#⋆ girty : threads .

[mcthmancometh]

Girty's nod, such a small, simple thing, had August letting out a breath he hadn't even realized he'd been holding. He had fully expected her to say no, to shoot him down and disappear off into the night without him, leaving him waiting like a starved dog begging for the table scraps of her attention, few and far between as they were. But here she was offering him a whole feast, or an olive branch at the very least, and he couldn't help the seed of hope that took root in his chest, even as they walked to the bar in relative silence that hung heavily between them, a constant reminder that things still weren't the same and likely never would be. As Girty scurried off to the bathroom, August grabbed them a table, which wasn't hard — the Salty Bear was rarely all that crowded, and most folks had better places to be tonight, it seemed, with the Festival going on outside. He craned his neck to try and catch sight of whoever was working, but before he could the sound of a too-familiar laugh made his ears prick. He caught a glimpse of long black hair streaked with red out of the corner of his eye as he whipped his head back towards the bench across from him, but once he was actually looking, it was unsurprisingly empty. "Not tonight," he whispered — begged. "Please, please not tonight." He was only answered with dead air. When the waiter came over a minute later, it was enough to startle him out of staring at something that still wasn't there, and he ordered for both of them, but the tension in his shoulders didn't quite drain until Girty was filling the space across from him, real and alive. He couldn't help the small smile that snuck onto his face as she cussed the table out, and it grew into a soft laugh at the fingers wiggled in his face, the warmth from the one that bumped his nose lingering long after she'd moved her hand away. "Nah, I took care of it. No magic required," he told her, and practically on cue their drinks were delivered — a Jack & Coke for him, a Long Island iced tea for her. He lifted his glass, but before bringing it to his lips he asked a familiar question: "What are we toasting?"

How could she have looked into those eyes and said no? A single taste of that soothing green mixed with her own, and all the walls she had constructed around herself were ready to crumble, like cookies crushed in a toddler’s eager fist. So, of course, her answer to his invitation—the one she practically twisted his arm into making (it sure felt that way)—was an eager, lovesick nod of her head. Doomed from the start. Tough, weak creature. Funny, wasn’t it? How the lights coloring their path would’ve served as a beautiful backdrop if things were different: if she weren’t so emotionally unskilled, if she hadn’t clawed him out of her life with the desperation of a rabid dog trying to spare its owner from heartbreak, if he had chosen her from the start… If he had chosen her. The thought was so repulsive it silenced her for the rest of the walk (an unprecedented occurrence), her hands shoved deep in her pockets to avoid the slightest graze against his. Thief. If, if, if. The thoughts kept nibbling and nibbling, relentless little pests. She excused herself the moment they stepped into The Salty Bear, nearly sprinting to the bathroom. Girt stared at her reflection in the grimy mirror—eyeshadow smudged, lipstick more stain than anything, hair doing its own unholy thing. She gave her head a single, violent shake, hoping to dislodge the cursed mantra. Useless. When that didn’t work, her hand dove into the tin box she always kept on her, pulling out two flat little pills that definitely didn’t resemble mints. Maybe some colorful courage would do the trick. Girty dropped onto the sticky booth, snorting instead of wincing when her knee collided with the table, a casualty of her careless movements. “Ouchpiece'ashit—” She muttered, but with renewed zeal, she rested her chin on her palm and turned to August. “Waiter take care of you already? Or am I gonna have to work my wiiiicked magic?” She widened her eyes, waving her free hand’s fingers right in front of his face, accidentally nudging his nose, a spark running up her arm. Yes, tonight could be normal. She would have a drink (more if she was lucky), shoot the shit, and scatter back to her dark and cozy corner of the universe — where she belonged.

[wolfvsh]

Broken. Perverse. Wreck. Girty’s ears had cradled every insult in existence, each one courtesy of Misty’s many friendly voices. She had once believed Knox to be different. The blindfold was ripped from her eyes the moment he chose to lie. Now, he was scared. He should be. It was comical, watching someone with an untouchable reputation unravel — plastic smile warping into a sneer, soft, melty eyes hardening into stone. She much preferred the unabashedly unholy, those with no masks, no pretenses… Although fakers were so much more fun to mess with. The Stafford twin closed the distance, hand digging into her furry-jacket’s pocket with a purpose, retrieving an Altoid tin box like a prize. Soon, a cigarette was pinched between her fingers. “You might be too stupid to notice, but your anger is as fuckin’ obvious as the stench of this place,” she drawled, lighting up with deliberate slowness, the flame dancing between them like a dare. Come on, unleash the ugliness. A cold thumb pressed against the enemy’s forehead, grin sharpening like a knife. “A line right there. Like a spoiled child ‘bout to throw a fit. Cute... mostly pathetic though.”  Knox was by no means an evil spirit — she’d once trusted him enough to bare her soul to him. But she was also a black-and-white thinker, and when it came down to the facts: she had cracked her chest open, he’d gripped her beating heart, and he’d squeezed it until it popped. Naturally, he had to pay. “All that prayin’ won't fuckin’ save you either. Those feelin’s will just keep boiling under your skin ‘til you blow right up.” Girty took a drag, long enough to fill her entire lungs with the dark smoke, leaving her in the shape of a perfect ring, blown in his direction. “It'll be pretty amusin’ to watch. Face all fuckin’ red, steam comin’ out your head...” She furrowed her eyebrows, trying to mimic the irate version of Knox she imagined, a bit cartoonishly perhaps. “Guts flyin’ everywhere…”

God was angry at him.

That was the only thing he could imagine, the only thing on repeat in his mind when he realized his mistake— realized exactly who he'd run into. And the mess he'd just invited back in. Walls shot up behind his eyes like the mouth of a snapping turtle, back straightening as his defenses mounted as quickly as they could. A race between self-preservation and her knife-sharp tongue.

