His Dark Materials is a franchise that tackles so many branches of physics and even creates a universe where the main course of study is experimental theology which is all about identifying and explaining dark matter while also adding dimensions to string theory, the multiverse theory, and the very concept of the human soul. At the same time, it aggressively calls out the problem with the state being controlled by the church, how people are condemned for being different and religious fearmongering stops the chance at growth both on an individual and a societal scale. It’s a franchise where the heroes of the story are two children who aren’t allowed to know the prophecy they’re a part of, who save the world unwittingly simply by doing what they believe to be right. Meanwhile, the person who thought he was the hero all along, the person who rallied an army from multiple universes to FIGHT. GOD. HIMSELF. is ultimately consumed by his own ego and forced to take a back seat when he realises he’s just one tiny piece of a much larger story that’s true heart is his own daugher. The child he abandoned, the child he didn’t know or care to know how to look after. It’s a franchise about finding love even when your biological family abandon you, it’s about looking evil in the eye and seeing your own mother, it’s about good and evil not being black and white but instead a complex and cruel mixture of both. It’s about the two worst people you know banding together at the last second to save their daughter with their final breaths. It’s about exploration and learning how to grow through experience, it’s about kindness being shared across the multiverse, exchanging stories with strangers and saving the whole world by doing something perfectly ordinary and receiving no reward.

Oh, and it’s also a franchise rich with fantasy, with giant talking polar bears, witches and ghosts, angels and daemons, and a mammal-like species from another world that travels exclusively on roller skates.

And it fucking. rocks.

cracked-porcelain-princess reblogged

nagma-kalma

Porcelain cameras by Mathieu Stern.

(Most probably, AI generated)

cracked-porcelain-princess reblogged

aliteraryprincess

endocathexis

Anne Bachelier’s illustrations for The Phantom of the Opera

cracked-porcelain-princess reblogged

thoroughlymodernm

By Katie Scott and James Paulley

cracked-porcelain-princess reblogged

wildfaewhump

silvercrystalwhump asked:

So, so many excerpts have been on Talvos saving Iesin from humans. Could we have a Iesin saving a captured Talvos from fae??????

I wanna see Talvos get sung into captivity please WingMom.

not a woman! but here's a lil imagining that started as a scene and became a full piece, whoops haha

The woods are wilder near the mountains. They're testing a summer in the foothills, seeing if they can safely shelter here between human and fae territories. Out here, humans are few and far between, and after a particularly difficult winter both Iesin and Talvos need the rest from being constantly on guard. The burn on Talvos' knee is not fully healed, and Iesin has only just gotten over a wracking chest cold in the aftermath of a dousing in the sewers of the town they were wintering in.

But they are alive, and they have each other, and spring is warming the earth, and as ever it is enough. Talvos takes his time in the mornings, stretching out his knee and making sparing use of the last of their healing salves, while watching the herbs he'll need to make more sprout fresh growth day by day. Iesin hunts, and cooks down fat to render and keep, and trims fresh saplings into frames for drying rabbit hides. Later, when the birthing season is over, he'll move on to hunting deer or goats or sheep. For now, they take things one day at a time, and with each that comes free of pursuit or attack they relax a little more.

One morning, before the dawn mists have fully retreated, Talvos is alone. He's begun to tend a small patch of herbs near the stream they're camped beside, sowing precious seeds gathered over the past year in a gesture of hope that they'll stay here long enough to harvest. He's clearing away a creeping, abundant vine from the ground around his planting, finding it workable to sit with his bad leg stretched out straight and the other folded in front of him, when a familiar rustle catches his attention, and he looks up, expecting to catch a glimpse of blue-grey feathers dropping from the trees.

"Did you find-"

#*burning elmo gif*#god yes this is so good

cracked-porcelain-princess reblogged

wildfaewhump

Pinning Stories to the Stars

Sometimes, in the dead of night when they’re both awake and neither of them can take the feeling of the roof overhead and the walls on every side, Iesin and Talvos go outside. They don’t go far, just into the garden or maybe as far as the stream that wanders nearby. And there, in the hush of the sleeping dark, they sit and feel the grass between their fingers, or walk under stars and over earth, and fall into the in-between void of quiet breaths and silent, endless air.

It’s on one of those nights, when they’re laying halfway between the garden and the stream, and the summer grass is tall and soft around them, that Talvos learns that fae do not assign shapes and stories to the stars, and it happens like this.

