Hannah Flynn

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Stones in His Pockets

Fri, 04 Jan 2008 03:45:45 GMT

The last flights out of Baton Rouge weren't until later. But even at 9:30pm, the place got kind of empty. Here and there, passengers dotted the airport chairs, each waiting for boarding time, each reading a Tom Clancy book or watching CNN headlines until their heads lolled back. Shopkeepers rolled down the gates on their snack counters. Custodians ran vacuums over the carpet, sucking up crumbs that fell out of nab wrappers.

A solitary blonde hurried along the concourse, passing gates six and seven. Her carry-on bag traveled on tiny wheels. She tried to keep her ankles ahead of it, as if she couldn't afford a run in her pantyhose. At the eighth gate, she steered it into the row of chairs and sat down next to a waxy plant. She sighed and checked her ticket. Ten minutes until boarding call. "Perfect," she murmured. She was wearing a trim business suit, complete with blazer and skirt. It was a conservative shade of dark blue, but the details were too cutesy to be professional. For instance, there was a cat-shaped pin on her lapel, and her shoes had little bows on them.

Reaching into her neckline, she heaved an impressive mass of blonde hair over her shoulder. It was long and wavy and half-obscured her face. She rooted through her clutch and fished out a tube of dark lipstick, which she applied meticulously before loudly smacking her lips. "I hate late flights," she proclaimed to no one in particular.

Half absorbed in an issue of Navy Times that he'd been surprised to find at the airport bookshop, GW Robichaux hadn't paid the blonde any attention until she sat down beside him. The paper was something he hadn't read since he'd moved to Vegas and most of the issues of the niche publication hadn't changed much, mostly the same old gripes against the same people. Still, it had been something to read and enabled the former marine to indulge a bit of nostalgia about the 'good old days' back when he'd actually worn the uniform.

"I'm sorry?" he asked at first, then realized what she must have said and nodded. "They're no fun, but at least it's a direct flight. I always hated layovers myself."

Having now actually looked up to see who had adressed him, he couldn't help but raise an eyebrow in curiosity at the outfit. It was an odd mix of professional and whimsical; whoever she was, she definitely marched to the beat of her own drummer. She was cute, too. "Headin' out t' Sin City on business or pleasure?"

"Mmm...business," she decided, as if she'd just made up her mind right then. The blonde stowed her lipstick away and smoothed her palms over her skirt. She noticed a pick in her pantyhose and plucked at her kneecap. "Oh man. I can never wear these a full day without ruining 'em. I should just go without and look like a floosy." Back into the clutch she went, this time coming out armed with clear nailpolish. She unscrewed the cap and dabbed some on the little snag. "My grandma taught me this. Keeps it from getting worse."

She blew on the polish. "What were you out here for? Holiday visiting?"

"You pluck at it yer just gonna make it worse," GW observed. Helene had always had the same problem, he remembered with a smile. Fortunately she'd only had to wear them for church or other formal events, as she'd wear scrubs to work for her job as a nurse.

"Yeah, I came down to visit family. They're all down 'roundabouts Crowley mostly." There was something familar to GW about the way the blonde talked, but he chalked it up to his imagination. After all, he'd never met the woman before just now. One thing was for certain though; she wasn't from around here originally. "Business huh? Try not t' spend all the time workin'. Vegas is a town built fer fun."

"Oh believe me, I know it!" she told him, laughing behind her shield of blonde. Her series of mundane tasks made it acceptable to talk to him without looking at him straight on. "It's not my first trip. But I always like going home best. They make sure I don't forget who I am. I don't get home much anymore..." She shrugged, a half-hearted gesture of disappointment. "Oh well, you take what you can get. I guess it's not all bad, having to stay away. I mean, 'cause going home's bittersweet. It's kinda like jumping in a pond on a hot summer day, only when you try to swim back out, somebody put rocks in your pockets. You ever feel like that?"

The custodian pulled the cord on his vacuum, plunging the concourse into semi-silence. Only the chatter of televisions made for background noise.

"Oh sure, you bet," GW nodded sagely. The topic of returning it home and finding it forever changed was something he was quite familar with.

"The first time I came home, everythin' seemed different, even though not much had changed. I was th' one who was different." He chuckled at the memory of his first visit home after graduating from boot camp. The difference had been so profound that people hadn't recognized him at first, not just because of the odd haircut and change in posture, but the seemingly overnight change in outlook and personality.

Home just hadn't seemed the same after the Corps. It was still home, but it was...smaller somehow, the sense that it was the center of the universe had vanished never to return.

"I know just what you mean," she agreed. "And folks can get pretty freaked out about it. It's probably weird for them, too. Like life just kept on going for them, and here you come back different, and I bet they're worried you won't feel the same about them anymore. Like maybe you outgrew 'em." She gathered her bag closer to her feet and fiddled with the luggage tag. "On occasion, I get paranoid and think maybe they'd rather I stay gone than come home different... Anyways, I'm rambling."

A willowy woman in a sharp suit got behind the podium. She entered data into the keyboard and then opened the gate. It looked like things were about to get going.

"Ladies and gentlemen, flight 192 with service to Las Vegas will begin boarding its first class passengers in a few minutes."

The blonde chewed her lip. There was something in her hands, grey and rounded and obscured by her fingers. "I wish I'd gotten here sooner. Like yesterday sooner, when it coulda done you some good, but these things don't always go according to schedule."

He shifted in his seat at the announcement from the podium; it wouldn't be long before the coach passengers were called to board as there weren't a lot of bodies for this flight.

"I'm sorry I don't know what you mean." GW frowned and looked over at the blonde. What was she talking about? The woman was suddenly acting as if she knew him, but he didn't think he'd ever seen her before in his life. Or had he?

"When it could have done me some good? When what could have? Do I know you, miss?"

"Yes." Hannah picked her head up so the ex-marine could see her face. "At least, I remember you, GW." She smiled as softly as she could and hoped he didn't scream his head off. "It's Hannah." For the moment, she kept her hands to herself, wanting to let him absorb that news as best he could before diving into the rest.

"Flight 192 with service to Las Vegas will now begin boarding its first class passengers."

"Hannah?" GW didn't scream his head off, but his jaw did drop as he recognized the blonde. He remembered Hannah, he'd read her obituary with a great deal of sorrow and regretted not getting to know her better when he'd lived down in Searchlight.

Being from the family he was in, the Cajun had some experience with the supernatural, but this was the first time he'd ever been visited by a ghost.

That sort of thing usually happened to the women in his family, not the men. "This is a bit o' a shock, you bet." Why on earth would she be visiting him from beyond the grave? He'd only met her a few times.

Hannah nodded and looked sympathetic. "I know, it must be..," she fumbled for the words and settled on, "...so weird. I mean, we're in an airport, for crying out loud. But I have something for you." Reaching out to him slowly, in case he jerked away, Hannah held the stone up to him. "This is the symbolic part. The rock in your pocket... the one from home. See... there's a spirit where I am, a person who knew you before and wants to speak with you very much. But they can't get to Earth as easy as I can. I'm just the messenger."

GW reached for her hand without hesitation; from what little he knew of the woman she could never be a malevolent spirit or allow others to act through her with ill intent. It was wierd, and he wasn't quite sure what to make of the news that someone from beyond the grave wanted to speak to him. There were so many possibilities.

How many times had he asked himself what he would give for the chance to talk to loved ones who'd passed before him just one more time? Helene was one who immediately came to mind, but he didn't trust himself to voice the thought out loud.

"Why now?"

Hannah dropped the stone in his palm. "Maybe it's because of what's going on in your life right now. Or maybe it just took them this long to find someone who could carry the message. I don't know. I need you to do me a favor, GW. I need you to think real hard about whether you want to know the message or not. It could be a tiny one, or it could totally change your life." Hannah lifted her thin shoulders, feeling helpless to advise him. Voices from the afterlife could put a person at peace or completely disrupt them, depending on their reaction. "But I can't give it to you in Las Vegas. This... spirit... it wants to see you."

Hannah shot a look at the gate and back to GW. "I'm gonna bring them with me next time. It's hard to do, but it'll be easier if we go someplace familiar or umm... comfortable, like a place they visited when they were alive. The next time you come to Louisiana, I'll be here. If you wanna see me, bring the rock."

"Flight 192 with service to Las Vegas will now begin boarding its coach class passengers."

The rock felt warm in his palm and GW stared at it for a moment before nodding and closing his hand over it to put it in his pocket.

"Guess if they waited this long, they can wait a bit longer, non?" He asked with much more confidence than he really felt. Part of him wanted to turn around and exchange the ticket for a later flight and demand that Hannah bring the spirit, while another part wanted to throw the stone in Lake Mead and forget this meeting ever took place. It was something he'd need to think about before making the decision one way or the other.

He impulsively reached over and gave the very solid feeling 'ghost' a one armed hug. "Thanks Hannah, either way. I'm sorry I didn't get t' know y' better before, y' know...I guess I always thought there'd be time."

Hannah leaned into the rapid hug, taking comfort in the temporary contact with another person. "That's okay. There's always eternity. Sooner or later, you'll get there, too." The blonde got to her feet and grabbed her luggage handle. "I gotta go to the ladies' room. Otherwise, I'll disappear right here, and somebody'll have a coronary." She stepped away from GW and her hair slipped down her back. "Think about this real hard, okay?"

"Now boarding passengers, rows G through K."

"Bye." Hannah wagged her fingers and started down the concourse in the direction from which she'd come.

On Oliver (in so many ways)

Sat, 29 Dec 2007 05:00:04 GMT

Oliver, Oliver, Oliver.

I love the way it takes my whole mouth to say it.