He'd failed Girty in her eyes, he knew. His mouth opened to say something— what, he didn't know— but he never got the chance as her hands shoved into his chest, forcing him back a step. And just like that, they were back in those woods. He was running and running and running and—

No. He couldn't go back there. He wouldn't go back there. And damn her if she kept trying to drag him right back in.

So, his tongue sharpened, too.

"You keep on actin' like a punchline, and I won't have to," he spat back at her. He remembered himself a moment later, regret flashing behind his eyes for just a moment before he shuttered it away again. "Y'know, if you just keep holdin' onto all that anger, it's gonna destroy you one day. Takin' it out on me ain't gonna fix what's broken."

[wolfvsh]

If you asked her how she’d ended up at Liliana’s castle, she’d flash you a stupid grin and reply with nothing but silence. One thing was for certain, though: Girty was having the time of her life. Free drinks flowed like a waterfall, a familiar white powder tickled the insides of her nose, valuable treasures sat inside her pockets (triumphantly obtained by sneaking into rooms that were supposedly off-limits), and a few phone numbers — hastily scribbled onto her freckly skin — decorated her like hieroglyphics. None were readable, most had already been forgotten, and by tomorrow, they’d trickle down the drain of her shower along with the sweat sticking to her body. Another night, another mess to wash away. She spotted their gracious host, collapsing onto the same couch as her like a sack of potatoes. Her naked feet slapped against the coffee table in front of them. Where the fuck had her shoes run off to, anyway? The mention of Baylor’s name made her jaw drop, the news floating into her ears for the very first time — a bucket of freezing water.  “That’s what’s got everybody bumpin’ uglies?” Her words tumbled out, barely understandable, letters awkwardly bumping against each other like they were drunk themselves. “Fuck, man… Now folks’ll think I’m one of his fuckin’ groupies, man. That’s so—” Girty’s hands came crashing down against her face, no regard or knowledge for the sting the movement caused, pulling pinkish skin down. She burst into cackles, loud ones, her whole being shaking with their force. “Of-fuckin’-course he’d be the one to break the ice curse. The asshole lives!” She paused abruptly, thinking, thinking, thinking before turning her head ever so slightly and giving Lili the most serious expression she could muster. “D’ya reckon he’s still got all his fingers on him? Or… is one — No, two! — gettin’ munched on somewhere in the woods by some wild lil’ critter?”

LOCATION : the serrano residence. DATE : december 22nd. OPEN STARTER : uncapped.

The grand Serrano estate is draped in a lavish display of twinkling Christmas lights, velvet ribbons, and wreaths so pristine they might as well have been plucked straight from a magazine. But tonight, the air reeks of cigarette smoke, spilled vodka, and YSL Opium. The Serrano family’s pristine living room — usually reserved for charity events and formal luncheons — had been overrun by Misty Mountain’s finest under-25s to celebrate Baylor waking up... or something like that. Duran Duran's Hungry Like The Wolf pulses through the speakers, crackling just slightly under the weight of too much bass. A crystal punch bowl, now repurposed for something far stronger than punch, sits on the marble counter.

Liliana sits on the arm of the couch, a glass tumbler in hand, filled with something clear and certainly not water. She’s in red; of course, she is, it's almost christmas — a slinky little velvet number that hugs her waist and leaves her shoulders bare. She tilts her head, turning to the person next to her with a lazy smirk. "You know," she drawls, "If I ever get found half-dead in the snow, I fully expect someone to throw me a party like this. Everyone needs to be drinking like the world’s ending and someone needs to be crying in the bathroom."

She takes a slow slip from her cup, eyes glancing over the crowded room where someone’s trying, and failing, to do the moonwalk on a Persian rug. "God, I love this song. Don’t you? Almost makes me forget it’s a literal miracle Baylor’s not a popsicle right now."

[wolfvsh]

“Long Island iced tea—same as always, baby.” A creature of habit. Sad ones, at that. Girty drummed her hands against the counter, the promise of a sweaty glass in her grip enough to spark a flicker of excitement. When the bartender scurried off, the flicker dulled a little, wind blown directly at it. Talking about her sister was never a fun time. Absence didn’t make the heart grow fonder—it crushed it, ground it into mush. Turned her into a weaker, desperate beast, yearning for the easy company, the unspoken complicity that came with having a sister. Used to.  “Ah, y’mean… pokin’ into her lil’ head with my psychic twin abilities? See whatever mess’s goin’ on up there and then reportin’ back if there’s any suspicious activity?” You could always count on her for taking things seriously. Clearly. She clicked her tongue, trying—and failing—to soothe her stupid grin into something resembling sincerity. “Hate to break it to ya, bud, but my services ain’t cheap.”  His words were so sweet—teeth aching in her mouth—they almost made her feel guilty. She couldn’t fault him for worrying, for caring—not when she did the exact same thing. More quietly, maybe, but she did it all the same. The sudden tenderness swirling in her gut made her uncomfortable, shifting in her seat. The drink arrived at the perfect time, a lifejacket in an endless sea. She immediately reached for it, drank—anything to avoid drowning.  “That’s, uh—” It sounded nice. Girty cleared her throat, as if her body knew honey and sugar weren’t in her nature. So, instead, she muttered, “Thanks… but I don’t need no charity, man. B’sides…” She scratched her forehead, itching to be anywhere else, throat burning. “These days we don’t do much talkin’ either.”

"Well, hell, Girty, I can’t have you sittin’ here all lonely and drinkless," he replied, leaning over to flag down the bartender. Buck didn't bother to mention that his Mama had never been around to teach him much of anything, but he knew better than to let a lady go thirsty. "What’s your poison tonight?"

