#The power to do whatever the fuck you want in front of half of Hollywood

[emotinalsupportturtle]

I can’t stop thinking of how despite it baffling most non-brits, and most of the Hollywood a-list audience, David Tennant decided to do a skit on his little lockdown rpf show, make a bunch of puns that only people familiar with British culture would get, wear a kilt and be his usual manic self when hosting an internationally prestigious award show

fucking power move

#And the fact that he actually succeeded #Most of the Americans had no idea what was going on but they just had to play along #He literally held them as hostages and said “haha I’m doing this my style and you have no choice but to enjoy it” #Sorry I just can’t stop thinking of this #The funniest part was how the audience was so confused and were like “idk what’s happening but I think I’m having a good time?” #Also let me subject you to some banter with my husband #It’s literally his world even Bradley cooper is just living in it #Turning up and literally going “oh I’m not nervous. Yeah tomorrow I go back to doing my actual job. This is just fun” #The power to do whatever the fuck you want in front of half of Hollywood #david tennant #michael sheen

[herstarburststories]

(He Isn't) A Good Guy

Kinktober day 15: humiliation kink

Pairing: Jensen Ackles x reader

Summary: Jensen is tired of everyone saying he's a good guy.

Warnings: dirty talk (kind dark bc of the kink), handjob, p in v, riding, cheating, possessive, slapping

You have to be careful with what you're good at. You might just end up doing it for the rest of your life.

Jensen Ackles never caught the appeal of that saying. If you were really that good at something, why wouldn't you want to do it?

Such a mindset was as constant as a mother’s love and made Jensen's loyal company for a long time during his career. He pictured it would last forever: the head pats, positive criticism, and his charm that caught more and more fans. The Hollywood man was happy, really. He grew to be a good — if not great — actor. He had a wife and three kids that were the love of his life. He could go anywhere and find a job through the instantaneous recognition that Supernatural bestowed upon him, not to mention its gift of a best friend, Jared, and the raw amount of personal growth he went through. 

He was perfect in the most diversified aspects of his life, and, God, it was boring as fuck.

Whatever Jensen did, he was excused for it. Plenty of people would light themselves on fire for him (and hey, don’t think he was ungrateful for that), but being called a good guy that apparently couldn’t do any wrongs while the rights came out even in his sleep could be devastatingly annoying.

He thought he might have some problem, perhaps even a middle-aged crisis. Come on, who, with his life, would feel compelled to look for something else? Ackles had the money, the friends, and family. He had everything everyone dreamed about, but he just wanted to wake up.

Then, he met you.

You were the woman in her twenties who was barely starting in the media business, yet you had enough luck and talent to evoke the CW's attention that early. They wouldn't hire you as an official director, but you were in the training process. You were a prodigy, as most people on the set liked to joke about.

You sighed, slightly frustrated about the direction these takes were going. Asking Ackles to follow orders was roughly the same as punching a wall; the brick didn't break, and it only left you with scuffed knuckles and growing irritation. “Jensen, you need to tilt your head to the side or we won't be able to catch her face on camera.” 

“I'm doing that,” he said as if it was obvious.

“The camera doesn't agree with you.” You crossed your arms, tired of having this heated squabble again.

“I know how to shoot sex scenes, Y/N. I've been doing that for—”

You interrupted him: “I'm aware of how long the show I'm working on has been going, Jensen. Now, take my hint and do as I say. I get that you have done this before, but we are trying a new position, so your M.O. might not work.” You knew he was a good actor. Supernatural wouldn't be what it was if it wasn't for his character. Still, you needed this episode to be perfect in terms of filming. It was your first actual chance to prove how worthy you were. Jensen had his career and little apple pie life settled, but you had to scratch and squirm to insert yourself into the industry. You knew what you were doing. Nonetheless, you attempted to pacify his self-assurance by being assertive and gentle at the same time: “Just listen to me and try it. Please.���

The green-eyed man opened his mouth, very much ready to spit out a contradicting retort, but at the last second, he clamped his jaw shut and opted for a smirk instead. “Yeah, boss.”

It was the first time in years that someone actually came at him. Jensen felt the bruise aching his ego that spiked a sudden pressing need to puff out his chest and say I know what I am doing. Why don't you watch? 

He'd call that the Texan man behavior, alpha macho testosterone levels on high, but, honestly, he was just mad that someone had the audacity to talk to him like that, as if he was a rookie on his job. Jensen's whole body heated up, his jaw clenched, and his breath caught on his throat when he glanced at you — of course, he'd never put a hand on a woman, but God, that was infuriating. He wasn't a middle school child in need of a lecture.

But this was his first impression. As you gave everyone fifteen minutes to relax before shooting again, he went to his trailer, gait unnecessarily heavy like a child throwing a tantrum. Jensen locked his trailer and closed his eyes, trying to pick out his emotions — how long have it been since he got mad? That couldn't be healthy.

Do as I say. Your words were echoes in his head, spinning and making him dizzy. Just listen to me.

And the look you gave him. It wasn’t adoration as a fan or nervousness like a new worker. You didn’t excuse him as anyone else did. You glanced at him as you would to any other person on the set that had made a mistake: you pointed it out and didn't offer any sugarcoating to dull the blow.

It felt refreshing.

Shaking your head at the scene unrolling on the other side of the camera, you let out an exhausted sigh. This was your second directed episode, and Jensen wasn't making it easy for you. He always seemed like such a nice guy, yet you weren't surprised by his mulish behavior. You had called him out, and now he was turning it back around on you. Celebrities were complicated on their one, but male ones even more. Their egos required a role for themselves.

“Everyone, ten minutes!” you announced, placing the headphones on the table next to you. Your crew started dispersing, Ackles included, when his name left your lips: “Jensen, c'here.”

The green-eyed man arched his eyebrows, not sure why you wanted to talk to him so privately. Still, he approached you.

When you were a kid, you went through a phase when your smile wasn’t very pretty. It was too much teeth, eyes too tight, and head lifted high enough to show under your chin. Your parents couldn't just up and tell you that it looked terrible, obviously, so they just showed you multiple pictures until you decided that you didn't like something about it.

Maybe that would work with Jensen.

You patted the chair next to you, and Jensen sat there with a wisp of hesitation. You clicked on the scene you had been trying to get right for almost an hour. The replay went smoothly, Ackles's shoulders shrugging by the end. He didn't see the fuss about this.

“Seems good,” he said nonchalantly. 

You squinted your eyes at him. Someone as talented as him couldn't be serious about not seeing a problem with how ridiculous his vampire transformation through the last season was. “Seems like a sitcom”

“It's a dumb scene.” Jensen shrugged.

You groaned. “Can't you just accept that you can do better?”

Jensen crossed his arms and straightened his posture, holding a defensive atmosphere around him. God, he was infuriating sometimes. “Maybe you can. I've been doing great for years. You might not be the right director for this kind of show.”

“Just do as I said. You're in the scene, but I'm the audience. I can see right through you. I'm seeing things from another perspective and trying to tell you how to improve. That's what a director is for. Go ahead and try it!”

Your friendly conversation with the lead apparently had the opposite effect. As soon as he went back to his place in front of the camera, Jensen Ackles appeared to acquire the stubborn, incredibly unprofessional desire to take on all the worst camera angles only to get on your nerves.

“Are you kidding me!?” You elevated your voice, furious at how careless he was. All your patience has been zapped. “You're doing it on purpose. How can you be so petty?”

“Me? Petty!?” he said between gritted teeth, almost hissing as he walked to you. “I've been playing Dean for years. I know him more than—”

“I know. You do a big job with that character, but Jensen, you make mistakes. It's part of the process. You're a grown-ass man, so you can take what I'm saying and make something useful out of it. I'm the director; you are the actor. I don't care about how long you’ve been on this stage, and I don’t care for incompetence. You ain't doing good, so do as I say and fix it.”

Jensen tensed up when you said that, exhaling shortly while his eyes glued on you. You were half his age, yet the way you presented yourself — arms stiffly crossed, eyes ablaze and chin lifted — spoke of your power on this film set. At the end of the day, he was just a man, and he was in your court. Just like that, you held all control. He bit his bottom lip, neck red with the heat of anger and adrenaline that lashed through his body.

He was furious, yet all his body could do was react as if you had kissed him instead of punching his ego.

Anger and luxury both came from the same place. They were just different branches on the same tree growing from a common seed.

The half of Supernatural's leader actor started doing it on purpose, then. Not acting in a way that could collide with his career or mess up the shooting schedule, but an occasional bitched scene here and there when he had a chance, and always when you were in charge of the scene.

He relished in it: someone treating him like a man and not an untouchable idol. A woman who would look straight in his eyes and not be too intimidated, excited, or lovey-dovey to tell him all the bad things he needed to hear. You were someone who could put him in his place.

Unfortunately, playing around can only get you so far. If you bring someone to the pool, they won't be satisfied with just one foot in the water. They'd want to swim, splash water at their friends to get them all wet and soaked too. 

What started with provocative, fuming rage and nuisance soon melted into something deadlier. It was something unmanageable, a burning fire that attracted all the wrong kinds of glances. Yet, neither of you could help but follow where the smoke signal led.

You were here, in each other's arms. It was a dirty little secret that went way beyond just an illicit affair: it was about what you two could give to each other without even asking, and what other people could never quite comprehend. . . And they didn't need to. Jensen had you, and you had Jensen. To desire and savor the result was enough.

Your hand was wrapped around his cock, moving up and down in a painfully slow rhythm. You had two legs wrapped around his, your face hanging next to Jensen's — close enough that you could kiss all of his freckles if this were out of love and not necessity — as you spoke.

“Everybody thinks you are the good guy. Little mister perfect.” Ackles groaned at the malice in your tone. He hated that — how everyone called him perfect, how every single person told him he was such a good guy. You were his only grounding force under the blinding lights. “But I know you aren't. You are nasty, disgusting, and so needy for someone to put you in your fucking place.”

The male's lips parted slightly, a pornographic moan leaving his body. This perversion felt like a hair short of sin. Who in their right mind would be so turned on by a girl half his age picking up all the worst things one could say about him, only to throw them exactly where it hurt the most?

Why, in the name of God, did he want more? Why was Jensen bucking his lips, needy noises that he never dons escaping his trembling body? Why was his cock hard as fuck, ruinining your fingers with sloppy precum while he internally begged you for more? 

It was like receiving a miracle and giving it to the devil.

“Look at you,” you continued, a smirk painted on your features, “getting fucked in your trailer by the woman who basically told you to stop whining and get your job done like a real man.” You loved being in control of the usually overconfident Hollywood star. If only his dearest fans knew how much of a submissive he was — how he just needed to be told where he belonged. 

“Y/N…” Jensen managed to say, his chest moving erratically fast. You leaned in to press your lips to his, and he whimpered. Ackles' hand slid to your waist in an attempt to pull you closer, but all he got was a slap on the arm and lack of friction on his dick. “Y/N!”

“I didn't say you could touch me, stubborn idiot.” You hissed, getting up to throw away your skirt and underwear. Jensen sniffed, feeling so ridiculous about himself. You had way too much control over him, but he couldn't really care about anything other than you touching his cock right now. Fuck composure or else. “I'm not your wife. I'm not one of your thirsty fans.” Each word came out in a harsh tone, those syllabus together had no other duty but hurt him, and he loved how they agonized in his body, redirected right to his hardness. You got free of the skirt and your soaked lace panties. “I don't need you. This?” You gestured at yourself and Ackles, a wry laughter coming out as you climbed on his lap. “I'm doing you a favor. So, you better thank me and take whatever I choose to give you. Understood?” Jensen's eyes were obsessed with your image, not leaving your face once— not even to look at his hard cock that was so close to your cunt due the new position. He just nodded, wishing that was enough to show you his piece of mind. It wasn't. You slapped his cheek and howled. “I made you a question.”

Jensen gulped, the red on his cheek from your smack couldn't compare to his blushed body. This felt so good, finally getting what he wanted. Ultimately, he blurted out: “Yes, I understand.”

“Good. Now let's put you to good use.” You winked at him, a hint of silly playfulness before you got all his length inside you at once. Both of you moaned, the unique sensation of your walls around his hard dick was marvelous. So warm, tight, and wet. Everything he deserved in one pussy, one woman. You started to move your hips up and down. “You feel so good inside me, baby. Like your cock was made for me— I think you were made just for this, to be fucked by me. What do you think?” His eyes fluttered shut, Jensen was allowing himself to get lost into you. You were heaven in sin, fucking him so nice. You weren't having his silent, though. You both had to be quiet about many things regarding to your mutual arrangement, you couldn't get more of closed mouths. Not when this was happening. You grabbed Jensen's jaw, fingertips pressing against his skin. “You better start answering me before I get out of here and go get some with a real man.”

Jensen groaned, holding your hips possessively. You knew he was one of the jealous kind, talking about other men touching you always got a reaction out of him. “I'm a real man.” 

“Show me then, baby.” A glimpse of sweetness appeared as you leaned in to kiss his lips. It didn't last much before your lips went to his neck, words coming through an open-mouthed there. “You know, they all are so caught up in your act, Jensen. The perfect texan boy, the amazing husband, the unproblematic idol…” You chortled, sending goosebumps through his whole soul. His dick was deep into you as you were riding his restlessly. “I bet you get tired of this. I bet you just want to fuck me in front of everyone sometimes, just to show them how dirty you can be.” He nodded, a soft whine leaving his lips. He was so tired of being the good guy. Only you knew him. “Like right now. You spent the whole day messing up with me, teasing me, just so you could get punished. And here we are, fucking in your trailer, while everyone is getting ready to go home.” He tried to move his hips as well, to get more of you. When you didn't stop him, Ackles winced and bucked his hips, hitting your G-spot, going deep and raw inside your tight cunt. One of his hands went to your pussy, digits pressing to your clit. Your next words came during groans of pleasure. “You should go too, baby. But you can't help it, huh? You just want go fuck me, even though I don't even care enough to send you a message to make sure you got home safe. You like it. You love that I'm not crazy about you, that I don't care.” His heart ached, but his cock only grew harder. Jensen could feel he was on the edgy. “So, you stay here instead of going home to your sweet wife. You stay here instead of hanging out with your best friend. You stay here instead of looking through your social media just to get an ego boost. Is this what a good man would do, Jensen? No... But that's okay. Men like you just need to be put in their places, and you love it.”

“Y/N!” He screamed helplessly, pulling your body closer to him when he came inside you, marking your pussy as his. A treacherous, lust stained thought was placed on his shoulders, whispering lovingly to his ear like you did your swearing: breed her, get her pregnant with your baby. Make her yours.

You had broken him, and he loved every second of it. He couldn't wait to give you the shattered pieces as a gift.

You came with an excruciating grunt right after him, all over his cock. The feeling of Jensen coming inside you always pushed you right way. You sighed happily, resting your head on his chest.

He enjoyed moments like this.

You remained there, waiting for his cock to relax inside you, get less hard before you pulled you. When it did, you pressed a quick kiss to his collarbone, walking to grab your clothes.

“Jensen,” You coughed after putting on your skirt. ���I'll send you the new script tonight. Send me an email to confirm that you got it.”

What you truly wanted to say was, tell me if you got home safe. But you couldn't.

“Sure.” Jensen answered with a nod. Once again, he also wanted to say something else: thank you for giving me what I need, for seeing me. I love you. But he couldn't.

You picked up your wet panties, throwing it at him with a teasing smile before leaving the trailer.

It was enough.

Leave a comment and REBLOG. Feedback is magic! Taglist on my reblogs— send me an ask or dm if you wish to be tagged! You can add yourself to my taglists through my bio's link as well.

#jensen ackles #dean winchester #dean winchester x reader #jensen ackles x reader #kinktober #supernatural #spn #dean winchester imagine #supernatural imagines #spn reader insert #dean winchester headcanon #dean winchester imagines #dean winchester x you #dean x you #jensen x you #jensen ackles x you

[morbidlongings]

write a fluffy sapphic oneshot with whatever characters you want

... please ?

i'm really shitty at writing fluff but ... here's a little piece about a movie star, her best friend, and a pair of mirrored, heart-shaped sunglasses <3

The girl considers herself a collection of fragmented pieces of poetry.

Her name is Kat and her smile is glamorous. Her hair is dark and pinned into retro waves, sometimes tied behind silk scarves and other times beneath fascinators and felt hats. Her lips are red, her clothes are vintage, and her lovers are many.

But right now Kat isn’t a movie star with an award-winning smile. The top of her convertible is down and her dark hair is being whipped in the wind; her red lips are split into a wide, uncharacteristic grin. Beside her, her best friend is laughing, honey-colored hair streaming like a golden banner behind her as she whoops and sings along with the radio, a girl as full of the sun as Kat was with the moon.

Elise’s lips move along with the lyrics of the song, her hair getting caught on her glossed lips as the wind off of the Pacific ocean tosses it. Her eyes are half closed with ecstasy, her mascaraed lashes fanned across her lightly freckled cheeks like feathers. Kat smiles, her hands on the wheel. Elise could always make her smile.

She is a collection of fragments of poetry, pieces that yearn to settle her head on Elise’s shoulder, to have Elise’s fingers tangle in her own, pieces that imagine Elise doing carelessly, casually intimate things. Adjust the scarf settled in Kat’s hair, clasp a necklace around her neck, smile up at Kat from their bed in the morning, her mouth a rosebud and her honey hair spun sunshine.

Elise sings a lyric, her eyes closed and her hand over her heart. Her blouse’s sleeve slips off of her shoulder - Kat, without taking her eyes off of the highway in front of them, reaches over and tugs it back up. Elise’s hand catches her own, brown eyes like coffee meeting hers. There is something in Elise’s eyes, Kat notices. Her breath might have caught in her throat.

Your glasses are ridiculous, is the only thing Elise says. Her coffee eyes glitter. Kat scoffs a laugh, extracting her hand from Elise’s and steadying the steering wheel. In the rearview mirror, Kat catches Elise’s eye.

Her sunglasses are out of place on her, an icon painted in vintage clothing and red lipstick and glamor like an Old Hollywood starlet. Kat had bought them with Elise months ago, when they had gotten drunk and went to a drugstore to go shopping for orange juice and miscellaneous groceries. A stupid thing, a silly thing, a reckless thing that only two drunk girls in their early twenties would even dream up.

Elise had picked the mirrored, heart-shaped sunglasses from a cheap display and crookedly pushed them onto Kat’s face. Kat had drunkenly laughed and bought them, then and there. Seven-dollar sunglasses on a million-dollar face. The next morning, waking up beside Elise hungover and feeling nothing like a movie star, Elise had put them on Kat’s face again, gently pushing her hair behind her ears.

Kat’s heart might have stopped.

What was it that the articles said about her? Her lips are red, her clothes are vintage, and her lovers are many. How many men had she fucked, women she kissed in bars and alleys and in the dark, people she had left heartbroken and hanging? How many lovers has she kissed and tossed aside, pinning her dark hair back and putting on another layer of lipstick, putting up wall after wall after wall? The industry was brutal, and Kat had to be even more so if she wanted to make it out alive.

They fucked her because she was beautiful and powerful and cold. They fucked her because if they did, maybe that made them beautiful and powerful too. They fucked her because maybe it gave them power over her, made them hope that they could thaw Kat Carter’s cold heart.

But Elise is singing, a living sunbeam who’s been beside Kat’s side for almost two decades. She catches Kat looking at her and offers a glittering, glorious smile - Kat smiles back, genuinely laughs, says you have hair caught in your lip gloss before turning back to the road. The Pacific Coast Highway is long and winding and beautiful. Ahead of them, the sun is setting; maybe Kat and Elise will park the car and go to the beach, chasing the sunset like they had when they were children.

Park the car, Elise says, her eyes crinkling in the corners. Kat wants to smooth the creases out with her fingertips. There’s a scenic outlook there, Elise points. Her nails are painted dark purple, slightly chipped. Always chipped. The sunset is beautiful.

Kat parks.

Elise steals Kat’s hair scarf, tying the pink and gold silk over her hair. Kat beams. Before she opens the convertible’s door, she slips a tube of lip gloss out of her purse and holds the applicator to her rosebud mouth - Kat makes to open her door, but Elise’s hand on her cheek stops her.

Wait, she says, voice teasing. Hold still.

She uses the mirrored, heart-shaped lenses of Kat’s cheap drugstore glasses to apply the gloss to her mouth. Kat’s flushing, her heart beating out of her chest. Elise’s hand is still on Kat’s cheek, her sweet coffee eyes focused as she swipes gloss onto her lips. Despite herself, Kat can’t stop watching.

Strawberry, Kat says, her voice hoarse. Your gloss is strawberry, right?

Peach, Elise replies. Her smile turns devilish. Want to try it?

Yes, Kat wants to plead. She’s never believed in any God, but she wants to sink to her knees right here in her old silver convertible off the side of the PCH and beg. Yes, she wants to pray, let me kiss the gloss off of your lips and taste it, drink in the taste of you like sweet nectar. I never believed in any God, but please.

Peaches are my favorite, is Kat’s only reply. She swings her door open and steps out, her loose dark hair in beachy waves across her shoulders. Elise’s honey hair looks almost strawberry blond in the sunset, two strands pulled in front of her face beneath the scarf. Her lips shine in the light, flecks of glitter and a sheen of gloss. Kat wants to kiss her so badly it’s a tangible ache.

Fragmented pieces of poetry, like this moment. Peaches and gold leaf; sunsets and the California coast; rose-gold, dying sunlight turning the cold gray water into a Monet painting. A beautiful girl, roses and honey and sunshine, smiling at Kat with nothing but affection in her eyes.

Maybe Monet’s paintings had been chasing this.

Kat had fallen in love countless times, on film or in secret or in front of flashing, merciless cameras. But here, she falls in love with the same girl again and again.

It’s always Elise. When would it - why would it ever be anyone else?

Her lips are red, her clothes are vintage, her lovers are many. But here and now, her lips are red, her clothes are off the sales rack at a department store, and her lovers are but dust in the wind. She is Kat Carter, movie star and heartbreaker, and she is in love with stardust.

The poet longs to be the poem, the painter to be the painting. Kat longs to be what the sunset was to Elise. She was completely mesmerized, honey hair fluttering in the wind and her eyes turned towards the water. Kat stands next to her, puts her hands on the outlook’s stone railing.

Elise’s hand gently covers her own. It’s beautiful, she says, her arm pressing against Kat’s. Kat wants nothing more than to hold Elise’s hand, press her fingers to her mouth, put her arms around Elise’s neck and thread her fingers through her hair. It makes her ache, the yearning.

She is beautiful and she is untouchable. She is light on water, a mirage shimmering on burnt asphalt roads, the flick of a paintbrush that gives a painting life; the Mona Lisa’s smile, the look in the eyes of the Girl with a Pearl Earring. She is a breath, a heartbeat, a single step away.

Elise looks over at Kat. Her brown eyes don’t turn gold in the light; Kat has never wanted them to. Her eyes don’t need the romanticism of light eyes to be beautiful. They are deep and dark and rich, slivers of dark chocolate and the depths of the Pacific at night, the exact shade of freshly-brewed coffee in the morning and glittering like the city of angels at twilight.

Kat takes the step, raises a shaking hand and places it on Elise’s cheek. She is gilded in dying sunlight, gold and gloss and peaches and silk. Her lashes are lowered, shadows streaking the rich brown of her irises. Elise’s lips part, and she places her hand at the nape of Kat’s neck, idly twisting one of her dark locks between her fingers.

Suddenly there is hardly any space between them, just Elise’s faint freckles like constellations that Kat could never see and her parted lips, covered in glittering peach gloss. A breeze stirs up Elise’s honey hair, and she briefly smiles as she extricates a few strands from her lips where the gloss caught them. Kat’s heartbeat is on the high line she once saw in New York.

The sun sinks below the horizon. In the afterglow, there are two silhouettes in a scenic outlook on the PCH, beside a silver Mercedes convertible, so close that there was only a sliver of sunset behind them. Kat almost wants to laugh; her movies could never fabricate a moment like this. She didn’t think that a camera could pick up what a moment like this meant.

Elise’s mouth curves into a smile. You’re beautiful.

When her lips touch Kat’s, it’s barely a brush. A butterfly’s touch, there and gone. And then she smiles against Kat’s red lips and kisses her, harder, her other hand buried into Kat’s dark hair. Kat’s fingers are twisted in Elise’s not-quite-strawberry-blond locks, brushing bits of hair away from her face as the wind blows harder. Elise laughs, comes up for air, kisses her again.

And Kat, Kat is flying. She has played lovers and the loved, had played at love herself for a year or ten. But nothing could ever come close to this. It is every swig or shot of liquor, every minute spent burning rubber and soaring just past the speed limit on the road, every reckless decision or movie premiere or brokenhearted ex-lover Kat has ever made, attended, or left behind.

In that moment, the girl is no longer pieces of fragmented poems. She has found her other half and been rendered, even for just a moment, whole.

#cece writes #*short #wlw #short story #original #sapphic #oneshot #writers of tumblr #spilled ink #useranjali #[ this isn't quite fluff but ... i tried lol i'm an angst/yearning writer unfortunately ]

[dreamsister81]

 Jeff and MI:

By age, you fit in the G.I.T generation, but you obviously are not one of them...

These facilities are a mystery to me. There they tell you only one thing: hurry up! This leads you nowhere, afterwards your own children run away from you. Through these trainings you get to know women, you get to know men, music is inoculated into people who have no feeling for it; then they can only scare other people or insult them...

I was in this terrible place too, by the way-G.I.T That was a complete waste of time, apart from the theoretical lessons and the friends that I had there. Otherwise: an absolute wrong decision.

How long have you studied there?

One year, the normal program. They give you tons of material, you have to absorb everything, you practice, you are tested and you go to the next course. An intensive support with development is simply not possible. I did so many things: theory, single string technique, jazz class, rock class, all sorts of genres. My friend John was teaching bass there, and he once said that there is not a single teacher at the institute who says to the students, "OK, you're learning all this stuff here now, you're learning how to entertain people and you're learning to learn. But do you even know that there is no one in the universe other than yourself who plays the music you play? " John left the school then. For me it was all a joke that cost me $ 3,900. People interested in music should take private lessons somewhere, start a band, do something with people who like them and have what it takes. These schools are a scene in their own right, a very small, secluded world-the music, on the other hand, is gigantic and open. If you don't notice it, you miss a lot of magic, pain, development...(thinks) and rock! Apart from Paul Gilbert, there was no one there who really rocked. Session musicians are bred there; and at the end of the year you get a piece of paper that says, "Now you have the skills to become a professional musician." Well, congratulations! And then you look for jobs and play what other people want. But that's not all the music, there's something else isn't there? Where's the music coming from? From your own head or stomach, or the concepts of the people you work for?-Gitarre & Bass, October,  1995

.

.

.

I had a friend named John Humphrey. I went to this really crappy guitar school for a year, and he used to teach there, he was a bass teacher. And then he left, and we ended up being roommates later on, after I graduated. This is the kind of school where you give them a shitload of money in order to spend a year learning their curriculum.

What was it, G.I.T. (Guitar Institute of Technology in Los Angeles)?

Yeah, it was G.I.T.. They give you their curriculum, and it's not too comprehensive, but it's just enough, and then you can [snaps his fingers] move on to the next thing. And pretty soon you have all this shit inside you and then they give you this paper that says you have what it takes to be a professional musician.

It's a rock-oriented thing, isn't it?

In the end, I think, the only true product of that kind of learning is to get you gigs on the studio circuit and to get you gigs on the session guy circuit.

So, Lee Ritenour went there or something?

G.I.T. was started by Howard Roberts, the guy who played the wah-wah guitar on the theme to Shaft. And this other guy named Pat Hayes. I don't know. It just seemed like a racket, really. John said a lot of things to me that stuck in my mind. He said that there was nobody who stopped you, sat you in a room and said, okay, we have all these artists that you're learning the licks from, you have your guitar heroes, your virtuoso lust objects. But there's nobody who can make the kind of music you can make now except for you. And you can make it now. You don't even have to know how to go fast. And that makes all the sense to me in the world. It's also kind of an unseen process, that concept, originality. It's like that in all the education systems; there's never any real...identity education, self-generative identity art sort of thing, to be yourself. If everybody in Melbourne had a Wurlitzer organ and had the passion to sing something or make something, you'd have hundreds of thousands of different styles, if they were coming exactly from only their DNA, only their makeup, and their emotional percepts, their idea about what art is. You could have way-removed genres from what is already accepted, avante-garde country-rock-punk-folk-whatever. It's unlimited. But for some reason, the conventions always take over and there's a very ready and powerful formula to step into...

Those are the type of [formula-derived] players who can say, "Well, I was listening to the radio in 1967 and I heard the guitar solo in Jimi Hendrix's 'All Along the Watchtower,' and that guitar sound, that tone, would work perfectly for this television commercial."

Yeah. See? "Stealing from the greats, that's okay." That's right. Once I stopped in [at G.I.T.] years later, when I was on tour going through L.A., just to see what it was like. They've got a completely high-tech, multi-million dollar facility...

More so than when you had been there?

Way more. When I was there, it was just a ragtag bunch of teachers, and they had all left by then. They had video facilities and a class for stage moves and all kinds of things. And I saw this guy who was working the desk, the guy who watches the door. He had a bass on, and he was practicing his Nirvana chops! He was playing "In Bloom" on his bass, way up on his chest, jazz-fusion style, to the Nirvana song. I thought, oh shit--he was practicing his grunge riffs! He was getting his grunge down! Best fucking thing you can do, if you have the interest, is go to a private teacher, go someplace, some college, and learn theory. That was something I really enjoyed, actually, something that wasn't totally pointless. Theory meaning the meaning of the musical nomenclature. I was attracted to really interesting harmonies, stuff that I would hear in Ravel, Ellington, Bartok.-Double Take, February 29, 1996

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Once the site of a seakeasy and a bra factory, the 30,000-square-foot quarters were now the home of Musicians Institute, a vocational school for anyone who considered himself or herself a serious musician. With its wooden desks and chipped-tile hallways, MI resembled any other urban school, but at those desks, student guitarists and drummers studied scales and power chords in hopes of becoming the next Eddie Van Halen or Neil Peart, the flashy drummer with Rush. On their way to class each morning, flaxen-haired guitar gods in training could be spotted holding their guitars and practicing licks as they walked down Hollywood Boulevard.

