#hello void. do you want some of the bread I am hiding.

[mommalosthermind]

My favorite part of making anything bread related from scratch is how it summons my middle kid from thin fucking air and then I have to slap a slice or whatever into his hands and hide the rest before the Bread Fae claims the entire goddamn thing for himself

[katie-dub]

Rapture on the Lonely Shore

Fleabag fic

Summary: Social distancing has come into play and suddenly Fleabag finds herself unable to be close to her best friend right when she needs him the most, but will it bring them closer than ever?

AO3

It’s more Fleabag fic, prompted by a lovely new fandom friend who wishes to remain anonymous. Dedicated to @eirabach​ who is my hero. Thanks to @profdanglaisstuff​ for inspiring the title and for being endlessly supportive and encouraging, along with @ohmightydevviepuu​ and @thisonesatellite​

"Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, FUCK!" I scream into the silent void of my living room for no other reason than there's no one here with me and I fucking well can.

I am handling this coronavirus shit like a fucking pro.

Tonight Bojo told everyone to stay away from pubs, restaurants and cafes, whatever the fuck that means. Hillarys is likely fucked. I think of Joe, my regular, wondering how he'll cope without Chatty Wednesdays and the food I provide, which could quite easily send me spiralling off into a major fucking crisis, if I weren't already at least 90% of the way there.

Like I said, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, FUCK!

The worst part of it is that my best friend, my rock, my Priest is busy doing the Lord's work and visiting the housebound so I can't fucking see him in case he gives me the plague or vice versa. Apparently his God has a really twisted sense of humour.

My phone rings, mercifully dragging me from my thoughts.

"What are you doing right now?"

"Well, hello, Father," I say with a grin.

"Oh fuck off," he chides with a laugh, "can you go to your door?"

"Is that some kind of code?"

"Just open your fucking door."

Intrigued, I cross over to the door and throw it open. My Priest stands two metres away from it, grinning at the sight of me.

"Sorry Father, I've got to go, I've had a hot delivery." I hang up, watching his beautiful neck as he throws his head back and laughs. I love making him laugh.

The only thing worse than being mildly obsessed with your best friend who you can never be with because he's a priest, is being mildly obsessed with your best friend who you can never be with because he's a priest when you aren't even allowed to touch him. In a purely platonic way, you understand, he gives the best hugs.

Oh fuck off.

"What a line!" he says, calming down and wiping tears from his eyes.

"There's more where that came from."

"Save me." He holds up his hands in a gesture of defeat, I ignore it. I've got to get my kicks somehow.

"Have you got coronavirus? Because you definitely look hot."

"Oh God help me, that was bad."

There's a loud bang from in my house that startles me. I whip around to try and see what has happened, I hate it when He does that.

I hate that my Priest has me thinking that there is a God, and that he is messing with me.

I look back to see him smirking at me, raising his eyebrows as though defying me to comment on what just happened.

“Not that I’m not pleased to see you, but what are you doing here?”

“Do you want to go for a walk? I’d love to go for a walk with you.”

“Doesn’t that go against the rules?” I say, already reaching for my coat..

“We can maintain our distance, just like spies.” He has a twinkle in his eyes, delighted by his own cleverness.

I pull on my trench coat. “You wanted to be James Bond as a kid, didn’t you?” I bet he was a cute kid.

“That tosser? Fuck no, although I wouldn’t have complained if Miss Moneypenny had wanted to check out my concealed weapon.”

“Father!” I gasp in mock horror even as I try to hide the snort that escapes me.

"I wasn't always a priest," he says lightly, "you know that." He turns and walks back through my gate and onto the street. He turns back to me, smiling and waiting for me to join him.

"Oh fuck, I should wash my hands, shouldn't I?"

Look, I run a cafe, I understand basic hygiene, despite what Claire might think. But since all this started the hand washing has been intense.

He nods. "Safety first. It's OK, I'll wait."

And wait he does as I diligently wash my hands for a full twenty seconds, all the while thinking about my Priest waiting patiently out there for me. Or maybe not patiently? Maybe bursting with eagerness for me to get back to him?

Oh who the fuck am I kidding? That man has the patience of a saint.

I return to my doorstep, and pause a moment to enjoy the sight of him, shirt rolled up to his sleeves and hands clasped behind his back as he stares down the eerily quiet street. It’s magic hour and the glow of the sinking sun lights him up beautifully. He turns before I reach him, a beaming smile on his face. He tilts his head thoughtfully, apparently searching hard for signs of.. I don't know, distress maybe?

