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Post by Rory Blackwolf on May 31, 2014 20:45:54 GMT
I walked into the room dripping in gold; a wave of heads did turn, or so I've been told. My heart broke when I saw you kept your gaze controlled.
She was early. Again.
Those heels click-clack-click-clacked against the ground she walked on, one arm carrying a large tote bag filled to the brim of sequined outfits; costumes and the like for the dancers that she spent most of the day repairing or sewing on new tassels. In her other arm she held a bundle of coffee – one was larger and smelled more sweet than the other. It'd been a long day to try an' get some rest and when she realized it just wasn't happening, she figured she'd come in early.
Sliding up those legs of hers were the black pantyhose, vanishing beneath a tight grey pencil skirt. A thick black belt buckled around her waist, white blouse tucked into it and the skirt. No one could dispute that when she was on the clock, Miss Aurora Blackwolf kept up a very professional appearance; some secretarial dame from the 50's with all that red lipstick, black liner and rolled up hair. Oh, it suited that curvy frame of hers so well, huggin' those full hips, strainin' against her chest.
Comin' around the back, she juggled her things to slip the key into the lock and open the door, locking it right back up after her. The front was already open and dancers were getting ready, but she just preferred to come through the back and not be seen. More than once had a wanderin' hand been slapped off of her. Coffee on Mister Bostowick's desk, she took that tote bag with her as she went to the dressing rooms, depositing off a cowgirl outfit here, a fireman's outfit there, a cop over there – it was routine, she knew who wanted what, saying her hello, how are you's and goodbyes all at once as she went by.
Not much crossed her mind, other than the 'no, not those shoes -- these ones, yes, the red, not the pink' when she stepped by a certain room. “... Honey, no. No. Like this,” stepping inside she aided in a blonde's styling of hair, straightening pigtails so they weren't all lopsided.
Then it was back to Mister Bostowick's office, easing herself into his seat and straightening the desk, scooping up loose papers and filing them away or stacking them up. Sometimes she'd forget the night before, or maybe he came in at some point lookin' for somethin', but at least when he came in it'd be nice and neat again. Rory liked that – having him come to work with his desk all nice and clean, coffee ready; whether or not he paid any mind to it, she didn't really know or care. She just felt like it was just part of her duty as his assistant. With that settled, though, she pulled herself from his chair – that skinny ass white boy, she'd curse often, yankin' her fat butt out of his chair before she got stuck. It happened more often than she liked to admit, but, well. Curvy girl problems, man.
Just as she yanked herself out of the chair, that office door swung open, one of the girls struggling with a stuck zipper, “You girls and your nails,” she said with a half-laugh, half-sigh. While Rory had her own talons, they were shorter and she didn't care too much about chips, “Alright, suck in a deep breath, chica, one..two..three!” YANK!
Rory waved the girl off and it was just about showtime. Just long enough for her take a long drink of her nearly-cooled coffee and get that jolt she'd need for the night.
Some say I'll be better without you - but they don't know you like I do.
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Post by Ethan Bostowick on Jun 1, 2014 22:06:50 GMT
A man could do a lot of things, he could be a lot of things, things that came to him accidentally that just seemed to define him, his soul, his being. When the old man sent him out here, Ethan was outraged. He saw no point in reformation, wanted no part in 'putting the beast inside of him down,' so to speak. Yet, now that he'd found himself in that little podunk town, in the backwater county, playing money launderer for the family as part of his exile? He was starting to grow used to it, especially because of a certain native that'd inspired parts of him that he'd long since buried down inside of him a long, long, time ago; and yet for all of his surly mannerisms? He'd found that she brought out the very best in him, the parts his father wanted brought to light. It's why he'd been scarfing down his medications like he was supposed to, underthe pretenses of caging the animal inside of him, letting it pace about in its shackles, contained inside the darkest recesses of the psyche that probably made him a psychiatrist's wet dream.
It was why when he saw her in his office, he didn't say a word as he silently walked in, passing both her and the more or less clumsy stripper trying to get that zipper worked up and over her.. Though, when the woman turned and saw him? His eyebrows lifted as if to ask why she was here, and when she turned about and left? He remained wordless. For all his temper tantrums, for all his anger and wrath and open disdain? He'd gotten extraordinarily better since Rory's arrival, as if she'd acted as a part of a complete puzzle to him. Sure, he didn't openly say much about it in public, but he hinted at it in private from time to time. Look at the evidence, even while he was protective of "his" girls, he was never particularly nice, and while he wasn't exactly Prince Charming, even now, he was a lot less volatile.
And so, so he stood there, and when she left? He walked forward and closed that door before turned to face Rory and let a half-assed smirk pull across his lips in an attempt at a smile before heading over to his desk, to his computer, and parked his rear end in his.. warm seat, a detail that had him looking over his desk as a formality before letting his light colored eyes flick upwards, to the fact that she was drinking her cooled coffee, not that he knew she was drinking cold coffee.
