#those beta unused hairs/clothing

[andrevasims]

Sims 2 University wallpapers

[theharrowing]

An Ghealach

Field Linguist Jimin Park travels to a remote island called An Ghealach off the coast of Ireland to research and document an endangered language, just in time for the community’s Beltane festivities. What he encounters is both horrifying and mesmerizing beyond his wildest dreams.

🌑 Jimin x Female Reader 🌒 word count: 9k 🌓 speculative horror, gore, major character death, dub con, smut, nsfw, 21+ 🌔 warnings: 🕊 dead dove! creepy folk horror themes (shapeshifting, human sacrifice), unable to tell dreams from reality, gore (mention of entrails, mention of bleeding someone dry, cutting palm and drinking/smearing blood), dubious consent (use of magic to put into a trance & coerce), angst, infidelity (mention of an engagement), smut (voyeurism & exhibitionism, oral & vaginal sex, a bit of ass eating, rough sex, holding of throat, blood licking, a little biting, forest sex, a need to be cum inside of), nickname "pet", major character cloning & off-screen death. 🌕 note: hello, and welcome to my fun little Beltane horror fic! appearance of reader in this fic shifts, and is therefore described. sometimes she has pale skin, other times dark, purposefully left vague aside from hair and occasionally eye detail. this story is a bit rushed because of yoongi concert week and final exams happening in the same month; i had a lot of ideas, but the time just kept creeping up and up and up, and here we are, at the end of May!

🌖 i also made a lot of shit up in terms of the magic, left a lot of shit vague, and did not worry much about whether things make any sense, so...go into this with a grain of salt; this is not meant to reflect any real Beltane rites or rituals, even if certain things (like the maypole) sound familiar. it is also not meant to depict a real place or a real dialect of a language. the Gaelic words are meant to feel wrong and strange because this place is wrong and strange. (a friend of mine who is Irish & a linguist helped me with the words; i promise you, the intent is to feel wrong.) enjoy!

🌗 mc goes by the name Rí; Jimin's pov appears in italic paragraphs

🌘 written for A Spring Offering Collab! check out the other works! 🌑 beta read by @neoneunnajimin 🌒posted may. 2023 | read on ao3

Cross his heart, hope to die Hang his entrails, bleed him dry

He is Here. He is here. Heard, have you? He is here.

The women of the island chirp and coo at one another, heads tilted inward, as if sharing a profound secret. Their voices are low but lilted with excitement, and the language in which they whisper is old – nearly extinct. 

Your footfalls crunch through grass that has hardly seen rain – unseasonably dry, despite the air holding onto a thick, shrouding dampness. Soon, the sun will stay risen for more than eight hours, and, if this summer is bountiful, the clouds will open up and shower your island with abundance. 

Seen the man, have you? They whisper, unused to men from outside the confines of the island; unused to skin darker than porcelain. No outsider has stepped foot permanently on this land since your father had, all those years ago; only mysterious strangers who last as long as the holiday allows. 

Strange, his name is. They whisper. And the sun, his skin shines with deep hints of its rays. 

"Girls," you call in a tongue that whisps through your lips, wind fluttering between delicate petals, ancient. "Our manners, let us not forget."

"Our manners, Rí," the women respond in a chorus, pulling their expressions straight, only to begin giggling the moment they think you are no longer listening. 

Bright orange hair falls in tight curls to your shoulders, which are exposed to the sunlight. You wear a white long-sleeve chemise that rests mid-bicep and is tied loosely in the front over perky cleavage. Your emerald green bodice sits under-breast and opens to a long emerald skirt that falls to your bare feet over a hoop skirt made of layers of cloth. 

Your girls are dressed much more simply in white chemise dresses and underpants. Some wear modest green or burgundy bodice dresses, and some wear plain white or black cloth shoes. 

The propellers on the white aquatic plane whirr as you approach, and you hear two male voices speaking loudly over its engine. One man, dressed head-to-toe in a white pilot uniform, docks with the help of four of your women, and he exits the small aircraft. 

After a pause, another man appears wearing a tan blazer over a white tee that is tucked into fitted blue jeans, with a black leather belt and black boots. Around his neck, a white kerchief is tied, and his hair is coiffed delicately off his forehead, casting a beautiful wave of silvery-blond that hardly blows in the winds coming from the sea. He looks as if he is dressed for a weekend getaway to somewhere far more exotic than here, and you find it absolutely adorable. He is more petit than you anticipated – average height and slender – but what stands out the most is the man's face. 

Even from this distance, the man is breathtaking. His full lips pout as he straightens himself out, and he seems surprised and apologetic when the girls begin to assist with his things, pulling suitcases from the plane. 

At his shocked expression and attempts to communicate with precious creatures who do not speak a common tongue, you make your way forward, holding your many skirts in hand so your feet do not trip. As soon as you approach and begin to shout to the girls to be careful, the man's eyes lift, lips part, and you watch the moment he notices you, deeply breathing in and holding it while you speak. 

"Girls, girls," you call in the ancient tongue, "handle gently."

As his things are brought to the pier, the man begins to organize them. Everything is on wheels, and he must deem a certain suitcase more important than the others, taking it by its extending handle and dragging it to dry land first. There is a short set of steps between the path and the pier, and you walk down and reach a hand out to offer help. 

"Thank you," the man mutters, seemingly uncertain whether you are one of the many who do not speak English. 

"You must be Jimin Park," you say, reaching for the handle and watching as recognition and relief paint his pretty features. 

Up close, Jimin is a thing out of fairytales. Wide, dark eyes glance curiously at the landscape, and each curve of his face is soft and delicate, despite his profile being sharp lines. An anomaly of beauty, carved with careful hands. 

Jimin guesses at your name and you nod, flashing a sweet, welcoming smile – you had been the one corresponding with him before his arrival. He must relax, because as you begin to tug for his suitcase to lift it up the three short wooden steps, his hold loosens, and he eventually allows you to take it, only letting his gaze linger a moment before he turns to grab more of his things. 

You help him with his belongings – four black cases in total – and each of you take two to wheel down the dirt path past the open field, along the edge of the woods that peeks out into the village, to the inn that sits ahead, to the left. Although your home is in the woods, you have prepared a room in the inn, sharing a wall with Jimin.

The village is quaint. There are a few homes at the far end of the walk, along a stretch of foothills. A town hall rests between the homes and the inn, and there is a small store room holding onto all imported wares, farmed goods, and hunted items. To the right is all forest until the cliffs open up to the vast ocean, and on the other side of the wood, village elders live out their days, never minding what you and girls do on this side, so long as their bellies stay full and hearths stay ablaze. 

"Have you lived here your entire life?" Jimin asks slowly, annunciating each word with precision. There is a hint of his own accent giving the English a very pretty lilt. 

"Nearly," you respond, eyes slowly wandering from the inn, sweeping the small hints of village that come into view, landing on the forest. "My parents arrived when I was little, but my mother was born here. The island is in my blood."

"And you are the only person here who speaks English?" Jimin asks, voice a bit shaky and hesitant.

As you turn to gauge his expression, you find hints of anxiety. You wonder if Jimin is not the kind of person who likes to seek the help of others; if, perhaps, you will have to be assertive in offering assistance with everything he may need. 

"I am," you respond with a smile, "which means you and I are going to become quite well acquainted, Jimin Park."

Over dinner on the first night, Jimin opens up about growing up in South Korea and attending university both at home, and in the United States. As girls come to fill your plates with more cured meats, he notices that they call you Rí. 

Jimin is an inquisitive fellow, whose pretty dark eyes are wide and curious – and somewhat glossy after two cups of honey wine – and you smile with feigned shyness, nodding your head demurely when he asks you about the nickname. 

"It means king," you tell him with a grin.

"Ah," Jimin responds with a growing smile of his own. "So are you their king?"

With a chuckle, you shrug and say, "I suppose I am. We have elders but they live on another part of the island. I'm the one who takes care of the girls."

"And the hunting and farming?" Jimin asks. 

"Much of our bounty is from the autumn equinox," you admit shyly, vaguely. "We had an abundant winter."

"Wow," Jimin responds curiously. "Good weather last year?"

It was luck that two cops came snooping around the island just before Samhain; their blood was the perfect offering to the old gods. With their entrails strung up, dangling from the trees, and slowly drip-draining into the grass below, the skies shined favorably through the cold season, and wild animals practically skittered and galloped happily into your traps. 

"Yes," you respond simply, smiling fondly at the memory of the two transmuted squirrels who were sent home in the men's stead with nothing to report on but normal goings-on, on the island. 

Magic of that caliber works best on the holidays, when the passages are open and the power from the other side covers your island like a rich fog, sparking it to life with intrinsic energy. A shame you used that power to create two men of the law, but the last thing your little homestead needs is more blue-capped guards snooping around for their missing men. 

With the perfect specimen for this year's festival sitting beside you, your excitement shimmers, vibrating under your skin and making the air around you feel charged. You had hoped that, being as young as he is, you would be sent someone without a spouse, making it easier to fall under your spell – buying you a little time before having to clone the poor guy and send him back. 

A shame that this season's sacrifice not only comes with a gold engagement band around his finger, but is so dreadfully pretty that you almost lament the thought of watching the light drain from his eyes. 

But the land is hungry, and feed, she must.

“Cross his heart, hope to die. Hang his entrails…will he have pretty entrails, do you think?” you sing-song, lifting a handsome red squirrel in both hands, holding it eye-level to inspect. It had come to your window at the stroke of midnight, cheery and pliant. 

An offering from the land. 

A host. 

“What a shame I can’t just keep him for myself,” you muse, considering the fact that you were able to transmute two men before. “Perhaps I will have to make a second clone, this time. Can you bring me a friend?”

The sound of thumping is what wakes Jimin up. At first, he thinks it may be a tree branch tap, tap, tapping against the window. But as sleep falls away to wakefulness, he realizes the sound must be coming from the other side of the wall. 

Your wall.

Falling asleep was difficult, in the first place. Something about the island, and especially the inn, feels incredibly ominous, like there is a presence looming just out of the peripheral, never fully seen. And the scent that you carry – spiced cloves and fresh bouquet of wildflowers – lingered in the air, filling his head with thoughts of you. 

Now, as he blinks through the darkness, he wonders if he had slept a wink, at all. 

Jimin rolls over, attempting to ignore the sounds in favor of getting more sleep, noticing in his brief moment of wakefulness that it is still pitch black outside. But then he hears it…humming…low and inviting, causing all the little hairs on his arms to stand at attention. 

Somewhat mindlessly, Jimin pushes the thick quilted blanket away and climbs out of bed, heavy-lidded and barely aware of his surroundings in the mostly-empty room. Golden lantern light glows in through the window, allowing him to see ahead of him just enough to make a clear path toward the sound.

In his dreamy haze, Jimin imagines voices whispering – beckoning him forward. Come to me, they say, tangling and slipping over one another, mostly incomprehensible flits of lips, teeth, and tongue, spoken too softly to truly be fully heard. 

Jimin places his hands against the wall, presses his ear against the wood, and listens. The humming continues, muffled delicately by the layers that separate it from him. Is it Rí, he wonders.

As he continues to listen, his eyelids flutter closed. The thumping sound is rhythmic and soft, and the humming has shifted into something more sensual. Moaning, perhaps? Whimpering, even? He feels entranced by it and presses harder against the wall, feeling the cool wood against his cheek gradually heat, until his breath huffs out sticky-warm against it.

Come to me, Jimin, he is certain he hears in a voice that can only be yours. Don't be shy.

He feels drunk and loose-limbed, rubbery and pliant, and he sways his hips to the inviting song, dragging his blunt fingernails over the wall. The humming – the moaning – it intensifies, drawing his breath ragged, forcing small sounds of his own to come falling past his lips. His body feels electric – charged with a current that runs ultraviolet through his bloodstream, desperate for more, picking up hints of spiced clove and musky floral notes.

With a crescendo of whimpers, the thumping quickens and abruptly ends, and Jimin gasps, waking from his stupor, stumbling listlessly from the wall and wiping drool from his face. His head feels hazy as he blinks and turns, taking in the dark room and wondering what kind of dream he was just having. 

In the quietude of the night, he stands still and listens. Had he imagined hearing something before? Was it all a dream? Only the scent of the trees below his cracked-open window fills the space, but he inhales deeply in search of something more. 

Silence settles, heavy but somehow light, and he sighs, runs a hand through his damp silver-blond hair, and returns to the bed, trying his best to ignore the ache in his pants – hard and neglected. 

"Not tonight," he whispers, scolding himself. Not over the thought of you. Not when he has someone waiting for him back home. 

"Sleep well?" you ask at the sight of Jimin exiting the inn. 

He wears a black tee tucked into black fitted jeans, with his black belt and shiny black leather boots, and you smile to yourself, both over the simplicity of it all, and from how much he stands out in a place like this. 

Although denim is not frowned upon in the village, and is worn often by the elders on the other side of the island, the girls love to dress up in renaissance-reminiscent clothing and make believe that every day is a fairytale. After all, on An Ghealach, it can be. 

You are modestly outfitted in a white chemise dress that is cinched at the waist, with an undershirt to hold your breasts in place, and simple cloth white shoes. Your straight, black hair falls waist-length, braided intricately away from your face, letting the sun hit your deep-golden skin. 

"I slept alright," he responds, voice rough from disuse. 

Jimin smiles softly, and you check for any glimmer that he has noticed the shifting of your appearance, of the outside of the inn, of the stone path that stretches around the forest edge. When Jimin smiles and asks if there is anything he can do to help set up for Beltane, seemingly unaware, you nod and lead the way. 

"All there is to do today is prepare the land, which the girls have under control," you inform. "We can discuss phonemes in the meantime, if you have your equipment handy.”

With a wide smile, Jimin pulls a small recording device and notebook from his back pocket and holds them up. "Always prepared."

You chuckle and mutter, "Perfect," continuing along the path to the field where the girls are cutting the grass with old, metal devices on wheels, and gathering all the prettiest weeds and wildflowers to fashion into crowns.

Jimin makes good company, curious and open-minded without asking too much. You can see in the way he watches the girls that there is so much he would like to know – can read each question that flits over his eyes, only to be blinked away. Where did they come from? Why do none of them speak English? Where are the men? These are questions that just hang for brief seconds at the tip of his tongue but that he never works up the courage to ask.

Perhaps he knows it is best not to know. Perhaps some part of him is aware of the horrors that might lurk behind the corner of posing one question too many. 

The two of you spend the day discussing vowels, consonants, and syntax. His grasp on modern dialects of Irish Gaelic is enough that he instantly begins to draw similarities between those and the older language spoken on the island.

And as the sun moves from burning hot overhead to sinking beneath the horizon, moving your studies into the inn's tavern, you find yourself scooting close on the bench while offering more honey wine to your eager, beautiful guest. 

Jimin has never sleepwalked before. In fact, he tends to lay so still that often, his neck and limbs are sore the next morning, popping as he stretches in an attempt to get the blood flowing adequately. 

So when he opens his eyes to find himself standing barefoot in the woods, hands outstretched toward the trunk of a tree, he yelps and jumps backward, nearly fumbling to his butt. 

“What the fuck,” Jimin mutters to himself as he glances around, eyes becoming more alert. 

The woods are nearly pitch dark, save for the bright glow of the waxing gibbous moon shining through the trees. What luck, he thinks, that the clouds are scarce tonight. 

Although there is no foreseeable path, the ground appears mostly clear of thick brush. Jimin turns and makes his way out, careful not to step too hard, gently shuffling his bare feet outward with each step, avoiding sticks and rocks as best as he can. 

Fear simmers just below Jimin’s skin. He attempts not to spiral, telling himself that he could not have possibly walked far. His blue flannel pajamas are warm, but thin enough that the chilly night air would likely have woken him quickly. And so, onward he presses. 

A flickering yellow flame glows through trees ahead, just to the left, and Jimin lets out a deep sigh of relief as he changes course. Although he is pleased to be making his way back to civilization, his new worry is being disruptive as he walks back through the old, creaky inn. He does not want to disturb Rí, who he imagines must be asleep at this hour. 

Despite the island being mostly covered in dense forest, the night is surprisingly quiet. Eerily so. Even in the daytime, insects and rodents are lively to the point of seeming cacophonous. How is it possible for everything to be so…still?

The sound of a particularly loud stick snapping – not underfoot but ahead – has Jimin tensing and freezing with fear. He holds his breath while his shoulders raise to his ears, trying his hardest not to be detected, until smoked clove hits his senses, and—

“Jimin!” you call softly, certain that his fear has spiked nearby, radiating like heavy, bright fumes between the birch trees. 

And then you hear it, a soft, delicate voice, calling a tentative, “Rí?”  

Ah, so the pretty thing is just ahead, and your plan to at least get him into the woods has worked without a hitch. You wonder what it was that snapped him out of his trance too soon. Next time, you think to yourself. You still have one more night to get him into the passage of his own volition. 

“What are you doing out here?” you ask, feigning worry and exasperation. 

“Ah—“ Jimin begins, voice sounding somewhat closer. “I don’t know. I must have been sleepwalking.”

“Is that something you do often?” you ask, holding the lamp higher. 

Jimin’s pretty face comes into view, peeking from between a thin birch that separates you, and you smile wide and welcome, taking in the blend of fear and affection that wafts from his pores and surrounds you. 

“No,” he responds softly, eyes wide and curious. “Never.”

“Strange,” you mutter, momentarily stuck in time and space from him standing so close to someone so dreadfully beautiful. 

“Yeah,” he says soft as a whisper, blinking heavily before standing straight and rounding the tree. 

You also straighten out and take two steps backward to give him room. When Jimin appears before you, your eyes drop to his bare feet, and you frown, making a mental note for the next time. 

With skin shades darker and hair shorter than earlier, you wonder if Jimin catches onto the new appearance. But his face gives nothing away. So the spell is just as strong, even if he broke the call of the other side just before entering the passage. Interesting. 

“How did you find me out here?” Jimin asks as you turn and lead the way back to the inn, searching the shifted dirt path for a believable excuse. 

You slowly lead the way toward the inn, and Jimin quickly falls into step beside you. When you walked outside to follow your guest just moments ago, you had left doors open and lights on intentionally, and you raise a hand to point in the general direction of the building. 

“I came out of my room and your bedroom door was wide open," you say. "The front door, as well. So I grabbed a lantern and ran outside; I figured you could not have gone too far.”

“Oh,” he responds, already sounding ashamed even from one syllable. ���I’m so sorry.”

With an insistent shake of your head, you say, “Not at all. I am just glad I found you.”

“What if an animal, or—“ Jimin begins, but you cut him off. 

“There is nothing on this island that we fear. Closed doors are only such to keep the cool air out where it belongs. In the temperate months, doors and windows are left wide open.”

You are the witch of the wood, after all. Nothing that lives and breathes on this isle exhibits an ounce of free will if you wish it otherwise. Which reminds you… Slowly, you will the creatures of the night to stir – a scurry here and a dance of wings there – gentle enough to keep Jimin from noticing. 

Except he does notice. You can practically feel each hair on his body stand at attention the moment a squirrel is heard clawing up a tree, and you take a step just a little too far to the right, bumping into him softly with the hope of providing a bit of a distraction. 

"S-sorry," Jimin mutters, rubbing his hands on his blue pajamas. He seems nervous. Cute. 

"Lost my balance," you respond, shaking your head with a gentle chuckle. "It is past bedtime, I am afraid."

"Sorry again for the trouble," Jimin says as you reach the inn, passing through the threshold and stopping just at the foot of the stairs. 

You turn to Jimin and give a soft, sympathetic gaze. 

"It is no trouble at all," you mutter sweetly, smile saccharine. "I'm just glad I was able to find you."

Jimin hums, nods, and says, "It won't happen again," with a light bow of his head, then makes his way up the stairs, dirt-dusted feet falling quietly on each step until he is down the hallway, past your room, and closing his door softly behind him. 

The look of wonderment on Jimin's face really is something. As you walk through the small town, past the stretch of woods in which you found him last night, he keeps turning his gaze back to the trees. Is he wondering what it is he was doing there when he woke up from sleepwalking? Is he curious what drew him to that spot? 

You watch his micro-expressions as his brows knit and he wets his lower lip with just the tip of his tongue. He had been mid-sentence before, trailing off the moment you approached the spot through which he emerged. 

Jimin's gaze drifts to you, and he seems shy suddenly, cracking a soft smile while blush rises to his cheeks. Once you pass the wooded area and come up to the opening of the field, he seems a little more present. 

"Sorry," he mutters, and you continue to study him, noticing how his shyness seems to steadily build the more you watch him. 

"Has something caught your eye?" you ask, glancing over your shoulder toward the line of trees. 

A dark mist pulsates between the slender, white and brown trunks and branches, beckoning with tendrils that billow out and evaporate – yearning for the pretty man with the soft smile. Soon, you want to tell it. Be patient. 

"Ah," Jimin mutters, scratching the back of his head with his face scrunched as if searching for a memory. "I guess I feel a little strange about sleepwalking last night. How did I end up in the woods, of all places?"

You hum in understanding and say, "The wood calls to us all, I suppose."

Without giving Jimin much time to dwell on your words, you hold out your hand and point him to where, in the center of the open field, some of the girls are setting up a maypole, and others are building a tall triangle of logs in the center of a stone circle. 

Jimin takes out his small recording device and field notebook, and you begin to describe the scene before you in a mix of English and the ancient tongue, carrying your studies through the evening and into the early night.

In the woods again. 

Jimin stares down at his hands covered in dirt and wonders how he has managed to sleepwalk two nights in a row. He stands with his shoulders slumped forward, bent slightly at the knee with an arm outstretched as if he was reaching for something before waking up. In front of him is the u-shaped opening between two thick tree trunks. Or is it the same tree? Jimin cannot quite tell – too difficult to parse in the dark – and he tucks the information away to ask Rí about later.

He would be freaked out, only the smell of the wood – rich, earthy, and damp, with the sweet, musky smell of blooming flowers – feels calming now that he is confident that he can find his way back. He takes a deep breath and resists the urge to wipe his hands on his pajama pants.

The walk back to the inn is short, and although there is no path where he is, a golden lantern glow flickering past the thin birch trunks guides him. As twigs snap underfoot, he notes that he took the time to put his sneakers on before sleepwalking, relieved to not be barefoot again.

Jimin thinks he can hear faint sounds of voices – whispering, or, perhaps, chattering. Maybe singing. The island inhabitants certainly are an interesting bunch. He supposes that being far from modern civilization and with minimal technology would make people behave a little strangely. With Rí being the exception. 

Something about you seems…different. And not just because of your appearance. There is an aura about you that feels almost otherworldly. Perhaps in the way you carry yourself. Jimin finds himself intrigued by you...he wants to know more…

"Right there," you sigh in a tongue as rich and ancient as the soil, tilting your head back to reveal more of your neck, switching to English. "Feels so good, little pet. Don't stop." 

His kisses are tentative and shaky, but he grips onto your hips with purpose, pressing his chest firmly against your back to hold you steady. Golden lantern light flickers through the curtains, one long, bright glow of a lamp that hangs just below your window, signaling that your friend is awake and that he has not entered the passage. 

The woods are calm tonight, seeing Jimin swiftly return to tilled earth without interference. It is only a matter of time before he breaks through the forest edge, and you huff impatiently. Tomorrow is your last shot; you will need to beckon him with a blood ritual. 

You reach for the ties on your chemise and begin to pull them open, but your pet takes over, raising his hands to deftly do the work while his lips and teeth drag over your neck, sending a small but steady tingle of arousal through you as the sticky-sweet huffs of breath warm your skin. With the top undone, his hands freeze in place, and you yank the fabric open, exposing your breasts as they fall past the thin white material. 

"Touch me," you sigh, needy. "Touch me the way he desires to."

On your command, his hands cup your breasts eagerly, fondling your nipples until the skin is pebbled and sensitive, making you hiss with pleasure. Your dress falls down one shoulder and he sinks his teeth gently into the skin, sending a flow of electricity through your body, exiting in the form of a moan. 

You tremble and tilt your head further to the side, giving his mouth more room to explore while his hands fall lower, attempting to gently lift the cotton layers of skirt and farthingale hoops before impatiently taking handfuls of the garments and shoving them up, over your hips.

Clear of the woods, Jimin moseys along the path, in no rush to return to his room, enjoying the crisp but warm night air. Something about tonight feels ominous, and he tips his head toward the sky, noticing a bright moon shining back. Is it full, he wonders. It must be, given the way it glows past the thin sheets of cloud, illuminating his path even more so than the lantern light that hangs from the inn. 

As he approaches the inn, Jimin glances up, noticing light coming from one of the windows on the second floor. He wonders if it is the room you stay in, and what you might be doing awake at this hour.

Gravel and dirt crunch underfoot, quiet and calming as he walks down the path. Shadows seem to dance over the window above, and Jimin finds himself gazing upward. Briefly, he thinks he sees the appearance of palms pressing into the window, halting his steps. But the glass is frosted, and he cannot clearly see through. 

Shame travels up Jimin's neck as he gets his bearings, realizing he had been trying to peer through someone's window. He shakes his head and takes in a deep breath, filling his lungs with the cool night air as he presses forward. 

Voices continue to chatter and sing, but Jimin does not see where they are coming from. Rather, the sounds seem to be lifting and floating with the wind, settling around him on all sides only to slip away into the night. Despite feeling fully awake mere moments ago, shivering against a chilly gust that blows his hair into his eyes, there is a heavy sense of drowsiness that begins to tug at him, pulling him forward, as if willing his feet to take each new step, craving his bed. 

The man behind you grips your hips tightly, then sinks to his knees, sliding his hands down to your ass as he lowers. He grabs firmly and spreads you, causing you to fumble forward and place both hands against the glass. Below, Jimin glances upward, attention caught by the movement. You wonder what he would think if he saw you like this – breasts exposed and mouth parted with surprise. 

Perhaps it is the way eagerness and curiosity emit from Jimin, or how your own excitement from being touched has mewls and gasps falling from your lips, but the man digs his tongue eagerly into your ass, slurping and sucking over your hole, sending a steady wave pleasure and arousal coursing through you. 

"That's it, pet," you whimper, nails scraping down the glass as you get your bearings. "Don't stop."

The man attempts to bend you further, tongue trailing down to your cunt, in search of your clit, but bending more would be too precarious, especially with the layers of material gathered, making it tough to move. He shuffles back instead and takes you by the hips to spin you roughly, causing you to yelp as you attempt to get your bearings and not fall over. 

When you look down at the man – the imposter that was spawned from the flesh and blood of a mature red squirrel, crafted perfectly to look just like him – you gasp. 

His plump lips are slick, glistening, and soft, reddened by the dim lamplight, and his short, silver-blond hair is a mess as he stares up with an eagerness that has you burning with desire. Ordinarily, you keep the clone for a bit; play with them a little until you have to wash their memories of you and send them home. But staring down at an imitation of Jimin just makes you want him – the real deal. 

“Please,” you mutter, breathy and aroused. “Don’t hold back.”

The imposture rakes his blunt fingernails up your thighs, sending a shiver through you that escapes with a gasp, and he leans forward, eagerly lapping over your cunt with his tongue. It feels charged and galvanic – a hum that vibrates in your bloodstream on a low but steady frequency. 

As your head lolls back you hear a gentle footfall on the bottom step. 

Jimin finds it odd that your light is on at this hour. He hopes that somehow his absence from the inn has not awakened you again, and he does his best to tiptoe up to the landing. 

It is soft, but he hears what sounds like a moan coming from your room, and he freezes, foot suspended in air just before your doorway, which is cracked open two enticing inches. A sliver of golden light casts a streak against the otherwise dark hallway, and Jimin feels a pull to it, eager to have just a tiny peek.

A whimper of the words please don't stop has the hairs on his arms standing tall. 

Come to me, Jimin, he thinks he hears the voice say lowly, inside his head. Don't be shy.

Jimin wills his feet to move – exerts all the force he can muster into taking three more steps ahead. And then he stops in the light that shines from within, and he looks.

Surely, he must be dreaming. There is no other way to explain how he is standing in the doorway to your room, watching as a man who has his exact same hair and body type devours you. Your legs are spread, one ankle over his shoulder, toes outstretched as you hold him close, and your bare breasts heave as you pant softly and beg him not to stop. 

Since this must be a dream, he allows himself to watch. As your fingernails dig into the wooden edge of whatever the look-alike has you pressed against, you unravel from his mouth. His sounds are lewd and wet, slurping and humming in a low tenor that Jimin recognizes as his own, and arousal stirs between Jimin's legs. He grants himself permission to touch, just this once, gently grasping onto his erection and squeezing it over his pants. 

