T4T/Trans based one-shots

Burn Who I Once Was prt.1

Notes: quick summary, this is set during the 1680s somewhere in England I think (I legit forgot), and during a time Protestants were becoming outlawed in France (yet again, I forgot all my research for this) and of course, all of this is complete fiction that is not accurate

Warnings: none

Word Count: 3,334

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The sky was as black as everything darkened, and only the moon was a spotlight enough for a human to make their way through any forest.

Geneviève fled through those dark branches. The hem of her skirt was torn and mauled by thick, sharp branches and vines that grabbed at her.

She clutched a canvas bag, holding it dear as if it were a babe. The woman sobbed as she flippantly ran, before falling to her knees in a clearing.

Geneviève was supposed to be wed, a measure that would keep her secure and safe for the rest of her days. It was to be to a viscount, the man of a title that would raise her out of impending poverty. She would have laughed years ago, saying that was an impossible fate when she was the daughter of Comte Bazin.

Geneviève loved him, she told herself that often. And it was true, she felt a growing love for the man. It wasn't unsuspecting or even natural, but it was meticulous the way she loved him.

Reading romance novels before meeting him, as to sedate her brain with ideas of romance so she wouldn't flinch at his subtly terrible words. Or how she wore thicker dresses, careful not to feel his hands on her.

It took work to love Thomas Wallis and his awful accent, it felt like devotion. And she was a truly devoted girl, a worshiper even.

Though, there were better parts of him, parts that didn't speak. With soft blond hair and regal but caring brown eyes, she found herself enamored in that man's appearance.

After more time, she found herself more comfortable, well, more used to him. They shared everything she wanted, soft, but careful touches in moments of silence, and colorful conversation on topics they both were fond of.

And in those moments she felt her eyes had been drawn to him, memorizing his details.

For instance, she admired his shoulders in the red justaucorps he wore, the coat so decadent in gold and embroidery. Or his undershirt of soft linen when he would rest her hand upon him, and tell her sweet poems.

At that same time when her heart swelled with love and passion for him, she felt jealousy bubble up. Sometimes she felt irritable, the rage billowing behind her chrysocolla-like eyes. It was not the way other ladies of her age looked to him, her Thomas Wallis.

It was like a headache that overtook her and seeped into her dreams. She'd take a form like his, so masculine and odd.

Now, Geneviève's fingers gripped the dew-wet grass in frustration. She cursed out in a scream, her anguished face contorting under the moonlight. It was to anyone in the next hours that found out about her escape, her widower father, or perhaps Thomas himself would.

He'd shake his head and give a mocking look, before remarking, "She was just how I suspected..."

Her daydream of it made her cry more, giving out wailing sobs into the crisp autumn air. After a few minutes, she calmed herself, breathing in and out in a way that seemed impossible.

It felt like she forgot to breathe, and had to hold a palm to her chest in earnest of finding that way. Geneviève's head pounded, a throbbing noise being subtle by herself.