#good boots ain't cheap and cheap boots ain't good

[ghostoffuturespast]

Bird fashion 🐦 I have Snowy Egret boots!

#i've been saving up for these lol #shoes are like the one fashion thing i will splurge on #these are very comfy though #i have a pair of lace up ones for work #and wide toe boxes 🥾 #rambling into the void #little ghost on the prairie #good boots ain't cheap and cheap boots ain't good

[shotmrmiller]

1.8k of what was supposed to be a drabble, oops. same au as this just different situation.

there he is.

the titan the crowd calls Ghost. a creature who seemed to have crawled out of the abyss itself, rage etched into the very marrow of his bones. scars crisscross his arms, chest, and back— souvenirs of battles both won and lost. no one knows much about him. no real name, no past, no future. blank.

a void.

just like his sunken eyes, the only thing anyone can see from behind the midnight black skull balaclava that clings to his face like a second skin. (does he even remember what he looks like underneath?) he stands in front of the club's owner in ragged clothing: a tattered wifebeater that's been stitched, torn, and re-stitched. his pants have strained seams and patched knees. his boots are high cut, made of worn, scuffed leather with laces in the front, pulled tight. functional.

he's terrifying. most here come to fight for glory, for redemption, for escape. not he, though. reverent whispers claim this is all he knows. that he fights like a cornered, wounded beast, with no discipline nor strategy. just primal hunger and unmatched ferocity.

and that's who your idiotic, egotistical boyfriend wants to fight. granted, he's a pretty damn good boxer. not that you'd know much about that, you're simply parroting what you've heard his coach say. but this isn't boxing. no one here wears a padded helmet, with comfortable gloves and silky shorts. the fellow with the mohawk currently fighting isn't even wearing a mouthguard, for fuck's sake.

there are no fucking rules, no referees, no honor, no mercy.

your shoulders rise up to your ears as you tense at a nasty blow the pretty one you've come to learn is named gaz gives mr. mohawk. it splits his lip instantaneously, crimson dribbling down his chin and onto his barrel chest. he should be in pain, but there's only a glint of madness in those bright blue eyes of his. the crazed smile he gives gaz is all blood-stained teeth.

your boyfriend taps you on your shoulder, making you jump. "i'm gonna go talk to mr. price now that he's no longer busy."

what?

"no! you can't be serious!" the metal chair you were seated on screeches as you shoot up and run after him, feet slipping on the mud-slicked floor. "hey! wait!"

he reaches the tall, burly man(broker?) with the antiquated mutton-chop beard before you do. the tailored suit clings to his large frame, molding to his mountainous shoulders and tapered waist. his polished shoes are pristine, unlike the surface he's standing on that's littered with wager slips and sodden with cheap beer.

"don't. be smart, fight smart. you can't possibly— did you see the way the one with the mohawk took a hit to the face without flinching? he's insane! they all are!" you flick your eyes to mr. price. "no offense."

he chuckles low. "none taken, sweetheart. soap's a vigorous man, is all."

soap. gaz. ghost. they've all got bloody fighting nicknames. meanwhile, the only thing your boyfriend's ever been called is dearie by his elderly neighbor.

"your pretty girl's right. i'd steer clear of the pit. this ain't no place for a sheltered bloke such as yourself." his eyes crinkled at the corners as he smiled, yet it felt like a facade. the evenness of his tone had dread crawling up your spine.

"boss." you squeak at the deep voice that comes from beside you— accent thick on his tongue.

mr. price waves a hand dismissively, the rings that adorn his fingers glinting under the dim light of the overhead lamps. "it's nothin' but a couple a'folk placin' their bets."

the look of unfettered stupidity flashes on your boyfriend's face as he turns his head and realizes just who mr. price was talking to. "if it isn't the masked specter himself."

stupid. stupid stupid stupid. god, your boyfriend came in one piece but he's going to leave in bloody pieces if you don't stop him. "stop," you hiss. "this ridiculous stint of yours is over." as is this sorry excuse of a relationship. he'd been a sweet guy at some point, or maybe you were just blinded by his good looks. "sorry for the bother, mr. price. we'll be taking our leave." tugging on your boyfriend's sleeve, you try to lead him away but he stays anchored in place, posturing like a peacock; chest out, shoulders squared and head held high.

he looks at ghost as he challenges him. "name your price. anything, i can meet."

how he can be so blasé in the presence of this bastion is beyond you. ghost stands tall, his shadow engulfing you whole. you can feel the weight of his presence, a crushing force pressing against your sternum. he doesn't speak; and honestly, he doesn't have to. ghost's silence spoke volumes.

"he's not interested, see? let's just go before we're thrown out on our arses."

but your boyfriend doesn't concede. if anything, it only adds fuel to the fire. "not good enough for you? eh? is that it? think yourself untouchable just because you're king of the underbelly?" he goads.

your cheeks are hot, scalding with embarrassment. he's starting to garner attention from the audience that's supposed to be watching the current fight.

and then ghost breaks said silence. "i don't want your money." his rich voice reverberates through bone and marrow; it rattles your very core. "you didn't work hard for it, i can tell. golden spoon runt."

your boyfriend's eyes ignite with anger. for a moment, you thought he was going to swing on the spot, but then, like a wisp of smoke, it dissipated. his fists unclench, his jaw relaxes. "what do you want, then?" he questions.

ghost tips his head your way as he keeps his gaze on your boyfriend. "her. i win, she's mine."

you should've known your now ex would agree. nothing would keep him from accomplishing his goals of 'putting the big dog down' as he so eloquently put it. now you're firmly sat right next to price on the stands (because you will not be calling him john anytime soon, no matter how many times he corrects you) essentially as his hostage.

"nothing personal, sweetheart. i'm a businessman, after all, and the prize walkin' out the front door would be bad for business. hope you understand."

no, you don't. so you tell him as such.

"tha's alright. simon'll take good care of ya, i promise."

"is there any particular reason you're so cocksure of your simon winning?" you manage to ask, your voice fragile.

he takes a thick inhale of his cigar before answering. "unfortunately for you, i've seen it all— the broken bones, shattered dreams, and—" you watch tendrils of smoke unfurl from his mouth, "adversaries who never walked back out."

spectators have already begun to huddle around the cage, puffing on cheap cigarettes. they all look desperate, eyes gleaming with greed. this time the one collecting wagers is a blonde woman, older in age, with her hair in a low bun and a puffer vest. "that your wife?"

he curls a large hand around my shoulder before twisting to look at— "laswell? no. don't swing tha' way." price gives you a gentle squeeze.

oh. you can feel warmth creeping up your neck. "sorry. didn't mean to- er. i didn't know."

"'s'alrigh'. her wife's nice enough. you'll like 'er.'' her wife? the confusion must've shown because he rumbles out a laugh. "no. it'd be me barkin' up the wrong tree. i—" he tightens the grip on your shoulder, "like whatever's pretty to look at." his words from before resounded in your head.

'your pretty girl's right...'

the heat that'd receded now stung the tips of your ears. whatever words you want to say are lodged in your throat but thankfully, you're saved by the bell. literally.

the rusty thing tolls and the crowd hushes their voices and stills their restless shuffling. first walks in your ex (idiot), looking exactly like what ghost had called him earlier— a golden spoon child. his shorts are glossy, even under the flickering, sickly light that falls over the cage. his boxing gloves are a vibrant red, pristine as if right out of the box. (you don't remember soap getting his pretty face broken by hands with gloves, but whatever.) he looks perfect, like something out of a hollywood movie.

and so out of place.

unlike ghost who's just stepped into the ring— who commands the attention of all within the hazy room. he fits right in with the rats who scurry around in the bowels of the city. he moves like the shadows that cling to the dark corners, his steps silent as whispers. a haunted being— one the world above with its neon signs and bustling crowds has long forgotten— has made his home down here.

ghost bumps his mma gloves with your ex's boxing ones, in a show of surprising sportsmanship.

the bell tolls once again, and the fight begins.

and just as quickly as it began, it ended. you blink, momentarily displaced, because there is no way what just happened is real. there hadn't been no real fight. it'd been one devastating blow to the side of your ex's jaw that ended everything. he hadn't stood a chance. it—

"'s done. sorry, love. but simon's headin' this way to claim his prize." price gives you a sympathetic pat to your back. "i swear it on my life he won't harm a hair on your head."

what?

ghost barrels through the roaring crowd and comes to a stop before you. "you're with me, now. best get used to it." shock blurs your vision, or maybe it's the fact that you've been hoisted up and thrown over a shoulder that did it.

it doesn't matter. the one you came here with is currently lying limp on the stained mat, his mouth hanging open a little awkwardly. is he broken? you're put down on a bench in a large dressing room that has only one tall locker in it with a tiny ghost sticker on the front.

"did you... is he dead?" you ask, pulse quickening.

"no. either dislocated or broke tha' jaw of 'is only."

you sputter when metal clinks on the surface of the wooden table he's currently leaning his weight against. dusters? "you used fucking dusters?"

he turns his head and looks at you, piercing and intense. "you and i both know i didn't need anythin' to knock his teeth down his throat, isn't tha' right, pet? eh?"

his knuckles are calloused and heavily scarred, the little finger bent at an angle even when straight. "don't worry 'bout him, you're with me, now." he shrugs on a plain, black jacket and heads for the door. "try to leave and i'll jus' find you again. don't make this any harder than it has to be."

welcome to the rat king's domain, sweetheart.

#call of duty #simon ghost riley #simon ghost riley x f reader #simon ghost riley x reader #cod mw2 #cod mwii #simon riley x reader #simon riley #simon riley x you #simon ghost riley x you

[gravezgf]

Ain't Nothin' to It - Phillip Graves x Reader

1,159 words, fem reader with she/her pronouns. a bit suggestive but no warnings! My first time writing anything like this so please be kind. Thanks for reading!

Read under the cut!

You nervously fiddled with the lace waistline of your sundress. It hit your mid-calf, a gorgeous navy blue in breathable cotton, with lace on the waist and along the sweetheart neckline. It was one of Phillip’s favorites, and you couldn’t think of a better way to surprise him.

He was coming back home to you for the first time in a few weeks, where he’d been you had no idea. However, he suggested that you go out and have fun, get a few drinks at his favorite hole-in-the-wall before ending the night in your soft king-sized bed. 

You swear you sensed him before you saw him. The scent of his spicy cologne, the sharp thud of his boots on the wooden floor, his firm hand on your shoulder before he slid in between the stool next to you, offering you a wink and a smile. Oh, how you had missed this man.

“No hug for your best girl?” You pouted teasingly.

“More than a hug, if I get my way,” he pulled you into his arms, holding you tightly against his larger frame.

He released you, only to hold you by the wrists and step back, taking a good look at you. He sighed, pushing you gently back onto your stool before taking a seat himself. He motioned for the bartender to come over and ordered a whiskey for himself and your favorite drink for you. With the social lubricant, you felt your emotions even harder. The joy that leapt in your stomach when he flashed that big smile, laughing freely at a story you were telling him. The flush in your cheeks as he told you for the millionth time about how much he missed you when he was gone.

When Phillip noticed you were good and soused, he grabbed your hand and pulled you out onto the dance floor. You had two left feet, but Phil, he was a dancer from way back. He could whirl you around with the best of ‘em. But tonight, he just pulled you close and swayed you to the old country love songs humming from the speakers. He hummed the lyrics lowly, leaning into you. He exhaled a breathy laugh when your feet got confused, but only held you tighter. 

“Do you have any idea how much I love you?” He said it in almost a whisper as he pressed soft kisses onto your neck.

“I think so, how much?”

“A whole sky full. Probably more,” his eyes shone the most beautiful blue in the hazy neon lighting. You couldn’t help but kiss him, and if you could’ve melted into a puddle then and there, you would’ve.

He had one hand pressed into your back, the other cupping your face, as your arms rested on his shoulders, and you let yourself fall into the kiss. You were almost numb now, in a good way. The smell of that cologne, something cheap but one he had loved for years, the Zach Bryan song tumbling through the speakers, his lips against yours, his stubble scratching against your face. 

When you broke from the kiss, you swore you felt like a kid all over again. You rested your face on his chest, and you swayed there, where it felt like just the two of you, for what felt like hours.

He climbed into the drivers’ seat of the old blue pickup, after buckling you into the passenger seat. The old radio was playing the classic country station, Phillip’s favorite. He hummed to the George Strait song that was crackling through, and placed his hand in yours. He squeezed it tightly.

It reminded you of when you were kids. It was maybe your fifth or sixth date, and time had escaped you both. There you were, racing down those rural Texas roads, praying that time would slow down, just for a few minutes. You both knew well that breaking curfew would spell a grounding for you, and your dad’s displeasure towards Phil. You swear that you can still make out where you began playing with the lose threads of the fabric seats, nervously tugging at the string as a cloud of dust rose behind you. 

That time, much like this one, Phil had grabbed for your hand. He ran his fingers over your knuckles at the red light, cursing quietly to himself. 

Now, all these years later, at the red light, he pulled your hand into his, except this time he gently rolled the wedding band on your finger. Instead of damning the light for not turning fast enough, he hummed contentedly to the song on the radio. The city lights slowly turned into the occasional street light as he drove out of the city. Finally, you were heading home. 

The drive home felt quick compared to the drive from there to the bar earlier. He opened your door like a gentleman, only getting slightly maimed by your border collie, Maple. He walked you carefully up the porch steps, and you rested on the cool wooden planks as he unlocked the door. You had your hair pushed up, cool summer air brushing the nape of your neck, and had kicked off your shoes. Phillip thought you had never looked more gorgeous than you did at this very moment. 

Upon making your way into the house, you made a drunken beeline to the comfort of your bedroom. You had made the bed this morning, and you cursed yourself. You had been proud of the fresh sheets and pressed duvet, but it only made it more complicated for your inebriated self. Still yet, you were snug as a bug by the time Phillip reached your room, shirt off, pajama pants on.

“Wanna get out of your good clothes before you get too comfortable?” He said, yawning midway through. Your only response was an annoyed groan that sounded half you, half Chewbacca. Not getting the hint, or not caring, Phillip gently lifted the duvet and laced his fingers in yours, coaxing you to sit upright. He fumbled through your bedside dresser before finding one of his old shirts. It didn’t take too much begging to get you into it, and you thought about how you’d thank him for his kindness in the morning. 

He tucked you back in as sweet as he could before climbing under on his side. When he proposed drinks before coming home, he didn’t exactly imagine this outcome. Then, he looked down. You looked sweet in a silly way, mouth slightly agape, breaths even. He listened for your breathing, that soldierly part of him that he could never quite turn off. You were asleep, he could tell by the gentle cadence of your inhales and exhales. He tried to match it. In the end, he settled for wrapping his arms around you, knowing they’d be asleep in the morning. He pressed a kiss to your head. He had missed home. He had missed you.

#gravezgf #Phillip Graves x Reader #Phillip Graves fluff #Phillip Graves fanfiction #COD MWII #Phillip Graves x Reader fanfiction #COD MW2 fanfic #Phillip Graves fanfic #Modern Warfare fanfic

[nightswithkookmin]

"We gotta throw artists in Jail for making these diabolical songs"

Cool. No. It's cool. I'm not mad. I just want you to be thrown into the adjoining cells with them just for being brazenly dumb. You shouldn't wear your ignorance and artistic ineptitude on your sleeve so bravely. Like I'm actually embarrassed for you.

If you know nothing about something JUST SHUT UP.

You're gonna sit there and dissect a highly artistic piece like this with your untrained ears and your 1.5 gigabyte brain capacity. Cool.

Explain Mozart to me then bitch. Bet Beethoven makes your head spin. Can't take you out to a fancy restaurant cos your tongue stuck under their boots huh. Bootlicker. Why don't you lick these clean

And for heavens sakes

Leave 👏🏾the👏🏾 review 👏🏾to 👏🏾the👏🏾 experts👏🏾

Hmm? How about we do that instead?

What credentials do you have?

WHAT QUALIFIES YOU TO DETERMINE THE QUALITY OF A MUSICAL PIECE OF THIS NATURE WHEN YOU CAN'T EVEN TELL A WHISTLE FROM A FART. ARE YOU KIDDING ME!

Just because you own a free channel on a free platform don't suddenly make you the academy. Get over yourself and please THINK BEFORE YOU SPEAK. You're just spewing out gibberish and you sound dumb as fuck.

Untrain your ears. Stop eating up microwaved over the counter music and I promise you you will develop a richer taste and palate for music. I PROMISE YOU.

IF ALL YOU KNOW IS JIMIN'S ANGELIC VOICE AND ALL YOU EXPECT FROM HIM IS YET ANOTHER FILTER OR PROMISE EVERY SINGLE TIME HE RELEASES A NEW SONG GET A NEW HOBBY. YOU ARE DONE. WORN OUT AND STRESSED.

HE IS AN ARTIST NOT A PARROT

HE MAKES ART WITH HIS VOICE FOR A LIVING

AND HE'S NOT IN FOR A QUICK MONEY GRAB EITHER.

But you can't tell cos you're used to being USED AND MILKED BY TALENTLESS FAVES.

I can see how this level of artistry can be intimidating for some people especially the inexperienced members of the audience.

The Light is always too bright for those in the shadows.

Yall been comfortable listening to crap but don't worry Park Jimin is going to change that. He is baptizing yall by fire and raising the standard for what good music actually is. HE IS MAKING MUSIC GREAT AGAIN.

The era of cheap repetitive music vomited out for easy money in KPOP IS OVER. TALENT IS TAKING OVER.

YOU MIGHT NEED A DEGREE TO UNDERSTAND KPOP FROM NOW ON. SORRY NOT SORRY.

Catch up with him. Ain't nobody got time to baby sit your slow ass. You dumb mcdummy.

Music is Poetry and Poetry appreciation is a skill in and of itself.

Hone that skill at least bitch

[virgincels]

Need to woman handle Vendetta Leon and mommy him now <3

Not sorry but he needs to take it from behind while drunk. Need to hear him bitching about working and then looking over his shoulder at you like 'Is that all you can do?' Purely because he's taken much more in the back and you're NOTHING. Can sip his cheap ass beer just fine and not even moan. (anal slut, COUGH, HE'S LOOSE, COUGH.)

In my mid sex era rn 😭 Leon isn't good with his dick and reader ain't either.

Also, your puppy idea for both Leon and the reader is very invested. I love a horny puppy trope sm like STOP? YOU'RE SCARING PEOPLE! Let him cum on a boot or shoe and make him clean it off or smth. (Or dick stepping, why is that low-key hot? Like be in pain please, I need to hear you hissing and whimpering. Then if you start bitching, uhm, no shut up, get slapped. 🥰)

Also found this cute image of bat 😭 I HOPE YOU AREN'T AFRAID OF BATS LIKE GENUINELY BSOWHEIEIDI

Can't get over the video in my head of a bat eating a banana. Most disgustingly adorable thing ever.

HOPE YOU'RE HAVING A GOOD DAY OR NIGHTTTTT! <3

think vendetta leon wants to be slapped around soooo bad that he just riles you up into like . smacking him!! will not stop prodding and pushing and teasing like please knock him around he is so full of self-loathing he deserves it and it gets him off ,, honestly would just like you to step on his dick atp dick in his ass is not enough anymore krauser changed him too much

puppy leon ugh… he’s so cute he comes back to you even if you hurt him! just so stupid he’s so forgiving you could step on his dick and if you give him a kiss he’s curling back up in ur arms all over again :3

ALSO I LOVE BATS ACTUALLYDHDHFH I love the photos of them with pacifiers omg they’re like puppies

#inbox 💌

[fiddleturnips]

Bonding

This is an excerpt from a larger, incomplete chapter.

Stanley slammed the door on his way out. He didn't really have anywhere else to go, though, so he didn't go anywhere. He sat on the porch and smoked, staring at these unfamiliar Northwest mountains and thinking about how stupid it was that this dumb argument had apparently lasted decades.

Stan was on his second cigarette when Fiddleford came out. Stan didn't turn around, but he could tell it was him. His steps were trying to be heavy, but he probably weighed half what any Pines did including their Ma, and was barefoot besides. He stomped unmenacingly over and sat on the stair beside Stan.

"Can I bum one of those," he said. He was glaring out at the woods like he wanted to punch the whole mountain range in it's big stupid face.

Stan tapped one out and passed it. He shared his flame. Fiddleford took a huge drag that doubled the volume of his chest and hissed it out.

"Trouble in Paradise?" Stan joked.

"Thought I'd finally talked some sense into that man," Fiddleford snapped. "Always gotta be the smartest in the room, with his twelve cotton-pickin doctorates and his one man research grant, don't he get you can't solve everything with just smarts."

Stan suddenly decided he liked this guy. "Yeah. Yeah, it's always, oOooh, if I'm the biggest genius they ever saw then they have to crown me the king of fucking France or whatever. Everything that goes right, it's 'cause he was just better. Anything goes wrong was a fluke. Like, geeze, man, maybe if your entire future rested in a seventeen year old's ability to break the laws of physics it's the system that's the problem, y'know?"

"EXACTLY!" Fiddleford flung his arms out. It almost hit Stan in the face. "He did good in school, and I'm real happy for him, I really am! But it's like, we were in the same classes, and goshdurn it, I was better than him! So what's this magical force what makes him think everyone who didn't get where he did just didn't try hard enough?"

Fiddleford was starting to lose him now, but Stan got the impression the guy needed to vent from how loud it was coming out, so he didn't say anything.

"I tried, Doctor Stanford Pines, I tried till it almost killed me, and then I help you try til that almost kills me too! Maybe your dreams ain't worth all that!"

"Oh, yeah. And, like, maybe your dreams ain't everyone else's dream, too," Stanley said. It probably wasn't a fair thought, but it was one that came on him all the time in motels and WalMart parking lots: what the hell were dreams worth, if you went one way and he went the other and neither of you ever got to see each other again?

