sweetly lofty look. “Such a foolish question! For that, you must suffer much pleasure.”

Cynara tried to figure this out, and wasn’t prepared when he pulled her up, his strength more than enough to make her grip the headboard for balance. “What are you . . .?” she gasped, unprepared to feel him slither down under her, his hands sliding around her thighs, parting them in a lovely arch over his face.

“How sweet,” he murmured, “Hidden treasures for me.”

Cynara blushed, trying not to squirm, but it was difficult. Loki had one big hand gripping each cheek of her ass and was nuzzling his way between her thighs, humming to himself. She looked down at him. “Husband . . .” she began, but a moment later felt the cool touch of his lips along her inner thigh.

She writhed; the tickle was nearly unbearable, particularly when he began to speak, his words muffled against her skin.

“Let us make heat . . .”

He was ruthless. Three times Loki brought her to the very edge of orgasm, cruelly backing off before each peak to leave Cynara in a writhing frenzy of need. She gripped the headboard and growled, trying to push against his lips but his grip on her ass held her firmly as Loki chuckled.

“Shall I keep going?” he taunted her, peeking just over the damp fluff of her mound.

Cynara twisted out of his grip, sliding herself down, one hand reaching between her legs, cupping his cock which lay rigid on his flat belly. “Evil is as evil does,” she managed, and shifted until the head of his prick nestled just within the wet folds between her hips. She locked her knees, resisting his attempts to pull her down, and reached back behind her to tug his hands away.

Surprised, Loki let her, finding his wrists pinned down to the mattress a moment later. He grinned up at her, teeth very white in the twilight that filled the bedroom. “The kitten has teeth, I see.”

“I am woman, hear me roar,” Cynara informed him, and pushed back with agonizing slowness, allowing only the head of his cock to slip inside of her.

His nostrils flared as he drew in a breath, and for a moment Loki’s green eyes flashed dangerously. In a quick stroke he attempted to thrust his way up, but Cynara anticipated this move and rose up on her knees as he did so, keeping him just within the tantalizing inch he’d gained.

“We can dance,” she informed him sweetly, “or we can fuck.”

“Where is the difference?” Loki asked, looking up at her smugly.

“Here . . .” Lazily Cynara rolled her hips and squeezed, grateful that Pilates and kegels were going to pay off. They did; Loki gave a low bray of pleasured surprise, his hips jerking up again. He fought to control himself, but there was impatience in his gaze now and hunger.

“Wicked little Wife,” he murmured with a sense of bemused pride. “You dare to taunt a god?”

“Oh I do.Take me, Husband. Hard.”

He did, driving up into her, stroking deeply as Cynara cried out and rocked with him in counterstroke, their rhythm rough and graceless but full of heat. She couldn’t keep a grip on his wrists, bounced as she was by the drive of his hips. Loki slipped his arms around her bracing and caging her torso against his, his breath hot on her face.

Cynara’s groans began to rise in pitch as each thrust brought her closer to climax, and in the moment right before she did, she felt words—those words--leave her lips in a ragged whisper.

Loki’s eyes opened wide and then she was soaring, every muscle shuddering with quicksilver pleasure as she clung to him and rode out her orgasm in blissful triumph, feeling his own rocketing through hers.

She woke up a few hours later, sticky and disoriented, half tangled in the sheets. Cynara got up gingerly, feeling achy in delicate places as she went to use the bathroom and check on Sven-the-Fress. He was out in the yard, napping on the doormat so she set a bowl of water out and made her way back upstairs.

Loki was curled on his side, his bandaging dislodged. As she watched, he shivered. Cynara chided herself and climbed back into bed, pulling the blanket up over them. She curled herself around his lean back, alarmed at how cold he was and let her body heat absorb the chill. Gently Cynara tugged the bandage back in place and then draped her arm around Loki’s narrow waist as soothingly as she could.

Gradually he warmed and his shivering stopped; she fell asleep.

Avenger Fic: Serenade Rated R

cincoflex — Wed, 06 Jun 2012 11:30:54 GMT

Story: Serenade
Author: Cincoflex
Fandom: Avengers 2012
Pairing: Steve Rogers/OC

Summary: Everyone on the team seems to have someone special except Steve, and that's about to change.

Author's Notes: This is for Lovellama who is not only a terrific beta, but also a romantic and generous person!

Serenade

Her name was Lauren. Steve liked it; he'd always had a bit of a crush on Bacall, back in the day. Lots of the starlets back then were the bee's knees—Betty and Rita and Lauren. Steve had pinned up one or two himself, caught up by certain smiles that touched something deep inside him. Some little promise of magic and heat.

Long ago that was the allure. A gal could shoot a smile straight into a guy's dreams, give him something to fight for. Something to strive for against the enemy. Something to come home to.

But this was now, and now meant that this Lauren ran the Time Was Bookstore and Café off the bike lane on Second Avenue and 34th. She and her grandfather, the pair of them managing the place together even though Mr. Scott—Joe, he'd insisted on being called—was pushing eight-seven now. He still got around but Steve knew Lauren was looking out for him more and more.

Lauren Scott. Steve had found the place simply by walking around, and right from the first day Lauren had given him one of those starlet smiles. He'd gotten a cup of coffee and a copy of the paper, feeling at home amid the old movie posters, strains of Benny Goodman in the air, and even though it was all wishful thinking, for one afternoon Steve felt like he had his feet under him. It wasn't his old world, but there was enough of it to feel . . . grounded.

So he came back the week after, and after that, and pretty soon it got to be his go-to place in the afternoons. Most of the other patrons were older, or fans of past generations; either way they made a comfortable little crowd that Steve found himself on nodding acquaintance with. The coffee was good, the muffins were home-made, and there was always Lauren to talk to.

It was tough at first. Steve had always thought women were a bit of a mystery, and in this day and age they were even more exotically unreachable with their confidence and strength. He admired it—he'd always liked women who didn't play coy—but it was damned hard to get used to after the lifetime of manners and morals he'd had drilled into him.

And there was Peggy of course. He'd fallen hard for her, and the heartbreak of waking up to a future where she was gone . . . Steve was still dealing with that. He and Doctor R had covered it in their weekly sessions the last year, and he'd done his share of grieving. Peggy had been his first love, and she would always be a tiny ache deep in his heart, sure. That was the human part of him, and always would be.

Steve didn't think he'd ever want anyone else, but Doctor R had assured him he would; that over time he'd accept that life was a forward process, and that it wasn't selfish to want companionship, and even love. He was skeptical, but as time went on, Doctor R's words bore out, and he accepted them. When he told her about Lauren, she'd smiled.

"It's not like that," Steve told her. "She's easy to talk to, and the whole place . . . it's good."

"It's not a rrrreplacement though, Steve. And she is not either."

"No, I know that."

"Goot. As long as you rrremember that, things will go well."

So it had been over a year, and little by little he and Lauren had a . . . friendship thing going. She confided in him, and remembered his birthday, the way he liked his coffee and pie. Steve brought her flowers for her birthday and took her to Radio City Music Hall for the Easter show. Sometimes they both took Joe to Central Park for a Sunday afternoon, talking about everything and nothing in particular.

They said things to make each other laugh, and Lauren never made fun of his old-fashioned ways. Steve wasn't quite ready to talk about exactly why he didn't get most current references and neither Joe nor Lauren pushed. They accepted he was a vet and left it at that, for which Steve was grateful. In due time he'd tell them, but for now it was okay to just enjoy their company and not brood about the way things were.

He wasn't quite sure when his feelings about Lauren changed, but it seemed Doctor R was right about that. Steve suspected his brain was still trying to catch up to what his body already knew, particularly once the dreams started. Awake, he could always put his focus on training and whatever Fury assigned him to, but once he got into bed and closed his eyes, Steve was helpless to resist the images that drifted through his mind in sleep.

The first time it happened he'd woken up damp and sticking to the sheets, feeling mortified and achy, glad to be alone in his humiliating state. Sure Doctor R had told him to expect this, but wet dreams at this age seemed a little ridiculous, and if Stark ever found out-Steve knew his life would become a living nightmare.

Sure he could indulge in a little manual relief and had in the shower, but it was difficult not to feel a sense of shame to it even after all of Doctor R's assurances that it was both normal and beneficial. But jerking off was a kid's option and Steve felt he was too old to be doing it.

It wouldn't be so bad if the dreams weren't so . . . vivid, he thought with a sigh. Lauren's hands on his chest and stomach, Lauren's round little bottom in his lap, Lauren's lips against his . . . . Even the memory of some of those dream fragments made him restless. Steve tried to distract himself with extra time at the gym, or by catching up on some of the reports Fury passed his way, but those did only so much to keep him from daydreaming.

-oo00oo-

The day Steve Rogers stepped into Time Was roughly a year ago, Lauren thought he looked like one of the old recruiting posters come to life. She remembered looking up at him and thinking this guy couldn't possibly be real; not with that earnest face and hunky build. New York had all types, but the All American was pretty damned rare in the big city.

But there he was, polite and genuinely nice. Lauren waited on him and watched how he sat and ate and talked with Grandpa Joe. She was pretty good about assessing customers; most business people in the Big Apple were and Lauren knew that Time Was customers fell into one of three categories. There were the old-timers, who had lived through the past generations represented and liked the atmosphere of the place. Then there were the respectful historians and nostalgia fans who poured over the movie posters and second-hand memorabilia, indulging themselves.

The last category were those she called lost souls; people who came to the shop for some unknown reason. It was a small category, limited at the moment to Steve, who was neither old nor particularly geeky. She found she didn't mind, either—he was a loyal as a Golden Retriever, and about as hungry at times, always ordering a muffin or slice of pie at every visit.

At first she wondered if Steve might be gay—one of those bodybuilder types drifting up from The Center—but within a few visits Lauren knew that wasn't the case. He was always alone, and once she'd caught him staring at one of the War Bonds posters in the back, the one that featured the Captain America chorus line with all the leggy cuties. He'd blushed when she caught him.

"They were all nice girls," Steve had mumbled, "I bet."

"I bet they were," she'd agreed, relieved.

So not gay, just . . . shy.

She liked that, and made it a point to be quietly friendly each time Steve came in. That wasn't hard, mostly because Lauren liked people and specifically because Steve was easy to chat with. He knew a hell of a lot about The Big One, as Grandpa called it, and sometimes the two of them went on long discussions about the Axis powers and various battles while Lauren bussed tables and listened in.

Grandpa pegged Steve as a veteran right away. "The way he talks, the way he sits and keeps an eye on everyone in the joint—he was an officer. I can tell." It wasn't a surprise when Steve nodded at the question next time he came in, but he looked so melancholy that neither she nor Grandpa asked him any questions beyond that.

"When he wants to talk about it, he will," Grandpa predicted. "It's not our business anyway, right?"

"Yep." Lauren had seen plenty of vets before and knew that not all of them transitioned back in to civilian life that easily. Still, Steve seemed fine—he was all there, mentally, and as for physically . . . well, Lauren knew those muscles weren't just for show. One afternoon he'd helped her take the garbage to the dumpster out back, and with a one-handed shove he'd pushed the huge metal container back up against the wall.

And it had been full at the time, Lauren remembered with a shiver.

Most of the time Steve wore plaid shirts and a brown leather jacket, but she couldn't help wishing she could see him in a little less, or at the very least in something a little more form-fitting. When summer rolled around her wish was partially granted when Steve took to wearing polo shirts which showcased his biceps nicely.

It sort of embarrassed her that she was so conscious of his physique. After all he was a nice guy, and it wouldn't matter if he wasn't buffed as all get-out, but Lauren knew part of her interest was just good old hormones pointing out what she liked. She and Jay had broken up nearly two years ago, and although it was the right decision, there were parts of the relationship she missed.

Jay had wanted to update Time Was and make it a franchise to one of the bigger bookstore chains. He had all kinds of ideas for upgrading and improving the place, and while Lauren wasn't crazy about them, his cold, off-hand comment of "oh, and we'll find a nice retirement home for your gramps' had been the capper. Sure Jay was bright and ambitious, and he'd been a lot of fun to cuddle and make out with, but if the price of getting married was putting Grandpa in a home, no way.

Her biggest regret was that they'd just done it for the first time.

Lauren remembered lying in Jay's arms, listening to him rattle on about the future of Time Was, and then when he'd said what he'd said, it was over. She'd gotten up and dressed, so fuming mad that she couldn't see straight, walking the whole twelve blocks back home, pissed as hell. Grandpa let her in and held her while she cried, but she never told him what Jay had said, and when the flowers came the next day she threw them in the trash.

So that was that.

Sure a few guys tried to hit on her at work, but Lauren deflected them pretty easily, and most got the hint right away. She wasn't really interested in dating at the moment anyway—Time Was took a lot of her attention, and her other project sucked up the rest. She found herself making time for Steve, though. Part of it was because of the way he and Grandpa got along of course.

And part of it was that he was just so darned cute.

Honeyed Moon (1/4) Avenger fic : R

cincoflex — Mon, 04 Jun 2012 00:13:48 GMT

Story: Honeyed Moon
Author: Cincoflex
Fandom: Avengers 2012
Pairing: Loki/Oc

Summary: Loki returns to meet his in-laws. Still crackfic, with overtones of life.

A/N: As always, I give massive praise to my Betas, VR_Trakowsi and Lovellama for both encouraging and correcting me. Any mistakes here are my own; they did their best to keep me readable!

Cynara wasn’t sure how the musk ox got into her office, but she was pretty sure who was responsible.

She clung to the doorway for a long moment, staring at the shaggy beast that was casually nosing through the papers on her desk, and tried not to breathe in the scent of hair, hide and hay that rolled off him in waves.

“Husband?” she called into the air, trying to keep her voice from panicking. That was the trick; sounding like it was sweet to find a huge ungulate in her workplace.

“A gift,” came the voice from behind her. “For you.”

She jumped, and peered over her shoulder, instantly irritated that he was smiling at her, dimples deep despite looking tired and pale as well.

“A . . . gift,” Cynara repeated, resolving to stay calm. “Thank you. I did not know I needed a musk ox.”

“It is a husband’s duty to provide,” Loki intoned.

Cynara stared at it, and then back at him. “He’s not . . . your son, is he?”

Loki looked thoughtful for a moment. “I’m fairly sure he is not. I would have remembered calving him, and my attraction to shaggy females was . . . just a youthful phase.”

“Too much information,” Cynara chuffed, trying to squeeze into her office around the hairy mass. “Husband, what do you expect me to do with a musk ox, and answer that question carefully, because while you may like gallivanting around with creatures, I’m not that sort of wife.”

“Sven-the-Fress will be a guardian,” Loki intoned, waving airily. “A varon-ox of sorts.”

“Sven-the-Fress? Fress means tomcat. He’s NOT a tomcat!” Cynara darted forward, yanking away the ream of paper the ox had begun to nibble.

“You don’t like him,” Loki deflated, looking genuinely hurt and Cynara took a deep breath.

“He’s the best-looking musk ox I’ve ever seen,” she announced truthfully. “And nobody has ever given me one before.”

“I can get more--”

“No! Ah, no, one is more than enough, husband. One is almost too much. I’m pretty sure the lease has a restriction on pets larger than thirty pounds, which means I won’t be able to ah, keep him.”

Loki tipped his head, looking at the musk ox in a calculating way. “Thirty pounds . . .”

He waved a hand, and instantly the musk ox shrunk, compressing until it was the size and shape of a corgi. Cynara blinked, and crouched down, reaching a tentative hand out to touch the miniaturized musk ox. The animal permitted the petting, then began to nose around the toe of her leather boot. “Uhhh, okaayyy.”

“You will not get as much wool from him this way,” Loki sighed. “It may take years to gather enough to knit.”

“I’ll buy you socks,” Cynara assured him, and rose, looking up into his face. She laid a hand on her husband’s cheek, which was cool under her fingers. He leaned into her touch, and she noted tinges of green around his eyelids. “Are you ill?”

“I am merely tired and require your care,” Loki murmured, and promptly quashed the tender feelings rising up inside her by adding, “therefore I order you to wait on me until I am healed.”

“Hold on a minute, I’m at work, Husband—I have projects to do. You can’t just whisk me---”

Apparently he could, Cynara sourly realized a moment later as the two of them materialized outside the front steps of the house on Yetman Avenue. Loki had Sven-the-Fress tucked under one arm, like a shaggy football. Cynara looked around, hoping nobody had noticed them, but unfortunately old Mrs. Calufrax from across the street was watering the flowerbeds in her yard and staring at them suspiciously.

Cynara waved. “Oh, hi. Your ah, zinnias are looking nice . . . see you . . .” she linked an arm through Loki’s and hustled him into the house, fumbling with her keys and growling under her breath. “Honestly, of all the people to see you!”

“She has forgotten already,” Loki replied, setting Sven-the-Fress down and straightening up with a groan.

Cynara looked at him again, and stepped closer. “You’re in pain. Tell me what’s wrong.”

“A scratch,” he sighed, “or two.” He moved to open the jerkin he wore, pulling away the edges to reveal pale skin scored with long oozing gashes. “Apparently dragons make outstanding sentinels.”

“Dragons? As in more than one? Oh God . . .” Cynara began to pull the rest of his clothing open, studying the wounds with horror.

“Only one clawed me,” Loki pointed out, a flicker of a smile crossing his mouth. “While I have a fair measure of speed, he had just a bit more. Ow.” This last came as Cynara lightly touched one of the marks.

“Out of your clothes,” she commanded quietly. “These gashes need to be washed and you need to lie down somewhere.”

Loki raised an eyebrow. “I am a god; you do not order me around like some minion.”

Cynara chuffed, looking up at him mutinously. “I am a wife; my duty is to take care of you.”

