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ironmandeficiency · 4 years

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anatomy lesson

pairing: cody / reader, waxer / reader

word count: 2756

summary: cody and waxer go to retrieve you for a briefing and were concerned to find you still sleeping. even worse, you were in a pool of your own blood. (let the fluff ensue)

a/n: reader is 18+. i love the hc that most (if not all) non-medic clones have no idea what a menstrual cycle is and absolutely lose their shit upon first exposure (except for gree & the entirety of the 41st, they have their shit together but i digress)

when the calls came in from master plo and anakin and you still weren’t there in the briefing room, obi-wan was concerned. it was unlike you to oversleep when on duty, being ever punctual with your duties as a padawan and commander. he told you the night before the exact time you’d be needed for the briefing and you’ve never been late to a briefing ever since you joined him as his apprentice.

he caught cody’s attention with a slight wave and tried to dispel his worry. “cody, will you retrieve y/n from her quarters? she’ll be needed before the briefing.”

cody nodded, giving a brief response before leaving the room. “right away, sir.” he shared the general’s concern although no one would get him to admit the origins. cody knew there were days you were awake before he was, already preparing for the day with a mug of tea in hand. you had the same air about you as the general, a negotiator in the making. being late was an anomaly in your normal behavior, which meant to him that something must be happening.

that’s why his concern elevated to panic when you weren’t answering his (rather loud) knocking on the door to your quarters. “commander! y/n, are you alright?!” his fist pounded on the door with no response.

a couple brothers gathered around the spectacle, unsure why cody was so frazzled. “if you don’t answer me in the next five seconds i’m coming in!” more pounding, no answer. it was time to go in.

cody busted the external controls and the door swished open, his eyes quickly absorbing his surroundings. waxer followed cody in because this was an extremely strange series of events. why was cody busting into your quarters, and why was he so tense?

spotting your form lying still in your bunk, cody nearly fell on his face running the short distance towards you. he inspected you for a moment trying to see if there was a problem. cody was coming up short until waxer pointed to a pool of blood on the blankets, hands slightly shaking.

they carefully lifted the blankets covering you and nearly threw up. there was so much blood, more than should ever be out of a person that wasn’t dead, and here you were just laying in it without a problem!

wait, were you dead?!?! both of the troopers simultaneously reached for different pulse points, relieved when they felt a steady heartbeat. you weren’t dead yet.

waxer ran into the hallway and shouted for someone to retrieve a medic, his voice bordering on panic and ferocity.

“there’s no time! i’ll run her there while you notify general kenobi in the briefing room!” cody scooped you into his arms and sprinted toward the medbay, ignoring the shouts and worried looks he got from his vode. you were his only concern, and may the force help whoever got in his way.

waxer reached the briefing room in record time and if he wasn’t trained for combat, the running would have taken his breath from him. “general kenobi!”

obi-wan turned towards waxer’s shout in the doorway and was startled to see the man so frantic. the holo forms of master plo and anakin following obi-wan’s gaze to the trooper, looks of worry similar to obi-wan’s etched onto their faces.

“waxer, what’s wrong?”

“it’s the commander, sir! we found her in her bunk covered in blood, cody’s taking her to the medbay!”

the news pummeled the jedi with the force of a raging gundark. plo nodded for obi-wan to take his leave, anakin’s face was beginning to twist into something almost unidentifiable from worry.

obi-wan’s voice when he spoke was not the mellifluous cadence everyone knew him for; no, it was rough and pained and curt in an effort to shove away the lump forming in his throat. “we can finish this later. i’ll notify you both when i have more information.” he shut off the call with a harder than necessary press of a button and immediately followed waxer toward the medbay.

what could have possibly happened to you? you were in one of the most well-guarded and armed ships in the GAR and had the loyalty of the entire 212th behind you. why would anyone want to harm you, if that happens to be the case? obi-wan didn’t like the way waxer’s force signature burned, and making sure you were okay seemed to be the only thing that could ease the feeling.

you woke up… not in your bed, which was peculiar, but you were even more confused when you were moving. unsure as to why you were being jostled more than some unfortunate soul trying to tame a bantha, you take in your surroundings. you were still on the negotiator, and you were being carried? that would explain the movement.

coming into consciousness, you could easily distinguish cody as the one carrying you and the hard set of his jaw told you something was wrong.

“cody, what’s going on?” your voice was still grainy from sleep but cody had never heard anything so comforting.

cody seemed relieved to hear your voice but was ferocious in his reply. “what’s going on?! y/n, i found you unresponsive in a pool of your own blood! you’re headed straight for the medbay!”

oh no. no kriffing way.

you tried to move out of cody’s arms but the man had a vice grip on you. wriggling about could only get you so far when you were still trying to wake up completely and it showed by the way you weren’t able to free yourself from his arms. “will you stop moving?!” he shifted his hold slightly, making it even harder to escape. kriff.

“put me down, cody! this isn’t a concern for the med team!”

“like hell it isn’t! do you see how much blood you’re covered in?! i’m surprised you’re even conscious right now!”

he was still running and you were wishing for something, anything to happen to get him to put you down. but alas, cody was determined and did not put you down until it was on a cot in the medbay, aranar and a med droid immediately approaching you. “what’s wrong, commander?”

“i found her in a pool of blood and she’s trying to tell me it isn’t a concern!”

“cody, i-“

“someone tell me what’s happened!” you recognized the voice of your master immediately and you groaned, wishing the cot would somehow miraculously fly itself through the side of the shuttle and free you of this torment.

could this get any worse?

“master, i am perfectly okay! i haven’t been able to explain-“

obi-wan cut you off. “you most certainly are not okay! i was told you were found covered in blood! when is that ever a normal occurrence for anyone?!”

aranar, being far more medically inclined, soon discovered what the “problem” was. you sent him a scathing look that explicitly said “explain this to them now!” but aranar, being one to hold a grudge against jedi that didn’t report their injuries, shook his head with a grin. the smirk he sent your way told you everything you need to know, which was thus: you were on your own.

were you seriously going to have to give an anatomy lesson to everyone? apparently so.

you sighed before you began to explain the situation. “i’m suffering from what’s known as the menstrual cycle.” the word “suffer” seemed to raise some heads, some being nearly two entire squads. apparently word travels faster than you had thought.

your master’s face was almost blistering from the blush that had risen to his cheeks. you didn’t need your training bond to tell you that he was absolutely mortified (he was also quite relieved at the fact you weren’t about to die). he looked more like he got a sunburn on tatooine than was just embarrassed by failing to identify his padawan’s menstrual cycle. he left the room quickly, knowing that he didn’t exactly leave his fellow jedi on a promising note.

you turned back to the growing cluster of clone troopers surrounding you, making quick work to reassure the worried gaggle of clones that it wasn’t deadly. “it’s a completely normal thing, don’t worry. every month or so, my body naturally builds a lining in my uterus to prepare for a pregnancy. if i don’t get pregnant, my body sheds the lining out through vaginal bleeding.”

there was a brief silence as the men processed the information. it was gruesome in their opinions, the way women were able to do everything men could do and be actual growth tanks for other creatures.

“so the blood,” cody began with understandable hesitation, “was just lining that you’d need to carry a child? you’re not going to pass out from blood loss when it happens?”

“does it hurt?” waxer was concerned, voice softer than you’ve ever heard it.

“you’re not dyin’ on us or anything, are you sir?” jester’s playful tone disguised a deeper fear quite well and would have fooled you if you weren’t a jedi.

you decided to answer the most pressing question first, a soft smile on your face at the worry in his tone. “no jester, i’m not dying anytime soon.”

you probably should have (or had someone else) explain this to them earlier, but you never thought it’d become a problem. it was relatively easy to hide the cycle from your men prior to now and they had never seemed to pick up on any changes that coincide with your cycle, so you just kept on with your routine.

but since you were here, you might as well tell them everything to watch out for. “sometimes it does hurt like a bitch, not gonna lie. i can get stomach cramps and my muscles will be sore for a while, and i’m a bit more sensitive to touch than normal.”

the men in front of you nodded in understanding. “are there any other symptoms we should know about, commander?” boil’s question seemed to be on the minds of the several men around you. aranar had taken to shooing out the ones farther away because he was starting to feel claustrophobic, hating the way he could barely move about the medbay without bumping into someone.

“nothing too drastic, just appetite changes and some changes in mood.” they looked to aranar and when their brother nodded his agreement, their shoulders released the collaborative tension in all of their shoulders. you could feel their worry dissipate into the force, satisfied that you were, in fact, perfectly fine. “now i thank you all for your concern, but i would really appreciate some privacy so i could change out of these clothes.”

several of the men filed out, thinning the crowd the same as aranar had until you were left with cody, waxer, and jester. the latter took his leave once he got a quick hug from you and more reassurance that you were completely fine and there was no reason to fuss.

waxer took jester’s spot seconds later, a set of blacks in hand. “i hope these will suffice for now, commander. at least until you’re able to get to your quarters and into something more comfortable for you.” he extended them towards you gently, and there was even a pair of boots included. you knew as well as he did that they wouldn’t properly fit you but the sentiment behind giving you these was no less strong. in mando’an tradition, sharing armor with someone was one of the highest forms of trust and affection one could show and you were reeling from the implications.

(what you didn’t notice was the gleam in cody’s eye and the way waxer looked to his ori’vod for reassurance. it wasn’t like you would have known what the look was about, but seeing as you didn’t know it happened in the first place, there was nothing to speculate.)

you took the blacks from him with a soft smile. “these are extremely appreciated, waxer. thank you.” you swung your legs over the bed and walked towards him, placing a gentle hand on his cheek. if you weren’t mistaken, he softly hummed and leaned into your hand like a tooka getting scratched under the chin.

