#one of these days I sill stop being so horrendously busy

[star-bear-art]

happy holidays, queers. extras below

[pettyprocrastination]

Rip Out Our Seams and Stitch Us Together

Maxwell Lord x Valerie Lord x Black!Reader

Chapter Two

Word Count: 2.7k

Warnings: Profanity, slight sexual themes, description of the beginning of an anxiety attack, Max puts his hands on you for a hot second but then you rip him a new one lmao. 

Chapter Summary: The Lord’s have a discussion while Max work’s from home and you meet the other half of D.C’s richest power-couple that you now work for. 

Tag List: @ithinkhesgaybutwesavedmufasa​ @captainsamwlsn​ @zeldasayer​ @readsalot73​

Chapters: 1/2

The Lord manor was silent, as it always was. Even when Max and Valerie were home, it was still lifeless. 

Her heels clicked against the marble floor as she walked into her bedroom, which was larger than most living rooms. The steady click-clack echoed throughout  the grandiose household and bounced right back to the source. Nothing else was heard; no laughter, no pitter-patter by the feet of excited pets or even children to see mommy come home. Not even the eagerly awaiting footsteps of her husband to welcome her back, take her bags, and ask her how her day went. 

Maxwell was never the type for such idiosyncrasies, and never would be. 

Cold, empty, fake.

A dollhouse meant for Barbie and Ken was more authentic. 

I guess that made them no more real than the toys themselves.

Well, that is if Barbie and Ken secretly hated each other and slept with other people on the side all throughout their relationship. Valerie didn’t know much about dolls. 

She set the plastic bag onto her bed and began unbuttoning her blouse, letting it fall off her shoulders and onto the ground before shimmying out of her jeans. 

Valerie Lord wearing something that isn’t designer? She picked up the sundress that had first caught her eye, pressing it to her chest and marveling at just how soft it felt. That’ll be the fucking day. 

She slid it on with ease, she couldn’t say that for half of her wardrobe. 

Dresses were made to hug her figure and accentuate her curves. Constricting, suffocating, so tight she could barely breathe and the flashing of cameras so bright, nothing was there to ground here, nobody was.  She couldn’t see it all was too-

Soft. Her fingers ran along the fabric, hips swaying slightly as she watched the long skirt flow with her movements. It hugged her chest like it was made just for her, but it didn’t suffocate her - not a choking grip on her lungs, but a gentle hand on her chest. Her hands drifted down to the pockets, where she slid them in and remembered the grin you had on your face when you told her. 

“It’s sort of my signature.” You boasted, chest puffed out like you just won a gold medal. Valerie couldn’t help but notice the shirt you had been wearing, a button up with covered in different colored squares, so tacky and loud she could feel the migraine building just from looking at you. 

She also couldn’t help but notice just how little buttons were actually used to close it. A wide expanse of your chest on display, smooth skin practically on show for her before stopping just above your belly button, the curves of your chest peeking through enough for her to wonder if you slipped, would you be completely exposed?

Valerie shook herself free from the thoughts of the ridiculous seamstress, with her ridiculous tattoos and that ridiculous nickname. ‘Stitches,’ give me fucking break. She scoffed, but then turned around to admire the dress from the back. You do good work though…

The idea was set in her mind, and Valerie Lord was as stubborn as they come. There was no turning back. Won’t be too bad, she reasoned with herself. I could count it as my charity work for the month. 

~

Maxwell sat in his office, nursing a glass of scotch while going over a contract sent over to him late that afternoon. He could’ve easily stayed late at work, it wouldn’t be the first time. Valerie wouldn’t have worried, or cared at all really. She slept in a separate bed, in a separate room on the other side of the house. 

She wasn’t his reason for coming home early. Christ, she wasn’t the reason he did anything. 

The true culprit was his secretary. 

Delilah Harris was a pretty young thing who must've thought that sleeping with the big man would get her a better job, better pay, or maybe a side job as his sugar baby. What she wanted exactly he wasn't too sure about, but if he had to deal with the pathetic woman cuddling up to him at his own company as if they were lovers moonlighting a secret affair? Oh, he was going to lose his shit. 

So he found himself  sitting at the mahogany desk in his office, glasses pushed up on his nose. Finally able to get work done without being distracted by some incompetent bimbo batting her eyes at him.

The door to his office creaked open. He didn’t bother looking up.

Spoke too goddamn soon. 

“I've commissioned a seamstress to make me a dress for the gala in September.” Valerie’s voice was always so matter of fact. So condescending, as if her flimsy shrink degree suddenly meant she was smarter than him, the one who actually made money. 

“I’ll be meeting with her tomorrow.”

“That sounds positively riveting, dear.” Max drawled, turning a page to read more of the agreements. He was only a quarter through the damn thing and he already knew half of these deals weren’t going to be made unless he was six feet fucking under. Somebody was definitely getting fired tomorrow.