When he ran his fingers over me, I felt like they were paintbrushes putting color back where it belonged. I had this memory about a paint-with-water book I used to have -- Fairy Princesses -- and how you'd dab water inside the lines, and purples and blues and pinks and yellows would stain the page. Since they were usually yellow-haired princesses, I could pretend I was them.

Lately when I go to the earth plane, I'm wearing dresses like Alice in Wonderland. Robin's egg blue.

I'm not supposed to feel like this, but it's way down deep in my heart. And when my body's not with me, it's in the air around me. People notice it on accident. They smile as they walk through me. Once, a woman blushed. I wasn't exactly thinking about love right then. I wonder how Oliver'd feel if he knew.

The L word. Wow. I must be whacked! But I guess once you've died, pride's pretty much superfluous, and why bother. I was never any good at putting on airs, anyway.

I wish I could talk to a person with ovaries. Mallory or Julie, maybe. What good is a crush if you and your girlfriends can't squeal about it and super-analyze every move the guy made? And holy cow, would I freak over the chance to relive some of Oliver's moves.

Ay carumba.

*Swoon*

It's like this. If I wasn't already deceased before, I would be now, on account of walking into traffic. Seriously! How are you supposed to keep your head on straight after sex?! It's heck on wheels to get anything accomplished. You keep zoning out. And don't get me started on how many phallic-shaped things there are in this world and the next. I'll tell you, it's plenty. For instance, the Taj Mahal. They say Shah Jahan had it built in memorium to his dead wife Mumtaz. But what they don't tell you is how Mumtaz kicked it birthing their fourteenth kid. Shah Jahan thought about his penis a lot.

But I digress.

The point is how I feel. I feel like me again! In my head, I sound like Hannah. Not Hannah Flynn, Ghost, but Hannah Flynn, Girl. And if it weren't for the chains of supernatural oppression holding me down, I'd almost believe I was my own person. Like I could do as I wished, when I wished.

The fact that I got snatched out of Oliver's bed buck naked was a harsh reminder that not so much. But I refuse to be sad about it! I'll cry when I want him and they ship me off to Canada or Singapore or Mozambique. I'll cry when he realizes I'm not worth the trouble. But I won't let them spoil it, for however long it lasts. They said they took me because I could be a singular light in the dark places.

Well, suck it, PTBs. Hannah's gone supernova!

Keeping the Undead Alive

Wed, 19 Dec 2007 03:05:11 GMT

The desert is a quiet place, especially at night. One would think there would be animal noises, or the wind rustling the sand, or the flutter of bat wings, or the slithering of a snake or lizard. Maybe on most nights those noises do fill out the silence. But not this night.

It is also common for a dying man to gasp, each breath harder to draw than the last. Or to moan or groan in pain, or plead for mercy, or to pray for help and salvation. Maybe he’d even struggle to crawl from the side of the road to the road itself, fighting not only to live, but in the hope of finding someone, anyone, to help.

Most men might, but Tristan was not any man. Many would argue that he wasn’t a man at all. He had no breath, as a vampire. But he had pain. His moans were stifled in his throat, though he wished he could cry. He was past crying in pain or anger or loss. Damas, his beloved cat, was dead. The same perpetrator of the cat’s murder also shot a poisoned arrow through Tristan’s shoulder. The poison leached into his blood, paralyzing him, making him weak, making him want to sleep. Tristan feared that if he closed his eyes, he’d never awake again. Worse, that he’d see, and then feel, the graceful warmth of the sun, frying him into ashes.

Tristan didn’t want to die, but he wasn’t sure how he could stop it. At least his worst fear wasn’t coming true. Tristan wouldn’t die alone. Damas was in his arms.

"Shhh... It'll be okay."

The spirit's fingers became solid and smoothed through Tristan's hair. It was true that he made no noise that could be heard by normal ears, but his head was a calamity of sound. Hannah couldn't hear his morbid thoughts, but knew of them. They were the reason she'd been rousted from sleep in Oliver's arms. There'd be no joyful morning, despite her promises.

She knelt in the sand and tended to her subject. He was a vampire. In life, Hannah had staked two and, with few exceptions, had hated the rest with passion. But no longer was it her place to be concerned with black and white. She was not a keeper of balance, or an avenger of right and wrong. She was a guide.

"You're only nearly gone," she whispered, "And it's not your time to go."

Tristan grunted. His nose twitched, and then he was still once again. This time, his mind stilled as well. Rest. He just needed to rest. A little bit more. He couldn’t smell the sun yet. It wasn’t too close yet. He wouldn’t die just yet. Maybe if he rested a bit longer, he could gather his strength.

His mind turned back to Damas. It was too late. Too late to turn Damas. Could he have turned his cat? He didn’t know. Maybe... maybe he should just let go. Go with Damas.

The Powers whispered to Hannah of his thoughts.

Her fingers snapped in front of his face.

"Tristan!" She took hold of his chin. "Can you hear me?" The emptiness of the desert meant that there was nothing off which her voice could echo. "If so... don't be ridiculous. You'd rush into eternal damnation over a cat?! Trust me. Your cat's not there."

Having never guided a vampire anywhere before, Hannah wasn't exactly a well-oiled machine, when it came to coaxing creatures of the darkness. But she had a feeling the softer touch might not go over too well on this guy. He looked like he might be hard-headed.

Tristan’s eyes rolled back in his head, but after a moment of struggle he was able to focus. His eyes widened. “Who?” His face, contorted in pain, was still that of the vampire. Yet here was a lovely...woman? Holding him? He knew he wasn’t dead, because no angel so lovely would be greeting him. Finally he just nodded and stared at her, his attention fully hers.

"I'm Hannah," she answered. She wondered to herself just how detailed she should be, about why she was there and to whom she answered. But judging from the poison arrow and his barely-there state of consciousness, simple would be most appropriate. "I'm supposed to help you. You're not meant to die. Again. At least, no time soon."

Her ghostly fingers could touch but they were strangly lit. It made her a shade brighter than the pre-dawn landscape. Hannah lightly grazed the arrow buried in his shoulder, being careful not to stir the wound. She winced sympathetically, imagining how badly it must hurt. "I can take you someplace safe... I can get her to help you. But I won't bother if you're gonna give up anyway. So what's it gonna be? Blink once for brave and twice for coward."

Tristan almost growled. He blinked once, hard. His entire face almost convulsed. If nothing else, he wanted to live to avenge Damas.

His tongue came out and he licked his dry, cracking lips. His fangs glowed in the moonlight.

He wouldn’t beg. He wanted to live. He didn’t want to die, at least not like this. He had no idea why someone would help him, however. It wasn’t his time? Why not? And why did Damas have to die?

"Well okay then," breathed Hannah. "Now we're talking."

She sat back on her heels and surveyed his body. In the short span of time since she'd been an Agent (boy, did she reflect on her Bond Girl costume with irony now), she'd taken spirits to the Other place, but never vice versa, and she'd never taken a living body on the Earth plan with her. She had been assured that it was possible, if she focused hard enough on the essence of the person, thinking of them as an intangible being rather than a physical object. This was to be her crash course.

Hannah looked to the cat. There was no guarantee that it would make it for the ride, but there was no way she was telling that to Tristan. "Okay. Take my hands," she murmured, joining her fingers with the vampires. "And... try and block everything from your mind except one thing. Going with me."

Tristan’s cold fingers curled around hers. He closed his eyes again, trying to relax. “Anywhere but here,” he whispered. Damas was still lying in his lap, but his hands were in Hannah’s now, making holding him close impossible.

His mind was conflicted at first. He couldn’t stop seeing Damas’s fall. He felt the pierce of the arrow. He watched his hunter steal his Harley, leaving him for dead. Tristan tried to push all of this away and concentrate on the warm fingers in his, her sweet voice, and how it helped dull his pain.

"On a count of three," Hannah whispered. "One... two..."

Oliver and Hannah

Thu, 13 Dec 2007 01:40:53 GMT

Four a.m. He knew because the digital clock on the bedside table had red numbers, and every time a minute ticked past, he could see the shape of them change as he lay on top of the covers and failed to fall asleep. He was tired, he supposed, but every time he closed his eyes he just couldn't manage to drop off. Not enough to drink, maybe. Maybe if he lay here for long enough, he'd go to sleep. Either that or it would start to get early and the sun would come up instead.

Oliver sat up and rubbed his face, looking balefully at the clock. Maybe if he unplugged it, that would help. Why did the numbers have to be red, for fuck's sake? Someone should look into inventing a clock with a more soothing color scheme for the digits. That would be a good direction to put some research money in. He should ask his broker in the morning for information about companies checking that out.

The spellcaster flopped back on the bed, then rolled onto his stomach. Sleep was usually not this long in coming. He was stubborn, though. He could wait it out.

Hannah, on the other hand, could not.

Impatience had taken on a whole new meaning with immortality. She heard once that vampires were incredibly patient creatures, because they knew they had all the time in the world. But to Hannah, that impossibly long stretch of eternity made things all the worse. Seconds, minutes, hours, days… none of them meant much.

In her life, Hannah had been a list girl. Armed with spiral notepads and multicolored pens, she had written things down simply for the joy of scratching them off. On Earth, the little squares on her calendars could be slashed through in red ink, and then the pages torn away. Now there were no red letter days, no end point in sight. It was like being a child again… Ants in her pants, and a million days to go until Christmas.

For what was she so impatient?

Another event worth marking the passage of time.

For some reason, knowing about Oliver gave that to her.

The eerie, red glow of his clock lit the room. Hannah sat in an armchair, her knees pressed together and her ankles spread apart. She bit her thumb. You shouldn’t be there. Shouldn’t. The tandem voices in her head belonged to ancient beings, awesome in their power, but to Hannah, they sounded more and more like gnats. If only she could swat them away.

