#location: the frigid depths

[ellesthots]

Fateful Beginnings

XLII. “2am”

parts: previous / next

plot: Bruce struggles to contain himself after your impromptu meeting.

pairing: battinson!bruce wayne x fem!reader

cw: 18+, arguing/belittling

words: 5k

a/n: i love them together so much AHHH even when they’re being them…

You’d found an old deli, Mallozzi’s, on the east side of the Tricorner bridge. The word sever echoed between your eardrums like a march; it was why you hadn’t called Bruce for backup, even though you were headed to Crown Point past sundown. 

Even the taxis were superstitious; Uber and Lyft hadn’t let you hitch a ride here at this hour, and the taxi driver who did made sure to drop you off on the closest main street—a quarter mile walk to your destination. You’d charged your taser this time, and set your phone to send all emergency contacts your precise location with only two clicks. You’d worn all black to try and blend into the shadows, going so far as to don black eyeshadow, lipstick, and a thick beanie beneath a baggy hoodie. A small insignia of GU was embroidered into the breast, the only thing you’d had the money to buy at orientation two years ago. 

The hustle and bustle was overwhelming downtown, but the lack of it here was eerie. Every splash of your foot in a puddle was loud enough to startle. Fall’s chill crept in with every passing day, a reminder that you’d helped get people off these streets. It helped steel your nerves. If they had endured frigid winters and the constant threat of violence, you could handle one meetup. Especially with Batman on speed dial. 

You winced. Severing.

The afternoon floated around your thoughts as you made your way through the damp streets, interpolated with particularly destroyed buildings that made you run away with stories of how heinous the flood had been. Wiped out this entire neighborhood. Some of it looked flattened. You stepped around a massive hole in the concrete; it started in the middle of the street, its arms reaching the sidewalk on either side. Maybe a pipe had burst in the flooding. Had they truly not had the budget to fix this place up? Never before had you seen such blatant classism; one of the poorest neighborhoods blown to shreds, untouched two full years later. People here didn’t give a single shit.

It had been too easy to convince yourself to come here—the situation at Arkham had perked your ears to something awry, and the timing of this was too convenient. You’d tried responding with some questions: what is this concerning, is this to the right person? but it hadn’t gone through. Whoever wanted to meet didn’t want to risk it being traced. Which only made you curious. You also wanted to challenge the idea that this was the most dangerous area of Gotham; you couldn’t trust a damn thing this city said when they made their priorities so transparent.

Taking this anonymous meeting was also a welcome distraction from having to deliberate on Dr. Crane’s orders, which distracted you from wondering what you’d do when you got home, which distracted you from your mom, which distracted you from staring into the abyss of likely having to start your life from scratch in a small town with no friends nearby, only potholed roads and weathered church buildings to talk to. And Walter.

Which distracted you from another glaring situation: whatever the hell had happened in his shower the night before, and the potential depth of that yearning. Your mind lingered there, haunting you. Taunting you. Last night had made everything real. Clicked so much into place. Why you kept coming back, why you felt so frustratingly drawn to him. Bruce Wayne. Bruce Wayne… 

Right. Severing.

Mallozzi’s looked like it might have been a great shop in its heyday; now, the shingles were half gone, windows busted, every corner encrusted with mold. Mildew and sawdust singed your nostrils as you entered, the glass door barely opening wide enough for you to squeeze through. A quick sweep of the room revealed you were alone. Stepping over broken glass and copious amounts of rat poop, you managed to find a single stool that hadn’t been ripped to shreds and situated there. Your heart hurt looking around, reminding you of how it felt watching mom and pop shops close up in rural Washington. The countertops had what appeared to be hand-sculpted designs on each square, color-coordinated with the faded faux awning above the destroyed registers. 

Two minutes, then five. The more time passed, the greater your inkling that following this had been a mistake. Would it have been so bad to ask Bruce to cover for you? Climb on a roof somewhere and keep lookout, just in case?

A hinge creaked ten past two. A hooded figure had wedged the door wider than you’d managed, and you thumbed your taser in your left hand. They had both hands tucked into their pockets, head down, and it was impossible to tell if they were a danger yet. Impossible to tell if this was even who you were meant to meet with. They’d given no descriptors, no street name. You opened your mouth, but they spoke first. Stating your first and last name like a bored secretary, with the voice of someone in their late twenties, maybe thirties. You nodded, apprehensive. “That’s me.”

They pulled up a stool you’d avoided, too encrusted in dirt that looked very much like poop, but the stranger dusted it off with the back of their hand and sat. Their hood was cinched tight. You could make out tanned skin in the light from the smoggy moon that danced off the puddles, but that was it. 

“You need to leave Gotham.” It wasn’t said like a threat, but it registered like one. You almost heard it in Bruce’s voice, and for a millisecond you considered if he’d set this up. Sent someone to unsettle you, convince you to leave. Maybe he’d figured you’d be more eager to listen to a stranger than the billionaire vigilante who definitely didn’t have ulterior motives for getting you out of his hair. 

“Why?” Wanting them to think you weren’t easily intimidated, you kept measured. Bruce may have been able to x-ray vision through your chest to see your pounding heart, but…

“If you don’t leave now, you’ll get yourself killed.” A shrill noise of air pulling into cold lungs, a small puff of air exploding between you. “Housing people in Point put a target on your back.” Another breath, increasingly shallow. Like being in here was a trigger. 

“Associating with Bruce Wayne was enough to save you for now, but do not count on it. If you can even trust him.”

As great your desire to follow the Bruce of it all, you narrowed your focus. Claiming to foresee your imminent death was quite the opener. “How do you know I’m a target?”

The stranger shuffled in their seat, teeth beginning to chatter. “Everyone who tries to clean up the city is. Especially young women.” 

“W—”

Their voice was firmer, stronger now. “Listen to me. Crawling around Arkham, City Hall, Bruce Wayne, Oz Cobb. You take one wrong step and you’re cooked.” You noted a subtle gleam in their eyes as they lingered on your sweatshirt.

“Why would they care about hurting me?”

“You’re sticking your nose in their shit.” Their voice was caustic now, frustrated that you weren’t rolling over and following orders. “Look what happened to the mayor. The task force she set up discovered the DA was funneling money to Arkham, yet the facilities remained unchanged. Next thing you know.” The stranger took their hands out of their pockets and slapped them against their thighs. “They all end up there.”

“What do you mean ‘they all’?”

“That’s precisely what’ll get you killed. Stop asking questions.”

Your voice rose without conscious awareness. “If something like this is going on in the city,”

“It is, and you aren’t able to stop it.” The stranger stood up to leave, and you mirrored them. 

“I could use my connections at G—”

“You don’t think we’ve tried that?” They whipped their head around so fast they gripped the crumbling countertop for balance. “You see any other young buck journalists out here? You stick your nose in shit, you’re gonna get shit. I left after my apartment got hit. Never looked back.”

“You were a journalist here in Gotham?” No wonder they’re giving me a warning. 

“And now I hide in bushes all day so they don’t remember I’m alive.”

You knew it was pushing it, but adrenaline was coursing through your veins. “Who is ‘they’?”

“Bye.”

“So other journalists have been killed here?”

“I might be the only one who hasn’t.”

Dr. Vry probably wanted to know about something like this; something to help protect the journalism students, maybe some leads into who had gone missing and when. She seemed so desperate for people to join the program, and this could explain the low numbers for the major. Their refrain echoed: ‘you don’t think we’ve tried that?’ “Why hasn’t this been picked up?”

“It’s Gotham. People die here.” They said it like a recycled political headline. “Especially if they’re tuities.” They gestured to your sweatshirt and the taser in your hand, clues you were only here for the scholarship. “Go back to wherever the hell you came from. And hope that’s far enough.”

“This is why you didn’t want me to bring anyone.”

“If you speak of this, I’m fucking dead. We both are, so I guess that’s some good stakes.” The stranger was halfway to the exit, your thoughts swimming.

You grasped for any drop you could squeeze out of them, certain you’d never cross paths again. “Do you know the names of the other journalists?”

“No.”

They couldn’t leave you with nothing. Make vague, disparaging comments about leaving, then drop you into the pit. Your frustration bled out. “Sounds like you do, but you don’t want to tell me.” 

They turned around, slowly this time. “Yeah.” Their chuckle was dry and humorless. “You’re as good as dead.” You swallowed hard, and they heaved a hissing sigh. “I know you think you’re doing good, but you are nothing but a pebble at the bottom of that goddamn river.” 

Your heart sank.

“You want to do something good? Stay alive, and go make the world a better place somewhere else. They’ll knock you out like a straw house.” The stranger turned around, yanked the doorhandle, and slipped into the night.

You didn’t stay long. The wind cut through your hoodie, and it was a brutal endeavor being alone in such an environment after what you’d just heard. Thankfully you’d written the number of the taxi service who’d driven you, but they wouldn’t answer. After enough phone calls, perusing Scypher to see if tragedy had stricken the city, you decided you’d have to walk until an Uber could meet you on a main street. On this side of town that would take a half hour, minimum. 

You slunk through the alleyways with dim lighting, avoiding ones as dark as the pits of hell. Something about them felt familiar; if they’d been part of the group offered housing, why hadn’t they taken it? Were they completely alone, unable to live with someone under a different name? If their life now was relegated to hiding in shrubs, they probably wouldn’t mind hiding in a warm apartment. Funneling money to Arkham? Lashing out at journalists for looking into it? City Hall, Bruce Wayne, Oz Cobb? Who the hell is Oz Cobb?

A noise down the alleyway scared you into turning around. A few streets over you saw a flickering streetlight, and set off toward it. You struggled to keep your thoughts clear, the decision of whether or not to leave Gotham sitting like a rock. Was it futile to chase this? Had they tried talking to Dr. Vry? Now the president of GU, she had more sway. Who else was locked up in Arkham? Bella Reál had been scrambling to get out. No one cared. The abruptness of Dr. Crane’s covering of the window, his thinly-veiled threats. Severing. 

At his next prescription pickup. A week and a half away. Maybe you could poke around for a week, and if you didn’t find anything you would leave. Maybe you’d still leave, and send any tips over to Bruce for Batman to work through. Point him in some direction, a parting gift, a lead he didn’t have to work himself to the bone to find. Something to make his life a little bit easier.

But what if they did kill you? Would they leave you alone after leaving the city, thinking you were no longer a threat? Would that open things up, now farther away from Bruce Wayne’s reach? Was that article the only reason you were alive right now? Would they hit you after the hype died down? Once you began to fret over if they’d tapped your internet service, you reminded yourself you were wandering alone around dark, ghoulish streets in Gotham City. This wasn’t the place to mull anything over. 

Chasing the streetlights left you unsure of where led to a main road. All the brick looked the same, the monotonous crumby concrete under your feet giving no sense of direction. Intermittent shouts and clanging metal frightened you more than it should have. You were weak. Too soft. Used to leaving cars unlocked on the road for a quick trip. Never carrying a bike lock. Finding yourself in a city where any publicly parked car would be smashed by morning. 

Severing. Your thumb hovered over Bruce’s contact, and your stomach somersaulted. Creeping butterflies, heat rising to your cheeks. For a second the air didn’t hurt your lungs and the darkness wasn’t scary. Childlike crush. Somehow bright and innocent despite the tangle of lies it was covered in. 

You put your phone to your ear. You knew better than to keep wandering; at least no one had seen you yet, noticed you as a target. Mar and Rai didn’t have cars; he was your only ticket out.

“Hey. Everything alright?” He didn’t open by saying your name—like he’d come to expect talking to you. Too enamored by the sound of his voice, the words didn’t fall out of you. Only a few hours apart felt too long. How the hell were you going to leave next week?

He said your name now, a worried edge to his voice. “You okay?”

“Are you busy?”

He paused.

What did you mean by that? He leaned back in the seat of the Batmobile, deliberating. The armor of his suit crunched against it, a noise he was so used to it didn’t register. Half past two in the morning. You didn’t sound distressed. Maybe you’d had a nightmare? Calmed yourself down a bit before calling? 