He nods to himself, a slight smile in his eyes and he turns to head out of the gate, stepping back and letting me walk ahead of him. What a gentleman.

"Checking out my arse, Father?" I toss back to him over my shoulder.

He snorts. "I'm more of a tits man myself."

Damn.

There go my hopes that he's secretly burning a torch for me, mine are barely there, any smaller and you'd need a microscope to find them. I do better with arse men.

But you knew that already.

"Aren't you a happily celibate man?"

"I'm a priest, I'm not blind. I'm merely appreciating the glory of God's creations."

"So you believe in 'look, don't touch'?"

"I believe that you're trying to get me in trouble. And you'll get a crick in your neck if you keep looking back at me like that."

"Not really much of a walk together if I can't look at you, talk to you, or stand anywhere near you."

"These things are sent to try us," he states calmly, completely at ease with the idea that his God has inflicted an Old Testament style plague upon the world. Like humanity as a whole is the villain of the latest gripping installment of His story.

The thought doesn't sit well with me. Admittedly, I probably deserve a little damnation, but the entire human race? Or at least our most vulnerable members? I thought the meak were supposed to inherit the earth?

I stop and turn to face him fully, enjoying the way he starts as though he's bumped into me, even though he's a full two metres away. It’s still not quite dark but the street lights have yet to kick in, so it's a little hard to make out his expression. I glare at him with his arrogant nonchalance. Next he'll be pulling some kind of awful but horribly truthful platitude out of his arse like "It'll pass."

True it may be, but it's hardly the fucking point.

We continue on until I spot a bench in front of me and desperate to actually talk to my friend, sit down at one end. He diligently sits at the other, hands in his lap, as he maintains the appropriate social distance. Seriously, fuck coronavirus.

"How are you?" he asks, looking at me with what I can only assume is deep concern.

"Well my livelihood and best friend's legacy -" there's a flash in his eyes that I almost want to call jealousy "- has been totally fucked by our prime minister, how are you?"

His hand twitches, an awkward jerk that gives me the sense that he'd wanted to reach out to me. He's flexing his fingers, grasping and releasing his knee, suggesting that he's buzzing with energy, full to the brim of untapped potential and excitement that belies his otherwise calm outward demeanour.

"I'm sorry, I know how much Hillary's means to you."

That may be one of my favourite things about my Priest, his willingness to just sit with sadness. Too many people rush you to feeling better, to reassuring you that things aren't actually as bad as you think. Not my Priest. He lets you feel what you feel. And somehow he just knows what people need, whether it's silence or speaking, space or physical comfort.

Not that he can give me that right now.

"It's just a café." I don't know why I'm so quick to deflect, not with him. He knows me too well to buy that.

"You don't have to do that,” his voice just oozes softness, treading carefully as he speaks like he’s dealing with a wild cat. His fingers are drumming on his knee again. “It’s ok to hate how fucked up this is.”

We sit for a minute, him patiently waiting as I try to gather my confused thoughts and feelings into something coherent. “I know that you think this is all about Boo for me.”

“Do I?” he challenges, I frown at him from the corner of my eye.

“Don’t you?”

He shrugs. I once again fumble for words. “Do I want Boo’s cafe to close? Of course not. Do I want what we built and I made into a success to be fucked? Of course not. But that’s not what makes me want to scream. It’s the people who need Chatty Wednesdays, who need someone to talk to, even if they’re just a stranger who bought a cup of tea in the same bloody cafe as them. It’s Joe who’s in every day and now I might never see again because this pestilence could take him. It’s everyone who’s popped in for a sandwich and has nearly cried with relief that I actually have bread because some dipshits panicked and bought it all. It’s just a cafe, but it - it matters.”

He huffs and when I look to him there are tears in his eyes. “Have I ever told you how fucking wonderful you are?”

“Easy there, Father.”

“No, really, you’re fucking brilliant.” He shakes his head. “I hate that I can’t hold you right now. I want to, so much. I want to just wrap my arms around you and bury my face in your neck and breathe you in. Maybe some of your brilliance would rub off on me.”

God I can imagine one of those hugs. They always leave me somewhere between cherished and horny. The feeling of his breath on my neck just feels so delicious, sending desire rippling right through me.

I should probably tell him, but it feels so fucking good that I don’t want him to stop it. And he probably knows the effect it has on me anyway. I kind of think he’s counting on it.

“Wanting to rub off on me, Father? What will the bishop say?”

Sometimes it’s just easier to go for the innuendo than handle all the feelings brimming below the surface.

He laughs. “You wish.”