Keep reading

cracked-porcelain-princess reblogged

wildfaewhump

friendlylocalwhumper asked:

since talvos was very focused and efficient as an assistant, since he kept quiet and on task even through pain and didn't falter or show doubt when essylt questioned his devotion, i imagine that he's quiet and deathly still when he has nightmares, maybe twitching a finger or making a sound somewhere in his throat - iesin maybe notices, and soothes him, wakes him up, but talvos' eyes are a little lost, sort of empty. iesin has to steadily pull him out of a sort of conditioned stone-still apathy

wildfaewhump answered:

Stop coming for my heart with such good analysis like this Scott, these are my own damn characters and I should be more immune but I’m NOT

Talvos dreams - not often, but never well. He doesn’t scream. He doesn’t flail about, or even move much; it’s in stillness and silence that night’s dangers lie, not in sleepy settling around each other or comfortable shifting under the covers.

It’s stillness and silence that wakes Iesin, one night, from where he tucks his ear against Talvos’ chest because sometimes Talvos stops breathing, when he dreams.

Iesin lifts his head, blinking sleep-dry eyes to focus through the dimness of their night-dark bedroom on the line between Talvos’ brows and the tightness around his mouth.

“Talvos,” he whispers - it’s easier to chip at stillness and silence with careful taps of sound rather than shatter it with a hammered shout or shake. “Talvos, mo rognaithe, wake up.”

He props himself up on one elbow, pressing the heel of his other hand against Talvos’ chest and rubbing up and down slowly. Talvos frowns, twitches his mouth, but doesn’t breathe in, doesn’t breathe out. He’s still dreaming. Iesin sits up, changing his rubbing to knuckles dragging up and down Talvos’ sternum.

“Talvos,” he repeats, a little louder. “Talvos, wake up.”

His beloved surfaces with a sharp, broken inhale, one that catches in his chest and takes a moment to find its way back out again. Iesin sighs, relaxing back down onto his front and tangling one hand in Talvos’ shirt. He rests his forehead against Talvos’ shoulder, letting Talvos place himself without the need to put on a front for any watching eyes - he doesn’t need to be anything other than himself, not for Iesin, but the blurred edges between nightmare and nighttime often obscure what is true, and Iesin knows this as well as he knows his own wings. So he closes his eyes until he feels his beloved take another careful breath, and then, when the trembles start, minute and silent, Iesin opens his eyes and winds his arm across Talvos’ waist.

“You’re here,” he whispers. “We’re safe.”

Talvos inhales, careful and measured, and exhales after a moment. Iesin counts heartbeats, listening to the pattern. He’s not back, not fully, not yet.

“It’s just us,” Iesin says softly. “Just you, just me.”

Another breath, and another. Talvos hasn’t moved yet, lying still and silent under the covers. In the dim and the dark, he’s little more than a silhouette, limned faintly by strands of starsong at the edges of Iesin’s vision, statue-still and stone-silent. But he’s breathing, and awake, and each is a step in the right direction.

“Mo rognaithe.” It’s not a plea for conversation, just a reminder of his presence. Iesin doesn’t want to move him while he’s like this. He knows it would be easy; the slightest guiding pressure, the first word of command, and Talvos would obey. But he’s been moved, before, when grey takes over, he’s been moved and used and hurt. So Iesin is careful, and keeps his touch light and his words lighter, just a feather’s brush against the quiet dark between them.

“We’re safe, it’s just us here. It’s safe.”

The careful, conditioned pattern of Talvos’ breathing hitches, freezing for a moment before resuming in a more natural rhythm, and the line of his torso relaxes back into the mattress.

Iesin presses a kiss against his beloved’s shoulder. “There you are,” he whispers. “Found you.”

Talvos takes a deep, shaking breath, dragging a hand up to cover his eyes while his other hand goes to his throat and his shaking intensifies. Iesin tugs him closer and unfurls one wing to tent over the both of them.

“It’s just us here,” he whispers again. “Just you and me.”

Talvos nods, sharp and jerky.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

He shakes his head.

“Alright. I’ve got you. Mo rognaithe.”

Talvos turns, shifting under Iesin’s wing to tuck his head under Iesin’s chin. Iesin holds his beloved close, and breathes with him until grey gives way to dawn.

