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ncssian · 3 years

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A Favor: Part Twenty-Two

Nessian Modern AU

Masterlist

content warnings: secondhand embarrassment, i dont know how skiing works, poor editing, NSFW 🔥

***

To Nesta’s horror, Cassian was serious when he said he’d teach her how to ski. Nevermind the fact that it’s his birthday, and they should be having a lazy morning together filled with cuddles and breakfast in bed. Instead, they’ve been up since six in the morning without food or drink, just to shuffle around in the snow while Cassian repeats the same instructions over and over. By late morning, the rest of their group has gotten up and joined them at the beginner’s trail to be firsthand witnesses to Nesta’s humiliation.

She stares down at the blinding white slope before her and inhales a breath of frigid mountain air, trying to steel her nerves before she has to push off the ground and take flight.

Cassian sees her hesitation and sighs. “Come on, Nesta,” he urges. “It’s thirty feet to the bottom of the hill.”

“Why is it so steep?” she demands, even though she knows this is a practice hill. Toddlers in skis are shuffling around them, hand in hand with their parents.

“You’re not falling to the bottom,” Cassian says, growing impatient. “You’re gliding.”

He’s already shown her how to maneuver with skis a dozen times already, and Nesta can see that he doesn’t have another dozen times left in him. Unfortunately for him, Nesta’s own patience was used up hours ago. Her stomach pangs with hunger, and she has a pounding headache from the cold and lack of sleep.

“Oh, come on, Nesta,” Gwyn calls from behind her. She hops up and down in her snow boots like a cheerleader. “You can do it!”

Nesta does not want to do it. She looks down at the hill, then back at Cassian with pleading eyes—eyes that he can’t see under her ski goggles anyway.

“I can’t take this anymore,” Azriel mutters from somewhere. He picks up his ski poles and points to Emerie. “Ski lift?”

“Sure—” she starts to say, and then remembers that she’s here to support Nesta. “Not now,” she amends.

“Just go,” Cassian turns to tell them. “At least some of us will be having fun.” Nesta watches as he goes over to Emerie and Az to give advice on the trails, the same frustration from last night building in her chest.

Stupid ski trip. Stupid uninvited guests. Stupid birthday that Cassian isn’t even treating like a birthday.

Gritting her teeth, Nesta jabs her ski poles into the ground. She’ll conquer this hill, and then she’ll conquer the rest of the trail, and then she’ll take her skis and set them on fire.

With everyone briefly preoccupied and no eyes on her, Nesta pushes herself downhill. Her skis slip a little as she takes off but she readjusts her feet the way Cassian showed her, regaining control. She takes a deep breath, realizing the height isn’t as scary as she thought it would be. Testingly, she bends her knees and pushes herself farther, gaining speed.

“Oh, oh, look!” she hears Gwyn say from behind her. “She’s doing it!”

The voice breaks Nesta out of her precarious concentration, and she almost misses the kid right in front of her skiing at the pace of a turtle. Gasping, Nesta swerves at the last second to avoid running him over.

Her skis clack into each other and she feels her ankle twist, and then she’s down. Hard. Her face meets snow and her ski gear jabs into her body as she tumbles down the rest of the hill, until she finally meets flat ground and rolls to a painful stop.

Nesta only hears a dull roar in her ears as she slowly pushes herself upright. Ignoring alarmed looks from stray skiers around her, she reaches forward and unstraps one ski from her foot, then the other. Her goggles fall to the ground next. Once free, she stands up and walks away, ignoring the calls of her friends from the hilltop.

She walks until she loses sight of the trail and then the resort, until the flattened and trampled snow piles up into powdery mounds untouched by human presence. A cropping of towering evergreens appears before her, and she heads straight for the thicket without pausing.

Once safely entombed by the dark tree trunks and frosted branches, Nesta releases a breath and screams. Screams until the frustration and anger within her bluntens just a little.

The forest absorbs her fire and answers with silence.

“Better now?” Cassian’s voice comes from behind her.

Nesta whirls, ready to fling her next scream at him for having the nerve to follow her, but she only restrains herself because it’s his birthday. Guilt and humiliation nips at her; she shouldn’t be doing this on his birthday. “Leave me alone.” Her voice is raw from shrieking.

Cassian only takes a step closer to Nesta, eyeing her up and down. “You’re not hurt, right? ’Cause that would be embarrassing for you.”

Any edge that was taken off starts to build up again, and Nesta really doesn’t want to look at him right now. “Cassian—”

“Your face is turning red,” he suddenly gasps, pointing. “You should try yelling again, babe. I don’t think the entire resort heard you last time.”

Done with her boyfriend’s shit, Nesta releases a growl and rushes at him. He’s a lot closer than she realized, and in a blink she slams right into his broad chest and shoves him with all her might.

Cassian laughs, short and blunt, and pushes her right back. Her back hits hard-packed snow and then he’s on top of her, pinning her wrists loosely beside her head. Icy wetness seeps past the neck of her jacket.

“Do you want me to fucking bite you?” Nesta snarls, getting in Cassian’s face.

“Always,” he says without hesitation, pressing closer to her. “But first you gotta take a breather.”

“Don’t tell me what to do,” she seethes back. At this rate, she really might bite him. She wants to see his smug face drop when he realizes he pushed her too far.

“You might have an aneurysm at this rate with your anger issues.” He pouts prettily. “Imagine how sad that would make me.”

“I DON’T HAVE ANGER ISSUES!” she shrieks.

Cassian barely blinks. Nesta breathes heavily in the ensuing silence, realizing how embarrassing this is for her. Yet she doesn’t know how to stop.

Closing her eyes, she drops her head to the ground and turns away. Wishing she could sink into the ground and vanish for a few minutes, at least until she gets herself under control again.

After a moment of quiet, she feels the back of Cassian’s fingers brush her neck. “I wondered where that spitfire girl went,” he says lowly. “She didn’t die. You just hid her very well.”

Nesta’s body doesn’t know whether to feel soothed or incited by the touch, the words. “Does it make you happy?” she breathes, her eyes still closed. “That she’s still there?”

“It would be murder if you ever got rid of her. Don’t you dare,” he threatens.

Nesta huffs a derisive laugh. It’s easy for him to say, when he isn’t the one that has to live with it. “I bet you’re enjoying this.”

“Only if you are.” He sounds completely genuine, and Nesta feels him pluck something out of her hair—likely a snowflake.

Realizing Cassian has long since released her wrists, she opens her eyes and stares at the column of his neck. She doesn’t see the regret and concern on his face when he says, “I ruined today, didn’t I?” She watches him swallow before he adds, “I’m sorry, Nes.”

“It’s your birthday,” she mutters, looking away. “You can do whatever you want.” Even if it’s spending the whole day skiing.

“You’re right about that.” His warm breath hits her nose, and now that Nesta’s head is somewhat clear, she can feel every place where his body settles into hers.

Before she can betray herself and forget how upset she was at him only a few minutes ago, Cassian pushes up and off of her. Frigid air replaces where he was just sprawled, and then he’s holding out a hand to Nesta. “We’re going back to our room,” he says, watching Nesta’s feet closely as he helps her stand. “You can ride on my back.”

“Why?” Nesta grumbles, brushing herself off. “I can walk fine.”

“You twisted your right ankle on the way down that hill, and you started limping as soon as you thought you were out of sight.” Cassian turns around and points at his back. “Get on while I’m being nice.”

That makes Nesta scoff, because he’s always nice, but she has little fight left today. She tries to reach up to wrap her arms around his neck, but Cassian grabs her legs and hitches her up onto his back before she can struggle.

She responds with a scowl, clasping her hands across his chest and getting comfortable. “You noticed I was hurt but didn’t have a problem with tackling me to the ground?”

Cassian squeezes her thighs and holds her closer, tossing a blinding smile over his shoulder. “Sorry if I wasn’t expecting you to try to jump me with an injured foot. You took me by surprise.”

“Bullshit,” Nesta says as they start walking out of the trees. “You did it on purpose.”

“Do you like starting fights, Archeron?”

“Do you?” she retorts.

They bicker back and forth like that until they reach the resort, and even once they’re inside the lobby, Cassian doesn’t put Nesta down. The exhaustion of the day has settled over the both of them by then, and the elevator ride up to the penthouse is peacefully quiet.

Back at the empty suite, Cassian carefully lowers Nesta to her feet. “Take your clothes off,” is all he says before heading for the bathroom, shedding his heavy outer jacket as he goes. Nesta has no problem listening; she’s all too happy to take her snow-drenched gear off and breathe air-conditioned air again.

She only realizes as she’s removing her boots that her overwrought emotions must have dulled the real pain of her fall. Her entire body aches down to the bone, and her twisted ankle has it the worst. Inspecting the swollen skin around her foot, she wonders if Cassian will make her see a doctor when the sound of a running faucet pulls her attention. Still dressed in her thermal underwear, Nesta pads over to the bathroom.

Inside, the room is dim, and the only light comes in from the single window panel at the far end of the room. Cassian sits on the rim of the clawfoot tub as it fills with heated water, already naked.

Nesta coughs, caught off guard. The sight is far from unfamiliar to her, and yet she hates to admit that she’ll never not react to it.

Cassian looks up at her, meeting her eyes head on, and a giggle almost escapes her.

“What’s that dumb look on your face?” he says with high brows. “Take your clothes off and get in.”

Nesta firmly schools her face into obedience. Is she a grown woman or a schoolgirl? she chides herself as she strips naked. But as soon as she’s free of her top and leggings, Cassian stops her. “Turn around,” he says.

Is this a sex thing? She hopes it’s a sex thing. She does as she’s told, and hears Cassian hiss in a breath. Glancing at the mirror over the sink, Nesta winces when she realizes what he sees. “Damn.” Her back is peppered with still-forming bruises from her fall, along with her legs and ribs.

Getting up, Cassian approaches her and cautiously runs his fingers over a reddened spot on her ribs. “I think a ski pole stabbed me there,” Nesta says, frowning down at the bruise. She looks like shit, and not at all in a desirable way.

“How’s your ankle?” Cassian kneels to check for himself, handling her like a porcelain doll. He presses gently above the bone where she twisted it. “Does that hurt?”

Nesta considers saying yes, just so he can keep fussing over her like this, but she shakes her head. “I’m fine. Just a little achy.”

A sudden chaste kiss between her legs makes her yelp, and she twists to find Cassian still on his knees, grinning sheepishly up at her. “You know what can help with those aches?”

Nesta blanks as Cassian runs a calloused hand up her inner leg. “Uh…really good dick?”

Cassian is visibly trying not to smile when he says, “A bath.” He stands and turns the faucet off, before going to help Nesta into the tub.

Steaming hot water just beneath the point of being uncomfortable hits Nesta’s calves, then her hips and chest. She might moan in relief as she sinks into the bath.

Cassian settles in across from her, taking up most of the tub space as Nesta twists her ponytail into a bun. He takes her ankle onto his lap and starts massaging above the injury. He notes, “We haven’t been alone like this in ages.”

“I remember when it was my job to be the chill guy,” he continues, rubbing circles into her leg. “I was the one doing stupid shit, and now I have to tell other people to knock it off when they do stupid shit. Since when did Azriel take my role?” he mutters to himself.

Nesta tilts her head against the lip of the tub and watches Cassian, taking in the barely visible lines of weariness on his face. She was once in a similar boat, too, where she had no one to answer to but herself. “Do you miss it?” she asks hesitantly. “Life before we got to know each other?” A life spent in the company of his friends, meeting different women every other week and being as free as possible.

“No,” he says easily. “I miss life before we had to share each other with other people.” He meets her eyes and smirks. “Who knew monogamy could be so exciting?”

Nesta’s stomach curls at his honesty, and she doesn’t know what to say. In the silence, Cassian reaches for a washcloth and lathers it with a bar of pine scented soap. But before he can reach for Nesta, she snatches the washcloth from him and pulls herself forward into the cradle of his limbs. What she can’t say, she’ll just have to show.

She starts soaping up his arms, granting extra attention to his tattooed biceps.

“You’re hurt—” he tries to protest.

“Shut up.” She runs the washcloth over his shoulders, across his collarbones.

When Nesta reaches his chest, she starts, “Earlier in the woods...I lost control.”

Cassian looks wary, but she goes on, “I don’t know why I did that. I thought I didn’t do that anymore.”

“I know why,” he says simply. “You were having a bad day. It was overwhelming.” He shrugs.

“But I’m better than that,” she insists. “You might think it's cute or funny when I—lose it, but I spent years training myself not to fall apart at the slightest inconvenience.” She takes in a breath, her movements slowing. “I learned how to escape reality, remember? I climbed into books and TV and songs, and at one point my entire life passed me by because I refused to participate in it. If I didn't participate, I couldn't be hurt.” She wrings out the washcloth, and Cassian carefully pries it out of her grip.

Nesta places her empty hands on her thighs, avoiding his touch, his eyes. “I think you were one of the only people who ever made me want to come back to real life,” she offers awkwardly. “That's why you made me uncomfortable at first. There were times I would look at you and think, He's better than anyone from the books. If I start living on the same plane as him, I can have him. Does that make sense?”

Cassian swallows visibly, but nods.

“It seemed like an impossible thing to do at the time—participate in the real world, make real friends. But have you noticed? I don’t read as many romance novels anymore.” Not because she doesn’t love them, but because she no longer needs them to remind herself she's alive.

She looks up at him, searching for his thoughts and opinions. Cassian looks like he's doing the same with her face, but then he says, “If you need to scream, even if it’s at me, tell me. I’ll take you somewhere far away, or I’ll let you have it out right in front of everyone. Whatever the hell you want, as long as you tell me. Please.”

Nesta starts to shake her head, adamant, but he stops her with the most pitiful look he's ever given her. “There’s nothing I hate seeing more than you trying to swallow down your rough edges. Even in the woods, you were about to tame yourself before I provoked you.” Cassian holds out a pinky, completely serious. “Consider it my birthday gift. Don’t do that shit anymore.”

Nesta stares at him, his plea warring with years of conditioned self-restraint. “I already got you a birthday gift,” she finally grumbles, but hooks his pinky with hers.

He seems satisfied, but doesn't let go of her pinky. With surprising strength, he uses their hooked fingers to pull Nesta into him, and she just barely catches herself on his chest before he brings her head down and kisses her deep.

Nesta already has her legs adjusted around his waist and his cock pressed against her stomach before she can pull away far enough to choke, “What’s this for?”

He leans up and catches her lips with his again, dipping his tongue just far enough inside to flick the roof of her mouth before retreating. “For existing. And for those aches.” He presses down lightly on a bruise at her back and runs a soothing thumb over it right after. Between her thighs, she feels him growing hard.

Nesta huffs a distracted laugh, the steam from the water sending a red flush up her chest and neck. It's suddenly very hot, and she unconsciously squirms in his lap. “I just realized I’ve never had sex in the bath before,” she says out of nowhere, rubbing her chest and quickly dropping her arms. She’s babbling, she knows. Contrary to popular media, being a seductress is harder than it looks. Half the time she has no idea what to say, and she considers herself lucky that Cassian is driven wild by it anyway.

Cassian entertains her, nodding along while his fingers slip past her ass, brushing her folds. “That sounds like something that should be amended, don’t you think?”

“Well, in terms of comfort I’m not sure if it’ll be better than the shower—” She’s cut off by a finger teasing at her entrance, making her jerk. “Yes,” she says quickly. “Yes, it should be amended.”

He hums thoughtfully, leaning in to nibble and suck at her neck. Her hardened nipples brush against his chest, and Nesta pushes closer into Cassian’s embrace. She’s half-rocking against him when she rasps, “How do you give head in the bath? Do I, like, have to hold my breath underwater?”

“You don’t need to know how,” he mutters, grasping her by the hips and tugging her up so that he’s eye level with her chest. He starts leaving a trail of openmouthed kisses across her breasts. “You’re not doing anything I don’t tell you to do today.”

“What do you mean?” Nesta’s grip on Cassian’s shoulders tightens when he brings a pink nipple into his mouth, sucking hard and pulling off with a flick of his tongue. She can’t move her hips for fear of climaxing at the slightest touch. “It’s your birthday,” she manages to get out. “And I like seeing what I can do to you.”

“Then save it for your birthday.” He pulls her back down firmly into his lap, making her thighs clench with restraint. “Because I like seeing what I do to you more.”

To prove his point, he parts her legs and slips one finger inside her. The smug pride on his face at what he finds makes Nesta move to grip the rim of the tub. Having a pretty boyfriend might have been a mistake, she thinks. That kind of face will get away with anything. Right now, for example.

“Tell me what you want, then,” she pleads.

Cassian leans back, pretending to think. “Sit on my cock,” he finally says.

An easy enough order, one Nesta is all too excited to carry out in only a few movements. It takes a minute to adjust to the fullness and the stretch, and the water doesn’t help in dousing the fire in her veins at all. With heat pounding deep in her core, Nesta releases a terse breath. Her tongue darts out to wet her lower lip, and Cassian watches.

“Now don’t move,” he orders.

“What?” Nesta’s knees involuntarily clench around his hips, her body already craving the feel of moving against him, on top of him.

He levels her with a look. “No clenching, no rocking, no touching.” He hisses in a thoughtful breath, combing a wet hand through his hair. “Actually, that isn’t very fair, is it?”

