#something that wasn’t likely considering that I live on a farm miles out of town

[always-a-slut-4-ghouls]

There are really people out there who have never been around some asshole straight guy who talked about killing cats that weren’t yours or threatened to kill your own. Like, seriously? You’ve never had to fight to keep your ass from trying to fight a guy over that, IN PERSON?!

[boolger]

READ ME A VERSE - COD

☆Kate Laswell x afab!Reader - explicit - MDNI - 11k words ☆AU to a certain degree. Reader and Kate are in a fictional radical christian group who is pretty secluded in a little town. Inspired by the song Verse by Emily Jeffri, which i have been obsessed with for a while, but in particular this part;

“Last time I saw her, we were in church I said my love to her and somebody heard We haven't locked eyes since or said a word.” Verse, by Emily Jeffri

☆tags: radical religion, homophobia, religious homophobia, internalized homophobia, sexism, abuse, violence, isolation, mention of miscarriage, dub-con, non-con sex, non-con kissing, victim blaming, bad parents, mention of death, afab!reader, forced marriage, masturbation, fingering, oral sex. Happy ending.

☆Summary: You had been considered ‘sick’ for years, sent away from your hometown and family to get better, isolated and forced to repent. But years later, when you are ‘healed’ and granted permission to return, there is a woman in church that you don’t know. You want to be a good Christian woman, even if you don’t want to marry Phillips Graves, but this Kate haunts your mind. No prayers can stop your thoughts, the verses are not able to stop how the two of you  constantly feel pulled towards each other, lured by your sinful thoughts and the lust for actual love.

You grew up here, in between good Christian women and men, with sin seeping into your bones, only hidden by your fragile flesh and skin. Organs rotten with wicked thoughts, every day of sickness a punishment for your refusal to repent, you were sure.

That was the way you had lived your entire life, knowing something was wrong with you - but every waking hour, you couldn’t help but wonder, if this sin, this evil, the crime, was merely that in their eyes. In the community’s eyes.

Once, when you were younger, 19 and naive, you had told your best friend, thinking she could keep the secret, thinking she might understand that it wasn’t something that should be said out loud. Yet, barely 24 hours passed and then your parents knew, pulling you to the church, to the elders of your village, the leaders of the church making you admit out loud to your immorality, to the sinful demons of lust that had taken over your body.

Women aren’t supposed to fall in love with other women, they said, you’re not supposed to lust after another woman - your lust is only for your future husband.

Your mother cried, sobs echoing through the empty church, no doubt with people around it, listening in to the judgment of the crime that had never manifested anywhere but your body.

Your father’s face was like stone, but the disappointment dripped from him wordlessly, at his refusal to even look at you.

It can be cured, they said, their wrinkled faces spitting out your sentence, praying, bible reading, hard work - and sending her away. Only when she is changed, when she truly repents, can she be loved by our Lord again.

With such simple words, your fate had been sealed for the upcoming years, pulling you from your well-known home, from your family and the town you had never truly left for longer than a couple of hours. To a farm, miles and miles away. You had been there once, several years ago with your family, vague memories of petting some cows and collecting eggs.

Instead you watched the car drive away after an hour or so, leaving you behind in the middle of nowhere, your trusty flip-phone taken from you as well.

At the farm, two couples lived, a younger and an older pair. The only good thing about your years at the place was that you couldn’t be married off when considered “sick”. You prayed that God would never forgive you, when you saw how the couples treated each other. A couple of farmhands appeared now and again, that you weren’t allowed to speak to but other than that, you didn’t speak to anyone but the couples.

You lived in a small room, bare walls except the cross next to your bed and the painting of Jesus next  to the door - caught in between a painting of a man you were constantly forced to read about and a crucifix that would remind you of the punishments if you didn’t change.

Simple food, simple clothes, work hard, routines and prayers several times a day. The men would read out verses in the evenings sometimes, as you all sat around them. You weren’t allowed to watch anything but specific christians movies every saturday. After watching each one twice, you stopped asking for it.

A year passed before you saw your parents again. Once again your mother was crying, but she seemed happier now, talking about how you had grown, how you looked healthier. You showed her and the upper church members who had tagged along around the farm, doing your best to seem better. Sinfre. Never mentioning anything bad. They went into the kitchen to talk, while you were sent to feed the chicken and collect eggs, denied access to your second judgment.

Another year, they said, another year would do her well, just to make sure she is truly well again.

Your mother kissed your forehead, telling you to read your verses, your father saying he would pray for you. They all would, they comforted you, another year and you could join them in the car, go home with them.

That night you ran, crawling through the window, abandoning Jesus and his crucifix, no plan in mind other than to get away. Another year wouldn’t cure you, one year hadn’t even done much. You understood it was wrong, sure, but you couldn’t stop it. You refused to be on the farm till you turned 21. 

The town wouldn’t offer you any sanctuary, you knew, so you ran the opposite way, into the unknown darkness.

They found you the next day, walking along the road towards another town, hoping someone would pick you up and help you. You screamed, fighting all you could, scratched and kicked as they pulled you back into the car - returning you to the farm. They belted the soles of your feet until they bled and left you in your cleared room, with nothing but a bible.

You knew then, that it would probably be more than a year before you would return home. After that night, the door to your room was locked every night, bars put in front of the window, keeping you from crawling out through it again.

Days passed, prayers spilling from your mind, weeks then, verses recited, months - it took almost three years more before the lies spilled as easily from your lips as the prayers did, and the people around you finally dared to believe. The lies about dreaming of a husband, of stepping into the role of a good, christian housewife, of bearing children for your husband, all sin free. You were a good girl now, a woman of God, who prayed every night for a husband and finally, finally they believed you, men of the church and your parents once again returning. 

You felt alienated to them, yet you smiled, saying you were cured now. Said you dreamt of marrying, of having your own house with a husband. Your mother cried tears of joy. Healthy again, you stepped into the car, going back to a town you no longer considered home, after four years of departure. 

“A sheep led back to the fold by the Lord,” your mother whispered to you in the car, holding your hand, but you felt no relief as you returned to the town.

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You had thought you could wait a little longer - thought they wouldn’t bring it up so soon, but you supposed it made sense in a way; they had to prove to the town that you were cured, you had to prove that the homosexuality no longer festered inside your body, but that you had become a pure woman now. A woman, just waiting to be married off.

Usually, women in the town would marry when they turned 21, so to not be married at 23, almost 24? A scandal that had to be avoided, your status had to be changed as soon as possible.

It was the first time back in church, back in the fold, that you saw her.

The most beautiful woman you had ever seen. Dark blond hair neatly pulled back in a low bun, face sharp and eyes blue, arm in arm with Shepherd - despite the modest clothes, you felt a fire run through you, the wounds blooming up inside your rotten organs, crawling along the spine like demons, demons that the priest and elders had promised were banished. The wrong thoughts and feelings to have inside a church - God would judge you, wouldn’t he? 

Let you suffer, just like Christ had, make them pull you back to the farm.  

You hurried to look away, instead looking at the men in church. Asking your mother about some of the men, some new members. You had been gone for almost four years, things had changed, people had passed, babies had been born.

Your old best friend, whom you had whispered your secret to, who had done the right thing according to everyone around you, had married her childhood crush, carrying a small child on her arm - smiling at you as she passed, her stomach having the iconic bump proving another child was on the way.

Most of the people you had grown up with and considered friends were married now, most of them already parents as well. 

You had spent years worshiping in silence, barely surrounded by more than 4 people and now you were surrounded by over 100 followers, singing the hymns of the Lord that was supposed to have freed you from the madness of your lust.

She sang too, you noted, sitting dutifully next to Shepherd who looked like an old man next to her, though you doubted he was that much older. You grabbed your hymnbook harder, fingers hurting with how hard you gripped it, looking down even though you knew every word and tone.

The prayers spilled easily, the verses familiar, the daily cleansing of your soul. 

Your eyes had met, just for a second. It was like your world paused, frozen, just to make sure that you understood that she had looked at you too. Only to immediately look away again, both of you pretending you hadn’t looked. Like a fallen angel, ready to be overcome with the thing that made you unholy at the first point, you let yourself dream of meeting her, properly.

Your appearance at the church, well looking and submissive, dutifully following your parents, knowing your prayers, your worship clear, it all made your parents look good. The priest blessed you as you left, saying it was good to have you back. You thanked him, saying it was good to be back, to be free of demons.

Lies, lies, lies, spilling from your lips, just like the prayers, prayers, prayers. You wanted them to be true, wanted to be free so that you wouldn’t suffer so much. 

But butterflies uncurled from their cocoons as you passed the woman who stood with Sheperd, your parents greeting them politely - you too, smiling as a good girl should, your eyes lingering on her for just a second longer, noting how she was looking at you too; it was your imagination surely, but still. You followed your parents, your sister who had been 15 when you left and who was 19 now, the age at which you had disappeared, babbling away.

“She is Mr. Shepherd's new wife, Kate Laswell,” your sister explained as you sat next to each other in the car, apparently aware of everything going on in the town now - or at least, of the gossip, “An outsider, mind you.”

“Alice,” your mother warned from the front seat, the tone sharp, “She isn’t any longer - and she is Mrs. Shepherd, not Laswell anymore. Besides, her parents are good Christian people too… just not a part of our Church. Yet.”

Your sister just waved her hand at her, as if to say ‘details details, mother’, while she continued, “He met her about three years ago on a trip, she came here while you were sick and they married. Before coming here she had a miscarria–”

“Alice!” Your mother turned around in the seat, sending your sister a sharp look, clearly displeased, just as the car pulled into the little driveway, “It’s improper to talk about such things.”

“Sorry, mom,” Alice said, even as she didn’t look apologetic one bit.

You were still stuck at her words, while you were sick. The memories of running in the night, the endless hours of work, of prayers and verses that were supposed to free you. Of people telling you that you were sick, that demons had possessed you. Four years of being turned into a good, pious woman.

“Mr. Shepherd is a good man,” you said, feeling emotionless but knowing that was what you were supposed to say, if this thing had been told to you while on the farm.

“He is,” your mother confirmed, “He is happier after he met her, too - now come on, we have things to do.”

You knew his first wife had died - pneumonia, they said, quickly and without warning - God always takes the good ones first. The bells had rung, echoing through the houses, into your mind as you remembered how the entire town wore black at the funeral. Had it only been that sickness that had curled in between your ribs and infected your organs, things might have ended differently. 

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The Graves family was respected in your little town, wealthy, the Mr. Graves Senior one of the church leaders.  He had been one those who took a part of your judgment, of sealing your fate for four years, making your parents abandon you in between harsh treatment and farm animals, surrounded by neverending fields of wheat and corn.

Yet, somehow, despite knowing of your sickness first hand, having been a part of the healing, having touched your head and prayed for you, he still came to your parents’ house, with a smile on his lips.

Feeling hostage in your own childhood home, you served him and your father dinner with your mother, leaving your parents to talk with the older man, told off to do the laundry. You only returned once the doorbell rang, opening it…

To one Mr. Graves Jr.

“My my,” he stepped in, pushing the door open as you stepped back out of reflex, his blue eyes instantly on you, shamelessly running over your body, the arrogant smile you remembered from when you were younger, still present on his face “Haven’t you grown.”

“Mr. Graves,” you answered politely, already wanting to request him to leave. To not look at you in such a manner, to not say such words in that tone. 

“Nah, just call me Phillip, darling. You will soon anyway.” His voice was honeyed and he winked at you and before you could ask what he meant, your mother appeared - ushering you away and back to the laundry room, while he was led to the living room.

You tried distracting yourself, humming the familiar hymns as you emptied the washing machine, loading it with dirty clothes, wishing you could enter it too - but no matter what, the words you will soon anyway echoed inside your hollow body.

The Graves family was respected. They were looked up to by many people, one of the few families where the men were allowed to leave now and again. Even having the father of the family over for lunch like this, was a good sign that your family was being respected again, despite the veil of disgrace you had thrown over them.

So really, you should be honored. Not feel nausea in your throat, your heart beating so fast you were sure it would spring out from your ribcage, barely able to breathe. You could barely get the word out. 

“Marriage?” You repeated, watching your mother’s excited face as she nodded, your father proudly smoking behind her, standing in the door frame, clearly pleased too, “With… Mr. Graves’ son?”

“Yes dear – oh Phillip is a kind man, bless his heart,” you didn’t like her tone, “Even with everything that has happened, he still wants to marry you!”

“He is a good man,” Your father added from the door frame, eyes watching you, clearly waiting for a reaction, “Wanted to marry you before you were sick - waited for you.”

Waited for you.

You wanted to scream of horror. Legs trembling, feeling like you went blind for a second. Once, when you were a child and your family had been driving home, a deer had been caught in the lights of the car, gone rigid at the sight. It had managed to escape, just in time, saved from death. You had a feeling you wouldn’t be able to escape your fate, however. 

“I don’t know if I–” you barely knew what apology to spew out, what lies to tell them.

“Don’t worry - I know this is sudden, dear,” you mom said, taking your hands in hers, leaning forward to kiss your forehead, “but God is really looking out for you.”

“It’s a miracle that the Graves family would even consider her,” your father muttered, thrown at you like a stone, but you barely felt the impact, even as your mother hissed his name.

“Oh, I’ll have to call my sister - you will have the grandest wedding, my baby girl.”

That was what you feared. Your mother disappeared again to go call her sister and within hours the entire town would probably know - not even caring what your answer had been to the proposal that hadn’t happened. 

“You’re not going to cause a scene, are you?” Your father stared at you and you wondered for a moment if you would prefer the farm over this. Out there your tears would dry, no woman could seduce your mind, no man would marry you.

“No,” you answered, giving him a smile that barely seemed real, “of course not.”

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You stared at the date, the 8th of July, 2010, with your name printed next to Phillip Graves Jr. - to be wed. They had given you two months, two months to get to know each other, though you knew you wouldn’t get a say, not truly.

The mere fact that Graves Senior hadn’t stopped his son, meant that they all believed you were free of sin. Yet you always felt watched. As if the security cameras scattered around the town would be able to catch the way you were still sick.

“You’re getting married,” a gentle voice said behind you; it wasn’t a question, more of a statement - just like it had been for you. 

You turned, distracted from the bulletin board in front of the Church, only for your eyes to meet those blue ones you kept dreaming of.

“Mr. Shepherd,” you greeted, giving her what you hoped was a polite smile, “I am, yes - in two months.”

She nodded, turning to look at the bulletin board. You dared to think that the smile on her face truly looked a little sad.

“Were you given a choice?” her voice was careful, barely above a whisper. You stared at her, barely able to blink for a couple of seconds as the words sank in.

“His offer of proposal is a blessing,” you felt like it was your mother’s words that escaped you, not your own, “given my time of… sickness… it’s very kind of the Graves family to have even considered me.”

As your eyes met, you recognised the look. Sad, resigned in a way, as if she recognised that it wasn’t your own words, that you were a mere hostage in this situation. You wondered for a brief moment if her situation had been like this. If she too hadn’t had a choice, even though she was older than you. Probably ten years. No more than that. Her lips looked soft, but bitten; probably from nervousness, your mother did that too sometimes. 

“It is not a sickness.”

Five words. She made it sound so simple. You felt your jaw clench, your teeth grind together. Verses ran through your mind, prayers through your blood, the urge to step into the church and repent, for something you hadn’t even said.

“Don’t say shit like that,” you hissed, anger that was forced down your throat for years escaping you, as you looked back at the board, whispering out a “it is.”

“No, it’s not.”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” it was like needles escaped your mouth, forcing words of others, “it’s because you’re from the outside.”

“What if–”

“I must go,” you said, fearing you had stood there on the main street, close to her for too long, “Have a good day.”

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It is not a sickness, it echoed through your mind for several days, it is not a sickness.

Tell on her, a dark part of your mind offered, she is spewing sin. But if you told on her to the elders, then you would have to tell why the subject was even present in your conversation.

What if you would never see her again then? The mere idea of not getting to see her again, made you want to cry, even if you had barely talked.

The world outside our community is godless, they said, disgraceful and evil, with demons and fallen angels roaming among the humans. Leaving us is like surrendering your place in heaven with our Lord.

Yet you yearned. With each ring of the church bell, you wondered if you could find peace outside, even if it meant your eternal damnation. 

No verses had the answers to why you were sick. They had tried to tell you many proved it, yet it was like it never quite fit.

As if God wouldn’t admit to you why he made you this way, even as you submitted to him. 

You wanted Kate despite barely having talked to her, certain in your bones that something connected you. Whatever it was.

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You didn’t have a lot of opinions when it came to planning the wedding - it didn’t feel like yours anyways. You saw her, now and again. Glimpses of her as you looked at flower options with your mother at the little florist of the town. In church, next to her husband, never looking happy.

Your eyes met, but you never talked. Anger bubbled beneath your skin, remembering her saying it wasn’t a sickness.

Because if it wasn’t, truly wasn’t, like she had dared to say and you dared to dream, then you had spent four years in hell for nothing. Then you had endured four years of loneliness, surrounded by ghosts who merely reminded you of the words in the book that was your entire word. Watched every night by the painting of Christ, who said love thy neighbor like thyself , but according to the town that didn’t count if thy neighbor were gay.

It was the scars beneath your feet that ache after a long day, it was the darkness of the room you were abandoned in with your bible. These made you angry, when she dared to come here and say it wasn’t a sickness, that it wasn’t wrong.

Because… it was… wasn’t it?

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Despite your anger, the pleasure continued to grow in your abdomen until it became too much.

Pulling open the string of your pajama pants felt wrong, yet you did it, sliding your hand beneath the fabric, then beneath your underwear too. You were 24, you had touched yourself before but it had been years. The farm had snubbed any urge.

You thought of her hands, wandering over your skin, her soft looking, anxious bitten lips kissing yours. Skin pressed against yours, nails digging into it.

Your cunt was wet as you hesitantly touched yourself, fingers sliding in between the lips, the wetness feeling forbidden and sacred almost. It felt as if your body was on fire, a fire that you thought had been killed years ago, making you press your lips together to keep silent. To not let any sound escape your traitorous mouth that had lied for so long, electricity going through your bones as your fingers brushed your clit.

Whether Kate would touch you there or not, you dared to hope she would. You dared to hope that she would let you touch her, the sinful ideas mixing with the shame, though it only seemed to spur you on.

Toes curled, legs cramping and eyelashes fluttered as you came on two fingers, imagining Kate being next to you. Immoral, just like you.

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“Graves,” The name stumbled from your mouth as you stumbled back a few steps, feeling trapped in the garden, your back almost pressed against the apple tree, the fruits hanging around you, heavy on the branches. Your fingers gripped the basket with the apples so hard that you feared it might splinter beneath them.

“That’s my father, darling,” the older man pointed out, stepping closer, breathing a little heavy as he looked at you, confident smile on his lips as always, “I told you to call me Phillip, didn’t I?”

You let out a little huff, smiling at him the best you could, “yeah, sorry - Philip, then.”

“You look beautiful,” it dripped like honey soaked from his lips and you wondered for a moment, if the honey could be poisoned, if he was the snake in the garden - or if the sickness inside you were, “love your dress.”

He stepped closer, your heart quickening, yet not from excitement. 

“T-thank you,” you managed, face heating up, eyes flickering towards the house, but you didn’t see any sign of your parents being home - had he just wandered into the garden, knowing you were home alone, “I uhm - why are you here, Phillip?” 

He laughed, reaching out to take one of the apples out of your basket, big hand almost swallowing up the fresh fruit.

“What? Can’t I go lookin’ for my wife?” There was a boyish charm to him, you supposed. Most of the women in town would swoon for him and you wondered why he had decided on you.

“We’re not married yet,” you pointed out before you could help yourself, “you really shouldn’t be here, if our parents–”

“What? Think they will be upset about me being here?” he teased, free hand suddenly raising to gently caress your cheek, taking a hold of your chin, leaning closer, grip stopping you from pulling your head back, “I’m a man, darling - not a woman.”

You swallowed.

“Dirty thing,” he crooned, “I’m gonna heal you, yeah? Make you a good an’ proper woman.”

“I-I’m not dirty,” you whispered, barely believing your own words, “I was healed at the farm.” 

He chuckled, dark and low, grinning so you could see his gums and you wondered if he would ruin you, bite from bite, take your life from you, “Not properly cured until you marry a man, hon.”

All you felt when he kissed you were burned saccharine and bitter fear. It was a short kiss but it burned on your lips, spreading nausea through your body like a plague, infecting your blood. He let go of you then, stepped back, winking as he raised the apple, “I’ll see ya’ soon, wifey.” 

As he left the garden of Eden, the crisp sound of his bite of the fruit almost echoing, you couldn’t help but hope there was a worm in the apple.

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You went to church the next day, earlier than you were supposed to, promising to do your chores later. You needed to talk to God, Mary, Christ, whoever would listen, any saint who might help you feel clean again. Homosexual sin tainting your fingers from masturbation and burning impure lips from the unwelcome kiss from your future husband. 

What were you thinking, they would say, you were sure, have you learned nothing? Have you gone mad, sick again from the devils and demons dancing inside your mind and body?

Christ hung on the crucifix in front of you as you sat on the pew, looking up at him. Would he consider you wicked too or had he forgiven you the moment he took upon humanity’s sins?

Would Saint Peter truly turn you away, push you from the loving home of heaven, to the dark, demonic –

“Hi.”

It was barely above a whisper, yet you felt as if it echoed throughout the church, into every crevice, making any statue or painting upon the walls look to the two of you. You turned on reflex, not to her, but to the everpresent church servant. The man was snoring gently, head resting against the cold wall behind him. Unaware of the other’s arrival. 

Finally, your eyes met Kate’s, flowers blooming in the pit of your stomach as she smiled gently at you.

“Hi,” you dared to whisper back, watching her as she sat down next to you at the pew.

Silence grew for a moment and you listened to the vague snoring of the servant, your eyes moving to watch Christ on the cross once again. He hadn’t moved one bit since you last looked at him, eyes still on the ground in front of him.

“I’m sorry I upset you.”

Forgiveness - could you really offer her forgiveness, when deep down in your putrid organs, you knew that she was right? You looked over at her, a careful, worried expression on her face.

“It’s okay,” you answered, voice not as loud, “I - uhm… Was mean too.” A small smile appeared and you found yourself smiling back at her, despite your fear. For another moment you hesitated, unsure whether you should utter the truth at her or not. “I don’t want to marry him.”

The words made you feel small, but you continued, though you looked up at Christ once again, keeping your voice low, “but I don’t have a choice, do I?”

She was quiet for a moment, as if to agree with you silently. It was as Philip Graves had said, wasn’t it? A dirty thing who can only become pure again by marriage with a man.

“You do,” she whispered, “but it’s not an easy one.”

You almost jumped when her hand touched yours, warm and soft against your skin. A choice, an opportunity. You had an inkling that you already knew what she would suggest, a part of you wanting to stop her from doing so.

“Leave,” she whispered, the word sounding so simple, yet it was filled to the brim with danger, immorality… the unknown.

“I can’t,” it escaped like an instinct, “My home is here.”

“Is it a home if you cannot be yourself?” Her hand squeezed yours, “don’t let them convince you to marry, don’t make the same mistake as me. Please.”

The sound of the bells rang throughout the church, calling to the daily prayer. She stood suddenly, hand slipping away from yours, stepping to the pew on the opposite side, eyes turned towards the altar. A groan left the Church servant, who mumbled a little, surprised at the sight of you - but he made no other comment.

Don’t let them convince you to marry, don’t make the same mistake as me.

Was she, as an outsider, forced too? She was older than you, probably around 32 or something, but she had been here three years, while you were at the farm. Shepherd was older than her, probably only a few years, but the everpresent angry look always made him seem older.

The prayers tasted like ash at that Church sentence, not dripping as easily as they used to. You did your best to hide it, listening to the verses, worshiping like you were expected to.

Philip winked at you as he passed you on the way out. Creep.

Your eyes met Kate’s  but you didn’t react and neither did she. It was like playing with fire - you were sure your parents wouldn’t find her company too agreeable. 

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“He is your fiance,” your mother pointed out as you stared at the apples you were cutting up, trying to keep the scowl from your face,“I think a walk together near the lake would be a good idea. So you can get to know each other some more.”

“What if…” you didn’t know how to not express your already growing disdain for your future husband, “What if he wants to do something improper? Like, I don’t know, kiss?”

Your mother laughed, your father huffing from behind the local newspaper.

“Philip is a good man,” your mother said, patting your shoulder as she passed.

“I kissed your mother before marriage,” your father’s comment, calmly but with a hint of mischievousness, made your mother shriek.

“Edward! Don’t tell her that!”

“What? We did.”

The knife in your hand parted the piece of apple into two.

“That’s not proper,” you pointed out, the ever present reminders of what was improper and sinful and what was not that you learnt from the farm, the words you had to repeat, had to know, even in the middle of the night. 

“It’s no sin,” your dad pointed out, “nothing wrong with a kiss or two.”

“Don’t kiss him if you don’t want to, darling girl,” your mother assured you, “besides, Philip would hardly ask you to do something like that.”

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“Kiss me?” Oh how you wished you still had the knife that you used to cut the apples, in the palm of your hand.

“Uhm, we really shouldn’t,” you pointed out, stepping back as he stepped forward, trying to keep some distance in between the two of you.

“C’mon baby, don’t be like that,” his hand shot out, grabbing your wrist. You tried twisting free instantly, fear overwhelming you as his smile slowly disappeared, his blue eyes seeming darker. You wanted to scream for help, but who would come to your rescue? You were almost halfway around the lake, away from most eyes, though it wouldn’t surprise you if there were some security cameras out here in the trees as well.

Before a loud enough sound could leave you, his hand was on your mouth and he was pushing you in between the bushes, up against a tree.

He touched you, like you had touched yourself that night in bed, thinking of Kate - but you weren’t crying out or fighting the pleasure now, instead it was the disgust that overwhelmed you, your lower half exposed as he had pulled your skirt up. Apparently he quickly grew bored of touching your cunt, unable to make you do anything but cry - but as he pulled out your cock, you truly panicked.

Hitting him in the chest, pulling his hand from your mouth. “nonononno, please -” “shut up-” “Phillip I can get pregnant-” He laughed, turning you so quickly you almost fell, pushing you against the tree, “Don’t worry baby, I’m not putting it in, just fucking your thighs–”

He did so, pressing your thighs together as you cried against the bark of the tree. As he grunted and moaned in your ear, you disappeared into your mind, back to the farm. Praying, bible reading, hard work, just like they had said, had filled your life for four years. Four terrible years, yet you would rather go back to the farm than this.

You wanted to feed the chickens and collect the eggs, you wanted to pet the sheep, making sure all of them returned in the evenings. You wanted to clean the wooden floors again, forced to do so while praying and singing hymns as a punishment for talking back. 

You felt dirty afterwards, unsure of what really had happened but there was cum on your thighs as he pushed down the skirt.

“Don’t tell anyone, no? You tempted me, after all,” he pointed out as he fixed his shirt a second time, grinning as you sniffled.

You shook your head. 

“Knew you were a smart girl, baby girl,” the words made you want to throw up and your eyes didn’t meet his, “Lemme get ya’ home.”

You didn’t tell your parents everything - and when your sister asked if you had kissed, you had shaken your head. Phillip is a good man, you had said, he will be a wonderful husband.

☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆

A part of you wanted to leave the house and go directly to the priest, stare him in the eyes as you admitted that demons still hungered around your body, that you were still sick. That the homosexuality had never left your body, that only lies had dripped from your lips when you weren’t praying. Those four years had changed nothing but messed up your mind, not your sexuality.

Yet you refrained, instead going to the church early every day. Watching the church servant sleep, sitting on your pew, in the familiar spot, watching the altar. Wondering why God would do this to you. Why he would make you wrong in the eyes of the town, why he would send Phillip Graves to touch you against your will.

Almost every morning she would appear.

Sweet, beautiful Kate. Always kind and soft despite the world that surrounded the two of you. You dared to bring her a piece of cake at one point, one that you had baked yourself, loving how her face lit up at the sight. Basking in the praise she had given you in her whispers.

You would live, survive for those times with her in the church. Perhaps, that was why you didn’t admit to your sins, why you didn’t truly repent. Because, if they sent you away once more or locked you away inside a home, you wouldn’t be able to see Kate anymore.

Kate, who held your hand. Kate, who you dared to kiss on the cheek one morning two weeks later, as the church servant snored particularly loudly - who then framed your face with her wonderful hands and kissed you on the lips.

Every day that passed brought you closer to the day of the wedding, but also to Kate.

You didn’t need to ask to know that she was infected, just like you. That her organs were also rotten with sin, bones decaying from the want.

You dared to pull her to the bathroom of the church with you, listen to her whisper out oh God, taking the Lord’s name in vain as you ate her out, pride blossoming from it.

She came on your tongue, on your fingers. You came on hers too, on her thigh once. 

Panties soaked the entire service that followed, the prayers and sermon barely understood, constantly reminded of how she had looked as you rode her thigh, muttering praises into your ear as you kept it down, as not to draw any attention.

The forbidden fruit had never tasted better, but you knew that it too would rot, given how close the wedding was. 

You exchanged numbers but were too afraid to call or text, fearing being caught; you by your parents or by Phillip, her by her husband Shepherd.

☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆

It wouldn’t last forever, that you knew, yet you had hoped it could. 

“What were you doing in the church with Mrs. Shepherd?” your dad asked one day at the dinner table, giving you no time to figure out an answer or to truly understand how he would know.

“Praying,” you lied, the words feeling so familiar by now, despite the ashy taste, “We don’t talk together. We just pray.”

Your father was staring at you, eyes cold, anger possibly boiling just beneath his skin.

“Wilson said he never saw you two.” You could strangle the bloody church servant and his snoring body.

“Lies,” you merely answered, “Mr. Wilson sleeps every day in the back of the church. His snoring echoes, disturbing my prayers.”

He didn’t look convinced. You wanted to scream at him, to mind his own bloody business. To not judge you, to accept you and love you, despite what they deemed flaws. 

“You can come with me yourself tomorrow - see how he sleeps in his chair, leant against the wall. Or hear it, I suppose - Mrs. Shepherd and I merely greet each other - nothing else.”

Somehow, the fact that you were willing to take him along - not really, but you wouldn’t mind proving your point, just to be able to continue your time with Kate - seemed good enough.

“Bloody always asleep, that man,” your father finally grumbled.

☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆

There was a week until your wedding, the days having disappeared in between your fingers. You hadn’t been able to see Kate except during church service, not able to speak together or utter a word to each other - Shepherd's angry eyes would find you every time, staring you down. You did your best to ignore him, ignoring the judgment you were sure he had placed upon you and focused on the hymns. You tried worshiping the divine, in a desperate attempt to escape reality. 

☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆

The dress felt too tight. Modest, barely showing anything but you hands and head, nothing like you had dreamt of when you were a kid, nothing like you had seen in a magazine that you found when you were 13, buried in a book in the little library of the town.

“You look beautiful,” your mother whispered, voice wet, having cried all day. You felt hollowed out, watching yourself in a white dress as if you were a lamb, sent to slaughter.

“It’s tight,” you muttered, the seamstress removing a pin or two but not enough. Perhaps it wasn’t the size but merely the fact you didn’t want it.

Four days, then there would be nothing improper about all the things Graves had whispered that he wanted to do with you. Then your moments with Kate, excused by the lies of prayers and hymns, would stop. Then you couldn’t forget the world with the slightly older woman, who would tell you of the world outside. Of parades for sinners like you, where you could be accepted and loved for who you were. Of art and music, of books and poetry, of politics  and of animals who weren’t kept merely for food.

It was simple, modest like everyone expected it to be. Long loose sleeves, ankle long skirt with white lace trim. Fake white flowers on the headband with the veil, pearls that Philip had gifted you for around your neck.

You had the feeling that your parents wanted to show you off, prove that they were good Christians who had raised a child that wasn’t lost. Who had been sick but was cured. The Graves family wanted to prove what great people they were, showing that you could be saved by the church even if Satan tried to claim you.

Philip wanted to show you off before he ruined you.

You cried then, when the seamstress said she would be ready with it in two days. Your mother took it for tears of joy and you lied once more, as you had for years, saying it was.

☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆

“They’re saying she is becoming mad,” you heard them whisper, your body freezing, barely breathing as you tried listening. Your mother had people over for bible study but it was rarely actual studying.