#🥺🥺🥺🥺

cracked-porcelain-princess reblogged

freefallingup13

whumpster-dumpster

Ahhhh, the dream

cracked-porcelain-princess reblogged

distinctlywhumpthing

Unintentional 16

Previous — Masterlist — Next

As always, beta-read by @alittlewhump <3

CW: BBU, institutionalized slavery, dehumanization, surgical/medical whump implied and subsequent “side effects” and trauma. Explicit language. Blood, burn scar, cuts mentioned. Post-suicide attempt, first aid, CPR, ambiguous ending.

“Jesus Christ, Leo,” Delia said from the top of the stairs. “Is this why you’ve been MIA?”

He blinked up at his sister, standing there in her scrubs. He hadn’t heard her let herself in, he barely remembered calling. He tightened his grip around Aiden’s forearms, worried he’d been letting go while replaying the last few weeks in his mind, trying to search for some sign he’d missed. “I—Help—” His voice came out as a whisper so he cleared his throat. “—Please. Delia, you have to help him.”

#NOOOO NOT MY SWEET BABY BOYYYYYY

cracked-porcelain-princess reblogged

thoughtsonhurtandcomfort

hurtcozy

For a moment too long, the girl was still. Unresponsive.

She began to feel the sudden, rhythmic pressure on her chest. Like being punched. Over, and over, and over, until her eyelids begun to flicker open to a squint. Her chest rose, carrying the burden of another breath. They stopped, and she took another. Another. Her own. It stung, but it was welcome. She didn’t have the energy to complain about the water, the cold tormenting her body even as life returned to it. Her body. Her. For a moment, it felt like the two were separate altogether. For a moment, her mind felt estranged from where it had been residing all this time. It felt wrong. But she wasn’t- Wasn’t dead, right? … Right?

It came back to her. She felt her back resting against the cold ground. It felt as if she’d been punched, beaten. It felt like she was suffocating even now. It felt like she’d be sick. Her body shook as she sputtered and coughed. She couldn’t be dead. Couldn’t be. Right?

Somewhere in her foggy mind, she *wanted* to be sure. She *wanted* to know. She wanted to know if this was some dream she’d wake up from, or if this cold was about to drag her down.

“I’m here, I’ve got you! I won’t let you go, I won’t let you go…” The words had hardly made into her head the first time. She’d believed them wholeheartedly, like she believed that float would save her. A promise and a guarantee are different things. For a minute, she couldn’t be sure. Then-

All at once. All at once, she realized it. She was alive, on her back. The sun was in her eyes. She squeezed them shut, ignoring the warmth pouring down, and the chill on her skin. It felt like she’d lost 3, 4 fights all at once and so happened to wake up there on the ground. Fourteen fights and a caffeine crash.

“A-? Hah. Haaah.” The quiet sound could have been a laugh, a sob, some other sound. Hell, it could be left over from that scream she’d let loose minutes ago. She was hardly aware of it. Her breath. Her pulse. Her life. She was alive. Somehow.

Can’t lie here. Too easy to-

cracked-porcelain-princess reblogged

whumpsday

deluxewhump

Anonymous asked:

For the bloodbag au I’d love to see Carlo starting to carve feeding time and wrestling with that bc it didn’t use to be a good/enjoyable thing. (Also would love love any tie in to the Valium playing a part in his cravings ;))

deluxewhump answered:

Neck Bite

CW: bloodbag whumpee, vampire caretaker, dubious caretaking, pet whump, drug use, dubcon blood drinking

Maxim rose at a later hour now, when the evening finally took the last of the tender spring light.

Carlo always waited until a half hour after full dark to go to the Vampire’s study. The study was his work space— where he usually could be found the first few hours of the night.

And where he fed from his human pet.

By eight thirty Carlo was nearly itching with restlessness, waiting at the top of the stairs with his head resting on the dark bannister, looking down the long hallway at the door his Master was behind.

A grandfather clock down in the foyer struck eight with a muffled, hollow chime. Carlo made a face down the stairs at it. Soon after, the sound of a record came on behind the study door, the breathy first notes of Bartok’s folk dances.

Carlo climbed to his feet, tracing his fingers along the hallway wall at hip height. He stopped at the study door and lay his forehead on the molding before tapping his knuckles on the wood.

Thirty minutes later he was sitting on the Vampire’s desk— a heavy, ornate thing he imagined had been sitting in front of the same bay window for a century.

“Do you feel good?”