“What do you need?” He bit back a million questions when you asked for a ride out of Crown Point. He’d wanted you to stay on the line, but you assured him of your safety, though he wasn’t at all convinced. His phone pinged with your location share, and he rushed like every word of yours had been spoken in code. 

He found you at the end of a dark alleyway, one that barely fit the Batmobile with enough space to open the passenger door. It crunched open, not used to being utilized, and you thunked into the seat. He scanned you for injury as you buckled in—nothing. Now persuaded of your safety, chills peppered his skin remembering how you’d caressed him the last time you were in here.

The cabin glowed with a pink and purple haze when you entered. Felt his shoulder pads dig in. The restriction of the belt and his taut leather gloves. The sound of the world shutting off around him. Alongside this crush (he withheld a visible cringe), worry bloomed. He drove under a streetlight and noticed black makeup adorning your face. Black hoodie, black pants. You’d wanted to blend in. 

His hands tightened around the wheel, bracing himself for something terrible. Had you been threatened? Coerced into something? Fell into some shady deal? “What are you doing in Point this late?”

He felt your hesitation like a brick of cement. If you hadn’t been up to something, you would’ve shot back with a defense before he’d finished his sentence. Was this related to how you’d acted over lunch? Withdrawn, sullen? 

“Following a lead.” Out of the corner of his eye he watched your lips purse into a thin line. You had more to say. He didn’t like the feeling inching between you, widening the gap. 

If you wanted to tell him what lead, you would have. What was of greater concern was if you were safe. Though he didn’t think you’d be particularly honest. “At two in the morning?” That didn’t come out right. Neither had his tone; it was verging on scolding. He reigned it in when you turned to look out the window. “I need to know if you’re in danger.”

“Need to know.”

His eyes narrowed, your scoff hitting him like a punch. Where was this coming from? “I can help.” His patience was wearing thin as anxiety bit at him. 

“You are. By giving me a ride home.” You turned your head even further away. Your tone was clipped. He slowed to a stop, his intuition screaming at him. At least he hoped it was logic and sense, not some twisting of this newfound infatuation. 

You looked at him like you were ready to jump from the car, angry, when he faced you. Your shoulders slumped when he met your gaze. He wondered if you could sense how nervous he was. How worried he was. How gutting it was to feel like you weren’t being honest with him. 

“If you’re in any sort of danger, I want to know.” He swallowed, and you looked away. Again. Shit, you were, weren’t you? Why else would you be in this part of town right now? He moved closer, as if it would help you hear him. As if the only problem was you couldn’t make out his words. “Please.” 

“Stop.” You squeezed your eyes shut and wrung your hands in your lap. He thought his heart might give out. “It’s nothing.”

Your cuticles were shredded, your skin flushing light with the force of your grip. Did you want to speak, but felt like you couldn’t? “Did they say not to tell anyone?”

Your lashes fluttered. He leaned closer, wishing he could take off the cowl, but he hadn’t spent enough time in Point lately to know if any security cameras still recorded out here. Your face would be shrouded enough from the shadow he kept you in as he drove close to the alley walls. He softened his voice to make up for the harsh lines and bullet marks in his armor. He didn’t want to intimidate right now. “You can tell me anything. No matter what they told you.”

You were continuously looking back with rose colored glasses at the snarky, mean-spirited man he used to be. How roughly he used to handle you, like he didn’t care if you broke into a million pieces. Nice Bruce, kind Bruce, caring Bruce was impossible to dismiss. How little could you give him where he’d be satisfied? What would make the wheels of this car start turning? He looked stressed and frayed. You couldn’t put any more on him. “A journalism thing. One of the people I think we offered housing, just talked about it.” 

As usual, nothing slipped by him, undeterred by your contrived nonchalance. Why did you have to get in cahoots with the single most focused, discerning person in existence? “This was the only time you both had available?”

“They didn’t want to meet during the day.”

“Who were they?”

“They didn’t want to reveal their identity.”

His brow furrowed, voice raising a few decibels. “You didn’t know who they were before coming to Crown Point alone in the middle of the night?”

“This is starting to sound like a lecture.” Your taser fell from your side onto the ground, and he flexed his jaw. You tensed, bracing for an argument. “I came prepared, okay?”

His tone kept restrained. For now. “What if they’d had a gun? What if they’d brought others?”

“They didn’t.”

“What exactly did you talk about?” 

It was hard not to lie again. It was hard not to tell the truth. Hard being in the car with him. “It’s private.” 

“Are you meeting with them again?”

“No.”

“If you do something like this in the future, let me know beforehand.”

Won’t have to worry about that for very long. Little did Bruce know, you’d be out of his hair before the end of the month. Maybe he’d throw a party. Christen the halls of Wayne Tower with the aimless whimsy of the public getting a peek into his world. 

He bristled at your laugh. You weren’t taking this seriously, and it was imperative that you did. Painfully so. “Will you?”

“Please, I want to get home. I’m tired.”

Begrudgingly, with a plan to bring it up later, he released the brake and started downtown. You drove in silence through back alleys and the occasional tunnel until your guilt got too big. Watching his hands tighten and loosen around the wheel, his blinking speed up. He deserved something.

“Do you know anything about someone named Oz Cobb?”

The car slammed to a halt; the seatbelt clicked hard into place, shoving you back into the seat. “Is that who you met with?”

“Why’d you do that?”

“Is that who you met with?”

His tone scared you. Jagged and deep, like shards of glass. “Jesus fuck, no!” 

“How do you know him?” His eyes were cast in shadow, his face a blob of black leather. Gone was the tentative, concerned Bruce—maybe you liked when he handled you gently. The rosy glasses were falling off your face. Who the hell was Oz to have him act like this?

“I don’t.”

“Have you ever spoken with him outside of City Hall?”

City Hall? You never spoke to anyone there.

“Have you?”

Interrogative. No longer was this a conversation between allies. The car cramped under the weight of his gravelly tone, his armor coming off far more aggressive. You wouldn’t let him know that. “Just drive.”

“Absolutely not.” He wasn’t leaving until you understood. Your frustration was a small price to pay for making you understand that your life would be at risk, that Oz was dangerous, that keeping things like this from him was a death sentence. 

“So you’re stranding me here?”

He made his voice stronger, feeling it begin to shake. “Don’t ever go near him.”

You didn’t say anything.

“I said don’t ever go near him.” He felt nauseous. And faint. Intrusive images of you lying with a bullet through your skull made his vision go in and out. Made him nervous to look at you, though he still did.

“You don’t control me.”

“Promise me you’ll never go near him.” His pulse raced in his ears.

“I can do whatever the hell I want.” If he didn’t drop it this second… His tone was venomous when he next spoke. 

“He’ll kill you.”

You rolled your eyes wide enough for him to see. Now you could see him, his eyes flashing, then narrowing, his mouth tensing into a snarl. “A lot of things could.”

“Promise me.” 

Sounded like a threat. You looked around, pretending to be bored, your blood boiling over as you began to feel like a hostage.

He was on the brink of a panic attack. “Promise me, goddammit!”

You gasped out your response, shocked his voice had risen to such a yell. “Don’t talk to me like that, what the fuck?”

“You’re telling me to let you hold a loaded gun to your head and pull the trigger.”

“Take me home.”

“Tell me you’re not that stupid.”

“Fuck off.”

A wheeze squeezed from his constricted throat. Yeah, he was about to pass out. “If you don’t want me to track you,”

“Who the hell do you think you are?”

“Are you planning to meet with him?”

You stared at your lap. You. Still. Weren’t. Listening. 

“Answer me.”

Your nose turned up at him. “Your intimidation is less effective when you know it’s just you under that fucking suit.”

“You need to know how serious this is.”

“Take. Me. Home.” The steadiness of your voice was fading as helplessness crept in. You turned to look out the window. 

You started hashing at your cuticles. His voice was softer, though marginally. “Look at me.”

“No.”

“You need to listen, please—”

“TAKE ME HOME.”

Bruce reached out to touch your elbow, but you yanked your arm away so fast your wrist slapped against the glass. “I’m sorry.”

“I’m not accepting any apology until I’m back.” 

The silence breathed for a few seconds, interrupted eventually by the clicking of gears. After a few streets you recognized the turns, the knot in your stomach loosening. The whiplash of twenty-four hours ago put a lump in your throat. 

A few minutes later he pulled into the signature alleyway. You hustled to unbuckle, the sound of small clinking rattling your ears. Out of the corner of your eye you noticed he was shivering.

“I’m sorry, everything I say is coming out wrong,” his voice was weak and bruised. 

“You don’t own me.” You unclicked the buckle. 

“I know.” A humorless laugh fell from his lips, and you stiffened. He shook his head like he hadn’t meant for it to occur. “That’s the thing, I know I don’t. I couldn’t, even if I wanted to. And I don’t want to.”

“Sure sounds like it.”

He took off his cowl, sighing as he held it in his lap. A football field of distance sat between you, and he felt it like a hot branding iron. “I’m sorry for not taking you home when you asked.”

Tears stung your eyes. “Don’t ever act like that again.”

Bruce’s face contorted with pain as he watched you bite your cheek and blink back tears. He nodded. “I’m sorry. You’re not stupid. I was way out of line.”

You resumed fiddling with your hands. A light patter of rain dusted the windshield and echoed off the metal roofing. You didn’t know what to say to him. Each time you thought you were past something, it circled back.

“I won’t track you. I already said I wouldn’t. I shouldn’t have said that.”

“You’re fucking mean.” It blurted out of you with a pitiful sob, and you angrily wiped at the hot tears spilling down your cheeks. “I don’t even know who the fuck he is.”

It was agony knowing he’d made you cry. It bled into his inflection, this frail, bleeding desperation. “It won’t happen again. I was, I was scared, his pockets are in the courts, I can’t get him—”

“So you scared me?”

He froze. “I scared you?”

“It doesn’t matter.” You wiped your cheeks with your forearm and popped open the door. 

“It matters a lot.”

You didn’t leave, but you didn’t speak. The two and a half block walk was more intimidating than ever, exaggerating the empty staleness of sitting in his car. 

“He’s the one person in this city I can’t save you from.”

“You don’t need to save me.”

You got out, saying a curt goodnight, and walked south down the alley. Hopefully no one would harass you at this hour. Hopefully getting home so late would mean the hot water would be plentiful. Hopefully you had a snack in the freezer you could eat in the shower, while you sat on the floor and deliberated if your life was worth staying, or leaving. 

Crunches of gravel alerted you to Bruce’s presence. Mussed hair and splotchy black eye paint sweat in a fade halfway down his cheeks. He hadn’t put the cowl back on, his identity on full display for anyone with the thought to look behind them on the sidewalk of the main road. It shocked you out of your melancholy. “What are you doing?”

He looked… uncomfortable, but earnest. His jaw twitched on every syllable. “I didn’t mean to scare you. I mean it. I’m really sorry.” His eyes bored into you, then trailed to the small pools in your tear troughs. “I don’t want to make you feel like this.”

You tore your eyes away from his. You might’ve drowned otherwise. “I’ll see you at the meeting.”

When you got home you scrubbed your makeup off in the shower, buzzing from the constant state of whiplash Bruce kept you chained to. Reactive, and, belligerent, and, apologetic, and intense. He couldn’t fucking talk to you like that. Like you were a petulant child. He was the petulant one. He was so, fucking… aggravating!

He sat in the car for the next hour, unmoving. Half of him felt silly. Pushing off patrol over an argument. The other half was in excruciating pain. He didn’t give you enough credit for what you had endured, and what you had done. It wasn’t like you ran into Point shouting at the top of your lungs, pointing a spotlight at yourself with your full name and address on display. Wasn’t like you didn’t know Gotham was dangerous. Probably still had remnants of the bruise on your thigh. 