“She was mad even before he got her,” one of the neighbors whispered, “told Shepherd didn’t I? Why would he take an outsider?”

“I heard Stacy say it was a favor for her parents —“

“She is probably going to the farm.”

You felt your mind spiral, almost dropping the basket of laundry, before you recognised your mother saying your name.

“- don’t want her to know. She is cured and healthy, but I don’t want her to think there is anybody sick in this town.”

“Might infect her again,” another neighbor pointed out, making you feel like you could barely breathe.

“God forbid,” your mother mumbled, “she is finally getting married. A baby or two will do her well.”

You abandoned the laundry basket in the hallway to find your phone. 

You had seen some of the better families in town had fancy phones, with touch screens and everything. When younger you might have been overcome with jealousy but by now, you just felt relieved you had a phone to contact Kate with, old as it was.

Women aren’t supposed to fall in love with other women, they had said the day your fate was sealed, damning you to years on the farm without your family, abandoned with animals and prayers, verses read to you about how wrong you were, you’re not supposed to lust after another woman.

Sure, you had been 19 and the fire inside of you had turned to embers - and Kate was older, wiser, but if she was sent to the farm, the two of you would surely never see each other again.

Your fingers felt numb as you wrote out the message, knowing you would be in trouble if anyone ever found out you had sent it.

>They’re going to send you to the farm

You waited for a reply, but it didn’t come immediately like you had hoped. 

Seconds turned to minutes and minutes turned to hours - all while you pretended everything was fine. You were with your family, listening to your mother pointing out everything they needed to get ready for your wedding. Your father talking about the money, your sister about dresses she could wear, about what hairstyles you should have.

In many ways Alice seemed more excited about your wedding than yourself. A part of you wondered if she ever found what it was about you that everyone declared an illness - or if she lived blissfully unaware of it. If she would marry for the sake of the family like you were forced to or if a young man from church would shyly appear on your doorstep and ask to court her.

If she wanted babies - while you didn’t. At least not with Philip. Not with any man. You just wanted Kate.

Kate, Kate. Your saint, your light in the dark, your guiding star in the evil that surrounded you.

Kate who had whispered that you had a choice but it wasn’t an easy one.

You knew she had been right then - and you knew she was right now.

☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆

The air was cold as you crawled out the window, your small backpack strapped to your back, nails digging into the sill as you almost slipped. You managed to get a footing on the roof, slowly lowering yourself. There was a scent of rotting apples in the air, the last fruits rotting beneath the tree, while your organs flowered and grew stronger inside your body.

Because maybe you weren’t the rotten, sick one - possibly they were. And even if you were wrong, even if it was truly demons having possessed your mind and making you sin… then you would rather sin and rot together with Kate.

You wanted to live a life where you didn’t have to worry about what was wrong with you, every minute of the day - but one with Kate where you could sin in peace, perhaps in a town that didn’t hate you for the feelings you had for each other. You wanted a life without prayers, without the constant urge to seek forgiveness from a God that never showed you any love.

Or at the very least, you wanted a death with Kate. One where your rotten bodies could disappear together, melt into the ground and disappear, away from the people who had hated you for so long.

Despite the fear and the sweet, rotten scent of the apples, you felt the strongest you ever had as you crawled down the roof and jumped to the ground - even as you fell rather clumsily, making more noise than you had planned.

A window snapped open and you looked up, staring up at Alice. Neither of you spoke, merely staring up at her.

You wordlessly begged her, no, screamed at her to not tell, to not call out for your parents. Even in the vague light of the moon you could see her drown.

Young and confused, a good girl, who reminded you terribly of your mother. Whom you loved but didn’t trust - not anymore.

Finally, your sister moved her hands - quickly motioning for you to keep moving, not to come inside. You hoped she could see the thankful smile you sent her as you got up from the grass and moved towards the garden gate. Tomorrow they would find your letter on the pillow of your neatly done bed, written with your favorite pen, on heavy paper. On top of it, the engagement ring would rest, abandoned to be worn by somebody else who would have the misfortune of marrying Phillip Graves.

Your room would seem the same except for a few missing pieces. Pictures, phone, passport and the little money you had, would be gone. Pressed into that little backpack of yours, that was currently crossing the street, wary to not be seen by anyone.

There weren’t many words on the letter, you didn’t want to leave much behind, you didn’t want them to think you would forgive them.

You are the sick ones. I am sorry. Goodbye.

Your mother would cry in the morning, clutching the paper, while your sister would have laid there and expected it all night, knowing you had run away. Your father would perhaps be able to shed a tear. If not, you didn’t care. You wouldn’t be around to find out either way.

Guilt tried following you as you crossed another street, slipping in between houses to keep in the shadows, working your way towards the Shepherd’s house. Further than that you hadn’t planned but you couldn’t return now - you would rather try and fail, than to never have tried at all. The church loomed above you, letting you walk in the shadows of it, the bells not ringing and calling out your deed.

As if the church allowed you to pass, allowed you to continue your mission, whispering encouraging words for once instead of judgemental once. Blessing your decision to abandon everything, to abandon Christ, God.

You stopped outside of the Shepherd residence, your courage shaking for just a moment, unsure of how to get in - how to get in contact with Kate. By now your plans dried up, but you doubted you would ever have a possibility like this. Kate was worth the fear that burned inside you.

The door was locked - it shouldn’t come as a surprise, but it wasn’t uncommon to leave the door unlocked in your town, merely because you rarely dealt with crimes in that way- then it was outsiders who broke in. Checking several windows, doing your best to move silently around. However, you hadn’t learnt a lot from the last couple of years, other than taking care of animals, saying prayers, and singing hymns to cleanse your soul.

You found a half open window into what looked like a living room. You wished you could have crawled in discreetly, barely making a sound, like a ghost seeping into a new house to haunt.

Instead you fell onto a little table, which tipped over, a potted plant falling over, the pot shattering. The soil, barely visible in the dark, stained the floor with your fear.

However, silence still ruled the dark house, keeping you safe for now. For a moment, you wondered if there truly was a God who cared, just a little, for your broken soul.

That was until the lights turned on suddenly and the first thing you saw was a barrel pointed towards your head.

Herschel Shepherd had never seemed like a kind man to you, but a spiteful man, filled with greed and hatred. He was a respected man in the town, sure, and when he became a widower you were sure many of the other widowers dreamt of a marriage with him. He was rich, involved with the church and traveled with his company, that you didn’t even know what did. Especially after returning from the farm, seeing Kate next to him, never smiling despite having whom you considered a saint as a wife. The two of you had never talked about it but you suspected that he wasn’t a good husband. That perhaps he was open to the idea of sending away his wife, forcing her to manual labor in an isolated area for years in an attempt to control her even more.

You were willing to die for Kate, just so she shouldn’t see the room in which you had suffered. The painting of Jesus Christ who would be judging her day and night, the crucifix next to her bed, the never ending fields of loneliness, the constant repeating of the ashtasting verses and prayers, the dying hymns about love for a God that had never loved you.

“What the fuck are you doing here?” He snarled, not lowering the shotgun despite seeing it was only you, an unarmed member of the church.

Like a monster stepping out from a fairytale book, or a demon, ready to stop the noble Christian knight from his goal. You barely managed to speak before he did so again.

“Bloody roach,” he hissed, venom spitting from his mouth, “they should have abandoned you at the farm, let you stay mad and broken out there”

“Fuck you.” You were proud of how your voice barely shook as you blurted it out, how you got to your feet, staring at the only man in between the one you were ready to love forever.

“Shooting you will be—“ You hadn’t seen Kate come up behind him before the lamp collided with his head.

As blood splattered, you found yourself even more in love than before. Like embers filled up every bone in your body, your heart ringing its own church bells, declaring it true love. Perhaps you shouldn’t be turned on by her committing a violent act like that, yet it did, because Kate did it for you.

Kate was a savior, a knight in shining armor, even if she merely wore nightdress and a gown, her sword nothing but a wooden lamp that had blood stains on it now.

Her blue eyes staring down at the dragon that had kept her captive for years, in her own kind of hell - before your eyes finally met.

The lamp was abandoned on the floor next to Shepherd and you met halfway in the living room, embracing each other for only a short moment, before pressing your lips against each other’s.

Starved for the acceptance you had found in a woman in church, who you fell in love with, even when you knew it could end horrendously for the both of you.

Foreheads pressed against each other as you both breathed hard, fingers running over the other’s hair, face shoulders. As if to make sure it wasn’t a dream or hallucination, that you were actually both standing there in the room.

“You ok?” You whispered and her eyes flickered to the man on the floor before she answered, voice strong and steady, “yeah, better than I’ve been for years.”

You finally dared to look down at Sherpherd.

“Is he dead?” You asked, as if you only realized what she had done.

Sin sin sin sin sin sin

Killing was a sin. It was a big sin, or was one of the worst, it was— he was breathing, you realized. Chest moving up and down, even as blood from the wound from where the lamp had connected, sept into the carpet beneath him, staining it. Shotgun next to him. You could kill him. It would be an easy kill even, you would just have to take the gun, point it to his head and pull the —

“No - he will wake in a couple of hours with a headache,” Kate confirmed, hand then grabbing yours, “we can’t stay here, sweetheart.”

Sweetheart. You liked that nickname.

“I know, I mean, I’m here to get you out-“ your words stumbled from your mouth as you followed her, only to be quieted down by a kiss. It was deeper than before even if it wasn’t long, a small whine escaping you as she pulled away again once more.

It was water after thirst, it was sun warming your skin after freezing in the snow. 

“My hero,” she whispered, touching your cheek, her blue eyes watering just a little, even as she clearly tried keeping them back, continuing,“and I know where the car keys are.”

☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆

Leaving the town felt wrong on so many levels. By escaping its clutches, painful and sharp, you also abandoned what you considered your home and the safety of the church. The community it had given you throughout the years, the promises of a better afterlife, without eternal suffering.

You wanted to throw up, beg her to stop the car, fear crawling inside your throat and filling your lungs, making sobs escape as you shook. You wanted to run back, let Kate escape.

She kept driving, constantly looking over at you, as you curled together in the passenger seat next to her; she touched your shoulder, held your hand, petted your hair. Whispering sweet words, that weren’t prayers, that weren’t promises of a God who would look over the two of you. But of how the two of you would be alright, how you would figure things out.

How she could get you out of the country, how the two of you could start somewhere new, somewhere safe.

Create your own paradise. Together. 

☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆

The two of you didn’t stop driving for hours - only stopping at a gas station to get more gas and some food. If the two of you looked weird, you in an oddly modest long blue dress, soil on it, with red and puffy eyes, Kate in a morning gown pulled tight around her waist, well then the cashier was nice enough to keep his mouth shut.

You watched the world pass by, watched nature change, the endless fields, the cows, different kinds of cars you had never seen before began to pass.

It was at the second stop at a gas station that you dared to stop for good. Car pulled to the side, Kate’s hand shaking as she took your phone and pressed a number. Then she waited, your hand holding her free hand.

The two of you sat in the backseat of the fancy car that Shepherd always rode. Hours had passed since you abandoned the town, the church, your family, your God, everything. You wondered if they had found your letter by now, if they were trying to call your phone, only to realize you had blocked them.

You wondered who they would blame; the two of you or God.

“Price,” you heard a gruff voice say.

“John,” Kate could barely say the name, voice almost trembling and you wanted to hold her tight, crawl into her lap and embrace her into a hug she couldn’t escape. 

“Kate?” The sound of disbelief, as if he had never expected to hear her voice again; as if she had been considered dead, had risen again. You were pretty sure you could hear a British accent to his voice, one you had only heard in movies, “Is that really you?”

“It is - I, John – fuck - we need you and the boys’ help. If your offer still stands.”

“Always Kate,” the certainty in his voice made you want to cry, “no matter where you are.”

—--

You abandoned the car in a random town and took a bus to the next town over, that would be close to where they would pick you up, Kate explained.

That night you slept in a motel together, close, breathing in each other’s air. Kissing each other, watching the other’s chest, just to make sure the other was alive. You listened to her heart before falling asleep, your head resting on her chest. A part of you wished that you could crawl inside her ribcage, in an attempt to get closer to her heart, to make sure she would never stop living

☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆

You had never seen an actual helicopter this close. Once one had passed over the farm, but that was years ago and it had barely been visible. You stood next to her, your fingers intertwined with Kate’s, just like you wanted your ribs to be. You weren’t necessarily proud of how you hid halfways behind her, but she seemed so calm around the machine - which meant she had probably been around some before. Both of your clothes were moving wildly due to the air from the wings, the grass laying down as if it was a divine figure who appeared from the sky, to offer you a way to safety.

You wanted to kiss her, as you had the night before in the motel, not caring if the sins would swallow you whole, drag you to hell and let you burn for all eternity. You would eat all forbidden fruits, if it meant another minute with her - no matter how scared you were of the world outside.

No matter how much the sight of five men stepping out from the helicopter, with the engine slowly stopping, walking towards you scared you, you stayed right there with Kate. The men who stepped out seemed like divine symbols of sins, of fallen angels, ready to welcome you into the damned eternity. No verses or prayers could save you now.

One of the angels wore a skull mask, a clear representation of death and while you trusted Kate with your life, wanted to trust these men too, since she said they were close friends, you wondered what life she had lived before coming to the town, before becoming Shepherd's wife.

Before meeting you.

She let go of your hand when they got close and you almost wanted to cry, wanted to beg her not to abandon you. But then she stepped forward to embrace the man who reached them first. He wore some sort of hat you hadn’t seen before, an oddly shaped beard too – a military uniform of some sort, they all did. 

“Kate,” he said, before embracing her hard and you watched how his fingers fisted in the night gown, as if afraid she would disappear in front of you. Then his eyes found yours; while you had escaped some sort of anger, some sort of judgment or perhaps a facial expression that proved that you shouldn’t trust it, there was none. Instead his eyes and face softened at the sight of you, not looking away until he and Kate broke the embrace, his eyes almost seeming shiny as he held her face in his hands, saying it was good to see her again. Then he turned to you, while Kate turned to the next man, greeting somebody called Nikolai, who twirled her around, but you were busy fearing the other man.

He offered you his hand, movement slow, as if he could see that you were like a skittish deer, ready to bolt at the sign of any danger.

“I’m John Price,” he said as he gently shook your hand, “An old military friend of Kate.”

You told him your name, even as it tasted a little foreign on your tongue, like you had to admit who you were, to a stranger for the first time. An outsider.

“I’m…”

What were you? Somebody who had fallen in love the moment you saw Kate, who had spent years being told you were wrong, who was supposed to be married today but who had instead run off with the woman that made your heart beat.

“My girlfriend,” Kate said, “She is my girlfriend.”

Warmth enveloped your entire body and Price didn’t look upset instead he smiled. Looking happy for you, for Kate, a reaction so alien to you that you barely believed it.

The others introduced themselves. Nikolai - who also spun you around, saying you were already loved by him, much to your confusion - then the demon-looking man who introduced himself as Simon or Ghost, as if you could decide what kind of danger you wanted him to be. Then Kyle - or Gaz - who thanked you for taking care of Kate, even if he knew nothing about what happened, why the hell Kate Laswell was out in the middle of a field, wearing only a night dress and gown, why a messy looking woman in a long dressed stood next to her, looking like she was ready to run. Then Soap - or Johnny, he had added with a grin, who said he didn’t know Kate, but that his team trusted her, so he did too - as well as you. But during the whole thing, your thoughts rummaged around the word girlfriend.

You were Kate’s girlfriend. She took your hand afterwards and you smiled at her, as if you saw her for the first time once more, hoping to wordlessly tell her how much you loved her, even if you didn’t dare to whisper the words out loud.

You curled up next to her in the helicopter, afraid of the sounds, the feeling of flying, of everything. She kept her arm around you, offering you safety once more, from the overwhelming world you had never been in before.

“What the ‘ell happened, Kate?” Simon or the grim reaper looking man asked, an accent that you suspected to be some kind of British, voice rough through the microphone. You didn’t look at Kate, weren’t sure how she would even explain this. You weren’t even sure how to explain it. It had been your entire life after all.

“It’s a long story,” Kate said, giving your shoulder a squeeze, “I’ll tell you later. When we’re safe somewhere.”

☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆

The UK was gray most of the time, but you didn’t really care, had grown accustomed to it as time passed.

Kate was still the light of your life. She was often busy, but you didn’t mind, knowing her burning passion for her work. You worked in a library a couple of hours a week, even if she had enough money to let you do whatever you wanted and never work another hour of your life. You went to therapy, a lot in the beginning but less and less as the years passed and you got better.

You were slowly forgetting the words of the hymns you had grown up with, and the verses forced upon you. It had taken years, but you felt like a good person. Not a sick, sinful one, even though the urge to repent made its ugly return once and again - it was easier to dismiss now, easier to talk about.

Reborn into a human being who made her own choices. Who could love who she wanted.

You had brought a house in the suburbs, big enough that you were able to have some chickens in the garden and two cats. They kept you company and kept you busy, the chickens following you around the garden, the cats sleeping in your laps and on you stomach whenever Kate was at work.

You were forever grateful for Kate’s friends, who helped you assimilate to the world, to Britain, their partners' close friends too by now. You liked looking after John’s and Kyle’s son, Johnny’s, Simon’s and their girlfriend’s dogs. Like drinking coffee or eating together with their partners or family members - you had managed to get friends through the library, who introduced you to so much literature and media that you had never even dreamt of existed.

Though, it was always Kate who brought you the most joy. You had married her, a year after you escaped together, which was a little over a decade ago. It wasn’t anything like what was planned up to the wedding you were supposed to have had with Phillip. A marriage that apparently wouldn’t even be official and recognised by the government, since the town wouldn’t tell anyone about it. Kate’s marriage wasn’t even valid, so nothing stopped the two of you from marrying.

It was nothing wild, no church, nothing you had to live up to. Your rings were simple, so were your clothes. It was at town hall, it was small and simple, John, Simon, Johnny and Kyle your witnesses - their partners, more of Kate’s friends and the few others you had met outside, ready to celebrate you. It reminded you more of a birthday party or barbeque, something like that, nothing formal. Casual clothes, food made on the grill and in the kitchen, eaten in the garden. Games played, alcohol drunk, music that you never listened to before playing softly. It was happy, simple, with Kate kissing your hand and pulling you away to kiss your lips, making you whine happily.

You finally felt happy, cured. Not from the love you had for Kate, but from the hatred and pain that had been forced on you all of your life. A life that you were ready to spend with Kate.

[chipotle]

A year back in Florida

About a year ago, I moved away from the San Francisco Bay Area, back to Tampa Bay, Florida, where I’d lived for (mostly) all my previous life.

Florida is not the same place it was when I left. The metros feel more urban, more alive, than I remember. Some of that is undoubtedly on me, on my failure to explore them adequately back in the 1990s. But a lot of what I’ve been finding now simply wasn’t there two decades ago. St. Petersburg now has blocks of walkable downtown, starting from the waterfront museums and moving west through the Edge District, on to Kenwood and Grand Central, where they recently held one of the biggest Pride festivals in the country. Tampa’s downtown no longer feels like they roll up the sidewalks at five (a problem that San Jose struggled to solve for years as well). Just like St. Pete’s Central Avenue reminds me—a little—of K and J Streets in midtown Sacramento, smaller towns like Gulfport and Dunedin remind me—a little—of the smaller walkable towns back in California like Danville, Campbell, and Livermore.

Some of the areas that were truly nothing twenty years ago have become, well, something. The town I’ve moved to, Ridge Manor, is an unincorporated area a few miles north of still-tiny Dade City, on a state road that goes straight east-west between I-75 and Orlando. The next “big small town” over, Clermont, has blossomed from a near-abandoned downtown into a genuinely interesting suburb, even if it’s hard to figure out just what it’s a suburb of. Wesley Chapel, about a half-hour south along I-75, is a surprisingly large suburb of Tampa now.

A year ago, I wrote that you can find great coffee shops and craft breweries and cocktail bars in any metro area, and that’s true here, too. Dade City itself has a great craft brewery and a solid coffee shop, and there are far more throughout Tampa/St. Pete and Orlando. Great cocktail bars are the hardest to find here, I’ve found, but they are here.

Florida is not the same place it was when I left. It was, back then, a relatively purple state overall. There are still Florida liberals and leftists, but the Florida of 2023 is a one-party state. And, not to put too fine a point on it, Florida Republicans lead the charge to make that party indistinguishable from the far-right fascist parties plaguing Europe and Central America. Every day brings a new attack on the rights of people DeSantis and his supporters have identified as The Enemy. Trans people. Queer people. Drag queens. Immigrants. Teachers. Librarians. Disney.

A drive around rural Florida a quarter-century ago would have certainly taken you past houses and farms flying confederate battle flags; the state’s panhandle has long been an epicenter for the neo-confederate movement. On a similar drive today, though, the flags are almost exclusively for Trump. And there are many, many flags for Trump. Flags and bumper stickers and banners, and an ugliness I can’t remember seeing in America in my lifetime. When I left Florida, Jeb Bush had just won reelection; I’ve returned to a state where Republicans would consider Jeb too suspiciously liberal to elect him to a municipal utility board.

I am not in the same place in Florida as I was when I left. Politically and culturally, I’m more Left Coast than I had been two decades ago, to be sure—but I spent most of my previous Florida years in Tampa or its suburbs, or the wealthy, culturally rich city of Sarasota.1 As someone who presents as a cishet male, I have little to worry about in most interactions here yet—but that yet slowly gathers weight. I’ve been open about my beliefs, moderately open about my not-so-binary, fairly asexual identity. I write queer, often political, furry fiction under my own name. So far, this has only resulted in lost friendships, but the potential for worse is real.

Yet my worries don’t center on me. The majority of my friends are queer, too. Will any trans friend, including my BFF/partner, be safe here even for a visit? They’re certainly not going to move here. More and more, I’m hearing of people moving out.

I am not in the same place in Florida as I was when I left. All my adult life, both in California and previously here, I could reach dozens of choices for shopping, eating and drinking in under fifteen minutes; some were just a nice walk away in good weather. But Ridge Manor’s several thousand residents spread out over rural half-acre lots. A few businesses cluster in a couple of strip malls around the I-75 interchange. There’s a grocery store, three or four decent restaurants (and three or four fast food places), so-so Chinese takeout, and a few gas stations. Anything else is twenty minutes away at a minimum.

That might not sound like a big deal. It didn’t sound like one to me, either. I’d come home to this house every Christmas from California; I knew where it was. And, I’ve always enjoyed driving. For years, my BFF and I took Saturdays out, exploring towns hours away. How bad could this be?

The answer, it turns out, is worse than I thought. In all my adult life, I’ve lived where I could reach dozens of choices for shopping, eating and drinking in under fifteen minutes, often in places where some were just a nice walk away in good weather. Now, hitting even most standard suburban chains is no longer a whim, it’s an excursion.

Sometimes I’ve dreamt of living in a cabin in Big Sur. I don’t anymore. I want to be in walking distance of something, a short driving distance of anything. Markets, coffee shops, a neighborhood bar, an ice cream parlor. Ridge Manor is not a place where that’s possible, and despite the construction and development around the area, it never will be. Yes, it will get hundreds of new tract homes, but the people who move in there will find that they, too, are a half-hour away from everything.

But do I regret moving? No. I moved to be with my mother, to help take care of her and the house. Our relationship isn’t frictionless, but it’s good, better than many such relationships that I see among my own friends and, for that matter, among hers. I know her better now than I have at any previous point in my life. It’s not just a solid, loving parent-child relationship, it’s a solid, loving friendship. That’s invaluable.

I still take Saturdays out, albeit mostly by myself now, and I’ve discovered or re-discovered plenty of cool places, many of which weren’t here before and all which have changed. There are places I could truly feel at home in, if I lived closer to them, and if Florida’s politics ever become less fraught. And if I can still deal with Florida summers.

The what-ifs remain, though, no matter how much I try to shunt them away.

First what-if: My ability to carve out my own time has been markedly impaired over the last year, from writing to TV watching to reading. Perhaps I am not good at setting boundaries, or perhaps I am just not used to living with someone who wants a lot of attention compared to past, undemanding housemates. Would it have been better to live in the suburbs a half-hour down the road, drive up here a few times a week for dinner, spend the night every other week?

Never say never, but I’m doubtful. The connections I’ve been making with my mom couldn’t have been made if we weren’t living together. Beyond that, I wouldn’t be here to be able to help with routine small things, and helping with large ones would be that much more challenging. She’d be markedly lonelier, and despite my penchant for solitude, I would be, too.

And there’s the cost of living. Despite the isolation, there are many things to like about this house—it’s on over an acre of wooded land, for a start—but the number one thing is, simply, that it’s fully paid off. A year ago, I wrote, “I won’t miss paying as much in rent share [in California] as I would pay for an entire two-bedroom apartment in Tampa.” That turned out to be optimistic; a decent one-bedroom, not two, apartment in Wesley Chapel would be hundreds more a month than my rent share in Santa Clara was. The median rent in Sacramento is, as of this writing, lower than both Tampa and Orlando.

Second what-if: my mother and I could move somewhere else, somewhere that checks off more of my boxes and, ideally, more of hers. She’d like to be closer to amenities, closer to medical care, closer to the water. We’re both concerned about the heat, too. As I write this, Florida swelters in record-breaking heat. The SF Bay Area and Sacramento are at unusual highs, too, but the old “it’s a dry heat” joke hits home. Sacramento’s projected high of 103°F tops our projected 94°, but our heat index hits 116° compared to Sac’s 164°—and our low will be 74° (with a heat index ten degrees higher), whereas Sacramento will make it down to a comparatively arctic 58°. If this is the new normal, it may be untenable for both of us.

Housing prices anywhere we’d want to live are likely to be challengingly high even with our resources pooled together, though, and I don’t know what place we’d both agree on. Stay in the state, or leave it? She thinks about going back to Baltimore, where she grew up, or around Asheville, where Floridians seem to be moving to when they want to leave this state. I have no personal affinity for Maryland or North Carolina, though; the places I do have affinity for—most of California and the Pacific Northwest, parts of the Southwest—aren’t places she does.

The thought of moving anywhere, though, leads to uncomfortable thoughts of mortality—both my mother’s and my own. When will I find myself living alone once more? Will I want to stay where I’m living then? If it’s still here, still in this house, the answer is likely no. But if my mother and I move to a new place, she’ll push for a bigger house. I doubt I’d want a bigger house by myself, or even with a housemate. (And if it’s in Florida, the current politics all but ensure my trans BFF won’t be that housemate.)

Of course, maybe a bigger house still makes financial sense; with luck, having a more expensive house means I get more money if I sell it and do move somewhere else, ultimately. The money isn’t being lost. Objectively, I know that. But I don’t feel it.

So, where does this leave me? It leaves me with a loving parent and great finances; it leaves me isolated, frustrated with my inability to manage my own time, wondering why I’m even worse than I used to be at coordinating with friends. It leaves me in a good and bad place. It leaves me in limbo.

I’ll check back in after another year.

Sarasota is now ground zero for not just Florida’s culture wars but all of America’s, as the home of the neofascist Moms of Liberty and epicenter of QAnon conspiracy nonsense. My college, New College, is the one that DeSantis is in the process of transforming from a nationally-recognized liberal arts school into a national laughing stock. [return]

[xperfectlite]

Pause

This was as much as he could take. Tears pooled in his eyes, but he kept blinking them back as he shoved handfuls of clothes into a duffle bag. With a solid swipe, his hairbrush, deodorant, and other various personal effects found a place in the bag. A picture frame looked up at the boy, a frozen smile peering out from behind the glass. After a beat, the picture found itself face down as a sob loosened itself from the distraught boy. Why, how, and when, had he become such a disappointment?

((Yes hello, I've been working on this for like seven years now. It's my pride and joy and I haven't completed it, but I want to put some of it out there for the world to see. If you like it, I hope you share it or leave a little love behind <3 Thanks!))

CW: talk of sex work and drug use, I personally would imagine this to be more of an 18+ story even though no mature themes are explicitly discussed/described.

The summer sun bore down onto the dry, cracked gravel road as tires kicked up dust above it. An aged '95 Ford F150 was the cause, driving through the old empty highway, muffler crackling all the while. Ezekiel had been meaning to trade in his old beat up farm truck for something more modern or chic, but he had never gotten around to it. Part of it just reminded him of home - the good parts, that is.

It had been close to four years since Ezekiel had decided to leave his hometown. While most recent high school graduates were making plans to go off and either begin their working lives or continue their education, the young man had chosen a different option entirely. Briefly, his brain flicked through the many nights he had spent road-tripping and partying, doing anything he could to get someone to look at him, to prove that he was worth any amount of energy they would spare. Honestly, it was a little pathetic and he couldn't help but feel ashamed.

Ezekiel shook his head, clearing his thoughts as he crossed the county line, right into Regal County, Nebraska. With more solid resolve, he kept up his drive towards his childhood home, tightening his grip on the steering wheel. Though he had been through a lot in the past few years, the roads outside of Otterval were still imprinted into his mind like instinct. It wasn’t that big of a shock, as he had only spent four years abroad compared to the nineteen years he had spent growing up and exploring the countryside surrounding the small town.

Still, Zeke had been driving for quite awhile in order to make it to the town. It probably wouldn’t hurt to see how the local restaurants were doing and maybe take a chance to stretch. He had to drive through the community anyway to get to the opposite side, where his family had always been.

Soon enough, a "decrease speed" sign popped up on the right side of the road over the horizon. As Zeke crossed into the forty-five mile an hour zone, he eased his foot on and off the break. The old truck had been through a lot, so it wasn't very surprising to see that the temperature gauge was starting to climb higher than it normally did.

"I promise you, Betty Lou, we'll get ya checked out once we get there." Ezekiel muttered, patting the hot dashboard. It had been on his mind for a few months now. The idea of coming back here, seeing his father, the old farmhouse, the animals, even the fields. Initially, he punched back at the thoughts. He considered how much he was enjoying himself compared to the dull life Otterval held for him. However, the nights of one-night-stands and the mornings of waking up alone started really driving home the overwhelming loneliness that was beginning to crush him. It wasn’t even a partner he really craved. Ezekiel just wanted to know that there was someone around who actually knew he existed and would at least acknowledge him as something more than a way to get what they wanted.

At the same time, he wasn’t exactly sure that that’s what would happen when he mysteriously showed up at his father’s home with no notice. The man could just as easily not let him in, force him to realize that there wasn’t anything left for him in the tiny town. For the past four years, that’s all he had wanted - the realization that he was free from this place. Now, though, the idea of not having a place to refer to as home settled heavily in his chest.

“Enough.” Zeke muttered to himself, forcing his focus back to the road that was turning into pavement. It wouldn’t be long before he hit Main Street, where he once frequented a quaint restaurant, equally due to the fact that it was owned by his godmother and the food was good. His mouth automatically began to water as he remembered the cheese frenchies and fries he would always get, a dark soda on the side. It had been a long time since he allowed himself to indulge in an unhealthy meal, but he figured this could be a little present to himself.

Zeke coasted into town, allowing the old truck to slow itself down to prevent any further pushing on the temperature gauge. He observed the old-school appearance of the little shops on Main Street, marveling at some new places and remembering the old as he turned his truck into a spot in front of the strip-mall-like structures. A clothing store caught his eye, causing him to wonder why someone would set up such a shop in a town with less than three thousand people. They even called it a ‘boutique’, making the man shake his head. Ezekiel knew that a lot of the small-town kids he had grown up with were kind of stuck-up when it came to fashion or matters that they could use to “prove how worldly” they were. The brunet held back a derisive snort, biting the inside of his cheek. He told himself that when he came back, he would keep an open mind and avoid the old cynicism that liked to follow him when he got remotely close to thinking about Otterval.

Putting aside his thoughts, he decided instead to think about his meal that was just so close. His hands found the glove box, opening it and grabbing his wallet before he shoved his door open and got out. Before walking up, Ezekiel shoved his key in the lock, twisting it into security. As he was heading up the sidewalk, he realized that he had grown up never having to lock anything. However, traveling across the country and staying in city after city taught him he could never be too careful, so he figured his new habit wasn’t entirely a bad thing.