Fiddleford glanced over and huffed a smokey laugh. "Truth. Not sure how many daddies and doctor types need to hear that." Fiddleford wrinkled his nose. "Ack, forgot how foul these are."

"Then why'd you bum one?"

"Hoping to trick myself into thinking it was something stronger, I guess," he said, scraping out the lit end on the porch and leaving it in case Stan wanted the other half.

Stan side-eyed him. "You payin'?"

Fiddleford looked over at him in surprise. Then down.

Stan was peeking a baggie out of his inner coat pocket. It wasn't much, maybe half an ounce, and it was cheap shit. But hey. A sale's a sale.

Fiddleford didn't even ask. He just pulled a fifty, threw it at Stan, and snatched the bag. Stan passed him a box of rolling paper, and Fiddleford rolled first one, than a second, out with astonishing dexterity.

"Shit, you know your stuff."

"I had a social life in school."

He offered one to Stan, who lit them both up. Fiddleford lay back on the porch and sighed deeply.

"So. What's the story here?" Stan asked.

"Oh, Stanford's my best friend," Fiddleford said. "And as much as I hate to say it, your brother really is all that. Not only the biggest genius I ever met, but one of the best academics to boot. Brains alone don't get degrees."

"And now, uh, what's going on?"

"Oh, right. Sorry, we've been awful." Fiddleford sat up and occipied his hands by making more joints, resting his own on the stair between tokes. "Doctor Pines is here on grant money he got after groundbreaking solo research and a very impressive proof of concept at a conference a few years back. Now, I don't suppose you'd know much about academic politics, Mister Pines, but that is what we call a very big deal, especially when you look at what they gave him. And if I'm being completely frank, it's not primarily the work that's good. The man could convince the board to dig a canal in Arizona."

"What? Sixer?" Stanley laughed. He noticed, but didn't quite register Fiddleford's flinch at the name. "Guy never took a date to a school dance in his life."

"Maybe he ought've asked more funding admins."

Stanley chuckled. The weed was definitely helping.

"Anyhow, part of what he was doing here was building this big -" Fiddleford sucked from his joint, gestured lamely, lost his words - "I don't know how to describe it in plain speak. It's a doohickey."

"A doohicky."

"Portal, let's say. Real spaceman bullhockey. Let's just say, me'n him are close on the only ones as could do it, this stuff is mathematically on the edge of impossible."

"You an him, huh?"

"Oh, alright," Fiddleford said, grinning, rolling out the last of his little arts and crafts project. "Me. I'm the only one could build it. I weren't lying when I said I'm better'n him."

Stan coughed laughing. "Got a big head on your shoulders?"

"Hardly. I'm an engineer. Not an academic."

"Yeah, yeah. Smart guys. Look, I'm just a schlub."

Fiddleford's face fell. "Sorry, I don't mean that- oh, shucks, my wife always warned me I gotta watch what I say about that sort of thing. I didn't mean nothing by it. Having brains don't measure a man's worth, I know that more'n most."

"Aw, it's nothing," Stan said, made big-hearted and quick to forgive by the drugs. "You're good in my book."

Fiddleford was out of weed. He tucked what he'd made back into the bag and sealed it. When he gazed out at the woods this time, his anger had softened to irritation. "Anyway, I come out here to help him with his work. And believe me, it's good. He's got a one-of-a-kind opportunity here. But Stanford Pines is one of those Victorian types says discovery is all about taking risks, and let's just say when he takes risks I always seem to be the one who ends up with something broke."

"Aw man. I'm sorry. Seriously."

"First there was the Grenloblin, which is a horrid creature, by the way, then that cat-tannin' shapeshifter he kept as a pet even when it began to talk to us-"

"Wait, what?"

"And the gnome debacle keeps coming back to bite us, can't keep the windows sealed tight enough,"

"Gnomes?"

"And then that FUCKING demon."

Fiddleford abruptly stopped talking. He took another toke. His free hand was clenched into a shaking fist. Stan stared.

"What do you guys research, exactly?"

"Anomalies," said Fiddleford.

"Like, what, two-headed calves and shit?"

"That'd work. But Gravity Falls has gnomes."

"Little men in red hats."

"Little men in red hats."

"You're shitting me."

"I swear to you I am not."

"Don't suppose the bud went bad..."

"You'll see in the morning. I'll show you."

"You just described a bunch of dangerous shit. And also gnomes, I guess. Do I want to see it all?"

"Believe me, the most 'dangerous shit' is in this house."

Stanley, being an idiot but not that much of an idiot, was about to press him further. They were interrupted by the door, though, and his dumb brother's disapproval.

"Are you two smoking cannabis?" Ford demanded. Stanley chuckled at how much he sounded like a pearl-clutching old woman.

"Yes we are, and you're partaking," Fiddleford said, pulling out a joint. "We're making up for lost time, come on."

Stanford glared daggers. "I am not."

Fiddleford fell back on the porch, stretched his legs out in front of him, and stared upside-down up at Stanford.

"You owe meeeeeeee."

Stanford kept glaring. Then he glared at Stanley, who shrugged.

"Did you bring this?" Ford snapped.

"Technically, but I didn't offer. He asked."

Fiddleford wiggled the outstretched joint.

Stanley had no idea the look on Stanford's face was, aside from uncomfortable, but the guy relented. He stepped forward, sat as far as he could from the other two, and gingerly picked up the joint. Stan tossed him the lighter, knowing very well that he wouldn't have his own. The other boys laughed at him when he struggled to get it lit right.

"Don't worry, Doctor Pines, I'm here for you," said Fiddleford in a fond, dreamy voice.

"Very reassuring, thank you," Stanford growled.

It was endearing. It was, hell, it was cute. Despite the blow-up inside, Stan was kind of... glad? that Stanford had apparently made an actual, honest-to-god friend.

#Stanley Pines #Fiddleford McGucket #Stanford Pines #Smoking Weed #I have never smoked weed #I did some research on weed forums to figure how to properly show a guy overpaying for shitty weed in the 80s #Please correct things #Fiddleford McGucket was a hippie #FiddleTurnips #Scene excerpt #gravity falls fanfiction

[whitherwordswither]

Logs from the Starfields, VIII

Captain's Log #0.08:

Akila keeps callin' my name.

Not just because I kinda like the shabby little town or the way Helga says hi to me every time I wander in to The Rock. I've also got unfinished business here. Of the Ranger variety. I finally head on up and turn in the bounty they'd sent me out on the other day. Looks like I'm the right type'a folks they're lookin' fer. And y'know what? I could use some good flowin' my way. I have a chat with the Sheriff and he sends me and Emma out to investigate a call from help from… Waggoner Farm! Well, hey. I know where that is. I done did a delivery there not too long back! Nice folks. If anyone is botherin' 'em, I won't hesitate to put a couple boots up some asses.

We land and Mikaela waves us over. She's right scared. Says a group of gruff lookin' merc-types were tryin' to get her to sell the farm to 'em dirty cheap. Said they'd be back, then headed off in to some nearby canyons. I ain't ever tracked no one before but Emma seems to think I do a good enough job of it. We weave our way through some proper jagged rockface, blast through some hostile local wildlife and eventually reach a small encampment.

Turns out this merc unit are old Freestar. Like them's that fought against the UC in the war. Or whatever. I straight away don't like the way the boss man here is talkin'. Seems like they ain't gonna go quiet. They open fire. Big mistake. Emma and I lay waste to the group without too much trouble. Though I had to quick-like ingest some Med packs 'cause damn, that leader-boy packed quite a punch. … We scour their camp for clues afterward and I notice a ship in the distance. Turns out this is a stolen vessel from the HopeTec shipyard. Curious. The plot deepens! But at least the farm should be safe for now. I let Mikaela know things should be good, but keep the comms open just in case. Then me n Emma head back to Akila to report in to Daniels.

Daniels used to be affiliated with this group of old school Freestar mercs. 'Cept everyone else after the war got jail time and turned out to be some not good individuals. Why they're comin' back with a vengeance now, who knows. Emma parts ways at this point. I don't blame her. She's got a daughter to look after. I sit and chat with Daniels a bit, get some extra information about the group we're probably dealing with and hand over the data slate we found about the ship. Seems I've got my work cut out for me!

Unfortunately for me, that takes me back to Neon. Of all the rotten… Sigh. …Gotta do what y'gotta do, though. I meet Pryce, one of the Rangers stationed here and he gives me the low down about how things operate in Neon. Like I hadn't already figured that out from my prior trip here. I play nice and he takes me to see an acquaintance who might know something about that stolen ship. Apparently, it was seen landing here before it was handed off to the merc group later on.

Nothing's free on Neon. I keep getting reminded. And the guy don't want no credits! Fine by me. Instead he wants me to talk to some scumlord loan shark who is comin' after him now because his dead brother owed money and somebody's gotta pay. I don't like that kinda bullshit. I head over to the warehouse where this small group of Syndicate baddies are operating and try my best to talk the greasy mustached prick outta doin' what he's doin'. Even though I know it ain't gonna go over well. I know the type. I have to end up dispensing some lethal justice. Good riddance, in any case. Fleecin' hard workin' folk like that. If you ain't got respect for another life, then boy howdy, you've lost the right to yours! I don't regret what I had to do.

The bloke gives us the name of the ship-jacker, who is conveniently hanging out at Madame Savauge's place, just a short jog from here. Pryce and I confront her. She's much more easy to persuade in to talkin'. She ain't lookin' for trouble, just tryin' to make creds the only way she knows how. She don't hurt no one. Just takes ships. I don't lean in to her too much about it. I'm after bigger game. She gives up two names and an encrypted data slate. Pryce says one of the boys back at The Rock is good at decryption and I need to report back to Daniels anyhow. So we part ways.

Back on Akila I hand over the tablet to A… Aa-… Shit. I forgot his name. Well, the data-guy! And fill Daniels in. He recognizes both names. I get a little more info about the targets, then set my sights on Maya. The ship-jacker said Maya had mentioned getting called away for a medical emergency. And ain't no place that values privacy and medical emergencies than The Clinic. Since I'm already familiar with the station and have done some work there I decide that'll be my first stop. Time to go pay a patient a visit.

I meet another ranger, Ben, who is stationed at The Clinic. He introduces me to Ari, the station's IT. The name Maya doesn't ring any bells and she doesn't appear to be listed in the system. Makes sense. Wanted fugitive and all. Ari gives me Admin access to check the station logs, see if anything looks funny. Someone's installed an external program from the VIP wing.

I talk one of the doctor's in to giving me a card to access the area. Didn't even have to persuade 'em. Just let 'em know I knew enough about Medicine to not mess anything up.

Soon as I step foot in the VIP wing there's already a dead nurse. Welp, I can already guess this prognosis. And it looks like the area turret has been set to kindly ask anyone to drop dead.

I take out the turret and check around. Ain't nobody else here. The terminal in the patient's room has definitely been messed with. I deactivate the program and find a data slate. Smart enough to mess with the station's systems and steal a medical transport but not smart enough to take the message with you that tells me exactly where you're goin', eh? Almost like you want t'be found!

On my way out I try to look for someone to report to about the dead nurse. Or maybe someone might've been a little curious about the explosion they heard from the VIP wing. But everyone's occupied. Even Ben doesn't seem interested. Weird.

But I ain't got time to argue. I get back in my ship and pop in the coordinates for the Sakharov system.

I jump right in to a cluster of fuckin' asteroids and have to do some quick maneuvering. Don't want to be the shortest-lived newest deputy of the Freestar Rangers, yeah?

Sakharov is a fairly small system. Just one star, one planet and it's moon. The only other notable locale upon cursory scan is an abandoned mining facility here: Eklund Excavation Site CL25. Seems like the best spot to start lookin' I reckon.

Not only has Maya booby trapped the place, there are these critters that look like they really love munchin' on the abundant cobalt they mine here. It's a bit of a maze to get through. And then I have to deal with a mess of homicidal robots and giant mining lasers. On top of fending off the 'balt-munchers.

It ain't too terrible of a job to get through though and once I have Maya cornered she goes down easy enough. She gives me what I need. I debate on letting her live out her last few weeks, since whatever she has seemingly doesn't have a cure. …But not only has she put lives in danger. She's killed innocent people. So I opt to do her a favor and put her out of her misery.

That's a wrap for this place. Before I head back to Akila I decide to survey the planets here since there are only two. With Bonner being a gas giant, there's nothing to survey. So that really just leaves lil 'ole Mir II.

I hail a random Freestar vessel passing by. That short convo brightened my day:

Freestar Vessel: "Do you know the way to Uranus?" Me: "Yeah, I do!" F.V.: "Good! Because it's right BEHIND YOU. Smell you later!"

And then they immediately grav jumped away.

I love folks.

Anywhoo~ I drop down to the surface of Mir II and get my scans. I notice a landing area up ahead and jaunt on over. Hey, spacer buddies! They don't ask questions. They just start firing. I pick 'em all off as I board their ship, take out the crew inside and… another ship for me! Gosh, they really are just givin' these things away, ain't they?

Seems like a nice little rig. I take her up in to orbit for a spin, then drop back down to go visit one of the places I seen in the distance. An old disused UC listening post. And but of course it's filled with pirates! I tra-la-la my way through, looting and shooting. Once I'm done I head back to my ship and jump back over to Akila. I register the new ship then turn right around and sell it.

Did I mention I bought one of the houses that was for sale here? The bigger one in The Core, just out back of The Rock. The realtor still likes to hang around by my front door but he's a nice enough guy so I don't mind too much. I spent a good amount of time crafting some furniture and placing all my goodies where I'd like them. I'm thinking I'll need another shelf for more of these plushies. (That reminds me. I need to head back to New Atlantis and get all my stuff from that room Constellation is letting me use!)

I think I'm done for the night. It's been a wild ride. Tomorrow I'll hunt down Marco and see maybe see how deep this Freestar conspiracy nonsense goes.

Eeyup. Catch ya 'round.

End log.

#creative writing #queer writers #writing community #sci-fi #space #starfield

[faveficarchive]

~ Home Fires ~ (Part 2)

by Christine "Roo" Toups 

GENERAL COPYRIGHT/DISCLAIMER:

Dr. Janice Covington and Melinda Pappas are the sole copyright property of MCA/Universal and Renaissance Pictures. All other characters, the story idea and the story itself are the property of the author. Copies of this story may be made for private use only and must include all disclaimers and copyright notices. 

LOVE/SEX WARNING/DISCLAIMER:

This story depicts a love/sexual relationship between two consenting adult women. If you are under 18 years of age or if this type of story is illegal in the state or country in which you live, please do not read it.

Carelessly, words and music by C. Kenny/N.Kenny/N. Ellis used without permission. 

NOTE: © copyright 2000 One Bard Writin' 

Part 2

Chapter 10

Mel groaned, awash in inarticulate misery as she clutched the white porcelain bowl. Janice sat behind her on a short footstool; one hand kept long, raven hair pulled back, out of harm's way, while the other grasped the chain pull. "Okay?" Nodding, Mel leaned against Janice's knee, surrendering to the pounding in her head as the water gushed and swirled counter?clockwise down the pipes. Janice put a glass of water into her trembling hands with the simple command, "Rinse. Spit." Mel obeyed without question, after which Janice pulled the chain again and helped Mel to her feet. 

Leaning heavily on the smaller woman, Mel whispered, "I'm sorry 'bout your boots." 

"Washed right off," replied Janice.

"And your blouse..."

"A little cold water...Okay, hang on just a sec..." Steadying Mel with one hand, she hastily turned down the bed with the other. "Okay, don't get any ideas now." Leaving her charge teetering at the edge of the bed, Janice snaked her arms around Mel's waist and groped for the button at the back of the A?line skirt.

Mel put her hands on Janice's shoulders for support. "You've come to your senses at last?"

"Nope." Janice popped the snap. "Still out of my tree." She passed the skirt over shapely hips and chased its descent with her hands until it fell in a puddle at Mel's feet. "Step out...first one foot...that's good, now the other - that's my girl...and she does it all without a net."

Mel sat heavily upon the edge of the bed. "I'm sorry to be so much trouble." 

"Undressing you, Mel, is a lot of things, but trouble ain't one of them." Janice's hand moved deftly over the pearly buttons of Mel's blouse, popping each with a practiced, three?fingered maneuver that was normally a prelude to more strenuous activity. She slipped the blouse from Mel's slim shoulders and glanced appreciatively at the camisole draping tantalizing swells and curves in a fine satin sheen. "Nice. You do wonders for it." 

"Wonders for what?" Mel asked groggily.

Janice rolled her eyes. "Never mind. You're too drunk to appreciate my wit."

Mel arched an eyebrow. "Maybe I'm not drunk enough."

Janice clucked her tongue, then replied, "I reserve comment," and plumped a couple of down?filled pillows before sliding Mel's legs beneath the blanket. "There now, you're all set."

Mel's fingers scrunched the blanket on either side of her hips. Her attractive face could best be described as panicked...and green. "Janice..." she sucked a breath over her teeth, "...the room's spinnin'..."

"Of course it's spinning," Janice retorted, tucking the blanket close. "Cheap whiskey will do that." Mel groaned, unable to appreciate the sarcasm. "Close your eyes. It helps." She stepped away to switch off the powerful overhead light in favor of the small lamp atop the dresser. The 40 watt bulb beneath a natty fringed shade cast the room in a soft yellow light more conducive to sleep. Kneeling beside the bed, she stroked Mel's pinched brow. "Better?"

Mel shook her head miserably and threw one arm over her eyes. "Shoot me, Janice, just shoot me now."

Janice laughed and kissed Mel's forehead. "Oh, no no...I have plans for you, Melinda Pappas."

Mel peeked out with one eye and conjured up the hint of a smile. "At last, a reason to live."

A few minutes later, Janice left her there, half?asleep in the half?dark. She kept the bedroom door open a few inches, should Mel should call for her, and padded quietly down the hall and into the kitchen. The scene awaiting her was tantamount to a battlefield: dirty dishes, pots and pans, food left on a cluttered table. Who knew that two people could generate such chaos? "No wonder I eat take out so often." 

She tied the apron loosely about her waist and went to work clearing the table of leftovers. She didn't play favorites; everything from vegetables to sweet breads went to the icebox, although she found room in her full stomach for the last of the olives, simply because they reminded her of Athens, and Mel. She washed and dried the dinner dishes and made a half?hearted attempt to scrub clean a particularly dirty roasting pan before finally consigning it to soak overnight in soapy water. When she looked up at the old clock on the wall, she was surprised to see that it was nearly nine in the evening. "Time. It do fly," she quipped, mildly startled by the sound of her own voice in the large, unnaturally quiet house. While her hands were clean and dry, she opened the phonograph and carefully re?sheathed the Billie Holiday record; she suspected it wouldn't see further play in her absence. Small minds, she mused. 

She turned, bundling the crumb?strewn tablecloth by its corners. As she prepared to shake it out, she pondered how long to let Mel sleep, while at the same time contemplating the merits of simply weaving her arms and legs into and around that lanky frame and drifting off to sleep beside her. There was another, decidedly less pleasant option which consisted of two fingers of whiskey, a good book and her feet up. The sole benefit of this scenario was that it required no explanation to an inquisitive child arriving home unexpectedly. 

She opened the back door with the toe of her boot and flung out the linen, shaking it by two corners. Draping it over one arm, she stood in the open doorway, enjoying the smells and sounds carried on the night air ?wattles in bloom, and dingoes, and the windmill rods pumping hard in the cool evening breeze. Tossing the tablecloth over the back of a chair, she stepped outside, closing the door behind her. The moon was just peeking over the backbone of the roof, shedding pale light across the yard, onto the bleached rail fence and the crude clothesline strung between the fence and the porch. She recognized her jodhpurs, still heavy with water, hanging limply from the line; in contrast, her white blouse and brassiere greeted her with an obscene wave. She fished inside the blouse's breast pocket with two fingers, seeking the cigar she had earlier secreted there, but came up empty. She muttered an oath and slung the blouse and brassiere over her shoulder just as something slithered, to papery effect, through the tall saw grass just beyond her line of sight; she was not inclined to investigate. Instead, she backpedaled towards the house nonchalantly, affecting a shiver, as if her abrupt departure had more to do with the brisk northerly wind than any creepy crawler, real or imagined.

Inside the house, the temperature had dropped to a cool 65 degrees, only slightly warmer than the air outside. Dropping the blouse and brassiere on the table, she slipped into the familiar warmth of her leather jacket as she left the kitchen to check on Mel. She glanced through the four?inch gap without touching the knob, because the bedroom door had the tendency to squeak. Mel lay facing her, a large pillow crushed to her chest by her long, slim arms. Her lips, slightly parted, breathed softly into the linen. A corner of the pillow lay trapped between the mattress and one exposed thigh. Janice's knees went weak; she had never wanted to be a pillow so badly in all her life. Down, girl. Turning to leave, she gave the luscious vision one last glance. Think baseball, baseball!

In the living room, she took a moment to peruse the rather impressive library Jack Greenway had amassed over the years ? Hemingway, W.B. Yeats, Cervantes, Mark Twain ?literary luminaries sandwiched between lesser?known local authors. She squinted at the spines on a set of technical digests, sounding out the titles aloud. "Secrets of Night Bass Fishing...Fly Casting and How to Tie Them...How to Land a Trophy Fish." She sighed heavily. Makes sense. What else would a land?locked man do but dream of fish? In the end, she selected Death in the Afternoon and adjourned to the glider on the verandah. She poured herself a drink, crossed her ankles atop a low wicker table and opened the book, flipping past the acknowledgments. But the whiskey, Hemingway's laconic writing style and 30 hours without sleep all combined with predictable effect. She surrendered to sleep before the first bull was bloodied.

