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inthedayswhenlandswerefew · 2 years

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We Were Something, Don’t You Think So? [Chapter 6: Saint Petersburg]

You are a Russian grand duchess in a time of revolution. Ben Hardy is a British government official tasked with smuggling you across Europe. You (sometimes) hate each other.

This is a work of fiction loosely inspired by the events of the Russian Revolution and the downfall of the Romanov family. Many creative liberties were taken. No offense is meant to any actual people. Thank you for reading! :)

Song inspiration: “the 1” by Taylor Swift.

Chapter warnings: Language, incompetent flirting, ANGST, people being snakes, descriptions of violence, historical topics like famine and war.

Word count: 6.6k.

Link to chapter list (and all my writing): HERE.

Taglist: @imtheinvisiblequeen @okilover02 @adrenaline-roulette @youngpastafanmug @m-1234 @tensecondvacation @deacyblues @haileymorelikestupid @rogerfuckintaylor @yourlocalmusicalprostitute @im-an-adult-ish @someforeigntragedy @mo-whore @mellowfellowyellow @peculiareunoia @mischiefmanaged71 @fancybenjamin @anne-white-star @theonlyone-meeeee @witchlyboo

I’m sure it comes as no surprise to you when I say that I have been very very preoccupied with work and other real-life commitments, and that sadly my writing has been neglected as a result. But now I’m back with Chapter 6! I won’t make any ambitious promises but I will say that while my unclaimed time and energy are rare these days, my love for these characters is not, and I hope to be able to update more frequently going forward.

A massive, resounding THANK YOU!!!!! to everyone who has read, liked, reblogged, and/or commented. I read and cherish every single piece of feedback from readers. You make my world go ‘round.

Please let me know if you’d like to be added to the taglist! 💜

“You’re getting really good at that.”

There’s a smile in Ben’s voice—deep and dark like the mouth of a well—as he leans over me to look closer, one hand resting on my shoulder, cloaked in smoke and aftershave and soap that smells like the vast evergreen sea of the Russian taiga. We’ve been in Saint Petersburg for nine days. Our ship’s departure keeps getting delayed—due to coal shortages, apparently—but Ben is confident that we’ll finally set sail tomorrow. I’m sitting at the kitchen table in the apartment where the British ambassador has arranged for us to stay, practicing my typing as slate-grey morning light streams in and occasional raindrops plink against the windows, tapping out a synopsis of Tarzan of the Apes in Italian. I’ve finished reading the book several times over, but can’t bring myself to part with it; it’s one of so few things I still have from home.

“Yes indeed.” I’ve graduated from tentative stabs with my index fingers to more or less fluid progress. “Just in time to arrive in London and never have to use a typewriter ever again in my entire life.”

Joe glances up from his cappuccino. He’s been tending it like a fretful infant for the better part of an hour: brewing the espresso, frothing the milk, sprinkling it with nutmeg and cinnamon. It’s a vestige of Joe’s upbringing in Italy, he says, and one that he’ll bring along with him to America like a suitcase of clothes and letters and photographs. “Not planning to work once you marry this oh-so-dignified aristocrat who must not be named, eh?”

Ben recedes from me like low tide and goes to the sink, where he slams silverware and porcelain plates around under the guise of washing them. I avoid Joe’s scrutinizing eyes and take a sip of my own beverage: hot tea, still steaming, Russian Caravan, with three heaping teaspoons of sugar. “Oh, I’m sure he wouldn’t allow that,” I say demurely.

“Allow it?” Joe replies.

“Well he’ll expect me to be home, of course. Tending to the estate and the social calls and the charity functions and…before too long, I suppose…within a year or two…” The words feel unnatural to me, like the name of a stranger, but I force them out. “The children.”

Ben stabs wet silverware into the drying rack; clangs ring in the air like birdsong. Joe doesn’t seem to notice. “Ah, so you want children, Lana bella donna?”

This strikes me as an odd question. No one has ever suggested that such a thing might be contingent upon my own preferences. “Yes, obviously.”

Joe’s forehead crinkles. There’s a drippy moustache of cappuccino foam coating his upper lip, dotted with flakes of nutmeg and cinnamon like freckles on white skin. “What’s so obvious about that?”

“Surely every man, and particularly a man of great importance, requires sons to carry on his legacy.” I may not know much about the world, but of this I am certain; half of my parents’ lives have been spent either in active pursuit or painstaking preservation of an heir. And perhaps if Alexei was a different sort of boy—or if he had been followed by healthy sons—then the Russian people might have cultivated enough affection for Mother to spare us our present hardships. Alas, that is a thread of fate that none of us will ever be able to touch.

“Perhaps,” Joe muses. “But you still haven’t told me what that has to do with you.”

I dislike when he does this, when he needles me with duplicitous questions. Joe smirks connivingly and I frown back. He knows about me, of course; or, rather, he knows something. He knows that I am Russian by birth, wealthy, rather sheltered, of some political significance. He has surmised all of this himself, although he never makes the mistake of asking for confirmation. Sometimes it scares me how much he sees. I say pointedly: “I am very much looking forward to having children, Joseph Mazzello.”

“Si, si, whatever you say, signora,” Joe concedes, still smirking. He mops the cappuccino foam from his face with a red handkerchief that makes me think of Christmas: holly and velvet and ballgowns and wine. Since our arrival in Saint Petersburg, strangely enough, I’ve rarely found myself yearning for London anymore. Fantasies of twirling with my sisters in glittering palace ballrooms have been quietly replaced with the mundane details of my new life with Ben and Joe: card games by the small crackling fireplace, clandestine strolls on the banks of the Neva River, coating our inexpert hands with ghostly flour and violet beet juice as we stumble through recipes from a tattered cookbook I found in the marketplace. I long to see my family again, of course. I miss them like pieces of myself, my ribs and nerves and heart. But I sometimes wish that I could pull them into this little two-bedroom apartment, into a life where we could be simple, peaceful, anonymous, honest. And weren’t those the moments that were always happiest for Papa and Mother anyway, when they were tucked away in the corner of a study or a garden, their hands soft on each other’s faces, untroubled by the demands and judgments of the world?

But this dream is a brick in a road that leads nowhere. I resume my typing. “In any case, it’s not as if women have an abundance of choice in the timing or number of their children.”

Joe hesitates. “Well…there are…some opzioni, no?”

“What kinds of options?”

“Ah…ah…well…you know…ah…” Joe glances at Ben for help. Ben’s back is to us as he continues scrubbing dishes in that brooding, aggressive sort of way. “Non importa,” Joe mumbles at last. Never mind.

I reply, with lofty confidence, my fingers clicking over the typewriter keys: “In my estimation, a man requires both physicality and heirs, neither of which a dutiful wife could ever deny him. Would ever want to deny him, I mean. There’s no choice involved for the woman.”

“You have a choice,” Ben says suddenly. He turns back to look at me, a slick wet plate in his hands. “Childbirth is dangerous. It takes life as easily as it gives it. You should know you have a choice.”

The three of us stare at each other. Joe slurps his cappuccino. The raindrops against the windows are suddenly very loud. Ben and I never talk about that kiss on the train that brought us to Saint Petersburg, but we do talk about other things: his family, my family, our interests, our fears, our dreams. Sometimes it feels a bit like traversing a minefield—me trying so desperately not to seem cloistered and naïve, Ben biting back his impatience, his cynicism—but more often than that it feels like a great relief, like letting someone help you carry an armful of books or firewood or stones, something that could so easily escape you and clatter to the floor. Now, Ben is looking at me with more than a glimmer of that ferocity I’d been so convinced he was growing out of. He’s waiting, I realize, but I don’t know how to respond; I don’t fully understand what he means.

“There are…ways to prevent children,” Joe says rather bashfully, without meeting my eyes, pushing around his empty cappuccino cup with his knuckles. “Things the man can use. Things the woman can use too, if she is so inclined. But I imagine that’s not something they teach ladies of your...” He searches for the right word with a contemplative sweep of his right hand. “Posizione sociale.”

“No, I suppose it’s not.” I expect to feel myself blushing—that hot roar of blood, streaked with scandal and shame that is so painfully childish—but I don’t. I’m thinking that I want to know more. I’m wondering if my sisters know anything about this, if my mother does. I’m wondering if my future husband ever would have told me.

Ben’s face clears, clouds heaved away from the sun by a breath of cold wind. “What do you want to do today?” he asks me. “It’s your last day in Saint Petersburg. In all of Russia, come to think of it. Quite possibly ever.”

“So you keep saying.”

“So I’m promising. This time tomorrow, tugboats will be dragging us all out into the Gulf of Finland.”

“Into the future,” Joe murmurs contemplatively. “Into new worlds.”

“What do you want to do?” Ben asks me again, drying his hands with a dishtowel. Kaleidoscopic soap bubbles pop noiselessly in the kitchen sink, looking very much like a snowfall.

“The same thing I always want to do.”

“Again?” Ben feigns exasperation. “Get a hobby, parasite.”

“I have plenty. You’re just too poor to do any of them with me.”

“Oppressing the working class isn’t a hobby.”

I smile at him. He smiles back. Joe chuckles to himself and goes to wash out his cappuccino cup. The apartment has two bedrooms: one for me, one for Ben, and then Joe has claimed the couch in the living room as his own little dominion strewn with mismatched blankets and pavlova crumbs and an illogical amount of pillows. Saint Petersburg is the first time I’ve had a room to myself since I met Ben, the first time I’ve slept alone. And it’s the strangest thing; after all those nights I fell asleep wishing I could get away from Ben, now when I stare up at the ceiling in that soft, warm, spacious bed—counting each peeling flake of paint, each rattling of a carriage passing by on the cobblestone streets outside—I find myself missing him.

My gaze drops down to Ben’s hands, to the whisper-faint latticework of countless white scars that stipe the backs of them. My eyes catch there, and so does my mind, my thoughts churning with soundless, mystified curiosity, oysters mulling over grains of sand until they’re pearls.

“What?” Ben asks.

I tear my eyes away, but not before Joe whirls to see what I’m looking at. We exchange a glance filled to the brim with unspoken things. Joe says to me in Italian: “He was an apprentice at a newspaper office when he was a boy. His boss would beat the hell out of him each time he made a mistake. Took a hazel switch to his hands until they bled all over the keyboard.”

I know I’m not supposed to react, but I can feel my lips part, can feel the gasp escape through my teeth.

Ben frowns at Joe reprovingly. “What did you tell her?”

“Niente,” Joe replies with a casual shrug. Nothing.

“You ready?” Ben asks me as he tosses the dishtowel aside.

I nod, forcing myself to smile, willing myself not to look down at his hands again. I look up at his face instead, which is increasingly easy to get lost in.

“Alright,” Ben says. He presses his thumbprint into a scattering of coffee grounds that Joe left on the kitchen counter, comes to me, draws a smudge like warpaint under each of my eyes, rubs them in until I am sufficiently stained. And I expect Ben to be amused, to laugh at me, as he often does when he gets to strip away those last remnants of royalty that I cling to with an instinctive sort of desperation; but Ben doesn’t laugh. He just studies me, solemn now, his eyes on my face, on those smudges as if he’s not quite satisfied with them, his hand hovering and contemplative…and then he drops it. “Now we can go.”

~~~~~~~~~~

Outside the rain has slowed to a mist-light drizzle. We stop by the stable a block from the apartment building so Ben can visit Kroshka and feed her a handful of sugar cubes—she greets him with an enthusiastic nicker, me with flat yet forbearing, lazy-eyed apathy—and then we continue on to the marketplace. My face is dirty, my hair secured in an untidy braid (I’m able to do it myself these days, although Ben’s handiwork remains superior), my body buried under a coat and hat and mittens and the forest-green scarf I bought in Moscow. I am somebody that no one would look twice at, and that is precisely how it needs to be. At the moment, I’m barely thinking of myself at all.

There’s a woman who sells hot loaves of bread out of the back of a donkey cart. She lost two sons in the Battle of the Vistula River, and another came home changed; he doesn’t laugh, he doesn’t speak, he only kneads dough with a dreadful, blank-eyed, eternal sort of patience and ducks beneath the kitchen table each time someone drops a pan. There’s a chebureki vendor who was raised on a small farm in Siberia, and when the harvests failed the peasants there would eat the horses and then the dogs and then the rats, and if the winter was long and vicious enough then some families—in the dark and quiet of the night, when not even God could see them—would choose one child to consume so that the rest might live. There’s a man who lost his legs in the Second Battle of the Masurian Lakes; he knits wool blankets from his wheelchair, the great heaps of fabric obscuring the gaps where flesh and bone had once been. There are widows and mothers and wives, weather-beaten fathers and hollowed-out sons. There are three little boys, orphans, who sell tiny wooden figurines that they carved themselves. Each day I clear out their inventory—the apartment is littered with miniature bears, wolves, reindeer, stars, castles, moons, willow trees, sharks, crosses, women cradling babies, farmers wielding sickles—and the youngest two cheer and clap and giggle for me; but the oldest just smiles, his eyes sunken and wet, his lips quivering, as he counts the coins and thanks me in a whisper.

I drift between the marketplace stalls clasping these people’s hands, offering soft murmurs of condolence, drinking them in like the earth soaks up rain. I don’t always enjoy listening to their stories; they are harrowing, and deeply sad, and colored with an ingrained distrust of the Russian government and military, and most of all the man who was once the tsar. I tell them that I am a typist for the British ambassador, and I ask what it is that they want the world to know, what it is that they wish for. They all tell me, more or less, the same things: peace, bread, change, hope. And they say that they want my father dead.

Ben always watches me as I go about this daily ritual, from a distance of course, although not one so great that he could not close it in seconds. I’ve learned in my time with him that there are many different sorts of light to his eyes: fury, of course, and annoyance, but also laughter, compassion, intrigue, gentleness. And there’s a new one too, one that I catch glimpses of but haven’t figured out yet. It’s not quite sadness, but it’s not quite fondness either. Perhaps it is something like loss.

“You really shouldn’t do that,” Ben says when I return to him at last, stuffing my purchases into a knapsack and slinging it over his shoulder. We follow the Neva River back to the apartment, walking with slow meandering strides, in no rush at all. Where we’re staying is on the opposite side of the city from Sir Buchanan’s offices, and although Ben has made several trips to see the ailing ambassador, I never have. There are too many employees who might recognize me from their days meeting with Papa, too many people who might see a young woman the same age as the Romanov daughters disappearing into a government building and start asking questions. “It’s risky. And it’s unnecessary.”

“On the contrary, I find it to be extremely necessary.”

“How’s that?”

“Because they’re my people,” I say simply. “They might not know it, and they might not want to be, but they still are. They always will be. And I think I ought to learn something about them in the event that I can one day use my status to their advantage, don’t you?”

“Whatever happened to assuming your husband’s kingdom and people and religion and whatever else? I thought you were looking forward to discarding the nuisance that is having an autonomous personality.”

“Well, in case you hadn’t noticed, I haven’t acquired a husband quite yet. And in any case, I’ve reconsidered some things. Perhaps a heart can live divided, and there is a piece of me that will always be Russian. That’s a comforting notion. It makes the thought of leaving easier.”

“Have you reconsidered anything else?”

I have no idea what he means. “Like what?”

Ben pivots immediately. “You’ll miss Russia?” He sounds surprised. “Not the palaces or the memories, but the land itself?”

I shrug, kicking at grey pebbles under a grey sky, thinking of Papa teaching my sisters and me how to play football this past summer, making goals out of garden trellises and running us back and forth all afternoon to distract us from the uncertainties of the world beyond our gilded prison. “It’s home.”

Ben shivers beneath his black coat and shakes his head. “It’s a horrible place. Bleak and brutal and cold. And old somehow, older than anywhere I’ve ever been. The centuries pass but the people stay the same. They’re beasts, like Joe always says. Russia is a hideous, gruesome, unforgiving country. It doesn’t suit you at all.”

I peek over at him. “No?”

He lights one of his hand-rolled cigarettes and puffs away at it. “No.”

I flash him an off-kilter, teasing smirk. “Do I perceive the faintest hint of a compliment, Mr. Benjamin Hardy?”

Ben exhales smoke into air that has the biting, metallic taste of impending snow. “You are many things, Your Imperial Highness, but hideous isn’t one of them.”

I try to think of something clever to respond with, but I can’t. I can’t stop myself from beaming either; I hide my face behind my purple wool mittens. Eventually I settle on this: “I love winter.”

“You know, sometimes I forget how inbred the royal families are, but fortunately you’re still here to remind me.”

“It’s a magical time of year!” I object, laughing. “It makes me think of hot chocolate, and carriage rides through the snow, and ice skating on frozen ponds, and Christmas balls…” I realize that Ben would have no such associations, and am abruptly frustrated with myself. I wait for him to say something that will make me feel stupid and sheltered and small. But Ben doesn’t seem to have much venom in him today. He is distracted, almost pensive.

“I don’t like it. I’ve never liked it. It’s a cruel season. It’s like having to watch the whole world die right in front of you.”

“But it always comes back,” I say brightly.

“Sure,” Ben replies. “Some of it. Different versions of it.”

I’m too preoccupied with gazing up at him to keep track of my own feet. I stumble, and Ben grabs my hand and hauls me upright again.

“Watch where you’re going,” Ben snaps. His words are harsh, but his touch is kind; and instead of dropping my mittened hand once I’m steadied, he keeps it in his. And we continue like that all the way home.

Back in the apartment, Joe is pushing open the windows to let the smoke out. There’s some charred monstrosity in a pot on top of the stove, and the sharp almost-winter air has been replaced by suffocatingly potent burned chocolate. Joe begins fanning the pot with an oven mitt, coughing into his sleeve.

“Joe, mate, are you trying to burn the place down or what?”

“I was trying to do something nice!” Joe says. “I thought to myself, it is our last day here, I should make something to commemorate our time together, I should make authentic, delicious chocolate kolbasa, perfecto for showing thankfulness to friends. But no! I’ve suffered a disaster! I will never attempt to bake again. I am cursed. Oh, che brutto.”

“It’s what?” Ben asks me.

“Horrible,” I tell him. “Or ugly, maybe.”

“Well, yeah, I can see that.”

“Beniamino, will you help me with this?” Joe whines. “The chocolate is stuck to the bottom.”

“And whose fault is that?” Ben says, but nevertheless he sets his knapsack down on the kitchen table and goes to examine the pot. “You idiot, you didn’t stir it enough…”

“The only cookbook I had was in Russian!”

“Then you should have waited for me to get back with the Russian person!”

Joe rolls his eyes, hands on his slim hips. “I sincerely apologize for inconveniencing you with my well-intentioned sorpresa.”

“Your attempted arson, you mean?”

“Ben?” I say, and he looks up from the pot he’s elbows-deep in and scrubbing forcefully. There’s something about the flush in his cheeks and the way his hair shags over his eyes that catches the words in my throat, and then I find them again. “I don’t mean to rush you, but when you’re done, could I see my jewels please?”

“Sure,” Ben replies. We came to a truce concerning the Romanov jewels that I smuggled out of Tobolsk and kept hidden until they nearly cost us our lives on the train to Saint Petersburg: I can bring those priceless family heirlooms with me to London, but Ben will be the one to carry them until we get there. The very first purchase I made at the marketplace was a green velvet pouch to keep them in. “In fact, tell you what, why don’t you go in and get them yourself.”

“What, into your room?” I glance at the closed door. It feels invasive somehow to be in there without Ben, pawing through his things, inhaling his cologne, staring at his rumpled sheets. It feels a little too intimate.

“Yeah. They’re under the bed. Just do me a favor and try not to set anything on fire in there.”

“This is abuse!” Joe cries. Ben ignores him and resumes his scrubbing.

Ben’s bedroom is small—much smaller than mine—and dimly-lit, with curtains drawn closed and the overcast sun on the other side of the building. There’s a dresser and a nightstand and an unmade bed only big enough for one. And the room does smell like Ben’s cologne, and there are ghosts of soap and cigarettes and parchment paper too. But it also just smells like him.

Sure enough, when I kneel to peer under the bed I spot the green velvet pouch stowed amidst a nest of luggage. I drag it out, turn on the lamp on the nightstand, and empty the contents of the pouch onto Ben’s unmade bed. I sort through the jewels, making little piles: here are the rubies that Mother pried out of her favorite tiara until her fingertips cracked and bled, here are the diamond earrings that Papa gave me for my fifteenth birthday, here are the amethysts that Queen Victoria gifted Mother on the eve of her wedding, here are the yellow topazes that Alexei always said reminded him of bumblebees, here are the emerald bracelets that glint like pensive green eyes. I do this every day, it’s another part of my ritual. It reminds me of my family, of my purpose, of all the tragic and glorious history that has built me. It makes me feel closer to them, as if I might walk out of this bedroom to find Papa stoking the fireplace and Mother reading on the couch and Alexei wolfing down Russian tea cakes at the kitchen table and Tati asking me if I’d like her to fix my braid.

When I begin to feel less dauntless and more melancholy, I know it’s time to put the jewels away. I carefully place them back in the green velvet pouch and return them to their hiding place under Ben’s bed. And then, just as I’m standing to leave, I spy Ben’s leather-bound notebook on the bed. It’s half-covered by blankets, the pen laying haphazardly beside it and leaving a trail of black ink on the sheets, as if Ben had fallen asleep mid-sentence and let his words tumble right out of those scarred, sturdy hands. The vision makes me smile in the lamp’s amber-sunset light: Ben slipping into whatever he dreams about, all of his edges falling away, lying there vulnerable and young and pure. I wonder if he ever dreams about me. I wonder what he’s written about me. It can’t be too bad, especially not now; we had our growing pains, sure, but now we’re friends. Maybe, sometimes, occasionally, we’re even more than friends. Maybe all those fantasies I’d harbored at the start of our journey hadn’t been so far from the mark after all.

Grinning, conspiratorial, I open Ben’s notebook and flip pages until I show up as a main character. There are a lot of uninteresting logistical details: the roads and railroads, the terrain, the weather, artful descriptions of buildings, strange Russian cultural idiosyncrasies that his readers might be curious about. Of course, he’s clever enough to never write about his true mission in case the notebook was ever to be confiscated; he never mentions the Romanovs, and he never uses my name, real or otherwise. But it’s evident when I enter the picture, because these jagged bursts of commentary start appearing in the margins of the pages, heat-of-the-moment mementos for Ben to include in his future New York Times article, the one that people all over the world will read as they sip their morning coffee, brew their tea, take absentminded bites of their crumb-shedding triangles of burnt toast.

My smile dies as I read further. I turn more pages, devouring them faster and faster, waiting for the words to soften, searching for the point when Ben begins to see me less like an annoyance or an adversary or a burden and more like a friend. I can’t find it; or perhaps it doesn’t exist at all.

What the fuck was she expecting?

She is the epitome of everything wrong with her kind: self-absorbed, self-important, ignorant to the point of cruelty.

Helpless is an understatement; pathetic might work better.

She spent forty minutes brushing her hair this morning. Forty. Fucking. Minutes.

Is she neck-deep in denial, or is she just stupid? Further study is needed.

She’s curiously enthused by the prospect of becoming a broodmare.

She’s going to get me killed.

I can’t fucking stand her.

And if the people want her family dead, well, who could blame them?

I slam the notebook shut and shove it back under the blankets where it came from. And then I stare at the wall: not glaring, not furious, not dazed, just staring, my hands trembling, cold sweat rolling down my spine, trying to force myself not to break down in tears. I’m so goddamn tired of being caught off-guard, of feeling like I’ve lived my entire life miles above the earth in a castle made of clouds. I’m so goddamn tired of crying.

I turn to study my reflection in the mirror hanging over the oak dresser. And I don’t look away until I’ve collected myself, because surely—somewhere beneath my stained skin and unremarkable clothing and marrow-deep despair—there are still the bones built by the ruling houses of Europe, blood that goes back to before the Americas were first penciled into maps, back to when ships could sail past hydras and krakens right off the edge of the world.

“It doesn’t matter what he thinks,” I tell myself in Russian, in a raw whisper. “He can think whatever he wants. He can write whatever he wants. I’m going to London. I’m going to save my family. And then I’m going to be a queen.” I think of David Windsor, the Prince of Wales, and all of his palaces and feasts and gardens and ballrooms, and in my mind I conjure up a victorious smile; but in the mirror, my face doesn’t change at all.

I expect Ben and Joe to immediately see that something is wrong—I rack myself for some sufficiently bland explanation—but they don’t. They’re so engrossed in cleaning up the kitchen and teasing each other that they don’t even notice me. I pour myself a glass of red wine, curl up on Joe’s couch with my nauseous stomach and shivering skin, pretend to read Tarzan of the Apes for the fourth time. Really, I just skim the pages; the words don’t mean anything to me. My skull is full of other words, the words that Ben scrawled in the margins of his notebook, the words he’ll use to convince the world to hate me, the words etched into the chambers of his heart. His body came with no inheritances at all. I wonder what that feels like, what he feels like.

“Hey,” Ben says, rattling me back to the present. “I’m going to check in with Sir Buchanan one last time before we leave tomorrow. You want me to bring back anything?”

“No,” I reply flatly, swigging my wine more than sipping it.

“You sure?”

“Resoundingly.”

Ben furrows his brow at me. Unruly blond curls rest on his forehead. “Okay.”

After a moment’s hesitation, he pulls on his coat and wool hat and heads for the front door of the apartment. I drink my wine the color of blood and stare fixedly at my book that I’m not reading at all and try to appear as regal as possible, untouchable, unattainable, unconcerned with him.

Ben pauses by the door. “You sure you don’t want anything?”

“Not from you.”

Now he’s angry. Now all that dormant fury is kicking up again. “What’s your problem?”

“Go,” I say flippantly, gesturing with my glass. Wine sloshes inside like waves on the ocean. “And while you’re out there in the streets, in the filth, why don’t you make some friends? Be with your own people. Soldiers and peasants and typists and, what, seamstresses? Milkmaids? Whoever you consider sufficiently insignificant to be deserving of compassion. Because they’re so much more human than I am, right? And who knows. Maybe you could even become a real man and convince one of them to fuck you.”

I’ve never said that word aloud before; I couldn’t even describe exactly what such a thing entails. I’m astonished at how easily it spills out. So is Ben. His eyes are glinting with fierce disbelief, but his voice is level. “I don’t know what you have to be so pissed about. You’re the one with the soon-to-be-fiancé or whatever.”

“Don’t talk to me,” I pitch back, cutting and bitter.

“Too good to mingle with the help, huh? Yeah, right, that’s the spirit. Keep practicing for when you’re the Princess of Wales, cruising around the world and nibbling daintily on prime rib so your husband can still brag about your waistline, stomping on the backs of the people who bled to put you there. You selfish fucking bitch.”

I drain my glass and hurl it at the doorframe. It explodes, I suppose, the same way artillery shells do on the Western Front: deafeningly, jarringly, shrapnel flying everywhere. “Get out!”

Ben’s jaw falls open. I’ve shocked him; maybe I’ve even jolted him into remorse. “Look, wait, I didn’t—”

“Get out,” I hiss, turning away, refusing to look at him so he can’t see the tears slithering down my face. And I wait, and I wait, my throat on fire, embers fanned and glowing.

At last I hear the apartment door open and close, and Ben is gone. I look at Joe. He looks at me. He brings me a handkerchief and I take it, and then I unravel like a dying summer, each thread of warmth and golden light pulled one by one into nowhere. I sob into the handkerchief in great breathless heaves, my body shaking. And I want to be anywhere but here, and yet I also don’t; I want to be in the Winter Palace, I want to be in London, I want to stay in this apartment forever, I want to be somewhere where no one knows who I am, I want to make my family proud, I want to be a princess, I want to be a queen, I want Ben to come back through that door and tell me he didn’t mean it.

“I don’t understand why this has to be so hard,” I moan helplessly. The words pour out of me like a river, like blood. “I don’t understand why it’s so painful.”

Joe’s voice is calm and patient as he stands over me with his hands in his pockets, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “You want him and he wants you. But this is an impossibility. And so all that passion curdles to rage.”

I blink up at him through tears. “You’re ridiculous and insane and wrong. Very, very, entirely wrong.”

“Questo è possible,” Joe replies mildly.

But he doesn’t sound like he thinks it’s possible. And then he walks away.

~~~~~~~~~~

It’s dark outside when I claw my way up from uneasy dreams: my eyes sore, my head pounding, my spirits heavy, anchors dropped into the silt of a harbor. The skies must have cleared; the only thing I can see from my window is the stars. I reach for the half-finished glass of red wine that I left on the nightstand and gulp it down, stray droplets spilling down my face, dignity be damned. Mother can’t see me now. Maybe she’ll never see that same girl who left Tobolsk again. Maybe I’m someone else now, someone harsher, someone messier, someone without the single-minded surety that only a child can know.

