#bertha feeling safe

[elatedbird]

#She’s #soo 🤏🏼

[chwrrylace]

─── ❝ OH MY ANGEL ❞

SUMMARY ; After a long night, Jason finds comfort in his girlfriend’s love, reminding them both that their bond is unwavering.

JASON TODD x fem!reader.

CONTENT ; established relationship, domestic, fluffyyy asf

WORD COUNT ; 2k

A/N ; inspired by the song from Bertha Tillman

𝐈𝐓 𝐖𝐀𝐒 𝐀 𝐐𝐔𝐈𝐄𝐓 𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆 in the apartment. The kind of peace that came with the end of a long day, the soft hum of city lights filtering through the half-drawn curtains, and the faint sound of the television in the background. You sat on the couch, the warmth of the soft blanket you’d thrown over your lap pulling you into a comfortable daze.

Jason Todd’s boots echoed from the hallway as he made his way into the living room. You didn’t need to see him to know it was him. You could always tell by the way his steps were slightly heavier, the way the air around him always seemed to crackle with energy. You had spent so many evenings like this, together, waiting for him to come home after his patrols. Even though the world outside was dangerous, filled with chaos and violence, when Jason was home, you felt safe. Safe, loved, and almost perfect.

His silhouette appeared in the doorway, and you glanced up from the book you’d been reading.

“You’re late,” you teased, trying to mask the concern in your voice. The worry was always there, no matter how many times you told yourself it wasn’t.

Jason let out a small sigh, but there was a softness in his expression that made your heart ache in all the right ways. He hung his leather jacket on the coat rack by the door, the familiar motion bringing a sense of normalcy that you appreciated. His eyes met yours as he walked over to you, the faintest hint of a smirk pulling at his lips. He was exhausted, but you never saw it on him. He could fight off a small army, but when it came to you, there was a gentleness he never showed anyone else.

“Sorry,” he murmured as he dropped down beside you on the couch. He brushed a few strands of hair away from your face, his fingers lingering on your skin in a way that made you shiver. “Got caught up with some things. Nothing I couldn’t handle.”

You rolled your eyes, knowing that 'some things' always meant more than he was letting on. But you also knew there was no point in asking. Not now, not when he was so clearly trying to distance himself from whatever darkness had followed him home. You had learned early on that Jason was a man of few words when it came to his past.

The sound of his boots hitting the floor as he leaned back against the couch was a comfort, the weight of his presence like a shield that kept the world at bay. The silence between you both was never awkward. It was the kind of silence that only the closest people could share, where words weren’t always needed to understand each other.

“How was your day?” he asked softly, his voice a little hoarse. He stretched his arm out across the back of the couch and turned his head slightly to look at you.

You smiled at the question, feeling your worries ease just a little. “It was fine. Just the usual. Got some errands done, caught up on work. Nothing too exciting.”

Jason chuckled lightly, a sound you had come to love. You noticed the tired lines around his eyes, the faint bags that betrayed just how little sleep he’d had the night before. You reached over, placing your hand on his chest, your fingers brushing over the fabric of his shirt. The contact grounded you, as it always did.

“Tell me you at least ate today,��� you teased, giving him a playful nudge.

He rolled his eyes but didn’t pull away from your touch. “Of course, I ate. I’m not some kind of monster.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure about that,” you replied, giving him a mock-glare. “You’ve been known to go on patrol without food, you know.”

Jason raised an eyebrow, but a grin tugged at the corner of his mouth. “I don’t need food to take down bad guys. And besides, it’s not like you’re here to make me dinner every night.”

You couldn’t help but laugh, a light sound that filled the room with warmth. “I make you dinner all the time, you just don’t always appreciate it.”

He hummed, clearly amused. “I appreciate everything you do, baby. You know that.”

You were grateful for his words. Jason didn’t often express his feelings, but when he did, they carried more weight than a thousand spoken declarations. In the silence that followed, you rested your head on his shoulder, your arm curling around his. The rhythmic sound of his heartbeat was the only thing you needed to know that he was there, that the world outside wasn’t going to intrude on the peace you had found together.

The TV played softly in the background, the comforting glow of the screen lighting up your faces as you settled into the quiet rhythm of the evening. Jason’s hand found yours, his thumb brushing over the back of your hand in a gesture that spoke louder than words. He wasn’t the most openly affectionate person, but with you, he was different.

“I’ll make it up to you tomorrow,” he murmured after a few moments, breaking the comfortable silence. “I’ll take you out for dinner, just the two of us. No distractions.”

You didn’t need to reply, not with words. You tilted your head to kiss his cheek softly, the moment tender and full of a love that didn’t need to be said out loud to be felt. Jason, for all his rough edges, was still the man who would hold you close when the world outside seemed too much. He was the man who would come home, no matter how long it took, just to be with you. And that was enough.

The next morning, Jason was up before the sun, something that had become routine. You woke to find his side of the bed empty, the sheets cool to the touch. It was a small part of your life with him, the quiet mornings when he was already out of bed, already lost in his world, but you knew he’d be back soon.

You stretched, letting the soft morning light from the window warm your skin, and decided to make breakfast. It wasn’t much—just pancakes and coffee, but the familiarity of the task brought a sense of peace to your busy mind.

Jason returned just as the pancakes were nearly ready, his boots clicking against the wooden floor as he entered. His presence filled the small kitchen, a whirlwind of energy that made everything else seem smaller.

“Smells good,” he said, his eyes lighting up as he walked over to the stove.

“Figured I’d treat you to something that isn’t take-out,” you said with a smile, pushing the plate toward him. “Sit. You’re going to need the energy.”

Jason grinned, sitting down at the table and pulling you into the chair beside him. “I’m already energized by the sight of you,” he replied softly, his tone teasing but laced with sincerity.

You couldn’t help the warmth that spread through your chest at his words. Jason’s compliments, though rare, were always the kind that made you feel seen. They weren’t empty, weren’t said for any other reason than because he wanted you to know how much he appreciated you.

“I’m serious,” Jason added, a mischievous glint in his eyes. “You’re my angel, after all.”

The words, though simple, sent a rush of affection through you. You reached for his hand across the table, your fingers twining with his.

“Always,” you said softly, your voice steady but full of emotion. “Always, Jason.”

And as you shared the meal, the laughter, and the quiet moments that followed, you knew that even though the world outside was dark and dangerous, the light you shared between you was enough to guide you both through it all.

Jason was your angel, and you were his.

© chwrrylace — all rights reserved. even when credited, these works are prohibited to be reposted, translated or modified

[tatumrileyslover]

𝔗𝔥𝔢 𝔅𝔩𝔲𝔢 ℜ𝔬𝔬𝔪

𝔭𝔞𝔯𝔱 𝔬𝔫𝔢

Pairing: Park Jimin x Reader

Genre: vampire!AU, victorian!AU, strangers to lovers, slow burn, forbitten forbidden love, eventual light smut, angst, gothic,

Warnings: blood, death, smut, manipulation, possessive behavior, mild violence, angst, hurt/comfort, fluff, gaslighting.

Word count: 30k

Summary: In a grand countryside estate, where roses bloom with unnatural darkness, a mysterious stranger appears seeking shelter. Park Jimin, with his otherworldly beauty and cultured charm, quickly becomes an intimate companion to the Baron's daughter. But as girls in the village begin falling mysteriously ill and strange dreams plague her nights, she discovers his dark nature - and must choose between the warmth of mortal days or an eternal night in his arms.

a/n: ok so this isn’t meant to be in two parts I just hit the tumblr limit so this is the first part. this was originally supposed to be out for Halloween but god did I get too into it and made it more than double the length I want it to be lol. anyway this is based of the gothic novel Carmilla.

𝔭𝔞𝔯𝔱 𝔱𝔴𝔬

The house sat like a slumbering beast against the autumn sky, its grey stone walls rising from mist-shrouded gardens that had long since forgotten their original design. What was once carefully manicured grandeur had softened over decades into something wilder, though no less beautiful - roses climbed beyond their trellises to embrace weathered statues, and ancient trees stretched their branches toward leaded glass windows that caught the dying light like caught tears.

It was the last great house for fifty miles in any direction, a fact that both the local townspeople and its inhabitants were acutely aware of. While other noble families had slowly surrendered to changing fortunes, selling their lands and titles piece by piece, the family had endured it all. Their walls remained strong, their cellars remained stocked, and their daughter remained safely tucked away behind iron gates and stone walls.

(Y/n) stood at her bedroom window, watching the road that wound through the valley like a black ribbon. Soon it would bring Bertha, her dear friend from the finishing school in Graz. The thought brought a smile to her face as she pressed her fingertips to the cool glass. Three years had passed since they'd last seen each other, maintaining their friendship through letters that grew increasingly infrequent as distance and time worked their inevitable magic. But now, finally, Bertha would be here - bringing with her stories of balls and suitors and all the life that seemed to exist everywhere except within these walls.

A rap at the door drew her attention. "Come in, Papa."

Her father entered, his tall frame casting a long shadow in the candlelight. Though still handsome, years of solitude had etched themselves into the corners of his eyes and mouth. Since her mother's death twelve years ago, he had devoted himself to his studies and his daughter in equal measure, though the former often seemed to win out over the latter.

"Still watching the road, my dear? It will not make her arrive any faster."

"I know, Papa." (Y/n) turned from the window, her skirts rustling against the thick carpet. At nineteen, she possessed the kind of beauty that came from never knowing hardship - skin untouched by sun, hands that had never known labor, eyes that still held the bright curiosity of childhood. "But I cannot help it. The house feels different already, knowing she's coming. Less..."

"Less what, my dear?"

"Less like a cage," she said softly, then immediately regretted her words at the shadow that crossed her father's face. "Forgive me, Papa. I don't mean to sound ungrateful. I know everything you do is for my protection."

He crossed to her, placing a gentle hand on her shoulder. "You are all I have left in this world, (Y/n). Your mother..." He paused, as he always did when speaking of her mother. "She made me promise to keep you safe. The world beyond these walls grows more dangerous with each passing year."

(Y/n) nodded dutifully, though her heart ached. She knew every inch of this house, from the wine cellars with their dusty bottles to the attic where her mother's belongings still sat in trunks, untouched since the day she died. She knew which floorboards creaked, which windows caught the morning light, which corners held shadows even at midday. The servants were kind but distant, treating her with the careful reverence one might show a precious object in a museum.

Her world was contained within these walls, and while she could not truly miss what she had never known, sometimes she felt like a character in one of her beloved novels - the imprisoned princess waiting for life to begin. Her only real glimpses of the outside world came from her books, filled with adventures and romance, and from her occasional trips into town with her father for Sunday services.

Even those brief excursions felt like stepping into another world. The townspeople would stare and whisper behind their hands - not unkindly, but with the sort of fascination reserved for rare creatures. The family's wealth and isolation had bred countless rumors over the years, though none came close to the simple truth: they were just lonely, the three of them. Father, daughter, and the great house that held them both.

From her bedroom window, (Y/n) watched the winding road that cut through the valley below their estate. Even at this early hour, she could make out the occasional carriage making its way through the autumn mist. Each distant movement caught her eye, her heart quickening before inevitably sinking as they passed the turn that would bring them up towards the Manor.

"Mademoiselle, you're fidgeting again," Madame Perrodon's gentle reproach came accompanied by a firmer stroke of the hairbrush. "How can I be expected to tame these waves if you cannot sit still?"

"I apologize, Madame." (Y/n) forced herself to be still, though her eyes remained fixed on the distant road. It had been three years since she'd last seen Bertha - three years of letters describing balls and suitors and a world so different from (Y/n)'s carefully contained existence. She could still remember their last afternoon together, huddled in this very window seat, Bertha's eyes bright with excitement about the finishing school that awaited her in Graz.

"Your mother's roses are particularly beautiful this autumn," Madame Perrodon commented, her fingers working deftly to pin (Y/n)'s soft hair into an acceptable style. "Though Marcel lets them grow wild as wolves these days."

The mention of her mother drew (Y/n)'s attention to the familiar portrait hanging opposite her dressing table. The smile seemed to hold secrets, her hands painted delicately among the same roses that now grew unchecked below. Sometimes, in certain lights, (Y/n) thought she could see herself in that smile, though her own felt considerably more practiced.

Through the open door came the excited whispers of maids passing in the hallway. "The kitchen's been baking since dawn..." "All the best linens..." "Miss Rheinfeldt's room is prepared..."

On any other Sunday, they would be preparing for their weekly journey into town for services. (Y/n) felt a twinge of disappointment - she would miss her brief exchanges with Catherine and Marie, the milliner's daughters. Their whispered conversations about books and fashion during the fellowship hour were one of her few connections to girls her own age, even if her father and Madame Perrodon watched these interactions with careful eyes.

"There," Madame declared, securing the final pin. "Now you look-"

But (Y/n) had already risen, drawn to her window by the sound of wheels on gravel. Below, she could see Marcel and Emma in the gardens, their heads turning toward the sound as well. How she envied their easy companionship, the way Emma could freely kneel in the dirt beside her grandfather, learning the secrets of the gardens that had once been her mother's pride. On warmer days, (Y/n) would often sit on the stone bench nearby, watching them work while pretending to read. Marcel would share stories of her mother's passion for the roses, how she would spend hours tending them herself despite her station.

The old house creaked and sighed its morning song around her, floorboards protesting beneath thick carpets as (Y/n) made her way down the grand staircase. Carved angels watched her descent from the bannister, their wooden faces worn smooth by generations of trailing hands. Her mother had once told her they were guardians, keeping watch over the family. Now their blank eyes seemed to follow her, as if they knew something she didn't.

The morning light filtered through tall windows, catching dust motes that danced in the air. Preparations for Bertha's arrival had stirred up the house's usual stillness. Somewhere below, she could hear Mrs. Klaus, the housekeeper, directing maids about the proper arrangement of fresh flowers. The scent of baking bread and autumn spices wafted up from the kitchen - Bertha had always loved Cook's cinnamon cakes.

Memories of their last visit together surfaced as (Y/n) paused on the landing. They had been sixteen then, sharing secrets in the library's window seat while rain drummed against the glass. Bertha, already worldlier despite their same age, had whispered about a young man she'd danced with at her cousin's wedding. (Y/n) had listened, enraptured, trying to imagine what it would feel like to waltz in someone's arms.

The great hall below bustled with unusual activity. Curtains had been drawn back fully, allowing autumn light to illuminate the family portraits that lined the walls. Generations of ancestors stared down at her, their painted eyes holding the same careful reserve she saw in her father's. Her mother's portrait was different though - hung separately near the library doors, captured in the garden she'd loved so dearly. Sometimes (Y/n) would catch her father standing before it, lost in thoughts he never shared.

The morning air had turned peculiar as (Y/n) stepped out onto the terrace. What had started as a bright autumn day now held an odd heaviness, as if the sky itself were holding its breath. The roses swayed in a wind that carried the first real bite of winter, their late blooms scattering crimson petals across the gravel paths.

Marcel and Emma were working near her mother's favorite fountain, their quiet conversation carrying across the garden. The old gardener looked up as she passed, touching his cap with soil-stained fingers.

"The weather's turning, Miss," he called, his weathered face creasing with concern. "Best not stay out too long."

But (Y/n) was already moving toward her favorite spot - the ancient oak that stood sentinel by the pond. Its branches spread like protective arms above the water, creating a private world beneath its canopy. Here, she had spent countless hours reading, dreaming, watching the play of light on water. Here, she and Bertha had shared their last goodbye, promising to write every week.

The oak's massive roots created a natural seat, worn smooth by years of use. Settling herself against the trunk, (Y/n) opened her book but found herself watching the drive instead. The mist had thickened rather than burning off, unusual for this time of day. It crept up from the valley like something alive, wreathing the gardens in white tendrils that seemed to reach for her with ghostly fingers.

The mist continued to thicken, unusual for this time of day, creeping up from the valley like something alive. A chill wind rustled through the oak's branches, sending leaves spiraling down to dot the pond's surface. Each ripple distorted (Y/n)'s reflection, making her appear and disappear like a ghost in the darkening water.

