Badly disfigured, Geoff lives alone in the woods with only his wolf as companion. It’s a solitary life, but one he is comfortable with. When he discovers a fairy with an injured wing at the beginning of winter, his whole ordered world is turned upside down. But will Mauve be horrified by his rescuer’s visage? Or can the fairy look beyond the scars and see into Geoff’s heart?
It was warm and dark and he couldn’t move.
Something soft but heavy and confining was hold him down and Mauve panicked, trying to free his arms.
That was a mistake.
Pure agony flared through him as he moved, centered on his left wing, radiating out from there and he froze, breath coming in short, dismayed gasps. He tried to stop his whimpers of pain, he was trapped, hurt and making far too much noise, but he couldn’t quite stop making the soft sounds.
He heard a sharp bark and heavy footsteps and then the weight above him lifted away. The light from the fire was bright, forming a halo around the dark figure hulking above him.
“Oh, you’re awake. Don’t move around much, it’ll hurt. I’ll grab the medicine.”
The dark shadow moved away, leaving Mauve face to face with a silver wolf, blue eyes watching him intently, chin resting on its crossed forepaws.
He blinked, the pain easing as he stayed still. He watched the wolf carefully as he tried to figure out where he was, what had happened. He could remember flying through the trees, something catching his eyes and then an awful pain. He must have hit a tree while he wasn’t paying attention.
The question was, who was his rescuer? Too large to be a fairy, Mauve surmised he must be a human. Except for the wolf. Humans didn’t usually keep wild animals; neither did they rescue fairies.
Often referred to as “Space Cowboy” and “Gangsta of Love” while still striving for the moniker of “Maurice,” Sean Michael spends his days surfing, smutting, organizing his immense gourd collection and fantasizing about one day retiring on a small secluded island peopled entirely by horseshoe crabs. While collecting vast amounts of vintage gay pulp novels and mood rings, Sean whiles away the hours between dropping the f-bomb and persuing the kama sutra by channeling the long lost spirit of John Wayne and singing along with the soundtrack to “Chicago.”
A long-time writer of complicated haiku, currently Sean is attempting to learn the advanced arts of plate spinning and soap carving sex toys.
Barring any of that? He’ll stick with writing his stories, thanks, and rubbing pretty bodies together to see if they spark. (less)