He smiled dopily. It wasn’t so strong anymore, but it still felt good. His face was hot, like it got sometimes, but the first layer of the world felt gauzy and numb. He wasn’t afraid of being bitten anymore. Maxim did it with such care and skill it was like being pricked with a very small needle. But he didn’t want to say that, and risk not being fed the pills he liked.

“Is your wrist sore?”

He nodded. It wasn’t terribly, but he wanted Maxim to take from his neck. It felt all wrong, like being terrified of heights his whole life and suddenly wanting to climb a sheer cliff. Yet the idea of giving over something as vulnerable as his neck to this Vampire, as powerful and as old as Erik at least, excited him in a way he couldn’t name.

The Vampire stood in front of him, nudging Carlo’s knees apart gently to get closer. He cupped his head gently with one hand, guiding it to the side to better expose his neck.

He leaned into the Vampire’s hand, leaving his throat entirely open.

“Don’t jump,” the Vampire reminded him, its eyes bright with a controlled sort of hunger. “Don’t try to pull away from me suddenly. If you need me to stop, press right here.” He took Carlo’s hand and guided his forefinger to the center of his palm. “So I can stop without hurting you.”

Carlo pressed his nail into the Vampire’s palm. It felt like pressing into hardened clay. “I thought you couldn’t,” he said softly. “Once you started.”

“Whoever told you that was lying. Stay still for me.”

Carlo closed his eyes, taking slow measured breaths even as his heartbeat quickened. The numb feeling in his mind and body turned thick as honey as ironlike arms closed around him, holding him firmly in place. He wrapped his arms around the Vampire’s neck and laced his fingers together tightly, gasping softly at the pinprick feeling of scalpel-sharp fangs on his throat.

His neck was far more sensitive than his wrists. Goosebumps raced down his side, and he had to fight to keep his neck bared— not from pain but from a sudden overflow of sensation, lights dancing behind his eyelids.

Maxim pulled one of Carlo’s hands down from around his neck and held it. Carlo realized a moment later it was case he wanted to give him the signal. He felt a twinge of pain in his arm, a slight pull and the incision site. He whimpered, and it eased up again.

It had scared him not at all.

cracked-porcelain-princess reblogged

defectivehero

“I was not made aware of this,” the villain remarks lightly, taking a few steps to stand at the hero’s side. To their mild surprise, the hero isn’t wearing their costume. Their enemy has their arms crossed over the balcony railing and is wearing casual clothes that threaten to throw off the villain’s perception of them. For a moment, it appears as if the hero is too zoned out to notice them. Just as the villain is about to say something, they respond.

“Well, what was I supposed to say?” the hero asks, evidently irritated. The villain chances a sidelong glance at them, committing their facial features to memory. Deep down, they’re afraid that this may be their last encounter. It’s this fear that pushes the villain to paint a picture of their nemesis in their head. Freckles, brown eyes glimmering with warmth, an easy smile. “Hey, mortal enemy of mine, I’m retiring?”

“Something like that, yes,” the villain sighs, pinching at the bridge of their nose. They feel as if they’re at the mercy of the conversation- like they’re drowning in a sea of social rules and expectations. “This is an inconvenience. I don’t want to deal with some newbie.” I don't want to deal with someone that’s not you lies on the tip of their tongue. The villain manages to remain silent, against all odds. “Oh, would you like me to put in a good word for you?” the hero asks, puppy-dog eyes burning holes into the villain’s skin. The villain blinks and the innocent joy on their enemy’s face is entirely dissipated. They’re not exactly surprised. “Listen to yourself. You’re making this sound like a business arrangement.”

The villain simply raises an eyebrow at the hero, waiting for them to find the flaw in their own argument. For a few moments, there’s nothing but a light breeze and the occasional beep of a car filling the air. Eventually, the hero’s smile turns to a scowl.

“I suppose it is sort of a business arrangement,” the hero acquiesces, scrunching their nose in displeasure as they cross their arms over their chest. Their eyebrows furrow and they turn to look at them. “Wait, can we backpedal for a moment? You said this was an inconvenience. I’m sorry, am I inconveniencing you?” Sarcasm drips from their voice and the villain resists the urge to laugh. They have to let out an awkward cough in place of a chuckle.

“Only as much as you normally do,” the villain says instead, rolling their eyes and hoping their fondness isn’t seeping into their voice. It doesn’t appear to do so, because the hero doesn’t react to the statement aside from a reciprocal eye roll.

