White and Woolfe: The Case of the Killer Piper

Some mornings felt like winter even when there was no snow on the ground. The calm and quiet felt chilled despite the warmth bright fall colors seemed to promise. The open window let sun float into the room and cast a line of light through the space. It cut along the grey sheets and defined a strong, naked thigh. The covers billowed around and made a nest that hid all but a tuft of black hair from view.

The sight brought a smile to Snow White’s face. His own hair was ice blonde and he was searching the floor for his boxers. The quiet of the morning wasn’t disturbed in the slightest as he padded softly into the kitchen. The smell of coffee was what had awakened him. He enjoyed the peace and poured two cups before he went back into the bedroom and settled onto the window ledge. “Woolfe?”

A muffled growl reverberated from the covers.


Foreign Exchange

Liam Conway was practically raised on American Westerns. His mother had been a fan of one actor in particular, a man that rarely spoke in his films but radiated a self-assurance that had made her and his sister swoon. He remembered gathering around the telly and catching the marathons on just the right channel.

Though he wasn’t as vocal or as visible as them, perhaps he swooned a bit too. While he knew to some extent that it wasn’t real–particularly the parts with the Indians, which always made him a tad uncomfortable–he had always hoped that America was full of tall handsome cowboys.

If the airport where he’d landed was any indication, he’d been sorely mistaken.