“would you like to get breakfast with us, commander?” cody questioned, a hopeful gleam in his eye.

you weren’t going to refuse in the first place, but your stomach wanted to guarantee a trip to the mess with the men in front of you with a growl. the men grinned at the noise (well, the way you looked down to hide your face afterward) and you nodded your agreement. “give me just a moment to get cleaned up and i’ll gladly go with you.”

they nod and tell you they’ll wait up outside before leaving you alone.

thank the stars there was a private ‘fresher in the room you were in. you were quickly out of your bloodied nightwear and once you were clean and armed with a tampon to plug the leak, you grabbed the blacks from their neatly folded pile.

you’ve carried sets of blacks before, but these felt strangely lighter. almost all sets of blacks were made the same because everyone that wore them had nearly identical measurements. personal modifications were near obsolete, exceptions being made for clones that were granted prosthetics instead of decommissioning (at the cursed d-word you quickly pulled your thoughts back; you and your master both had numerous issues with the treatment of your men, and your current emotional vulnerability would do nothing but cause trouble).

you started with the pants. when you got both legs in, you were shocked. why were they so snug? you knew for a fact that you didn’t have the same measurements as your men, and yet… the pants fit like a glove. a perfectly-fitting glove.

maybe you were imagining this. you had to be. the moment you emerged from the room, you’d be able to flap about in the outfit like a young padawan wearing their master’s robes. cody and waxer would laugh and smile, one of them probably daring you to eat breakfast in the blacks (which you would take them up on without hesitation).

but then the shirt fit just as well, if not better, than the pants. that couldn’t be! your chests were completely different! you had boobs, for kriff’s sake! the size of your bust was inconsequential, it was the fact that blacks were made to fit the clones, who didn’t have boobs last time you saw one. what could possibly explain it?

as you let your thoughts roam, you slid the boots on and realized with a start that holy shit these are my size. and if the boots are my size, then that means…

you were given a custom set of blacks.

they saw you as one of their own, their vod. you were their highly respected jedi commander, but you were also family. every member of the 212th knew that you’d put your life on the line for them (despite it being the opposite of what they wanted in battle) just the same as they would for you. the gesture was one of deepest sincerity and camaraderie, if that word was even strong enough to define the feeling.

“waxer! cody!” you called for them to come in. you could feel your throat getting blocked by the overwhelming love you felt right then, but you couldn’t bring yourself to care.

the two burst in, worried something actually did happen this time. then they noticed you were decked out in your new blacks with watery eyes and a wide grin on your face.

“you fit right in, y/- oof!”

cody’s teasing was cut off by you nearly taking him to the ground with a hug, arms wrapping tight around him. you let go after a moment and brought waxer in too, letting yourself be encased in the light and happiness and safety being spread through the force. a gentle hand came to rest at the back of your head, and another rubbed your back soothingly.

“i take it you won’t need to change before heading to the mess?” waxer’s smile was heard in his softly teasing words, and it made your heart sing.

“you bet your ass i won’t. now let’s go, i’m starving.” you untangled yourself from the embrace of the men in front of you before letting them escort you to breakfast.

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whump-tr0pes · 4 years

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HB4-31/Whumptober day 9

This is a series. Start here, continued from here.

This is a sequel to Honor Bound, Honor Bound 2, Honor Bound 3.

AO3

Masterlist

She’s here.

Content warning: emesis, mention of dissoci@tion, PTSD, unplanned pregnancy, mention of consensual sex, description of birth, past torture

Ellis lurched forward, their hand covering their mouth where they sat hunched over the puzzle. They leapt to their feet and dashed from the living room.

Finn stared after them, concern pinching their mouth. They glanced at Vera where she stood in the kitchen, framed by the half-wall, a cutting board full of chopped potatoes held aloft in her hand. Tori stood at the counter. Her arms wrapped tightly around her own chest and she shrank slightly towards Vera. She looked towards the bathroom. Her eyes were fogged and distant, and her lips pressed into a thin, nervous line.

Not Tori’s worst day. At least she knew where she was today.

Finn got to their feet and made their way across the living room and down the hall towards the bedrooms, pausing just outside the bathroom door as Ellis vomited loudly into the toilet.

“Oh, babe,” Finn murmured, dropping to their knees beside Ellis and gently pulling back their short black hair from their face. “I’m so sorry.”

Ellis dry-heaved, their stomach empty after throwing up on and off for the past two days. They groaned, slumping against the toilet seat. Finn smoothed back Ellis’s sweaty hair with one hand and rubbed their back with the other.

“What the fuck,” Ellis groaned. They reached for the handle and flushed the toilet. They got up on one knee and pushed themself to their feet. Finn helped to stabilize them as they leaned over the sink and washed their mouth out.

“I’m sorry,” Finn said softly, gently rubbing their hands up and down Ellis’s arms. “I don’t know what it is… Maybe it was something you ate, but… we’ve been eating the same stuff…”

“It’s fine,” Ellis said, already sounding better. “I think that was the last of it. Although, that’s what I thought yesterday…” They drew their hand over their face. It still shone with sweat, but the color was back in their cheeks. “Sorry that’s so gross.”

“I’ll try and get more Zofran from town tomorrow,” Finn murmured, and drew Ellis into a hug. “Although I hope this is over by then.”

“Probably will be, babe,” Ellis said with an awkward shrug as they pulled out of Finn’s grasp. They gave Finn a tired smile and walked out of the bathroom, back towards the living room. “I really am feeling a lot better.” Finn followed right behind.

“Still feeling sick?” Tori said. Her voice sounded thin, frightened, but… Finn heard the shadow of the person she was before. Ever since they escaped, Tori had been slowly, slowly emerging from the wasteland that had been made of her mind. She had only been able to be coaxed out by two people: Vera, and Ellis. Under the fear, Finn could hear the person who’d kept them all safe and cared for them for months as they all recovered from Gavin. She stood in the doorway of the kitchen, her muscles pulled tight under her skin. Always ready to run. Always ready to hide, or just stand there and take the shocks.

Three weeks later, and she still had days where she waited for the shocks. Finn blinked and shook their head to clear it.

“Yeah,” Ellis griped as they crossed to the couch and sat down again. They pulled the blanket around their shoulders and took a sip of their tea.

Vera covered the pot on the stove and turned it down to a low heat. She walked to Tori’s side and wound an arm around her waist, looking into the living room at Ellis. A wry smile twisted her mouth. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were pregnant.”

Finn froze. Ellis’s head snapped up and they stared at them with wide eyes.

“Oh, fuck,” Finn breathed.

The silence pounded in Finn’s ears.

“F-Finn,” Ellis whispered. “I am late. I thought it was just the, um, the stress, but…” Their hand drifted to their stomach and rested there, almost unconsciously. Their mouth hung open, their eyes unfocused. “Yeah,” they rasped. “I’m a week late.”

The room lurched around Finn, and they thought they might throw up.

“But I…” Finn stared at Ellis, dumbfounded. “But we…” They thought back over the last three weeks, the sex they’d had every day – multiple times a day, in every position they could think of and a few Finn had never even heard of before – since they and Ellis had been reunited. They’d gone through several boxes of condoms, blushingly having to go ask Gray to bring them more with every trip into town. They’d worn a condom every single time. Finn fell back a step, looking up in confusion as the walls moved around them, zooming out and zooming in at the same time.

A bolt of realization hit them and they met Ellis’s eyes, and Finn knew they were having the exact same thought.

“The first morning,” they said at the exact same time.

“Oh, god,” Finn whimpered, tearing their hands through their hair. “Oh, god, oh, fuck, I, I don’t…”

“Holy shit,” Ellis whispered from the couch.

Finn couldn’t focus their eyes. There wasn’t enough air in the room. “Oh, god, oh, what if I, if I, oh god, I don’t know how to, to be a fucking, parent, Ellis, what are we gonna do, I… oh, holy fuck…”

Ellis appeared in front of them, and Finn clutched at their arms. “Oh, Ellis, is this… is this okay? I’m sorry, I… I didn’t… mean to…”

Their eyes focused, and they realized Ellis was grinning. More than that, their joy was radiating off of them, crinkling their eyes, pulling their lips into the biggest smile Finn had ever seen on Ellis. Suddenly, tears were streaming down Finn’s face.

“Oh, god,” they babbled, sobbing in Ellis’s arms without being sure when they actually started crying. “Oh g-god, Ellis, we, we talked about it… so long ago, and I know that… so much happened, and I don’t… I never… I didn’t think it would, would happen, and, oh, god, are we ready?” Finn fumbled for Ellis’s hands and they squeezed. Ellis’s hands were so warm, and Finn realized their hands were freezing. “I mean, is this… do we… I mean, a baby? Oh, Jesus Christ, I… I don’t know how to…”

“Finn,” Ellis said gently, tilting Finn’s chin up until they met their eyes. “Shhh.”

“Do we even have the, the facilities? I mean, risk of complication is—” Finn cut themself off with a choke, paling, their eyes going wide and staring sightlessly at Ellis. “No. No no no no no no it’s okay, it’s okay, it’ll be okay, oh my god, delivering babies is a BLS skill, delivering babies is a BLS skill…” Suddenly, ridiculously, a perfect recall of Finn’s OBGYN chapter in medic education training flashed across their vision. A cross-section diagram of a uterus, the baby drawn almost comically placid as it slid out of a disembodied pelvis – squeezing a bowling ball out of a garden hose, their mother used to say. Finn felt a sudden lash of grief, thinking about their mother and the eternal question: is she still alive?