“As if you don’t inconvenience me right back,” the hero snaps lightheartedly. The smile on their face leaves no room for the villain to misconstrue the remark as an insult. The villains hands fidget at their sides, their fingers twitching to hold and never let go.

“I’m a villain- that’s sort of my job,” the villain manages to say with a grin, taking the opportunity for what it’s worth. The hero clearly expected a response of the like, because they put their head in their hands dramatically and mutter something too quietly for the villain to hear. When they remove their hands, the villain is equally surprised and pleased to find their cheeks are flushed pink. They’re not sure what to do with that, though. Times like these make them wish they were a bit more assertive, a bit more confident. It’s too late for confidence to do them any good, however. Their nemesis is retiring. Nothing the villain can do will change that.

“I’m going to miss this,” the hero whispers, breaking them out of their thoughts. The remark is quiet enough that the villain thinks, for a moment, that they imagine it. The hero clasps their arm and stares off into the horizon, an unreadable expression on their face. The villain bites their lip, knowing exactly what this is referring to: the witty banter, the messy punches, the stolen glances, all of it. They turn back to the hero and try to speak on what they’re feeling but their thoughts are a jumbled mess. The villain finds themselves blurting out the only words they can ascertain from the chaotic tangle of feelings and emotions coursing through them.

“Me too.”

endnotes after the cut :0

Keep reading

cracked-porcelain-princess reblogged

whumpsday

deluxewhump

Anonymous asked:

Could we pleaaaaase see a parallel fic bit of Maxim finding out that bloodbag Carlo hasn’t been using the hot water/generally utilizing resources to take care of himself?

-❤️🎂

deluxewhump answered:

CW: misunderstandings, bathing in cold water, vampire whumper/caretaker, bloodbag whumpee, drug use mention, pet whump

This feels to me like a parallel to the original, though I did not go back and look at the old one because I didn’t want it to influence me.

Carlo slipped into Maxim’s study shortly after midnight. Maxim was on the phone with a prospective client, a Manhattan based art dealer that had finally gotten the memo to stop trying to reach him on the phone before sundown.

Maxim touched the back of his pet’s neck, welcoming his presence as he always did. He was surprised at just how cold his wet hair was, the chill on his skin.

“Why are you cold?” he asked, covering the reviewer.

Carlo looked at him for a moment as if he’d been caught stealing. If Maxim didn’t know better, he would think Carlo had not heard or understood the question. But it was usually a case of indecision, where each answer he might give seemed the wrong one. The poor thing always suspected a trick from him.

“Sir?” he breathed, growing paler in the face.

This felt more pressing to him than yet another conversation with Boris in Manhattan. He interrupted him, said he would call back, and hung up.

“Am I wrong?” he asked his pet. “You’re always so warm. Like a heater and not a boy.”

Carlo didn’t flinch when Maxim reached out a hand. Not like before, when they were brand new to each other. He was tense though, and Maxim could feel his unease with the line of questioning.

Are you sick?” he asked, feeling the boy's forehead. “You should feel hotter when you’re sick, not cooler.”

“I had a bath.” Carlo said. “With the… the things you bought. The things that were delivered. I just thought… it was with the food and I know you don’t eat food, so I thought it was all for me.”

“It was. But why would a bath make you cold?”

Carlo gave him that searching look that was trying so hard for the right answer, looking for a clue from him. He opened his mouth and closed it again, unsure.

“I’m being genuine, sweetheart,” Maxim said. “I’m not asking you things to trick you. Are these clothes not warm enough?”

“The water,” Carlo said carefully, like it was so obvious he wasn’t sure if he should even say it. “The water was cold.”

Maxim frowned. “Again? I had them out here last week and they said it was fixed. That water heater I’ve got’s not even five years old…”

“I didn’t— I didn’t try it,” Carlo stammered, as if to deflect blame from the man who had fixed the water heater.

“…What?”

“I didn’t— you said something after I first got here about a water heater, I was listening. But I didn’t… you didn’t say I should use the hot water.”

“Why else would I have it fixed? Hot or cold running water makes no difference to me.”

Carlo crossed his arms over his stomach protectively. The sweater he wore was well made— heather gray and soft. Maxim was slowly discovering the things he wanted in a mortal bloodbag. He wanted him well dressed, with bright eyes and color in his face and no trace of fear of him. Part of him knew it was to spite his maker, the one who had made sure this beautiful mortal was so terrified of them in the first place.

