FIC: When the Black Moon Rises
Jun. 7th, 2008 12:29 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
nilchanceTitle: When the Black Moon Rises
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
nilchance
Pairing: JDM/JA
Rating: NC-17
A/N:poisontaster asked for slave fic. I went kind of far afield. So, for those of you who were waiting anxiously for virgin!translator!Jensen in SPACE? Now with extra Latin conjugation? Yeah, here you go.
The transport goes up. Of course it goes up, and miles from the nearest oasis, hidden rocks tearing the bottom out. The transport sits steaming on X-795's white dunes. Jensen can see the thin column of steam from their makeshift shelter, a cluster of dark rocks worn smooth from the sand. The rock is hot enough to burn in an instant, but it's the only source of shade in a burning white world.
"C'mon, don't sit there and stare," Marissa wheedles. She's already paced the stretch of shade three times, restless in the heat.
It's wiser to conserve their energy for when night comes so they can make a mad dash to the next shelter, but it's the kind of wisdom that depends on them having an ultimate solution. They don't, not even the elders who came with them. There won't be anyone searching for one trading party, not on 795 where sun-blindness radiates up from the sands. Even down here on the ground, they can barely see where they're going.
But there's no telling Marissa anything like that. Jensen's marrying up, and they both know it. Marissa ranks him, fiance or not, so he gets to his feet. The water he sipped this morning has already dried to dust in his mouth. The rehydration packs he's leeching life from will wear off in another day. He doesn't want to think about dying out here, fading to parched smooth bones. Uncharitably, he hopes Marissa will do something stupid and die first. At least then he won't have to listen to her. I don't want to marry a scholar, I want a hero. A hero would get us out of this. You're terribly boring, Jensen, do you know that?
He gets some small satisfaction from watching her scramble around, wasting her energy. Even if it means he'll probably be carrying her tonight.
Scott is waiting for them in another patch of shadows. He's barely visible except for the stupid red sash he insisted on wearing on a water-trade, of all things. Scott wasn't even supposed to be with them. He's been more of a nuisance than a help, eating up their food, drinking more than his share of water when he thinks they don't see. Flirting with Marissa, apparently under the impression that Jensen cares that Marissa likes Scott better.
Marissa grabs Jensen's arm and drags him through the brutal sun. Jensen squints his eyes closed and keeps his head down. He can already feel the sunburn on his neck and face, on the exposed knuckles of his gloved hands. Annoyingly, both Marissa and Scott are tanning, accustomed to the sun instead of the cool darkness of the libraries. Which explains why they're both stupid.
Apparently dying doesn't agree with Jensen.
As they get closer, the shade around Scott widens into the mouth of a little stone shelter. There's barely enough height for Scott to stand up straight, but lengthwise, it can fit their whole party. Once they're inside the hot shadows, Marissa drops Jensen's arm.
"Look what I found," Scott says unnecessarily.
"It's wonderful," Marissa says. She cranes her head around, studying everything, and touches the lichen on the roof of their shelter. Jensen winces; just because the lichen survived this heat doesn't mean it can tolerate the oil on her hands. There should be biologists for this, to categorize and study, but instead their party has only two elders, two spoiled idiots and himself as the translator in case they find natives to trade with.
They focus on trade, not study. Still, Jensen makes a mental note to write down a description of the lichen once he's alone. The Head Curator will want to know if he saw anything interesting on his trip. Assuming they survive.
"Yeah?" Scott asks, puffed up with pride. "Then c'mere and look at this, it's even better."
For once, Scott's right. As they squeeze back into the very corner of the shelter, Jensen sees a tiny figure half-buried in the sand. It looks like a traditional goddess figure, breasts pronounced under her raised arms, her stomach rounded. It's chipped and smoothed down, but the edges of her arms look sharp enough to cut skin.
"I'm going to piss on it," Scott announces.
Marissa squeals. "Oh, don't!" But it's the half-hearted, prodding protest that only makes Scott more likely to do whatever idiot thing he just suggested. "We might get in trouble."
Scott snorts and starts to undo his pants. Something gives very quietly inside Jensen's head.
One strike with his elbow and Scott's head snaps back, blood already beginning to flow from his nose. Scott wheels back a few steps, mouth gaping, and Jensen dives for the figure. The sand is strangely cool and damp around her as his fingers sink in around her. He doesn't get the chance to pull her free before Scott's on him, his greater weight pushing all the air out of Jensen's lungs. Scott punches him in the face, one good shot, before Jensen rips the figure free and gets that arm raised to block Scott's fists. Dimly, Jensen feels the figure's edges slice through his gloves and into his palm.
It's a short, stupid fight. Jensen isn't physical. Scott is. Scott beats him soundly until he grows bored, then leaves him gasping in the dust. Jensen curls around the goddess, tucking her against his protected stomach, and waits for the spinning to stop.
"I wasn't going to do it," Scott grumbles. "Worried about your dolls, scholar?"
Marissa clucks over Scott's bloodied knuckles. Murmurs, "Leave him. Are you all right? You-- oh!"
Jensen lifts his head, drawn by the alarm in Marissa's voice. Then he has to put his head back down, his vision bruised.
Where there was only sunlight before, there's a man, or at least the shape of a man. He's wrapped up in tan linen robes, dark goggles protecting his eyes. There's a gun in his hand, and it's aimed at Scott. Jensen decides that he likes this person already.
"Oh," Marissa repeats. Putting a quelling hand on Scott, because she's not entirely stupid, she makes their sign of peace. "Um. Hello? We're lost."
The man doesn't twitch. At least this planet doesn't seem to take that hand signal as an insult.
"We're here to trade for water," Marissa tries again. "We're from Federation Planet C-85. We have many riches. Understand?"
Jensen is surrounded by idiocy. If the man is a robber, Marissa just told him they're valuable and that nobody's coming for them.
Slowly, Jensen uncurls himself and puts the goddess inside his vest. Her sharp edges lie close to his heart. Wiping the blood off his mouth, Jensen says in Trade Southern, "Stranger, we've come for water. There are many of us. Will you trade?"
The man tilts his head, studying Jensen. Out of the corner of his eye, Jensen sees Scott start to go for him, and Marissa yank him back.
Finally, the man replies in Trade. "Your map is bad, stranger. You're far from water-traders."
Good. The man recognized them as new customers with no standing debt. Jensen says, "Then we'll trade for a better map."