There are voices out in the living room, hushed but just a little too careless, just an octave too loud. I wipe the wine from my face with the sleeve of my nightgown and rise to see what the commotion is all about.

I open my bedroom door a crack and peer out into the living room. Joe’s back is to me, but I can see that his hands are gesturing wildly; as I watch, one settles on Ben’s shoulder. Ben is breathing heavily, his eyes wide and shining, the blood hectic in his cheeks.

“Shh, shh, Beniamino, please, amico, we will figure this out—”

“You don’t understand,” Ben says, his palm pressed to his own chest. “I can’t tell her that.”

“You can’t tell me what?” I step out of my bedroom, the door hinges creaking like a scream.

They both gape at me; and for a while no one speaks at all. Then—slowly, deliberately, eyes on the floor, dragging his hands through his windswept blond hair—Ben sits down on the couch and nods for me to follow him. This is a tall order; at the moment, I don’t want to follow him anywhere. But reluctantly, as Joe watches us with his mouth pressed into a thin grim line, I acquiesce. Ben sighs deeply and unsteadily, and then—much to my consternation—takes my hands in his. I try to pull them away, but Ben doesn’t let me.

“What—?”

“Something’s happened,” Ben says.

Instantly, I go still. All the fight vanishes from me. “Is it Alexei?”

Ben doesn’t answer. He just holds my hands and stares at me.

“Is he alright? Was there an accident? Did he have another hemorrhage?”

Ben still doesn’t speak, but he shakes his head.

“Is it…is it Papa?” The horror rises in my chest, arches its back, grows talons and fangs. “Oh god, are they going to execute him? Have they harmed him already? Ben? Ben?”

At last, Ben finds his words. “It’s not Alexei, and it’s not your father,” he says, his voice halting and rasping. “It’s…it’s…it’s all of them.”

“All of them?” I don’t understand. I can’t understand. “What do you mean all of them?”

And then Ben tells me. His words don’t make any sense. They’re in a language I’ve known for years, a language I can speak fluently, a language I routinely dream in. And yet still, even in the midst of all these mortal truths, I can’t comprehend them. His words flit in and out of my hearing, untethered and meaningless. But I can see everything: my family being dragged out of bed in the middle of the night, corralled into the bare and drafty basement, positioned against the far wall like a man sentenced to death by firing squad, gutted with bullets and butchered with bayonets, their ragdoll bodies disposed of in some dark and nameless place—thrown down a mineshaft, sunk into an ice-flecked lake, buried in an unmarked grave—leaving only reports too vivid and too terrible to be lies. I can see the bottomless hatred in the guards’ eyes. I can see Papa reaching out to shield Alexei as gunfire fills the room. I can see my sisters clutching each other so tightly that their fingernails pierce the skin.

I open my mouth to scream, to start screaming and never stop. But that’s not what comes out. “I suppose this feels like a great triumph for you.”

“What?” Ben asks, bewildered, leaning in.

I rip my hands out of his. “You never cared about them and you sure as hell don’t care about me.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I remember everything you said. And everything you wrote.”

It takes a second, but it hits him. The memory of what he’s penned in his notebook ripples across his eyes, green like the emeralds that once belonged to my mother. I wonder if they cut the jewels out of her dress before they dumped her body somewhere I’ll never be able to find. Then Ben says my name—not Lana, not the one typed on my fraudulent passport, not the name he gave me, but my real name—and he says it so smoothly and so easily that it’s clear it has never left his mind, like it’s been balancing treacherously on his lips all along. “I didn’t want this to happen.”

“But you understand why it did.”

“It’s my job to understand,” he says, his eyes pleading.

“No, it was your job to save us,” I spit at him, lurching to my feet. The floor seems to rock beneath me; there’s a hum roaring in my ears. I’ve never lived in a world where my parents don’t exist. It doesn’t feel real, and yet it burns like I’m dying, it burns fucking everywhere. How is that possible?

Ben is reaching for me. Ben is trying to apologize. Ben is telling me that this doesn’t change our plans to leave Saint Petersburg tomorrow, that he has to get me out of this country, that I’ll be safe in London. He’s swearing that he didn’t believe it would end this way. He’s swearing that he’s not going to let anything happen to me.

I don’t care what Ben says. His promises are worthless. He’s a liar, and he’s a traitor, and he’s hateful, and he might as well have loosed the bullets himself, and I tell him all of this.

And then I go back to my bedroom and lock the door and scream into the blankets until my throat bleeds.

#ben hardy x reader #ben hardy fic #borhap cast fic

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professorrw · 3 years

Text

All I Want, Remus Lupin Fanfiction

Chapter Three

Warnings: eventual smut, death, violence, swearing, age gap, slight angst, major spoilers for Deathly Hallows

AN: Comment if you’d like to be tagged in future parts! If you enjoyed this, please like, comment, and reblog!

When you woke up the next morning it was still dark out. You didn't want to wake up Ginny so you carefully gathered your belongings and left the room. Going downstairs you saw Lupin sitting at the kitchen table. He lazily greeted you as you sat down and continued to drink what you assumed was coffee.

Mrs. Weasley handed you a plate of eggs and bacon. You could tell she didn't get much sleep from the rings under her eyes. You ate your food silently and Remus continued to sip out of his mug and watch you.

Once you had finished eating Remus sat his cup down, "Well I guess we'll be off then." You nodded your head. Mrs. Weasley hugged you one last time. "You two be careful now," she ordered. "We will Mrs. Weasley, I promise," you reassured her. You picked up your suitcase and headed towards the front door, Lupin trailing behind you.

Once you had gone a few steps past the door Lupin held out his hand. You took it, shuddering slightly. You noticed how warm his palms were and how long his fingers were too. He squeezed your hand and smiled encouragingly. With a CRACK, you were gone. You opened your eyes to see that you were standing in front of a small but winsome home. You followed Remus inside and put your luggage next to the door. It was indeed cozy, there was a conjoined living room and kitchen with one door leading off it.

"It is not much but we will be safe. I will sleep on the couch and you can sleep in the bed if you'd like. The bedroom is through there," he pointed at the door on the right wall, "and the bathroom connects to the bedroom." You turned from the door to him, "I like it. It reminds me of you."

"Small and shabby?" he chuckled. You felt heat rising to your face, "No! No. It's cute and... warm." Lupin's eyebrows raised, "Oh. Well... thank you." You nodded, looking at the floor. "You're welcome," you murmured. You both stood there, rocking on the balls of your feet. You picked up your suitcase and went to the bedroom, "I'm going to take a bath if you don't mind."

"Of course, go ahead," he coughed. You walked over to the other room and set your things down on the bed. You didn't have much with you so you pulled out a sweater and jeans and headed to the bathroom. Inside there was a bathtub and a single sink.

You were looking around for soap when there was a knock on the bathroom door. "Here I meant to give you this. To wash with," Lupin said. He held out his hands which held two bottles. You took them and said thank you. You quickly bathed and put on your clothes, heading back to the bedroom to unpack. The only possessions you had with you were your wand, three sets of clothes, one of which you had on, your toothbrush, toothpaste, wizard chess, and the chocolate Mrs. Weasley had given you the previous night. You pulled out the container and brought it to the living room.

You noticed Lupin had also unpacked, leaving a stack of books laying on a table and some folded clothes set on the chair next to the couch. "Do you want some?" you asked, holding out the container. "Yes. Here," he patted a spot on the couch next to him, "We can share." You smiled and sat down, putting the dish between you. After a few bites you looked over to the stack on the table, "What books did you bring?"

"Muggle books. I picked these up a while ago. They're quite intriguing actually," he whispered. You laughed at the thought of him bringing along a pile of Muggle books in his suitcase. Lupin seemed like he read serious books about magic and potions. Obviously you were wrong in assuming that. "What?" he asked, looking slightly offended. "You're quite intriguing Remus," you giggled. He leaned back and seemed to consider you for a moment, "In a good way I hope?" You nodded and continued to giggle.

He smiled, and you noticed the wrinkles on the corners of his eyes as he did so. You always felt comfortable around Remus, he was making you feel better even though he didn't know it. You had been trying not to acknowledge the fact that your parents were dead and everyone around you respected that. You felt alone, even though you were surrounded by people. And little by little you were starting to feel like everything would be okay.

You noticed Lupin's eyes trailing all over your face, taking you all in. His eyes met yours once more and you smirked. He coughed and looked back at his books, picking one up. "You see, this one is about vampires. I found that it isn't very accurate but it's interesting to know what Muggles think." He flipped through the pages, not really paying them any attention.

He had fully turned towards you at this point and his knee rested against yours. He didn't seem to notice and if he did he must not have minded. You kept your knee right where it was and continued to look at Remus. He closed the book and set it down on the top of his pile.

"I put a few protective charms around the house so no one should see it or be able to hear anything," he remarked. "That was a good idea," you said, eyes drifting all around the room. You both sat there looking around, not knowing what to say next. You were going to be alone together for who knows how long. That thought made you smile, knowing that you would be spending a lot of time with Remus.

You remembered what you had brought along with you and piped up, "I have wizards chess! Would you like to play?"

"Oh yes, I love wizards chess. Although I'm not very good," he chuckled.

"That's alright I'm not good at it either," you said as you went to your room. You picked up your board and baggie full of pieces and returned to the living room/kitchen. You noticed that Remus had taken off his traveling cloak and was wearing a grey wool sweater. You sat in the same spot you were before, turning sideways and crisscrossing your legs. Remus did the same, although his legs took up much more space than yours.

You put the board between you and handed Remus his pieces while putting yours in their rightful places. You played for about twenty minutes before Lupin had beat you. He looked up through his hair and smiled, "I win." You sighed in defeat, "It seems that you have." You turned your body forwards and leaned your head against the back of the couch. You looked over at Lupin and noticed him looking at you. "What is it?" you asked.

He shook his head, "Nothing. Just reveling in my victory." He laughed and got up. He walked to the kitchen and started shuffling through the cabinets. He pulled out different things and began to put them together. You stayed on the couch watching him. He glanced up at you and continued to work. After a minute he brought over two plates, handing one to you. He had made you both sandwiches. You thanked him and began to eat.

He finished before you and said, "There aren't many things to cook with here. I'll have to go and buy some things from a store around here." You nodded in agreement and finished your food. "Where is the nearest store? How close are we to anyone else?" you questioned.

"Well we're about fifteen miles away from another house and nearly twenty away from a store," Remus answered. You realized how completely isolated you and Remus were from anyone else. The likeliness of anyone finding you were slim to none. You let out a small breath and moved your head in acknowledgement.

Remus stood, taking your plate and moving it to the kitchen. He came back and sat down. You saw his eyelids droop slightly. "Are you tired?" you inquired. "Well, yes a little. But I'll be fine," he told you. "If you're sure," you said doubtfully. You picked up your chess things and returned them to your room. You closed your suitcase and slid it under the bed. You sat down for a moment, really taking in the room. The bed was soft with fluffy pillows, the walls were lined with bookshelves on one wall, and there was a desk on the wall opposite that one.

You sat on the bed for a couple minutes before deciding to return to Remus. When you walked in you saw that he was asleep, sitting up on the couch. You didn't want to wake him so you returned to your room and took a cover off the bed. Quietly going back to the living room you stood next to Remus and draped the blanket over him. You heard him breath in suddenly and you froze. He started breathing normally again and you tiptoed back to your bed. You laid down and quickly fell asleep not realizing how drained you were.

Taglist: @bellamy1998 @sxsalvatore @ottjord

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psalloacappella · 3 years

Text

la fuga - pt 2

Pairings: SasuSaku Fandom: Naruto Rating: M Genre/Tags: AU; partners in crime; timed writing Ao3 | twt

“My name,” she hisses. Pinprick tears burn her eyelids. Shame. Nostalgia. “You can’t mess that up, Sasuke. We’re not them anymore. It’s dangerous.”

❦

It’s a passing thought, one which Sakura muses on and releases easily, as a firefly: Brunette does nothing for her skin, but improves the art of camouflage.

No one looks twice at a young woman deboarding with forgettable, unfashionable luggage.

She’s adept at this now, heart hardened against guilt and casual friendliness and certainly prying questions.

The pilots and crew incline their heads, all small smiles.

She nods back with one of her own, guileless, an expression thin as paper crêpe.

Heels, wheels, terminal tile: Click clack and roll. The song of her shoes and suitcase, a trumpeting announcement to the rest of the world, Arrest me!

The nightmares less frequent now, once a week or so. She’s graduated from shivering in the bathtub clutching a knife to accepting whispered comforts, cradled in bed.

Sasuke’s made it past the worst as well, at least she thinks. Inculcated to their trauma — to the murder of their now-buried third piece, severed from their troika — the 3-headed dog mangling one of its own.

Given that, his occasional terrors don’t surprise her much.

(Is this what a prophecy really means? The self-fulfilling weaknesses of humans? Lest gods and tongues move their dumb hands bereft of permission — they fall headlong into fate? She can’t think about it too often. The whispers drag as silk on stone, ruinous.)

“Ah, Sakura.”

And there he is.

All leather jacket, dark glasses, languid pose. She’s pissed; at the way he’s always more at ease, the way he fucks up using her name in a public place. Not that anyone likely hears, in the bustle of baggage claim near which they never linger because you never check the bag. Rule one.

“Darling.” It comes as a hiss, skitters through bared teeth at his brazenness. That idiot. Sap! More betrothed to her than the fortune she’s carrying that could land them in the nation’s highest prisons.

Indeed she thinks he forgets, until he pats her stomach bulge gently. Runs fingers through her hair.

“How was the flight?” Takes her suitcase easily, a flick of the wrist. Offers his arm which she readily accepts — she feels weighty, anxious.

“Nothing exciting. Bad coffee.”

Sasuke smirks, hand moving to the small of her back to steer clear of a uniform on their left.

“Poor thing,” he murmurs, nodding at the guard, whose eyes slide over them, a handsome man picking up his pretty expectant wife, on to surveying for more obvious violations.

As though they hadn’t just passed.

To the curb, to the car. Sakura sighs audibly once off her feet.

He’s driving comfortably with one hand, startling when she collapses their silence as an unanticipated thunderclap. Scathing, splits a chasm in the air between them.

“You can’t fuck up like that!”

True to form, she gets nothing back but a slight frown.

“What do you mean?”

“My name,” she hisses. Pinprick tears burn her eyelids. Shame. Nostalgia. “You can’t mess that up, Sasuke. We’re not them anymore. It’s dangerous.”

For a moment he might speak, raise his voice even, but instead something sweeps through him; momentary shaking, a last leaf on a bare branch. Then he grips the wheel as answer, mouth set in a grim line.

“You’re right.” His voice cuts deep, a slice thin but cleaving into the dark reaches of her chest. Leaves an ache.

Like another, when he repeats, “You’re right.”

Softer now, like he’s emerging from a glossy reverie, perhaps the glimmering edges of their chaotic but blessed past.

Holding hands now, over the center console, silent on an endless highway.

Under bright bulbs that blind, reminiscent of interrogation rooms and doctor’s offices, she sheds each layer in front of him and slips a finger under the tape. Winces.

“Let me,” Sasuke offers.

Her reflection in the mirror is inscrutable, incoherent, another fabricated layer, a carbon film of something else of something else, on and on. The tape holding the weight to her body and the smooth-packed bricks of white powder will surely take her skin off.

“Oil,” he mutters. “Or alcohol.”

But without waiting she tears the tape off with a sharp cry, unable to stand it any longer.

“Hey!”

“Get it off.” She tosses a brick at him. “Don’t be so gentle.”

But he doesn’t listen well — never has. Grips her tenderly by her wig hair to pull her close, kiss her temple.

“And I said . . . let me.”

As he soaks the tape edges bit by bit, peels away the trafficked prize, she wishes she could be reborn, returned to normal. Instead its like moulting, plumage coming undone and nothing growing to replace it.

“Next time, I’ll do it.”

Like déjà vu.

“You say it every time,” Sakura sighs. “But I’m just less likely to be caught.”

Frowning at her body, a marked and tender canvas finally freed of its drug burden. Flattened bags of white stacked on the sink counter. Curling tendrils of spent tape flecked with skin.

“Bath?”

And she always says yes — the one luxury she permits in their tense life, bereft of luscious soaps or perfumes but at least she’s clean.

On the outside, of course.

Sasuke’d be lying if he said he didn’t obsessively scrub himself too, alone, as atonement, as desperate ritual.

Tonight, she spends hours in the scalding water, sweat disguising tears. Burns, seeps into those sensitive scrapes, looking for a way in to cleanse the soul.

Sasuke takes up his usual post, sitting facing the hotel door, gun laid across his knees. Bites his lips at her subdued, sad sounds.

“Hold on for me,” he says to himself. To her. To no one. To gods and godless listening. “A few more jobs to go.” Eyes flickering to the cotton candy sunset.

That’s what they keep hearing, anyway. What they’re told.

He dares any divinity to breach his door.

“Just . . . a few more jobs to go.”

#psalloacappella #sasusaku #sasusaku fanfic #timed writing

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gingerwritess · 5 years

Note

i just reread the library fic and wow i need another fic set in asgard !! i just love the idea of loki being completely in his element and dressing in his traditional royal clothes and being a prince and all that :))

oh this is so long but OH I LOVE IT SO

ok we’ve got some…prince Loki, fiance Loki, BLUSHING LOKI, and mentions of drinking and bars (and very little proofing) ok enjoy!!

― ― ― ―

You’ve yet to fully grasp the fact that you and Jane Foster are making Asgardian history.

Just think of the scandal of it all: the princes of the realm of the gods, probably the most wanted husbands in all the realms, who’ve been in many a wanting eye through their years…

And they both picked humans.

Migardians, from the “gods are sent here when they’re grounded” realm, the universe’s middle child—the one the gods until recently didn’t mind to just ignore.

You’re sure the All-parents are thrilled. Between the first time you met Odin through now, his smiles remain strained, and you can’t exactly miss the multitude of pointed, stern looks that Queen Frigga throws his way.

All that aside, it’s still you, the mortal, who’s lounging in her own private bathing chambers of the palace, an old book reading “Courtship: Aesir Tradition” in hand.

The room is bigger than should be considered appropriate, the tub itself rivaling even the nicest swimming pools you’ve ever seen. Rows upon rows of faucets fill the in-ground tub with streams of water that the chambermaid had informed you will hold their temperature over time, and the sweet-smelling bubbles that lay atop the water float through the air to fill the entire chamber with the scent of dark roses and enchantment.

A bubble bath in the land of the gods. One doesn’t exactly say no.

Choosing which soap to use may have been the biggest struggle you’ve had to date—one of the ornate mirrors on the stone walls had opened to reveal probably a hundred differently coloured glass vials, each with a small rune scratched into the front.

The first vial you’d uncorked smelled distinctly like burnt marshmallows, and you’d quickly tucked it back onto the shelf.

Sickeningly sugary, it might not be the best idea to tempt Loki’s ridiculous sweet tooth with yourself during your stay.

Frosted evergreens, heavy, sweet vanilla, the coconut waves on a beach, a musky, leathery scent and you’re left swooning, wrapped in a towel as the tub fills behind you.

One vial, one left uncorked, you lift it to your nose and grin to yourself—that’s the one Loki must use.

Probably best that you don’t use the same, otherwise you’ll be smelling like Loki smothered you in some corner and followed you to bed, which might not be the best rumor to spread, given the dirty looks you’re already getting when the ring glints off your hand.

You settle on a small red vial. It smells like jasmine in the rain and compliments the dark, musky, sweet scent of your royal fiance perfectly.

It turns the water a rosy colour when you pour it in, the sweet scent filling the entire chamber, and you lower yourself into the warm water and break back into your book.

Per ancient tradition, gifts are typically shared between the two to be wed. A small knife or dagger is to be expected, and—

The heavy door bangs open and you shriek, nearly dropping the book in the water.

Loki gasps, coupled with your own shout at him to “avert your eyes, your majesty!” and he claps both hands over his face, spinning on his heel to turn his back to you.

“Why don’t you knock?!”

“I didn’t think you’d be bathing!”

“And what else would I be doing in here, dipshit??”

Loki’s shoulders dip. Oh, he’s laughing.

“Did you really just tell me to ‘avert my eyes?’”

You chuck the book at him, but it falls flat before it hits him. “Shut up, idiot.”

Taking a couple backwards steps towards you and the tub, he bends to pick up the book, turning it over with a low hum.

“Courtship? Do you intend to court someone, m’lady?”

“I do indeed,” you reply, resting your elbows on the edge of the bath and staring at his back. “There’s this one prince I just can’t get out of my head.”

“Annoying sort of fellow?”

“The worst. He’s nosy, too, and a little perverted, he likes to barge in on people while they bathe.”

“Sounds like a charmer to me,” Loki says, and you can hear his grin. “You should court him to the day he dies. And maybe…allow him the honour of turning around?”

“Get out,” you laugh, splashing water at his booted feet. “Why are you even in here this late? I distinctly recall, your majesty, our curfew for being seen together is precisely midnight.”

“Ah, yes…yet both of us are still awake.” Still turned away from you, Loki lowers himself to the ground at the edge of the bath, crossing his legs under him and flipping through the book. “And we’re together. Positively scandalising.”

You scoop up a handful of bubbles and smear it over his hair. “Seriously, Loki. What are you doing in here? Couldn’t sleep?”

“I have a plan,” he answers, leaning back on his hands with a sigh. “A grand, evil plan for the two of us irresponsible lovebirds to get into some trouble.”

“Oh?”

“Mhm. Have you ever tried Asgardian ale, darling?”

You suppress a shudder. “That’s not what they served at dinner, was it?”

“No, no.” His head turns ever-so-slightly to the side - the curl of his lips is visible, and you sink lower in the water to stay covered. “That was clearly boar’s blood, sweetling.”

You smack him upside the head.

“Kidding,” he laughs, reaching behind him to grab your wrist. “I’m joking. That was Alderblóm nectar. Not to your liking?”

“It was sour,” you huff, trying to no avail to tug your hand from his grip.

“The trick is to have only a few drops of it in a flagon of liquor,” Loki nonchalantly says, absently twirling your ring around your ring finger. “Drown it in a sweet alcohol and it tastes much, much better.”

“I’ll keep it in mind. Now let me go, please, and get your royal butt out of here so I can finish my bath.”

“But you haven’t heard my proposition.”

“And what might that be?” Your head drops to your free arm, resting on the edge of the bath.

“You finish your bath,” he hums, reaching behind him with his other hand to try and find you again, but you duck away with a laugh. “With my assistance, should you request it, then I whisk you off on a forbidden adventure that I’m certain most of Asgard would deem inappropriate.”

“Coming from you, that sounds like a terrible idea.”

Loki laughs, hand still searching. “It is, I can promise you that.”

You grab his wrist, pressing a kiss to the cool skin there. “You better watch it, your majesty. Keep your devilish hands to yourself.”

“Mm…no, I don’t think I’ll be able to.”

“Gonna have to. I’m following the rules, sunshine, if I’m going to be an honorary princess of this realm, I have a lot of impressing to do–”

“Queen,” Loki butts in. “Princess of Asgard, yes, but practically Queen of Jotunheim.”

“Damn, I did good.”

His head falls back with a laugh. “As did I. Somehow. Now, will you come with me?”

Back still turned, he lifts your hand to his lips, placing the first soft kiss to your knuckles and another over your ring.

“You’re really hard to say no to,” you sigh, leaning your head against his back. “I’ll go, but you’re going to teach me the rest of what I’ll be missing in my book, okay?”

An excited grin lighting his face, Loki picks up your book with a playful scoff.

“Courtship? Easy,” he declares, pulling himself to his feet and snapping the book closed. “Hold hands. Speak kindly. Respect and support each other, and…oh, I’ve forgotten one.”

“I read something about a dagger–”

“Mm, yes, the royal tying of the tongues.”

Even facing away from you, he can feel your unamused eyebrow shoot into the air.

“It’s…ceremonial. Can’t get around it. I’ll have to demonstrate—”

“Get out,” you groan, an undeniable warmth spreading through your chest when he laughs. “Get out of here before I change my mind, idiot, I’ll be right out.”

He sulks to the door, resting his forehead against it for a moment with a dramatic sigh. “I’m only a shout away,” he reminds you. “Just outside this door, all by my lonesome, feeling oh-so unloved…”

“I’ll be right out, Loki.”

— — — —

He’s lounging on your bed when you walk out, a softer-than-silk robe wrapped tight around you, and his scalding gaze tracks your every move as you fish your pjs out of your suitcase.

“I’m not wearing anything fancy,” you tell him, spinning a finger at him to turn around. “I was planning on sleeping, but alas.”

“Duty calls, hm?” He obliges you, back turned so you can change. “That’s quite alright. Where we are going…it’s not exactly high-end.”

“And where are we going?”

“Firstly, the stables. Quietly.”

Once you’re ready, he pokes his head out the door, giving the hallway a quick check before ushering you out of the room.

A giddy Loki is definitely a rare sight, but here he is, grinning to himself and holding onto your hand tightly as you sneak down hallways and duck into hidden outcroppings whenever a guard clanks by.

These two, their golden helmets gleaming in the candlelight, glide past the two of you as you hold your breath, pressing yourself to the wall.

“Can’t they see us?” You whisper, sure that if the turned their heads in the slightest, the two of you would be caught. “We’re just standing here, can’t they—”

Loki brings a finger to his lips, then beckons you towards him around another corner.

A quiet step and your other foot touches down, soft and slippered, and you bolt into Loki’s arms with a giggled sigh of relief.

“To all eyes but mine, right now, you are concealed,” he explains, arm sliding around your waist. “You’re marrying a master sorcerer, darling, lest you forget that our sneaking is just beginning—”

Feet practically screeching to a stop, you clap a hand over his mouth.

Look.

Loki follows your finger, eyes widening when his gaze falls on his mother, lounging gracefully along a sofa, head on her hand and nose buried in a book.

Not a sound, not a single sound, Loki mouths, grip tightening on your hand as he inches along the furthest wall.

You’ve never seen Loki looks so…not exactly scared, but cautious. Like he knows someone has more power than him.

But with the grip he has on your hand, his focused, anxious gaze, and constant shushing, you have to bite back a giggle—it’s not like Frigga can ground him anymore, right?

“You’ll need a cloak, dear.”

Loki freezes. You run into his back with a thud, still trying to smother your laughter.

“G-good evening, Allmother.”

She doesn’t even bother to look up from her book, a playful smile on her lips. “Don’t pass the throne room until you’ve strengthened your charm, Loki. Odin is still awake.”

“Are you going to tell?”

It’s a child’s question, nervous and defeated, and you fall head over heels for the innocent twinkle in Loki’s eye.

“Tell what?” She smiles, winks. “I’ve seen nothing.”

The queen waves a hand towards the two of you, and a thick cloak of dark green floats down around your shoulders, fastening itself under your chin with a golden leaf.

“Oh, thank you,” you quickly blurt, awestruck. “Thank you, your majesty!”

“We’ll leave you be,” Loki says, grabbing your hand again—this time with an excited little grin and a mischievous spark lighting his eye. “Thank you, Frigga.”

When she does look up from her book, she smiles kindly at the two of you with a nod, and Loki bows his head ever-so-slightly.

“Mother.”

You suppose it would be inappropriate to yank him into a smothering kiss right now.

But you do, the moment you’ve run through the palace gates and into the dark stables, grabbing his wrist and crashing into the kiss, chest to chest and already out of breath.

His eyes are slow to flutter open when you pull away, the hand behind his neck not letting him get much further away from your lips than needed to kiss you again.

“What was that for?”

“Everything,” you whisper, lips brushing over his. “I’m proud of you.”

He just laughs, awkward and adorable as ever.

“Let’s leave, before the guards come looking.”

The ride on horseback seems ridiculously short, with how fast the horse moves, leaving you scrambling to hold tight to Loki’s waist.

It’s begun to rain, drops whipping past you as the two of you fly through a lush grove of trees, straight through a shallow river that stains the hem of your cloak; your cheek pressed firmly between his shoulder blades, only a bridge stands between you and a smaller city. Smaller, but just as beautiful as that of the palace.

Thankfully, the horse slows as the lights come into view, slowing to a cheerful trot. Even as late as it is, this little town is still bustling with life, and Loki gives a small wave to a bundled-up child staring as your horse trots by.

“This place is cozy,” you remark, finally able to loosen your grip on him—but only a little.

