#the cw never stood a chance against the gay love

[thefableddestiel]

Gay love can pierce through the veil of death and save the day

[livingforcoopsandoknutzy]

pulling your partner into your lap

for cubs (or any pairing within the cubs) maybe like early days of being together! someone does it and the other is just like okay damn this is new i love it

i'm using this to write harvard finnlo (i'm going to stop spamming hazel now but last time today credit to @lumosinlove for the characters <3)

CW: drinking, drunk logan, homophobia (use of the f slur), cursing

HARVARD: Finn & Logan

Finn laughed as he set his beer on the table next to him. College parties weren't his favorite pastime but Logan had been in his head for almost a week so Finn figured he could tough it out if it helped get Logan out of his head.

Finn was in the middle of a conversation with his friend, Abeni, when Logan came stumbling in. Logan's eyes were hazy but when they landed on Finn he shrieked happily. "Finny! I was looking for you." He slurred as he made (tripped) his way over. Abeni went quiet as she watched the scene unfold with a quiet smile.

Finn laughed fondly as Logan collapsed half in Finn's lap on the couch. Finn pulled Logan the rest of the way into his lap and basked in the way Logan went limp against him.

Logan was almost never physically affectionate. He had been at the beginning of their friendship but slowly he stopped touching people at all. It was something Finn had never understood but if Logan was willingly affectionate he wouldn't pass up the opportunity to enjoy it.

Finn rubbed Logan's side gently while Logan relaxed further into him as he talked. "Abeni, you look really pretty tonight." Logan said sappily. Abeni raised a dark eyebrow before turning her equally dark eyes to look at Finn.

"Finn, control your boy." Abeni said it jokingly but Finn felt Logan tense in his arms and silently cursed. "We can't have him flirting with everyone tonight." Logan was sobering up quickly and Finn wrapped an arm around his waist to try to get him to relax again.

Their friend Max, who was listening to the conversation laughed. "Nah, let him. With the way he's clinging to Finn the girls will think he's gay. You don't want anyone to think you're a fag now do you, Lo-Lo?"

Finn glared at Max. Logan practically lept off his lap, Finn's arms falling to his side. "Fuck off, Max. I'm not gay." He said before turning around and leaving the room.

If looks could kill, Max would be dead five times over with the combination of looks Abeni and Finn were sending him.

"There's nothing wrong with being gay Max, you're just an asshole." She stood up and turned to Finn before gesturing to the kitchen. Finn nodded and sent one more glare towards Max before he followed Abeni to the kitchen.

JUST GOT TOGETHER: Finn & Leo

Finn was reading Romeo and Juliet in his room when he heard the front door open and close. Leo had been shopping, having picked the short straw for the month, for hours and Finn had missed him.

It hadn't been long but they had barely separated since they decided to give the three of them a try. Logan had left that morning for Dumo's to do some family bonding activity Dumo had threatened to kill Logan if he missed.

When Finn got to a stopping point he saved his page and walked downstairs. Leo was sitting on the couch on his phone but looked up when he heard Finn approaching. He smiled blindingly and for a second Finn forgot how to breathe.

God, how is this my life?

"Hey, come look at this TikTok account I found. They take clips of the team during games and try to lip-read what we're saying. It's really funny though because everything they say is totally ridiculous." Finn smiled and walked over to him so he could see what Leo was talking about.

Before Finn got the chance to lean down, Leo pulled him into his lap. Finn's legs resting across Leo's and his side pressed against Leo's chest. Leo rested his arm on Finn's legs and started the video.

Finn was 100% not paying attention, too busy focusing on the feeling of being so casually close to Leo. Finn wondered for a minute if Leo could feel his heart jackrabbiting in his chest.

Leo laughed and Finn felt his chest rumble with it. Finn relaxed against him and smiled adoringly. He had to admit, the videos were pretty funny.

When Logan got back about two hours later he was met with honestly probably the most precious sight he'd seen. Leo's arms were wrapped loosely around Finn's torso and his head was rested on Finn's head where it laid on his chest. Finn's legs were thrown over Leo's and they were both sleeping peacefully.

Warmth filled his chest as he took in the scene. Eventually he woke them up and moved them to the bed for an afternoon nap.

No one needed to know that his new home screen was a picture of what was soon to become his new favorite sight.

SEASONED COUPLE: Logan & Leo

Leo was sitting on their couch watching reruns of Gilmore Girls when Logan walked in after a grueling day of babysitting the Dumais' children.

Logan walked over to the couch and collapsed next to Leo. "I'm so tired." He complained when Leo did nothing but pat his back in acknowledgment.

Leo looked at him with a smirk. "You're the one who decided to spend their off day babysitting. I feel like that one's on you." Logan pouted, sticking his tongue out.

"I didn't say it wasn't I just said I was tired." Logan mumbled, the pout never leaving his lips. Leo smiled softly and leaned down to kiss him. "I'm sorry, babe. At least now you get to rest." Logan shrugged, he had never been good at taking naps.

Leo grabbed him gently by the thighs and pulled his into his lap. Logan's legs were straddling him as they sat chest to chest.

"Comfortable?" Leo asked. Logan nodded with a content sigh as he buried his face into the warmth of Leo's neck. Leaving soft kisses everywhere he could reach.

Leo's long arms wrapped around him and Logan felt an overwhelming sense of protection. A safe feeling he only really felt with Finn and Leo.

He was really lucky to have them and he told Leo so. Leo kissed his temple, leaning down to whisper in his ear. "I'm lucky to have you, too."

It only took about ten minutes of rubbing Logan's back before Leo felt Logan relax completely against him, fast asleep. Leo pressed a kiss to the mess of curls that sat on his boyfriend's head.

"Love you." He whispered before turning his attention back to Lorelai, Rory, and Luke.

[xdandelionxbloomx]

Modern Day AU idea

(CW: cancer - not major character death)

Jaskier and Geralt had been friends for nearly a decade and a half - 

They met in college when they were randomly assigned roommates and they fucking HATED each other at first, couldn’t stand each other’s guts - Geralt thought Julian was a trust fund baby who got an easy ride and he talked so goddamn much without ever SAYING anything and wasn’t that exhausting??? Jaskier hated Geralt because the man was so fucking quiet and prickly and he never listened to music - who the hell never listens to music? And really it was a nightmare for the first half of the year and then one day Geralt came home early from his weekend trip he took out to Kaer Morhen Ranch about two hours out from their school and Julian was in TEARS on the bed, staring down at a financial aid bill and Geralt’s whole world turned on its axis. 

Something changed between them that night and although they still were at each other’s throats, it was softer and slowly actual anger turned into bickering and then into blows that didn’t land at all, uncertain smiles and shared chores. 

(And maybe Julian finally told Geralt that it was Jaskier and Geralt corrected himself immediately)

Geralt could COOK and Jaskier finally found out what music he liked and everyone on their goddamn floor had bets for when they’d get together as Jaskier sang and played his stupid guitar while the hottest dude in the boy’s dorm cooked for him in the tiny, awful kitchen

Their latter years of college were spent sharing an apartment when Jaskier secured a better job and Geralt started training horses at Kaer Morhen and it brought in a solid amount of funds - “Welcome home, Cowboy-” started out as a joke, but the endearment STUCK

And so, yeah, Jaskier was fucking hopelessly in love with Geralt and he just,,, existed in some kind of goddamn limbo. It felt like they danced a line so close and then Geralt would fall into a relationship - Renfi, Yennefer, he WON’T think about that three month tryst with some dude named Regis like who names their kid Regis-- 

Jaskier wrote and wrote and wrote and yeah, he’d gone to school for creative writing but on an open mic night someone from a label spotted him and suddenly he was swept up into this wild life in the media and he was singing and touring and suddenly little busking jobs turned into stadiums with lights so bright he couldn’t see the crowd and he just missed Geralt so much---

And they see each other every few months but it’s not how it used to be and Jaskier feels so lost-- 

And then-- 

And then one day he woke up with a sore throat and then-- 

Then he found his neck oddly swollen and he caved and went to the doctor and--

And the doctor tells him-- 

He tells him it’s cancer-- 

Early stages, they have a good chance of beating it, he just has to follow the treatment plan-- 

And it was in his throat because of course the world would want to keep that out of his reach too--

Jaskier arrived one dry summer afternoon at the Kaer Morhen ranch in a big black SUV that peeled away as soon as it dropped him-- 

And Geralt was there, of course he was there, and it was Roach - this little chestnut mare he’d been working to rehabilitate - she was aggressive to most other people and didn’t play well with the other creatures on the ranch and Geralt was terrible at texting but he sent Roach pictures every three days-- 

And Jaskier kind of wants to cry because they said there was a good chance, but what if-- what if there’s not because it’s cancer and what if it spreads to the rest of him-- 

And he’s terrified-- 

He’s wasted so much time-- 

So much time-- 

Geralt saw him and lit up, and he fucking-- he vaulted over the fence like he wasn’t almost thirty five, light and spry and strong as ever, and Jaskier’s weak in the knees-- 

“Hey, Cowboy.” He said and his voice cracked, sounded rough, and he reaches up to scrub at his face, laughing without humor, unsure of how to hold himself together-- 

Geralt’s on him in moments-- 

And Jaskier babbled about needing a break and medical visits--

And CANCER--

Jaskier didn’t tell him that he loved him that night-- 

He didn’t tell him for a long time-- 

It felt like a long time, anyways-- 

Geralt couldn’t wrap his head around the whole thing because Jaskier has never smoked so how-- 

And it could have been secondhand Jaskier tried to explain, tried to illustrate smokers in their lavish mansions with food that looked beautiful and tasted like shit, and GOD he’d missed Geralt’s cooking-- 

Treatment was hard and he’d been traveling for the first half, but he eventually got to the point he couldn’t handle it anymore and he was going to say goodbye to Geralt and maybe-- 

But Geralt told him to stay, to be there, and Jaskier was always weak to refuse a request from Geralt so he stayed-- 

And Jaskier tried to tell him, he tried to, because there were days where he felt like time and the world was slipping out of his hands, where he felt like a ghost in his own body, wandering the halls of something unrecognizable-- 

And-- 

And--- 

He couldn’t even sing very well anymore at all-- 

And-- 

Jaskier shuffled out on the porch one night when he couldn’t find Geralt - the man’s hunched over a disgusting black coffee which meant he was worried and he was staring at the horse paddock like he could see something through the night-- 

“Cowboy.” Jaskier’s voice was a crackle, a raw noise, and Geralt startled, looking up at him, and then he looked wounded and Jaskier HATED that-- 

“I can go if it’s too much.” Jaskier rasped, wincing at the toll.

“No,” Geralt retorted immediately - “Don’t ever go.”  

And Jaskier started crying right then and there on the porch in autumn with a tiny breeze enough to make him shiver--

“I should have told you,” His voice creaked, “I should have told you.”

And Geralt stood and held him and didn’t ask and Jaskier couldn’t bring himself to say it-- 

And then-- 

And then-- 

They tell him it’s over-- 

That he’s cancer free-- 

And the not enough time fear has become something new he can’t fathom (years stretch ahead of him, seasons rolling) and he doesn’t return to the world Out There he stays on the ranch while he works through recovery--

And he day that he hollers across to the paddock without feeling like he’d swallowed glass, he realizes-- 

And he doesn’t say it, not really-- 

Geralt comes in that night dirty and exhausted and Jaskier-- 

He crowds him up against the wall of the little ranch house, rattling some of the pictures on the wall as his best friend in the whole world’s back hits it-- 

The love of his goddamn life-- 

“They’re all about you.” He says--

“Every single goddamn one is about you and I almost didn’t have enough time-- I didn’t--” And he kisses Geralt because he cannot do anything else-- 

And Geralt kisses him back desperately, winds those stupid strong arms around his neck and pulls him in until they’re pressed against each other from chest to hip--

“Don’t ever go.” Geralt’s voice is a rough rumble from working out with the horses all day and from emotion and Jaskier wraps his arms around his waist, squeezing him tightly, pressing his face to his neck-- 

“Never.” He says--

And when he comes back-- 

When he comes back to social media it’s about how he beat cancer and got his voice back-- 

And his new single-- 

His new single is a tender ballad (his voice is slightly off, but it always will be after the ordeal his body went through to keep it) about a cowboy who went grey early, who liked his coffee with milk and sugar on good mornings, who had warm hands, and-- 

Everyone loses their shit-- 

Because it’s gay country music and so many feel fucking seen-- 

And Jaskier’s upbeat pop songs become a mix with slower country and he doesn’t have the twang but he sings of love and ranches and horses and sunsets with a beat up pickup truck-- 

And Jaskier is HAPPY--

He’s even happier a few years later when he posts a picture of a simple gold band on his finger (without a caption since he doubted it needed one).

[cotncandyboifics]

A Lovely Night: Chapter 3

AO3 Link

Masterpost

Chapter 1 ~ Chapter 2 ~ Chapter 4 ~ Chapter 5 ~ Chapter 6

Pairing(s): pre-established roceit & prinxiety, anaroceit, eventual anaroloceit, eventual intruality

Word count: ~2k

Story summary: Roman's boyfriends had had a rivalry since before either of them had actually met Roman. Running a bit late to a date night, Roman accidentally gets them to start dating too.

General CW: non-detailed description of an anxiety attack, non-detailed description of physical pain, food, kissing, potentially triggering descriptions of physical bodies, swearing, caps lock, school settings, s-xual innuendos, slight description of gore(imagery), vague descriptions of anxiety, Implications of an eating disorder, fatigue, dissociation, suppression of stimming, implied heavy restriction (ED), inner monologue-style anxiety description, eating,(will be added to as I write more)

Chapter CW: food mention, kissing, vague descriptions of potentially triggering physical characteristics (Logan is very skinny and Roman notices), (let me know if i missed anything please!)

Author notes: <<none>>

...

A few years had passed. Things weren't perfect, or easy, but they had each other. The three of them had found a one bedroom apartment together, and rent was easy to make with three contributors. They all went to college, Virgil and Roman to an arts school and Janus to a pregrad Law program.

Roman had rehearsals late that evening, and so Janus and Virgil had spent their free afternoon together, preparing dinner for Roman.

A stew (Virgil's family recipe) simmered on the stove, and Janus held Virgil close in his lap on the couch, carding his fingers through his hair. Virgil nuzzled into his boyfriend's collarbone, sighing with a small smile.

"Darling," Janus near-whispered, his voice rumbling in his chest as he pressed his face into Virgil's hair. Virgil hummed.

"Do you know the moment I started loving you?"

Virgil's head shot up, and he looked at Janus with pleading eyes. He opened his mouth to speak, but couldn't force any words out. Janus smiled at him meekly, running fingers down Virgil's cheek.

"Do you recall," Janus continued, cupping the corner of Virgil's jaw in his hand, "In eighth grade, when I... when I found you between classes..." Virgil nodded, breathing shallowly. Janus pursed his lips. "It may be a bit... irrational for me to say, but... you allowing me to hold you in my arms when you were in such a vulnerable state..." A single tear ran down Virgil's cheek. Janus' brow furrowed, and he swiped the tear away with his thumb. "Oh, my darling, are you okay?"

Virgil made an odd noise, something between a scoff, a sob and a laugh, and suddenly surged forward, intertwining his fingers on the nape of Janus' neck as he connected their lips.

"That's when I knew, too." Virgil said as he pulled away, voice very very low. Janus raised his eyebrows in surprise, a smile teasing at the corners of his mouth. "I knew you'd... keep me safe. I knew I could... trust you with my heart." Virgil swallowed. "Even if it took me another few years to actually... do that."

"We were very young, and... we both made that mistake." Janus admitted readily, bringing his other hand to Virgil's face in symmetry.

"Do you..." Virgil gripped Janus' shirt in his fists, "do you think we would have ever... let it happen, if... if we hadn't met Roman?" Virgil looked back into Janus' eyes. Janus sighed, tracing the bridge of Virgil's nose with his eyes.

"I'm not sure." He conceded eventually.

Virgil adjusted himself, shifting one leg so that he straddled Janus' lap. "It doesn't matter. I don't want to think about not knowing Roman. Or..." or not being able to love you two. Virgil shook his head slowly.

"Then let's not," Janus wrapped his arms around Virgil's waist, and Virgil wrapped his arms around Janus' neck in kind. He made to kiss him with an open mouth, but kept their lips just millimeters apart. Virgil rolled his hips once, and Janus chuckled at him, letting his eyes flutter closed. "Ever a tease, aren't you darling?"

Virgil simply responded by locking his lips with Janus'.

Roman chose that exact moment to open the front door to their apartment with a loud, exasperated groan.

"I give up!" He threw his hands in the air, stomping over to the couch to sit beside Janus, crossing his legs and pouting. "How am I to live?"

Virgil smirked, turning to grab his prince's jaw and press a kiss to the corner of his mouth. "What happened, princey?" Janus wrapped one arm around Roman's shoulder, pulling him slightly closer, and Roman began relaying his tale.