He cut the night short. He couldn’t concentrate with the thought of you miserable in your apartment. His head spun. Maybe he was going soft. Being self-indulgent and unreasonable. Cutting patrol short in a city of millions over one person? This was why he kept at a distance. Public service was supposed to be egalitarian; creating any sort of hierarchy was unacceptable. Yet there you remained, and here he was at Wayne Tower with the moon still high in the sky.

He’d never, ever speak to you that way again. 

[writing-the-stars]

Moonlight Miracles

Pairing: Elijah Mikaelson x Fem!Reader

Summary: On the night of your escape, you lose the love of your life. Or so you thought.

Warnings: Angst (Nothing's changed), Hurt/Comfort, Fluffy Ending, Typical Vampire Diaries Violence, Death. Let Me Know If I Forgot Something

Word Count: 2.9k

A/N: I have been working on this story for TWO YEARS!!! I'm honestly just relieved to have it finished finally. The title admittedly sucks, but I believe the story makes up for it. Thank you all for reading! I hope you enjoy. Have a wonderful day!

Masterlist | TVDU Masterlist

The fabric of your underdress billows at your feet as the crisp night air washes over you. You cling closer to the trunk of the towering White Pine– the rough bark tugging at the fabric of your garment. You hope to shroud away in the depth of the forest, hiding from the unwanted gaze of your village in the shadows of the looming trees. Your hair wafts gently in the breeze and a shudder travels down your spine as the chill of the night seeps into your bones. 

You wait, patiently, for your betrothed in the same location you met him every night for the past four full moons, hiding in secret as you exchanged solemn vows and acts of romance– planning for this day to arrive. Your deerskin bag rests at your feet, filled with the goods you plan on bartering for your passage into your new life. Away from the cruelties of Elijah’s father and the prohibitory life your father has arranged for you. Away from the danger of the men who turn into beasts who have taken so much already. You have lived through 20 winters– it is time you take your life into your own hands. 

“Hello, my love.”

The silence that encapsulated you is suddenly broken– a sharp gasp breaking through your lips. You turn swiftly, finding your beloved with an endearing smile gracing his lips– looming in the shadows of the trees. A smile adorns your face at the sight of him. 

“Elijah, you frightened me.”

He emerges from the shadows– the pale moonlight illuminating his porcelain skin. The unobstructed view of your betrothed robs the smile from your lips– something was wrong. While he appeared to be the same man, there was a chilling air of danger around him– one that was never there before. 

“I’m sorry,” the brunet apologizes, gliding over to you, “I did not mean to alarm you.” 

His hand is frigid as he places it against the downy surface of your cheek– the alarming contrast of temperature making you flinch away from the very touch you used to crave. 

“Elijah, your hands are freezing,” you proclaim to the Mikaelson, attempting to gather his large hands into yours to provide them some warmth. You are confused to find the usual rough texture of his calloused hands has now been made smooth as if he had never labored a day in his life. 

Elijah’s laughter pulls you from your musing and the warm familiarity of it eases your concern. You would never grow tired of the sound of his joy– it is a sound that has comforted you through many sorrowful evenings. It is a sound that reminds you, despite the struggles the two of you face, everything will be okay. 

“What?” you inquire, curious of the moment’s motivation for your favorite sound, but he simply shakes his head, knowing how useless your endeavor is. His body will never be able to emit warmth again. 

The Mikaelson looks down at you with his keen eyes, studying all the details he was unable to perceive before. The unique blend of color swirling your eyes, the distinctive pattern of strands that design your hair's texture, and the subtle lines and contours that create the structure of your face. A chill creeps up your spine as he examines you– the pools of chocolate brown shine with an intensity, a darkness lurking within their depths. It unsettles you. Your hands, instinctively, retract from his, your feet placing a small amount of distance between you. A frown draws on Elijah’s lips at your sudden shift in attitude. 

“Y/N, beloved, what’s the matter?”

There is a sharpness to his voice– one that holds a lurking threat, sending shivers down your spine. You are conflicted about your next course of action. All of your body is on high alert, telling you to run from the danger before you, but your heart urges you to stay– only seeing the man that you love so dearly. Elijah takes a step toward you, attempting to close the distance you have subconsciously put between you, but you continue to add more to that distance. The Mikaelson grows frustrated with your newfound prudence of him– the darkness within growing stronger. 

You watch, fearfully, the animalistic nature in which he moves toward you– a predator stalking its prey– as you finally come to a disturbing conclusion. The man before you is not the man you fell in love with many moons ago. There is a dark evil living inside of him now, consuming every fiber of the man you knew before. Adrenaline courses through your body, tears painting your cheeks, as you realize the danger that you are in. You run. As far and as fast as you can– desperate to escape the creature taking over your betrothed’s body. 

You run to your home– the same place you were desperate to flee mere hours ago– only to be stopped by Elijah’s sinister figure, suddenly in front of you again. Eyes widened, you come to a halt, astounded by his swiftness. You step back, in an effort to get away from him; however, your foot catches the skirt of your underdress and you stumble back, landing on your rear.

Elijah approaches you menacingly– eyes blood-red, shining in the moonlight while tiny black veins dance underneath. A gasp of horror escapes you at the sight. In all of your winters, you have never seen anything as terrorizing as the display before you– whatever your beloved is now, it certainly is not human. 

“W-what are you?”

Something breaks within the Mikaelson, seeing you tremble in utter fear at his feet. It pains him to watch you, the great love of his life, be absolutely petrified of him. 

The monster subsides, retreating back into the depth of his soul and, for a moment, you see the man you fell in love with break through the darkness. Your heart softens as you stare into the tender umber eyes that stole your heart moons ago. You slowly reach out to him– frightened that if you move too swiftly, your beloved will disappear and that creature will resume its place. 

Your hand never meets him as a guttural cry tears from his lips– face contorted in the most grisly display of abject agony. Elijah falls to his knees, the blood-soaked tip of a blade piercing through his chest. You scream for him as if that will somehow undo the act that has been done.

“What did you do,” you cry out in horror as you look to your sister who stands horrified– hands shaking feverishly. 

“Y-you weren’t in the room when I woke, so I-I grabbed Father’s blade for protection and went to look for you. When I found you, y-you seemed frightened, so I thought he was attacking you. I-I did not…,” your sister stutters through her tears, realizing the gravity of what she has done. Her first reaction to your danger was to stop the thing that was hurting you; however, she did not want to kill the Mikaelson boy.

A sob rips through your throat as you cradle his pallor face in your hands. His blood seeps into the garments of your dress, horrifyingly warming your body from the crisp chill of the night air. 

“I am sorry,” your sister cries, bile rising in her throat, “I thought I was protecting you.”

Another sob wracks through your body as you clutch his lifeless body to yours, willing life back into him. You know it’s a useless endeavor, but you have to try anyway.

“Leave,” you command your sister, unable to stand her presence any longer. She took the love of your life away from you and had the audacity to grieve. 

“Y/N, I-”

The sickening sound of your father’s blade tearing through Elijah’s body once again as you pull it from his chest leaves your sister silent. The action makes your stomach churn as you shove the hilt into her chest, “Just go.”

Your voice is dark– heavy with the hatred you now hold for her. Because, in spite of the creature Elijah had become, you still loved him with every fiber of your being. To you, he was still the same man whose winsome smile charmed you the moment he wielded it on you. The same man who always strived to make the impossible happen for you just to see you smile. The man who was willing to leave the family that he loved and the life that he knew just to be with you. He was absolutely devoted to you and you were to him, willing to give him everything you have, everything he could ask of you. Now he is lost to you forever– the hole in your heart being the only remnant left of the love you shared. 

-*-

You stand in front of the Mikaelson home, unaware of how you came to be before the residence. You are certain you walked the distance, but you have no recollection of leaving the forest. Nor are you aware how long you have been standing in front of the wooden dwelling.

“Y/N,” a voice calls to you, luring you from the dazed state you found yourself in. The figure of a man appears before you, one you soon recognize to be Klaus. Concern is etched into the features of his face at your disheveled state. The tear stains blemishing your face and your soiled, bloody garments not signifying a good thing. 

“He’s gone,” the words push past your lips, your voice dry and void. A numbness courses through your veins robbing you of feeling anything else. You believe it to be a blessing from the gods above. The nothingness is preferable to the torment of mourning him.  

“Who?” Klaus inquires, hands grasping your shoulders in an attempt to keep you steady. You appear seconds away from crumbling, only adding to his unease.

The silence intensifies as you struggle to force your mouth to shape those dreaded words.As the silence grows heavier, the more indefinite the Mikaelson’s worry for you grows. He knows of the secret love affair you have with his brother. Initially, he was adamantly opposed to it; with your families being rivals, he knew the fury his father would unleash if he discovered the betrayal. But as he observed you, his perspective began to shift. Witnessing the gentle way you treated his older brother—the tenderness, the unwavering care, and the joy you brought into his life—Klaus realized that you were the best thing for his brother. He came to cherish you as he does Rebekah, and seeing you in such profound despair deeply unsettled him.

You can only shake your head, paralyzed by the weight of the unspeakable truth that clings to your tongue, refusing to be voiced. The fear of solidifying such a grotesque reality makes you hesitate. The blond gazes past you into the darkness, his eyes searching for some trace, some hint of what has transpired. 

“Y/N, where is Elijah? Did he meet with you?” Klaus questions once he has confirmed there is nothing hidden beyond you. 

Your lip starts to quiver as the dam holding your emotion begins to break. With a shuddering breath, you manage to utter, “He’s dead.”

The words hit you like a physical blow, and your knees collapse beneath you, unable to bear the crushing weight of your sorrow.

“Elijah. He’s dead.”

You sob as the second coming of your grief crashes over you with a force even more devastating than the first. A raw, piercing pain tears through your chest, shattering your heart with the finality of the truth. The sobs that wrack your body are deep and relentless, leaving you utterly inconsolable. Lost to the world around you, you are entirely engulfed by the consuming abyss of your sorrow. 

The third eldest Mikaelson son stands in disbelief. His mind struggles to comprehend the meaning of your words. How could his brother be gone? That shouldn’t be possible. It defies all reason, especially given the curse that should protect them. Yet, the raw, palpable intensity of your grief casts a shadow of reality over the implausibility of the situation.

Klaus gathers your trembling form into his chest, his heart aching with each ragged breath you take. He desperately wishes he could offer you an explanation, something to ease the unbearable pain that clutches at your soul, but he's unsure if he can. Unsure of the nature of vampirism– doubtful of its functionality altogether, given the depth of your sorrow. The Mikaelson is at a loss for how to comfort you, grappling with the profound helplessness of the moment. However, he is certain of one thing. If his father were to see you weeping in his arms, his wrath would be uncontrollable. So, Klaus carries you back into the woods where he lets you sob until every tear is spent and you have nothing left to give. As he holds you, he scans the shadows of the towering pines, almost expecting his elder brother to emerge with one of his infuriatingly calm reassurances. But the forest remains silent, offering no solace beyond the embrace of the darkened woods.

Until. 

“Y/N.”

The achingly familiar voice pierces through the suffocating silence, cutting straight to your heart and freezing you in place. You hold your breath, paralyzed by the fear that this fleeting sound might be an illusion—your mind’s desperate attempt to soothe the unbearable ache constricting your chest. Yet, despite the gnawing doubt, your ears strain with desperate hope, yearning for any sign, any hint of the voice’s reality, clinging to the faintest possibility that it might be real. 

“Y/N, my love.”

You release the breath you have been holding— eyes drifting to the blond Mikaelson, seeking confirmation of the impossible. When you find Klaus’s gaze fixed beyond you, you know that this must be real. That he must be real. 

You turn to face the man you lost mere hours ago, stunned by the miraculous sight before you. There, bathed in the gentle glow of the moonlight, Elijah stands as impeccably whole as he did before the night's horrors unfolded. His chest, the place where your father’s blade had torn through him, now unmarred. His eyes, which had once struck fear into your heart with their cold, sinister gleam, now hold a profound, unwavering love.