“I haven’t been here in years.” He guides the horse down a narrow street, bright, flickering lanterns lighting the way. “This was the stomping ground for Thor and I when we needed to get away from the royalty of the palace. The city never sleeps, and they’ve always respected a person’s secrets.”

“Secrets?”

“Well, Asgardian sixteen year olds weren’t technically supposed to be drinking yet. Much less if they are princes.”

“You little rebel,” you laugh, and hug him tighter around the waist. “Always one to break the rules.”

“Not breaking the rules,” he corrects with a chuckle, bringing the horse to a stop. “Just bending them.“

With that, he slides off the horse’s back and reaches for you, helping you down to the ground, mud splashing onto your ankles when your feet touch down.

“Hopefully, no one will recognise us.” Loki draws the hood of his cloak over his head, and you quickly follow suit.

“Is it a problem if they do?” You ask, not quite liking the concern in his voice.

“Perhaps,” he answers gravely, then turns to you with a bright smile. “But no matter. I won’t let anything come even close to harming you.”

Then he marches towards the door of a small, run-down pub, hand intertwined with yours, leaving you sputtering after him.

“H-HARM ME?? Loki! Loki, what are you—what’s going to harm me??”

The wooden door to the pub conveniently crashes open right in time with a roll of thunder, and the entire rowdy pub screeches to a silent halt.

All staring at the two of you in the doorway.

“Well, as I live and breathe,” the bartender gasps. “Loki.”

“Damn.”

The pub, cozy and crowded, bursts into an uproar.

“What the hell is this?” You shriek, ducking behind Loki as a glass crashes to the floor.

“They recognised us,” Loki replies. “And that’s our cue to leave.”

He ducks under another glass and ushers you to the door, wincing as a plate shatters against the wall, but the bartender, a burly, hulking, trunk of a man, steps in front of the door.

“Loki Odinson,” the man tuts, crossing his arms. “What would a prince like you be doin’ in a place like this?”

Loki’s grip on your hand tightens. A knuckle pops.

“Bjarke!” He feigns sudden glee, reaching up to clap the man on the arm. “So lovely to see you again. We’ve just come for a drink, my good man, could you serve the royal family once more?”

“I don’t have t’ serve you nothin’.”

“We are, ah, naught but travellers,” Loki laughs, voice smooth and calm—but the grip he has on your hand tells you otherwise. “Treat us as nothing else, nothing more than any other traveller with a thirst to quench.”

A compelling argument, you’re sure, with the two of you in gold-adorned cloaks—and your worn-down pjs, which you’re sure scream nothing short of “entitled midgardian.”

“Ah, is that what y’ are?” The great lumbering man sneers, moustache curled. “Not here t’ complain any longer, are you?” He spreads his arms, casting a slow look around the crowded, silent pub. “The prissy prince has returned, folks. Get ‘im a napkin for his royal buttocks before he has us all beheaded.”

Raucous laughter goes about the dim room, and you tug on Loki’s arm. “Let’s just go,” you murmur. “We can just get something from the kitchens. It’s not worth it.”

In a perfect world, you’d like to think he considered it, at least for half a moment, but his jaw clenches and brow furrows and you know it’s a lost cause.

“Don’t tell me you’re still going on about that one little hiccup, Bjarke.” Voice dropping, Loki takes a step towards the man blocking the door—dragging you along with him, keenly aware of the knife in the cutting board behind him and the glass mug in his hand.

“Oh, I am,” Bjarke sneers, meeting Loki’s advances with his own until they’re nearly chest to chest. “Y’really screwed me over, for a good long time of this business’s life.”

There’s a few scattered nods and murmurs of agreement, and you’re left mind reeling with ideas of just how badly Loki could’ve offended this little pub.

“Look,” Loki tries again, this time thankfully raising his hands. “My fiancé and I only came for a drink and to be unbothered for one night, can’t we move past this—”

“Fiancé!” The man roars, banging his fist against one of the support beams above him. “The ‘lil Loki has himself a fiancé, doe’n’he? Well, I’m just glad this time he brought his own whore—”

“That’s quite enough, Bjarke,” Loki cries, and you gape at him in surprise—he sounds desperate. “Please!”

“Loki, my boy, Loki,” he chortles, wrapping one giant arm around Loki’s shoulders and the other around yours. “We kidd. All is forgiven, my boy, you and yours’re welcome ‘ere, anytime.”

Loki lets out a quiet sigh of relief, sagging slightly under the weight of Bjarke’s arm. It might be the lighting in the little pub, but you’re pretty sure he’s flushed deep red, too.

Leaving you immensely confused, but glad nonetheless that the hurled dishes have ceased.

“Thank you,” he says earnestly, reaching around the big man to give your arm a reassuring squeeze. “I do apologise for that whole…debacle. Though I don’t regret it; this place reeked.”

“What was the debacle?” You ask, fighting to peek around Bjarke’s bulging beer-belly to see your lover in question. “And can we, um, grab a table or something? Not that I don’t love your armpits, Bjarke.”

He lets out a burst of hearty laughter, letting the two of you go and pushing you towards the bar top. “I like you,” he announces loudly, resuming his place behind the bar as the rest of the little pub thankfully goes back to their drinks. “You’re good for this kid, but I dunno if ‘e’s good for you, bringin’ you t’ places like mine.”

“This is much better than the palace,” you admit, eyes widening when he sets a mug of something down in front of you—it’s about the length of your forearm and smells like a fireplace—slightly concerning. “Well, I mean, they’re both nice, but I can only look at so many shades of green before I go colourblind, y’know?”

“We’ve eaten nearly four cakes a day,” Loki adds, eagerly accepting his own drink. “I need something salty, something spiced, anything but sugar and icing, even just for one night.”

It’s true, and even as shocked as you were to watch Loki, the king of sweet-teeth, turn down his fifth sample of wedding cake, you can’t blame him. This whole “wedding” ordeal is turning into a much bigger deal than you expected.But then again, you seem to keep forgetting that one, you’re marrying a god, and two, he’s royalty.

He talks to Bjarke with ease, smiling and laughing and drinking his drink as they exchange tales, looking every bit the young prince that was beaten out of him.

Lifting the mug to your lips, your other hand slips inconspicuously to his thigh, squeezing lightly.

Then you spew your drink across the bar.

“What the hell—what is that, fire?!”

Loki nearly leaps out of his seat, lips involuntarily turning up as you retch, grabbing the nearest cup of water and gulping it down.

“Are you alright?” He asks gently, waving the cackling Bjarke away. “I’m so sorry, I should’ve warned you, it tastes like fire, feels like it, too…”

“No shit,” you laugh, trying to catch your breath. “Hi, yeah, mortal here, I’ll take something that won’t melt my fragile insides, please.”

“Sorry, menskr. Here, try this.” Still fighting back his laughter, Bjarke hands you a much smaller glass, this liquid a sparkling clear. “I give this to my young ‘uns, might ease you into the finer liquors.”

“What was that other one?” You ask, giving this drink a tentative sip. “Ooh, much better.”

“The fire one was mjoðr,” Loki answers, scooting a bit closer to you with the remnants of his own laughter on his face. “Or as most Asgardians call it, Odin’s milk, óðins-mjoðr.”

“Oath-mah-joether.”

Loki looks pained.

“An age-old Asgardian, with pronunciation like that,” Bjarke retorts with a chuckle. “She’s a wise one, Ormstunga, keep ‘er close.”

“Ormstunga? What’s that mean?”

“Serpent tongue.” Loki winks. “Your kind has named me silvertongue, but here, it’s slightly different.”

“I don’t think I want to know how you got that reputation,” you decide, gulping down more of your drink—liquid diamonds, hitting your tongue, and you quickly request a refill.

Bjarke readily complies, handing Loki a second giant mug as well. “Oh, I could tell you,” he snickers, and out of the corner of your eye, you catch Loki pale.

“That’s really not necessary, my friend.”

“Oh, it really is,” you butt in, eagerly scooting closer.

Old stories of a young, rebellious Prince Loki?

You’ll stay all night, if you have to.

“Let’s see, ‘e would’ve been just around eight-hundred,” Bjarke starts, scratching at his chin. “Sorry, ‘bout sixteen for you mortal folk. Thor ‘n his pals, they brought Loki ‘ere, wanted to commemorate his becomin’ a man, y’know?”

“We really don’t need to be repeating this story,” Loki tries again, taking your hand in his and trying to tug you away from the bar—you stay firmly planted, tugging him right back into his seat with a grin.

“Not a chance, love.”

“Anyways,” Bjarke continues, his own grin growing by the second. “They practically drowned the poor boy, I still dunno how he stomached so much alcohol, but by the end of the night, he’d become a serpent, a bilgesnipe, some kinda bird I ain’t ever seen, a woman, even, then a little boy—he couldn’t pick who t’ be, ‘e was so hammered!”

Loki grimaces, head dropping to his hands with a sigh.

“Don’t stop there,” you beg, throwing an arm around Loki and planting a loud kiss on his cheek.

“Well, I fed ‘im some bread ‘n Loki managed to get back to this form, but ‘is brother ‘n their friends wanted to set ‘im up with a lady, by that point. Fandral, that bastard, tried to hire one o’ the locals, but Ormstunga over here convinced them that he couldn’t do more than kiss a gal, much less bed ‘er—”

“Oh,” you say, realisation slapping you across the face. “Yeah, maybe I don’t want to hear this.”

“I tried to warn you,” Loki mutters, face in his hands, positively mortified.

“No, it’s not that bad, I promise!” Bjarke bursts out laughing again, clapping Loki on the shoulder—Loki still doesn’t lift his burning face, though. “Nah, the lady agreed, o’course, who doesn’t wanna kiss a prince, ‘n Loki, barely able to pull himself off the bar—oh, did I mention? He climbed onto the bar top, fell asleep for a good while. I didn’t bother ‘im, the poor lad.”

“Thank you for that,” Loki cuts in, voice muffled in his arms.

“Ah, my pleasure. So ‘e lifts ‘imself off the bar, leans in t’ kiss this random gal, all ‘is friends hollarin’ up a storm, and ‘e does it. Lip-locked ‘n pretending to be the suave ‘lil bugger ‘e wanted t’ be.”

Your heart twists helplessly, just at the mere mention. You know it’s nothing of any importance, and yeah, it happened a few centuries ago, but still…hearing every grimy detail, you could do without.

“So Loki kissed some girl,” you say, trying to keep your voice loft and carefree. “What’s so bad about that?”

Loki just shakes his head on the bar top next to you.

“Yeah, ‘e kissed ‘er alright,” Bjarke laughs, and you try not to roll your eyes. “But then, then she goes in for more, and the whole pub’s in an uproar, yellin’ ‘n watchin’ their prince, but Loki’s done. I could tell, poor boy, ‘e was done before she even started, but instead of tellin’ ‘er so, ‘e turns ‘is tongue into a snake.”

“He…what?”

“’E turned ‘is tongue into a serpent!” Bjarke cackles gleefully at the memory, shoving Loki playfully in the shoulder. “Couldn’t ‘ave just said ‘aye, ‘m done, get off me, whore,’ nah, ‘e turns ‘is tongue into a snake and waits for ‘er t’ scream! And scream she did, norns, I ain’t ever heard a scream like that.”

“Oh my god.” You burst out laughing, the scene playing in your mind over and over. “Geez, Loki, tell me you didn’t.”

“I did,” your fiance groans, shoving you lightly in the arm. “Are you quite done? Happy with your backstory, darling?”

“Gotta say, I’m not disappointed,” you laugh, wiping at your eyes. “I never thought it came from your literal serpent-tongue, but boy, was I wrong…”

“You’re welcome, Ormstunga,” Bjarke grins, passing the two of you another round of drinks. “Look at that laugh. Worth the embarrassment, no?”

Loki lifts his burning face, a helpless grin spreading over his lips as he watches you try to catch your breath from laughing so hard.

“Every second of it.”

“Okay, okay,” you wheeze, grabbing onto Loki’s arm for support. “But what about silvertongue, then? I gotta know that one, what’s the story there—”

Bjarke opens his mouth, moustache practically curling as he readies himself to launch into another story, but Loki lifts a hand to the lumbering bartender and stops his voice in his throat.

“That one…” Loki grins, a devilish glint to his eye. “Well, just wait until the night of our wedding. You’ll be able to answer that question yourself.”

Bjarke’s eyes widen and he flushes, sputtering behind the grin he wears—it’s refreshing, seeing the young prince happy again. Sneaking around, teasing, being in love.

“Oh my…oh, you’re troublesome, Loki, not in my scared bar, take your unholy innuendos elsewhere—”

You just laugh, pure and clear as crystal, and practically climb into Loki’s lap to snatch his lips in a kiss so sweet, the fiery liquor still on Loki’s tongue could be nothing more than honey.

― ― ― ―

feel free to send me ideas!!

fuel the writer?

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hermannsthumb · 4 years

Note

Hot tub sex??? *eye emoji*

scientists in a hot tub……what will they repress……..

18+/not safe for work below cut!!!!!

————————————-

Hermann is no stranger to shoddy motel rooms at this point in his career–indeed, on the shoestring PPDC budget, it’s more or less all he and Newton can afford when they’re shuttled out for conferences–but there’s a certain veneer to the crumbling Art Deco design and dusty plastic palm trees of this one that’s left him feeling strangely unsettled. It’s as if they’ve stepped into the past. As if the very motel is frozen in time.

“Stop being so dramatic,” Newton says. “It’s just a stupid gimmick. Hold this, will you?”

He shoves his duffel bag at Hermann and (ignoring Hermann’s indignant hm!) continues, unsuccessfully, to cram a keycard into their door lock. “It’s upside down,” Hermann finally says.

“No it’s not,” Newton says.

“Yes it is,” Hermann says. “Flip it.”

“It’s not upside down,” Newton says.

“Flip the bloody card, Newton.”

Newton flips the keycard. The lock lights up green with a click. “Huh,” he says.

Their room is small, a bit cramped, even, with two twin beds (mercifully, they won’t have to share again, not like they did last time) draped in pink bedspreads, two nightstands, a beaten-up wooden wardrobe, and a single desk jammed in the corner. The pseudo-vintage wallpaper matches that of the hallways and lobby; the carpet, meanwhile, is too faded to make out what the pattern was once meant to be. “How terribly charming,” Hermann remarks, sarcastically.

“I call bed next to the window,” Newton says, pushing past him to claim it.

Hermann busies himself with unpacking his belongings from his small carry-on suitcase as Newton takes stock of the room: poking around in the nightstand drawers, flicking through the wrinkled Gideons Bibles, fluffing his pillow, sniffing skeptically at the bars of soap resting atop their pillows. Hermann’s nearly finished settling in when Newton–flinging the door to their in-suite bathroom open–startles him with a sharp crow of surprise.

“Holy shit,” he says. “Take a look at that!”

Hermann sets down his last sweater on the bedspread, not bothering to look up. He can’t quite say he fancies finding out what kind of horror awaits them in there. “Roach infestation?” he sighs. It wouldn’t be the first time.

“It’s a fucking hot tub, dude.”

Hermann does look up at that. “Hot tub?” he echoes sharply.

Newton pushes the door open wider. Sure enough, around his shoulder, Hermann can make out pink tile and the deepest, most elaborate bathtub he’s ever seen, complete with its own set of stairs. “There are jets,” Newton says. He lunges for a bottle on the edge of the tub and waves it excitedly. “Look, they gave us bubble stuff, too!”

“Oh,” Hermann says, not quite able to cover up his delight. There are very few things Hermann loathes more than flying: the cramped confines, even with disability accommodation, which leave his leg stiff and him tense and irritable–the fine layer of grime he’s certain sticks to him afterwards–how wretchedly exhausted he is when the whole affair is finally over. He can, frankly, think of nothing he’d like quite more at the moment than stripping down and getting into a hot soak in that tub. However filthy it may be. (And Hermann expects it’s quite filthy.)

He steps up behind Newton for a closer inspection. Pink. Dingy, but less so with grime, more so from age. Curved seats. Enough jets to already make Hermann feel woozy. Newton turns and shoots him a grin. “How many people do you think have screwed in there?” he says.

“Ugh.” Hermann winces.

“I’m serious,” Newton says. “It’s at least a dozen.” He nudges the faucet with the toe of his boot and laughs. “God, it’s so fucking sleazy. Why the fuck did they put this in here?”

“Perhaps the staff anticipated overstressed travelers would appreciate the opportunity to relax,” Hermann sniffs.

“Or perhaps,” (Newton says this in a crude mockery of his accent,) “the staff thought people like us might want a little extra bang for our buck, if you catch my drift.” He waggles his eyebrows.

People like him and Newton. Unable to help himself, and feeling suddenly rather flustered, Hermann blushes. “You’re so crude.”

“Maybe you just have a stick up your ass,” Newton says. He shuts the door. “Anyway, I’m gonna get a burger from the place next door. Do you want something?”

Hermann chooses not to remind Newton that he is a vegetarian. He’ll presumably remember it at some point on the walk to the restaurant–it’s rather a poignant thing to forget about one’s self. “No, thank you,” he says, and then, after reconsidering, because he is hungry, “Actually–yes. A sandwich. You know the sort I like–something with turkey. Or cucumber.”

“It’s a hamburger place,” Newton says, as if Hermann is a particularly dull toddler.

“Surely they don’t only sell hamburgers,” Hermann says.

“Guess we’ll find out,” Newton says. He scoops up the keycard from where he tossed it on the dresser, pats his pocket for his wallet, and nods at Hermann. “I’ll be back in twenty. Don’t have any wild hot tub sex without me.”

There’s an uncomfortable pause.

“That’s not,” Newton says. “Uh. See you.”

Newton’s not been gone five minutes when Hermann finally caves in and starts the tap for the hot tub. The water comes out hot–nicely hot–and the jets–oh, the jets--Hermann is suddenly frightfully glad he allowed Newton to talk him into packing swimming trunks in the event they’re able to make it out to the beach before the weekend is up. Though tub is just as much a bathtub as a jacuzzi, it still feels strange to enter it nude. Especially after Newton’s lewd comments.

The tub takes the better part of Newton’s promised twenty minutes to fill, and it’s still not quite finished when Hermann–now stripped down to nothing but his bland pair of navy-blue swimming trunks–grips the metal bars at the stairs and eases his aching, tense body into the steaming water. He tilts his head back against the pink tile; he groans, a little louder than he means to. The relief is quite instant.

Perhaps a bit embarrassingly, his prick begins to stiffen.

It’s automatic, of course. Pavlovian by nature. He’s not at all thinking of Newton’s implication that people like them have appropriated the hot tub for other purposes, nor of his slip-up right before he left to get them dinner. It’s only that Hermann prefers to reserve certain personal activities for when he’s in the bath. He’s more relaxed–the undercurrent of pain in his leg less distracting, and indeed, even nonexistent. Anyway, it’s not as if he’s about to start pleasuring himself here, in a bloody hot tub, where Newton could walk in and find him at any moment…

(A small, warm twinge in the pit of his stomach; Hermann parts his thighs just a bit wider, only to make himself comfortable, of course.)

Then there’s a small click in the main room: the door lock. “They literally only had hamburgers, dude, like I said,” Newton is saying. “So I got you–Hermann?”

“In here,” Hermann calls back lazily.

Newton practically kicks the bathroom door down, glaring ferociously, greasy takeaway bags cradled in one arm. “You asshole,” he says. “You’re using it without me!”

“I haven’t the foggiest idea what you mean,” Hermann says.

Newton sets the bag down on the sink counter and kicks off his boots. Then he begins to strip out of his t-shirt. Then his jeans. Hermann sits up in alarm. “No, no,” he says. “What are you–?”

“I’m getting in, that’s what I’m doing,” Newton huffs.

“No you are not.”

“I am,” Newton says. He reaches for the waistband of his purple boxers.

“No,” Hermann says, a little louder, and then begins to splutter indignantly when Newton ignores him and slips those off too. “You brought–we have swimming trunks. Why are you–?”

“You’ve seen me naked before,” Newton says with a shrug. The motion, full-bodied, causes certain elements of his anatomy to move. Certain elements of Hermann’s anatomy begin to move, too, in response, but for an entirely different reason. “It doesn’t have to be weird.”

This is true; Newton’s had enough lab accidents in their career which require use of the emergency decontamination shower that, hypothetically, Hermann should know his body like his own at this point. This does not make it any less alarming. Or any less exciting. Newton’s sturdy bare legs, verging on too-hairy, small scars on both his knees from what Hermann knows to be a rollerblading accident when he was twelve; Newton’s tattooed arms, muscled just enough from the demands of his lab work; Newton’s tattooed chest, his rosy pink nipples; Newton’s pudgy stomach, his love handles; between Newton’s soft thighs, his perfectly sized–well–

Hermann forces himself to tear his eyes away as Newton climbs in across from him. They’re so close their knees knock together. “Wow,” Newton says, and wolf-whistles. “This is awesome.”

“Mm,” Hermann says.

He chances a small glance over. Newton has slipped off his fogged-up glasses; his body is a colorful blur beneath the bubbling surface of the water, but his chest, and his chest piece, are on full display, and his head is titled back in such a way that his soft throat is bared in a way that Hermann might call sensual. How terribly lovely he is. How terribly light-headed Hermann feels from the hot water–surely it’s why, not even bothering to pretend he’s not ogling Newton, he blurts out “What a marvelous tattoo that is.”

Newton furrows his eyebrows. “What?”

“Your tattoo,” Hermann says, and–for some reason–reaches out and grazes his hand down Newton’s sternum. He hears–no, feels–Newton’s breath catch in his throat. “It’s very interesting. I’ve never seen it properly before.”

Newton laughs nervously. “Oh,” he says. “I thought you hated my tattoos.”

“Of course I don’t,” Hermann says, and he’s surprised to find he means it. “I can’t say I approve of the subject material, but one would be a fool to deny their artistic value.” Hardly believing his own daring, he settles two fingers on Newton’s left pectoral, just above his nipple, and traces the edges of the great green kaiju’s head. “Was it terribly painful?”

“Nn,” Newton squeaks.

“Hm?” Hermann says.

“No,” Newton says. He sounds breathless. “Hey, uh, you almost done–” The edge of Hermann’s thumb accidentally grazes his nipple, and Newton squeaks again, the rest of the sentence coming out in a high-pitched wheeze, “–uh, feeling me up?”

Mortified, and finally realizing exactly what it is he’s doing, Hermann snatches his hand away. “Ah–Newton–” he stammers, ears going hot, “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean…” Newton chooses precisely the wrong moment to glance down. Difficult though it is to make out definite shapes through the water, there is no denying that Hermann’s swimming trunks are quite tented. Newton’s eyes widen. “Hermann?”

“Oh, hell,” Hermann says. He buries his face in his hands. “I’m sorry, Newton, I didn’t mean–”

There are strong, calloused fingers on his wrists, prying his hands away, and Hermann opens his eyes to see Newton’s face above his, Newton kneeling in the vee of his legs. His breath is warm, and smells like the bottle of soda he bought at a vending machine in the airport. “I’m gonna kiss you,” he declares.

Hermann blinks.

Newton’s tongue–pink–darts out to wet his lower lip–pinker. He presses his mouth–soft–to Hermann’s. For a minute, they move awkwardly, chastely, against one another, stiffly, even, and then Newton gives a tentative swipe with his tongue at the seam of Hermann’s lips.

The floodgates of desire open within Hermann all at once. A filthy moan rises in the back of his throat; he seizes Newton’s shoulders, drawing him forward, closer, until their chests are flush together; his mouth parts open eagerly for Newton, and he draws Newton’s tongue forward with his own. “Newton,” he breathes out. Newton tastes like the soda, too–sugary, too-sweet. “Oh, Newton–”

Impatient, over-excited, Newton shoves his hand gracelessly down Hermann’s trunks and wraps around his prick. “Fuck,” he pulls away from their kiss to whine, “were you jerking off before I got here? That’s so fucking hot. God. What were you thinking about? Were you thinking about me?”

Hermann had not been jerking off, but if Newton’s libido will be stoked to greater heights with a little bit of flattery, he can’t see how a small lie could do any harm. “I was,” he says.

Newton begins to slide his hand up and down Hermann’s prick. He’s very skilled at it. The other hand, he settles at the back of Hermann’s neck. “Fuck. Were you thinking about doing me in here? Over the side? Or me doing you?”

“Er,” Hermann wheezes out. “Yes?”

Clearly pleased, Newton begins to wank him faster. “Guh,” he says. “Touch my chest again, that was so hot. Please, please–”

Hermann obliges gladly. He splays his hands over Newton’s pectorals, squeezing, and–once he realizes how terribly sensitive Newton’s nipples are, because twice now Hermann’s only grazed one and produced a full-body shiver in the man–focuses his onslaught on those instead. With every small pinch, Newton cries out. When Hermann lowers his head to take one in his mouth, Newton straddles his right thigh and begins humping his hard prick against it in earnest.

“That’s so debase,” Hermann pants into his chest, blushing. “Really, Newton, you ought to just let me use my hand.”

“Guh,” Newton whines again. “No, no, I want you to touch me instead.”

“Where?”

“Anywhere,” Newton says. “Anywhere, anywhere…”

His hand is flying over Hermann so fast it’s difficult to think, let alone to consciously grope and explore Newton’s body, but–resuming variably grazing his teeth and flicking his tongue over Newton’s nipples–Hermann obliges again, dragging his nails down Newton’s sturdy back, digging his fingers into the soft skin of Newton’s backside and kneading at him gently. Newton’s movements against his thigh turn graceless, and Hermann is excited to feel small slide of sticky precome on his skin before the churning water quickly washes it away.

“I’m gonna come,” Newton pants. His head is tossed back in wild abandon, the image of hedonistic pleasure. It’s a wonder he can even still formulate whole sentences: Hermann imagines if he were as overstimulated as Newton obviously is, he’d black out. The simple handjob is almost too much to bear. “Yeah, I’m gonna come, are you–?”

“Kiss me, and I will,” Hermann says.

Newton stoops down, mashing their mouths together happily, and light fizzles behind Hermann’s eyelids as he spills over Newton’s hand. Newton gives a few more needy thrusts against his thigh; his cry echoes off the bathroom walls, and Hermann feels more sticky warmth on his skin. He slumps on top of Hermann when he’s finished. He’s shaking.

Hermann pats his back. “Well done,” he says, weakly, and Newton giggles just as weakly. He could go for a nap, he thinks. Preferably with Newton curled up next to him. The twin bed will be a tight fit, but they’ll manage.

#newmann #Anonymous #maria's fanfiction tag

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bangtanismine · 4 years

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Hi guys!! This is my first post !! And my first fanfiction!! So bear with me if it's shitty , ok?💜

This is a smut series feat.BTS . Y/n is a heartbroken girl who meets her "old friends" while visiting her cousin in the suburbs . But when she comes across the man who took her virginity , she realises something has changed in him . And all of her friends . Will she find their secrets out ?

OLD FRIENDS

Warning: contains smut (in the next chap) , language , vampires , bloodlust and a whole lotta other sinful stuff😇

CHAPTER ONE : MEANINGLESS

You swallowed hard . The cold droplets of water made their way down from your shoulder blades to your arms . The shower head was very high . You looked at it . Meaningless . Your fingers lazily turned the knobb . The flow of water slowly stopped . You looked down at your body . Hesitantly , you grabbed the bar of soap from the little stand and smelled it . It smelled like a flower ... but which one ? Meaningless . You frowned deeply and scrubbed it all over your body . You were always quick at every task . Showering was one of those many 'tasks' . You couldn't help but scoff whenever your best friend called it a 'pleasure' . Much to your dismay , the water flow decreased this time , making your cleaning process agonisingly slow . Meaningless . 15 minutes later , your body already exited the bathroom .

You were having a hard time dealing with the unusually cold afternoon . Making your way to the guest room , you felt deafeaning silence surround you . Every dark corner looked as if some horrid figure hid there . Meaningless . You pushed your thoughts away and entered the room . The poorly lit room was unwelcoming as ever , deepening your frown . You pulled a normal t-shirt and a pair of grey denims from your half-packed suitcase . You hummed your favourite song as you blowed your shoulder length hair dry . You took a look in the mirror . You eyes were puffy and red , your nose the same shade , your lips were chapped and unappealing . You looked horrible . Meaningless .

Meaningless . Meaningless . Meaningless . The words played over and over in your head . After your 3 years old relationship had ended with your boyfriend calling it meaningless , you thought taking a trip to visit your aunt would make you feel better . But it was proving to be impossible . His harsh words and cold eyes were all you could think about . How could he say that ? Were you really 'meaningless' ? You huffed annoyingly and sat down on the poor excuse of a couch .