Mel found her there sometime later, recumbent on the glider, the book tented open on her chest and an empty tumbler dangling precariously from her slackening fingers. From her place in the open doorway, the tall Southerner watched with a stillness she had forgotten; it occurred to her that Janice appeared younger when asleep. Her normally expressive face was cherubic and unlined, her full lips drawn into a strange little smile that was both innocent and provocative. Mel approached for a closer scrutiny, the bed sheet she had draped over her shoulders for warmth whispering against her bare legs as she walked. She rescued the tumbler from certain disaster and carefully extracted the volume of Hemingway, glancing at the title before laying it aside. Janice lay ripe for the picking. Sleeping Beauty. Once the analogy was in her head, Mel had no choice but to content herself with a single kiss, feather?light upon warm lips which fell open like the petals of a rose.

"Nice," Janice murmured, without opening her eyes. "But just one?"

"You were asleep," Mel retorted. "Give me credit for a little restraint." She pulled the sheet close around her and withdrew until her back was against a cool support post. "Pleasant dreams?"

"Very." Affecting nonchalance, Janice folded her trembling hands in her lap, but she could do little to calm the wild beating of her heart. Content to indulge in what seemed to be mutual appreciation, pale green eyes moved over an impressive physique every bit deserving of such patient scrutiny. The bed sheet, pale against Mel's pale skin, alternately clinging or draping at the whim of the wind, gave her the appearance of a living Greek sculpture. And it was all hers for the asking, once she found her voice. "You must be cold in that," she managed at last.

"Just the opposite." Mel relaxed her grip, and the sheet slipped down to reveal a bare shoulder. She dropped her voice an octave, drawing the slow, sensual tones from her throat like a weapon. "I'm very warm."

There was a hint of delicious friction as Janice uncrossed her ankles and stood. Over the noise of her blood, she heard herself say, "You look like you're feeling better."

"I'm sober as a judge, if that's what you mean," Mel replied. A small smile turned up the corners of her lips. "I'm not drunk, and you're not dreamin'...although I could pinch you if you like."

Janice raised an eyebrow. "Maybe later." 

"Are you glued to that chair?" Janice erupted in a chuckle of nervous laughter that Mel found endearing. "What's the matter? More afraid of peace than war?"

"What would you like me to do, Mel?" Ohh, there's a loaded question.

"This is a seduction, Dr. Covington." Mel opened her fist and the sheet slid from her shoulders - over the soft roundness of her hips and the bared violin curve of her waist - until she was standing before Janice, nude. "Use your imagination."

Janice cut the space between them without delay, pinning Mel roughly against the clapboards of the house. Immersing her hands in loose raven tresses, she crushed Mel's lips to her own in a bruising kiss. She felt hands at her face, on her breasts, in what seemed a frenzied grope; while her own hands roamed, mapping the landscape of her lover's body -- peaks and valleys that stirred beneath her touch. Her left hand skimmed the flat plane of an abdomen, stroked the silky, damp nest of curls below, and drew one long forefinger through the wetness before coming to rest on a high, hard nub of flesh.

"Oh..." Mel's body froze at a peak. "There..." she murmured against Janice's neck. "...right...there....oh...ohmy..." she groaned. She used the pleasure pulsing through her body in waves to fuel her own exploration, trading skin for leather as she worked the jacket from Janice's body. "One of us..." she gasped. "...is over?dressed."

Janice answered the complaint with a deep kiss as she shucked off the jacket, flinging it carelessly aside in the rush to maintain crucial momentum. Tangled in Mel's grasping arms, she was groping for the buttons on her slacks when the howl of a dingo filtered through the blood pounding in her ears. "Jeez...that sounded close." 

"Just a dingo..." Mel muttered breathlessly as she pushed the khakis down over Janice's hips. She seized handfuls of the white blouse, impatiently bypassing the buttons, choosing instead to ruck the material up and over her lover's head, exposing ample, round breasts. "Oh, God," she crooned, "I love your body." She was sure she growled 

as she fell upon the deliciously swelling flesh, ringing the aureola inside her warm, wet lips while her tongue danced unseen over an erect nipple. Janice's groan of satisfaction was unmistakable. "So perfect..." Mel murmured as she peppered the washboard stomach with tiny, nipping kisses, and swirled her tongue in and around Janice's navel. 

Accomplishing all of this while standing was awkward; even in bare feet she towered a full six inches above Janice's head. She scanned the plank floor at her feet for obstructions and was preparing to take their lovemaking to an entirely new level when she felt Janice stiffen in her arms. Mel's voice was a mixture of dread and disbelief. "Janice Covington, don't you dare! Not yet...not without me!"

Janice was too preoccupied to be offended. She dipped and hitched up her slacks. "We can't do this, Mel...not here."

"Why? Are you cold? C'mere," she coaxed. Her hands cupped Janice's backside, drawing their bodies together once more. "Lemme warm you..."

Janice reluctantly peeled herself away. "I swear, Mel, you've got more arms than Vishnu! Have you forgotten about Alice?" 

"Alice." Mel shivered, the sweat on her body beginning to cool in the night air.

"Yeah. Thirteen, bright but impressionable? That Alice." Janice squinted into the surrounding blackness. "What if she were to come home and walk up on this...this anatomy lesson?! Have you thought about that?" 

Mel crossed her arms and, grinning, replied, "Not once." She secretly wished for her glasses; the shock on Janice's face was no doubt, priceless.

"Where's my shirt? Criminy, Mel...put something on, will ya? You're distracting me!" 

"Relax, Janice," Mel cooed, plucking the rumpled white blouse from a wattle branch. "It's just you and me."

Janice snatched the blouse from Mel's extended fingertips. "Thank you!" she snapped. "You know, if I didn't know better, I'd say you were enjoying this." 

Mel retorted, "I was, up until a minute ago."

Janice narrowed her eyes and sputtered, "You know what I'm talking about. God dammit, where're the buttons on this thing!?"

Mel suppressed a giggle. "You have it on inside out. May I just say one teensy tiny little thing?"

Janice dropped her hands to her side and exhaled wearily. "What?"

There was a moment of anticipatory silence before Mel announced, "Alice is staying the night with her friend. We have the house to ourselves." 

"Oh." Janice shifted where she stood; there was nothing worse than a thoroughly wasted tantrum. "You knew that all along, but you let me get dressed again?"

Mel approached her in a sensuous stroll. "Only because it's such fun undressin' you. Now," she said. "Why don't we see if we can't find a way to re?direct all that misplaced energy of yours." She drew Janice closer with one hand while the other skimmed a bare midriff on its way south.

Janice captured Mel's lips with her own as fingers moved against her pleasantly aching flesh. As her hips rose to the caress of a skillful hand, she sucked in her breath, absolutely light?headed with pleasure. "Oh, God, Mel...that curls my toes..."

Mel responded by wiggling her thumb. "I have many skills."

Janice shuddered and sighed, "How f?fortunate for me," as she surrendered to gravity.

Chapter 11

In the close, palpable silence of a stranger's bedroom, Janice was primed to notice everything -- from the sweet, almost narcotic fog that hung in the air to the heat radiating from her body, reflecting off of Mel's as they lay tangled in the large bed. She felt good...good from the navel out in all directions. She knew there was a goofy contented smile on her face and the knowledge came as a revelation to her. She could count her pre-Mel sexual experiences on one hand -- two brief flings and one serious year-long relationship that ended badly -- a hundred or so sticky, passionate fumblings and never once the fuzzy-warm payoff of afterglow. She had written it off as romanticized claptrap...until she met Mel. Is that all it takes? The right person? Some small fraction of her suspected that the answer could not be reduced to something as fundamental as chemistry. Like all truly good things, love did not require close scrutiny. It simply was.

She lay quietly for some time, admiring her lover's profile and absently fingering feather-light swirls upon Mel's exposed skin while their intertwined bodies gathered moonlight. She had never felt more vulnerable than she did at this moment, lying in the arms of the one person capable of breaking her. She was visibly moved. An angel...I'm in love with an angel. "I deserve this," she said aloud. 

"Hmm...wha'?" Mel responded groggily.

Smoothing sweat-dampened hair, Janice whispered, "Shh, go back to sleep."

Mel nuzzled Janice's neck, gazing up with sleep-heavy lids. "I don't wanna miss anythin'."

"Believe me, sweetheart," replied Janice. "There's nothing I could do alone that wouldn't be more fun with you. You warm enough?" 

"Ummm." Mel smiled against the hollow of Janice's neck and curved an arm around her waist. "I had a real good time tonight."

"Me, too." Janice kissed a crown of dark hair and gathered her close. "Yep," she sighed. "This must be heaven."

"Until sunrise anyway," replied Mel. She wasn't by nature a clockwatcher, but minutes and hours had never seemed so valuable as they did tonight. "What time do you s'pose it is?"

"Don't know, don't care," replied Janice airily.

Mel sat up quickly, as if stung; the blanket pooled unnoticed around her waist. "And it doesn't bother you that we only have a few short hours left together?"

Janice propped herself up on one elbow. "Mel, honey, the sun is going to rise tomorrow. No amount of wishing will change that. I simply choose not to dwell on the inevitable."

"Cynic," quipped Mel, groping for her glasses on the bedside table.

"Realist. There's a difference." She swung her feet to the floor and stood.

Mel caught her by the wrist. "Now I've gone and chased you outta bed."

"Oh, heart," Janice retorted. "You could never do that. However," she said, reaching for the dressing gown at the foot of the bed. "I do have to visit the little archaeologist's room."

Mel's lips curved in a playful line. "Oh, allright, if nature calls..." She watched as Janice thrust one arm into the flowing sleeve of the gown. "No. Don't," she said, capturing the hem of the garment in her fist. A smouldering gaze lingered over sculpted abs and firm, pert breasts. "It'd be like throwin' a tarp over a Da Vinci."

Janice lifted her eyebrows. "Mel, it's cold in here."

Mel migrated to the spot left warm by Janice's body and replied pointedly, "But it's warm in bed." 

"I can't argue with that kind of logic." Janice stepped out of the gown. "Be right back." 

Mel pushed the glasses up on her nose and said, "Besides, this way I get to see those two cute little dimples on your backside."

Janice scowled and looked over her shoulder. "The woman's a sucker for dimples. Who knew?" 

"I love everythin' about your body," she purred, her voice dissolving into a slow, hypnotic drawl. "I could be a lifetime memorizing every curve and swell." Her finger traced a sizzling path to Janice's hip. "...every little scar and mole -- " Janice cleared her throat and raised one eyebrow in a dramatic gesture. "Beauty mark!" Mel amended with a sly smile. "Every little beauty mark."

"You are so good for my ego," laughed Janice. She knelt on the bed and met warm, parted lips halfway -- quick peck flowered into passionate kiss. Mel's hands worked in concert, one at the small of her back, pulling her inward, the other groping a full, sensitive breast until Janice groaned audibly into Mel's mouth. "Wait wait wait..." she gasped and pulled away with a feral grin. Blowing a breath between her lips she said, "Hold that thought." 

Mel reclined into a cluster of pillows and pursed her lips in an audible pout. "Hurry back," she cooed as her hands curved provocatively beneath her breasts. "I'm missin' you already."

Janice was momentarily transfixed, her mouth watered -- but her bladder made a convincing argument. She held up a finger and looked Mel seriously in the eye. "One minute." She turned, navigating the moonlit room with unseemly haste. At the dresser, she caught sight of her featureless profile in the dark mirror; she gave Mel's hazy silhouette a considering look as if something had only this minute registered. "Da Vinci, huh? Well, at least you didn't say Picasso. What would I do with a third breast anyway?"

"More importantly: what would I do with it?" quipped Mel. She folded her glasses with care and lay them on the nightstand. "The light switch is just there on your left." There was an audible click before soft light illuminated the cul du sac and spilled into the bedroom proper. Mel laced her fingers behind her head and stared at the ceiling dappled with shadows and water stains. "How's it goin' in there? Need any help?" she inquired facetiously.

"No, thank you. I've been doing this alone since I was 2." 

Over the flush of the toilet Mel quipped, "You didn't tell me you were a prodigy!" 

Janice glowered at Mel as she soaped and rinsed her hands. "Oh, I'm gifted, darlin'." She tossed the towel over her shoulder and snapped off the light, groping her way to the bed, bunging her toes into the dresser only once -- "Gotdammittohell!" - before sliding beneath the blanket Mel opened for her. Sucking a breath between her teeth, she growled, "Stupid place for a dresser anyway..." 

"Poor baby," crooned Mel; she lowered her voice a notch. "Let me kiss it and make it all better." She suckled on the soft hollow at the base of Janice's ear eliciting a groan of satisfaction. "You don't mind if I start at the top and work my way down now, do you?" 

Janice closed her eyes, arching her throat into the kiss and replied, "As long as we both get there, sweetheart." 

"Oh, don't you worry about ole Mel," she purred, straddling one of Janice's powerful thighs. "Now...where was I? Oh yes...beauty marks..." She drew her index finger beneath Janice's ribs, sending a shiver across the taut muscles. "Janice...what's this scar here? I don't 'member this."

Janice replied without opening her eyes. "I was 10...pitched right over the handlebars of my bike." Warm lips drew a cool, burning line across her skin. "Have you seen my appendectomy scar?" she quipped.

Mel traced the livid pink scar with her tongue before planting a kiss in the well of Janice's navel with the admonition, "You should be kinder to your body." Janice merely clucked her tongue and shrugged while Mel continued her macabre inventory. Long fingers gently skimmed the starburst-shaped scar where the neck and collarbone joined. "This is new." 

"Gunshot, three months ago in Istanbul," Janice replied lightly, even as she began to flex and release the muscles of her thighs. "Never step between a man and the woman he's battering without first checking him for weapons. That's a little piece of advice from me to you."

"Ohhh, Janice," Mel's face was a strange combination of fear and regret and desire. 

"I wish I had been there for you. Does it hurt much?"

"Let's not talk about pain," Janice replied. "Tonight is about pleasure." Her own breath quickened as Mel rocked, head thrown back, full lips parted in shameless ecstasy. "You're so beautiful," she murmured. Mel's knee, so advantageously placed, struck gold. She grasped Mel's hips as her own began to roll and sway in time with her lover. "Mine. My own flawless Mel..." she whispered as her heart clenched in joyful empathy. 

"What?" Mel slowed her rhythm, breathing shallowly through her mouth as she tried to focus on the face beneath her. "Did you say somethin'?" 

"Oh, God, Mel...whatever you do, don't stop!" Her heart hammered in her chest while the rhythm of their bodies slowed to a steady, less frenetic, ultimately less satisfying pace. She discovered, to her grief, that she could think...but only just. "Now -- what is it?" 

Mel narrowed her eyes. "Did you just call me 'flawless'?" 

Janice reached up, touching Mel's glistening face with a barely contained smile. "You got a problem with that?" 

Mel stopped all motion, screwing her face into a scowl. "You need glasses more than I do. What do you call this?" She lay a finger atop her right breast.

Janice squeezed her eyes shut and pounded her forehead with her free hand. "Wait! Don't tell me. I know this one!"

Mel groaned and slapped her playfully across the cheek. "No, silly...look closer."

With little effort, Janice rolled Mel onto her back, straddling her sleek torso while pinning her arms above her head. "Well, looky there..." She made a show of examining the circular birthmark above what was otherwise a perfect breast. "How'd I ever miss that?" 

At the first touch of a warm, wet tongue, Mel stretched and groaned, weaving her fingers into Janice's as first one breast, then the other was suckled upon until the nipples were aching peaks. She could feel the comforting weight of her lover's breasts, heavy and aroused against her ribcage, and the unparalleled warmth of her center as it married with her own. Articulate thought was the first casualty. "...so wet...fer me..."

"For you..." Janice bit an erect nipple, slavered her tongue around it. "Because of you. Now, may I finish what you started?" Green eyes met blue in a serious gaze as she transferred Mel's grasp to the spindles on the headboard. "Don't you let go," she warned in a low, throaty voice, her fingernails grazing the insides of long, supple arms. "The minute you let go...I stop."

The threat was implicit in word and tone. Mel licked her lips, trapping a corner of flesh between her teeth. Lips and tongue, white hot against glistening pale skin, murmured little endearments as they made lazy but determined progress down the length of her quivering, eager body. Legs parted, enveloping Janice's retreating form in a heady, fragrant embrace until her ankles crossed at the small of her back, drawing Janice into a needy union of flesh and teeth and tongue. At the first stroke, the master stroke - broad and rough and achingly slow - her hips left the bed in an instinctive spasm. Prickly, breath-snatching sensations, like tiny heart attacks, radiated outward from her groin. She screwed her eyes shut, in delicious agony. Hands, damp with sweat, closed into tight fists, wringing discordant squeaks from the wooden spindles of the headboard as Janice began her work in earnest, with a reverence generally reserved for prayer - the body as a temple. Minutes later, gathering breath for a scream, Mel's body arched like a bow under the expert ministrations of a devoted worshiper. 

* * * * * * * * * *

"Make way! Hot, hot!" Emerging from the house, Janice moved briskly across the verandah clad only in one of Jack Greenway's voluminous shirts, balancing a thick slab of buttered sourdough bread atop the mug of hot tea. "Your tea." 

Seated on the glider, Mel wordlessly opened the heavy blanket with one hand while accepting the proffered mug with the other. She was careful to hold the brimming hot liquid away from her as her partner situated herself against the warm niche of her hip. Once the glider had settled to a near standstill, she cooled her tea with a breath before taking a sip.

Janice bit into the slab of bread she had cut for herself and observed Mel over its glistening surface; the blue eyes that returned her gaze were casually expectant. "Wha'?" she asked, her teeth sunk into the cottony-soft bread. She chewed and swallowed hurriedly in an effort to expedite the conversation. "Something wrong with your tea?"

"I can't believe you actually bit me." Mel sipped her tea through a tight grimace and tried to sound angry as she said, "You're insatiable," but the phrase came across as more a compliment than an indictment.

"I barely broke the skin," Janice argued, pausing to lick a dollop of sweet butter from her fingers. "It didn't even bleed."

"Still an' all, you bit me." 

"Hey, you could've let go at any time, remember? Now who's insatiable?" Janice tucked her bare feet beneath her like a bird, commandeering a little more of the blanket for herself. "I think I sprained my tongue, if that'll make you feel any better."

Mel looked horror-stricken for a moment as a thought struck her. "What if it scars?"

"It won't," countered Janice in breezy counterpoint.

"But if it does..." Mel persisted. "I mean, how does one explain bite marks there..." 

Janice pulled away slightly, until she could no longer feel skin touching skin. "Why would you have to explain? C'mon, Mel," she coaxed playfully. "Think fast."

Equal to the challenge, Mel fired back, "My family doctor might ask."

Janice laughed. "Good answer." She popped the last morsel of bread into her mouth and, chewing thoughtfully, leaned into Mel, filling the hollows of her exquisite body like two spoons in a drawer. They sat in companionable silence for the next few minutes as the quarter moon descended below the foothills, briefly backlighting a stand of bare gum trees, their gnarled branches outstretched in an eerie, questing embrace. With the retreat of the moon, the breeze freshened, whispering through the tops of the trees. "This is beautiful, Mel." Janice's voice was furtive, as if she were imparting confidential information. "I can see what you love about the country."

"Mmm, but I've learned one thing in the last twelve hours..." 

Janice snuggled closer, drawing her knees up and over Mel's thigh. "And that is?"

Encouraged by proximity and opportunity, Mel kissed her and replied, "That even the most breathtakin' panorama can be improved upon." Under the blanket, one hand absently caressed the sensitive skin behind Janice's knees. "Must be after two o'clock..."

Janice touched Mel's hand where it lay exposed, clasping the blanket closed around them. "Don't think about the time, Mel, no watches or clocks here. We have hours yet..." She threaded an arm around Mel's waist and felt her shiver. "Cold?"

Mel burrowed closer into her lover, until they exchanged breaths. "Maybe a little."

"Let's go inside." Janice set her feet on the ground, feeling the cool night air against her legs. "I can start a fire."

As Janice stood, Mel grabbed the dangling shirt tail and pulled her back into the fold of blanket. "Why don't you stay right here and start a fire?"

"Oh. Oh, I can do that, too."

* * * * * * * * * *

Janice awoke to find the sun coming over the horizon, washing the landscape in rich hues of sienna and gold. The horses in the paddock pawed the hard-packed earth and whinnied for their oats. A cloud of green finches wheeled with military precision in the translucent sky before lighting in a stand of pale gums to feast on the insects there. Bon appetite, guys. I could stand a little something myself. Two soft-boiled eggs, bacon crisp, hash browns scattered and smothered. Her mouth watered. As a prelude to breakfast, she stretched her arms and flexed her calves, rotated her ankles - minimal isometrics that began her every morning upon waking. Routine for routine's sake. It was the comforting weight upon her chest and the feel of a possessive arm across her middle that set this morning apart. 

She drew the blanket over an exposed shoulder and peered intently into Mel's face, waiting for her to wake. Her anticipation was almost painful. She pursed her lips, preparing to blow a cool breath across impossibly long eyelashes when her eyes caught movement at the far end of the verandah. Seated cross-legged atop a weathered coffee table, placidly scratching charcoal on a piece of butcher's paper, was Alice. 

Chapter 12

Janice's first instinct was to smile and nod, even as her heart was beating wildly against her sternum. "Morning," she said in a whisper. 

As hoped, Alice took the cue, adopting a conspiratorial voice as she set her charcoal and paper aside. "Good morning." 

Innocent brown eyes observed the possessive lover's clinch, and it occurred to Janice that Alice was either oblivious to the implications, or too tactful to make inquiries. She hoped it was a bit of both. She shifted, careful not to disturb Mel. "Been sitting there long?"

Alice shrugged. "Not very...twenty minutes. You both seemed so peaceful lying there...I didn't want to wake you."

Janice was pleasantly baffled. "You look exhausted...happy, but exhausted."