"Please hurry, Bertha," she whispered, pulling her shawl tighter. The weather seemed determined to spoil their reunion. Already the bright autumn morning had given way to something more ominous - clouds gathering above the estate like mourners, the air heavy with unshed rain. If the Rheinfeldts didn't arrive soon, they risked traveling these winding roads in a storm.

The sound of approaching hooves cut through her thoughts. (Y/n) straightened, heart leaping - but no, this was a single rider, not the Rheinfeldts' carriage. Through gaps in the mist, she could make out a figure in a dark coat, riding with the urgent purpose of a messenger rather than a social caller.

From their position near the roses, Marcel and Emma paused in their work to watch the rider's approach. A servant hurried out to meet him, and even at this distance, something in their exchange made (Y/n)'s stomach tighten. The messenger's stance, the careful way the servant accepted what appeared to be a letter...

"That doesn't bode well, does it?" Emma's voice carried softly across the garden.

"Hush, girl," Marcel replied, but his tone held worry rather than rebuke.

(Y/n) turned back to the pond, forcing herself to dismiss their concerns. Perhaps it was simply business for her father - he often received correspondence from his associates in Vienna. The water's surface had grown as dark as steel, reflecting the gathering clouds. A few fat drops of rain began to fall, creating perfect circles that spread and disappeared.

Footsteps on the gravel path made her look up. Her father approached slowly, his usual brisk stride replaced by something heavier, more measured. Without speaking, he lowered himself to sit beside her on the oak's roots - an intimacy so unusual that (Y/n) felt her breath catch.

"Papa?" Her voice sounded very young suddenly, even to her own ears.

He didn't speak immediately, his hands working at something in his lap. When he finally turned to her, she saw he held a letter. The broken seal bore the Rheinfeldt family crest.

"My dearest," he began, his voice gentle in a way that made her want to cover her ears. "I have news about Bertha."

With trembling fingers, (Y/n) accepted the letter. The paper was fine, expensive - the kind Bertha's father always used for his correspondence. But as she unfolded it, the familiar letterhead seemed somehow more formal, more foreboding:

From Baron Rheinfeldt

Castle Rheinfeldt

October 15th, 1872

My Dear Friend,

It is with the heaviest of hearts that I must write to you, bearing news that has shattered our household and will, I fear, bring great sorrow to your own - particularly to your dear (Y/n), whose friendship meant so much to my beloved Bertha.

I know you were expecting us within the week, and I cannot express the pain it causes me to instead send this letter. My darling daughter, my only child, has been taken from us in circumstances so peculiar and distressing that I can scarcely put them to paper. Yet you must know, if only to spare your household the anxiety of waiting for an arrival that can never come.

Three weeks ago, Bertha began to speak of strange dreams. She would wake in the night, claiming visitations from a dark figure that left her weak and frightened. We dismissed these as mere fancies at first - you know how imaginative she could be. But soon she grew pale and listless, her strength declining day by day. The local physician could find no cause for her malady, though she complained of a sharp pain in her breast and a gradual suffocation that seemed to worsen as each night fell.

Two nights ago, she woke screaming that the figure was in her room, but when we rushed to her aid, nothing was amiss. By morning, she could barely speak, her pulse so faint as to be almost imperceptible. Before the sun set that day, my beautiful child, my darling Bertha, had left this world.

The doctors speak of a mysterious illness, but can offer no true explanation for how a young woman in the bloom of health could decline so rapidly. I write this not only to explain our absence but to warn you - there have been other cases in our region of young women suffering similar fates. Perhaps it is some fever that has yet to be understood by medical science.

Please convey my deepest apologies to (Y/n). I know she and Bertha had been planning this reunion with great excitement. The thought of their joy makes this tragedy all the more bitter to bear.

Your friend in profound grief,

Baron Frederick Rheinfeldt

The letter trembled in (Y/n)'s hands, its meaning somehow both clear and incomprehensible. She read it again, then a third time, as if the words might rearrange themselves into something less final.

"But," she said finally, her voice small, "we've prepared her room. Cook made cinnamon cakes."

Her father's hand found her shoulder, squeezing gently. The gesture only made everything feel more wrong.

"The roses," she continued, the words spilling out like water. "They're beautiful right now - Bertha always loved them in autumn. She said they looked like sunset caught in flowers. We were going to press them in books, like we used to. I saved that collection of poetry she wrote about in her last letter - the one with the blue binding she described. It's on her bedside table, waiting..."

Tears came then, not in great heaving sobs, but in silent streams that seemed to surprise her. She touched her cheek, looking at the moisture on her fingers as if she couldn't quite understand where it had come from.

"She can't be..." (Y/n) smoothed the letter in her lap, focusing on removing every crease. "We were going to show her the new kittens in the stable. She doesn't even know about them yet. And her room - we put fresh lavender in all the drawers, just as she likes. The blue guest room, Papa. Her favorite. Madame Perrodon helped me arrange dried flowers just as she described seeing at that ball in Vienna..."

The afternoon light had begun to fade, the mist curling thicker around the garden's edges. Her father shifted uncomfortably on the oak's roots beside her.

"My dear, perhaps we should-"

"And the piano," (Y/n) interrupted, her voice taking on a peculiar, singsong quality. "We've had it tuned specially. That new piece she mentioned - the Mozart sonata. I've been practicing it for weeks so we could play it together. She was so excited about showing me how her technique has improved since finishing school. She said..." Her voice cracked. "She said we would play it for you, after dinner on her first night here."

A cool wind rustled through the oak's branches, sending dead leaves spiraling down to dot the pond's surface. Each ripple distorted (Y/n)'s reflection, making her appear and disappear like a ghost in the darkening water.

"(Y/n)." Her father's voice was gentle but insistent. "The weather is turning. We should return to the house."

But she shook her head, clutching the letter tighter. "Just a little longer. She might still... There could be a mistake. Baron Rheinfeldt is older now, he could have become confused. If we just wait..."

The hours crept by, marked only by the gradual darkening of the sky and the periodic attempts of servants to coax them inside. First Marcel, pausing in his work to suggest rain was coming. Then Emma, sent by Cook with a tray of tea that grew cold, untouched. Finally Madame Perrodon herself, wringing her hands in distress at the sight of her charge sitting so still in the growing dark.

"Mademoiselle, please. You'll catch your death."

"You see?" (Y/n) seized on the common phrase with desperate hope. "People say that - 'catch your death.' But they don't really die. It's just something people say."

The sun had long since disappeared behind heavy clouds, the mist thickening into true darkness. One by one, lights began to appear in the house windows, warm squares of yellow that seemed to emphasize the gathering gloom in the garden. The pond's surface had grown as dark as steel, reflecting nothing now but the occasional ripple of rain drops.

Her father had remained beside her throughout, his silence both a comfort and a terrible confirmation. Now he stirred again, his joints surely aching from sitting so long on the hard roots.

"My dearest," he began, but stopped at the sound of distant carriage wheels on the road below.

(Y/n)'s head snapped up, hope flaring painfully in her chest. Through the mist, she could make out the bobbing lights of carriage lanterns, weaving their way up the treacherous road that led to their estate.

"You see?" she whispered. "You see? I knew if we just waited-"

The crash, when it came, was distant but unmistakable - the splintering of wood and the high, terrible scream of frightened horses cutting through the night air. The lantern lights jerked violently, then disappeared altogether.

Father and daughter sat frozen, straining to hear through the darkness. The silence that followed seemed to stretch eternally, broken only by the soft patter of rain on leaves.

"Papa?" (Y/n)'s voice had lost its childish insistence, fear creeping in at last.

(Y/n) was moving before her mind could catch up with her legs, her skirts gathered in trembling hands as she rushed toward the road. Behind her, she could hear her father's voice calling out, "(Y/n)! Wait!" but the sound seemed distant, unimportant.

The path down to the road was treacherous in daylight; in the gathering dark it was nearly impossible. Her boots slipped on wet leaves, branches caught at her hair and dress like grasping fingers. The mist had settled thick between the ancient trees, turning familiar paths into something alien and forbidding. Behind her, she could hear the gathering sounds of pursuit - servants calling out, the bounce of lantern light, her father's increasingly urgent voice.

It wasn't until she reached the road itself that doubt began to creep in. The fog here was even thicker, seeming to swallow the weak moonlight whole. The trees pressed close on either side, their branches forming a dark canopy overhead that blocked what little light remained. Every sound seemed muffled, wrong - as if the fog itself was drinking them in.

"Miss (Y/n)!" Marcel's voice, accompanied by approaching lantern light. "Please wait for us!"

She paused then, her heart pounding, suddenly aware of how far she'd run and how dark it had grown. The crash had sounded closer. Or had her fear made her imagine that?

Her father caught up to her first, slightly out of breath. "Reckless girl," he muttered, but there was relief rather than anger in his voice. Behind him came Marcel and two other servants with lanterns, their light creating strange, shifting shadows among the trees.

A horse's frightened whinny cut through the fog, much closer now. (Y/n) moved forward more cautiously, her father's hand firm on her arm. The lantern light caught something metallic ahead - the gleam of an overturned carriage wheel, still spinning slowly.

As they drew closer, the scene emerged from the fog like a painting being unveiled. The carriage lay on its side, one wheel completely shattered. The horses, still partially harnessed, stamped and snorted nervously, their breath visible in the cold air. This was not the Rheinfeldts' familiar family carriage - this was something altogether grander and stranger, its black lacquered surface gleaming wet in the lantern light, its gilt trim suggesting foreign wealth.

"Hello?" her father called out. "Is anyone hurt?"

A movement near the carriage door drew their attention. A woman's voice, low and melodious, called back in accented French. "Ah, thank heaven. We've had quite the accident, as you can see."

The door, now facing skyward, opened with some effort. A figure emerged - a woman, elegant even in disarray, her dark traveling clothes of the finest quality. There was something striking about her face, though (Y/n) found she couldn't quite focus on its details in the shifting light.

"Allow me to assist you, Madame," her father stepped forward, helping the woman climb down from the tilted carriage. Marcel and the other servants moved to steady her descent.

"You are most kind," the woman said, switching to perfect if accented English. "We were on our way to visit friends in the next county when our driver took ill suddenly. The fog..." she gestured eloquently at their surroundings. "The road proved more treacherous than expected."

"Your driver - is he-?" her father began.

"Gone, I'm afraid. Fled into the woods in some sort of fit. But my greater concern is my son." Here she turned back to the carriage, genuine distress entering her voice. "He was thrown rather badly when we overturned. I haven't been able to wake him."

"Several of my men might assist in extracting him, Madame," her father offered, already gesturing to the servants.

The elegant woman nodded, stepping aside with a grace that seemed out of place in their dire circumstances. The lantern light caught her features strangely - one moment sharp as cut glass, the next oddly indistinct, like a painting seen through water.

Marcel and Thomas, one of the stronger footmen, approached the carriage carefully. The fog seemed to curl around their feet as they worked, making their movements appear dreamlike and sluggish. From within the dark interior came the sound of shifting fabric, a soft groan.

"Gentle, if you please," the woman called out, though her tone held more courtesy than real concern. "He is all I have in this world."

The words were right, (Y/n) thought, but something in their delivery rang false, like an actress reciting well-rehearsed lines. She found herself watching the woman's face, trying to fix its details in her mind, but each time she looked away, the memory of those features seemed to slip like water through her fingers.

"Carefully now," her father directed as the servants began to lift their unconscious charge. The lantern light swept across the scene, and (Y/n) felt her breath catch in her throat.

The young man they carried was beauty made flesh - there was no other way to describe him. His face, unconscious and unguarded, held a quality that seemed to transcend mere human comeliness. Dark hair fell across his forehead in elegant disarray, and even in the poor light, his skin held a luminous quality, like moonlight on fresh snow. His clothes, though disarranged by the accident, were clearly of the finest quality - black velvet and silk that seemed to drink in the lantern light.

There was something about his face that tugged at (Y/n)'s memory, something tantalizingly familiar that danced just beyond her grasp. She found herself moving forward without conscious thought, drawn by an impulse she couldn't name.

"(Y/n)," her father's warning tone brought her up short. She realized she'd nearly reached out to touch the unconscious stranger's hand.

"He will be well, I think," the woman said, watching (Y/n) with an expression that might have been amusement. "Just stunned by the fall. What fortune that we should crash so near to such a grand house." Her gesture encompassed the manor, barely visible through the fog above them. "I don't suppose..."

"Of course," her father said immediately, nobility's obligations winning out over any hesitation. "We can offer shelter while arrangements are made for your onward journey."

"You are too kind." Again, that perfect courtesy that somehow felt hollow. "I hate to impose further, but I find myself in something of a predicament. I have urgent business that cannot wait - a matter of inheritance that requires my immediate presence. My son, however, is in no condition to travel."

(Y/n) watched in growing amazement as the woman outlined her request with elegant precision. Might her son remain here, under their care, while she attended to these pressing matters? She would, of course, send word within a day or two of her return date. She had friends in the region she'd been traveling to visit - though oddly, she didn't name them - who would vouch for their character.

"I cannot ask you to take on such a responsibility," she said, in a tone that suggested she expected exactly that.

"Nonsense," her father replied, though (Y/n) detected a slight unease in his voice. "We can hardly turn away those in need, especially of our own class. Your son will be well cared for until your return."

"You ease my heart," the woman said, though (Y/n) noticed she hadn't once looked back at her unconscious son since the servants had lifted him. "I can arrange alternate transport from the next town, if one of your men might assist me that far?"

It was all happening so quickly. Even as her father gave instructions for a groom to accompany the mysterious woman, even as Marcel and Thomas began their careful ascent toward the house with their unconscious burden, (Y/n) found herself struggling to understand how smoothly it had all been arranged. It was only when the woman stepped close to bid her farewell that a chill ran down her spine.

"Watch over him for me, dear one," the woman said softly, her fingers brushing (Y/n)’s cheek in a gesture that felt both intimate and alien. This close, her eyes seemed to hold a peculiar depth, like wells that went down forever. "He can be... difficult when he wakes. But I'm sure you'll manage him beautifully."

Then she was gone, disappearing into the fog with their groom, leaving behind only the overturned carriage and her unconscious son - and a lingering sense that something momentous and terrible had just been set in motion.

The house seemed to stir with nervous energy as they made their way back up the path, lanterns bobbing like will-o'-wisps through the fog. Marcel and Thomas carried their unconscious guest with careful precision, while Madame Perrodon hurried ahead to prepare the blue guest room - Bertha's room, (Y/n) thought with a sudden pang that felt almost like betrayal.

The entrance hall's warmth was a shock after the chill fog, the familiar space somehow changed by the evening's events. Servants whispered in corners, stealing glances at the beautiful stranger being carried up the grand staircase. The house itself seemed to hold its breath, ancient wood creaking under strange footsteps.

"The blue room, sir?" Madame Perrodon called down from the landing, her face pinched with concern.

(Y/n) felt her throat tighten. "Papa, not-"

"It is the most suitable guest room," her father said quietly. His hand found her shoulder, squeezing gently. "And it is... available."

The blue room had always been the grandest of their guest chambers. Its walls were painted a soft cornflower blue that caught the morning light beautifully, making the gilt-framed mirrors dance with reflected sunshine. Now, in the flickering candlelight, those same walls seemed almost grey, the mirrors reflecting only shadows as they carried his limp form through the doorway.

The bed was already turned down - prepared that morning for Bertha, (Y/n) remembered with another stab of grief. The very sheets that had been aired with lavender for her friend would now cradle this strange young man. She watched as they laid him carefully on the blue silk counterpane, his dark hair stark against the pale pillows, his face ethereally beautiful in the candlelight.

"Mademoiselle," Madame Perrodon touched her arm. "Perhaps you should retire. It's been a trying day."

But (Y/n) couldn't move, transfixed by the scene before her. Mrs. Klaus had appeared with hot water and cloths, presumably to tend to any injuries. The housekeeper's usually efficient movements seemed hesitant as she approached the bed, as if she too sensed something not quite natural about their mysterious guest.