The second you had arrived , your aunt had thrown her arms all over you in joy and announced her son , your cousin , was engaged . To a man . She straightaway had left on a trip with her girlfriends to celebrate . Your cousin was too busy to even glance at you and you were given his old dusty room , which he now called 'guest room' . Liar . The only relief in this situation was not hearing the constant nagging of your mother . Her ride comments and orders were replaced by the chirping of birds and sweet voices of unknown faces .

Well , this was the suburbs . You often had spent time here as a child . If you remember correctly , you last visited when you were 16 . To say you did not make friends , would be a lie . You had made 7 friends , yes , you had counted them many a times . You loved their company and played with them . But there was one problem . They were all boys . Your mother highly disapproved of "so many boy hormones around you" . Thus , you had to control your feelings and eventually , get distant . You hadn't thought of them in years . Did they still live here ?

Your mind went to all the sweet memories hiding somewhere all these years . You remembered them all , clear as glass . You had first met Jimin , he was your cousin's friend . You remembered the way his fluffy cheeks would flush every time he laughed . Ypu remembered his big doe eyes . He was a sweetheart who wanted to be a police officer .

Then , Hoseok had come to your aunt with his mother . You had bonded quickly . He was the most cheerful boy you had seen . The way all his teeth showed when he smiled , the way he would look when he danced .... you remembered it all too well .

Jimin had introduced you to Taehyung , his classmate . You would often call him "Tae" , causing him to giggle . He was quite a mischievous boy , always up to pranks . His different smile would often catch your eye . He loved to click photographs . How was he doing now ?

Yoongi was actually a very quiet boy . He barely talked or participated in games , which made you curious . You remembered you once saw him crying in the park all alone . But you didn't have the courage to ask him why . You didn't see a lot of him but he was always , mysterious and appealing .

You had met Seokjin and his baby brother Jungkook at a festival . Seokjin was cooking street food while the younger helped him . You remember tasting his 'Jin Special' and praising him . He was a confident boy , also with a special smile . Jungkook was all shy and nervous at the first . But as you became friends , you felt a pull towards the doe eyed boy . He was a great singer even as a child . His soothing voice .... He should have become a singer .

And then , you met him . Namjoon . A blush covered your cheeks as you remembered Namjoon . He was , indeed , your first love . And also , your first time .

Hey !! This is the end of chap 1 !! Tell me what you think ! Give me criticism as well !! I just really wanna know if anyone read this ... The next chap is gonna be HOT!! Feel free to request any BTS ff !! Thank you loves !! 💜💜

#bts #bts namjoon #bts fic

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innerpostmentality · 4 years

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Sometimes Beginnings Start With Goodbye IX - You

This is a TRR AU fan fic inspired by the Choices book series The Royal Romance All rights and many thanks are given to Pixelberry Studios for the use of their characters. Original characters are mine. The Sometimes Beginnings Start With Goodbye series is written for my friend @tornbetween2loves it started as a birthday fic and today I’m celebrating my awesome friend’s birthday again! Please read these stories in order or they won’t make sense. The series links can be found in my Masterlist. There will be more parts to this series. Featuring: Drake Walker X Meridoc Finn Rating: This part is PG but the story overall is very M Word count: around 2800

Warnings: none for this part SBSWG tags: @tornbetween2loves @gardeningourmet @allaboutchoices@stopforamoment @bobasheebaby @cora-nova @indiacater @ao719@hopefulmoonobject @drakewalkerwhipped@texaskitten30 @darley1101 @furiousherringoperatortoad @emceesynonymroll @princessleac1 @romanticatheart-posts

It had been one week two days and five hours since he’d seen her. He drank the protein shake he’d made without even tasting it. He washed the blender and his glass and set them in the drying rack before leaving the palace kitchen and heading to the stables. Methodically he fed each horse their apportioned morning feed and marked their charts. He pulled his measured bottle of water from the fridge in the stable and drank the prescribed 8 ounces before doing the prescribed stretches. Slinging the bottle strap around his neck he jogged out of the stable and out to the trail before picking up the pace. He focused on his stride, his breathing, his posture, the burn in his muscles. When he got to the 5k marker he walked around it slowly while he drank another 8 ounces of water before running back to the stable. He filled his water bottle back up and put it back in the fridge. He was toweling himself off when his autopilot disengaged enough that he realized he was being watched. Drake turned and met the deep blue eyes that pierced him like a knife in his heart. Breandan Finn had the same blue eyes as his daughter and they were currently measuring him intently. He turned away and hung his towel on a tack peg and took a deep breath before he brought himself to meet the old man’s eyes. “Morning, Mr. Finn. Um, did you need something? Can I assist you?” “Ach, aye mac, indeed you can. Ni thuigim.” He shook his head and frowned then carefully put his words together. “What are you doing, Drake?” “I, uh, just finished my run. I need to change before I check in with the King.” Drake rubbed the back of his neck as he purposely misunderstood Meridoc’s father. Breandan shook his head. “No. You should go to m’inion. Dublin, not here is where you should be.” He pointed a thin finger to the North West. “A man should na be where his heart is no. You run and run but m’inion is there and you will na find her here.” Drake ran a hand through his hair and dropped his hands as he sighed. “Sir… I…” He shook his head. “Look, I asked her to stay… I… I told her. Sir, I told her I love her. But she left. So I have to respect that.” The old man’s eyes narrowed, “An what did she say?” Drake shook his head. “It doesn’t matter.”

“Ach yer arsewise in this Mac. It makes the world what M’inion said. What did she say?” There was a snap in Breandan’s voice Drake hadn’t heard before. Drake’s voice when he found it was soft and filled with pain. “She said she loved me. But then she left.” He felt the tears starting. He hated that. Hated that he had no control. Hated the nakedness of his raw emotions. He shook his head and turned from Breandan. Breandan laid his hand on Drake’s shoulder. “Mac… Son… come here to me, m’inion is very honest, very… smart.” Drake met his sapphire gaze and wiped at his tears. “She would no tell you that lightly. She is a doctor Drake. She can no be with a patient as woman to man. Go to her. She did’na leave because she did no love you. She left because she does.” He saw the truth in Breandan’s eyes and felt his vision tunneling as the enormity of it hit him. She hadn’t been sparing him. She loved him. He bent over bracing his hands on his knees feeling like he was about to pass out. “I have to go to her.” He managed though he didn’t feel like he had any air. She actually loved him and left so he wouldn’t be her patient. He wasn’t her patient any more. And she loved him. And it was over a week and he hadn’t even called her. “I have to go … now.” Breandan was grinning when Drake looked back up at him. “Ach, yes. Tis certain ya do.” Drake pulled the older man into a fierce hug before he dashed for the palace.

He glanced at his watch as he ran to his room starting to strip even as he opened his door. He didn’t wait for the water to warm up before he stepped into the cold shower quickly rubbing himself with soap gritting his teeth against the sting of the icy water. His mind was racing as he sluiced shampoo into his hair. He would ask Liam if he could use the royal jet just to get him there. That would be the fastest. He needed to call her. He needed to talk to Breandan. He had her address but he didn’t know her schedule. He would send her flowers and ask her out. He would need a hotel room in Dublin. He would take it slow, no pressure. He had a diplomatic passport but he wasn’t sure what he would need to be able to get a job. He stepped into the warming water letting it rinse the shampoo from his hair and the soap from his body then shut the shower off and grabbed a towel drying himself quickly just enough not to leave a puddle as he went into his bedroom and grabbed clean boxers and a tee-shirt from his drawers before going to his closet. It may have been the first time in his life that his wardrobe seemed insufficient. Mr. Two Suits, he shook his head and put on the suit that Maxwell had helped him pick out over a year ago. He grabbed his lone suitcase and his gray suit and went back to his bedroom. He would have to pack after he talked with Liam. Quickly slipping on a pair of deck shoes he left to go meet Liam for lunch. Mara was standing by the king’s office door when he got there. She shook her head at him as he approached. “Mr. Walker, His Majesty is currently not available I’m afraid. He asked if you might speak with him later?” Drake was brought up short. He frowned. “Is everything okay?” Mara looked at the door and shook her head then turned back to Drake. “I’m afraid I’m not at liberty to say. I’m certain his Majesty will wish to speak with you later.” Drake frowned as Meridoc’s words came back to him. “Everything you do is for them. It’s on their time table. It’s with consideration for them. You have to figure out what you want for you, Drake. I’ve been here for five months working with you and studying all the dynamics of this place. It’s a fine place. But I don’t think you can grow here. And I can’t stay here anymore knowing that.” He shook his head. “I’m leaving.”, the words just fell out of his mouth. “Um… Please let his Majesty know I came by. I’ll call him later.” He turned without waiting for Mara and called the airport as he went back to his room to pack. He looked at his one suitcase and carefully packed his grey suit, his dress shoes, he tossed in enough undergarments for a week and a couple of pairs of jeans and denim shirts then grabbed the ring box with his grandmother’s ring. Checked his watch for the time and saw his flight to Dublin was only a couple of hours from then. Grabbing his suit case he headed for the palace garage. He asked Demetri, one of the palace chauffeurs if they would drive him to the airport. As soon as they were on the road he called Bastien. “Ela, Drake!” Even in his distracted state he caught a strange, joyful note in Bastien’s tone. “You sound good, Bastien. I.. I just needed to call you and let you know that I’m going to Dublin.” There was silence for a moment on the line.

“For Doctor Finn, yios?” “Yes. I, I took her advice. Thought about what I actually wanted. It all kept coming back to her, Bastien.” “Then you should go to her.” Bastien chuckled. “I also have a bit of news. I’m going to be a father.” Drake dropped his phone and had to unbuckle himself and fish around on the floor for it. He heard Bastien calling his name as he picked it back up. “…. Drake? Are you there?... Did we lose connection?” “Sorry. I’m here. Just dropped my phone. Damn. I mean. Wow. How did that happen? Damn, singariteeria, Bastien!” Bastien was laughing. And Drake heard the joy in his deep chortle. “Yios, it happened in the usual manner of such things happening. It is a strange moon Drake. I asked the king for time off and permission to court Her Grace, Lady Olivia. And he decided to knight me. Then I came to see her and found that she was expecting our child. Then you called me that you are going after Dr. Finn. How did Liam take you leaving?” “He was busy and I was going to miss my plane if I waited for him. So he doesn’t know yet. I’ll try to get him before I get on the plane but if he’s still busy I may already be in Dublin before we speak.” Bastien’s voice was very serious, “Drake you do what you need to do. I love you, Yios. Liam will be well. You deserve to be happy.” “Thank you, Bastien. And I’m really happy for you and Olivia. I’ll let you know more as soon as I know more…. Bastien se agapo.” “Se agapo, Yios. Safe journeys.” *********************************

It may have been the hardest six hours of his life, the time between going through the gate to get on the plane in Cordonia International and getting off the plane in Dublin. It was the first time he’d flown since his hospitalization and the only time he’d flown since he was an adult without the assistance of good alcohol. He didn’t think of himself as an anxiety prone flyer. And maybe it was the overwhelming sense that he was truly starting a new chapter in his life. Or maybe all the mind games he was playing with himself as he planned and then discarded plan after plan on how exactly to contact Meridoc. Each scenario playing out in his head as more disastrous than the last. He thought he’d bring her flowers then imagined he would pick something that she hated or was allergic to. He thought he would surprise her then envisioned her answering the door expecting dinner for her and her new boyfriend. He imagined her gently and patiently explaining to him how this was all a mistake. He wanted a drink so damn badly it hurt. And he couldn’t just run or exercise to squash it. So he drank four ginger ales and four bottles of water and suffered the embarrassment of having to ask out of the middle coach seat twice to go relieve himself. He still remembered The Rules. Meridoc lancing him with the deep sapphire of her gaze before she wheeled him out of the hospital to start his rehab at the palace. “Three things. You must try. No giving up, playing hooky, taking shortcuts. No alcohol. No beer, hard cider, or liquor, not in drinks, not uncooked in food. And lastly, You must communicate honestly. No silent brooding. No lying even by omission. Do these things and I’ve got you, every step. Break them and I’m on the next plane.” He supposed in someway he had broken the third. He knew long before his cock woke back up and declared it that he had fallen in love with her. He just couldn’t figure out how to tell her and not lose her. And here he was. His plan as he landed in Dublin was to get a reasonable hotel until he could get an apartment and find a job. He had some savings and investments that would get him through a few months as long as he was careful. Bastien had insisted that he save and invest. And while he had almost resented it when he was in school and much younger, today he was grateful for the options it gave him. He had checked his only bag and with one flash of his diplomatic passport he was through customs in almost no time. He did ask the customs officer what he would need to do if he decided he would like to try to find a job in Ireland and the official shook his head and told him that as a member of the royal household of Cordonia he wasn’t eligible to work in Ireland. He was welcome to stay as long as he wanted but unless he was a student or possessed certain Critical Skills he wouldn’t be permitted to work. Drake nodded but was undeterred. If he had to pull strings he would.

Coming out of the customs area he stopped, stunned as a beautiful, tiny torpedo ran to him and hugged him fiercely. “Chaill mé an oiread sin. Ah Drake. I missed you.” He dropped the handle of his suitcase and wrapped her in his arms holding her tight. He buried his face in her hair inhaling her scent and feeling like his heart had found home. His tears were falling and his throat was tight and all he could manage was “S’agape, Meri. s’agape.” She pulled back smiling through her own tears and met his eyes. “Ach, aye, I love you too.” She gently stroked the tears from his cheeks then chuckled. “See what you do?” She dabbed her eyes. “Come on. Let’s go home.” Drake felt sort of dazed as she led him out to the Taxi stand explaining that with the lunch rush and his luggage it would be better than trying to take the train or the bus. If he wasn’t so enchanted by the lilt of her voice he might have realized that she was a bit nervous. But her voice nourished and comforted him in ways he couldn’t explain. Finally he realized that she was looking at him expectantly and he had no idea what she had asked him. “Pardon? I’m sorry. I wasn’t expecting you to meet me. And now I’m waiting to wake up drooling down my shirt.” She squeezed his hand that she’d been holding on to. “I asked how your flight was?” She stroked his hand and smiled. “Da called and told me you were coming.” She looked down at their clasped hands and her voice got soft. “He said you wanted to talk.” Drake stared at her delicate hand in his for a long moment. “Yes.” He nodded and looked in her eyes. “Your dad talked to me. And I realized something you told me. I thought about what I really wanted…” The taxi stopped then in front of a rather oddly shaped building that looked like an imperfect stack of triangular shaped floors that rose five stories constructed out of repurposed archaic bricks, rusted steel, and glass. Drake realized the offset of the floors allowed for every apartment to have a balcony. And he was certain the rent was high. But the curbside esthetic had him shaking his head. Meri saw his look and chuckled. “I know. Trust me it’s better on the inside. It’s two bedrooms and two bathrooms, close to work for me, and accessible for Da.” Drake stopped her as she started to climb out. “Meri… I don’t want to impose. I was planning on renting a room somewhere until I could find a place.” She looked down a minute at their clasped hands then looked in his eyes. “What do you want, Drake?” His chestnut gaze locked with the deep ocean of her eyes and his voice was a silken whisper, “You.” ---- To be continued…..

#choices drake walker sometimes beginnings start with goodbye happy birthday Liz! choices fanfic trr au

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loptgangandi · 4 years

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OH BOY GUYS HAVE I GOT A MUN-DAY STORY FOR YOU

( tl;dr I was refused entry into my mom’s home country, spent the night in an airport terminal during a pandemic, made friends with the son of one of my mom’s colleagues who just so happened to be in the exact same situation because the universe has a sense of humor, and was eventually allowed into the country because I had understood the regulations properly and the border guards had not.)

So it all started on Thursday, when my mom -- an epidemiologist working on COVID -- told me to come home ASAP because Switzerland (where she lives) was about to close its borders and had already restricted entry to anyone from neighboring states: first Italy, then Austria, Germany, and France as well.

I had already booked tickets for early April, so I called the airline, and they helped me rebook for the end of March -- the earliest I could come without paying huge fees.

Cut to Friday. I wake up to 4 missed calls and a zillion texts from my mom informing me that she had booked me on a flight for the following day -- Saturday.

With a layover in Germany.

As I had spent a good 40 minutes the previous day on the phone trying to avoid layovers in France and Germany, I was a little miffed. And worried. But the airline had assured my mother that: a) the new restrictions on Germany wouldn’t go into effect until Sunday, and b) since airport terminals are international territory, I technically would not have actually been in Germany. After some deliberation, I agreed to come home immediately. As in, Saturday. As in, the next day. The 21st. A day before Switzerland’s travel restrictions on Germany were supposed to go into effect (according to the airline, and I’m not sure what their source was).

You might already see where this is going.

I arrived at Frankfurt airport after a frankly very surreal trip -- both the flight and the original airport, which was a ghost town -- and was told by the gate agents that I couldn’t board the plane because Swiss border control would refuse me. After a bit of back and forth -- during which I switched from English to German, which got them to be a bit more helpful -- they realized that yes, indeed, citizens and residents of Schengen countries (excluding Germany, France, Italy, and Austria) were exempted from the border restrictions. This included me, as I’m a resident of Sweden.

They let me on the plane, but I was seriously worried -- because given the general environment of confusion, I had no faith that Swiss border control would know more than the Frankfurt gate agents. You’d assume they’d be informed on some things, but lets face it -- uniformed and armed people tend not to be very good at subtlety and legal minutiae, so who could know.

The one thing that can be said for the overwhelming, anxious rage I felt when the Swiss border control told me I couldn’t enter the country was that it absolutely K.O’d the part of my brain that tends to overthink my language skills and inhibit my ability to speak languages I’m not fluent in -- and I made my case in very good French. I have never spoken French so well as when I was talking to the cop I’d been palmed off to and explaining to him why I was right and they were all wrong. My mom also insisted on talking to him, and after some hesitation -- which probably had less to do with touching my potentially virus-infested phone and more to do with being on the receiving end of a middle-aged mom’s wrath -- he took the call. I offered to put it on speaker and hold it so he wouldn’t have to, but he took the phone, and argued with my mom all the way through the airport.

He seemed basically sympathetic and like he wanted to help, but his mantra was always the same: “I have my orders, I don’t know anything beyond what I’ve been told and I can’t disobey my orders.” He told mom the name of the organization to call to help out with this, but didn’t have a number for them, and couldn’t provide any other support. He was polite enough, but “polite” wasn’t going to get me home.

Where it got me was locked down tight in the airport international terminal with 10 other people who have also been turned away.

Luckily, the terminal is massive, so there was plenty of room to maintain distance.

The cops assured me that they would handle my suitcase and took my documents -- passport, Swedish residency card, and boarding passes from my trip (so they could make my flight reservations, they said, but there was probably more to it) -- and left me there.

An international airport at midnight during a pandemic is pretty much the definition of a liminal space. Every other seat in the gate waiting areas had a strip of red and white police tape running over it, back to front, and tied off at the top of the seat back to ensure that people would maintain proper distance and not sit next to each other. The music was on at a volume that, during the day, was probably appropriate to be unobtrusive over the ambient sounds of a living airport, but which in a locked-down terminal was unbelievably annoying. The lights were dim enough that there were still dark corners, and you could look around without your eyeballs melting out of your face. The only sounds (apart from the music) were the hum of the vending machines (our only food and drink options until the cafe opened at 5:30 the next morning) and the soft shuffling of people trying to get comfortable and get some sleep on the rock-hard, probably COVID-contaminated seat rows.

We were given nothing. No hand sanitizer, no water (apart from what you could buy from the vending machines), no blankets or pillows. Nothing. We had access to bathrooms with hand soap, but you had to touch the dispensers with the heel of your hand. The paper towel dispensers also weren’t automatic, so you had to touch them to get the paper towels out. There was one janitor who came in around 1 AM to clean the whole terminal, which obviously wasn’t sufficient.

I’m tough. I’ve been in some incredibly crappy situations, and at least we were warm and safe inside, and I wasn’t physically uncomfortable. I had some money to buy water, food, and later in the morning, coffee, and I figured out how to wash my hands without touching anything. But the fact that we were left in an almost certainly contaminated public space with no precautionary measures and no support for an extended amount of time -- 9 hours in my case -- was absolutely infuriating. And dangerous. And I am almost definitely going to get sick, probably because of that.

Which only made me more determined to get home. If I was going to get sick, I was going to do it in a place where I could be taken care of and nursed back to health, instead of someone else’s apartment where I just rent a room and would have had a much larger radius of contamination (my landlady/flatmate has kids and grandkids and is still going to work).

The issue, as the immigration cop had told me, came down to the fact that I had flown in from Germany.

Even though I hadn’t set foot on German soil, I had been in a German airport, and that was apparently enough. If I had flown in from any other Schengen country (apart from France, Austria, or Italy), I could have entered with no problem, since I have Swedish residency.

There was an obvious loophole there: while Sweden had no flights to that city for the following day (Sunday), Netherlands did. Brussels and Czechia did.

So while my mom contacted the immigration authority in Bern, I booked a refundable flight for 9 PM Sunday evening from Amsterdam to my mom’s city, and would request that they send me to Amsterdam instead of Stockholm. The plan was basically to make a big loop and enter through a country they deemed acceptable. The irony wasn’t lost on me -- that I would risk further contamination by city-hopping in order to loop around and end up back where I started -- but the police had prevented me from just getting into my mom’s car and self-quarantining at her apartment, which had been the original plan, so I didn’t have much of a choice.

All that was left now was to wait -- in a non-sterile, contaminated airport terminal playing the most mediocre pop album-filler of the ‘70s and ‘80s.

The only thing that made it bearable was that I made a friend.

Around 1 AM, a 20-something Japanese dude in dress pants and a polo shirt shows up on our side of the terminal from the opposite end, wanting to know if we were also bothered by the music and if he should call someone about shutting it off. He wouldn’t bother if it was just him, so he wanted to see if it was collective. I agreed, and after a few failed attempts, we miraculously managed to reach someone who said they would do what they could to turn off the music.

We got talking (and moved away from the people trying to sleep), and it turns out that it’s a small world and we were in an even smaller city, because our mothers work in the same department, were extremely close colleagues about 10 years ago, and still work together occasionally. I immediately recognized her name.

Turns out, this dude and I had both gone to school and done the IB in the same city. We both have moms working on COVID, dads living in our countries of origin (Japan for him, US for me), and younger sisters. He had also been turned away, despite having documentation that should have given him leave to enter. So there we were, stuck in that situation together, waiting to be deported and with our passports held hostage by the authorities.

We talked for six straight hours about every topic we could think of. Travel, food, relationships, siblings and family in general, COVID, electric cars, how our respective countries are reacting to COVID, racism and xenophobia (worsened by COVID -- he had an example from that same day), bosses and managers and how our offices are (and, in my case, had been) run, the pros and cons of wearing medical masks if you’re not showing symptoms of COVID, dry hands from all of the washing to avoid COVID, politics, our respective cultures and business cultures, depression and mental illness, natural disasters we had lived through, etc. “Ah fuck I’ve got COVID in my eye” became a bit of a running joke throughout the morning, as we became increasingly tired and our eyes increasingly dry, prompting runs to the bathroom to clear them out and wash our hands. We had both basically resigned ourselves to catching it -- it was just a matter of trying to pass it on to as few people as possible, preferably 0.

Around 7 AM, my new friend -- let’s call him Mike -- points out that a guard is making a beeline towards us, and he’s not holding his passport. I look, and it’s mine, and I prepare myself to argue for them to send me to Amsterdam instead of Sweden. He tells me he had just come over to see me and make sure that I was still there (??? he had my passport where was I going to go??), and he would be back in 15 minutes to let me know whether or not I could enter Switzerland.

I was completely baffled, because that option hadn’t even crossed my mind. I had been operating 100% on the assumption that I was going to be put on a plane. And Mike was happy for me, but also pretty miffed, because they had already booked a flight for him but our circumstances were pretty much identical. He had documentation proving extenuating circumstances, and I have Swedish residency and never set foot on German soil. The only difference between us is that he’s Japanese, and I’m white. I agreed that it was almost definitely a xenophobia thing, and told him that if I got in, I’d vouch for him.

15 minutes later the cop (this one was very compassionate and borderline sweet compared to the ones we’d dealt with the previous night) comes back and tells me I could go through. I gather my stuff, and explain to him about Mike. The cop looks puzzled, but promises that he’ll make some calls and try to sort it out, and I should come with him. He takes me through to get my suitcase and escorts me to the exit, where he welcomes me to Switzerland with a big smile.

I called my mom and settled in to wait for her to pick me up. Ten minutes later, Mike tells he’s also been allowed through. My mom (who had literally rolled out of bed in her pajamas, thrown on a coat and shoes, and jumped in the car) and I offered him a ride, but he had called his mom immediately and she was coming to get him. I didn’t see him again -- my mom arrived before he came through -- but we’ve been in touch, and both of us got home safe.

Now my mom and I are completely self-quarantined with the cats, and honestly, it’s wonderful. We’re not leaving the house except for the occasional walk. I slept 12 hours last night. My mom is plying me with tea to make sure I’m hydrated as we wait for me to get sick, and I spent the 6 hours recording this whole nonsense saga for posterity.

tl;dr I was refused entry into my mom’s home country, spent the night in an airport terminal during a pandemic, and made friends with the son of one of my mom’s colleagues who just so happened to be in the exact same situation

#ooc tag #| cryptid spotting || (mun-day)

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eclecticstarlightconnoisseur · 5 years

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Edinburgh To Boston Chapter 2 -The Conversations

Hello, as promised here is Chapter 2 of Edinburgh to Boston. We get to meet our older couple and see how they play their part in this romance.

I hope you enjoy reading this. Any comments, thoughts would be appreciated.

My deepest thanks again to @curlsgetdemgurls and @jmoonrise for being my betas.

I give you:

Edinburgh to Boston

Chapter 2

The Conversations

Harry and Maizie’s Story

Harry and Maizie MacLennan were on their way to Boston to visit with their son Ronald and daughter-in-law Margaret after the birth of their third son David. Margaret would need help with the new wean as the MacLennan's other two lads were little rascals. Robert was now six and Edward recently turned four. Robert or Rabbie as the family called him, had no compunction with expressing his opinions on anything and everything. During Harry and Maizie’s last visit Rabbie, then aged 5 decided to discuss the facts of life with his Grannie.

“Grannie?”

"Yes, a bhalaich?"

"Do ye ken yer auld?"

"I dinna ken yer meaning lad. What's wrong with being auld?"

"I saw ye kissin' Grandda. Auld people dinna do that. They're too auld. I see Mam and Da kissin' like you and Grandda. Their auld too. They shouldna be doing things like that."

Masie lifted the boy up, placing him on her lap, cuddling him to her chest.

"Listen to me Rabbie. I love yer Grandda with all my heart just as yer Mam and Da love each other. When ye love someone that's one of the ways tae show it. I love ye too so I give ye a kiss now and then, too aye?" Maizie proceeded to kiss Rabbie on the top of his silky blond hair inhaling his little boy scent. Rabbie smelled of peanut butter and jelly, soap, and with a hint of ground in dirt.

"So, when ye love a girl, ye haveta kiss her? I didna like kissin', especially girls." Rabbie wrinkles his nose and grimaces.

"Laddie," said his Grandda walking in on the conversation, "Someday ye will change yer mind. Someday ye will be chasing after some fair maid looking to kiss her."

Looking aghast, Rabbie jumped off his Grannie's lap making a Scottish sound of disgust and ran out of the room arms and legs churning at near marathon speed.

Harry bent over giving Maizie a proper kiss and sighed, "Ye ken that lad will be a handful when he's grown. He'll be chasin' after the lassies. Fathers' will needta lock their lassies up when he's around. He'll be a right Romeo that lad."

"Aye, he will," chuckled Maizie, "much like his Da and his Grandda afore him. At least until he finds his one true love that is."

Maizie reached up and lovingly stroked Harry's cheek. "Just like we did when we found each other."

Clearly, Harry and Maizie were still deeply in love after 48 years of wedded bliss. Maise firmly believes that there is a match for everyone. With this firmly entrenched belief in place, Maise made it her mission in life to help others find their true love when it was staring them in the face and they were too busy with their heads up their arse to ken it. Maizie's eyes gleamed with excitement and anticipation. James and Claire were her next victims, er… love match. Harry was her willing accomplice in her endeavors to bring would be lovers together. Sometimes people just needed a little nudge toward each other to see what others so obviously saw.

Divide and conquer that was the plan. She would take the woman and leave Harry to deal with the man.

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

The Conversations

"On yer way to Boston, too, I see. My husband Harry and I are on our way to see our new grandson David. I'm Maizie by the way."

