This comes from the 64 Damn Prompts on LiveJournal (by rashaka). I will, most likely, be working through all 64, because I can't bear to leave such a lovely thing unfinished. I will also include the song that helped me write it/find inspiration/that I thought fit the mood.

P.S.~ Here there be giant, mutated drabbles. Enjoy!

P.P.S~ Because angst can even overwhelm me at times. (*le gasp!* I know, right?) So this is complete and utter crack, but it's funny crack. Or at least, I hope it is. I was sleep-deprived when I wrote it, so my judgment is suspect.

Prompt 14: Chess

Music: Lucy In the Sky With Diamonds, by The Beatles

It was as perfectly planned as the greatest chess match, every move orchestrated to the last detail, every possible variation or deviation mapped out. He had prepared for every outcome and calculated the best possible odds of success, charting a course straight for sweet, sweet victory.

The plan was flawless.

The only thing that Dante had forgotten to account for in his seduction of Jacob Allender was, it seemed, Jacob Allender himself.

Jake was his secretary, Dante thought, slouching low in his chair—and he was most definitely not pouting. Big boss-men of multi-million dollar corporations didn't pout. The redhead was supposed to be vulnerable to that kind of thing from his mysterious, dashing, just-out-of-reach-but-really-fucking-desirable boss. But Dante had exhausted all the tried-and-true methods of seduction, and the week wasn't even over yet. Nor did Jake show any signs of caving. He wasn't even oblivious, which, while annoying, Dante could have excused.

Instead, he was unaffected, and that was just not fair.

Dante had spent quite a bit of money having twelve dozen red roses delivered.

Jake passed them out among the girls in the secretarial department.

Dante had ordered the finest strawberry-filled chocolates from Switzerland.

Jake, it turned out, was deathly allergic to strawberries, and had to be rushed to the hospital to prevent him from going into anaphylactic shock.

The singing card had accidently been forwarded to the head of the Research and Development department, and now Marsden was giving him really creepy looks.

The handwritten dinner invitation accidentally went through the shredder when Dante left it (unknowingly) on top of a pile of junk mail.

(Or maybe that was just the way Jake rejected all anonymous offers for fancy dinners. Dante couldn't be completely certain.)

And Dante didn't even want to think about the incident with the secret-rendezvous notice.

So. The classic measures had been exhausted. Dante rubbed his hands together gleefully, mentally warned the world to brace itself, and brought out the big guns.

"I'm sure it's not as bad as you're making it out to be, Jake. Dante's just a little…eccentric. You'll adjust."

Jake shot his best friend a withering glare. "Adjust? Tansy, I've been working here for five years now. And he hasn't gotten any less freaky, I assure you. Besides, what would you know? You work for a different company."

Tansy just rolled her eyes, juggling the papers she carried so that she could have a free hand to smack him with. "My brother's been crushing on Dante's best friend since he was in high school. He and Rosalie—and, by extension, he and Dante—spend a lot of time together. I know he's weird, but—"

"Weird?" Jake interrupted in disbelief. "Weird? Tansy, he's been sending me flowers. He's trying to get into my pants by killing me with strawberries."

"And they're very nice pants, too," Tansy said approvingly. "I guess it's true that gay men really do have fashion sense."

Jake rolled his eyes at her in return. "Uh, Tansy? Have you seen Travis lately?"

The woman winced, opening the door to Jake's private office. "Right. Never mind. But really, it can't be…that…bad…"

She trailed off in dumbfounded horror, and she and Jake stared at the very naked Dante Dante splayed out on top of Jake's desk, a bowl of chocolate sauce and another of whipped cream sitting conveniently at his elbow.

It was a tossup to say which of the three looked more horrified.

While Tansy was busy gaping and being suddenly very, very glad that she worked for another company, and Dante was trying his hardest not to think about the stapler digging into a very uncomfortable spot, Jake wasted no time picking up the phone and quickly dialing one of the departments.

"Yes, security?" he said. "This is Jake Allender, on the twelfth floor? There's a naked guy on my desk, and he won't leave."

Rather than face being dragged naked through the building by his own security officers, Dante collected his clothes from the floor and slinked back to his office.

Jake called in the janitor and made sure that his desk was bleached three times before he got back to work.

On Rosalie's advice, Dante dropped the smart business suit and dressed casual, took his least flashy car, and went to pick Jake up from work for a nice, low-key dinner at a simple local restaurant. He made it halfway to the twelfth floor before he spotted Jake come barreling down the stairs. Jake caught sight of him, too, and Dante opened his mouth to interject with a smooth offer of dinner.

Before he could get the words out, though, he found himself loaded with three bags of trash, one of recycling, and several large boxes of old batteries.

"Finally," Jake said, already past Dante and heading down the stairs. "Did the old janitor not give you his schedule before he quit? If you're going to be his replacement, you might want to ask him about that."

Dante was left alone on the stairwell with his bags, staring mournfully after the most perfect ass the world had ever known.

The man attached to it thought he was a janitor when he wore casual clothes.

Life hated him.

So, apparently, had Rosalie when she picked out his outfit.

They were in Dante's office, talking about strictly business-related matters. Dante thought he was being rather spectacularly well behaved, especially when faced with god of temptation that was his orange-haired secretary in a suit. Even if he was just the tiniest bit inside Jake's personal space.

"And the meeting with Enterprise Inc. has been moved to Monday. You'll want to bring—" Jake cut himself off and took a wary step back. "Mr. Francisco—Dante, you need to stop that."

"Stop what?" Dante asked innocently, sidling closer again. So what if there were only three inches of space between them? At least it was there.

Apparently, Jake didn't agree. He took another step back. "So that's not you?"

"Nope." Dante matched his retreat.

Jake's eyes narrowed, and Dante was only able to feel the vaguest stirrings of fear underneath the overwhelming, "Oh, that's hot," that was ringing through his brain—which, considering, was probably not the best reaction, as his secretary was known to make fully grown men tremble and cry when he got pissed.

"Then I need to tell whoever's groping my ass to stop. Right now. Before they get kicked through a door by their balls."

Dante hurriedly withdrew his hand. "Oh. Yes, do tell them. I have, uh. Work. Goodbye!"

He scampered, and Jake rolled his eyes, refraining from calling after him to point out that all of his work was in his office. Which he had just left. Idiot.

Jake staggered into his apartment much later, feeling as though he had been run over by a small caravan of eighteen-wheelers. The air was full of the smell of pasta and fresh tomato sauce, and he paused in the hall to breathe it in, leaving him feeling a little more human.

"Hello, honey, how was your day?"

The redhead just barely refrained from rolling his eyes at the question. "Well, my creepy stalker-boss has been trying—and failing—to get into my pants all week. But other than that? Peachy."

Dante didn't pout, where he leaned against the doorway to the kitchen. "Well, if you'd let me back into bed, I wouldn't be this desperate. So it's your fault."

One orange eyebrow (of doom, Dante knew from experience) went up. "Have you thought about your actions?"

Dante was not pouting. "Yes."


He heaved a dramatic sigh. "I'm sorry. I'm a horrible person for missing our fifth anniversary. Now can we have sex?" He was not pouting. Or whining.

Throwing his hands up in frustration, Jake turned on his heel and stalked into their bedroom. "No. You're still sleeping on the couch."

The door slammed hard enough to rattle in its frame.

Jake Allender, Dante thought, sinking morosely onto the couch, really had no respect for a well-plotted game of chess.