Based off this story prompt/fill (X) where you are born with a designation like Hero, Demon King, Blacksmith, etc.

Your name is Dolly. You are a Villager. You, as well as anyone, know what that means.

——————-.

You are sixteen and it is your first day at school.

Your first lesson is that Villagersare the only ones who start so late.

“Because there’s not much to be taught,” a boy says. His clothes are made of finer cloth than your mother’s wedding dress and his hair is as shiny as the brass buckles on his shoes. He grins at you, as proud as a peacock in front of half the class. “Don’t need to ask what your Destiny is, do I?”

You don’t know why he’s singling you out. A quick glance back into the classroom shows the rest of the students sitting at their desks with their heads low. They’re Villagerstoo. Most of you are. That’s why there isn’t anything special enough about any of you. You look back at the boy. “…are you going to ask me something else?”

“What?”

“If you don’t need to ask me my Destiny,” you say slowly, “do you need to ask me something else?”

“I don’t need to ask anythingfrom a Villager!” the boy cries. He jabs a finger at his own bicep where his mark lies under cloth. “I’m a Lord!”

“Okay,” you say. The other kids behind him are frowning at you. Some of them are Villagers too, but different from you. They’re the children of merchants which is a different sort of destiny altogether. “I need to run some errands for my mother. Will you let me pass?”

That seems to satisfy the boy. He draws himself up to his full height, perhaps a half an inch more than you, and straightens his shiny vest. “Yes,I will allowyou to pass.”

You aren’t stupid. You understand what he’s saying by emphasizing the word allow. You study him and think he looks an awful lot like the new rooster you just got, the one the hens aren’t very fond of yet. “…thanks.”

You hurry past them and towards the market. You need to pick up some cloth your mother needs for curtains and some nails your father commissioned from the blacksmith. If you complete both tasks, you might have enough time to go by the general store and look at the new books Mr. Arthur said were coming in before you need to hurry home.

You don’t think of the Lord the rest of the day. But you don’t forget.

No, you don’t forget.

—————————-.

You are born as a Villager. When you turned 15, your parents touch the mark on your upper arm with relief and, maybe, a bit of disappointment.

“Better to be a villager,” your father says. He looks out over the field you just helped him sow, leaning on his hoe. “My grandpa was a Guard. A good life, but a dangerous one.” He nods to himself and then turns to clap you on the shoulder. “Yes, being a villager is a good thing, Dolly. Your mother and I will show you the ropes.”

And they do. They teach you how to fix the thatched roof before winter, how to mind the fields, how to keep the well water clean and pure. They send you to school with the other teens because it’s important you know how to barter when the merchants pass through town. They mind your stitchwork and watch over you as you raise your first chickens from eggs.

“Our Dolly,” your mother says with warmth in her voice. She presses a kiss to the top of  your head when she passes the table. The early morning sun catches on her high cheekbones, the laugh lines deepening around her eyes. “Always up so early! Don’t study too hard.”

Your mother learned to read, but never took to it like you have. Your eyes dart down to the book lying open on the table, quick and guilty. Caretaking and Carekeeping. “I’ll be out in the fields in a bit. The radishes are ready.”

Your mother hums and goes to set the kettle above the fire.

—————–.

The boy in your class is named Felton. He is the son of the Baronet who oversees the three towns this side of the mountain range. He is two months older than you, born in spring rather than winter, and he favors the pastel eggs from your chickens (though he doesn’t know that they’re yours) over the normal white ones in the market. He is a smart boy (though he insists on being called a man) and the teacher always calls on him to answer difficult problems when the rest of the class is stumped.

(The truth is that she calls on him because she refuses to call on a Villager. There are three children in the class that she is actively teaching. A Lord, a Knight, and a Teacher, like her.)

Felton does not know your name.

The spring blooms into summer and then summer simmers into fall. Felton does not hesitate to give you orders during those few hours you attend school. Things like pick up my pencil orstand for the rest of class. Easy and simple orders that cost nothing for you to follow.

You lean against the back wall of the classroom and watch him laugh with the Knightat the front. The other Villagers don’t attempt to talk to you beyond simple pleasantries when he’s around. But, when he leaves, it is a different story.

“You should tell your dad,” Benny says. He’s inherited the flaming red hair of his blacksmith mother and the matching temper from his father, Mr. Arthur at the general store. He glares at the door Felton just left through. “It’s not right. I heard his dad owes your dad a favor from their days as adventurers. If your dad talked to Felton’s—”

You raise a hand and Benny falls silent. The other Villagersshift behind him as you look for the right words. You don’t know when you earned their interest, but it soothes one of Felton’s many hurts to have people listen to you for once. “This is just a schoolyard matter. I plan to wait it out.”

“Wait for what though?” Benny asks. He runs a hand through his hair, the motion jerky. “We have a year and a third left with him. Are you waitingto go back to your family’s land where you can trust it too far for him to travel?” His eyes harden. “Not all of us have the same luxury.”

Then do something, you want to say. But you know they can’t. Most of their families are dependent on the Baronet’s good grace to keep running their stores and businesses. Your family is the only one living on gifted land – gifted by the Baronet to your father for those adventuring days.

“I’ll do something before we graduate,” you say. “But I need to wait a little longer.”

You stop leaning off the wall and turn to head for the door. Benny catches your arm, his hand nearly as strong as his blacksmith mother’s.

“Waiting for what?”he asks again.

“To see if our Lordwill grow up,” you say. You shake off his hand and do your best not to slam the door on the way out.

Judging by the way you startle the doves on top of the school building, you fail.

——————–.

There aren’t enough KnightsandGuardsandFighters. That’s what your dad told you when he gifts you your first wooden sword on your fifth birthday.

“Those with the Destiny to protect are strong,” your dad tells you, “but they tend to be slow to arrive. That’s why our town sponsors adventurers. If you can wield a plow, you’re strong enough to wield a sword that will keep us safe until the fighters come.”

But you’re five and starstruck and don’t understand what he’s saying. Your dad an adventurer! Your mother the Adventurer’s Guild employee sending him out on missions! “I want to learn!”

“Youhaveto learn,” your dad corrects. He adjusts your grip on the hilt. “With any luck, Darren—I mean, the Baronet finds a Hero before you’re old enough to fight.”

“I’m old enough,” you say and promptly bash your sword against a fence post so hard that you lose your footing. You fall backwards with a cry, expecting to fall into the flowerbed behind you.

Your dad steadies you with one hand against your back. “No, you aren’t. But, one day, you’ll grow up. That’s when you’ll be ready to protect what must be protected.”

The front door opens, revealing your mother standing there with a frown on her face. “A sword? Really?”

“It’s wood!”

You stare down at the sword in your hands. You’ll be ready to protect what must be protected. You swing at the fencepost again and, this time, your father is too distracted defending himself to catch you.

———————-.

There’s no school in winter even though it looks to be a mild one this year. It’s so mild that the road from your family’s land into town is only under an inch or two of snow at any one time.

That’s why it’s so easy to see exactly where this year’s lot of demon beasts walk.

Your father kneels at the edge of the woods. His sword is strapped to his back, but he’s got his bow in hand. His eyes flick over the wolf print you found on your morning patrol and his lips thin.

“That,” he says, “is going to be a problem.”

You adjust your grip on your sword. It’s your first real weapon, one with an edge sharpened by your mother. You’ve handled real blades before, but this is your first time scouting the area with yours. “It looks like it’s heading towards town.”

Your father swears and sits back on his heels. “The river is already frozen.” His face is pale and tight. “Your mother is still ill. She can’t be left alone for too long…”

“You stay with her,” you say. You’re seventeen now. You’re a year away from being “grown” but you are also pragmatic. “Keep the fire burning for her. I’ll find the beast.”

“Absolutely not,” your father says. He jerks to his feet and scowls down at you. “You are notto be hunting alone, you know this.”

“And I won’t be,” you snap back. “The town’s Guard will fight, but someone needs to help him track it. I won’t engage the thing on my own. I’m not suicidal.”

Still your father hesitates. “The size of it isn’t normal…”

You can tell. The footprint left behind by the beast leads you to believe the wolf is taller than your father. The truth is that you’re terrified. But it scares you more to think of your mother, coughing and alone, while both you and your dad are away.

“I’ll be back in two days,” you promise. It is a stupid promise. You both know that hunting demonic beasts can’t be rushed. “Maybe three. If I’m not back in three days, you’ll come after me.”

Your father finally nods. “Three days.” He swears again and closes his eyes. “Be safe.”

“I will.” You take the small pack of jerky and water from him, his portion of the rations for the day. Combined with your own rations, it’ll be enough to last you two days in town. “Take care of Mom.”

He checks your bow and sword one last time and then presses a kiss to your forehead. “Go straight to the Guard. Or the Knightif he’s back in town. Make sure they’re with you when you start hunting for it. Understand?”

You nod and take off down the road.

———–.

You are a Villager. That fact has never disappointed you, not like it disappointed your parents. When Felton sneered the word and looked down on you for it, you didn’t feel shame.

You felt pity.

You have been raised with an awareness of being part of a community. The eggs from your chickens go into the bellies of the hungry in town. Your labor in the orchard and the fields puts food in the markets. Your patrols with your father brings the town piece of mind when the sole Guardtakes his day off.

Your clothes are made by your neighbors. The sword on your hip was forged by Benny’s mother and your arrows were whittled by a Villager just like you. When your mother fell ill, the owner of the apothecary did not need to be ordered to come tend her. She came of her own free will. The people in your town are yourpeople, just as you are theirs.

How lonely must it be to be a Lord?How isolating to look around and see only those who you must govern and protect? How difficult must it be to remain impartial when surrounded by people who depend on you?

You are proud to be a Villagerbecause you know and love so many that bear the same Destiny. That pride is why you aren’t willing to leave things to fate. You are grateful that there are people born to protect and to govern. But there aren’t enough of them.

Sometimes, it takes a Villager.

—————————————–.

(The truth is that there is resentment too. Resentment when Felton orders you to pick up garbage, to allow him to leave ahead of you, to give him the best seat in class. There is so much you love and it is not your Destiny to protect it—it’s his. But he won’t. He can’t.

