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elephart-hi · 3 years ago

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The Mortal Maiden: Witch!Jude

Chapter 2: A Secret Sealed with a Kiss

set during The Cruel Prince.

(another sneek peek at my wip for this fic)

summary: Oh, he was making a show of himself for her she realized noting the way the light caught on the definition of his stomach. He wanted her to look at him. His lidded eyes seemed to say ‘aren’t I lovely’ and damn it if he wasn’t.

Rating: Mature but not explicitly till later chapters!

AN: I contemplated having this chapter be Cardan reading harry potter and Jude just spoiling the whole series and telling him everyone who dies just to spite him.... sighhhhh i had to make the hard decision and actually write the plot

also no beta for this chapter tee hee

Ao3 Chapter 1 you are at chapter 2 chapter 3

Cardan blinked at the vision before him. Once, twice. Then glanced at the goblet in his hand with a perplexed look on his face. He wasn't sure if he had accidentally poured himself the bottle he had mixed with his hallucinogenic powders. There was no way Jude Duerte would be standing in his room mid-day. She would be asleep in her chambers at the general’s stronghold.

He looked back at the vision in front of him and rubbed his eyes. Then he heard a scoff and saw her sneer at him with fathomless hate burning in her amber eyes. Now that seemed very real. He glanced at her hands and saw that the ring finger of her left hand was missing a digit. He started.

“You’re being rude.”

Cardan wiped his head in the direction of the door as he heard Darnal, the knocker laugh at her from the other side. Her nose crinkled and her brows pinched at the sound. She was cute when she was angry. And she was also definitely in his bedroom. Cardan tried to not let his mind wander to the many inappropriate fantasies he has had of this very scene but he was on his fourth bottle of wine and he was having a hard time reeling it in. He looked her up and down slowly, hoping it would make her mad enough to distract her while he grabbed his damned tail. He needed to get it under control before it made a fool of him.

“Aren’t you going to say something”

“I supposed I should, shouldn’t I?” he didn’t know what to say. He had no idea what she was doing here. He felt a smirk tug at his lips as his nerves continued to spiral out of control. His hand reached behind his back and grappled for his tail “Why are you in my room?”

“Why does your door know my name?” she gritted back, her lips curled into a snarl. She was clearly very annoyed, for what reason Cardan didn’t know. She was the one in his room after all… in the middle of the day no less. Shouldn’t he be the annoyed one? There she was barging in on him when he could have been sleeping for all she knew.

“Care for a glass of wine Jude?” he asked ignoring her question. He stood from his bed and poured more into his goblet; his tail secured within his pants. He had a feeling that he didn’t want to be sober for this conversation, although he had already become a distant stranger to sobriety since classes let out hours before, “You seem wound up, perhaps a drink will help you pull the stick out of your ass. Or, if this isn’t a friendly visit, I could call the guards for you. Though I’m afraid you will find them far less hospitable.”

He has a glass filled for her by the time he finishes talking. She looks more pissed than before, her amber eyes seemed to crackle like embers. She doesn't move to grab the glass from him so he tries a different approach.

“You’re the one who came to my room, Jude, claiming you didn’t want to interrupt me and that you could come back another time. Well let me assure you, you haven’t interrupted anything important, the book will still be there tomorrow to intrigue me, but you are only here right this moment. And I wouldn't want to inconvenience you with having to sneak back in again. So… what can I do for you?”

They seem to be having a staring contest because Jude’s gaze continues to bore into his own. She grinds her teeth refusing to reply, neither one of them willing to break first. She was impossibly cute with her face scrunched up in anger like that. His arm begins to tire from holding a glass out to her for so long. He heaves a sigh and starts lowering his arm when she speaks at last.

“Tell me why your door knows my name. That’s what I’ve come calling about.”

Cardan sighed heavily, his head falling back, annoyance prickling but altogether muddled by the wine. Muddled along with every other emotion he liked to drown in the drink. He takes another long swig from his own goblet, which escalates to him guzzling it down to the dregs. He sighs when he finishes and sets the empty cup on his tray of food. Then he finally goes to address her once more, the alcohol giving him the patience he needs,

“Oh my nightmare nemesis,” his words slurred a bit. He swayed briefly, then collected himself before continuing. “For you to have heard my door use your name, you would’ve had to already be at Hollow Hall, since he is bound to this manor. Yes? So tell me again, without any lies from your mortal tongue, what you brought you to my residence--”

He is interrupted by the ruckus made by the guards outside.

“Any sign of the thief?”

“No! She couldn’t have gotten far!”

Cardan snapped his gaze back to Jude, her face suspiciously neutral. Cardan called out to his door, tilting his head in its direction but keeping his eyes locked on her.

“Darnallll,” the knocker appeared on his door, silently waiting for a command, “find out what the appearance of the thief was from the guards, will you.”

“No need sire, I can tell you right away. The thief was a fairy of short stature, with horns, and yellow eyes. The woman had hair, not unlike your guest here, and was wearing a gown of the same color,” the knocker’s eyes glanced toward Jude, who kept her face decidedly cool. Cardan knows Jude is crafty, she may not be a fairy but she matched the description minus the horns, eyes, and ears. There was a possibility.

Jude pushed her hair behind her ears showing off the round curve of them while opening her eyes comically wide.

“All clear here, though I do envy their horns. It seems like I’m not the only one who snuck into the Manor today,” she nodded towards the door, “some guard he is.”

Darnal laughed at that, mischief glinting on his brass features, and said, “I found her lurking in a stairwell listening against the door trying to see if there was anyone on the other side. She said she was looking for trouble---”

“You asked if I was looking for trouble,” Jude interrupted, her brows pinched together, “I decided to amuse you, Darnallll, so said I was. I wanted to see where it would lead me.”

She had drawled the door’s name out and turned up her chin. That pride of her unwavering. She turned back to Cardan to finish telling him how it happened, “So he led me to your room telling me I could find trouble here… So there, now you know how I met your door and why I’m in your room.”

She came over to him and at last, grabbed the wine from his hand and raised it to him, “To trouble and friendly, although unexpected, visits,” she finished her small toast and took a deep drink.

“But it doesn't explain why you were already in the manor nor how you already knew that this was Cardan’s chamber,” the doorknocker added.

“I seem to recall you saying this would be the fun, kind of trouble, I would hardly call an interrogation fun,” Jude bit back at the door.

“And yet when you announced yourself you immediately began interrogating my prince.”

Cardan watched the two bicker as he poured himself yet another glass. He brought his free hand up and rubbed his temple feeling a headache coming on.