Since this must be a dream, he allows himself to whimper from the warmth of his palm, eyelids flitting from pleasure as he listens to the man who looks just like him eat you out. He wonders what you must taste like – wonders if you would let him crawl in there on his hands and knees and try for himself. 

The man stands, turns his head slightly to the side, and wipes his hand over his mouth, leaving a trail of slick behind. The jaw, the nose, the shape of the brow – he is a spitting image of Jimin. How Jimin is in two places at once, he does not know, but he keeps his eye on the man who undresses in a flash, displaying his own tattoos exactly where he remembers them, flexing familiar taut muscle that he has spent years building and maintaining. 

When you wrap your leg around his hip and pull him close, your eyes find Jimin, gazing over his look-alike's shoulder, and he gasps, feeling like a deer caught in headlights. You shift before his eyes, hair turning black and then orange and then blonde, and he begins to question how you are supposed to look; he cannot remember your hair, nor eyes, nor skin, but nothing he sees now feels incorrect. 

"That's it, Jimin," you moan, eyes trained on him, looking over the look-alike's shoulder, and causing his aching cock to twitch in his pants. "Don't stop."

Jimin squeezes his eyes closed tight, and when he wakes up suddenly in his bed, he gasps for air, covered in sweat. The heat from what he presumes had to be a dream covers him like a blanket, and he cannot stop himself from relieving the ache between his legs. 

Guilt and shame do nothing to stave off just how hard he cums thinking about you. 

"Just this once," he tells himself, whispered softly like a prayer. "Just this once."

Today, you have returned to the long, orange curls, with piercing green eyes. Shadow and light morph your skin tone with each passing step, as the full strength of the island's magic fills you from the crown of your head to the tips of your fingers and toes. When Whitman waxed poetic about the body electric, could this have been his meaning? Certainly not. 

Beltane begins today. 

Around the maypole, you and Jimin will dance, with a belly full of cured meats and a heady concoction of honey wine laced with blood and a generous dash of magic. But first, you must greet your sleepy guest, and you tiptoe to his bedroom door dressed only in a thin, white chemise dress with light blue embroidered hems, and rap your knuckles three times against the stained wood. 

"Just a moment," Jimin mutters from the other side, sounding sleep deprived. 

What must he have dreamt about after stumbling like a lust-sick zombie back to his bed to the sight and sound of his clone fucking you breathless? Did he come to in a cold sweat, gasping for air? Did he touch himself thinking of you?

When Jimin opens his door, he is dressed in a loose-fitting white cotton shirt hanging over matching cotton pants. Along each hem is an embroidered design of light blue rounded flourishes that match those on your dress, and on his feet are plain white shoes. You offered the clothing to him last night, to be worn for today's festivities, and you are pleased to find him outfitted in the attire. 

His silver-blond hair is somewhat disheveled, and he has a hint of bags under his pretty, deep brown eyes. As he takes in your appearance, his petal-soft lips part, and you watch as his eyes linger here and there, as if tracing the faint outline of a memory, for split, fleeting moments. 

"Good morning, sunshine," you tease, adding, "May the fires of Beltane light your path," with a gentle bow of your head. 

When you glance up once more, Jimin is still staring, curious eyes glowing with a new spark that seems entranced and somewhat foggy. Here but also not. You allow him to stare until he begins to blink and shake his head, and then he smiles softly and returns your greeting with a hint of blush darkening his cheeks. 

"Merry Beltane, Rí," he says with a slight bow to his head. "May the fires of Beltane light your path."

At the breakfast table, down in the decorated inn tavern, Jimin laments having no pockets for his recorder and field notebook. "What if there are things I want to make note of?" he pouts so cutely beside you. 

"Today is a day for celebration," you insist, dropping a generous serving of spiced honey into his tea and scraping the wooden spoon against the porcelain just enough to make Jimin stir where he sits. 

"For celebration," he responds in a tired, malleable haze.

Lust and curiosity pour from Jimin, covering him in a rich cloud. Each time you speak, his body shifts ever so slightly closer, gaze lingering on your lips and throat, flitting down to your breasts. Shameless, the way he does not seem to care that you take notice.

"My dear, did you sleep poorly last night?" you ask, trying not to tease, pretending not to notice the way his cheeks darken further and he heavy-blinks again and again.

"I had a dream I woke up in the woods again," Jimin responds, slowly reaching for his tea and raising it to his lips. His eyes flutter closed as he breathes in the sweetened chamomile and spice. "And then…you were there."

"In the woods?" you ask, tilting your head with feigned curiosity. 

Jimin shakes his head. "In the inn. Your door was cracked open and I walked by. I saw you—"

Pulled from his trance just enough to mind his tongue, Jimin cracks a soft smile and lets out a breathy chuckle. 

"My dreams have never quite been so lucid before," he continues after a quiet moment. 

You hum in response and mutter, "Perhaps the magic of the wood is calling to you."

Jimin nods, slow and shallow movements, brows knitting a hair before he concedes to the notion. "Perhaps."

Jimin certainly is an eager man. 

Eager to drink from the wineskins and learn all the steps to the harvest dance and dangle colorful ribbons from nearby trees. Eager to join the girls around the maypole and cast his wishes and fears and desires into the tall bonfire which licks at the stars above. 

At nightfall, under the glow of the full moon, you slice open the palm of your hand with a stone dagger and allow droplets of blood to fall into his cup of magic-imbued wine. Jimin sits unaware, eyes glazed over as he watches nude bodies jump over the dying fire. You lick over your wound, tasting brassy warmth, and pass him his cup, which he grabs automatically to sip from. 

"Enjoying yourself?" you ask, leaning close. 

Jimin hums in response, downs his cup, and turns to you with wide, ever-eager eyes, hair sticking out on the sides from beneath a daisy crown. 

"What have you done to me?" he mutters after a long moment, and you giggle in reply.

"What do you mean?" you ask, watching as his eyes travel to your lips and back up.

"I feel…" he begins, eyes widening as he gazes at the celebratory scene before him, then back at you again. "I don't know. High?" 

Jimin searches your features, which shift in the flickering flame light, and he shakes his head lightly. "How do I feel so high?"

"Blood ritual," you respond with a grin, noticing as Jimin's face and scent alternate between fear, acceptance, and confusion – unsure where to land. 

"Blood ritual?" he asks, tilting his head to the side like a confused puppy.

With a nod, you lift your hand and begin to stand from the wooden bench, beckoning Jimin to follow you with your index finger. Blood trickles down from your palm to your wrist, tickling the skin. 

"Your hand," Jimin mutters as he stands in a rush, stepping forward to inspect your wound. 

"Follow me," you sing-song, taking large strides into the wood as the dripping red begins to stain your sleeve. 

"Rí," Jimin mutters sadly, following dutifully with his eyes trained to your wrist, reaching out with limbs that are just slightly too slow to grasp. "you're hurt."

As your footfalls snap twigs and the world around you darkens under the cover of trees and long rainbow ribbons, you press yourself against a thick trunk and reach your uninjured hand out to grab onto Jimin's wrist and pull him close. 

"Rí," Jimin pouts, "I can't—"

With a whispered, "Shh," you reach up and smear your spilled blood over Jimin's lips and chin, pulling a surprised gasp from his lungs. 

"You're mine now," you say, and Jimin nods as he lunges forward, slotting a knee between your thighs as his hands lift to your chin to draw you close. 

Jimin's lips are pillow-soft and tangy-sweet with blood and wine mingling deliciously. He moans as you open your mouth for him, and he eagerly licks inside, tasting and taking like a man starved. 

Blood smears across his neck and into his hair as you pull him close, and he gasps and moans between your lips as his hands begin to untie your modest cloth dress and push it down past your arms, past your hips, to the forest floor. 

"Need you," Jimin growls as his fingertips press harshly into hips and, waist and he lifts one of your legs to rest over his hip. 

He shoves his pants down and in one swift movement, spears you on his hard cock, stretching you with a pleasure-pain that has you sobbing into the night. Jimin fucks you in a rough tangle of balanced limbs, skin slapping desperately against skin, and you clench around him, working yourself up as pleasure unfurls in rich tendrils through your bloodstream. 

Once he cums inside you, there will be no going back. He will belong to you – to the land – and the passage to the other side will open up and swallow him whole.

But his hips still before he reaches his orgasm, and he pulls out and drops to his knees, making you whimper in confusion before clawing at the tree for stability from pleasure the moment he tastes you. Your eager pet was good at mimicking just how greedy and talented Jimin's mouth is, but pales in comparison to the real thing. Jimin hums and moans as his tongue laps at your cunt, devouring you while his fingertips sink into your soft flesh. 

How can you sacrifice something so remarkable? Will the lands forgive you if you keep this one, just this once?

Pleasure builds and breaks suddenly, and you cum on Jimin's tongue, gasping and sobbing into the cool night air as the trees flutter and rejoice all around you. The air is effervescent, filled with power, engulfing and billowing around you, reaching its greedy fingers for your sacrifice as you ride your high, trembling on his soft, kiss-swollen lips.

When Jimin stands, covered in a pink smear of blood and your slick release, he yanks his borrowed white shirt over his head and throws it to the ground. You pull him into a kiss, sucking his tongue into your mouth until only faint traces of your essence remain.  

"Please," you whine as you spin and grip onto the tree, rubbing your ass against his throbbing cock. "Please, Jimin."

Never have you needed to be filled with the seed of a sacrifice so badly; never has the oxygen coursing through your bloodstream shimmered opalescent for someone like it does tonight.

Jimin lines himself up with your entrance and wraps one hand around your throat, sinking himself in slowly while manicured fingernails dig into your hip. The pleasure is white-hot intense, quaking through you as you tilt your hips backward, desperate to feel full.

"So tight," he groans as he pulls out and snaps his hips forward. "Been wanting you so bad."

You moan as Jimin slowly pulls out and roughly thrusts in, asking, "Yeah?" when you find that no other words are able to form.

"Feels like I'm going fucking crazy," Jimin groans, slowly pulling back and roughly snapping forward, back and forward, back and forward. "These woods…the blood…what are you doing to me?"

Before you can respond, Jimin's grip on your throat tightens, and he fucks you at a rough, quick pace, forcing air to punch from your lungs as arousal and pleasure ebb and ebb endlessly. 

You scratch at the tree, ripping away chunks of bark while you lean your head against your wrists and try not to collapse under the treacherous, horrifying weight of euphoria as Jimin thrusts hard and deep, filling the night with the sounds of skin against skin and feral, animalistic grunts. 

The hand on your hip reaches down between your legs, and as the pads of Jimin's fingers swirl deliciously over your clit, he growls, "Cum for me" into your ear. 

Your walls pulsate and squeeze, and you follow his command, building and building your pleasure until you can no longer hold back, allowing the floodgates to burst as you cum once more. 

"Fuck, that's it," Jimin moans with a drag of his lips and teeth over your shoulder and neck. "Feels so good. So fucking good. I'm so close."

"Cum inside me," you beg, desperate, squeezing around him with every last ounce of willpower you have.

As if having a sudden moment of clarity pulling him from your spell, Jimin quietly mutters, "Wait…I can't," against your shoulder, dropping his hand from around your throat. 

"You must," you beg, petulance rising as Jimin's hips begin to slow and his whimpers die. 

"What are we…" Jimin mutters softly, "I shouldn't be doing this."

With an exasperated huff, you pull away from Jimin, letting his cock slide out, then spin, resting your back against the tree once more. Jimin's eyes are wide and afraid as he takes you in, and he begins to glance around as if searching for a way out. 

You reach the hand that remains covered in blood and drag it over one of your shoulders, scraping tiny pieces of tree bark against your skin as you tilt your head and say, "Have a taste."

Drawn by the scent of your blood, still under its spell, Jimin leans in close and drags his lips over your skin, chest lightly grazing over your hard nipples, and he hums as it fully takes over his senses once more. Jimin's fingers grip roughly at your hips, and you lift your leg, wrapping it around his hips and pulling him forward as you reach for his hard, slick cock and guide it back inside you. 

You wrap your arms around his shoulders, holding him close while you adjust once more to the stretch – your pussy feeling used and sore. Jimin licks over your skin and begins to move his hips, and when he straightens out and fixes you with his dark gaze, he appears equal parts entranced with bliss, and afraid. 

Jimin's eyes are somewhat absent of their full glaze when he thrusts forward, and you watch as slivers of doubt cast over his features. Although your magic is strong, the will of a man can be difficult to break, even on a holiday such as this, when the ritual is strongest. 

But as you squeeze around him and let your scent of spiced clove and musky wildflowers fill the air, Jimin's pupils blow wide, and he leans forward, dragging his lips and teeth once more over your bloodstained skin.

As he sets a steady pace and chases his high, Jimin begins to suck and nip at your skin, huffing moans and groans while holding your ass firmly in two hands. Your body is tired and sore, back scratched, and hair matted from rough tree bark, but the pleasure overpowers, building like the clouds of an impending storm, thick and foreboding. 

Cross his heart…

"Close," Jimin whimpers, and you tighten your leg around him, keeping him from pulling out as his hips thrust and quake unevenly.

"Come for me, Jimin," you command, sinking your fingernails into his shoulder while your other hand tugs at his soft, silvery hair and holds him close. 

Hope to die…

Jimin mouths at your shoulder and neck, digging nails into your hips so hard you wonder if the skin might break. And then, with a desperate, almost pained groan, Jimin's hips still and then shake, and he fills you with his release. 

Tendrils of fog wrap around each of Jimin's limbs, dancing over his throat, as the passage opens up and begins to swallow the two of you whole. Once he is on the other side, he can be prepared for sacrifice, and in the light of the morning sun, this land can drink of his blood. 

Hang his entrails…

"Good boy," you mutter softly, as Jimin's teeth clamp down weakly, and he sobs through his orgasm, pressing his body into you as it convulses and quakes. "You've done so well."

"What—" Jimin mutters into your skin, then moans deeply as his cock continues to pulse and drain. "I can't s-s-stop."

"Shhh," you whisper softly, stroking blood-slicked silver-blond hair and pulling him close. 

Jimin shivers as the smoke dissipates, skin sweat-sheened and shining in the bright moonlight, and you run your palms up and down his back. His body begins to give out, and he leans his weight into you, dropping slowly to the ground. Around you, the voices of the others – the inhabitants of this side – whisper, sing, and chant. As you assist Jimin to lay on the forest floor, exhausted from his journey to the other side, you kneel and then drape yourself over his chest, playing softly with his hair as you fall fast asleep. 

Bleed him dry…

Dawn breaks as you stand tippy-toe, dangling dripping tissue and sinew from branch to low branch like a holiday garland. 

"Pretty entrails, indeed," you beam as you take a step back, covered in dripping blood, to admire your work. 

"Merry Beltane, Rí," Jimin's rich tenor greets you, just before two strong, warm arms wrap around your bare waist and pull you into a back-hug, skin against skin.

"Merry Beltane, pretty," you respond, turning your head to the side just enough to greet him with a soft, chaste kiss. 

Upstairs, in the inn, a copy of the man sleeps soundly. Today is his last day on the island before his research is concluded, and you pull your nude, love-struck Jimin past the edge of the forest, where you will leave him with one last kiss before shifting the wood to appear normal and free of bloodied guts. 

You bow your head to the land and thank it for the bountiful summer you will undoubtedly receive, then turn your head to the rising sun, and beg it with eyes closed to allow you to be greedy and keep a pet, just this once. At least until the long days shift to long nights, and, on the precipice of Lughnasadh or Samhain, a new eager stranger comes along. 

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An Ghealach is copyright 2023 theharrowing, all rights reserved.

[blurrymango]

It is far too late at night for me to be digging through my old traditional art. So.

The first arts I ever made of Chara, and Frisk. And also a solitary Chisk too. Back in middle school when I would draw on my phone. I am glad I got these old pieces off of my DeviantArt before I deleted it a couple years ago. Otherwise they would have been. Well. Gone.

See here a Frara and a Frisk and a Flowey and a Chara and a Chisk. I am pretty sure that is the only time I have ever drawn Flowey. And it is the only time I will EVER draw Flowey.

Another Frisk and Chara. As you can see. Frisk has grey eyes. And Chara has blue and red eyes. Because I was an edgy middle schooler. And Chara has always been my favorite character. So the highest honor I could ever have bestowed upon them was that classic duality motif.

A little. Reference for the two that I made for myself. Ah. So sad that Chara doesn't have the ahoge I gave them in the previous drawings.

And finally. Bonus Chisk.

Because. Well. Chisk.

So. Let's compare my old middle schooler self's designs for them vs my current self's designs. And. Also. As a treat. My first design of Kris from 2019 vs my current design as well.

Ok. First thing's first.

Frisk.

So. Like. The way I design Frisk nowadays is in fact 100% based off the way I used to draw them off. Yes, there are some obvious differences. But the suspenders and the short sleeved shirt were, well, you know the saying "if it ain't broke, don't fix it". That is always true. Though I will say that the little hearts instead of gold buttons, is also taken from the old design, because I distinctly remember thinking to myself that Frisk should have a heart in the back of the suspenders where they cross over eachother. And also. On the topic of the hair.

The way I do Hero's hair is 100% actually based on old Frisk's hair.

Because well. Hero is the beta protagonist design for Undertale. And my old Frisk is basically the beta design for my current Frisk. You get it.

Next.

Frara.

Yeah that old design was extremely basic. I don't think I ever used to think about the Unused Human Sprite back then. But. Well. I sure do now. A big glow-up for Frara. And a height reduction. Their current design is very much inspired by the place in Undertale where they can be seen-

Waterfall!

I think to myself. Well. What would a character confined to a constantly raining place need? A raincoat and rainboots!

I can't like. NOT give them stuff like that. Just wouldn't be true to me.

Chisk.

The fandom may have forgotten about Chisk in the years. But I will never forget about Chisk. A fanmade fusion of Chara and Frisk. I will never not think about them. They're in my brain like a song I love. Shawty like a melody in my head. CHISK OH CHISK MY LITTLE SCRUNKLE.

Anyway. Not much design notes for Chisk, past or present. Except for that the old design is a blatant ripoff of a design that I have unfortunately very much no source for.

If anyone knows who the original artist is, please tell me so I can thank them for making such a wonderful image.

Now. Before we get to Chara.

Kris.

Well. They got edgier. And their shawl thing got more accurate to their Dark World self. That's all I really have to say aside from FFUCK I AM SUCH A GENIUS FOR MAKING THEIR SHOES THE SAME COLOR AS THE SHADE OVER THEIR EYES. GODDAMN. BIG WIN FOR ME ON THAT ONE. WOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO. HELL YEAH KRIS. YOU'RE A FFUCKING WEIRDO AND A COOL KID.

And finally. Chara!

My original design for them is. Hm. Well. I'll be honest whenever I see a Chara Undertale without the collared shirt and sweater combo going on I get annoyed, even if the one giving them a turtleneck is my own paste self.

Also. The green-grey shorts and boots were based on clothes I actually had at the time. So. Like. I have always been a big projector onto Chara. Shit man. Even and especially nowadays I project onto them. The hair, the collared shirt and sweater combo. It is, unabashedly, very self indulgent. Those are very deliberate choices. The ffucking Roxy LaLonde hair flicks and that combo of sweater and collared shirt is LITERALLY all over characters I draw. My own damn persona, my character Blue, even Blitz with his wild hair I will still default to doing like that in sketches.

Do you know how hard it is for me to not give characters that type of hair. And that collared shirt and sweater type combo. It is. The hardest decision to not do it.

Cutting this post short at here because there is another post I want to make.

[wordsnwhiskey]

As It Should Be | Chapter 5: Breaking In The Newbies

Pairing: Agent Whiskey x F!Reader x Frankie Morales

Summary: After a rough and emotional night, Frankie makes a decision on Jack’s offer. Before they can get to that though, the morning debrief with Champ brings back a familiar face and Jack has you and Frankie teach the junior agents a lesson during combat training.

Rating: M

Warnings: Canon typical violence, guns, swearing, discussions about safewords.

A/N: Alright, a lot of stuff needed to happen here and we’re going to have a little action and see Frankie show off a bit. It was important to me that the discussion of safe words and Jack checking again for consent happened in a chapter separate from the actual smut. For me, it further emphasizes that Jack doesn’t want Frankie to feel pressured to accept or do anything he doesn’t want to because it’s “in the moment”. Consent is sexy, friends.

I have to give my love and thanks to mi esposa @danniburgh and my friend Agent Capri Sun for the beta reads, the fantastic constructive criticism and encouragement!

Masterlist | Series Masterlist | Chapter 4: Company | AO3 | Art

The morning sun stirred Frankie. Even with his eyes still closed, he could tell the room was alight, but the warmth that surrounded him had nothing to do with the sun and everything to do with the body next to him. He opened his eyes and realized he was definitely not in Whiskey’s guest bedroom. Instead, he was very much curled into Whiskey’s lightly rising chest. Frankie blushed, very unused to being the little spoon, and moreover, not used to someone’s morning wood poking at him. Whiskey was gently roused from sleep by Frankie’s small movements. He lifted his arm from around Frankie’s waist and stretched.

“G’morning Flyboy. You were having nightmares, so I brought you in here.

“Oh, sorry for waking you up and… thank you.” Frankie felt guilt sting at his throat.

Whiskey grunted and rolled out of bed to go shower.

“Nothing to worry about, partner. I’m no stranger to those kinds of nightmares.”

Frankie was grateful Whiskey understood and made no effort to pry. With a grunt of his own, Frankie got up from the bed and made his way to the kitchen, intent on trying to get coffee going while Whiskey showered.

Whiskey finished his shower and stepped out to dry off, then wrapped his towel around his waist. He was drawn to the kitchen by the smell of coffee, Frankie’s initiative quirking the corners of his mouth into a small smile. He leaned against the kitchen counter and watched as Frankie poured their coffee, handing Whiskey’s to him black. Jack hummed his approval, a sound which he noted made Frankie preen a bit.

“Good boy.” Jack gestured to the coffee with a small wink as the air seemed to be pushed from Frankie’s lungs. “Now, as much as I enjoy the view of you in just my shorts, let's get you into something you can wear at the office.”

Frankie was rooted to the spot, Jack’s “good boy” ringing in his ears and sending a wave of warmth throughout his entire body. Jack didn’t comment, just let his smirk speak for itself as he took his coffee back to his room and opened the doors to his closet. His fingers tabbed at a few of the hanging suits as he looked back to see that Frankie had finally uprooted himself and joined him.

“We’re similar in build, so you ought to be able to pull off one of my suits…”

Frankie winced.

“Right, well then, let’s go with something a touch more casual.

Jack grabbed a pair of jeans, a blue button down, white t-shirt, belt, and socks, handing each article of clothing over to Frankie as he moved around his closet.

“There, that should do you. Comfortable, but still presentable for Statesman.”

Jack gave him a smile only to notice Frankie shifting his weight.

“Thanks,” came Frankie’s reply as he turned to get dressed. He didn’t mind going without boxers, but the sudden realization that he needed more clothes of his own hit Frankie as he dressed in the clothes Jack had given him.

“Hey Jack?”

Whiskey hummed in acknowledgement as he finished getting dressed himself: jeans, suspenders, white button down shirt, and a navy wool blazer.

“I was thinking about your offer last night, and… I’d like that.”

Whiskey turned to look at Frankie, giving him a once over, distantly thinking about how good Frankie looked in his clothes, and a mischievous smile lit up Whiskey’s face.

“I’m looking forward to it, Flyboy. We’ll discuss things a bit more at the end of the day in my office. It’s about as close to neutral territory as we’re gonna get for that conversation. For today though, I want you to be a good boy and stick to me like a shadow. We’re meeting with Champ first thing. Then, we’re gonna have some fun.”

Frankie nodded, rocking back on his heels for a moment, then fell in step with Whiskey as they headed out, both of them grabbing their respective hats as they went. The ride in Whiskey’s Bronco was quiet, and soon enough they were riding the elevator up to their floor in the Statesman tower.

You were seated at the conference table facing the double doors with Pope to your right.

“You sleep alright, Pope? Hope Ginger didn’t keep you too late.”

“She’s something, that’s for sure, Hawk, but she did let me go, eventually.”

He gave you a good natured laugh that slowly lost its shine.

“You hear from Fish, Hawk? Ginger told me where she put him up and I went to check on him last night, but he never answered.”

Worry bloomed in your chest, not that it had really gone away after seeing Frankie leave yesterday. You figured if he wanted or needed to talk, he would have reached out to you. Honestly, you had hoped he would have checked in with Pope at some point since he probably felt more comfortable with him. Just then, the conference double doors opened, giving way as Jack strode in, greeting you with a smile and tilt of his head. Relief eased the tension in your chest and shoulders when Frankie followed closely behind Jack. Your eyes darted over to Whiskey, fixing him with a questioning gaze as you realized the clothes Frankie was wearing belonged to Jack.

“Fish!” Pope practically jumped out of his chair, rushing over to Frankie with a duffle bag in tow. “I was worried about you, hermano. I went to the hotel, but you didn’t answer.”

To Frankie’s credit, his face didn’t betray much, but both you and Pope knew that Frankie didn’t have any other clothes aside from what he had left with.

“Uh, yeah, must’ve just missed you.”

You could tell Pope was filing the information away for later. Your eyes wandered to Jack’s again and you raised an eyebrow. At least you now had an idea why he had cancelled on you last night.

“Here, Fish. I figured you’d want your go bag.”

“Gracias, hermano.”

They clasped arms, then took their seats. Frankie grabbed the orange tinted glasses he had left the day before and put them on, adjusting them on the bridge of his nose. His gaze fell to yours and he gave you a small smile, but before you could say anything, Champ’s holo image flickered to life.

“Catfish! You’re looking mighty fine! Much better than yesterday.”

“Yes sir, thanks.”

Champ nodded. He’d been worried about how the man would fare, especially considering the news yesterday.

“Right, down to the business at hand. It does appear that a new cartel is making their play at center stage, picking up where Poppy left off. They’re not following Poppy’s business model, though. From what we understand, the group is headed by four individuals: Isabella Gómez, Duke Hernández, Steven Weisel and Emily Weisel. They’ve taken to calling themselves La Linda Rosa, likely after the Red Agent flowers. Up until now, they’ve been your run of the mill cartel, but it’s our belief that the Weisels have been instrumental in their production and processing of Agent Red. Recently, the Weisels purchased land in Colombia, and from our drone coverage, they may have set up processing plants there. We don’t know why the sudden shift to Agent Red, though. The plants themselves go for $500k per plant, and they take time to mature. We don’t think the Weisels are responsible for acquiring the plants, so that leaves either Isabella or Duke.”

Frankie’s attention drifted from Champ to the pictures on the screen and swore.

“Fuck. Pope, you know who that is, right? I thought they were in Australia?”

Pope did a double take, recognizing his old informant’s brother. The Statesman stared at the two men, waiting for them to elaborate. Frankie sighed and settled into his seat a bit more, knee bouncing anxiously.

“Four years ago, Pope came to me and the rest of our old team to take out Gabriel Martín Lorea and make out with the money he had stockpiled. Pope’s CI, Yovanna, and her brother, Duke, both worked for Lorea. In exchange for helping us, Pope got the brother out of jail and we dropped them off in Peru with papers to Australia and $3M. Looks like Duke wasn’t satisfied with life in Australia.”

Ginger frowned and pulled up Duke’s known associates, Yovanna’s picture following the others on screen.

“Yovanna appears to still be living in Australia, but it’s possible Duke grabbed the money and ran.”

Frankie closed his eyes, lifting his cap and carding his fingers through his hair before placing the hat back on his head and sighing.

“What’s the plan? Sounds like the plants and processing facilities need to be taken out, and then there’s the compound, too.”

Pope nodded, then sighed as well. This was bringing back memories for the both of them.

“We’ll also need to be wary of the local agencies. They’ll be on the lookout for anyone suspicious, especially if it’s anything like how it was with Lorea.”

Champ nodded and tilted his head to Ginger.

“We’re doing our own recon and then we’ll break out teams. Pope, Catfish, we’d like you to at least help with intel, and given your experience in taking down Lorea, if you’re up for it, I’d like you both on the compound assault team.”

You saw Pope and Frankie share a look, Frankie’s jaw clenched and then he nodded.

“Yes, sir.”

“Great, not to worry boys, Statesman has the best resources, stateside or otherwise. For now, I’m sure we can keep you plenty busy. Whiskey, don’t forget, today is your day for combat training with the new recruits. Bourbon, Cranberry needs you to test equipment in the lab later today.”

“Pope, could you actually stick around again for a bit? I’ve got some more intel I want to run through with you.” Ginger chimed in, and you were surprised he didn’t grimace at the idea of being locked in a room for hours again.