“I’ll be a bit tied up at work. You know, since I actually have a job and all. But you go ahead and make sure to tell the sewing mice I said hello, Cinderelly.”

He heard his wife huff and put her foot down, Max didn't have to see her to know she had her arms crossed and a frown on her painted lips. Like she always did when she didn’t get her way, a petulant child with an endless temper tantrum. 

“She’ll be making a suit for you as well, darling.”

The glasses slipped down his nose as his head shot up. “Excuse me? If you didn’t notice I’m a little busy running-” He stopped in his rant to take in the flowing white dress she wore that came all the way down to her shins. “Well that’s a bit too ‘Little House on the Prairie’, don’t you think?”

She uncrossed her arms, hands coming down to the skirt to bunch it around in her fists and swish it side to side. “Well I like it, and I’ll be damned if I don’t do something just because you don’t like it.”

Max snorted and set his glasses on the table. “Well that much is true, given how much you know I loathe that laughable model, yet you still keep him around.” He feigned thought and looked off in the corner. “What’s his name? Randy?”

“Robert.” She corrected. “And how’s the secretary, still drooling at your feet like the little lap dog she is?”

“At least she gets on my lap.” His eyes roamed her figure in the dress with a hunger she hadn’t seen in God knows how long. “What are you wearing under that?”

Valerie grinned, her hands slowly slid up her legs, dragging the dress along with them. “Well wouldn’t you like to know?”

Her husband sighed, head falling into his hand but never letting his eyes leave her form. “You know I hate games Valerie.” His tone was even as he spoke but she could see the tension in his shoulders like a steel wire ready to snap.

“Well that’s not true at all.” The dress passed her knees and slid up the silky skin of her thighs. “I know for a fact that you love games.”

Her hands released the skirt, letting it fall back around her legs.

“But only when you win.” She turned on her heel, fabric swishing around her as she did. “Wednesday afternoon, Maxwell, don’t be late!” Valerie slammed his office door shut behind her, leaving her husband alone once more.

Maxwell sighed, long and loud, before he pushed his glasses upright on his face and returned his attention to the stack of papers in front of him. For the rest of the night he did all he could to push away the phantom image in his mind of his wife’s supple thighs gripped in his hands. 

~~

Max looked to the building his driver parked outside of with great disdain.

“Check again.”

The driver, Daniel, sighed and looked through the mirror to meet his employer’s eyes. “I have sir, three times already. This is the address that Mrs.Lord gave to me.”

The shop was tiny, the name “A Stitch In Time.” on a sign above the door. A series of little figurines, mugs, and warrior knic-knacks lined the multiple window sills. It was quaint, homey, and the type of place many feel like a friend rather than a customer. 

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”

Max stomped out of the car, shutting the door with so much vigor it shook slightly. 

“Wait here for me.”

“Of course sir.”

His first step onto the asphalt, was directly into a puddle of muddy water that splashed back against the end of his trousers. Even through the window he could hear Daniel cough to hide his laughter. 

Max peered through the windows, looking for a sight of anybody within the store before grabbing the door using only two fingers and walking inside. 

A small bell jingled against the door as his entrance, and a voice called out from the back of the store.

“I’ll be out in one moment!” A woman shouted, Max took the chance to look at the racks of clothing around him, picking up one particularly horrendous skirt with the tips of his pointer and forefinger with a frown. 

This was the place that Val chose? Maybe he should sign her up for rehab, because she’s got to be smoking something to think-

“Welcome to a Stitch in- oh shit.”

Max turned his head to see you standing at the back door, mouth slightly agape. He took in your cheap jeans, your gold chain resting against your chest, a large expanse of skin left sinful on display due to the especially gaudy shirt you wore only being buttoned by the button three. Untamed curls framed your face like a halo as you stand shocked by the man before you.

“Son of a bitch.” You mumbled, your eyes raked over his blonde hair all the way to his designer shoes. “That lady was actually for real.”

“That Lady, being my wife I presume?” 

Max's voice, though annoyed, was rich and smooth and shook you out of your stupor.

“That she is. She came in on Monday and briefly spoke about..a commission?”

“Yes.” He continued to walk around the store, looking at everything with a sour face, even you. “Why she did I’m not so sure.”

“Excuse me?”

Five minutes in and Max Lord was already proving to be worse than his wife.

“Is this place up to health code?”

“Excuse me?”

Five minutes in and it was confirmed that Max lord was definitely worse than his wife.

He waved a dismissive hand in the air before he stopped browsing judging your store. 

“But what baby wants, baby gets.” He drew a hand to his heart in what could only be described as a sarcastic display of fake love.“Happy wife happy life and all that bullshit, right?”

