#A WOMAN . A BIRD . A CHICK . OUR FIRST LADY . A DOE CURLED UP IN A BED OF FERNS .

[mickdalena]

gnawing at the fucking bars of my enclosure MIKE NESMITH IS A GIIIIIRRLLLL SHES A WOMAANNNN AAAARRRGGGGGHHHHH

[cxmetery-gates]

OBSESSIVE TEACHINGS - DARK!TOM HIDDLESTON

CHAPTER ONE: FAKING IT

SUMMARY: Lynn Moore dreads the beginning of her greatest fear: the first day of senior year. WORD COUNT: 2.3k NOTE: Get ready for typical teenager angst. Let’s all bully Lynn. WARNINGS: dark!tom hiddleston, teacher!tom hiddleston

OBSESSIVE TEACHINGS MASTERLIST

JUST LIKE EVERY YEAR AROUND the middle of August, my mom tells me the same advice; have a good first day. Of course, most mothers, fathers, or whoever tell their child this, but it's as pointless as a circle. Whoever has a fantastic first day of school? There are new teachers to impress, you're stuck with the same bunch of losers you sit with at lunch, and there are more jerks and morons to pick on you, despite the status quo you fall under. High school is frankly really awful all the way around and there's no way someone can deny or even try to argue that. These are the four years of utter hell and we're all dying to get out. I've stepped through those heavy doors, resembling the gates of hell, on a first day three times now. My anger and hatred have only been fueled rather than dying down. I'm sure nothing will ever change.

"Don't forget--" Mom tries to tell me from the porch in sweats and a maroon t-shirt. Her unnatural dirty blonde hair piled on the top of her head with an old red clip. There are tears welling in her eyes, seeing her only child almost grown up. I have one last year of school and mere months until I'm an adult. For me, it may pass by far too slow, but I bet it's a whole different story for her. In all honesty, it's ridiculous that the woman is so upset and not to mention annoying. I have done this routine twelve times now, for Christ sake, she should get a grip on herself by now. I don't mean to belittle my mother but one of her greatest achievements is being able to replicate every single stereotype women have, including having no control over her emotions. An outsider looking in may say I'm a bit to harsh. All I can say to that is no one has loved with her for almost eighteen years like I have.

"I got it!" I yell against the wind as it smacks my face while I walk across the grass. "Christ on a bike," I curse tossing my messy light brown hair from my field of vision.

The bus would take another five minutes to get the corner, but I'd like to not look stupid on my first day by running to catch up with the metal rectangle of devilry Peter Parker style. Well, maybe it would turn into an interesting story at the least. Spiderman is my favorite superhero of all time after all. Despite this, I only allow an angry face to part my path. It's totally fake but faking it is the only way to survive.

Down at the intersection, there are already kids waiting. I think it's safe to assume that all of the puberty-sicken teenagers are freshmen or sophomores since most junior and seniors are still asleep at this early hour, knowing the good majority are able to drive. I take a good look at all of them. The fact that they find throwing bits of gravel at squirrels or birds makes me want to go over and smack them upside the head. That thought crosses my mind a lot. The world is so full of morons; it's hard to pick out which ones are actually tolerable. They're almost as bad as kids in letterman jackets with expensive sports cars. Those fuckers are the worst. All they care about is their ego and how much money they can wave around coming right from mommy and daddy's wallet.

Take the kid in the striped shirt tucked into his hand-me-down jeans. He looks like a nice kid; after all, he's got nothing to brag about. His parents are probably office workers or maybe nothing too difficult. Nothing too important. That's all we are, right? I mean, once we're dead and gone. No one is gonna care what car you drove or what brand your plain white shirt is. People who think they're hotshots or something special are the real morons.

Besides, who thinks it's cool to spend thirty bucks on a t-shirt?

An old car passes, a teenage girl in my grade sits in the driver's seat. I sort of duck out of the way. Not James Bond-like, but I move my already shitty hair in front of my face as if it's going to help hide my identity. The chick probably didn't even see me. I watch the car drive on, kinda imagining what sort of car I would drive once I get one. I suppose I would have to learn first. I personally am not a fan of getting behind the wheel. Hell, I can't even ride a bike without falling over. I'd rather move to a large city and order cabs to get me places. They seem more convenient and, if you get in a wreck, it's not your fault and it's not your money coming out of pocket. No car equals more money. Then again, no car also is equivalent to no freedom and taxis and Uber's can get expensive. It seems like each idea is flawed these days.

Upon scanning the area again— this time ignoring the idiots— I notice only one person who seems excited out of the group. Her dark brown hair and dark skin contrast to the majority of our town, including those waiting nearby. Her curled hair bounces with each stride she takes, happier than the step prior.

Some say it's strange that the girl and I are such good friends. You don't see God and Satan going out and having coffee every weekend or anything.

"What's got you in a good mood?" I question as I readjust my dark blue shirt underneath the flannel. Flannels are my favorite personal quirk. I own at least fifty, most being cool or dark colors. I don't have an obsession; just an interest that I care way too much about. Flannels are to Lynn Moore as controversy is to famous influencers. Looking back up, my eyebrow is still raised. I'm shocked to see her here, assuming her parents would have given her a lift. After a second, it dawned on me that this, riding the bus to school, was her punishment for getting into an accident she won't take responsibility for.

Posting memes and vines references are fun and all, but doing it while going 60 down a highway isn't the smartest. Forgive me for not following the strict millennial handbook but I don't actually want to die nor do I want my friends to.

My best friend, Ellie Graves, gives a small glare. "Why does it always seem like you're on your period?" I shrug my shoulders, and played with the wire choker I always wore. As my fingers slip underneath the necklace, it is evident how to lose it has gotten since I bought it a few months ago. I make a mental note to take a quick trip to the shopping side of the internet sometime soon.