With that, the meeting was over, Champ’s holo image disappeared and they took their glasses off. Jack stood up and Frankie was quick to follow him, much to your intrigue. You stood up as well. You were eager to watch Jack have his way with the new agents. It was always fun. Whiskey seemed to know you would be following and beckoned for you to enter his office first, followed by Frankie, and Jack closed the door behind him.

“Go ahead and set your bag down wherever you’d like, Flyboy.”

Frankie dropped his bag in a corner then promptly started to rifle through it, pulling his shoes out and quickly swapping his dress shoes for them. He let out a sigh of relief as he rolled up on the balls of his feet and rocked back on his heels. He hated dress shoes.

You took a short minute to admire Frankie in the blue button down while he rolled up his sleeves. Jack’s fingers wrapped around your wrist and he tugged you into him.

“Missed you, darlin’.”

Smiling, you took his face in your hands and tugged him down for a kiss.

“Missed you too, Jack.”

You murmured against his lips, and you resolved not to ask about last night. Whatever happened, Frankie must have reached out to Jack, not you or Santi, and you’d leave it at that. Jack hummed contentedly for a moment before he pulled back and winked at you.

“Are you coming to watch us break in the newbies, darlin’? I was thinking you and Flyboy could do the first demo.”

You narrowed your eyes suspiciously, but there was a playfulness in them as well.

“Us?” You questioned Jack with a raised eyebrow.

“First demo?” Came Frankie’s question as he whirled around to face you and Whiskey.

Jack’s smile broadened and he started out of his office and towards the elevator, expecting you and Frankie to follow.

“What are we demoing, Whiskey?”Frankie asked, more pointedly this time.

“Well, our newbies are scheduled to learn about disarms and what happens when the enemy goes for their gun. I thought it’d be good to have them start out seeing Bourbon disarm you.”

Frankie huffed as he crossed his arms and leaned against the elevator wall. You smiled as you leaned against the wall opposite Frankie.

“It’ll be just like old times, Fish.”

He groaned and shook his head.

“Why have me do the demo though? I’m not a Statesman agent.”

Before you could respond to reassure Frankie, Jack chimed in, eyeing him with nothing short of gleeful mischief. Jack enjoyed breaking the new agents in almost a little too much sometimes, but it was good for them, and he was good at it.

“No, you’re not, you’re ex-Delta Force, Frankie. These agents have had plenty of training, but they don’t have your experience, Flyboy. They’re gonna learn the difference today.”

Jack shared a similar philosophy with you when it came to combat training and sparring. You had been a terror in hand-to-hand, still were, you were proud to say. You knew there was often a size disadvantage, but you had learned to use your opponent’s momentum against them, and more importantly, you didn’t follow convention. In sparring matches, most people fought like they were sparring, which was fine for beginning, but there was a big difference between practicing and being in an actual fight. You never advocated for an all out brawl, but you refused to follow the typical learned pattern that people naturally gravitated towards. Tom had been predictable and a sore loser. Will was predictable but sweet. Benny, well, there was a reason he was semi-pro, which left Santi and Frankie. Santiago was fun, and you had lost your fair share of matches to both him and Benny. Frankie had a spark in his eyes when he sparred, but no matter how hard you had tried to get him to let go, he refused. It had nothing to do with anything silly like you being a woman, more to do with the fact that Frankie never seemed to just let himself go in that way. You had only seen him let go a bit twice, both times in the field and well worn down by the day.

The elevator dinging startled you out of your reverie, and you followed right behind Jack towards the training room. Frankie assumed they would be entering a gym of sorts, but he was sorely mistaken, and he realized the ‘floor’ they were on must have been composed of several. The ‘room’ was really more of a training complex housed in the unassuming tower. To the right, a group of 20 people stood, waiting. He gave them a cursory glance, and then his eyes were pulled to the range. He’d definitely have to visit to let off some stress. He followed as you and Whiskey led the way to the group of agents and hung back slightly as the group stood to attention.

“Well, look at this promising group of newbies, Bourbon. D’you think they’re up for today’s lesson?”

You let the smirk on your lips turn into a full crooked smile, you had more than a small idea as to what Jack was going to do. Looking over your shoulder, you caught Frankie’s eye and nodded for him to join you.

“I don’t know, Whiskey, simple concept, but we’ll see what their execution is like. My money is on our guy.”

The agents before you bristled, full of young pride that was well-earned. Whiskey’s hand clasped over Frankie’s shoulder as he introduced him to the new agents.

“Y’all are in for a treat. Our friend, Catfish, here, has generously volunteered to help train you on close quarters combat and disarms. Bourbon will demo the defense first. Catfish,” Whiskey took a pistol from the long table off to the side and handed it to Frankie. “Your objective is simple: shoot a blank at Bourbon.”

Frankie’s eyebrows shot up in surprise, and his eyes sought yours to make sure you were comfortable. An answering smile was good enough for him, and he checked the pistol, confirming there were no live rounds, before looking back up at you. The two of you easily slid into a ready position, and Jack gestured for the new agents to give you some room.

“Halcón, when you go for the takedown, ten cuidado con mi espalda. Ya no soy joven.” [be careful with my back. I’m not young anymore.]

It only mildly annoyed you that he already knew you were going to go for the takedown, after priding yourself on your spontaneity earlier, but you pushed that out of your mind as you both stood a few steps apart. There would be a split second when Frankie pulled his pistol and took a readying step. That would be where you would have an opening and make your move. A tense handful of seconds that seemed to stretch on filled the air. Jack watched the new agents, the tension between you and Frankie seemed to embed itself in the junior agents’ lungs as they all waited with bated breath.

Nothing telegraphed Frankie’s quick movements as he drew his pistol, but on instinct, your body was moving. He saw your left hand fly out to redirect his momentum and push his gun hand away, quickly shifting to plant his weight, keeping you from landing the takedown this early. The training you and Frankie had received taught you to be efficient and end things quickly. That was easier said when you had spent years training together. The junior agents seemed to still be holding their breath while you traded blows. Your moment of opportunity came, and you took it. Frankie seemed to understand what was happening but his balance was off. You stepped into him, your hip bumping his as your hand came to grip over the top of his pistol. The next thing everyone knew, you were both on the ground, the gun skittering harmlessly away, and Frankie’s arm in an arm bar. He grunted and quickly tapped at your leg to surrender, and you let him go. The class was quiet until Whiskey broke the silence as you helped Frankie to his feet.

“I hope you lot were paying attention to Catfish here, he did a great job demonstrating what to do when facing a difficult opponent like Bourbon. For this exercise, the rest of you will attempt to take a shot at Catfish and he will disarm you by whatever means he deems necessary.”

You can’t help but let out a small laugh, knowing Whiskey was being intentional with his wording.The laugh died quickly, however, at the words of one of the junior agents.

“How was that a good example? He lost, he was disarmed. We should be practicing against someone better, who would last longer.”

At your side, you saw Frankie stand up straighter, his feet moving shoulder width apart as his hands clasped behind his back and he fixed the younger agent with a steely gaze. Even as his breathing remained calm, it was obvious the words had gotten to him. Whiskey’s good natured grin turned into a smug smirk.

“Davis,” Whiskey began, calling the man out by his last name and emphasizing he hadn’t earned a Statesman moniker. “Since you’re so eager, by all means, approach Catfish when you’re ready and show us how your Statesman training fares.”

Frankie kept his gaze leveled at the cocky junior agent, noticing in his periphery that you had moved away to give them plenty of room. Davis moved to be a few steps in front of him. Frankie continued to hold the stare as he questioned Whiskey.

“Are you sure about this, Whiskey?”

Whiskey nodded, Frankie’s gaze flickering over to him for the briefest of seconds, then he brought his hands to a loose ready position at his sides. Davis drew his pistol, but Frankie grabbed the barrel with his left hand, stepped forward and hooked his right foot behind Davis’ lead leg and pushed on the agent’s chest with his right hand. Davis went down, but found himself suspended by Frankie’s hold on his shirt. The class was filled with littered gasps and snickers. The ‘fight’ was over before it had really begun. Frankie helped right the agent and stepped aside to let him retrieve his firearm.

“Attaboy, Catfish! Davis, looks like you’ve got some work to do. Here’s another lesson, agents: Statesman agents aren’t your only competition out there. We’ve got some fancy gear and trainin’ here, but there’s a world of intelligence agents and mercs out there. Catfish served with Bourbon, and that should tell you all you need to know.” He paused a moment to let the information sink in as Davis returned to the line to lick his wounds. Then Whiskey called the next agent.

Frankie breathed in, then out through his nose, and got ready. As they went, the junior agents in waiting began to pick up on a few of his techniques, and he had to adjust, but time spent practicing and training at Benny’s gym had prepared him well for this.

You watched as Jack’s eyes danced while he followed Frankie’s movements. The circumstances earlier had prevented him from truly appreciating how efficient and capable the quiet man was. The last of the junior agents had made their attempt and consequently failed. Frankie’s breath was coming more unevenly now, and rightly so. What he had gone through would be exhausting for anyone.

“Well done, everyone, a round of applause to Catfish for taking the time to demonstrate y’all have a lot to learn before getting approved for field work. Now go on and line up at the range and get warmed up. We’ll be running sims next.”

The junior agents dispersed to the range towards the back of the room. Frankie let out a breath and rolled his shoulders to let out some of the tension he had been carrying, then started heading for the range, eager to let off some more steam.

“Where do you think you’re going, partner?”

Frankie frowned, his eyes darting between you and Whiskey in confusion.

“I thought we were going to go shoot?”

Jack smiled then winked at Frankie.

“They’re warming up, you still have one more person to disarm, Flyboy.”

Frankie’s fingers twitched, and you could see that the exercise earlier had worn at his usual restraint.

“No lasso.”

Whiskey handed you his lasso, then unloaded his revolvers and passed you the ammo. He holstered his revolvers again and stepped into position in front of Frankie. You watched as a new kind of energy seemed to crackle between them, and some of the junior agents seemed to sense it, stopping to watch as well.

Whiskey was fast, but training at the boxing gym had helped Frankie with his speed. As Whiskey drew his revolver, Frankie sprung forward. He didn’t bother to grab the gun. Instead, he brought his fist down on the barrel, sending it skittering away. Whiskey’s fist connected with Frankie’s side, and you heard, rather than saw, Frankie’s reservations fall away with a snarl. He took hold of the inside of Jack’s blazer, grabbing the grip of the other revolver holstered there and made to pull it out and take the ‘shot’. Jack’s eyebrows shot up in surprise. He hadn’t expected Frankie to go on the offensive, but he found he was impressed. He liked a challenge. Before Frankie could draw the revolver from the holster, Jack grabbed his wrists and wrenched them down, then back up quickly to break Frankie’s hold, and then Jack threw them both to the ground. Both men recovered quickly, but in the chaos, the revolver had fallen to the ground and Frankie scrambled for it. Just as his fingertips touched cold metal, Whiskey’s whip flicked the revolver further away, and they closed the distance to grapple with each other again.

Your match with Frankie had been a well practiced dance, and this was too, in its own right. However, where yours had been fluid, Whiskey and Frankie were bordering on feral. For a moment, it appeared that Frankie had gotten the upper hand. Whiskey staggered backwards, about to fall, but as he went, he flicked his whip, the corded length wrapping around Frankie’s throat. He tugged, sending them both to the ground. Frankie grunted and struggled against the snare he was in. Whiskey wasted no time in scrambling up and pinning Frankie, his knee to the pilot’s back. Frankie continued to struggle until Whiskey leaned down so that only the other man could hear.

“Easy now, Tiger, save your strength for tonight. You did good.”

Frankie relaxed under Jack’s weight and nodded. Whiskey got off of him with a grunt and unwound the corded length of the whip from Frankie’s neck, then pressed a button on the handle to recall it. He helped Frankie up and dusted him off a bit.

A few of the junior agents were still watching in awe. It was rare to see a senior agent like you or Whiskey truly need to put some effort in, and to see it twice in one day was something else entirely. You walked over to the two men and put your hand on Frankie’s shoulder.

“You did great, Fish, nice to see you let loose for once.”

He scoffed good naturedly and swooped to pick his hat up from off the ground.

“You guys had quite the audience while you were at it, too.” Your smile was barely contained as you raised an eyebrow at Jack.

This time it was Whiskey’s turn to scoff.

“Well, I hope they’ve been practicing. They’ll be running the sim after Frankie does.”

Whiskey patted Frankie on his shoulder then gestured for him to follow. He led him to an enclosed area that occupied the majority of the left side of the training complex. A small structure that looked like a house sat inside the enclosure, and you knew it was furnished to match whatever simulation scenario had been determined. Whiskey stopped at a table just outside of the enclosure and gestured to the rifle, combat knife, folder, and headset.

“Alright, Flyboy, I know you’ve done this sort of exercise before. Your brief is on the table there. Good luck.”

You and Whiskey walked a bit further along the enclosure to two screens. One cycled through a variety of camera angles while the other would connect to the headset once Frankie turned it on.

“You’re really having Frankie run the simulation?”

Whiskey nodded, “I didn’t have him help with the demo just to teach those newbies a lesson, darlin’. He’s been through hell, and I figured getting him to work through some of that in sparring and the sim would help. That, and, well… you can’t blame me for bein’ curious, Bourbon. Last time I got to see what he could do, we were a bit busy trying not to get shot.”

You can’t help but to chuckle and shake your head, your attention going back to Frankie as he geared up.

“Frankie turns into a different person on missions sometimes, used to scare the hell out of people on base who saw it. No one ever suspected it because he was always the quiet one, but he’s just as competitive as the rest of the guys on the team. He was just always scary good at keeping a level head and focusing on the mission. You’ll see.”

Frankie put on the kit provided for him then flipped through the brief before lowering the headset and advancing. The brief had been fairly simple: infiltrate the compound, rescue the target, and escort the target to the exfil location. They even provided a decent description of the target. The virtual course populated guards patrolling the 3 entrances. He opted for the path of least resistance with only 2 guards posted.

From the screen, you and Jack could see Frankie take a deep breath, his shoulders relaxing even as he crept towards the two guards. You knew it was because he was willing himself to let go, to let his instincts and muscle memory take over. He was lightning fast as his knife came out and he landed brutal and precise fatal blows to the targets on the screen. In a normal situation, he would hide the bodies but the miracle of technology meant he didn’t have to. It was beautiful in a devastating way to watch Frankie move with such confidence, stealth, and precision. He peered around a hallway, noting the sudden influx of guards and catching a glimpse of red at the end of the hall. The brief had indicated the target would be in red, and it made sense that there would be more guards to ensure the target didn’t run off. He counted five hostiles in the hallway.

Five guards, five bullets.

Once he had downed the hostiles, Frankie stepped through the hallway, catching a glimpse of the target and swore at how cliché the scenario was. The brief had just said the target had last been seen wearing red.

“¡Me están jodiendo! ¿En serio? ¿Una mujer en un vestido rojo?” [They’re fucking with me. Really? A woman in a red dress?]

You could both hear Frankie through the mic link in his headset, and you couldn’t help but laugh. It quickly died as you and Whiskey tensed. The woman in red was a decoy, one that statistically caught the majority of users by surprise.

“Ma’am, are you-” She moved just barely and he saw the glint of where a gun was holstered. Frankie didn’t finish his sentence. Instead, he fired a shot to her chest and grumbled to himself before moving on. Normally, it wouldn’t have taken him that long to figure it out.

Whiskey whistled, thoroughly impressed. It wasn’t long after that Frankie found the real target and reached the ‘exfil location’.

“Damn, sweetheart, you sure picked a good one.”

He winked at you, and you grinned back as Frankie pulled off the headset and his kit, then walked over to you.

“Alright, agents! Catfish successfully completed the sim in 15 minutes, that’s your time to beat!”

A chorus of groans echoed in the training room. Whiskey ignored them and clapped Frankie on his shoulder.

“You did good, Flyboy, really set the bar high. Most people get caught up by the decoy.”

Frankie’s chest puffed out a little at the praise, but he was soon shaking his head. Before he could deflect the compliment, Whiskey squeezed his shoulder.

“Feeling hungry, Flyboy? Figured the three of us could grab a quick lunch before Cran steals Bourbon here away from us.”

“Yeah, I’m starving. Didn’t expect you to keep me busy like that.”

Vermouth entered the training room, and you waved him down.

“Hey, Vermouth! Watch the junior agents for us. Whiskey’s just got them running the sim. We’re going to go grab lunch!”

Without waiting for Vermouth’s answer, you grabbed Whiskey and Frankie’s hands, dragging them out of the training room and to the elevator.

“There’s a deli not far from the office we can walk to, and it’s late enough that we should miss the rush.”

Walking arm in arm with both of your boys, you could think of very few things better than right now. You didn’t care that you were in the middle of downtown New York. All that mattered was Whiskey on your right, and Frankie on your left.

Frankie did his best to relax and not let his anxiety and internal struggles get the best of him. Whiskey’s words echoed in his mind: “When it comes to me and Bourbon, keep an open mind and try not to overthink it.” That was a lot easier said than done, but he was working on it.

You were right, the timing made it so that you had missed the lunch rush. You all ordered your food, Whiskey stepping in to pay with a look that silenced both you and Frankie, then you all went to sit down.

Whiskey practically sprawled in his chair, his legs encroaching your space under the table and Frankie’s space next to him. Frankie sat somewhat stiffly but the more he ate, the more he seemed to relax. You nudge his foot with yours playfully to grab his attention.

“How’s your back? Mr. Ya-no-soy-joven.”

The three of you laughed, and Frankie shook his head with a wide grin on his face.

“I’m not! Gotta leave that shit for the young guys who think they’re invincible.”

“Young guys like Davis?” You shot back, smug on Frankie’s behalf.

“Cocky kid had it coming.”

There was no anger in Frankie’s eyes, only the slightest lilt of mirth in his voice as his gaze met yours, then Whiskey’s. Whiskey leaned forward and barked a laugh while patting Frankie on the back.

“He sure did. The lot of them were in need of a reality check. That’s why Champ specifically likes to have me or Bourbon take at least one pass at our junior agents. After all those hours spent training, they tend to forget that there are much bigger fish out there.”

Conversation flowed easily between them for the rest of their lunch. It reminded Frankie of the prior morning, when they were enjoying breakfast and everything just felt right. It felt as if all of the pieces of the puzzle were coming together, and this time, this time, it didn’t feel fleeting.

Walking to the office was much more comfortable than the walk to the deli had been. You noticed that Frankie was far less stiff under your touch on his arm, even leaning into you occasionally. You parted ways in the elevator. You were heading to the lab to play guinea pig for Cranberry, and your boys were headed upstairs to Whiskey’s office. Frankie seemed hesitant to let you go, and you did your best not to spook him, your heart fluttering in your chest.

Given everything that had happened, things needed to be almost wholly in Frankie’s court, at least until he was more comfortable around you. You had certainly noticed, however, how easily Frankie and Whiskey seemed to allow each other into their respective spaces. The elevator doors closed behind you as you strode down the hall. You were glad that they were comfortable together, though. It had definitely been a concern of yours, considering their respective pasts, but you also thought that there was the potential for them to relate and understand each other better than most.

The rest of the day passed by slowly, and as directed, Frankie remained Jack’s shadow. Jack did his best to keep from laughing when 5pm rolled around and Frankie began to subconsciously bounce his knee. He was scrolling on his phone, lower lip pulled between his teeth and brow furrowed as he tried to focus on whatever was on the screen.

You knocked on Jack’s open office door, raising an eyebrow when you saw Frankie startle at the sound. He wasn’t usually this jumpy. Jack’s gaze met yours, and you could see the amusement and mischief that bubbled in his eyes.

“Hey there, darlin’, you getting ready to head out for the night?”

“Just about, wanted to come see my boys before I do.”

Frankie’s knee stopped bouncing at your words, his phone falling into his lap as he looked up at you. You motion for him to scoot over a bit as you sit down on the couch next to him and rest your chin on your hand.

“We’re still on for dinner tomorrow, right?”

You posed the question to the room in general, even though the three of you knew that it was really directed towards Frankie.

“Uh yeah, I’m-I’m looking forward to dinner tomorrow,” Frankie says after clearing his throat and gives you both a shy smile. Leaning over, you take his large hand in your own and give it a squeeze.

“Great!” Standing up from the couch, you smooth your clothes, give Frankie a kiss on his cheek, and then kiss Jack. “I’ll find us a place, and we’ll figure it out more tomorrow. Night, Frankie. Night, Jack.”

A minute later, you’re gone, and suddenly there’s nothing keeping Frankie’s mind off of the time, which is painfully close to 6pm, when Jack said he’d be done with work. The moment the clock turned that final, eternal minute, Frankie sat up straight, attentive, and alert as his eyes watched Whiskey.

Jack leaned back in his chair, stretching, then relocated next to Frankie on the couch.

“I don’t want you to feel obligated to do anything tonight, Flyboy. If you feel like you’re not up for it, we’ll just grab dinner and head home.”

Frankie shook his head and took a steadying breath.

“No, I want this. I-I could really use it, Jack.”

Whiskey nodded, eyes wandering over Frankie as he adjusted on the couch.

“Alright, I use the green, yellow, red system. You need me to stop for whatever reason, call red, and that’s it, no questions, no hard feelings or fuss. I’ll get you cleaned up and help you come down. Sound good?”

Frankie nodded, his tongue suddenly thick and his mouth dry in anticipation. Jack tutted.

“I need you to use your words, Flyboy.”

Frankie swallowed, his heart beating wildly in his chest.

“I understand, s-sounds good.”

“Good. Now…” Jack pulled a small pad of stationary paper and a pen from the side table. “I want you to write out what you’re ok with and any hard or soft limits you have.”

Frankie nodded, then took the pen and paper and began writing.

[click for better quality]

A blush took hold of Frankie as he handed it back.

“It’s what I can come up with off the top of my head, for tonight at least. I’ll let you know if anything else comes up though.”

Jack’s eyes were dark as he perused the list, looking up from the paper to Frankie, he stood up with a smile.

“C’mon Flyboy… we’re gonna have some fun tonight.”

Thank you for reading! Reblogs & comments are much appreciated!

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[professorjaskier]

A Twist of Fate

Hey guys! I wrote a sad fic for @geraltrogerericduhautebellegarde because she wanted a fic that would make her cry! I think I delivered. Thank you to @kuripon for betaing this work!

TW: There is a major character death and depictions of blood and a fatal injury. You’ve been warned! I hope you enjoy(?)

A03 link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30468945

Over the many years of their companionship, for all the ways that Jaskier had imagined their inevitable separation, Geralt's death had never crossed his mind as a possibility. Jaskier was always supposed to leave first, involuntarily dragged away by the cruel hands of death, but gone nonetheless. 

There had been moments when Jaskier’s thoughts had wandered to the macabre, wondering when the thin string attaching him to the world would be snipped by the cruel hands of fate. The day when he cuckolded the wrong person or didn’t move fast enough to avoid the sharps talons of a griffin. On the worst days, he would speculate that his death would be brought forth by sickness or worse, old age. Something unpoetic and dull, the opposite of what he’d worked to be his entire life. 

Geralt always hated when Jaskier would voice these contemplations of his own humanity; that flame that burned bright, but was inevitably shorter than the veritable bonfire of a witcher’s lifespan. With these conversations, Geralt would grow quieter and hold him tighter, as though his grasp could fight the continuous march of time. 

Neither of them had anticipated this.

Geralt always said slow witchers were dead witchers. He’d never said anything about slow bards causing the death of a perfectly fit witcher. One still considered to be in his prime.

It had all happened so fast, the bandits popping out of the foliage in droves. Jaskier knew it was his fault, no matter the platitudes his friends would offer him later on. He’d been playing his lute as they’d walked down the deceivingly empty road despite the look of consternation he found on Geralt’s face. The witcher had seemed on edge, but he’d ignored his lover’s distress, instead focusing on his newest composition. Things had been good the last few months, with Ciri ascending to her rightful place on the throne and that entire Wild Hunt business put behind them. Hell, they hadn’t been on the road in months, Geralt settling into his newly acquired vineyard and Jaskier running his own business. Inevitably, Geralt grew bored of his sedentary life and Jaskier had followed him back onto the path. Perhaps those months of respite had made them lazy, unused to the perils of traveling. Jaskier would never know.

What he would remember was the way that he’d been caught off-guard by a young man sneaking up from behind. The man was more like a child than a man, barely growing whiskers on his chin. Jaskier would’ve felt bad for the teenager if he hadn’t been trying to murder him. As it was, that child had stabbed his sword straight through Geralt’s breast as the witcher pushed him out of the way. 

Jaskier watched in shocked silence as the polished steel sliced its way through Geralt’s sternum, the blood bubbling out of his love’s body. The child looked nearly as shocked, staring at the sword in his hand in horror as it speared through Geralt’s body. 

After a moment, Jaskier rushed forward and hit the young man over the head with his lute. He heard a horrendous crack, but had no time to investigate the damage done to his precious instrument beyond checking that the boy was truly unconscious. Once that was confirmed, he hurried over to Geralt’s side.

Red. All he could see was red intertwining with the pale ivory of Geralt’s face and the spun silver of his hair. Things looked bleak. He had seen Geralt in terrible situations before, holding himself together though sheer stubbornness and dumb luck, but this was bad. The sword stuck out of his broad chest, while Geralt stayed unnaturally still on the ground. Jaskier let out a sob, certain that his love was dead, until he heard a quiet, choking sound come from Geralt’s mouth. He immediately kneeled to the ground, uncaring of the damage it would do to his fancy clothes. Clothes could be replaced, but his lover couldn’t be.

“Geralt! You’re fine, it’s going to be fine. Just tell me what potion you need and I’ll get it!” He spoke these words, nearly incomprehensible with the speed at which they were said, but upon looking up he saw that Roach was gone. This latest version of Roach was new, not yet hardened from the perils of the Path, and had run at the first sign of danger. Normally that would be fine, but she also carried every potion Geralt would need to heal.

“Fuck,” he whispered under his breath, gently petting the silver hair he loved so much, ignoring the tacky feeling of blood under his fingertips. Swiftly tearing off his doublet, he placed it under Geralt’s head, hoping to afford him some comfort while he ran to find the runaway mare. “Okay, I’m going to find Roach, just stay here! It’s going to be alright Geralt, I’ll find us some help.”

As he stood to complete this necessary task, he felt a hand weakly grab at his wrist. “No,” Geralt whispered, forming the words around the blood spilling from his lips. “Stay,” he commanded with a pleading light in his eyes.

Jaskier sat back down immediately, gingerly shifting the witcher’s head into his lap. “Geralt, I need to find—”

“It’s too late,” Geralt choked out, looking paler every second. 

Jaskier sobbed at those three words, finally understanding the severity of the situation. He placed a hand on Geralt’s cheek, caressing it in the hopes that it would bring minimal comfort to the man he loved. 

“Why?” Jakier asked as tears spilled down his pale cheeks. “You would’ve been fine, it wasn’t worth it.” His voice broke on the last word, sobs destroying any semblance of loquacity left within him. “Why would you do that, you stupid witcher?”

“Was worth it,” Geralt slurred, exhausted from the fight and the subsequent blood loss. “Couldn’t live without you. Sorry.”

Jaskier choked back a sob, overwhelmed by the inescapable conclusion of their final adventure. “I’m sorry,” he pleaded, staring into golden pools of light that became dimmer every moment. “I shouldn’t have been playing my lute, I saw you were distracted—”

“Not your fault—” Geralt insisted, taking a weak hold of his hand, stroking the trembling fingers with a calloused thumb. They were silent for a moment, the sound of Geralt’s labored breaths filling the space around them like an unwelcome guest. “Tell Ciri and Yennefer I love them,” Geralt gritted through his teeth, fighting through the unbearable pain to say his last wishes. “Bring my medallion to Kaer Morhen. They need to know.” 

Jaskier nodded frantically, wiping away the blood dripping from the corner of those lips he knew better than his own. He watched as Geralt attempted to say more but no words came out, impeded by the blood pouring out of his mouth. With his last vestiges of energy, he saw Geralt mouth, “I love you,” before falling limp in his arms. 

The world fell silent, everything falling still as Geralt shuddered his last breath. “No,” Jaskier brokenly whispered, knowing deep down that no one would answer. “Geralt, no, please, don’t leave me. You can’t leave me!” he cried out, his voice breaking on the final word. When there was no response but the sound of birds and wind blowing through the trees, he laid his head down on the witcher's still chest and clung as tightly as he dared, imparting one last embrace.

He wasn’t supposed to die first. This was wrong. “It was always meant to be me,” Jaskier murmured to the empty shell lying in his lap. 

It was never meant to end this way. 