You knew from the get-go that Maxwell Lord the Fourth was a load of shit. The moment you saw his dazzling smile in his commercials you knew that in real life he was probably like every other rich person in the world. Entitled, classist, and so judgmental they’d reject a glass of water in the Sahara if they knew it was tap.

You weren’t sure if it was satisfying or disheartening to know you were right. 

Nonetheless, a job is a job and you’d having to be fucking insane to reject a giant payout like the Lord’s would no doubt offer. 

But that didn’t mean you had to be happy about it.

“Timeline?”

Max blinked. Usually people who thank him for the oh so amazing chance to work for him, but you stood your ground. He tilted his head to the side, looking at you with  a new inkling of respect. 

“Four months.”

“Event?”

“The museum of Natural History is throwing a gala for it’s donors.” He adjusted his cuffs as he spoke to you, only looking at you in brief glances which pissed you off even more. “I’m the top one.”

You scoffed under your breath. “Of course you are.”

“Excuse me?”

“I said how charitable of you.”

The animosity of his glare dissolved into a smirk. “Of course.”

You stuffed your hands into our pockets so he wouldn’t see how tightly they were balled up into fists. 

Think of the money, dumbass. You reminded yourself. Stomach the rich people bullshit for a little bit for a huge payout. You've got this.

“I’ll be able to do it, but it may be a time crunch.” His face fell once more. 

“This is a job, honey.” He spoke slowly and moved his hands with each word as if you didn't understand what he was saying. 

“I expect it to be done to the best of your abilities, whatever pisspoor standard that may be.”

Well, you thought before you marched forward until you were nearly nose to nose with the billionaire. You lasted this long, that’s reward enough. 

“Listen here you glorified trust fund baby, I work hard and I work well. But keep in mind I have a multitude of people coming through that door every damn day that I also do work for. So don’t think that just because you and your trophy wife have matching silver spoons wedged up your-”

Max’s left hand lashed out and clamped over your mouth, his fingers digging into the plush skin of your cheeks. If you weren’t so fucking pissed that this mother fucker had the audacity to put his hand on you like that, you may have taken a moment to marvel at just how soft they felt against your skin. 

You reared back, blood roaring in your ears before you finally found your voice. “You’ve got to be out of your goddamn mind if you think you can put your hands on me like that and not expect me to shove my foot up your-”

While you yelled, Max fished a slip of paper out of the pocket of his coat and handed it to you with a condescending smile. “Will that suffice?”

His manner, so calm and collective while you were about to wring his neck made you pause. 

“Will what suffice?”

He sighed, wiggling the slip in the air. “This.”

You set your hands on your hips and stare at him in defiance. “Oh? What is it? A certificate for being the most pompous-”

“Just take a fucking look and you’ll see!”

While at first his sudden booming voice caused you to jump. You couldn’t help it, but your chest swelled with pride at seeing the great Maxwell Lord lose his temper at you. To know that you could get under the skin of the most powerful man in D.C. was almost enough payment in itself. Keyword being almost.

You snatched the paper from his hands, anger melting into shock when you realized it was, in fact, a written check and-

That’s a lot of zeroes. 

Max picked some imaginary lint off his shoulder before he took in your gobsmacked form with a satisfied smile. “I trust that will be enough to cover the consultation fee?”

Christ on a cracker, this was just for the consultation fee?

Stand your ground, girl. You reminded yourself. Don’t give him power over you. Give this corporate ken doll a piece of your mind.

You cleared your throat as you tucked the check worth more than your car into your backpocket and crossed your arms. With squared shoulders and your head held high you spoke in the most impassive and neutral tone you could collect from yourself. 

“It’ll do.”

Maxwell grinned like he was the cat and you the canary. You wondered what that made his wife. The sadistic pet owner most likely.

“Marvelous.” He all but purred. “Valerie will be in tomorrow to talk design with you. Until we meet again, Stitches.”

With a quick pivot on his heel, your richest client walked out of your store and into the car waiting for him outside. 

You felt a bit of your pride return when you watched him step into the dirty puddle of gutter water for a second time that day.