He flashed her a playful smirk, trying to keep the mood light, even though there was something tight in his chest that wouldn’t let go. Her words about Mabel stung, but he kept his tone steady, not wanting to press too hard. "She’s always been a bit of a mystery, huh? I figured, with you two bein’ twins and all, you might have an idea of what’s goin' on in that head of hers."

Buck took a slow drink from his own glass, the burn of whiskey just enough to take the edge off his nerves, but not nearly enough to settle the worry gnawing at him.

"I was sorta thinkin' about doin' somethin' a little crazy... Invitin' her over for Christmas Dinner." Buck coughed.

"Invitation's open to you too, if ya feel like keepin' me and Nana company for the night," He laughed a little. "Figure there's no way in hell she's sayin' yes, but maybe if I can get you on board too...?"

[wolfvsh]

How could she have looked into those eyes and said no? A single taste of that soothing green mixed with her own, and all the walls she had constructed around herself were ready to crumble, like cookies crushed in a toddler’s eager fist. So, of course, her answer to his invitation—the one she practically twisted his arm into making (it sure felt that way)—was an eager, lovesick nod of her head. Doomed from the start. Tough, weak creature. Funny, wasn’t it? How the lights coloring their path would’ve served as a beautiful backdrop if things were different: if she weren’t so emotionally unskilled, if she hadn’t clawed him out of her life with the desperation of a rabid dog trying to spare its owner from heartbreak, if he had chosen her from the start… If he had chosen her. The thought was so repulsive it silenced her for the rest of the walk (an unprecedented occurrence), her hands shoved deep in her pockets to avoid the slightest graze against his. Thief. If, if, if. The thoughts kept nibbling and nibbling, relentless little pests. She excused herself the moment they stepped into The Salty Bear, nearly sprinting to the bathroom. Girt stared at her reflection in the grimy mirror—eyeshadow smudged, lipstick more stain than anything, hair doing its own unholy thing. She gave her head a single, violent shake, hoping to dislodge the cursed mantra. Useless. When that didn’t work, her hand dove into the tin box she always kept on her, pulling out two flat little pills that definitely didn’t resemble mints. Maybe some colorful courage would do the trick. Girty dropped onto the sticky booth, snorting instead of wincing when her knee collided with the table, a casualty of her careless movements. “Ouchpiece'ashit—” She muttered, but with renewed zeal, she rested her chin on her palm and turned to August. “Waiter take care of you already? Or am I gonna have to work my wiiiicked magic?” She widened her eyes, waving her free hand’s fingers right in front of his face, accidentally nudging his nose, a spark running up her arm. Yes, tonight could be normal. She would have a drink (more if she was lucky), shoot the shit, and scatter back to her dark and cozy corner of the universe—where she belonged.

August couldn't hide the surprise on his face when she grabbed his arm — even if he tried, he was sure she'd see right through him. She had a way of doing that, like she was looking right into the hollow, rotten center of him past all the things he tried to bury it under, past every single wall he'd spent his whole life building. And maybe the worst part of it all was how bad he wanted to let her, something he was sure was written all over his face when his eyes moved from her hand on his arm back up to meet her gaze. She knew him in ways no one else ever did, would, could. Despite everything, that hadn't changed. "Well you know cold's never done me any favors," he said. He was the type to have cold hands even on the hottest and stickiest day of summer, like there just wasn't quite enough blood in his veins to go around. He guessed it made sense, in a lot of ways. The walking dead boy who couldn't seem to hang onto anything while it was still alive, no matter how hard he tried. He was pretty sure between the two of them, if anyone was a zombie, it was him. "And neither has this fuckin' festival, so... Somewhere warmer sounds good. A drink sounds even better. I mean — if you want me to get you one." It came out sounding hopeful, almost painfully so, but he couldn't help that, either. When Girty had started distancing herself, he'd never wanted to force his company on her if it wasn't what she wanted, and he really did get why she might not. But he'd felt sick over it constantly, and he couldn't help but hope that maybe one day she'd decide she wanted him around again after all. He doubted this change in heart was going to last more than the night — hell, it might not even last more than the drink he was about to buy her — but even being given this much had felt like too much to hope for, and he thought it was enough to sustain him for at least a little while longer.

[mcthmancometh]

August couldn't hide the surprise on his face when she grabbed his arm — even if he tried, he was sure she'd see right through him. She had a way of doing that, like she was looking right into the hollow, rotten center of him past all the things he tried to bury it under, past every single wall he'd spent his whole life building. And maybe the worst part of it all was how bad he wanted to let her, something he was sure was written all over his face when his eyes moved from her hand on his arm back up to meet her gaze. She knew him in ways no one else ever did, would, could. Despite everything, that hadn't changed. "Well you know cold's never done me any favors," he said. He was the type to have cold hands even on the hottest and stickiest day of summer, like there just wasn't quite enough blood in his veins to go around. He guessed it made sense, in a lot of ways. The walking dead boy who couldn't seem to hang onto anything while it was still alive, no matter how hard he tried. He was pretty sure between the two of them, if anyone was a zombie, it was him. "And neither has this fuckin' festival, so... Somewhere warmer sounds good. A drink sounds even better. I mean — if you want me to get you one." It came out sounding hopeful, almost painfully so, but he couldn't help that, either. When Girty had started distancing herself, he'd never wanted to force his company on her if it wasn't what she wanted, and he really did get why she might not. But he'd felt sick over it constantly, and he couldn't help but hope that maybe one day she'd decide she wanted him around again after all. He doubted this change in heart was going to last more than the night — hell, it might not even last more than the drink he was about to buy her — but even being given this much had felt like too much to hope for, and he thought it was enough to sustain him for at least a little while longer.