Slowly, the body caught up with the spirit, and Hannah’s weight settled onto the chair. The cushion creaked.

Oliver was not, however, asleep. He was merely lying on his stomach with his arm over his eyes as if that was going to help, keeping his face turned stubbornly away from the maddening clock, whose glowing digits actually seemed to hum, they were so bright. Yeah, he was going to unplug it in the morning, because if he didn't it was going to end up smashed to bits in the parking lot after he threw it off of his balcony.

Counting sheep was supposed to work, wasn't it? Not that he'd ever tried. He'd never needed to. Maybe it was leftover jet lag. He'd always hated flying. Dinner had tasted the way it should, which meant nothing had disagreed with his digestion. So why...

The creak came to him through the static of his thoughts, breaking them off cleanly in the middle, and he moved his arm a fraction away from his eyes before opening them a crack. The room was dark, and there was no other noise to follow the creak. Christ, that was all he needed, to start hearing things.

He shifted on the bed, not moving very much, only as if he meant to turn over. He ended up on his opposite side, looking at the clock again, then away from it, towards the wall. Nothing seemed to be moving.

The mage rolled onto his back at last, opening his eyes more fully and peering into the gloom. If he was hearing things, he'd deal with it. At least he knew he wasn't drunk enough to hallucinate. He really hated creaking noises.

“Oliver!”

The whisper was sharp and quick, like an aural slice through the air.

“Are you awake?”

Oliver sat up, the movement slow and a little ponderous, but his heart rate had sped up at the sound of the familiar voice. He crouched there on the mattress, his bare chest pale in contrast to the dark fabric of his pajama bottoms, squinting hard into the shadows.

"Hannah?" he asked suspiciously, and his hands remembered her curves as if he'd only touched her yesterday. Water nymph...

"Hannah, is that you?"

A giggle burst past her lips like champagne bubbles, and Hannah’s pixie face broke into a grin. “That depends..,” she teased, and the smile was just as unfettered in her voice. “Are you mad?”

A wild streak of excitement raced through her veins, and it was so hard to keep still! She curled her feet up into the chair, and this time, the noise of her movements wasn’t quite so mysterious. As her emotion built, so did the light haze of her skin; not pale and bluish, the way Oliver’s shown in the low light, but nearly gold. All the while, Hannah looked at the tangles in his hair and she thought about slipping her fingers into the knots to smooth them free.

One corner of his mouth ticked upwards, and he dropped his gaze to the rumpled covers, feeling a little.... The word ran away from him when he grabbed for it, and he rested his hands on the knees of his pajamas. Had she glowed like that before and he just hadn't seen it?

"I was wondering if you'd remember," he said, still looking at his hands. "But you wouldn't sound like that if you didn't." He looked up at her through the fringe of his hair, thinking that they're more like angel and devil now, here in his bedroom. "Did you follow me home, pixie?"

He wondered briefly if she'd seen him with the girl from the alley, if she really had been following him, and he lifted his head to brush the hair off of his forehead. Studying her with the slightest smile on his face.

"You're very...shiny tonight. Does that take work or is it natural?"

“Neither,” she answered simply.

Hannah’s teeth worked across her lip. Although the memory of being his lover, his ‘Anna’, grew fuzzier with passing time, the sensation of familiarity hadn’t gone away. It was strange to be so familiar, when in the true world, she’d spent only a short while with him in a cemetery. So much about her was different than he knew.

“Was it real, do you think?” The chair cushion squeaked again as Hannah rose and inched closer to the mattress. When she got there, her fingers twisted the fabric into a baby knot. As her chin tipped down, her hair spilled onto her cheeks like corn silk. She was wearing a blue dress. “You called me little angel. Beautiful creature. I didn’t forget.”

Belatedly she caught onto his implication and huffed, “But I didn’t follow you… ego maniac.” Hannah pinched his toe through the covers.

Oliver laughed despite the pinch, pointed to the table where the clock sat. "I keep the book there," he said. "I was never much for reading poetry, but I liked the verse you selected. Thank you."

There was a pause, and he finally nodded. "I think it was real. Magic is...it can open doors people only dream of. I remember the things I said, the things I did, even though it’s kind of fading out now. It's possible the spell just stretched out too far and broke on its own."

He had begun to sound pedantic, as though he was giving a lecture, and he closed his mouth. The two facets of Hannah, both the girl he'd met at his father's grave and the woman he'd taken to bed, had begun to merge for him, to mesh, and he felt uncomfortable with the result.

"I don't usually take advantage of women," he said in a low voice, as if someone might overhear. "Strangers. I...that's not who I am."

“You didn’t take advantage!” She shook her head. “I di— she did…

“Are you sorry?” she asked. Hannah’s hand retreated from the mattress, pulling back in a physical manifestation of her inner retreat. With a woman’s questionable intuition, she began to dread what might come next, and to wish she hadn’t gotten up from the chair, or hadn’t come to his room at all.

There were naïve qualities about her, because she trusted easily and therefore tended to take the world at face value. But Hannah understood some things… Like the difference between the way men had seen her and the way they had seen Anna. Because her body still pretended to be alive, her cheeks flushed.

He watched her hand pull away, felt a pang of loss at it. His expression sobering, he shook his head. "No." A single word, so simple and yet so potentially loaded. The bedcovers were suddenly fascinating, and he felt very young in her presence. "No, I..."
He coughed, then cleared his throat. "I think I wanted a way...the other time...to keep you with me somehow, but I knew I couldn't. That you weren't for me and I wasn't for you. But then you kissed me and I was glad that you kissed me. I guess I got...carried away."

He felt shamed at the confession, as if he'd been trying to dirty her up somehow. Soil her. But he looked at her, letting her see him as he made it. He was not a good man, but he was an honest one.

He was also blushing.

Hannah laced her hands together, looking prim and more old-fashioned than she realized with them resting against her soft skirt. She took a peek at his face. In the dark, she couldn’t see the pinkening of skin and had no idea of his embarrassment. “Don’t worry. I think I understand,” she hedged.

“I’ve been carried away before. It was nice… to be for someone? I’m for everyone now.”

It seemed okay to stay close now. She perched on the edge of the mattress and it dipped beneath her weight. Hannah’s back was to him, but she looked over her shoulder. “I can be selfish too, you know,” she said, and her nose tipped up. She drew her ankles in tight and tucked them beneath the bed. “I wanted you to like me still. That’s hardly fair, is it? I’m mean, I’m dead, for crying out loud! I guess that’s what happens when you die horny,” she confessed morosely, and for a moment, the more angelic presence she carried now faded away and showed Oliver a glimpse of the imp she’d been before.

“So don’t think you’re so awful,” she taunted. “You’re not.”

"Only an idiot will tell you selfishness is bad," Oliver said. It made him hurt, the way she looked sitting there. He wondered what her hair would feel like if he touched it. Like corn silk, probably, soft and clean.

"I do like you," he added hesitantly, twisting the sheet between his fingers so he wouldn't try to run them through that blonde hair. Would someone strike him dead if he tried? "It's kind of weird, but I’m used to weird. I... I don't know what to call it, really."

He waited, looked over at the wall, picked at the sheet some more. "When you died, did it hurt?"

“Yes… I mean a little.” Hannah nodded and shifted a little on the mattress. She laid her knee on it so she could see him better, carefully arranging the thin skirt of her dress over her thigh. “When I was a little girl, I wasn’t well,” she told him. “Do you… do you remember how, in kindergarten, there was always a boy or a girl that got sick all the time? That was kind-of me. Any time a kid at school or in the neighborhood caught something, I caught it, too, only worse. I had to learn to do things… supernatural things… to keep well.”

Unaware of Oliver’s gifts with magic, at least in any detailed sense, Hannah wet her lips and tried to place the pieces into a picture that fit. “There’s healing energy in the natural world, and you can use it, too, if you know how. When I died, it was because I gave the energy away. I didn’t mean to die.”

The fingers of her left hand traced the bedspread designs, those that had been printed and those made by stitching. “It just felt like getting a bad flu really fast. Seconds and it was over.” The way she said it made Hannah sound bewildered rather than sad. “I wish I’d have known it, when I woke up that day, so I could’ve done something important. But then again, I had a hangover that morning!”

She laughed. “I was making out with a leprechaun the night before, not that I knew it. In my defense, I was… soooo freakin’ toasted, on account of stealing all his whiskey. The moral of the story is, you never know when your timecard’s getting punched. That’s why my Grandma always said the most important thing to wear is clean underwear… ‘cause you might get stuck wearing them in the afterlife.”

He listened almost raptly, as if he were a small boy being told a bedtime tale. His hands had stopped twisting the fabric back and forth between them. When Hannah was finished, he waited a bit before saying, "I always wondered if my father felt anything when he...if he felt it, if he knew what was going to happen or if the lights just went out. I hope you didn't have very much pain."

His hand inched towards hers, and then made hesitant contact. She was as warm now as she had been the time he'd touched her at Saul's graveside. He was afraid of soiling her, but he wanted... he wanted a sliver of her purity.

"I wish I had met you before," he told her quietly. "I could have done something for you, maybe, given you a magical charm to protect you. I..." And wasn't he a fool to say it now, a fool to offer her hope, which the dead didn't need? A selfish fool on top of that, and all because he could feel her goodness and wanted to keep some of it with him?

Hannah intertwined their fingers without hesitation, almost greedily. She hadn’t been shy of touching people her whole life, and now it was a reward. Diving into her body – stretching out her limbs – was a little like being born again; All of her nerve endings felt more awake because she went so long without using them. Now she noticed the tiniest things about hands.

