A/N Happy April Fool's Day. As this is a crossover, I've done my best to send up both source authors equally. No ellipses were harmed in the creation of this document. Sadly, I can't say the same for the adverbs. And yes, my otherwise backing away from this mess has been productive, and you can expect new chapters on my other stories soon. This was just me having a wild idea on a Sunday afternoon, and given the date, well...

The Unlikely Meeting of Edwistian Greysen and Anabella Stolen

A Parody
by giselle-lx

In the Olympic Peninsula of northwest Washington State, a huge metropolis called Portland exists under a near-constant cover of clouds. You might have thought that Portland was in Oregon, or that it wasn't anywhere close to Washington State University, which is in Pullman but…geography was never my best subject.

Journalism wasn't either…which was why I was extra-mad at my roommate, Katherine Rosalie Halavanaugh for being sick. Damn her and her sick sickness, I thought during my entire short drive from Portland to Seattle. Either the Williamette River or the Puget Sound was in my way…I'm not sure which one it was…but either way, I got there in record time, to interview the CEO of Greysen Enterprises, Edwistian Greysen.

My heart pounded as I stepped out of my rumbly red truck. It had been purchased by my father from the boy I used to make mudpies with. His name is Joseacob, and he has skin that isn't white, which is the most important thing I can possibly tell you about him. That was very much unlike me. Despite the fact that I have a normal amount of melatonin even for a white person, I never managed to get a tan even when living with my mother in states where there is much more sun. I was always as pale as a corpse.

Before I left the apartment, I'd spent time fussing with the mirror. I spend a lot of time looking at the mirror…because that way, it's a lot easier for me to describe myself. When I look into the mirror, here's what I see: a girl who is completely nondescript and clumsy. Well…I don't see the clumsiness…but I see it when I fall out of my truck, like I did right when I got to Greysen Enterprises, Inc. LLC. Holdings.

"Crappity crap crap," I muttered to myself as I brushed off my knees. It used to be that at a time like this, I would mutter "Holy crow" instead, but someone pointed out to me that no one actually says that, so I started saying crap instead.

I managed not to trip…all the way in to the Greysen Enterprises towers. Greysen Enterprises is a huge building in downtown Seattle, all steel and glass. I walked into the middle of the lobby, which was all steel. There was so much steel. It was almost as though the whole building was designed so that I could repeatedly comment on the steel, as it would be a play on my last name.

"Hello," I said to the woman at the desk. "I'm Anabella Stolen. Here for Katherine Rosalie Halavanaugh, to interview Mr. Greysen."

As I looked around I realized that it really was crappy that Katherine Rosalie had gotten sick, because she wouldn't look out of place here with her perfect looks. Katherine Rosalie is the kind of person that men always talk to…she has blond hair and a figure to die for and perfect looks.


"Like past tense of steal."

"Ah yes. Here." She handed me a big tag which read VISITOR. It might as well have read MORON.

Not as though anyone needed a nametag to know I didn't belong. Despite the fact that I was dressed in a business suit and the entirety of Greysen Enterprises was stocked with extremely young employees. I look exactly like all of them, but yet they don't need a VISITOR tag to know I don't belong because…well, because I'm Anabella. And they were all immaculate.

On the way to the elevator, I look at my notes. There really are none, other than the list of questions that Katherine Rosalie gave me to ask. I don't even know how old Edwistian Greysen even is.

"Crap crap crap," I muttered, causing the woman to curl her lip up at me as she ushered me to the elevator.

Edwistian Greysen's office is on the twentieth floor and by the time I get there, I think I might puke. The twentieth floor is completely full of immaculate things. To say nothing of the immaculate blondes who sit at the gorgeous and flawless desks.

I find myself sitting on an perfect couch in the unspoiled foyer and thinking about how much I enjoy Victorian novels, because really…who doesn't spend time thinking about their favorite reading material when they're nervous…when out of the office comes a man with dark skin, and just in case I might have missed that he was ethnic, dreadlocks.

He yells something about playing golf to Edwistian.

Aha, my subconscious tells me. Edwistian has nonwhite friends, too.

I think fondly of Joseacob.

The immaculate blond stabs a perfect finger at the exquisite door. "You can go in," she says.

So I stand up, brush off my skirt…and promptly fall into Edwistian's office.


Before I know it, hands are pulling me upright quickly, and I'm looking longingly into the eyes of a very young guy. He is like an Adonis. His skin is like marble, like a statue of an Adonis, and after he shakes hands with me, he goes to sit down on his chair, sprawling on it casually the way an Adonis would. His eyes, I notice suddenly, are grey. This is great, thinks my inner goddess happily. She is very pleased, because while I think about how steely grey Edwistian's eyes are, I can also think about how "steely" and "grey" are kind of like both our last names, and I will seem very clever to myself.

"Mr. Graysen," I say, as I take my seat. I say it with a 'z' sound.

He frowns. Crappity crap crap crap crap crap. I've already made him mad.

"It's Graysen," he corrects. "It rhymes with Masen."

I take a deep breath.

"First, thank you for the interview," I say.

He waves his hand. "Your roommate is very…persuasive. But I must say, I am not disappointed that you are here instead, Miss…"

"Stolen," I say, instantly mesmerized. He is beautiful. Dazzling. He dazzles with beauty. Like a marble Adonis. "Anabella Stolen."