“You didn’t say anything more about it so I didnt touch it,” Carlo said quietly. “I follow instructions. I don’t touch what isn’t mine.”

Oh, Maxim thought with a small, familiar twinge of disgust. Those words were Erik’s, alright. Spoken from this boy’s mouth after no doubt being drilled into him with causal beatings and worse.

He took the boy’s face in his hands—feeling that skittish human heartbeat under his thumbs on either side, the chilled dampness on the ends of his dark hair. “As long as you are mine and I keep you here, anything in this house is yours. I owe you that, at the very least.”

Carlo warmed to his touch, as he always seemed to so long as it was non threatening, affectionate and gentle. He leaned the weight of his head down through his chin into Maxim’s hands.

“You want me to use it,” he said, somewhere between question and statement.

Maxim couldn’t help but pet him while he had him like this, running his thumbs over the mortal's cheeks in a soothing up and down. “Yes. I’m going to draw you another bath right now to make sure it’s hot. And I want you to warm yourself up in it before you come back out here. How long have you been bathing in freezing cold water? It’s the middle of winter. Do you think I’d want that, for my only pet?”

“I…”

“Rhetorical. I don’t. I want you comfortable here. Do you understand that?”

Carlo didn’t answer. “Are you going to drink from me?” he asked instead.

He was pleased with such a direct question. It was charming, on this one. Yes, little mortal mine.

“I’d like to.”

“May I….” the boy trailed off coyly, looking at Maxim with a nervous, hopeful sort of hunger.

Maxim laughed under his breath. It was Valium he wanted, the same as it was blood Maxim wanted. “You may. Go run your new bath. I’ll bring you one.”

cracked-porcelain-princess reblogged

whumpshaped

@whumpsday:

me for the next hour:

cracked-porcelain-princess reblogged

whumpshaped

more.

trigger warnings: blood, consensual kinky stuff that is suggestive i guess, bitten by a vampire, traumatised baby working through their issues

"Are you sure about this?"

El nodded, a determined look on their face. "Yeah. I'm gonna be fine."

"It's going to hurt," Am said, and El nodded again.

"I know how it feels, Am."

"Will you be able to say no if it's too much?"

cracked-porcelain-princess reblogged

deluxewhump

Good morning this is just a wildcard from my brain today, with Charlotte-pet (ahem) and truck driver Max. Charlotte has opportunistically broken away from Keith in a busy parking lot and stowed away in a random truck that was unlocked for a moment while the driver was around back. (max)

Cw: pet whump, girl whumpee, implied slavery/human trafficking, threat of noncon, tracking chips, blood, menstruation, hurt/comfort, muzzles, death/ghost escapist fantasy(?)

cracked-porcelain-princess reblogged

just-horrible-things

ashintheairlikesnow

Takes place post-Speak Out. Past child abuse is part of this, and religion. Check the tags.

It's been so long since the cops came to Nat's house in the middle of the night, but Jake still tenses when he hears an unexpected knock at the door.

Still, this is his house, and so he pushes himself to his feet - his arm is out of the sling, now, but he still keeps it close and slightly bent. His fingertips still tingle, sometimes, and his grip isn't what it used to be.

He gets to the door just as the person on the other side must realize there was a doorbell, because it chimes through the house, some ridiculous 1940s song Jake hasn't ever reprogrammed from the last owner of the house. "Yeah hold on, I got you-"

He swings open the door.

He stares at the man standing there and tries to close the door again.

"Jakob!" A palm smacks into the wood, a thump that Jake nearly flinches at. He stares into the eyes of a man who is as tall and broad as he is, if not so muscular. A man whose face is hardened with time and the rage that never stops simmering inside him. They look so much alike, though, everyone always said it.

You're his spitting image, aren't you? Your Mama's eyes but you got your Daddy's everything else! Oh, bless your heart, you've gotten so big, just like your dad at your age...

"Jakob," His father says, voice rough. His nose is a spiderweb of burst capillaries from the alcohol he's had in his system nonstop for as long as Jake ever knew him, except at work. "It's Dad."

Jake hasn't seen his father since he was fourteen years old, with a black eye and a bus ticket and a backpack all he had to get home with. Hasn't heard his voice since the same night. But it's never mattered.

Some part of him is still five years old, lying to the doctor that he fell down the stairs. Eight years old, lying to the teacher that he broke his leg jumping off a trampoline.