[yeah-klave]

A Short History of What Happened - Chapter 4

Written, with love, for EnKlave Fest 2021.

Catch up with the story so far: Chapter 1; Chapter 2; Chapter 3

Prompt: Omegas aren’t allowed to join the army, but then Omega!Klaus gets dropped into Vietnam and has to pose as a Beta. He manages quite well, right until he goes into heat. Alpha!Dave is protective and incredibly aroused/horny.

Genre: Omega verse, smut, developing relationships, slow burn, undercover, misunderstandings, secretly in love.

Word length: This chapter: 2.1k

Warning: Implied, canon-compliant abuse. The entire work, when posted, will contain explicit sexual content. (Also, my knowledge of the Vietnam war is almost non-existent. I’ve tried to keep historic/military references throughout this fic to a minimum, but I’ve had to take a few liberties in this chapter to provide the right context for this conversation. Please just roll with it.)

Disclaimer: I don’t own any of The Umbrella Academy characters or settings.

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Fate, that fickle mistress, dealt a blow the following morning.

The unit had been redeployed and were heading out to a new location that day. Most of their airborne unit were to be dropped in directly. A select few, however, were required to provide ground support to the convoy of trucks. Dave had been selected. And so, as it turned out, had Klaus.

Most of the men were to ride in the back of the trucks, ready, in case of an ambush. 

Dave – less than enthusiastic at the thought of several hours caged up in a hot, metal tube – had offered to act as rear guard and follow the convoy on foot as it made its way through the marshy, inhospitable landscape.

He had already turned to begin checking his pack, when he heard a light, musical voice volunteer to join him. Head bowed, large, strong hands pausing in their methodical inspection of his rifle clips, Dave felt a physical thrill run through his entire body, a tingling jolt that started in his stomach, then radiated out to his fingers and toes and the tips of his hair.

As the trucks began their slow progress, Dave took his position next to the small man in the borrowed clothes. Keeping a reasonable distance from the convoy, they began their hike.

Dave focussed hard. He tried desperately to keep his mind clear of the intoxicating scent and not let himself become distracted by the most beautiful face he had ever seen. He held his gun at the ready and kept his eyes on the landscape around them, vigilant of the dangers.

Klaus was not as diligent. He held his gun loosely in his hands, as though it was a weight he was unused to carrying. In his peripheral vision, Dave noticed that Klaus looked around him with wide eyes, a look of curious wonder on his face that any significant amount of time in the field would surely have dampened to a resigned acceptance.

Dave took a deep breath, holding the conversational ball close to his chest for a final moment, before readying himself to take a swing and serve it into Klaus’ court.

“You’re lucky, you know,” he said quietly. A thwack of rubber against taught lattice strings. He kept his eyes forwards, watching the terrain and his words and the progress of the ball.

Klaus looked over at him. Dave shot a glance his way and Klaus immediately lowered his gaze, then looked up again shyly through his long, dark lashes.

“And why’s that?” he said, his voice light and breathy. He raised one eyebrow slightly, eyes twinkling and the corner of his mouth curling up into the beginning of a smile. Slowly, he parted his lips a fraction and gently bit his bottom lip. Dave could see the tiny, white press of pressure as Klaus’ teeth slowly dragged over the blood darkened skin. Still looking up into Dave’s face, Klaus opened his mouth a little more and gently ran the tip of his tongue over his bottom lip.

Dave swallowed hard and snapped his eyes forwards again. He cleared his throat, took a deep breath that smelled like something sweet and musky and unfamiliar, and replied, “Well, out of all the units you could have stumbled into, you managed to pick the one made up entirely of betas.” He paused, then added as an afterthought. “Well, except me, of course.”

Dave heard Klaus give a snort and turned his head quickly to catch Klaus swotting at a mosquito.

“Shut up,” he said in an undertone, “he isn’t.”

Dave eyebrows crinkled in confusion. “Pardon?” he said.

Klaus bared his teeth, hissed and swotted again.

“Got it?” Dave asked.

“What?” Klaus said distractedly, looking back over at Dave. His brows were knitted together and he had a pained expression of concentration on his face. His eyes wandered over Dave’s shoulder.

“Fuck tests!” he said abruptly.

“Klaus?” Dave said, concerned, “are you okay?”

Klaus snapped his eyes back to Dave’s face. “Peachy,” he replied, but it still sounded a bit sad. Or sceptical.

“I think,” Klaus blurted suddenly, “I think you mean you’re lucky.” If those words were a creature, they would be something with a sting.

Dave frowned again, suddenly feeling as though there were more balls in play than he had originally thought.

Dave tracked the conversation back, then frowned deeper. “But… that’s… what I said.”

“No, no, no,” Klaus waved his hands in frustration. Dave’s eyes followed the movement of Klaus’ arms and the purple shadow of bruising that ringed his wrists. Dave’s stomach churned and he felt the prickle of anger take root in the base of his skull.

Klaus’ eyes were raking over Dave’s face. “No, you think you’re the lucky one.” He paused, then added with a little shrug. “All betas means no competition for you.” He paused and frowned, his nose scrunching adorably. “I mean,” he added, “no competition for me. Over me. Lucky old you.”

Dave could hear his heart pounded in his ears.

“So, big boy,” Klaus held Dave’s gaze, “which one of these trees are you going to pin me against while you wrap your hand around my throat and fuck me so hard I’ll barely be able to walk?”

The pounding in Dave’s ears turned to a roar. In a sickening rush he thought of bruises and bloody towels and wide, scared eyes and a fear so strong and deep he could smell it.

“Oh no,” he said firmly, “no, no. Just no. That’s not… I’m not like that.”

Crash. Bang. There it was. The slip of the tongue. The fork in the road. The miscommunication.

Klaus’ face had turned to stone. His expression was unreadable, but the air around them had soured. If Dave hadn’t been so preoccupied, he might have recognised it as the bitter smell of disappointment.  

Dave ploughed on. “We’re not all aggressors, you know? Not all egocentric pricks who think the world owes us sex and submission.” He wasn’t sure Klaus was listening. His eyes had slipped over Dave’s shoulder again.

“Oh,” Klaus said in a small voice. “So, you’re just being kind to the queer, little omega freak out of the good of your heart, are you?”

Dave felt his stomach twist and a pang of guilt washed over him. Beautiful, he had thought. Heartbreakingly beautiful. This was going so wrong. So utterly, completely wrong.

“It’s,” he started. “I mean… Some of us are just decent, you know? We’re not all dicks. I mean, really, the primary role of an alpha is as protector and caregiver.”

Klaus snorted again. It smelled like sadness and derision and disbelief.

“Yeah,” he huffed under his breath. “Well, not in my experience.”

And Dave’s heart clenched again. Clenched for every bad thing that had ever happened to this man to make him react like that.

“I’m not like… that.” Dave said, slowly and clearly. Whatever, that was exactly. He just knew he wasn’t. He would never be the type of alpha who would make any omega scared or uncomfortable. Or worse. “I just want to help you,” he said simply.

Klaus turned to look at him, raising an eyebrow. “Really?” he asked, the scepticism thick in his voice.

“Really, really.” Dave said earnestly, holding Klaus’ gaze. He determinedly ignored the butterflies of desire in his stomach and resolutely refused to register the utterly enchanting shade of Klaus’ green eyes.

Klaus held his gaze for a moment longer, his brows furrowing slightly his questioning stare flicking between Dave’s eyes, as though trying to read something behind them.

“I don’t think I thanked you for the clothes before,” he said slowly.

Dave breathed a sigh. Of relief? He wasn’t sure. “No problem,” he said instead. “Although,” he added slowly, “I should probably ask you why you needed them.”

Klaus looked him straight in the eye and deadpanned, “Because all I was wearing was a towel.” He held Dave’s gaze. It felt like a test.

“Really,” Dave added composedly. “I hadn’t noticed.”

Klaus’ face fell. Dave had thought that was the right answer, but at the sadness in Klaus’ eyes, he still felt like he had failed somehow.

Klaus took a resolute breath, then added with a straight face, “So used to following your nose, did you forget how your eyes worked?”

Klaus appraised him stonily for approximately three seconds before his face cracked into a small, lopsided grin. It still looked a little sad, but the tension broke between them.

“Very funny, smart ass.” Dave huffed, grinning back. He was definitely not thinking about how dazzling Klaus’ smile was. “Get in there quick with the big, dumb alpha jokes. Typist humour. Very witty.” But there was no bite to his words. They were like the roughhousing of an old, familiar, family dog – more fluff and licks than nips and barks.

“Sometimes you guys just walk straight into them,” Klaus smiled, giving Dave a quick wink. Dave’s stomach flipped over.

“Yeah, yeah,” Dave rolled his eyes, playing along, “that’s why they make us so big, right? Extra cushioning for when we’re so dumb we bump into things…?”

“You said it, not me!” Klaus giggled. Actually giggled. The butterflies in Dave’s stomach did a few somersaults.

Quite settled around them like a blanket. But it was comfortable silence. Warm and weighted. An old familiar blanket that got brought out, year after year, to chase away the bite of winter. The kind of blanket you wanted to keep in your life forever. A patchwork that only improved with age.

After a while, Dave turned back to Klaus. “So,” he ventured tentatively, “do you want to tell me why you were only wearing a towel?”

Klaus sighed deeply and looked down at his fingers which had started fiddling distractedly with the strap of his gun.

“That’s a long story,” he sighed, “and I’m not quite sure how to tell it.” He went quiet and Dave thought he might have lost him. Shut him down. Pushed him too far. Stupid, Dave thought. Just as he was starting to relax around you. You went and pushed too far, expected too much.

“Would it help if I tried to fill in the blanks a bit?” Dave asked gently. “You could just answer yes or no?”

He smelled the relief on Klaus before he saw it reflected in his eyes. Distantly, he wondered when his sense of smell had developed so much. He couldn’t remember ever being able to smell emotions as clearly or as strongly as this from any other omega. It must be because I haven’t been around omegas for so long, thought Dave. He must just smell extra strong to me now, or something, because of prolonged lack of exposure.

“Yeah,” Klaus croaked. “That’s probably a good idea.”

Dave took a deep breath and began. “Were you running away from someone?”

“Yes.” Klaus replied. Dave’s brain filled in the blanks, supplied a series of images of an amorphous ex.

“Were they hurting you?” he asked.

“Yes.” Klaus confirmed. An abusive amorphous ex. The images got progressively darker. The prickle of anger at the base of Dave’s skull grew teeth.

“Are they gone for good?” he asked.

Klaus swallowed. “No.” He paused for a long moment. “I don’t think so.” Another pause. “I don’t know.”

“Do they want you back?”

Klaus snorted. Ahead of them, one of the trucks revved its engine and Dave almost missed Klaus’ answer. But, under his breath, Dave though he heard Klaus mumble, “Nobody wants me.”

Dave could hear his heartbeat again. It was hammering a drumbeat rhythm in his ears. He was almost convinced Klaus must be able to hear it.

“Is here better than… anywhere else?” Dave paused. “Wherever else you have?”

Dave watched Klaus considering his question and weighing up his answer.

“I don’t know.” Klaus said eventually. “I mean… I am, what I am, where I am. But really… here, there, anywhere. It’s all the same really. I have about as much connection here as I would anywhere else.”

Dave nodded. A fresh start. He could understand that. He could understand that more than anyone.

“So,” he pitched his voice low and calm, his kept his eyes forwards, “do you want to stay?”

Dave could feel Klaus’ eyes on him, but he didn’t look over. He gave Klaus the space to study his face.

Finally, Klaus replied. “Yes,” he said simply, “Yes, I think that maybe I do.”

Dave tried to suppress a smile. He failed.

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Yeah-Klave Master List

[horrordirtbag]

Why Friday the 13th part 3 is so important to the franchise (& bonus thoughts on the lawsuit at the bottom)

And no, I’m not just talking about the hockey mask

Part 3 is really what shaped Friday the 13th into a singular vision that would direct the rest of the series. It’s no secret that the first 2 films are pretty different from the rest of the franchise. Part 1 established the lore and emphasis on gore, but of course Pamela would not be the killer for the rest of the series, nor would they all be whodunit mysteries. Part 2 introduced Jason as the killer, but this would be a pretty “beta” version of the character lol, very different from how we see him today, and not just in his physical design but his manner as well.

Part 3 is what would finally set in stone what a Friday the 13th movie is, or was now going to be. Starting with the visual stuff, of course, Jason is how we see him today. But I’m not just talking about the hockey mask, that’s obvious. His choice in clothes would give Jason a firm “style” for the rest of the franchise (as much as I liked the overalls, they weren’t here to stay), and his unmasked appearance is much different than part 2s, and harkens back to more of his child appearance in part 1. From here on out, all Jason’s would look more in line with part 3 than in part 2. It should be noted that there was an unused version of Jason’s face for part 3 that looked pretty much exactly like part 2, but with no hair. Had they not changed it, it’s very likely Jason would have actually looked that way for the rest of the series.

But it’s more than just a change in wardrobe or makeup. Physically, Jason is a bit larger, and it’s not until this movie that we start to get a grasp for Jason’s strength when he crushes Rick’s skull with his bare hands. Paul was able to tussle with Jason in part 2, but Ali didn’t fair so well when he tried. And Jay’s ability to survive all the damage he takes in this movie, most notably being hung, would set the foundation for his enhanced endurance as a human and nigh-invulnerability as a zombie.

But, yet, it’s even more than that. It establishes more of how we understand Jason as a character. Part 3 is the first movie not to be set in a camp. Part 2 showed us Jason was a bit more strict than his mother by killing Crazy Ralph, but this movie showed us he didn’t just not want people opening camps. He didn’t want them near his goddamn lake, period. Even if you just live too close to the lake, he’s got you in his sights. Ironically, this template of Jason slowly sneaking around a vacation home and killing everyone off one by one would be used more than the actual camp setting itself.

Bit longer than I expected, but I just find the early years and first steps of the franchise and how it evolved to be very interesting. Because there was no solid idea of who Jason was yet, this did lead to the misstep with their flashback scene with Chris, and the awkward sort-of implication that he raped her. However, they seemed to be unsure of this themselves since they never outright say anything, and it didn’t even make sense with what we did know of the character back then. But, that aside, the movie was very important for painting the picture we know Jason as today.

To be a bit topical, this is also why the current lawsuit is so confusing. While I, and most, believe Victor Miller should get the rights back, really, neither Sean nor Victor created Jason as we know it. Victor created a boy who drowned named Jason, but Jason was created by a collaboration of many people over many movies, from screenplay writers, to directors, to those who played him, to makeup artists, and to whoever the fuck brought that hockey mask in, anyways.

TL;DR

- Part 3 established the visual look for Jason (clothes, face and mask) - Part 3 established the physical standard for Jason (large, strong, and fucking hard to kill) - Part 3 established more of Jason’s actual character by moving away from summer camps - Since it took so long for the series to find it’s solid footing, it’s hard to really credit with who “created” Jason (although it’s definitely not Sean lol)

[buttercup-of-kaer-morhen]

Of Thorns and Buttercups

~Ch 1/?~ (Beauty and the Beast AU, Kiiiinda. It has definite elements of the original story cause I’m a sap for Fairytale AUs. I hope you enjoy. Also shout out to @sophiakuso1 for being my beta.) Warnings: Brief mention of violence, blood, and there’s a death scene... so there’s that, also, non-sentient animated furniture violence? I don’t know if that will bother anyone but they will kinda act like living things when they show up in the story, so...  Primary Tags: Beast! Geralt, Belle! Jaskier, Memory Alteration Via Curse, It really only affects Jaskier right now Also on AO3!

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The roads down from the mountain had been quiet aside from the sounds of the woods and its inhabitants, although those too seemed muted and subdued now. The witcher had thought that once he was left alone, his life would just go back to the way it was before. That everything up until then wouldn’t make a difference, he’d walk the path alone and he’d be fine...But the absence of the bard hung heavily around him, like an albatross hanging from his neck. He finally had the blissful peace and quiet he had longed for but it wasn’t as blissful as he thought it would be. It only left him uneasy, looking over his shoulder and straining to hear even the softest of humming or the strum of a lute. More than just the noise that no longer followed him, the comforting warm presence of Jaskier was no longer at his side. And for the first time in his long life of making mistakes, he couldn’t push away the deep feeling of regret that tailed him like a hungry hound.

At first, during his descent down the mountain, Geralt had a moment of realization that his-- the bard could have easily gotten hurt--or worse, killed--heading down on his own without the witcher’s protection. He watched and listened for any indication that Jaskier had been injured as he walked on. As time went by, the wolf resigned himself to the fact that Jaskier was long gone, whether that meant alive or dead he did not know. It left a soft taste in his mouth and the feeling of bile in the back of his throat. The night he reached the base and set up camp, he briefly felt the urge to run and track down his lost friend, wherever he may be, but he held fast and let the urge pass. It was better this way. Jaskier deserved better. At least better than a wolf that only knew how to bite the kind hand he extended. If the bard wasn’t at his side then he was safer as well. No longer being put in danger by the monsters and battles that followed Geralt no matter where he went. He was undoubtedly happier too. He would find someone who knew how to actually give a compliment or a proper critique of his songs. It had to be true because that was the only thought that kept the witcher content as he laid awake through the evening. Geralt didn’t know why his parting with Jaskier haunted him more than his one with Yennafer but it did. Maybe because their bond wasn’t forged mostly by magic. Maybe it was because the bard seemed like such a permanent fixture in his life now. He pondered it until dawn but when the sun rose, he still had not found an answer. The following morning, he set off on the path in search of his next contract. He had no place specific in mind so he pulled Roach in the direction of the sea and let the siren call of it pull him towards his next job.

After a few weeks of traveling, he came upon a small town not too far off from the ocean that seemingly fell on hard times, although most villages seemed to have suffered the same fate nowadays. He was met with suspicion and distrust, not that he was unused to it, but this town in particular felt very quiet and reserved for it’s immodest size. People lurked in their homes instead of out on the streets or in their gardens and shuttered their windows and barred their doors as he passed. He could tell that poverty plagued the area and the sour smell of starvation was practically suffocating. He had made to go to the inn to check if there were any contracts posted, doubtful although something was so obviously wrong here, but a movement caught his attention. Looking in the subject that caught his eye, he spotted an elderly hag waving for him to follow before promptly disappearing down an alley. Wary of the situation, Geralt hesitantly followed with his hand ready at his sword. The woman kept ahead, only glancing back occasionally to make sure he followed, as she led him to a hut at the edge of the town. The door was left open behind her in invitation for him to follow but caution had him pausing just outside the hovel.

“Scared Witcher?” The bemused voice of the hag called out when he neglected to follow.

He grunted in response and crossed the threshold. Staying near the door, he crossed his arms as he waited to hear what the woman had to say.

“Not very talkative I see.” She spoke again as she settled atop an old stool in front of a decrepit hearth. He hummed with a frown, which only seemed to amuse her more before she continued on. “No work lies in the town for you Witcher, nor does a warm welcome. Poverty has cast a dark shadow on the folk of this place and they do not take kindly to strangers nor are they willing to pay them since they already have so little to spare. But I have a contract for you, which I am willing to pay greatly for if you are able to complete it fully.”

Geralt mulled over the words, doubtful of her promises due to her current state but curiosity won. He wondered what kind of job demanded such a steep price and so he nodded for her to continue. The hag grinned softly, a deep sadness in her eyes shown as she spoke. “There is a keep hidden deep in the forest. Within lies a curse that stretches out and brings ruin to the village. None can get close though, for a beast lurks in the stone halls of the old ruin. My magic has gone and been taken from me when the calamity hit. I was left with nothing but to grow old in this town, being the only one to remember the curse and the keep’s existence. If you can end the curse, I will be able to reward you with whatever you may desire once I have my magic back.”

Geralt thought over the offer but something was off. There was something still missing from her story. “If the misfortune only reaches the town, why not just leave? It wouldn’t have a hold over you then.”

“Ah yes… Sadly I must remain because all those who were in the town at the time of the curse are now held prisoner by it. We cannot escape even if we wanted to. Usually this place is forgotten and hidden by the spell from travelers but it seems you may have been destined to come here.” She clarified with a cheeky smile, the glint in her eye making him uncomfortable.

“What is the creature? It’s type?” He asked brusquely, wanting more details then the scraps she gave before he headed out. If he could, he would like to prepare for a potential battle or at the very least know what to expect when he arrived.

“None like any that you have heard of to be sure.” She responded lightly before awaiting his decision quietly.

A part of him told him to leave and not look back but a very small traitorous voice in the back of his mind pointed out that this was a way to get his--the bard back, if only to make sure he hadn’t died on the mountain. So he found himself nodding in acceptance and being directed on how to get to the keep.

As he made his way deeper into the forest, the sun slowly disappeared behind the thicket of trees, which seemed magical in nature due to the fact that the leaves on the trees wane more and more as though winter was setting in. He also had to be mindful of the underbrush for Roach’s sake. The nearer they drew, the more bramble bushes and winding tangles of thorny vines appeared. By the time he exited the forest onto the grounds of the keep, the air had chilled and snow fell blanketing the world in silence. No sound of birds or foraging animals penetrated the suffocating silence. “Yeah, definitely cursed…” He huffed quietly to Roach.

The witcher slowly made his way through the gardens which, although covered in thick blankets of snow, had hundreds of roses blooming all around. He found a small stable to shelter Roach in while he dealt with whatever beast laid in the keep and the curse. Making his way through the hold proved easy, too easy. No traps or surprises waited around every corner. That made him worry all the more though. If the source of the magic that imprisoned the town was here unguarded, then that meant whoever cast it was certain their beast could dispose of any threat that may come. Another peculiar fact that Geralt took notice of was that there were no signs of previous battles in the halls. Only beautifully crafted and luxurious objects fit for royalty with all their gilding and detail lay about along with vines of roses which crept through the cracks, taking home amongst the decorative stone carvings. He ignored the warm well lit rooms, obvious traps with their enticing music and delicious smelling foods. Instead, he made his way further in. When it came to a divide in the two wings, he went to the west which lay in disrepair compared to the other. The welcoming cheer disappeared as he passed broken furniture and ripped portraits. Even in all the wreckage, there was still no sign of blood, and dust invaded his senses, keeping him from scenting out what creature may be lurking. Down the vast walkways, staircases, and passages, all the rooms were worn and barely accessible. With every passing second, Geralt’s anticipation grew, the hairs on the back of his neck stood on end as he expected an attack and yet still none came.

The final room he came to seemed to be the master bedroom which he cautiously crept into. The bed was a mass of tatters and heaps of cloth, not that unlike a nest, and the rest of the furniture had been reduced to splintered piles of wood and metal. The object that caught his eye though was a faintly glowing bell dome that looked frosted over in ice as it sat on a small lone table in front of the windows. It felt like he was being pulled towards it. That was it, it had to be, the source of this curse. A creeping anxiety filled him as he crept closer to the object. This was all too easy and still no sign of the monster. When he was right in front of the delicate glass, he paused briefly to take in the wilted rose, if you could call it that, that only had a singular petal still attached to the stem. A sense of loss and mourning filled him as he reached out.

Before his hand could touch the glass however, a growl snapped him back to the room around him. He turned quickly, unsheathing his sword and striking the creature that had leapt at him from its hiding place near the bed. His sword thrust with a meaty thunk into the center of the monster’s chest. Decades of hunting and swiftly taking down monsters meant his aim was true and there was no saving the beast now. It was only as the beast crumpled to the floor did Geralt notice it’s claws had been retracted, showing it had had no real intention to harm. If it had wanted to, it could have easily snuck up on him while he was enthralled by the dome and gotten in at least one good hit. “Fuck…” He swore under his breath, realizing his mistake and stooping low to get a better look at the creature. It’s body was like that of a lion but it had swirling horns that curled back over it’s mane and it’s pelt was as black as the charcoal left from a forest fire. It struggled to turn onto it’s back, wheezing wetly, until Geralt took pity on it and helped. Lichen grew in patches along the horns and across its face and pelt, one eye almost completely covered. It blinked blearily up at him as it coughed up the blood that was starting to pool in it’s lungs. He didn’t know what to do, the beast did not seem crazed or ferocious. When he looked it in the eye, all that showed was mournful regret.

The creature breathed deeply to collect itself before it opened it’s jaws and the voice of a man came out. “I am finally free-- ” It paused to cough before continuing. “You have saved… me from my torment--” Another coughing fit came and went. “But I fear the curse is yet undone… You--” The creature’s breath stuttered and a large claw fisted in Geralt’s shirt, pulling him down so he could hear it’s final whisper. “--You will be the making of your own curse… break it before the last petal falls.” As it’s voice petters out, the beast goes limp as it’s life falls away.

Geralt barely had time to process the words before a burning in his chest bloomed and rapidly made its way out to his limbs. He felt like he was burning alive just before his vision went black. When he came to, he felt heavy. Heavier than normal and his body ached as though he had just burned through one of his potions. He slowly ambled to his feet, feeling his armor shift in odd ways but the heavy weight of his medallion was missing. Before he could truly go into a frenzy searching for the silver piece, the small table caught his eyes. Instead of the frosted bell glass, a bird cage now stood in its place, the frost mingling with the silver that made up the twisting and curving bars that reminded him of the twisted thorn vines from the forest. As he stepped closer he saw the wilted flower was no more, instead replaced by a small bouquet of… Buttercups? Where the door of the cage should have been, the shape and design of his medallion sat. Upon seeing this, the witcher felt something heavy lower in his chest. He scrambled for any kind of reflective surface, noting his hands were now large white furred claws, thankfully still with opposable thumbs. Grabbing a shard of mirror from beside the bed, Geralt stared at the monster who looked back. The large yellow eye shown out from the thick white fur, dark horns curved back over his head, and large sharp teeth shown through when he grimaced. The mirror slipped from his hands as he stumbled and sat down heavily on the bed frame which groaned in response. He thought over the beast’s last words as the cold crept in around him.

The anguished howl echoed throughout the seemingly enchanted woods. All the animals quieted in fear while a young man hastened in the direction of the cry. The curiosity called out to him and drew him closer to a castle he had not noticed before. He needed shelter for the night from the sudden cold storm that had brewed and the blue and yellow flowers nestled in the snowy gardens were enchanting. He wondered what he would find inside as he came upon the darkened doors as night settled in around him. The snow now fell steadily and he wondered what destiny had in store for him.

[fishgoose]

2:54 AM

name: 2:54 AM rating: T + relationship: Genji/Mercy ( gency ) type: fluff, hurt/comfort warnings: loss of limbs, body horror, medical procedures, not beta read, my first fanfiction in like, 10 years. 

summary: They bring her Genji Shimada at 2:54 AM on a Wednesday. Or, how one minute in the morning became significant to Angela Ziegler and Genji Shimada.

AO3 Link

He’s brought to her at 2:54 AM on a Wednesday. 

She awoke from a light sleep in her quarters at a hurried knock on her door - a rapt pulsing of fist and a call of her name. Angela springs to full wakefulness on reflex, years of time spent in hospital on-call rooms keeping her trained to the art of ‘no sleep necessary.’ She answers with all the appearance of a woman having just rolled out of bed… but none of the grace. Baleful blues behold Captain Amari with no small hint of surprise. It’s not unusual for her to receive late night calls from her superiors - especially in the event of an emergency. But Ana Amari was, without a doubt, the firmest advocate for Angela Ziegler receiving a healthy amount of sleep. So for her to be here, disturbing the doctor from a much needed rest-

“We have an emergency.”

A nod is all Captain Amari receives, before she spins into action. She and the sniper rush towards the medbay - Angela half undressing/dressing on the walk there. It’s not an unfamiliar rhythm. Ana taking bits of her clothing while she shrugs on scrubs, a lab coat, even offers her a hair tie and speaks to her in rapid, hushed tones so as not to wake the quiet halls. She’s not sure why. Everybody in Overwatch is an insomniac anyway. Regardless it’s clear Ana had been braced for this… and that fills her with more dread than necessary. 

“Agent McCree and Commander Reyes have just returned from Hanamura. They have brought an individual back with them. Genji Shimada-” A holopad is passed to her fingers, and Angela does not think to ask why Jesse and Gabriel were in Hanamura, Japan - or why there is already a file on ‘Genji Shimada.’ That part of her brain shuts off - the suspicious, distrusting part - and instead, the doctor takes over. “He sustained multiple traumatic injuries after an altercation with his elder brother. Angela, it’s-”

                “Angie!”

Her gaze shoots up on reflex at the familiar nickname, the punctuation of a hurried drawl at the edge. Ana’s words die out as she catches sight of McCree - catches sight of the amount of blood saturating the black of his clothing, on his face, in his hair, his gloves… His spurs click as he covers the distance between them, not quite halting her but enough to slow her pace. She sees Reyes over his shoulder, bickering in front of a bed with Morrison. They’re like two snakes locked in a tangle, their gazes furious, McCree’s gaze filled with trepidation, and Ana is trying to say something but-             “Move.”