Claire thought that was apparent since they were boarding the same plane, but she thought she should be polite "Yes, I am, ah... pleased to meet you, I'm Claire," she gave Maizie a pleasant smile while continuing to walk up the passageway quickly.

Masie, not to be brushed off that easily hurried to keep up with Claire. "I see yer handsome husband is accompanying ye. He's a braw lad is he no?" Maizie grinned at Claire.

"Oh, he's not my husband. We work together. We’re going on a business trip together. A business conference."

Maizie’s suspicions were confirmed. They were not married.

"Oh, ‘tis a shame, him being such a handsome young man. I was sure he was yer husband after the way he was looking at ye as if he would devour ye." Maizie winked suggestively at Claire. "Did ye no notice lass?"

That stopped Claire in her tracks. "He did? I didn't notice. Are you sure?" Claire turned around to look for James, hoping to get a look at his face to see if he indeed wanted to devour her. James was nowhere in sight.

Claire returned to walking up the passageway, "No, I think you're mistaken. I'm definitely not his type, not at all." Claire made a small sighing sound almost of disappointment.

"I have been married nigh on 48 years to my husband. It was a love match truly and I ken another when I see it. Take a good look at him lass and ye'll see it in his eyes. ‘Tis how my Harry looks at me." Maizie took Claire's hand in hers giving it a gentle squeeze, "Take my advice lass. Take a good look at him. He's yers."

She then gave Claire's shoulder a little nudge, "Besides having a husband ‘tis a good thing; he keeps my feet warm at night if ye ken my meaning." Maizie looked at Claire gave her a wicked grin and walked off to find her seat swinging her hips.

Claire stood at her seat watching as Maizie walked up the aisle looking for her seat. She was flabbergasted. How could this woman see James' attraction to her when she could not? What did she miss? She decided she had the whole flight to think about it.

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

Harry needed to cause a distraction to keep the man from reaching the woman quickly. Harry spun his suitcase on its wheels causing him to lose control of it and nearly knock James over. James swiftly reached out grabbed the handle immediately dealing with the errant suitcase.

"Thank ye laddie, I dinna ken what happened with yon grip. Seems it had taken on a mind of its own." Harry chortled genially as James handed the suitcase back to him. "Harry MacLennan," he said offering his hand to James.

"Aye, weel ‘tis no matter. Glad I could be of assistance to ye Mr. MacLennan, James Fraser." James smiled at the gentleman shaking his hand. He turned and started to walk away from Harry up the ramp.

Harry not to lose his opportunity, kept pace with James.

"I do apologize for keeping ye from yer lovely wife. I see she has gone on ahead."

"She's no my wife, just a work colleague." There was a remote sound of sadness in his voice.

"No yer wife! Why laddie, if she isna yer wife, she should be the way she looked at ye and came into yer arms. She looked quite comfortable there if ye dinna mind my saying so. I ken the look of love being married near on 48 years now. Married my Maizie when she was naught but a wee slip of a lass. Stole her away from her Da I did." Harry laughed heartily as he remembered.

"Besides," Harry said covertly watching James to gauge his reactions, "The lass seemed fair taken with yer bum if ye ask me. Like a woman who knew what she wants." Harry looked up to James with his green eyes glinting with mischief. "If ye will take my meaning man." Harry chuckled sinfully.

James flushed scarlet, "Ye saw that then, and ye think...ye think she liked what she saw?" He asked incredulously.

"Looked like she was deciding what tae do with ye when she got ye alone."

The flush deepened.

"Humor an auld man, aye? Take that lass, gie her a good look, ye ken, deep inta her eyes. See her soul, who she is. Ye'll be surprised at what ye see. She's yers, lad. Dinna let her go. G'day tae ye." Harry doffed his hat and sauntered off in search of his wife and his seat.

James stood there watching Harry walk away, wondering what in God's name he should do now.

#edinburgh to boston #chapter 2 #Harry and Maizie's story #divide and conquer #true love

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faveficarchive · 5 years

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Requiem for a Bitch

Part 5 of Vivian Darkbloom’s White Trash series

By Vivian Darkbloom

Pairing: Xena/Gabrielle

Rating: Mature

Synopsis: Gabrielle’s other sister comes into town and stirs up as much trouble as possible.

I’m gonna put a CW here for people who may need it: there’s absolutely homophobia in this story, and also just keep in mind that this story is honestly really true to the culture represented, and the times.

"She would of been a good woman," the Misfit said, "if it had been somebody there to shoot her every minute of her life."

—Flannery O'Connor, "A Good Man is Hard to Find"

1. Stroll Around the Grounds Until You Feel at Home

It was a joke.

This was what she thought at first. The matron came in, and said that she would be released in a week. Sure, there would be meetings with the therapists, and the medical board, and all that, but it was pretty much a done deal. State cutbacks, the matron said. And you're an adult now. You don't need a waiver from your parents. You're free. Isn't it nice? You can get a job and an apartment and a boyfriend and you can wear whatever you want and do whatever you want and watch whatever you want on TV without Cindy Sue Deaver going nuts if it's not Full House and you can eat whatever you want and rest assured that there aren't behavior-modifying drugs in it—or are there? And the windows didn't have bars on them unless you ended up living in a real crappy, scary neighborhood. And nobody's telling you what to do. Right? Unless it's a boss or a government or a landlord.

Was the outside world really so different? she wondered. She would find out.

So they gave her money for the bus and food, and new clothes. She had to wear something "nice." Although how a beige skirt from Sears and an white blouse yellowed with age qualified as nice, she had no way of imagining. Maybe fashion had changed radically in the last 15 years, and Sears was now on par with Calvin Klein and Jordache.

The world was indeed a scary place.

She didn't say goodbye to anyone, and flipped the finger to the matron and wished death, famine, and endless curses among various inhabitants, including those who thought they had reformed her, had changed her somehow. They hadn't. Stupid fucking doctors. She dragged a small suitcase, filled mostly with packs of cigarettes and soap and towels and other stuff she swiped from the supply closet before leaving.

The bus stop was in front of some ghostly crafts store haunted with the remains of faddish hobbies. It was hot and in a fit of pique she ripped off the nylons she was wearing with the skirt, oblivious to the looks from the old lady in the crafts store, and tossed them in the trash. She rarely copped to emotions other than homicidal, spiteful glee, but she had to admit she just a bit curious to see home, and how everything had changed, and—most of all—how they would all react to her being back.

She shrugged in answer to this conversation in her head, and lit a cigarette. The bus lumbered to the curb, its doors opened, and she climbed in, glaring at the driver, daring the old man to say anything about "no smoking."

*****

The bus let her out about three blocks from Bob's Garage, near the outskirts of town. She walked lazily down familiar streets—too familiar, she thought with disappointment. All this time, and nothing's really changed. Well, what the hell did you expect? So if that's true, Purdy—the damn idiot—should still be working at the garage. And if he's still there...the thought trailed off, mercifully. She just couldn't think about it all right now.

Nonetheless, curiosity won out, and she found herself at the garage, on the pretext of getting a Coke from the machine outside. Then she walked into the dark cavern of the garage. A pair of blue-jeaned legs sprawled out from under some ancient car. Before she could announce her presence, a pair of arms grabbed her from behind.

The world whirled around her, and she found herself sitting atop a metal tool chest and face to face with a grinning, gum-chewing, blue-eyed, androgynous angel wearing a baseball cap backward. "Hiya, baby," the Angel said, declaring her gender in a low but decidedly feminine purr.

Before she could say anything, the Angel devoured her mouth with a greedy kiss, resplendent with lots of rolling tongue, breath, and moistness. Frantic at being kissed by this freak (yes, a freak, and no, I'm not enjoying this, I can't be), she placed her hands on the hard shoulders facing hers and shoved violently.

Contact was broken. The Angel was momentarily thrown off her Zen High Horse. "What's wrong, baby? Don't pay no attention to Purdy." The dark head bobbed in the direction of the legs under the car.

"Don't pay no attention to me," Purdy echoed from under the vehicle.

It was then that she realized that she was now chewing the Angel's gum. "Ack!" she cried, and spat, sending the little gum projectile through the air and onto the dark, greasy floor.

The dark Angel was grinning at her again. Furious, she smacked the creature—hard—across the face.

Purdy groaned, whether from arousal or empathy, it could not be discerned.

It was like bitch-slapping a rock. The baseball chapeau didn't even budge. And the woman laughed heartily. "You're pretty feisty today, Gabrielle," she growled pleasantly, maneuvering an oily hand under the Sears skirt.

Somehow she escaped these foul attentions—she managed to worm around the tall woman and bolted for the exit. She snatched her suitcase from outside, and ran down the street.

Gabrielle?

The name reverberated like an engine gunned over and over.

My sister is a dyke now? Well, now, that's definitely new.

It was an intriguing homecoming for Hope Hockenberry.

*****

Scant seconds after Hope's sudden departure from the garage, Purdy deemed it safe to emerge from his grimy underworld, where he had found himself getting steadily aroused. He had calmed himself with visions of Johnny Cash nude, and was now ready—and curious—to face the world. "What the hell was that about?" he remarked to Zina as he wheeled himself out from the car.

He stood up and saw the firefighter absently rubbing her tingling cheek. She shrugged, took off her cap, thus liberating the rest of her long hair. "I dunno. She gets awful fruity during this time of the month, if you know what I mean." Zina carefully avoided any blatant mention of tampons, menstruation, blood, female cycle, uterus—knowing that Purdy was indeed like all men and crumpled at the mere mention of the female reproductive cycle and its attendant paraphernalia.

"Before, during, and after, it seems like," he muttered. He sighed, and wiped his hands with a rag. "Anyway, thanks for helping me here, with this one." Purdy nodded at the car. "Appreciate it."

"No problem. I was dyin' to get under that hood for a long time."

"Bet you've used that line before."

She laughed, and straddled her Harley. "Later," she said with a kickstart.

2. The Love That Dare Not Speak Its Mane

The salon was called the "The Clip Club," its original owner being a disenchanted lesbian exile from Staten Island. But now the shop had passed into the hands of a permanently bitter middle-aged gay alcoholic who had never been out of Olympus County. Nonetheless, it was the best hairdressers' in the area, and Gabrielle had been getting her bangs and split ends trimmed there ever since she'd been out of high school and had finally wearied of Lila's jagged little cuts.

Hair freshly shampooed, the little poet waited patiently for her regular stylist while reading Redbook or, more precisely, carefully examining a photo layout of the latest lingerie styles for the fall. Finally, she felt a comb running through her damp locks.

"Shirley, I just need everything trimmed—" Gabrielle looked up, and jumped violently. Her regular hairdresser was not in front of her; rather, Natalie—she of the Shimmy Shack and dubious academic reputation—stood before her, twirling a pair of scissors. And dropping them, thus narrowly missing her own sandalled foot. Natalie hopped awkwardly, then grinned sheepishly. "Hi, Gabrielle."

"Uh, hi, Natalie." Her skin crawled. "Where's Shirley?"

"Trying to cash her girlfriend's welfare check."

"Again? Like she needs another tattoo!"

"Yeah. Anyway, she's out the rest of the day. But I just started working here!" Natalie smiled proudly.

"When?"

"Yesterday, in fact. And, um, I'm free now, so I could do you." The ex-professor wiggled her eyebrows.

"I dunno, Natalie. It's been a while since I've let anyone else cut my hair." Protectively she clutched a sheaf of her blonde hair. She wouldn't even let Zina trim her hair. Especially not switchblade-enamored Zina.

"Come on, Gabrielle. I'm trying to behave myself now. I'm not stripping, I'm not harassing anyone. I mean, look at me. I'm just trying to make a living here." She pouted in a fairly effective manner. "I think everyone deserves a second chance, don't you?" she threw in plaintively.

Oh damn. Gabrielle's shrug was more of a massive, neurotic body twitch. "Yeah, I guess." Can't argue with that. It wouldn't be fair. Zina got a second chance, and a third, and a fourth, and then a lot of parole time. "Okay, Natalie," she sighed.

The former stripper grinned with delight. "Wonderful!" She walked behind Gabrielle, and gently ran her hands through the poet's wet hair. "I really appreciate this," she purred.

"No problem." Gabrielle shifted nervously in her seat. "I just want it trimmed, okay?"

"Uh-huh." The tips of Natalie's fingers gently scraped against Gabrielle's temple. Then the soft pads began working their magic in earnest, exuding a delicate, massaging pressure that made the poet's body tingle and puddle into mushy nothingness.

"Feel good?" Natalie's voice dropped an octave, and Gabrielle's flooded senses grabbed at the deep tones like a life preserver, mistaking the huskiness for Zina's own rich burr.

"Mmmm, yeah, baby." Gabrielle's own voice fell into a low Austin Powers intonation.

"I knew you'd like that." The voice burrowed into even sweeter depths.

Before Gabrielle knew it, someone sounding like Barry White was telling her that she needed a new hairstyle: "Uh-huh. Child, I bet you've had this same style since you were in middle school. And all through high school. Didn’t you? You had this hairstyle when you smoked your first joint. You had this hairstyle when you flunked your first French test. You had this hairstyle when you lost your virginity to that boyfriend of yours in the bed of his pickup truck, with your head banging against the thin dirty blanket where his dog usually slept and which barely cushioned the metal, in time to the AC/DC blaring from the tape deck while you were secretly thinking of Kate Jackson. Am I right or am I right, girlfriend?"

*****

As Gabrielle exited the salon, she couldn't stop running her hands through her hair: It was so…short. She had awakened from a brief, bleary state of unconsciousness to the sight of herself, in the mirror, with this dashing little pixie haircut. "I only know one style," Natalie had said afterward, in an attempt at an apology, and pointed feebly at her own head.

Gabrielle rushed down the sidewalk in an anxious haze. How I love your hair, Zina had mumbled the other night. It was the closest thing to poetry her taciturn lover had ever uttered, and there weren't even no metaphors or similes or even' fuckin' adjectives for Christ's sake but it's all I got, and now it's gone!

When she reached the garage, Purdy was sitting in his "office," watching baseball. "Purdy!" she shouted. He jumped, and started to rummage through a desk drawer.

"You damn idiot, I'm not a mugger," she snapped. "And if I were, you'd be dead by now."

He stared at her. "Gabrielle? What the hell happened to your hair?"

"I got it cut," she said defiantly, as if it had been a premeditated plan of action.

"Huh," Purdy mused. That was quick. She went, got her hair cut, and changed her clothes, he thought, taking in the short tresses, the baggy jeans, the Carhart jacket. "You're really goin' whole hog into the lesbian look, huh?"

"Not quite," she muttered. She had drawn a mental line in the sand at those funny sandals. "Where's Zina?"

"She's gone."

"Dammit, she was supposed to wait for me!" Gabrielle fumed. "I need her for the video store."

"For Blockbuster? Why?"

"Not Blockbuster. We don't go there. Cyrene says it's an evil corporation."

He frowned, confused. "If you don't go to Blockbuster…" he trailed off. And his eyes widened. "Oh Jesus," he whispered. "You don't go to…"

"Yes," replied Gabrielle solemnly. "We go to Him."

He was the Sarcastic Hippie Video Store Guy, who worked at the tiny video store in town which seemed to have no name (unlike the Clip Club). But it didn't matter, because everybody knew who Sarcastic Hippie Video Store Guy was and where he worked.

Gabrielle hated going to the "independent" (as Cyrene called it) video store by herself, because Sarcastic Hippie Video Store Guy always delighted in giving her a particularly hard time; however, he wouldn't dare do so when she was accompanied by Zina, who once, in a shameless show of prowess, bit the head off a cardboard display of Billy Crystal.

And now she had to face Him all alone.

*****

Gabrielle spent several minutes working up the courage to approach Him all by her lonesome. She cruised the dusty aisles, pretending to look for something else in addition to the box she already clutched. She cast a glance at Him. His hippie head was bent and He looked engrossed in the copy of Spin on the counter, but she knew Him. She knew He was just trying to fake her out. He was watching her every move.

She stood at the counter, and carefully shoved the empty video carton in his direction. He did not look up.

"Long week, no see," He drawled.

Gabrielle said nothing.

Head still down, He continued: "Wild Things again?"

"No." She kicked herself mentally for responding to Him. Don’t encourage Him, that’s what Zina always said.

"Or is it a hard core night? Or how about that Rashomon of the modern day porn, The Sapphic Schoolgirls of Sydney?"

She did not respond to this taunt, and was unsure of how much longer she could hold out.

"If I recall correctly, you’ve rented that one 23 times in the last three months."

Employing the use of her middle finger, she flicked the video box so that it rolled over right onto Spin, or more specifically, a big color photo of Korn.

He stared at it. "Beaches," he murmured aloud. Finally, he turned his blue eyes to her. And smiled. Was it a genuine smile? Or another smirk? It was hard to tell, his face was so obscured by the dark, shaggy beard. He leaned toward her, over the counter, as if ready to divulge a confession. "Every time I see this movie, I cry like a baby," he whispered in her ear.

She blinked, still wary of him. "Really?" she asked cautiously.

He nodded. She thought his eyes glistened with unshed tears. He was squishing his lips together and frowning like Tom Hanks. "Really."

Gabrielle was amazed. He is human after all! She laid a hand on the soft fur of his forearm. At that moment he reminded her of the cocker spaniel she had when she was 7. "Why? Tell me," she urged gently.

He sniffled a little. "I don’t know if I can."

"Maybe you’ll feel better if you tell me." She squeezed his arm.

He took a deep, steadying breath. "Because every time I see it, I realize how fucked up Barbara Hershey’s career is."

Gabrielle saw the triumphant Gotcha! in his eyes, and she took the video box and rapped him—but not terribly hard—on the skull with it. "You asshole."

He straightened, startled. "Violence is not the way, Miss Hockenberry."

"You want violence? I’ll give you violence. I’ll go home and tell my girlfriend you bugged me and she’ll twist you into a pretzel. How’s that for violence?"

Girlfriend? Not…Her! He blurted fearfully, "You mean the Kansas City Bomber?" He had taken to calling Zina that ever since she came into the store one day wearing roller blades, which lead to a discourse upon the classic Raquel Welch vehicle and how it was the cornerstone of her career and undervalued for its campiness, which lead them to stare at him with even greater incomprehension than usual. He waved a hand of surrender at Gabrielle. "Okay, okay. I’m sorry. Jeez." He took the carton, padded into a back room, and reemerged with the videotape. After opening the black box and checking it, he handed it to her.

"Thanks," she grunted.

"Look, I’m glad you’re at least renting something different, y’know?" he said. "It’s a shitty movie, but who knows, maybe in good time you’ll work your way up to better, more ambitious things. Like Orson Welles. Or foreign films. Stuff like that."

"Well," she hesitated. "I’d like to."

He actually looked pleased. "Yeah?"

"Yeah," she echoed brightly. Zina would hate it, but there was always NASCAR.

He scrutinized her while scratching his beard. "Hey, I tell you what. I’ll make a list for you, of films I think you should see. Nothing too avant-garde or anything like that, but just some basic classics that you familiarize yourself with. And I’ll give a discount card you can use for renting these movies. How does that sound?"

Gabrielle stared at him, touched. Wow, he’s not so bad after all! "Thank you, Sarcastic Hippie Video Store Guy!"

Ooops.

His expression was something between a wince and a smirk. "Um, my name's Eli. Okay?"

3. Gabrielle: The Other Other Other White Meat

When Gabrielle entered the house, her first instinct was to bolt upstairs and hide in her study room for about a year, until her hair grew out. She was about the make a mad dash for the stairs when Zina emerged from the kitchen. "Hey," the firefighter greeted, blue eyes focused on the Rolling Rock bottle, "thought that was you."

The young poet and perennial student-teacher felt the sarcasm blooming within her, and even though something within her tried to staunch it, nothing could prevent its fleur du mal, a smart-ass remark, from emerging. "Yeah, I guess it could only be me, or the serial killer who has keys to our house."

It was a terrible mistake, for it drew Zina's attention from green bottle to green eyes. And the hair. Chewing her lip, Gabrielle braced for the worst.

"Your hair. You got it cut."

Gabrielle wondered if Zina got her talent for Stating the Obvious from watching—and listening to—TV sports announcers. She nodded, not sure how to read the paling color of the firefighter's blue eyes. Zina circled her like a farmer checking out a steer at the state fair. It'd been a long time since her girlfriend had really scoped her out like this and, she had to admit, she was having trouble breathing, in a good kind of way. "Well," she asked slowly, "do you like it?"

In lieu of a verbal response, Gabrielle found herself quite literally head over heels, flung over a shoulder, and staring, upside-down, at the disintegrating tag of Zina's Levis as she was hauled up the stairs.

*****

"Comfy?" asked the firefighter.

Gabrielle pulled tentatively on the handcuffs which bound her wrists to the bedpost. Goddamn Minya. Why did she have to give these to Zina? "Yeah, I think I'm fine." Her lover had interrupted some promising foreplay to clap the cuffs on her.

"Good," Zina purred, then barked: "Now spread 'em!"

And Gabrielle did. The tip of the strap-on dildo lingered near her opening, like an unctuous, falsely modest houseguest who was secretly dying to stay for weeks, sleep in late, smoke all of your stash, permanently stain the sheets, and eat all the food in the house. But after much flailing of hips and shameless begging, Gabrielle welcomed the dildo with a graciousness that combined aspects of Donna Reed, Martha Stewart, and Doris Day.

She was close—extremely close—when Zina stopped thrusting for a moment. "Did you hear a car outside?"

"Huh? No, no. Baby, whoever it is, they'll go away," she panted.

The firefighter frowned. Her senses were on alert. "Maybe it's my mother...shit, she'll just come in, if she has her keys." Zina scowled at the insanely aroused Gabrielle. "Or if you left the door unlocked again."

"I did not leave the door unlocked!" Gabrielle snarled. However, she was terribly unsure of that fact. "Zina, please!"

"All right, all right." She picked up the pace once again, and Gabrielle's eager hips followed suit. The poet's orgasm began to build, but, once again, Zina was the school bully who smashed it to bits like an unwieldy Lego tower. "Dammit!" yelled Gabrielle, her body convulsing. "Now what?"

"I swear someone is in the house. I thought I heard something on the stairs!"

"Zina, it's probably just your mom and she knows better by now than to come into our bedroom!"

"No, she doesn't! She always forgets!" The last incident had been particularly bad, and left Cyrene babbling about a "primal scene."

"Oh God, who cares?" Gabrielle shouted. She grabbed Zina's mane of black hair in her teeth and gave a savage yank, forcing her lover's gaze back to her own. Releasing the hair with a pfft, she continued: "She's seen us fucking, and so have Hank, Ed, Effie, Boris, Lao Ma, Ming Tien, and even my idiot sister! Everyone has seen us fucking because of that stupid videotape!"

"Gabrielle?"

"What?" shrieked the poet in sheer exasperation.

"Have your parents seen us fucking?"

Gabrielle followed Zina's glance over to the bedroom door...which was now open. The doorframe held both her parents. Both squat little Hockenberrys looked stunned.

The firefighter answered her own question. "Guess they have now."

"Hi, Momma," Gabrielle offered the feeble greeting.

*****

Zina sat morosely on the steps. Down the hall, Gabrielle was stationed outside the bathroom door. Her mother was barricaded inside said room, wailing uncontrollably. The poet's attempts at comfort and reason were lost in the maelstrom of grief for Gabrielle's presumed heterosexuality. Mrs. Hockenberry was a one-woman wake for perceived normalcy.

The firefighter resigned herself to the fact that the old lady would probably be in there all night, since she was so close to a toilet anyway, and probably left her extra pair of Depends in the pickup. So Zina ambled downstairs, in search of a beer, and curious as to what Gabrielle's laconic father was doing down there. Since his wife had locked herself in the room, he had only muttered, "For Christ's sake, Hermione," and wandered off downstairs.

Hockenberry pere had his bulk spread out comfortably in the couch, watching pro wrestling on TV. Zina saw nothing of her lovely girlfriend in either parent, and began to wonder if the lumpy couple had somehow conceived Gabrielle through a happy accident involving test tubes and Chemical X, as if she were one of the Powerpuff Girls.

Her arrival and observation of him did not go unnoticed. His eyes, actually made more attractive by the glow of the TV, studied her with awe.

Zina indulged in her usual gesture of discomfort: She rubbed the back of her neck. "Wanna beer?" she asked Mr. Hockenberry.

He nodded. She padded out to the kitchen, and returned with two Rolling Rocks. She handed him one. As he mumbled " 'preciate it," she sat down next to him.

He appraised her again. "Yer pretty," he mumbled.

"Thanks." She paused. "So's Gabrielle." But that goes without saying since you caught me boinking her, doesn't it?

"Ain't no skin off my ass," he continued. With only four more words, he would break a personal lifelong record for number of phrases spoken in one day.

She nodded.

"I still like her best," he confided. The record thus broken, the factions of his brain that encouraged language usage broke out the Asti Spumanti, peanuts, and noisemakers.

Zina smiled. "Me too."

"Lila's just dumb, like me, and Hope's plain crazy, like her ma. But Gabrielle ain't like anyone else."

So true, thought Zina. She started to raise the bottle to her lips, but stopped abruptly. Wait a damn minute. She stared at him. "Who's Hope?"

*****

Hours passed before Mr. Hockenberry finally rolled on the couch and announced he was going home, without his hysterical wife. Then Gabrielle came downstairs and threw herself on the couch. "My mother's asleep in the bathtub."

"I bet if you run the shower, that'll wake her up."

"You're not being real helpful, Zina. This whole night has been a disaster. I didn't get to watch Beaches, my parents saw us having sex, they know I'm gay, my mom is freaked out and living in our bathroom, and to top it all off I didn't come."

"Poor baby." The firefighter smirked, then guffawed.

Gabrielle glared at her, having expected a modicum of sympathy. "What is wrong with you?"

"I'm gonna tell ya what is wrong: What got here is a failure to communicate," Zina drawled in her best Strother Martin-Cool Hand Luke tone.

"What the hell are you talking about?"

Zina chuckled, shaking her head in amazement. "This is so cool. It's great." Gabrielle looked at her, puzzled. Zina put her beer on top of coffee table, more specifically, on top of the TV Guide.

"Hey, watch it! You'll get it all wrinkly!" the poet cried. When Zina failed to react, she moved the bottle off the guide.

The firefighter ignored this. "Listen, it's like we're in one of those parallel universes, like in Star Trek. 'Cause this time you're the one with the crazy, fucked-up secret in her past, not me." She giggled again. "This is so great. This time I get to be self-righteous hag." The firefighter bit her knuckle in mock melodrama and worked up little ponds of glistening crocodile tears in both eyes. "How could you keep a secret from me, Gabrielle! After all the underwear we've shared!"

Catching on, the poet gasped. "You know about Hope," she breathed. It was her one dirty secret, aside from shoplifting at K-Mart in the 7th grade.

"Yeah, that's right, baby. Your daddy told me about your twin, Hope." Zina guzzled her beer with relish.

Gabrielle was mystified. "He did? But why? Hell, Daddy only says about three words a day, and they're usually, 'where's dinner, woman?' "

"That's why they came here tonight, Gabrielle. 'Cause of your sister. They wanted to tell you she's out of the loony bin."

"Fuck!" Gabrielle exclaimed in a panic. She bounced around on the couch nervously. "I...shit, Zina, she hates me. Is she in town? Do they know?"

"They don't know yet." Zina stroked her chin thoughtfully, the gesture a result of witnessing Artie stroke his goatee for years on end. "Did you show up at the garage today?"

"Well, yeah, but you were gone when I got there. Why?"

"Uh-huh. Was this before or after your haircut?"

"After." Gabrielle went slack-jawed. "Oh my God. She was at the garage?"

"Yep," the firefighter confirmed. "I reckon it was her."

Zina found her Nine Inch Nails t-shirt in Gabrielle's hot, angry hands. "Did you fuck around with my sister?"

"Gabrielle, knock it off! I was in the garage, for Christ's sake. Purdy was right there. Look, I just kissed her, 'cause I thought she was you." Mock indignant, she straightened her t-shirt. “Sure explains the reaction I got."

"Oh boy, she must have freaked."

"She did. She smacked me."

With a squirm and a lustful growl, the poet affirmed this: "You're very smackable, you know?" Gabrielle's thwarted libido was drawing up a petition for another crack at Zina.

"Save it for after we sandblast your mother outta the bathroom." Zina picked up the Rolling Rock and took a pull on it. She rubbed the cold green bottle with her thumb. "So, uh..." She shrugged nervously. "Why'd your sister end up in the sany-tarium?"

"Cause she's an evil bitch, that's why," muttered Gabrielle darkly. "She..." the poet swallowed nervously, and Zina took her hand and squeezed it gently.