Klaus releases you gently, allowing you to approach his brother. 

“Elijah?” you call for your beloved— voice barely a whisper. You fear anything louder may cause him to disappear. 

He takes a step towards you, the movement graceful and deliberate, “It’s me,” he replies, his voice steady and reassuring.

You reach out tentatively, still uncertain if this is merely an apparition. But as he draws nearer, his hands grazing your skin— his cool touch leaving a wake of sensation in its path— the sheer reality of his presence overwhelms you. A sob of profound relief and unspoken hope bursts from your chest as you envelop him in a desperate embrace, clinging to the tangible warmth of your beloved.

“You’re here,” you cry out, pressing Elijah as close to you as physically possible, uncaring of the discomfort of the fabric digging into your skin. You cling to him with an unwavering grip, anchoring yourself to the Mikaelson and vowing not to let him slip away from you once more.

“I thought you were gone,” you cry into his chest, your voice muffled by the fabric of his tunic, “I thought I lost you forever.”

Elijah's arms encircle you with a tenderness that matches your own desperation, holding you just as tightly. “I’m here, my love. I’m here,” he murmurs, his voice a soothing balm to your shattered heart.

You pull back just enough to gaze up into his umber eyes, your voice trembling with disbelief, “How—how is this possible?”

Elijah's lips curl into a gentle smile as he brushes a strand of wind-swept hair from your face, relishing the chance to hold you close once more.

“I am stronger than you know,” he says softly.

You stare at him, your mind a whirlwind of confusion as you struggle to reconcile the living, breathing Elijah before you with the haunting image of his lifeless body. Your fingers roam over his face, his hands, every part of him within reach, desperately seeking the tangible reassurance that he is truly real.

“Elijah, I… I saw you… You were dead,” you stammer, your voice quivering with confusion, “How can you be here?”

His expression is one of gentle understanding, “I know, my love. I am not entirely sure myself, but I promise you, I am here. I will always come back to you.”

Klaus observes the reunion silently, a rare smile touching his lips. “It seems the universe isn’t ready to part you two just yet,” he says softly, his eyes reflecting a depth of unspoken emotions.

Elijah turns his gaze towards his brother, gratitude shining in his eyes. “Thank you for looking after her, Niklaus.”

Klaus nods, stepping back to grant you both some much-needed space. “Just make sure to keep her safe, Elijah. Father won’t be pleased to learn of this.”

Elijah’s eyes return to you, his resolve unshaken. “I will,” he promises with unwavering certainty. “We will find a way to be together, my love. No matter what it takes.”

You feel the warmth of his words seep into your bones, dispelling the lingering chill of the night. You rest your head against his chest, the steady beat of his heart reassuring you that this is real, that he is real. You allow yourself to fully embrace the reality of the moment, embracing the hope and love that Elijah’s return has rekindled within you.

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[deliciousangelfestival]

Secret Sorrows || Bodyguard AU

Summary: Former special ops, Bucky, seeks solace in a cold refuge to escape his past. However, his haunted history catches up, unraveling mysteries that persist relentlessly.

Words Count: 2,253

Warning: Death character.

Series Masterlist

A/N: This is my first attempt at writing within the mystery theme. I hope you enjoy it.

Thank you to anyone who gave a like, reblog, and left a comment. It motivated me to write more. 

Main Masterlist || support: Ko-fi

In Antarctica's vast, frozen expanse, where researchers braved the harshest conditions, Bucky, a former military man seeking solitude in the icy isolation, served as the stern yet vigilant security presence.

One frosty day, Bucky diligently checked the storage temperatures, surrounded by the frigid air that mirrored the chill in his own heart. 

As he focused on his task, he was approached by Chef Jack, who had recently returned from the mainland to visit his grandchildren.

Bundled in layers against the biting cold, Chef Jack grinned at Bucky. "You're a charming man, Bucky. Why are you still single? The female scientists who work here have been flirting with you.”

Bucky, his breath visible in the freezing air, chuckled softly. "I just haven't found the one."

Chef Jack, his eyes reflecting the wisdom of age, patted Bucky on the shoulder. "I see. Still can't forget the former? I understand."

Bucky's gaze dropped to the snowy ground and fell into a heavy silence. He nodded subtly, not wanting to delve into the painful memories beneath the icy surface of his stoic demeanor.

In a sudden turn of events, Bucky received an emergency alert: "We need backup."

Without hesitation, he swiftly responded over the radio, "On my way," and rushed towards his waiting car.

Emergencies were a rare occurrence in this remote location, and deaths resulting from foul play were even more uncommon. 

Upon arrival at the scene, Bucky was met with a chilling sight – two in orange swimming suits, eerily floating in the icy waters. 

Drowning was the cause, an unusual and unsettling occurrence in this frozen realm. The onlooking tourists, shaken and fearful, murmured amongst themselves.

The atmosphere was tense as one tourist anxiously mentioned, "They have a kid, right? Where is their son?"

Bucky, now profoundly concerned, hadn't even seen the faces of the victims yet. His focus shifted to the potential tragedy of a child being left alone in such extreme conditions. 

Ignoring the bitter cold, he resolved to search for any sign of the missing child, determined to navigate through the frigid wilderness in a race against time.

Bucky, determined to find the missing child, declared, "I'm going to find their kid."

Meanwhile, young Ethan, feeling out of place in the freezing Antarctic surroundings, had been running away from the group. He voiced his displeasure about being on the tour, unable to comprehend why his parents insisted on such a cold adventure.

"Why did Mom and Dad want to come here? And who was that scary man looking at me?”

As Ethan blew on his cold hands, a sudden shadow engulfed him, casting a momentary relief from the harsh Antarctic winds. 

Looking up, he found himself face to face with a tall man, his piercing blue eyes reflecting genuine concern.

"Hey buddy. My name is Bucky. I'm here to get you safe," Bucky reassured him.

Still shivering from the cold and the frightful encounter, Ethan stammered, "Sa-save me."

Sensing the depth of the child's fear, Bucky draped a warm blanket over him and gently scooped him into his protective arms. Ethan, seeking comfort, curled up against Bucky, his small frame shivering against the chill.

"I want my grandma," Ethan mumbled, his voice barely audible over the Antarctic wind.

With a reassuring tone, Bucky responded, "You will, buddy," holding the frightened child close.

Bucky, carrying the shivering Ethan to his car, couldn't escape the grim reality as he passed the body bag containing the deceased. 

In an impulse, he took a brief, painful glance before it closed – a glimpse that nearly brought him to his knees. The face inside, now concealed, triggered a rush of memories from his past, a haunting connection he hadn't expected.

Iris Aston. His first love. 

The weight of the revelation hit Bucky hard, but he refocused on the scared child in his arms. The realization struck him – Ethan was Iris's son. 

As he gently placed the child on the office couch, Bucky's mind raced, processing the unexpected intersection of his past and the present.

Bucky tried to steady himself by pouring a cup of hot chocolate for Ethan. "What's your name, buddy?" he asked, his voice revealing the underlying shock.

"Ethan Van Alen," came the soft reply, intensifying Bucky's internal turmoil. After separating from Iris, he had heard about her marrying into an old-money family – the Van Alens.

Bucky, grappling with the revelation, inquired about Ethan's aunt, hoping for some grounding in this unexpected twist. "Is your grandma here too?"

Ethan shook his head, his eyes reflecting fear and uncertainty. "No, she's not.”

"I'm sure she will come here as soon as possible," he assured.

As Bucky received a call from his concerned colleagues requesting assistance, Ethan, overcome with fear, clung desperately to Bucky's leg. "No. Don't leave me," he pleaded, his small frame trembling with anxiety.

Bucky's colleagues, now understanding the gravity of the situation, exchanged somber glances. The shocking reality dawned on Bucky as he realized that the couple who had tragically perished was none other than Ethan's parents.

Sensitive to the child's distress, Bucky, without hesitation, scooped Ethan into his arms, providing the solace the orphaned boy desperately sought. Now cradled in the safety of Bucky's strong arms, Ethan felt a sense of reassurance that had eluded him before.

Bucky entered the empty storage room where Iris's lifeless body was being kept. As he gazed upon her, memories flooded back – of a time when they were inseparable, studying together at the military academy. 

Their connection ran deep, but Iris had abruptly left, and her icy rejection had marked the last encounter.

He could still hear her words, cutting through him like a bitter wind, "Who do you think you are? Don't touch me!" A painful reminder of the social gap between them, a gap that fate had widened.

Looking down at Iris now, her once bright smile extinguished, Bucky couldn't shake the heartbreak that lingered from their past.

His colleagues reported no visible signs of trauma on Iris's body, adding a layer of mystery to her sudden demise. Seeking answers, Bucky turned to the only witness – young Ethan.

Ethan joined the conversation, his voice shaky but determined. "After my dad and mom drank something, they walked funny and fell into the water. And... and..."

Bucky, offering a reassuring presence, prompted, "What happened next, Ethan?”

The boy hesitated before continuing, "A scary man looked at me and walked towards me. That's why I ran." 

Bucky's colleagues updated him, saying, "The tour guide has called the family. They already sent someone."

Still in Bucky's comforting presence, Ethan inquired with hope, “Grandma is coming?"

Bucky gently patted the kid on the back, assuring him, "Yes."

Finding solace in the knowledge that his grandma was on the way, Ethan felt a wave of relief wash over him. 

Bucky thought, never underestimate the power of money, expecting the relatives to arrive by ship. However, a large plane unexpectedly landed. Bucky, still carrying Ethan, and others anxiously awaited the arrival of the guests.

As the plane's door opened, Bucky, from a distance, couldn't discern who was stepping out. Restlessness overcame Ethan, and he wanted to get down. "Grandma," he exclaimed when he saw a familiar figure.

But Ethan abruptly halted in his tracks. The unexpected figure approaching him wasn't his grandma but his aunt. A surge of fear gripped him. He had always been scared of her.

Bucky, equally taken aback, felt a shockwave of disbelief. He had witnessed her lifeless form in the cold storage room, and now she stood before him – alive, breathing. 

How come Iris came back to live?

Is he seeing a ghost? Or a zombie?

Unable to conceal his astonishment, he stammered, "Iris?”

Ethan suddenly chimed in, "That's my mother's name. This person is my aunt. Her name is Y/N.”

Y/N's reply was devoid of emotion as she spoke in a cold, matter-of-fact tone, "I'm her twin sister." 

Twin sister? Iris has a twin sister? She never mentioned this to him. Bucky was shocked by this revelation

Y/N's demeanor showed no signs of sadness or grief. "I'm here to collect their bodies and bring Ethan back home."

Offering his condolences, Bucky expressed, "My name is Bucky. I'm sorry for what happened to your sister. It sounds crazy, but I knew your sister from the military academy."

Y/N's response was detached, "I see. Could you show my assistant which documents to sign so we could leave?" 

Her request held no trace of emotion, contrasting sharply with the heartfelt sentiments Bucky had just conveyed.

Taken aback by the stark difference between Y/N and Iris, Bucky found himself grappling with the realization that, despite their identical faces, their personalities were worlds apart. 

As the simple yet somber process unfolded, the body bags were carefully loaded onto the plane. Before departing, Ethan looked at Bucky, a silent exchange containing layers of unspoken emotions. 

Ethan glanced at Bucky, hope flickering in his eyes; he asked, "Can brother come with us?"

Y/N, who was busy with her phone, responded, "If he wants too."

Struggling to fully comprehend the stark differences between Y/N and Iris, Bucky leaned down to Ethan and softly said, "I hope we meet again someday." 

The words hung in the air, a wistful expression of the unexpected bond formed amidst the cold Antarctic challenges.

Absorbing the sentiment, Ethan offered a slow nod, the weight of recent events etched across his young face. 

Y/N didn't spare Bucky a glance as she entered the plane, her demeanor as cold as the Antarctic winds. 

