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jeonsjiddies · 3 years

Text

Like I'm Gonna Lose You | jhs (m)

Summary - After a terrifying dream, you decide to show Hoseok how much he means to you.

Word Count - 3346

Pairing - Hoseok x reader

Genre - smut

Warnings - nightmares, mentions of death(in nightmare), assault (in nightmare) dirty talk, oral (f and m receiving), fingering, implied sex

a/n: another re-write from a previous fandom. :)

You were running, running as fast as your legs could carry you, but you weren’t moving. You were stuck in place, frozen. You pushed and pulled and tried to break free but you were bonded to the muddy grass. Hoseok stood up ahead, blissfully unaware of what was happening. You screamed, you screamed until your lungs burned but no sound escaped your lips. Your silence in that moment would haunt you until your dying breath. The panic rising in your throat made it hard to breathe. No, no no!

“HOBI! RUN! PLEASE!” you tried to warn him.

You tried. But it wasn’t enough. You didn’t save him. The masked killers came out from the shadows like flashes of lighting, silent and deadly. It took five of them to hold Hoseok down. He kicked and thrashed and screamed and fought but he was outnumbered. They pinned your boyfriend down, digging into his pockets and holding his own switchblade in the air. It caught a ray of light and shone in the dark, damp forest. He tried to pry his way out of their relentless grip, to no avail. You felt like you were going to throw up. You used every bit of strength you had to try and release from whatever invisible hold you were in, but nothing worked. It felt like tree limbs had grown up from the soggy dirt and wrapped themselves around your legs, your arms. You were trapped, a caged animal. Just like Hoseok. He couldn’t escape either.

The switchblade was held in the air, then thrust down into Hoseok’s chest. He cried out in agony, and so did you. You were being held captive, forced to watch the worst horror movie you could possibly imagine: the death of the love of your life. Dark red filled the fabric on his favorite flannel shirt and you choked on your sobs, as one of the masked men continued to pull the knife out, then sink it back into Hoseok’s flesh, over and over and over again until he stopped struggling. He looked over at you in his final moments, eyes locked with yours. You were the last thing he saw before his body went limp and the men screeched out a victory.

“One freak down. Let’s move boys,” the leader grinned with no remorse.

As soon as they were gone, the invisible cage you were locked in vanished and you rushed to Hoseok’s side, throwing yourself on his lifeless body as the sobs racked through yours.

“No no NO!” you screamed. “I tried to warn you baby, I tried to save you. I couldn’t fucking move! I’m sorry. I’m so fucking sorry. Please come back to me. PLEASE HOBI!”

The silence that answered you was deafening, and you could literally feel your heart shattering in your chest, little pieces of the broken thing falling into the pit of your stomach. You were covered in his blood, and it was on your hands. You didn’t save him.

You woke up, gasping for air. You sat in your bed, breathing heavily. There were already tears on your cheeks, and remembering that awful dream you’d just escaped, more tears poured from your eyes and your body shook with sobs. You looked next to you, where Hoseok was sound asleep. He had a small smile on his lips, and you watched his chest rise and fall with the intake of air, your heart stilling in your chest. Just a dream. It was just a dream. Your hand tenderly found his face, and you caressed his tan skin, with the light stubble he refused to shave. He said it made him feel manlier.

You giggled to yourself, replaying that conversation in your head, and the burning in your stomach started again. You choked back tears to no avail, because they sprang from your eyes again. What if you really lost him? What if you couldn’t wake up next to him anymore? You couldn’t fathom a life without the sweet, lively, hardworking and loveable man. You bit down hard on your bottom lip to try and stop crying, but it was no use. You loved him so much, and the thought of losing him just made you want to die yourself.

“Y/N?” he groggily asked, one eye opening to peek at you, “why are you awake?”

“I just had a freaky dream,” you tried to sound normal so you didn’t worry him, but your voice shook.

He immediately sat up, turning so his body was facing you.

“What’s wrong?” he asked, concern laced in his voice.

You couldn’t take it anymore, you broke down in sobs, and he gathered you into his arms without missing a beat. He held you close while you cried into his chest. He gently rubbed your back, trying to soothe you. You weren’t sure which feeling was more overwhelming at that point: the sheer terror of ever losing him or the blissful relief that you hadn’t, that he was still here with you, alive and holding you in those safe warm arms you called home. He kissed the top of your head and rocked you back and forth until you’d calmed down enough to explain why you had burst into hysterics at 3am.

“Wanna tell me what happened, baby?” he asked softly.

“I had a dream you died,” you explained.

“It was just a dream, I’m right here. You can’t get rid of me that easily,” he joked, trying to lighten the mood.

“Hobi , it’s not funny.” you sniffled.

“What happened in the dream?” he coaxed, sensing you needed to talk about it.

“Gosh Hobi, it was awful. We were in the forest,” you began, spelling out all the gory details for your boyfriend, who listened intently and let you talk.

“That’s intense,” he finally said when you’d finished, barely fighting off tears as you relayed the dream to him.

You nodded, reaching over and grabbing a tissue from the nightstand, wiping your eyes and blowing your nose, not caring how unattractive it was. You were fragile and felt like any wrong move could shatter you right then.

“Baby, I know that was scary, but it wasn’t real. I’m right here, and I’m not going anywhere,” he assured you, holding you close. “Do you want to try and go back to sleep?”

“Can we cuddle?”

Hobi nodded, laying down and opening his arms for you. You snuggled close to him, letting the sound of his beating heart drown out all the fears inside you. You fell asleep with his warmth wrapped around you, and his heart singing your favorite lullaby.

Even though you were exhausted, you woke up before Hobi; and even though the dream wasn’t real, the possibility was. You’d decided that you were going to treat him like a king, like it was the last moment you’d ever spend together. You were going to treat every day like your last day with him. You were going to love him like you were going to lose him.

You slipped out of bed quietly, tiptoeing into the kitchen, being as quiet as you could while you made his favorite breakfast. The aroma of the food filled the whole apartment, and it was making your mouth water. You fixed Hobi a plate and put it on a tray with orange juice and carried it into the bedroom, setting it on your bedside table. You climbed into bed, peppering soft kisses all over his face, gently waking him from his slumber.

“Mmmm…” he smiled, eyes opening and focusing on you, “good morning beautiful.”

“Good morning,” you giggled, pressing a real kiss to his lips.

“Oh gosh, what smells so good?”

“Your favorite,” you grinned, standing and handing him the tray, then cuddling up to his side.

“Breakfast in bed?” he grinned, then his face fell with panic, “did I forget our anniversary or something?”

“No, silly. I just wanted to do something nice for you,” you laughed.

“Aw, thanks baby,” he grinned, digging in.

You watched him, eating your breakfast but focusing more on Hobi, memorizing everything he did, the way he moved, the sound of his breathing, how he ate. You wanted to remember it all, just in case. He glanced over at you a few times, making silly faces. You giggled and continued to watch him, full of awe and love and wonder.

“Why are you staring at me?” he laughed.

“I love you.” you shrugged.

“Is it because of that dream?” he questioned, raising an eyebrow.

“No! Maybe… yes. But I should be doing this stuff anyway, you’re so amazing and so good to me, you deserve to be treated the same way,” you explained.

“Babe you don’t have to do all this.”

“I know. I want to,” you smiled, gathering the dirty dishes and walking them into the kitchen and washing them.

“Let me help.” Hobi bumped his hip into yours.

“I got it, you go relax baby,” you reached up on your tiptoes to kiss him.

“Y/N…” he trailed off, sighing.

“Seriously, I got this. Go relax. You can make it up to me later,” you wiggled your eyebrows suggestively.

He smirked and smacked your ass before walking into the living room and settling into the couch, turning on the TV. You watched him walk away. I hate to see you go, but I love to watch you leave. You thought to yourself, admiring his perky butt and broad back. His broad shoulders were bare, he’d slept shirtless and he was wearing basketball shorts slung low on his hips, letting his boxers peek out of the top.

He had no idea how sexy he looked, with his wild sleep-mussed hair, smooth tan skin, and those lips. Oh, his lips. You could write an erotic novel just based on his lips and the things they could do. You smirked to yourself, finishing the dishes and following him into the living room.

You decided you’d have a little fun with him today and snuck away into the bedroom, putting on your best lingerie, and styling your hair the way you knew he liked best. You put on a little bit of subtle makeup, just enough to enhance what was already there so you couldn’t tell it was on if you weren’t looking for it.

You quietly walked back to the living room, sliding in next to Hobi on the couch. He didn’t look in your direction, but he slid an arm around your shoulders. You didn’t blame him - the best part of the crime drama he was watching was on the screen, where they determine who the killer really was. Turns out, it was the jealous mistress. Typical, yet still alluring.

“I KNEW IT!” he grinned, looking over at you for the first time since you’d returned.

His eyes grew wide as he took in your outfit and you bit your lip nervously, looking up at him through your lashes, and leaning forward slightly to show off your cleavage. He visibly gulped, eyes roaming hungrily over your frame.

“You look so fucking sexy in that,” he said, voice thick with desire, eyes turning dark.

“You look sexy in everything, so I guess we’re even,” you fired back.

“You always know exactly what to say.”

You giggled and climbed over onto his lap, straddling him and running your hands slowly down his chest, and his eyes followed your every movement. His body was enticing, he was like a greek god in your opinion. He was a work of art, exquisite, delicious, absolutely mouth watering, and he was all yours. You intended to fully worship his body the way it deserved. You wanted to show him how much he meant to you, how much you cared for him, and how devastatingly sexy he was.

If the damp pool in your underwear didn’t alert him to how he affected your body, the look in your eyes had to. The insatiable thirst you had for him apparent in your gaze. His sturdy chest rose quickly as his breathing became shallow, trying to keep his composure as you started grinding against him, trailing your hands all along his torso. You were teasing him, taunting him, but you both knew the end result would be worth it. The more foreplay, the better the sex. He groaned as your fingers traced lazily over his hardened member, and you smirked to yourself.