Nesta is about to nod furiously when he says, “You still need to wash yourself.” He hands her the washcloth she used on him earlier and leans his elbow on the rim of the tub. “Be quick about it. No games.”

Nesta’s eyes widen, looking at the washcloth, then back up at Cassian. Excitement tingles in her fingers and toes, and she doesn’t want to argue with him.

Gulping tightly, she soaps up the washcloth, then smooths the lather over her arms. It’s hard to focus on what she’s doing when there’s a pounding pressure between her legs, and the only thing that keeps her going is that she’ll be rewarded when she’s done. Cassian doesn’t bother watching her, instead tipping his head back against the tub and closing his eyes. From this angle, the tendons in his neck stand out clearly, and the hard line of his jaw looks tense. Nothing on his calm face reveals that Nesta is the reason for his tension, though.

Bringing the soapy cloth over her breasts, Nesta looks up to see if Cassian is secretly peeking at her through his lashes. His eyes remain shut, the perfect portrait of a man at rest.

Suddenly, his hips shift beneath hers, and Nesta nearly drops the washcloth. Straightening up, she has to use herculean strength to force her inner walls to relax around him. “You moved,” she accuses him.

“I was getting comfortable,” he says, still not opening his eyes.

“Why can you move but I can’t?”

That gets him to look at her. His eyes are hooded and lazy when he says, “You’re still talking?”

“Maybe if you had clearly explained the rules—” Nesta starts to grumble, but shuts up when he quirks a brow at her. She won’t lose this game, not for anything—even if she’s split at the seams with Cassian inside her and is one thread away from completely snapping.

Now fully alert, Cassian watches Nesta finish washing up. He hasn’t touched her once since he pulled her onto his cock, and now Nesta tries to make up for the aching lack by pretending her roaming hands are his.

It’s not until the washcloth reaches her tummy that Nesta pauses, her hand frozen over her lower abdomen. Because there, even past the cloth, she can feel him. The skin just slightly bulges, and she looks down at herself with her lips slightly fallen apart. She didn’t realize he was nestled so deep in her, but now she swallows past a lump in her throat. “Cassian…” she starts weakly. Every last muscle is trembling with the effort to stay still. Can he really be unaffected by all of this? Is she really the only one dying right now?

Without intending to, her hand drops the cloth, slipping toward her clit. She can only brush the sensitive nub before Cassian says quietly, “Don’t.”

So this is against the rules, too. She can’t even bring herself to look at him, she’s strung so tight. Taking a shallow breath, she grabs the pitcher from the shelf by the tub and fills it with water, using it to rinse off the suds. When she’s done, with water droplets running down every inch of her, she dares to look at Cassian again. Her anxiousness to get this over with must be written all over her face, and yet.

“Good,” Cassian says, voice just a little grated.

Nesta’s heart rate picks up a beat. She’s finally getting her reward.

“Now sit still and pretty while I rest,” he says, sinking even lower into the tub—and causing his cock to dig even deeper into Nesta. “This is a bath, not a splash pad.”

Nesta chokes. “What—I thought—”

“Hm?”

She presses her lips together tightly, refusing to protest. He can’t make her warm his cock like this forever, can he? Soon enough he’ll crack.

Four minutes in, and he doesn’t crack. While Nesta gets closer to crying by the second, she has yet to find evidence that he’s even aware of her presence. Her only proof is the fact that he’s still rock hard, occasionally twitching against the depths of her walls.

At five minutes in, Nesta can’t help it. She breaks, and her inner muscles clamp around Cassian with a viselike grip. She half-sobs in pain and relief, and her hips jerk of their own accord.

Cassian’s eyes fly open at that, the pupils blown wide, and Nesta has to catch herself on his chest to keep from crumbling. If she had half a working brain left, she would have noticed the trembling restraint that lines Cassian’s limbs, or the way his eyes burn with welling desire and even sympathy. Instead, she turns her face into his chest and begs weakly, “Pleasepleaseplease.” Her thighs keep shifting, rubbing back and forth to create friction, but she can’t give herself permission to move the way she truly needs until Cassian gives her permission.

Nesta feels Cassian’s broad hand come up to carefully brush her back. She nearly weeps with relief at the touch, but he doesn’t go any further. “What do you want, baby?” he says roughly.

“You,” she forces out. She doesn’t care if this is losing.

“Me, what?” He sounds like he’s about to lose, too.

“I want you to fuck me.” She’s nearly whimpering, trying not to squirm on his lap.

Cassian, the horrible bastard, has the nerve to snicker in her ear, though he sounds more than a little wrecked when he says, “Well, why didn’t you just say so?”

In a flash, he has Nesta pinned against the porcelain tub. And before she can decide whether to laugh or moan or cry at the turn of events, Cassian covers her mouth with his and thrusts into her, giving her everything she wants.

***

Hours later, after they’ve sated themselves on sex and food and Cassian is napping sprawled out across Nesta’s back, she receives a text from Azriel telling her he won’t be there to celebrate the rest of Cassian’s birthday.

Az: You two deserve the alone time. Also I didn’t get him a present.

Another text pops up before Nesta can reply.

Az: I did order a cake to be sent up to your room, though. Don’t worry, there’s not a picture of your boobs on it.

Nesta’s eyes widen at that, not knowing why—or how—that would be an option. But she completely forgot about getting cake in all the unexpected hassle of their vacation, and not for the first time is she grateful that Azriel came along with them on their trip.

Typing back a quick thank you, Nesta clicks her phone off and curls further into Cassian’s warmth. He shifts on top of her, hugging her closer, and a moment later she feels his nose poking at the crook of her neck. “Good morning,” he murmurs thickly, sleep coating his voice.

“It’s six p.m,” she snickers. The sun slipped behind the mountains just a few minutes ago, leaving the room a blue dark.

Cassian responds by slipping his hands under her oversized tee, rubbing the muscles along her back. “Where’s everyone else?” They haven’t seen Gwyn, Emerie, or Az in hours.

Nesta turns around in Cassian’s arms to face him. “Consider them gone. We’re by ourselves for the rest of the night.”

He perks up at that. “Really?”

A knock sounds from the penthouse door, and Nesta remembers Azriel’s text. She squirms out from under Cassian’s weight with some difficulty and stands off the bed. She points a stern finger at him. “Don’t move from here,” she orders. “I’ll be back.”

Cassian leans back, looking questioning and amused, but Nesta has already jammed her feet into slippers and left the room by then.

She accepts the covered platter from room service at the door and leaves a tip, before carrying the cake over to the coffee table in the living area and setting it down. Within ten minutes, she has an entire setup arranged: the fireplace is up and roaring, the fur throw she stole from Cassian’s couch to bring on vacation is spread out before it, and the cake candles are lit. The Italian dinner that she ordered earlier also arrives by then, and once everything is laid out, she calls for Cassian to come downstairs.

He’s fully dressed in a sweater and jeans when he appears at the top of the short set of stairs, and he looks so excited to see her that he doesn’t notice the cake or the dinner until he’s only a few steps away from her. Very slowly, his smile freezes. “What’s all this?”

“It’s your birthday,” Nesta says. “Duh.”

“But I thought we already celebrated,” he stumbles, looking around. “With the skiing, and the bathtub—”

Nesta makes a face. “You thought that was celebrating?” She shakes her head and beckons Cassian over to the fur throw, right before the table decked out with food.

He sits down beside Nesta, looking over her in nothing but her thin white shirt. “Are you cold? Do you want my sweater?”

She rolls her eyes as far back as they can go. “No, I want you to focus and make a wish before 6:27.”

“How do you know my birth time?”

“Will you do it or not?” she threatens. The candle wax is melting onto the cake.

Cassian stares at her for a moment longer before finally facing the cake. Closing his eyes, he mouths something unintelligible and blows the candles out.

Nesta claps softly. “Happy two years away from thirty. What did you wish for?” She leans closer.

He leans away. “It doesn’t come true if you go around announcing it.”

Nesta’s shoulders drop. “Wishes aren’t real, Cassian.”

“That’s what you say.” He swipes a dollop of chocolate frosting off the cake with his finger and holds it out to Nesta.

Smiling, she wraps her lips around his finger, scraping the chocolate off with her teeth and licking it clean. He sucks on the same finger when she’s done, chasing after her taste and the lingering frosting. “What do you want first?” he asks. “Dinner or dessert?”

“This.” Nesta pulls out a small box from under the table, placing it in front of Cassian. She didn’t have time to find wrapping paper or a bag, but she’s a bit proud of herself anyway.

Cassian once again looks taken by surprise. “You didn’t have to…” He trails off as he reaches for the box. It’s already obvious what it is, but he still opens it carefully, hesitantly.

He stares at the silver watch for a little while and then looks back up at Nesta. “I…” He clears his throat.

“What do you think?” In all honesty, Nesta already knows. But she needs to hear it from him.

He meets her eyes. “It’s so…normal. Do you know what I mean?”

It’s the type of gift that Nesta’s mother would have given to her father, the type of gift that wives would give to their husbands. Not necessarily original or thoughtful, but domestic.

“Since you like to spend your time thinking about taxes and minivans and stuff,” Nesta says, remembering their last conversation about the future, “I thought you’d like something normal.”

Cassian laughs at that. He takes the watch out of the box and turns it over in the firelight, still a little dumbstruck. “I love it,” he says roughly.

Nesta kicks him in the knee. “It’s a watch, not an engagement ring.”

But he doesn’t hear a word, already clasping it onto his wrist.

***

Their last day at the resort starts early with Gwyn, Emerie, and Az banging on the suite door at five in the morning. Though Cassian is already up by then, Nesta snarls and snaps like a bitch at being dragged out of bed to watch the sunrise.

With everyone’s bags packed and waiting at the door, they all gather on the balcony connected to the suite in content silence. Azriel nurses a thermos of coffee that he refuses to share with Cassian, and Nesta is wrapped up in that fur throw she loves, half-asleep against Emerie.

When the sky starts lightening, Cassian pulls Nesta away from Emerie and into his body. “You’re gonna miss it,” he murmurs onto the top of her head.

She blinks awake, looking out at the sky slowly being streaked with a dozen colors. From here, the view over the mountains and the quiet town some miles beneath the resort is breathtaking. Easily better than any sunrise Cassian could have shared with Nesta back home.

It’s beautiful, and in that moment he decides he wants to see even more beautiful places than this with Nesta. Someday.

“Pretty,” she yawns, tilting her head back against his chest. Cassian feels guilty for keeping her up so late the night before, but he’s not ashamed of how she rests in his arms right now.

After the sun climbs past the lowest peak, the group of them slowly but surely come more alive. Emerie asks Az to go inside with her and do a final check before they leave, and Nesta shakes both the blanket and Cassian’s arms off herself.

“Some coffee will wake you up,” he promises her, leaving her outside in the dewy morning air with a kiss on the temple.

When Cassian returns to the balcony with two freshly brewed cups, he finds Gwyn and Nesta in deep conversation. “I never apologized for crashing your weekend,” Gwyn is saying.

“You don’t need to,” Nesta responds, watching the world wake up below her.

“Still,” Gwyn says, chewing on the inside of her cheek. “I acted out of character, didn’t I?”

Nesta turns to her then, the sun haloing her face, and the look of understanding she wears makes Cassian take a step back inside.

“He does that to me,” Gwyn goes on, looking lost as ever. “I don’t know why he does that to me.”

“First love will do that to anyone,” Nesta says.

This isn’t a conversation Cassian should be overhearing, he realizes. Turning around with his coffees, he goes to find Emerie and Azriel instead.

In the living area, Emerie realizes at the last minute that she’s missing her phone charger. By the time she finds it, Nesta and Gwyn have rejoined the group.

Cassian hands Nesta her still-warm coffee with a warmer smile. “You ready to get out of here?”

“Hell yes, baby.” She slings an arm around his waist.

They barely make it to the resort lobby before Azriel and Gwyn start arguing over which route to take home.

“Why would you add an extra hour to your trip for no reason?” Azriel is saying.

“It’s none of your business!” Gwyn retorts.

“She’s scared of highways,” Emerie inserts.

While they bicker on the way to check out, Cassian finds Nesta’s hand and runs a finger down her palm. “Hey, Nes?”

“Hm?” She looks up at him.

He curls his fingers around hers. “Thank you for doing this.”

***

a/n: i cant keep posting chapters right before i sit down to cry in front of kdramas

tagging: @hellasblessed @sjm-things @thewayshedreamed @drielecarla @valkyriewarriors @superspiritfestival @aliveahaahahafuck @cupcakey00 @sayosdreams @rainbowcheetah512 @claralady @thebluemartini @nessiantho @missing-merlin @duskandstarlight @lucy617 @sleeping-and-books @everything-that-i-love @cassianscool @swankii-art-teacher @wannawriteyouabook @awesomelena555 @julemmaes @wickedqueenoffantasy @poisonous-bloom @observationanxioustheorist @gisellefigue08 @courtofjurdan @theoverlyenthusiasticwriter @wolfiixxx @cass-nes @seashade @royaltykxx @illyrianundercover @queenestarcheron @monstrousloves-explodinggalaxies @humanexile @that-golden-lyre @agentsofsheilds @mercy-is-alive @cassiansbigwingspan @laylaameer01 @verypaleninja @maastrash @bow-dawn @perseusannabeth @dead-on-the-inside666 @jlinez @hungryreadingaddict @anidealiveson @planet-faerie @shallowhighwaters @ghostlyrose2 @chosenfamily-valkyriequeens @rarephloxes @readiajin @nessiantrashh @live-the-fangirl-life @ifinallygavein @xoblivisci @sjmships @jungtaekwoonie-is-life @lysandra-tiara @lanyjoy-13 @frosted-crackers @post-it-notes33 @loosingdreams @fromthelibraryofemilyj @18moneytoad @dontgetsalmonella @champanheandluxxury @togreblog @arinbelle @ladygabrielli1997 @meridainthedisneyland @moodymelanist @pixieelea

#ncssianwrites #a favor #nessian #nesta archeron #cassian #nessian fanfic #nessian au

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whenimaunicorn · 4 years

Text

Playing House - Part 6

The madness continues as the Reader wakes up Sunday morning, ready to figure out how to find balance in the new facts of her love life!

Catch up: 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 (you can also find the whole thing on ao3)

Words: 4974 and most of them explicit

Would it really be like Ivar said? Now that the thrall game is in full effect, will these boys really be giving it to you at all hours of the day? A montage of images flash through your mind: you’re sweeping the floor until Ubbe drags you to the couch. You’ve just gotten back up on shaky legs when Ivar appears, handcuffs dangling from his finger. Ubbe soothing your wrists later while slipping himself inside one more time. The chores keep getting done, barely, but your clothes are never fully on anymore.

Just thinking about it, the warmth between your legs makes you shift positions. How can you be this wet again already? In the past two days, you’ve gotten more action than you’d had in . . . well . . . longer than you want to say. Your pussy shouldn’t be throbbing with need like this. It’s not neglected at all. You should be overwhelmed, really, given everything that’s happened. Instead, here you are, like a sailor on shore leave, horny as fuck at nine in the morning just dreaming of which of these two Lothbroks is going to put their hands on you next.

You’ve always been the first one up in the morning, at least on weekends. Especially since you’ve got brunch with your family today. You slipped out from under Ivar’s arm when your alarm went off, not wanting to disturb him by hitting the snooze. Your morning routine starts with a cup of coffee on the couch while you finish waking up. You’ve got your knees curled up under a blanket, phone in hand, although you’re mostly just daydreaming. You’ve probably already sat here just a little bit too long. You’re trying to make yourself get up and get ready for the day when Ubbe lumbers into the room.

“Morning, beautiful.” Sporting an adorable bedhead and a sleepy grin when he sees you curled up against the arm of the couch, Ubbe makes himself right at home under the other end of your blanket. You’re about to move your legs and give him room, but he spoons himself around your hip and stops your retreat with a strong hand on your thigh. “Is that coffee?” He wraps his fingers around the mug in your hand.

“There’s more in the pot.”

“But this is right here.” He takes a long sip from your mug, with your fingers trapped underneath his. Icy blue eyes sparkle at you from behind the rim. He makes a satisfied sound when he releases it.

You huff and pull it away from him. Ivar is hard to talk back to; you feel more of an urge for it with Ubbe. “This one’s mine, get your own!”

Ubbe just smiles and scoots in closer. “Fine by me. I like a different kind of pick-me-up in the morning, anyway.” He drops his head and nuzzles into your neck, his close-cropped beard tickling pleasantly as he mouths over your skin.

Oh. His body scoops even closer around the back of yours, his hands running up and down your pajama-clad form. You set the coffee cup down.

This may have started out with a lazy Sunday vibe, but Ubbe’s stroking hands find their way quite quickly underneath your clothing. With one hand scooping around your breast and the other diving between your thighs, he his not wasting time this morning. When you part your legs his finger slides so, so easily through your swollen folds. You’re so wet it’s almost embarrassing. “You needed me, didn’t you,” he murmurs in your ear. “You’ve got a pussy that always wants to be filled.”

He plunges in, finding his way so fast and slick that he immediately switches to two fingers, pressing as deep as he can before pulling out more slowly, teasing at your g-spot while you writhe back against him.