The man scoffs.
"No joke, stranger. Here." Thinking fast, Jensen pushes up his sleeve and unhooks his ID. It's useless but shiny, and the metal can be melted down for bullets. Dangling the bracelet from his fingers, Jensen shuffles forward and holds it out to the stranger. "Here."
"What are you doing?" Marissa hisses.
Jensen shoots her a sharp look. In that moment of distraction, the stranger grabs Jensen's arm. Both Marissa and Scott squeak, which would be amusing if Jensen wasn't bargaining for their lives. Jensen holds very still as the stranger turns his wrist over, exposing the pale underside to the sun.
Gently, the stranger strokes Jensen's bare skin with his thumb. "You're bleeding, stranger," the man murmurs.
Jensen nearly says the polite thing, that he's fine and it's nothing, but any lie in Trade is blasphemy. The truth can be twisted, like calling the five of them 'many', but outright lies... no. "Yes, I'm bleeding."
"Hm." The stranger doesn't drop his wrist, but he lowers the gun. "I will trade."
"This is good." Jensen waits for the man to take his ID, but he doesn't. He just holds Jensen's wrist in one hand. Jensen shakes the bracelet. "Yes?"
The man rests his thumb on Jensen's pulse. Waits.
"Oh." Realization sinks in, and Jensen backs up a step. The man follows him, patiently holding on. "Oh no, no no. Wait--"
With a snort, the man brings his attention back to Marissa and Scott. In sharply enunciated English, he says, "Him for a map."
"No." Jensen looks at Marissa, finds her looking thoughtfully back at him. His temper snaps. "Marissa, we're supposed to be married!"
Marissa says to the stranger, "For a map and your canteen."
"Marissa! How are you going to buy water, you don't speak trade, you--"
The man shrugs off his canteen and hands Marissa a leather scroll. Marissa opens it, considers the inside, and nods once.
"You bitch," Jensen says dully.
"I don't want to die out here," Marissa says. To the man, "May you have the joy of him, sir."
Jensen can't see the man's face, but he's unnervingly sure that the man smiles.
****
After Marissa and Scott are gone, holding hands where they think Jensen can't see, the man lets go of his wrist. Jensen rubs it, thinks about running, but the man could catch him in a heartbeat. Since the man can actually see past the sun-glare. In the end, Jensen doesn't do anything more heroic than putting his ID bracelet back on.
The man turns away and clicks his tongue twice. A tall tan beast comes, a saddle on its arched back. It bumps the stranger with its broad head. It has modified blinders on, dark glass allowing it to see. The stranger rubs its short ears and reaches into the pack around its neck. There's another canteen inside, along with another linen robe. The man holds it out and, when Jensen doesn't take it, drops it at his feet.
The sun is still out, and they'll eventually leave this little shelter. Jensen would only be punishing himself if he doesn't put on the protective linen. So he puts it on, muttering old curses under his breath. His fingers fumble with the unfamiliar catches, and he can't quite reach the last few without bending and troubling his new bruises. The man comes to him and bats his hands away, efficiently fastening the rest.
Jensen doesn't say thank you.
The man gives the beast some leathery fruit, rubs its ears again, and climbs on. He bends to help Jensen up, but Jensen ignores him and hoists himself up. The man steers him from sitting behind, makes Jensen perch in front. The man's arms go around him to hold the reins, his broad thighs a brace for Jensen to rest between. Jensen sits rigidly upright, trying not to touch him.
The man clicks his tongue again, and the beast begins to move. Jensen expects a lurching motion like the ancient camel-beasts he's read about, but the beast seems to flow forward. It's a gentle ride, easier than a horse. It barely jars the bruises.
Jensen's eyes burn after a moment in the sun. He tucks his chin against his chest, the hood of the robe falling over his face. He thinks about the knife hidden inside his robes. He wonders what Marissa will tell the Elders. Probably the truth; what does she have to hide? It was a good trade.
There's no one at C-85 to mourn. The Head Curator may pause a moment before going back to his studies. Marissa will find a new husband.
He's been bought like cattle. Jesu. To what end?
They ride and ride, a lulling rhythm. Jensen lets his mind drift back to his books, back to a place where he's not hungry and tired and hurt. To the quiet corner of the library where he smells only parchment and ink, hears only the scratch of his pen. He falls into the rhythm of conjugation: I am to be carried, portandus sum. I was to be carried, portandus eram. I will deserve to be carried, portandus...
The beast slows, then stops. Jensen opens eyes that he'd closed against the sun. The air has cooled. There's a warmth wrapped around him, the wall of the man's chest behind. Jensen shifts forward so they're not touching, then pushes the hood back to look around.
The desert is gone, with its killing light. Dusk is falling. They're surrounded by stone, dull white lined with gray and gold. The ground is padded thick with earth, hay and grass. Jensen cranes his head around and sees the path behind them, a distant archway leading back into the light.
"What is this?" Jensen asks.
The man huffs a laugh. Tossing the reins aside, he steps down from the beast. Holds his arms up, like he expects Jensen to fall into them. Jensen gives him what he hopes is a scathing look, then gets down on his own. The man shrugs and starts unbuckling the beast's saddle and bags. When the blinders are off, the beast blinks milky eyes and croons. The man bumps his forehead against the beast's, then reaches for a brush on the wall.
Beneath a layer of sweat and sand, the beast shines. It's lanky, its thin fur iridescent as a crow. It plays, nipping at the man, spinning in place to try to catch him. The man keeps brushing, thoroughly covering every inch of the beast, lifting its legs one by one to check its hooves. Jensen stands back, uncertain.
Finally, the man steps away and starts to undo his robes. They fall away by degrees, baring tan skin, sparse dark hair. Scars. The man is human, if nothing else. When the protective codpiece unbuckles, Jensen averts his eyes.
"Peace," the man says in Trade. His voice is rich, amused. "I have clothes."
Jensen glances at him. In place of the stranger there's a man, dark haired and lean. He's wearing thin white pants that stick to him with sweat and that hide little. The man smirks to see Jensen looking.
"Would you like me to undress you?" The man asks.
His cheeks burning from more than the sun, Jensen turns away and quickly takes the robes off. His gloves, too. His clothes beneath are damp, sweaty.
