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dearlazerbunny · 5 years

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If/When/Then

Pairings: Kyoya Ootori x Reader

Genre/Ratings: Five Times trope; G, mentions of severe anxiety

Words: 4200

Summary: Or, five times Kyoya didn’t kiss you (and the one time he did)

WARNING: the last bit gets a little angsty

One

“Kyoya. I swear to god. Can we please just-” you rub your eyes exhaustedly, trying to get the harsh blue glow of your laptop out from under your eyelids- “take a break? Or better yet, call it a night?”

The boy sitting across from you on the sofa glances up, his work reflected in his glasses. “How many words do you have?”

“Kyoyaaaaaaaa-”

“Y/N. How many words?” His tone is partially amused but mostly paternal, like he’s asking a small child how many candies they snuck before dinner. If you weren’t so brain dead it’d piss you off, but as it is you’re mostly just petulant.

“Um… three thousand and… something?”

A slender finger pushes his glasses further up his nose. “And the minimum word count is…?”

“You damn well know,” you mumble, before letting your head drop into your hands. One of your elbows is resting on your keyboard, leaving a long trail of jjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjs across your half-finished essay.

“What was that?” A socked foot aims a kick at his shin, but your aim goes wide and he dodges it easily. “I believe the answer is six thousand.”

You give a long, heartfelt groan.

Kyoya sighs. He can easily knock out an essay in under an hour, while you require a little more effort- and a lot more bribery. Even if English is one of your best subjects, he knows sitting here for the past few hours laboring over a boring political comparison has to be dragging on you. And he’s been too caught up in his own work to even try to keep your spirits up- something he’s now regretting, seeing the usual sparkle in your eye dull to something uncharacteristically quiet.

“Here.” He reaches over the edge of his perch and feels for the basket of blankets he knows will be sitting there- his sister has a fondness for being wrapped in a minimum of three layers at all times. Carefully, as so not to disturb his own precious computer, he reaches over and drapes a loose-knit woolen beauty over your lap. He even takes a second to tuck the ends over your toes. You watch, fascinated, so used to his fingers tapping out mile-a-minute documents in a harsh staccato that this moment of softness seems unreal. Maybe you’ve already fallen asleep and are dreaming, or it’s a particularly nice sort of 2AM hallucination. Kyoya notices you staring- of course he does, he notices far too much about you nowadays to try and convince himself he only values you as a friend- and very pointedly looks anywhere but your gaze. He’s not sure he could look away if he caught your eye now, hazy with sleep and reflecting starlight from the nearby open window. “Better?”

“Um- yeah.” You settle a little further into the cushions. “Thanks.”

He nods, not trusting himself to speak.

Of course, when he glances over at you not ten minutes later, you’re fast asleep, laptop precariously close to toppling to the floor. He rescues it and saves your work before shutting it down. There’s a slight smile on your face as you dream, and the overwhelming urge to lean over and press a kiss to your forehead makes Kyoya stop still.

His fixation on you has grown over the past few months, that much is clear, but he hadn’t predicted them to progress this quickly this fast. He has his grades to maintain, a club to run, and a company to prepare for. He shouldn’t have time for silly distractions, like categorizing exactly how peaceful you look curled up next to him, or reaching out and brushing a piece of hair out of your eyes.

He shouldn’t. And yet, he does- he always will, for you.

Two

“Remind me again who said this was a good idea?” You squint your eyes as you turn your face towards the sky, which is lit by a brilliant sun. The Host Club is hosting on location this time- a beautiful stretch of beach peppered by towels, umbrellas, waiters offering fruity drinks, and a couple hundred squealing girls. You know. Relaxing. “I think I might like to punch them.”

“You might talk to Mori about a healthy and productive way to manage your rampant anger issues.” You snort and roll your eyes, which in turn makes the corner of Kyoya’s mouth tick up. He’s under an umbrella nearby, neatly marking down figures on his notepad. “Besides, I thought you liked the water.”

“I do, when it’s not so…” you gesture to the gaggle of twenty or so girls nearby, all primping and twisting in their bikinis to hopefully catch the eye of their favorite host- “crowded.”

“Ah.” He can sympathize with that. The smell of salt and brine takes him back to childhood, with the two of you making castles in the sand and pestering the other with seashell-finding competitions. Beach days were lazy days when your parents couldn’t be bothered to have either of you in the house, but to the two of you they were worth their weight in gold. Today, as he watches you stretch into the heat, his childhood friend is overshone by the you of here and now. You’re gorgeous in a simple one piece more stunning than any of the frills the other guests are wearing and hair in a sea-woven braid dangling down your back. Likewise, the Kyoya of here and now is having some thoughts that his five-year-old self have would never even dreamt of.

“I’m going swimming. If I don’t come back in an hour, tell Tamaki it’s his fault for dragging us all out here.”

“Hm? Oh,” Kyoya clears his throat. “Yes, of course.”

You throw him a glance- is he acting strangely? You can’t quite tell; it might just be the heat- before jogging off towards the waves, well away from the party as a whole.

He watches you go, and thinks about going with you, before a guest trills his name and his attention is dragged back to where he doesn’t want it to be.

At the end of the day, the crowd has left, and the club gets a precious hour or so of pink sky and calm surf to themselves. Hikaru, Kaoru, and Haruhi are searching the shoreline for shells and sand dollars; Mori is hauling damp sand for Honey’s massive sand castle; and Tamaki surveys all of them like a proud father. You and Kyoya are sitting a little away, just close enough to the water to let it kiss your toes. “This is more what I remember,” you murmur, a smile on your face, and Kyoya digs his fingers into the sand so they don’t accidentally wind their way around yours like they want to.

“Oh, here.” You pluck your friend’s glasses from his face and use the towel draped loosely over your shoulders to wipe the lenses. When you hand them back, Kyoya has a bit of a stunned expression on his face, making you giggle. “Sorry. They had salt on them. Seemed like it would annoy you.”

“Indeed,” is what he says, willing his tone to be nonchalant or at least neutral. What he wants to say is, do you remember when we were eleven, and you tried the same thing? You ended up getting knocked over by a wave and lost them in the ocean. I was so mad at you, but I still had to hold your hand on the way home so I wouldn’t fall. You didn’t let me trip. Not once.

If he were a braver, bolder, better person, he’d kiss you right now, and see how you taste like salt and sunshine and memories. But he isn’t, so he doesn’t- he lets the Hitachiin twins, who are sneaking up behind you, douse you in water instead. He lets you shriek at them and take chase, threatening to drown them both, breaking the moment and leaving him sitting by the sea alone to remember what was and what might be.

Three

It’s safe to assume that Valentine’s Day is never a dull affair in Music Room 3.

Everything is decorated with lace and delicate crystal trimmings; the roses are even more bountiful and in every color the human eye can see. The attire is more formal than usual, the cheeks rosier and the lips pinker, and it tends to be the one day when the hosts receive more than give.

Each of their tables is piled high with gifts, cards, baked goods swirled with elaborate frostings. Even though Tamaki keeps insisting that the girls should be the ones receiving sweet nothings, not the hosts, you can tell he’s more than pleased by the growing mound of sentiments slowly dwarfing the other boys’. As it should be, Kyoya supposes.

Honey’s haul is mostly sweets, naturally, and this year Mori also has a surprising armload- apparently one of the only times his admirers hear him speak is when he says ‘thank you’, leading to multiple gifts just so they can hear his voice more than once. Hikaru and Kaoru’s combined mountain looks more like a dragon’s treasure horde than a pile of presents. Haruhi adamantly refused everything until one guest brought her a particularly excellent platter of fish, based on the way she’s been sitting in the corner with her cheeks stuffed for the last twenty minutes.

Kyoya notes all of this with a vague smile, adjusting his calculations and trajectories for the next few months to match the turnout. Valentine’s Day is one holiday he can generally sit out. Sure, there’s a small stack of cards and remember-me’s on the sofa next to him, but his persona as the analytical and aloof host tends to leave him further down in the ranks than the other boys. Which is just fine with him, if he’s being honest- he has manners, but being constantly charming is tiring at best and egregiously aggravating at worst.

“Mother Dearest, it appears you have another card to add to your beautiful collection!” Tamaki flounces over in his wine-colored suit, at least thirty guests in pursuit. “It doesn’t come with a giver, unfortunately- oh! Perhaps you have a secret admireeeeeer!” He wiggles his fingers excitedly and hands over the card with a flourish. “How exciting! A mystery for Valentine’s Day!” His groupies sigh and fan their faces, overcome with the romance and intrigue of it all.

“Thank you, Tamaki,” Kyoya says drily, nimbly plucking the proffered gift from the boy’s fingers. “Please, don’t ignore your guests on my account.”

“I would never! Each and every one of my princesses mean the world to me!” As he and his followers fade back to the other side of the room, Kyoya props his glasses back up on his nose and curiously slides his thumb under the flap of the envelope. It’s a plain white paper, not embellished with hearts or gemstones or ribbon or any of the other garish decorations usually attached to such a thing. The card is similarly simplistic, with only a pencil-sketched heart on the outside and a greeting that reads, “To My Favorite Host.”

Interesting. Perhaps there’s a mystery here after all. He flips it open, not sure what to expect- and immediately has to keep himself from laughing outright. Inside is a crude sketch of two stick figures- one has comically large glasses drawn on its blank face to helpfully distinguish itself as the Kyoya of the pair- and note in chicken scratch: You’re such an asshole, but I guess I love you anyways.

Only one person could be responsible for such a thing. After all, you were never renowned for your artistic talents.

…

“I got your… note.”

You don’t look up from the book you’re paging through out in the courtyard underneath a spectacular old tree. The leaves frame you beautifully against the afternoon sky. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Mmm. I found the art particularly museum worthy.”

Now you smile a bit. “Well, you’re a museum worthy sorta guy.”

“Favorite host is quite the compliment.” He’s getting dangerously close to… something; toeing a line he hasn’t touched before, and it’s making his heart race.

“Don’t get too cocky. Mori’s still got like, an eight-pack.”

Kyoya sits beside you, careful to leave several tree roots between you and him. “Why a valentine? I see you every day; you could have just told me yourself.”

“I dunno.” He fixes you with a look, one that says sure, I believe you. You give a halfhearted shrug, shoulder almost brushing Kyoya’s. “I went by the music room. Everyone else had, like, mountains of stuff and I just… felt like you were under-appreciated, that’s all.”

“I see.” A beat passes with nothing but the wind ruffling your hair. “That’s… kind of you.”

Now you do close the gap between the two of you, nudging your knee against his. “You’re welcome, asshole.”

Four

Your laugh, Kyoya thinks, is the best thing he’s ever heard.

You’re draped over the edge of his bed, head towards the floor, giggling wildly to yourself as you mutter an inside joke that only make sense to you. Your cheeks are flushed, and the bottle of alcohol you snuck into Kyoya’s room is sitting a few feet away, half full. He’s had a few sips, but he isn’t much for relinquishing his mental faculties so easily. It’s tempting, though, what with you so lazily tapping his shoulder or nudging his side to get his attention- it’d be so easy to demolish all his carefully crafted walls and drown in you.

But someone has to be the responsible one- and if he’s honest with himself, the thought of you or he regretting what happened in the dead of night come light of day makes him sick to his stomach. So he sits primly against his headboard, the computer on his lap a boulder pinning him to his spot, only glancing at you every so often to make sure you haven’t tumbled off the bed completely, despite your absolutely intoxicating mood coaxing him closer and closer to throwing caution to the wind.

“-and you’re just… you’re just a good person,” you continue, meandering through your thoughts. “Like, seriously. Why do you have to be so amazing. It’s so goddamn annoying.”

He desperately hopes you’re too out of it to notice the reddening of his own cheeks. “I am hardly what anyone would call ‘good.’”

“Lies! Lies. And. Slander.” You emphasize every word with a poke to various parts of his body- his big toe, his elbow, his knee. “Like- okay. What are you working on right now?”

In actuality he’s browsing through the Ootori Group’s latest research and development journals, evaluating their recent findings and sifting the unimportant from the extraordinary. But you’re most likely far too gone to actually understand any of that, so instead he just generalizes: “refining new data from the company.”