There’s mischief in his eyes when you look up. He’s still in control of himself, while you are devolving into a panting mess already. He stares down at you while his fingers piston and you squirm underneath him.

“How much trouble would you be in if he came out right now.”

Your eyes roll over to the dim hallway. As far as you know, Ivar’s not awake yet.

Ubbe twists his fingers, hitting you deeper, more deliciously. “Hm?”

“I—I don’t know,” you gasp, closing your eyes and focusing on cumming before you have to find out.

“Think he’d mark you up again?” Something in Ubbe’s voice makes you look up; his gaze is heated, blazing with that icy fire only his pale eyes can get. “I like thinking about that. More welts in your perfect skin because of me.”

“You want to put some there yourself?” You can barely believe you said it, but you’re just dying to know how kinky Ubbe can really get.

His fingers slow. His other hand curls into your hair. “How much time before you have to go to that brunch?”

“Shit.”

His chuckle is deep and rich. “Is being late an option?”

Disappointment loosens the coil that’s been winding up at your center. “Not really.”

His heavenly fingers retreat. Your pussy is still as needy as ever. “Then you’d better get that sweet ass up. We keep going right now, I’m gonna make your legs stop working.” He gives your butt a lazy, dismissive slap. “But I’m coming for this thing as soon as you get back. I hope you don’t have any plans the rest of the day.”

* * *

You fumble the keys a little on your way back into the apartment. Ubbe’s more than likely to follow through on his promise, and you’ve got the distinct feeling of entering a predator’s lair now, rather than your own apartment. The only thing that might stop him would be if Ivar were also in there, but then he’d probably be the one taking you back to his room to do something even more intense. It’s enough to soak a girl’s panties before anyone’s even touched her.

Everything looks normal when you open the door. No one in sight. You laugh at yourself a little for the apprehension. What, did you think that Ubbe was waiting in the living room to pounce on you? You set your purse down and grab a glass of water from the kitchen.

“Is that you, Y/N?” Ubbe calls from his bedroom.

“Yeah, hey.”

“Hey,” he says back, matching your casual tone. “Bring me a beer when you get a chance?”

You grab two. The first room down the hallway is Ivar’s. A little thrill creeps up the back of your neck as you pass his open door, but he doesn’t seem to be inside. While you love the ways he’s been claiming you, it’s equally exciting to think that he won’t be stopping you from going to Ubbe this time. On a sudden impulse, you duck into your own room before making it all the way to the last door. From the look of the flickering lights reflecting through the Ubbe’s doorway, he’s playing a video game in there. You decide there’s no rush to join him, and maybe you want to be wearing something a little sexier when you do.

You’ve got this red bra with a matching thong. Satin, with lacy edgings. Not really something you’d want to wear all day, but perfect to slip into now, when there’s basically a 99.9% possibility that they’re going to be peeled off your body within a few minutes. You consider strutting into Ubbe’s room wearing nothing but that, see what kind of cartoon wolf face he makes, but ultimately decide that you’re not going to make this so easy on him. You’ll go in casual, in your regular t-shirt and shorts, and let him make the first move.

When you open your door, Ubbe’s already looming in his, one arm up against the doorframe like he was prepared to be waiting a long time for you. His eyes are wolfish indeed, even without any lingerie to look at. He reaches out one hand. “That mine?”

You’re still carrying two beers. You hand him one, and he brings it to his lips without moving from the doorway.

He looks you up and down. “I thought you were changing in there.”

You shift your weight. “I did.”

“Isn’t that what you were wearing when you left?”

You just nod.

His eyes flick down your body again. He steps forward, reaches his hand up to your shoulder. You stay still, watching his face as he hooks one finger in your collar and pulls the shirt to the side until he can see the bright red, lacy strap hiding underneath. He smiles. “Alright, Little Red.”

You cock an eyebrow. “What does that make you, the Big Bad Wolf?”

Ubbe’s smile is dark. “Oh, Ubbe. What a big dick you have.”

You suppress a giggle. Definitely can’t argue with that. You look back down the hallway. “Ivar’s not here?”

He shakes his head. “Shopping. Said he’d be gone for a while.”

“Oh.”

Ubbe angles his body a little further into the room. “Wanna come in?”

“What happens if I do?”

His smile is dark and full of promises. “I’ll show you what I can do when I actually have room to work.”

The assault you had been expecting earlier comes just about as soon as you set foot across his threshold. You get a brief glimpse of rumpled bed, soda cans stacked around a glowing monitor on a racing game’s menu screen, and clothes littering the floor before Ubbe grasps you by the back of the neck, slams the door shut behind you, and presses your back into it.

“What is it about you,” he murmurs between kisses. “Last night was one of the hottest things I’ve ever done.” His teeth scrape against the bottom of your jaw. “And yet here I am, still as fucking hot for you as if I hadn’t been laid in months.”

He’s tugging your shirt off already. Your heart is racing like crazy; you let him take the bottle out of your hands, lift your arms, and give into it. So much for making him work for anything.

A guttural sound comes out of his throat when he sees the way your tits are served up in red lace. He wraps his arms around you and lifts you up against the wall.

You squeeze your legs around him tight as he hitches you up high enough to balance that way for a while. He buries his face in your chest. Lips drag across skin and lace, sloppy and wild. He shifts the angle of his hips and something hard is digging right into the center of your needy pussy. It might just be his belt buckle but whatever it is feels fucking good. You buck your hips against it, clutching at the back of his neck, scraping your fingers through his close-cropped hair.

With another rich, low groan, Ubbe pulls you tight against him and rotates away from the wall, carrying you several steps to his bed before throwing you down. He’s definitely intent on showing off. His knees press between your legs as you recline back and envelop yourself in the scent of his sheets.

One arm flexing quickly behind his head snaps his t-shirt off, revealing the broad chest he works so hard on at the gym. A light dusting of hair adds interest to his chiseled pecs. The action has pulled a fringe of his perpetually messy, dirty blonde hair down toward his eyes as he takes a half a second just to gaze at you on your back beneath him in his bed. His smile is proud and hungry, and then he drops down to cover you.

Not that the car sex wasn’t hot. Or the wild makeout sesh up against the brick wall outside that party. But there’s really nothing better than being able to stretch out and entwine your limbs like this, to feel the weight of his body on top of yours as he embraces you in devouring need.

Your phone buzzes in your pocket with a text message notification. Your first thought is Ivar, and you wriggle under Ubbe to get it out before you’ve even fully made the decision to do so. You break your lips away from his face just far enough to check out the screen.

It’s a message from Lauren. I can’t believe you haven’t called me yet. Ubbe?! You owe me the tea!

Your lips quirk in a quick smile.

“Who’s that,” Ubbe asks.

“Just my friend Lauren.” Pushing the button to turn the screen off, you twist up to set the phone on the nightstand.

“From last night?”

“Yeah. She wants to know what happened after I went home with you.”

Ubbe smirks. “Not going to be able to explain that in a text message.”

“No.”

“Well,” he says, running one hand up your thigh, heading for the waistband of your shorts, “since you haven’t released any reviews on me yet, how about I give you a little bit more to talk about.” He slides down your body, taking your shorts down with him.

You take a deep breath as he strips your legs bare and settles in between them. His fingers curl around the straps of the red thong, his breath hot against your lower belly as he teases the top of your panty line.

“Can’t do this in a car,” he murmurs, and rubs his nose along the crease of your thigh, nudging your legs wider apart for him. His fingers dance along the satin, tracing over your mound and following the strip of fabric as it narrows down and down between your thighs. “You put this on just for me?”

“Uh-huh,” you moan as he loops a finger under the side strap and snaps it.

“Did you soak the first pair through just thinking about what I was going to do to you when you got home?”

You say yes, of course you do.

Ubbe’s fingertip sneaks under the elastic hem right at your center, dragging moisture up from your core and around your swollen clit. “Now where did I leave off this morning…?”

“Two fingers in,” you recall helpfully.

Ubbe obliges. You weren’t quite as wet as you thought, but the friction feels good, the slight forcing of his way erotic as you give yourself over to this beast for the fourth time in . . . fuck, less than 24 hours. How is it that you still don’t feel like you’ve had enough? He drags in and out slowly, then uses his other hand to pull the fabric of the panties as far to the side as they’ll go. His warm breath hits your exposed clit as he repositions his body, then his lips close over you and everything is hot and slick and entirely his.

Ubbe clearly loves the pussy. He licks you broad and firm and thoroughly, and when you look down his eyes are closed like he’s savoring his favorite meal. Two fingers are still inside you and he works them in perfect tandem with his tongue. His pace is unhurried, somehow exuding a confidence that’s tightening the coil inside you faster than if he had actually been trying to get you off quickly. He makes happy little sounds as he eats you, and pushes his fingers in deeper.

You clutch at his hair, your legs twitching and writhing oddly as you try and control the uncontrollable. His tongue settles into a steady rhythm, batting across your clit in time with the curling of his fingers from the inside.

“Ubbe,” you wail, voice tight with the coming storm.

“Already?” he laughs, but his fingers don’t miss a beat. “I love it, princess, don’t hold back. I’m gonna make you cum so many times that you can’t think straight anymore.”

Then he latches back onto your clit and sends you spiraling up to the heavens. You can actually feel your body clenching and pulsing around his fingers as you come wailing through clenched teeth. His rhythm slows to gentle rocking as your consciousness floats back down, but he never entirely stops. Dreamy, you chase aftershock after aftershock, fucking yourself softly over his hand, until you realize you’re actually revving up to come a second time.

This seems to be his plan. “You close enough to cum again now,” he lifts his head from your clit to ask softly, “or do I have time to get in there first?”

Fuck. The very idea of Ubbe’s big dick pressing in between your still-shuddering walls is almost enough to make you blow again right now, but you manage to breathe out a quick “give it to me” as you try to hold on for him.

He climbs up the bed to the nightstand, fishing for a condom. You scoot yourself up a little higher too, getting comfy against the pillows and slipping off the twisted thong with shaky limbs. He tears the wrapper with his teeth and smooths the rubber down over his bobbing erection.

Your phone starts to ring. Ivar’s face appears on the glowing screen, and you both just stare at it for a moment.

Ubbe reaches out.

“What are you doing?”

His eyes are sparkling as he scoops up your phone. “If Ivar needs something, you should answer him.” He drags his thumb across the green icon to accept the call.

You suppress an outraged gasp as the naked, condomed Ubbe kneels between your legs while reaching up to press the phone against your ear. “H-hey Ivar.” You hold it up with both hands and do your best to sound completely normal.

“I was thinking of picking up Thai food on my way home,” Ivar says without preamble. Ubbe wraps one big hand under each of your thighs, spreading you wider. “Do you want me to get something for you?”

“Uh, yeah,” you say, realizing too late that you’d probably have to talk less if you had said no.

Ubbe’s got one hand on his dick, and you watch almost in horror as he lines that thing up to slide into your soaked and throbbing pussy right the fuck now.

No way in hell you’re stopping him, though. Walking the line like this is turning you on as much as him.

“Whaaat do you want me to get you?” Ivar asks, dragging out the first syllable in unspoken query about your prolonged silence.

You desperately try and remember the name of any dish they might serve at a Thai restaurant as you feel Ubbe’s blunt head prodding against your entrance. “Pad—pad see… the one with the thin little noodles.”

“Pad Wun Sen,” Ivar corrects you, right as Ubbe presses on home.

It wouldn’t be so difficult to sound normal if Ubbe just weren’t so damned thick. The stretch of him all at once takes the breath out of you, so as you try to answer Ivar in the affirmative you end up sounding way too much like a porn actress with the high-pitched “yeah!” that squeals out of your lungs. You fake a cough to cover it, also an unconvincing sound as Ubbe grinds his hips tightly against yours, and try again. “Yeah, that’s the one.” He slides out slowly. The thick, dark, self-satisfied grin spreading across his face is making Ubbe Lothbrok look like evil incarnate above you as he shoves himself back in with a second merciless thrust. At least you kept your mouth closed for that one, only trying to speak once he’s sunken in to the hilt. “I never seem to remember that name.” The deep, aching stretch of him makes it so hard not to moan, but you think your voice sounds more normal that time.

“What are you doing right now, pet?” You wish you could see Ivar’s face, because he sounds like he’s laughing at you while trying to pretend that he’s not.

“Um, nothing. I just slipped a little.”

Ubbe slips himself out of you, chuckling silently.

“Slipped how?”

You try to close your legs before he can slam into you again, but Ubbe catches your knee and you can’t quite lock him out. “I’m, uh,” you grunt at the struggle, “just mopping the floor.”

“Ah. Yes. You must have found something absolutely filthy, I can hear how hard you’re working. Did you get a little bit too wet?”

You don’t fight Ubbe very hard, but it’s fun to make him pry your legs apart before he can sink himself in again. Besides, feeling the strength of his arms is turning you on, and you’ll take any excuse to get it a little rough. “Yeah, think so.” Ubbe’s cock proves unescapable, jamming back into you again before you can think of anything more clever to say back to Ivar. With that many puns, he has to know exactly what’s going on. And teasing you mercilessly. But if you drop the façade, does it count as Ivar “catching you?” You’d better play it safe and keep pretending, no matter how poor a job you’re doing of it.

“Meat?” Ivar says.

“What?” You feel like you’re really starting to lose the battle as Ubbe pulls your legs up around his hips and starts fucking you deep, with a steady, sensuous rhythm.

“What’s your choice of meat.”

“Oh, uh, chicken.” Each one of those breathy words was punctuated by a thrust that fills you achingly to the brim.

“Alright.” Is that rich, thick amusement you’re hearing in Ivar’s voice? You hold your breath and try to listen. “Anything else? Maybe something for Ubbe?”

You meet those icy blue eyes, helplessly torn between your need to get this conversation over with, and the submissive desire to make sure your man isn’t left without any dinner. What would a good little thrall do? “Hey Ubbe,” you say, trying to make it sound like you’re talking to someone across the room and not inches away from your face. “Want something from the Thai restaurant?”

Ubbe shakes his head, grinning before he bites his lip and thrusts into you deeper.

“Nope,” you chirp to Ivar. You think about the heavenly treatment your pussy got so recently and add: “He already ate.” You feel yourself clench around him as another wave of arousal hits you at the memory.

“Ah,” Ivar says. “Enjoy the rest of your cleaning, then. Make sure you do it nice and deep, for me. And I expect you to be finished by the time I return. I’m ordering now, and I’ll be home with hot food as soon as it’s ready.”

Ubbe’s stuffing you so good you want to screech through your teeth, but you manage to keep your voice sounding human enough to end the call. “Thanks!”

You turn off the phone and resist the urge to throw it across the room. You let yourself have one long, loud, lusty groan to blow off the tension, then you start slapping at Ubbe with both hands. “Bastard! What the fuck was that?”

His cock slides out of you in the struggle, but he catches your arms quickly enough, grinning down into your face. “Super fucking hot, is what it was.”

You just might happen to agree, but you still want to fight. You shove him away from you, getting up onto your knees for more leverage to slap at him some more.

Ubbe detects the playfulness in your aggression and meets it with a growl and a grappler’s grip on your upper arms. You wiggle and struggle and even pretend to bite him until he’s had enough. Suddenly he’s got you flipped around on your stomach, face pressing into the mattress as he climbs onto your back. “Biting me? You think you can get away with that?” His jaws close over the fleshy part of your shoulder.

It’s a love bite, really, not anything meant to hurt, but the savage edge to his voice really sold it and you squirm in excitement underneath him.

“Like that, do you? Dirty girl.” He keeps you held down with one hand in the center of your back and slides down to close his teeth over your flank. Much harder this time. “You’re too fucking wild.” He growls like a beast when you try to squirm away. “Oh no I’m not done with you.” His lips travel to the swell of your ass, where he bites down so hard that you squeal.

When he releases his jaws you almost get away from him. He has to swing most of his body back over yours to ride you back down to the mattress.

He nips at your ear in a primal signal to stay still. “You want it rough, I can give you rough.” You feel his erection against the back of your thigh, waiting, and you realize that was actually a consent question.

“Fuck, yeah,” you say eagerly. “If you think you can claim me, then claim me.”

He prods at you from behind; it’s a little hard to find his mark when you’re not making it easy for him. With a swipe of his knee he opens your legs wider, and then fuck, he pushes right in. It feels impossibly deep from this angle, like he’s about to come out through your bellybutton. You were joking about the claiming thing, it just seemed to fit the animalistic vibe, but it sure is a hot fucking thought as he slams into your helpless, immobilized hips.

You can’t do much besides arch your back and take it. Every thrust has him grinding against your g-spot from this angle; heat builds quickly behind it until you’re keening, wild sounds that fill the room.

The filthy words keep spilling out between Ubbe’s gritted teeth. “Take it – you fucking glorious – ah – so fucking good – take it just like that.” He takes a fistful of hair to pull your face up from the mattress. “I wanna see, how you –”

There’s probably more coming out of his mouth but you can’t hear it anymore as another orgasm rips through your body, the pressure on your g-spot hitting just right at the new angle that Ubbe forced into your back.