“Enough!” the glamour rippled in waves from his throat, amplified by the amount of fairy wine in his system. It hadn’t taken long for him to discover that fairy wine (and fruit) amplified the strength of his glamour, not with the copious amounts that he consumed each day.

~~~~~~~~~~~

Jude and the door stopped bickering at the sound of his glamour. His voice was low and rumbly, it radiated with power. Jude’s heart was racing in her chest. She knew she was doomed. She didn’t see any way to get out of this. Her knees felt weak. Cardan was going to turn her in. Then, he and Balekin would have a field day torturing her together as they tried to carve secrets from her flesh that they would never get. They would keep on carving her up, waiting for her to cave but the geas would render her unable to, even when the pain would make her desperate. Jude drank deeply from the wine he gave her, finishing the glass. If she was to be tortured then she would at least have the wine to dull the pain. She hummed as she felt her head start to swim and laughed to herself; at least she would appear to be able to withstand torture. Oh, trouble indeed.

She held her glass out to him for more wine. His eyebrow quirked at her but he complied instructing her to say when. She had him fill it to the brim.

“Well Jude, how did you know that these were my chambers?” Cardan asked her as she took another drink, his own words still slurring.

Jude laughed the wine making her lightheaded. She turned to look at the annoying door that doomed her and answered truthfully.

“Alice in Wonderland,” she said with her most annoying smile. If she was going to die anyway she might as well piss Cardan off one last time. Her last joy before she went to join her parents.

“I borrowed it from you, hope you don’t mind. It was one of the books my mother read to my sisters and me before we were whisked away to a wonderland of our own. However, Elfhame brings more terror than wonder truthfully,” the alcohol gave her loose lips but her head was light and she didn’t care. Perhaps this is why Cardan drank so much, she did feel quite relaxed. She spared him a glance and laughed.

Cardan had the most peculiar look on his face his mouth hung open and he had one finger poised in the air as if he wanted to say something but didn’t know what to say. Jude decided she wouldn't give him a chance to.

“Darnal, you quite remind me of the talking door from the book. Although I find you more infuriating, perhaps it’s because you are trying to get me killed. I would like it if you were to stop that, I would very much hate to die.”

The door laughed at her words then spoke to Cardan, “looks like the wine did pull the stick out of her ass after all.”

“Oh hush you, don’t make me come over there,” to that the door magicked its face to another door in Cardan’s chambers and waggled his eyes at her as if to say come get me. Jude laughed again, it was such a nice thing to do. She turned to Cardan who still looked bewildered.

“Are you alright you look like you’ve seen a ghost. Are ghosts even real?” she rambled to him, a smile on her face. She would enjoy confusing him before he killed her. Her head was spinning from the wine, she took another sip as she waited for his response.

“I was wondering where that went,” his words came out quiet.

Jude scrunched her brows wondering what he meant and then realized he was talking about the book.

“Oh yes! Oak rather likes it,” she takes another sip, “So now you know why I knew it was your room... now you must tell me why your door knows my name. Also, there was a piece of paper with my name scribbled on it over and over again stuffed in the book. I don’t like you much either but my word! I’ve never furiously written out your name till I ripped the paper. That’s a bit much don’t ya think,” she hiccuped out the last word as Cardan’s face turned pink with rage.

“I think you’ve found more than enough trouble tonight, mortal, perhaps you shoul--”

Darnel starts laughing up a storm interrupting Cardan. Cardan turns and grabs the bottle of wine, drinking from the spout.

“Oh I don’t think she found nearly enough trouble,” Darnel said as Cardan guzzled the contents down, “Lady Jude, my prince sighs out your name day after day and scribbles it on parchment in an attempt to rid you of his mind--” Cardan spits the drink out choking on it, the wine ruining his shirt even more.

“Why you!” Cardan snarls out, anger showing on his face; Darnel pays him no mind and plows on.

“It’s why I referred to you as his maiden as well!” the door is laughing as he talks, “I wonder if he fanci----”

“I command you to leave at once!” Cardan’s glamour radiates the room. Immediately Darnel the door knocker vanishes from the room leaving them in silence. All Jude can do is stare as she watches his chest heave up and down.

Then she starts to laugh. Really truly laugh. A bellyaching, body-shaking laugh. She can't help herself. The idea is absolutely ridiculous and the wine makes it that much more fun. Jude bends over holding her stomach as she lets loose a snort. A SNORT! She forgot she even did that when she laughed hard. She hasn’t laughed like this since she was in the mortal world. It was when her dad had snorted up cheese at a Mexican restaurant; a comedian told a particularly funny joke. It had all been so funny that Jude laughed herself silly, till her abs were sore---

The memory sobered her up quickly as her laughs turned to little sobs and then… nothing. Armor locking around her heart once more. She coldly patted away the tears on her face and looked to Cardan who seem miserable and mildly concerned. He was leaning against his bed shifting on his feet, looking anywhere in the room but her. Perhaps his face went pink from embarrassment earlier rather than anger. Perhaps he does fancy her after all. A scheme took form in Jude’s mind.

“I suppose it makes sense… You had your goons strip me to my underwear and ask me who I wanted to kiss the most. Then you ordered me to tell you how much I admired you while I kissed your feet,” Jude referenced the incident with the fairy fruit. His head snapped to her at once.

“I did not tell Valerian to drug you, nor did I tell Niccassia to strip you! They did that of their own volition,” he urged her, eyes flashing with anger at her accusation.

“But you did ask me to kiss your feet and tell you how much I admired you.”

He averted his eyes again, ears drooping and cheeks flushed as he refused to meet her gaze. At least he had the decency to look ashamed.

“I have a deal for you Cardan,” he looked up at her, “I’ll give you a kiss if you promise to never tell anyone that you saw me tonight.”

“Only if you swear to tell no one of the note with your name on it or of anything you heard or saw in this room,” his response had a bite to it, he was angry. Jude supposed it was easier to be angry than embarrassed.

“Then we can both swear to secrecy instead. Forego the kiss altogether,” Jude countered, she put a bite into her own words. She saw something flash across his face that was gone an instant later. Disappointment?

“Aww unless you still want a kiss poor princeling,” she mocked him, the fading alcohol making her bold. He deserved it. ‘Boys are mean to girls they like’ was a stupid saying from the mortal world, if he liked her he should have been kind to her. She would mock him for this until they struck their bargain of secrecy. She would hold this over him. She would shame him for it.

“I didn’t say anything Jude, you’re the one who sounds like you want a kiss now, offering me not once but twice,” his infuriating smirk returned to his lips. She couldn’t stand him.

“Don’t be ridiculous! You are the one who fancies me, Cardan,” she seethed.

“Did you ever consider that I want to revenge Locke?” Cardan sneered, “the door was the one who implied I fancied you. I said no such thing.”

That did make more sense to Jude. Locke had stolen Cardan’s lover and now he wants to do the same to Locke.

“Then what good would swearing to secrecy do. He will never know that you revenged him.”

“I will. I would know of the revenge and you would know of it, and that’s fine by me. He isn’t worth the effort of rubbing it in his face. He can go about thinking he has bested me. I will know that he hasn’t and that he is the one who looks a fool.”

Cardan moved from his spot as he spoke and pulled his wine ruined sleep shirt from his body. He moved to a basin in the corner of the room and dipped a rag into the water, wiping the wine that still stuck to his body. His scars were in clear view of her from where she stood. She couldn’t help the gasp that escaped her lips.

“Once we strike our bargain it won’t matter that you’ve seen them,” he said in reference to his scars, “don’t bother asking.”

Jude didn’t know what to say, the memories of her last mission haunting her. She wondered what he would do if he knew she already knows how he got them. She went to sip her wine but her glass was already empty. She moved to the bed and placed her glass on his tray. When she turned around, she found Cardan an arm’s length away from her, using a new cloth to pat dry his chest. He didn’t look at her as he sat on the bed. He wasn't muscular persay, fairies don’t put on muscles the way mortals do. Even Madoc looked small next to a mortal bodybuilder. Cardan was skinny like all fairies were, but he had muscle Jude thought, eyeing the v-shape that trailed beneath his pants.

“You’re staring.”

Jude felt her face warm and she took a few steps back from the bed, putting space between them. She leered at him.

“Balekin makes me run drills with his guard since I’m so pitiful with a sword. Says I need to at least stay in shape. I hated it at first but then I started gaining even more attention from lovers, so I tolerate it now,” there was a grin pulling at his lips. Oh, he thought she was admiring him, that wouldn’t do.

“I was actually thinking of how you would look like a twig next to a mortal man, even I have more muscle than you do,” Jude said with a smirk.

His face fell into a scowl and she huffed a laugh at it. He probably hated that she just implied a mortal could be more attractive than him. Sure a mortal could be more muscular easily, but Cardan truly was handsome beyond reason, he made her head spin when she looked at him. Maybe it was the wine--- ughh she wished she could say it was the wine.

“Why would I want help you revenge Locke?” she said returning them to their previous conversation. Cardan huffs a laugh at her. His grin lighting up his beautiful face. How he was so perfect she didn’t know. He stretched his arms above his head, Jude tried not to notice the lean muscles there either, and then he leaned his back flat on the bed, his knees bent, feet still on the floor.

“Because he still lies with Niccasia, and he is to be wed to yet another lover. Locke is stringing you along Jude. So why not revenge him? Kiss the person you hate more than any other over him. Do it just because he is so foul and because he will never know that you did it to spite him. Just like you would have never known about either of his lovers till he broke your heart.”

His words stung. Jude didn’t love Locke but it still hurt. He was to be married. And he was still with Niccasia. She felt anger bubble up within her. Easier to feel anger than it was to feel hurt. Jude stood and she walked toward Cardan until she stood between his legs. He leaned up partway on the bed, resting on his forearms. Oh, he was making a show of himself for her she realized noting the way the light caught on the definition of his stomach. He wanted her to look at him. His lidded eyes seemed to say ‘aren’t I lovely’ and damn it if he wasn’t.

“Cardan,” she starts, his midnight eyes gleamed in the fairy light, “I swear to tell no one of your note with my name on it nor of anything I heard or saw in this room tonight if you swear to tell no one you saw or spoke to me,” her voice an arctic whisper as she held her hand out to him. He leaned forward to grasp her hand in his larger one.

“I swear it, Jude,” she could smell the magic as surged bounding him to his vow. She had magic to ensure he was faithful to his promise, but he had to trust her on good faith alone. Her head was spinning but she knew it wasn't because of the wine; it was from what she was about to do. Jude took a deep breath before the magic took its final hold and spoke.

“Then seal it with a kiss”

Next Chapter

#jurdan #jurdan fanfic #tfota fanfic #tfota #jude cardan #jude duarte #cardan greenbriar #the mortal maiden #the cruel prince #the wicked king #the queen of nothing #my writing

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etherrealoblivion · 4 years ago

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The Same Direction

Prompt: After a difficult case, the team goes to Rossi’s beach house. Spencer has trouble dealing with his feelings toward Y/N.

Pairing: Spencer Reid x Reader

Rating: Mature

A/N: Thank you so much for 200 followers! Here’s a treat. gif from Pinterest.

Words: 3,000

MASTERLIST

“Orders from Strauss, everyone needs to go.”

The team had just gotten back from a big case, spanning a total of five weeks on the job. It was a particularly rough one; the killer had gotten away, and the family of the victim was pressing charges. They were all in desperate need of a vacation. And it just so happened that luck was on their side. Rossi had a beach house that he’d been keeping well hidden. Strauss had gotten wind of it - presumably through a little hacker birdie - and told the team to take a week-long break to calm their nerves.

The team was ecstatic to finally get some time off. Besides, everyone loved the beach.

“Is it mandatory?”

Everyone except, apparently, for Spencer Reid.

“Yes,” Hotch said shortly, picking up his go-bag and dismissing everyone to go home and pack.

Spencer, however, was not giving up.

“Couldn’t I just stay home and relax?”

Y/N, the newest member of the team, shoved him softly.

“What’s the matter, Spence? Scared to see what Rossi looks like in his thong?”

“It’s called a Speedo, Y/N,” Rossi said, already headed out the door of the briefing room, leaving his coworkers gaping behind him.

Great. Spencer had no choice but to pack up his belongings and join his friends on the trip to the beach. He never thought being packed in a car with his closest friends would be quite like this. Once they’d gotten to forty-two bottles of beer on the wall, he’d fallen asleep.

The beach house was quite nice, which, in retrospect, should have been expected. Rossi was not all that shy about his wealth, nor shy about spending it.

Spencer was just glad there were enough bedrooms for everyone. He said he’d come to the beach but he didn’t say he’d actually go to the ocean. His plans for the following week consisted of a locked door, a plethora of books, and no ocean.

Plans, however, that never came to fruition.

“Hey, Spence,” Y/N was stood in his doorway, a wrap around her hips and a shawl on her shoulders, “We’re all gonna check out the water. It’s low-tide. You comin’?”

Spencer gave her a withering look.

“I-uh-I can’t. I’m, um, I’m allergic to sunscreen.”

It was a lame lie and he knew it. He also knew better than to try and lie to a profiler, not to mention a gorgeous woman who he may or may not have a tiny, minuscule crush on.

“Really?”

An evil glint shone in her eye and she tranced forward, hoisting him up out of bed and pulling him out of his room. He protested the whole way down to the beach, trying to come up with excuses.

“Our stuff could get stolen, someone could get stung by a jellyfish, I’m not in my bathing suit.”

“Spence, you’re not allergic to sunscreen, you can borrow some of mine, Rossi brought a safe for our stuff, and I know for a fact that those are swim shorts you’re wearing.”

“Yes, but I don’t have my SPF swim shirt! If I get burned it’s your fault!”

She just giggled, clutching his arm as she led him down to the beach, spotting their coworkers lounging under a rainbow umbrella in the distance.

“Pretty Boy? What are you doing here? Y/L/N finally drag you outta your room?”

“Yep!” she said proudly. “Although I’m not sure I’ll be able to drag him into the water. He keeps muttering about jellyfish statistics. Don’t start!” she added as he opened his mouth.

Spencer blushed, taking a seat in the one empty lounge chair, startled when Y/N sat down right next to him. He tried his best not to think about her warm hip touching his.

Prentiss bounced up, closing the book she was reading. “Well, maybe he’ll follow our lead, huh? Come on, guys!”

And she ran towards the water, Morgan, J.J, Garcia, and Rossi jumping up to follow. Hotch was taking a walk along the beach so Spencer and Y/N were suddenly alone.

“Are you not going to go in?” Spencer asked as she fumbled with her beach bag.

“I am, I just need to put on sunscreen.”

She stood, stripping off her shawl and skirt wrap. Spencer tried not to watch as she squirted the lotion into her hands, rubbing them together and massaging her legs, arms, and neck. He turned his head toward the beach, attempting to watch a flock of seagulls. His eyes unconsciously drifted back to her toned body, so exposed. She didn’t even seem bothered by how on display she was, people walking by able to see quite a lot.

“Spence? A little help?”

Reid snapped to attention, eyes refocusing.

“What? Oh.”

She had turned her back to him, holding out the sunscreen bottle.

“You want me to…. Put-put the….”

“Sunscreen on my back? Yes. Please use a lot, I burn easy.”

No, no, no, no. NO!

“Okay.”

Fuck.

Spencer took the bottle and squirted a generous amount into his hand. Y/N smiled at him, pleased he was helping her, and laid down on a beach chair, untying the back of her bikini, the strings dangling down toward the sand leaving her back fully exposed.

Spencer swallowed hard.

Okay. This was fine. Just think about crime scenes. Dead bodies. Naked Morgan! There we go. Boner gone.

But the moment he touched her skin, all hope was lost. She felt like silk under his hands, the softness of the lotion only making him glide against her smoother. He could have handled that just fine if not for the fact that as he rubbed the lotion into her skin, she let out soft moans, gasping as he brushed over certain spots.

“Mm, that feels nice, Spencer. A little higher…. Yes, right there,” she keened softly.

Spencer had to suppress a moan himself. The sight of her underneath him, back displayed, writing and moaning was enough to get him hard.

The sunscreen was now well-applied to her back, but Spencer couldn’t stop yet. There was a growing issue in his swim shorts and he wasn’t sure how to handle it. So he just kept rubbing her back, going from stingily applying the sunscreen to a full-blown massage.

That…. did not help the situation.

Y/N just kept moaning his name, telling him how good he was at this. The situation was escalating and Spencer needed to stop.

He moved his hands away quickly, turning away from her and shutting his eyes, praying that his … length … wouldn’t be that visible.

“You okay?” she touched his shoulder and he spun around, hoping and wishing she wouldn’t look down.

She didn’t. She was busy retying her bikini.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” he said, far from fine.

She took the bottle back from him.

“Want me to do your legs?”

“NO! No. Um, no thank you. I think I’ll just stay here. This isn’t a swim shirt and I don’t wanna get it wet.”

She smiled devilishly, leaning forward and grasping the edges of his shirt.

“Then don’t.”

And ever so slowly, maintaining eye contact the entire time, she lifted his shirt up over his head and threw it down on the beach chair. Even stranger, Spencer found himself letting her. He let her squeeze sunblock into her hand and run it over his shoulders, massaging it in as he had done to her.

“There! Now you can come in the water!”

“Y/N, the dangers of-”

“Hush! Follow me!” and she grabbed his hand, leading him toward the ocean, calling out to their friends.

“Look who’s here!”

“Reid!” the group cheered collectively, laughing as Spencer slowly entered the water, wrapping his arms around his torso self consciously.

He always wore a swim shirt. Even in hot tubs. It hadn’t even occurred to him how uncovered he was until he was smack dab in front of his colleagues.

“Hey, what’s the deal, Pretty Ricky? I’ve never seen you swim without a shirt before. Come to think of it, I’ve never really seen you swim.”

“About one in every sixteen people gets injured somehow at the beach. One in three of those happen in the water.”

“La-la-la-la-la,” Garcia said, plugging her ears. “I do not want to hear about how dangerous the ocean is. Living in blissful ignorance is my forte.”

Y/N laughed and Spencer joined in, a little of the tension slipping off his shoulders. Once the banter began, it was easier to forget about the unknown terrors lurking beneath the water’s surface.

Until….

“Hey, let’s go deeper!” Prentiss said, slowly wading further until she was so far out they could barely hear her. “Come on guys! I think there’s a sandbank just up ahead!”

“I’m out,” Garcia said, turning around and walking back to the shore. “I’m going to nake a nap. If anyone needs me, don’t bother trying to wake me up.”

Morgan, Rossi, and JJ all enthusiastically waded deeper towards Prentiss, frolicking in the waves and calling for Spencer and Y/N to join them.

Y/N softly took Spencer’s hand.

“Come on, I don’t know if I’ll be able to touch the bottom and I might need to hold onto you.”

And before he could protest and pull out a worrying statistic, she had led him just deep enough so that his head was above the water. In front of them, their friends were clearly standing on a sandbank, happily jumping in the waves.

“Spence,” Y/N mumbled, struggling to keep her head above the water. “I can’t touch.”

“Oh, um.”

“You don’t mind, do you?” she asked, climbing onto his front and wrapping her legs around him, securing them behind him. His hands unconsciously flew to her hips to hold her, the movement shocking him.

This…. was not good. She was pressed right up against a very sensitive area that he’d already had to calm down from earlier. The sudden contact was making the blood rush downward, no doubt leading to a very unpleasant conversation.

“Thanks,” she whispered, sliding her hands around his neck and glancing down at his lips. Wait, what?

If Spencer hadn’t been so distracted, he would have been able to read her expression better. Instead, he was left a muttering mess, trying to keep his thoughts as pure as possible so that there wasn’t a sudden growth in his trunks.

“No problem,” he said, voice cracking and he kept walking toward the bank, Y/N in his arms. Each step made her rub up against him in a less than pure way.

“You okay?” she asked, readjusting her legs and pulling tighter to him.

“Mm-hmm,” he grunted, not trusting his voice not to give out.

By some miracle, they reached their friends, Spencer set her down and was finally able to control his breathing enough to stop the hardness growing in his pants.

The obligatory beach games were played with much splashing, diving, and seawater getting in people’s eyes. After the third round of a game of chicken, Rossi decided it was time to head back. The tide was getting higher and it was about dinnertime.

“Can you give me another lift?” Y/N turned to Spencer, taking his hand for the millionth time that day. She always was a little more touchy with him.

“Um, sure. Hop on,” he pat his back, hoping it was nonchalant enough not to arouse suspicion.

That’s not the only thing that’s aroused.

Hush!

And she smiled, jumping up on his back and riding him back to where she could touch the bottom.

“Thanks, Spence. You’re fun to ride!” and she trounced off toward the beach house, leaving Spencer befuddled and confused.

Rossi cooked up a pot of his famous pasta for dinner, sending everyone into a glorious food coma from overeating.

Spencer retreated to his room and dug his nose into Les Miserables, quickly getting sucked into the story.

A knock on his door startled him several hours later.

“Come in,” he muttered, pulling the covers up over his bare legs.

It was Hotch.

“Hey, everyone’s turning in for the night, just wanted to let you know. In the morning, we’re going to head to that frozen ice place.”

“Okay,” he smiled at Hotch as he closed the door.

Glancing at the clock, he was surprised to see it was already 10:30.

Usually, Spencer accidentally stayed up until three AM, falling asleep with a case file clutched in his arms only to wake up in three hours. Tonight, however, there was no case to stress about, no time to wake up tomorrow, and no having to worry about stupid feelings for a coworker. If he wanted to, he could go for a walk on the beach and no one would bother him.

Which is exactly what he chose to do.

The sand had gone from scorching his feet during the day to chilly and more stable at nighttime. He walked for about five minutes until he saw a soft light in the distance. Someone had lit a small fire a few meters from the shoreline.

He was about to turn around when he noticed a very familiar shawl wrapped around the figure’s shoulders.

“Y/N?”

Her head snapped towards him and although he couldn’t see her expression, he could hear the smile in her voice.

“Hey, Spence!” he walked up and sat next to her, facing the ocean. “What are you doing out here?”

“I was just taking a walk. What about you?”

He made the mistake of looking at her, nearly gasping at the way the soft glow of the firelight illuminated her features. He couldn’t help watching her lips as she spoke.

“Oh, same as you. I just kinda needed some alone time.”

“Oh, do you want me to-”

“No!” she reached out, grabbing his arm to stop him from standing. “No, It’s… It’s ok. I like having you near, Spencer.”

His breath froze in his throat.

“I-ahem-I like to be near you, Y/N. I mean, you’re fun to be around.”

She laughed, hugging his arm and resting her head on his shoulder. Spencer tensed at the contact, wondering if she knew what she was doing and, more importantly, what it was doing to him.

They stared off into the waves, watching the birds dance on the horizon, the moon low in the sky. It was beautiful.

“You ever wonder why we do what we do?” she asked, voice barely a whisper.

He was shocked yet again by her forwardness. He never knew what she was going to say.

“Like, we know how to do the job, but how do we turn it off? Everyone we come in contact with, we have the tools to read their lives story right off their face. But what the hell do we know about each other? I don’t know. Sometimes I just feel like no one knows me.”

She glanced at him, cheeks turning pink. “Sorry, forget it,” she whispered, pulling back from him and throwing sand on the fire. “Goodnight, Spencer.”

“You like the beach,” he blurted, making Y/N stop standing up. “You-you like the beach and-and chocolate ice cream. You hate it when Hotch’s belt doesn’t match his shoes but you never say anything because you don’t want to bother him. You tell people your favorite color is blue but it’s actually yellow. When a case involves a child, you always wear your hair down so that if you’re the one to find them, they’ll be able to smell your shampoo. You don’t let anyone initiate contact with you and you never let anyone hug you. Except-except for me.”

The words left his mouth before he could stop them. His gaze had drifted back to the ocean, spotting a dolphin jump in the distance.

“That’s what I know about you, Y/N.”

He dreaded meeting her eyes but the silence was more unbearable.

The moment their gaze met, a wave crashed upon the shore in front of them and Y/N leaned forward, gently pressing her lips to his. Spencer gasped, lightly pressing back, keeping his hands firmly at his sides.

Emotions flew between them, Y/N reaching up and softly touching Spencer’s cheek, a burst of care rising in his chest, tightening in his throat. His hand found the back of her head and he pulled her closer. Silently, she climbed into his lap and deepened the kiss, moaning softly against his mouth.

Spencer gasped, hands moving to her hips, grasping them roughly. Her lips parted and she ran her tongue along his lips, parting them softly and delving deeper the moment he gave her access.

The fire next to them was out but a new one had lit between them, sending waves of warmth amidst their bodies. Spencer was emboldened by the kiss, gently biting her lip and coaxing her mouth more open. Their hands moved everywhere, pulling each other’s hair, caressing each other’s backs, and holding each others cheeks ever so gently.

Y/N was the first to pull back, resting her forehead against his, breathing heavily against his mouth.

“As much as I love this, I’m not all that excited about sand getting in certain places.”

He laughed lightly, stroking her hair.

“I’m-I’m not quite ready to….”

“We don’t have to.”

She pulled back, giving him a heartwarming smile and stood up, holding out her hand to Spencer.

“Come on,” she smiled and he took her hand, standing. “Let’s take a walk.”

And so they walked off along the beach, hand clasped together, conversing quietly about nothing in particular.

No matter how much Spencer already knew about her, he found himself wanting to get to know her all over again.

And Y/N had absolutely no problem with that.

“Love does not consist in gazing at each other, but in looking outward together in the same direction.” -Antoine de Saint-Exupery

#spencer reid x reader #spencer reid #spencer reid fic #fanfic #fandom #criminal minds fanfiction #fanfiction #criminal minds

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aethelflaedladyofmercia · 3 years ago

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The Ritual of Propagation - Chapter 4

Aziraphale and Crowley are finally ready to meld and perform the ritual, bringing their little angel into existence!

Well, they think they're ready...

OK they're not ready.

WARNING: This chapter contains (flashback) scenes of r*pe and abuse, and present-day scenes of... well, the resulting PTSD and trauma. Also, metaphysical true-form s*x. Rated M.

The excerpt below is pretty much the only non-painful part of the chapter.

Chapter 4: The Astral Plane

Aziraphale felt the thrill run through one hundred and nine little angels as he lifted his sword from its table.

“You must all remember, a weapon is not a toy. You may hold it to train, or to spar, but you can never forget that it is a tool meant to harm another. Always respect it, and always take care.” A hum of agreement, or at least excitement. “Now. Let me show you a few basics.”

It wasn’t easy to move through his forms, particularly with the nearly-mature younglings on his lower right wing, but they always swarmed up near the joints when he gave these demonstrations and that helped a little. Odd, of course, that they would do such a thing; there wasn’t really any other evidence they could see what he was doing. Perhaps they simply liked the way it made him feel.

His emotions regarding the sword were… complicated, to say the least. He always felt better when he held it, as if a part of him had been returned. And the motions—as he demonstrated a few basic blocks and thrusts—seemed to fill him with a strength, a solidity, a purpose that had slowly drained away in his time at the facility. He loved that with this weapon, he could protect the Heaven he adored, and all the angels who toiled to create the World he longed to see.

But at the same time, he hated using it against his fellow angels, traitors though they might be. He tried not to let the younglings see that weakness in him, but he wished very much that the War had never happened.

“Now,” he pushed back the emotions to focus on the blade in his hand. “This is meant to be held in one hand, like so. There’s just enough space for a second if you need it, but additional power won’t always help. The sharpness of the edge alone is sufficient if your opponent is unarmored.”

He moved now through a more complex series of swings, designed to take full advantage of the weapon’s cutting power. He didn’t try to incorporate all the steps—moving back and forth like that would surely just lead to another fall—but his arm flowed from one position to the next, in a way that felt pleasant, almost satisfactory.

Aziraphale felt little nudges from Haniel, wriggling out of the crowd of larger younglings. “Is this what you’re looking for, little one?” The sword burst into flames, eliciting another wave of elation from the Soldiers-to-be.

Closing his eyes, Aziraphale moved through the next form with hardly a thought. He tried to imagine his charges as they would be after detachment: tiny little things with wide eyes and stubby wings, as he’d seen the last time he slipped away to the other part of the facility. Sitting on the floor, watching with rapt attention. A few standing beside him, following his motions, holding practice swords that were almost too big for them.

It wasn’t that he wanted to be a trainer. Aziraphale was happy… or at least, at peace with where he was. He had his Duty and performed it well, and there was a certain satisfaction in that, in knowing his little Soldiers would one day join the Legions, and stand to defend Heaven with swords and bows in hand, that he had made that possible.

He just wished he could see it, too.

A rustle along one wing, and he glanced over to find a flurry of globes bumping against each other on his upper right wing. “Enough of that. Don’t play so rough.” He set down the sword, gently pushing them apart with his fingers. “Who started this? Farris?” He watched the golden ball burrow guiltily into his feathers. “Your enthusiasm does you credit, but that is not proper behavior.”

Aziraphale settled on the edge of the table, drawing his wings close so that he could see all the little angels. “Yes, your purpose is to fight, but as Guardians, not aggressors, and certainly not bullies. It is not your place to start a fight, nor to escalate one any further than necessary. If a conflict can be settled without violence, that is by far the better outcome.”

Another question from the upper left wing, this time Curaniel. “When you must fight, and you one day will find yourself in that position, you should end it swiftly and decisively. That does not mean destroying your enemy,” he added, though the thought was probably too complex for the little ones. “Mercy is always a virtue, and one you should practice as often as you can. And, on the other side, never be ashamed to flee from a superior opponent. Become stronger, and return to fight another day.”

Sure enough, a ripple of confusion, particularly in his lower right wing from the younglings nearly ready for detachment. He cradled the wing in his arm, lifting it to better look at them. “Of course, there are exceptions. As I said, we are Guardians. When our charges are in danger, we do everything—everything to keep them safe.” He reached out to run his fingers along Bualu, feeling the joy ripple out. “Even if we’re scared, yes. There’s no shame in being afraid, but you mustn’t—”

The door of his room slammed open.

Read the rest on AO3!

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sirowsky · 4 years ago

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The Flowers Always Know

Description: When a mad scientist uses you as an experiment while you’re on holiday, the Heroics only just manage to save you. And in your recovery you become very close to the leader of the group. (Slow burn)

Rating: Mature

Warnings: Language, Angst.

Link to Masterlist

Comment: This was painful to write. If you don’t do well with angst, I recommend skipping this chapter. BUT - there is a happy ending!

Chapter 30

“Ah, there you are. We’ve been waiting. Now, before you try anything, I have fail-safes in place in case you try and stop me, and they all end in tragedy. Like this nasty little explosive underneath their chairs, for instance.”

You stood frozen to the spot, trembling with fear, and not an inkling of it for yourself.

“Don’t… Don’t do this.”

“Not to worry, my sweet. With the help of your data, I’ve been able to streamline the process. Theoretically, I should be able to directly transfer powered cells from Marcus into his daughter. The familial DNA should help alleviate any foreign-cell attacks. Though, I’m afraid it will still be painful.”

“My data? Someone’s been feeding you my medical information?”

“Oh, yes. I don’t think you realise just how many people in this world are interested in levelling the playing-field. I mean, how’d you think I got out of prison?”

While he spoke, he made the final calculations to start his experiment, and as the machines started whirring and clicking, your fear escalated into full-blown panic. They were both unconscious, for the time being, but you knew that once the pain started, they’d be forced awake. You didn’t actually remember that from your own experience with this experiment, but you still knew that it was true. You sneaked a ghost hand towards one of the machines and unhooked a tube that was connected to Missy’s arm, at the other end, trying to buy time. The machine started beeping to indicate that something was wrong.

“Now, now, sweetie. Don’t go sabotaging this, or your precious family might not come out of it quite as alright as both of us would like.”

As he walked over to reconnect the tube, he tapped on something on his belt, and you recognised an identical device to what the Inventor had used to protect himself against powers. Someone in HQ had betrayed you all, and the feeling burned through you with an aftertaste of hate.

“My family are not your fucking toys!”

The room shook significantly, and he looked around with real wonder in his eyes.

“That’s impressive. See, didn’t I give you a wonderful gift?”

“No. I would’ve preferred to stay ordinary and dull for the rest of my life if it had meant not having to live through that shit.”

“Do you really expect me to believe that? Look at where you are. None of this would have happened if I hadn’t taken you. You should be more grateful.”

“I do see where I am, and I would rather have never met them at all, if it meant they were spared from this.”

“People are inherently selfish, which is why I don’t believe you. Now, let’s get started. And a word of warning, my dear – if you disrupt the process once it’s already started, you’ll kill them both. And I doubt if you could bring both of them back from the dead without killing yourself.”

He hit a button on the computer keypad, and the Machine connected to Marcus came alive, and started siphoning out powered cells from his blood-stream. He woke up after just a few seconds, unable to move at all, and you could see the pain in his eyes. Helpless to do anything else, you reached out to him with your ghost energy, trying to let him know that you were there and that you were trying to save him. You could feel him trying to use his powers, but the machine disrupted it, and caused him even more pain.

“Please, stop!”

The second machine, the one connected to Missy, started whirring and moving, and your blood instantly flipped from freezing to boiling. You couldn’t stand the thought of her even knowing this amount of pain, much less being forced to suffer it, for god knows how long. And as she woke up, and that pain became visible in her eyes, something old and sure and endlessly powerful took over your mind. There wasn’t a single thought, not so much as an echo of anything rational or logical or sensible. The maternal instinct was all-powerful in a way that nothing else could compare to. And the power it created together with your abilities, was beyond belief. The house disappeared, and so did Dr. Prince and all of his equipment, and you could feel the moment that both Marcus and Missy’s hearts stopped beating. But it didn’t frighten you, because you were a healer. Moving up to crouch in between them, where they now laid on the bare ground, you took one of their hands in each one of yours, and exchanged your life for theirs. You had hoped to be able to stay alive long enough to see their faces one last time, but the energy required to heal them, combined with what you’d already spent, was too much, and you needed the single grain you had left, for one last thing. One small, but so very important thing. You fell away without seeing anything but the blue sky above you.

It was okay, though. They were worth it.

***

Marcus was working in his office when Missy came to find him. It had been a long day, and he was so tired he could have fallen asleep sitting up. But he knew that even if he were to lay down in a soft and cool bed right then, he still wouldn’t have succumbed to that blissful nothingness. He hadn’t slept more than a couple of hours at a time, since the incident, and he was long past exhausted.

“Dad, are you coming?”

She came to get him every day after school. She had for the past month, and he didn’t have the heart to ask her not to.

“Yeah. I’ll be right there, sweetheart.”

She turned and headed off to medical, and he got up to follow her. A part of him wanted to turn around and run in the opposite direction. A part of him wanted to never have to set foot in that fucking room again. But that was just the fear. The love was so much stronger, and it relentlessly dragged him back there, day and night, no matter how badly it hurt.

Missy was already hopped up on the bed, sitting cross-legged by your feet, when he walked in. She was so hopeful still. So positive. All Marcus could feel was pain. Every time he saw you, he saw those moments. Those short, few seconds that had taken everything away. He’d seen it in your eyes just before your power erupted. The complete lack of thought as your mind reverted to pure instinct, to protect your daughter. His daughter. He’d seen how you’d dispatched the entire house, and everything that threatened your family, into one of the dimensions that you had access to, a feat that had almost completely drained you. Then, he’d woken up to seeing you fall, and in his heart, he’d known that you couldn’t be saved. Not this time. But he’d still tried. He’d tried so hard that Missy had eventually been forced to be the one to beg him to stop before she lost him too. He’d never screamed so loud for so long before. And yet, somehow, that still hadn’t been the worst part. That had come the next morning, when medical had informed him that you’d been examined that day because of nausea, and that they’d discovered that you were pregnant. The timeframe had matched that day in his office, when your bodies had reacted so differently, and you’d cried out of pure love for him. It had broken parts of him that he had never even known before.