Jeff had heard about Musicians Institute (and its subdivision, the Guitar Institute of Technology) while in high school and told everyone it was his one and only destination. However, potential superstardom did not run cheap. The school charged $4,000 for its one year course, and by the time Jeff Graduated from Loara High School, Mary Guibert was beginning to fall on hard financial times as she went in and out of jobs. In need of money for herself and her two sons, she prematurely broke into a $20,000 fund earmarked for Jeff, but only after he tured nineteen. Once Mary proved to the courtsthat Jeff needed it for his education, he and Mary received it a year early. In a deep irony, the father Jeff had barely met and increasingly resented would be paying his son's way through music school.

On graduation night, September 15, 1985, at the Odyssey in Granada Hills in the San Fernando Valley, Jeff, Stoll, and Marryatt closed the ceremony by playing Weather Report's "Pearl On the Half Shell."-from Dream Brother

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With its 30-odd thousand feet of floor space and row upon row of "labs", where hopeful guitar heroes could jam with such shit-hot players as Scott Henderson, LA's Musician's Institute must have seemed like nirvana for someone like Jeff Buckley, trapped as he was behind the Orange Curtain. According to his buddy Chris Dowd, that's exactly why Buckley enrolled there, arriving just before autumn, 1984, bankrolled by $4,000 that Mary managed to squeeze from a Tim Buckley trust fund.

Originally known as the Guitar Institute, which in itself says plenty, the school was opened in 1977. Drawing on the educational philosophy of journeyman guitarist Howard Roberts, it was co-founded and managed by Los Angeles music businessman Pat Hicks, "a real shyster opportunist", in the words of Tom Chang, an expat Canadian who would become very tight with Jeff Buckley during their two years at the Institute. In 1978, thr Bass Institute was opened, followed by the Percussion Institute two years later. Desppite Hicks' questionable business ethics-amongst other things, he'd hire students as cheap labour to do essential maintenance work on the building, which led to Buckley being hired as an electrician's assistant soon after graduating-he did manage to persuade well regarded players and bands to lecture, and play alongside, the hopefuls who'd enrolled there.

What Buckley lacked up in "front" he clearly made up for in ambition. That was proved, in spades, by Buckley's graduation performance which was played out on September 15, 1985, at a venue called the Odyssey in Granada Hills. While the sonic crush and enviable chops of Rush and Led Zeppelin still rocked the world of this Orange County teen, Buckley had also developed a real taste for such "noodlers" as Weather Report.

The number chosen by Buckley for graduation was their "D Flat Waltz" (not "Pearl On The Half-Shell", as documented elsewhere, which they'd performed at a previous event), a typically complicated few minutes of Weather Report neo-fusion-a "really cool piece, very involved", according to Tom Chang-and a standout from their 1983 set Domino Theory. But Buckley, accompanied by Stoll on drums and Marryatt on bass, didn't just play the piece, he also wrote the individual parts out beforehand for the band.-from A Pure Drop

MI pics by me

#jeff buckley #MI #Musicians Institute #GIT #mylove #supremebeing #favorite #music #jeff places

[yeah-klave]

The Sexual Awakening of David Joseph Katz

Chapter 6: Silk

Link to Chapter 1 || Link to Chapter 2 || Link to Chapter 3 || Link to Chapter 4 || Link to Chapter 5

Series summary:  A multi-chapter journey of self-discovery and sexual awakening.

Chapter summary: Klaus is feeling sensual and Dave just feels like adoring him.

Genre: Developing relationship, smut.

A/N: This is set in a nothing-too-bad-really-happens modern AU. The characters are all in their early twenties (I’m picturing adult!actor versions of them and Dave is the Cody Ray Thompson version!). The siblings are all still living at home, relatively happily, and Dave, Lila, Sissy and Carl are friends who hang out with them at the Academy.

Word length: 2.7k

Warning: Smut (18+ only please).

Disclaimer: I don’t own any of The Umbrella Academy characters or settings.

*******************************************************

Dave had just finished a delivery run for his uncle when Klaus text him to say he was home alone. They had a few hours before they were both due to meet up with Klaus’ siblings and their friends at Griddy’s later that afternoon, so Dave said he’d come over to the Academy.

Klaus was sprawled on a sofa in the living room when Dave walked in. The afternoon light was fading, but in the half-light, Dave could see Klaus reclining on the cushions, wearing only a dark green silky robe cinched loosely at his waist and looking every bit like a seductive temptress from the golden age of Hollywood. For a moment, Dave paused in the doorway and just looked at him, his long pale limbs, his glossy curls, his raised chin elongating the glorious column of his neck, the perfect fan of dark eyelashes against his pale cheeks. In moments like this, Klaus’ overwhelming beauty made the air catch in Dave’s chest.

Klaus’ eyelashes fluttered and he half-opened his eyes. “Davey,” he breathed, arching his back and languidly rolling his body so he could look over at Dave without raising his head or moving from his relaxed position.

“Hey, beautiful,” Dave smiled. He walked over to the sofa and looked down at Klaus. Klaus’ eyes were huge in the dimness of the living room. For a moment Dave was overcome with how small and delicate Klaus looked. Like a fragile fawn or a sleepy kitten, Dave thought. He perched on the edge of the seat and slowly extended his hand and gently ran the pad of his thumb over Klaus’ bottom lip. Suddenly, the memories of yesterday came floating back to the front of Dave’s mind – shaking and pulsing and releasing himself into Klaus’ mouth. Dave blushed slightly and Klaus grinned lazily, guessing what he was thinking. Dave leaned over and brought their lips together softly in a proper greeting, one hand resting on Klaus’ cheek, his thumb tracing over the delicate skin of his cheekbones. Klaus let out a soft, pleading sound and opened his mouth for Dave, his eyelids fluttering shut again. Klaus’ arms came up to circle Dave and pull him down, pull his closer. Dave brought his other hand to the tantalising dip of Klaus’ tiny waist. Through the thin material, Klaus felt warm and soft and pliant under Dave’s palm.

Slowly, Dave let Klaus’ bottom lip slide from between his own and he nuzzled their noses together once before sitting back up. He kept one hand on Klaus’ hip, slowly working the silky material against Klaus’ skin. With his other hand, he traced gentle pattered down the side of his face and the sensitive skin of his neck. Klaus closed his eyes, letting the sensations roll over him.

“Hi,” Dave smiled down at Klaus.

“Hi yourself,” Klaus sighed dreamily, blinking slowly and looking up at him with heavy-lidded eyes, his pupils wide and dark.

Dave gently pushed his fingers into Klaus’ hairline, just behind his ear and stroked through the curls. Klaus closed his eyes again and let out a low hum of pleasure that almost sounded like a purr.

“Empty house,” Klaus exhaled, “no siblings, no friends, no work, nowhere we need to be for a while… whatever could we do to occupy ourselves?”

“We could watch a movie,” Dave suggested with a smirk he knew Klaus could hear, even if he couldn’t see.

Klaus grinned back, his eyes still closed. “Unless you’re suggesting we watch porn together, Davey, I reckon we could top that idea.”

“Well, I wasn’t…” Dave said slowly. “But that’s an idea. We should definitely revisit that later.”

Klaus opened his eyes and stared up at him, raising an eyebrow. “Oh yeah?”

“Yeah,” Dave said decisively.

“Okay.” Klaus smiled. “I’m down for that.”

“To be honest, though,” the fingers of Dave’s right hand continued to play with Klaus’ hair while his left gently squeezed Klaus’ waist. “I’m down for something else first.” Klaus reflexively licked his lips and rolled his hips, his gaze flicking between Dave’s eyes and his mouth.

“Specifically,” Dave carried on, “I’m down for going down first.” Klaus’ eyes seemed to get impossibly wider.

“Are you sure?” He asked, all of a sudden sounding more focussed and less dreamy than he had a moment ago. “There’s no pressure, you know. What we did yesterday… I mean, there’s no pressure to reciprocate if you’re not ready yet.”

“I am ready,” Dave smiled. “And I am sure. I mean, hands up, I’ll have zero technique. But I’m a fast learner.”

“You’ll be amazing,” Klaus whispered. “You’re always amazing.”

Dave leaned back over Klaus and kissed him again, a bit deeper than before. Klaus kissed back, his spine arching, languidly pressing up into the contact. Dave worked his hands under Klaus’ back and sat back up slowly, smoothly bringing Klaus’ upper body with him. The robe slipped off Klaus’ right shoulder, but their lips never broke contact.

Because of the angle, Klaus had very little purchase; his newly raised position was supported almost entirely by Dave’s strong arms. Klaus pulled his lips away slightly and squirmed, trying to get his feet under him. Dave grinned. Before Klaus could angle himself up, Dave twisted his body round, hooked one arm under Klaus’ bent knees, took a firm hold with the other behind Klaus’ back and stood up, lifting Klaus bridal style in his arms.

“Dave!” Klaus gasped, his arms instinctively holding on around Dave’s neck.

Dave smiled down at him. Klaus felt so light in his arms, his eyes so big and dark in his delicate face. He looked a little surprised, but under it, Dave could see the trust shining through.

“Yes, pumpkin?” He looked adoringly down into that face – that beautiful face – and Dave recognised the fluttering in his chest for what it was: another little piece of his heart lost to the man in his arms.

Klaus blushed slightly at the pet name. He swallowed, his tongue darting out to wet his lips. “Davey, are you actually going to… to carry me to bed? Like some literary heroine?”

The corner of Dave’s mouth pulled up in a knowing grin. “Yes,” he said simply.

Holding Klaus this close in his arms, Dave could feel the shiver that ran through Klaus’ body.

With Klaus meek and docile in his arms, Dave set off in the direction of Klaus’ room. He could feel Klaus’ wide eyes on him and Klaus’ fingers pushing their way gently into the hair at the nape of Dave’s neck.

When he reached the stairs, Dave tried to concentrate on his feet, but every few steps he had to keep looking back into Klaus face, his expression real and open and unfiltered, stripped of the cloak of bravado and the razor sharp retorts Dave knew Klaus sometimes chose to wear.

At the end of the corridor, Dave pushed Klaus’ room door open with his foot, closing it behind him with his shoulder. He walked across the room, leaned over and gently placed Klaus in the middle of his bed, propped up slightly on a pile of cushions.

Klaus sighed and stretched his long limbs, rolling his hips, and settling back into the softness.

“I feel like a prize you’ve just won,” he sighed.

Dave froze, still stooped over the bed.

“What?” he stuttered, straightening up awkwardly. “What do you mean?”

Klaus’ mouth formed a little oh, his eyebrows drawing together. “Oh no, Davey, don’t worry. I mean that in a good way.”

“You’re not a prize, Klaus,” Dave said seriously. “I’d never see you like that, like property. Like an object.”

“I know, baby.” Klaus agreed, nodding earnestly. “But sometimes…” He broke off, his eyes flicking between Dave’s. He carried on in a smaller voice. “Sometimes… I think I might like to feel like that a bit. In a safe way,” he added, “with someone I trust and care about. With someone I know doesn’t actually think about me that way.” He paused and looked down, his fingers nervously playing with the sash of his robe. “I heard what you said yesterday… about opening up about all the other stuff. Well there you go. Sometimes I want to feel like I’m being used. And sometimes I want to feel like a damsel in distress who need saving, then seducing. Sometimes I want to be pressed down and opened up, feel someone inside me. Sometimes I want to be held down, taken over, and have my choices taken away from me. Then sometimes I want to fee like a caveman – raw and dominant and powerful. And sometimes I just want to thrust and rut and fuck up into something tight and wet and hot...” Klaus looked back up shyly and met Dave’s gaze.

Dave swallowed. Hard. He was aware he was breathing deeply. Desire was pooling low in his stomach. His senses were tingling. He could feel something cracking in the air between them. It tasted a bit like love.

Thickly, he asked, “And what do you want to feel like now?”

“Yours,” Klaus replied, without missing a beat. “I want to feel like I’m yours.” He paused, eyes large and dark, then added slowly. “I am yours.”

Dave heard a roaring rush in his ears. His heart pounded so hard against his ribs he was sure Klaus must be able to hear it. He let out a shaky exhale.

“Okay,” he said. But into that one word, he poured as much feeling and relief and adoration and desire as he possibly could - his body just wasn’t big enough to contain it all anymore.

Holding Dave’s gaze, Klaus nodded and relaxed back. To Dave, it looked like Klaus was opening himself up to him, readying his body to receive everything Dave was emotionally pumping into him.

Dave positioned himself on the bed and leaned over Klaus until their lips were almost touching, then stopped. Klaus squirmed, licking his lips and tilting his head back, willing Dave to close the distance between them.

“Klaus,” Dave said hoarsely. He picked up Klaus’ Hello hand and placed it on his own chest, over his heart. “Klaus,” he tried again, “Klaus, I…”

“I know,” Klaus reassured him. “It’s okay, Dave, I know.”

Dave nodded shakily then connected their lips. Pleasure radiated from the tender press and slide of their lips. Dave ran his tongue over Klaus’ bottom lip and Klaus opened his mouth for Dave.

With the arm that wasn’t propping him up over Klaus’ body, Dave ran his hand up the long line of Klaus’ leg and gently pushed it under the silky fabric. Klaus sighed into the kiss and let his legs fall open slightly. Dave brought his hand up and traced it over Klaus’ chest, his fingertips teasing the edge of the fabric, but barely pushing beneath. He let his hand trail down further and took hold of the bow holding the robe closed. For a long moment, his hand closed over the fastening, but didn’t try to untie it. Klaus squirmed, rolled his hips and moaned needily into Dave mouth.

The corner of Dave’s mouth twitched up in a smile, but he unclenched his hand and pulled the end of the bow. In unraveled in a pool of silky material, the robe falling open and spilling down onto the bed, revealing the taught, perfect body beneath it.

“On or off?” Dave asked against Klaus’ lips, fingering the silky material.

“On,” Klaus whispered.

Dave moved down Klaus’ body, pressing kisses into his skin as he went. He positioned himself between Klaus’ legs and ran a hand along his smooth, sensitive skin, from his bent knee to the crease at the top of his thigh. Dave pressed a thumb gently into the ticklish hollow right at the top of his inner thigh and Klaus let out a deep sigh. He shifted his hips, his erection standing stiff and proud between them.

Dave leaned forward, bringing his face level with Klaus’ cock and breathed deeply. Klaus groaned and shifted again, raising himself up slightly so he could look down at Dave between his spread thighs.

Dave parted his lips and slowly took the head of Klaus’ cock into his mouth. Klaus drew in a shaky breath. Dave’s eyes crinkled in a smile. When Dave sucked lightly and laved his tongue over Klaus’ delicate skin Klaus let out the breath in a wordless moan of pleasure. Dave began massaging Klaus’ shaft with his hand as he continued to work the head with his tongue.

Dave pulled off, smiling, and gave Klaus’ length a couple of firm pulls to tease him into peak stiffness.

“Just tell me when, okay?” He said quietly, and Klaus nodded.

“Course.”

Then Dave lowered his head back down and began running his tongue up the length of the shaft.

“Oh, Dave,” Klaus sighed. “That feels so good.”

Dave continued to work his tongue, following the ridges and grooves of veins, flicking teasingly over the sensitive inverted V just under the head, pressing a kiss to the tip then swirling his tongue around the head. Klaus sighed deeply.

Dave took a deep breath, then took Klaus fully into his mouth. Klaus had been right; it was a stretch. And it was different to anything he’d done before. Klaus moaned above him again.

“Dave,” he whispered tenderly, and Dave’s heart clenched, and he felt that same feeling from before rush over him again – a desire to give, a desire to please, a desire to make this man feel absolutely amazing. He sucked and started bobbing his head. Klaus moaned his name again. It was a bit awkward at first. Dave was still trying to work out when to breathe, how far he could go down without triggering his gag reflex, when to swallow so he didn’t choke on the mix of saliva and precum. He was also so conscious of not letting his teeth catch Klaus accidentally.

Klaus sighed and moaned above him. He relaxed his elbows and reclined back against the cushions behind him. He brought one hand up to stroke gently over the back of Dave’s head, sounds of pleasure falling form his lips. Dave continued to bob and suck, pulling off a couple of times to swallow and catch his breath, before going straight back. At one point, he let his teeth rest ever so lightly against Klaus’ skin and he felt Klaus tense. But Dave pulled his head up, incredibly slowly, and the gentle, deliberate, barely-there scrape of Dave’s teeth over his sensitive flesh made Klaus gasp and arch.

“Dave,” Klaus whimpered. Dave hummed and continued sucking.

“Dave,” Klaus said more urgently. “I’m close.”

Dave hummed again and kept going, increasing the pace of his movements. One hand worked Klaus’ shaft and the other rolled his balls teasingly.

Dave felt Klaus tense. “Dave!” Klaus cried. “Oh! Dave! I’m cumming!” Dave felt Klaus’ balls tightening and then he felt something hot shoot directly down his throat. Dave pulled back, swallowing and spluttering, cum dribbling onto his chin. He then went back to sucking the head, working the rest with his hand and swallowing down as much of Klaus’ cum as he could, as Klaus moaned and trembled and pulsed under his touch.

Finally, Dave felt Klaus relax, his muscles loosening, and he sank back into the softness of the cushions in a pool of dark green silk. Dave pulled off and wiped his face with his hand. He looked up Klaus’ body to see him grinning at the ceiling in a glowy haze of pleasure.

Dave pressed a kiss into the warm, pale skin on the inside of Klaus’ thigh. Dave’s mind buzzed with happiness, and he felt warm and content.

“And you thought you’d have no technique,” Klaus said dreamily after a moment, looking down at Dave, framed between the bracket of his pale thighs.

“Was it okay then?” Dave asked cautiously.

Klaus let out a huff of laughter and rolled his body languorously.

“Oh Davey,” he sighed. “I’ll be able to tell you just how okay it was… right after I stop feeling like a trembling puddle of pleasure and nerve endings.”

Klaus caught Dave’s eye and smiled tenderly and Dave grinned back, feeling the warm glow of happiness inside him grow brighter and brighter and brighter.

**********************************************

Yeah-Klave Master List

#klave #klaus hargreeves #dave katz #klaus/dave #klaus x dave

[keeponshouting]

After Infection

This is a rewrite and hopefully eventual completion of a massive multiverse mash-up of my OCs with a couple belonging to @whenromancesmoked and a few others from back in the day. I have absolutely no idea if anyone else is going to be interested in reading this (ok, I know a few people who will probably read it) but psh. I’m having fun and want to share.

Note: This is also a George Romero tribute of sorts. Like I started it for giggles because my PB for one of the characters was in the Dawn of the Dead remake and it just snowballed, which I guess means I should throw a WARNING: ZOMBIES sign up here or something. Anyway!

After Infection: Dawn of the Dead

It had seemed like a good idea at the time – or, well, more accurately, it had seemed like the right thing to do. There was a request from fellow hunters in a small town a few hours’ drive south and things had been quiet lately back home so Nate had figured that they could spare the time and energy. Besides, Dennis had been going pretty stir crazy for a while. Even if it was a hunt, it would be a good excuse to get out on the road for a while, a sort of vacation.

It had not turned out even remotely like a vacation.

They had been a little too late to the original party but apparently just in time for things to get much, much worse. Nate had brought a variety of tools just in case but he had primarily been prepared for an infestation of what locals called “hell rats,” a creature that was pretty common in the south and usually pretty easy to handle if you found their nests quickly enough. Sure they were venomous but as long as you were careful… He had not been expecting an infestation of zombies.

“The lot looks pretty clear right now.” Dennis is hunched over at the door, using the peephole to take a quick survey of the goings on outside their hotel room while Nate brews a second pot of coffee to get him through whatever the morning brings. After all, as long as decent coffee is available, he might as well take advantage of it. Lord knows he might have to go without for a while and God help his poor boyfriend’s patience if that happens.

When Dennis stands up straight again, his head is just about even with the top of the doorframe and he yawns as he leans back against the door, arms crossed over his chest. “So, come up with any plans yet or are we still waiting for the caffeine to kick in?”

Nate snorts into his cup and foregoes actually taking a drink for the moment in order to respond. “You ask that like I have any idea what sort of plan to use here. I’ve met exactly zero hunters who’ve actually had to handle zombies in the past decade at least. I honestly don’t think they’ve ever been a problem this far north before.”

“Well, there sure are a lot around here for something that’s never been a problem.”

“Some forms of infection can spread at an exponential rate in populated areas.” He drains a good half of the coffee in hand. “Our best bet is probably just to find out if there are any other non-infected people anywhere around here.”

Dennis flops across the bed, face down, with a muffled grunt.

Nate just silently continues drinking as the percolator finally finishes beside him and he very seriously considers making a third pot, just in case.

---

Zombies – shambling, groaning, flesh-eating, nearly Hollywood perfect zombies. For fuck’s sake. This should have been such an easy fucking job and now there are zombies.

Viktor strings together another line of curses, voice little more than a low growl, as he chambers another cartridge. Beside him, a terrified little girl whimpers. He simply scowls, sets Glock number one aside, lights a cigarette, and pulls out number two. “Zatraceně zasraný vědci.” Leaning over toward the window, he catches sight of a proper target and empties the last bullet into the back of its skull. What a fucking cliché.

This was supposed to be simple. They had agreed on that fact the moment that the specifications of the job had crossed the table. It should have been routine, easy money. Three towns, three targets, each plan the same; get rid of the scientist, call their employer, and let the clean-up crew come in and deal with the rest. The first two hits had gone off without a hitch. So, of course, it just figures that last one would have to be so much more complicated than it should have been.

“I—I—I w-want m-m-my d-da—daddy.”

Viktor’s jaw clenches as he exhales – slow and even, two thin streams of smoke – as he reloads the gun in hand and wills himself to remain calm. His patience is wearing thin at this point, though. He had not planned for going into this as usual and coming out as a babysitter. The target’s five-year-old daughter was not supposed to be in the house at the time of the hit. She only stayed with him on the weekends. What an absolutely brilliant turn of events that this was apparently the first Monday that she had ever spent with her father.

Dropping his half-smoked cigarette on the floor, he shoves himself up to his feet. He had lost contact with Miguel some time earlier, likely as a result of the scientist’s neighbor backing into an electric pole at full speed after one of the zombies had rushed her car. The impact had cut power to the entire neighborhood and he can only assume that it must be the cause of the interference. With long-range communication down, that leaves only one alternative: he needs to get within the functional range of their radios. Unfortunately, the hit had been planned for the late evening and he had only been able to make it as far as a vacant apartment building a couple blocks away before night had started to set. From here, short-wave does him about as much good as a water pistol.

“Come on.” Viktor has already reached the door and taken quick stock of the corridor beyond by the time he bothers to look back. Unsurprisingly, his unwanted charge remains unmoved, still curled up as small as she can possibly make herself, which is pretty damned small.

“A-are you g-g-gonna take me b-back to da-daddy?”

God give him strength but that stuttering is getting real old real quick. “Ne.” He swings the door open as quietly as possible and waits for a moment, listening for any movement outside, before carefully stepping out and making his way to the stairwell. With the knowledge that their escape route is currently free of hostiles, he takes a deep, centering breath and heads back to where he began.

“Look, holčička.” He crouches down in front of the child and tries to sound as reasonable as possible. Given his current level of frustration, he thinks that he is doing a fairly decent job. Miguel, however, would likely disagree. “Either you just come with me and go wherever I go, quietly and without complaint, or I leave you here. Your choice.” Yeah, Miguel would definitely disagree.

From the way that the little girl’s eyes go so much wider than he would have ever imagined possible, he feels safe in assuming that she disagrees as well and, five minutes later, they are creeping down an alleyway with more stealth than Viktor ever would have expected of a kindergartener.

---

What was taking so long?

That is the question that had led Alex out of the band’s bus and that was the question that he now wants to keep from crossing anyone else’s minds. This is all way too fucked up, like the should not be real kind of fucked up. None of this should be happening.

On the ground, backed up against the flat tire of the car that their driver had originally gone to help, Alex kicks hard into the jaw of what may have once been a perfectly lovely young woman and sends her sprawling backward where she lands on top of the monster still gnawing on the corpse of a man who should have still been living and breathing and driving their goddamn bus. Alex’s hand gropes around behind him for anything even remotely useful as a weapon and lands on the tire-iron just in time to smash it into the face of the dead woman once more lunging in his direction. Another strike as she tries to get up and he cringes and almost loses his lunch at the feeling of her skull cracking open and her brain splattering across the pavement. Hell, he really might have lost it if not for the howl coming at him far too fast. This time, he opts not to look as the hears the wet crunch and just leaps to his feet and starts running back toward relative safety.

“Alex?”

Oh fuck. “Stay on the bus, Val!”

“Don’t you fucking tell me what to do, Niccols! What the fuck is going—”

Alex fails to hear the rest as he spins around to slam the tire-iron as hard as he can into something else behind him. This time it gets yanked right out of his hand as the body drops and he scrambles back onto the bus, practically picking up a protesting Val in order to get her out of the way of the door that he immediately slams closed. He lets her go as he collapses into the driver’s seat, wide-eyed and hands shaking, and it takes him a moment to register the sound of his dog whimpering by his knee, let alone that of his own name. When the world comes back into focus, though, Val is staring at him in horror. It takes him another moment to realize why.

“Alex? What the fuck happened?” Whether she sounds more panicked or angry, Alex is far too dazed to tell. Her hands reach for his face, his shoulders, moving down to check every inch. “Are you okay?”

Taking a deep breath, he raises a hand to wipe at his face. No. No he is not okay. “Yeah. I’m fine.”

Val does not look like she believes him at all. “Is that—Fuck. That—That’s blood! Why the fuck are you covered in blood?”

Breathe, Alex. Always a good plan to breathe. “Shh. Don’t…” Never mind. Telling her to keep it quiet is pointless. Everybody else will have heard it already.

He shoves himself back to his feet, legs weak and wobbly, and stumbles as he makes his way through the curtain that separates the cabin from the rest of the bus. It is instantly evident that the rest of the band did, in fact, hear all of that. All three of them are already staring at him before he even properly steps into view. He is pretty sure that Sasha is the one choke out an “on shit” and it is definitely Macy whose response comes out as barely a squeak.

“Blood?” On his feet now, Macy rushes in to cling to Alex’s shirt, bodily fluids not withstanding. “None of it’s yours, right? You’re not hurt? You’re okay?”

Again, Alex reminds himself to breathe, turning just enough so that he can see where Val still stands in the doorway, Parker lying on the floor a foot or so behind her, his ears back and expression scared. For her part, Val is gripping the doorway so tightly that Alex can only assume that she is trying very hard not move and crowd him any further.

“None of it’s mine.” He looks at the faces around him, all of them staring, all confused and various degrees of frightened. It brings everything right back into focus. “We need to—” It takes a deep breath in and a slow breath out to get his thoughts back in line. “Everybody grab a bag, pack food, necessities, just—just whatever.” Stepping a little closer to Val, just near enough to pull one of her hands down from the wall and give it a quick squeeze. “We gotta get outta here.”

---

Nate leans out of the passenger side window just far enough to level his sights on one of the creatures that already looks less human and fires. One shot, between the eyes, and it hits the ground and disappears beneath the feet of its companions. He hears a quiet gagging sound come from the driver’s seat and finds himself feeling a bit queasy in turn. They are both going to need to make some real changes to their perspective re: what constitutes a monster and they need to make those changes really quickly because as of right now, it is going to be really difficult to get out of this mess without completely rewiring their conscience.

“Um, Nate?”

With barely a glance spared toward Dennis, Nate focuses himself on reloading. “Yeah?”

“How many, uh—how many of them are back there?”

The question gives him pause but Nate squints to get a count anyway. “About a dozen in view. Why?”

“Because we need to, uh—we have to stop for a minute.”

Nate drops back into his seat so quickly that he nearly smacks his head off the door. “We what?”

Not even bothering to look at him, Dennis simply peels one shaking hand off of the steering wheel to point at something ahead. “We have to stop.”

Nate has to squint but he starts moving the moment that he sees exactly what Dennis is looking at. “I’ve got the door.”

It was rather obvious even from a single glance at a decent distance that the man up ahead, standing stock still in his torn slacks and a blood, rolled shirt-sleeves, was staring straight past the car speeding toward him and cursing the sight of the ever-growing number of zombies trailing behind. Dennis hits the gas and is slamming the breaks in what feels like no time.

Nate shoves the back door open and feels like there is really no room for argument when he shouts to the man to get in but he has been wrong before and apparently he is right now. Instead of heading straight for them, the guy curses in a language that they are now close enough for Nate to tell is definitely not English and turns away.

“Hey!” Dennis spins in his seat to look behind them, which Nate is sure that he immediately regrets. “What the hell? What’s he doing?”

“I don’t know. He’s just—” And that is when the stranger pulls his gun, takes out three approaching zombies in relatively rapid succession, and finally turns to sprint back toward the car. “—getting a little girl.”

The child is practically flung into the back seat and their new passenger wastes no time slamming the door behind himself and snapping, “Go. Now.”

Dennis really does not need to be told and floors it the second he knows the door is closed.

“Take a left onto Carver,” the man continues, his tone speaking volumes regarding how unwilling he would be to hear any question or protest. “Follow signs for the mall plaza.” He leans out the window to pick off a few more of the monsters before Nate’s slightly incredulous look catches his attention and his scowl is honestly pretty terrifying. “You’ll be out of gas before the edge of town so, under the assumption that you wish to live—”

Nate’s eyes narrow in suspicion but Dennis has absolutely no qualms against following the orders of anyone with a plan right now and practically takes the aforementioned turn on two wheels when he nearly misses it.

---

“Are you sure you can hotwire this piece of shit?”

“It’s not a piece of shit, it’s a fucking classic.”

Val rolls her eyes at that as she continues trying to calm the utterly panicked Macy currently clinging to her so tightly that he might as well just climb into her goddamn skin. “Fine. Can you really hotwire this ‘fucking classic’?”