“Yeah! You wanna be a fucking doctor, that’s like- that’s amazing!”

Kyoya quirks an eyebrow. “You do realize my entire family is in the medical profession.”

“No, your entire family throws their money at the medical profession.” You wave a finger in the air like a drunk scientist hypothesizing their theories. “There’s a difference.”

“I’ll take your word for it.”

“No, listen you jerk!” You haul yourself up and place yourself face-to-face with your best friend, close enough that Kyoya can see the intensity in your eyes. “It’s one thing to pay for shit, it’s another to actually be in the room when someone is having a heart attack and wanting to save their life. You care. More than anyone I know. And that makes you amazing.” You let out a rush of air, the sudden verve in your words having worn you out. “I dunno. Maybe that doesn’t make any sense. Whatever. I’m gonna lay down.” You curl up next to his knee and half heartedly arrange a blanket around your legs before falling asleep.

Meanwhile, Kyoya’s gaze has never left your face. The words may have been spoken by a loose tongue, but anyone could hear the honesty in your voice and see the passion in your eyes. You really think that much of him? Or rather, could you possibly think as much of him as he does of you?

He wishes he could shake you awake and ask you to elaborate. He wishes he could tell you that if he’s amazing, you’re a supernova. He wishes he could get drunk and fall asleep next to you while pressing lazy kisses anywhere he can reach.

His reaches for the bottle, but his fingers barely brush the glass before changing course and clicking off the lamp instead.

Five

God, I hate these things, you think to yourself as you tug on the straps of your dress. You’re not quite sure if you’re referring to the pins sticking your scalp, the uncomfortable formal gown you’re squeezed into, or the entire event in general- actually, it’s most likely all of the above. As much as you love Kyoya and the rest of the boys, you adamantly refuse to attend any of their grand balls. You’re not a fussy person, so the general pompous air of the things always gives you a headache, and you hate wearing dresses anyways. But today you zipped yourself into a slinky black sheath number that’s long enough to hide tennis shoes under the hem, forced your hair into something presentable, and even threw on a little mascara.

Because of Kyoya.

Kyoya, who mentioned in passing that this was the best celebration he’d ever planned, and seemed extremely proud of it to boot. Kyoya, who always grumbles as he slips on his suit, wishing he could spend the night with his charts and figures instead. Kyoya, who always returns to school the next day more stressed than usual, a tight smile plastered on his face as he fends off hordes of fangirls.

The things you do for this boy.

It’s immediately clear when you arrive that you stand out in your ebony gown, a wisp of smoke and night sky amongst a sea of flouncy pastels. Luckily, each of the boys steps up to greet you- a sweet hug from Honey, carefully avoiding wrinkling your dress; good natured teasing from the twins; a particularly extravagant complimentary poem from Tamaki. Eventually you meet Haruhi at the table laden with food, grateful for someone down to earth to laugh with.

After an hour, you’re almost convinced Kyoya finally worked up the nerve to skip the event altogether when there’s a delicate gap on your shoulder. “Would you care for a dance?”

“No,” you say, because that’s what you always say when Kyoya asks you to do something (even if he knows you’ll do it anyways). He smiles and takes your elbow, ignoring the whispers and glares from the other guests- who is she? What makes her so special? Everything, he wishes he could tell them. So many things he it would take him years to count them all.

“I thought you hated these things,” he says when you’re safely tucked in his arms on the dance floor. The fabric of your dress shimmers softly, as though marking you as something uniquely precious amongst all the other attendees.

“I do,” you reply. You’re slowly taking his lead, following the waltz music played by a six-piece orchestra. “But I think you hate them more, so I figured if anything I could help put you out of your misery.”

“Hm. Poisoned boutonnière, perhaps?”

“I was thinking more along the lines of hiding up in the rafters with a blowdart gun.”

Kyoya chuckles, sweeping you along. You’re not a bad dancer, all things considered. “I appreciate the thoughtfulness, though that might be difficult given your choice of attire.”

You grin at him playfully, raising your hem up just enough so he can see your battered old sneakers on your feet. “Nah, I always come prepared.”

It’s such an odd juxtaposition- this beautiful girl in the sinful dress accessorizing with sharpie-covered shoes that are peeling rubber- he can’t help but laugh, a real laugh, perhaps the first one he’s given since the night began. Even out of your element, you still maintain something that is so quintessentially you. He wishes he could tell you how beautiful you look. He wishes he could nudge your sneaker with his dress shoe in a secret invitation to follow him somewhere quiet, to steal small fleeting moments that would make the whole night worth its while.

He thinks about this every time you scuff your feet, hearing the slight squeak of rubber against the polished tile floor.

And the beginning…

“Stop it, Kyoya,” you grit out through a clenched jaw, using all your strength to unfold your friend’s fingers from his bloody palms. His fingernails have dug so far into the skin they’ve left bright red crescent moons dotting his hands. You focus on those, trying to soothe the sting with the fabric of your shirt, because if you look at his face and the tears crawling down his cheeks you’ll start crying too, and that’s not what either of you need right now. “Just talk to me. Please.”

No response. He’s trembling as though there’s a blizzard only he can feel, so you sit him on your bed and wrap him in every blanket you have, leaving his hands free so he can clutch at yours like a lifeline. “Just focus on me, okay? Everything is fine.” You try to keep your voice steady as you murmur anything reassuring you can think of, trying to coax life back into his eyes. You knew his anxiety had gotten worse, but this… this is the most catastrophic yet. You sit cross legged in front of him, so close your knees brush his, and hold onto his fingers for dear life. “Keep breathing. I’m here. It’s all okay.” Please please please come back to me. Come on, Kyoya. Don’t let the demons win.

Slowly, piece by piece, something in him seems to uncoil. His grip lessens just a little, and his breathing becomes audible enough to reassure you he’s still with you. Gently, you put a hand to his forehead, then cheek, testing his temperature. “Hey. You with me?”

Something like a sob escapes his lips, thin and heartbroken. Your own shatters along with it. In an instant you have him in a hug, arms as tight around him as you can possibly manage. Kyoya tucks his head into the crook of your neck, practically collapsing on top of you until you aren’t sure where he stops and you start. He says your name over and over and over again, a hymn only he can hear. You press your lips to his temple just to reassure yourself he hasn’t left you and let him cry; only able to offer comfort in presence and spirit. “Thank you,” he murmurs against your skin, and you hold him tighter.

“I’m always here. You know that.”

He sniffs and wipes away a tear with the heel of his hand, wincing when the salt burns his cuts. “Idiotic. I apologize for… all of this.”

“Stop,” you say firmly. You bring his eyes up to meet yours, so he can see the fire in your gaze. “You have nothing to apologize for. Ever. Okay?”

Kyoya stares back at you, feeling small and worthless against the monsters in his own brain. Every second spent with you banishes them a little farther back into his mind, loosening the vises wrapping his chest and letting him breathe a little easier. It has almost consumed him today, so he ran to the only safe place he knows- you. And you had held him and wiped his tears and not for a single second judged him for falling apart.

It occurs to him you are one of the few people on earth who see him for who he truly is, and will still hold his hands anyways.

Ever so gently, he presses his lips to yours- soft, tentative, and barely there. It’s a thank you, and offering, and a question all at once. It’s not the grand romantic gestures he’s planned late at night, wanting to sweep you off your feet in a shower of confidence and joy, or even really a conscious decision- it’s instinct, want, and something like bittersweet love.

You blink at him, eyes wide. “Kyoya… I-”

He stills. “I’m sorry.”

You shake your head, bringing a hand up to press your fingers against his cheekbone. “Don’t ever be sorry,” you say again, and then you kiss him back. You kiss him like it’s all you’ve ever wanted to do; like you’re saying to him what took you so long, you idiot?

He doesn’t know. But he won’t ever make that mistake again. He’ll kiss you every day for as long as he lives to make up for all that lost time, all those late nights and seaside musings and dances with a hand on the small of your back.

When the sun rises, it illuminates a world of a thousand new possibilities.

#Kyoya Ootori #kyoya x reader #Kyoya x you #ohshc kyoya #reader insert #ohshc fic #ohshc fanfiction #ohshc angst #ohshc fluff #kyoya ootori angst #kyoya ootori fluff #kyoya imagines #kyoya ootori imagines #ohshc imagines

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thespian-wallflower · 4 years

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Just One Drink (Hazbin Hotel Fanfic)

(Hi! It’s been literally forever since I’ve posted a fic to my Tumblr account, but I wrote this one just for fun about a week ago. Yay, distancing.

Angel Dust x Husk, one-shot, takes place the same night as the pilot. Angel and Husk share some bonding time at the bar, and they talk about serious subjects. Alastor makes an appearance. Abuse mention. Rated M mostly for language and sexual references, normal for Hazbin. Threw a couple of personal headcanons in here, but I tried my best to be accurate to the characters. Enjoy!)

“Oh, bartender!” a familiar voice sang in a thick New York accent. Don’t look at him.

“Huskie?” No acknowledgement, and he’ll go away. “HUSK!” Silence.

“Ay, I’m talkin’ to you, pussycat!” Husk whirled around, slamming his paws on the bar counter and baring his teeth aggressively at the spider demon who taunted him. “What?? What the fuck do you want?” Angel Dust blinked in surprise at the cat demon’s outburst, but his shocked expression was quickly replaced by a coy smile. “Um, a drink, obviously. This is a bar, remember.” It wasn’t a question. He hoisted himself up on the counter, sprawling out into a relaxed position before speaking up again. “You’re gonna need a test subject for your first drink, right?” Husk rolled his eyes. “Look, I just got here. And I’m really not in the mood for your shit. Now get your ass off the counter.” Angel shrugged, ignoring the request. “It’s been a few hours. You had dinner with us and everything. Can’t you settle in, for me?” Angel batted his eyelashes in a flirtatious manner, which made Husk snort in disgust. “Why should I? I’m already being forced to work here against my fuckin’ will.” He glared across the room at Alastor, who was wandering around, sizing the place up. The Radio Demon caught Husk’s eye and grinned wider before wiggling his fingers in a condescending wave. Husk replied by flipping the bird.

Angel sighed. “Look, let me finish one drink, and I’m outta your hair for the night. Demon’s honor.” He raised two sets of right hands. With a bitter laugh, Husk stated plainly, “Demons have no honor.” “Hey, I’m tryin’ to reform here. Give a guy the benefit of the doubt, babe.”

Husk glared at Angel Dust for a moment, arms folded, then asked, “What’ll it be?”

“Sex on the Beach, thank ya much. I’m feelin’ something fruity tonight.”

Husk gathered the ingredients and started to make the drink. “Yeah, well, that’s fitting, because you look fruity, too.”

Angel chuckled lightly. “Clever. But if that was meant to insult me, you’re gonna have to try harder. I’ve heard ‘em all, doll.” He folded his arms and smirked at the bartender. Nodding in acknowledgement, Husk replied, “Yeah, I know. You’re a sex worker. Biggest porn star in all of hell.”

Angel pushed up his chest fluff and grinned, his gold fang gleaming in the bar’s lighting. “Ah, a man of taste. Familiar with my work?”

“No comment.” Husk poured the drink into a glass, and garnished it with a maraschino cherry. “Order up.” He held the drink out to Angel, and grabbed a bottle of cheap booze for himself.

“Thanks!” Angel swung his legs around to Husk’s side of the counter and took the drink from his paw. “Hey, you can be honest with me. I don’t judge. I mean, my early work was a little rough, but if that’s how you li-”

“Enough sex jokes!” Husk snarled. “I made your drink! Now fuck off!”

Angel blew air out of the side of his mouth and rolled his eyes, not intimidated in the slightest. “Ya can’t get rid of me that easily. I said I’d leave after I finished my drink, remember? A deal’s a deal.” He took a sip and winked at Husk over the rim of the glass. Husk just shook his head in defeat. “I’m not in the mood to argue with you, so stay if you want to. I don’t really give two shits anymore.” He sighed and sipped more of his booze. “Why do you wanna talk to me, anyway?” “Aside from the fact that you’re hot as fuck, you fascinate me, Huskie.” Angel paused to sip his cocktail, then threw Husk a curveball. “You’ve been through a lot, haven’t you?”