You pushed him back onto the arm of the couch, leaving searing kisses along any patch of skin you could reach, your nails gently scratching a trail following your mouth, which you knew he loved. He loved having marks from you, proving he was yours as much as he loved leaving marks on you, and showing the world that you belonged to him. He was agonizingly hard and could barely focus on anything but the way you looked, devouring his body slowly.

You licked lines around each of his abs, and he let his head fall back at the sensation washing over him. It was all he could do not to pick you up and slam you down into the couch, take control and fuck you into next week. But, in true Hoseok fashion, he was respectful and let you follow your plan. You nipped at the skin above his shorts, and he actually whimpered. The great Jung Hoseok actually whimpered, he wanted you so badly. You pulled his shorts and boxers down, and he lifted his hips to help you, like the gentleman he was.

His cock sprung free and slapped against his stomach, swollen, aching, and ready. The tip was leaking pre-cum and you licked your lips seductively before pressing soft kisses to the tip, bold strokes of your tongue following. He groaned, writhing under your touch. Your hand found his balls and played with them while you sunk your mouth over his throbbing erection, a hiss erupting from his delicious lips. You hummed a response, the vibrations doing him in almost as much as the feeling of your warm lips wrapped around his aching cock.

You started bobbing your head up and down, swirling your tongue around the base at the same time, driving him absolutely insane. His moans were music to your ears, encouraging you to keep going. Your hands worked in time with your mouth, occasionally offbeat just to spice it up as you sucked and bobbed and swirled your way around him, bringing him closer to the edge with each passing moment. He groaned loudly, his cock tensing, and you knew it was almost time so you doubled down on your efforts, and soon, he was shooting into your mouth, and you took it all, swallowing and licking your lips before lifting your eyes to meet his gaze.

His face had a sheen of sweat on it, and he looked spent. His breathing was ragged and he just had this shit eating grin on his lips as he stared at you, eyes wide and joyful. You climbed up to lay on his chest, taking a break. But this sex-capade was far from over. He wrapped his arms around you, both of you sticky. You smiled into the soft kiss he pressed to your swollen lips.

“You’re so good at that, babygirl,” he praised you.

“I can’t help myself, you’re just so delectable,” you teased, booping his nose.

He rolled his eyes but couldn’t wipe the satisfied smile off his face. You kissed his cheek, his forehead, his nose, his lips. He laughed, loving all the attention from you, but very much wanting to return the favor. He flipped you over, pinning you down on the couch, not that you would have dreamed of trying to break free of his hold. You loved being underneath him, feeling how big and powerful he was. He tortured you the same way you’d tortured him, leaving hot, wet kisses down your neck and collarbone, sucking love marks along the way, nibbling at your sensitive spots. You loved how he kissed your body, how he knew exactly how to please you, where all your favorite spots were.

He treated you like a princess and you loved him for that and a million other reasons, but you couldn’t really focus on those at the moment, not with his lips causing that familiar fire to grow in your core. No man had ever touched you like Hoseok touched you, no man had ever made you feel the way he did. He was a magician, a wizard, a sex-god. His hands traveled along your sides, up to your breasts, and he gave your nipples a gentle squeeze through the thin fabric of your lingerie. You moaned his name, praising him for how good he was to you.

“Fuck, Hobi. You always feel so good,” you encouraged.

“Mmm. You like that, babygirl?” he grinned, looking up at you, a brief halt on the ambush of your body.

“Love it, love you so much,” you told him.

“I love you too, Y/N.”

He pulled your lingerie top off and began kissing along your breast, sucking harshly on the nipple, causing your back to arch off the couch and into his touch. More. His teeth grazed along the already hyper-aware nub, and you bit down on your bottom lip harshly, groaning inwardly. Once he’d decided he’d tortured your breasts enough, he slowly made his way down your stomach, hot breath fanning over your aching, soaked core. You shivered, trying to stay still and not yank his head down. He used his teeth to pull down the panties of your lingerie, and you nearly came from that sight alone. You watched him eagerly as he tore them from your trembling body, tossing them aside carelessly.

His tongue slithered along your folds, teasing you. You whined loudly, showing your displeasure of having to wait, and he chuckled.

“So impatient, baby,” he chastised.

“Only for you.”

He smirked and his tongue dove into your heat, pressing flat against your clit in broad, slow licks. It was almost disrespectful, how slow and tantalizing he was being. Two fingers entered you, curling just right to hit your g spot every time. He took his time, paced himself, slowly bringing you closer to your high. You wiggled on his fingers, trying to get him to speed up, but his tongue and fingers kept their slow assault.

“Patience, my love,” he cooed.

You whimpered in frustration but agreed, and soon, the rumbling deep down in your core was becoming less of a rumble and more of a roar as your release quickly approached. Your walls began to clench, and only then did he speed up, bringing you the most intense euphoric feeling you’d ever experienced in your life. You saw a flash of white light when your eyes screwed shut, you felt like your soul was leaving your body. Maybe that’s why the French called orgasms “the little death”. It crashed over you and you were drowning in ecstasy. When you came back down, Hoseok slowly pulled his fingers out, and leaned up to kiss your lips. You could barely breathe, let alone speak. He laughed at your disheveled state.

“That’s how I felt after you gave me the blowjob of a lifetime,” he winked.

“Remind me to do that more often,” you breathed out, “I kinda like the payback.”

“I do too,” he wiggled his eyebrows.

“I’m so fucking lucky to have you,” you gushed, crushing him in a hug.

“I’m the lucky one, babygirl,” he countered.

You grinned mischievously, biting down on his lip as he kissed you, riling him up again. You both spent the day making dirty memories in every room of the apartment, enjoying each other's company, and spending quality time together. You loved every second of it, and Hoseok did too. By the time the sun went down, you were both completely wrecked, falling asleep as soon as your heads hit the pillows. That night, you only dreamt happy dreams, about life with Hobi and how happy you were that he was yours.

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emersonfreepress · 3 years

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What would the ro's be like in a zombie au?

whyyyyy anon whyyy. I'm actually gonna write this in like.. slightly different terms, you'll see. any time I even briefly think of a zombie au I'm just like

I WANNA WRITE IT SO BADDD

i don't even allow myself to entertain it for very long because getting into that would be the worst thing ever for my productivity with the alpha omg 😂😂 so I'll put like the ideas that pop into my head for writing a zombie au, to work some of that creative frustration out 😆

so in this very general, absolutely noncommittal idea of mine, the main cast are older and the setting is in and around a civilian settlement led by the Emersons.

and as a refresher, i like my zombie aus to have fast zombies and fast infections ^ ^ 28 Days Later/Train to Busan style babyyyy, we the Sprinting Dead up in this bitch 😆

= = =

Gabe is, predictably, looking for what's left of his family. Following rumors of safe havens and bunkers and such. Starts the story as someone who tries to be diplomatic, if not outright pacifist, but as times get tougher and resources dwindle, he'd become one of the most cutthroat motherfuckers in the wasteland. Low-key though, low-key. People won't trust you if they know you’re capable of throwing them to a horde for strategic reasons. Like if Rick turned into Shane (for those of us familiar with early Walking Dead--idk did that happen eventually? i gave up before we even met Negan lol). The end justifies the means :) Damn, I can legit see Gabe going full evil in a zombie au omg 😂😂 i want to write it so fucking bad

Preferred weapon for zed encounters: rifle

Preferred weapon for human encounters: handgun

Faith in humanity: fucking zero

Zombie kill count: plenty; the type to kill every zombie he has spare ammo and time for

Human kill policy: When it benefits him or the people he’s looking after

Survival rating: B+; he can make it out of some pretty dire situations through sheer will to live and ruthlessness

- - -

Kile has arrived--clearly, this is the timeline they belong in. They start their journey with Gabe (and their doggo) and stick to him like glue, even reluctantly so when Gabe eventually has them join the settlement. This can only go one way, though: Kile's just too much of a wildcard for the group and hates being told what to do. (Especially now that society has fallen, wtf) They'd make their exit alone and unannounced aside from a brief head’s up to Gabe. It's slightly bittersweet, but also? They get to loot and hunt and sneak around and kill fucking zombies, all by themself. Kile is a loner, a hiker, and a hunter to begin with so they do beyond fine on their own. However, once the inevitable violent human threat comes for the settlement, Gabe is sent out to convince Kile to come out of isolation, just this once please, to be the camp’s super soldier help defend the camp.

Zed weapon: p much anything they can get their hands on, ranged or melee, blunt or sharp, w/e; improvised weapons

Human weapon: hunting knife

Faith in humanity: never had any to begin with

Zombie kill count: lol infinite?? any zed they come across is double-dead if they have the time for it

Human kill policy: at Gabe’s direction or when provoked enough/threatened

Survival rating: A-; they trust no one, live in isolation, and prioritize survival above all else. only reason it’s not higher is they would risk their life for Gabe or their furbaby and also... their own Rambo-esque antics def attracts the occasional horde lmao

- - -

Jack... this poor boy, he doesn't deserve a zombie au 😂 He's one of those people that first believes zombies are just sick people, too squeamish to keep up with TV news coverage at the onset and too upset to consider anything else. He'd hunker down at home, staying holed up even while his neighbors evacuated, and probably be discovered while the main group is looting the same place as him. When people try to tell him the real state of the world, he'd be in denial until he absolutely couldn't be anymore. idk, probably after Kile shooting a bunch of non-lethal holes thru a zombie to make a point (attracting more in the process lol).

He’d almost immediately join the medical team at the settlement and as word spreads about how easy he is to talk to, he quickly becomes the literal on-site therapist. It's a role he embraces but... idk if it's an emotional burden he can bear. He's very emotionally resilient! But he ain't a professional lol imagine a whole settlement of traumatized zombie survivors seeking you out for counseling, yikes. He also can't say no to a person in need, so instead he quietly spirals into a very private depression while continuing to help others!!

Zed weapon: Oh gosh, do I really have to?

Human weapon: ...Kindness?

Faith in humanity: Unrealistically high

Zombie kill count: Single digit

Human kill policy: Not ever, unless completely unavoidable and to defend the defenseless

Survival rating: C...? idk, that feels generous. D+. To be protected at all costs!!