He thought this over and then nodded imperiously. “Proceed.”

“Oh thank you,” she muttered under her breath even as she helped him out of the ornate green leather gear he generally wore. Cynara wasn’t sure what everything was called, but once Loki was down to skin, she tried not to lick her lips.

He was still gorgeous, despite the oozing gashes along his ribs, pale and lean muscle, and even shirtless he projected the lazy grace of a long tomcat. Cynara couldn’t help herself and reached out to smooth her fingers along his chest, pretending she wasn’t when Loki caught her and grinned.

Of course it was his devastating one; the grin that sent heat through her stomach and lower. It had been nearly two months since Cynara had last seen her husband on their wedding night in Las Vegas and her body was letting her know it remembered him. He caught her hand in his and gave it a light squeeze. “We both burn,” he murmured, and Cynara blushed.

“Yes, well we need to get you healed before anything else, Husband. Those slashes don’t look very good, and I don’t want you getting any worse . . .” she told him firmly, but he pulled her close and looked down at her, green eyes smoldering.

“Healing comes in many forms,” Loki intoned hoarsely. “Where is our bed?”

Cynara thought hard, trying to figure out what best to do. From the look of his injuries, anything as strenuous as sex would be sure to either worsen the gashes or force whatever infection/poison was in them to act faster, but at the same time she knew it had been an act of trust for Loki to come to her in his need. Any rejection now might send him into a rage, or worse, merely send him away, and that wouldn’t bode well for anyone in the long run.

An option came to mind; something she knew would probably appeal to him. Smiling, she batted her eyes up at Loki. “Oh lord and master,” she cooed, snickering to herself even as the words slipped out. “Allow me to pleasure you here and now, as befits a god.”

He looked confused, as well he might, Cynara thought. She’d never played the concubine card before.

Loki arched an eyebrow again, but she slid her hands down to his trousers, noting the tented ridge as she undid the fastenings as deftly as she could. Oh he was a god; of that there could be little doubt, and she began to kiss her way down his chest and stomach, making her intention clear.

Over her head she heard him give a startled gasp. “What . . . ohhhhhh. Yes. Yes, befitting a god . . .”

She settled on her knees, grateful that the living room shades were closed; the last thing she needed was to give Mrs. Calufrax a heart attack. The sweet musk of Loki’s skin made her sigh, and she tugged the leather trousers down, freeing his prick and taking it in her two hands happily before nuzzling it.

Fun. This was fun, Cynara thought. She’d always liked giving pleasure, and the playful talent of performing a good blowjob was very satisfying. Carefully she licked his length, gratified when Loki shuddered. God he might be, she thought, but he was just as basic in his drives as she was. That was her last deliberate thought as she bent her face and slowly slipped his thick shaft into her mouth.

He tasted of salt, leather and citrus, and Cynara took her time in toying with the thick head of his cock, kissing it playfully as she caressed his heavy silky balls, making pleased little sounds whenever he reacted. There was something endearing about hearing Loki breathe heavily, and when one of his hands slid through her hair, long fingers weaving into her fluffy curls, she gave a hum of approval.

“Bride, you are . . .” he groaned, “worthy . . .”

She nearly smiled, but instead quickened her pace, savoring the sudden swell of his prick as she did so. Cynara squirmed a little, aroused herself, but put her focus back on pleasuring him, gliding her tongue around the sensitive underside, lightly raking her teeth on the topside—not hard, just enough to tease.

It worked; the fingers in her hair tightened. Cynara slid one hand around the back of his thigh to brace him and began to move steadily, losing herself in the rhythm of this pleasure. After a while his groans deepened and grew louder, and she felt the warning throbs against her tongue before Loki came, the heated spurts tasting of anise and cream.

Cynara swallowed, surprised at the mild taste, and licked the rest of him clean, feeling absolutely smug. She was still horny as hell herself of course, but doing mischief to the god of the same had been a true triumph, one she intended to savor a bit. The fingers in her hair loosened and slipped free, moving around her head to stroke her cheek and lift her chin. She looked up the long torso of her husband to his face.

His pale, oh-so-vulnerable face. They stared at each other a long moment, and she felt a rush of something fiercely joyful rise through her as she stood again, slipping her hands up to cup his face.

“My goddess,” Loki whispered. Then he smiled again, the vulnerable expression gone, replaced by a slightly dazed look. “I fear I shall need our bed after all . . .” he swayed and Cynara slipped an arm around him, guiding Loki up the stairs and wondering if Sven-the-Fress would try to follow them.

*** *** ***

The wounds looked worse in good light, and Cynara steeled herself before unpacking the first aid kit. All S.H.I.E.L.D. agents had triage training to some degree; it made sense considering how random and dangerous the job could be. Case in point: dealing with oozing dragon-claw gashes. She pulled out gauze and hydrogen peroxide and antibiotic ointment, then looked at Loki’s face.

He lay quietly—already an indication of how much pain he was in—on his right side, eyes closed. Cynara spoke softly. “I’m going to clean these and put something over them to help heal and protect them. I think you ought to try and sleep, Husband.”

“You may carry on,” he murmured, not opening his eyes, his voice sleepy. With care, Cynara cleaned each gash, wiping the gummy blood and sticky ichor away before applying the ointment and taping gauze over them. He would probably have a scar or two, she thought; not typical for a god, but then again dragons were powerful too, in their own right.

“Why were you messing around with dragons?” she asked in a low voice, trying to make the question sound unimportant.

“I was not ‘messing around’ with them,” came his terse reply. “They were a minor difficulty I encountered while attending to matters best left unshared with you.”

“Hmmm.”

“It is far better for all concerned that you remain ignorant, Wife,” Loki assured her through gritted teeth. “Trust me.”

Cynara said nothing, figuring he was probably right; anything involving dragons was probably something she didn’t really want to know about. On the other hand she had no doubt that Fury probably knew Loki was here and would be asking questions very soon. “Fine, fine. Try and get some sleep.”

He gave a murmur of agreement. Cynara finished with the dressings, and then moved to pull a blanket over him and kiss his temple; it was cool against her lips.

At least he didn’t have a fever, she noted.

Tiptoeing downstairs, she came upon the sight of her avocado tree being stripped of leaves by a very determined Sven-the-Fress. Two small and steaming piles of fresh manure in the hallway assured her he’d made himself at home, and grumbling, she went to get paper towels and wipes, wondering if it was even possible to house-train a musk ox.

After cleaning up and washing her hands, Cynara picked up her phone. She hesitated, wondering what she was going to say, but was saved the trouble when it rang in her hand. A peek at the screen made her flinch, but Cynara answered it calmly. “Sir.”

“Special technician Sigyn-Laufeyson,” Fury rolled out impatiently. “Since you’re generally not in the habit of importing livestock or leaving work without authorization, I’ll assume your husband is around.”

“He did stop in at the office, and um, brought me a present,” Cynara agreed. They’d left in a hurry; she wondered if Sven-the-Fress had left anything behind that she hadn’t noticed.

“Flowers are a present,” Fury pointed out. “Chocolates are a present. Fifteen hundred pound musk oxen are NOT a damned present!”

“Well culturally speaking they sort of are, sir,” she replied. “I mean, given the template of Asgardian civilization, livestock were and are considered status symbols to show off personal wealth--”

“Save the cultural justification for someone else,” Fury snapped. “What’s he doing here?”

“Eating my avocado plant,” she blurted, before realizing her mistake. “Oh, um, you meant Loki. Errr . . . conjugal visit?”

Eloquent silence greeted this, and Cynara squirmed. At her feet, Sven-the-Fress ambled over, making little snorty sounds.

“This is how this is going to go,” Fury told her in flat tones. “He stays with you, period. If he makes one move anywhere across the planet without you by his side accounting for his actions, there won’t BE any more visits, conjugal or otherwise. Do I make myself clear?”

“As a windowpane, sir.” Cynara waited a beat before adding, “Um, I do have one little request though—could you please get a message to Thor to ah . . . call me? I have some questions . . .”

“Questions.”

“Yes sir.” She hesitated.

“About?” Fury wasn’t going to let her off the hook.

Cynara gave a gulp. “Um . . . Asgardian anatomy?”

Another silence, this one twice as painful for her. Cynara could just imagine Fury’s unblinking one-eyed stare, his completely un-amused expression. Then—

“I’ll see he gets in touch with you.”

I must vent.

cincoflex — Wed, 23 May 2012 00:03:03 GMT

Today I received an Email from my son's teacher telling me that Younger Son missed turning in a major assignment. She went into great detail about how she'd informed the class about the project three weeks ago, that the dates were posted on her web page for the school site, and how she was accepting late work only through tomorrow.

I snapped at Younger Son, who is upset of course, and then I had to sit down and compose what amounted to an apology to the teacher with the added comment that Younger Son would take a zero for the project, because let's face it--I am NOT going to help him collect fifteen different leaves, rub or scan them, list all the latin names, the leaf edges, the leaf types and collection sites/dates in the THREE hours I have left before I need to get to bed.

I'm pissed both at my son and at his teacher.

My son is thoughtless and forgetful. I know he needs prompting and I know he needs better ways of organizing his schoolwork. Those are matters I can help with and I know it.

The other part of all this though is murkier, and a matter of personal irritation that boils down to this ugly truth--When it comes to major projects, my kids suck. *I* am the one who ends up making the posters or mounting the leaves or drawing the flowcharts or typing up the papers. The majority of the damned work is done my ME, and I know for a fact that it's true for a LOT of parents out there as well.

Yes, we do our kid's assignments. We do them because we're better at them, because we don't want our kids to get failing grades, and because WE KNOW EVERYONE ELSE S' PARENTS ARE DOING THE SAME THING!

You know how many California missions are built by students alone? Um, none. Same goes for state reports, science volcanoes and a shit-load of other things that are assigned and required.

And I for one am so frustrated by this. I already work all day doing my own job. I really don't WANT to come home and have to 'design an energy bar that's nutritionally sound.' I don't WANT to map out a timeline on the history of bubble gum. I don't WANT to spend my precious free time doing these assignments and yet if I don't--

If I actually let my kid do the work?

It will be a kid production and look like shit against all the other parent-generated stuff.

And despite whatever rubric the teacher puts out I know damned WELL that their work won't be evaluated for what it is.

It's a vicious cycle, and in this ever-increasingly competitive world I feel like both a fraud and a failure as a parent and a teacher.

Okay, it felt good to actually say that. I'm sure lots of you out there will be appalled at this, but there might be a few of you who might be nodding.

Helpmeet (3/3) Avengers crackfic NC-17

cincoflex — Mon, 21 May 2012 02:25:46 GMT

Story: Helpmeet
Author: Cincoflex
Rating: NC-17
Fandom: Avengers, post-movie
Pairings: Loki/OC

Summary: The Avengers hope they've seen the last of Thor's brother, but destiny thumbs her nose at them. Slightly crack-fic.

A/N: And we're done! Man it's nice to have a story just FLOW. My Betas,VR_Trakowski and Lovellama are amazing, patient and mine all mine! Seriously--they rock!

She wanted to kill him. Realistically Cynara knew she couldn’t; at least not bare-handed. He was a god—or an alien with far more technology than she ever would have—and therefore pretty much invulnerable. Nevertheless, if she’d had an AK-47 within reach, an attempt at instant widowhood would be hers.

Loki lounged against the padded headboard, studying the rack of antlers overhead, his smile infuriatingly smug. “You should be proud to be my bride.”

“I was tricked!” she hissed, pulling the sheet around her, for all the good it did. Thank God she was on the pill. “You fucking bastard, what did you do to Theo? Did you kill him too, like Phil Coulson?”

“Coulson?” Loki shot her a quizzical look. “Remind me—there have been so many . . .”

She glared at him. “Quiet guy in a black suit. You stabbed him; he shot you.”

“Oh. THAT one,” Loki murmured. “He had—how do you say it? Pluck. He would have made a good slave. And no, I did not kill Doctor Theoric Simon. He is still alive at 894 Cardinal Way in Boston Massachusetts, smoking his pipe and making notes—incorrect ones—about the Brísingamen episode. Regrettably, I decided to let him live despite his erroneous research and questionable hygiene.”

“What did you DO to him? He was supposed to be here! I CALLED him!” Cynara wailed. The night had taken on a new level of unreality, and she fought not to beat her head against the wall.

Maybe she should, she thought. If she pounded hard enough the antlers might fall and kill the bastard on the bed.

“He is alive, he simply does not remember you, or your relationship,” came the calm explanation. “A simple memory wipe; very common among Asgardians, and far better than he deserved.”

“He was going to be my husband!” Cynara hissed. “This was supposed to be our wedding night!”

“It IS our wedding night.”

“Not OURS! HIS and ours. His and mine—you aren’t supposed to be in the picture!”

“We were destined,” Loki told her with a knowing smirk. “And it’s clear to me that passion of your caliber would be wasted on that Rune chipper. You were meant to love through the whole night, my bride, and he would never be able to last.” To demonstrate his point, Loki extended a finger and then let it dangle.

Cynara bit her lips, forcing herself NOT to react, but it was difficult. “Well you’ve had all the loving you’re going to get. I want a divorce.”

“A second round? I thought you’d never ask,” Loki purred, reaching for her.

She glared at him. “Find yourself an ice giantess, asshole.”

He gave her a wounded look, his face as gaunt and melancholy as a lonely greyhound. “Did I not please you? Was I too selfish, not giving you enough of your pleasure before my own?”

Cynara took a deep breath, feeling a blush roll across her face. “You did fine, but that’s not the point.”

“So I did do as a good husband should,” Loki murmured, “and I am prepared to keep you happy and oh so very satisfied in our marriage bed to the best of my considerable abilities. What we have shared so far is not a tenth of what is to come, my Sigyn. Believe me as you have never believed anything else in your life.”

Cynara clutched the sheet more tightly and tried to scoot away from him without exposing any flesh. “Look, I know you have a huge reputation for um . . . you-know-what, but this isn’t going to work out. I’m human, you’re a god. You’ve got stuff to do, out there, away from Earth. Mythic . . . cosmic . . . stuff . . .” she found herself leaning towards him, caught by his smoldering green eyes and dimpled smirk. The desire to kiss those dimples rose up in her and she scowled. “Why do you want to be married anyway? It’s not as if you need a wife . . . or do you?”

“I need nothing. However, a wife in marriage—you in particular—has its advantages,” Loki admitted, slipping an arm around her shoulders. “For instance, the plane.”

“The plane?”

“In the dream,” Loki nodded. “You were able to contact me there. That was never supposed to be possible for a human. I did not enslave you the last time I was on Earth; I did not even know of your existence and yet you arrived when I was bound, and admired my body.”

“Moving on,” Cynara muttered, blushing. “So the dream was . . . destined?”

“You ARE Sigyn,” Loki pointed out, running a finger down her nose and over her lips. “My savior with the bowl. The bride who keeps me from agony. You are of Earth; you are my link away from punishment.”

“But I just dreamed it. It was random!”

Loki pulled her over him, settling her in a straddle of his lap and Cynara felt the thick ridge of his shaft pressing along the seam of her sex. He locked eyes with her, and let his index finger slide from her lips down her chin and throat, coming to rest between her breasts, right on the tiny pink scab between them. “I do not believe in coincidences; I believe in undiscovered connections.”

She looked down. “The staff. I cut myself.”

“And in doing so, linked yourself to me,” he nodded. “Does that not strike you as far too much of a coincidence?”

Cynara was unwilling to admit that there did seem to be a line of logic to his words, and when the shaft she was straddling gave a throb, she gasped. Loki laughed seductively.

“Stop that,” she groused. “We’re having a serious discussion here.”

“You have having a discussion; I am waiting until you are done so that we might continue the intimacy of this marriage,” he purred, sliding his hands around her hips and grinding himself up against her.

“We’re not really married,” Cynara huffed, trying to keep her traitorous body from responding to his, damn it. “You signed the license under Theo’s name.”

“You are mistaken my bride; my own true name graces the document in question, but you of all people should know that the only binding that matters in this comes from Asgard. We have made our vows, shared mead and bedded one another on the same night; by that more exalted law we are married.”

Cynara leaned forward, bracing her hands against the padded headboard and tried to glare at him, but found herself kissing his arrogant smirk, which was a huge mistake.

Everything about Loki was huge and a mistake, she thought dimly. It didn’t seem fair that he should be so . . . good in bed. After a few breathless kisses she sighed. “I . . . demand a dower.”

He rolled with her, pinning her under him, teeth dazzling white. “But name it, my queen, and it shall be yours.”

Cynara opened her mouth, and just then the door to the suite blew open, slamming across the room to the far wall, followed by a deep baritone cry of “Loki!”

“And I was so very sure I put that little sign outside,” Loki grumbled, reluctantly rolling off of her to glare towards the doorway. “Brother, your timing as always is unacceptable.”

“Release the girl, Brother, or suffer my wrath anew!” Thor bellowed, striding into the suite. Cynara yelped and reached for the sheet, pulling it around herself as another man—this one with a drawn bow and a quizzical look stepped in. He took a stance, arrow at the ready. After him came someone else, and Cynara bit her lips, wishing for a gigantic hole to open up and swallow her.

“Special Technician Sigyn,” Nick Fury drawled as he strolled in. “Just what the hell are you doing?”

“I think that should be obvious, even to a one-eyed man,” Loki pointed out sweetly. “And from now on you will refer to her as Mrs. Laufeyson.”

“No!” Thor sighed, shaking his head sorrowfully. He looked at Cynara, blue eyes reproachful. “I warned you. Did I not warn you about his trickery? His willfulness?”

“Sir, yes. It started under false pretences,” Cynara began, addressing Fury, her hands in a death lock around her sheet. “I mean, I thought he was someone else—”

“Possessed,” this came from the man with the bow—Barton, if she remembered correctly--“I know the feeling.”