Once you’re conscious of anything besides the roaring pleasure inside your own body, Ubbe’s not capable of words anymore. He’s fucking into you hard and fast and with a long, guttural groan that has to mean he’s coming too. His pace sputters, then he buries himself to the hilt and just stays there, holding his breath for a bliss-filled moment. He exhales with everything he has left and then collapses on top of you.

You make a happy little sound. You don’t mind his weight. It’s cozy, and somehow flattering to feel so thoroughly and freely used for his comfort. He shifts just enough to wrap an arm around your shoulder, pressing his forehead to the back of your neck. He doesn’t move again until he’s caught his breath.

When he finally pulls his softening cock out of you, he sighs a little at his own sensitivity. He rolls back on his hip to strip the condom off and flings it across his room. “Wow,” he says, voice light and giddy. “That was—wow.” He settles back down beside you, making sure you’re facing him. “Um, was all that ok?”

You smile. “What do you mean?”

His eyebrows go up. “That got pretty wild by the end there. I hope I didn’t, like, hurt you.”

Stroking your fingers down the side of his face, you try not to look like you’re laughing at him. Boy really is a total newbie to kinks like yours. Although he certainly seems to share them. “I’m fine. Loved every minute of it. If it wasn’t working for me, really, I’d have stopped you.”

His brows furrow down, listening carefully.

“I’ll say ‘red light’ if I ever need you to stop what you’re doing.”

Ubbe nods.

“But I love it rough like that. That was hot as hell.” You rub your palm over the places where he bit you. The one on your ass is still sensitive.

“It was, wasn’t it.” Ubbe looks like a kid who’s discovered a new candy store has opened right on his street. “Fuck. I just like . . . you seemed like you were into it and I just went for it. It was just . . .” he closes his eyes, trailing off with an adorable crease between his brows as he remembers some tantalizing detail. “You like it like that all the time?”

You nod, shyly, but a nervous laugh slips out too. “I mean, I’d probably get sore after a while but, yeah. Fuckin’ throw me around.” Your eyes trail down to his chest, unable to be quite this honest under full eye contact. “Chase me, push me, pull me… I like to be forced to submit.”

An entirely pleased sound rumbles in his throat. “I’ll keep that in mind.” He pulls you in close, tucking your head under his chin. “You’re not like any of the girls I’ve known,” he sighs.

You kind of want to say maybe you’ve been dating the wrong girls. But then the uncomfortable topic of dating would be hanging between the two of you, and you don’t want to talk about that until things are more clear with Ivar. He’s the one you always saw yourself getting serious with. Ubbe’s just, well, fun. Although he’s been surprising you lately. Like right now. You know you can’t stay long, you have to be dressed and out of this bed before Ivar gets home as per his instructions, but for just a few more minutes, you snuggle deeper into Ubbe’s arms.

A/N: I know Ubbe’s been getting a lot of spotlight lately, but Ivar’s back with a vengeance next!!! Read On

Taglist is open: @walkxthexmoon @swagmonstertoes @hanhanxx @xxdearlybeloved@littledeadrottinghood @persephone-is-here-omg @rekdreams247 @what-the-heart-desires @inforapound @creepshowzombae @tomarisela @youbloodymadgenius @walkxthexmoon@funmadnessandbadassvikings @trashqueenbitch @justlovelifeblog @earl-aive @supernaturalvikingwhore @equalstrashflavoredtrash @that-was-not-supposed-to-happen @ceridwenofwales @grungyblonde @pokeasleepingsmaug @hvittysmutanon @honestsycrets @wuxiesalt @thorins-queen-of-erebor @writingfromasgard @tootie-fruity @lordsexmachine @ uncomfortable-writers @sadbutatleastsassy @sweatstreatz01 @ritual-unions-gotme @likealostkiss @thehangedmanandthehoneybee

#ubbe imagine #ubbe x reader #vikings smut #ubbe lothbrok #ivar x reader #playing house fic

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supernaturaltfwmeme · 5 years

Text

Between the lines. part 2

Summary; The reader is at stanford with Sam and a few other familiar faces. She gets introduced to Dean, an FBI agent for help with a paper. The two grow even closer when Dean learns about her daughter and her troublesome situation. Check out the other parts here.

Paring; Dean x reader

Warnings: Language, mentions of abuse.

Part 1

You were finding it very hard to concentrate, with Dean Winchester sitting across from you. Those gorgeous green eyes staring into your y/e/c ones. You needed to get yourself under control. You were interviewing him so you get a good grade on your paper and you had a boyfriend for Christs sake. Shaking your head, you pull your eyes away from Deans and looking down at the notebook and begin your interview.

“So, Dean tell me what made you want to become a cop, well FBI agent?”

“My mom.”

“How so?”

“She’s a really talented artist, but she always wanted a career where she could help people, so she’s a police sketch artist. Me and Sammy spend most of our lives around a police station, and it definitely had an impact I mean I’m an FBI agent and he’s studying law at college. But you already knew that.” Dean laughs.

“Why the FBI specifically though?”

“Just seemed like a way to help more people than just being a normal cop, not that there’s anything wrong with that.”

“Your mom must be very proud.” You commented smiling at him, trying not do get dram back in by those damn eyes again.

“Yeah she is, well when she’s not worried anyway.” Dean beams at you. God his smile was amazing.

“So, you’re originally from Kansas, right? Why move all the way to California to join the FBI? Weren't there options closer to home?”

“No, it wasn’t that, it was Because of Sammy. He’d just got accepted into Stanford when I graduated from the academy so I Decided to come out here with him, gotta look out for the Kid.” You couldn’t help but smile at that, it must be nice having a family member care that much about you. Your own parents didn’t even want anything to do with you.

“What about your parents then? Do they still live up in Kansas?”

“Nah, they moved out here not long after me and Sammy did. They didn’t see the point of staying if their only family lived out here.” You nodded your head scribbling down Deans answers to you questions when you heard him speak up.

“What do you say we make this interview more interesting sweetheart.” Dean flashed you a cocky grin, normally you would have said no just wanted to focus on your work. But there was something about Dean where you didn’t think you could actually say no to him.

“How do you suggest we do that?”

“Let me ask you questions to, so I don’t feel quite so exposed.” You saw what could almost be described as a nervous look flash across Deans face. “That is unless you have somewhere you need to be.” You glanced at the time it was only half 2, and you trusted Charlie with Amelia. It wouldn’t hurt to let Dean have this to make him feel a little less uncomfortable.

“Since you are doing me a massive favour, go ahead.” You smiled at him.

“What exactly are you studying?” Dean asked. That surprised you. It was definitely not a question you were expecting.”

“Criminology, psychology and forensics. Triple major.” Deans let out a whistle.

“Damn, Sammy said you were smart but triple major. That must be exhausting.”

“It’s not as bad as you would expect to be honest, a lot of it over laps so it’s pretty easy to keep up.”

“I would not be able to do that.” Dean commented making you laugh a little.

“Ok, What’s your favourite part of the job?” Dean took a second to think about it before answering.

“I work violent crimes, so to be honest the only help I really give people is closure to a victims relatives but when I actually get them that and stop someone else from being in their position, it’s a pretty good feeling.”

“Damn Dean that’s a pretty impressive answer.” Dean just acts as if it’s nothing.

The interview ends up turning into more of a chat and you don’t end up leaving the Café until 4.

“So, Sammy invited me out for drinks tonight are you coming?” Dean asks as he’s walking you to your car.

“I honestly don’t know, I doubt it.” you say as you get to your car.

“I think you should sweetheart, I'd be good to see you again.” Dean winks before walking away towards his own car. Your cheeks flushed a little but you quickly got over it.

With the traffic it takes you about 40 minutes to make the short trip to Charlies. Charlie answers the door to you with a huge smile on her face.

“Ah do you have to pick her up already I'm having fun.” Charlie laughs making you laugh as well.

“Yeah Charlie anyway aren’t you going out tonight, with Sam, Jess and Dean.”

“I didn’t know Dean was going.” Charlie adds before saying. “And no I'm not but you are.” She smirks.

“Charlie I'm not going. I can’t. Who’s going to look after Amelia? It’s not like I can take her with me.” I roll my eyes.

“No, but she can stay here.”

“Charlie I can’t ask you to do that.”

“Y/n Y/l/n when was the last time you actually got to go out and have fun with your friends, I thought you were over worked with a triple major and a part time job but finding out you’re a mom as well, girl you need it.”

“Charlie it’s ok honestly I'm used to it.” You admit.

“That’s exactly the kind of attitude I'm talking about y/n/n. You should be able to have a night off and I don’t find missing out once so you can actually go. Amelia will be fine, I'll even give you regular updates if you want.” you bite down on your bottom lip actually considering it for a second before you heard the should of little feet running across the floor.

“Mommy.” Amelia yells attacking your leg in a hug. You bend down to pick her up.

“Hey baby girl, did you have fun with aunt Charlie.”

“Yes mommy” Amelia beams at you. You had to admit this was the happiest you’d seen her in a while. Maybe you we’re being to over protective of her.

“Hey Amelia do you wanna have a sleepover here tonight?” Charlie asks before you can protest. Amelia’s eyes go wide.

“Can I mommy? I promise I'll be extra good.” You could see the excitement written all over her face. Amelia had never had a sleepover before. You didn’t even have Family she could stay with. You felt yourself giving in unable to say no to her.

“Of course you can baby girl.” You smiled at her before turning to Charlie. “Are you sure?”

“Yes, I'm sure now go we got this.” Charlie smiled. You said goodbye to Amelia and told Charlie you’d come by before you went out to drop her some stuff off, before leaving.

You stared at yourself in the mirror messing with your hair for like the hundredth time in 5 minutes. In the 3 years you’d been in college you’d gone out maybe a handful of times, and you had to admit you were nervous. You were wearing a pair of black skinny jeans with rips on the knees, your favourite pair of converse, a white lacy crop top and a distressed denim jacket. You had on natural make up and just left your hair down.

You grabbed the bag for Amelia before making the trip over to Charlie’s for the third time that day.

“Damn girl would you look at you. You are quite literally one hot momma.” Charlie said letting you in. You blushed a little.

“Did you dress up for Dean?” Charlie teased. You rolled your eyes but you couldn’t help but blush more at her joke. For some reason you couldn’t get the green-eyed man out of your head.

“Shut up.” You laughed.

“Mommy you look really pretty.” Amelia said looking up from her drawing.

“Thank you baby.” You gave Amelia a hug and kissed her head.

“Now you be good for aunt Charlie.”

“I will momma I promise.” You handed Charlie the bag and said your good bye before leaving.

When you got to the bar it was pretty packed being a Saturday night and all. You quickly scanned the room for your friends, easily spotting Sam in the crowd and made your way over. As you got closer you saw Sam had his arm slung over Jess’ shoulders. Sitting across from them with their backs to you was Dean and a man you didn’t recognise. Jess spotted you first.

“Y/n, you made it.” She squealed pulling you into a tight hug.

“Yeah, I figured you guys would kill me if I bailed again.” You joked. Jess pulled back and Sam pulled you into a hug too.

“It’s good to see you y/n/n.” he said before letting go.

“Damn y/l/n you scrub up well.” Dean teased winking at you.

“Speak for yourself Winchester.” You threw back with fake confidence. Beside Dean someone cleared their throat.

“Oh my bad, y/n this is Cas, my partner, Cas this is y/n. She goes to school with Sam.” Dean introduced you to the dark-haired man.

“Nice to meet you Cas.” You said shaking his hand.

“It’s nice to meet you too y/n.” Cas said a little awkwardly but you didn’t question it.

“Aww man Charlie just text, she can’t make it Said she’s sick.” Sam read from his phone. You acted surprised.

“Oh well if that’s everyone let’s get some shots.” Dean said getting up from his set and heading over to the bar.

You drank a little more than you probably should of in the few hours you’d been there but thanks to Deans insistence you do shots you we’re pretty sure everyone had. In fact, Dean was the only one who didn’t seem all that drunk.

You couldn’t be too sure given your inebriated state, but it almost seemed like Dean was.. Flirting with you?

Cas had gone home after a couple drink to get back to his wife or something. You couldn’t really remember. After a few more drink Sam and Jess called it a night too, both pretty drunk. Leaving you just with Dean.

“You ok there Sweetheart, you’re looking a little drunk.” Dean laughed. He couldn’t help but think you looked adorable right now, with slightly flushed cheeks and hair a bit of a mess.

“I’m great.” You gave him a lazy smile. Dean leaned over and brushed a strand of hair behind your ear.

“Come on sweetheart it’s late. Let’s get you home.” Dean placed his hand on the small of your back, leading you through what remained of the crowds in the bar. Once you got out side you started to wobble a bit, almost falling over but Dean caught you. He decided it would just be easier to pick you up. You buried your face into his chest and by the time he’d made it over to his car, you had fallen asleep.

He carefully manoeuvred you into the passenger seat. Before closing the door and climbing into his side of the car. As soon as Dean started the car, he realised he had no idea where you lived.

“Shit.” He muttered to himself. He decided against waking you and just started the drive to his apartment. Once he got there, he carefully got you out of the car before carrying you inside. Dean somehow managed to unlock the door without waking you or dropping you. He carried you over to his bedroom placing you in his bed, before leaving for a minute and returning with some pain killers and a glass of water and placing them on the nightstand. He grabbed a pillow off the bed and left to go sleep on the couch.

The next morning you awoke will a killer headache. You blinked your eyes open, the harsh light of the morning sun peeking through the blinds, making you wince. You looked around the room finding it unfamiliar and having absolutely no idea where you were. You started to panic throwing off the covered and sighing in relief that you still had your clothes on. You noticed the pain killers on the nightstand and took one gulping down the water like your life depended on it.

When you replaced the empty glass on the night stand you noticed a familiar looking family photo. One Sam had shown you. But this wasn’t Sam’s apartment... Meaning you must be at Deans place. Although there was no sign of him. You grabbed your phone to check the time. It was almost midday but that’s not the thing that caught your eye.

You had 15 missed calls. From Daniel.

tags: @waywardaardvark79 @vicmc624

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drethanramslay · 5 years

Text

Part 3: Vulnerability

Pairing: Aurora x MC (Iris Everette)

Word count: 3.2 K

Part 1 Part 2

Warning: It's smut in the first half and if you aren't comfortable reading it, I have distinguished it with an asterisk (*) sign. There is angst, description of panic attack, and death threats.

Tagging: @miyakokurono @agent-breakdance @trappedinfandoms @vampiregirlsblog @lilyofchoices (let me know if you want to tagged)

Songs: Birthday by All Time Low and Bad Luck

Sunlight was streaming through the blue curtains of Aurora's room. Iris was awake, tracing lazy patterns on her girlfriend's back. Aurora was in her naked glory, her head resting on Iris's chest, while their legs were tangled up. Iris was in her boy shorts and a crop top. She still wasn't comfortable to show the scars on her back and legs. Yes they had sex and all but it was either in the cover of the night or her just pleasuring Rory.

She hated the scars. Those painful reminders of how fucked up her past was. A part of her was greatful, that they weren't in places, where she could see them. A small voice in her wanted to tell Aurora everything but the bigger part of her just wasn't ready to dwell in the pain of her past. To this day, her left wrist still hurts when she puts too much pressure on it.

It's already been seven months since the day in the on call room, and everything was perfect. Iris, had gone all out, decorating Aurora's locker with sunflowers, along with a Polaroid collage. She even went on to sing for her in the foyer of the hospital, on her guitar, in front of everyone. Aurora was as red as Iris's hair, but Iris didn't care. She could even go and scream into a loudspeaker about how much she lo- liked her and cherished her.

If everything is going perfect, and she hasn't asked any questions, why bother ruining it with your good for nothing father?

She turned to gaze at the beautiful woman in her arms. She could spend hours and hours with her like this, curled up against each other.

**********

But, Iris had other plans. She smiled wickedly and slowly untangled herself. Luckily, Rory was a heavy sleeper so shifting her to lie on her back was easy. She slowly kissed her collarbone, lapping and sucking on it. Her hands were tracing Aurora's curves, leaving goosebumps in their wake.

"Just give it milk...." Aurora murmured.

Iris laughed internally, and continued her journey of rediscovery. She left fiery hot kisses across her jaw, stirring Aurora from her sleep. She gave out a breathless moan, when Iris continued to kiss that spot on her neck. Aurora could feel herself getting wet, her stomach igniting with need.

The need to touch, feel, release.

She tried to clench her thighs, to get some relief but Iris simply slapped her ass. Aurora yelped and obeyed. Iris then proceeded to masage the area she smacked, drawing a groan from her.

She was a total bottom for Iris. And she didn't even mind it.

Iris continued her journey south. She stopped when she reached the valley of her breasts. Aurora almost lost it when Iris took one in her mouth. The biting, the licking and the sucking, was slowly driving her crazy.

But Aurora wanted more. She grabbed Iris' hand and put it against her heat. "So eager..." Iris tsked. She then went down to settle between her legs, throwing Aurora's legs over her strong shoulders.

Iris kissed her hipbone, sucking so hard that it left a mark. Aurora groaned. "Stop fucking teasing me."

"Well, then tell me what do you want? My mouth? My fingers? Both?"

"Surprise me." Aurora panted out.

"Morning snack coming right up." She ran a finger up her slit, feeling the heat and her dripping pussy. "Damn Rory...you are so wet." She brought her mouth close, her lips just a hair's breath away from her. She kissed her inner thigh.