An hour ago almost to that exact moment, Roman shook his auburn red hair out, allowing it to roll in its curls in any direction it would like. He stretched down, touching his toes and beginning to walk his hands out, settling into a solid plank before beginning a few pushups.

He stood again with a small jump, readjusting his stage garments. They were simply a pair of black tights and a white undershirt, but the top had rolled up his navel slightly when he'd been stretching.

Rehearsal had all but ended, and he bounced on the balls of his feet as he waited for his turn to get unmic'd. He was one of the leads this semester, and so got his mic off last... for some odd reason. Most every production he'd been involved in prior had done things in a reverse fashion to what was happening now, but he didn't mind so much. He loved the feeling of standing on stage with the theatre enclosure all revolving around him. It created a strange comforting and confidence-boosting sensation that he could never get enough of.

Soon enough, his name was called. He hopped quickly offstage, tromping over to the sound booth.

A man with a jarring appearance approached him with tact. Roman had to keep his jaw from dropping, and opted instead to stare until the man was behind him. He payed Roman no mind, never meeting his eyes.

Roman hadn't had time to look closely at the man, but caught a few key details. His hair was glossy and black, plainly slicked back with some sort of product that Roman could smell faintly (vanilla?), save for one or two strands straying across his forehead and resting on the upper rim of his square glasses. He was almost concerningly pale, and his cheeks sunk in slightly. His eyes were a deeply piercing blue. His jawline was subtle and yet extremely sharp; everything about him appeared angular and calculated. He wore a white dress shirt that was a bit ruffled, top two buttons undone to reveal his collarbones - Roman assumed that was intentional, but in full honesty he had no idea.

Suddenly the man's slender hands were up the back of Roman's shirt, and Roman quite nearly squealed before remembering that this was completely standard protocol for unmicing someone. He tried to focus on literally anything else besides the fact that this painfully attractive man had his hands working clinically beneath Roman's shirt, against the heat of his bare skin. His hands were very cold against Roman's back, and Roman very nearly outright shivered at the feeling.

Suddenly the hands were no longer up Roman's shirt, and the man walked around to Roman's front, beginning to carefully untangle the mic cord from Roman's hair.

The boy was almost a head taller than Roman, roughly the same height as his Janus, Roman guessed. There was a very faint dusting of tiny dark freckles splayed across his cheeks and nose, and there were little flecks of gray and white in his eyes, almost like a cloudy sky. His jaw was set, but his hands moved gently. Roman tried not to gasp when he finally looked down at him, eyebrows knit.

"You're all set, Roman," the man said, eyeing Roman strangely before receding back to the sound booth to begin sorting through and putting away the mic packs.

"Thank you," Roman breathed, and kicked himself internally for how small and weak his voice came out. He shook his hair out again, trying to clear his head of the onset of gay panic he'd just experienced.

It's now or never; you might not get another chance at an actual conversation with this guy until the production is over. Roman steeled himself and took a few hesitant steps towards the sound booth.

"I didn't catch your name," Roman leaned a little too casually on the door frame, almost stumbling. the boy smirked, apparently not needing to turn and look at Roman to know that he was making a fool of himself.

"I did not figuratively 'throw' it," he replied coolly, continuing to work with the stacks of mic packs that had accumulated on the desk before him.

"Well, I would greatly appreciate if you did. It seems unfair for you to know my name and I not know yours." Roman thought for a moment when he was met with silence. "And you don't need to say figuratively; I know you didn't literally throw your name."

The boy turned then, adjusting his glasses as he sized Roman up. "A little clarity has never hurt anybody."

They looked at each other for a long moment, Roman still leaning haphazardly on the doorframe. The taller boy sighed a laugh quietly through his nose.

"Logan." He said, shaking his head with a hint of a smile at the corner of his mouth. "My name is Logan."

Roman smiled, standing up properly and clapping his hands together. "Wonderful! Logan, my dear, my sweet," Roman began verbally serenading him, and Logan only scoffed at his antics, long used to the ridiculously over-the-top confidence that actors had, "would you do me the honor of allowing me to take you out for coffee some time?" He bowed dramatically low, holding one hand out to Logan.

Logan stared for a moment, and Roman looked up when Logan didn't react to his proposal. Logan only laughed through his nose again, shaking his head slightly.

"I'm afraid I must decline."

Roman snapped up into a standing position, scoffing loudly. "Truly?" he stared at Logan, who just looked at him once more, nodding slightly. Roman scoffed again, even louder. "I- I don't know what to say! Not once have my highly sought out charms been resisted so strongly!" He gripped his shirt over his heart in a dramatic gesture, getting on one knee and reaching out to Logan, who was putting away the last few mic packs. "And that may not seem like much to say, since I have only ever used them on two others... however I-" Logan cut him off with a very very intense stare. And Roman all but swooned.

"I appreciate the... offer, Roman," Logan slung his backpack over his shoulder, which jutted out against the thin fabric of his shirt in a quite boney fashion, "but I have no interest in..." Logan looked Roman up and down slowly, but disgust was nowhere to be seen on his face. Something more similar to heartbreak, however, was palpable as Roman watched Logan's eyes.

Logan never found the words, opting to sigh and begin pacing out of the theatre.

"Wait," Roman whispered mostly to himself, reaching out vaguely in the direction Logan had left in.

...

"And that's why I have officially given up on love," Roman, his storytelling concluded, buried his face in Virgil's shirt, mimicking a sob as his boyfriends laughed at him endearingly.

"Roman, my dear," Janus took Roman's hand in his own, kissing his knuckles gently, "I expect that you'll see this Logan again soon. I'm positively baffled that he managed to evade your charms this time," Janus gripped Roman's jaw with an uncharacteristic tenderness, "but i sincerely doubt he'll last long." Janus pressed a kiss onto Roman's lips, and then removed Virgil from his lap, standing and righting himself. "For now, however," He reached a hand out to his boyfriends to help them stand, "We have a stew to attend to."

[witcherslittledove]

Beard

I wrote this at 3am last night. It took me 9 hours to write because I was that distracted by the beard. Lovingly beta'd by @jaskiertheflowertwink

Ship: Joey Batey/Henry Cavill

Summary: Joey has a beard... like that's the plot.

Rated: T (this time)

CW: RPF

On AO3

I probably won't have tag lists but @a-gay-loverrr asked so how could I say no.

It had been months since Henry had last seen Joey. They’d finished wrapping season two of the Witcher earlier in the year and they’d both been busy with other projects. That wasn’t usually a problem for Henry, he was used to seeing his co-stars on and off between projects but for some reason he was missing Joey more than any of the others. Sure they’d been close on set, but Henry often felt an almost familial bond with his castmates. Joey was different. There was this unspoken tension between them that had been there since the read through of the first season, but neither of them had acted on it. Dating co-stars was never a good idea, especially when you didn’t know how long you would be working with them.

And Henry really didn’t want to fuck things up with Joey.

They were best friends on and off the set, and he missed him.

So watching backstage at the recording of Witchercon was, well, it was a surprise. Henry was glad he wasn’t on the stage for the recording because the noise he made was inhuman. He didn’t even know he could make that noise.

The beard.

Fucking hell.

Henry hadn’t seen much of Joey’s work outside of the witcher, he simply didn’t have time, so he’d only really seen Joey’s clean shaven Jaskier.

But the beard.

“Fuck,” he groaned and ran a hand through his hair, not caring about what the hair and make up.

Joey was working but already Henry was itching to pull out his phone and call his bard. He just looked so fucking hot. The beard was so thick, and his arms…

Shit. How had he forgotten how muscular Joey was underneath the costumes?

And just like that all the feelings he’d been suppressing flew to the surface. Henry groaned, burying his face in his hands. You didn’t date co-workers. He couldn’t date Joey, but fuck he wanted him. He wanted to know how soft the beard felt under his fingers, the brush of the bristles against his cheeks, and stolen kisses on set, in the trailers, behind the cameras.

His phone was in his hands before he could stop himself and he didn’t even register finding Joey’s number but it was ringing. With every second that Joey didn’t answer, Henry felt his anxiety spike. It had been a stupid idea, he knew Joey was working, but he had to try, on the off chance that his bard was answer.

What would he even say?

Henry would be the first to admit he was pretty useless without a script. Even his interviews were semi-scripted, he had a good idea of what the questions would be and he prepared his answers. There was no script for this, no lines to cut, no Joey to pick up in his silences.

He cursed and was about to hang up when the line clicked.

“Henry?”

“Joey?”

“Is- Is everything alright? Isn’t the stream happening now? Oh cock, did I fuck up?” Joey started to spiral and Henry knew he had to cut Joey off but he had no coherent thoughts.

“Beard.”

“What?”

“Fuck,” Henry swore, clenching his fist and he almost knocked his chair flying as he stood up in a rush.

Why the fuck had he said that? ‘Beard’. What did that even mean? He should have brought Kal with him. His beloved dog always helped to calm his nerves and it would have been something to talk about. Joey loved Kal almost as much as Henry did and it certainly would have been a better start to a conversation than ‘Beard’.

“I- ah, I like your beard,” he said, still stumbling over the words. “It suits you. A lot.”

“Oh god, it’s fucking annoying. I can’t stop scratching it, and it’s bloody hot… wait what? Did you just say you like it?”

Henry felt his cheeks heat up and he resisted the urge to hang up again. There would be no salvaging this if he hung up now, but honestly he was praying that the ground would swallow him whole, like the Selkiemore from season one. “Yeah. It’s a good look on you, Joey.”

“Huh. Are- are you flirting with me Henry? I mean, it’s fine if you’re not but- but I really want to make sure I’m not reading this wrong because it sounds a teensy bit like you are, and, ah- umm… well…”

“I’m flirting with you. Trying to at least. Is it working?”

“Yes. Cock. I said that too fast. I should have tried to act all cool,” Joey whined.

Henry chuckled, the weight on his shoulders lifting as the tightness in his chest eased. “I think I prefer you just as you are.”

“With a beard?” Joey laughed, the sound brightening Henry’s day more than anything else.

“Fuck yes,” Henry groaned. “When I’m done with this I’m coming to see you,” he paused, “if you want?”

“Darling, I would like nothing more.”

[deceitfullyanxioussss]

Must Have Been the Wind

Hey guys! I kinda already posted this on my ao3 a few months ago and just realized I forgot to post it here as well so like, here you go I guess lmao

Summary: Remus goes back to his apartment and wants a nap after a bad day at work. Instead, he finds he is kept up by some very troubling sounds coming from the room above his.Remus decides he wants to help this stranger.

Song fic! Must Have Been the Wind - Alec Benjamin

CW: Cursing, and uh, Remus being Remus ig? Oh, and minor homophobic character (Lemme know if I need to add more)

Proof-read by @queroze, thank you again, even though this was a while ago lol

Remus let out a huff of breath, feeling his tense muscles relax as he practically melded into the couch. The plan was for him to catch a nice nap after his exhausting day at work.

   He was a barista at a coffee shop, which usually wasn’t too bad. He liked his job. Often, he even found it relaxing.

   However, there can be days that are just the exact opposite of relaxing.

   It seemed as though every customer he came across that day woke up on the wrong side of the bed. Oh, and don’t even get him started on the Karens. The Karens were nearly impossible to deal with.

   A frown slipped on his face, recounting the worst part of his day. There was a very verbal homophobe who came in today.

   Remus was very openly gay and always wore a pride pin on his apron next to his name. He had the unfortunate luck of having to take, and make his order. He probably had to stand there for a full 5 minutes, just listening to his lecture about how wrong gay sex is. Remus was able to shut him up by reminding him of the line behind him.

   It didn’t end there though.

   A lesbian couple walked in not long later, hand in hand. It didn’t take long for it to catch the attention of this man, who immediately jumped at the chance to pull another 500 slide PowerPoint out of his ass.

   The rest of his co-workers decided that he had to be ushered out of the shop. Nothing about getting him to leave was easy though, not in the slightest. He went out yelling and cursing the whole way.

    The two girls were very lovely though, they had a nice conversation about the upcoming pride event, and he was more than happy to give them both free refills on him.

    So he guessed the day wasn’t all bad, but it still seemed to drag him out as if he was dough under a roller, crunching off of his bones into powder and flattening all his veins against his skin.

     Yes, a nap seems like a good idea.

     Remus’s eyes fluttered closed, fatigue quickly overtaking his body.

   Just then, a sharp, yet muffled noise cut through the serenity of silence.

   Some barely-conscious part of his mind gained interest in this sound.

   What was that? It kind of sounded like glass.  It had murmured through its TV static atmosphere.

   The rest of his mind, nearly completely asleep, wordlessly communicated that it was probably nothing, and he should just focus on sleeping.

   That seemed to calm his brain enough to settle down.

There was a little sliver of his mind that wasn’t quite ready to let go of the sound yet, though. It kept listening, even if undetected by the rest of the brain. It seemed right to do so, as muffled sounds of yelling and sobbing registered through its cloudy state.

   It was then Remus blearily pried his eyelids open and sat up.

   The fuck?  Remus groaned internally, forcing his body into an acceptable sitting position. Confusion stuck onto his brain like wrinkled cling wrap as he tried to make any sense of the hazy world around him.

   A loud thud was heard from the floor above, followed by an emotionally drained cry.

   Remus grunted and rubbed his eyes in exhaustion.

   For maybe just a split second, his heart felt sympathy for the person, but he was just so tired. It’s not like it was his problem, right? He could just ignore it and go back to sleep.

   He flipped over on his side so his head faced the back of his sickly green couch and closed his eyes, trying his best to draw his attention away from the sounds upstairs.

   He must have laid there for a good while, trying and failing to push the sounds to the back of his head, his anxiety amping up little by little the longer the crying persisted.

   Eventually, Remus let out a loud, guttural sigh and stood up swiftly. He couldn’t just ignore them, he had to help.

   Making the decision, he walked towards his coat-rack and hastily tossed his jacket over his shoulders, bee-lining to the elevator.

   He silently curses the elevator for being so slow as he restlessly waited for the doors to push open, and when they do he wasted no time getting in and selecting floor 2.

   Remus usually enjoyed the tacky elevator music, but he found it only served to tick him off this time around. The music seemed to drag time out even slower and he was already so, so restless.

   Ding.

   With that, he stepped out and eagerly trodded down the hallways, stopping in front of the desired location. He raised a hand and knocked on the door with little hesitation, the anxious tapping of his foot echoed within the empty halls.

   Remus listened with rapt attention through the door, hearing as the person inside scrambled to make themself look even the slightest bit presentable.

   He waited impatiently, his gaze anxiously wandering around for some sort of distraction or stimulation. They landed on the grossly patterned navy blue carpet, look completed by the numerous stains that have accumulated over the years. Finding little interest there, he moved onto the walls. The dim, sparse lighting made the colour look like a shit brown. Impulsively, he reached to run his fingers along the many indents that found a home among the distasteful brown. The tactile stimulation instantly captured his focus, and he let the rough surface soothe him.

   Remus, too caught up in the stimulation, had forgotten his original purpose of being there. He startled back to reality upon hearing the soft click from the door. He immediately snapped his head back up, being met with a pair of mismatched eyes and a scarred face. This person was looking up at him with what he thought was supposed to be a confident expression. The effect was dampened by his pink-ish eyes, mussed hair, and the pastel yellow sweater he had hooked all the way up to his chin.

   Remus gave the other a small wave, just then realizing he had no game plan. Did he just… ask? Did he make small talk first? Should he invite him to his coffee shop for a drink and talk there?

   The other reciprocated the wave, smirking. “How may I help you, sir?” He asked politely

   Remus cleared his throat, deciding he should just be direct with this conversation. He was never really good at softening his approach anyway.

   “Hey, so, basically I heard something shatter and a lot of crying and yelling and I was kinda concerned about it, so I came to ask if you were ok.”

   The two men stared at each other for a few seconds before Remus spoke up again. “So, are you ok?”

   He heard the other snicker quietly, a gloved hand waving as if to dismiss the question. “Oh, my. That’s ridiculous. Your ears must be playing tricks on you, my dear.”

   Remus took notice of how he subtly buried his face deeper into the sweater.

   His attention was brought back up as the scarred man spoke again.

   “Thank you for caring, sir, it’s very kind of you, but I have some urgent work to get back to. I wish I could tell you about the noise, but I'm afraid I didn’t hear a thing.” He shook his head. “Perhaps it was merely a harsh gust of wind.” He suggested.

   Remus let out a quiet sigh, but nodded and accepted the answer.

   The two waved each other farewell as Remus trudged back to the elevator.

Remus had been laying down, back pressed hard against the cold concrete of the floor. The chill from beneath seeped in through his spine and into his chest, weighing him down heavily. He just couldn’t stop thinking about his upstairs neighbor.

   It had been hours since his last visit already, and the man upstairs was still pacing across his apartment, occasionally he would stop and silence would follow. The pacing always started back up though.