- - -

Jessie also had the initial reaction of hoping zombies could be saved, but she woke up from that dream swiftly. The science-minded person that she is, esp with her interest in biology, leaves her determined to find anybody who's got the intellect, expertise, and resources to start doing actual work toward a treatment, cure, vaccine—anything. Nothing would get her to finally unabashedly embrace her love of science (and innate leadership skills!!) faster than a zombie apocalypse! In fact, it’s thanks to her that the Emerson settlement’s got a small but growing team of scientists doing as much research as humanly possible to best educate the others on the outbreak and zombie behavior. Def no zombie experimentation going on though lol. ...Not yet, at least.

Zed weapon: rifle

Human weapon: rifle

Faith in humanity: High! We’ll find a solution! Don’t give up hope!

Zombie kill count: Double digits, but less than 30

Human kill policy: Only in unavoidable self-defense or defense of others

Survival rating: B! She has experience with ranged weapons, farming and gardening skills, first aid, camping experience, and a can-do attitude with a healthy dose of realism!

- - -

Rain remains cargo as I said in the last post about this 😆 They'd be very good for keeping clothes repaired and making useful modifications in the settlement, but their life up to this point has been very sheltered and privileged. We're talking somebody with a chauffeur and a personal chef before the outbreak! They would contribute to quality of life and homemaking efforts more than anything—an overlooked aspect of these scenarios tbh! After as many months of dragging their feet as possible and being nigh impossible to track down when you need them, they eventually become involved in meal planning and even help out with medical stuff if they're asked.

Zed weapon: how do you reload this thing again?

Human weapon: switchblade or other concealable sharp-pointy

Faith in humanity: Very low

Zombie kill count: 0! Can you believe it!

Human kill policy: Well if it’s you or me, of course I’m choosing me.

Survival rating: C. Being so tiny helps them find good hiding spots and their self-preservation is high enough to keep them from unnecessary risk-taking. Plus they're very stealthy! Self-defense is a major issue though, so hiding is always their best option.

- - -

Rupan/Rohan scouts for and leads scavenging missions and is Curt's right hand on the recruitment team. The two of them together are the perfect combo of diplomacy, debate, and deception--although R is more honorable about the last one and will only deceive for strategic reasons. When they aren’t looting and recruiting, they’re doing peacekeeping inside the settlement. Most social disputes end up getting brought to them for mediation and they’re pretty dang good at making and enforcing calls. One day they’ll wake up to realize they’ve basically become a sheriff and feel the need to puke their guts up and do something, anything, to reassure themself they’re still punk 😂

Zed weapon: SMG

Human weapon: shotgun

Faith in humanity: Believes in fundamental goodness but knows better than to trust first impressions

Zombie kill count: decent, more than 40; you won’t catch them having a field day tho, they’re trying to gtfo of most zed situations

Human kill policy: Violent threats have to be taken out. And they aren’t, at all, immune to a revenge rampage either...

Survival rating: B-. Can handle themself both with humans and zeds but is vulnerable to hostage situations and truly difficult sentimental/interpersonal decisions!

- - -

Vivian/Vincent manages inventory and stock and they run it so efficiently it’s scary! They're the perfect pick: a hawk-eyed tyrant and tattletale 😂 Despite constantly butting heads with just about everyone on every imaginable thing, they quickly become an important part of the inner circle of decision-makers for the settlement at large. Terrible at stealth, jumpy, and squeamish at the sight of blood and gore, they literally never go on missions unless they're 100% needed for their expertise on a supply run. (They would deny all of these shortcomings are that big a problem, meanwhile R is definitely acting as their bodyguard lol.) When they do tag along, they're prone to becoming the damsel in distress. Seriously, it happens near every fucking time. It's like they just attract only the most improbable and perilous zombie attacks and hostage situations 😆

Zed weapon: shotgun

Human weapon: handgun

Faith in humanity: Medium; seeing people work together at the settlement helps restore it a bit

Zombie kill count: Double digits, under 25

Human kill policy: Violent threats have to be taken out. Well, no, not by me! Get one of the ruffians to do it!

Survival rating: C-. They’d be higher if they weren’t such natural zombie bait.

- - -

Heidi is running the settlement, well-organized to the degree of actually managing to bring bureaucracy to a post-zombie apocalypse settlement 😂 People are free to come and go, but getting in if you don't live there requires trading something of value (fuel, med supplies, food, etc), temporary surrender and registry of firearms and explosives, and you gotta GTFO at the time and date specified upon entry! You can stay long-term if you contribute to the community in a tangible way—and each person admitted is approved by Heidi personally. Yes, every individual. No, she has no free time. And she is not known to be lenient with rule breakers—you want rule bending, you’ll have to go to Curt for that. People kind of hate her, but it can't be denied that she runs a tight ship. She kind of throws herself into the work to avoid the harsher reality at large and hasn't left the settlement in a long time. She's out of touch with how bad things have gotten in the wastes, but she knows better than to take reports at anything less than face value--even when she's skeptical.

Zed weapon: rifle

Human weapon: handgun; dagger

Faith in humanity: Medium. It fluctuates, honestly

Zombie kill count: Double digits, less than 20

Human kill policy: Violent threats must be taken out if they can’t be reasoned with. Spare those who surrender, eradicate those who don't, keep an eye on the newbies. Not tryin’ to nurse any vendettas around here lol

Survival rating: B. She's good with a firearm, masterful at persuasion, and savvy enough to calculate risks appropriately. Also far tougher than her prim exterior and demeanor suggests!

- - -

Curt leads the recruitment and reconnaissance teams! When a new person or group shows up in the area, Curt's the one who stalks watches them, decides if they're worth approaching, and if they should be approached with an invitation, a simple acknowledgment/announcement of their presence, or an outright armed warning to leave the area. He also keeps tabs on morale and general confidence inside the settlement, alongside R. When he isn’t leading those efforts, though, he’s flirting with settlers and squirreling his way out of manual labor and other chores. He’s also secretly growing weed at his place--don’t tell Heidi or Vi ‘cause they’ll wanna yell at him and ration it UGH.

Zed weapon: SMG, explosives

Human weapon: handgun, dagger

Faith in humanity: Pft, sorry, what now?

Zombie kill count: ...way more than you’d expect

Human kill policy: I don’t start confrontations, but I sure as fuck end them.

Survival rating: A! He’s good at playing hapless idiot when it suits him to be underestimated, good with firearms, and capable of being ruthless and decisive in life or death situations! Plus he has no qualms about ditching the settlement if he decides it’s not working out for him. Just don’t tell Heidi lol

#the rest are under the cuuuut #had to stop myself from writing too much SEVERAL times #love me a zombie apocalypse #lovely anon #answered #ROs #whoops got carried away lol #spent most of my work day finally finishing this ask because VIVA PROCRASTINATION #someone help ._.#phew #feels good to finally get it out of my system tho #now I can promptly never ever write it 😂#AUs #fave #scenarios

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faveficarchive · 5 years

Text

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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the--blackdahlia · 5 years

Text

This Life Chapter 10

Title: This Life Chapter 10

Summary: Dean Winchester is the Vice President of the motorcycle club The Hunters. After almost 7 years in prison, he's free. But things have changed and Dean has to figure out how to put things back together.

Warnings: Language mainly

AN: The song for this chapter is It’s Been Awhile by Staind.

Benny jumped to his feet to grab a hold of Dean’s arm while Lucifer and Gabriel stood ready to attack if needed. Sam waved them down, wiping blood off his mouth.

“I deserved that, I think.” Sam said. He looked at Dean. “It’s really great to see you man.”

“I was worried sick about you, you little prick!” Dean said. But then he reached out and grabbed Sam, pulling him into a hug. Dean noticed there was a lot more muscle, and height, since the last time he had seen the kid. In fact, when they pulled apart, Dean realized it wasn’t a kid he was hugging. Sam even had stubble and everything.

“Come on.” Sam said, waving for Dean and Benny to follow him. He turned around to walk out the door. That’s when Dean noticed the vest. Wayward Sons Motorcycle Club. Dean looked over at Benny, who just shrugged before they followed Sam out of the room. They walked down a hallway before coming back out at the bar that Dean and Benny had broken into. This time, there were people hanging around the bar. All of them wearing Wayward Sons vests.

“Well, welcome you guys.” Sam said. “This is all of us, minus one person.” Dean looked around the room. Out of the six that were there, Dean knew three of them. And two of them he had just met. Dean looked behind the bar. There was a woman there with a blonde mohawk, wearing black jeans, a crop top, and a Wayward Sons vest.

“You let women join?” Dean asked. She flicked a switchblade and pointed it at Dean.

“Have a problem with that pig?” She asked with a bit of a growl. Sam raised a hand.

“Easy Ruby.” He said. She glared at Dean but lowered her knife. “Uh, yeah. That’s Ruby. And that’s Meg over there.” Sam said. A girl with long brown hair with bits and piece of pink peeking out came over.

“Oh, we’re old friends.” Meg laughed. Dean looked at her then over at Benny, who just shrugged. “Arizona. Those big bad bikers were chasing you down.” She smiled.

“You were the other bike?” Dean asked. Meg giggled.

“Guilty!” She leaned in and whispered in Dean’s ear. “I’m an excellent shot.”

“Okay Meg, that’s enough.” Sam said. Meg licked her lips as Sam gently pulled her away from his brother.

“I just love it when he does that.” She laughed. Dean looked at Benny. What the hell kind of club did Sam get himself caught up in.

“Hi. I’m Andy.” The last guy said, offering his hand. A normal handshake and not a knife being presented to Dean. Dean took his hand and shook it. “I think I’m the guilty one for running your friends off from Palo Alto. But after everything Sammy’s been through…” He missed the way Dean’s eyes darkened some at Andy using Sam’s nickname.

“Who’s your president?” Benny asked. Sam looked around at all the members, telling them with his eyes not to say a word.

“You’ll meet him later. He’s busy.” Sam said. “I’m VP though. So if you need anything…”

“Wait a minute, I’m still trying to wrap my head around all of this.” Dean said. “Weren’t you the same kid that said over and over again he didn’t want the club life? But here you are, running around with a bunch of fucking strangers and not your own family?”