"Taste me you cowar- holllyyyy shit!"

She descended on her pussy, lapping up all the moisture which had accumulated. She was thorough in her job. She circled her tongue on the sensitive bud. Aurora moaned, a hair louder than before.

"Don't hold back Rory. There is a reason why this is the quietest room. Use it. Moan my name."

"Adara please, please, please more." Aurora chanted.

Iris moved her fingered and slowly circled her dripping cunt. She did it once, twice and Aurora's eyes shut with the excess pleasure.

"Open your eyes. I want you to look."

It was a struggle to open them because the fog of lust just made everything bleary. Dark green eyes met her brown eyes. The intense gaze nearly took her breath. Iris pushed her finger in, and Aurora's back arched off the bed.

But it wasn't enough.

She wanted more. Sensing Aurora's need, Iris pushed a second finger in and started finger fucking her. She attached her mouth to her clit and sucked, hard.

With every stroke of her skillful fingers, Aurora soared higher and higher. Her stomach was tightening and the pleasure was so overwhelming, she could scream.

"You have been a good girl Rory. Why don't you come for me?"

And Aurora obeyed. Iris' name was on her lips as she fell apart. Like glass shattering, her entire body convulsed, with the intense orgasm. Her legs shook, and she almost choked Iris with her thighs. But Iris didn't mind. She continued to suck on her clit, like it was her favourite candy.

Too much, too much. Aurora thought as her body continued to shiver with after shocks.

*********

Iris climbed on top of her and kissed Aurora languidly, letting her taste herself.

"Mmmm... Good morning to you too." Aurora lazily said, her legs felt like jello, and she was on cloud nine.

"Hi baby." Iris said as she settled between her legs, with her chin in the valley of her breasts. They stayed like this, catching their breath, basking in the post coital bliss.

"I am going for a shower. As much as I wanna taste you and fuck you, we will get late." Iris said as she got out of bed. She stood, and stretched, her crop top riding up to show her perky breasts.

But Aurora's eyes were on something else. Near the junction of Iris's ass and her leg, she saw half inch long lines. She counted twenty five in total and it seemed like someone had carved them into her porcelain skin. She reached out and touched them.

"Adara-" she began. But Iris just caught her wrist. "Don't." She said so coldly, before she headed to her room, leaving Aurora dazed, confused and cold.

💤💤💤💤💤💤💤💤💤💤💤💤💤💤💤💤

It had been four days since Iris became so distant. Back to the way she used to be. Closed up and re-enforcing the walls she had built.

Aurora couldn't understand why she became so distant suddenly. She had see the deep scars on her back but she had never questioned her. She knew that Adara would eventually come around and speak her heart out. But, she never did.

Aurora couldn't help but feel hurt. It wasn't fair to her that Iris had to hide herself in front of her. Aurora lo- liked her so much and she wanted to share her burden. To be there for her. To be her anchor when she was falling apart. The arms she comes back home too.

Aurora also noticed Iris checking her phone excessively. Everytime her phone pinged, her face would become so pale, that you would think she is anemic. She was great at hiding how she felt, but Rory noticed everything.

She has been trying to catch her attention so many times, but Iris would just look the other way. She could see the torment in her eyes. She wanted to heal her, and make her feel treasured only if she would let her in.

Deciding that enough was enough, she decided to corner her in the supply closet, where she was spending unproportinate amount of time in. So when she saw Iris go into the supply closet for the third time, she entered and locked the door behind her.

"LEAVE ME THE FUCK ALONE DAMMIT." Aurora stilled, feeling that the words were directed towards her but when she turned the corner she saw Iris hanging up her phone.

"Adara?"

"Rory? What are you doing here??" Iris asked, schooling her expression into a perfect mask, so that it didn't look her world was falling apart.

"We need to talk about us."

"Talk about what? I am golden and everything is totally normal!! What's wrong with you?" Iris rushed, her eyes searching for a way out, but there weren't any escaping for her while Rory grilled her.

"Me?? What's the matter with you?? I am not the one avoiding my girlfriend."

"I have been busy with the workload." Iris said as she looked away.

"Do you think I am that oblivious? Do you think I can't see though you? See the pain, the sadness and the guilt? The fears and demons that haunt you? Do you thing that I am that blind?" Aurora implored.

Iris just looked the other way, feeling way too exposed. She didn't like to be scrutinized and psycho-analysed all the time.

"Adara, I care for you. I want to help you. Please. Just please open up." Aurora pleaded.

"Maybe I don't want your help."

"What?!"

"You heard me. Maybe I don't want to be fixed. I am not a project Aurora that needs fixing!!" Iris said in a cold voice. Iris was getting really angry. Why does everyone she meet think that she needs fixing? Wasn't she enough? Wasn't being herself enough?

"Why do you feel the incessant need to try and mend the broken ends? I am not perfect and I know but am I not enough? Isn't me being myself not enough??"

"Yes you are enough and more-" Aurora tried to reason but she was interrupted.

"Why did you start dating me?"

"Because I like the way you are funny, smart, empathetic and kind." She said without hesitation.

"Then just accept me for those reasons, no?! I have my baggage and we all do. Just because you resolved yours doesn't mean that I am ready to let it go. NEWS FLASH! I am damaged goods, Aurora. And there is nothing that can change that. I have learnt to coexist with it and I am doing just fine."

"But I don't want you to bear that burden-"

"Alone?? C'mon Rory, quit being so naive. I have been doing that since the last 15 years, and I am here, aren't I? Not every infection is meant to be poked and prodded. Some heal slowly and gradually. Somethings are just meant to be left how they are!!"

Aurora was also getting angry. She knew Iris was lashing out but that damn well didn't give her the license to spew shit and treat her in a crappy way. "Naive?? Me?? Bitch please. It's you who is the naive one who thinks that if you close your eyes and turn the other way, your problems will vanish magically."

"Stop with the 'holier than thou' attitude. You don't even know the hell I have gone through-"

"So TELL ME! ENLIGHTEN ME! Is it really that hard to open up to me? Have I not been anything but open to you? Adara tell me." Tears of frustration began to pool around Aurora's eyes.

"Yes...you have been." Iris sighed.

"Then why? Why with all the walls? Who has hurt you so bad that it changed you so much?" She reached for Iris, to hold her and keep her protected from all the evils of the world.

But Iris just stepped away from her. Aurora felt a pang in her chest, from the distance between them. "No Rory...you don't understand. The truth is like a can of worms. Sometimes it's better to not know the truth than know it and deal with the consequences." Iris spoke lowly.

Aurora felt another pang in her chest. She smoothened her shirt and looked up with a cool gaze. "Very well. I am gonna go before we say anything we regret. You want space, and I will respect that. Good day." She turned around and walked out.

Iris just stood there stunned. She had done it again. Pushed the person who gave a damn about her.

What the fuck had she done?

💔💔💔💔💔💔💔💔💔💔💔💔💔💔💔💔

"Mr. Grayson Alejandro requested for parole and he has been granted that because of good behaviour. He will be a free man by tomorrow." Thomas Mendez, Iris' lawyer spoke on the phone.

Iris' blood ran cold and she couldn't breathe. She moved into the first empty room, which turned out be an examination room. "Can't we do anything else to keep him in there?" Iris pleaded.

"I am trying but it won't help. I am so sorry Iris. I suggest you get a restraining order against your father."

"He is NOT my father. He is a monster. And, I-I already have it. But I know him. He promised me that the moment he gets out he is going to come for me. What do I do Thomas?! I am terrified."

"Relax. I won't let him get to you. We can apply for Protection from abus-"

"No. That's just a bullshit piece of paper. My mom had it and I had it but still did it stop him?? NO. Just, Thomas please, try and do something about this. He already messaged me thrice last week, and called me up once. I am half in mind to skip country and change my name to Sandy."

"Now that would be interesting..."

"THOMAS!! Focus."

Thomas chuckled. "Yeah, yeah I am kidding. But, not a serious note, I am not gonna disappoint you. If he even takes a shit in the wrong way, I will throw his ass in jail. Gotta go now, Luz is picking up a brick again."

"Yeah, bye." Iris chuckled but as she hung up the phone, the anxiety started creeping in. She was just going to leave the room when her phone rang again. It was an unknown number.

"Yes, Dr. Everette speaking."

"Oh so formal, mija." Iris' blood chilled to the bone. She could not formulate a sentence. She thought she won't have to see or hear his voice for another two years.

No, no, no... This can't be happening.

Gathering all her strength she responded in a cool and curt voice. "Grayson."

"What, you won't call me papá or daddy? Tsk tsk, you have been naughty."

"Shut the fuck up asshole. By law, I could throw you into a holding cell for stalking."

"Someone needs to get punished." He sang.

"What. Do. You. Want?" She said with a restrained voice.

"Is 'loving father reconnecting with my daughter after ten years' a valid reason?"

She scoffed. "No. 'Cause if you really loved me or mom, you would use kind gestures, not fists on a fucking ten year old for SIX consecutive years!!" She shouted, spiralling out of control.

All the playfulness was gone from his voice. "Do you remember the oath that I swore before you ruined my life?"

Iris remembered it. Crystal clear. It would always haunt her irrespective of how much she had dwelled in this false sense of security. He was gonna come out one day, and the day he did he was going to come after her.

"Listen mija, and listen good. I am going to come for you, oh yes I will. I will take away all the good things in your life, all your friends, dreams, lovers and burn them right in front of your eyes. And then after that,

I. Will. KILL. YOU.

It's a promise. So, see you soon sweetheart.... Because daddy's home." And with that, he cut the phone.

Iris lowered the phone, tremors going up her hand. They were so violent, that the phone dropped out of her clutches. She could feel beads of perspiration accumulate on her forehead. Her palms were clammy and it felt as if something had lodged itself in her throat, making it difficult to breath. Her chest squeezed and she hunched over, wheezing. Eyes wide with shock, she realised that she was going into a panic attack.

She tried focusing on her breathing but the more she tried, the shorter her breath became. Clutching her chest, she staggered backwards hitting a surgical tray, scattering everything on the floor. The loud crash made her body go into a frenzy. She clutched the examination bed, but she slipped and came to rest on the floor.

Wheezing, she curled up on the cold floor. This is it. Adios world...

"Rookie. ROOKIE." Ethan ran up to the curled resident on the floor. He held her face in his hands. Iris thrashed. "No, no, NO... GO AWAY!!"

"Iris! IRIS!! DAMMIT LOOK AT ME. It's me, Ethan. Your friend. Your brother."

"Huh??" Iris continued to claw on the floor curling into a ball.

He held her hands and squeezed. "Iris you have battled worse things before and I know you can do it again. Take deep breaths." He took and placed her hands on his chest. "Follow my breathing pattern."

In. Out. In. Out.

Her breathing slowed down, but the attack was still going strong.

"Now repeat after me. Three things can't be hidden- the sun, the moon, the truth."

Taking a mouthful of air, she wheezed out after him. "Three things can't be hidden- the sun, the moon, the truth."

"Again." Ethan said as he wrapped his arms around her, tightly and started rocking her back and forth.

Listening to Ethan's velvety and baritone voice, feeling his heartbeat on her back Iris slowly receded from the edge. When she could finally make coherent words and it didn't feel like her lungs were getting crushed by the weight of her past, she turned towards Ethan with a amused smile. "Brother huh?"

"Shut up." Ethan grimaced.

"The big diagnostician thinks of me, a poor resident as his sister. Wow, who would have thought, huh?"

"Yeah after the day you bluntly rejected me, I see you as nothing more than family."

"Oh yaaa. You were making these wierd eyes and I was like- 'with all due respect, I am like wayyy to gay dude'." Iris giggled. Ethan grimaced, feeling embarassed. A moment of silence passed before Iris spoke up.

"Remember when I told you that I have a restraining order against someone?" Ethan nodded.

"Well, the time has come for it to be put into force." Iris breathed out. Ethan just gave her shoulder a squeeze. "Okay..I will inform security. Did you tell Aurora about it?"

Iris sighed. "No...we had a fight."

"See Everette. I am not good with all these feelings bs, but she is your girlfriend. And you should not feel the need to hide such thing. I can clearly see, she wants to help. Why not let her?"

"Because I am scared that if she sees the ugly parts, she might run away. She might not like what she sees. I don't want to loose her..."

"But, is hiding it helping either of you?"

Iris sighed. "No its not."

I have one gif to summarise what's coming up

Let me know what you think!! Also like and reblog :))

#choices stories we play #playchoices #choices #choices stories you play #pixelberry #open heart #oh aurora #aurora x mc #aurora emery #ohsy #open heart 2 #open heart fanfiction #dr ethan ramsey

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mattmurdocks-leftbuttcheek · 6 years

Text

Undercover p.p. x Nat's younger sister! Reader

This was requested and I put a little twist in it. I'm actually pretty proud of it. I'll be honest I got lazy at the end of it but it's 2,134 words which I'm proud of. I wrote this on mobile so my apologies.

This is about Y/n being assigned to look after Peter while he gets used to being the new Spider-Man. Set in Homecoming.

Y/n smoothed her hair down into a low bun, small tendrils of hair framing her face. She wore a black crop-top with black-washed high-waisted jeans and rainbow vans, a long maroon sweater helped bring everything together. Y/n filled in her eyebrows, put a couple coats of mascara on and lipgloss. She studied herself in the mirror. Could she pass as a regular high school student? She felt she had no choice but to live up to her sisters reputation. Finish the mission, don’t get attached. Simple.

There was a knock on Y/n's door. “Come in,” she called over her shoulder.

Nat walked in with a smile on her face. “Are you nervous?” She asked.

Y/n shook her head no. “I'm pretty confident about this mission Tony put me on. It's highschool. Not a big deal.”

Nat sat on Y/n's bed, picking at the old duvet cover. “What's your objective?”

Y/n sighed. “Keep an eye on Peter Parker, a.k.a. Spider-Man. Make sure he doesn't do anything stupid. Tony set my schedule just like his and put me in decathlon so I can keep an eye on him.”

Nat smiled a proud smile. “That's my girl.”

Y/n shared the same smile. “I learned from the best.”

“Y/n, school starts in thirty minutes.” F.R.I.D.A.Y. announced in her room.

“Am I taking the bus or am I getting a ride?” She asked openly.

“Scott has offered to take you to and from the school as to not raise suspicions.”

Y/n smiled. “This is gonna be fun.”

Nat stood up and looked her little sister up and down, her face showing happiness and sadness equally. “Mom and Dad would be proud of you.”

Y/n hugged her sister. “I know, Nat,” she said as she sighed, tears fighting to come up, “I know.”

They stood there hugging. Until someone knocked on the door frame, clearing their throat. Y/n pulled away from Nat to see Scott leaning on the door frame with keys in his hands. “Ready kiddo?”

Y/n sighed, “No one is ever technically ready for a mission.”

Midtown School of Science and Technology. Y/n looked up at the tall building as students flooded the stairs leading up to the entrance. “You nervous?” Scott asked.

Y/n nodded the slightest bit. “Just a little.”

He put a warming hand on her shoulder. “It'll be fine. Probably the easiest mission I've heard of.”

Y/n smiled as she picked up her bag and opened the door to get out. “Thanks Scott.” She closed the door firmly. As she walked away, she heard a muffled, “I'll be here at three!”

Y/n laughed to herself as she walked up the stairs to the entrance. As she walked the crowded halls to find the office, she saw her objective, standing at his locker with someone. She took a deep breath and adjusted her bag on her shoulder and walked up to him.

“Uh hi, I'm new here and was wondering if you could help me?” She asked directly.

Peter turned around quickly. “A-are you asking me?”

Y/n nodded. “Yeah, they sent me a schedule but I have no idea where my classes are. I would've assumed the office was in the entrance to the school.”

Peter laughed a small laugh. “Let me look at it.” He said holding a hand out. Y/n dug in her pocket for the crumpled piece of paper and handed it to him. Peter looked it over, “We have all the same classes,” he said in surprise, “just stick with me.”

As soon as he said that, Y/n head someone from behind her say, “Why would someone like her stick with you, Penis Parker?”

Y/n turned and saw a tan, dark headed boy. Maybe Italian? She recognized the behavior from what Tony had told her about Peter's school life.“Maybe because we have the same class schedule, asshat.” Y/n sneered. The boy put his hands up mockingly as if to say I surrender.

“I like feisty ones. Especially red heads.”

“Leave her alone Flash.” Peter pleaded.

“It's okay,” Y/n said with a smirk on her face. “Let me deal with little Eugene.”

Flash’s face dropped. Obviously he doesn't like to be called by his legal name. Y/n walked up to him and motioned with her index finger for him to come closer. She put her lips next to his ear and whispered, “Try to mess with me, your parents and the police will never find your body because it'll be torn into six pieces, wrapped in plastic and buried under trees in cemeteries in six different states. After I torture you.” She pulled away and saw his face go pale, no color left in his cheeks. Before she walked away, she said out loud, “and not in the good way either.”

Flash stood there, unmovingly. Like one of Medusa's stone statues. Y/n smiled to herself as she turned to see Peter and his friend with expressions of awe. “Where to first?”

Y/n stood in the lunch line with Peter and his friend, Need. They were still pushing to know what she said to Flash that made him unable to move and what she meant by “and not in the good way.”