The man eyes him, eyes dark with heat, and for a moment Jensen thinks he's going to order him naked. Instead, the man takes a bucket off the wall and heads deeper into the halls of stone. He doesn't look back for Jensen, because there's nowhere for Jensen to run. So he follows.
There are steps. Jensen asks, "Did you carve these?"
"No. They were here when I came."
"Oh." Indeed, the steps and walls are smooth from years of use. Jensen runs his fingers along the wall. Veins of copper, maybe, or bronze... "When did you come?"
The man stops, and Jensen runs into his back. Then he sees where they are, and he's too busy staring to step away.
Water.
The halls open into a wide chamber and a lake of clean, shimmering water. Enough to supply a city. Enough to buy a city.
The man bends, fills the bucket, as if it's nothing. As if he isn't wetting his hands in a fortune. When he sees Jensen staring, he raises his eyebrows in question.
"You have water?" Jensen blurts.
The man looks at the bucket, at the lake, then back at Jensen.
"I mean, yes, you have water. You could trade that."
The man shrugs and heads back down the hallway, back to the beast. He sets the water in front of the beast, pats its neck. He gave water to the animal? "I have what I need," the man says.
"But our people need water."
"They'll find it somewhere else. This is hers."
"Whose?" Jensen asks.
The man raises his head to study Jensen. Then he puts one hand on Jensen's chest, over his heart. Over the goddess figurine. "Hers," Jeff says. "Sacred water."
"You gave it to the..." Jensen runs out of words and ends up gesturing at the beast.
"Tak-tak," the man supplies. "Yes. He'll drink it for himself. Your people would drain every drop and leave her nothing."
It's true, but Jensen bristles. "You don't know that."
"I know," the man says simply. Then he disappears down the hall again.
Jensen chews on the inside of his cheek to keep from yelling. He plows on after the man, following his footsteps. They go past the lake, past another set of steps leading up, and into another chamber, where small ponds cluster like a honeycomb. The air is thick and hot. Steam rises from the pools, clogging Jensen's throat and making him cough.
The man shucks off his pants and is bare. Jensen doesn't look away quickly enough. The man notices and smiles, slow and hot.
Averting his eyes, Jensen asks, "What are you doing?"
"Bath."
"Oh." Jensen remembers historical references to water baths. Rumors that the rich bathe daily and let the water run away, or let their servants drink it. Jensen stayed with his sand baths and tried not to be envious. But now that he's here, watching the man test the water with one foot, he can only worry vaguely that he'll be boiled to death. "I see."
The man returns from the hot pool to rest his fingers on the buttons of Jensen's vest. Shock stills Jensen long enough for the man to undo his fastenings, the vest falling open; Jensen remembers in time to catch the goddess before she shatters on the floor. The man ignores that Jensen has a knife in his hands, just unbuttons Jensen's shirt and pulls it open. It's more skin than Jensen has shown anyone, more than he's shown Marissa, and he sucks in a sharp breath. There's a heat beneath his skin that he doesn't know, shame and something else.
The man glances at him, then pushes the shirt off Jensen's shoulders. His hand is cool against the burn on Jensen's neck. The man takes that, too, runs his fingers over its sting. Jensen's pants are stripped away, leaving him his boxers.
"I can--" Jensen swallows, seeing the man's attention turn to him. "Let me do that."
The man skims his thumb over a strip Jensen's bared stomach, where the bruises grow like sullen flowers. It feels like being seared, unexpected where no one has touched before. The muscles jump under his touch, and the man gives that lazy smile again. He takes his hand away but doesn't step back, waiting. Waiting to see.
Is this what the man bought him for? Is that what he wants? Jensen feels dizzy in the heat.
"Uh." Hitching his thumbs under the waistband, Jensen feels his sweat-slick skin. The man is hard, Jensen can see it rising from a nest of curly dark hair. He wants to look. He can't look. "Can I have your name?"
"Jeff," the man says. His voice is gentler now, coaxing. "Name?"
"Jensen," he says. Reminding himself? "I'm Jensen."
And he pushes the boxers down, lets them slide to the floor.
Jeff is quiet, but Jensen feels himself being assessed. Jeff touches another place that Scott kicked, and Jensen sucks in a shallow breath. Jeff murmurs, "Shh," and doesn't stop looking. Jensen feels flayed. He's tired, he's burned and bruised, he's naked and hungry, and he feels like a wretched thing. A scholar, pale and useless in the field, ungainly with the others, unwelcome.
Jeff circles him, moving too close so that their bodies brush together. He keeps touching, a wandering fingertip over the patch of freckles on Jensen's side, the sweep of his thumb over Jensen's collarbone, the gentle span of his hand over Jensen's abused ribs. Always shh when Jensen startles, but the touches don't stop coming. Jensen starts to feel fine tremors in his thighs from standing up so straight.
When Jeff's hand bumps his thigh, Jensen flinches, but Jeff only reaches for his hand. Takes it, and pulls Jensen along behind him to the first steaming pool.
"That's all right, I don't..." Jensen digs his heels in, unsuccessfully.
Jeff sits by the pool, dipping his feet into the water. He tugs at Jensen's hand until Jensen gingerly sits beside him, careful not to touch the water. Jeff swings his feet, then holds one up to show Jensen that it wasn't boiled.
"I see," Jensen says.
Jeff turns to face him. Gathering up a handful of water, he brings it to Jensen's chest. Before Jensen can pull away, Jeff pours the water over his ribs. It's strange, liquid heat that stings; Jensen winces, and Jeff only gathers up more water to do it again. The next pour, the warmth penetrates deeper and eases some of the ache when Jensen breathes.
"Only bruises," the man says. "Does it hurt?"
Still in Trade, still withholding Jensen's ability to lie. Jensen sighs. "Some."
Jeff pauses, hand in the water. "Truth," he says sternly.
Jensen's patience isn't infinite. He snaps, "Does it matter?"
"Yes."
"Why?" Jensen gestures, ignoring the renewed pain in his anger. "You bought someone. You bought me like cattle, and I don't know why or for what purpose, and now you've stripped me and I still don't understand--"
Jeff catches his wrist and holds him still. Jensen tugs uselessly against his grip, and Jeff snags him by the ID bracelet. "Not like cattle," Jeff says. Impatient.
"Then what? What I am?"