Today, Bucky encountering his first love only to find her lifeless, meeting her son, and discovering the existence of her twin sister.

Despite Y/N's demeanor, icy as the landscape around them, Bucky couldn't shake the feeling of familiarity. It wasn't just the shared face with Iris; there was an unspoken connection, an elusive something more that lingered in the air. 

Bucky had a bunch of questions swirling in his head. He couldn't determine why Iris never told him about her twin sister. Even though he wanted answers, he hesitated to ask.

He wished he could talk more to Y/N.

The Van Alen and Aston household seemed full of secrets. The news about the company heir's death hit the headlines, and it got crazier when someone tried to kidnap Ethan, the heir's son.

Something felt off to Bucky. First, Iris died, and now there's a danger to Ethan. Y/N, who looked like Iris, came to mind. He worried someone might go after Y/N, too.

Not willing to let harm come to them, Bucky packed up and left Antarctica, arriving in a warm New York. He headed to the Van Alen residence, seeing many cars and guests offering condolences.

Thinking he couldn't get in, Bucky was surprised there was no security. But then he learned that Ethan had gone missing – a kidnap attempt had just happened. Ethan is missing from his room.

As Bucky approached the Van Alen residence, he noticed the branch of a nearby tree shaking. Looking up, he sighed, realizing it was Ethan.

"Ethan?" Bucky called out.

"Bro? Bucky? Is that you?" Ethan responded from the tree.

"What are you doing?" Bucky inquired.

Ethan explained, frustration in his voice, "I hate everyone. No one talks to me!"

Feeling a pang of sympathy for the grieving child, Bucky opened his arms, saying, "Come down. Everyone is worried about you."

Reluctantly, Ethan descended from the tree, landing in Bucky's protective embrace. As they stood together, security personnel, witnessing the scene, moved forward, intending to detain Bucky.

Before they could intervene, Ethan intervened, proclaiming, "No. He's my bodyguard." The unexpected declaration left the security team momentarily puzzled, but Ethan's insistence shielded Bucky from further scrutiny. 

"You've created unnecessary chaos," Y/N stated, appearing with five people behind her, resembling assistants and bodyguards. 

Bucky couldn't help but think that Y/N, Ethan's aunt, was too cold. She didn't even make an effort to coax her own nephew.

In a burst of emotion, Ethan exclaimed, "Nobody cares for me. Everyone wishes I was gone so Aunt has everything!"

Bucky, taken aback by Ethan's outburst, never expected him to yell like this. Y/N remained silent, eventually sighing, "Be grateful you're still breathing."

Ethan flinched and cried in Bucky's arms, expressing, "Huuu, nobody in this house loves me.”

Bucky tried to comfort the distressed child, saying, "I will talk to your aunt." 

Bucky followed Y/N, expressing concern that Ethan was grieving and suggesting she should be with her nephew during this challenging time.

Y/N's bodyguard attempted to push Bucky away, but she raised her left hand, signaling him to stop.

At that moment, Bucky noticed a small tattoo on Y/N's left fourth finger. His eyes widened as he recognized the same tattoo he and Iris had gotten together back in the day. 

How was it possible that Y/N also had the same tattoo?

Y/N calmly remarked, "Seeing you so eager to protect Ethan, I'll hire you as his bodyguard. He's the reason you're here, right?"

Bucky didn't argue, though his motive extended beyond protecting Ethan; he was also there to find Iris's killer and the person behind the attempt to kidnap Ethan.

Y/N continued, "I'll take that as a yes. My assistant will draw up the contract."

Surprised by her trust, Bucky questioned, "You trust me?"

Y/N replied, "Your effort in coming here to protect Ethan is enough to judge that you're sincere." Bucky was taken aback by her astute judgment. Y/N was not as ignorant as he had initially thought.

Before Bucky could delve further, Y/N declared, "That's good. I need a trusted person to protect Ethan because that kid's life is more important than mine." Bucky sensed a hint of self-pity in her words. 

Before leaving, Y/N added, "Back then, Iris trusted you. I hope I can feel the same. Don't disappoint me, Barnes." Her words hint at a sense of expectation and reliance on Bucky's capabilities.

As he pondered asking her about it, Y/N departed with her entourage, leaving Bucky with lingering questions and a newfound role as Ethan's protector.

Author Note :

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[insult-2-injury]

Debts Repaid

Dan Heng x F!Reader

When a stubborn Dan Heng is injured in battle, you insist upon healing him. He's never liked debts, but being beholden to you wouldn't be the worst thing, he thinks. Not when there are so many ways to balance the scales.