Then, just opposite of that diagram was an actual picture of a woman giving birth, a tiny head looking absolutely massive as it poked out from between the woman’s legs, steadied in the doctor’s hands like they were handling a football. Instructor Grant had told them to skip that chapter, since it wasn’t relevant to combat medicine… but the students had flipped to it just the same, with giggles and groans as their friends whispered ‘oh my god, there’s a naked woman on page 278’, only to discover that, yes, she was naked, but she was also pushing out a bloody, purple, wrinkled baby head, who looked very upset about the whole thing.

Oh, god. I should have read that chapter. I should have read that chapter and not just looked and gotten grossed out. Oh, god, oh god, oh god, oh god…

“Finn,” Ellis murmured, and gently took Finn’s hand. They laid it gently against their abdomen, right over where the baby was growing. Just a zygote, really. Probably no bigger than a few hundred cells right now, maybe the size of a grain of sand. Maybe? God, why don’t I know this?

As Finn’s hand settled against Ellis, gently pressing against the waistband of their sweatpants, Finn stopped. Every breath, every thought, every fucking cell of blood in their veins froze in place. They could feel the warmth of Ellis’s skin through the fabric, but more than that: it was as if that little bundle of cells, that baby, Finn’s baby, was shining through, reaching its little light out for Finn, shining warmth and strength and love right into their hand and into their body. The baby inside Ellis, their baby.

Finn crumpled to their knees and wrapped their arms around Ellis’s legs.

They sobbed against Ellis’s stomach, pressing kisses against the waistband of their pants. Finn’s face shone a smile, joy flooding through them, so hot and sharp it was almost painful. Ellis’s fingers stroked through Finn’s hair and Finn leaned their cheek against Ellis’s stomach, happy tears streaming down their cheeks and soaking into the hem of Ellis’s shirt.

Ellis tilted Finn’s head up, and Finn nearly crumpled again at the look of disbelief, of fierce joy, as Ellis looked down at them. It was as if years had been shaken off their face, as if, for a moment, the pain that laced through every moment of their life was lifted.

“We made a baby,” Finn rasped, their voice breaking.

“We made a baby,” Ellis whispered back. Then they laughed, and the sound went through Finn like a knife, and they loved the ache.

Finn glanced towards the kitchen. Vera stood motionless in the doorway. One arm wrapped around Tori’s waist, and her other hand covered her mouth. Her eyes streamed tears she looked at Ellis, then Finn, then Ellis again.

Tori’s eyes were focused, her shoulders squared, her hands laced under her chin. Her eyes shone as she looked at Ellis. Then, slowly, she stepped out of the protective circle of Vera’s embrace, and walked to Ellis’s side. Finn stumbled to their feet and swayed, dizzy.

Tori placed her hands on either side of Ellis’s face, her smile matching theirs. Their hands went gently around Tori’s wrists and they laughed together a moment. Tori didn’t shrink or cringe away, but laughed, quiet joy cutting through the fog of pain that shrouded her every day. Her eyes focused entirely on Ellis, and Ellis on her. The moment hung in the air, suspended, like a glass just before it shatters on the floor. Finn sucked in a breath, waiting for the crash.

It never came. Tori threw her arms around Ellis and held them as they wept.

They felt Vera at their side and they jumped. They turned to her, stunned. Vera practically tackled them in a hug.

“Congratulations,” she murmured, and she choked up on the word.

“Oh my god,” Finn whined softly, grinning, gasping for breath.

Vera pulled away, and Tori folded into Finn’s embrace. “I’m so happy for you,” she said softly, her voice warm, steady, and even. As she leaned back, Finn’s mouth bobbed open and closed, grinning like a fool.

Then Ellis was back in their arms, and they stayed. Ellis squeezed Finn tight, nearly crushing them in their embrace, as if they were an anchor against the roaring tide in their ears. Ellis was in their arms, living, breathing, here, alive, pregnant. For three weeks, Finn had been in agony, trapped with their family but alone. For three weeks, they’d been helpless, useless, branded as a medic while the rest were collared and tortured as playthings. It was as if Finn could feel the scar on their brain.

But Ellis… Ellis was here. Ellis was alive. Finn pulled back and stared at them dazedly, disbelieving. Their hands locked around Ellis’s shirt as they pulled them closer, pressing their foreheads together so hard it almost hurt. A tear fell from their chin and into their shirt.

Finn wet their lips. “I…” Ellis leaned back, that smile still so radiant, so beautiful. Finn blinked. “I hope it looks like you. I hope… oh… I hope it has your eyes.”

“I hope it has your brain,” Ellis said softly, and kissed them on the nose. “God knows we need another genius in this family.” Ellis laughed, and there was no snark, no anger.

Finn giggled, their voice shooting up an octave. “Oh,” they whimpered. They thumbed away the tears on Ellis’s cheeks. There was something rising in their throat, words that they could barely comprehend. Words they’d never once imagined in this order:

“I’m gonna be a dad,” they whispered.

Ellis’s eyes crinkled at the corners. “Yeah, babe,” they said, and cradled Finn’s face. “You are. You’re gonna be a dad.”

Continued here

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#honor bound 4 #whumptober2020 #no. 22 #do these tacos taste funny to you?#OC #fic #emesis tw #mention of dissociation tw #PTSD tw #mention of consensual sex #birth description tw #past torture #Iris #IRIS! IS! HERE!#Fillis #Fillis baby #morning sickness #HMS ToriVera #delivering babies is a BLS skill

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willadisastercry · 4 years

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the boys of voltron when pidge is on her period

TW: description of things to do with mestraution, reference to blood, and depiction of vomiting and passing out

SUMMARY: so basically the boys are absolutely clueless when it comes to Pidge being on her period, only some of them make the connection at times but they kind of eventually forget completely that she even gets it and allura can’t necessarily relate... good thing Pidge’s periods haven’t been particularly painful while she’s been in space, until this one is and she is not at all prepared.

{2:27 am}

Pidge woke up drenched in sweat.

“What the f...?” she mused groggily, blinking dumbly in the dark trying to figure out what was wrong until she felt it, the throbbing ache in her stomach just above her bladder that somehow spread insttantly to her lower back and made her hips feel like they were being wrenched apart.

“Ooowwh,” she groaned queasily, rolling to her side and hugging her stomach tightly.

Shit.

Pidge hadn’t had a heavy period since she’d been in space, she had been so busy with voltron, so physically active that it had lightened substantially and she almost forgot how painful they could be. It was sort of a blessing, that aspect at least.

But then the fact that she was in space at all was entirely inconvenient. No one got to pack before they became the universe’s greatest defender and the castle wasn’t necessarily toting the supplies humans needed, especially supplies specific to female humans. And they just didn’t carry pads or tampons in any Earth souvenir shops because why the fuck would they.

So, it was awkward enough having to explain to Allura the intricacies of the female reproductive system when she found stained painties in her bin after her first offfical space period, let alone having to relay that to Coran in order for him to create sanitary products for her. Pidge would be utterly mortified if she ever had to ask him for more than the additional supply or additionally medicine to take away the horrible cramps and other unpleasant symptoms. But she hadn’t needed to yet, so she had never worried about it.

Until now. Because now she was crying from the excruciating agony of cramps after not having any for who knew how long.

Voltron had been relatively inactive doing promotions on planets they freed from the Galra, so they hadn’t been on a particularly taxing mission in weeks. Pidge had never even considered the sudden decrease in physical activity could cause her period to come back in full force. She should have considered it. She could’ve ask Coran before... she could’ve made something to...

FUCK.

She almost cried out as the onset of another wave of cramps made her stomach churn. This was bad. Her head was already pounding and her back ached dully, for the moment overshadowed by how foul her stomach and uterus felt, taking turns pulsing but both succeeding in making her want to profusely vomit up all of the green alien goop she’d had for dinner earlier.

The boys had remarked at just how much she was eating that night. Now she knew why. And now she was really regretting it.

Pidge pulled herself up to a hunch and waited a beat as the movement ran its course, a new flare of pain spreading down her back and making its way to the joints of her hips.

She needed to do something. The pain was unbearable. Everything that could hurt, did. She blinked back dots, a small whimper escaping her lips at the thought of it not ceasing anytime soon and so she got to her feet to begin making her way to the kitchen to search for something, anything before the next wave landed and she lost her resolve.

The hallway outside of her room was dark, the only light coming from a lamp in the common room. She made her way swiftly. First to the bathroom with Coran’s alien solution of a pad. Pausing only to wash her hands before trudging on. And then she could feel her stomach pulling, getting ready for another gush of pain. She walked quicker after that, despite the deep ache in her back that threatened the contents in her stomach once more.

When Pidge finally made it to the kitchen she was blinking back more dots and leaning heavily on the counter as she reached for a glass, her hands shaking holding the pitcher as she filled it. She takes a couple of sips. Her headache was splitting now.

There’s nothing in the cabinets for pain relief, there’s usually tea... some sort of herb thing. But there’s nothing, she’ll have to go to the infirmary. And then the realization that she’ll have to drag herself all the way across the ship while she felt like this made her head spin.

Like genuinely spin. Pidge couldn’t decipher why she suddenly felt so faint, she’d eaten more than enough that night, yea sure it hurt but this didn’t warrant-

And before Pidge knew it her mind had gone blank. She didn’t remember letting go of her glass or falling but suddenly the floor was rushing up to meet her face very quickly.

The floor tile of the castle was very cold against her clamy skin and it was very helpful in reviving her, so was the insessant shaking.

Pidge blinked in confusion, but the pain that followed her renewed consciousness prevented any sort of protest. She looked up to see a very worried Keith shaking her shoulders slightly.