It was sick—maybe even perverted—but she wasn’t so sure it was beautiful. As she stared at her friend (were they even friends anymore?), she felt as her teeth grew sharper, blood-thirsty. She could practically taste the skin… feel it give beneath her nails. Want was a wicked thing, a surefire path to trouble—one she knew too well. Yet, standing there, right in front of him and his kiss-like stare, Girty couldn’t shake the foolish desire to crack the door open, to let him back in.  She knew she should stick to what she did best: flash a noncommittal smile, say something stupid, turn on her heel and wave her fingers before disappearing—back to her trailer, back to the loneliness waiting for her, pulling her in like a familiar tide. Eve had been a close… No, a beloved companion. It felt wrong, like cheating (or stealing). But maybe she was exactly as selfish as every Mountaineer said.  A hand shot forward, desperately latching onto his arm, as if any second now he’d see the chaos laid bare before him and react the same way everyone else always did—give up, turn his back on the ugliness. In her eyes flickered a rare glint of vulnerability, paired with the awkward shuffle of her boots, like a schoolgirl caught in a moment far too big for her. “Well, my talented poet—” Not yours... Eve's. And instead of asking for his company, a shoulder to rest her head on: “How’d you like to whisk me away somewhere warmer, huh?” The one not clinging to him tilted the flask’s mouth toward the ground, giving it a few shakes—just a few sad drops lost to the snow. “I just ran outta poison.” It would kill her if he said no—it would kill her if he said yes.

[wolfvsh]

Although it might’ve seemed that way at times, Girty wasn’t carved from cold, impenetrable stone — deep within layers of decay and rot, something still drummed. A heart was a heart, no matter how ugly its shape. She’d never admit it — not even to herself, hidden in the shadows of her trailer — but the words pathetic and tragedy struck true, burning a hole straight through her iron armor. She refused to show weakness. A beast who’d rather die baring its teeth than beg for reassurance or a gentle pat on the head. Never again would she crawl on hands and knees, never again would she grovel for love that came only with a roll of the eyes and muttered curses — she’d done enough of that in one lifetime. Thank you, Charlie Jo. Sure, her grin might’ve faltered, but not for long. It grew sharper, more macabre.  “Easy to look down on us from your fuckin’ high horse, ain’t it? But the time’ll come when you’ll need us scum. ‘Cause the truth is, people like you can’t handle ugly — while we eat, breathe and shit it, baby.” Words meant to bite — a curse ripped straight from the pages of a hockey Witchcraft for Beginners book. Still, her performance sold it: eyes about to jump out of her skull, pupil swallowing green iris, shaky finger pointed, spit flying everywhere. “So stick those prayers up your prissy ass…” Girty drank some more, stepped back, then smacked her lips — a spiteful kiss. “And have yourself a blessed fuckin' night.”

Abilene stiffened, the sharp chill of Girty’s breath and words biting at her more than the bitter wind. She kept her shoulders rolled, her posture straight, standing her ground against the chaos that was Girty Stafford. She wasn’t proud of the anger that burned in her chest, but it was there, eating away at her usual restraint.

Her lips pressed into a thin line as she exhaled through her nose, her gaze hardening. “You think you’re funny, Girty? All you’ve done is prove what everyone already knows - that you’re a walking tragedy. Don't have anything else left in you?"

Abilene's hands balled into fists like she was ready to brawl - go toe to... wet toe with the girl, but she didn't have it in her. She wasn't a fighter - she couldn't even throw a punch if she tried. “So, go ahead. Keep drinkin’ and runnin' that mouth and draggin’ yourself lower. It's really pathetic."

It wasn’t the warmth or the hope the youngest Pryor used to carry with her, but these days, Abilene didn’t have much of that left to give. She used the closeness to turn her cheek - if they had moved even an inch closer, they probably would have touched lips.

Abilene let a tender hand rest on Girty's shoulder as she began to step back from the scene, like a dog tucking its tail between her legs. Then, with a soft smile she said, "I'll pray for you."

[wolfvsh]

No shock, no offense registered when Abilene pushed her. Instead, foggy eyes lit up — a small victory, drawing such a violent reaction from someone so prudish. Greedy as ever, she hungered for more. How far could she dig her fingers? “Pretty kitty’s got claws,” She murmured, voice light and teasing as she steadied herself from the stumble, closing the distance between them. Step by step, wobble by wobble, until she stood at her side, slowly leaning in, nose gracelessly landing against the girl’s frosty cheek — carrying the faint scent of canned beer and a cheap vanilla with her. Classy.  “And here I thought all you God-lovin’ freaks were s’pposed to be thankful… I just did you a service, y’know? Won’t even charge a penny.” Girty’s gaze dropped to the soiled shoes, her smirk curling wider, meaner. “Maybe you should start questionin’ your faith, Pryor… ‘Cause if He’s real, why’d He let you walk outta the house lookin’ like … ” She nudged the side of her foot with her own, “That.”

Girty was a plague to Misty Mountain. They had their fair share of criminals, murderers, and drug addicts roaming around town - what little small town didn't? But Girty was like a different breed. It was clear she needed help, and was tormented by the cards fate had dealt her. What irritated Abilene was the way the Stafford twin just needed attention. To most, it would look like a cry for help. If that were the case, Girty wouldn't be acting the way she was now.

Abilene was always stunned by what the girl could come up with. "You know, maybe if you weren't so ruined, you would have a fine career in the dramatics," and how right she was as the next turn of events unfolded in a blink of an eye.

Abilene looked down at her shoes, a shriek escaping from her mouth in an instant. "What the hell?" Which caused plenty of onlookers to turn their heads. Not that many surprised to look over and see that it was Girty causing a ruckus - Abilene thought that's all she was good for.