AO3 Link, 4k, fingering, cock warming, dirty talk, p in v, light pain kink

~~~~~~~~

“You’re hurt.”

“Nothing to worry about.”

“I knew it!”

“Move aside, please.”

Despite the inherent lack of sincerity in his ‘please’, you allow Dan Heng to finally slip past your wide-armed defensive stance and into the safety of his bedroom. 

“I knew it,” you repeat, following him inside without much forethought. “I knew you’d been hurt the second you vanished after that fight. You act all humble and weird when you’re in pain. Let me see it.”

The tight-laced man, forever stoic, sighs and your existence seems to be well… nonexistent as he goes about his business as if you aren’t trailing him like a fly buzzing over his shoulder. Nothing new, really. The duality of Dan Heng is that regardless of his short, but not infrequent check-in texts when the two of you are separated, he avoids you on the Express like you’ve got some disease he’s reluctant to contract.

It’s just that you’re a healer. Your job in and out of combat is solely to make sure everyone stays alive and well, and if you can minimize unnecessary discomforts, well, it’s in your nature to do so. There’s just one person who complicates things. But Dan Heng and you have always had each other’s backs on the battlefield, so it should stand to reason that you should have each other’s backs in the more civil, quiet corners of the cosmos as well. 

“Come on, let me help. Then I’ll leave, I promise.” 

His eyes narrow over his shoulder. “I hear March calling for you.”

“Filthy liar. Where did you hurt yourself?”

“There she is again.”

You glower at the back of his head. “Oh, you’re a comedian, too, huh.”

“Something like that,” he says, forever impassive as he puts his things away with a well-hidden stiffness that belies the pain you can sense he truly feels.

“Fine, you want to go old-fashioned? Be that way.” When he predictably fails to provide the location of a first aid kit, you take it upon yourself to rummage through his lower cupboards.

He’s terrible at tolerating help, like he’s been hard-trained into an accepting solitude. And when he denies you, it’s automatic, a spring release that holds the cold weight of indifference. But you’ve seen him throw himself into the fray when your wellbeing is at stake. 

Dan Heng cares in his own ways.

Your fingers find the handle of a first aid kit.

“A-ha.”

“I said it was nothing to worry about,” a frigid voice says and you nearly leap out of your skin at how quickly he’s moved to stand behind you, the top of your head banging against a cabinet shelf hard as you swing to meet his downward gaze.

“It’s not nothing,” you grit out, rubbing the top of your scalp. “I saw you trying to hold your shit together, saw you make a break for the hallway the moment we got back. You’re stupidly stubborn, you know that? Stop saying it’s nothing.”

A strange bout of nerves creeps in as you scowl up at his towering form from where you kneel – the signature, flat, unamused slant of his lips, the glacial gray of his eyes not leaving yours.

His gaze narrows almost accusingly and, with an aching slowness, the tips of his fingers extend to graze the crown of your head. Not patting in condescension, not running through the strands there as you might have liked, just resting there at first, warming the top of your head. Until he draws those fingers together, clutches a small handful before releasing, measuring your reaction as he roots around the depths of your wide-eyed, questioning stare; seems to come to some conclusion before he backs away silently. 

Your jaw opens and shuts as your response speaks for itself, staying put for far too long to appear unphased, that same jittery feeling in the pit of your stomach as after a warp; except this time tainted with a sickening need to crawl beneath the spotlight of his gaze again. Perhaps nuzzle further into that strange contact. Never before has he touched you willingly; never without pulling away like it scalds.

With enough space to draw breath now, you leap to your feet, albeit on weaker legs. “So?”

“So what?” he says as if nothing has transpired, wincing as his clothes move against whatever wound is on his chest.

“Where is it, then?” You tip your chin up, determined now. “Your injury.”

He doesn’t reply, observing you, gaze steel and unflinching as he puzzles you out.

“I’m serious, Dan Heng, it’s why I’m on the Express in the first place. Unless you don’t trust my elemental process, which is totally fair. We can go another route, then, or I can go grab someone else. I just can’t in good conscience leave you here without at least knowing what shape you’re in.”

You trust him implicitly. Does it go both ways? Regardless, gone are the days you watch with an ache in your chest as he limps back to the Express with a tight-lipped grimace to tend to his own wounds. The crew says it’s fruitless, that he’s like an oyster snapping shut the moment you so much as look in its direction. Cold, dark, and mysterious, he might be. Impenetrable, he is not.

There are few things in life as hard as cracking through the exterior of the man standing before you, and few things that would be more satisfying. Dan Heng, you think, is an oyster worth cracking. And sometimes to crack the shell of a particularly tough one, you can’t ask permission.

“Your elemental process is sound, and you’ve never, to my knowledge, produced less than desirable results. You are highly capable,” he responds flatly after a time. “But I don’t care to be in the debt of others.”

“Enough of that talk. You won’t be in my debt.” You wave off his foolishness, feeling your cheeks heat, throat tighten a little at the compliment, however oddly phrased. “Do we need to draft up a legal document, something that will hold up in court? Or maybe Welt can tally up our debts, lord knows he’s looking for something to do.”

It is a victory when a tiny, amused huff punches from between his lips. “No,” he says after what feels like minutes, “no, that won’t be necessary.”

“Good. Besides, I don’t think Welt would approve of what we’re doing anyway,” you say before you realize how it sounds. Something flickers behind Dan Heng’s eyes. “I just mean talking silly debts.”

He nods, gives an acknowledging hum before turning away from you, allowing your heart to start beating again. “I suspect Welt would be too busy delighting in our collaboration to find much issue with talk of misplaced obligations.”

Dan Heng shrugs out of his jacket, movements stiff and jerky.

“I mean,” you blurt lamely, “if anything, I’d be in your debt. You’ve rescued my ass countless times.”

“Nonsense.”

You haven’t thought this far ahead, haven’t anticipated the inevitable intimacy of the situation. And it’s almost scandalous the way his black long sleeve shirt clings to his lean, athletic form – you should be feeling sorry for him, not eyeballing him like some degenerate. 

Dan Heng tosses his coat carelessly over the back of his desk chair. “Debt can be easily mistaken for ownership.” You’re quickly losing your nerve, fire blazing across your skin as his fingers find the hem of his shirt. You turn away quickly.

He continues. “It has a tendency to… complicate things.” He clearly has no reservations about modesty – you can hear the struggle as he draws his shirt up over his abdomen, unsticking it with an agonized groan from the unseen injury you can only assume is on his chest. “I don’t intend to own you, although it wouldn’t be the worst thing. But maybe you’re right, it’s best if we mutually agree to balance the scales.”

The air is thin, suffocating, and you have no capacity to process his words, suddenly, their meaning much too big to untangle.

Your thoughts spin in a hopeless broken circuit; shit. What are your intentions here? Hadn’t they been purely to help? Oh, you’d be kidding yourself if you said you weren’t endlessly intrigued by Dan Heng but this… were you eager to settle a debt just as much as him?

The pad of approaching footsteps has you spinning on your heel.

Dan Heng, shirtless, clad in nothing but his black trousers now, the lean muscles of his hard chest on full display. He takes in your clear, doe-eyed trepidation with nothing but a sharp calculation.

But the weeping crimson across his left breast shatters the hyperawareness of his proximity. You gasp at the three ragged, parallel claw marks, each about the length of a forefinger.

“I’ll be fine, my body heals quicker than most.”

“Doesn’t matter if this gets infected,” you exclaim. “You’re so frustrating. I’m going to heal you and then I swear I’ll pummel you right over again.”

He hums.

“You should’ve come to me,” you scold, too absorbed in concern to consider how close you are to him. “How were you even going to fix it at this angle, huh? Sort of just look in the mirror and hope for the best? You can’t do this again, Dan Heng.”

You don’t wait for a smart remark, pointing to the space where his bed meets the cherry paneled wall. “Go sit, I’ll grab a washcloth. I’m not taking no for an answer.”

At least he follows your instructions, albeit with an inclement downturn of his lips as you aid in propping him against the wall, grabbing a pillow for his head. He seems inherently uncomfortable with the fussing but says nothing of it, and you care little as you settle in beside him. The wound leaks, not a terribly worrisome amount, but enough that there’s an urgency to your actions as you dab around the claw marks.

“I’m so mad you,” you say after a time, trying to distract yourself from the way his eyes haven’t left your face since you started. “For not taking better care of yourself. I get worried when you disappear like that, you know. I don’t even want to ask how many times you’ve handled all this by yourself.”

“It’s easier that way.”

“To be alone?” Your eyes meet his and the intensity of his stare has you swiping the cloth a little too close. A groan of pain catches in his throat.

“I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to–”

You trail off. His face is contorted beautifully, like he’s lost in some kind of strange daze as his eyebrows furrow, like he’s concentrating on the feeling. You sit back on your heels with a tumultuous sigh. “I need to disinfect. It’s gone untreated long enough that I don’t want to take chances.”

His eyes slit open, roll over to yours with a sardonic tilt to his brow that says haven’t we already agreed to this

“It’s just… it’s going to sting. A lot. Obviously. But the rest is comparatively painless.”

You bite at the inside of your cheek and his eyes fall to the nervous tic, his pink tongue flitting out to lick at his bottom lip. With a nod, his hand slides to rest innocuously atop your knee as he settles back against the wall.

“I trust you.”

A lump climbs into your throat at the unexpected honesty of his words. It’s not only the bleeding heat of his palm that has you dizzy, it’s the weighted significance of what he’s just allowed to slip into the light. A trust you’d rather die than break.

You nod back, watch the rise and fall of his chest to steady your own. What would the rest of the crew think if they knew where you sat, thigh pressed hotly against Dan Heng’s? Your heart pulses in rhythm to whatever strange tension is bridled amidst the growing silence, his hand resting upon your knee like a comfortable promise.

Okay.”

Tentatively, you swipe across the first lesion. He goes rigid and the strangled groan that comes out of him doesn’t sound entirely like one of pain, you think, the noise reverberating up your spine and worming its way into the back of your brain. 

You pause, allowing you both a breath, your palm sliding down his bicep and squeezing comfortingly, yet in the same instant, Dan Heng anchors his nails into your thigh. Hard.

You wait for him to unlatch from you, something anxious and excitable rising from the pit of your stomach. But he doesn’t release, his fingers scalding against the bare skin where your skirt has ridden up.

Whatever rationality you have left, you call upon it, legs squeezing together to assuage the flash of startling heat between them when his thumb swipes back and forth, like he’s the one comforting you. “Almost done,” you say, throat humiliatingly dry.

Not daring to meet the icy vortex of his gaze, you wet another cloth and clean him with quaking hands, pressing hard to remove the grit that has crusted around the wound. He jerks again, the lean muscles of his legs tensing against the sides of yours as his hips almost roll with the movement.

The silence is punctuated by your name, rasped out with an almost reverence, the tendons in his neck flexing as his head falls back against the wood. You stiffen in disbelief, and his hand goes back to kneading into the soft of your flesh. 

“Do you need a… um. Do you need a break?” you breathe.

“No, keep going.”

The aching pulse between your legs acts as gravity, his palm drawing a little further up your leg, lethally close to breaching the point of no return. You balance on that tightrope, a single glance revealing fully the effect you’ve had, as well, his arousal pushing intently against the confines of his trousers.

Not trusting yourself to speak, you finish cleaning the wound, something shockingly perverse relishing in a small way the audible clench of his jaw, nails digging half moons into your flesh as he rides out the sensations. You shudder at the twitch of his hand, like he’s restraining himself from providing some sort of relief to the insistent need between his legs.

“Well,” you swallow, “all that’s left now is the easy part.”

Your eyes lift to his and a dangerous change ripples through him at whatever he finds there. Deliberately slow, as if not to spook you, he wriggles a palm between your thighs, prying them gently apart for better access, tracing delicately along your trembling skin.

“You c-can’t.”

“I can.” He slides to cup you between the legs.

The sudden, bleeding heat of the pressure of his entire palm cuts off your protest in an exhilarating rush. Your head lolls forward. Placating fingers move to drag across the flimsy cloth barrier between him and your cunt, pressing accusingly into the space you’re most wet for him with a satisfied hum.

“Are you still mad at me?” he asks softly.

“I just need to finish up h-healing, then we can–” Your tongue is too heavy to speak as he brushes lazy figure eights across the crotch of your panties, probing with a perfect pressure, solid yet tender, but not only for your benefit. He’s drawing pleasure from this, too, gaze mapping across your features like he can memorize every delectable crease at the corner of your eyes, every tiny flare of your nostrils as you utter vacuous objections.

“You are.” He nods grimly. “You said I should have come to you sooner. I wish I would have.”

“Just let me finish–” Fingers slide beneath sodden fabric to dip two fingers inside you with humiliating ease, a depraved squelch the only sound of your resistance shattering as your hips lurch to chase his touch. 

“It’s a shame that I kept my infatuations with you in the dark for so long. I could’ve had you some time ago. Don’t be mad at me,” he insists and a torn whine releases from your throat. “Consider this recompense for the lost time.”

The position is slightly awkward and his pumps are shallow in turn, but you concede to shamelessly grinding against his palm. You think you should feel some terrible guilt in the way you’re being driven by baser impulses, even while his wounds still call to be tended to. But the concern lies deep beneath the high of watching the enraptured look on his face at your display.  

Gently, he slithers his grasp beneath your thigh in order to lever your position up and over one of his legs. 

“That better?” he asks, fingers finding a more comfortable home again between your legs, rolling in a perfect rhythm across your clit.

You nod mechanically.

“Good,” he hums low, “that's good.” 

The subtle flush of his pale cheeks and his own labored breath as he gets off on the pleasure he’s giving you sends an exhilarating thrill down your spine, expanding until you’re drenching his fingers with a long, final whine.

“There you go.”

When your spasms dissolve into delicate flutters, Dan Heng drags his fingers from you. Mindlessly, you kick off your panties completely.

“I thought we weren’t talking debt anymore,” you catch your breath, heart slamming against your ribcage still. 

“Consider us even.” He inhales deeply, letting out a long, cleansing sigh. 

“I don’t think we’re even. Does that mean you own me?” Your eyes rise purposefully to meet his and there’s a long silence before he speaks, voice lower.

“It wouldn’t be the worst thing.”

Debt is a scapegoat, you know, for the formidable pull between you. Deliberately unbalance the scales here and you’ll be inclined to return to each other for more. Not that you wouldn’t have anyway, but you realize this moment gives an excuse to provide an answer to the overarching question between you of what this was, what this could be. And you know you want more. It doesn’t stop at cracking his shell. You want Dan Heng.