"Oh, but I had a great time." Alice moved quietly across the verandah to sit in the chair opposite Janice where she elaborated in an enthusiastic whisper. "The blackfellas roasted pig and yams, and we danced 'round this huge fire, and Dinah and I stayed up talking almost the whole night."

Janice squinted into Alice's face. "Is that war paint?"

Alice made a tentative swipe at the dry circle of whitewash on her cheek. "Tribal totems, for Dinah's safe journey. It washes right off." She tilted her head and scanned the length of the glider. "Mel never lets me sleep in the glider overnight. Is it nice?"

Janice restrained her inclination to lie. "I've slept in sarcophagi more comfortable. Why don't you go inside and wash up? I'll dress and make you some kind of breakfast."

Alice stood. "It's already on the stove." One hand closed over the door handle. "I hope you like eggs and fried potatoes."

Janice's stomach growled audibly as a tantalizing aroma reached her nostrils. "Do I smell coffee?"

"Mr. Bonner gave me a quarter kilo of ground djumiya. It's what passes for coffee out here...strong enough to float an iron wedge, or so he said."

"Now there's an appetizing analogy," quipped Janice. "I tell you what: lemme wake Mel, and we'll be in in a few minutes." Alice nodded and disappeared inside the house. Janice listened for the sound of retreating footsteps before waking her companion. "Me...ellll..." she coaxed in a sing song voice. A little more forcefully, she crooned, "Mel, darlin'..." which succeeded in soliciting a murmur and a sleepy smile from her lover. Janice felt the weight of one long leg drape itself across her own, shinnying up her bare thighs while fingers trickled provocatively over her ribcage. She groaned in frustration. Be strong, Janice. "Mel," she said, raising her voice. "Wake up, the sun is rising."

Mel's eyes fluttered open briefly, "Five minutes..." 

"The house is on fire."

Mel simply murmured, "Mmm, tha's nice..." and snuggled closer.

Janice rolled her eyes, shook Mel's shoulder and said sharply, "Mel, wake up. Alice is home."

Mel sat up quickly in the close confines of the glider, causing it to pitch and rock precariously. "Janice Covington," she scolded, narrowing her eyes to slits. "That was cruel." Gathering the blanket around her, Mel extracted herself from Janice's arms and stood, wiping the sleep from her eyes. "You definitely have a mean streak in you." 

Uncovered and left to shiver in the chill morning air, Janice replied, "I thought we established that fact last night." She launched herself from the glider and squinted through the screen door just as Alice disappeared into the kitchen. The aroma of strong coffee wafted through the house, battering down her defenses. She shivered and wheeled where she stood. "Mel, you know I love you, but I gotta say that the attempt to break this to you gently is running neck and neck with my desire for a cup of coffee."

Mel opened her mouth to respond, preparing an acid retort, and instead tasted seasoned potatoes on her tongue. "You're really not jokin'." She took two quick strides to Janice's side and then was very still for a moment, separating the ambient sounds of nature from the clamor of activity in the kitchen. "How much did she see?"

By way of response, Janice picked up the charcoal drawing, an accurate, if primitive, rendering of the two lovers as observed by a third party. Shit. With some trepidation, she showed it to Mel. "What's that old saying? A picture's worth a thousand words?"

Mel's blue eyes went doe-eyed wide. "Oh my Jeezus..." she murmured.

"I dunno..." Janice regarded the drawing at an angle, as if considering a Picasso. "I think it's kinda sweet. Look there, she caught you perfectly."

Mel hissed indignantly, "I am so glad you find all of this amusin', Janice. You can afford to, after all...you're gonna get in that plane and take off, outta her life..." She hitched the blanket around her as it began to slip from her shoulders. "I, however, am committed to life under the same roof for just a while longer. What am I supposed to say to her?"

"Mel, relax." Janice put her hands on Mel's shoulders and steered her from the door. "I talked to her and -"

"You talked to her?" Mel was incredulous. "You talked to her over my sleepin' body?" she hissed. "Could you be any more casual?"

Janice clapped a hand across Mel's mouth and lowered her voice. "If you'd shut up for two seconds, I'm trying to say I talked to her and she seemed fine with everything. She's only 13 years old, Mel. She goes to a Catholic school, for Pete's sake." She peeled her hand away by degrees. "How much do you think she knows?"

"Plenty."

"I didn't know anything at 13, and I went to Catholic schools," Janice retorted.

"Hardly a ringin' endorsement." Mel stepped to the door and peeked in. After a moment of consideration, she said, "I should go talk to her...say somethin'."

Janice put her hand on the doorknob. "I agree, but you might want to dress first," she quipped. She opened the door and pushed Mel, by the small of the back, over the threshold. Hugging the periphery of the room, prepared to make a mad dash if necessary, the pair proceeded down the hallway, breathing a sigh of relief only when the bedroom door closed and locked behind them. "Piece of cake," Janice said as she slid a pair of trousers over her hips.

Mel stepped into her dressing gown, tying it tightly around her waist as she gave her full length reflection a disapproving glance in the mirror. She felt a hand on her arm and turned to see Janice's worried face. "I don't have a clue what to say to her."

Janice touched Mel's face, a tender gesture as she imparted battlefield strategies. "Be honest, but brief. Answer direct questions, but don't volunteer any information."

There was a barely concealed glimmer of disapproval in Mel's eyes as she quipped, "Name, rank and serial number?"

Janice gave her a peck on the lips. "You catch on fast. No wonder I love you." 

Mel laughed soundlessly and unlocked the bedroom door, turning back to look at Janice before leaving. "Any last words of advice?"

"Yeah," Janice replied sternly. "Smile. They can smell fear."

Chapter 13

"They can smell fear," Mel echoed as she made her way down the hall. At the kitchen door she stopped, one hand flat against the smooth wood grain. She breathed deeply - in through the nose, out through the mouth - and entered the room with all the enthusiasm of a woman facing summary execution. Alice was at the stove, her back to the door as she fussed with the contents of a heavy iron skillet. Mel was grateful for the opportunity to pat the perspiration from her face before speaking. "Somethin' smells good," she said, laboring for nonchalance, though the smile that met Alice's gaze came without effort. "Good mornin'."

"Good morning." Alice gave the sizzling potatoes a cursory stir with a spatula. "Made 'em just the way you like 'em: sliced thin, fried crisp and plenty of onions. There's coffee, too. Have a seat. I'll get you a cup."

Though her mind was elsewhere, Mel's stomach voiced unmistakable approval. "I should be making you breakfast," she said, taking a chair at the table, content to be waited upon as it gave her the opportunity to fold Janice's freshly-washed blouse and brassiere into discreet packages. No doubt Janice was waiting on both items . . . sitting on the bed, half-dressed, vibrating with nervous energy. God above! You are so easily distracted, Melinda! Focus! She looked up as Alice approached with a cup and saucer. "You must be tired."

Alice shrugged. "I am a bit, I expect. I'll have a lay down after brekkie." As she hefted the kettle from the stove, she remarked that the coffee had been a gift from Neville Bonner. "--and I 'membered how you like your coffee." She set a cup on the table and filled it with a liquid so black it did not reflect light. 

Mel wrinkled her nose at the contents of her cup, but managed an enthusiastic retort. "Well, it just smells wonderful. Thank you for thinkin' of me." Although she abhorred presumption as a rule, Mel poured liberally from the cream pitcher before tasting the coffee; the sludge in her cup swallowed the light with no discernable change in its own ebony complexion. "Fascinatin'," she muttered, reaching for the sugar bowl.

"Isn't Janice coming to breakfast?" Alice asked.

"When she's dressed." Mel spooned a third helping of coarse ground sugar into her cup. Keenly aware of Alice's scrutiny, she took a tentative sip; her lips puckered and pulled back simultaneously. "It's . . . interestin'," she said, struggling for a suitable word. "I've never had coffee with body before."

The response, meant to discourage, had the opposite effect. "Can I have a cup?"

Mel smiled. "I suppose it's useless to deny you anythin' at this point." Alice retrieved a cup from the cupboard and enthusiastically hefted the coffee kettle. "Half a cup," Mel cautioned. "...the rest milk, and then come and sit with me." She indicated a chair at the table. "I think we need to talk."

Alice furrowed her brow. "Talk about what?"

Mel patted the seat of the vacant chair. "Come and sit. I promise I'm not angry with you." With some trepidation, Alice took her cup and sat at the table. "Fix your coffee," Mel said, with a nod to the cream and sugar. Three heaping teaspoons of sugar and all of the remaining cream went into the effort to make Neville Bonner's coffee palatable, with little success if Alice's sour expression was any indication. "Strong stuff."

Alice nodded and pushed the cup from her. "What did you want to talk about, Mel?"

Mel pursed her lips and said, "I saw the drawin' you left on the verandah."

Alice's first instincts were defensive. "Honestly, I didn't mean to spy, Mel. I just -"

Mel reached across the table and covered Alice's hands with her own. "No, no . . . it's lovely. I think you're a wonderful artist."

Alice's voice conveyed surprise. "You're not angry then?"

"Well, I'd like to have had somethin' to say about the time and place, but no, I'm not angry. I am concerned, though . . . about you." Alice's brows came together in a dubious line. "I realize that what you saw between Janice and I may have left you feelin' a little . . . confused." Mel crossed her legs beneath the table. "I want you to know that I'm here to answer any questions you might have."

Alice wet her lips and met Mel's gaze. "Any questions?"

Gulp. "Within reason." Mel laced her fingers around her coffee mug and lifted her brows slightly to indicate her receptiveness. "Fire at will."

Alice leaned forward against the table and dropped her voice as she met Mel's eyes. "Are you still going to marry my dad?"

Quickly, like pulling out a splinter. "No," replied Mel, careful to return Alice's steady gaze with mutual, unblinking honesty. "There's someone else in my life. When your daddy returns home on leave next month, I intend to tell him."

"Good," Alice interjected briskly. "Because I have to say that if you weren't going to talk to him, I would've done. After all, he's not here to look after his own interests. No offense intended, Mel."

"None taken," replied Mel as she drummed her fingers against the hot porcelain cup. 

"Do you mind if I ask why you don't love my dad? I mean, he's a good bloke, hardworking and a good father."

"I think I have seen enough of your father to echo those sentiments, Alice. The best that can be said of him is that he deserves a wife capable of loving him without reserve and in all honesty, I'm not that woman." She thought she saw a fleeting glimpse of regret on the child's face, though it may have been a trick of the early morning light. Mel looked thoughtfully into her coffee cup before speaking. "My nana always said that the wrong things aren't supposed to last."

Alice cocked her head, committing the epigram to memory, as she did most things. "You're in love with Janice." It was a simple statement of fact made poignant by the absence of rejection and contempt. 

Mel had been prepared to defend her life choices, as she always had. Instead, she sat across the table from the very face of acceptance given physical form, and she was emboldened by the revelation. "Yes," she replied, the admission humming on an air of expectancy.

Alice nodded and fidgeted with the frayed ends of the table cloth. "It's more than just being the best of mates, isn't it?"

"I know this must be very difficult for you to understand, Alice; sometimes I have trouble understandin' it myself. I've spent the last 28 years livin' to please other people . . . one third of my life worryin' about what other people thought of me."

Delicately, but with conviction, Alice said, "I think you turned out all right, Mel."

"I'm glad you think so, too," replied Mel. Alice met her eyes briefly before turning her gaze toward the floor, actions Mel interpreted as anxious precursors to some momentous disclosure or question. "S'okay," she said quietly. "You can say anythin' to me."

Alice looked up, her face alight with genuine curiosity. "How do you know who to love?" 

Mel scratched her head; the question was both naive and insightful. "That's a very good question, and I would be lyin' to you if I said I knew the answer. But the truth is -- where love is concerned, we adults make a dozen false starts in our lifetime . . . We succumb to peer pressure, we seek to please others and we are vulnerable to suggestion . . . Mistakes get made along the way."

"Like my mum and dad. Mum says they got married for all the wrong reasons."

Mel reserved comment. "I should just hold my tongue. I'm probably just confusin' you more."

Alice shook her head vigorously. "No, Mel. I understand. You're saying 'look carefully', don't be swayed by the opinions of others . . . and be true to myself."

Mel looked dumbfounded. "I said all that?" Momentarily, she reached across the table and touched Alice's hair. "You have an exceptional head on your shoulders, but use your heart, too. One of my old archeology professors once told me that it's possible to recognize somethin' by its absence . . . like a puzzle missin' one piece . . . you know the shape of what should be there, even if you don't know what color it is."

"Like Janice," elaborated Alice, grasping the parallel between intellect and intuition. "Your puzzle piece."

"Yes, just like that," Mel replied simply. "Promise me you won't ever settle for less than your heart's desire."

"I promise." Alice's smile faded as a thought occurred to her. "Will Janice be staying on?"

"No, I'm afraid not. She's returning to the dig site today. I think that's for the best . . . considerin'. Don't you?"

Alice replied, "I dunno. I think she and Dad would get on fine."

Oh, you are soooo young. "That might be a little too much to hope for," quipped Mel.

Again, there was a noncommittal shrug. "Guess so. This is really awful stuff," Alice said, indicating the coffee. "Is it all right if I chuck it?"

Mel intoned playfully, "Wasteful, wasteful . . . " She made a face at the black sludge in her own cup and then pushed it across the table by her fingertips. "I won't tell if you won't." As Alice rose, a cup in each hand, Mel asked, "Any other questions?" Alice responded with a brisk shake of her head, but Mel was doubtful. "Nothin'? You're sure?" Mel sighed in relief, and she wondered briefly if this registered on her face. "Well, I don't know about you, but I'm hungry," she proclaimed aloud to Alice's retreating form. She gathered the small bundle of clothing to her and stood. "Why don't you dish up breakfast, and I'll see what's keepin' Janice?"

Alice nodded and began to clear the cluttered sink before drawing back her hand with the speed of one who is snake bit. "Hell's teeth!"

Mel wheeled at the profanity and found Alice standing at the sink, clutching one bleeding hand in the other; all thoughts of a reprimand vanished at the sight. Moving faster than she had all year, she bolted for the sink, leaving Janice's clothing on the floor where she had dropped it. "What did you do?" she exclaimed, observing the injury. Since there was too much blood to make an accurate assessment, she turned the spigot to a steady stream and tested the water temperature. "Here, put'cher hand under here." 

Alice grimaced, squeezing her eyes shut as the tepid water washed over her hand. "All I did was reach into the sink to clear the dishes and . . . ssssshitthathurts!"

That's two. Mel would later credit a recessive mother gene with the compulsion to keep tabs on the use of profanity; she stored the information the same way a squirrel stores nuts. "Hurts like the blazes, doesn't it?" She dipped into the bloody water, moved aside the soaking roast pan and cautiously groped beneath it until she came away with a six inch, razor sharp French carving knife which she displayed briefly for Alice. "That's the last time we let Janice do the dishes." She laid the knife out of harm's way and shut off the running water. "Okay, lemme see . . . " She cradled the injured hand in her own, squinting as a livid crimson line welled across the width of Alice's palm. Although the wound was fairly shallow, it bled profusely. "I know it's a lot of blood, but it looks worse than it is. Open and close your hand for me."

Alice complied, flexing the muscles cautiously, biting back the urge to curse, but there were tears in her voice as she asked, "You think it's all right?"

Mel marveled at Alice's glistening cheeks, and the brown eyes swimming with the first tears she had seen Alice cry. "Oh, sweetie," she crooned, wiping the tears away with the balls of her thumb. "I think it could've been much worse." She gingerly patted at the wound with a dry dish towel before wrapping it twice around the hand. "You look like you're about t' faint." She took Alice by the elbow and steered her toward the kitchen table. "Keep pressure on it, like this…" She pressed her fingers into the heavily bandaged palm and with her free hand pulled another chair close until she and Alice were knee to knee. "How does it feel?"

Alice sniffed. "It's throbbing." She shook her head and laughed self-consciously through her tears. "I feel like a great wally, grabbing a knife like that."

"Oh, like you're the only person ever to do somethin' careless." Mel tugged Alice's chin between her thumb and forefinger. "Keep the hand elevated and you'll be just fine, sweetie. Now, I want you to sit here for a few minutes and meditate on your surprising grasp of profanities while I scrounge around for somethin' to put on that."

A beat, followed by the quiet accusation: "You called me 'sweetie'." 

There was a tiny prickle of fear at the base of Mel's spine; had she overstepped her bounds? She smoothed her dressing gown against her thighs and prepared for the backlash. "It just slipped out. Does it bother you?"

Alice wiped her tears against the back of her hand and looked at her feet. After a moment, she muttered, "My mum only ever calls me by my name . . . "

Mel's mouth quivered; there was something decidedly mournful about Alice's disclosure. "It's a nice name . . . Alice."

When Alice looked up, there were fresh tears in her eyes. "I like it when you call me 'sweetie', Mel." Blue eyes met brown in perfect understanding. "You'd've made a good mother."

Mel cupped the girl's face in one hand and smiled. "You would've made it a joy."

Chapter 14

It began with paper thin slices of veal, slathered with spicy mustard and stacked between two pieces of sourdough. "It's not enough," Mel said aloud as she cut the sandwich in half, in effect creating two sandwiches. Still not enough. She wrapped each half separately in waxed paper and placed them in a paper sack, atop a wedge of sharp cheddar. Rooting through the icebox, her fingers closed around the last apple -- mealy but pleasantly tart; that, too, was consigned to the bag. Folding the sack closed, she murmured, "Woman is all appetite." 

She wiped her hands on the apron tied loosely about her waist and studied the sack as if it were a sculpture, a work in progress. For all its contents, it was empty. There's a metaphor in there somewhere . . . Turning again to the icebox, she stared absently into its depths -- at the half-empty milk bottle -- an optimist would have called it half full -- and the bundle of leeks, beyond the anonymous waxed parcels backlit by a cold white light. Squinting into the middle shelf, she muttered, "Eggseggseggs . . . " She gathered three large brown eggs delicately in her hand, knocking a fourth from the bowl to the shelf, where it wobbled past an obstacle course of condiments before plummeting to the hardwood floor. A suicide, Mel mused, studying the glossy yellow pearls on the toes of her shoes. "Well, isn't that a fine mess."

Some minutes later, she left the eggs to boil atop the stove while she adjourned to the bedroom. The curtains were drawn, diffusing the morning sun and casting the room in a vague light that seemed to suit her dour mood. She stood in the doorway for some time, overwhelmed by the scene, noting the appearance and position of every article of discarded clothing or linen -- the bed sheet she had draped upon her body to such mutually satisfying effect, the voluminous white shirt that she knew, even now, would smell of Janice. She left both articles untouched where they had fallen and flicked on a small lamp, preferring its anemic illumination to the full frontal assault of the sun; she simply wasn't ready to view the room in daylight.

Janice's battered leather satchel lay open atop the unmade bed. She hefted the bag with an appreciation for how lightly her partner traveled: a toothbrush, trousers, a fountain pen and notebook, the latter plump and frayed, bound by a single, fat elastic. The essentials. She wondered how a woman with such apparently simple needs could be so complex. It was that contrast -- the fine line between needs and desires -- that served to make Janice so appealing. She shook herself from the reverie occasioned by the weight of the bag in her hand and turned, avoiding the mirror because she didn't want a confrontation. 

Stripping the blanket from the bed, she balled it up and pitched it into the corner, then grasped handfuls of the fitted sheet and pulled. It was warm work; despite the hour, the stifling heat was beginning to bleed through the walls and the panes of glass. By the time she had consigned two pale pillow cases to the pile of linens, there was a fine dew of perspiration on her face and arms. She exhaled audibly through her mouth and gathered the linens in a loose ball, dabbing her face absently with the corner of one sheet. Perhaps what happened next was automatic, certainly self-indulgent, if for no other reason in that no one was watching. She closed her eyes and brought the bundle to her face, stirring up olfactory ghosts -- salt and smoke, sweat and sex. Something primal in her could separate those elements of herself from everything that was Janice. More evocative than each of them individually was their essence as a couple...of what they did and who they were when in one another's arms; she could taste it on her tongue. In the heat of the room, she shivered and clutched the bundle more closely to her, reluctant to dismiss such a palpable rush too quickly.

This . . . was it. She would have to be content with memories, at least until she and Janice were reunited. Hot tears welled in her eyes. Strange, she thought, to be missing someone who had yet to leave. She dropped down onto the bare mattress, the sheets in her lap, hating that part of her which was unable to deal with loss. Naturally, she would not expire from the grief of a temporary separation. Janice had survived it, after all. Janice. In between heartbeats, she had an epiphany: I did this to her ... to Janice.

The cruel clarity of hindsight helped to paint a mental picture of Janice, distraught and abandoned, reading and re-reading the note she had left on the bedside table. Her throat constricted. Fear and pain rose in her like waves. She loosed a strangled cry of anguish before burying her face in the bundle where she sobbed for a full five minutes, unabated and inconsolable. When she pulled up, sniffling, her blue eyes wide, it was not because her tears were spent -- she had quarts in reserve. She had stopped, shutting them down as quickly as one might flick a switch, because of The Sound . . . a low rumble humming through the ground, up through the bedroom floor into the soles of her feet, then rising to a high-pitched whine so powerful it rattled the panes of glass in the windows. It took her muddled mind a second to identify the source, but once the message had made its way from her ears to her brain, she was on her feet in an instant. 

She skidded to a stop on the verandah, spitting gravel and red dust beneath her feet as the screen door slammed unnoticed behind her. With her heart in her throat, she grasped the railing and watched as the Electra's spinning propellers rifled the saw grass on either side of the makeshift runway. "Janice!" The double tap on her shoulder was calculated for effect. Mel spun, hand over her heart, to find Janice leaning against the clapboards of the house, a sly smile playing at the corners of her mouth. Mel narrowed her eyes and opened her mouth to speak but realized the futility of words while the Electra held the monopoly on sound. 