“Pidge! What the fuck?! Are you okay?” he rambled off quickly, his eyes working her over trying to deduce what could possibly be the problem.

“Yeah...” she said sort of sadly, but before she could even consider how to start explaining she made a humph sound and lurched forward, narrowly clamping a hand over her mouth to choke back down the saliva that had welled up in her mouth, just as Lance nearly tipped himself over with how fast he had raced to discover the source of commotion.

“What the fuck was that?” he inquired surveying the strange sight, “uh, you guys having a party or something?”

Neither of them answered as Keith scrambled to shove the bowl that previously held earth veggies under Pidge’s chin and helped her sit up before she began aggressively losing the contents of her stomach.

“Holy-“

“Lance, shut up! Pidge passed out... I don’t think she’s feeling great,” Keith explained, rubbing circles on Pidge’s back, her whole body trembling while she retched.

“Oh,” Lance softened, a pang of worry apparnt in his gut when he moved closer to check her out for himself.

He then got to work sweeping the broken glass away from where his friends sat before he lowered himself down as well. When Pidge finally came up for air she reddened immediately. This was just not ideal.

“I’m-i’m done, I think,” she rested her head back against the cabinet and held her stomach.

“So... what the heck was that?” Lance asked taking the bowl away to empty it.

“Uh, nothing—”

“Bull,” Keith interrupted. Pidge wasn’t expecting that, but then again she was talking to the king of hiding injuries and ailments and feelings, especially pain.

“No! I’m fine, really—“

“Yeahhh i’m just not buying it.”

Pidge’s heart dropped as she realized Keith wasn’t going to just let it go. Crap.

“You passed out and then almost threw up all over me, you’re not fine Pidge. You can tell us what’s wrong... it’s not like we’ll judge or anything,” Keith said gingerly and she knew he meant it. Fuck.

Am I really about to confide in these two boneheads about my period? In space?!

“You can’t laugh,” she choked as another ache stole her breath. It was looking like she would in fact have to admit she was on her period if she wanted any sort of remedy, of which she really really did.

UGH.

“We won’t, we promise,” Lance assured. She didn’t expect that either. From him at least.

“I’m on my fucking period,” she whispered almost inaudibly. Keith nodded in understanding.

“Oh! Well that explains it,” Lance breathed, “I thought you were like deathly ill or something.”

“Juries still out on that one,” Pidge grimaced, squirming as she tried to find a more comfortable position, one that didn’t put so much pressure on her hips or her stomach or her back.

“Oh, c’mon—“

“I wouldn’t finish that statement if I were you buddy,” Keith tried to hold back his laugh.

“Listen to the mullet,” Pidge warned, her death stare shutting the boy up instantly, “because only when you can handle feeling your uterus shedding its own skin without what just happened occurring can you then talk, otherwise please save it.”

Whether it was her subtle threat or the way her voice shook with her last plead, Lance did as he was told.

“So, how can we help you?” Keith offered, “I don’t feel comfortable leaving you like this, like... I mean I know you’re not traditionally sick but for all intents and purposes sure seem to be. So what can we do?”

Pidge shifted uncomfortably, unable to keep a straight face now.

“You can help me find some sort of medicine to take. Anything, literally anything. For pain, or sleep, or death, I don’t care. I’m good with whatever you can find.”

“Damn, I’m sorry Pidge. I’ve never seen you like this over your... your period before,” Lance apologized and scratched his head.

“Yeah, because it’s never been this bad,” she tried to steady her breath and shut her eyes, swaying her knees slowly from side to side because she was so freaking antsy and in such pain it was all she could to do to somewhat soothe herself.

“She look pale to you?” Pidge was barely aware of Lance hushing his worry under his breath.

“Yeah, but she’s like flushed too.”

“Hm...”

And then there was the back of a cold hand against her forehead and an exclamation of concern.

The boys looked at each other worriedly like “shit, this is bad” and then launched into a discussion on how they were going to proceed. Pidge didn’t listen to the conversation that followed, she could only focus on keeping her fist pressed against the right spot on her lower back and refraining from crying out as the pain rose and dulled and rose again.

And then Lance was nudging her, his hands out for her to take. He helped her to her feet, his hands firm on her back when she stopped to wait for the blood rush to dissipate and then guided her over to the sunken couch. Keith must’ve been asleep on it before because there was a pillow and unraveled blanket next to a curled up Kosmo.

She laid down slowly while the boys bustled around her, not having enough energy to accurately produce any theories explaining why Keith would be sleeping in here and not in his own room, saving the thought for later.

Then she was aware that the boys had gone off to wherever and she was alone with a peaceful Kosmo as another horrible pain flared up in her back and travelled to her hips.

“Fuck!” she exclaimed, unable to surpress the tears as they rolled down her face, her breath hitching now. Pidge rolled to her stomach and brought her legs under her in a sort of mock child’s pose, accidentally waking Kosmo up in the process. But to her surprise, he didn’t seem annoyed at the disturbance like he normally would’ve been, he’d stretched out in front of her and licked her face instead.

Pidge could’ve sworn he looked genuinely worried, somehow sensing that the salty wetness of her face and contorted breathing meant anguish, because he then went to comfort her. This is right about when Keith and Lance turned up with Coran and some strange alien goodies in the heat of an enlightening conversation about how a cryopod likely wouldn’t make a lick of a difference in this situation.

“Good boy,” Keith commended, petting his wolf’s head who was in a vice grip in Pidge’s arms, but he didn’t seem to mind in the least.

“Little one, I am displeased to hear of your great discomfort. If I had known these menstrautions could be accompanied by such horrible pains I would’ve something prepared sooner... but fear not, my girl, because I may very well have a few remedies that might do the trick.”

Pidge sighed and heaved herself to a sitting position, Kosmo turning himself around and nestling in her lap. The boys silently remarking at how she’d somehow looked worse than before.

Her face and eyes were blotchy and puffy from crying and her trembling was more apparent now, either from the cold of the common room or her abnormal temperature, regardless she looked like she was really going through it.

And she was because as soon as she straightened up her face fell. Keith didn’t wait even a tick before he took off barreling for the veggie bowl, vaulting over the couch just in time to once again shove the bowl under Pidge’s chin.

Kosmo whined in distress.

“My girl...” Coran lamented, fussing with the supplies they had gathered in Lance’s arms.

“Here, once you’ve calmed down try this, it’ll make you sleepy but it should ease the pain for now,” Coran had a thick blue leaf in his hands.

Pidge nodded, Keith’s hand behind her neck gripping her solidly in case she tipped over because she looked like she was about to. Her face was ashen, almost tinged green.

“I’ll get you something to wash that down with,” Lance stated and headed for the kitchen. Coran headed off somewhere too.

It took her a minute to be sure she was done but when she was she shivered and sat back, Kosmo nudging his head under her arm.

“You cold? Or just shaky?”

“Cold. I run fevers sometimes but only usually the first day and then I spew when the cramps pick up... hey look, I’m sorry to be making such a fuss so late and keep you all up for something so stup—“

“Are you kidding?” Keith seemed genuinely taken back as he draped the blanket he was using earlier around the tiny girl’s shoulders.

“Wha—don’t apologize!! You know we’d all do anything to make sure you’re okay, your Pidge! You’re like our nerdy little sister, how can we not fuss over you?” Lance said when he returned with a little laugh. Pidge managed a smile while she gnawed on the oddly textured leaf, gulping it down quickly with the water Lance brought.

“And I was up anyway,” Keith started “I couldn’t sleep so I came out to hang with Kosmo. I was surprised you didn’t yell at me for being awake when you first came in. And then I heard the glass break followed by a sloid thud, so naturally I needed to see if ya know you were alive.”

They all laughed at that. Pidge let out a big yawn.

“I forgot you even get your period, Pidge. You never let on that you’re in pain, like ever. That’s freaky, that’s like a superpower holy--”

“I’ve got just what you need, my girl!” Coran beamed, effectively shutting down Lance’s tangent.

Coran presented Pidge with a blanket.

“Uhh, thanks?” she took it from him and rubbed at her eyes.

He then held up a remote and pressed a button. The blanket started to glow, it was getting warm.

“Oh, yes! You’re the best, Coran.”

Pidge gave Keith’s blanket back and wrapped Coran’s around her middle, Kosmo seemed to like it to because he nuzzled into it and pawed at her for more of it to cover him.

“I don’t get it, if she’s feverish isn’t she gonna over heat?” Keith asked, more confused than anything, and maybe a little sad that his blanket was rejected.

“From what Allura has told me, heat sometimes soothes the cramps associated with a female human’s menstruation! It is quite fascinating, but it makes perfect sense, you see the release of the hormone prostaglandin is a hypothermic process so--”

“Okay, spare us and our simple minds. Anyway let’s be quieter, I think she’s finally asleep,” Lance pointed to a very peaceful Pidge curled up in her new blanket with Kosmo, her mouth hung open and steadily blowing on a tuft of hair with each breath.

“I think it’s time for you boys to retire as well,” Coran suggested, settling down at the other end of the couch, “I’m sure our Pidgeon has greatly appreciated all of your assistance, but you both need to rest, I can watch over her from here.”

Keith and Lance shared a look.

“What’s the harm is staying with her a bit longer, just to make sure she doesn’t get sick again or anything, ya know?” Keith postured.

“Yeah, I don’t see anything wrong with staying just a little while longer,” Lance said stretching out at Pidge’s feet, she was nestled in the corner of the couch, so Keith took to the other part of the couch by Kosmo and rubbed his nose.