“I need to heal you now,” you say and he just blinks at you. “Can you hold still?”

He searches your features before his head dips in a slow nod.

You reach down to pop open the top button of his pants, rewarded by the shaky sigh that fans across your face as he fully comprehends. You’re grateful he’d saved you the trouble earlier of removing his intimidating top layers. He doesn’t protest, settling back to watch with a hawklike precision.

You guide him out tenderly, his cock springing back against his belly, precum drooling, smearing across his skin. Aside from the gentle whirring of his database behind, the only sound is Dan Heng’s appreciative groan as you pump him twice, caging his legs between yours as you delight in the heated weight of him in your palm. 

The still glistening fingers he’d used to pleasure you with he slides across the tip of himself in small circles, wiping you off there, gifting you the sight of him mixing you in with his own beading arousal.

One hand wrapping his base, the other bracing on the wall beside his head, you raise your hips to position him at the soaking wet heat of your entrance. Palms seize hold of your waist.

“I’m warning you now, if this is what you want…” he grates, tone taking on a darker edge. “I won’t spare you my compulsions any longer. I’ve wanted you too long to be satisfied with having you just the once.” 

You smile at the admission, answer clear as your drenched folds envelop him with undue ease, the stretch exquisite as you bear down on him slowly, the both of you unable to do much more than share a shallow gasp. Dan Heng’s abdomen pulls deliciously taut as he’s taken inch by inch.

Your lips part, eyes flutter shut. There’s no going back, you agree. Not now that you’ve felt the needy throb of him inside you. “You’re going to have to hold still,” you repeat.

He pinches the hem of your shirt between thumb and forefinger. “Take this off.”

You smile, pull your top over your head, the movement jarring you atop him, tearing a hiss from between his teeth before he’s back on you. His greedy palms take the immediate liberty of exploring. sliding across your bare skin and you savor his focused infatuation for a moment before you gently tug his wrists away.

“Stay still,” you repeat. “I can’t very well patch you up if you’re moving all over the place.”

Dan Heng’s eyes darken on yours with a cold, severe impatience as he registers your intent with a tick of his jaw. He’d all but admitted earlier he likes his pain served hot; so he won’t mind you warming his cock while you put him back together, will he?

A long, calculating stare before he answers, tongue darting out to wet his bottom lip. “Of course.” His head falls back against the pillow, throat bobbing when you sit back to settle more comfortably onto his length, the ghost of a grimace upon his lips.

It’s a strange experience on both sides, the process of electro healing. Some say it’s an itchy, distressing sensation; some say it’s pleasant, the feeling of your skin knitting itself back together.

If you were to go by Dan Heng’s reactions, you’d say it’s the latter. Every bit of him is a live wire, tensed and vibrating as you guide your healing hands across each mark on his chest, electricity prickling and drawing stubborn skin back together. It’s a drawn out process, one that requires the touch of a patient hand in order to not leave behind scars.

It’s difficult work, made infinitely more so by the fixed state of tortured lust recycling between the both of you, stoking with each subtle shift of him inside you.

“You’re doing well,” you murmur softly, years worth of proper bedside manner taking hold.

His cock twitches at the praise, but otherwise he’s stone cold, jaw set, eyes seeming to fight in order to focus with a vicious intensity on the space you’re connected, like he’s tormenting himself with the sight. 

“Almost done,” you whisper, a bandage weaving its way into existence as you trace your index in a rectangle around his wound. “There shouldn’t be pain, but some people say they feel a bit of a phantom itch around the area, so I like to bandage over it regard–”

A hand threads into your hair and the world spins as you’re flipped with impressive speed onto your back, your head hitting the soft of his pillow with a gasp. His palm wraps the front of your throat lightly, keeping your head effectively trapped within his frigid gaze, almost daring you to try and look away as his thumb seeks the support of your ratcheting pulse.

Dan Heng kicks his pants off the rest of the way, wasting no time shoving your skirt carelessly above your waist before spearing himself into you again, his pool of restraint run dry by your teasing. “I should keep you here for good. Never let you leave this room.” Your legs wrap his waist as he spears into your folds, hitting a spot again and again that has your toes curling.

His lips slam against yours, tongue pressing in to better devour your cracked whimpers. You’re going to pass out, you think, can’t even seem to draw a breath as he spirals atop you. He pulls back to lick across the seam of your mouth, groaning appreciatively. “I hope you had fun. I have my proclivities. But so do you.” He leans into your ear; soft, even voice a contrast to the way he fucks recklessly into you, each thrust brutal and precise. “You did such a good job on me today. Nobody could have done it better. I can’t tell you how long I’ve wanted to fuck you like this–”

With a shattered cry, you climax, back arching against his as he pulls back to drink in your twisted expression. “Tell me how I own you,” he pants, breaths coming quicker,  “tell me who you belong to now.”

His mouth captures yours again, not even wanting of an answer, and even through the white hot heat of your release, you search out his lower lip with your teeth and bite down. The choked splutter that escapes from his throat is beautiful, his striking features twisting into a snarl as he picks up a devastating pace, driving himself into you with a ferociousness on his face you’ve only ever seen aimed at shared enemies.

His hand clutches a handful of hair at the crown of your head as he leverages himself to slam as deep as he can. Each stuttered jerk of his hips is bliss as he spills inside you, his head falling into the sweat damp crook of your neck as if he can’t hold it properly upright as he groans out a lengthy release.

Fingers comb through your hair and slowly you’re rolled over onto his chest as your breathing evens out, tucking yourself into his side, hand splaying across the bandage there. You look at him, feeling utterly spent, and are rewarded by a contented sigh when you smooth your palm across his stomach.

“So, how do we know if the score is settled?” you say and he huffs a small laugh.

“We’ve got time.”

You smile to yourself. In the meantime, it wouldn’t be the worst thing, you think, being Dan Heng’s.

[afvisende]

Just a short one-shot of Dragunov developing a bit of a belly after giving into cravings after being on leave. This was inspired from conversing with and the lovely art made by @machabre Please support content creators and offer kind words of encouragement when able, it can make a person's entire day brighter!

It's not oft the White Angel of Death was caught unaware. This, however, was one of those exceptionally rare instances. Low but no less audible, a grunt rumbled from the depths of his larynx. No matter how much he tugged on the fabric, the shirt rode up, exposing a sliver of newly gained flesh.

Being on leave this long resulted in some indulgences. Only a few he kept telling himself, but the result contradicted his internalized musings. Abdominal muscles once sculpted to perfection had faded, in its place was a tiny, but notable paunch. Dragunov slumped onto his sofa, icy blue hues peering at his rounded midsection. Lips arched downward into a slight frown. He couldn't stand the notion of former adversaries catching a glimpse of him now. It's even more disconcerting that upon sitting, the shirt rode higher. He discarded the idea of combating the clothing, leaving his pale belly exposed to the air. At the very least, he was in the comfort and privacy of his own abode with no prying eyes. Absentmindedly, his palm strayed to the curvature of his stomach, patting it a few times, before he gave it a full rub. Since when had it grown to this size? Those confections he denied himself for the sake of his training, his moderation in the consumption of such sweets, not having to concern himself with it anymore resulted in excess that currently showed on his frame. On that subject, his belt felt strangely tight too. The buckle dug uncomfortably into his underbelly, so he sought relief in the simplest manner. Digits deftly worked to unfasten the belt, but also undo the button of his pants. Heaved a euphoric sigh of relief, no longer within the confines of his restrictive garb. Dark brows furrowed in discontentment. How had he failed to notice? Most importantly, when did he allow himself to get this carried away? His fingers prodded and later pinched at the soft layer of mass. There was one thing he didn't lament and that was satisfying those cravings he rejected in favor of unflagging abstinence. This was merely a consequence of mild carelessness, one he'd easily remedy if desired. Little did the White Reaper know that passerby who saw him several days ago purchasing the decadent delights that resulted in his newfound conundrum, found it incredibly endearing on such a strong and sturdy chassis. Could he ever acclimate to this? His hand rested on the slope of his gut as he began to recollect a peculiar instance where two individuals kept eyeing him shyly. In hindsight, he wondered why both averted their gaze when he caught them staring? The reason became apparent to him, his belly protruded from the tight shirt he had on that day. It was part of the reason why their cheeks were flushed a deep crimson other than the sight of his scarred and pulchritudinous features. After all, Dragunov was an incredibly handsome man, his countenance as angelic as his feared moniker. Was he being too harsh on himself for his intemperance? Had he not earned it after all his exploits and achievements? Well-deserved it was, perhaps, he could warm up to it as much as the faces of those two he spotted at the bakery. On a personal note, he wondered if he'd ever see them again at the same location? He hoped a nod of acknowledgment wouldn't scare them off next time unlike his frigid glower. And maybe, just maybe, he wouldn't despise his predicament.

[nahoney22]

Hello! I was wondering if I could request a SFW wrecker/reader fic? I had an idea where they're stranded in a blizzard and have to take shelter in an abandoned house, but there's only one bed. Cuddles ensue. Pre or post relationship! Thank you in advance :DD

My Choice is Always

Wrecker X GN!Reader

word count: 2.2k

One Bed? Snow storm? That could only mean one thing.

warnings: lots of fluff! Mutual pining, pre relationship, minor injury to reader and also minor mention of nudity (depends on how you read it though, nothing happens), cuddles and kisses. Gender neutral reader.

authors note: so sorry for the wait anon! Absolute sucker for a share a bed trope.

The frigid air pierced your bones, sending shivers down your spine and causing your lips to chap in the unforgiving gusts of wind. With each step, you battled through a daunting wall of snow, reaching depths of at least seven feet.

Hoth, a planet you had once dreamed of visiting, had become a reality, albeit under less desirable circumstances. This visit was not by choice, nor was it during a time when the planet showcased its awe-inspiring beauty like you had seen on holopictures. Instead, you found yourself in the midst of the worst snowstorm you had ever encountered.

"W-Wrecker," you managed to utter, your teeth chattering uncontrollably, while your arms clung desperately to your coat, offering little respite from the biting cold. "How much farther?"

"Tech said a few more klicks south! You hangin' in there?" Wrecker's voice came through his helmet, the snow mercifully unable to sting his skin like it did yours.

"I've certainly had better days," you responded, a wry laugh escaping your lips. "F-freaking freezing!"

Wrecker emitted a sigh of agreement, adjusting his pace to accommodate your slower stride. It was just the two of you, having split from the rest of the boys and Omega on this stupid mission. All to recover a lost artifact for one of Cid's clients which you knew the pay would be less than adequate. Wrecker however, always caring, frequently checked in on you, a habit you were much grateful for.

You had long been aware of Wrecker's affection for you, and truth be told, you reciprocated those feelings. Strongly. However, you had hoped for a more romantic setting to explore the depths of your connection. Instead, you found yourselves locked in a relentless battle against a blizzard, with no end in sight.

As luck would have it, the situation managed to deteriorate even further. With each step you took, anticipating the soft cushion of snow beneath your feet, you instead encountered an unforgiving thick slab of ice. Slipping on it, it sends you hurtling forward with your ankle twisting uncomfortably upon impact.

A cry of pain escaped your lips, immediately drawing Wrecker's attention. "What happened? Are you okay?" Wrecker's eyes darted over you, his worry palpable is his tone.

You gritted your teeth, clutching your injured ankle as if it would dull the throbbing pain. "I'll survive," you sighed, though the lack of conviction in your voice betrayed you. "But I think I've sprained my ankle."

Wrecker muttered a quiet curse under his breath and contacted the rest of the team to inform them of the situation. Kindly, they did ask about your well-being, but you had no choice but to admit that for you to continue with this mission was a no-go.

"I've marked your location, and there's a settlement just east of where you are now. It should provide shelter for the night," Tech relayed calmly. "Given the treacherous conditions, it's best for all of us to find a place to stay until morning."

"I agree with Tech," Hunter's voice chimed in through the transmission. "We can't push through this weather any longer. Let's all find shelter for the night."

And so, that became the new plan. The only problem was that you couldn't exactly move forward at all.

"I've got you," Wrecker responded to your unspoken thoughts however, his large hands sliding underneath you as he effortlessly lifted you into his arms.

Despite the unpleasant weather and the pain throbbing in your ankle, you couldn't help but find this gesture somewhat romantic. "Are you sure you want to carry me? We don't even know how f-far this place is!" You shouted over a fierce gust of wind that felt like a slap to your face.

Wrecker chuckled behind his bucket, adjusting his grip to secure you more comfortably. "I'll always carry you when you need it."

A swarm of butterflies erupted in your chest at his words, but fortunately, you were already in his arms, sparing you from a potentially embarrassing swoon on the ground.

After a few minutes of walking, you both caught sight of a sizable structure in the distance, undoubtedly the shelter Tech had pinpointed. Wrecker forcefully and of course impressively kicked open the door, to which was already partially unhinged.

The building appeared weather-beaten and worn, but it offered much-needed shelter. Carefully setting you down, you steadied yourself against the wall while he quickly gathered chairs, dressers, and a table to barricade the door, ensuring as much protection and security as possible.

"Maker, it's colder in here than out there," you shivered even despite the absence of wind and snow.

Fortunately, your eyes landed on something promising—a fireplace. "Don't suppose ya have anything to light it with?" Wrecker inquired. You rummaged through your damp coat pockets, and to your relief, you found a box of matches.

"H-here," you replied through chattering teeth, tossing the matches to him. Wrecker effortlessly caught them, crouching down in front of the fireplace to ignite a flame.

"That should warm things up," he stated, rising to his feet and removing his helmet, placing it aside and rubbed his hands together in front of the crackling fire. You nodded in agreement, and his gaze shifted to you, filled with concern. "You look freezing, cyare." You tried to ignore the endearment, but a flush spread across your cheeks, conveniently attributing it to the cold.

"I am," you dryly laughed, as he approached you and gently guided you toward the fire with his arm around your waist. He fetched an old dusty chair and helped you sit down. "Thanks, Wrecker." You smiled up at him but frowned when realising that there was only one chair available— the one you occupied—while the other was pressed against the door. So, Wrecker settled himself on the floor.