He reached the building he was headed for in the strip, an old place called the Wagon Wheel. Through the glass front of the restaurant, he could see a few of the tables were already full with families. Before Zeke’s eyes could process the faces, his stomach flipped, reminding him that he probably didn’t want to see someone he used to know anyway. He pulled the glass door open, the bell ringing above his head just adding to the din of diners, faint kitchen noises, and the wait staff chatting and laughing while allowing their tables time to enjoy their food. Ezekiel smiled faintly at the familiar smell of both fried food and protein heavy dishes, adding to the comforting aesthetic of the place. He slid himself into a corner booth, not wanting to be too out in the open. The menus were already on the table, the laminate peeling on the sharp edges of the double sided cardstock. Zeke was almost certain his godmother had never changed the menus since he had started frequenting the establishment as a teenager. Sneakers cut into the edge of his eyesight as a waiter approached.

“Hi there, stranger. What can I getcha?” a peppy voice asked. The distinct sound froze Zeke. He quickly looked up, locking eyes with the other man.

He was about as tall as Ezekiel, a similar build too, if not a little more lithe. The other man’s hair was shorter than his, though, a dark brown crew cut. Recognition flashed in blue-grey eyes as his smile faltered for a second.

“Paul?” Zeke asked. The man held his order pad over his mouth.

“Holy shit, that really is Ezekiel fucking Miller.” the waiter muttered. “Oh my God. I didn’t- When did you-? Diane-” Zeke held up his hand and stood as Paul turned his head to look at the door to the kitchen.

“Hey, calm down dude. No one knows I’m back yet.” they stared at each other for a split second before they latched onto each other in a tight hug. The moment of comfort only lasted as long as their stare had before Paul shoved the slightly taller man back, pulling an angry face.

“You big jerk! You didn’t call, text, nothing! I would have even accepted snail mail, dude!” he scolded. Ezekiel smiled shyly and rubbed the back of his neck.

“I mean, if it makes you feel better, I did that to everyone.” the waiter sighed and shook his head.

“It really doesn’t. We were best friends, man.” what Zeke said earlier finally registered in his mind and he gasped. “You haven’t even gone to see Jim yet?” the brunet bit his lip, looking up at his former friend and shaking his head. “Fuck, so you don’t know shit.” the former farm boy quirked an eyebrow.

“What’s there to know? I’m sure my dad couldn’t have done much in four years.” It was the waiter’s turn to bite his lip as he glanced back at the kitchen again.

“You’d be surprised. Hey, let me take a break with you? Let’s catch up.” Ezekiel smiled and nodded.

“Uh, yeah, definitely man. I’d love to. Can I, uh, place an order first?” Paul laughed and held up his forgotten pad.

“Ugh, yes, of course. Wait - let me guess! Cheese frenchie, fries, and.. It’s warm today, so I’m going to guess Coke.” Zeke felt his heart swell with comfort at his best friend still remembering his favorites.

“Please? You are amazing.” the waiter’s smile softened, putting his things into his apron around his waist.

“We were practically joined at the hip for nineteen years. It’s impossible to forget stuff like that.” with that, Paul turned, waving over his shoulder as he walked into the kitchen. Ezekiel watched him go before he lowered himself back into the booth, sighing.

How could he have forgotten his best friend? Paul Dake had been the closest thing he had ever gotten to a sibling. Hell, at one point they could have even passed as twins.

"Oh look at you two! I almost don't remember which one's mine," a sweet whisper shot through his memory and he cringed at the sound, shoving it and the accompanying feeling of playfulness and fun he had felt in that moment further back into his mind. He wasn't ready to think about his mom yet.

Instead, Ezekiel busied himself with examining the Wagon Wheel. It hadn't changed at all, which wasn't too shocking. Otterval was a sleepy town and the residents loved their routines to a fault. The brunet was sure that if there was so much as a new knickknack on the wall, the old farmers that liked to meet for breakfast would riot. Still, he took it all in anyway. Booths lined both sides of the restaurant, with a couple round tables and chairs sitting in the empty space between them. The decor was definitely a down-home country theme with an actual wagon wheel adorning the wall across from the doorway. Various black and white historical pictures of Otterval and replicas of obsolete farm tools filled what empty space was left. Vaguely, Ezekiel's mind provided the fact that the museum on the outskirts of town actually provided copies of the photos to his godmother for the ten year anniversary of the restaurant.

The brunet turned in his seat slightly to look in the corner of the front of the restaurant on the other side of the establishment. The corner of his mouth ticked up slightly, seeing the familiar jukebox still glowing peacefully. It held numerous CDs, though the patrons and staff really only played the musical stylings of old crooners like John Denver and Johnny Cash. Occasionally, someone would play KISS or Led Zeppelin. Even if the other genres were more popular, Zeke was certain the CDs hadn't been updated since the mid 90s. Still, the man found himself wandering over to the machine, scrolling through the songs that were still imprinted into his mind. The faint clicking of the machine blended in with the noise of the restaurant and faintly, Zeke heard the bell above the door ring.

There were a lot of people at the Wagon Wheel today. The brunet was almost certain everyone who wasn't making sure the town was running was here. Ezekiel and Paul had a group of their friends with them, all enjoying some sort of ice cream or soda. Other cliques from their high school were around as well, all nodding or waving to Ezekiel whenever they made eye contact. The conversation among his friends was nothing special, but Zeke laughed at someone's joke before he stood, making his way over to the jukebox while digging quarters out of his pocket. The faint clicking of the song book moving as he scrolled through the selections joined the din of the cozy restaurant. Even with the noise, the distinct sound of the bell above the door caught Ezekiel's attention, causing him to glance over his shoulder. His turquoise eyes met pure hazel ones, belonging to a boy a little taller than him. His crew cut black hair stuck up a little over his forehead in an endearing way and a smirk crossed his face. He nodded at Zeke. The farm boy felt a blush rise to his cheeks, causing him to quickly look away, his stomach doing flips.

"Hey mister, are you going to pick a song?" Zeke shot out of his thoughts, looking around quickly. He could have sworn he heard the bell of the door, but no one had come in or left. "Mister?" Ezekiel looked down at a grade school child that had approached him, giving him a weird look.

"Uh, no, go ahead kid. All yours." he mumbled with a faint smile before making his way back to his table. The brunet held his head, closing his eyes. Briefly, the same, beautiful hazel eyes crossed his mind. He pulled at his long hair lightly, forcing the memory back down. He definitely didn't want to think about him right now.

"Alrighty, here we are! Hey, you okay?" a generic white dinner plate slid over the table towards Zeke, a plastic glass accompanying it as Paul took a seat across from him. The man looked up at his friend and smiled, nodding.

"Yeah, I'm great. Just tired. Been driving for a while." Zeke looked down at his plate and bit the inside of his lip. "Ugh, it's been so long since I've eaten something like this. Totally gonna mess me up later." Paul hummed and sipped on his own drink. The brunet picked up a fry and took a tentative bite, worried about how fresh they were. Thankfully, they weren't scorching hot, but he knew the frenchie would be. He continued eating the fries while he waited for the sandwich to cool.

"So, talk to me. I don't know anything." Paul pressed. Ezekiel looked up at him and took a drink from his soda.

"Uh, yeah, yeah. Okay. Uhm." the former farm kid stuttered, fingers absently tapping the table. "Well, I guess, what do you want to know?" Paul bit his lip and examined his friend's face for a bit before speaking softly, as if he would spook the man.

"Well, when you left.. Jim said that something had happened at your graduation party." the brown-haired man glanced around and leaned closer, lowering his voice. "Something that outed you and -"

"Yeah, I know why I left, thanks." Zeke cut him off quickly, a slight edge to his voice. Paul leaned back, looking away from him. Ezekiel sighed and shook his head. "Sorry, I just - I don't want to think about that." the brunet cleared his throat and took another drink as Paul nodded softly. 

“Alright, then take me through that night. What did you do?” 

"Well.. Y’know, I packed my bag at like two in the morning. Just shoved a bunch of stuff into my old gym bag. Mostly essentials, figured I could get new clothes and stuff. Then, I went to the ATM and withdrew a good chunk of my money. I left enough to use as a credit line for the first week or so, but beyond that, I really planned on disappearing. I didn't want to risk my dad trying to trace my card or something." the brown-haired man frowned.

"Why would that have been so bad? Jim's never been the violent type. If he would track you, it would have been just to make sure you were safe." Zeke sighed and shook his head, fiddling with his last couple of fries.

"Honestly, I don't know. I was just.. emotional, I guess. I was thinking that I just wanted to drop off the face of the earth and not inconvenience anyone or have them worry." he knew that the words sounded as ridiculous as he felt about the whole situation. It was impossible to explain beyond blaming his overactive teen hormones for blowing everything out of proportion. Really, though, he had been nineteen and while his brain definitely wasn't fully developed, he still had enough sense to know that that wasn't the right way to handle the situation.

"So, where'd you go?" Zeke glanced up at Paul and finished off his fries, testing his sandwich.

"Big cities, mostly. First one was Omaha, but I really wanted to get out of Nebraska. When I called Jim, about a couple weeks or so after I left, just to let him know I was alive and surviving, y'know, I was down in Kansas City. After that, it was just wherever I felt like going whenever I felt like going." Ezekiel took a bite out of his cheese frenchie and closed his eyes, groaning at the taste of the deep fried bread, cheese, and mayonnaise perfectly combined. "Ugh, I forgot how good unhealthy food was." his friend smiled fondly, sitting back and crossing his legs.

"What made you change your diet? You used to inhale things like this." Zeke frowned and took another bite to give him time to think about his answer.

"I just.. wanted to look good." he shrugged, not looking at his friend. Paul examined him and his smile turned into a smirk.

"You must have gotten pretty busy." Ezekiel's cheeks immediately flushed and he hunched over his plate a little more, eating a little faster to keep him from having to answer. "Hey, I get it. The only man you ever really got to be with was-" Paul cut himself off with a warning glance from Zeke. "I don't blame you. If I was as sexually frustrated as you had to have been, I would have done it."

In reality, whether Ezekiel had been promiscuous or not wasn't the problem the brunet was facing in this conversation. Truthfully, road tripping around the continental United States wasn't cheap. While he had a few thousand in savings from his chores and jobs through high school, it started to dwindle pretty quickly. He was able to get a few under-the-table jobs at no-name diners waiting tables or washing dishes, but there wasn't a decent enough balance between the amount of work he put in and the money he got in return. So, while at a club one night, when a man approached Zeke and asked how much he charged, he rolled with it. From there, he got a newfound confidence, allowing him to work for an escort app and do some stripping on the side. He even managed to score a couple solid sugar daddies through his escort work, but he hated abusing their generosity just for his frivolous wants. Instead, he would hoard his 'allowances' into a savings account, one he had opened after leaving to avoid his paranoid thoughts of his dad tracking him. He was by no means rich, but he had a decent safety net if his return home didn't go as smoothly as he was hoping.

"Hello? Earth to Zee?" Paul huffed, snapping his fingers in the brunet's face. Ezekiel looked back at him.

"Sorry - what?"

"I said that I have to go, but I'm really not done talking to you yet. Maybe we could meet at the Breakdown tomorrow night? I would say tonight, but I imagine Jim and Diane will want to see you." Zeke felt his brow furrow.

"Why would Diane want to see me? She probably won't even know I'm back until tomorrow." Paul was silent. He stood and grabbed Zeke's empty plate and cup.

"Go home, Ezekiel. A lot has changed." the man said softly as he turned to make his way back to the kitchen. The brunet watched him go, frowning. Diane Abbott was a close family friend and, last he knew, the sole owner of the Wagon Wheel. She had never married or had her own family, instead focusing on her career and supporting Zeke at his events. Still, she had been his mother's childhood best friend. There would be no real reason for her to be so close to Jim that she would know Zeke was home by the end of the day.

Instead of thinking over it any longer, Ezekiel dug out his wallet and laid some cash on the table. He glanced around for a napkin to scribble his number on before noticing that Paul had already beat him to it, an order sheet with the other man's number on it sitting in the middle of the table. Briefly, he thanked whatever powers were at work for giving him such a thoughtful friend. It was already starting to feel more like home.

[marvels-writings]

Memento Mori

Summary: Apocalyptic AU, you and Natasha have been trying to find the rest of the team for almost a year now. It’s decided to meet in an abandoned theatre, where you decide to throw one last show with your fiance.

Word Count: 4.6 K (beautifully morbid)

A/N: This is some of my best writing, genuinely. Like I drafted this multiple times, it’s some of my best, please do me the honor of reading it

Grey light, dull static, dampened moods filled the small structure. The shattered windows numerous, some cracked, almost breaking. The electronics were either static or dead, refusing to show anything except grey or black.

The radio placed next to both of you resounded the same static. A contrast from the transmission it had received minutes ago. The rest of the team, whoever remained, had been sending the same message every day. The radio you had was the only one still working. Its need for repair brought you here, in the middle of an abandoned TV shop in a ghost town.

The transmission was simple, a message to meet the two of you in the biggest standing structure in a town a few miles from your location. You’d sent a message back agreeing to it, without coding it. There was no need to. Even if someone else picked up on the message, you would be happy to see anyone else.

Neither you nor Natasha knew how many of the team were still there, still alive.

The tins of food you ate were near empty, your spoon scraping dully on the bottom of the tin. You glanced at your bag, trying to ignore the lack of food in it. The grocery stores nearby were empty, looted before you even had the chance to get there.

“How far is the town?” Natasha asked, interrupting the silence. You shrugged and double-checked the map. Your fingers gingerly tugging it closer as you examined it.

“A few miles,” You shrugged, putting the tin on the corner of the map. “we should get there by tomorrow if we start early.”

Natasha nodded in acknowledgment, letting the silence sink over both of you. There wasn’t anything left to say. All you had to do was wait for tomorrow to get to the rest of your team. You weren’t sure if you wanted to meet them if you wanted to know what remained if you had lost someone.

The redhead glanced towards the bag of food. The cans near the bottom were showing, just barely covering the bottom of the bag. After this, neither of you had any backup plans for food. You were eating out of what you had left.

“We should stop by to get some food on the way,” Natasha commented, gesturing to the almost empty bag with one hand. You shrugged and closed it, keeping away the thoughts of tomorrow.

“True,” You said, closing off the bag with a sigh.

“I don’t know how many stores there would be though.” You commented. The town you were supposed to get to was one of the first hit. It wouldn’t be a surprise if all the food was already gone.

“Maybe we could start a farm.” Natasha joked half-heartedly. She moved to lay down with her head in your lap. Her hair falling onto the dusty ground, collecting in the red strands. The strands had gotten darker over the years. You didn’t know if it was dye or dust that faded it.

The joke was underlined with a tone of sadness. The despair of losing what could have been. Of what you had planned out for both of you. You could still see it, a small house near a lake, with enough space for the children you and Natasha could have adopted running around. The lake perfect for ice-skating in the winter and fishing in the summer.

A sigh left your lips as you looked down at your fiance. Her green eyes met yours, watching you carefully. Your hand went to her hair, running through the soft strands. The color had faded, but they felt as soft as they always had.

“Maybe,” You nodded, another heavy sigh leaving you. “After this is all over.”

When it’s over. Everyone had a plan for when this is all over. Without knowing when, or even if it’s going to be over. We keep returning to our plans when everything made sense because that’s all we know. Even if our hopes bring us more sorrow than joy.

Your hand went towards Natasha’s, stroking the back of her knuckles, feeling the soft skin there. The engagement ring that had resided there when it all began. It never got the chance to be exchanged for a wedding ring. Sometimes, you thought neither of your ring's ever would.

————

Footsteps padded the ground as you walked towards the town. The sun was directly above you, beating down through the clouds of smoke and fog. The heat wasn’t as bad, the light was awful. Everything was grey, even the trees.

Neither of you spoke, even though there was something to talk about. Tony had come up with a sort of a medicine, he’d gone far enough to call it an antidote. But he hadn’t gotten to test it yet. He was trying to get away from them rather than get a small test group together to see if it worked.

As far as anyone knew, it wouldn’t work. If it did, it could change everything. Your plan for when all of this is over could become a reality. “A penny for your thoughts?” You asked, walking side by side with Natasha. The redhead turned towards you, cocking an eyebrow before turning ahead.

“Do you even have a penny?” Natasha asked quietly, even though it barely mattered. Money only mattered to those who didn’t have other things to care about. You shrugged and pulled out a penny you had in your pocket for safekeeping.

“Not that it matters,” You pulled it out of your pocket and set it out in your palm. “but yes.”

Natasha chuckled as you tossed her the coin, turning it over in her fingers. The metal had lost its shine, but the value remained. Her fingertips traced over the lines and the minted year before pocketing it.

“Since you paid me for it, you might as well know,” Natasha answered, taking in a deep breath. You stayed silent, waiting for her to speak. It took her a few moments to bring her thoughts into words, you waited patiently.

“I’m thinking about what would happen if the antidote didn’t work.” She said eventually, each word sounding deliberate. She didn’t throw it out casually, as if this was just another possibility.

You stayed silent, unwilling to think of what would happen. Ever since you’d found out, all you’d been thinking about was what would happen if it worked. Not if it didn’t. The bright side of it seemed too tempting after staying on this site for too long.

“Penny for your thoughts?” Natasha said, tossing the penny back to you. You caught it and twirled it around in your fingers. Green eyes watched you, your footsteps slowing down a little as you thought. Natasha didn’t comment, only waiting for you to speak.

“I, I don’t know Natasha.” You answered, faltering slightly. You couldn’t bear to think that this would have all been for nothing. All the lives you’d saved, all the people you’d helped, it wouldn’t make a difference. To think you’d lived your life trying to fulfill a purpose that didn’t need to be fulfilled drained you, haunted you.

“We’ve come this far, I don’t want it to be for nothing.” You commented, trying to voice your fears. It didn’t work the way you’d hoped. It made it seem lighter of your fears.

“Even if it is for nothing,” Natasha spoke after a small silence, her hand finding yours. The penny dropped out of your hand and onto the ground. You couldn’t find it in yourself to care enough to pick it up.

“We found each other.” She commented, eyes glancing to yours. your lips curved upwards into a smile as a small chuckle left you. Your fears felt lighter for a few seconds.

“Always the romantic.” You remarked, grinning to yourself.

An abnormal silence filled the area around you. the only noise your and Natasha’s footsteps. The theatre was one of the few standing structures left in the city. Steve thought it was a good idea to meet there since it was easy to find. Even though the dark fog and the dim light of the clouds above, you could see it from far away.

The stench was awful, decaying plants, collapsing buildings, spoiled food. You covered your face using the black mask you brought with you, gesturing for your girlfriend to do the same. The redhead scrunched her nose and put on the mask, quickly tying her hair in a braid behind her.

The theatre was quite large. There was some graffiti on the side. A faded white lettering caught your eye. You moved to the side to read it.

“Memento Mori,” You read the sign aloud, voice muffled slightly by the mask, tilting your head to the side slightly.

Natasha shrugged, the lettering seeming morbid considering the circumstances. Latin was a dead language. It wasn’t something you expected to be graffitied on the side of an abandoned theatre. You seemed to be waiting for her to explain what it meant.

“It means ‘Remember you must die’” Natasha explained, gloved fingertips running over the faded white. It wasn’t spray paint. It was chalk. Dust came off on her fingertips. She looked at it from afar. The lettering wasn’t graffiti at all. It was a child’s writing in chalk.

Her breathing hitched when she noticed a child had written this. Swallowing hard, she gestured for you to follow her into the theatre. Guns ready, you waited for her to open the door, following her adamance to enter before you.

Her fingers signaled a countdown when they all disappeared behind her fist. She banged the door open and pointed her gun inside, the bang echoing in the theatre. No one was inside. It was empty. The chairs were a dull red, some toppled to the side. The light fixtures on the stage were blinking, illuminating the curtains dropped on the floor.

“The team should be here soon,” Natasha stated, putting down her gun and pulling out her radio to signal them. The redhead shut the door, bolting it. You moved around to explore after the redhead gave you a warning to be careful.

Taking off your gloves, you let your hands run over the dark velvet of the chairs. It was soft to the touch. Dust came off in your hands. You wiped it off and moved towards the stage, you easily climbed on top of it, your soft footsteps resounding in the space. Moving the curtain to the side, you looked out onto the chairs.

Flashbacks of before all of this came to you. Seats filled while you sang, the applause, the lighting, the smell of popcorn. It was something you missed.

“Hey, nat?” You called out, standing at the center of the stage, flinching as your voice echoed through the room. The lone light flickering to a steady light on top of you. She hummed, turning to face you. Emerald eyes scanned the empty stage, taking in the appearance.

“Wanna dance?” You asked, reaching your hand out for her.

Natasha sighed, but followed you up to the stage, taking your hand to help her up. Engagement rings clinked against each other, always missing the chance to be turned into wedding rings. The redhead whistled as she looked around the stage before you pulled her in for a twirl.

The redhead laughed as her feet slid smoothly across the wood. You giggled softly, twirling her elegantly, letting her guide you through the motions. This might be one of your last dances, might as well make the most of it.

The dust on the floor floated as your feet shuffled across it. Soft laughter emanated from you as you twirled her again before pulling her close to you. Both of you were captured in a trance. The shuffling of feet, your voice humming a soft tune, your fiance close to you. It was entrancing.

Loud sounds outside broke you out of the trance. Feet stopped, you turned to face the entrance of the theatre. Natasha glanced towards the bag she left close to the entrance, her weapons left there. The knife in her boot the only weapon she had. She couldn’t reach them without making more noise.

Noticing the distance of the weapons, you pulled the redhead behind you. Natasha rested one hand on your shoulder, the warmth of her hand seeping through your shirt. Taking in a deep breath, you opened your mouth, ready to use your voice as a weapon if it came to that.

The noises became quieter as they approached the door, sounding like footsteps. They stopped just before the door. You took in a deep breath, ready to scream.

The door burst open with a loud boom, revealing the team behind it. Steve stood in the front with his shield, Tony had his iron man suit ready behind him. Wanda’s hand glowed with red mist whilst Carol’s glowed with yellow. All of it stopped when they caught sight of you.

“Don’t sing!” Tony shouted, lowering his blaster. Steve lowered his shield and smiled up at both of you, chuckling at Tony’s reaction. The rest of the team stood behind him, laughing at Tony’s reaction while walking up to both of you.

“I haven’t seen you in a few years and that’s the first thing you say to me?” You remarked, sliding off the stage, Natasha’s hand in yours. The redhead chuckled and followed you to the center of the theatre.

Relief filled you as you hugged them. You and Natasha were passed around like prized trophies, for everyone to admire and talk about. All of you had changed in your way.

Tony’s beard was less well kept, he kept scratching at it nervously. Steve’s hair grew longer and messier, his posture slightly slouched. Wanda’s hair turned into a darker brown than the red you were used to. Carol’s hair had grown out a little, it was in a choppy cut now rather than the well-kept one. Rhodey had dark circles under his eyes, as did Maria. Sam was more tired, joking less than you remembered.

The changes made it seem like longer had passed since you had last seen each other. None of you acted the same way. All of you paid more attention to what was around you, ears perking at every sound and movement. Time does change people, sometimes for the worse.

“I missed this,” Natasha stated, leaning back against one of the chairs while she watched the team chat amongst themselves. You smiled at her before standing next to her, arm sliding around her waist comfortably.

“Got sick of me that easily?” You remarked jokingly, thumb stroking her side. She tilted her face to meet yours, winking at you.

“You know I could never,” Natasha commented, you laughed and kissed her cheek before facing the rest of the team. Speaking of which, all looked like they had seen the worst rom-com movie play out in front of them. Sam was the first to speak, after clearing his throat.

“Two years, not much changed,” He gestured to both of you. “you still want to make me barf my guts out.”

The team laughed, relating to his statement. You shrugged and kicked his shin lightly to get his attention. He looked at you amusedly, waiting for a sarcastic response, to which you replied promptly.

“And I missed you too.” You replied, laughing as you sat down with Natasha in one of the theatre seats.

————

Tony began talking about the antidote, how much time you had left. It wasn’t a conversation you wanted to have but needed to. You played with Natasha’s fingers in your lap, trying to distract yourself from this nightmarish reality.

The antidote was already set to arm when someone entered the theatre. There was no certainty around it though.

They had set up small detectors for activity everywhere before the pandemic broke out. Most were expected to break out, some still serve as a safe place. But all of them went off, blaring and screaming that the area was unsafe.

Now, the detectors are being set off which are closer. The entire horde is gaining on the team. There was no loophole, no underground base, nothing. Sam had fixed up an old radio and found that people were living underground in the far west. Some even as far as Canada.

But there wasn’t a way to get there. The ground was clogged with the horde. Maybe you could get there by air? There had to be another way. You refused to believe anything else.

“Even Carol can’t fly us out of here?” You asked, looking to Carol after they had finished explaining. Her hazel eyes looked down before meeting yours, a sullen look clouding them. Blonde hair fell just above them, staying there at her refusal to wipe them away.

“The caves are too far for any of us to fly there,” Carol answered, wincing when she saw your hurt expression.

Her dejection did nothing to dampen you, you began to spurt out suggestions. Something, anything that might work. This is what always happened, there was no hope until someone came up with an idea. You were spewing all the ideas you could come up with, only to face a dead-end at each of them.

Five, maybe even ten rejections to ideas you could handle. But every single one, it hurt you to a point where you couldn’t recover. Each dejection your head hung just a little lower, the light leaving your eyes just a little more.

Natasha noticed, she squeezed your hand, signaling you to stop. But you kept on going, speaking anything till you were out of ideas. A heavy silence filled the room, no one dared to interrupt it. Sadness was as clear in your eyes as anger was in Natasha’s. Clearing your throat, you stood up, hand sliding out of Natasha’s.

“I need, I need some air.” You stuttered, licking your lips nervously as you walked towards the changing room. Familiar footsteps sounded behind you, you couldn’t care enough to turn around. It was going to be Natasha, she would try to comfort you even if you refused. It was all she could do to help.

Opening the door to the costume room, you walked around for a bit before familiarity caught your eye. Moving towards it, you pulled it out. It was the same costume you wore while performing. Hardly anything had changed.

Your fingers ran down the front, watching the dust float off and collect before disappearing again. A hand appeared in the small of your back, trying to provide comfort. An exasperated sigh left you as you let the hangar return to its rack.

“I’m sorry about them,” Natasha gestured to the team outside the door as you turned to face her. “there might be a way-”

“You and I both know there isn’t a way out of this.” You stated, cutting her off. Natasha blinked at your sudden response. You hardly ever interrupted her, adamant that communication was the best path to anything. Now, you didn’t care. She would be lying if she said it didn’t scare her.

“Y/n.” Natasha began, her hand sliding into yours once again.

The cool metal of your ring met hers, providing a sense of familiarity, of comfort. Before your hand slid out of hers before settling on her waist. Your forehead rested against hers as she wrapped her hands on your neck.

“Nat, this is it.” You whispered, a heavy sigh leaving you.

You deflated, everything leaving you, your sadness, your plans. Everything is gone, your eyes were barren. It was a look not many people wore, it was a look you might see someone wearing just before they died.

“Everything we wanted, everything we planned for,” You sighed, leaning your forehead away from hers to look into her eyes. Emeralds glazed with tears looked up at you. She reached up and swiped her thumb across the crease in your forehead before settling next to your cheekbone.

“It all comes to this,” You whispered, a sad, broken smile gracing your lips. Natasha bit the inside of her cheek, wanting desperately to be the strong one, to try to protect you from this. But nothing she could do could shield you from this.

She released a heavy sigh before letting go of her cheek. You barely noticed her warm arms tug you in closer, a warm hug encompassing you. It was warm, so warm, compared to the cold threatening to take over you. The comfort bringing you out of your despair as she leaned towards your ear.

“This isn’t the ending you deserve,” Natasha whispered, despondent and tired.

You wanted to say that this wasn’t the ending anyone deserved. But she knew. No one got what they deserved. Everyone hoped for the best and avoided the worst. Some complained about what they got while others tried to make it better. Even those who tried to make it better didn’t get what they deserved.

Sometimes, you managed to convince yourself and Natasha that you’d done enough good to deserve a happy ending. You just wished you’d managed to convince yourself a little longer.

————

Shuffling of cloth, muffled footsteps, gray light filled the small room. The clothes on the racks shuffled as you moved to change. The changing rooms remained unused, there was no point. The racks of clothes high enough to cover both of you.

The stage was already set, the audience was already seated. All that was needed was the performers, you and Natasha. The costume you wore for your performances was untouched, just as you’d left it. The smell of your old perfume still lingered as a memory that refused to leave.

Goodbyes had been said, different versions of them. Different emotions, all the same. The idea of saying goodbye to your family, knowing that in an hour, none of it would matter scared you. But you were numb. You didn’t know why. Maybe it was shock, denial, you didn’t know.

Shuffling of cloth sounded behind you before Natasha cleared her throat. A smile on your face, you turned around to face Natasha. She wore a chiffon ballet dress that matched the color of her hair. The pointe shoes were black, just her size. The makeup she wore brought out the green in her eyes, complimenting every feature you found yourself adoring.

The low cut dress you wore was adorned with small gold lines. It still fit the same way, felt the same as it did before. So much had changed yet nothing had.

Both of you said the obligatory compliments to each other. It was a routine, every time either of you changed your clothes to go out. This time was so much more. This time felt like the last.

You hated it. The silence, the goodbyes, the feeling that this is the last time you’re experiencing everything.

Natasha’s lips met yours in a soft kiss, sealing the moment, freezing time for a few precious seconds. You wanted to stay there forever, just stop time, leave everyone else just to be with her. It was all you wanted to do. Even that you couldn’t take.

Natasha held your hand as you led her up the stairs with familiarity. The skin touching hers gently before your rings clinked together. The team applauded as you reached the middle of the stage. You squeezed her hand tightly before letting it slip from yours.

You leaned against the wall, unable to stand straight without support. Natasha took her place at the center of the stage, glancing towards you. The team looked towards you, waiting to hear you sing. None of them knew what song you’d picked. Though, you wished you could have picked a better one.

“Thought I found away. Thought I found a way out.” Your voice echoed through the room, silencing any other sounds. Natasha’s feet shuffled across the floor as she danced, her limbs elegantly distorting the light above her.

More sounds came from outside, scrambling, rushing to get here. Some of the team glanced nervously towards the walls. Your voice became louder, drowning out everything else.

“Oh I hope someday I’ll make it out of here Even if it takes all night or a hundred years.” Your voice became louder, breaking as you sang. Tears made their appearance on their cheeks, streaming down into their lap.

More tears came on Natasha’s cheeks, resembling liquid gold as they streamed down her face. Never once did she falter, making a perfect pirouette on her toes. The tears dropped down onto the floor, the soft patter barely audible.

“Isn’t it lovely, all alone? Heart made of glass, my mind of stone.” Your voice broke slightly, you fixed it and sang louder. The sounds became louder, just in proportion with your voice. Taking in a deep breath, you continued singing, holding the microphone closer to your mouth.

“Tear me to pieces, skin to bone Hello, welcome home.” Gently placing the microphone on the side, you took your place in front of Natasha. Without missing a beat, she wrapped her arms around your neck as you slid around her waist.

Dance is supposed to be dignified, fluid, elegant. This was hardly what you would call dancing. You just swayed from side to side, occasionally twirling Natasha as she danced. Tears flowed down your cheeks, you paid no heed to them as you continued singing.

The lyrics came to you automatically as you danced with your fiance. A small fantasy-filled your mind, the fantasy that this was your wedding. Instead of hiring a singer to sing the first song, you chose to do it. All your family was watching you.

Fantasies, dreams, are all a dangerous thing. Sometimes even stronger than reality.

The sobs of your family slowly dragged you back into the dreaded reality. Natasha rested her forehead against yours, uncaring to how loud your singing was. It helped drown out everything else, she didn’t need anything more.

“Isn’t it lovely, all alone? “Heart made of glass my mind of stone.” you sang, singing the note higher than intended. No one cared as the noises grew louder.

Nuzzling your nose against your fiance, keeping her close, your feet shuffled across the ground. The dust had long been disturbed, still moving as you danced. The light above you flickered before becoming steady once again.

You thought you heard someone say goodbye, it was hard to tell over the music and the noises. Your arms tightened around Natasha, fooling yourself to protect her. Once, you had yourself convinced that if she was close to you, nothing could go wrong. How powerful, how wrong illusions can be.

The antidote armed itself as the doors burst open. The noises were louder than ever. The powder was a bright scarlet, clouding itself around everything. To drown out everything, you sang the lyrics, finishing your last song, your last performance.