Y/n just smiled. “It was nothing, I swear. Just a little threat.”

As the line pushed on, Peter and Need go their trays as Y/n held on to her lunch box. Nat packed her lunch today, she expected to have all healthy foods and a protein shake. As the trio sat down, Peter dug into his 'chicken tenders’ like they were the only thing he's ever eaten as Y/n in packed her lunch. She had a tuna and romaine lettuce wraps with a bag of apple slices and a bag of carrots. And the protein shake in a Ninja blending cup with a straw. At the bottom was a sticky note. 'have a great day, Y/n!’ was scrawled in Nat's handwriting.

“So you're like, really healthy?” Need asked as he sipped his milk.

Y/n nodded as she took a bite of her tuna wrap. “ I train a lot.” She said after chewing.

“Fhat do you thwain for?” Peter asked, muffled by a mouthful of food.

Y/n immediately said “Gymnastics.” It wasn't wrong. She knew how to tumble and can do a prefect back aerial on a four inch plank of wood.

Need smiled widely.”That's so cool! You probably told Flash that you could do a backflip and knock him out cold with a kick.”

Y/n just smiled and ate her food.

As the weeks pressed on, Y/n got to know more about Peter. He was very smart, loved Star Wars and a certain Deli in Queens. He offered to take her which seems agreed to only to know where he goes to on a regular basis. They eventually exchanged phone numbers and studied at his Aunt's apartment. His room was like any teenager's bedroom, messy and clean at the same time. On his desk we're his web cartridges. Testing him, she asked what they were. Peter's face turned red and said that they were for an experiment.

Y/n didn't know when it had happened but when she gets a text from Peter, her heart starts beating faster. When she's around him, her hands get sweaty and her face feels warmer than usual. When she talked to Nat about it she smiled. “You like him,” she said in a sing-song voice.

Y/n sputtered. “N-no I don't!”

Nat laughed. “You do, honeybunch. You have a crush.”

Y/n looked down. “Then I failed my mission,” she said. “I got attached.”

After the whole decathlon team almost dying in the Washington Monument, Peter seemed more pleased with himself. When he pulled Liz up, Y/n felt a searing pain in her chest. It took her a moment to realize what it was. It was jealousy.

Even after Tony took away Peter's suit, Y/n was still told to stick around. She didn't necessarily want to or not want to. She could get closer to him. Maybe go to homecoming with him. But that maybe turned into a no when she found out he had asked Liz.

Y/n knew there was still someone out there selling those weapons. And she knew Peter had found out who when we walked into the gymnasium for homecoming. He walked stiffly, his face so pale you would've thought he was wearing a mask. She watched as he went up to Liz and murmured a “Sorry.” And left. Keeping her personal feelings down, she follow him down the corridor. Flinging off parts of his suit, he ran, lifted the lockers and grabbed his homemade suit. Realizing what he was doing, Y/n ran to the girls bathroom in the same hallway and grabbed herr gear out of the last stall that was labeled “out of order” since she arrived.

After changing quickly into gear that was almost identical to Nat's, she rush through the doors that lead outside and found Peter's on the ground. Herr heart throbbed. But her instincts kicked in when she heard someone running towards her. She instantly ducked and turned on the balls of her left foot, her right leg swinging out and knocking the man down to the ground.

Y/n held her booted foot against the man's throat. She heard Peter groan and question who she was. She ignored Peter for a moment, crouching down to put nano-cuffs that Tony had designed for her to use. Much like the suit he had that would form when he tapped his chest. “You move, the restraints will get tighter until you pass out due to blood loss.” She sneered.

Y/n finally looked at Peter. He took off his bug-eyed mask and was staring at her in awe. “What are you- how did- who are you?”

Y/n sighed. “We can talk later at the compound. But first, can we find the dealer?”

Peter nodded.

“Y/n did WhAT?!” Need screamed over the Bluetooth connection of Flash's car.

“Ned,” Y/n said calmly. “Now is not the time to be fanboying right now.”

“But wh-”

“Say another word and you won't get to meet the avengers.”

When Y/n and Peter basically saved Liz’s dad, Y/n had called Tony. “You were wrong.” She said simply. “He can handle it.”

The next day Y/n didn't show up for class. Peter thought it was strange until he got a text from Happy telling him to meet him in the bathroom. She was there too, dressed in all black gear, then it hit him. She looked just like Black Widow.

Happy took Peter to the new Avengers Headquarters. On the way Y/n told Peter everything.

“You were sent to spy on me?” Peter asked skeptically.

Y/n sighed. “I was making sure you were staying safe and not telling people what happened in Berlin. Or the fact that you're Spider-Man.”

“Anything else I need to know? Does Thor have three nipples?”

Y/n's heart leapt into her throat. She could tell him how she felt right then. But she bit her tongue and giggled. “We're here.” She said as she pointed behind him.

Peter looked at the facility with the same face he had when he and Ned finished building his Lego Death Star.

Pure happiness.

When they got into the building, Y/n told Happy that she'd take him to Tony. She just had to tell him.

“Hey, Pete?” She asked shyly.

“Yeah?”

“There's something I feel like I have to tell you.”

“Okay”

She sucked in a deep breath and let it out. “When me or my sister go on missions, we have a rule. Don't get attached.” Peter nodded. “Well, I broke that rule, Peter. I got attached to you and you're just so damn cute and I just wanted to make you feel better after Tony took your suit, you looks so sad and I just wanted you to be happy because that's all you deser-”

Peter cut her off by kissing her. A slow, sweet kiss. When he pulled back, Y/n was the color of Nat's hair. “I like you too,Y/n” Peter looked around quickly. “Don't tell anyone I said that because I'm pretty sure the entire team would annihilate me if they saw me do that.”

Peter didn't join the Avengers to her dismay, but they did get sandwiches every Friday at Delmar's for a 'date’. Only to find most of the people walking by we're in hoodies and ball caps.

“REALLY GUYS?”

#peter parker fanfiction #peter parker #peter parker x reader #tom holland x reader #tom x reader #tom holland #spiderman homecoming #spiderman far from home #spiderman fanfiction #spiderman x reader #spiderman #spiderman into the spiderverse #marvel #mcu #i hope someone finds this funny

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seokkie123 · 5 years

Text

of cute things and cow hybrids

yes, cow hybrid seok is based on that cow hybrid jimin tweet. unfortunately there is no milking or nsfw in this fic (I’ll save those for later uwu)

showho, 1.8k words, rated T

Hoseok usually accompanies Hyunwoo whenever he makes the forty minute drive into town to go shopping. Part of it is because he still worries sometimes, about being left alone or something happening to Hyunwoo. It’s been about half a year since Hyunwoo let him stay at his farm, but some ghosts from his past never quite stop haunting him.

The other, more obvious reason is that Hoseok always, always convinces Hyunwoo to buy stuff they don’t need with his big sparkly puppy (cow?) eyes. (The most recent purchase was a pair of bear onesies, Hoseok claiming he absolutely needs them because he gets cold and the blankets aren’t enough sometimes, and Hyunwoo needs one too so they can match).

But today, Hoseok had fallen asleep in a patch of sunlight while getting some well deserved tummy rubs. He’d been up most of the night with Hyunwoo trying to comfort one of their sick horses, and it really had taken its toll on him. The hybrid’s flawless milky white skin had turned a shade darker under his eyes, and Hyunwoo wanted him to get his rest. Plus Hoseok just looked too beautiful like that, curled up on the couch, ears and tail occasionally twitching in his sleep, black and white silk shorts riding up on his creamy thighs, and that baby blue crop top...

Ever since Hoseok learned about the existence of crop tops, they’ve been inseparable. “It’s easier for you to do this,” he’d explained shyly, taking Hyunwoo’s hand and placing it on his stomach.

The hybrid loved to be pet and massaged and kissed just about everywhere, but there must be something special about tummy rubs because he just enjoyed them so much. It’s one of those Hoseok things that Hyunwoo finds adorable. It also stirs that protective urge inside him to take Hoseok in his arms and shield him from everything bad and evil in the world.

Hyunwoo had left a note saying he’d probably be back before Hoseok woke up, but if not, then he would be back as soon as possible, and to call if he needed anything.

He hadn’t received any calls or texts, so he was surprised to come home after the trip to find an empty couch and no sign of Hoseok.

“Seokkie?” He calls out while heading over to the kitchen. It’s strange. Usually he would hear the hybrid’s feet running down the stairs, or the little bell on his collar chiming as he threw himself into Hyunwoo’s arms. But today, there’s nothing.

“Baby? Where are you?” The slightest seed of worry plants itself into his mind. Hyunwoo quickly puts away the groceries and leaves the rest to go find Hoseok.

He isn't in their bedroom, or the bathroom, or the spare room… Maybe he went to check on the horses? Hyunwoo is on his way out to the barn when he hears it. The sound of someone sniffling, and breathing heavily, like they were trying not to cry.

Alarmed, Hyunwoo turns the other way from the stables, and opens the gate to the chicken coop.

And there, he finds Hoseok, sitting in a corner cradling something in his arms.

“Hoseok--,” Hyunwoo rushes to him, and is immediately attacked by a large mother hen.

The flurry of feathers and angry squawking makes Hoseok turn around. Hyunwoo notices tear lines on his face as he manages a slightly amused look.

“You can’t just barge in here, Woo. She thought you were gonna hurt her babies,” he says quietly while Hyunwoo struggles to calm the chicken and get her to stop pecking at his feet.

“I was worried about you-- wait, babies?” Hyunwoo glances up at Hoseok again, confused. He finally makes his way around to where the hybrid is sitting and… oh.

Three tiny chicks are huddled close to Hoseok’s chest, chirping and squirming to get comfortable.

“Ah, I didn’t think the eggs would hatch today,” Hyunwoo smiles, crouching down and easing his arms around his hybrid in a soft hug. Hoseok just sniffles, doesn’t react for a few seconds, but then leans back into him with a sigh.

Carefully, Hyunwoo reaches around to cradle one of his cheeks in his hand. Hoseok is still absorbed in watching the little ones in his arms, so Hyunwoo slides his hand up to caress the soft, white ears on top of his head.

“The babies are almost as cute as you are,” he offers, and finally receives a dry laugh from Hoseok.

“Lame,” the hybrid mumbles, but he’s smiling as he gently deposits the three chicks back into the safety of their mother’s wing. The second his arms are free he spins around and melts against Hyunwoo, letting out a soft hum in contentedness.

Hyunwoo does a quick check, notices that the chicken have already been fed and taken care of thanks to Hoseok. So he helps him to his feet before lifting Hoseok into his arms and carrying him back into their home and straight to bed.

Only when he’s all wrapped up in fluffy blankets, cheeks and ears kissed thoroughly, and burrowed in Hyunwoo’s shoulder does Hyunwoo finally ask, “Why were you crying earlier, baby?”

One of Hyunwoo’s hands rests on Hoseok’s tiny waist, drawing patterns up his stomach until he squirms and complains that it tickles. “Hyunwoo! If you tickle me I won’t tell you.”

Hyunwoo pouts, and pokes at Hoseok’s smiling cheek. “I only did that because you weren’t answering me..” he says, but eases up with his fingers and resorts to a slow massage instead.

Hoseok nuzzles into his neck a little deeper, appeased. “I was… ah, it seems dumb now.”

“Even if it’s dumb, I still want to know.”

A small whine leaves Hoseok. Hyunwoo’s quick to place a reassuring kiss atop his head.

“I woke up and… you weren’t there so I went to check on the eggs. But then I saw the tiny chicks and-- they were so fluffy! And soft and cute and it made me tear up,” Hoseok’s voice goes quiet at the end, but Hyunwoo doesn’t say anything, just tugs up the blanket to his chin so they’re in a cocoon of warmth. A few moments later, the hybrid continues, “And I started thinking about you, and how you just let me stay with you without knowing me that day, and how I’m really lucky but I don’t do anything for you in return, and I love you a lot but I feel like I don’t d--”

Hyunwoo stops him, tilting his head up to press their lips together. He moves his other hand up to hold the back of Hoseok’s neck so he doesn’t strain it, and licks along his plush, bottom lip until he moans and opens his mouth for more. Hyunwoo presses in closer, moving their lips together slowly, tongues laving against each other and relishing in the way Hoseok clings tightly onto his shoulder. Hoseok always reacts so well, tiny noises of pleasure coming from the back of his throat. Only when he throws a leg over Hyunwoo’s thigh does Hyunwoo pull away. As much as he’d love to continue, he needs to finish their conversation first. A conversation that the hybrid has apparently forgotten about.

“More,” he says, reaching up for another kiss that Hyunwoo denies him.

“I didn’t think my distraction technique would work that well,” Hyunwoo replies, amused. He caresses the hybrid’s wet lower lip with his thumb as Hoseok huffs. “...I love you, Hoseokkie. So much. And I want you to know that even if you did nothing but lie on my couch in that one spot where the sun hits and do nothing but eat ramen all day, I would still love you.”

Hyunwoo pauses to collect his thoughts, shifting to hold Hoseok a bit more snug against his chest. He really wishes he was better at the whole.. talking thing. He wishes he could easily find the right words to tell to his hybrid so he doesn’t constantly worry about not being enough, or at least ease some of the burden off of his shoulders.

He knows he isn’t good at it, but in the meantime, he’s gonna try his best.

“Actually, I always thought I was the lucky one. That day we were making dinner and you told me you loved me..”

“And then we burnt the pasta,” Hoseok interjects with a giggle.

Hyunwoo grins at the memory. “If I remember correctly, it was your kisses that made me forget about the timer. But see, that day was the first time I’d heard those words said to me, from someone other than my parents, of course.”

That catches Hoseok’s attention. “Really?” he whispers, blinking huge eyes up at Hyunwoo.

“Mhm. It isn’t that surprising, is it? I live all the way out here and don’t have a lot of friends...”

“But you have so many! In town!” Hoseok exclaims. “Everyone says hi to you when we walk by the stores!”

“Yeah, they know me, but we aren’t close. No one knows me like you do,” Hyunwoo murmurs. “They find me good company but usually they just tell me about themselves, or talk about something mundane. I used to think I was just too awkward, or not cut out to have someone by my side. But then you literally fell into my life and changed everything.”

The hybrid stares at him for a bit, clearly surprised. “I didn’t know that..”

Hyunwoo shrugs as much as he can while surrounded in Hoseok and blankets. “I wasn’t really too bothered by it…okay, maybe just a little. But the point is that you changed my life as much as I changed yours. And I’m really grateful for you, Seokkie. You and your cute smile, and soft cheeks.. All of it,” Hyunwoo reaches down to squeeze his ass to emphasize the part about cheeks, making Hoseok giggle again.

“You don’t have to do anything for me, but you do it anyway. Just last night when you helped soothe the horses. Feeding the animals when I’m not here, moving the heavy crates back and forth from the truck, taking calls for me when I get lazy… you do so much baby. When in reality, all you had to do was just love me back,” Hyunwoo concludes his little speech feeling proud.

He watches his hybrid, who’s still propped up on his chest, seemingly digesting his words. So Hyunwoo slides a hand through his smooth hair, stroking it for a few seconds before moving on to his ears, then changing his sights to Hoseok’s tail (and butt) which quickly has Hoseok squirming again.

“Done thinking?” Hyunwoo asks.

Hoseok smiles, trying to hide his blush by hiding his face. “I.. didn’t know what to say-- ah, Woo, I’m... you know I’m sensitive there--”

“Yeah,” Hyunwoo uses his grip on Hoseok’s ass to scoot him up a bit on his chest. “You didn’t have to say anything. Just kiss me.”

So Hoseok kisses him.

#this is also from a prompt on twitter!#showho #shownu #wonho #monsta x #i didn't rly proofread so uh sorry if some words are weird #writing has never been that easy for me #or just words in general #like hyunwoo mentioned #also cow hybrid seok is MY BABY #he's very soft pls be kind to him

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faveficarchive · 5 years

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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purplesurveys · 5 years

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425

What website is it easy to spend too much time on? Reddit. I’m pretty easy to please - I just go through the Popular tag and I can stay scrolling for a straight hour. What's been bothering you lately? This one class with the horrible instructor I’ve been ranting about in my last few surveys. It’s 12:54 AM and I do NOT want to be thinking about it rn. Do you ever get cravings for cheese? Never. My stomach doesn’t go loco for cheese so I don’t actively look for it. Do you ever crave affection? All the time, but just with my girlfriend. I don’t like being affectionate with other people, like leaning on their shoulders for too long. Would you name your baby after someone or give him/her his or her own name? For a boy, I’m planning the name Owen at least as a second name, as a tribute to Owen Hart. For a daughter, I don’t really have solid plans yet...probably Ava (for Ava Gardner) and Audrey (for Audrey Hepburn).