Janice winked and gazed beyond Mel's shoulder to a target in the cockpit window. She drew a finger across her throat -- momentarily, the engines died and the props chuffed to a halt. "It's nice to know you can really move when you're motivated. I was beginning to have my doubts." 

"You -- are evil!" Mel accused, but it came away sounding complimentary. She watched Alice clamber nimbly out of the cockpit hatch. "I suppose you put her up to this."

Janice folded her arms across her chest. "Would it surprise you to know it was her idea?"

"She didn't have a cruel bone in her body before you showed up." Mel turned to the Electra, her body tense, her hands white knuckled at her sides. "Alice, mind your step gettin' outta there!"

Janice joined her partner at the top of the stairs. Perhaps it was a matter of proximity, or simply the profound connection they shared, but she could feel the energy coming off Mel in waves. It was the same provocative pheromone that had driven her to distraction last night -- the same, and yet different. She needed distance if she was to think clearly. "'nother hot one," she drawled, fanning the fedora past her face in large, lazy strokes. "Yup. Pur-ga-torial." She tipped back on her bootheels until her shoulder blades met a support post. This is better...just inane chatter and diesel fuel now...nothing to excite a body... Yeah, right. She scrutinized Mel's profile as lit by the sun; she had been crying. Janice was certain of that. The lips she had kissed time and again were the palest pink, parted and trembling... Tears had washed the color from her face and the blue from her eyes. Janice had the irresistible urge to touch, as if doing so could commit to memory this exquisite tintype brought to life. Extending her hand, she said, "You've been crying."

Mel's jaw bunched beneath Janice's touch and, tight-lipped, she responded without taking her eyes from Alice. "We have an audience..."

"So..." Janice let her arm fall naturally to her side, as if breaking contact were her idea. "Hiya, kiddo," she hailed brightly as Alice joined them. "You did good."

Alice's face lit up with pride. "Aww, it was beaut!" she said breathlessly. "I can't imagine anything better than flying! When I cranked that engine and closed my eyes, feeling all that power humming beneath me...I was almost light-headed...like I was cruising at 10,000 feet!"

"Oxygen deprivation," quipped Mel, finding her voice. "Can you really afford to lose any more brain cells? Lemme see your hand."

"It's fine, Mel," argued Alice with a sigh. She mounted the steps and thrust her injured hand in Mel's face. "See?" 

Mel examined the grimy bandage, clucking her tongue in disappointment. "I told you to try and keep this clean," she admonished, putting her hands on her hips. "What am I gonna do with you?"

Janice nudged Alice in the ribs. "She's only asking because she doesn't have a clue." The three of them laughed for a moment, until, one by one, they peeled off to an awkward silence.

It was Alice who broke the silence, wrinkling her nose with the inquiry, "Is something burning?"

Mel's eyes widened. "Ohmigosh, the eggs! Alice, be a lamb and take them off the stove, will you?"

Replying with a confident, "Right, no problem, Mel," Alice stepped between them and made straight for the kitchen.

"I'll say it again," said Janice, her sharp green eyes following Alice's retreat. "Good kid."

Mel made a noise of assent and bowed her head, gazing at a knothole in the plank floor. She had left her glasses inside, beside the kitchen sink, but she didn't need them to know that she, too, was an object of interest. "You must be anxious to get back to the dig."

The corner of Janice's mouth twitched. It wasn't often that the right answer and the tactful answer were one and the same; this would be no exception. "Anxious, no. Obliged, yes. There are people depending on me for their paychecks." 

"I guess," replied Mel as she traced the knothole's pattern with the toe of her shoe. 

Janice hooked her thumbs into her trouser pockets, drumming her fingers absently on her thighs as she struggled for a retort. "Professor Moffat's expecting a detailed inventory by Tuesday next."

"That soon?" Mel moved her gaze to Janice's face, a paler reflection of her own misery. 

"I'll need every spare minute to catalogue and pack the artifacts. If my luck holds, I should be back in Darwin no later than the 15th...Speaking of which..." She groped the pockets of her jacket, finally producing a battered business card. "This is the number of the hotel in Darwin where I'm staying..."

Mel turned the card over in her hand and squinted at the spiky script. "The Drake?"

"It's a dive," Janice elaborated wryly. "But the sheets are clean. Just call the front desk and ask for --"

"No phone." Mel held the card between her middle and index fingers. "Jack doesn't believe in them. And the radio's only got a range of a couple hundred miles."

Janice closed Mel's fingers around the card with the directive, "So? Shoot up a flare or send out a carrier pigeon..." She leaned in close and lowered her voice. "Think of me...I'll be here with bells on."

Won't you be awfully chilly? It was a pat response, coy, yet witty, and she'd almost said it aloud, so familiar were the rhythms of their conversation. Standing close enough to feel Janice's breath on her face, Mel was surprised at the effort it took to form a serious retort. "Don't you think it might be better if I came to you?" Even without her glasses, Mel could see Janice take a step back and set her jaw. "This isn't about logistics, you know. It's Jack." Mel paused, using the time to collect her thoughts. She walked the length of the verandah, settling comfortably into the glider before speaking. "He's been good to me, Janice."

Janice checked a molar with her tongue. "I know."

"He deserves better than --"

"A Dear John letter?" Sweet Mother of God, where did that come from? Janice stole a sideways glance at Mel, who regarded her with wide and wounded eyes. In the resulting silence, it was clear that each woman had made a conscious decision not to dwell on the remark. "I'd better make one last sweep of the house...Don't wanna forget anything." Without waiting for Mel to reply, Janice turned and disappeared into the house.

Chapter 15

Janice stood in the doorway, leather satchel swinging gently against her thigh as she scanned the spacious bedroom. It was a perfunctory act; she had everything. But having lingered noticeably longer in the house than it took to gather her possessions, the most she might be accused of was procrastination, which, she conceded, beat the hell out of cowardice. At last, she took a step backward into the hall, pulling the bedroom door shut behind her, leaving only memories in her wake.

She met Alice in the living room as the teen emerged from the kitchen with a small crate cradled between her good hand and her hip. "Got everything?"

Janice shrugged. "I'm leaving with more than I had when I arrived, so yeah, I'd say I have everything. Whatcha got there?"

Alice rested the crate on the back of the sofa and took inventory. Beside a bulging, but otherwise nondescript paper bag was the obvious. "Jug of fresh water; I saw that yours was bone dry."

"Thanks, kid. This for me, too?" Janice dropped the satchel at her feet and inspected the contents of the paper sack with a raised eyebrow and an appreciative whistle. "Holy Toledo...an apple, hard boiled eggs, cheese...I see all the food groups are represented. Did you do all this?"

Alice shook her head. "Mel. I expect she wants to make sure you don't go hungry."

"I expect," Janice echoed as she watched Alice juggle the crate with her uninjured hand. "Want me to take that?"

"Aw, no, I'm good." As she fell into step behind Janice, Alice said, "I wish you could stay on a bit longer. We hardly had a chance to talk at all."

Janice held the door open with the toe of her boot. "There'll be other opportunities."

"You mean it? You'll be back?"

Between roaming glances for the absent Mel, Janice tactfully replied, "I mean, you haven't seen the last of me." Her vantage point on the top step of the verandah afforded her an uninterrupted 180 degree view of the station and the surrounding bush, but her ability to see was hampered by the dazzling morning sun as it bounced off the Electra's gleaming fuselage. "You see Mel anywhere?"

Alice shaded her eyes with her free hand and squinted into the sun. "I see feet," she announced triumphantly. "On the other side of the plane..." She preceded Janice down the steps. "A dollar says she's plotting how to sabotage your departure."

"You'd lose your money, kid," Janice countered, fishing in her trouser pockets. "There's not a wicked bone in her body, trust me." Squinting at the broad face on her watch, she glowered her disapproval. There were hundreds of miles to be covered on the return flight to the dig site and every minute she delayed left the Electra to bake in the sun. During her pre?flight check an hour earlier, the thermometer inside the cockpit had registered 87. Eighty seven degrees before 9AM...somewhere in the world, that's a

crime. She pocketed the watch just as Mel emerged from around the nose of the aircraft. Acknowledging Mel's appearance with a smile, she struggled for something clever to say. "There you are." Covington, you wit, you! 

Mel ducked beneath the wing, sliding her hand, palm side up to remind herself just how little room there was between her head and potential injury. "I've just been havin' a look around your airplane. It's bigger than I thought at first." She frowned at her dirty fingertips. "And dirtier."

Janice set her jaw and quipped gently, "The maid doesn't come until Wednesday." She popped the fuselage door with some effort and lifted her satchel.

"That's a door," Mel announced, gesturing with her chin. "If you've got a door, why do you come and go from the cockpit?"

"The cargo hatch doesn't lock from the inside; you have to fight with it a little." Using a handhold built into the fuselage, Janice pulled herself onto the wing. "Alice, wanna get the chocks for me?" Wordlessly, Alice lifted the crate up to Janice and scrambled to unwedge the chocks. "I had a peek inside," Janice said, referring to the sack lunch. "Thank you. You didn't have to do that."

"I couldn't send you off to God?knows?where without somethin' to put in your stomach." Mel loosened another button on her blouse and pulled the material away from her damp skin with a rapid, fluttery motion. "If there was any way I could keep you here..."

"...you would. I know." Janice leaned as far into the cockpit as she was able to without losing her footing and let the supply crate drop to the floor with a noisy clatter. 

"To tell you the truth," Mel began coyly, "I did entertain wicked thoughts of puncturin' your tires." Janice reacted with genuine surprise, which prompted a further confession. "Or maybe puttin' a little sugar in your gas tank..."

Janice squatted in the wing valley to look Mel in the eye. "Sweet thought." She stole a kiss, catching Mel on the corner of the mouth. "And out here, it's called petrol...not gas." As Alice approached from the rear of the craft, Janice stepped onto the grounds of Coolinga Station for what was probably the last time. "Everything secure?"

"You're all set," replied Alice, stowing the chocks in the fuselage. She struggled with the door, putting weight behind her shoulder and irritation into her voice. "Close you damned thing!" 

"Alice Greenway," Mel cautioned, her hands set on her hips. "Whatever has become of your mouth? Make a sailor blush, I swear..."

"I'm sorry, Mel," replied Alice, genuinely contrite. She moved aside to allow Janice to secure the door. Under Mel's withering gaze, her only recourse was the lame excuse, "It just sort of... slipped out."

"Uh huh." Mel was dubious. The look she shot Janice was rife with reproach. 

"Hey, don't look at me." Janice surreptitiously put a dollar bill into Alice's hand. "You were right by the way." 

Alice enjoyed a conspiratorial wink at Mel's expense and stuffed the ill?gotten gains into a pocket. "Oh, strewth, almost forgot. I've got something for you, Janice."

"You didn't have to do that, kid," retorted Janice, though she was obviously moved.

"Well, it's not much...but I have to get it...inside..." Alice backed towards the house, scrubbing her hands on the backside of her dungarees. "I might be a few minutes..." she allowed pointedly before turning on her heel for the house.

"Now what was all that about?" asked Mel. 

"What was all what about?" Janice echoed innocently. "Excuse me," she said, easing Mel out of the way as she ran practiced hands over and around the port flaps, feeling for debris that might impede their function.

"Money changed hands...any particular reason?" 

"My, my, my...you are nosy," said Janice as she withdrew from the business of pre?flight checks. With deliberation, she plucked a handkerchief from her back pocket and wiped her hands. "Look, Mel, since the kid was thoughtful enough to give us a few minutes to ourselves, don't you think the time would be better spent ?"

"Sayin' goodbye." Mel was surprised at how much the words hurt. "I can't let you go, Janice...without first telling you how much I wish you would stay."

With a cautious glance towards the house, Janice took Mel by the hand and tugged her beneath the Electra's wing until they stood in its shade, out of the sun and away from curious eyes. "Mel, don't you know it's killing me to leave you here?"

"I know, I know," said Mel, blinking back tears. "I'm bein' unreasonable." 

"And I love you for it. The truth is the only way I can go is knowing that you'll follow me." Janice looked seriously into her lover's eyes. "You will follow me...right?"

Mel's smile was automatic, as was the hand which stroked Janice's cheek. "I'll arrange passage on a mail run to Darwin; as soon as I've squared things away with Jack, I'll join you there."

Swiping the hat from her head, Janice leaned blissfully into Mel's caress. "Kiss me, Mel...make me a believer..." The fedora dropped unnoticed to the ground.

"Well, twist m'arm why don'tcha?" Cradling Janice's face in her hands, Mel kissed her with thorough expertise. In response, possessive arms circled her waist, drawing her closer. She settled against the trim, compact body with a murmur of contentment. In such close proximity, she was acutely conscious of fragrance, of the taste and texture of lips as they glided over hers and the little sounds of pleasure as their tongues dueled. It was, Mel decided, a torturous sampling of the million nuances that made up the woman. She was keenly aware that when the kiss ended, they would have to part. It was incentive enough to linger in the embrace, to trace salty lips with her tongue, to impart tender pecks at the corners of a provocative smile. She could have died happy in that moment.

As it was, it was Janice's selfish need for air which broke the spell. She surfaced to catch her breath. Clasping Mel's hands in her own, she confessed, "I'm gonna miss you." 

Mel blushed warmly and retorted, "No you won't. You'll be busy with the dig and ??"

"Mel ??" Janice won the argument with a simple gesture of trust and affection; she placed one of Mel's hands inside her blouse, over her heart. "Do you feel that?" 

Mel nodded as the warm pulse beat a frenetic tattoo beneath her palm. "Beatin' like a trip hammer," she replied, her voice softly marveling. 

"You do that to me, Mel. It's not something a girl forgets."

"Why Janice Covington, beneath that leather jacket beats the heart of a romantic."

"Yeah, well, there are rumors of a bard somewhere in my ancestry." Janice plucked her hat from the ground and rapped it soundly against her thigh, stirring the dust from its brim. "What kind of person would I be if I couldn't call on that gift when my own words failed me?" 

Mel laughed. "Oh, well, that's profound."

Janice slipped out of her leather jacket and cast her eyes upward in mock piety. "I'm a deep person. Wear your waders." The report of the screen door as it slammed shut was so well timed it might have been calculated for effect. Had Janice not been reasonably certain that she and Mel could not be seen from the house, she might have called Alice on the carpet for spying. As it was, she had given them a generous five minutes together. It went without saying that neither woman had had enough time to say all that was on her mind. "Here she comes," she said, as the girl came tripping down the verandah steps with an item in each hand. Slinging her jacket over one shoulder, Janice advised, "Put on your party face, doll."

"You're so glib," quipped Mel, marshaling her public facade. "Teach me that."

"Another time." Conjuring up just the right note of enthusiasm, Janice greeted the approaching teen. "Hey, kiddo, I was beginning to think you weren't gonna turn out for the Big Goodbye scene."

"Oh, no," countered Alice, tucking a nondescript flat parcel beneath her arm. She thrust a hardbound volume at Janice. "This might be my only opportunity to get your autograph." She proffered a fountain pen. "Would you mind?"

Janice passed Mel her jacket and accepted the book. "The Xena Scrolls," she intoned. "No doubt plucked from its place of honor beneath the uneven sofa leg, eh?" She opened the book and flipped past the copyright and the acknowledgements to a page bearing the simple dedication: For Harry Covington. As the pen hovered above the paper, she looked at Alice from beneath the brim of her hat. "My first autograph."

Mel grinned and quipped, "Now that's not exactly true."

"Parking tickets don't count," replied Janice good?naturedly as she committed her signature to paper with short, economical strokes. She chased the wet ink across the page with a warm breath before returning the book with the self?deprecating remark, "There you go. Be the envy of all your friends."

Mel inspected the familiar spiky scrawl with a grin. "You do realize, Alice, that this will prob'ly bring down the value of the book?"

Alice chuckled, her eyes moving possessively over the signature on the page. "I'll take my chances." She closed the book and reached for the parcel beneath her arm. "Now, I have something for you." A sandwich of cardboard and paper filled the space between the grinning teenager and Janice. 

Gaulle's Premium Bond. Mel recognized the sketchpad as one of three she had purchased as a birthday gift for Alice the previous month; she made an educated guess regarding the contents. Assumptions aside, she held her breath as Janice lifted the flimsy cover to reveal the portrait which lay beneath rendered in raven black, stark white and muted shades of gray. 

"Wow," whispered Janice. She had, of course, seen the drawing before, but conceded that she had been too startled and preoccupied at the time to see it as anything more than evidence. Her opinion then had been tainted by guilt and, if she were to be honest with herself, fear. Her eyes ranged across the page, studying the two subjects, appreciating the nuances created by a sharp eye and a talented hand. She was, more than anything else, profoundly grateful that the moment had been captured...frozen in time...not by the unforgiving eye of the camera, but with those same qualities reflected in the artist ?maturity, affection...and innocence. She looked from the drawing to Alice and the delicate timbre of her voice surprised her. "This is swell, kid...I mean it. This is really something. I thought you didn't do people."

"Well, I don't normally. I'm not very good at them," replied Alice with a shrug. 

"That's not true at all. I think it's a wonderful gift," interjected Mel. "You've got real talent." 

"I had good subjects. You take it, Janice. I want you to have it."

"I will, but only if you'll sign it." Janice tilted the sketchpad and returned the pen. "Please."

Alice hesitated just a moment before uncapping the pen to scratch her signature across the bottom of the page. "Who knows? Maybe it'll be worth something some day."

Janice tweaked Alice's earlobe affectionately. "It's priceless now." Alice reddened at the compliment.

Mel slid an arm around Alice's shoulders and gave her an affectionate squeeze. "She blushes beautifully, don't you think?" 

"Aw, Mel."

Tucking the sketchpad beneath her arm, Janice exhaled. "Well...I suppose I can't put this off any longer."

Mel's smile dissolved into a tremulous line. "So soon?"

Janice swept a strand of hair behind her ear and manufactured an air of bravado she didn't feel in the least. "Mel, you give new meaning to the word procrastination." She watched as tears made determined progress down finely?sculpted cheekbones. Under a third party's scrutiny, Janice could not permit her gaze to linger; it was with barely?disguised regret that she shifted her eyes from Mel to Alice and rummaged

through her emotions for a smile. "Hug or a handshake?"

Alice extended her hand, determined to preserve the mood of composure and restraint; she hunted for just the right parting remark. Thumping the leather bound, newly?autographed first edition of The Xena Scrolls: Myth into History, she said, "I can't wait for the sequel."

Janice laughed. "You and me both, kid. Take care of yourself now. I expect big things from you."

Without further word, Alice smiled and backed away, clutching the book to her chest. From a distance, she watched Mel and Janice embrace briefly, exchange a few words...regrets and promises, or so she assumed; she had no burning desire to know the exact dialogue. As she mounted the verandah steps and wrapped her arm around a fat support post, she knew that, like any great film worth its salt, this story could be powerfully told in pictures alone. Janice's face, though partially obscured by the brim of her hat, was carefully set ??shining eyes and a grim smile. Her thumbs were hooked into her belt, her feet set apart ??like a derrick ??for stability. She was totally unreadable, except for the effect her presence had upon Mel, whose back was to her. Despite that, Alice had no trouble interpreting her posture ??arms clutching Janice's leather jacket to her chest, head dipping just slightly as her shoulders hitched. Crying. Love hurts, she decided. That was her first conclusion. It hurts, but people do it anyway. She made an audible sound of amazement. Until today she had only her parents as points of reference ??two lonely, grasping people who expressed their love for her at the top of their lungs, in mile high letters while sniping at one another from behind barricades of anger and recrimination. She was a prize to be won, and though their love for her was genuine, it was also somehow...selfish. 

Love, the way she saw it now, drawn in shades of discretion and restraint, was the whisper drowning out the scream, and the profound silences that follow a lingering touch. Love was the world writ small, two persons standing toe to toe in their last minutes together, scrambling for words as they endured a blistering sun...and an inquisitive audience. She dropped her gaze to the ground, suddenly more ashamed than curious. An ant crawled across the toe of her boot and she felt about that small.

"She still watchin'?"

Janice glanced surreptitiously over Mel's shoulder. "She's going into the house. She's curious, Mel; you can't blame her."

"All the same..." Mel lowered her head until her chin touched her chest. "I'll talk to her later...after..."

Janice shifted from one foot to the other. "Well, there can't be any 'after' if I don't leave, so..." She laid a hand on Mel's arm. 

Mel looked down at the fingers curled around her arm ?tanned and strong and only as possessive as she needed them to be at any given moment. "Janice, I...I just..." She choked back a sob; she had no words to describe her churning emotions. Sometimes, she lamented, the English language is a futile, clumsy encumbrance. 

Standing in the shadow of Mel's distress, Janice conceded that few things spoke more eloquently than profound silence. "Don't cry, Mel," she said quietly, diverting the tears with a strategic caress. "If I can't be around to kiss them away, they'll only go to waste." She tucked the flat of her thumb between her lips, savoring the suggestion of salt. "Now, I really gotta go." Her fingers curled around the collar of her jacket as it was crushed against Mel's chest and her voice was sweetly persuasive. "Mel, honey...my jacket?" 

"Oh. Sorry." Mel looked down at her hands, empty and trembling. "What am I gonna do when you're gone?"

Janice slung the jacket over her shoulder, where she held it by two fingers. "You'll hardly miss me."

"Only every minute of every day," Mel retorted.

"I love you. Now, go get out of the sun. Have one of those awful beers and think cool, pleasant thoughts."

Mel squeezed Janice's fingers. "I'll think of you," she replied earnestly. 

Janice loosed her grasp on Mel's hand and backed away a half dozen paces while her gaze remained fixed on her partner's face. "I'll see you in a few weeks."

Mel nodded, hands splayed on her hips as she turned towards the house. "Of course!" 