I click my tongue before answering. "Probably because I'm closer to hell than you are," I say, referring to my obvious lack of height. I'm only five feet and just barely three inches off the ground while Ellie is at least five feet and seven inches. Personally I think we would make a cute couple given our attitudes and the extremities of our heights, except for the fact that dearest Ellie is not interested in people other than men. What a party pooper. For me, anyway. "But lets do our best to not reinforce stereotypes," I say referring to her comment.

She nods her head. "Yes, mother." I snort at her sass, leaning my body weight onto my right leg. "But hey! We have one year left! That's something to be excited about, am I right?"

Yes, I would say she is right. Freshmen, sophomore, and the dragged out junior year have come and passed, full of useless information and embarrassing memories with it. It's mostly embarrassing if I have to be honest. School isn't my thing, however falling up and down the main set of stairs apparently is. Who knew?

"Yeah, I suppose so. At least we're considered adults now," I reply trying to find some positive about the situation.

Ellie begins to lightly laugh, "True. That's kinda a scary thought, though." Her body shudders, either because a breeze just blew passed or out of what she just said.

The age of freedom is so close, I can nearly touch it. Despite my longing to finally buy a lottery ticket and spray paint, the fear of adulthood gnaws at the back of my mind. With eighteen comes responsibility, something I lack to a high degree. I muse the idea of getting a degree of irresponsibility. However, I don't think such diploma could help me get into a creative writing career.

I make a thinking face and bring my shoulders to my ears preparing for an exaggerated response. "Well, you aren't wrong," I reply in a forced high pitch noise, catching the attention of the guys. Now I notice they are all matching in basketball shorts and a jacket. Men's fashion, ladies and gents. Ellie chuckles at my utter dorkiness while I continue to make some weird face I'm sure she will get a picture of sometime within the next few seconds.

It's crazy how time is able to fly. Just last week, so it seems, the outgoing, beaming chick I have as a best friend and I were in third grade, the year I moved to a new house, a different school, and a very different town. Although my eight-year-old-self hated it at the time, I'm glad I left the northern state of Maine, all the way across to the midwest. That is if you consider southern Missouri part of the midwest. If I hadn't, who would have the privilege of being my first smack in the face? Or first sleepover (with an actual girl)? Who knows, and I honestly wouldn't like to. Ellie's my best friend; I would be dead if she didn't have my back. And I'm honestly positive she would say the same about her tiny best pal.

Little time passes after the picture was indeed taken and posted on Elle's Snapchat before an ugly shade of yellowish-orange appears entering the neighborhood. Ellie is practically fidgeting, fighting the urge to run up the bus even if it is some distance away. My eyes roll trying to not say anything to kill her spirit but I do let out an accidental groan as its loud hum draws nearer. The bus came to a screeching halt and I already want to turn on my heel and head home. When I step on, I notice there is a new driver this year. After Ellie got her license and could legally drive me around, I never bothered with the bus unless I needed space or she was busy, which was hardly ever. Ellie and I mostly spend our time together with our group of friends. Despite this, I still easily took notice of a different person in the seat. Instead of a balding old man with a face like alligator skin, a woman sat in the brown leather seat and looks roughly in her forties. She, like all of us except for Ellie, looks tired but fakes a smile anyways. The same rules apply; middle school and junior high in the front and high school in the back. It seems as if sitting in the back always made you cool of some sort. Every time a kid got away with it in middle school, he or she was automatically the bad kid, the cool kid, or the king of the bus. God, how stupid is that theory? These thoughts remind me how annoying and stupid we all were at ten and eleven years old. I'm sure if I had a duplicate of myself at that age, I'd shoot either one of us to cease me from the utter pain.

Instead of going all the way to the back, I turn to sit in the seat half way down the aisle while plunging in an earbud, leaving one open to listen to Ellie. I instantly scroll through an select a playlist that mixes rock, punk, and even some emo. Given today being my last first day, I figured early morning jams would be appropriate to get me pumped up even though I tend to listen to this genre quite often as of lately. I enjoy the heavy guitar and double bass pedal and lyrics I can either relate to or wonder who hurt the singer so bad. Needless to say, I'm definitely more of a rock person however there's still a lot of other types of music on my device, including orchestra and folk or indie. I don't like to limit what I listen to; whatever makes me feel good ends up on my phone. Simple as that.

"So, Lynn," Ellie says sliding in right next to me. I look in her direction, which was to my right, waiting for her to respond. She looks at me, but nothing came out of her mouth. Slowly, I arch a brow. Still, there was nothing. "I had nothing to say, I just wanted your attention." Ellie gave a stupid grin while I glare kindly at her if there is such a thing.

My head shakes and I reach out to pat her cheek, "You, my darling, are an absolute dumbass."

I feel her grin grow against my hand since I haven't moved it yet. "Not as big as you, though." I can't argue; she has a point.

As the bus lunches forwards, I look out the window and watch the world go by. Something settles in my gut about then, the feeling both familiar and foreign. I can't tell what it is, but as I watch the clouds roll in over the sun and birds flying through the sky, I only hope my last year of high school will be memorable.

[arazialotis]

Irish Whiskey - Part 1

Pairing: Patrick × Reader, jealous Dean

Word Count: Around 2100 

Summary: With the case taking longer than expected, Y/N jumps on the opportunity to blow off some steam with a flirtatious Irish gentleman and perhaps will have the chance to make a couple extra bucks while at it. But the case and seemingly simple poker game turns more complicated when the Winchesters come across a familiar face. (Patrick appeared in Supernatural Ep. 5 x 7)

Warnings: Language

@misguidedconqueress Thanks so much for helping me review and edit!! Especially with this one since it is not my typical style. 

----

Witches, you were sure of it; they are what brought you and the Winchesters to the town three days ago. But you were nowhere close. The case should have your full attention but you had become delayed by the sly Irish man sitting across the high top from you. His dark brown eyes were warm and inviting yet glinted with a shimmer of mystery and danger. You wanted nothing more than to run your hands through his flowing curls. And his voice, well his voice warmed your soul the way the Irish Whiskey you were both nursing burned on its way down.