Two seconds later, the engine revs up as Alex sits back in the driver’s seat with a trin and a waggle of his stupid eyebrows. Sasha squeals in relief and flings her arms around him from her place in the back seat, as he laughs. “My mechanical genius is wasted on this red wire green wire bullshit.”

He pops the trunk just as something begins to stir inside of the nearby diner and Val shoves Sasha aside to squeeze Macy in so that she can help Nico load their bags at record speed. By the time she flings herself into the front passenger seat, there are already zombies starting to stumble out of the woodwork. Fuck seatbelts. “Gun it!”

Alex hits the gas and they peel out of the parking lot just as the diner’s doors give way.

He had tried to explain what had happened while they packed. It had felt impossible for Val to actually wrap her mind around it at first but once she had seen the mess outside? She had practically dragged Alex and Macy off in search of the nearest source of potential transportation. They needed to find something quickly and it needed to be something fast and she needed to not think about how painfully familiar the blood and gore looked, though she had only ever seen anything like it in her nightmares. When Alex had needed to stop and vomit into the nearest garbage can, she had a feeling that she understood why and a little pocket of rage flared to life in her chest – not because he had to stop but because he never should have been the one to wind up with someone else’s blood on his hands.

“Where are we going?” Macy is the one to finally ask, almost inaudible from where he has curled up against Sasha now, and Val catches his eye in the rearview mirror before she looks toward Alex.

Alex, however, is entirely too focused on driving to really think but so much and instead catches her eye before clearing his throat. “Nick?”

In the back, Nico turns away from the horrors outside of his window. “What?”

“How do you defend yourself against a zombie invasion?”

“Wha—Zombies aren’t exactly my specialty here.”

“No,” Alex agrees, “but zombies are supposed to be a helluva lot dumber than, say, Reavers, right? You know Reavers.”

“So?”

“So how would you defend yourself against an invasion of retarded Reavers?”

The drummer just stares at him for a moment with an expression that plainly says that he may consider that to be the dumbest question that he has ever heard. Eventually, thought, there is an answer. “I’d find the most well-stocked, easily-fortifiable location I could think of and hope I could wait out the attack or find some other way to get through them.”

There is silence in the car and then Alex shrugs. “All right. So, where’s the most well-stocked and easily-fortifiable location we can think of?

Five minutes later, they find themselves screeching into the parking lot of the local mall. The location almost seems somehow normal, given the situation at hand. In fact, were it not for the shrieking horde behind them or the knowledge that Alex is currently doing seventy into a public lot, it might almost feel a little reminiscent of home. Val almost finds it funny, really. What’s funnier to her than coming to a mall for safety, however, is the fact that they were obviously not the only ones with that idea, as they are definitely not the only ones pulling into the place with a bunch of undead goons straggling along behind them.

---

“Miguel.”

There is a burst of static in his ear as Viktor leans out to empty his 22 into the crowd of creatures still chasing behind the car that had picked him up on the highway. Once within range, he takes out a couple of the ones latching on to the other car that had pulled in to the lot at about the same time, too. When his magazine clicks empty, he makes a snap decision to save his 20 for later and drops back into the seat to reload. The driver glances at him in the rearview, looking a little bit frightened, while the original passenger only eyes him for a moment before leaning out of the other side with a freshly loaded shotgun. His fellow gunner might not be terribly trusting but at least Viktor can respect that. Besides, who needs trust? The guy’s a fairly good shot.

“Zatratím tě, Miguel!” The little girl still curled up beside him whimpers. He can hear it over the gunfire, the static, all of the goddamned zombies. It is grating on his very last nerve. “Odpovídáš mě!”

He could hope for no better response than to lean back out just in time to watch as a line of four hostiles drops one by one.

“En ingles, ’mano.” Another line of undead hit the ground as the line sputters out then clears up again, leaving room for easily the most welcome voice he has ever known. “Now where the Hell have you been?”

Viktor nearly laughs. “We can trade stories later, miláčku. Right now, I need cover fire while I try to get these people into the posraný mall.”

“Going shopping?”

“Sklapni. We try the mall or they come to your shop.”

“How many?”

Viktor glances toward the other vehicle still circling around the parking lot with them. “Eight plus me.”

“Well, if they dropped you—”

“Miguel.”

“Sí, sí, the mall sounds like a plan. There’s a garage off to your right. No good angle for me to shoot the lock off but I can keep the number of uglies down while you get in.”

“Děkuji.”

“That means thank you, sí?”

Viktor rolls his eyes. “Sí.”

The line bursts back into static with a laugh.

---

As it turns out, the garage door does not, in fact, require a shot to the lock. It rolls up just enough for the two cars to through before Dennis’s little hatchback even hits the ramp. On the other side, a young woman motions for them to hurry while two men in security uniforms stand to either side of the entrance to help keep the monsters at bay, though it appears that this Miguel guy really only needs the most basic of assistance. His precision is honestly kind of terrifying and Dennis is just as glad not to see any more examples of it as he swerves off to one side so that the other car has room. Nate and their scarier passenger are both out before he even has the damned thing in park, seeing to it that nothing gets in the way of girl at the door to slam the thing shut.

“We saw you on the security cameras,” of the security guards explains as he climbs up to try and jam the gears.

The other car’s driver takes a moment to collect himself, then grabs a wrench and makes his way over to the ladder. “Here. Let me have a look at that.”

“Figured we couldn’t just leave you out there.” The guard climbs down to let the driver up. “Then Shannon said she thought you were headed this way.”

“Thanks.” Dennis finally climbs out only to stretch over the top of his car.

The woman now known as Shannon simply smiles. “No problem. Mercy for your fellow man or something like that.” She laughs and shrugs, looking slightly flustered, though that is probably to be expected, all things considered. “Anyway, come on. Let’s get you all inside. We’ve got food, clothes, relatively comfortable furniture… We’ll get you poor things all cleaned up and sorted out in no time.”

There is a general rumble of agreement as the little group follows her to the door that leads into the connected store, allowing themselves to be ushered toward where another girl is waiting somewhat impatiently. That is, they all follow along aside from one man, anyway, who simply mutters something into his headset before switching it off and making his way back over to the hatchback. Shannon looks back, confused, as does Nate, though he looks more suspicious about it.

Dennis just sighs. “The little girl.” Then he ducks through the doorway and drags Nate away after the rest.

---

“Come on, holčička.” Viktor crouches down beside the open car door with a sigh as the child remains curled up in the center of the back seat. Children. How did anyone actually deal with children, let alone have them by choice?

The little girl simply whimpers and mumbles, “There are monsters out there.”

Well, at least the stuttering has stopped and he supposes he can concede that she has a fair point. “The monsters are outside, not with us.”

Before he can receive a response or think of anything more convincing to say, there is someone else coming up behind him, bending down to look the child in the eye with a painfully sympathetic and all too sugarcoated smile. He might be able to handle the sight of it at any other time but right now, with everything that he has just been through and the way that she has the gall to place one of her hands on his shoulder as if—God, he would really like to wipe that smile off of her face.

“Hi, there,” she says, voice floating in a way that speaks plainly of a familiarity with appeasing people under the age of seven. “I’m Shannon. What’s your name?”

Caught slightly off-guard, the child squeaks. “Um. I—I’m—” The little girl shoots a quick glance toward Viktor then, almost as if asking permission to speak with this new stranger before she finally answers. “I’m Amanda.”

Shannon’s smile becomes even brighter, even sweeter, if that is even possible, and Viktor has to dig his nails into his palms to keep himself from taking out her kneecaps when she leans even further over him, hand squeezing his shoulder. “Amanda? Well, that’s a pretty name! Are you hungry, Amanda?”

The little girl nods.

“Well, we’ve got all sorts of food inside. We’ve got toys, too, and games and books and all sorts of neat stuff.”

“And—and no monsters?”

Shannon laughs. “And no monsters.”

Still curled up in the seat, Amanda chews worriedly at her lip for a moment longer, eyes flashing back and forth between the two adults still there in the door. Shannon keeps smiling, encouraging. Viktor just stays crouched there with a clenched jaw and a headache starting to build behind his eyes. When the girl finally moves, though, it does not go entirely as expected. Rather than reaching for Shannon’s offered hand, she instead launches herself forward to wrap her little arms tight around Viktor’s neck and duck her head in under his chin, completely unaware of the rather undignified look of surprise that he is entirely unable to keep off of his face. Unhelpfully, all Shannon does in response is giggle.

#otto writes #original characters #zombies #violence #lol wut #writing: after infection

[anteroom-of-death]

Life, for Dummies p1

a/n: plz love me and go easy. i haven’t written anything since dodos were alive....

You were new to the “fam”. The Doctor picked you up randomly like a stray. Not that you minded most days. It felt like transfering to a school in March: the middle of the semester. And much like high school, friends groups were already formed. Hell, you couldn’t believe that Yaz and the Doc weren’t slamming each other against the walls and making out running down corridors and such. 

Graham especially treated you well. Like a pottering but wicked smart granddad. Ryan too, you could bond over basketball and other fun stuff. But still. A second out of step. Any time you had these thoughts, you shoved it down and cursed not totally growing out of your middle school “I’m not like other girls!” mindset. Which, what the fuck? You were a grown ass woman. 

“Y/N?” the Doctor said waving a hand in front of you, snapping you from your reverie as you came to the present. You are on Gallifrey and there’s some psycho of the week- named the Master looking ferally at you all like he was planning what bathtub you’d wake up in with a kidney missing. You totally zoned out. The Wii Mii music might as well be what plays when you enter a room. 

Shaking yourself you tried to size up the current threat. So- this is where the Doctor’s from? No bad considering it looked like a mix between Dresden after the bombing and Hiroshima and Nagasaki. It had lots of open fields. Big skies. Plenty of sunlight from two burning suns so no “When the street lights kick on, you come back in!” The image of a tiny little blonde baby-Doc bobbing around chasing space fireflies was cute. 

Damn reveries. 

“Be afraid Doctor!” He said five minutes earlier. 

How could anyone be afraid of that. Sure when swapping past stories they told you he was crazy and killed people. The grunting he made coming through the portal was not something fearful. They were oddly sexual. The Doctor’s greatest enemy? Was right before you?

“I should have had more coffee!” You whined under your breath. Honestly. All this running, you didn’t know if you needed to mainline Folger’s or get one of those dorky water packs suburban white dads had for hiking.

This fucker grinned at that. “You’re funny!” He giggled pointing at you. Figures he had like, super sonic hearing. “You didn’t tell me you had funny little humans with you this time!” 

“Hilarious dude! Can you even reach the shelves in the grocery store?” It was a pithy attempt at humor. The man had no right calling humans small. 

He laughed and looked like he was debating killing you. He gave a resounding twirlin’ and then went onto monologue as if he were written by Joss Wheden. Mainly at the Doctor. But he kept glancing over at you. Yaz and Ryan were obviously acting on primal instinct of figuring how to take the Master down and Graham looked half bored. They’d met him before. Graham looked like he was just waiting for it to be done. Graham was chill. Reliable. He didn’t fly off the handle as much as the rest of you all. He was older. He was one margarita away from becoming a Parrothead. You liked that. 

The Master’s glances felt disarming. Like he’d already seen you without your clothing. Not that it felt like a bad thing. He wasn’t unattractive as far as aliens went. Actually, kind of hot. The kind of hot you’d go for if it wasn’t for the fact he was massively evil, tried to kill all humans, and is currently being a bastard to your close friends. Something unique about his clapping. You did that when you were over excited. 

He was dashing. 

His eyes were large and just drew you in, mentally you knew every time he glanced over. Like he wanted to let you know it was for you and you alone. And he was fit, still soft. Something about the soft jaw, slight roundness to thighs and slight slouch of the tummy. The swagger and toothy grins? His skin looked soft and nice too. Crazy fashion sense. Maybe the inability to dress yourself was a Time Lord thing? 

G-d, those lips, so round and full and a nice color. You shoved a thought about, other parts being that color away. Were you really here, having a team huddle, imagining the evil bad man’s cock? Desperation, party of one. You hadn’t been laid in a long time, but really?

“Y/N!” Yaz asked as you looked over and the Master smirked directly at you, like he knew you were trying to picture his cock at that moment. “What do you think?”

You groaned, “I don’t know!” your voice peaked a hoarse few octaves. The Master had you wrapped around his finger and he didn’t even touch you. 

“He seems mega powerful.” You throw your hands out to exaggerate. He turned and pointed you out, “You have no idea what powers I have.”

“Man, shut the fuck up, or I’m gunna hit you.” You said plainly. Your eyes rolled back into your skull. You were suddenly your normal self again. He was just some dude, like any you’d see on the streets trying to undermine your confidence or get you to give him the time of day.

“No you won’t.” And he was right. 

So you all just followed the lead of your fearless leader, the Doctor…

_________________________3 Weeks Later __________________________

You were back home. It was Corona Time. And definitely not the fun kind. You were worried absolutely sick. Was the Doctor alive? What about Gallifrey? What was all of that? So many questions raced through your quarantined mind. That and a few errant daydreams about the Master taking you with what you assumed had to be a massive cock. What was that overused phrase you’d seen the internet use? Big Dick Energy? The man had got to have had a set of cojones on him for the amount.

You couldn’t shake that son of a bitch from your mind. 

He was hauntingly attractive. But evil. You were in a moral panic 24/7. You felt like those soulfully pained eyes followed you around your house all the time. 

You were trying to focus on finding work from home jobs that were legitimate. You gave up your career to run around and play 5th wheel and now you were paying. Shelter inside? More like buying lots of unneeded skincare to fill a new void in you.

You were just ready to click “apply” on Indeed when those asthmatic engine noises started pounding in your yard. Was that the Doctor? Saving you from going insane and buying the 200 plus dollars in your cart on DHC’s webstore. 

No, you didn’t see a kitschy blue box, but a stately match for your shed, but nicer. 

Who should appear? But the rat bastard himself. 

Boy, you were so screwed.

Suddenly he smiled politely and waved at you through the window. He pointed at your back door and was asking to be let in. 

Cautiously you opened the window. “Go away, Master.” 

“Is that polite to say? I’m your first visitor in weeks and you shove me-” He faux-shocked put his hand over his mouth “away?” You couldn’t tell if he was faking being insulted or for reals.

“I’d shove Timmy down a well if he killed my best friend and all her people.”

“Let me in, I just want to talk.” He opened his hand like he was caught red handed. 

You slammed the window down harder than probably recommended. You felt the slam’s noise in your jaw. He’d get the message maybe. Or maybe you’d let him in and pin his ass to the living room carpet. Choices, choices. You went back and clicked ‘place order’, your bank account app dinged and said you had less than fifty dollars left. No one was going nowhere so it didn’t matter. You finished your tea in a few gulps. You made your choice. 

Opening up the window, you shouted “Take off your jacket and place all of your weapons and your TARDIS key on the patio. Shoes too. Toss them into the Rose of Sharon.” You’d be damned if he was gonna kill you in your own house, surrounded by your own possessions, in your own damn town. 

“What’s a Rose of Sharon Y/N?” He asked, genuinely confused. “It’s the dead bush that’s claimed the entire ramp up to my patio…” Sighing you pointed at it. 

He giggled and obliged. 

Always giggling. 

He knocked as you were rooting for your sharpest whatever you could find. You opened the door and ushered him in. Almost comically, you began patting him down and weidling your weapon of choice. Excellent ass, you had to admit. Soft, yet firm. 

“Having a good feel, love?” He asked as you were admiring it. 

“Hey, you never know…” You off-brand sighed. He was nice to touch. It was addictive. 

He paced around your home, looking at the photos of you and your family. The stack of bills in boxes, your life. Like he was examining art in a museum. 

“I don’t appreciate you fondling my fruit.” You said when he’d made his way into your kitchen. 

He grinned, “Isn’t it customary for you humans to offer a beverage or a snack to guests?” 

Massaging your temples you handed him one of those nutri grain granola bars that crumble everywhere and a can of Coke. 

“Not very much, huh?” 

“There's a pandemic out there you dense motherfucker!” You shouted almost singing the words “pandemic” and “motherfucker”, throwing your arms upwards for examples.

You felt like you could swear around him. With the rest of your current social circle you felt like there was a PG-13 limit to your speech. 

“Forgive me.” He rolled his eyes. Tit for tat matching you. He leaned heavy on his seat and opened up the can and drank politely. You almost believed him

“So why are you here?” sitting down across from him cracking your finger joints and wrists out of habit. “Run out of people to piss off in space?” 

“Oh, always plenty there.” 

You snorted. 

“You seem very sure of yourself. Different from her other little pets.” He said. “Or, is it just a show…” He bore directly into your soul. “I’d believe it.” You glared at him, still holding your weapon, sure it wasn’t much. But to quote a legend “That’s my purse, I don’t know you!”

“You know what they say when you assume…” You put it out there.

“I don’t know!” He fumed on a hairpin notice. “Something about a donkey!”

“Relax, Jeeze.” You let out a nervous chuckle.

He grinned that megawatt, perfectly white smile with teeth better than most Hollywood actors. 

“You’re bored.” He observed.

“I’ve been confined in my house for three weeks.” You stated.

“What if...you weren’t.” He weighed the words out. Almost physically with his hands. G-d those hands. How soaked in blood were they? But how dexterous were they? You swatted away thoughts of how nice they’d be buried in you, “Oy, gevalt!” You said. Noticing you had been staring at his fingertips for a second too long…

“You seem distracted...Is it me? Is the Doctor’s little pet wanting to try out some real leadership?” He mocked, but there was some other little tone to it. Care? Amusement? Yearning? A combination of all four? Who knows. You didn’t.

His eyes had the most whimsical gorgeous glow, and his eyelashes had the most attractive flutter.

“Ya caught me!” You barked with all the false sarcasm you could feign. 

“Oh, I promise that I won’t blow up any planets, kick any orphans, wreck a ship carrying puppies and kittens for adoption... I’ll just show you the real way to see the stars. None of that running through corridors and fighting for your life. The way it should be seen.” He said, his nice waistcoat coated in crumbs. 

“Or are you a coward? Afraid to see the other side of the coin? Y/N.” You were inherently a little bit of a coward. He crooked a crooked grin.

You pondered and helped yourself to an apple. Hoping that he’d see your teeth and that’d be another layer of “Don’t fuck with me, Please!” Though you desperately almost craved to be fucked with at this point.

You pause and consider this, is it betrayal? To follow your instincts and go off with a literal madman instead of your new “fam” because and called you on your self-sure bullshit?

“Is she alive? Is the Doctor alive?” You pleaded. A bit of tears threatening to come up.

“Yes, of course.” He assured you. It was very comforting. He slowly grabbed at your hand. “I may not be a man of a lot of truths, but I’ll tell you this. She always somehow comes out on top. It’s frustrating.” The warmth was real in his voice and in his eyes.

You closed your eyes and willed yourself sane. But the little nagging at your core said to. Give in, give up. Go with him. 

“‘Kay.” You nodded. Suddenly sullen. “I’ll go.” The smile you gave was tired and you got up. You were almost shaking. He touched you and you came undone. This was not healthy. You’d blame the self-isolation, but deep down you knew it went deeper. Your jaw was trembling a bit. Self-preservation was gone. 

You screwed yourself up again and poked a finger on his chest. “Try anything funny that gets me killed and I’m stabbing you.” 

“No, you won’t.” This time, it was an order. An order wrapped in velvet and coated in chocolate.

You turned to go pack and he grabbed at your wrist. “No, you don't need that. I got a wardrobe department worthy of choice.” He grabbed at his shirt and brandished his look. 

“Fine.” You said. So tired, but feeling more alive than you had in years at once. 

Grabbing your hand and all his stuff out of your yard he pulled you into his TARDIS and it left. Off to the next….

#personal #i wrote this #dhawan!master x reader #dhawan!master #reader insert #doctor who #doctor who self insert fiction #fanfic #yes my life is a wreck #im a mess and i want to die a bit

[rivjudephoenix]

Observing the darkness in his work, it’s tempting to look for its source in his personal history. It wasn’t long ago that he was still being referred to as “the second most famous Phoenix,” his name associated most closely with the death of his cult-legend brother, River, in 1993, which Joaquin witnessed, along with sister Rain, in front of the Viper Room on Sunset Boulevard, then co-owned by Johnny Depp. The public memory of his brother has faded enough that Joaquin is now the most familiar Phoenix, but the tragedy is never far for Joaquin himself.

[...] In part that’s because reporters never stop asking him about it. But he was also deeply influenced by his brother, and by his death, even if he remains reluctant to draw a straight line between his unusual background and his private tragedy and his talent for inhabiting the morose, damaged, violent, and otherwise anxiety-riddled characters he takes on—roles he seems vividly made for. “I try not to fucking think about that,” he says, with that half-comic ambiguity. “Why am I doing this fucking interview? You’re going to ruin my acting.”

Last July, Warner Bros. previewed Joker to a select group of journalists at a screening room in a West Hollywood hotel. After watching Phoenix as the maniacal creep Arthur Fleck, I went outside to discover my rental car had been towed—the rookie move of a non-Angeleno. It was 8:30 at night, just in time for a prescheduled phone call from Joaquin Phoenix. “Where are you?” he asked, offering to come to my aid. There was an uncomfortable moment as I told him the location. In an uncanny and unfortunate coincidence, it was directly behind the Viper Room. Phoenix paused, then said: “I know that’s on Sunset, but what’s the cross street?” [...] 

In 1991, River famously told Details magazine that he lost his virginity at age four, which seemed to cement a narrative about what happened inside the cult. “You really believe that?” says Phoenix. “It was a complete and total joke. It was just fucking with the press. It was literally a joke, because he was so tired of being asked ridiculous questions by the press. My parents were never negligent,” he says. [rivjudephoenix: It wasn’t a joke, friends have confirmed it]

As River’s fame grew with Running on Empty, about a family of ’60s radicals on the run, and an Indiana Jones movie, playing a young Indy, Joaquin wasn’t getting any appealing offers and took a break to hang out on a beach with his dad in Mexico, learning Spanish and riding motorcycles. After he returned to the States, his brother was shooting the indie classic My Own Private Idaho with director Gus Van Sant. River began tutoring his younger brother about cinema. “My brother came home and he was like, ‘We need to watch this movie called Raging Bull.’ And I’m like, ‘What?’ Prior to that, I watched Caddyshack and Spaceballs. And Woody Allen comedies.”

[...] Not long after, he recalls his brother making a strange prediction. “He suggested I change my name [back to Joaquin] and then, I don’t know, six months later, whatever it was, we were in Florida, we were in the kitchen, and he said, ‘You’re going to be an actor and you’re going to be more well known than I am.’ Me and my mom looked at each other like, ‘What the fuck is he talking about?’ “I don’t know why he said that or what he knew of me at the time. I hadn’t been acting at all. But he also said it with a certain weight, with a knowing that seemed so absurd to me at the time, but of course now, in hindsight, you’re like, ‘How the fuck did he know?’ 

Phoenix says that he and his siblings were not frequent denizens of clubs like the Viper Room. His brother had gone there in 1993, and reportedly stayed in hopes of playing music. “I don’t think it was typical. To be honest, I don’t think it was really—I don’t think it’s what he would have wanted to have done with his night. He’d, just before that, spent time just playing me new songs that he’d written.” [...] 

The family grieved in private for months. The first time any of the Phoenixes emerged from the Costa Rica compound was when Joaquin and his mother flew to New York so Joaquin could try out for a part in Gus Van Sant’s latest film, To Die For, starring Nicole Kidman. (The casting assistant on the film, Meredith Tucker, still says his audition was the best she has ever seen.) When he arrived in New York, Phoenix hadn’t acted in three or four years. “As soon as I saw him, I started crying,” Van Sant says. “I didn’t realize that would happen but it was pretty sad.” 

[...] His role as [Johnny] Cash defined him as an actor with an uncanny power to subsume himself in a role. “I think I had this realization that the experiences I was having as an actor were deepening, becoming more profound to me,” he says of that role. “There is this revelatory feeling, and it feels like every step you’re dancing closer and closer to the thing.” Phoenix emphasizes that “the thing” is not his brother’s death, not some Rosebud, as in the childhood sled that unlocks the psychic secrets of Charles Foster Kane in Citizen Kane. “It’s one, it’s one of the Rosebuds,” he says, “but it’s not a Rosebud in the way that people think. At all.” 

But the topic of River remains sensitive. Not even Phillips, who became good friends with Phoenix over the course of making Joker, ever felt comfortable enough to bring it up. At one point, after I ask a question about the Viper Room incident, Phoenix says, “You’re such a great, decent human being. That sounds like I’m being sarcastic. I am.” 

This year, on the anniversary of River’s death, Rain (to whom Joaquin affectionately refers as a “fucking hippie”) will release an album called River, inspired by his memory and legacy. Before recording the album, which includes a duet with Michael Stipe, she sought the blessing of the family, including Joaquin, whom Heart calls the “patriarch” of the family, to address their private tragedy in public. He understood her need to communicate her experience. “She was right there, also, and so I think there was a lot that was put on me,” he says. “Then I was like, don’t fucking put that on me. Just fucking—I’ll let you know if there’s anything on me that we’re talking about.”

At the sushi joint, the magazine writer makes an uncomfortable error, inquiring about Phoenix’s dad: Where’s he living nowadays? “He lives in heaven,” Phoenix says flatly. Wait, where’s that? Costa Rica? “No one’s ever been there,” he says. He’s alive, right? “Oh is he? Oh cool, great,” he says sarcastically. “Let’s talk to him.” In fact, Phoenix adds, his father died four years ago of cancer, a development that didn’t make the news. “Suddenly, there’s a lot of holes in your research,” he says.

“I was going to say I wouldn’t joke about that, but I actually would joke about something like that. But I’m not joking.” But he considers the entertainment value of maintaining the ruse. “That would be so fucked up!” he laughs. “I could also just keep it up—‘I’m just fucking with you!’” Later, in the parking lot waiting for the valet to swing the Lexus around, he gives it another go: “I was just kidding before. He’s still alive.” I wait a beat. “Really?” “No, he’s dead. Sorry.” (In fact, he did die.)

— Vanity Fair, October 2019

#river phoenix #joaquin phoenix

[winterromanov]

we will grow taller together - bucky x reader

PART THREE - YOU’RE VERY LOUD FOR SOMEONE SO SMALL

parts: masterlist

pairing: bucky barnes x reader

extract: He sniffs what could be a laugh if he had any energy whatsoever. “I wish you were psychic. Then you could maybe tell me what goes through a six-year-old’s head.”

genre: nanny x single father!au

taglist: @blindedbyyourgrace17 @verygraphicink @chubby-dumplin @igotkatiepowers @welcome-to-my-studylife @bi-bi-bi-bisexualz @mywinterwolf @mychemicalimagines (still open, message to be tagged)

The following week or so is swallowed by the pre-Thanksgiving rush, so other than a quick text to confirm his number and a Facebook request you’ve not heard all that much from James. Work is mayhem as you try to learn at least eighty holiday drinks combinations and you go shopping with Natasha for Thanksgiving tableware, as her and Steve are hosting Steve’s parents for the first time at their apartment. Your whole family lives on the West Coast so you’ve decided not to make the trip to your childhood home this year. It makes you sad in a constant, throbbing kind of way, to spend Thanksgiving without them, but you’d mutually decided with your mom and dad that the trip just isn’t economically or temporally viable. Even the cheapest flights exceed two hundred dollars and you’d end up spending most of the vacation cramped in a plane seat and listening to babies screaming anyway. Natasha offers a place at their table but you can tell she’s a little anxious about impressing Steve’s family and you’d rather not add any hassle. Looks like it’ll probably be white wine and Friends re-runs for you this year, but at least you’re not fucking working for once.

You think everything has returned to normal. So much so, in fact, that when the weekend rolls around and you turn up to Steve and Natasha’s place in a party dress for their pre-Thanksgiving do it doesn’t cross your mind that James might also turn up. Or what will happen if he does.

“Looking sexy, (Y/N),” Natasha clicks her tongue approvingly when she answers the door, hand on her hip. Your frock is dark blue velvet and long-sleeved, hugging your figure in a way that makes you feel more self-confident than you actually are. It is pretty sexy, you think, but your attempts are always nothing compared to Natasha’s. Her dress is elegant and black and split all the way down the front to enhance her already impressive cleavage, and combined with the gentle curl of her red hair and matching lipstick she looks like a rebellious Hollywood starlet.

That’s always been Natasha, though. She always looks beautiful, exuding a natural class, but also in a dangerous kind of way. She looks like she could break your neck and smile while doing it. It’s pretty fucking powerful, to be honest.

“Nothing new there, then,” you remark, stepping inside. Natasha smirks and hands you a glass of champagne from the table by the door. Tipsy laughter and a Taylor Swift song play from the kitchen, so you follow Natasha’s clicking black heels to the main room of the party.

So far, it isn’t so crowded, but Steve and Natasha are pretty popular (Steve because he’s A Really Nice Guy, Natasha because she isn’t) so you expect the couches and corners will fill up as the night draws on. You recognise most of the people chatting over bowls of chips and hummus but you only know Steve by name, so you naturally gravitate towards him once Natasha’s elbow is caught by a well-built man with brown hair.

Steve is talking to a broad, dark-skinned guy with cropped black hair that you keep seeing around. Both of them look at you when you come over, the unnamed man scanning you discretely up and down with a half-smile on his face.

“(Y/N)!” Steve announces excitedly, squeezing your shoulder. “You know Sam, right?”

“I do not,” you reply, shaking his hand, “But I’m always happy to meet new people.”

“Likewise,” Sam replies. He scrubs up well in a smart shirt and shoes, Steve sporting a similar garb. As is usually the case with these things the girls have obviously made more effort, but in your experience, if a man has combed his hair and put on cologne they’re already too good to be true. “Steve may have mentioned you a coupla’ times.”

“He has?” You quirk an eyebrow, and Steve shrugs. He doesn’t look embarrassed about the fact. “All good, I hope.”

“Mostly. Although, there was an incident at one of Natasha’s parties in your junior year that you might—“

“Okay, so what happens in a crappy basement apartment during college under the influence of extremely cheap beer stays there,” you interject, the two men laughing, “I’m an adult now. All that stuff is behind me, I can assure you.”