“Everyone has to go,” she said. “I’m luckier than most people. I got a special purpose out of it. I get to be with people when they’ve died and can’t understand it, or stay with the families after they’ve lost someone. I’m like a… supernatural funeral director,” she joked. “‘Course… it’s not always that literal. Sometimes I’m with people who’re dying on the inside.”

The inside of Oliver’s wrist was near. Hannah turned it over and pressed two fingertips against his pulse. A quiet space of time stretched by while she paid attention to the thump-thump of his vein. “Nope, still here,” she declared.

Then, “Hey… did you ever play cause-and-effect?”

"I don't think so." He felt as if he shouldn't look at where their hands touched, at where her fingers touched the inside of his wrist. He looked at her face instead, her curiously lively eyes. "How does it go? My brain's all fuzzy, but I'm a quick study."

“Like this.” Hannah bent down and put her lips in the warm cup of his palm. The kiss was chaste and the blonde’s fingers kept tabs on his pulse point. “And if it doesn’t work, you get two more tries.”

Whatever thoughts Oliver had had went scattering as the contact, and he held himself very still to keep the kiss chaste. "What are we trying to affect?" he asked Hannah in a whisper.

She had the brownest eyes. Don't make me love you. You don't want that. He looked at the palm of his hand. "Whatever you're trying to affect, I don't think it worked. Want to try again?"

"Yes." The quality of his voice, whispering secrets, made her eyelids heavy and set loose a hundred butterfly wings in her chest. Hannah leaned up and he could see that, if he wanted to. There was nothing Hannah ever felt that didn't mirror on her face. She led into the second part of her experiment with her eyes, letting them touch his shoulder before her breath did, and then her lips. The kiss landed soft and hesitant and a little open-mouthed.

On his wrist, her fingertips pushed deeper.

Oliver closed his eyes as Hannah drew nearer, closed them out of a muted sort of terror. Wasn't he supposed to forget this? Wasn't that why his brain was painting over the memory of her kisses? Hell, hadn't that been what she'd wanted him to do? His skin prickled in the wake of her mouth's presence, and he looked down into her eyes again.

"Hannah." He might have trembled. He wasn't really sure. The hand she wasn't holding closed on the bedcovers more tightly, then released them to touch the cloth her skirt was made of. Her leg was slender and small under his touch.

"You have one more chance." It was official, he was a fool. But then he'd always been one kind of fool or another. And only an idiot would say it was wrong to be so selfish. ""Third time's the charm." The hand on her leg came up, brushed a piece of that soft blonde hair behind one delicate ear. That time, he did tremble.

Don't make me love you.

"Your turn."

Hannah's breath slipped out in increments that hiccuped when he caressed her ear. She could get hooked on this man who was nothing like her, except in his isolation. The knowledge that it was dangerous came easily, but she didn't know why it was bad. After death, what could be worse? Feeling tipsy and daring, she reached for her dress hem. Very slowly she raised it high on her thigh and revealed a band of modest lace. The top of feminine hosiery. Hannah didn't know if he looked or not, because she wasn't able to meet his eyes. But the bare thigh and expanse of white nylon below it begged to be seen or touched.

"My turn," she agreed. Hannah found her way to his mouth. A couple of seconds passed while she got up her nerve. Then she fit her mouth against his and kissed him, gentle and lingering. "Did I do it?"

For one achingly perfect moment, she was right inside his bubble. In the place where he was so fucking lonely sometimes that he wanted to die from it. She was golden and glowing and beautiful, not just an angel but a goddess. His hand dropped back down to her leg, the hint of skin she had exposed. Warm, not just physically but emotionally. And so very dangerous. Shatteringly dangerous.

His pulse was racing. He could feel it fluttering where she was still touching his wrist. Why this, why now, why her? "Yeah," he said, nodding his head slowly as if he were drugged. "Yeah, you did it."

His index finger drew a circle just above her knee, but he didn't look away from her. The only safety here was in her eyes, which were brown and soft and trusting. Child-like, which was the ultimate irony considering that she was no longer even among the living. Dangerous.

"Is this a game?" he asked her, and the words almost sounded like nonsense as he spoke them. "Is there a...prize?" He wanted to do something for her. Or do something to her. In another world, when he was someone else, he had called her his, if only in private. Strange how much he remembered of something that no longer existed. "You won the game. You should get a prize."

Those fingers and the circles they travelled... Imagination allowed Hannah to carry them up her thigh, and to her stomach, and to her breastbone. Wherever she wanted. It was sweet and agonizing, holding so perfectly still for him, there with her eyes closed and her mind wandering. Hannah's gasp was the quiet version of a sob. "My prize..." Nodding agreeably. Yes, she needed one. She ached for one, because she had won. She had made Oliver's heart move.

"Let me be your girl tonight."

Hannah's head lolled to her shoulder, and lazily she watched her hand splay on his collarbone. "However it's meant. You can pick the prize rules. Please?"

He swallowed, and it was audible in the space between them. Goosebumps erupted across his bare shoulders, then spread out across his back until he had to rub at them with one hand to make them disappear. It meant he had to extract his wrist from Hannah's grasp, but that was better than taking his other hand away from her leg.

"My girl?" Still whispering, still looking at her, hardly daring to draw a full breath. She was the most dangerous woman he had ever seen, alive or dead.

When he kissed her, it was clumsy, missing most of her mouth to get her cheek instead. Her hair brushed his jawline, and he buried his nose in it for a long moment. One arm went around her narrow waist, and he pulled her into him until her could feel her blouse against his naked, razor-scarred torso.

"Put your arms around me," he breathed into her ear, and it wasn't even sexual, at least not at that moment. He wanted to feel her against him, whether she had a pulse or not. To be selfish and greedy and give her the prize she'd asked for.

Hannah breathed a sigh of relief when he took her. She melted against his lap and upper body, weighing nothing, conforming to his shape as easily as if she were meant to cover him. Arms snaked around his back and she begged, her voice lilting, "Keep your mouth near. I like to hear the sounds you make."

Thankful that she had asked to be his girl, but frustrated that she had offered him the reigns, Hannah wondered what she was allowed to do. Certainly she couldn't explore his chest of scars, a detail so different from Orrin's. Certainly she couldn't fold the bedcovers back. She consoled herself that none of her reactions could be out of bounds, as long as they were caused by him. The unintentionally earth-shattering him. Oliver, Oliver...

He could feel her. Her arms and her legs, her breasts against his chest, the way her hair tickled against the side of his neck. He was the barefoot king composing Hallelujah, even if he ended up doing it in silence. A noise like a sob wrenched itself out of his chest, only to be muffled by her shoulder.

His girl. His girl Hannah.

He released her, drew back enough that he could look at her face again. If he was to shatter, to break into ten million tiny shards, then she was the safe one to do it with. Quite possibly she could even be the glue to put him back together again.

His hands found her delicate shoulders, the fingers restless all over again as they made contact. Now that she had given him control, he wasn't even sure of what to do with it, only that he must touch her. "Beautiful," he whispered. "You're beautiful."

He kissed her again, his mouth finding hers more easily that time, and when it was over, he took her small left hand in his and pressed it to of the freshest scars on his chest. The bravest thing he'd ever done.

"It's okay," he told her when it looked as though she'd balk. "I don't mind if it's you." He was shaking. But it really was okay.

"You mean it?" Hannah only wanted to make sure. She watched him longer, waiting in case he changed his mind, but he didn't. She kissed the tip of her finger and began to trace the puffy lines he'd cut. Each time she reached the end of a scar, she renewed the innocent kiss and felt her way along the next. Oliver shook; Hannah's lungs quavered. It was a map of Oliver's pain carved into skin, an injury for each time life hurt him and no one was there to bail him out of it, or to give him sunlight. Right then, she wanted to be his light.

"You're a mystery, No one knows you." The flat of her hand brushed across his chest, an eraser wiping away the angry language of his past.

Hannah padded her thumb on his lips. "And gosh, you're so handsome," she breathed, discovering him all over again. Dark hair, dark eyes, white skin. The next part, she didn't mean to say out loud. "You make me hurt all over." Hannah's face turned beet red and she looked at his chin, having confessed an intimate detail. "I never... hurt like this before. How can somebody make you hurt and make it better?"

"I make everyone hurt." Better to talk than to remain silent, because then he was able to focus less on the way he was trembling, a leaf on the breeze that was her gaze. "It's why no one likes me."

He watched her fingers, the way they traced over each place where he'd sliced himself open. Bleeding the rage and the hurt out of himself, or trying to. Never quite managing it, though. "I started with burns," he added, indicating one arm. "The cuts are...quieter. "

He couldn't not touch her, and his fingers skimmed over her collarbone before slipping down to her waist. "You're so tiny," he remarked, staring at her as though he might be asleep and dreaming. "I don't think I truly realized it before now."

Handsome. She'd called him handsome. He wanted to weep.

"Tiny but mighty," she protested. Hannah's body rose to meet his hands. Invisible magnets drawn to a file. She moved like she hadn't before, unconsciously fluid and straining and arcing, egging him on. The tangled locks of his hair pulled her attention away, and she combed her fingers from roots to tips, rhythmically, hypnotically. "Don't go to sleep," she warned. "Not yet. I want to look at you some more. I want..."

Hannah picked out the largest welt on his torso. She touched her mouth to it.

Breath hissed out through Oliver's teeth as though she had burned him, and it took a huge effort not to recoil from her. Hair fell into his face as his head drooped forward, and he allowed it to conceal his eyes so that she couldn't read the look in them. A combination of shame and delight slithered out of his belly and took up residence in his chest, trying to constrict his breathing.

"Hannah..."

