Mind Blind Saucy Side: Bottled Up (Kenna Version) (Patreon)

AU where Kenna is a genie/djinn

Your first wish is made in a moment of desperation, clutching the antique locket that Sally gave you for your birthday as you huddle behind an overturned table to avoid gunfire.

I wish that this was over, you think.

Suddenly . . . it is. The roar of bullets quiets, and UCRT arrests the two-dozen confused Ments whom had, just moments before, been shooting at you.

“All’s well that ends well,” Nick says breezily, but a hint of unease lingers on the team. What’s the likelihood of twenty-four guns jamming simultaneously? It’s like magic.

(Spoiler alert: it’s magic.)

The djinn waits until you’re at home alone to appear. She informs you of her contract, brusquely indifferent to both your initial shock at her sudden appearance and your gratitude over having your life saved: you have one wish remaining, she tells you. The legends, it seems, were overgenerous. Perhaps natural-born genies, mystical beings composed of magic and stardust, might grant three wishes. But your djinn—Kenna—was human once. Cursed into immortal servitude, she can grant two wishes to whomever owns her locket. No more and no less, and you’ve already squandered your first wish on self-preservation instead of a flying pony.

Which leaves you with only one wish remaining. Should you be selfless and wish for world peace? (Kenna disabuses you of that notion, claiming that she would only be able to guarantee such a wonder for a nanosecond before man declared a new war.) Maybe it would be wise to save the wish for another emergency? (Kenna points out there’s no guarantee you’d be able to make a wish in time of crisis.) Kenna suggests that you wish for a talking pet.

There’s also the tantalizing possibility of wishing for a higher Pollard Score.

Sensing that you’re not going to decide on your second wish any time soon, Kenna agrees to wait. The locket is cramped, however, so you tell her that she can sleep on your couch, if djinns sleep. (They do, Kenna confirms.)

A week passes, and you become increasingly reluctant to decide upon a wish. Once you decide, Kenna’s locket will be passed onto someone else . . . which means no more debating the pros and cons of wishing for a dragon (Kenna in favor, you wary of the fire hazard), and no more shopping trips to buy Kenna modern clothing (she was cursed in 1903). No more watching television together, or teaching Kenna the concept of “memes,” and no more Kenna telling you about what her life had been like before she became a djinn (her father had been a politician who double-crossed a witch).

Making a wish means losing Kenna.

There’s only one answer: you’ll wish for her curse to end. You have no way of knowing what will happen to Kenna once she’s freed, and part of you is terrified that she’ll be transported back to her own time. When you tell her that you’ve decided upon a wish, however, Kenna’s face goes blank. Not that Kenna is ever that expressive, but she’s slowly thawed over the past week. Now, her stony expression is reminiscent of when she first solidified in your bedroom.

“Call me when you’re ready,” she says in a dull tone and without giving you time to explain. She blinks away, leaving only smoke where she once stood.

* * * *

You selfishly postpone wishing until the next morning, wanting just one more night of Kenna with you (even if she refuses to leave her locket). As sunlight breaks through your bedroom window, you realize that any more delay will only challenge your decision.

And it is the right decision.

The gold heart of the locket seems to pulsate as if with a heartbeat, the metal warming beneath your shaking fingertips as you open the hinge one last time. Inside is Kenna’s picture from back when she was human, black and white and faded at the edges but more beautiful than any woman you’ve seen (Sally bought the locket as your gift, after all, because “the dead chick inside is so your type”). You have only a moment to gaze at the picture before the real thing appears.

Tendrils of smoke fill your room, then clear to reveal Kenna. She’s wearing one of the outfits you bought her: jeans and a fitted black tee that make her look deceptively unmagical.

“Hello, Master,” she says. Despite her polite smile, there’s an audible acidity to the title that she gives you—a name she’s never called you before. “My presence must mean that you’re ready to make a wish.”

Your heart clenches. Her voice is brittle and formal, in painful contrast to the teasing warmth with which you’ve become familiar.

“I wish for—”

‘—your freedom,’ you intend to finish, but Kenna presses the pad of her thumb over your lips, cutting off your words. Her hand is cold, the result of being constructed from magic instead of flesh.

“As soon as your wish is fulfilled, you’ll no longer be able to summon me,” she says in a low voice. Her grey eyes meet yours, her lashes lowered.

Again, you attempt to explain that your wish will let her hopefully stay, should she so desire. But her thumb still presses against your mouth, pushing gently inwards until you can taste the salt of her skin.

“Before I grant your wish,” she murmurs, “grant mine.”

She holds you spellbound with her stare, her touch, her intensity—you’re captivated by the undivided force of her attention. Your pulse quickens, and she smirks as if she can hear it (and maybe she can). The walls of your bedroom seem to disappear: there is only you and Kenna, frozen in anticipation.

Her other hand goes to the small of your back, pulling you close. Her lips dip to your neck, whispering your name. It’s almost but not quite a kiss, her mouth moving against your skin in words you can’t fully hear. She pushes you down onto the bed in a controlled fall, her thumb never leaving your lips.

You nip her finger.

Instead of becoming angry, she chuckles. Then she kisses you, truly and deeply, as if you’re her wish. Not the person capable of granting it as her words implied, but the actual wish itself. Intentions are lost in a tangle of tongues; you barely recall your own name, let alone what you’d planned to do. There’s only Kenna, and her mouth, and her infinitely clever hands.

As you both pause to catch your breaths, reality forces its way through the blissful haze. You need to make your wish. Now more than ever, before desire completely strips your resolve.

Kenna’s hand cusps your cheek. “You’re crying,” she says, sounding bewildered. “I thought you wanted this, too.”

“I wish for you to be human again.” You rush the words, afraid that delay would only cause you to turn back.

. . . Nothing happens.

Kenna stares down at you, her body suspended over yours. The moment lingers, lengthens, and finally breaks as her head drops onto your shoulder.

“I didn’t return to the locket,” she whispers. “Am I still with you?”

You tilt her face up. Her eyes squeeze tightly shut, as if afraid to reopen. Her cheeks are warm now, and flushed. Magic doesn’t blush—only mortals.

You kiss her brow, her cheekbones, her chin, and finally her lips. All warm, and all human.

“Can I get a third wish?” you ask.