Not until he grows up.)

—————————-.

The town is only an hour’s walk from your house but, with the snow, it’s a hard hour. You feel as if your head is on a swivel the entire way, eyes scanning the woods and fresh snow for tracks. You promised your father that you would get the Guardbefore you went hunting, but there is an unpleasant chill working its way down your spine.

There is something wrong. There aren’t any birds in the treetops, no winter hares bounding through the frozen foliage, no sound of the deer that come down from the mountains. The road to town is still and silent.

You keep your bow drawn even as you finally arrive at the bridge leading over the river that skirts the edge of town.

Like your father said, the water is already frozen. Snow dusts across the uneven ice, small mounds casting eerie shadows in the last light of day. The sun is nearly behind the mountains. Many of the townsfolk are behind locked doors, sitting down for dinner.

They’re inside, you remind yourself as you spot tracks leading to the river’s edge. Your heart is in your throat as you kneel next to them. Each pawprint is easily twice the size of your hand. Please, be inside.

The tracks don’t go across the river. They wind away and back into the forest. That doesn’t make sense. Demon beasts are intelligent and one doesn’t get to this size without being smarter than most. You swallow hard. It knows the river is frozen. It knows it can cross. You imagine you can feel the beast’s eyes on your back, watching. Waiting.

Waiting for night fall when it’s strongest.

You dart towards the bridge, sprinting across. It’s spelled with anti-demonic wards, but the river isn’t. If the demon beast realized that the river is frozen…

Unlike what you hoped, the townsfolk aren’t inside. The winter is mild so you find small groups of them on your sprint towards the guard’s station.

“Get inside,” you snarl at a group of children. They’re in the midst of building snowmen in front of the empty school. Their minder, a Villagerfrom your class, goes pale at the sight of you. Is it your bow? Or your sword? “Tell everyone. Get inside and lock the doors.”

You see them turn but then you’re off again, running through town and shouting the same message to all you see. Get inside, lock the doors, don’t come out until morning—

“Dolly!”

Benny is standing in front of his mother’s forge, a hammer in his hand. He’s shirtless in winter so you can see that Benny isn’t a Villagerlike you thought. He’s a Blacksmith. He gapes at your appearance. “What’s going on? What’s wrong?”

“Demons,” you gasp. “I need to get to the Guardbut everyone is outside—”

Benny is already running in the opposite direction. “I’ll warn them! Go!”

Benny’s help gives you new strength. You skid to a halt in front of the guard station a minute later. The windows are dark, but you didn’t expect him to be here.

He will be soon.

You burst through the door as the first of the town’s mage lights flicker on. Night fall. You race up the stairs and, without hesitation, yank the rope to the town’s warning bell.

BONG. BONG. BONG.

TheGuardarrives barely thirty seconds after the first ring. His house is next door. He’s older, like your father, with salt and pepper hair. He’s dressed for bed and has a thunderous expression on his face. The Knightfrom your class, James, is trailing after his father.

“Who is ringing the warning bell—” He finally registers you standing in the middle of the station, your bow still drawn. His rage shifts into worry. “Dolly. This isn’t a prank is it?”

“No.” You wish it was. “There are tracks leading to the river’s edge. A demon beast. A big one.”

“God help us.” The Guardclenches his hand. Unclenches them. “I told the Baronet I needed more guards. Even just a fighter.”

You don’t understand. “But you’re the—” You voice fails you as you follow his gaze down.

TheGuard’sright leg is wrapped in bandages.

“It was my fault,” James says. He’s quicker than he is in class, understanding the horror on your and his father’s faces. “We were sparring and I didn’t know my strength–!”

“It was no one’s fault,” the Guardsays. He limps over to the chest in the corner and unlocks it. “It is what it is.” He pulls out his sword.

“No!” James grabs his father’s wrist before he can fasten the sword belt around his waist. “If it’s a demon beast, you can’t go out there like that.”

“I have to.” His father shakes his son off gently. “I’m the Guard.” He looks at you and a muscle in his jaw jumps. “I’ll need your help finding it, Dolly. Where’s your pa?”

Your mouth is dry. You can’t look away from the naked terror on James’ face. “H-he’s not here. He’s at home with my mom.”

TheGuard’seyes flutter shut. “Which means it’s just—” He swears. “I told the Baronet I needed a replacement!” His hands are shaking as he fastens his sword belt around his waist. He takes a deep breath. “James, go home. Dolly, point me in the right direction. I’ll—”

“You’ll die!” James jumps in front of his dad. “Give me a sword, I’ll fight it—”

“You’ve never been in combat before,” the Guardsnaps.

“I’ve beaten you in spars—”

“Because I let you—”

“I’ll have a better chance of surviving than you.”

“I have a duty—”

“I’m a Knight! If anything I have greater duty than you—"

“Calm down.” You aren’t sure how your voice is so steady and firm. But it’s enough that the Guardand his son both snap to look at you. “Here’s what we’re going to do. There’s no guarantee that the demon beast will come into town tonight.”

TheGuard’s face twists. “We can’t take that chance—”

“No,” you say. “We can’t.” You look him over. Judging from the bandages, it’s a torn muscle rather than a wound. That’s good. “You aren’t in any condition to hunt so you will stand watch in town. If the demon beast comes, you’ll stop it. I’ll see if I can find it in the forest.”

TheGuardis already shaking his head. “No, it’s too dangerous. Your father will have my hide if I let you go alone.”

“You can’t follow me,” you say, jerking your chin at his leg. “One of us needs eyes on it before it comes. If we’re lucky, I’ll spot it and see enough to judge what type it is. It won’t come to town and we can send for my father and the Baronet in the morning.”

TheGuardmeets your eyes.  “If we’re unlucky, it spots you and a Villagerunder my charge gets ripped to pieces before the beast gets into town.”

“I’ll go with her,” James says. “I’m a Knight, I’m strong—”

“You’ve never fought a beast,” you say before his father can voice the protest on his face. The image of getting torn to pieces is not a pleasant one, but you’re pragmatic. There isn’t another option. “Nor have you tracked one. I stand a better chance alone.” You glance back at the door. It’s well and truly dark now, the only light coming from the mage-lamps lining the roads. “We need to go.”

“Don’t be a Hero, Dolly,” the Guardsays. “Don’t make me tell your parents why you died under my watch.”

Obviously you can’t be a Hero.You’re a Villager. You nod and run out the door, back towards the forest.

—————————-.

This is why you know you aren’t a Hero. A Herowould remember that night. They would be able to recount their search for the demonic beast with perfect clarity.  But you are a Villagerand you are afraid.

So this is what you remember.

You remember the stillness of the town. The way the shadows stretched from the corners of buildings like gaping maws. You remember your heart thundering in your chest so loudly that you were afraid the demon beast would be drawn to the sound.

You remember thinking of the demon beasts you’d fought before. Horned rabbits and screaming bats that lunged out of the small burrows just north of the fields. A few acidic slimes that tried to roll their way through your chicken coop and had to be washed away with purified water.

It did not prepare you for what you found in the forest.

You didn’t want to find the tracks, but you did. You didn’t want to follow them downriver where the shallows meant thicker ice, but you did.

You didn’t want to find the demon beast, but you did.

You were upwind and it smelled you. Easily seven foot in height, hundred of pounds with unnaturally large fangs, it turned to see you standing there.

You know you can remember it in detail. You know you can describe the way saliva dripped from its jaws, the way you saw madness in the red of its eyes, the sound of the snow crackling under its giant paws. You canremember, but you won’t.

(It growled and it was the sound of the earth crumbling under your feet. Your bones rattled when it bellowed. You felt your mind empty as it shifted its attention from the town to you, its great head lowering in preparation to charge.

You drew your bow. You lined up your shot. You thought, this is going to kill me.

And you released.)

———————.

The sound of crunching snow rouses you from unconsciousness. Your entire body aches. There’s a bleary moment where you can’t make sense of anything. Breathe.You flex your hands. You can feel fur underneath your aching back and the warmth of the sun against your face. There’s a muffled sob and the murmur of voices from a few dozen feet away.

You force your eyes open and blink up at the early morning sky. “Ouch.”

A shocked silence. Then, “Dolly?!”

Your vision fills with Benny’s face. It’s tear-streaked and there’s soot high on his cheek. He falls to his knees at your side. “She’s alive!”

You certainly don’t feel alive. You want to keep laying down, but Benny scoops a hand under your shoulders and helps you sit up. Your arms ache like the day you first plowed the field by yourself and there’s a tightness in your chest that speaks of hurt ribs. “Ouch,” you say again and look to where you can still hear muffled sobbing.

What seems like half the town is standing just by the river, careful not to step in the red puddles that have stained the snow by the bank. In front of them, the Guardis slumped against James, one hand over his eyes. James is staring at you like he’s seen a ghost. His eyes flick from your face to something just behind you.

You twist with Benny’s help and feel all the breath get punched out of your lungs. You weren’t lying on the ground. You were lying on the demon beast.

It’shuge.

You thought it big last night, but it seems bigger in the day. The fur is pure white except for where blood has stained it red. Its paws are the size of your head and the teeth gleaming in the early morning sun are as long as your forearm. The arrow sticking out of its eye looks like a toothpick in comparison and your sword, lodge just under its jaw, looks like a twig.

“You killed it,” Benny says. “I tried to come help, but there were horned rabbits in town—”

You hold up a hand and he falls silent. Slowly, painfully, you climb to your feet. “Is anyone hurt?”

“No,” the Guardsays. He lowers his hand and you can see his eyes filled with tears. “No, everyone’s alright, Dolly.”

You smile and even that hurts. You say, “I need to get home. My parents are waiting.”

“We’ll take care of the beast,” Benny’s mom says. She is the only one using the same, normal tone as you. She props her hands on her hips, eyeing the demon beast with calculation. “Mellie, how long do you think it’ll take?”

TheVillageryou buy meat from steps forward. She holds her hand out in front of her and squints one eye, measuring the carcass. “’Bout a day. You looking to keep all the meat, Dolly?”