Instinctively, Abilene pushed Girty's shoulders back - enough to get the other out of her metaphorical bubble, but not nearly violent enough to welcome a full blown cat fight.

"Let me guess, bill you for the dry cleaner?"

[wolfvsh]

It was sick — maybe even perverted — but she wasn’t so sure it was beautiful. As she stared at her friend (were they even friends anymore?), she felt as her teeth grew sharper, blood-thirsty. She could practically taste the skin… feel it give beneath her nails. Want was a wicked thing, a surefire path to trouble — one she knew too well. Yet, standing there, right in front of him and his kiss-like stare, Girty couldn’t shake the foolish desire to crack the door open, to let him back in.  She knew she should stick to what she did best: flash a noncommittal smile, say something stupid, turn on her heel and wave her fingers before disappearing—back to her trailer, back to the loneliness waiting for her, pulling her in like a familiar tide. Eve had been a close… No, a beloved companion. It felt wrong, like cheating (or stealing). But maybe she was exactly as selfish as every Mountaineer believed her to be.  A hand shot forward, desperately latching onto his arm, as if any second now he’d see the chaos laid bare before him and react the same way everyone else always did — give up, turn his back on the ugliness. In her eyes flickered a rare glint of vulnerability, paired with the awkward shuffle of her boots, like a schoolgirl caught in a moment far too big for her. “Well, my talented poet —” Not yours... Eve's. And instead of asking for his company, a shoulder to rest her head on: “Y'feel like whiskin' me away somewhere warmer?” The one not clinging to him tilted the flask’s mouth toward the ground, giving it a couple of shakes — just a few sad drops lost to the snow. “Ran outta poison.” It would kill her if he said no — would also kill her if he said yes.

August never felt the rift that’d formed between him and Girty quite so starkly as he did when she was standing right next to him. The absence of her always loomed in the background, haunting him just as much as an actual ghost, but when he was on his own, it was easier to look past it, to distract himself, to convince himself he could exist in a world without her in it.

But when she was there, really there, close enough to touch but more out of reach than ever, it just made the raw, hollow wound in his heart, the one that was shaped exactly like her, start gnawing away at him all over again. He didn’t know how he’d been walking around like this all this time, how he was supposed to keep doing it.

He watched as she took a swallow from the flask, watched as her attention seemed to wander, and his brain immediately started scrambling, trying to come up with some magic words, anything at all that might get her to stay, just for a minute. But then her eyes darted towards him again, and it was like exhaling after holding his breath, like when the storm clouds finally break, at least for a second. He’d take it. He’d take anything she was willing to offer.

“Guess it depends on the lore,” he replied, tilting his head a little. “Some of them don’t actually eat ‘cause they’re hungry. It’s just the virus trying to spread. So it triggers the hunger response to get ‘em to bite people. I guess if it were those kinds it might, especially if they’re not actually undead, just infected. But sometimes flesh and brains are the only things that’ll stop them from decaying. The only things that’ll stop them from feeling the pain of being dead as they rot away.” He paused for a second, then added, his voice softening a little, “It’s kinda beautiful in a sick sort of way, ain’t it? Needing someone so bad that the only thing you can do to feel alive is sink your teeth into ‘em.”

[wolfvsh]

“You’d never — I’m jus’ too fuckin’ lovable!” Girty scrunched her red lips and smacked them together, punctuating it with a playful, exaggerated ‘muah’. The absurdity of her own words sent her spiraling into a cocktail of ear-splitting chuckles and snorts. Sometimes, she felt like such a useless piece of the Misty Mountain puzzle, so hated (or misunderstood?), that she half-expected to find a mob of angry townspeople with pitchforks waiting outside her trailer door, shrouded in the darkness of the night. Which would be… sort of thrilling. If the people were barkin’, wasn’t it a sign that you were moving forward? Or maybe it just meant they weren’t exactly fond of the messes she constantly left behind — destroyed, tarnished and scattered in her wake. A tornado personified. “Ask anyone in town an’ they’ll say the fuckin’ same…” She lowered her voice, leaning in with a menacing edge, “If they know what’s good for ‘em.” A painfully wide grin stretched across her pink face, cutting through the mock seriousness, as the goodies dangled before her like bait — dazed, round eyes softening. In an instant, she transformed into a loyal dog, sitting up straight, eager to perform any trick, tail wagging in hopes of earning a treat. “Well, I s’posse it’s a lucky thing customers tip 'cause of my looks, ain’t it?” Girty remained laser-focused on the glinting treasure. After a few moments of intense staring, a graceless paw struck the bottom of the bag, sending it flying into the air before she caught it, letting out a triumphant little wolf howl. “Leave the teasin’ to the experts, Sugar Cube, and feed me before I start bitin’.” She opened her jaw as wide as it would go, snapping her teeth together with a sharp, deliberate click — warning wrapped in mischief, daring anyone to test her patience. A dog that showed its belly only for so long.

"Stop it, or I'll shoot," Sugar swatted at Girty's outstretched arms, though her toothy grin betrayed any annoyance she mighta' tried to convey in her tone. She clutched her now-cold hot chocolate in the other hand, lifting it to her lips to down the rest of the infused beverage. Sugar tossed the now-empty cup into the closest trashcan, hands disappearing into coat pockets as she turned back to Girty with a glimmer in her eye.

She was grateful to have found somebody who wasn't all fake-sad about the Baylor situation. It wasn't like she was revelin' in it or nothin', but Sugar never really saw what bein' sad did for anybody.