Dean and Sam were both long gone by now. Dean with some chick… as always. But lying to yourself had become easier than entertaining the disappointment. And this man, was a very welcomed distraction.

“So Patrick, you from around here?” You asked, wondering if this handsome distraction could possibly give you leads.

“No, just passing through actually.” He twisted a toothpick in his mouth.

“Oh, what for?” You questioned taking another sip of whiskey.

He smirked still impressed you could handle it. “Poker. A tournament in fact. It's really just a hobby but it makes a few extra bucks. You play?” He asked.

You chuckled. “Ah no. Tried to pick it up but, uh, I was sick of people wiping the floor with me, so I gave it up.”

“That’s too bad. I could give you a few tips, I’ve heard I’m a very good teacher.” He set his toothpick down and reached for a deck of cards in his coat pocket.

“I’m afraid a teacher is only as good as their student and I… I just can’t bluff.”  You blushed.

He started shuffling the deck. “We’ll only go one round.”

“Okay,” You agreed flipping through your coin purse. “Well, if you are interested in lint, hotel keys, or gas station receipts… I’m your girl.” After he dealt the cards and he took a sip of his whiskey.“Your hotel key doesn’t sound too bad.” He smirked and slipped the toothpick back between his lips.

“Oh my god!” You hid your face in your hands. “That’s not what I meant!” You giggled.

“I know Y/N, I’m simply giving you a hard time.” He lightly chuckled. “I’ll give ya the first lesson for free.” He winked.

You squirmed in your seat, imaging this is what it must feel like to have Dean’s attention. “How kind of you.” You finished the glass and singled to the bar for another.

Patrick analyzed your move, trying to read more than just your poker abilities. “Texas hold‘em. You know how the game?”

“The mechanics. Yes.” You looked at your cards and winced.

He laughed and took back all the cards redealing. “You actually need to try and bluff.” “Okay, okay.. I’ll try.” You looked at your cards again and wiped your hand over your face, looking Patrick dead in the eyes. But you couldn’t hold the serious gaze and started to giggle.

“Yeah. You’re terrible.” He chuckled back.

‘“No, no. I’m going to try.” You diverted your gaze. “So..” You found a napkin and started writing down. “I will bet you my number.” You folded the napkin in half and set in the middle.

“I’ll call.” He wrote down his number as well, set it in the middle, and dealt the flop.

You had nothing, but you were trying your best to bluff. “I’ll bet you another round of whiskey.” You purposed.

“I’ll call, and raise you a date tomorrow night.” He offered.

“I’ll call.” Your toes curled. He turned and you’ve never seen a hand this bad.

“Umm…” You didn’t know what else to throw in. “Drinks after dinner?”

“And I’ll raise you my hotel key.” He twisted the toothpick.

You sighed. “... I gotta fold.” You saw his lip twitch in disappointment. “Listen, you are super attractive.” You silently cursed at yourself for being so blunt. Maybe the whiskey was getting to you. “But I’m not the kind of girl just to have a one night stand when I meet someone on the first night.” You anxiously stated.

“Well, technically it would be the second night, after the date and all…” He grinned.

You laughed back. “Okay, if I didn’t just ruin everything. Let see how tomorrow night goes… and maybe we can play another game.”

“I’m in.” He agreed.

After a few more drinks, you called it a night and walked yourself back to the hotel. The next morning, you woke up to pounding on the door and in your head. You stumbled over to the door, rubbing your eyes. Both boys stood outside your doorway, in their tailored and freshly pressed suits. They both furrowed their brows at you.

“Late night? That’s not like you.” Dean chided as he waltzed in.

“Shut up.” You left the door open so Sam could come in too.

“Y/N, it’s 11:15.” Sam stated.

You laid back down on the bed and put a pillow over your head.

“And you have the babies and brunch group in 30.” He continued.

“Babies and what?” You sat back up.

Sam rolled his eyes, exasperated. “I sent you details last night.”

“Essentially, all the desperate housewives from the suburb get together and gossip while they actively ignore munchkins whining and running around.” Dean explained condescendingly.

“Okay. Big flaw in your plan… no kid.” You pointed out.

“Congratulations, you’re expecting.” Dean snarked. “New to the neighborhood and looking for connections and advice.”

“Ugh.” You complained and shut the bathroom door to get ready.

Sam and Dean dropped you off at a way too trendy spot, for babies and brunch. You had in mind a McDonald’s with one of those playplaces. But no, in this place everything was robin's egg blue or fairy dust moss color, and of course a ton of bird decor.

A woman perked up, smiling at you upon your entrance. You swore you could practically smell the chemicals radiating from her unnaturally white teeth.You bit your lip to avoid smiling as she crooned. “Ruthie darling, come join us.” ‘

Ruth was the identity Dean had come up with for you. You plastered on a fake smile and went up an octave more than you are used too. “Veronica? I’m so sorry to intrude but I am new to town and stumbled upon your blog…”

“Darling, darling.” She waved you over to the table. “You don’t need to apologize for anything.” You sat down in the free chair, putting your purse in your lap. “We are delighted to have you.” She greeted for the table around you. “I’d offer you a mimosa, but we want to keep that precious bundle of joy safe and sound.” The group laughed.

You politely chuckled and put your hand to your abdomen. “Yup, we are staying dry for another seven months.”

Veronica placed her hand on your shoulder. “It’s all worth it, Ruthie dear.”

The rest of the wives continued business as usual, gossiping about anyone and anything, complaining about their husbands, and willfully ignoring their children’s screams and overwhelming amount of bodily fluids. You tried to stay focused though on the pack leader. She would have the most information if there was a witch in the group.