   Absent-mindedly, his hands fiddled with the necklace around his neck, running his fingers across the cool, smooth metal.

   He just couldn’t shake the feeling that something was wrong, and he wanted to help.

   Remus knew that he didn’t have all the facts, and he didn’t really want to intrude on the man’s life. There was a possibility that nothing was wrong, and he was  just imagining things. He didn’t want to pester his neighbor with his stupid, false worries.

   But what if something is wrong?   You saw his puffy eyes. You know you heard those sounds.  His mind kept telling him.  You can’t just leave him alone, can you?

   Remus nodded to himself and for the second time that day, stood and made his way back to the other’s door. More hesitantly this time, he knocked. His raps were slow and unsure as he swayed nervously from side-to-side.

   He heard the pacing stop, and he waited, his focus on nothing but his shoes this time around. Then he heard footsteps approach the door and he looked up just as the door swung open.

   He was met with the same mismatched eyes, messy hair, and sweater. He didn't forget to take note of the new eye bags and odor he’s sporting with him though.

   “Oh, it’s you again.” the nervousness of his neighbor's voice managed to carry through despite the fabric covering his mouth.

   Remus ran a hand through his hair and looked to the side. “Yeah.” he chuckled unsurely.

   “I just- I’m still worried,” he said, smile falling. “I know you said you were fine, but… I just felt the need to check again. It’s- those sounds- they’re not leaving me alone.” he tentatively looked up into the other’s eyes. “Are- Are you sure you’re ok?”

   Remus is pretty sure he saw the scarred side of his face twitch, probably in annoyance he’s sure. He knew it was a bad idea to come back up. He was always such a bother, even to his own family. What made him think a stranger would appreciate seeing his face twice in one day?

   “Yes.” the answer cut through Remus’s thoughts and redirected his attention. “I am absolutely positive that everything’s fine.” There was a hint of irritation that Remus desperately wished he didn’t hear.

   “Once again, thank you for caring, it’s very kind. Truly. But I really do have some urgent work to get back to. I wish I could help you with the noise, but I didn’t hear a thing. In fact, I’m almost certain it was just the wind. You need to stop worrying so much over such a trivial thing.”

   Remus’s body became hot with shame as he shrunk in on himself. He nodded at the man before he sluggishly made his way back.

The following morning, he didn’t even bother with breakfast. Immediately going over to slouch on his couch, he stared back up at the ceiling. It seemed to be a new favourite hobby of his apparently.

   He had a lot of time to think about the previous night, about his last interaction with the man upstairs.

    There was no way those sounds were from his imagination. He was in a groggy state when he heard the yelling, sure, but surely the pacing wasn't something his ears made up. Surely, the messy hair and puffy eyes weren't something his eyes made up.

   His mind carefully brought up the idea of confronting him again, but he quickly winced and scrapped the idea. The irritated voice of the other causing his gut to lurch in a nauseating way.

   He was most certainly not going to be looking him in the eyes for a good while now.

   He was starting to break through the surface though, right? Maybe he should just call it quits and admit that he can't help.

   He couldn't just go back up again, he didn't think he could take the ice-cold, biting irritation again.

   Remus sat, rolling the interactions over in his head. Whoever said anything about a letter?  A lightbulb sparked, setting an explosion through his body that jolted him up from his seat with a gasp.

   "A letter! That's so simple! I don't have to face him again, and he doesn't have to feel as much pressure! I'm a fucking genius!" He yelled, pumping his fists into the air with triumphant gusto.

He rushed over to his desk, brimming with excitement as he began to write.

   In Remus's very distinct, messily scrawled printing, he began:

   Sup Mr Scarface! (I haven't even thought to ask your name yet lmao)

   Listen up nerd! I  promise  I'm not playing tricks on you when I say this

   You’re  always  welcome to come in

   You could stay here for an hour or two if you ever need a friend. We can talk about the noise when you’re ready

   But… til then I’ll say it must have been the wind.

   Yours sincerely, annoying dude from yesterday ;)

   Remus let out a long, pleased sigh as he gave it a quick once-over. He saw many mistakes, but he gave them not even a second glance before he was already out of the door.

   He was going to deliver this letter and it was going to be wonderful!

Remus shucked his jacket off and onto his coat-rack upon returning from work the following day. It had been a pretty good day today. No awful homophobes, that's for sure.

   Turning his T.V. on for background noise, he moved over to his miniature kitchen. Distantly aware of a news reporter talking about some murder, he got started on his rice and gravy.

   Perhaps 10 minutes passed by when he heard a gentle rapping on the front door.

   Remus curiously strode over and opened his door, surprised to see the man from upstairs in front of him.

   "Oh, wow. Hey there, dude! Didn't expect to actually see ya this soon!" Remus exclaims.

   "I, uh, yeah…" the scarred man shifted in place for a few moments, burying his face into his sweater. "If the, uh, offer is still open, I’d love to have someone to talk to,” he mumbled through the thick fabric.

   Remus stood and processed the words for a few seconds before grinning widely.

   "Of course! Of course! Come on in, my man! Lunch will be done in a bit if you want some!”

   The other smiled and shyly slunk into his apartment

   "I’d love that.” He said. “Thank you.”

   "Not a problem at all! My name's Remus by the way!" He excitedly extended a hand for the other to shake.

   Said man looked at his hand for a moment or two before carefully clasping his own around it.

   Even more carefully, his shy voice spilled a simple name. "...Janus."

[faveficarchive]

Requiem for a Bitch

Part 5 of Vivian Darkbloom’s White Trash series

By Vivian Darkbloom

Pairing: Xena/Gabrielle

Rating: Mature

Synopsis: Gabrielle’s other sister comes into town and stirs up as much trouble as possible.

I’m gonna put a CW here for people who may need it: there’s absolutely homophobia in this story, and also just keep in mind that this story is honestly really true to the culture represented, and the times. 

"She would of been a good woman," the Misfit said, "if it had been somebody there to shoot her every minute of her life."

—Flannery O'Connor, "A Good Man is Hard to Find"

1. Stroll Around the Grounds Until You Feel at Home

It was a joke.

This was what she thought at first. The matron came in, and said that she would be released in a week. Sure, there would be meetings with the therapists, and the medical board, and all that, but it was pretty much a done deal. State cutbacks, the matron said. And you're an adult now. You don't need a waiver from your parents. You're free. Isn't it nice? You can get a job and an apartment and a boyfriend and you can wear whatever you want and do whatever you want and watch whatever you want on TV without Cindy Sue Deaver going nuts if it's not Full House and you can eat whatever you want and rest assured that there aren't behavior-modifying drugs in it—or are there? And the windows didn't have bars on them unless you ended up living in a real crappy, scary neighborhood. And nobody's telling you what to do. Right? Unless it's a boss or a government or a landlord.

Was the outside world really so different? she wondered. She would find out.

So they gave her money for the bus and food, and new clothes. She had to wear something "nice." Although how a beige skirt from Sears and an white blouse yellowed with age qualified as nice, she had no way of imagining. Maybe fashion had changed radically in the last 15 years, and Sears was now on par with Calvin Klein and Jordache.

The world was indeed a scary place.

She didn't say goodbye to anyone, and flipped the finger to the matron and wished death, famine, and endless curses among various inhabitants, including those who thought they had reformed her, had changed her somehow. They hadn't. Stupid fucking doctors. She dragged a small suitcase, filled mostly with packs of cigarettes and soap and towels and other stuff she swiped from the supply closet before leaving.

The bus stop was in front of some ghostly crafts store haunted with the remains of faddish hobbies. It was hot and in a fit of pique she ripped off the nylons she was wearing with the skirt, oblivious to the looks from the old lady in the crafts store, and tossed them in the trash. She rarely copped to emotions other than homicidal, spiteful glee, but she had to admit she just a bit curious to see home, and how everything had changed, and—most of all—how they would all react to her being back.

She shrugged in answer to this conversation in her head, and lit a cigarette. The bus lumbered to the curb, its doors opened, and she climbed in, glaring at the driver, daring the old man to say anything about "no smoking."

*****

The bus let her out about three blocks from Bob's Garage, near the outskirts of town. She walked lazily down familiar streets—too familiar, she thought with disappointment. All this time, and nothing's really changed. Well, what the hell did you expect? So if that's true, Purdy—the damn idiot—should still be working at the garage. And if he's still there...the thought trailed off, mercifully. She just couldn't think about it all right now.

Nonetheless, curiosity won out, and she found herself at the garage, on the pretext of getting a Coke from the machine outside. Then she walked into the dark cavern of the garage. A pair of blue-jeaned legs sprawled out from under some ancient car. Before she could announce her presence, a pair of arms grabbed her from behind.

The world whirled around her, and she found herself sitting atop a metal tool chest and face to face with a grinning, gum-chewing, blue-eyed, androgynous angel wearing a baseball cap backward. "Hiya, baby," the Angel said, declaring her gender in a low but decidedly feminine purr.

Before she could say anything, the Angel devoured her mouth with a greedy kiss, resplendent with lots of rolling tongue, breath, and moistness. Frantic at being kissed by this freak (yes, a freak, and no, I'm not enjoying this, I can't be), she placed her hands on the hard shoulders facing hers and shoved violently.

Contact was broken. The Angel was momentarily thrown off her Zen High Horse. "What's wrong, baby? Don't pay no attention to Purdy." The dark head bobbed in the direction of the legs under the car.

"Don't pay no attention to me," Purdy echoed from under the vehicle.

It was then that she realized that she was now chewing the Angel's gum. "Ack!" she cried, and spat, sending the little gum projectile through the air and onto the dark, greasy floor.

The dark Angel was grinning at her again. Furious, she smacked the creature—hard—across the face.

Purdy groaned, whether from arousal or empathy, it could not be discerned.

It was like bitch-slapping a rock. The baseball chapeau didn't even budge. And the woman laughed heartily. "You're pretty feisty today, Gabrielle," she growled pleasantly, maneuvering an oily hand under the Sears skirt.

Somehow she escaped these foul attentions—she managed to worm around the tall woman and bolted for the exit. She snatched her suitcase from outside, and ran down the street.

Gabrielle?

The name reverberated like an engine gunned over and over.

My sister is a dyke now? Well, now, that's definitely new.

It was an intriguing homecoming for Hope Hockenberry.

*****

Scant seconds after Hope's sudden departure from the garage, Purdy deemed it safe to emerge from his grimy underworld, where he had found himself getting steadily aroused. He had calmed himself with visions of Johnny Cash nude, and was now ready—and curious—to face the world. "What the hell was that about?" he remarked to Zina as he wheeled himself out from the car.

He stood up and saw the firefighter absently rubbing her tingling cheek. She shrugged, took off her cap, thus liberating the rest of her long hair. "I dunno. She gets awful fruity during this time of the month, if you know what I mean." Zina carefully avoided any blatant mention of tampons, menstruation, blood, female cycle, uterus—knowing that Purdy was indeed like all men and crumpled at the mere mention of the female reproductive cycle and its attendant paraphernalia.

"Before, during, and after, it seems like," he muttered. He sighed, and wiped his hands with a rag. "Anyway, thanks for helping me here, with this one." Purdy nodded at the car. "Appreciate it."

"No problem. I was dyin' to get under that hood for a long time."

"Bet you've used that line before."

She laughed, and straddled her Harley. "Later," she said with a kickstart.

2. The Love That Dare Not Speak Its Mane

The salon was called the "The Clip Club," its original owner being a disenchanted lesbian exile from Staten Island. But now the shop had passed into the hands of a permanently bitter middle-aged gay alcoholic who had never been out of Olympus County. Nonetheless, it was the best hairdressers' in the area, and Gabrielle had been getting her bangs and split ends trimmed there ever since she'd been out of high school and had finally wearied of Lila's jagged little cuts.

Hair freshly shampooed, the little poet waited patiently for her regular stylist while reading Redbook or, more precisely, carefully examining a photo layout of the latest lingerie styles for the fall. Finally, she felt a comb running through her damp locks.

"Shirley, I just need everything trimmed—" Gabrielle looked up, and jumped violently. Her regular hairdresser was not in front of her; rather, Natalie—she of the Shimmy Shack and dubious academic reputation—stood before her, twirling a pair of scissors. And dropping them, thus narrowly missing her own sandalled foot. Natalie hopped awkwardly, then grinned sheepishly. "Hi, Gabrielle."

"Uh, hi, Natalie." Her skin crawled. "Where's Shirley?"

"Trying to cash her girlfriend's welfare check."

"Again? Like she needs another tattoo!"

"Yeah. Anyway, she's out the rest of the day. But I just started working here!" Natalie smiled proudly.

"When?"

"Yesterday, in fact. And, um, I'm free now, so I could do you." The ex-professor wiggled her eyebrows.

"I dunno, Natalie. It's been a while since I've let anyone else cut my hair." Protectively she clutched a sheaf of her blonde hair. She wouldn't even let Zina trim her hair. Especially not switchblade-enamored Zina.

"Come on, Gabrielle. I'm trying to behave myself now. I'm not stripping, I'm not harassing anyone. I mean, look at me. I'm just trying to make a living here." She pouted in a fairly effective manner. "I think everyone deserves a second chance, don't you?" she threw in plaintively.

Oh damn. Gabrielle's shrug was more of a massive, neurotic body twitch. "Yeah, I guess." Can't argue with that. It wouldn't be fair. Zina got a second chance, and a third, and a fourth, and then a lot of parole time. "Okay, Natalie," she sighed.

The former stripper grinned with delight. "Wonderful!" She walked behind Gabrielle, and gently ran her hands through the poet's wet hair. "I really appreciate this," she purred.

"No problem." Gabrielle shifted nervously in her seat. "I just want it trimmed, okay?"

"Uh-huh." The tips of Natalie's fingers gently scraped against Gabrielle's temple. Then the soft pads began working their magic in earnest, exuding a delicate, massaging pressure that made the poet's body tingle and puddle into mushy nothingness.

"Feel good?" Natalie's voice dropped an octave, and Gabrielle's flooded senses grabbed at the deep tones like a life preserver, mistaking the huskiness for Zina's own rich burr.

"Mmmm, yeah, baby." Gabrielle's own voice fell into a low Austin Powers intonation.

"I knew you'd like that." The voice burrowed into even sweeter depths.

Before Gabrielle knew it, someone sounding like Barry White was telling her that she needed a new hairstyle: "Uh-huh. Child, I bet you've had this same style since you were in middle school. And all through high school. Didn’t you? You had this hairstyle when you smoked your first joint. You had this hairstyle when you flunked your first French test. You had this hairstyle when you lost your virginity to that boyfriend of yours in the bed of his pickup truck, with your head banging against the thin dirty blanket where his dog usually slept and which barely cushioned the metal, in time to the AC/DC blaring from the tape deck while you were secretly thinking of Kate Jackson. Am I right or am I right, girlfriend?"

*****

As Gabrielle exited the salon, she couldn't stop running her hands through her hair: It was so…short. She had awakened from a brief, bleary state of unconsciousness to the sight of herself, in the mirror, with this dashing little pixie haircut. "I only know one style," Natalie had said afterward, in an attempt at an apology, and pointed feebly at her own head.

Gabrielle rushed down the sidewalk in an anxious haze. How I love your hair, Zina had mumbled the other night. It was the closest thing to poetry her taciturn lover had ever uttered, and there weren't even no metaphors or similes or even' fuckin' adjectives for Christ's sake but it's all I got, and now it's gone!

When she reached the garage, Purdy was sitting in his "office," watching baseball. "Purdy!" she shouted. He jumped, and started to rummage through a desk drawer.

"You damn idiot, I'm not a mugger," she snapped. "And if I were, you'd be dead by now."

He stared at her. "Gabrielle? What the hell happened to your hair?"

"I got it cut," she said defiantly, as if it had been a premeditated plan of action.

"Huh," Purdy mused. That was quick. She went, got her hair cut, and changed her clothes, he thought, taking in the short tresses, the baggy jeans, the Carhart jacket. "You're really goin' whole hog into the lesbian look, huh?"

"Not quite," she muttered. She had drawn a mental line in the sand at those funny sandals. "Where's Zina?"

"She's gone."

"Dammit, she was supposed to wait for me!" Gabrielle fumed. "I need her for the video store."

"For Blockbuster? Why?"

"Not Blockbuster. We don't go there. Cyrene says it's an evil corporation."

He frowned, confused. "If you don't go to Blockbuster…" he trailed off. And his eyes widened. "Oh Jesus," he whispered. "You don't go to…"

"Yes," replied Gabrielle solemnly. "We go to Him."

He was the Sarcastic Hippie Video Store Guy, who worked at the tiny video store in town which seemed to have no name (unlike the Clip Club). But it didn't matter, because everybody knew who Sarcastic Hippie Video Store Guy was and where he worked.

Gabrielle hated going to the "independent" (as Cyrene called it) video store by herself, because Sarcastic Hippie Video Store Guy always delighted in giving her a particularly hard time; however, he wouldn't dare do so when she was accompanied by Zina, who once, in a shameless show of prowess, bit the head off a cardboard display of Billy Crystal.