The room was suddenly way too hot, and he pushed the bedsheet off of his legs impatiently, as though that might free up more air. His left hand was restless on the small of her back, the other near her shoulder and playing with the ends of her hair. Go to sleep? How could he go to sleep when he felt as if he might implode at any moment?

Hannah dragged her mouth off the puckered skin. “I’m sorry,” she winced, noticing how he stiffened underneath her and how his legs were so restless. She looked up in earnest. “I didn’t ask f—”

The word hitched in her throat when she really saw Oliver. His face was tucked away in the black curtain of his hair and the shadows in the hotel room. He looked so very dark to her just then, with his shoulders bunched with tension, and she got an idea of what went on underneath… how his body was a thin veneer holding back an avalanche.

Another thing occurred to her. He was so careful because he feared that he might damage her.

He was a dark thing. But dark things could be gorgeous, too.

Lifting reverent fingertips to his forehead, Hannah made contact and let all five run down his face. “I like being here so… much,” she whispered, allowing herself to dawdle on his bottom lip. “Don’t worry. I won’t spoil, Oliver.”

His head jerked up when she touched his face, and before he could form a thought he was taking hold of her jaw with both hands to bring her face to his and kiss her roughly on the mouth. He didn't even bother trying to finesse it, he just needed to make contact with her somehow, to let her know that he was in there. Alive.

Dark and light, light and dark, there on his bed, and his fingers disappeared into her cornsilk hair. He was amazed by her, struck nearly dumb with awe. Tiny but mighty, wasn't that what she'd said?

He kissed her on the lips again, softer this time, gentler. Maybe if he could just turn his brain off, that would make this easier. She was warm and small against him, but he could feel her strength somehow. His forehead came to rest against hers, the hair still half-obscuring his eyes.

"I...like it that you're here too."

***Adult Content: Sexuality***

Dizzy…

Hannah’s brain was on spin cycle. She couldn’t make any sense of their surroundings, and it had to do with that kiss. It had been years since anybody kissed her like that, and maybe – just maybe – nobody ever had. She gratefully leaned her forehead against Oliver’s and swallowed.

“They don’t want me here,” she confessed, “but I don’t care.” She was resolute, and the blonde might’ve stomped and put her hands on her hips, if she wasn’t so…

Oh, what was the word?

“Can I tell you what it feels like..? And then..,” Hannah lightly scratched his nape with her nails and wet her lips, “You can say what it means?” A tiny shiver raced her spine, the titillation of speaking aloud the words she’d normally keep secret, and speaking them to him.

"Tell me," he said, and the words were almost a growl. He didn't know who 'they' were, and he didn't care. He had spent his whole life defying Them, in all their shapes and guises. His mother, his teachers, the professors at college, and on and on until he found himself here. What was one more act of defiance?

"Tell me what it feels like, Hannah." And now his mouth was against her ear where she liked it, his breath warming the shell of it even more, his hands tracing a line down her narrow back to her buttocks.

"I'll tell you what it means if I can." She was perfect. Perfect and pure and desirable. He knew his body was reacting to her closeness, and while all convention said that it was perversion, he was unafraid of it, looking at the supposed wrongness with an unblinking acceptance. The tip of his tongue flicked at her earlobe. She made him shudder, inside and out. He wanted her to feel that quiver too.

Hannah squeezed his neck a little tighter. She was open mouthed and vulnerable, with quick, shallow puffs of air fanning down Oliver’s throat. What on earth have I gotten myself into? Tamping down her shyness, she closed her eyes and began to tell him. “It feels… hot… on my cheeks and chest, like sunburn. There’s a feather duster in my stomach, twirling and tickling.”

A violent jolt from her knees interrupted. “I can’t hold still!” she whispered to his naked shoulder. She gave in to the compulsion to bite it. “I know I ought to be doing something with my legs… They want to go places I don’t let them.”

She shifted against his lap, and it first it seemed like an innocent repositioning of Hannah’s hip against his abdomen, until she did it twice in a row, and then a third time, and the pace matched a rhythm she heard in her head.

“I can’t concentrate, because of where it aches. I want to do things!” she begged urgently. “But what if you—?“

But what if he didn’t?

Hannah picked up her head and stared at him. “What’s it mean?”

Oliver chuckled quietly, looking down at her and finding her utterly precious. "It's called arousal, Hannah," he told the blonde, having not missed the way she was moving against him. He shook his head to get the hair out of his eyes, tucked some of it behind his ear. How did she manage to be so cute, naive, and alluring all at once?

The spellcaster kissed the tip of her nose, then each of her cheeks. "What kind of things?" he asked her seriously, hovering very close so that the contact with her lower half wasn't lost. "To touch me? For me to touch you?"

He scooped up one of her hands and brought it to his mouth, kissing the palm of it before turning it over and kissing the knuckles. He traced the length of each of her fingers, then pressed the delicate hand against one of his scars.

"My girl, remember? That's your prize, such as it is. What would you have of me?"

Arousal. Yes, she remembered how that went, but it hadn’t felt like the same kind. The last time it was adventurous, curious, and revelatory. This time, Hannah felt…

Hungry.

Why was that, she wondered?

Hannah kept pressure on his scar. In turn, she guided Oliver’s hand to her thigh and encouraged him to squeeze it. With eyes closed, she dampened her lips and played out a scenario in her imagination that involved him rolling her stockings down.

“I’ll have everything,” she decided, as if she were ordering an entire dessert menu.

It seemed important to tell him, “I’ve only done this once.” Devoting attention now to the scar. She felt timid about making such an assumption.

He ran his fingers through her hair, one blunt nail trailing lightly across her scalp, and when he stopped he had to remind himself of what his name was. He was not Orrin Jeffords this time, not an actor. He was Oliver Desmond Jerzyck, and he was doing this of his own free will.

"Twice."

Saying it quietly, but with his eyes trying to find hers. The hand inside her shirt moved higher, lifting the garment and exposing her back. The one on her leg was doing a slow exploration of the limb, fingers moving methodically. He was still half-crouched on the mattress, wishing there was a lot less space between them.

"Look at me." His voice was still soft, but with a thread of something undefinable thrumming underneath it. His mouth chased after hers, trying to get her to lift her head. He could sense that there was a door that needed unlocking, one that had possibly been closed when Hannah's heart stopped beating. All he needed to do was find the key to it.

"Everything?"

Twice… Oh, it was so hard to believe that had been her! That blonde twin dancing around the trailer in front of him, wearing a silk robe and then being naked, having sex with Orrin like she’d been doing it each day of her life.

Hannah tried desperately to gather her wits, evading his mouth in the process, because god knew she couldn’t discern thoughts from mush when he kissed her. She wanted so badly to push those memories aside… to replace them with the truth.

Oliver, forget her. Remember me.

“Wait.” Slowly she gathered her knees beneath her and faced him with a steady eye. Hannah’s arms crisscrossed her body. She gathered the blue dress and stretched up, pulling it over her head. The garment landed on the carpet. A soft sigh as it and her golden hair swirled into place.

“Everything.”

She looked even more delicate without clothes, and he had to remind himself that she was not, in fact, fragile. He got up from the bed, fumbled with the drawstring of his pajama bottoms until they were pooling around his ankles. He stepped out of them towards her, then looked at her face for what felt like hours before crouching down in front of her on his knees. The carpet was soft and thick, allowing for comfort during the alleviating of their height differences.

"You're beautiful." His hands seemed impossibly large as they alighted on her calves, and he worked his way up from there until they rested on her hips. He brushed over her pelvic bones, then a little higher before pressing a delicate kiss to the spot below her navel.

Her belly was soft, and he rubbed his cheek against it, a hum sounding in the back of his throat. He wanted to touch her for years, to imprint the feel of her so firmly on his memory that he'd feel it every day for the rest of his life. His tongue dipped into her belly button, then licked a wet circle around it.

"Perfect..."

Hannah made a sound, too. It was airy and high, the gasp/moan of a feminine voice in a body experiencing something sweet. She cradled Oliver’s dark head to her stomach, intimately, possessively. She was not naked, but found herself hoping she soon would be. Letting go of his head, at least with one hand, Hannah plucked the white straps of her bra off one shoulder and then the other. They draped down and tickled her arms.

The ease with which boldness arrived surprised her. She relinquished Oliver entirely and reached back to unhook the fasteners. As the bra hit the floor, she tipped his chin up and watched his eyes.

“Am I how you remember?” she asked, knowing that no matter how convincing the spell, it could be proven false right here if private details were different.

The breath shuddered in Oliver's lungs, shuddered so harshly that he felt as if he would pass out, and his fingers tightened at their stations, dimpling the flesh at the tops of Hannah's thighs. Not fragile, she was not fragile.

"You are..." He let his voice drift into silence, because both words and reason were abandoning him. "Yes, but no. You're Hannah, not the other. I do remember it, but you weren't the one I was touching, not...not in here."

The tip of his index finger came to rest above the place where her heart lay silent, made an indentation there. "This is where you are."

Hannah covered his hand.

"No." She shook her head. "It's where you are."

Afraid of the space between words, she lifted up from the mattress and slipped her panties down to her knees. She freed them one leg at a time and tossed the material away. Hannah crooked her finger and inched backwards on the bed.

He joined her there, feeling the mattress sagging under their combined weight. She was still wearing her stockings, and he couldn't decide if he wanted to leave tham where they were or not. His hand wandered through his own hair, tousling it further.

Moving in closer, he nuzzled the side of the blonde's neck, one hand gravitating a little uncertainly to her breast. He made contact, then palmed it. His mouth felt very dry, and he licked his lips to try compensating for it.

"How should my lady like me?"