"You know you're only jonesin' for brains 'cause you killed all your own," Sugar informed her, defiantly jutting her chin out for a brief moment before she cracked into that toothy grin again. "So, what, you wanna kill s'more? Or you savin' up for somethin' really big?" she teased, eyes gleaming as she pulled the little baggie of mushrooms out of her coat pocket and flicked it. "Goes real good with hot chocolate."

[wolfvsh]

The sad truth was, flattery got you far with Girty — a quick and easy route into her rotten heart. They were addictive, those words of encouragement, almost as ache-numbing as her preferred vices. In those moments, she was back in her childhood shoes, tiny hands eagerly extended toward Charlie Jo — only to be met by a single cold glance that cast a harsh light on every flaw, every crack that made her feel like a monster. Unlovable. “Why, thank you! Thank you very much!” She sang out, her voice lilting while she offered a sloppy curtsy, sparkling under the girl’s attention. “And don’t count me out just yet, missy! I’ll be outta this town and into the real world before y’know it.” A pang of guilt hit her as she pictured the stack of green that slept beneath her mattress… and then her twin sister. “When the timin’ is right.” If it was ever right.  One of her chilly hands slapped the side of her head, “Of course you’d fuckin’ forget, stupid —” Her words dissolved into irritated mumbles as she patted down her fur jacket, fingers poking into the tattered pockets, searching for — “Fuckin’ score!” Girt held the newfound object aloft, an anything-but-heavenly ‘Aaaaaaah’ spilling from her lips as she wiggled it around. “I doobie-lieve it’s time for some well-earned fun, don’tcha think?” Face slacked into a mournful expression, bringing the joint to her lips to press a wet kiss against its papery skin. “We’ll light it in Fridge Boy’s honor... seeing as I'm so fuckin' kind.”

Liliana angled her head just slightly, her eyes narrowing, sharp and glittering like shattered glass. The flicker of amusement in her expression remained, though it settled into something more guarded now — refined to perfection. She’s baiting you, Lili thought, but there was something magnetic about the other girl’s brashness — reckless and unfiltered in a way that felt almost enviable. Almost.

Her lips parted as if to speak, but instead, she took another slow sip of her lukewarm drink, letting the silence stretch between them. The faintest twitch at the corner of her mouth betrayed her — an impulse she couldn’t quite kill — and the weight of Girty’s ridiculous parody of sadness finally broke her composure. A sound, something caught between a scoff and a laugh, escaped her throat. “Heart-fuckin’-broken, huh?” she murmured, with one quick once over of Girty’s fur-clad form — the wobble in her step, the smirk on her lips, the way she stood there like she owned the whole damn scene — and Lili swore she could feel the eyes on them, lurking like wolves in the dark. Don’t play into it. You’ll regret it.

But the woman had already snared her interest, and Liliana was starting to think she didn’t mind the bite. “Truly, Girty, it’s the world’s loss you weren’t discovered by NBC and given a role on Cheers. We’ve all been deprived of a comedian.”

[wolfvsh]

There wasn’t anything that got her blood boiling quite like townsfolk who saw themselves as morally superior to others — when, in reality, everyone in Misty was their own special brand of fucked. That's why Abilene’s face made her fists tighten, weapons ready to strike. Her glossed-over eyes darkened in a matter of seconds, staring down at her with pure, molten hatred. Girty still remembered how the Pryor family had tried to help her, preaching that she’d find a savior in God’s light — like slapping a bandaid on a damn bullet hole. Well, if her smudged eyeshadow and lipstick were not a clear enough indicator, she didn’t need any saving.  “Aw, man, I ain’t funny enough for you, baby? Well, why don’t you just fuckin’ stick a knife into my chest and twist it.” Her head drooped to the side, gap in her teeth coming out to play as she forced a crooked smile onto her cold-bitten features — that, along with her dead gaze, made for a very chilling combination. “I dunno how I’ll live now that I know Abilene Pryor doesn’t find me amusin’ — how the hell will I ever cope?” She took one, then two, then three wobbly steps forward, until the tips of her boots kissed the edge of the saint’s pristine shoes (which earned a snort). They were so close now that the air they were breathing felt one and the same. “Save the whole holier-than-thou act for the stage… I’ve caught wind of the reviews and, lemme tell you, they ain’t too kind or pretty.” The Stafford took a long swig from her flask, but instead of swallowing, let her cheeks balloon with the liquid. She glanced down, spraying it near the other’s feet. If dirt and grime were what she thought of her, dirt and grime she'd get. “Piss-fuckin’-poor, actually.”

It was inevitable that the Flurry Festival would continue. The people of Misty Mountain always needed something to make them forget the horrors of their own town and tourism was tourism - that didn't stop because people were turning into human icicles.

Abilene had learned long ago not to fear death. Of course, it came with the whole rejoicing and being with the Lord for eternal happiness, but now - the idea of being free from pain and the whispers of the middle aged gossipers that got off on the others pity? That was an eternal vacation Abilene would sign up for.

Abilene couldn't help the eye roll that instinctively made its way back to her head. "Do you not have any sense of decorum?" Although, they both already knew the answer to that. Abilene had tried to step in a few times, when she was younger - offer a Bible verse of repentance and new beginnings - but just like anyone dealing with Girty Stafford, she gave up.

"A man is dying and you're making jokes? Jokes that quite honestly, wouldn't even make the cutting room floor."

