Coyne Collection


Allison Lindsay

Disclaimer: In the words of Ricky Ricardo, "I am not the father of that cheese." Loosely translated, that means I don't own Degrassi. Phooey.

Pairing: Immy + Fiones, obvi!

Author's note: This is my first fic for Degrassi since my Palex piece from '06. It's good to be back on the write track. Please enjoy.


"Speeeeed it up a little!"

My thoughts exactly, Imogen Moreno muses as the conveyor belt whips across the screen, sending nude nuggets of chocolate zipping past a panicky redhead and her hapless sidekick. As much as she loves this scene in this show that her father introduced her to, her thoughts are on Fiona Coyne. At Imogen's request, the two have been taking things slow. Super slow. Like a carousel. Only slower. And Imogen isn't quite sure how to… accelerate things.

She's considered her options, among them such erotic euphemisms as:

This relationship tastes like apple juice.

To which Fiona replies:

I know what you mean. It's too mild and wholesome. Personally, I prefer apple cider.

Which progresses to Imogen purring:

Mmm. Spicy and piping hot. Now you're talking.

Imogen plucks the lollipop out of her mouth and exhales, her breath coming out in a slow, sugary wisp. She studies the space between them, where her left hand is beside Fiona's, their little fingers linked in a perpetual pinkie-promise.

She gazes at her leading lady. The girl who makes her heart bang out "Babalu." The girl she wants to wrestle with in a vat of grapes. Or a bed of roses.

It began the afternoon she'd talked Fiona out of watching movies that have Olivia Wilde (because even though her girl's gone Wilde, that doesn't mean Imogen has to follow suit). Fiona made a monkey out of Imogen and, upon being instructed to retract that unfair statement, responded: "Or what?"

An outburst of silence followed, during which Fiona's come-on scantily clad as a challenge compelled Imogen to entertain the kinds of thoughts that you think without thinking. And when Fiona's fingers went skittering across Imogen's torso, the touch tingled before it tickled.

Imogen nudges Fiona's arm, offering her the sticky strawberry orb. Fiona accepts, and Imogen watches as she slips it between her lips and sucks softly.

Imogen feels that slow stir of yearning. Except it isn't that slow anymore. It's a swift shift now, sharp and sudden like an orgasm, a hot shot of confetti that blasts through her entire body.

She wriggles closer to Fiona, trying to be casual, but she sees the eyebrow quirk, the subtle smirk. Fiona releases the sucker and returns the flavor.

"That's me: a sucker for you," Imogen flirts.

"You've certainly got me licked," Fiona flirts back.

Imogen wonders if her face is as red as the maple leaf on the Canadian flag.

"You can dish it out, but you can't taste it," Fiona teases.

"I can so taste it," Imogen insists, brandishing the sucker like a sword. "I can wrap my lips around this thing faster than Lucy and Ethel can wrap those wrappers around that chocolate."

"That sounded a little vulgar," Fiona observes, in limbo between a compliment and a complaint.

"Where you see vulgarity, I see hilarity," Imogen retorts.

"Speaking of hilarity, I'm glad you made me watch this. I can't believe I've never seen it before."

"That's what happens when you spend your life living under a ten-karat rock," Imogen says. She gets up, breaking their pinkie-promise. She knows it's not symbolic, but it's still hard to let go. She enters Fiona's kitchen and chucks the sucker into the trash because, quite frankly, she can think of more productive ways for them to swap spit. "So who do you love more? Me or Lucy?" Imogen climbs back onto the couch, tucking her legs beneath her.

Fiona rolls her eyes in time with the credits. "Well, I do have a soft spot for redheads…"

Imogen gasps, grasps the remote. "Tell me you do not still have the hots for Holly J is for Jezebel," she demands, tapping the Off button.

"Imogen." Fiona's tone is scolding, her expression a little scalding.

"Sorry," Imogen mumbles. "But it's your fault for telling me how you felt about her."

"You said I could tell you anything."

"Yeah, anything. Not everything."

"Immy, I'm over her. You know that. I'm into weirdos now."

Imogen perks up. "Yeah?"

"Oh, yeah," Fiona affirms. "Big time."

"Well, since I'm a big-time weirdo, I must be the girl of your dreams."

Fiona's smile is inviting, igniting. "Sweet dreams," she murmurs, reaching for Imogen's hands.