“Dean…” Sam started to say. He could feel his club starting to get a little on edge. They were a little protective of him. He was the youngest after all.

“And not only are you a member, but you’re VP? You could’ve been the VP of the Hunters while I was in prison and stepped up to help Bobby when dad died! Did you ever go to his funeral, or were you too busy with all of these assholes? Do you even care?!”

“Dean, that’s enough.” A voice said from a hallway behind Dean. “Leave your brother alone. He’s in the life now, that’s all that matters.”

“Okay, I think I have brain damage. I could’ve sworn I just heard dad’s voice.” Dean laughed some, but Benny turned to look behind them. “Is this a Lion King thing? Is dad Mufasa?”

“Not quite.” Benny said. Benny grabbed Dean’s arm to turn him around. And Dean could see what made Benny spooked.

Because there stood John Winchester.

He didn’t look a whole lot different than what he had looked like when Dean had seen him last on a visit. His hair was a bit more grey, but he had burns covering the left side of his face, and an eyepatch covering his left eye. The tattoos that covered his arms were the same, with some burns on the left side. Whatever had happened to him had taken a toll on his left side.

“Hey Dean.” John said.

“There’s...there’s no way.” Benny said. “We found two bodies in that building. Yours and Bills.”

“You did find Bill’s, yes.” John said. “But the other one was the fucking Horsemen who set the fire.”

“I just don’t understand.” Dean said. “We all thought you were dead! If you were alive, why didn’t you come back or tell us that you were alive!”

“I did it to keep you all safe.” John said. He went behind the bar and poured himself a glass of whiskey. “Ruby, why don’t you set these boys up with some drinks?”

“Sure thing.” Ruby said, grabbing two glasses and pulling a couple drafts for Dean and Benny.

“Dad, I don’t want beer. I want answers.” Dean said. “You and Sam are both alive and well and I thought you both were dead!” Benny took the beer that Ruby slid to him and drank a good chunk of it.

“Well, I lost everything in the fire.” Sam said. “Contacts, phone, everything. I should’ve been in contact but I got swept up in things.”

“Why don’t we order some food and sit down and explain everything?” John suggested. “We’ll go to the house and leave these guys here. They’ll have to run the bar anyway. And we have some good paying customers that come to see Ruby and Meg.”

“What about Benny?” Dean asked.

“He’s pretty much part of the family, so of course he can come.” John said. “I’ll place an order. Sam, will you lead them over to the house?”

“Yeah.” Sam said. “Just a second.” He disappeared down the hall and came back a second later with a helmet and keys. “Follow me.” Sam led them outside. Their bikes were still the only ones in the parking lot. “I’m parked around on the side. I’ll meet you guys.” With that, Sam walked off. Dean and Benny looked at each other.

“What is up with them?” Benny asked.

“I don’t know. But we better get some damn good answers or I’m shooting something.” That’s when there is a roar of a motor. Sam came around the corner on a beautiful bike.

“What happened to he didn’t want to ride?” Benny asked. Him and Dean had both offered to teach Sam how to ride one. He had fallen off once when he was learning and broke his arm, and he said that he wasn’t learning again. He would only ride with someone until he got to the age that people started to tease him. Then he learned how to drive a car and wanted nothing to do with the motorcycles.

But here he was, driving like he had been born on one.

“It’s not too far.” Sam told Benny and Dean as he pulled up next to them. They nodded and got on their own bikes, following Sam. And he was right. It wasn’t too far. Took about five minutes maybe. It was a little closer to town than the bar, but not much. John really liked his privacy.

Sam parked his bike and took off his helmet, waiting for Dean and Benny to pull in. They pulled in behind him and followed him up onto the large front porch with the swing swaying a little.

“Dad, Andy, and I all live here.” Sam said, unlocking the door and letting them in. “Thankfully I cleaned up yesterday and we really haven’t been home.”

It wasn’t empty, like Dean was expecting, but it didn’t look like a home either. There were a few pieces of furniture, and a TV, but that was really about it. It really just looked like a place they went when they needed to sleep. It was a big difference from the house back in Wolfpine. Hell, even Dean’s apartment had more furnishings than this.

“Nice place.” Benny said. Sam shrugged and made his way into the kitchen. There was some milk, beer, water, and soda in the fridge. When Dean and Benny came in, they could see random boxes of food on the counters.

“It’s just a place to sleep and eat when I’m not at the bar or doing other things.” Sam explained. “I do have some books in my room. I decided to keep reading college level things, even though I had to leave.”

“Are you going to tell us about that?” Dean asked.

“When dad gets here.” Sam told him. Sam looked at Benny. The blood on his face and arm had dried. “Sorry about Lucifer. I would say he really is a good guy, but he’s not.”

“Then why don’t you kick him out?” Benny asked. Sam went to the sink and wet a wash cloth so Benny could clean up some.

“He’s a good member, not a good person.” Sam told him. He handed him the cloth. “I gotta do some stuff upstairs. Make yourselves at home. I think the cable is still on.” With that, Sam was gone. Dean and Benny looked at each other.

“Is that really Sam?” Benny asked. “Because that doesn’t seem like the Sam that I knew just a year or so ago.”

“He’s been with dad. Dad has a tendency to drain the sunshine out of people’s lives sometimes.” Dean grumbled. “But maybe we can get to the bottom of this once they decide to give us some details.” Benny nodded and carefully wiped the blood off himself before they made themselves comfy in the living room and waited.

Forever Tags: @anathewierdo @i-would-die-for-woodland-demars @dekahg @marvel-af @feelmyroarrrr @nanie5 @imboredsueme @gemini0410 @aiaranradnay @babypink224221 @mogaruke @xxwarhawk

Dean Winchester/Jensen Ackles Tags: @luciathewinchestergirl @sheris532 @bobasheebaby @flamencodiva @bella-ca

This Life Tags: @soulslaststand @jamielea81 @caplansteverogers @becs-bunker @supernaturalwincestsblog @colie87

Supernatural Tags: @bandobsession98 @mrsdeanfuckingwinchester @fangirlsencyclopaediaofweirdness @ilovetardis @missihart23

#this life #sam winchester #dean winchester #supernatural #benny lafitte #Jensen Ackles #Jared Padalecki #fanfiction

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caffeineivore · 5 years

Text

Moar Spirits for Spirit

Prompt: M/N, Neck

At this hour of night, this section of Central Park is all but deserted, which serves the purposes of the two young men meeting there just fine. The older of the two unties the red bandanna around his head and stuffs it into a pocket before stepping out into the light-- the colour is too eye-catching, even at this hour of night, and likely to draw the attention of passersby or the odd passing cop. The star-shaped tattoo on his wrist is a little less noticeable.

He doesn’t give the other boy much of a greeting beyond a fairly elaborate handshake-fist-bump combination, during which money changes hands, but sits down at the base of the a statue-- fairly new, some dude in a cape holding a sword atop a horse, lights up a cigarette as he counts the wadded-up cash. “That’s a little bit more than what I asked, Trey. Wanna tell me what’s up?”

Trey is perhaps all of fifteen, gangly but baby-faced, shuffling his feet in his battered red high-tops. “Well, I got together some extra. You know. Isn’t that good, Switch?”

The evasiveness of Trey’s body language and his non-answer to Switch’s question makes the older boy lean forward, all but trapping him against the statue’s concrete base. “Don’t tell me you’re trying to get up to some shit, now. I don’t think that’d be a smart idea.”

“I just-- I got a new caseworker. She actually cares. I’ve been going to school and I think I might be able to graduate. She’s even helping me get a part-time job.” Trey’s still too young to know not to babble out sensitive information when he’s nervous, and so he rambles, shrinking away from Switch’s thunderous expression. “I won’t snitch or nothing, I promise. She doesn’t know anything about any of that, and I’m not gonna tell her. I just think I should get out of this so that it won’t fuck up my chances.”

“And you think it’s that easy, huh?”

The snick of a knife being drawn is all but silent, and yet to Trey, in this still and deadly-silent park, it’s loud as a gunshot, almost as loud as the pulse pounding in his throat. Switch-- short for Switchblade, his weapon of choice, so easily hidden, and yet, flicked open close enough to his face to nick the tip of his nose, so lethal, all the same. “We took care of you when your trickin’ mama couldn’t. And now you think an extra hundred dollars gets you a free pass? An out?” Switch’s face is close enough to Trey’s that flecks of saliva impact against Trey’s cheek with his words, but the boy is too terrified to be grossed out. “You seen what happens to snitches. I guess you about to see what happens to rats going green, too.”

Trey is too scared to do more than yelp and squeeze his eyes shut, but the slash of the knife never comes. He hears a rumble, feels the earth shake in its very foundations at his feet. Maybe this is what an earthquake feels like, or the Apocalypse. Suddenly he doesn’t feel the pressure of a body up in his face any more, and hears Switch screaming.

He opens his eyes, and sees his former fellow gang member airborne, hoisted up by the scruff of his neck like a kitten, arms and legs dangling helplessly. The man holding him immobile is tall and muscular, looking like something out of King Arthur or maybe the Vikings, and has the tip of a wicked-looking sword that makes Switch’s knife look like a toothpick in comparison held to Switch’s throat. Trey has no idea where his mysterious saviour had come from; certainly, he’d not heard anyone or anything approaching just a moment ago. The man turns his face towards Trey, eyes dark and flashing.

“Run, you dithering knave! What are you waiting for?”

Trey jerks into action and jumps to his feet, dashing for the nearest exit. He almost crashes into a woman walking into the park, but manages to avoid her at the last second with a hasty “’Scuse me, ma’am!”. Maybe his new caseworker would help him evade Switch and any of the others who would likely now try to beat his ass. Angela. He’d never met anyone like her before, capable of giving him reason to hope for the better.

“You’re excused.” Linden knows terror when she sees it, and it’s all but radiating off the boy in waves. It doesn’t take much to ascertain, based on his speed and direction, that he must have come from that particular section of the park, and she quickens her footsteps. She’s not quite prepared, however, to see her noble, impetuous, good-hearted idiot of a knight holding a flailing young man aloft twenty feet in the air.

“Drop him. Hard enough to immobilize him. Not hard enough to kill him.”