"Frustrating." Jeff lets Jensen go and gets another handful of water. With his free hand, he touches Jensen's face. Jensen flinches, and Jeff just follows through on his touch. His fingers rest on Jensen's cheek, his thumb under Jensen's chin. He starts to tilt Jensen's head back. Baring his throat.
The knife, the water; is he going to be sacrificed? Throat slit like an animal? Jensen grabs Jeff's arm, struggles to straighten again. Jeff stops, sighs, but doesn't let Jensen up. "Peace, boy. I won't hurt you."
It's not a lie, not in Trade, but there's always room for flexible definitions of 'hurt'. Jensen holds on. "Tell me what's going on."
Jeff's thumb strokes down the column of Jensen's throat. Jensen shivers, and Jeff pauses, his hand spanning Jensen like a collar. "It's a ritual. Nothing more."
"What kind of ritual?"
Amused, Jeff replies, "Hers. Are you always this stubborn?"
"Yes. You could let me go."
"No," Jeff murmurs. Thoughtful. "No, I can't do that, I think. Is your curiosity satisfied?"
Never, unfortunately. A less curious, less craven person probably would've run by now.
Haltingly, Jensen releases Jeff's arm and lets himself be tipped backwards. Jeff moves to cup the back of his head, supporting him almost gently. More water pours down over Jensen's forehead, through his hair, and he reflexively closes his eyes.
Jeff begins to hum an aimless tune as he pours, anointing Jensen's hair, his brow, his closed eyes. Jensen tries to follow the pattern so he can write it down later, if there is a later, but the rhythm and the warmth of the water quiets his thoughts. The water kisses his mouth, his throat, down his chest, down his belly; the pain fades away as the water touches it.
This is interesting, a field study, a... he can't think. He's drifting. He should be afraid, he knows, but he can't find his fear. He feels illuminated from the inside.
Jeff shifts him, lowers him to the ground. The stone is warm against his back, Jeff's hand resting on his nape like the only solid point in a world gone soft. Jensen feels Jeff move his thighs apart, opening him, and he blinks aware for a moment. Jeff is looking at him. Jeff is looking, a lazy hunger in it that's worse than outright leering. Jeff looks him over like he's claimed territory, like Jeff feels no urgency in taking what's already his.
Some wild part of Jensen wants to stretch under that look as if under the sun, warmed and languorous. He shudders instead, tries to turn his face away. His cock is hard, risen while Jensen was lost in warmth. Jeff's attention lingers there, like a touch, before he pours the water again. Baptizes Jensen's feet, his legs, his hips. By the time Jeff's hand rests above Jensen's cock, Jensen is lead-boned and still urgently, stupidly erect.
Jeff glances at the ceiling and murmurs something. Stray water drips from his fingers as his other hand curls around his own erection. The head shines with wet, slipping through Jeff's grip as he strokes himself. A steady pace, unhurried, a slick wet noise rising from the friction of Jeff's hand. Jensen digs his nails into ungiving stone. He can't tear his eyes away from the rhythm of Jeff's hand, the rising flush of his skin, the unsteadiness of his breathing.
Unclean. Unchaste. Jensen will not be accepted back. He is throbbing, hungry for something he can't name. Wetness streaks his belly where his own cock bobs, untouched. He wants. He wants and his only concession is the lazy drip of water from the cup of Jeff's hand.
All at once, Jeff drags in a shallow breath and tenses. Jensen breathes in with him; he knows this from books, from shameful evidence on his sheets, but he hasn't seen... he hasn't seen Jeff spill into his fingers, the jerk of his cock and the way Jeff shudders. The thick sea-scent of it.
Exhaling long, Jeff shudders and straightens. He catches Jensen's eyes, then drops his gaze to the blood-heavy cock resting on Jensen's stomach. He lets the last of the water dribble out of his hand, anointing Jensen's cock, only enough to make him gasp and twitch. Then, with careful hands, Jeff takes his release and paints Jensen's skin. It's tepid, should be rather disgusting, but Jensen feels fevered. Slick-scent touches on his chest, over his heart. He is sold, taken, and he's ready to spread for Jeff like some kind of whore. This is shame, and this is desire.
"Mine," Jeff tells him, fingertips resting on Jensen's throat.
Jensen tells him to go fuck his mother in three different languages.
For a moment, Jeff looks at him as if he's going to take Jensen in hand, stroke his aching cock until he dissolves. Jensen lies still and pretends that he isn't disappointed when Jeff pulls away.
His will is strong. He will not break. He will not be owned.
Jeff retrieves something from a basket against the wall. It's a red ribbon, and he twines it around Jensen's wrist with exquisite care. "You speak Doradan?" he asks, as if the ritual never happened, as if he is not naked and Jensen is not painted with his semen.
"In so much as anyone speaks a dead language. Why?"
"We need a translator." At Jensen's blank look, Jeff elaborates, "You are to be my scholar."
"Not your--" Jensen stops short of saying 'whore'. "Why did you just...?"
"So the others would not." Jeff's mouth curves. "They'll think you're mine. Peace. You won't be used."
"Oh," Jensen says, inanely. "Oh."
Jeff says, "come," and Jensen goes.
Author:
nilchancePairing: JDM/JA
Rating: NC-17
A/N:
poisontaster asked for slave fic. I went kind of far afield. So, for those of you who were waiting anxiously for virgin!translator!Jensen in SPACE? Now with extra Latin conjugation? Yeah, here you go. The transport goes up. Of course it goes up, and miles from the nearest oasis, hidden rocks tearing the bottom out. The transport sits steaming on X-795's white dunes. Jensen can see the thin column of steam from their makeshift shelter, a cluster of dark rocks worn smooth from the sand. The rock is hot enough to burn in an instant, but it's the only source of shade in a burning white world.
"C'mon, don't sit there and stare," Marissa wheedles. She's already paced the stretch of shade three times, restless in the heat.
It's wiser to conserve their energy for when night comes so they can make a mad dash to the next shelter, but it's the kind of wisdom that depends on them having an ultimate solution. They don't, not even the elders who came with them. There won't be anyone searching for one trading party, not on 795 where sun-blindness radiates up from the sands. Even down here on the ground, they can barely see where they're going.