"C'mon, you can tell me," the firefighter encouraged her gently.

Gabrielle squirmed uncomfortably, then snuggled closer to her lover for comfort. "She...she tried to throw me in the barbecue pit when we were little. She had me trussed up to a stake and covered in sauce and everything." She shuddered at the memory. "Thank God Daddy wasn't drunk that day."

"Huh. Wow." For Zina, this explained her companion's perpetual dislike of barbecue. But how come she doesn't like coleslaw?

"That was the last straw. Up until then, it had just been minor things, things you pretend were an accident. Like shoving me in front of the school bus. Trying to sell me to a motorcycle gang. Shit like that."

A memory scratched eagerly at the back door of Zina's mind. She rubbed her jaw nervously. "Hey, what motorcycle gang was that?" Gabrielle looked at her, horrified. "It wasn't Hogs and Harlots, was it?"

Gabrielle went pale.

Zina grinned in her charmingly dopey fashion. "I coulda been your first."

"That's just great," snarled the poet sarcastically.

"Yep." She smirked proudly. "I was always head of the line."

*****

At the near-empty counter of the town’s lone diner sat Hope, picking at a ham-and-egg sandwich and ignoring a cup of coffee. A cigarette proved to be a larger temptation than the greasy items before her, and she lit up. Before long she noticed a crazy-looking woman with big crazy brown eyes and big crazy blonde hair was sitting next to her and staring. In a real crazy way.

"The brat smokes," murmured the blonde woman. "Will wonders ever cease?"

"Get outta my face," snarled Hope.

"Tough talk without your bitch girlfriend to back you up," retorted the blonde.

Hope groaned, realizing that—of course—she was being mistaken for her sister once again. "Look, I'm not Gabrielle. Okay?"

"You've been reading Sybil again, dear? Which personality are you today? The crossdressing kindergarten teacher? The kleptomaniac who bites her nails?"

The ex-mental patient flicked cigarette ash in the lap of her tormentor. Callie screeched. "Why you little—" before she could finish the sentence or lay a hand on Hope, the latter had slapped her across the face, the crack echoing in the vast mid-morning emptiness of the formica-laden diner.

The waitress, sitting alone at the other end of the counter, perked up a little.

Callie saw stars and touched her burning cheek. Wow. She blinked through the tears in her eyes. It isn't the brat! "Who are you?" she whispered in awe.

"Hope. I'm Gabrielle's sister. I've been away for a while, but I'm back." Ash dribbled onto her unappetizing breakfast, which made it look heavily peppered.

"Hope," Callie repeated. "I'm Callie." Hope. Hope is a woman named Hope. I'm hopeless about Hope.

"I'd say it's nice to meet you, but it's too early and I'm too pissed off."

"Yeah. That's okay, Hope. So...just got into town, hmm?"

Hope nodded. She stared at the dismal sandwich before her, shrugged, and took a huge bite of it.

Wow. Now here's someone who doesn't give a crap about what anyone thinks. "Got a place to stay?" asked Callie.

"No," Hope grunted sullenly. "My parents won't let me stay with them. Fucking assholes."

Is it possible to fall in love within the span of five minutes, after someone has slapped you silly and repulsed you by eating something undeniably gross? Elizabeth Taylor knew it to be true, this magnetic, sudden rush of love that overwhelmed common sense, good taste, and all concepts of decency. And Callie, off her meds, thought so as well. It's funny, the person I love most in the world and the person I hate most in the world look the same!

Idly, Callie pressed a leg against Hope's. "Well, I'd be happy to let you bunk over at my place. Um, there's only one bed, though...."

Hope, slurping coffee, nearly spat it all over the counter. "What the fuck? Is every woman in this town a lesbo now? Instead of the Stepford Wives, you're all Stepford Dykes?"

The waitress looked rather intrigued at this notion.

Callie hastily withdrew her lunging, lustful thigh. "Um, no, don't be silly!" She gulped—a Plan B would be necessary in this seduction. "I'm a minister of God, for heaven's sake!" Plan B being a good bottle of tequila and Artie.

"Fine," said Hope, finishing off the sandwich with one last large, feral bite, as Callie marveled at the capacity of her mouth. "So I'll take the bed, you take the floor."

*****

Zina lumbered into the house and was assailed, once again, with more of Gabrielle's ongoing spiritual crises. The perpetual academic was sitting on the floor with something that, to the firefighter, resembled a giant bong.

My mother…fumed Zina. "What the hell is that?" she grunted, looming over Gabrielle and the thing.

"Hi, honey! Cool, isn't it?" Absently Gabrielle plucked a string attached to the pseudo-bong, and it made a sharp yet melodious noise. "It's a sitar. Eli lent it to me."

"Eli?" echoed Zina.

"Yeah." Gabrielle smiled proudly. "He's Sarcastic Hippie Video Store Guy."

"But…how did…?" she trailed off. Zina was dumbfounded, yet impressed at Gabrielle's accomplishment. "You made contact," she murmured, awestruck.

"Yeah. I broke the cycle of bad porn, baby. Thanks to Eli." For herself, Gabrielle too was amazed at having broken through his sarcastic veneer. Who would’ve guessed that Eli had a sitar collection, possessed a spiritual side, and ran his own support group for hirsute pot smokers?

"But I wanted to see Prison Pussy IV!"

"Too bad, Zina. Tonight we're watching Truffaut's The 400 Blows."

The firefighter leered. "Well, that might be okay. Especially if you blow me a couple hundred times during it."

"Oh, Zina." The poet gave both a haughty sigh and a withering look of disdain to the firefighter. "It's not that kind of film." Absently, she plucked out a tune on the sitar, which sounded vaguely like "Don't Fear the Reaper" and made Zina long for a Blue Oyster Cult reunion tour.

Then Gabrielle hit a particularly harsh chord. "Honey, I hate to break it to ya, but you're not exactly George Harrison," Zina jibed.

"Sure. Fine. Go ahead and mock me. Don't be supportive. I'm trying to find my way, find some peace in this raging, violent world, and you have to be a fucking killjoy. Fine. I'll just take my sitar upstairs—" Kneeling, Gabrielle scooped up the sitar from its large round bottom and abruptly lifted it into the air. The instrument's upward mobility met with resistance punctuated by a thud and a twang that made her hands reverberate. And then another nauseating thud as Zina's unconscious body hit the floor.

Gabrielle gasped. She wasn't kidding when she said she had a glass jaw! "Oh, baby!" she squealed.

*****

From the trailer's tiny kitchen Callie could see Hope sitting in the recliner, reading the newspaper. The minister maneuvered herself out of plain sight to practice her Slinky Walk, something she had not done since being ordained by Artie into his church.

But love had called for drastic measures. She had pulled out her Daisy Dukes, thinking that, between these and many a vodka tonic, any woman of worth would turn queer. She did not want to implement Plan B unless it were absolutely necessary—a walking penis like Artie was a dime a dozen, but a good bottle of tequila was hard to find in these parts.

Callie heard the rattling of ice cubes. "Coming, my pet!" she cried gaily. She ran to the refrigerator and pulled out the two liter bottle of Dr. Pepper, checked her hair in the toaster’s greasy reflection, then dashed into the living room.

"Here you go," Callie crooned in sing-song tones as the beverage foamed and sizzled within the grape jelly glass.

Hope grunted, then pointed at an item in the newspaper. "That's her."

"Hmm?"

"That's the sick fuck that my sick fuck of a sister is screwing." Hope pointed at page 2 of the Chakram Creek Daily Independent Morning News Courier. FIREFIGHTER OF THE YEAR FOR THE SECOND TIME, bellowed the headline. The article was accompanied by a large photo of Zina, de rigueur in firefighting gear, cradling her helmet, and sitting on the back of a fire truck with an anemic looking Dalmatian who had been up for a supporting role in the live action version of 101 Dalmatians but blew its chance on becoming a celluloid hero after humping Glenn Close's leg and peeing on her handmade Italian loafers.

Thus spake the article:

For the second year in a row, Miss Zima Amphipolitti of Chakram Cheek has won the prestigious "Firefighter of the Year" award in Olympus County.

In a brief ceremony at the county firehouse yesterday morning, Miss Amphipollittus was presented with a plaque by the Mayor, followed by the county's newly appointed poet laureate, Gabrielle Hockenberry, reading briefly from one of her own works entitled "Ode to Tremulous Thighs." The winner also received a certificate granting her a year's supply of doughnuts from Krispy Kreme, co-sponsors of the award. The ceremony was brief.

"Yeah, it's great," proclaimed the 52-year-old firefighter. A lifelong native of Chakram Creek, the winner attended high school at various locations in the region, including Chakram Creek High, Henabae High, Our Lady of Spamona High, and the prestigious Athens Christian Academy. She received her GED last year. Before embarking on her career as a firefighter, Miss Amphibian overcame serious drug, alcohol, and legal problems in an effort to make her life "not suck."

"This woman is living proof that you can turn your life around 360 degrees on the right track, and that the parole system is preferable to welfare," stated the Mayor. Miss Amphigrafitti will be on parole until the year 2010.

"Ooooh." Callie bit her tongue. She needed a new picture of Zina for her scrapbook; most of the others were either stained or torn violently.

"What the hell is a poet lore-ate?" snapped Hope.

4. The Way, or The Weigh

Zina's mind was, she would gleefully admit to anyone, not of a scientific bent. However, a kind of academic curiosity inflamed her on the very first day she picked up the free doughnuts from Krispy Kreme: How many doughnuts could Gabrielle eat in one sitting? How much weight would she gain? To maintain her current weight and physique, she would have to increase her weekly can-crunching workouts to what amount? Every day? Every hour? Am I going to get to eat any of these doughnuts? she wailed to herself.

She stopped walking down through the parking lot. Hell, yes. Viciously she tore open the box and jammed a powdered creme-filled in her mouth, where it remained as she kick-started the cycle, navigated out of the lot, pulled up to the first red light, tore down the road until the second stop light, made a left, then another left, then a right, saw Cyrene's Volkswagen outside the food co-op, went past the town limits, picked up speed, wind, and the exhilarating pulse of freedom, then saw the speed limit sign, then the poorly camouflaged state trooper cruiser behind an abandoned grain shed, which reminded her of that weird ABBA song, "Super Trouper." Do they have state troopers in Sweden? Maybe they're nicer there than here…sure, they're super! Super, thanks for asking! And then she almost missed the turnoff for the farmhouse, but swerved at the last moment, made it and sped up the dirt road to the house. By the time she shut off the bike, the doughnut was soggy and denuded of its powder, most of which was congealed around Zina's mouth, as if she were a half-hearted, amateur kabuki actress.

The firefighter took a few seconds to fully devour the thing and wipe her mouth, then she burst into the house. "Hey, baby! I'm home!"

Gabrielle, studying at the dining room table, looked up expectantly. "Hi." The green eyes widened. "Oh my God. You have the doughnuts."

"Of course I have the doughnuts. It's time to eat the doughnuts!"

"I can't."

Zina stared at her in shock. "What?"

"I can't, baby, I can't." Gabrielle looked stricken, and torn. She gnawed her lip. "It's a promise I made. Eli and your mom, they want me to go macrobiotic."

"What the hell's that?"

"It's my way, Zina. It's what I was meant to be. Sugar-free, meat-free, dairy-free…"

The firefighter chuckled in disbelief. "Come on, you don't expect me to believe that. You couldn't possibly give up all those things. I know you, Gabrielle!"

"Then you know that when I've made up my mind, I've made up my mind!" retorted the angry blonde.

"Oh yeah?" Zina tossed the carton of doughnuts on the table.

She watched Gabrielle fight with herself—the young woman's nostrils flared, she sucked on her lips. Her jaw trembled. "No. I won't give in. This is the way, Zina, the only way I'm going to clear my mind and my soul from all the non-recyclable crap in it." She stood up and began to gather together her books.

"Sure," snorted Zina. "Just walk away, like a coward." She peeled off her heavy firefighting coat, its dirty fluorescent yellow stripe dull in the overhead light of the dining room. The suspenders—which held up bulky fireproof pants—were taut and flowing over the munificent bounty of her torso. Gabrielle gulped. Deprived of junk food, she was at least thankful that Eli wasn't insisting on celibacy in this new spiritual pursuit. The firefighter sauntered closer to her. "I want proof, Gabrielle. I want to see that you can really do this. I want you to prove it all night." Zina was very close to her, indeed, almost pressed against her.

Gabrielle moaned and shivered. "Oh baby, you know what you do to me when you quote the Boss," she sighed. She was ready to melt in her lover's arms. But, with panther-like swiftness, Zina pinned her on the floor and handcuffed her to the dining room table. Damn you, Minya! "Do you carry these handcuffs everywhere?" she cried, then struggled awkwardly to sit up.

"Sure. Some people just don't know the difference between a firefighter and a cop." Zina gave a sinister chuckle.

Gabrielle wasn't sure she wanted to know precisely what that statement meant.

Zina knelt before Gabrielle, whose squirming was not the result of pleasure or excitement, but dread. "I'm going to show you my way, Gabrielle." Her purring was richly obscene and slinked its way from her vocal chords to Gabrielle's heart. "Our way. The way it should be. The way it always will be."

In a burst of defiance the little poet gave the handcuffs a savage jerk. "Not fair," she whined. "I don't have any choice, you big bitch."

"Tut-tut, Grasshopper. One always has choices," intoned the semi-wise firefighter.

"Did Lao Ma say that to you? She's as bogus as the new Kung Fu."

"Silence!" Zina hissed. "No more talk. Now is the test, Gabrielle. Now we will see how true you are to your way." The sneering tone strengthened Gabrielle's resolve even further. Until she saw it. It was sudden and swift, merciless in that way Zina could be sometime. The doughnut loomed in front of her like a space station dripped in sickly sweet sticky glaze.

"Krispy Kreme," Zina drawled in a low breathy voice; for added emphasis she ground her hips seductively. Advertising executives would kill their grandmothers, sacrifice puppies to Satan, and deflower Girl Scouts for such endorsements. If they didn't already do so.

Gabrielle wanted it. She wanted it bad. More than anything in her entire life. But, clenching her teeth, she growled, "No!"

"Oooh, very good, Gabrielle. Be strong. Show me, baby. Come on. Show me what you're made of, Grasshopper." Zina unfurled her lovely, languid tongue and swirled it around the moist hole. "I'm gonna eat it, baby," she breathed heavily, "I gonna suck down every sweet drop of it and you'll just have to sit there and watch me. Watch me do it, baby. Watch me."

Gabrielle stopped jerking and panting wildly. She gulped. And she watched as Zina's flawless teeth descended upon the soft, puffy, delicate flesh of the doughnut. "No!" she screamed. With superhuman effort she lurched forward and snagged the other end of the treat in her mouth. Chewing fanatically, she groaned as sugar saturated her mouth. It pumped wildly through her veins as she worked her way to Zina's lips. Mouths crushed together and flakes of glaze exploded from the collision. The firefighter hurried to uncuff her lover, and was indeed successful. They fell to the floor in a love fueled by the Sticky Jewel in the Crown of the American South.

*****

Cyrene, for once mindful of things that she might not want to see, opted to ring the doorbell of the farmhouse. After a few minutes Gabrielle opened it, short hair wild and sticking, clothes rumpled in a fashion that indicated hasty dressing.

The older woman sighed. "Don't you two ever stop screwing?"

"No," replied the poet automatically.

Cyrene's nose twitched as Gabrielle tried to look innocent. "I smell it on you!" the older woman accused. She jammed a crone-like finger in the fair Gabrielle's face.

"I just said we were fucking, what do you expect?" Gabrielle retorted; yet she knew that wasn't what the hippie had meant.

"Nuh-uh, honey. I smell sugar on you. I accuse you…oh man, what's that line in French? Like Zola, said to all those dudes in France: Je…je smellez vous!"

"You can't smell sugar!"

"Can too," the older woman shot back in a petulant tone.

"You can't smell anything, Cyrene. You couldn't even smell the ashtray when you set it on fire last month." Indeed, what was like to be one of Cyrene's senses? They definitely weren't working overtime; in fact, they had been given the pink slip many moons ago. They were the welfare mothers of the sensory world, every Republican's nightmare.

The older woman frowned, relenting. "All right, I can't. But I know you've broken your vow."

"How?"

"You have sprinkles in your hair."

Gabrielle groaned and raked her short blonde locks with her fingers, causing a rainbow of unnatural sugar condiments to shower upon Cyrene's Birkenstocks.

Cyrene stared at her feet. "Just what have you two been doing with those doughnuts?" she asked, suspicious.

"S'all Zina's fault." It was unkind, but Gabrielle hoped her corrupt lover was itching from the powdered sugar in her nether region.

"Isn't it always?"

"As a matter of fact…"

"Aw c'mon, Gabrielle. You can't blame everything on Zina. I know it's easy to do that. When she was younger, I used to blame my lack of boyfriends on her, thinking that guys wouldn't want to be with a woman who had a kid."

"Hmmm."

"But then I realized it was my lack of deodorant. Thank goodness Tom's of Maine started making a decent one!"

"Yeah. That's great."

"Now I beat 'em off with a stick."

"Uh-huh."

"You're not listening to me, are you?"

"No, not really."

"Fine, fine," carped the hippie, sailing past Gabrielle. "I'm just saying you need to take some responsibility," she added haughtily. "And I'm gonna tell Eli at our Legalize Pot Now meeting tonight!"

Gabrielle gasped. "Cyrene, don't! He'll take away my discount card!"

Cyrene heartlessly ignored this plea. "Zina!" she shouted.

The firefighter was pulling a t-shirt over her head when Cyrene entered the living room.

"Honey..."

Zina held up a hand. "Don't say anything, Mom. I know it's my fault. I never should've tempted Gabrielle with sugar."

"Jesus..."

"Please don't be upset."

"But, honey," Cyrene gestured helplessly, "you're going prematurely gray down there."

"That's just powdered sugar."

"Powdered sugar?" repeated Cyrene.

The firefighter nodded.

The hippie pursed her lips thoughtfully. "I never thought I would say this, but I think you guys are getting too weird for me."

5. What Would Jesus Do?

Callie's half-hearted dart toss spiraled toward the ground, but just managed to snag the very edge of the corkboard, where it drooped, impotent and clinging. She sighed, and cut another look at Hope and Artie over at the bar. The little blonde was all over Artie, wriggling in his cheap chino-ed lap. She watched as Hope once again jammed her tongue into Artie's mouth.

Apparently, Callie raged, being a whorish little slut ran in the Hockenberry family.

The ex-minister finally lost it when Hope started un-buttoning Artie's shirt. She stalked over to them, still clutching a dart. She tried to clear her throat in a ladylike manner, but merely ended up sounding like Tom Waits preparing to hock a lugie.

Hope and Artie stared at her. "What the hell do you want?" spat Hope.

You, you little bitch! Callie wanted to scream. She swallowed, and composed herself, forcing a bright, fake smile. "My darlings, what do you say we retire to my place?"

"I want to be alone with my little fuzzy-wuzzy," Hope crooned to Artie.

Artie grinned in pleasure, then winced as she began plucking some chest hairs. "Yeah, Callie. Perhaps the lady and I would like to be alone for the rest of the evening."

Oh, you idiots. Your poor, senseless buffoons. "I have a bottle of tequila back at my place."

Hope paused. "Okay." She stood up.

"I'm in," chimed Artie.

*****

Normally Artie didn't mind being passive while screwing. However, his primary objection in this particular instance—on his back in Callie's bed—was having to stare up at the photo of Charlton Heston taped to the ceiling. It was a still shot from Planet of the Apes, with Chuck dirty and resplendent in his loincloth. Perhaps it was the tequila, but, as Hope straddled him and started riding him, he swore he could hear that deep voice snarling, you damn dirty ape! But then—he smiled in fond remembrance—Zina used to call me that too.

Ah, Zina. He closed his eyes. If he focused hard enough, he could pretend that Hope's breathless panting and squeals were the deep leonine growls of Zina, that he could smell the beer she liked, that he could feel her prison ID bracelet scraping against his skin. "Oh…oh…oh…zzzzzz…." He was close, and in danger of doing something irreparably stupid. Don't say it! he warned himself. No matter how tempting it may be! He clutched the side of the bed. What is she doing? Dear Lord, it feels great!

But, despite his own self-chastisement, he moaned, shuddered, and released. With the cry of "Zina!" on his lips. Damn.

However, in the tiny moment of bliss after he came, he honestly believed that, when he opened his eyes, his beloved sister/cousin/whatever would indeed be there, with her blue eyes, her lush body, and beautiful sneer.

Instead it was just Hope, carrying an insane rage in her glassy eyes. "What the fuck?" she yelled.

*****

The first thing Callie saw when she opened her eyes that morning were Teletubbies scampering playfully across the TV screen. Her neck felt permanently wrenched into its twisted position, courtesy of a long night on the couch. Carefully, she sat up, and tried straightening her head; but the room spun merrily, and she felt like Linda Blair. Plan B didn't work very well, she thought groggily. What the hell went wrong? She tried, slowly, to remember last night's events while rubbing her neck. Then she grew aware of the empty tequila bottle in her lap.

As Hope emerged from the bedroom, clad in t-shirt and bikini briefs, Callie shook the empty bottle and realized that she had indeed finished off the tequila last night, after Artie and Hope had crawled off to her bedroom. "Oh man, I ate the worm," she groaned aloud.

Hope flopped down on the couch, and gave her a pointed look. "Me too."

*****

Artie straightened his tie and settled down behind his desk for another leisurely day of work at Ares Ministries. Actually, today would be busy. He was expecting a call from Pat Buchanan, and had several issues of Road and Track to catch up on. Nonetheless, the day's activities were nothing out of the ordinary, and every day that passed without some insane encounter with Hope was a blessing. He had not seen her in almost two months, since their ill-fated one night stand. Now there's a euphemism, he sneered at himself; being chased naked around a trailer by some hoochie with a butcher knife who was threatening, quite loudly, to cut off certain sated appendages was not exactly ill-fated.

The most amazing thing about the whole escapade was that Callie slept through it all.

He was organizing the condiments in his desk drawer when Hope kicked open the door.

Oh Lord! He jumped up. "Hope!"

"Hello, Worm," greeted the former mental patient. Ever since That Night, she and Callie had taken to calling him that: The Worm. It was their way of bonding. She sprawled in the chair facing his desk. "Haven't heard from you lately, Worm." She picked a paper clip from a pile of the little metal objects on his desk.

He then sat on the desk, facing her. "Hope, must you call me that?" he implored. "I've been very busy doing the Lord's work. You should understand that." He gave her the same condescending smile he used on old ladies for donations.

"Look, pussy boy, save the crap for the congregation. We have some unfinished business."

He held up his hands. "I know, my dear girl. I used you to satisfy my base cravings. It was shameful. I've been praying every day, and doing penance." It was true; giving up the Ding-Dongs had been harder than he ever imagined.

"You called me by that big bitch's name." Hope was glaring into space and twisting the paper clip so that it resembled a miniature sculpture by Giacometti. "I hate that miserable freak!"

Artie blinked in surprise. "You mean Zina?"

"Everyone in this town is obsessed with her. You, my sister, Callie...even Purdy, for God’s sake. She steals Gabrielle from him, and that poor dumb idiot idolizes her."

He admitted this with a shrug. "Well, she is pretty awesome."

The sharp edge of the paper clip sculpture sank into his thigh, right through the thin, paltry J.C. Penney khakis. "Shit!" he cried, abandoning godliness for the moment.

"You pathetic fool," Hope hissed. "I don't even know why I came here."

Artie yanked the paper clip out of his leg with an unmanly squeak of pain. "Well, neither do I," he rasped, pressing his palm against the wound.

She stood up. "Actually, I did want to tell you something."

He looked at her reluctantly, expectantly.

"I'm knocked up."

Artie said nothing, but wondered if Pat's offer to set up a mission in Sarajevo was still good.

*****

The next stop on Hope's itinerary that day was her sister's house. She had no interest in seeing dull Lila, but Gabrielle was another matter. Ever since her arrival back in the Creek, Gabrielle had been steadfast in her resistance to see her estranged twin. Chickenshit, thought Hope. Now there was nothing left but a direct confrontation. And if that meant she had to go through that big dyke to get at her sister, she would.

Sure enough, the freak answered the door. Zina leaned in the doorway, muscular arms folded over her chest. "Guess they haven't put an electronic bracelet on you yet," greeted the firefighter.

"Look, I'm not here to see you. I want my sister."

Zina hitched an eyebrow. "Really? Then we do have something in common, Hopeless. I want her too," she purred with a wink.

"Stop twisting my words, you freak. I want to see Gabrielle. Now."

"Not possible, Hope Floats. Gabrielle's teaching today." Having acquired an undergraduate degree, realizing its inherent worthlessness, and thus ascending rapidly to the graduate level, Gabrielle was now an indentured servant of the college, teaching freshman lit.

"Fine," snarled Hope. "When does she get back?"

Zina shrugged. "I dunno, could be late. You know how those college types like to sit around and yap, Chicago Hope."

"Will you fucking stop that?"

"Stop what, Ryan's Hope?"

Weaponless, she was about to take a lunge at the firefighter, but once again took note of the brawny forearms and thought better of it. "Look, you, I've got to talk to my sister. It's important."

"What about, Bob Hope?"

Hope sneered. "Why should I tell you?"

Zina sneered back. " 'Cause otherwise you don't have a hope in hell of getting past me, Hope Lange."

"Fine." She glared at the firefighter. "I'm pregnant."

Zina whistled. "Huh. Knew Artie was always lying 'bout being sterile." She looked at Hope. "You wanna come in and wait for Gabrielle?"

"My feet are killing me." Translation: Yes. Nonetheless, she hesitated.

Zina laughed. "You think I'm gonna try to seduce you or somethin'? I've already done it with pregnant women. It's kinda fun, until you get in the way when they have morning sickness." The firefighter shuddered at an unpleasant, unspoken memory, then stepped aside so that Hope could enter the farmhouse.

As she nervously crossed the threshold, Hope heard the door slam suddenly, then felt Zina's hot breath (lightly accented with Rolling Rock) in her ear. "Of course, if you misbehave and lay a finger on Gabrielle, I'll snap your neck before you can say hot pork sandwich."

Hope froze. Maybe this wasn't such a good idea after all. Although she had a sudden urge for pork. Smothered in gravy. She made a mental note to call Callie before heading back to the trailer.

"Siddown," Zina ordered. "I'm not going to hurt you."

Reluctantly, Hope did so. "Can I have a beer, at least?"

"You shouldn't be drinking. You're gonna a have a baby."

"Look, I was so upset when I found out I was knocked up that I drank all of Callie's peppermint schnapps. The damage is done."

Shit, the damage was done the minute the sperm landed on Planet Egg, thought Zina. "All the same, do your heavy drinking somewhere else, okay?" She offered Hope a can of Coke, then settled on the arm of the couch, where Hope slouched, legs sprawled and tenting her much abused skirt.

Gabrielle's sister cracked open the can and guzzled its contents quickly. She brooded, then looked at Zina. Who was staring at her with those unnerving blue eyes. "So tell me," Hope began, angry voice edged with genuine curiosity. "What is it about you...that makes everyone in this place think you're so fucking wonderful? Why does every man, woman, and child in town either want you or want to be you?"

Zina smiled coolly. The firefighter stood, and assumed a curious stance. She stretched her shoulders, and, with her legs planted apart and one hip jutted forward, holding her right arm just slightly further form her body than the left, she stared at, then through, the ex-mental patient. She looked the very picture of a gunslinger, like Alan Ladd in Shane. Except a whole lot taller.

Hope blinked, and shuddered at a sudden draft between her legs. And she saw that Zina held aloft a pair of suspiciously familiar panties, dangling in flaccid glory from her fingers. Playfully she sniffed them. Then, raising a critical eyebrow, shook her head sadly.

No. She couldn't have. It's not possible. The hysterical thoughts raced through Hope's drug-free mind.

"Now this is definitely where you and your sister part company," Zina said. "Gabrielle would never wear polyester panties." Disdainfully she let the underwear fall to the ground. "So," she addressed her stunned audience of one, "does that answer your question, Hope and Glory?"

6. Seven Months Later

The young man struggled with the straps that bound him to the hospital bed.

"Y'all just settle down there, Pedro," mumbled the male nurse.

"Fuck you, man! MY NAME IS NOT PEDRO. I know I got rights! Where's my car? Where's my CELL PHONE?"

"Sheriff'll be here soon, Pedro, and she'll straighten this all out."