Nathalán follows her directive, but at that distance, Switch is still immediately rendered unconscious by the drop. Linden kicks away the knife that falls from his hand hard enough that it splashes into the pond, then bends over him, critically.

“He’ll live. Probably a bit of a concussion and definitely will be favouring his left leg, but he may make it another year. Unless his lifestyle gets the best of him.” She is no fool, and certainly the tattoos and colours are a dead giveaway of his affiliation and probable livelihood. “I suppose he was shaking down the other one who ran out like the hounds of hell were pursuing him?”

“The other one was trying to bow out. Abjure the group which he’d been part of. They’ve been gathering more often, of late, in the park late at night. Selling their bags of powder or pastiles.”

“Kid’s trying to jump out of a street gang,” Linden shakes her splendid, curly head. “He’s lucky to have escaped with his life.”

“Will they seek retribution, then?” Nathalán asks in his blunt, direct way. “He is but a child. Foolish, undoubtedly, but not worthy of the ills they would visit upon him.”

“He shouldn’t have gotten tangled up with the street life,” Linden murmurs. “But I suppose I can’t fault you for having sympathy for foolhardy lads with more bravado than sense.” Nimbly, she clambers up onto the statuary’s base, so that she can look him in the eye. “I daresay you saved his life just now.”

His hand, so rough and inexorable around Switch’s neck, is gentle as it traces her back, pausing over her shoulder-blades where her wings would be when she’s in her most primordial and deadly of forms. “Maybe I see something of myself in him-- a yearning to regain honour that’s been lost. A desire to be worthy, someday, of love and forgiveness.” He dips his head, and the lips that touch her temple are soft and not at all cold, for the moment. “I just thought-- he should get that chance. As I did.”

“You are shameless and incorrigible,” Linden tells him, unable to stop a wry laugh from bubbling up. “I’ll see what I can do, I suppose.”

“I shall keep watch from here, as usual. And let you know if there is news.”

Though he was certainly not opposed to being inundated by some very nice drugs, courtesy of the emergency room staff at the hospital, Switch didn’t enjoy being laid up, not one bit. No one believed him, of course, and part of him was afraid that maybe he really was losing it. Certainly there was no freaking way that he’d been plucked off the ground by some statue come to life like something out of a Harry Potter movie, then unceremoniously dropped like a used Kleenex. He’d been found the next morning by park maintenance and by all accounts was lucky to be alive-- between the concussion and the broken leg and the freezing temperatures. Of course the po-po’s had not bought the story of why he’d been there so late, and they’d busted him cold with Oxy’s and two dime-bags of blow. One of the narcos actually had the nerve to laugh at him. “Well, Switch, maybe you wouldn’t be imagining such things if you weren’t high all the time. Funny how these things happen only to people like you.”

He hated the fucking cops.

Of course, there’d be the whole parade of possession charges and court and probie. And then he’d get down to business. Trey, specifically, was at fault for the predicament that he’d found himself in at present, and therefore needed to face the consequences of his actions. He still had homeboys on the street who could take care of a miserable little prick as easy as one-two-three. Just as soon as he managed to get out of this godforsaken hospital, of course. When he was somewhere not handcuffed to a bed.

The TV is set to one of the cooking shows, probably the food network or something, and the hostess is a super hot lady with curly reddish-brown hair and fantastic boobs behind her cute little apron get-up, showing the audience how to make some type of fancy holiday roast thing.

“The most important part of this is letting it rest. You don’t want to carve it right away, not while it’s still tense from the heat and stress of the cooking process.” The perky hostess explains as she pulls the steaming roast out of the oven with bright-green mitts. Switch barely pays attention to her long-winded explanation, but out of nowhere, the TV starts to flicker, then go to static. Yet, eerily, though the entire pretty suburban-kitchen background of the cooking show disappears into that black-and-white-snowfall-effect, the cooking lady remains, facing him head-on, brandishing a carving knife with casual, deadly expertise in one hand and a knife-honer in the other. She’s got great boobs and is all smiles, but Switch knows, just from the way she’s holding it, that she’s as deadly with a bladed weapon as he is.

“Rest, now.” The lady’s voice is still sweet, terrifyingly so. “I’ll carve it when it’s ready. There will be enough for everyone, even those who want seconds.” Switch clutches at the sheets and attempts to scoot back, but his bum leg keeps him immobile, as do the handcuffs. “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do now. You wouldn’t want to ruin things, would you?” For one electrifying, nightmarish moment, he could swear that the cooking lady’s eyes go red as blood on that television screen even as the ring of carbon steel echoes eerily in the room. Switch feels cold sweat beading on the back of his neck, and on his upper lip, goose-flesh breaking out over his arms.

“Fuck all this.” Shakily, he hits the button to summon a nurse. “Get that asshole pig in here. I need to talk to him.”

#m/n #senshi/shitennou #sailor moon #fanfiction #fanfic

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gary36 · 6 years

Text

The Switchblade and the Cross

Why did I invert the title of a David Wilkerson book from the 60s? Because that book is a trash fire and I needed those words.

When I was eighteen I wanted to go somewhere nobody knew me. I probably should have joined the Army or started huffing gas in the nearest trailer park. Almost anything would've been more reasonable than what I did. I found Jesus.

I think maybe the world scared me. I think I wanted friends and went to the church because they wanted anyone at all. The thread that led me into the flock began online. I heard music and I liked it. It was local so I checked their page. I saw a showtime and I showed up on time. That's how I was first in line to The Gills' live show to commemorate the release of their first album. I got the very first CD and I walked alone into a dark auditorium alongside many strangers to see a band I knew nothing about. The Gills took the stage smiling. The crowd loved them. I sat quietly in fear of appearing to enjoy music too much in public, but on the inside I was dancing. They were catchy. I thought nothing cool came out of my home town but I was happy to be proven wrong. At the end of the show with the final notes still hanging in the air, the skinny redheaded keyboard player spoke for the first time. His voice was delicate and his manner nervous. He invited anyone who wished to come the next day to worship in the same building. I have a problem with saying "yes." Sometimes I wind up in strange places.

I returned the next morning and stood awkwardly beside the front door waiting for a literal miracle. I stood around a long time having believed church to be something that happened early. It was 7:00 AM and the building still looked secular. An incredibly muscular young man with a flattop parked his truck and walked directly at me grinning from ear to ear. From the moment I met Griffin I trusted him. He simply wanted to be good. He asked if I wanted to help setup and I of course said yes. Griffin asked me a lot of questions. He wanted to know how I found out about Flamingo Road Church. Who I was, what I did, where I was from, where I wanted to go, what I wanted to do, and how had I found God? I had plenty of time to give answers and ask him the same. Griffin and I traded life stories while we errected banners inside, scattered traffic cones outside, arranged about a hundred chairs inside, ran miles of cord to various places, positioned speakers for optimal performance, and anything else to make the show happen. Griffin was from Alabama. He was going to college but would have to leave soon to fulfill his duties to the Army. More than anything he loved Jesus, his country, and his girlfriend Niki. As we worked I constantly had to stop and shake hands with other people pitching in. New people were a hot commodity and I was just as tired from smiling and talking as I was setting up. When it was finally time for the main event the building was packed out. Every seat taken and still more standing. Everyone happy to be there. Griffin deposited me with a tall man bearing a small afro and a very relaxed manner. TC is the most positive person I have ever met. He listened extremely well and never hesitated to offer help or advice. TC just loved being among the living. He introduced me to a conga line of other very attractive people in college and as the lights went dark TC bowed out and headed for the stage. In the dark I found myself sitting front and center between two twenty-sonethings. A well dressed man named Nathan and beautiful short woman named Leah. When the service started I was surprised.

In my experience up to that point, church and the act of worshipping Jesus were deliberately painful things. Church was boring and long because it was supposed to be. Church was quiet save for an old Southerner scolding the seated sinners because it was supposed to be. Songs sung for Jesus were about the wretchedness of the singers and the hope that they might maybe receive forgiveness they didn't deserve. As a child I hated church. I spent my first two years of education in a Christian school and hated that even more. Even at an early age I found the Bible boring, wordy, and contradictory. In Sunday school I refused to color anything because I knew there would be no consequences save perhaps lashes with a switch back at home that I would no doubt earn some other way. At home I would frustrate my family by asking why it was OK to lie to the tax collectors or what the specific requirements were to use the Lord's name. My efforts usually led me to a leather belt. Persistence paid off though. When I was 7 I got to go to public school and I never went to church with my family again. My parents and all my sisters have a sort of mutual love and disinterest in Jesus. They love to sit and sing along but the idea of actually reading the book is just silly. It's HUGE. It doesn't make any SENSE. The nice parts like Heaven and the Ark will always be there to help them sleep without any of the fire, stone, or spears. Their strategy was always to approach me with the assumption that I believed what they believed and disregard anything I said to the contrary. It's no surprise then that to me "Jesus" was not compatible with "fun."

Whenever TC played his guitar for the congregation at Flamingo Road Church you knew that whatever the truth might be TC felt blessed. He was happy. The other people on stage were happy. The skinny redheaded keyboard player was up there laughing with the rest. I remarked to Nathan and Leah that I recognized the keyboard player from The Gills. Nathan simply smirked and said "That's Allan. He's my little brother." When the music stopped a man in his thirties rushed out on stage. He had jeans and boots with a suit jacket and dress shirt. He greeted everyone and thanked them for coming. A quiet dignity came over the room. Pastor Chris spoke for maybe five minutes before introducing the man above him. Everyone please welcome Pastor Troy. Troy wasn't there. He was on a massive television. Troy was in Doral Texas at the OTHER Flamingo Road Church. One of many. Troy was perhaps 40 and had a very high voice to be so large. He also sported jeans, boots, and dress clothes on top. Troy is the focal point and also the weak point of the whole event. His standard sermon is about 40 minutes. Ten minutes intro. 5 minutes quoting fragments of scripture. 10 minutes extrapolating his point from the sacred sentence fragments. 5 minutes of prop comedy. Ten minutes asking for money. It's not life changing. It's not even good at what it's trying to do. It's not a guilt trip either though, not completely. The TV turns off. Chris comes back out. Donation plates. Music. Pavlov would've been proud. As the musicians revived the crowd for a final sing along with capital G, Nathan turned to me and invited me to a Bible study that Tuesday night geared towards people in college. I wasn't in college and in fact had dropped out of high school but Leah would be there and so would Griffin and TC and Allan would if he wasn't busy and of course I said yes. A quarter billion handshakes later it was time to leave and I offered to help put the stuff away that I had set up. Griffin and the others just laughed, they had two more identical services in the next few hours. Somebody from the final group would organize a team to put the stuff away. By 3 PM the building would be secular again. Flamingo Road Church would be locked up and its flock scattered to the winds.