“I’m not possessed!” Cynara protested.

“In truth she possessed me,” Loki interjected dreamily, putting his hands behind his head and leaning against the headboard. “It was a glorious consummation; to be the first of many.”

“I don’t think so,” Fury replied. “In the first place, Special Technician Sigyn isn’t authorized to marry an off-world alien.”

“Authorized?” Barton asked quizzically. “What, do we have a form for that somewhere?”

“It’s in the regulations,” Fury admitted.

“A technicality,” Loki scoffed. “According to Asgardian law she and I are wed.”

“This true?” Fury turned to Thor, who gave a grimace and sighed.

“If he has taken vows and shared both mead and bed, then by my people’s laws he is joined to Sigyn until death,” he admitted heavily.

“Asgardians don’t get divorced, I take it,” Fury grumbled.

“Death is easier,” Thor gave a sheepish shrug. “Although there is still the matter of her bride price.”

“Dower,” Cynara broke in loudly. “It’s my right.”

“Could somebody let me know if anything needs shooting?” Barton called out. “Getting impatient here.”

Fury let his gaze sweep around the suite as he stepped closer to the bed. “So let me get this straight, Special Technician Sigyn. You are willing to stay married to this . . .” he waved at Loki, “mass murder from space, and for what?”

She took a deep breath, lifting her chin and looked at Fury even though her words were directed over her shoulder. “I want Phil Coulson back. Alive and well, just as he was before you killed him. That is my dower.”

Nobody spoke. Barton relaxed the tension on his bow, as Thor cocked his head.

Loki smiled. It was a strangely tender one, Cynara thought; touched with sardonic sweetness, as if he understood exactly why she’d asked for this. He slowly reached over, long, elegant finger squeezing into her cleavage to touch the healing cut there.

“His blood was on the staff. Just enough of it . . .”

Slowly a glowing column flared out of thin air at the foot of the bed, sparkling green and silver in faint swirls that looked like strands of DNA. Cynara stared, as did the four men as the pillar of light re-shaped into the slim, slouch-shouldered shape of Phillip. J. Coulson.

Naked.

The light faded, and no-one spoke. Coulson blinked and dropped his hands to cover his crotch, clearly confused and doing his best to assess his situation. Blushing everywhere, he looked at Fury, his voice fairly steady. “Boss.”

“Phil,” came the quiet whisper. “Damn.”

Still staring with his one good eye, Fury pulled off his leather coat and tossed it over; gratefully Coulson pulled it on and closed it, then looked around. Thor came over and laid a heavy hand on his shoulder. “Son of Coul. It is very good to see you again.”

“Ah, thank you,” Coulson replied, clearly confused. “You too.”

Cynara scrambled off the edge of the bed, pulling the sheet with her. “Phil. You’re okay? You’re all right?”

“I’m fine. Last thing I remember was . . . a big gun.”

Fury was staring at Loki now, his expression bleakly grateful. He gave a slow nod that Loki returned. “It seems we have . . . an agreement,” Fury murmured.

“This wasn’t for you,” Loki pointed out with quiet intensity, “even though you and others will benefit by it. I have taken a bride by my world’s laws and yours. She has joined with me willingly and I have given her dower in accordance to tradition; therefore I expect her to be treated well.”

“She won’t be detained, if that’s what you’re getting at,” Fury agreed.

“Our business is unfinished,” Loki nodded, “but she remains outside of it.”

“Bring me up to speed,” Coulson murmured to Barton under his breath as he stared at the bed.

“From what I can figure, she married him and asked for you as a wedding present. It’s . . . a little kinky.”

“Yeah,” Coulson agreed. “That doesn’t generally happen to me.”

“Sir,” Cynara broke in, “it’s just a personal relationship. I’m not going to take his side against the earth or anything.”

“Damn right you’re not,” Fury nodded. “Considering it’s where you live and all. All right, we’ll get the form filled in and handle matters from there. I don’t like it, but I won’t argue the point.” He turned and gave Coulson a long glance, then turned and walked out.

Barton let one arrow fly, burying it into the headboard between the top of Loki’s head and the antlers above before he followed Fury and Coulson out. Thor retrieved the door, coming over to look at them and Cynara felt herself blush all over again.

“You chose well,” Thor told Loki. “Treat her as your queen, Brother.”

Loki inclined his head and Thor lumbered away, propping the door shut behind him. Cynara watched him go, feeling a peculiar twist of happiness at seeing Phil again and a sudden sense of serious doubt.

Shit. She was married. Not only married, but to a capricious temperamental god who could kill her without blinking an eye. A malicious force determined to overthrow his world or destroy it, and here she was, a frail little being with no particular defense and a nebulous future at best.

“Okay, so here’s the deal. I don’t think we should have kids, I like my career and maybe separate bank accounts would be a smart idea . . .” Cynara muttered.

“I must leave in the morning,” Loki told her, slipping an arm around her waist and pulling her to him. “My escape has not gone unnoticed, and Thor will share the news of our marriage. Freya will be glad; I doubt Odin will much care. It is not much time, but let us make it memorable.”

Cynara felt his lips against her temple, his long arm around her and sighed. “Oh it’s already memorable, baby. I guess we need to see if it’s survivable.”

He laughed. She pushed aside any further considerations and kissed his bare shoulder, appreciating the silky warmth of it, and whispered into his ear. “Is that an enchanted staff, or are you just glad to see me?”

“Both,” Loki purred, and pulled her to him.

EPILOG

Her new badge was waiting for her on her desk; she picked it up and studied it for a second before clipping it onto her breast pocket. Cynara Sigyn-Laufeyson--that was going to be a mouthful.

When Cynara looked up, Phil Coulson was in the doorway, holding out a steaming cup from Starbucks in her direction.

She took it.

He cleared his throat. “Thanks.”

“You’re welcome,” Cynara told him quietly and added, “He uh, won’t kill you again. Just FYI.”

“I appreciate that,” Coulson nodded. “So . . .”

“We’re . . . working things out,” Cynara confessed. “I’m still pissed about Theo, and of course there’s the whole gallivanting around the universe and consorting with evil deities thing. I did get a ring, though, and some property in Svalbard, so I guess that’s good.”

“Svalbard,” Coulson echoed. “Nice, I think.”

An awkward pause filled the moment, and then Cynara sighed. “Phil . . . we missed you. I had the chance and I took it, and I would do it again, okay? Me, I’m just a little cog around here, but you . . . you kind of matter to S.H.I.E.L.D. and to the director and the Avengers and you sure as hell matter to Holly up in Portland.”

He gave her a crooked grin and Cynara slipped into his hug, feeling that for the moment, all was right with the world.

“You DO know you work for the Agency that’s dedicated to taking your husband down?” Phil whispered.

Cynara pulled back and grinned. “Job security. Come on, I’ve got this cool algorithm for Futhark translation to show you . . .”

END

Helpmeet (2/3) An Avengers Crack fic NC-17

cincoflex — Sun, 20 May 2012 03:20:58 GMT

Story: Helpmeet
Author: Cincoflex
Rating: NC-17
Fandom: Avengers, post-movie
Pairings: Loki/OC

Summary: The Avengers hope they've seen the last of Thor's brother, but destiny thumbs her nose at them. Slightly crack-fic.

A/N: Back again. I don't normally post twice in a day, but It's been a while since I posted ANYTHING so there you have it. I love my Betas,VR_Trakowski and Lovellama for their encouragement, support, proof-reading and general sweetness. They are wonderful!

She didn’t dream about him after that, but there were constant reports of increased seismic activity throughout the United States. Cynara said nothing to anyone. Thor hadn’t returned, and most of S.H.I.E.L.D.’s focus was on repairing the helicarrier and analyzing every aspect of the battle of Manhattan, which kept most of the personnel busy—at least those who weren’t actively monitoring Earth and space anyway.

Cynara meekly submitted her reports while striving for a low profile, and applied once more for leave, hoping against hope that it would be granted this time. If she could just get married before Loki freed himself, she might be able to change the mythology. After all, she argued with herself, Thor loved Jane instead of Sif, then that was already a shift of the known paradigm right there.

When the leave was approved, she wasted no time in calling Theoric, who fussed a bit, but ultimately agreed. “I’ve got a few things to finish, sweetheart, but I’ll meet you in Vegas. The Valhalla, right?”

“Right. I know I’m rushing it, but they’ve only given me a week, Theo, and who knows when the next chance will come?”

Cynara couldn’t tell him the real reason that centered on the mounting apprehension with each new quake report. Theo might be versed and immersed in the sagas, but she knew perfectly well that he’d think she was nuts if she tried to convince him the tremors were connected to Ragnarök.

So she packed, gave an apartment key to a neighbor and caught a flight to McCarren, keeping her fingers crossed. It was tough to avoid sleeping, but Cynara figured it was safer not to. After three transfers and one nearly missed flight she arrived in Las Vegas at just after midnight. The shuttle took her to the Valhalla which sat on the edge of the Strip, looking as absurd as all the other themed hotels that crowded up against each other like a police line-up of misconceived concepts.

The Valhalla had faux rock everywhere, and heavy timbers that were supposed to imply a vaguely Teutonic/Norse theme. The owners had even tried to get Thor to endorse the place; Cynara remembered his horrified expression when shown the concept art, his strongly-worded rejection using terms that made her blush. She couldn’t blame him, but it was hard to explain how Las Vegas worked, and how normally sane and easygoing people became crazed gamblers there.

Thor was amused. “Perhaps it is how your world wishes to honor your dead, but this is no hall of the valiant in my eyes.”

Seeing it in person for the first time, Cynara winced and had to agree; the Valhalla personified the word ‘tacky’. Fortunately it was only for the weekend, and she intended to stay inside for most of that—a thought that had her feeling another flush come to her face as she checked in and took a folded note from the clerk at the desk and made her way to the room.

Theo had made arrangements at Cupid’s Wedding Chapel apparently and he too, was distressed by Valhalla’s pseudo décor, writing that they should consider setting off the smoke alarm before they checked out. That made Cynara laugh aloud, and she dumped her travel bag in the room, trying to ignore the faux antler rack over the headboard of the king-sized bed.

She spotted Theo’s luggage and the fact that it was still unpacked made Cynara pause; her S.H.I.E.L.D. training kicked in as she quietly did a sweeping search of the room. Nobody was there, and the only items she found were Theo’s belongings, neatly stacked as if a bellboy had delivered them. The sense of paranoia abated but didn’t quite disappear when she pulled out her cell phone and called him.

“Theo? Where the hell are you?” she demanded when he answered.

“Cupid’s of course. They had an opening for two AM, and I figured we’d beat the crowd,” he told her through the faint static of the line. “That is, unless you want to wait.”

“No, I’m good with it,” she assured him. Cynara figured she’d let her mother and step-dad know later instead of calling them immediately with the good news. Her mother would be thrilled; Harry relieved. “I guess I’d better get over there, huh?”

“Only if you want to get married,” Theo snorted. “I brought a bottle of mead to toast the occasion.”

“Yum,” she told him, blew kisses and hung up. It didn’t take long for her change into something a little more festive—in this case a peach mini-dress--and head down to the lobby for a cab, feeling relieved that in a few hours she’d be Mrs. Simon, and any future dreams starring the God of Mischief wouldn’t matter.

The chapel was as tacky as its name implied, and Cynara found herself trying not to roll her eyes as she spotted Theo in the gold and red velvet lobby. He had his nose buried in a copy of Germanic Linguistics for Dummies but set it aside when he saw her, rising for a kiss.

He looked like a junior version of Santa Claus, Cynara thought with affection. Blue-eyed Thoric Simon sported a full beard and the blonde shagginess of a true Norseman, but had the soft and slightly tubby build of an academic through and through. She hugged him hard. “Thank you.”

“Thank you. I never planned on getting married again, but then I never thought I’d meet a hot babe who knew the Prose Edda forwards and backwards either,” he told her with a grin. “Shall we?”

“Let’s do it,” she linked her arm in his just as the building shook violently. People called out in alarm and a shower of dust fell from the ceiling, but after a few seconds everything settled down once more, leaving the visitors to Cupid’s Chapel laughing nervously to each other and making remarks about ‘a whole lotta shaking going on.’

“Don’t like those,” Theo muttered, pulling up from his protective crouch and wiping his glasses. “We’re not even in California.”

Cynara brushed plaster bits from her hair, her heart beating faster. She took Theo’s hand, squeezing it tight. “Never mind that; let’s just do this and get back to the Valhalla, okay?

Theo shot a dubious look at the ceiling but nodded. They made their way to a little room labeled ‘Love Nest One’ where a frizzy haired woman in a leftover choir robe of gold lame and red velvet waved them in, looking slightly bored. “Okay, I had a few cancellations so if you’re ready, we can get started here. Gotcher license?”

Theo handed over the Nevada marriage form and stood swaying a moment. Cynara dug in her purse for her driver’s ID and a tip for the woman. She reached out her other hand to steady Theo. “Not having second thoughts are you?” she asked, half-teasing, “or did you hit the mead early?”

“I am ready,” he murmured in a low, almost flat tone as he straightened up, and Cynara would have looked at him but the woman in the choir robe was clearing her throat loudly and waiting for them to face her.

It didn’t take long. Cynara tried not to be nervous, and gave all the right replies, feeling a growing sense of relief as the ceremony went on. The music coming in over the PA system was a Muzak version of ‘Goin’ To the Chapel’ and it was slightly warped, as if the tape had been on loop too long. By the time the vows were finished, Cynara couldn’t wait to get out of Love Nest One and away from the noise that was trying to give her a headache.

She felt Theo cup her face in his hands before he kissed her, his green eyes bright, his mouth hot on hers. Cynara shivered under the delicious probe of his tongue, feeling a surge of heat flutter through her stomach. When he reluctantly pulled back she gasped a little, thinking that this marriage thing might be the best impulsive decision she’d ever made.

“Very nice, congratulations,” the frizzy-haired woman murmured. “Now I need to witness your signatures and file the license. We have two scenic photo settings out in our Garden of Paradise and Bridal Boudoir if you’d like souvenir glossies of this momentous occasion.”

“Tonight’s consummation shall be souvenir enough,” Theo told the woman, and Cynara blushed as she scrawled her signature on the indicated line of the license. She handed the pen to Theo, who bent and added his signature in an elegant line of runic letters. The document was whisked up by the woman who carried it over to the scanner in the corner of Love Nest One.

While she did that, Theo pulled out the bottle of mead and opened it, pulling the cork out with his teeth. Cynara stared at him, wondering when he’d taken to wearing lifts in his sneakers, but he distracted her by pushing the bottle into her hands. “Drink, my bride,” he told her in a pleased voice, and never one to turn down free alcohol, Cynara did, enjoying the honeyed heat of the mead down her throat.

She gasped, feeling slightly dizzy from the kick, figuring it to be at least 150 proof by the burn.

“Honey, we only allow booze out in the lobby and the photo settings,” the frizzy haired woman called over. “Sorry about that. Here, your license and a lovely complimentary certificate from Cupid’s Chapel, suitable for framing, or if you stop by the lobby we’ve got a selection of frames available starting at three ninety-nine.”

“We’ll pass,” Cynara muttered, rolling her eyes. She slipped the woman a twenty and received a wink in return, which made her blush again. Theo pulled the bottle from his lips and examined it as if he was disappointed in the contents. Carefully she linked her arm in his. “So it’s done. Should we go . . . celebrate?”

“It will be,” Theo intoned, “a night to remember.”

This struck Cynara as so weird and so unlike Theo that she started to giggle. The mead might have had something to do with it as well, and she had to settle into the cab next to him before she could stop spluttering every time he looked her way.

“S-S-sorry sweetie,” she managed, tucking the bottle away in her purse. “I’m just excited.”

“As you should be,” came his reply. He added, “As am I.”

“Theo baby, are you all right?” Cynara asked, trying to look at him in the flickering casino lights that briefly flashed along the cab’s windows.

“I’m fine,” he assured her, and gently pulled her up against his chest. Slightly reassured, Cynara leaned against him, giving a small sigh.

“So we’re married. It’s a good thing I put your name on the apartment lease already,” she babbled. “Think you can move in before the end of the month?”

“Anything you want, my queen,” Theo murmured into her fluffy hair.

She tried to move them through the lobby quickly; Cynara didn’t want to look at the disappointing décor any more than she had to, but Theo slowed and glanced around in clear amusement. “This . . . this is supposed to be Valhalla?”

“I know, pretty bad,” Cynara agreed, wincing.

“It is so beautifully hideous,” Theo murmured in amusement. “A fortress of dung and chemicals raised by vermin to a level beneath the notice of the very gods they seek to emulate! A rank temple of vice adorned with artificial jewels and false valor! I adore it!”

“Yeah, it’s good for a laugh,” Cynara agreed. “Come on, I think we’ve got the Vàli suite.”

“Lead on,” Theo told her with a smile.

Once upstairs Cynara unlocked the door and reached for the light, but Theo stopped her, pulling her into his arms and swinging her around, one of his feet slamming the door behind them.

“And now . . . . time for deeds best done in moonlight,” he murmured seductively, and she shivered.

“Sweet-talker,” Cynara managed before Theo bent to kiss the side of her neck. She swayed against him when his warm lips grazed her skin, shocked at how her skin pebbled into goose bumps at his light caress. Already her nipples were painfully hard, and when one of Theo’s hands slipped up to cup a breast, she gasped.

“You please me,” Theo whispered, “allow me to return the favor.”

Cynara wondered about this new romantic streak in Theo; normally he was more direct; not a bad thing in a man, but before she could consider this further, he bent and kissed her, mouth settling on hers in a decidedly possessive way.