And within no time the two boneheads were out. Lance’s head resting on Pidge’s leg as a pillow, limbs strewn all about, snoring like an old man. While Keith was cacooned himself in his own blanket all but his arm because it was trapped under both Pidge and Kosmo.

This was the scene that Allura walked into early that morning. She was very confused to say the least.

#voltron pidge #pidge gunderson #pidge whump #vld headcanons

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zodiacal-dust-and-curls · 5 years

Text

Take Care

A/N: I wrote this for me. It’s been a hell of a weekend. No other proofreaders, so all mistakes are my own. Enjoy. 📷 by: @gwilymleefan

Warnings: Talk about menstruation, a lot. Pain. Headaches. PMS.

Word Count: 2.2k

“Love, you need to wake up.” Gwilym whispered as he pressed kisses into your hairline and brushed your hair away from your face. It certainly wasn’t the worst way to wake up.

At least, that’s what you thought until you shifted your hips to try to get up. That’s when you felt it, the all too familiar slide that came every month. It had decided to be three days early.

“Love,” Gwil said a little more urgently, “Y/N, I think you need to get up and take a shower, okay?”

Slowly, you opened your eyes to see a set of furrowed brows and a hard set mouth. “I’ll just change the sheets real quick and -”, you couldn’t help the yawn that broke out. You knew what had happened, and you just wanted to clean up and get this over with.

“No. love.” He cut you off while you were still trapped by the yawn. “I’ve got the sheets.” His eyes softened as you finished sitting up in bed.

The grimace that crossed your face as you sat up couldn’t be stopped. The cool, slick feeling of your underwear against your skin was both unpleasant and unwelcome. You would have rushed to the shower, but your sheets were already stained. What was the point in rushing while half asleep and possibly injuring yourself to save a scrap of fabric?

“ ‘M sorry, dearest.” Your eyes were tearing a little. “I swear I’ve been keeping up. It’s early.” You looked up into Gwil’s eyes. Everything about his expression had softened since your first glance at him.

“Don’t worry about that right now, okay?” He slowly reached out to caress your cheek. “Have a shower. I’ll change the sheets and then we can just relax like we were supposed to. Yeah?”

You nodded as you stood to escape to the bathroom. Gwilym took advantage of the large shirt you wore to bed and used it as a tether to pull you into him as you passed. He pressed one chaste kiss to the crown of your head before releasing you.

Gwilym watched as you retreated into the adjoining bathroom and waited for the sound of running water before setting to work.

A quick look at your backside in the mirror proved that your shirt had escaped this little episode unscathed. Well, you said ‘your shirt’, what you meant was ‘shirt you stole from Gwilym the moment he got home from filming in Australia and had never given back’. It was fine, he’d assured you. He would much prefer to see you enjoying it, than to look at it hang in his closet every day.

The underwear you’d worn to bed that night were now trash. There would be no saving them, so you were left to mourn the loss of your favorite pair. They weren’t overly cute or sexy, but they certainly weren’t the ugliest you owned. They had struck the perfect balance between functional and comfortable, and were even suitable for date night if you were in a hurry.

Once you’d shed your clothes, you stepped into the steaming shower to cleanse your skin. Gwilym had promised a lazy day in bed no matter what yesterday, so you decided to go ahead and go through your usual routine. Nothing like a complete refresh to try and improve your mood.

Just as you were about to step onto the rug, you were struck with the realization that you hadn’t brought any clothes with you. But before you could call out, you spotted two folded squares of fabric on the counter. Gwilym was truly a God send sometimes.

He’d managed to find you favorite pair of lazy shorts and a duplicate of your previous underwear, that somehow were the exact same cut from the same manufacturer but weren’t as comfortable. You quickly situated yourself and redressed.

Gwilym was reclined on the newly changed sheets reading a book while waiting for you. “How are you feeling, love?” He quickly shut the book to look up at you, his brilliant blue eyes magnified behind his glasses.

“It’s all starting to hit me now that I’m awake.” The cramps had hit in the shower, nothing too severe yet, but you were sure they’d get worse. “Can I just go back to bed?”

“Of, course. Come here.” He lifted his arm and invited you in.

You didn’t waste one second and quickly clambered in to your bed to cuddle up to his side and pillow your head on his chest. The sheets were warm, probably from him. The great thing about Gwilym was that he was a living space heater. It even extended into his hands, which gave you an idea.

“Dearest?”

Gwilym hummed in response, not quite ready to take his eyes off the page.

“Will you rub my hips?” You made sure to put on your classic puppy eyes as you peered up at him through your lashes. The pain wasn’t too bad yet, more of a dull ache than anything. But you just wanted to try to quiet the pain as early as possible.

“Yeah.” He kissed your forehead. “Let me finish this chapter, and then I’m all yours.”

You waited patiently for him to finish and decided to distract yourself by watching him. Gwilym was absolutely lost in his book, it seemed. His brow rose and fell at certain lines. His bit his bottom lip and released it, only to press his mouth into a hard line at whatever event was occurring, The hand that he had on your hip seemed to tap impatient beats on your skin or swirl in anticipation of what would happen next.

Finally, he closed the book and set it on his night stand along with his glasses. “Okay, love. Come here.”

You rolled so that your chest was pressed to his and his hands quickly found they’re way down your sides. You pressed a kiss to his chin as you settled yourself more comfortably.

“So what seems to be the problem?” His eyebrows rose as he waited for your response, his hands already applying pressure where he knew you were always the sorest.

“Just aches.” You hummed out. “Enough to keep me up.”

“I’ll gladly help put you back to sleep, but it’ll cost you.” You could feel the words rumble through his chest.

“Cost me?” You elongated the last word for dramatic effect. “Name your price. I shall pay it.”

“You have to keep me entertained. I have to stay awake and my hands are too busy to hold a book for me to read. So it’s up to you to keep me conscious.”

“Gladly.” You took a few moments to think of how to entertain Gwilym. He’d been reading Robin Hood to prepare for a new role. You didn’t know much about it, but you did know that the best way to entertain him was to get his thoughts on it.

“Tell me about the new role. I know it’s Robin Hood, but I know nothing else.”

Gwilym let out a chuckle at that. He hadn’t had the news for long, and you’d been so busy in the days since, that of course you didn’t know much.

“Well, I will be voicing good Sir Robin of Loxley.” He dug his thumbs into the meat of your hips at that moment and enjoyed the sigh of relief that left your lips. “But luckily, it’s mainly voice acting. So I don’t have to learn any choreography for fight scenes.”

You hummed your ascent “So tell me about the interpretation. What do you think of it so far?”

“I think it’s going to be very interesting. I’ve never seen this side of the character before.” He paused to adjust his technique on your hips. Deciding to switch to gentle kneading and using his natural heat tendencies to help relax the muscles.

He continued to give you his thoughts on the character and the job. You held on for as long as you could, but after about 15 minutes of the killer combination of his hands and voice, you were out like a light.

When Gwilym felt your body go lax with sleep, he pressed one final kiss to your hair and picked his book back up. Moving carefully, as not to wake you.

You woke up a few hours later to intense pains rolling from your belly button to your knees. Gwilym had left you on his chest, which helped keep warmth on your midsection but was not helping with the new pain in your chest. The one thing you never missed was the pain that came with your time of the month. It always slammed into you upon waking, as if you needed to be reminded that you were currently being punched in the uterus by life.

To relieve the pressure on your chest you pushed yourself off of Gwilym with a loud sigh. Nothing was improved by being removed from your favorite heat source, at least not emotionally. Physically, your chest thanked you for getting off of it and your back seemed to release a little with the mattress underneath it.

“How are you doing now, love?” Gwilym was still reading. He seemed to be much further along than earlier, but just as engrossed.

“Worse.” You felt your bladder finally wake up and decided it was time to get fully up. “I’ll be back.”

Your trip to the restroom could best be described as a horror show. You were hit with nausea upon getting vertical and turning on lights set your head down it’s own pounding path. Today was going to be rough.

Luckily, you kept all your meds in the cabinet and quickly took them. You also found your electric heating pad, which was great because you no longer had the desire to be touched by anyone.

Gwilym didn’t stop you as you stumbled through the bedroom. He knew where you were going. Despite what you thought, he was very much used to this schedule of events. Even if he thought you’d have a few more days before it started, he was still ready to get through it with you.

He found you on the couch, electric cord running from under the biggest blanket you owned to the wall and surrounded by enough pillows for him to know that you were not going to share. Gwilym sat on the chair next to you and started reading while you tried in vain to go back to sleep.

“Will you read to me?” Your soft voice seemed to float from the pile of fluff that contained you.

Gwilym merely nodded and started on the next line. He kept his voice gentle as he could. The room was quiet enough to have an echo and that wouldn’t help your headache.

You listened to his story and actually stayed awake through the entirety of what he had left. It was a good book, you’d have to read the beginning some day.

Eventually, your meds kicked in and the pain lessened. Your head quit throbbing and the nausea from cramping died down enough for you to finally feel hungry. You couldn’t imagine how poor Gwil felt. He’d been up longer than you and trapped with you without any real breaks.

“What do you want for -” you looked at the nearest clock. It was only 10 am, your day must have started much earlier than you thought. “Brunch?”

“I had a quick cuppa and toast while you were in the shower, love.” He could read you better than his book. “Make whatever you want and I’ll have the same.”

You stood and went into the kitchen to start your breakfast. Your stomach growled to tell you to hurry up, and your neurons decided that something sweet, maybe chocolate, sounded good. So you reached for your favorite pancake mix and chocolate chips and started mixing.

Thirty minutes later, you’d made enough pancakes, scrambled eggs, and tea for the both of you. Before you could call his name, Gwilym walked into the kitchen. He didn’t approach you immediately, still unsure of if your no-touching rule was on.