I watch as he reaches out for me, jerks his hand back before reaching it towards me again.

“I want to hold your hand too,” I finally say, nodding down to his hand and reaching towards him with my own. Not trying to touch him, just to be that bit closer to him.

A silence falls between us. It’s comfortable and easy, although my thoughts are anything but. At last I notice that the sun has set and the street lights are on. Reluctantly I realise that I should go back home now.

My Priest feels it too.

“We should probably-” “I better get -”

We laugh as one and without another word rise to leave.

“Don’t catch the fucking plague,” I say.

“Same to you. Stay well.” And we both go our separate ways.

***

It’s been a day. I’ve been trying my best to keep the cafe going but with half of London seemingly already in self isolation and the other half frightened of people, it feels a little too close to the painful times after Boo died.

I’ve been delivering food to my elderly regulars, trying to do my bit to keep them safe. Taking sandwiches to Joe and chatting with him through the door to make sure he gets his daily interaction along with his sustenance.

It took Joe a long time to answer the door today. It filled my heart with absolute dread, I was on the verge of calling 999 when he finally came to the door, brimming with apologies. I was so relieved to see him that I nearly hugged him in relief.

And to think once upon a time he used to drive me crazy at times with his eager need to chat.

I really need to hold my Priest. I know I can’t. I just need to.

I text him from his bench in his garden asking me to meet me.

“Is everything alright?” he says when he appears, dishevelled and breathless, rushing towards me before remembering and standing back.

“No it’s not, I fucking hate all this,” I burst out, my eyes welling up. “I’m scared and I’m tired and my hands are fucking bleeding from how often I wash them now -” his eyes widen and dart down to my hands, his mouth twisting in distress “- and I just need a fucking hug from my best friend.”

A tear slides down my cheek, I don’t wipe it away, I can’t bear to wash my hands again.

He sits on the other end of the bench.

“I’m holding you right now,” he says. I side eye him. “Don’t give me that look. I’m holding you, don’t you feel how warm my arms are?”

I smile, it’s a nice fantasy, he does have such beautiful arms.

“You’re tucking your head into my neck and your breath tickles, but I don’t say anything, because it feels good to be close to you.”

I love snuggling into that spot.

“One of my hands is on the back of your head so I can run my fingers through your hair. You know that way you like? You always say it soothes you when I do it, your hair is so gorgeously curly that I have to be careful not to tug on it, easing my fingers through it and tugging gently.”

It does feel good, I close my eyes and just let myself get lost in the memories of the last time he did that.

“My other hand is splayed out across your back, rubbing firmly against you in circles where I can feel your muscles tight beneath my fingers. I feel how it relaxes you, as you melt into me, sinking deeper into my arms.”

I sigh, feeling some of the tension I’d been holding disappearing as he talks.

“When your breathing has evened out so I know that you’re deeply relaxed I gently move back and kiss your cheek, grateful that I can be here for you, whenever you need me.”

He stops talking, I take a few moments to just appreciate the deep calm he’s brought to me before opening my eyes and looking at him. He’s smiling but I can see the tension in his jaw that tells me it hurts him as much as me that he can’t do all that for real.

“Thank you,” I say quietly. What else can I say?

***

The Priest is staring at me so intently that I don't know how to feel. There's just so much feeling in his gaze, wonder and joy and this uncomfortable sense that he's trying to imprint me on his heart. It's only been half an hour since lockdown was announced and he's already losing it.

You'd think he'd be used to loneliness by now.

He asked for a video call five minutes ago. I’m not sure he’s actually said a word since we connected yet.

"Are you alright?"

He chuckles, eyes turning sad as he does. "No. No, I'm really not. I finally figure out what I want, just when I can't have it."

He's completely lost me. I don't know how to react, or if I even should. I feel like I'm intruding on a private confession, like he's forgotten he's talking to me instead of his God.

He starts fidgeting, dragging his hands through his hair until it looks as wild as I'm guessing he feels.

"You're too much, you know?" I start at the accusation, not sure where I come into this crisis of his. "You're so… No, it's not you, it's me."

At least it seems like he's confusing himself as much as me.

"When I think of this - this plague taking you from me -" he breaks off, choking up at the thought and grasping at his heart as though in physical pain.

"You don't have to worry about me," I downplay, "pretty sure those human viruses don't affect us robots." I force out a laugh, it's really not funny.

"Don't say that!" he all but snarls at me, "no heartless creature could love like you."