And now she had to face Him all alone.

*****

Gabrielle spent several minutes working up the courage to approach Him all by her lonesome. She cruised the dusty aisles, pretending to look for something else in addition to the box she already clutched. She cast a glance at Him. His hippie head was bent and He looked engrossed in the copy of Spin on the counter, but she knew Him. She knew He was just trying to fake her out. He was watching her every move.

She stood at the counter, and carefully shoved the empty video carton in his direction. He did not look up.

"Long week, no see," He drawled.

Gabrielle said nothing.

Head still down, He continued: "Wild Things again?"

"No." She kicked herself mentally for responding to Him. Don’t encourage Him, that’s what Zina always said.

"Or is it a hard core night? Or how about that Rashomon of the modern day porn, The Sapphic Schoolgirls of Sydney?"

She did not respond to this taunt, and was unsure of how much longer she could hold out.

"If I recall correctly, you’ve rented that one 23 times in the last three months."

Employing the use of her middle finger, she flicked the video box so that it rolled over right onto Spin, or more specifically, a big color photo of Korn.

He stared at it. "Beaches," he murmured aloud. Finally, he turned his blue eyes to her. And smiled. Was it a genuine smile? Or another smirk? It was hard to tell, his face was so obscured by the dark, shaggy beard. He leaned toward her, over the counter, as if ready to divulge a confession. "Every time I see this movie, I cry like a baby," he whispered in her ear.

She blinked, still wary of him. "Really?" she asked cautiously.

He nodded. She thought his eyes glistened with unshed tears. He was squishing his lips together and frowning like Tom Hanks. "Really."

Gabrielle was amazed. He is human after all! She laid a hand on the soft fur of his forearm. At that moment he reminded her of the cocker spaniel she had when she was 7. "Why? Tell me," she urged gently.

He sniffled a little. "I don’t know if I can."

"Maybe you’ll feel better if you tell me." She squeezed his arm.

He took a deep, steadying breath. "Because every time I see it, I realize how fucked up Barbara Hershey’s career is."

Gabrielle saw the triumphant Gotcha! in his eyes, and she took the video box and rapped him—but not terribly hard—on the skull with it. "You asshole."

He straightened, startled. "Violence is not the way, Miss Hockenberry."

"You want violence? I’ll give you violence. I’ll go home and tell my girlfriend you bugged me and she’ll twist you into a pretzel. How’s that for violence?"

Girlfriend? Not…Her! He blurted fearfully, "You mean the Kansas City Bomber?" He had taken to calling Zina that ever since she came into the store one day wearing roller blades, which lead to a discourse upon the classic Raquel Welch vehicle and how it was the cornerstone of her career and undervalued for its campiness, which lead them to stare at him with even greater incomprehension than usual. He waved a hand of surrender at Gabrielle. "Okay, okay. I’m sorry. Jeez." He took the carton, padded into a back room, and reemerged with the videotape. After opening the black box and checking it, he handed it to her.

"Thanks," she grunted.

"Look, I’m glad you’re at least renting something different, y’know?" he said. "It’s a shitty movie, but who knows, maybe in good time you’ll work your way up to better, more ambitious things. Like Orson Welles. Or foreign films. Stuff like that."

"Well," she hesitated. "I’d like to."

He actually looked pleased. "Yeah?"

"Yeah," she echoed brightly. Zina would hate it, but there was always NASCAR.

He scrutinized her while scratching his beard. "Hey, I tell you what. I’ll make a list for you, of films I think you should see. Nothing too avant-garde or anything like that, but just some basic classics that you familiarize yourself with. And I’ll give a discount card you can use for renting these movies. How does that sound?"

Gabrielle stared at him, touched. Wow, he’s not so bad after all! "Thank you, Sarcastic Hippie Video Store Guy!"

Ooops.

His expression was something between a wince and a smirk. "Um, my name's Eli. Okay?"

3. Gabrielle: The Other Other Other White Meat

When Gabrielle entered the house, her first instinct was to bolt upstairs and hide in her study room for about a year, until her hair grew out. She was about the make a mad dash for the stairs when Zina emerged from the kitchen. "Hey," the firefighter greeted, blue eyes focused on the Rolling Rock bottle, "thought that was you."

The young poet and perennial student-teacher felt the sarcasm blooming within her, and even though something within her tried to staunch it, nothing could prevent its fleur du mal, a smart-ass remark, from emerging. "Yeah, I guess it could only be me, or the serial killer who has keys to our house."

It was a terrible mistake, for it drew Zina's attention from green bottle to green eyes. And the hair. Chewing her lip, Gabrielle braced for the worst.

"Your hair. You got it cut."

Gabrielle wondered if Zina got her talent for Stating the Obvious from watching—and listening to—TV sports announcers. She nodded, not sure how to read the paling color of the firefighter's blue eyes. Zina circled her like a farmer checking out a steer at the state fair. It'd been a long time since her girlfriend had really scoped her out like this and, she had to admit, she was having trouble breathing, in a good kind of way. "Well," she asked slowly, "do you like it?"

In lieu of a verbal response, Gabrielle found herself quite literally head over heels, flung over a shoulder, and staring, upside-down, at the disintegrating tag of Zina's Levis as she was hauled up the stairs.

*****

"Comfy?" asked the firefighter.

Gabrielle pulled tentatively on the handcuffs which bound her wrists to the bedpost. Goddamn Minya. Why did she have to give these to Zina? "Yeah, I think I'm fine." Her lover had interrupted some promising foreplay to clap the cuffs on her.

"Good," Zina purred, then barked: "Now spread 'em!"

And Gabrielle did. The tip of the strap-on dildo lingered near her opening, like an unctuous, falsely modest houseguest who was secretly dying to stay for weeks, sleep in late, smoke all of your stash, permanently stain the sheets, and eat all the food in the house. But after much flailing of hips and shameless begging, Gabrielle welcomed the dildo with a graciousness that combined aspects of Donna Reed, Martha Stewart, and Doris Day.

She was close—extremely close—when Zina stopped thrusting for a moment. "Did you hear a car outside?"

"Huh? No, no. Baby, whoever it is, they'll go away," she panted.

The firefighter frowned. Her senses were on alert. "Maybe it's my mother...shit, she'll just come in, if she has her keys." Zina scowled at the insanely aroused Gabrielle. "Or if you left the door unlocked again."

"I did not leave the door unlocked!" Gabrielle snarled. However, she was terribly unsure of that fact. "Zina, please!"

"All right, all right." She picked up the pace once again, and Gabrielle's eager hips followed suit. The poet's orgasm began to build, but, once again, Zina was the school bully who smashed it to bits like an unwieldy Lego tower. "Dammit!" yelled Gabrielle, her body convulsing. "Now what?"

"I swear someone is in the house. I thought I heard something on the stairs!"

"Zina, it's probably just your mom and she knows better by now than to come into our bedroom!"

"No, she doesn't! She always forgets!" The last incident had been particularly bad, and left Cyrene babbling about a "primal scene."

"Oh God, who cares?" Gabrielle shouted. She grabbed Zina's mane of black hair in her teeth and gave a savage yank, forcing her lover's gaze back to her own. Releasing the hair with a pfft, she continued: "She's seen us fucking, and so have Hank, Ed, Effie, Boris, Lao Ma, Ming Tien, and even my idiot sister! Everyone has seen us fucking because of that stupid videotape!"

"Gabrielle?"

"What?" shrieked the poet in sheer exasperation.

"Have your parents seen us fucking?"

Gabrielle followed Zina's glance over to the bedroom door...which was now open. The doorframe held both her parents. Both squat little Hockenberrys looked stunned.

The firefighter answered her own question. "Guess they have now."

"Hi, Momma," Gabrielle offered the feeble greeting.

*****

Zina sat morosely on the steps. Down the hall, Gabrielle was stationed outside the bathroom door. Her mother was barricaded inside said room, wailing uncontrollably. The poet's attempts at comfort and reason were lost in the maelstrom of grief for Gabrielle's presumed heterosexuality. Mrs. Hockenberry was a one-woman wake for perceived normalcy.

The firefighter resigned herself to the fact that the old lady would probably be in there all night, since she was so close to a toilet anyway, and probably left her extra pair of Depends in the pickup. So Zina ambled downstairs, in search of a beer, and curious as to what Gabrielle's laconic father was doing down there. Since his wife had locked herself in the room, he had only muttered, "For Christ's sake, Hermione," and wandered off downstairs.

Hockenberry pere had his bulk spread out comfortably in the couch, watching pro wrestling on TV. Zina saw nothing of her lovely girlfriend in either parent, and began to wonder if the lumpy couple had somehow conceived Gabrielle through a happy accident involving test tubes and Chemical X, as if she were one of the Powerpuff Girls.

Her arrival and observation of him did not go unnoticed. His eyes, actually made more attractive by the glow of the TV, studied her with awe.

Zina indulged in her usual gesture of discomfort: She rubbed the back of her neck. "Wanna beer?" she asked Mr. Hockenberry.

He nodded. She padded out to the kitchen, and returned with two Rolling Rocks. She handed him one. As he mumbled " 'preciate it," she sat down next to him.

He appraised her again. "Yer pretty," he mumbled.

"Thanks." She paused. "So's Gabrielle." But that goes without saying since you caught me boinking her, doesn't it?

"Ain't no skin off my ass," he continued. With only four more words, he would break a personal lifelong record for number of phrases spoken in one day.

She nodded.

"I still like her best," he confided. The record thus broken, the factions of his brain that encouraged language usage broke out the Asti Spumanti, peanuts, and noisemakers.

Zina smiled. "Me too."

"Lila's just dumb, like me, and Hope's plain crazy, like her ma. But Gabrielle ain't like anyone else."

So true, thought Zina. She started to raise the bottle to her lips, but stopped abruptly. Wait a damn minute. She stared at him. "Who's Hope?"

*****

Hours passed before Mr. Hockenberry finally rolled on the couch and announced he was going home, without his hysterical wife. Then Gabrielle came downstairs and threw herself on the couch. "My mother's asleep in the bathtub."

"I bet if you run the shower, that'll wake her up."

"You're not being real helpful, Zina. This whole night has been a disaster. I didn't get to watch Beaches, my parents saw us having sex, they know I'm gay, my mom is freaked out and living in our bathroom, and to top it all off I didn't come."

"Poor baby." The firefighter smirked, then guffawed.

Gabrielle glared at her, having expected a modicum of sympathy. "What is wrong with you?"

"I'm gonna tell ya what is wrong: What got here is a failure to communicate," Zina drawled in her best Strother Martin-Cool Hand Luke tone.

"What the hell are you talking about?"

Zina chuckled, shaking her head in amazement. "This is so cool. It's great." Gabrielle looked at her, puzzled. Zina put her beer on top of coffee table, more specifically, on top of the TV Guide.

"Hey, watch it! You'll get it all wrinkly!" the poet cried. When Zina failed to react, she moved the bottle off the guide.

The firefighter ignored this. "Listen, it's like we're in one of those parallel universes, like in Star Trek. 'Cause this time you're the one with the crazy, fucked-up secret in her past, not me." She giggled again. "This is so great. This time I get to be self-righteous hag." The firefighter bit her knuckle in mock melodrama and worked up little ponds of glistening crocodile tears in both eyes. "How could you keep a secret from me, Gabrielle! After all the underwear we've shared!"

Catching on, the poet gasped. "You know about Hope," she breathed. It was her one dirty secret, aside from shoplifting at K-Mart in the 7th grade.

"Yeah, that's right, baby. Your daddy told me about your twin, Hope." Zina guzzled her beer with relish.

Gabrielle was mystified. "He did? But why? Hell, Daddy only says about three words a day, and they're usually, 'where's dinner, woman?' "

"That's why they came here tonight, Gabrielle. 'Cause of your sister. They wanted to tell you she's out of the loony bin."

"Fuck!" Gabrielle exclaimed in a panic. She bounced around on the couch nervously. "I...shit, Zina, she hates me. Is she in town? Do they know?"

"They don't know yet." Zina stroked her chin thoughtfully, the gesture a result of witnessing Artie stroke his goatee for years on end. "Did you show up at the garage today?"

"Well, yeah, but you were gone when I got there. Why?"

"Uh-huh. Was this before or after your haircut?"

"After." Gabrielle went slack-jawed. "Oh my God. She was at the garage?"

"Yep," the firefighter confirmed. "I reckon it was her."

Zina found her Nine Inch Nails t-shirt in Gabrielle's hot, angry hands. "Did you fuck around with my sister?"

"Gabrielle, knock it off! I was in the garage, for Christ's sake. Purdy was right there. Look, I just kissed her, 'cause I thought she was you." Mock indignant, she straightened her t-shirt. “Sure explains the reaction I got."

"Oh boy, she must have freaked."

"She did. She smacked me."

With a squirm and a lustful growl, the poet affirmed this: "You're very smackable, you know?" Gabrielle's thwarted libido was drawing up a petition for another crack at Zina.

"Save it for after we sandblast your mother outta the bathroom." Zina picked up the Rolling Rock and took a pull on it. She rubbed the cold green bottle with her thumb. "So, uh..." She shrugged nervously. "Why'd your sister end up in the sany-tarium?"

"Cause she's an evil bitch, that's why," muttered Gabrielle darkly. "She..." the poet swallowed nervously, and Zina took her hand and squeezed it gently.

"C'mon, you can tell me," the firefighter encouraged her gently.

Gabrielle squirmed uncomfortably, then snuggled closer to her lover for comfort. "She...she tried to throw me in the barbecue pit when we were little. She had me trussed up to a stake and covered in sauce and everything." She shuddered at the memory. "Thank God Daddy wasn't drunk that day."

"Huh. Wow." For Zina, this explained her companion's perpetual dislike of barbecue. But how come she doesn't like coleslaw?

"That was the last straw. Up until then, it had just been minor things, things you pretend were an accident. Like shoving me in front of the school bus. Trying to sell me to a motorcycle gang. Shit like that."

A memory scratched eagerly at the back door of Zina's mind. She rubbed her jaw nervously. "Hey, what motorcycle gang was that?" Gabrielle looked at her, horrified. "It wasn't Hogs and Harlots, was it?"

Gabrielle went pale.

Zina grinned in her charmingly dopey fashion. "I coulda been your first."

"That's just great," snarled the poet sarcastically.

"Yep." She smirked proudly. "I was always head of the line."

*****

At the near-empty counter of the town’s lone diner sat Hope, picking at a ham-and-egg sandwich and ignoring a cup of coffee. A cigarette proved to be a larger temptation than the greasy items before her, and she lit up. Before long she noticed a crazy-looking woman with big crazy brown eyes and big crazy blonde hair was sitting next to her and staring. In a real crazy way.

"The brat smokes," murmured the blonde woman. "Will wonders ever cease?"

"Get outta my face," snarled Hope.

"Tough talk without your bitch girlfriend to back you up," retorted the blonde.

Hope groaned, realizing that—of course—she was being mistaken for her sister once again. "Look, I'm not Gabrielle. Okay?"

"You've been reading Sybil again, dear? Which personality are you today? The crossdressing kindergarten teacher? The kleptomaniac who bites her nails?"

The ex-mental patient flicked cigarette ash in the lap of her tormentor. Callie screeched. "Why you little—" before she could finish the sentence or lay a hand on Hope, the latter had slapped her across the face, the crack echoing in the vast mid-morning emptiness of the formica-laden diner.

The waitress, sitting alone at the other end of the counter, perked up a little.

Callie saw stars and touched her burning cheek. Wow. She blinked through the tears in her eyes. It isn't the brat! "Who are you?" she whispered in awe.

"Hope. I'm Gabrielle's sister. I've been away for a while, but I'm back." Ash dribbled onto her unappetizing breakfast, which made it look heavily peppered.

"Hope," Callie repeated. "I'm Callie." Hope. Hope is a woman named Hope. I'm hopeless about Hope.

"I'd say it's nice to meet you, but it's too early and I'm too pissed off."

"Yeah. That's okay, Hope. So...just got into town, hmm?"

Hope nodded. She stared at the dismal sandwich before her, shrugged, and took a huge bite of it.

Wow. Now here's someone who doesn't give a crap about what anyone thinks. "Got a place to stay?" asked Callie.

"No," Hope grunted sullenly. "My parents won't let me stay with them. Fucking assholes."

Is it possible to fall in love within the span of five minutes, after someone has slapped you silly and repulsed you by eating something undeniably gross? Elizabeth Taylor knew it to be true, this magnetic, sudden rush of love that overwhelmed common sense, good taste, and all concepts of decency. And Callie, off her meds, thought so as well. It's funny, the person I love most in the world and the person I hate most in the world look the same!

Idly, Callie pressed a leg against Hope's. "Well, I'd be happy to let you bunk over at my place. Um, there's only one bed, though...."