“So, Veronica, which one of these little rascals is yours?” You looked around, eyes following the two boys running around the table playing tag.

“Oh sadly none, my children have all grown and moved away with no prospects of grandchildren.” She conveyed with sorrow.

“But you’re so young?” You blurted out in shock before you could catch yourself.

She chuckled. “Oh you’re too kind my dear. No, it’s true. That’s why I’ve started this group. So I can be a support to young mothers and get the joy from the children.”

At that moment, one of the boys playing tag tripped over his shoelace and collided with the ground. You looked to his mother who was already on her third mimosa and waved him off as he started to wail.

“There, there Sebastian.” Veronica called and snapped her fingers. He instantly stopped crying.

“... You’re so good with them…” You spoke, but the look on Sebastian’s face indicated he was more mortified than calm.

“It comes naturally dear, don’t you worry, it will come to you too.” Her phone buzzed and she jumped in her seat. “Oop, I’m running late for the salon. But we simply must continue our conversation. How does tomorrow for afternoon tea sound?”

“That would be so lovely.” You bordered on the edge of mocking her fake pleasantry.

“Wonderful, I’ll text you the details.” She stood up and blew a kiss to the rest of the group before waving. “Bye darlings.”

As soon as she left, Sebastian began crying again, raising your growing suspicion. His mother finally took notice and went to collect him.

The lady next to you bumped in. “Hey, don’t get too close, she can be a little overbearing.”

“A little overbearing?” The woman argued from across the table. “She’s worse than my mother-in-law.”

“I’m sorry… I guess I’m confused…” You stated.

Sebastian's mother who was now packing up, piped in. “Sweetheart, she pays for the drinks so we come.”

That’s a little rude, you thought to yourself. Maybe your gut feeling was wrong.

“All I’m saying is, the doting on is fun for a while but pretty soon you’ll start to remind her of her daughter and she’ll send you to her estate in New Hampshire like the rest because.” The woman cleared her throat and gave her best impression. “‘They simply have far superior doctors in that region. I can’t have you giving birth in this primitive landscape.’” A few of the other women chuckled.

“I’m sorry, the rest?” You asked… then again your gut never steered you wrong before.

“Yes… a few months ago… what was her name..” The lady tried to recall.

“Casey!” One popped in. “And before that, the poor gal who was still in high school.”

You forced a lump from growing in your throat. The missing high school girl was what brought you out in the first place. “But never any of you?” You clarified.

“No she doesn’t want to pull us away from our families already here. I guess she just wants to make sure the ones who are alone feel cared for. It’s really not all that bad.” One lady passively argued.

“Okay, well thanks for the info, ladies… I’m going to get going though.” At this point you felt you had a solid case built up against her. It would be better to focus your energy on her rather than trying to suffer through another hour of gossip.

You set out down the street towards the downtown district, dialing Dean’s cell. “Hey. Suspect numero uno is going to send you details about a tea party tomorrow.”

“Why me?” Dean asked.

“Because you’re the one who set up this brunch thing in the first place, idiot…. I don’t want to raise suspicion by giving out a different number.” You explained. “Just forward it to me when she does, I’m headed to city hall to dig up any records I can.”

“We’ll meet ‘cha there.” Dean ended hanging up the phone.

After pouring through city taxes, housing records, and whatever else you could get your hands on, you were able to establish Veronica moved here twenty years ago with her husband Edward Marshe. Unfortunately, there was no mention of the kids she had spoken about. You discussed the babies and brunch meeting with the boys and they agreed that it was still worth investigating further. Perhaps tea would lead to some further details. Sam was planning to research more into this New Hampshire estate and the oversea investments that counted for most of their income.

You picked up your phone and gasped at the time, evening already setting in. “Shit guys, I gotta run.”

Sam and Dean shared a shocked look. “What for?” Sam asked.

“Card game.” You smirked.

“And you didn’t invite me?” Dean asked pretending to be offended.

“You’re a distraction.” You reminded.

“Because of my dashing good looks?” He teased.

“Oh of course.” You snorted. “Your fiery eyes, hard pecs, and boyish charm just makes me oh so weak in the knees I forget the difference between clovers and spades.” You teased even if there was a hint of truth to it.

“Shut up.” Dean waved you off. “Win it big time for us kid.”

“Drinks on me tomorrow night, boys.” You laughed before walking out with confidence. You had this Irish man right where you wanted him.

-----

Part 2

Forever Tags: @nanie5 @sea040561 @crushing83 @mogaruke @deanwinchesterforpromqueen @ginamsmith @jotink78 @blushingokoye @sup3r-pott3r-lock3d @dancingalone21 @li-ssu @highonpastries @daddy-kink-confirmed @weewooweewoo1212 @carryonmyswansong @spn-dean-and-sam-winchester @atc74 @superapplepie @coolness22 @cassieraider @winchesternco @adaliamalfoy @iwriteaboutdean @spnbaby-67

[sgnitirw-blog]

Midnight

There’s something about the color of the sky when the sun is out. The clouds are evenly spread through the vast space of the sky and the sunshine should feel warm against one’s skin, but it only makes his eyes water when the light catches Asher’s eyes.

He sits up, back no longer pressed against the fading flowers against the field and the freedom the sky once provided, leaves when Asher realizes the trees surrounding the perimeter. He stands up and his feet move against the grass, still moist from the morning’s dew and he sighs. It’s a new day.

There are a lot of things Asher would like to do, but there are only twenty-four hours in a day and he has to pick and choose his battles. He stretches his legs so that they lay flat against the grass and he picks at the foliage sticking to his trousers as he adjusts the dirty white t-shirt on his shoulders. It’s late and he should get up now.

 When Asher stands up, it’s like the forest awakes with him. The wind rustles the leaves of the trees and a few birds fly north. A little bit away, Asher sees the house: Mrs. Walker’s house. There is a steady stream of smoke emitting from the chimney and instead of the pure sky, Asher sees the pollution taint the once virgin clouds.