“Tear me to pieces, skin to bone Hello, welcome home.” You sang, still dancing with your fiance.

The dust clouded everything, you couldn’t see anything that was happening. You weren’t sure if you wanted to. even if you did, you wouldn’t tear your eyes away from your fiance. It could be the last time you got to see her.

But you kept dancing, the noises drowned out by your voice as you sang the tune of the song. Natasha remained in your arms, like some sort of a dream. If it was a dream, you never wanted it to end. If it was a reality, you wanted to turn it into a dream.

Memento mori, such a morbid phrase, making death itself seem like a distant illusion. Maybe it was an illusion, maybe it was a reality, who were you to tell the difference?

A/N: Hope you liked this as much as i liked writing this. Send me a ask or a reblog and comment, please tell me what you think!

Taglist: @capcarolsdanver​, @versdan​, @lesbian-girls-wayhaught​, @lovebotlarson​, @dhengkt​, @hstoria​, @natasha-danvers​, @veryfunnyal​, @xxxtwilightaxelxxx​ , @ophelias-heart​  , @never-didbefore​ , @justarandomhumanhere​, @the-most-unicorn-of-them-all , @thatssocamryn​ , @lesbian-x-blackwidow​ , @marvelbbyx​ , @wlw-imaginesss​ , @hcartbyheart​​ , @summergeezburr​​ , @imnotasuperhero​  , @a-stressedstudent​ , @aaron-despair​ , @rooskaya-yelena​ , @dynnealberto , @thewitchandtheassassin​ , @wannabe-fic-reader​ , @izalesbean​, @higherfurther-romanova​  , @xixxiixx​  let me know if you’d like to be in any of my tag lists!

[crystalninjaphoenix]

Desiderium

Fantasy Masks AU: Chapter One

A JSE Fanfic

Hey! Hey! New AU! :D I’m really excited for it! As you can probably tell from the title, this is a fantasy-themed one. Taking place in the kingdom known as Glasúil, where magic and strange creatures are common, a man called Chase lives a simple life in a mountain village with his family. But of course, something just has to happen, and, well...you’ll see next chapter ;) Feel free to ask me anything about this AU, even though it’s still in its early stages I have a lot of ideas that I’m eager to share!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The forest floor was blanketed in a layer of fallen leaves, red and orange and yellow matching the colors of those still on the tree branches. Bushes and shrubs made the terrain difficult for most people. But a single rabbit hopped across the ground, unhindered by the underbrush and making no sound on the crunchy fallen leaves. It stopped by a small bush, sniffed its leaves, and started to nibble on them.

Thwip! An arrow suddenly appeared next to the rabbit. It had barely landed when the rabbit was already running, darting off quickly. “Wait, no! No!” Someone shouted. A man appeared, shooting to his feet from where he’d been hiding behind a nearby bush. He nocked another arrow and let it loose, but it missed by a mile, landing in the trunk of a nearby tree. The rabbit was already gone.

“Damn it,” Chase cursed, looking down at his arm. That last shot had been sloppy; if he wasn’t wearing his arm guard, the bow string could’ve really hurt him. He tightened the guard straps and went to collect the arrows from where they’d landed. The one that hit the tree had its point chipped a bit. “Damn it,” he said again, whispering this time. If he kept chipping arrows, he’d have to buy more, and they couldn’t afford that right now.

Maybe he’d missed because it was starting to get dark. Chase looked through the branches of the trees towards the sky. He could see the rosy hint of a sunset in the distance. Well, if that wasn’t a sign that it was time to head back, he didn’t know what was. He’d already checked the snares he’d set up yesterday and set up new ones; there was nothing more to do. Disappointed, he turned back and headed east, towards town. Hopefully tomorrow he’d find more in the forest than three squirrels and a rabbit that he failed to shoot.

The trees soon thinned. Chase walked down a familiar slope of land and quickly saw the familiar buildings at the edge of town. Well, it wasn’t really a town. It was too small for that. It was actually a village, but people called it Hilltown, and so naturally it was shortened to just town. People said things like “Hey I’m heading back to town,” or “The millers live on the edge of town.” That might be confusing in a more urban setting, where there were more cities and towns close together, but they lived in the mountains. The village was the only “town” for miles.

Chase slipped in between two buildings and officially entered the village. These buildings were made of wood, and a bit rickety due to being built on sloping ground. When the village was founded, it was first built on a relatively flat area. But as it slowly grew, it had to creep upwards onto the incline that led up to the forest. The way the buildings continued onto the slope was the reason people started calling it Hilltown, though Chase had never been fond of the name.

“Hey! Is that you, Chase?”

“Huh?” Chase stopped, and looked around. He quickly spotted the source of the call: an older man, with a black beard streaked with gray, standing in the doorway of a house. “Hi, Kieran. How’re you doing?”

“Doing fine, boy,” Kieran said good-naturedly. “Come back from hunting so soon?”

“Well it is sunset. Do you expect me to shoot in the dark?” Chase commented, raising an eyebrow.

Kieran chuckled. “So...did you shoot any beaver today?”

“No, Kieran, there are no beavers in the mountains,” Chase sighed. The older man had been living here for three years, and he couldn’t seem to grasp that.

“Ah, if you say so,” Kieran waved away. “If you ever do catch one—”

“—I can bring the pelt to you, I know,” Chase finished. And again, he’d been offering that same proposal for three years.

“That’s the spirit! I’ll be seeing you around.”

“Be seeing you.”

Chase headed onward. As the ground started to level out, the buildings became sturdier, with more made of stone bricks, and grew closer together. The streets weren’t paved, but they were cleared, dusty paths well-trod. A few people were out, though not as many as there would have been earlier in the day. Mostly small kids running around and a few people taking turns getting water at the well in the center of the town. Chase waved at them, and they nodded back. One of them, Terrance the tailor, called out “How’re you doing?” and Chase answered, “Doing fine!”

Shortly after passing by the well, he came across the tallest building in town, and was once again stopped by someone calling his name. “Mister Chase!”

He stopped and turned to face the building: the temple. The couple that ran it were standing outside the doorway. One of them, Mother Aoife, was waving at him. “Hello, Mother. Is everything alright?”

“Oh, well, can I ask you a question?” Mother Aoife said. She gestured at the entrance. “Do you think we’d have room for another holy symbol up there?”

“Uh...” Chase took a step back. The doorway to the temple had two symbols on either side of it, showing that members of either faith could practice inside. To the left was a blue candle, almost as long as a person’s arm, burning and dripping wax. To the right were two interlocking circles the size of someone’s head: one gold-ish with small triangles around the edge, one silver-ish with a line down the center. “I mean...I guess you could put one above the door.”

“No, we can’t do that!” Mother Aoife said. “That would imply that one faith is higher than the others.”

“Right. Then, I’m guessing it would be the same if you put a symbol in the space beneath one of the other two?”

“Exactly.”

“I told you it wouldn’t work.” Pastor Cait frowned. She was the other leader at the temple, and was Mother Aoife’s wife. They’d actually held two ceremonies, one for each of their respective faiths. That day had been one of the most active days Hilltown had seen in the past ten years. “Besides, nobody in town follows the Forger.”

“But it is becoming popular with those down in the flatlands of Glasúil,” Mother Aoife insisted. “What if someone comes to visit and spread the faith?”

“Well, neither of us even know anything about the Forge, anyway,” Pastor Cait pointed out.

“We could always find someone.”

“That runs into the problem of nobody in town following the Forger.”

“Um...is that all you wanted me for?” Chase asked awkwardly.

“Oh no, I just thought I’d ask you first,” Mother Aoife said. “Stacia stopped by. She said to tell you that she was leaving early and would be home when you were done hunting.”

“Really? That’s strange.” Stacia usually worked all day, and with the fall harvest coming up, she’d probably be out on the farms from sunrise to sunset. “Why?”

“She said something about Quentin,” Mother Aoife said, frowning as she tried to remember. “I think he might’ve been getting sick? There was something wrong.”

Chase felt his heart drop, leaving his chest cold. “Why didn’t you start with that?!”

“Well, I—” Mother Aoife’s explanation was wasted. Chase was already running.

It wasn’t too far from here. He sprinted down the street, not bothering to look at any of the people he passed by, heading for the other edge of town. The buildings started to spread out again, small patches of vegetable gardens dotting the rows of low stone houses. He kept running until he reached his own, recognizing the garden of radishes outside and the rough chalk drawings on the stones outside, drawn by children. Without waiting, he threw open the wooden door and rushed inside.

“Dad?” Amabel, his daughter, was sitting on the edge of the rough wooden table, carefully trying to  tie the end of a string into a loop.

“Hi, Amy. Where’s your mother and brother?” Chase asked.

“Bedroom,” Amabel said, pointing at the doorway, blocked off by a hanging length of cloth.

“Thanks.” Chase ruffled her red hair as he walked past, not wasting any time and ducking underneath the cloth. “What happened? Is it bad?!”

Stacia looked up, clearly surprised. “Chase? What do you mean what happened?”

“Mother Aoife, down at the temple, she said that you said something happened with Quentin a-and that you were leaving early because of it,” Chase hurried through the explanation. “Is everything okay?!”

“Did she...well I guess it would sound bad if that’s all she said,” Stacia muttered. “Don’t worry, it’s fine.”

“Hi Dad!” Quentin was lying in the big double-bed that Chase and Stacia usually shared, propped up against the wooden frame. Their thick winter quilt was wrapped around him, his little face and dark curls being the only thing to poke out of the patchwork cloth.

“He fell in the water trough for Rainer’s sheep when I looked away,” Stacia explained, sighing. “Got pretty wet.”

“There was a goat staring at me!” Quentin said. He didn’t seem any worse for wear.

“It’ll probably be fine, but considering his...constitution, I-I thought it’d be best if I took the rest of the day off to keep an eye on him.” Stacia pulled the blanket up over Quentin’s head, much to his delight.

All the tension immediately drained from Chase’s body. He stumbled against the wall, losing his balance in the flood of relief. “Oh thank the elders,” he breathed.

Stacia stood up. She walked over to the bedroom window—the only one in their cottage to have glass—and made sure it was firmly closed. Then she turned to face Chase. “Did you...did you get back to town early and decide to check on us?”

“No, I just got back, I ran all the way here,” Chase said, catching his breath for the first time.

“Oh.” Stacia glanced at the arrows in his quiver, then at the three squirrels he had slung over his back. “Sorry, I guess I just thought, since you didn’t seem to find that much—”

“It’s fall, Stacy, animals are starting to hibernate,” Chase said, rubbing his eyes.

“Right. I always forget that.” Stacia nodded.

“How are things going at the farm?”

“Alright. Busy. You know, Jane told me that down in the flatlands, where it’s warmer, they grow potatoes through the winter. Which makes sense, but it’s strange, isn’t it?”

“Yea, pretty strange.” Chase stood up straight. “Well, I’m going to go take care of these squirrels.”

“Oh!” Stacia’s eyes widened. “Wait, before you do, do you remember that you’re going to start teaching Amabel shooting on Hunt’s Day?”

“Yes, don’t worry,” Chase assured her. “I already have a great spot marked out.”

Stacia let out a breath. “Good. With everything today, I almost forgot until now.”

“Well, clearly Amabel didn’t forget. I saw her trying to make a bow string in the main room.” Chase smiled. “It looked pretty good, for her first time doing it on her own.”

“Wonderful.” Stacia turned back to Quentin, who was picking at the seams of the quilt. “Now go take care of those squirrels. Are you going to make dinner or should I?”

“Uh. You seem busy, I’ll do it,” Chase offered. “Right after the squirrels.”

It was well into the night by the time everyone was settled down. Quentin was fine, he hadn’t caught a cold, which was a huge relief. He’d been born a bit weaker than other children, and didn’t have as much energy as them. He often fell ill, and it was always a worry to Chase and Stacia. Amabel was heartier, but she was a quiet child. She often wandered about on her own, and was very familiar with the layout of Hilltown and the potato farms on the edge of the village, where many people worked, including Stacia. At ten years old, it was about time for her to start taking up more serious chores, and she’d asked Chase to take her hunting more than once. Of course, she had to learn to shoot first, and luckily for her, he was ready to teach her soon.

They had mutton for dinner, which they’d traded for with Rainer. Chase had managed to shoot down a bird last week, and the farmer had gladly traded a sheep for that. Now they were all sitting, taking the time to rest. Stacia was sitting in the rocking chair, patching up a hole in one of her tunics, while Amabel and Quentin were sitting by the stone fireplace, both of them now under the winter quilt.

“Don’t get too close, kids,” Chase called from his position near the window, where he was drawing their curtains closed. “A spark could fly and catch that fabric on fire.”

“It’s fine,” Amabel said, pulling the blanket closer and wrapping it around her and Quentin’s legs. “Dad, we need new curtains, those are old.”

“I know, Amy,” Chase muttered, glancing at the threadbare fabric. “But we can’t get any right now, so we’re keeping these until they fall apart.”

“Hmm.” Amabel hummed. “Dad?”

“Yes?”

“Can we have a story?”

At that suggestion, Quentin perked up. “A story! Yes!”

Chase’s eyes lit up. “Oh, well, I guess we could have one.”

Stacia looked up. “It’s late. And you need your sleep, Quentin, just in case.”

“It’ll be a short one, then,” Chase said. He walked over and sat down in one of the three rickety wooden chairs by the table. The kids spun around so their backs were to the fireplace and scooted a bit closer, though not out of range for the heat of the fire. “Where do you want your story to be from tonight? Down in the flatlands? Maybe along the coast or in the ocean? Or even in Suilthair, where the king lives?”

“What about...here?” Amabel suggested. “In the mountains?”

“Hmm...” Chase stroked his chin, fingers running along his beard hair. “You know what? I think I could work with that.”

Quentin cheered. Amabel stayed quiet, but she leaned forward, ready to hear. Stacia sighed quietly, continuing to patch, but occasionally glanced upwards, showing she was listening as well.

“Do you know what our mountain range is called in the flatlands? It’s just home to us, but to them, we live in the Dragon’s Teeth.” Chase paused for Quentin to gasp. “It’s called that for two reasons. One, because of how high and pointy they are, looking a bit like teeth. Two, because years and years ago, before people moved up into the mountains, dragons lived here.”

“What?!” Quentin whispered. “Big dragons?! Like in the warrior story?”

“Even bigger! Because up in the mountains they had a ton of space to grow into. They lived in caves, and each dragon had its own mountain.” Chase smiled. “Of course, there aren’t any dragons anymore. At least, not in our kingdom. Who knows? Maybe there are more across the seas. But dragons were very magical, and a whole bunch of other magical creatures gathered around the spaces where they used to live, sucking up all the leftover magic.”

“Do wizards get their magic from dragons?” Amabel asked.

Chase shrugged. “I don’t know. Our family’s not that magical, so I never learned that. Maybe you could find that out one day.”

Amabel nodded, her little eyes determined to answer this question someday.

“But even though there aren’t any dragons anymore, there are a lot of other creatures. You know what I always say to do if something bad happens in town?”

“Run to the forest,” the kids said in unison.

“Exactly.” Chase nodded. “Mom and I will come find you. And if nothing’s happened by the next sunset,  you come back to town on your own.” That last part was added at Stacia’s request, since she was concerned about food and woodland animals. “You know all the rules about avoiding wolves and bears, but...there are magical things in the forest. So I have three more rules for you: if a deer has golden antlers, don’t bother it. If you see a horse out on its own, don’t touch it. And if you hear a woman crying, don’t go after it.”

Quentin nodded, but Amabel tilted her head to the side. “Why? And that last one, what if it’s Mom?”

“Well, you could recognize Mom’s voice,” Chase said. “I mean if it sounds like a strange woman. Because that might not be a woman at all. That could be a banshee. They won’t mean you any harm on their own, but if they see you, they’ll try to tell you about coming tragedies. Sounds like a good warning, right? Except that hearing this warning makes the tragedy more likely to happen. So you should stay away. One time, while I was out hunting about, um...ten years ago, before you were born. I was out with Micheal down the bend, we heard someone crying. I decided to walk away, but Micheal chased after it, and when he came back he said he found a banshee. And the next morning, very suddenly, his mother died.”

“Oh no,” Quentin breathed. “What about the other two?”

“A deer with golden antlers probably isn’t a deer at all. It could be the Elder Horned One in disguise. If you disturb him, you could find yourself whisked away to join his hunters. And a horse out on its own definitely isn’t a horse at all. It’s actually a kelpie. And if you touch a kelpie, you’ll get stuck to it. It’ll run into the nearest water and drag you under, and you won’t be able to let go.”

“Alright, I think that’s enough for the night,” Stacia said, standing up. “Amabel, Quentin, you’re all washed up?”

“Yes, Mom,” they said in unison. 

“Good. Off to bed with you.” Stacia hurried the kids over to the corner, where the small bed the two of them shared was tucked against the wall. “We’ll be seeing you in the morning,” she said, pulling back the blankets and tucking them in once the kids were under.

Chase wandered over. “Good night, Quen. Good night, Amy.” He gave them each a kiss on the forehead.

“Good night Dad,” Amabel said. Quentin was already yawning, face buried in the pillow. “Good night Mom.”

“Good night,” Stacia said, giving her and Quentin a kiss as well.

With that, the two adults retreated to the separate bedroom, quickly getting ready for bed. “You ended that story abruptly,” Chase commented.

“Well you did say they were going to get drowned by a kelpie,” Stacia pointed out.

“No, I said that they wouldn’t be if they didn’t touch it. It was a cautionary tale.”

“Still, not the best to hear at night.” Stacia ran a comb through her hair. “And also, I don’t think we should tell them to go into the forest anymore. Not without an adult there.”

“Really?” Chase frowned. “Why?”

“It’s dangerous.”

“Oh, come on, Stacy. I know it is, but you can’t tell me you didn’t run around the forest when you were their age. I know I did, and I walked out. Michael did. Terrance did. Wendy and Emilia did.”

“Things are different now,” Stacia said slowly. She shifted uneasily on her feet, then glanced out the window, as if making sure nobody was outside. “Look, you know Rose, Aodhan’s wife?”

“No, but I definitely know Aodhan, he runs the potato farms.”

“Well, Rose is married to him. The past week, she’s been working with us for the harvest, and...she says there are...new things in the forest.”

Chase paused. He’d been about to blow out the candle in the sconce by the door, but something about the way Stacia said that made him pause. “Like...what?”

“Townsfolk have been seeing the figures of...people,” Stacia whispered. “But not your regular, everyday people. These ones carry weapons, a-and they wear...masks. Masks shaped like animal faces. They move quickly and silently, and some think that they’re spirits of some kind.”

“I’ve...never heard of spirits wearing animal masks,” Chase said in a low voice.

“Neither have I. But here’s the thing: Rose doesn’t believe those rumors.” Stacia paused. “Did you know there’s trouble down in the flatlands? People are...unhappy. With how the king is running things.”

“What? That’s strange,” Chase muttered. “I remember hearing that he’s the best king Glasúil ever had.” Though now that he was thinking about it, it had been a while since he’d heard something like that.

“Well, it’s trouble either way to have people thinking that about a king,” Stacia said firmly. “And Rose thinks that these spirits in masks are just people running around the forest, hiding out, being rebels. And that’s dangerous, Chase. Animals and magic behave by certain rules you can expect, but people...you just don’t know with them.”

“I guess you’re right,” Chase muttered. He paused, then blew out the candle and headed back towards bed. “Well, I haven’t seen any of these masked spirits. And I’m in the forest every day. So it’s probably nothing to worry about yet.”

“That forest is big, Chase,” Stacia said, clearly worried despite his reassurance. “You’ve probably only explored a tiny part of it, and the same goes for anyone else in town.”

That was true. Even in his farthest hunting trips, he’d only gone far enough to find his way back to Hilltown relatively quickly. “I still say it’ll be fine,” he reiterated. “I don’t see why any rebels would bother us, even if they were out there.” He climbed into bed. “If I see something weird when I’m out tomorrow, I’ll reconsider it. Besides, it’s not good to think about things like this before bed, as you pointed out to the kids.”

Stacia sighed, and got into bed as well, pulling the blankets up. “I just...don’t want anything to happen to them.”

Chase nodded. “I don’t either,” he agreed softly. Then he took a deep breath. “Good night, Stacy.”

“Good night, Chase.” Stacia leaned over and blew out the candle on the bedside table, leaving the room dark except for the moonlight coming through the window. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The next morning went the same as every other morning. The family had breakfast, either Stacia or Chase went out to manage the garden while the other took care of the kids—today it was Chase for the former and Stacia for the latter, though they switched every other day—then Stacia got ready to go to the farms and Chase got ready to go hunting. As always, the kids went with Stacia, wandering around within eyesight and earshot of her while she worked. Though Chase could tell Amabel was eager to start going into the more dangerous forest with her dad, judging by the way she kept looking at her miniature bow, still unstrung. He ruffled her hair and reminded her that Hunt’s Day was just two days away, then headed off, waving goodbye to Stacia and the kids.

Passing through town was the same as ever as well. Some people were lined up at the well, as they always seemed to be. It looked as though the temple was unchanged, so clearly Mother Aoife and Pastor Cait had resolved their issue. Kieran waved goodbye as Chase walked past, and reminded him to look for beavers to shoot. 

And from there...the day was largely uneventful. Which was not good. Hunting was always a lot of waiting and wandering and being quiet, occasionally interrupted by action as you aimed and shot at an animal. But in the fall like this, that last bit of action was becoming rarer. And it didn’t help that it was really starting to get cold. Chase could see his breath in the air in front of him, and he kept pulling his felt hat down over his head. It was old, and almost nobody else in town had one like it, but he kept it because it had a handy brim for blocking the sun. It was also good for cold days like these, when he hadn’t grabbed his jacket because he mistakenly believed it would be as warm today as it was yesterday.

The sun passed overhead. Chase stopped around midday to have a lunch of bread and jerky, then moved on. He stopped by his usual snares, but found that nothing had stumbled into them. Not even a few squirrels like the day before. Growing frustrated, and more than a little desperate, he wandered farther into the forest, but still found nothing. This was bad. Sure, they had a stockpile of preserved meat and jerky from his hunts during the summer, but that would run out eventually. And what if Quentin got sick, and needed something more hearty than dried, stringy meat? What would they do then?

It was starting to get late when he saw it. Just a flicker of movement out of the corner of his eye. Chase stiffened, and slowly turned. There, right in between two trees, fully in view of him...was a deer. Its coat was dark brown, almost black, and it was grazing peacefully, not paying him the least bit of attention. It had been a few weeks since he’d seen a deer. That was a bit unusual, really. But it didn’t matter anymore. There was one here now. Slowly, he drew his bow.

The deer raised its head and started to walk away. Carefully, Chase followed it. He stepped carefully, making sure there were no twigs or crunchy fallen leaves before putting his foot down. After a while, the deer stopped again, grazing for a bit. Chase made sure he was in a good position, then raised his bow and reached towards the quiver on his hip. Then the deer started walking away again.

Chase followed it, for longer than he probably should have. The shadows grew more slanted, then started to take over, but he kept following the deer. Every time he got into a good position to shoot and started to grab an arrow, it moved on. After a while, it felt like a game. A game of...chase. He almost laughed when the thought occurred to him, but stopped just in time to catch the sound.

It was well into dusk when the deer wandered into a small circular clearing. Chase stopped, still hidden by the trees, and gritted his teeth to stop them from chattering. Once the sun went behind the mountains in autumn, the temperature dropped rapidly. But it wouldn’t be long now. He had to get this deer. They needed it. And now it was just standing there, ears twitching. Chase raised the bow again, and this time when he reached for an arrow, he pulled it out and slowly nocked it, steadying his stance to take aim.

But then...no, something was different. The deer’s antlers...had they gotten bigger? More...curvy? Chase paused, puzzled. Then he took a closer look.

The antlers were...glinting. He was sure they were ordinary bone before, but now they looked almost...golden.

Gasping, Chase instantly let go of his bow and arrow. They landed in the undergrowth with soft thumps.

The deer’s ears stopped twitching. But instead of running away, it turned around. And it looked at him. And there was something different about its dark, dark eyes. Different from other deer eyes, from other animal eyes, that Chase had seen before.

He slowly raised his hands. “I—I didn’t kn—”

The deer looked away from him, turnin to the side, staring off into the distance. Then it broke into a run in the opposite direction, hooves making no sound on the forest floor.

For a long, long while, Chase just stood there, shivering, breath pluming in the air. Had that...really happened? Or had he just imagined it because he’d been out in the cold for so long? After some time, he bent over and picked up his bow and the arrow he’d dropped, putting them away. Well, it was also dark. He could’ve been just...seeing things in the moonlight. And speaking of moonlight, he should really be heading home by now. He was late. Now...which way was it?

He’d wandered a long way following that deer. It was dark and he wasn’t as familiar with this part of the forest as he was with areas closer to home. So by the time he found his way back, it was definitely night, no longer twilight. Stacia and the kids must be so worried. Chase picked up the pace.

Wait...if it was night, then why was there an orange glow in the distance? It was well past sunset. Chase squinted, and in a split second, he realized a few things: First, the glow was coming from the direction of Hilltown. Second, even if it was sunset, the forest was west of town, and therefore the town wouldn’t be between him and the sunset. Third, he was getting closer to the glow. Closer in a way that just didn’t happen with a setting sun. His heart froze. And he burst into a flat run, easily clearing the edge of the forest.

The village was on fire.

Chase just stood and gaped for a moment, feeling the heat from here. The wooden buildings that ran up the sloping ground were all ablaze. He could see dark shapes in the streets, and the figures of people running around, with—horses? A lot of horses. There were only about four in the whole town, and this was definitely more than that.

Snapping out of the daze, he ran, but in his haste, lost footing on the uneven ground and fell, tumbling head over heels for a bit before he managed to stop himself. “Ow...” he groaned, lifting himself up and coming face to face with the flames. Quickly, he threw himself backwards, scrambling to a safe distance.

Now that he was closer, he could definitely make out what was happening. The dark shapes on the ground between the burning buildings...were bodies. He couldn’t recognize anyone, but then again, he couldn’t bring himself to look for any longer than necessary. And there were strangers wandering around. Some on foot, some on horses, but all wearing chain mail armor underneath dark tunics. Chase stared at them, wide-eyed. The strangers were shouting. To each other? To their horses? To anyone left? It was hard to tell.

But they hadn’t noticed Chase. Quickly getting to his feet, he started running around the edge of town. He had to get home! At this time of night, Stacia would be there, Quentin and Amabel would be there—were they okay?! They had to be okay! He didn’t know what he would do if—He wouldn’t forgive himself if he was away and missed being able to help them.

Going around town was a lot slower than going through it, but everything—everything—was on fire. Even the stone buildings! How was that possible?! If the stone buildings were on fire, their cottage could—he pushed himself to run faster.

He couldn’t avoid it anymore. He had to run into the town to get home. But the smoke—even from here, his eyes were watering. So he took his hat off and pressed it to his face, filtering it before he could breathe it in. And he plunged into the raging flames. Even staying in the center of the path, the heat was almost unbearable. But Stacia—Quentin, Amabel—

The cottage. Their home. It was also on fire. The old curtains were ash, the vegetable garden was a raging inferno. “Stacia!” Chase shouted. “Stacy! Quentin! Amabel! Stacy! Quen! Amy! Where are you?!”

Voices. Chase turned and saw some of those strangers nearby, one on a horse. And...he hadn’t noticed this before, but there was a symbol on the back of their dark tunics. A shield, black and blue striped, with a green circle in the center, a black dot in the center of that. The symbol was—it was—the symbol for their kingdom, the kingdom of Glasúil. Chase had never seen it in person, but everyone grew up learning of that insignia. And they also learned that, while local militia may wear a simplified green ring on their clothes, only soldiers working directly for the royal family were allowed to wear the full crest.

Chase recalled this fact dimly, but it didn’t really register. One of the strangers—the soldiers—started to turn around. And gasping, coughing a bit, Chase turned and ran right back out of town, never stopping until he was well clear of the last few houses, out onto the potato fields. In the distance, he saw the house of Aodhan and Rose, the farm owners. It was also on fire.

What was he supposed to do now?! Stacia, and the kids...were they...? No, no they couldn’t be.

The forest.

He’d told the kids to run into the forest if there was ever any danger in town. And sure, Stacia was concerned about rebels in the woods and those strange masked figures, but in the face of this? Maybe she would do the same. Well...it was all he could think of. The only straw he could grasp. Stumbling, Chase turned around and ran back the way he came.

The trees enveloped him in a strange sense of calm, a world removed from the blazing horrors of the burning town. He stumbled for a moment, tripping over some brush, then ran faster. “Stacia! Quentin! Amabel!” he yelled. Even with the distant light from the flaming ruins of the village, the trees above blocked out most of the light, leaving him in shadows. His eyes darted about for any movement. “Where are you?! Can you hear me?”

Abandoning all his hunter’s instincts telling him to stay quiet, he ran through the woods, staggering over brush and rocks that he couldn’t see in the darkness. “Can you hear me?! Answer me! Stacy! Quen! Amy!” Chase’s cries pierced through the silence. There was no sign of them. Maybe they’d gone farther. Thinking that, he plunged deeper into the trees.

Things quickly became unfamiliar. Whether it was because of the distance or because of the darkness, he couldn’t say. But the strangeness only spurred him on. What if his family was lost out here? Alone in the woods? He’d taught the kids something about foraging for food, but not enough, not in this situation. And Stacia was a farmer, not a hunter or a forester. He had to find them. He had to—

Chase noticed the lack of ground beneath his foot a split second after stepping forward. Then he fell. Luckily, it wasn’t off a cliff, but he did land with a loud splash! as he fell into some shallow water. Pebbles and rocks bit into this arms as he extended them out to brace for impact. He sat up, spluttering, now completely soaked. What was this, a stream? A pond? He couldn’t quite see in the dark, but he did know one thing: there were no streams or ponds near the town, and certainly not in the parts of the forest he knew.

Securing his hat, he stood up. His bow and quiver knocked against his side, and he then realized that the fall had caused most of his arrows to fall out. Well...that wouldn’t be good in the future. But he couldn’t see where they’d fallen into the water, and there was no time. He pressed onward.

The trees were close together, heavy branches blocking out the sun. Chase kept his arms out in front of him, to make sure he didn’t run into a trunk. If he couldn’t even see the trees, he definitely wouldn’t be able to see a person. And they wouldn’t be able to see him. “Stacia! Kids! A-are you out h-here?” He gritted his teeth to stop them from chattering. It was cold before, and now it was later, and he was wet, making it positively freezing. “Stacy! K-kids! Are you here?!” But he kept going.

The rush of emotion was starting to fade. He was getting tired. Maybe if he took a rest...no! No, what could be happening to them while he rested?! And besides, he’d be easy prey for any predators out here if he slept. He staggered forward. The forest was practically pitch black, but he kept shouting, his voice growing hoarse, and hoping to hear a reply. 

The underbrush must be thicker here, because he kept tripping up. He fell down twice, but pulled himself to his feet and went onward. His hands were shaking...shivering. “S...Sta-asha. Quen...Quentnn…Ammbel,” he mumbled. It was hard to keep his eyes open. Where was he? Shouldn’t he...shouldn’t he have found some town by now? No, the forest went on for...for acres. He knew this. How could he forget...“Plea...pl’se...say y’r here...I...wher...?”

He couldn’t...couldn’t stop now. He needed to find them. Couldn’t...leave them. On their own. He kept pressing onward. It was getting so hard...he had to use the trees for support sometimes. Stop to take a break. But not to give up. “Can’...give up...St-stace...Quen...Am...ple-please...”

And once again, he stepped somewhere without support. But now he couldn’t even register it. He just knew he was falling, rolling down, down a hill. Coming to a stop when he hit...something. A tree? Those felt like...roots, beneath him. His arm moved a bit, trying to grab something to pull himself up. Fingers drifted across a bark-covered surface, but couldn’t...couldn’t grab. So his arm fell back down. Maybe...he should rest for just a few minutes.

But after just a few seconds of staying still, he heard a strange rustling sound. Raising his head weakly, he saw...a strange sight indeed. People. No, not quite people. Human bodies, dressed in dark clothes...but with white-feathered bird faces where heads should be. Four or five of them...Wait. No, not bird heads. Bird masks. Masks made out of some sort of white material. Hadn’t...hadn’t he heard something about masks recently?