You chat to the two of them a while longer, you and Sam mostly swapping funny stories about Steve—he feels like your safety conversation starter, the thing you have in common. Eventually Natasha drags Steve off into the kitchen and you’re left with Sam alone. What is it with Steve and abandoning you with his friends? Not that Sam is a problem. He’s attractive and funny, your sense of humour instantly clicking with his.

“So, (Y/N),” Sam says seriously, “Would you like another drink from the Rogers free bar?”

When you look down at your glass you realise it’s empty already. You’re not a big drinker, not anymore, but another glass to ease any surface anxiety wouldn’t hurt. After all, you think the guy in the jarringly expensive suit by the window might be Tony Stark, the tech billionaire, and the sheer amount of wealth that pours from his figure has left you on edge. That, and the fact you have always strongly believed that billionaires are unethical. Maybe another glass would give you the confidence to tell him that.

(You have no idea how Steve and Nat know Tony Stark, because you know enough about both of them to acknowledge he’s not their typical company.)

You shrug your shoulders and let him take your glass. “Sure. Thanks.”

Sam disappears and you trail after him at a distance, hovering outside the kitchen. You nod to the beat of a Vampire Weekend track, not really paying attention when the buzzer goes off, because people are expected to come and go. Natasha smiles as she slips past you to the door, deftly pulling the latch aside with a flick of her fingers.

Your body straightens from your slouching position against the wall when you realise who is waiting in the hall.

James. James is there, a small child clinging to his neck, the metallic frames of her bright pink sunglasses catching the hallway light.

“Hi,” you hear him say breathlessly, “Sorry I’m so late. Clover has—Clover wanted to see you both, so I couldn’t… Well. She wouldn’t let me leave her with the babysitter.”

“I don’t like Mrs Mary.” A child’s voice—Clover’s voice—responds, her tone low and sullen. “I like Auntie Nat.”

“It’s a good job that I like you too then, huh?” Natasha’s arms reach out and James hands her his daughter. “Nice sunglasses. Always useful in November.”

“If you wear sunglasses you can cry and people won’t notice.”

Yikes. The comment leaves the two adults stunned for a moment, before Natasha combs a strand of blonde hair out of Clover’s eyes, smiling fondly. “Let’s see if we can find you some cookies.”

You move out the way when Natasha comes back down the hallway, watching as James closes the door behind him. He starts when he sees you standing there, but his edges soften when he realises it’s you who is watching. He looks even more exhausted than the evening in his apartment, his eyes grey and hollow, shoulders dipping. He still manages a watery smile for you.

“Tough day?” you ask, even though it’s obvious. His mouth opens. Nods wearily.

“You could call it that.”

“If it’s any consolation, an old lady shouted at me for putting a snowflake made out of chocolate sprinkles on her mocha because she doesn’t like cold weather. I was like…I’m not paid to be psychic, Brenda, or whatever your name is.”

He sniffs what could be a laugh if he had any energy whatsoever. “I wish you were psychic. Then you could maybe tell me what goes through a six-year-old’s head.”

You smile gently, sympathetically. “I think a lot of people would have a hard time telling you that.”

Sam then reappears with your drink, but takes one look at James’ expression before sighing and disappearing again. Moments later he emerges with a second glass of champagne and shoves it into his grip.

-

The party returns to normal for about thirty minutes after, Clover bouncing comfortably between her dad and Nat and Steve and Sam, bright and funny and charming all the guests she doesn’t know with her gap-toothed grin. But it’s like—it’s like a light flicks in her head and suddenly she’s having a meltdown in the bathroom, screaming through tears she doesn’t know how to control. You can hear James talking to her and trying to calm her down, but his voice keeps wobbling, like he’s on the verge of breaking down too. Taking a deep breath for courage, you twist the knob on the bathroom door and invade a conversation you should probably stay out of.

James eyes glance up at you in desperate surprise. The shock also freezes Clover, like the lull in the middle of a hurricane. Her tiny face is red and wet with tears, pained in a way that is heart-breaking to see on any child. Your hand brushes across James’ back as you crouch to meet her height. Blue eyes scrutinise every single inch of your body.

“So. You’re Clover Barnes.” You delicately offer your hand and Clover looks at it, faced scrunched, before slotting hers into yours. “I’m (Y/N). I’m a friend of your dad and Uncle Steve and Auntie Nat.”

Clover blinks back, but doesn’t say anything. She’s not screaming though, so at least that’s something. You’ve done that, at least. Even if it’s just out of shock.

“I have to say, Clover, you’re very loud for someone so small.” You try not to smile as she looks mildly offended at this observation on her height, because six year old priorities, right? That’s what’s really going through her head. The fact that she’s perhaps half an inch shorter than the other girls in her class. “But people used to say that about me, too. There’s nothing wrong about being loud, but there’s no point in having such a big voice if no-one can understand you. You gotta talk to your dad if something is upsetting you—I’ve been told you’re super clever so I’m absolutely certain you can tell him what’s up.”

Clover is silent for a moment, and you wonder if your spontaneous pep talk (which you somehow pulled straight out of your ass) will go totally ignored, but she takes a shaky breath and looks James straight in the eyes.

“I don’t wanna go to grandma and grandpa’s for Thanksgiving,” she sniffles, “I heard you talking on the phone and I don’t wanna go. Please don’t make me go. I wanna stay here with you. Please don’t send me away.”

James almost crumbles away into nothing when he grabs her into a hug, squeezing all the air out of her lungs. Her hands slowly curl around his neck, meeting at the nape, her face burrowed deep into his shoulder.

“I won’t send you anywhere, I promise,” James murmurs. His eyes catch yours and he looks at you in a mixture of amazement and thankfulness and more prominently relief. “Sweetheart. Baby. You’re not going anywhere.”

The tantrum must have tired Clover out because slowly, gradually, she flops in James’ arms; her eyes flutter closed while still pressed in James’ shoulder, so he rises and gestures for you to open the bathroom door. Natasha and Steve open up their spare bedroom so you follow him in quietly, pulling back the bedsheets so he can slot Clover in to sleep the rest of the evening off. She looks so peaceful and relaxed, like a normal six-year-old girl, like she could wake up again and everything would be normal and okay.

But you know—nothing about this is normal. You thought that Steve was being a bit over-the-top about them needing help, but you can see it now. It’s not so eccentric. They need something. Something.

When James pulls the door so only a small shaft of light from the hall glows on Clover’s tranquil face, his hand curls round your wrist.

“I take back what I said, that time at my apartment.” His eyes are frantic. Pleading. “I do need your help. Please, (Y/N). I need so much fucking help.”

You turn your hand so that it clasps his, squeezing tightly. “I’m here.”

#ugh im emo #mcu #marvel #marvel cinematic universe #we will grow taller together #bucky barnes #james buchanan barnes #bucky barnes imagine #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes x y/n #bucky x reader #bucky x you #bucky imagine #bucky barnes fic #bucky barnes au #fanfic #fic #marvel fic

[italian-sides]

“Ombre e Bastoni”, ch. 2

Here I am with the second chapter! Again, a huge thank you to both @misslilidelaney on Tumblr for writing this and @watcher-from-the-heights for being my beta! I also tag @ts-italian-gang, just in case. One last thing: if you want to support the ff, it’s on AO3 too! Thank you if you’re gonna step by! Enjoy!

Whenever Emilio Picani walked into the Dolce&Remì, all heads turned.

And when all heads turned, Giuda Schiavon's only instinct was to turn away.

To avoid imploding.

At the exact moment the young man crossed the threshold, Giuda understood that he was Patrizio's famous "psychologist cousin".

And at the exact moment he saw his face, only one sentence echoed in his brain:

- Sò ciavà. - [1]

The newcomer sat down at the counter, while Remo looked illuminated with immense light and Romolo seemed to be having a heart attack.

"Patrì. Are you kidding? You should at least have said that your cousin was so beautiful!"

"What are you saying, Romolo? C'mon, you're embarrassing him!"

"Orco can, Pati [2], take it easy! Trust me, it takes much more to embarrass me.", the interested party replied, giving Romolo, who just laughed like a twelve year old, a benevolent smile.

- Nice, exactly what I needed, even the competition with the Stellina. -

Giuda glanced at Remo, who had been wiping the same glass for three minutes.

-Ah, well. Both the Stelline. [3] -

He just looked at the newcomer from behind the counter, through the mirror in front of which the liquors were placed.

Of course both twins already came out swinging, while Virgilio and Luca simply looked at him with the gaze of two hungry lions.

And obviously Patrizio noticed the looks that the Trentine guy - that is Luca - launched at his blood relative, and Giuda shook his head after seeing the Emilian's eyes getting a little bleary.

-If I end up like this too, I'll set myself on fire.-

"You're quiet, Giudino [4].", Tommaso, the only one who seemed immune to the charm of the newcomer, chirped.

Giuda merely smiled slyly, pointing to the group behind him with a nod:

"I'm enjoying the vultures."

"Pffftt, they're terribleee!", the pastry chef whispered, biting his lip from laughing, which made Giuda smile even further and then continue:

"They look like they haven't seen a man for ages, eh? And Patrizio has the face of someone who repented 'a sbrega'."

"At what?"

"Someone who regretted it very much. I’ll have to teach you Venetian sooner or later, boss."

Tommaso nodded, and Giuda decided to get defensive even before anyone could attack him.

"Plus, like... He's not even that  cool. He's pretty, don't get me wrong, but c'mon, to the point of making all four of them lose their heads?"

Tommaso nodded, shrugging:

"Agreed. And I hope Luca will soon get over this thing before Patrizio goes on a killing spree."

"Patrizio should also get a move on, however; Luca is too much of a wimp to realize he's drooling like a slug. If he doesn't get moving, someone else will take him and I’d like to remind you that the last time Patrizio got drunk, he got a sad hangover."

"Don't remind me, please."

"Ao, regà!" [5], Remo sneaked in and took them both by the arm, smiling like the idiot he was.

"Come and meet the newcomer!"

- Oh, no, please. -

"Boss, at least let me take off my dishwashing gloves!"

"No no, you have to keep them, I want him to understand who's in charge!", the 'older' brother of the Stella twins laughed at the request of his dishwasher.

- Curses.-

With a movement worthy of the worst drunks in Caracas, he brought Tommaso and Giuda in front of the newcomer, who had a smile capable of melting Giuda's heart in an instant.

And it did.

"Emilio, here's my co-partner and pastry-chef Tommaso Sandero, and my all-rounder, dishwasher, whatever-you-want, Giuda."

"I have a surname too, you know, old man.", with an eyeroll worthy of a Hollywood star, Giuda turned to Emilio.

Shit, he was even more beautiful, up close.

"Giuda Schiavon. I would shake your hand but I have gloves on."

"Schiavon?", Emilio asked, lighting up.

How beautiful a human being could be? Was he even legal?

"Ahah, his name is Schiavon. Which is perfect, since he's ours... [6]", Remo started, but Emilio dreamily clasped his hands in front of his face and asked, interrupting him:

"Are you from Veneto too? I'm from Verona!"

Giuda just shrugged, nodding immediately after:

"Par tera, par mar, Sammarco. [7]"

"Can del porco, un Venexian! Beaaa! [8]"

Having said that, Emilio approached him, pretending to speak in great secrecy - which was impossible, since everyone was still staring at him as if he was a wonderful thing, except perhaps Romolo, who was just looking at Giuda as if he was the worst thing that ever happened in this world:

"Cossa go da far pa aver na bona ombra de vin qua? [9]"

Was he trying to speak Venetian?

Was there a limit to how cute he could be?

"Ask Remo. I only wash the glasses, I don't fill them."

Having said that, he turned to the owner, making a superhuman effort to take his eyes off Emilio, who seemed quite dazzled by the answer.

"Can I go back? I have to go to the kitchen to finish washing the dishes before other people arrive for happy hour."

Then he turned back to Emilio, waving at him with half a smile:

"Fellow countryman, enjoy your stay in Bologna."

And then he left, without giving him time to answer.

*

Three years passed since their first meeting.

Three years in which Romolo made the funniest epic fail with Emilio, in which Patrizio decided to stick his tongue down Luca's mouth, and Virgilio pretended to be drunk to touch Romolo's ass, whom he said he'd forgotten, but Giuda knew that was bullshit.

Because he, being a chronic liar, could basically smell the lies.

In fact, not even for a second did he let anyone remotely suspect of his mind-blowing crush on the psychologist, especially the above mentioned, given that he was probably now convinced he hated his guts.

Which was the intention of the Venetian, since he took for granted that the thirty-year-old was far beyond what someone like him could afford.

After the disastrous relationship with one of his university buddies, Giuda indeed decided that being single was far better than being heartbroken.

Even though his heart wasn't too good.

Treating Emilio badly was making him lose sleep, at times he risked forgetting to put on his contact lenses due to tiredness, and even Virgilio took the piss out of him for the bags under his eyes.

And now he was there. Gloves in one hand and a broom in the other.

With Remo looking at him with a Cheshire Cat's smile on his face.

"You little snake. I get it, you know? You like the Veronese."

"You're speaking nonsense. I’d rather kill him right now. I dropped the glasses because of him."

"Don’t fuck with me. Tommy and I yell at you all the time and you’ve never jumped like this. Yo, Coso [10], I can smell lies too, you're not the only one. You’re being a little shit because you like him."

Giuda kept looking the bar owner in the eye, trying to deny it with all of his body language.

"I. Don't. Like. Emilio. I don’t know what you’re thinking, but Mr. Psychoanalysis isn’t exactly my cup of tea, okay?"

"Giuda..."

There was something in Remo’s voice, something that for a moment opened a breach in the Venetian's heart.

Maybe... Maybe he could trust someone.

"...From the first day he walked in here. You all got over it. But me? Never. I don’t have a crush on Emilio, Remo. I’m in love with Emilio. But I’ve suffered enough in the past to know that I’m better off alone. What if it goes wrong? How am I gonna look at him? How...?"

"You don't know that. I mean, I don't know either even if I live with him, how can you, if you run away every time you see him?"

"I personally believe that what you don’t know can’t hurt you."

"If Luca were here he would scream 'Boiate' [11]. Giuda... I..."

"Welp. It's too late now, the damage is done, right? He’s probably convinced I hate him even more after today's crap."

With a bitter laugh, Giuda surpassed the roman, continuing:

"I blew every chance, amen..."

"Giuda."

"But surely he won’t stop coming, we’re his favorite bar and you’re his roommate..."

"Giuda, shut up."

"I'm sure he'll find someone else pretty quickly, he just needs to breathe and someone always comes along."

"Giuda!"

The dishwasher turned again towards Remo, biting his lip as the stupid tears began to stream down his face.

"I can’t do this, okay? After Mattia, I don’t know what to do, with a man. Besides, I’m kind of a mess. Emilio will never appreciate someone like me."

Remo remained silent for a moment, before moving forward... and hugging? Giuda.

The Venetian was baffled, usually it was Tommaso, the one with whom he sometimes allowed himself affectionate gestures.

"Shut your mouth, you’re not that bad. And I swear on Totti [12], I’ll help you get the therapist, whether you want it or not."

Giuda laughed bitterly, his face stuck in the chest of his tallest peer.

"Yeah, sure. And how are you gonna do that?"

Remo let him go and asked, very seriously:

"Do you know how to play briscola [13]?"

[1]: transl. "I'm fucked" [2]: "Holy crap" + Pati = a nickname for Patrizio [3]: this is a pun with Romolo and Remo's surname, "Stella" = "Star", that here is referred as "Stellina/Stelline" = "Little Star/Little Stars" [4]: a nickname for Giuda, a diminutive of his name [5]: a Romanesco dialect exclamation that means more or less "Hey, guys!" [6]: it's a pun with Giuda's surname, Schiavon, that in italian, without the "n" at the end, is "Schiavo" = "Slave" [7]: it's a Venetian saying that literally means "on land, on sea, San Marco", but more broadly it means the power of the Venice Republic that reigned both on the land and on the sea [8]: "Good heavens, a Venetian! Niiice!" [9]: "What can I do to have a good glass of wine around here?"; in Venetian dialect, "ombra" means both "shadow" and "glass of wine" [10]: "coso" is the italian version of "thingy" and/or "dude/dingus" [11]: yes, "boiate" is the italian term for "falsehood", in this case [12]: a famous Italian soccer player, specifically from Rome [13]: a very popular Italian card game

1 - 2 - ?

see ya next time, ciao!

Quando Emilio Picani entrava al Dolce&Remì, tutte le teste si giravano. E quando tutte le teste si giravano, l'unico istinto di Giuda Schiavon era di girarsi dalla parte opposta. 

Per evitare di implodere.

Nel momento esatto in cui il giovane aveva oltrepassato la soglia, Giuda aveva capito che era lui il famoso "cugino psicologo" di Patrizio. 

E nel momento esatto in cui aveva visto il suo volto, solo una frase gli aveva rimbombato nel cervello:

- Sò ciavà.-

Il nuovo arrivato si era seduto al bancone, Remo che sembrava illuminato d'immenso, e Romolo che sembrava stesse per avere un infarto.

"Patrì. Ma stiamo a scherzare? Ce lo dovevi minimo minimo dire che tuo cugino era così bello!"

"Ma cosa stai dicendo, Romolo? Mo' dai guarda, che lo metti in imbarazzo!”

"Orco can Pati, stai calmo! Guarda che ci vuole molto di più per imbarazzarmi." aveva risposto il diretto interessato, scoccando un sorriso benevolo a Romolo, che si era limitato a ridere come una dodicenne.

- Ben ciò, perché mi mancava la competizione con la Stellina.- 

Giuda aveva lanciato uno sguardo a Remo, che stava strofinando lo stesso bicchiere da tre minuti. 

-Ah beo. Entrambe, le Stelline.-

E si era limitato a guardare il nuovo arrivato da dietro il bancone, attraverso lo specchio davanti al quale erano sistemati gli alcolici. 

Ovviamente entrambi i gemelli erano già partiti all'attacco, e Virgilio e Luca si limitavano a guardarlo con lo sguardo di due leoni affamati. 

Ovviamente, Patrizio si era accorto degli sguardi che il trentino lanciava al proprio consanguineo, e Giuda aveva scosso la testa vedendo i suoi occhi velarsi un po’.

- Se finisco anche io così mi do fuoco.-

"Sei silenzioso, Giudino." Aveva cinguettato Tommaso, l'unico a sembrare immune al fascino del nuovo arrivato. 

Giuda si era limitato a sorridere sornione, indicando il gruppetto alle sue spalle con un cenno del capo.

"Mi sto godendo gli avvoltoi."

"PFFFF sono tremendiii!" Aveva sussurrato il pasticciere mordendosi il labbro dal ridere, cosa che aveva fatto sorridere ulteriormente Giuda che quindi aveva continuato:

"Sembra non vedano un uomo da millenni eh. Veramente. E Patrizio ha la faccia di uno che si è pentito a sbrega."

"A cosa?

"Pentito molto. Devo insegnarti il veneziano prima o poi, Boss." 

Tommaso aveva annuito, e Giuda aveva deciso di mettersi sulla difensiva ancora prima che qualcuno potesse partire all'attacco.

"Che poi... Neanche fosse così figo. Bellino eh. Ma insomma, da far andare fuori di testa tutti e quattro?"

Tommaso aveva annuito, facendo spallucce. 

"Ti do ragione. E spero che a Luca questa cosa passi presto prima che Patrizio faccia una strage."

"Patrizio dovrebbe anche darsi una mossa però eh, Luca è troppo impedito per accorgersi di quanto stia sbavando come una lumaca. Se non si muove finisce che se lo prende qualcun altro e ti ricordo che l'ultima volta è andato di sbronza triste."

"Non ricordamelo, ti prego..."

"Ao, regà!" Remo era arrivato di soppiatto e li aveva presi entrambi sottobraccio, sorridendo come lo scemo che era.

"Venite a conoscere il nuovo arrivato!"

- Oh, no, ti prego.- 

"Capo fammi almeno togliere i guanti da piatti!"

"No no, li devi tenè, voglio che capisca chi comanda!" Aveva riso il maggiore dei gemelli Stella alla richiesta del suo lavapiatti. 

Maledetto.

Con un movimento degno dei peggiori ubriachi di Caracas, aveva portato Tommaso e Giuda al cospetto del nuovo arrivato, che aveva addosso un sorriso capace di sciogliere il cuore di Giuda in un istante.

E lo aveva fatto.

"Emilio, ecco il mio socio e pasticcere Tommaso Sandero, e il mio lavapiatti tuttofare quello-che-vuoi, Giuda."

"Ho un cognome anche io sai, vecchio." con un eyerolling degno di una star holliwoodiana, Giuda si era voltato verso Emilio. 

Merda, era ancora più bello, da vicino.

"Giuda Schiavon. Ti darei la mano ma ho i guanti."

"Schiavon?" Aveva chiesto Emilio illuminandosi. 

Ma quanto poteva essere bello un essere umano? Ma era legale?

"Ahah, si chiama Schiavon. Il che è perfetto visto che è il nostro..." Aveva iniziato Remo, ma Emilio aveva stretto le mani davanti al viso con aria sognante ed aveva chiesto, interrompendolo:

"Ma sei veneto anche tu? Io sono di Verona!"

Giuda si era limitato a fare spallucce, annuendo subito dopo.

"Par tera, par mar, Sammarco."

"Can del porco un Venexian! Beaaa!" 

Detto questo, si era avvicinato facendo finta di parlare in gran segreto - cosa impossibile visto che tutti lo stavano ancora fissando come se fosse una cosa meravigliosa, tranne forse Romolo che stava guardando proprio Giuda come se fosse la peggiore delle cose mai capitate a questo mondo:

"Cossa go da far pa aver na bona ombra de vin qua?" 

Stava cercando di parlare in veneziano? 

Ma c'era un limite a quanto potesse essere carino?

"Domandarghe a Remo. Io lavo i bicchieri, non li riempio mica." 

Detto questo si era girato verso il titolare, compiendo uno sforzo sovrumano per distogliere lo sguardo da Emilio, che sembrava parecchio abbacchiato dalla risposta.

"Posso tornare di là? Devo andare in cucina a finire i piatti prima che arrivi altra gente per l'happy hour." 

Si era quindi girato di nuovo verso Emilio, facendogli un cenno di saluto con un mezzo sorriso.

"Conterraneo, buona permanenza a Bologna."

E se n'era andato, senza lasciargli il tempo di rispondere.

*

Erano passati tre anni, da quel loro primo incontro. 

Tre anni nei quali Romolo aveva fatto il più divertente degli epic fail con Emilio, nei quali Patrizio si era deciso a ficcare la lingua in bocca a Luca, e Virgilio aveva fatto finta di essere ubriaco per toccare il culo di Romolo, che diceva di aver dimenticato, ma Giuda sapeva essere una balla. 

Perché lui, le balle, le subodorava, essendo un bugiardo cronico.

Infatti, nemmeno per un secondo aveva lasciato che qualcuno sospettasse minimamente della sua cotta allucinante per lo psicologo, specialmente il suddetto, visto che si era probabilmente ormai convinto di stargli sullo stomaco.  

Il che era l'intento del veneziano, visto che dava per scontato che il trentenne fosse ben oltre quello che uno come lui potesse permettersi. 

Dopo la disastrosa relazione col suo compagno di facoltà, Giuda aveva infatti deciso che single era decisamente meglio che col cuore a pezzi. 

Anche se il suo cuore non stava troppo bene. 

Trattare male Emilio gli stava facendo ormai perdere il sonno, a volte rischiava di dimenticare le lenti dalla stanchezza, e persino Virgilio lo prendeva per il culo per le occhiaie.

Ed ora era lì. I guanti in una mano ed una scopa nell'altra.

Con Remo che lo guardava con il sorriso dello Stregatto dipinto in faccia.

"A serpentino. L'ho capito eh. Te piace er veronese."

"Tu stai vaneggiando. Ora come ora lo ammazzerei. Ho fatto volare i bicchieri per colpa sua."

"Nun me piglià per il culo. Io e Tommy ti gridiamo contro in continuazione e non hai mai saltato così. Senti Coso, pure io le subodoro le stronzate, non sei mica l'unico. Fai il merda perché ti piace."

Giuda continuava a guardare il titolare negli occhi, cercando di negare con tutto il linguaggio del corpo.

"Non. Mi. Piace. Emilio. Non so cosa ti sei messo in testa, ma Mister Psicanalisi non è esattamente di mio gradimento okay?"

"Giuda..."

C'era qualcosa nel tono di Remo, qualcosa che per un attimo, aveva aperto una breccia nel cuore del veneziano. 

Forse... Forse poteva fidarsi, di qualcuno.

"...Dal primo giorno in cui è entrato qui dentro. A voi tutti è passata. Ma a me mai. Non ho una cotta per Emilio, Remo. Io sono innamorato, di Emilio. Ma ho sofferto abbastanza in passato da sapere che sto meglio da solo. E se poi va male? Con che faccia lo guardo? Come..."

"Non puoi saperlo. Voglio dire, non posso saperlo io che ci vivo assieme, come puoi farlo tu se scappi ogni volta che lo vedi?"

"Sono del parere che ciò che non sai non può farti del male."

"Fosse qua Luca urlerebbe 'Boiate'. Giuda... io..."

"Beh. Ormai il danno è fatto, no? Si sarà convinto che lo odio dopo la stronzata di oggi." 

Con una risata amara, Giuda aveva superato il romano, continuando: 

"Mi sono bruciato ogni possibilità, amen..."

"Giuda."

"... Però di sicuro mica smette di venire, siamo il suo bar preferito e tu sei il suo coinquilino..."

"Giuda piantala."

"Di sicuro troverà subito qualcuno, gli basta respirare e arriva sempre qualcuno..."

"Giuda!"

Il lavapiatti si era girato di nuovo verso Remo, mordendosi il labbro mentre le stupidissime lacrime iniziavano a scendere.

"Io non ce la posso fare okay? Dopo Mattia non so più come comportarmi, con un uomo. E poi sono un casino. Emilio non potrà mai apprezzare uno come me."

Remo era rimasto in silenzio per un attimo, prima di avanzare ed... abbracciare? Giuda. 

Il veneziano era basito, di solito era Tommaso, quello con cui a volte si permetteva gesti affettuosi.

"Ti devi de sta zitto. Non fai così schifo. E te lo giuro su Totti, io ti aiuterò a prenderti lo psicologo, che tu lo voglia o no." 

Giuda aveva riso amaramente, la faccia ficcata nel petto dell'altissimo coetaneo.

"Seh, vabbè. E come credi di fare?"

Remo lo aveva lasciato andare ed aveva sentenziato, serissimo.

"Sai giocare a briscola?"

#thomas sanders #thomas sanders au #sanders sides #sanders sides au #ts deceit #deceit sanders #sympathetic deceit #emile picani #ts emile #deceit sanders x emile picani #emceit #cartoon therapy #italian au #italian!au #giuda schiavon #emilio picani #logicality #prinxiety #remy sanders #roman sanders #virgil sanders #patton sanders #logan sanders #other people's stuff #ff #fanfiction #au

[riveires]

precursor

@toauz / @twentysixdegrees

BOM

( / she paces, antsy. the good(?) kind, fingers not exactly shaking, the rest of her body prepared to feel a high that’s to come ) first of all, you’ll know not to call it the roarin’ 50s. ( / not that a bruise would be left on rhys’ arm if she were to hit him for even thinking it. she glances at lifeboat, then at margot next, rhys last. clasps her hands together as she finally stands still in front of said time machine, tilting her head, letting out a sigh ) we’re not getting on this until i stop feeling this rush all by myself.

RHYS

[ > he leans against one of the steel pillars keeping their little hideaway from collapsing on itself, arms crossed. machinery isn't unfamiliar to him. in fact, he'd been introduced to many a contraption in the military that he had learned the mechanics of, but this one...there's something he inherently distrusts about it all, even if connor-freaking-mason says it will timetravel them. ] weren't the 20s the decade that roared? [ > pushing off, he walks closer, standing a bit behind bom, still. a good soldier trusts his higher ups, so - ] well, chief - wanna tell me something that's taboo to do in the 50s, so i don't commit a faux pas? [ > to his right, margot. ] you good, captain?

MARGOT

( / the key—or "goober" as she affectionately calls it—is deep inside her hoodie pockets—a card chip about as thin as a nail, but with enough processing power to put the highest OS on the market to bust. a little too wired to be on the blueprint for the next line of PCs, so why not just leave it on the backburner for the next best thing? ) ( / somehow next best thing is code for a state of the art time machine, but it's connor. it's 0-100 a mile a minute whenever he's involved. getting Bookworm Babe and Army Adonis up in here is just another way to push the limit. ) yeah. real peachy. ( / even if her semi-pinched expression might say otherwise—blame it on the "what the hell" thought that loops through her head for the umpteenth time ) ( / pushes herself off the beat-up sofa to stand next to bom as well, give the Lifeboat a once-over ) we'll have it easier than Bill and Ted if that'll help with the nerves. trip-wise.

RHYS

[ > the side of his lip pulls down and out, and he watches both of their backs carefully. always been terrible at faces, which is why he pays close attention to their mannerisms, instead. ] [ > not that he's been given all that long to get to know them...agent christopher moved fast, connor mason moved faster, and he's not sure that he's ever seen anyone with as much anxious energy as margot. ] i don't understand that reference. [ > or someone vibrating such terribly contained excitement as bom. ] the excitement is endearing. hell, i’d be feeling the same way if i were in your shoes. [ > but he's not. the only shoes he's in are his own, and though he doesn't think he'll need to fight tooth or nail in 1950s hollywood, his first mistake would be to completely let down his guard. ] now is there a special way to climb into this thing or should i just run, jump, and hope for the best? 

BOM 

( / nudges margot’s shoulder gently with the push of her palm, pointing her finger at her soon after. i got that reference, she mouths, nerves simultaneously eased just thinking of the comparison point indeed. ) 

how curt. ( / has her head turned back towards lifeboat, smiling tightlipped, choosing not to look back at him right away in case he really is being sarcastic after all. she spares margot a glance once more, sneaking another one that lasts a little longer in the same breath. ) also, i’m sure whatever “bad” flies now will definitely fly like it’s nothing there. ( / purses her lips in thought, squinting at the sight of the door ) get ready to be mistaken as siblings, spoken down to like we don’t speak the damn language, all that jazz.