Hope, slurping coffee, nearly spat it all over the counter. "What the fuck? Is every woman in this town a lesbo now? Instead of the Stepford Wives, you're all Stepford Dykes?"

The waitress looked rather intrigued at this notion.

Callie hastily withdrew her lunging, lustful thigh. "Um, no, don't be silly!" She gulped—a Plan B would be necessary in this seduction. "I'm a minister of God, for heaven's sake!" Plan B being a good bottle of tequila and Artie.

"Fine," said Hope, finishing off the sandwich with one last large, feral bite, as Callie marveled at the capacity of her mouth. "So I'll take the bed, you take the floor."

*****

Zina lumbered into the house and was assailed, once again, with more of Gabrielle's ongoing spiritual crises. The perpetual academic was sitting on the floor with something that, to the firefighter, resembled a giant bong.

My mother…fumed Zina. "What the hell is that?" she grunted, looming over Gabrielle and the thing.

"Hi, honey! Cool, isn't it?" Absently Gabrielle plucked a string attached to the pseudo-bong, and it made a sharp yet melodious noise. "It's a sitar. Eli lent it to me."

"Eli?" echoed Zina.

"Yeah." Gabrielle smiled proudly. "He's Sarcastic Hippie Video Store Guy."

"But…how did…?" she trailed off. Zina was dumbfounded, yet impressed at Gabrielle's accomplishment. "You made contact," she murmured, awestruck.

"Yeah. I broke the cycle of bad porn, baby. Thanks to Eli." For herself, Gabrielle too was amazed at having broken through his sarcastic veneer. Who would’ve guessed that Eli had a sitar collection, possessed a spiritual side, and ran his own support group for hirsute pot smokers?

"But I wanted to see Prison Pussy IV!"

"Too bad, Zina. Tonight we're watching Truffaut's The 400 Blows."

The firefighter leered. "Well, that might be okay. Especially if you blow me a couple hundred times during it."

"Oh, Zina." The poet gave both a haughty sigh and a withering look of disdain to the firefighter. "It's not that kind of film." Absently, she plucked out a tune on the sitar, which sounded vaguely like "Don't Fear the Reaper" and made Zina long for a Blue Oyster Cult reunion tour.

Then Gabrielle hit a particularly harsh chord. "Honey, I hate to break it to ya, but you're not exactly George Harrison," Zina jibed.

"Sure. Fine. Go ahead and mock me. Don't be supportive. I'm trying to find my way, find some peace in this raging, violent world, and you have to be a fucking killjoy. Fine. I'll just take my sitar upstairs—" Kneeling, Gabrielle scooped up the sitar from its large round bottom and abruptly lifted it into the air. The instrument's upward mobility met with resistance punctuated by a thud and a twang that made her hands reverberate. And then another nauseating thud as Zina's unconscious body hit the floor.

Gabrielle gasped. She wasn't kidding when she said she had a glass jaw! "Oh, baby!" she squealed.

*****

From the trailer's tiny kitchen Callie could see Hope sitting in the recliner, reading the newspaper. The minister maneuvered herself out of plain sight to practice her Slinky Walk, something she had not done since being ordained by Artie into his church.

But love had called for drastic measures. She had pulled out her Daisy Dukes, thinking that, between these and many a vodka tonic, any woman of worth would turn queer. She did not want to implement Plan B unless it were absolutely necessary—a walking penis like Artie was a dime a dozen, but a good bottle of tequila was hard to find in these parts.

Callie heard the rattling of ice cubes. "Coming, my pet!" she cried gaily. She ran to the refrigerator and pulled out the two liter bottle of Dr. Pepper, checked her hair in the toaster’s greasy reflection, then dashed into the living room.

"Here you go," Callie crooned in sing-song tones as the beverage foamed and sizzled within the grape jelly glass.

Hope grunted, then pointed at an item in the newspaper. "That's her."

"Hmm?"

"That's the sick fuck that my sick fuck of a sister is screwing." Hope pointed at page 2 of the Chakram Creek Daily Independent Morning News Courier. FIREFIGHTER OF THE YEAR FOR THE SECOND TIME, bellowed the headline. The article was accompanied by a large photo of Zina, de rigueur in firefighting gear, cradling her helmet, and sitting on the back of a fire truck with an anemic looking Dalmatian who had been up for a supporting role in the live action version of 101 Dalmatians but blew its chance on becoming a celluloid hero after humping Glenn Close's leg and peeing on her handmade Italian loafers.

Thus spake the article:

For the second year in a row, Miss Zima Amphipolitti of Chakram Cheek has won the prestigious "Firefighter of the Year" award in Olympus County.

In a brief ceremony at the county firehouse yesterday morning, Miss Amphipollittus was presented with a plaque by the Mayor, followed by the county's newly appointed poet laureate, Gabrielle Hockenberry, reading briefly from one of her own works entitled "Ode to Tremulous Thighs." The winner also received a certificate granting her a year's supply of doughnuts from Krispy Kreme, co-sponsors of the award. The ceremony was brief.

"Yeah, it's great," proclaimed the 52-year-old firefighter. A lifelong native of Chakram Creek, the winner attended high school at various locations in the region, including Chakram Creek High, Henabae High, Our Lady of Spamona High, and the prestigious Athens Christian Academy. She received her GED last year. Before embarking on her career as a firefighter, Miss Amphibian overcame serious drug, alcohol, and legal problems in an effort to make her life "not suck."

"This woman is living proof that you can turn your life around 360 degrees on the right track, and that the parole system is preferable to welfare," stated the Mayor. Miss Amphigrafitti will be on parole until the year 2010.

"Ooooh." Callie bit her tongue. She needed a new picture of Zina for her scrapbook; most of the others were either stained or torn violently.

"What the hell is a poet lore-ate?" snapped Hope.

4. The Way, or The Weigh

Zina's mind was, she would gleefully admit to anyone, not of a scientific bent. However, a kind of academic curiosity inflamed her on the very first day she picked up the free doughnuts from Krispy Kreme: How many doughnuts could Gabrielle eat in one sitting? How much weight would she gain? To maintain her current weight and physique, she would have to increase her weekly can-crunching workouts to what amount? Every day? Every hour? Am I going to get to eat any of these doughnuts? she wailed to herself.

She stopped walking down through the parking lot. Hell, yes. Viciously she tore open the box and jammed a powdered creme-filled in her mouth, where it remained as she kick-started the cycle, navigated out of the lot, pulled up to the first red light, tore down the road until the second stop light, made a left, then another left, then a right, saw Cyrene's Volkswagen outside the food co-op, went past the town limits, picked up speed, wind, and the exhilarating pulse of freedom, then saw the speed limit sign, then the poorly camouflaged state trooper cruiser behind an abandoned grain shed, which reminded her of that weird ABBA song, "Super Trouper." Do they have state troopers in Sweden? Maybe they're nicer there than here…sure, they're super! Super, thanks for asking! And then she almost missed the turnoff for the farmhouse, but swerved at the last moment, made it and sped up the dirt road to the house. By the time she shut off the bike, the doughnut was soggy and denuded of its powder, most of which was congealed around Zina's mouth, as if she were a half-hearted, amateur kabuki actress.

The firefighter took a few seconds to fully devour the thing and wipe her mouth, then she burst into the house. "Hey, baby! I'm home!"

Gabrielle, studying at the dining room table, looked up expectantly. "Hi." The green eyes widened. "Oh my God. You have the doughnuts."

"Of course I have the doughnuts. It's time to eat the doughnuts!"

"I can't."

Zina stared at her in shock. "What?"

"I can't, baby, I can't." Gabrielle looked stricken, and torn. She gnawed her lip. "It's a promise I made. Eli and your mom, they want me to go macrobiotic."

"What the hell's that?"

"It's my way, Zina. It's what I was meant to be. Sugar-free, meat-free, dairy-free…"

The firefighter chuckled in disbelief. "Come on, you don't expect me to believe that. You couldn't possibly give up all those things. I know you, Gabrielle!"

"Then you know that when I've made up my mind, I've made up my mind!" retorted the angry blonde.

"Oh yeah?" Zina tossed the carton of doughnuts on the table.

She watched Gabrielle fight with herself—the young woman's nostrils flared, she sucked on her lips. Her jaw trembled. "No. I won't give in. This is the way, Zina, the only way I'm going to clear my mind and my soul from all the non-recyclable crap in it." She stood up and began to gather together her books.

"Sure," snorted Zina. "Just walk away, like a coward." She peeled off her heavy firefighting coat, its dirty fluorescent yellow stripe dull in the overhead light of the dining room. The suspenders—which held up bulky fireproof pants—were taut and flowing over the munificent bounty of her torso. Gabrielle gulped. Deprived of junk food, she was at least thankful that Eli wasn't insisting on celibacy in this new spiritual pursuit. The firefighter sauntered closer to her. "I want proof, Gabrielle. I want to see that you can really do this. I want you to prove it all night." Zina was very close to her, indeed, almost pressed against her.

Gabrielle moaned and shivered. "Oh baby, you know what you do to me when you quote the Boss," she sighed. She was ready to melt in her lover's arms. But, with panther-like swiftness, Zina pinned her on the floor and handcuffed her to the dining room table. Damn you, Minya! "Do you carry these handcuffs everywhere?" she cried, then struggled awkwardly to sit up.

"Sure. Some people just don't know the difference between a firefighter and a cop." Zina gave a sinister chuckle.

Gabrielle wasn't sure she wanted to know precisely what that statement meant.

Zina knelt before Gabrielle, whose squirming was not the result of pleasure or excitement, but dread. "I'm going to show you my way, Gabrielle." Her purring was richly obscene and slinked its way from her vocal chords to Gabrielle's heart. "Our way. The way it should be. The way it always will be."

In a burst of defiance the little poet gave the handcuffs a savage jerk. "Not fair," she whined. "I don't have any choice, you big bitch."

"Tut-tut, Grasshopper. One always has choices," intoned the semi-wise firefighter.

"Did Lao Ma say that to you? She's as bogus as the new Kung Fu."

"Silence!" Zina hissed. "No more talk. Now is the test, Gabrielle. Now we will see how true you are to your way." The sneering tone strengthened Gabrielle's resolve even further. Until she saw it. It was sudden and swift, merciless in that way Zina could be sometime. The doughnut loomed in front of her like a space station dripped in sickly sweet sticky glaze.

"Krispy Kreme," Zina drawled in a low breathy voice; for added emphasis she ground her hips seductively. Advertising executives would kill their grandmothers, sacrifice puppies to Satan, and deflower Girl Scouts for such endorsements. If they didn't already do so.

Gabrielle wanted it. She wanted it bad. More than anything in her entire life. But, clenching her teeth, she growled, "No!"

"Oooh, very good, Gabrielle. Be strong. Show me, baby. Come on. Show me what you're made of, Grasshopper." Zina unfurled her lovely, languid tongue and swirled it around the moist hole. "I'm gonna eat it, baby," she breathed heavily, "I gonna suck down every sweet drop of it and you'll just have to sit there and watch me. Watch me do it, baby. Watch me."

Gabrielle stopped jerking and panting wildly. She gulped. And she watched as Zina's flawless teeth descended upon the soft, puffy, delicate flesh of the doughnut. "No!" she screamed. With superhuman effort she lurched forward and snagged the other end of the treat in her mouth. Chewing fanatically, she groaned as sugar saturated her mouth. It pumped wildly through her veins as she worked her way to Zina's lips. Mouths crushed together and flakes of glaze exploded from the collision. The firefighter hurried to uncuff her lover, and was indeed successful. They fell to the floor in a love fueled by the Sticky Jewel in the Crown of the American South.

*****

Cyrene, for once mindful of things that she might not want to see, opted to ring the doorbell of the farmhouse. After a few minutes Gabrielle opened it, short hair wild and sticking, clothes rumpled in a fashion that indicated hasty dressing.

The older woman sighed. "Don't you two ever stop screwing?"

"No," replied the poet automatically.

Cyrene's nose twitched as Gabrielle tried to look innocent. "I smell it on you!" the older woman accused. She jammed a crone-like finger in the fair Gabrielle's face.

"I just said we were fucking, what do you expect?" Gabrielle retorted; yet she knew that wasn't what the hippie had meant.

"Nuh-uh, honey. I smell sugar on you. I accuse you…oh man, what's that line in French? Like Zola, said to all those dudes in France: Je…je smellez vous!"

"You can't smell sugar!"

"Can too," the older woman shot back in a petulant tone.

"You can't smell anything, Cyrene. You couldn't even smell the ashtray when you set it on fire last month." Indeed, what was like to be one of Cyrene's senses? They definitely weren't working overtime; in fact, they had been given the pink slip many moons ago. They were the welfare mothers of the sensory world, every Republican's nightmare.

The older woman frowned, relenting. "All right, I can't. But I know you've broken your vow."

"How?"

"You have sprinkles in your hair."

Gabrielle groaned and raked her short blonde locks with her fingers, causing a rainbow of unnatural sugar condiments to shower upon Cyrene's Birkenstocks.

Cyrene stared at her feet. "Just what have you two been doing with those doughnuts?" she asked, suspicious.

"S'all Zina's fault." It was unkind, but Gabrielle hoped her corrupt lover was itching from the powdered sugar in her nether region.

"Isn't it always?"

"As a matter of fact…"

"Aw c'mon, Gabrielle. You can't blame everything on Zina. I know it's easy to do that. When she was younger, I used to blame my lack of boyfriends on her, thinking that guys wouldn't want to be with a woman who had a kid."

"Hmmm."

"But then I realized it was my lack of deodorant. Thank goodness Tom's of Maine started making a decent one!"

"Yeah. That's great."

"Now I beat 'em off with a stick."

"Uh-huh."

"You're not listening to me, are you?"

"No, not really."

"Fine, fine," carped the hippie, sailing past Gabrielle. "I'm just saying you need to take some responsibility," she added haughtily. "And I'm gonna tell Eli at our Legalize Pot Now meeting tonight!"

Gabrielle gasped. "Cyrene, don't! He'll take away my discount card!"

Cyrene heartlessly ignored this plea. "Zina!" she shouted.

The firefighter was pulling a t-shirt over her head when Cyrene entered the living room.

"Honey..."

Zina held up a hand. "Don't say anything, Mom. I know it's my fault. I never should've tempted Gabrielle with sugar."

"Jesus..."

"Please don't be upset."

"But, honey," Cyrene gestured helplessly, "you're going prematurely gray down there."

"That's just powdered sugar."

"Powdered sugar?" repeated Cyrene.

The firefighter nodded.

The hippie pursed her lips thoughtfully. "I never thought I would say this, but I think you guys are getting too weird for me."

5. What Would Jesus Do?

Callie's half-hearted dart toss spiraled toward the ground, but just managed to snag the very edge of the corkboard, where it drooped, impotent and clinging. She sighed, and cut another look at Hope and Artie over at the bar. The little blonde was all over Artie, wriggling in his cheap chino-ed lap. She watched as Hope once again jammed her tongue into Artie's mouth.

Apparently, Callie raged, being a whorish little slut ran in the Hockenberry family.

The ex-minister finally lost it when Hope started un-buttoning Artie's shirt. She stalked over to them, still clutching a dart. She tried to clear her throat in a ladylike manner, but merely ended up sounding like Tom Waits preparing to hock a lugie.

Hope and Artie stared at her. "What the hell do you want?" spat Hope.

You, you little bitch! Callie wanted to scream. She swallowed, and composed herself, forcing a bright, fake smile. "My darlings, what do you say we retire to my place?"

"I want to be alone with my little fuzzy-wuzzy," Hope crooned to Artie.

Artie grinned in pleasure, then winced as she began plucking some chest hairs. "Yeah, Callie. Perhaps the lady and I would like to be alone for the rest of the evening."

Oh, you idiots. Your poor, senseless buffoons. "I have a bottle of tequila back at my place."

Hope paused. "Okay." She stood up.

"I'm in," chimed Artie.

*****

Normally Artie didn't mind being passive while screwing. However, his primary objection in this particular instance—on his back in Callie's bed—was having to stare up at the photo of Charlton Heston taped to the ceiling. It was a still shot from Planet of the Apes, with Chuck dirty and resplendent in his loincloth. Perhaps it was the tequila, but, as Hope straddled him and started riding him, he swore he could hear that deep voice snarling, you damn dirty ape! But then—he smiled in fond remembrance—Zina used to call me that too.

Ah, Zina. He closed his eyes. If he focused hard enough, he could pretend that Hope's breathless panting and squeals were the deep leonine growls of Zina, that he could smell the beer she liked, that he could feel her prison ID bracelet scraping against his skin. "Oh…oh…oh…zzzzzz…." He was close, and in danger of doing something irreparably stupid. Don't say it! he warned himself. No matter how tempting it may be! He clutched the side of the bed. What is she doing? Dear Lord, it feels great!

But, despite his own self-chastisement, he moaned, shuddered, and released. With the cry of "Zina!" on his lips. Damn.