You walked up to him quickly and threw your arms around his waist. He reciprocated immediately and rested his head on your shoulder.

“Scared me for a minute there this morning, love.”

“I know it’s gross and awful and I’m so so sorry.” you spoke so quickly that your words seemed to trip over themselves and run together.

“It’s alright. I’m always more than happy to take care of you.” He pulled back just enough to pull your face to look at him by your chin. “I wish you’d let me do it more often. You stay so busy and on top of everything in both of our lives. It’s nice to know that you can depend on me when you need it.”

“Of course, I depend on you, dearest. Who else would put up with me and my moods?” You smiled up at him, a true smile that could hit your eyes now that your least favorite side effects were muted. “But for now, let’s eat. You can take care of me again later.”

Tag List: @rogers-wristbands @deakydeckme @gwilym-may

#tw: periods #tw: pain #gwilym lee fluff #gwilym lee x reader #gwilym lee imagine #t writes

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ichyhauchiha · 5 years

Text

Loose Lipped

—a collab with @torranceblack

Summary: Her inner lets out words and phrases that are too vulgar for her age, much to Sakura’s chagrin.

(Or, where menstruation has a big effect on the way she speaks)

——

Sakura felt wrong. Everything about her was so—wrong, it made her chest ache, eyes heat up, throat dry up and—

And why did her hips have the sudden need to be bent at a peculiar angle to stop the odd feeling from swallowing her whole?

It would definitely be utterly inconvenient for her to have a bathroom break right now, as the closest set of public toilets were kilometres away, and she would not fancy having to dig a hole in the ground and squat over it.

And what ground was there to dig up? She and her team were currently trudging through impossibly long and densely packed grass in hopes of reaching some secluded hut in the middle of nowhere. She was sure someone could hear Naruto from an hour away.

But she was getting desperate. They’d been on the road for hours, the sting in her abdomen never relenting, and if she wasn’t going to have a break in the next ten seconds, she was sure to snap.

Actually, she was quite sure that it’d already happened.

She resisted the urge to twist her body, lift her tunic, and look for the tell-tale signs of blood. Her fingers itched to do so, because the curiosity was just too much. But whenever her hand twitched, she casted a glance at Sasuke, and Naruto, and then Kakashi, and—ugh.

When her mom had given her the Talk—a conversation that made Sakura red all over, decoding the frilly innuendos with whatever scraps she’d overheard at school and connecting the dots—her mother spoke about her monthly cycles as if they were something to be kept a secret. Sakura hadn’t really understood it at the time.

After all, it was only a biological process. Unpleasant, but it was something that happened to anyone who was cursed with a uterus.

But as she swept her gaze from one teammate to another, she began to think that maybe she was starting to understand. It still didn’t really make logical sense, though.

“Hey, Sakura-chan,” Naruto was saying, jabbing a finger into her shoulder. The sudden intrusion and the pungent smell of his sweat made Sakura want to clench her fist.

She willed herself to calm down and think rationally, and after a moment of struggle managed to loosen the tension in her shoulders. But when his finger’s incessant prodding didn’t stop, she once again gritted her teeth and narrowed her eyes.

My arm isn’t your girlfriend, Naruto, that you can keep fingering! Inner Sakura bellowed.

Naruto immediately pulled his hand away from her, cheeks colouring, while Kakashi glanced up from his book to fix her with a curious gaze, and Sasuke’s eyebrows creased.

“What?” Sakura asked, quite bemused, analyzing the various degrees of shock on her male teammates.

Then a realisation smacked her in the face. “Did I—Did I say that aloud?”

“Yes,” Kakashi said, a newfound respect in his tone; “Yes, you did.”

Sakura blanched. She couldn’t even remember what had come out of her mouth, let alone try to figure out how the hell she was going to interact with any of them for the rest of the mission, and most likely for the next five years.

Just— just damn that insistent voice in her head! Even though the thoughts were (probably) purely hers, usually she also did a good job of reining them in, no matter how much she wanted to voice them out loud.

It’s okay, Sakura… stop hyperventilating, this is probably only a one time thing.

She drew a few deep breaths, and realising that her teammates were still staring at like she’d somehow been possessed by a ghost, barked, “Well? What are we waiting for? Weren’t we supposed to try and get there as quickly as possible?”

And upon seeing her sensei’s surprised and confused face, she sneered, a cold wave of uncontrollable absolute fury washing over her. “What happened to not allowed to take breaks, huh, Sensei?”

As soon as the last syllable left her mouth, she slapped a palm to her lips. Now, Kakashi’s only visible eye had completely widened in shock. She glanced at her left, only to see that Naruto was slowly backing away from her, and Sasuke just looked uncomfortable and like he would gladly accept an invitation to a party with everyone he hated present just to get away from her. Sakura managed to spare a moment to feel dejected.

She scrambled. “Oh, um, sorry. I’m just a little easily irritated today… please don’t take anything I say seriously. Just, c’mon, let’s go now so we’ll be able to arrive there on time, and I’m really sorry, Naruto, Kakashi-sensei. And— oh, look! A butterfly!”

Only Naruto turned his head, blue eyes momentarily distracted. But Kakashi’s gaze was unwavering, and Sasuke just looked thoroughly… shook.

Sakura tried not to blush, keeping her eyes straight ahead. And after a moment of intense awkwardness so dense in the air that she swore she could touch, Kakashi shrugged, finally, slipping back into his book. Sasuke simply looked away.

They continued to walk like that, and things kind of returned to the relatively normal.

That was, until Kakashi asked Sasuke if he had his chakra threads ready for setting up the genin-level traps that they had planned to set up.

“Yes,” he told Kakashi, opening his hollister.

“I see.” Kakashi returned, eyes glued on his book, so he clearly was not seeing. “And the tension cables?”

He nodded. “I have to go relieve them, before they can be operational in the traps.”

Kakashi didn’t respond, clearly because he didn’t have a chance to.

Because Sakura was two steps ahead of him, about to open her traitorous mouth, realising with daunting horror exactly what was going to spill out of her.

“You boys need to relieve your tension a lot more often these days, I see,” she said, voice crass, and displaying none of the internal struggle of what the hell are you doing, stupid mouth please stop no don’t please!

Everyone went silent all over again.

If she had been embarrassed then, she was mortified now, smacking a hand to her large forehead, loud enough to startle a murder of crows, biting her lips down hard, eyes screwed shut, unwilling to see the reactions of anyone.

Seriously, where did these phrases even come from? Her mouth seemed to suddenly adopt a mind of its own and run away with it. This wasn’t happening ten minutes ago. Was it because of her period? Sakura had heard Ino talk of mood swings and bellyaches… but was speaking her mind one of the symptoms?

Her frantic mental panic was suddenly interrupted by a voice that seemed to come from right beside her.

“...it’s supposed to be healthy?” A meek, empuzzled voice mumbled, the statement sounding more like a tentative question.

Her eyes automatically snapped open and her head swiveled around just in time to see Sasuke turn his head, pointedly looking away from her. His eyes were focused on some kind of bush in the distance and his neck was steadily turning red.

But she didn’t miss his wide eyes, as if he, himself was shocked to hear that sentence escape from his mouth.

And for a long time, Sakura stared.

Kakashi’s eyes had strayed away from his book again, and, Sakura could feel the intensity of his gaze on their backs, all while Naruto’s face was bleached white.

Finally, Kakashi let out a droll snort, burying his nose in his orange paperback again, and Naruto doubled over, clutching his tummy and wheezing, wiping tears from his eyes.

Sasuke barked a curse or two at the chortling blond, but the bite of his words was lost due to the slur and redness of it all.

Sakura had long since forgotten to breathe, much less talk, so she settled on just glaring at them both.

And as Sasuke marched forward, she could only dumbly follow, mind racing.

She couldn’t wait for the day to end.

#collab with #@torranceblack #fucking shit up hooray #ssfanfiction #inner sakura #haruno sakura #sasusaku #inappropriate sex jokes

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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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cheetahsprints · 6 years

Text

Fest Fill #4

Prompt: Cisco finds out he’s pregnant while Harry’s gone. @heckyeahharrisco

Words: 1717

A/N: This takes place after Season 3/Sometime early season 4.

Harry goes in last after everyone else has filed out. He can see signs of perspiration in Cisco’s face, though his hair has been pushed back. He holds close his tiny bundle, while Harry keeps a respectful distance.

Inside, he furiously resents whoever the mysterious impregnating individual is for not being here for Cisco. At least he has his friends.

Harry feels he’s somehow done something wrong. Cisco discovered his pregnancy apparently a few weeks after Harry left, however Cisco didn’t think to inform him. Not even after his inevitable return. Harry didn’t actually find out until Cisco was in labor.

To be fair, he should have realized. Cisco complained of various pains and constantly asked Harry to get him strawberry milkshakes. But he could still breach. Harry thought he wouldn’t be able to do that if he was pregnant. Turned out wrong.

Harry can’t resent him for it. He doesn’t blame him. He hasn’t always treated Cisco very well, and he regrets that. But he hadn’t known the brightness that Cisco was capable of shining into his dark recesses.

He looks soft and bright post-birth. Gorgeous.

Harry remarks, “Incredible. Isn’t it?”

Cisco grins proudly at the new life in his arm, lighting up his face and the room. It reminds him painfully of a similar scene in his life. It seems like yesterday, but also a lifetime ago. Cisco’s head lulls to the side, his eyes and expression drooping from his exhaustion.

Almost too quiet, Cisco unexpectedly utters, "HR."

"What?"

“He’s the...Er, sperm donor, more or less. Don’t pretend it wasn’t killing you inside."