Do you think boys can wear pink and girls can wear blue? Anyone can wear any color they want. It’s 2019, I thought we’ve been through this before? Which hair curlers have you had the best luck with? None of them. I don’t use hair curlers. What is the best way to curl your hair? Umm I’m not sure but the flat iron thingy that looks like tongs usually works. Idk what I’m talking about because I only ever get my hair curled by other people and only for special events haha. Don't you hate it when people act like idiots just to make you mad? Did you mean, college groupmates? If you were thrown into a lion's den, would you trust God to save you? Welp, I lived a good life. Do you wish you could call the police on the police? OMG yes. Philippine police are a joke. Do you write in cursive or print more? Print. I have to write hurriedly when taking down notes in class, and I realized that my cursive is really ugly if I have to scribble quickly. Were you alive before the Internet came out? Nope, the Internet was already well alive when I was born. Do you like that trends from the 90's are coming back in style? I do. I wasn’t conscious then so it doesn’t give me that ~nostalgia vibe, but 90s fashion highkey slaps nonetheless. ...or would you rather have the trends stay the same as the last decade? Last decade’s trends were so awful...denim on denim, bell-bottoms, skirts and leggings in one outfit, low-waist jeans, boot cut jeans, cropped vests, dresses and pants...we do not talk about that time. What was a horrible trend when you were in high school? I think the trends took a turn for the better when I started high school. All I remember are rubber bracelets/armbands/whatchamacallem, but those were in 6th and 7th grade. What is a horrible trend now? Anything from Forever 21 that has some dumb print at the back that says something like “I hate everyone.” What would you do differently if you were God? Oh no, I wouldn’t exist. Have you ever met anyone who claimed to be God? Fortunately no. Do you believe there is any hope left? Outside the country, yes. Inside this country, very little. Do you hope that everyone is held accountable for their sins? Can I like, skip the Christian questions...ty If you had to leave the US and never come back, where would you move? Well firstly I don’t even live there. Secondly, Canada or Australia. Would you buy a castle if you could afford one? No, I don’t see the need for one. I’d rather get a swanky, fully-furnished minimalist square house. What is something you aren't okay with? Animal abuse. Do you know anyone who isn't fake? Sure. Name five people you know who aren't fake. I don’t feel like it. Do you fully trust anyone? My girlfriend. How many true Christians do you know? Do you know any? What qualifies as ‘true?’ Do you think someone's value is based on how much money they have or make? Not at allllll. There are so many billionaires who are also the biggest assholes. Would you rather be an aborted baby or a victim of child abuse? This is a horrible, tasteless question. What's one trend you're behind the times on? Anything rap, anything A$AP. Do idiots act like know-it-alls a lot around you? Hahahaha they do, actually. Do you think it's ok to call an idiot an idiot? Only if they turn into a blatant asshole, but I think being respectful still takes precedence for the most part. If you had a child with down's syndrome, would you keep him/her? I think I would, but it would honestly worry me a lot. I’d want that child to get the best care 24/7 and I know I’d never want to leave them behind. Don't you wish people who weren't qualified would stop getting handed leadership positions? Lmfao, this is deadass the PHILIPPINE GOVERNMENT. There is absoltutely no fucking one qualified on those seats right now. So to answer your question, I give you an absolutely exasperated yes. Who is the worst plagiarizer you know? Honestly every guy groupmate I’ve had have been useless and lazy. It’s very easy to tell if they simply got an entire paragraph from a website. If someone tried to murder your child, do you think it would be wrong to expose them publicly and talk about it on social media? No. I say expose them. It’s so much easier and quicker to get things done that way. Why do you think people think this is wrong? They could argue that it’s not the proper venue and that authorities should be addressed first before anyone else knows, but I’m honestly all for shaming the suspect and making sure the story makes the rounds. Probably the journalist in me. Is there a toxic person that you miss? OMG no never. Good riddance!!! Are you still contemplating going back to someone you shouldn't? I haven’t thought about the person for as long as I can remember. What do you need right now? I need to get work done and catch up on work, but I’m soooo absorbed in my one-week break that it’s hard to get out of bed :( When was the last time you had a new crush? I’ve only had one crush and that happened five years ago. Do you know any "Christians" who are rude and judgmental? All of them, save for like two people. What would you do if your Bible was falling apart? The Bible I had to use for Catholic school (because we had to read it everyday throughout grade school and high school) was worn out. I think I just stored it in the storage closet when I went off to college or something. Do you have coffee with Jesus every morning? This is a creepy question. Do you pretend to be someone you're not on facebook? Why or why not? No. It’s unnecessary. Do you know anyone who pretends to be a Christian to get attention? I don’t think so. Do you want Jesus to come back soon? OMG WHEN WILL THIS END Do you believe that Jesus is going to come back in your lifetime? NO Would you rather wear blue jeans or jeggings? Jeans. I don’t think I’ve ever owned jeggings. What is the most comfortable type of pants ever? Culottes. They don’t suffocate your legs and they give them air instead. What is something you can't wear because of your body type? XXS flowy spaghetti straps/tanktops/sleeveless tops still look large on me. Would you feel self-conscious if you wore a girls size 12 as an adult? I’m not sure what that means ahaha oof. If you have curves, do you like them? What is the curviest part of your body? My butt. Have you ever been punished for doing the right thing? Not that I know of. How often do you cry? A lot. I’m quite the crybaby. How many Christians do you know who actually care? Is Tumblr all that it's hyped up to be? Not anymore, but it’s still fun to hang around here. At what age do you think someone is old enough to give advice? Any age is good enough as long as it’s accompanied by experience. Have you ever worn matching pajamas with someone? Nah my girlfriend and I don’t have those. What helps you fall asleep? Scrolling on social media, having the AC on. Do you have a nighttime routine? No, I just lie in bed and go on my phone until I pass out. What was the last mountain you climbed? Never climbed any yet. Who is the fakest Christian you know? OMG I’m begging you to stop Who are the fakest friends you've had? Wahahaha ez question but I’m not dropping their name here! Who's the most narcissistic person you know? GAB (not my girlfriend, it’s another Gab). Who gives the best hugs? Gabie :( And Laurice. Who was the last person you hugged? Gabie.

#survey #surveys

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fanficimagery · 7 years

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#243 "The kids. They ambushed me."

What to expect: The prison Rick and his group took over was never demolished in a War. The Governor never happened, but they do take in people from Woodbury or wherever should they want to go there. When Alicia left her mother and brother, she left for good. She wandered whichever way the wind blew and ended up near the Georgia Prison that Rick and his crew took over. They took her in and she's a beloved member of the Prison Community.

Read below or read on FF.NET | AO3

Author's Note: I know it's highly unlikely Alicia and Madison would end up anywhere near one another again, but lets pretend good things happen for this family once in their lives.

Alicia's in and out of sleep in her cell, the entire cell block nice and peaceful before the sun rises. But even after being behind concrete walls and several fences surrounding said concrete walls for a little over a year now, Alicia still finds herself on edge when it gets too quiet.

Nearly muted footfalls alert her to someone approaching and given Alicia is not alone in her cell, she grips the dagger hidden beneath her pillow tight in one hand. As the figure stops in the doorway she starts to sit up slowly, but Daryl's gruff voice halts her. "Easy, 'licia. S'just me."

She sighs softly and glances over at the slumbering toddler on the mattress situated on the floor to make sure she's still asleep. "Dammit, Dixon. You need a bell."

"That would defeat the purpose, dumbass." Alicia huffs a quiet laugh. "Rick and I are takin' a group out. He wants to know if you're good to help Beth with the kids? Maggie will be tendin' to the crops, so Beth needs the help."

"Yeah. The kids actually like me, so it's no big deal."

Daryl nods before gesturing to Judith. "She givin' Beth problems?"

"Nah." Alicia lays back down, getting comfortable after stretching. "I could tell Beth was ready to drop last night and Judith was wide awake. I brought her in here to play and she fell asleep."

"Alright." Daryl then pushes himself off the doorway. "Still got 'bout an hour of dark. Get some sleep, kid."

"Mhm. Bring me back something fun, Dixon."

"We'll see."

Alicia grins at his mumbled reply, her body relaxing once more the second the cell block goes quiet. If she was on babysitting duty with Beth today, she was gonna need all the rest she could get.

Around mid-day all Alicia wants is a cold shower. She and Beth have been taking turns keeping all the older kids occupied, and keeping them occupied meant running them ragged outside underneath the overbearing sun. It sounds cruel, but getting them tired early on meant they had an early bedtime which the other adults greatly appreciated. And she still got a bit of a reprieve when she would have Judith since the toddler was still too young to be under the sun for long, but the work was tiresome nonetheless.

"Hey, Alicia," Beth grins as she approaches with a dozing Judith on her hip. "Rick's called a Council meeting in the enclosed courtyard. We have a new recruit."

"Oh, thank god," she groans in response. Wiping the sweat from her brow, Alicia flashes Beth a tired smile. "Good luck with the little rascals. We were playing hide-n-seek, but I was being lazy in the seeking part."

"I can tell," Beth chuckles. "Carol's made them a snack, so I'll be taking them in to wash up. Maggie's showing the new girl to the showers so she'll be comfortable when you guys give her the run down of how everything works around here."

"Alright. See you later, Beth."

The blonde girl nods in response, she then walking back the way she'd come. Alicia takes off towards the courtyard, wondering who it is the group had brought back. It was rare that they brought anyone back, what with Rick and Daryl being cautious of who they let in because of all the women and children that had drifted over from the other community nearby. Alicia herself had been one of the lucky ones, her state of mind not too far gone like others they'd run into.

And with Alicia's rather strategic mind and helpful observations about the layout of the prison yard, Rick and Hershel had made room in their council to add Alicia. It was something that others had been surprised about given how new Alicia was to them, but after seeing her in action they then realized why Rick and Hershel were quickly attached to the girl.

Alicia's reminiscing about how she won the others over when she's knocked from her thoughts by something hitting her in the stomach. When she glances down in surprise all she sees is dirt clinging to her shirt and then she's hit again in her shoulder and leg.

Gasping and darting a look around to whoever's attacking her with balls of soil, Alicia finds a few of the kids snickering as they run back and forth for coverage before launching more ammunition at her.

"You little jerks!" She yells out which causes a few of the nearby adults to laugh. "I'm busy right now, but when I'm free.. it is so on." The children whoop in delight before Beth appears around the corner, she scolding the kids and ordering them inside to clean up.

When Beth spots Alicia covered in dirt, she does her best to smother her amusement but Alicia still sees it. Alicia waves her off before continuing on to where she's needed and when she gets there everyone stares at the state in which she's in. Glenn, Hershel, Carol and Rick all look rather amused. Michonne and Sasha are smirking openly, and Daryl huffs in amusement as he walks up to her and knocks a clump of dirt from her hair.

"The kids. They ambushed me," she explains.

The entire group starts to chuckle, and Sasha and Carol make room for her to sit at the table when she nears it. But before Alicia can even take a seat, she freezes when a new voice calls out her name.

"Alicia?"

Everyone's smile vanishes as they turn to the new voice and Alicia's gaze locks in on a face she hasn't seen in a long time. Eyes widening, Alicia gapes momentarily before she finds her voice. "Mom?!"

Several of the group gasp in surprise as the two women stare at one another in shock. But then Alicia and Madison Clark are moving without thought, the two women colliding as they wrap their arms around one another. Madison is still the blonde beauty Alicia remembers her mother being, but she can see the toll the new world has taken on her mother what with her ill-fitting clothes.

"How did you end up way over here?" Alicia asks. "I thought the plan was to make a home at the water dam!?"

"Victor sold us out to the Proctors," Madison mutters.

"'Course he did."

"He tried to make it right, but your brother was the reason we ended up getting away."

Alicia pulls out of the hug. "Nick! He's here too? Where is-"

"Leesh," Madison says, shaking her head. "Your brother didn't make it." Alicia's smile falls and her eyes start to tear up, but she sniffs once and reigns it in. "The Proctors weren't going to let us live, so we lined the bottom of the dam with C4 as a last stand. Nick bargained for me and Victor to get out of there, but the Proctors called Nick's bluff and attacked him. He blew the dam too soon and our boat got sucked in. Only I survived. I'm sorry."

"So stupid," Alicia mumbles.

Madison's still holding onto Alicia's arms and staring at her as if she's going to disappear, but Alicia turns her attention elsewhere and puts her brother's demise to the back of her mind for the time being. Everyone is watching them with rapt attention.

"Where did you guys even find her?" She asks.

"Back of a store," Daryl tells her. "If I hadn't been searching for those damn Uno cards," he says, huffing a laugh, "I wouldn't have found her."

Rick groans. "That's what you were looking for? If it evolves into another screaming match, I'll burn this deck too."

"Maggie's a menace with those draw fours," Alica mumbles in defense.

The group all chuckle and Madison openly laughs, she pulling her daughter into yet another hug. "Oh, baby. You always were a sore loser."

No one says anything as mother and daughter reunite, the whole group already knowing the reason Alicia left in the first place. But they also know that Alicia missed her family and friends dearly, so they don't hold it against her that she's clinging to the mother she once blamed for leaving in the first place.

But the moment is soon broken when Madison pulls away, frowning as she plucks a few blades of grass from her daughter's hair. "Uh, Leesh? Why are you covered in dirt? You know they have showers here, right?"

Daryl, who's closest to them, snorts and Alicia groans. "Not now, Mom. Lets just enjoy this for a little while longer." Madison opens her mouth to reply, but Alicia pulls her mother into yet another hug and just relishes in the fact that her mother is there.

#blurred lines #fear the walking dead #the walking dead #gen fic #alicia clark #madison clark #daryl dixon #rick grimes #fanficimagery

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jawsandbones · 7 years

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Rather Lovely Thing

Robin Hood FenHawke AU written for the @daficswap! I had the pleasure of working with the lovely @aliveria who is an amazing artist and a wonderful person. Please go check out their art!

Rating: T

Pairing: Fenris x FemHawke

AO3 Link: Click Here

Shining brightly, draped in darkness and wrapped in stars, the moon hangs high in the night. The soft call of an owl, the low beat of wings as it follows its prey. A cold wind sweeps into his room and he’s not sure what wakes him. Blankets pulled around his shoulders, made of softest fur, a warm nest. He longs to return to sleep, what with heavy eyelids and slow breathing. Closing his eyes, but there’s that noise again. Moving only enough to see what strange shadows lurk inside his room.

This one moves quietly on her feet, bending down to open a drawer. She dips her hands in, pulls out a silk shirt. Holding it out to look, shaking her head and throwing it to the ground. She finds the gifted necklaces, the golden bracelets. Those she puts into one of the many bags tied to her one of her many belts. Her back is to the bed, her gaze focused on her search. He’s pushing himself up to sit as carefully as he can, but she doesn’t hear him move. Rather she’s chuckling underneath her breath as she holds up a ring, smirking as she tucks it in with the rest.

There’s a hook on the window, a long coil of rope curled on the floor. Her bow is resting beside it, along with a quiver of arrows. He slips from the bed, feet against bare stone, takes the bow in his hands, reaches for an arrow. Taking it up, placing it neatly, and drawing the bow. “How did you get in here?” She turns slowly as his words, raising her hands, dropping the pair of trousers she was holding. She shows him her empty hands, then leans against the dresser, crossing her arms.

“I think you can tell that I came through the window,” she says, pointing at the hook and the rope. There are multiple braids that knot through her hair, many multi-colored scarves around her neck, covering half her face. He can still see some of her cheeks, the freckles that dot there. A threadbare tunic, trousers in much the same condition. Her boots are encrusted with mud, flecks of it on the floor from where she’s been. He does not miss the dagger in her belt.

“You are her,” he says, “the robin,” and he pulls at the bow even harder. She pushes herself away from the dresser, claps her hands together in delight, the sound muffled by the fingerless gloves.

“You know me!” She says as she gives him a small wink. His arm shakes with the effort of the bow, of pulling the string. Her motions are almost lazy as she begins to walk towards him. A slow lean to the left as he lets fly the arrow. It takes a disappointing path, far from where he meant it to land. He steps back as she steps forward, until his back is to the wall and her hand is on her bow. “That’s mine.”

“You’ve taken things of mine,” he says.

“So I have. I’ll be leaving with them too,” she tells him. It takes only a tug to steal her bow back. Pulling it over her shoulder, wrapping the belt of the quiver around her waist. Humming as she reaches for the rope, leaning out the window as she throws it down.

“Please don’t move the hook, or cut the rope, until I’m on the ground,” she says, “I’d prefer not to die today.” A foot is on the windowsill, the rope in her hands.

“Take me with you,” he tells her, closing the distance between them. He watches as her eyebrows rise, eyes widening with surprise. He frowns as she begins to bark out laughter, as she steps out of the window and back onto stone, towards him.

“If you know me, then you know what I steal,” she says, “Gold, jewels, things. Not people.”

“Take me with you or I’ll cut the rope,” he says. She’s far too close, sizing him up, her nose a hairsbreadth away from his. Eyes narrowed, studying him and he’s doing his best to stare back.

“You’ve never killed anyone before,” she says at last, “and you’re not going to start today.” She shakes her head, walks back to the window. He’s on her in an instant, arms around her neck, pulling her back.

“Guards! Guards help me! There’s someone here!” He’s screaming at the top of his lungs as she flails, finally buries an elbow in his belly, wrestles him to the ground with her hand over his mouth.

“That is not how you get someone to help you,” she scolds him, wagging a finger on her free hand at him. She’s dead weight on top of him, her thighs crushing at his hips, and all he can manage is the pathetic stamping of his feet, clawing her arm. “I thought we were friends. Friends don’t let friends be taken by guards. You have to promise me that if I take my hand away, you won’t start screaming again. Understand?” All he can manage is a grunt. “Good.”