She squirmed, unable to stop herself from meeting his tongue with her own, and within seconds Theo had steered them towards the bed, moving in the darkness with unerring speed. Cynara barely had time to gasp before she and Theo tumbled onto the mattress with a heavy thump. Giggling again, she tugged on his ‘Berserker in training’ tee-shirt, pulling it off as he gave a growl of approval.

More kisses, hot and hungry, taking her breath away. Cynara threw herself into them, savoring the taste of Theo’s mouth. Normally his kisses were tobacco-tinged from his pipe, but he must have brushed, because now his mouth tasted faintly of mead and something else; something that reminded her of ozone. She wanted to concentrate on these little nagging thoughts, but every time she tried to think, Theo nipped or kissed or touched her in a way that dissolved her focus, and by the time she’d lost her dress and bra Cynara resolved to leave any brain activity to the morning.

“How much do you love me?” he demanded, his breath hot in her ear, making tickly shivers run over her ribs. Cynara wriggled again, sliding her arms along his smooth, lean torso, struggling to undo his jeans.

“Lots. Tons,” she huffed. “A little help here?”

“Shhhhhh,” he whispered, and slid a hand down her stomach, fingers gliding under her panties and through her curls. Cynara moaned and arched up against his touch, feeling a surge of lust rocketing between her hips, and the power of it dazed her.

She and Theo had a good thing; she knew that. They’d been together for months now, and things were fun and felt great, but tonight seemed to hit a new level of intensity; her whole body felt like a live wire, tingling and pulsing uncontrollably. Right now Theo’s fingers were sliding and stroking through the slickness between her legs and she felt light-headed as she groaned again. “Oh baby . . .” Cynara gasped.

“Since first I saw you, I knew I could pleasure you as no-one ever has, or will,” came the answering whisper. “You’re not like the others my bride, my beautiful Sigyn . . .”

Cynara felt her body begin to tense, but something about what Theo said made her look up, her hair tousled. “What?”

But he gently tugged the panties down and pressed kisses along the tops of her thighs, face moving between them and Cynara squealed when Theo’s dark head moved deeper, his hot tongue flicking in teasing strokes until it slid around that tiny point of unbearable pleasure.

She arched up, past caring, soaring through an orgasm so strong that she actually gulped a breath, fingers scrabbling on the sheets. Theo shoved his shoulders under her thighs to ride it out, and she felt the breath of his gloating laugh against her wet curls. When she finally relaxed, Cynara gave a great gusty sigh, her eyes closed. “OooooohGod. That was friggin’ aMAzing!”

“She’d be overjoyed to hear it,” came the muffled comment from the lips against her inner thigh. “Being an advocate of love as she is.”

“Theo,” Cynara murmured, “I know you’re up to your horn rims in the mythology every day, but let’s not drag it into bed with us, okay? Want me to return the pleasure, or do you want to have your evil way with me?”

“Oh I think the latter is well overdue,” came the purr, and Cynara giggled as she felt Theo slither up over her supine body, the sweet friction of his torso a body kiss that made her smile. She cradled him with her damp thighs, reaching down to cup his shaft, and purred at the heavy feel of it.

“Want,” she growled, and the sound changed to a groan as he slowly arched into her, his girth sliding thickly in a teasing stroke. Cynara opened her eyes as Theo’s hair brushed her face.

“Want,” he told her, and she saw something in his green eyes, something hungry and vulnerable and familiar. Her legs tightened around his lean hips even as Cynara tensed, looking up into Loki’s face.

“Yoooou . . .” she breathed, confused but aroused. “Shit.”

“We shall talk later,” he told her with a solemn little smile. “Love me now.”

And Cynara did.

Helpmeet (1/3) Avenger-related fic, NC-17

cincoflex — Sat, 19 May 2012 21:08:24 GMT

Story: Helpmeet
Author: Cincoflex
Rating: NC-17
Fandom: Avengers, post-movie
Pairings: Loki/OC

Summary: The Avengers hope they've seen the last of Thor's brother, but destiny thumbs her nose at them. Slightly crack-fic.

A/N: I send loving shout-outs to my betas, VR_Trakowski and Lovellama for their encouragement, support, proof-reading and general sweetness. Nobody writes in a vacuum, so while I probably suck, they certainly don't! :)

***

coming soon---

cincoflex — Sat, 19 May 2012 02:54:16 GMT

Bond of Simple Attraction pt 12

cincoflex — Sun, 13 May 2012 01:32:40 GMT

Story: The Bond of Simple Attraction Pt 12
Author: Cincoflex

Summary: When Howard Met Maria.

Author's Notes: I haven't forgotten about this story, honest! We're getting close to the end, and I'm feeling happy about that! Love of course to my Betas, VR_Trakowski and Lovellama who guide me along and give unstinting support to my writing. Betas are love, they truly are.

She couldn’t hear the music. Maria knew dimly that it was playing; she knew there were people on either side of the aisles, that her father had his arm linked with hers as they stepped forward. Some part of her mind understood all that, but her focus had narrowed so much that all she could see was Howard, up ahead.

He stood facing her, and his gaze—tender, wide-eyed, intimate—was a lifeline. Maria kept her eyes on him as she walked forward, fighting an urge to run. A thousand sensations kept welling up inside her, and she couldn’t let any of them out, not here and now with so many people watching. Maria gripped her bouquet a little more tightly, kept her pace steady and fought another urge to laugh.

She wanted to, badly. This surreal moment had caught her off-guard. Maria knew it was supposed to be one of the loveliest of her life, but somehow she felt like a spectator at her own wedding; disconnected and lost. Her father gave her arm a squeeze and she realized they’d reached the steps of the altar. Maria turned and suddenly she realized her father was crying.

That was real, and she smiled as she bent forward to receive his kiss. Dominic whispered softly, words of love and pride that sent a shiver through her. She beamed at him, and took a breath before turning to Howard. He held out a hand to her, and Maria took it, feeling the familiar calluses, the warm strength of his grip.

She felt grounded by his touch, and in that moment everything seemed right. Squeezing his fingers, Maria shot him a tiny smirk. “Hi,” she whispered.

“Hello gorgeous,” Howard murmured under his breath. “Wanna get married?”

“You bet,” Maria replied, and together they turned to face Father Aloysius, who was pretending not to have heard the exchange despite his small smile.

The service was simple, and Maria found it easy to let the words flow over her as the ceremony went on. Howard didn’t fidget or shove his hands into his pockets which was a minor miracle in itself she knew. When the time came to recite the vows Maria found her voice had become a squeaky whisper that made her husband-to-be grin. His own responses were loud and strong, echoing through the church and eliciting a few murmured chuckles out in the pews.

Then the exchange of rings. Maria knew what to expect of course, but that made it no less breathtaking as Howard pushed the floral band onto her finger, his actions clumsy for the first time. Maria turned to Lucia, who slipped the other ring off her own thumb and handed it over. It gleamed in the light, a heavy, elegant band of white gold with a hammered texture, and Howard looked stunned at the sight of it.

Maria slipped it onto his finger, shooting him a flirty look. “Last chance,” she whispered playfully.

“Nothing doing,” He murmured back. His hand caught hers, curling around it as Howard tugged her forward for a kiss. The noisy throat-clearing of Father Aloysius halted that to the amusement of the attendees, but it was only a moment later when the priest ended his blessing and introduced them to the rest of the congregation as ‘Mister and Missus Howard Stark!’

Neither of them heard him; they were too busy kissing.

The ceremony had been the easy part, Maria thought ruefully. She, Randi and Lucia had finished up with the photographers and were waiting for the rest of the groom’s photos to be done. Thankfully her parents had already gone downstairs to the Mayflower ball room to see to the reception. Randi was chattering on about the number of handsome Stark employees who’d been in the aisles while Lucia was fixing her lipstick.

Maria flexed her fingers. It felt odd to be wearing rings, but she figured she’d get used to it in time. She kicked her heels off and stretched, feeling much better. Her sister looked up and grinned. “I bet mama’s gone through four handkerchiefs already.”

“Probably,” Maria agreed, “and she’s probably getting in the way of the caterers as we speak. Still, it went off all right.”

“All right? It was beautiful!” Randi protested. “You two are going to be a major spread in the society pages, and I bet you even make the evening news!”

“Definitely,” Lucia agreed. “How are you holding up, M’ree? Doing all right?”

“I’m fine,” Maria told her. “Just wish I could change.” The dress was lovely, but Maria was conscious of how easily lace could snag and white could stain. She smoothed a hand over her hip and checked her watch.

“You can in about three hours,” Lucia grinned. “Once they’d done all those traditional shots. Oh, and when you toss the bouquet, make sure you’re aiming for Randi, all right?”

Before Maria could agree, a knock on the suite door made all three women look up. Lucia answered it, and outside, Howard stood looking only slightly harassed. “That photographer’s an idiot. Tried to part my hair on the wrong side! I was seriously tempted to give him some candid shots of the unprintable kind. Hello Mrs. Stark; ready to make a grand entrance?”

“Serge IS an idiot but he does lovely work; don’t do anything obscene to his cameras dear, and yes, Mr. Stark, just let me get my shoes on,” Maria told him serenely. Howard stepped in, giving Lucia and Randi quick hugs before turning to his wife, who shot him a loving look. “Had anything to drink yet?”

“No, but I plan on it pretty quick,” he replied, pulling her gently into his arms. “How long are we required to hang around this dog and pony show?”

“Long enough for you and I to cut the cake, toss the garter and bouquet and have a first dance I think,” Maria sighed pulling back slightly to look up at him. “What time’s our flight?”

“We’re out of here at five twenty,” Howard told her firmly. “Means we’ll get into San Francisco at about ten our time, seven their time. We’ll sleep for a day or two then get the flight to Hawaii.”

“Sounds wonderful,” Maria sighed, linking her arm in his and closing the suite door behind her. “Think we can manage to be gracious and socialize with people until then?”

“We can try,” Howard agreed, “if you’re the gracious one and I do the socializing. I’ve already fielded two queries about whether you’re pregnant, and one prediction for our divorce. Nice to know there are so many high-minded people at this soiree, eh?”

“Which one was from Loni?” Maria growled.

Howard rolled his eyes. “Haven’t you heard? She doesn’t come near me anymore. I bare my teeth and suddenly Mrs. Stane finds some other conversation to join. You’d think she was afraid of me or something.”

“Good, let’s keep it that way,” Maria nodded.

Howard smirked. “You know I bet you could take her, in a straight fight. I mean she’s taller and weighs more, but you’ve got that endearing tradition of vendetta and all.”

“Yes,” Maria agreed confidently, “I could. And before you get all hot and bothered by that, I’m not going to stage a catfight at our reception just to amuse you or Obie, got it?”

“Galen would have a fit,” Howard murmured, “but oh well, fine. Shall we just go dazzle ‘em instead?”

They smiled at each other.

***

Armando was worth his weight in gold, Howard decided. The chauffeur chosen a discreet sedan and parked it in back alley behind the Mayflower an hour before departure time. It was fun sneaking through the kitchens with Maria, avoiding the crowds of well-wishers and reporters outside the front of the hotel, and Howard felt a sense of cocky joy in tucking his bride into the car with only a few pigeons and stray cats as witnesses.

Maria seemed to take it all in good humor herself, looking tired but happy in her green suit and scarf. The frost of December had iced over most of the roads, but Howard trusted Armando to get them to the airport in good time. He always had.

“Gahh, I’m completely small-talked out, dear,” Maria murmured, snuggling up to him and closing her eyes. “Thank God we’re only going through this once in our lives.”

“Gauntlet of true love,” Howard replied, comforted by the weight of her head on his shoulder. “I can’t get over how high Nathaniel jumped for that garter. Man should have been a track star.”

“Makes it worse that Galen caught it,” Maria snickered. “At least Randi got the bouquet.”

“That’s only because your sister was giving the death glare to everyone within two feet of your roommate,” Howard pointed out. “The fix was in; anyone could see that.”

“I plead the Fifth,” she murmured, snuggling closer. “Strenuously.”

“You would,” Howard turned and smiled into the crown of her head. “Sleep; we’ve got a forty minute window of peace and quiet, Mrs. Stark so we’ve better make the best of it.”

She dozed off and it seemed like only minutes later that Maria felt herself scooped up from the carseat. Startled, she clutched at Howard, who laughed at her reaction. “It’s okay, we’re here.”

The lights of the airport were bright, but the place was practically empty. Armando and a skycap were unloading luggage from the back of the sedan, and Maria could see that only one desk seemed to have anyone on duty. “Here, okay. Put me down, Howard.”

“Fine,” he chuffed, and did. “We’ve got seats waiting on that 707 out there, and three weeks of coconuts and Coppertone in our immediate future.”

“Mmmmm,” Maria purred, and followed him through the chilly December night into Dulles. She blinked, aware of her fatigue, but amused to see Howard taking in the place with a slightly covetous eye. “It’s not too busy, is it?”

“It’ll pick up,” He predicted. “Once they get connected to the highways and people get used to heading out this way. Jets need space, and this site’s the right one for an international hub. This way . . .” he steered them towards the Pan American desk, where a perky young woman beamed at them.

“Welcome, Mr. and Mrs. Stark! Here are your tickets, so if you’ll just follow me to Gate Three . . .”

They did, stepping through the glass door leading to the tarmac. At the jet, Maria clambered up the metal ladder and through the hatch as Howard came up behind her. The interior was much warmer, and Maria gave a quick smile to the stewardess, who waved to the first class section.

“Right this way Ma’am. I’ll be with you to take your drink orders shortly after take-off.”

“I could probably do with a hot toddy,” Maria murmured to Howard, who tossed his hat up into the luggage bin and dropped himself next to her.

“Need a blanket?” he asked, and pulled one out before she could answer, tucking it around her. Maria smiled.

“Thanks.” She closed her eyes, intending to rest for just a moment or two and the soothing hum of the plane lulled her senses as she slipped back into sleep within minutes.

***

Howard listened the engines, mentally calculating their RPMs and wondering if he had time once they landed to take a look at them. He pushed this thought aside, filing it away as unimportant, and chose instead to think about Maria, and how she’d made something as momentous as getting married as easy and natural as engineering. Seeing her coming up the aisle had been a speechless moment, but one look in those big brown eyes of hers and nobody else was in the room.

And his ring—glancing at it, Howard gave a little shake of his head, admiring it in the dim lights of the cabin. It was something to be proud of that was for damned sure. He liked the texture and weight of it, liked the way it felt on his finger. Normally engineers were leery about rings, but Howard decided he wouldn’t take this one off unless it was a matter of life or death. It was an overblown and romantic decision, he knew, but nobody had to know if he didn’t say anything.

So now he was married. Off the market. Taken. Spoken for. Off-limits. Somehow those didn’t really seem as negative as they sounded, not if they meant that he belonged to Maria. Howard knew that Wanda had sent the instructions to the St. Charles, and he hoped that the multiple reservations would keep the press from finding them. They were getting bolder, especially the tabloids, and Howard didn’t want anything to spoil the trip.

He finished his whiskey, settled in next to Maria and closed his eyes, letting the thrum of the engines lull him to sleep.

The suite had a gorgeous view of the bay—or would in the morning, Howard knew, but for the moment he was more interested in the immediate amenities. Maria stood next to him in the doorway, yawning; he swept her up and over the threshold, making her squeak and clutch him tightly. “Howard!”

“Traditional, right?” he teased. “I could get used to doing this, by the way. You’re not heavy you know.”

“That’s not the point, Mr. Stark!” she laughed, letting him swing her around. “Right now I think we need to get to bed.”

The minute she said this she blushed; Howard saw it bloom across her face and it thrilled him to know she was aware of the moment. He slowly set her down and pulled her in for a quick kiss.
“Talked me into it, Mrs. Stark. I know it’s late, but . . .” he trailed off, looking at her face, trying to read her expression. If there was any hesitation Howard would have been willing to postpone the consummation, difficult as that might be. He wanted Maria, but he had enough patience to want the occasion to be perfect, too.

The look in her eyes was mischievous and tender; a look that send a flush of heat through his body to settle under his stomach. Maria slid her hands down his back to rest on his ass, and the squeeze she gave it was definitely enthusiastic.

“Not too late, I hope?” she murmured, rubbing up against him. “I slept on the flight so I’m bright-eyed and bushy tailed.”

“I think I’ll have to check that for myself,” Howard told her, taking a moment to nibble along her neck. “In depth and thoroughly.”

“Hmmm,” Maria sighed. “Give me fifteen minutes to freshen up and I’ll meet you in bed. Sound fair to you?”

“More than,” Howard grinned. He let her go and Maria slipped into the bathroom, taking a small case with her, chuckling. Howard dug through his luggage for his shaving kit and plugged in his shaver to the outlet by the closet. He ran it over his cheeks and chin, working with the hand mirror from the kit, grateful that he’d done a closer job before the wedding so that this was more of a touch-up than a full shave.

After a moment’s hesitation, he reached deep in the kit and pulled out a small round metal tin, tucking it into his pocket.

Howard took a moment to drop his cufflinks into the kit before toeing off his shoes and making his way over to the bed, humming and trying to keep the flutters in his stomach from growing too strong as he tucked the tin in the nightstand drawer. The queen-sized mattress looked promising, and he dropped himself on one side of it, undoing his tie, wondering absently if they should leave an order for room service in the morning when he heard the bathroom door open.
He twisted to look at Maria, and promptly forgot to breathe.

She leaned out of the doorway, looking back at him sweetly, her expression both shy and delighted. “You’re making goo-goo eyes at me Howard.”

“Can’t help it,” he replied hoarsely. “You’re beautiful.”