He walked silently to your side, and took your burned right hand between his. He tried not to look at your face, and the tube that disappeared down your throat, the slight blue tinge to your eyelids, and the way your skin hugged your collarbones. When the team had reached the disappeared house, they’d wasted no time in getting the three of you back to HQ, and you’d been rushed here immediately. They’d found residual brain-activity, and the decision had been made to keep you alive artificially, in case your powers had somehow been able to protect you. In case you could have found a way to cling to some thread of life and hold on until your strength could be returned. There had been no change in your condition since that day, and if it hadn’t been for Missy, he would’ve already asked them to just let you rest in peace.

“Hey, alma. We’re here. So, today’s story comes from Noodles. He managed to get out-witted by a squirrel, and it is too funny not to share.”

She told you one story every day. Something that had happened during her day that she knew you would’ve wanted to hear about, and would’ve listened animatedly to, before enthusiastically sharing your thoughts about it. Marcus didn’t hear the stories. He came and sat with her while she talked, because that’s what she’d asked him to do, but for him, being there wasn’t about hope. It was about survival. He didn’t want to hope, didn’t want to give himself that potentially crushing second wave of loss. But he also needed to see you. He needed you, and no amount of pain could crush that feeling. Since they didn’t have a home anymore, they were living at HQ during the weeks, because it was closer to Missy’s school than Anita’s house. But they still stayed with her over the weekends. Marcus made Missy dinner every evening, and sat with her to help her with homework or watch some show before she went to sleep, trying to keep her life as close to normal as these circumstances would permit. But as soon as she fell asleep, he came right back here, curled up next to you on the bed and cried until there were no more tears, and sleep forced itself over him.

This night was no exception. He walked in on legs that were impossibly heavy, refusing to look at the machines and the tubes, focusing on your hands and the parts of your skin that were bare and unbroken by needles. It was so strange that your body was unharmed, that there wasn’t a mark on you to signify the violence and destructive nature of that incident. You were still perfect, even in death. Wrapping one arm over your chest, careful not to disturb the breathing apparatus, he took his usual place on your left side, burrowed his face into your neck and breathed in the familiar scent of your shampoo. He was so tired that the tears fell without the laboured breathing, or shockwaves of grief rocking his body, the way it usually did. He just laid there, completely drained of will and hope and desire, waiting for the restless, nightmarish sleep that would inevitably drag him under. A sudden incessive beeping of one of the machines, tried to gripe at his attention. He closed his eyes and burrowed deeper into your neck, certain that if he turned his head towards it, all it would tell him would be that the time had come. That your body had finally weakened to the point where not even artificially sustained organs was enough to keep you there. He hadn’t wanted to hope, and he’d thought that he didn’t have any left, but as he laid there and waited for the machines to declare your final departure – he realised that he had. A small part of him had clung to some imagined scenario where you could’ve somehow clawed your way back, and now that part was dying with you. It felt as though someone had shrunk his lungs. He struggled to draw in more than tiny gulps of air, and his arm involuntarily tightened around you, pulling you into his chest, as though your lifeless body could somehow free him.

A hand found his arm, and held it lightly, but he didn’t look up to see who it was that was trying to soothe him. He didn’t want to be soothed, he wanted to drift off into the nothingness with you. But then the doors to the room opened, and he could hear it. So, why hadn’t he heard the person that was holding his arm, when they entered?

“Oh, my god… Marcus, look.”

It was one of the twins, and the tone of her voice made something inside of him wake up. He pulled his head away from your neck, and the first thing he saw was your hand, holding his arm. The touch was light because it was weak, not soothing. Not daring to believe it, he moved his arm, so he could take your hand, and when you squeezed it, ever so faintly, he fell apart. He sobbed and hugged you, and tried to tell you how much he loved you and how grateful he was, but the shudders and trembles that kept coursing through him made it all garbled up and unintelligible. He never heard the twins working around you, never felt them change the equipment, after they’d removed the breathing machine, and made sure that you could breathe on your own, before pulling the tubes out of your throat. He didn’t notice Anita and Missy walk in, however much time later, but he felt them hug him, and he wanted to thank them, to tell them how much he loved them too, but the relief was so overwhelming that all he could manage was grunts and sobs.

They let him cry himself into absolute exhaustion. He was so tired that it didn’t take long. He fell asleep still cradling you to his chest, and they didn’t have the heart to lift him out of the bed.

***

A couple of days later, Marcus was sitting on the side of your bed, just staring at you while you ate. You had to eat carefully and slowly, since your throat was still sore from the tube, but you were already strong enough to sit up in the bed, and eat by yourself. You’d been expressly forbidden from trying to speak, until your throat was less swollen and irritated, or you might permanently damage your vocal cords. But it didn’t bother you. You and Marcus knew each other so well that your eyes and expressions were enough to let you know what the other was thinking. And Missy was enjoying getting the opportunity to blab incessantly without you being able to stop her with a well-placed quip. You knew that big conversations would have to be had, in the near future, and while you could feel how nervous and anxious Marcus was about that, you really weren’t. There were things you needed to tell him, things you needed to try and help him understand, but none of it was bad. Not from your perspective, at least.

You finished eating, and took a few long and slow sips of water. You could tell that there was something on Marcus’ mind, and when you put the glass down, you shot him a look to say ‘tell me’, and he sighed.

“It’s not… I don’t wanna talk about it until you can actually talk to me.”

You just kept giving him the same look, crossing your arms in front of your chest to let him know that you weren’t leaving the subject alone any time soon. Whatever this was, it was causing the wrinkle in between his eyebrows to deepen, a clear sign that it was something that hurt him, and he’d been hurting for so long already, it was time for him to start getting some of it out. He saw your persistence, and he knew you weren’t gonna let it go. His eyes dropped to his own hands in his lap, and he took a minute to consider how to phrase it.

“They told me… about the… baby.”

His eyes were still downcast, so he didn’t see your face soften, or your eyes turn warm. But you wanted him to keep talking, so you made no effort to get his attention yet.

“And I know that you did what you did to save us, and that you couldn’t have made it a priority right then, and I don’t blame you for doing what you had to. I just can’t help but think… what if that was it?”

His hands were trembling slightly, but you couldn’t tell if it was with sadness or fear. His voice seemed so small.

“What if that was our only chance? I’ve never felt the kind of… loss… that I felt when they told me that. The loss of what could have been, of the possibility. And I just…”

He took a deep breath.

“I had no idea how much I wanted that baby, until it was already gone.”

He finally looked up at you, and blinked a couple of times with confusion as he took in your expression. Because you weren’t sad. You were smiling. You picked up the notepad Amaire had left you for answering medical questions, and scribbled down the few words required to explain yourself, before turning it around to show him.

--The baby is safe—

You watched his eyes as he read those words, staring at them for several seconds as though he couldn’t understand them. And then his eyes snapped back to yours and there were a million questions in them, but he had no idea where to start or probably even what most of those questions were yet. So, he just kissed you instead, and the depth of emotion that he poured into that kiss, had you both in tears.

Authors’ Note: I love criticism, don’t be shy to let me know if there’s anything you like/don’t like/have questions about.

@blueeyesatnight @farfromjustordinary @allmyspideys @hrk-fic-recs @strawberryperegrine @lucrezia-thoughts @computeringturtle @sarahjkl82-blog

#marcus moreno #marcus moreno x reader #marcus moreno fic #we can be heroes #we can be heroes fic #pedro pascal fanfiction #pedro pascal characters

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imjeralee · 4 years ago

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Wallflower: Chapter 4 - Open Me

Raihan x F!Reader

Disclaimer: Do not own Pokemon

Note: This is my first Pokemon fanfic. I hope you enjoy it :) Originally posted on Archive of Our Own.

Summary: You’re an unassuming Pokemon breeder who works at the nursery in the Wild Area and he’s Raihan, the fearsome gym leader of Hammerlocke who has more than a million followers.

You don’t want anything to do with him but he’s…persistent.

Rating: Mature/Explicit

Warnings: Lemon, smut, violence, language

OPEN ME

...

"Some time ago, this woman did this, uh.... this art performance. It was extreme art, using herself. Basically, she stood with this sign saying that she was letting the public do whatever they wanted to do with her - and she was gonna stand for seven hours and do nothing. She laid out some stuff in front of her - amongst random objects, I think there was a pen, a flower, a gun, a knife...So anyway, she stood and at first, people just stared and watched her. Someone went up to her and gave her a hug. Gave her a handshake. Someone gave her the flower to hold. Someone kissed her on the lips. The public chuckled and laughed, watching this woman stand there like a living dummy. They used the pen and drew on her or something. It began to escalate: someone started taking off her clothes. She stood semi-naked until someone covered her up. Someone slapped her. Someone punched her. I think she started crying but they didn't stop. Someone grabbed the knife and cut the side of her neck. Someone took the gun and put it in her hand, pointed it to her own head. When the time was up and the woman started moving again, the people who hurt her ran away immediately, afraid of the repercussions. When I read that article, I knew: human beings are absolutely disgusting to the core."

She lifts up a knife next. A terrified Deerling trembles in the corner of the room whilst Banette grins.

"That being said, I guess I'm no exception. I'm sorry it had to come to this."

....

Detective Looker is hard at work.

He's got a few things going on - not only has he taken over Raihan's social media account for the time being (it took a lot of persuasion but Raihan finally agreed, vexingly... if he might say so himself) and now he has taken it upon himself to personally investigate the hotel, in particular, room 241. It's Raihan's designated room should he ever visit Circhester, Spikemuth or Wyndon, and Looker's interrogated the majority of staff and checked out all CCTV. No-one reported witnessing any unauthorised persons going in and out of the room and the CCTV does not accurately show the hallway, indicating several blindspots. They also tell him a keycard went missing which was not replaced or brought to management's attention. Looker is not surprised. Of course, there's a hiccup...whilst the hotel staff apologise profusely for their blunders, Looker dismisses them. It sounds like they'll improve their security from now on.

Looker heads to the room, opening the door. Everything is evidence and should be treated with utmost care...he unleashes his Growlithe to sniff out anything. He wouldn't be surprised if Raihan and the girl were snorting up berry dust or anything. Who knows what kids these day were up to...who knows.

Upon checking the room, he stands where the camera in the DVD was facing and finds two light switches in the wall that faces the bed directly. Attempting to remove them, he gets Magnemite to ease it off using it's Magnetic Pull ability and it manages to take the cover off, revealing a square slot where any sort of camera could be placed there, perfect for recording. He takes a few snaps of it using his Rotom phone and inspects the area where the dust doesn't settle. The camera was placed here for some time (a long time, perhaps) but it's long gone now.

Someone had set up a camera way before the one night stand and removed it during the night when both were sleeping. Pretty ballsy, if Looker admits; the perp had gone into the room when Raihan and the girl were in it. But from the testimony, the young couple were drunk as fish so it's not surprising they were out cold for the rest of the night and didn’t notice. The next question is - if no-one saw anyone go in or go out, how did the culprit escape? Looker turns to the window, finds that it's easily opened and proceeds to look outside. Anyone could just use pokemon to fly out here. Also, how did the culprit know where the girl worked to be able to deliver the DVD directly to her workplace?

She probably works for Macro Cosmos. It's the perfect setup - she's Raihan's biggest fan and being an employee of Macro Cosmos, she could have access to what hotel he stays in. Macro Cosmos also has their paws stuck in the Pokemon Nurseries; they pretty much run everything in Galar. They may as well be the government, Looker thinks to himself.

He grabs a pokeball and presses the button. "Go, Dustox." And the large moth pokemon abruptly appears and Looker issues his command: "Dust it."

Dustox flutters around, sprinkling some dust over the window pane where it reveals two handprints.

"Good job, boy." Looker says as Dustox lands atop his head and he pulls out some equipment to take prints. They look small - most likely a female's. Next, Rotom buzzes, indicating a new message. "Talk." Looker mutters, as Rotom flies out.

"Zzrt, I've got the report; I've also got the address of the fan who told Raihan to go to Spikemuth!"

"Thanks, Rotom. This is coming along nicely." He mutters to himself. Grabbing Rotom, he checks the rest of the statistics report; looks like the person has also commented on every single photo and video Raihan has uploaded since...ever. It's simple. Real simple. Just a case of blackmail and obsession after all.

...

Looker arrives in Spikemuth and looks up from his Rotom phone. He's standing in front of an apartment block that looks very rundown. Of course, everything in Spikemuth is grizzled and decrepit, but somehow this sad building really takes the cake. Rotom's provided address mentions the third floor so he quietly makes his way up and stops at the front door. This is it.

Letting go of Rotom, he makes a circle with his finger. "Scan it."

"You got it, champ." Rotom says, before he zooms into the air and a dim blue light glows. "There'zzz only one person inzzide. A man."

"Thanks, I'm going in." Looker knocks on the door and waits.

A few seconds later, the door opens and a middle-aged, bald man in a tracksuit opens it. "Whaddya want?" He slurs, clearly drunk.

Looker holds up his badge. "I'm with the police; I'm looking for - "

He doesn't even get to finish his sentence because the man yells over his shoulder, "What are you in trouble for this time?! Now the po-po's here!"

There is no response.

The man sighs, opens the door and grunts at Looker, "C'mon in."

With an eyebrow raised, Looker steps inside. The flat is in a disgusting state and there's a terrible odor. Feces, perhaps. Looker follows the man down the small hallway of the cramped apartment, stepping over heaps of trash and boxes and upturned furniture on the floor and they stop at a random door. The man proceeds to slam his huge fist over it and it rattles in the doorframe

"Hey, are you in there?!" He yells, before he tries again, but there is still no response.

Looker holds out his arm. "Stand back." With a hefty kick, the door opens violently and swings on the hinges.

Inside, it's a fairly normal room, save for the numerous posters of Raihan pasted to the walls and a bunch of magazines on the floor with Raihan's picture on it, along with the mangled carcass of a dead Deerling. The man gags and runs back towards the direction of the living room whilst Looker steps in.

"Rotom?"

"Yezzzir?"

"Let's get a team here."

"Okay-doo."

...

The Wild Area...

"I've got two wonderful arms, I've got two wonderful lips, I'm over twenty one and I'm free…Oh, I've got a hive full o' honey, for the right kind of honeybee…"

In the Rolling Fields, a young man sits in the middle of a patch of tall grass with a jar of honey in hand and a small plastic knife in his other which he's using to spread over his face.

A group of trainers pass him whilst chatting animatedly and giggling, all female - looks like they're heading to Motostoke - and they stop as soon as they spot him, eyes wide. Realising he's being watched, he grins and waves at them. "Ladies! You wanna see my Lickilicky? He's big and pink - "

"Ewww! Weirdo!" They scream loudly before quickly scampering away.

He looks upset. "What's wrong with Lickilicky?" Rummaging a hand through his pockets, he takes out a pokeball and presses the button, releasing a large pink pokemon and he continues spreading honey over his chin. "Wait," He pauses abruptly, frowning. "How does this work again? Was I meant to put honey on myself, or on a pokemon? What do you think, Licky?"

His pokemon turns to him and sticks it's massive pink tongue out in response.

"Eh, fair enough. Okay, here goes nothing. Let's give it a shot." Once he's finished giving himself a honey moustache, he moves to stand up and holds his arms out, dropping the knife to the ground - but then his phone rings and he fishes Rotom out from his pocket. "Yello."

"Um, it's me."

"What's up?"

“I...I think I have a date. Can you help me?”

“Hell yeah, I will!” He shouts down the phone before he hangs up, then - "Frick, why'd I do that? Damn, where we gonna meet?"

He immediately calls her back.

"Yeah?" She sounds exhausted.

"Where we gonna meet and when?"

"Can we meet right now? The date is tomorrow. Are you in Galar? Sorry for the short notice..."

"Nah, s'alright, I wasn't doing anything important anyway," He replies, "And yeah, I'm in the Wild Area. Meet you outside your workplace?"

"Sure."

After he hangs up a second time, there is a loud rustling noise emitting from the right. He gasps and whips his glance over over. "What was that?"

There's another loud rustle to the left which makes him leap frantically in the air.

"Huh? What? Who?"

Another rustle.

"Who goes there?"

Glancing left and right, he can't tell where the noise is coming from but then the grass parts and a dark shadow leaps out. His eyes widen.

…..

You're waiting outside the nursery as agreed, checking your phone for any messages when you see a figure sprinting towards you from the horizon. It's some dude dressed up as a Galarian Ponyta. Oh, wait. You know this dude.

"Help! Help me! Demon cat! Demon cats are chasing me!!" He yells, waving his arms around.

It's Glenn. Finally, he's here. Took him long enough. He's rushing towards the nursery with his Lickilicky waddling after him and there's something chasing him; you notice it's a couple of Purrloin that have all set their eyes on him.

Throwing a glance over his shoulder, he hisses, "Back, I say! All of you, stay back! Oh? You want a battle, do you? Fine!!" He grabs a pokeball from his belt and tosses it without looking and throws his arms in the air, "Go Kricketune! Delelele whooooop!"

You continue to watch as a large, reddish insect pokemon appears in a burst out of light and it stands its ground in front of the rampaging Purrloin - however, it's quickly pushed to the ground and trampled over.

"No!" Glenn yelps, before he spies you and proceeds to hurriedly make his way towards you, hiding behind your back, "Oh good, you're here. Do something!"

"Okay, I got this." You mutter; the Purrloin stop before you, peering up at you inquisitively whilst Glenn quivers in fear. You quickly fish out some spare berries from your bag which you keep handy for these sorts of situations and squat down to hand the fruit to them. They surround you at once and you distribute the food in an orderly fashion. "One for you...one for you.... aaaaaaaand...one for you." You mutter as they line up, single file. Once each pokemon has a berry, they purr and meow appreciatively at you before turning to leave quietly.

From behind your shoulder, you hear: "Are they gone? Are the demon cats gone?"

"Yeah."

"Phew!" Glenn pokes his head out and sighs. "Thanks for taking care of that, sis. These Purrloin walk on their hind legs! That's not normal!" He exclaims as he returns his Kricketune and Lickilicky into their pokeballs.

"It's a Galar thing." You reply, before you squint your eyes at him, "Are you high?"

"Me? High? No, of course not. I've been clean for years, sis. Years."

"Right, okay. Come on then, let's go. It's getting late."

"Sure, sure. I'm so happy you called me." He gushes, as you both begin your trek down the beaten path of the Wild Area that will lead you to Hammerlocke where you will get the train; Glenn quickly falls into the same pace as you, folding his arms behind his head - which he does all the time but suddenly it reminds you of Raihan.

Glenn is your foster brother and a self-proclaimed Pokemaniac, choosing to dress up as random pokemon depending on his mood. A week ago he was a Bidoof, a few days ago he was a Weedle. Today, he is a Galarian Ponyta, a pokemon he's been on the lookout for a long time since he read about them. He still stays in Johto somewhere in Mahogany Town, but he likes to visit you a lot on sporadic occasions and luckily for you when you called him - he was in the Wild Area. You've asked Glenn to help you choose an outfit for your date. He was responsible for picking out the black dress from Goldenrod department store - the one you wore to the club - so overall, he's good with fashion and naturally you called him first because you trust his opinions.

He was also a berry addict. Specifically, the lum. Yes, that one. Out of all the berries he could get addicted to, it had to be that one. He got addicted to lum berries at a young age and spent much of his youth going to shady places, throwing most of his cash to dealers just to snort some lum dust. He’s been clean for years, or he says, but sometimes you’re not sure. There's no telltale sign right now - no red, watery eyes and there's no distinct smell of the lum either. You guess you have to take his word for it.

"Wait, before I forget - " Glenn removes his Ponyta hood, leaving himself in his white sweater and slacks with the pink-blue edges, and he proceeds to take out two pokeballs, handing them to you, "I brought your pokemon."

You grin widely as you take the pokeballs off him. "Thanks!!" You'll let your pokemon out later, and stuff their capsules into the pocket of your bag.

"I guess the only pokemon you're missing from your team would be a Goodra, Dragonite, Kommo-o and a Hydreigon, right?"

"And a Dragapult." You remind him.

"Why do you want one so badly? Is it because they look like they're so done with life and shit?"

"Uh, no, but - hey, what happened to that Dreepy trader?"

"He said he wanted your Metagross in exchange."

You make a face. "NO."

And he snickers, crosses his arms over his chest. "Yep, I called the trade off.”

"Thanks. So, what pokemon were you looking for this time?"

"A Vespiqueen, but no luck." He says with a sigh.

"You should've dressed up as a Combee."

"I wanted to but I couldn't make the costume in time." He sighs again, "Anyway, this isn't about me. This is about you. How's it goin'? How's Galar? You got a date, right?"

You immediately throw your glance to the ground and kick a stone away from your path, cheeks going pink. "...Yeah."

"Who's the lucky dude?"

"Um...it's Raihan."

Glenn's eyes bulges for a split second but then his expression returns to normal. "Oh. Figures. He loves dragon Pokemon and you use some dragon pokemon, so you got something in common." He scratches his chin next, "Raihan, huh. He's a bit of a celebrity around here; didn't know you would like his type."

You blush furiously in response. "I don't know if I should go."

"Huh? But you called me for help, didn't you?"

"Well, yeah."

"Then you should go. Give it a shot. Ahhh, my little sis is going on a date with the hot-blooded dragon tamer. That's adorable." Glenn reaches over and pulls at your cheek affectionately.

You smile awkwardly in response. There's more to it, of course, but you're reluctant to tell Glenn the entire truth. Once you're at Hammerlocke, you take the train to Wyndon - even though you're heading there tomorrow - and upon arrival, you and Glenn head to the boutique. Raihan's asked you out on short notice and you're sure there's nothing in your current wardrobe, so the Wyndon boutique will have to do. Compared to the boutiques in the region, the Wyndon store offers some of the best selection of clothing. Stepping inside, you're greeted with hundreds of clothing racks and your eyes are assaulted with dozens of colourful garb, shoes and handbags.

As you grimace under your breath, Glenn rolls his sleeves up and grins widely. "Right, let's get you sorted!"

...

Wyndon, next day.

Needless to say, you didn't get a very good night's sleep and when you had heard a Corviknight crowing, indicating it was morning, you groaned and sat up in bed, glancing over to the folded clothes on the stool which you had bought yesterday with Glenn's help. It was rather exciting at first and shopping with Glenn is very much fun and games, but now...not so much. The initial excitement is gone now, replaced with an underlying sense of dread. You're afraid. Why are you doing this? What will you say to Raihan when you see him? What will you talk about during your time together? What if it gets awkward? What if he thinks you're boring as hell and that you have nothing in common? You smacked a hand to your forehead as you slipped out of bed, full of regret and feeling sick to the stomach; it's not like you agreed to go on the date either but he's expecting you to turn up now and you're too afraid to message him saying you don't want to go anymore.

Glenn said he could wait with you at the Wyndon pokemon centre for moral support which you didn't think was necessary; it doesn't make you feel any better.

Yet, you're waiting in the Pokemon Centre; Glenn stands at the rounded table, going through photos on his phone whilst you peep outside the double glazed window. Here you are, dressed and dolled up. It took you almost three hours to get ready. You look the same as you did at the nightclub but the makeup's a bit toned down, especially with your eyeliner. There's still ten minutes to go until the date officially starts but your indication of Raihan's arrival is a cacophony of manic female screaming and cheering. People are pointing to a specific direction so you follow where their fingers are pointing to and you see that Raihan has appeared, having just arrived at the large fountain in the town square; he smiles and waves at a few shrieking fans - he's donned in a casual black t-shirt and denims (and looking very much like the way he did at that talkshow) - before he abruptly steps towards the fountain and plops himself down on an empty, dry space, bringing out his Rotom phone. High above and the sky is turning grey, indicating that it will be raining soon.

Your eyes grow wide as your Rotom phone buzzes and he flies out; you have received a photo from Raihan - he just snapped a photo of himself at the fountain and has sent it to you. The caption below says:

Doofus: I'm here :)

You don't know how to reply, your feet suddenly anchored to the spot. "...He's actually here." You croak out. "He's here, Glenn."

Glenn doesn't look up from his phone. “You thought he wasn't serious? That he was playing a cruel joke on you? This isn't prom night or high school or whatever.”

“Y-yeah...”

"Well, now that he’s here and obviously very serious, what are you waiting for? Go to him."

You shake your head furiously, taking a few steps back from the window. "Um...not yet."

"Huh?" He looks up, confused. "You're gonna make him wait?"

"...It's not that. I...I don't think I can do this."

"What do you mean?"

"This is a bad idea."

"No, it's not."

"Yes, it is."

"You can't keep letting whatever you're scared of stop you from doing things, sis." Glenn says, but you don't leave the safety of the pokemon centre.

As the minutes tick by, you see Raihan occasionally checking his phone, talking to some fans who would go up to him for selfies and autographs. Once that's done, he would look up and around and check his phone again for updates from your end (but obviously there's none because you didn't reply to his message). You hear a loud booming clap of thunder overhead and it occurs to you that the weather's getting worse and soon, the window becomes streaked with droplets.

"Look, it’s raining now." Glenn adds, "And it's pretty bad. Go and get him. Go get your man."

You stare at Raihan, who is still rooted in his seat on the fountain. He hasn't moved at all. Glancing at your phone, you realise you've left Raihan waiting for almost ten minutes. And as Glenn pointed out, it's beginning to rain heavily.

"Shit. You're right. Goddamnit, he's gonna get sick." You utter under your breath, "Glenn, I'm going."

"Whoohoo! Good luck! And most importantly, have fun!”

You pull your umbrella from your bag and open it as you rush out of the pokemon centre, running over to the fountain. Raihan doesn't notice you coming and since he hasn't moved from his spot at all, he's very drenched; once you arrive, you hold the umbrella over his head and he promptly looks up.

"Sorry, I'm late!" You exclaim, "Well, no, I wasn't late, I was - uh, never mind, I-I have kept you waiting and for that I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry."

He stares at you from head to toe; you're wearing a long-sleeved shirt dress with a belt and black shorts underneath, along with matching black chelsea boots. After he's had a good look at you, he immediately stands up and envelopes you into a tight hug. The umbrella jiggles in your hand and almost threatens to fall but you manage to hold onto it. Despite being completely wet, his body is warm.

"It's okay, I didn't wait for long." He says, as he nuzzles you affectionately. He sounds happy.

What a doofus, he clearly did wait for a long time.

"You came." He adds.

"O-of course I'd come." You utter, and you exhale quietly under your breath as he bundles you up in his arms and gives you a tight squeeze. "...Sorry." You mumble again, throwing your gaze to the side as your chin rests on his broad shoulder. You can't help but apologise again and again.

His arms lower from your waist, large hands resting on the sides of your legs and the contact makes you blush heavily, your fingers clinching the damp fabric of his t-shirt. “Your outfit is too short.” He murmurs as he strokes the sides of your bare thighs before he slips his fingers underneath the material of your shorts - he’s almost at your ass - and he succeeds in sending a few shivers down your spine.

”You don’t like it?”

“No,” He mutters, “But it’s dangerous to wear something like that in front of me.”

Honestly, it’s quite a tacky thing to say but somehow he can get away with it because your face ends up a thousand shades of red before you defiantly turn your head to the side. “S-shut up.” You mumble as he leans over to press his lips over your cheek and you close your eye as he begins to trail little kisses over the side of your face. What were you expecting? Heck, you are deliberately wearing a sexy outfit for this date.

He moves towards your mouth and presses a deep kiss on your lips which kind of takes you off guard but before you can react, he pulls away and says, "What do you want to do first?"

"You're soaked." You squeak out, "I'm sorry."

He plants his hand atop your head, ruffling your head as he grins at you in response.

"Okay, I'm here and you're here. Your obsessed fan could also be here and watching us this very moment. What the hell are we doing, being in the wide open like this? This is bad. We should not be doing this." Glancing around, you see some of the Wyndon locals running for shelter from the rain, disappearing into their homes or nearby restaurants which now look pretty full. You're not too sure if it's a good idea if you should go with Raihan to such a busy place. You ponder to yourself briefly and it hits you. "Never mind; I have an idea."

....

Glimwood Tangle.

"Ahhhh. This is so much better." You sigh, wiping your brow with relief, "It's nice, dark and quiet here. No-one will see us."

The Glimwood Tangle is the perfect place - maybe not so much for a date, but if Raihan insists in spending some time with you, this is a good option. It's not raining here either, thank goodness. Of course, you're just a few paths away from Ballonlea as well, so you guess you could invite Raihan for tea or something nearer the end (and not for sex, nooo... and you hope he would respect that too). You took the Corviknight taxi - which was a bad idea because it was really cramped inside and you were both basically rubbing shoulders - which he didn't object to or anything, in fact he pretty much wanted you to sit in his lap but luckily for you and unlucky for him, there was just enough space.

You found the entire taxi ride darn near claustrophobic and he had his hand planted over your bare leg the entire time so you're relieved to have finally arrived at the woods - even when you exited the taxi, he let you go out first and the damn cramped cubicle meant when you both stood up and turned, your ass basically grinded invitingly against his hips. If it couldn't have been anymore damn obvious, there's tension between you and Raihan and you're not sure what will emerge from this.

In the woods, you look around whilst Raihan tries to get a signal on his phone. There's not many people around at all and as you mentioned, it's dark and quiet. You prefer this more than any other town or city. You take one step forwards and -

SQUELCH.

Throwing your glance down, you see your foot is stuck in thick mud, fast. "Motherfu - “

Raihan’s watching you.

”-Fuh...Furret. These are brand new."

He chuckles as you try to pull and tug your leg free but to no avail. Raihan steps over, invulnerable to the mud (but of course he is) and reaches for you, scooping you up with one hand under the back of your knees and the other around your shoulder and with unimaginable strength, he hoists you out - but now you're stuck in his hold, being carried bridal style which embarrasses you greatly.

"What are you doing?"

"Saving my princess." He replies cheerfully as he carries you through the woods. You blush the entire way; when you're away from the muddy terrain and back onto the path, you both find a large glowing mushroom and decide to sit down and Raihan looks around inquisitively. You get the feeling that he doesn't come here often, and you wonder if he has even come here before at all. He doesn't look used to his surroundings.

"Are you okay?" You ask, as Raihan looks up at the non-existent sky. "Is it too quiet here? Too dark? Some people find the Glimwood Tangle unnerving."

"It’s not so bad here.”

"Yeah, but people are rumoured to disappear or get lost for days. Weeks, even. So, not many people like passing here and as you can see, it's really dark. Like it's almost noon but it looks like it's night-time right now. It can really mess with your biological clock," You muse out loud, "N-not that I chose to stay near here because of those reasons, of course. “

You go silent; it occurs to you that he was observing you as you babbled and now you’re scared to death that you’d put him off with your ramblings. Did it make any sense? Or was it all garbage? Why did you say those things in the first place anyway? You couldn’t help it - it was like verbal diarrhoea. Have you made things awkward now?

As you worry, he asks, “Do you live in Ballonlea or Stow-on-Side?"

"Ballonlea. You can see my cottage over there." You point to the left where between some giant, neon mushrooms, you can see the roof of your cottage in-between the stems.

"Nice." He comments with a grin, before he takes off his orange sweatband which is damp with rain and as he wrings it dry, you get a rare view of Raihan without his headband, revealing the sides of his shaved head and his dreadlocks. You can feel your cheeks heating up as you look at his rugged side profile and angled jaw, the amount of manly appeal he oozes is enough to reduce you to a blushing mess. He's still fairly damp, his black t-shirt clinging to his muscles and you can see the lean outline of his biceps. Looks like he works out a lot...hot damn, you should've paid more attention to the training videos he posts up online. There's a reason they're insanely popular with fans.

You try to focus on the topic at hand here, clearing your throat, "My pokemon like it a lot here, except Espie. She prefers Johto."

"What other pokemon do you have?"

"I have a Drifloon; he's been with me for a long time. And I have a Poliwag. He refuses to evolve though, so we tied an Everstone around his tail. He lives in my bathroom."

Raihan chuckles again. Surprisingly....the conversation's been pretty fluid and he's extremely easy-going. “I got something for you.”

”Huh?”

Delving into his pocket, he takes out a pokeball with a ribbon tied neatly around the middle. Fancy. “This is for you.”

You don’t move. Your gut feels like it’s twisted into a tight knot.

”Go on, it’s yours.”

You nervously accept the pokeball from him and he gestures for you to open it, releasing whatever is inside. You press the button and a red light flashes briefly before the Pokemon appears. Your eyes widen at once. It’s a round purplish-pink blob that blinks it’s little eyes at you before opening its mouth wide. It makes a gurgling noise and your jaw drops.

”A Goomy!!?!” You exclaim, and you can’t help the smile that blossoms on your face; Raihan watches, grinning at your reaction. “But...why? You didn’t have to.”

“He needs a home and I know you’ll take good care of him.”

As the Goomy looks between you and Raihan, you hold your arms out. It slowly slithers over to you and you lift it up and into your arms. Uh, okay.... now your clothes are feeling a little damp. There’s a slime trail over your front and as Goomy gurgles happily, you smile cheerfully at it and rub at one of it’s little horns.

”Oh, so cute...” You can’t wait to raise him into a Goodra that will destroy anything and everything. Oh yeah. Turning to Raihan, you grin, “Thanks. I’ll look after him.”

He grins at you in response as you return your new Goomy into the pokeball. Shit, you didn’t get anything for Raihan. But his gift was totally unexpected! You weren’t expecting any presents!!! What are you going to do?

“What's it like being a Pokemon Breeder?" He asks, snapping you out of your thoughts.

"O-oh, well, I like it very much, I get to see lots of pokemon everyday. I look after a lot of pokemon everyday." You babble again, "I look after the babies, I look after the eggs, and I deliver eggs. For EV training, I only accept up to five pokemon; I take them to places with specific pokemon to battle for stat gain."

He rubs his chin in thought, "Where did you learn how to EV train?"

It's then you throw your glance to the ground and bring your knees to your chest. "....When I was a kid, I brought Beldum to Show and Tell. My classmates laughed at him and said mean things so I wanted to train him up to become stronger. I took him to the mountains and we battled a lot of Trapinch. Along the way, I noticed his attack stats kept increasing as I levelled him up." You mumble, "I never forgot that moment, not once."

"I know." He says nonchalantly, "You told me."

You whip your head to him in confusion as he smiles coolly at you. "When did I ever tell you that?"

"Didn't you watch the rest of the video?"

Your cheeks go red. "Uh........No." You utter, after a pregnant pause, "...No, I...I didn’t."

His expression gradually dissolves into one of disappointment and his face crumbles slightly. Oh shit, now that you think about it... you didn't finish watching it. You scratch your elbow, pondering.

"What's it like being a gym leader?" You ask timidly, and also wanting to change the subject, "And why did you decide to become one?"

"Hah, good question." He replies, "I like battling and training pokemon. Being a gym leader means I constantly get challenged by people from all across the region; there's always something new to look forward to everyday and my pokemon can get stronger. One day, when we're strong enough, we'll beat Leon."

You admire his positivity, you really do. And his energy. You give him a small smile as he grins at you again and a comfortable silence settles between the two of you; inwardly, you’re quite happy that the date seems to be going in a good direction. You muse silently whilst Raihan takes out his phone and attempts to take a selfie of himself with a green mushroom behind him. It's too dark for him to show up properly, however. You're about to say something when you hear a rustle in the grass below you and you turn your head to the source of the noise.

“Did you hear that??" You whisper, leaning over to see who or what is making the ruckus; when a pokemon emerges, your eyes widen and you unconsciously grab his arm. "Raihan, look, it's a Ponyta!"

"Hm?" He peers over the edge of the mushroom beside you.