I don't know how to feel about this. He's never seen me in love. I'm not even sure if I've ever been in love, maybe once I thought I could feel something for him, but nothing ever came of it. And sure I still want him, I'm only fucking human, but I know enough now to know sex isn't love. A scoff escapes me, his eyes narrow in response.

"You don't even know, do you? What you do?"

I'm fucking baffled.

That fury that drove him before melts away before my eyes, and he's just so… soft. The way he looks at me is so tender. It's a bit much really.

Hillary squeaks indignantly at me from inside her cage, the best friend being mad at me is one thing, but the fucking guinea pig? Give me a fucking break!

"Look at me." I drag my eyes from the squeaking fluff ball. He lifts his hand up to the screen, I can't see what it's doing, the webcam unable to follow his movements. I kind of wish he was stroking my face the way he sometimes strokes my hair or my arms. A gentle affection that sparks something deep inside me. Not in that way, you dirty bastard.

"You are - everything -" he takes a deep breath "- I need you. I need to touch you."

"I didn't think you were that sort of priest," I tease.

"I don't want to be a priest."

"What?"

"Well, I do, being a priest brings me peace, brings me joy, but that's all meaningless if I can't have you."

He's not one to joke at times like this, but I just can't believe that this is real.

"I think you've had a little too much of the communion wine, Father." I chuckle. "You didn't need to drink it all in your congregation's absence."

"I'm not drunk," he seethes, "I'm in love. With you. If you don't feel the same do me a fucking favour and say it, don't just laugh at me." He glares at me.

My chest is tight, so is my jaw, this is all - is all - it's unbelievable. That's it: unbelievable.

"You don't."

"Fuck you telling me what I feel, you infuriating -"

"Bitch?" I suggest, leaping to the change in subject. "Oooh, or jezebel, that's a good one, biblical too, I know you like that." His hand goes to his face. "Don't touch your face, Father."

He drops his hand, staring at me in disbelief. "Are you fucking serious right now? I'm unburdening my fucking soul, and you're scolding me for touching myself?"

The urge to laugh at his unthinking innuendo bubbles up in me. I try my best to fight it, wanting to be serious even as we have a conversation that feels like it has to be a fucking joke. At least he seems to have realised his mistake, cringing at what just came out of his mouth.

"I just don't want to drive you to touching yourself, I gather your God doesn't like it." He laughs, it sounds ever so slightly deranged. "I mean, personally, I'm pro touching yourself, you might even call it my favourite hobby, but if you want to keep your job, best not."

"I touch myself a lot when I think about you," he replies earnestly.

"Can't stop tearing your hair out at your ridiculous heathen's antics?"

He shakes his head. "I love your antics. Please, hear me." There's so much sincerity in his voice, he's so earnest, that part of me finally acknowledges that he might really mean this, a tiny spark igniting in my heart. "I'm not joking or drunk or having a crisis of faith. I realised that this could be the end, and I couldn't live with myself if I didn't take a chance on this. I want you. I want to kiss you and hold you -” he’s being so romantic and I really do not know how to handle this. People aren’t romantic with me, unless they’re Harry and it’s one part romance to nine parts whining tedium. “- and suck on your tits."

That’s more like it.

"Oh my god," I gasp, feeling equal parts scandalised by his bluntness and confused by the idea of anyone being that interested in my tiny tits. I glance down, involuntarily thrusting my chest forward and shoulders back as I try to see what he apparently does. "They're not much to look at."

"You've got gorgeous tits," he says sincerely, eyes locked on them and lips parted for just a moment. He looks back up at my eyes and frowns. "You do. I see them and just want to -" he breaks off, biting his lip and twisting and rubbing his fingers in midair in a way that has me imagining those fingers on my nipples.

Christ, I'm going to hell for sure.

"If you don't stop all this dirty talk, you'll make me want to get my tits out and touch myself -"

"Please do."

"- it'll be so disappoint- what?"

"I mean -" he fidgets, going to run a hand over his face then remembering all the covid rules last minute and nervously fiddling with his sleeve instead. "Fuck me. I dream about eating you out, you know? I wake up from dreams of fucking you to find my sheets wet."

My mouth is dry. Just how are you meant to react when you hear that your best friend fantasises about you even in his sleep? And I felt guilty for wanking off to thoughts of him. You know, occasionally, when I was feeling desperate or he had been particularly hot one day or it was a Tuesday.

My vibrator was in daily use.

"Do you have any idea how hard it is to wake up with a hard on and not touch yourself? To just pray to God to stop messing with you and let you get through the day without looking like a sex-crazed teen who took viagra for a dare?"