For some reason, doing this with Oliver made Hannah feel more adult than she had before, more of a woman. Perhaps it was because she'd known him for so little time, and yet this was her choice. A night she'd asked for. She closed her eyes on a sigh when he touched her. Then, as quickly as it arrived, Hannah's boldness flew away.

Opening her eyes, she squeaked, "How--?" But clamped her lips. Oh, Lord... I have to say these things out loud now, don't I? The tip of her tongue wet her lips for what seemed the dozenth time. "I..." The blonde let her eyes roam to his chest, and she reminded herself that Oliver wasn't her boyfriend of a year, who'd take control because he knew she never had. He was a man whose bedroom she entered, whose palm and shoulder and mouth she kissed. If anything she, Hannah Flynn, was the seductress in this scenario. And death was no time to be meek.

"On your back," she said, vocalizing the thought before it could stall in her throat. "Yes," nodding.

One corner of his mouth lifted, and he crawled onto the mattress with her, his movements oddly feline. He stole a kiss on his way past, then rolled onto his side before easing over onto his back. At some point his breathing had evened out and become normal again, but he wasn't sure of when that had happened. She made his throat ache, she was so beautiful.

His hands seemed as restless as nervous birds, plucking at the sheet he lay on, and he stilled their movements as he let his eyes wander over the blonde's slender form. One finger ran down the length of her spine, stopping just before it got to her bottom. "You are the loveliest girl."

Hannah turned to face him and remained on her knees. She laughed at herself. "I'm the most freaked-out girl," she confessed, the words airy and soft. "But don't worry. I'm a quick study, too." Tucking hair behind her ear, she lifted a pale leg over his form and rested weight on his hips, the movements graced and natural. Leaning down to place a tender kiss on his mouth, she looked him in the eye. "I'll never forget this..."

She straightened and placed ten fingertips on his shoulders. Almost in slow motion, they trailed down his chest and stomach, to the juncture of their bodies. Foreplay might've eased her nerves, but waiting wasn't what she had in mind. Hannah took hold of Oliver and positioned herself just above him. A breath eased out of her lungs and she allowed herself to part and open for him.

The journey down wasn't what she remembered. There wasn't any pain, at least not the bad kind. Instead there was an inner throb that felt like pure sunlight. Hannah tightened in response and her fingernails scratched his waist.

Oliver let out a grunt at the feeling of her small hand on him, and his mouth opened to let the breath out of his lungs in a rush as she lowered herself. He wanted...he wanted... One hand grabbed the bedsheet while the other went skittering up her thigh to take up residence on her hip. Watching her face the entire time.

"Hannah...." A prayer.

He let her get used to it, reminding himself of her inexperience if nothing else. After a minute, he rolled his pelvis up into hers like a wave, his heels making imprints where they dug into the bed. Push up, press in, then retreat and relax.

"Goddess."

Not all of Hannah's sexual knowledge in the false world was make-believe. Once Oliver began to move, her eyes flared wide and then she was moving, too, the sinuous ride coming easily. In life, Hannah had been fearless, and now that mindset seemed to take over. She didn't worry how she looked or what noises came from her throat. She simply gave in to impulse.

"Oliver," the word a plea as she arched her back and let the ache inside take over. Up and down and in circles, like a beauty on a carousel. Her head tipped back and let the long, yellow locks of hair fall behind her, and then forward so that they shielded her face. In all of it, Hannah's mouth was open and panting, her fingers splayed wide and searching him for new places to dig deep and hang on.

The noise in her head was so loud, the Powers' voices protesting until they sounded like a heavy wind and then faded altogether. Let them argue. Hannah didn't care. "This is mine," she whispered, not knowing it was audible.

"Leave...leave her alone," Oliver said, his hands finding new purchase of Hannah's pelvic bone, his fingertips pressing into the pale flesh there. More of Them, he supposed. It didn't matter. She was where both of them wanted her to be.

One of his hands moved higher, threaded into her hair before pushing it out of her face. She could see him, it was only fair that he should see her. His other hand moved over her breasts, palming them briefly before sliding down to her belly, almost to where they were joined. The muscles there quivered, and he smiled.

In the next moment he was tugging her face down to his for a kiss, insisting on all the contact he could get. This was hers, this was theirs, for as long as they could keep hold of it.

Hannah grasped his hands and shoved them on the pillow, lacing fingers into his. She used them to push off and keep thrusting while kissing him, hard enough to hurt her lips with her teeth. He was... he was... everything she never would've had before, no matter how Oliver wished she were still alive.

A moan passed from her throat to his. A different angle, this one brushing her body in just the right ways. Hannah squeezed his knuckles until they whitened and opened her mouth against his cheek. Higher and higher her pleasure ratcheted, and her vocals raised in proportion. Loud, she was so loud. Dimly she knew it and didn't care.

Hannah felt frantic to get to her orgasm, in case it slipped away. That desperation fed the quick jerks of her hips. She needed Oliver to give it to her, needed him to see her have it.

The spellcaster pushed upwards insistently, feeling Hannah's urgency and responding to it in kind. He was greedy for her, inside and out. His breath washed over her neck, and then into her ear. The sounds she made sent a shudder through his entire body, and he dug down inside himself to find what she needed. What they both needed.

You're making me love you, if only just a little.

I'm sorry.

"Can't...stop." It was like pain, blinding him. He bucked off of the mattress so hard that he thought for a second he'd throw her off. His pleasure went higher and higher, like Icarus just before his wings melted in the heat of the sun. Heat. Hannah's heat.

"Dear God..."

"No don't s... don't stop..."

Their voices overlapped.

Hannah's fingers squeezed until she was shaking. First there and then everywhere. It wouldn't matter how hard Oliver's hips bucked; she clung to him body and soul, going stiff with the ectasy, unable to pump her hips any faster. The note she cried out was more complaint than anything else. Orgasm hit her like an electrical storm, splintering and bright and blinding. She opened her mouth, a silent scream and then a violent shudder that sought to wring the pleasure from Oliver, too. Tighter. Tighter until it hurt.

Love...

The bed trembled. For all Hannah knew, it could've been the earth below them, moving in time with her.

Oliver bawled out his release, the sound rolling out of his mouth like a great sonic wave as every muscle went taut. He gave a full-body spasm underneath Hannah, his hands grasping her thighs tight enough to leave bruises. Dimly, his brain wondered if the dead could bruise. Perversely, he hoped so. He wanted to leave his fingerprints all over her.

Another tremor, this one only slightly more subdued, worked its way up his legs, then over his stomach and into his shoulders. His face was pressed into the side of her neck as though he were seeking shelter. Was he crying? He wasn't sure.

He felt the bed tremble too, and after a long time of holding her flush against him he allowed the back of his head to thump against the pillow. His cheeks were wet. The tip of his tongue escaped from his mouth, came back salty. Tears. This was the second time she'd seen him cry.

Love.

"Hannah."

She wrapped her arms around his head and held on tight. Breath was something she did out of habit, but god, regaining it seemed so necessary! She could've sworn she was on fire. Or maybe drowning. Or suffocating. Dying all over again.

When her lungs stopped burning, Hannah pressed kisses on his ear and across the salty territory of Oliver's cheek. "Yes?"

"Nothing. Just...Hannah." He shook his head as much as he was able, both his exhaustion and the imprisonment of her arms hindering his movement. He minded neither of these things.

He put one arm around her waist so that he could hold her against him, the other hand bringing long blonde hair down like a curtain, letting it obscure both of their faces. Just in case They were watching.

"Will you stay?" Stay with me tonight, stay with me forever. "Can you stay? I don't....know the rules."

"I want to."

Truthfully, she didn't know if she was able. Hannah's experience showed that she could be snatched away at any time. But hadn't she won a small battle tonight? Hadn't Oliver and she made them go quiet? Maybe it was just a matter of holding on hard enough.

But in case it wasn't, Hannah would lie.

"Yes, I'll stay. I promise." To demonstrate that she meant it, Hannah lifted her body away from Oliver's and then stretched out on top of him, limb to limb. "Just hold me tight, Oliver," she begged and closed her eyes.

He slung one arm over her, then the other so he could get a better hold. In the morning, she might well be nothing more than an imprint on the sheets, but maybe if he held her close enough to him, the fuckers that said she didn't belong here would have to either leave her be or bring him along for the ride.

"I'll hold you," he said into her ear, because she liked it when he did that. His mouth brushed against the blonde's earlobe as he made himself close his eyes, and he lay content beneath her, his hands locking together at the base of her spine.

Holding tight.

Pranks the Dead Play

Wed, 28 Nov 2007 20:16:03 GMT

Captain’s Log,

You know what gets my goat? I’ll tell you.

It’s Rhonda the Waitress. You remember the one. She’s got the frizzy red hair and the pencil-chewing fetish and the penchant (I learned a new word!) for seducing truck drivers on their way through town. This one time, I heard a rumor that she takes ‘em to a room at the K motel to do the deed. Ha! Like that’s any more private than her trailer! You can see the parking lot from everywhere. Probably even space.

So. The same week I escaped the mortal coil, Verlie held a big Pie Night in my honor. Everything was on the house. A bunch of old ladies from the Casserole Brigade and Bingo Night helped her bake the pies (which was really touching after the way I completely schooled them every Tuesday night at the Community Center).

Well, during the event, I lurked… I couldn’t help it! I didn’t have a real funeral, so this was the best opportunity I was gonna get to see who showed up, so I’d know whose trailer I could cross off my list of hauntings.

Anyway, there I was, taking inventory of the pies and wishing like crazy I could eat one, when Rhonda crept into the kitchen like some kind of Bond girl reject and stuck her fat finger one of my memoriam pies. Then, when Verlie couldn’t serve it, the cow saved the day by volunteering to take it home and eat the whole thing herself.