As you point excitedly to the grass below, the small horse pokemon trots out from the undergrowth and glances around cautiously before it begins to feast on the grass. "Damn, all my pokemon are too strong. They'll just kill it - I mean, make it, er, faint - in one move."

"I'll catch it for you." Raihan says; he stuffs his headband into his pocket, hops off his seat and drops to the ground carefully and quietly before reaching for you with arms outstretched.

You swallow down slightly and gingerly slide off the mushroom, holding onto his shoulders for support; he slips his arms around your waist securely and effortlessly hoists you down and when your feet touch the ground, he's still holding you tightly and your noses are almost touching. You mutter your thanks as he lets go of you slowly before reaching for an ultra ball that's nestled behind his back. Approaching the Ponyta, he tosses the ultra ball and a large pokemon emerges - it's his Sandaconda. The Ponyta, startled, decides to face it head on. You look at it's multicoloured mane that is a beautiful shade of mixed pastel blue and pink. So adorable!!!

"Go, Sandaconda! Use headbutt!" He instructs, and the sand snake pokemon proceeds to ram itself at the pokemon. It didn't get a chance to retaliate at all! The Ponyta drops to the ground, not exactly knocked out but reeling from the impact. Weakened, Raihan grins and then grabs a spare pokeball from his pocket and throws it at the downed pokemon. You're surprised he's helping you catch it, and when the ball clicks shut successfully after wiggling around for three times, you watch numbly as Raihan collects it, returning his pokemon at the same time. With the pokeball in hands, he heads back to your direction and hands you the capsule. "There you go. She's all yours."

He’s surprising you a lot today. And he’s gotten you another Pokemon.

"Thanks, Raihan."

“Whatever Pokemon you want, I’ll get it for you.”

”You don’t have to.”

”I want to.”

Your cheeks flame up immediately.

”What’s next on your list?”

You think about Dragapult and an image of the ghost slash dragon type appears in your mind. Oh, Glenn is right. Dragapult really does look like he is done with life and shit. Now you really want one. “Dreepy....” You mutter, in a slight zombie trance.

”Okay, I’ll get you one.”

”Wha - ?! Raihan, I didn’t mean it, I was just - seriously, don’t. It’s okay.”

As you splutter, clearly flustered by his generosity, he chuckles. You give him a timid smile, throwing your glance to the pokeball in your hands, then back up at him. He hasn't looked away from you at all. It grows silent for a while between the two of you where you're both staring at each other - to your surprise, you’re able to maintain the eye contact without wanting to look or turn away.

Maybe it’s because you’re anticipating him to kiss you and as predicted, Raihan slowly begins to lean in. You freeze on the spot then, watching as his face comes closer and closer and your heart beats harder. It’s that giddy Butterfrees-in-the-stomach feeling again but this time, it’s strangely pleasant. His gaze lands on your lips and when he finally nears you; he pauses and flicks his glance up at you as though he’s waiting for something. Your permission, perhaps? When you don’t move, he closes the gap and gently pecks you on the lips, reaching for your hand and squeezing it. You force yourself not to move and discover you’re able to stand still. The corner of your lip tugs upwards against his mouth which causes him to grin in response as he smooches you again quickly.

When you both pull away, you mutter, "...Shall we head to Ballonlea?"

"Sure."

You place the pokeball with the newly captured Ponyta into your bag beside Goomy’s and once that's done, Raihan begins to guide you out of the woods. Hand in hand, you both walk towards the direction of Ballonlea where he would occasionally nudge you playfully using his shoulder and you would nudge him back. The only source of light comes from the glowing mushrooms but it's really relaxing to be here. You see some other pokemon in your path, including some Shiinotic and Morelull who all hide away from you, disappearing into the darkness. Up ahead and you see some gym challenger being pranked on by Impidimps. Soon, the town comes into view and you lead the way to your house where you see a cardboard box on your doorstep.

Huh, that wasn't there before...and it couldn't be mail, either.

Stopping directly in front of it, you and Raihan stare at the box and then look at each other. It says 'Open Me' and there's an awful stench emitting from inside. That wipes the smile clean off your face; Raihan steers you behind him and you quickly grab his arm. "Wait! No, don't open it. Call Looker."

He eyes the box cautiously, "...Yeah. You're right." Just as Raihan pulls out his phone, his screen flashes, indicating a call from the detective you had just mentioned. "You called at a great time."

"What happened?" You can hear Looker's gravelly voice from the receiver.

"I'm with her. There's a weird box outside her doorstep."

"Okay, I'm heading over. Don't open it."

"What do you think is inside?"

"...A dead pokemon, or parts of one, probably."

There's a brief silence before Raihan hangs up.

"A dead pokemon?!" You exclaim in shock; Raihan returns his phone and turns to you, then encircles his arms around your waist wordlessly and holds you tight against him; he's strong, you can't wriggle free from his embrace. "Raihan, we shouldn't have - this person knows where I live! And now this... this is awful!”

Raihan doesn't say anything except press his lips against your forehead in an effort to calm you down whilst rubbing your arm soothingly.

The wait for Looker is excruciatingly long.

#raihan x reader #Raihan x you #raihan #pokemon #pokemonshield #pokemonsword #pokemonswordandshield #jeralee #fanfic #fic #archiveofmyown #wallflower #kibana

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lunaschild2016 · 4 years ago

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Chapters: 2/? Fandom: Divergent - All Media Types Rating: Mature Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings Relationships: Eric (Divergent)/Original Female Character(s), Four | Tobias Eaton/Tris Prior, Zeke Pedrad/Shauna, Marlene/Uriah Pedrad, Lynn (Divergent)/Original Female Character(s), Original Male Character/Original Female Character Characters: Eric (Divergent), Original Female Character(s), Original Male Character(s), Tris Prior, Four | Tobias Eaton, Zeke Pedrad, Shauna (Divergent), Lauren (Divergent), Max (Divergent), Jeanine Matthews, Peter Hayes (Divergent), Tori Wu, George Wu, Amar (Divergent), Harrison (Divergent), Johanna Reyes, Andrew Prior, Caleb Prior, Natalie Prior, Hana Pedrad Summary:

*Formerly Catching Silver

Sylvan 'Silver' Bryant has a Dauntless heart, an Erudite mind, Amity kindness, and an Abnegation's ability to be selfless even if she has to sacrifice something of herself. She always knew it was Dauntless where she belonged but living up to her family's legacy there was another matter. Will she be able to overcome a hidden past and step out of their shadows when she finally joins her four older brothers in the faction of the brave? Will her feelings for her brother's best friend, Eric, get in her way or will he help her to finally heal the scars of her past? Eric Coulter had no regrets about leaving Erudite and his so-called family behind him. With fierce determination, he achieved his goal of becoming a leader of the faction and started his own legacy with the Bryant brothers as his allies and friends. Will the bonds of brotherhood be broken when the secret of his feelings for their precious sister is revealed or will it give him the family he never dared hoped for?

Chapter 2

Eric

My footsteps echo loudly against the rough stone walls as I make my way deeper into the bowels of the Dauntless compound. The air is chilly enough that I'm glad I didn't bother removing my heavier winter jacket and gloves after my return from a meeting in Erudite. In the hotter months of the year, this same cold air is a relief whenever I have had to make my way down here, but it's winter right now and it just makes the cold seep right down to my bones.

I don't know how people stood this cold back when Dauntless was first founded and resided in most of these subterranean places and I'm thankful we don't have to anymore.

I've been in Dauntless for a little over a year now but I'm still now quite as used to the compound as I should be by now. Every time I have to return to Erudite for a meeting it always feels like the culture shock I got when I first stepped foot in my new faction.

Before coming here I never gave actually living here much thought. I didn't contemplate mundane things like if the buildings Dauntless occupy have heating for winter or air conditioning for summer. I just took for granted that they would because Erudite did. There are a million other little things just like that which make big differences in day-to-day life in this faction. So much so that I'm still discovering things I didn't know even now.

Not that it's a bad thing, mind you. I fucking love being in Dauntless despite the huge differences between my old faction and new. I would be hard-pressed to describe what's so great about it but I guess it boils down to the fact that it's real here. There's no need for the fake smiles and the overly polished appearances among the members of this faction. Generally what you see is what you get and we prefer it that way, something that would never happen in Erudite.

There it's always about plots within plots hid behind different veneers of polite smiles and silver tongues. The hours I have to spend there are torture but are necessary for now. I'm still having to play by their rules in order to get what we need for Dauntless.

Although I hope that after today I won't have to do that for much longer.

I walk down a final hallway and see the door to the room I'm headed in front of me. The location of this room isn't where one would expect it to be. It's not located in the same section of the compound that the administrative part of the faction operates out of. It's not even in the section of the compound that houses all of the tech Dauntless uses as their command central.

This office is located in the bowels of Dauntless in a section of the compound that is hardly traveled anymore. Not since the faction spread out and claimed more buildings in the sector we are located for things like housing and shops.

I stand rigidly in front of a door, hesitating for a few seconds before I square my jaw, raise my hand and deliver three rapid raps.

I've barely lowered my arm when the command to enter is barked out. I take a deep breath and open the door to one of the smaller conference rooms that the leaders of Dauntless use for matters that need more security. It might seem paranoid to have this but when it comes to averting potential government coups and the possibility of mass genocide during the said coup, every pre-caution can and will be taken in this faction.

I nod in greeting to those who are already present as I shut the door behind me. A wave of warmth washes over me, drawing out a sigh of pleasure as I move towards my seat and begin to divest rid myself of my gloves and jacket.

The five people already seated give me the time to get settled in my chair but Max speaks up as I start to pull things from my messenger bag.

"I take it you were able to get evidence regarding their plans?"

"I believe you should take a look at what I have and make the determination for yourselves," I reply with a grimace as I start handing stuff over for the five senior leaders present to look over.

Max, Harrison, Clarence, Victoria, and Nate each take a set of documents to go over, switching out as they finish them off. Their expressions darkening with each new thing that's revealed. I watch Nate intently, knowing how close to home a few of the things I've uncovered are. I can tell the second he gets to one specific bit because his head snaps up and his eyes bore into mine. My jaw is tight as I try to contain my own rage and I only give a short terse nod.

After several more minutes of tense quiet Max tosses the last paper down with a sigh. "I would say you got evidence of something just not what I was expecting. Before we even get into this new stuff, give us a status report on their progress so far in building their own army and if it can be traced back to any of the higher-ups in Erudite leadership."

The report starts out like all these official reports have so far with a recap of the events chronicling the escalation of events. I've gotten so used to doing this I don't have the nervous jitters I had at the start. Even during those first two unofficial meetings when I was still in initiation. I waited all of two weeks before I requested to talk to all the Bryant brothers about the stunt my parents pulled and what they suggested. Two days after that I had another unofficial meeting, this time with just Nate and Max.

That was about the time that Erudite put a motion forward during a meeting, requesting to have Dauntless provide three units to be transferred and stationed to their sector on a permanent basis. Meaning they would live and work there and be technically under Erudite command. That was shot down almost immediately for two reasons. The first reason was that we, Dauntless, honestly do not have the manpower to spare. We're already strained to our limits covering the areas we do as well as keeping guards on permanent stations along our cities borders. The second reason was that Marcus Eaton has a well-known dislike of Erudite and tends to try and get anything they request dismissed and in this case, it was easily voted down.

I knew my parents weren't happy I picked Dauntless and I probably made them look bad to their friends, so I thought this might be an attempt at getting me back there. It turned out I was mostly wrong. They knew the proposal had a larger possibility of being denied than it did being accepted, but on the off chance it wasn't, they would pull strings to make sure I was the one sent to Erudite.

Their real goal, however, was the counter-proposal of being allowed to create their own security with one or two Dauntless to help properly train the chosen Erudite. Their reasoning for this was the increased amount of thefts from their sector by factionless. Since they had sufficient evidence to prove the need for this and proposed a reasonable compromise to the initial request, it was approved.

Only the three of us knew that there was another reason for forming the group and Max granted my request to use my parent's connection to investigate our theories, which has been slow going.

After passing initiation and ranking second place I was offered one of the spots for the leadership track which has required training of it's own to be completed before anything else. I busted my ass and pulled double shifts to get done what I needed to get done in order for me to start working on earning a spot as a junior leader, and hopefully, that will lead to me getting a position as a senior leader when one becomes available.

My becoming a leader is a large part of what's been holding up my progress in taking Erudite down. I've had to gain trust and prove that I can be a worthwhile ally for them and my lack of a senior leader position has halted that somewhat until recently.

That brings me to now and my current report.

"I believe that I've made progress in gaining their trust after the most recent proposal was accepted by the council that can help further their plans in creating their 'security team'. I informed them of the requirements for me to gain a senior leadership position is to have one or several successful projects that help the faction in some fashion. I advised them I had an idea for one that would help me gain that position while also helping to achieve the primary Erudite goal." I state before I pass out the relevant documentation regarding this newest change in the city.

"They were running into issues being able to find enough suitable candidates for their security forces that are already members and were turning to those who are due to choose within the next year or so and not finding their options much better, at least not by Dauntless standards." "My suggestion was that we could go ahead and start training with the members who are suitable enough to meet our immediate needs then expand the search through all factions. I was able to give them a timeline and plan that will have to be taken in stages and with the first of those plans being easily put into action I was able to gain even more of their trust."

"So they truly believe that mandating physical education courses run by Dauntless will give them the candidates they want?" Harrison asks me, alternating between looking over the paper and at me.

"I've managed to convince them it will increase the physical suitability at the very least and there is data to support that theory. Erudite already hosts several clubs through the school that are sports-oriented but attendance is smaller than it could be and is mostly just the Erudite who know about it and are interested in those types of things. There have been the stray Dauntless and Candor who have been accepted but those are rare. It was easy for me to point out that the majority of dependents who take part in those types of activities generally have transferred to Dauntless when their time came, by offering them another option they could prevent that."

In this room, it didn't need to be said that none of us had any intention of ever letting that happen. It also didn't need to be said outside of this room that the only people we planned on benefiting in that respect was ourselves, Dauntless. Everything I stated is true. The people that take those kinds of opportunities usually end up coming here. By making physical education a mandate we just might increase the number of transfers even more. I just used that truth and allowed the group in Erudite to think my real motivation is to give them, and me by default, their army.

"I see that you've added our choices for instructors that we discussed prior to presenting this to them but I also see some other things added that weren't there before. What are these possible additions to the curriculum mentioned in their debriefing?"

"Actually, I believe I can answer that since I was the one that suggested Eric might want to include them. We all know that we are using this as a method to put a stop to Erudite's plans but there's no reason we can't use it to our advantage as well and get things put into place that will help us in the long run. Physical education being required is a great first step but that won't necessarily motivate kids to go Dauntless without further incentives. I thought back to how my parents kept six children motivated to keep in shape and compared that to things we already do here and came up with a few suggestions."

"Do you have a list of these?" Max asked with definite interest and an almost knowing look in his eyes.

"We wanted to go over them before I presented Erudite with them to throw their weight behind the curriculum proposal."

"Good idea," Clarence grunted then waved his hand in a dismissive gesture. "One we can address later. For now, what progress have you made in finding out how high up the chain this thing goes."

"The highest I can get proof of links a brother-in-law for the Department of R&R being involved. None of the advisors closest to the leaders or the leaders themselves can be proven to be involved in this other than maybe having made a comment or another that might seem supportive. Despite that, I know that Jeanine Matthews is at least an instigator but proving that would be next to impossible."

I hear grunts of disgust and nod my head while Nate mutters darkly before sighing and shrugging. "As I said at the beginning of this, we shouldn't get our hopes up about tagging her. She's always in the middle of things but can never be pinned down with anything other than voicing her opinions, which isn't illegal. But that's how she gets things done, she'll drop a comment here or suggestion there and people fall over themselves to do whatever it takes to get in her good graces and make her happy."

I only nod in agreement, because this is exactly what's going on with my parents right now. They are doing everything they can to get into her inner circle. This brings me to the next bit of information I've been able to obtain.

"That's exactly what I need to report about next. During the last meeting with my parents, they made a few comments that concerned me about building data regarding the divergent threat. Apparently, Jeanine has been overheard voicing concern and not being able to make a case regarding that without something to present to the council to prove the theory correct. That's not the first time I've heard the complaint but I believed nothing would be done about it until after they had at least gotten a security team together but I was wrong."

I point to the other files I handed them earlier. "Those are the documents I was able to secure after accessing my parent's personal files. They are already running tests of Erudite subjects under different guises but they seem to be targeting the school-age children the most. Since it isn't unusual for kids to be given multiple tests each school year, replacing one of the existing ones with another one will most likely go unnoticed. They have a target list of those they are most interested in subjecting to these tests. In addition, I believe my parents are doing their own off the books tests and experiments. I didn't have the resources to crack the file, but I found one that I'm pretty sure would be the data from those."

"Alright," Max says after a pregnant pause while everyone digested this information. "We need to make some plans about how to handle this new development. We've been careful to in limiting knowledge of the operation inside and outside of the faction but this will require broadening it. We need to make sure to do this by the book and document everything as well as bringing in others we trust outside of the factions. Nate, can we count on Gideon and Selene to help on the front with Erudite?"

"Of course," He replies firmly.

"Clarence, what about Amity?"

"Johanna would be the best one to go to but it might require more to convince her to take a hard stance. If we could find out more regarding those experiments and what it involves...that might get her on board."

Max nodded gravely and looked over at Victoria next. "What about Candor?"

"Jack would be the best one to approach but he will also be the hardest to convince. He would say that an investigation of that magnitude and with the potential ramifications needs hard proof and not just circumstantial or hearsay. What we've already been able to gather so far will go a long way to getting him to at least hear us out fairly."

"Harrison?" Max calls the oldest member of the five leaders and doesn't even need to voice the question before the older man harumphs then sighs.

"Abnegation is going to be a nightmare to deal with, Max. Letting Marcus Eaton anywhere near this would be a monumental mistake and might just be the advent that brings on the civil unrest we are worried about. If he gets anywhere near this he will turn it into an all-out war against Erudite, one that we can't afford nor do we need. The problem is there is no way to do what will need to be done without bringing Abnegation into things and that will mean he will too."

His admission was something that's been on my mind and I had been kicking around an idea but I'm not sure how well it will go over with one of the people involved.

"Unless a way can be found to muzzle him before then." The words slip out before I really allow myself to think about them. All heads turn to me and Max looks at me quizzically then motions me to continue. "There was a certain rumor about Marcus Eaton that I know everyone here knows is actually true. If he could be convinced to come forward and substantiate those rumors it could work in our favor. We could just use that to make Marcus go along with things but I would suggest getting him removed from his position for abuse of power. There's no way he didn't use his position to hide his abuse of his son not to mention the questionable death of his wife. His removal might allow someone else a bit more reasonable to step in although I don't know who it would be."

"Andrew Prior," Nate responds while rubbing his chin thoughtfully. "He's not exactly pleasant, has a real holier than thou thing going on but he also is very honest and intelligent. There have been things he's stepped forward to get passed through that Marcus was very vocally opposed to, like the care centers."

"I don't care for him myself either, but when it matters he usually can be counted on to stand up for what's right and better for the city instead of cowering to Marcus." Max agrees. "That being said I won't force the boy to bring charges against his father but I can agree that someone should address the issue with him. Maybe tell him how it will help not only Dauntless but the city as well."

I see a few of them glance at me as Nate smirks at me and I shake my head vehemently. "It would be a very bad idea for me to try and talk to him about this. Four and I have put our differences aside but there's still some bitterness from our initiation. The fact that I used his situation with his father against him in our fight will still be fresh in his mind. If anyone would be able to get through to him it would be Amar. That's who he really looks up to and is closest to here."

"Alright, I'll make a note to talk to Amar about that when I talk to him about heading up the group who are going to be teachers of the physical education department of the school. Nate and Eric, I want you to get with him as well to go over the curriculum we want to see introduced there. Clarence, we need to come up with something that can get Eric access to those files. That needs to be a priority in order for us to know what we're up against and to get the other factions on board."

"Copy," Nate confirms while I nod and Clarence grunts in agreement.

"I think about covers things for now unless anyone can think of anything else?" Max asks while looking around the table. Seeing no one has anything to add he dismisses the meeting.

Nate gets up and walks around to me and pauses long enough to quietly pass a final message. "Dinner in my apartment, I'll pass the word to the others."

"I'll be there," I assure him, knowing without having to ask what the subject will be at the dinner tonight. I knew how he would react when he saw the list of people that Erudite, specifically my parents, compiled of people they want to conduct tests and experiments on, especially the top two names on it. When I saw I had been hard-pressed not to give myself away.

My only consolation in restraining myself was the knowledge that I would make every last bastard pay for even thinking about laying a finger on either of the youngest Bryant children. Seeing those names...seeing her name...and imagining any harm being done did something to me. It wounded me deeply. It also drove away any of the small vestiges of feeling for the people who brought me into this world. As far as I am concerned Steven and Patricia Coulter are just two people who happen to have the same last name as I do.

That fact won't stop me from making sure they face justice for any crimes they commit...but if they harm Sylvan and Elijah...I'll make sure I'm the one delivering that justice to them personally.

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qvid-pro-qvo · 4 years ago

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a nightmare or two can’t keep me from you (part one)

aos!leonard mccoy x female!reader, who’s a nurse on the starship enterprise.

word count: 5043

rating: mature, for nightmares and hurt/comfort

part three of more than a game, you and me.

Leonard’s recovered from his injury, but unfortunately your brain and your past refuses to the let the both of you rest.

“You’ll never be good enough for him,” Christine laughed, and your throat closed up with the tears that were starting to form.

“You don’t mean that,” you managed, but her smile was cruel, and your mouth fell open in horror as she just started laughing. “He cares about me, Chris.”

“Oh, honey. It’s just the truth. You’re… not… good enough.” With a flick of her hair she turned towards the biobed you both stood over, and another voice, too familiar echoed behind you.

When you whirled to face it, the room had changed. No longer were you on a starship, but a Federation hospital. Starfleet Academy, seen from the window, the room empty except for the doctor by the door.

“You’ll never be good enough. Not with that bleeding heart of yours,” he laughed, and anger rushed through you, your strides bringing you nose-to-nose with him.

“I work here, Eric, just like you,” you snapped back. A finger raised to point at him, press into his chest. “I can expose you. To your patients, to your peers. To the whole medical community. They’ll see you for what you truly are.”

The shrug you got back was anything but scared, and when your finger dropped it was with the realization that he was still smiling.

“Don’t worry. You won’t for long. As long as you keep up the act, you’ll never be good enough to work here. And you definitely won’t be good enough to save him.”

The scowl dropped off of your face. Something cold settled in your gut. “Who?”

But the only response was laughter, his head tossed back in unbridled glee, and as you stumbled back it was into Christine’s body, her own laugh pinning you between them. It was so loud it was all you could hear, all you could think about, the room shaking with it, the ground cracking under your feet.

“Who – who do you mean?” You had to yell, but the sound was overwhelming.

And then it hit you. Who Eric meant, and your face went pale.

“No…”

“Yes.” And with a shove, you stumbled back, falling, the ground opening up beneath you, swallowing you whole, their laughter cruel and following you all the way down, down, down…

Your eyes flew open. The scene around you vanished, replaced with the calm of your quarters. Your limbs were locked, your hands clutching at your hair, and as your heartbeat pounded against your chest you could barely breathe. It took ten minutes for your breathing to settle, for you to ground yourself with what you could – the feel of your sheets instead of sand, the sight of the time blinking at you from your alarm clock, the dryness of your mouth.

“Computer,” you called out, “raise the lights.”

Slowly the black lifted, and your eyes adjusted quickly, your hands reaching to pull your hair up into a knot before you thought about it too much. If you did, well. You might vomit, and that wouldn’t be fun to clean up.

“Computer. Time?”

“The time is 0315.”

Three hours before you were supposed to wake for your shift.

And yet again, another nightmare. Third one that week, and your jaw clenched with the realization.

They were getting worse.

It had started pretty soon after Leonard had gotten injured. Those couple of weeks in between, when he was floating in and out of consciousness, the dreams were nothing more than haze, and you woke up from them with a start, a need to catch your breath. That was it. They didn’t seem to follow you, and often you could fall asleep right after. But these dreams? They were not those dreams.

After you and Leonard had made up, the two of you had cemented your relationship, but all the dreams had done was escalate. Soon, they were startling you awake every other week, then every week, and finally every other day until you could barely get through a night without at least one. Sometimes you could fall back asleep, and sometimes you couldn’t, but, fortunately, all in all they’d been nothing but nebulous. A haze, a sudden start, and then you were up. The feeling of fear, with nothing to stand on. You could go on to work, let the feeling subside.

Not now. Not this.

This was something more. These dreams, now, were your fears, your greatest fears, the ones you thought you had confronted with Leonard, had moved past. These were choking, suffocating you, as you remembered the way Eric would look at you, as you thought about Christine informing you just how incompetent you really were. She hadn’t started showing up until she’d gotten promoted, the newest head nurse a source of your feelings of inadequacy.

With a sigh, your eyes opened. Slowly you rolled over to the edge of the bed, feet touching the cold floor. Your hands rubbed over your face, and when you stood, it was shaky. The shower was your next stop, and you managed to wash, but when you got out from the warmth, that chill still lingered. You could still hear Christine’s tone, so… so cruel. She’d never sounded like that, not really, but you could hear it, plain as day.

You still had two and a half hours to kill, too.

Fuck.

“Y/N? Hey, Y/N? Hello?”

Your eyes stared straight ahead, didn’t react. Didn’t move. You only startled when Christine’s hand waved in front of your face. When you looked at her, she was offering you a cup of coffee, something you took with a small smile.

“Thanks,” you managed. “Long night.”

“I’ll say,” she responded, raising a brow before placing a hand on your back. Slowly, she moved you back to a biobed, moving you to sit on it. “Mind if I do a few scans?”

“I’m just tired, Christine,” you told her, but she just smiled, reaching for her tricorder to run up and down your body.

“You look more than tired. You look exhausted, I’d say.” Her voice was matter-of-fact, almost sharp, and when you heard it you winced, closing your eyes. It made her pause, and with a glance around she pulled the privacy curtain. You heard the scrape of the metal-on-metal, and when it was over you opened your eyes again, looking up at Christine.

She didn’t say anything at first, arms crossing over her chest, but when she did her voice was soft. “Is something wrong, Y/N? Did something happen?”

“Nothing happened, Christine,” you whispered, but Christine moved to sit next to you, a hand reaching to hold yours. “I just had a long night.”

“A long night doesn’t make you flinch from me, Y/N,” your friend told you, and you looked up at her with a sigh before looking at the look in her face. It was concerned, more than a little, and you could almost read her mind. What you realized made your mouth fell open. “Did something happen… with your man?”

You could barely speak, the shock making you laugh, almost. “Christine, I – I had a nightmare last night,” you told her, and she just raised a brow.

“Y/N, if you’re in trouble –“

You immediately stood up. Your voice was low, hushed, as the privacy curtain couldn’t block out sound. “No. Christine, Leonard is not at fault. He did not do… whatever the hell you’re thinking. He didn’t do anything.” A hand reached up to tug at your updo, and when you turned to look at her she was standing, too. “I’m serious, Christine, I had a fucking nightmare. They’ve… all I’ve been having lately.”

That made her pause, and when you looked at her she stepped forward. “Do you want to talk about them?”

“No, Christine,” you mumbled, but she kept pushing, taking another step towards you.

“Y/N, we can just chat. There’s no patients right now…”

“I’m fine, Head Nurse Chapel,” you snapped. Her eyes widened, and you sighed, reaching up to rub your fingers on your temples. How were you supposed to say that she’d become a central figure? How could you take that back?

Her hands raised in surrender, but you just sighed, reaching to pull the privacy curtain back again. “I’m okay, Christine,” you told her. “Really, I am. But I have a shift.”

You knew there’d be eyes on you – it wasn’t exactly inconspicuous – but you ignored them to go back to your desk, looking over the appointments and what was coming up.

You didn’t meet her eyes for the rest of the day. When you apologized, it was quick, and she just managed a small smile at you.

“You should tell him about it, Y/N. And if not him, then me, and if not me, then Scotty.” Her voice was sweet, and when you sucked up all your guilt and looked at her she was nothing but a small smile and a kind voice. “Really. It’ll make you feel better.”

“Leonard’s got other things to worry about,” you told her. “And. Really. I’m fine.”

“Y/N…”

“Christine. Really. I’m sorry, but I’ve gotta get some food.” You started walking out, walking backwards, offering the smallest hint of a smile. “I’ll see you later, okay?”

You didn’t stay to hear her reply.

This. This was bliss.

Your eyes scanned the horizon, watching the ocean pushed and pulled the sand, feeling the waves just barely tickle your toes. The chair you were sitting in didn’t budge, but you reached down to pile a little more sand against the legs anyway. Reassurance for your mind, so that you could continue basking in the sunshine. Your eyes fluttered closed, the warmth infectious, your limbs loose…

“Please tell me you’re wearing sunscreen, darlin’. That ball in the sky might look far away, but it’ll kill ya.”

The voice sent a different kind of heat through you. The low gravel, the way it lingered in your ears. It made your eyes open, and you offered a smile as you look up, shielding your eyes from the aforementioned sun.

“Now, Leonard. I thought we decided to enjoy shore leave,” you teased, and he chuckled in reply. You were glad that he’s managed to at least lose the tension in his shoulders, let the sun freckle them maybe through the white t-shirt he had donned.

His sunglasses slid a little down his nose, and he peered over them, an exaggerated look over making you roll your eyes. “Oh, don’t worry. I’m definitely enjoying the view.”

“I’m sure you are.” Your eyes turned back toward the sea, and you find yourself scanning the area again. Taking it all in. When you looked back, you were grinning. “You know, Jim recommended I tie you to a chair. Make you enjoy the sunshine.”

But when you looked up, Leonard wasn’t facing you. His mouth had fallen open, his sunglasses in danger of falling.

“Leonard?” Your voice was still light, but he didn’t look at you, and your whirled around to see where he’s facing.

Silence. An ominous nothing. A crowded beach, suddenly empty. The sun, once so bright, vanished, and the cloudy sky made a chill settle over the air.

“Leonard, maybe we should head back to the… the parking lot,” you said, and the hairs on the back of your neck stood up. You whirled around to face him, ready to urge him back to where you’re staying on-planet.

But… but Leonard was hurt. Bleeding, both hands of his cupped over where the gash was, where his side was sliced open. And when your eyes dropped to where he stood, the sand was bloodied. Slowly, steadily, it pooled. Spread. The deep red washed over your feet as you leapt to standing position. The tide came it, splashed you, and the feeling made stumble backwards, each step dragging his blood with you. You knew it was his blood, you saw it – you saw him, stumble in, Jim holding him up, looking so damn pale it scared you, the hole in his side from skin ripped like it was paper, his leg broken so bad it looks near close to ninety degrees. He had moaned out your name, at that point, calling to you, reaching for you, and you froze. You froze on him and watched as he bled out onto the floor of the med bay…

“Y/N…”

His voice was so loud in your ear, it echoed around the whole damn ship. You heard it on Commander Spock’s communicator, a ship-wide broadcast that made your hands come up to your ears. “No.” Leonard. He was dead, and you killed him, you knew it, your gut clenching with horror.

“Y/N…”

“No!” Your head was pounding, and all you could hear was Leonard’s voice. It bounced all around, mocking you, haunting you. “No, please, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” you begged. “I’m sorry, please, no…”

“Y/N!”

Your eyes flew open.

Leonard.

Before you could think you were dressing, your chest moving with your rough heaves of air. A shirt, yanked over your head, and nothing else mattered except getting out of there, getting to safety. You couldn’t breathe, you couldn’t think, and so your feet carried you to the only place you felt you could go, pounding on the sliding door.

He had to be okay. God, what if he wasn’t okay?

When it opened, you were falling forward, into a chest, and the body you rushed into stumbled back, back into the quarters. You were caught, thankfully, but it was with hands holding you at an arm’s distance, and when you looked up into his eyes they were squinted, Leonard’s hair in wild directions and his mouth twisted into a scowl.

“What the hell – Y/N?”

“I just – I needed… oh, god…”

You couldn’t speak. Anything you tried to say got caught in your throat, and when his daze cleared slowly his face transformed from frustration to concern. Concern that evolved into worry as you shoved past him into his room and promptly vomited into the waste chute.

“Y/N, what the hell happened to you? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

A blink. Two. Three. Your head lifted, and you stumbled to stand, but even shaking your head didn’t clear it. The room didn’t change, dark and deep and unclear, and you felt tears begin to well up in your eyes, blurring the quarters further into obscurity.

“Y/N, it’s me, okay? Computer, lights, 45%. Y/N, it’s Leonard. Can you hear me? I’m right here, it’s all right.”

You could, you could hear him, but the sound of his voice was soft, nothing like what filled your head just moments before. And it couldn’t be him, not really.

You had just watched him die, after all.

Slowly the room began to focus. The tears, built up enough, fell down your cheeks. And when you finally looked at the man across from you, your vision cleared enough to see him, to see Leonard, eyes wide, face pale, and arm reaching out to you.

“I’m right here, darlin’,” he whispered, and a guttural cry tore out of you as you stumbled forward to reach him. When you collided, his arms wrapped so tightly around you that for a moment your breath was gone, and you ended up sobbing into his bare chest.

“You – you died,” you stuttered out, and his arms squeezed you. Your own hands, shaking, were trapped between your bodies, leaving you unable to find where he was hurt, where the wound was. “Leonard, I watched, I watched you die, and there was so much – so much blood – and then you were just gone…“