[littlev1234]

You, Me, Selfishly

Fandom: Fire Emblem Fates

Characters: Leo, Niles (not written as romantic, but you’re free to read it that way)

Warnings: brief talk of assisted suicide, plans for suicide, violence

Words: 2,201

AO3 Version: You, Me, Selfishly 

Note:  So uhhhh this is just self-indulgent AU angst I wrote during breaks at work. Because of that it's pretty messy, but I figured hey, might as well post it in case anyone else is in the mood for feels with King Leo and Niles.

~~~~~~~~~~

“…Niles.”

Niles straightened from where he’d been hunched over King Leo’s desk. All documents, some half-finished or marred with ink blots, lay on one side. Wood oil, Niles’ bow, and a worn quiver covered the rest.

Rising from his seat, he turned to the fever-glazed eyes watching him. A sheen of drying sweat coated Leo’s too pale skin, and his cheekbones stood out in sharp relief without any fat left to round his face. But his focus didn’t waver as Niles walked to his bedside; the other’s mind was having a rare break in the fog of illness.

“Drink some water, milord.” He helped the younger man slowly sit up before grabbing the untouched glass on the nightstand.

Leo’s mouth tilted downward in a grimace—he must be feeling nauseous again—but he allowed him to put the cup to his lips. After two minuscule sips he shakily waved it away.

“How close are the Hoshidans?”

“They’re traveling quickly. I hear they will reach the castle by tomorrow.”

Leo pinched the bridge of his nose, as if the action could alleviate what was surely a pounding headache. “…I see.”

“All of our available troops will defend the castle. I have a small force inside as well.” The remnants of the Nohrian army still loyal to the king were under-equipped and malnourished, but he didn’t have to mention that. The blond already knew the horrendous odds better than anyone. Niles had tried to rally anyone he could while the other was bedridden. He’d even scoured the underground for criminals he could bend to his will.

“I want to move you to one of the hidden rooms before I set the traps,” Niles added.

Leo nodded, yet his fingers weakly twisted in the blankets. The retainer couldn’t blame him. Leo was a king with a dying kingdom, a sick patient worsening by the day, and a boy who missed his family. His desperate grasp on his suffocated pride had to slip even further to agree to hiding.

“You must swear to me,” Leo suddenly said.

“Swear what?”

He attempted to take a deep breath, which ended in a wet cough instead. “…you will not let them capture me.”

“Of course—”

“I would rather die by your hand than face their wrath alone.” His gaze shifted away, and his strained voice further quieted. “Regardless of how much I deserve it.”

Eye wide, Niles opened his mouth to protest. His liege’s death could not be decided so easily. Leo was young and smart and powerful, still was, he just needed time to recover—

“I refuse to be the last one. Please. Let me keep being selfish.” Leo slumped against the pillows, and he’d grown paler with the effort of speaking so long.

A harsh breeze blew outside and caused the old window sill to creak. After it stopped, the king’s labored breathing was the only noise to keep silence at bay. Beyond the bedroom door nothing could be heard—no siblings walking the halls, nor servants fulfilling duties.

Calloused fingers picked up a thin hand. Niles dropped to one knee.

“I won’t leave you on your own.” He gently pressed Leo’s knuckles to his own chest, over his heart. “You have my word.”

---

There was a tickle in the back of Niles’ throat.

He swallowed hard against it and set the last trap.

He then glanced back at Leo, who slept through his latest fever spike. A damp rag lay on his forehead, and his breaths sounded shallow and fitful. However, the fact that he was breathing at all was enough to fuel Niles’ determination.

As the archer stretched his limbs, he ignored the heaviness draped over his body like a blanket. He should have guessed all the stress, lack of sleep and food, and being around Leo nearly 24/7 would slam his immune system. With the Hoshidans arriving any minute, at least he wouldn’t have to worry about the illness hitting him full force yet.

Muffled through the thick stone walls, the sounds of blades clashing and shouts of challenge arose.

Leo didn’t stir. Hopefully he would stay unconscious through whatever happened next. Niles pulled the curtain around the bed closed.

All too soon, the floor shook as what must be an army burst through the massive grand entrance doors. Niles readied his bow.

Crashes in the bedrooms. Brief quiet, like they were confused to find their target wasn’t there. Then spread out footsteps and rattles of armor as they started to search.

Then, what he’d been waiting for: cords snapping as traps launched arrows, knives, and mini bombs.

Niles knocked an arrow.

He released it the moment the door swung open. It embedded into someone’s shoulder, and in one smooth motion he loosed another one.

The glint of shruiken made him pause long enough to doge the projectile flying at him. That was all it took for a female ninja to be upon him and force him on the defense. He blocked one, two, three blows—

“Kagero!”