"You had this sadness in your eyes - I thought he hurt you. But it was none of my business."

"But you wondered." It's not a question at all.

"Yes," Harry admits. He exhales slowly. "... How did you two get. Together? Was he... Good to you?"

"He - yes he was very - caring."

He doesn't understand how Cisco could overlook safety measures and get pregnant. He doesn't understand because he didn't think Cisco was fond of HR in that way.

Harry didn't know Cisco wanted to be with HR, he didn't know Cisco had slept with him. Harry supposes none of that is his business. They could’ve been trying on purpose for all he knows. And it wouldn’t have made being in love with Cisco any easier if he knew Cisco was taken.

He is insanely jealous that his doppelganger of all people had the privilege of experiencing that kind of intimacy with Cisco. But HR was sweet, kind-hearted, and earnest. Nothing like Harry. More deserving of Cisco than Harry.

Breaking through his bitter thoughts, Cisco asks, "Wanna hold him?"

Harry doesn't, but he carefully plucks the newborn from Cisco's chest. It isn't that he is against holding babies, even those half spawned by someone that he wishes he could’ve been. When Jesse was born, he had flat out refused to hold her right away. It's probably ridiculous, but he was afraid his tiny daughter would break.

Horacio Jonathan Ramon blinks up at him. He's adorable and unbearably small. Tears form in Harry’s eyes. His dusty memories rejoice at this special moment. Harry could swear he sees the Harrison Wells nose on him. It certainly doesn’t look like Cisco’s. He hopes the baby will get Cisco’s eyes. At least the color, if not the fascinating combination of innocence and wisdom held within their depths.

"Hi.”

He's in awe that this baby carries his DNA. That's the fact, even though he wasn't the one to plant the seed. For all intents and purposes, he’s technically holding his son -- Harrison Wells and Cisco Ramon combined. It’s a frightening and awesome prospect.

"You should see your face," Cisco remarks. He doesn't elaborate, and Harry doesn't want to know what his expression is betraying.

“To think I didn’t know you could get pregnant. How did everyone manage not to mention it for months?”

Harry must be fatigued too. He’s not sure what he’s trying to say. Thankfully, Cisco responds with a soft chuckle.

“Yeah... I have a uterus.... shocker. I’m more surprised that you managed to say nothing about my... obvious bun in the oven. Until my water broke...”

They had been eating Big Belly and having a movie marathon, nothing unusual. Then Cisco dropped a bombshell. All the air had gone from his lungs. He had asked quite stupidly, “You’re having a baby?!”

He can still clearly picture Cisco’s irritated expression. He muttered sarcastically, “Do you wanna talk about this now while I give birth on my couch?”

Cisco proceeded to have severe contractions and squeezed the blood out of Harry’s hand. It was a relief for both when Cisco could safely vibe, and Harry left him and his understandably nasty attitude to the doctor. He made it clear he wanted no other witnesses.

Harry couldn’t think properly or function while waiting for news. Iris had to sit him down and wrap his hands around a coffee-filled cup. Barry patted his back as though he was an anxious father again. Might as well have been, he worried for both their lives.

It wasn’t that Harry had not considered that he was pregnant - it was that everyone seemed to dance around it. No one mentioned his apparent weight gain... or said anything that would’ve confirmed whether he was pregnant, or had just become rather (adorably) chubby. Harry didn’t examine it too closely. He thought it was inconsequential because either way did not affect his feelings.

Whoever potentially knocked him up did not appear to be in the picture.

“I was... married. Prior to that, tact was an unknown for me. She’s the only reason I could - I would’ve ran Star Labs into the ground with my personality alone if she hadn’t ever been in my life. If had asked you if you were pregnant, but you weren’t? Awkward.”

Thinking logically, he realizes Cisco would’ve recovered. But Harry wasn’t willing to risk hurting his feelings, regardless of how it affected their relationship.

Cisco sits up, wincing a bit. “Wise teachings. I appreciate that I suppose.”

He starts to eat from the plate of food left by the bed. Harry sinks into a chair, content to hold the baby for now.

After he finishes eating, Harry can feel him staring and looks up. Cisco fidgets, turning a little red in cheeks.

"I didn't answer the other part of your question," Cisco says into the silence. Harry tilts his head, not following his train of thought.

“About. How HR and I - how that happened,” Cisco clarifies.

"You don't have to." Harry was just being stupid and envious. Something suddenly occurs to him. "When you said to Lothario - that you haven't seen it - were you -"

"It wasn't a lie. When we... Lights off, pants down, nothing fancy."

Harry shakes his head in shock. Cisco deserves more than that, much more. He should have someone to care for him as Cisco would no doubt reciprocate, and to have every beautiful inch of him adored.

"I'm not judging if that's what you wanted but -"

Cisco cuts him off. "It is. I approached HR and I -"

He squeezes his eyes shut and takes a deep breath. He appears to be preparing something Big. Harry waits. Cisco doesn’t meet his eyes. He twists the corner of the blanket with his hands.

"I asked him - I wanted him to pretend to be you. In bed. He was pretty good at it. But I couldn't - there were lines. That I kept. Things that I only wanted to share with the real you. He thought fair's fair, so there wasn't oral - or seeing anything unless absolutely necessary."

Tears have slipped down Cisco's cheeks while he spoke. Harry stands, careful not to jostle little Horacio. Somehow, he just can't see that name sticking though. Maybe ‘Johnny’ will end up suiting him instead. Not that it isn’t a fine name - he just has a weird hunch.

He hands Cisco's child back to him. Cisco looks at him tearfully.

"It was purely physical," Harry deadpans.

"Yeah. Surprisingly, he never offered or pushed for more. Sometimes I think there might have been more to it - that he wished I loved him - and I felt guilty. Ultimately, I came to terms with it being his choice. And I’ll never know for sure."

"You just wanted to have sex with. Me?" Harry needs the clarification out loud. He can already feel his heart breaking.

He might not have much self worth but he won't stoop to settling for Cisco's body and nothing else. He wants his love and affection, or bust. HR might have been able to do it, if he did possess romantic feelings for Cisco. But Harry can’t fathom making that kind of compromise with himself. It would burn him from the inside out eventually, destroy him.

"Well. Asking HR to pretend to date me as you seemed like a little much, and could potentially get awkward."

Harry can't believe his ears. Numbly he repeats, "Date?"

"Do I have to spell it out?"

Harry starts to answer when Horacio whimpers. Cisco rocks him and hums to him, soothing him down from a full blown cry. Harry's heart aches. Cisco is amazing at fatherhood already. And it's such a precious sight. He wishes he had a camera.

HR is gone, but Harry will give Cisco and his child all the love he can muster in his doppelganger’s place. He knows HR would’ve been over the moon. And while he’s never particularly liked him, he can honor his memory.

He loves Cisco's mind, his intelligence, his sense of humor, his big and wholesome heart. Perhaps someday... Cisco will love him back.

"OK." Cisco turns to Harry once his son has calmed. "I'm in love with you. Easy enough, right?"

Harry is filled to the brim with unbridled joy at that statement. Such a laugh escapes him that he doesn’t immediately recognize the sound as his own. Cisco looks indignant for a second prior to Harry gently kissing him on the lips.

“Get some rest,” Harry murmurs. He kisses Cisco’s forehead.

“You’ve earned it. I love you.”

He says the last three words to both of them.

#harrisco #harriscofest2018 #my fic #past male pregnancy #trans Cisco #referenced childbirth #Mentions of sex #nothing graphic #past HR/Cisco #past unrequited love - implied #past 'canon' character death #couldn't think of a title :/

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fatmiddleagedginger · 7 years

Text

A Tale of Two Christys

January 26th, 2017

As we all know, The Women’s March on Washington happened on Saturday, and it was awesome even though I could not march due to work. But I was there in spirit with my sisters who did take to the streets to march for our rights that might be taken away. But there are some ladies out there who feel this way...

I am not a “disgrace to women” because I don’t support the women’s march. I do not feel I am a “second class citizen” because I am a woman. I do not feel my voice is “not heard” because I am a woman. I do not feel I am not provided opportunities in this life or in America because I am a woman. I do not feel that I “don’t have control of my body or choices” because I am a woman. I do not feel like I am ” not respected or undermined” because I am a woman. I AM a woman. I can make my own choices. I can speak and be heard. I can VOTE. I can work if I want. I control my body. I can defend myself. I can defend my family. There is nothing stopping me to do anything in this world but MYSELF. I do not blame my circumstances or problems on anything other than my own choices or even that sometimes in life, we don’t always get what we want. I take responsibility for myself. I am a mother, a daughter, a wife, a sister, a friend. I am not held back in life but only by the walls I choose to not go over which is a personal choice. Quit blaming. Take responsibility. If you want to speak, do so. But do not expect for me, a woman, to take you seriously wearing a pink va-jay-jay hat on your head and screaming profanities and bashing men. If you have beliefs, and speak to me in a kind manner, I will listen. But do not expect for me to change my beliefs to suit yours. Respect goes both ways. If you want to impress me, especially in regards to women, then speak on the real injustices and tragedies that affect women in foreign countries that do not that the opportunity or means to have their voices heard. Saudi Arabia, women can’t drive, no rights and must always be covered. China and India, infantcide of baby girls. Afghanistan, unequal education rights. Democratic Republic of Congo, where rapes are brutal and women are left to die, or HIV infected and left to care for children alone. Mali, where women can not escape the torture of genital mutilation. Pakistan, in tribal areas where women are gang raped to pay for men’s crime. Guatemala, the impoverished female underclass of Guatemala faces domestic violence, rape and the second-highest rate of HIV/AIDS after sub-Saharan Africa. An epidemic of gruesome unsolved murders has left hundreds of women dead, some of their bodies left with hate messages. And that’s just a few examples. So when women get together in AMERICA and whine they don’t have equal rights and march in their clean clothes, after eating a hearty breakfast, and it’s like a vacation away that they have paid for to get there… This WOMAN does not support it.