She speaks it to all of them, and surprisingly they obey - each conversation dying simultaneously, as if the music had been stopped. She moves through the medbay doors to the surrounded table, where a few of her specialists already fluttered about - speaking in even quieter tones, placing I.V.s, hooking up various beeping machines, and trying so damned hard to stop the continuous rain of blood that seemed to fall from the young man upon her operating table. 

Angela Ziegler is not unused to carnage. She is the best of the best. She has seen what violence and war does to other living beings, human and omnic and animal alike. As the best of the best, the most brutal of cases find her, and yet this… what had happened to the man before her… There is a squeezing in her chest, and she steps in closer… personnel parting like waves in a deep blue sea. 

               “Talk.” She commands, and it’s Reyes that fills her in. 

Hanzo Shimada, heir to the Shimada clan (a name she knew in passing, though she wished she did not) had cut down his younger brother at the behest of clan elders. Cut down was a bit of an understatement, in her opinion. Such brutality was not lost on her. This was not a systematic killing… It was violent and passionate. Blades and dragons, they’d told her - and while she had to question the last bit, the brutal cut to his chest, his legs, arms… everything was butchered in some way or another, and it’s only through years of schooling and training that she is able to shut off the bleeding heart part of her, and become the doctor. 

Angela does not question, again, why the hell Blackwatch was hanging around at this precisely fortuitous moment. She does not question, again, why it seemed everyone had been prepared for this except for her (and obviously, her patient). He finishes his words in under thirty seconds, and it takes ten more for her to banish everyone short of her and the necessary personnel from her lab and begin doing what is necessary to save a life… no matter the reason, and no matter the cost. 

She is in the process of setting up localized biotic fields while her assistants put a closer view of Genji’s injuries up upon the holo-vid. She is a professional, a woman of finesse. There are no moments of hesitation when she works - no pausing to make sure. This is her domain and there is a life to be saved, and so she would save it. By all conclusions, Genji Shimada should have long since been sedated - especially considering she was about to begin the most major surgeries of her life upon him. 

A shaky hand (his left, not his right) finds her gloved wrist, and Angela jolts with surprise. It leaves a trail of blood upon her - but her gaze instantly meets his own and what she sees makes her heart break. Fear and sadness, so prevalent in eyes that were once as warm as tilled earth - a handsome face, beneath his oxygen mask, and bloodied lips narrowed in agony. His grip is light, so terribly weak, but that does not stop her from covering his hand with her own, letting her hues lock with his, and saying low enough that only he could hear her…                       “I’ve got you.”

----------

It’s 8:32 PM when she thinks he’ll make it through the night.

Angela comes out of that operating room a different woman, and Genji will wake up a different man. 

It’s McCree that’s waiting for her, a cup of coffee in hand and a hot towel in the other. She wants to question if he’s been here the whole damn time, but judging by the fact he’s no longer covered in Genji’s blood, she assumes it’s safe to say no, he has not. Now it’s her turn, of course… to be covered in his blood, even if she’d stripped out of those scrubs and coat and mask, she still feels it on here, the weight of it, the weight of his life and how despite saving him, despite giving him a chance to live-

Perhaps he didn’t want to live this way. 

Jesse is smart enough to not say anything when she sits down on the sofa in her own office. He’s smart enough to not turn those amber eyes on her either, for fear of awakening the angry, questioning beast that roils beneath her skin. Instead, he lets her lean on him and rest her gaze. Her brief dreams are filled with visions of Genji - the horror in those darkened hues, and the sprays of blood from a blade as a faceless man cuts him down. 

------

It’s 11:27 PM when she rips Morrison and Reyes both new assholes. 

They’d been expecting it, of course - the way Angela (politely) demands to know what the fuck is going on, and then listening to them tell her - just exactly why - they had brought her Genji Shimada in the first place. An asset, they say, to Overwatch and Blackwatch - especially coming from a criminal family. They were lucky, in a way, that Angela had been so exhausted - otherwise, perhaps, she might have gone completely nuclear in Jack’s office, and subsequently destroyed two of S.E.Ps pride and joy. That does not stop her, however, from (again, politely) telling them how she felt about the situation, telling them both to seek her permission before seeing him (ranked be damned) and then to have a lovely evening, thank you very much.

She wished the doors weren’t sliding so she could slam them behind her. 

--------

It’s 2:54 AM on Thursday when he wakes up for a short time. 

Angela is there when he does - holopad in hand, documenting something. Genji sees her through a blurry lens… his gaze unfocused, not blind but just… lacking something. The dimmed lighting causes her hair to appear luminous around her pretty features, soft and serene and utterly angelic. Perhaps were he able to speak, and perhaps were he the Genji from not even a week ago… he would have made a comment on it, made a pass at her. Instead, he lets his fingers flex against the bed sheets… and she notices, because of course she does. 

Her face splits in surprise… so open, so lovely, and he finds it curious almost. She smiles at him in a way that is painfully tender (why? Does he deserve that?) and leans down to adjust a bit of wiring near the half of his body that he struggles to find any sensation on. His mind is addled by drugs, by the dull throb of pain manipulated by said drugs… and when she speaks, it sounds like it’s through a tube but… he wants to hear her say more.

“Hello, Mr. Shimada.” Warm. She was so warm in a sea of cold numbness. “You’re safe now.”

He knows he’s not, but the last thing he sees before falling asleep is her… and he finds it difficult to argue with that. 

-------- 

It’s 2:54 AM five months from the day he woke up that he’s able to stand on his own two feet again. 

Five months, five long and grueling months that they had been through those surgeries. Amputations, synthetic manipulations, rerouting of organs, cybernetic enhancements… With each one that he would awaken from, Genji would thank her, but with each one - his gaze would grow more and more dull. Now, however, he looks brighter than she’s seen him in months… able to move, to take shaky, quiet steps about his room, Angela at his side but Genji still wholly... freely independent. It’s not lost on her that he refuses to demonstrate much of his progress in the presence of others, but that’d be their secret for awhile longer. This was his recovery, after all. 

They’d worked on his legs last, having started from top down, essentially. Countless sleepless nights spent awake, either by his side or in her quarters, puzzling out ways to make him more comfortable, more happy. It was not about brutal efficiency for her, not about the weaponry. But Genji wanted to be fast - wanted to be as fearsome as he had been… and so she obliged, with the assistance of others, and limb by limb, bit by bit, he was rebuilt. 

But she knew he hated it, when he thought she wasn’t looking. She knew it in the way he spoke as little as possible, how he refused to see himself in the mirror… She just knew. 

-------

It’s 7:00 AM, a year, 3 months, and 2 days from the day he was brought to her that he goes on his first mission with Blackwatch. 

Angela had never railed more loudly against something in her life. Was his body healed? Yes. Were his cybernetics perfect? Yes. But his mind? She saw the fracture of that psyche - saw the way it was still in pieces and breaking steadily. She had gone after both Morrison and Reyes like a woman possessed, quiet anger and determination that put the fear of god in most… but it was actually Genji that had told her to stand down. 

The conversation is like a fresh wound on her heart. 

“Leave it be, Dr. Ziegler. I will make myself useful.”

Humiliating and painful. Lovely. 

-------

It’s 6:31 PM 18 days after the departure for their mission that they return. 

Everything had gone smoothly. Genji had the highest kill count among them all, and had sustained only minor damage. 

Angela fixes him up without saying a word. 

-------

It’s 2:54 AM three months after that first mission that he shows up at her office with a cup of coffee. 

She stares at him like he’s grown three heads (or she’s hallucinating, perhaps) but takes the beverage anyway. Genji is not much of a conversationalist by nature but he goads her into speaking anyway much to her surprise - asking about her current research, what she was continuing to develop… and they fall back into an easy rhythm and a familiar pattern. He does not laugh, and he does not smile - but she does not need him to. Angela can see everything in those crimson eyes, computerized or not, that she needs to know. 

They flicker when she makes a particularly jovial comment about McCree. It’s his version of a laugh. 

They fall into a pattern after that… 2:54 AM, Genji was always there - either with coffee or to drink hers. On nights he was away on missions, she woke up at that time anyway, wondering why. 

------

It’s 1:17 AM in King’s Row, London a few years later that he catches her as she falls.

The swift response Valkyrie suit was not without its issues, but she was keen to assist in the field when necessary. Her own enhancements at her spine kept her maneuvering easily, light as a bird and quick in the air. It’s her own fault, really, sloppiness in her attempt to get to priority targets as quickly as possible. The pulse shot connects with her left wing and sends not only a lance of agony down her spine - but a burst of pressure and air as she begins plummeting towards earth. 

All she can hear is the rush of the wind by her ears, vision filled with city lights and stars and a strange sense of peace fills her… deliberate and quiet… 

Until crimson and black is in her gaze, and strong arms… one real, one cybernetic, embrace her frame. In her ear, a prayer:

                    “I’ve got you, Angela.”

Four hours later, back on the dropship, she’s staring at him with her mouth agape. 

                  “You called me Angela.”

------

It’s 2:52 AM three weeks later that he tries to kiss her for the first time. 

It comes as such a surprise that she nearly lets him - as she’s in the midst of adjusting his faceplate, bending out a bit of metal and reshaping to more snuggly fit. It would have happened - were she not quick on her feet. She’s leaned inwards, plating clutched in her hands and ready to click into place when he dips in - going for the plump swell of her peach tiers but… 

Two fingers meet him instead, and he is scowling.

“Just what do you think you’re doing, Genji?”

“...”

She realizes her mistake the second silence befalls them. Realizes the amount of courage it must have taken for him to even try at all. Their chemistry was undeniable… everyone could see it, and their attachment ran deep. But here was a man discomforted by his own existence, his appearance, and Angela had just rejected some amount of physical affection and-- she finishes snapping the bolt into place, and he looks ready to run. Angela does not respond with trepidation, but instead offers him a sweet sweet smile as she leans inwards, breath ghosting over his scarred lips.

“It’s not 2:54 AM.”

The emotions that cycle through Genji’s hues at her statement are almost tangible to her: questioning, confusion, awareness, understanding, irritation, then mirth. She wants to laugh but she doesn’t… instead her gaze dances with her delight, at 2:53 AM, and he thinks she’s the most beautiful thing in the world. They use that minute… just that minute, to drink one another in… 

At 2:54 AM they kiss for the first time.

[itskateak]

And They Were Roommates, Mr. Stark!

(Oh my God, they were roommates, Peter.)

Summary: Well, there was only one bed...Peter can’t help being a meme and Tony will join in every time.

Characters: Bucky Barnes, Peter Parker, Tony Stark, Velika Dante King (Fem!OC)

Pairing: Bucky Barnes X Fem!OC

Warnings: Fluff, nightmares, probably blackmail because why not

A/N: There’s really not a plot here. I just wanted to write an Only One Bed trope for my babies. Because why not. This isn’t beta read or proofread. It’s four-thirty am. leave me be.

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The safehouse was actually...nice for once. Well, it wasn’t in the middle of the damn woods, for a start. And it wasn’t falling apart, nor did it smell musty and unused. This safe house must be newer, which was a comfort after a mission gone slightly awry. 

The door didn’t stick when Bucky opened it, nearly stumbling over his feet when it swung in with way less resistance than he’d expected. There were three rooms in total, as usual. A living room and kitchen combination, a bedroom, and a bathroom. He dropped their stuff on the table and immediately began to strip off his tactical gear.

Velika kicked the door shut and leaned against it, exhausted. It was supposed to be a short mission. Get in, get the files, and get out. Well, the base wasn’t abandoned. In fact, it had been crawling with Hydra agents. It wasn’t impossible for the two of them to get through the agents, but that didn’t make it easy. Her body ached in ways she didn’t think possible.

“You wanna shower first? You look dead on your feet.” Bucky asked, laying weapons out on the table from where they’d been strapped to his body. “I’m gonna try and make contact with Stark. Let ‘em know we’ve made it here safely and get an ETA.”

“You’re a blessing.” Velika pushed off the door and pulled the zipper of her jacket. She shucked it off, tossing it over the back of the only couch as she passed. “I’ll try not to use up all the hot water.” She teased.

“I spent the last seventy-ish years on ice. A little cold won’t kill me now.” Bucky shot back over his shoulder. It earned him a laugh and he smiled to himself as the door to the bathroom shut. 

He grabbed his jacket and snagged hers on the way by and walked to the door. There were a few coat hooks on the wall. He could at least tidy their mess up. He toed his boots off and placed them out of the way. He grabbed a lighter from the cupboard and made his way to the fireplace with full intention to light a fire.

Bucky paused and furrowed his brow, looking at the open door of the bedroom. He stood and crossed to the doorway, poking his head in. Well, that was fantastic. There was only one bed. It wasn’t that he didn’t like Velika. The opposite was the case. And he didn’t know if he’d be able to keep his hands to himself if they were in the same bed together. 

He sighed and returned to the fire, lighting it quickly. Once it was crackling and putting off warmth, he wandered back to the kitchen table. He rifled through the duffle bag for his change of clothes, finding Velika’s there as well. He smiled and shook his head fondly.

Bucky knocked on the bathroom door lightly. “You left your clothes out here. I’m gonna come and set them on the counter, okay?”

“Oh, thanks!” Velika called from the other side. He opened the door, steam hitting him in the face, and reached out to plop them on the counter. 

Bucky shut the door behind him and sighed. He dug around in the bag again for the SAT phone, finding it quickly. He pulled it out with his clothes, setting those down on the table. He sank into the chair, wincing as his knee popped. It didn’t hurt. It just sounded bad.

“Stark?” Bucky leaned back against the chair, slouching.

“Hit me, Barnsey.” Tony’s annoyingly cheery voice crackled over the receiver.

“We made it to the safe house.” 

“Great! Uh, can you hang tight for the night? There’s a storm comin’ in tonight that’s grounding us until the morning. There should be food there and running water.” Now he just wanted to punch Tony in the face.

“Yeah...see you in the morning, then.” He ran a hand over his face and hung up. Well, twelve hours or so until evac. 

“So, how long are we cooped up here?” Velika asked from behind him. She was pressing water from her blonde hair, her head tilted to the side. She now had a pair of sweatpants and a loose t-shirt on and she looked far more comfortable now. And tired.

“There’s a storm hitting New York tonight that’s grounded even us. We’re here till morning.” Bucky stiffly rose to his feet. 

“Ew. I was hoping to get an actual meal tonight.” She wrinkled her nose up like she did when she smelled watermelon or kiwis. They weren’t allowed in the compound anymore as the smell just made her nauseous. “Let me get my crap out of the bathroom and then it’s all yours. There’s still hot water left.”

Velika disappeared back into the bathroom and reappeared with her shoes and tactical clothes. She stuffed them into the duffle bag and pulled her hair up.

“You hungry?” She asked as he scooped up his clothes and headed for the shower.

“A bit, yeah.” Bucky leaned in the doorway, his head resting against the wood.

“Want me to cook something?” Velika offered.

“Please?” He almost looked like a puppy for a second and she knew immediately that she couldn’t deny him even if she wanted to.

“Go shower, then. Can’t promise it’ll be done by the time you get out, though, knowing your penchant for three-minute showers.” Velika teased and started for the small kitchenette.

“You took eight minutes. Five minutes longer than you usually do.” Bucky countered, pushing off the doorway.

“Oh, you’re timing my showers, now? Go, you dork. Before I change my mind and let you starve.” He chuckled and the door to the bathroom shut.

Velika rifled through the pantry and found non-perishable cans of food. At least they weren’t reduced to MREs this time. She pulled a can of soup out and glanced it over. It would do for the night. She found a pot and set it on the stove before pouring the contents of the can into it. She set the lid on the pot and let it slowly start to heat up. 

She leaned against the counter, eyes falling shut as she waited. She was exhausted. Though she’d hoped to be in her own bed tonight, whatever was here would have to do well enough. She’d certainly slept on worse, considering her time in the war and in the POW camp. 

“I can cook for myself if you need to get some rest.” Bucky had a towel over his head and was ruffling it over his hair to get the water out. When he removed it, he looked like a fluffy dog. “Oh, by the way, there’s only one bed.”

That made her eyes snap open in disbelief. “You’re serious.”

“Check for yourself if you don’t believe me. I don’t mind taking the couch.” Bucky ducked back into the bathroom and returned with his clothes. 

“We’re adults. If the bed isn’t tiny as hell, then we can share. It’s one night.” Velika turned the stove off and found a bowl. “Clear the stuff off the table, please.” After hearing the duffle bag hit the floor, she turned and set the food on the table for him. As an inhuman being, she didn’t really need to eat and she didn’t feel like forcing herself to.

“Alright. Thank you.” He sat down across from her and quietly started to eat. “Did you turn off the stove this time?”

“Yes!” Velika swiveled around anyways to check. “Did Stark give you a time to expect him by?”

“Nope. Just said they’d be here in the morning. Gives us time to sleep, at least.” Bucky leaned his face in his hand. It seemed that was the only thing really keeping him awake. Now that the adrenaline was gone and they were showered, it seemed they were both headed to crash soon.

“Well, I’m going to go get settled. Which side do you want?” She stood and raised her arms above her head, stretching her back out.

“Lef’ side is fine.” Bucky brought his hand up to catch the little bit of soup that slipped out as he spoke. 

Velika snorted and placed a hand on his shoulder before heading to the bedroom. He was right. There was only one bed, but at least it was a double. She pulled the sheets and blankets back, her exhaustion quickly catching up to her. She crawled in and settled, finding the bed was actually very comfortable.

She was nearly asleep when the bed dipped with Bucky’s weight. He sighed tiredly and she fell asleep to the soft sound of him breathing.

|)(|)(|)(|)(|)(|

“Report.” The voice came from behind her somewhere. She was staring at the floor with a blank expression. Where was she? What was going on? The last thing she remembered was falling asleep in a safe house with Bucky. Wait, who was Bucky?

“She’s ready. Go ahead, sir.” Another voice that she didn’t immediately recognize responded. No, not again. Not this again. They promised they’d leave her alone.

The words were jumbled but she knew them all the same. Her breathing became labored and she struggled against the chains binding her. Please, don’t do this. Not again. The feeling rose in her chest as a scream. Her voice was grating and rough. 

Velika felt the tears run down her face. She got out. She was away from this. But they’d just dragged her right back into it. As the words continued, she started to still and calm. Her handler stood in front of her, waiting. 

“My body and soul are yours to command.”

|)(|)(|)(|)(|)(|

Velika sat up quickly, chest heaving. She hated those dreams. Those old memories dragged to the surface always came after her when she slept. She ran a hand over her face, wiping away the tears that had fallen. She took deep breaths to calm herself.

Five things. She could see her hands and the shape of the room. The air tasted damp like a small rainstorm had passed through. She could smell the soap provided for them and the traces of Bucky’s cologne. The blankets were soft beneath her fingers. The sound of Bucky’s steady breathing...was no longer something she could hear.

“Y’okay?” Bucky mumbled, voice low and slurred. He splayed his left hand on her lower back, thumb rubbing softly back and forth. She glanced over her shoulder at him. He’d rolled onto his back and was looking up at her with a sleepy yet concerned expression.

“Nightmare. M’okay.” Velika shakily sighed. “Did I wake you?”

“Yeah, but ‘s’okay,” Bucky assured her, continuing to trace patterns on her back. “Wanna talk ‘bout it?” His Brooklyn accent was coming out more since he was only half awake.

“Not...really. Just old memories.” Velika felt her heart begin to slow down. “What time is it?”

“Four in the morning, about. At least a couple hours till they’ll be here.” Bucky yawned and blinked tiredly. “You gonna try and sleep some more? I know how it can be after a nightmare.”

“I’d like to sleep more but honestly...I don’t know if I’ll be able to.” She sighed, staring at the corner of the room. She was still drained from the mission and her body needed the rest. 

“C’mere.” Bucky rolled onto his left side, tugging on her shirt lightly to encourage her. “Maybe you’ll feel safer knowing ‘m here with you.”

Velika cautiously laid down next to him. He shifted up a little to give her a little more space. She settled in, head tucked under his chin. He pulled her closer, throwing a leg over her waist to effectively wrap himself around her. He reasoned that if he did that, maybe he could protect her from more nightmares tonight.

Bucky pulled the blankets back over them, making sure she was comfortable. “Get some more rest, m’kay?” Without thinking, he pressed a kiss to the top of her head. She tensed in his arms and he panicked for a second.

“If you’re gonna kiss me, at least do it properly.” Velika teased and he was glad to hear lightness in her voice. 

“Didn’ think it was a good time, considerin’ you woke up from a bad dream,” Bucky admitted, face heating up. Her hand cupped his cheek and tilted his head down to look him in the eye.

“All things considering, I think it’d be the best time. Gimme a good memory to combat the bad.” She whispered, a twinkle in her eyes.

Bucky smiled and shyly leaned in to kiss her. It was gentle and timid. He didn’t want to give her the wrong intentions. She pressed closer to him, returning the kiss and he could feel her smiling against his lips.

“’S that gonna work?” He muttered when they parted.

“I think it’ll do just fine.” Velika giggled and snuggled into him. “I really like you. Like, romantically.”

“Oh, good. I was hopin’ it was that and not you checkin’ to see if I brushed my teeth.” He joked, eyes falling closed.

“Did you?”

“Nope.” He grinned and kissed her forehead.

“Well, guess we’re even ‘cause I didn’t either,” Velika mumbled, eyes fluttering as she fought to stay awake.

“Get some sleep, angel. We can talk about where we go from here once we’re comprehensive.” Bucky couldn’t help the smile spreading over his face. It was still there when he fell asleep.

|)(|)(|)(|)(|)(|

Peter quietly opened the door to the bedroom and poked his head in. His eyes widened and he very quietly climbed up the wall to get a better vantage point. What he thought he saw was actually what he saw. He smiled widely, happy that the two of them had finally worked things out. He’d been trying to get Bucky to say something to Velika for months now. 

He snuck down and out of the room just as quietly and shut the door. 

“Are they still asleep, kid?” Tony asked, Ironman suitless. Once he’d scanned the area and found that things were safe, he’d figured it was easiest to just walk into the safe house without the armor. Peter pulled his mask off with a grin.

“And they were roommates, Mr. Stark.” He recited. Tony gave him a confused look and started for the bedroom door. He opened it and poked his head in as well before turning to Peter with an expression similar to a kid in a candy shop.

“Oh my God, they were roommates, Pete.” Tony immediately pulled out his phone and snapped a few photos. A little blackmail wouldn’t hurt for the future. He wouldn’t use it to do anything too terrible. Maybe just get Velika to wash the dishes for him when he didn’t want to. Something like that. He shut the door and turned to Peter. “Give ‘em five more minutes.”

Tony crossed his arms and stood quietly for maybe all of thirty seconds before checking his watch. “Okay, time’s up. Grab the pots. Let’s wake these lovebirds up.”

Tony Stark was lucky Velika and Bucky weren’t armed.

[realityhelixcreates]

Beta, Theta, and Me- Chapter 5: Sleep in Your Own Bed

Chapters: 5/?

 Fandom: Thor (Movies), Avengers (Movies) Marvel Cinematic Universe 

Rating: PG 

Warnings: Relationships: Loki x Reader (But not right now), choking 

Characters: Loki(Marvel) Additional Tags:  A/B/O, Sorta, More Of An Exploration Of Life And Self Expression Within An A/B/O Framework, Loki Does What He Wants, But Loki Does Not Actually Do What He Wants, Antagonistic Bosses, Loki Has A Throne Now, But It’s Not What He Wanted

Summary:  You gather your things, and then you make a little mistake.

You rode the elevator down by yourself, going over your retrieval route in your head. You had enough money for three stops, but that was it, until tomorrow. You could probably wait, but you didn't really want to. You wanted to get at least one of your sleeping bags, so you didn't have to spend the night on a bare floor. It wasn't like you'd never had to do that before, but right now, you didn't need to.

For once, you didn't get any suspicious glares on the subway, with your washed hair, and your clean Starktech uniform. Amazing how people were so much more willing to accept your presence, when they didn't think you were a burden on society.

It took you a good few hours to round up your best caches. A few had disappeared, and some had been ruined in one way or another. You managed to salvage some of your best stuff, including two of your sleeping bags. Wresting it all onto the subway and all the way back to the tower was a challenge, and it did get you some stares, but nobody questioned a Starktech uniform.

Which might come back to bite Tony sometime.

But for tonight, it was just you taking advantage of the name to get safe passage while you hauled your stuff into the tower. You didn't even need keys or security clearance; Tony's ingenious artificial intelligence systems recognized who was supposed to be there and who was not.

When you finally reached your floor, all the lights were out, as you expected. Even the huge wall of windows had been blacked out. Loki must really like it dark-he'd blocked out all outside light, even in the rooms he wasn't currently in! Even the ambient back-up lights that were all over the tower had been darkened here.

That made it somewhat difficult to find your apartment door. You stumbled around in the darkness, searching for some part of the wall that wasn't wall. It was hard to hold on to all of your stuff, but you felt like you would lose it in the dark, if you were to put it down. If Loki could see you right now, you could just imagine him rolling his eyes, and muttering some kind of insult. Even if this was all his fault.

It was probably just one more way he could get on Stark's nerves: making it so that surveillance was useless. Even if it was just when Loki was asleep, no doubt whatever Avengers were left would want to keep a close eye on him. And no doubt Loki would do whatever he was able to mess with them.

Loki, God of Inconveniences.

Now that was something to think about. Gods were apparently real. Or were they? Certainly, Loki had seemed godlike, flying out of the sky with his alien plague, his outlandish clothing, his grand speeches. Smiting and laying waste to the wicked city with his great and powerful magics. Clashing with another god in a monumental battle to determine the fate of the world. Yes, that was the stuff myths were made of.

Your parents hadn't believed in God. Not in anything spiritual, in fact, and they had died before the discovery of extraterrestrial life. They had never known this horror. The enormous realization that gods existed, and the equally huge realization that even they could die.

Or at least be brought low. That the cruel and capricious Loki, who's face had dominated all forms of media for over a year, could be so badly injured that he could do nearly nothing for himself. What a terrible thing to know.

What had happened to him? What had brought all of Asgard here, to lowly Earth? Why had Loki even come along? Why wasn't he evil anymore? Or was he, and you were just going to have to deal with it?

No, surely not. Not completely evil, at least. Iron Man would have never allowed it, if he was completely evil. Thor wouldn't have let him out of his sight if he was completely evil.

He might still be a little evil though. As a treat.

But he'd shared his food with you when he guessed you hadn't had anything to eat. And even though he had teased you a lot today, he hadn't been vicious. But that did not mean there was no evil there. You were perfectly aware that evil could be sophisticated and handsome, or harmless in appearance, or even boring and mundane. You had faced mundane evils almost every day for the past year. Hostile architecture, being barred from entering certain places, unwarranted hatred, violence, and exploitation.

Some of your caches of supplies had been deliberately destroyed. Not thrown away, not even stolen to be used by someone else. Someone had found them, made them unusable, and then left them for you to find, on purpose. That was the kind of simple, everyday evil you faced.

But maybe not anymore? Or at least, not for a while. Loki was convalescing, but not dead. He would eventually go somewhere else. To jail, or back to Asgard, or somewhere else. Somewhere you couldn't go. And then you'd be out a job. But still, you would have a good resume, and good recommendations, so it didn't really matter if this was temporary.

You heard a small sound, and went very still. In this complete darkness, you couldn't be sure you were alone. It was silly, because there was no way for anyone other than you, Loki, and other cleared personnel to even get here. It wasn't like there was like a thief lurking in the dark, but the lessons of the past year were still with you.

You finally found the door to your apartment, got it open, and dropped your stuff on the floor just inside. Finally. You could relax.

You heard sound once more, like a snippet of conversation. You recognized it as Loki's voice. He was awake? At this hour? Well, so were you, though you probably shouldn't be. You would feel it in the morning.

He was probably just on the phone with his brother or something. You could hear him talking, but couldn't make out any of the words. It wasn't any of you business what he was saying, but for some reason, the cadence of his voice put you on edge.

You were just about to shut the door behind you when his muffled voice shot up in pitch very suddenly, raising hairs on your neck. That was it! Stark didn't skimp on materials for his buildings; everything was state-of-the-art. This floor was practically soundproofed. Loki wasn't talking; he was screaming.

You rushed, stumbling down the hall, stubbing your toe on a display case, in search of his door. His yelling grew louder as you got closer, fumbled with the doorknob, and burst into his bedroom. Even though you turned on the lights, he didn't wake, just wriggled in the heavy blankets, shouting at the top of his lungs, words you couldn't even understand.