"He appears unmarked," Mrs. Klaus said finally, her voice holding a note of surprise. "Not a scratch on him, despite the violence of the accident."

"Providence," her father murmured, though he didn't sound entirely convinced.

(Y/n) found her gaze drawn to his face again. In the better light, she could study his features properly - the elegant arch of his brows, the perfect curve of his mouth, the almost translucent quality of his skin. There was something about him that nagged at her memory, like a word trapped on the tip of her tongue.

"Look how peaceful he sleeps," she heard herself say, her voice sounding distant to her own ears. "Like a painting."

"(Y/n)." Her father's tone was sharper now. "To your room. It's not proper for you to..."

He trailed off as the boy stirred slightly, his head turning on the pillow. Everyone in the room seemed to freeze, watching, but he didn't wake. A lock of dark hair fell across his forehead, and again (Y/n) felt that maddening sense of familiarity.

"Come, mademoiselle." Madame Perrodon's grip on her arm was firmer now. "You've had a shock. First the news about poor Bertha, and now this excitement. You must rest."

The mention of Bertha's name seemed to break whatever spell had held (Y/n) in place. She allowed herself to be led from the room, though she couldn't help glancing back one last time. In the moment before the door closed, she could have sworn she saw his lips curve in the slightest smile.

Sleep proved impossible that night. (Y/n) lay in her bed, listening to the house settle around her with unfamiliar creaks and sighs. Even Madame Perrodon's usual soft breathing from the adjoining room provided little comfort. The events of the day swirled in her mind like autumn leaves caught in a whirlwind - Bertha's letter, the crash, the strange elegant woman, and most persistently, the beautiful unconscious young man now sleeping in what should have been her friend's room.

Every time she closed her eyes, she saw his face, hauntingly perfect in the candlelight. That maddening sense of familiarity tugged at her thoughts, like a half-remembered dream. There was something about the curve of his mouth, the arch of his brow...

A floorboard creaked in the hallway - probably just Mrs. Klaus making her nightly rounds, but (Y/n) found herself holding her breath, straining to hear. The blue room was just down the corridor. Was their mysterious guest still sleeping? The woman - his mother, though something about that relationship felt odd - had said he might be 'difficult' when he woke. What had she meant by that?

The wind picked up outside, branches scratching against her window like skeletal fingers. The sound reminded her of the carriage crash, of the fog-shrouded road. How strange that the woman had left so quickly, abandoning her supposedly beloved son to the care of strangers. And where had the driver gone? The more (Y/n) thought about it, the more questions arose.

She must have drifted off eventually, for she found herself in that strange space between sleeping and waking, where reality blurs at the edges. The moonlight through her window seemed to pool like silver water on the floor, and in its glow, she thought she saw a figure standing at the foot of her bed. A beautiful face looking down at her, familiar yet wrong somehow...

(Y/n) jerked awake, her heart pounding. The room was empty, the moonlight now nothing more than pale squares on the carpet. But the sense of a presence lingered, making her skin prickle with unnamed awareness.

"Madame?" she called softly, but only silence answered from the adjoining room.

Sleep proved even more elusive after that. She lay awake until the first grey light of dawn began to creep through her windows, bringing with it the usual morning sounds of the household stirring to life. She could hear servants moving below, their muffled voices carrying up through the floorboards. The smell of breakfast began to wind its way up the stairs - fresh bread and coffee, the normal rhythms of the house attempting to reassert themselves after the previous day's disruption.

A knock at her door made her start. "Mademoiselle?" Madame Perrodon's voice. "Are you awake?"

"Yes, come in."

The French woman entered, already dressed for the day, her face carrying an odd expression. "Your father requests your presence at breakfast. Our... guest still sleeps."

The morning light in the breakfast room seemed too harsh, too ordinary after the strangeness of the night. (Y/n) picked at her toast, aware of the unusual tension around the table. Her father sat at his customary place, the morning paper untouched beside his coffee cup. Even the servants seemed to move differently, their usual efficient routines interrupted by frequent glances toward the ceiling - toward the blue room above.

"Has anyone checked on him?" (Y/n) finally asked, breaking the heavy silence.

"Mrs. Klaus looked in at dawn," her father replied, frowning slightly. "Still sleeping, apparently. Quite deeply."

"It's nearly ten o'clock," Madame Perrodon observed, her usual calm manner betraying a hint of unease. "Should we perhaps summon Dr. Werner?"

"The mother said he would sleep unusually long," her father said, though he didn't sound entirely convinced. "Something about a previous illness making him sensitive to travel."

"Did she?" (Y/n) asked, trying to recall the woman's exact words from the night before. But like so much about their mysterious visitor's mother, the details seemed to slip away when examined too closely.

The breakfast room fell silent again, broken only by the clink of silver against china and the tick of the great clock in the hall. Through the windows, (Y/n) could see Marcel in the gardens, seemingly intent on his work but positioned suspiciously close to the section beneath the blue room's windows.

Hours crept by with excruciating slowness. (Y/n) attempted to focus on her needlework, but found herself counting the chimes of the clock instead. Eleven. Twelve. One...

It was well past two in the afternoon when Mrs. Klaus appeared in the drawing room doorway, her usually unflappable demeanor slightly disturbed. "Sir," she addressed (Y/n)'s father, "The young gentleman is awake. He's asked to pay his respects to the household."

Something in the housekeeper's tone made (Y/n) look up sharply. Mrs. Klaus's face held an odd expression - not quite fear, but something adjacent to it.

"How does he seem?" her father asked, setting aside his book.

"Most..." Mrs. Klaus paused, seeming to search for the right word. "Most elegant, sir. Though perhaps still somewhat affected by his ordeal. He's asked to dress properly before receiving visitors."

"Of course," her father nodded. "We shall receive him here when he's ready."

The next half hour was torture. (Y/n) found herself smoothing her skirts repeatedly, hyper-aware of her reflection in the drawing room mirrors. That nagging sense of familiarity had returned, stronger now that their guest was awake.

When the drawing room door finally opened again, the late afternoon sun had begun to slant through the windows, casting long shadows across the floor. In that golden light, their guest appeared like something from a painting - perfectly composed, unnaturally beautiful. His dark clothes were immaculate, showing no sign of the previous night's accident. His face...

(Y/n) felt her breath catch. In the daylight, that sense of recognition was almost overwhelming.

He moved into the room with impossible grace, every gesture deliberate yet fluid, like a dancer marking steps to unheard music. His dark eyes found (Y/n)'s immediately, and something passed between them - recognition, connection, a current of awareness that made her hands tremble in her lap.

"Sir," he addressed her father with a slight bow, his voice musical and deeply cultured. "I must express my profound gratitude for your hospitality. My name is..." Here he paused, almost imperceptibly, "Park. I find myself indebted to your kindness."

"Not at all," her father replied, though (Y/n) noticed he seemed slightly dazzled by their guest's presence. "We could hardly leave you in such circumstances. I am the Baron, and this is my daughter, (Y/n)."

Those dark eyes returned to her face. "Mademoiselle." He took her offered hand, his fingers cool against her skin. "Your beauty rivals the stars in their midnight dance"

(Y/n) felt herself flush, acutely aware of how forward such a comment was - and how, strangely, no one seemed to mind. Even Madame Perrodon, usually so quick to enforce propriety, appeared captivated.

"You must still be recovering from your ordeal," (Y/n) found herself saying. "Please, sit." She gestured to the chair nearest hers, then wondered at her own boldness.

He smiled - a subtle thing that seemed to transform his entire face - and accepted the seat. "You are too kind. Though I confess, the accident itself is somewhat... hazy in my memory."

"Not unusual, given the circumstances," her father said. "Your mother mentioned you'd been unwell recently?"

Again that barely perceptible pause. "Yes, a recurring condition that makes travel... challenging. Which makes your generous offer of shelter all the more appreciated."

"How fortunate that you were so near when the accident occurred," (Y/n) said, then immediately worried it might sound accusatory.

But he only turned that devastating smile on her again. "Fortune indeed. Though I believe some meetings are destined, don't you? Written in the stars, as poets would say."

The way he looked at her as he said it - as if they were sharing a private joke, as if they'd known each other forever - made her heart flutter strangely. That nagging sense of familiarity grew stronger.

"Do you read poetry, Mademoiselle?"

"(Y/n)," she corrected without thinking, then blushed again. "And yes, I'm particularly fond of the Romantics."

"Ah!" His entire face lit up with genuine enthusiasm. "Then we must discuss Byron. 'The Dream' has been much in my thoughts lately." He began to recite softly:

"'Our life is twofold; Sleep hath its own world,

A boundary between the things misnamed

Death and existence: Sleep hath its own world...'"

His voice seemed to caress each word, giving them new meaning. (Y/n) found herself leaning forward slightly, drawn in by his presence, his passion for the poetry she loved.

Her father cleared his throat, but she noticed his expression had softened. It had been weeks since he'd seen her truly engaged with anyone, she realized. Not since the excitement of planning Bertha's visit...

The thought of Bertha should have brought fresh pain, but somehow it felt distant, unimportant compared to the magnetic presence of their guest.

"Perhaps," her father said carefully, "you might show our guest the library after tea? I understand you share a love of literature."

Tea had been a strangely intimate affair, their guest, displaying impeccable manners while barely touching his cup. Now, as (Y/n) led him through the manor's winding corridors toward the library, she found herself acutely aware of his presence behind her, the way the air seemed to change when he moved.

The library had always been her sanctuary, its floor-to-ceiling shelves creating the impression of a forest made of books. Late afternoon sunlight filtered through the tall windows, catching dust motes that danced like golden snow in the air. She turned to gauge his reaction and found him already watching her, that same knowing smile playing at his lips.

"Your home is remarkable," he said, moving past her to trail his fingers along the spines of nearby books. "These volumes... quite a collection. Your father's?"

"Many were my mother's," (Y/n) replied, watching as he pulled out a volume of Byron. "She had quite passionate opinions about literature."

"Had?" He glanced up, those dark eyes suddenly intent.

"She passed when I was seven."

"Ah." Something flickered across his face - understanding? Recognition? "My condolences. Though I suspect she left you her love of poetry?"

(Y/n) moved closer, drawn by the way his fingers caressed the book's leather binding. "You quoted Byron earlier - 'The Dream.'"

"Yes." He turned toward her fully then, and she realized how close they'd gotten. His voice dropped lower, intimate. "You must call me Jimin. Somehow 'Park' feels... inadequate. Too formal for what I sense between us."

The way he said it - as if they shared some profound secret - made her breath catch. That nagging familiarity surged again, stronger than ever.

"Have we..." she started, then hesitated. "This may sound strange, but I feel as though..."

"As though we've met before?" His smile held something dangerous now, thrilling. "Perhaps in dreams?"

The word triggered something - a memory trying to surface - but before she could grasp it, he was moving again, graceful as a cat, pulling another book from the shelves.

"Ah, Coleridge. Another poet fascinated by dreams and the boundaries between worlds." He began to read, his voice taking on a hypnotic quality.

The library had grown darker around them, the sunset painting the sky beyond the windows in shades of blood and gold. For a moment, neither spoke, the silence heavy with unspoken things. His closeness should have made her uncomfortable, yet somehow it felt... inevitable.

"I hardly slept last night," (Y/n) found herself confessing, her voice barely above a whisper. "There was something... strange."

Jimin's expression shifted subtly, a flash of intense interest quickly masked. "Strange how?"

"I thought..." she hesitated, aware of how foolish it might sound. "I woke in the night - or perhaps I was still dreaming - and there was a figure, standing at the foot of my bed. Just... watching me."

His fingers, still lingering near her face, stilled completely. "And this frightened you?"

"No," she realized, surprised by her own answer. "It should have, shouldn't it? A stranger in my room. But it felt... familiar somehow. Like a half-remembered lullaby."

The last rays of sunlight caught in his dark eyes, making them appear almost burgundy. "Dreams have their own truth," he said softly. "Sometimes truer than what we think we know when awake."

Something in his tone made her shiver, though not unpleasantly. She found herself studying his face in the fading light, trying to catch that elusive sense of recognition that kept dancing just beyond her grasp. "Do you dream, Jimin?"

His smile held secrets. "Oh yes. Though sometimes I find it hard to distinguish between dreams and memories. Don't you find them remarkably similar? Both grow hazy around the edges, both feel real while we're in them..." He shifted slightly closer. "Both can haunt us long after we think we've forgotten them."

The library had grown so dark that his face was now mostly shadow, yet his eyes seemed to catch what little light remained. (Y/n) was acutely aware of how improper their situation had become - alone in the growing dark, sitting far too close. Yet she couldn't bring herself to move away.

"Tell me about your life here," he said suddenly, his voice gentle. "This beautiful cage of yours."

She started at his choice of words - so similar to her own thoughts. "How did you-?"

"I recognize the look," he interrupted softly. "The way you watch the road from your windows. The hunger in your eyes when you speak of your friend... Bertha, was it?"

The name should have brought fresh pain, but somehow it felt distant, unimportant in the face of his overwhelming presence. "Yes, she was... she was to visit. Before..."

"Before fate intervened," he finished for her. "Perhaps it was meant to be this way. Perhaps I was meant to find you instead."

The presumption of such a statement should have shocked her, yet she found herself nodding. "I've never been able to talk to anyone like this," she admitted. "Even Bertha... there were always proper things to say, proper ways to be. This feels..."

"Different," he supplied. "Real. As if we've known each other forever." His cool fingers found hers in the darkness. "As if we've met before."

That nagging sense of familiarity surged again, stronger than ever. There was something about his face in the shadows, something about the way he looked at her...

The sound of footsteps in the corridor broke the spell. They moved apart just as Madame Perrodon appeared in the doorway, carrying a lamp that made them both blink at its sudden brightness.

"Mademoiselle, it's nearly time to dress for dinner." Her tone held a gentle reproof. "And the lamps should have been lit an hour ago. It's not good for your eyes, reading in such dim light."

(Y/n) stood, suddenly aware of how long they'd been secluded together, how improper it must seem. But when she glanced at Jimin, he appeared perfectly composed, as if they'd been discussing nothing more intimate than the weather.

"My fault entirely, Madame," he said, rising with fluid grace. "I'm afraid I quite lost track of time, enchanted by your charge's conversation."

Something in the way he said it - so perfectly proper yet somehow suggesting deeper meanings - made (Y/n)'s cheeks flush. Madame Perrodon's expression suggested she caught the undertone as well, though she said nothing.

"Will you join us for dinner?" (Y/n) asked, not ready for their conversation to end.

A shadow seemed to pass over his face. "I fear I'm still somewhat fatigued from yesterday's... excitement. Perhaps tomorrow? The daylight hours particularly tax my strength."

"Of course," she said quickly, concerned. "You must rest."

He caught her hand as she passed, his touch cool and electric. "Dream of me," he whispered, too soft for Madame Perrodon to hear.

Something about the way he said it - half playful, half command - sent another shiver down her spine. As if she could dream of anything else.

Dinner that evening felt like a strange performance where (Y/n) couldn't quite remember her lines. The familiar rhythms of the household - the clink of silver against fine china, the measured steps of servants, her father's occasional comments about estate matters - seemed to come from very far away. Her thoughts kept drifting upstairs, to the blue room where Jimin now rested.

"(Y/n)?" Her father's voice broke through her reverie. "You've been pushing the same pea around your plate for ten minutes."

"I'm sorry, Papa." She forced herself to take a bite, though the food held little interest. "I suppose I'm a bit tired."

Her father studied her over his wine glass, his expression thoughtful. "Our guest seems... interesting. You spent quite some time in the library today."

Something in his tone made her glance up sharply, but his face held only mild curiosity. If anything, he looked pleased - the first time she'd seen such an expression since Bertha's letter arrived.

"He's very well-read," she offered carefully. "We discussed poetry, and..."

"And?" her father prompted when she trailed off, remembering the intensity of Jimin's gaze in the falling darkness.