“No,” you say. There’s something bubbling in your chest that feels a lot like laughter. You let Benny help you find your footing and look down to hide it. “No, I don’t think my family could eat it all.”

TheGuardsnorts and looks surprised at the sound.

Mellie nods like she expected that. “I’ll package up the hide, bones, and demon crystal for you. I’ll buy most of the meat, if you’ll let me.”

“No. Share the meat,” you say. You can’t even begin to calculate how much this thing’s hide would be worth. That’s more than enough for you. “We all deserve some extra provisions after last night.”

James opens his mouth as if to protest but doesn’t get a chance. The other Villagersall seem to lose their tension. There’s laughing and joking about the silver lining of extra provisions in a mild winter like this.

James’ brow furrows.

“Benny, help me drag it to Mellie’s shop,” the blacksmith says. She rolls up her sleeves. “I’ll send him to yours with the extra bits later this week, Dolly.”

“It’s okay, I can come pick it up—”

Benny’s mom waves you off. “Consider it a small repayment for the meat. I have a feeling your dad’s not going to be letting you out of the house until school when he hears about this.”

Ohgeez.

—————.

Of course, going home takes longer than you’d like. The town fusses over you like you knew they would, feeding you and bandaging you until the sun is well in the sky.

“Just pulled muscles,” you keep telling the doctor. He’s the worst of the lot because he’s positive keel over if you try to walk home. “I feel fine.”

“You’ve got stitches,” the doctor says with narrowed eyes. Finally, he relents. “If you can’t be persuaded to stay another night—”

“My dad’s going to come looking for me if I’m not back by tomorrow,” you say. You stand and carefully hide the wince when your new stitches pull. The wolf-beast got a swipe in along your back. “Better to let him know sooner rather than later.”

“My boy will take her home,” the Guardsays from the doorway. He’s not crying any more, but there’s something odd in the way he can’t seem to meet your eyes. “Come on, Dolly.”

You thank the doctor and follow him out into the street.

There’s evidence of battle here too. Horned rabbits are known for following the bigger beasts and this time wasn’t an exception. House doors are pitted and scarred from their attempts to get inside. You see traces of Benny’s battle with them in the cracked cobblestones and the smears of blood from where the bodies used to be. Did he hit them with his hammer?

“Thank you,” the Guardsays. He’s still leading you towards the edge of town, his back stiff. “For what you did.”

It’s odd to be thanked by a man your dad’s age and especially weird to be thanked by James’dad. “I didn’t do anything—”

“You did,” the Guardsays. “Really I shouldn’t be saying thank you. I should be begging for your forgiveness.”

“What?”

He nods to the body of a horned rabbit. “Killing those things? That’s my job. I would have failed without you last night. I knew the town wasn’t defended, I knew that—”

“There’s one of you,” you interrupt. You hate interrupting, but the pain in the Guard’s voice is too much to bear. You pause. Do you even know his name? “Mister…”

“Call me John,” the Guardsays.

Your face burns. Here you are judging Felton for never knowing your name and you’re guilty of the same thing. “Mr. John, nobody blames you. I don’t blame you. I was gonna thank you for coming to get me this morning. I don’t know if I woulda woken up in time to get back home.”

Mr. John laughs. You don’t think he feels comforted by your words, but he laughs. “Glad I could do something then.” His son is waiting just at the bridge, a pack on his shoulders. “James has got water and jerky if you need a snack on the way.”

“It’s only an hour,” you say. You take stock of your body. “Maybe two. He doesn’t have to come with me—”

“It’ll make me feel better,” Mr. John says. He pats your shoulder. “If you ever want sword lessons, come see me.”

That does interest you. You don’t remember much of your fight, but you do remember a lot of flailing. You want to be more prepared next time. “I will, thank you.”

You watch him limp back into town before turning your attention to James. “Thanks for walking me back.”

James grunts and leads the way across the bridge. “Dad’s scared you’ll pass out on the road.”

“Oh.” You look back over your shoulder, warmth unfurling in your chest. Like the other villagers, he’s looking out for you. “That’s nice of him.”

The walk back to your house isn’t comfortable. You don’t know James outside of school and he’s always with Felton when you do see him. He’s broader than the average kid, probably because of his Destiny, but still has the rounded cheeks of childhood. He’s careful to keep pace with you without looking like he’s trying to.

When you’re about ten minutes away from your house, just at the start of the orchard, James speaks.

“You’re really a Hero, right?”

You startle. You were thinking about how to tell your father what you did in the least scary way possible. “Um, no?”

James is looking at you. Has he been staring at you this entire time? He frowns. “You have to be after the fight you had last night.”

You roll up your sleeve to show him. “I’m a Villager.”

“But that’s impossible.” He stops walking, rounding on you with true venom in his voice. “Only HeroesandKnightscan take down demon beasts that size.”

“I got lucky,” you say because that’s the truth. You feel an emotion unwinding in your chest. “Look, I need to get home—”

“Villagersget protected,” James says. He steps toward you and doesn’t notice when you reach for your sword. “That’s the way it is. You said I couldn’t come with you because I didn’t have combat experience, but did you? You should have let me—”

“I’ve been fighting demon beasts for years,” you say. That unwinding emotion is anger. A whole lot of it has built up over the school year as the ones who were meant to protect you bullied you instead. “Because there aren’t enough people with the Destiny to protect.”

“I was right there—”

“Youhave never been interested in protecting.” Your mouth twists. “You and our little Lord.”

James’ jaw shuts with an audible click. At least he isn’t denying his part in your treatment at school. “I—I—”

“I am a Villager,” you say. You step into his space, viciously pleased when he steps back. “This is myvillage. When there aren’t enough protectors, it’s my job to step up.”

“I’m a Knight,” James says, but with less strength.

“Okay,” you say. “No one is saying you aren’t.”

“I could have done it,” he says. Whining. Like a child.

And that’s the problem with these people, isn’t it? They think they’re owed positions in the village because of the mark on their arms. They don’t send medicine to your mother or offer to butcher animals for you or pat you on the shoulder when you help.

They,you think scathingly, are not Villagers.

“But you didn’t.” You step around him. You keep speaking as you walk away, so angry that you feel like you might draw your sword if you stay in this conversation. “See you at school.”

James doesn’t respond nor does he follow you.

You go home.

——————–.

Hey all! Thanks for reading :) I really enjoyed writing another story in this universe. If you’d like to support me and see stories like this a week in advance, please consider supporting me on Patreon, linked below. A new flash fiction is already up, plus a bonus scene to Dolly’s story! Thanks for reading :)

Patreon (X)

Going to the Hill

Summary: It’s normal to visit a lover’s home. The problem is that your lover is Fae and her home is Underhill. (A second person, dark romance. TW mentions of abuse and injury)

——–

The only thing saving you is that you lied ten years ago.

“Hyacinth,” Magna whines, “hurry up!” Her hand is extended back towards you, half of her body already past the treeline. Her black eyes are bright as she stares at something so deep in the forest you have no chance of picking it out. “We’ll be late!”

You take her hand. It’s cool to the touch, like touching the window in the little hours of the morning while you’re still wrapped in your sheets. If she’s bothered by your slow pace, she doesn’t show it. Like always, she keeps to your speed, neither pulling nor pushing.

It’s the little things like that that make you love her. She never makes you feel lesser than or slower than like so many people have. She waits without making it look like she’s waiting. She smiles at you without malice or sympathy or pity. Like most of her kind, she doesn’t know how to joke, but she makes you laugh anyway.

So even though you know you are signing your death warrant, you follow her deeper and deeper into forest.

You gratefully accept her help over a fallen log. She doesn’t seem to notice that she’s doing it, easily turning to offer you support as you force your knees to lift and bend. She talks the entire time, even when you drop what must be half your weight against her shoulder when your foot catches on the log. Her voice doesn’t even tremble, easily lifting your entire weight to put you back on more even ground.

“—didn’t tell anyone you’re coming to the Hill, but that’s better so I can keep you all to myself—”

Magna has never tried to hide the fact that she’s other. You’ve never outright asked her and she’s never outright told you, but it’s hard to hide when she does things like lift you with her slender arms or call her house “the Hill.” Sometimes you see her watching you when she slips up, eyes black like the night sky. When you don’t react, she nods and keeps talking. When you do react, she leaves.

You’ve learned to take a lot of things in stride just to avoid her leaving.

Like, for example, accepting an invitation to Magna’s home.

“I still think I should have brought something,” you say when she takes a breath. The things you gathered are still sitting on the counter in your apartment. While you can understand the gift cards not being appropriate (“You’re not giving them gifts,right?”) you think that the bottle of wine would’ve been acceptable. “It feels weird to meet your…family with empty hands.”

If she notices the pause before the word family, she doesn’t say anything about it. “Your hands are never empty to me,” she says cryptically. She throws a blinding smile over her shoulder. Are her teeth a little sharper? She winks. “They’ll see how much I love you. That’ll be enough.”

You allow her to direct you off the main path and onto an animal track. She takes up her chatter again, voice happy and lilting, as if to distract you from the way the foliage slithers out from under your feet. It’s hard to see the ground with the dwindling light, but even your eyes can see how rocky the terrain is getting. You don’t struggle at all with Magna’s hand tight around yours.

“—there are silver ceilings, so much betterthan the cathedral you talk about, you’ll see! You’re going to never want to leave when you see how beautiful the city is. I’m positive you’ll love it—"

Contrary to your family’s belief, you weren’t born magic-blind. You can smell the power in Magna’s words, the sweeping compulsion and prickling calming charm. Her voice is like a siren’s song, stealing the lethargy from your body and easing the panic beginning to claw at your mind. You aren’t scared, not really. But the scent of power is rising the further into the woods you get and a little voice is telling you to run.

Or,you muse, staring at the way her pale hand contrasts against the mottled scars on yours, or at least don’t go willingly.

As if she can hear your thoughts, Magna’s voice deepens until you can feel it rattling your bones. The compulsion she’s weaving tingles under your skin. Calm, calm, calm, stay, stay, stay—

“You know,” you say, “I don’t regret being born a witch.”