MARGOT

( / a flash of exasperation across her features, half thank you and half can you believe this guy? ) ( / really, it's not that serious, but that's between her and bom ) ( / out loud and with a dismissive wave: ) no need. ( / delivers the side of the lifeboat a good kick, which triggers the stairs to fold out. something that should be automatic, but that's just one last minute discovery bug in the design to work through once they return. priorities. ) ( / she does the honors of climbing into the lifeboat first, goober in hand to slide it in as you would with coins into a slot machine and jackpot: baby blinks to life, lights and circuitry flickering on as they should. it's always easier to breathe when you're in your element. ) speaking of jazz, there's never a bad time for some mood music. ( / kidding! unless...? ) 

BOM

( / if overthinking is as much of rhys’ thing as it is her own, they’re definitely in for a ride. she follows suit, taking him as a ladies first type of guy. something about him... ) ( / when she’s inside with margot, the time and space between just the two of them alone brief, bom is quiet enough for him to not hear from outside. ) do you think he knows jack about that, too?

MARGOT

( / she matches her in volume ) we'll find out. ( / if not now then eventually, what with the way this "mission" has them buckled up for a ride and a half. nothing like shared history to bring people together—literally ) ( / grins and it's a full show of teeth ) but that's what you're here for if he doesn't, doc. ( / fingers dance over the dashboard, thinking to take the opportunity by the horns before he gets on board ) i'm down for taking bets if you are.

BOM

( / the hairs on the back of her neck rise when she catches glimpse of margot’s smile, eyes shifting literally anywhere else for a second before flitting over to “check on” rhys ) depends on what your idea of one is. ( / for this round anyway )

RHYS

[ > he sees the professor and their pilot climb into the lifeboat out of his peripherals. he gives agent christopher a small, relaxed salute. it's really just the hand motion, and his commander would roll over in his grave if he saw, but it's been a few since his time in the service anyways. but also - fuck him ] i may be older the both of you, but my hearing isn't that bad. [ > he sits on the little space between in and out, half of his body slung in and the other half needing a second longer. ] 'course i know jazz - played in jazz band in high school. saxophone. [ > ant then, he slings his body in, watching as the door closes behind him. ] [ > there's a look of wonder of his face but he doesn't care. eyes passing over everything on the inside, he whistles a tone, somewhere between an f and a g. ] never would i have thought i'd be here, with you two. [ > an honest smile, directed at the two he's sharing a space with. it feels weird - but this isn't an alpha-male, guard your emotions-type of shit. his therapist had helped him work through a lot of that, so he's trying to be mindful, and not fall back into that. baby steps. ] just a retired soldier getting called back into some type of service, for something i know nothing about. i'll be relying on you both quite a bit, but know that you can rely on me for anything. [ > camaraderie is a slow build of shared experiences, earned trust, and developed loyalty - but it always starts somewhere. ] i'll always do my best for you both, i promise.

MARGOT

only by what, two years? ( / well color her surprised. guess what they say about first impressions are true, after all. sweet, and a band kid to boot? huh! ) still, my mistake. ( / margot's eyes slide over to bom anyway in unspoken mischief. maybe this deal's off the table, but for next time, count her in. ) ( / the machine hums electric beneath her hands, steady like a pulse, yet it feels like she's standing on the edge of a cliff ) ( / freefall has never felt so new, so real. ) and likewise.  ( / her attention turns to the screen ) can't promise much other than a smooth ride to and fro, but it's a decent start. (  / back to the other two. ) y'all ready for this thing? 

BOM

( / is "too sweet" a thing? something tells bom rhys will never get there, this equal parts comforting and cause for curiosity more than concern. margot's a treat in another way, probably has been as cool as she is since the second grade. with all three of them on board for dixieland alone, the uneasy feeling in her stomach lessens just a bit. ) ( / she hopes she can promise even half of what the other two have the offer in her own way, holding on for the ride, as snug as can be. her turf's moments away. ) if you are. 

RHYS

as much as i'll ever be [ > he's impressed by the confidence in which margot navigates through the immensely complicated looking control panel, and he feels a little more relaxed by it in response. ] [ > a process keeps him sane, it keeps him focused. so when he feels like his soul is getting tugged out through his navel and shoved back into his head through his eyeballs, rhys tries to center himself by running through the facts of their mission: rittenhouse - big bad. more surveillance and scouting than actual engagement, but it never hurts to be prepared - ] [ > now, he just wants someone to confirm: holy shit, did they actually just time travel? ]  that is the strangest sensation i have ever experienced in my life.

#toauz #twentysixdegrees #c: margot sohn (mirae) #grp: timeless #pr: precursor

[moodyvalentinestories]

Something Just Like This Series: Part 3 – An Unlikely Alliance | Thomas Hunt x Rachel Fields

“Hey, do you think you could help me with something?”

Summary: I’m telling you, they’re being idiots. Even though they miss each other terribly, they’re not going to admit it. Like, at all. So maybe… maybe they need a little nudge in the right direction.

Pairing: Thomas Hunt x Rachel Fields

Word Count: ~ 2,400 words

Notes: Oh-oh. Is that… is that a ship waiting to happen?

❥ Moodyvalentine’s Masterlist

❥ Something Just Like This: 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | Epilogue

Rachel taking a leave of absence from school to work on her film was both a blessing and a curse. A blessing because it meant he didn’t have to see her in his class every day, a curse because the more time she spent on set, the more the speculations about her and Mr Winters’ relationship flourished. And as much as Thomas told himself he didn’t care, as much as he tried to ignore the front pages of the tabloids whenever he passed the three newsstands on his way to and from the university, as much as he avoided thinking about it by burying himself in work… it would never be enough. It would never work. Because he did care. Deeply. These last two weeks of not seeing her – not once – had been, for lack of a better word, hell. A hell he himself had created.

Even now, as his focus should have been solely on the essays of his Hollywood 101 students, she weaselled her way into his thoughts. He’d hoped staying in his office on campus late would help, as he would at least not have any reminders of her lying around – because despite how untidy it made the place look, he couldn’t bring himself to put away the necklace she’d so carelessly abandoned on his night stand before joining him in bed or take off the little note she’d pinned to his fridge when she’d left the next morning – but it was no use. She was right there, even when she wasn’t. He wondered when that would stop, if it would ever—

His train of thought was interrupted when he heard a faint knock on the door. He looked at his watch – it was late. Too late for any student to come by, especially on a Friday. Unless… His heart picked up speed. What if it was her?

“Come in,” he called out, trying to keep his voice steady. What would he say to her?

It didn’t matter. Because the girl that walked in was not Rachel. Though she may have very well been sent by her.

“Miss Sinclair, what can I do for you?” Thomas asked, clenching his jaw. How much did she know? Had he truly hurt Rachel enough for her to talk? To try and get him fired? He wouldn’t have thought she’d stoop so low. Maybe he’d given her too much credit.

The young blonde sat down across from him, folding her hands in her lap to keep them from shaking. She was scared – unlike Rachel, she wasn’t one to look for trouble – and Thomas knew then that he didn’t want to hear whatever she would say. But he would. Because if he was right, and this did have to do with Rachel, he needed to know. Anything he possibly could, he’d soak it all in.

“For me? Nothing. I lost all my respect for you when I found out that you’re the reason my best friend is crying herself to sleep every night,” she said in a hostile tone he’d never heard from her before, and it felt as if she’d put her hand right through his chest and ripped his heart out. He’d known Rachel wouldn’t have taken it well. But he’d hoped that, unlike him, she would have found a way to forget by now. Even if that way came in the form of a certain Hollywood heartthrob.

But he couldn’t let her know that. He stood up, putting both his hands on his desk as he spoke. “You should leave, Miss Sinclair. I will not let you throw around baseless accusations and—”

“No,” she said, showing no inclination to stand. She sat, looking calmer by the second, and stared him down. “I’m not leaving until I’ve said my piece. You would do well to listen. Because I’m very protective when it comes to my friends. And Rachel is my best friend, Professor.”

Thomas swallowed hard but felt inclined to obey as he sat back down. “Very well. What is it you wanted to say?”

“You’re going to make things right with her. Because, regardless of what I think of you, she cares about you. Far more than you deserve, honestly,” she said. As if he needed anyone to point that out for him. “And you’re going to do everything in your power to make her happy. Or I will not hesitate to call up my bodyguard friends and send them after you, understood?”

_____________

It wasn’t like she didn’t love what she was doing anymore. She still did. She still had her passion for it. But it was hard for her to enjoy anything when her stupid brain spent every fucking second of every fucking day thinking about him. The cast and crew all noticed, but they left her alone as long as she was on set and did her job. Except for Chris. Because Chris was just too damn nice to ignore his former friend’s suffering.

Luckily for her, he’d accepted her constant I’m fine’s and Don’t worry’s without much of an objection. Until tonight, that was. Because tonight, it seemed, he’d finally had enough. As they waited outside the studio for their respective drivers, he turned to her and said, “I’m sorry about the tabloids.”

“What?” Rachel asked, surprised that he’d even tried to start a conversation. Usually, they’d just stand next to each other in uncomfortable silence after she assured him she was fine. There wasn’t really much they could say to each other, after all.

“It’s what’s bothering you, isn’t it?” he said, tilting his head to one side. “That people are talking about us. As in us, being together.”

She had to suppress a laugh. As if she gave half a fuck about what the general public thought. Though, he wasn’t entirely wrong. The tabloids did bother her. Because, despite everything, she wondered what a certain professor of hers must have thought. He probably thinks I’m a slut for moving on so quickly. “Yeah, it kinda sucks.”

“Kinda sucks?” Chris raised an eyebrow. “Excuse my French, but you’re not acting like it kinda sucks. You’re acting like you’d rather die than work with me.”

She sighed. She didn’t want him to feel like she had an issue with being in this movie together. Because she didn’t. Starring in a film alongside him was something many – including her not long ago – could only dream of. “That’s not it. I don’t… I don’t have a problem with you. I’m just… there’s just a lot of stuff going on in my life at the moment and—” Her phone rang and she couldn’t have been more relieved. It was the perfect excuse to get out of this conversation. “I should take this. It’s probably important.”

“Of course. Yeah, sure,” Chris said and stepped away to give her some privacy.

Rachel answered the call, unsure what to expect. It was a number she didn’t recognise, but that probably just meant that Ethan had given her contact information to someone who may be interested in working with her. Why anyone would make a call about work at this hour, though, she couldn’t fathom. “Hello?”

“Are you Rachel?” someone said on the other end of the line. His voice was vaguely familiar, but she couldn’t quite put her finger on where she knew it from.

“Who’s asking?”

“This is Ryan Summers,” the man said and Rachel nearly dropped her phone. Holy crap! Of course the voice had seemed familiar – the guy was a legend! But why would he be calling her? “I got your number from Hunt… well, it’s not like he gave it to me. But I went through his phone when he wasn’t looking and I… never mind. Do you have a moment?”

Oh, for fuck’s sake. Of course this was about Thomas. How could it not have been? “Not interested,” she said, about to hang up.

“Wait! Wait, don’t… please. You’re going to want to hear this, I promise.”

She bit her lip. Of course she wanted to hear it. She wanted to hear whatever she could about him. How was he doing? Had he moved on? Of course he had. He never felt the same way about you, remember? “Fine. But make it quick.”

_____________

Addison couldn’t believe she’d just threatened her professor. Who had she turned into? This was so not her thing. Sure, she didn’t always follow the rules, but, unlike her best friend, she also wasn’t hellbent on breaking them. Damn. She was tempted to apologise immediately after but, remembering that she wasn’t doing this for herself but for Rachel, she bit back the apology and continued to stare at Professor Hunt with a stern look in her eyes.

“Miss Sinclair, I do not appreciate being threatened by a student,” he said eventually, glaring at her.

Christ, how does Rachel do it? How could anyone not be deterred by that cruel, icy glare? She would just have to try. Because she wasn’t going to give up. Remember, you’re a good actress. Just pretend this doesn’t scare the ever-loving shit out of you. “And I don’t appreciate seeing my friends in pain.”

His expression changed at that statement, and he faltered for a moment. “I—” His features hardened again. “I’m not discussing this with you. If Miss Fields wants to speak to me, tell her not to send someone in her stead next time.”

“She didn’t send me. She doesn’t even know I’m here.”

“Then I’ll assume she doesn’t want to see me,” he said and while Addison couldn’t see any emotion on his face, she heard it in his voice. It had hurt him to even say that. She opened her mouth to speak again, but he shut her down. “This is your cue to leave, Miss Sinclair. You would do well to take it.”

She huffed but got up anyway. Fine. So that had been a bust. All she’d accomplished was getting on Hunt’s bad side. But that didn’t mean she’d let this go just yet. She’d just have to try harder.

_____________

Ryan was surprised at how young the woman that had picked up the phone sounded. For a moment, he wasn’t sure if he had the right number. He’d simply chosen the number Thomas had called the most, but maybe that wasn’t right. Maybe he should have gone through his texts to be entirely certain that this Rachel woman was the right one.

His doubts disappeared soon enough when she told him she wasn’t interested. Her voice had sounded like it was laced with thousands of tiny needles. Yes, this was the woman who’d been deeply hurt by his idiot of a friend’s words. And if there had been any doubts left, they would have been entirely gone by the time she’d agreed to listen without much convincing on his part.

“Look, I don’t know who you are. Nor do I know what happened between you two. But I’ve never – or, at least not in a long time – seen him this way. I think—”

“If you’ve got something to say, just say it,” she said. “I’m tired, and I’ve got neither the time nor the patience to deal with his shenanigans.”

Ryan held back a chuckle. She sounded like a woman Hunt would go for alright. For a moment, he wondered where he’d found her – though, in the back of his mind, he already knew. He just couldn’t believe it yet. “My point is, you two should talk. I’m sure—”

“Does he want to talk to me?” she asked. Her voice sounded almost hopeful.

He swallowed hard. “Well… I…”

“That’s what I thought. Good night, Mr Summers.” And with that, she hung up.

Damn it, Ryan thought to himself as he looked out the window of the car. And then he realised where he was. Hunt’s place was less than two minutes away. Fine then. If that hadn’t worked, he’d just have to try to knock some sense into him again. He quickly told his driver the new destination. Unfortunately, he was out of luck – Thomas wasn’t home. But he wasn’t simply going to give up like that. There was another place he could try. He would find him tonight and he would get him to see reason. Somehow.

_____________

As she brainstormed how to possibly go about this endeavour on her way back to her dorm, Addison didn’t pay any attention to her surroundings and promptly crashed into someone.

“Oh, I’m sorr—” they both said at the same time and laughed.

She looked up and it took her a few seconds to recognise the man in front of her. It was dark out, after all. But once she did, she nearly had a heart attack. “You’re Ryan Summers.”

He let out a good-natured laugh. “And you are…”

“Really, really sorry. I was kind of lost in thought and… well…”

“Oh, tell me about it,” he said. He hadn’t been particularly attentive, either, as he tried to figure out how on Earth he would get Hunt to listen. “I’m pretty sure this was my fault.”

“No, no,” she said, letting out a nervous chuckle. Even after years in Hollywood, after hanging out with A-Listers left and right, she was still in awe whenever she met someone famous she had not yet talked to.

“Let’s say we’re both at fault then, hm?” She was positively adorable.

He probably just said it to make her feel better, but it would have been a stupid thing to argue about. “I can live with that.”

Before they both went their separate ways, Ryan asked, “Hey, would you happen to know if Hunt’s still in his office?”

Addison grimaced. “I mean… yes, he is. But I have a feeling he’s in a really bad mood so you may not want to talk to him.”

“What, forgot to hand in an essay on time?” he joked.

“Something along those lines,” she said with a shrug. She couldn’t very well tell him the truth, could she now?

Ryan smiled. “Well, thanks for the warning. Have a good rest of your night.”

“You too,” she replied. “And good luck. I hope I won’t read about your murder in the papers tomorrow.”

He laughed again as they continued on their ways. After taking a few steps in opposite directions, they both turned around at the same time.

“Hey, do you think you could help me with something?”

Tags: @lilyofchoices @trappedinfandoms @flyawayboo @alleksa16 @silversparrow02 @hopelessromantic1352

#wherefore art thou my professor #wherefore art thou my student #rachel #hwu #hwu hunt #thomas hunt

[mitchsmarners]

L.A Devotee

pairing: eddie kaspbrak/richie tozier [reddie] word count: 1,952 chapter count: 6 of 10 summary: child actor Richie Tozier was raised in The Industry, he knows how to play the game. He knows exactly how to keep his head down, and make his way through the famous life without attracting any extra drama. Until his management branch takes an up incoming band under their wing, and enlist Richie to publicly date the lead singer, and that all falls to shit warnings: mentions of notsfw, LOTS OF SWEARING, lots of abuse of power, abuse from a parent, some real FUCKED UP privacy issues. 

read on ao3.

Audra walked to Richie sitting at the kitchen table, dropped her phone down and slid it across the table. It had been two weeks since the news of Richie’s cheating- with some sort of blond starlet skank, and Richie had barely left his apartment. He was more than a little experienced in the Hollywood times, and he knew that the best thing to do is to simply let everything blow over. Not give paps anything  “Is this another article about me?”

“No. Not you.” Audra said glumly, taking the seat across from her best friend. Richie frowned and picked up the device, groaning at the sight of large headline.

NEW ALTERNATIVE BAND ALREADY ON THE ROCKS? HERE’S THE SCOOP ON EDDIE KASPBRAK AND BAND MATES FALLING OUT. 

“That’s not good.” Richie said, putting the phone back down and pushing it back to Audra. “Do you know what the Mother from Hell is going to do about it?”

Audra shook her head, clicking her phone screen off. “No. But this article is pretty bad. Makes Eddie look like a serious piece of shit. All of the work that they put into making you look like some dirt bag in your relationship with Eddie have been for nothing. People are already speculating online that Eddie’s behaviour pushed you to cheat on him.”

Richie groaned again, running his fingers through his hair. “So I’m going to get hit with some more bad press to make Eddie look good again?”

Audra let out a low, harsh breath. “I don’t know what they’re going to do. They could easily spin this on Eddie. Play him off as some sort of terrible person, pump you back up, start paying attention to some other member of their band...”

“Or they could drop them.” Richie said quietly, tapping his fingers against the counter. “This kind of drama without even an album dropped, no real results? It might not be a risk they want to take.” 

Audra nodded. “Yeah, no. You’re right. I can see it. Then Eddie will just be some wannabe that you used to go out with.” Audra rolled her eyes. “Sucks. They could have been great, but I think... most of the things in this article about Eddie and Stan are true.”

Richie tapped his whole palm against the counter just once, then pushed away from the table, yanking out his own phone. 

“Where are you going!?!” Audra called to him as Richie walked from the room, holding a finger over his shoulder. The other end rang so long that Richie began to tap his foot angrily on the ground, knowing that his caller ID had been seen and they were hoping he would hang up. But Richie wasn’t going to shove aside.

“Hello, you’ve reached the line of Margaret Tozier. She unfortunately can’t come to the phone right now-”

“Cut the shit, Kevin.” Richie broke through, pinching the brim of his nose. “We both know she’s literally listening in on this phone call because you saw my name when the phone started to ring. Put her on, and get the fuck off. Or I swear to God-” 

“What is it Richard?” Maggie’s voice finally came through the line, but Richie remained silent until he heard the sound of her assistant clicking off the line. 

“You’re going to drop Eddie’s band, aren’t you?” Richie said sharply. “Because of that leak?”

Maggie was quiet on the other end. “Not because of the leak.” She finally responded. “Because what was said in the leaks were true. We’re not going to put our money or time into a band that’s just going to have a bunch of issues and crash into chaos half way through a tour. You have to understand that.” 

“Well, I don’t.” Richie lied. Trying to pretend that hadn’t been a thought of his own this whole time. “It’s not... it’s not like that with them. Maybe they’re fighting right now, whatever. Stan and the guys, they’re good dudes and Eddie... Eddie isn’t like what those leaks said, okay? He’s not. This is their dream. You can’t tease them with it and then take it away. Not after the fucking hoops you made Eddie jump through. The only reasons there’s any fighting at all is because of you!”

Another silence from the other side of the line, and Richie let out a frustrated sigh. “Richard, are you in love with this boy?”

Richie almost growled. “NO, Mother.” Richie smacked himself in the face, not sure how else to get his feelings out in that moment. “It’s not even about that, it’s just... they’re good, you know they’re good. So maybe if you just left them alone, stop making them do fucking bullshit publicity and trying to keep Eddie separate from the band like that shit you pulled with that meeting last week, then they’d fine!” 

“And what are we supposed to do about these accusations about Edward?” Maggie counted. “It’s too early in his career for people to be talking about him being a bad person. The time hasn’t come for bad publicity.”

“Oh fuck off.” Richie said with an eye roll. “You expect me to believe that you don’t have something up to your sleeve that can take the attention away from this? Eddie and his band are good people, and they’re good musicians, okay? I know you pull something.”

More silence. Richie squeezed his eyes shut, knocking his head against the forehead. 

“Please, Mommy.”

“... I’ll see what I can do, Richard.”

xxx

The next morning Richie and Audra were awoken with a loud banging from the front door. Richie rolled from his bed and smashed his face against the ground. Richie groaned and rubbed at what would no doubt become a bruise on his forehead. 

“RICHARD! OPEN THIS FUCKING DOOR RIGHT NOW!” 

Eddie Kaspbrak?  Richie blinked and grabbed for his eye glasses, stumbling to his feet. He hadn’t heard from Eddie- because of strict orders- since their break up had been released to the public. And he sounded beyond pissed. 

Richie tossed the door open, Audra stumbling out of her room just behind them. “Hey, Eds, what’s-” Richie coughed out the end of his sentence as Eddie’s fist connected angrily with his chest. Richie wheezed, clutching at himself and stepping backwards. Eddie followed him in, punching at Richie anywhere he could reach.

“You stupid, motherfucking piece of shit!” Eddie screamed, tears on his face and voice pitching high. “You goddamn greasy whore! FUCK YOU! I can’t believe I ever thought you- FUCK!” 

Eddie’s hand collided with the side of Richie’s face, and Audra finally snapped out of her shock. She ran forward and squeezed herself between the raging Eddie and now shaking Richie. “Whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa. What the hell is going on, Eddie!?!”

Eddie let angry heaves of breath, glaring at Richie as the other boy rubbed his cheeks and tried to hold back the tears in his eyes. “This fucking bastard recorded us having sex and didn’t fucking ask me. Didn’t even TELL me.”

Audra whipped around to glare at Richie, but found him looked at Eddie in complete confusion even as his cheek was starting to swell up. “What the fuck are you talking about?”

“Don’t play stupid!” Eddie cried, tears still pouring down his face even as his face was bright red with anger. “It’s all over the fucking Internet! Everybody has fucking seen it, you FUCKING perv.”

Richie shook his head, a dazed expression coming over him. “Eddie, I swear to God I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about.” 

There must have been something in Richie’s voice, or his face, he wasn’t sure, but it was like something in Eddie deflated. His cheeks were still red, and his arms were still shaking, but he suddenly looked more uneasy than anger. “Come on.” He said a little sharply. “I’ll show you.”

Audra quickly bundled up a bag of ice and handed it to Eddie. Eddie moved over and pressed the bag to Richie’s swelling cheek. “You could say sorry for hitting me seven thousand times,” Richie grumbled, wincing at the ice touched his skin. 

Eddie glared at him darkly. “I’m not apologizing for shit until I’m completely convinced I’m not going to kill you for this.”

Richie sighed, letting Audra lean beside them as the video loaded. It was clearly Richie’s bedroom, Richie sucking marks down Eddie’s chest while Eddie whimpered under him. Richie’s stomach churned and he couldn’t let it play for longer than 30 seconds before he smashing the laptop’s keys to get it to stop.

He pressed a hand over his mouth, and Eddie’s expression finally lost all trace of anger. He leaned past Richie’s shoulders to look at his face. “Richie. Are you okay?”

“I don’t understand.” Richie admitted, frowning even though it sort of hurt his face. “That’s us. That’s my room. But I don’t... I didn’t put a fucking camera in my room. Before Eddie, I hadn’t even had sex with somebody in that bed before.”

“What?!?” Eddie squawked but Richie just shook his head. 

There was a serious, dark look on Audra’s face. She run her tongue along her bottom lip and booked it from the table, running towards Richie’s bedroom. Eddie and Richie exchanged a long look before Eddie dropped the ice bag to the table and they chased after her. 

As Eddie and Richie got into the bedroom, Audra was standing on Richie’s bed, staring up at his over head fan. 

“Hey... whatacha doin...” Richie said slowly. 

Audra looked down at him, and there was level of crazy in her eyes that Richie hadn’t seen in years. Eddie shuffled a little closer to Richie, standing half behind him. “This is the angle from the video right,” Audra said, gesturing wildly around the room. “And we can’t deny that. So there’s a camera in here. Even if Richie didn’t put it up, somebody did.”

Richie nodded slowly, feeling Eddie leaning into his space. He was a little concerned with how quickly Eddie had gone from ready-to-murder-him to using-him-for-comfort, but he shrugged it off. If the situation had been reversed, Richie probably would’ve been out for blood too, if he’d been Eddie.

Audra looked back up, narrowing her eyes at the fan once again. “Eddie, Richie, somebody get me the baseball bat from under the bed.”

“You keep a baseball bat under your bed?” Eddie asked, widening his eyes as Richie moved to toss it towards her. 

“Yeah,” Richie shrugged. 

Audra clutched the baseball bat, and gave zero warning before swinging it up to collide with the fan. The fan smashed open, piece flying everywhere. Eddie let out a startled cry, Richie diving towards him and shoving Eddie behind him. Audra knocked the bat into the remaining parts of the fan before sighing and tossing the bat aside. 

Richie and Eddie stepped closer as Audra knelt down to start picking through the pieces of the fan. Finally, she pulled out a camera with ruined ends from being forced out of the ceiling. Eddie glanced up, narrowing his eyes until he could see the frayed ends from the camera’s cord that buried itself into the ceiling. 

Richie walked forward slowly, taking the camera from Audra’s hands and turning it over in his hands. He ran his fingers along the engraved writing; BURNS-TOZIER MANAGEMENT DEPARTMENT. 

Richie’s stomach heaved and he barely made it to the bedside garbage can before he was losing whatever was in there. 

#reddie #reddie fic #richie tozier #eddie kaspbrak #my writing

[faveficarchive]

I’ve Been to Pocatello, but I’ve Never Been to Me

Another White Trash Tale of Depravity, Soul-Searching, and Potato Chips

By Vivian Darkbloom

Pairing: Xena/Gabrielle

Rating: Mature

Synopsis: This is the fourth installment in the White Trash Series. Gabrielle learns all about Zina’s dark past when a few unwanteds wander back into her girlfriend’s life.

1. An Interlude in the Manner of Pinky and the Brain

"Gabrielle, are you thinking what I'm thinking?"

"I think so, baby. I'll go get your fire helmet and the nacho cheese dip."

"No, I'm not thinking about that."

"Okay. Let me try again." A hopeful pause. A batting of fair eyelashes. A comely pout. "Your fire helmet and the vibrator?"

Zina sighed. Her fire helmet—the penultimate symbol of her profession, a badge of pride, a lifesaving device—had been reduced, by Gabrielle, to both a fetish object and a receptacle for foodstuffs. She was just grateful that Gabrielle had decided the helmet was ill-suited for use as a pitcher for margaritas (her hair had smelled like tequila for weeks). "I'm thinking…"

"Always a bad sign, baby."

"…like maybe we should go to the movies."

Gabrielle regarded her skeptically. "Really?" She loved to go to movie theaters, but since Zina found the entire experience stressful—dealing with large, inane groups of people was not the firefighter's forte—they did not go very often.

Zina cleared her throat. This "being sensitive" shit is really hard. "Listen, Gabrielle, I thought, you know, you deserve a night out, a night where we do something different…'cause, uh, I know your finals were hard."

"I agree, absolutely. So like I said, let me go get your helmet and the vibrator…"

"Now, how is that special? We've done that plenty of times."

"Well, this time I'll let you wear the helmet, stud." With a wiggle of her eyebrows, Gabrielle ran upstairs. Grinning, Zina followed. She was more than willing to do whatever it would take to make the little poet happy…especially when it involves sex, thought the firefighter, as she took the steps two at a time.

*****

Cyrene stepped out of her Volkswagen, humming the crazy violin part of "Baba O'Riley," her head bobbing up and down, and approached the front door of the farmhouse. She lingered on the porch as she peered into the daunting recesses of her macramé purse, looking for the house keys, something that was hard to do in the evening light. A full fifteen minutes passed, during which she found some Chiclets from 1977 and the results of an VD test from 1990 (Hey, I'm negative! Cool!), before she finally found the keys. Still humming, she entered the darkened home that her daughter shared with Gabrielle. She wound her way through the black hallway to the kitchen, where she snapped on the light. She clapped her hands together and rubbed them briskly. Okay, I've got a half an hour before the meeting, just enough time to make hummus…

"Ayiyyiyiyiyiyiyiyiyiyiyiyi!" The strange cry ripped through the room and, not wasting any time, Cyrene grabbed the nearest butcher knife and, with a less exotic shriek of her own, jumped on the kitchen counter. Her daughter was crouched in the doorway, nude, ready to pounce, wielding a baseball bat…and with a fire helmet ever so slightly askance on her head.

"Jesus, Zina!" Cyrene cried, as her adrenaline rush subsided. "What the fuck was that?"

Zina grinned. "Just a little something I picked up from the Discovery Channel," she said proudly. "Didn't know you could still jump that fast, Mom." She rose to her full height and leaned the bat in a corner. "Sorry. I thought you were a burglar or somethin'."

"I didn't think you were home, honey. Gabrielle said I could use the house tonight for an LPN group meeting."

"LPN?" Zina echoed. Her mother wanted to become a nurse?

Cyrene sighed. Another disbeliever. "Legalize Pot Now."