On Tuesday we met at Leah's house because it was very neat and clean with a big living room. She took hosting seriously and usually had snacks available and candles everywhere. I had trouble finding the place and when I got there I was faced with about twenty beautiful people sitting cross-legged on Leah's carpet. Everyone was very happy to be there and greeted me warmly. Most of them I met briefly before but for the very first time I got to shake Allan's hand and tell him I loved his music. Allan was shy brushed off the praise. Over the course of the next year I would spend at least three days a week with these people and the routine became second nature. On Sunday I tried to arrive early to help get the building ready. We jammed out with the band. Thought a little about Jesus. Talked about money. Jammed out again. Every week it seemed we stuck around longer and longer just to talk. On Tuesday we met up for Bible study. Nathan was the College Minister as it turns out, so it was his job to pick talking points for us that went with the church's theme that week. He also presided over all discussion, having had the most Christian Theology classes. Usually Nathan would ask a question and ask everyone to turn to some page or other. Then we would have an open discussion about the ideas. Everyone shined in their own way. Griffin was earnest and to the point. Leah was thoughtful and patient. TC was wise beyond his years. Sarah (a social worker) had so much real life experience to lend to her ideas. Russell had a knack for explaining complex ideas with clever metaphors. Ashley made everyone laugh and always told the truth even when it hurt. Ryan was open and strong. Allan was humble under all circumstances. Niki was hard working and well traveled. Sarah (bank teller) was quiet but sharp. I did what I do, poke holes in things, happy to be the black sheep which placed me at odds with Nathan who had the job of being smartest guy in the room. Nathan might have us watch a video and then reiterate the video's point saying something like "Prayer is not a conversation with God, but living your life in tune with God." I said that reminded me a lot of a lesson from Zen bhuddism in which meditation is not a state of mind but a state of being. Nathan did not like this. Nor did he like it when I compared and contrasted creation myths from Norse and Egyptian mythology with the Garden of Eden. He bit his tongue when I quoted the Book of Enoch but riled at me for knowing a few sentences from the Quran. Nathan made it clear that my ideas were born out of a lack of understanding scripture. In all categories the Bible was superior and unique, and Nathan was its one true interpretor. Usually after our talks the guys and gals would split up. The women would go to Leah's room and shut the door, what went on in there I cannot imagine. Mostly the men talked about masturbating and how ashamed they were. One by one the men would be asked to say anything they'd been struggling with. Griffin was struggling with waiting until marriage to be intimate with Niki, which resulted in his struggle not to masturbate. Russell broke out into tears and admitted that he had struggled with pornography and had gone to great lengths to keep himself from it. The other men had similar stories. When it was my turn to speak I told the truth. I felt like I masturbated a perfectly respectable amount and couldn't see how Jesus could blame me so I didn't feel the least bit guilty. What I struggled with was faith itself. Not the existence of a Sky King but the bizarre nature and maddening decisions of that creature if it did exist. I struggled with God's insanity and how I was expected to react to it. As it turns out, masturbation is the right answer, and my struggle was met with awkward silence. Nathan basically told me that God worked in mysterious ways and to let Jesus into my heart. Russell said that God's plan was like a grand painting, but I was trying to view it through a microscope, so of course some parts seemed bad. I kept going but my struggle went with me.

Then one day Rachel was there. Rachel was new in town. She took on the responsibility of watching everybody's kids during the worship services. She was great with children and was studying to be a teacher. Rachel was outspoken and boiling over with cheer. She was always coming up with activities for the kids. Rachel worked constantly and usually did so while singing and dancing. She talked just much with her hands as her words. We started doing everything together. Kids stress me out but every Sunday I found myself watching her watch the kids and occasionally moving something heavy or making sure nobody died while she left the room. I left all the discipline to Rachel because kids just obeyed her without question. She spoke their language. She watched their TV shows. She tried to convince me to watch Avatar: The Last Airbender. I tried to convince her to read Crime and Punishment. We made a good team because Rachel was like a human bubble bath and I was a tar pit. Rachel used to run up behind me and almost throw me to the ground with her arms wrapped around me. We watched the Winter Olympics with some other people from the Bible study group. Shaun White demolished the competition. Rachel fell asleep with her head on my shoulder.

I still felt like an outsider. Like the black sheep, but Rachel made me feel like that would go away with time. On the day before her birthday Rachel invited me to her place for dinner. I helped her set up for the party and I showed her how to start a fire. She made dinner. While we were eating Rachel casually mentioned her boyfriend in South Florida would be taking a break from his motorcycle repair classes to visit her. Something inside me went out like a candle. I pretended not to be surprised and finished dinner with my pride intact. She hugs me goodbye and she always hugged firm.

The next thing I know I'm driving down the highway and it's dark and rainy and it's so damn cold. Griffin was off to the Middle East. Russell moved away for work. Ryan moved away for school. Leah was on a missionary trip. Allan quit The Gills because Nathan told him he could use his music to serve God. Sarah was graduating and wouldn't have time for the college Bible study after. TC had to move away with his younger sister because they had no parents left. Nathan was promoted to assistant Pastor and passed his old position on to an even bigger know it all. Rachel had a boyfriend in South Florida going to school to fix motorcycles. How did I not know that? Just as suddenly as they'd come I had no one. I wondered how I got there in the first place. Wasn't I running away from know it all guys like Nathan and motorcycle boyfriends from a long time ago? It wasn't so much the motorcycle but the school that bugged me. Something about the structural approach being imposed on something inherently rebellious. Something about the prepackaged clean campus somewhere devoid of one Hell's Angel or Outlaw. It was on hollow thoughts like this that my mind dwelled when something ran out into the road. It was so dark and so wet I didn't stop in time. One almighty shudder and the squealing of my brakes. I rushed out into the downpoor. My head lights clearly illuminated a whimpering bloody coyote. It couldn't walk. It could hardly breathe. I was hours from a wildlife sanctuary. It was 2 AM. I was almost out of gas. I had a pocket knife because back then I always did. I knew I had a choice. Pull the coyote off the road and move on or help it cross over. Nathan said animals didn't have souls. I said they did and some men didn't. In the end I couldn't make the choice. I just knelt there blocking the desolate road in the middle of a frigid flash flood, running my hand across the beast's fur until he breathed no more. The car ran out of gas long before. I got them both out of the road. I walked a couple miles to the nearest gas station shivering the whole way. I never went back to church. No one ever called. I know what I did to deserve it. God damn it I know. But what the hell did the coyote do to deserve me?

#writing

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tfw-no-tennis · 4 years

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hunty x hunty cont

soooo we watched more! woohoo

we finished the hunter exam arc???? i THNK? lmaoooo at the end of the ep (21 i thiiiiink) we were on, satotz was like BUT THE HUNTER EXAM ISNT EVEN OVER YET or w/e lol aigh??? whats up w/that

anyways a lot happened in the last few eps that we watched....man i shouldve written this earlier but i litrelly havent been online. anyways

so during the hunter exam stage 4...gon is literally perfect (as i always have to say), him reuniting w/leorio and kurapika was rlly sweet :’)

of course he immediately offered to help....goodest boy

and wow that kid has such a powerful nose bvhjksfbjsk he rlly be a gr8 sniffer

ok literally the part where leorio was in the cave and was like GON KURAPIKA DONT COME IN HERE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! and they both full speed sprint into the cave with 0 hesitation.....we love a 0 brain cells family

i love leorio so much he really just b running around w/a switchblade and a breifcase, both of which he barely used during the exam lmao

so bummed that leorio slicing up tht snake happened offscreen. how tf did that even work, he doesnt have a goddamn sword

gon just being able to hold his breath for almost 10 mins makes so much sense somehow...he rlly is one of those shounen protags who is just casually a ridiculous human being and doesnt even fully realize that its weird

that shot of him carrying everyone out of the cave was so sweet

and of course gon vs snakes....hes so perfect....he trusts his friends so much :’)

also random aside but im so glad tonpa is out and idk if i talked abt this in my prev post but i feel like in most shounen he wouldve been like, so inspired by gons shounen protag energy that he wouldve changed his tune and taken the exam genuinely and either passed or declared that hed definitely pass next year - but no, he was awful til the end, this aint that kind of story (yet...?)

have i mentioned that i hate hisoka? cause i hate hisoka. nasty ass crusty clown bitch

what else happened in the phase 4 stuff. oh yeah killua clowned on those triplet dudes (and hanzo lowkey), which was great

ok the opening not having changed this whole time is so funny. imagine if it never changed and its still basic and cheery when everything gets crazy and dark lmao

ooh my god i forgot to mention this last time but i feel like gons backpack is full of hair gel and hair gel ONLY, he only brought hair gel and his fishing rod. this is canon ty

oh gosh when killua and gon reunited at the end of the 4th stage....OOOUGH so precious...those two are so cute god. i want a compilation of their cute moments together i hope that exists

GOD OH FUCK the scene on the airship where kurapika and gon talked bc gon was clearly bothered by something (what happened w/hisoka obvs. i hate that clown bitch) and OUGHHHH OH GOD gon crying LICHRALLY killed me oh man :( i was literally just chanting NO NO NO!!!! at the TV cause seeing tiny baby boy upset was so sad....and ik it gets soooo much worse oh god i cant handle it

the whole convo was really good and really anti-shounen (once again...feel like thatll be a theme lmao) bc like, it was a healthy convo where gon talked honestly abt his feelings instead of using some shounen protag BS phrases like ‘it doesnt matter!!! ill be stronger next time!!!’ or w/e....and kurapika is a such a good parent oh man :(

again, cant get over how genuine and uncomplicated the teamup of the main 4 characters has been....literally no ‘we’re competing and only teaming up for convenience/the hunter exam comes before our friendship’ nonsense

did anything else happen on the airship. ider

anyways. can i talk abt illumi now. CAN I TALK ABT ILLUMI NOW. H8 THAT BITCH.