Husk hopped up on the counter beside Angel, keeping a safe distance away. “Today? Yeah, I’ll say. I love being fucked with by that antlered asshole.”

“Nah, not with Alastor. I mean, like, entirely. When you get around like I do, ya get pretty good at reading other demons. You’re a drinker. And when you’re a drinker, there’s usually a reason behind it.”

Husk didn’t reply.

“Listen, I didn’t have the best life, and my afterlife ain’t so hot, either. I mean, look at me. I came from an abusive family, died, and I’m still gettin’ abused.” He paused again to take a sip of his drink. “It gets exhausting, never being good enough. Y’know?” Angel inched just the tiniest bit closer to Husk, who couldn’t tell whether or not it was intentional.

“Sure.” Husk scooted away and took another swig of his drink. God, when is this asshole going to leave me alone for the night?

Angel smoothed back his fluffy white hair. “Anyway, that’s partly why I’m here. I’ve been through a lotta shit, like you, and I feel like helpin’ Charlie is a step in the right direction. Just cuz my afterlife sucks doesn’t mean hers should, too. Guess I’m a people-pleaser.”

“With a job like yours, you have to be.”

“No shit.” He plucked a cherry from his glass and started munching on it. “I’m doing a crappy job of it, though. Got into a huge turf war today with my best friend. It was a blast. Literally! I blasted so many of those little egg fuckers!” He chuckled, then popped the cherry stem into his mouth, rolling it around with his tongue.

“Yeah, I saw it on the news. That whole thing was a fiasco. At least Pentious got fucked sideways today, thanks to Alastor.” He cringed as soon as the words came out of his mouth. “Never thought I’d thank him for anything.”

Angel halted his stem-tying to state loudly, “I wanna thank him for being a sexy motherfucker!” He raised his glass in a make-believe toast to the Radio Demon, who was currently nowhere to be found.

“Speak for yourself!”

“Mmmmhm!” Angel hummed in agreement, then stuck his tongue out, the expertly-tied cherry stem resting near the tip. “Ta-Da! A perfectly tied thhhtem! Imprethhhhed yet, Huthhhhker?” Spit flew with every “S” he attempted to enunciate. Husk wiped the spit from his face and growled at the spider demon. “I’ll be more impressed if you stop spitting all over me, slut!”

“Okay, buthhhhkill.” Angel carefully removed the stem from his tongue, chuckling at the fact that he’d gotten one final word in. “Just think! With a tongue like this, imagine what I can do to your dick, old timer!” He held the stem out to Husk, as if presenting a valuable gift. “For you!”

Husk smacked it out of his hands. “Get that shit away from me! And wipe your mouth, you’ve got drool all over your lips.”

“You’re zero fun!” Angel grabbed a cocktail napkin and wiped his mouth, then took another sip of his drink.

The pair shared another silent moment before Angel asked, “So what do you think of this place? And rehabilitation and all?”

Husk shrugged. “Too early to say.”

“Eh, fair enough. Who knows, though? This hotel just may be our ticket outta this shithole!” Angel flopped on his back and tipped his head backwards over the side of the counter, giving him an upside-down view of the lobby. He was closer to Husk than ever, but the cat demon didn’t bother to scoot away from him this time. “And wouldn’t that be somethin’?”

“Don’t push your luck.” Husk placed his empty bottle on the counter.

“Hey, you’re a gamblin’ man! You know all about luck-pushing!” Angel looked up at him and smiled. “Don’t ya?”

“I have my moments.” The hint of tenderness between the two demons came to an abrupt end when Husk snapped, “Finish your fucking drink so I can close this place up.”

“With pleasure!” Angel responded, sitting in an upright position, picking up his glass, and downing the rest of the cocktail in one swift gulp. “Ahhh. Not bad. Ever bartend before?”

“None of your concern!”

“Yeesh, so aggressive. And mysterious. Sexy, if you ask me,” Angel purred seductively, walking two fingers toward the cat demon’s crotch. Without a moment’s hesitation, Husk grabbed Angel’s hand and twisted his arm around, causing him to nearly fall off the counter.

“OW! OW! OW! Alright, alright!” Husk let go, and Angel’s arm throbbed painfully. “Damn, who pissed in your cereal?” he asked with a smirk. Aggressive or not, he was still intrigued by the new bartender.

“You, currently. Now get lost, will ya?”

“Fine!” Angel pouted for a moment, then hopped off the counter and glanced over his shoulder cheekily. “So, same time tomorrow?” He blew Husk a kiss, reminiscent of the one he had blown him earlier after Pentious’s defeat.

Husk growled playfully, hopped off the counter, grabbed his empty bottle, and chased after Angel with his arm raised, threatening to throw it at him.

Angel yelped and ran back to his room, laughing. “G’night, hot stuff!”

“Yeah, get fucked!” Husk yelled after him, then chuckled lightly to himself. He had to admit, if Angel hadn’t stopped by for a drink, the night wouldn’t have been nearly as interesting. He turned to walk back to the bar, only to see Alastor standing there, grinning at him. Husk’s faint smile quickly turned into a scowl. “And what the hell do you want?”

Alastor’s voice crackled to life in its usual static, showy and flamboyant. “My little Husker is already making friends, on his first evening on the job!” Al mocked, faux tears pooling in his eyes, his trademark smile staying put. “Ohh, they grow up so fast!” He whipped out a red pinstriped handkerchief and blew his nose with a trumpet-esque blare.

Husk wrinkled his nose in disgust. “For your information, I’m not making friends. And even if I were, why the fuck do you care?” “Forgive me for expressing interest in the well-being of one of my favorite demons in this godforsaken cesspool,” Alastor replied snarkily, tucking away the handkerchief and wrapping up the act.

Husk scoffed, not buying it in the slightest, and went back behind the bar to work. He bent to pick up Angel’s abandoned cherry stem, staring at it for a moment before making the decision to throw it in the trash.

The Radio Demon manifested his cane and casually leaned against it for support, looking Husk up and down as the cat demon made the bar area look more presentable. “So, my friend, you seem to be adjusting well, despite your initial refusal to help.” Husk mopped the counter off with a rag, not making eye contact. “Not that it’s your business.” Alastor’s ever-present smile widened and he replied with, “I suppose not. But as an official employee, your business is now the business of the business! Ahahaha!”

“Ah, shove it up your ass.”

Al chuckled, unfazed. “I’d rather not! Ah, I missed that charming, friendly voice. It’s wonderful that you decided to join the Princess’s little passion project. The more the merrier, I always say.” He reached a hand over the counter and teasingly pinched one of Husk’s fuzzy, white cheeks. Husk swatted Al’s hand away and raised one of his long eyebrows. “That reminds me… why the hell are YOU here? You never-”

A long finger was delicately placed against the cat’s lips, interrupting him mid-sentence. “Ah-ah-ah, Husker,” Al replied, his voice dropping to a charming-yet-threatening lower pitch. “You know better than to question my motives.” He turned to walk away, hands behind his back, his cheerful tone returning. “Besides, you know that I would never turn down an opportunity to be entertained.” Husk flicked his tail in annoyance. “I have better things to do than run a bar for a bunch of namby-pamby demons who would rather be up in heaven, sucking up.” Alastor was silent for a moment, then he glanced over his shoulder and asked in an eerie voice, “Do you, though?”

Husk found himself pondering this unexpected question as Alastor said brightly, “Well, sleep well, treasured bartender!” and snapped himself away for the night.

Suddenly finding himself alone at the hotel bar, Husk decided it was bedtime for him, too. Working at the Happy Hotel would be a change, for better or worse. And one thing was certain: Angel Dust was here to stay. (Thanks for reading! ^_^ Okay to reblog or comment)

#hazbin hotel #angel dust #husk #alastor #huskerdust #drunk dust #angel x husk #fanfic #fanfiction #hazbin hotel fanfic

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fourteenaway · 3 years

Text

Little Lion Man | The Story of Cary / Part III

tw: rape, infidelity, pregnancy, stepcest

Exactly at seven-thirty that night, the door chimes sounded, punched by an impatient finger, forcing Caren to hurry lest the man waken Cary who hadn't liked being put to bed at such an early hour.

If she had taken pains to look her best, so had Harry. He strode in as if he already owned the place and her. He left behind a drift of shaving lotion with a piney forest scent, and every hair on his head was carefully in place, making her wonder if he had a thinning spot. She figured she’d find out for herself sooner or later.

She took his coat and hung it in the hall closet, then sashayed over to the bar where she busied herself as he sat down before the log fire she had burning nothing had been overlooked; She even had soft music playing.

By this time Caren knew enough about men and the ways of pleasing them best. There wasn't a man alive who wasn't charmed by a lovely woman bustling about, eager to wait on him, pamper and wine and dine him, if you asked her.

“Name your weakness, Harry."

"Scotch."

"On the rocks?"

"Neat."

He watched her every movement, which was deliberately graceful and deft. Then, turning her back she mixed a fruity drink for myself, lacing it lightly with vodka. And with her two little stemmed goblets on a silver tray, Caren seductively ambled his way, leaning to give him an enticing view of her braless bosom. She sat across from him and swung one leg over the other to allow the long slit of her rose-colored dress to open and expose one leg from silver sandal midway to the hip. He couldn't take his eyes off it.

"Sorry about the glasses,” Caren said smoothly, well pleased with his expression, "I don't have room in this cottage to unpack everything I own. Most of my crystal is in storage and I have here only wine glasses and water goblets."

"Scotch is scotch no matter how it's served. And what in the world is that thing you're sipping?" By this time he'd shifted his gaze to the low V of her gown.

"Well, you take orange juice freshly squeezed, a dab of lemon juice a dash of vodka, bit of coconut oil, and drop in a cherry to dive after. I call it A Maiden's Delight."

After a few minutes of conversation, they drifted to the dining table, not so far from the fireplace, to eat by candlelight. Every so often he'd drop his fork, or spoon, or she would, and both of them would go for it, then laugh to see who was fastest. Caren was, every time. He was much too distracted to spot a missing fork or spoon when a neckline opened up so obligingly.

"This is delicious chicken," he said after demolishing five hours of hard labor in about ten minutes. "Usually I don't like chicken-where'd you learn to prepare this dish?"

Caren told him the truth, “A Russian dancer taught me, she was on tour over here, and we liked each other. She and her husband stayed with Leeland and me, and we'd cook together whenever we weren't dancing or shopping or touring. It took four chickens to feed four people. Now you know the nasty truth about dancers; when it comes to eating we are not in the least dainty. That is, after a performance. Before we go on we have to eat very lightly."

He smiled and leaned across the small drop-leaf table. Candlelight was in his eyes, sparkling them devilishly.

"Caren, tell me honestly why you came to live in this hick town and why you've got your heart set on me for a lover."

"You flatter yourself," Caren said in her most aloof manner, thinking she was very successful in appearing cool on the outside while inside she was a web of conflicting emotions. It was almost as if she had stage fright and was in the wings waiting to go on. And this was the most important performance of her life. Then almost magically she felt she was on stage. She didn't have to think of how to act or what to say to charm him and make him forever hers. The script had been written a long time ago when she was hidden and first found out her mother had married him.

"You're not being honest with yourself," Harry said softly, "You know better than anyone where that missing piece is, or I wouldn't be here."

His voice was so low and seductive as he stood and took her into his arms to dance.

Caren put her head on his shoulder as they went on dancing, "You're wrong, Harry, I don't know why you're here. I don't know how to fill my days. When I'm teaching class and when I'm with my son, then I'm alive-but when he's in bed and I'm alone, I don't know what to do with myself. I know Cary needs a father, and when I think of his father I realize I've always managed to do the wrong thing. I've read my reviews that rave about the potential I had... but in my personal life I've made only mistakes, so what I accomplished professionally doesn't matter at all."

Caren stopped moving her feet and sniffled, then tried to hide her face, but he tilted it upward, then dried my tears and held his handkerchief so she could blow her nose. Then came the silence. The long, long silence. Their eyes met and clung and her heart started a faster thumping.