"He understands things," she found herself saying. "About feeling... isolated. Different." The words came out before she could stop them, more honest than she'd meant to be.

Her father's face softened. "I know these past years have been lonely for you, my dear. Perhaps it's providence that brought him to us, especially after..." He didn't need to finish the sentence. Bertha's death hung between them, an invisible weight.

"Yes," (Y/n) whispered, though something about suggesting providence in connection with Jimin felt strange, almost blasphemous.

"Still," Madame Perrodon interjected from her place at the table, "proper chaperoning must be maintained. A young man, however well-bred..."

"Of course, of course," her father waved off the concern. "But surely some companionship would do (Y/n) good. And he seems a perfect gentleman."

Perfect. The word echoed in (Y/n)'s mind. He was perfect - too perfect, perhaps. Like a painting of a person rather than a person themselves. Even now, she found she couldn't quite recall the exact details of his face, though she'd spent hours studying it. It was as if his features shifted slightly in her memory, like reflections in moving water.

"Mademoiselle?" One of the maids - Anne - was at her elbow. "You've gone quite pale. Are you unwell?"

"Just tired," (Y/n) repeated, though tired wasn't quite the right word. She felt... anticipated, as if she were waiting for something to begin. "Perhaps I should retire early."

"A wise choice," Madame Perrodon said, rising to accompany her.

As they climbed the grand staircase, (Y/n) found her eyes drawn to the blue room's door. No light showed beneath it, but she had the strangest feeling that behind that heavy oak panel, in the darkness, Jimin was awake. Waiting. Thinking of her as she thought of him.

"Sweet dreams, my dear," Madame Perrodon said as they reached (Y/n)'s room. Something in her tone suggested she'd noticed the lingering glance at the blue room's door.

Alone in her room, (Y/n) moved to her window. The night was clear, stars scattered across the sky like diamond dust. Somewhere in the gardens, a nightingale began to sing. The sound made her think of Jimin's voice, the hypnotic way he'd spoken of dreams and memories.

Her reflection in the window glass looked strange to her - pale, eyes too bright, as if she were already half in a dream. Behind her, shadows gathered in the corners of her room, and she could have sworn they moved like living things...

That night, sleep came to (Y/n) like a creeping tide. The moon hung full and low outside her window, casting strange shadows that seemed to move of their own accord. In that liminal space between waking and dreaming, time began to slip and stretch like pulled taffy.

She first became aware of her paralysis when she tried to turn away from the moonlight. Her limbs felt leaden, refusing to obey even the simplest commands. The air in her room grew thick, heavy with an invisible presence that seemed to press down upon her chest.

Then came the smell - that peculiar sweetness she'd noticed about Jimin, like roses on the edge of decay mixed with something older, something that reminded her of ancient books and midnight gardens. Instead of frightening her, the scent brought an odd comfort, making her mind drift deeper into that strange half-conscious state.

The mattress dipped beside her, as if someone had sat down with infinite care. Cool fingers seemed to brush her cheek, trail down her neck with exquisite tenderness. She should have been terrified - would have been, in any other circumstance. But there was something achingly familiar about the touch, about the presence that filled her room like smoke.

A weight settled over her, not crushing but encompassing, as if she were being embraced by the night itself. That sweet, strange scent grew stronger, and with it came a sensation of being cherished, desired, consumed - all at once. The moonlight caught something moving above her - a face perhaps, beautiful and terrible in equal measure - but before she could focus on its features, consciousness began to slip away entirely.

The last thing she felt was a sharp, sweet pain just above her breast - two points of exquisite sensation that sent waves of pleasure-pain through her increasingly distant body. A voice might have whispered something, ancient words in a language she didn't know but somehow understood, but by then she was falling into deeper dreams...

Morning came with strange heaviness. (Y/n) woke feeling as though she'd been drugged, her limbs weighted with an unfamiliar lethargy. Sunlight streamed through her windows, yet she felt none of its warmth. There was a peculiar sensation in her breast - not quite pain, but a presence, as if someone had pressed their hand there and the pressure lingered, though nothing showed.

"Mademoiselle?" Madame Perrodon's voice seemed to come from very far away. "Are you unwell? It's past nine..."

"Just tired," (Y/n) managed, though 'tired' wasn't the right word. She felt simultaneously drained and oddly euphoric, as if she were floating just slightly above herself.

The morning passed in a dream-like haze. She found herself drifting off during breakfast, her father's voice fading in and out like a poorly tuned piano. The tea tasted strange in her mouth, the toast turning to ash on her tongue.

"Perhaps you should rest today," her father suggested, watching her with concern. "You're quite pale."

But the thought of returning to bed held no appeal. Instead, she found herself drawn to the upper corridor, to the blue room where their guest presumably still slept. The door, she noticed, was firmly locked - Mrs. Klaus's knocking going unanswered as she attempted to deliver tea.

It wasn't until late afternoon that Jimin finally emerged. (Y/n) had taken refuge in the library, attempting to read but finding the words swimming before her eyes. His entrance was silent - she looked up to find him simply there, watching her with those dark, knowing eyes.

"You look tired," he said softly, settling into the chair opposite hers. In the fading daylight, his own face held a similar languor, as if he too were recovering from some midnight exertion.

"Strange dreams," she found herself saying, though she couldn't quite remember them. Just impressions remained - a weight on her chest, cool fingers against her skin, a presence both terrifying and beloved.

Something flickered in his eyes - interest? Recognition? But he only smiled that secretive smile and began speaking of other things. As darkness fell, his lethargy seemed to lift. By evening, he was almost vibrant, his movements acquiring that fluid grace she remembered from their first meeting.

That week settled into a strange pattern. Each morning, (Y/n) woke feeling increasingly drained, yet somehow lighter, as if she were slowly becoming less substantial. Jimin's door remained locked until late afternoon, no amount of knocking drawing response. Their conversations, when he finally appeared, grew more intimate, more intense.

"Tell me about your dreams," he would say, his voice holding that hypnotic quality that made her want to confess everything. But the dreams remained elusive - just fragments of sensation, of presence, of a pleasure so intense it bordered on pain.

News came, carried by Marcel who'd been to the village, that Catherine - the milliner's daughter - had taken ill with some mysterious malady. "Weak as a kitten," the gardener reported, "and her sister Marie looking hardly better."

The information stirred something in (Y/n)'s mind - a half-formed connection she couldn't quite grasp. But then Jimin would appear, beautiful in the gathering darkness, and all other thoughts would fade away.

Their early days together fell into a strange rhythm. Though Jimin never appeared before late afternoon, the house seemed to hold its breath waiting for him. (Y/n) found herself drawn to the library as the sun began its westward descent, knowing he would eventually materialize in the doorway like a figure stepping out of a dream.

On this particular afternoon, autumn rain drummed against the windows, creating a cocoon of grey light and shadow. (Y/n) sat in her usual window seat, a book open but unread in her lap, when she felt rather than heard his approach.

"You're watching for me now," he observed, his voice holding that mixture of amusement and satisfaction that made her cheeks warm. "Do I make such entertaining company?"

"You make interesting company," she corrected, marking how the rain-light seemed to make his skin almost luminous. "Though you never speak of yourself."

He settled beside her with that fluid grace she'd come to expect. "What would you know? My histories are long and dark - hardly suitable conversation for a young lady."

Before she could press further, voices in the entrance hall drew their attention. Through the library's open door came the sound of her father greeting someone - a man's voice, educated but unfamiliar, speaking with urgent authority.

"The deaths in the neighboring village..." the voice was saying. "Most concerning patterns... Similar to cases I've studied..."

(Y/n) felt Jimin tense beside her, though his face remained perfectly composed. Something shifted in the air between them, like the pressure change before a storm.

Their visitor proved to be Father Laurent, a scholar-priest from the nearby monastery. He carried himself with the confident air of a man used to being heard, his dark robes still beaded with rain. But it was the wooden box he carried that drew (Y/n)'s attention - ornately carved with symbols she didn't recognize.

"My dear," her father gestured her forward as she and Jimin entered the drawing room. "Father Laurent has brought something he thinks might interest you. Given your recent... fatigue."

The priest's eyes moved between her and Jimin, something knowing in his gaze that made her uncomfortable. "Yes, indeed. Though I see you have a guest...?"

"Park Jimin," her father supplied. "A temporary addition to our household after an accident on the road."

"Most fortunate," Father Laurent murmured, though his tone suggested he thought it anything but. His attention returned to (Y/n). "My child, I've brought something that might help with your... affliction."

From the wooden box, he withdrew a necklace - a simple leather cord from which hung a small silver charm. The metal caught the grey light strangely, seeming to hold it rather than reflect it.

"An old blessing," the priest explained, moving to place it around her neck. "For protection against... night terrors."

(Y/n) was acutely aware of Jimin's presence behind her, the way the air seemed to crackle with some unnamed tension. As Father Laurent's fingers brushed her neck, securing the charm, she heard the softest intake of breath from Jimin - something between a hiss and a sigh.

"How kind," Jimin's voice was perfectly modulated, yet somehow held an edge she'd never heard before. "Though surely a young lady has no need for such... medieval trinkets?"

In the days following Father Laurent's visit, the charm around (Y/n)'s neck grew to feel like both comfort and burden. Though she often caught Jimin eyeing it with something like distaste, he never mentioned it directly. Instead, his attempts to occupy her attention seemed to grow more focused, more intense.

One particularly languid afternoon, she found herself drawn to the blue room. The door, usually so firmly locked, stood slightly ajar - an invitation she couldn't resist. Inside, Jimin lay across the bed fully dressed, one arm thrown elegantly across his eyes.

"I wondered when you'd come," he said without moving, as if he'd been waiting for her. "The sun is so harsh today. Draw the curtains?"

She did, watching how the heavy blue velvet transformed the room into a twilight world. When she turned back, he had shifted to make space beside him on the counterpane.

"Come," he said softly. "Lie beside me. Like we used to."

The words struck her oddly - they'd never done this before - but she found herself moving forward anyway. It wasn't proper, she knew, to be here without Madame Perrodon's supervision, but Jimin had a way of making improper things seem natural, inevitable.

"Why do you always lock your door?" she found herself asking as she carefully settled beside him, the question that had burned in her mind finally finding voice.

His smile widened slightly, though his arm remained over his eyes. "Do I? Perhaps I sleepwalk. Perhaps I have secrets I must keep." His free hand found hers, fingers intertwining with that unnatural coolness she'd grown used to. "Perhaps I'm afraid of what might come visiting in the night."

"You mock me," she said, though without heat.

"Never." He turned then, propping himself up on one elbow to look down at her. The dim light caught in his dark eyes, making them appear almost burgundy. "I would never mock your curiosity. It's one of the things I find most..." he paused, seeming to taste the word before speaking it, "...delicious about you."

The way he said it sent shivers down her spine, though not entirely unpleasant ones. They lay in silence for a moment, his cool fingers tracing abstract patterns on her palm.

"Tell me a story," he said finally. "Something from your childhood. A memory you hold dear."

She thought for a moment, and then, "I had the strangest dream once, when I was very young - perhaps six or seven. Though sometimes I wonder if it was a dream at all..."

His hand stilled in hers. "Tell me."

"I woke in the night - or thought I did. There was a figure standing by my bed, the most beautiful being I'd ever seen." As she spoke, the memory became clearer, details she'd forgotten surfacing like bodies in dark water. "They knelt beside me, stroked my hair. I felt... loved. Cherished. But also..."

"Also?" His voice had taken on an odd quality, intense yet somehow distant.

"Afraid. Not of them, exactly, but of how much I wanted them to stay. They spoke to me, though I couldn't understand the words. And then..." She touched her breast unconsciously, just below where the charm now lay. "There was a sensation, like being pierced by ice and fire at once. I screamed..."

"And the servants came running," Jimin said softly. "With candles and concerns. But found nothing amiss, save a very frightened little girl."

(Y/n) sat up slightly, looking at him with surprise. "How did you know?"

His smile was dreamy, distant. "Because I had the same dream at that age, watching over you, caressing you. Strange, isn't it? How some souls are destined to meet, how some moments echo across time until they find their mirror?" His cool fingers brushed her cheek. "Perhaps that's why I feel as though I've known you forever."

The charm at her throat seemed to pulse with sudden warmth, but she found herself leaning into his touch despite it. Something about his words rang both true and false, like a bell with a hidden crack.

"How strange," she murmured, settling back against the pillows. "That we should share such a similar dream."

"Perhaps not strange at all," Jimin replied softly. His fingers had moved to trace the line of her jaw, touch whisper-light but somehow burning cold. "Some meetings are written in the stars, dear one. Some souls call to each other across time itself."

The room had grown darker, though she couldn't remember the sun setting. In this half-light, Jimin's beauty took on an almost painful quality - too perfect to be quite real, like a painting that moved and breathed. His dark eyes seemed to drink in her face with an intensity that should have frightened her.

"You're trembling," he observed, his cool hand sliding down to rest over her heart. "Are you afraid?"

"No," she whispered, though her pulse raced beneath his palm. "I should be, shouldn't I? Everything about this is..." She gestured vaguely at their position, at the impropriety of lying together in the growing dark.

"Everything about this is exactly as it should be." His face was very close now, his sweet, strange scent making her head spin. "You're mine, (Y/n). You've always been mine, since that dream, since before that dream. Can't you feel it?"

The charm at her throat seemed to burn, but she couldn't focus on its warning. Not with Jimin's cool fingers trailing down her neck, not with the weight of his gaze holding her like a butterfly pinned to velvet.

"Mine," he murmured again, the word carrying a weight that made her shiver. His fingers traced patterns on her skin that felt like ancient writing, like secrets too old for human understanding. "My sweet, innocent girl."

The endearment should have felt patronizing, but instead it made her feel precious, cherished. His touch remained gentle, yet there was something possessive in it that stirred feelings she had no names for. The charm at her throat felt like it was burning now, but she couldn't bring herself to move away.

"I don't understand," she whispered, her voice trembling. "What is this? What are we to each other?"

His smile in the darkness was beautiful and terrible. "Everything," he breathed, leaning closer until his lips nearly brushed her ear. "We are everything to each other. Past, present, future - all flowing together like rivers to the sea."

The poetic words made her head spin, or perhaps it was his proximity, the sweet-strange scent of him overwhelming her senses. His cool fingers had found their way into her hair, loosening pins until soft strands fell around her shoulders.

"Beautiful," he murmured, watching the way her hair spilled across the blue silk of the counterpane. "Like night itself made tangible." His thumb brushed her bottom lip, the touch so intimate it made her gasp. "So innocent, so pure. Do you know what you do to me, dear?"

She shook her head, unable to form words. Her whole world had narrowed to his touch, his voice, the way his dark eyes seemed to glow in the gathering shadows. This was improper - beyond improper - but propriety seemed a distant concern, as unreal as the world beyond this room.

"Everything about you calls to me," he continued, his voice taking on that hypnotic quality that made her feel as though she were drowning in honey. "Your innocence, your trust, your..." he pressed his hand against her rapidly beating heart, "...life.

The room had grown darker as they lay together, the heavy blue curtains transforming late afternoon into premature dusk. (Y/n) knew she should leave - everything about this situation defied propriety - yet she found herself sinking deeper into the feather mattress, hyperaware of Jimin's cool presence beside her.

His fingers continued their delicate exploration of her palm, each touch sending little shivers up her arm. The simple contact shouldn't have felt so intimate, yet something about the deliberate way he traced each line made her breath catch.

"Your hands are always so cold," she murmured, watching his pale fingers contrast against her skin.

"And yours so warm," he responded, bringing her wrist to his lips in a gesture that walked the line between courtly and something else entirely. His breath ghosted across her pulse point, making her shiver. "Like you've captured sunlight beneath your skin."

She should pull away. A proper young lady would never allow such liberties. But Jimin had a way of making improper things seem natural, inevitable. When he tugged her closer, she found herself yielding, turning to face him on the blue silk counterpane.