Lying to the social worker who came to the house, lying to the pediatrician that the scratches weren't from fingernails, lying to the pastor that fell off a bunk bed, lying lying lying in the place they told him was the house of God.

It's not a sin to protect your family, Jakob. His dad's hand rough on his shoulder. It's not a sin to keep them in line, neither. Honor your mother and father, Jakob.

Jake swallows. "I know who you are. Fuck off." He tries to close the door again, but his father doesn't move.

"No." His dad pulls the ball cap off his head. They have the same hair color, too, always did.

He hates staring into the face of a man he hates, who hurt him and his mother, every time he looks in the mirror.

"I don't want to talk to you."

"Jakob Stanton. I have spent years trying to hunt you down-"

"Really?" He can't help the half-hysterical laughter that bubbles up from within. "Since fucking when? You never paid a dime, you never wrote me a damn letter, you never even asked to speak to me when you called Mom! When exactly did you try to find me?"

From behind him, there's a scrape of footfalls, and he glances back to see Chris, hovering in the kitchen doorway with a sandwich in one hand. His lavender hair falls over his forehead scar. "Jake? Who, who-... Who is it-"

Chris gets a good look at the man in the doorway, and his own voice falters, too. His grip on the sandwich goes suddenly white.

"Go back in the kitchen, Chris." Jake keeps his voice calm and even through sheer willpower. "Please."

"That's that kid from the Olympics," Jake's dad says, exhaling, leaning around Jake to look. "That's him all right. So it is true."

Chris swallows, hard. His green eyes are so, so wide. "J, Jake, Jake, do do do, do you n-need-"

"What's true?" He has to keep his eyes on his father. "Chris, I said go back in the kitchen. What's true, Dad? What?"

"You really did give my last name to one of those WRU prostitutes-"

"Shut up." Jake shoves, his father stumbling backwards onto the porch. Jake follows him and slams the door shut behind him without another word to Chris or anyone else. "He's my little brother now. I don't want to hear your shit. How did you find out where I live?"

"Jeremy's your little brother," His dad says, craning to try and see through the glass cutouts in the door. "Not some... messed up pet."

"Dad. How did you find out?"

"Oh, I got an email at work."

His heart drops somewhere near his knees. "From who?"

"Can't say."

"Dad, this could put all these people in danger, who told you I live here?!"

"I didn't believe it until he sent a photo, whoever it is. You and some man on a date." His dad's nose wrinkles. "Jakob, what has California done to you?"

"Nothing!" His blood is roaring in his ears. His heart beats too hard, and he feels faint. His shoulder starts to ache, pulsing and throbbing where Jameson had jammed the knife in to the hilt. "They have gay people in the South, too, Dad!"

"Well, those Yankees keep moving down-"

"No. No, I'm not doing this. When I was a kid you said you never wanted to see me again. Dad, why the everliving goddamn bullshit fuck are you here?"

"That's not very Christian language, Jakob."

"Well, I'm not very Christian, so that fits!" He's shouting, voice rising, and he shudders as he feels a slap in the face of how much he sounds, shouting, just like his father used to. "Get off my fucking property! You can't-... You can't put all these people at risk, Dad. You can't."

"Does that other one live here?" His father steps back, now, looking at the dirty windows, the siding that needs a good power washing. "From the TV? The one that looks like Vincent Shield? Is that true? Are you living in sin with him? My own son?"

Jake feels intuition prickle like the breath of a wolf on the back of his neck. Dread rushes alongside adrenaline through his veins. "... Who sent the email, Dad? That told you where I live?"

His dad shrugs, hands in his jeans pockets. "Some guy. I didn't know his name at first. Your mom know about all this, Jakob?"

Jake swallows. "She signed the adoption papers for Chris. She has lunch every month with my-" He can't make himself say partners, suddenly. Anger and shame - anger at his father and shame at himself for not screaming I love them both and you can't take that from me to the high fucking heavens, to God Himself. You can't have love like this in the world and call it wicked. Kauri and I in bed is holier than the bullshit you let happen to me and my mother. Anger and shame twine and burn so hot he worries his skin will blister and crack. "Dad. The email... Who sent the email?"

"I won't lie to you, son. I was offered some money to come out here. Paid for my plane tickets, actually. Nice guy."

Jake's vision has narrowed to a pinprick with his hateful father's face in the center. "By who? Who's a nice guy?"

He knows before the words leave his father's mouth.

Jake's dad shrugs. "Owen Grant."