"Your problems are all so simple, Caren," he began, "all you need is someone like me, who needs someone like you. If Cary needs a father, then I need a son. See how simply all complicated matters are solved?"

Too simply, she thought, when he had a wife and she was discerning and cynical enough to know he couldn't possibly care for her enough.

“You have a wife you love," Caren said bitterly.

Caren shoved him away. She didn't want to get him too easily, but only after long and difficult struggles against her mother, and she wasn't here to know.

"Men are liars too," he said flatly, with some of the zest gone from his eyes. "I have a wife and occasionally we sleep together, but the fire has gone out. I don't know her. I don't think anyone knows her. She's a bundle of secrets, wound up tight, and she won't let me inside. It's gone on so long I don't care to be let in now. She can keep her secrets and her tears, and eat her way out of her anxieties and whatever it is that makes her wake up in the night and go and look in that damned blue album! Now she's overweight and she's written she's just had plastic surgery, a face lift, and I won't know her when she comes back. As if I ever really knew her!"

Caren panicked inside, he had to care! How could she break up a marriage that was already coming apart? She needed to feel she'd accomplished this against overwhelming odds!

“Go home!" Caren said, pushing at him. "Get out of my house! I don't know you well enough to even listen to your problems, and I don't believe you. I don't trust you!"

He laughed, mocking her, aroused by her puny efforts to push him away. His libido was fired and it flamed in his eyes as he grabbed her upper arms and drew her hard against him.

“Now you come off it! Look at the way you're dressed. You had me come here for a reason. So here I am, ready to be seduced. You seduced me the first time I saw you, and for the life of me it seems I've known you much longer than I actually have. Nobody plays games with me, then calls it a draw. You win or I win, but if we go to bed together we might wake up in the morning and find out we've both won."

Red lights flashed, Stop! Resist! Fight! Caren did none of those things. Caren beat on his chest with ineffectual small fists as he laughed and picked her up and threw her over his shoulder.

With one hand he gripped both of her legs to keep them from kicking, and with the other he turned out the lamps. In the dark, with her still beating on his back, he carried her into her bedroom and threw her down on the comforter. She scrambled to get up, but he came at her fast!

There wasn't a chance to use the knee she had ready. He sensed her dancer's ability could defeat him so he lunged, caught her about the waist so they both tumbled to the floor! Caren opened her mouth to scream, but he clamped his hand upon her open lips, then pinioned her arms with his iron strength and sat on the legs that tried to kick herself free.

“Caren, my lovely seductress, you went to such a lot of trouble. You seduced me long ago, ballerina. Until the week before Christmas you are mine, and then my wife will be home-and I won't need you."

His hand eased away from her lips and she thought she would scream, but instead she bit out, “At least I didn't have to buy you with my father's millions!"

That did it. He crushed his lips brutally hard down on hers before she realized what was happening. This wasn't the way she wanted it! Caren wanted to tempt him, set him on fire, make him chase her, and give in only after a long and arduous pursuit that her mother could watch and suffer through, knowing she could do nothing or she'd talk. And yet he was taking her heartlessly, more ruthless than Leeland at his worst!

Savagely he bore down on her. He squirmed and writhed to grind in, even as his hands ripped and tore off her clinging rose dress. All she had on then was pantyhose, and soon he had those pulled down so her silver slippers came off and stayed inside of them.

With his lips still crushed brutally hard on hers, he carried her resisting hand to his zipper and squeezed until her knuckles cracked. It was either tug it down or have her fingers broken! How he managed to wiggle out of his clothes, even as he held her naked beneath him, she’d never know.

When he was naked, but for his socks, she kept on wiggling, writhing, squirming, butting and trying to scratch or bite while he kissed, fondled and explored. Caren had her chance to scream several times—but she too was breathing fast and hard, and jerking upward to force him off. But he took this as a welcoming arch of invitation. He entered, and had his too quick satisfaction, then pulled out before she had any.

"Get out of here." Caren screamed. “I'm calling the police! I'll have you thrown in jail, charged with assault and rape!"

He laughed scornfully, chucked her under the chin playfully, then stood up to pull on his clothes.

“Oh," he said, mocking her with an imitation of her own voice, “I am so frightened.” Then his voice was deeply earnest.“You aren't happy, are you? It didn't work out the way you planned it, but don't you worry, tomorrow night I'll be back, and maybe then you can please me enough, so I'll feel like taking the time to please you."

"I've got a gun!" She declared thought she didn't, “And if you dare set foot in this house again you're a dead man! Not that you are a man. You are more brute than human!"

“My wife often says the same thing," he said casually, zipping up his trousers shamelessly, without the decency to even turn his back. “But she likes it just the same, just as you did. Beef Wellington, you can have that tomorrow night, plus a tossed salad and a chocolate mousse for dessert. If you make me fat, we can burn off the calories in the most pleasant way possible,and I don't mean jogging."

He grinned, saluted her, put one foot behind the other to turn in a smartly, military fashion, then paused at the doorway as Caren sat up and clutched the remnants of her gown to her breasts.

“Same time tomorrow night, and I'll stay the night-that is, if you treat me right."

He left, and slammed the front door behind him.

Caren began to cry, not from pity for herself. It was frustration so huge she could have torn him limb from limb!

She’d lace the beef wellington with arsenic.

A small timid sound came from outside her door then.

“Mommy... I'm scared. Are you cryin', Mommy?" Came Cary’s soft voice.

Hastily she pulled on a robe and called him in, then held him close in her arms. “Darling, darling, Mommy is all right. You had a bad dream. Mommy isn't crying... see?"

Cary peered into her face worriedly, he heard too much, not that he understood it all. Cowering in his bed scared, before he finally got up and got to his mother’s door.

Caren brushed away the tears, for she'd get even.

Three dozen red roses arrived while Cary and she were eating breakfast, he long-stemmed variety from the florist.

A small white card read: I'm sending you a big bouquet of roses, One for every night you'll have my heart.

No name. And what the devil was she supposed to do with three dozen roses in a matchbox house? She couldn't send them to a children's ward; the hospital was miles and miles away.

Cary decided what to do with them, "Oh, Mommy, how pretty! Uncle William's roses!"

For Cary she kept the roses instead of throwing them out, and in many vases she scattered them throughout the house.

He was delighted, and when she took him with her to dancing school he told all the students, roses were all over his home-even in the bathroom.

After lunch Caren drove Cary to the nursery school he so loved. It was a Montessori school that was inspiring him to want to learn by appealing to his senses.

Already he could print his name, and he was only three! He was like Daniel, Caren told herself, brilliant, handsome, talented, oh, her Cary had everything—but a father.

From his bright blue eyes shone the quick intelligence of someone who would have a lifetime curiosity about everything.

“Cary, I love you."

"I know that, Mommy. I love you too," he said before he waved good-bye as she drove off.

Caren was there to meet him when he came from his school, his small face flushed and troubled.

"Mommy," he said as soon as he was beside her in the car, "Victor Harding, he said his mommy slapped him when he touched her there."

And he shyly pointed at her breast, “You don't slap me when I touch you there,” Cary whispered.

"But you don't touch me there, not since you were a little baby and Mommy nursed you for a short while."

"Did you slap me then?" He asked, looking so worried.

"No, of course not. Babies are meant to suckle their mother's breasts, and I would never slap you for touching there, so if you want to try me, go ahead and touch,” Caren said.

Cary lifted his small hand and reached out tentatively while he watched his mother’s face to see if she'd be shocked.

Oh, how fast the young learned all the taboos, Caren thought.

And when he'd touched and God's lightning hadn't struck him down, he smiled, very relieved.

"Oh, it's just a soft place," he laughed at the pleasant discovery he made before he threw his arms his mothers neck, “I love you, Mommy. Cause you love me even when I'm bad."

"I'll always love you, Cary. And if you're bad sometimes, I'll try and understand."

Yes, she was not going to be like her mother. She was going to be the perfect mother, and someday he'd have a father too.

How was it that little children, such young ones, would already be talking of sin and being slapped for only touching?

Caren stopped to buy stamps before she reached home, and left Cary dozing on the front seat.

Harry was in the post office, which was no larger than her living room, buying stamps too.

Charmingly he smiled at her, as if nothing untoward had happened between them the night before.

He even had the nerve to follow her to her car so he could ask how she liked the roses.

"Not your kind of roses," she snapped, then got primly into her car and slammed the door in his face. She left him staring after her without a smile-in fact, he looked rather miserable.

At five-thirty a special-delivery man brought a small package to her front door. It was certified so she had to sign for it. Inside a larger box was another box, and inside of that was a velvet jewelry case which she quickly opened while Cary watched, all eyes. On black velvet lay a single rose composed of many diamonds. Also a card with a note that read, ‘Perhaps this kind of rose is more to your liking.’ She put the thing away as a trifle bought with her mother’s money, so it wasn't really from him, no more than the real roses.

He had the nerve to come that night at seven-thirty just as he'd said he would. Nevertheless, she readily let him in, then led him silently to the dining table with no to do about cocktails or other niceties. The table was set even more elaborately than the night before. She'd hauled out some boxes and done some unpacking, and on the table were her best lace mats and covered silver serving dishes.

Neither of them had as yet spoken. All his forgive-me roses she'd gathered together and they were in the box near his plate. On his empty plate was the jeweler's velvet container with the diamond rose brooch inside. She sat to watch his expression as he put the jewelry box aside casually, and just as casually moved the flower box out of his way.

He reached for the domed silver lid, ostensibly hiding the Beef Wellington underneath. His gaze lowered to stare at the huge platter that held one hot dog and a small dab of cold canned beans.

The disbelief in his eyes, his utter offended shock gave her so much satisfaction she almost liked him.

"You are now gazing upon Cary's favorite menu," she said, gloating. “It is exactly what he and I ate tonight for dinner, and since it was good enough for us, I thought it was good enough for you, so I saved some. Since I've already eaten, all of that is yours alone, and you may help yourself."

Scowling, he flashed her a burning, hard look, then savagely bit down into the hot dog which she’d sure had grown cold as the beans. But he gobbled down everything and drank his glass of milk, and for dessert she handed him a box of animal crackers.

First he stared at the box in another expression of dumbfounded amazement, then ripped it open, seized up a lion and snapped off the head in one bite.

"I take it you are one of those despicable liberated women who refuses to do anything to please a man!"

"Wrong. I am liberated only with some men. Others I can worship, adore and wait on happily.”

"You made me do what I did!” he objected strongly. “Do you think I planned it that way? I wanted us to find our relationship on an equal basis. Why did you wear that kind of dress?"

"It's the kind all chauvinist men prefer!"

"I am not a chauvinist, and I hate that kind of dress!"

"You like what I've got on better?” Caren sat up straighter to give him a better view of the old nappy sweater she had on. With it she wore faded blue jeans, with dirty sneakers on her feet, and her hair was skinned back and fastened in a granny's knot. Deliberately she'd pulled long strands free so they hung loose about her face, slovenly fringes to make her look more appealing. And no makeup prettied her face.

He was dressed to kill.

"At least you look honest and ready to let me do the pursuing. If there is one thing I despise, it's women who come on strong, like you did last night. I expected better from you than that kind of sleazy dress that showed everything to take the thrill from discovering for myself.”

He knitted his brows and mumbled, “From a damned harlot's red dress to blue jeans. In the course of one day, she changes into a teenybopper."

"It was rose-colored, not red! And besides, Harry, strong men like you always adore weak and passive stupid women, because basically you're meek yourself and afraid of an aggressive woman!"

"I am not weak or meek or anything but a man who likes to feel a man, not to be used for your own purposes. And as for passive women I despise them as much as I do aggressive ones. I just don't like the feeling of being the victim of a huntress leading me into a trap. What the hell are you trying to do to me? Why dislike me so much? I sent you rose and diamonds, and you can't even comb your hair and take the shine from your nose."

"You are looking at the natural me, and now that you've seen, you can leave."

Caren got up and walked to the front door and swung it open. “We are wrong for each other. Go back to your wife. She can have you, for I don't want you."

He came quickly, as if to obey, then seized her in his arms and kicked the door closed. “I love you, God knows why I do, but it seems I've always loved you."