"Sometimes," he said softly, his free hand moving to brush a strand of hair from her face, "I wonder if you know how extraordinary you are." His touch lingered at her temple, traced the curve of her cheek with exquisite slowness. "How rare it is to find someone who sees the world as you do, who understands..."

"Understands what?" she whispered, lost in the darkness of his eyes. The room seemed to be growing dimmer still, shadows gathering in the corners like conspirators.

Instead of answering, he let his fingers trail down her neck, each touch precise and deliberate. The charm at her throat seemed to pulse with warning heat, but she could focus only on the delicious contrast of his cool skin against her flushed warmth.

"Your heart is racing," he observed, his hand settling over the rapid beat. "Are you frightened of me, dear?"

"No," she answered truthfully. She should be - everything about this situation should terrify her. Instead, she found herself leaning into his touch like a flower seeking shade. "Though perhaps I should be."

His smile in the gathering dark was both beautiful and strange. "Wise girl." His fingers had found their way into her hair, carefully removing the last of the pins setting loose luscious waves that spilled across the pillows. "Though I prefer your trust to your wisdom."

The impropriety of her loosened hair struck her suddenly - this was something only a lady's maid or husband should see. Yet when Jimin's fingers carded through the strands, sending pleasant shivers down her spine, propriety seemed a distant concern.

"Like silk," he murmured, watching the way her hair caught what little light remained. His touch became more possessive, one hand tangling in the strands while the other traced patterns on her neck that felt like ancient writing. "Everything about you is so..."

He didn't finish the thought. Instead, he shifted closer, until she could feel the strange coolness that always emanated from him along her entire body. His face lowered to her neck, just beside the charm, and she felt rather than heard him inhale deeply.

"Jimin," she breathed, hardly recognizing her own voice. It came out halfway between protest and plea.

"Say it again," he demanded softly, his lips now brushing her throat with each word. "I love how my name sounds on your lips."

"Jimin," she whispered again, the name falling from her lips like a prayer. His mouth pressed against her pulse point in response, a kiss that felt more like worship.

The room spun slowly around them, or perhaps it was just her head spinning. Everything felt dreamlike - the deepening shadows, the cool press of his body against hers, the way his fingers traced arcane patterns down her arms. She was dimly aware that she should maintain some semblance of propriety, but propriety seemed to belong to another world entirely.

His hand at her waist pulled her closer still, grip possessive yet somehow reverent. "Do you know," he murmured against her skin, "how long I've waited for this? For you?"

The words made little sense, yet sent shivers down her spine nonetheless. His lips traveled up her neck with exquisite slowness, each kiss a point of delicious cold that made her gasp. When his teeth grazed her earlobe, she found herself clutching at his shoulders, unsure if she meant to push him away or draw him closer.

"My innocent girl," he breathed, his free hand now trailing down her side, following the curve of her waist. "So responsive to every touch." As if to demonstrate, his fingers splayed across her ribcage, thumb brushing just beneath her breast. Even through layers of clothing, the touch felt scandalously intimate.

She should stop this. Should remember her position, her reputation, all the careful lessons in propriety that Madame Perrodon had instilled. Instead, she found herself arching slightly into his touch, craving more of that wonderful chill.

"That's it," he encouraged softly, his nose trailing along her jaw. "Trust me. Let me..." His hand slipped higher, and she felt rather than heard his satisfaction when she gasped. "Perfect. You're perfect."

The charm at her throat burned in earnest now, but she barely noticed. Not when Jimin's mouth was leaving a trail of frost down her neck, not when his hands were teaching her body sensations she'd never imagined. Everything felt heightened, dreamlike - the silk beneath her, the weight of him beside her, the sweet-strange scent that always surrounded him now filling her lungs like incense.

His touches grew bolder, more demanding. One hand tangled in her hair, tilting her head back to expose more of her throat while the other...

Footsteps in the corridor snapped through their private world like breaking glass. Voices approached - servants doing their evening rounds, discussing dinner preparations with comfortable familiarity.

Reality crashed back with stunning force. (Y/n) jerked away, suddenly aware of her state - hair loose and wild around her shoulders, dress rumpled, lips surely swollen from his attention. What had she been thinking? What had she allowed?

"I should..." she stumbled to her feet, face burning with shame and lingering desire. "I need to..."

"Go," Jimin said softly, still lounging on the bed with casual grace, as if nothing untoward had happened. But his eyes burned in the darkness, and his smile held something that made her shiver anew. "Dream of me."

She fled the room just as the servants' voices passed by, straightening her dress with trembling fingers. Behind her, she heard the distinctive click of his door locking once again.

𝔓𝔞𝔯𝔱 𝔗𝔴𝔬

[pangaeaseas]

Petertha: My Semi-Serious Ship Manifesto

This is a darkly comedic headcanon but also like: think of the shade it throws on canon. And I LOOOVE villainous Peter. Make that man more evil!

But like also. Going through the mentions of her in canon and like...babes...I think we were sleeping on this one....I think it is genuinely a reasonable interpretation...

So our first mentions of Bertha are in the very first chapter of GoF, setting up her death as crucial to the mystery of that book. And what's the first thing we learn about her as a person? Well, we learn that she RECOGNIZED Peter, even though he presumably looks very different after years living as a freaking rat and without a finger:

“Wormtail, Wormtail,” said the cold voice silkily, “why would I kill you? I killed Bertha because I had to. She was fit for nothing after my questioning, quite useless. In any case, awkward questions would have been asked if she had gone back to the Ministry with the news that she had met you on her holidays. Wizards who are supposed to be dead would do well not to run into Ministry of Magic witches at wayside inns. . . .” (GoF Chapter 1)

Peter is also pretty cagey and doubtful throughout this conversation--he expresses his doubts at the reliability of Voldemort's plans, and he also mentions that potentially they could have wiped Bertha's memory. As though he feels guilty for her death...and we know Peter is capable of guilt bc of the whole strangled by own hand thing...

We next learn that Bertha is 'more trouble than she's worth' from Percy Weasley (interestingly enough, Percy is also of course the original owner of Scabbers). You know what might make someone bad at their job and get them shunted from department to department? Well, being the victim of a Memory Charm--but also GRIEF at your Hogwarts boyfriend being murdered! And Percy being an employee of Crouch-->Bertha being an employee of Crouch-->Percy is the original owner of Scabbers...idk if that's anything but maybe it is.

Sirius also knows a lot about Bertha Jorkins, including that she ended up working for the Ministry (the kind of thing you find out about someone you knew well), and confirms that he knew her in school--which means the other Marauders knew her as well. He has a strong opinion on her character, the way you do with someone you know well, like, for example, them dating one of your friends...:

“Listen, I knew Bertha Jorkins,” said Sirius grimly. “She was at Hogwarts when I was, a few years above your dad and me. And she was an idiot. Very nosy, but no brains, none at all. It’s not a good combination, Harry. I’d say she’d be very easy to lure into a trap.” (GoF)

This is a REALLY strong and confident character judgement and he's confident enough in it to make a whole argument about Voldemort's plans from it. And Sirius is not actually someone who generally leaps to conclusions, especially about something as important as what Voldemort is planning. He has to be very confident in his assessment of Bertha. Like he knew her more extensively than her simply being a few years ahead of them.

And no wonder he wouldn't mention her dating Peter, considering he'd likely not want to remind himself of his positive memories of Peter. Bertha isn't the only character Sirius potentially had more knowledge of he's cagey about in GoF: he does the same with Bellatrix, another painful topic (never mentioning he's her cousin).

And Sirius later makes another confident character judgement of Bertha, claiming that he wouldn't have expected her to be a liability because of poor memory specifically because she was a gossip (how do YOU know that Sirius?) Again, he knows her really well and feels safe leveraging this knowledge in a (completely accurate) read that it seems like something happened to her. The way you know your friend's ex-girlfriend.

(Now, this is all for the crack theory: I actually think the Bertha stuff is more Sirius being a lot more perceptive and interested in other people than he's given credit for. )

Also, Peter goes for older women apparently!

“He put a hex on me, Professor Dumbledore, and I was only teasing him, sir, I only said I’d seen him kissing Florence behind the greenhouses last Thursday. . . .” “But why, Bertha,” said Dumbledore sadly, looking up at the now silently revolving girl, “why did you have to follow him in the first place?” (GoF, The Pensieve)

Now this bit is really interesting. Who do we eventually learn 'go around hexing people for the fun of it?' The Marauders. So maybe this is Bertha being jealous of Peter, him hexing her, and her playing off the jealousy as 'teasing' even though her feelings are really hurt Because Peter is an asshole.

(I actually think this *might* be a reference to James...)

And now for the real juice:

"But Wormtail — displaying a presence of mind I would never have expected from him — convinced Bertha Jorkins to accompany him on a nighttime stroll. He overpowered her . . . he brought her to me. And Bertha Jorkins, who might have ruined all, proved instead to be a gift beyond my wildest dreams . . . for — with a little persuasion — she became a veritable mine of information." (GoF)

So this is Voldemort's Bond villain rant at the graveyard. And Voldemort is a big gossip too he enjoys talking about stuff like 'oh hey Lucius and Narcissa and Bellatrix your niece is fucking a werewolf nanny-nanny-po-po this is totally relevant information'. He likes to humiliate people by talking about, like them and their families' love lives...so he's bringing up Bertha/Peter...especially now that Peter's purpose has been served by resurrecting him. He is even going like 'what a GIF. For ME." Like basically being...Peter I fucked (murdered) your girlfriend. (More on the murder bit in a second.)

And damn. Like, imagine you are Bertha Jorkins. You go on a fun vacation to Albania. You meet a guy in a bar. Oh whoops he's actually your ex. You ex who is dead?? And you...go with him on a midnight stroll??? Instead of like...calling the police? Questioning further at the very least? Maybe you are still into him...

And midnight excursions are consistently associated with romance. See people going to the Astronomy Tower to hook up, or Snape hexing amorous students apart once it's late at the Yule Ball (because now that it's late it's the season of romance...). So it's an interesting choice of words by both Voldemort and the author.

It's also never explained how exactly Wormtail 'overpowered' her. Could totally be a seduction.

Then Bertha comes out of Voldemort's wand. Ok. So Voldemort definitely killed her, right? Except...Voldemort was a spirit at this point! How was he corporeal enough to kill someone with his wand? He wasn't even possessing Wormtail...and Wormtail is the one who made the rudimentary magic-capable body he uses to kill Frank Bryce.

We also have an example of a victim of Voldemort's wand who wasn't killed by Voldemort appearing from the same Priori Incantatem: Cedric. 'Kill the spare' Cedric. In fact when Dumbledore discusses the Priori Incantatem, he explicitly refers to victims of Voldemort's wand rather than of Voldemort. So Bertha coming out of Voldemort's wand doesn't necessarily mean Voldemort personally killed her. In fact I think it's very likely WORMTAIL killed her.

And if Wormtail killed her on Voldemort's orders...after she was so interested in reconnecting! The angst! The drama! The guilt! HE"S THE LAST LIVING THING SHE SEES! Is that not achingly romantic! She was so eager to see him alive again too! And she'd worked in Crouch's office: she probably knew the potential implications of that re: Sirius.

Imagine an alternate universe where Peter decided 'screw Voldemort! I want Bertha!' Romantic outlaws on the run! They kill Crouch for what he did! And then run into the sunset!

We have ourselves a ship! Petertha nation rise...

[in1-nutshell]

Hi, it's me again. I would like to ask you for a story about how the Red Cross and Deadloop finally confessed their feelings to each other.

The two thoughts while writing this.

Yeah Red Cross and Deadloop are back!

... oh no what have I done

Don't worry things will get better... I hope

Hope you enjoy!

Red Cross and Deadloop confessing?

SFW, ANGST, Romance, Platonic, Mention of injuries, Cybertronian reader

TFP

The team had just found a new energon supply in the area.

It was agreed that this was an almost servos on recollection, given how low supplies were right now.

They would be split into two groups while looking for the energon.

One group led by Deadloop while the other led by Ultra Magnus.

Magnus would reliy mainly on the newest energy scanner while Deadloop relied on  the ‘old way’ of finding energon.

Ratchet and Red Cross would stay at the base.

Red Cross passing Deadloop some extra grenades. Red Cross: “I wish I could go out with you lot.” Deadloop safely storing them in his subspace: “Red we’ve talked about this. You’re not—” Red Cross: “—physically able for this mission. I know Loop. You don’t think I know that everyday when the old limp starts acting up?” Red Cross looks down at her pede with a frown: “The pulses are stronger today… something big going to happen.” Deadloop chuckles a bit: “Yes the biggest score of energon we’ve had all year is just a couple minutes away Red.” Deadloop pats her shoulder: “Take it easy medic.” Red Cross: “And strafe a couple Seekers for me Ace!” He turned back and smiled at her before continuing his way. Red Cross just looks at Deadloop’s frame as it disappears into the groundbridge. Something was wrong… Something was going to go terribly wrong…

The rapid calls on the line came in so fast Neither medic had a chance to properly understand until the blaster fire was heard.

Ratchet soon left through the groundbrigde to aid the others.

Red Cross did her best in reassuring the children that things were going to be just fine.

Her spark clentched tighter every time she looked at her teams’ vitals.

At Deadloop’s vitals.

She had to suppress a cry when she saw the brief ‘offline’ sign above Deadloop’s name.

Finally, she had received orders to open the groundbrigde.

The medic did her best in helping Ratchet get the others into the med bay.

She clung to Deadloops heavily battered frame like a lifeline when he got through.

It was an exhausting couple of hours before Ratchet and Red Cross’s work was done.

Now that the patch work was done, it was just to monitor everyone.

Red Cross going over to Deadloop’s side with the data pad.

Red Cross: “How are we feeling now?” Deadloop grunts a bit: “Feels like I took a Bertha to the chassis.” Red Cross smiles a bit. Smokescreen who is a bit loopy from the anesthesia: “No, you took Megatron to the chassis.” Red Cross freezes and slowly turned to Deadloop. She hoped that he that smile on his face that would tell her that the statement was a lie or the smirk he did when he thought about playing along with a joke. All the medic saw was guilt and realization. Red Cross: “Deadloop.” Deadloop winced a bit at the name. Red Cross: “What is Pipsqueak here talking about?” Deadloop: “…It was the only way to by some time Red—” Red cross: “So you decided that the ONLY option felt was to ram yourself into Megatron!?” Deadloop was getting a bit angry at her tone: “Yeah, and I’d do it again!” Red Cross crosses her arms: “By Primus you will!” Deadloop now standing up from the med slab. Red Cross with her servos out in case the Seeker fell: “Deadloop you’re going to conk out if you don’t lay back—” Deadloop brushes her servos: “I’m fine.” Red Cross: “You are not! You don’t need to have a medical degree to know you are not fine!” Deadloop: “I am! You don’t see me pushing up daisies now do you?” Red Cross: “You keep doing this and you WILL end up terminated by Megatron.” Deadloop: “If it means getting the team an advantage then so be it!” Red Cross: “Stop talking like your life can be easily thrown away!” Deadloop: “Why wouldn’t it be?! Its not like anyone would really care—” Red Cross: “I CARE!” Deadloop: “WHY DO YOU CARE!?” Red Cross: “ITS BECAUSE I LOVE YOU!”

The silence that came after those words was deafening.

Both bots were venting heavily.

The only sounds heard were the sounds of the monitors in the bay.

The realization slowly came to the two, both with different reactions.

Deadloop felt like he had once again rammed into the war lord all over again.

She loved him?

Red Cross, the Autobot who stood by his side all those years… loved him

His best friend… loved him?

But how?

After everything he had done for this war, every bot he had to terminate because of his mission, every dog fights he succeeded in the termination of his enemy.

She loved that mech?

Red Cross felt horror.

She just confessed her feelings.

Her deepest feelings in front of everyone.

She confessed to Deadloop and he wasn’t saying anything.

In a stuttering mess, Red Cross transformed into her alt mode and drove, a bit wobbly, out of the base.

Deadloop didn’t even make an attempt to follow.