But there's no telling Marissa anything like that. Jensen's marrying up, and they both know it. Marissa ranks him, fiance or not, so he gets to his feet. The water he sipped this morning has already dried to dust in his mouth. The rehydration packs he's leeching life from will wear off in another day. He doesn't want to think about dying out here, fading to parched smooth bones. Uncharitably, he hopes Marissa will do something stupid and die first. At least then he won't have to listen to her. I don't want to marry a scholar, I want a hero. A hero would get us out of this. You're terribly boring, Jensen, do you know that?
He gets some small satisfaction from watching her scramble around, wasting her energy. Even if it means he'll probably be carrying her tonight.
Scott is waiting for them in another patch of shadows. He's barely visible except for the stupid red sash he insisted on wearing on a water-trade, of all things. Scott wasn't even supposed to be with them. He's been more of a nuisance than a help, eating up their food, drinking more than his share of water when he thinks they don't see. Flirting with Marissa, apparently under the impression that Jensen cares that Marissa likes Scott better.
Marissa grabs Jensen's arm and drags him through the brutal sun. Jensen squints his eyes closed and keeps his head down. He can already feel the sunburn on his neck and face, on the exposed knuckles of his gloved hands. Annoyingly, both Marissa and Scott are tanning, accustomed to the sun instead of the cool darkness of the libraries. Which explains why they're both stupid.
Apparently dying doesn't agree with Jensen.
As they get closer, the shade around Scott widens into the mouth of a little stone shelter. There's barely enough height for Scott to stand up straight, but lengthwise, it can fit their whole party. Once they're inside the hot shadows, Marissa drops Jensen's arm.
"Look what I found," Scott says unnecessarily.
"It's wonderful," Marissa says. She cranes her head around, studying everything, and touches the lichen on the roof of their shelter. Jensen winces; just because the lichen survived this heat doesn't mean it can tolerate the oil on her hands. There should be biologists for this, to categorize and study, but instead their party has only two elders, two spoiled idiots and himself as the translator in case they find natives to trade with.
They focus on trade, not study. Still, Jensen makes a mental note to write down a description of the lichen once he's alone. The Head Curator will want to know if he saw anything interesting on his trip. Assuming they survive.
"Yeah?" Scott asks, puffed up with pride. "Then c'mere and look at this, it's even better."
For once, Scott's right. As they squeeze back into the very corner of the shelter, Jensen sees a tiny figure half-buried in the sand. It looks like a traditional goddess figure, breasts pronounced under her raised arms, her stomach rounded. It's chipped and smoothed down, but the edges of her arms look sharp enough to cut skin.
"I'm going to piss on it," Scott announces.
Marissa squeals. "Oh, don't!" But it's the half-hearted, prodding protest that only makes Scott more likely to do whatever idiot thing he just suggested. "We might get in trouble."
Scott snorts and starts to undo his pants. Something gives very quietly inside Jensen's head.
One strike with his elbow and Scott's head snaps back, blood already beginning to flow from his nose. Scott wheels back a few steps, mouth gaping, and Jensen dives for the figure. The sand is strangely cool and damp around her as his fingers sink in around her. He doesn't get the chance to pull her free before Scott's on him, his greater weight pushing all the air out of Jensen's lungs. Scott punches him in the face, one good shot, before Jensen rips the figure free and gets that arm raised to block Scott's fists. Dimly, Jensen feels the figure's edges slice through his gloves and into his palm.
It's a short, stupid fight. Jensen isn't physical. Scott is. Scott beats him soundly until he grows bored, then leaves him gasping in the dust. Jensen curls around the goddess, tucking her against his protected stomach, and waits for the spinning to stop.
"I wasn't going to do it," Scott grumbles. "Worried about your dolls, scholar?"
Marissa clucks over Scott's bloodied knuckles. Murmurs, "Leave him. Are you all right? You-- oh!"
Jensen lifts his head, drawn by the alarm in Marissa's voice. Then he has to put his head back down, his vision bruised.
Where there was only sunlight before, there's a man, or at least the shape of a man. He's wrapped up in tan linen robes, dark goggles protecting his eyes. There's a gun in his hand, and it's aimed at Scott. Jensen decides that he likes this person already.
"Oh," Marissa repeats. Putting a quelling hand on Scott, because she's not entirely stupid, she makes their sign of peace. "Um. Hello? We're lost."
The man doesn't twitch. At least this planet doesn't seem to take that hand signal as an insult.
"We're here to trade for water," Marissa tries again. "We're from Federation Planet C-85. We have many riches. Understand?"
Jensen is surrounded by idiocy. If the man is a robber, Marissa just told him they're valuable and that nobody's coming for them.
Slowly, Jensen uncurls himself and puts the goddess inside his vest. Her sharp edges lie close to his heart. Wiping the blood off his mouth, Jensen says in Trade Southern, "Stranger, we've come for water. There are many of us. Will you trade?"
The man tilts his head, studying Jensen. Out of the corner of his eye, Jensen sees Scott start to go for him, and Marissa yank him back.
Finally, the man replies in Trade. "Your map is bad, stranger. You're far from water-traders."
Good. The man recognized them as new customers with no standing debt. Jensen says, "Then we'll trade for a better map."
The man scoffs.
"No joke, stranger. Here." Thinking fast, Jensen pushes up his sleeve and unhooks his ID. It's useless but shiny, and the metal can be melted down for bullets. Dangling the bracelet from his fingers, Jensen shuffles forward and holds it out to the stranger. "Here."
"What are you doing?" Marissa hisses.
Jensen shoots her a sharp look. In that moment of distraction, the stranger grabs Jensen's arm. Both Marissa and Scott squeak, which would be amusing if Jensen wasn't bargaining for their lives. Jensen holds very still as the stranger turns his wrist over, exposing the pale underside to the sun.
Gently, the stranger strokes Jensen's bare skin with his thumb. "You're bleeding, stranger," the man murmurs.
Jensen nearly says the polite thing, that he's fine and it's nothing, but any lie in Trade is blasphemy. The truth can be twisted, like calling the five of them 'many', but outright lies... no. "Yes, I'm bleeding."
"Hm." The stranger doesn't drop his wrist, but he lowers the gun. "I will trade."
"This is good." Jensen waits for the man to take his ID, but he doesn't. He just holds Jensen's wrist in one hand. Jensen shakes the bracelet. "Yes?"
The man rests his thumb on Jensen's pulse. Waits.
"Oh." Realization sinks in, and Jensen backs up a step. The man follows him, patiently holding on. "Oh no, no no. Wait--"
With a snort, the man brings his attention back to Marissa and Scott. In sharply enunciated English, he says, "Him for a map."