Magna’s hand spasms around yours. It is the first time you’ve called yourself the wword since leaving your family behind. You’ve avoided using it, considering what witches have done to the both of you, but the time for avoidance is over.

The two of you, you decide, are going to talk.

“You should never regret being born,” she says lightly. She slows down as the hole in front of her fills with dirt by itself. When the ground smooths, she still helps you across it just in case. “I’m very happy you were born.”

You nod your thanks. Another reason why you’ve known her for ten years and this is only happening now; you have never saidthank you. “I don’t regretbeing born a witch.”

“Why not?” The spell is obvious not that her voice isn’t happy and chirping. You can feel the weight of it against your threat as her tone darkens. “They hurt you because of it.”

You resist the urge to touch the web of scars curling along your jaw. “Actually, they hurt me because they thought I wasn’t born a witch.” A handful of years ago, you would have been bristling at the reminder of what your family did to you. But the years spent under Magna’s unrelenting kindness have been as good as a balm to your soul. You say, “I think I survived it because I met you.”

Magna stops. She doesn’t turn to face you nor does her hand tighten around yours, but you can feel her aura ripple as your words hit her. “You give me too much credit.”

You hum. “No, I don’t.”

——————-.

You’re twelve and you aren’t going to make it to your next birthday.

Your family’s estate is empty at this time of night. You limp through the halls like a wraith, arms held carefully away from your body. The bandages on them are still pristine and you don’t want to risk soiling them by opening any of the cuts. The doctor your family allows you to see won’t be back until next week.

The carpet muffles the sound of your footsteps as you drift past your siblings’ rooms and their ajoining work rooms. It’s after 3am and the only light in the entire house comes from the full moon shining through the windows.  You wonder why none of your siblings like being awake at this time of night. Couldn’t they feel the soft power of the moon all around? Didn’t they want to drink in the soothing howls of the stars?

On nights like these, you don’t mind not having a room quite so much. It means that the entire world is your room, the moon shining just for you.

You frown. Well, it’s shining just for you now. You aren’t going to be alive on the next full moon. You overheard your family’s plan for you while sneaking through the kitchen for leftovers.

“The power that thing gives is no longer needed,” your father told your mother. “Especially now that our youngest has fully matured. It’s time to end it.”

Your mother hummed. You could hear the ice melting in her glass. “We will need to sever the blood ties beforehand. Though not a witch, she has enough magic for a death curse.”

You hope down the stairs as best you can on your uninjured leg. You’d listened silently, invisible, as your parents talked calmly about the ritual to destroy your soul. You wonder what they would have done if they’d caught you eavesdropping. Kill you?

They’re already going to do that.

You can’t run. The injuries aren’t healing like they used to. Your second eldest brother boiled the blood in your leg to practice his curse work. Could that be why it’s not better yet? Is it a curse? Or just unlucky? Whatever the case, it prevents you from running away. Your family’s estate is large and in the center of a large plain. They’ll catch you long before you make it to the valley’s edge, much less before you make it over the mountains.

You stop on your way to the kitchen. You’d been going to get something to eat, your appetite only just now returning after hearing the news of your impending death, but what’s the point? Your death at their hands won’t be painless. You might as well just starve now.

“Not like this.”

The whisper is so faint you think it’s in your head at first. But then you hear the clinkof metal against metal and the slow drag of chains coming from a long way off. You freeze, head cocked to one side. The dragging sound comes again and you track it to the air vent in the floor.

A muffled sob comes from below.

There’s someone in the basement. You know that’s where your family keeps their experiments. Witches from other covens captured in battle, cryptids, and mutated animals. You’ve heard them screaming before but have never been allowed down to see any of them.

You have never heard any of them speak.

You aren’t allowed to, but you stagger to the basement door. It is a quick work of magic to make the locks drop to the ground and to convince the heavy steal door to open. You aren’t allowed, but what is the worst thing that can happen? Maybe this guest will kill you before your family has the chance to.

You lean against the stone wall as you carefully make your way down the stairs. The sound of sniffling seems loud in the quiet of the underground. It’s dark down here, only a sliver of the moon’s light coming through a few small windows near the ceiling.

In the dim light, you can make out three cells. One is empty, door partially ajar. The other is stained black with what looks like old blood. And the third, door light tight, has a girl in it.

“Oh,” you say.

The girl’s head whips up. Her eyes are as black as the shadows, no sclera at all, and her hair is a tangled riot of curls. There is something otherabout her that you can smell even through the magic-suppressants of the basement.

“Help me,” she says in a trembling voice. Her eyes are human and you wonder if you were only imagining the black from before. “They-they kidnapped me.” Her gaze lights on your bandages as you step further into the light. “I can help you too.”

There’s something different in how she says that last part. Her voice doesn’t tremble. It sounds like a promise. Or a deal.

“There are magic-suppressors down here,” you say. You hesitate five feet from her cell door. You’re going to be killed if you’re found down here. But also… Why should you both die? “I’ll have to find the key. It’ll be upstairs. I’ll do it.”

“Yes,” the girl says. “Yes, help me and I’ll help you.”

You smile without humor. “You can’t help me.” It’s a lovely dream, but you know your family. It’ll be nice to help this other kid before they flay you alive. “I’ll free you anyway.” You turn to go find the key.

“I can’t…Wait!” The girl is sitting up on her knees now, hands hovering over the bars of her cell. “I canhelp you. Just tell me what you want!”

It strikes you suddenly that you don’t wantanything. You press a hand to your chest. How long has it been since you’ve wanted anything? You’ve only ever acceptedthings. Pain and ridicule and hurt. “I,” you say, “will go find the key.”

There’s the sound of scrambling. You turn to find the girl on her feet, eyes wild. “If you don’t want anything from me then…then tell me your name!”

You blink at her. What a strange person, first demanding to give you something and then demanding something from you! “My name?”

The girl nods frantically. “Yes, your name. You can call me Magna.”

The way she says that is wrong too. You can call me Magna. You can’t tell howit’s wrong through, so you shrug. “I’m Hyacinth.”

“Hyacinth,” she says behind you. Then, almost to herself, “Hyacinth.”

“I’ll go get the key, Magna,” you say. There’s a darkness in the way she says your name. Part of you shivers at the sound of it, but it’s also…comforting.

“Yes,” Magna says. “I’ll be waiting.”

——————.

“You saved my life,” you say. She’s not walking so you take the initiative, sliding around her so now you are the one leading her deeper into the forest. You squint through the dark. Do you see a light up ahead? “I don’t think I ever told you that.”

“No,” she says quietly. “You didn’t.” She follows you with careful steps. You can feel her eyes on your back, waiting to see if you’ll need support. “You didn’t tell me why you went to the basement that night either.”

You smile where she can’t see. She’s always been as quick of mind as she is quick of tongue. “I heard you. I heard you say you didn’t want to die.”

“But why did you come down?” she asks. Her free hand ghosts against your elbow when it looks like you’re going to trip. “You knew about the others your family took. Why me? Why then?”

“Because they were going to kill me,” you tell her. There’s definitely light up ahead, a soothing blue glow that almost looks like moonlight.  “I didn’t think two of us needed to die.”

Magna’s rage is quick to surface. Her skin heats in your hand and then cools just as rapidly before it can burn you. “You didn’t tell me that,” she says through gritted teeth.

You shrug. “You asked me what I wanted. I knew my days were numbered. All I wanted was for you to be free in my place.”

Magna swears. “I would have—if I’d known–!” She takes a deep breath. “They are lucky I did not make them suffer.”

It had been a surprise when Magna, free of her restraints, slaughtered your family in only a few minutes. She’d left you to live in the family’s mansion, alive and free for the first time in your life.

It had been a bigger surprise when she came back.

You hum. “I was glad to have them gone.” The light is growing brighter. It doeslook like moonlight, but you are a witch of the night sky. You know what moonbeams look like. “I was never family to them. I was a burden. An experiment. I grew up my whole life living like a caged beast, free for them to use.” Your eyes slide back to see her pale face in the fake-moonlight. “I don’t ever want to be trapped again.”

Unease flashes through her eyes, there and gone in a flash. “I…know.”

“I’ve thought about it,” you say. Your legs don’t feel so stiff anymore. You hop over a vine before Magna can move it out of the way. “What would I do if my family came back? Kill them, definitely. But what would I do if they locked me up? Caged me once again?” Your voice is very quiet as the light ahead grows brighter and brighter. “I would do anything to avoid that.”

“Stop.” Magna tugs your hand until you obey her, freezing before you can take another step. She won’t meet your eyes. “Stop, Hyacinth. Just for a…just for a moment.” The magic in the air stutters.

You grin as warmth unfurls in your chest. You expected this reaction, but it’s good to see it nonetheless. It means you aren’t about to make a mistake. “What is it? Is there something wrong?” Because you are cruel, you pull her hand to your chest. “Didn’t you say we were going to be late?”

She jerks and her beautiful black eyes find yours. She searches you for a long moment. “You know?”

You step into her space, a taunting smile on your lips. “Know what? We are going to your home, aren’t we?”

“You know what I am,” she says. Her free hand curls into a fist and uncurls. The shadows on the trees darken and twist. “You know where I’m leading you.”

You’re sure she can feel the steady beat of your heart.  You widen your eyes. “That can’t be true. You’ve laid so many spells on me over the years to hide the truth, haven’t you? How could I have ever seen through them?”

“But you have,” she says. She is still as a statue, as firm as the forest around her. She stopped running from you years ago. Does she even know how hard you worked to ease her fears? Her brow furrows. “You know. You’ve known.”

You nod, dropping the fake innocence. “I have. Your spells have never worked on me.”

The magic she’s been weaving disappears. The smiling, chirping Magna is nowhere to be seen and you’re left with the Other. “So you’ve been pretending.” She shakes her head and still doesn’t pull away. “Putting aside why my magic doesn’t work on you, I don’t understand. Why let me lead you here?”

“Before I tell you that,” you say, “perhaps you should be asking me a different question.” Your eyes flash and you imagine Magna can see the moon in them. “Why have I stopped pretending now?”