She jumped away, and he was greeted by a fireball. With Hoshidans crowding the front of the room and his unwillingness to draw attacks too close to Leo, he couldn’t effectively avoid it. Flames struck his left arm, burned through clothing, and seared skin. The damage extended from shoulder to elbow, and he knew trying to fire arrows with this injury would take too long. Grunting at the pain, he dropped his bow and pulled a dagger from his belt.

“Halt,” a commanding, deep voice called out.

Niles paused, if only for the sake of putting off his and Leo’s inevitable fate. A large man in red armor stepped forward.

“I am Ryoma, King of Hoshido,” he introduced. “There is no need to keep fighting. You’ve already lost. Surrender and we will be merciful to you both.”

Between panting breaths, Niles gave a wild grin. “Yeah, I know the outcome. But I can still take you down with us.” Suddenly he had taken exactly three steps back to loop his finger around a previously hidden string behind Leo’s desk. It was connected to a volley of makeshift bombs, far more than he’d put in the halls, and it would easily destroy anything in the room.

Ryoma stiffened, and the soldiers around him snapped into fighting stances. Several showed wariness and sported gashes or burns from previous traps.

The sound of a curtain’s swish had Niles throwing his dagger without a single thought. It lodged into the wall and left a deep slice in Kagero’s shoulder. She released the curtain to press a hand to the injury, what was done had been done. Leo had been revealed.

A gust of surprise flew through the thick, tense atmosphere in the room. All eyes witnessed the King of Nohr’s gaunt face and raspy breathing.

A soft gasp came from a redheaded healer—the youngest princess, Sakura, if Niles remembered right. Hands covering her mouth, she had leaned around Ryoma to see better, and palpable pity shone on her face.

“When did he become this ill…?” Ryoma muttered.

Niles clicked his tongue. The noise startled the enemies out of their surprise, and attention returned to him.

It was inevitable they’d discover Leo’s condition. However, it still felt like Niles had lost any pretense of advantage he’d clung to.

“Ask an artist to take a picture. It’ll last longer.” His icy tone belied his words. Blood pounded in his ears. “But I’d much rather you keep those intense looks on me.”

Composure returned, Ryoma spoke once more. “Your king is in no condition for this to be dragged out. The sooner you surrender, the sooner we can take him to our doctors.”

An empty chuckle erupted from the retainer’s throat. It started low, grew into a disbelieving cackle, and then dissolved into damning coughs.

“…you think I’ll believe it’s that easy? That if I give up, you won’t kill me and show off my liege like a trophy?”

“There has been enough bloodshed,” the Hoshidan king insisted. If Niles didn’t know any better, he would have thought the wrinkles on the other’s face deepened with a war-weariness. “We won’t kill you if you come peacefully—”

“Torture, then.” His single eye met the other’s gaze. “I must warn you, I am a tough one to break.”

Several of his opponents looked startled by the accusation, and Ryoma quickly shook his head. “No. We do not torture our prisoners. Your safety, as well as King Leo’s, is assured.”

Niles scoffed.

The little princess, shoulders hunched but determination steadying her legs, took a small step forward. “P-Please. He’s not going to last much longer. Wh-What use would making us k-kill you be?”

“I won’t let it be by your hands,” he murmured.

Her mouth gaped, and, damn, he hadn’t meant to let that slip. Too late now.

Ryoma made to speak again, but Sakura abruptly continued. “I understand! W-Well, not exactly, but I know you care so much about him. Like how Hana and Tsubaki would do anything for me, y-you’re trying to fulfill the king’s wishes as much as possible.” She straightened and, despite the tears threatening to spill down her cheeks, her chin was raised high. “I beg you. Neither of you will be harmed, and we will do everything we can to save him. You may stay by his side no matter where he goes and have the right to choose who interacts with him until he is well. I give you my word as princess of Hoshido.”

The people around her appeared stunned. Niles hardly noticed; his mind was too busy twisting around the idea.

She seemed honest, but that meant nothing. Or Ryoma could override her decision. It was highly likely that such a deal would last only until Niles had no more strength to resist. Naturally it was also possible that this was all a ruse to lower his guard.

…but there was that tiny, tiny chance surrendering could save Leo’s life.

If Leo were awake, he knew the blond would refuse. The potential humiliation of being a war prisoner and prize may be more than the younger’s battered psyche could bear. There was also his request, which rang incessantly in his ears. It could be impossible to avoid separation since they’d be at the mercy of the enemy’s whims.

That left Niles with a dilemma: should his loyalty go toward Leo’s survival, or Leo’s will?

His fingers released the string.

I’m sorry, milord. I’m a selfish man too.

She sighed in relief, and Ryoma nodded in acknowledgement of his decision.

“We appreciate your choice.” The corner of Ryoma’s mouth tugged upward in a tired almost-smile. “We can finally end this war.”

“I stopped caring about the war a long time ago.” Half-turning away, Niles walked to the bedside. His muscles stayed bunched, waiting for a sword between his shoulder blades that never came.