This post was actually posted by a young woman by the name of Christy Spradlin Lynch on Facebook. But there were other Christys who did march in solidarity and here was what they had to say...

To Christy on Facebook, who doesn’t need the Women’s March

In response to the millions of women who marched yesterday, there’s a Facebook rebuttal going around by a woman named Christy. Apparently, there are quite a few women who agree with her.

The summary: Christy doesn’t need this march. Why do any women need this march? This is America, I have everything I need, and if you don’t, it’s your own fault, and marching won’t fix that for you.

Here is my response to Christy, and by association, all the women who agreed with her:

Hi Christy. We don’t know each other, but your #notmymarch post is getting shared a lot today. It showed up in my feed, thanks to a few of my friends who like what you’re saying.

In some respects, our worlds probably aren’t too far apart.

I’m going to make assumptions — and I could be wrong — but I’m a college-educated, professional mom. I live in a safe neighborhood with nice houses, surrounded by big, shady trees. My days are filled with the stuff of suburbia: My kids get a warm breakfast before school, and I go to work or the gym. I get my groceries delivered to my door. I’m a single mom and my life gets messy sometimes, but I’m grateful for everything my kids and I have and I fully understand that there are women in this country who don’t have a sliver of what I have and no matter what they do, they never will. And it isn’t because they aren’t trying hard enough.

Christy, I’m going to ask you an important question.

Besides the cashier at Target — the one who watches you swipe your bank card and walk out with your $195 worth of whatever you buy at Target — besides that woman, or the woman who stretches out of the drive-thru window to give you your grande skinny latte that you paid for with the app on your phone…. (and here’s the question) When was the last time you had a meaningful conversation with a woman whose life isn’t pretty much like yours?

Take all the time you need.

You said you were being made to feel like you’re a “disgrace to women” because you don’t agree with women who marched yesterday.

That’s a clever opener to get a boost from the girlfriends who might be on the edge of feeling the way you do, and were waiting for someone to say it so they could agree with you. It’s like saying, “I know I’m fat and ugly,” so your friends will rush to your side to reassure you that you’re not.

You say your voice is heard. You say you’re not a second-class citizen. So what’s the problem, amirite?

Again, I’m full of assumptions here, but you feel like your voice is heard, because maybe you have no idea what it feels like to not be heard. You don’t feel like a second-class citizen, because you’ve never been one.

You feel like you have control over your body.

I have control over my body, too, so I hear ya. In fact, next week, I’m going for my annual pap and mammo. It’s covered as a well exam on my insurance. But, a few years ago, my OB-GYN recommended that I get an IUD. Medically, this was a better choice for me than other hormonal birth control, or no birth control. But the insurance plan I had at the time didn’t cover IUDs. It was going to cost $1,000. The other stuff — pills, implants — was covered 100%, but weren’t right for me, medically. I passed on the IUD and decided to just deal. Because I didn’t need the IUD to prevent pregnancy, but that’s another thing entirely. Sure $1,000 is a lot of money. I could have paid it, but I was pissed off that it was singled out as the one that had a price tag — and a big one at that. I wasn’t going to die and my uterus wasn’t going to be diseased if I didn’t get the IUD, so it was a choice I could make for myself.

Have you ever skipped an annual pelvic exam or mammogram, because your kid needed new shoes and you had to choose and hope for the best?

Not everyone gets free reproductive healthcare in this country. Have you ever stopped using birth control because the clinic in your neighborhood closed, and the closest one now is across town, and you can’t get there because you’re working two jobs and someone else in your family uses the one car in the driveway? If you’re feeling OK, putting off that exam for a year, or two, or three is almost always an easy decision when you literally have to decide how to spend the $50 in your hand and your kids need stuff.

Have you ever been sexually assaulted? Shoved around by a drunk ex-boyfriend? Felt unsafe around someone? If so, did you have control over your body then?

I don’t think this needs explaining, but maybe it does. Violence against women doesn’t know zip codes or security gates. It happens to women no matter what their life and economic situation. It may be happening in a house on your street. When women are assaulted (and this has a very broad definition), women have no control over where or how they get hit. Or cut. Or pushed up against a wall. Or followed too closely by a weirdo in a parking lot. Or when fucked with their own hot curling iron. Or dragged by the hair while her kids hear something behind that closed door and they’re crying in the next room and she’s trying to be quiet so she doesn’t scare the kids, but it’s hard to be absolutely silent when she’s sure this will be the time her husband will kill her. It’s really something you should care about and you need to understand that this is in your bubble, even if you don’t know it.

You say you can go out and get a job if you want.

You are fortunate. So am I. I don’t have to “get permission” to work (some women in this country do). I don’t have to feel like the hole that is my life is getting deeper and blacker because I don’t have the skills to get the job I want that will pay more, put more food on the table and more gas in the tank. Or don’t have a way to get to work. There are millions of women out there who desperately want to work and can’t afford the childcare. Do you know anyone who has these barriers?

You can vote.

So can I. And I always do. This last election, for the first time, I got more involved, and I spent Election Day working at a voting precinct. I was that person who checked your ID to make sure you were voting in the correct location. I was the person who gave directions to the confused elderly couple who thought they were at the right place but needed to go a couple of miles down the road. I was the person who congratulated young voters who were voting for the first time; I wanted that day to feel important to them. I checked the IDs of women who dressed up to vote because it’s a special day, and people who showed up in torn, dirty shirts and crusty work boots. I welcomed moms with kids in strollers and people pushed in wheelchairs. I was the person who apologized to the woman in a hurry, because she was on her lunch break, and I had to tell her that the address on her ID didn’t match what was in the system. She moved to this neighborhood recently, but hasn’t had time to get her drivers license updated. There’s no way she can get to her old precinct and back in the 20 minutes she’s got left, and she’s crying, because she really wanted to vote. Or the woman who ran in at 6:57 p.m., breathless and hoping she wasn’t too late. We celebrated her as the last voter of the day. She cried too.

All of these people were lucky — just like you and me, they knew they could vote. They had an idea of where they should go to vote. They had a way to get there. They had the ID that I checked against the precinct’s rolls, probably because they drive. But, just as a single example, I live in a city that’s nearly 70 percent minority, and the older women come from a time, place and culture where their husbands always drove; and they never learned to drive, never got a license. Her husband died, and she found a ride so she could vote. She fumbles in her pocketbook for something with her name on it. A Medicare card? Can I take her Medicare card? “I’m sorry, ma’am. I know, it’s a government card, but it’s not on the list of IDs I can accept.”

I turned a few others away, too. Not because they were the “fraudulent voters” we’re told hover around our polling places, waiting to cast an illegitimate vote. I didn’t see a single one of those, even in my city full of immigrants and people who live in the shadows, even though they don’t have to. I had to turn away veterans, old people, young people, I had to turn them away for a whole bunch of different reasons brought about by the fear that someone who shouldn’t vote, might try.

You say you feel heard.

I feel like I’m heard, too. Imagine, though, if you lived with any or all of the things I described above, and nobody cared, or your senator heard a lobbyist’s voice over yours and voted to cut off funding for your kid’s after school program, or neighborhood clinic, or changed a bus route that got you to work and back? Or took away your family’s health coverage? Imagine if that was your life. And nobody cared. Worse, people write about it on Facebook and declare your life as a poor choice and you should have made better decisions?

The only person who can stop you is yourself.

I feel that way about my life, too. I was raised in an environment where I was nurtured and encouraged. I’m going to guess you were, too. We take that for granted, because we were told from the time we understood language that we could do and be anything we wanted. We were never on the other side of that, where families shrug their shoulders and are a little disappointed when their daughter decides not to finish high school. Her mom and grandma never finished high school, either, College? That’s for kids who live in the neighborhoods where she’s cleaning houses with her aunt; she never finished school, either. Just like the bubble you and I live in, she’s got her own bubble, except it’s not as nice. If you don’t know any women who finished high school or anyone who’s gone to college, and if you aren’t surrounded by people who tell you what’s possible, it’s easy to think it’s not your reality.

But what about the horrible things that happen to women in Pakistan, Mali and Guatemala?

Yes. I know. Horrible things happen to women all over the world. I also ache for their oppression, their abuse, their poverty, their lack of schools and clean water. But that’s a whole different conversation. In case I haven’t made myself clear yet, there’s a lot of women right here, in this country, who need things they aren’t getting, and they deserve their own conversation.

Which brings me to The Women’s March.

I didn’t march because I personally feel marginalized. I marched because I can. I marched because a lot of women can’t, even if you don’t see them. I marched for women of privilege, women who don’t have shit, women who are raising awesome children with their same-sex partner who has to legally adopt the child that is biologically hers, and might find herself spontaneously unmarried in the eyes of the Supreme Court. I marched for women who need reproductive healthcare of any kind. I marched for the 17-year old pregnant girl who dropped out of school to sort my clothes at the dry cleaners for $7.25/hour. She has to quit when the baby comes because she doesn’t get any time off, paid or otherwise. Her next job will be minimum wage, too, because she hasn’t gotten her GED yet and doesn’t know if she can get in the night school program because she’ll need someone to stay with her newborn. I marched for the woman who was raped in college and still hasn’t even told her best friend, after all these years.

I even marched for you, Christy. Even if you don’t feel like you need anyone to march for you.

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