However, in the tiny moment of bliss after he came, he honestly believed that, when he opened his eyes, his beloved sister/cousin/whatever would indeed be there, with her blue eyes, her lush body, and beautiful sneer.

Instead it was just Hope, carrying an insane rage in her glassy eyes. "What the fuck?" she yelled.

*****

The first thing Callie saw when she opened her eyes that morning were Teletubbies scampering playfully across the TV screen. Her neck felt permanently wrenched into its twisted position, courtesy of a long night on the couch. Carefully, she sat up, and tried straightening her head; but the room spun merrily, and she felt like Linda Blair. Plan B didn't work very well, she thought groggily. What the hell went wrong? She tried, slowly, to remember last night's events while rubbing her neck. Then she grew aware of the empty tequila bottle in her lap.

As Hope emerged from the bedroom, clad in t-shirt and bikini briefs, Callie shook the empty bottle and realized that she had indeed finished off the tequila last night, after Artie and Hope had crawled off to her bedroom. "Oh man, I ate the worm," she groaned aloud.

Hope flopped down on the couch, and gave her a pointed look. "Me too."

*****

Artie straightened his tie and settled down behind his desk for another leisurely day of work at Ares Ministries. Actually, today would be busy. He was expecting a call from Pat Buchanan, and had several issues of Road and Track to catch up on. Nonetheless, the day's activities were nothing out of the ordinary, and every day that passed without some insane encounter with Hope was a blessing. He had not seen her in almost two months, since their ill-fated one night stand. Now there's a euphemism, he sneered at himself; being chased naked around a trailer by some hoochie with a butcher knife who was threatening, quite loudly, to cut off certain sated appendages was not exactly ill-fated.

The most amazing thing about the whole escapade was that Callie slept through it all.

He was organizing the condiments in his desk drawer when Hope kicked open the door.

Oh Lord! He jumped up. "Hope!"

"Hello, Worm," greeted the former mental patient. Ever since That Night, she and Callie had taken to calling him that: The Worm. It was their way of bonding. She sprawled in the chair facing his desk. "Haven't heard from you lately, Worm." She picked a paper clip from a pile of the little metal objects on his desk.

He then sat on the desk, facing her. "Hope, must you call me that?" he implored. "I've been very busy doing the Lord's work. You should understand that." He gave her the same condescending smile he used on old ladies for donations.

"Look, pussy boy, save the crap for the congregation. We have some unfinished business."

He held up his hands. "I know, my dear girl. I used you to satisfy my base cravings. It was shameful. I've been praying every day, and doing penance." It was true; giving up the Ding-Dongs had been harder than he ever imagined.

"You called me by that big bitch's name." Hope was glaring into space and twisting the paper clip so that it resembled a miniature sculpture by Giacometti. "I hate that miserable freak!"

Artie blinked in surprise. "You mean Zina?"

"Everyone in this town is obsessed with her. You, my sister, Callie...even Purdy, for God’s sake. She steals Gabrielle from him, and that poor dumb idiot idolizes her."

He admitted this with a shrug. "Well, she is pretty awesome."

The sharp edge of the paper clip sculpture sank into his thigh, right through the thin, paltry J.C. Penney khakis. "Shit!" he cried, abandoning godliness for the moment.

"You pathetic fool," Hope hissed. "I don't even know why I came here."

Artie yanked the paper clip out of his leg with an unmanly squeak of pain. "Well, neither do I," he rasped, pressing his palm against the wound.

She stood up. "Actually, I did want to tell you something."

He looked at her reluctantly, expectantly.

"I'm knocked up."

Artie said nothing, but wondered if Pat's offer to set up a mission in Sarajevo was still good.

*****

The next stop on Hope's itinerary that day was her sister's house. She had no interest in seeing dull Lila, but Gabrielle was another matter. Ever since her arrival back in the Creek, Gabrielle had been steadfast in her resistance to see her estranged twin. Chickenshit, thought Hope. Now there was nothing left but a direct confrontation. And if that meant she had to go through that big dyke to get at her sister, she would.

Sure enough, the freak answered the door. Zina leaned in the doorway, muscular arms folded over her chest. "Guess they haven't put an electronic bracelet on you yet," greeted the firefighter.

"Look, I'm not here to see you. I want my sister."

Zina hitched an eyebrow. "Really? Then we do have something in common, Hopeless. I want her too," she purred with a wink.

"Stop twisting my words, you freak. I want to see Gabrielle. Now."

"Not possible, Hope Floats. Gabrielle's teaching today." Having acquired an undergraduate degree, realizing its inherent worthlessness, and thus ascending rapidly to the graduate level, Gabrielle was now an indentured servant of the college, teaching freshman lit.

"Fine," snarled Hope. "When does she get back?"

Zina shrugged. "I dunno, could be late. You know how those college types like to sit around and yap, Chicago Hope."

"Will you fucking stop that?"

"Stop what, Ryan's Hope?"

Weaponless, she was about to take a lunge at the firefighter, but once again took note of the brawny forearms and thought better of it. "Look, you, I've got to talk to my sister. It's important."

"What about, Bob Hope?"

Hope sneered. "Why should I tell you?"

Zina sneered back. " 'Cause otherwise you don't have a hope in hell of getting past me, Hope Lange."

"Fine." She glared at the firefighter. "I'm pregnant."

Zina whistled. "Huh. Knew Artie was always lying 'bout being sterile." She looked at Hope. "You wanna come in and wait for Gabrielle?"

"My feet are killing me." Translation: Yes. Nonetheless, she hesitated.

Zina laughed. "You think I'm gonna try to seduce you or somethin'? I've already done it with pregnant women. It's kinda fun, until you get in the way when they have morning sickness." The firefighter shuddered at an unpleasant, unspoken memory, then stepped aside so that Hope could enter the farmhouse.

As she nervously crossed the threshold, Hope heard the door slam suddenly, then felt Zina's hot breath (lightly accented with Rolling Rock) in her ear. "Of course, if you misbehave and lay a finger on Gabrielle, I'll snap your neck before you can say hot pork sandwich."

Hope froze. Maybe this wasn't such a good idea after all. Although she had a sudden urge for pork. Smothered in gravy. She made a mental note to call Callie before heading back to the trailer.

"Siddown," Zina ordered. "I'm not going to hurt you."

Reluctantly, Hope did so. "Can I have a beer, at least?"

"You shouldn't be drinking. You're gonna a have a baby."

"Look, I was so upset when I found out I was knocked up that I drank all of Callie's peppermint schnapps. The damage is done."

Shit, the damage was done the minute the sperm landed on Planet Egg, thought Zina. "All the same, do your heavy drinking somewhere else, okay?" She offered Hope a can of Coke, then settled on the arm of the couch, where Hope slouched, legs sprawled and tenting her much abused skirt.

Gabrielle's sister cracked open the can and guzzled its contents quickly. She brooded, then looked at Zina. Who was staring at her with those unnerving blue eyes. "So tell me," Hope began, angry voice edged with genuine curiosity. "What is it about you...that makes everyone in this place think you're so fucking wonderful? Why does every man, woman, and child in town either want you or want to be you?"

Zina smiled coolly. The firefighter stood, and assumed a curious stance. She stretched her shoulders, and, with her legs planted apart and one hip jutted forward, holding her right arm just slightly further form her body than the left, she stared at, then through, the ex-mental patient. She looked the very picture of a gunslinger, like Alan Ladd in Shane. Except a whole lot taller.

Hope blinked, and shuddered at a sudden draft between her legs. And she saw that Zina held aloft a pair of suspiciously familiar panties, dangling in flaccid glory from her fingers. Playfully she sniffed them. Then, raising a critical eyebrow, shook her head sadly.

No. She couldn't have. It's not possible. The hysterical thoughts raced through Hope's drug-free mind.

"Now this is definitely where you and your sister part company," Zina said. "Gabrielle would never wear polyester panties." Disdainfully she let the underwear fall to the ground. "So," she addressed her stunned audience of one, "does that answer your question, Hope and Glory?"

6. Seven Months Later

The young man struggled with the straps that bound him to the hospital bed.

"Y'all just settle down there, Pedro," mumbled the male nurse.

"Fuck you, man! MY NAME IS NOT PEDRO. I know I got rights! Where's my car? Where's my CELL PHONE?"

"Sheriff'll be here soon, Pedro, and she'll straighten this all out."

"Stop calling me PEDRO, you stupid cracker!" Simply exhausted, he slumped in defeat against the uncomfortable gurney bed. His best friend had not exaggerated about what people were like outside of Manhattan! They were all inbred and dumber than dirt!

Then he saw an older woman down the hall. She was not a member of the staff, and was holding an infant so well-swaddled that the contents within the blue blanket could have been anything. The woman was dressed like a hippie, he thought, like those old 60s leftovers in the Village who got all nostalgic and mumbly about how much the neighborhood had changed.

Suddenly, he grew wildly, ridiculously hopeful. His eyes bulged. Perhaps this woman could help him get out of here! He wasn’t crazy, he reminded himself, just a drama queen. How was I supposed to know that state trooper would have me committed for observation just for channeling Susan Hayward? Again, he stole a look at the middle-aged hippie, who smiled at him. The woman was the most normal-looking person he had seen since he was caught speeding by said trooper along Shakti Ridge. She might be a beacon of sanity in this white trash hell pit. "Hey!" he cried to her. "Hey, sister! C'mere!"

The woman approached him warily, lightly bouncing the baby in her arms. A motionless dark head poked out from the blankets, the face turned away.

"Hey, man, I can't sell you anything here. Like, this is a state mental hospital! It’s crawling with cops and shit," Cyrene hissed to him in an undertone.

"No, no, lady, lissen, I don't want anything like that." At least not right now. "I need you to help me get outta here. I was arrested just for speeding, and they dragged me in here sayin’ I was resisting arrest and I needed to be restrained for ‘observation,’ which is such bullshit! They won't let me call a friend or my family or nothing! Please, you gotta help me."

"Really, I wish I could, but I can't. I gotta watch the kid here." She nodded at the baby. "Look, they’ll probably let you go after you spend the night, or else they’ll transfer you to Shark Island Correctional…" Cyrene mused, trying to remember particulars from her own experience as the lone Vietnam War protester in the county, and conflating it with her daughter’s extensive criminal record.

"What? Shit!" he shouted.

"Shh!" Cyrene commanded. The baby started squirming and crying. "Aw, man, you woke her up!"

The child turned in Cyrene's arms, facing him.

He gulped in horror. Mami was right! "AYE, MIA MADRE!" screamed Paolo Torqemada. "ES EL CHUPACABRA!"

*****

Hope wasn’t sure if it the was the drugs, the chocolate malted balls that Callie had brought her, or the fact that the goddamn thing was out of her body, but she was happy, and she loved everybody. She smiled as she surveyed her hospital room, head lolling on the pillow, a damp drool stain tickling her cheek. Within weeks she would be back in her old room at the institution and her parents would be saddled with her spawn. Perfect revenge. Let them fuck up another child. Threatening to kill Gabrielle (yet again) was the best thing she’d ever done; it resolved all the problems that this so-called real life had inflicted upon her. Although it had been fun to be out for a while, just given the sheer amount of havoc that she wreaked upon everyone. And the experience did reveal to her that she did not belong out here, in this world, but back in the institution. It was her real home.

She looked away from the window when she heard the door open. It was Gabrielle. She smiled. "Hi, chickenshit! Decided to finally see me, huh?"

The poet lingered near the door for a fast getaway. She had not wanted to see her sister, but Zina—in a burst of wisdom—said that it was better to confront the past and put it to rest, rather than letting things fester like a wound. Not to mention that the firefighter had promised to let Gabrielle use the handcuffs on her tonight.

"Hi," Gabrielle mumbled. "How are you feeling?"

"What the hell do you care?"

"Look, at least I’m trying, Hope. Okay? I’m sorry if I ever did anything to upset you or hurt you. And I forgive you for all the stuff you tried to do to me. And the fact you still want to hurt me."

"You’re lucky that your girlfriend is more of a violent psycho than me. Otherwise you’d be dead."

"I’m forgiving you as we speak." Or trying to, anyway.

"Big of you, chickenshit. Let’s not pretend anymore. I did what I did because I wanted to.

I threatened you ‘cause I wanted them to lock me up again. I wanted to go home. I’ve saddled the brat with Mom and Dad, I beat up Lila, and I scared the crap out of you. I’m feeling pretty damn good right about now." Hope exhaled triumphantly.

Oh, this is useless. Why even try? "That’s pretty impressive, Hope. But just remember one thing."

Hope eyed her sister suspiciously.

"Zina still has your underwear. It’s going in her trophy box." With that, Gabrielle left her sister behind. For good, she hoped.

*****

The firefighter leaned against the wall, close to where the Hockenberrys sat. The reluctant guardians of Hope’s infant had completed the requisite paperwork, and now awaited one last visit with their estranged daughter.

The door of Hope’s room was flung open and Gabrielle emerged, sucking lungfuls of air as if she had just been underwater for the last two minutes.

"How’d it go?" Zina asked, although she could tell, by taking in the pained expression of her companion, that Gabrielle’s conversation with her sister had been less than stellar. Handcuffs and extra doughnuts tonight, she thought. Poor baby.

"She’s fucked," muttered the poet.

Zina, not a doctor and not playing one on TV, nodded sagely.

The baby squalled as Cyrene brought her around the corner, to where the Hockenberrys and Zina awaited. "It's someone else’s turn," she said to them wearily. She thrust the infant at her daughter.

Much in the manner she handed a water hose, Zina took the child, then held her up. The baby silenced in the face of the intense blue stare. "I dunno," the firefighter said to Gabrielle, "how your sister and Artie could make such a damn ugly kid."

"Zina!" chastised Gabrielle, slapping her lightly on the forearm, "stop it! She'll hear you!" Then she stared at the baby and her face fell. "Well, Artie must be hairy, I guess." She looked to Zina for confirmation.

The firefighter winced in memory. "There were times…when I was surprised I just didn’t cough up a giant hairball."

The poet shivered in disgust, then regarded the infant again. "Ah, poor girl."

"Don't worry about her, Gabrielle," Cyrene threw in, "Chupy's made of tougher stuff than that, aren't you, kiddo?" she cooed to the child.

The women looked at Cyrene. "'Chupy'?" echoed Gabrielle.

"Uh, yeah, it's um, Spanish for 'fuzzy one,'" lied Cyrene. She had never gotten a straight answer—or even one in English—from the boy on the gurney, as he had babbled at her in Spanish for five minutes before passing out.

Zina made it official. "Chupy it is then," she declared.

"That's fine for a nickname, but she needs a real name," Gabrielle interjected.

Mrs. Hockenberry took a closer look at the infant and burst into tears. She ran into the bathroom.

"Jesus, somebody's gotta tell Momma that bathrooms are not exactly churches, you know?" the poet complained.

Zina was still contemplating the child. "How about Harley?" she suggested.

"Damn, Zina! You can't be serious. Naming the kid after your stupid bike?" cried Gabrielle.

"Cool!" said Cyrene.

"I like it," agreed Harold Hockenberry.

Gabrielle stared in sheer disbelief, thoroughly amazed at her father taking the energy and effort to formulate an verbal opinion. "Well! I guess I'm outgunned. Welcome to the family, Harley."

"Goin' home, now. Gab, tell your mom not to forget the kid. See y'all later." Harold Hockenberry nodded amiably at all of them, then waddled down the corridor to the exit.

"Shit, now we have to drive Momma home," Gabrielle grumbled. "Actually, first thing, we have to get her out of the bathroom."

Zina turned to Cyrene. "Hey, Mom, go get Mrs. Hockenberry outta the bathroom."

"And just how am I supposed to do that?" retorted Cyrene.

"Smoke some weed. That'll flush her out, so to speak."

With a martyr-like sigh, as if smoking marijuana were a burden akin to eating spinach, Cyrene headed for the bathroom. Zina and Gabrielle were left alone with the kid.

"Guess I'm gonna have to do some stripping again," Gabrielle said.

Zina looked at her, surprised. "Oh yeah, baby? How come? For her college fund?"

Gabrielle was pleased at the fact that Zina was thinking ahead, and thinking of the kid as well. It was a good sign. "Yeah. That and the fact she's gonna need serious electrolysis by the time she's five."

End

[invisibleanonymousmonsters]

My Eyes - Part 14

Pairing: Bucky; Steve x Fem/Reader

Word Count: 4,701

Story Description: Steve is a good man, America’s golden boy, a hero. He’s Captain America for christ’s sake! So it’s normal to want what he has… right? Bucky knows he doesn’t deserve her. He doesn’t even deserve the second chance at life he’s been given. But Bucky can never let him know. Steve can never find out that his friend is in love with his best girl.

Story takes place post “CA: CW” and all tension has been resolved.

Previously On…

-- 3 YEARS LATER

A car horn beeped outside. Jimmy came bounding down the stairs with his backpack.

“Hey! Please eat some breakfast before you go!” Y/N called out to her teenage son.