[wolfvsh]

Life was a weird, tricky thing — one day someone could know you like the back of their hand, as if you were an essential part of their very being (oxygen to their lungs), and the next, you were a severed limb, tossed to the side. She couldn’t fault Auggie for the distance that stretched between them now; after all, she’d been both victim and executioner in this wicked game, chasing people out of her life as though it were a sport. One she’d always been particularly good at — sadistic in the way she sent everyone scattering, only to sink her nails and teeth into their flesh, desperately begging for their return.  Her usually quick tongue tangled itself into knots, words slipping away as her cosmic pupils played a frantic game of ping-pong across his face. Being so up close to him made her guts twist because, yes, she missed him terribly. I know that mole, I know the creases next to your eyes, I know that look of sadness because I put it there by pushing you away... when all I want is to crack your chest open and crawl inside you.  Yet Eve’s ghost clung to her shoulders, a spectral weight whispering she’d be selfish to indulge in those desires. Corrupt girl, you spoil everything — even with your gaze alone. She shuddered, masking the movement as a reaction to the winter chill, violently shaking her head as if the motion alone could exorcise those thoughts out of her skull. When that failed, she added another sip of burning alcohol to the mix. A powerful snort escaped, fur hurrying to swipe the liquid staining her chin and mouth. Play it cool, get a few words out, and walk away with your tail tucked between your legs. “That’s so shitty, man, ‘cause my fridge’s fuuuuckin’ eeeempty.” She drawled, dragging out the words with exaggerated despair. “Y’think this zombie could live off a couple of beers?” Girty groaned pitifully, monster arms drooping, just like the undead. She really didn’t want to (or told herself that to feel better about herself)… but her heavy eyes flicked towards his face with hesitant curiosity — was he still looking?  God, she hoped he was.

August had learned a long time ago that in Misty Mountain, some things were just unavoidable. Every year he would declare at least once that he wouldn't be caught dead at Flurry Fest, and yet every year there he was, wandering the streets wondering how and why he'd ended up there. It wasn't so bad when the reason was because someone else had dragged him along, but he was flying solo this year, which was also starting to seem pretty unavoidable. He had his reasons for going, though. Those reasons mainly being to watch, and to listen, because the town had been restless lately, and he didn't just mean its inhabitants. But instead of current events, when the whispers picked up and August's ears perked along with them, they were about something else entirely, and he heard her name half a second before he turned and saw her: the most unavoidable thing of all. Then again, between the two of them, he hadn't been the one doing the avoiding. A grin crept onto his face despite himself, but there was something hesitant about it, almost shy. He didn't pay any mind to the townsfolk or the eyes that inevitably ended up landing on the two of them. He was used to that, and even more used to the way it doubled when he was with Girty. "If it's brains you're after, I'm afraid you might be goin' hungry tonight, G," he told her, the comment made with almost as little tact as her performance had been. As interested as he was in the recent occurrences, he clearly wasn't all too bothered by them. "Finding a good brain is probably like a needle in a fuckin' haystack in this crowd." If it were before, he'd offer her his without hesitation. Hell, he still would. He just wasn't sure she would take it.

[wolfvsh]

So pretty, so prim, so painfully proper. There was a certain untouchable quality that made the rich girl sparkle — a brand-new toy perched on a shelf with an offensively high price tag, gathering dust in its loneliness. Girty knew how much weight the Serrano family name carried in Misty Mountain — crazy how far a stack of green paper could get you in this backwards world. It made people docile — bow their heads and cower in the face of their scowls. It was pretty fuckin’ amusing, if you asked the Stafford twin. Life had toughened her skin, turned it to leather, and she’d be damned if she let anyone speak to her in that condescending tone ever again — the pills and alcohol didn’t hurt either, amplifying stupid bravado into something even stupider (how that was even possible remained one big mystery).  She’d seen the crack in the porcelain — caught that faint twitch of Liliana’s perfectly glossy lip. Perhaps there was some weirdness hidden beneath all the glitter, after all. Girty turned to her with a feline grin — ready to play with her food. This could be fun. “Well, I just did…. So clearly I fuckin’ can.” She clicked her tongue and stepped toward her with blind confidence (and a slight wobble to her step), hands sitting comfortably on her hips. “That somethin’ you actually feel, or is your daddy speakin’ through ya?” Sure, she liked the girl (could what she felt even be called “liking”?), but that didn’t dull the sharp edge of her tongue. “‘Sides, laughter’s the perfect medicine for any soul in pain…” Another taste from the cold flask. “And boy oh boy am I simply heart-fuckin’-broken over that Baylor kid.” The corners of her mouth were pulled downward in a dramatic parody of sadness. “Can’t ya fuckin’ tell?”

The young Serrano wasn’t someone who startled easily, but Girty Stafford had a way of existing that defied prediction. The moment Liliana caught sight of her — flask in hand, wearing something so aggressively out of place it could’ve been a joke — her manicured fingers froze at her hip. Sure, Misty Mountain had its usual collection of whispers and pointed glances, but Girty? She didn’t tiptoe in the shadows like the rest of them. No, she tore through the delicate facade with the force of a hurricane.

Her polished expression wavered the second the other groaned out her zombie impression, arms outstretched like some theatrical monster. The sheer absurdity of it, right here, in the middle of this shiny spectacle, was enough to send laughter bubbling in her chest. But laughter — at this — was dangerous. If anyone caught wind that Lili found humour in mocking the very real and very recent tragedy of Baylor, the boy they found frozen and clinging to life, it would no doubt hit her father’s ears in under an hour. So instead, Liliana stiffened, dragging her sharp gaze away from Girty and toward some arbitrary point in the distance as though nothing interesting was happening. She bit the inside of her cheek, forcing the faintest frown to anchor her face in place. A casual sip from the cup in her hand — a cola, lukewarm now — did little to mask the mirth bubbling under the surface.

She turned back to other, slowly this time, her brow twitching upward as though silently asking: Are you serious right now? But the longer she looked, the harder it became to hold the act. The fur coat, the flask, the flippant disregard for everything and everyone — it was so… her. And God help Liliana, she found it interesting. “Jesus Christ,” she hissed, voice low but laced with amusement she couldn’t quite smother. “You can’t just —” she gestured vaguely, as though the absurdity of the scene spoke for itself, “— do that.”