She’s on edge, watching you like she might watch a predator. “Because you know where I’m taking you and the consequences of walking there of your own free will,” she says like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. She cocks her head to the side. “Is that the answer?” Something like hope flutters through her aura. “You won’t let me trap you and you know you can’t leave if you walk in freely. Do you want me to force you across? So you can leave?”

You reach out to thread your fingers through her hair, your other hand still holding her hand to your chest. “Not quite.” You look at her, the complete trust in the way she turns her face into your hand, seeking your heat. Even now as you throw her plans into disarray, she trusts you. It is time to reward that trust. You take a deep breath. “I have a confession.” And your words catch in your throat.

This is it. There will be no turning back from this point forward. Ha. There’s beenno turning back for for a long time. Not since Magna wandered into your home again, arms full of berries as a silent thanks for your rescue.

“What confession?” Magna prompts.

“My name is Lily,” you say without fanfare. Your thumb strokes the soft skin behind her ear. “My real name is Lily.”

Magna gasps as the power of your true name hits her. Her eyes flare with stars and the hand pressed to your chest curls, nails digging into your skin. “But you—your name—” Her eyes find yours again. “You liedto me back then.”

She sounds impressed.

“And now I’ve told you the truth,” you say. You reel her in until you can press your forehead against hers. She comes willingly. You can feel her breath against your lips. “I want you to know that, when I walk into Underhill, I’m doing it for you. Because I love you. Because you have every part of me that’s ever mattered.”

“Oh,”she says. She’s trembling now. “Oh.”She takes her head from yours so that she can grip your hips. “You love me.”

“I do.”

“That,” she breathes, “is really good news. I was worried for how long you’d hate me once you realized where I’d led you. You can hold quite the grudge.”

You laugh. “Good thing you don’t need to worry about it then.” You pull back so you can meet her eyes. “I’m willing. I’m ready.”

She grins, the beauty of it blinding you for a moment. “My family is going to loveyou,” she promises. She takes your hand again and leads you past the last few trees into a clearing. A mushroom ring glows like the moon in the center. “Though, of course, not as much as I do.”

You grin and don’t feel your old scars at all as you step into Underhill with Magna’s hand in yours.

——————End———————

Thank you for reading! I am always obsessed with the sort of intense love where both partners walk into it with eyes wide open, so I hope you enjoyed my interpretation of that in a dark fantasy way!

If you’d like to see stories like this a week earlier, please consider supporting me on Patreon (X) where next week’s story is already up! I’m really excited about it because it takes place in this (x) universe which was so fun to write before!

Next week’s story’s summary:  Summary: You are a Villager. You aren’t the Hero, but when danger comes to your town, you’re ready.

Summary: You don’t ever want to be the main character. In your town, that’s deadly. Someone has to warn the new kid. 

——–.

Someone has got to tell the new kid in town the Rules.

“Hey,” you say.

The new kid looks up at you. He’s sitting at his desk in the back corner of the classroom, right next to the windows. It’s a chilly day, but he’s got the window open so that the breeze ruffles his curly, black hair. “What’s up? Fern, right?”

“Don’tcall me by my name,” you snarl. Then, realizing what you’ve done, you look over your shoulder. The other teenagers are still looped around the teacher’s desk, trying to get Ms. Slauson to move the test date so they could organize a welcome part for the new kid. “I need to talk to you. Privately.”

The new kid leans back in his chair and studies you. You know what he sees – a completely average high school girl in jeans, a sweatshirt, and a ponytail. There’s nothing remarkable about you. He tilts his head. “You don’t look like a bully.”

You frown. “I’m not.”

“You’re being awfully threatening,” he says in a drawl.

The accent is going to be a problem. It’s southern and sounds really cool. Honestly, it might be too late for him already.

But you still have to try.

“Meet me on the rooftop—no!” You press the heel of one hand against your eye. Fight it, you tell yourself. Fight it! “Meet me at the supermarket on Western Street. The dairy aisle. After school.”

“Okay…?”

You spin on your heel, head throbbing. Meeting on the rooftop is against the rules. You glance up at the ceiling uneasily. You’re not usually affected by the compulsion so badly. Are you being targeted?

If you were smart, you wouldn’t show up to the meeting. You’d just let the guy get sucked into the madness on his own.

But you also really need to buy some milk.

———————————.

To your surprise, the new kid meets you in the dairy aisle after school. He actually gets there before you and you find him frowning at the selection.

“I’ve never heard of these brands before,” he says. He points to one. “Moo-ilk?That’s not a thing.”

“It is here,” you say. Like you’d hoped, the supermarket is nearly empty. It won’t stay that way for long. “That’s what I need to talk to you about, new kid.”

He turns to look at you. You’re tall for your age, so you stand eye to eye. “My name is Caiden.”

“I know,” you say. “You should stop telling people your name, especially when it’s such a cool one. It’s safer to just be a nameless face in the crowd.”

“That’s deep,” Caiden says. His drawl is clearly sarcastic. “That can’t be what you wanted to tell me.”

It’s not my problem if he doesn’t believe me, you tell yourself. You take a deep breath. “It’s part of it. This town is magic and the school is the heart of it. It forces people to live out popular tropes.  If you’re popular or interesting in any way, it makes you the main character.” You take in the number of pockets on his black pants. “Unfortunately, you’re probably the coolest person to transfer ever and the magic is going to target you big time.”

Caiden stares at you. “You’re saying magic is real.”

“Yeah,” you say. You glance over his shoulder towards the front of the store. You can see shadows slanting through the windows as the sun starts to set. “All sorts. It depends what type of story you get pulled into.”

“But the main magic,” Caiden says, “is in the town itself which forces people to act like main characters?”

“Somepeople,” you say. You point at his trio of long necklaces. “Is that a wolf?”

Caiden looks down at the metal pendant. “It’s my favorite animal.”

“You are in somuch danger,” you marvel. That’s the coolest thing you’ve ever heard. He also has a necklace that looks like an ancient coin and the other is a shark tooth. “The magic is definitely going to make you a main character.”

Caiden opens his mouth, closes it, then asks, “Are you insane?”

It really depends on what he thinks insanemeans. But going into that actually doesmake you sound insane, so you just sigh and shake your head. “You don’t believe me.”

“No.” Caiden doesn’t sound angry. He almost sounds apologetic. “I don’t.”

The bell at the front of the store rings. You reflexively look to see who came in. You see tennis rackets and gym clothes before you make yourself look away. A sports team, probably from a rival school. That…could be safe. Or safer. If they’re the first people he runs into, he might actually survive without having to believe you. “That’s fine. You do you.”

“…okay?” Caiden says.

He doesn’t follow you as you grab a gallon of milk and beeline for the self-checkout. You pass the tennis team in the aisle. They smell like sunscreen and don’t notice you dart past them.

“Hey,” you hear one of them say. They’re looking at Caiden. “I’ve never seen that guy around before.”

Another one hums. “There’s something about him. He looks…strong.”

“Why’s he just standing by the milk?”

You grab your purchase and calmly walk out the door.

——————.

It’s a month after Caiden first transferred when he marches up to your desk after the last bell rings and says, “You. I need to talk to you.”

You look up at him from under your bangs, hands stilling on the open textbook. Caiden looks a lot different. He’s always dressed in a tennis club uniform now and his wild, curly hair is held away from his face by a sweatband. He’s a little sunburned and there is a bandage wrapped from wrist to shoulder on his right arm. Your eyes dart down to see a matching bandage wrapped around his left ankle.

“Please,” Caiden says when the silence stretches too long. His voice cracks. “I was wrong. I was—”

You close your textbook with a snap. You weren’t really studying anyway. Studying makes you look like a background character, but the ace of the tennis team coming to talk to you cancels it out. “There’s a dentist on 3^rd Street. Meet me there in an hour.”

“A dentist?” Caiden asks, bewildered. He dumbly moves out of your way when you stand to go. “Why a—”

“Not here,” you hiss. “Dentist office.”

You rush out of class before anyone notices him talking to you.

——————-.

The first time this town killed one of your friends, you didn’t know about the magic.

You were just a kid, barely thirteen, and new in town. You didn’t know what you were doing when you decided you wanted the quiet girl in class to befriend. Jeanine always sat by the windows, staring out into the school’s courtyard by herself. Her black braids swung on either side of her face and her glasses were pressed high on the bridge of her nose.

You introduced yourself to her, complimented her on her book, and asked if she’d like to have lunch. Sometimes you remember the smile she gave you in that first moment. Surprised, vulnerable, secretly pleased. You treasure that moment where you were just two girls looking for friends. You remember all her smiles over that blissful period where you went to the bookstore and the library, to the movies and to sleepovers, to parties and to concerts.

Sometimes remembering those smiles even helps you forget the painful one she gave you before she lost her life saving yours.

—————–.

Caiden is pacing in front of the dentist’s office when you arrive. The street is deserted and there’s a faded Closedsign in the window.

Caiden jerks his thumb at the sign. “It’s closed.”

“Yeah,” you say. There’s a little bench in front of the office where patients are invited to wait for their appointment. You take a seat and gesture for him to do the same. “Very few stories start at the dentist and, those that do, always start when it’s open. It’s unlikely we’ll run into any trouble here.”

Caiden clutches his bandaged arm, looking over his shoulder as if checking for pursuers. “So location is part of it? Even just…walking down the street can trigger it?”

“Depends which street,” you say. You twist so you can put one foot up on the bench, angling your body towards him as he sits next to you. “Setting is an important part of the story.”

“Okay,” Caiden says. He breathes in through his nose and out through his mouth. “Sorry. I just—sorry. Thank you for talking to me. I know I didn’t believe you—”

“It’s hard to believe,” you say, “even without the magic.” You nod your head at his arm. “You okay?”

Caiden looks down at his arm as if he forgot about the bandages. “Oh, this? I’m not injured.” He unravels the strips to show unblemished skin. “Mark – the tennis team captain? – he’s worried about spies from other schools. I’m pretending to be hurt so they think I’m out of commission.”