Her other hand is at her belt, pulling the dagger, putting it to his neck. Only then does she remove her hand. “Pardon me if I’m feeling a little skittish about the trust between us. Tell me why you want me to take you.” He glares at her, and she allows him to prop himself up with his elbows. She doesn’t press the metal against his flesh, keeping it just enough away from his skin.

“They say you help people. That what you rob goes to help the poor and the needy,” he says.

“’They’ aren’t wrong,” she tells him. “Again, I only steal things.”

“That’s what I am. A thing; something to be bought and sold. They want to marry me to a magister.” His face twists. “They are going to send me to Tevinter and I, I – I can’t.” She cocks her head and there’s a sudden dawning on her face. Tucking the blade back into her belt, one hand on the bed to help push herself up. Scurrying away from him, face in her hands.

“Andraste’s sagging arse. You’re Fenris,” she says when she turns back to him.

“You know me,” he says dryly, parroting her earlier words as he picks himself up and off the ground. She rolls her eyes.

“That marriage is supposed to cement an alliance between Ferelden and Tevinter, so yes, of course I know you. Half the country knows you,” she says.

“You do not know this magister. You do not know what he is like,” Fenris tells her, hands clenched into fists. Her arms crossed, fingers tapping at her chin, studying him once again. Her eyes moving from his head to his feet, back up again. A sigh every half second, before a groan, running a hand down her face. She takes the scarf with it. There’s a scar across her nose, and the hint of freckles gives way to a full face of them. She’s biting her bottom lip, hands at her hips.

“It’s a huge risk taking you. If I take you, you’re going to get me killed. Executed,” she says.

“If we are caught, I will tell them I forced you to take me.”

“As if that’ll matter.” She’s shaking her head, rubbing at the mud on her boot with her other foot. Hesitating. Still weighing the cost, the decision. He steps forward.

“Please,” he says softly. The stiff line of her shoulders slump.

“Bollocks.” She sticks out her hand towards him. “The name’s Hawke.” He takes her hand, gives it a firm shake. “Looks like you’re coming with me,” she says, pulling the scarf back over her face.

He loses track of how long they ride for. Hawke doesn’t take time to stop, only to rest and feed the horse. She gives him the last of her water-skin, and jerky is their every meal. His legs ache from being on a horse for so long, his every muscle tired and sore. Hawke is mostly silent, the reigns in her hand, guiding the horse where they need to go with uncanny awareness. He’s barely set foot outside of the castle. The countryside is foreign to him, every road unknown. His legs tremble when they stop next, and he wobbles to take a seat by a nearby stream.

She chuckles as she watches him, the horse taking a drink from the stream nearby. “Don’t ride very much, do you?” He can only glare, shake his head. Trying to work life back into limbs, standing up and taking unsteady steps.

“Where are we going?”

“You’ll see,” she says with a smile. He expects her to take him to some village. Instead, they pass one after the other, after the other. She avoids most people, and he can’t help notice the wanted posters on the sides of some buildings, and along the Imperial Highway. They all call for the arrest of the thief known as the Robin. Most are half-torn, and most are drawn on with crude symbols. None directed at her. The smallfolk have love for the one making their lord’s life miserable.

As they ride, he keeps his arms wrapped around her waist, chest against her back, resting his head on her shoulder. It’s easy to fall under the lull of the heavy beat of hooves against ground, the warm cloak wrapped around him. He dreams of the ocean. He knows it is day, he knows the sun is risen, when next he wakes. It’s hidden by a thick crop of trees, branches stretching overhead, the sky a now leafy green. The horse is walking over thick root and moss, and Hawke seems far too at ease.

“Every lord has been petitioning the king for your capture. You will be hanged with or without me. You know this and yet you still went to the Royal Palace. One of the most heavily guarded castles. Why?” She shrugs.

“They said the Palace couldn’t be stolen from. That I couldn’t steal from them,” she says.

“You risked your life because of a taunt,” he says it flatly. Her shoulders shake with silent laughter. He shakes his head, rolls his eyes. “Unbelievable.”

“You’re part of this now, you know. I won’t just let you sit at our camp doing nothing,” she tells him. “We’ll need to dye your hair first, teach you how to use a bow and a sword. Good chance of getting less dead if you know a bit of everything. Oh and picking locks too.”

“You want me to steal with you?”

“You have a problem with that?”

“It is dishonest.” Hawke snorts.

“The people we take from steal far more than we ever could. We’re just putting the gold back where it belongs.”

“’We’?” Just as he speaks, he feels a hand at his back. Pulling him by his tunic, dragging him off the horse, his feet dangling over the ground. Hawke immediately turns the horse, an amused grin on her face as she watches Fenris struggle. A tall red-headed woman has him in her grasp, a deep frown on her face as she looks between Fenris and Hawke.

“Put the nice man down Aveline,” Hawke says. She’s lounging on the saddle, leaning forward, that grin still persisting.

“We don’t take in strays,” she says, looking up him and down, “especially not royal strays.” Hawke raises her eyebrows, laughs softly under her breath.

“Honestly, who do we know that isn’t a stray? Put him down.” She opens her hand and down he goes. Landing roughly on his feet, stumbling away from her, steadying himself by a tree. A bush rumbles, the crack of a branch. Others are appearing one by one, with sword and bow, all pointed at him. Hawke doesn’t seem concerned in the slightest. Dismounting the horse with ease, moving to stand beside him, taking a leaf from his hair.

The camp is a short distance away, a clearing in the Korcari Wilds. Nestled in the ruins of some long forgotten building, white stone that’s no longer bright but covered in vines. Hammocks are slung between trees, boxes are scattered and stacked haphazardly. A fire burns in the middle, by a rack of weapons and one of food. Tents are pitched in a corner, and Hawke claps Fenris on the back. “It isn’t much, but it’s home,” she says. “You’re one of us now.”

He finds that stealing is easy. Isabela has been his tutor with the locks, hours spent crouching over a safe, the pins in his hand, listening to every careful click. It did not come as easy to him as he was hoping. Hawke brings Isabela a new pick set the next time she returns, to replace all the ones Fenris has broken. The basic locks are soon mastered, and he is slowly working his way up the tier. Isabela gives him a ship in a bottle for each lock he cracks. A corner of his tent is filled with them.

Merrill distressed over his hair, such a unique color, standing out. When you work with the Robin, it’s always best to never stand out. The first attempt at dyeing the white to black was met with spectacular failure. It did, however, stain her palms for a month. The second sees more success, but fades far too quickly. She gets it on the third try, and his hair now matches Hawke’s. Isabela and Merrill often steal together, dressed as Hawke would. Far more difficult to catch the Robin if there is more than one.

Hawke brings him on the odd small job, to places she knows will be empty. It allows them to take their time, for Hawke to provide instruction. Without seeing any people, the guilt of stealing is slowly washed away. He doesn’t think about who they’re stealing from anymore. It’s only gold, only trinkets. He picks the lock, she chooses the valuables that they take. Mostly small things, easily smuggled, easily stored and given to others.

Archery he finds far more difficult. Back at camp, coin counted and put away, a bow in his hands. Hawke stands behind him, putting her hand over his. “Relax.” She taps at his white knuckles, the hand that grips the bow. “Breathe,” she murmurs against his ear. Her other hand follows the line of his shoulders, traces down his arm. “Take your time.” He scowls as he lets the arrow fly, watches as it lands just short of the target.

Hawke steps back, her hands on her hips as she chuckles. “You’ll get the hang of it,” she tells him. She stays in the camp fairly often, but sometimes, during the day, she disappears with Aveline. She leaves him in the others care, and they are kind, but they treat him with a sort of fragility that she doesn’t. Too often has Anders mockingly called him your highness, and Merrill trips over herself in an effort to be overly polite.

“I am more useful with a sword.” She takes up her own bow, plucks the arrow from his hand. She lines up the shot with practiced ease, and the arrow lands in the center of the target. He passes her another arrow, and she splits her previous with it. “Show off,” he says, and passes her another. She gives him a grin as she takes it.

Hawke doesn’t sleep in a tent. Unless it’s raining, she chooses one of the hammocks outside. Swinging back and forth, her hands behind her head, listening to the late sounds of the birds and the bugs, the leaves and the trees that sway in the breeze. “Why sleep outside?” He asks her one night. An eye cracks open, and she shuffles in the hammock.

“Come here,” she says, patting the space beside her. With a doubtful glance, he hefts himself into the hammock with her. There’s no room to move and it forces them to be shoulder to shoulder, side by side, and practically cheek to cheek. She links their arms together, pressing her head against his. With her free hand, she points upwards.

“That’s Judex, meaning justice.” She’s tracing an outline in the stars, from point to shining point, drawing a downturned sword. “Draconis, a high dragon.” He turns his head slightly to look at her, watching her eyes shine just as brightly as the stars. “Peraquialus is over here.” She looks enchanted and enchanting and she shows him every constellation she can find. “I can’t help but wonder what they’re hiding,” she says.

“Hiding?” he asks softly.

“Are they jewels the gods put there? Worlds like ours? What would it be like to be able to fly among them? I’d give anything to be a dragon, just like in the old stories,” she sighs wistfully. He can’t help the laughter that bursts from him, and she soon joins him. In the morning, he has one leg hanging off the hammock, and Hawke is nestled in his arms, her head in the crook of his neck.

“I almost feel bad waking them,” Isabela says, her arms crossed as she examines the situation.

“Maker’s breath,” Aveline rolls her eyes, putting a hand on Fenris’s shoulder and shaking hard. “Wake up.” He makes a small grunt as Hawke propels herself upwards, her hands on his chest.

“Wassit,” she grunts. Another eye roll from Aveline as she puts her hands under Hawke’s arms, hauls her out of the hammock and deposits her onto her feet. Hawke covers a yawn with her hands.

“We need to go,” Aveline tells her, “there are people coming to see the lady of Lothering.”

“Why do we care?” Fenris asks as he moves to stand beside them. “Are we robbing this lady?” Aveline puts her hands on Hawke’s shoulders, swings her so that she is standing in front of him.

“This is the lady of Lothering.”

“Hello,” Hawke says as gives him a sheepish wave and a smile.

A strange thing, to see Hawke in a dress. A plain one, but a dress nonetheless, a small belt around her waist. Her hair brushed to full length, then put into one neat braid. Cheeks no longer smudges with dirt but freshly washed, boots replaced with small shoes. A stranger thing to see her riding side saddle. Fenris has his arms crossed as she brings the horse around. “It started in Lothering. They kept raising the taxes and I… I had to take their money. I didn’t want to and I didn’t have to if someone ‘stole’ it. I always returned what I took,” she tells him.

“You do not have to explain yourself to me,” Fenris says.

“You deserve an explanation,” she says. She rides with Aveline, the captain of her guard, back to the city, leaving him standing by the fire. He runs a hand through his hair, takes a seat on one of the logs nearby. Isabela wears a self-satisfied smile, her legs crossed, elbow on her knee, and chin in the palm of her hand.

“You two are certainly chummy,” she says, her voice practically dripping with the need for gossip. Fenris scoffs, shakes his head.

“You will not hear anything from me,” he says. Isabela fakes a pout.

“You’re no fun. What is fun is that Hawke has so many people coming to see her. Half of Denerim it seems like. All looking for you,” Isabela tells him. Fenris narrows his eyes, rises to his feet. “They’re moving from castle to castle, questioning everyone. Seems they’re mighty keen to find you. They’ve got the constable, bunch of guards and even someone from Tevinter.”

“Who. Exactly,” Fenris asks, an edge to his voice. Isabela shrugs.

“Some magister.” He takes off immediately, grabbing a quiver and a bow, tucking a dagger into his belt. Isabela is calling after him as he unties a horse, digs his heels into its side. He can still hear her voice as he rides off, racing towards Lothering.

Hawke raises the cup to her mouth, tastes sweet wine. Only the finest for the finest guests. Dinner is in full swing, weary travelers taking their rest in her hall. “What lovely countryside,” Danarius leans over to speak to her and she returns his words with a polite smile.

“Thank you magister,” she says.

“Are you not fearful being so close to the Korcori Wilds? I’ve heard the Robin hides there. You must be under frequent attack from that thief,” he says.

“There isn’t much here to steal,” she tells him.

“Except for the taxes which rightfully belong to the crown,” he smiles.

“Of course,” she smiles back, feeling an ache in her cheeks from the sheer fakeness of it. Meredith is watching her through a suspicious gaze, her hands folded on the table, having barely touched her food or taken a sip from her cup.

“Do you know why we’re here, Lady Marian?” Hawke shifts in her seat, the smile faltering at the sound of her name.

“I assume you’re on the Robin’s trail,” she says.

“We are indeed. We’re very close now. We’ll be garrisoning in your village while we amass soldiers to assault the Korcari Wilds and drive out the Robin from hiding. I assume you have no problem with this.” Hawke forces the smile to return.

“Of course not. We’ll be happy to help in any way we’re able.” She shares a look with Aveline across the table. Arrangements will be made to scatter the others, keep them out of harm’s way. Any trace of the camp will have to be taken care of and Fenris wouldn’t be able to stay in Lothering. Not when so many who know his face linger. Isabela would have no trouble smuggling him away. She would have to play her part as well, the kneeling lady to the crown.

“Has the Robin stolen much from you?” Danarius watches her intently, his steely gaze fixed on her.

“Enough,” Hawke says.

“She took something that was meant to be mine. Property which was promised to me.”

“This thing sounds valuable,” Hawke says through gritted teeth.

“He is.” His eyes to not leave hers. “My little Fenris.” She has to work to keep the distaste from showing. “Royalty that the King promised to me in exchange for an alliance with Tevinter. Do you want a war with Tevinter my lady?”

“Of course not.”

“Then give him back to me,” Danarius hisses, slamming his cup down onto the table. Aveline is on her feet at the same time as Meredith, each pointing swords at each other from across the table. Both sides follow their commander’s lead, Hawke’s guards against Denerim’s finest. Hawke is reaching for the blade hidden under her dress but Danarius never needed to hide his. Her movements stop the moment the cold iron touches her neck. “I am tired of playing pretend. We know you are the Robin.”

“You’ll never find him,” she tells him coldly.

“He wasn’t yours to take,” Danarius says.

“And I was never yours to keep.” Hawke looks around wildly until she spots him, on one of the higher windows of the hall. Perched on the sill, a bow in his hands, an arrow nocked and pointed. Danarius’s eyes widen when he sees him, pushes the blade into her neck hard enough to draw blood.

“Come to me, my little wolf, and I’ll let her go,” he says as he drags Hawke up from the chair, holds her like a shield in front of him.

“Your words mean nothing,” Fenris says, pulling at the string. Hawke has her eyes on him, making subtle gestures. Relax. Breathe. Take your time. He lets out the breath he’s holding, feeling the arrow slip through his fingers. Danarius reels backwards with a keening cry, the dagger dropping from his grasp, clapping his hands to his face. The arrow rests neatly in one of his eyes.

It is what cuts the silence, the pause, and Aveline is leaping over the table with her guards. “You did it! I knew you could! I’m so proud of you!” Hawke shouts as she throws her hands up into the air, like a parent cheering on their child. She turns quickly, dress swirling with her, and pushes the arrow even deeper. Danarius drops like a stone. Meredith is cutting through the guards, making a path towards Hawke.

“Run!” Aveline shouts at her.

“To me!” Fenris is calling out to her, throwing the rope through the window, down into the hall. Hawke is picking up her skirts, making a break for it. She sticks out her tongue at Meredith as Fenris hauls her up. He takes her hand in his, and they race across the roof. The rest of Meredith’s forces are outside, watching as they run. Fenris stops at the edge of the roof, but Hawke is pulling him with her, leaping down into the moat.

Sinking into the water, Hawke’s hand still tightly wrapped around his. She pulls him to the surface as his arrows float away from him, escaping the quiver, being taken with the current. “Hawke, I can’t swim,” Fenris is saying, desperately kicking his legs. Hawke instantly pulls herself closer to him, wrapping an arm around his waist.

“Stay close to me,” she tells him. They can hear the yelling, shouting behind them, but Hawke is pulling them away. They’re shivering in the cold, clothes soaked through and through, water against skin. The castle fades in the distance and only then does she direct them to the shore, still holding tightly onto him. Climbing over rock, collapsing onto grass, lying side by side.

“He’s dead,” Fenris says through gasping breath, brushing wet locks out of his face. There’s dye on his hands, the white in his hair starting to bleed through. Turning his head to face her, teeth chattering together. Hawke is looking up at him, flecks of water on her face, running down her neck. He brushes a thumb against her cheek, wipes away the wet. “He’s dead.” A confirmation of the statement, a realization that it’s true. Some sort of weird mixture of relief and happiness flooding his chest, bursting into a grin, leaning over Hawke and pressing a kiss against cold lips. Her mouth is warm, her hand at the back of his neck, drops from his hair mixing with the wet of hers. She’s smiling when he pulls away.

“You’re free,” she tells him. “On the other hand, Aveline is going to be furious.” She breaks into hopeless laughter, and he’s helpless in joining her. Laughing together, pressing his forehead against hers, holding her tight in his arms.

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