"Y'know, Miss Blackwolf, yer becomin' a right fixture around 'ere." Speaking in that lazy growl of a brogue as his eyes started to fix themselves on her. "A right fixture." Pointed, but not abraisive, not with the ghost of a smile pushing across his lips as he watched her. I may jes' 'alfta keep you 'ere Proper, aye?"
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Post by Rory Blackwolf on Jun 1, 2014 23:07:01 GMT
Rory had, while chugging that coffee that was no better than a frozen one, not noticed the half-deer-in-headlights look the stripper'd given before she left. Just when she started to set her cup down, Ethan was in her line of vision, shuttin' the office door. "I swear you need a bell sometimes, shit," she cursed quietly; apparently it wasn't the first time he'd seemingly come out of nowhere and nearly gave his assistant a heart attack.
Watching him go and sit, she moved and carefully planted her bottom on the corner edge of his desk, next to him, watching him carefully with her dark brown eyes. Did she know him well enough to know his past? Nope. Did she know him well enough to be a hardass, semi-violent, rage-a-holic? Mostly. He had a temper, but she knew he was working on it – however the reasoning was lost on her. But, she'd offered help when she could, reminding him to 'breathe, count to ten' a few times when she felt like he was about to explode for one reason or another.
But, it wasn't any secret, either, at least to Rory's friend(s), that her affection was on him. It was kept in strict check, though, as she refused to let it get in the way of her work. Besides, it could simply be a passing fancy, right? Totally. “You couldn't get rid of me if you wanted to – I'm your eye candy.” It was a joke, one that masked the lack of self confidence around the strippers that surrounded them nightly. But seeing as he was mostly in his office, and she was the only one around, well, she thought it made sense, “And I do most of your work.”
“Besides,” she stated, plucking up the second coffee, giving it a feel, then frowning when it was cold, “oh, nevermind. It went cold. Sorry, want me to get you a fresh one?” Heaven forbid the man drank luke-warm coffee.
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Post by Ethan Bostowick on Jun 3, 2014 1:02:01 GMT
If she were to offer him Luke Warm Coffee, he might kill her for the insult, or he might just take it as a compliment and suffer through it. Good for her, she didn't chance it! His eyes, they studied her.. Those blue irises of his drank her in like a cat might watch a mouse's every move before pouncing on it and tearing it asunder. "A bell?" Asking with an amused sort of tone to his voice. "Wha'e'er for, Lover? T'alert ye before I pounce?" Teasing, with a wicked glint to those eyes of his, presenting evidence of a rare good mood, something that had diminished rarity when he was around her. "..Y'know, I don'... ask these kind of things rarely." Speaking as he merely brushed away the offer of coffee before he got up and to his feet, walking around that desk in his slow, almost predatory sort of way, quietly wringing his hands as if to try and gather the words before he stopped in front of her. "Ah'm yer boss, so this is inappropriate, buh' ih' tis, wha' ih' tis, an' I make up our policies, so.. T'ere's no pressure, Duckie." Quietly speaking her pet name at the end, lifting his hands in mock surrender, only to lower them in the same measure as he released a pent up breath of air. "T'woul' ye look ah' me, mankeying aboot like a feckin' school boy." He lifted his hands and ran them through his thick mane of brown hair only to drop them back to his sides, hooking his thumbs into his belt loops. "T'ere's no easy way t'do t'is so bear wit' me, aye?" With a somber look etched across his face, he began to speak..
"Yer righ', I couldn't really run t'is place wit'out ye. I coul' try, and I coul' get it workin', buh' nah' li' ih' is." He just lifted his right hand, letting his left stay where it was, on his hip. "..Yeh add an elemen' tha' jes' wouldn't be t'ere.. But it's nah' jus' tha'. I care for ye, more'n'I shoul'. I realized tha' when I wanted to rip tha' feckin' writer's 'ead off'a'is mankey feckin' shoulders fer bein' a stupid gobshite an' takin' ye out proper, like I should've." He drew that hand back to his brow for a moment, rubbing it only to drop it back as those eyes of his leveled on hers. "...I care for ye, Rory. I love ye, even. I 'ate t'admit tha', but I do. E'er time I see a bloke around ye, I wanna feckin' slice'im frehm 'is weddin' tackle, all th'way up to 'is weddin' tackle. I know.." Speaking as he held a hand up. "I'm shite at showin' ih'... But I do, really. ...An' I think it's time I go aboot provin' it, aye?" With that somber tone to his thick brogue..
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Post by Rory Blackwolf on Jun 3, 2014 1:20:39 GMT
Since he'd ignored her question at fresh coffee, she shrugged and set it back down. It'd get dumped and she'd get him something later if he wanted it. She gave him a faint shake of her head and roll of her eyes at his jest, inwardly glad that he was in a good mood. He was an ass if he wasn't and hard to tolerate, but somehow, with the patience of a saint, she made it through those nights. The man was trying, and it was only fair that she tried, too. But he wasn't done, and she was thrown off her game immediately as he got up and strolled around the desk to face her. Rory.. wasn't sure what he was saying at first, her mind at first thinkin' he was going to send her on some strange errand, but.. No.