“I didn’t, I didn’t die, Y/N,” he hissed out, and he pulled away from you to cup your face in his hands. The tears didn’t stop, but he did his best to wipe them away. “You saved me, remember? I got hurt, but you saved me. You and Christine, and Dr. M’Benga.”

He sounded so sure, but it was so fresh. The way the blood seemed to lap at your ankles, the smell of it, copper clogging every sense you had.

“Y/N? Look at me. Not through me, at me,” he urged, and your focus, over his shoulder, snapped back to him, to his face. The color had returned, and he looked… vibrant, lifelike, real. “I’m here. Right now, I’m right here.” His hands, almost blistering hot, reached down to cover yours, lifting them to his face so you could feel his clean shave, moving down his cheek over his neck. You could feel his pulse, pounding through the skin. As you stared at his face, slowly you let yourself look into his eyes, your gaze darting back and forth between them.

“You’re… alive,” you whispered, and his breath rushed out of him, pulling you back into an embrace that you sob into, relief flooding every sense you had. “I thought I lost you, oh, fuck, Leonard, I thought you’d gone…”

“You saved me. Y’hear me? I’m right here.”

An hour later, your legs were crossed on his bed, and a mug held something warm and hot he got for you to nurse. Your fingers curled tightly around the drink so that you could snag every inch of heat, bolstering the efforts of the sweatshirt he’d let you borrow from his drawers. “Georgia Bulldogs” was scrawled across your chest in bold vintage letters because of it, and normally that’d get some kind of grin from him, but he was too busy gathering the clothes you had sweat through into a pile.

“Look, I’ll call in,” he reminded you, again, the bundle of clothes set in a chair before he turned to look at you. “You know we don’t get much more than broken fingers and fistfights on a day we’re not planning an expedition.”

“I have a job that I have to report to, too, y’know,” you snapped back, but it was weak, barely biting as he came and settled next to you. “You don’t have to babysit, I’m a big girl.”

“It’s not ‘babysitting’,” Leonard told you, and before you could stop yourself you were curling into him, his arm instinctively wrapping around your shoulders. He was like a furnace, and you turned your nose into him, taking a deep breath to catch remnants of his cologne from the evening before. “And like hell I’m lettin’ you catch that shift anyway. You need to rest. I’m not your primary physician, but I can still make that call.”

Any fight you had in you wilted. Working didn’t seem appealing in that moment anyway, not when all you saw when you closed your eyes was a body bag in a biobed. “You really gonna offer me a prescription? It was a nightmare, Leonard. It happens,” you sighed, and you felt his smile against your hair before you felt the kiss.

“At the very least, a day in bed.” His free hand reached to snatch the mug away from you, your grip loosening as you sunk into his embrace. But when he pulled away, the cup now safe on the bedside table, you caught the glimpse of his frown.

“What’s that look for?” you asked, and when he looked down at you his brow was furrowed. You could feel him tense up through his clothing, and after a moment without a response, you pulled back from his grasp, meeting his gaze. “Leonard. What?”

“Darlin’,” he murmured, and your jaw clenched, not liking where this was going. “Christine came to me the other day. Said… well, mentioned that you hadn’t been sleeping well.”

“… did she?” Your voice was tight, and his hands moved to run up and down your arms, trying to comfort, soothe. “Well. Seems like a betrayal of confidence.”

One hand immediately moved to guide your chin, making your eyes meet. “It was a slip of the tongue, Y/N. She didn’t mean to, but I had made a comment about how rundown everyone seemed to be and it just happened to come up,” he said sharply, cutting off that train of thought before it could fester in your tired mind. The fact that Christine and Leonard had discussed it at all still hurt, but you let your body relax, nodding for him to continue. “I got worried, I asked her to talk about it, and. I just need to know… are they all like that?”

“You don’t have to be worried, Leonard, I’m fine,” you snapped, crossing your arms over your chest, but Leonard shook his head.

“Christine didn’t exactly start the worry. You think I haven’t noticed how worn you’ve been looking? Your eyes barely stay open more than a few minutes.” When you pulled away, it was because his eyes were so sad, and you had to push away from it before you started crying all over again.

When you felt hands on your shoulders, you didn’t fight it, but your eyes didn’t meet his until after the pregnant pause.

“Y/N. Are the nightmares all like that?”

He was concerned. He had the right to be. He was your partner, he was there for you, and you knew that. You also trusted him, more than anyone else on the damn ship, right up there with Christine and Scotty.

Still. The way his eyes seemed to take you all in made you feel just as vulnerable as the day he’d gotten blasted, and you felt bare without a chance to cover up.

“Are they?”

A moment passed, and you opened your mouth to answer, but something caught in your throat, and your eyes closed tight as you nodded.

“God, Y/N. Why didn’t you mention them sooner? How long’s this been goin’ on? How long have you had ‘em?” He wasn’t yelling, he wasn’t even loud. But the questions were bombarding you, one after the other, and you had to stand, wrenching yourself from his grip. The physical distance in that moment was what stopped you from bolting, a hand reaching up to curl into your own hair.

“I – I don’t know, Leonard. It was, fuck, it was after you recovered, and I thought they’d go away,” you blurted. He stood to follow you, but you took a step back, reaching out to make him just wait, just wait a damn second while you explained. “And then, they didn’t. They just didn’t. They got worse, but you were past it, way past it, and I didn’t want to weigh you down with them. You needed rest, not… not me knocking on your door in the middle of the night.”

The hand you held out to him started shaking. He reached out to you again, and this time you didn’t pull away, letting him inch closer so he could wrap you up again, hold you against his body.

“I’m sorry.” You were crying, now, an aftershock of the horror. There was no scramble to grasp reality, just a flood of guilt, of shame out of nowhere. “I know, I should’ve told you, but I really thought they’d be gone by now.”

“Don’t be, god, don’t be sorry about a damn thing,” he whispered. His voice sounded pained. “It wasn’t any of my business if you didn’t want to tell me. Just. Know, that you can tell me. Anything.”

Moments passed you by. They could be hours. But before long, you realized he was slowly leading you back to bed, and your eyelids were starting to heavy again. It was exhaustion, emotional and mental limbo, that helped you settle against him when the blankets were thrown to the side. His warmth and the weight of your covers added to the daze.

The world faded in and out for the rest of the night. Every so often, you’d startle awake, remembering the horrors you saw, a full nightmare unable to take shape but a new scenario making your blood run cold. And each time, he’d be there. Same place, curled around you, sometimes just watching and waiting so he could give a little smile.

You were conscious, but only just, when you heard Leonard’s voice, low, muttered. Felt the vibrations of it in his chest.

“Four years of medical school,” he whispered. “Four years of undergrad in fucking Mississippi. Years of experience, on this goddamn starship. I’ve seen humanoids and alien races that’d make your eyes bulge outta your head, and even after all of that, I – I feel like an idiot.”

His credentials. Bullet points, like a resume, for no one to hear but the computer all around. He thought you were sleeping, surely.

“I wish I had a prescription, Y/N. A shot, a pill. I’d fucking beg for it. But all of that school, all of that time treating people, and I felt like a goddamn intern all over again. Stupid. Useless. You’re in… in so much pain you can hardly stand it, and I can’t – I can’t do anything. I can’t help.”

His breath shuddered. You felt him shift, and one of his hands lifted. You could see it, him pinching the bridge of his nose, his hand moving through his hair. One of his tells. His signs.

“But… Y/N, I’m alive. I’m here.” His voice, previously floated above your head, is now in your ear, urgent, fierce in its conviction. “I’m gonna be here, you got it? I’m here, and I’m holding you, and I’m never gonna let you go. Do you hear that? I’m right here.”

And, thank the stars, that’s what you fell asleep to. Next to him, his warmth around you.

When you woke up, there was humming.

For a moment, the world was blurry, just enough that your heart rate spiked and your body froze. Another nightmare, another terror. You waited for it to take shape, and then… realized it wasn’t. There was no shifting. No sudden change in the wind.

Your hand lifted to rub at your face, and with it the bed shifted. The humming got a little louder, and you realized Leonard was still there. Still in bed with you, barely moved from when you’d fallen asleep against him. When you shifted again, Leonard moved with you – one of his hands lifted to rest in your hair, the other holding the PADD.

You didn’t say anything immediately, just let yourself soak it in. The fingers in your hair settled on your scalp, scratching along the skin.

“A head massage,” you finally grumbled out, after a few minutes of lingering, relishing in the touch that Leonard was giving, letting it pull you in and out of a doze.

“Consider it my prescription,” Leonard replied, not taking his eyes off his PADD. “Problems of the head solved with direct intervention.”

“Problems of the head?” you asked, raising a brow, and when you lifted to level him with a look he turned to give a smile that could almost be called… sheepish.

“Wrong choice of words,” he offered, and you scoffed, rolling your eyes and rolling over, face going first onto the pillow next to you.

“What time is it?” you grumbled, and Leonard took a moment. His hand moved away to swipe away something from the PADD, and at the motion you might’ve whined.

“What? It’s 1100 hours, you got somewhere to be?”

Another groan as you rolled up to face the ceiling. “I didn’t tell you to stop rubbing my scalp, doctor. Not an effective treatment if you stop before we can see results.”

He gave a chuckle, and this time you were able to see the full thing. The way he smiled, the look on his face as he gazed down at you. As his fingers resumed in your hair, scratching and rubbing, you stared right back, brow furrowing before he used his fingers there to gently rub it away. A thumb, running over your forehead, and your tension slowly faded, your eyes closing.

“You know, you snore.”

Your eyes shot open at that. When you lifted yourself up this time it was all the way, sitting up, blanket pushed down to just over your legs. “I’m sorry?”

Leonard didn’t even look at you, just reached again to swipe and back down, this time letting his fingers massage against your shoulder, grazing them against your neck. “You snore. Just a little. At least, you were, while you were snoozing there.”

Your snort left you before you could think, and you quickly lifted yourself out of the bed. “I’m going to shower,” you stated, smirking. When he saw you moving to the bathroom, though, the doctor stood as well, reaching to grab your wrist.

“Y/N. Come on. There’s nowhere to be. Give yourself this. Who knows how much sleep you need to catch up on?”

But when your eyes looked toward the bed, there was hesitation in them. Who knew what waited for you when you closed your eyes again? How would you watch him die this time?

After a moment, he stepped close to you, cutting off the bed from your vision. You had to blink away the daze, but he was there, cupping your cheek with one hand. “Please. Sweetheart. Your next shift isn’t for two days. I had another doc fill in the blanks for me. Give yourself this? This break?”

Your eyes closed, and you felt the exhaustion settle back in your bones. His hand was basically holding your head upright, and when your eyes opened again you found yourself letting eyes meet.

“Yeah,” you finally murmured. As you looked at him, you saw his own furrowed brow smooth, a smile that could almost be a grin stretch over his features. Both hands lifted to cup your cheeks this time, and when he leaned down to kiss you, it was sweet. He pulled away long enough to move you both back towards the bed, but his hands never left you, and when you were just breathless enough, his arms wrapped around you in a tight embrace, one that made your heart beat steady, your breath smooth out.

“I do not snore,” you managed even as your eyes drooped close, your nose pressed against his chest. “Asshole.”

“I’ll let you know when you wake up,” Leonard murmured, right in your ear, but at that point you’d already drifted off.

#reader-insert #leonard mccoy x reader #bones x reader #female!reader #leonard mccoy #bones #christine chapel #fanfic #my fic #star trek: aos

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magioftheseas · 5 years ago

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Burdensome

Summary: Sometimes, Hanako gets annoyed that he's the only one of the group with secrets.

Rating: G

Warning: None, really. I guess implications to Hanako’s vague past?

Notes: I honestly wrote this just to see if I could come up with a simple enough idea that would then be made into a fairly short fic. I’m trying to get more productive in my writing, see, so sometimes I have to resort to methods like that. In fact, I was so fixated on the idea of completing this before the day was over (and I had like, two hours before it did) that I ended up missing the deadline for applying to a zine I wanted to apply to. Now THAT’S burdensome.

***Alternate Ao3 Link***

Commission? Donate?

The world is filled with secrets. He’s known from the beginning that there are a lot of things that are kept from others. Crushes, concerns, dreams, ambitions, motivations—the deepest aspects of a person were often the most hidden.

He knows this well, and yet—

Those two are a bit different.

“Hanako-kun, what’s up?” Yashiro would ask, and the young exorcist would also glance his way. They both had such wide, honest and open gazes. “You’ve been staring for a while.”

“I was thinking,” Hanako says, waving his hand with his usual smile. “You two are way too easygoing.”

“Coming from a spirit!” Minamoto bit back as Yashiro similarly protested.

“I have plenty of worries not in the least thanks to you!”

“That’s not what I mean,” Hanako laughed. “You two are also pretty naïve, aren’t you?”

“And what is that supposed to mean, Hanako?!”

“Yeah, Hanako-kun! What do you mean?!”

What do you think?

Irritation nips at him. His smile twists the slightest bit.

Normal people have secrets. Normal people have baggage that they wouldn’t share with the world. I’ve observed the students here enough to know that hasn’t changed over the decades. You two, on the other hand...

Open books. Both of them. Even with their torn pages.

“Never mind,” Hanako chirps. “I was just thinking.”

“I bet you were,” Minamoto huffed as Yashiro pouted.

“I swear, Hanako-kun. It wouldn’t kill you to be more honest with us sometimes. You’re way too secretive.” She does pause, however. “O-Of course, I only expect you to tell us things when you’re ready.”

“Yeah, what senpai said.”

Even with the verbal agreement, there is a flicker of aggravation in the young exorcist’s eyes. An open book. Hanako already knows what he’s thinking about. It’s obvious. Too obvious. Minamoto Kou was a simple man of simple concerns, after all. He wanted to be respected, but he wanted to protect those around him. His family, friends, Yashiro—and the other Mitsuba.

Even now, Tsukasa lingers between them like blood in the water. They’re both just too afraid to bite because matters could escalate and that wouldn’t be ideal when Yashiro’s always a factor. That—and Minamoto was kind. He and Yashiro were both kind people. There was that, too.

Kindness was often granted as a privilege. It shouldn’t have been such an easy, accessible resource.

It’s cumbersome—how much the two humans that Hanako is closest to just don’t act like normal humans.

Yashiro was tugging at Minamoto’s sleeve, and she sways him into resuming their cleaning. With a sweet and disarming smile, the matter is settled and discarded. It might not ever get brought up again, because these two aren’t the types to hold grudges.

They’re kind. They’re just very, very kind.

How infuriating.

“Is there a reason why you’re giving those two attitude all of a sudden?” Tsuchigomori asks him. “You’ve got them complaining to me about you, Honorable Seventh. And y’know—I can’t exactly reprimand you as your teacher anymore.”

“And yet, you’re reprimanding me,” Hanako pointed out, tucked between the curtains. “I assume you do want me to stop.”

“It’s just troublesome behavior,” Tsuchigomori says with an impassive shrug. “Troublesome for them, for you, for me. Rather than just bottling it up, you should just vent.”

“It is annoying,” Yako chirped up in the midst of grooming her tail. “Those brats are going to keep on whining and it’ll soon be troublesome for everyone.”

“Don’t think we asked your opinion, dumb fox,” Tsuchigomori muttered, to which she hissed back.

“It’s hard to nap peacefully when everyone is as gloomy as you!”

“It’s because,” Hanako spoke up. Immediately, Tsuchigomori turns to face him, ever attentive. “I’m frustrated.”

“With what, exactly?” Yako asked, muffled against her tail. “Don’t tell me you’ve gotten bored of them.”

“Oh no, they’re still plenty fun to mess with.” Hanako waved his hand. “However—don’t you think it’s weird? Yashiro and that boy are both so simple. They don’t really have any deep dark secrets.”

“They don’t,” Tsuchigomori confirmed. “As transparent and blatant as they come. Do you feel awkward, then? Like you don’t fit in? You’re already an apparition, Honorable Seventh.”

Even as a human, I wouldn’t have fit in with them. Even acting as a human, I had to distance myself from them.

“Keeping secrets may be natural, but it is a burden you must undertake if decided.” Tsuchigomori inhales, sighing out smoke. “Even so, don’t act out so much.”

“They’re both still bratty garbage humans,” Yako murmured, ever unimpressed. “Tasteless and tactless.”

“I’m sure you’d make tasty udon,” Hanako cheerfully remarked.

Yako snorted, but curled up into an unassuming ball all the same.

“Honorable Seventh.”

That smile on Hanako’s face remained, even when stared down by Tsuchigomori’s stern, knitted glare.

“Do those humans make you feel inferior?”

Yako’s ear twitched, but she mercifully kept any further commentary to herself.

“Maybe a little,” Hanako admitted, laughing. “I get it. I’ll apologize. I’m sorry for the trouble, sensei.”

Tsuchigomori didn’t look remotely reassured or convinced.

Haven’t you prodded a little too much already? I could still squash you like a bug.

Aha. Those thoughts sound like something Tsukasa would say.

Hanako leaves without another word.

“You don’t have to say anything.”

Yashiro speaks the second he slinks in. She’s not looking his way but her hands are fisting into her skirt.

“It’s not like I don’t understand—sometimes people have a lot more going on. I get frustrated, too, when I see Aoi able to laugh off guys confessing to her. Aoi’s really carefree. Sometimes I envy her so much that I get upset.”

Hanako blinks, tugging at his collar awkwardly.

“Yashiro...”

“I know!” she exclaims. “So don’t—don’t treat me as if I’m shallow just because I might not have as much going on as you do! I’ll have you know I have plenty going on!” She turns on him, fierce despite her tears. “I-I actually really want to have a bunch of rodents! And I want to have a huge garden! A-And not only to I want to marry a handsome boy—I also think I want kids! A-A boy and a girl! It’s too early but—who knows! Having beautiful children might be really, really fun! I don’t know—but I think about it! One time I dreamed about my own daughter making fun of me for my legs! And I woke up crying!”

She was still crying right now, in fact.

“I’m going to graduate and I still want to be friends with Aoi even though she’s inevitably going to an elite college that I could never dream of attending! I-I also want to make more friends. I-I heard that—once you get to college, people start caring a lot less about their appearances...! But that because everyone’s all matured, they’re still super attractive...!” Yashiro blubbers. “I-I’m gonna graduate, I’m gonna go to college, I’m gonna grow up, I’m gonna get my garden, my rodents, my husband, my children, and, and, and... I’m still going to visit you if I can... Because I don’t want you getting lonely. Even if Tsuchigomori-sensei teaches here forever, I—I’ll worry about you, Hanako-kun.” She sniffles. “I’ll worry...a lot. What if you completely go off the deep end without me and Kou-kun? I’m—so worried!”

“Are you saying I’ll become a villain out of loneliness?” Hanako asked, mildly offended, mildly amused. “I was lonely before I met you for a long time.”

“That might make it worse,” Yashiro mutters. “Losing your friends is awful, even if you were friendless before.”

Friendless. I wasn’t really friendless. That said. That said...

“The fact that you’re so compassionate really does irk me,” he said. “Yashiro—you’re way too kind. Please be careful.”

“Or I’ll be taken advantage of, you mean?” Yashiro’s frown deepened, her cheeks darker. “I’m not helpless, Hanako-kun. I’m not always going to need you to save me. I’ll do my best to manage on my own. As well as I can.”

“I believe you. After all, I have underestimated you in the past.”

“Hanako-kun...” Yashiro huffed and she stomped forward. Raising her hand, she furiously ruffled Hanako’s hair. “You’re so immature! Don’t act like you’re not!”

“H-Hey, Yashiro.”

She knocks off his hat so that she can ruffle him harder.

“Immature! Childish! Bratty! Meanie! Hanako-kun!”

“Y-Yashiro, cut it out!”

Yashiro finally laughs at him. Hanako glares back, but then, after a while, his expression twists.

“Sometimes, it’s so heavy I can’t move. I should be glad you can move about so freely.”

Yashiro shakes her head, smile strained but sympathetic.

“We’re friends, Hanako-kun. If you want me to shoulder the burden with you, all you have to do is ask.”

I won’t. I refuse.

But Yashiro does hug him, and it’s far too easy to fall into her embrace.

She really isn’t one to be underestimated.

“There, there,” Yashiro coos, petting his hair. “There, there. Just let Nene-nee help you.”

Hanako chortled.

“I’m half a century older than you.”

Yashiro chuckles.

“You’re still a child, Hanako-kun.”

Still a child. She really is naïve. As if all I am is a child that desperately needs reassurance and validation. I needed more than that. We both did. But, still. Still, still, still.

Hanako’s lips pressed closely together as he buried his face into her shoulder.

I guess this is still nice.

#jibaku shounen hanako kun #nene yashiro #yashiro nene #kou minamoto #HanaNene #HanaKouNene #Seventh Wonder Hanako #Yako (jshk)#tsuchigomori #Magi fics #to cope with my bad luck and being an idiot I've convinced myself of the invisible stat kp #kp stands for karma points

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joonsmagicstudio · 4 years ago

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Meet Me Where The Waves Touches The Sky: are you ready? (IV)

Note: I put a keep reading break but I am unsure if it is working, if there is no keep reading link then please let me know! I do not wish to bother anyone with long posts.

Story Description: We all have our issues, but some of us are sub-consciously pushing it away without realizing how deep under water we are. You don't realize the things around you aren't what used to be until you meet a celebrity struggling to live. Like the hypocrite you are, you help others without helping yourself first. But no one told you about helping others gives you this exhilarating feeling of being a saint. So for how long are you going to keep being a saint in a doctor's coat?

Genre: Angst, fluff (if you squint) and smut.

Pairing: You x Namjoon

Trigger Warning: It revolves heavily around suicide, depression and death. Please don’t read it if it is a sensitive topic for you. Also keep in mind it isn’t like ‘13 reasons why’. It takes place in more of an adult setting hence mature. It also has mature (+18) scene, alcohol consumption and occasional use of foul language hehe.

I am writing about suicide, death and depression not because I romanticize it or engage in it for others to partake. It is strictly for the purpose of writing a story to convey a message beyond these three words.

Story masterlist is here: MMWTWTTS

Namjoon woke up to gentle clattering of plates and the aroma of food, with that he got up and walked over to the kitchen with an empty beer bottle in his hand. He saw you setting the plates with food on the table, only one though.

"Don't stand at the entrance Namjoon, come on in. I made breakfast for you." You set a glass of water next to his plate and stood up to face him.

"Thanks, but where is yours?" Namjoon sauntered over to the table and sat down. You took the beer away from his hand and set it next to yours at the sink.

"Oh mine? Don't worry, I already had it. You just woke up on time, I was about to go and wake you up." You smiled softly watching Namjoon stare at his plate of food for quite a while, "C'mon, eat up before it gets cold." You urged him softly, this man in front of you really is long gone to the core if he just stares and simple things, you thought, does he even have tie to sit down and eat?. You had just served him warm croissants with bacon, eggs and tea as well as water on the side along with sweet condiments to eat with the croissants.

"Alright, I have work. So I'll be leaving now. Once you are done, you can simply put the empty plates in the sink. I'll take care of it. Rest well alright, Namjoon?" You put more emphasis on his name to make sure he was looking at you and heard you clear enough.

"Yeah I will. Thanks." He mumbled before weakly lifting up the knife to scoop up the sweet condiment of his choice, strawberry jam, to slather on the croissant. With that, you left the flat with your coat and shoulder bag and headed towards your workplace.

Namjoon nibbled on his breakfast before leaving it halfway uneaten, the lack of appetite was rather overwhelming so forcing himself to eat would just be making him eat dust. Last night he had gone through the entire place but didn't see your room yet. He wanted to but that it would be an invasion of privacy, 'Just a small look won't harm anyone.' Namjoon said to himself in means of comforting himself and walked up to the door to your room. His hand rested still on the doorknob to your room, it could be locked for all he knows. But if it's locked then that means you have something to hide.

Namjoon sighed and twisted the doorknob. It opened. Your room was just like his. Devoid of many things except for a white table with a penholder that had exactly 2 pens and one pencil. Your bed was neatly made just like his was and the color scheme was exactly the same, grey and white. You had no pictures, no decorations, just nothing. There was at least a closet, with your clothes he assumed. Namjoon walked over to your closet and opened it. You had nothing but just a few dark colored bottoms and tops. Just one beige coat was hanging on the left side and that was it. No boxes or any compartments. Namjoon found it too unsettling, you really had nothing and literally nothing to hide or anything about yourself that he could learn from. If there's one thing he learned from you, then that was you had nothing about yourself.

Namjoon left your room and went back to where his breakfast laid cold, it was safe to say that he was unsettled by the lack of your 'things' but then you were helping him a great deal. He decided to just ask about it when you came back, which would be late night since you stayed late working last night.

〰️ 💠 〰️

"This artificial intelligence will produce a realistic hologram of the person's most loved or dear one- The hologram then would speak to the person and talk them down. If this proves succesfu-"

"How would the hologram even find the person's loved one Y/LN?" The one and only researching professor on depression and suicide at the moment in the hospital, Dr. Richards, blatantly asked. He never really liked you. Why? It's simple really, you were younger and better than him and he had bruised ego because of that. It didn't bother you that much really because the more he tried to attack you, the more openings he made that allowed you to defeat him.

"The AI can easily run a facial recognition on a person's face and I'm sure you have studied a bit on the brain, right?"

"Yes-"

"Then you would know that a particular region of the brain, called Hippocampus, shows a spike in activity when the person is remembering something. You see, this is where the AI comes into play, not only does it do facial recognition but because its sensor is so powerful, it can pick up the readings of the person Hippocampus and dive into its memories and picks out the most memorable memory. And from that memory it does a background check on the person involved in it to see if the bond between that person is strong or has fallen away before producing a holographic image of it." You stopped right in front of Dr. Richards defiantly, crossing your elbows you asked, "Anymore questions?"

"What about the voic-"

"Oh doctor, hasn't someone told you memories are extremely powerful. The AI can pick up the voice from the memory too." You shot back at him.

"What if the memorable person is dead huh?! What would the AI do? Show it? That gives a push to the person to fucking suicide." Dr. Richards slammed both of his hands on the table, the glass of water next to him rattled and splashed violently, other doctors in the room zeroed on you. You had to admit that this time he got you. You hadn't thought about that. It was a flaw, a major flaw. If the person saw his loved one that is dead, that person would most likely go for it to see them.

Silence hung heavy in the air, all the doctors were looking at you for some kind of answer. If you didn't answer then all the hard work, effort and attempts you put into this would go down the drain.

So theoretically someone who saw his dead loved one would take a leap to be with them unless- "In case of that unfortunate event, the AI would ensure the hologram of the loved one talks them down, it talks the person out of suicide. It would reject each time the person says I want to be with you. The AI would tell them no. Look, it's difficult to explain but you get my gist. It doesn't matter who appears as a hologram as long it can talk the person out of suicide. I mean think about it, South Korea has the highest rate of suicide, with this invention we can reduce the number greatly and we won't be infamous for being number one in that category. Think about how much benefit it could bring us." You walked back to the center of the stage and stood in front of the projection that displayed your prototype model of the AI device, "That's all. I hope you can consider this idea." You were pushed into the corner so you had to end the presentation there on a dull note.

〰️ 💠 〰️

You walked out of the conference room with much more weight on your back than when you first entered. You had noticed that when you ended your presentation, all the doctors and the delegates were pondering over it, there was no face of confirmation or anyone that seemed to be willingly to go for this idea of yours.

"Hey! Y/N!" Someone called behind you and you turned around to locate the owner of the voice.

"Wooyoung, is there something?" You asked with your eyebrows raised at him. He was jogging frantically in his white lab coat and stethoscope flapping around wildly.

"Didn't you hear over the comms?" Wooyoung came to a halt in front of you, he panted heavily with his hand on his thighs for a moment before standing up.

"I was in the conference-"

"Fuck-okay, it's code blue Y/N! It's yours." Wooyoung grabbed your arm and pulled you violently towards the west wing. If he said code blue, then it required immediate attention. The hospital had set up a system in which they could use code words to alert all doctors and staff of a particular situation without causing a stir or panic in the patients. Code blue means this person requires immediate attention within a few minutes. If it occurred in the west wing then it was either a person from the general surgery ward or the psychiatric ward. You really hoped it wasn't the latter, because that would most likely mean that someone managed to get out of their room and was about to stir up trouble. But if there's one thing you have learned in your life, that one thing is that hoping is futile. You knew it was definitely someone from the psychiatric ward because Wooyoung said it was yours.

Wooyoung and you stopped when you both reached the open space of the West Wing where you could see floors and floors accessible by stairs and escalator. Wooyoung then tapped your shoulder and pointed up to the 7th floor. The west wing was several stories tall, after all it was a major hospital.

"Fuck." Was the only thing that slipped out of your mouth when you saw the situation that Wooyoung pointed to.

"Yeah fuck." Wooyoung muttered, "We can't get her to come down, she is hell-bent on jumping. The ledge she's standing on is awfully thin, we can't risk catching her because it'll just take her one step." Wooyoung relayed to you the situation that was unfolding in front of your eyes. That girl was your patient, Kim Jungha, that's her name. You had her put in for treatment for severe depression topped with schizophrenia, it was a nasty combination.

"Right, where is her family? They could help. There's no way we could catch her from the bottom." You asked. Kim Jungha's family was the closest thing to happiness she had before she landed her, especially her sister. That's what you had understood after many sessions with Kim Jungha and right now she could use her sister.

"I'll go and talk to her, hopefully buy enough time till her family arrives." You exhaled sharply and jogged towards the staircase that led to the 7th floor where Jungha was dangerously standing on the ledge.

As you approached 7th floor, you saw the entire floor swarmed with the staff and few doctors surrounding Jungha at a considerable distance, it was silent and tension was high except for a faint conversation between Jungha on the ledge and another staff member, by the look of Jungha's dull and hopeless expression, you understood that the conversation wasn't going well. You squeezed yourself through the surrounding staff and came to stand in front of Jungha. Jungha's back was facing the vast space with a solid drop, which meant one step and it was near impossible to get her back. You glanced behind her briefly before signalling with your hand for the other staff who was talking to keep quiet and back off.

"Jungha, can we talk?" You softened your voice, you didn't want to show her any signs of stress that you were under. Jungha stayed silent, you took that as a sign to keep talking.

"I understand what you are feel-"

"Please cut that bullshit. You don't, how would you? You are trained to say bullshit like to make us feel better. Guess what? It doesn't fucking work." Jungha spat harshly in your face.

She is a tricky one, you've always felt people like Jungha was like talking to a wall, "Alright, you think I don't understand. That's fine by me. What about your sister? How do you think she would feel if you left her alone?" You decided to pull the sister card. One of the most important thing learned about talking to people to of suicide was if you can't sympathize with them, then redirect their anguish and focus to the loved ones that could make them rethink their choices.

Jungha didn't reply, which means that she's doubting now.

"Your sister would be heartbroken to find out that you left her. She wouldn't be happy without you because you mean so much to her, you mean the universe to her."

"But my sister, my mother, they would be better off without me wouldn't they? I am nothing but a burden to them, Y/N." She said solemnly as she used your name. You always let your patients call you by your first name simply because it would be comfortable for them to talk to you.

"You aren't a burden Jungha. You are just like us. We have all got a backpack, some are just heavier than others but at the end of the day we all keep continuing with our backpacks in the journey. And the reason we keep going on is because there are others in the journey. Others that keep us company and make the journey bearable and before we even realize it, we forget about the heavy backpacks and keep on continuing the journey. For you, that person who makes your journey bearable is your sister and you are the same for here. If you leave her, her journey would be difficult for her." You took a step closer as you spoke so just in case, just in case she decides to.

You also prepared yourself for another technique to get a person off the ledge. But that technique wouldn't change the person's mind, rather it could turn violent. That technique was to say you wanted their wallet or something so when the person would hand it over, you could grab their hands and pull them to safety. The only problem was that there were a lot of things that could go wrong with it. And she doesn't have anything on her that you could ask for.

"You know, Y/N. I've always admired you." Jungha suddenly said, steering the entire focus of the conversation off the tracks. Murmurs arose behind you from the staff and suddenly you weren't able to think properly. Why this now?

"Shut up." You whipped around to silence the staff before turning back to Jungha, "Why? Why have you admired me?" You were baffled at her statement about you.

"You have it perfect. Perfectly fine mind, healthy body, wonderful job. You have it all Y/N." Jungha sighed, her shoulders slumping and she hung her head low, staring at the ground. She calmed down a bit.

Only if she knew.

"Jungha, no one is perfect-"

"Is it gonna rain today?" Jungha suddenly looked up face to face with you.

She loved rain, almost everyday she would press her face against the window during the sessions with you and ask if it would rain or not. Since then you learned that if it did rain, she would simply ask if she could go out for a stroll and bask in the wet shower, just to enjoy the feeling of rain pouring down on her. You knew why she liked rain, you also like rain, in fact the two of you liked rain for one particular reason.

No one could see if you were crying.

But it wasn't raining outside right now, 'Shit.' you thought as warning bells went off in your head and cold sweat washed over you before you sprinted the last few steps to catch her as Jungha leaned back, taking a step backward.

And once again, you were too late. 〰️ 💠 〰️

"Time of death, 12:52 PM."

The ground floor of the west wing had been cordoned off and staff was cleaning up the floor. A body had been placed on a gurney and covered in a white cloth before being transported to the mortuary. Someone was busy wiping the blood off like it was a normal thing while the other one was disinfecting it completely.

You were nowhere to be seen on the premise.

The family of Jungha came a little too late. But not late enough to see a body hurtling to the ground with an audible crack and blood pooling out. It would have been better if they came later or never came at all, after all it was never a beautiful sight to see.

Before you disappeared, you did pay your respect to the family of the deceased as part of doctor's duty. It was nothing short of disappointment and anger from them. The mother slapped you with tears streaming down her face, yelling at you about how shitty and inconsiderate you were. You didn't fight back or shed any tears. You kept quiet and took it in, no one can never do anything against a mother in deep anguish over the loss of their child. No parent would wish to carry their children coffin before they passed away. That wasn't something you could change.

You had left the hospital earlier than your shift, it didn't matter if you left early. You were already past the quota of shifts that you needed to complete this month. All you wanted right now was to lay in the bed of the flat. Just some time alone to do your work would be great. Just like how you did with the rest of your days, a death in the routine didn't faze you in the slightest.

Namjoon heard the beeping sound of the passcodes being punched into, 'Why is she back so early?' he thought as he glanced at the time in the upper right corner of the PC in his room. In the time you were gone, he had decided to look up on you to see if he could find anything but alas there was nothing on you and he ended up getting side-tracked to reading through fan comments about him and his work. He stood up, pushing the chair behind him and walked to the entrance and greeted you.

"Hey." It was simple, short and curt.

You looked up from your shoes, ah, you had almost forgotten about him at the flat. "Oh, hey. You good?" You asked, striking a small conversation.

"Oh yeah I am good. Hey-uh thanks for letting me use your flat. I really appreciate it." Namjoon shyly thanked you with a soft smile.

"Anytime." You replied, "One condition though."

"Name it!" Namjoon chuckled, "One condition is nothing compared to what you have done for me."

"Never. Never bring work here. When you enter this flat. You leave work outside. That means absolutely anything from reading or writing or even thinking about it if possible." You sternly said with your eyes fixated on his face. You left no space for negotiations.

Namjoon opened his mouth to say something but your gaze shut him down. He was looking through comments a while back. That meant he couldn't do it anymore now, "I'll try." he hesitantly complied, he would definitely try, but if ideas and inspirations hit him while he was here then he would somehow have to make a mental note or at least jot it down before it's gone.