"Stop calling me PEDRO, you stupid cracker!" Simply exhausted, he slumped in defeat against the uncomfortable gurney bed. His best friend had not exaggerated about what people were like outside of Manhattan! They were all inbred and dumber than dirt!

Then he saw an older woman down the hall. She was not a member of the staff, and was holding an infant so well-swaddled that the contents within the blue blanket could have been anything. The woman was dressed like a hippie, he thought, like those old 60s leftovers in the Village who got all nostalgic and mumbly about how much the neighborhood had changed.

Suddenly, he grew wildly, ridiculously hopeful. His eyes bulged. Perhaps this woman could help him get out of here! He wasn’t crazy, he reminded himself, just a drama queen. How was I supposed to know that state trooper would have me committed for observation just for channeling Susan Hayward? Again, he stole a look at the middle-aged hippie, who smiled at him. The woman was the most normal-looking person he had seen since he was caught speeding by said trooper along Shakti Ridge. She might be a beacon of sanity in this white trash hell pit. "Hey!" he cried to her. "Hey, sister! C'mere!"

The woman approached him warily, lightly bouncing the baby in her arms. A motionless dark head poked out from the blankets, the face turned away.

"Hey, man, I can't sell you anything here. Like, this is a state mental hospital! It’s crawling with cops and shit," Cyrene hissed to him in an undertone.

"No, no, lady, lissen, I don't want anything like that." At least not right now. "I need you to help me get outta here. I was arrested just for speeding, and they dragged me in here sayin’ I was resisting arrest and I needed to be restrained for ‘observation,’ which is such bullshit! They won't let me call a friend or my family or nothing! Please, you gotta help me."

"Really, I wish I could, but I can't. I gotta watch the kid here." She nodded at the baby. "Look, they’ll probably let you go after you spend the night, or else they’ll transfer you to Shark Island Correctional…" Cyrene mused, trying to remember particulars from her own experience as the lone Vietnam War protester in the county, and conflating it with her daughter’s extensive criminal record.

"What? Shit!" he shouted.

"Shh!" Cyrene commanded. The baby started squirming and crying. "Aw, man, you woke her up!"

The child turned in Cyrene's arms, facing him.

He gulped in horror. Mami was right! "AYE, MIA MADRE!" screamed Paolo Torqemada. "ES EL CHUPACABRA!"

*****

Hope wasn’t sure if it the was the drugs, the chocolate malted balls that Callie had brought her, or the fact that the goddamn thing was out of her body, but she was happy, and she loved everybody. She smiled as she surveyed her hospital room, head lolling on the pillow, a damp drool stain tickling her cheek. Within weeks she would be back in her old room at the institution and her parents would be saddled with her spawn. Perfect revenge. Let them fuck up another child. Threatening to kill Gabrielle (yet again) was the best thing she’d ever done; it resolved all the problems that this so-called real life had inflicted upon her. Although it had been fun to be out for a while, just given the sheer amount of havoc that she wreaked upon everyone. And the experience did reveal to her that she did not belong out here, in this world, but back in the institution. It was her real home.

She looked away from the window when she heard the door open. It was Gabrielle. She smiled. "Hi, chickenshit! Decided to finally see me, huh?"

The poet lingered near the door for a fast getaway. She had not wanted to see her sister, but Zina—in a burst of wisdom—said that it was better to confront the past and put it to rest, rather than letting things fester like a wound. Not to mention that the firefighter had promised to let Gabrielle use the handcuffs on her tonight.

"Hi," Gabrielle mumbled. "How are you feeling?"

"What the hell do you care?"

"Look, at least I’m trying, Hope. Okay? I’m sorry if I ever did anything to upset you or hurt you. And I forgive you for all the stuff you tried to do to me. And the fact you still want to hurt me."

"You’re lucky that your girlfriend is more of a violent psycho than me. Otherwise you’d be dead."

"I’m forgiving you as we speak." Or trying to, anyway.

"Big of you, chickenshit. Let’s not pretend anymore. I did what I did because I wanted to.

I threatened you ‘cause I wanted them to lock me up again. I wanted to go home. I’ve saddled the brat with Mom and Dad, I beat up Lila, and I scared the crap out of you. I’m feeling pretty damn good right about now." Hope exhaled triumphantly.

Oh, this is useless. Why even try? "That’s pretty impressive, Hope. But just remember one thing."

Hope eyed her sister suspiciously.

"Zina still has your underwear. It’s going in her trophy box." With that, Gabrielle left her sister behind. For good, she hoped.

*****

The firefighter leaned against the wall, close to where the Hockenberrys sat. The reluctant guardians of Hope’s infant had completed the requisite paperwork, and now awaited one last visit with their estranged daughter.

The door of Hope’s room was flung open and Gabrielle emerged, sucking lungfuls of air as if she had just been underwater for the last two minutes.

"How’d it go?" Zina asked, although she could tell, by taking in the pained expression of her companion, that Gabrielle’s conversation with her sister had been less than stellar. Handcuffs and extra doughnuts tonight, she thought. Poor baby.

"She’s fucked," muttered the poet.

Zina, not a doctor and not playing one on TV, nodded sagely.

The baby squalled as Cyrene brought her around the corner, to where the Hockenberrys and Zina awaited. "It's someone else’s turn," she said to them wearily. She thrust the infant at her daughter.

Much in the manner she handed a water hose, Zina took the child, then held her up. The baby silenced in the face of the intense blue stare. "I dunno," the firefighter said to Gabrielle, "how your sister and Artie could make such a damn ugly kid."

"Zina!" chastised Gabrielle, slapping her lightly on the forearm, "stop it! She'll hear you!" Then she stared at the baby and her face fell. "Well, Artie must be hairy, I guess." She looked to Zina for confirmation.

The firefighter winced in memory. "There were times…when I was surprised I just didn’t cough up a giant hairball."

The poet shivered in disgust, then regarded the infant again. "Ah, poor girl."

"Don't worry about her, Gabrielle," Cyrene threw in, "Chupy's made of tougher stuff than that, aren't you, kiddo?" she cooed to the child.

The women looked at Cyrene. "'Chupy'?" echoed Gabrielle.

"Uh, yeah, it's um, Spanish for 'fuzzy one,'" lied Cyrene. She had never gotten a straight answer—or even one in English—from the boy on the gurney, as he had babbled at her in Spanish for five minutes before passing out.

Zina made it official. "Chupy it is then," she declared.

"That's fine for a nickname, but she needs a real name," Gabrielle interjected.

Mrs. Hockenberry took a closer look at the infant and burst into tears. She ran into the bathroom.

"Jesus, somebody's gotta tell Momma that bathrooms are not exactly churches, you know?" the poet complained.

Zina was still contemplating the child. "How about Harley?" she suggested.

"Damn, Zina! You can't be serious. Naming the kid after your stupid bike?" cried Gabrielle.

"Cool!" said Cyrene.

"I like it," agreed Harold Hockenberry.

Gabrielle stared in sheer disbelief, thoroughly amazed at her father taking the energy and effort to formulate an verbal opinion. "Well! I guess I'm outgunned. Welcome to the family, Harley."

"Goin' home, now. Gab, tell your mom not to forget the kid. See y'all later." Harold Hockenberry nodded amiably at all of them, then waddled down the corridor to the exit.

"Shit, now we have to drive Momma home," Gabrielle grumbled. "Actually, first thing, we have to get her out of the bathroom."

Zina turned to Cyrene. "Hey, Mom, go get Mrs. Hockenberry outta the bathroom."

"And just how am I supposed to do that?" retorted Cyrene.

"Smoke some weed. That'll flush her out, so to speak."

With a martyr-like sigh, as if smoking marijuana were a burden akin to eating spinach, Cyrene headed for the bathroom. Zina and Gabrielle were left alone with the kid.

"Guess I'm gonna have to do some stripping again," Gabrielle said.

Zina looked at her, surprised. "Oh yeah, baby? How come? For her college fund?"

Gabrielle was pleased at the fact that Zina was thinking ahead, and thinking of the kid as well. It was a good sign. "Yeah. That and the fact she's gonna need serious electrolysis by the time she's five."

End

#xena #xena warrior princess #xena/gabrielle #xena/gabrielle fanfiction #author: vivian darkbloom #mature #fanfiction #femslash

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ready8210 · 5 years

Text

„Let me in your heart again“

2. California calling

Vivian

Munich / Germany - Vivian's Hotel room

It's a shame you have to spend the whole day in a boring plane. I let my eyes wander out of the window, taking in the breathtaking bright blue morning sky, one last time.

It was a nice breathy summer day and I was standing in my hotel room in Munich, had grabbed my packed bags and was ready to go for our "two - year - adventure".

It took me some days to realize, what happened and that I would spend the next years with one of the biggest rock bands in history. Me, little clumsy, timid Vivian.

Unfortunately it didn't take me that long, to realize, my hero, the man himself, Mr Freddie Mercury, literally HATES ME.

Yes he hates me, for sure.

And I have to admit, I shad a view tears, as my fantasizing about what could have been, between the two of us, went overboard and got the best of me.

NO, you can't just really believe that. Of course I didn't cry!! I'm on a MISSION now....giving him the hardest time ever!!!!

I may be a tad to upbeat here. I'm afraid things will evolve in another direction.

* * * *

Munich / Germany - Airport

I took a taxi, earlier today, to get all my bags full of camera equipment and belongings to the airport. Two suitcases for all of my cameras, lenses and all the other stuff, that comes along with being a photographer, plus two, for all my clothes and personal stuff. I'm hopeless when it comes to packing, so I always end up with way to much to carry around.

Finally there, we had some hours to spare and I was killing time, strolling around the multiple shops with my new „friend" Roger Taylor, incessantly asking me about my life and flirting like a manic.

He really can be annoyingly persistent.

I ended up telling him I'm married, having high hopes he would draw his attention to somebody else. Big mistake, I tell you. It encouraged him even more. I finally found some alone time, which was much needed, cause for whatever reason, I didn't feel very sociable today, as Brian and John forcefully tug him away from me, to discuss "something" with the band.

Looking after them, strolling away and making their way to the other end of the hall, I rummage around my bag, to put out my cellphone and headphones and make myself comfortable, while waiting for boarding to begin. I have to smile, as I hear the first tones of „under pressure" resounding in my ear. „How fitting" I giggle, while laying back my head, with closed eyes and sealing myself off from the outside world.

„Boarding for business class passengers will begin in 5 minutes", I hear a tinny voice informing the waiting crowd, as I still lay back in my seat, waiting to head to sunny California. My head is killing me at the moment, many sleepless nights and pervasive anxiety attack's, for the last view days, didn't make it better. And to make matters worse, there's no chance, not even a spark of relaxation, for the next two years. Even less, when you have to deal with a hate - filled Rock God.

Convinced to fly economy today, as Mr. Beach had acknowledged me, a view days ago, I look at my ticket for the first time, since I received it, recognizing, much to my surprise and liking, I am booked for business class.

„Let's go" I mutter noiseless „Let the hell ride begin", putting my way to heavy bag over my shoulder and enthusiastically bouncing up. This new circumstances really lighten up my gloomy mood.

As I make my way to the end of the line of waiting people, I can see Freddie hectically gesturing in my direction and scoffing something to Paul, while shaking his head contemptible, to then shoot me a death glare.

Paul Prenter to be precise. He's one of Freddie's PA's and the both of them are literally inseparable. Sticking together like Siamese twins the whole time. Somehow I feel sorry for Freddie, spending his time with a sneaky, calculating, little rat, always controlling his every move and telling him what to do. I may be prepossessed against Paul, but that's the impression I got so far. Earlier today, Roger did his best, to convince me of Peters malice. And one look at him is enough to know, Roger is right.

Besides that, I already was able to see for myself, when I was invited to the studio again and we all went out for dinner, a view days ago. The day was packed with teasing, despicable glances and subtle insults coming from Paul. After I was invited, I hoped for a more ‚friendly' meeting with Freddie, but he unfortunately took Paul as an example and did his best to make life hard for me.

Someone is not too happy with the fact I will join them business class, I tell myself, as I look at Freddie. I put on a big satisfied smile and look in his direction, while nodding brazenly. His expression changes to pure fury, you literally can see smoke whooshing out of his ears, before he relaxes his hands, which were painfully clenched into fists, showing every vein on his skin, and grabs his bag to quickly walk towards me, with narrowed lips and madness in his eyes. For a second I'm pretty sure he will stab me right there.

I shirk from his look, as a subtle hint of timidity overcomes me and make my way to the counter, as I realize, I'm next in line. A woman behind it checks my passport and ticket with a bored expressing, putting on a exaggerated smile, while handing me my documents back.

„Have a nice and enjoyable flight Ms", I hear her fading voice, already making my way to the plane, through the boarding bridge.

„Your seat Ms Kurzmann", I be led to my place, by a warmly smiling flight attendant. „If you need something, just let me know. Enjoy your flight."

Stowing away my luggage and seating myself, I take in the surroundings. This will be my best flight ever, I smile in satisfaction.

It will not! You'll see.

„Ms Kurzmann?", a friendly man, with a nice British accent appears besides me, seating himself, reaching out his hand to me.

„Yes, Vivian Kurzmann?!" I say half asking, looking astonished, and puzzled at him, as I hesitantly reach out my hand to greet him. I have to stand up to do so. Social interaction is not that easy, when flying business class.

„So You're the photographer the band is all exited about?" he babbles out, putting on a toothy grin, one that indeed shows all of his teeth. He has a really warm and friendly smile, one that immediately makes you feel happy.

„Oh excuse me. How rude of me. I'm Peter Freestone, or Phoebe for almost everybody." he introduces himself, while still giving me a firm handshake.

„Oh, I'm pretty sure not ‚everybody' is pleased with this arrangement." I mumble suggestively, looking at my hands, with Freddie, my new BFF, in mind.

„Phoebe?" I wonder, as we end our handshake. As I realize the word left my mouth, I slowly shake my head, fixing his eyes again and continue „isn't that a woman's name?"

„I suppose it's Freddie you're talking about? Oh I assume you caught him in one of his „good moods" he quips. Realizing my perplexed expression, he continues

„I should explain that. I'm Freddie's PA and he gives all of his close friends new names. Female ones for male and vice versa. Mine is Phoebe." he blinks at me.

„Well then, nice to meet you sir." I respond politely.

„Please call me Phoebe." he requests, as he still tries to make himself comfortable, searching for something in his bag.

„Gladly. I'm Viv." I tell him, leaning back in my seat, letting out a pleased sigh and marveling at what my seat and his surroundings have to offer.

Phoebe starts giggling and mutters:

„I don't think so..."

I turn my attention back towards him with a baffled mien. I already know this flight will be an ‚interesting' one.

„And whats that suppose to mean?" I begin to dig deeper, looking at him, my eyes widening in curiosity.

„Freddie already has chosen your new name." his lips turn into a fiendish smile, as he glances up from his bag and puts out a more then worn out book.

„No way. He literally hates me. I really wouldn't call me a friend of him. Not even close. We're more like Kain and Abel, David and Goliath or Napoleon and Kutuzov. You'll see when we arrive in LA." I put him off.

Phoebe lets out a loud lough „I'm telling you. YOU already have your name set." he assures me, nodding confirmingly.

„Enlighten me please." I request him, feeling curiosity grow in me.

„Brody." he shrugs , without any expression on his face.

„Brody? He couldn't come up with something better?" I ask blankly, still wondering how he came up with this name especially with such a boring one.

„You may ask him yourself." a broadly grinning Phoebe encourages me.

A queasy feeling spreads out, as is realize, I have to handle him for the next two years. And looking back on our two ‚dates', this won't be peaceful two years.

Unfortunately, my naive dream of a happy cure world unexpectedly came to an end last week, on this history - charged Friday and bursted like a soap bubble.

I shake my head in refuse at his words „I don't want to be eaten alive."

„This will be interesting two years." he winks amused.

In a steadily, serious voice I say „Don't get to exited. I may be dead and gone by the end of this day." Letting my head fall on my shoulder and my tongue hanging out of my mouth.

„The boys were right, you are adorable." he snickers.

Immediately turning red on his last remark, I coyly look into my lap.

„Young lady, I have to leave you for a short while. I'll be right back." Phoebe breaks the short silence, standing up from his seat and turning his back to me.

„I'll do my best to keep the evil away and stay alive. See you later." I exclaim, forming a cheeky smile.

As Phoebe strolls away, I grab my phone to ask google about my new dubious name.

‚Dirt' and ‚mud' I read speechless, with widened eyes after some minutes of research.

Staring at my phone with rising rage, I loudly blurt out „THAT SON OF A BITCH.", as Freddie and his partner in crime arrive at their seats. Both looking at me with a mixture of astonishment and aversion.

Freddie?.....here? In business class? The fact he's not flying first class today, for whatever reason, explains the tense atmosphere, now laying over the cabin like a big black cloud.

„Speaking of the devil" I address Freddie, playfully smiling, nodding teasingly at him again.

Something tells me, he wouldn't have expected me to speak to him like this, as his expression changes to a soft puzzled look and every muscle in his face relaxes. Still staring at me and looking me straight in the eyes, I move up my hand to wave at him, shooting him a challenging look. He looks down quickly, as phoebe comes back and passes by. With a long loud sigh Freddie falls into his seat, chatting and snickering with Paul.

Two can play this game Mr Mercury. I move to face my phone again, while shaking my head, still smiling over my little triumph. If he thinks he can intimidate me, than he's on the wrong track.

I really don't know what's coming over me today. It's not my typical introvert behavior, that usually would cause me to turn red like a tomato and go on the run. But I might get used to it.

„Im glad you survived", a winded phoebe collapses into his seat.

„Mephistopheles and his companion decided to leave me alone.

NEVER underestimate a woman and her superpowers" I giggle in response. Phoebe, for whatever reason unable to speak, tries to suppress his laughter.

„Did you take part in a marathon?" I ask in amusement, watching his rapid breathing. „I'm afraid you may need medical assistance."

Phoebe gasps and laughs at my words, which isn't of advantage for his current physical state.

„I'm pretty sure it's you, being dead and gone by tonight, not me." I quip, before giving the pour man his much needed rest.

Taking notice of all the laughter, Freddie turns to face us, jealousy and annoyance washing over his face, looking back and forth between Phoebe and me.

Deciding to ignore him this time - i really don't want to overreach things - I relax in my seat, putting my headphones out of my pocket.

„I Never would" phoebe finally finds his breath again.

"Would what?" I ask startled.

„Underestimate you and your superpowers." he winks, before grabbing his book again and browsing through it.

Noticing Freddie standing there again and staring at us, he whispers „He's a good guy, he's just very serious about his privacy and cautious when it comes to new people coming into his life", while slightly nodding his head in Freddie's direction. „You both will get along well."

„I hope so" I whisper calmly, facing Freddie.

As our eyes meet he holds my gaze for a view seconds, looking at me, as if he is in some kind of trance, before quickly turning his head back in embarrassment - at least it looked like that, as his cheeks started to glow in various red tones.

* * * *

With plugged in headphones I shuffle through my phone, with shaking hands, trying to find the kind of music, that will keep me calm for the tricky part of this flight.

I really enjoy flying, but takeoffs and landings scare the shit out of me. Most of the times everything goes off well, but when anxiety comes over me, I tend to go completely nuts. And this is no understatement.

Feeling a hand on my knee, I look up in surprise.

„You're ok?" a soft voice interrupts my growing panic. „Your hands are shaking like leaves." A concerned phoebe looks at me.

„I will be fine as soon as this bird will be up in the sky" is say assuringly, pointing upwards.

„Fear of flying?" he asks with worry in his voice.

„Not flying per se, just getting up there and down again. Don't worry, I will be fine." I smile at him affirmative.

„What are you listening to?" Phoebe tries his best to distract me.

„Canzonetta Sull'aria" by Mozart. It always helps with my anxieties." And let me tell you I have a lot. I simply reply with a hint of embarrassment in my voice.

„Oh, so you're into classical music?" an enthusiastic Phoebe babbles, with sparkling eyes and a way to big smile on his face. He seems to be as excited as a little boy in a candy store.

„I grew up with it, my grandma would never listen to anything else. I never could understand why, as a young kid. But here we are, over 20 years later....I really enjoy it these days." I tell him while melancholy comes over me.

Phoebe, recognizing my growing nostalgia, warmly smiles at me „I love classical music. I would love to show you my collection one day. I'm sure you'll find some stuff you like. Maybe I can show you something new."

Giving him a sincere smile I nod warmly: „That would be lovely."

„We just have to smuggle you past Mephistopheles." Phoebe giggles while looking in Freddie's direction, his mouse turning Into a mischievous grin.

„Uh?" Unable To disguise my lack of knowledge. „Why is that?" I go on as Phoebe didn't answer.

„I live at Garden Lodge. I'm his PA, so I get paid to always be around. It works best like this." he explains in his soft, calming voice.

„My sincere condolences." I reply ironically. „Living with Mephistopheles must be tricky." I add playfully.

Phoebe shakes his head giggling "You have no idea."

„Please never tell him, I called him that....uhm Mephistopheles I mean." I urge him, as I let my gaze wander to Freddie, who's sitting there, his thoughtful eyes fixed on a pad laying on his lap, while fiddling with a pen.

"My lips are sealed darling." he pats my shoulder, smiling kindly at me.

As I let my gaze wander over Freddie, peacefully sitting there, I surmise sadness in his whole appearance, he's always surrounded by people, most of the time by Paul Prenter, but in his eyes you can still see pure sadness and loneliness. I know this feeling too well. But that's another story to tell.

After a short while, I look back to my phone, to stop my thoughts and try to prepare for the upcoming departure. Unaware what awaits me on this flight.

My omnipresent panic increases to another level, as it abruptly turns dark outside and the sky is fully covered with thick pitch black thundery clouds.

We were told to be ready for takeoff, as a voice rings out of the speakers: „The flight is delayed due to bad weather. Please remain seated and keep your seatbelt fastened. We're ready for takeoff shortly."

„Ready for takeoff?" I yell hysterically. „They must be fuc*** kidding. They cannot possibly....FU**!" I exclaim much louder as intended.

Phoebe looks at me terrified, based on my unfortunate choice of words and screaming, not able to hold back his laughter.

„You're laughing?" I snap in frustration.

Phoebe puts on a sympathetic face, while trying to calm me.

„Relax Darling. It'll all be over in a view minutes and you'll enjoy the flight." he soothes me.

„Exactly, everything will be over, that's exactly the point." I object.

Freddie, now noticing my panicky splutter, shakes his head, frantically repressing his laughter.

Shooting him a destroying death stare, I cling to my armrests.

As lightening and thunder set in and a heavy rain falls down, I tremulously look outside, the tip of my nose pressed against the little window.

Turning back, I cup my face with my hands, stammering: "We're going to die. Oh god, we're going to die. Please someone get me out of here." Moving my body back and forth repeatedly.

Phoebe now puts his hand on my shoulder - at least he tries to, with this good distance between our seats - and whispers at me. "Look at me."

Hesitantly putting my hands on my thighs, I look into his calm eyes, as tears roll down my cheeks.

Ok Vivian, how embarrassing can it get? You're such a drama queen.

"Take a deep breath, everything will be alright. Keep breathing, calm down." He whispers, his hand still resting on my shoulder.

I thought I was calmly breathing, for everybody involved, it must've looked like the strained panting of a delivering woman.

The captain informs us, we are next in line and will takeoff shortly, as the rain decreases and the last thunder fades.

At this point I completely lose it: „Oh God, we're taking off, you said everything will be fine." I hiss at Phoebe.

„I will die in this fuc*** plane and Mephisto right there will bring me straight to hell." I gasp way to loud. Again!!

I scroll through my phone like a maniac, as a perplexed Phoebe asks „What are you doing?"

„Searching for music....if I have to bite the dust, it won't happen to the sounds of fuc*** Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart." I mumble frustrated.

I felt the plain moving faster and faster as I shuffled through my phone, not exactly knowing, what I was searching for.

I close my eyes, lay my head back and cling to my armrests even tighter. „Please don't crash, please don't crash, please don't crash...!" I wind the words like a mantra.

The moment the airplain gets off, is the worst. „Oh god, oh god, oh god,..." I gush out, til I notice the plane gains altitude and is now in the air.

„You see darling, nothing happened." Phoebe smiles at me, as I open my eyes again.

Much to my surprise everything went off without any turbulences.

„Nothing happend..." I whisper disbelievingly, scanning every part of the cabin.

„Am I dead?" I ask Phoebe in all seriousness, still taking in the surroundings and looking my body up and down.

Phoebe bursts out laughing and shakes his head.

Surprised by his reaction, I look over to Freddie, who is sitting there alone, turned around to face us, his hand pressed against his mouth, giggling uncontrollably.

As my expression hardens, I face Phoebe again. „If we're dead, we went straight to hell. Mephistopheles is still here." I gesture in Freddie's direction, rolling my eyes in annoyance.

Phoebe just giggles and draws his attention back to the book he is holding.

"Darling, you made my day. I hope you're ok? That was an overly impressive performance." I hear a posh British voice chuckle next to me, as I look out of the window.

I turn around and look up, straight into Mephi....Freddie's deep, brown eyes.

For the first time, the sadness is gone. I look into the two most beautiful eyes I've ever seen. Eyes filled with honesty and warmth.

As I feel embarrassment grow, I try to avoid his gaze and look down into my lap, where my still shaking, cold hands are laying. "I hope you enjoyed the show." I stammer scarcely audible, to then face him again, and smiling sheepishly at him. It takes me all my remaining strength to do so.

"It distracted me from my own anxiety. From now on you will do this on every flight." He giggles and taps my shoulder, before strolling back to his seat.

Looking after him, like some love struck teenager, trying to grasp what just happened, Phoebe snaps me out of my thoughts.

"As I said, you'll get along well." He says convinced, not looking up, while reading.

"I really hope so" I mumble, my eyes fixed on Freddie's back, as i feel some hope flaming up in me again.

Part 3 will follow soon...

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MERIDA: A KITCHY KITCHEN GUIDE

Want Claire’s entire guide to Merida? Check out her PDF!

WHY MERIDA?

The Landscape:

Mérida lies about 20 miles from the Gulf of Mexico on the Yucatán, and about 100 miles from numerous Mayan ruins. Cenotes, primal sink holes that act as oases in the sweltering jungle, dot the map to the south and east through the peninsula. Proximity to wilderness and proximity to history gives Mérida the qualities of uno pueblo magico – a place where the modern, colonial and indigenes intersect in a pouring out of creativity and yes, magic. Our driver Daniel explains as we buzz through the parched bush of the Yucatán, that uno pueblo magico also has excellent food and artisans, touched by the Mayan equivalent to the muses. This sounds perfect to me, who’s coming to Mérida for a weekend of relaxation, and perhaps a little magico.

THE STAY

The michelin guide has a famous criterion for three stars, “Exceptional cuisine, worth a special journey.” To me, Coqui Coqui is an exceptional experience, worth a special journey to the heart of the Yucatán. Nestled on the bathroom counter of models, celebrities, and hip urbanites, the perfumery’s products are distinct in their jungle meets old world elegance aesthetic. Their scents conjure up images of colonial haciendas, overrun with the flora and fauna of the Yucatán, Coqui Coqui’s base of operations and source for inspiration and ingredients. The line of thirteen scents extends from candles and perfumes to bath oils, linen sprays and custom amenities for each of their four residences, each of which has a personalized fragrance. Tulum is dewy coconut, Coba is lush and green mint, Vallodolid is roses dried with tobacco, and Mérida is the scent of cigar box, inspired by the surrounding tobacco plantations.

The residence in Mérida is why I’m here. The last time I was in Tulum, I enjoyed a few meals at Coqui Coqui and was immediately charmed. The style was effortless and worn in, the tiny perfumery was an unexpected gem on that stretch of beach, and the chicken mole sandwiches were enough to sell me on their own. My trip to Tulum overall was not the quiet journey I was hoping for, but it introduced me to the Yucatán – it’s food, history, and culture – and that was something I wanted to explore further. Coqui Coqui had residences dotted across the peninsula, and I had heard of Mérida, the capital of the Yucatán state, as a pastel oasis in the jungle. Trusting that planning a trip around a Coqui Coqui residence would be worth it, I booked the trip. The hotel was full for almost every night of my window, but I was able to secure a spot. I booked the rest of my trip at the other premier boutique hotel and spa in Mérida, Rosas y Xocolate.