The firefighter snorted. "Oh, for Christ's sake."

Cyrene jabbed a finger of maternal authority at Zina. "Yeah, man, scoff all you want. All I can say if it weren't for pot, you wouldn't be here right now!" Somehow a Chevy van, a bottle of Boone's Hill strawberry wine, an 8-track tape of Badfinger, and a draft dodger with a droopy mustache had appeared all the more erotic and alluring under the influence of a fat joint.

Footsteps on the stairs announced Gabrielle's arrival. The lithe poet had taken a minute to make herself presentable for dangerous felons, and had thrown on a t-shirt and shorts. But her mussed hair, reddened lips, and flushed face announced, louder than a Siegfried and Roy show at Vegas, what she and her hunky firefighter had been up to. "Cyrene? What the hell—"

"You forgot, didn't you?" Cyrene accused gently.

"Oh…shit! I did! I'm sorry." She apologized to two generations of bad-ass chicks at once. Both scowled at her. "Uh, Zina, didn't you say you wanted to go to the movies?"

2. Mrs. Peel, We're Needed

The trip to the movies also involved babysitting Purdy, who was having a fight with Lila. He had called up Gabrielle a few minutes before they were about to leave for the theater, to see if she wanted to get drunk at the Saddle. Soft-hearted little poet that she was, she invited him along. "Is that okay?" she sheepishly asked Zina after the fact.

Zina shrugged. "Sure."

"Zina, you're so nice to Purdy. It's sweet."

"I figure anyone who dumped you for your sister needs some special treatment, if you know what I mean." She waggled a finger in a circle alongside her head.

They met Purdy at the theater. He stood, sulky, in the parking lot, leaning against his Ford pickup, John Deere cap pulled low in an attempt to make his babyfat face more menacing. "Hiya, Gab, Hiya Zina," he greeted. "So, what movie are we seeing?"

Gabrielle smirked with pride. "The Avengers."

Purdy made a face. "Gab, you always pick these artsy-fartsy foreign films!"

Zina nodded in agreement. "Yeah! With these snooty British people or something," she piped up.

"Knock it off, both o' you. I'll have you know that things blow up in this movie, and that Uma Thurman chick runs around wearing leather. It can't be bad."

A skeptical grunt issued forth from the firefighter as they headed into the multiplex. After they bought tickets, Gabrielle immediately took off in the direction of the concession stand. But she didn’t get very far before Zina snagged her arm. "Don't do it," her companion purred in her ear.

Such a suggestive, seductive tone made the blonde poet want to do it even more. "I don't know what you're talking about," she protested, lying, trying to squirm out of Zina's grip.

"You know what I mean, Gabrielle. Don't do it. Don't give in."

Gabrielle stopped thrashing and met Zina's eyes. "Okay, okay. I won't. I swear."

The blue eyes held her gaze for a moment. "All right, then." The firefighter released her. "Get me a Coke, okay? See you down front." She headed for the theater.

As Gabrielle waited patiently in line, she drank in the smell of rancid popcorn and butter. Popcorn. I'll just get some popcorn. With feigned casualness she surveyed the boxes of candy in the display case; the green eyes flickered and hesitated for a nanosecond at the Raisinet boxes, but then continued their thorough scan of the candy. Okay, that was fine. I didn't feel a thing.

Nonetheless she turned away abruptly and studied the faded wallpaper. Oh my…that's a nice pattern. I never thought green and brown could work together like that...Then she turned her attention to a new movie poster: Weekend at Bernie's 3: "This Time It's Personal…Hygiene."

Then the voices began.

Gabrielle.

No! She clutched her forehead. "I'm not listening," she muttered aloud, causing a glance from the burly gentleman in front of her wearing a cowboy hat and a Charlie Daniels Band t-shirt.

Gabrielle! It's us. Please listen!!!

"Stop it!" Gabrielle growled. The large cowboy shifted away from her slightly.

You must listen. Only you can set us free. Gabrielllllllllllle…

"No!"

Look at us.

She shook her head savagely.

Come. Look. Or do you fear us?

Timidly the poet turned, slowly, and looked.

The box of Raisinets glowed with a preternatural beauty, even more striking than Zina in full firefighter regalia (or buck naked for that matter), and the voices of the Raisinets, blending together with mellow effervescence and sounding precisely like the two midget women in that little box from the Mothra movies, sang their siren song of freedom to their golden-haired liberator: Gabriellllllle…buy us, eat us!

"Ohhhhh…all right!" screamed the poet, scaring away not only the Charlie Daniels guy but also the couple in front of him, and thus effectively shortening the line.

Arms cradling the Coke, the popcorn, a bunch of candy bars, and the evil Raisinets, Gabrielle waddled down the aisle to where her companions sat. She tossed a giant Kit Kat bar at Purdy and thrust a Coke at Zina; both firefighter and mechanic noted the Raisinets lying in her lap.

"Don't say anything," Gabrielle snarled at them.

A long silence ensued. It was finally broken by Purdy's guffaw. "You'll be on the can all night long, then havin' bad dreams," he chastised her. "Man, I am so glad I don't live with you anymore!"

She gave a lunge toward him, sending popcorn flying, but was restrained by Zina's powerful arm. "Down, girl," said the firefighter.

"They…they…" stammered Gabrielle.

"Yeah, I know, honey bunny, they were talking to you…" Zina replied, as if Gabrielle were a reject from the Special Olympics.

"They were!" wailed the poet, as the previews began.

Twenty minutes later, as Zina snored through a trailer for a Brad Pitt film, Purdy, arms folded, threatened once again: "This better be good."

"It can't be bad," assured Gabrielle, whose childlike faith in Hollywood, while tremendously touching, was sorely misplaced, misguided, and plainly retarded.

*****

It was bad.

"How stupid could I be!" cried Gabrielle, as they left the theater for the lobby. "To think that anyone else could be Mrs. Peel!"

"Well, duh," Zina agreed.

"But things sure blowed up pretty good," Purdy said. Zina nodded in assent.

It was all that mattered, really.

"Hey, isn't that Callie over there?" Gabrielle asked apprehensively, grasping her beloved's arm and nodding to a small, poorly dressed group that circled the front of the multiplex and carried strange signs: "THE AVENGERS" PROMOTES UNNATURAL CLOTHES, one said. LEATHER IS FOR BOOTS ONLY, proclaimed another.

Sure enough, the crazed blonde was in the eye of the protesting storm. However, upon spotting the movie-going trio of Zina, Gabrielle, and Purdy, she bore down on them like a bulimic toward a toilet bowl.

"Well!" sniped Callie by way of greeting, "I can guess what sick film you three have been seeing."

Zina rolled her eyes. "Callie, you are pathetic. There was nothing weird in that film. Hell, it was so boring I fell asleep who knows how many times."

"Five," supplied Gabrielle, with some measure of irritation.

"It figures you wouldn't notice the fine details, Zina," Callie sneered haughtily. "The clothing was scandalous and suggestive. It was perverted." Even speaking of the dreaded film caused Callie to grip her jumbo-sized Sprite a little tighter, even though her hand could barely get around it as it was.

"So I take it you actually saw the film?" Gabrielle asked coolly.

"No, of course not! I'm not spending money to see such filth!"

"Lady, you are bonkers," Purdy mumbled.

"What?" hissed Callie.

"You heard me!" he retorted defiantly.

She threw her drink at him, drenching him with sticky carbonated coolness. "You crazy bitch! This is my best flannel shirt!" he cried as she stalked away from them.

"Yeah! You get back here, you bitch!" Gabrielle shouted. She tried to take off after Callie, but found Zina's restraining arm around her midriff.

"What the hell's gotten into you?" Zina asked, perturbed that Gabrielle would get so upset over such a matter—of course, it would have been different had Callie thrown the drink on her, then it would be acceptable for Gabrielle to flip out. But over Purdy? She makes absolutely no sense when she's PMSing, thought Zina, who nonetheless enjoyed the sensation of the wiggling Gabrielle pressed against her.

"She's pushed me too far, Zina! I can't have her throwing drinks at my ex-boyfriend! I got my pride!"

"Yeah, and it's pretty warped, I'd say."

"Lemme go!" demanded the angry poet.

"Gabrielle, don't you remember once…you told me the cycle of violence and hatred must be broken…."

Finally Gabrielle slipped out of the firefighter's loose grasp. "For Christ's sake, Zina, I had four shots of tequila when I said that! Now lemme go kick that twat's ass!" She stomped over to Callie for a Meeting of the Blondes. A brief interaction ensued: Callie, motionless, with eyebrows raised, watched Gabrielle gesticulate all over the place.

It ended with one punch.

Zina was amazed at how quickly Callie could run in heels. The minister was in her Camaro and tearing out of the parking lot before she and Purdy reached the prostrate poet.

"Gabrielle?" The firefighter gently shook the unconscious form. Her frightened blue eyes locked onto the anxious Purdy. "Quick, get some chocolate!"

*****

"Mrs. Peel?" The voice, with its clipped British accent, was vaguely familiar to Gabrielle. Nonetheless her eyelids refused to open until she felt something soft tapping her cheeks.

Willpower pried open her eyes, which could not believe what they were seeing.

It was Zina, kneeling in front of her, grinning, wearing a dark blue pinstripe suit and a bowler hat, a white carnation gracing her lapel. "Mrs. Peel, are you all right?" Zina asked again, in impeccable, more-upper-class -than-thou English tones.

Those goddamn Raisinets!!!! She tried blinking several times in hopes of dispelling the hallucination. No go. "Is it Halloween again?" she whispered timidly.

Zina frowned. "I say, my dear, you simply are not yourself. You even sound different, Mrs. Peel."

Why does she keep…Gabrielle tried to move and her body, which felt taut, tense, and immobile, made a strange, flatulent noise. She looked down the length of her form. She was clad in a tight black leather bodysuit and boots.

…calling me that? She was attired just like Mrs. Peel. "Oh, God," she moaned. She looked at Zina, who was still looking ever so concerned in a restrained, British kinda way.

"So. You must be Steed." Gabrielle ventured the guess nervously.

The tall, dark-haired woman smiled at that. "Verrrry good," she replied with imperial condescension. "Now, do you remember anything else?"

Gabrielle gritted her teeth as she attempted to sit up again, which elicited a protracted farting noise from her leather outfit. This time she was successful. "Like what?"

"Ohhh, let's see," Zina sighed in thought, "The Cybernauts? The Hellfire Club? Castle De'Ath?"

"Uh…yeah. I do." Except I wasn't Mrs. Peel, I was only sitting on the floor in the living room eating Screaming Yellow Zonkers and wishing I were her.

"Encouraging!" replied Zina/Steed.

And they were off, driving through the countryside, drinking champagne, listening to Petula Clark…. Downtown!

She held out her glass for more champagne (and how did Steed manage to pour and drive at the same time?) but when she brought it to her lips there was a telegram inside the glass. "What's this?" she asked.

"Good news, Mrs. Peel. Your husband, Purdy Peel, has been found in the Amazon…"

In an Amazon? Surely not Effie! "My husband? But I—I was never married!" wailed Gabrielle.

"So I'm afraid it's time for all our glamorous adventures to come to an end…"

"They can't!"

"But you must do your duty…"

"No!"

The Bentley entered a tunnel. All was darkness….

….and Gabrielle opened her eyes. She was back home, in the bedroom she shared with Zina, and the tall firefighter was sitting on the bed, watching her with concern. Fortunately, sans the bowler hat.

"Sugar booger!" she cried, sitting up. She flung her arms around Zina.

"Gabrielle! How are you feeling, honey?" Zina gave her girlfriend a squeeze, a kiss on the cheek, and rubbed her back.

"Better. Baby, I had this crazy dream—"

"Didn't I tell you not to eat the Raisinets?"

"I know. But this was different somehow...."

"You mean you have diarrhea this time?"

"No! Zina, listen. I was going through a tunnel, and you know that usually means—"

"Sex!" Zina's sapphire eyes lit up like a gas grill.

"Yeah, but it scared me a little. Like I feel the tunnel represents something else. 'Cause I was afraid to go through it. You know how I hate change…like I was ready to kill you when you got a different kind of toilet paper. But I think this is something serious, something I gotta think about. Like what I'm gonna do with my life. And what everything means. I feel like this dream was trying to impart some important message to me about my life, my writing…but what the bowler hat represented, I have no idea…" Gabrielle trailed off, and so had Zina's infant-like attention span—the baby blues were focused on the switchblade she pulled out of her pocket. With a flick of the wrist, Zina began to pare her nails. Gabrielle cleared her throat loudly. "Honey, do me a favor. Would you get that big book out of the bathroom for me?"

Zina nodded. Still fiddling with the switchblade, she shuffled into the bathroom. Five minutes passed. The toilet flushed. "I don't see anything!" she finally cried.

You damn—"It's under your copy of Guns and Ammo!" Gabrielle yelled.

A pause. "Oh." Zina returned, with a large hardcover tome. It was titled The Woman's Dictionary of Symbols, Signs, and Secret Meanings: Dream Interpretation for Quasi-Feminists. The book had been a Christmas gift from Cyrene. With the book splayed in her lap, Gabrielle flipped pages until she reached this entry, nestled between "Bowl of Oatmeal" and "Butane Lighters":

BOWLER HATS: Traditionally seen as a symbol of male bourgeoisie, the bowler hat takes on subversive meaning in dreams when it is worn by a woman. Its black color represents power, and the round, curvaceous shape calls to mind the feminine form. Nominally the dream figure wearing the hat is seen as powerful, a person whose acceptance of self is something that you strive for.

Gabrielle looked at her companion skeptically. Zina was flipping the switchblade in her hand, then, with a sudden growl and a cry of "Hee-yah!" flung the blade across the room until it landed, bull's eye, in a decrepit dart board. She smirked with pride.

"Zina, I'm having a spiritual crisis kinda thing going on. Least you could do is leave the switchblade alone."

The firefighter blinked and looked at her girlfriend. "Oh. Yeah, sorry, Gabrielle." Like a scolded puppy she returned to the bed.

"Maybe this is why I'm having a writer’s block, too," mused the blonde.

"Don't worry, honey, you'll get your groove back." Zina admired her neatly trimmed nails, then shot Gabrielle a sly, lusty look. "We could have sex—that usually helps you write."

"Yeah, but I usually end up writing epic poems about your thighs. Not that that isn't a worthy subject, but…no. I gotta work this out. It's like a…quest. A spiritual quest, you know?"

"No." No, of course not. For Zina, a spiritual quest would be finding the perfect hunting knife.

"Well, it is. I have to discover who I am, and what my life means, and find inner peace."

They were quiet for a long minute. "I still think sex would help," Zina finally said.

Gabrielle pondered this. "Better safe than sorry." She peeled off her shirt.

3. Anything that Moves

The following day found Gabrielle answering a fateful knock at the door.

She blinked at the tall, dark stranger on the doorstep. "I am looking for Zina." He spoke heavily accented English.

Mentally, Gabrielle pulled out the Zina Ex-Lover Checklist (Male Version):

1. Does he have overstyled facial hair? Yes! Not as weird as Artie's, though.

2. Long and/or dark hair? Uh-huh.

3. Muscular and/or dangerous looking, like he just got out of prison? Absolutely.

4. An obvious death wish? We'll soon find out.

The Male Version of the Checklist did certainly help narrow the field a bit, unlike the Female Version, which was:1. Blonde?She leaned in the doorway. "Okay, man, I got your number. Welcome to Zinaholics Anonymous. I'm Gabrielle, and I can't sponsor you, because I'm a happy addict."

The man scowled at her. "A simple 'hello' would work just as well."

"Who are you?"

This did not erase his look of displeasure. "My name is Boris. I have come to see Zina about…" He paused melodramatically. "…our puppy."

"Puppy?"

"Da. We had puppy together…many years ago."

"A puppy?" Gabrielle gasped. Talk about commitment! Zina never wants us to have a pet! Every time I bring it up…"Too much responsibility, Gabrielle." She stomped over to the foot of the stairs. "Zina!" she roared up into the air. "Get your ass down here now!"

Various curses filtered down from the second floor of the house. "All right, all right, goddammit." A clunk emanating from above indicated that a barbell was threatening to come crashing through the ceiling. Sleek, sweaty, and pumped, Zina trooped down the stairs. And stopped just before hitting the last step. "Boris," she snarled. "I thought you were dead!" Great, another ex for Gabrielle to deal with. I'll never hear the end of it.

He looked blank for a moment, then threw up his arms. "Can't you read? The telegram said Dagnine killed me in the chess tournament. Not in real life, you eeediot!" He shook his head, dismayed, then gave her a less severe scrutiny. "But…Stolichnaya!" he murmured. "You still look fabulous!"

The firefighter ignored this. "What the hell do you want?"

A hurt look crossed his face. "What a greeting! Zeeeeena, I have not seen you for…what? Ten years?"

"Seven."

"I thought that was when you met Julie Caesar," Gabrielle interjected.

"Ummm, maybe five."

"Who is Julie Caesar?" Boris said.

"Maybe it's closer to eight…" Zina mused.

"Or nine," added Gabrielle.

"Maybe I should ask Mom…"

"Zina, every other week your mother thinks it's 1972. I don't think so." Only a few days prior Cyrene had traipsed up to Gabrielle and said, "Hey, man, they're starting this cool thing called Earth Day! Wanna go?"

"Who is this Julie Caesar?" Boris demanded again.

"Look, dickhead, I'm the main squeeze here, not you, so stop acting jealous. Okay, Zina," Gabrielle pointed at Boris, "let's hear all about this one. I'm ready for another long, crude story about your past. I just bought a jumbo-sized tub of potato chips, so I'm set. Spill it."

"Gabrielle, I can't—it's just too damn ugly." There were few things Zina was truly ashamed of doing…but this part of her life, with Boris, was simply too painful and hideous to contemplate. And if she couldn't deal with it…what made Gabrielle think that she could?

"Come on, I know everything else, baby. The drug deals, the stolen cars, setting Callie's house on fire—"

"You set somebody's house on fire?" cried Boris, aghast. The Russian's eyes widened in horror.

"—the shoplifting, picking up a Girl Scout—"

"She told me she was a troop leader!" the firefighter blurted in feeble defense.

"—beating up your parole officer, all the ABBA albums you had—"

"Why won't you admit 'SOS' is a great song?"

"—so the point is, Zina, I know all the bad stuff, so…trust me. I love you. I married you. I wash your t-shirts. Tell me."

"You want the truth? You can handle the truth!" Zina roared.

A stunned silence followed.

The firefighter shrugged sheepishly. "Sorry. I always wanted to say that."

"Tell me," demanded the poet quietly, folding her arms.

The firefighter sighed in defeat, and her beautiful countenance hardened into a spiteful sneer. "You wanna hear about it? All right, Gabrielle, you asked for it…" Her jaw shifted defiantly. "Boris and I were semi-professional ice skaters. We spent years—well, I guess maybe only one—trying to make it big at the Pocatello Ice Follies."

"Pocatello…?" echoed the poet.

"Da," Boris affirmed. "It's a town in that—ahhhh, what do you Americans call your potato state?"

"Idaho," Zina supplied curtly. "Anyway, the Ice Follies….It's like a dry run for the Ice Capades."

Gabrielle backed up away from her beloved, and gripped the arm of the decrepit couch. No. Totally uncool! My big, tough macho dyke girlfriend…a figure skater?

"And we made Tonya Harding look good," Boris added glumly.

"Yeah, Boris is right. We were the worst of the worst. The lowest of the low. I wore a pink chiffon bodysuit. And Boris made Rudy Galindo look butch." The Russian scowled at this. "We performed to 'You Light Up My Life'…"

"And that cute song from Cats. What's it called, Zina?" Boris started to hum "Memory." Without thinking, Zina picked up the melody and did the same.

"STOP!" shrieked Gabrielle. Pink? Ice skating? Debby Boone? Eyes staring blankly, she sank numbly into the depths of the couch.

"Zeeeeena, I think she's in shock," Boris said, waving a hand in front of Gabrielle's glassy, fixed stare.

4. Another Obligatory Flashback

Practice ended badly; a poorly executed triple axle landed Zina on her ass and ripped her costume. Boris was supposed to catch her, but he was not on his mark, where he should have been, but was at the edge of the rink with Alti, their coach, indulging in a prolonged smoke and discussion about various brands of vodka. Furious, she stomped over to her oblivious lover, cold-cocked him (eliciting an evil cackle from Alti in the process), and stalked back to their trailer, which was parked outside the rink

She didn't hit him too hard—he was only unconscious for half an hour—and, as she anticipated, he skulked back to the trailer, apologetic, and they proceeded to make up by screwing frantically under the canopy of the fuzzy, musty panda bear blanket they had bought from Woolworth's a few months ago.

Afterwards, while she snored he threw on a pair of jeans and hunted for another bottle of vodka. Bah! She hid it again! Greedy bitch! He returned to the bedroom, determined to wake her up and find out where the vodka was. However, sitting down beside her, he was overtaken by a moment of tenderness as he watched her sleep. Softly, he called her name. "Zina."

She sputtered, drooled, and grunted. He smiled. How he loved her! Gently, he shook her naked shoulder. "Zina, my beloved. Light of my life, fire of my loins, my sin, my soul, Zeeeena—"

A bleary blue eye cracked open and glared at him. "We're outta condoms, so don't even think about it."

He laughed merrily. "My darling, your crudeness is so charming. No, I just wanted to tell you…" His dark eyes were solemn. "I think I love you."

Like a cultural Pavlov's dog, all Zina could think about was the Partridge Family. The big yellow bus! Danny Bonaduce! Susan Dey in all her bitchy glory! "I think I'm gonna puke." She rolled over.

"This was not the reaction I had hoped for."

"Too fucking bad."

"It's all this…stress, all this nonsense that's making you act like this." He disregarded the fact that she had always been like this, even when they were trying to open up the Chinese/Tex-Mex restaurant with Lao Ma. He still shuddered involuntarily at the thought of it; he loved her, without a doubt, but he was damned if she didn't have the weirdest ideas when it came to food. And why Lao Ma indulged her…Well, I know why Lao Ma indulged her, he thought darkly, reflecting upon that miserable day when he caught them together. She was just washing my hair, Zina had said, and then we both got all wet, so we took off all our clothes to dry, but there weren't any towels, so we were just rubbing our bodies together—just to get dry!

But oh, Zina, if that's true, then why were you still…so wet? He wanted to cry, the pain of the betrayal was still so fresh. But he forced back the thoughts. "Zina, please," he continued. "I mean it. We could be so happy if we only stopped doing this…crap. Let's face it, neither one of us can skate to save our own lives."

Her body rippled with a sigh.

"You know I'm right," he pushed.

"Yeah, I guess you are," she conceded. "We should talk to Alti later and tell her it's not workin' out. Right now, I wanna sleep."

Unfortunately, a banging commenced upon the semi-sturdy door of the trailer. "Go the fuck away!" Zina shouted, pulling the blanket over her head.

He sighed. Apparently the Big Love Discussion would have to wait as well. He padded over to the door and opened it. It was Alti, a Pall Mall dangling (as always) from her lips, her mascara heavy and smeared, making her look like a cross between an aging Cure fan and an insomniac raccoon. "Boris, is she all right?" She nodded toward the bedroom.

"Is she all right?" he spat, incredulous. "She's the one who hit me!" Furious, he pointed at his swollen nose.

"Whatever," Alti grunted. "Can we come in for a moment?" It was at the mention of "we" that Boris noted a lithe blonde woman, wearing a short coat and a skirt, hovering inconspicuously behind Alti.

He frowned with suspicion. "I guess." He stepped aside to let them in, and

shouted in the direction of the bedroom, "Zina! We got company! Get dressed!"

A minute passed and the sullen Zina sauntered into the main room, wearing black underwear and a tank top.

"Now that's what I call dressed," Alti rasped with approval in her Brenda Vaccaro voice.

Boris, who had pulled on a sweatshirt, folded his arms and scowled. Ignoring them all, Zina headed for the kitchen and returned with a Heineken.

"What, you don't offer our guests anything?" Boris snapped at her.

"Fuck you. What am I, a maid?"

"Why, I ought to—" he raised a hand. She hissed at him.

Alti groaned. "As fascinating as I find this, we need to talk."

"About what?" Zina asked.

"Schedule change. The first performance of the Follies this season is next week at the Shriners' Arena, so we gotta pick up our pace."

"A week?" Boris gasped. "I thought it was in three weeks."

"It was. But the Militia Job Fair is all that week, in downtown Pocatello, so they moved it up to this week."

"Bastards!" snarled Boris.

"Look, Boris, what does it matter?" Zina said impatiently. "We might as well tell her now." She turned to Alti. "We were just talking about this whole thing a few minutes ago. Alti, we're sick of the skating. We're no good at it. So we're quitting."

Rage contorted the visage of the Mascara'ed One. "What? You can't quit! We have an agreement!"

"Screw the agreement," Zina retorted. "I'm not doing it anymore. I'm sick of wearing pink chiffon and skating to Whitney Houston."

"Should I let you pick the music?" Alti growled. "If I did, you would be banging your head on the ice to AC/DC."

Zina groaned. "Look, I just want out."

Alti looked to Boris, who was quiet, his face expressionless. "What do you think, Boris?"

"She speaks for us both," the Russian proclaimed.

"I see," Alti rumbled. She turned her head slightly, catching the attention of the blonde woman, who stepped out from behind the skating coach. "Well, I guess if that's your decision, Zina, then it's done. Oh, by the way, have I introduced you to my…new assistant?"

With a sensual shrug, the Blonde's short jacket fell away, revealing creamy bare shoulders above a halter top, followed by a firm, flat tummy and a short skirt. She pursed her full lips, winked at Zina, and purred a hello.

With delight Alti noted that her star skater's blue eyes were glazed with lust and her jaw shifting with the barely suppressed urge to devour the woman on the spot. So predictable, Zina, the coach thought. She smirked and watched as Boris fumed silently, figurative steam shooting out of his ears like a busy laundromat.

Eyes not moving from the Blonde, Zina groped blindly for her wallet, which was sunk into the pocket of her Levi's, draped on the couch. "Hey, Boris baby, why don't you an' Alti go down to the tavern for a while, have a couple rounds…" Absentmindedly she pulled a twenty from the pocket and tossed it in the general direction of her Russian companion.

Alti intercepted the flying money, and gently grasped Boris's arm, relieved to see that he was not protesting as she steered him toward the door. "We'll talk later about next week. All right, Zina?"

Like a bird of prey in a cocktail lounge, Zina took a few steps toward the Blonde, who tittered. "Sure, Alti, sure."

"See you at practice tomorrow?"

"Yeah, yeah, go on." Impatiently, she waved her coach away.

With a final shove Alti scooted Boris out the door and closed it behind her. Immediately, in rapid succession, she heard a low growl, a playful shriek, a giddy giggle, and a tortuous moan.

Boris heard it too. Oh great, now I really have to cheer him up, or else he'll spend all evening talking about Dostoevsky. She threw an arm around him. "Come on, Boris. Nothing but Stoli for you," she said. If we can find some in this Godforsaken town.

"Really?" he asked with timid hopefulness and puppy dog eyes.

"Really." Ah, as long as there's no shortage of blondes and vodka….

*****

Gabrielle glanced at the empty bottle of peach schnapps on the kitchen table. After Zina had begun the sad tale of her skating days, Boris had taken over the narrative, trying to explain the hold that Alti, their evil coach, had on them. In the interim Zina had wandered into the living room to watch a football game. It had taken him two hours and the empty bottle of liquor to complete his tale…which, unfortunately, had led into further discourse on the larger theme of the evening: Zina was an Evil Bitch Who Could Not Be Trusted.

He drained his glass of schnapps and slammed it on the table. "I put up with a lot of crap from her. First she dumps me for Lao Ma, then we're back together again and I thought everything was okay, then all of a sudden she's doing this blonde bitch…" A sob escaped him, and Gabrielle, cursing her good nature, found herself patting his arm.

"There there," soothed Gabrielle. "It's all over now, baby blue." Damn Cyrene, making me listen to Dylan over and over and over….

He sniffled into his shirt sleeve. "She'll do the same to you! You're better off without her," he said sullenly.

She stood up to stretch. "Boris, trust me. Zina's not like that anymore. She's a good person now. She's changed. She really has."

"WOO-HOO!!!! BUCKEYES!!!!!" came a scream from the living room. A few seconds later Zina strutted out, cocky and proud. "Goddamn forty-five yard TD! Sonofabitch!" She playfully slapped Gabrielle on the ass, grabbed a Rolling Rock from the fridge, then ambled back to the TV.

"Changed, huh?" Boris grunted.

Gabrielle rubbed her tingly butt and smiled. She hoped the strangely named football team would win, because it would put Zina in a really good mood afterward.

*****

Indeed, the fortunes of Zina's favorite college team held, and Gabrielle awoke the next morning with a sigh that signified blissful satisfaction. She wandered downstairs to find Zina in the kitchen, making one of her "power shakes": raw eggs with Tabasco sauce and seaweed.

"No good morning kiss for you," mumbled the sleepy poet as she padded into the kitchen.

The firefighter unleashed her evil laugh. "That's what you think," she growled happily, and swung Gabrielle up onto the counter, so that she was sitting among cracked eggs and dried bits of ocean gunk. Then Zina's lips fused with her own. And that burning sensation…was that the raven-haired woman's intense passion sizzling against her with tactile abandon, or was it the Tabasco?

Several minutes passed as they engaged in swapping heated spit, but as Gabrielle opened a lazy, lustful eye, movement from the living room, quite visible from her perch on the counter, caught her attention. Intrigued, she pulled away slightly from her partner, only to have the firefighter attach her lips to Gabrielle's neck. "Zina?"

"Mmmmm?"

"Why is Boris still here?"

The dark head flew back. "What?"

Gabrielle nodded toward the living room. "He's in there…" She and Zina peered intently in that direction. "…and he's eating my Cocoa Puffs!" shouted the poet.

"And he's wearing my pajamas!" Zina added with outrage. Disengaging herself from Gabrielle, she stomped into the living room and sat down on the couch beside Boris, who was watching "Donny and Marie" on TV.

"Good morning!" he said.