"No." Jensen looks at Marissa, finds her looking thoughtfully back at him. His temper snaps. "Marissa, we're supposed to be married!"
Marissa says to the stranger, "For a map and your canteen."
"Marissa! How are you going to buy water, you don't speak trade, you--"
The man shrugs off his canteen and hands Marissa a leather scroll. Marissa opens it, considers the inside, and nods once.
"You bitch," Jensen says dully.
"I don't want to die out here," Marissa says. To the man, "May you have the joy of him, sir."
Jensen can't see the man's face, but he's unnervingly sure that the man smiles.
****
After Marissa and Scott are gone, holding hands where they think Jensen can't see, the man lets go of his wrist. Jensen rubs it, thinks about running, but the man could catch him in a heartbeat. Since the man can actually see past the sun-glare. In the end, Jensen doesn't do anything more heroic than putting his ID bracelet back on.
The man turns away and clicks his tongue twice. A tall tan beast comes, a saddle on its arched back. It bumps the stranger with its broad head. It has modified blinders on, dark glass allowing it to see. The stranger rubs its short ears and reaches into the pack around its neck. There's another canteen inside, along with another linen robe. The man holds it out and, when Jensen doesn't take it, drops it at his feet.
The sun is still out, and they'll eventually leave this little shelter. Jensen would only be punishing himself if he doesn't put on the protective linen. So he puts it on, muttering old curses under his breath. His fingers fumble with the unfamiliar catches, and he can't quite reach the last few without bending and troubling his new bruises. The man comes to him and bats his hands away, efficiently fastening the rest.
Jensen doesn't say thank you.
The man gives the beast some leathery fruit, rubs its ears again, and climbs on. He bends to help Jensen up, but Jensen ignores him and hoists himself up. The man steers him from sitting behind, makes Jensen perch in front. The man's arms go around him to hold the reins, his broad thighs a brace for Jensen to rest between. Jensen sits rigidly upright, trying not to touch him.
The man clicks his tongue again, and the beast begins to move. Jensen expects a lurching motion like the ancient camel-beasts he's read about, but the beast seems to flow forward. It's a gentle ride, easier than a horse. It barely jars the bruises.
Jensen's eyes burn after a moment in the sun. He tucks his chin against his chest, the hood of the robe falling over his face. He thinks about the knife hidden inside his robes. He wonders what Marissa will tell the Elders. Probably the truth; what does she have to hide? It was a good trade.
There's no one at C-85 to mourn. The Head Curator may pause a moment before going back to his studies. Marissa will find a new husband.
He's been bought like cattle. Jesu. To what end?
They ride and ride, a lulling rhythm. Jensen lets his mind drift back to his books, back to a place where he's not hungry and tired and hurt. To the quiet corner of the library where he smells only parchment and ink, hears only the scratch of his pen. He falls into the rhythm of conjugation: I am to be carried, portandus sum. I was to be carried, portandus eram. I will deserve to be carried, portandus...
The beast slows, then stops. Jensen opens eyes that he'd closed against the sun. The air has cooled. There's a warmth wrapped around him, the wall of the man's chest behind. Jensen shifts forward so they're not touching, then pushes the hood back to look around.
The desert is gone, with its killing light. Dusk is falling. They're surrounded by stone, dull white lined with gray and gold. The ground is padded thick with earth, hay and grass. Jensen cranes his head around and sees the path behind them, a distant archway leading back into the light.
"What is this?" Jensen asks.
The man huffs a laugh. Tossing the reins aside, he steps down from the beast. Holds his arms up, like he expects Jensen to fall into them. Jensen gives him what he hopes is a scathing look, then gets down on his own. The man shrugs and starts unbuckling the beast's saddle and bags. When the blinders are off, the beast blinks milky eyes and croons. The man bumps his forehead against the beast's, then reaches for a brush on the wall.
Beneath a layer of sweat and sand, the beast shines. It's lanky, its thin fur iridescent as a crow. It plays, nipping at the man, spinning in place to try to catch him. The man keeps brushing, thoroughly covering every inch of the beast, lifting its legs one by one to check its hooves. Jensen stands back, uncertain.
Finally, the man steps away and starts to undo his robes. They fall away by degrees, baring tan skin, sparse dark hair. Scars. The man is human, if nothing else. When the protective codpiece unbuckles, Jensen averts his eyes.
"Peace," the man says in Trade. His voice is rich, amused. "I have clothes."
Jensen glances at him. In place of the stranger there's a man, dark haired and lean. He's wearing thin white pants that stick to him with sweat and that hide little. The man smirks to see Jensen looking.
"Would you like me to undress you?" The man asks.
His cheeks burning from more than the sun, Jensen turns away and quickly takes the robes off. His gloves, too. His clothes beneath are damp, sweaty.
The man eyes him, eyes dark with heat, and for a moment Jensen thinks he's going to order him naked. Instead, the man takes a bucket off the wall and heads deeper into the halls of stone. He doesn't look back for Jensen, because there's nowhere for Jensen to run. So he follows.
There are steps. Jensen asks, "Did you carve these?"
"No. They were here when I came."
"Oh." Indeed, the steps and walls are smooth from years of use. Jensen runs his fingers along the wall. Veins of copper, maybe, or bronze... "When did you come?"
The man stops, and Jensen runs into his back. Then he sees where they are, and he's too busy staring to step away.
Water.
The halls open into a wide chamber and a lake of clean, shimmering water. Enough to supply a city. Enough to buy a city.
The man bends, fills the bucket, as if it's nothing. As if he isn't wetting his hands in a fortune. When he sees Jensen staring, he raises his eyebrows in question.
"You have water?" Jensen blurts.
The man looks at the bucket, at the lake, then back at Jensen.
"I mean, yes, you have water. You could trade that."
The man shrugs and heads back down the hallway, back to the beast. He sets the water in front of the beast, pats its neck. He gave water to the animal? "I have what I need," the man says.
"But our people need water."
"They'll find it somewhere else. This is hers."
"Whose?" Jensen asks.
The man raises his head to study Jensen. Then he puts one hand on Jensen's chest, over his heart. Over the goddess figurine. "Hers," Jeff says. "Sacred water."
"You gave it to the..." Jensen runs out of words and ends up gesturing at the beast.