 The resolve to get up and do something leaves Asher, as he sits back down and curls into himself. There’s a lingering sadness in his gut, but he can’t remember why he feels this way. The grass under him is soft and maybe it’s all right to sleep away another day.

 -

 The next time Asher opens his eyes, the ache in his head is gone and he’s sitting up on the still dewy grass. He’s not cold or anything, so he supposes it’s fine. He’d been here long enough to know how to survive.

 The sky is no longer its bright color, but instead it’s littered with flecks of light. The stars are always so pretty in Georgia. He sits up again, his hand coming to comb through his blond tuffs of hair and the familiar ache in his bones return. He then remembers the house he’d seen earlier and walks away from his usual spot, while taking a deep breath. Somewhere in the distance an owl hoots, and Asher chuckles. He walks past the large rock in the clearing and glides his fingers over the sediment, before he walks in the direction of the house.

 Considering Asher doesn’t leave his spot often, walking back to Mrs. Walker’s house is quite a feat. Although Asher’s sure he’s pulled the leaves from his hair, he’s a mess by the time he reaches the low fence of the old house. The large glass windows, that were usually covered, emit a soft light, and Asher would have more curious, had it not been for the appearance of fireflies flying around him. Once upon a time these small critters would scare him to death, but Asher’s fine with them. He extends a hand and watches as their bodies flicker on and off and the yellow light shines against his pale arm.

 The moment of serenity doesn’t last much longer. In his peripheral, Asher sees a figure in the glass move and open the doors. Asher takes a few steps back. He’s terrified and curious at the same time. He doesn’t linger much on the thought; his feet have a mind of their own it seems, as he runs back to his field. His feet make not a single noise as he travels through the forest. It seems as though the forest is still alive with him.

 -

 Asher hears the sirens often. Sometimes he hears them while awake, and sometimes when he’s floating in that odd brink of consciousness. He knows better, though. It’s not time to go back just yet.

 These days, not only do the sirens capture Asher’s attention, but Mrs. Walker’s house and the shadowy figure he had set eyes on have as well. A few days have passed and the blond constantly thinks back to the fireflies that had kissed his pale skin, and the hurried sound of footsteps right behind him.

 Asher’s never really been good at making friends, but he’s curious and Mrs. Walker’s lights have been on more recently. For the second time, in what feels like a week, Asher returns to the shallow fence of the house. He notes the steady ribbons of smoke from the chimney and once again the fireflies have started flickering beside him. He watches the bodies of the insects flash a dull yellow and then disappear into speckled darkness. The moon is generous tonight. She’s scattering her pearlescent smile down in specks, and it’s enough for Asher to see.  

 This time, when Asher sees the other figure, he notices it’s a young man. He’s probably not any older than Asher himself, and in comparison to his own blond locks, this stranger has dark hair that matches his equally dark eyes. It’s not like Asher hasn’t ever seen another person before, but when this stranger speaks out, Asher shudders lightly at the sound of another person’s voice.

 “Hey, are you lost or something?” The guy whispers out quietly.

 Asher stares back blankly, observing, as the young man takes a few steps closer. He’s not panicking yet. There’s still a good two feet of distance between them when the wind whistles it’s way through them and gives their skin a goodnight’s kiss. Asher watches as the stranger wraps his arms around his tall frame.

 Instead of replying, Asher tilts his head to the side, observing this stranger thoroughly, and he releases an inaudible “Oh,” when he notes this stranger is indeed speaking to him. The wind makes its way between his nest of hair and the stranger’s voice rings out again.

 “Dude, are you lost?” The stranger tries again, and Asher swallows. This stranger has seen him and when Asher notices the step he takes forward, his first instinct is to run. Run he does.

 -

 “Run away with me,” Jared asks. “We don’t need anyone’s approval. We can just leave and forget this shitty town and we can forget your shitty father and we’ll have our own place. On Fridays, we’ll wear our Sunday’s best and we can go and conquer the world. Student council, this dead town, Chick-fil-a, this damn Southern Church lifestyle, we don’t need any of it.”

 “J, you know it isn’t that easy,” Asher explains. “We can’t just run.”

 -

 The next time Asher wakes up, the sky is dark and his head is pounding. He’s not in his usual spot, but instead he’s across the large glass doors that are displayed on the back of Mrs. Walker’s house. He rubs his eyes; his cold fingers are rough against his skin. This time when the young man greets him, Asher doesn’t run. He knows better, now moments too late, that running isn’t the answer to everything.

 “Hey, hey…” The young man calls out and his voice startles Asher’s train of thoughts.

 Asher turn to look at him with wide eyes, and although he’s sure he isn’t going to run, Asher takes a small step back.

 “You um…you ran away last time…” The stranger mumbles out and Asher watches his lips speak the words. He’s aware of how the stranger’s hand raises up and rubs at his neck. Although Asher is silent, it seems to encourage the other guy to speak more. “I…well I just moved here,” he notions back to the house.

 It’s silent for a moment, and Asher simply blinks at the guy. It’s only when the stranger looks close to mumbling another string of jumbled words, that Asher spares him the embarrassment.

 In a soft voice, almost featherlike, Asher whispers, “What happened to the old woman?”

 Those dark eyes narrow at him, and it takes another few seconds for this stranger to judge Asher before he’s speaking out again.

 “What old woman, oh wait! You mean my grandmother?” He asks, his voice loud against the calm of the night. The sun is just setting and the sky is a healthy mix of dark blues and oranges and a sliver of red. “She still lives there, here,” the stranger, answers. His lips are curled in a half smile as he towers over Asher as he hums. “It’s not like you really need to know,” he points out.

 “Oh,” Asher replies and he looks back at the house. He’s not here to laugh or to share witty remarks. He’s just curious about what happened to old Lady Walker. “She’s nice,” he adds when he catches the other man staring at him.