The masked figures drew closer. Chase stared up at them. He was so...so tired. He wouldn’t be able to run even if the thought had managed to...to get through. 

One of them knelt down next to him, pulling off a glove. They pressed a pair of fingers to his neck, and he shivered. He wasn’t cold anymore. Or he was, but this bird person’s hands were colder.

They stood up again, and turned to the others. He heard the sound of voices, but his head couldn’t process the words. What were they...were they hear to...help? Or...?

He was too tired to think about it. He let his head fall back to the forest floor.

The last thing Chase felt before losing consciousness was the sudden lift of someone picking him up.

[alexlabhont]

I didn’t mean to fall in love with you

Chapter eleven

Book: Queen B - Choices (Universe)

Pairing:  Poppy Min-Sinclair x Trans!Male MC (Beck Hughes)

Genre: Canon re-write (Because I can)

Rating: Anyone can read it, really

Tags: @dopeyouth @theymakemegayer @save-me-the-last-dance @poppysmc (If anyone want to be tagged in or removed, just tell me)

This is me trying to write by and for the Trans community, specially FTM community, meaning, trans guys, but I actually took the liberty to use They/them pronouns for everyone out there who´s interested (Also, the name Beck was the most neutral one I could find, trying to use the cannon Bea Hughes)

If you have any comment, PLEASE BE RESPECTFULL and patient with me. This is also my first english fanfic and english is not my mother language, so… i’m sorry fo the grammar errors. I also installed recently Grammary, so… hope its worth it.

This chapter contains some sensitive topics about tragedies and sex insinuations, I really didn't want to write it down with details both out of respect. I mean, personally, I didn't want to explain what's "under" in a fanfic, but if you do have doubts or curiosity, ask away in chat, especially if you are starting hormones, there is a lot for you to know about down there because it definitely changes something. Also, this other topic might touch a nerve and I really didn't do it without respect to the victims, so I'm sorry if it feels like that.

Previously

----

Staten Island it’s the third-largest borough in New York, but it is the least populated. The northern part of the island is the most urbanized, with some areas of somewhat decayed housing blocks that didn’t attract attention at all. It was… ok? quiet? She wasn’t sure exactly what to say about that place, but what was another thing she wasn’t sure about? Well...

“Are you not going to tell me what are we doing?” Poppy asked once again, feeling irritated as they both walked through the breeze but warm streets. At first, she thought they were taking the bus but Beck asked something to a random guy and started walking for a really, really long time, what was all this about? Beck looked tense, kind of nervous, and that alone made her feel strange, unnerved. "Are you alright?" Poppy asked again, but this time she sounded worried.

"Yeah, I'm just…" They exhaled in an attempt to draw their nerves away from themself. "I'm pretty nervous. I've never done this before." Beck chuckled.

"Do what?" Poppy frowned, curiosity floating in her mind strongly, to be honest, she had never seen them so tense before, even though they were trying to look calm. Beck smirked and took her by the hand.

"Come on, I have to show you something."

"Is it too far?"

"Are you already tired?" Beck replied, mocking her with that sassy smile of theirs.

"Me? Absolutely no." She said, raising an eyebrow. "I could literally go for miles."

"I'll have to prove that myself." Beck winked and she couldn't help but laugh.

"You're a dimwit."

"Yeah" they shrugged. "I'm cute, though.”

“Barely.” She rolled her eyes, trying to suppress a smile but failing in the process so Beck laughed at it. Suddenly an unexpected drop felt swiftly in her nose, making her look up to the sky where a big, grey cloud was still above their heads. Soon, she felt raindrops in her hair, her clothes, her shoes!

“Oh, shoot. This is not good…” Beck said while they both walked faster, reaching out for cover in a shop awning.

“You think? These Jimmy choo are not even in the market yet!”

“Well, we don’t want them to be ruined, don’t we?."

"Of course not! What kind of dumb ques—"

Poppy didn't get to end the sentence, Beck took her by the wrist and started running full speed and nonstop. "Beck!" She screamed, the rain pouring down her body while that asshole laughed like a devilish kid. "Beck Hughes, let go of me this instant!!"

"We're almost there!" She heard them saying without turning to see her.

"Where are you taking me?!"

Beck slowed down little by little until they both stopped in front of a tiny, old, yellow house with barely two floors. Beck took the keys out of their pockets and opened the door, allowing Poppy to get inside the dark and quiet place.

“So… here we are.” Beck spoked turning on the lights.

The place that received them was the living room, but it was not an ordinary living room, it had neon lights currently exposing a purple color, a keyboard piano, a couple of guitars, and an old-fashioned mended couch with a lot of patches over black leather that actually looked really well together. The walls were exhibiting posters, framed cool landscape black and white photographs, and a Youtube silver plaque. She recognized the place right away.

“Wait… this is the place where you record your music.” She asked. Poppy watched Beck’s videos a lot recently at first the blonde was searching for information, then, to find a flaw to criticize with Chloe, but sooner rather than later Poppy found out… Beck was actually a really good musician, so sometimes when she was completely sure she was alone she’d listen to their songs while doing cardio or homework or whatever she was doing. “I was wondering where you found the location.”

“Yes… but also no. I mean, I do the videos here, but I have an audio booth upstairs. It’s actually a quiet neighborhood so it came in handy.” Beck took off their jacket, reaching out their hand to ask for Poppy’s. They both were wet, but not a lot, her shoes survived perfectly because they entered the house before a loud thunder sounded, followed by a deluge. “Damn, we do really dodge a bullet out there.”

“Yeah.” Poppy said, hugging herself. Without her coat, she felt a little cold. “Do you own this place?”

"No, this is my uncle’s." Beck whispered with reverence and a sad smile on their face. "My dad's little brother. He passed away."

"I— I'm sorry, Beck…" she managed to say, clueless about what exactly would someone do in this kind of situation.

"I didn't remember much about him, but my mom says he used to make these guitars out of plastic bottles as gifts for me to play them. She said I would go to the kitchen and play one for her to hear. She also said the sound was awful and she begged him to stop making them." Beck's smile was soft, turning on the heating, proud even though they were chuckling a little, spreading the same smile to Poppy. " 'I'm telling you, this little pal has talent.' he would say."

"Sounds to me like he made it to annoy your mom instead." Poppy said jokingly.

"Totally, he was a prankster." Beck replied, the emotions coming out from their eyes were difficult to tell. "And was one of the few dudes back at Farmsville that didn't want to settle down. The black sheep in every family… and the reason why my parents didn't want me to be here." Beck clutched their jaw, walking away from there to the kitchen. Poppy followed them in silence, feeling like it was something very private for Beck, seeing that vulnerable side of them again, but not hiding this time. "He was murdered years ago here in New York in a shooting. In Farmsville shootings don’t happen, so… They said it was dangerous going out of the farm to the big cities. That he brought this on himself... Took this out of the wrong way." The anger in Beck's voice was palpable in the air.

"Seriously? How can they be so selfish?" Poppy asked, how can someone be so fucking self-centered and dumbass to take a tragedy and blame it on one family member? She thought these things happened exclusively around that bunch of tight-ass people inside her parents’ social circle, but not inside a family farm.

"Back at home is different from here. Is a small town where everyone knows each other. They love routine and hard work and the good customs and shit… So when anyone goes against it… well— it's not funny."

Something clicked inside Poppy's mind.

"But then… How are you here?" Beck smiled but it didn't reach out to their sad eyes.

"Because I almost got killed."

Shock. Poppy couldn't help but feel agitated, her heart pounding loud against her chest and that same protective feeling that almost made her stab Bennett crawled its way towards her own core.

"What?" Poppy babbled, froze. Beck shrugged, with a weird grin as if they didn't know where to start, they caressed their neck, searching for the better way to put the puzzle together. They reach out for Poppy's hand, and she took it right away intertwining her fingers with Beck's.

"Coffee?" They asked. "It seems we will be stuck in here for a while.”

"It sounds nice." The words abandoned her mouth so fast that she even surprised herself, another red alarm ringed inside her mind, but now was not the time, so she ignored it again. Beck smiled and turned on a little coffee maker, bringing two mugs in silence. They both sat down on the surprisingly comfortable couch, Beck’s eyes were attentive at the black drink and the tension was still over their shoulders, she could see it so easily that Poppy wished for someone to take that weight out of Beck, so she took both cups and put them aside, sitting over Beck’s lap and intertwining her fingers with theirs, playing with them. Beck smiled a little and took a deep breath.

"I started to realize something was off inside of me when I was in high school. I mean, ‘till that day I was considered normal. I was the kind of child that played sports, climbed trees, and did hard work gladly. You know, average farm kid." Beck said, but even as they seemed to be calm, Poppy could feel the sweat in their palm, and a little shivering all over their body. "But I grow older and changes came, and puberty and—"

"Hey" Poppy stopped them from talking faster and faster. "You don't have to"

"I want to. " Beck interrupted, begging Poppy with their eyes. "I want you to know my past. I mean… if you want me to tell you, that is."

Poppy could have thought anything at that moment. She could have thought that she made it, that she had accomplished her very goal and knew she was about to have first-hand information to use against Farmsville, that she was spectacular for making it this far. She could have thought that now nobody would take her number one spot from her, or that she loved to have a new puppy to use in any way she wanted. But no.

All in what she could think about was Beck's heart opening up to her, trusting her for real this time. The connection intertwining both of them in a way that made her skin chill. Third alarm, but she muted it again.

"So? What are you waiting for? Go on." Poppy rolled her eyes, Beck had a goofy expression for a couple of seconds until Poppy smiled, squishing slightly their hands for reassurance. Beck's eyes glowed happily in which was the cutest gesture Poppy saw from someone that wasn't a dog in her entire life.

"I managed to handle myself a little for a while, but it definitely didn't last long. I was so afraid, I felt lost, and insecure. I didn’t know what was happening to me, why did I feel that way, trapped in my own skin... I stopped having friends because everyone could see how weird I was and nobody wanted to talk to me, except for this one girl: Bree Matthews."

Beck’s jaw tightened, their eyes wandering all over the place because of the nervousness.

“So, Bree and I started to hang out. Chill some time round. We were close, I mean, really, really close. She was the one who I told about my dysphoria first, and she was totally supportive. She helped me understand what I was going through, sometimes she would borrow her brother’s old clothes to give them to me and helped me pick my very first short haircut. Bree was my safe space in a town where I’d be mistreated just to use a bathroom. I kinda felt for her… so one night into the forest I kissed her. And~ it wasn’t a good idea.”

“What happened?”

“Well~ Daniel and his gang came into the picture and intimidated her, so she sold me as a pervert, a weirdo, among other… awful things. Can’t blame her, Daniel was a wrecked truck whenever he wanted so… yeah. My family found me eight hours after, all beat up from head to toes. I was unconscious and with an actually broken rib.” Beck tried to joke, but it was so bad at timing it actually made it worse for Poppy to hear. “I~ I almost die.” Beck sighed, as if with that they could put all that behind. “Anyway so she apologized to me through a phone call because she wanted to kiss me too but, you know, shit happens; I got better and now I’m in New York doing what I love so… Happy ending, right? It was funny, they didn’t let me use the bathroom but they all thought I was “male enough” to beat the crap out of me ever since.”

Poppy stopped playing with Beck’s hands, making them do the same. They told the end of the story so lightly as if they were talking about a T.V. show they just watched and not some really cruel harassment they went through for a long time. The strawberry blonde was a lot of things, bad things, but the things that beast did to Beck just because of their dysphoria? That was a whole new level that Poppy would never stoop into.

“How can you joke about things like that?”

“Well, I figured I had two ways to address the problem: Being insecure or making the most out of this. That’s why I do music. Yeah, my songs don’t talk about the transgender community directly, but I make sure everybody knows who am I. What I am. I write songs for people out there that feel just the same as I do. Not only transgender people, but the whole LGBTQ+ also needs representation! Folks having their back! And if I can reach at least one soul and show them that no matter how they were born, they can make it… Hell, I could die happily.”

The fire in their eyes, the passion radiating strongly from their body, from their words. It was impossible for Poppy to look away from Beck. Of course, Beck didn’t care about a spot in the T list, or and stupid award. Beck was more into their music, making their voice be heard. That was why they did claim to care less about competition, Beck was climbing their way to the top because of their conviction and resilience. It was curious how the more she learned about Beck, the more she felt drawn to them.

“You are so brave, do you know that?”

“And it only took me a delicate rib and trust issues.” Beck claimed proudly as if it was a bargain.

“Trust issues? Beck, you’re one of the most confident people l know!” They began to laugh, the blonde could feel their laughter below her because of the slight belly-shaking. “It’s irritating.”

“I am really amazing myself.” Poppy rolled her eyes at the flirty smirk Beck flashed towards her. “But I’m not insecure about myself… most of the time. I do have a hard time trusting in people. I mean, Daniel didn’t have a hold on me… Bree, on the other hand…” Beck shrugged. “But I do trust you, Poppy.”

Something inside the blonde felt off, those words accompanied by that good-natured smile made Poppy feel a bit guilty. Like, yeah, she was just trying to archive exactly that for her own benefit, it should feel like a win, right? But no.

“You haven’t done anything wrong, yet.” She said to herself. “For all we know, this is just some casual date.”

Maybe… give up? Maybe actually try and date Beck?

What could possibly go wrong?

“I trust you too, Beck.” She replied without a doubt. So she tossed her golden locks over one shoulder, leaning down to kiss Beck’s lips. She soon felt them kissing her back, sweetly, calmly at first but then it was obvious they both needed more than that. Poppy let go of Beck’s hands to place hers in their Beck, while they grabbed her by the waist. The heat soon took over her body, especially after they responded to it by biting Poppy’s bottom lip, making her moan. Poppy knew right away there was a change in Beck’s behavior, they were more confident, more secure, they actually felt ready and she had to say, that was a very welcome and pleasing development. But they were shaking still.

“What 's wrong? You don’t want to—?”

“No. No, it 's not it. It 's just…” Beck took a deep breath avoiding Poppy's gaze for a second before looking at her pleading while keeping hold on her. “I don’t want you to see me differently when you look at what I have beneath the clothes.” They confessed.

“I won’t. I promise.” She said, caressing the hair in the back of their nape. “This is just you, with all letters.” She smirked, trying to lighten the mood and she succeeded. Beck grinned from ear to ear, relieved, kissing her passionately, hungry and the Poppy did the same, tasting their tongue with hers. The caresses between the two became more intense and she couldn’t stand the fever growing anymore, so she took the edges of their favorite black t-shirt and pulled up, revealing Beck torso for the very first time.

She understood right away what Beck meant. Cutting through their chest there it was a thin, darker line, a scar that was slowly healing, but nevertheless it was there easy to pinpoint. It was strange, she had seen a lot of those mastectomy scars on google but Beck chest looked different somehow, strong, gym crafted, and the scar actually was interesting, sexy even.

“I don’t know what you were so scared of, Hughes. Hell, you’re hot as fuck, I hate you.”

Beck chukled, their confidence coming back.

“Yeah, well… There is not an ugly part on this body afterall.” They grinned.

“I’m going to erase that obnoxious smirk of yours.”

“You will?” Beck grabbed a hold on Poppy’s hair and pulled slightly but demanding backwards, exposing her neck to them to kiss and lick, causing a shaking sigh that turned the heat even higher for both. “Show me then.” They whispered over her skin, their breath brushing bristling her body.

Poppy pushed them down on the couch, kissing them hardly. This was war now, and she would definitely win.

----

Next

[solastia]

The Dragon’s Lair | 6

- Riddle Me This -

Pairing: Dragon Hybrid Namjoon x Reader

Word Count: 5,094

Notes: It feels like so much has happened and this has been going on for so long, right? But this is actually the very beginning of my long and complicated outline lmao. Anyway, it’s time to meet our Sphinx! I wonder who this could be *insert lenny face here*  And if you’re wondering if there will ever be an end to me adding other kpop fandoms: no, no there will not be. We’re catchin em all. 

The winter storms were slowly giving into the spring rains. Of course, this made everything horribly humid and muddy, but at least you weren’t snowed in for days on end anymore. 

As soon as you were able, you scheduled contractors that specialized in hybrid-friendly rooms to help get one prepared, as you fully planned on starting the adoption process for Mark when it was done. You had to make sure it had its own heating and cooling system separate from the rest of the house, insulation for winter, and UV lighting, among other things. Needless to say, it was not going to be a quick process, but Mark was safe at the shelter with Heechul’s near-constant vigilance. 

You’d also begun to clear out the barn that you’ve only been using for storage since your grandparents had adopted out all of their animals. You weren’t quite sure how serious you were yet about getting some animals in there again, but for now, it gave you something to do while construction was going on inside your home. 

You spent a lot of time throwing out or giving away anything unusable, sweeping out stalls, and scrubbing everything down until it shone like it hadn’t in years. Thankfully you still kept in touch with a lot of the people that had worked with your family over the years and it was easy to have fresh supplies brought in, half of which you weren’t even sure you’d ever use, but everyone was happy to hear that the farm was going back to work in a sense. 

Despite all these other changes, your relationship with Namjoon was settled into a comfortable path. Not to say that things were unexciting - the man never failed to find some new way to make your heart flutter - but it felt secure and steady now. Like the two of you being a forever thing was assured. It continually surprised you when you remembered that you actually hadn’t been together for very long. He felt like he’d always been there. 

Most days were simply routine. You’d both wake up at the same time and shower - together more often than not -, have breakfast and then he’d head to the shelter while you’d work in your office. At least three times a week you’d meet up to have lunch together, thankful that both of you had lenient bosses that wouldn’t freak out when an hour-long lunch turned into two or three. Once he was home for the day, the two of you usually just spent your time together. You’d watch a movie or read while you cuddled on the couch, oftentimes ignoring the screen to simply listen to him talk. The way he viewed the world was beautiful and you never grew tired of listening. 

Namjoon had put his foot down and declared date night mandatory. So every single Saturday without fail he’d drag you into town for some event or into the mountains for a hike, always doing his best to create the most romantic day possible. You’d tried to convince him that he didn’t need to do all this, that simply walking with him in the forest near your home was romantic as long as he was there, but he claimed he was still “courting” you so it wasn’t something he could just stop. You assumed that meant it was something to do with his Dragon side and let him do as he pleased. 

Once a week you’d usually tag along and go to the shelter, spending most of your time in the playrooms. According to one of the volunteers, Heechul’s shelter held an average of one hundred and fifty hybrids at any given time, which seemed an astronomical amount if one didn’t know about the secret wings and the fact that you were pretty sure he’d borrowed the whole ‘bigger on the inside’ concept. 

You tried to spend as much time as you could with all the hybrids, but as you were only one person there was only so much you could do. Still, you did have your - as Heechul called them - “cub club.” There have been many arguments in the little group about the name - starting with you wondering why they needed a name at all - since they were composed of all different species, but they gave in after Heechul’s continuous use of it and the fact that it apparently was cute, according to Namjoon. 

Basically, it was a group of hybrids that seemed to have singled you out as a clear favorite and would follow you around the moment you stepped into the building. The unspoken leader of the group was your little Mark, who was always waiting by the front door of the building when you would come in. Usually right next to him was Felix, who seemed to split his time between your cubs and Namjoon’s fan club fairly equally. Some newer friends of yours were a teen tiger hybrid named Seonghwa, and wolf pup siblings Changkyun and Jooheon. There were a few others that came and went, but these were your regular crew. 

Today was one of your shelter days, and you were once again surrounded in the playrooms. Mark was sitting next to you with his raccoon hybrid friend Donghyuck, who was an honorary member of Star’s Cubs at this point with how often he was attached to Mark. They were both coloring a picture of their dream bedroom - a sneaky idea you’d gotten so that you could have Mark’s room ready and decorated when the adoption finalized. 

Felix was having a Namjoon day, so after he’d run up to hug you when you’d first arrived, he’d gone right back to the class that Namjoon was currently teaching. You’d probably see him again at lunch, and then he’d talk a mile a minute about everything Namjoon was teaching him and demand cuddles. 

Changkyun and Jooheon were currently wrestling around on the floor near your feet. They were a complicated pair. They had both been found in the wild several months ago, seemingly without any sort of parents or guardians whatsoever. The boys themselves weren’t sure, but you judged them to be around nine or ten. They were smart kids but had obviously been living on their own for quite some time. They mentioned a “her” a few times, speaking of someone from their memories that would make certain foods or clean them, but they couldn’t remember who she was. Their mother, you assumed. 

Needless to say, they were perhaps not the most well-mannered children, but they were sweet and eager to please. To you, at least. The other volunteers usually tried to interact with them as little as possible after a few too many bites and temper tantrums, often referring to them as feral monsters. You had, of course,  taken that up with Heechul, but the damage had already been done and they were labeled as such by everyone. From the day Jooheon had met you, however, he’d decided you “smelled nice” and would bring you scraps from their dinners (that they apparently hoarded - bad habits left from living in the wild). It had taken Changkyun a little longer to warm up to you, but one day he’d just walked up and pushed Felix out of your lap and took his place. You’d scolded him and made him apologize, but you’d let him stay, deciding it had probably been a very long time since he’d been hugged by anyone besides his brother. They’d gotten better about waiting their turn and learning to ask first, but you still went out of your way to cuddle them as much as they’d let you. 

Seonghwa sat nearby doing his homework. He was...interesting. It was the nicest thing you could think of to say about that whole situation. The thing was, he was a nice kid. Almost seventeen, had been here for a few years. Definitely beautiful, no denying that. You didn’t know too much about his past yet, as you hadn’t wanted to pry and he didn’t volunteer much information. He helped you with the younger kids a lot though, asked you about your work, was genuinely sweet, and fun to talk to when he was just chill. The issue was...you were apparently his “first love.” 

He wasn’t creepy about it or anything. He really was super sweet. He would bring you flowers and treats, help you carry anything heavy, and was just really attentive. Unfortunately, then he’d start walking around you in circles, staring intently with his tail flicking around in the air as he sang to you. He had a sweet voice, but they were of course all highly inappropriate love songs to be singing to an older woman. And according to Namjoon, the circling and singing thing was a tiger courting ritual, so you took great care not to acknowledge it. You’d tried letting him down as gently as possible, but somehow he seemed to just consider it more of a challenge, and you really didn’t want to be mean and be his first heartbreak as well. Namjoon surprisingly - or not since he could be a brat himself - thought it was hilarious. He’d often ask how your tiger cub was doing, laughing when you’d swat him. Of course, he was still a territorial dragon, so he would occasionally go out of his way to kiss you with a bit too much tongue or pinch your butt where everyone could see to get the message of your status across. 

Things at the shelter have been fairly quiet and routine, as far as such a big place could be. That’s why you were awfully surprised when Heechul storms into the playroom looking distraught and frazzled. He brightens slightly when he spots you, rushing over and placing his hands on his hips. 

“You’d be perfect, I don’t know why I didn’t think of that earlier!” 

You frown, thoroughly confused. “Thanks, I think. For what?” 

He clucks and shakes his head. 

“We have an exotic on his way here. He was one of mine that I raised until he was ten, and then he was adopted by this lovely couple. Unfortunately, they were a bit too old even then, but they adored Seokjin so I let him go.” He sighs wearily and flops into a nearby recliner. “They passed away last year and left him everything. He’d been living on his own just fine until someone tried to rob the place and he ended up hurt. Then the police of course had to see his medical records and - surprise! - a hybrid had been running around owning a house and living free for an entire year and they don’t like that. They were going to send him to a state-run hybrid institution, which essentially means death if you’re not a baby or usable on the black market. So, he called me in a panic and I have it all settled with the police that he’s officially one of ours and they don’t have to worry about him anymore. But he’s too used to independence to stuff him back into regular hybrid life, so I was thinking maybe you could foster him? Just like, let him hang out at your place until we figure out some way he can go back to living how he likes?” 

“I mean, I have to check in with Namjoon, but I don’t see why not. What kind of hybrid is he?” 

“Sphinx,” Heechul answered, his deadpan voice at odds with his amused eyes. 

“A what now?” 

“Sphinx. You know, part bird, lion and man. Likes riddles. Has big statues.” 

“Sure, why not,” you sigh. This place really made your brain hurt. 

Heechul chuckled and reached out to pat your shoulder. 

“Thanks. I know it’s a lot to deal with right now, with your new romance and getting ready for Mark, but Seokjin deserves a chance. I think you’ll like him.” 

“You know, it’s really creepy when you do that. At least let me tell you with words what I’m planning about Mark.” 

“I didn’t even need to use magic to see that’s where it was headed. He’s basically already yours,” he scoffs, standing up with a light groan. 

“When is this Seokjin going to be here?” 

“He’s on his way to the shelter now. I figured he could just come here first, meet you and have dinner with everyone, then head home with you guys after. If that’s okay.” 

“Again, just have to check with Joon, but it should be fine. Sphinx and dragons aren’t like, mortal enemies or anything, are they?” 

Heechul grins, “Hardly. In fact, I remember they were actually pretty good friends when they were little. Jin was older and would tolerate Joonie like a big brother. Not sure how well Namjoon remembers him, though.” 

“Alright, I guess. Joon’s class is over in a few minutes. I’ll go talk to him now.” 

“Thanks, Star!” 

You shake your head as he flounces away, wondering when he’d started using that name too. At this point, that was basically your official name. 

“Does that mean you’re going to have to stay home all the time? To take care of a new hybrid?” 

A little sniffle came from your right as you registered the fact that your cubs had just been quietly listening to your conversation with Heechul. Mark’s eyes were beginning to glisten with unshed tears and you quickly snatched the boy up and cuddled him close. 

“Of course not, sweetheart. By the sounds of it, he’s older than both me and Joon, so he’s not going to need much looking after. He basically just needs a place to crash until he figures out what to do.” 

“Oh,” he sniffles again, and you try not to laugh about the fact that it’s not helping, as his nose is starting to water too. “So you’ll still come to see me?” 

“Of course! And as soon as the farm is cleaned up you can come to visit me too. How does that sound?” 

“Really? And Felix? And Hyuckie? And...and…”

“Yes,” you interrupt, knowing the boy will try to name literally everyone he’s ever talked to. “Anyone that wants to visit will be able to. I just wanted to make sure it’s safe first, so no one gets sick.” 

“Okay!” Mark squeezes you clumsily but is quickly back to being a ray of sunshine and crawling off of you to go back to his picture. 

“Seonghwa,” you call, snorting inwardly as the tiger practically jumps to attention, “Watch the kids for a bit, okay? I’m going to see Namjoon.” 

He nods quietly and sets his books down, smiling softly as he watches you leave the room. 

*** 

As you’d expected, Namjoon was more than agreeable to the idea of helping his childhood friend but was understandably concerned over how his dragon instincts would react to another creature in his new den with his new...well, mate. (Although he insists that you aren’t official mates yet. And he blushes and refuses to answer whenever you ask what makes you official).

“It’s just, like, I don’t want to stress him out even more, you know? If he’s already going through all this, then I don’t want to be growling and snapping at him,” Namjoon sighed as he stood with you in the lobby, grasping your hand tightly as you both waited for Seokjin to show up. 

“I know, but Heechul told me that Seokjin is the only one of his kind as well so if anyone were to understand that this is a learning situation and not blame you for it, it would be someone like him, right?” 

Namjoon shrugs, “I guess. From what I remember, Jin hyung was really outspoken too, so I think he’d be sure to let me know if I do something to offend him.” 

“And if all else fails, you can just take him behind the house and piss on him,” you try to hide your grin as you tease him. 

He growls playfully, leaning down to tug your hair. “Watch it. I’ll mark you next.” 

“I thought you already did,” you quirk an eyebrow as you refer to certain activities that had taken place before he’d let you leave your bed that morning. 

“Hey, let's keep the rating down in my presence, please,” Heechul sighs wearily from the other side of you. 

The two of you fight valiantly to keep your giggles under control, only able to stop fully once a taxi pulls up in front of the building and nerves once again take over. 

The man that steps out takes even your breath away - quite a feat considering how whipped you were for your own boyfriend. He’s tall, nearly as tall as Namjoon, and has a regal bearing. He has a face that many would pay millions for, with full lips and wide expressive eyes. His hair and lion ears were the same mahogany brown shade, as was the fluffy tip of his long tail. It seemed he had no trouble showing off his lion side. You weren’t sure if that’s all there was to his transformation though, considering he was a Sphinx, not just a lion. 

He turned to pay the driver, who was actually smiling and laughing like the two of them were old friends. Seokjin reached out and shook the man’s hand heartily and shoved what was apparently too much money towards him if the way the man tried to argue about it was any indication. You supposed this meant Seokjin was the friendly sort, which boded well. 

You were a little confused by the fact that the hybrid was only carrying a single suitcase. Perhaps he had left the rest behind to be picked up later? From what Heechul had told you, the hybrid had grown up in a fairly wealthy household, spoiled and doted on. You would think he would be walking in here with twenty name brand suitcases, and yet here he was with only a small rolling suitcase meant for a child with Mario on it. Something about that felt wrong. 

The hybrid seemed fine, however, breezing through the front door with a wide smile like all was right in the world. He stopped right in front of Heechul and stared at him a moment, cocking his head. 

“You haven’t changed a bit, hyung. You don’t have a single new wrinkle. Are you trying to compete with me?” 

Heechul huffs and reaches out to hug the man. Seokjin laughs quietly, pulling Heechul into a bear hug so fierce Heechul squeaks a little. He releases him and pats him on the shoulder before he turns to Namjoon. 

“Don’t tell me you’re little Joon bug? You can’t be anyone else, with those dimples. I used to swear I could use them as cereal bowls if we ever ran out.” 

Namjoon shyly looks down and kicks his foot, but he’s smiling. “Hi, Seokjin-ssi. It’s nice to see you again.” 

The hybrid waves his hand carelessly, “Just call me hyung, Namjoon. Or even just Jin.  We don’t need honorifics with our kind.” 

Namjoon nods and pulls you closer, drawing the Sphinx’s attention. His thick brow raises your way as his smile quirks mischievously. 

“And this must be Miss Star, the one I’ve been hearing so much about,” he raises up his hand like he’s going to shake yours, but the moment you grasp it he holds on tightly. His face suddenly settles into serious lines as he looks down into your eyes. 

“Answer me this. As small as your thumb, I am light in the air. You may hear me before you see me, but trust that I’m here.” 

You hadn’t been prepared for this, for some reason. Duh, Sphinx’s whole thing was about riddles. 

You bite your lip and give it some thought for a moment. “A hummingbird?” 

His smile brightens back up and he releases your hand before he slaps Namjoon’s back. 

“Hey, she’s smart. You got a good one” 

“Yeah…” Namjoon answers dreamily, staring down at you with a dopey grin. You blush and grab his hand. 

Jin’s arm was back to flailing around again, and you were wondering if he was in control of his limbs or if it was the other way around. 

“Hey, listen, want to hear a joke about construction?” he asks. You’re not sure if he really expects an answer, but you squeak out a somewhat genuine sounding “Sure,” anyway. 

“I'm still working on it,” he answers, before cackling loudly, his laughter practically shaking the glass windows as he slaps his leg in amusement. 

You decide, if nothing else, he seems easy to keep entertained. 

You politely laugh and wait for him to finish before taking the chance to steer the conversation in another direction. 

“Are you hungry? We thought we’d stay and have dinner here before we went home. Only if you’re comfortable with that, though.” 

“I’m famished,” Jin answered, slapping his flat and obviously in-shape stomach like it was the opposite. “I wouldn’t mind sticking around. Kyungsoo still the cook here?” 

“Yup. And Wendy is making dessert,” Heechul tells him as he grabs the little suitcase. 

“Sounds great.” 

It hadn’t escaped your notice that no one brought up his past owners or any difficult subjects. You sigh quietly as you walk behind everyone as they went to the dining room, knowing that it was probably going to be all up to you. 

***

Dinner had gone as it usually did, with only the occasional fights to break up between over-enthusiastic kids. You used the time to observe Seokjin, trying to see what you could pick up about him in a group setting like this. He was polite and charming, yes, but very quick to steer the conversation away from himself. You supposed he wasn’t ready to talk about his problems, which was fine. You had time. 

He was also an enthusiastic eater and at one point seemed to have an almost mini-competition going on with the elephant hybrid over who could eat the most. You’d decided to break it up before anyone found out since the elephant was only seven and didn’t need to compete with a grown man. 

Seokjin and Namjoon seemed to get on perfectly well, thank goodness. Jin treated him like a little brother - making sure his bowl was full, teasing him every time he stared at you, telling him at least five jokes about giants. 