“Thus giving you the element of surprise when you face them at Nationals next week,” you say with understanding. You eye the other bandage. “And your ankle?”

Caiden laughs. It’s not a joyful laugh. It sounds a little hysterical. “No, no, that’s real. I got invited to a drama club after party and spent most of Saturday night running away from a werewolf. I sprained it in the woods.”

“The Drama Club President is a werewolf,” you say. If he’d believed you a month ago, you would have warned him. You were there when she got bitten, but you managed to escape that particular story by pretending to faint. “She’s really had a lot of character growth since she got bit. She used to be super mean before.”

“Oh, as long as it’s for character growth,” Caiden says sarcastically. He scrubs a hand over his face. “We barely got away. It was only because the track team was there that we managed to run her into exhaustion.” He looks up at you. “I think—I think she’s going to kill someone one day.”

“She already has,” you say. When Caiden’s eyes widen, you wave a hand. “It was a bad guy who was trying to turn our entire school into werewolves. We actually owe her a lot for managing to contain that particular plot.”

“How is she going to put that on a college application?” he asks.

You point at him. “See, that right there is why you’re already so deep into a story. Being funny when you should be panicking is basically a requirement for protagonists.”

“I’m panicking,” Caiden assures you. He points to himself emphatically. “I’m definitelypanicking.”

“Good,” you say, “that means the magic doesn’t have complete control over you yet. I was worried. Nationals isn’t supposed to be for another four months. I thought the accelerated schedule was a sign you’d completely become the main character.”

“How do I get out of this?” Caiden pulls at his jersey. “I don’t even like tennis! I don’t even know how I joined the club, I didn’t sign up for anything. I don’t know how I got the equipment. My dad didn’t buy it for me.”

“Those details aren’t necessary for the story you’re in,” you say. You pick up your backpack and unzip the main pocket. “I have some Rules to avoid getting sucked into a role. No meeting people in Big Settings, first of all.”

“Big Settings?”

“The lunchroom, the roof, the community pool, the lake, a love interest’s house, anywhereafter curfew, etcetera,” you rattle off. You pull out a copy of The Rules and hand it to him. Even now, the mix of your handwriting and Jeanine’s sends a spike of sorrow through you. “There are some pretty specific ones on there too. I suggest you read through them all and pick out the common themes.”

The sun is getting dangerously low. You keep one eye on Caiden as he scans through the six pages of photocopied rules and one eye on the street. A couple cars pass by, but they’re all normal sedans. The moment you see a motorcycle or a van it’ll be time to leave.

“I can’t have an accent?” Caiden looks up from the paper. “But I’m not from here! How can I control an accent?”

“You can’t,” you admit. “But don’t use any region-specific idioms. That should help.”

Caiden points at the page. “Do not go to the library’s second floor?”

“Donotgo to the library’s second floor,” you agree solemnly. When Caiden stares at you, you relent. “It’s super haunted. Also all the books in the back corner are cursed.”

“How do you know that?”

“They look super cursed. In a town like this, if it looks cursed, it’s cursed.”

“I guess I can’t say I don’t believe you,” Caiden mutters. “Werewolves are real, I’m pretty sure my club captain is some sort of spymaster, and I saw a kid fall four stories and land on his feet yesterday.”

“That’s Mark’s little brother. He’s got some sort of budding superhero thing going on,” you explain.

“Superhero implies the existence of a supervillain,” Caiden says.

“I try not to think about that.” A car turns onto 3^rd Street a little too quickly. You tense and watch as a bicyclist comes screeching around the corner and pedal furiously in pursuit. “Time to go. Sunset is when rising actions get to climaxes. Read the Rules. We’ll talk about how to get you out of your current story tomorrow.”

“Wait!” Caiden scrambles up after you. “I can’t wait until tomorrow! Who know what will happen by then? A stalker could climb the trellis outside my window, or my house could catch on fire—”

“Do you have any little siblings?”

“No? What—”

“Are you going to be out after curfew tonight?”

“No, but my parents—”

“Your house won’t catch on fire then,” you say. “You’re a main character right now. The magic won’t give you a tragic back story when you’re there to stop it. I’d leave now if I were you. There’s about to be a police chase down here.”

“How could you know that?” Caiden cries out.

“Did you see that bicyclist just now?”

“From a minute ago? Yeah, but—”

“We’ll talk tomorrow. If the police see you here, you’ll get dragged into it as a witness.”

As if on cue, sirens start up a couple blocks over.  You duck into a side street without waiting to see if Caiden understands.

———–.

Your parents stop talking when you come through the front door. You set your backpack down slowly, taking them in. They’re sitting on the floor of the living room with a whole pile of newspaper articles and printed Wikipedia pages between them. They’re both dressed in all black and your mom has a grappling hook over one shoulder.

“What’s going on?” you ask.

“Costume party,” your dad says.

“Collage for my book club,” your mom says. When she hears your dad’s answer, she nods quickly. “My book club which is also a costume party.”

It’s sad to see your parents caught in the magic like this. You remember them when you were little. Your mom was an accountant, and your dad was one of the best mechanics in your hometown. Sure, they’d still been a little…odd. Your dad taught you to hotwire a car before you learned how to change the oil and your mom would bring you along into corporate fraud investigations, but that was what theywanted. Now their eccentricities make them main characters.

“Sounds fun,” you say with false cheer. You desperately want to beg them not to do whatever they’re planning. You want to plead with them to be safe. You want your dad to quit adding spy-like features to the family car and for your mom to stop breaking into the town museum. But you aren’t strong enough to protect them. You’re only strong enough to protect yourself. “I’ve got a history test tomorrow, so I’m going to study in my room. I’ll probably have my headphones in so I won’t be able to hear anything. Try not to scare me.”

Your mom’s eyes light. “We won’t bother you, sweetheart. Do you want to take some snacks to your room? So you don’t have to come in and out.”

“Thanks, Mom.” Does it hurt your parents are so eager to get you out of the way? Yes, but at least it’s an attempt to protect you.

You let your parents give you some mixed nuts, fruit, and popcorn before heading up to your room. While they plan whatever heist they’re doing tonight, you’ve got planning of your own. Caiden’s in a pretty tame story, but it’s still a story.

He’s got to get out as quietly as he can or else things will get messy.

———-.

“Let’s meet in the lunchroom after classes,” Caiden says the next morning. The circles under his eyes are even darker than they were yesterday, but his eyes are bright and alive. He ruefully gestures to his tennis uniform. “Before practice.”

You raise an eyebrow. The lunchroom will be empty, students choosing to use the more comfortable chairs and tables in the multipurpose room or library to study. “I’m impressed. That might be the only time the lunchroom will be safe.”

“I finally did my research,” Caiden says grimly. He flinches when the classroom door opens but recovers quickly. He walks away from your desk as if only passing by it, smiling easily at a fellow tennis player when they greet him.

“Hey,” the girl at the desk hisses at you. She’s a lower-level antagonist, easily identified by the bubblegum she’s always chewing. The teacher is always yelling at her for it, but she never gets in trouble unless the magic needs her to be a background character in detention. “Is it just me or is Caiden talking to you a lot?”

“I don’t think so,” you say. You frown at her like she’s the strange one, not you. “Are you feeling okay?”

Flustered, she pops a bubble and turns back to the doodles she’s scratching on her desk. “Never mind.”

Whew.That was a close one. Her words could’ve triggered a romance plot between you and Caiden with her as the third wheel. You’ve seen more than your fair share of those pan out. Best case scenario, one of you would end up studying abroad for a year. Worst case, one of you would end up dead.

Your heart races a little. Frowning for real, you press a hand to your chest. Could…could you actually have a crush on Caiden? After a moment, you shake your head. That’s ridiculous. You’re probably still feeling the adrenaline of escaping the pull of a story.

Even now, after four years, avoiding the magic still feels like a victory.

—————-.

The thing is, you used to love the magic. When Jeanine first showed you how to watch people, it was like TV come to life. The teacher is in a slow-burn romantic comedy with the principal. The tenth grader who just passed you in the hall is actually one of the most respected journalists in town. There’s going to be a musical number in the park after school because the eggs the biology club has been looking after finally hatched into the cutest baby ducklings.

Youlovedit. You and Jeanine would race around after school every day to check in on each story. You remember the way her jacket would puff out behind her as she jumped the last few steps in front of the auditorium. The glint of the sun off the barrette in her hair that matched the one in yours. The joy when she would turn to smile at you like what you were witnessing was for just the two of you.

It got to the point where you could guess what sort of story someone would get caught in. You and Jeanine used to place bets on the genre, the cast, the ending. It was a game. It was all a fucking game until it wasn’t.

You were naïve. You thought that being watchers protected you from the bad endings. The Rules…you thought yourself clever for making them. You never saw how incomplete they were. That’s why you didn’t notice when Jeanine became withdrawn. She never told you about the threatening letters that started to show up in her mailbox. Her parents were always away working and she didn’t have anyone to turn to.

She should have turned to you. You believe that now. If she’d just come to you sooner, then the weight of the story you’d gotten yourself tangled in would have been bearable. Or maybe you should have been able to see it. You were right there, watching. You should have seen the mysterious cloaked figures. You should have known.

You didn’t know soon enough.

Jeanine died saving you.

And now it’s your turn to save someone else.

———————–.

The end of the school day can’t come soon enough. When the bell finally rings, you make yourself count to ten before standing up.

Rule 14: Never be the first one out of class.

Rule 27: Never be the last one out of class.

You exit exactly in the middle of the pack. To your delight, Caiden is only a few people ahead of you. He read the Rules and he’s following them. That means this morning wasn’t a fluke. He’s still not completely bound by the magic.

He can be saved.

“Alright,” you say when you reach the lunchroom. Like you’d hoped, there’s no one there. You slam you backpack on top of a table and start pulling out folders. “I’ve got a couple ideas on how to get you out of your story.”

Caiden twirls the racket in his hands. “Can’t I just quit the club?”

“No, that’ll just turn it into a story about getting you back in time for Nationals,” you explain. You flip open the first folder. “One option is to get arrested for something. Sure, it’ll make you a criminal for a little bit, but your team won’t come looking for you. Heck, they might kick you off the team entirely.”