"Tak-tak," the man supplies. "Yes. He'll drink it for himself. Your people would drain every drop and leave her nothing."
It's true, but Jensen bristles. "You don't know that."
"I know," the man says simply. Then he disappears down the hall again.
Jensen chews on the inside of his cheek to keep from yelling. He plows on after the man, following his footsteps. They go past the lake, past another set of steps leading up, and into another chamber, where small ponds cluster like a honeycomb. The air is thick and hot. Steam rises from the pools, clogging Jensen's throat and making him cough.
The man shucks off his pants and is bare. Jensen doesn't look away quickly enough. The man notices and smiles, slow and hot.
Averting his eyes, Jensen asks, "What are you doing?"
"Bath."
"Oh." Jensen remembers historical references to water baths. Rumors that the rich bathe daily and let the water run away, or let their servants drink it. Jensen stayed with his sand baths and tried not to be envious. But now that he's here, watching the man test the water with one foot, he can only worry vaguely that he'll be boiled to death. "I see."
The man returns from the hot pool to rest his fingers on the buttons of Jensen's vest. Shock stills Jensen long enough for the man to undo his fastenings, the vest falling open; Jensen remembers in time to catch the goddess before she shatters on the floor. The man ignores that Jensen has a knife in his hands, just unbuttons Jensen's shirt and pulls it open. It's more skin than Jensen has shown anyone, more than he's shown Marissa, and he sucks in a sharp breath. There's a heat beneath his skin that he doesn't know, shame and something else.
The man glances at him, then pushes the shirt off Jensen's shoulders. His hand is cool against the burn on Jensen's neck. The man takes that, too, runs his fingers over its sting. Jensen's pants are stripped away, leaving him his boxers.
"I can--" Jensen swallows, seeing the man's attention turn to him. "Let me do that."
The man skims his thumb over a strip Jensen's bared stomach, where the bruises grow like sullen flowers. It feels like being seared, unexpected where no one has touched before. The muscles jump under his touch, and the man gives that lazy smile again. He takes his hand away but doesn't step back, waiting. Waiting to see.
Is this what the man bought him for? Is that what he wants? Jensen feels dizzy in the heat.
"Uh." Hitching his thumbs under the waistband, Jensen feels his sweat-slick skin. The man is hard, Jensen can see it rising from a nest of curly dark hair. He wants to look. He can't look. "Can I have your name?"
"Jeff," the man says. His voice is gentler now, coaxing. "Name?"
"Jensen," he says. Reminding himself? "I'm Jensen."
And he pushes the boxers down, lets them slide to the floor.
Jeff is quiet, but Jensen feels himself being assessed. Jeff touches another place that Scott kicked, and Jensen sucks in a shallow breath. Jeff murmurs, "Shh," and doesn't stop looking. Jensen feels flayed. He's tired, he's burned and bruised, he's naked and hungry, and he feels like a wretched thing. A scholar, pale and useless in the field, ungainly with the others, unwelcome.
Jeff circles him, moving too close so that their bodies brush together. He keeps touching, a wandering fingertip over the patch of freckles on Jensen's side, the sweep of his thumb over Jensen's collarbone, the gentle span of his hand over Jensen's abused ribs. Always shh when Jensen startles, but the touches don't stop coming. Jensen starts to feel fine tremors in his thighs from standing up so straight.
When Jeff's hand bumps his thigh, Jensen flinches, but Jeff only reaches for his hand. Takes it, and pulls Jensen along behind him to the first steaming pool.
"That's all right, I don't..." Jensen digs his heels in, unsuccessfully.
Jeff sits by the pool, dipping his feet into the water. He tugs at Jensen's hand until Jensen gingerly sits beside him, careful not to touch the water. Jeff swings his feet, then holds one up to show Jensen that it wasn't boiled.
"I see," Jensen says.
Jeff turns to face him. Gathering up a handful of water, he brings it to Jensen's chest. Before Jensen can pull away, Jeff pours the water over his ribs. It's strange, liquid heat that stings; Jensen winces, and Jeff only gathers up more water to do it again. The next pour, the warmth penetrates deeper and eases some of the ache when Jensen breathes.
"Only bruises," the man says. "Does it hurt?"
Still in Trade, still withholding Jensen's ability to lie. Jensen sighs. "Some."
Jeff pauses, hand in the water. "Truth," he says sternly.
Jensen's patience isn't infinite. He snaps, "Does it matter?"
"Yes."
"Why?" Jensen gestures, ignoring the renewed pain in his anger. "You bought someone. You bought me like cattle, and I don't know why or for what purpose, and now you've stripped me and I still don't understand--"
Jeff catches his wrist and holds him still. Jensen tugs uselessly against his grip, and Jeff snags him by the ID bracelet. "Not like cattle," Jeff says. Impatient.
"Then what? What I am?"
"Frustrating." Jeff lets Jensen go and gets another handful of water. With his free hand, he touches Jensen's face. Jensen flinches, and Jeff just follows through on his touch. His fingers rest on Jensen's cheek, his thumb under Jensen's chin. He starts to tilt Jensen's head back. Baring his throat.
The knife, the water; is he going to be sacrificed? Throat slit like an animal? Jensen grabs Jeff's arm, struggles to straighten again. Jeff stops, sighs, but doesn't let Jensen up. "Peace, boy. I won't hurt you."
It's not a lie, not in Trade, but there's always room for flexible definitions of 'hurt'. Jensen holds on. "Tell me what's going on."
Jeff's thumb strokes down the column of Jensen's throat. Jensen shivers, and Jeff pauses, his hand spanning Jensen like a collar. "It's a ritual. Nothing more."
"What kind of ritual?"
Amused, Jeff replies, "Hers. Are you always this stubborn?"
"Yes. You could let me go."
"No," Jeff murmurs. Thoughtful. "No, I can't do that, I think. Is your curiosity satisfied?"
Never, unfortunately. A less curious, less craven person probably would've run by now.
Haltingly, Jensen releases Jeff's arm and lets himself be tipped backwards. Jeff moves to cup the back of his head, supporting him almost gently. More water pours down over Jensen's forehead, through his hair, and he reflexively closes his eyes.
Jeff begins to hum an aimless tune as he pours, anointing Jensen's hair, his brow, his closed eyes. Jensen tries to follow the pattern so he can write it down later, if there is a later, but the rhythm and the warmth of the water quiets his thoughts. The water kisses his mouth, his throat, down his chest, down his belly; the pain fades away as the water touches it.