“I’m not hungry. And Bucky packed me a huge lunch.” Jimmy called over his shoulder before bounding out the front door. But he came back seconds later and quickly he poured himself a cup of coffee to go.

“I got you addicted to that stuff too soon. Don’t you know it’ll stunt your growth?” Y/N teased her son.

Jimmy scoffed. He took a few steps towards the door again, but turned around and hurriedly gave his mom a kiss on the cheek. “Love you, mom.” Then he was sprinting out the door once again.

Y/N had her knees pulled up to her chest as she sipped on her own cup of coffee. She sighed and looked up at Bucky, who had watched the usual morning routine with ease. “I don’t know how the hell that kid grew into a giant without eating the most important meal of the day.” She stated sarcastically.  

Jimmy, quickly on his way to turning 16, had finally showed just how much of the super-serum gene he had inherited. He was even taller than Steve had been, reaching a towering height of 6’3. He was no longer the smallest kid in class; he was the tallest. His physique grew just as much as his height. Jimmy looked more like a professional athlete in his mid-twenties than a teenager going through puberty. His cute, boyish face turned into a handsome young man. Jimmy definitely didn’t miss out on Steve’s good looks.

Y/N called him a gentle giant. For as big and terrifying as Jimmy looked, he was still terribly shy and kindhearted.

But the move had given Jimmy the change he needed. He was still an outsider at school, but he had good friends. His best friend was Luke, who just happened to be openly gay; sadly, a rarity in the small town. He was the person that drove Jimmy to school everyday, already having his license and a car. For a while, Y/N believed there was a possibility Jimmy and him were secretly dating. Bucky quickly shot down her suspicions.

“How can you be so sure?” Y/N whined. “Gaydar wasn’t even a thing in your day. I think I know better than you.”

Bucky smiled at her frustration. “Trust me, doll. Jimmy and Luke are only friends.” He kissed her cheek. “He’s just terrified of girls…just like his dad.”

Y/N gave him a small smile at that. “For the record, I don’t care who he likes. I just don’t want him to ever think he has to keep secrets from me.”

“I know, Y/N.” Bucky chuckled.

Bucky had moved into Y/N’s house two years after her and Jimmy returned to New York. He had never been happier. Y/N and Jimmy had become the family he had always dreamed of having. They were so close to the Avenger’s facility that various teammates stopped by pretty much whenever.

Jimmy was constantly going over there as well. His abilities had developed not long after his terrifying fever that caused the move in the first place.

It turned out that Jimmy could control the density of his body. He could walk through a wall one second and the next he’d solidify his skin enough to stop a bullet.

To everyone’s surprise, Vision was the person to help Jimmy control his abilities more than anyone. Wanda was helpful too.

Tony tried to convince Y/N that Jimmy should just be homeschooled. The teenage boy learned more from the team than any school ever could. Jimmy could speak Spanish, French, German, and Russian fluently. He could even understand Wanda’s Sokovian… but wouldn’t consider himself fluent in speaking it himself.

Y/N asked Jimmy if homeschooling was what he wanted. But Jimmy knew how important it was to his mom that he had a normal childhood. They compromised with him going to a normal public school, as long as he could go to the Avengers’ compound as much as he wanted.

Y/N suspected that Peter Parker had something to do with it. He was in his late twenties now and knew what it was like to be special during adolescence. Sometimes New York’s friendly neighborhood spider was better at giving Jimmy personal advice than Y/N or Bucky.

Bucky now sat next to Y/N at the kitchen table with his own cup of coffee. “You know, Tony recently mentioned something about getting Jimmy a car for his 16th birthday.”

Y/N’s head snapped to him. “You better tell him that is absolutely not happening!” She immediately pictured Tony buying Jimmy a sports scar that cost more than their house.

“I tried, doll. But he just kept promising that it would be used and beat up.” Bucky smirked at the ridiculousness.

Y/N rubbed her face and groaned. She was still waking up. Her eyes were even still puffy with sleep. “Ugh…when is Tony going to stop acting like our financial backer?”

“Probably never.” Bucky pointed out with a chuckle.

Y/N shook her head, trying to get her mind to move on. “When’s your first class today?”

“Not until 5:30 tonight. But I promised Sam I’d go to the V.A. with him in a couple of hours.”

Thanks to Y/N’s guidance, Bucky’s retirement was filled with meaning. He taught self-defense classes consistently. Every once in awhile he would visit schools and be met with kids screaming in excitement. Sam also got him to visit the V.A sometimes. Bucky was somewhat of a poster child there, proving that things could get better for soldiers struggling to adjust back into civilian life.

Meanwhile, Y/N managed to work at the local library again. But she continued her art therapy sessions at a new community center too. After she realized how much it was helping children, she couldn’t imagine sitting back and doing nothing.

No matter how the two of them spent their days, Jimmy was always their main focus. For Bucky it was Jimmy and Y/N. Every day he woke up with her in his arms and wondered how the hell he got so lucky. Once in awhile, he would have a bad day: his mind would start convincing him that he was unworthy of this life of happiness. But Y/N always managed to talk him away from the ledge.

“What’s on your schedule today?” Bucky asked her.

“My day is completely free.” Y/N sighed in content. It was a rarity.

“Are you finally going to finish that stack of books you brought home?” Bucky asked mindlessly as he stared at the newspaper in front of him.

Y/N watched him for a moment. Bucky was still as handsome as ever. His scruff seemed to be a permanent fixture. His hair was in a messy bun on the back of his neck. One would never guess that he was retired seeing as his muscles were just as big as when he was a brainwashed Hydra killer.

“No. I definitely don’t want to read right now.” Y/N breathed mischievously.

Then she slowly got up from her seat and straddled Bucky. He didn’t seem as surprised by the gesture as she anticipated. Guess that’s what she gets for being with a trained assassin. Her hands rubbed his scruff and then brushed a piece of hair behind his ear that escaped his bun. His grip had immediately wrapped around her waist. His metal hand went under her t-shirt causing a chill to go down her spine.  

“I had other plans.” Y/N added.

Bucky grinned up at her. “Is that so?”

“You said you didn’t have to meet up with Sam for a couple hours…” Her voice was seductive and then her lips were climbing up the side of his neck.

He nodded, sometimes her seductions still made him speechless. Then he felt her lust drifting off through her empath abilities. Y/N knew it drove him crazy: knowing exactly what she wanted was a turn-on that Bucky could never describe.

Not being able to take the teasing any longer, Bucky captured her lips and pulled her body closer to his.

Y/N yelped slightly when Bucky roughly brushed his chair back and stood up. She giggled when he kept her body tightly in his grasp. Her legs automatically wrapped around his waist as he carried her to their bedroom.

---

Bucky must have accidentally fallen asleep post-coitus. He woke up naked and alone in their bed with the sheets tangled around his body. His instincts made him sit up quickly. Waking up without Y/N always caused him distress. A sensitivity he didn’t like admitting to her. “Y/N?” He called out sleepily. There was no answer.

Bucky got up from the bed and moved to the window of their bedroom. It looked out into the backyard that was more of a forest than anything. His stress instantly disappeared when he saw Y/N in her greenhouse.

When she and Jimmy moved back, Bucky built it for her. He knew she missed her house in Montana; it was a sanctuary she built all on her own. Y/N had almost cried when he showed it to her. She made a garden right next to it too.

Bucky had a small smile as he watched for another moment before throwing on a pair of jeans, not bothering with boxers or a shirt.

He thought he’d made his footsteps loud and known, but Y/N still hadn’t heard his entrance to the greenhouse. He leaned against the doorway with his arms crossed, observing her.

Y/N’s brow was furrowed, proving she was deep in thought. She just wore a silky robe. Bucky knew that was the only thing covering her body.

“Everything okay?” Bucky asked softly.

Y/N couldn’t help but jump.

“I tried to be loud.” Bucky apologized. His sly tendencies were a constant annoyance to her. She hated being frightened and Bucky was just too quiet.

She ignored him and continued whatever she was working on before he interrupted.

“What are you doing?” Bucky walked further into the greenhouse.

“Ugh…trying to figure out how to plant these things.” She mumbled without looking up at him.

Bucky looked at the discarded packaging on a table. It was peppermint, ginger root, and slippery elm. His eyes narrowed. She never planted anything like that before.

He looked at her again and started becoming concerned as he saw the tension in Y/N’s body. He gently cupped her cheek. “Y/N, what’s wrong?”

She finally acknowledged him. Her body relaxed a bit by his touch.

Bucky’s eyes were filled with concerned as he tried to read her mind. “Did I do something wrong while we were…” He was too much of a gentleman to finish his question.

“No, you didn’t do anything wrong…” Y/N sighed.

“Why aren’t you still in bed with me, doll?” Bucky urged.

“James, I-I have something to tell you…” She whispered. Her hand instinctively reached for his and pulled it away from her cheek so she could grasp it for comfort.

He nodded.

“But I have no idea how to tell you.” She admitted, shaking her head slightly.

“Alright, you’re starting to scare me, Y/N. Please, just tell me. Whatever it is, we’ll get through it together.” Bucky assured her.

Y/N closed her eyes tight as if it was going to make her braver. “Right, okay!” She opened them and got lost in his blue irises. “I’m pregnant.” Her voice was such a whisper that Bucky wasn’t sure he would have caught it without his enhanced hearing.

He stared at her for a second and tried to figure out if this was cruel joke or something. But her face remained terrified, waiting for his reaction.

Then tears filled Bucky’s eyes and his new smile was beaming. “You’re pregnant?” He whispered in utter bliss.

Y/N still didn’t look relieved. But a nervous smirk slipped onto her lips and she nodded. “Yeah, Buck.”

Bucky lifted her up in the air and spun her in a circle. She couldn’t help but giggle at the reaction. When he put her down, he pressed his forehead to hers. “You’re sure?” He whispered. There went that dark part of his mind again, always struggling to believe in the good things that happened to him.

Y/N nodded. “Yes. After taking about three different pregnancy tests, I went to the doctor while you and Jimmy were on a hike.”

Bucky frowned. “Why didn’t you tell me then, Y/N?”

Their foreheads were still touching, but Y/N’s gaze fell to the ground in shame. “I-I didn’t know what you’d feel. We didn’t plan this and we never discussed it.” Then her expression darkened. “I don’t really have a good track record of telling people I’m pregnant.”

That’s when Bucky really understood her fear. It was coming off of her in waves now, whether she realized it or not. The last time Y/N told a man she was having his child, he died a few seconds later. She watched the life disappear from Steve’s eyes a moment after she told him she was bringing another into the world.

Bucky pulled Y/N into his chest. “Oh, doll. I’m so happy. Can’t you feel it?” He whispered as he stroked her hair.

Then a thought suddenly occurred to him. He pulled back to look at her and gripped her chin. How could he be so selfish?

“Is this what you want?” He asked her seriously.

“What? Having a child with you?” Y/N asked playfully. But she knew what he was really asking. “Of course. I’ve secretly wanted it for a while now, actually. I guess I should’ve told you.”

Bucky always speculated that he couldn’t have kids. Unlike Steve, he had been in and out of cryo so many times and Hydra had tortured him in so many ways. Bucky couldn’t help but convince himself that he was sterile.

Y/N probably kept her little desire to herself to protect Bucky. If they openly started trying and nothing happened, she knew he would only blame himself.

Bucky leaned closer to her once again, his hands mesmerizing her waist. “Y/N,” His voice was soft, yet husky. He kissed her passionately. “Marry me? Please?”

“Ew, Bucky.” Y/N pushed him away. “This isn’t the 1940s. You don’t need a shotgun wedding when you get your girlfriend pregnant anymore.”

But his face was serious. “It’s not about the pregnancy, Y/N. You know that.”

“Still a no.” Y/N chuckled and went back to her herbs.

This had become a game between them. Every once in awhile, when the moment arose, Bucky would propose to Y/N. It was always an intimate affair, always followed by her doing something that set a spark into his heart.

But Y/N never gave in. Yes, she had always wanted to settle down with Steve: raise a family and disappear from the public eye. But marriage was never a requirement or a desire for her.

Despite them viewing it as their little game, Bucky said ever proposal with the utmost sincerity.

But Y/N was a modern woman. Marriage held less and less meaning in society. She didn’t think it changed anything in a relationship. If you love someone, you love them. A piece of paper didn’t prove anything.  

“You don’t even have to change your last name.” Bucky would plead.

“We don’t need to have a wedding. We can just elope!” He would point out.

“If it’s the money for a ring, I already have my mother’s. Those Smithsonian assholes still had it.”

Y/N tried to understand why Bucky was so insistent. Obviously marriage was a much bigger deal in his heyday. But there had to be something else, and she had yet to figure it out.

“Can I borrow your phone?” Bucky asked, seeing it sit on a nearby phone.

She nodded and handed it to him.

Bucky stepped outside for a moment.

Y/N eyed him curiously. “Who did you just call?”

“Sam. Told him you were sick so I couldn’t go to the V.A. with him.”

She smiled, realizing that she wanted to bask in their little secret together for as long as they could.

Bucky wrapped his arms around her from behind. His hands graced her stomach, feeling her in a new way now that he knew there was a life waiting in there…A life that he helped create.

Bucky kissed her neck. “I know we were already successful. But I think we should keep trying, just to be safe.” He mumbled into ear before pressing a kiss in the soft skin behind it.

“Buck,” Y/N giggled. “We were never trying.”

“Exactly!” Bucky exclaimed softly. “We’re already behind.” Then he softly turned her around and embraced her with a loving kiss. Y/N squeaked when he scooped her up in his arms.

They were almost back in the house when Y/N smiled naughtily up at him. “It’s good that you’ll be around. If I’ve learned anything from last time, it’s that I get extremely horny when I’m pregnant.”

As if Bucky needed any further encouragement.

“Yep. It’s decided. You’re not leaving this house for the next 9 months.” Bucky growled. There were few sounds that could arouse Y/N more.

---

“Bucky?”

He didn’t hear.

“Bucky?”

The road hypnotized him.  

“James?” Y/N finally said urgently as she gripped his bicep.

He finally tore his gaze away from the highway to look at Y/N.

“You okay?” Her eyes were so tender and genuine as she asked.

Bucky sometimes forgot that she could feel everything inside of him if she wanted to. Y/N was too kind and polite to invade his privacy like that. But during times like these, she overlooked her principles. Nevertheless she always gave him a chance to tell her with his own words first.

“Just nervous.” Bucky mumbled.

“You’ve hung out with my family multiple times. I don’t understand what you think is going to happen.” Y/N smiled softly and gave his shoulder a little squeeze.

Yes, Bucky had interacted with her family on multiple occasions: Jimmy and Y/N’s birthdays, the holidays, and Jimmy’s middle school graduation. But he always assumed they were just being pleasant and nice to keep the peace with Y/N. She had already been through so much. They weren’t going to stop her from loving someone new after all this time. Her and Jimmy’s happiness were all they cared about.

But now that Y/N was pregnant again…pregnant with his child, maybe they wouldn’t be so pleasant. Bucky would be a permanent fixture in their life, whether it worked out with Y/N and him or not. But Bucky would die before he did anything to destroy their relationship or let it slip through his grasp.

“Yeah, Bucky. Now that I’m a hormonal teenager, they have nothing cute to fuss over. Grandma and Grandpa will freak out.” Jimmy said from the backseat.

Now Bucky felt guilty for not only worrying Y/N, but Jimmy too.

“I’m fine. I promise.” He announced to the car. Then he reached over and held Y/N’s hand to further assure her. She gripped it and sent calming waves with her empath power. He couldn’t deny that it felt good.

Y/N practically jumped out as soon as Bucky put the car in park. She missed her family so much. Seeing them a couple times a year was never enough. She was already inside the house before Bucky or Jimmy even unbuckled their seatbelts.

“Hey, Buck?” Jimmy asked quietly.

Towards the end of middle school, he had eventually dropped the Uncle part of his title.

They had a moment alone in the driveway.

Bucky had to slightly look up at Jimmy after his ridiculous growth spurt.

“I know my mom’s been stressing about how all of this affects me and everything.” Jimmy started. “I just wanted to say, I’m really happy for both of you.” He was looking at his feet and shifting as he shared the sentiment. Just like his dad, he had a good heart but wasn’t always the best at voicing it with confidence.

Bucky smiled at the boy. “Come here, punk.” He shoved him roughly into a hug.

When he pulled away, he gestured toward the house. “Think your grandpa will try to shoot me when we tell him?” Bucky joked.

Jimmy smirked. “Definitely not. But if he brings out a gun, I promise I’ll protect you.” He pestered before walking around him and entering the house.

---

“Honey, are you sure don’t want any wine? Not even with dessert?” Y/N’s mom asked once again at the dinner.

“I’m fine, mom.” Y/N whined. She looked across the table to see her older sister eyeing her suspiciously. Then her eyes shifted to Bucky, who was sitting to her left. He instantly knew this was their cue. His hand slid into hers for support. “Actually, we have news to tell you…”

Y/N’s mom dropped her fork dramatically. “Are you two getting married?” She practically shrieked in excitement.