Howard wanted to say more, much more, but his mouth and brain were still slightly out of synch, and he wasn’t sure anything would be coherent.

Maria was in white lace.

She slipped out of the bathroom and came over, looking demure as she modeled the filmy peignoir for him, turning gracefully. “Luce talked me into this. Randi wanted to order something out of a Frederick’s catalog but I put the kibosh on that. I mean, maybe you might have liked something racier, but there’s time enough for that and . . .” Maria trailed off, shivering. “I’m just a little nervous here, Howard.”

He rose and took her into his arms, and the sweet warmth of her made him want to purr. “Me too, but it’s okay. It’s pretty, but it doesn’t matter in the long run, because underneath everything it’s you and me, right?”

“Well it’s just me in this thing, but I know what you mean,” she assured him. Howard smirked and deliberately bent to kiss the side of her throat, moving a hand to flick the satin cord strap from her shoulder as he did so.

“Oh I dunno, I think pretty soon you won’t be in it either,” he whispered, and nuzzled his nose along her warm skin, feeling a surge of masculine pride as Maria gave a wriggle and gasp. She closed her eyes in pleasure, and Howard kissed his way to her ear, deliberately tickling it with his mustache, knowing it was one of the places that aroused her.

Maria slid her arms around him more tightly and pressed hard against his hips, her breathing growing louder. “You maaaay,” she groaned, “be right. Let me help you get some clothes off.”

“I like the sound of that,” Howard agreed, and let her.

He watched as she plucked at his shirt buttons, her normally efficient fingers fumbling at the task. Taking pity, Howard undid several himself, and Maria tugged his shirt open, slightly dismayed at seeing his undershirt. “Another layer?”

“San Francisco’s cold,” he replied, and she snorted in amusement. As he pulled off the offending garment, Howard felt her hand stroke his fly, and his shaft, which was already turgid, swelled under her palm. “Whoooah.”

“Isn’t that my line?” Maria chortled.

Howard had to laugh at that, even as her fingers undid his button and tugged down on his fly, leaving him in his boxers. “You’ll be getting more than a line, never fear. Let’s take this to the mattress, shall we?”

Without waiting for an answer, Howard tugged Maria down and rolled with her until they were side by side on the coverlet, and busied himself with the little ribbons that held the front of her gown closed. “Pretty as these are, they’re in the way,” he growled playfully.

“This is supposed to be enticing,” Maria assured him, her eyes twinkling. “Like opening a gift.”

“I have bad news for you,” Howard replied. “I tend to rip wrappings, but tonight I think I’ll be a little more considerate.” As he spoke he managed the last bow and flicked the edges open and bent forward, looking at her.

So gorgeous. Her pert breasts and graceful collarbones gleamed in the light from the bedside lamp, and Howard throbbed in response, feeling foolish and happy and better than he had in years. This was Maria with him, sweet, smart, beautiful Maria. She slid an arm over his shoulder, pulling him closer, her slim hips wriggling. “I know they’re a little on the small side . . .”

“Oh baby, they’re perfect!” Howard assured her, sliding a hand up to cup the sweet roundness. It filled his palm completely, and he bent to nuzzle against the pebbling flesh there, gratified when Maria shivered. When he rubbed his nose around her erect nipple, she squeaked, and Howard chuckled even as he pulled her closer.

“Hey Mousie, you liked that, hmmm?” came his tease. In answer, Maria laughed herself, and reached to stroke his chest in return, finding one of his nipples. The soft pinch made Howard shudder in return. “Okay, okay, yeah, I get it,” he moaned.

“Kiss me,” she whispered with hunger in her voice. Howard did, delighted when Maria pushed hard against him, forcing him to shift. He rolled onto his back, pulling her over himself. She made love to his mouth, teasing and licking and nipping while her hot breath brushed his face.

Howard groaned, feeling wonderfully pinned by her warm weight and passion.

“Want you bad,” he admitted thickly between kisses.

“I do too,” came her breathy reply. “Can we please just . . . do it?”

“Do it?” he snorted, trying not to laugh and not succeeding, “do it?” Maria pushed up from him and chuckled a little herself, but she also wriggled as she did so, and the sweet rolling pressure turned Howard’s amusement into a pleasured groan. Swiftly he cupped her ass, gripping it tightly. “Slow down there, Mrs. Stark!”

“Howard, I’ve been waiting for this since the day I met you!” Maria growled back. “I’m not afraid and I’m not naïve. Please, just . . . make love to me already!”

“I am!” he assured her with a grin. “This is foreplay, commonly known as making out, warming up, stoking the fires . . .”

“Dry humping,” Maria snorted. “Moving on . . .” She pulled off her lingerie and tossed it aside; Howard watched her, his mouth suddenly dry at the sight of her gloriously lithe nudity, and a surge of desire hit so strongly he wasn’t sure he could breathe. With care Howard rolled with her, pinning Maria to the mattress.

“Baby, this isn’t how it goes,” he croaked in a frustrated whisper. “I’m supposed to make you feel very good first, so that when we do it, as you say, that it’s more comfortable for you, but you’re driving me nuts here and I’m not sure how long I can hold out!”

“It’s okay,” she told him, eyes wide and bright. “I’m so ready it’s not going to take much, and anyway I owe you, for that time in the car—” as she spoke Maria tugged on his boxers, sliding them off his hips, and her fingers stroking so sensually that Howard felt his eyes cross.

He kissed her hard, then nodded, speaking softly and quickly. “I don’t keep score, but I think we’re both about ready to die here, so just be patient a tiny bit more . . .”

As Howard spoke he shifted up to his knees, wrestling his way out of his shorts. The gratifying gasp Maria made when she got her first eyeful of him made him grin briefly, but he didn’t pause to pose and merely leaned over her to coax her knees open. She blushed but willingly parted her slim thighs, and he gave a groan of joy at the sight of her dark silky mound. “Jesus, I don’t deserve anything that gorgeous!”

“If you don’t do me right now, Howard Stark--” Maria insisted through a twisted smirk. He reached for the nightstand and fished out the tin, quickly sheathing himself as she watched. “Oh! Is that . . . ?”

“Yep. Playing it cautious here,” he grunted and reached a hand down to stroke the inside of her thigh. Maria’s breathing accelerated as his fingers fluttered against the soft petals of her cleft. Howard bent closer, dropping a series of concentrated kisses that left her wriggling, and when his finger slipped inside, she gave a cry of pleasure.

“Damn it,” he groaned, caressing her again, drawing slick fingers to spread the wetness all along her cleft. “Maria, baby . . .”

“Yes,” she muttered, dark eyes hazy with pleasure as she reached her arms to him. “We can go slower next time, but please Howard, I want you . . .”

Stretching over her, he angled himself, and slowly thrust. Maria wrapped her arms and legs around him, her lips against the hard muscle of his shoulder, and in one glorious moment Howard felt himself breech her by inches, felt the slick heat of her body around his aching cock.
He paused, fighting hard against the urge to sink deeper into the frustrating pleasure, but sudden shock of teeth nipping HARD into his shoulder stunned him. Maria thrust her hips up, burying him in her in one shocking push, and from that point on the sweet madness of mutual lust washed through them both, urging them on.

Howard surged, rocking with her, dimly hearing the wooden creak of the headboard, the soft squeak of the bedsprings under Maria’s soft gasps. Tight. Everything was tight, slick, hot, grindingly perfect, and every stroke stoked the rising heat between them. His heart pounded and the sting of Maria’s nails raking his back had Howard gritting his teeth to hold back the heavy groans that wanted to escape his lips. Maria, sweet and wild, writhed under him, with him, both of them lost in the imperative of lust.

In a moment of pre-orgasmic clarity Howard watched her arch, her long pale throat corded and beautiful in the lamplight as she wailed his name, stretching each syllable out in her pleasure, her body clenching around him and fuck it was too much, too much to take. He felt himself crest, gushing deep within her, the thrill so sharp it almost hurt as every muscle quivered in joy and desire and fulfillment. Howard cried out, and blindly buried his face along the side of Maria’s beautiful neck, wetting it with kisses and tears.

How long they lay together he didn’t know and didn’t care. Maria, his beautiful wonderful Maria—his wife-- was damp and warm; her skin smelled like salted Shalimar. Howard kissed it, working his way towards her face, lifting his head to look at her. She turned, her eyes dark and wide, her smile tender. “Mmmmmmm,” came her murmur, and it said more to him than a thousand words.

“Mmmmmmm,” Howard replied, rolling to pull her into his arms, holding her close. “MmmMMMMMMMMMMM!”

She giggled.

The Bond of Simple Attraction pt11

cincoflex — Tue, 21 Feb 2012 03:27:48 GMT

Story: The Bond of Simple Attraction Pt 11
Author: Cincoflex

Summary: When Howard Met Maria.

Author's Notes: I haven't forgotten about this story, honest! We're getting close to the end, and I'm feeling happy about that! Love of course to my Betas, VR_Trakowski and Lovellama who guide me along and give unstinting support to my writing. Betas are love, they truly are.

Howard smiled at her. “Obie’s fine—it’s Loni we’ll have to watch out for.”

“Loni,” Maria sighed. “Because I didn’t have enough to worry about already.”

“Obie will keep her in line,” Howard promised, adding, “He’d better. As for your mother, I’d suggest you negotiate for half of what she wants. Galen’s holding us to a pair of interviews before the wedding and no more. Wanna go check out an ore processing plant with me?”

“I’d love to,” Maria sighed mournfully, “but I’ve got fittings I’ve been putting off for a week, and I’m trying to get ahead at the lab before I leave.”

“What’s the world coming to when you pass up the chance to make rude comments about ball and rod mills?” Howard teased. “Ah well, I’ll miss you.”

She missed him too, but there was more than enough going on to keep her busy, and the weeks went by faster than Maria was ready for. Lucy helped mediate, and once the dresses—wedding and bridesmaid and matron of honor—were all done, the three Carbonell women had lunch together at the Plaza. Sophia was still in a bit of a snit about not being able to book the National Cathedral, but the lovely shrimp salad put her in a better mood. “At least the catering will be perfect. I’m so glad Antoine was able to accommodate us.”

“Yes,” Maria agreed absently. She pulled off her gloves and the diamond on her finger gleamed.
Sophia smiled at it.

“So has Howard picked a honeymoon location?” Lucy asked as she carefully separated the celery bits out of her salad. “Will the two of you go all traditional and head up to Niagara?”

Maria paused a moment and shook her head. “Howard wants to go to Hawaii.” She braced herself for her mother’s huffy outburst and wasn’t surprised when it came.

“Hawaii! But that’s so far away, and across the ocean! A ship will take you weeks and weeks . . . oh he’s not thinking of flying you there himself is he?” Sophia wailed. “Maria, that’s too dangerous!”

“Mama,” Maria warned, looking around at the other customers, who were peeking over at their table, “Howard flew in the war for God’s sake! He’s one of the best pilots around, and in any case, no, he wouldn’t do the flying himself. We’d both be passengers.” She didn’t add that Howard being Howard, he would probably hang out in the pilot’s cabin and probably offer to take the controls if either of them wanted to grab a smoke or a meal.

“But Hawaii! You’ll be gone for months, Maria! Hawaii is halfway around the world! Why can’t the two of you go to Florida, or the Catskills? I know they have some very nice suites at the Fontainebleau and some of those what do you call them? Resorts?”

Maria didn’t have the heart to point out that the distance was one of the attractions of Hawaii, so she merely smiled at her mother and murmured, “Macadamia nuts, mama. Howard was thinking of buying a farm there, but you know how he is—has to see it first.”

“Macadamia farm?” Sophia replied wistfully, blinking. “He’s going to buy one?”

Maria gave a little shrug. “Yes, I think so. It’s a wise investment. Anyway, he’d like to take a look, and both of us thought it would be nice to combine the trip with the honeymoon. Howard says some of the nuts are the size of jawbreakers.”

It was shameless, playing to her mother’s fondness for the tropical treat, but it was also the truth. The nut farm was on the agenda, along with several days and nights of lazing about and touring the sights. Maria had always wanted to see Hawaii and Howard was more than willing to take her there.

“Wow, that sounds lovely,” Lucy loyally agreed. “Just think, Mama—Maria will be warm and having the time of her life while you and I are fighting the snow!”

Sophia gave her elder daughter a quick scowl that vanished as she looked again to Maria. “Hawaii. Well, if your heart’s set on it . . . I wouldn’t want Howard to lose out on a good investment. Maybe he should bring—”

“—Back samples, oh yes,” Maria agreed. “Of course. That and some coconut cake. I think this will be the first time Howard’s taken time off in years, so I want it to be relaxing for him.”

“Oh!” Lucia perked up. “This means you’ll need a bathing suit, M’ree! Oh they have some darling little Jantzen numbers up on the fourth floor of Bloomingdales! My friend Rhonda swears by them, says they make her feel like a movie star.”

“You’ll need a hat to keep off the sun,” Sophia sniffed. “And sunglasses, and lotion. Lucia, get out some paper and we’ll make a new list . . .”

Marie fished in her purse for a pen, feeling a trifle smug at having successfully tackled the honeymoon question, and idly wondered if Hawaii was actually far enough.

***
Howard held onto the edge of the table. He did it for balance, since that last drink had gone down pretty fast, joining the other three in his stomach, but the familiar warmth felt good. Around him, the rest of the men at the table were clapping and calling things out to the stripper on the table who was down to her G-string now, and gyrating like rock tumbler.

He sighed, and looked up at the girl, who dropped the lacy red bra she’d just pulled off; it landed on his upturned face, making the other men bark with laughter.

“Nice catch!” Stane commented. “You can add it to your collection.”

“You’re just jealous because I have a collection,” Howard shot back, still able to enunciate.“Every growing boy should hava hobby.” He plucked the bra off his face and carefully dropped it in the pile of lingerie on the chair next to him where it joined two other bras, a feather boa and one patent leather high heel. The stripper finished off her dance with a swing of her hips and blew a kiss to Howard before holding out a hand and being helped down from the table.

“You’re not drinking enough,” Stane told him, and passed a bottle to Howard. “Here.”

“I’m drinking plenty,” Howard replied, “but since you’re buying . . .”

“Damn right I’m buying,” Stane lifted his own glass in a quick toast. “Always the best for you,” he laughed, although Howard could hear the faintest tinge of something less than amusing in Stane’s voice.

“Cigars, booze, naked broads . . . it’s nice to go with traditions.” Howard nodded. He was pleasantly buzzed and only a drink or two from being completely bombed but for the moment it was the right place to be. The band at the pit in front of the stage struck up a raucous rendition of ‘Caravan’ and a fresh chorus line of barely dressed women came out to cheers from the audience around them.

“Hi,” a voice breathed in Howard’s ear. “I’m Cathy, and I was told to be very nice to you.”

“Is that a fact?” Howard turned to look at her. The young stripper leaning over him was bosomy and blonde, with heavy eye mascara. She took his hand and led him away from the table. Nobody there noticed except Stane, who shot an indulgent look that irritated Howard.

“Lots of people have already been nice to me,” Howard growled, but let himself be pulled to his feet and towards the door. He suspected Stane had set this up, and it both annoyed and amused him that his second in command was so damned predictable.

“It’s your bachelor party Howard, your last night of freedom,” Stane called out. “Tonight do whatever you want!”

Howard tried to pull against the girl’s hand, but she was stronger and certainly more sober than he was at the moment, which meant they were now in the darkened coatroom of the strip club. Dark jackets hung on hangers, and the smells of cigarette smoke, alcohol and industrial carpet cleaner tinted the air.

The girl, Cathy, pressed herself up against him and giggled. “So, let’s have fun,” she cooed, and kissed him. Howard flinched as she wrapped herself around him, and he held completely still until she pulled her face back from his, looking at him in confusion. “What’s the matter, baby? Don’t you like me?”

Howard reached one hand to wipe the lipstick he could feel along his lower lip, and the other into his pocket. “I like you fine. I just don’t want to hurt you.”

Cathy laughed, but it was a little uncertainly now. “Oh I know you’re big, honey, but I’m all grown up myself. You won’t hurt me.” She wiggled against him, but Howard managed to shift and pulled his wallet out, flipping through it for a second, and fishing something out.

He’d come prepared for this.

“But I will. I’ll break your heart,” he murmured confidently and held out a snapshot as he leaned against the door. “See this? This is the most wonderful, beautiful, sweetest girl in the world, and I’m marrying her. Take a look. This is my Maria.”

“She’s probably very nice, but she’s not here right now,” Cathy soothed, but Howard smiled wryly.

“Oh yes she is. Maria’s here all right. She’s right here,” he tapped his head and winced, then dropped his fingers to his chest. “Annnnd here. My Maria is almost a part of me. She’s my soulmate and I love her. I love her so much that even though you’re an incredibly hot little tomato with a nice tushie, I’m going to save myself for marriage.”

“Really?” Cathy was looking at him with a strange expression, and Howard realized muzzily that she was pulling away now, and studying the photo. “You serious?”

“As a heart attack,” he assured her with a small hiccup. “This girl, she’s everything to me—my sun, my moon, my stars and planets and meteors and microscoptic space matter and subatomic particles. You see,” Howard nodded, “I love her. Really really love her. I’d crawl through hell for my Maria. I’d throw myself off a cliff if she told me to. I’d take a bullet for her in any body part including the face. She makes my whole world spin.”

Howard felt the stripper take the photo from his fingers and wasn’t surprised when she burst into tears. He fished in the other pocket for his handkerchief and handed it to her as she bawled, “Oh God that’s the most romantic thing I’ve ever heard!”

“Never thought I’d find a woman like her,” Howard nodded in simple honesty. “So even though you’re a pretty baby, you can see that I’m serious about this.”