ok wait back up theres other stuff

the interviews w/the candidates was interesting! i love how the old dude was SO not picking up what Creepy Hisoka was putting down lmaooooo

that poor old guy lmao he seems like a decent dude, he was like oh i dont wanna fight gon and killua cause theyre kids,....RIP u red shirt legend

the bracket setup was so interesting oh man....very funky and creative. and then it wasnt really fully utilized lol, i feel like thats indicative of a bigger patten - hxh so far has been really creative and interesting, and clearly uninterested in setting things up simply to check off boxes on a shounen tropes checklist....i can already see what makes it so great if this keeps up bc daym, so many shounen have their interesting themes drowned out by the overwhelming necessity for the plot to hit certain shounen story beats, smothering otherwise new/fresh ideas and rerouting them back into the same old over-trodden shounen trope territory

on a meta level, i wonder if the author was like, allowed more leniency (’do whatever bro’) bc hed already been successful w/yu yu hakusho. i havent seen/ready yyh so idk how ‘typically shounen’ it is but thats st that im curious about

aaanyways. the tournament starts w/hanzo beating up gon for THREE HOURS STRAIGHT. jesus dude. so yeah obviously leorio and kurapika are the best parents ever and them getting so righteously angry over seeing this happen to gon is so heartwarming and good and also a big big mood

they love their son okay. also that was fucked up. ALSO i find it interesting that thats only the second time we’ve seen kurapikas eyes turn red

i bet that hisoka saw that also and somethign something phantom troupe, see bottom of post in predictions section

seeing gon get beat up like that made my heart hurt :( especially when hanzo broke his arm...oof.

god also i cant believe hanzo is 18 hes literally bald hvbhjafbjs whats w/hxh and making everyone a teen or younger lmao god

also omfg i love that leorio and kurapika are lichreally 19 and already have kids wow thats amazing especially considering their kids are 12. its so funny that theyre such Parents already considering that the age gap is kinda hilariously small, espec bc i thought that they (mostly leorio) were a lot older at first lmao

the fact that gon gets to win that fight against hanzo was a legit shock to me....again, anti-shounen. we’d normally want to see what our protag can do in a fight - espec in a tournament-style arc where the consequences arent as high typically - so we’d want him to go further, which is easy here bc to move on he has to lose, which is easy bc gon is a baby w/no offensive capabilities (that we’ve seen)

god ive talked abt this already but its so fascinating how we havent really had any full-on fights???? espec w/the main 4 characters????? we still barely know what they can do....WE STILL HAVENT BEEN INTRODUCED TO NEN????

ive been spoiled (i guess?) to the existence of nen but thats abt it. what can it do? what is it? fuck if i know lmao. so i could totally see them pulling a ‘we were using nen the whole time’ w/like hisoka or st, OR a ‘YOU were using nen the whole time w/out realizing it’ w/gon

ok anyways. that hanzo fight was rough but also gon is literally the best. he was trying to bargain w/hanzo to figure out a way where they could come to a conclusion that would satisfy them both - despite hanzo clearly outmatching gon in skill, so the effort on hanzo’s part would be pointless and simply for gon’s benefit....basically the entire proposal sound ludicris and insulting to suggest (or st, idk how to phrase it), but since its gon of COURSE he only has the purest of intentions and means it so genuinely that you cant even be mad at him

hanzo just knocking him out lmaoooo and then hes just out for the rest of the tournament???? thats so wild and...whatdya know....un-shounen!

then he wakes up n his lil x-shaped forehead bandage....ough so cute

also the whole convo he and satotz had abt gon’s victory and hunter license and earning/deserving it was so good :’)

also i feel like the show did a good job of humanizing characters like satotz. i legit thought he was a robot or st at first but it feels more like hes just A Guy now,....albeit a weird guy, but thats to be expected. its like, yeah this guy also took the hunter exam at one point, wow.

anways this is already long and i havent even gotten to the killua stuff yet lol so im gonna stop here for now. and introducing a new segment..........the prediction corner! where i dump my speculations/predictions, entirely for my future self’s benefit

PREDICTIONS:

first off as i alluded to above, i think that hisoka has some sort of connection to the phantom troupe (does he know them? maybe not, but he knows where to find them? idk) and when he saw kurapikas red eyes, was able to figure out that whole deal and said st to kurapika during that fight like ‘hey i can help you find the phantom troupe if you want :))))’

i kinda said this earlier but i predict that kurapika might get really wrapped up in revenge and go off the rails a bit. we’ll see, so far that hasnt really happened, but for some reason i kinda think that it will? we’ll see

i (incorrectly) predicted that killua would have known that illumi was there the whole time, considering that he was able to noticing the hunter exam dudes following him in phase 4, etc....but BOY was i wrong about that oof

iiii think that the whole ‘the hunter exam isnt over yet!!!’ stuff will be an opportunity for killua to pass this year still, maybe? idk abt that tho

i have more predictions but i forgot :( also some of them are more relevant to the next few eps ill make a post on

#gotta break up my thoughts somehow #wow these are gonna get so damn long espec if ruth and i end up binging a bunch of eps in a short period lmao #unrelated but god 'this must be the place' was just on shuffle which murdered me and now an emo-ass U2 song came on...bruh #anyways #lj watches hxh #hxh

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bthenoise · 5 years

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Q&A: Mike Hranica Details The Devil Wears Prada’s New Avant-Garde-Inspired Album ‘The Act’

For some music fans, the idea of their favorite band purposely reinventing their sound can be scary news. What if they’re no longer heavy? Are they selling out?

However, for longtime noisemakers The Devil Wears Prada, the idea of reinvention shouldn’t be seen as a bad thing. Instead, it should be interpreted as a band rededicating themselves to their craft.

Rather than lazily recreating a sound fans have already become accustomed to, the Ohio natives have instead meticulously composed a piece of art that will withstand the test of time.

Discussing their new 12-track effort The Act, outspoken vocalist Mike Hranica said, “I think this record is special. Not only in the landscape of my own personal work and the work of The Devil Wears Prada but we hope that it's able to push the boundaries in the rock world.”

Influenced by avant-guard specialists like Sunn O))) and indie acts like Dirty Projectors, for The Act, Hranica and company looked outside of their typical heavy music peers for inspiration.

“We are such avant-garde consumers,” says Hranica. “And that's not to sound super uppity or up my own ass but it's taking those influences and actually being able to tastefully instill them or inject them into our own music. I think that's kind of where we're at where we can listen to all this avant-garde experimental stuff but this time around, we actually wanted to bring that inspiration into the songs. Rather than saying, ‘Okay, that stuff is cool and all but it has no place in our music,’ this time we're like, ‘Yo, let's find a place to put it in our music.’”

While The Act certainly blends genre lines, the album isn’t all experimental as it definitely packs a punch with tracks like “Switchblade,” “The Thread” and “As Kids.” Talking with Hrancia on how The Devil Wears Prada was able to balance the two, he said:

“We want these heavy moments, but at the same time, we're not going to bend to put this braindead stupid heavy stuff on the album. When [being heavy] has its limit, like when it's just something trendy, it doesn't age well. I think we're seeing that in heavy music. I guess what I'm getting at is just trying to avoid gimmicks.”

For more on the band’s first new full-length album in over three years, be sure to check out our in-depth discussion with Hrancia below. Afterward, make sure to pick up a copy of The Act and grab tickets to see The Devil Wears Prada out on tour with Norma Jean and Gideon here.

How excited are you for the start of the hockey season?

Actually, my laptop's right here. I'm watching the Hawks and Flyers from Prague. I actually skated this morning [too]. I kind of took it easy. I played Tuesday night but my back's been a little troublesome but it's getting better. But yeah, I'm a crazy, crazy hockey man. Bummed that the [Penguins] lost last night but I got another game tomorrow night. So yeah, I'm obsessed.

Do you think the Penguins have a good shot this year?

I don't know. I'm really excited about Galchenyuk and Tanev. Both look really good. But I don't know, I think there are some inconsistencies that I would love to see tightened up. And I would love to get some goalscoring again [becuase] we're an offensive-minded team. I want to see us put four or five goals up regularly. Rather than one last night [laughs].

So let's dive into The Act. We're less than a week away from it coming out. What is one of the most exciting things you're anticipating about this release?

I mean, we really wanted to reinvent where we've been at. I think releasing songs like "Please Say No" and "Chemical" is sort of a testament to that versus releasing the heavier songs [first]. But there are heavier songs and there's also more of what we did with "Chemical" and "Please Say No" so I know it's a whole package. In the band group chat, we always just keep saying like, "We're so ahead of ourselves with expectations and our hopes and aspirations, but you know, very few people have heard this whole thing. So we just kind of have to put one foot in front of the other." But I think this record is special. Not only in the landscape of my own personal work and the work of The Devil Wears Prada, but we hope that it's able to push the boundaries in the rock world.

youtube

With this record being more experimental, how does your anticipation for this release compare to 2016's Transit Blues?

You know, I still think fondly of Transit Blues. I think we did things right with that record. But The Act is something that is totally meant to be a departure from that, while still being Prada of course. It's weird, you know, with this obviously being the seventh record and we've had two EPs and we did the live record and seven inches here and there, there's always this giddiness and this anticipation when you release a full length. But with that, I'm really excited with the way it feels right now -- like the way the environment is around the record. I think we have trends and swings as far as what music consumers are in the mood for -- you know, like, what they're looking for. And I think metalcore is a little bit on an upswing and I think that we have a cool opportunity with this record. Especially because I wouldn't really consider it metalcore and I know a lot of metal bands say that but when we have songs like "Diamond Lost,” "Isn't It Strange," "Chemical" and "Please Say No," like, those songs are by no means metalcore. So I'm excited for it to hopefully sit on its own and not blend in. And, you know, all of that starts with people actually being able to consume it and hear the whole thing front to back.

youtube

Talking about some of those more accessible, slower songs, along with those it also feels like there are some of the heaviest Devil Wears Prada moments with "As Kids" and "Switchblade." Was it a coincidence that you guys had some of your slowest and heaviest songs on the same record or was it intentional to keep fans satisfied?