 Dark hair nods and his hair gets ruffled against the wind.

 “Yeah, she is. She’s letting my mother and I stay with her,” he explains, though it isn’t like Asher asked.

 “You’re not from around here,” Asher notes, his words blunt, though there is an amused glint in his eye.

 “And that’s your business because?” The stranger retorts, and Asher’s mouth falls open in a silent gasp. Before he gets the chance to reply, the stranger laughs softly and leans against the shallow fence. “Not fair that you get to ask the questions when I find you loitering in my backyard,” the young man explains, with a small smile on his lips.

 Asher doesn’t say anything. Maybe it has to do with the fact that he hasn’t talked to anyone in so long, or maybe it’s because someone hasn’t listened to him in so long. When the breeze blows past once more, the forest sounds musical without the noise of the passing cars.

 Asher glances down when the young man offers a lump of fabric. He looks back up to the stranger and tilts his head, curious about the gesture.

 “I brought it for you. I know it’s not that cold here, but it’s still January,” he explains and when Asher looks at the young man’s face, he realizes the gaze is on his hands.  

 Asher doesn’t extend his hands, he folds them behind his back and hopes the spatter of blacks and blues against his hands don’t set the other man off. Asher’s fine, really, he is.

 The silence that passes between them is awkward for a few beats, before the stranger speaks up again. “Okay, so I’ll just leave it here,” he explains and hangs it against the shallow metal fence that surrounds the backyard. “You can take it whenever you need it,” he insists, and Asher is sure he’s trying not to come off offensive.

 “Thanks,” Asher mumbles softly. He’s hoping to soothe this dark-haired stranger, and although he can’t take the sweatshirt, he appreciates the gesture. This makes the other man smile brightly, as he nods.

 “Don’t even worry about it. You can have it,” he nods again and stuffs his hands in his front pockets. Before Asher can even question his actions, and why the hell he’s in front of this house again, the stranger speaks up.

 “So you know I’m gonna ask, but honestly, what the hell are you doing behind my house?” He questions. Asher had known; he was sure the man was going to ask eventually. Asher still wonders himself.

 Sighing, Asher looks up to the night sky. There are flecks of diamonds sprinkled in the deep ocean above them, and as much as Asher wants to say, he isn’t all too sure himself.

 “I just…” there’s a hint of hesitation in his voice. “I got into a bit of trouble at home, and …” Asher bites his bottom lip. Everything’s more real when you speak it aloud.

 “So then what?” dark-hair starts, tone soft. “Do you just hang out in the woods, hoping no one will find you?” And he’s every bit serious as he takes in Asher’s appearance.

 Asher simply nods. “Yeah, I guess I do.” Somewhere behind Asher an owl hoots.

 “So like, you ran away from home?” The other inquires, eyes wide, ready to take in answers.

 It’s funny how the mention of home brings actual pain to Asher’s chest. His throat closes up as his heart drops to his stomach and it’s freezing now. It hurts to think about, and the pain in Asher’s head is alarming, as he tries to recount the day he stormed away from his home. Just as he’s going to open his mouth to answer, the young man across him raises a hand.

 He waves his hand dismissively and shakes his head. “Forget that. I can respect whatever it is you’re going through.”

 For a brief moment, Asher is in awe. He’s unable to fathom how someone he’s just met has given him more respect than anyone in his life. It brings foreign warmth to his stomach, but it’s immediately replaced with winter once again when he realizes his reality.

 “Yeah, thanks,” Asher finally replies. He wishes he can take the sweatshirt, but he knows it’s not his to take. He smiles at the other man across him, ready to part ways, until he’s stopped once more.

 “Can you just do me one favor,” the stranger laughs softly. “I keep referring to you as that one blond boy I see in my backyard,” he admits and Asher chuckles softly. “It’d be so much easier to be your friend if I had a name. I’m Alex,” he supplies.

 “Ashton Peters,” Asher laughs, more relieved to know this stranger had a name to his face. “But everyone calls me Asher,” he grins innocently.

 -

  “You need to tell him, Asher! How the fuck are we supposed to be together if not even your parents know about us?” Jared shouts. “He needs to know. You’re set to graduate next year, you aren’t a child anymore.”

 Asher sniffles, “I can’t just tell him his only son is gay, J. You wouldn’t understand. He’s…I need more time, baby, please.”

 -

 It becomes something of a habit for Asher to wander back to Alex’s backyard. The shallow fence is closer to the ground than it is to his kneecaps and that makes Asher feel tall for once.

 There’s this unspoken promise. Alex will leave his curtains open, and Asher will wander back to the familiar house. When the blond meets the brunette, there’s a sense of trust Asher feels whenever he’s talking to Alex, however rocky their first encounter seemed to be.

 When Alex approaches Asher, Asher knows. He turns around before the dark-haired male can open his mouth and offers a playful smile. There’s a bit of wind that ruffles their hair, but it’s always like this when they meet.

 Asher takes no offense when he sees the way Alex moves his eyes over his body. It’s probably his clothes. He’s yet to change out of his tattered white shirt and basketball shorts. They’re dirty; Asher knows this.

 “Dude, seriously? How are you not cold?” Alex asks, and there’s almost a hint of desperation in his voice.

 “I told you, I don’t get cold,” Asher chuckles. Alex is amusing.

 For a moment, the two are quiet until Alex presents something once more.

 “Okay, Mr. I-Don’t-Get-Cold, I brought something for you,” he announces and there’s a backpack moving into view. He presents it the same way he presented Asher the sweater, not too long ago. It stays in the open for but a moment, before Alex straps it to his back.

 “What is that?” Asher questions, and he’s still rather amused. He hasn’t met someone like Alex in a long time.

 Alex shrugs, “It’s a backpack..” Of course, there’s a hint of teasing in the way Alex’s petal lips curve upwards.