Caren stared up in his face, disbelieving him, even as he took the pins from her hair and let it spill down. Out of long habit she tossed it about so it fluffed out and arranged itself, and smiling a little he tilted her face to his.

“May I kiss your natural lips? They are very beautiful lips."

Without waiting for permission he brushed his lips gently over hers.

Why didn't all men know that was the right way to start? She wondered. What woman wanted to be eaten alive, choked by a thrusting tongue? Not her, she wanted to be played like a violin, strummed pianissimo, in largo timing, fingered into legato, and let it grow into crescendo.

Deliciously she wanted to head toward the ecstatic heights that could only happen for her when the right words were spoken and the right kind of kisses, given before his hands came into play.

If he'd done for her only a little last night, this night he used all the skills he had. This time he took her to the stars where they both exploded, still holding tight to each other, and doomed to do it again, and then again.

He was hairy all over. Leeland had been hairless but for one thatch that grew in a thin line up to his navel.

She turned off her mind, and gave in to her senses and to this man who was now treating her like a lover.

But he didn't love her, she knew that. Harry was using her as a substitute for his wife, and when she came back she'd never see him again. She knew it, but still she took and she gave until they fell asleep in each other's arms.

When she slept, she dreamed. Leeland was in the silver music box her father had given her when she was six. Round and round he spun, his face ever turning toward her, accusing her with his jet eyes, and then he grew a mustache and was William, who only looked sad.

She ran fast to set him free from death in a music box when it turned into a coffin-and then it was Daniel inside, his eyes closed, his hands folded one over the other on his chest. Dead, dead.

‘DANIEL’, she shouted.

She awoke to find Harry gone and her pillow wet with tears.

Why did her mother start this, perhaps had she not, maybe she would have found Daniel right away, and before anyone else. She would have fallen in love with him with no revenge to carry out or repayments to deliver. But then she wouldn’t have Cary. But perhaps she still would have found Leeland and maybe he would have been what she wanted had she not had so many other priorities and he would have been good to her too.

Holding tight to her son's small hand she led him out into the cold morning air on her way to work.

Faint and far away she heard someone calling her name, and with it came the scent of an ocean breeze.

‘Why don't you come, Daniel, and save me from myself? Why only call in your thoughts?’ She thought.

Part one was done. Part two would begin when her mother knew she had Harry's child.

Harry and her didn't have to sneak around furtively to meet.

The houses where he lived were far apart and no one could see them when he came to her through the back door that opened out into a yard with a fence. In back of that was a country lane, shrubbed, and made private by many trees. Sometimes they met in a distant town and their lovemaking in a motel room was wild, sweet, tender, erotic and altogether satisfying, and yet she froze when he told her at lunch, “She called this morning, Caren. She'll be home before Christmas."

"That's nice," Caren said and went right on eating her salad and anticipating the Beef Wellington that would show up soon.

He frowned and his fork loaded with salad hesitated on the way to his mouth. “It means we won't be able to see as much of each other. Aren't you sorry?"

"We'll find ways."

"If you aren't the damndest woman!"

"Don't get so worked up over nothing. All women are monsters to men, and maybe to ourselves. We are our own worst enemies. You don't have to divorce her and give up your chance to inherit her fortune. Though she could outlive you and have the chance to buy another younger husband."

"Sometimes you are just as bitchy as she is! She did not buy me! I loved her! She loved me! I was crazy about her, as crazy for her as I am for you now. But she changed. When I met her she was sweet, charming, everything I wanted in a woman and wife, but she changed."

He stabbed the salad fork toward his mouth and chewed viciously, “She's always been a mystery-like you."

“Harry, my love," she said, “very soon all mystery walls will crumble."

He went on, as if she hadn't interrupted, “That father of hers, he too was a mystery; you'd look at him and see a fine old gentleman, but underneath was a heart of steel. I thought I was his only attorney, but he had six others, each of us assigned to different tasks. Mine was to make out his wills. He changed them dozens of times, putting this family member in, and writing another out, and adding codicils like a mad man, though he was sane enough right up until the very end. The last codicil was the worst."

Of course, no children for him, ever, she knew.

"Then you really were a practicing lawyer?" Caren asked.

He smiled bitterly, then answered, “Of course I was. And now I am again. A man needs something meaningful to do. How many times can anyone tour Europe before boredom sets in? You see the same old faces, doing the same old things, laughing at the same jokes. The Beautiful People what a laugh! Too much money buys everything but health, so they have no dreams left to purchase, and no aspirations, so in the end they are only bored."

"Why don't you divorce her and do something meaningful with your life?"

"She loves me.” That's the way he said it. Short. Sweet. He stayed because she loved him, forcing Caren to say, "You told me when we first met that you loved her, and then you say you don't which is it?"

He thought about it for a long time.

"Honestly, ballerina, I'm ambivalent and resentful. I love her, I hate her. I thought she was what you seem to be now. So please, smother that bitchy side that reminds me of her and don't try and do to me what she did. You are putting a wall between us because you know something I don't. I don't fall in love easily, and I wish I didn't love you."

He seemed suddenly a small boy, wistful, as if his pet dog might betray him and life would never be good again.

Caren was touched and dared to say, “Harry, I swear there will come a day when you know all my secrets and all of hers, but until that time comes say you love me, even if you don't mean it, for I can't enjoy being with you if I don't feel you love me just a little."

"A little? It seems I've loved you all my life. Even when I kissed you the first time it seemed I'd kissed you before, why is that?"

“Karma," she replied and smiled at his baffled expression.

Harry spent more time at her small home than at his huge one. He piled her with as many gifts, as he did Cary.

He ate his breakfast, lunch and dinner with them on the days he didn't spend in his office, which she privately believed was more a facade for appearing useful than a functioning law office.

Her dancing school suffered from his attention, but it didn't matter. She was now a kept woman. Paid to be his mistress.

And Cary was delighted with the little leather boots Harry gave him.

“Are you my daddy?" asked Cary, who would be four in February, "No. but I sure wish I was and I could be,” Harry answered.

It was only second before Cary was out in the yard, tromping around and staring down at his feet that fascinated him now that they wore cowboy boots.

Caren and Harry lay entwined after their lovemaking, listening to the wind blending with Cary's shrill laughter, racing after the poodle, Rainbow, that Harry had given him.

A few snow flurries were beginning to fall. She knew she had to get up soon so Cary wouldn't run in and catch them, just to tell them it was snowing.

He couldn't remember other snows, and barely would the ground be sugar-coated than he'd want to make a snowman. Sighing first, she kissed Harry, then reluctantly pulled from his embrace. She turned her back to pull on bikini panties as he propped up on an elbow and watched.

"You've got a lovely behind," he said. She said thanks, "What about my front?" He said it wasn't bad and she threw a shoe at him.

"Caren, why don't you say you love me?"

Caren whirled about, startled. "Have you ever said it to me and meant it?" She asked as she snapped on a bra.

"How do you know I don't mean it?" he asked with anger.

"Let me tell you how I know. When you love, you want that person with you all of the time. When you avoid the subject of divorce, that alone is an indication of how much you care for me and just where I belong in your life."

“Caren, you've been hurt, haven't you? I don't want to hurt you more. You play games with me. I've always known that. What does it matter if it is only sex and not love? And tell me how to know where one ends and the other begins?"

His teasing words were a knife in her heart, for somehow, without meaning to let it happen, she'd fallen madly, idiotically in love with him.

According to Harry's enthusiastic report, his long gone wife came home from her rejuvenation trip looking smashingly young and beautiful.

“She's lost twenty pounds. I swear, that face lift has done wonders! She looks sensational, and damn it, so unbelievably like you!"

It was easy to see how impressed he was with his new, younger-looking wife, and if he was only trying to take the wind from her too confident sails, Caren didn't let it show.

Then he was telling her she was just as necessary to him as before in a tone that said she was not.

“Caren, while she was in Texas she changed. She's like she used to be, the sweet, loving woman I married."

Men! How gullible they were! Of course her mother was sweeter and nicer to him now that she knew he had a mistress who was very accessible, and that the other woman was her own daughter. She'd have to know, for it was whispered all about how much Harry’s mistress looked like a younger version of his wife.

"So, why are you here with me when your wife is back and so like me? Why don't you put your clothes on and say goodbye and never come back? Say it was sweet while it lasted, but it's all over now, and I'll say thank you for a wonderful time before I kiss you farewell."

"Well," he drawled, pulling her hard against his naked body, “I didn't say she was that sensational looking. And then again, there is something special about you. I can't name it. I can't understand it. But I don't know if I can live without you now."

He said it seriously, truth in his dark eyes.

So she'd won.

Quite by accident her mother and her met in the post office one day. She saw her and shivered. Her lovely head lifted higher as she turned it slightly away, pretending she didn't know her.

She would deny her as she'd denied Cassidy, even though it was so obvious that they were mother and daughter and not strangers.

But Caren wasn't Cassidy. So she treated her as she treated her, indifferently, as if she were nobody special and never would be again.

Yet, as she waited impatiently for her roll of stamps, she saw her mother dart her eyes to follow the restless prowl of her young son who had to stare at everything and everyone.

He was a handsome, graceful, and charming boy who drew the eyes of everyone, who had to stop and admire him and pat his head.

Cary moved with innate style, unstudied and relaxed, at ease wherever he was, because he thought the whole world was his, and he was loved by everyone.

He turned to catch her mother's long stare and he smiled.

"Hello," he greeted. “You're pretty-like my mommy,” he told her.

Oh, the things children say! What innocent knowledge they had to see so readily what others instinctively refused to acknowledge.

He stepped closer to reach out and tentatively touch her fur coat. “My mommy's got a fur coat. My mommy is a dancer. Do you dance?"

She sighed, and Caren held her breath and thought, ‘See, Momma, there is the grandson your arms will never hold. You'll never hear him say your name. Never!’

"No," she whispered, “I'm not a dancer,” and tears filmed her eyes.

"My mommy can teach you how,” Cary smiled.

"I'm too old to learn," she whispered, backing off.

"No, you're not," said Cary, reaching for her hand as if he'd show her the way, but she pulled back and glanced at Caren reddened, then fumbled in her purse for a handkerchief.

Cary frowned slightly and went on unperturbed, “Do you have a little boy I can play with?" He questioned concerned to see her tears, as if having a son would make up for not knowing how to dance.

"No," she said in a quivering weak whisper, “I don't have any children.”

That's when Caren moved in to say in a cold, harsh voice, "Some women don't deserve to have children."

She paid for her roll of stamps and dropped them in her purse, “Some women like you, Mrs. Walters, would rather have money than the bother of children who might get in the way of good times. Time itself will sooner or later let you know if you made the right decision."

She turned her back and shivered again as if all her furs couldn't keep her warm enough. Then she strode from the post office and headed toward a chauffeur-driven, black limousine.

Like a queen she rode off, head held high, leaving Cary to ask, “Mommy, why don't you like that pretty lady? I like her a lot. She's like you, only not so pretty."

Caren didn't comment, though it was on the tip of her tongue to say something so ugly he would never forget it.

In the twilight of that evening Caren sat near the windows, staring toward her mothers house and wondering what Harry and her mother were doing. Her hands were on her abdomen which was still flat, but soon it would be swelling with the child that might be started.

One missed period didn't prove anything except she wanted Harry's baby, and little things made her feel sure there was a baby.

She let depression come and take her though. He wouldn't leave her and her money to marry her and she'd have another fatherless child.

What a fool to start all of this, but she'd always been a fool.

And then she saw a man slipping through the woods, coming to her, and she laughed, made confident again.

He loved her! He did and as soon as she knew for certain, she would tell him he was to be a father.

“Caren, you told me there was no need for precautions!"

"There was no need. I want your baby.”

"You want my baby? What the hell do you think I can do, marry you?"

"No. I did my own assuming. I presumed you'd have your fun with me and when it was over you'd go back to your wife and find yourself another playmate. And I'd have just what I set out to get, your baby. Now I can leave. So kiss me off, Harry, as just another of your little extramarital dalliances."

He looked furious. They were in my living room, while a fierce blizzard raged outside. Snow heaped in mounds window-high, and she was before the fireplace, knitting a baby bunting before she began a bootie. She was getting ready to slip a stitch then knit two together when Harry seized her knitting from my hands and hurled it away.