Arriving at Coqui Coqui, near Parque de Santa Lucia in the heart of Mérida, my husband and I enter through the L’Epicerie, a small boutique shimmering with Coqui Coqui’s bottles of perfume and glass candles. Beatrice, the manager, welcomes us. An Italian expat living in Mérida, she’s effortlessly chic but matter-of-fact in tone. Throughout my stay I pepper her with questions, running my itinerary past her to make sure it passes muster. Fortunately there are only a few adjustments she suggests. We’ve arrived early, so we take a seat in the spa courtyard, a cement tiled space shaded by lofty plastered walls and vines. The cook brings out a little cake and a selection of signature teas for us to try, offering some local honey to go with it. The space is small but maximized. Sitting on a 4000 square foot lot (and this is just me eyeballing it), the residence is indeed a home. Completely private with 15 foot walls, every inch serves a purpose. The marble kitchen opens onto the patio for easy access, the fountain echoes off of the tile near the outdoor bathtub and one room spa; stairs curls up to an outdoor breakfast patio, and further still to a wading pool. When we get to our room, it occurs to me that this is all for just us.

The residence is a one room hotel, where the guest gets the entire upstairs floor and patio to themselves. The room itself is gorgeously appointed in a stripped down, colonial style. High ceilings with rich drapes accenting the cement tile floor and minimalist decor, I got practically giddy as I bounced around the easily thousand square foot space. The canopy bed was large with soft, thin sheets; there were two gigantic bath tubs side by side, and then there was the amenities bag. I’m not above lusting over the free soap at a hotel, and I hoarded the contents of this bag like dragon’s gold. A mini bath oil and perfume in both Tabaco and Flor de Naranjo, hand soaps in both scents, custom shampoo and conditioner, and even chic little toothbrushes in tortoise and black were squirreled away into my suitcase immediately. We then walked out to the pool patio and lingered there for the afternoon.

The next morning were our spa treatments – deep tissue massages in the downstairs space. Every scent is laid out as a massage oil, including scents that are rare or hard to find back in the states. I chose Rosas Secas, which smells like an earthy fresh rose with a hint of tobacco. It’s almost impossible to find a perfect rose scent that doesn’t go powdery, soapy, or grandma’s purse, but Rosas Secas was minimalist and modern. Before the massage, you can soak in the large bath by the fountain (it’s in a very private back corner of the property) to loosen and warm up your muscles. The massage itself is deep and effective, while still being relaxing. It’s presented in an a la carte manner – no hot stones or add ons, which feels appropriate for the simplicity of the space. The other options on the spa menu include a one hour Swedish massage ($90) and a one hour organic facial made with oatmeal, honey and avocado (also $90). Loose, relaxed, and smelling wonderful, we left Coqui Coqui for a day in town.

SAFETY & TRANSPORTATION

Walking southward on the thronging Calle 58 in search of hamacas, jumping off the side walk into the street to avoid bumping abuelas exiting the bus or panaderas selling their wares, I paused at Calle 73. In two blocks I had gone from hot, noisy, and crowded to breezy silent emptiness, excluding the dozens of ladies of the night hovering on the sidewalks. That’s how quickly Mérida can change. One block is Easter Egg colonial mansions and the next is empty tiendas with “for rent” signs. It’s a technicolor checkerboard. As a rule, the farther norther you go, especially via the major avenues, the tonier (and honestly, more boring) you get. All of a sudden the panaderas are replaced by Starbucks (I counted three in a ten minute cab ride), and the high-end restaurants are in curated strip malls. The farther south you go, the less developed, commercial, and safe it gets. The happy balance is in el centro, near the Casa Montejo, where the plazas, shops, and snacks, coalesce into the perfect hour long walk. Mérida is on a convenient grid system, with odd numbered streets running east/west and even numbered streets running north/ south. It’s almost impossible to find street numbers, so most places are described by the cross streets. The city is quite safe north of Calle 65, but during the evening it’s best to take a taxi if you have to walk more than a few minutes.

WHAT TO PACK

The best time to visit Mérida, or the Yucatán in general, is from the late fall through the spring. That’s when the tropical weather is its least humid and most yielding. No rain and temperatures in the mid 80s welcomed me as the plane touched down twenty minutes from the center of Mérida. The locals kept mentioning how cold it got at night, but I never noticed more than a 15 degree difference – compared to the frigid evening air of Mexico City (dropping from 70 in the day to 40 at night). The tone is quite casual in the day, and just barely less so in the evening, though I didn’t notice any requirements beyond a shirt on your back and shoes on your feet.

Packing List:

1 pair comfortable, chic sandals 1 pair close toed shoes – or climbing down to the cenotes or exploring ancient ruins, my snakeskin slip ons were fine for this, as would be desert boots.

2 light weight shirts – cotton is best.

1 pair shorts

1 pair light pants – linen or silk is ideal.

2 dresses, one light day dress and one slightly more formal one

1 bathing suit

1 light jacket – I had a white Jenni Kayne silk blazer I wore at night.

1 light sweater or shawl – I had a traditional rebozo scarf by Carla Fernandez to throw on when the nights got cold.

A giant hat – The sun can pound on your skin, so a big, light straw hat is best)

Sunglasses – Shield yourself from the sunlight bouncing off the pale colonial buildings.

Sunscreen – I prefer Aesop’s 50 spf sunscreen; great protection with none of the usual additives found in generic sunscreens.

Dry Shampoo – the weather leans toward humid, so expect to use a bunch of this to give your hair texture. Bug Spray – If you’re visiting during the wet season,or immediately after it, make sure to spray yourself before venturing out to areas like the cenotes or ruins.

SHOPPING

Other than camping out inside Coqui Coqui’s L’Espicerie, the shopping in Mérida is varied in quality and style, but not category. The area is best known for its astonishing weavings, and you need to pick up una hamaca (a hammock), una guayabera (men’s linen shirt), una huipil (a women’s embroidered tunic, or any number of baskets, blankets, and rugs.

Note about haggling: Some shops expect haggling, others recoil at it, and it’s pretty easy to tell the difference. Curated shops with hangers and a specifically styled aesthetic tend to have the prices locked in, and if you attempt to haggle you will look awkward and boorish. Shops near the plaza with stack and stacks of rugs next to exploding shelves of pottery expect and encourage a good haggle. The best I managed was 40% off the price tag.

Hammocks: The best hammocks I found (and I went in dozens of shops) were in Guayaberas Tita (Calle 59 between 60 and 62), but Hamacas Maya gets an honorable mention. Not only was there a ton of variety, but Juan, the owner, also does custom orders. I placed my order on the first day of my trip and picked it up on my way to the airport. There are hammocks woven specifically for tourists that are only woven with one line of thread. The result is a rather flimsy contraption that can unspool the second there is a cut or tear anywhere. Locals use the five threaded hammocks, woven with very thin twine for the most comfortable experience. Practically every home in the area has one hanging in its porch, usually occupied during siesta. I longed for a hammock with fringe or tassels, but those typically have pieces of wood forcing the hammock to lie flat. I ended up ordering two hammocks, both with the higher quality five thread weave, in a natural cotton, without madera (wood) and with orilla (tassles), but not macrame, and haggled Juan down to $75 each. The cheaper, single thread hammocks cost closer to $30 each, and the gorgeous sisal ones (an agave fiber) at Coqui Coqui are about $300 each, to give you a comparison.

Guayaberas y Huipil

The guayabera is the iconic Cuban button down, worn untucked, usually paired with a cigar and straw hat, worn by heavies of the early 20th century. After the Cuban revolution, Yucatecans started weaving the popular shirt themselves. For the best ones, try Guayaberas Jack in the center of town (Calle 59 between 60 and 62), but skip on the cheap poly blends. Find the pure linen ones for the most authentic look, and comfort. Huipil are easily found all over the city, but my favorite were at Color Amor (Calle 55 between Calle 56 and Calle 58)

Other artisanal goods:

Coqui Coqui L’Espicerie // Calle 55 between Calle 64 and Calle 66

This is a must stop if spending the day in Mérida. Not only can you pick up a hard to find scent or bath product (I bought both Rosas Secas and Naranjo Negro perfume), you can also find locally created jewelry, and rebozo dresses – made of fabric woven on a waist loom – designed by Francesca Bonato, the co owner of Coqui Coqui. Honestly, I could’ve come to Mérida with the clothes on my back, shopped there, and would have been ready for the rest of my trip.

Kukul Boutik // Calle 55 between Calle 56 and Calle 58

This curated boutique is definitely more put together than the average artisan shop in the area. They carry the usual mix of woven and embroidered pieces, but their woven sisal (agave) pillowcases are especially beautiful.

Casa de las ArtesanaIas // Calle 63 between Calle 64 and Calle 66

This is a definite tourist spot, so don’t expect quality here. However, there is a large selection here and everything is quite inexpensive.

Ki Xocolatl // Calle 53 between Calle 60 and Calle 62 (inside the Parque de Santa Lucia) A belgian chocolatier in the Yucatán started this little chocolate boutique. You can purchase a cup of velvety hot chocolate, but I opted for bars of their pink peppercorn studded chocolate bars instead.

El Estudio // Paseo de Montejo between Calle 41 and Calle 43 (further north, near the Palacio Canton) This boutique has a fun, funky vibe of a 90s Urban Outfitters. Glitter crusted matchbooks emblazoned with a portrait of Frida Kahlo, vibrant skulls, and hand painted glassware fill the shelves.

FOOD & DRINK

: I might be biased by my pseudo-hipster ways, but the most flavorful, most delicious, and best food was from the local spots rather than the white tablecloth restaurants.

Street Food Tips: Stick to the places with the longest lines. If they’re popular, then they aren’t getting people sick regularly. Also look for older, professional types. Doctors, lawyers, and cops can’t afford to get sick from street meat, so they’ll be conservative with where they get their street food. Teenagers, on the other hand, play more fast and loose.

Look around: Does it look clean? Is food left sitting around? Use your eyes and nose to tell you if the food looks good to you. If you’re apprehensive, just walk to the next cart. Better safe than sorry!

Water/Ice: Potable water is an issue in Mexico, so if you’re buying a respado (shaved ice) or an icy drink, make sure it’s from a place that uses filtered water.

Have a plan: I’m a research nut, so I looked up street food spots in Tulum that my favorite food writers and publications recommended. It makes the hunt so much easier!

Marlin Azul // Calle 62 between Calle 57 and Calle 59

This tiny restaurant is possibly the best seafood in Mérida. There are a few different options on the menu, but honestly, when a giant platter of ceviche is in front of you, how can you think of anything else? The habanero salsa is especially good here as well.

El Cangrejito // Calle 57 between Calle 64 and Calle 66

Fish tacos for breakfast? Yes indeed, but a far departure from the Ensenada style. These are fresh, served with different sauces and garnishes. You walk up to the front and just point at whatever fillings you like. We got one of everything: bacalao with capers, fried white fish, camarones ceviche, and my favorite, the langostino.

La Michoacana // Multiple locations

Paletas are a must, and La Michoacana is an easy choice. There’s a rainbow of flavors, but mamey is my favorite. If you’re not familiar, it’s a tropical fruit that’s fuzzy and brown on the outside (not unlike a kiwi) and with a rich red flesh that tastes like sweet potato pie. But hey, I won’t blame you if you go with mango con chile.

El Colón Sorbetes y Dulces Finos // Two locations, up on Paseo de Montejo and in the Zocalo

Situated right across the zócalo (main square), El Colón has been serving freshly made sorbet (without extra sugar and preservatives) for one hundred year. The tables on the sidewalk are perfect for people watching and cooling off on a sweltering Meridian afternoon. I ordered my favorite, mamay, but try the guava or tamarindo for a bright kick.

Apaola // Calle 53 between Calle 60 and Calle 62 (inside the Parque de Santa Lucia)

Combining Mexican, Oaxacan, and Yucatecan influences, Apaola is a favorite restaurant amongst travelers. Located inside Parque de Santa Lucia, the restaurant spills out onto a lovely courtyard. The menu is filled with modern fusion dishes (the appetizers were best, so I’d recommend ordering more of those), so don’t expect to find cochinita pibil on the menu. The mezcal and tequila selection is excellent, and the restaurant is very popular, so make sure to make reservations.

Tacos at Wayané, Mérida, Mexico // The corner of Calle 20 and Calle 15 just north of the Parque de Itzimná

Pronounced “why-en-AY,” the name is Mayan for, “here we are.” That’s the perfect name for this taco stand, a favorite amongst locals. This is an almuerzo spot. It’s not breakfast or lunch, but mid morning snack time. The Loría family have run the Wayan’e street stand for 20 years. They serve savory tacos and tortas throughout the morning, scooping flavorful fillings like smoky chicken fajitas and scrambled eggs with Swiss chard out of clay pots that customers point to. All dishes are from 8 to 12 pesos. Everything is cooked fresh every morning and when the food is gone, the place closes down for the day, usually by 2:00 pm. It’s a drive from the center of town, so expect to taxi.

Néctar // Av. Andrés García Lavín, between Calle 41 and Calle 43

Mérida’s newest haute cuisine restaurant is Nectar, where the ambitious chef Roberto Solis, having done time in the kitchens of Noma, Per Se, and the Fat Duck, plays with indigenous flavors and French techniques. My favorite dish was actually the dessert, which played with texture of coconut and was dusted with charred rosemary.

K’u’uk // Paseo de Montejo and Calle 27A (on the round about)

Taking haute cuisine a step further, K’u’uk presents symbolic and metaphoric dishes, relating to Mayan culture. Chef Pedro Evia utilizes locally sourced ingredients and inventive modern gastronomy to create a palette bending experience. If you’re going to do one “big meal” on your trip to Mérida, go here.

Chaya Maya // On the corner of Calle 57 and Calle 62

I’m usually leery of restaurants where servers dress up in traditional costumes, seeing it as a ploy for tourists, but Chaya Maya is actually enjoyed by the local population as well. This place is all about the Yucatán, so go for Los Tres Mosqueteros, or The Three Musketeers, for a nice overview of three classic Yucatecan dishes: relleno negro (a black sauce made from burnt chiles and spices) over pork; papadzul (egg enchiladas); and pipián (a sauce with a pumpkin seed base) over turkey. There are several other locations, but I like this one’s low key energy

Kii Wik // Avenida Garcia Lavin and Calle 37-B

From the team behind K’u’uk, Kii Wik is a small cafe in the tonier part of town. It’s pretty busy, but has excellent coffee and chilequiles, along with a cute bakery and gourmet shop.

Oliva Enoteca & Kitchen // On the corner of Calle 47 & Calle 54

If you don’t feel like Mexican, Oliva is a beautiful choice. With wine personally selected by the Chef to complement the cuisine, and modern rustic dishes that include an array of burrata, lemon scented ricotta with shrimp, daily fish, and simple antipasti, it’s a beautiful bit of Europe in the heart of the Yucatán.

Poxeria // Paseo de Montejo between Calle 41 and Calle 43 (further north, near the Palacio Canton)

Located next door to El Estudio (the boutique I mentioned above), we stumbled across this coffee and pox (pronounced posh) shop quite unexpectedly. The coffee is from Chiapas and honestly, the best we had in Mérida. Pox is an interesting choice when you’re over mezcal – it’s corn based and tastes quite a bit like moonshine, which isn’t surprising considering that it’s 53% ABV.

Hacienda Teya // Mérida-Cancún Highway, Kilometer 12.5 (about 20 minutes outside of Mérida)

Inside this 17th-century plantation that switched from cattle to henequen, used for making rope, at the end of the 19th century, is a boisterous family restaurant. Large tables are packed with families enjoying a post-misas (we were there on Sunday) meal. Surprisingly, there were no tourists, just locals. Try the classics like sopa de lima, or the sample platter that includes cochinita pibil, Puntas de filete al xcatic, and poc chuc.

SIGHTS

Catedral de Mérida // Calle 60 between Calle 61 and Calle 63

This almost 500 year old Cathedral hovers over the city center, with a constant flow of observants moving in and out of its imposing doors. Finished in 1598, the cathedral is a combination of late renaissance and early baroque styles, with obvious influence from the Roman and Moorish tinged Andalusia.

Casa de Montejo // Calle 63 between Calle 60 and Calle 62

A bank is now housed behind the brilliant façade of this extremely rare example of 16th century civil architecture, but take a step in, and you’ll find a small free museum featuring seasonal exhibits and a preserved dining room from the original house. The ceiling frescoes are gorgeous and the gift shop is actually a lovely mix of artisanal products that aren’t seen anywhere else in the city.

Palacio Cantón // Paseo de Montejo between Calle 41 and Calle 43

Nestled in the center of Paseo de Montejo, an avendue lined with henequen funded Beaux Arts-style mansions, lies the Palacio Cantón. Built in the first decade of the twentieth century as a family residence for General Canton (one of the most prominent figures of his time), it now houses the Mayan Anthropological Museum. Since 1980, its permanent exhibition about the pre-Hispanic Mayan society is presented on the main floor, with exhibitions, educational workshops and cultural events offered upstairs.

Chichén Itzá

An hour and a bit away from Mérida The stepped pyramids, temples, columned arcades, and other stone structures of Chichén Itzá were sacred to the Maya, and the center of their spiritual life from A.D. 750 to 1200. Go in the afternoon, when the Temple of Kukulkan, also known as El Castillo, reveals itself in the light. This impressive step pyramid demonstrates the accuracy and importance of Maya astronomy, which is specifically oriented to catch the light, creating the illusion of an undulating feathered snake going down the steps. This even happens in the afternoon, and is easier to see the closer you are to the spring solstice. The previous structure was 17 degrees off, so the Mayans made an adjustment, and 52 years later (as dictated by their calendar to be a full period cycle) corrected it with the structure that now stands. The whole complex is awe inspiring in scope, especially when you realize they built it without the use of wheels. We wandered over to the ball court, the largest in the Americas measuring 554 feet long and 231 feet wide.These ritual games were a spiritual rite, with two teams of seven trying to hit a rubber ball through an impossible looking small, high hoop. The winner was put to death, a fact that a German couple on the tour with us refused to believe. It was considered an honor to die, as the games were for the gods’ glory, and not the players.

Cenotes

There are cenotes all of the region, but the one we stopped by on our way back from Chichén Itzá, near Yokdzonot. A cenote is a natural pit, or sinkhole, that exposes groundwater underneath, sometimes used by the ancient Maya for sacrificial offerings (usually women who would jump in as an sacrifice to the water god, Chaac). Now they’re open as little oases in the jungle heat. There are three different types of cenotes: jug cenotes, with a small hole at the top; cave cenotes, where you enter through a cave; and my favorite, cylinder cenotes which have vertical walls. The reason why those are my favorite is a bit vain, but I like how beautifully cylinder cenotes photograph. The light bounces on the light, adventurous swimmers can dive in from high up the side, and tree roots dangle overhead. Skip Progresso Beach, which is very privatized and a bit of a challenge to navigate if you’re unfamiliar with the area, and jump into a cenote instead.

Source: https://www.thekitchykitchen.com/travel/merida-kitchy-kitchen-guide/

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goldfishfromthevosgestotogo · 7 years

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Donations to Amnesty International Togo & Refuge pour Enfants Togo

Suite à des différends avec l’association « Katsatsa Togo » avec laquelle je suis partie (accueillant pour l’hébergement, transport, etc…) et vu que les dons n’avaient pas encore été remis à des enfants dans un village comme cela était prévu lors de mon départ de l’association, j’ai laissé une partie des dons à l’association : tout ce qui est fournitures scolaires, médicaments, parapharmacie et produits de beauté.

Following some disputes with the “Katsatsa Togo” association with which I went (accommodating for accommodation, transport, etc.), and as donations had not yet been given to children in a village as planned when I was leaving the association, I left some of the donations to the association: everything that’s school supplies, drugs, parapharmaceutical products and beauty accessories.

Pour ce qui est des vêtements, reprenant mes valises en quittant le logement mis à disposition par l’association, j’ai gardé les vêtements qui étaient toujours dedans. Sachant qu’une partie des vêtements étaient davantage à destination d’adultes, j’ai pensé en faire don à Amnesty International Togo pour les détenus.

En effet, dans le cadre des actions mensuelles de la Section togolaise, AI Togo fait appel aux dons pour les prisonniers. Ainsi les dons sont reversés à des prisons différentes selon les besoins. L’année passée, en 2016, AI Togo était à la prison d’Aneho. Cette année, lors de l’Assemblée Générale de la Section qui s’est tenu les 24 et 25 mars 2017 (à laquelle j’ai pu participer), une délégation de la section s’est rendue à la prison de Sokodé. La section collecte les dons (savons, chemises, produits alimentaires non périssables, sommes d’argent) et profite d’un événement clef pour remettre les dons. Il peut ainsi s’agir de l’Assemblée Générale, du forum des jeunes ou encore d’une visite de monitoring.

As for clothes, taking my suitcases when leaving the accommodation provided by the association, I kept the clothes that are still in it. Knowing some of the clothes was more for adults, I thought of donating it to Amnesty International Togo for prisoners.

Indeed, as part of the monthly actions of the Togolese Section, AI Togo appeals for donations for prisoners. Thus donations are given to different prisons as required. Last year, in 2016, AI Togo was at Aneho prison. This year, at the Section General Meeting held on March 24-25th, 2017 (in which I was able to participate), a delegation from the Section went to Sokodé prison. The Section collects donations (soaps, shirts, non-perishable food products, sums of money) and takes the opportunity of a key event to hand over the donations. This may be the General Meeting, the Youth Forum or a monitoring visit.

Voici une photo de la remise des vêtements pour les prisonniers à Béker, qui s’occupe de la collecte avec Prisca pour Amnesty Togo !

Pour l’anecdote, le message qui est inscrit sur la feuille est pour souhaiter l’anniversaire à Béker ! Avec Prisca et Lassey, deux collègues, nous lui avons fait la blague qu’il s’agissait d’un cadeau d’anniversaire. Nous avons accentué l’aspect cadeau avec le Scotch qui referme bien le carton rempli (oui, c’est un peu l’emballage cadeau « à la togolaise » !). Béker, m’hébergeant et m’ayant déposé à mon second lieu de stage le matin même avec la valise remplie, a bien compris qui avait déposé ce carton en l’ouvrant (par contre, il ne pensait pas du tout que j’étais dans le coup avec les collègues) !

Here are some pictures of the handover of clothes for prisoners to Béker, who manages the collection with Prisca for AI Togo.

Incidentally, the message which is written on the paper sheet is to wish a happy birthday to Béker! With Prisca and Lassey, two colleagues, we joked him that it was a birthday present. We accentuated the gift aspect with the adhesive tape that closes well the filled carton (yes, it’s a bit the “Togolese” gift wrapping!). Béker, hosting and driving me to my second internship place on the morning with the filled suitcase, understood well who has deposited this carton upon opening it (however he didn’t think at all that I was in on it with the colleagues)!

Mais il n’y a pas qu’à Amnesty que j’ai remis des vêtements ! L’Association « Refuge pour Enfants Togo » a pu recevoir des vêtements pour les enfants qu’elle parraine avec ses différents membres.

Voici leur page Facebook : https://www.facebook.com/profile.php?id=100009293023274

Et le dépliant qui explique tout de cette association qui a « Une main, un toit, une vie ! »

But it was not only at Amnesty that I handed over clothes! The association “Refuge pour Enfants Togo” (“Togo Children’s Shelter”) was able to receive clothes for children who are supported by its various members through donations by various sets, school & books supplies, antiparasitic and antimalarial treatments, and any other material, financial and moral assistances.

Here is their Facebook page: https://www.facebook.com/profile.php?id=100009293023274

And the leaflet that explains everything about this association that has “A hand, a roof, a life!”

Voici quelques photos de la remise des dons à Prisca, qui est la présidente de cette association ! Prisca m’a fait parvenir en Mai les remerciements officiels pour les dons, et me fera parvenir prochainement les photos de la remise des vêtements aux enfants dès que cela aura eu lieu !

Here is some pictures of the handover of clothes for children to Prisca, who is the president of the association! Prisca send me on May their official gratitude for donations, and she will send me pictures of the handover to children directly when that happens! A special thought to Jérémie, Clothilde and their families !

Ou encore des photos d’une action récente, où les membres aidaient les enfants à rédiger des lettres, l’association entretenant une correspondance avec les élèves d’une école de Lille.

And some pictures of a recent action whose members helped children to writing letters, the association maintaining correspondence with the students of a Lille school.

Telle est la philosophie qui anime « Refuge pour Enfants Togo » : « Tous ensemble, quelle que soit notre situation sociale, en Afrique ou ailleurs, nous pouvons œuvrer pour améliorer les conditions de vie des enfants défavorisés. »

Alors n’hésitez pas à penser à Amnesty International Togo ou à « Refuge pour Enfants Togo » si vous souhaitez lancer une collecte humanitaire et/ou si vous passez par le Togo !

That’s the philosophy that drives “Refuge pour Enfants Togo”: “All together, whatever our social situation, in Africa or elsewhere, we can work to improve the living conditions of disadvantaged children.”

So don’t hesitate to think of Amnesty International Togo or “Refuge pour Enfants Togo” if you want to launch a humanitarian collection and/or if you go through Togo.

#Togo #travel #internships #human rights #Amnesty International Togo #Refuge pour Enfants Togo #humanitarian action #collection #donations #clothes #children #prisoners #joy #helping #friends

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furmark6-blog · 5 years

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MERIDA: A KITCHY KITCHEN GUIDE

Want Claire’s entire guide to Merida? Check out her PDF!

WHY MERIDA?

The Landscape:

THE STAY

SAFETY & TRANSPORTATION

WHAT TO PACK

Packing List:

1 pair comfortable, chic sandals 1 pair close toed shoes – or climbing down to the cenotes or exploring ancient ruins, my snakeskin slip ons were fine for this, as would be desert boots.

2 light weight shirts – cotton is best.

1 pair shorts

1 pair light pants – linen or silk is ideal.

2 dresses, one light day dress and one slightly more formal one

1 bathing suit

1 light jacket – I had a white Jenni Kayne silk blazer I wore at night.

1 light sweater or shawl – I had a traditional rebozo scarf by Carla Fernandez to throw on when the nights got cold.

A giant hat – The sun can pound on your skin, so a big, light straw hat is best)

Sunglasses – Shield yourself from the sunlight bouncing off the pale colonial buildings.

Sunscreen – I prefer Aesop’s 50 spf sunscreen; great protection with none of the usual additives found in generic sunscreens.

SHOPPING

Guayaberas y Huipil

Other artisanal goods:

Coqui Coqui L’Espicerie // Calle 55 between Calle 64 and Calle 66

Kukul Boutik // Calle 55 between Calle 56 and Calle 58

Casa de las ArtesanaIas // Calle 63 between Calle 64 and Calle 66

This is a definite tourist spot, so don’t expect quality here. However, there is a large selection here and everything is quite inexpensive.

FOOD & DRINK

: I might be biased by my pseudo-hipster ways, but the most flavorful, most delicious, and best food was from the local spots rather than the white tablecloth restaurants.

Water/Ice: Potable water is an issue in Mexico, so if you’re buying a respado (shaved ice) or an icy drink, make sure it’s from a place that uses filtered water.

Have a plan: I’m a research nut, so I looked up street food spots in Tulum that my favorite food writers and publications recommended. It makes the hunt so much easier!

Marlin Azul // Calle 62 between Calle 57 and Calle 59

El Cangrejito // Calle 57 between Calle 64 and Calle 66

La Michoacana // Multiple locations

El Colón Sorbetes y Dulces Finos // Two locations, up on Paseo de Montejo and in the Zocalo

Apaola // Calle 53 between Calle 60 and Calle 62 (inside the Parque de Santa Lucia)

Tacos at Wayané, Mérida, Mexico // The corner of Calle 20 and Calle 15 just north of the Parque de Itzimná

Néctar // Av. Andrés García Lavín, between Calle 41 and Calle 43

K’u’uk // Paseo de Montejo and Calle 27A (on the round about)

Chaya Maya // On the corner of Calle 57 and Calle 62

Kii Wik // Avenida Garcia Lavin and Calle 37-B

From the team behind K’u’uk, Kii Wik is a small cafe in the tonier part of town. It’s pretty busy, but has excellent coffee and chilequiles, along with a cute bakery and gourmet shop.

Oliva Enoteca & Kitchen // On the corner of Calle 47 & Calle 54

Poxeria // Paseo de Montejo between Calle 41 and Calle 43 (further north, near the Palacio Canton)

Hacienda Teya // Mérida-Cancún Highway, Kilometer 12.5 (about 20 minutes outside of Mérida)

SIGHTS

Catedral de Mérida // Calle 60 between Calle 61 and Calle 63

Casa de Montejo // Calle 63 between Calle 60 and Calle 62

Palacio Cantón // Paseo de Montejo between Calle 41 and Calle 43

Chichén Itzá

Cenotes

Source: https://www.thekitchykitchen.com/travel/merida-kitchy-kitchen-guide/

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