“Loki!” You cried. “Loki, wake up! It's just a dream! Wake up!”

He didn't seem to hear you over his own voice. You reached out and shook his shoulder insistently.

You immediately regretted it.

Loki's long fingers closed around your throat, cutting off blood and air. His eyes flew open, teeth bared in an animal expression, and he stared at you without a shred of recognition. His hair fell wild around his face, growling as you pried at his hand. You knew Thor could bench a truck; the strength of the Asgardians was legendary. But Loki was one of them, and as his grip tightened, you knew you had no more than moments left.

“M-master...” You choked out. Colored spots danced in your tear-stung vision.

Ferocity gradually bled from his face, intelligence and self returning to his eyes. He released you and fell back onto the bed, groaning in pain.

“Foolish creature.” He moaned weakly. His arms wound around you, slowly but inexorably drawing you down into his embrace. “Idiot. Brainless. Are you hurt?”

“I don't think so.” You murmured. “Are you?”

He made a noncommittal noise. But you'd heard the pain in his grunt when he fell back. Whatever was wrong with his neck couldn't have been helped by this.

You lay sprawled over his chest, Loki petting your hair. It was as awkward as it could get, but a little comforting. It slowed your heart rate, at least.

“Do you wanna talk about it?” You asked, though you weren't sure you wanted to know what kinds of things haunted a gods nightmares.

“What do you think?”

“Uh...no?”

“Not entirely brainless it seems.”

You fell silent together, Loki stroking your hair, slowly relaxing. You got caught up in the rise and fall of his chest, starting to drift off. You felt him sigh in contentment, then, just as suddenly, he was shoving you off the bed.

“Out. Out now. Off to your own rooms.” He ordered. “We're done here.”

Confused and tired, you scuttled back into the dark hallway and back to your apartment. Your sleeping bags stank of mildew in sharp contrast to the layered scents in Loki's room. You'd have to clean them tomorrow. You wondered if Loki would allow you to use his washing machine until you could get your own. He would have to, wouldn't he? To keep your work uniform clean?

Sleep came easily for once. The silence of being indoors and hundreds of feet above the streets, the implied safety that both of those things brought, and the faded adrenaline of the evening combined with the late hour to create a potent cocktail of irresistible drowsiness. So you didn't resist, and just let it claim you.

                                                                            *****

You woke up to a sore neck and Loki's insistent voice in your ear. Dragging yourself groggily out of bed, you found a new Asgardian uniform neatly folded on the floor just inside your door.

Oh, you didn't like that at all. This was your space now; he wasn't allowed in without permission! How did he even get in here?

Unhappily awake now, you snatched the uniform up and headed to the shower. Your only towel smelled as badly of mildew as the sleeping bags you'd spent all night in, but just let Loki say something about it. It would just be more reason to throw at him for using his washer, or getting time off to head to a laundromat.

A glance in the mirror showed what a mess you still were. Your hairbrush was old and worn, missing several of its bristles, but it still did its job well enough. It was just that your hair was all split ends and brittle, broken strands. Your skin-especially your face-was breaking out in reaction to being actually washed several days in a row. Your gums bled from your toothbrush. But you knew all this would pass.

Even the series of ugly bruises that ringed your throat would eventually fade. Though, for now...

You rummaged about in your salvaged things and found a pair of scissors, and an old flannel shirt that was falling apart. You snipped a sleeve off, and wrapped it around your bruised neck like a scarf. You'd be able to visit a thrift store and get yourself a 'new' one soon. Today was payday.

Loki had not yet left his bedroom, instead demanding your help in walking towards the master bathroom, which you had not known about yesterday. The prospect of going in there filled you with dread, but Loki merely bid you wait outside the door. Much to your relief, he didn't seem to need your help in there.

Although how he was managing on his own when he could barely walk was a mystery. How had he managed before you came? How long had he been here?

When he opened the door again, his hair was damp, and his clothing different, and he directed you to lead him to his chair.

“How did you get all that taken care of?” You asked as you wheeled him out into the semi-circular living space.

“I used magic, nosy thing.” He said. “Naturally.”

“Oh yes, naturally, of course, why didn't I think of that?”

“Because you're not very bright?” He ventured.

“Because we don't have magic here!” You shot back, and he chuckled. “Well, why do you need me then? Why not just use magic to cook and clean?”

“Hrm. Well...Technically I'm not supposed to be using magic at all while I'm convalescing. It slows the healing process.”

“Then why-”

“Do you really want to be the one to wipe my royal ass? No? Then I sacrifice in order to save us both some dignity. Now go make us breakfast.”

[artificialqueens]

Cruising for a bruising, Part 1 (Branjie) - Q-Tip & TheDane

Author note: Hello everyone, and welcome to our first collab! This is the first part of a multi chapter story, that we hope all of you will enjoy! You can follow us at @ArtificialQtip and @TheArtificialDane as well as find both of us on AO3, hanging out in the Branjie tag! A million thanks to @VeronicaSanders for betaing, and whipping our shit into shape!

“Drag ain’t paying you enough?“

“.. What?”

“Cause we’re on the same contract right? And I’m getting coin for being here.”

—–

Brooke was rinsing his shirt out, wringing the thin fabric in his hands, making sure it was completely clean before he hung it up.

It was their fourth day on the Atlantis cruise, he and Vanjie booked alongside a whole parade of Drag Race girls to spend 3 weeks in the Caribbean entertaining, dancing and getting drunk on board the world’s premiere gay cruise experience. Brooke had been hesitant to accept at first glance when the email had ticked in from his manager - as current reigning Drag Race winner he was asked for more things than he had ever been able to imagine, not even Miss Continental giving him any idea of the number of obligations he had landed himself in - but Vanjie had seen the contract line of ‘free drinks available for the duration of your stay’ in his own papers, and Brooke had known they were going, whether he wanted to spend 10 days on a boat or not.

So far they had spent time by the pool, thrown dollars at A’keria who had performed a stunning Nicki Minaj medley, hosted a cupcake class, seen Detox destroy the dancefloor, gone to a Raja Drawja, experienced Cracker’s comedy (though Brooke thought of it more like surviving) and gone to a cocktail hour in full drag. During the cocktail hour, Vanjie and Brooke had made out in a dark corner behind the bar like naughty school girls the moment they had a chance to get away. Vanjie body was so fucking sensual and hot as she insisted Brooke carried her, and she loved doing it. Brooke’s hand had been on her ass, their lipsticks smearing while they dry humped, neither able to truly come because of their tucks, but it had been the best kind of torture, Brooke still finding specs of glitter on his hands days afterwards.

“Watcha doing?”

Brooke looked over his shoulder, Vanjie standing in the door to the bathroom they shared, leaning against it like a fucking movie star. Vanjie’s red shirt was unbuttoned all the way down to the bottom of his sternum and showing his chest, his hair impeccably styled, the little bandana loosely tied around his neck the same color as his shirt.

“Just washing up. I’ll be there in a sec.” Brooke rinsed his socks, quickly throwing them on the towel rack. “You can just leave without me babe.”

“Drag ain’t paying you enough?”

“.. What?” Brooke turned around.

“Cause we’re on the same contract right? And I’m getting coin for being here.”

Vanjie smiled, and Brooke felt his heart flutter. Vanjie was so ridiculously attractive and Brooke couldn’t believe how he had gotten so lucky with his first actual boyfriend, the word still sounding weird in his mind, but Vanjie was worth it. He was the first person Brooke had met that he had even considered putting over his career, what he had called the true love of his life for as long as he had been an adult, but Vanjie was giving it a race for it’s money, and Brooke couldn’t pretend not to love it.

“Since you starting this laundry shit on the side.”

Vanjie gestured, and Brooke blushed, looking around the bathroom. He had hung up his t-shirts, all three of them drip drying from the shower rod, except the one he was wearing, his third pair of shorts and his bathing suit in the sink, his one hoodie still unused in his backpack.

“… No?”

“Just checking.” Vajie laughed, grabbing the band of his shorts and pulling him away. “Now come on, those cocktails ain’t gonna drink themselves, and I’m not waitin’ on you bitch!”

/

Brooke hadn’t spared the boy clothes he’d brought on board with him a single thought when he had thrown it all into a backpack, but if there was one fact he had learned from everything that had gone wrong in his adult life it was this very simple sentence. If he didn’t think of something as a problem - it usually was. That, and the growing uneasiness in his stomach, was the exact reason he was sure he was spiraling, and spiraling hard at that.

Brooke had never paid much attention to his boy wardrobe. He had never thought of his outfits for Brock as an artistic expression, had never related to any of the other reasons he had heard of why people cared so fiercely about what they wore. It was like he had known in the back of his mind that he would need all that energy and effort for Brooke one day. He could spend hours shopping online, looking at gowns and sketching things out either to make himself or to pay someone to construct without any trouble. Brooke was a work of art, each detail on her body placed there with care, precision and attention. Brock on the other hand?

Brock was happy as long as his boy self was covered and comfortable. That body was no more than a machine, carrying him where he needed to go, a container for his brain so he could make his sack of bones do the things he needed them to, whether that was doing a Grand Jete, dropping into a full split, walking en pointe, lip syncing on his head or spending an entire day in heels.

Brooke was watching Vanjie rehearse, Kameron next to him. They passed a two liter bottle of gatorade between them, taking swigs by the turn. He had struck up an unlikely friendship with Kameron, though it seemed like no one was surprised but himself. Kameron was a fellow Nashville queen, and while they had known of each other and even worked together, they had never gotten to know if each other this trip. Brooke found that it was easy to talk to the other queen, Kameron’s calm personality and their shared interest of bettering their workout routines giving them near endless supplies for conversations that could last hours if no one dragged them away. At times, much to their annoyance, they were forced apart by their respective significant others, Cracker often pulling Kameron aside when he was bored and left on his own. Vanjie was no better.

He spent so much time in drag, uncomfortable but gorgeous. So when he was just Brock, he prefered materials that allowed him to breathe, and allowed him to feel relaxed. He liked his shirts so worn in that they turned paper thin, shorts so used the material felt like butter, shoes practically walked to shreds. Sure, he was aware that he didn’t always look the most put together, but they were his clothes, and he knew they did the job.

Vanjie was doing a number, a remix with his infamous catchphrases scattered over the track. It was one of their fans who had made the track, and it had appeared in Brooke’s DM’s on Twitter one fateful day. Vanjie had been so excited he had practically bounced off the walls of their room the first time he heard it. He had FaceTimed his drag mother Alexis before he had even managed to listen all the way through, just so that she could hear it too, the two of them launching into the creation of choreography to go with it straight away. That had turned into a long night for Brooke, who had laid on their shared bed, the track playing on repeat for hours on end as Vanjie got all of his creative juices flowing. For days after he was haunted by the throbbing bass and “get those cookies,” bouncing of the walls within his head.

The beat of Vanjie’s song was loud and fast, fitting with his erratic movements. His moves were forceful, powerful, at once elegant and a testament to the unlimited energy that coursed within him. He looked amazing, the only piece of drag on him so far the heels. And the attitude, of course. There was always a particular attitude shift when he became her, and Brooke loved it nearly as much as he loved watching the reverse take place.

“She’s good.”

Kameron handed him the bottle of gatorade.

“She’s the best.”

Kameron smiled, and Brooke couldn’t help but notice what Kameron was wearing - a smart button up and black denim shorts. An actual outfit instead of the pregame comfort clothes Brooke prefered. Kameron looked nice.

In contrast, Brooke was wearing his grey shirt, a hole under the armpit that he had meant to get fixed suddenly embarrassingly obvious so he kept his arm close to his side, not wanting Kameron to see it. He loved the shirt he was wearing. He had had it on the first time he kissed Vanjie, and it was special to him, and a few holes couldn’t change that, though maybe it should have.

Brooke wasn’t used to feeling uncomfortable as a guy, even though he didn’t consider himself some great catch. He was true to himself, and that had turned out to be enough for the most part. As he sat watching Vanjie prance around stage, he let a long, frustrated sigh escape him. He sat squarely between people who made an effort, and even though he was a reigning queen, he had never felt more like a bum.

/

Slipping into Brooke Lynn’s skin after a day of anxiety itching under his skin felt like a blessing.

The majority of their season 11 sisters were backstage, getting ready for their gig that night. Ariel sitting next to Brooke as she put the final touches on her lashes. Brooke looked in the mirror when she was done, batting her eyes playfully and framing her face with her hands. Ariel rolling her eyes at her antics.

“When you feel your oats so hard you forget there are other oats there,” she said in a sing-song voice, and Brooke laughed vividly, red lips opening in a wide grin. She slapped the vanity table in front of them, the bottle of tequila that was placed there shaking slightly.

She was a few drinks in already, and they’d been passing that bottle around the dressing room since they had begun getting ready half an hour ago. The bottle was decorated with four or so different colours of lipstick, mixing into a unappetizing brown as they’d dried, and Brooke briefly wondered if making out with all of her sisters would produce the same nauseating color on her lips.

When Silky walked by, phone in hand, the camera pointed towards herself, Brooke grabbed her own. Brooke had never been hugely into social media, ballet taking up too much of her time, but after Drag Race, she had almost been forced online by VH1s staff of young hip interns. The key to an active fanbase was interaction with viewers, being accessible, and Brooke had never been one to turn down advice on success. She had taken to it like a fish to water, using both Instagram and Twitter like it was her second job, and in many ways, it was. Vanjie would sometimes help her out with getting the hang of everything, her boyfriend never more than two steps away from her phone.

Brooke picked up her phone as her laughter grew quiet, shooting Ariel a questioning look. A nod was all Brooke got and all she needed to know that Ariel was onboard. She opened instagram and launched a live, focusing the camera on her. She looked fucking good, stunning honey-blonde wig, red lips and her favourite red hoodie, bare chest underneath because of the heat, but mostly because she didn’t want the struggle of getting into full drag yet if she could avoid it.

“Hi guys!” Brooked grinned, waving her fingers and watching the viewer count rose steadily. She felt a surge of pride, her fans truly the best.

“Hiii!” Ariel smiled brightly beside her, leaning into the frame. “No one is going to be watching this. Not when the Silky show is on.”

“I know.” Brooke laughed, eyes fluttering to the queen on the other side the small space. “So I’m checking in for the day, we’re still on a boat, still floating around the-”

“We floating around Paradise!” Silky’s voice was loud as she abruptly entered Brooke’s frame, her own phone still firmly in hand. Silky’s eyes shifted between her phone and Brooke’s, before settling on her own as she continued to speak. “So I got three dicks and-”

“You got three dicks?” Brooke roared with laughter, Ariel close to tears next to her.

“I got three dicks in my inbox!” Silky continued undisturbed, kicking the leg of Brooke’s chair as she passed by. “They ready for a taste of this ganache!”

“Better with three dicks in the inbox than six on the dancefloor!” Ariel chimed in, sticking her tongue out as she tried to apply the last of her eyeshadow without being shoved over by Silky who was loudly telling her story of a Grindr hookup. “Just saying.”

“You would know.” Brooke elbowed Ariel, the other queen cursing her out loudly when the tiniest flicker of eyeshadow fell on her cheek at the action.

Brooke loved shooting these behind the scenes moments with her sisters, as she so rarely got the opportunity to really spend time with them. Her post Drag Race schedule was often so busy she barely even felt like she saw her cats. Sometimes she even felt like she barely saw Vanjie. Not that she got away with it; Vanjie was a lot louder than the cats when she was unhappy about something. The cruise, although she hadn’t been onboard - all puns intended - at the beginning, had turned out to be a true blessing in disguise.

“Who’s talking about dick?!”

Brooke would know that voice anywhere. The loud sound coming from the vanity that Silky has recently vacated on the other side of the room, Vanjie whipping around to look at the others. She was nearly done with her makeup, her lips a dark purple finishing off her look. Vanjie tapped her lips, a smile on her face, and Brooke felt it like a siren song to which she couldn’t help but reply.

“No one.”

Brooke rose from her seat, quickly heading towards her boyfriend. Brooke grabbed the bottle of tequila on the way, adding an extra sway to her hips as Vanjie watched her make her approach.

“You a lying slut.” Vanjie rolled her eyes at her. Brooke raising her brows and taking a swig from the bottle, nose scrunching at the horrible taste, but hey, she was on a cruise. She had to be at least a little drunk at all times. It was sea love.

“Hi Papi.” Brooke laughed, leaning over Vanjie’s shoulder so she was included in the shot, and gave her a peck on the lips.

“Mmh.” Vanjie deepened the kiss, Brooke giving a playful lick to Vanjie’s upper lip, which made Vanjie slap her on the shoulder.

“No!” Vanjie looked in the mirror, her lipsticked ruined. “You bitch!”

Brooke spared a glance to her phone, the messages coming faster and faster. The fans loved whenever she included Vanjie on her stream.

“Sorry babe.” Brooke leaned her head against Vanjie.

“Girl, I just did this.” Vanjie was complaining, adorable grumps coming from her, but she was smiling so Brooke knew she hadn’t actually fucked up. Vanjie gestured to her own face, a patch of purple smeared above her cupids bow. “I can’t believe you doing me dirty with this fucked up light and ruining my look.”

Vanjie took her lipstick off, Brooke giving her another color she accepted right away.

“I think you look perfect.” Brooke ran a hand through Vanjie’s boy hair, a move she would never have dared if she hadn’t known that Vanjie would be covering it with a wig cap in a matter of minutes. Brooke had messed with Vanjie’s hair once, and the dressing down he had gotten from one very angry tiny Puerto Rican made sure he had never even considered attempting it again. “Doesn’t she look absolutely perfect?”

“Who you talking to?” Vanjie looked up, smacking her lips. “This Instagram live?”

“Yes.”

“Follow me! Twitter, Facebook, Instagram, real life, at the grocery store who gives a shit, it’s all at VanessaVanjie!”

Brooke cracked up, Vanjie of course taking the chance to promote herself. She was the best PR manager Brooke had ever met, Vanjie launching herself into stardom, her boyfriend breaking 1 million followers before Brooke had, even though she was the one who had won Drag Race.

“You heard the lady!” Brooke gave Vanjie another kiss at her temple, leaving Vanjie behind as she answered a few comments, saying hi to fans and giving shoutouts to whatever country they came from, telling everyone that both she and Vanjie would love to go if they could get a local booker to fly them out.

“You all like my lipstick? Thanks! It’s Nyx Soft Matte Lip Cream in the shade Amsterdam - you could blow a man with this and still have perfect lips!” Brooke smiled. “And believe me…” she winked. “…I’ve done that bit of research myself.” The chat went insane, eggplant emojis and peaches getting thrown at her at an alarming rate, so Brooke launched onto the only comment that didn’t seem dangerously sexual.

“Yes it does match my hoodie!” Brooke smiled, pulling at the collar of her hoodie as she playfully poked out her tongue. “Thank you for noticing.”

Brooke was truly one of the luckier queens, her live streams usually free of drama and spectacle. Vanjie liked to tell her they were too pure and sweet, that she needs to ‘dirty’ it up. Lord knows Vanjie had tried her best to make it happen, making semi-clothed sneak appearances whenever she felt frisky, Brooke having to close her stream in a panic once or twice just to make sure her boyfriend’s dick didn’t end up online.

Brooke’s eye caught on a comment, her eyes narrowing as she read it. Thank god for her full-coverage foundation, as it almost hid her frown lines.

“Did I wear this hoodie on my last live?” She wondered out loud. Her eyes traveled the front of her body in a flash. She was wearing her favourite hoodie, the inside so soft and comfortable with how much she had worn it.

“And the one before that,” Silky breezed past her, lifting one hand to flick the zipper of Brooke’s hoodie. She turned to face the camera briefly, winking. Brooke huffed.

Brooke rolled her eyes at the camera, hoping her attitude transferred efficiently through the lens. She read the comments, her fans discussing loudly. It was amazing, really, how a single comment about her clothes evolved into an entire audience asking about her closet. And she had just been in such a good mood, too. “Of course I own other clothes!”

“Then why don’t you wear them?” Ariel muttered, and it was pure luck that Brooke even heard it. Now if she was really lucky, none of her audience caught that particular dig, but it went without saying that her life was not destined to be that easy, and soon she was flooded with comments along the lines of “shadeee” and one user even begging for a wardrobe tour. Brooke’s mind flickered to the t-shirts still drying on the shower rod, what a wonderful youtube video that would be. Brooke stuck her tongue out at Ariel, the camera catching her from the side as she extended her neck.

“I change my clothes every single day, thank you very much.”

“Does it count if you only have three shirts to switch between?” Ariel was smiling, her entire face lit up in obvious delight.

“Oh you wanna start bitch?” Vanjie cut in, and Brooke felt a second of dread, before Vanjie continued speaking, “Don’t you dare come for my man. I’m the only one who’s allowed to talk about his terrible wardrobe, besides, he still looking like a snack so who the fuck cares if he wears the same thing.”

“Obviously you don’t!”

The room erupted in laughter, and Brooke joined it, but it wasn’t quite the rambunctious laughter that she wanted it to be, the claws of anxiety sinking into her.

Brooke knew she was a late bloomer, that she took extra time to pick up on things, that he was often the last to get on a trend. It usually didn’t bother her. She knew who she was, but as everyone laughed at her, Vanjie even joining in she couldn’t help but feel like maybe, just maybe, she actually had a problem. That she was somehow not worthy.

/

Brooke was staring into his closet. Looking at everything he owned.

He had lain awake all night, listening to the sounds of the ocean. Vanjie’s soft snores kept him from spiraling completely, the only reason he hadn’t flipped out on the man in his arms, Vanjie even more of a handful when drunk. Brooke had helped him out of his makeup and outfit before they collapsed into bed together, Vanjie loudly declaring himself queen of the world after she had premiered her new remix for the first time, everyone chanting “VAN-JIE VAN-JIE! VAAAN-JIE!” as she left the stage.

“Brock! Come on. Breakfast is waiting!”

“Just give me a second!”

Brooke sighed. His choice not getting any easier with a loud and demanding boyfriend growing bored on the bed, Vanjie getting dressed so fast Brooke wasn’t even sure he had ever been naked.

‘How did you get here Brock Hayhoe? You’re 33, and you have no idea how to dress yourself.”

Brooke had no idea what to put on, but he ended up slipping on his white shirt, at least somewhat confident in what he saw in the mirror when he turned back to Vanjie who had obviously been filming him, his boyfriend laying in bed.

“Put the black one on.”

“Why?”

“I want some photos of us on this boat, and if my fans see you in one more white shirt they’re gonna think I murdered you or some shit and you’re just copy pasted into my feed.”

Brooke laughed, the sound short and harsh to his own ears. A laugh of defense.

“Sure babe. No problem.”

/

Brooke made a beeline for Nina at breakfast, leaving Vanjie behind at the pancake station the moment they stepped into the cafeteria. He didn’t turn around, knowing that Vanjie would be looking confused, and he could not try to explain what was going on right now. He was hungry, but more desperate than anything else, and Nina was the beacon that he was going to steer his boat to.

“Nina, I need your help.” Brooke dumped down, startling Nina while A’keria barely even looked up from her bowl of breakfast.

“What happened to Good Morning honey?”

“I don’t have time.” Brooke almost grabbing the croissant out of Nina’s mouth to get his attention, A’keria snorting. Nina had been his friend for more than 10 years, and he trusted him more than most, if not all the people in his life.

“Unless it has something to do with sex, I don’t want to hear it.” Nina said resolutely, picking the dropped croissant back up and taking a large bite.

“I need new clothes.”

Nina choked, coughing around his mouthful of pastry.

“Excuse me?” he said as soon as he had cleared out his airway.

“Don’t give me that look.” Brooke crossed his arms, watching his friend.

“You kinda asking for the look, besides, where’s your man at? I haven’t had anyone yell at me yet and you’ve been here for an entire five minutes. Has Vanjie died?” A’keria took a sip of his coffee, watching the entire thing with amusement in his eyes.

“A’keria, you’re not helping.” Brooke turned to Nina. “Listen, I really need your help.”

“You, Brock Hayhoe, want new clothes?”

“Is it that out of character for me?” Brooke wrinkled his nose.

“Kinda is, babes.” Brooke looked over to A’keria, who was stirring around the sad remains of cereal in her bowl.

Brooke couldn’t believe it had taken him this long to realize just how desperate of a situation his boy self was in fashion-wise. Everyone else apparently already knew, and Brooke felt like an awkward teenager, once again forgotten when common sense had been handed out. He hadn’t even considered it be

“Oh, come on sweetheart.” A’keria fixed him with a knowing stare. “You’re not that stupid.” She put her bowl aside, leaning in, as if she was telling Brooke a secret. “Now I ain’t opposed to a man strutting his stuff if he got it, and honey, you do, but what you’re going for is anything but planned. You’re very pirate chic, very cruise appropriate.” Brooke nodded, listening along with his full attention. “But fashionable baby? Hell nah.”

Brooke knew A’keria was right, and he wanted to change it. Wanted to change it for Vanjie who obviously cared so much about it.

“I’ll help you Brooky Poo. Don’t you worry. Auntie Nina will be at your service as soon as she finishes her croissant.”

[chocobobutt]

MOTE IT BE

READ ON AO3 

Cloud is a witch who just opened a potions shop (magic is common) and on his weekly trip to pick herbs he meets a hunter of magical creatures hurt in the woods, healing him was easy but both soon learn cloud might have used the wrong type of healing spell.

Thank you @thequalityrunaway for being my beta <3

Star of love, burn so bright Aid me in my spell tonight Unite my true love to me As I will it, so mote it be

Crunches of partially dry autumn leaves scattered across the ground became a cacophony of noise against the quiet forest. A distant humming began as the lone traveler in the woods went around looking by tree stumps and under bushels of leaves for herbs. Owning a potions shop was a common profession for most witches in this day, but this witch wanted the freshest ingredients for his shop, and those were found only in the forests. It was often the blonde witch would go out in the early mornings when dew or frost still littered the ground. Today was no different as once again the blonde witch had on his black boots that definitely didn’t seem witchy at all. Due to the Autumn weather he kept an over-sized hoodie on as well, black as the rest of his clothing. The only article of clothing on him with even a little color was his woven basket with its light blue lining to keep all the herbs he collected safe.

The sky above was still in the early dawn stages; yellows and oranges just peeking over the hills to clash with the deep midnight blues of the night. It was a time when most magical creatures were preparing to sleep after another night of mischief, and thus one of the safer times to be alone in the woods for most. This night had been particularly cruel to one human, a hunter of creatures. Many hunters found well-paying jobs in small towns and cities protecting the inhabitants from all ill-willed creatures. There were wicked fairies and good ones, trolls who traded and trolls who kidnapped. All magical creatures had temperaments of their own and while some worked well with humans, others aimed to hurt. Thus came the hunters. It was never an easy job but there had been schools for those who showed promise. There was never the guarantee of coming back alive and this particular hunter had scars to show, a rather large one across his face.

The witch was on his way back, heading to a patch of mushrooms he frequented when a boot that definitely wasn’t supposed to be there had him tripping and falling into a very soft and mildly cold body. “Ooof!” The witch called as he quickly tried to get up and recover any fallen herbs. The moment his blue eyes narrowed in on who and what he had fallen on, he quickly checked for a pulse and found a faint one. “Crap, crap, crap!” Forgetting the basket and herbs for the more dire task at hand, the witch looked for any wounds. He tried to pull at any parts of the others clothes without ripping to tell if there was any blood. When the stranger was deemed clean, the witch took out his little travel spell book from his pocket and quickly flipped to whatever healing spell he could find. His eyes darted from page to page as he tried to read them as quickly as the pages flipped, landing on an older blurred spell. “Healing L Spell? Light spell maybe? Fuck I don’t know this one well...” A shiver from the stranger below him had him throwing whatever caution he had to the wind as he read the spell over and quickly drew a protection circle by the top of the other’s darker hair.

“Healing thoughts sent in flight, bring the brightest of blessings this very night. Send this healing white light from above, surround my friend now in healing love.”

As the words left his lips, the stranger glowed a pale, almost pink, tone for a moment before icy eyes opens and he started to cough. It wasn’t until the witch looked down and noticed that he was still sitting on the stranger and the cause of his now coughing state that the got off and sat to the side of him. “Are you alright? What happened? You were nearly dead!”

The stranger coughed once more, clearly trying to gather his surroundings when his eyes focused on the witch. He heard him talking and clearly freaking out a little most likely from him suddenly waking but regardless of how much he wanted to just tell him to shut up and explain things, his body just reacted on its own and he pulled the witch in for a kiss.