"Good. I'm going to work for a little bit. Feel free to do whatever you want." With that you walked towards the room in which you were going to work in bed.

'That's it?' Namjoon thought as he saw your figure close the door to the room. You really were someone he couldn't read at all. Yesterday, you seemed to be doing everything on impulse and on a whim but today you seemed distant. He had no clue about who you are other than your name, occupation and where you lived. Honestly, he found it intriguing. He wanted to know more of who you are and what kind of person you are. It would be awkward to just go to you and say 'Hey I want to know you a bit more. Can we chat?' like right now. 'Whatever, just go for it', Namjoon thought and with that he walked to where you went and pushed the door slightly and looked in with his head before fully stepping inside. He saw you sitting in the bed with the laptop and blanket over your legs. You had your headphones, presumably listening to music.

You felt a presence enter the room and you turned your head to find Namjoon standing, 'What can I help you with?" You asked as you closed your laptop and slipped your headphones off to listen to him.

"Ah, I just wanted to talk to you if you don't mind."

"About what?" You raised your eyebrows at him and patted on a spot across you on the bed for him to sit. Namjoon accepted the gesture and sat on the edge of the bed with one leg folded and the other resting against the side of the bed with the foot barely touching the floor.

"Oh um about anything really, I just want to want to get to know you a bit better since you know I'll probably be frequenting this place of yours." Namjoon looked down at your bedsheet and traced a circle over and over again with his index finger.

"Well, what do you want to know about me then?" You weren't really up for the idea of talking to him about you but he had a fair point. He was going to frequent this place and it wouldn't be ideal if he didn't know you but stayed anyways.

"Well for starters, what were you listening to?" Namjoon looked up to you.

"Music."

"Oh cool, I listen to music too. What kind of music?"

"Pop."

Few seconds passed by in the awkward atmosphere between the 2 of you.

"Okay um-nevermind this conversation. I'll be off to my room." Namjoon exhaled in slight disappointment at your lack of answers. Even talking to you was tough, he felt like he was pretty much talking to nothing.

"Okay no wait. Sorry I'm not much of a person to talk about myself." You felt shame in your actions flood your brain, " I'll admit I'm being a bit rude here. Uh the song I was listening to right now was she's in the rain by the rose. Uhm-listen to it. It's pretty good I guess." You leaned forward, hurriedly put your hand on his hand to stop him from going and then retracted your hand slowly once realizing the skin contact you had made. Small but it burned strongly at the fingertips. You didn't realize it then but the fact that the touch burned strongly was probably because you had deprived yourself of skin-ship for so long that you didn't remember how it felt anymore.

Namjoon halted and looked up to you, it soon dawned on him that you aren't much of a skin-ship person looking at how you retracted moments after barely touching him. He let out a small smile, he learned 2 things today. You like a song 'she's in the rain' by the rose and you aren't the type for skin-ships.

"Nah it's quite alright. I just wanted to know a bit about you since, you know I might be crashing this place frequently and it seems kind of weird that I don't know you at all." Namjoon slowly sat down again on the edge of the bed.

"Yeah, no that's absolutely right, you deserve to know a little about the host of the place." You murmured, keeping your eyes trained to the bed sheet surrounding your hands. A small silence followed after your reply and Namjoon took it as an end of the conversation. He slapped both of his palms flat against his thigh, "Right, well I better get going on with my stuff and let you do your own thing." Namjoon exhaled, he felt like he had in a way overstayed his stay near you. To be honest, he felt pretty awkward around you since it was out of your workspace and mostly because you felt 'difficult' or 'hard' to interact, there wasn't a click of a human connection, yet. For nth time he thought again if it was really a good idea to crash at your place when he felt it was too much and overbearing

"Ah, okay. Just remember, anytime you are welcome here Namjoon." You gave him a short and curt smile. Had anyone not been paying attention, they would have missed it. It was a tight-lipped smile but Namjoon appreciated it. Nevermind, he was gonna stay for a few hours more before leaving. 〰️ 💠 〰️

"Hyung. Where were you?" Jungkook's head perked up the moment he heard the footsteps of Namjoon entering the dorm. "You were gone for a few days, we got worried."

"Ah, I stayed at a friends house. Sorry for not informing." Namjoon replied as he rested the very blue painting he had been admiring in your place against the wall to shrug off his coat.

"Is that so?- To be honest it's getting concerning" Jungkook set down his bowl of snacks on the table that was once sitting on his lap on the couch. He twisted a little bit to the right to face the entrance and propped his arm on top of the couch backrest. He didn't miss the blue painting that was leaning against the wall, he had expected Taehyung to be the kind of person to bring artworks but not Namjoon though, maybe a bonsai tree or books being brought home would be normal.

"What's concerning?" Namjoon looked at him curiously, however he couldn't help but feel like he was going to get caught or that he had something to hide.

"You aren't what you used to be. Like when fans would come to you, you would be happy to take selfies with them but now you run away from them. It's kind of all over on news by the way, you running away from your fans. Now the media is calling you disrespectful." Jungkook looked up at him with his doe eyes. It felt like he was piercing through Namjoon to see what was Namjoon hiding, "But hyung, I've known you for a long time. Sure, running off wasn't quite nice but it's more than just running away from them because you don't want to see them. Am I right?" he hesitantly asked, hoping that Namjoon would clarify his thoughts that it was definitely more than just running away.

"Jungkook-ah it's fine. I will apologize anyways. I didn't want to see them really." Namjoon swallowed harshly and ended the conversation there, not allowing Jungkook to add in any further.

"Alright, if you say so Hyung." Jungkook wasn't fully convinced by what Namjoon said but decided to drop it to avoid pissing him off. A pissed off leader was the last thing the members in the dorm needed on their much awaited week off from their schedule.

Namjoon dragged himself to his room along with the painting and closed the door with an audible bang. Jungkook made a mental note to himself to tell other members that Namjoon is easily agitated nowadays.

Namjoon found himself staring at the sheet of paper in front of him, the blue painting had now been propped up against the wall opposite to his bed so that it would be the first thing she saw when he woke up and last thing to see before he went to sleep. He had everything he needed, a paper, a pencil, eraser and all sorts of things necessary to get going on with writing lyrics. What he was missing was his brain, well it was empty of thoughts and ideas. He was missing some kind of inspiration to write and all that was coming out of his head was lacklustre sentences. With a deep sigh he leaned back into his chair and hung his head backward as he looked at the plain white ceiling of his studio room. White and clean just like your office in the hospital.

Even though this wasn't relevant to the task he had forced himself to do, which was writing some lyrics, all that was coming to his mind at this moment was you. Your demeanor and words added to a confusing enigmatic character of you. He had never come across anyone extremely closed off- yet yearns to allow others to expose themselves to you. He figured you had some sort of trust issues, it would make sense if you did, only trusting others to spill information and so you wouldn't let on a single bit about yourself.

Who are you as a person? Do you have friends? Family? Someone special?

You on the other hand, were in your room and you still kept typing away on your laptop. You made sure to keep yourself busy at all times because you didn't want to think that you were alone and the whole place was quiet. You didn't want to be left alone to your own thoughts.

If there was one thing you hated the most, it was silence. Silence turned into a place for people to be vulnerable and face-to-face with their own thoughts, ideas and their own judgement that they promised would never come to see the light of the day.

Silence drove you nuts, because from silence it would transition into playful noises and laughters that could be heard though-out the house that was supposed to be long gone. Sometimes just the sound of someone entering home from a long day outside would get you eagerly excited like a dog waiting for its owner's arrival.

"Y/N! Get your ass down here!" A husky voice suddenly called from downstairs, it was your older brother, he had dropped out of University recently and started taking up jobs such as a barista and many other mundane jobs a high-school degree could get.

"Coming Seonghwa!" You hopped off your bed and hurriedly jogged downstairs to greet your brother by the doorsteps. Wooden floorboards creaking and groaning under your weight, the house and the flooring was old, probably in need of renovation soon but you didn't care. It was all your brothers could get with their earning and the leftover money from your late parents and you were more than happy with that.

"Are you ready? Shall we head to the hospital?" He ruffled your hair a little bit before flashing you his warm smile, his hair was slightly messy from the cap he wore at his workplace, there were bags underneath his eyes from constantly working overtime to scrape up as many cents he could.

"Yes, I am ready, let's get going." You slipped on your worn out converse shoes, it was loose and comfortable from all the years of constant rough wearing. An old ratty shoe that was due for a new one but you couldn't find it in your heart to get rid of it. It was a gift from your brothers years ago that you had cherished it even though it was originally a few sizes too big.

The two of you were heading to the hospital to meet your middle brother, Seonghwa was the oldest while you were the youngest and Hongjoong was the middle one. Your parents had long passed away or that is what you had been told by your brothers, so that is why Seonghwa had to drop out of University to start being the bread-winner of the family when the price of education was getting ludicrously high. It was originally Hongjoong who had dropped out to start working since he just finished high school and you were still doing your 11th grade while Seonghwa was halfway through 1st term. But things started to get worse, your middle brother had gradually started growing sicker each passing day and one fine day you found him collapsed in the kitchen, completely pale and depleted of energy.

After admitting Hongjoong to hospital, Seonghwa and you learned that he had brain cancer that had been ebbing his energy away and emotional stability bit by bit. After a long and lengthy talk session in the room your brother was admitted, the two of them decided that Seonghwa will drop out of university to fund the medical bills and let you continue your education. You hated the idea, but you didn't put up much of a fight. It was the most logical thing to do and you wanted to get into a medical school, earn well and save Hongjoong, that is if he keeps holding on till then.

Ever since then, the house grew emptier, only you were the one that stayed in the house, majority of the night the house was empty and the hospital room was filled with soft snores of the three of you sleeping together mixing with the faint beeping sound of the medical equipment. Hongjoong on the bed, you on the couch and Seonghwa on the makeshift bed right next to Hongjoong. Despite the rough times, you found comfort and solace in the presence of both your brothers, but that didn't stop you from feeling anxious every fleeting day about how Hongjoong was doing, about how Seonghwa was holding up. You could only see Hongjoong looking paler and paler despite him smiling. You could only see Seonghwa coming home more tired, more dull than the previous day yet he never failed to smile and keep you happy and give you company.

It was going great, really great, you had hopes that your brother would recover from brain cancer, your older brother would eventually be able to get back to studying university and everything would be back to normal.

That's what you thought, of course it's never that easy, never that good, life doesn't give it to you that easy.

It started declining steeply to a shitty end of a chapter, and it started with your elder brother first.

Suddenly a pinging sound resonated from your laptop and you were pulled back to reality harshly, you were still sitting on the bed, the only difference was that you slipped up and let yourself succumb to the silence. The music in the headphones had stopped playing a while back because it had reached the end of the playlist, so with a painful sigh and clenched up throat you pulled off your headphones and gingerly closed your laptop. The warmth of the memory slowly faded and cold air seeped through your skin. Your head felt heavy yet empty and a familiar negative feeling seemed to enclose around your head and your line of bright vision to a duller light.

You didn't feel like sleeping tonight, maybe another shift at the hospital wouldn't hurt. This was your coping mechanism, running away and busying yourself in work that gave you no space in your mind to think about anything else.

#kpop #kpop imagines #namjoon fic #namjoon x reader #bts #bts imagines #ateez fanfic #ateez x reader #ateez hongjoong #ateez seonghwa #kpop angst #kpop fluff

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jentrevellan · 4 years ago

Text

Believe Again: Chapter Five

Rating: Mature Fandom: Dragon Age Inquisition Relationships: Cullen Rutherford x Female Trevelyan Tags: slow burn, slow build, slow romance, mage/templar dynamics, family drama, templars, mages, enemies to friends to lovers, angst, lyrium withdrawal, crisis of faith, loss of faith, The Chantry, sexual tension, innuendo

MASTERPOST:

A/N: Tags to be updated. Chapters posted on the 1st Thursday of the month.

<-PREVIOUS CHAPTER | NEXT CHAPTER->

CHAPTER Five - Elsie

...so I met the Herald of Andraste this morning. She’s already becoming pretty famous around these parts but after meeting her, I was struck by how normal she was. A woman just shy of thirty, and a mage. I watched as she helped drive away the apostates and rogue templars from the Crossroads and I was impressed. Her magic is scary, like all mages, but from the little I know of the art I could see that she had immense control and I felt like I was witnessing something special to see her wield it. I know that contradicts what I said about her being normal. Maybe that’s why people like her already - myself included

- Part of a letter sent by Scout Lace Harding to her mother

5. Elsie

Although horse riding was in her blood and she had been on horseback more in the past year than most of her life put together; Elsie was still desperately out of practice, especially when travelling roads she didn't know with a mare who was almost as stubborn as she was. By the time they had made camp that first evening on their journey, Elsie was no closer to getting on with her horse who had the most ridiculous name of Buttercup. Normally such a name would not offend her, but Buttercup was so unlike her namesake in both looks and temperament that Elsie couldn’t help but resent it.

Perhaps she was projecting her bubbling anger unknowingly on the poor mare. For most of the day, Elsie’s thoughts had been consumed with that of Commander Cullen. Cold, calculated, emotionless ex-templar, she thought bitterly as she set up her tent by a stream with the others.

“I think I’m going to pitch my tent away from the Herald,” Varric said with a wink. “She looks like she’s about to set something on fire, and I’m rather fond of my chest hair.”

Elsie rolled her eyes but managed a smile. “I’m sorry, I’m just-”

“Brooding?” Varric interjected.

She frowned at him. “I wasn’t brooding,” she muttered.

Varric laughed. “Believe me Dimples, I know brooding when I see it. I learnt from the expert also known as Fenris.”

Elsie didn’t reply and continued to pitch her tent in silence but tried to act more calmly. She was annoyed with the Commander and frustrated about how they had left things: she would much rather resolve the conflict upfront than sit and stew, which she had done for most of the day. Also, considering he had stayed in Haven, his obvious resentment towards her would no doubt be exacerbated by her absence, especially as she was not there to defend herself.

She heaved a sigh and instead turned back to Varric who was now reclining on a blanket outside of his tent.

“You’re from Kirkwall, right Varric?” she asked slowly, taking a seat on a log near him.

“Well if that’s not a loaded question, I don’t know what is,” he chuckled. “Out with it Dimples - you know I’m from Kirkwall...for better or worse.”

Elsie spread her hands as she searched for the right words. “Alright - Commander Cullen was from Kirkwall too, yes? Did you know him? Was he part of the mage uprising?”

Varric looked at her closely before shaking his head. “Alright, I’ll tell you Herald… but you’re not going to like it.”

The ride the next day was even more subdued as Elsie mulled over everything Varric had told her. Oh, like many apostates she had read his ‘Tales of the Champion’, whilst on the run, with the desire to know more about the mage couple who had started the rebellion. Her sister Evelyn had even been stationed at the Gallows before the trouble really started and had once mentioned in passing that she had met the Champion. Not for the first time, Elsie wished she could speak to her sister again, to ask her if she knew Cullen - surely their paths would’ve crossed on occasion, especially if he had been a commanding officer? She made a mental note to ask him about Evelyn once they were on better speaking terms… if that were to happen.

“So the Commander of the Inquisition just… turned a blind eye? Let things escalate and did nothing?” Elsie asked Varric that following evening.

Varric blinked at the sudden change in subject but recovered quickly. “I suppose that’s something you would need to ask him yourself. But he stood up against Meredith with us in the end.”

“In the end,” Elsie repeated slowly. “Some of what I’ve heard from mages who escaped the Gallows-”

“Are exaggerations, no doubt,” Cassandra interrupted, walking past them on her way to her tent. She looked down at them, her hands on her hips. “None of us were truly there in the Gallows or in the ranks. A Templar doesn’t question orders - that’s what makes them excellent soldiers.”

“But people died because he chose to look the other way!” Elsie replied heatedly, getting to her feet. She had been sitting and stewing on this fact for most of the day, and could feel her hands shaking.

“I think he knows that, Dimples,” Varric said quietly.

“Indeed,” Cassandra continued. “What matters now is that he made the right choices and was invaluable with the relief efforts in Kirkwall. That’s what I saw when I sought to recruit him - a brilliant soldier and swordsman, unafraid to admit he was wrong and more than willing to atone.” With that, Cassandra retreated into her tent without another word.

Varric and Elsie lapsed into a companionable silence, and the dwarf plucked at his crossbow idly whilst staring into the campfire, his mind obviously back in Kirkwall or someplace. Elsie thought over Cassandra’s words and offered a small smile to Solas who sat down opposite her and pulled out a book. She watched the elf set his staff down carefully on the ground by his feet and flick open a couple of pages before finding his place where he had left off. A prickle of magic she was now becoming familiar with and Elsie knew that Solas had just returned from setting wards around their little camp. She felt his soft magic flow silently around them and that’s when she remembered something that she had been sitting on since her talk with Varricc the previous evening.

She peered over her shoulder at Cassandra’s tent before leaning in closer to Varric, her voice low. “Can I ask you something?”

“You already have, but I guess you have another question?” he grinned, and Elsie gave him a gentle swat on the arm in response.

“Just something you said about Commander Cullen yesterday that’s been on my mind… does he really not see mages as people?” her mouth felt dry as she asked and Solas looked up from the book he was reading.

Varric’s good and contemplative mood evaporated and he looked down at his feet, rubbing his chin as he decided how to answer.

“You don’t forget something like that,” he admitted slowly. “But Curly has changed an awful lot since then; you would have to ask him yourself.”

Elsie rolled her eyes. “Sure, because we are such good friends.”

“Perhaps we need to give Cullen the benefit of the doubt,” Solas said, ever calm. “It’s the least we can do if we don’t want him to judge us as much as we are apparently judging him.”

She noted the quiet rebuke but didn’t comment on it. “I just feel like he’s watching us all the time - like when we were training before we left Haven.”

“With all due respect Elsie, it wasn’t me he was staring at,” Solas said, a wry smile tugging on the corners of his mouth.

“Oh really?” Varric said eagerly, threading his fingers together. “Do tell me more. Would you say he was ‘enraptured’? Besotted?”

Heat coursed through Elsie. “Really Varric,” she shook her head.

Varric ignored her. “Is the Commander Templar pining for the Herald mage I wonder? Opposites do attract after all.”

Elsie crossed her arms and regarded him coolly, hoping her warm cheeks didn’t give her away. “The journey must be making you weary for you are delusional,” she said calmly, although her gut twisted at the thought of him watching her as a person, as a woman, and not because she was a mage. “Besides, I don’t think the Commander could manage friendship with a mage, let alone be intimate with one.”

“Who said anything about intimacy?” Varric grinned, and Elsie wanted to put her fist in her mouth. She looked over at Solas for some support but the elf was smiling down at his book, refusing to meet her eye.

“Come now Dimples! Curly isn’t exactly hard on the eyes now, is he?”

He’s right about that , she admitted silently, thinking of his strong jaw and chiselled cheekbones.

“Don’t forget the thrill of a forbidden romance,” the dwarf continued.

“What are you, a smutty romance writer?” she said, playing close attention to her gloves.

“I have been known to dabble.”

“Maker’s balls,” she swore. “If you are quite finished, I’m going to bed before you say any more ridiculous nonsense and start naming children or some other hogwash,” she said, waving a hand.

“That’s some pretty strong denial there,” Solas smiled.

Elsie glared at him. “Traitor,” she mumbled, hiding a smile as she got to her feet. “This conversation is over. Goodnight!”

She strode to her tent, the sounds of the elf and the dwarf’s laughter following her. “Have pleasant dreams of Curly!” Varric called after her.

Oh, how she wished she could slam a tent flap shut.

Needless to say, Elsie took a few moments to collect herself, although the taunting words of Varric and Solas rang in her ears. Cullen was a troubled, complicated man with a dark past and perhaps she had given him too little credit. And yet, as Elsie undressed and slipped into a simple nightdress, her hands lingered on her collarbone and her waist and she wondered what it would feel like if his breath tickled her neck and if it were his hands on her instead of her own -

Abruptly, she snatched her hands away, as if scolded. Maker, am I that desperate for comfort? So eager for the touch of another person that she would fantasise about a man she barely knew and antagonised her so? Stupid handsome Commander , she thought. It was his fault being - as Varric had said - not so bad on the eyes. She wasn’t sure if that made her dislike him more or less.

Despite her self-scolding, Elsie did dream of the Commander and as was typical of the Fade, it distorted the reality. She saw him as a Templar in Ostwick, walking the hallways she had known so well for many years. And in her dreams he was softer but strong, and pressed her quietly up against the library shelves, tucked away in secret corners, giving in to temptation.

A cold dip in the river the following morning chased all heated thoughts away, and as their journey continued, she sobered greatly as they faced demons and closed a rift which had already taken the lives of a small farming family. The next few days were much the same, which gave the small group a chance to practice working and fighting together. As they finally descended into the Hinterlands proper, Elsie was too full of simple wonder admiring the luscious green landscape to even complain about her saddle sores. The tall trees, the long grass and the tame fennecs were enough to calm her soul and soon all confusing thoughts of the Commander of the Inquisition had fled her mind.

The beauty of the landscape was a sharp contrast to the bloodshed they soon encountered.

The Crossroads were a mess. They left their horses to recover at the forward camp with Scout Harding and descended into the valley on foot. As the screams and shouts became louder, Elsie exchanged a worried glance with Cassandra, who nodded grimly and drew her sword. They rounded the corner and saw the scuffle between Inquisition soldiers, Templars and mages; so the foursome prepared themselves as they had practiced: Solas set a ward over them all, Varric slung Bianca from over his shoulder and Cassandra braced in a warrior pose whilst flames licked Elsie’s fingers.

Despite their plans to not fight them, both the Templars and apostates refused to listen. Elsie wrapped her flames around a Templar who boiled in his metal armour screaming in agony. She then felt a dreaded tingle of blood magic from behind her and spun on her heel, twirled her staff and shot a fireball at an apostate before they could finish summoning a demon. Their robes were set alight and the blood mage screamed in both pain and frustration as she summoned an ice cloud over her to douse the flames. However, she was too slow as Cassandra skidded on her knees past Elsie and lunged upwards with her sword to dig her weapon into the mage’s gut.

She spluttered blood from her mouth, her eyes wide, before she grinned sadistically at Cassandra. In a pool of blood and magic, the mage transformed into a hideous abomination and Elsie shuddered involuntarily as it screeched at them. It swung its huge, unnatural arms down at Cassandra, who quickly blocked with her shield, but she was too slow, and the abomination ripped it away from her arm, causing the Seeker to cry out in pain with what Elsie quickly summarised was likely a broken wrist.

Instinct took over and Elsie summoned fire to wrap around the abomination as she ran forward and reached behind her back to grab her dagger. As her flames distracted the creature, she lunged up with her sharp blade and slashed its throat. It screeched in agony, but the cut wasn’t deep enough to be fatal. Elsie spun on her heel and swung her staff over her head, which was alight and burning with her magic. She went to strike again, aiming her dagger for the gut this time, but the abomination reached down and grabbed Elsie by the throat, dragging her off her feet. She dropped her dagger from her left hand and her staff from her right, and both fell to the cobbled ground with a clatter. She clawed desperately at the creature’s grossly malformed hands that were squeezing her throat, but her vision began to blur, even when the abomination leaned closer and whispered, with rotted breath ‘traitor’.

Elsie almost stopped struggling as she processed the word it had uttered. Fear groped her and she tried to gulp for air but its grip was strong -

Shuck.

She fell to the ground, suddenly free and sucked in as much air as she could with large, rasping gasps. Confused, she pulled herself to her feet and peered over at the now still abomination. A crossbow bolt was embedded between its rolled, bloodshot eyes. She turned to see Varric give her a quick wink before he turned and helped Solas with the final stragglers.

Cassandra stood leaning against a fence post, cradling her arm. “It’s over,” she said, looking around them.

Elsie nodded, unable to summon her voice. She looked around and saw body after fallen body litter the ground. Almost all the deceased were rogue templars or apostates and yet she did not feel particularly relieved about that fact. She didn’t really feel much of anything and went over to heal Cassandra’s wrist with a flick of magic she barely had to think about.

Traitor

Rubbing her neck sore neck and shrugging off Cassandra’s thanks, Elsie walked between the bodies as Inquisition soldiers began to sort and pile them up. Cassandra and Varric followed her every move like her shadow, but Solas remained apart and went to help with the physicians and offer his healing magic. Elsie knew she needed to join him and offer her limited skill of healing, but for her at that moment, it was important for her to look down on the faces of the people who had died - the people she had killed. Faces of men and women, elves and people passed her by, but the body of a blonde elven mage in tattered Circle robes gave her pause. The elf’s eyes were open, her green gaze staring at nothingness. She had no markings on her face, save for the bruises and blood from the skirmish and her ashen hair was clumps of blood tangled in it. She had one lone earring in her right ear and the metal was worn, as if regularly rubbed. Elsie wondered if it had been given to her by her mother, or a friend or a lover?

“It is war,” Varric mumbled from beside her, as Elsie let out a ragged breath. She reached forward and closed the elf’s eyes, her skin already cold.

“Doesn’t mean I have to like it,” she replied bitterly. How many did I kill today? She thought. How many fellow mages? How many of my sister’s comrades?

“Herald,” Cassandra said, crossing her arms. “Elsie?” she said quietly when Elsie looked up at her. “We should report to Corporal Vale-”

“No, not yet,” Elsie said, regaining her composure and turning her back on the dead elf. “I need to help heal the wounded and speak to Mother Giselle. The rest can wait.”

“But-”

Elsie strode on past the Seeker and headed towards Solas who was crouched by a row of stretchers. “By all mean go and see the Corporal - but I’ve got work to be getting on with,” and with that, Elsie knelt down next to Solas and downed a lyrium potion before setting her hands on a soldier’s thigh and applying pressure.

Three days after the skirmish, Elsie had spoken to Mother Giselle, but she had still not left the Crossroads, much to Cassandra’s agitation. The injured were many and everyday more came in the hopes of being seen by a healer or someone who could help them. Broken families and quiet children became a common sight to Elsie as she helped heal those in the greatest of need.

It was on the fifth day that Cassandra finally dared to approach her directly. They had not spoken to one another since Elsie’s cool dismissal and she had barely spared a thought for the Seeker - Elsie’s primary concern was helping those in need and she said as much to Cassandra when they spoke as Elsie finished wrapping a bandage around a young man’s arm.

“I spoke to Mother Giselle before she left for Haven,” Cassandra said levelly, watching Elsie work.

“Did you indeed,” she replied, not looking up from her task as her fingers worked deftly to complete the dressing.

“Yes and she said she spoke to you about appealing to the Chantry directly in Val Royeaux-”

“And I will,” Elsie interrupted, tying a knot, and tugging on it to test the strength. “But I cannot even think about journeying to Orlais when my work here is not finished.”

Cassandra frowned and crossed her arms. She was silent for a moment as she considered her next words. “You are needed elsewhere, Herald. We must return to Haven at once to plan with the others about how we approach the Chantry in Val Royeaux!”

Elsie remained silent as she checked her handiwork and smiled at the soldier. “How does that feel?”

The young man nodded gratefully. “Much better, thank you, Your Worship.”

She got to her feet and wiped her hands on a cloth. “You’re welcome. Now, make sure you rest and you’ll be back swinging a sword in no time.”

“Yes, Your Worship,” he mumbled, lowering his eyes.

Elsie walked into the main cabin and approached the desk where she made a note on the patient’s care on a ledger. She idly rubbed her neck as she wrote, as the bruising there was still painful and was turning a grotesque shade of purple. Cassandra followed her and waited as patiently as she could, which Elsie knew she was pushing. Finally, she turned to the Seeker.

“I’ve spoken to Corporal Vale - there is much work to be done here: much more than healing these people.”

Cassandra bristled. “So let the healers and physicians take over and let us return to-”

“No, I cannot,” Elsie said sharply, cutting Cassandra off. “Whilst the healers can now cope with the wounded here, what about outside of this valley? Cassandra, the King’s Road is not safe for these people to leave and return to their homes. We need to stop the Templars and apostates, not to mention the raiders and mercenaries, otherwise our leaving would just undo all of the work done thus far and endanger the lives of those we have already saved!” she exclaimed. Her voice had risen unintentionally and a few patients in the beds around them looked over at them both curiously. Closing her eyes, Elsie took a breath before continuing more calmly. “Don’t you see? If we alleviate the threat in the Hinterlands, word will spread of the good and sustainable work the Inquisition is doing - which will hole more sway and influence when we eventually do go to Val Royeaux.” Elsie’s hand’s shook, so she clasped them together, hoping the Seeker had not noticed. “And I know it must be me that helps - you must’ve read the reports from Vale: there are rifts all over the Hinterlands only I can close.”

The two women stared each other down for a moment until Cassandra finally spoke begrudgingly. “It seems you’ve thought a great deal about this.”

Elsie shrugged. “It helps to think and keep the mind busy when you’re wrapping bandages and the like,” she replied, in an attempt to lighten the mood.

Cassandra signed and conceded. “Very well. Your theory is sound, even though I don’t fully agree. I know for sure the others back at Haven won’t approve either.”

Elsie smiled faintly. “Well I am sure they will cope,” she said dryly, just knowing the reports the Commander would receive about her stubbornness to cooperate to his orders would drive him mad. “In any case, I will write to them - personally - to explain our plans.”

“That would be helpful, I suppose.”

“Excellent,” Elsie grinned, rubbing her hands together. “Now, will you help me give these poor folk some lunch?”

<- PREVIOUS CHAPTER | NEXT CHAPTER ->

#Believe Again #Fic: Believe Again #my writing #writing #long post #fanfic #fanfiction #cullen #cullen rutherford #elsie trevelyan #cullen x inquisitor #cullen x trevelyan #cullen romance #cullen stanton rutherford

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gwiiyeoweo · 5 years ago

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It was a joke, created from an accidental remark of misnaming Cor as someone else. But naturally, things escalate.

Rating: Explicit Pairing: Cor/Noctis

It started innocently enough, through a casual slip of the tongue and resulting in an embarrassed prince.

Cor brushed the tip of his sword across the ground, relaxing from his defensive stance from which he had just parried Noctis’ attack. The boy was still slow, still trying to climb over the hurdles of chronic pain and tough scarring that addled his limbs and nerves, but his efforts and progress was nothing short of remarkable. Not many survivors, at least those with such extensive damage, could ever hope to make half the recovery Noctis made over the years. Still, there were a ways to go and many years before the young thing could land a scratch on Cor.

“Shit, go easy on me for once, dad —”

Noctis had been nursing his bruised ego and his even more bruised ass, flung to his back and eating dirt and gravel, until that single word froze his hands in place and blew his eyes wide open.

Cor knew for certain that the pink dusting the boy’s cheeks was not the sunburn from the clear skies, especially not with how Scientia had slathered him with bulletproof sunscreen when he learned they’d be training outside today. Knew for certain how to spot a blooming teen’s embarrassment for what it was, how the hunched shoulders and brief panic flashing across his face meant a mini crisis taken way more seriously than it needed to be. Hell, Cor had been in Noctis’ position a handful of times, back in his days of youth training under his captain who was truly more of a father figure than a severe militant.

But of course, Noctis was in that age of rampant hormones and emotions all thrown into a blender, stuck between keeping up this “cool” persona and penting up his anxieties when he ought to be free to feel how he wanted and seeking help when he needed — except, teenage stubbornness was a helluva beast.

In essence, Noctis was embarrassed by the all too common problem of misnaming a not-dad, dad.

Cor didn’t really care. He’s done it a handful of times, and while he’s not an actual father, he supposed he was something of a father figure to a good number of trainees anyway. So he ignored it, like he did in the past.

“All the more reason to keep you on your toes, considering you have a hard time even standing,” Cor said, not even batting an eyelash at Noctis’ slip.

Noctis’ shoulders sagged in infinite gratitude, losing the stiffness that had seemed to seize him in his moment of teenage terror. Really, was it that ego-shattering to accidentally call the man a dad?

The accidents never stopped, though they were few and far in between. Eventually Noctis matured enough to not even care himself, even going so far as to intentionally “mistake” Cor as his father. Sometimes, he cracked dad jokes — sometimes, both of them did.

“Gods, I am exhausted. Can we take a breather? Please?”

“Hello, exhausted,” Cor said, offering a hand to pull Noctis up from the floor. The prince almost landed a good blow to Cor’s knees, much to the man’s pride, but his rushed attack left him wide open and prone to a fatal counterattack; once again, he had been flung to the ground with a well-timed kick and shove. Noctis rolled his eyes, already realizing his fatal mistake and expecting the joke to follow. “I am dad. But only ten minutes, no more than that.”

It was strange. Not because Cor wasn’t actually a father, or that he had issues with being seen as one. It was strange simply because of how easy they had both slipped into this inside joke. Truly though, he could understand the how and why from Noctis’ point of view, even when he doubted the prince himself knew the reason.

Cor’s been around for far too long to not notice, after all, and while he’s no psychiatrist, he suspected it all stemmed from a sort of longing. A need to fill the absence of a father. He couldn’t blame Regis, not when he had a kingdom on his shoulders and a war knocking on his very walls. Neither could he blame Noctis, a withdrawn prince who tried to pass off his loneliness as cool indifference when all he wanted was a pat on the shoulder and a word of praise. Both father and son tried to spend what rare time they could with each other, Regis pushing his meetings and council session as far back as he could just to spare a twenty-minute lunch with his boy, and Noctis keeping whatever complaints he had bottled up because he fully understood that the safety of their people far outweighed his desire for a family dinner.

He’s seen their struggles. Regis would work himself into the early hours of dawn, foregoing sleep and much-needed rest, sacrifice even more of his life and blood for his kingdom, even though the Crystal has taken more than its due. Both Cor and Clarus would have to physically manhandle their King out of his office and into his bedroom, his weak and tired protests swatted down like shriveled up flies.

And Noctis? All he could do was watch his father wither away, see the once all-powerful man speed through his remaining years within months. And bear witness to his future in the face of his own blood, see his life cut short in the lines and wrinkles of Regis’ face.

Cor could never truly replace Regis — he’d never dream of it — but if he could at least help the both of them by just passing off a few dad jokes here and there, then he might just end up writing down a whole list of them just to share with Noctis.

The young man was looking more gloomy as of late, which is why they’ve been going overtime on their sparring session today. Cor’s learned how Noctis ticked, and he knew one of the prince’s flaws was his habit of bottling everything up. But wear his body down enough, and his mind will follow. Eventually, Noctis would have to spill the beans on what’s been weighing on his heart.

“Your focus is slipping, Prince,” Cor chided, tapping his blunt sword at Noctis’ foot. Said prince chose to take his ten-minute break sprawled on the ground, the cool tiles of the indoor training room a balm against his cheek. He’s even taken the liberty of lifting his shirt up to his neck, making the most of his short reprieve and cooling down as fast he can before he’s hauled back up to his feet. Cor tried not to let his eyes linger too long on that smooth skin, or the hint of a scar that wrapped around from his back to his hip bones, or that teasing peek of his chest and a dusty pink nipple —