This is interesting, a field study, a... he can't think. He's drifting. He should be afraid, he knows, but he can't find his fear. He feels illuminated from the inside.
Jeff shifts him, lowers him to the ground. The stone is warm against his back, Jeff's hand resting on his nape like the only solid point in a world gone soft. Jensen feels Jeff move his thighs apart, opening him, and he blinks aware for a moment. Jeff is looking at him. Jeff is looking, a lazy hunger in it that's worse than outright leering. Jeff looks him over like he's claimed territory, like Jeff feels no urgency in taking what's already his.
Some wild part of Jensen wants to stretch under that look as if under the sun, warmed and languorous. He shudders instead, tries to turn his face away. His cock is hard, risen while Jensen was lost in warmth. Jeff's attention lingers there, like a touch, before he pours the water again. Baptizes Jensen's feet, his legs, his hips. By the time Jeff's hand rests above Jensen's cock, Jensen is lead-boned and still urgently, stupidly erect.
Jeff glances at the ceiling and murmurs something. Stray water drips from his fingers as his other hand curls around his own erection. The head shines with wet, slipping through Jeff's grip as he strokes himself. A steady pace, unhurried, a slick wet noise rising from the friction of Jeff's hand. Jensen digs his nails into ungiving stone. He can't tear his eyes away from the rhythm of Jeff's hand, the rising flush of his skin, the unsteadiness of his breathing.
Unclean. Unchaste. Jensen will not be accepted back. He is throbbing, hungry for something he can't name. Wetness streaks his belly where his own cock bobs, untouched. He wants. He wants and his only concession is the lazy drip of water from the cup of Jeff's hand.
All at once, Jeff drags in a shallow breath and tenses. Jensen breathes in with him; he knows this from books, from shameful evidence on his sheets, but he hasn't seen... he hasn't seen Jeff spill into his fingers, the jerk of his cock and the way Jeff shudders. The thick sea-scent of it.
Exhaling long, Jeff shudders and straightens. He catches Jensen's eyes, then drops his gaze to the blood-heavy cock resting on Jensen's stomach. He lets the last of the water dribble out of his hand, anointing Jensen's cock, only enough to make him gasp and twitch. Then, with careful hands, Jeff takes his release and paints Jensen's skin. It's tepid, should be rather disgusting, but Jensen feels fevered. Slick-scent touches on his chest, over his heart. He is sold, taken, and he's ready to spread for Jeff like some kind of whore. This is shame, and this is desire.
"Mine," Jeff tells him, fingertips resting on Jensen's throat.
Jensen tells him to go fuck his mother in three different languages.
For a moment, Jeff looks at him as if he's going to take Jensen in hand, stroke his aching cock until he dissolves. Jensen lies still and pretends that he isn't disappointed when Jeff pulls away.
His will is strong. He will not break. He will not be owned.
Jeff retrieves something from a basket against the wall. It's a red ribbon, and he twines it around Jensen's wrist with exquisite care. "You speak Doradan?" he asks, as if the ritual never happened, as if he is not naked and Jensen is not painted with his semen.
"In so much as anyone speaks a dead language. Why?"
"We need a translator." At Jensen's blank look, Jeff elaborates, "You are to be my scholar."
"Not your--" Jensen stops short of saying 'whore'. "Why did you just...?"
"So the others would not." Jeff's mouth curves. "They'll think you're mine. Peace. You won't be used."
"Oh," Jensen says, inanely. "Oh."
Jeff says, "come," and Jensen goes.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2008-06-07 04:33 pm (UTC)As it's hitting 100 degrees here today, I can honestly say your descriptions of the desert are spot on!
no subject
Date: 2008-06-07 04:34 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-06-07 04:37 pm (UTC)I just... Gorgeous.
I am in awe of your world-building: deft, light touches that tell us what we need to know, and tantalises us with the hints of a hundred other things under the surface.
I love the careful, formal way Jensen uses to negotiate the situation the best he can, and the goddess rituals associated with water and... *hands* Love.
no subject
Date: 2008-06-08 01:22 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-06-07 04:47 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-06-07 05:05 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-06-07 05:27 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-06-07 05:40 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-06-07 05:48 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-06-07 05:52 pm (UTC)i have to have more of this--its great so far
no subject
Date: 2008-06-07 06:02 pm (UTC)I want to throw a party! *g*
no subject
Date: 2008-06-07 06:03 pm (UTC)You are a kick-ass, first rate, world-builder.
No, really.
I've been trying lately to up the quotient of SF and fantasy that I read, and as a result, trying to figure out why I like SF television and film so much more than books.
Apparently, the answers were revealed in the midst of this smoking hot fic. (You may recall that I suggested that with some name changes the retriever universe was already totally the level of pro fic, so you've done this to me before: create worlds so engrossing from the get go that I want to leave you comments that chant "I WANT MORE" like a two year old. But, you know, I do try to restrain myself. With varying degrees of success.)
Anyway, my point is that you have a rare talent for figuring out how to start right in the middle of a key part of the plot, so as to suck readers in. Moreover, you have a real knack for not only building a world but figuring out precisely how to reveal the appropriate aspects of that world without resorting to a data dump. Combine that with the fact that I already know and like the characters and already trust that the story will be worth reading, and your fic is totally like crack to me.
So, you know, I know you're busy and all? But I would gleefully greet any new installments of this.
no subject
Date: 2008-06-07 06:10 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-06-07 06:23 pm (UTC)Very Dune-like but with it's own twists. I liked this a lot and I hope there's more to come.
no subject
Date: 2008-06-07 06:26 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-06-07 06:49 pm (UTC)I want more.
no subject
Date: 2008-06-07 06:50 pm (UTC)Love.
Love the red ribbon and Jensen-the-scholar and his fight for the little statue.
Lovely.
:)
no subject
Date: 2008-06-07 06:56 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-06-07 07:19 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-06-07 07:32 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-06-07 07:39 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-06-07 08:34 pm (UTC)Is there a sequel? Would love to see Jeff and Jensen meeting Marissa and Scott again but with Jensen working with Jeff.
no subject
Date: 2008-06-07 08:54 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-06-07 10:02 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-06-07 10:47 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-06-07 10:48 pm (UTC)