 Asher narrows his eyes and with pouty lips he laughs.  “I know that much, but why do you have it? Why are you wearing it?” he emphasizes.

 “It’s filled with a few snacks, I figured, hey, you live back here, why don’t I help you out,” Alex explains briefly. Asher can tell, Alex is trying so hard not to offend him.

 “You really don’t have to do that,” Asher insists as his hands bunch up around the strings hanging from his t-shirt. “I have enough food here. I don’t even get hungry that often.”

 Alex doesn’t give up. “Well, there’s more than just food in here,” Alex tries once more. He’s smiling so much, the moonlight is reflecting upon rows of white teeth; Asher nearly feels bad. “There are a few pieces of clothes in here as well, stuff I don’t need. There are long pants in here...” he glances down at Asher’s basketball shorts.

 “I’m telling you, I don’t get cold,” Asher insists again. He doesn’t reach out for the bag.

 “I know you don’t,” Alex laughs, “but I do get cold, and I know you’re being humble and whatever, but fine. I won’t beg you to wear them, I’ll just give them to you, and whether you use them or not, it’s up to you.”

 “You’re very annoying,” Asher laughs and turns his back to start walking. The gray sweater’s zipper clanks against the metal fence when the wind picks up again and although Asher can’t see it, Alex smiles.

 “I hope you’re leading the way to where you’re settled. I’m not letting you out of my sight until I’ve delivered this bag and my customer is happy,” Alex grins.

 Asher blows a huff of air and nods. “Yeah, yeah, follow if you really wanna see my pimped out crib,” he replies, but it’s playful enough for Alex to follow.

 It’s silent as they walk and walk and walk. There are a lot more trees for Alex to complain about and when he finally stops complaining, he’s by Asher’s side trying to get the blond boy to talk.

 “I feel like this is a bad time to say this, but I really hope you’re not luring me out here to kill me or something,” Alex voices out.

 Asher laughs again, and this time the smile reaches his eyes. “Oh me, no, I’m harmless. You’re just being paranoid,” he insists and turns just slightly to see his reflection in Alex’s eyes.

 “So you walk this far often,” Alex queries, and although it sounds like a cheesy pick-up line, Alex continues. “I mean, it’s pretty far from my house, and you’re there a lot…”

 “I like walking around. I keep thinking if I walk far enough, I can leave, but I always come right back to this same spot,” Asher explains.

 “Where, my grandmother’s house?” Alex replies.

 “No, up ahead. There’s a small clearing, the trees...” Asher starts, and suddenly he’s silent. His head hurts again, and it’s the kind of pain that has his vision blurring.

 Alex nods, oblivious to the pain. “Yeah the trees,” he hums, and steps over the crunchy leaves and vine-like trunks.

 “There’s rocks,” Asher adds as he shrugs. It’s not too long before they stop walking and the browns, reds, and fading greens of the forest welcome them.

 -

 “J, don’t fucking force me, I’m not ready!” Asher begs and begs.

 “I didn’t ask if you were ready, I asked if you told him. Why are you being so damn selfish? You have one job, Asher, one job. How are we ever supposed to leave this shit hole, if you don’t man up?” Jared screeches.

 Asher inhales and exhales slowly. “It’s not that easy, it’s not that easy..”

 -

 “This is where I stay,” Asher announces and smiles when he turns back to Alex. “I’m practically stuck here until things clear up.”

 The sigh Alex lets out shakes the quiet forest and he sets down the backpack against the floor. It’s colder, so deep in the woods, and the silence is peaceful, but almost chilling.

 “You know, you can go if you’re weirded out,” Asher explains. “You’re being unusually silent.” His droopy eyes are downcast and his lips thin.

 “Oh me, no” Alex laughs and pushes his hair back. He looks down between them and tilts his head to the side. “It’s just cold and I’m only now realizing you have on one fucking shoe? What the hell, are you superman or something? Does anything hurt you?” he teases.

 Asher laughs again and looks down at his feet. He wiggles his toes on his exposed foot. The dirt is apparent on his pale flesh.

 “Yeah, I lost my other one a while back,” Asher supplies.

 “Well…I have stuff in here you can use to cover your feet until you get some shoes. There are actually these really fluffy socks my mom always tries to get me to wear, but I don’t even wear socks with my sneakers, so it’s useless. You can use them instead,” Alex explains and kneels down to sift through the bag. “There’s also another sweater, though this one has some hair dye, from when I was back in New York. I dyed my hair red once, to piss off my dad,” Alex laughs and glances up to gauge Asher’s reaction.

 Asher’s stands like an old little man. His head cocks to the side as he rests a hand on his hip. “You did that often?” he asks.

 Alex sets the bag to the side and stands up straight. His hands disappear in his pockets. “What do you mean?” he asks.

 “Piss of your dad,” Asher asks.

 “What gives you that impression that he’s even worth that much time?” Alex grins, and zips up the bag.

 Asher bites his lip, tongue clicking as the trees rustle in the wind. “Touchy,” he laughs lightly and hold his hands out. “I get it, not on good terms, I’m assuming.”

 “That’s more or less the idea,” Alex nods as he takes a seat against one of the larger rocks and pulls his feet to his chest.

 After a moment of brief silence, Asher does so as well, though it’s a considerable amount of distance. The air is quiet between the two of them. This time, Asher speaks first.

 “I miss my dad, you know?” Asher sighs. The overgrown blond locks cover the side of his face.

 “I can’t say the same,” Alex scoffs, shaking his head.

 “Fathers are complicated like that, aren’t they?” Asher asks, and turns his face so he can look at Alex. His only shoe-covered foot taps against the rock and he sighs. “I can’t remember the last thing I told my dad. I was so angry at him,” Asher confesses and it’s even colder now.

The wind picks up and Alex pulls his hood on over his head to make sure all his hair doesn’t go flying around.