No, he used her nickname – and she felt her cheeks get hot as she struggled to keep her calm and cool. Then it was.. Rory's brows lifted in surprise, fighting inwardly to keep herself from smiling at how.. positively adorable the man was being. He was dancing around with his words, and if she so much as giggled, she knew it'd all end and on that, she was careful. He had her full damn attention and she watched his body language with the eye of a hawk, only moving to run her hands over her thighs and smooth out any wrinkle in her skirt and re-cross her legs. Her head gave a sharp nod as he asked her to bare with him.
His rant, for lack of a better word, had her on her head. It was from left field, smacking her in the chest and knockin' the damn breath out of her. Wait, wait, was she.. she was dead. She died and she was living some fantasy now. Subtly, she pinched at her thigh, to make sure she could feel it and yep, she was still alive. He'd just thrown all his cards on the table, laid it all out plainly for her. It was a shock. Those full lips parted and she .. she didn't know what to say. Take her time? No – she'd been head over heels for this man since she met him and he was tellin' her he felt the same. Well. Just.. well.
After he spoke, she was silent for a long while, staring him down in disbelief. “I,” she tried to start, but ended up lookin' like a fish gaspin' for water with the way her mouth kept opening and closing, “Ethan, I, uhm,” oh no, she was crashing and burning, “Iloveyoutoo.”
Nailed it.
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Post by Ethan Bostowick on Jun 3, 2014 5:22:02 GMT
It was funny, in a way. Here he was, a man who was good at speaking, so much so that he often talked himself out of trouble almost as much as he talked himself into it, having trouble finding words for the woman across from him, a woman he was strikingly familiar with, of all people. Part of him was slightly terrified in a way, because of his life, because of who he was to the world he was in, she would be too. His love came at a price, in a way, and keeping her mostly ignorant only partially protected her. Oh, he was sure she had an idea of things, but he didn't know exactly how much and he didn't exactly intend to ask until she brought it up, if she did. She was smart, thoguh naive, and perhaps far too giddy about the situation, that much brought a strangely raw smile to his lips as he saw how she pinched her own thigh, how she tried to convince herself that she was not, in fact, dreaming. So strange, he pondered, that a girl like her would believe that he was honestly Prince Charming.. Though, he was happy enough that she didn't question it, that she reciprocated his words..
Those man killing hands of his, they reached out and moved to grace her skirt covered hips the vice like grasp of his palms as he tugged her close to him by them, curling his fingers into her thick, well-rounded, backside as he brought her against him, into his embrace. No words were given at first, but he supposed that no words were really needed either, for the most part. "..Listen, Duckie." Speaking as he leaned back, looking down at her. "If we're gonna do t'is, we needta do ih' righ'." Pause. Beat. "...I know yer da ain' abou', so I s'pose I need t'meet wit' tha' colossus ye call a brah'ter, aye?" Asking with a faintly somber face.
Ah, Gideon. That was going to be pleasant.
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Post by Rory Blackwolf on Jun 3, 2014 5:44:53 GMT
Rory was.. having.. trouble processing the situation. In the list of things she expected of Ethan, this was.. certainly at the bottom of the list, crossed out with a 'HA THAT'LL NEVER HAPPEN!' beside it. While he had his moments of 'affection', she supposed it could be called, or praise, she never connected it to him actually.. well. /Feeling/ for her. And on a level she knew it was .. dangerous. Dangerous because she was his assistant and therefore had an inkling of the knowledge that was going on. No, not the backstory or the full picture, but.. she could guess. A man like him doesn't just come out here and build a business like this simply because he 'wanted to'. But she was.. a dreamer. Maybe a hopeless romantic – or not so hopeless given the current standing. And his smile, something she'd maybe only caught the glimmer of before. He did not smile. Condescending smirk, yes. Twisted little smirks, yes. But a smile? No, and it suited him, that smile. It was easy to see it didn't come often. That was enough to get her hopeful heart fluttering, but it stopped and her breath caught in her lungs as he stepped against her and grabbed her round hips. He was her weakness, plain and simple. He was the reason she dolled herself up every night at work and it went beyond just keeping up appearances. She was a damn sucker. And she just had no idea what the Hell she was dropping herself into.
He jerked her against him and she quickly adjusted her legs to avoid giving him a knee to the groin, because she highly doubted that'd be a smart thing to do just after he confessed to her. It wouldn't even be funny, because he'd be ragin' so hard she'd probably have to go into hiding. But she looped her arms around him and.. gave him a hug. She hugged him tight and let her face rest against his shoulder and.. Wow. This was new. It was nice, but foreign. He wasn't a fairy tale Prince Charming, no. He wasn't the man who'd come in, slay the dragon and save the maiden and they'd live happily ever after. But he was the man who'd level a city and the dragon would cower from in his wake. To her? He was a King.
And then she paled like she saw a damn ghost. Gideon. Oh, no. No, Gideon was against this already and she knew it and he'd told her before. Just the thought of telling her older brother had her hands suddenly trembling. The thought of Ethan wanting to do things 'right', though, was admirable. Stupid, but admirable. “Are you sure you wanna do that? I mean.. maybe if we drugged him or got him drunk first..” It was..half a joke.
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