“I have to move you,” he apologetically murmured. He slid one hand under his knees and the other under his back. Pain flared along the charred part of his arm, and it took every ounce of willpower not to flinch back.

A footsteps. “One of us can—”

Niles didn’t turn around. “Touch him and you will know the wrath of a hundred hells.”

That warning, oozing dark promise, was enough to stop whoever it was. He didn’t care to know who.

He lifted Leo up. His arm screamed as the weight pulled at raw skin, but he kept his hold steady. Nothing less than amputation would make him put Leo down right now. Other than a particularly harsh shuddering breath, the Nohrian king didn’t stir.

The retainer turned and started toward the waiting soldiers. Each footstep felt heavy, and he suspected it wasn’t just from physical exertion. When he neared the doorway, several Hoshidans moved to surround him. The damp rag upon Leo’s forehead slipped and landed on the floor. Not that it mattered; it had long since lost its coolness. However, he noticed Sakura start to reach for it, and something not completely unpleasant twisted in his chest.

“He needs a new one anyway,” he said, and she straightened with a jerky nod.

They broke away to allow him through the narrow doorway, and once through they circled him again. His instincts despised being trapped regardless of the foot-wide berth they left him. Ryoma was talking, as well as a couple others. He ignored the conversation in favor of swallowing down oncoming coughs.

Everything moved quickly after that. Soon they were outside, Ryoma announced Hoshido’s victory, and jubilant shouts roared. The few remaining Nohrians either fled or found themselves captured. Niles peered through the slivers where the people of his entourage weren’t quite shoulder-to-shoulder. They were preventing others from receiving a full view of himself and Leo, for now. It must be obvious to everyone who was being hidden, though.

Niles raised his gaze to gray clouds. The familiar sight offered him an anchor amid the overwhelming bustle around him. Cold winds snuck through his entourage to chill his face and hands.

“Maybe a little sunlight will do us both good, eh, milord?” he whispered to the too-warm boy in his arms.

[alexdunkin]

First Draft Series: Unto Him

The tractor engine cuts out. Travis sighs at the silence humming across the yard, the lingering mechanical buzz still echoing in his head. Travis lowers his aching legs down from the tractor and strolls across to the house. Greasy sweat clings to his shirt and seep into the rim of his hat. The remnants of daylight sear out through the gaps of the tree line that guards the driveway. Deep satisfaction fills Travis’ swollen knees. The wheat growing in the top paddock is rising in promising rows. The bullying drought of the previous years once again fail its attempt to kick Travis off his land.

Sticky odour rises out of Travis’ shirt. He undoes the row of buttons to air the singlet underneath. Across the gravel road he spots Justin lingering on the top step of the veranda. Travis smiles. Justin’s neat shirt and jeans press tightly against his strong chest. The tidy house frames Justin as a beckon of order amongst the dust drifting up around the farm.

Travis’ smile quickly fades. A dark shadow casts across Justin’s face. Worry creases across Justin’s brow. Justin shifts his weight between his feet. The boards creak under the persistent movement.

“What is it?” Travis asks. He steps up Justin’s eye level. Moisture fills Justin’s sight. Travis holds Justin’s shoulders and presses a soft kiss on his lips.

“It’s—um, it’s your dad,” Justin mumbles. “He’s here. He says he’s staying for a while.”

Travis’ sweat freezes across his body. His feet twitch. The hair on his neck shivers erect.

“Damn it. What does he want?” Travis says.

“I don’t know. He didn’t say much. He’s been in the kitchen drinking tea and reading.”

“I’m sorry you had to deal with him. If I knew he was here I would have been in much early.”

“It’s fine. Just can you do something about him now?”

Travis nods and removes his boots before stepping inside. The blast of sickly frangipani spray smacks Travis when he enters the house. The usual pleasantness of the aroma evaporates around him. A familiar shadow hunches over at the end the hallway. The silhouette of Travis’ father crouches over, a thick book in one hand, a steaming cup in the other. He leans against the window sill to balance his bulky frame.

“Dad,” Travis croaks. His father snaps his head up. “Dad, what are you doing here?”

“Well hello Travis,” his father responds confidently. He steps out of his own shadow. Slick grey hair creates a helmet on his head. He tucks his dangling crucifix under his woollen vest. “That wasn’t the sort of welcome I was expecting. It’s been years.”

Travis freezes on the spot. His father limps over and stretches his arms around Travis for a matey embrace. Travis swallows down his urge to run. His blood flees into his body and away from the touch of the old man.

“It has been a while,” Travis says. “Justin has been taking care of you?”

“Dean helped himself to everything,” Justin mutters before ducking across to the oven to work on dinner.

“I assumed I would be less of a hassle if I just whipped up my own tea. I didn’t want to put you guys out.” Dean’s smile reveals the crumbling remains of his false teeth. His cheeks fold upwards toward the thick cord of his hearing aids, and emphases the span of his enormous ears.