Something had indeed gone wrong today…

Something indeed had gone terribly wrong…

[wizisbored]

wip wednesday sentences for 30/10

content warning for implied slavery in netherborne

nimona centaur au @twyrewolf, @allofthebeanz, @stonemaskedtaliesin

“I was afraid you’d say something like that. Saints help that poor man.” And with that, she opens the door.

Regardless of her feelings on the centaur, Nimona can’t deny that seeing Ballister Boldheart in real life for the first time is strange. He’s pixels in the shape of another dickhead on TV, he’s ink on a propaganda poster, he’s a name on her squireship paperwork. And also, apparently, he’s an actual flesh-and-blood seal brown warmblood standing in the doorway, looking right at her as they breathe the same air.

Not that she’d in a thousand years admit that. She holds his gaze, stone-faced, and does not stand.

“Sir Boldheart,” the Matron greets, moving to the side as she holds the door open.

netherborne @hurricanebreeze, @quietly-sleeping, @lizhly @tamsinswriting, @sourb0i

“A…Arrhythmia,” Skye whimpers.

“So she’d be cheap, that’s something.” He turns to address the room at large. “Any reason the rest of you would be?”

Prudence and Bertha glance at each other. “Uh- Jock said…”

“Her heart’s defective, I’m down an arm, and they’re untrained teenagers,” Jock rattles off. “Sir.”

“And I’ve got something else for you to hold against Takta,” Lydia says bitterly.

“Yeah? Spill.”

“Well- I saw him bringing those three in, and I tried to get him to help, so they asked if he knew me. He said I was a stray.”

The receding red rushes back. “Oh, that fucking- which one did he have?”

Lydia takes another step away from him. “Prudence and Bertha.”

“Yeah, cause I know their names!”

rabies time @enigma-the-mysterious, @zyrafowe-sny, @violet-prism-creatively, @circus-complex @somefishycat, @shelfthe-reader, @asha10100101010, @whimsicalmeerkat

“Stop- stop looking at me like that, leave me alone!”

Ballister steps back, his hand raised. “Okay, Okay, sorry. I’m not gonna touch you, kid.”

“Back. Off.”

“I’m backing off, I’m backing off.”

She watches him, eyes locked on as he goes to join Ambrosius on the other side of the room. Again, he’s unnerved. Nimona has never been something he’d call predictable, but she is understandable, with practice. He can feel that understanding slipping.

Big white eyes watch him from across the room. Predator or prey, he can’t tell.

He supposes he and Ambrosius will just have to figure out how to go about breakfast with a rabid otter in the sink.

///

That night, it's Ballister’s turn.

He's woken by some sort of commotion from the direction of the bathroom, and blearily clambers out of bed. Nimona didn’t seem too bad when he turned in for the night, he could get within a foot of her at least, get more than one-word responses. Hopefully she’s just tripped, and she’ll be enough in her right mind when he finds her to easily settle.

What he finds is a little pink fawn sprawled on the bathroom floor, the room stinking of vomit.

“Oh, Nim,” he mumbles as he kneels beside her. “You with me, kid?”

Her eyes snap open, hazy for a moment, and then she locks onto him and immediately she’s scrambling to get her gangly fawn legs under her on the tiles.

“Whoa, whoa, it’s okay. It’s just me, you’re safe.”

She scrambles to the far wall, staring, legs splayed. Her mouth is hanging open, her breathing ragged, a small sliver of drool hanging from her lip.

blood red @enigma-the-mysterious, @loyal-house-of-lupin, @oriharaizayadividesintoslytherin, @kallisto-k

It’s nice, he finds, to be able to consult the horse - too tight, too loose, too forward or back? Though, he could do without the teasing.

“What’s wrong?” she asks, with mock sympathy. “Don’t know how to fit a saddle, cowboy?”

“I’m still not a cowboy,” Ballister says, as he fastens her breast collar. He finds his eye drawn to the four-pointed star on her shoulder as he does. He’d assumed it was a compass when he first saw it, with the N standing for North, but now he’s not so sure.

“Is this a real brand?” he asks.

“Am I a real horse?”

“I don’t know why I bother.”

He walks a circle around her, giving the saddle fit one last look over, before he stops at her side. Only now does he appreciate how much his sheer panic helped him get on her back earlier - how on earth did he get his foot all the way up to the stirrup with the other still on the ground?

bugebroph @eriquin, @auburnlaughter, @kalira, @post-and-out

Behind the mask, she beams. “I always made Beej tell me about his jobs when he got back, so I picked stuff up from him. But that’s just his methods, I’ve done my own research too, and that wasn’t easy. The librarian’s filing system is actively hostile.”

“There’s an afterlife library?” Adam says, practically lighting up at the thought.

“Yeah, it’s great! Would be better if the librarian didn’t hate me.”

“Oh no, did something happen?” Barbab asks gently.

Lydia shrugs. “Well, since his system is so dogshit I just keep books I like ‘cause I’d never see them again if I returned them. We’ve both got our reasons.”

“Have you tried talking to him about it?”

She grimaces. “He’s way too fond of bringing up my bloodline for any decent conversations to happen.”

[electricbluebutterflies]

bertha/george & “please don’t look at me like that” from the prompts 💗

PG-ish and also on ao3.

Tonight has been a disaster.

By most people’s standards, not so much. Bertha did not say or do anything out of line, did not make herself stand out more than she needs to as she learns new social rules, did not-

There is still, always, that fragile part of her mind that worries she will be seen through, that someone in some crowded room will figure out just how high she’s had to climb through her constant lies of omission. She was too quiet at too many points tonight where a woman more used to this level of society would’ve made certain comments, and she worries-

Disaster, she thinks, and she can’t tell a single soul.

She is still tense out of the fire, safe at home and following routines she created because of these scenarios. Her husband also needs time to breathe; she knows his experience has been different but the pressures are at least related, more room in this world for an ambitious man but still-

In a different mood she would fall into him and allow distraction, but right now she feels like she has lost sight of the line between anger and fear, too much too close too-

“Please don’t look at me like that.”

“I thought you liked me looking at you, darling.”

She does, she wants to say, more than anything. She’s worn this dress a few more times than most women of her current positions would, but it’s a good dress, would’ve been easy to maneuver if she’d wanted to-

“I have been treated like an exotic animal quite enough for one night.”

He will never understand. Love of her life, this man currently within reach but not touching her, but no amount of her complaints will ever quite compare to what it’s like and-

“You know I think you’re far more than that.”

She does, and that’s what makes her different. So many people she had to interact with tonight and she doubts more women than she could count on one hand are ending it in a way similar to how she is, the warmth of possibility but at the very least a perfectly safe place to unwind and-

“I won’t be-“

“That is not who we are.”

She moves forward and takes a kiss, slow and clinging and she feels herself melting against him, like she might turn to a puddle if not for how structured this gown is and-

“I don’t deserve you,” she murmurs.

“I can’t help but wonder who you’re planning to ruin.”

“I don’t have the power to ruin anyone here yet, darling. It’s only been a few months since-“

“I only said that you were planning, not-“

“I know. It’ll take time, and I’m not quite sure-“

“Do what you need to do.”

This is why she loves him, she thinks as she’s not sure which of them takes the next kiss. Perhaps he enables her too much, perhaps he’s too amused by everything everyone else has told her not to be, but…

He’ll be by her side, whatever she does, however long it takes. He always has been. Far as she’s concerned, that almost outweighs everything she doesn’t have yet.

(Almost.)

[porygon2electricboogaloo]

Who are your favourite NPCs you run and why. Legally speaking this doesn't count as asking about Gozmo

Uhoh I can hear balloons being blown up in the other room... stay safe out there

As a general rule, my favourite NPCs to run are usually the zany eccentric ones that are there more for fun rather than for plot. Bodacious, Cholmondeley, Wide Tony, Bertha Deranged (and a certain someone else) come to mind for example. They're there to fill a relatively simple role and be friendly (at least non-antagonistic) to the party, which lets me run wild a bit with their personalities and quirks. So they're easy to play! I find some of my more complex NPCs are more difficult because I need to think through their motivations, where these guys can do just about anything and still feel natural. Plus they add so much to my worlds I think, having all these interesting people that simply exist.

Some antagonists can be very fun to play as well, if they have enough spunk and liveliness, while also being someone the players take seriously. I think Admiral Zurk and Satharaz are my best in this regard, with their debuts really sticking in my mind.

Picking one in particular as a favourite is so hard, but for now I'm going with Grampy Lewis. What an obnoxiously lovable old gremlin.

Thank you for the question!!

[untilthenextencore]

"Nights To Remember Ch. 5: You Belong To Me~..."

~

~

Jimmy & Dahlia made their exit from the Chuco sometime after that. The smallest thing triggered it. The funniest thing. A song by the Duprees. And a shared look after one last dance.

"See the pyramids along the Nile…

Watch the sun rise on a tropic isle…

Just remember, darling, all the while…

You belong to me…"

The look they shared was laden with understanding. A flicker of a shared shy, sheepish smile. A soft laugh at how fitting the song was then.

They both knew it was time. It was in their nerves. In their blood. A little flicker in their eyes.

Jimmy laced his fingers through hers, hand swallowing hers as he gazed down at her. "Shall we?"

Dahlia nodded simply. "Let's go."

Jimmy slipped out of his jacket, draping it around her shoulders before leading her back out into the now much cooler night. He nodded & smiled in greeting, tossing a few waves to some cheering fans before they were both tucked safely back into the quiet private depths of the backseat of the town car he arrived in.

"Darling, you really shouldn't have run off like that. You really did give me quite a fright. Though I'm glad you left word for me with Peter." He tutted, patting her hand.

"Of course, baby." She reached up to cup his face tenderly & thumbed the swell of his cheek. "Like you already said I didn't want to worry you. I got bored back there but saw you were still having fun. I knew Peter would get the word to you in where I had gone. If you didn't already know or guess. I just got homesick I guess. Missed things. Missed the place. The fun. You know. The old days I guess."

The old days.

Memories danced in Jimmy's mind. Of more dances here. More dances at the Chuco. Inside under the tinted light. Outside on the patio. Under the streetlight. Under the stars. Under the moon.

From the first time she took him there in his Yardbirds days to then. Through all lengths of his hair. Through all lengths of his beard. Both before & after his beard. Pinstriped trousers, jeans, velvet bellbottoms. Silk blouses, lace trim, simple cotton. No matter what he wore he was always welcome. She was always welcome. They were always welcome.

It wasn't hard to see why she loved it.

Why she missed it.

Why she escaped.

The other party was the complete opposite.

Though she stuck out in both like a sore thumb - albeit a stunningly beautiful one - it was clear, she fit this one like a glove.

"I'm sorry if I worried you at all, Jimmy. I thought maybe if I went along with Robert when he offered you'd have less to worry about."

Jimmy stifled a laugh. Stifled a grin. Barely. After all these years. Even after that night. She still had no idea. He was glad in a way. It meant Robert hadn't tried anything. It also meant that certainly Magnet hadn't either. It meant she was still safe. Still his. Still secure.

"Forgive me?"

And thus, so was he.

Cupping her face in his large hands, Jimmy cooed in a dragon's curl of smoke from the cigarette he had just finished. "There's nothing to forgive, my dear. Nothing. As long as you're safe."

Dahlia beamed at him, placing her hands over his cupping her cheeks, starry-eyed as ever. "I had a wonderful time tonight, darling. Hope you did too. Despite the slight fright I gave you."

His smile grew before his lips pressed to her forehead once more. "My dearest. My sweetest. My loveliest. My only. My girl. My lady. My Dahlia."

His heart swelled in his chest at what he saw flickering in her gaze. The light. The devotion. The purity. Purity of gaze. Of heart. Of love. Of feeling. Of emotion. Pure, raw emotion.

All of this led him to make one simple promise. "The night's not over yet, my girl. My lady. It is but still young for us."

"I bless the day I found you…

I wanna stay around you…

Now and forever, let it be me…"

Jimmy's smile brightened at the sound of the Everlys crooning over the radio. "Remember this song, my darling?"

"Don't take this heaven from one…

If you must cling to someone…

Now and forever, let it be me…"

Dahlia's smile quirked in the same way. Instantly, she read his mind. "Palomino, 1969."

They shared a private giggle. A favorite date of theirs. A favorite memory of theirs. Jimmy taking Dahlia to see the Everly Brothers at the Palomino in 1969. Holding hands. Holding her close. Sneaking squeezes of her hand. Sneaking little clinches. Sneaking kisses. As they did before.

"Each time we meet, love…

I find complete love…

Without your sweet love…

What would life be?..."

As they did then.

Jimmy leant in & nuzzled Dahlia. Nuzzled his wife. She nuzzled back. A low growl sounded in his throat. A purr in hers. A chuckle followed from him. A giggle from her.

The partition rose between them & the front seat. Jimmy's arms came around Dahlia's back, hands caressing the skin left bare by her low backed dress. Dahlia shivered & purred again, reclining back as Jimmy leant her back into the seat. Her arms circled his shoulders as their nuzzling intensified & once again their lips met.

She shivered as she felt his silver jeweled pendant cool against her hot skin.

"Gee whiz, look at his eyes…

Gee whiz, how they hypnotize…

He's got everything a girl could want…

Man, oh, man, what a prize…

Oh, oh…"

As the song played Dahlia gazed up at him in the flickering, intermittent light. The dragon's green fire seared her to the core. A private smile was shared. A tandem flicker. The air crackling between the two as it so often did. And suddenly two pairs of curved lips crashed into each other.

"Heaven up above knows how much…

I love that fella's soul…

Angels sing of a love like this…

I hope our love will grow and grow…"

Jimmy's lips burned a trail of heated kisses down her throat as his hand blazed a trail up her skirt. Her legs fell open instantly. As if on command. Under his spell as ever. Open sesame.

"'Cause, gee whiz, I love that guy…

Gee whiz, my, my, oh my…

There are things we could do…

I could say I love you…

But all I can say is…

Gee whiz…"

His lips trailed back up to claim & conquer hers yet again. Dominating her again. Mauling her again. Dahlia nipped his lower lip softly, earning a throaty growl. The growl of course came with more hungry, devouring kisses.

A sudden gasp left Dahlia's lips, thighs tightening around his hand slightly as Jimmy's fingers shifted her panties aside & his middle finger pressed inside.

"Dahlia… My lady…" He panted.

Dahlia let her legs fall open just that bit wider. Jimmy's finger pressed deeper, curving towards those familiar places he knew so well would elicit those deliriously sweet sounds.

"Ah!..."

And little bucks & lifts & rocks of her hips as she was so doing then. Each little buck allowed her skirt to slip higher and higher up her thigh. The slipping slip dress thusly only revealed more and more of her shifted panties & his working fingers.

The sight of the flickering light, intermittent from passing cars & streetlights, flashing on her exposed core stirred him to no end. The sight of her lips parted. Him parting her lips. His fingers parting them & pumping. Curving. Pressing deep. Making her mewl. It stirred him… To action.

"Oh, my angel…

Come back to me…

And I will love you…

Till eternity…

Oh, my angel…

This fire in my heart…

Consumes my happiness…

Since we are apart…"

Jimmy let Dahlia slip from his arms momentarily, only to bring both hands to his belt & undo it.

"Dahlia… Forgive me… I need..."

Dahlia merely allowed herself to sink down onto the sear & giggled. "There's nothing to forgive… As you said, my love…"

Jimmy hurriedly undid & unzipped his trousers, freeing himself & allowing his length to fall free. Dahlia giggled again & softly stroked his length in greeting. Jimmy jolted, grunting, groaning deeply. He stilled himself, allowing her a few more smooth strokes before acting again.

Taking her hand & once more pressing a kiss to the back before draping her arms around his shoulders. Coming close, he gave her panties a tug down her thighs before embracing her once more. And with that, Jimmy rose over her, drawing his hips back & piercing her in one go.

"Ah!" Cane the tandem response.