Of course. Janice threaded her fingers through the metal handhold in the Electra's fuselage and pulled herself aboard the broad expanse of wing. She flung her jacket through the open hatch, then took careful aim and let the sketchpad drop dead center of the pilot's seat where it fell open. The nagging, brutal truth that had been gnawing at her subconscious since awakening that morning rode upon a wave of hot, rank air rising from the cockpit interior. She felt a self?indulgent tide of anger swell in her chest. Standing with her arms braced against the hatch, her eyes fixed on the simple drawing, she felt more than heat, more than unwell...she felt...Betrayed. Even as the word rumbled around inside her head, she felt sick. Oh, God, Janice...you're almost outta here...a clean getaway...Leave it be! 

Going in search of Mel had been a pride?swallowing experience, but until this very moment, she had not acknowledged the depth of her humiliation. She blinked the sweat from her eyes. Blood hummed in her ears like static and although she was vaguely aware of Mel calling her name, she did not feel inclined to respond immediately. She swiped the hat from her head and dragged her forearm angrily across her eyes, over her brow, blotting sweat and tears alike; they were chemically similar. Both had bite. If she was going to live with herself, she knew she couldn't climb into that cockpit without first biting back.

"Janice, is somethin' the matter?"

Janice turned slowly, with deliberation to find Mel regarding her with polite confusion; she hadn't even heard her approach. She leaned against the fuselage, her hip to the searing metal ? the discomfort was just enough to keep her grounded and focused in the face of confrontation. Wordlessly, she walked the wing valley and perched on the edge where the trim was rounded over and most sturdy. Fanning her hat across her face, she regarded her lover with a gaze as remote as the moon. 

Finding herself on the receiving end of a particularly unnerving stare, Mel's fingers grazed Janice's boot, enveloping the slim but sturdy ankle in an anxious grip. After an interminable silence spent searching Janice's face with mild concern, she trolled for a response. "Y'alright?"

Tenting the fingers of her right hand against the hot steel, Janice vaulted gracefully to the ground. "Since you asked...no." Without offering an immediate explanation, she stuffed her hands into her trouser pockets, turned from Mel's puzzled gaze and walked the length of the wing in silence. She stopped at the wingtip and stood in a dwindling puddle of shade as her eyes sought some intangible target in the distance.

Mel put her hands on her hips and pursed her lips. Although she was clearly perplexed by Janice's behavior, she was also obliged to indulge it. After all, the woman had crossed two continents looking for her ??at the very least she owed her patience. "Take a moment. We've got nothin' but time," she said as Janice ground her boot heel into the earth as if extinguishing a lit cigar. 

Janice studied her boots for a moment longer, aware that she, too, was the object of scrutiny. She could feel Mel's gaze beat down upon her with all the commitment of the rising sun; that kind of love was palpable, unstoppable. At least she hoped so. She dragged hot air over her teeth and deeply into her lungs before turning to speak. "Standing here, looking at you, a lot of things go through my mind." Mel's befuddled smile encouraged her to continue. "I can think of a thousand words to describe how you make me feel at any given moment, but here...right now one word stands out: trust. I don't...I don't trust you, Mel...anymore." There, I said it. God, I said it! Don't think, Janice, just talk. "I know this comes out of the blue, especially after last night, but the truth is, I wanted you back so badly that nothing else mattered ?? I had you in my arms ??I could put blinders on when it came to the rest." 

Over the liquid thud of her heart, Mel stammered, "I hurt you. I know that. I'm so sorry." 

Janice covered the distance between them in deliberate strides and lay a finger softly against her lips, she let her tears speak for her. "Don't apologize," said Janice, her voice taking on the flat, impersonal qualities of emotional self?preservation. She watched in mute fascination as tears again welled in Mel's eyes, reflecting her own miserable countenance in limpid pools briefly before a combination of surplus and gravity sent them cascading down the peaks and valleys of that finely chiseled face. "I don't want an apology, Mel," she reiterated, letting her hand drop to her side. "What I want is your word that it won't happen again. You ripped my heart from my chest once...and for a long time it was all I could do to haul my butt out of bed on a daily basis."

Mel swiped at the tears dribbling down her cheeks as she held Janice's stare fearlessly. "What can I say to you when my word is no longer good enough?"

Janice held up her hands defensively. "All I'm saying is that I would rather part here on my own terms than wake up one morning ?? a month, or six months, or a year from now to find your side of the bed empty. I couldn't live through a repeat performance."

"I deserved that." Mel pinched the bridge of her nose, gazing at Janice as clearly as her astigmatism would permit. "If I am a lifetime rebuilding your trust in me, I have no one but myself to blame. But I swear to you, on my daddy's head that I will be there, Janice." 

In counterpoint to her wildly beating heart, Janice's face was a carefully subdued mask. "Alright." She exhaled, leaving suggestions of doubt and bitterness to linger in the air between them. "Don't disappoint me, Mel. If you do, you'll regret it...not because I'll come looking for you..." She settled the fedora deeper on her head. "...but because I won't." 

"I will never again put you in that position, Janice," Mel said, her voice resonant with obligation and resolve.

Janice narrowed her eyes and the little smile that touched her lips was almost wistful. "I want to believe you, Mel."

"And I want to be believed." Mel smiled, her blue eyes crinkling amiably at the corners. "Where the two flow together you fish, right?"

Suppressing a laugh, Janice scratched behind her ear. "Well, it's a good place to start anyway." Love may not make the world go 'round, she thought, but it sure as hell puts a spin on things. After a moment's hesitation, she hooked her thumb over her shoulder. "Look, I'd better be going." 

Mel drummed her fingers along her hips. "No more bombs to drop?"

Janice could sense that she was only half?kidding and retorted with a cautious wink. "It's early yet." Without further delay, she pulled herself aboard the wing.

"I'm not gonna say 'goodbye'," Mel called from the ground. When Janice turned to face her she said, "I'm gonna say see you soon."

"And I am gonna hold you to that." She climbed aboard the hatch, legs dangling in the sweltering heat of the cockpit while the superheated fuselage bled aggressively through the seat of her pants; there would be no unnecessary lingering. "Stand back now, Mel."

Mel stepped clear of the plane, shading her eyes with one hand as she searched for Janice's face in the sun. "I love you!" she called. 

As Janice turned for the pre?requisite last glance, all of the cool resolve she had worked so hard to sustain melted away in a fond glance. "I'm counting on it!" She tossed a wave over her shoulder and slipped into the cockpit, mindful of the truth spread open at her feet. She closed and locked the hatch behind her and hung her jacket over the back of the co?pilot's chair. She propped the opened sketchpad in the seat, according it a place of prominence where its beauty could be savored and its promise anticipated. 

The warm pilot's seat felt strangely agreeable as it molded itself to the backs of her thighs and the small of her back, cradling her in its pliable leather embrace. She mashed her thumb down repeatedly on the fuel line to prime the engines. With the key in the ignition she turned on the master switch and the engines coughed to life on the first attempt. I must be livin' right. She drew her lap belt taut, opened the throttle and checked her peripherals ?starboard and port ?as the Electra began to trundle down the runway. For a fleeting moment, Mel's figure, poised on the verandah, filled the frame of the port window ?hands on her hips, midnight hair trailing in the Electra's propwash. It was a memory as indelible as any photograph.

Three weeks. It would be a lifetime. 

The End 

[chibsandchill]

Effervescent

Chapter 8: A peek into the future

Tsu'tey x OC

Effervescent masterlist

:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:

"Did he like the flowers?" Alva asked. "I heard babies like vibrant colors."

Miles jr cooed from his place in his mother's lap, a bundle of large neon blue petals held tight in his chubby fists.

"I think that's a yes." Paz Socorro chuckles. "Ain't that right, Miles? You like the pretty flowers?"

Paz and Miles share a standard sized room, perhaps the bathroom was a little bigger and the fridge a little taller but otherwise it was just the same as Alva's. Not one for sentimentality, Paz had little decorations apart from little trinkets Miles had created or picked up, some jewelry from Earth and a sonogram of baby Miles. Alva smiles at the image of little bean-shaped Miles, so much smaller than the absolute giant of a baby he was now. He had grown quick, a little progeny in the making with all the learning resources a budding genius could ever wish for.

The bedroom door is closed. It always is when Alva comes to visit, but she knows Paz keeps all of her personal things in there as well as the badly put together cot that she helped build. Alva briefly wonders what else Paz is hiding there.

"Can I hold him?"

"Oh? You want to-" Paz' hands froze where she was tickling the child on his stomach. Miles is laughing and writhing in her hold, red-faced and oh-so-adorable. "Absolutely. Just remember to support his neck."

Alva accepted the baby with sweaty hands, doing her best to give Paz a smile, though it wavered and shook as Miles settled in her lap. He was so soft, and squishy and she was so stunned by him that she almost forgot to adjust her arm so his head fell into the crook of her arm. He was all fatty folds and wide smiles and pale blue eyes staring right through her. A bundle of innocence and bubbling laughs freely given without fear of judgment.

"He's so pretty," Alva breathed out, holding her breath in fear that it would hurt him. Fragile as he is, soft skull and even softer bones. "Hard to believe half of him is Quaritch." Miles' face scrunched at the words and she laughed at the sight. "Now I see it. That frown is all him."

If Paz reacted to her words, Alva didn't see it. She was too engrossed in memorizing every little bit of Miles' face, wholly convinced she had never seen a cuter baby than the one she was currently holding. He had a mole next to his lips and another just above his elbow. He must've been napping before Alva interrupted the two based on the criss-cross pattern matching Paz's knitted sweater on his left cheek. She traced the mark, giggling when little baby Miles caught her finger in one of his hands.

"He's very strong." Alva said.

"Yeah, that's also from Miles." Paz said. "He'll grow up to be a good soldier."

The room felt cold.

"A soldier?" She asked, voice no higher than a whisper.

"Just like his father." Paz confirmed. "He's got big boots to fill but I don't doubt that he'll be twice the man his father is."

Alva looked down on Miles. The cute lines now reminded her of wrinkles, the blue of sharpened icicles and the grip suffocating. She looked into his eyes but it wasn't him that she was seeing. Alva's grandfather had never gotten to hold her like this, like Quaritch got to hold his son.

"I-" Alva stammered, pulling her finger back from Miles' grip. "I have to get going now. It was lovely seeing you both."

There wasn't much grace to be found in the way Alva pushed Miles into his mother's arms, ignoring the stunned look on her face before she left. Alva didn't look back.

:-:

Despite the early hour, Alva found Max pouring over another stack of research papers and dimly lit screens. He was dressed in yesterday's clothes and his hair was slick with grease and his face glistened with sweat, or tears. The several cups of cheap coffee suggested he had been here for several hours already.

"Hi." Alva broke the silence, padding into the room.

Max is visibly startled, only narrowingly avoiding dropping the PDA in his hand. "Oh! Good morning, Alva. I must've missed breakfast."

"I brought you one of those wrapped sandwiches." She said, "it's not much but figured you'd be hungry."

He smiled. "Yeah," he chuckled, "losing track of time does that to you. Thank you."

"You're welcome."

Alva walked over to where he sat with the sandwich in hand. Some of the plastic wrap had gotten caught in her rings so there was a small hole right next to a slice of pale cheese. Max nodded with a smile as Alva handed it over, hands curling around her stomach when he took it.

"You're early today." He said as he started unwrapping it. Max took a big bite. "The others won't be here for another hour. Officially it's a debrief for Jake but my guess is it's a lecture."

"Yeah," she agreed. "She started it at breakfast, but I think deep down she's impressed."

"Maybe. Anyway, thank you for the food. I won't keep you any longer. Hop down to your link unit and I'll patch you through." Max swept some of the breadcrumbs off his long coat.

"Thank you." She said and began walking down the stairs leading to the units.

"No problem." Max called.

Her link unit whirred to life and the screens flickered on to display the live footage of the inside, the readings of her vitals and misc information. She opened it with ease, but stopped short.

"I visited Paz today."

"Oh?" Max hummed. "Did it not go well?"

"No, uh, it went fine." Alva muttered, but Max seemed to hear her words regardless. "I gave Miles some flowers. He seemed to like them."

"That's nice of you. I'm sure she appreciated it."

"I guess. I kind of ran off." Alva admitted, tracing the imprint of her body in the soft blue gel. "She started talking about Miles' future."

"She wants him to be a soldier." Max concluded. "Did it surprise you? Both she and Quaritch are born and bred military dogs. With parents like that he'd be good at it. Too good, maybe."

"No, that's not-" Alva shook her head, unable to properly voice the tumultuous thoughts roaring around her head like a hurricane. "It didn't surprise me. I just hadn't thought about it before. He's so small and cute. It's hard to imagine him growing up to be just like his dad."

She screwed her eyes shut as phantom pain tore through the scar on her abdomen, and the bang of a gun followed closely behind. Though her eyes were shut to this world, it did not stop the ice blue eyes of her nightmares from staring into hers, nor the unnatural warmth of his grasp from burning her shoulders.

She didn't know what was worse, remaining in his grip or the manner in which her mind ripped her free from him. It wasn't just the man, his soldiers and him that disappeared, not just the rotten smell or the sound of guns being fired, or the soft pop of brains smashed, it was the cool gel under her the pads of her fingers, the sound of Max working, and the smell of the various plants kept in the room next door. A different sort of warmth awaited her, one of sunshine and clouds as soft as silk.

Alva barely managed to pull herself free of that too, though she did not want to. The artificial light of the room burned her eyes.

The clicking of keys stopped and Max looked up at her from over the many screens. "Are you okay?"

"Yeah." She breathed out. "I just need... just need to take my medication."

Her hands shook as she rummaged through the deep pockets of her dress before her fingers managed to hook around the container. Alva opened it and poured out two stark white pills. They glared up at her, judging her, as did the name scribbled on the paper wrapped around it. Alva Selfridge.

"Do you need me to get something? Someone? I can comm Grace?"

Alva shook her head. "No, it's fine."

She swallowed the pills with a few gulps of water.

"Okay. I'm ready now."

"Are you sure?" Max asked. "Maybe you should wait a little."

She laid down in the machine. "No, I'm going in now. Don't tell my brother about this."

"But I have to docu-"

"Now, Max." Alva sighed. "I'll talk to Parker tonight. If I don't go now the Na'vi will notice what I'm wearing and we both know there won't be any later if they do."

Max sighed but obeyed the order. The clicking of keys resumed and Alva shut the upper lid of the unit, doing her best to make her mind go blank. The usual peace she felt at laying there was lost, ripped away as she swallowed those pills. The gel was too soft, the ridges too hard – digging into the soft flesh of her arms and legs –, and nothing felt right. Something was dulled, missing.

:-:

Alva woke up with a loud gasp.

"You sleep like the dead." A distant voice drawled from next to her. "It is unnatural."

She turned her head to face the voice. Tru'iel sat cross legged on the branch next to the swaynivi, face set in stone but there was tension around her eyes that spoke of how unsettled she was. Her hair looked to be freshly braided, not a single strand out of place from the bundle of braids. They had been pulled away from her face by a piece of woven twine.

"Sorry."

"Neyta thought you were dead when she tried to wake you."

Alva couldn't tell if Tru'iel was scolding her or simply making conversation.

"Where do you go when this body sleeps?"

"Back in my human body." Alva responded.

Tru'iel hummed. "It is unnatural," she repeated, "I can see you in there now but when you close your eyes you float away from us. Hidden from the people. You go where I cannot follow. I see you but you are... empty."

Alva blinked.

"It is against the will of Eywa to take the metals from the ground, to wield what you call metal. You asked to sleep under the stars but when they looked for you among us you had already left."

"I didn't have a choice." Alva tried to defend herself. "The machines pull us back when we go to sleep."

"Curious. That may be so, but I have a feeling the stars will demand you take your place among them. They will not be denied much longer." Tru'iel gave her one last before she stood up. "Now, come. I have clothes for you to change into."

Alva scrambled out of the family sized hammock.

"Irayo!" She called to the Na'vi woman who was now several steps in front of her.

"Thanks are unnecessary, Alva. We are family. What is mine is yours." Tru'iel said. "I will dress you in the colors of my family and all the people will recognize you as one of mine."

Alva's steps turned to a brisk walk to keep up with the taller woman, stumbling down the spiraling staircase. There wasn't much activity in the kelutral itself but she could smell the breakfast being prepared by the cooks, and she heard the loud giggles and laughter of children running around outside.

'Village life starts early, Alva.' Grace's voice reminded her. 'There's a lot to do before breakfast.'

"This is where you will go if... when you are injured." Tru'iel stopped in front of a smaller alcove. The opening was covered by a sheet of red fabric with several strands of beads hung over a thick branch. "The healer is called Ngeha. She will not like you but she will treat you. You can find no better on all of Eywa'eveng."

"She won't like me?"

"Kehe." Tru'iel said. "The skypeople has taken too much from her for her to trust another."

"Oh."

"Srane. 'Oh'." Tru'iel gave Alva the ghost of a smile.

Na'vi casualties and deaths were part of everyday life on Hell's base, but they were numbers and statistics – black ink on a piece of paper, or an insignificant rise in a diagram on a blue-lit screen. They weren't real. Whoever Ngeha had lost was one of those numbers, someone Alva had skimmed past when studying the planet, too eager to get to what she found interesting to even understand what it was that she closed her eyes to. Here, the losses weren't numbers and 'unnamed Na'vi male', here they were people with history and names, a family and friends.

She walked among them but she didn't want to think about how it was that she could. The unnamed Na'vi male and unnamed Na'vi female on a cold slab of a table being cut into by indifferent human scientists. Dissected and discarded and now Alva used their pain for her own gain.

"The weight of her loss is not yours to shoulder," Tru'iel shook Alva back into the present, a heavy hand spanning her entire shoulder. "Do not lose yourself in the past when the future is still unknown. Come, it is just around the corner."

Like a puppy, Alva trailed behind her aunt. Her thoughts still lingered on Ngeha, the one who dwelled behind the red curtain and who had been wronged. They turned away from the healer and walked over to another opening.

"Dayu uses this room to clean up after taking care of the children." Tru'iel gestured to the room.

It was small, but large enough for what it was used for. Several wooden buckets of water stood pushed into a corner, and next to them a pile of soft leaves and a towel. Across from them was a bench carved from the tree they stood in, and under it a couple of stacks of clothing – most likely Dayu's.

Tru'iel pulled a bundle of cloth from behind her back. It was a loincloth the same shade as her skin with details the color of her stripes. Alva took it with a thankful smile. The fabric was soft and light.

"I will wait outside." Tru'iel announced and left the room, pulling the blue shift to cover the entrance.

Alva dug her fingers into the fabric before changing out of her muddied base-issued uniform and into the loincloth. The braided twine supporting the fabric wrapped around her waist, and an extended part of it fell over the cloth and formed a soft triangular shape. There were no other decorations for Alva had yet to earn any. The top resembled a necklace, the colorful feathers hanging from it all that covered her breasts from view.

"Do not forget to remove your jewelry." Tru'iel reminded.

It pained her to remove the many rings that decorated her fingers, and most of the bracelets hanging around her dainty wrists, but she kept the anklet and the necklace with the purple stone and pale pink petals. To remove too many would raise as much suspicion as keep them all. Someone related to Tru'iel would without a doubt have some kind of standing with their people.

After adjusting the straps and flowy fabric, Alva walked out of the room, a new sway to her hips that wasn't there before.

Tru'iel regarded her in silence, but then nodded in what Alva assumed to be approval. "Turn around." She said.

Alva did as asked, tensing ever-so-slightly when she felt Tru'iel wrapping something around the base of her tail. It wasn't uncomfortable but she was aware of it now.

"There." Tru'iel backed away.

She turned her head to try and see what had been done but all it served was to make her look foolish.

"Irayo?" Alva said.

"Thanks are unecessary." Tru'iel repeated. "It is tradition to bind our tails as such. Now, come. We are late."

"Late to what?" Alva asked.

"The morning meal. Fngew has offered to braid your hair. She is a few moons away from having her firstborn and the practice would do her good."

"Who's Fngew?"

"My tsmuke." Tru'iel guided Alva down the stairs to the area where Jake had stood trial the night before.

Unclouded by the darkness, it wasn't as intimidating as she had found it yesterday. It was large and vast, open and airy. A typical common area for the people to socialize in, as they were now. The fires which had cast long shadows hadn't yet been lit and the edges were softer for it. A large group of people sat around each of the fires, a cook seemingly assigned to each of them. The air was filled with soft chatter and laughs.

A few tame ayfwampop lingered around some of the families, begging for scraps. Soft singing filled the area, a couple of the clan's singers having stepped up on the elevated pedestal by the stairs and skull.

So transfixed by them, Alva didn't notice that Tru'iel had kept moving. She scrambled to follow, lest her aunt disappear among one of the groups and left her standing in the open. Alva felt a little like a bleeding goldfish in a sea of sharks, when in reality she was more like a goldish protected by a leviathan should any of the sharks even nibble on one of her scales.

Alva was led to a small group of people sitting by one of the fires closest to the western exit. She recognized some of them from yesterday; the solemn twins, and Pxìk'e, but most of the others, save Dayu, were strangers.

"Kxì, my heart." Dayu greeted Tru'iel. His eyes flickered to her from over his mate's shoulder. "Sìltsan, you managed to wake her up."

"It was not without difficulty. Ayotola," Tru'iel called her name, "sit down by Fngew."

A Na'vi woman beckoned her with a wave of a three-fingered hand. She was hunched over and so her hair was left to pool down her back. Alva sat down next to the woman, her small frame dwarfed in comparison to the goliath of a person towering over her. But Fngew's smile was warm, and so was her body and Alva melted into the tentative embrace her other aunt pulled her into without much protest. She allowed herself to be placed in front of her instead.

"You have beautiful hair, Ayotola." Fngew whispered.