The man didn’t seem to have a shred of animosity in him at all, which would normally be a good thing. If one didn’t take into account what had happened to him. He should be upset and crying, or at least mad. Irritated. But he seemed more like he was just visiting some dear old friends, with nothing to fret about. That worried you more than anything because the poor man was probably just really good at covering it up then, and you hoped you’d be able to help him. Or that he’d even let you. 

These thoughts plagued you the whole way home, as you occasionally peeked into the rear view mirror to see Jin sitting quietly with his tiny suitcase that you still hadn’t been able to bring yourself to ask about. 

At least he was here with the two of you, somewhere he could be safe and have people looking out for him. That was the best you could do for now. 

After you show him to a spare bedroom, he thanks you quietly, smiling with his lips but not his eyes. The door closes and you sigh, retreating to your own room to wrap yourself in Namjoon’s arms. It haunts you that something like this could happen to him if anything were to happen to you. That he would get sent back to the shelter with nothing, despite the fact that you wanted to give him the entire world. You’ll have to ask Heechul what you can do to make sure he’s safe. 

***

When you wake up the next morning, it’s to the smell of meat cooking. Normally, this would be a dream come true. Unfortunately, you’ve been living with Namjoon for far too long and your mind now associated unsupervised cooking with near-death experiences, so instead your first reaction is terror. 

You jump out of bed, unmindful of your state of near-undress, and run to the kitchen. Your ears are hyper tuned to every sound, waiting for bellows of pain, but so far you simply hear the slap of your bare feet against wood and sizzling from a pan. 

You round the corner and grab the wall, catching your breath as you stare into the kitchen. Namjoon is sitting at the bar eating a heaping plateful of scrambled eggs and cheese, giggling as Seokjin preforms some a dirty gesture involving sausages and eggs. The Sphinx is standing over the stove with your bright pink apron, confidently cooking away, and both men are fine. You breathe a sigh of relief, slumping slightly as the tension leaves your body. Both men turn at the sound, smiling in greeting. 

“Morning, baby. Jin’s making breakfast. He’s a good cook!” 

“I see that. Morning, everyone,” you reply, walking in and trying not to let on how nervous you’d been. You peck Namjoon’s cheek and peek over the bar at the stove. 

Jin meets your eye and smiles mischievously like he knows what you were concerned about. 

“And here is one for you, madame,” he says with a flourish, setting a plate in front of you piled high with food and even garnished with a couple of tiny flowers from the garden. 

“Wow,” you blurt, honestly astounded by his skill. Everything looked perfect and you couldn’t wait to dig in. 

“What’s with that look?” He says loudly, quirking an eyebrow at you. “You just fell for me, didn’t you? Ah, I’m too charming.” 

You laugh and take a bite, nervously peeking at Namjoon to see if he’d taken the joke too seriously. Seokjin must have magic in his food because you doubted the dragon had even heard since he was too busy shoveling food in his mouth like you’d been starving him for months. 

“Slow down,” you cluck and tap his shoulder. He turns and grins at you with a disgustingly full mouth.

“Isth good,” he mumbles, and you laugh despite your disgust. 

“I can see that.” 

You swirl your fork around as you watch Jin settle in with his own plate, letting him get a few bites in before you strike. 

“So, Joonie and I both took the day off to help you get settled in. We figured you might need to do some shopping or something. I know the bedroom is pretty bare since we were focusing on another room right now.” 

Jin glances up and for a moment his gaze is troubling. You’d seen the brief flash of melancholy before he’d covered it up with a charming smile. 

“I could use a few things to tide me over until I’m out of your hair, I suppose. I do have my own money, but most places around here won’t let you shop without a license.” 

“That was nice of them to leave you money, They must have been good owners.” 

His eyes cloud over and he glances away from you, staring at one of the windows. 

“They were amazing parents. But the money that they left for me got taken away. I believe everything went to my Mom’s cousin - someone she didn’t even really know.”

“I thought you said you had money?” 

“I...uhh...had some stashed away. My dad never liked banks - didn’t trust them. He always had a rule that whenever you used your card, you should take out some cash and squirrel it away just in case. So we’d always take a little out and stash it in this fake book. From the outside it looks like Crime And Punishment, and who reads that willingly?” he snorts, peeking over at Namjoon. “Besides this kid, obviously.” 

Namjoon just shrugs, unbothered with the truth. 

“But...Jin hyung, you mean they kept everything?” 

The Sphinx sighs wearily and drops his fork, reaching up to rub his forehead. 

“Everything. The cousin’s lawyer grabbed my old suitcase from storage and told me I could keep anything I could fit in there as long as he approved of it. I got some clothes, my mom’s recipe book, my dad’s favorite fishing lures, and the stash of cash because he thought it was just another book,” Jin shrugs like he’s just telling a story, never mind that the sound of your heart breaking was probably audible at this point. 

“I’m so sorry that happened to you,” you murmur, struggling to stay calm for his sake. 

He shrugs. “No big. I’m a hybrid. Should have expected it.” 

“No, you should not have. People treat actual animals better than they do hybrids and it’s disgusting. I’m so very sorry. I know nothing I say can erase what’s been done to you. Just know that you are safe here and welcome in my home for as long as you like.” 

Jin opens his mouth to say something but snaps it shut again like he can’t figure out what to say. Namjoon grins proudly at you and slaps Jin’s shoulder. 

“Told you, hyung. She’s the best. And she’s right. You are welcome here and I can assure you that I feel no urge to fry you to a crisp.” 

“I...was not aware that was a potential issue. Thanks for not ruining my beautiful face, I guess,” Seokjin says, obviously done with the serious talk and choosing to fall back into humor. 

“And with that settled, I should probably go put on some pants. Thanks for the breakfast! We’ll meet up and go shopping in an hour, yeah?” 

You grin at them both and leave the room, the smile dropping the moment you were sure they couldn’t see. 

Poor Seokjin. 

He had grown up loved and cared for by those people, and just because he was a hybrid he’d lost everything. The fact that this could easily be Namjoon’s story if you were to kick it tomorrow didn’t sit well with you, either. You needed to figure something out that could stop this from happening. Or at least figure out somewhere hybrids could go besides back into shelters. It seems like an impossible task, but one that needs doing, obviously. 

As laughter filters towards you from the kitchen, you smile. One thing is for sure, your first task is going to be convincing Seokjin that he’s already home. 

[rjhpandapaws]

Maybe some cottage/farm living between mutually nonverbal Nines and Gavin? (Meaning they're both nonverbal). Congrats on 160 followers! You totally deserve it! ^^

//Ooh! I love this! Also thank you <33 //Best read when listening to Marbles by the Amazing Devil

Life was easy like this, they lived quietly in a literal sense as much as the metaphorical; and looking back after all these years it was still a warm feeling for Gavin. It hadn’t always been that way of course. What they had was a combination of patience from Richard, and Gavin being too stubborn for his own good a majority of the time, paired of course with the years that had passed them by. When Gavin had moved to Lovelock he hadn’t been used to quiet, Detroit was always alive and loud. There was always something happening. Gavin resembled that well, he was raucous and persistent. Lovelock was the opposite, there was a McDonalds, Dairy Queen, Library, public school with a high school to match, a public pool, and a single stoplight. It was quiet, and so was his neighbor Richard. If you could consider someone who lived six miles away from you as your neighbor anyway. They didn’t get along at first. Which again, was mostly on Gavin. Richard was friendly and didn’t seem to want anything in return, which in Detroit meant trouble. So reasonably, in his own opinion, Gavin pushed back. He was harsher than was probably needed, and at times when so far as to actively ignore Richard’s advice. Which turned out was not a good idea when you knew fuck all about running a farm.

Richard didn’t talk to him. It was infuriating for a reason that Gavin couldn’t place. All this effort to be neighborly, but never a word, and Gavin talked a lot. There were a lot of things to talk about, Lovelock was wildly different from Detroit. Largely because usually the biggest thing going on at all was football season in the fall and going to church on Sundays. Nothing ever happened here and it was driving Gavin up a wall. Every time he had said this to Richard he would smile and roll his eyes. There were things of course that he liked about Lovelock, like how he could see the stars at night, that people minded their own business, and in the morning he was almost guaranteed a hand written note from Richard explaining how to fix something Gavin had complained about, or talking about something that had reminded him of Gavin. While Richard’s lack of conversation skills annoyed Gavin to no end, his constant presence was nice. Knowing that if he ever needed anything, there was someone down the road that could help him. He never would have thought that the tables would turn. That there would be a time when Richard needed him. The thing about quiet neighbors was there was no indicator of something being wrong, not that Gavin would have been able to tell from six miles away anyhow. It took three days for him to notice something was up, well wasn’t actually; for three days the red flag on his mailbox had been down. Richard hadn’t sent him anything in three days. The letters had been the one near constant thing since Gavin had moved to this town in the middle of who fucking knew where. So on day three he got in his car and made his way to Richard’s house to investigate.

His neighbor wasn’t outside, which was unusual. Richard was always working on something, it was the one thing that ever made noise. So like an absolute creep Gavin checked the windows of the farm house. It was empty for the most part until he got to the bedroom, there was a person shaped lump under the blankets. Under a lot of blankets, which was concerning considering as it was hot as all fuck out. He had his answer, Richard was sick, he could leave. Instead he walked back around to the front of the house. It was cliché, but while he was looking for the spare key he did look under the welcome mat. It wasn’t there, Richard had cleverly hidden it in a realistic looking beehive. Which Gavin only learned was the home of the key as well as fake by accidentally knocking it over. While he was waiting to get viscously mauled by bees he realized that the hive had jingled on its way down, beehives didn’t do that. So like the genius he was known to be, he picked up the hive and shook it just to be safe. It was plastic and there was definitely something in it. He reached inside and came away with a key. He set the beehive back where he had knocked it over from and made his way inside. The house was still and quiet in a way that he had come to associate with Richard. His Australian Shepard Micky left the room to investigate and her tail started wagging at the sight of Gavin. Normally she would have been outside running around, so Gavin let her outside before he continued on his way to Richard. 

He made his way back to the room Micky had come out of assuming that if she had been in there than Richard probably was as well. Sure enough, his guess lead him to the person shaped lump on the bed. He peeked in from the doorway trying to gage if Richard was awake or asleep. He didn’t want to intrude if Richard was asleep, that was where he drew the line. Which was probably a few steps too far considering as he had more or less just broken into Richard’s house, well he used the spare key but still, it wasn’t exactly like he had permission to be there. “Richard?” He called into the room because apparently he felt like being all kinds of asshole today, “Are you okay?” He got either a groan or a hum in response and the lump on the bed moved. It took a long moment before blue eyes stared at him from the cocoon of blankets. He was awake at the very least so Gavin stepped into the room. “I haven’t heard from you in a while and I was getting worried.” He explained. Blue eyes narrowed and the cocoon shuffled around a bit more until Richards hands were visible and he started signing, ‘Only Sick. You Not Have Worry.’ “Do you need help around here? While you recover?” He pressed. Richard paused for a moment before he replied, ‘If It Not Trouble.’ “I wouldn’t be here if it was.” He said with a smile.

After that week things between them were different. With the knowledge that Gavin at the very least understood Sign Language Richard became more talkative. They became friends and when he told Tina she and Chris put money down on how long it would last. She didn’t believe Richard would keep him around for long, he was loud and different after all. The thing was he wasn’t as loud anymore, he was signing a lot more now. It allowed for easier conversations with Richard which was nice. Three years went by until Gavin gathered enough courage to be honest with himself, and another six months for him to be honest with Richard. They became an item after that, which wasn’t as much of an issue as he thought it would be in such a small town. It was two years before Gavin sold his property and moved in with Richard. Time rolled by after that, and somewhere in the years Gavin stopped talking all together. There was no need for it when everything that needed to be expressed could be said in a look or a gesture. It was easy, natural by now. Even when enough time had rolled by that the deep brown of Richard’s hair that Gavin had loved had gone white and neither of them could do the hard work they once had, Gavin found he loved Richard just as much still. Even now, when neither of them had much of a mind left and it was like meeting him all over again everyday. With everything still unspoken, by the end of the day they were in love all over again.

@rk-frog

(Prompt from this list)

[petri808]

Bakudeku canon divergent, vampire quirk AU

1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17 | 18 | 19 | 20 | 21 | 22 | 23 | 24

If he’d remembered the map’s, he’d checked out before coming correctly, the lake was less than a quarter mile beyond the tree line from where he stood in the clearing. There was a small farming village west of the lake, and it was maybe another couple miles next to the dam. Bakugou was certain that the authorities had canvased the town as well as surrounding areas, but if he was lucky, they’d missed something or someone that saw something that day that could aid in his search. Either way, it was another starting point.

After hiking to the nearest village, Bakugou sought out their small police station. The place maybe had two officers on duty per shift, and three shifts rounding out a day. For major cases, detectives were brought in from the next larger city. It was the epitome of small and very common in the more rural areas of Japan. Because of his notoriety, the authorities knew who he was, but luckily had no idea that he wasn’t a part of the task force.

“I’m doing follow ups,” he did his best to sound official and reign in his temper. “Making sure that no one reported seeing the hero called Deku?” The officer shook his head. “So, no strange events from April twenty-seventh?”

“Strange? Not on that date, but the next day, there was an attack on a citizen. They claimed that they were ambushed late in the evening but could not give any description. The man is a known drunkard and we assumed he was intoxicated and hallucinating until we saw the marks on his arms.”

“Like scratches?”

“No, they looked like an animal bit him. He swore he hadn’t been drinking, but when we made contact, he was still slurring his words and out of it as if he was.”

‘Not very strange but okay,’ Bakugou made a mental note. “Anything else?”

“Two days after that, a woman reported seeing an unusual green streak in the sky.”

Green?! That peaked Bakugou’s interest. “What direction was it going in?”

The man shrugged, “we didn’t ask because we assumed that she just saw a meteor or something going through the atmosphere.”

“Ugh!” he palmed his face. “I need to speak with her immediately. That could be a clue.” Bakugou proverbially rolled his eyes at the thought. ‘Bet the pro searchers didn’t think to ask these kinds of questions.’ Of course, if all you ask is a closed ended, ‘did you see x’ kind of question you’ll only get a yes or no answer. If Midoriya was on the run, he would be a fool to show himself so easily to citizens. So, the clues would lay in the minor details.

“Certainly,” the desk sergeant responded. “I will have an officer take you to her home.”

It was nice not having to walk or use his quirk unnecessarily. A patrol officer drove him to the edge of the town where the woman lived in a small cottage on her farming property. The home was a half mile from the main town and without streetlights, the night would be much darker with a better vantage point to see any phenomena in the sky. While the officer waited in the car with the hero’s belongings, Bakugou knocked on the woman’s door. When she answered, he introduced himself and asked her to tell him any details she could recall from the night of the green streak.

According to the older farmer woman, the light appeared to have originated from the forest bordering her farm and headed in an easterly direction. She pointed in the direction and Bakugou surmised it could be in the direction of Tokyo, but it was too general to know for sure.

“But how do you know it wasn’t a meteor or something naturally occurring?” Bakugou questioned the woman.

She smiled, “Young man, I have seen many in my lifetime and they always travel at a steady pace against the horizon. This one started off slower then sped up. In fact, right before it would have been over the town, it’s speed increased and moved so fast it disappeared in the blink of an eye.”

As if ‘it’ worried about being seen by the townsfolk, Bakugou realized. “And ma’am, are you sure it was a green colored light?”

Again, she nodded and smiled, “like a copper fire streaking through the sky.”

It took a moment for Bakugou to realize what the woman meant. Copper produced a greenish flame when burned, and green was also the color of Midoriyas quirk.

“One last question,” Bakugou asked. “Is there anything else you can think of, or anything in the area you saw the light coming from such as abandoned buildings, any cave systems, or maybe strange animal activity around that time?”

“Why yes! There’s an old abandoned mine in that part of the forest. There are probably still tunnels. My grandfather once worked them until it was closed down.”

Bakugou thanked the woman for her information and told the officer to wait for him while he checked out the mine, but the officer explained he needed to get back to town.

“I can come back around dark once I finish work and pick you up,” the man offered. “That would give you about four hours to do what you gave to do.”

“Yeah, that’ll work. Can you hold onto my stuff?”

“Sure, I’ll just take it to the station.”

“Perfect.” Bakugou agreed. He’ll probably need to stay the night anyway before moving on.

Once the patrol officer was gone, the hero blasted his way towards the forest in the direction the woman had provided to him. She’d told him that the area might be overgrown in many places, but the last time she’d been there, she remembered an old utility shed still standing. And sure, enough the growth was quite dense with little snippets of human structures peeking through the brush. Bakugou first found the entrance to the mine shaft but saw no evidence of activity such as disturbances in the dirt, no footprints, or signs of a campfire, anything that would suggest a human had been using it as a shelter. Next, he moved onto the shed the woman told him about and saw that the structure was still standing. Not surprising from what he could see of the material. Red pine was a strong type of wood resistant to mold, suitable for this kind of environment.

That’s where he saw the first glimpses of activity. Bakugou knelt and touched the recently disturbed earth in front of the shed’s door. Despite being around a month old, the dense tree canopy had protected the footprints and scuff marks from washing away. He moved into the small structure itself, gauging it was approximately eight feet wide by 10 feet deep. The walls were lined with broken shelves, some still holding a myriad of rotting, rusting tools, or other junk left behind. Nothing of real use, even if…

Bakugou’s eyes fall onto a jumbled pile of rags left on a shelf near the entrance. The lighting was poor, but when he got closer, he saw the red spots of dried blood. His breathing slowed, could it be? “Were you injured Deku?” He mumbled to himself as he picked up and turned the rags over in his hands to inspect them. It wasn’t a lot of blood, couldn’t have been very life-threatening injuries, but still, seeing the evidence made his blood boil. “Reckless idiot!” Bakugou screamed. “Where the fuck are you?!”

Of course, there was no way for him to confirm the blood was Midoriya’s and not some passing vagrant in the area. So, he kept searching the ruins of the building. If his friend had sheltered there, maybe he’d left something else behind, just a trace to confirm it was in fact Deku. He found a small burned-out area on the ground with remnants of a fire, including animal bones perhaps from a meal? There were other disturbances on the dirty shelves from a previous person rummaging around the left-over junk, but nothing more. Talk about frustrating!

No, wait… Bakugou zeroed in on a tiny scrap of fabric partially obscured by a shelf as if it had fallen and been pushed underneath by accident. It was only a quarter-size of his palm, and the torn piece of fabric wasn’t discolored which meant it hadn’t been there long. ‘This looks like a piece of his uniform,’ Bakugou surmised. It matched the green color Midoriya wore. Now he had a torn fabric the same color of Deku’s uniform, the green streak seen in the sky shortly after the battle, and the recent blood on rags. Circumstantially, it was good enough to convince Bakugou that this had been his friend and the man really was still alive and on the run.

“See!” Bakugou raged to himself in that empty forest. “Stupid idiots! I should’ve been out here looking sooner not them! Who else would know Deku better than me?!” ‘Tch,’ those fools in the task force didn’t know anything considering the woman told him no one else had talked to her before him. What took him less than a day to find, was more evidence than the authorities had found in a whole month of searching!

Originally, Bakugou had planned to stay in the area, but if he believed this promising information, Midoriya was heading back east. ‘Hopefully back home.’ Three weeks had passed since this woman’s claim of a green streak, so either Midoriya hadn’t arrived back in Shizuoka, or he was still hiding out somewhere. Either way this was promising; something better than nothing at all. So, he took the officer up on the offer to stay the night at a small inn they hooked him up with, but bright and early the next morning Bakugou caught the bus out of town heading in the direction the woman provided. ‘I’m coming Deku…’

[janesramblings]

Jealous

this one was requested by @stormofsansas and I had so much fun writing it, thanks for the request!

“Did you hear about Ace’s supposed girlfriend?” Bess asks me as I close the front door of my house and burrow into my coat. It’s only November, but Maine gets cold surprisingly fast. 

“Have I what?” I ask as I unlock my car and slide into the driver’s seat. Bess slept over last night, helping me figure out something vaguely Marvin-related. 

“Heard about Ace’s girlfriend?” I shake my head. “Yeah she showed up on your day off. Ace seemed really smitten.”

“Who says ‘smitten’ anymore?” I ask as I turn the key in the ignition. The car revs and then stops. I turn the key again with the same result. 

“Who drives ancient convertibles anymore?” Bess counters as I sigh and pitch forward against my steering wheel. “Sorry, that was mean,” Bess says. “I get like this when I eat raw pancakes.”

“Was that supposed to be an apology?” I ask as I sit up. Bess finds it hilarious that I work at The Claw and can’t cook. 

“Sort of. Hang on let’s see if we can call Ace and get a ride.”

“Sure. Maybe we can learn about his girlfriend.”

“Supposed girlfriend,” Bess corrects as she brings her phone to her ear. 

While Bess tries to get Ace to drive us to work, I try to figure out who would date Ace. Not that I think there’s anything wrong with Ace. I mean he’s kind, has great quips, and is incredibly handsome. There’s no denying that. And his talent for understanding a person is envious. But I just can’t imagine Ace dating someone. 

I mean, there was Laura Tandy. But she was too selfish. She used Ace to get what she wanted, and was willing to leave for Paris instead of staying with him. And then there were those girls who flocked around Ace in high school. I didn’t really pay much attention to Ace back then. He was a grade ahead of me and not particularly popular - he played one sport in his freshman year before he decided it wasn’t for him and the only club he was part of was the coding club because he didn’t like the president and wanted to disrupt it as much as he could - but he was the only one who could answer as many questions as me in my forensics class. I guess high school me was always in awe of him. And even though we’re friends now and I’ve considered him my equal for months, it’s always disconcerting when you find out people you admire are just human. 

Bess’s voice brings me back to myself. “What did you say?” I ask her.

Bess rolls her eyes at me. “I said that Ace is on his way over. And that girl is with him.”

“The girlfriend?”

“Supposed girlfriend,” Bess repeats emphatically. I shake my head at her.

Twenty minutes later I’m in the back of Ace’s car squished next to Bess, staring at the back of Callie Something-or-other’s preppy blonde head. When Ace pulled into my driveway she bounced out of the car in her three inch stilettos, kissed my cheeks like we were in Paris, and waved her stacks of bracelets as she called me “doll”, “honey”, and “darling”. I’m pretty sure my sinuses will never be the same after having to breathe the fumes from her tacky perfume. The whole time we stood in my driveway she clung to Ace like a life preserver, chocking the poor boy half to death. 

I don’t hate her. I don’t.

“So Nancy darling,” Callie purrs, “I hear you fancy yourself a detective.”

Bess and I share a look. I glace at Ace in the rearview mirror, trying to read his thoughts, but he’s closed off, his eyes dull. “Yeah, I guess that’s one way to say it.”

Callie wrinkles her nose at me like I’m a cute child that finally understood the purpose of wearing shoes on their feet and not their hands. “Have you solved any interesting mysteries around here honey? Anything fun in this small town I should know about?” My temper flashes at her overly-sweet tone. I can feel Bess nudge my elbow as a warning, but I ignore her. 

“Well, I did solve the mystery of the girl who fell off the bluffs after the Sea Queen ceremony nineteen years ago.”

“Oh great, she said it,” Bess mutters. 

Callie gives me a breathless “ohh” but her eyes are as dead as Ace’s. “What happened to her?”

“Oh she was slut shamed by the entire town and was pregnant with a baby who actually happened to be me and she jumped from the bluffs after I was born because she didn’t want to live and she came back to haunt my dad and also me so we could solve her mystery, which was also tied to the death of my dad’s wife. Turns out she was killed by my maternal uncle. I caught him to but not before he killed Bess’s cousin.”

Callie stares at me for a moment before squinting her hazel eyes. “You really should send me that video game. It sounds fun!” With that she swings back to face the front and I resist the urge to throw my messenger bag at the back of her head. I try to gauge Ace’s feelings again, but I can’t read him at all. And it’s a little annoying. Okay. More like very annoying. 

I glare at her until Ace pulls up in front of the Claw. I wait for her to get out of the car with Ace, talking a mile a minute (”ooo Ace is this where you work? It’s so cool that Horseshoe Bay has an authentic restaurant. You guys farm salmon or something right?”) before I bury my head in my hands with a groan. Bess starts laughing.

“What?” I snap.

“Your life would make a good video game.”

I reach over Bess, open her door, and unbuckle her seatbelt. “Get out,” I say only half jokingly. Bess’s smile drops and she puts an arm around me, pulling me into her. 

“It’s okay to be jealous. You like Ace and up until today, I thought he like you too.” I sit back up.

“I’m not jealous!” I say indignantly. Bess raises her eyebrows silently. “I’m not!” I repeat, sitting up. I’m not jealous of Callie.

At all.

“Alright. If you say so. You know your feelings best. But do come in sometime this century. You might have saved our lives, but George still expects you to work.”

“I know, I know I’m coming.” Bess leaves, giving me a minute to shout into my hands before climbing out of the car, crossing the parking lot, and pushing thorough the front door of the Claw. George runs to me when she sees me.

“Have you met this walking Barbie doll?” she whispers.

“Unfortunately,” I respond. George rolls her eyes.

“Serve her would you? She’s giving me a migraine. You’d think Ace would date someone with sense. Kinda like you.”

“Kinda?” I ask, amused despite my annoyance.

“Well, you don’t always have sense.”

“And here I was thinking you wanted my help.”

“Just serve her, Drew.”

“Do you want me to change?”

“Just go before she asks me for help,” George says dangerously. I do as I’m told. I pull off my coat and grab a menu before walking towards Callie, who’s at a table examining her nails. She grins when she looks up at me.

“Hi! You’re my waitress?”

“Seems so,” I say. 

Callie grins. “Well, since you like mysteries as much as I do, why don’t you surprise me? Talk to Ace, I’m sure he knows what I’d like.”

Okay, okay we get it. You know Ace. I force a smile and take back the menu. “Sounds great.” I turn on my heel and march towards the kitchen. “Your guest wants a surprise Ace. I’m gonna change. I’ll serve it when it’s ready.”

Ace looks up from the bowl he’s washing, startled. At least that’s one emotion I can read. “Okay.” I nod at him and stalk off. “And hey, Nance?”

“Yeah?” I say shortly, stepping back towards the sink. 

“Never mind.”

“Great.” I march off again, and change into my uniform with shaking hands. I have no idea why this girl gets under my skin but she does. Ace stops me on my way back to the tables. He looks like he’s about to say something, but he just shoves a plate of salad and fries at me. “Thanks,” I say, my tone softening as I meet his eyes. I can never stay mad at him. He smiles back at me, and my heart does that weird butterfly on steroids thing it’s been doing lately.

I walk towards Callie’s table and put the plate in front of her. “Oh look, Ace got it right! Did you know that the first time Ace and I went out in sophomore year of high school he guessed my dinner choice and he was right then. Just like he is now.”

“That’s great,” I say as a surge of... something rushes through me. “I gotta go.”

I turn as the tears start to fall. “Nance are you-” I ignore Bess’s question as I race for the lockers. Of course I’d ignore my feelings for Ace until the moment I have no chance with him. Because I’m incapable of any relationship with anyone. Not with Nick. Not with Owen. Not with any of my parents. Why would my relationship with Ace be any different? I crash into someone as I pass the kitchen, but I keep going without apologizing until someone’s hand is on my waist, stopping me. 

“Nancy are you okay?” I look up to see Ace looking down at me. 

“No Ace I’m not. So please leave me alone.” I pull out of his grasp. 

“Nancy, Nancy wait. You can’t push me away.”

I spin around, my jealousy replaced with anger. “And you can’t flirt with someone and bump into someone whenever you walk with them and call them brilliant and say you’ve never had a friend like them and then show up in their driveway with your girlfriend Ace! It’s rude to lead people on. So don’t tell me what I can and can’t do.”

Ace stares at me for a moment. “What girlfriend?”

“What?”

“I don’t have a girlfriend Nancy.”

“But Callie said you went out-”

“In sophomore year. Yeah. She’s my mom’s best friend’s kid. We went out once before deciding it wouldn’t work.”

What? “But then why did she flirt with you?”

Ace rolls his eyes. “Because I told her something about you and now she’s sizing you up.”

Oh. “What did you tell her?”

“She asked about my friends. And I said that there’s no one more important to me than you.”

I snort.

“No. Nancy. I mean it.” Ace steps towards me. I look up into his clear blue eyes. They’re not closed off anymore. They’re earnest. And truthful. “I’ve never met a girl who makes me more alive than you Nancy. And year I flirt with you. And bump into you when we walk. And I call you brilliant because it’s true. Because I... like you.” He reaches for one of my hands, and I let him take it. “I have liked you since you told me about failing senior year when I was out smoking. And I like you more every time I see you.”

I stand on my toes. I lose my balance and Ace’s free hand shoots out to grab my waist as I rest my hand on his shoulder. “I like you too Ace.”

He grins at me, his head dipping down towards mine. I stretch up until the space between our lips is gone, and oh god kissing Ace is the best thing in the world. I could stay here in this moment with his hand on my waist and our fingers intertwined forever. But we do break away, however, when someone starts applauding. We turn to see Callie, Bess, George, and Nick (where’d he come from) standing in the door cheering us on. I glance at Ace. 

“Well they’d know eventually,” he says.

“True,” I agree as we both drop into theatrical bows. 

[lesbian-percy-weasley]

The Various Breeds of Christmas Trees That Stand Between Us by Gay-Natasha-Saves-The-World on Ao3 (aka the most epic fanfic writer ever)

Ship: Percy Weasley x Oliver Wood

Content Warning: None

Description: Percy and Oliver have been dating since May but as Christmas tree season comes closer, Percy has to figure out a way to tell his family that he’s dating a boy who’s parents run the rival Christmas tree farm or attempt to hide him until January.

Percy’s family has been in the Christmas tree business since before anyone could remember. It was the oldest in town and one of the biggest as well. They could confidently get almost all the town's business and even some out of towners came. Like Christmas tree kingpins, they didn’t let any other competition plant roots in their territory. And they were successful until a few years ago.

Riverside Christmas Tree Farm sprouted right under their noses. A family had inherited the land from the old man who once owned it and they decided to start a Christmas tree farm. Ever since then, it was a race, a competition, a battle of wills to see who will sell more. The feud between these two families for two months out of the year was not to be matched. Not by the Montagues and the Capulets, not by Xbox and Playstation, not even by Coke and Pepsi. No, if you compared the feud between the Weasleys and the Woods to anything it would be a dishonor.

And with every great story of a family feud of epic proportions, there are always a pair of star crossed lovers.

Percy and Oliver started dating sometime around May, not knowing that they were part of rivaling families. Even if they did know, neither of them would’ve given much of a shit.

Percy’s family didn’t know that he even had a boyfriend. He knew that they would make fun of him for it. They always did find something to make fun of him for. You would think they would catch on after Oliver picked him up to hang out practically every week in the summer. Really, they were just happy Percy finally had a friend that wasn’t in the classic literature club.

They did love each other but as late November reared closer, the whole family thing started to become more complicated. They feared that if they kept hanging out as they were they would make their families irrationally mad. Come January it would all blow over but right now they were in rough waters.

They took to hanging out at school together. Oliver spent lunch in the library with Percy and Percy spent after school watching Oliver’s hockey practice when he didn’t have a club meeting to attend. They didn’t mind as long as they could hang out together.

One day, they were sitting in Oliver's truck when the topic of the Christmas tree farms came up.

“Are you ready to pretend we hate each other until after break?” Oliver asked whilst putting his arm around Percy. “We don’t have to. It’s not like my family pays attention to what I do anyway.” Percy mumbled as he leaned into Oliver’s embrace. “I’m sure that’s not true,” Oliver replied.

“I have been staying after school every day for the past three weeks and they haven’t said anything.” Percy laughed. “I’m sure we can get through the next 40 days without the sky falling.” Oliver gave a lighthearted hum in response.

With that, they left the school to drop Percy off at his house. It wasn’t a very long drive between their houses so Oliver didn’t really mind. He could’ve lived on the opposite side of town and he wouldn’t have cared but it was just more convenient. He always dropped him off at the end of the driveway. When he stopped the truck, Percy gave him a quick kiss and grabbed his books.