“Yeah,” Cathy sniffed, wiping her eyes on the handkerchief and staining it black. “Oh I’m so sorry about trying to put the moves on you . . .”

Howard patted her shoulder clumsily. “S’okay. You know, you’re someone’s moon and stars too, kid. There’s somebody in this world waiting to fight tigers for you. Keep looking honey, he’s out there for a sweet gal like you.”

“I hope so,” Cathy snuffled, “Your Maria is one lucky bitch.”

Howard laughed and nodded as he took the photo back turning it to himself and smiling down at it. “And I’m one lucky, lucky bastard. So whatta you say? Let’s go back and toast my baby.”

“Yeah,” she smiled, leading him back out of the coatroom. “I think I’d like that.”

Howard ordered more champagne and insisted Cathy sit at the table with them. Over the rim of his glass, he noted Stane kept looking hungrily at the young stripper, seeing it, Howard scowled. When Obie left to use the men’s room, Howard fished a pair of hundreds out of his wallet and leaned close to the girl. “Look, take the rest of the night off, kid. My buddy there’s partial to blondes, but he’s damned mean to ‘em. Go home and put your feet up, okay?”

She smiled at him, and under all the makeup, Howard could see both the toughness and softness in the girl. Cathy nodded, tucking the bills into her bra. She bent to kiss his cheek as she got up, whispering, “Thanks for the tips—all of them. You and your Maria go have a good life, Mr. Stark. The two of you deserve each other, that’s for sure. Night.”

When Obie got back he looked around. Howard gave a shrug and pointed down to the stage, where a pair of overly-endowed strippers were gyrating to Dave Rose’s classic. Obie grunted and settled back into his chair, grabbing the champagne bottle for himself. Howard gave a quiet sigh of relief, and rubbed his head. He’d pay fiercely for this overindulgence in the morning, that was damned sure, but for now things were going okay.

He wondered what Maria was doing.

By three AM the party was over, and Howard let Armando herd him into the car. It was blissfully dark and warm; Howard slumped bonelessly on the seat and tried not to let his dizziness overwhelm him. He’d just managed to regain some equilibrium when the car pulled away from the curb and a fresh wave of vertigo hit. Howard fought the urge to throw up by breathing slowly and closing his eyes.

It dawned on Howard that he was damned tired. Having fun took a lot more out of him these days, and it sure as hell wasn’t as much fun as it used to be. He felt a surge of self-pity as he lay with his cheek pressed to the leather of the seat.

He felt old and not for the first time, Howard wondered if he was doing the right thing. Maria was so young, so vital and damned beautiful. She had her whole life ahead of her, and with her brilliance she was going to go far. Did he really want to drag her down? To trap her into a marriage that she’d end up regretting as he got older? He shuddered at the mental image of her having to push him around in a wheelchair while he drooled into his long white beard.

Stupid. He’d been selfish and stupid to ask her to marry him. She’d agreed simply because she didn’t want to hurt his feelings, but Howard suddenly knew that Maria deserved a hell of a lot better than to be tied down to a worn-out worthless wreck like him. He screwed his eyes tight, fighting the quick flash of tears. Men didn’t cry. Their hearts might break, but they didn’t break down when the ugly truths of their lives became apparent.

Howard snuffled, letting the wetness run down his face as the car drove on. He knew what he had to do now. It was the right thing, but God damn it hurt to think about it. He’d have to let Maria go. Set her free to live the life she was meant to have; to soar like the beautiful swan she was . . .

Howard couldn’t remember if swans actually flew. They were birds, he reasoned groggily to himself, so they probably did. Sure there were birds out there that didn’t fly, but Maria would be able to. She was streamlined and definitely the aerodynamic type. Sleek and sweet and one beautiful little package ohyeah. The sudden thought of Maria in white feathers came to mind and he smiled at that. Then those feathers became a long feather boa, and all of a sudden the blasphemous image of Maria as a stripper made him swallow hard.

Oh damn. Now that was an image that was impossible to shake. God. Maria in white lace, prancing just for him, batting those beautiful eyes of hers, waggling her slender hips . . . . He shifted on the seat, feeling a surge of something that definitely wasn’t self-pity, not by a long shot. Howard groaned and rolled on the seat until he was face up, staring at the velour on the ceiling of the limo. He hated himself for lusting after Maria that way. She wasn’t any sort of good-time girl, but at the same time he couldn’t stop wanting her, couldn’t stop indulging in a few dirty little daydreams—

He woke up as the car stopped and blinked. Armando held the door open and extended a hand to him. Howard gripped it and let himself be hauled up, relaxing now. They had an understanding, he and Armando. If he let Armando do the driving, he, Howard, would be a quiet and complacent drunk. He gave a little ‘whoop’ and opened his eyes, expecting Trevor to help Armando bring him inside.

Maria smiled up at him instead. She was wrapped in his old ratty MIT sweater, and the look on her face—warm and welcoming—made him sway from more than just the alcohol. “Maria?”

“Time for beddy-bye, Howard,” she chuckled softly, and slipped an arm under his, bracing him. With Armando on the other side, the three of them managed the porch steps and the length of the living room. Howard collapsed on the sofa and Armando withdrew with a quiet ‘Goodnight sir, madam.’

Howard looked blearily at Maria. “You’re here.”

“You called me,” Maria told him, and began to untie his Florsheims. “About two and a half hours ago. Wanted to know why I loved, and I quote, ‘a mean old fart who probably won’t be able to get it up on his honeymoon’ end quote.”

Howard felt his face flush, and he ran a hand over it, mortified. “Shit. I called you?”

“You did. For the record, you’re a fairly coherent drunk, Mr. Stark,” she told him, pulling off his shoes. “And while I think your question deserves an answer, I didn’t want to say anything while you were at your bachelor party, sweetheart.”

“I called you,” he repeated, stunned by this thought. He couldn’t remember calling her, although the image of a payphone came blurrily to mind. “Oh God, I’m sorry Maria. I’m so, so sorry.”

“I’m not,” she told him, and rose, pushing his shoulders so that he found himself stretched out on the sofa. “It was an amazingly sweet thing to do. Noisy and dumb as well, but on the whole, sweet.”

She nudged at him until Howard scooted over, and lay down beside him on the sofa; it was a tight fit, but Maria draped herself on him and rested her head on his shoulder. “The answer of course is because I love the mean old fart. I’m not worried about our wedding night, Howard. Just being with you automatically makes any night wonderful. I think it was the booze talking, and I think things are going to look a lot better in the morning. Now get some sleep.”

Howard started to protest, but the warm weight of Maria against him on the upholstered sofa felt too damned nice. He closed his eyes, feeling the slow slide into sleep, and right before he did, he sent a little prayer skyward, grateful beyond words that someone up there truly had send him an angel, white feathers notwithstanding.

Pssst, hey you!

cincoflex — Wed, 15 Feb 2012 00:53:31 GMT

You, looking at this journal entry here--

Want a lovely Harry Potter fanfic love story for Valentine's day?

Here:

http://vrtrakowski.4t.com/hp/mirror/ThroughGrace1.html

You're welcome. Go, read, savor and let VR know she did a great job!

The Dance of the Moth pt6

cincoflex — Mon, 30 Jan 2012 00:23:40 GMT

Story: The Dance of the Moth
Author:Cincoflex
Fandom: Sherlock Holmes (movies)
Rating: R
Summary: The aftermath of the Peace Summit brings Genevieve St. James to the Continent.

Author's Notes: It helps to have read http://www.fanfiction.net/s/5701596/1/Genevieve first, since that lays the groundwork for what follows here. My love to not only VR_Trakowski who encourages and watches out for me, but also to everyone who let me know they wouldn't mind reading this story. Thank you. There are SPOILERS for the movie, so please keep that in mind.

Pain was something that Holmes was familiar with; almost an old friend given the number of times he’d been injured throughout his life. Some doses of it—bruises and concussions-- were from easily recognized causes, like boxing, and others like bullet holes and stabbings were received in the pursuit of justice.

It was irritating therefore, not to know precisely how and why he was now on his back in a Swiss Abbey, talking aloud to a Saint Bernard.

“I accept that a certain amount of injury is from falling along the cascade of the Aar,” he murmured to Rolf, who lay on the rug beside the bed, “but given the distance and speed, my survival of such an accident is miraculous. Do I believe in miracles? I do not,” Holmes pointed a finger at the dog. “My faith lies in calculation of risk and result. If I felt going over the falls was worth the risk, then it stands to reason that I planned for the result. But how?”

At that moment the door opened, and Holmes watched as the barber, Brother David, and the young woman named Genevieve came in, holding clothing. Holmes noted it was tattered and while dry, clearly not fit for wear. He sat up, looking at it with concentration. “Formalwear. Mine?”

“What’s l-left of it,” Genevieve murmured. “Along with one shoe, and this.” She held out a small device of polished brass, now slightly dented. “Is it a w-weapon?”

Her question made the brother pull back, but Holmes took it from her and gave it a cursory glance.

“I think not; there is a mouthpiece here, and a cartridge there, which means it was made to deliver something into a user’s mouth—I suspect the contents to be either compressed air or oxygen,” Holmes murmured, gently turning the apparatus over in his hands. It was definitely a little marvel of engineering. “A breathing device of some sort. That would certainly give an advantage to anyone under water.”

“A breathing m-machine?”

Holmes hummed a little sound of affirmation and looked up at the brother. “This was with me?”

“Ja, clutched in your hand,” he agreed. “It took us three people to tug it free from you, even battered as you were.”

“It probably saved my life,” Holmes admitted, and set it on the table. “Come, let me examine the clothing . . .” He held out his hands expectantly, and Genevieve gave them over, watching him.

He found he liked that; enjoyed knowing that her green eyes were studying him so closely. There was something in her quiet attention that he found comforting. Perhaps even more than comforting.

“Tailored, which means money,” Holmes murmured, looking over the damaged clothing. “Excellent cut but not well-worn, meaning I didn’t attend many formal functions. The wool is merino hogget, twice dyed, and the lining indicates that the suit was created in Savile Row. Davies and Son, London,” Holmes nodded. “That, I remember.”

Brother David looked a little surprised, and handed over the one boot without saying a word. Holmes took it and gave a brief smile. “Churches. Full-grain leather, with more wear than the suit. We do not have a magnifying glass, do we?”

He saw Genevieve shake her head, and sighed. “Very well. There seem to be fragments of railway coal and brick embedded in the soles. Had I a microscope and time, I am sure I would learn where I have been recently.”

“All that from rags and a boot?” the brother wondered aloud.

Holmes pursed his lips. “It’s not as much as it might be. I wore the boots for my trip, but not the suit, and my travels took me by rail. None of that is remarkable or unusual, although the brick is intriguing. It’s not the usual red clay, but something rather more stone in nature.”

“B-Be that as it may,” Genevieve told him quietly, “I am more c-concerned with making sure you have s-something to wear on the way home.”

Holmes nodded, aware of the need to move on from the hospitality of the Abbey. He fought a sneeze as Brother David gave him a mug of tea and left. Genevieve perched herself on the edge of the bed and studied him in a way he found slightly . . . arousing.

“How did y-you sleep?” she asked.

“Fitfully,” he confessed. “Although I do remember a few things this morning. Watson, for instance. John Hamish Watson, surgeon, flat-mate and friend. Five nine, mustached, overly fond of cricket, cards, Mary Morstan and the bulldog whose name escapes me. I seem to recall he married Mary only recently.”

When Genevieve nodded, Holmes felt a moment of satisfaction at her confirmation of these facts. She reached for the flannels on the bedside table and began to apply the mustard poultice on them, gesturing to Holmes to untie his nightshirt. He did, trying not to let his embarrassment bother him.

His body continued to respond to the touch of this woman, and he wished heartily he would either remember her and thus have permission to be so . . . enthusiastic, or that he had better control over his reactions and could suppress them.

She seemed unperturbed, and Holmes surmised that Genevieve either did not notice, or did not wish to humiliate him by commenting on it. He hoped it was the latter.

“As s-soon as I can procure suitable clothing f-for you we shall leave,” Genevieve told him as she lightly pressed the plaster onto his chest. The fumes rose, making their eyes water for a moment as the pungency of the mustard made itself known. Holmes felt the heat sink into his skin, the warmth welcome.

“Agreed. Why isn’t Watson here?” Holmes asked. “Surely he must have spent time looking for me.”

“I’m sure h-he did,” Genevieve replied slowly. “But given the ferocity of the w-waterfall and the drift of the c-current, he did not find you.” She looked unhappy for a moment and leaned closer, her expression clouded. “I have b-been in contact with your brother. He has f-forbidden me to tell Watson that you are alive.”

This news made him draw in a deep breath, and that in turn set off a coughing fit not helped by the mustard fumes. While Genevieve wiped his lips with a handkerchief, Holmes thought furiously about what she’d told him.

Brother. A tall and urbane figure came to mind at that. Deep-set eyes, insufferably superior attitude and quick intellect.

Holmes worked his jaw for a moment and spoke absently. “Mycroft. Infuriatingly correct as usual.” When Genevieve looked at him in surprise, He added, “Watson is incapable of true guile; Mycroft is protecting him by keeping my survival a secret. That implies that the situation is still both dangerous and unresolved. This complicates matters.”

“Your b-brother didn’t seem surprised to hear from me,” she told him, her mouth twisting in a wry smile.

“I’m certain he’s known about my private affairs for a while,” Holmes sighed. “Not that they are of any genuine interest to him. Mycroft deals in strategies, not data.”

“So I am d-data?” she seemed miffed at the thought, and Holmes shook his head impatiently.

“Not to me, to him. You are far more than a collection of facts and numbers and I am grateful for your timely presence here. I assume I left you a missive forbidding you to come?”

At this, Genevieve arched an elegant eyebrow and Holmes felt a quick pulse of amusement at this confirmation of his suspicions.

“You did not f-forbid me to come,” Genevieve murmured, patting the poultice on his wounded chest more firmly. “I chose n-not to accept that you were d-dead without the evidence of m-my own eyes. Clearly I made the correct d-decision.”

The sting of the poultice helped to clear his sinuses, and Holmes blew his nose into the handkerchief before speaking. “Clearly. So you undertook an unescorted journey to the Continent to find me. This speaks volumes about the degree of intimacy between us.”

This made her blush, Holmes noted, and the light rose flush along her cheekbones pleased him, but not her next words. “I w-was not unescorted; that would have r-raised questions. My friend Alphonse c-came with me.”

“Alphonse?” it came out sharper than he intended, but Holmes blamed the mustard, which was becoming exceedingly uncomfortable.

“Alphonse Lavelle, p-proprietor of a bookstore in Calais,” Genevieve told him as she draped a cool cloth across his forehead. “He was a p-perfect gentleman and helped me r-reach Switzerland.”

Holmes fought the urge to grumble, and lost. “Altruistic of him. Is he . . . older?”

Genevieve paused and bent down to look into his eyes, her own holding a hint of something he couldn’t identify. “Oh no—Alphonse is about m-my age. He insisted on c-coming with me and m-made for a delightful companion on the trip.”

“Is that a fact?” Holmes replied shortly, wanting the conversation to end. “I trust you followed all appropriate proprieties then.”

“How v-very sweet of you,” she murmured dryly, “w-worrying about my reputation at th-this late date. I assure you Alphonse and I m-managed very well and had he not n-needed to return and attend to his injured s-sister he would be here t-too.”

Holmes lay quiet for a while, aware that he had overstepped a line, but unsure which one and by how much. Genevieve took the time to unpack a razor and soap from her basket, whipping up a froth in one of the water bowls, using, Holmes noted, more ferocity than warranted. “I apologize for my lack of . . . tact,” he finally offered. “Given how nebulous my memory is, I am unsure of the precise nature of our relationship, and the boundaries it entails.”

She turned to look at him. Genevieve smiled, the corners of her lips turning up, soft dimples bracketing her mouth and in that forgiving smile, Holmes felt an urge to kiss her.

***
Genevieve was pleased that the tailor was a calm and cheerful man who seemed to understand the urgency of the job. He had studied the ruined formal dress and from it was able to alter a few ready-made garments to fit Holmes. A few trousers, some shirts, a coat and overcoat—all of it promised within the next two days without fail.

She paid him handsomely, relieved that Holmes would at the very least have something more to wear than robes. Boots were the next order of business, and Genevieve stepped out, concentrating on the directions given to her by the tailor. She shifted the tattered remains of Holmes’ formalwear and as she turned to look up the street, she caught sight of an unwelcome face. The gaunt man had just stepped out of a store and caught sight of her.

The man who had met Moriarity at the train station.

Genevieve turned, but in her haste the red sash Holmes had worn fluttered to the ground, a gaudy flag against the melting snow and dark flagstones. She scooped it up, feeling her heartbeat accelerate, not daring to look over her shoulder as she abandoned thoughts of buying boots in favor of retreat. Moving as quickly as she could, Genevieve wove through the people moving along the sidewalks, and detoured through a small park, walking briskly until she reached her hotel. Once there, she shoved the rags at the concierge. “Please dispose of these immediately, merci.”

“Of course Madam,” the slightly startled man replied. “immediately.”

Genevieve nodded, and moved to the restaurant, ordering tea and trying to relax. When the Darjeeling came, she sipped it.

Still, it was a long time until she felt calm again.

The Dance of the Moth pt4

cincoflex — Tue, 10 Jan 2012 12:27:20 GMT

Story: The Dance of the Moth
Author:Cincoflex
Fandom: Sherlock Holmes (movies)
Rating: R
Summary: The aftermath of the Peace Summit brings Genevieve St. James to the Continent.