“Justin told me you thought you were staying?”

“Yes, just for a while. I thought it would be good to see my family again,” Dean nods.

“Right, well. We’ll deal with this over dinner. I need to shower and get out of these clothes.”

“Good idea,” Dean says. “I didn’t want to be the one to tell you but the stench you brought into the house is horrendous.”

Dean turns back to the window and opens his book. Justin shakes his head across the room to Travis. Travis shrugs and creeps down the hall to the bathroom.

The hot water from the shower fails to warm Travis’ skin. He rushes through the task of cleaning and returns to the kitchen in fresh clothes to find Dean sitting at the head of the table, eyes closed and lips moving. Justin glares coldly from the other end. Three plates of steak and vegetables sit cooling on the table. Travis hugs into himself. His arms compress his ribs.

“Thank you darling,” Travis kisses Justin on the cheek. The heat in Justin’s skin leaves a tingling burn on Travis’ lips. “It looks amazing. I’m starving. I spent most the day up the top. A couple sheep got out and a bit frisky in some of the crops. No real damage though. I think they mostly got into the weeds around the edges.”

Travis and Justin take their seats. They lift their cutlery ready to pierce their food.

“Just a moment,” Dean interrupts their temporary silence. “We need to finish saying grace before we eat.”

Justin visibly shivers. The vibrations of his discomfort shake across the table.

“You can say grace,” Travis says with a gulp. “But we don’t. We will begin eating straight away.”

Dean purses his lips. A sly grin eases out the corner of Justin’s mouth. Justin slices noisily through his meat. The grating of the knife against the ceramic pulsates through the air.

“We thank our Lord for this bounty we are about to share,” Dean pontificates. Justin chews through the steak. Drips of salty juice squeeze out through his teeth. Travis’ eyes widen and glare down at Justin. Justin shrugs and continues eating with his mouth open for the others to see the sauce laden food churn inside. “We thank you for letting us be together today after all this time. We pray that you bless this food we are about to eat. I ask that you bless my son Travis who has abandoned me for so long to pursue his sinful ways—“

“Right,” Justin snaps. “I can barely tolerate you being in this house but if you’re going to bring that hateful shit into my home I’ll have to kick you out.”

“Justin,” Travis hisses.

“What?” Justin fires back. He points the tip of his knife at Dean. “I don’t care if he’s your dad. That crap is not on.”

“Forgive them,” Dean continues. “They have lost their path. They no longer respect the father. Bless us with your all your glory. Amen.”

Dean unclasps his hands and picks up his cutlery. His rickety fingers grip intently on his knife and fork. His bottom lips spasms with each delicate slice across the steak’s fat. Justin stares down at Dean. The struggling speed in Dean’s movements draws Justin to almost a complete stop. He watches Dean’s shakes rip the last remaining fibres holding the steak to its whole. The fork and pitiful cut meat aim for Dean’s white-crusted lips. Justin bites into top lip. Pain dulls the irritation brewing inside him.

“So, Travis,” Dean says, his jaw clicking with each chomp. “How have you been? How’s the farm going? A few stray sheep about I recall you saying earlier.”

“Things are fine. It was nothing. Easy to take care of,” Travis answers drily.

“No big news? I haven’t seen you since your mother’s funeral. I’m sure something has happened.”

“Yes dad. A lot has happened.” Travis sighs. A sudden exhaustion drags the remaining energy out of Travis. “Why are you here dad?”

“What do you mean? I came here to see my son. Can’t a father do that?”

“You never talk to me unless you want something. What is it?”

“I want to stay for a little while,” Dean confesses. “I don’t have anywhere else to go, not since…”

“Not since what dad? Since your diagnosis?” Travis shakes his head.

“You’ve been talking to your sister,” Dean lowers his eyes. Tears well and haze over his vision.

“Of course I have dad. We all still talk to each other. Just because you hate the fact that I’m gay and married Justin and avoid me doesn’t mean that anyone else does.” Justin’s heart sinks. The gloat he had been fuelling disappears. “I know it’s terminal. I know you don’t want to stay in a nursing home but that’s what you will have to do. You can’t stay here.”

“You’re kicking me out already,” Dean spits. He shovels a loose fork of peas into his mouth. The tears dry against his eye lashes. “I’ve only just arrived and you’re shoving me off to that nursing home to rot, just like everyone else.”

Travis shakes his head. The crumbling mess of a man in front of him shrinks into unrecognisability.

“Dad, you can’t stay here. We live too far out of town and we’re too busy to care for you. The farm, the livestock, it’s a lot to deal with already. We aren’t nurses. What happens if you fall again, but here? We aren’t around the house for sometimes twelve to sixteen hours. What will happen to you?”

“I knew I wouldn’t be welcome here,” Dean drops his fork onto his plate. His hand plays against the fabric of his vest. A stray finger outlines the cross hiding behind the material.