Almost as quick as their lips met, did the witch punch the stranger in the face. “I’m so sorry but what the hell? I know I saved you but you don’t just go kissing people!”

The punch had hit harder then the stranger thought such a small witch could throw and he’d be damned if he didn’t have a bruise for awhile now. Explaining the bruise was going to be annoying when he got home but the more pressing matter was why he had just kissed a stranger. He had never even wanted to kiss another before. “.....” Afraid of his own body now, the stranger tried after a deep breath to say anything but was cut off from the other.

“Just...let’s get you out of here alright? I’m Cloud, what’s your name?”

“....” For a moment the stranger didn’t answer. It wasn’t until his icy eyes looked away from Cloud’s that he would reply. “...Squall.”

“Huh, I guess the weatherman did forecast it being rather Cloud-y with a chance of Squalls today.” The blonde joked, cracking a slightly sheepish smile.

The puns were just so bad that Squall had to look back at the other and with a gloved hand over his mouth he chuckled and tried to ignore the prickling feeling coming from his heart at that joke.

“I don’t live too far away. If you can walk I’ll lead you there. I have some potions I can maybe use to heal you up better.” With that, Cloud stood up and brushed his black clothing free of any dirt before extending his hand to the other.

Squall was hesitant to take it still but this Cloud really did seem like he wanted to help.

“...Thank you…” He managed to say as he stood, ignoring the hand for now. Once standing it seemed the world went upside down as his head spiraled and he had to grasp onto Cloud to keep himself upright.

“Whoa! Okay hold on don’t fall. I think you got up too fast, man you must have really been out long.” His arms wrapped around Squall to help him stand, making sure most of the weight was put onto him and it seemed to help. “Better?”

“Mhm…” The moment Cloud touched him to help him stand, Squall lost himself again. He wasn’t as dizzy anymore and with Cloud this close to him he could smell him. He smelled sweet, spicy, with undertones of incense and a bit of mint. It was familiar and inviting yet foreign at the same time, the scent of magic. He liked it and leaned into Cloud a bit more, resting his head on the shorter man’s shoulder.

Cloud was no mind reader; that was Aerith’s forte, but he knew something wasn’t right with his new travelling companion. Not knowing the other well enough, he wasn’t sure how much was normal and how much wasn’t. For all Cloud knew the man was normally very touchy with others, but something was telling him that wasn’t the case. They needed to get back home so he could research exactly what he had done to the other. “...Right...well let’s head back.”

The travel back had been going well until Cloud had almost tripped over a leaf covered root. It was after that minor inconvenience that Squall had turned the tables and carried Cloud instead. When Cloud had asked why the only response he received was a strained, ‘I don’t know.’ Both men were clearly uncomfortable after that but Cloud didn’t stop him, he had a feeling he couldn’t even if he tried and now was pretty sure what kind of spell he had used on Squall.

“Well here we are….you can put me down now Squall.” The house they came up to was on the farther end of the town, small on the outside with it’s old stone exterior covered in moss. When Squall put him down Cloud quickly went to his wooden door and unlocked it, entering the home as lights flickered on. The inside was bigger than the outside perceived and more modern as well. The outside was a typical witches dwelling but the inside was decorated in a modern fashion in grey and black tones with only some hints of colors here and there. Cloud quickly went from the entrance which had his small living and dining room/kitchen and to a back room with an oddly ornate door. He was only away a few moments, enough time for Squall to look around at the place. He kind of enjoyed the minimalist approach himself though a tad but more of color would have made this place more homey. He thought witches enjoyed rustic over modern anyway.

“Found it!” Cloud announced, walking back into the front area with a large old tome in his hand. “As I suspected….you um...well you are healed but…” There was hesitation in his voice and those cyan blue eyes looked into icy blues.

Squall could tell Cloud was nervous to say and that only made him sigh“...It’s a love spell isn’t it?” When he saw Cloud nod his head he moved closer and hugged him tight. “It’s okay...I can’t be mad at you.” While his voice sounded sweet and genuinely smitten, his words weren’t. “I physically can’t be.”

Cloud cleared his throat and pushed Squall away, unused to any kind of physical touch with anyone let alone a stranger. “It shouldn’t last too long. I might make it worse if I try to counter it so waiting for it to wear off might be best. I...I have an extra bed if you want to wait it out here and I’ll do my own thing so there isn’t anything weird happening.”

“Fine.” Short answers were going to be Squall’s new best friend until the spell wore off. He didn’t trust himself to say anything overly affectionate since every time he looked at Cloud’s face he was sure his own was red. The blonde was incredibly cute with his big blue eyes that held such emotion in them while the rest of his expression was stoic, and his slightly rounded face was even the more cute with that light dusting of freckles on him. Squall wondered for a brief moment if there were freckles ALL over Cloud but he quickly shook his head at that thought, the spell was really affecting him it seemed. “Can I rest?”

“Rest? Oh, ugh, yeah, go right ahead. I’m not the best cook but I’ll leave out some food for you if you want it later.” The guest room Cloud took him too seemed misplaced in this home, it was so rustic with its wood floors and chocobo print wallpaper that Squall thought he was imagining it. The room was small with just a twin sized bed, end table and chest of holding for any clothes the guest would bring. “Sweet dreams then?”

‘This is so tacky…’ “Thanks sweetie.” Squall blurted out, completely the opposite of what he had planned to say and silence surrounded the two men for a moment. Cloud was clearly uncomfortable and so was Squall so he just went inside and closed the door to separate them. Cloud’s magical scent wasn’t too strong in this room so once the door was closed he felt more like himself and went to bed, hoping to maybe wake up to the spell over so he could go home.

Squall was not so lucky.

The spell didn’t break when he woke up from a nap, nor did it break the next day, or the day after that. It seemed to get worse as time went on in fact, causing Squall to say sweet nothings at Cloud and to grab and hold him any chance he could. Cloud was incredibly wary of it at first, he’d never really been a people person unless he had to make some sales nor was he experienced in ever having a relationship. The gentle touches weren’t welcomed, at least until Squall started taking over cooking. The sweet words and touches were easy enough to write off as Squall being cursed, but the other making such delicious meals wasn’t. Cloud wasn’t the best cook; he knew that, but Squall was in a league of his own. He started looking forward to waking up early just so he could have fresh bacon, not cold like he had the day before due to his lazy ass not wanting to wake up. It was different to have someone else constantly in his life. Cloud had never felt he was lonely before, but the more time he spent with Squall the more he started to get used to having a roommate, a friend.

Squall had to admit that staying at Cloud’s until the spell wore off wasn’t the worst thing ever. The blonde didn’t bother him with unnecessary things and gave him space which was appreciated. The spell did have him following Cloud most of the time around the home and despite the one guest room, the only other room that was odd was Cloud’s workshop. It was behind that rather ornate door he had seen his first day there and when he entered … the place was an absolute disaster. Books were piled high on top of each other in mounds in the corners as herbs of all kinds hung around to be dried. The smell of so many spices and herbs was assaulting on his nose at first, but he grew used to it. He had wanted to organize the room but when Cloud worked it didn’t seem as chaotic anymore. The blonde went almost in a trance like state, easily moving through the mess to get whatever he needed. It was almost like a dance the way he’d make his spells and the more times Squall watched, the less he was sure if it was the spell or his own volition that made him follow Cloud every day into the workroom to watch.

The curse did eventually break. Cloud woke up before Squall, a good six week after the initial curse. He had been worried and for a moment thought Squall was cured and left in the dead of the night. When he went to check his room he saw the other was still there and sleeping. He’d looked so peaceful there, brunette locks framing his face like a mane. “Cute…” Cloud had never really had others around him, his mother was a witch and had taught him everything he knew, but she died a few years back. There were some in his life who visited in passing like Aerith, Tifa and Zack but they all had busy lives away. Squall was the first person Cloud had really allowed into his home, even if it was only because of a curse. In this moment however, Cloud was hoping the curse wouldn’t end. The longer he stayed around Squall and opened himself up, the more he wanted him to stay. At first the thought was scary but now looking at him like this, all Cloud wanted to do was keep him with him. Somehow he was falling in love with Squall.

“Morning…” Squall’s voice broke Cloud’s thoughts and he quickly got up and off the bed. “Did you need something, Cloud?” The brunette looked at him confused, it wasn’t that he didn’t mind seeing Cloud first thing in the morning but today something seemed off. He felt that now familiar pitter patter of his heart just by looking at Cloud but his body wasn’t reacting to it. He wasn’t throwing himself over the other like the past days. Realization hit him hard and he quickly got out of bed and went to Cloud, grabbing his arm. He did nothing more but hold him, no pulling in for a hug or trying to kiss him. “Cloud...I think...I think the curse is off!”

Cloud’s face paled at those words. He didn’t want to accept it, he didn’t want to lie either. The moment Squall had called him ‘Cloud’ and not babe, honey, sweetie, honey bun or any other term of endearment Cloud knew the curse was lifted. ‘Y-yea...it looks like it is.”

“I can finally leave and go home now!” Squall was already getting dressed in the room, putting on the hunter’s gear that Cloud had since mended and enchanted. “Not that there is much to go home to but I’m sure they missed me.” In the middle of lacing his boots up Squall paused, looking over at Cloud and saw nothing but sadness from the other. “I..mean..not that this wasn’t kinda nice. Thank you for taking care of me Cloud.”

“It was nothing, really.” It was hard to breathe, hard to even look at Squall. That loving look he got used to seeing was gone. They weren’t lovers, they were just acquaintances now. “I..um…” He couldn’t think of anything to say, he felt like the room was spinning. “I’ll make you a lunch to take with you.” Before Squall could even protest, Cloud darted out of the room.

“Cloud…” Yes Squall was very happy he wasn’t cursed anymore but seeing Cloud like that wasn’t what he wanted either. Curse or not he still seemed to like the other man and truthfully he didn’t want to leave, but he didn’t want to overstay his welcome either. He had friends and a sort of family back home, but he was a loner. It wasn’t the first time he’d been away for days on end and doubted anyone thought him missing at all. At least from Cloud’s reaction, it seemed someone would miss him. He just hoped he wasn’t misinterpreting it. Gathering the remainder of his things, he went to the front room where Cloud was still putting a lunch together for him. For once he felt the urge to hug him, not because of a curse but because he genuinely wanted to … but he held back.

“Thanks for everything again…”

“Oh it’s no problem at all.” Cloud was faking a smile as he quickly turned to Squall and then back to the sandwich he was preparing. “Annnnd done!” He turned and quickly shoved the bag into Squall’s arms before holding his hand out. “It was a pleasure meeting you Squall.”

“I..um..yeah….”Squall wasn’t so sure on Cloud missing him now. He shifted the weight of the bag in his arms as he took Cloud’s hand and shook. Icy blues met cyan and Squall couldn’t seem to let go of him. His own smile faltered and still holding onto Cloud’s hand he looked at the door and then back to Cloud. “I...um...on second thought I’m not sure I can leave yet.”

“W-what? Did you forget something?” Cloud couldn’t deny how his heart jumped at the thought of Squall staying, but he had said he couldn’t leave yet, not that he wouldn’t.

“I…” Squall sighed, letting go of him. ‘Why is this so hard? Just say you want to stay with him.’ His grip on the bag tightened and the longer he stayed in Cloud’s home the more he felt he needed air. He couldn’t seem to say the words he wanted to most, was it maybe a side effect of the spell?

Either way he bolted to the door and went as far as the small fence around Cloud’s home, leaning on it for a bit. He heard Cloud follow behind him, calling for him and when he turned Cloud was right there and worried. “I don’t want to leave.” He finally blurted.

It took a moment but Cloud finally replied, taking the lunch from him and hugging him tight. “I don’t want you to leave either.”

Squall hugged him back just as tightly and smiled. “Just one condition, no more magic on me okay?”

Cloud smiled, pulling away from that warm embrace for a moment to gaze at him. “Deal”

[imagineswriting47]

Christmas change of Heart

A/N: This is for the Anon who asked Hey! I was wondering whether you could write a young!Snape x reader imagine in which Severus hates Christmas until he spends the day with the reader in Hogwarts? Thank you so much!!!! <3<3<3 I hope that you like it! 

This is NOT beta read so all mistakes are mine and mine alone.

Summary: After falling asleep in a classroom late at night the Reader finds Severus as he is in the middle of being tormented by James and Sirius.

Warnings: Mentions of child abuse.

Paring: Reader/Snape 

I always loved spending Christmas here at Hogwarts, the snow and the decorations I just couldn't imagine being anywhere else. Going home was never an option for me anymore; I didn’t want to spend more time there than what I had to. It wasn’t always like that; once upon a time I had a happy life a Mom and Dad who loved me very much. But like all good things it came to an end; my Dad got sick and there wasn’t anything that we could do. I was forced to watch as one of the strongest men that I have ever known slowly fade away until he died. Mom was never the same after that; to cope with the lost she turned to alcohol. She became someone that I didn’t know, she just wasn’t my Mom anymore.

I don't know the first time she hit me, part of me feels like she always this way. It started out small but over the years it has gotten worse; broken bones and bruises I can't hide. But I can't leave her, she is all that I have left; she’s my Mom. So never going home during the holidays was a small price to pay to keep the buresis away at least till summer came around. But with Christmas I just could never find myself being sad. Christmas was not the time for sadness; not for me. It was a time for me to remember all that was good in my life not what was bad. Plus having the castle almost to myself was amazing. I could explore and find all the hidden rooms and hallways; I might know the castle batter than anyone here.

Sitting in that unused classroom that I came across one year I watched the stars. Dreaming of tomorrow and a better life. All the things that I am going to do once I am done here at Hogwarts. It was late and way past curfew so I knew that no one would be out and in the halls not even the teachers would be out anymore having gone to bed for the night. I always loved this time of night the calm and the quiet that is not normally found in the castle. Not with the group of friends that are in Gryffindor that just terrorize the halls. They say they are just pranks but there not; they are just bullies that are trying to justify what they are doing to students here.

I have been on the receiving end of the pranks that they have done. It left me with this goo all over me; it was horrible. Not only did the goo make my skin get a rash anywhere it touched but it was other peoples reaction. They just laughed at me not one person had a kind thing to say to me; the boys that did the prank didn’t even apologize to me after everything was said and done. They always go after Severus at the end of the day; and no one deserves to be treated that way. He is a good person, we all have darkness in us but his is just closer to his surface. But that doesn’t make him a bad person; I just don't want to see the bad in anyone.

I must fall asleep in the early hours of the morning sitting there on the window ledge. Its the sun that is high in the sky that finally wakes me up. With a wave of my wand I refresh the clothing that I had fallen asleep in, glad that I was not in my pajamas. Making my way out of that classroom and back to the main part of the castle I come across those Gryffindors tormenting Severus. I don't say anything as I come to stand behind James and Sirius. I cast a non-verbal hexes at them; hitting them right in the back. They lose focus as the pain from the hexes spreads across their backs. The hexes are something that I have created. They fall to the ground as the pain intensifies; the hexes are meant to push your pain tolerance to there limit before fading. I don't pay them any mind deciding that they deserve what they have coming from everything that they have put this student body through. I walk past them and go right to Severus.

“Are you alright?” I ask him as I hold my hand out to him to help him up off the ground. He doesn’t say anything as he just stares at my hand; he doesn’t take it and stands up on his own.

“I didn’t need your help.” He snarls out as he look at me. Once he is standing I remember how much taller is is than me making me have to look up to him now to meet his eyes.

“I know, it was more of a chance for me to get back at them for dumping that goo into me.” I motion back to James and Sirius and where they lay there on the ground. “Come on let’s get out of here before the hex stops working!” I grab his hand and start pulling him out of the hallway. He doesn’t fight me so that either means he was not expecting me to grab his hand or he agrees with me. But I would bet all my money it is the first one. I run with him up to the seventh floor before grabbing the clean clothes that I have hidden on this floor.

“What are you doing?” He questions me for the first time since we left that hallway and James and Sirius behind.

“I want to show you something that I found one night when I was put wondering the halls.” I say as I start walk back and forth thinking about the room that I want. I think about a room with books of every kind but also with comfortable chairs. And a place for me to change out of the clothes that I am wearing. When the door appears on the wall that leads to the Room of Requirement the look on his face was that of shock; not that I can blame him a door did just appear on the wall.

Pushing the door open I walk inside once Severus is in the room with me the door disappears from the wall. He doesn’t pay me any mind as he walks around the room and looks at all the book that are now in the room. The whole of one wall is covered in bookshelves on the other side of the room they are couches and chairs that look plush and so soft. Walking to the one side of the room that is walled off I find that the room has put a bathroom in.

“What are you doing?” Severus asks me from the other side of the wall.

“I slept in the clothing that I was wearing so I am changing out of them and into something clean.” I state as I start to pull my shirt over my head before throwing it into the corner of the bathroom.

“Where did you get the clean clothing?”

“Oh, I keep stuff to wear on every floor. With James and Sirius being, well them, I don't want to go through the whole goo thing again.” He doesn’t say anything after that and it doesn’t take long for me the change and walk back to the main part of the room.

“Why are you being kind to me?” He asks from where he is standing on the other side of the room. Arms over his chest as if trying to protect himself from me.

“I know you don't want to hear it but I saw someone I could help. So I did, I didn’t do it for any other reason than that. Well, I did want to get them back for what they have done to everyone.” I say to him hoping that he will believe me and what I am saying.

“Where are we?”

“It’s called the Room of Requirement; I found it earlier this year. You just need to walk in front of that wall three times thinking about the room that you want.” I walk over to the bookshelf and pull a book down not even looking at before walking over and taking a seat on the couch. He sits down next to me his own book in his hands.

“Severus I know we don't really know each other but I would like to be your friend.” I say to him making him look up at me shock clearly written on his face. We both don't have a lot of friends. I am that weird girl that has her head in the clouds and he is interested in the dark arts.

“You want to be my friend?”

“Definitely.” I tell him with a smile on my face.

After that day we spend everyday of break together in the Room of Requirement talking, hiding from everyone else and getting to know each other better. We found that we both had a lot in common, for two people that were so different it gave us something to talk about. When we were silent and reading our own books it’s comfortable. One night I fell asleep as we were sitting on the couch only to wake up with my head in his lap his fingers in my hair. It wasn’t weird like I thought that I would be but comfortable. Sitting up I feel his hand slip through my hair making me miss the contact when his hand falls away.

“Sorry I didn’t sleep very well last night.” I mumble as the blush spreads across my face. Hoping that he doesn’t ask more. I don't want to talk about my nightmares, not yet anyway.

“It’s fine.” He tells me as he looks at me as if he is trying to find out the truth of something. The truth of what I am not sure. We spend the rest of the day working on the assignments that the teachers have given us to do over the break. It doesn’t take long as where one of us is weaker in a subject the other is stronger and will to help.

“Hey dinner should be starting soon.” I say as I stand from where I am sitting on the floor. He doesn’t say anything as he stands next to me as we leave the room. We both sit together in the Great Hall not caring about House tables. We can see the look on the professors faces as the two of us sit together. Being from Y/H/H and Slytherin doesn’t make us likely friends. The food is some of the best that I will ever have. But as dinner comes to an end Professor Dumbledore stands up and motions to get all of our attention.

“Tomorrow the third years and up are free to go to Hogsmeade as long as you have already been given parent promotion.” His voice sound across the room as the students that are left listen to him.

“We should go!” I say as I turn to look at Severus. “I would love to get out of the castle of the day.” We only had a three days now before Christmas and I would love to be able to get Severus something for the holiday. I have been working the last couple of years in the muggle world so I had some money saved up.

“If you want.” He must only be agreeing when he see the look on my face. The next day comes fast and I am up early once again not being able to sleep due to the nightmares that I always have. Glad for the silencing charms that I can place round my bed during the year so I don't wake the other people up that are in the dorm.

I dress as warm as I can before casting a warming charm on myself. He planned to meet down in the courtyard before heading to to Hogsmeade together.

“Hey are you ready to go?” I ask him as I run up to him and hug him. He still isn’t used to me just hugging him like this and he doesn’t hug me back but he doesn’t push me away from him. So I take that as a win. The walk down was quiet still early in the morning so Severus was still not awake. We spend the early morning in the Hogshead drinking butterbeer. We don't see other students till late into the day when the Marauders walk into the Hogshead shaking the snow off them. We leave not really wanting to be in the same room as them.

We walk over to a bookstore and look around Severus goes to one side and I go to another. As I am searching the shelves I find a book that I just think that Severus would love. I hurry to the counter where I pay for it without him noticing. I shrink it and place it in my pocket before going and looking for him in the shelves.  

“Are you ready to head back?” I ask as I come to stand next to him.

“Yes.” I take his hand into mine as it feels like the right thing to do. I can see his cheeks go red and it’s not from the cold.

The next three days pass the same way that the beginning of the week did. We spend every free second together and make plans to meet early the next morning for Christmas. I wrap the book that I have gotten him the night before so it would be ready for the morning. I meet him at the Room of Requirement at first light just like we planned. Severus already having the room ready for us we both step into the room.

“Happy Christmas.” I say as I pull him into a hug. He hugs me back and this is the first time since we have become friends. And I find it hard to believe that we have only been talking for over a week. It feels like I have known him my whole life. “I got you something.” I hold out the wrapped book to him.

“I didn’t get you anything Y/N.” I can see the real sadness in his eyes when he tells me this.

“That's okay! I just saw this and thought that you would like it.” I say as I pull him over to the couch so the both of us can take a seat. “So come on open it.” I am jumping up and down in my seat waiting for him to open it. He slowly takes the paper off it and turns the book over to read the title.

“Y/N this is amazing.” He say as he looks up from the book. I had gotten him the book that he had been talking about wanting. The book had only come out earlier this year; it wasn’t cheap but I knew how bad he wanted it so I got him it. I don't have the chance to say anything as I feel his lips press against mine. I am shocked into stillness not expecting him to kiss me; its not until he goes to pull away do I realized that I am not doing anything. I place my hands onto his cheeks as I press myself closer to him. I move my lips with his; the kiss is gentle and everything that I would expect from a first kiss. Sometime during the kiss I move so I am straddling his lap my hands bared in his hair his hands on my hips. We finally break the kiss when the need for air becomes to great. I lean down and place my forehead against his.

“Wow.” Is all I can say as I am trying to catch my breath.

“S-sorry Y/N I shouldn’t have just done that.” He says as he looks away from me. I can a Blush color his cheeks but his hands don't move from where they rest on my waist.

“Don't be that was perfect.” I whisper as I place a small kiss on his lips. I sit back so I am now sitting more on his knees so we are not pressed so tight together.

“I would have to agree Y/N. Normally I can't stand this holiday season, but now I would say I almost like it.” He says with a smile on his face and I can't help but let out a laugh as I wrap my arms around him; but he is right this is definitely the best holiday ever!

A/N: If you liked this please hit that heart. If you really liked this hit the re-blog.

Don’t forget requests are still open!

[beowulfs-booty-call]

SG Headcanons? SG Headcanons: Beowulf Edition™

Beowulf is stated to be very patriotic in his voice lines and Parasoul references his work “with” them, before rudely telling him to retire if she wins against him. This means that she also knew about the plan with the Medici Mafia to fight a drugged Grendel and win against him for the sake of the war against foreigners / the Skullgirls. However, this may also mean Beowulf participated in the war or had some sort of encounter with the royal family, if not being the entertainment for them in some manner. I personally think King Renoir oversaw his match against Grendel and made sure to work the deal so as to work up the favor for the canopy kingdom.

Beowulf also likes to drink Chamomile tea after first killing Grendel, it was offered to him as a way to sleep, and as such, it helped get over the restless nights where all he could sometimes do was realize… He may have actually killed a friend. I wanna think that there is some idea that he’s killed Grendel, but he’s repressed it into the psyche he plays off as Beowulf™

There’s been times Beowulf sits on the couch just to hope he can relax, but all he does is sit in his robe, boxers and tank top and just idles. His mind runs a whole bunch and he’s distracted with the idea of “What’s his purpose? What’s his use? What really is Beowulf?”

I actually project myself through Beowulf, lot like other characters such as Terra Branford or Eriko Kirishima, but I like to believe that Beowulf actually took his name up instead of being born with it. If not, he went with “Just Beowulf” instead because he’s a simple guy. That’s all he needs.

He’s also a really hard worker, but, he’s prone to sometimes over doing it AKA training every day with his weights or the gym because it’s been mentally drilled into him. If he wanted to be the best, he HAD to be the best. It’s one of the reasons he drinks Chamomile tea often: to relax and let things take place. At 37 years old, he was prone to feeling like he wouldn’t be able to finish every goal he wanted until he was “old”. He understands a bit better now that his accomplishments will last at the end of his storyline.

In the TV show Annie and Beowulf run, Beowulf is the superhero to the kids of New Meridian, while also taking on many new opponents in the ringside. He’s much more a WWE styled wrestler in that he’s back to being a celeb now, but still has his humble beginnings. He also has dated on and off again, but, even in the show he makes empty compliments / receives them from both genders. “What a strong man…” “Ah, thank you sir! Wulfman eats 8 dozen eggs every mornin’ just for trainin’!” “Oh… If only that amazing, handsome Captain Wulf was here…!” “Never fear, the Wulf is here! And… He’s free any time on Friday 8pm at Yu-Wan’s!”

Every morning he wakes up and does 125 squats, 200 pec decks, 225 crunches…

COMFORT CLOTHES EVERY DAY THIS MAN ONLY WEARS HIS BOXERS AND TANK TOPS OR SWEATS HE’S STILL A COLLEGE STUDENT.

When “incognito”, he just wears sunglasses and a baseball cap. Smooth.

Beowulf has also been a little on the chubby side as a kid, but mainly from eating well from backhome. I like to think he was born in the Canopian kingdom, but just has blood in other places he just hasn’t known or seen yet. It would make sense to the Geatish Trepak or Norse / Viking inspired moves to the original Beowulf anyhow. He came to the Canopy Kingdom fresh out the humble life and immediately found himself attracted to the rough and tumble before being let into the wrestling federation to prove his skills.

I like to think either he got his pelt from a Wolf he grew up with that later died peacefully, or, he hunted when he was younger before seeing a wolf die at the end of the hunt. No use for wolf meat where he came from, and in anger at the loss of life, he skinned the wolf for its pelt and vowed to take its place instead. He’s vehement of animal rights, but also tries his best to be open to nature despite hunting as his ideology is to live off the land with just what he needs.

I wanna also say that where Beo grew up in may have a cultural practice where the people take the pelts of animals they use to represent themselves. Bears for patriarchs/matriarchs, weasels / rats for children, otters for teens, and so on so forth. The wolf pelt was taboo and he later used it in rebellion to what he saw in it. Another idea is that the wrestling federation also has animal gimmicks as a way of bringing in the crowd Ala “The man from outta nowhere / Down under.”

Actually has a secret pen name and writes critiques about Operas / musicals and has an appreciation for Jazz as well as the late Contiello  family. He has been known to show up, decked out, and seat himself in the best seat, only to scream at the singers / actors with critiques. “JEEZ, MARIA, CAN YOU SING ANY LOWER? I CAN’T HEAR YOU FROM THE BALCONY.” “HEY SKULLBETH, DO YOURSELF A FAVOR AND BREAK A LEG WITH THAT CLASS ACT.” “YOU CALL THAT AN ARIA, I CALL THAT DIAR–” Of course no one expects this, so, the surprise comes in the form of a well made, thought out essay based on the finer points of the actions and tribulations the actors did or sang. He’s also a stickler for analysis!

The Hurting was actually a parting gift from the local wrestling federation: Just like Hrunting was given to him by Unferth, The Hurting was given to Beowulf by his old sleazy manager where ironically, hasn’t proven unuseful to this day

Immediately and utterly distracted by dogs, he can’t help it. He’s consumed with love over them and would postpone a battle just to pet one.

Unlike the public opinion, he has a master’s degree in English as well as Sociology, though, he’s not one to flex the brain muscles because he has to maintain the psyche of a warrior half the time. This is why he always whispers when fighting with people, while also pretending wrestling is “real” and “isnt”, he’s more focused on maintaining character

Grendel can in fact hear everything Beowulf is saying pre-Marie death, however, all he hears is Beowulf’s fighting quotes: “RUNNIN’ WILD, ALL’S CHAIR, TAKE A LOAD OFF!” (I have a comic planned for this lol)

Grendel’s arm is partially sentient, though he can hear and act, he still gets where his “friend” is coming from time to time. 

The Hurting gets reupholstered time to time, lots of fashion choices to be really honest, too little time to decide.

Unironically, Beowulf actually digs wearing skimpy clothes / speedos when weather permitting / in the mood, however… He doesn’t understand the social aspects of one, so, one he ran into the ring in a regular wrestling speedo and well… Let’s just say there’s a reason the beta drew that ONLY.