Author's Notes: It helps to have read http://www.fanfiction.net/s/5701596/1/Genevieve first, since that lays the groundwork for what follows here. My love to not only VR_Trakowski who encourages and watches out for me, but also to everyone who let me know they wouldn't mind reading this story. Thank you. There are SPOILERS for the movie, so please keep that in mind.

The next two days were a nightmare. Worse than a nightmare, Genevieve felt, because at least one might wake up from sleep-induced horrors, whereas in reality she had no respite from the events that had transpired at Reichenbach Castle.

She had tried to watch for Holmes along the road leading up to the castle, but most of the carriages were closed, and nightfall didn’t help matters either. Unfortunately Genevieve had spotted Moriarity, arriving in a handsome sleigh, and had hid from sight until he passed. The night was too cold for her to stay out any longer, particularly along the unlit streets, so she retired to her hotel room for a few hours of rest, hoping to renew her vigil at midnight, when the carriages might begin to leave.

Unfortunately, a commotion woke her; shouts of some of the watchmen for the constabulary making it clear that something was horribly, terribly wrong. One of the young maids on night duty passed the news to Genevieve. “There’s been an assassination attempt at the castle, and two guests have fallen from the balcony over the falls, Miss!”

She had known then, with a terrible pang of pain, that one of them had to have been Holmes. Having played chess with him several times, Genevieve knew his style and reckless sense of sacrifice, his overriding compulsion for the grand gesture in the face of evil.

In the cold, foggy morning, a body had been recovered a few miles down along the banks of the Aar, a corpse much battered by the fall and drift along the icy river. By late afternoon, he’d had been identified at Professor James Moriarity, mathematics instructor and invited delegate to the Peace Summit. Of the other guest there was no sign, and no-one at the summit seemed to know who he had been. Rumors linked him with the would-be assassin, now poisoned and also in the Meiringen morgue.

Genevieve cried. She had buried her face in the pillows of the bed and sobbed long and hard, finally overcome by the fatigue, fear and pain of the last few weeks. When she was finally all cried out, she slept. Towards the end of that heavy sleep, she’d dreamt of Holmes, a nebulous haunting through which his voice drifted, calling to her.

The dream stayed with her when she’d woken the next morning, and Genevieve was determined to see for herself the site where Moriarity’s body had been recovered, and search it for any signs of Holmes at all. Now, after packing some lunch and the map that Alphonse had given her, Genevieve stood at the curving bend of the Aar, looking up at the thunder of water spilling down the mountain under the castle.

She leaned on her walking stick, looking around the flattened ground, noting all the boot-prints and the wagon wheel ruts that rolled up to the main road. Yes, this was where Moriarity had been found and taken away; the marks were all fresh. Genevieve thought for a long moment, looking at the sluggish flow of the water. Moriarity had been only a bit taller than Holmes, but probably at least a stone or two heavier; it seemed possible that Holmes, being the lighter of the two would have drifted farther. With that thought in mind, Genevieve began walking along the river, glad of her sturdy boots.

The Aar wasn’t very swift, and she studied the thin grasses along its banks, aware that the river was fairly shallow along this side. After about a mile, she reached a bend that held a pebbly beach of sorts, curving in a sweep very close to the road. Shallow enough, in fact, to hold some debris. Genevieve quickened her pace as she spotted something snagged on one of the larger rocks. A prod of her walking stick brought up a wet, torn section of dark cloth, and as she held it up, Genevieve recognized it as a man’s dress vest. It was torn, with part of the lining shredded, but what interested her more was the size, which was too small for a man like Moriarity.

In any case, Moriarity had been fully dressed when found, so this article of clothing had to be from Holmes. Genevieve held it in her gloved hands for a moment, waiting for her heart to stop beating so rapidly. She carefully wrung the rag out and folded it before putting it in her pocket, then turned to look around at the ground.

The pebbles were disturbed, and part of that seemed to be a long trough leading up to the road. She stared, trying to picture what it might mean. Had Holmes crawled up from the water? Had he been dragged by someone? And if he’d reached the road . . . Genevieve turned and strode up the low slope, lifting her skirts and hurrying.

A bark stopped her. Startled, Genevieve froze as a veritable mountain of a dog padded up to her, his tail sweeping majestically in syncopation with his stride, his tongue hanging out. When he reached her, his tail increased speed. She reached out, tentatively, letting the huge animal sniff her hand.

“H-hello,” she murmured softly, all too aware of the size of the canine. He was shaggy, a thick white coat with russet spots along his back, and dangling russet ears as well, but his eyes were guileless and friendly, and his tongue swiped over her fingers in a warm but rough greeting. “Well, at l-least you’re friendly.”

Genevieve liked dogs—most dogs anyway. Several of her best customers had dogs, and she was fond of the bulldog, Gladstone, that Holmes shared with Watson. This gentle giant seemed to pick up on her sympathetic vibe, and beseeched her with his eyes to pet him, so she did.

Again, the tail increased speed. Genevieve couldn’t help smiling; this was the first cheerful moment since hearing the news about Holmes. As she petted him, she looked around, trying to locate an owner, but no-one seemed to be about, so she climbed up to the road proper, and glanced down it in each direction.

There was nothing coming from the Meiringen end of the road, but from the other direction, a small cart pulled by a donkey came into view. The man holding the reins gave a whistle, and the dog’s ears perked up. He gave a slightly regretful look to Genevieve and then dutifully bounded towards the cart, where the driver gave a noisy sigh.

He pulled up to a stop in front of Genevieve, and she noted with surprise that he was wearing the long grey robes of a holy order—Cistercian most likely. When he flipped his hood back, she saw his bowl-cut hair and nodded to herself: A brother then, from some monastery nearby no doubt. The brother greeted her in German, his accent Swiss. “Good morning, Fraulein! I hope Rolf here didn’t frighten you. He’s big, but all heart. Are you lost?”

“He’s a good d-dog,” she agreed, smiling at Rolf, who looked as if he wanted to return to her side for more petting. “He didn’t frighten me at all. And n-no, I’m not lost, but I am looking for someone w-who is. A man, dark hair, dark eyes--” she fumbled in German.

“—A man you say?” the brother looked interested. “Here?”

“J-just about here,” Genevieve nodded. “He f-fell in the river, and is probably injured. Have y-you seen him?”

The brother climbed off the wagon and came over to her, his expression both relieved and curious. “I think I have, Fraulein. Brother Martin and Rolf there found a poor soul along this road last night, nearly frozen to death. They brought him up to the Abbey, and I was going down to town just now to see if anyone was reported missing.” He shook his head. “We don’t generally go into Meiringen except once in a fortnight, so it must be the Lord’s Providence to have met you. I’m Brother Hans, from Willigen Abbey.”

“Genevieve St. J-James,” she replied, shaking his hand. It was callused and warm from the reins, and she appreciated his kind smile.

“I think you’d better come to the Abbey with me and Rolf then to see if the man there is who you are seeking,” Brother Hans told her. “If it is, then well and good, God be thanked. But if it is not, then we can give you a ride back to town before sunset.”

“T-Thank you,” Genevieve murmured, struck by this kindness.

Hans looked skyward and smiled. “And Him. Let me help you up. Mind the cheeses . . .”

As Genevieve climbed in, she noted the stacked rounds of cheese neatly packed in crates in the back of the cart. “Emmental?” she asked.

“Yes, some of the best in the country. Hold on,” Brother Hans advised, and he tugged the left rein, making the donkey reluctantly turn. “No fussing, Jeanne! Home now—“

Rolf trotted alongside the wagon, easily able to keep pace with the old donkey, and Genevieve tightened her grip on the edge of the bench seat as the wagon headed up the road. After a mile, it forked, and a sign pointed the direction to Willigen Abbey. They took the right fork, and another two miles over a low rise brought the stone walls and bell tower into view. By now it was after noon, and faint sunshine made the Abbey look pleasant against the scattered snow and pockets of green on the hills. There were pastures with cows, and what looked to be a barn as well as a church and other buildings surrounded by granite walls.

They passed through an open gate, and there were a few surprised looks from various brothers as Genevieve and Hans rode in. A slight, thin priest with a silver beard came forward, absently petting Rolf as he looked up at the riders in the wagon and made the sign of the cross. “Peace be with you.”

“And with you, Father,” Brother Hans replied, crossing himself. “This is Miss St. James, who is looking for a missing man. I think it must be a blessing that I ran into her on the road to Meiringen, don’t you?”

Father Peter nodded, his German accented with French intonations “The Lord guides us all as he sees fit. Miss St. James, you are welcome here. Come, have something hot to drink, and we will talk.”

Genevieve forced herself to be patient, even though she wanted nothing more than to begin searching each building for Holmes, calling his name. Instead, she allowed herself to be helped down from the carriage and guided into an office where a fire blazed on a hearth. The warmth felt wonderful, and when Genevieve sat down, Rolf came to lay his head on her knee.

“He’s taken a liking to you,” Father Peter observed, moving to poke up the fire with a pair of tongs. “That’s good to see. Rolf could use a friend, poor stray.”

This startled Genevieve. “He’s a s-stray?”

Father Peter nodded, taking a seat in a chair opposite her. “He was left near one of our pastures nearly a year ago, half-starved and wounded. Wolves must have attacked him at some point, but other than that we know nothing about him except he’s a good dog. Alas, he’s afraid of cattle, and has no aptitude for herding anything other than humans. In any case, we are not here to talk about this stray, but another one, yes?”

“Yes,” Genevieve replied, and added, “Do you speak F-French? Or English? My German isn’t v-very good . . .”

“French then,” Father Peter replied with a smile. “Tell me about this lost man.”

Genevieve took a breath. “He’s about f-five feet seven inches in stocking feet. His h-hair is dark brown as are his eyes. He h-has several scars as well. A long one a-across the right side of his ribs, a s-small one behind is r-right ear and a s-star-shaped one a-along his thigh. The l-left. Oh, and there are s-several old injection marks along his f-forearms,” she sighed, hoping there were no fresh ones.

Father Peter nodded slowly, his gaze compassionate. “You certainly know this man, that’s very clear. What is not is what your relationship is. You haven’t called him by name, or referred to him as a brother or husband, which is a curious thing, is it not?”

Genevieve felt heat on her face that had nothing to do with the fire; seeing it, Father Peter gave a small and knowing smile. “Ah. So it’s like that?”

“It’s n-not easy to explain,” She murmured, her hands going up helplessly. “His work is . . . d-dangerous, and all-consuming, Father. He is l-like a knight of old, on a quest.”

The priest’s expression shifted to one more serious, and he sighed. “There is a difference, my child, between being like Cervantes’s knight, or one under the guidance of the Almighty. I am not here to pass judgment; that is not my purpose in the question. I ask because the man’s injuries are many, and he will need a great deal of care.” When Genevieve drew a sharp breath, he held out a placating hand to her and continued. “He has many wounds that are days older than his tumble from the falls, and the ice of the river has brought him dangerously close to death. That being said, he seems to have a stubborn constitution, and will recover—physically--given time.”

Genevieve caught the odd hesitation in the priest’s tone and looked at him with trepidation. “Something is wrong.”

The priest rose up, making both Genevieve and Rolf look up at him. “It . . . may pass. Come, I will take you to him.”

Genevieve stood, and followed behind the priest as he made his way through a series of turns and hallways through the abbey that eventually ended at a wooden door with a red cross over the sill. He stood back and spoke again, softly. “Do you wish to see him alone?”

Not trusting her voice, Genevieve nodded.

Father Peter made a little hum of acknowledgement. “Very well. There are brothers in the next room, and I doubt I could pull Rolf from your side, so if you need any assistance, you have but to call.” He murmured a blessing in Latin and opened, the door, ushering Genevieve and the Saint Bernard inside.

A thick wool carpet covered the floor and the only light came from a small window high above on the far wall. Genevieve looked at the bed and the figure sleeping on it; with a pulse of relief she felt her heart rise up in her chest, lighter than it had been in weeks. Quickly she darted forward and leaned over Holmes, drinking in the sight of him, noting the pallor of his complexion, the bruises on his stubbled chin and cheeks. A heavy crown of linen bandage encircled his temples, and from the bulk of him under the blanket, Genevieve deduced there were other injuries equally well-wrapped. She wanted to touch him, but feared waking him.

As if sensing her presence, Holmes opened his eyes and stared up at her. Even in the dim light, Genevieve noted how dark they were, and how wide. His warm breath, familiar and gentle brushed her cheek and she smiled.

“Do you have any idea how l-long I have been looking for you? H-how I’ve searched and w-waited and hunted?” she murmured to him in tender exasperation, feeling herself near tears again.

Holmes offered a faint and tired smile in return as he brought one hand up to rub his forehead. “No. Exactly who are you?”

The Dance of the Moth pt3

cincoflex — Sat, 07 Jan 2012 17:50:43 GMT

Story: The Dance of the Moth
Author:Cincoflex
Fandom: Sherlock Holmes (movies)
Rating: R
Summary: The aftermath of the Peace Summit brings Genevieve St. James to the Continent.

Author's Notes: It helps to have read http://www.fanfiction.net/s/5701596/1/Genevieve first, since that lays the groundwork for what follows here. My love to not only VR_Trakowski who encourages and watches out for me, but also to everyone who let me know they wouldn't mind reading this story. Thank you. There are SPOILERS for the movie, so please keep that in mind.

The trip from Paris to Geneva took five days. Five long and sometimes harrowing days. Genevieve was glad she’d packed her letters of credit, and although money was not an issue, comfort was. The trains jostled her, rattled her and didn’t allow her to sleep very well despite the upholstery and amenities.

Thankfully Alphonse made the travelling a bit easier. He was proving to be a good companion; pleasant and full of interesting stories. Early on they’d begun calling each other ‘cousin’ as camouflage, and after a while it seemed a perfectly natural form of address between them, arousing neither suspicion nor interest from anyone else.

The countryside was pretty enough, but Genevieve was far more interested in her fellow passengers, and soon realized that many of the train employees were tense. She supposed the bombings and border security were the cause of that, and did her best not to demand too much of the porters. On the third day, however, she had an encounter that unsettled her.

She was in the dining car, alone for lunch. Alphonse had pleaded a headache and needed to sleep; Genevieve urged him to do so, and made her way to the car alone. The porter seated her at her usual table, inquiring about her cousin. She explained the situation and gave her order, looking around at the other passengers. Several were new, recent additions from the last stop near the German border. As Genevieve looked around, she felt an unpleasant shiver rush up her spine, and turned to find a man at the table across the aisle staring at her, thin mouth smiling fractionally.

He was gaunt, with bruises along one cheek and a bristly ginger beard that gave him a slightly sinister cast. Genevieve forced herself to look him in the eyes, and found them to be an icy blue. The man held her gaze for a long moment, and then nodded slowly, as if remembering social niceties at the last minute. She watched as he sawed into a rare slice of roast beef, cutting it with deliberation.

Genevieve forced herself not to react, and turned back to the bisque the waiter set in front of her. She had no appetite now, but made herself down a few spoonfuls, and tried to relax. The man had meant no harm, surely; poor manners, but he’d said nothing, done nothing overtly offensive. Nevertheless Genevieve sensed a degree of danger radiating from the quiet figure, and resolved to avoid him for the rest of the trip.

She didn’t share her feelings with Alphonse; there was little he could do, and in truth it was simply a feeling. Genevieve knew full well that women gave more credence to their inner voice than men did, and that to mention it always opened the potential to be mocked.

She’d learned that from bitter experience with her uncle.

At dinner, Alphonse joined her, and this time the stranger was seated one table behind him. Genevieve had trouble avoiding the man’s intense gaze whenever it drifted her way, which was often. He wasn’t flirting, or even leering, both of which Genevieve would have recognized. No, he was watching her as if she was . . . prey. As if he was considering her through a rifle scope. The sensation was unnerving, and for the life of her Genevieve couldn’t figure out why this stranger was doing this.

After the better part of the meal had passed, she realized that she wasn’t alone; the man was looking at other women the same way. He eyed the little blonde mother of two one table over with the same hunter’s intensity, and not even the elderly matron who entered late was spared that coldly assessing gaze.

Genevieve decided he must have some sort of quietly aggressive nature. She’d read through several recently published German books that described both mind and psyche, and the stranger seemed to personify one of the more dangerous types labeled by the authors.

Alphonse seemed to sense her unease, and leaned forward to whisper. “Are you all right mon amie?”

“Yes, I’m simply t-tired of travel,” she told him gently. “Nice as the accommodations are, they’re not easy on the d-digestion.”

Alphonse nodded. “Oui, it’s difficult at times, I agree. By great fortune though, we do not have much further to go; I heard one of the conductors mention that we will reach Geneva by tomorrow morning.”

This was good news, and Genevieve brightened. “That’s wonderful!”

“Indeed. I have spoken to a few of our fellow passengers and procured a list of hotels and inns,” Alphonse told her. “Geneva should be no problem, but matters may be more difficult in Meiringen.”

Genevieve sighed. “We w-will do what we can. Thank you so much for all y-your help, Alphonse.”

*** *** ***

The little yellow paper was waiting for them at the Meiringen station. Alphonse took it, his face pale as the telegram messenger stood waiting for a reply. He unfolded it and paled, passing the page wordlessly to Genevieve, who scanned it and inhaled a quick breath.

“You must return,” she told him firmly. “Now.”

“Poor Delphine!” Alphonse moaned. “Disastrous enough to break one leg, but both!”

Genevieve helped him compose a quick reply, and then steered Alphonse to the ticket office. In halting German she purchased a return fare to Paris as she soothingly rubbed her friend’s back. Alphonse roused himself enough to accept the tickets, and separate his luggage from hers, babbling all the while. “ . . . I have that list of hostels and hotels right here, and according to the porter there’s a restaurant in the town square that’s not too expensive . . .”