“If they’d come after me for quitting, don’t you think they’d just bail me out?” Caiden asks.

You pause. You didn’t think about that. “Would they even have the money to do that?”

“Mark’s estranged Dad is a millionaire,” Caiden says. He pulls out his phone and flips to a picture. “Here he is on a yacht.”

“I don’t really pay attention to the adult stories,” you say. You examine the picture. Yep, that’s definitely the start of a millionaire romance trope. “Good thing my parents are still together.”

Caiden frowns. “Mine aren’t.”

“Don’t let either of your parents meet Mark’s Dad,” you say apologetically. You flip to the next folder. “Next option is to pretend to be possessed by a famous tennis player. Then, when you lead the team to victory, you say it’s because of the ghost, the ghost gets exorcised, and the team loses interest in you when your abilities fade.”

“That’s pretty convoluted,” Caiden says. He pulls the folder towards him and examines the doodle of a ghost you did. “You don’t know if I’ll lead the team to victory.”

You scoff and gesture to him. “Look at you. Of course, you will.” Before he has a chance to respond, you reveal the last plan. “That’s why I think thisone will work. Instead of leading the team to victory, you become a supporting character.” You open the folder to reveal a picture of Mark. “In short, you make Marka main character.”

“What?” Caiden yelps. He casts a guilty glance towards the front of the lunchroom, making sure no one in the hall heard him. He lowers his voice. “You want me to sacrifice Mark? The guy’s already been through a lot!”

Caiden looks awfully heroic with the way he’s squared his shoulders. He’s genuinely a good person and if you’d meant to sacrifice Mark in his place, you’d feel very villainous right now.  “No,” you say, “don’t you see? Making him the main character will actually helphim.”

“How?”

“His little brother’s got powers and his dad is, apparently, a millionaire.” You hesitate. You don’t really want to say it, but you don’t think Caiden’s quite understood what it means to be surrounded by main characters. “The way it is now, Mark is in danger.”

Caiden goes still. “What?”

“What’s more powerful than a superhero fighting to protect his brother’s memory? Or a millionaire who only needs the right romantic interest to recover from the grief of losing his eldest son?” You flip over the page and grab a pencil. You draw a circle on one side of the page. “Imagine that’s a superhero story.” You draw a dot in the circle. “That’s Mark’s brother. He can only be affected by superhero-related things as long as he’s in that circle. Their dad’s millionaire-romance story won’t stop him from being a hero, just like his son being a hero won’t stop their dad from becoming a sugar daddy for some lucky single in town.”

“Definitely keeping my dad away from him,” Caiden mutters.

You draw another circle and put another dot in it. “Thatdot is their dad. He’s protected from any superhero stuff because he’s the main character in the romance stuff.” Between the two circles, you draw a third dot. “In the center? That’s Mark. And right now he doesn’t have a circle to protect him from the superhero stuff orthe romance stuff. Do you understand?”

“You’re saying that Mark needs to be a main character so he doesn’t become a tragic backstory,” Caiden says. He scrubs a hand over his face and collapse onto a chair. “This stuff is messed up.”

“Sometimes,” you say, “being outside the magic is just as dangerous as being inthe magic.”

That’s what you and Jeanine never understood. There’s a difference between being a background character and being an exception.Exceptions make great protagonists. When the sorcerers that live in the park noticed that you and Jeanine never fell under their hypnosis, they took interest.

Deadly interest.

“Hey.” Caiden reaches out to place a comforting hand on your arm. “You okay?”

You shake yourself. The quiet of the lunchroom makes you feel like you’re the only two in the world. It’s been a long time since you’ve been able to talk to someone that’s not under the town’s magic. You swallow. “My friend,” you say without really knowing you’re going to say it. “The one who wrote the Rules with me.”

“Jeanine?” Caiden asks gently. When you shoot him a surprised look, he says, “You guys signed the Rules.”

You’d forgotten about that. You hardly ever read the Rules anymore. You know them all by heart. You nod. “Yeah. She saved my life. The town isn’t evil and the magic isn’t all bad. But when it’s bad, it’s reallybad. You’re doing Mark a favor by making him a main character. You might even be saving his life.”

That seems to break through to Caiden. He takes his hand off your arm, eyes far away as he considers that. When he looks back at you, there’s no resolve in the set of his jaw. “Okay. I’ll do it. How do I make Mark a main character?”

You pass the folder over to him. “It’s all there. You’re going to have to go to Nationals but, after that, you should be back in the background. Just like me.”

“Perfect,” Caiden says with a sigh. He stands, taking the folder with him. “I gotta get to practice.” He pauses in front of the door. “Will you come see us at Nationals?”

“Probably not,” you say. You scrunch your nose. If you go and meet Caiden after the game, you could be in danger of triggering another romance plot. You start packing up to hide your blush. “I’d hate to be caught up in a sports story.”

“Right, rule #35,” Caiden says, laughing a little. He looks awfully cute when he laughs. “If you’re good at sports—”

“—no you aren’t,” you say with him. You grin and wave him off. “See you later.”

Caiden glances down the hall for other students before leaning back into the lunchroom. “Thanks, Fern,” he whispers and then disappears out the door.

Your face feels hot as you make your way home.

——————-.

You find yourself at the park the day of Nationals. You can’t bring yourself to watch Caiden. On paper, the plan is simple. He has to let Mark play all the singles and, if he plays doubles, Mark needs to be the one to score the most points. Or whatever the right terminology is. Even if it wasn’t dangerous to know too much about sports, you wouldn’t care.

Jeanine would care.

You wander past the kids’ playground and head across the lawn to where there’s a cluster of birch trees. In your mind’s eye, you see this place four years ago. It was night then and there weren’t any kids on the swings or parents idly chatting around the water fountain.

No, it was dark and empty and the only sound you could hear was the harsh panting of your own breath and the slow, rhythmic chanting of the sorcerers about to sacrifice your best friend.

Jeanine was an exception. She was someone who’d grown up here her whole life but was just…average. Average grades, average looks, average worries. Average. She was never compelled into a story as a kid. She wasn’t called on to fight dragons and she wasn’t recruited to be a child spy. She was just Jeanine.

The birch trees are looking a little weak. You stop just where the grass changes to dirt and stares up into their thinning canopies. Good. You hope these trees die. Then the sorcerers trapped inside of them won’t ever emerge and, at last, Jeanine will be avenged.

“If that’s even possible,” you say absently,

The truth is some days you feel like you killed her.  Jeanine was average. Youwere the transfer who knew how to do too many things. You were the one the town took an interest in. Of course it did. You were a 13-year-old who could hotwire a car and who regularly broke into corporate offices searching for dirty books.

Jeanine saved you. She saved you from all the fates she’d seen her classmates fall prey to over the years. She taught you how to watch. She taught you how to survive. Sometimes you wonder why she did that for you, knowing what it could potentially (and did) cost her.

The truth is you would have done the same for her.

You kick at a root with real anger. When the magic couldn’t drag you into a mundane story, it escalated. The sorcerers that lived in seclusion on the other side of town got tipped off. They made a prophecy.

A prophecy about you.

You know the story that you should have had. You were supposed to be a lonely transfer student with only one shy friend. You were supposed to be excitedwhen the sorcerers came to recruit you into their epic fight against evil. You were supposed to learn their spells and their ways and forget all about the normal life you once led.

Jeanine noticed the hooded figures first. She intercepted them before they could get to you. That’s what finally caught the magic’s attention. Here was a girl who would do anythingfor her friend. A beautiful girl with quick wits and an amazing loyalty.

Here was an obstaclethat the sorcerers had to kill. Here was the final piece of yourtragic backstory.

But Jeanine didn’t let that happen. Quietly, desperately, she worked to change your fate and, in exchange, sealed hers.

There is a reason that there aren’t any prophecies in town anymore. Jeanine’s sacrifice not only saved you, but everybody else from that fate. She gave her life to seal the sorcerers here, in these woods where they’d meant to kill her and take you away.

What you’re doing for Caiden isn’t like what Jeanine did for you. He’s not in danger of being whisked off into another dimension or being tortured by power you’ll never understand. He’s on a tennis team he doesn’t want to be on. But you’re teaching him like Jeanine taught you.

You just hope he sticks around long enough to learn.

—————————-.

You get to school early on Monday. It’s against the rules, but you can’t help it. You need to know how Nationals went. You need to know if Mark won the title for them or Caiden.

You see the back of Caiden’s head in the hall outside of class. Your heart races. “Caiden!”

Caiden turns. When he sees it’s you, he raises two fingers in the air. “We won!”

Your heart sinks. “No, I’m so sorry—”

“I mean, Ididn’t win,” Caiden says. He gestures down at himself. “Look! No tennis uniform!”

For the first time you realize that Caiden’s wearing normal clothes. Black cargo pants, a Henley, and boots. Normalclothes might be a bit of an overstatement.  You try to focus on the positive. “Nice job! Did Mark score the last goal?”

“Not how that works in tennis, but kind of,” Caiden says, grinning. “He got scouted. That means he’s the main character right? He’s safe?”

“Yeah.” You eye Caiden’s necklaces. He’s still got the wolf pendant and the shark tooth on, but now the ancient coin has been replaced by a tiny sword. “I don’t think you’re in the clear yet though.”

Caiden deflates. “What? Why not? Can you see something on me?” He turns in a circle as if looking for note that says main character stuck to his back.

“You’re still waytoo cool,” you say. You point at the sword necklace. “Where did you get that?”

“Found it on the ground,” he says.

“Oh my god,take that off right now,” you say.

You’vereallygot your work cut out for you.

 —–End—-

Thanks for reading! I love writing semi-meta stories like this and you know it’s not the last you’ll see of Narrative Town!

I post all my stories early on Patreon (X) Join me there to read stories a week ahead of time and to see exclusive continuations!

Next week’s story is already up!

Summary: When Shireen’s city falls to a Supervillain, she knows there aren’t any Heroes to save the day. So she does in more ways than she knows.