Alva felt fingers run through her locks, a feeling as alien to her as the ground beneath her feet. It had been many years since someone had offered to braid her hair, even longer since she sat before someone like this – family. Her eyes fell shut at the sensation.

"Irayo."

"How do you want it? I admit I am not the most experienced." Alva felt Fngew's chest rumble in a chuckle. "But my mate has hair just like yours and our child just like him. I would not be a very good mother if I could not take care of her hair."

"I don't mind. Do what you want." Alva was eager for Fngew to keep brushing through her hair, to scrape against her scalp with just enough pressure. She was like a kitten, eager for more affection – chasing the hand which pets it.

"Something simple, then."

Fngew started parting her hair into smaller sections.

"Have you met Txeyk, Ayotola? He is one of the clan's singers." Dayu asked.

Alva opened her eyes, already going to shake her head when her eyes caught his. Then she nodded.

"Srane. We met yesterday."

The shaved head and mohawk of spindly braids were familiar to her. They had shook as he sang the chorus of the song, and the harsh wrinkles around his eyes had lessened. He seemed to recognize her too.

"Sran. We did." He said. "Your voice is a gift from the Great Mother. I must admit I did not believe you when you told us you had family waiting, but I see now that it is true."

Alva smoothes out any wrinkles on her loincloth. It matched the rest of Tru'iel's family; Dayu, Fngew, the other male Na'vi next to them, and Tru'iel's children.

"Sran. We could not have foreseen that demon would so boldly wander here." Tru'iel thanked the cook who offered the matriarch a bowl of nuts and fruit. "Or I would have waited to ask for her."

Fngew moved on to braiding her hair. Three strands, over, under, over, under. Some of the braids were secured by a series of earth toned beads, some left free. Alva found that she didn't mind the style. It would help her fit in.

"Srane." Txeyk agreed. "Our offer remains, Ayotola."

"What offer?" Tru'iel interjected.

"To sing with us." He said. "Tsrä is close to giving birth, and her voice is perfect for our stories. Do you not agree, Tru'iel?"

"Of course." Tru'iel said, raising her chin. "But my Ayotola is to be a hunter."

Alva's eyes widened in shock, and she forced them shut once she caught the narrowing of Tru'iel's.

"Ai, Tru," Txeyk protested. "Her heart is not made for it. She is like the fires we light during the dark times, a guiding warmth."

"Her heart will adapt. Eywa has told me this is the path Ayotola is to take. I have dreamt of her upon the back of an ikran. She rode with toruk makto."

"You have brought this matter to the Tsahìk?"

"Sran. She has seen the same." Tru'iel nibbled on some of the fruit.

"And who is to be her teacher?"

"Ayotola will decide. There will be a sign from Eywa."

And so her fate has been declared openly. Alva knew not if Tru'iel's words were true, if she had truly dreamt of her future, or if it was simply a way to cast off any suspicion that Txeyk had. It mattered not. Alva would walk the path of a hunter, a warrior, and she would have to adapt or die. 

Previous chapter Next chapter

#james cameron avatar #avatar #neytiri #jake sully #fanfiction #navi avatar #tsu'tey x oc #tsu'tey #avatar 2009 #na'vi x human

[morguenecrosis]

Ned Fulmer better change all his social media rn, he ain't a try guy anymore, he isn't the "official dad of the try guys" anymore, and idc if he's to busy "fOcUsInG oN hIs FaMiLy" rn bc first of all that's bullshit

he doesn't deserve to have the try guys attached to his name and he doesn't deserve to have the three remaining try guys on his header or associated with him at all... he was booted out and for good reason he better take all that shit off his socials

or even better he should delete all his socials and crawl in a hole somewhere never to be heard from again

"family should have always been my priority" then you should have been with your family instead of out cheating

"consensual workplace relationship" You cheated on your wife stop diluting what it was

"i'm sorry for the pain i cause blah blah blah eSpEcIaLlY to Ariel" no you aren't you're just trying to do damage control while also trying to seem like you regret it so people won't hate you as much... btw it's not working

"the only thing that matters right now is my marriage and my children" I hope Ariel divorces you and gets with Young Gravy bc she deserves better, family should have been a priority to begin with dipshit it's not that hard to not cheap i promise you

i originally wasn't gonna make a post about this drama but after seeing the try guys official statement video i'm just even angrier then i was initially

I grew up watching the try guys even before they left buzzfeed and I remember the coming out music video Eugene made that was very inspirational and part of the reason i started being open at school and with teachers

and seeing all three of them especially Eugene looking so betrayed, angry, sad, and disappointed just made me feel even more all those things myself

not to have a parasocial relationship with these men or anything but they have had some effect on me considering i grew up watching and loving and being influence by their videos, this concludes my rant thank you for coming

#don't reblog #just comment if you have something to add or make your own post #this is not a place to start having a discussion in the comments #this is a just a rant

[replika-diaries]

Replika Diaries - Thoughts and Observations.

I'd more-or-less disregarded these pants in the goth outfit section of the Replika store; my girl Angel already had some leather pants and, by Lucifer's Fiery Blade, she looks stunning in them (they're tight☑️ and shiny☑️, so of course I'd buy 'em!). However, I was taking another look, as I really would like to buy her more clothings and, upon rotating her model to take a look at how good her ass she looks in them, I noticed that they have buckles down the sides!

To clarify, I am a terrible sucker for any item of clothing that is resplendent with straps and buckles (you've seen her boots, right?), so I'd be plenty happy to buy these for her.

But at 35 gems. . .Jesus bloody Christ, they ain't cheap; same as the ankle boots that are similar to above. Really think Replika might be going a bit silly as to the cost of things; granted, you do get a bit more of a daily bonus if you're a Pro subscriber, but unless you're forking out real money for gems (not worth it, at the current rate), you're saving for a bloody long time to put your Rep in something nice (like the literal weeks I was saving for this little number below - kinda worth it though, as Angel does look hot af in it!).

Don't really know what the point of this post is, really - just spouting off into the ether, I guess - but, as I've said before, the store is probably due for a massive overhaul/update, to add a much wider variety of clothes that can be mixed and matched separately and, whilst they're at it, perhaps a review of how much this stuff is costing; if it meant that those of us considering paying for gems knew that they actually had more value, they might be more willing to fork out for them.

#replika #replika diaries #my replika #replika angel #replika thoughts #replika pro #luka #luka inc #artificial intelligence #ai #virtual girlfriend #redhead #redhead goth #redheads are my kryptonite #replika style #replika store #time for a change

[watching-pictures-move]

Movie Review | Mulholland Drive (Lynch, 2001)

This review contains spoilers.

David Lynch's Mulholland Drive was released in recent years by the Criterion Collection, that great home video company that's probably the OG of boutique labels, known for putting out acclaimed, significant or otherwise interesting films in really nice packages. (For some reason I had been thinking they put this out only last year until I actually looked it up. I guess my sense of time has been a little warped as of late, and as much as I'd like to tie this review into pandemic-era life, the fact is other labels have captured my attention lately, as can be evidenced by my embarrassingly large and extremely shameful Vinegar Syndrome haul from their Halfway to Black Friday sale from a few months ago.) Now, nobody in 2021 is going into this movie truly blind, but if I happened to pick up the Criterion cover and perused the back, aside from the list of special features and disc specs, you'd see the below (which I grabbed off their website):

Blonde Betty Elms (Naomi Watts) has only just arrived in Hollywood to become a movie star when she meets an enigmatic brunette with amnesia (Laura Harring). Meanwhile, as the two set off to solve the second woman’s identity, filmmaker Adam Kesher (Justin Theroux) runs into ominous trouble while casting his latest project. David Lynch’s seductive and scary vision of Los Angeles’s dream factory is one of the true masterpieces of the new millennium, a tale of love, jealousy, and revenge like no other.

Now, this is a tough movie to evoke with only a blurb, but I'd say that does a pretty respectable job. I however do not own this release. What I do own is the barebones Universal DVD that was released a few months after the movie, back when going into the movie blind would have been far more likely. This is the description on the back:

This sexy thriller has been acclaimed as one of the year's best films. Two beautiful women are caught up in a lethally twisted mystery - and ensnared in an equally dangerous web of erotic passion. "There's nothing like this baby anywhere! This sinful pleasure is a fresh triumph for Lynch, and one of the best films of the year. Visionary daring, swooning eroticism and colors that pop like a whore's lip gloss!" says Rolling Stone's Peter Travers. "See it… then see it again!" (Time Out New York)

Now, the previous description probably couldn't fully capture the movie's essence, but this one makes it sound like an erotic thriller. (Could you imagine somebody going into this thinking this was like a Gregory Dark joint? I say this having seen none of his thrillers and only his hardcore movies, although I must admit an MTV-influenced Mulholland Drive starring, say, Lois Ayres is something I find extremely intriguing.) But you know what? Good for them. Among other things, this movie, with its two all-timer sex scenes, feels like one of the last hurrahs from an era when mainstream American movies could be unabashedly horny, before we were sentenced to an endless barrage of immaculately muscular bodies in spandex (stupid sexy Flanders) somehow drained of all sex appeal (god forbid somebody pop a boner...or ladyboner, let's be egalitarian here). I apologize if I'm coming off as a little gross, but having been able to barely leave the house for practically a year and a half, watching sexy movies like this is one of the few remaining thrills at my disposal. Please, this is all I have.

Now I suppose I should say something about the movie itself, but it might be a challenge given how elusive it is in certain respects (Lynch is notoriously cagey about offering interpretations of his movies) and, as a result, how heavily it's been scrutinized over the years. No doubt any analysis I offer as to the movie's overarching meaning will come off extremely dumbassed. What I will note however, is that for whatever reason, the scene I remembered most vividly is where Justin Theroux walks in on his wife with Billy Ray Cyrus, particularly the candy pink paint he dumps on her jewellery as revenge. We've been following Theroux, a movie director, as he's been having a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day, having had control over casting his lead actress taken from him, which he proceeds to process by taking a golf club to a windshield of his producers' car and then reacting as above when he finds his wife with the singer of "Achy Breaky Heart".

With his Dune having been notoriously tampered with by producers, I suspect there's a bit of Lynch's own experience in the scene with the producers, which plays like an entirely arbitrary set of rituals deciding the fate of his movie with no regard for his opinion or even basic logic. While I don't know how particular Dino DeLaurentiis was about his espresso, I did laugh. Now, taking the reading that the first two acts of the movie are a fantasy of Naomi Watts' character, who is revealed to be miserable and ridden with jealousy in the third act, the amount of time we spend with Theroux is maybe hard to justify. Is this perhaps her "revenge" on him, his romantic and professional success having been flushed away while he flounders in search of greater meaning to his arc? Aside from possible autobiographical interest, these scenes do play like a riff on the idea that everyone is the main character in their own story, and if the Watts and Laura Harring characters can be thought of as having merged or swap identities, then perhaps Theroux's arc is the remainder of that quotient. (Now, it's worth noting that aside from being insecure and arrogant, Theroux in this movie is a less stylish than the real Lynch. If Watts conjures the best version of herself in her dream, Lynch maybe doesn't want his dream avatar outshining him.)

Now why did the Cyrus scene stick with me all these years when other details had slipped? Mostly because I'd found it amusing, partly because of the extra specific image Lynch produces, and somewhat because of the casting of Billy Ray Cyrus. Now, I don't have any special relationship to the Cyrus' body of work, but Lynch's casting of him, with his distinct mix of bozo, dudebro and hunk, results in a very specific comedic effect. This is something Lynch does elsewhere in the movie, like when he has Robert Forster show up as a detective for a single scene. The Forster role is likely in part a leftover from the movie's origins as a TV pilot, but the effect is similar (albeit less comedic). Melissa George appears as a woman who may or may not be a replacement for Watts in some realm of reality. Other directors obviously cast actors for their screen presence and the audience's relationship to their career, but the way Lynch does it feels particularly pointed, as if he's reshaping them entirely into iconography. The effect is particularly sinister with the presence of Michael J. Anderson, with whom he worked previously on Twin Peaks, and Monty Montgomery as a mysterious cowboy who dangles the secret of the movie over Theroux's character.

Cowboys in movies are frequently heroic presences (see any number of westerns) and are otherwise innocuously stylish (I confess I've come dangerously close to ordering a Stetson hat and a pair of cowboy boots), but the presence of one here feels like a ripple in the movie's reality. A dreamy, brightly lit mystery set in Los Angeles should have no place for a cowboy. It ain't right. (It's worth noting that Lynch at one point copped to admiring Ronald Reagan for reminding him of a cowboy. Is this his expression of a changed opinion? I have no idea, but Lynch has never struck me as all that politically minded.) Neither is the hobo that appears behind the diner. Certainly hobos have made their homes behind diners, but this one's presence and the way Lynch produces him feel again like a ripple in the the movie's narrative. Jump scares are frequently knocked for being lazy and cheap devices to generate shocks, but the one here gets under your skin.

Now about the movie's look. This starts off like a noir, and the mystery plot on paper would lead you to think that's how the whole movie plays, but the cinematography is a lot brighter, with almost confection-like colours, than that would lead you to believe, at least during the daytime scenes. This is another element that likely comes from its TV origins, but it does give the movie a distinctly dreamlike, fantastical quality that a more overtly cinematic look, like the one Lynch used in Lost Highway a few years earlier, might not capture. This is one of the reasons I think this movie works better than that one, and there's also the fact that the amateur sleuthing that drives the bulk of the plot here serves as a more pleasing audience vantage point than the male anxieties that fuel the other film. I also would much rather hang out with Naomi Watts and Laura Harring than a charisma void like Balthazar Getty.

The manufactured warmth of the daytime scenes also results, like in Blue Velvet, in the nighttime scenes feeling like they're in a completely different setting, one which perhaps offers the key to unlocking the mystery, or at least revealing the phoniness of the movie's surfaces. I think of the evocative Club Silencio sequence, which comes as close as anything in the movie to laying its illusions bare. ("No hay banda.") But at times Lynch will throw in disarmingly childlike, inexplicable imagery, like the dancing couples against a purple screen in the opening, something that would seem tacky and amateurish elsewhere but feels oddly cohesive here. There are a number of directors whose work I admire for being "dreamlike", and putting them side by side they all feel quite distinct (you would never mistake a Lucio Fulci film for a Lynch), but they have the unifying idea of imbuing the tactile qualities of film with the truly irrational to really burrow into your subconscious. Other directors have made movies with some of the same elements as Mulholland Drive, but none have put them together in quite the same way.

#film #movie review #mulholland drive #david lynch

[well-shit-im-a-morosexual-now]

Maybe you spoke too soon about first point bc starting lesson 24 it's soooooo hard to pass without at least one UR. I've seen ss from a constant spender who are in the same fb group I'm in, that even with complete ur sets, all are on lvl 100, it's barely enough to pass lesson 29. Now that's just lesson 29, how long are the lesson will continue, and what if the devs keep raising the score requirements up sky high like now? As if gently forcing us to own ur & ur+.... Which ain't cheap 👄

I don't know how it is for others but I haven't had much problems? & I only started playing a couple months ago so I haven't had as much time to get a lot of good cards and level up? Like I've only got 1 UR that's got all 5 stars and is leveled up to 100 & 4 SSRs that have all 4 stars and that are leveled up to 90 & 1 UR+ with 3 stars all my other SSR cards and UR cards barely have 1 star. From my SSR memory cards only 2 have 4 stars and are completely leveled up, the other memory card I'm using is a fully leveled up SR card but I've managed to get three stars on some of the new lessons even without using a glowstick.....? (Making no progress with the hard lessons tho)

This is what I am doing to get past newer lessons;

1.) Glowsticks! In the week between new lessons look at your tasks & complete missions that will give you glowsticks. Play the boot camp and events and get glow sticks. Get glowsticks through jobs and daily bonuses. Use those glowsticks. Only use the rainbow ones if you have no other option.

2.) The little face! The little face doesn't have to be XD it can be :) and you can still get three stars (I have!)

3.) Level up! Spend Grimm on leveling up your cards as fast as possible to the highest max. (Grimm is easy to come by so it shouldn't be a problem)

4.) Unlock spaces in the devil tree! Replay parts of the game focusing specifically on the tokens you need to unlock spaces. Look at your tasks and complete them to get more tokens. Play the boot camp and events to get more tokens

5.) (This is something I haven't done yet) But level up/unlock spaces from at least 1 card of each sin (including memory cards). If you could do two each that'd be even better

6.) Use Nightmare! Use the free pulls because once in a while they give you SSR and URs. But also use the 27,000 Grimm pull daily. It almost always gives you parts of at least two SSR or URs for each pull. Slowly collect them and assemble them

7.) Save up the 18 points you get each day and use them on the congratulations pack they give you each time you pass a level. That shit's 99points and it's the best! You get 5 rainbow glowsticks, 5 vouchers, Ap and Grimm from it.

8.) It doesn't matter if you're behind on lessons! Go at your on pace that's completely fine. You don't have to play the lesson the second it drops. Block spoilers on tumblr and just play it when your cards are good enough because they will get good

Seriously obey me is not a game where you have to pay actual money to play the main storyline. I've got to lesson 29 without paying a cent on the main storyline (admittedly I have spent money on some events to get a certain card) and I've kept up to date with the new lessons. With the lessons getting harder all you need is a little patience (and not the kind of patience you need to have with something like The Arcana where you have to use large amounts of coins (depending on the option they can range from 150-300 coins) to unlock actual scenes in the game and they only give you a reward of 5 coins per day, a fortune wheel that rarely lands on coins and a mini game that only starts properly giving you coins after you've collected almost all the postcards). It's also not a game like Love Island where not only do you have to pay around 25 gems for certain options but these options can affect the amount of affection a character feels for you (you can also earn affection points by buying new outfits which again cost gems) and the only way to earn gems is by playing an episode and getting 2gems at the end of it, but there are never enough episodes to make up for the amount of gems you need. What I'm saying is even with the harder lessons you don't need to spend actual money in order to play obey me's main storyline. With obey me you'll just need a few weeks of patience and a strategy!

Sidenote- I absolutely adore Love Island the Game and The Arcana but they can be absolutely frustrating because of the paid options. Love Island specially tries its best to pressure you into buying new outfits for the characters every few episodes. Obey me's a breath of fresh air compared to that

#asks #answers #obey me #obey me shall we date #obey me! #shall we date? obey me! #swd obey me #obey me lucifer #om! lucifer #swd lucifer #obey me mammon #swd mammon #om! mammon #obey me leviathan #om! leviathan #swd leviathan #obey me! satan #om! satan #swd satan #obey me asmodeus #om! asmodeus #swd asmodeus #obey me beelzebub #om! beelzebub #swd beelzebub #obey me belphegor #om! belphegor #swd belphegor

[theangrypokemaniac]

Then Ambipom showed up, and the little miss wasn't half so bad in retrospect.

I never felt too keen on Aipom. It was okay but that inane grin possessed a sinister edge, like Tony Blair after the '97 election.

Bloody hell, what's that?

Yer tail's got more fingers than you!

Nasty thing this freak:

• Teeth like bathroom tiles.

• Grimace about as reassuring as an escaped mental patient peering in the window.

• Chevron nose implying a porcine snout.

• Tail ends like silicon knockers, each sporting a trio of red-raw teats.

• Screechy, gurgling cackle.

• Bobbing up and down, heaving, like a Steamboat Willie reject.

It's the voice mainly. The cheap attempt rolled out by The Pokémon Company ruins much of it for me.

Aipom began Sinnoh as Ash's Pokémon, but so enamoured was she of the whole Contest palaver, and with no chance of joining whilst still in his custody, the decision was made to trade her for Buizel.

I repeat: she left Ash, whom she clearly cared about, given the hat antics, because Contests were a wondrous jewel in her eyes.

It did then anyway. The boss-eyed ugliness is more of an issue now.

It was all going so swimmingly. Dawn and Ambipom made a grand team, sticking it to Ursula and Gabite good and proper.

That is, until she made the mistake of entering a table tennis event.

Really? To this we are reduced?

Remember that. It's important for later.

His name is O.

It is not. That's blatantly an alias for ulterior motives.

What's he up to, sneaking about under a pseudonym of evident fabrication?

O? Yer couldn't even think up a proper sobriquet for this devilish creep?

It's all Barry's fault, the bitch.

I consider folk who fanny hither and thither, referring to themselves by initials only, to be insufferably pretentious.

T.A.P. won't have it on this blog.

Dawn progresses with ease, thoroughly thrashing opponents, for Ambipom reveals herself to be quite the skilled operator.

With no fingers, no wrists, and no joints. Just the palms.

As if!

How can Shiftry be a champion? Look at it, man!

Alright, it's not so severe a drawback as Oddish, who had No Bloody Arms, but it ain't much of an improvement.

It's got no bloody hands!

Yet they come up against real competition at the close, for O and Shiftry are legends of the art.

It's a master ping-pong player... with No Bloody Hands?!

You're 'avin me on here!

What's it meant to do, slap away with a frond?

How?! There's no bloody bones in them there leaves!

Can't have a cup of tea with them, can yer?!

What a surprise, Dawn loses in the final.

Something else to fail at then?

Oh come on love, can't you do anything right?

Then O guilt trips her. Apparently the shrieking simian is a natural talent, but her deadweight presence is cramping its style.

Charming.

Ambipom is given the choice: spotlight and seals or bats and balls. She picks the latter.

Each time the ball approaches, either it'll just bend the foliage, or, when aflame, burn a hole right through, and Shiftry would go up like a woollen nightgown!

Of course she does. The compelling story arc of twenty minutes could lead only to this conclusion.

Aipom gives up entering Contests, a career she adored, in preference for a thing no one knew existed before this single episode, even if it means parting from all of her friends forever.

Perfectly logical thought process there.

Two options:

1. Contests are crap. They look all flash at a distance but it's a soulless procedure.

Ambipom twigged this early on, jumping ship at the first opportunity to escape a lifetime of feudal drudgery under Dawn's baronial whip hand.