I snort with laughter and he gives into the need to scrub at his face.

"Yes, luckily for me you can't tell how wet I get when you lick your lips and I have visions of sitting on your face."

He groans, sounding genuinely pained.

"God, I wish you would.” He’s so breathless, am I really meant to believe that he’s saying all this to me totally sober? “What if the world ends tomorrow and I never get to taste your cunt?"

I can’t believe this is happening, it feels much more likely that I have in fact contracted that killer disease and am lying in my flat, hallucinating through the fever.

"Lucky you believe in an afterlife."

"True, I'm sure they have 69s in heaven."

I’m not sure if they do, I mean, we’re talking about heaven, is God a fan of simultaneous oral? Does God even get to have oral? These are questions I never thought I’d consider, I don’t voice them out loud, of course, I’m a classy lady. "Do you really think so?"

"I don't fucking know!" His hands are back in his hair, raking through it, I wish they were my hands. "I just know that I want to be with you for real before I leave this world. It'd be a fucking nightmare if I got to heaven and found myself incapable of fucking you like you deserve."

"Right?" I’m pretty sure that I’ve already died and gone to heaven.

"Right." He nods, gazing at me like he’s staring right into my soul. Or through my top, something like that.

"So ... what happens now?"

"Well I love you, but I need to end this call. I'm in a very hard position right now." How does this man manage to look bashful as he’s telling me that he’s turned on by his own dirty talk?

"I love you too, for what it's worth.” I figure why not tell him? Chances are this isn’t even real. “Maybe we could help each other out? I'll show you mine if you show me yours."

"I'd rather our first time wasn't awkward video call sex, if it's all the same to you?" he says.

I’m sure I must be pouting but the man I’ve wanted for a year now, the man I’ve always known that I could never be with, has just told me he loved me, filled my head with filth and now he wants me to leave me to deal with that myself? It’s fucking rude. “I mean, one way to handle that would’ve been to hold in all the fucking sex talk.”

“I’m sorry” He does look contrite, but there’s a twinkle in his eye all the same.

“No you’re not, you love that you’ve made me wet.”

“How wet?” His voice has dropped an octave to a barely audible growl.

“Fuck off. You want me to tell you all the things you’ve done to me and all the things I’m going to do to myself then you stay on the phone for that awkward video call sex. Otherwise that’s between me and my vibrator.”

He groans in clear distress, I’ll be honest, I kind of enjoy it. The man has just got me all wound up and doesn’t even want to help me finish. Revenge is sweet.

Both hands are rubbing at his cheeks as he breathes deeply, before pulling them away and glaring at me, like it’s my fault we’re both turned on with nowhere to go. "Coronavirus has a lot to answer for."

"Well if you're determined to leave me to take care of myself alone, I best be going. Wet dreams!"

"I love you, you filthy heathen."

"I love you too, you dirty priest, good night."

He gives me a look that somehow manages to be filled with fire and tenderness, as contradictory as my Hot Priest himself. "Good night," he says at last, sadly reaching out and ending our call.

Right, vibrator time.

Unless.

***

In the history of spectacularly stupid choices I've made, I cannot decide if dragging a suitcase to the house of my best friend who just announced his undying love for - and vivid fantasy life about - me is the best or worst thing I've ever done. I'm not sure what I'd say if the police stop me for making a nonessential trip. And God forbid they look in my suitcase at the collection of lingerie, sex toys and lube in there.

We aren't allowed out of the house, what do you think we'll be doing?

I get to his front door and thank a God that I don't believe in for packing Pam off to her son's for quarantine, there's no way I could do this if she were here.

I don't know if I can do this anyway.

I should've had a drink first, though I'm glad that I didn't.

I have a momentary panic at the thought of having sex with real feelings, would that be making love? My throat is closing up and I'm finding it hard to breathe. Maybe I best go home, I might be coming down with coronavirus.

My phone rings, I pull it out and answer it before stopping to think.

"What are you doing right now?" my Priest asks.

Shit.

"I thought we weren't doing that?" I deflect, "but I can get out my vibrator if I need it?"

"Are you outside my house?"

I look up, he's staring at me out of the window, disbelief and joy spread across his handsome face. I nod, and he nods back.

"Come to your door," I say then hang up.

My heart is pounding, I'm highly aware that this is no ordinary hook up, this is the start of something… Something extraordinary. I take a deep breath, trying to draw in the courage to make this leap into the unknown, but it does little to calm my jitters. This is my Priest, my world, if I fuck this up - he'll be there to catch me.