Went to college with Adam Kapowski, though, he mainly spoke to him over complaining about his physical education courses / wrestling club “Look, man, I got this cute professor but like, he doesn’t know jack shit over suplexing. Why? BECAUSE EVEN VICTORIA CAN SUPLEX ME BETTER THAN HE CAN”

Has once met Ms. Victoria during his offseason time when retired and she thought he was a villain when he applied to be a librarian, however, when she shows up as D. Violet, and scopes him out “closing” up, she finds him… Bench pressing book cases before she hurries back, still very concerned over the fact that she has to share her students with a supposed gigan wrestler.

Children flock to him for advice and training, and he loves it. When working as a librarian, he would help tutoring or cheer on students, as well as the whacky prank of stealing the janitor’s mop and mobile and would ride it down the halls with the kids. 

When time came to retire out of retirement, the kids came together and made him a botched card thanking him for all he did. Later, he would return to the ring and dedicate his first match to those very kids, and Ms. Victoria, who all sat in the front seats to the match, each with free Wulf™ merch.

Victoria respects him after this, though, she believes he may just be the silliest warrior to show up. D.Violet though has an unrequited crush on him. I’m tickled to fathom they maybe get married, but Beo isn’t one for really being tied down as he is now.

I’m biased to saying he marries me, but hey, that’s not what this post is about: Relationship wise, Beo is fine with no ring, but he’s not much for the ball and chain. He likes to build things up slow and steady, and extremely affectionate due to not receiving that love as much before.

Despite his exterior, his chest hair is like, soft af. Arm hair though isn’t easy and lemme tell you, dude is hairy everywhere. So, he makes it a point to not care and just trim the beard here and there. Also made a very bad commercial about hair loss and body hair despite the fact he doesn’t have those issues.

His hair is super curly so he just brushes it to the side. That’s it. That’s the goddamn cowlick hair cut we all love

Is the only one to know Annie’s true self, but pretends not to for the sake of being another “dumb mortal”. He implies he knows Annie isn’t the same Annie as “before”, but only to draw her ire. At the end of the story line, though, Annie and him grow closer enough that he admits his knowledge and Annie becomes his wingman and bro. 

And I mean bro as in, homegirl screens all would be dates / gf / bf and also manages to make time to meet at their favorite local diner. She hates the amount of hate he gets time to time for being “basic” but she herself is your run of the mill “anime magical girl”. Annie chalks it up to the fact no one cares about talent anymore, but Beowulf still believes Annie has some talent left in her, despite her not seeing it. It’s one of those key reasons she’s very big on his wellbeing: He trusts and believes in her when not many people do. They just believe in the girl of the stars, not Annie.

Annie likes to WHUMP her face on him when embarrassed, and many a time people have walked into his chest or abs because he’s 6′7″ HE’S A FUCKING GIANT. He doesn’t mind it, in fact, he’s flattered by it on the inside ‘cuz he’s a smug Wulf.

Annie, after about 2 weeks being his best friend, cracks many raunchy jokes with him, though, he also brags about certain things he knows she probably won’t experience to her dismay. “Man, Annie, I would have really taken you out to the bar, but oh, I forgot, they don’t serve children!” “Wulf, you’re lucky a 12 year old can’t stab a middle aged man.” “Excuse me princess, would you like another helping of Dinosaur nuggets and fries?”

Tired Wulf Boi Curls Up and Sleps

Cried because he saw those ASPCA commercials

Would fuck a werewolf. Would fuck a monster for the ride of his life. Would also have the gas running and the car ready in case you need the body hid. He’s a ride or die sort of dude, he makes it known when you wake him up too early without context.

“Oh, gosh, golly, gee” is something he copies from Annie time to time

Struggles also, not to curse around her. Dick-tionary, Ass-ets, Douche-Nozzler the gobbledygook. All Annie™ words.

Broke a laptop just by touching it, can now hold a toaster in his hands.

Would not get the reality of wearing a collar. “Wow, you must have a nice do–”

Is still waking up each morning ready to find and craft his purpose in life. He’s used to it not knowing, but he’s clearing his head so far

[lifeinahole27]

CS ff: “Wait for the Moonrise” (1/10) (au)

Summary:  Emma doesn’t remember who she was before she was found in the woods, but she knows that she has a few close friends, a good job, and a loyal cat that greets her every day when she gets home from work. What she doesn’t know, however, is that her past is about to catch up to her in the strangest of ways. She learns quickly that not everything is as it seems, not even her cat.   Rating: E Content warnings: smutty smut (sorry, not this chapter), brief mentions of the loss of a hand Chapter specific content warnings: None A/N: Oh man, where do I start? With thanks, of course. To @clockadile​ for the absolutely beautiful artwork that I can’t believe goes with my story. To @captainstudmuffin​ for the intense beta work and idea bounces and listening at every turn. To @phiralovesloki for the guidance and the love and more hand-holding than I should’ve ever subjected you to, but still you helped. (Edit: I AM THE WORST and forgot to thank @sambethe for her wonderful feedback, which also helped me shape scenes to be better than they were!) Without you all, this story would not be here. I’ve got nothing else. Enjoy! Catch it on Ao3 or FFN! And catch @clockadile‘s artwork HERE!

The first day that Emma Swan remembers, she is barefoot, in nothing but a cotton nightgown that looks straight out of another world, and she is freezing. Her hair is icing over, the wet tendrils hardening in the frigid weather, and she’s vaguely aware that she should be worried about her toes, her fingers, any of the exposed flesh that keeps getting colder by the minute. Instead, she focuses on putting one foot in front of the other, trying to push away the pain that shoots through each foot as she breaks twigs and finds sharp stones with her nearly-numb soles.

She stumbles over a root, crying out as she falls to the mud, her hands sinking into the nearly-frozen earth as a sob wracks through her body. Icy water seeps into the cotton under her knees, and it is tempting, so very tempting, to fall the rest of the way, to curl up in the fallen leaves she spies to her left below a sprawling tree, and let the elements take her away from the pain and confusion she’s drowning in.

Emma Swan does not, in fact, know that she is Emma Swan. She knows that she is a woman, she is lost in a forest, she is in danger of frostbite, and she is losing hope fast as the daylight sinks closer and closer towards the horizon.

There are voices getting nearer, calling something out, and she’s incredibly worried for a moment that they’re speaking another language. Her ears are ringing, stopping her from grasping anything besides the sensations she’s focused on. Her limbs ache, her head throbs, and a drop of blood lands in the dirt under her; the rest of her mind is utterly blank. It’s just weariness and exhaustion blocking the path between her ears and her brain someone is close enough for her to see when she finally looks up.

“Miss, are you okay? Are you hurt?” He’s dressed in thick attire, his hands wrapped in warm gloves as he reaches for her. Emma’s shaking hand reaches out for him and she keens as her skin meets fabric. It almost burns, this contact between her frigid fingers and this man’s protective clothing. A green peridot ring on her middle finger glints in the low light that filters through the leaves, but her attention is quickly pulled away from this discovery when the second person speaks to her.

“Is someone chasing you?” Another man kneels next to her, muttering to himself, “Where the hell did she come from?” as he looks around the woods that surround them.

“P-please,” Emma stutters out. “Please, help me.” Her eyes meet those of the man kneeling next to her, his expression one of worry for this strange woman he’s just found out in the middle of nowhere.

“Come on,” the other man says. “We have to get her to the hospital.”

It takes nearly no effort at all for them to haul her up, and as soon as her body is aware that something like ‘safety’ is on its way, she loses consciousness.

The next time Emma Swan is aware of her surroundings, the light of the room she’s in is dim but harsh. There’s a steady noise to her right that starts speeding up the moment her eyes open to unfamiliar sights, and she blanches at the antiseptic smell in the air. Her extremities all seem to be intact, but her body hurts when she tries to move, which causes the noise to speed up again.

It all starts piling up, more and more, as there’s a needle stuck into her arm and tubes stuck in her nose and foliage in her hair and small sticky pads stuck to her chest that she tries to tug at, causing a shrill noise to sound from the machine that was almost soothing before. Emma shrieks without realizing that she’s making the noise, and the curtain to her left suddenly swishes away to reveal a gruff looking man with a sour expression, grousing at her to keep it down because some people are trying to sleep.

“Help,” Emma manages to say, her hands shaking too much to get a firm grasp on the wires connected to her body and tears starting to flow from her eyes again. The man’s brows draw together as he watches her helpless movements, watches the panic rising to her eyes, and he fruitlessly reaches a calming hand out to her.

“Calm down, lady. The nurses will be here in a second. But you gotta breathe, okay?”

She understands nurse, she understands the nature of infirmaries, and it helps calm some of the panic that seems to be clawing at her insides, but everything else is so foreign that the abated anxiety doesn’t last long.

“Why don’t you tell me your name and where you’re from until they get here, okay?”

It’s that which finally breaks the dam, and Emma’s absent tears turn to full-fledged sobbing as she admits in halting tones that she has no idea. None at all. As far as she knows, she is absolutely no one.

-x-

She’s sedated through the rest of the night, and when she wakes in the morning, she’s groggy and sluggish. Her eyes labor to remain open at any point that someone comes to check on her, and nearly her entire second day of memory is spent sleeping except for when she’s fed and someone comes to hum at the papers attached to the board at the foot of her bed.

When she awakens the next day, her head is clearer. She remembers immediately that she’s in the hospital, that the monitors she’s attached to are keeping track of her heartbeat, and the IV in her arm is keeping her hydrated. She’s told repeatedly that she’s lucky she didn’t get frostbite, and no matter how many times someone inquires as to how she found herself out in the woods, she has no answer for them. She is still, as far as she knows, no one at all. The name on her wristband currently says “Jane Doe,” although she knows now that’s just what they call someone they have no identification for.

It’s somewhere during the course of this day that Emma ventures to use her legs on her own. Any time before when she used the washroom, she was accompanied by someone holding her steady, but her need to use the facilities outweighs the amount of time it would take to call a nurse to her room during this busy time of day. Despite how unused her legs feel, she slowly shuffles from the bed to the bathroom in the corner of the room, smiling in triumph when she’s safely ensconced beneath her sheets again.

There, on the table beside her bed, is a small pot of flowers that wasn’t there before. Emma turns to the other bed, but remembers that the man that was staying in the room with her was released earlier that morning, so she has no one to ask where they might have come from, or from whom. With a small shrug of her shoulders, Emma leans over and snatches the card that sticks out above the flowers.

Get well soon, dearie.

There’s no name to indicate who may have sent them, but the envelope that the small slip of paper was enclosed in has the first real clue she’s found in days: her name is Emma Swan.

As soon as she whispers the name out loud, she gasps, her head filling with the knowledge that her name is, in fact, Emma and that she’s twenty-five years old. Her birthday is in October, a matter of days prior to the current one, and while the information she remembers stops there, she’s relieved to know that she is someone. She has a name and an age and a date of birth, and that’s more than she had moments before.

Another day passes, and when Emma wakes up, there’s a small plastic bag with an assortment of items inside it. She looks at it curiously, until a nurse appears at her bedside, happily clicking her tongue at whatever she finds there and smiling down at Emma.

“Good afternoon, Miss Swan. Your vitals are all steady, and it looks like you’re going to be released today. Unfortunately, we weren’t able to get any of your belongings from your place, so we have some scrubs for you to change into when you leave, and I’ve given you a pair of my old sneakers so your poor feet aren’t out in that snow! We don’t usually see this weather until a little closer to winter, so you’re really lucky you didn’t freeze to death out there.” The nurse putters around her bed, checking various machines and instruments for their readings and writing the numbers down on her charts. She hums quietly and tells her to sit tight for a little longer as she exits the room.

The nurse is gone for less than ten minutes before she returns again, greeting Emma cheerfully once more. “This bag was left at the nurse’s station at some point this morning. It looks like some of the items from your wallet, and your keys! Still no wallet found, but hopefully that’s something you left at home.”

Emma nods, not really sure how else to react. She has a home here, a place where there are things that might spark more of a memory than what she’s gained in the last day (which isn’t far beyond what she discovered after opening her card). She reaches out for the bag when the woman hands it over, though, and treats each item as a treasure.

There is an identification card, her face smiling in the picture with all of her personal details. There’s her birthday and her address, but it also mentions her weight and hair color and eye color, which doesn’t produce any new knowledge so she moves along to the next objects. There’s another plastic card, this one with her name and a series of numbers printed on it. She’s informed that it’s a credit card, that if that’s how she chooses to pay for her stay that she’s welcome to do so. The nurse starts talking about health insurance, which she is clueless about, so she waves the woman away to let her explore in peace.

Not much else comes forth from the contents of the bag, however. Other than the ID and credit card, there’s a smattering of cash. The bills and coins all look like they were found out in the woods where she was found, as they’re dirty and wrinkled, some of the coins caked in mud. She grimaces, dusting off her fingers the best she can on a corner of the sheet and reaching for the keys. These, too, are a little dirty, but Emma takes the time to wipe them off. There are two keys on the ring, neither with any kind of identification, and she figures she’ll just use trial and error when it comes time to use them.

The next nurse who passes by, she asks for a piece of paper and a writing utensil. She still has a few hours until they’re going to release her, so she takes her time writing down everything she knows about herself, copying the name and address found on the ID in hopes of committing them to memory.

At some point, she’s given a change of clothes, and she helps herself to the tiny shower in the room’s bathroom. Emma is positive it’s the best thing she’s ever felt in her life when the hot water sluices down her body, washing away the remnants of dirt that they didn’t get off her from when she was admitted. She works gingerly to wash her hair, avoiding the wound on her forehead that’s to blame for her loss in memory.

After a thorough examination and another round of questions she can’t answer, she’s told she can go home.

When she’s officially released, Emma’s tattered nightgown is unceremoniously shoved into a plastic shopping bag. She places her belongings in there as well, holding the flower arrangement in the crook of her elbow as she signs her name with an unfamiliar flourish. She’s handed a payment booklet, instructions for what to do if she notices any further symptoms that the cold did any damage, and a list of emergency phone numbers to call if she needs help. She’s scheduled for a follow-up appointment, as well, to discuss her recovery with the doctor.

“Do you have any friends you can call to stay with you for a while?” a nurse asks. It’s not her fault. She’s not been there the last couple days that Emma has been staying, so she blushes furiously when Emma answers that she doesn’t even know if she has any friends.

A taxi drops her right off at the door to her apartment building, and Emma apologizes profusely as she hands over the grubby money from her bag to pay for it. Thankfully, it’s just enough, with a couple extra cents thrown in for a tip. Emma stammers another apology as she clambers from the back of the vehicle, and the man behind the wheel gives her one long-suffering sigh before he drives off once the door is shut.

With a sigh of her own, Emma turns around to look up at the building she apparently lives in. It’s five stories, by her count, and the number on her ID starts with a three, so she walks in and heads toward the elevator, pushing the button with a corresponding number and hoping against all other hopes that she’s correct in her assumptions.

The door marked ‘311’ is just as much a mystery to her as everything else, but she pulls out the second key. She sends up one more prayer as she tries to turn it, expelling her breath in a half-laugh as the key turns and she twists the knob. She makes sure to latch it again when she’s inside, and she leans back against the door before trying to figure out what comes next.

What comes next, it turns out, is a strange adjustment period, where Emma must figure out how to keep herself alive before she can figure out anything else about her life. Food is easy enough. There’s a smattering of groceries in the cupboards. The refrigerator is entirely barren, but she’s thankful for that. There’s no telling how long she was gone and the last thing she wanted to come home to was spoiled food.

Thoughts like those are surprising, whenever they appear. She has no idea how she knows what she does, but it’s almost a comfort that some form of muscle memory is at play and that she has instinct to rely on. She spends hours reacquainting herself with various items and their uses in her apartment. She’s not brave enough to try cooking food, so she decides to venture out.

She dresses in clothes from her own closet and dressers, finding a bare minimum selection of undergarments to choose from before sliding on a pair of jeans and a cream sweater. She slips on a pair of boots and goes to find a coat and gloves, still not wanting to expose herself much to the weather outside.

When Emma reaches for the keys and credit card she left on the table by the front door, she finds a purse sitting there as well. She swears it wasn’t there before, but it has a wallet inside, empty slots for her ID and credit card, plenty of cash, and a medical insurance card. She looks around, trying to figure out where the purse came from, but there’s no logical explanation. The bag she brought back with her is still on the kitchen counter where she left it. The flowers are displayed in the middle of the kitchen table, and suddenly she has a purse.

With how disoriented she was when she got in, maybe she just missed it. But she swears she went over every inch and every item. She shakes her head again, clearing it of the confusion trying to build up as she grabs the cards and puts them back in. The strap gets hefted onto her shoulder in a gesture so familiar she’d think she was doing it her whole life, and at least she figures she’ll have something new to explore as she eats by herself.

Out in the hall, she almost slams into another person coming or going to their own dwelling, and she’s met with an eyeroll as she focuses on the other woman.

“I see you’ve still not learned to watch where you’re going, Miss Swan.”

“Sorry,” she mutters, moving to edge past this stranger and down the hall to the elevator.

“That’s it? No witty comeback? Emma, are you okay?” The other woman raises an eyebrow as she gets a look at Emma’s forehead, the bruising around the gash now dark purples, stark against the still pallid color of her skin.

“I uh, I don’t know? I don’t know anything, though. Do you – well, obviously, you know me. But do I know you? Are we friends?”

The woman stares at her as if she’s suddenly grown a second head, her brows furrowing down as her mouth drops open.

“Um, sorry again, I’ll just go.”

“Emma, wait. It’s Regina,” the other woman says, raising an eyebrow in question. “My name is Regina. You really don’t remember me?”

Instead of verbally confirming this fact again, Emma just shakes her head.

“We’ve lived next to each other for as long as I can remember. And while I wouldn’t call us besties, by any stretch of the imagination, I like to think of us as acquaintances who would call each other if we got injured or something.” Even behind the irritation in Regina’s voice, there’s some level of camaraderie under the surface.

Emma has no idea what ‘besties’ are, but they must not be very enjoyable by the way Regina’s mouth twists around the word. She has no idea what to say in response again, so she just makes an ‘o’ shape in what she hopes is a non-committal move.

“Why don’t I treat for lunch and you can tell me what happened,” Regina suggests, changing her course to walk by Emma’s side instead of heading for her own apartment.

-x-

“And that’s it,” Emma says as she finishes her, admittedly, extraordinary sounding tale. Regina purses her lips in thought, taking in all the information that’s been handed to her and responding in exactly the way Emma has learned Regina responds to things in the very short span of time she’s been with her.

“Well, that was stupid of them to let you go from the hospital with little more information than your name and shoe size. Do you need me to talk to Graham about time off?”

“Graham?”

“Right. Amnesia.” She taps her fingers on the laminate a couple times. “You’ll probably need some time off.”

“I don’t even know what I do for a living,” Emma mutters, letting out an exasperated sigh and picking at the food on her plate. She’s told it’s her favorite, if the proprietress is to be trusted. The grilled cheese sandwich is nothing but crumbs, but she’s taking her time with the onion rings on the plate. Beside her elbow is a steaming mug of hot chocolate, a perfect swirl of whipped cream sitting on top and a light dusting of cinnamon covering it.

She watches the whipped cream melt into the warm beverage as Regina chatters on about texting Graham and ‘paid time off.’ She nods whenever it feels appropriate, and answers the questions that are asked of her, but otherwise Emma remains silent for the rest of the meal. She dips a finger into the last remaining peak of cream and brings it to her mouth, but almost bites her own finger off when Regina yanks her hand towards her.

“I don’t remember seeing this before,” she says, a sly smile on her lips as she eyeballs the ring that Emma has yet to take off.

“It was my mother’s,” Emma says quickly, knowing nothing about lying but the words at least sound plausible coming out of her mouth. Emma withdraws her hand immediately, dropping it to her lap and turning a little pink. She shrugs, her head tilting to the side before she looks down at the glinting jewel. A sense of warmth spreads through her, a smile just beginning to form on her lips, even if she doesn’t know why. All she knows is that she’s calmer than she’s been in hours. “So about getting time off from work?” Emma says soon after, wanting to draw attention away from things she can’t explain.

There’s a big to-do when Regina mentions something about Graham texting her, and she looks like a lost soul again, but the other woman quickly brushes it off, saying that they’ll just have to get her a new phone when they leave the diner.

The next half hour is spent picking out a phone and programming the key numbers into it. Regina tells her as she’s cautiously typing that the number for the police department is also her number for work. If Emma had an idea of what ‘too much money’ was, she would guess it’s how much she pays for the small device in her hands, her eyes popping wide at the amount. Again, it all must be knowledge from her past that leads the reactions because the piece of plastic in her hand is arbitrary, as far as she’s concerned, and so she hands it over and signs when told.

They walk back to the apartment complex, thankfully right down the street, and on the way they pass the clock tower above the library, and it chimes loudly.

“So strange,” Regina comments as they keep walking, with Emma doing her best to keep up with the other woman’s brisk pace. “That thing hasn’t worked in ages, but it started working a couple days ago out of the blue. No one knows why, or what was wrong with it.”

“Yeah, strange,” Emma comments back, even though she has no idea what’s up or down in this world.

Emma goes to bed that night straddling the line between aware and confused. She knows more than she did when she woke up, but she’s left with so many more questions. Regina assured her before she closed her door that Emma could call her or Graham if she needed anything, but how is Emma even supposed to know what she needs?

A noise of exasperation leaves her as she runs her fingers through her hair. Tomorrow is another day, and she’s hoping she has more answers than questions at the end of it.

-x-

A week after she’s released from the hospital, Emma returns to have her follow-up appointment with one Dr. Victor Whale. From what she can tell, and her instincts seem to be pretty accurate, the guy is a creep, but a harmless one at that.

First comes her physical health, which mostly consists of him poking and prodding at the healing cut on her forehead. The bruises are all fading, she’s eating and sleeping so her complexion looks better, and thanks to her scare in the woods, Emma has taken to carefully layering and paying fanatical attention to the weather channel.

Her mental health is a whole different story.

“Have you remembered anything new?” Dr. Whale asks as he checks the rest of her vitals.

Emma tries hard to not blink as he shines a light in her eyes. “Not much. I stopped by the police department to meet with Graham about some time off after I was released, and things like what I do for a living came back to me.”

“How about anything to do with how you ended up in the woods the morning of October 25?”

“No, but there are some days I dream that I’m wandering the woods again, and I wake up feeling like everything is tilted on its side. Does that sound weird?”

“Not really, no. Especially after what must have been a doozy of a birthday party if you’ve lost all your memories in the aftermath,” Whale says. He’s joking, his grin stretching wide across his lips, and Emma tries to fake one back at him even though she’s still stuck with that churning feeling in her gut that says something isn’t quite right. Not with Whale – at least, not directly with him – but with this whole situation. “Well, Emma. You’re in top shape, physically. I’m going to recommend you start seeing Dr. Hopper to see if you can’t unlock those memories. Whatever you went through, your mind has decided to lock them up tight. I’ll see you back here in six months for your check-up.”

-x-

It takes time for Emma to feel comfortable in her own skin. The bi-monthly trips to Dr. Hopper help on some level. Mostly, he’s good at uncovering her memories from childhood. They spent the entire first session going over her current mood and mindset, and even though the good psychiatrist knows that she can’t remember anything prior to the hospital, he’s still taking the time to poke around what he claims is her past.

“So, your file tells me that you were in and out of the foster system as a child,” Dr. Hopper starts during their second session. “What can you remember about that?”

“I don’t really…” Suddenly, her brain feels as if it was submerged in ice water, and a shiver works all the way down her spine. She blinks a couple times, partly to gain her wits and to also clear the tears that have gathered in the corners of her eyes. “I remember… Feeling lonely, a lot.”

“You’re remembering something?” The excitement in his tone is subtle, but Emma can still pick up on it. “Don’t push yourself, but tell me anything you can.”

“Um, okay,” Emma says, her voice shaky. She takes advantage of the glass of water that Dr. Hopper poured for her at the start of their session, and when she speaks again, her voice is stronger. “I remember some older kids taunting me about being an orphan. I can’t see their faces or remember how old I was, but they told me that I was found on the side of the road out by the woods.”

“This is progress, Emma. Good job. Take it slow and tell me as much as you can remember.”

Icy chill after chill races down her spine that day as Emma digs through her memories, with the help of Dr. Hopper’s limited notes on her past, and she remembers more of her early life than she thought she ever could. There’s the sparse bedroom with the hand-me-down toys and second-hand clothes. There’s the slow gait she would use when wandering the halls of the school, wondering if the number of steps she takes are greater or lesser than the amount of days until she’s shuffled to another foster home.

There’s the feeling of packing up her meager belongings time and time again, the expressions of pity on the faces of adults as she’s put into the backseat of a car and taken back to the group home. Again, and again, and again.

“How about we save the rest for our next appointment?”

With relief, Emma nods, gathering her stuff and making an appointment for two weeks to the day.

She’s continually asked if she remembers how she got in the woods, and with each appointment that the memories don’t return, Emma’s tone gets sharper and sharper. They stop asking after she goes in for her six month checkup with Dr. Whale, and he makes the mistake of inquiring if she recalls that moment.

“That day in the woods then, anything new that you remember?”

“Listen, can we assume unless I specifically mention it that I currently don’t remember that day in the woods? Is that something we can agree on for the time being? If I remember anything, I’ll tell you.”

Across the room, Dr. Whale taps the folder containing his notes on Emma against the counter and pastes on a grin. “Noted. Looks like you’re all good to go. Call us if you notice anything and continue your sessions with Dr. Hopper as long as you feel you need them.”

Looking just slightly put off, he exits the room, and Emma heaves a sigh of relief. It’s been six months, but she’s finally starting to feel like a normal, functioning member of society here in Storybrooke. These appointments are the only things still dragging her through the wringer of the past, because work has been going well, she’s figuring out a system in her home life, and she got behind the wheel of the car that Regina claims is hers. To say that the first time trying to drive was rough would be an understatement, and she’s sure Regina has other words for how that little adventure went that would include “hazard” and “whiplash,” she’s sure.

But just as the wind is likely to shift without notice, so does Emma’s life, although she doesn’t realize it at the time and still won’t for a while.

It all starts when she falls into bed hours after she meant to, reaching sleep just as the streetlights outside are considering winking off and the sun is cresting over the horizon. She’s working herself to the brink of exhaustion, but at least it’s less time to brood about her missing past. Emma is asleep before her head even hits the pillow.

It starts with a dream.

She’s standing in a field surrounded by flowers. The dress she wears flows around her legs, the bodice fitted over her torso and bell sleeves hanging elegantly over her wrists. It could be white, or ivory, or a perfect iridescence to match the clouds. She can’t really tell, as she’s too focused on the flowers spreading in every direction. They’re all different – wildflowers of every shade and variety – all in various stages of blooming and barely shifting in the almost nonexistent breeze.

Sucking in a deep breath, Emma flicks her wrist on the exhale and all the delicate buds sway gently, shimmering colors as they wave back and forth like hundreds of metronomes. Carefully, she weaves between the blossoms, lifting the color from one and replacing it with another at whim, until the flowers surrounding her path are nothing but multicolor swirls.

In the distance, she hears someone call her name, equal amounts of fascination and exasperation in the smooth, male voice that comes across the field clear as day. In the midst of the flowers, he stands, but she can only make out bright blue eyes that sparkle with mirth. She feels happy, the warmth of the sun soaking through her dress and glittering along her skin. Feeling free, she easily snaps her fingers and returns all the flowers back to normal as she heads towards the figure in the distance. Affection leaks through the way he says her name, noticeable as she steps into the circle of his arms and feels his pulse against her cheek where it rests against his neck. He is as warm as his voice, the sun, and the feeling spreading through her stomach. Yet, all she can make out are those eyes.

When Emma wakes up, she remembers nothing of the dream, but her fingertips are tingling with pins and needles. It’s afternoon, but outside the warm cocoon of her blankets, there’s a chill to the room.

She wakes with the same feeling gnawing away at her stomach: the feeling that something isn’t quite right. It’s the same feeling she explained six months ago when Dr. Whale was asking her if she remembered how she ended up in the woods outside of Storybrooke.

No, of course she didn’t. She didn’t even remember her name at that point. How could she be expected to remember how she ended up in a place that she’d be hard pressed to point out on a map if given the opportunity?

Now, she knows more about herself, but that feeling remains.

A gurgle from her stomach alerts her that it’s past time to roll out of bed and eat, and Emma’s scrambling for clothes to head down to Granny’s Diner for her usual and favorite lunch. All her other thoughts can wait until she has time to dissect them, for the time being.

Chapter 2