Right, so maybe his focus was slipping.

Cor coughed into his fist and maneuvered his gaze away, somewhere up to the left of Noctis’ face. “Something on your mind?”

Noctis, unaware of what had just happened, only groaned and rolled his forearm over his face. "Yeah, a lot actually."

Bingo. Cor sat down beside him, placing his practice sword on his lap and folding his hands over it, and decided Noctis deserved more than a ten-minute breather to discuss his woes. He'd sit there and wait for as long as it took anyway, if only to help lighten whatever troubles that shackled his prince's spirits.

"Go on," he encouraged, hoping Noctis was willing to share his burdens rather than keep them to himself. When there's nothing but silence, Cor almost believed those walls weren't worn down enough, was about to think of another method other than physical exhaustion to get the boy to open up.

"It's, uh… Complicated,” Noctis finally said.

"Try me."

"Okay, well. Um. So there's a friend. A real great friend. And we have this little joke, yeah? And we're just going at it, having a good time, but eventually it just kind of escalates. I guess. So do I just keep playing? Am I getting the wrong signals here? Does he feel what I think he feels?" Noctis started rambling, flinging his hands into the air and gesturing this way and that, throwing air quotes or just waving them about.

Cor sort of… Got it. Noctis wasn't releasing any names, but he knew this friend must be male. Prompto, Cor suspected, as he's the only friend Noctis has made outside the Citadel.

" — like playing that dumb penis game. Like, you're in a library or something and you take turns whispering penis louder and louder until one of you chickens out or you get told to shut up. But no one's around to tell you to shut up, and eventually someone's gonna end up yelling penis because you're both pretty stubborn and — "

Cor wasn't sure where Noctis was trying to go with that analogy, but he nodded sagely along and pretends he one hundred percent understood. But whatever the case, he thought Noctis must be wary of where to go, to continue with apparent ignorance until one of them cracked and spilled how they truly feel or to stop and say it aloud at the risk of fracturing their friendship.

" — the hell am I supposed to do? I mean, it's weird, he'll probably think it's weird but what if he doesn't? I know what I feel, and I really want to think it's not my bias giving me false signals, but I'm pretty sure he feels the same way? And if he doesn't, well, that's cool too. I won't push him, but I'd really like him to stick around and not feel pressured to keep up a facade if he feels awkward and — "

Cor leaned over and gently slapped his hand over Noctis' running mouth, and the boy shoots him the classic 'how dare you' look. He shook his head and pulled his hand away, Noctis picking up the signal and keeping his mouth shut.

"Alright, I won't claim to be the best at these things, but I will give my two cents," Cor said, and Noctis perked up at the offer. "Personally, I would confront them, but I understand your caution. If following the rules of the game isn't working, then increase the stakes. If you don't want to directly ask them, do so indirectly but make it so terribly obvious even a blind man can see. Increase the difficulty, bonus round, however you want to think it."

Noctis frowned, mulling over the advice and turning it over in his head. “I… guess I could do that.”

“And if that doesn’t work and that friend of yours turns sour, you have a slew of Crownsguard and I to show up at his doorstep.”

“Stop that.” Noctis smacked Cor’s arm, holding back a laugh as his face brightened up. “That’s power abuse, and I don’t think that’s gonna work on him.”

“Regis would find a kingly way to name it otherwise, I’m sure.”

That earned him another laugh, accompanied by a roll of the eyes, but Noctis already looked several pounds lighter now that he’s gotten it out of his system. Already up again, dusting his shirt and the back off his pants before hefting up his practice sword. Already raring to go for the next round without even being prompted to — nice.

“Hey,” Noctis said, resuming his stance and digging his heels into the floor.

“Yes, Highness?”

"Thanks, daddy."

Huh, Noctis hasn't called him daddy before.

Cor was a damn idiot. A damn, dense idiot.

He really should have seen this coming a mile, no, a hundred miles away. He should have seen the signs on himself before even noticing them on Noctis.

He had seen the odd glances thrown his way, the way Noctis' eyes tended to wander over places they never wandered before, especially with a nuance the prince never used with anyone else.

But when Cor's own eyes lingered just a second too long at the sweat dripping down that slender neck, he realized Noctis matured in more ways than just age and growth. And gods, he would drive his own sword into his heart the moment Regis found out.

Yet when Noctis slammed himself down, he thought there might as well be a blade struck in his chest already, considering the shudder that pierced his nerves and pinned his mind back to reality. Pinned his eyes on Noctis straddling him from above and riding him into the next century. Another obscene slap of skin had Cor bite back a surprised breath, but Noctis looked on from his throne with a shit-eating grin and a lick to his lips. Cor didn't think he'd be that turned on, but well.

“Fucking brat,” he wanted to say, but Noctis’ unrelenting rhythm only allowed him a guttural “ Fuck” instead. And he knew that stroked the prince’s ego even more, considering how he clenched around Cor’s cock at the implied praise. Unfortunately, he couldn't hold back the low groan, and his fingers dug into the pliant flesh of Noctis' hips, barely keeping himself from leaving more than just a few suspicious bruises. Torn between keeping him in place to simply savor the warmth and to drag him underneath to ravage him.

Noctis relented in his pace only to grind himself along, slow and burning and gods damnit, the boy was toying with Cor now. He lifted a hand from Cor’s chest, bare and exposed when Noctis had clawed his way through the shirt and ripped it off — when and how he became so brazen, Cor had wondered for only a moment before lips came devouring after his — and he tiptoed two fingers across the hard planes of Cor’s stomach to his sternum, lightly digging a fingernail there.

“What?” Noctis laughed, eyeing the man with something absolutely devious. “Is daddy gonna punish me?”

Ah, shit. Those words alone were nearly enough to undo him, and he fought to keep his seams together as he squeezed his eyes and dug his skull into the safety mats underneath. Cor never thought he’d have a daddy kink, but neither did he imagine any of this would happen. (There may have been a few ambiguous wet dreams here and there, with a blurry imaged prince and the empty echo of his voice, but he had chopped it up to the dry spell as of late.)

"Oh, I think he likes it." Noctis’ words came in breathy moans, a tell-tale sign of his own arousal and heat. He must be struggling just as much as Cor, slowly rolling his hips and denying that sweet ecstasy from them both, trying to keep his head above water and not drown in the heat of the moment, all in order to relish this rare power he had over the man.

Cor still had his eyes shut tight, but he felt a slow drag of movement and a shift in weight on his chest. There’s warmth beside his face, where damp hair tickled his cheek and eyelids. Lips crawled up the sensitive skin of his neck, to his jaw then his ears, leaving light wet kisses as they explored and conquered. As if there was still anything left to take.

His resistance fell to the wayside the moment Noctis had landed his first proper hit on him, taking Cor by surprise with a tricky warp and knocking them both against the nearest wall. Noctis had held the practice blade up to Cor’s neck, the blunt edge pressing against an artery. And pressing a thigh in between his legs. They had been skirting around the tension for the past few months, using their trading blows and crossing swords as an excuse to press skin upon skin and breath upon breath. But in that moment, something had just snapped. Maybe it had been Cor’s reasoning, or Noctis’ buttons being torn off.

“Does daddy like that?” Noctis whispered into his ear, hot breath ghosting over his skin and sending a shudder down his spine. As if to further torture him, Noctis ground his hips just right and breathed a moan so obscene Cor thought he’d need to go repent at an altar.

Who in the hell taught Noctis to do that? Cor was torn between relinquishing his position to them in promotion and shoving them into the dankest prison cell beneath the Citadel, because this was an utter sin and a blessing all in one.

Under Noctis’ crafty mouth and within his intoxicating warmth, it didn’t take long for Cor to unravel. He arched his back, even lifting Noctis with him, while his hands groped for purchase and settled on the boy’s thighs, and he came in a burst of white stars and sparklers. All sound was drowned out in the rush of blood in his ears, but he could feel Noctis’ mouth groan against his chest and the shudder of his body against his own.

Noctis must have come right after, because Cor saw the streak of milk white on his stomach when he finally opened his eyes again, expecting a sleepy-eyed prince but getting a smug-looking brat instead.

“Heh, thought you’d have a lot more stamina that that, old man,” Noctis said, lolling his head to the side and watching through half-lidded eyes.

Something inside Cor flared at that, even though he knew what game Noctis was playing. Fine, he’ll fall for it, if only to turn that arrogant smile into an utter moaning mess.

“Alright, Highness, you asked for it.” Cor growled and gripped the boy’s hips, flipping their positions with a surprised gasp from Noctis. Cor loomed over him, dragging their hips together with a forceful thrust that had the boy tipping his head back in a sharp inhale and eyes blown wide. “I think you’ve been a bad boy,” he began, nipping at a patch of skin just beneath the collarbone. “And a glutton for punishment.”

Noctis hooked his legs around Cor’s back, practically drawing him closer and deeper, keeping him from backing out with a strength that even impressed Cor, and laced his arms around the man’s neck to rake fingernails against the ridges of his spine. With fluttering eyelashes and the most wicked ‘come hither’ look Cor’s ever witnessed, Noctis tipped forward to nip at the man’s lips and gently roll that soft flesh between his teeth.

Cor would gladly let him eat him alive, he suddenly thought, but of course —

“Then punish me, daddy.”

‘This little shit.’

If Noctis was laughing before, he was screaming now. And Cor would make sure to have him begging and chanting his name before he was through.

“I hope you know what you’ve gotten yourself into, Highness.”

They're bundled up together, with Noctis atop Cor's chest and tracing a lazy circle on his skin, blanketed by their old clothes, while Cor played with the boy’s wayward hair, absentmindedly twirling a lock around his finger. It's nice, he'll admit, being able to just bask in the afterglow and finally being able to uncoil all that tension that's been building up for gods know how long.

“Don't worry about it, already asked dad."

"You what."

So naturally, Noctis would ruin the moment by casually blurting out one of the man's worst fears. Cor's hand stilled, heart going a mile a minute — and yup, there's the pressure of dread building up in his stomach, ripe and ready for his sword. Noctis must have heard the hammering in his chest because he picked up his head to look Cor dead in the eyes and clasp both cheeks in between his hands.

"Calm down, he's not gonna kill you," he reassured. "Hell, he gave me the shovel talk. His own son! Said underneath that gruff look is a heart that bruises like a peach. Like how you got dumped in your teens and moped around for a good month, writing cheesy poetry and whatever."

Oh, gods. Cor's stuck between relief and mortification. Relief knowing he won't have to redeem himself or repent for his lost honor — for his own, or Noctis', or both — and mortification that Noctis already talked to his own father about all of whatever this is and that Regis had revealed a snippet of his past he thought was buried forever.

Perhaps, it was Cor who should re-analyze what he's gotten himself into.

"Stop thinking so hard," Noctis ordered, shifting his weight over Cor, their clothes sliding off him when he straddled him again. He splayed one hand over Cor's chest while he dipped the other lower, fingers tracing the trail of hair that lead down, over muscle and hip bone and sensitive skin and hard planes of well-earned muscle. "Or I'll make you."

But oh, when his prince looked at him with such favor and demand, lips teasing and tongue sharp, how could Cor ever deny him?

#ff15 #final fantasy xv #cor leonis #kinktober 2019 #noctis lucis caelum #i can type

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faveficarchive · 5 years ago

Text

The High Road to Low Expectations

Number 666 of the White Trash Series

By Vivian Darkbloom

Pairing: Xena/Gabrielle

Rating: Mature

Synopsis: In the final installment of the White Trash series, Cyrene fucks up the weed, Gabrielle is on a mad search for the right kind of weed, and not-so-surprising new facts arise when Eli starts a film project and chooses Dahak’s.

CW: There’s some off-screen sexual assault in this one. Two lines, but it’s there.

You wonder why we're only half-ashamed

Because enough is too much

And look around…

Can you blame us? Can you blame us?

—Morrisey, "Interesting Drug"

1. The Mother of Peace

In 1967, just before she dropped out of the honors program at Berkeley in order to join Strawberry Alarm Clock on tour, Cyrene had participated in a student takeover of the president’s office on campus.

It was her finest moment: She was the Revolution incarnate. Wearing a beret, armed with a bullhorn, she lectured, cajoled, exhorted her fellow students to leave the past behind, to join with the Students Against Totalitarianism and Nostalgia (SATAN) in rebuilding the university for the future. The past was dead, she proclaimed. "Marx was wrong!" she spat into her bullhorn. "Religion isn’t the opiate of the people, it’s nostalgia!"

She was quoted for weeks, photographed for all the local newspapers and her FBI file, and propositioned by the grooviest guys on campus.

Thirty-three years later, the present was now the past, but it still looked pretty damn good. Especially when one lived in a day and age when Ché Guervara’s image was used to sell computers and a chain of stores selling bad coffee had taken over the planet. Now, Cyrene realized, she was beginning to understand nostalgia. She wanted to go back in a time capsule and apologize to nostalgia for all the mean things she said about it. Because now she was an old woman—albeit a relatively content old woman—reduced to selling pot to ungrateful young people who would just use it while watching cartoons and not as a break from fighting for the proletariat, or world peace, or the environment, or for an endangered species.

And then there was Gabrielle—who now stood before Cyrene, irritable and clad in her trusty old Carhart jacket. Once upon a time she thought her daughter’s main squeeze had enormous potential to do something—precisely what, the old hippie hadn’t the faintest idea. But ever since the trés sensitive poet had secured an academic career (with stripping on the side—some career choices were best left unexamined, thought the terminally unemployed Cyrene), she had become terribly dour and authoritarian. Gabrielle was now part of the problem, as they used to say.

"Got my dope, Cyrene?" A tad impatient, Gabrielle was shifting her weight from leg to leg.

The aging hippie sighed. "Of course, man." Cyrene pulled out her briefcase. While it was not a briefcase in the traditional leathery sense, she thought that the old Kung Fu lunchbox (which Zina had used for 3rd and 4th grade before advancing to the practice of bullying other children for food, money, and homework) served her purposes well.

"Here ya go, honey." She flipped a Ziploc bag of pot to Gabrielle, who examined it with the exaggerated self-importance of a nascent connoisseur.

Little golden eyebrows furrowed, like caterpillars plotting a coup. "Is this the Rhine Gold?"

"Absolutely!"

"It doesn't look like the Rhine Gold."

"Since when are you an expert?"

"Since you became my dealer—I've been smoking it for the past five years."

Cyrene squinted at the bag. And grew less convinced herself. She thought she had saved the last of the current crop for Gabrielle…unless she accidentally gave it to Eli. Which would explain why he was so fuckin’ happy at the food co-op last night! "Well, I'm pretty sure it's the Rhine Gold."

"'Pretty sure' doesn't cut it."

"Do you use that snotty tone with your students, man?"

Actually, yes, I do, Gabrielle thought, wincing. "Sorry, Cyrene. It's just a stressful time of year. The semester is over, I have finals to grade, not to mention the term papers. It's—"

"—it's coming on Christmas, they're cuttin' down trees, they're puttin' up reindeer and singin' songs of joy and peace—"

"Cyrene."

"Honey?"

"Christmas is over."

The old hippie smiled in the glorious, reassuring fashion that made her a darling of the counterculture for 15 minutes, that is, with a freewheeling, easy, bullshit charm that totally suckered the always-guileless Gabrielle. Cyrene patted the young woman’s arm. "Just give it a try for me, honey, okay?"

* * *

Zina discarded a sooty jacket and a well-worn helmet in a pile beside the door. Another hellish shift. How many kitty cats could get stuck up in a tree in one frigging day? And then there was another case of blatant fireplace abuse—it happened frequently during and after Christmas, the most festive and mindless time of the year. Somehow people failed to understand that the chestnuts should merely roast over an open fire, and not turn into splitting, hissing flameballs that freak you out and make you inexplicably throw toward the window so that the curtains light up as well.

She yawned, stretched, and ambled into the living room. Gabrielle was standing in the middle of the room, dressed in her standard lazy-ass Sunday gear: green flannel pajama bottoms and an Olympus County Community College t-shirt. "Hey bitch, where's my chicken pot pie?" the firefighter trotted out her standard greeting.

Instead of a playful giggle or a semi-sarcastic retort, the poet met this with stony silence and a baleful glare.

"Just kidding," the firefighter added lamely.

"Your mother dicked me over again."

Zina smirked suggestively. "Come again?"

"She gave me inferior weed, Zina. I'm not high. I'm not getting a good high." The poet blew out a frustrated breath. "This is not Rhine Gold."

"You sure?" The firefighter walked into the kitchen and pulled a bottle of Rolling Rock out of the fridge. "I though Mom woulda learned her lesson the last time she didn't give you Rhine." In response to the last time she did not get Rhine Gold as requested, the vengeful Gabrielle—perhaps over-inspired by Titus Andronicus—cooked a tofu casserole in chicken broth and fed it to the unsuspecting hippie. However, the only salient result of the incident was Gabrielle's overwhelming guilt and Cyrene's endless tirades on fucked-up karma.

"Obviously not. In fact, I'll prove it to you." The poet dropped her gaze. "Say it."

"I'm tired," Zina whined, as if four syllables would push her into physical collapse.

"Come on."

"Okay, okay." The firefighter took a breath, then wiggled her eyebrows for good measure. "Machu Picchu."

Half a minute lapsed into eternity. Gabrielle remained staring at her blankly. "Try again," the poet-pothead requested.

"Machu Picchu." This time Zina drawled it out a bit, sounding like a Pokeman on Quaaludes.

The silence continued. Zina frowned. Normally—meaning under the proper influence of Rhine Gold—upon hearing the name of the ancient Inca city, Gabrielle would dissolve into giggles that eventually escalated into hysterics and threatened the stability of her bladder.

Zina’s sooty brow furrowed with an almost genuine concern. This was indeed serious. She opened the refrigerator again to continue her reconnaissance mission for leftovers.

2. Somehow, Pacino’s Career Survived

Within the confines of Dahak's, Chad waved at an unusual sight: Eli, clutching a small, old film camera, was leaning nervously against the bar. He was intrigued enough to go over and speak with Sarcastic Hippie Video Store Guy.

"Welcome to the dark side," Chad purred mischievously.

"Hey man, how ya doing? Look, I'm not here because I'm gay."

"Sure, you’re not. I mean, where else can a straight guy indulge his love of 20-year-old dance songs?"

"No, really." Eli held up the camera. "This is for my semester project in Film 404. We have to do a short piece that remakes a Hollywood film about minorities. I chose Cruising."

"I see." Chad's eyes narrowed.

"No, you don't—I'm going to do it better, trust me."

"Good luck," Chad muttered.

"What?" Eli shouted. The sound of Dee-Lite's "Groove is in the Heart" now pounded over them, rendering embarrassed mumbling impossible.

"Never mind!" Chad yelled back. "But you better be careful."

"Why?"

"It’s contagious!" Chad laughed and pointed at a burly man on the dance floor, dressed in black Levis and a leather vest. "I mean, I never thought I'd see him here, but there he is! And I even got his number!" he crowed.

Eli watched as the magic man spun around. It was Artie.

"This is so going into the movie." He held up his super 8.

* * *

Zina had settled in on the couch to watch the latest offering from Fox: When Overeducated White Women Attack. The show was finally displaying some promise: After ten tedious minutes of observing a comparative literature professor balancing her checkbook—resulting in tears and a torn register—Zina now watched as a woman with a Ph.D. in art history from Yale contemplated sticking a butter knife into a still-plugged toaster.

"Do it, you dumb bitch!" the firefighter hissed at the TV, just as Gabrielle came in the house.

"Zina," the poet began breathlessly.

The butter knife hesitated about the toaster slot.

"Are you listening to me?"

The firefighter nibbled her lips with anticipation.

"Damn it, Zina!" Gabrielle latched onto a dark and brooding—yet terribly sensitive—earlobe, giving it a violent twist.

"Ow!" the firefighter roared. It was the first part of Gabrielle's fabled one-two punch: First the earlobe, then cranial battering with the world's ugliest throw pillow—a brightly colored, quasi-Pennsylvania Dutch mess of hexagons that resembled nothing so much as an Amish pap smear. Having the discordant colors so close to her face was worse than the actual physical pain.

Zina ducked a blow from the pillow and rolled off the couch to avoid further abuse. "What the hell is wrong with you?" she shouted. "Ever since you stopped smoking dope you've been out of your fucking gourd!"

"Bullshit!" snapped Gabrielle.

The firefighter rubbed her delicate, doughy earlobe. "Oh yeah? What about all those American Gladiators you were so hot to beat up, the other night when we went out for pizza?"

Gabrielle held up a menacing finger—and snarled. "I just didn't like they way they were lookin' at you."

Zina blinked. Shouldn't that be my line? Is this what it's like to live with me? Mommy, I'm confused.

"We got a problem, Zina. Artie beat up Eli, outside of Dahak's."

"What was Artie doin' hanging around—oh."

"Uh-huh. And it's Gay Night too. This adds to my theory that he's a big fat fucking closet case."

"Or it could support my theory that he's just horny as hell." So very proud of actually having a theory on anything, Zina folded her arms with a minor sense of triumph.

Gabrielle was pacing now. "Fuck the theories. All I know is that I'm gonna kick his ass. Are you in or not?"

Zina now slumped, defeated. In reality, she wanted nothing more than to drink beer in front of the TV until she fell asleep. And maybe mess around a little with her girlfriend on the couch. Add some pretzels to that pleasure equation, and thus an evening was made, nay, would achieve an unrivaled, unparalleled perfection. She recycled the only line she could think of that might get her out of this potential mess. "Violence is not the way, grasshopper."

"Don't you dare quote Lao Ma to me!" barked Gabrielle. She stopped pacing. "I want vengeance!"

A sharp buzzing noise and canned laughter from the TV indicated that the Yalie had just fried herself.

The firefighter sighed. What else could she do? "Will we be home in time for Smackdown?"

"Count on it." Gabrielle sailed out the door, expecting her backup to follow.

* * *

Artie swaggered down a quiet, peaceful main street while fragments of "Stayin’ Alive" provided a rather dated personal soundtrack within his mind. He felt good. Fifteen minutes of sin in a bathroom, easily absolved by lots of prayer and repentant tears, made him feel like a new man. He sniffed at his arm, drinking in the powerful yet sublime scent of cologne that was not his—a heady (oh yeah, baby! he thought), Proustian remnant of his earlier toilet-side encounter.

A lone car passed. Then it executed an abrupt u-turn and came toward him. Immediately he recognized the battered, ugly economy vehicle as Gabrielle’s. When it pulled to a halt near the curb in front of him and both women emerged simultaneously from the Escort—even slamming their respective doors in unison—he giggled. "Hey! Cagney and Lacey! Arrest me and molest me!"

In response Zina leaped over the hood of the car with magnificent, MacGyver-like grace. Somehow he couldn’t picture Sharon Gless doing that. Nonetheless, as usual, her beauty broke his heart, almost literally in this instance as she head-butted him in the chest. He stumbled backward, and she slammed him into a wall. "Zina!" he cried. "What gives?"

"You know what gives, you little shit. You beat up Eli."

Fist curled, Zina leaned in closer to Artie. She sniffed at him. He flinched. Then he noticed that her eyes had that old, familiar look, that look he thought he would never see again, in his wildest, wettest dreams: Desire. "What's that you're wearing?" she growled sensually.

"Um, I think it's called Aroma Mist—"

"You mean Aramis?" The height-challenged Gabrielle was trying to interject herself between them; if doing so physically wouldn’t work, she would settle for verbally. Aramis was dangerous stuff—this she knew from Chad. The demon scent could arouse anyone, her worldly friend had told her. And while a conflation of appetites was an unfortunate aspect of the firefighter’s character—the smell of fresh meatloaf could have Zina naked and ready to pounce within seconds—Gabrielle was quite certain that she did not want to know to what ends Aramis would compel her lover.

The firefighter’s nostrils flared again. Artie almost came on the spot.

"It's nice. Real nice," Zina murmured. Her pupils were obscenely dilated, as if giving birth to a new lust.

"Zina—" Gabrielle ground out the "you-are-on-the-verge-of-infidelity" warning between her teeth.

"Thanks!" Artie gushed. He grinned. "Say, ah, my place ain't that far away. How about we have a little drink, get caught up on old times?"

Zina grunted thoughtfully, like a sensitive orangutan making her TV debut on Nova.

It was the last thing she remembered clearly. For the intoxicating scent carried her away, she flew on the wings of night, her heart swelled and thundered like a storm. To paraphrase John Denver, it filled up her senses.

And then, the scent of the fabled cologne faded—or rather, was taken hostage and pummeled to death by the joint, brute force of stale TV dinners and ancient laundry that happily coexisted in Artie’s trailer. Now, sitting on a couch more wretched and stinky than her own, Zina blinked in confusion, wondering how in the hell she had gotten there.

Artie was smiling at her in his smarmy way from the entrance of his eat-in kitchen. "I’m makin’ ya a Long Island Iced Tea, baby," he crooned. Which meant that he was frantically throwing every kind of liquor he had into a blender.

That goddamn cologne. Geez, it's no wonder straight women fall in love with gay men all the time! Gabrielle is gonna kill me.

"An’ you just sit back and enjoy that cee-gar," he was saying.

Zina looked at her hands. A cigar was cradled between the first two fingers of her left hand. Not just any cigar, she realized, but a good one, straight from the Ghurkhan plantation in Cuba! Now that brought back memories, she thought. She cut off the tip with her switchblade, then lit up, making sure that he could hear the soft, sensual sound of her lips going puh as she puffed away. Might as well torture him while I’m here.

Artie cast a nervous look into the living room. Seeing her here once again, within his home, made him realize that he wanted her to be there, always. This AM radio sentiment prompted a decisive action. He wiped his sweaty palms on his black jeans, darted into the living room, and knelt in front of her. "Zina, I—"

"Where's my drink?"

"I'll get to it in a minute. I—" He made the mistake of looking into her cold, uncompromising eyes. Suppressing a sigh, he stood up and went back to the kitchen. After five minutes, some cursing, and a whirring blender, he was back with a frothy concoction that he hoped would lower whatever teeny inhibitions—like, say, incest or a certain blonde pussywhipper—that now prevented her from sleeping with him.

Gleefully she gulped down half the drink, her lip smacking and groans of pleasure a delightful torture to him.

"Zina, I got to talk to you about something. I've been doing a lot of thinking about you and me."

She burped.

"I can't deny how I feel about you any longer. I reckon my feelings for you never changed in the first place. No matter how much I fought 'em. So I got to ask you this." He lowered his head, sent a quick prayer to the Lord, then looked once again into her eyes. "Would you marry me, Zina?"

"Ain't that illegal, marryin' your kin?"

His face turned red. "They can't prove that, and you know it!"

Zina paused thoughtfully and tortured him some more as she fellated the cigar. "I dunno, Artie. What's in it for me?"

"A devoted, loving husband."

"Not the answer I want, and you know it."

It had been The Issue in their relationship; Artie had prayed that she would not remember. But, alas and alack, she did. "What you ask of me is unnatural," he mumbled, which had been his Standard Retort in the matter—and it was true, because the Bible never said a damn thing about It.

"My ass," she grunted. "I bet if I asked Gabrielle to eat me out every night, she'd do it." She neglected to add that this would most certainly be true only if chocolate and/or margaritas were involved in said oral activity.

His expression curdled. What you won't do, do for love. Then he scowled. Damn that song! "All right!" he spat. "You got it."

The firefighter blinked in surprise; she was impressed. "Okay. What about the housework?"

"Zina," he began patiently, "I am a working man. And the Lord dictates that the home is the woman's realm."

"I work too, asshole. So I would have to do all the cooking and the cleaning?"

His nostrils flared. He would not back down on this one. Never. Absolutely not. "We split it, fifty-fifty! And I'm not doing the laundry."

It was an admirable gamble, and a good offer, she thought. And she knew that Artie could never boss her around like Gabrielle did—he wouldn’t force her to eat vegetables, especially with some lowdown, dirty trick like hiding mushrooms under slices of pepperoni on a pizza! Still, her mind was made up; it always had been. She grinned and drained her drink. "Shit, Artie, Gabrielle already does all that cleaning stuff anyway." She stretched, patted his cheek, and stood up. "Thanks for the drink and the smoke."

As Zina left Artie's trailer, all the while marveling at how easy it was to block out the sound of his sobbing (which possessed a quality similar to the primal wailing of rhinoceroses in mourning), she realized that she had made a mistake. Even though nothing had happened, she had left Gabrielle high and dry, no doubt thinking that something was going on with her and Artie. Well, it wasn't her fault, really, that Artie had smelled so good. Still, Zina knew that one thing—and one thing only—mattered. Only one thing would rectify this mistake: One way or another, she would get Gabrielle the Rhine Gold.

3. Like a Bridge Over Troubled Kung Pao

On his first day out of the hospital, Eli agreed to lunch with Gabrielle at the Green Dragon. This, in spite of the fact that he felt embarrassed about how he looked: His shaven head was completely bandaged, and he resembled a partially bearded blue-eyed egg. But despite his tender condition, Eli was more concerned about his friend; he had detected a serious mood change in Gabrielle since she no longer had access to Rhine Gold. She was moody, irritable, and prone to violence. And maybe just plain weird: She was now arranging the peanuts of her Kung Pao Chicken into an impressive fortress around a particularly large floret of broccoli. She was about to send a lump of chicken careening into the peanuts when Eli announced his intention to speak by clearing his throat.

"So Zina's out of town?" He frowned as Gabrielle got the snow peas in on the action, creating a little drawbridge across the peanuts and into the broccoli.

"Yeah," the poet finally mumbled.

It was like trying to coax conversation out of an autistic child. "Where is she?"

Gabrielle sighed dramatically. Acting as deus ex machina in the culinary warfare, she stabbed the chicken battering ram with a chopstick. "Visiting an old boyfriend. Supposedly to get me some Rhine Gold." She devoured the meat.

Eli shuddered at this carnivorous act. "You don't trust her?"

"I dunno, Eli. I'm not sure anymore—not after the way she was sniffing around Artie."

"Well, geez—that was just Artie. This doesn't mean—"

"Why would she have to go all the way to New York to get the stuff?" Gabrielle burst out with exasperation.

The hippie cinemaphile attempted an explanation. "Gab, this stuff is actually pretty rare. It's powerful shit, and you should just count yourself lucky that Cyrene had a crop going for as long as she did. I'm not surprised Zina would have to go to a big city to score some."

This appeared to assuage Gabrielle somewhat. "I guess, but still…I don't know if I should trust this guy."

"Who is he?"

"His name is Marcus. I actually meant to tell you sooner, 'cause I knew you'd be interested in this—Zina says he's in the movies, like he works for a studio or something."

Eli's jaw dropped. "Holy shit!"

The poet furrowed her brows. "What?"

"Zina knows Marcus Pebble? Oh my GOD."

"Who is he?"

Eli shook his head in disbelief. Of course, he wasn't really surprised that she didn't know who Marcus was—most moviegoers today were so vastly ignorant of their cinematic heritage. He quoted directly from his own lonely, neglected unfinished dissertation: "In the early 1980s, Marcus almost revived the blaxploitation genre and almost returned it to its glory days in the 1970s with one amazing film: White Chocolate Comes to Harlem."

"'Almost?'" Gabrielle interjected skeptically.

"Okay, it bombed. But it's a great film, man. It provides a valuable and much-needed transition between classics like Shaft and Foxy Brown to the new genre of gangsta films which began with New Jack City."

"Is he still directing?"

Eli sighed sadly. "Unfortunately, no. He's leading a living death as a low-level Miramax exec."

Lao Ma stopped by the table to refill their water glasses. "You speak of Marcus Pebble," she announced.

"Ooooh, eavesdropping, how mystical!" Whereas Gabrielle was concerned, Lao never failed in stirring the sarcasm pot.

Nonetheless, Zina's ex ignored the temperamental poet and addressed her remarks to Eli. "I did feng shui for Marcus's townhouse."

Eli gazed at her, amazed, worshipful, and tempted to kiss her feet, even though her filthy New Balance sneakers were encrusted with old "Happy Royal Family of Prawns" sauce.

The proprietress of the Green Dragon merely shrugged. "It's a living."

4. The Face on the Cutting Room Floor

[A scene from White Chocolate Comes to Harlem. Zina, lying on a bed, is wearing a leopard-skin spaghetti string top and mauve hotpants. She has a typical Medusa-like early 80s perm, as perfected by the various members of the Bangles. She is pretending to be high or actually is; to this day no one is really sure. ]

[Marcus enters. His is a more restrained version of the classic pimp suit—black with a hot pink shirt and matching headband around his flying-saucer like hat.]

Marcus: Bitch, what did I tell you? Get your lazy ass on that street now! [He grabs Zina by the wrist and hauls her out of the bed. She stands before him, wavering slightly, glassy-eyed. Due to her three-inch stiletto heels, she towers over him.]

Zina: Huh?

Marcus: You heard me! [He slaps Zina—lightly—across the face. This snaps her out of whatever stupor—and pretense at characterization—she inhabits. Her eyes narrow with rage, she snarls, and knocks Marcus across the set with a vicious backhand. Off camera, a thud and a shriek of pain is heard. The camera follows the sound and twirls toward Marcus, now sprawled on the floor, clutching a bloody nose.]

Zina (off camera): Aw, baby, I'm sorry—I didn't mean to— [She totters over to him, kneels down and tries to help him sit up. Bleeding profusely, he tries, feebly, to crawl away from her.]

Marcus: GodDAMN, Zina! Remember that little discussion—ACTING? GodDAMNit. [To camera.] Floyd, turn off the camera!

Floyd (off camera): Huh?

Marcus: Fuck, are you all idiots? TURN OFF THE CAMERA.

Floyd: Sorry, man, I thought it was part of the scene. [Camera remains on.]

Zina: I'm sorry, honey, I really am. [Marcus is still crawling away from her, leaving a trail of blood. She is now crawling as well, right behind him.] You know how I get, I'm, like, more of a Method actor…I react, not act!

Marcus: I gave up a chance working with Pam Grier for this. [Still crawling, still bleeding. She watches helplessly, tries to approach him again. He is now off camera.] Do you hear me? PAM GRIER.

A Mercedes-Benz mired in traffic at the corner of Fifth Avenue and 76th, 6:42 PM EST.

Marcus drummed his fingers on the armrest, his cell phone glued to his head like the tumor it was probably already causing within his brain. "Right, Harvey. Right." He stared at the driver's thick pink neck and suppressed a sigh. "I'll take care of it as soon as I'm back in the office."

As Harvey droned on about the Gilligan's Island remake, Marcus gazed longingly toward Central Park, at the treetops that peeked over a long stone wall separating the green splendor from the sidewalk. His eyes widened when he saw a white hand appear at the top of the wall. A head, crowned with black flowing hair, followed this. A woman was pulling herself over the wall. Oh dear God. It can't be. Yet the pure grace of that body’s motion indicated it could only be one person, and one person only.

Marcus gasped; he couldn't find his voice. And even if he could have, the driver wouldn't have locked the doors in time anyway.

Gracefully, Zina zigzagged through the traffic, found the dark Mercedes, opened the door, and piled into the back seat. She grabbed Marcus's cell. "Hiya, Harvey. Yeah, I found him. Thanks a lot. Now promise me you'll think about that Billy Jack remake? 'Cause I tell ya, Harvey, that film is like my Bible, and I could be Billy Jack in my sleep, ya know?" A pause. "That Angelina Jolie weirdo as the hippie teacher, of course. Think about it. Okay, babe. Thanks again. Bye." Zina stared at the phone, couldn't figure out how to turn it off, and tossed it into Marcus's lap. "He'll never do it," she muttered to herself. "Damn shame." She sighed regretfully, but then, as she turned her attention on her ex-lover, the wattage on her smile increased exponentially. "Hiya, Marcus!"

Marcus, now plastered against the car door, wondered if he could possibly outrun her. Even if he could, the attention he might draw to himself would be questionable, at least to the easily confused members of New York's Finest. A black man running from a Mercedes? I don't think so. "Zina, what the hell are you doing here?" he barked.

She tried pouting. "Miss me, baby?"

"Like I would miss the plague."

"That ain't nice, Marcus."

"What do you want?"

"What makes you think I want somethin'?" Her eyes—those beautiful, beautiful eyes—went wide. "Couldn't I just stop by to say hi?"

Marcus held up a hand. "Girl, don't even. You always want somethin', Zina. There's always an angle. So just tell me what it is."

She attempted mixing in wounded, sullen pride with the pouting—which sometimes worked with Gabrielle, but only if you were already on your knees—yet he continued glaring at her until she finally broke down. "Okay, baby, you got me. I want some Rhine Gold."

"Rhine Gold!" he exclaimed. "What makes you think I still dabble in shit like that?"

Zina frowned. "Yeah, I guess you're right. You're playing with power suits now. It's all coke."

"Zina!" Marcus shouted. "I do not do coke! Don't oppress me with your assumptions."

"What?"

Remember that this is Zina, he told himself. "Don't be an asshole."

"Oh." Silence fell over them. He folded his arms and remained crushed against the car door, wondering just how the hell he was going to get rid of her. And how in hell was he going to talk Harvey out of a Billy Jack remake. For despite what Zina thought, when it all came down to it, Harvey was just a massive, balding spittoon for bad ideas involving recycled B movies.

"Marcus, you at least gotta know where I can get some," she remarked, disgruntled, for he was wasting her very valuable time.

"Well…" He pursed his lips in thought. Granted, it was dangerous, but it would get her off his back, and far, far away. But can she handle it? he wondered. Marcus looked at her again, into eyes so blue they’d make Joanne Woodward dump Paul Newman in a nanosecond, and so crazy that Robert DeNiro would cry with envy. "I know where you can get some, but it is dangerous, and you gotta go south. Way south." His gaze flicked to his driver. "I’ve give you the details when we hit my office."

"Oh yeah? Okay, I can deal with that." Now that this most difficult phase of her mission was complete complete, Zina stretched with both relief and an air of self-satisfaction. They rode for a while in contented silence. "Hey, Marcus?"