“I’ll manage, Alphonse, I shall. In the m-meantime, you must return to Calais w-without delay; your sister needs you.”

Alphonse nodded, his face a study in misery. “I feel I have failed you,” he confessed. “All this travel and no opportunity to find your gentleman friend! What a waste of a trip!”

“Nonsense,” Genevieve responded stoutly. “You escorted m-me here and k-kept my spirits up. I’m grateful for everything, m-mon ami.”

He gave her a tired smile and a hug, then pulled back and handed Genevieve some papers. “Here—the lists of places, the map, and the addresses of a few bookstores here in town. It’s not much, but it should help a bit. Also, a loan—” and here he pressed a thick billfold into Genevieve’s hand, “Use what you need and you may repay me later. I insist,” Alphonse cut off her protest with a stern smile. “You are in a strange country, and every resource is precious.”

Genevieve felt her eyes water. “Very well, and th-thank you, Alphonse, for your trust in me. I will write you as s-soon as possible.”

They said their goodbyes before he boarded the return train, and Genevieve watched it chug out of sight for the Geneva station, suddenly feeling overwhelmed. She was thousands of miles from home with no sure lead on Holmes, and no guarantee he would be glad to see her should she find him.

For a long moment, she let herself feel scared, tired, and lonely. Then Genevieve St. James lifted her chin.

“When I f-find him,” she told herself firmly, and waved to a porter to assist her with her trunk.

***

Meiringen was a small town, certainly smaller than London or Paris, and within two days, Genevieve had explored most of it by foot or by hansom. She had stopped in at the booksellers (both of whom turned out to be charming and very helpful) had visited the local sites and even taken a few hours to visit the spa, renowned for spring water cures. If she hadn’t been on a quest, she might have enjoyed herself.

As it was, Genevieve knew that the Peace Summit would open at the end of the week, beginning with an official Ball at the Reichenbach Castle. Currently Meiringen was filled with foreign visitors and their retinues; most of them talked of little else. She learned of the exclusive guest list and the security surrounding the entire affair. Genevieve listened carefully and made mental notes, wondering if Holmes would try to bluff his way in, or perhaps disguise himself.

She hoped he wouldn’t do the latter; despite his enthusiasm for costumes, Holmes wasn’t nearly as clever with them as he thought he was. A small blind spot in the man, this vanity for a mediocre skill. Genevieve tried not to laugh at the memory of some of his unconvincing disguises, and a moment later the recollection was swept away by a sigh.

She missed him dreadfully.

By Thursday Genevieve had staked out a position at a café near the railway station, ostensibly to read, but in truth she was keeping an eye on the incoming trains, hoping to spot either Holmes or Watson arriving in Meiringen. It was a chilly day, and Genevieve was glad of her fur shawl as well as the pots of hot tea the waiters kept bringing to her. The little guidebook to Meiringen sat on her table, well-thumbed by this time, along with her journal and a few pencils. The sun was out, but there were clouds hovering over the craggy mountains, and when Genevieve glanced around, she spotted a familiar figure across the street, lounging inside one of the little businesses there. A lean ginger-haired figure who seemed to be watching the train station as well.

She fought a flinch. Whoever the man was, that faint sense of menace still lingered in his wake even at a distance. Genevieve wondered if he was after Holmes. It was possible, she knew—Holmes tended to make enemies, and any number of them might be coming to this summit besides Moriarity. Not a cheery thought at all.

Genevieve watched the ginger-haired man. He checked his watch periodically, fishing it out of his vest pocket, and stood quietly, no nervousness, no fidgeting. When the long whistle of the incoming train cut through the air, she saw him relax a bit and step to the curb, preparing to walk toward the main doors of the station. Unexpectedly though, he suddenly gazed in her direction and she felt a surge of panic when those cold blue eyes locked with hers.

A tall cab passed between them on the street, breaking the contact, and Genevieve quickly looked down, aware that her heart was racing now, quick with fearful trepidation. Out of the corner of her gaze she noted that the ginger-haired man was heading off, giving her no further consideration. He unnerved her, and she wished she could order something stronger than tea to settle her wits. Still, it wouldn’t do to draw attention to herself, so Genevieve forced herself to relax and sip more of the hot Darjeeling.

She let her gaze follow the man, and noted he didn’t go for the main doors of the station. Instead, he went off to a door marked ‘private’, and as he did so, someone stepped out to greet him.

Genevieve stared. The new man was stocky, and red-haired as well, with a heavier beard and impeccable sense of dress. She’d seen his features only once before--in a tintype pinned to the wall of 221 B Baker Street—but even at this distance he was unmistakable.

Professor James Moriarity.

Genevieve rose and began to pick up her things from the table, feeling a fresh rush of anxiety as she realized the danger had just doubled, and Holmes was still nowhere to be found. She left the café and strode back towards her hotel, chiding herself for coming to Switzerland and hoping against hope to find her lover before he did something rash.

The Bond of Simple Attraction pt3

cincoflex — Thu, 01 Sep 2011 21:08:19 GMT

Story: The Bond of Simple Attraction
Author: Cincoflex
Summary: When Howard Met Maria

Author's Notes: Research for this has been a hoot and a lot of fun. I owe sincere thanks to VR_Trakowski for her help with many things related to DC in the Sixties, and a big hug to Lovellama for keeping my usage up to snuff and cheering me on. You ladies rock!

It was the one of the strangest and sweetest lunches she’d ever had, an odd give and take across the table with a man who seemed fascinated by what she’d always thought of as mundane. Howard managed to coax all sorts of opinion out of her, and seemed to enjoy hearing her stories, even when they were just silly memories.

When the food came they took a break from the conversation and ate; Maria was sure she wouldn’t have an appetite, but to her delight the ravioli was tender and the tomato sauce bursting with flavor. She made a mental note to come back to Pesci di Antonio sometime soon, maybe with her parents or Randi. Across the table, Howard tucked in cheerfully and Maria noticed his excellent table manners.

She wondered if he was trying to make a good impression on her, and that absurd thought nearly made her choke as a giggle worked its way up her throat. Howard looked up and she shook her head, taking a sip of wine to help matters.

“Are you all right?”

“I’m fine. Just wondering when you need to get back,” she replied. “I don’t want to keep you from anything important.”

“This is plenty important,” he told her with a forthright look. “Lunch with one of the up and coming chemists of Stark Industries.”

“I haven’t actually said I’d work for you,” Maria reminded him before she could stop herself. She didn’t mean to be blunt, and knew her remark came across as ungrateful.

“Not yet, but I’ve got faith.” Howard shot her a look that was oddly shy, and she felt an urge to pat his hand.

“I didn’t mean that to sound so rude. I’m sorry. It’s been a lovely lunch. You’re making me nervous,” she told him. “I do tend to be direct about these things.”

“That’s good,” Howard nodded, “an excellent quality. I don’t want to make you nervous, though. If it helps, I’m nervous too.”

“You? Nervous?” Now she was slightly astonished. “But you’re a captain of industry; you’ve met world leaders and royalty!”

She watched him look down at his plate, as if embarrassed to be reminded of those achievements. When he looked up again, Maria noted his slightly melancholy expression. “Those . . . are just things I’ve done. They’re not who I am, Maria.”

That was the moment she felt a warm flutter deep in her stomach. She drew a quick breath and smiled, feeling daring enough to reach over and pat his hand. Howard’s skin was warm under her fingertips.

“You’re right,” she told him. “And yes, I’ll take the job.”

****

Monday through Thursday, Maria Carbonell worked in the Stark Industries laboratories just off the Lee/Jackson Highway. She bought a second-hand Nash Metropolitan that Randi said looked like a rolling sneaker, and made the daily commute to her new job with a sense of satisfaction. Doctor Samuel Shastri and his team there were impressed with her credentials, and warmed up to her quiet efficient ways within a few weeks. She took on her new duties diligently, and found a great deal of satisfaction among the retorts and Bunsen burners, following up on a complicated line of research into resins.

That was Monday through Thursday.

On Fridays, Maria didn’t bother putting on a lab coat. Every Friday, from the first week she’d worked for him, Howard Stark either sent a car for her or showed up himself at the labs, swept her away with him and they went to work.

The National Engineer’s Seminar.

Lunch with architects.

A ballistics testing lab.

A tour of a steel mill.

Every Friday was spent on some aspect of furthering Stark Industries, and Maria never knew what to expect. She found herself standing in an experimental hydroponics lab in Winston-Salem one Friday, and peering out the window of a bathysphere in Wood’s Hole the next.

On Fridays, Howard Stark introduced her everywhere as his consultant, and Maria took to carrying a notebook to keep track of the details of every trip. He asked for her opinions, and to her delight, took them seriously.

In the evenings, he took her to dinner, and they discussed what they’d seen during the day. Most of the time they stuck to small places in and around the city, little culinary gems tucked away and prized by locals.

Maria didn’t quite know what to make of it.

Howard treated her as a respected colleague and friend, sharing quiet jokes and insights when they made their trips. Afterwards, when they were having dinner, he was more relaxed but still a gentleman. He held her chair out for her, helped her in and out of cars, brought her home at a reasonable hour, much to Randi’s confusion.

Maria felt a little bemused by it all. It had taken her two weeks to figure out that the energetic but shy head of Stark Industries was . . . courting her. It seemed clear that Howard was deliberately choosing to spend time with her, albeit in an intellectually directed way.

The reaction of her co-workers confused her as well. A few were curious, but when she produced her notes of the trips, they shrugged. Sam Shastri told her it was immensely helpful to have her so close to Howard’s ear. “He sees us all as separate departments,” Sam pointed out. “Sometimes he forgets we need to integrate if we’re to be effective.”

Some of the female co-workers made snide remarks, but Maria ignored them and kept her expression neutral; that at least was familiar territory to her. She went on with her own research and sat home alone on Saturday nights, feeling slightly confused.

Randi was no help. “He’s never made a move on you? Ever?”

Maria shook her head.

“He might be . . . you know,” Randi offered dubiously. “I have a cousin who is.”

“No,” Maria sighed. “Definitely not. I’ve seen him looking at my legs.” She didn’t add that Howard had given her a few other glances that left her feeling like Jell-o, particularly after they’d had a few glasses of wine at dinner. There had been some private jokes as well, and Maria felt pretty confident that Howard Stark was interested in women.

“Ohh, maybe he can’t,” Randi gasped. “Oh God, that would be awful! Maybe something happened to him during the war, and now he’s like Jake Barnes, lusting after you but just doesn’t have what it takes!”

“Randi!’ Maria snorted. “No. Now you’re just getting silly. I’m sure it’s just a matter of propriety. After all, I work for him, and he’s . . . older . . . than I am.”

“Maybe you need to make the first move,” Randi suggested. “Let him know that you’re interested. You are interested in him, right?”

That question made Maria throw one of the sofa pillows at her roommate, who laughed, dodging.

And yet the advice lingered in Maria’s thoughts all through the rest of the week, and she was still undecided on what to do when Friday rolled around.

*** *** ***

He felt like shit. Part of the problem with being the head of a huge company meant constant exposure to hundreds of people, and invariably some of those people were sick. All week Howard knew he was coming down with something, but the thought of missing a Friday with Maria was unbearable.

Wanda chided him. “Mistah Stark, you need to be at home.”

“I’ll have the weekend to rest.”

“Yes, after you’ve infected the rest of us,” she replied, handing him a box of Kleenex from her desk. “And I do not need a cold this week, Boss.”

“Take vitamin C; Pauling tells me he’s onto something big with that,” Howard mumbled accepting the tissues.

He’d planned to take Maria to a groundbreaking ceremony for a new factory, and then off to dinner with the Cronkites on their yacht, but when she saw him, she frowned.

“Howard, you’re in no shape to be out right now,” she told him. “I’m taking you home.”

“I’m fine,” he protested, and promptly turned his head to sneeze. Maria linked an arm through his and guided him out of the labs, grumbling. At the car, she herded Howard in and told the driver, “Please take us to Mr. Stark’s home. He’s not well enough to be out today.”

Reluctantly Howard nodded; seeing that in the rearview mirror, the chauffeur nodded back and pulled out of the parking lot. They drove in silence for a while, and finally Howard grumbled. “Damn it. I was dead set on having you meet Walt and Betsy.”

“Another time,” Maria replied, her voice soft. “You’re ill and you need to be in bed, Howard Stark. How long have you been feeling like this?”

“Since Wednesday,” he told her, and coughed. She leaned away from him, but he noted she wasn’t repulsed, merely concerned.

When they passed through the gates half an hour later, Howard could tell that Maria felt a little intimidated by the green lawns on either side of the long drive, so he spoke up to reassure her. “I’m the new kid on the block,” he snuffled. “Bought it ten years ago when it came on the market, so it hasn’t been in the family long.”

The chauffeur pulled up and held the door as an elegant white-haired butler came out the front door to assist the two of them from the car.

Howard wearily held up a hand. “Not a word, Trevor. Maria Carbonell, this is Trevor, my majordomo by the way. He and Mrs. Cabot run this place and by default, me to some degree.”

As he watched, it occurred to him that Maria had probably never met a member of a household staff and wasn’t sure what to do because she held out her hand. Mildly surprised, Trevor took it and bowed over it slightly before turning to help Howard up the steps.“Sir, allow me . . .”

“Me too,” Maria flanked him on the other side and together they helped guide him into the spacious quiet of the foyer. Howard didn’t protest; every step felt leaden and his head was throbbing now. He hung onto the banister newel for a moment and heard Maria speak calmly to his majordomo. “Mr. Stark needs bed rest and it would be a good idea to have his doctor look him over. In the meantime, I think some chicken soup would be in order as well.”

“Yes ma’am,” Trevor agreed. “I will call Doctor Stahl, and cancel your social engagements for this evening. Unfortunately however, Fridays are now Mrs. Cabot’s day off.”

Howard gave a sigh; since he’d started seeing Maria, he’d let Mrs. Cabot change her schedule accordingly.

“Then it’s a very good thing that I happen know an old family recipe. I’ll get a list of ingredients ready and send that nice gentlemen with the car to shop for them while you help Mr. Stark get more comfortable.”

“Very good, Ma’am,” Trevor nodded. Howard knew the man was too well-trained to actually smile, but the approving tone of his voice made Howard manage a weary grin.

“Don’t I get any say in this?” he complained, his wry expression making it clear that he knew very well he was out-voted.

“Not this time, Howard,” Maria told him softly. “Please.”

He couldn’t deny the need to lie down, and nodded weakly, allowing Trevor to slip a supporting arm around his shoulders once more. Before they began the long hike up the staircase, Howard asked, “You’re really making me soup?”

It seemed such an incongruous thing, but important somehow. He wasn’t sure why; the cold was muddling his thoughts now, and the lure of his bed was growing stronger.

“Yes,” she told him. “Go get some sleep, Howard.”

He woke when the bedroom door opened, and for a moment Howard wasn’t sure what time it was. The curtains were closed, and the only light was the bedside lamp. Muzzily he sat up as wiry, weathered Doctor Aaron Stahl came in and set his bag down on the dresser. “Under the weather, Stark?”

“You could say that,” Howard sighed. Patiently he let the doctor check his pulse and heartbeat, then grudgingly accepted the thermometer under his tongue as Stahl spoke up. “I’d give you my standard lecture here about cutting down on the smoking and drinking and working more than seventy hours a week, but we’ve both heard it all before, so I’ll cut to the chase, Howard. You need to pace yourself, genius. I know you think you’re indestructible, and God knows you’re in better shape than a number of men your age, but you’re pushing your luck.”

Howard rolled his eyes since the thermometer prevented him from any cutting remarks. Stahl smiled briefly and continued as he packed up his stethoscope. “Looks like the common cold and thanks to those Cubans you smoke, you’ve got some congestion that’s going linger. Luckily, you’ll be getting a nice dose of Jewish penicillin soon from that sweetie downstairs.”

“Hands off,” Howard rasped with a smirk. “That goes for the soup and the girl.”

“Oh it’s like that, is it?” Stahl nodded, pulling out the thermometer and checking it.

“It’s . . . getting there,” Howard mumbled. “So, do I have a temperature or not?”

“A little elevated,” Stahl told him. “Nothing some aspirin and bed rest won’t cure.” He cleaned the thermometer with an alcohol wipe and checked Howard’s eyes. “Stay off your feet this weekend and have some soup. I’ll call you on Sunday to see how you feel.”

“Thanks,” Howard blew his nose.

Stahl hesitated a moment, then lowered his voice. “I know she’s pretty, Howard, but do me a favor and don’t try to show off for her, all right? I really don’t want this to flare up into pneumonia because you didn’t take it easy.”

Howard laughed very softly, trying not to cough. “You haven’t met Maria, have you? She’s not about to let me get up, Aaron, trust me. Between her and my secretary, I guarantee you I’m going to be on my back for a few days.”

“I like her already,” Stahl declared, rising. He collected his bag and stepped out of the bedroom. Howard heard him go down the stairs and figured Maria would probably want a report before he left. She was thorough that way, and the thought warmed him.

It had been a hell of a long time since anyone actually cared for him, Howard realized. Cared on a personal level. Most of the women he’d been dating in the last few years weren’t as interested in him as they were in being seen with him, and Howard understood that on a pragmatic level. Some were fun, some were out and out gold-diggers, but none of them had ever made a serious in-road to his heart. He was too busy and too wary to play romantic games; too aware of the rarity of genuine love.

Some of his friends had it; many of his employees were happily married as well, leaving him to wonder if he’d missed the boat somewhere down the line. Howard knew he’d never hurt for feminine company, but finding someone who could go toe-to-toe with him both intellectually and emotionally had been a long hunt.

Then he realized he’d thought of that process in the past tense and grinned to himself before settling back down with a sigh.