"You're mine…

And we belong together…

Yes, we belong together…

For eternity…"

The music was the perfect soundtrack as they lay wrapped in each other's arms. Another giggle was shared between the two before Jimmy pressed deeply once more. Another thrust. Another gasp.

"You're mine…

Your lips belong to me…

Yes, they belong to only me…

For eternity…"

Jimmy rolled his hips into hers slowly. Smoothly. Deeply. He drew out moan after moan. Sigh after sigh. Stirring her from deep within.

Dahlia's back arched, allowing Jimmy to slide the spaghetti straps down her shoulders. There he was able to bunch the silken dress at her waist. There he was able to trail kisses down her neck as her head craned back.

His lips trailed a heated path down to her breasts, circling her nipples & sucking them into peaks as his tongue batted & teased them. The sight of her panties, filmy & now sodden, ringing around her ankle led him to remove them, pocketing them secretly. Then, Jimmy's smile widened as Dahlia's legs wrapped around his waist. Her heels grazed the upholstery on the door behind him, her ankles locked behind his back as he drove consistently into her as they were driven around.

"You're my, my baby…

And you'll always be…

I swear by everything I own…

You'll always, always be mine…"

Dahlia watched as his pendants glinted in the light. Dangling & spinning. Hypnotizing her. Each thrust pierced her to her very core. Stealing her breath away. Her hands slipped under his jacket, sliding along the smooth expanse of skin along his back. Her fingers curled. Nails scoring into his shoulders.

His hips stuttered & faltered only momentarily before snapping harder & ever so slightly faster into her.

"You're mine…" The song crooned.

"Jimmy..." Dahlia mewled, arching her back slightly. The way her eyes both glittered & hazed over caught his eye. He recognized that. Recognized the way her nails dragged from his shoulders down his back. He hissed & shuddered & snapped his hips yet again, thrusting deeper still.

Her legs tightened around him. Walls tightened around him. Arms tightened around him. "Ahhh… Jimmy… Jimmy…"

"Are you close, darling?" He asked with a kiss, even though he already knew.

As he expected, he saw her nod slowly, still with that hazed starry-eyed gaze.

Jimmy smiled, sliding one hand down to brace her hip. His thumb swirled gently on her clit as he began to hone his thrusts in a very pointed fashion. Dahlia gasped softly. The gasp was muffled against his lips as he claimed hers in yet another passionate kiss.

"Mmmm… Me too…" He admitted, with a cheeky grin, muffling his subsequent chuckles into her lips just as she had muffled her gasps.

Now their hips rocked in unison. Lifting & rolling into a sweet, smooth grinding meeting. The two of them colliding over & over.

"Jimmy…" Dahlia mewled.

"Mmm-hmm…" He purred, wrapping one arm around her back, the other hand bracing her thigh, keeping it close to him.

"Jimmy… Jimmy…" She nipped his lower lip, causing him to growl. The sound vibrated through her body, making her shiver & clench around him.

She felt him drive into her clenching tightness in a few short quick thrusts, aiming for her spot just so & jolted. Another gasp fell from her lips as her back arched. She clutched into him & with the last of his thrusts as he grunted & groaned, he spilled & she shattered.

Galaxies collided as their bodies had, shattering & spreading stardust across her vision, the stars he had seen in her eyes sealed with a bated breath sigh of his name & kiss.

"Jimmy..."

The same stars she saw alight in his now as his lids fluttered open. Emerald depths twinkling in greeting as their gazes met.

"My lady…"

"Jimmy…"

Her fingers drew their last trails down his back. Another hiss fell from his lips as he stirred deep within her, filling her as he braced her body to his. Large right hand still bracing her thigh to his hip. His left arm still wrapped around her, keeping her stomach flush against his.

"I love you…"

He swore as his lips retook & staked their claim on hers at the same time. Deep, passionate, grateful, sated, yet all the more hungry kisses greeted her on the way down as they both recovered.

"I love you…"

She sighed her pledge in return.

Another purr sounded as despite the eternity their hurried climb & easy float down from their peak seemed to take, they both registered the last words of the song then on the radio. Fitting as ever. As always.

"And we belong together…

Yes, we belong together…

For eternity…"

~

Hope y'all enjoy~!

As ever, this is forever under construction~!

[umbrellamedic]

@wanderingaroundwithmysoul from x

"Then I suppose a quick blood sample is out of the question." Bertha is equal parts serious and joking. If they really need a sample Four Eyes is sure to let them know, and it will be obtained.

"Coincidentally, you will understand that we have no intention of arming you; but if you move with us it will be safer than attempting to navigate the city alone. Keep up, hmm?" There's a dark sort of amusement in the offer. The Wolf Pack has no orders to kill this woman, but as an Umbrella employee she is exempt from their 'kill all witnesses' objective. Although.

Even if I was in the U.S.S.

The was stands out to Bertha. She's going to have to watch this one. Without having to say anything, she is sure the others feel the same. Even if not, Spectre must have. They will not killer her, but they will not risk one of their own to keep her safe.

"This assumes you are fit to get up and walk. If not, I have a bullet to spare. It is a mercy compared to leaving you bed ridden, waiting to be eaten."

[hellhoundmaggie]

What about Stella for ask game? (Also u calling tabby a “Bratty bottom” 😭)

Search your feelings Anon, you know it to be true!

1: Bisexual. Switch

2: Stabby supremacy

3: Stella&Kaneeka&Reese. Best Friend Squaaaad!

4: Stella/Wayne. Leave the poor girl alone, Wayne! I want you for myself

5: @itsmewahoo is right, she did teach Tabby how to draw the cool S.

6: That bit where BookSmart MC can reference Bertha Mason in Jane Eyre as a way of suggesting that Stella should not keep locking up her uncomfortable feelings. Not only does Stella not know the reference, she even thinks MC wants her to keep locking up her feelings, preferably in a cute little shed a good distance from her house.

7: I too have niche interests. And while I don't believe in cryptids, I do like them a lot.

8: The way she keeps insisting that everything is fine and safe and okay when it is clearly not. That girl needs therapy. I mean, they all do, but certainly she does.

9: Cinnamon roll.

[adamsvanrhijn]

I agree! I would actually like them to break up temporary for drama, but what I really liked about their relationship is how.. long term and serious it seems. They are like a married couple! In one scene they parallel Bertha and George in bed. I feel like you don't get that with gay couples and stories like that very often. Especially comparing it to Thomas in DA. It could still be compelling to have another storyline.. but John remaining would be much more interesting (sorry for my english 😅)

literally i've hinged sooooo much of my hopes for them on the mirror transition..... intentional cinematic parallel........... like the fact that they live together in the first place is just. incredible. in-universe. like what an expression of devotion... and john clearly having thought about the alternative and choosing to not have that, and oscar postponing the alternative for as long as he possibly feels safe doing so

it is isn't very common especially in period dramas and i'm so interested in it and i hope he sticks around!

& your english is just fine! <3

[cxpperhead]

"Do you have eyelids? How do you sleep? Do snakes even sleep? Are there specific nutrient requirements for producing venom? Do you produce venom? What does your skin feel like? Do you have to oil or lotion it?" - @umbrellamedic

So many questions. Copperhead remains passive in spite of Bertha's inquisition, face expressionless as always but part of him wants to recoil, already regretting his decision to let somebody take a look at him. Unfortunately talented medics were far and few in-between, either not having the skills necessary to treat patients that weren't entirely human or having the scruples to go ahead with treating a wanted criminal regardless of what he'd done. Beggars could not be choosers unfortunately, and Bertha was the only medic around he'd heard could reasonably cover both aspects of his nature. Careful digging had revealed that while questionable herself, Bertha was no doubt the perfect woman to come to in the event he required medical assistance in future. Naturally she'd ask questions, if only to gain better understanding of her patient and Copperhead was obligated to satisfy her curiosity. "I lost my eyelids years ago when I started becoming what you see sitting here today. They're now coated by clear scales so there are no concerns about lack of moisture affecting them. Sleeping isn't an issue providing my surroundings are quiet and dark enough." He'd almost forgotten that people might think he didn't or couldn't sleep. It came so naturally doing what he did, so much so that he was surprised she'd think to ask. It was good that Bertha inquired if snakes did the same thing, showing her integrity as a medic that even though he looked like a snake, there was a good chance he had different requirements from what they did. "As long as I have access to food, the venom will replenish itself. Meat is an essential part of my diet but fruits are good too. No, they probably aren't vital. I just like how they taste and yes, I do make venom. Try to avoid putting your fingers in my mouth should I ever wind up asleep or unconscious in your care. I can't promise something won't happen if you do." To accompany his words, Copperhead opened his mouth, revealing the fangs in question to the medic sitting opposite. They arched, finger-length weapons of nightmarish ivory flexing before they settled back into position, folded back safely out of the way. Until they needed to be used again, but that wasn't likely to happen today. Wordlessly he held out his hand to Bertha, articulating his wrist slowly so she could get a feel for his scales if she so desired. His palm was pale, rougher than the smoother, sleek scutes protecting his fingers, wrists and knuckles. Scales of black and white mingled together, rising up his arm before it leeched out into brilliant hues of copper-red.

[electricbluebutterflies]

Hi! I love your george/bertha one shots on AO3! It always makes my day when I see you’ve posted one (I like to read at bedtime so I go to sleep with a smile on my face).

Here’s a prompt for another one if you’re up for it!

“Could have been anyone… but it was you.”

PG-ish / yay fade-to-black moment and also on ao3.

If nothing else, Bertha is practical. The goals she had set for herself required another person meeting a few specific characteristics, but beyond them…

Circumstances as they are, she is still delighted by where her plans have led her, and still not quite sure she did anything to deserve the life now beneath her fingertips. It has all been too easy and too sweet, and she knows just enough of the world to wonder when the other shoe will drop, and-

Let it not be soon, she begs whatever may be listening to her desires. Let her enjoy this first.

She is not a romantic, and yet she is in love; she has always seen marriage as a means to an end, if done right a way out of a life she did not want, and perhaps she is too hopeful only a month into forever but it is already something more, and-

Never in her wildest dreams did she realistically think she would enjoy conversations with a husband, would want someone else’s presence so close so much, but she picked that one out of all her options and-

A year ago, she thinks, a year ago when she talked her way into yet another invitation given out of pity to a too-ambitious girl who only had one good dress, there was no way of knowing-

Everything she wants is hers, she thinks as she hears a soft knock on her bedroom door. This is how all of her days end now, with presence if not anything else, planned time to tie up whatever loose threads were pulled in passing earlier and the idea of living a more separate life from this man is unthinkable and-

There must be something concerning in her expression. She learned the warmth of him first, but also the devotion, also the absolute commitment and she knows he had other options and she still wonders why-

“Sit with me,” she says before this can get strange. Her perch on the edge of her bed may indicate desire, but it is also easier for more innocent activities than… oh, someday she is going to have a bigger space and more furniture and a decent sofa to be held on and-

He does, and he takes the hint and pulls her into his arms, and she feels a certain kind of vulnerable that she wants to hate and can’t. If this truly becomes her safe place, if she lets herself bloom deliberately as part of a set, if she rethinks her plans and adapts even better…

“What are you thinking right now?”

“How lucky I am. I want what I want, and that could’ve been with anyone, but… it was you.”

She knows all the petty gossip they caused – less than some of her other schemes would’ve, she reminds herself, but still. At least they are close in age, at least they met in an acceptably explainable way, at least he has treated her impeccably both before and after and-

“You do give the strangest compliments,” he murmurs, and there is delight in his voice all the same, and he kisses the side of her face, and-

She turns to take a more proper kiss, and she’s learned she likes doing this now that she can whenever she wants. She feels her body spark almost immediately, and she is still figuring out how much she can start but she wants, and-

“You make me unspeakably happy. Is that really that strange?”

More kisses follow, and if their current position becomes ideal as hands start to wander…

Let her have this, she thinks as she is made warm. Let her always have everything.

[savingthrcw]

points for my Steph:

[and listen, take this with a grain of salt because it might get deleted if someone confirms that Steph was also a Bud's Bud, but since the show doesn't say it, and the wiki is written by fans who are assuming it, I can feel for now it's safe to say that my version could also be a possibility: just like Janey, she was part of the Bud's Bud family and not an executive assistant herself]

one of the rare cases of 'full family in cryo', her mother is the one in charge and is a very sweet mom to her. Awoken at 9, family moves to 33 after the "famine" that kills so many people and Rose. Which makes her 28 now.

she's taught that those poor 32s and 33s can't know the truth about who 31s are because THEY (31 people) have to guide them, and tell them what's best for them, those naive sweethearts would not understand how dangerous life can be, so Steph knows she's there to guide and protect (and look at their reactions to the raiders attack! they do need help!)

she's told that China dropped the bombs, obviously. Why tell a kid anything else? They are there to save the future after all.

she sees Lucy as a rare exception who happens to have a good mind of her own, because she's the daughter of a 31 and clearly very bright, different from the 'let's reform the raiders!' type of 33s she knows, and she genuinely loves her. she feels a kinship with Norm because he also feels like a different specie from the rest of the Vault.

she asks for an inter-vault marriage to do her part, didn't expect to fall for Bert but she kinda does??

Chet is not someone she sees as a real person at this time, just a precious 33 to guide and use

She poisons the raiders; with Beth she discusses how they are too much of a danger and a waste of resources, but it's really revenge

no reason to tell her about Shady Sands, as far as she knows there was a famine before they woke up

she trains a lot because she knows there are people outside, survives the wedding for this very reason

to allow interaction: her baby (Bertha? lmao) is taken from her after they open the Vault to look for a water chip, which is a bit of a sole survivor situation there, and she asks her parents and Beth to warn whatever still existing Vault Tec is out there to keep their eyes open but SHE'S GOING OUT.

her ability to feel emotions and to relate to other people is greatly stunted by the situation and she will keep on poisoning and murdering to get her baby, even when innocents may get involved. She's not hurting Lucy unless Lucy is trying to kill her.

this is in part to give her a chance to interact with people AND not get her immediately murdered

[izdatazn]

S.U.I.T.S - Terran's Hidden War

TERRAN 24 - CHASE

"What's the situation?" I asked as I joined my teammates in Big Bertha. The only one not present in the meeting was Miyoung, who was currently in medical. We had managed to escape from a battered Las Vegas, but SUITs reinforcements had successfully retaken the city.

Big Bertha then spoke up. "Miyoung is stable but unconscious. We are currently pursuing Zaporg's remaining fleet as they head towards Los Angeles. Onon Khan and Ingrid Hoffman are accompanying us."

"I'm reporting for duty as Heavy Assault Class, Kheshig," Onon Khan declared.

"And I'm reporting for duty as Heavy Assault Class, Baba Yaga," Ingrid added.

"Reporting for duty as Medium Assault Class, Big Bertha," Viktor chimed in.

"Miyoung did an excellent job of injuring Zaporg," I remarked. "Let's make sure we don't let her down."

Big Bertha announced, "We have caught up with Zaporg's fleet."

"Prepare for battle stations. Bertha, Harmony, and Vivian will handle the guns. Isabel and Viktor will join me," I commanded. "We're going to fight our way through his fleet."

"We'll join you, Kobayashi," Onon said confidently.

The map revealed a multitude of enemy assault vehicles and platform carriers ahead of us, defending Zaporg's flagship vehicle on the front line. Additionally, there were numerous enemy aircraft swarming around our assault vehicles. Our auto guns dealt with the aircraft while our cannons targeted both the vehicles in front and behind us. Despite being heavily overwhelmed, our shields held remarkably strong.

As we entered the garage, we equipped ourselves with essential items for the upcoming push. The ramp lowered as we surveyed the terrain. The overwhelming amount of activity left me feeling anxious and my hands trembled with nervousness. Isabel reached out and took hold of my hand.

She spoke reassuringly, "Take it one step at a time, Kobayashi. Just follow us and we'll lead you straight to Zaporg." I let out a nervous sigh and nodded in agreement.