“I’ll pick you up at 3 tomorrow,” Oliver said quickly. “The movie doesn’t start until 4,” Percy replied with a smile. “Yeah, and it takes 30 minutes to get to the theater and you’re usually slow.” Oliver chuckled as Percy lightly punched his arm. He hopped out of the truck and waved goodbye as his boyfriend drove off.

It was about 2:50 the next day and Percy was waiting quite anxiously for the text saying Oliver was here. He was waiting in his room since his family was all downstairs planning for when they will open the farm. He wasn’t as involved as everyone else. Sure, he did help when it was open but other than that he chose to opt-out of many of the discussions.

Running a Christmas tree farm wasn’t the walk in a park that most people presume it is. Not only did you have the land you had to maintain all year round for a short business season, but there was also a lot to consider when planting. Of course, you have to plant a multitude of different trees like fir trees, pine trees, cedar trees, and cypress trees (not even getting into the different breeds of said trees). And then you had to strategically plant so that all the most popular types were accessible. If someone had to walk a mile to get a douglas fir then they would just go elsewhere.

Then came the problems with having competition. The fact that they had somewhere else to go that was only 10 miles away. They had to quality check meticulously. If one family got a bad tree then they’ll just switch to Riverside and if there are a multitude of bad trees then it starts to add up. And then there has to be a balance of u cut and pre-cut trees. You can’t just chop the good ones then that leaves nothing for people who like to chop their own.

The ambiance is a big factor too. If it doesn’t feel like a Christmas tree farm then people won’t enjoy the experience. That’s mainly what his family was discussing. How to decorate the farm in a unique yet traditional way. Well, that’s the topic they were on when Percy finally emerged from his room.

He walked down the stairs to be immediately met with the gaze of his family. Of course, they noticed that he was dressed to go out. That suspicion was confirmed when he grabbed his coat and his shoes.

“Where are you going?” his father asked. Absentmindedly, Percy replied, “I’m going to see a movie with my boyfriend.” His eyes widened with horror as he realized what he said.

“Boyfriend?” George asked, “Who’s your boyfriend?” Now, Percy could lie right now. Wait until January to tell them the truth. But he already revealed that much so there was really no use. “Oliver Wood,” he replied as he began to tie his shoes.

The whole energy in the room shifted. “Wood? Like Riverside Christmas Tree Farm Wood?” His mother asked a bit directly. Percy didn’t even look up from his shoes, he just nodded. That was when all hell broke loose.

“Traitor!” Fred screamed over a chorus of gasps. “It’s really not that big of a deal.” Percy sighed, finally looking up at his family. “It is a big deal, you are literally dating our only competition.” Ron rebutted.

Percy was starting to get a little angry with his family. “You guys have been pestering me about getting a boyfriend but when I do y’all act like this.” He wanted nothing more than to leave and go on his date. “What I’m more concerned about is the fact you’re wearing your Frankenstein shirt on a date.” George snickered.

“What’s wrong with my Frankenstein shirt?” Percy asked defensively. “You look like a nerd,” Ginny added. “I don’t care. I just want to go see Pride and Prejudice with my boyfriend and there is nothing any of you can do about it.” He was trying to keep his cool but it was obvious he was losing it.

Suddenly he felt a vibration in his pocket. He knew it must be from Oliver so he started to walk out the door.

“Use protection!” the twins yelled as he was stepping out the door.

“Fuck off.” He replied as he shut the door.

He heard his mom scream “Language!” through the door but he didn’t care. He wanted nothing more than to get away from his family. They teased him a lot but he could usually deal with it. It seemed like they were never happy with anything he did. He knows he’ll never live this down.

But he couldn’t let this ruin his date. For years he’s tried to convince someone to go to Austen Night at the theater with them but none of them wanted to. At least Oliver cared enough to act like he was interested. That was more than his family ever did.

When he saw Oliver’s truck at the end of the driveway, he tried to forget about what just happened with his family. He hopped into the passenger seat and Oliver gave him a quick kiss. He could tell something was off. Percy wasn’t the best at hiding his emotions, especially when he was frustrated.

“Is something up?” Oliver asked as Percy was buckling his seatbelt. “I told my family about us.” Percy mumbled, “It didn’t really go well.” A look of concern fell on Oliver’s face.

“You know, if you don’t feel safe, my parents probably wouldn’t mind if you stayed with us.”

Percy looked confused for a second. “Oh, they knew I’m gay it was about the…”

“The Christmas trees?” Oliver asked

“The Christmas trees.” Percy finished. There were a few seconds of silence then they both broke out in laughter. “They’ll get over it. My parents weren’t very happy when I told them but they don’t really care now.”

“I know. What I was more upset about was them making fun of my Frankenstein shirt.” Percy said as Oliver started to drive. “What’s wrong with your Frankenstein shirt?” Oliver chuckled. “Nothing they just don’t have taste apparently.”

When the movie was over it was already dark out. Percy was rambling about the difference between the book and the movie when they walked out. He wouldn’t even realize it was snowing unless Oliver tapped his shoulder.

“It’s pretty early in the year for snow,” Percy said while he put his hand out to let snowflakes fall onto it. “I don’t think the weather cares about your opinion, Percy,” Oliver said lightheartedly. “It was just a comment I know I’m not Jack Frost or anything,” Percy said defensively as he turned towards Oliver.

Oliver couldn’t help but notice how the snowflakes melted as soon as they touched Percy’s bright orange hair. Or how the wind made his nose and cheeks a little bit pinker. All he could think about was how lucky he was to have him in his life.

“You’re so beautiful.” Oliver blurted out. Before Percy could think of a reply, Oliver kissed him. It was sweet and passionate like all their kisses but this one felt different from Percy. It was like his rom-com Hallmark Christmas movie moment and he wanted it to last for as long as possible.

When it did, Percy hugged Oliver as his life depended on it. “I love you, Oliver.” He said into his shoulder. “I love you too, Percy. Even if your family never gets over it, I’ll still love you.” Oliver replied.

Driving home, Percy was still talking about the movie. Oliver didn’t mind. He liked seeing that Percy was happy and after all, the movie was better than what he was expecting.

Oliver insisted that he drive Percy to his house instead of dropping him off at the driveway. He made an excuse that there might be ice on the driveway so Percy just brushed it off. But he knew Oliver was planning something when he insisted to help Percy carry his things in.

Percy did buy a sweatshirt and an ornament from the movie theater. After all, the proceeds went to the local library and they were Pride and Prejudice themed. But it wasn’t anything he couldn’t carry.

“You just want to see my family, don’t you?” Percy said with a smirk. Oliver shrugged “Just want them to know I’m not going anywhere.” Percy rolled his eyes. “Whatever, you can help me carry my stuff in.”

When they walked through the door, Percy’s whole family was watching a show in the living room. His parents smiled at them but his siblings gave only glares at the two of them. Percy brushed them off and headed up to his room.

Percy showed Oliver around it since he had never seen it before. He had the opportunity to talk about his various trinkets so of course, he’s not going to waste it. But it seemed too soon when Oliver needed to head home. It was dark out and getting kind of late but it didn’t matter. He couldn’t help but think about a time when they could live together. No more feuding, no more Christmas tree drama, no more sneaking around as to not get in trouble. Just the two of them, in love. No amount of fir trees would ever get between them.

[bonjour-rainycity]

hi! your twilight origin stories are so fun! tho i am a day late, if you have a chance i would love to tell you about myself in exchange for my vamp origin story :) i am studying anthropology and history in uni. in my free time i enjoy painting. my favorite season is summer (which is impressive bc i live in the south lol) and i love to be outside. if money were not an issue, i think i would be a beekeeper

Hi, thank you!! You’re not late at all :)

You were born in a small Italian village in the 1740s. Your village was a small farming community, and, because your traditional family typically didn’t allow you to participate in much, you would often sneak away to the nearby orchards, fields, and ponds. Unfortunately, they didn’t notice your absence. You were the only daughter in a family full of ‘useful’ sons, and your family often treated you as a burden rather than appreciating and caring for you. 

A friend of yours who lived in the nearby city would bring you painting supplies, and you would paint on anything you could -- rocks, wood, boxes, anything. If painting supplies weren’t available, you would make your own! You were very resourceful that way. 

You always had a hunger to learn more about the world, but no way to afford an education. So you did the next best thing -- you were curious about everything. You would bombard everyone you could with questions and were incredibly pleased when they would take the time to answer you. 

But despite your friendly nature, you were often alone. The town focused on farming, and you weren’t allowed to help with much of it. You did your household chores but would run off as soon as you got the chance to spend time outdoors. 

During one of your days outside, a beautiful stranger unlike anyone you’d ever seen before came walking over the hill. His eyes were bright red, but strangely, you weren’t frightened. He asked you for directions to the nearest city, and you gave them, but couldn’t resist your curiosity. You asked why his eyes were red. 

He sort of smirked and averted his eyes, seeming to play for time. Instead of answering, he changed the subject, asking why you were painting a rock. You answered, but then countered with a question of your own: why was he walking alone through the hills and orchards rather than taking the road to town? The two of you continued like this, asking each other questions, but you were the main one to give honest answers. He did have the threat of the Volturi to consider, after all. 

After a few hours, the clouds began to fade, and he looked regretfully at the sky. He told you he had to hurry away, and you were surprised to find yourself sad to see him go. Just before he ran off, he turned back to you, seeming to surprise himself when he asked ‘if you could have anything from town, what would it be?’ 

Your answer was easy: ‘Paint.’ Then with a grin and a tip of his hat, he was off, seemingly having vanished out of nowhere.

It was then that you decided to go home -- surely you hadn’t had enough to eat, or didn’t sleep well, and now you were seeing things. Days passed, and you continued to convince yourself that nothing was amiss, you had simply made the whole encounter up. 

Four months passed without incident. On another cloudy day, you sat in your favorite spot, this time, mixing some paint from water and the wildflowers. A throat cleared behind you, and you whirled around to see the man from before standing right there! Clearly you hadn’t made him up. He approached you, seeming almost shy this time, and presented you a gift of paint he had acquired in town. He apologized for taking so long to return, but you didn’t mind at all -- you were so pleased with the gift and your mind was reeling with his red eyes and ability to simply disappear from thin air. 

Though he sat quite a distance away from you while the two of you talked and painted, he never seemed to have trouble hearing you. When the clouds began to recede, he once again stood, saying he had to go, but he would return one day. 

Secretly, you hoped he would. And, just so you knew you were not making this up, you pained him as he sat in the grass so far away from you. With the reds he had brought you, you perfectly captured his depthless garnet eyes. 

This continued for two years. He would appear sporadically, each time bearing gifts and an apology for staying away so long. Each time, you dug deeper, trying to get him to explain the unexplainable, but he always danced around the questions. You found yourself missing him when he was gone and elated once again when he walked into your life.

On a breezy day in 1765, everything changed. He appeared, not on a cloudy day as usual, but on a blue, sunny one. You gasped, his skin sparkling like the sun on water. You asked your questions again and, finally, he gave you honest answers. 

You were shocked, but not at him being a vampire. You were perceptive and intelligent -- you had always known something about him was different. What really made you wonder was why he hadn’t killed you yet? 

He explained that he’d been ‘alive’ for over 200 years and had worked very hard to have good self-control. The first time he met you, he had just finished feeding a few hours ago, so he wasn’t thirsty. He heard your human heart beating from a mile away, and decided to investigate -- he’d met plenty of humans in the cities, but was curious about those who lived in the villages. He started talking to you and stayed much longer than he should have, captivated by your dedication, kindness, intelligence, and curiosity. As long as he was well-fed before visiting you, and he stayed relatively far away, he was able to control himself. Besides, he admitted, seeming nervous now, he’d never wanted to kill you -- to him, the thought was deplorable. 

You asked him why he was telling you all this, but part of you already knew. 

And part of you already knew what your answer would be. 

Tentatively, he approached you, careful not to move too quickly. He seemed to work up his nerve and asked, ‘would you want to join me?’

And, without a moment’s hesitation, you said yes. 

Want an origin story? Read here, please!

If you’d like to read more like this, you can find my masterlist here :) 

[britishboystm]

It’s Always Been You (Tom Blake Smut)

warnings: angst, smut, death

word count: 4,723

a/n: I can’t believe this is the first time I’ve written for Tom

•••

Tom had always been a good friend. His family did cherries and yours did apples.

Before the two of you were born, your fathers went into business together and shared a booth at the Saturday market in your town. Both your mothers were thick as thieves and had gotten pregnant around the same time, and you were born a month after Tom. It was safe to say you were never going to leave each other’s sides.

You did everything together, well until your father became worried that you were becoming too much like a boy by spending so much time with Tom. You’d fondly remember the times the two of you would go down to the river and stand in the water up to your knees trying to see who could catch the most tadpoles. The two of you would usually come back to yours or his farm around dinner time covered in mud and dirt up your waist. Your mother always complained that she couldn’t see your pretty face due to the muck that was often smeared on it. Because of all this you ended up being sent to a private girls school a few miles south, where you weren’t allowed to see Tom unless it was Christmas.

You secretly wrote to one another though during your time at boarding school and when his father passed away from pneumonia you were his only real support system other than his brother. His mother went into a bad depression after his father's death so he was left to grieve his father's passing alone.

Once your learning was finished, you did not hesitate to come home and help on Tom’s farm again. Tom’s mother would pay you to pick cherries since your father had sold his orchard.

But things had changed when you came home. Tom was no longer the little chubby boy who you could mess around with and make mud pies and pretend to eat with. His hair had darkened and his shoulders had broadened. Not to mention he now towered you. He was a man. And a handsome man at that. You never noticed that about him before.

The glances you shared now didn’t hold the same innocence it once did. There was something different in his chilly blue irises. His gaze would last a little too long when you would bend over to pick up the barrels of cherries and whenever the two of you rinsed them by the big well, he always found a way to sneak a small graze of your hand so you wouldn’t forget he was there beside you.

But those flirtatious moments didn’t last forever when war was declared in Britain. Almost immediately, Joe was sent off to fight for king and country. Tom didn’t need to but because Tom had to always be the same as Joe or one up him, he had kept saying he was going to enlist as well. You didn’t take it seriously until one day Tom came running down the driveway to meet you and his mom, who were depitting the last batch of the season.

“I did it, I did it!” You frowned in confusion at his obvious excitement as he hopped around with a letter in hand. His mother grabbed the letter from him quite quickly and nearly fainted after reading the first two lines. The two of you quickly grabbed her and called it a night, bringing her into the house.

His mother was in shambles and was now seated on the couch while she sobbed into her hands. She didn’t even have the desire to cook dinner. That’s when you knew things were bad.

“What did you do?” You say to Tom as he sorrowfully watched his mom cry.

“I enlisted, I’m leaving next week to fight in France.” It was now your turn to almost faint as you grab the kitchen table beside you.

“Have you gone mad?” You breathe out as you take a seat to steady yourself.

“No I haven’t. If Joe can do it so can I!” His voice raised in anger as he crossed his arms over his chest, obviously upset at the double standards that were set for him and his older brother.

“That is not what this is about Tom. Joe is gone, there is nothing we can do about that. But you? It was so easily avoidable but you’ve gone and ruined everything. How selfish can you be? Who will your mother have if both you and Joe don’t return home? Who will I have?” You begin to choke up near the end and let a single tear slip down your cheek.

Tom sighs and storms out of the kitchen, probably heading upstairs to freshen up while you prepare the dinner since Mrs. Blake clearly wasn’t well enough to.

You focused on making dinner as Mrs. Blake and Tom sat in the living room, not speaking to one another. What was there to say? Tom knew yours and his mother’s thoughts on it all and he was too stubborn to be convinced to not leave.

Once dinner was ready everyone sat at the table and ate quietly. Again no words were spoken and the tension was so thick amongst the three of you. None of you were able to finish due to the unsettling feeling you all shared so you finally gave up and collected the half eaten dishes and placed them into the sink.

“I’m going to bed. Goodnight.” Mrs Blake said as she slowly got up and weakly walked up the stairs to her room. She looked so frail and worn out that it made you even more mad at Tom for the pain he was already causing.

You stood at the sink and faced away from Tom as he stayed put at the table. The only sounds that filled the room was the clashing of dirty plates and running water.

This was all such a mess.

———-

Later that night you found yourself sitting on the haystack in the Blake barn with the doors wide open as you stared out at the navy night sky. Stars adorned the sky. They continued to shimmer, unaware of the fact that your world was falling apart at the seams. Funny how time and space works, you thought. So many other thoughts rattled around your brain, all of them making you want to cry.

You were so deeply focused on your little world that you didn’t initially hear Tom walk in.

“Couldn’t sleep either huh?” He said before walking up and taking a seat beside you on the hay.

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner.” You don’t respond but rather stare out into nothing with an emotionless expression.

“The least you can do is talk to me.” He says, nudging you lightly to lighten the mood.

“I wanted to marry you.” You blurt out of nowhere in a montone way. There was a good chance he was never coming home so at this point you felt as though you had nothing to lose.

He bowed his head in shame and twiddled his thumbs, clearly trying to absorb this big bombshell.

“Really?” He says finally looking at you and trying to hide his excitement.

“Yeah but at this point it’s foolish to think like that, considering I may never see you again.” You finally look at him with hurt in your eyes which he matches almost immediately.

“Y/N I-“ He tries to say something but you are quick to cut him off.

“Why is this so important to you?” He sighs and runs a hand through his hair before getting more comfortable in his spot.

“I don’t know. I feel as though I have lived my entire life being the lesser of the two brothers. Joe has always been the golden child that I wanted to prove myself. That I can be courageous and brave just like him.” You bite your lip from saying anything that may hurt him. It made sense why he would do this but you still hated the idea.

“Aren’t you afraid?”

“Of course I am. I’m scared shitless. But I’ve been scared shitless my entire life.” You sigh and the two of you sit in silence for a while, nothing but the sound of crickets and the warm night breeze floating by.

“Promise you won’t laugh?” He says out of the blue, rubbing his neck in embarrassment. You nod in return, silently telling him there is no reason to feel judged by you.

“There is one more thing I’m scared of.”

“And what’s that?”

“I shouldn’t say. It’s so bloody embarrassing.”

“What? No! You have to tell me now! That isn’t fair!”

“Okay fine.” He sighs.

“Spit it out then.” You say with an urgency to your voice.

“I’m scared of dying a virgin.” Your eyes go wide and you look over to him to see if he is joking or not. When you see him looking down at his lap shamefully, a blush creeps upon your face. You had never really discussed those things before. Especially with him.

Girls talked about it when you were in private school but you didn’t usually have anything to contribute.

“Oh.” Is all that you are able to get out.

“I’m sorry, I should have just kept that to myself. Forget I said anything.” He begins to ramble, clearly trying to backtrack on his last comment.

“There is no reason to feel ashamed of those type of things Thomas. Those are normal worries people have.”

“You think so?” He says hopefully.

“Of course. I also get scared by the idea of never being able to feel that way with someone. It’s natural.” It was now his turn to blush. Oh to be the one to make you feel that way, he thought.

“Tom?” You finally say, bracing yourself for his response.

“Yes?” He says back.

“You know. If we both share this fear, we could always… get rid of it together.” He is speechless and his jaw drops as he stares at your nervous expression.

“Do you really want to?” He finally gets out.

“Well, we know each other and we are good friends. I also feel very comfortable with you which is important.”

“Right but we aren’t married.”

“At this point Tom I don’t really care about that. I need to vent all of these emotions somehow.”

“Oh.”

“What?”

“So that’s what this is about. You want to fuck out your feelings because I’m leaving?” He seemed a little hurt by this. Like this was simply an impulse or an itch that was aching to be scratched. That was part of it but it was mostly the fact that you’ve wanted him to be your first the minute you returned home and saw just how much of man he had become. You loved him and he was now giving you a free pass to finally fulfill your desires.

“No, Tom that is not it. I want to lose my virginity and to be quite honest, I couldn’t think of anyone else I would want to lose it to.”

“Really?” A cocky smirk came upon his lips as he leaned in and nudged you slightly. You rolled your eyes in response and scoffed.

“Okay you don’t need to get all cocky about it.” He laughed before trying to start something by catching your gaze in his.

And with no warning Tom pounced on you and began kissing your neck roughly which caught you off guard.

“Tom get off! What are you doing?” You squeal as you push him away.

“What? I thought you said you wanted to lose your virginity to me. I leave next week remember?” Your glare is piercing as you stood up.

“I didn’t mean here at this very moment! God can you at least give me a warning before you try and pull something like that?” He falls back a bit onto the hay bale with an exasperated sigh, running his hands through his hair in frustration.

“Sorry.” He says realizing his wrong doing. You weren’t just an inanimate object that could just be used whenever. Contrary to what your father always believed, you were a person of integrity and if you needed time, then by god you were doing to get the respect you deserved.

“I think I will go to bed now.” Your words are soft as you turn around and hesitantly head out into the vast land of the Blake farm. You couldn’t help but look back to see Tom sitting there, embarrassed. Millions of thoughts swam around but one kept finding itself coming back again and again. That specific feeling that came whenever Tom did chores around the barn that made his muscles flex was coming back and even though you had just rejected him, the feeling was growing more and more.

“Fuck it.” You say under your breath before you quickly turn around and plop down onto his waist in a straddle, causing him to let out a groan at the sudden impact.

He looks at you in confusion, and right before he could say another word you quickly attach your lips to his. The kiss was aggressive and feverish as your hands threaded through his hair, gripping it tightly to get him to part his lips. As a result he let out a small gasp at your fingers tugging at his roots and your tongue swirling around his mouth. This was your first ever kiss and soon to be first ever time so you weren’t going to hold back. Not if it was with Tom.

Everything felt so right in that moment. Just two nineteen year olds using the last bit of time together before probable tragedy. You had a gut feeling that Tom was never going to walk up that long gravel driveway ever again. You shooed those horrid thoughts away.

“Tom.” You sigh against his plush lips. He pulls away and intently looks into your eyes, worry evident on his face.

“Did I do something wrong?” He asked. You couldn’t help but giggle at his puppy like demeanour.

“Of course not. You are being so kind Tom.”

Your gaze then suddenly becomes transfixed with his white button shirt. Then without a second thought your hands grazed up and down his covered chest before you began to unbutton the first three, exposing his sternum. You look up to see him intensely watching your actions, his breathing beginning to increase.

“Are you sure Y/N?” He says while his hands run up and down the sides of your basic grey dress.

“Only if you are.” You whisper back. Taking this as affirmation he flips you around and lays you gently on the cushiony yet scratchy hay that held the both of you off of the dirty ground of the barn.

“You know I have always, thought, you were, so beautiful.” He says in between kisses along your face. You smile softly at his words and sigh, allowing yourself to fall deeper into the hay.

“Thomas Blake you always knew how to make a girl blush.” He chuckles at this and stops kissing you, holding himself up above your body.

“You remember the time your parents invited the Darby’s to Christmas Dinner. How it was your first year back from St. Clares and because they were the richest family in town, your parents tried to set you up with their son Richard?” You roll your eyes.

“Tom what does this have to do with us having sex right now?” You were growing slightly impatient.

“Wait, let me finish love.” You sigh and shift slightly to grow more comfortable. This may take some time, you thought.

“I remember I was so mad because your parents wouldn’t let me play with you. They basically threw you to Richard and I had to watch them try to play matchmaker. At the time I believed that I was angry because I wasn’t allowed to play with my best friend since you had been away for so long. But years later I looked back at that moment and I realized that I was jealous. Jealous at the fact that you were paying all of your attention to Richard and not me. Of course your parents made you but I remember making Richard my sworn enemy that day. Stupid huh?” You smile and run a hand down his cheek.

“No not at all. I can’t believe you remember that.” His words made you think for a moment. He had been in love with you for so long and you didn’t even notice.

“Tom?” You ask.

“Yes Y/N?” Your body almost turned to jelly at his readiness to do anything for you. The adoration was so obvious that “in love” could easily be stamped on the slightly older boy's forehead.

“Would it be crazy to say I am, whole heartedly, absolutely, in love with you Thomas Blake?”

“No it wouldn’t.” He laughed.

“And would I be absolutely mad to say that I am, insanely, crazily, in love with you Y/N L/N?” You shake your head with a smile and with that he leans in once more and continues the eventful night with a loving yet lustful kiss.

His hands begin to have a mind of their own as they roam your body. After exploring most of your many curves, his left hand slowly made its way under your dress, lifting it slightly and beginning to touch you over your knickers.

“Oh my.” You gasp out as he places a tad bit of pressure on your clit.

“How are you feeling?” He asks, watching your reactions intently.

“Very tingling, ve-very g-good.” You try to get out in between gasps. He smirks proudly at this and begins creating circles against the fabric that covers your centre.

“Off. Off Tom, please.” You slightly beg. Wanting to make you feel good, Tom begins to slide your knickers down your legs and chucks them off to the side.

“Can I see?” He asks sheepishly. You curve your neck so you can see him down between your legs.

“Yes.” You respond. With a steady hand, Tom lifts your dress, dropping it up around your waist and groans at the sight of your exposed, glistening cunt.

“Wow.” Is all he can say.

“Tom!” You whine, unable to bear the throbbing feeling between your thighs.

“Sorry, just got distracted.” He mutters. Tom then leans in and lets out a hot breath. Your legs clench at this and Tom becomes aware with just how sensitive you really are.

“I’m going to kiss you here. Is that alright darling?” You nod weakly and with that his lips attach to your centre. A moan is drawn out of you almost instantly.

“Fuck. This cannot be your first time.” You blurt out, clutching his hair. He smirks against you before he sits up again and places a long kiss on your awaiting lips.

“Just you darling. It’s always been you.” You giggle in response and wrap your arms around his neck and pull him flush against you.

“Y/N I don’t know how much longer I can last without putting my cock in you.” He spurts out in pent up frustration.

“Charming words there.” you scoff before he begins to unbutton his dirty work slack and push them down his legs.

“Can I unlace you’re-“ you sit up, already knowing what he is about to say. Your hands swing to the back of your dress and you quickly begin to unravel the back, letting it fall off your upper body. Your breasts were perked to the air from outside.

“Christ.” He says before leaning down and taking one breast into his mouth. He is slow and gentle with his actions, clearly showing you how important this moment was for him. With small mewls leaving your lips every once in a while, you ran your fingers through his hair again. This time you made sure to be more soft on his scalp.

“I’m ready, are you?” He whispers as he moves his mouth up to your jaw, hands still caressing your bosom. You nod slowly which makes him smile. It was finally going to happen.

He brings himself up again and places his hands on either side of your head.

You take a moment to take in his member. The only time you had seen one was when you snuck an anatomy book from the library when you were in school. Seeing one in real life was a whole new experience

He notices your stare and smirks.

“Everything alright?” He asks.

“I don’t know. It’s so different from the books. This is all so new to me.”

“It’s alright darling. We will learn together.” You nod in response and before you knew it, he was beginning to insert himself into you.

The feeling was so forgein and awkward that you had to smack him to stop.

“Ow fuck, Tom stop!” He quickly removes himself and holds you into his chest.

“Are you alright? Did I hurt you?” You grab him tighter in thanks and lean away a tad to look at his concerned face.

“It feels so tight. Could you maybe use your fingers first?” He nods and slips a hand down your dress again. One finger is dipped inside and you let out a sigh of relief. This was a lot easier to manage, you thought.

“Oh Thomas that feels so good.” You say. He smiles and takes your praise to allow himself to enter a second finger. Your legs clench a tad as he moves his fingers in and out, every once in a while, spreading your increased wetness along your slit.

“I think I’m ready now.” You say. It didn’t take much for him to remove his fingers and lick off your wetness. Then he positioned himself the same way he did not that long before. His member slipped into you and this time around it felt a lot less uncomfortable. It still caused a pressure but not enough for you to scream bloody murder.

“Should I move?” He asks. You were doing it. This was no longer a dream or a fantasy. Thomas Blake was staring down at you with his cock inside at the hilt.

“God yes.” You moan while throwing your head back and closing your eyes. Tom began retracting his hip and then swirled them around before pushing forward again.

“Fuck me.” He cries out.

“I’m so happy we did this.” He says. You grip his shirt and open up the rest of the buttons, allowing the rest of his torso to be revealed to you. Your hands ran up and down his chest and soft stomach.

“Slow down.” You whisper gently. He nods and his movements start to calm. His eyes are entranced by yours and you can’t help but notice tears in his eyes.

“Are you crying?” You ask.

“I’m going to miss you so much.” He whimpers back, as he continues to move back and forth within you. Tears began brimming your eyes and as you both let tears fall through your orgasms, you pulled him flush against you.

“Come home to me.” You kept repeating.

“I promise.” He would say back with as much of a clear voice he could muster up.

And with that your legs begin to shake and you let out an elongated moan. His seed spills deep inside of you and as he removes himself from your core you can't help but feel it drip down your inner thigh.

“I love you Thomas Blake.”

“I love you Y/N L/N.”

———

You stared blankly out the kitchen window as you dried off the plates from lunch. The sky was a gloomy grey but no rain fell. Mrs Blake sat silently in the living room, knitting a small bonet with yellow yarn.

Your mind was somewhere else that you hadn’t initially noticed a car pull up and a soldier stepping out, letter in hand.

The plate you had been drying crashes in the soapy water beneath you and you quickly dry your hands on your apron as you attempt to run out the front door.

“Mrs Blake?” The man asks as you open the door rather frantically.

“No but she’s in. Iris!” You call out. She walks slowly from her chair and situates herself beside you.

“I’m Mrs Blake.” Her words were shaky. It was almost as though she knew exactly what was about to come out of the man's mouth.

“We regret to inform you that Thomas Blake was killed in action on April 6th. His belongings will be sent to you in the next couple of weeks. We are sorry for your loss and the rest of the information given will be found in this letter.” And with that the man looked down at your stomach and sighed with sorrow before handing over the letter and walking back to the car.

Your legs went numb instantly. The only sounds you could make were loud gut wrenching sobs. You clenched your stomach as you held onto the door frame for support.

“He’s gone Iris! My beautiful Tom is gone!” She grabbed you and mixed your sobs with hers. Myrtle and the puppies were now at your feet, grazing your calves in a calming matter, almost as though they had known what had happened.

“My boy!” She lets out.

“My baby boy!”

————

Dear Y/N,

I can safely say that this is one of the hardest letters I have ever had to write. I am sure you have gotten the news before this gets to you so I want to say that I am so sorry for your loss. Tom was nothing but a good, selfless man who cared for others so deeply. Before he died, his only wish was that I wrote to you and his mother. He talked about you every chance he could. The stories from when the two of you were little, how you were the most beautiful being that he had ever seen. How him replaying your laugh in his head was the only way to get him to sleep at night when things were tough here in the trenches. He didn’t die in vain. He died knowing that he fulfilled his duty of loving you each waking moment, even if it saddened him he couldn’t do it alive for much longer.

I remember his last words to me so very clearly.

“Tell my beautiful Y/N I love her. That I will always be with her.”

He handed me this picture of the two of you together. There is some blood on it but he would have wanted you to have it nevertheless. I hope this gives you peace during these trying times and god bless Y/N.

Sincerely,

William Schofield

“Mommy, mommy look!” A small voice calls out. You drop the letter and picture of you and Tom staring longingly at each other that you had read and looked at so many times before to see your son holding a small pool of water in his hands.

“What do you have there?” You call out. He then runs up from the river and drops down beside you under the willow tree you were situated at.

“I caught a tadpole!” He says proudly.

“That’s amazing Thomas!” He smiles at your encouraging words before running back down to the water. You watched him intently as he giggled in entertainment. Sometimes you had to let out steady breaths to stop yourself from crying. He was truly the spitting image of his father, a mini Tom if you will. The icy blue eyes and the chocolate wavy hair gave him away so easily. It pained you so much to wake up and see your Tom in him every day, but it was also a blessing in disguise. Even though Tom was no longer around, he had left you a gift that you could never thank him enough for. Tom Jr was so sweet and kind and loved making friends with everyone he came across, just like his father. He was your support system and you both adored each other. He was your best friend.

And for that, you were internally grateful to Mr. Thomas Blake.

[sennextheassasinkingoflight]

The Bard, The Flowers, And An Hourglass

Rated T and up for graphic descriptions of injuries' Geraskier/Gerlion featuring a cameo by Regis Cross posted to Ao3 

Jaskier hated it. He absolutely without a doubt loathed when the witcher took a dangerous contract and refused to let him come along. Never mind that he hadn't even told him where he would be and therefore where to look if he didnt come back. Normally Jaskier would just trust that Geralt was not going to get himself killed and he would play his lute, sing, dance and be merry until the witcher returned. Not tonight. Tonight could not be any more cliche in his mind. 