It was even a pecan one.

Lately I’ve been pondering whether or not it’s breaking any big-time rules to pull a poltergeist on her. Don’t get me wrong, I wouldn’t be doing the ‘geisting myself… More like commissioning one to take a mini-vacation in Rhonda’s trailer.

I’ve already spent all my pranking ideas. I short-sheeted her bed. I put some plastic wrap under her toilet seat. I used her toothbrush to address a certain itch that I pretended to have.

All of this (mainly the first two parts) lends to her suspicion that she’s going insane. I’d like to take it up a notch. Do you think poltergeist is going too far?

I await any insights.

This is Hannah, signing off.

Phases

Mon, 26 Nov 2007 15:27:15 GMT

Just before closing, a tiny blonde girl slipped into the Lighthouse bar on tiptoe. All the chairs were upturned on tabletops. There were rushing noises, like a broom sweeping up trash, but no one to be seen.

She put a crumpled envelope on the register. Inside it were a handwritten note and a gold necklace with pendants suspended on the chain. Each represented a different phase of the moon. Before anyone could see her, she left on quiet feet and disappeared into the night air.

**********

Dear Julie,

I’ve been thinking a lot about choices lately. Just because we don’t get to choose the things that happen to us, it doesn’t mean that we’re not better for them in the long run.

I think you’re magnificent.

Hannah

PS- I miss you.

The Messenger

Wed, 21 Nov 2007 20:43:25 GMT

I think it’s bizarre how I’ve been given access to my body, even after death, but I’m supposed to ignore it and go through eternity like some kind of human-shaped fog, unless the mission requires me to be touchable and seem alive.

Ariel was a spirit. I could reach my ghost-fingers out to hers and make contact because we’re the same. Emotion and memory made into flesh.

With other people, it’s not like that.

Like with Oliver. I needed to be real, because

I had to kiss him.

The big bosses upstairs don’t see it that way. They said it was my doing and my reasons, but I swear that no matter why I did it, it helped him.

When I was alive, I was given kisses, too. The guy who kissed me the most was a werewolf, so naturally he had some dark secrets hidden away. But he was gentle and sweet and shy.

I have special gifts, but I think the best one I have, I didn’t realize was a gift at all. I can see into people’s hearts.

I know a little about Oliver.

I’m not allowed to steal his secrets, but I can tell that he is unhappy and anxious and selfish and that he’s a pot about to boil over. You’d think that if a guy like that touched you, it’d be resentful and greedy and it wouldn’t mean that much.

But you’d be wrong. When he touches you and cherishes you and opens up for just the tiniest instant, it means more. His light shines on you. His light shines for you!

I get it now, how girls get trapped into falling for unavailable guys. Girls, we hang and we hang suspended, holding our breath while the world climbs up to meet that second when he’s cracking apart and he’s...

Ours.

Oh, say I won’t remember it tomorrow.

I’m nothing but the messenger.

This is Hannah, signing off.

Tue, 20 Nov 2007 23:02:05 GMT

Handwritten Note: Often this is how the dead think on the living. It made me think of you and the talk we had in the cemetery about your family. -H

Red Shoes by Sheila Black

"Death deepens me unfairly. Gone too
soon the days you could roll your eyes at
the unsuitable dress your unsuitable
mum was wearing with the red shoes.

Now the shoes themselves are
talisman. You touch them in your
trek for clean socks. I make your
world quieter. So much you never noticed:

The black hawthorns against the
black sky, the sinister rhododendron by
the front door. And next door the
woman hanging washing on the line.

Does she see how her body folds
in on itself, bending softly earthward
toward the new growth - crocuses,
violets, the ghostly blades of grass?

This was my favorite time of year.
I liked the sudden storms, the bluster
of turning earth. Blowsy as a woman in
her ninth month, I said to you once.

You stared, uncomprehending. Why am
I here? I watch as you paint
black circles around your eyes,
nail polish to stop the run in your tights.

There is so little I can do for you -
blow a breath on the back of your neck,
be the mist that hugs you, flash
my teeth from a passing bus window.

Instead, I trail distant, after,
willing you to enter the soggy garden,
stride the streets one after
the other. Breathe. Forget me."

Ariel

Wed, 07 Nov 2007 22:56:24 GMT

Ariel Fleming was nine years old when she died. Afterwards the police came and turned her small, pink bedroom into a crime scene. Everything was sifted through, inspected, dusted for prints. Tiny, red hairs were collected from her sheets and put into baggies marked ‘evidence’. A woman fit the key into her diary and read that, too. Had she been alive at the time, the little girl might’ve been embarrassed at all those people pawing over her secret things, even the underpants in her clothes basket.

Afterwards, her father packed up suitcases and left in miserable shape. The house sat still for a very long time. Dust collected on the television sets and the food grew mold. Ariel didn’t seem to notice that, just that her parents weren’t here and neither was her puppy. Without the power on, it grew terribly silent in the house at night. She was lonesome and unsure what to do, with no concept of what had happened to her after the pillow came down on her face, pressing.

Months passed before anyone saw or touched Ariel again. Then one night after the house settled into its familiar coma-quiet, she felt a hand on her hair.

“Shh, it’s okay. I won’t hurt you. I promise,” the blonde girl said. She smiled and she was pretty, like a fairy, and her skin looked glitter-golden. “I’m Hannah. I came to walk you home. Are you ready?”

Despite having a stranger in the house, Ariel felt relieved that someone had come for her at last. Being forgotten by her Dad was an awful feeling. But she kept her arms wrapped tight around her knees. “This is where we live, but I can’t find my mom. Do you know where she went?”

Hannah nodded and held out her hand.

Ariel asked next, “Will I see her there?”

“Yes,” Hannah lied. Behind her ghost-back she crossed her fingers. In a million eternities, Ariel would never see her mother again, not even after she died in a stark prison cell. She’d be taken to a place where the angels sang in a different key.

Ariel’s eyes lit up and she took Hannah’s hand, full of trust.

It was a dreadful trick. Hannah hated playing tricks. But sometimes the truth was much too ugly for children.

Fri, 02 Nov 2007 01:10:40 GMT

Halloween Thread: Haunted Carnival

http://www.greatestjournal.com/community/free_form/1241529.html

When In Doubt, Duck and Cover

Thu, 25 Oct 2007 18:56:46 GMT

My name is Hannah Flynn and I used to be a waitress. Now I’m a spirit in unrest. I bet you’re wondering how a sunny girl like me wound up pushing daisies instead of burgers. Well I’ll tell you. I’m employed by the Powers That Be…

That’s how I started the last entry in my journal, which I shall forevermore refer to as the Captain’s Log, on account of my lack of personal property. After all, nobody ever saw Jean-Luc Picard scribbling with a pencil and purple paper.

Anyway, hearing it, you might say to yourself, my that’s a nice opening line! That girl should keep on using it. In fact, it’s so good, it ought to be a voiceover on a supernatural TV show featuring the afterlife of Hannah Flynn, Ghost.

Segue: AAAAAAAHHHH!

Were you ever so embarrassed, you wanted to shrivel up and die? Or better yet, go invisible?

Lucky me!!! I’m both dead and capable of invisibility. I find that it’s mighty convenient right now, ‘cause I’d rather not, a) be seen, or b) look in a mirror.

The PTBs say it’s my fault I got caught up in the spell. I was on the earth-plane when it got cast, and since I was using my old body to be corporeal, it made me susceptible to the magic. I think that’s a bunch of bologna. Those PTBs are always about the blame, and it’s never theirs.

So here I am, exposed as The Girl Who’d Turn Into a Hussy If She Got Famous.

(Note to self: I’m totally ignoring the most humiliating part of all, which is how I had SEX with a STRANGER!!!!!!!!)

There’s some stuff I still don’t get. Like, did it really happen and got erased? Did it ‘never happen’ (but how’s that possible if I remember it)? And finally and most importantly,

Does the sex count?!

Looks like I turned poor Oliver Jerzyck into a necrophiliac. It guess it’s fitting, since we met in a cemetery and all.

(Another note to self: Find out if he remembers what I look like naked.)

They said the best thing to do’s pour myself into work and stop walking around, pretending like I’m a regular girl. Easier said than done, when I keep turning into one. I’m about to get a real good assignment. It better be good. Otherwise, I’m never getting the sweet mental image of that guy’s bare ass cheeks out of my head.

This is Hannah, signing off.

Enquiring Minds Want to Know

Thu, 18 Oct 2007 02:24:11 GMT

Like many stars of the Birthright cast, Anna had chosen to live semi-permanently in the posh world of Las Vegas hotels. Searchlight didn’t have anything suitable, and Anna wasn’t about to buy anything in the desert. Her real home was actually in Oklahoma. It was her parents’ farmhouse. She owned it now, along with everything else they had to their names.

The hotel she chose was the Four Seasons, on the upper floors of Mandalay Bay. There was no casino below it, and that led to a calmer atmosphere. Despite years spent in Los Angeles trying to make it as an actress, she was still a rural girl at heart.

Anna got away from the Birthright convention around five and headed home. By the time she showered, put on comfortable clothes, and room service brought her dinner, it was seven. Her window shades were open to the sky, which faded blue into black earlier all the time.

She ran a comb through her hair and watched the traffic from a wingback chair. Up here, it was just a series of red and white lights. Anna’s toes dug into the thick carpet.

Orrin felt like he was in a bad spy movie. He'd shown up outside of Anna's hotel just after six, then asked the concierge if 'Miss Finn' was alone. He'd finally taken the elevator, his posture hunched and a pair of sunglasses on against possibly being recognized. The magazine containing the story about his co-star's pictures was rolled up in his back pocket.