“It's unraveling!” Caren cried in dismay.

"What the hell are you trying to do to me, Caren? You know I can't marry you! I never lied and said I would. You're playing a game with me."

He choked and covered his face with his hands, then took them down and pleaded, "I love you. God help me but I do. I want you near me always, and I want my child too. What kind of game are you playing now?"

“Just a woman's game. The only game she can play and be sure of winning."

“Look," he said, trying to regain his control of the situation, “explain what you mean, don't double talk. Nothing has to change because my wife is back. You'll always have a place in my life/"

"In your life? Don't you mean more correctly, on the fringes of your life?"

For the first time she heard humility in his voice, "Caren, be reasonable. I love you, and I love my wife too. Sometimes I can't separate you from her. She came back different, as I told you, and now she is like she was when we first met. Maybe a more youthful figure and face has given her back some confidence she lost, and because of it she can be sweeter. Whatever the cause. I'm grateful. Even when I disliked her, I loved her. When she was hateful, I'd try and strike back by going to other women, but still I loved her. The one big issue we fight over is her unwillingness to have a child, even an adopted one. Of course she's too old to have one now. Please, Caren, stay! Don't leave! Don't take my child away so I will never know what happens to him, or to her...or to you."

Caren laid it out flat, “All right, I will stay on one condition. If you divorce her and marry me, only then will you have the child you always wanted. Otherwise, I'm taking myself, and that means your child too, far away. Maybe I'll write to let you know if you have a son or a daughter, and maybe I won't. Either way, once I leave, you are out of my life for good.”

Before the fireplace he stood with his arm up on the mantel, then he rested his forehead on that and stared down at the fire. His free hand was behind his back and clenched into a fist. His confused thoughts were so deep they reached out and touched Caren with pity. He turned then to face her, staring deep into her eyes.

“My God," he said, shocked by his discovery. "You planned this all along, didn't you? You came here to accomplish what you have, but why? Why should you choose me to hurt? What have I ever done to you, Caren, but love you? True, it started with sex, and sex only was what I wanted it to stay. But it has grown into something much more than that. I like being with you, just sitting and talking, or walking in the woods. I feel comfortable with you. I like the way you wait on me, and touch my cheek when you pass, and rumple my hair and kiss my neck, and the sweet, shy way you wake up and smile when you see me beside you. I like the clever games you play, keeping me always guessing, and always amused. I feel I have ten women in one, so now I feel I can't live without you. But I can't abandon my wife and marry you. She needs me!"

"You should have been an actor, Harry. Your words move me to tears."

"Damn you for taking this so lightly!” He bellowed. "You've got me on a rack and you're twisting the screws! Don't make me hate you and ruin the best months of my life!

With that he stormed out of her home, and she was left alone, ruefully regretting that she always talked too much, for she would stay as long as he needed her.

#i hope harry walters sr burns in a fire....oh wait...HHAHAHHAHAH #you should have been an actor harry - son is an actor #cary: musing #harry: musing #caren: musing #cary: story

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chloca-cola · 5 years

Text

Bear Witness Chap 1

This is a fic that I was inspired to write thanks to a group chat conversation haha

TW: none, just the reader incessantly teasing Leon (poor guy)

Pairings: Leon x reader

Word Count: 1,809

~~~~~~~~

"Leon, you are the only agent not assigned to something right now." Hunnigan explained, causing Leon to sigh heavily. Hanging his head in frustration, he pinched the bridge of his nose.

"I understand that, Hunnigan. It's not really in my job description to babysit."

"Well, it's not babysitting, so you should be good." She sassed right back at him, having gotten used to his mouth over the years. "Y/f/n y/l/n has got to be protected. She knows too much about the man who let loose the last virus. He's after her." Leon sighed again, knowing he would never win this fight anyway, he caved.

"Fine, there's nothing I can say to get me out of it, right?" Hunnigan smiled, nodding quickly.

"You're finally learning!" Leon scoffed, shaking his head at her. "You'll be moved in with her in that new condominium complex on the outskirts of town. She should be arriving soon, so be ready to leave as soon as she gets there." Hunnigan disconnected the call, and Leon put his phone in his pocket, groaning to himself over such a mundane job.

He had just begun to pack when knocking rapped against his door to the tune of 'shave and a haircut' and he grimaced. He walked to his front door, looking through the peephole to see you, apparently standing on your tiptoes to look back at him through the glass. You leaned back and waved at him, smiling brightly. The secret service agent tasked to escort you here did not look pleased in the slightest.

"Good luck, Kennedy." The mans burly voice boomed when Leon finally opened the door, and you laughed.

"Oh, come on Jenkins, it was a fun 30 minute ride!" You exclaimed, bouncing on the balls of your feet, playfully punching his chest and he grunted.

"For the last time. My name is Perkins. Not Jenkins." He grumbled as he quickly turned, leaving you in Leon's hands now. You turn and smile up at the taller man.

"You don't look like much." Leon observed, confused by why the previous escort seemed so surly.

"Haircuts a little outdated, don't cha think?" You teased him and Leon frowned, beginning to understand Perkins' displeasure. You pick up your bags and with a pep in your step, waltz into Leon's apartment, turning in a circle as you looked over his decor. "Not bad, my dude. Must make the big bucks babysitting people."

"I don't babysit people." He deadpanned, closing his door to go back to packing. "I'm not doing this because I want to." You snort out a laugh.

"Like I am?" You flop onto his couch, crossing your ankles on the coffee table before you, digging in your pocket for your phone.

"No, what the hell do you have that for?" Leon asked, incredulously, snatching the device from your hands. "Why didn't Perkins take this from you?" You give him a big shit eating grin.

"He did, my dude. I got sticky fingers though." You respond, holding up your hands and wiggling your fingers, while simultaneously wiggling your eyebrows at him. Leon huffed, turning off the phone, feeling his patience wearing thin already.

"They can track this if they want too." You shrug, folding your arms over your chest.

"Perkins said that too." Leon gaped at you like a fish out of water.

"Do you wanna be caught? If so, leave, not like I wanna look after you anyway. I've got better things I could be doing." His harsh words bit deep and he knew it immediately, and he sighed, relaxing his stance. "Sorry...I know you're going through a lot and that wasn't fair." You wave you hand at him flippantly, shrugging a shoulder and looking out the window next to you.

"It's all cool, guy. I get it, you don't want me around, but you've got me." You smirk at him, and lower your feet to the floor, joining him in his bedroom. "Whatcha packin'?" You asked in an unveiled innuendo, biting your bottom lip, dragging your eyes down his body, you heard an intake of breath, and his body tensed, before you grabbed a shirt from his suitcase.

Leon snatched the shirt away from you, quickly folding it and placing it back in the case. "Are you always this nosy?" You toss your head back with laughter, clapping his arm before you flopped on your back on his bed.

"Pretty much. That's a good color for you, in all seriousness." You say truthfully, motioning at the dark blue shirt with the hand that wasn't behind your head.

"Uh, thanks." You let him finish packing in silence, not denying the fact that you think this man is probably the most gorgeous person you've ever laid eyes on. You knew better than to let any curiosities get you, because as soon as Alan Reicherman was caught, you'd likely never see Leon again.

~~~

At the condo, you whistled as you entered the vast living room. Dropping your bags in the doorway, causing Leon to trip slightly as you ran to the window to look at the view.

"This is some swanky shit, Skennedy." He grumbled under his breath, as he picked your bags up as well, depositing them and his own suitcase beside the couch.

"Either call me Leon or Agent Kennedy. Don't mesh my name together like that. It's annoying." You turned your upper body to smile at him, the first genuine one you've given him since you met. Leon's lips parted slightly as the sunset cast an ethereal glow around your form, finding it to be almost heavenly in this moment. He quickly shook his head to get the thought from his brain. You were a client, nothing more.

"Ok, boomer." The moment was gone as you snorted again, doubling over in laughter, and Leon groaned at you, rubbing his forehead. This was going to last forever. "I'm kidding, lighten up. I'll call you whatever you want me too." You continue to laugh as you pick up your bags and hauled one over your shoulder. "I'll call the room with the best bed!" You call over your shoulder as you inspected the rooms.

A few hours passed, and you were getting restless, fidgeting with your fingers, bouncing your leg, pacing the room, sighing loudly until Leon finally acknowledged you.

"Is something the matter, princess?" You toss your hands in the air, waving them around wildly.

"I'm bored, dude. Like how can you just sit there like that?" Leon shrugged, a small smile on his face as you sat on one of the barstools next to the island separating the living room and the kitchen.

"It comes with the job." You look at him, your chin cradled in your palm.

"Babysitting?" Leon scratched the back of his head in frustration, before shooting you a warning glare.

"I'm not a babysitter." You smile at him again, enjoying pushing his buttons a little too much.

"Yeah, you're too handsome to be a babysitter." You say off handedly. "If you were my babysitter, I'd do whatever necessary to get you to spank me." You admit, giving him a playful wink, and Leon covered his face with his hands. "So, what is your job then?" He looked over his finger tips at you, debating on if you were just going to throw another quip at him, but you were earnestly curious.

"I'm an agent in the DSO." He explained, simply and you quirked an eyebrow, motioning with your hands for him to continue. "A special division for efficiently and quickly eliminating any crisis that threatened the United States of America and its people." He responded and you nodded slowly, taking in the information.

"That actually sounds like it would be a cool job. Much better than babysitting me." You smile at him, standing up and moving to sit next to him on the couch. "But then again. It's me, so you've been blessed." He rolled his eyes at you, leaning back on the couch and closing his eyes.

Leon awoke several hours later, not realizing he had drifted off, surprised he could with your incessant teasing him. Speaking of that, Leon sat upright, you were nowhere to be seen or heard for that matter. He jumped up, moving to the room you claimed as yours, seeing the clock on the wall read 1 in the morning. Figuring you just moved to you bed, he was shocked to see that the bed in question was empty.

Panic began to grip him, as he began checking the other rooms, gun drawn and ready for action if needed. Nowhere, you were nowhere, and he closed his eyes. He would be dead if someone had got in to take you, so that was out of the question. So where could you be. He explicitly told you to not leave this place.

Like you would listen to him.

A soft rustling in the kitchen caught his attention, and he moved slowly as to not startle who or what ever was making the noise. He turned the corner, gun trained on you and you looked up at him in surprise, cheeks puffed out full of Fruity Pebbles. You slowly chew on the mouthful before smiling brightly at him.

"Where did you get that?" You give him a confused look, before looking down at the box of cereal in your possession pointing at it, with a raised eyebrow, before shrugging.

"Couldn't tell ya." He tilted his head and gave you a skeptical look, replacing his gun in its holster.

"You left didn't you?" You feigned innocence accused, as if he had just told everyone in the world that you kick puppies.

"I would never do that, Leon!" He pursued his lips, pointing at the floor next to you, where his car keys sat and you blinked at them.

"My keys are right there." You swallowed your food before picking them up and tossing them up onto the nearby table.

"No they're not." You shrug, pointing up at the table and he scoffed, feeling aggravation building again.

"I just saw you throw them." You blink at him, placing your palm on your chest.

"It's not my fault you just leave your keys on the floor, man." He growled at you, tugged at his hair, before taking a deep calming breath, pointing at you, in an almost defeated manner.

"No more leaving." He said sternly, and you bite back a smile, popping another handful of cereal in your mouth.