I mean, there are definitely moments where we're like, "Yo, we need some heavier songs." But at the same time, we don't really go like, "Hey, we have to have ‘The Thread’ on this record so it's got heaviness." Like at the same time, we scrapped songs that were heavier [because] they just weren't good enough. So you still have to meet the bar as far as like, "Yeah, the record needs heavy moments because people want that. And there is a level of appeasing fans when you make a record or when The Devil Wears Prada makes a record. But at the same time, if the song's not good, then don't put it on on the damn record." So there's that. The moment in "As Kids," I think it is heavier but it's in such a moodier sort of tone, rather than being heavy because it's just chuggy breakdown riffs or something. But at the same time, you have those moments in "The Thread" with the end being pretty beat down. Also, the heavy moments in "Switchblade" are coming from more of like, it feels uncomfortable heavy rather than just, you know, punch-in-the-face beatdown heavy. We want these heavy moments, but at the same time, we're not going to bend to put this like braindead stupid heavy stuff on the album. When [being heavy] has its limit, like when it's just something trendy, it doesn't age well. I think we're seeing that in heavy music. I guess what I'm getting at is just trying to avoid gimmicks.

That's fair. The idea of saying it's a "moodier heavier" makes sense because it does feel a lot more artistic. It almost feels like avant-garde metalcore in a way.

I appreciate you saying that. That is exactly the objective.

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Was that the idea coming into this record or did that come naturally throughout the writing process?

I think it kind of comes naturally. I mean, not to speak too much for anyone, but the members of this band aren't playing metalcore in their car to listen to recreationally. One of the examples I've mentioned before is, I forget which song, I think it's "Isn't It Strange." When Kyle and Jon wrote that, the working title was called "Clean TV" because they were inspired by the Dirty Projectors and that was the quick working title they came up with. We've been listening to not metal primarily -- you know, like if someone was turning on music in the bus or something. We are such avant-garde consumers. And that's not to sound super uppity or up my own ass but it's taking those influences and actually being able to tastefully instill them or inject them into our own music. I think that's kind of where we're at where we can listen to all this avant-garde experimental stuff but this time around, we actually wanted to bring that inspiration into the songs. Rather than saying, "Okay, that stuff is cool and all but it has no place in our music," this time we're like, "Yo, let's find a place to put it in our music."

For some listeners who maybe all they know is metalcore, who are some of your favorite avant-garde artists?

There's a label out of San Francisco called The Flenser and they've released some stuff that's really kind of rocked me. I mean, anything in sort of "drone world" to me is very inspiring as being like a big fan of Sunn O))) or even a band that Southern Lord also puts out called Big Brave. I would definitely recommend [them] as sort of a gateway into the sort of drone-y avant-guard. But I mean, for me too, the past couple years I've really been diving into the Melvins. So even like Melvins’ work like Lysol and their drone-y stuff or “Heaven Earth.” All that stuff is very appealing and so compelling and interesting to my ears. I picked up a release recently from a band called Harrga. But even like Swans would be a good starting point [too]. Jarboe from Swans did a collaborative record with Neurosis in like I think it was the early 2000s, which is crazy. But I've been playing that record a lot lately. It's very, very good.

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That's a great list to start with. Hopefully people will be open-minded to it. As for those who won't and will probably leave a shitty comment on YouTube or Twitter or something, how do you handle that internally?

I was actually just looking at that ‘cause I did this video for Marshall amps a couple months ago with my buddy Bobby. We put it up and they just put it on their Instagram, which is pretty exciting because they have nearly a million followers. And like, instantly the first comment is some dude talking shit. I just think it's funny because the video I made, I just wrote this kind of slow riff. And I wanted to do that because demo videos are always like some Guitar Center jackass just showing off his guitar solo chops. For me personally, I want to hear gear as far as when it's blown out and distorted and like that sort of end of range. So that's the video I made and I'm proud of it. So when people talk shit on that, I just try to entirely convert it to humor or have a laugh about it. But sometimes it can bug me and I pretend that I'm trying to ignore it but I know it is bothering me. So with that, I just really do my best not to read YouTube comments. I've been pretty deadset about that, especially with The Act. I hear things because certain guys in the band will read every single comment that's been created, but for me, that puts me in such a poor mental state. And as someone that can be rather emotionally fragile or mentally fragile, there's just no point in me doing that. It's only going to construct my own shitty day [laughs].

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So when you come across a song that you might not enjoy, what do you do when you hear that song? Just for people who say, “Well, what am I supposed to do not leave an opinion or something?” When you hear a song you don't like, personally, what do you do?

I don't buy the record [laughs]. That's it. I think it's like a one-man project, but they've been around for a while, this like French, I think he's French, a black metal project called Blut Aus Nord. I was really excited when they announced a new record and I listened to the song and I was like, "Oh, that didn't do anything for me." So I didn't buy the record. And that's that, case closed [laughs].

So talking more about The Act, you guys wrote and wrote a lot for this record. You ended up scrapping almost 60 songs. How difficult is that if maybe there's a song you're clinging to that the other members don't necessarily like?

For me, I wasn't so attached to this record as I have been with other ones. I think Jeremy can say the exact same. So for us, it was pretty easy to kind of let go when there were certain things that didn't make the cut. And I've explained it a lot too like, this is the most critical record we've done. Like usually, I'll have an instrumental, I'll write the lyrics to it and boom, boom. You know, we'll change something in the studio as far as like shortening a verse or something. But with this one, every syllable and every word was scrutinized and for the better. And that's all to Jon's credit who produced the record. So with that, I don't know, it puts you in the exercise of being able to let go and not take things so emotionally. Especially when I wrote songs that were just totally cut where Jon was like, "Lyrically, this is not going to appeal to anyone." I've never had that before. It's moments of kind of swallow your pride but at the same time, I know it works for the better. I think circling back, there was one song that I really liked. It was actually one of the first ones we made. So I know that it's just a case of bad demo-itis for me. I heard the song and it was one of the early ones so I got too attached to it. It was a song called "Obstructionist." I miss that one but at the same time, when it did get the cut, Jon was like, "So the weakest part of this song is the chorus" and that doesn’t make for a great song or a great song on the record. So yeah, for the most part, it was okay for me to say goodbye to most of the songs. But there can also be a little bit of conflict there.

Do you wish you guys had been more critical like you are now with your writing on any previous records?

Yes, certainly. You know, when we were writing songs 13-14 years ago, I think a part of what people liked is that we were just some wily kids slopping together these eclectic songs. So it's hard to take too much of that discipline early on. But I think the biggest one, and I've mentioned this before, I think there were good moments on 8:18 but at the same time, I think that was one of our biggest swing-and-a-miss records for sure. There are so many moments we would have especially never put on The Act as far as just repetitive tricks and risks in parts and sounds. So yeah, it doesn't do a lot of good to be super hard on yourself and regret older material. But you know, everything needs to be better moving forward. So looking at The Act and looking at the mentality we took for it is what I would consider 100% mandatory. It had to be that or otherwise we would have had something of a substandard record versus something that we perceived as being something special in this album.

For some people when it comes to their craft, would you say you need those mistakes in order to get where you are for today?

Oh, for sure. I mean, if I didn't recognize the fact that there are repetitive moments on 8:18 then I would be prone to making more repetitive moments on present songs.

So last thing, does the cover art for The Act tie into the theme of the record at all? What was the influence behind it?

So a number of times in the record, hell was mentioned. And hell was a topic of deep contemplation for me personally over the last couple years. So I wanted to work with Dan Seagrave again, who painted it, he also painted two of our other record covers. I highly admire and respect the guy and it's a pleasure to work with him. So I thought it'd be cool to visually have this kind of throwback kind of thing, even though the songs are not throwback in the least bit. So with that, we decided on Dan and we wanted to create this depiction of hell in a little bit of a different, more inventive way. Rather than the way we oftentimes consider [hell] with like Dante's Inferno -- this red, fiery thing. So yeah, Dan created these root-like, tree-like beings. It's really open to interpretation too as far as I love how he perceived hell in the painting. A part of what we wanted with this record was opening that interpretation and the participation for a fan. [We wanted to] basically make songs and a have cover art that says, "You can make it what you want" rather than us being like, "This is exactly what it means. This is what this song is about." I think the cover art does a good job. Some people are all upset just trolling on the internet as far as us making a very metal evil painting for the cover when we're releasing songs like "Chemical" which is anything but [evil and metal]. But that was entirely my objective. So not to just totally troll the internet, but yeah... I'm stoked with the perception for sure for what we did with the cover.

It’s interesting to have this open conversation about hell as your album cover considering your Christain roots. However, it’s probably refreshing as a way to show how you guys have grown as people and as a band. Was that something you guys considered beforehand?

Yeah I mean, we've seen it -- I won't name names -- but I've seen the rebellion of Christian bands that later say, "No, we're no longer Christian." And I mean, Prada's the same way. I would rather not be called a Christian band because most of the members of the band are no longer Christian or ever were. I personally am a Christian and I am a follower of the faith. But I'm tired of the gimmick, you know? Like, why can't the record just be the record rather than this backstory of where the band's from? Just listen to the songs. That's kind of where I am as far as the whole Christian band thing. I didn't want to make this a record that has a bunch of curse words on it or this very evil cover painting or anything out of rebellion, but instead, just out of honesty for what I wanted to represent with these collective songs.

Pretty much just let the art do the talking instead? Let everyone else leave it open to interpretation?

Exactly. Interpretation is definitely more of a fundamental element to this record rather than something like Transit Blues.

The whole "are they Christian or are they not Christian" thing is so clickbait-y anyways. Who cares if people change over time or still want religion to be a part of their lives.

I completely agree.

#The Devil Wears Prada #The Act #Solid State Records #interview

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