An enemy platform was within reach as Viktor sprinted past me and leaped off the ramp. Isabel followed suit, and I quickly followed their lead. Viktor landed on the enemy platform first, digging his hands into its metallic structure to partially lift it up as a form of defense against incoming fire from enemies nearby. Standing in front of this makeshift barricade, he fired several shots at the enemy while enduring their attacks.

We landed on the platform safely behind Viktor's protective cover formed by lifting up part of its metal structure. Big Bertha slightly moved away from her previous position but continued to advance slowly towards our target - right behind this particular enemy platform

"Kobayashi," Isabel said, "our focus is solely on the enemies in front of us." I nodded in response. "Are you ready?" she asked. 

Isabel sprinted ahead and leaped onto the closest enemy vehicle. A few seconds later, I followed in her footsteps, with Viktor trailing behind me. As soon as Isabel landed on the enemy vehicle, she swiftly took care of the enemies while I assisted her by dealing with the remaining ones surrounding her. Viktor then ran past us and jumped onto the nearest platform.

Continuing our advance towards Zaporg's location, I followed Isabel to another vehicle platform. The attackers were coming at us from all directions, making it challenging but not impossible. To my right, Onon jumped from her vehicle to our platform and joined us after releasing two arrows mid-air.

Viktor chose a different platform where he stood his ground and faced off against a figure on the opposite side.

"Bertha," I asked, "who is that?"

"That's Selma Larsen," Bertha replied. "She's another member of Sang Hwang's Joker Group."

"Any idea how many of them there are?" I inquired.

"That remains unknown," Bertha answered. I noticed Ingrid landing on our platform as well; she swiftly ran past us to join Viktor on his chosen platform.

"It's Viktor's best friend!" he exclaimed with laughter.

"I can't let you have all the fun," Ingrid grinned mischievously as she unfastened her tomahawk from her belt and spun it around.

Viktor laughed back. "Wilma, Let’s Have Some Fun."

"Dance Gracefully, Coconut!" Ingrid shouted back before they both charged ahead together.

"Pound for pound! Koko!" exclaimed Selma as she forcefully clapped her brass knuckle knives together and charged ahead.

We pressed on, leaping from one platform to another vehicle. Our progress was slow but steady until we spotted a bend up ahead. They were changing directions.

Bertha?" I inquired.

"Their new destination is San Francisco instead of Los Angeles," she replied. "Zaporg's flagship is also headed there.” I heard two voices over the comms.

"I am Captain Miles Grant of the Light Assault Vehicle, Thunderbird," said Miles.

"And I am Captain Juan Reyes of the Light Assault Vehicle, Quetzalcoatl," added Juan Reyes.

"Light vehicles?" Onon asked, releasing an arrow.

Miles Grant, born in 1900 in Chicago, United States, established his own gang that dominated certain areas of the city. As time went on, he crossed paths with Al Capone in 1920. Together, they formed an organized crime group that operated in Chicago during the Prohibition era. Their illicit activities mainly revolved around distributing illegal alcohol. However, as Miles Grant's business flourished and he achieved greater success, Al Capone grew envious and consumed by greed. This ultimately led to a tragic turn of events when Al Capone orchestrated the assassination of Miles Grant during a dinner meeting in 1932, seizing his territory for himself.

"Just because we're light doesn't mean we can be easily taken down, Onon," Miles explained.

We witnessed two vehicles demolishing several enemy vehicles while evading enemy fire at the same time. As they drove past us, Miles and Juan hopped onto our platform to join us.

"We were nearby," Miles stated. "So we thought we would assist you in eliminating Zaporg's remaining forces.”

And so, we continued onward.

Juan Reyes lived on the outskirts of Tenochtitlan, a commoner during the height of the Aztec Empire in 1487. It was there that he encountered Isabel Macedo, a disabled young woman full of adventure. Later in life, both Juan and Isabel joined the Aztec army and achieved great accomplishments - Juan as a promoted Jaguar Warrior and Isabel as an elevated Eagle Warrior. Tragically, Juan lost his life during the Fall of Tenochititlan when Spanish Conquistador Hernan Cortes mercilessly razed the city to ruins.

It was a heavyweight fist fight, with the advantage in Selma's favor. Both Selma and Viktor landed punches simultaneously, but Selma's was slightly stronger, causing Viktor to stagger backwards. Ingrid then attacked Selma with her tomahawk, gracefully dancing around and dodging her attacks until she received a powerful kick to the chest. Ingrid flew backwards and crashed into another vehicle in front of them.

Viktor and Selma resumed their heavyweight boxing match, exchanging blows to the face and body. Neither of them wavered as they continued for a few more minutes.

In the second round, Viktor lost when Selma landed a heavy body blow that sent him staggering backwards. She then grabbed his wrist and threw him at the vehicle in front of them.

Ingrid reappeared beneath Selma, landing a light punch before spinning around her and making successful cuts on her body. Ingrid hooked her weapon on her belt and delivered swift punches to Selma's fists using speed and grace. However, Selma quickly adapted to the situation, matching Ingrid's speed blow for blow for several minutes.

Selma landed a solid punch on Ingrid's chest that pushed her towards the center of the platform. Meanwhile, Viktor approached from behind with his fist aimed at Selma's head while Ingrid targeted her legs with a kick. However, Selma managed to dodge both attacks by spinning in the center position. She then kicked Viktor forcefully in the chest, sending him flying once again over Ingrid who had rolled back onto her feet.

Selma quickly got up from rolling on the ground and grabbed Ingrid by the neck before throwing her at Viktor as he reached out for help mid-air. He caught hold of Ingrid's hand before spinning around and throwing her back towards their enemy vehicle where he crashed into it. The clash between Ingrid’s tomahawk collided with Selmas brass knuckle knife as they rolled forward. Ingrid swiftly got back on her feet, turned, and continued her attack on Selma.

We pressed forward, skillfully evading enemy aircraft and vehicles that attacked us from all sides. Even with seasoned fighters by my side, the situation was overwhelming. However, my concern for Miyoung's health overshadowed everything else happening in the moment. Despite this, we pushed on and eliminated any enemies blocking our path.

Isabel leaped onto another platform, followed closely by Miles and Onon. I joined them shortly after but failed to notice a boulder hurtling towards me from my blind spot while mid-air. I was slow to react, but Juan swiftly appeared in front of me and swung his weapon, shattering the boulder into millions of pieces as I safely reunited with the group.

"Bertha," I called out, seeking information.

"Luca Grasso has joined the fight. It appears she has escaped from Los Vegas," Bertha replied.

"Who else managed to escape?" I inquired further.

"Unknown," came her response.

Luca emerged from the ground and matched our speed on the platforms as he hurled more boulders at us. Onon aimed her arrow at each incoming boulder, expertly shattering them into smaller pieces that posed no harm to us but wreaked havoc on enemy vehicles nearby.

Meanwhile, Luca raised ground platforms while chasing us from the side. Juan leaped off an enemy platform and landed safely on a moving ground platform headed in our direction. He manipulated his elemental abilities as he changed position and charged straight towards Luca. As we continued moving forward under Juan's relentless pressure on Luca, Luca simultaneously threw boulders at Juan and at us. Onon provided a brief respite by clearing a safe passage ahead before eventually joining forces with Juan once again

On our left was a close combat heavyweight fight, with two against one. To our right, there was a projectile heavyweight battle with the same ratio. It was quite chaotic to witness both fights up close.

Juan and Onon manipulated their connected ground platform to spin around Luca, trying to disorient him. Onon aimed and released multiple arrows at him, but Luca narrowly dodged them while also throwing rocks at his enemies. Juan swung his weapon and shattered boulders into millions of pieces.

"Join me, Tengri," Onon said.

"Dive deep, Cizin," Juan whispered.

"Slice effortlessly, Capcaun," Luca spoke.

Luca hurled another boulder at Onon. She fired two arrows simultaneously; one hit an enemy vehicle positioned 90 degrees to her right while the other struck the incoming boulder. The redirected boulder crashed into the enemy vehicle. Juan propelled himself towards Luca by pushing against his Earth platform. He split a thrown boulder in half and swung his weapon as he neared Luca.

Luca spun and evaded Juan's attack. Juan raised another platform to prevent Luca from escaping and pushed himself onto the small platform where Luca stood. The two clashed their weapons—Luca wielding a Niginata—while Onon continued shooting arrows at him whenever she saw an opportunity amidst the fight but failed to strike her target.

Luca gained a slight advantage and pushed Onon off his platform just as she found an opening from above him. Taking advantage of this momentary distraction, she wrapped a vine around her arrow before releasing it again.

“First Earth: Splintered.”

Her arrow split into hundreds of splintered pieces of wood, which quickly transformed into larger, sharp wooden stakes. They rained down on Luca as Onon continued to barrage him with her splintered arrows. Luca leaped off the platform and onto a vehicle, then proceeded to move from vehicle to platform while skillfully avoiding the projectiles hurled at him.

In a swift motion, Luca spun and threw his naginata at an oncoming splintered arrow, splitting it in half. His weapon continued its trajectory towards Onon, who retaliated by releasing another rain of splintered arrows. However, her attack did not hinder Luca's weapon as it effortlessly split the stake in two. The naginata came within inches of striking Onon before a boulder redirected its course.

"You owe me one," Juan exclaimed as he jumped past Onon and joined Luca on the platform. The naginata returned to Luca as they continued their intense clash with each other while receiving support from Onon. I followed closely behind Miles and Isabel as we pushed forward, defeating our enemies along the way. To our left, Viktor and Ingrid struggled in their fight against Selma while on our right side Juan fought against Luca with equal intensity.

"Incoming enemies," Bertha spoke up.

"From where?" I asked curiously.

We came to a stop and held our position. Suddenly, we noticed a figure emerging from the platform - it was Zaporg, but there was something noticeably different about him compared to when we last saw him in Los Vegas. Although he still lacked arms, his missing leg had miraculously regrown.

"You kids never give up, do you?" Zaporg gasped. "Well then, let's take things up a notch." He revealed a hidden pole weapon from within his body. "Prepare yourself, Asat."

We watched in awe as his two arms swiftly regenerated and a surge of overwhelming energy enveloped him. "You'll wish you hadn't crossed paths with me."

In an instant, Zaporg appeared behind us. Our reactions were slow as he delivered a powerful kick to my chest. Simultaneously, he deftly sliced off Isabel's mechanical arm and engaged in combat with Miles.

"Activate Pozole - Extend My Range," Isabel uttered through gritted teeth.

"Charge forward, Liam!" Miles shouted.

Iced formed rapidly on Isabel's left arm as she quickly reattached it together using her ice powers. Her frozen arm hardened around the mechanical one.

"You're going to regret that, Zaporg!" Isabel cried out defiantly.

Zaporg landed a heavy punch on Miles' chest before engaging in close-range combat with Isabel. They slowly closed in on each other until they were within striking distance. I joined them in the fight.

"Channel my power - Illuminate my path," I called upon my abilities as Calm Princess.

Zaporg forcefully pushed Miles off the platform and directed his attention towards us. Once again, he shattered Isabel's mechanical ice arm and kicked her away. Zaporg easily gained the upper hand against me, overwhelming me as usual.

"You forgot about Viktor, Zaporg!" shouted Viktor. He swiftly landed on the platform between us and delivered a powerful right hook to Zaporg's face, sending him flying backwards. "Don't mess with Viktor's leader," chuckled Viktor.

I glanced to my left to see Miles engaged in a fight with Selma alongside Ingrid.

"What took you so long?" asked Isabel. The ice on her arm reformed, reattaching her mechanical limb.

"Aw, Isabel misses Viktor," laughed Viktor.

"You are still no match for me!" yelled Zaporg.

Viktor grinned confidently. "This is for Miyoung." He clenched his fists together. "Unleash, Wilma."

He bypassed his second stage and immediately entered his third stage. I watched in awe as light armor materialized over his body before transforming into heavy armor. This final stage was incredibly overpowering for me; it was my first time witnessing such immense energy focused solely on him.

"Let's dance, Zaporg," smirked Viktor.

I witnessed an epic battle unfold before my eyes, as Viktor and Zaporg clashed with incredible force. Zaporg thrust his weapon forward like a spear, but it proved futile against Viktor's might. In a swift motion, Viktor shattered Zaporg's weapon into countless pieces and engaged him in a fierce fist fight.

The impact of each punch sent shockwaves rippling through the air, causing damage to enemy aircraft hovering above us. Seizing the opportunity, Viktor seized Zaporg's arm and propelled him into the sky, only to reappear beside him moments later. Their intense confrontation continued amidst the backdrop of enemy aircraft.

Viktor exhibited unparalleled strength as he grabbed multiple aircraft and swung them at Zaporg like baseball bats. With unwavering determination, he relentlessly attacked his adversary from behind, striking blow after blow with precision. Finally, Viktor hurled Zaporg downwards, sending them both crashing into an enemy vehicle.

Not content with just that, Viktor forcefully hurled Zaporg into an enemy vehicle before doing the same himself. With an unyielding fury coursing through his veins, he impaled Zaporg with a weapon formed from his own hands, which had transformed into metal protrusions. Each strike landed on its mark, slicing through both of Zaporg's left arms consecutively, as Viktor growled fiercely in remembrance of Isabel.

Viktor threw Zaporg into another enemy vehicle and quickly followed suit. He gripped the metal structure of the vehicle and stabbed Zaporg with his newly formed weapon. "That's for Isabel," Viktor snarled as he severed Zaporg's left arm, then repeated the action a second later. "TWICE!" he exclaimed before delivering a powerful punch to Zaporg's face. As they flew out of the enemy ship together, Viktor shouted, "You're not escaping from Viktor!"

Violently grabbing hold of Zaporg's leg, Viktor forcefully threw him to the ground without letting go himself. They crashed onto the ground with Zaporg trapped beneath them. Without any hesitation, Viktor unleashed everything he had on Zaporg - even hurling enemy vehicles at him.

Gripping tightly onto Zaporg's leg once more, Viktor lifted him up and violently swung him from side to side before throwing him against a nearby boulder.

"You don't mess with Viktor," declared Victor as he loomed above his fallen opponent. "Third Metal: Devastating Crater." He wrapped himself into a ball and free-fell towards the ground in one last desperate attempt to defeat Zaporg.

Zaprog pushed himself off the ground and aimed his pole weapon towards Victor; it gradually transformed into a sharp-edged weapon.

"You underestimate me, kid," chuckled Zaporog.

The shockwaves and earthquakes devastated enemy aircraft and vehicles, leaving no trace of Luca and Selma in the aftermath. We survived a mini-apocalyptic event caused by Viktor, with our friends still standing strong.

Isabel and I rushed towards Viktor, as he limped towards us. He was in his final stage. When we caught up to him, Viktor fell to his knees. Zaporg's pole arm had pierced through his body, even with his heavy armor.

Viktor gasped, his voice weak. "Did Viktor do good?" he asked breathlessly. He leaned on me for support while Isabel removed the weapon from his body and threw it aside.

"You did well," I whispered to him.

Viktor chuckled faintly. "That's good." He slid off me and collapsed onto the ground.

"Bertha, we need you now!" I shouted urgently. "We need a medic immediately!"

"On my way," Bertha responded promptly.

Isabel took a step forward, growling at Zaporg. "You just won't die, will you?"

Zaporg climbed out of the edge of the crater with a chuckle. "And you failed to kill me." We noticed that he had lost both arms and one leg again; he was leaning on just one leg for support. Four pods emerged from the ground nearby, each containing heavily armed figures who guarded Zaporg closely. “Farewell."

A beam of light descended upon Zaporg as he was lifted into a cloaked aircraft that swiftly flew northward. We watched multiple larger aircraft carriers going in the opposite direction.

"Where are they going, Bertha?" I asked curiously.

"They're heading to Los Angeles," Bertha replied calmly. "Zaporg is making his way to San Francisco."

Miles joined our group and shared some insight: "Los Angeles is just a distraction." The others gathered around us as well. “We will proceed to Los Angeles and meet you in San Francisco.”W

"Give Zaporg hell, Kobayashi," Onon said as he ran past us.