"Now what?"

"Can I drive the car?"

5. Our Dyke in Havana

The retinue surrounding Castro was as thick as flies over a garbage can. The group of heavily armed men surrounding the leader of the small nation pushed through the crowd toward the baseball field.

Castro paused for a moment to shake hands with his people—the workers, the children, the huddled masses longing for decent TV stations. And also because he wanted a better look at the tall, pale senorita in the tight, sheath-like black dress and sunglasses, who grinned at him like a beacon.

With his guards watching warily, the mystery woman inched closer to Castro. Suddenly she flung her arms around the Cuban leader, crushing him in an affectionate hug. Several guards already had their hands on their weapons, but Castro was laughing and patting the woman's back.

Then, just as quickly, she disentangled herself from his embrace, still smiling. The pressure of the crowd urged Castro on, and reluctantly he moved away from her, with a final, longing glance backwards. Only a minute later he was patting his secret pocket for his stash and realized it was gone. He stopped and turned around. In the distance he could see her kicking off her heels, tearing her skirt for better mobility, and running. "Consigala!" he shouted.

Zina was tempted to take a moment to taunt them by shouting "Viva La Rhine Gold!" but as the adrenaline pumped through her and her legs kicked up increasing speed, she became more invested in keeping her sorry ass alive. Shit, I hope this swimming-to-Miami thing is as easy as Marcus says it is, she thought.

6. Husker Don't

Vendela Van Hoek nursed a damp, cold Heineken while a stripper's boobs shook in her face. Unimpressed, the Swedish musician simply leaned back, the gesture dismissing the dancer, who—untalented yet nonetheless working hard for the money, so hard for it, honey—took her mammaries elsewhere.

She had left Sven and Benny at the garage, thoroughly disgusted with her cousins' inane arguments with the idiot mechanic who could not fix their Saab motorbus. Of course it would take a week for a new exhaust pipe to arrive in this American backwater, and all the screaming and Laplander obscenities in the world would not change that. She placed the blame squarely on the domineering Sven. If he hadn't insisted on touring more rural areas, they wouldn't be here, she thought angrily. Her thumbnail slashed into the soggy beer label.

"I knew I would find you here." Benny's voice floated from above.

Vendela glanced up. Her bandmate, a truly gifted guitarist, was cradling a Heineken himself. He sat down.

"Don't say anything, Benny."

He shrugged and said nothing. Yet Benny's flaccid lips were quivering as much as the dancer's hips. Vendela knew it was only a matter of seconds.

"He didn't mean anything by it," the guitarist blurted.

"Like hell he didn't," she snapped.

"Vendela, we are all under a great deal of stress right now."

"That is no excuse!"

"It was just because you were off beat—" Benny winced at her icy glare.

"Oh, so now you are taking his side."

"I'm not."

"Yes you are, you fat fuck! Go on, tell me—say it! You think I am a 'second-rate Geddy Lee' too—you think that, just like Sven does!"

"I didn't say that!" he shouted. Mortified, he noticed that some of the people in strip club were staring at them. He lowered his voice. "You are Keith Moon, Vendela. Purely Moon."

"Liar!"

"Keep your voice down! You're embarrassing me!"

"Fuck you and your embarrassment!"

Just when Benny thought it could get no worse, the opening strains of the Divinyls' "I Touch Myself," began over the sound system, hypnotic layers of guitar that, nonetheless, he detested and thought so clichéd, so ridiculous for a strip club. Could they ever think of anything new? Who, he thought, is this pathetic bimbo who dares to use such an old, gimmicky song?

However, his heart clenched inside his chest when confronted with precisely the kind of bimbo who would use such a song: a delicious, voluptuous woman of perfection, with short blonde hair and in a white fringe bikini, slithering seductively around the pole on stage. He could not tear his eyes away from her. She moved with such leonine self-possession and controlled grace that his imagination begged to see her unleashed in the throes of passion.

May the heavens forgive me for slighting you, o nameless American goddess!

The goddess was now in front of him, gyrating slowly, her eyes glowing with faint disdain as she stared down upon him, awaiting her tribute. By the time that he had the presence of mind to dig for money in his pocket, the impatient goddess had moved on to Vendela. And now, watching his cousin brush a bill along those perfectly sculpted abs, Benny saw that Vendela was just as enraptured.

* * *

Sid Moskowitz narrowed his eyes at the sight of the two out-of-towners loitering in front of the dressing room. He knew they had to be from out of town since they were wearing leather pants and were stupid enough to believe they had a chance in hell with Gabrielle. The fact that they were shouting at each other in Swedish was also a big tip-off.

"Can I help you?" he murmured suspiciously at them. His eyes traveled freely over the statuesque blonde woman, who did not seem pleased at his attentions.

The stocky fellow in the chain-mail shirt, who looked like a scruffy Jon Lovitz, decided to answer for her. Before he spoke, his chest puffed out dramatically, as if he were indeed Master Thespian. "We come to offer frottage to a fellow artist! It is a certainty that She is the most talented dancer in your valley, and it is common for all far and wide to pay tribute to the genius who is She with White Undergarments Resembling Spaghetti!"

Sid had to hand it to this one; usually the potential stalkers lacked any kind of chutzpah and freely admitted that they simply wanted another gander at Gabrielle's tits. Nonetheless, Sid's paternal, protective instincts outweighed his admiration of the creative freak. "Sorry, sweetcakes, but Gabrielle does not receive visitors after she performs, okay? Now run along and abuse the English language elsewhere."

"Who are you?" the blonde beauty growled at Sid.

"I own this place, dumpling."

"And why should we believe that?" she retorted loudly, placing her hands on her hips.

Sid was caught among arousal, indignation, and abject fear—for him, a common state of existence. "Because I do, honeylamb. Now listen, I was just beginning to like you and I was even gonna offer you a tryout—"

Suddenly the dressing room's door flung open. Gabrielle's Olympus County Community College t-shirt and her cutoff jeans undermined her diva turn. "What the hell is all the racket about?" she snapped. However, the underachieving poet's erect nipples held them in thrall.

The proprietor of the Shimmy Shack, however, was accustomed to this glorious sight and he found his voice first. "These foreigners have come to stare at you, sugar pop." He sniffed disdainfully at Benny and Vendela. "What are you guys? French? You're fucking rude enough for it."

The tall blonde woman ignored him. She took Gabrielle's hand. "I am Vendela Van Hoek, drummer for Gravid Havarti. My cousin and I have come to praise you. You have given us three minutes and forty-five seconds of pleasure despite our hatred of the Divinyls. I, in particular, wish very much to prove my great admiration for you." Her full lips brushed the dancer's knuckles.

Gabrielle was only momentarily impressed at the smooth move. "I'm not giving back the twenty dollar bill. Sorry."

"Twenty?" Benny blurted.

Vendela silenced him with a hiss worthy of the most commanding cobra.

Benny fumed. His English was not as precise and mellifluous as his cousin's. Nonetheless, he knew one phrase, and one phrase only, that might get him into Gabrielle's good graces, or maybe even her tight jeans. His barrel chest puffed out once again. "And I have killer weed!" he proclaimed.

He smirked as Gabrielle's green eyes flitted to him. "Wait—wait a minute." She pulled her hand away from Vendela. "Just what kind of weed is this?"

7. Love Songs, Nothing But Love Songs

Carrying a bucket of ice, Vendela tried creeping by Room 604 of the Red Roof Inn as quietly as possible. She, Benny, and Gabrielle had managed to elude Sven when they first came up to the room that she and Benny shared, but somehow the drummer knew she would not be so fortunate in avoiding the overbearing band leader a second time.

And she wasn't. The door of Sven's room swung open and the skinny lead singer, clad in his black silk silver-studded bathrobe and his hairnet, violently hissed her name. "Vendela! What do you think you're doing!"

Sven was the ultimate killjoy. Nothing sucked the life and desire out of her like the sight of his tight, disapproving face. It was like being caught masturbating by a maiden aunt. "Nothing!" she retorted defensively. "Leave us alone! We are adults, you know."

"You're horny idiots, both of you. I know who is in that room with you."

Vendela glared at him defiantly.

"Her name is Gabrielle and her girlfriend is a violent, sociopathic ex-convict." He smirked with triumph at the surprised look on her face. "Obviously, you weren't paying attention to the mechanic at the garage. He knows this Gabrielle—he used to be in love with her. She's off limits, Vendela. Get rid of her before you get us all in trouble."

"Go to hell!" she growled. He slammed the door shut as she stomped over to Room 606. She fumbled with the card, then, exasperated, pounded on the door. "It's me, open up!"

Benny opened the door. Vendela was relieved to see that he was still dressed, as was Gabrielle, who was sprawled on one of the two beds in the room. The poet wore a simple outfit of jeans and a hooded green pullover sweatshirt. Such clothing is an affront to the perfections of that body! Vendela wanted to shout. Most of their vodka had served as a chaser to the big, fat, primo Rhine Gold joint that the stripper had polished off earlier. She was now thoroughly trashed.

And still muttering about Zina. Always with this Zina person, Vendela thought with disgust. As far as she could figure out, Zina was a whore of epic proportions who watched bad TV and made a pretense out of atoning for a half-assed criminal record. I would treat you far better, my queen! Even Benny would, for God's sake.

Her bandmate was now noodling around on his guitar, plucking a simple repetitive chord and singing softly: "Gab-ri-elle/My heart will swell...."

"Don't quit your day job," muttered the poet in a rare—albeit stoned—moment of insensitivity. "Oh, wait...this is your day job." She burst into giggles.

Vendela felt a pang of pity for her sensitive cousin. "Benny, perhaps you should turn on the radio," she suggested. The guitarist nodded, and fumbled at the knobs on the nightstand's dusty, fake wood-paneled clock radio. "Gabrielle," she continued, "I have brought you ice, as you requested."

Like a reanimated corpse in a horror film, Gabrielle sat up all herky-jerky. "Excellent. Gimme." The Swedish drummer handed her the bucket of ice. Over the course of the next few minutes the musicians watched as Gabrielle—ice bucket balanced precariously on her lap—fumbled to remove her sports watch, a much-loved acquisition courtesy of 50 Cap’n Crunch box-tops. Finally she liberated it from her wrist and noisily buried it within the ice.

She handed the bucket back to Vendela, who exchanged a look with her cousin. Do you want to ask her? Vendela's look said. No. She's freaking me out now, Benny's retorted. The drummer took a breath. "Why," she slowly asked, "did you do that?"

Gabrielle's verdant, unfocused eyes locked with hers. "I'm trying to stop time."

She flopped back onto the bed and grabbed an empty bong near her head. She cradled it, humming, as if it were an infant.

Does she have any brain cells left? Vendela wondered. The drummer returned the ice bucket to the dresser. Emboldened by a tiny sliver of bare tummy visible from where Gabrielle's sweatshirt had ridden up, Vendela sat on the bed next to the poet. She was about to lie down next to that delectable body when, in sudden woozy distress, Gabrielle sat up. At the sound of sniffling, Vendela leaned forward and Benny knelt anxiously in front of his goddess. A large, glittering teardrop splashed against the bong that she held.

"Gabrielle, what is it? What's wrong?" Vendela cried.

More shiny, silvery tears fell from the poet's eyes. "This is…our song."

Radiohead's "Creep" was on the station.

The Swedish musicians gaped at one another. This was inconceivable. A love song? A love song was "Chiquitita." A love song was "Babe." A love song was "My Heart Will Go On." A love song was "You Light Up My Life." It was not this.

But Gabrielle could only remember the magic of that night at the Horn, when Zina—after seven Rolling Rocks—finally convinced Effie to let her sing the song while backed up by the Amazons, to Gabrielle and the tattered, late-night remnants of the crowd. Initially, the bar's patrons had actually grooved on the laid-back melody and Zina's soft, angelic alto. Then the drunken, menacing, six-foot tall lead singer snarled the beginning of the chorus at them: I wish I were special/You're so fucking special and Sally punctuated the mood's turn with that sinister, slashing guitar chord. By the end of the song, Gabrielle truly felt that Zina was only singing to her, only to her, and no one else. And she was: Everyone else had left, even Ray Bob, the bouncer.

The spirit of song, nonetheless, now infected the discourse at Room 606 of the Red Roof Inn:

"But she's a creep!" Vendela spat.

"She's a weirdo," added Benny.

Gabrielle jumped up. "What the hell am I doing here? I don't belong here." The poet wavered. "I don't belong here," she repeated. The sudden lack of blood to the brain—and the pot and the booze—conspired like the three witches in Macbeth to send her toppling back onto the bed, utterly unconscious.

The salacious Swedes gazed upon the obtuse object of their desire, now snoring softly.

"Now what?" grumbled Benny.

Reluctantly, Vendela opted to do the right thing. "We take her back home. Sven wanted us to get rid of her anyway," she sighed.

"In this condition?" the guitarist asked nervously.

Vendela groaned in exasperation. "What other choice do we have?" She lifted one of the poet's deadweight arms by its wrist. "Look at her!" She dropped the arm, which fell on Gabrielle's stomach and caused an inadvertent squeak from the unconscious woman that startled them both. "Time to eat the doughnuts," Gabrielle murmured in a soft, dreamy singsong.

Benny's eyes lit up. "Krispy Kreme!"

His bandmate smiled in approval. "Excellent idea." Once more she gave the stoner poet a longing, wistful glance. "Benny?"

"Yes?"

"You don't suppose—I mean, how wrong could it be—?" The drummer's hand wavered above a tantalizing breast. "—just to touch them? Once?"

The guitarist's jaw dropped. "Vendela!" he hissed, appalled.

Vendela was not fooled by his outrage. She raised an eyebrow as temptation and sneaky lust danced across his face, his moral compass now crushed under their weight.

8. This is Not My Beautiful House. This is Not My Beautiful Wife.

In half-sleep, Zina sighed and squirmed. The bed felt good—too good. And the sheets were so soft. Must be that new fabric softener Gabrielle is using, she thought. Because they feel like silk. Just like when I used to sleep at Julie's…

Her eyes opened. The room was startlingly pristine, a crisp cream white. And it was not covered with faded blue wallpaper. And the dartboard was gone! And the sheets, which matched the walls, were truly spun from silk. Fuck. I am at Julie's! And I'm naked too! Gabrielle is gonna freak! She leaped out of the bed. Fuck! How did I get here? Fuck! I was just sitting at home—I didn't drink that much! Fuck!

The soft wall-to-wall carpet soothed her somewhat, and she took a deep breath. Don't panic. Find your clothes. Zina looked around the tidy room and its minimalist decor. Not a stitch of clothing was in sight. Not on the floor, or draped over the chair, or—she looked under the bed. Or under the bed. Frantically she opened one of the drawers of the teak dresser in the room. And found row upon row of neatly folded, clean t-shirts and jerseys. What the hell? Julie wouldn't be caught dead in stuff like this. She pulled out a large, Green Bay Packer jersey and slipped it on. Unless it's…The firefighter opened a second drawer, and saw many variations upon the standard, faded Levi's 501s that she always wore. Mine. This is my stuff.

And suddenly, like Saul on the road to Damascus, like Jimmy Stewart in It's a Wonderful Life, like Connie Selleca in Lifetime's But My Adopted Chinese Baby Has AIDS, she got it. She was doing the Alternate Universe Thingy, as introduced in the original Star Trek and expounded upon brilliantly in South Park. And she had no idea what to expect, except that Artie would not have a goatee and would be really nice and that Gabrielle would have a goatee and would be really evil. Right? The thought of Evil Goatee Gabrielle, she confessed to herself, was strangely, thrillingly scintillating.

She was now eager to see her brave new world. Zina padded through Julie's luxurious house—our luxurious house! She walked past a state-of-the-art weight room—in the blinding light of the chrome, she gasped with joy. Mine! Mine! Mine! She chanted this capitalist mantra as she dashed down the spiral staircase, past the big screen TV, the Mitchell Gold leather sofa, and into the kitchen. A middle-aged Latina woman in a sleek maid's uniform was cooking an omelet and ignoring her with the practiced coolness of hired help. Zina opened the refrigerator, and gasped once again at the most beautiful, most wondrous sight of all: Fields of shining, vivid green! Rolling Rock as far as the eye could see!

"Oh," she burbled, helpless with joy. Tears clogged her eyes.

Julie's stormtrooper staccato preceded her into the kitchen. Even so, Zina was not prepared for the affectionate nip upon her neck from the Culinary Fascist. "Good morning, darling. Sleep well?"

Zina said nothing, but remained staring into the nirvana of the open fridge.

"Oh, I'm sorry, sweetheart. You seem to be running a bit low. I'll put a call in to Latrobe right away."

The firefighter tried to say "thanks," but could only manage a childlike squeak of happiness.

Julie turned her attention to the maid. "Macarena, you did remember to cook Zina's omelet directly in the bacon fat this time, did you not?"

"Si, Signora Caesar," the woman replied serenely, while quietly entertaining thoughts of murdering them all.

At the mention of "bacon fat" Zina slammed shut the refrigerator door and spun around. "Excellent!" she growled, following Julie into the dining room.

Julie sipped coffee as Zina sprawled in a chair, lazily awaiting her food. "Darling, I'm afraid I won't be able to breakfast with you this morning," she began, as Macarena entered and placed the steaming omelet in front of Zina, who tucked into it without hesitation. "But I'll leave the Porsche for you, since the Mustang is still being repaired."

Zina's baby blues bulged. Porsche? Mustang? Dear God in heaven, it's all perfect!

"Perhaps we could meet up later for lunch."

Zina, always a mere step away from turning into a happily mindless Sybarite anyway, nodded vigorously.

Julie leaned down for a quick kiss. "'Bye, darling. Oh, and one last thing…"

Zina, gobbling furiously, looked up.

"The pool cleaner is here." Julie patted her puffed-out cheek. "Pay her with the money I left in the dresser, would you? And don't get too flirty, dear. I know you like blondes, but really!" Julie's forced laughter ricocheted off the chandelier and the crystal ware, then splattered quite appropriately against the original Julian Schnabel lithograph on the wall.

And then Zina's feeling of euphoria tucked itself into Julie's Coach handbag and left with her. Damn. The unease filled her. She tried to ignore it as she decimated the omelet, but it lingered, like Julie's Chanel No. 5. She got up, stalked through the kitchen and past Macarena—who deigned to raise a questioning eyebrow—and slid open the door to the patio.

There, in front of the glistening pool, was pure pulchritude: A blonde woman—nay, the blonde woman to end all blonde women—in a tight sports bra and lycra shorts. She sprayed her sweaty face with a garden hose. Zina thought for a moment that Macarena had put hallucinogens in her omelet, for the pool girl flung her head back in a Flashdance-like slow mo and drops of water fell from her skin like rare, translucent, glowing pearls.

You would have to show up this soon and fuck up everything, wouldn’t ya?

The pool girl smiled at Zina.

And one hour later, the pool girl was coming in Zina's face. Her orgasmic bellows for God, Jesus, and country were laced with tasty bits of profanity as she dug her chlorine'd fingertips into Zina's scalp.

When she finally relinquished her hold on the dark hair, Zina came up for air, pillowing her head on a firm, sweet thigh. Absently, she wiped her face with the back of her hand as the girl's breath caught up with her.

"Wow, that was incredible!" the pool girl cried.

"Why is it that, even in the parallel universe, I'm still dumb as a doornail?" Zina muttered aloud. Everything is perfect, I have money, sex, freedom, even a Porsche, and all the beer I can drink…and I have to fuck it up somehow.

This time the girl's touch was gentle, as she raked her fingers through the black strands. "Sorry, did you say something?"

"No. Nothing."

She was still breathing heavily. Then she giggled. "I didn't get a chance to tell you my name—well, you didn't give me much of a chance, actually. I'm Gabrielle."

"I know," Zina retorted glumly.

"Oh. I guess Miss Caesar told you." There was a pause, and Gabrielle drew a deep satisfied breath, and Zina knew well that postcoital rambling would follow. "Hey. Um…"

"Zina."

"Zina? That's a pretty name." The comely pool girl—gee, you really went far in this existence, Gabrielle—was propped up on her elbows. "Zina, um, would you…like to go out sometime? Like just for a drink, even? I mean, I know it's really weird...we hardly know each other. Except carnally—you know, sexually. Um, I know—well, I assume you've got something going on with Miss Caesar, but I kinda like you. It's—well, you just seem like a nice person. And even if you just wanted to be friends that would be cool. But really, I gotta tell you, that mouth of yours...." She shook her head in pure admiration.

Oh, hell. Go on and do it, look at her and say yes. You know you want to, you frigging wuss. And so Zina looked up at Gabrielle, whose eyes were not as clear and dazzling as a Rolling Rock bottle, but something there—perhaps her innate kindness—made the firefighter feel weak. "Okay," she said softly.

Predictably, the door flung open. It was the Evil Parallel Universe Lieutenant Sulu and three red shirts. Actually, it was merely Julie and Macarena, the latter cradling an impressive-looking Glock handgun.

"Zina," Julie sighed. "I thought you would at least wait until you got to drive your new Harley."

A Harley? Zina's mind screamed. She glared at the naked, satiated Gabrielle. Who shrugged apologetically.

"I'm sure Crassus would like some company in his unmarked grave."

"Hey!" Gabrielle yelled. "How did you know—"

Julie waved a dismissive hand. "Macarena, if you will…"

Zina was leaping forward, covering Gabrielle's body with her own, when the shots rang out…

…and she woke with a violent, gasping shudder, her body spasming at the memory of each bullet. And with each twitch of her legs, the channels on the TV were changing. What the fuck? It was then that she realized the remote was lodged between her legs. She pressed her thighs together. WWF Smackdown flicked onto the screen. Hey. Cool.

The phone rang. She growled in frustration, jumped off the couch, and grabbed the receiver. "Yeah?"

"Hi! Uhhhh...is this Zina?"

"Who wants to know?"

"Well, um, I'm the manager of the Krispy Kreme—"

"Hey, I paid off our account there." The account was her euphemism for the time when Gabrielle—needing sugar and short of cash—ran out of the shop without paying for a dozen.

"—oh, I know. So you are Zina?"

Zina chose for once to ignore the paranoid little voices in her head—some of which sounded suspiciously like her mother—that told her this chirpy woman was a CIA agent. "Yeah."

"Well, um..." The woman trailed off and giggled self-consciously. "I'm your cousin. My name's Eve."

"Who?"

"Eve."

"Never heard of ya."

"Artie never mentioned me?" The young woman sounded hurt.

"Nope. But listen here, if he ever says he's sterile, or that he never had the clap, he's lyin', okay? Save yourself some trouble."

There was a long silence. "Oh."

"So why the hell are you callin' me, Evie?"

"Well, um, it's your girlfriend...she's passed out in the parking lot."

"What?" Zina shouted.

"Some weird foreigners left her here."

Zina's eyes bugged with anger. Earlier in the day, upon arriving home from her Rhine Gold expedition, she'd stopped at Sid's place, deciding to spread the wealth of her newly stolen stash. Sid had mentioned the members of the strange Scandinavian speed metal band who had taken a collective fancy to Gabrielle, and who had offered her some dope.

"She was sitting inside for a while. Then she walked out the exit and conked out, like, the minute she got outside. But, um, the people she was with put some pylons around her, so she should be okay." Eve's bright, chipper tone slashed through Zina's thoughts, both convincing herself and the brooding firefighter that nothing less than patently bizarre could be expected when a pothead slacker lesbian and a mediocre rock band collide.

* * *

And thus, Zina sailed to the rescue on her Harley.

She found Gabrielle just as Eve said—lying within a parking space surrounded by four bright orange pylons. It reminded her of when Lao Ma was going through her Yoko Ono phase and started doing weird art installment things at a gallery in New Mexico ("Lao at Taos," it was called). Lao had placed a half-eaten chocolate brownie on the gallery floor, in between two pylons. The viewer had to lie on the floor to read the message in 7-point type: Will the pylons of your soul protect you from your desires? (Zina, responsible for eating part of the brownie, was billed as a collaborator on the piece.)

Frowning with concern, Zina knelt beside Gabrielle. Her companion looked unharmed and was obviously just sleeping it off. Upon closer inspection the firefighter saw that Gabrielle's breasts appeared strangely rumpled. She tugged at the sweatshirt and quickly discerned that the poet's bra had been unhooked.

Zina felt a psychotic flash of red rage. I'm going to kill those fucking foreigners! She knew that her lover—no matter how furious or hurt she had been with Zina—would never permit tacky strangers to feel her up. Or worse. If only because she knew that Gabrielle detested metal music and thought anyone in such a band was "grody." She shivered away the anger, shaking her head violently. Relax. Later. She bit her lip in worry. Then, as if to dispel all her fears, she leaned in and quickly kissed Gabrielle on the mouth.

Just like in the fairy tale, the poet's eyelids fluttered open and a series of expressions passed over her face: fear, confusion, bliss. "Zina."

Zina's face burst into a grin at hearing her name spoken so softly, so reverently. "Hey."

"Why do I smell motor oil?"

"You're in the Krispy Kreme parking lot. Your, uh, little friends dropped you off here, then you passed out. The manager called me to come get you."

Gabrielle's fuzzy brain had no choice but to accept this strange tale. "Oh." Slowly, she sat up.

"Let me help you up. You ready to stand?"

"I think so." The poet latched onto her girlfriend's strong arms, and stood up. She stretched, then took a few moments to get her bearings. Something felt odd—something limp hung from her chest. "Hey, my bra!" She shot a look at Zina, who was trying to blink herself into an innocent state. "Oh, honey," Gabrielle cooed, "you just couldn't wait till we got home, could you?"

Could Zina bear to tell Gabrielle that horny Eurotrash had molested her? The firefighter smiled sheepishly. "Nope. I couldn't, baby."

"So we got our groove back, then?" The poet's expression was timidly hopeful.

"Yeah." Zina watched her own feet shuffle nervously. "Hell, I don't think we ever really lost it, ya know?"

Once again Zina's lawyer, parole officer, and the judge of her court case were proven wrong—a little white lie could be an enormously rewarding endeavor: The lovely poet jumped into the firefighter's embrace, wrapping her legs tightly around Zina's waist, and from there they proceeded to make out as if the world were ending.

And, in a strange way, it was. As Zina playfully tried to barricade Gabrielle's tongue from entering her mouth, she heard the distant, repetitive sound of a police siren. Despite the serious turn-on of publicly groping her girlfriend in a Krispy Kreme parking lot, the firefighter resolutely decided that she did not want to be anywhere near law enforcement officials of any kind. With the limpet-like Gabrielle firmly attached to her, Zina began to maneuver them in the general direction of the Harley. But instead of backing up against the worn leather and warm chrome of her hog, she literally delivered her ass into the welcoming grasp of Officer Minya.

Zina's lips did a cease-and-desist with her beloved's. A wary blue eyeball found Minya grinning slyly at them.

"Hey guys," the amiable trooper drawled.

"Minya?" Gabrielle was breathless. "What's up?" The poet disengaged herself from Zina, which gave Minya the opportunity to do what she was, nonetheless, very reluctant to do: She snared Zina's wrists—somewhat surprised at the lack of resistance—and clapped a pair of handcuffs on the firefighter.

"What the fuck is going on?" Gabrielle demanded. She looked at her lover. "Zina?"

"Er, Miss Amphisyphilis is under arrest for arson—"

Zina dipped her head, silently acknowledging the truth of the charge. She had known that someday this particular crime would catch up with her.

"Arson?" Gabrielle echoed. She threw up her hands in dismay. "What is it with you and fire?" she shouted.

"—and one count sexual relations with a minor. Do I have to do the Miranda thing with you?" Minya asked Zina. "Seems to me you should have it memorized by now."

But the outraged firefighter was too distracted by the second charge. "Minor? Minor? That fucking bitch told me she was 21!"

Of course—another ex-girlfriend, thought Gabrielle. Zina was being dragged with little effort from Minya—the cop was surprisingly strong. Yet she was placed into the back seat of the police car with care, Minya's hand on Zina's dark head gently shoving her in, like a midwife returning the baby to its well-deserved womb. The cop slammed the door shut and ambled over to the driver's side.

Desperately, Gabrielle lunged at the door and spoke to Zina through the open window. "Explain," she snarled.

"It happened 10 years ago."

"Why did everything happened 10 years ago?"

"Harmonic Convergence?" Zina hazarded a guess.

More like Unharmonic Psychosis, Gabrielle thought. "Never mind. Just tell me what happened."

"I was just showing Kimmy my little firebreathing trick…"

"Kimmy?" Gabrielle couldn't help it—her voice oozed with sarcastic cuteness. You never showed me the firebreathing trick!

"Kimmy."

"God, with a stupid name like that, I hope she was good."

"Nah." Zina shook her head. "Phony virgin," she mumbled. It was the truth, and they both knew it. For Zina could never keep her mouth shut about former lovers: Lao Ma made her multiorgasmic, Boris couldn't be tantric to save his life, Hank would sometimes yell "touchdown!" after coming, spanking with spatulas proved to be Julie's favorite foreplay...the list went on with excruciating detail. There were times when Gabrielle feared that she might be just another bit of minutiae in Zina's Sexual Trivial Pursuit, that someday the firefighter would be telling a new lover about her old flame Gabrielle, who used her firefighting helmet in a multitude of wanton ways, who had a toe fetish, who would sing "Now I’m a Cowgirl" while riding Zina….

Gabrielle shuddered at the list of sexual depravities that Zina could use against her. This was one reason for keeping the ex-con around. That and the love thing. God, I’m an idiot. "Don’t tell me—for the firebreathing, you used…"

"…tequila." Zina confirmed sadly.

It was the most flammable of drinks. "Fuck, Zina."

9. When Obligatory Flashbacks Attack: Ten Years Ago in Yokohama, Japan

Boris returned from losing a match with the local chessmaster—a seven-year-old who had him in check within two minutes—to find that his lover was not alone in their bedroom. He had every intention of being cool about it—he had learned his lesson with Lao Ma, or so he thought—until he heard himself screaming and stomping out of the bedroom with a dramatic slam of the door.

He paced and seethed. A few minutes later, Zina stumbled out of the bedroom, dressed, yet with wild, seriously tangled bed hair.

"Shouldn’t you comb your hair?" Boris suggested with his usual yet unique passive-aggressive flair.

"Go fuck yourself."

"I suppose I will have to, Zeeena. Since I noticed that someone else is in our bed."

She guzzled her morning beer. "Oh—her. Boris, I know it looks bad."

"It smells bad, too. You could at least wash your face."

"Hey—" She grabbed his shirt and pulled him closer. He winced as eau de muff diving slapped him in the face, and her voice dropped to a menacing whisper: "This is a big opportunity for us. The girl's father is Yodoshi Hirohito, one of the biggest 'Hello Kitty' distributors in North America!"

"Hel-lo Kit-tee?" he echoed.

* * *

"Hello Kitty?" Gabrielle interrupted the flashback in an accent considerably less charming than Boris's. "You mean like that stupid t-shirt Ming Tien is always wearing?"

Zina nodded. "It just got out of hand. The warehouse caught on fire." She paused, and her voice dropped to a cracked, anguished whisper. "Forty thousand 'Hello Kitty' purses, gone."

There was a moment of silence for the dearly departed merchandise.

"Well good fucking riddance!" Gabrielle yelled.

"That's my cue to peel out, right?" Minya asked hopefully, from behind the wheel.

"No!" cried the poet. Her vision swam with tears, yet Gabrielle's resolve—her faithful, steadfast love—did not waver. She clutched the car door, white knuckled. And while original words of inspiration and solace failed to come to her, something did float through to the forefront of her troubled mind, and thus she intoned the following: "I will find you. No matter how long it takes, no matter how far, I will find you." No sooner were the sentences out of her mouth than she realized she was being Daniel Day Lewis in Last of the Mohicans.

Zina, however, was ill informed of her role in the make-believe and winced with both irritation and confusion. "Gabrielle, I'm just goin' to jail."

Minya hit the gas and the police cruiser pulled out of the parking lot.

10. Girlfriend in a Stupor

There were times when I could have murdered her

But you know I would hate anything to happen to her

—the Smiths, "Girlfriend in a Coma"

With a majesty possessed by those who are vastly ignorant of their own innate dignity, Gabrielle sat atop the Saab motorbus with a 7-11 Big Gulp. She felt bad about taking the Saab from Bob's Garage (Purdy, of course, had been quite compliant in allowing her to abscond with the now-functioning vehicle owned by the Swedes who had insulted him), but she comforted herself—rather, justified the theft—by recalling Vendela's touching words of devotion: What I have is yours, my love. For fate would have it, the motorbus's registration was in the drummer's name.

So far being a fugitive from justice was fun: She was an accomplice to a known felon, in a stolen vehicle no less, and with a large stash of dope and several peyote tablets in the glove department. Well, she thought with sanctimonious irritation, it was all Minya’s fault. If the sheriff hadn’t been so innately, irresistibly corruptible, and thus hadn’t succumbed to the temptation of a lap dance in exchange for Zina’s freedom, Gabrielle would still be a law-abiding citizen. Although Zina would be still rotting in jail.She hoped that Minya would be successful in at least convincing the Hirohitos to drop the charges; perhaps Eli’s offer of unlimited anime rentals would help soften their hard hearts.

Putting aside these tumultuous thoughts, Gabrielle reclined on the bus, eyes closed, drinking in the sun. Cyrene was right, there was nothing quite like sunbathing on top of a motor vehicle. She could feel the light and the heat sink deep into her bones, dissolving them. She was liquid, expanding, flowing free from the constraints of her body and from time. She was seeing and experiencing alternate time lines, the past, the future, and a new present.

In this vision of the present, Zina was still in jail and about to be executed for her crimes. All of her crimes, even sleeping with the 16-year-old girl scout. She was strapped into an electric chair, with a really bad, fucked-up Siousxie-and-the-Banshees kind of short hairdo. The switch was thrown and a gazillion bolts of electricity fried her lover into a pile of ashes.

"Zina," she whimpered aloud.

"Gabrielle."

The poet opened her eyes, attempting to blink away the effects of phosphene, even though multicolored dots and blobs and dashes remained floating in her sight. She was curled fetally, still on top of the motorbus, face to face with the Big Gulp. The voice came from the benevolent font of bubbling Sprite within the red container. "Zina?" she repeated.

"Gabrielle, what the fuck are you doing?" the Big Gulp demanded.

"Zina? Why are you there? Come back to me!" Lovingly she stroked the sweaty container.

The large red cup sighed. "Oh, for Christ's sake."

The world thundered, and the poet sat up with a gasp, knocking over the Big Gulp, spilling its sticky clear fluid all over the bonnet of the Saab.

Zina had jumped up onto the roof of the motorbus. Crouched like a panther, she grinned, pleased with herself. Then she shot a mock-scowl at the poet. "You ate a peyote tablet, didn't you?"

"I—" Gabrielle's eyes shifted guiltily.

"Eli told you to wait until we got into the Mojave."

"Aren't we?"

"Toto, we're still in fuckin’ Kansas."

"Oh."

"You probably got sunstroke now too."

The poet covered her eyes. "Do not."

Zina sighed and sat down next to her, yet as far away from the Sprite spill as possible. She pulled an old Oakland Raiders cap out of her back pocket and gently placed it on Gabrielle's head, shielding her eyes from the sun.

The poet basked in the musty, sweaty scent emanating from the cap. "Wow, you're letting me wear your Raiders cap. We must be in love or something."

"I reckon so." The firefighter sighed again, this time happily. They were quiet for a minute. "How long do you think before they drop the charges?"

"I dunno, baby. I figure it won't be too long. They'll soon get bored hanging around the county."

"Ya think? Hell, we never got bored hanging around the county."

"We’re idiots. They’re city types. They need neon lights and people driving badly."

Zina hummed skeptically. "So after we go to the desert, then what?"

"Oh, I don't know. We can go anywhere you want."

"We could go to Mexico!" Zina's blue eyes brightened.

"Don't you need a passport for that? I don't have one."

"I dunno—but we can get you one, easy. I know this fella in El Paso, he can put together a passport for you just like that." Zina snapped her fingers and pulled her own passport out of a back pocket. "He did one for me."

Gabrielle took the small document and opened its cover. The photo was Zina, sure enough, although the name read "Ellie Mae Ghurkhan." At the poet's look of puzzlement, Zina said, "Well, it always helps to have an alias, and Ghurkhan was my married name…" In a hapless attempt to take back the words, she bit the inside of her mouth. Oh fuck.

"You were married?"

"Just for a teeny bit..."

"Who's Ghurkhan?"

"It don't matter now, he's dead."

"How did he die?"

"Can we not talk about this now?" Zina tried furiously to work up some crocodile tears. "Let's just say I was the happiest woman in Denmark." When he died, that is.

Gabrielle scowled.

Zina patted the poet’s thigh. "Don't fret, baby, I just married him for his cigar plantation."

"Like that should make me feel better." Gabrielle put her arms behind her head. "So why do you want to go to Mexico?"

"I got an idea."

"That's what I was afraid of."

Zina ignored this and pulled out a picture of Harley—their niece, not Zina's beloved hog. "What we do is this: We get to some little town—a nice town—an' show this picture to all the locals, see, an' they'll think I'm in league with the Chupacabra, an' they'll, like, start payin' me tribute to protect them from the beast!" She grinned with maniacal pleasure.

"And then maybe if things go real well, we could buy our own boat. And we could sail around everywhere do a little, ah, tradin' here and there—or maybe not," she added quickly, at Gabrielle's disapproving look. "But there's quite a business in white slavery, ya know." Zina's eyes darkened, recalling the time that Boris knocked her unconscious with a bottle of Jack Daniels and tried to sell her to Lao Ma's uncle. She shook the thought from her mind. "Or," she continued, "we could just open a casino on board..."

Gabrielle stared at her. Was she serious? Was she joking? Was she crazy? The poet burst out laughing. Because it didn't matter. "God, you are so fucked up."

"But you still love me, right?" Zina dipped her head expectantly. She hesitated a second, perhaps wondering—and fearing—what Gabrielle's response would really be. Could you still love me, even though I put you through so much crap? Even though I ruined your original copy of On the Road, even though I dragged you across the lawn when your shoelace got caught in the weed-whacker, even though I knocked you unconscious while playing Frisbee with the lid of a crock pot? I still love you, but is that enough?

Gabrielle just smiled and lifted her head. Her answer was in the kiss.

The End

#xena #xena warrior princess #xena/gabrielle #xena/gabrielle fanfiction #femslash #fanfiction #author: vivian darkbloom #mature

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