He stood in the darkened room he was renting and stared out the dirty window waiting for the witchers return. The skin around his nails ached from being picked at and torn while he stared out the window into a dark and writhing tempest. The sky rent open with lightning and the wind ushered to and fro by thunder. The clouds in the sky swirled forebodingly and ominous moving as restless as Jaskier soul. The witcher had seemed concerned about this contract. Something had to be off about it, of that Jaskier was certain. He had informed Jaskier that he would be gone for a minimum of 4 days. It was the fifth night and there was no sign of the witcher. 

Jaskier had spent the last three nights playing music. That was his profession after all, no sense in squandering opportunity. He had played the fourth evening as well, though not as late. When Geralt hadn't returned, he'd walked to the town gate and waited in the dark, cloak pulled tight against the sting of spring air. He hadn't slept since against his better judgment and failed attempts. 

He couldn't recall all of the details, only that Geralt would have to pass through a very old swamp on the edge of a lake, likely filled with drowners, echinops (if the rumors he'd heard were true) and a variety of other things he didn't want to think of. Of course Geralt could have gone around it, since his contract was to take out an Archgriffin that was pestering a number of farms at the base of the mountain range and near the edge of the swamp. Instead the Witcher was, Jaskier was very certain, being foolish and going straight through it instead of around like all of the normal sane people. Jaskier could hear the excuse clearly in his head,  "I need to know how bad the swamp is. Might need to bring the others next spring." Of course Geralt would. How dare he just do the task at hand and move on. For all his airs he really was a good man, better than the people gave him credit for and better than most deserved. 

So now, Jaskier is staring out the window of his room in the middle of the night as the first of the spring storms rage, waiting for the bastard to come back. With a sigh and worried eyes, Jaskier pushes away from the window and paces the length of the drafty room instead. The fire roaring in the hearth doing nothing to stave off the chill of rain and night, or the dispare growing every hour in his gut. It sends chills down his spine, so he tries to focus on anything but his missing friend. Maybe he got laid up by the weather, that was certainly a possibility. Still, that it was going to take him 4 days to complete the contract had seemed odd, and he had hoped that it would be significantly less time. Instead it had been the opposite. 

The distractions he attempts to conjure don't last long. His mind is fixated on the witcher, not uncommon these days, he thinks. He returns to his vigil and watches the darkness on the edge of town. It's nearing 2 in the morning and he knows he really needs to sleep. He can feel it in his body. He's too tightly wound to try though so he remains at his self appointed post. He blinks bleary eyes and squints at movement caught on the edge of darkness. He turns his head to follow the shape more fully. 

"That looks like Roach” His mind supplies as the shape takes the form of a horse and single rider, a silhouette against the black of night.  “Oh no." He tears across the room, down the hall and takes the steps two at a time. He pulls the inn door open and darts into the  downpour without a second thought. He sprints through the mud slipping and sliding all the way. By the time he reaches the witcher and his stead, his fears begin to come true. Geralt is injured, badly and barely astride Roach. Panicked he does everything he can to keep Geralt in the saddle until they reach the stable. There is nothing but the deafening roar of wind and thunder in his ears, the hammering of his heart in his chest as the rain stings his face. Inside the stable Geralt falls uselessly from Roaches saddle and the stablehand, woken by Jaskiers shouts, jumps to action tending to the mare. He can see that her rider is badly injured, blood oozes from a tear in his armor, and he can’t even stand upright. Jaskeir ducks under Geralt's arm and uses his own around the witchers back to support him. It’s everything he has to get the man to their room, he's practically dragging him along by the time they reach the top of the stairs. Geralt's legs have gone limp and he’s barely standing. Huffing with exertion, Jaskier barely manages to get the white haired man to the chair and starts undoing his armor with dexterous fingers and practiced ease, before he slumps unconscious. This is the epitome of not good. Jaskier will have to go for a healer, but first he will do what he can to stop the bleeding. The armor comes away quickly followed by Geralt's undershirt and the flickering light of hastily lit candles is not enough to tend to the mottled, torn,  and bloodied flesh of his friend. Jaskier pushes down the horror in his throat and investigates the wounds as well as he can. The gash is long, it stretches from right hip bone up and over Geralt's left shoulder, diagonally across his chest, and stops just under his shoulder blade. There are large chunks of skin and muscle torn away and flapping loosely now that armor and shirt have been removed. And Jaskier is certain he can see Geralt's ribs; and is that what a stomach looks like?  He swallows against the nausea that assaults him at the sight and sets to cleaning the wound. He bites his tongue and clenches his teeth to keep from vomiting as he works. The wound will be bandaged and he will administer a dose of Swallow and then go for a healer. This is the only thing Jaskier can do for his friend now.

 Geralt opens his eyes and groans with the pain, which is a good sign. Quickly Jaskier pushes the vial of Swallow, the most important potion, the only potion Geralt had actively taken the time to show him and explain about, to the witcher's lips and he drinks understandingly. His eyes are hazy and Jaskier knows that he needs to get him to the bed now or he will be lying on the floor to recover, so he resumes his position under Geralt's shoulder and tugs until the larger man pushes himself to his feet and stubbles in the direction Jaskier leads him. It's everything he can do to keep his injured partner upright so he can bandage the wound and as soon as he is done he heads back out into the onslaught of rain and wind. There isn’t time to consider that donning his cloak would have been wise. Instead he rushes in the direction of the town's healer. It had not taken him many weeks of traveling with the witcher to learn that the first thing he should do upon arriving in a new town was inquire as to where the healer lived. And this time, like so many times before it had become a piece of information he wished he didn’t need. As he ran through the muddied streets he slipped and fell into the water and mud, dirtying his stockings and doublet. He was completely drenched, shivering and covered in filth by the time he made it to the house. Knocking loudly and insistently his teeth rattled in the cold and his knees knocked together. After what felt an eternity the man opened the door. One look at the bard and he knew the witcher was injured. Jaskier was invited to stand in the entryway while the physician dressed quickly and haphazardly and gathered his supplies. “How bad is the injury?” He asked, calm and composed in the face of emergency. “It stretches from the back of his shoulder across his chest to his right hip bone. I- I can see his ribs in places and I think his stomach. I did my best to clean and bandage it before I came but I’m not a healer.” He stutters out between involuntary shivers.

Regis, it turns out is rather spry despite his looks and old age and they make it to the inn rather quickly. Despite the speed of their travel the doctor too is soaked and shivering when they arrive. It doesn’t stop him from following quickly and silently on Jaskies heels as he takes the stairs two at a time and jogs down the hall to their room. Jaskier steps to the side and stays out of the way as the physician moves towards his patient. Only, in the shadowy and flickering light of the room it almost seems like a predator advancing on prey, and in a way he supposes that is exactly the nature of physician and patient. When Regis asks him to bring the other chair over to the bedside to act as a makeshift table he does so without hesitating. It’s easy to follow the orders of someone so calm. 

Regis is the epitome of calm under pressure. He doesn’t flinch away from the carnage of Geralt's torso, doesn’t blink at the vast quantities of blood loss. The physician doesn’t so much as sweat as he works. Finally, Jaskier thinks to inform him that he gave the witcher a vial of swallow, that he knows that another needs to be administered in 4 hours. Geralt had been clear with him about this. It was important when they were on the road miles from help. The witcher hadn’t wanted to disclose the information at all. He had wanted the bard to leave him be and go away, but when it was clear that that wasn’t going to happen and he had been injured a little too seriously one to many times, he accepted that he had help and gave up the information begrudgingly. Regis only hums at him, sideburns twitching with the motion. Jaskier can’t keep up with anything that the man is doing, he moves almost inhumanly fast. But now, as he finishes cleaning the wound his face draws grimm and he looks to the distressed bard. Jaskier swallows, he knows this look. He has seen it before on physicians and healers when someone is near death. He runs a shaky hand through dripping hair and pushes it out of his face, waiting. The action does nothing to calm his nerves. “There is an ingredient I need if I am to save his life. But I do not have it, nor is it found in this town.”  Jaskeir blinks dumbly at the man, opens his mouth to say something and closes it. “In fact, I do not believe they keep it in our sister town.” “What is it? What do you need?” Desperation colors his words dripping with despair as he looks wildly between the healer and the witcher. “There is a cliff just under an hour's ride from here, at the top of the cliff is a field. In the field grows orange lilies. I need three of them, root and all. It is the only way I can think to ensure he survives. He may as it is, being a witcher, but the chances are slim. This wound is deep and I fear infection has already settled in, his heart is weak.” “I’ll go. I can get them. I’ll leave now.” He says already moving around the room, gathering what he might need. “The road will take you through the edge of the swamp. Then you must climb the cliff face, there is no path to the top. And Bard,” He turns to meet Regis eyes, they flicker in the candle light and it sends a shiver of fear down his spine. His feet stay planted to the ground where he is and he waits, unmoving, for Regis to finish. “He doesn’t have long, no more than three hours. And the magic in the lilies will only last for one, once they have been uprooted.” He stares at the man, this harbinger of death. He is no physician, he is Charon waiting to usher the dead to the afterlife. Still, this is the best chance he has at saving his friend, the man he loves. With a firm nod he gathers his knife and cloak and a bag to put the flowers in and turns back to Regis. “Three hours?”  The physician gives a nod, and as if summoned by magic, produces an hourglass. It was larger than a normal one and Jaskier suspectes it is magic. With a grim smile Regis turns it and the time begins. The physician set back to work and Jaskier raced to Roaches side. +++++ “Roach my dear, I am so sorry about this, but I need your help. You and I both know that Geralt is right and Pegasus is slow as molasses. You’ll help me won’t you? To save Geralt.” His voice is harsh with worry. He knows that Geralt speaks to her often and he has no idea if she even understands but she is amenable to him as she stomps, almost impatiently and whinnies. He moves quickly to saddle her and she's ready to move as soon as he climbs into the saddle. 

The rain drops stings like bolts of fire as they pelt against his exposed skin. He squints against the wind and the thousands of ice spears. It’s everything he can to keep hold of Roaches reigns, his fingers have long since gone numb. The road is dark before him and Roach gallops onward into the void before them, following the road as it turns and bends and finally dips into the swamp. He doesn't have time to be concerned with wolves or other creatures of the night. He doesn’t have time to fear what he does not know, or the possibility that he may need to fight the creatures of the swamp. He leans forward over the mare's chestnut mane and ignores the pain in his joints from the cold, or the whipping around of his clothes and hair as the wind sends shutters through the trees. Blowing over those too old and rotten to stand strong against the gales. Branches fly around him and he knows that he is insane. That this entire quest is insane and yet he can’t bear the thought of Geralt dead. Of not having at least tried to save him by gathering the lilies. There is no room for fear or thought as he focuses on trying to remain alive and press on towards the cliff. Steam rises off Roach in puffs of mists. Her nostrils flare and blow steam as she snorts at the shadows surrounding them. The woods are alive and foreboding caging them in on both sides; he doesn't know the road but he knows to keep going. He prays to the gods that he makes it, that Geralt makes it. And presses onwards ignoring the feeling of being watched, of being stalked. Roach seems to know what is happening and carries him quickly out of the grasp of enemies he cannot see. Though he can feel the brush of claws, the breath of a monster too close to his flesh. 

Finally the cliffs come into sight and Jaskeir could whoop with glee. He stumbles as he dismounts and barely manages to steady himself by placing a hand on Roaches shoulder. He aches muscles tight from the ride and the constant shivering. He adjusts the now soaked satchel over his shoulder and the dagger he had brought with him in its sheath. Hesitantly he assesses the cliffside and shudders. Slowly he wraps his arms around himself to brace against the cold and his fear. There is no way he can scale the cliffside, none at all. He doesn’t know what he was thinking. Sure he had to try, but now he was here in the dark and the cold and the wind swirling around him and he knows with numb fingers and toes he can’t even attempt to climb the cliffside. It's sheer and steep and flowing with waterfalls and rivulets of ice cold water. Looking at it he isn't even certain he has the strength to climb it. 

He steps forwards towards the cliff and stretches out a shaking hand. “Get a grip Jaskier. If you don’t do this… if you don’t do this, Geralt will die. You have to try. You have too.”

Slowly he steps forward and stretches up, taking hold of the moss covered rocks and sharp edges and pulling himself up. He pushes up with his feet and they to find footholds. Craning his head backwards he tries to look for the next handhold and fails, the rain stinging his eyes. Instead he closes them and reaches blindly. He looks down and gets an idea of where he can put his feet to support his weight, but knows he can’t let himself think about how far he could fall. He swallows down his nervousness, fingers convulsing around the rock ledge in his hand. As he climbs he recites tales he had heard ages ago to himself. He needs to keep his mind focused but his heart hammers in his chest and his breathing comes out in ragged puffs as he pulls himself further up the cliffside. He’s halfway up when his worst fear seems as though it will come true. He loses his grip with his right hand and left foot simultaneously. He screams and scrambles to find purchase anywhere among the rough and jagged edges. He feels stone slice into the palm of his left hand as he manages to catch his right foot on an outcropping of stone.

He pulls himself as close to the solid formation of the cliff, irregular edges digging into his chest and hips. He rests his forehead against the stone and gulps down lungfuls of air. Rainwater drips down his neck, trails down his spine and shivers again. When he has settled himself enough he begins climbing again. He tucks his chin to his chest and grits his teeth against the exhaustion and the pain. The ends of his fingers are beginning to come raw as the calluses of many years playing are pulled away from the skin. His muscles twitch with every heave and pull against gravity as he lifts himself inch by inch up the side of the cliff. Finally he pulls himself over the edge and onto a bed of soaking wet grass. 

With his eyes closed he breathes deeply forcing his heart rate to steady. He can’t feel the rain as it falls against his skin or the brush of grass. He can’t feel the wind whipping around him slicing into his skin. It takes every ounce of his consciousness not to fall asleep where he is and to sit up instead. He casts his gaze around the clearing, skin buzzing with electricity as he crawls towards the blossoms whisking in the wind, twisting, twirling and fluttering to and fro. When he reaches the nearest one he pulls the knife out and sets to work cutting the flower from the ground and shoves it into the satchel. He repeats the process twice more and makes his way back to the cliff edge.  

Fear causes him to hesitate with his legs over the edge. The ground is very far away and he can barely make Roach out among the trees below him. He bandages his palm as best he can and turns onto his stomach. He doesn’t have a choice now. He must climb back down the cliff and he knows that the trip down will be far more difficult than the climb up. His feet slip at the initial contact of sole against stone and it takes a moment for him to regain his composure and try again. The rain slick rocks and hurricane like wind around him distract him from the slowly lightening sky. Looking down he tries to move quickly finding holes for his feet and ledges for his hands. He slips several times as the burning in his fingers and toes and calves increases. Still he pushes himself to climb faster. He doesn’t know how long he has been gone, but he knows he has been gone too long already.

Roach snorts below him and he turns his head over his shoulder to see her, but can’t make out what has her distraught as she stomps around and circles. He hadn’t tied her up, she was too well trained to go wandering far. Turning his head back to the stones he seeks out another foothold and misses, the ache in his shoulders is too much and he falls. Spots color his vision as he looks up at the cliffside, the coppery taste of blood sits on his tongue and his side aches. The throbbing in his arm catches his attention and he manages with a hoarse groan to look at it. White bone, covered in blood sticks through the sleeve of his doublet. The darkness consumes him. When he comes too Roach is nuzzling his forehead and prodding at his chest. He raises an arm to bat her away or pet her and yelps. It comes back to him in a rush, Geralt, the climb, the fall, and the time constraint. Looking at the sky he notes that it is still dark, It’s a good sign, but he has lost time. Agony threatens to rip him apart as he forces himself to his feet. He cradles his arm close to his chest and struggles to mount Roach. They need to fly, speed is the only thing that will save Geralt now, and that's all that matters to Jaskier. All this time and he had never told the man how much he meant to him. That he loves him. Choking back tears of heartbreak and physical pain, he nudges Roach into a trot and then a gallop. It is excruciating, every jostle, every movement in time with her steps sends ripples of pain from his arm to his brain. He bites down on his lower lip until he draws blood to keep from crying out. The swamp seems more dangerous now than it had before and he isn't sure why. The tempest has begun to die down and he can see that the road is clear. The shadows surrounding it are still, eerily so and he flicks his eyes hither and there attempting to scan for danger. He knows that anything predatory can likely smell his blood and fear and so he tries to calm himself. It’s no use his stomach is in knots, he’s exhausted, his best friend is dying and he might be too late to save him. All he can do is lean forward on Roach and pray for a miracle. A felled tree on the road threatens to bar their way but Jaskier nudges Roach on and she jumps it with ease. He screams, his arm, his ribs, his head and all of his muscles protest the movements and nothing but adrenaline is keeping him going. Nothing but the knowledge that if he does not get there that Geralt will die, and he likely will too. He nearly slips from her saddle as the pain keeps him from focusing on the necessity of riding. Finally the town begins to come into view and Roach seems instinctively to go faster. The poor girl is at her breaking point; he's certain, as cold and wet as he is, exhausted from carrying Geralt and himself and still despite her heaving breaths and frothing mouth she carries on dutifully. Absently he thinks to make sure she is given extra oats and to sneak her some sugar cubes or an apple or two when Geralt isn't looking. 

He slips from her saddle much the same way Geralt had and when the stable hand sees him he cuts off his ranting and stares. Jaskier moves past him and knows that he will attend to Roach, he will pay the man well tomorrow. There are more important issues to be dealt with now. He pushes himself along the wall, vision swimming and crawls up the stairs and down the hall. At their door he pushes himself to his feet and unlatches the door. Regis looms before him just on the other side. The man's eyes flash over him and he steps back to let the bard in. “How is he?” Jaskeir manages strained and hoarse and stuttered by exhaustion as he removes the satchel and hands it to the physician. He looks at the hourglass and lets out a heavy sigh, there is still sand in the top. He had made it. “Alive yet. Change and sit by the fire. I’ll tend you next.” Moving on instinct Jaskier does as he is told. He feels compelled to obey this man and so he struggles out of his soiled clothing and pulls on a long night shirt and sits in front of the fire. He could sleep if not for the pain and the fear still echoing in every fibre of his being. Regis is grinding the flowers, adding water and other ingredients. The movement makes Jaskiers head swim and he leans over on the floor, stretches out on his back and takes deep breaths. When he wakes the sun is high in the sky and Regis is sitting at the table calm and collected and dressed differently than he had been. There is a pillow beneath his head and a mountain of blankets over him. Taking a moment to gather himself Jaskier sits up using his unbound arm. His head is no longer swimming and he takes that as a good sign. “Geralt?” He tries and fails but Regis looks at him knowingly. He doesn’t have a voice, he can feel the constriction in his throat. He has a cold. He sniffles and stares at the grey haired man. 

“The Witcher will be fine, and so will you. You made it in time. Though you seem to have done some substantial damage to yourself in the process.” Ancient eyes bore into him as they pointedly look to his arm and chest and then back up. Jaskier feels the need to join him at the table so slowly he finds his feet and wobbles unsteadily to the empty chair across from him. He braces on its back and manages to find his way into it without collapsing too much. Leaning forward he rests his weight on his good arm, and holds the other protectively to his chest. “Fell on my way back down the cliff.” “I can tell.” The physician lips quirk up on the corners. “You have several broken ribs and your side and back are bruised heavily. You're lucky not to have fallen further or you would be unable to walk.”  The man pours him a glass of water and he takes it gratefully. Sitting back he sips at it thoughtfully and lets his gaze slide past him to Geralt. “He may stay unconscious a few days, I recommend poppy milk and bed rest until he is completely healed. Perhaps more of that potion of his.” Nodding slowly he manages to croak, “There wasn’t much time left in the hourglass.” “No. But there was enough.” That isn’t as reassuring as he would have liked it to be. His throat constricts with an ache and tears threaten to spill down his face. It has been a very long couple of days and he wants nothing more than to curl up beside the witcher and sleep. But there are things he must do today. He must speak to the stable hand and thank him, and to the innkeeper as well. “The stablehand and the innkeeper came to check on you both this morning. He seemed overly concerned about you, and he thought that the innkeeper should make sure he didn’t have two dead patrons in his establishment. He thought you were a ghost when you came in soaked through, pale, and with a bone sticking out of your body. They’ve agreed not to bother you until tomorrow at my insistence.” “Thank you, Regis. Uhm…” “Yes?” Blue eyes drift to his broken arm, his strumming arm. “How long until I can play again? I will be able to play again, right? And how long do you think Geralt will be,” he coughs hard and his eyes water as his ribs move freely despite the bandages around his waist, “ Unconscious?” He wheezes out. “Give your arm six to eight weeks. It will take time for the bone to heal properly. You should also wear it in a sling. I’ve treated several witchers before and each healed differently. It could be a couple days or it could be over a week. He was badly injured. The lillies and Swallow will do their jobs. I had best be going, I have other patients to see but I’ll be back to check in tomorrow morning. If he starts to wake, give him two drops of this.” The physician waves a vial of white liquid in front of him and he nods, “Take some too if you need. A drop only.” And with that the physician leaves. Mustering enough energy, Jaskier stands and makes his way to the bed on shaky legs, he sits beside the witcher and runs fingers through milk white strands. He doesn’t have the energy to cry so he lays down and sleeps instead. ++++++++ It’s three days before the witcher wakes and when he does he is on high alert. Regis has gone for the day and Jaskier is sitting at the table picking at lunch and trying to compose song lyrics. It’s much harder without his instrument. Looking up at the rustle of fabric Jaksier locks eyes with Geralt as he sits up and reaches for a sword that isn’t by the bed. “Geralt!” He yelps and the witcher blinks at him. “Jaskier” rasps the older and still badly injured man, “How did I get back here. Who has been here? It smells like…. A vampire?” Geralt's gasps and reaches for his chest. And then looks back to the bard taking him in. “What happened to you? And why am I not dead.” “A vampire, Geralt. I think you’ve hit your head. The only other person to be here is Regis, the town physician. Roach brought you back unconscious and injured four days ago. You’ve been unconscious since. You were nearly dead, Geralt,” He chokes and breathes in deeply through his nose, fights back the aching that the words leave in his chest. “I had to go and get an ingredient he needed to save you. Orange lilies but they only grew at the top of a cliff and I fell on the way back down. I’m alright though, just a broken arm and some banged up ribs. You on the other hand. Dear gods what happened, I could see your ribs, and your organs.” 

The walk to the bed isn't a long one and he makes it much more steadily than he had the first few days. Regis had come back with some herbs for his cold and it had cleared up miraculously fast. In part, Regis said, to the herbs, and in part to the amount that Jaskier was sleeping. It was a lot, even he acknowledged that, but it felt good and he was content to lay beside Geralt and hear his heart beat steady and rhythmically in his chest. Very much alive and not dead.  

“God, I was worried you’d die. You can't ever do that to me again Geralt. Do you understand? I don’t think I could handle it if you died like that. Bleeding out in my arms. I can’t. Geralt… Geralt why are you looking at me like that?” “You could have died saving me.” “Yes but I didn’t.” He can’t help the sweet smile that graces his lips, it's small and sad but he wants to convey everything he can in it. “You could have, and I don’t think I could handle that too well now.” “And why is that. Am I finally worthy of being considered your friend?” He doesn’t mean for it to be a jab, or to cause pain, but it does and he can see it in Geralt's golden irises, pupils shrunk to avoid the light, it’s so utterly enthralling he can’t tear his gaze away until calloused fingers brush his cheek. “Youre so much more than that to me.” Geralt whispers, agonizingly soft in the midday light of the room and Jaskiers heart beat picks up, hammering in his chest. He wonders if the witcher can hear it, rattling around in there like it has far more room than it actually does. But then Geralt continues and he could shout for the joy that fills his being. “And I wonder, if I am to you.”

Every pretense went out the window. Every reason he believed he couldn’t have this, that it would never exist, that it wasn't a good idea went with it, because in that moment, in that room, sitting beside one another all that mattered was the truth and so he spoke, truely and clearly. “You are. I would have died happily to save you because I love you, Geralt.” Any further words are hushed by uncertain, dry chapped lips, against his own. It’s not the best kiss he has ever shared, but it is the most important.

[futureteacherinthemaking]

The Grape Riots and the Agricultural Reform Movement of California

1. Introduction:

It is the 1930's in California and many families are starting their workday just before the sunrise to leave for the lettuce and grape fields that span the great valleys that cover state. They would have to endure a long workday for outrageously low wages to barely survive. The majority of these families were immigrants and migrants of all backgrounds, spanning from the Mexicans to the Filipinos. Families would have their children drop out of school at ealry ages to help secure funds for the family. When their work in the area was done, they would pack up their belongings and travel to the next rural town looking for more work. This was sadly the reality for many across the state untill three dacades later when revolutionist like Cesar Chavez and Larry Itliong started to fight for reform of the state's agricultural labor. They started with the boycott of products like grapes and lettuce at general goods stores across California in the 1960's  and an assortment of flyers and posters educating the public on the issue with the state of agricultural production and the mistreatment of the many laborers. It took another decade untill the Agricultural Relations Act was passed in 1975. This act unfortantly was ineffective at protecting the Unions and the workers who formed them since nothing was inforced or regulated. In this Journey Box we will explore the trails and tribulations of the Agricultural Reform movement, the forgotten filipinos who fought for it, and why it was deemed unsuccesful for a while.

2. Index: 

  1. Introduction

  2. Index

  3. Filipino Farm Workers (Photograph #1) 

  4. Delano Grape Strikers (Photograph #2) 

  5. NPR’s “Memories Of A Former Migrant Worker” (Participant Account #1) 

  6. NPR’s “Grapes of Wrath: The Forgotten Filipinos Who Led A Farmworker Revolution” (Participant Account #2) 

  7. Grape Boycott Flyer (Artifact #1)

  8. Boycott For Democracy Poster (Artifact #2) 

  9. Summary 

 10. Sources

3. Photograph #1

A photograph of Filipino Farm workers picking lettuce, Nagano Farm, Morro Bay, California, ca. 1930.

Questions: 

-  Why do you think the majority of farm workers were immigrants or migrants? 

- What are some of the day to day conditions the farm workers could be experiencing out on the fields?

- Why was this kind of work popular in the valleys of California? 

4. Photograph #2

A photograph of Delano Grape Strike picketers in Delano, California, February 1966. 

Questions:

- What do you notice about the makeup of the Delano Grape Strike picketers?

- Why is it called the Delano Grape Strike, what could they be striking against? Consider the importance of the location of the strike as well. 

- This is one of many strikes against farm owners and ranchers at the time. What do you think was the general public opinion on the matter at the time? 

5. Participant Account #1

The following are a collection of excerpts from NPR’s “Memories of a Former Migrant Worker” This technically is not a participant account but since filipinos were so disregarded within the history of the movement this Filipino Historian was the best I could find

Felix Contreras: You were raised in a migrant farm worker environment. Can you describe what that was like?

Luis Contreras: First of all, we didn't have a permanent residence. We traveled in a truck and we lived mostly in a tent on the road between California and Kansas.

Because we were migrants, our schooling was incomplete. We would arrive in a town after school started and leave before the school year was over. We didn't always have the basic necessities of life, like being able to take a bath regularly.

Because we often had to set up our tent in the country, we ate a lot of what we found growing in the wild — fruits, some vegetables. If we were in one place long enough we could plant a garden and eat what we grew. Later, after we stopped moving and settled down in Sacramento (California) my mother would sometimes complain that our diet was better in the country with access to fresh food.

We also worked very long hours, often from sun up until sun down. The entire family, children included. As a child you think it's just normal life, nothing out of the ordinary. We didn't think we were working especially hard. It was just a normal life for us. 

Felix Contreras: So things like child labor laws didn't exist back then?

Luis Contreras: There were child labor laws, but here's how migrant families worked it: When we were out in the fields you could see a child labor officer driving up along those dirt roads from at least a mile away. Plus they were usually driving a government car, so it was easy to spot them. The kids would leave the fields, gather around the family truck, then go back to work after the child labor office left the area.

Looking back, I think it was in the interests of the ag. industry to not have the child labor laws enforced because we did a lot of work as children. It was a different time. It was a different way of thinking among people who did agriculture work — meaning, there wasn't much of an interest in the welfare of the field worker.

Questions:

- Why do you think this harsh lifestyle was so normalized for migrant families at the time?

- Why do you think the agriculture industry did not care about enforcing labor laws and what do you think made them decide to enforce them now? 

- Think about the present and consider how modern migrant and immigrant families live today. In what ways has life improved for most families and what are the modern problems they face?

6. Participant Account #2

The following is from NPR’s “Grapes of Wrath: The Forgotten Filipinos Who Led A Farmworker Revolution” 

Perez is outraged that this history is not known, because the actions those Filipinos took improved her family's lives. "I mean, I'm extremely proud that Cesar Chavez was the right face at the right time, but a lot of the dirty work was already done."

For decades the migrant, bachelor, Filipino farmworkers – called Manongs, or elders — had fought for better working conditions. So in the summer of 1965, with pay cuts threatened around the state, these workers were prepared to act, says historian Dawn Mabalon.

"They're led by this really charismatic, veteran, seasoned, militant labor leader Larry Itliong," she says.

He urged local families in Delano to join Manongs in asking farmers for a raise. The growers balked. Workers gathered at Filipino Hall for a strike vote.

"The next morning they went out to the vineyard, and then they left the crop on the ground, and then they walked out," Mabalon says.

Cesar Chavez and others had been organizing Mexican workers around Delano for a few years, but a strike wasn't in their immediate plans. But Larry Itliong appealed to Chavez, and two weeks later, Mexican workers joined the strike.

Soon, the two unions came together to form what would become United Farm Workers, with Larry Itliong as the assistant director under Chavez.

Mabalon says, "These two groups coming together to do this? That is the power in the Delano Grape Strike."

It took five years of striking, plus an international boycott of table grapes, before growers signed contracts with the United Farm Workers.

Those years weren't easy: on strikers, families, or Delano.

Questions:

- Why do you think the Filipinos are usually disregarded when talking about the "Farmworker Revolution”?

- Why do you think the Mexican workers didn't plan to strike immediately, what could they have done instead?

- Does the Farmworker Revolution remind you of any modern movements where people from all background have united to fight for a just cause? 

7. Artifact #1

A NAACP flyer calling for support for the grape boycott, 1965.

Questions:

- Who do you think the target audience was for this flyer? 

- How impactful do you think boycotting California Grapes was for Cesar Chavez’s farm work reform movement? 

- Do you think grocers would try and avoid certain grapes or choose to ignore the boycott? 

8. Artifact #2

A poster calling for a “boycott for democracy” of grapes, 1975. (transcript here) 

Questions:

- Why do you think Agricultural Labor Relations Act failed in protecting the farm workers? 

- Why do you think the ranchers and farm owners are refusing to work with the UFW? 

- Knowing that the years of protesting and boycotting did little to reform the state of Californias Agricultural laborers. Why do you think they continue to use boycott as an outlet for achieving their goals? 

9. Summary:

I chose to cover the Agricultural Reform Movement of California since it is something that hits close to home for me. My family originated from the valleys of California and my Grandpa was one of those immigrant workers who came to the United States for a better life and was met with harsh work conditions and lack of childhood. He would always tell me about how he dropped out of 3rd grade to go work in the fields and ended up losing one of his fingertips at the age of twelve while working. I think this topic would be relevant to many students since they themselves may have family members who were immigrants or be one themselves. They have heard the same stories countless times while growing up. As far as how this can be integrated into other subjects, students could write a personal narrative in the eyes of a migrant child growing up in the 1960s during the movement for English Language Arts. This journey box perfectly addresses the ideas of "A" history not "The" history since we discuss the often not talked about Filipino involvement and the Latin root word of education since we are inviting students to draw out their own thoughts and ideas on the movement.

10. Sources: 

Photographs and Artifacts: https://dp.la/primary-source-sets/the-united-farm-workers-and-the-delano-grape-strike

Personal Account #1: https://www.npr.org/sections/pictureshow/2010/10/08/130425856/cesar-chavez

Personal Account #2:  https://www.npr.org/sections/thesalt/2015/09/16/440861458/grapes-of-wrath-the-forgotten-filipinos-who-led-a-farmworker-revolution