Fucking bastard. Always a morning person. "Boris, what the hell are you still doing here?"

"Zina, I told you last night…I am not going anywhere until you turn over our puppy." Boris did concede to himself that he could have picked his moment better. It was right after the Buckeyes won and the postgame makeout session was in full swing. ("Yay, Butt-Thighs!" Gabrielle had cried triumphantly as she was chased up the stairs.)

"I don't have our goddamn puppy! And another thing, he's probably a dog by now!"

"He will always be a 'puppy' to me, Natasha," Boris replied, letting slip the pet name he had sometimes called Zina when they were still together. They were Boris and Natasha, out to destroy Moose and Squirrel, and take over the world…."Well," he continued, with an exasperated sigh, "where is he?"

The firefighter stared guiltily into the distance.

"I, uh, gave him to Lao Ma."

He did an abortive Danny Thomas: instead of spewing milk and cereal all over the place, it only dribbled all over his beard. "You gave OUR PUPPY to Lao Ma??? Are you mad?"

She moaned. "Look, I'm sorry. We had broken up, and you left to play chess in Geneva, so…I didn't think I was fit to take care of a dog, Boris…"

"But…Lao Ma??? She probably turned him into a lunch special with an egg roll and choice of soup!"

"Cut that out. That's just some…whaddya call it…urbane legend," she replied nervously, chewing her lower lip. At least it better be, Lao!

"How could you?"

"Believe me, I didn't want to, Boris. I feel bad that I had to."

"Ha!" he shouted. "You felt bad about something. That's only slightly more amazing than the fact that some TV executive thinks that these eeeediots"—he pointed at the mugging Osmonds—"still have careers!"

In the interim Gabrielle had entered the living room; she too was munching

on the ambrosia of the lower classes, Cocoa Puffs. "Hey, who's that dopey guy who looks like Purdy?" she asked, gesturing toward the TV with her dripping, milky spoon.

5. Enter the Dragon

"This is stupid," grumbled Gabrielle, as she followed Zina into the Green Dragon. "Why can't he track down his own damn puppy?"

"Look, it's like a debt I have to repay," Zina muttered as they were underwhelmed by the dim lighting and the Orientalia of the restaurant: blood red and gold tones saturated the murals of Chinese characters and temples, and little figures dancing with giant peaches….

"Debt my ass," retorted the poet.

Just inside they were greeted by the surly visage of Ming Tien, Lao Ma's son, who, as usual, was manning the cash register. His skinny arms were folded over his Sailor Moon t-shirt. He sneered at them, adam's apple bobbing furiously. "Ah, my mother's erstwhile seductress dares to bring shame to our dwelling once again."

Zina snatched up a pair of complimentary chopsticks from a large bowl in front of the register. "I'm telling ya, kid, one of these days…" She mimed jamming the sticks into his head.

"Like I'm sooo afraid of you!" he taunted. She lunged at him and he skittered off his chair, seeking refuge behind Gabrielle.

"Stop it, both of you," Gabrielle chastised them. "Look, Zina, let's get this over with, okay?"

"Is she in the kitchen?" Zina barked at Ming Tien.

"Yeah," he replied, sulking.

The two women walked through the nearly empty restaurant to the kitchen. They found Lao idly stirring a huge cauldron of egg drop soup, which sat next to a metal table covered with a mini-army of little wax paper bags filled with dried noodles. "Ah, Zina. I knew you would come," she murmured with serene confidence.

Lao Ma's mystical side always fascinated the ex-con. "Yeah? How'd you know this time? A vision? Reading tea leaves? A talking eggroll?"

"No. Boris called me."

"Lazy bastard," muttered Gabrielle.

"Your jealous heart reveals itself, Gabrielle. Like a dumpling hiding spinach…soon, the truth is wedged bitterly between one's teeth."

Gabrielle rolled her eyes.

"Lao, baby," Zina began, folding her arms so that her supple biceps were highlighted, then tossing her black hair and grinning seductively, "you'll remember a few years back I gave you a puppy…"

"Ah, yes. A most unexpected gesture. Touching and beautiful."

"Thanks, Lao."

"Until you demanded money for the wretched creature."

"I just thought of that as a loan. Anyway, Lao, honey..." Zina stretched to emphasize her broad shoulders and perfectly rounded breasts. Lao's stirring of the egg drop soup grew agitated. And Gabrielle's blood simmered hotter than the most potent of Tabasco sauces.

"...I need the dog back. I'll buy him from you, even."

"Yes, I know. That's what Boris was calling about. He said he was sending you over, and that you would either seduce me or kill me for the dog."

"You know Boris. Loves to exaggerate. 'Cause if I kill anyone, it would be that bratty kid of yours."

Lao Ma sighed. "Ming Tien is so misunderstood....you see, I had to get rid of the dog for him."

"Whaaaaat?" Zina asked, with a growl building in her throat.

"Ming was the allergic to the animal. And it kept attacking him. So I took it to the local animal shelter."

"Attacking?" echoed Zina. "Lao, it's a dachshund, for Christ's sake."

"They have many sharp little teeth..."

"Yeah," drawled Gabrielle facetiously, "who can resist the raging dachshund?"

Lao Ma's cool eyes flickered to the angry poet. "A sarcastic bitch is like a Barbra Streisand CD: It yields unpleasantness for all within hearing range."

"Oh, yeah? Well, a bitch who drowns in a pot of egg drop soup is like…"

Zina and Lao watched, with anticipation, as Gabrielle struggled to find a metaphor. Both women raised eyebrows.

"…like….like…a bitch who drowns in a pot of egg drop soup!" In sheer frustration, Gabrielle kicked at the stove. Poor baby, Zina thought, she really is blocked.

A flicker of alarm crossed Lao Ma's face. "Gabrielle, do not kick my stove. Unless you want to find extra MSG in your next Szechuan Chicken." She turned to Zina. "Please, remove your dangerous girlfriend from the premises."

"C'mon, baby, let's go," Zina tugged gently on her companion's arm.

"Don't you threaten me with acronyms, you!" roared Gabrielle.

With a sigh, Zina flung the poet over a broad shoulder and exited the Green Dragon.

6. Of Pussies and Puppies

When Boris was not contentedly watching Sally Jessy Raphael, he pondered his ex-lover, Zina. It amazed him to see her so utterly under the thumb of this little blonde person, Gabrielle. The dark, dangerous woman who excited him so, who defied the law and good taste, well, she was now…what do they call it? Ah…pussy-whipped!

Now she knows what it's like, he thought spitefully.

The door of the farmhouse burst open, interrupting any further Russian ruminations. Zina stomped in, with Gabrielle on her heels.

"Did you have to hit the guy at the pound?" the strawberry blonde was complaining.

"Don't you give me any lectures, missy! You were about ready to cold cock Lao Ma at the restaurant!" the firefighter retorted angrily.

"Well, the difference here is that I didn't hit anyone, Zina. Besides, Lao Ma is a bitch."

"You're jealous."

"And you're practically homicidal!"

"I know I am! I've admitted it, Gabrielle! Whaddya want me to do, tell the world I'm gay? I'M GAY! I'M GAY!" Zina shouted to the heavens.

Gabrielle rolled her eyes in defeat. It's not even worth telling her.

"And you…you're a fine one to talk about us being homo-cidal. You haven't even told your parents yet!"

The poet flushed. "They're not ready to know!"

Boris decided that the ridiculous bickering had gone far enough, and it was time for a man—a force of reason—to intervene. "Did anyone bring 7-Up?" he asked calmly. "We're all out."

The two women stared at him. "What the hell are you still doing here?" Zina snarled.

"Zina, I told you…"

"Yeah, yeah, the dog. Well, I got news for you, Boris. The dog is in the pound and they won't let me have 'em unless I pay $1000."

The Russian's dark eyes swelled with emotion. "A thousand—but, they can't do that! Why is it so much money?"

"It's some stupid county law," Gabrielle said. "Zina was registered as the dog's owner, and since she 'abandoned' him and he ended up in the pound…well, they're fining her. It's a misdemeanor."

"Miss Demeanor? I once knew a drag gentleman by that name."

"Drag queen," Gabrielle corrected.

"Da." Boris looked over at Zina, who was slumped in the recliner, looking defeated. He squirmed—instinct told him something else was wrong. "What?" he prompted.

Gabrielle bit her lip nervously. "It's also a violation of Zina's parole, and if we don't pay the fine she'll go to jail."

Zina tried to convey indifference with a shrug. "I don't have that kinda money," the firefighter muttered. Damn. And I swore I would never go back….All the money they recovered from the sales of Barbecue Salsa Mayonnaise was gone, spent on their vacation and on fixing a dent in the Impala—Gabrielle's lone attempt at driving the fabled car having gone seriously awry when she accidentally ran over Crassus, one of Julie Caesar's dogs. The contrite poet had cried a river of tears on Zina's Black Sabbath t-shirt, but had eagerly agreed to the firefighter's plan to bury the dog in Farmer Draco's backyard and not tell Julie.

"I don't either, Zina," Boris implored, "but if we don't pay the money…they kill him."

"And you'll go to jail," Gabrielle added softly.

"Maybe they should just kill me and send the dog to prison," Zina grumbled darkly.

"Can they do that here?" asked the Russian, a mite too eagerly.

7. You Don't Need Pants for the Victory Dance

Gabrielle found the prospect of connubial visits at Shark Island Correctional Facility quite unappealing, and quickly decided upon the best approach to earning quick cash to keep her beloved out of the pen: She applied for employment at the Shimmy Shack.

Sid Moskowitz, the chubby, engaging proprietor of said establishment, was quite pleased when Gabrielle called him to inquire of job opportunities. Sid had an eye for natural talent, and ever since he had spotted Gabrielle in the supermarket, wearing Daisy Dukes and bending over to pick up a rather large box of detergent, he knew her assets would do well on his stage.

Nervously, Gabrielle walked into the dark, empty club. In the light of day, such an institution is rather like a gutted animal—hollow, smelly, dark, and dead. Nonetheless, Sid's cheery disposition did its best to dispel this impression. "Hiya, sweet pea!" Sid greeted her happily. "Glad you came!"

"Hi, Sid."

"How's that old psycho girlfriend of yours, baby?"

"She's fine."

"Yeah," he sighed wistfully. "I still remember the first time I met her. She was dealing dope in my club and I had her kicked out…later that same night, when I was closing up, she beat the crap out of me." He smiled nostalgically. "The very next day, I hired her as a bouncer. She was the best ever. I've never seen anyone inflict pain and humiliation the way she did!" Tears welled up in his eyes.

"That's a beautiful story, Sid. It gets more beautiful every time you tell it."

"Yeah." He moaned. "Ach, such memories! Now, honeycakes, before we get in too deep here….Zina does know about this, doesn't she?"

The blonde twitched. "Well, not yet. But I swear, Sid, she'll be cool with it. I mean, I'm doing it for her. We need the money to pay off all these fines and stuff about the dog."

"Yeah. Poor Killer."

"Killer?"

"That's the dachshund, sweet cheeks."

Gabrielle shook her head sadly. No wonder they never call him by his name. "It figures," she muttered.

"Okay, angel muffin, shall we get on with the interview?"

"Sure." Gabrielle slipped out of the long raincoat she was wearing, revealing a body clad in a lovely two-piece bikini.

Sid sucked in as much air as he could, as several blood vessels in his head threatened to burst. Having done so, he found himself unable to exhale—he was afraid that if he did so, this woman of sheer perfection might vanish. Or simply run away at the smell of his breath.

"Well?" demanded the poet impatiently, hands on hips.

"Are you kidding, honey?" he wheezed. "Just looking at you takes five years off my life span."

8. Benefits of the Missionary Position

The ritual began.

The lights were dimmed, candles were lit, and empty cans of Rolling Rock were lined up on the floor. Mentally, Zina counted them again. Twenty-four. Yes, that should do nicely. As usual, Gabrielle had requested that Zina play the softest music she had, which, unfortunately, was a tape of Joni Mitchell's Blue that Cyrene had left behind one evening. As the guitars tinkled gently and Joni mumbled something about the wind from Africa, Gabrielle entered. She sat on the bare floor near the cans and assumed the lotus position, while Zina wished that she were watching women's volleyball on ESPN. It wasn't that she really minded helping her girlfriend, once everything got started, but getting there just took so long. The firefighter suppressed a sigh….

…But apparently not well enough. A green eye opened and peered at her in annoyance.

"Sorry," she mumbled. She stretched out along the floor, waiting.

A few minutes passed while Gabrielle continued to meditate. The firefighter was about ready to fall asleep when the poet announced quietly, "I'm ready." The blonde unfurled her body from the yoga position and laid down on her back.

Zina, on her knees, loomed over her beloved. She reached for the first beer can. "Okay." Gently, she placed the can on its side against Gabrielle's bare midriff. It sat there precipitously, its green sheen merely the reflected glory of the poet’s eyes, until the young woman's body jackknifed with amazing speed and power….Zina had seen it happen many times, but it never failed to amaze her: The can was now flatter than the topography of Kansas.

"The Amazing Abs," Zina whispered in reverence. She removed the flattened can.

Gabrielle smiled proudly. "Plus the recycling people love me!" she crowed. "Next!"

Zina placed the second can on the poet's tummy. "Can't wait to see you at the club tomorrow night."

Crunch! "I'm really nervous, baby. I'm so glad you'll be there." Another innocent Rolling Rock can was placed in the abs of death. "I still can't believe"—Crunch! —"you're cool with this. I thought you'd be all pissed and everything."

"Are you crazy? It's like the dream of every red-blooded American dyke. To have a girlfriend who is an exotic dancer! I can go up to any slob in the crowd while they watch you dance, point at you, and say, 'That's my chick, man.' Ha!" she cackled in triumph.

"You're so fucked up," concluded Gabrielle with a sigh. Crunch!

"But you love me anyway," retorted Zina smugly.

"Like the way I love pork rinds: I know they’re bad, but I just can’t resist." The poet affirmed this with another crunch.

Zina pondered this. "That’ll do," she observed, as she selected another can. 9. Thanks for the Mammaries

Sid leaned against a wall in the club. He plucked at his black polyester shirt, which shimmered in the low light, and sighed. She simply isn't getting it, he thought. Such potential—I mean, oy! That body! But…. He had spent the last half an hour watching Gabrielle dance, or do something resembling dancing, and it was about as erotic as watching a spastic have a fit. He stopped the tape deck, and ZZ Top's "Gimme All Your Lovin'" once again died in an abrupt fashion, which mirrored the disjointed style of his private dancer. As silence filled the room, the young woman stumbled in her heels and fell onto her ass. She looked up at Sid helplessly.

"Sweet cheeks," he began warily, "hasn't Zina ever asked you to shake your titties, eh?"

Gabrielle blinked. "What the hell kind of question is that?" she asked, irritated. "It's none of your damn business." Carefully she stood up, hoping that no part of her skimpy bikini was askance; I'm not showing flesh until the meter starts running, she thought.

"Honey thighs, the name of this joint is the Shimmy Shack. You don't have to be goddamn Ginger Rogers to dance here, but…you need to shimmy. You need to shake it up. C'mon, stick 'em out, and vibrate. And later….when you latch onto that pole, you gotta hump it like hell. Okay?"

She stared at the dismal aluminum pole stuck in the middle of the stage. "But…it's a pole."

Sid sighed again, in utter exasperation. "Babycakes, aren't you a writer or somethin'?"

Gabrielle nodded furiously. "Do you need me to write—"

"No, I don't need you to write anything. All I'm saying is—use your imagination. Pretend that pole is Zina's thigh. Pretend all the guys you're dancing for are, like, a big lesbian soccer team or something."

The poet frowned skeptically.

"All right, a big, smelly, drunk lesbian soccer team."

Gabrielle's frown deepened. "All right, Sid. I'll do my best."

Sid smiled; he wasn't buying it. "Shit, sweetheart, I'm sorry you're having a rough time with this. Maybe Natalie can help you."

"Who's Natalie?"

"My best dancer, baby. Look, take a load off, go back in the dressing room. She'll be here soon."

*****

So Gabrielle went back into the bowels of the club, into the tiny dressing room she was to share with about three or four other women. She pulled on her t-shirt—the chilly air had made her nipples so erect and prominent that they could hail a taxi of their own accord. She sat down in front of a mirror. Scattered on the table in front of her were various accouterments of femininity: lipstick, rouge, baby powder, eyeliner, tampons …and a book. She picked it up, curiously—it was entitled A Separate Reality: Further Conversations with Don Juan.

As she started to page through the book, someone quietly entered the room.

"It's a great book," said a woman's voice.

Surprised, Gabrielle gave a little jump, then turned around. A woman with short blonde hair stood in the doorway, wearing jeans and a flannel shirt. Red alert! Red alert! Lesbian in the vicinity! Gabrielle's gaydar screamed. Nervously, the poet placed the book back where she found it. "Was this your book?" she asked the woman. "Sorry, just curious."

"No, no, it's all right," replied the woman. "It's nice to have someone around who's interested in the same thing." She walked over to Gabrielle and offered a hand. "Hi, I'm Natalie. Sid said I'd find you back here." Natalie's grasp was warm and tingly; Gabrielle felt a thumb brush lazily over the veins in the back of her hand. She squirmed slightly, partly uncomfortable and partly…aroused. "Gabrielle, is it?"

"Yeah, that's me." Natalie wouldn't let go of her hand. With a little tug, she finally reclaimed it.

"Cool. Sid said you're a student at the community college."

"I'm majoring in English."

"Wonderful! I used to teach there, you know."

Gabrielle brightened. "Really?"

"Yeah. I taught ethics. But then they got rid of the philosophy department. Cheap bastards. So I'm reduced to doing…this." Natalie waved her hand around the dismal dressing room.

"Sorry."

Natalie unleashed a dazzling smile. "Well, it's certainly not your fault." She began to strip rapidly, tossing her clothes over a lonely chair and revealing a thin, bikini clad form. "Okay, I guess I should show you some moves, like Sid said."

"Uh, sure, that'd be great. And, um, maybe afterward you can tell me all about this book," Gabrielle replied, picking up the Carlos Castaneda tome again.

"Oh, I'd love to!" responded the blonde stripper enthusiastically. She knelt down in front of Gabrielle, between the young poet's legs, and gazed at her with shining eyes. What the hell is she on? Gabrielle wondered, all the while fighting the delicious chills that turned her thighs all goose-pimply. "It's such a wonderful book. One of my favorites. It helps you see the world in a totally different way…"

*****

The blue Volkwagen sputtered to a halt in front of the Shimmy Shack. Cyrene took the keys out of the ignition, and looked over at her daughter, whose knees were pressed uncomfortably against the dash; she had forgotten that cramming Zina in her tiny VW bug was like putting Michael Jordan on a tricycle: It was not a good fit.

"Y'know, this is the kind of place I used to picket in the 70s, Zina," Cyrene grumbled.

"Look, Mom, don't start. She's just doing it for the money." Zina's muscular forearms were folded. While the firefighter was quite happy to show off her lover's body to the world, she was rather concerned that the look, don't touch policy firmly entrenched in her mind—and echoed by Sid's frequent admonitions to the crowd—would fall apart within the reality of the Shimmy Shack. She had been a bouncer too long at the dump to think otherwise. It made her tense. And a tense Zina was a hairsbreadth away from punching out anyone who dared annoy her.

Cyrene sighed. "You owe me for this, honey."

"The White Russians are on me, Mom."

*****

"I-I think I'm getting stage fright," Gabrielle stammered.

"I think you're just nauseous from eating three Snickers bars," Sid rumbled at her.

They were standing backstage. Natalie was on, dancing to "You Spin Me Right Round (Like a Record)."

"Oh shit, Sid…what if I bomb?"

"Honey, you're not gonna bomb. Just remember, you got the bod. You're halfway there. Shimmy the T, wiggle the A, hump the pole, and you'll be fine."

Wild applause and wolf whistles followed the sweaty Natalie as she left the stage. The number of $20 bills stuffed down the enticing pouch of her g-string made her look like she was packing in an odd kind of way. "Whew!" she said to Sid and Gabrielle, pushing damp strands of her blonde hair away from her face. "Those boys are primed now. They'd go nuts even if Shelley Winters went out there and danced."

Gabrielle gave a look of despair.

"Aw, Gabrielle! I'm just kidding!" Natalie hugged her impulsively. In her nervous state, having an attractive sweaty female body rubbing up against her own was almost too much. Almost. Natalie pulled away and all parties present noticed that the poet's nipples were harder than bullets.

"Well, somebody's ready to perform," Sid noted wryly. He patted her behind—Gabrielle resisted the urge to deck him—and headed onto the stage, in order to announce her.

"Just remember your mantra, Gabrielle," Natalie reminded her.

The young blonde nodded. "Yeah…shimmy the T, wiggle the A, hump the pole…" she mumbled.

"Actually I meant the other one we came up with. You know, your personal one: 'love, pop-tarts, and peace.' "

"Oh. Right. But hey, Natalie, like, aren't you supposed to not say it out loud?"

"Aw, shit!" the former professor winced.

"Gentlemen, we have a new performer tonight…I'd like you to give a warm welcome to…GABRIELLE!"

The poet stumbled toward the stage, and hesitated; her nerves felt so exposed that she imagined them—and not her body—bathed in lurid swaths of multicolored stage lights.

"Go toward the light!" Natalie shouted.

And which fucking light was that?

*****

"Wow, man, that was awesome," Cyrene babbled as she and Zina wound their way through dark hallways to the dressing room. "I mean, I never knew that she was so—" Cyrene's hands cupped imaginary breasts.

"Mom, shut the fuck up. You are seriously freaking me out," Zina retorted, while pondering the closed door in front of her. Her blood seethed with lust…who knew Gabrielle could dance so seductively? Zina had only ever witnessed the pogo-like maneuvers of the poet as she did the "Blitzkrieg Bop" to her favorite Ramones song. But now, she wanted nothing more than do ravish her companion…after that.

She kicked open the door. Cyrene rolled her eyes. Drama queen.

Zina's baby blues were greeted by the sight of Natalie painting Gabrielle's toenails while the poet pored over the Castaneda book. She did not miss the adoring look that the strange blonde woman was giving to her scantily-clad girlfriend, even though Gabrielle was clearly clueless to the attentions of the ex-professor. Indeed, if Oblivion were a town, Gabrielle would be mayor.

Nonetheless, at the startling sound of the door bursting open, both women turned their attention to the dark-haired firefighter.

"Baby!" Gabrielle squealed. "What did ya think?" She jumped up and ran over to Zina. The furious exchange of saliva prompted Natalie to read the label on the bottle of Dangerous Pomegranate nail polish and Cyrene to examine a selection of tassels hanging from the wall.

Zina broke off the kiss. "You were fantastic, baby. The best ever."

"Thanks…hey, I made almost $25 in tips!" she pointed to the bureau, littered with crumpled currency.

"That's great!"

"Yeah, I mean, I can't believe it…couple more weeks, we should have your fine paid off."

"Er, Gabrielle, why don't you introduce me to your—partner?" Natalie piped up unctuously.

" 'Partner?' " echoed Zina. "We don't work together. We sleep together."

She glowered at Natalie.

"Oh, uh, Zina, this is Natalie…she, uh, used to teach at Olympus." Nervously, Gabrielle looked from one woman to the other. Her new "mentor" and her beloved were not getting on well at all. "Honey, Natalie taught me how to dance. Ain't it great?"

Zina arched an eyebrow. Natalie smirked. "Yeah, great," muttered the firefighter.

"Well, I'm off…" said the blonde stripper breezily. She sailed past the three women, giving Gabrielle a wink. "See you tomorrow, Gabrielle." And she was gone.

Gabrielle disentangled herself from Zina. "You coulda been nicer, you know," she chastised sullenly, as she slipped on a t-shirt.

"I never said I was a nice person," Zina shot back.

In the interim, Cyrene had noticed the book lying on the bureau. She picked it up. "Oh man!" she cackled. "I haven't seen this used as a seduction technique since 1972!"

"Whaddya mean, seduction?" snarled Zina. Her blue eyes snapped to Gabrielle. Who looked away.

"Don't be silly, Cyrene," scoffed Gabrielle. "Excuse me, I have to go see Sid about my schedule for next week." With a cultivated, haughty air borne of careful examination of Joan Collins in Dynasty, the exotic dancer left the room.

Zina half-leaned, half-sat against the makeup table, looking defeated. "Shit, Mom."

Ah, my articulate child. "Look, honey, who knows what this chick is all about. But I'm sure Gabrielle is happy with you…and doesn't want to look elsewhere."

"I'm not so sure," mumbled the firefighter. "Maybe she needs to be with someone…like that. You know, who reads and stuff. Who understands poetry."

"…And who doesn't sit in an open pot of rouge." Cyrene concluded, nodding at Zina's behind. Zina jumped up, cursing. Her mother patted her arm affectionately. "I'll wait outside, in the car." The older woman ambled out the door.

*****

After confirming her schedule with Sid for the following week, Gabrielle was about to return to her dressing room when she was intercepted at the bar.

"Sweetie!" shrieked Chad, her fellow homo student at OCCC. He hugged Gabrielle. "You were fabulous!" Gabrielle was relieved to note that Chad wore no incendiary t-shirts, like I'M NOT GAY BUT MY ACADEMIC ADVISOR IS (an advertisement actually true). Although sporting a lilac-colored Ralph Lauren Polo shirt among the Shimmy Shack crowd was asking to be noticed.

"Aw, Chad, you came! I'm really glad."

"Oh, mary…" He took her face in his hands. "You have no idea how many screwdrivers I had to get through this…"

Vodka-influenced breath wafted over her. She blanched. "Yes, Chad. Yes I do."

"But Good God, Gab. I didn't know Natalie Hood was strutting her stuff here too."

"Hey, so you know her?"

Chad's eyes widened. "Oh yeah…man, I'm so glad they fired her."

"Fired? She told me they closed the philosophy department."

"Oh. that little liar!" Chad exclaimed petulantly. "No, she was canned for sexual harassment. She would pick a student she liked, and try to seduce them. You know, say she'd give them a higher grade." His thin lips trembled. "She even tried it with me once!"

"Duh, can't she tell you're gay?"

"That's what I said!" Chad wailed.

Gabrielle frowned in thought. Maybe Zina was right not to be suspicious of her. I mean, the big dope is right about some things…I should give her more credit. "Chad, I gotta go…I have to finish dressing" –the collective eyes of the bar were devouring her bikini'ed bottom, making her nervous—"and Zina's waiting for me."

" 'Kay, sweetie…Tell Zina I said hi, and that I want a date with a firefighter real soon."

When Gabrielle returned to the dressing room, Zina was swatting her Levi-clad butt with a towel.

"Baby, what the hell are you doing?"

"I got…stuff on my ass." Upon closer examination, the poet saw that some reddish powder clung to the denim. She chuckled. Zina scowled.

"I swear, you're like a big kid sometimes…" Gabrielle took the towel from her companion's hands. She dampened a corner with some bottled water left behind by Natalie, then successfully removed the powder. "Maybe this'll teach you not to sit on things a body shouldn't be sitting on."

"Yeah, right," grumbled Zina.

They were quiet for almost a minute.

"Do you…like her?" prompted the firefighter quietly. To mask her nervousness—which only emphasized it even more—she toyed with a stray cosmetic applicator…what it was exactly, she had no frigging idea.

"Who? Natalie?"

"Well, yeah."

Gabrielle shrugged. "I guess I did at first. I thought she was kinda cool…"

"And you thought she was cute."

" Yeah, she's cute…but so what? I just saw Chad outside, and he told me she's really an asshole."

"Really?" Zina frowned. "I had a bad feeling about her."

"You were right, honey. I'm sorry." The poet wrapped her arms around Zina's waist and propped her chin on the firefighter's broad shoulder. "So, um, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to make you jealous or anything. I love you, you big jerk."

Zina grinned. "And I love you too, you little bitch." She exhaled with relief. "Wow…so I was right about her, huh?" Gabrielle nodded. "I'm glad I'm right about something."

"You have good instincts, Zina. Except about your own strength."

"Huh?"

Gabrielle nodded at Zina's hand. Which was covered in inky black stuff. "You just crushed my eyeliner."

*****

Three weeks passed and the appropriate funds were procured, upon which Killer was sprung from the pound. Now, Boris was sprawled happily in the backyard with his dog. "There's my boy," he cooed, as Killer charged at him, the dachshund's ears flopping merrily.

"Your move," Zina grunted. The firefighter sat at the picnic table, where a chessboard lay before her. She had spent 20 minutes pondering how to put Boris into check. Having failed this particular objective, she opted for rearranging some of his pieces.

With a sigh, Boris stood up and returned to their chess match. Tomorrow he was off to Brussels for another tournament, with Killer in tow, and had decided to get in some practice with Zina before leaving. She was a good player, he admitted to himself, but her endgame was a weakness: She would grow impatient and then, ultimately, lose.

He sat down in front of the board and frowned, glaring at her. She simpered. He restored his knight and queen to their original positions.

Meanwhile, inside the farmhouse, Gabrielle was fending off Sid's advances, such as they were: "But, honey tits, are you sure you wanna hang up your G-string? You're my most popular dancer now!" the club owner protested as he stood in the kitchen and watched the lovely blonde make chocolate chip cookies.

"It's tempting, Sid…"

"I'll say."

Gabrielle stopped mixing cookie dough. "What do you mean by that?" she demanded.

"I got a good look at that car of yours. Oy, baby. An Escort? And it's gotta be rustier than Jesse Helms's dick."

A new car would be nice…Her lips twitched, but she said nothing.

Sid stroked his beard thoughtfully. He knew she was tempted. He decided to try another offer. "Look, sweetie, you know…I make movies too." He sidled up next to her. "And the money for that is even bigger than the dancing!" he whispered gleefully.

Gabrielle dropped her wooden spoon, covered in yummy cookie dough gunk. "You want me to be in porno?" she sputtered.

"Baby lamb, just one film will net you close to ten thou. You could buy yourself a Saturn, for God's sake!"

Her expression remained doubtful.