"You're not my dad." You teased him, and he hung his head, causing you to giggle. "C'mon, Leon, it's bedtime anyway. I'm done with my midnight snack." You say, standing and placing the box on top of the fridge, before linking arms with him, laying your cheek on his bicep and leading him to the bedrooms.

~~~~~~~~~

@imagineleonkennedy @mitsuintheworks @kezikatescribbling @disneymarina @locus-desperatus @nthevalkyrie

#biohazard #leon kennedy #leon scott kennedy #leon s kennedy #leon x reader #resident evil leon #re leon #biohazard leon #fan fic #reader insert #resident evil

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crispychrissy · 6 years

Text

Intoxicating

Summary: Being a rare female Alpha, the reader comes across the Winchesters and decides to reveal her sub-gender. Hitting it off with Dean, she decides to get to know him a whole lot better, even if he is an Alpha, too. Pairing: Alpha!Dean x Alpha!Reader, Sam Winchester, other OC’s Word Count: 4687 Warnings: ABO dynamics, SPN canon violence, language, angst, fluff, smut, oral sex (both receiving) a bit of dom!Reader, knotting A/N: This takes care of the Alpha x Alpha square for @spnkinkbingo and it was a challenge! This ABO story has some differences between my other ABO stories, but everything is explained. This was beta’d by my lovely @dean-winchesters-bacon. This year’s SPN King Bingo Masterlist can be found here.

“Hey lady, watch out!”

The gruff voice that came from behind you was just distracting enough for the vampire to lunge forward and take a bite out of your bicep, making you yelp in pain and slam the heel of your palm into his nose with a satisfying crunch. Taking advantage of your stunned adversary, you swung your machete right as two sets of footsteps stopped a few feet behind you.

Not bothering to see who was there, you watched as the vampire’s head rolled off his shoulders and landed in the dirt next to your feet. Grabbing the bleeding bite wound on your arm with a grimace, you growled in anger and kicked his head, sending it sailing across the room and into the far wall with a wet thwack.

Spinning on your heel, you glared at the two flannel covered Alphas that were staring at you, their own machetes in their respective hands. “What the fuck?!” you screeched, making both of them flinch.

“Calm down,” the shorter of the two said, sheathing his blade in a thigh holster. “We didn’t know a hunter was on this case already. Thought you were a civilian.”

“Do I fucking look like a civilian?” you growled at him, wiggling your blood soaked machete and gesturing to the belt of dead man’s blood syringes across your chest.

“We couldn’t tell what was happening,” the taller one admitted, “and all we could see was you struggling. We didn’t know if he was feeding on you.”

“Well, thanks to you, he was able to get a last meal.” You pulled a clean bandage out of one of the pouches on your belt and wrapped it around your arm. Cleaning it would have to wait until you got back to the motel room. Raising a finger at the two of them, you continued, “And you’re lucky that wasn’t a werewolf. I would have killed you both just out of spite.”

The shorter one rolled his eyes while the taller one chuckled nervously. They were both attractive guys, but being an Alpha yourself, you didn’t need or want anything to do with them. While male Omegas were rare, female Alphas were even rarer, so you knew there was a low possibility of ever finding a mate unless you wanted to settle for a submissive Beta.

Good thing hunting was a solitary lifestyle.

Slipping your machete back into the holster at the small of your back, you walked toward the door to the barn, making sure to walk right between the two men, making them stumble out of your way. You heard both of them scent the air, but you doubted they could tell your presentation due to all the scent masking lotion you wore on a daily basis. It was made for Omegas, but it worked fine for you as well. It prevented the curious looks and whispering when you went out in public.

“Wait, what’s your name?” the shorter one asked.

Ignoring his question, you spun around in the doorway, pulled out a box of matches, and lit one before glancing back up at them. “You guys gonna come out or am I torching you along with the vamps?”

Their eyes went wide and they both sprinted outside, watching as you threw a match on the ground outside the right side of the door, then lit another match and dropped it onto the left side. An invisible trail of gasoline lit up in a circle around the entire building along with several trails that led up from the circle to the actual building itself, setting it on fire in a uniform manner.

“Several ignition spots… makes the burn more complete,” the taller one commented, obviously impressed. “Very nice.”

A single nod of acknowledgement was all you replied with before silently heading back to your car where it was parked in some trees about a half mile down the road.

“Wait, you killed that entire nest by yourself?” the shorter one sputtered. “That was like eight vamps.”

“Eleven,” you corrected him, turning around while still walking backward, “but who’s counting?” The heat from the fire fueled your instincts and you flashed your gold irises at the two men, smiling when both their eyebrows shot up in surprise. “Goodnight, boys.”

They were both speechless as you walked further away, but you heard the shorter one speak about a minute later and you had to strain to hear him. “Sammy, she was an Alpha!” He paused before continuing, “my dick is so confused.”

“Come on, Dean, gross,” the taller one groaned.

A smile twitched at your lips as you walked out of earshot. At least you had names to go with their faces in case you had the unlucky chance to run into them again.

Of course, luck was not on your side.

Striding into the local hole-in-the-wall bar for a nightcap before you took off tomorrow morning, your eyes scanned the bar and you scented the air. Alpha and Omega scents fighting for dominance made your nose twitch, but you didn’t scent any male Omegas. While female Omegas have a very light and fruity almost flowery scent, male Omegas have a scent that smells like rain, fresh laundry, and a hint of citrus.

At least that’s what you remembered of the only male Omega you’d ever met.

Shaking your head to rid your mind of unpleasant memories, you beelined for one of the few open booths near the bar, content to snack on some greasy bar food and drink your weight in liquor. The door opening drew your attention, and of course none other than the two hunters you’d met earlier strode in. The shorter one, Dean, saw you and his face lit up, pushing his way through the crowded bar over to your table with his partner in tow.

“Fancy meeting you here,” he drawled, both men sliding into the seat across from you.

“Well, it’s the only locally owned bar that’s not a chain restaurant so it’s really not that strange,” you countered, shoving a handful of fries into your mouth. Swallowing, you continued, “And I know you mean well, fellas, but I’m not interested in whatever you’re offering. I can handle my own.”

“We’re not doubting that,” the taller one chimed in. “My name is Sam, this,” he pointed to Dean, “is my brother Dean. Winchester. We’re hunters, too.”

You recognized the last name, what hunter wouldn’t, but you rolled your eyes. “Y/N,” you slapped Dean’s hand away from your fries before you continued, “and I figured you were hunters when you ran into the barn with machetes.” Downing the rest of your whiskey you slid up the sleeve of your shirt and pointed to the bandage wrapped around you bicep. “My arm is fine by the way, thanks for your concern. Hurt like a bitch in the shower.”

“Sorry about that again.” Dean dipped his head like he was a child being scolded. “Let us make it up to you. Can we buy you a drink?”

Rolling your empty glass between your fingers, you hesitated; there was a reason you worked alone and stayed away from other hunters. But… the Winchesters had a mostly positive reputation from what you’ve heard, and it seemed they were trying to be sincere. Nodding, you jumped slightly when Dean slapped his hands on the table and gave you a thumbs up before disappearing into the crowd, headed towards the bar.

You could feel Sam’s eyes on you, and he looked away when you met his gaze. “Can I help you, Sam?”

“Sorry,” he rushed out, “I’ve just never seen a female Alpha before.”

“Do you wanna take a selfie with me or something?” you said with a chuckle.

Sam laughed nervously and scratched the back of his head. “No… I just expected to scent you when we were in the barn, but I couldn’t. It wasn’t until you flashed your eyes we realized you were an Alpha. Thought you were a Beta.”

“I use scent blockers, the ones made for Omegas. It does the job.” Glancing over, Dean was on his way back to the table with a mid-range tier bottle of whiskey and two glasses. “Wanna see why?”

Sam nodded as Dean sat down, and while they were pouring drinks, you reached into your bag for the packet of wet naps you keep in case you get splattered with guts and are nowhere near a shower. Dean watched, confused, as you swiped the wet cloth around your neck, chest, and wrists.

“I thought you said you took a shower. What are you doing?” Dean asked.

“She’s getting rid of her scent blocking lotion,” Sam whispered. “Apparently she uses the stuff Omegas use. Wants to show us why she wears it when most Alphas don’t.”

Once the lotion was gone from your skin, you saw both brothers scent the air and straighten up in their seats, genetics and biology telling them there was another Alpha in their presence, a potential threat. They both visibly relaxed when you tilted your head and raised a brow, but when nothing happened, Dean raised his glass and gestured at you.

“So what was supposed to happen? I mean, I can scent it, but nothing crazy happened.”

Smiling, you turned in your seat so your legs were dangling off the end and continued eating your french fries, staring out into the sea of people in the bar. “Give it a few minutes.”

Like clockwork, you waited only three minutes before you saw people in the bar begin scenting the air. Several eyes snapped to you, and you heard a few low growls to accompany the glares you were getting. Some of the male Alphas were looking at you with interest, like you were a challenge that would earn them some kind of sexual conquest achievement, while others were eyeing you like you were a predator that was going to swoop in and steal whoever they were chatting up.

Towards the middle of the bar, you watched as a petite brunette pushed off the male Alpha that was pawing at her clothes and began making her way over to you, hunger and lust in her eyes.

Omega.

“Here we go,” you said under your breath, drawing confused looks from the Winchesters.

Once she got to where you were sitting, she flipped her hair over her shoulder, allowing you to get a nice whiff of her delightfully fruity scent, and looked up at you through her eyelashes. “Hi, I’m Amber.” She moved so she was between your legs, running her hands up and down your thighs.

“Hi Amber,” you purred, smiling when she shivered.

Amber didn’t wait for an invitation, she leaned forward, pressed her body against yours, and buried her nose in your neck, pressing soft kisses against your skin and taking deep breaths of your scent. Turning your head, you grinned at the completely bewildered looks on both Sam and Dean’s faces.

“She would be like… the best wingman ever,” Dean whispered to his brother, watching the Omega rub herself against you and practically purr with arousal.

You shook your head and pointedly looked back out at the bar, nodding at the very angry Alpha that was forcefully making his way toward you through the crowd. The same Alpha that Amber had left to come to you.

The guy puffed up his chest when he got within a few feet of you, which only made you laugh, and grabbed Amber’s arm, pulling her off you.

“Amber, we’re leaving,” he commanded, but she shook free of his grip and returned to continue scenting you. “Omega!” he shouted, making her sigh against your neck and turn around.

“You’re not my Alpha, Todd,” Amber said, crossing her arms across her chest before turning to look at you. “And… she smells amazing. I… I’ve never met a girl Alpha.” She pressed herself against you and nuzzled into your neck. “You’re intoxicating.”

You could practically hear Todd’s blood pressure raising as he clenched his fists at his sides. “So, what? Two years of a relationship down the drain because some fucking bitch with a synthetic Alpha spray wants to get in your pants?”

“Oh, boy,” Dean muttered.

Sliding off the seat, you stood to your full height, which was about the same as Todd, with Amber still clinging to you. Flashing your eyes gold, you watched as the color drained from Todd’s horrified face. “Synthetic, huh?”

“I don’t… you… how…” Todd stammered, taking a step back.

“We’re rare, not extinct,” you informed him, looking up at the suddenly quiet bar. Almost every patron of the bar was staring at you, and you allowed your eyes to return to their normal color. “I don’t want your girl, Todd. I was just proving a point to my friends here,” you gestured to the Winchesters, “so you can take Amber and skedaddle.”

Amber pouted and looked up at you. “But -”

“Sorry, Omega. You smell lovely, though, sweetheart,” you said, lips twitching up in a smirk when Todd growled at you and pulled Amber with him back through the bar. Sitting back down, you took another handful of french fries and glanced up at the Winchesters. “So yeah, that’s why I wear scent blockers. Female Alphas are apparently catnip to Omegas.”

Dean scoffed, looking out at the bar and noticing several other Omegas had taken interest in you. “I’ll say. Looks like you turned a few more heads after you ditched Amber.” Dean said her name in a teasing sing-songy voice.

When another Omega began making her way toward you, you saw the bartender getting yelled at by the Alpha she left, who was wildly pointing at you. The Beta bartender grabbed a baseball bat and began walking toward you, a scowl on his face.

“Here we go,” you sighed, quickly shoveling the remaining french fries into your mouth and washing it down with the rest of your whiskey.