I don't know how I know this, just that I do. Would you look at that? He's made me a believer.

I hear the jingle of keys, the thunk of the lock twisting, the creak of the handle.

I'm ready for this, for him, for love.

Now fuck off, this is private.

[sam-i-am-27]

Living With the Past

READ IT ON A03

Pt. 2

Summary: Introducing our main protagonists of the story: Virgil, Patton, Roman and Logan, each with hidden secrets and a great adventure ahead of them. 

Word Count: 2,785

Pairings: None at the moment. May be fluffy or platonic not sure. 

Warnings: Death of a pet; Blood Mention

Thank you so much to @pastel-and-gore​ for being such an amazing person and editing this! Without you, this would probably be such a different story!

Early 19th Century

Virgil hated being alone, especially at night, and his parents knew that. So why did they send him out to the woods at night to collect water for his father? He could only guess it’s cause he was the only one not afraid of the dark. Sure, he was afraid of what might be lurking beyond his sight line, but he could at least be sure that nothing was going to come out and attack him.

Or maybe it was because he was young and worth nothing if he wasn’t out changing the world and was instead hiding at home learning how to cook.

But still… the creaking in that tree might be some sort of cat that was just as hungry as he was. It would explain why he felt like he was being watched like he was a single loaf of stale bread in front of a family of six.

“It’s nothing, Virgil,” he whispered to himself, rubbing the fabric of his cloak between his fingers slowly as his other swung the lantern slowly in front of him. “Just the wind… you’re just being dramatic…”

“Just being dramatic, Virgil,” he whispered again nearly ten minutes later, shuddering a little at the wind that was blowing through the clearing. The well was just ahead of him and he let out a breath that he didn’t even know he was holding. Setting down the lantern next to the well, he began to lower the bucket, humming a soft tune to himself. It wasn’t much, just a little passing-the-time song he had picked up from farmers around the village, but he still enjoyed the sound of it.

“That’s pretty.”

Virgil jumped, causing him to lose control of the bucket and heard a splash faintly at the bottom, leaving him without water and with a stranger in the deep, dark woods. He turned and came face-to-face with a young woman wearing a long draping cloak, a stark-white dress that flowed around her, and had her blonde hair pulled into a loose braid that fell over her shoulder. The sight of her made him shudder, not just because she had suddenly appeared, but because she was almost too perfect. Pale, completely flawless skin that almost reflected the moonlight, clean hands, and a dress void of any mud or leaves, much unlike Virgil’s muddy boots.

“Uh… thanks,” he said cautiously. “Are you here for water? I’m sorry but I just lost control of the rope. If you want water, you’re going to have to wait until tomorrow for someone to fish the bucket out.”

“No, I’m not here for water. I just like to go on midnight walks sometimes. Not entirely sure why I was the one chosen to be the outcast and do that type of stuff, but hey, I’m here and I enjoy it,” she said, approaching the well and leaning against the stones. Her hand brushed Virgil’s and he thought for a moment that maybe she was made out of some sort of icy fire based on the way the skin-to-skin contact left his hand tingling and hot.

“I kinda get that… being an outcast I mean. My family wants me to marry so I can get out of the house, but I don’t want to marry for a purpose other people want! I want to marry someone because I love him and-”

Virgil slapped a hand over his mouth, but the woman didn’t seem to mind. She just kept looking at him softly, almost curiously.

“I’m not interested in women! They intimidate me and I don’t see them in a romantic way. I-”

Was it just his imagination or did she lick her lips ever-so-subtly? Was that a stomach growl from her? She gave a hearty chuckle, breaking him from his own thoughts. “I like you. What did you say your name was?”

“I didn’t,” he said, holding out his hand even though he already knew what her skin felt like, but his manners practically took control of him and forced his shaky hand out. “I’m Virgil.”

She smiled at him, and the sight of long fangs dripping with a clear venom made him regret every little thing he had ever done in his life that had led up to this point right now. “Nice to meet you, Virgil. Now remember, everything will be explained…”

“Wha-

The hand that had been brushing up on his suddenly whipped around and grabbed his forearm. The hot-cold feeling rushed up his arm and into his body, paralyzing him. His eyes were frozen open in shock as the woman lunged forward and sunk her fangs into his neck. The venom rushed into his veins,. Suddenly he could feel every single one of them set ablaze by the liquid, but at the same time, he felt like every bit of oxygen was being sucked out of his lungs and through the fangs embedded in his neck. He couldn’t breathe, he couldn’t move. Everything hurt. His neck, his back, his arms… his mind and body felt like it was on fire. The world was turning black and faintly, he felt the fangs leave his neck and the woman was standing in front of him, his own blood coating her face and dress.