Damn. I almost had her. "Look, Gab, it's not really porno. It's erotica. There's a difference, y'know. Smart girl like you should know that." Still, she looked less than convinced as she rinsed off the wooden spoon. "This film that I want you to be in…it's ground-breaking, sugar cake. It really is. I can honestly say that there is no other film like it in existence. It touches me on a deep, religious level—in fact, I consider it a service to my people, because it's the first of its kind." Her green eyes fluttered with intrigue. He grinned. "You wanna know what it is?" he said eagerly.

"Yeah!" she exclaimed, caught up in his enthusiasm.

"The first ever Orthodox Jewish erotic film: Rabbi or Not, Here I Come."

Gabrielle groaned. "Jesus, Sid."

"Now that's one personage who will not be in this film." She shook her head and wiped her hands on a kitchen towel. "Come on, Hasidim deserve to have lively sex lives too, you know."

Through the back door Gabrielle saw a flash of movement: It was Zina, pinning Boris to the ground and trying to jam a rook into his ear. "Poor baby, she lost again," the poet murmured.

Sid noticed this too. "Ah, good old Zina. Making the world a little more dangerous," he sighed appreciatively.

"Yep, good old Zina," Gabrielle agreed happily.

"Who's that fine-looking fellow, babycakes? I think he would make a good rabbi."

Gabrielle flung open the back door. "Zina! Boris! Both of you knock it off, or no cookies!"

"She started it!" shouted Boris.

Zina sulked from her position, sitting on Boris's chest. Angrily he slapped her muscular thigh. "Get off me, you eeediot! I want cookies!"

She raised an eyebrow in disdain, and stood up.

Sid bustled past Gabrielle. "Zina, baby, what do you think of your girlfriend starring in a porn movie of her own? Eh?"

The blue eyes froze. Sid raised his hands in hapless self-defense. "But sugar lump, I got this great idea...maybe you could play the rabbi who seduces Gabrielle..." Sid brightened at his own idea. "This is great," he murmured to himself. "It increases the kink factor!"

"Rabbi?" Both dark eyebrows lifted, and a strange expression came over Zina's lovely face. With a shock, Gabrielle realized her lover was...thinking.

"Zina!" she cried. "You can't be serious!"

"Well, why not? You were real good in that home video we made—"

From his position on the ground, Boris nodded vigorously. "I agree! It was a wonderful performance!"

The blonde poet went pale. "You showed him...the tape?" Many months ago, a rainy Sunday and a borrowed video camera had yielded a long-playing tape filled with about five hours of frenetic sex, fifteen minutes of arguing, twenty minutes of eating pizza, and twenty-five minutes of Gabrielle napping and snoring between orgasms.

"Well, when Hank and Effie saw it they both thought that you were faking it in that one scene, you know, the one with the"—the firefighter made a vague hand gesture which could have represented anything from a kumquat to a plastic water gun—"and Ed wasn't sure, so I wanted another opinion..."

"For myself, I must say I was very convinced!" Boris declared solemnly. "A scream like that, it comes from the heart. Or someplace, um, similar."

"That’s what Mom said too." Zina replied, feeling affirmed.

Sid, hands on hips, whined, "Now why haven't I seen this?"

Zina recognized the fury in her companion's green eyes and, throwing down the gauntlet of a shit-eating grin, took off running.

"Oh, you better run!" Gabrielle shouted after her. "'Cause someone's gonna be on the receiving end of the strap-on tonight, and it ain't me, missy!" Which is probably exactly what she wants anyway. As she dashed into the twilight, leaving the menfolk alone with the cookie dough, Gabrielle felt her anger dissipate as she followed the unmistakable laughter of the firefighter.

THE END 

#xena #xena warrior princess #xena/gabrielle #xena/gabrielle fanfiction #author: vivian darkbloom #mature #femslash #fanfiction

[sweetlangdon]

From Eden: Chapter 2

Notes: Michael Langdon x Reader/OC. Evil Power Couple fic. It’s difficult to write a summary for this one, because I don’t want to give away the twists. (It’ll also include canon rewrite/divergence for the later half of the season.) It has plenty of angst and fluff, and a bit of character study.

Warnings: Swearing, blood, murder, graphic violence. 

This fic is currently in progress. 

Chapter One       Also Available on AO3

She’d been listening to the steady drip of water hitting the tiles for at least a half hour now, though time didn’t matter much anymore to her, not here. The haze of steam that had filled the room and wrapped her body in its warmth had long since disappeared. She sat on the floor of the shower, her back pressed to the freezing tile, her arms hugging her knees, as the air chilled and goosebumps rose along her skin. Droplets rolled down her back from the strands of wet hair plastered to her shoulders, and she shivered absently, half aware of the cold but too distant to do anything to remedy it.

It’s always been a part of you.

…it will find you eventually.

And you’d do anything to make sure you’re not abandoned. Not again.

Langdon’s voice filled up her thoughts, haunting her hours and hours later. She couldn’t shake him from her mind, couldn’t stop pulling apart what he’d said to her on a relentless loop. Eighteen months and he’d been the first person in this godforsaken bunker to see her. Maybe part of that had been her fault—she’d kept everyone else at arm’s length in an act of self-preservation, but something about him had compelled her to confess, to bear fragments of herself that she’d tried to ignore. What was it? How could a stranger make the words fall from her tongue so easily? It surprised her, even now, that she’d kept her own fear restrained enough to speak with him like that. Langdon—or maybe the impression of him; brooding, emotionless—had scared the shit out of her. She didn’t particularly enjoy the idea of him digging through her soul, chipping away pieces where he saw fit.

But there was still that infuriating part of her that regarded him with a strange reverence. And she couldn’t explain it, not yet. The weight of Langdon’s presence, standing in front of him, it had been unlike anything she’d felt before. It was terrifying. It thrilled her, too, though she wasn’t ready to concede that. It was like he’d made something come alive in her veins with a mere glance, a tilt of his head. They hadn’t even touched—she hadn’t dared to get close enough for that—but she still felt him on her skin, in her blood, breathing deep into the shadows of her soul.

Langdon had stared right into her and found something familiar.

And what he’d said couldn’t have possibly been obtained from whatever paperwork The Cooperative had on her.

A loud, persistent knocking wrenched her from her thoughts. Someone called her name from the other side of the door.

“We keep a schedule for a reason,” Ms. Venable said. Her exasperation permeated the room. “You know I don’t tolerate lateness.”

She exhaled. “Sorry,” she called back, “I had a headache. I’ll be down as soon as I can.”

“Don’t make this a habit,” Ms. Venable warned.

“I won’t.”

Once she heard the slow drumbeat of Venable’s cane fade and the door to her suite click shut, she dragged herself up from the floor of the shower. She knew Venable kept her neurotic schedule and all of her strict rules to maintain order. To give them a life—though that seemed too generous a term for what they had here—full of structure leftover from the old world. It helped some more than others; it’d helped her once or twice when the isolation became too much to handle. It gave the illusion of normalcy. And illusion was all the mind needed sometimes. But now, over a year later, it had started to wear on them in varying degrees.

She was sure that Emily and Tim’s poorly kept secret romance would backfire sooner rather than later. The amount of bickering among the group had escalated to critical levels within the past few weeks, at least by her own estimation. How much more of this could they possibly take? She didn’t know if whatever Langdon offered was true or just a ruse, but at this point she’d consider anything else just to get the fuck away from most of these people. She couldn’t tolerate another afternoon of idle chatter, another dinner spent watching them tear at each other’s throats and obliterating Venable’s fine china and crystal glasses.

A bitter gust of air doused her skin the moment she stepped out of the bathroom. She left a trail of water behind her, not bothering to towel off, hoping the cold that stung her bare body would smack some kind of sense back into her. Or at the very least, help steel her for the night ahead. She dressed as quickly as she could, acutely aware of Venable’s lack of patience for disrupting order.

The nineteenth century-inspired dress she chose for tonight was blissfully free from the abundant lace that plagued most of her wardrobe. A gorgeous shade of lavender, it had full layers of cascading ball gown skirts and an off-the-shoulder neckline. A tiny pattern of crystals adorned the bodice, sparkling under the light of the candles in her room.

Her hair was still damp when she joined the table for dinner, but she’d at least pinned it up into an adequate style, though she was sure Gallant would say otherwise. She wilted a bit under the gaze of Venable and Mead and the rest of the outpost residents, guilty for being the one to hold up their meal. Not that it was anything to look forward to, especially with rations dwindling by the week. She didn’t think the Purples were irritated with her, per se, but she’d become so accustomed to flying under their radar. She shifted in her chair, rearranging her napkin and utensils, waiting for their attention to drift away from her. Thankfully, it didn’t last long; the hum of conversation picked up again, plates and forks scraping as they forced down yet another tasteless cube.

Venable’s unflinching gaze caught her like a helpless insect in a spider’s web from the opposite end of the table. She looked away first, scooping up her fork.

“Are you okay?” Emily whispered from her right, leaning closer. She lifted an eyebrow. “Venable looks like she wants to murder you.”

She poked at the beige cube in the center of her plate. “I’ll live,” she answered. “If only out of spite.”

Emily suppressed a giggle, turning her face into her shoulder to avoid Venable’s hawk-like eyes. She stabbed the gelatinous cube with her fork. “Did Langdon say anything to you yet?”

“No,” she answered. “Not yet.”

The rest of the evening passed as it usually did, the group of them gathered in the library ruminating over their current situation, trading stories about the way things used to be. There was a hush of nervous energy among them all, a quiet worry about the newest occupant of Outpost 3 and what it would mean for their continued survival. Like everyone else, she didn’t know what her chances were. During their brief encounter, Langdon hadn’t given any hints one way or another, only regarding her with the sort of amusement that she couldn’t exactly read.

Gallant and his grandmother provided the evening’s entertainment in dramatic fashion as only the two of them knew how. She shrunk into the corner of the couch, exchanging furtive glances between Emily and Andre while Gallant sparred against Evie, the flurry of quick-witted barbs charging the room with an awkward tension. She could nearly feel the explosion of rage crackling in the air like the wind before a thunderstorm. When at last the aftershocks of their shouting match started to weaken—Evie wearing a haughty expression as if it were a piece of lavish jewelry, an art so refined from her days of Hollywood glamour that it was almost impressive—they moseyed on back to their private rooms for the night.

The rest of the Purples wandered off at intervals after that. Emily and Tim laced their fingers together the moment they crossed into the hallway, as if no one would notice. Coco left in a huff muttering about her own soul-crushing boredom, Mallory obediently at her heels. Andre and Dinah were the last to go, yawning and stretching, bidding her goodnight before their voices drifted down the corridor. She sighed and unclenched her teeth, finally able to release the tension that had worked itself into her jaw from the Gallant incident.

Her skirts rustled around her ankles as she approached the bookshelves. Fingertips skirting along the titles that glittered on the spines, she pulled her bottom lip between her teeth in consideration. She’d finished the book from last night before she’d showered, amazed at her own level of focus. She’d made notes, too; scribbles across notebook paper that were now relics from the old world only because she had some of her college belongings when the alarm went off.

“I knew I’d find you here,” Langdon’s slow, lilting voice mused from somewhere behind her back. “A creature of habit, even now at the end of the world.”

She hadn’t heard his footsteps this time.

“Can’t help it, I guess,” she answered, still inspecting the titles. “It keeps me busy—keeps me from getting depressed about the old world, if I try hard enough. Anything’s better than listening to Coco whine about how much she misses sushi.”

That earned her a low, wry laugh, which made something flutter in the pit of her stomach.

She abandoned the thought of choosing a book and turned on her heel to find him. Langdon stood a few feet away, his hands clasped behind his back, half of his face bathed in golden light. The long black coat lined with buttons had disappeared, but he was still dressed in elegant black from neck to foot. He cut an imposing figure in his tailored clothes: slender, tall, and not a single hair out of place. She kind of hated herself for how captivated she was, how the fear that had gripped her before was beginning to fade.

“You were a college student—an English major,” he recalled.

She nodded. “Would’ve earned my degree if the world hadn’t been nuked.”

“With highest honors,” Langdon said, lifting his chin. “You were an exceptional scholar…not that anyone cared enough to notice. Apart from your professors, of course. Do you miss it?”

She studied the shadows on the floor, thrown by the way he spoke about her life in the old world. Langdon knew intimate details—her feelings, her insecurities—that would have never been of any interest to The Cooperative’s files. At least, she thought so.

“I don’t know,” she breathed. Slow, calculated footsteps brought him closer to her. “Maybe some of it. I enjoyed the learning part of college, not so much the stress and cramming for finals and term papers. It’s a shitty thing to say, but I’m relieved.”

Langdon narrowed his gaze. “In what way?”

“I don’t have to participate in a lifestyle that was never going to make me happy, or satisfy me,” she admitted. “There’s nothing left of that world now…and yeah, there’s always going to be parts of it I’ll miss, but I’m not exactly opposed to a clean slate. Provided your assessment of me goes well.”

She thought she saw that smirk again, just for the briefest of moments. Langdon brought one of his hands up and swiped his thumb along his chin. “Your parents,” he said evenly. “Does it upset you that they aren’t here to share this…new beginning?”

It felt like a stone had dropped into her stomach, a lead weight crushing her chest. The words dried up on her tongue.

“They sacrificed everything for me,” she answered, though her voice wavered. “Their lives, their money. I’m only here because they aren’t.”

“That doesn’t answer my question,” Langdon countered. His voice rose a little, demanding more from her. She swore the temperature in the room plummeted a few degrees. “Does the guilt of their deaths eat away at you?”

“Yes.”

“Don’t lie,” he warned. The command pierced like the edge of a knife. “I know you’re not being honest with me.”

She felt the emotion welling up inside her, burning the back of her throat and prickling behind her eyes. She forced it to stay where it was, but her vision still blurred as the tears came dangerously close to sliding down her cheeks. The hardcover spines on the bookshelf pressed into the small of her back through layers of fabric, and she braced her hands on the wooden shelves just to have something to hold onto. Langdon covered the remaining distance between them until his boots brushed against her skirts. The warmth from his body enveloped her own—she figured his touch would be cold like the undercurrent of his voice, but instead he radiated heat.

“They’re my parents,” she reasoned.

She bit into her bottom lip to keep it from trembling and tasted blood on her tongue. Langdon cocked his head to the side, inhaling as if he could smell it. One long finger reached out to trace down her bottom lip before he took her chin in a surprisingly delicate hold. His hands were much softer than she imagined. Clear blue eyes searched her own; unlike the solid presence of his body in front of her, they were pure ice.

“It’s a very convincing story you’ve sold these people,” he said. “A loving daughter tormented by the guilt of her self-sacrificing parents, who built an empire only to destroy it all to save their only child.” He let go of her chin, but kept two fingers hovering beneath her jaw.

“A noble end for two of the least deserving people on this godforsaken Earth. You were far too kind to their memory,” he continued. “I can see the truth—I have a certain talent for it: staring right into the darkest parts of you that you can’t run from. There’s no reason to lie anymore.” He grinned, and his eyes sparkled in the candlelight. “It wasn’t guilt you felt when they died and you survived. You were relieved. They got what they deserved, didn’t they?”

Her voice broke. “…Yes.”

Langdon’s grin widened, pleased. “You were nothing but a mere afterthought in their lives. An accident they didn’t plan for—of course they never dared to say that in front of you. No…but somehow…you already knew.”

When a sob finally broke free from her throat, he brushed his knuckles across her cheek, then cradled her face in his hand. She shivered at his touch but found herself leaning closer into the warmth of his insistent hold.

“They were selfish, neglectful, and it only got worse once they had enough money to stop worrying. You hated them. All of that fucking rage burned in your veins for so long, tearing you apart until you figured out what to do with it.”

She closed her eyes. A few tears slipped down her cheeks, but he wiped them away with his thumb. The gesture, a simple, fleeting thing, surprised her.

“Your parents didn’t die when the bombs went off.” Langdon’s face was now inches from hers, his breath tickling her collarbone, his voice just barely above a whisper. “I know the truth, I just want to hear you say it.”

She exhaled a ragged breath. “I killed them.”

@lastregasolitaria  @mylippo  @zeciex  @lvngdvns  @langdonsdemon  @yourkingcodyfern  @sojournmichael  @gabnelson98  @rainbowrosesjas  @antichristlangdxn  @keavysmithxoxo  @artistlunadrayne  @codysfallenangels @batgirlbride  @mileeyyowens @dead-witch-boy @boofy1998  @gentianea  @cryptid-coalition  @langdonsrapture  @kinlovecody  @yuriohoe04  @electricurie @marvel-rpdr-and-ahs @gallxntdean  @langdonscurls  @jcshadowkiss-blog  @frozenhuntress67  @sebastianshoe  @dixmond-taurus @mr-langdonn @bookobssesed99 @sassylangdon  @queenie435  @holylangdon  @weareallevilmotherfuckers  @langdonfern  @angsty-otters-blog  @denaexr   @micheallangdons @lostin-fern  @crazedcatcuddler  @satansapostle @monsucre @softlangdvn  @ritualmichael 

#michael langdon #michael langdon x reader #michael langdon x oc #michael langdon x fem!reader #michael langdon imagine #michael langdon fanfiction #ahs fic #ahs imagine #ahs fanfiction #ahs apocalypse #ahs apocalypse imagine #ahs apocalypse fanfiction #fic: from eden

[theonewiththefanfics]

Loopy Love (one-shot)

Synopsis: Sebastian has finally come back home, but instead of finding his fiance waiting for him at the airport, he gets some bad news.

Pairing: Sebastian Stan x Reader

Warnings: nothing really, mby minor swearing

Genre: flooooffff

Word count: 2317

   Sebastian was ecstatic. He had just landed in JFK after three months of filming ‘I Tonya’, finally being able to go home, rest, but most of all, enjoy his time with his soon-to-be wife Y/N. A giant smile appeared on his face as he went towards the greeting area, thinking how she’d be there, probably in her pj’s, as it was two in the morning, a groggy look on her face, yet feet bouncing from excitement.    The slide doors opened to reveal a small group of fans and he gladly went over to them signing autographs and taking pictures. There were even a couple of paparazzi, but the flashing lights didn’t matter much to him at that moment.    “Have you guys seen Y/N?” he asked the gathered people, only to receive shakes of heads and some turns as they looked around the terminal.    Sebastian frowned since he had clearly talked to her only a few minutes before his flight took off, and even though he had told the woman to stay at the apartment, she insisted on coming to get him. He checked his phone, but there were no calls no texts.    “Maybe she’s in Starbucks?” one younger girl suggested.    His small smile broke into a grin and a laugh. That was how they had met, or more so re-connected. Sebastian had physically knocked her over, spilling piping hot coffee on a woman’s white blouse. But when he had started to profusely apologise, telling how he’d get it dry-cleaned and he would buy the stranger a new shirt, instead of the usual response you get from people in New York, there was no yelling. Soft palms cupped his unshaven cheeks bringing their eyes to meet.    “Holy shit, Y/N?” he had breathed out.    “I think it should be holy shit Sebastian Stan,” she had chuckled in response before he engulfed her in a giant bear hug.    “I’m sticky already, don’t need your sweat on me,” Y/N laughed at him and their state as her grip around the man’s shoulders tightened, not caring about his dirty workout clothes pressing against her.    When they pulled back, all thoughts about the ruined blouse or the fact she was going to be late to a meeting had escaped her mind, every fibre focusing on the man in front. “I think we need to catch up, Hollywood.”    “Yeah,” he gave her a breathless response, as his blue eyes roamed over the woman who had been his best friend in high school and also he'd had the biggest crush on her for years, “fuck, yeah we do.”

   And then things sorta happened from there. He had very nervously asked her out, having woken her up in the middle of the night, barging in her apartment to which she had given him a spare key and practically shouting the question at her, scaring the woman to death. After a few minutes when Y/N had felt her heart was not going in cardiac arrest she punched Sebastian with one of the plush pillows that surrounded the bed, until they both fell back, white sheets engulfing the pair and laughter echoing through the room. His large arms had wrapped around the girl’s smaller frame, one palm setting on her bare waist, where her t-shirt had ridden up and he drew slow circles against the skin. They had fallen asleep like that, entangled in one another’s limbs and as the morning sun broke over the New York City skyline, Sebastian had leant in pressing a kiss to Y/N’s nose right before she turned her head up and connected their lips.    “I didn’t know you were awake,” he mumbled, not at all complaining about the surprise.    “It’s kinda hard to sleep when people are ogling at you.”    “I wasn’t ogling, I was admiring.”    “Whatever helps you sleep at night,” she pecked his lips once more, and muttered a quiet ‘creep’.    That had been the happiest day of the actor’s life. Up until he had proposed and she’d said yes. And it didn’t hurt that the fans absolutely adored her and them together. Of course, there were exceptions, but luckily they were few and far in-between, so he knew, that if Y/N was truly at the airport, she’d have had conversations with practically everybody.    “ ‘M sorry guys, but I have to go,” he said going to his calls and pressing Y/N’s number, but when he got no response, it made him increasingly worried.    He looked further through his contacts and found Anna’s number- Y/N’s editor and best friend. There was no way she didn’t know what had happened to his girl, they were practically attached to the hip during the final edits of Y/N’s upcoming sequel to her best-selling novel.    “Hey Seb,” she answered after the third ring. “What’s up?” a certain tone laced her words and the man wasn’t sure he liked it.    “Hi, yeah, where is Y/N? Is she okay? She said she’d be here to pick m-“ but his words were interrupted by a loud ‘woohoo’ and Anna shushing whoever it was.    “Was that Y/N?” he questioned further, hailing a cab and giving the man his home address.    “Uh, yeah, listen, so here’s the deal,” Anna spoke before moving away from the phone. ‘Y/N shut up, it’s the middle of the night’ was heard and then she returned to the call. “We are kinda sorta at the hospital.”    Sebastian’s blood instantly ran cold, his heart skipping a beat. “What? Why? What happened? Which hospital?”    “St. Mary’s. She’s fine, as you can hear,” and he did, as another loud ‘woo’ went through the phone. “Y/N started feeling very ill a few hours before your flight landed, so against her wishes I called an ambulance. Seriously stop it,” Anna said to what he could only imagine was Y/N misbehaving. “Her appendix burst. They did the operation, she’s fine, recovering, but I don’t know what they pumped into her, it’s like she’s on crack.”    Sebastian’s mind somewhat calmed down after hearing that everything was if not okay, then decent. “I’ll quickly put away the luggage and will be there in a few.”    “Yes, please,” Anna’s voice was almost desperate. He said goodbye with a chuckle and disconnected the call.    It took him less than an hour and a half to get home, quickly change and throw his stuff in the corner of the living room. In ten minutes Sebastian was stepping out of a cab and walking into St. Mary’s.    “Hi, I’m looking for a Y/N Y/L/N? She was admitted a few hours ago, burst appendix.”    The nurse looked through some stuff on the computer, before glancing back up at the man.    “Your relation to her?”    “Fiance.”    She hummed before clicking a few buttons.    “Room 482.”    “Thank you,” Sebastian quickly flashed her a smile and went on the search. A notification popped up on his phone that said ‘Y/IG/N’ was going live.    “Oh, no,” he mumbled pressing the screen to open it up.    The first thing he heard was a loud ‘I looooooove my boyfriend’. From the angle, the video was being taken he knew Anna was filming and you could clearly hear the other woman giggling.    “Really?” she asked Y/N. “And what do you love about him?”    “Everything,” the tone of her voice was as if she was saying ‘did you really just let that come out of your mouth’. “He’s perfect!” she threw her arms in the air and immediately cried out in pain. Sebastian cringed. He hated seeing the love of his life in any kind of discomfort. Whenever her periods rolled around cramps making the woman sometimes feel even nauseous, he did everything in his power to alleviate the hurt. Hot water bottles, rubbing her lower back and tummy, anything to help her feel better.    “Stop flailing around,” Anna scolded her and Y/N pouted in response.    “I love his eyes,” she suddenly continued as if nothing had happened. “Like, when I wake up and he wakes up it’s the first thing I see and I love it. I hope our kids have his eyes,” the loopy girl rambled on, making the man’s heart soar. They had talked about kids, but her voice was so confident so sure, he could feel nothing but love.    “I looooove his smile,” Y/N even groaned as she said it. “Don’t matter- half smile, smirk, or that big huge grin of his- he’s happy, I love it. Oh, and when his eyes wrinkle in the corners, it’s just the best.”    People had noticed the man in question had joined in on the live stream itself and they were chatting, sending messages, laughing emojis at him and Y/N. All the comments seemed to be incredibly positive and Sebastian smiled at it.    Anna had tagged him in a message making him snort. ‘please tell me you ain’t far’ it read.     ‘looking for the room. be there in 5’ he quickly typed back and stepped into the elevator.    “Hey, pretty nurse!” Y/N called out making his jaw drop at how she was basically cat-calling this poor woman. “Do you think this bed is big enough for two? My boyfriend is gonna be home and I wanna sleep next to him.”    Luckily the med staff seemed to be more amused rather than annoyed by her antics and actually played along.    “Miss Y/L/N, you need rest. He is welcome to visit and help to take care of you, but I don’t think that would be a good idea.”    There was a loud whine as she threw her head back, Y/E/C eyes closed and what looked like tears rolling down her cheeks.    “But I wanna hug him. I haven’t hugged or kissed him in three months. I need to go to the airport and pick him up. I need to cuddle Seb.” At this point Y/N was full on crying, clutching tightly onto a white pillow and pressing her face in it. “I miss him,” Sebastian now heard it not only from his phone but in life as well. He rounded a corner and there she was, laying in a hospital bed and bawling her eyes out.    “It’s okay baby,” he chuckled, tears brimming his own eyes after finally seeing his girl, “I’m home. You can hug me anytime you want.”    “Sebby?” there was disbelief written across her features, but then it morphed into excitement and she tried to leap out of the bed.    “God, damn it, Y/N! Stop being an idiot!” Anna pushed the woman’s shoulders back to the sheets, but she kept struggling, making grabby hands at her boyfriend.    “You scared me, doll,” he muttered in her skin, the man’s nose hidden in the crook of her neck as he finally enveloped Y/N in his touch.    “ ‘M sorry baby. I told Anna I was fine to come and get you but she was an asshole.”    Her body shook with cries and he held onto her tighter until everything subsided, until suddenly Y/N, with a blank expression on her face, pushed him away and looked Sebastian over.    “You have a moustache,” she declared.    “Uh, yeah?” it came out more like a question than a statement. "You already knew that."    Y/N softly went to brush it over before her small palm completely covered his face pressing against it to create as much distance as possible.    “I don’t like it.”    “What?” the word was muffled by her covering his mouth.    “Lose the stash, Stan. Immediately”    Out of all the things that would come out of Y/N’s mouth this was the last he expected.    “Is it that bad?” he suppressed a smile seeing how her face turned into a frown. Her hand went to caress his cheek, the engagement ring glinting in the artificial lights.    “I want the scruff. Or a beard. Not the pedo-stache. Looks weird.” Suddenly she looked at Anna, who was still filming the whole thing. “I take it back, I don’t love everything about him, I hate that caterpillar above his lip.”    The phone he had clutched in his hands flooded with notifications, as the fans laughed their assess off and Sebastian himself couldn’t contain the joy.    “Whatever you want, darling. ‘M just glad you’re alright.”    Y/N removed her palm from his face. “Whatever I want?” an eyebrow shot up.    “Yes, honey. Anything.”    In a theatrical manner, she extended a finger. “One- you’re gonna stay here,” the girl showed her tongue to the nurse who could only roll her eyes, “two- I want fries. Now.”    “Tomorrow, baby. You know you can’t eat anything.”    “But I want them!” she whined pulling away from Sebastian and crossing her arms. “I hate you,” she pouted.    The actor sighed looking up at the white ceiling before glancing at Anna and the phone she was still holding.    “Why don’t you go home? Get some rest, I’ll call you when she’s back to normal.”    Y/N’s best friend snorted, but nodded, ending the Instagram live which had already gone viral and exiting the room, leaving Sebastian with his fiancée who was acting like a toddler. He talked to the nurse for a little while, getting all the info he needed in how to take care of the girl and her dietary restrictions for the next two weeks before they were left all alone.    “You really hate me?” there was nothing sad or hurtful in the way he said it, amusement glinting in his cerulean orbs while they took in Y/N. There were dark bags underneath her eyes and her skin had gotten paler than it usually was, having lost the colour from the pain, but to him, she was still beautiful.    “No,” she mumbled, extending her arms out. “I wanna snuggle.”    And Sebastian complied without a word, gently laying down on his side, arms sliding to the back of Y/N’s neck and tenderly pulling her to him.    “Sleep, baby. You need to rest.”    “Promise there’ll be fries when I wake up?”    “Promise.”

Tags (crossed out wouldn’t take, sorry): @supernaturalbaesduh @breezy1415 @pizzarollpatrol @crazy--me @thatawkwardlittlefangirl @sea040561 @staryeyedgirl @deathbyarabbit @s-c-a-r-e-d-po-t-t-e-r @reblogger-not-a-blogger @thunderous-flower @who-cares-rn @lumelgy @projectxhappiness @callmebucky-doll @palaiasaurus64 @coal000 @killuaenthusiast @courtneychicken @sophiealiice @raquelbc2003 @watch-out-for-thorns @potentially-kinetic @thatonegirljessy99 @proxinge @bbkenna @buckysclub @ulired @fangirlofeverythingbasically @mrsalh32611 @horrorx570ximagines @the-nargles-made-me-do-it @pooslie @itsisabelanotisabella @nerissa98 @happyseagrill @asguardiansoftheavengers 

A/N: just wanted to write something cute :D also, first Seb fic, so yayyy!!

P.S. tell me what you think :)

P.S.S. if you wanna be tagged or have any requests, drop a message :)

P.S.S.S. please don’t repost without credit :)

#Sebastian Stan #sebastian stan smut #sebastian stan imagine #sebastian stan x reader #Bucky Barnes #bucky barnes x reader #bucky imagine #bucky barnes imagine #winter solider imagine #winter solider x reader #the winter soldier #the winter solider imagine #the winter solider x reader #captain america: tws #Avengers #The Avengers #avengers fanfiction #avengers imagine #avengers x reader #marvel #imagine marvel #marvel imagine #reader insert #bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes x y/n