“Excuse me,” the bartender said once he was at the table. “I’m gonna have to ask you to leave. You’re causing disruptions and several fights have almost started because of it. I can’t have Alphas gettin’ into fist fights over their Omegas.”

“Isn’t that a little sexist? You can’t -” Sam began, but you held up your hand to stop him.

“It’s fine. I’ll get out of your hair.” Standing up, all eyes were on you once more, and you were pleasantly surprised when the Winchesters both stood up as well and grabbed their jackets.

“Thank you,” the bartender said, pushing out a sigh of relief that you didn’t put up a fight. You were used to this, it was something you dealt with often before using scent blockers.

“I’m keeping the bottle, though.” Shooting him a wink, you grabbed the bottle of whiskey from the table and walked toward the exit, the sea of people parting for you like you were Moses as you walked.

Once outside the bar and walking back to your motel, the Winchesters asked you questions about being a female Alpha and how it was different from a male Alpha. When you arrived, you were actually happy to hear they were staying in a room a few doors down from you. Inviting them to your motel room to finish off the bottle of whiskey, they both accepted and joined you after dropping their jackets off in their room.

Surprisingly, you found it very easy to talk to them. While they were curious, none of their questions were disrespectful or crossed the line, even though you could tell Dean was wanting to ask some that would. After several hours filled with a lot of drinking, Sam tapped out and stumbled from the room, biding you and Dean a mumbled good night.

The two of you sat in silence for a couple tense minutes before Dean finally spoke up after downing the rest of his whiskey.

“So how does it work?”

Smirking, you placed your glass down on the table. “How does what work?”

“You know,” he wiggled his hand toward your crotch, “sex.”

Hiding your smile, you leaned in towards him. “Well, Dean. When a girl and a boy like each other, they get naked and -”

“Very funny,” Dean interrupted. “You know what I mean. Female Alphas were almost extinct when I was taking high school health class, so they didn’t bother to teach us the mating habits.”

“Are you asking me if I can knot Omegas?” you asked. Dean swallowed and nodded. “Yes, I can, but only during rut. It’s… it’s similar to how male Alphas do it, but instead of a knot at the base of your dick swelling, my vaginal muscles swell and lock the Omega inside me.” The blush on Dean’s cheeks made you reach for your glass of whiskey, using it to hide your smile while you sipped.

“So, do you produce slick?” Dean mumbled, rubbing the back of his neck.

“No. Male Omegas do if they’re with a female Alpha. It’s almost like precum, but a lot more of it comes out.” Setting down your glass again, you leaned towards Dean in your chair. “And while female Omegas might be really tight, I can control my pelvic muscles like they’re any other body part. So I can squeeze down on you as hard… as… I… want.”

Dean’s eyes went wide and he swallowed hard, trying to shift in his chair to adjust himself. You knew he saw the predatory look you were giving him, so when he flashed his golden irises at you and puffed his chest out, you leaned back away from him, unsure if he was showing signs of aggression.

“Oh come on, sweetheart,” Dean purred, “don’t tell me you’re not interested anymore. Ya ever been with a male Alpha?”

You smiled. Hook, line, and sinker. “No, I haven’t. But I think I should change that.”

It was as if someone shot a starting pistol. You and Dean were out of your chairs in an instant, fumbling with each others clothes. Dean pushed you backward against the wall next to the table, pawing at your breasts through your shirt and shoving his knee between your thighs. A small laugh escaped you before you grabbed Dean by the torso and spun around, pressing him back against the wall while you fiercely kissed him and worked on undoing his belt.

Dean growled deep in his chest at the challenge for dominance and tried to push you back, but you tightened your grip on him and pushed your body up against his, your lips right next to the shell of his ear.

“I am not some little Omega you can push around, Dean. This cock,” you gripped him through his jeans, “is mine tonight.”

Dean groaned as you palmed him, but his lust-clouded eyes snapped open and stared you down. “You might think it’s yours, but I’m not gonna give it up without a fight.”

He used his body weight to push you off him, making you stumble backward a few feet. Yours and Dean’s eyes were glowing gold at this point and you maintained eye contact as you both began to strip out of your clothes. When you were completely bare, you watched as Dean unzipped his pants and pulled them down along with his boxers. His cock sprang free, thick and leaking, and he gave himself a few strokes while you shamelessly stared and ran your fingers over your nipples.

Before you could make your move, Dean rushed forward and scooped you up, tossing you backward onto the bed and settling on his stomach between your thighs before you could get your bearings. With a low growl, he spread your legs further and licked a wide stripe up through your folds, flicking his tongue over your clit. When your hips bucked, Dean’s arm came down across your stomach, holding you still.

“Fuck, Dean,” you mewled as he continued to lick and suck at your pussy like it was an Olympic sport and he was going for gold.

Two thick digits prodded at your entrance before they slid inside, making you gasp as they immediately found your g-spot and began rubbing over the sensitive spot. It didn’t take long until you were screaming Dean’s name, squeezing down on his fingers, and trembling at the overwhelming sensation of bliss.

Dean sat back on his legs, his face glistening with your juices, a smug smile on his lips. You reached up, wrapping your hand around his neck and pushing your fingers into his hair… but when he leaned in, assuming you wanted to kiss him, you pulled him down and flipped him onto his back. His eyes flashed again, likely unused to being manhandled, but he was still a willing participant with his hooded eyes and bottom lip pulled between his teeth.

Since your sexual experience had only been mostly with Betas, you took time to admire how thick and long Dean’s cock was when you gripped it in your hand. You could see the thickening muscle of his knot at the base and Dean grunted when you ran your tongue along it. Licking all the way up his shaft to the tip, you sucked the head of his cock into your mouth, ran your tongue along the underside, and traced the several thick veins you could feel.

“Fuck,” Dean hissed through gritted teeth as you took as much of him inside your mouth and down your throat that you could, making sure to gently play with his balls as you teased him with your tongue. It only took another thirty seconds before Dean was gasping and writhing on the bed, showering you with praises.

Once you felt his cock begin to swell, you released him from your mouth and winked at him, allowing him to calm down and catch his breath. His hands were fisted in the blankets on either side of him and his chest was glistening with a thin sheen of sweat. When he sat up and grabbed your wrist, you straddled his lap and pinned his arms on either side of his head.

“Not so fast, cowboy. This is my rodeo.” Moving your hips back and forth, you slid your pussy along the length of his cock, smiling when Dean let out a shuddered breath that turned into a low growl.

“Well, what are you waiting for?” he taunted, one of his cheeks indented with a dimple from a lopsided smirk.

Lifting your hips, you grabbed his cock - maybe a little tighter than you should have based on the grunt he let out - and positioned the thick head at your entrance. Not being one for taking things slow, you dropped yourself down onto his lap, taking his entire cock at once and releasing his hands.

“Je- fuck!” Dean shouted, his hands shooting to your hips to steady you as you adjusted to his size. When you squeezed down on him, almost painfully tight, he gasped and jerked his hips up, pressing the tip of his cock against the entrance to your womb.

“Feel good, Alpha?” you purred, brushing your fingernails gently over his nipples.

Dean wasn’t used to being dominated like this, you could tell, and it was taking almost all of his willpower to not flip you underneath him and pound you into the mattress. “You gonna just sit there or are you gonna ride me...” he flashed his eyes, “Alpha?”

Growling at the use of your title, you began to slide up and down on his cock, making sure to swirl your hips occasionally and squeeze down on him. The sensation of having an Alpha cock inside you was just as intoxicating as it probably was for Dean to feel the walls of your pussy basically massage his cock as you rode him.

Dean tried to sit up and take control at least three times while you rode him, but you shifted your weight and pinned him down, much to his dismay. The lustful look in his eyes betrayed his frustration though; Dean was definitely enjoying himself. His fingers gripped you tighter as you came closer and closer to your climax, and you could feel the tug of Dean’s knot at the base of his cock as it began to swell.

“You wanna knot me?” you mewled into his ear, picking up the speed of your hips and ignoring the burning in your thighs. While you’d never been knotted before, the competing pheromones and scents in the air were driving you mad with lust and you ignored the likely discomfort that being knotted would bring.

“Y-yes,” Dean gasped, lifting his hips up to meet your movements, allowing his cock to slam into your g-spot with every thrust. “You feel so fucking good, gon’ knot you so hard.”

“Come on, Dean,” you panted, “knot me, baby. I know you wanna feel me squeeze down on you while you fill me up.”

With one violent jerk of his hips and a shout of your name, Dean slammed into you at full force, lodging his knot in your pussy while his cock twitched and filled you. The stretching sensation of being knotted sent you over the edge as well, holding onto Dean’s chest while you shook and spasmed around him, milking every drop of his cum from his cock.

Dean was still coming as you collapsed against him, both your bodies slick with sweat and pheromones as you tried to regain control of your breathing. Dean ran a hand up and down your back as exhaustion pulled at your consciousness, but you cleared your throat, shook your self out of it, and looked up at him.

“Well, that was interesting,” you said with a chuckle.

Dean laughed and kissed your forehead. “Yeah. Are you okay? I’m not hurting you am I?” A mischievous smirk crossed your lips as you fluttered your pussy around him, making him twitch and release another spurt of cum inside you. “Fuck,” Dean groaned, “don’t do that.”

“You weren’t complaining five minutes ago,” you mumbled against his chest, drawing nonsensical patterns on his skin with your finger.

“No, no I wasn’t,” Dean huffed a laugh before you felt his body go rigid. “Shit, we didn’t…”

Snuggling further into his chest, you waved your hand around lazily. “Relax, Dean. You can’t get me pregnant. Female Alphas are infertile unless they find their true mate, and since male Omegas are rare, too… I don’t think I’m getting pregnant anytime soon.”

Dean relaxed and wrapped his arms around you. “I’m sorry.”

You raised your head. “For what?”

“That you can’t have pups, or don’t think you see yourself having pups in your future. I know a lot of Omegas dream of it, and you’re an Alpha, but just because it’s rare doesn’t mean it can’t happen. Don’t give up. I can see if Castiel, our angel friend, might be able to help tomorrow, if you wanted to see if you had a soulmate out there.”

Your eyebrows shot up in surprise. “You’d do that?”

Dean nodded. “It might be unpleasant how he has to do it, but it’ll be worth a shot.”

Before you could answer, there was a loud knock at the door, making you both jump, and making Dean’s knot tug where you were both still locked together.

“Are you two finished screwing each other? You’re stinking up the whole motel,” Sam’s slurred and angry voice came through the closed door. “And there’s like… three Omegas in the parking lot out here waiting their turn or something.”

Dean glanced at you, and you looked up at him, before you both broke out into full-body laughter. You were bouncing on his chest as you cracked up, but you didn’t miss Sam’s mumbled curse nor his footsteps walking away from the door. Bracing your arms on the bed, you lifted yourself up so you could look into Dean’s eyes.

“Like catnip, man. Like catnip.”

The laughter continued even when Dean could pull free from your body, and you snuggled up into his side, excited what tomorrow could bring.

Forevers [CLOSED]: @katymacsupernatural @queen-of-deans-booty @your-modern-shakespeare @wheresthekillswitch @holyfuckloueh @just-another-busy-fangirl @growningupgeek @jensen-gal @mizzezm @there-must-be-a-lock @atc74 @pilaxia @supernatural-jackles @impala-dreamer @bambi95-blog @wonderfulworldofwinchester @batmmgray @brooke-supernatural16 @dwgrl1903 @hey-bxtch @turnttoverr @kittenofdoomage @leanbeankeane @emoryhemsworth @xalgaliareptx @mhnfatima @bi-e-ne @speakinvain @pebblesz892 @kararanae23 @kassablanca13 @mogaruke @tockettt @imagining-supernatural @wildefire @serienjunkiegirl @mrswhozeewhatsis @stars-and-seas @jaremish @ellen-reincarnated1967 @nyxveracity @andkatiethings @bamby0304 @deathtonormalcy56 @winchesterprincessbride @moonstar86 @missihart23 @mrs-meghan-winchester @miss-rebel-without-applause @dean-winchesters-bacon @curly-haired-disaster @supernatural-teamfreewillpage

Dean/Jensen: @akshi8278 @adoptdontshoppets @focusonspn @spnwoman

#dean x reader #dean winchester x reader #spnkinkbingo #alpha x alpha #abo dynamics #alpha!dean x alpha!reader #abo universe #smut #angst #fluff #kink bingo #intoxicating

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faveficarchive · 5 years

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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

#xena #xena warrior princess #xena/gabrielle #xena/gabrielle fanfiction #author: vivian darkbloom #mature #fanfiction #femslash

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