“I am sorry, Virgil. But thank you.” She turned into a large owl and flew away into the dark. He stumbled backwards, finally able to move but the world was continuing to grow dimmer and dimmer…  His back hit something hard and he felt himself falling down, down, down…

Mid 20th Century

The fact that a saltwater siren and a freshwater sprite was known far and wide across as many shores as the water-fae could reach. Some were sure that the friendship was known as far as the coasts of Japan. Not that the two cared. They were friends for the sole reason that they had heard that the other type would be toxic towards the other and were more than willing to test that fear.

“Hello,” the Siren said cautiously from the water, looking at the small form sitting on the rock, his skin blue like the sky and his curly hair an even darker shade. His wings were dripping from his back and looked as if the currents of the ocean had been solidified. His eyes were being magnified by the strange glass held by metal on his nose. Prolonged time on land had left his fingers and hands a light tan and freckled color. “You’re not jumping in…”

“Should I?” the Sprite asked curiously.

“I mean, normally things that aren’t sirens that hear a siren’s voice kinda jump into the water and die,” the Siren said calmly, but then a grin broke out on his face. “I’ve never gotten to talk to anyone that’s not a Siren! What are those on your face?”

“They’re my glasses!” the Sprite said, handing them out and setting them just out of reach of the farthest point the ocean came up the shore. The Siren took the glasses hesitantly and tried them on. Everything seemed to tunnel in and suddenly the Sprite seemed closer and yet very far away.

“They help me see! Right now, you’re just a red blob,” the Sprite said, picking up the glasses once the Siren had put them down on the ground again. “I like your tail! It’s really pretty!”

“Thanks!” the Siren said, lifting his gold-and-red scaled tail high out of the water for the sprite to look at. “I like your wings!”

The Sprite smiled sadly and looked back at them. “They don’t work. I don’t think they ever will. They’re just kinda there.” He suddenly smiled mischievously. “I’m not supposed to be talking to you.”

The Siren giggled. “Me neither! I’m Roman.” Since they had learned from personal experience just minutes prior that when freshwater meets saltwater, it created temporary burns and pain for the both of them, Roman opted just to wave at the Sprite.

The Sprite waved back. “Patton!”

Since their families thought they were exploring with friends, they decided that they wouldn’t tell them that they snuck away from the group in order to see what the flash of light had been. But as all children of any species did with a secret, they tried to tell as much as possible to as many people as possible without spilling the beans, but ended up telling the complete background of the secret within days. Within those few days, their parents had put up barriers against the two seeing each other ever again.

Unbeknownst to their families, the two had made a cross-heart promise to reunite as soon as they possibly could, something that was considered sacred to children, especially magic children. So one day, when both had experienced another fifteen years of life and in those years, grown used and tired of the constant watching, they found a way to the surface without being seen.

Roman sat on the beach, half out of the sand so the tips of his tail were beginning to separate into human legs, never losing their shine or scales the entire time. He looked around, sensing something nearby. It wasn’t human, that was for sure, and it had a magical presence that he had felt before and had felt tugging at his soul for the past decade.

“Patton?”

The Sprite stuck his head out of a nearby bush and burst into a grin at the sight of his childhood friend.

“Roman! You’re getting legs! And you’ve grown up!” Patton came skipping out of the bush.

“Yeah, my fins have gotten a lot bigger and I have control of my voice at long last. Your wings haven’t really changed though,” Roman said, pointing to the small wings that still hung limply at his back. Patton shrugged, his blue curls and skin tinted tan from time on land. “I’m fine with it. They’re pretty and I like the way they move.”

“Whatever you say,” Roman said. “So… we do realize what this means, right?”

Patton nodded and took a satchel the size of Roman’s hand off of his shoulder, reached in elbow-deep and pulled two pairs of human clothes, accidentally letting fruits and frozen fish spill out with the cloth. “Of course I do… I’m not happy with it, but I learned to accept what the promise meant years ago. Our parents, sure they’ll be upset, but there was no way they could stop it.”

Roman nodded in agreement starting to haul himself out of the water, the split lengthening and deepening until Roman had two distinct legs. Sure, they were still covered in his scales, but he could walk. His stood shakily, using a rock as support and brushing his sticky brown hair out of his eyes.

“Legs are weird, how do you and land creatures handle it?” Roman asked.