Thanks again for reading :)

TITLE OF STORY: Come Back Home
CHAPTER NUMBER/TITLE/ONE SHOT: One shot
AUTHOR:Fandom-And-Feminism&FadingCoast
WHICH TOM/CHARACTER: Soldier!Tom
GENRE: Romance. Reader Insert. Light Angst.
FIC SUMMARY: Thomas has left for war. There’s nothing for you to do, except wait. When he has failed to send letters for over a month, maybe your wait has been in vain.
RATING: Gen. Mild mentions of war.
PAIRING: Soldier!Tom/Reader
WARNINGS/TRIGGERS/AUTHORS NOTES: Mild references of war. Mostly domestic angst.
FEEDBACK/COMMENTS: Inspired by THIS PIC and a Discord chat.

Feedback is always appreciated!

.- 

The faded sepia picture has started to wrinkle in your grasp. But you refuse to part from it.

It has been only 2 months since he parted, and you already are wondering when will he return home? Every day Thomas spends away from you is one day in which he could die. Fear cuts deeper than the cold weather.

You sit on the porch of your little country house everyday, staring at the snow covered fields, at the barely recognizable road and the black iron gates. Your hand holds a cup of tea, while the other rubs your incipient belly.

And you wait.

Day after day, you wait.

There’s nothing else for you to do.

Wait for news.

Wait for letters.

Wait for him to return home. To you. To your sweet embrace and warm bed.

Winter has ended, and the weather starts to warm up. Your growing belly gets in the way of your daily tasks, and you wish Thomas was there with you. Every other week you get a letter, soft and short recounts of life in the battlefield, of traveling, and horses. You treasure every single letter he sends. It is a significant connection to your beloved Thomas. A testimony that all those miles away, he still loves you and misses you as much as you love and miss him.

Summer comes and goes. Autumn finds you all round up and almost ready to give birth.

You get scared when a month has passed and he hasn’t sent anything… You pace around the house, startled by the smallest sound, almost forgetting your usual chores because you’ve been staring at the window. When a new letter finally arrives, you all but yanked it away from the postal service boy. You settle and read it out loud for your little one inside of you.

My Darling (Y/N),

My deepest apologies, for I am certain to have worried you due to the absence of my letters. I am still alive and well, I assure you. We are getting closer to the front, and that is why I won’t be able to write as often - postal service is hard to come by in the proximity of battle. 

Each night I sleep with your photo under my pillow, and I dream of your embrace, the touch of your lips. I know that our little one is due to make an appearance soon, but we have hopes that the war will be over before then. I may very well be able to keep my promise to spend Christmas at home. We shall ring in the new year together with our baby, if luck favors us. 

As much as I could write a book of all that I wish I could tell you, I must go while there is still someone here to take our mail. I hope this reaches you and our baby in good spirits. Never lose hope, my love, for your hope is my beacon to travel home to you. 

All my love, for all of time, I am forever yours. 

Thomas.

You re-read the letter out loud almost everyday now.

It somehow helps you keep calm as you know the time to meet the little one gets closer. You wish with all your heart his father could be there, and the letters keep that illusion going.

It’s ironic and cruel that the same day you go into labor, a soldier happens to come. You heard the bell, but you were busy pushing a new life out of you, so your mother sprints down to get the call. She doesn’t say anything, not until the new born baby is safe in your arms. But the look on her face gives it away.

“Mama?”

“It was a soldier.” She says slowly.

Your heart starts pounding as tears well in your eyes. “It’s not mail day yet…” You choke out, trying to hold on to hope, but it keeps slipping from your grasp. “What does it say?”

You hold your baby boy closer as he happily feeds on your breast. Your mother shakes her head.

“What does it say!?!?” You demand, startling the infant. Your mother slowly unfolds the paper. You can see she’s holding back tears of her own. With a cracked voice she reads. 

“Dear Mrs. Hiddleston. It is my painful duty to inform you…”

.-

“Missing in action. That’s all it says. He could still be alive. I know he is. He has to be.”

Your mother shakes her head at your denial. “They looked for him for days before they had to move on,” she insists. “If there was still a good chance he was out there then they wouldn’t have sent someone here to tell you.“ 

You stare down at the baby nursing at your breast. He has Thomas’ curly blond hair and strong chin. “I can’t give up on him, Mama,” you say with a crack in your voice. “I promised him I wouldn’t ever give up. Not until they bring his body here to be buried.”

You cling to hope. Cling to that “missing in action”. Half of you knows what it really means, the other half refuses to acknowledge it. You go back to your daily routine of waiting.

Winter has returned. It’s been over a year since Thomas left. You’re still clinging to hope.

He promised he’d be home for Christmas.

Christmas’ eve comes, and you spend the whole day sitting on the porch, toes and fingers nearly frozen, waiting for him to appear at the gates. Your mother scolds you: your baby boy needs to be fed. So you settle beside the window until he’s sated and asleep, and you go back outside. The last letter you received is safe in your dress pocket. It is a bit faded, tears have made the ink run, you’ve read it so many times you know it by heart. But you won’t part from it, or the faded picture.

As night falls, your mother calls you for dinner, but you refuse to go inside.

He promised. He will be here.

You feed the baby again before your mother goes to bed, and she covers you up with another quilt when she accepts you won’t come in. Not just yet.

You start to doze after your mantel clock chimes 11 o'clock that night. Every noise wakes you in a rush of hopeful adrenaline.

Just before midnight you start to lose hope. He promised, he promised, you keep repeating in your head. The war is over. He promised. He should be here any minute. He promised. Before you know it, you’re dozing again, and somewhere in the back of your mind you hear the clock chime 12.

In your sleep you feel the touch of cold fingers on your cheek. You hear his voice, taunting you, reminding you of his broken promise. Irritated, you swat the hand away. 

Your eyes snap open when your hand touches living flesh. As if he had stepped out of the photo you kept on you at all times, standing before you is the love of your life, bent down until his face was inches from yours. His cheeks were a little more hollow, and his eyes slightly sunken in and bruised looking from months of sleepless nights, but it was still him. 

Thomas smiles down at you softly. You reach up and caress his cheek, finally letting the tears fall. “You made it,” you whisper, your heart nearly bursting from your chest.

He laughs, that beautiful, gentle laugh you missed so much. “I had to keep my promise, didn’t I?”

You stand up, still not believing you eyes. This must be a dream. But then again, you wouldn’t be freezing if it was. You hug him tight and he winces. Only then you notice the cast on his arm and the way he leans on one leg more than the other. By the short breaths he’s taking, you guess more than one rib is broken. But you don’t care, he’s here. Just in time for Christmas.

Slowly and gently, you lean in, catching his lips with yours. Hands cupping his face and wiping the cold tears away. Your heart is soaring with happiness.

“Would you like to meet your boy?” You say, taking his hand to lead him inside.

That night Thomas sleeps with little Henry on his chest, never mind the broken ribs. Even though he had never heard his father’s voice before in his life, your son sleeps like a log.

Your mother drops the skillet she is holding when the three of you come down for breakfast on Christmas morning. She gives Thomas a gentle hug and starts crying, saying she’s sorry she believed he was dead. Over pancakes he tells you both the story.

It is a dreadful and demanding task for Thomas to tell you everything. You hold his hand the whole time, just to show him you were there, by his side, and would never leave. He cried remembering his fallen friends, he shivered with the vivid images of death and pain, he cried again while telling how they found him and brought him back.

Then, he looks you in the eyes and tells you how you were his only light in that darkness. How the thought of seeing his baby boy just once kept him alive in the frozen swamps. He had promised to come back for Christmas and he had yet to broke a promise. You cannot possibly put into words how much you love him.

“I apologize for not having a Christmas present for you, my love.” He says, kissing you hand. “Especially cause you’ve given me the most perfect present ever!” He adds, stealing little Henry from you and rocking him in his good arm. 

“You being here is the only present I need.”

.-

nerdyfandomfics:

AUTHOR:@nerdyfandomfics

WHICH TOM: Actor!Tom

GENRE: Romance

SUMMARY: You’ve been dreaming of having a personal encounter with the God of Mischief. Lucky for you, your boyfriend Tom Hiddleston is more than happy to indulge you. And he takes ALL his roles seriously.

RATING:M (18+ ONLY)

AUTHOR’S NOTE: This fic contains sexual roleplay, light bondage, and explicit sexual content, and should only be read by people age 18 and over. I hope you like this, because I had a lot of fun with it! Feedback, comments, and reblogs are always appreciated!

WORD COUNT: 5,125

AO3-Masterlist

……………………………

“Hey babe, I have a question for you.”

You checked out the swing of Tom’s hips and butt as he danced along to the music playing on the radio while he made his coffee. He turned around, smiling with his lip between his teeth, and swayed his hips a few more times for good measure while stirring the coffee with a spoon. You gestured for him to join you on the couch and he turned the music down. With an exaggerated sigh he sat down next to you and threw his long legs up on the couch, leaning his back against your chest. His head came up to your collarbone, his curly hair tickling your chin. The first sip of his coffee made him groan appreciatively and settle more comfortably into your lap. You massaged his scalp, enjoying the feeling of his silky curls between your fingers.

Keep reading

(Photo by Dan Winters)

Today on “What Should You Read While The New Yorker’s Archives Are Open,” we’ve got the amazing “Black Box” by Jennifer Egan. The story first appeared in 2012 Summer Fiction issue, which focused on science fiction and was definitely the last great one to date. As you might notice from the style, Egan wrote the story using Twitter and famously serialized it in tweets across ten nights. But what really makes this piece move is a totally fascinating, prescriptive second-person perspective, where each tweet is instructional and the action takes place in the gap. Check it: 

14. 

If your subject is angry, you may leave your camouflage position and move as close to him as possible to improve recording quality.

You may feel afraid as you do this.

Your pounding heartbeat will not be recorded.

If your Designated Mate is standing on a balcony, hover in the doorway just behind him.

If he pivots and discovers you, pretend that you were on the verge of approaching him.

Anger usually trumps suspicion.

If your subject brushes past you and storms out of the room, slamming the door, you have eluded detection.

-Hal-