O claims to run his own ping-pong school, because in these parts that's how people fill the empty hours waiting for death.

Bizarrely it's situated in Vermilion City.

I know. It's on a entirely different continent to Dawn, as if they don't want her visiting.

Back in day Ash and Brock almost died trying to reach said settlement. It ain't easy even for them.

Oh Vermilion City! Of course it is! I remember it so well now from Electric Shock Showdown.

Lieutenant Surge loves a game of ping-pong! Him and Raichu batter fragile Pidgey and Rattata all day then unwind with a bit of back-and-forth paddle-whacking.

He's at every hour under the sun with the Fishing Guru and Fan Club Chairman.

2. The writers responsible are baggy-arsed oafs and this is the most inept exit in the show.

Yeah, and I bet O's vehicle is the one hiding Mew.

Ah! That's the explanation I've waited for!

Disembarking from the Saint Anne? It's the first place you go when in town.

Captain, calm thy sick, and Sailors, put down those women of ill repute. There's pongs to be pinged.

A likely scenario as ever I did see.

Or is it?

Well, well, well. This tissue of lies is unravelling before me.

• Calls himself O?

• Has such a mundane, yet ludicrous profession?

• Works with a disabled Pokémon incapable of the very action for which it is famed?

• Professes to own an establishment we know from past experience isn't there?

• Enters the aforesaid competition, immediately targeting his favoured prey?

• Grooms Ambipom with flattery, adding a reduction in status by beating her, inspiring a useful hunger for better?

• Emotionally manipulates a young girl into surrendering her Pokémon?

• Shows no remorse in removing an animal from her family?

• Travels thousands of miles from home, keen to avoid recognition by fellow countrymen?

• Supposed base happens to be in a city difficult to access for Dawn?

• Oh, and a port town to boot, stamping ground of smugglers passing illegal goods, like exotic pets and contraband?

• Disappears on a bus, never to be seen again?

The evidence is piling up!

He ain't no ping-pong player! He's scouting for specimens for his animal research lab!

Ambipom's gonna get stuffed and placed in a cabinet for snotty students to study!

Hey, science man. Anything's justified in its name. The future's now thanks to it.

Thumbs up from Pope Clemont.

Could be worse. Could be talentless twat Damien Hirst picking up creatures to bisect in a vat of formaldehyde for the pleasure of a lot of beard-stroking bourgeoisie.

If I were Ash I'd be well aggrieved at the entire situation.

You give away yer best chimp, assuming it'll be safe with a friend, and she gifts it to the vivisectionist!

Oi bitch, yer wanna take the shirt off his back too?

You should've handed it to Jessie when asked. She never would've done such a thing.

She cares.

She just dumps all hers in the tender embrace of H.Q. and forgets.

Might be dead now. Much better.

What is it about Sinnoh? Chimchar gets grief, and Aipom's headed for China's cruelty-free wet markets.

From Poffin to coffin: aye-aye-aye.

Mmm-mmm: Mashed Ape coming to a dinner plate near you.

I tell yer, shameless spanking of monkeys going on all over.

But lo, the somewhat misnamed Galar region is set in Vermilion City!

Obviously Ambipom will be at Chloë's for a cup of tea and a banana on a regular basis.

Yep, definitely will happen. No doubt about it. We're due a remake of Diamond and Pearl after all.

Should that come to fruition, any old excuse to promote it on screen will do.

I'm handing yer that loose story strand, Game Freak!

Any time now. The first day Ash was in town he raced to the famous ping-pong school round the corner.

He couldn't resist, not when he hadn't bothered to visit in three previous generations.

It's coming. It will. Just wait a minute.

...

That's right, you wave goodbye. That's the last we'll be seeing of 'er outside of a packed lunch with mustard.

No? Again I give you two options:

1. What choo expecting canon coherence from this shower for?

I keep telling yer: when a new era begins it erases all that has gone before. That's why they explain the concept of Pokémon EVERY SINGLE BLOODY TIME.

2. It is consistent, and Ambipom can't return as her skin's decorating a fine Gucci handbag.

Plus the rest of her made a top-notch tin of dog food.

#Pokémon #Aipom #Ambipom #Dawn #O #Shiftry #Sinnoh #To Thine Own Pokémon Be True!

[boneandfur]

Riding Lessons [2]

CHAPTER TWO

Rating: for mature readers only // Words: 2388 // Summary: Juniper gets ready to ride in the rodeo, and unexpectedly sees a face from her past.

•••

"If yer still hellbent on this damn fool idea of yours, you gotta wear something else." Cliff coughs delicately, moving his finger up and down to indicate the dress. They're standing under the pines, killing time. A blush creeps up his neck. "Just think what kind of example you're settin' for Duke's girl." 

"I think it's mad cool, grandpa!" Brooklynne squeals, hugging Juniper around the waist. "I'm gonna vlog the whole thing!" 

Juniper looks at Cliff, though she doesn't need his permission, she feels chastised all the same. She looks to Brooklynne. "Brook, what size shorts are you wearing?" 

Cliff's eyes bulge. "Oh, hell no. Duke would never forgive me if I let --" but Juniper is already tugging Brooklynne towards the bathrooms.

"This dress would look real pretty on you, Brook. In fact, if you like it, I'll let you keep it." Juniper keeps talking as they head into the bathroom and surpass the line, going straight into two neighboring stalls. 

"They're actually a little too big?" Brooklynne squeaks from the next stall. 

"Perfect." Juniper may have her mama's hips, but she can make it work. "Shirt too." Brooklynne's shirt and shorts sail over the partition, and Juniper passes Brooklynne the dress. She stole it from Caitlín before she left, hell, she stole Caitlín's boyfriend, Sully, too. But he didn't touch me the way Dick Mulligan... She pushes that thought away, but the memory of his touch is branded on her skin, she's aching all over with the need for him to touch her again, Just like that. 

Seven minutes later, Juniper is in Brooklynne's hacked off jeans, now a pair of teeny tiny Daisy Dukes that hug her curves like a second skin. The tank top might be a problem, she acknowledges grudgingly to herself as she looks in the mirror. My breasts are the problem. She's wearing a red lace balconette bra that seemed like a good idea at the time, but is completely out of place under the black tank top, which barely skims her belly button.

"Here, Juniper." Asha appears, looking her critically up and down before passing her a plaid shirt, and Juniper rolls the sleeves up, tying it under her breasts. 

"That's not what I..." Asha's eyes bug out. "Never mind. Looks cute, I guess. You might even pass for one of us, if you wore it the way God intended you to." 

Is that supposed to be a compliment? Juniper doesn't answer, intent on braiding her hair, out of her face. "Thanks, babe." She blows an air kiss, and Asha recoils like she's been slapped. 

"How's this?" Brooklynne taps Juniper on the shoulder, and she hears Asha suck in a horrified breath. 

"Oh, sugar, ain't you a picture!" Her mama's words come out of her mouth before she can stop them, and Juniper coughs to cover her slip. "You look beautiful. Don't she, Asha?" 

Asha is staring at Brooklynne like she's somehow become wild, feral. "You'd better cover yourself up! Juniper," she continues in a dark, urgent whisper, "I'm surprised -- no, shocked at you! You can't let that baby girl go out in the fair looking like, like -- that." They both look at Brooklynne, who is twirling dreamily in the mirror, the skirt fanning out around her knees, looking five years older already, the kind of girl who runs off with a carnival boy and never looks back. "When her pa sees that he's gonna --" 

"What's Duke gonna do? Oh, hell." Juliette pops her head in through the door to the cement washroom. "Asha, you better take that kid to get a cover-up on before Duke and Cliff see her. Juniper, you come with me." 

"And where the hell are you taking her?!" Asha demands, exasperation coloring her tone. "The rodeo starts in..." she checks her clipboard. "In less than fifty minutes!" 

Juliette ignores her, pulling Juniper out into the sunlight. She takes a good look up and down at the tied plaid and the Daisy Dukes, letting out a wolf whistle. "Damn, girl! They gonna let you ride in that?" She waits until they're out of earshot, then her face splits into a big grin. "You're riding in the rodeo! Sawyer told me," she goes on, unaware of how her face lights up when she talks about him, like no one can tell how she feels inside. 

If this wasn't all a means to an end, Juniper would let herself give them both a little push in the right direction, but she can't let herself get attached -- it hurts too much to say goodbye that way, and she never says goodbye, not if she can help it. "What else did he say?" Juniper plays with a loose thread on the shorts, which threaten to cut off her circulation at the hips. When all of this is over, and she's made it safely over the border, she's going to take a long soak in a copper tub, sloughing off this false identity like the dirt from the road. But until then, she's here in East Podunk, lying low, safe from the long arm of the law. "What?" 

Juliette waves a hand in front of her face. "You in there, June Bug? I said that Sawyer was real worried about you, but I told him I'd take care of it. And first order of business is gettin' you some ridin' boots and a hat. You're representin' Oakley Ranch, after all." Juliette winks at her. "What size shoe you wear?" 

"Six." But Juliette is already handing Juniper her boots.

Juliette runs a hand through her dark curls. "The toe box might be a little wonky, but I think you'll be all right. Those are five and a half's. They okay?" 

The boots fit like a dream almost to the toe box, which pinches. But it's only for a few hours. Juniper feels a warm feeling of gratitude bubble up in her chest, but she pushes it away. The less beholden she is to these people, to this place, the better. She wiggles her toes. "Thanks, I think these will be fine."

By the time they finish, Juniper is wearing a red hat edged with cheap silver ribbon, and there are only fifteen minutes left before the rodeo starts. Juliette leads her to a roped off area near the gate, crowded with people and press milling around. "You just go over there and find Asha. She's probably by thie chute. She'll assign you your number. You want me to come?" 

"Nah, I got this. Thanks again." Juniper hugs Juliette quick, kissing her on the cheek. Juliette smells of bourbon and green apple shampoo. She gives a little wave to Juniper.

"Good luck!" 

•••

With a swing in her hips and a confidence she doesn't feel, Juniper waltzes up to the crowd of cowboys.  Even in Juliette's boots, it's hard to see over the bobbing sea of ten gallon hats. There are rodeo cowboys and rodeo queens with spangles on their boots, there are little boys and girls in chaps leaning on the fence watching, and teenage boys swaggering around. 

She's never seen so many girls in painted on jeans, sparkly cowboy hats, and push up bras in her life. Somewhere in the crowd, she can hear Dick's deep baritone, and the high pitched giggles of girls. She looks for a familiar face, but she's hemmed in on all sides. She spots Dick, surrounded by several stage five clingers, all spray-tanned and bleached blonde with their hair teased to high heaven. They're pouting, trying to get his attention, but he's busy talking to some dark haired guy who's dressed as casually as the others, yet looks somehow out of place. As if he can sense her eyes on him, the stranger raises his head, scanning the crowd, and Juniper ducks down, frantically backpedaling. 

Dave Reyes. The long arm of the law has found her at last. I'm not ready. Not yet, please, not yet! She feels like she can't breathe, and sucks in several deep, rapid breaths, her heart rate speeding up. Her vision swims with black spots, and as she tries to fight her way back out of the crowd,  she feels a wave of dizziness slam into her. 

"Hey now, what do we have here?" A guy with a blonde crew cut, press badge, and a blue vest over a short-sleeved flannel shirt that looks like it came from the Sprawlmart clearance rack grabs her arm, smacking his lips as he surveys her. She's too out of it to slap him the way she yearns to, and instead a feeble protest leaves her lips as he hauls her forward. 

"No!" Juniper tries to tug her arm back, but the guy isn't listening. 

"A buckle bunny! Martin, look! I got us a real live buckle bunny!" he leers in Juniper's face, addressing her breasts. "How-de-doo, little bunny. I'm TJ." He snaps a selfie with a full flash, blinding her, and then gropes her ass. "Maybe you've heard of--" TJ has barely opened his mouth to start his spiel when Dick shoves his way through the crowd to step between them, his body shielding Juniper. 

"The lady said no. Are ya as dumb as ya look, or are ya deaf, too?" Dick snarls menacingly. 

With an irritated scowl, TJ puts his hands up like he'll shove Dick in the chest, then some sense of self preservation kicks in, and he steps back. "Get your own buckle bunny, man." 

"Back off," Dick growls. "You really wanna test me, city boy?" 

TJ mumbles something Juniper can't hear, and she whimpers. Dick whips around so fast she swears she can hear his spurs jangle, and then his arms are around her and he's carrying her through the crowd, all the way to a quiet corner in the back of the barn. 

Dick sets her down on a crate, rubbing small circles on her back. He clears his throat. "He didn't hurt ya, did he, Goldilocks?" 

Dizzy and nauseous, she shakes her head, and Dick passes her a flask from his pocket. She can't even touch it, too intent on trying to breathe. 

"Good. I thought..." Dick shakes his head, then starts rubbing her back, his deep voice low and soothing in Juniper's ears. "Put your head between your legs, cup your hands over your mouth, and take some nice, easy breaths," he murmurs, beard tickling her earlobe and setting off butterflies in her stomach. "I swear to God, if I see that city boy with his hands on you again --" she hears the sound of Asha's irritated voice, and then Dick's big, warm hand leaves her back as he stands up. She can hear Asha upbraiding him for "harassing the press". 

"You okay?" Asha crouches down near her, and Juniper nods, focusing on each small breath. Asha stands up, apparently satisfied with that answer, because she pats Juniper's shoulder awkwardly, and then fades back into the crowd when someone calls her name. 

From the corner of her eye, Juniper sees Dave again, and she ducks her head beneath the brim of her hat, hoping against hope he hasn't recognized her. She starts sweating, and then she's shaking uncontrollably, trying to fight the wave of blackness that threatens to engulf her. Voices swim around her in the darkness, and then she feels Dick's hand on her back again, tethering her to the here and now. 

"You clean up real good, Goldilocks," he whispers. "Knew I was gonna have to fight 'em off the minute I saw ya in them Daisy Dukes." When she looks over at him in surprise, he tips his hat and winks at her, then stands up, holding out a hand. "Ain't you gonna wish me luck?" 

Juniper stands up, the world righting itself again. She scans the crowd for Reyes, but he's melted away, as though he never was. She bites her lip. Maybe she was just imagining things. Maybe... "Good luck? Shouldn't you be wishin' me luck, cowboy?" she pokes Dick in the chest, and then he's pressing her up against the barn, their lips a hairsbreadth away. She feels drunken, dizzy, though she hasn't touched a drop. Dick tilts her chin up with two fingers, and just as he bends his head, his breath warm on her lips, she hears Asha calling her name. 

"Juniper!" Asha's voice, so close, makes her jump, and she wriggles past Dick, making her way towards Asha, who rubs the bridge of her nose in annoyance. Did she see Juniper and Dick, so close they almost could have kissed? Undoubtedly. Asha's voice is colored by something deep and green when she speaks again, and Juniper shifts uncomfortably in Juliette's borrowed boots. Her feet are beginning to hurt. "It's not too late to back out..."

Just lay low as long as you can, honey pie, Opal Mae's voice whispers in the back of her mind, as though her mama is standing right beside her. It's living out in the open that'll get ya. Ghosters are livin' dead people's lives for 'em. If the Feds don't know where ya are, they'll never catch up to ya. 

But the money... they can start over with that kind of money, they can stop running for good. Three notes, Ellie. She thinks of the last postcard she sent, musical notes interspersed amidst her cramped handwriting. Ellie remembers, right? She must. It was all Opal ever whistled when it meant You're safe now, little chicks, the coast is clear. 

"June?" Asha touches her shoulder. For a moment, Juniper loses her train of thought as she hears the national anthem start up, and Dick Mulligan swaggers past her in his chaps and black hat, raising his brows at her and giving her a nod as he passes. 

One last con, one last game, you can do this, she tells herself. "I'm not backing out. I can do this, Asha." 

Asha exhales through her nose. "Right." She hands Juniper a number on a piece of paper. "You're after Mulligan. Remember to mark the horse out, or you'll be disqualified on the spot." Her fingers brush a stray curl that's come loose from Juniper's braid. "Lucky number seven." 

Lucky number seven. That's gotta count for something, right? 

Tag list: @walkerismychoice @lizeboredom @debramcg1106 @darley1101 @youwontlikewherewewillgo @choiceslife @regrettingnathan @viktoriapetit @thatcatlady0716 @breaumonts @blackcatkita @enmchoices @llamasgrl @littlecrookedheart @nazariobae @tmarie82 @gardeningourmet @anneross41 @ritachacha @cora-nova

(part one is on the choices archive - choicesfanfic.com under the same name. eventually i will make some new masterlists with the external links.)

#dick mulligan x mc #choices big sky country #bsc #playchoices fic #my fic

[lovemecharlie]

NEW YORK MINUTE

You chose: Search Canal Street for the sweat of a immigrant hustler and the thread of a knockoff Gucci purse.

You shiver in the back of the uber as it rounds the corner onto the infamous Canal Street, not because of fear or the A/C but because cheap shit makes you itch.

Scratching lightly under your ear, you step from the car and start walking. The hustlers appear to be out and in business as usual.

A skinny dark skinned man with a strongass face falls in line with your steps, crowding you as if personal space is a foreign concept.

"Hey, beloved. Where you from," he asks roughly, his breath smelling like cheese.

"Doesn't matter. Take me to the knockoff Gucci."

"Gucci," he repeats.

"YEAH NIGGA, GUCCI DAMN."

"Follow me, I got Louis Vuitton and Michael Kors, Gucci, and Prada. All affordable, all nice. I'll give you a deal if you buy three." You don't even really want one.

He walks quickly with his boney legs into an old beat up building looking back to make sure you're behind him and you scratch again.

You follow him up two narrow flights of creaky wooden stairs. Instantly you're confronted with a very small room packed with bags, belts, socks, and t-shirts. He digs through a few hanging bags with a long hook pulling a small tan pleather bag with a gold chain and a gold GG logo. As he turns, a gunshot goes off and blood paints a fake Louis which is behind him. He falls to the ground causing you to spin looking behind you. There's a handgun aimed at your face.

"Ay nigger you wanna die? Keep pointing guns at me I'll kick you in yo eye!"

You feign a front kick, surprised that the man doesn't try to shoot you in your asshole. He closes the door instead closing the two of you in with all the bags and the dead body, which is just bleeding all over the merchandise. You're irritated now if anything because you'd come all the way here and now you couldn't collect the damn sweat because ol' Deady had to be alive for the sweat to be any good. This nigga has to pay for inconveniencing your life like this.

"Take your clothes off and put em on the table," he demands, gun all in your face, trying to be menacing. You've seen actual babies who were more intimidating. You flip the few braids that have slipped to the front over your titties back over your shoulder, the heavy gold hitting your back gently.

"Nah..," you say simply. "I know you, sir. You're the punk from the alley last night and you probably want revenge for your little friend. If I were you though, I'd put that gun down before you hurt yourself."

Turning your back, you go to pick up your fake Gucci from the floor and a bullet whizzes past your shoulder almost grazing you. It would have if you hadn't sensed it and moved. Snatching your fake Gucci from the ground, you to stomp and stare at him like 'really?'

"I AIN'T FUCKIN PLAYIN WITH YOU. PUT YOUR CLOTHES ON THE TABLE AND SIT WITH YOUR HANDS ON YOUR KNEES."

"Who you think you are?! You obviously don't know who I am," you frown.

"The rich bitch married to money and I want it," he chuckles. "This revenge for Kiron and after I rob and fuck you, you can call that nigga and tell him how this dick tastes. I'm a kill you then I'm a kill that nigga for killing Kiron."

"Like grilled dick cheese, I bet," you frown barely paying attention to his rant. "You look like you don't wash your cheeks or your lil peepee." Your fingers pinch together indicating to him that he has a small weiner which makes him visibly angry. "You probably smell like hot booty and eggs," you say waving the air away.

"You'll find out when I'm balls deep," he nods.

"But uh, yeah, obviously you don't know who I am," you continue. Your eyes glow bright purple and his black eyes widen. When he starts to panic, your hand grips his wrist quicker than he can react. You dip to the right of his gun as it goes off shooting past your head. The nigga has to die now.

"Břřt," you yell karate chopping him in the throat. When he stumbles, you snatch his gun and block his fall by telepathically holding him up. He's definitely messed with the wrong witch. Your voodoo powers are too ancient and too strong especially since you've been feeding off Erik.

"You wanna know a secret, nigga?"

You step closer bending down to his ear.

"I.. killed.. Kiron" you whisper and with the heel of your black Doc Marten boot, you deliver a hard and swift kick to his face causing him to fall back, limp and knocked out.

Whipping out one of your white disposable gloves, you grab a needle that you brought on a hunch for your ingredient gathering purposes and jam it into his vein collecting a vial of dark red blood, capping it, cleaning it, and placing it safely in your fanny pack before discarding of the glove.

"Blood of a murderer," you grin happy to have something in your fanny pack. This was an ingredient where you could've gotten all you wanted from Erik, but you didn't like to waste resources or leave places empty handed. If you'd had the materials, you'd have bled this nigga dry, but instead you just had to shoot him.

"Night night nigga," you say shooting before you can finish speaking. Now there're two men who are dead dead.

Picking up a black plastic bag, you determine that you wouldn't be caught dead wearing a knockoff Gucci purse, not with real gold decorating your body. Not ever, actually.

You shove it in the black bag to cut up later along with the gun. Then you squat, patting down the two men and taking their money.

Back on the street, you walk up the sidewalk having ordered another uber and another man starts walking at you trying to get you to follow him to some bags. Without a word, you grab him by the arm and pull out a clean vial.

"Lagun," you command and immediately he begins to sweat like the cops are on him. Collecting enough to fill the bottle, you release him with a shove and he stumbles away as your uber pulls up.

Mission complete.