Imogen simpers, lacing her fingers through Fiona's like a corset as she moves onto her girlfriend's lap, a leg on either side of Fiona's thighs, her bottom resting atop Fiona's knees. "Now I know how it feels to sit in the lap of luxury."

Fiona frowns. "I'm practically impoverished, Immy."

"I'll take up a collection for you," Imogen quips. "And how dare you suggest that your lap is not luxurious." She takes a gander at her girlfriend's thighs, seductively showcased in a pair of black pants that are tighter than Fiona's budget. Imogen can't let her gaze linger for too long. "Besides, as long as your last name is Coyne, you'll always have a penny to your name."

Fiona's pout slips into a smile accompanied by a laugh, and Imogen marvels at the beauty of her authenticity.

I'm thinking of falling in love with her.

She wrote that in her journal long before the Frostival, even before telling Fiona that she thought of them as soul mates. She writes about Fiona a lot, because she likes it when they're on the same page. When she learned about her father's early onset dementia, Imogen became meticulous about recording everything in her life that she doesn't want to forget. And since Fiona falls into the Everything category, Imogen has amassed an impressive collection of Fiona-friendly anecdotes. Imogen takes the good without the bad, a "best of" collection, because if there's ever any memory that she can't recall and this is the only way to remember it, the deception will feel like perfection.

She takes a picture of her girlfriend, her eye the camera lens, and adds it to the thousands of snapshots that have accumulated in her cerebral scrapbook, the companion piece to her journal. She assigns captions to the Fimages: sweetheart, head honcho of hugging, I'd sail on that dreamboat.

She has lots of pictures of Fiona's curls, the twirly tresses that Imogen likes to wind around her fingers like a roll of film. And lots of pictures of the two of them together. These she mentally manipulates into heart shapes with Immy + Fiones Forever in swirly script inside the outline.

She'd been reluctant at first, to define their relationship, because she thought that it would determine—and cement—her sexuality.

If I date Fiona, what does that make me?

It was harder to ask than to answer, because once Imogen started concentrating on their connection, their affection for one another, and not on the "consequences" of dating Fiona, she realized that there really weren't any. There were only perks and possibilities.

And so, in the blank line she'd left below the Q, she added the A:


"I am so in love with you, it's not even funny." Imogen hears it before she says it: delicate, decisive, definitive. The words barely hover before they cover Fiona's heart, and Imogen delights in her girlfriend's reaction: the way her eyes light up like a flashbulb, the way her smile makes her dimple grin.

It takes a moment for Fiona to collect herself. "Okay," she says, and loops a lock of hair behind Imogen's ear.

Imogen watches, waits, watches Fiona watch her.

Fiona is all smiles and wiles as she holds her girlfriend's gaze.

Eventually, Imogen scoffs. "You say that back."

"Or what?" Fiona taunts.

In fear of tickle torture, Imogen grips Fiona's hands tighter.

Fiona starts to laugh, but the look she's giving Imogen is soft, clear, sincere. "I am crazy in love with you, Immy. And good crazy, for once. As long as I have you—and my health, of course—I'm deliriously happy."

Imogen ingests the words, digests their meaning. She loosens her grip on Fiona's hands, gently releasing them, and eases her into a snug hug.

Imogen sinks into Fiona like a bubble bath, humming happily into her hair. Fiona hugs harder, and Imogen registers the feel of her girlfriend's body, a figure with more curves than a crazy straw. Her knees squeeze Fiona's hips. Hips that look like they could keep a hula hoop rotating for hours.

She relaxes her hold, leans back. The V in Fiona's top has dipped into a U and when Imogen finally finds Fiona's eyes, they are full of hope and heart and heat.

"Fiones," she chastises. "Cut it out."

Fiona isn't really doing anything. But then, she never has to. The only thing Fiona has to do to turn Imogen on is exist.

Fiona gives her a half-smile, like she's too lazy to lift up the other side of her mouth, which isn't at all true because now she's tipping her head for a meet and greet with Imogen's mouth. It's a clingy kiss, thanks to the lollipop, and when Fiona's candy-coated tongue nuzzles her own, Imogen's insides get gooier than s'mores.

Any moment now, Imogen will turn into a great big puddle of fondue and Fiona can just dip her fingers in and…

There it is. That customary quiver. That beguiling elixir of love and lust, fright and delight that often manifests itself in the form of a very damp dot in a very specific spot.

What a Fi-ling!