He cast a look up and down the hall before knocking, wondering if he wasn't throwing himself across a sacrificial altar. If the blonde was going to get wrapped up in some kind of scandal, staying away might be better for his career. Then again, the thought that some...cretin had had their grubby hands all over Anna didn't sit well with him. He was just egotistical enough to know that he'd been rocking her world lately.

Orrin adjusted his shades, rapped on the door in a businesslike fashion. He could make himself a nuisance if he had to.

Anna looked up. The dinner cart had only been there for ten minutes or so, its wealth of baked chicken, roasted vegetables, and fresh fruit only partly eaten by the actress. She liked to pick at her food. That way, she didn’t feel so gluttonous when she ate it all. “I’m not finished eating! Come back, please!”

She put her comb on the nightstand and watched the shadow of feed under her door. They didn’t seem in a hurry to leave. With all the claustrophobia of the convention barely behind her, she’d rather not deal with a server hoping for an autograph tonight.

“Seriously!” she added for emphasis. Anna eyed the slide-lock. Perhaps she should’ve engaged that, as well. Right now, she wanted to crack open a bottle of champagne, drink it straight from the net and getting rip-roaring drunk. Orrin hadn’t said more than two words to her all day. A fan that asked them to pose together ended up stuffed between them in the picture while an onlooker snapped it. Only fifty or so people asked her about the ‘affair’ with Mickey right in front of Orrin.

Outside in the hall, Orrin said something vile under his breath, squinting at the door as if he were trying to see through it. Was she in there with that asshole? She'd better not be. He rubbed his hands together, then dragged one through his hair. The picture of frustration. He did another check of his surroundings, found himself alone, then took hold of the door handle and twisted.

"Sorry if I'm interrupting an assignation," he said sarcastically, stopping a foot or so away from the dinner cart to jam both hands into his pockets. His expression was set, mulish. "But I'd really like to have a word with you now, please. If it's not too much trouble."

The actor removed his hands from his pockets, glanced around, stuffed them back out of sight. "Is he here?" he asked, his voice quieter, deceptively even. "Has he got his camera with him? Because I'd really like to take it from him and insert it up his..."

“Orr-in!”

Anna got up and stomped her foot. Apparently that particular habit belonged to the actress and not the character. She remained by her wingback chair, with its safe distance from where Mr. Jealous Lover stood, and curled her fingers around the heavy comb she’d earlier set down.

“You scared the shit outta me! I thought you were some pervy waiter breaking in.” She huffed and threw the comb at him, a flimsy gesture in her nightclothes. “Of course he’s not in here, he never was in here! But feel free to check the stupid shower stall if it’ll help ya sleep at night.” The haughty tone made her feel justified in her precarious situation. If Anna were the type to be honest with herself, she’d recognize that Orrin had a reason to be concerned.

Still. She didn’t like how he just assumed she was sleazy. No benefit of the doubt here. Anna wondered where he got off, acting like she was a girl to hide one minute, and then getting all offended that she might’ve slept around in the next.

The comb smacked Orrin in the chest and dropped to the floor. His shoulders bunched, and he worked the tension out a fraction at the time, breathing through his nose. "A little warning would have been nice, hmm?" he said, taking another step closer. He wanted to kick the dinner cart over or something, and his foot scraped against the carpet as if he were a bull that was about to charge.

"Far be it from me to tell you who you should and shouldn't cavort with," he continued dramatically, yanking the crumpled magazine out of his pocket and waving it around. Had he made a mistake in not going public with their relationship? He shook his head stubbornly. Even if he hadn't that didn't justify this.

His shoe dragged across the carpet again, and he threw the magazine at the wall in a forceful arc. "You know, if you had an issue with something, you could have said," he intoned. "I would rather have heard it from you than some post-adolescent who read about it in the fucking Enquirer!"

Anna thought, exactly! Far be it from him! If Orrin had manned up and asked her to be his real girlfriend, maybe he’d have some say-so in who she... cavorted with. Of course, Anna never outright asked him to go public. No way. It would’ve come off like a crazy-girl ultimatum.

Speaking of crazy, like she’d touch Mickey Rubles with a ten-foot pole.

Anna stomped around the foot of the bed and got her wild arm gestures on. “Oh! So you believe everything people read in the Enquirer now?! What are you, retarded? I didn’t sleep with Mickey. He’s the freakin’ scum of the earth! It‘s just the pictures, that’s all.”

Belatedly it occurred to her to keep her voice down, in case a neighbor knew who lived there.

Orrin scowled, not realizing he was looming over Anna's shorter frame until he was actually doing it. "Right," he said sharply, looking down into her brown eyes. "I'm the one who's retarded. You're the one letting some...slime ball take naked pictures of you, and I'm the one who's retarded."

Their voices were rising at the same level, and if the situation didn't get defused soon they were going to have even more press to deal with. Orrin wasn't sure he gave a damn. Still, he couldn't help but think she looked really sexy when she got mad like this.

"When?" he asked her, trying to modulate his tone. "When did it happen? Did he ask you for money, is that it?"

“Uh!” A frustrated noise came out of her throat. “No, there wasn’t any money!” Anna put her hands on her hips. If she couldn’t add height to her frame, at least she could give herself some width. Illogically it made her feel less like a kid in front of him, despite the childish pose. “Look, he didn’t even take the pictures. I took ‘em. It was two months ago and I was gonna give ‘em to you, I swear.”

Anna got flushed around her neck when she thought about telling the rest of it. It was humiliating, him knowing she was almost a failure. But if she ever wanted Orrin to get in bed with her again, she’d better come clean. So she went on, “Right around then, Marge from the writing team pulled me into a conference. She said... she said Max thought the fans would get bored with regular-old-waitress Hannah and the special effects to do her nature stuff were too expensive. The network was talking about cutting budget anyway, so they were thinking on sidelining me, making me into a guest star until they came up with something better. So I went and begged Mickey to come up with a better idea, so they wouldn’t axe me.”

Anna shrugged. “He wanted to have sex with me. I didn’t want to, so I asked if he’d settle for naked pictures.”

He listened, his expression still set, shoulders still taut with annoyance. "Son of a bitch," he finally said when Anna had fallen silent, then pushed his fingers through his hair again. "So he never touched you?" he questioned, and why did that make him feel so much better? He rubbed his jaw, then folded his arms.

"You could have said." His voice was much quieter now, and he was still looming, but at over six feet tall he couldn't help but loom. "That he was bothering you. You could have told..." Me. "...somebody. You've got a lot of friends on-set, someone would have thrown a fit on your behalf."

The carpet was thick beneath his thin-soled leather shoes, and he looked down at it, breaking the stare. "I thought it was because you were pissed off," he said, treading much more lightly now. "Because of...well..."

Anna sat on the edge of the mattress. “Because we’re not skipping down the red carpet hand-in-hand, and because it’s--” she put up quote fingers, ”--sexier when nobody knows?” She rolled her eyes.

There was some truth in the Orrin’s idea that the secrecy made her antsy, but it was a little of her doing, too. Anna knew Orrin probably had reasons for not calling her his girlfriend and going public with it, hurtful reasons it was better if he didn’t say out loud. And hey, she had a few reasons of her own why life with Orrin the Boyfriend might be a pain, including his whole ‘Me Aristocrat, You Commoner’ male diva routine. And he needed a haircut.

“Forget it. I just didn’t want to get fired, is all. Now I feel like a total prostitute.” Anna crossed her legs and arms.

[Thread: Open to Orrin & Anna]

Mon, 15 Oct 2007 15:47:07 GMT

The Birthright Crew (Convention Panel Thread)

http://www.greatestjournal.com/community/free_form/1236779.html

Entertainment Tonight!

Sat, 06 Oct 2007 00:12:31 GMT

Excerpt From Episode Transcript
Air Date: October 5, 2011

Hart: Hello, everybody, I’m Mary Hart.

Steines: And I’m Mark Steines. Welcome to Entertainment Tonight!

Hart: This just in! Is Anna-Nicole Smith alive? New photos have surfaced in the Bahamas, showing a sunbathing blonde that bears a striking resemblance to the infamous plus-size model. Is it just a hoax? Later on in the show, friends and family speak out about the photos and what they could mean for custody of Smith’s daughter.

Steines: Also, we have the first television interview with CSI: Toronto star Joshua Jackson. He’s back on the set after a near-fatal boating accident last Spring. We’ll show you the exclusive behind-the-scenes footage.

Hart: But first, scandalous photos of Birthright actress Anna Finn have leaked onto the internet. The images show the actress posing nude for a series of racy Polaroids. They appear to have been taken on set. A representative for the actress has confirmed that the photographs are real.

Hart: The pictures surfaced just after writer Mickey Rubles reportedly quit the series. OZTv executives wouldn’t comment, but a source close to Rubles told ET that the up-and-coming writer received an offer to work for rival network FX’s supernatural hit, Wraith. The source also indicated that Rubles might’ve released the photos himself.

Hart: Amidst rumors of romantic involvement between Finn and Rubles, ET tracked down the writer outside the Bellagio resort in Las Vegas. It was four o’clock in the morning before Rubles got back to his hotel suite.

Paparazzi: Mickey... Mickey! Where’d you get the pictures of Anna?

Rubles: What?

Paparazzi: Where’d you get the pictures of Anna?

Rubles: Nah... nah... ask Anna why she gave them to me.

Steines: Our ET reporters took a look at the actress’s resume. It includes a string of local commercials early in her career, a contract to promote Thighmaster exercise equipment, and a stint working at a Hooters restaurant in Los Angeles, where she was reportedly recruited to audition for the role of waitress Hannah Flynn on Birthright. Ms. Finn wasn’t available for comment.