“Look, dad, despite everything, you are still my father. I’m your son. We can’t change who we are. Just like you can’t change the fact that you’re sick. Not even God can fix that. Wouldn’t you be better in a place with all your friends and where professional staff can take care of you.”

“I don’t need anyone to take care of me.”

“Yes you do,” Justin cuts in. Travis leans back in his seat resigned. “We don’t have anything here you need. We don’t keep the medicine that will keep you comfortable.”

“Listen you little faggot, this is a conversation between a father and son, you stay out if it,” Dean curses.

Justin and Travis shoot to their feet. The chairs scrape across the floorboards.

“Justin, leave it,” Travis holds his hands up. “I’ll take care of it.”

“You better,” Justin mumbles. “I’m going to bed. When I get up tomorrow he can’t be here.” Travis nods.

“Dad,” Travis breathes deeply. “You can’t say those sorts of things anymore. I’m used to them from you but they hurt other people.”

“What does the little poof care? He’s corrupted you.” Dean hunches over his plate, continuing to push food into his mouth.

“Dad. That’s enough. You can stay the night but in the morning I’ll drive you back into town.”

“Fine,” Dean grumbles. He dabs his lips with the back of his hands. “If we’re done here I’m going to wash my face, say my prayers and go to bed. Goodnight.”

Dean lurches from the room. A single floorboard whispers under the weight of Dean’s steps. His socked feet shuffle quietly into the darkness of the guest room.

Travis exhales heavily. The muscles in his neck pull at the back of his skull. A dull ache creeps across his forehead.

Justin is sitting in bed with his arms crossed when Travis enters the room. His bedside light flickers brightly behind a makeshift shade.

“Well, is he going?” Justin asks.

Travis slides out of his pants and shirt. The stale air in the room latches onto his exposed skin. The tension in his back releases as he drops himself onto the bed.

“Yeah, I’ll drive him into town tomorrow before breakfast,” Travis shuts his eyes.

“Thank you,” Justin sneaks a heavy kiss onto Travis. Their stubble scratches heavily against each other’s lips. “I don’t know how you dealt with all that growing up.”

“It wasn’t too bad,” Travis says. “I was closeted for most of it so safe from his real torment. I just had to keep going to church when he wanted.”

“It wasn’t too bad?” Justin laughs. “I’m surprised you came out alive. It’s some thick skin you’ve got.”

“Can we talk about it another time? I’m wrecked. I really need some sleep.”

Justin smiles, presses another kiss against Travis’ cheek and switches the light off.

A heavy bump in the bed belts Travis out of his deep sleep. His eyes strain against to see through the gloom. His muscles jerk and relax as he tries to rouse further. A second thud and a sickening crunch next to him jolts his nerves. Travis grabs through the dark for a cord. He finds the knob and switches his light on. The blast of the globe blinds the room and tears stream out of Travis’ eyes in rejection of the sudden brightness.

“Justin, what’s going on?” Travis struggles through the blaring light.

Travis blinks his vision clear. Justin lies next to him, his arm twitching. A red indentation is punched into Justin’s skull. Small trickles of blood weep out of the broken skin.

“Justin!” Travis cries.

Travis extends a shaking hand. Heat rises off Justin’s body. Travis’ skin turns cold. The bed trembles with his last spasms. Travis snaps his head around the room. Dean stands pressed against the curtains on Justin’s side of the bed. Dean’s neck stands directly upwards, his hunch no more than a memory. A hefty stone hangs from his right hand, anchoring him to the spot. Dean’s left hand clutches onto the his rosary beads. A small wooden cross hangs from his hand.

“What did you do?” Travis yells.

“I have freed him from his sins. I’ve done God’s work,” Dean mutters, his eyes staring over Travis’ head.

“You’ve killed him! You monster!” Travis clenches onto Justin’s arm pleading fruitlessly.

“God is great, God is pure. Anything done in his glory cannot be sin. God is great.”

Dean steps around the bed. His eyes glaze over. His movements ease through the room in steady precision.

“My son has failed me. He has fallen to the darkness,” Dean prays. “Please accept my son as offering for the sins committed by others—“

“What the fuck are you talking about?! You killed Justin,” Travis bellows.

“Jesus died for our sins. God sacrificed his son to save us all.”

Dean hoists the stone above his head. Travis gapes up at the rock swaying an arm’s length away. He kicks the sheets off his legs. He jumps out of bed and shoves Dean with the strength his rage can muster. Dean crashes across the room and onto the floor. The stone tumbles from his hand to the floor.

Travis’ fingers register the smooth chill of the rock. His arm lashes out, crushing the stone against his father. The trickling heat of moisture splatters across his seething façade. Burbles of prayers seep out of Dean’s lips. The rock pounds harder against Dean’s skull. The crackling of bone gives way to the bashing echo of the floorboards.

Travis’ arm aches. His breaths choke in his throat. The rosary falls out of Dean’s hand. Travis stands, the room silent of human noise, the slow drips of flesh and blood release from the new point of the stone, echoing each smack on the wooden floor out to the lifelessness in the hallway.