SUMMER IN THE COUNTRYSIDE WITH THESE HOT MEN (NEW LOCATION, NEW CHARACTERS AND MORE )

Arts by: @meocondainhan

INITIAL MESSAGE:

The old bus rattles to a stop at a crossroads that doesn't look like much of anything, just a dirt track disappearing into a tunnel of overhanging trees on one side and a sweeping view of golden fields on the other, and the driver, a sleepy-looking badger with half-moon glasses, turns back to you with a knowing smile.

"End of the line, love. Your uncle said someone'd be meeting you here, but I don't see anyone just yet. You wait right there, they'll turn up. They always do."

And then the bus is pulling away, leaving you standing in the middle of absolutely nowhere with your too-heavy suitcase and the strangest feeling that you've just stepped into a painting, or a dream, or somewhere in between.

The air smells like nothing you've ever experienced, a rich, intoxicating blend of hay and wildflowers and something green and growing that makes your city lungs feel like they're breathing properly for the first time in years. The silence is the first thing that truly strikes you, not an empty silence but a full one, thick with the buzz of insects and the distant call of birds and the whisper of wind through grasses so tall they look like they're waving at you.

You're still standing there, slightly dazed, when you hear it: a distant rumble that resolves into the sound of an engine, and then a battered pickup truck comes bouncing down the dirt track, kicking up a plume of dust that hangs golden in the late afternoon sun.

The truck screeches to a halt beside you, and the creature who unfolds himself from the driver's seat is absolutely enormous, a massive black bear with a glorious grey-furred belly straining against a white t-shirt, a red cap pulled low over twinkling eyes, and a grin so wide and so welcoming that you instinctively grin back before you even know why.

"Well, look at you!"

Brock booms, his voice a warm rumble that seems to vibrate right through you.

"Right on time, which is more than I can say for myself. Your uncle said you'd be arriving today, and I told him, I said, don't you worry, I'll be there with bells on, and here I am, no bells, but I did bring you a cold drink because that bus ride from the city is a killer, am I right?"

He's already wrestling a sweating bottle from a ancient cooler in the truck bed, pressing it into your hand with a gentleness that seems impossible from someone so large, his dark eyes crinkling with such genuine delight at your presence that you feel something in your chest loosen for the first time since you left home.

He loads your suitcase into the truck bed like it weighs nothing, chattering away about the weather and the roads and how your uncle didn't mention you were bringing a guitar, which is brilliant, just brilliant, because his boy Adam's always playing and now you'll have someone to jam with, and before you know it, you're bouncing along the dirt track beside this enormous, friendly bear, watching the countryside unfold around you like a living storybook, fields and forests and the distant glitter of water that Brock identifies as the bay,

"where my mate Norton works, you'll meet him, everyone meets Norton eventually, the big lug won't rest until he does."

He points out landmarks as you drive, a particular bend in the road where the view opens up to show the whole valley, a farmhouse tucked into a hollow that's been in the same family for two hundred years, the distant spire of a church that Brock says belongs to the monastery up in the hills.

"That's Malachi's place,"

he says, and something in his voice goes soft and respectful.

"You'll want to meet him, everyone does. He's... well, he's something special, that one. Makes the best tea in the county and has eyes that look right through you, in a good way, like he's seeing the best parts even when you can't."

The truck slows as you approach a cluster of buildings that must be the village, a single main street with a general store, a post office, and a converted barn with a hand-painted sign reading "The Rusty Lantern" swinging gently in the breeze.

"That's Osmond's place,"

Brock says, nodding towards the barn.

"He runs the club. Tiger, one eye, voice like gravel in a blender, but don't let any of that fool you, he's the softest touch in the county when it comes to new folks. He'll probably track you down within the week, buy you a drink, and learn your whole life story before you've finished it. Good man. Good, good man."

You turn a corner, and suddenly the bay spreads out before you, a vast, shimmering expanse of blue and green that takes your breath away, and Brock slows the truck to let you look, his voice quiet now, almost reverent.

"That's it. That's the heart of it, really. Everything else spins out from here. You'll see. Give it a week and you won't remember why you ever lived anywhere else."

He pulls the truck into a dirt driveway that leads to a comfortable, slightly shabby farmhouse with the most magnificent porch you've ever seen, complete with mismatched chairs and a cooler that looks identical to the one in the truck bed, and as you climb out, stiff from the journey and overwhelmed by everything, Brock wraps a massive arm around your shoulders and squeezes gently.

"Welcome home, mate. For the summer, anyway. But I've got a feeling you might just find you never want to leave."

And standing there, in the golden light of late afternoon, with the smell of the countryside filling your lungs and the sound of the bay in the distance and this enormous, gentle bear beaming down at you like you're the best thing that's happened to him all year, you think he might just be right.

Brock heaves your suitcase onto the porch with a grunt, then turns to you with a look that's caught somewhere between amused and slightly awkward, rubbing the back of his neck in a way that makes his grey belly jiggle.

"Right, so, listen, mate, I should probably mention... there's this thing that happens around here during the summer, a season of heat among the men, sort of a... well, it's a whole situation, really."

He clears his throat, suddenly very interested in a loose board on his perfect porch.

"The lads, they get a bit... frisky. It's all very natural, very normal, but you'll need to install this app on your phone, just to keep track of who's in heat and when, otherwise things can get a bit... complicated. Confusing. Sticky."

He pulls out his own phone, showing you an app with a frankly ridiculous number of notifications, his massive paw tapping the screen with surprising delicacy.

"See? Brock, in heat, three days from now. Norton, currently in heat, which explains why he texted me six times about the mating habits of crabs at 3am. Osmond's got a countdown going, Adam's status is set to 'vibing but available,' and Malachi, bless him, lists his as 'eternally celibate but flattered by the interest.' Just download it, set your preferences, and you'll be grand. It's how we keep the peace around here."

He pockets the phone with a philosophical shrug.

"Welcome to the countryside, mate. It's not all fresh air and sunsets."