 “Maybe, if you feel like it, you can go back?” Alex suggests. It’s even quieter now; the wind has slowed and the only sounds are from their breathing.

 Asher offers him a half shrug and an unsure smile. “I can’t,” he answers simply.

 “Okay,” Alex nods and smiles too.

 -

  “Asher you can’t go back, he’s going to kill you,” Jared mumbles.

 “Jared, that’s my father. He was just angry. I was just angry.” Asher reasons.

 “Asher, I’m warning you, don’t go.” Jared demands.

 -

 Asher makes it a habit to go visit Alex. They talk a lot, and it’s no longer January. The nights are still kind of cold, and Asher still refuses to take any of the countless jackets Alex offers him, but somehow it works out. It’s never a set time that they meet up, but when it happens, Asher tells Alex about how much he loves peanut butter, how his favorite color is sky blue, how he wanted to be a doctor, but things at home went askew. Meanwhile, Asher learns about Alex’s abusive father, his strong willed mom, and how much Alex detests fractions.

 The one time Alex brings food, it goes to waste. He brings forth peanut butter sandwiches.

 “You’re fucking kidding right?” Alex asks, holding the peanut butter sandwich he’s abstractly wrapped with aluminum foil.

 “I’m allergic to peanut butter,” Asher nods, trying not to laugh at the look of disbelief on Alex’s face.

 “I swear, you said you loved it,” Alex insists, tossing the Publix bag to the side, along with the sandwiches.

 “I loved it when I had my medicine around every time I risked it,” Asher explains and shrugs his shoulders innocently.

 “You’re ridiculous,” Alex sighs, folding his arms. He decides his efforts on potato bread and the creamy peanut butter he’d spent the morning putting together would just go to waste.

 -

 It’s February now, and Asher’s headaches become stronger and stronger. He doesn’t go find Alex as much, and settles for lying on the ground beside the large rock they usually sit on. The minutes turn to hours when Asher isn’t discussing parents or the woes of being allergic to peanut butter with Alex.

 It comes as a surprise when Alex comes and finds him, instead of the other way around. Sitting up slowly, Asher greets him with a smile.

 “There are so many people near my house right now,” Alex sighs, tension marring all physical features.

 Asher’s brows scrunch together as he waits for Alex to go on. Instead, Alex leans against the rock and looks up.

 “I thought Georgia was going to be quieter than New York, but the sheriff has dogs near my house now, and I could have sworn it was my dad following us back here,” he explains. “I also needed to make sure you were okay,” Alex adds. “I know you’re still hiding.”

 Asher smiles. The compassion is so genuine; the headache is nearly gone.

 -

 As Asher turned to walk back into the house, the midnight sky was dim. The reflection of the moon no longer poured her dazzling light and the roads were quiet. Sixteen years old and in love, it wasn’t ever enough.

 Jared yanks Asher back by his elbow and leads him away from the driveway.

 “Babe, I have to make sure he’s okay,” Asher insisted, though followed Jared as he lead him down the gravely road.

 “No, you really don’t. You know he doesn’t want you anymore, Asher. He called you a mistake. He said you aren’t worth his time, don’t make him worth your time,” Jared spat and walked over with Asher towards the woods, where their runaway car was located.

 “Listen love, we’re going to just drive on west. California, they’ll let us be together there,” Jared is adamant, and Asher knew he was testing his patience.

 “But this could be a goodbye, J, a better one. I can’t be angry with him; he’s my father,” Asher explained quietly.

 Jared groaned and yanked Asher back again. “Can’t you fucking listen to me, for once? I just want the best for you,” he said, and there’s shock quickly presented on Asher’s face.

 “You need to stop acting like you own me. Don’t you realize that he’s my dad? Mine. Just because you have some issues with your own, doesn’t mean everyone’s l-.” Asher never finished his words.

 Jared hadn’t meant it, but the way he pushed Asher back against the tree, and the loud crack that could make the night sky cry itself, echoed again and again in the warm August air.

 It’s then dead silent.

 -

 The police don’t leave Alex’s house for a while, and Alex soon learns why. He learns why Asher doesn’t come around anymore, why Asher didn’t feel the cold, why Asher couldn’t accept the clothes, why Asher couldn’t eat the food.

 When Alex approaches the officer stationed in front of his house, he musters up the courage to ask, “Officer?”

 “Hey kid, no loitering, this is a private property, keep it moving,” the man says.

 “I live here,” Alex tries again, hands finding their way into his sweater pockets. “Can I know why you guys are surrounding my grandmother’s house?” Alex asks, a panicking edge to his voice. Asher is close, that’s why they’re close, that’s all his mind is telling him.

 The officer sighs, taking off his hat and fanning himself with it. “We’re closing up an investigation that’s been ongoing for months,” the man states, “The Peters’ boy,” he starts, but Alex cuts him off.

 “You know he doesn’t want to go back, right? He said things are bad at home,” Alex says in Asher’s defense. They can’t let the boy go home if he didn’t want to.

 “How do you know this?” The officer asks, his eyes trained on Alex.

 “He told me, I’m sure you guys are going to be taking him back against his will now, hm?” Alex asks shoulders slouching in dejection.

 “Kid, do you think this is a joke?” The officer asks, tone sharp. “The body was found North of here, a few miles into the woods. The kid had been dead for months, what could he have possibly told you?” The officer eyes Alex with disgust. “This ain’t a game, young man.”

 Alex stills for a moment, confusion evident on his face as he processes the words. “Wait, dead?” Alex asks quietly. He laughs, “That’s funny, I saw him last week.”

 The officer rolls his eyes before he sends a warning glance. “Stop with the jokes and go inside. You don’t know how to control your mouth boy. This boy’s family will be here soon, and they won’t want to hear your silly jokes.” With that the officer gives Alex his back and mutters something into his static-y walkie-talkie.

 Alex stands there, confused as ever. There was no way.