“I don’t know, but you obviously can’t ankle it,” Patton said with a smirk. Roman didn’t really understand the joke and began to pull on his clothes, with Patton’s help. The instant they were dressed, with Roman’s scales hidden and Patton’s wings tucked safely under a jacket, both took one last look at their former homes.

“You ready, Roman?” Patton asked softly.

Roman didn’t say anything. He bent down, scooped through the dirt for a second before producing a shell the size of his index finger. He held it up to his ear and the sound of the ocean echoed from the depths of the shell. He smiled sadly and put it in his pocket.

“Yeah.” Without another glance at the water, the two turned around and disappeared into the night.

Late 20th Century

Logan had never known his father, which should have been the first sign to him that he would be different. Weren’t most main characters with special fates alone with only one or neither of their parents? Not that Logan cared; they were just characters and he was a real life person living with a single mother who had been left by a father. At least gracious to leave her with just enough to get by as she raised a child by herself.

Within the first days of kindergarten, Logan was already being seen as the makings of a prodigy for a majority of his life. He was the smartest one in his class, finishing third grade as the others completed kindergarten. It was a little odd, especially considering how little he seemed to pay attention in class and instead spent his time filling notebook after notebook with descriptions of his dreams.

“Rachel tripped and she scraped her knee in my dream,” Logan explained, pointing to the sentence that, although very grammatically incorrect, explained everything in explicit detail. It didn’t stop the journal entries from becoming real within weeks, the time-span between each truth growing smaller in size as Logan grew older.

However, the strangest thing about Logan wasn’t a mental aspect or the knack for predicting little things like scraped knees or things falling. It was his eyes. Not only did he have heterochromia, each eye was a unique color that no doctor could explain. His left eye was dark red, almost the exact color as the crayons he would leave destroyed after an hour of doodling, while his right eye was the color of actual gold.

Logan only cared or remembered his eyes were weird when they were pointed out by bullies or doctors. Whenever he wasn’t being asked about them, he studied as much as he could with his pet hamster, Sir Squiggles the Brave (hey, he may have been a prodigy who used to write about his classmates being in pain, but he was still ten). He seemed like he could handle the life of a ten-year-old prodigy.

And then one night, he found himself walking into his mother’s room, tears streaming down his face from his beautiful eyes. He could barely see but he knew that his eyes were letting out a slight glow, illuminating his mother’s sleepy face.

“Logan, honey, what is it?” she asked calmly, beckoning him into her arms. He crawled in and huddled against her.

“I-I saw Sir Squiggles… in my dream…”

“What about him?” she asked, petting his hair softly.

“H-He was-wasn’t moving,” Logan sniffed. “I p-poked h-h-im… b-but he didn’...”

“It was just a dream, honey,” she whispered. “You can stay here if you want or do you want to check Mr. Squiggles?”

Logan shook his head and just cuddled up deeper into her embrace. He matched his breathing to hers, slowly counting under his breath until he lost count with his consciousness.

The next day, Logan missed school and instead spent the entire day, kneeling in front of a pile of dirt no bigger than the size of his hand. He wasn’t grieving… some part of him had known it was coming and if he knew it was coming, he shouldn’t mourn… should he?

The years went by and things kept on aging. Logan kept on aging and, as he did, his emotions seemed to drain away with the years, leaving only a hollow shell of what used to be a happy child behind. Everyone else thought it was part of being a prodigy, but Logan was doing better than okay in all his advanced classes. It was the dreams that were making him a robot and conform to what society had to offer.

Dreams of pain and suffering, death and unavoidable tragedies. He saw every single one happen: the death of his friend’s mother, the breaking of his teacher’s ankle, and eventually, the diagnoses of cancer in his own mother. By this point, he knew it was unavoidable. He could see death and destruction in the future… and the exact moment his mother passed in his arms, the sense of deja vu washed over him with the first wave of emotion he had felt in years that sent him into a spiral.

For days, he sat in his room, trying to understand what was happening. At night, he would continue to see dreams of what would happen, but now that the biggest tragedy had passed, they were all losing meaning. Some were of people around him meeting those he had never seen before, others were just of random events that didn’t really seem to have a meaning to the world.

But eventually, he wiped the tears away and kept plunging forward. This curse would not stop him from living a full life. He may never find an answer to whatever the hell was happening to him, but if he had to live with it up this point, he would keep on living with it unless something changed.

A/N: So this should be fun! Again, thanks so much to Pastel for editing this and I really hope you guys like it!

Once again, I was an idiot and lost any taglist I had. So if you want to be tagged in general, or just for this, just let me know!

Uh... yeah!

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