Bucky’s jaw clenched at the comment.

Once again, Y/N sent him a swell of calmness and squeezed his hand.

“No…we’re not getting married, mom.” Y/N sighed, completely unfazed by her incorrect guess. “But don’t blame Bucky. It’s not for a lack of trying on his end.”

The whole family looked confused… even Jimmy, who was unaware of Bucky’s constant proposals.

Y/N cleared her throat. “I’m… ugh... I’m pregnant.”

“I knew it.” Her older sister smirked. “You never turn down wine.” Y/N playfully glared at her. “Congratulations, sissy.” She added sweetly.

“Oh, that’s just wonderful!” Y/N’s mom screamed in excitement. Then she was moving around the table to hug Y/N and, to Bucky’s surprise, she went right for him immediately after.

Y/N’s dad, who was much quieter and bad with expressing affection, just smiled at Y/N from across the table.

Bucky watched their exchange carefully, realizing that they were having some kind of unspoken conversation. He suddenly felt guilty for their announcement not being an engagement. Lord knows he was trying. Steve never had to deal with the possible disapproval from Y/N’s parents for having a kid without being married. Bucky wondered if he was going to take twice the blame this time around.

Y/N’s mother was practically cheering as she went into the kitchen to get dessert and somehow managed to drag her husband with her. Y/N’s sister and Jimmy disappeared to watch a movie in the living room together.

“I told you they would be happy.” Y/N whispered to Bucky before giving him a quick peck.

He gave her a shy smile before pulling her in for another kiss.

“I thought you’d be more relieved.” Y/N’s smile faltered when she could tell that something was still bothering him. “Buck, what’s wrong?”

“Nothing. I’m happy.” He kissed her again, prolonging it this time.

“Gross. Get a room.” Jimmy joked as he walked back in.

Bucky playfully glared at him and threw his napkin in the teenager’s face. “Congrats, you just won yourself dish duty.” He caught it before it could hit him.

Jimmy groaned but didn’t argue. Without another word from Bucky or his mom, he started picking up the dirty plates from the dinner table.

“And thank your grandparents for dinner!” Y/N warned before Jimmy left the room with his hands full of dishes.

“He already did...twice. Boy’s more polite than you are, Y/N.” Her dad interrupted as he brought in a plate of brownies. “I think you have to thank that man of yours for Jimmy’s manners.”

Bucky blushed at the roundabout compliment.

“Does that mean I can thank you for my rudeness?” Y/N teased.

It was moments like these that made Bucky so grateful for Y/N. She was the only thing in his life that ever made him forget his past. Whenever he was with her, he just felt normal.

He was brought out of his head as he watched Y/N shove too much brownie in one bite. Resulting in half of it hanging out of her mouth.

Then she squinted at him and babbled something he couldn’t understand.

Bucky laughed at her antics.

When she finally managed to swallow the brownie, she laughed. “I said, ‘See, I do have manners!’”

---

It had been over an hour since Y/N fell asleep.

Meanwhile, Bucky had just been staring at the ceiling. He didn’t feel even remotely tried, despite the long day they had.

Finally he gave up. As quietly as he could, Bucky slipped out of bed. Y/N’s parents had a pretty deck in their backyard. He figured it would be a good place to think alone. In just a baggy pair of sweatpants, Bucky sat down in a chair and stared out at the fireflies in the distance.

A few minutes later he heard footsteps from inside the home. But he knew they were too heavy to belong to Y/N and they were too slow to be Jimmy’s.

The glass door slid open and Bucky glanced over his shoulder to find Y/N’s dad with two glasses of whiskey in his hands.

“Figured you’d be out here.” He muttered as if this meeting had been prearranged and handed Bucky one of the glasses.

Bucky instantly misread the situation. “Sir, I believe I owe you an apology.”

“An apology? What for?”

“Not asking for your permission before proposing to Y/N. I know we’re not engaged… but Y/N made the comment at dinner and-”

His tangent was cut off when Y/N’s dad started chuckling. “That’s a little outdated, don’t you think? Y/N is her own person. She doesn’t need my blessing or permission for anyone to propose to her. If you haven’t realized…my daughter has always been rather progressive and headstrong.”

Bucky relaxed a little. But he had no idea what the purpose of this conversation was now. He decided to take a sip of the whiskey and wait for some sort of direction.

“You’re starting to doubt yourself, aren’t you?” Y/N’s dad said while looking straight ahead. “About being a good father.”

Bucky swallowed.

“That’s why you couldn’t sleep, right?”

Bucky turned to him and nodded uneasily.

“Same thing happened to my when my wife was pregnant with Y/S’s/N. I convinced myself that I had no right raising another human being.”

Bucky didn’t say anything.

“James,” He never called him Bucky. “I’m not going to try and pretend to know what you’ve had to go through in life. But I do know one thing: you’re a good man. I see how happy you make Y/N. And it’s apparent what type of positive influence you’ve had on Jimmy.” He took a sip. “There’s not a doubt in my mind that you’ll make a great father.”

“What changed?” Bucky asked softly.

“Hmm?”

“What convinced you that you could be a father?”

“Honestly? Nothing. I was too busy worrying about Y/N’s mother. I couldn’t be selfish and waste time doubting myself while she was already living the pregnancy. So I just focused on her. Then when Y/S’s/N was born, I just took it a day at a time. Listen, I know that’s not very helpful. But nobody knows what the hell they’re doing… Especially the men. But you’ll figure it out. I promise.”

They finished their whiskey in comfortable silence. Bucky never really knew what Y/N’s father thought of him. What would any father think about The Winter Soldier dating their daughter? Bucky always assumed he thought he wasn’t good enough for Y/N. But that suspicion couldn’t withhold after tonight.

Bucky realized it was ridiculous to expect Y/N’s dad to think so low of him. After all, he raised her. That kindness and quiet confidence didn’t all come from just her mother.

Bucky eventually got back into bed with Y/N, who was still peacefully asleep.

However her body scooted closer to him as soon as he was back under the covers.

“Everything okay?” Y/N surprised him my asking.

He could tell her voice that she was only half awake. Her eyes weren’t even open.

“Y/N… Am I going to be a good father?” He whispered.

“No… you’re going to be the best.” Y/N answered before immediately falling back to sleep.

Bucky chuckled. He doubted that she would even remember their little conversation in the morning. But it comforted him nonetheless.

-------

Part 15

Sorry this took me longer than usual. I was traveling and work has been crazy. Thank you for your patience. 

[alphacrone]

All Decked Out Like a Cowboy's Dream

[Part of the Blue-Eyed Jack ‘Verse]

CW: food mentions, homophobia mentions, being publicly out

When Jack and Bitty started publicly dating, the internet, well...the internet broke, just a little.

Though they were only known in their respective circles -- most of Bitty’s colleagues hadn’t heard of Jack and vice versa -- it was a big deal. Bitty was suddenly hailed as the “gay Carrie Underwood” and Jack had to order a moratorium on all jokes about his sexy “tractor.” They got the usual “keep your private life private” criticism from the AFA people (“Would that I could, y’all.”) and some nasty remarks from sports commentators, but it wasn’t as if either of them was coming out for the first time.

Mostly they both just had to suffer through the Blue-Eyed Jack memes. It seemed a fair price to pay for being able to date openly.

They’d only been dating a few months when Bitty approached Jack with a nervous, hopeful smile. They were in Vancouver on a short vacation together, walking hand-in-hand through the Granville Island market, pointing at the seagulls stealing food and laughing. They’d wandered down away from the market proper to a boat dock, and Jack read out the silliest boat names to Bitty in a straight-faced monotone. If he were being honest with himself, Bitty hadn’t laughed like this in a long time, even with all the time he spent with his goofy band. Jack was special, and Bitty was very, very lucky.

“So, I, uh, wanted to run something by you,” Bitty said as they fell into a comfortable silence. “You’re not busy on June 15th, are you?”

Jack raised an eyebrow. The Falcs had been knocked out of playoffs in the first round, hence the vacation -- Jack had needed to get far away and Bitty had needed to comfort his boyfriend in person. “I don’t have anything planned. Why?”

“Well, um…” Bitty scuffed his toe against the sidewalk. “That’s the night of the CMT Music Awards. I have a plus-one, was thinkin’ of reaching out to Troye Sivan to be my date, back before you. But, um...I know you don’t like public events…”

“Bits.” Jack squeezed his hand tighter and grinned. “I’d love to be your plus-one.”

“Really?” Bitty let out a deep sigh and leaned up against Jack’s arm. “That’s...I’m happy.”

“I’ve never been to Nashville outside of playing the Preds,” Jack said. “You’ll have to show me the sights.”

Bitty laughed, feeling a million times lighter. “Oh, yeah, I can show you all the crappy dives I used to play at. Oh! And the diner where I used to wash dishes. The fry cook there let me help him, sometimes, on slow nights. He even admitted my flapjacks were better than his.” Bitty sighed, swinging Jack’s arm up and around his shoulder so he could tuck himself in against his boyfriend. “As soon as I hit my break, I sent him money for his daughter’s school supplies. I sent money to every bar owner in the city who gave me a chance, too, and the blues band that found me on the streets that first week and gave me a couch to crash on. There are a lot of snakes in Nashville,” he continued, voice growing softer. “But if it hadn’t been for the good people, I don’t even know if I would’ve survived. I try to visit them all, every time I’m in town. Gotta remember your roots,” he added with a laugh. “When interviewers ask about my family, I tell ‘em that the kind folks of the world are my family, and I’m theirs.”

Jack bent down suddenly to kiss Bitty, soft and sweet. “I don’t know how someone as positive and gracious as you ever agreed to date someone like me,” he said, smile teasing. “But I’m very, very glad.”

“Well, according to TMZ, it’s for your NHL paycheck,” Bitty chirped, slipping his hand into the back pocket of Jack’s jeans. “And this fella here.” He squeezed Jack’s ass, laughing.

Jack snorted and pulled Bitty along the path, back up to the crowded market. “C’mon, I saw a cheese stand inside. I know how you are about fancy cheeses.”

“You get me,” Bitty said, fluttering his eyelashes. “Lead the way, Mr. Zimmermann.”

  Despite Bitty renting a perfectly good house with his band, Jack got himself an overpriced suite in a fancy hotel as a treat for the two of them after the awards. Bitty suddenly didn’t care if Bitty & the Biscuits won anything -- he just wanted to spend the evening drinking with his band and then retire to the giant bed with ridiculously soft pillows to spend some alone time with his favorite person.

Unfortunately, that meant his favorite person wasn’t at the house to get ready with Bitty and the rest of the band. Their rented car would swing by the hotel to pick up on the way, but while Jack got to dress and primp in peace, Bitty was running around the house with three other panicked guys plus their dates and several stylists.

Despite his threat to invite Alexei Mashkov to the awards, Ransom had settled on Lardo as his date because he thought their height difference was hilarious and would make for great red carpet photos. Dex, the giant nerd that he was, had flown his grandmother down from Maine to be his plus-one. Chowder was bringing his girlfriend, Caitlin, whose natural Cara Delevingne brows and Target-sale-rack dress put them all to shame.

Bitty himself was dressed in a snazzy sky-blue suit with the top buttons of his shirt undone. His hair was coiffed spectacularly -- “The higher the hair, the closer to God,” he’d joked with his stylist. -- and his shoes were gold and shinier than anything. Bitty looked good and he hoped Us Weekly agreed.

Somehow, they managed to get the whole band and their dates into the small, white limo on time and headed towards the hotel where Jack was waiting. Ransom and Lardo kept chirping him about “seeing the bride before the wedding” or something equally as dumb, but Bitty simply ignored them and texted Jack that they were on their way.

When they pulled up to the taxi circle in front of the hotel, Bitty literally felt his jaw drop. Because there, waiting, in the tightest jeans he’d ever seen and a pair of gosh darn cowboy boots stood his boyfriend and sexiest man alive. His ass was a national treasure when he wore tennis shoes and basketball shorts; when he wore heeled boots and well-tailored jeans? The Zimmer-booty was the eighth modern wonder of the world.

“Well, shit, Bits,” Lardo said, following his gaze. “You hit the Jack-pot.”

Ransom snorted with laughter and Bitty couldn’t even find it in himself to be annoyed. He wondered how rude it would be to skip the awards and drag Jack upstairs to his suite immediately.

The driver came around and opened the door for Jack, and he crawled in with a shy grin. “You look really, really great,” he told Bitty, taking in his blue suit and styled hair. “You’re gonna steal the show.”

Bitty shook his head slowly. “No, I don’t think I am.”

When Jack cocked his head in confusion, Lardo clarified. “You look hot, Jack. You broke Bitty.”

“Really?” Jack looked surprised, then smug. “But it’s so early in the evening.”

The entire limo ooh-ed in dramatically scandalized tones. Even Dex’s grandmother laughed at the insinuation. Ransom elbowed Bitty in the ribs until Bitty smacked his arm hard.

“Shush,” Bitty said as the car began to drive again. “Let’s just discuss this year’s drinking game.”

“Alright,” Dex said, pulling a piece of paper from his pocket. “Take a shot every time someone trips or falls. Take a drink for every cowboy hat you see. Take a sip for every time Carrie Underwood changes her outfit. Oh!” Dex sighed and shoved the paper back into his jacket. “Chug your drink every time someone makes an off-color joke about us.”

“Great,” Ransom said. “We’ll be wasted within an hour.”

“None of them better say anything ugly about you boys,” Grandma Poindexter said crossly. “Else they’ll answer to me.”

“Wow, Dex,” Chowder said. “Your grandma is, like, way cooler than you.”

The boys chirped and fought the entire ride to the awards, leaving Bitty to reign in his overwhelmed little heart in relative peace.

  They didn’t win.

Bitty really hadn’t been expecting to, but it stung all the same.

Still -- he’d gotten to take drunk selfies with Kacey Musgraves and Jack had found Mike Fisher pretty quickly, two hockey boys in a sea of country stars. (Bitty could see the headlines already: Hockey Invasion?) There’d only been one tone-deaf gay joke about him, and Willie Nelson had smiled at him as he passed by his table. Dolly came over at one point to hug him tightly and make him promise to spend a day in the studio with her so they could record a duet or two. All in all, it had been a good evening.

And it was about to get better.

Bitty’s drunkenness had faded into a tired sort of buzz by the time he and Jack were dropped off at the hotel. They staggered to the room, giggly and sluggish. Bitty jumped onto the bed and kicked off his shoes, relishing the expensive squishiness of the mattress pad.

“You hungry, bud?” Jack asked, closing the door behind him. He shed his sports jacket, revealing the tight, white t-shirt underneath. Lord, he was the spitting image of the country hunk Bitty had dreamt about as a teenager. It suddenly really didn’t matter that Bitty & the Biscuits had lost -- Bitty had his award right here.

“Starving,” Bitty said, trying to sound suggestive, but the rumbling of his stomach ruined the moment.

Jack pulled out the room service menu, sitting down on the bed next to Bitty. “I could go for a burger. You wanna split a dessert?”

Bitty smiled up at Jack. “I want to make a comment about you being my dessert, but I also really want something smothered in chocolate.”

Jack laughed and pulled Bitty up until he was leaning against his chest. “Cheeseburger and fries for me. A ‘molten lava brownie deluxe’ for dessert. And…?”

“Ooh, fettuccine alfredo,” Bitty said with a happy sigh. “Yes, please.”

“It worries me how much dairy you eat,” Jack said teasingly. “And one giant bowl of cream and carbs, coming right up.”

“Just for that, you’re not getting any,” Bitty said petulantly. “Of either sort.”

Jack laughed and kissed Bitty’s head. “Will you love me again if I take you out for breakfast in the morning?”

“Maybe.” Bitty snuggled in closer, biting lightly at the underside of Jack’s jaw. “Will there be biscuits and gravy?”

“Of course,” Jack said. “To continue your diet of cream and carbs.”

“Chirp, chirp, chirp,” Bitty huffed. “It’s like you don’t want to get laid at all.”

“Bittle,” Jack said seriously, a smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “I saw how you looked at my ass all night. I have no fears about not getting laid.”

Bitty pouted and slapped Jack’s stomach lightly. “I knew I should’ve called Troye,” he said grumpily. “Troye wouldn’t be this rude to me.”

Jack laughed. “Troye’s ass wouldn’t look this good in jeans, either.”

“Ugh, just order the food you narcissist,” Bitty said. “You know the true way to my heart is through my stomach.”

“That I do,” Jack said smugly, leaning down to kiss Bitty again before picking up the phone. “That I do.”

“Love you, Cowboy,” Bitty murmured as Jack dialed the front desk. “Love you, too,” Jack whispered. “Hello? Yes, I’d like to order room service…”

[READ PART FOUR]

[OMGCP Country Singer AU]

[My writing tag]

[My online novel, The Discourt Knife]