[mcthmancometh]

August never felt the rift that’d formed between him and Girty quite so starkly as he did when she was standing right next to him. The absence of her always loomed in the background, haunting him just as much as an actual ghost, but when he was on his own, it was easier to look past it, to distract himself, to convince himself he could exist in a world without her in it.

But when she was there, really there, close enough to touch but more out of reach than ever, it just made the raw, hollow wound in his heart, the one that was shaped exactly like her, start gnawing away at him all over again. He didn’t know how he’d been walking around like this all this time, how he was supposed to keep doing it.

He watched as she took a swallow from the flask, watched as her attention seemed to wander, and his brain immediately started scrambling, trying to come up with some magic words, anything at all that might get her to stay, just for a minute. But then her eyes darted towards him again, and it was like exhaling after holding his breath, like when the storm clouds finally break, at least for a second. He’d take it. He’d take anything she was willing to offer.

“Guess it depends on the lore,” he replied, tilting his head a little. “Some of them don’t actually eat ‘cause they’re hungry. It’s just the virus trying to spread. So it triggers the hunger response to get ‘em to bite people. I guess if it were those kinds it might, especially if they’re not actually undead, just infected. But sometimes flesh and brains are the only things that’ll stop them from decaying. The only things that’ll stop them from feeling the pain of being dead as they rot away.” He paused for a second, then added, his voice softening a little, “It’s kinda beautiful in a sick sort of way, ain’t it? Needing someone so bad that the only thing you can do to feel alive is sink your teeth into ‘em.”

Life was a weird, tricky thing—one day someone could know you like the back of their hand, as if you were an essential part of their very being (oxygen to their lungs), and the next, you were a severed limb, tossed to the side. She couldn’t fault Auggie for the distance that stretched between them now; after all, she’d been both victim and executioner in this wicked game, chasing people out of her life as though it were a sport. One she’d always been particularly good at—sadistic in the way she sent everyone scattering, only to sink her nails and teeth into their flesh, desperately begging for their return.  Her usually quick tongue tangled itself into knots, words slipping away as her cosmic pupils played a frantic game of ping-pong across his face. Being so up close to him made her guts twist because, yes, she missed him terribly. I know that mole, I know the creases next to your eyes, I know that look of sadness because I put it there by pushing you away... when all I want is to crack your chest open and crawl inside you.  Yet Eve’s ghost clung to her shoulders, a spectral weight whispering she’d be selfish to indulge in those desires. Corrupt girl, you spoil everything—even with your gaze alone. She shuddered, masking the movement as a reaction to the winter chill, violently shaking her head as if the motion alone could exorcise those thoughts out of her skull. When that failed, she added another sip of burning alcohol to the mix. A powerful snort escaped, fur hurrying to swipe the liquid staining her chin and mouth. Play it cool, get a few words out, and walk away with your tail tucked between your legs. “That’s so shitty, man, ‘cuz my fridge’s fuuuuckin’ eeeempty.” She drawled, dragging out the words with exaggerated despair. “Y’think this zombie could live off a couple of beers?” Girty groaned pitifully, monster arms drooping, just like the undead. She really didn’t want to (or told herself that to feel better about herself)… but her heavy eyes flicked towards his face with hesitant curiosity—was he still looking?  God, she hoped he was.

[wolfvsh]

She observed him, safely tucked away in the shadows, like a cat slinking closer and closer to its unsuspecting prey. Perfectly fitted clothes, phony smile… It was amazing how easily people fell for that bullshit. She wondered if they’d start believing her, too, if she wore a cheap golden cross around her neck and spat empty words of comfort.  It was easy — or at least easier than facing the barbarity of life all on your own. Trusting a smooth-voiced stranger, spilling your every problem, letting yourself fall with the blind hope he’d catch you, pull you in, fix you. Girty had been one of them, one of the foolish followers, and Christ, how she resented him (and herself) for it. How could she ever think he’d want to befriend her, take care of her? She was more mess than woman.  “Oh, so now you want the town liar to help you? That it?” Her words came sharp, an accusation wrapped in venom and resentment. She stepped closer, body tense like a predator ready to pounce, claws already out. She wanted to gouge those kind eyes out — kind to everyone but her. You should really lay off the pills, Girty. Asshole. “That’s real fuckin’ funny, man.” She scoffed, her lips curling into something feral, and, without second thought (what even was that?), shoved him with both hands flat against his chest. “Go on, tell another one.” I dare you.

WHERE: the flurry festival, december 17 WHO: open!

Knox was decidedly not in the Flurry Festival spirit. In fact, as he looked around at the people openly laughing, in various stages of celebration, it frustrated him.

People died. People they knew.

Callousness hardened him against them, found him meandering in circles further and further away from the Nativity scene he'd been volunteered to set up before the first performance later tonight. Last year, he would have been the first one there, obediently staging, filling the manger with hay, and tying down the giant cross that loomed over them all like a bad omen.

But of course he'd been spotted, roped in by Mrs. Danbury's lipstick-smeared toothy smile, and led back to the very place he couldn't seem to get away from.

So now he stood, hands on his hips, looking down at the cross laid out before him. For a moment, he imagined what it might feel like to destroy it, to watch it crack under his knuckles. It was such a violent, unexpected thought that he had to physically take a step back. And then another.

And then he was backing up right into another body. Immediately, he turned, cheeks ruddy with embarrassment, to apologize. "Pardon," he said, dipping his head. When he looked up again, he'd slipped back into his well-worn mask, a boyish, if not sheepish, grin curling at the corners of his mouth. "Hey, actually, y'think you could help me with somethin' real quick?"