"Miss Stolen."

It sounds like music. Or velvet.

"Miss Stolen, you may ask me a question."

I fumble. Crap me and my crap clumsiness. I drop the paper to the floor clumsily in a clumsy fashion. He's going to think you're an idiot, my unconscious screams. Or is it my subconscious? I can never be sure.

"Um…" I ask. "How old are you?"

"Twenty-seven, Miss Stolen," he answers, his voice like velvet.

"And how long have you been twenty-seven?"

He scowls at me again. Crap crap crap crap of craps.

"I've been twenty-seven since my birthday, Miss Stolen. What kinds of questions are you asking, Miss Stolen?" he asks me in his velvety voice.

"Um…" I crinkle the paper in my hand desperately. "Katherine Rosalie gave me them...these…them…um…." I go to the next one and blurt it out quickly. "You have a family?"

"I have a family, Miss Stolen."

This is not going well.

"Are you gay?"

"I am not a pouf, Miss Stolen."

This is confusing.

"What's a poof?"

"Miss Stolen, I am not bent."


"I don't fancy blokes, Miss Stolen."


"It was just a question," I mumble in a mumbly fashion. "Why do you keep saying my name?" I ask timidly. "And why do you keep using British slang?"

"Are you questioning the way I speak, Miss Stolen?"

"No, no, of course not." It just slips out.

"Good. Because I like to control things, Miss Stolen. I'm very much a controlling man who likes to control things in my control."

Likes…to…control… I write.

I'm not certain how we got from his lack of gayness to him controlling things…but I'm willing to go with it. But now the dazzling grey (Greysen) Adonis eyes are staring at me in a very grey and dazzling way.

But then I think about it. I told Joseacob that Katherine Rosalie was going to interview Edwistian Greysen several weeks ago, when I was out on his Native American Reservation. Joseacob is my ethnic best friend, and it makes me happy to remember that Edwistian clearly has a friend who is not white, too. Anyway, he warned me about Edwistian. Apparently, Edwistian's family used to live closer to the Native American Reservation and at that time, they knew that Edwistian liked to control. That he bought things at the outfitters that he didn't need. In fact, I'd even had a dream where a wolf went running after a picture of Edwistian…and because I'm so self-sacrificing, I cared more about the picture of Edwistian than I did about me possibly getting mauled by the wolf.

"Do you have more questions, Miss Stolen?" Edwistian asked in an asking fashion. "Because if you don't, I'd like to offer you an internship in my company."

An internship? We had only talked for five minutes. But something drew me to him…everything about him invited me in…his face…his voice…even his smell.

As if he needed any of that.

"Do you…have hobbies?" I asked timidly.

"Oh…I have….hobbies. Consuming ones, Miss Stolen. Very consuming hobbies." His fingers ran absently over a roll of masking tape on his desk.

Consuming hobbies. Control. What Joseacob had said.

Suddenly, I knew.

"You're impossibly rich," I blurted.

"Why thank you, Miss Stolen."

"No, I mean that. You're impossibly rich. Who the hell has this much money at twenty-seven? Who are you, Mark Zuckerberg?"

He let out a chuckle in his velvet voice.

"You're impossibly rich," I repeated, and he smirked again. "Your knowledge of bondage is pale and misinformed." I gestured to the masking tape.

This time he frowned.

"You don't know me but you offer me a job anyway."


"I know what you are."

"Say it. "This time his voice was a growl. "Out loud."

"You're a sexually repressed man who was abused by his mother figure and ignored by his father."

He sat back in his chair, and those steely grey eyes swept me up and down.

"And are you afraid?" he asked.

"No," I answered.

He stood. "You should be," he said.

In a flash, he'd locked the door, and turned to me, his steel grey eyes still looking very steely and very grey. My inner goddess approved. I smiled.

"How did you figure it out?" he asked.

"Joseacob said that his family knew your family. The last time you lived in Washington."

"Damn that vaguely ethnic friend of yours," he cursed.

"Don't call him vaguely ethnic. He's a NATL Transraceman."

"What's an NATL?"

"Native American to Latino."

"Ah." Edwistian looked appeased. "Well, either way, I'll simply describe him by the color of his skin. Everyone will know who it is, because everyone else in our story is white."

"That should work." I thought deeply about the extraordinary paleness of everyone around me, especially Edwistian, whose eyes were burning into mine, awakening my Inner Goddess.

Such grey eyes, my Goddess said. Or are they green? I'm having difficulty.

"Lie back on the desk, Miss Stolen," he commanded, and his fingers fumbled for his steel grey tie.

"Why?" I murmured, but my Goddess was already telling me in a Goddessy way, to do it.

"Because," he muttered, "if I don't start to have sex with you now, there will be too much plot."

As I lay back on the desk, I looked up into the steel grey eyes. Even though I'd known him only twenty minutes, tops, about three things I was absolutely certain. First, Edwistian was completely fucked up. Second, there was some part of him, and I knew exactly how dominant that part might be, that was going to be dominant. And third, at some point, he was going to tie me up and rip out my Tampax.

And then we would make babies.

Because no romance story is complete without babies.

And they lived improbably ever after...