"Is that comfy down there? We can switch if you want."

"Nah, don't be silly. I'm alright!" Wrecker grinned up at you, rubbing his hands together by the fire. Then, he carefully gestured toward your ankle. "Is your ankle alright? You should take your boots off, I bet your socks are wet."

He was right. As soon as he mentioned it, a tingling sensation spread through your feet, prompting you to waste no time in removing your snow-dusted boots and socks. "That's better," you whispered to yourself, relishing in the warmth that enveloped your toes as they bathed in the heat of the fire. You watched as Wrecker took your socks and boots, placing them near the flames for them to dry. You eventually removed your coat too, seeing no benefit in keeping something drenched in snow covering your body.

"I hope the others found some shelter," Wrecker voiced after a comfortable silence. You suggested he try contacting them, but sadly, there was no signal to be found.

"We should try again in a bit, or wait for them to contact us first," you suggested, your hand gently resting on Wrecker's shoulder, offering reassurance as you noticed the hint of nervousness on his face when there was no reply. "I'm sure they'll be alright."

"Yeah, you're right," Wrecker replied softly, finding solace in the warmth radiating from your touch that seemed to charge his entire body.

Seizing the opportunity, you surveyed the small room, which consisted of an open space with a modest but now dusty lounge area centered around a fireplace, a tiny kitchen with stripped and empty cupboards, and one large bed nestled in the corner.

Wait. Pause. One bed?

"Wrecker, there's only one bed," you nervously pointed out, preemptively addressing the potential awkwardness to save any embarrassment later on.

Wrecker leaned back, his gaze shifting between the bed and you. "Uh, I can stay on the floor if you want?"

You quickly shook your head, earning an amused raise of his eyebrow at your eager rejection. It made you slightly embarrassed, but given your intuition about the mutual feelings between you, maybe sharing a bed wasn't such a bad idea after all. "Don't be silly," you finally responded, clearing your throat as your arms instinctively hugged your trembling body. "The bed is big enough for both of us. And it'll be... erm... extra warm."

A faint smile tugged at the corners of Wrecker's lips, his eyes lighting up with a mix of gratitude and anticipation. "Alright, if you say so," he replied, his voice carrying a subtle hint of excitement.

Together, you both prepared for the night, a mix of nervous anticipation and comfort intertwining in the air. Stripping out of your wet clothes felt somewhat vulnerable, but you both understood the need for dry garments in the morning. To your relief, Wrecker's gaze held no trace of objectification, only warmth and understanding.

After setting your clothes out to dry by the crackling fire, you hopped your way toward Wrecker, mindful of you ankle, who had pulled back the sheets on the bed, managing to find some extra linens in one of the dressers.

"It ain't much, but it should do," he said, offering a genuine smile as he settled onto the bed. The creaking of the mattress accompanied your weight as you pulled the covers close and sighed. "Not too shabby, to be honest," you commented, snuggling into your pillow and gazing up at the dull ceiling, aware of the impending intimacy of sharing a bed with Wrecker for the night.

"Man, I'm starving!" Wrecker groaned, his stomach rumbling in agreement.

"Hunter always tells you to pack some rations," you teased, smirking up at him, knowing full well that he hadn't stocked up before the mission.

He rolled over, his eyes meeting yours. "Oh, yeah? Where are yours then?" Your smirk faded, and you playfully swatted his arm.

"Shut up." Okay, so maybe you were guilty of forgetting to pack rations too.

The two of you embraced the comfortable silence, maintaining a respectful distance as you listened to the sizzling fire drown out the howling wind outside. The others had yet to make contact, but you hoped for a response in the morning.

"Can I tell you something?" you blurted out, your mind swirling with ifs and buts.

Wrecker turned his head, nodding, his gaze filled with gentleness. "Always."

A smile tugged at your lips at his reply, and it took a moment for you to gather your thoughts. "I hate Cid," you confessed, the weight of your words lifting as they hung in the air.

Wrecker's smile widened, and a hearty laugh escaped his lips. "With all the bickering ya do, I could never tell," he teased, earning a playful eye roll from you.

"But," you continued, fidgeting with your hands beneath the covers, your heart racing, "I'm kinda glad she assigned us this mission."

Wrecker studied your face, his eyes filled with understanding. While some might consider him slow to pick up on certain things, he had an innate sense that allowed him to decipher the unspoken. "Yeah," he spoke softly, his usually booming voice now a tender rumble, "I'm kinda glad too."

Your gaze shifted to him, drawing closer as his arm enveloped your shoulder, tracing small circles on your skin. "I think I'd always choose to be stuck in a snowstorm with you, Wrecker," you murmured, closing your eyes as the comforting warmth of his body washed over you.

His eyes closed as well, pulling you a little closer. The sensation of your bodies pressed against each other filled you both with euphoria. "You’re so warm," you whispered, and without thinking you placed a kiss to his arm that you nestled into.

And without hesitation, Wrecker whispered, "You missed my lips."

You open your eyes, already seeing him look at you as the weight of his words lingered in the air only for a short amount of time until the tension became unbearable.

The room is filled with a gentle warmth as you gaze into each other's eyes, the world outside forgotten. You lean in, capturing his lips with you own and savoring the taste and the tender connection that has formed between you. Your hand caresses his cheek, feeling the roughness of his scars beneath your fingertips. In response, Wrecker's arm wraps around your back, pulling you closer, deepening the kiss.

As the kiss lingers, you can feel the electricity coursing through your veins, igniting a fire within you in this blizzard. His touch, his embrace, sends shivers down your spine, not from the cold, but from the sheer intensity of the moment.

When you finally part, breathless and filled with a newfound sense of closeness, Wrecker's eyes meet yours, his voice filled with sincerity. "I've always wanted to do that," he admits, his dazed eyes glowing with a mix of emotions.

A mischievous grin plays on your lips as you tease him. "Is 'always' your favorite word today?" you ask, planting another subtle kiss on his lips.

He chuckles, his hand gently kneading your waist, his touch both tender and possessive. "I suppose it is," he admits, relishing in the feeling of having you lying beside him. He showers you with soft kisses, peppering your hair, the side of your head, and any available space on your face. "Always wanted to be beside you, always wanted to kiss you," he whispers, his words barely audible.

Your heart swells with affection as you intertwine your fingers with his. "Always you."

More wrecker works

Masterlist

Tags + those who I think will appreciate some Wrecker love: @theawkwardartist12 @moon-wrecked @unknownforknown @nimata-beroya @littlemissmanga @merkitty49 @l-lend @wreckers-wife@kaitou2417 @eyecandyeoz @captxin-rex @jesseeka @ashotofspotchka @oohyesplease @theroguesully @mustluvecho @ladykatakuri @jambolska-grozdova @arctrooper69 @padawancat97 @rain-on-kamino @either-madness-or-brilliance @staycalmandhugaclone @ko-neko-san @echos-girlfriend @fiveshelmet @dangraccoon @plushymiku-blog @chrissywakingup @kixs-husband @pb-jellybeans @nunanuggets @tech-aficionado @grizabellasolo @therealnekomari @tech-depression-inventory @brynhildrmimi @greaser-wolf @tinyreadersmur @kaminocasey @marvel-starwars-nerd @ladytano420 @ladyzirkonia @the-good-shittt @imalovernotahater @crystal076 @blustalker @s1st3r @by-the-primes @the-bad-batch-baroness

[bellatrixobsessed1]

Her Secret Side

Summary: Icy is embarrassed to be in love with a nerd. Except Icy is also very much a nerd too so it's fine.

Why him?

Her heart—she apparently does have one—always makes the wrong choices.

On some level or another, it latches onto the wrong people. 

The people she would rather it not. 

Darkar, Valtor, Tritannus…they had all been strange choices in their own rights. She clearly has a preference, her own odd taste. An acquired one for certain. But at least those choices had made sense for her. 

But him?

Him?

She sits across from him, watching him tinker with her laptop. With a reassuring smile he promises that he will make it work again, no magic required. “In fact,” he informs her, “the best way to fix a broken laptop is to put magic aside and pick up traditional tools.” 

“Maybe that is the best way for someone who can locate the motherboard.” Icy folds her arms across her chest. 

“It’s actually pretty easy to find!” Timmy declares. “The good news is that we don’t need to. The laptop isn’t shutting down because of a motherboard malfunction. It’s overheating because the fans are broken; all we need to do is tighten a few screws and replace a few blades and the fan will be working again.”

She comes to conclude that she, in fact, has more in common with her laptop than with Timmy. But that doesn’t stop her frigid heart from seeking him out. Had she maybe dropped her laptop on purpose to create a believable reason for talking to the man? Sure. But her sisters will never pry that confession from her.

Not that it matters. Even though he and Tecna had gone their separate ways, it isn’t as though Timmy has any affection for witches. Especially one of the three that had made a point of calling him a dork and a dweeb. 

“I can show you how to do it.” Timmy offers. “So you can repair it yourself next time.”

“I’m not paying you for that.” 

Timmy shrugs. “I wasn’t going to ask you to. I just figured that you wouldn’t want to have to talk to a loser like me if you don’t have to.”

But she very much does want to and so she makes a point of forgetting everything that he has just told her so that she can approach him again to fix the fans. And then she swears that something else had broken when she dropped the laptop. He promises that it is functioning perfectly well. And so she deletes a few important files and pretends like she has no idea how to recover them. 

He probably thinks that she is an idiot. 

Better that than him realizing that she has affections for him. 

This time when she sets her laptop before him he sighs. “Alright, I think that I need to give you more in depth lessons.” He pushes his glasses, those stupid dorky glasses, up the bridge of his nose. “Free of charge, no worries.”

She nods. 

That will suffice. 

She can stop making up excuses to bring her laptop in and tell her sisters that she is learning how to fix it on her own so that she never has to talk to the dweeb again. Maybe if she spends enough time with him she can convince herself that he is cringe worthy enough to fall out of love with. It is a perfect plan that doesn’t work. 

A perfect plan that is perfect only in how flawlessly it has backfired. 

She finds that she quite enjoys working with the man. Enjoys listening to him explain how different hardwares and softwares work and tips to get them to last longer than they otherwise would have. “Although, I would recommend getting yourself a new laptop pronto. This one is built like a tank but you’ve dropped it like five times now. If I were you I would get the same model, it seems very durable.” 

He inspects the laptop and tells her the make and model as well as the exact coloration and the amount of space on the harddrive. She asks him if he can come with her to the store and help her pick out the best one. 

He has almost certainly put two and two together. 

He tells her that he knows that she is smarter than that.

He goes with her to the store anyhow.

He calls it a first date. 

She doesn’t dispute it. Denial will only make jesting and teasing worse. 

.oOo.

Icy knows that things are coming to an end when he declares, “I don’t want to be your secret anymore.” She supposes that it was always going to end this way. It really couldn’t end any other way. Either she chooses him or she chooses her reputation and the image that she has so carefully and painstakingly built up for herself. The cool and intimidating demeanor that she throws over most other aspects of her personality. 

She can’t let go of it. Not when the witches are eagerly waiting for a chance to pounce upon her and knock her off of her throne. She can name several witches who would love to pay her back for all of the pranks and insults she has thrown their way. 

And so she has to let him go. 

Has to pretend like she hadn’t spent months with the man taking computers apart and watching horror movies on them upon reassembly. 

She has to let him go. 

But he is the only one who has seen her wearing those glasses that she hates so much; they make her look ridiculous. 

And he is the only one with whom she feels comfortable having lengthy discussions about horror movies, the intricacies of true crime, her classwork, and various birds, crows especially.

He is the only one who seems invested in helping her work through each case, trying to dissect angles that detectives have missed and the theories that other enthusiasts have come up with.

He is the only person who won’t take jabs at her for genuinely enjoying classwork and for taking such pride in the high marks that she pretends have nothing to do with actually paying attention in class and getting invested in the material. 

He is the only person she thinks wouldn’t question why she has such a fascination with birds and why she knows all of their scientific names. 

He doesn’t think that it is dumb that she wants to collect horror movie posters and figurines. He buys them for her now and again. She never displays them. 

She has so many facts that she can prattle off about any one of the subjects that interest her and he is the only one who doesn’t cut her off or start to yawn halfway through her spiels. He like to go on rambles of his own and she has grown fond of letting him do so. 

“If you’re that embarrassed by me then why talk to me at all?”

“I’m not embarrassed by you…” She mumbles, folding her arms across her chest. 

Timmy furrows his brows. 

She hates that she can’t take what she dishes out. Resents that she will probably break if people start to treat her the way that she treats them. But more than anything, she dreads that Darcy and Stormy won’t want anything to do with her over this. Darcy is still mad about Riven. Riven who is also open and available now that Musa has,according to Timmy, declared that she has reached her limit with him.

“Yourself?” He guesses. “You’re embarrassed by yourself?”

“Timmy, if there was a second me in this room, I would probably kick my own ass.” Or at the very least she would relentlessly and ruthlessly bully herself. She supposes that she doesn’t need a second her to do that. She accomplishes it well enough on her own. 

“Why?” 

“Why!?” She frowns. “Well why wouldn’t I?” She gestures to her glasses. To the spread of true crime case notes on the floor. To her collection of DVD’s and posters. To the things that make her who she is. 

“You’re allowed to have interests, you know? And you don’t have to dull them down.”

Not when she is with him she doesn’t. But with every one else… “Yeah. I can have interests. Interests that aren’t nerdy.” 

“Horror movies aren’t nerdy. I thought that witches love horror movies.” Timmy points out.

“But birdwatching is an old lady hobby.” Icy grumbles. And with a shake of her head she adds, “and yeah, witches love horror movies but they don’t…”

“Cosplay.” He fills in.

She nods. 

“Who cares?” 

“Who cares?” Icy repeats. 

“Yeah. Who cares? Who cares what they think?”

She does.

Apparently.

“I’m pretty sure that you could just encase them all in ice or something. You probably don’t even have to do that—they’re scared of you, all you have to do is give them one of your ice cold glares and that’ll do the trick.” He tucks her bangs behind her ear, fixes her glasses onto her face, and kisses the tip of her nose. 

She doesn’t want to lose this. 

Doesn’t want to lose the one person who hasn’t had one bad thing to say of this side of her. 

But she doesn’t want anyone else to know about this side of her.

She also doesn’t want to lose her high ground.

“How about this?” Timmy offers. “Tell Darcy and Stormy at least and let me tell Sky and Tecna.”

“You still talk to Tecna?”

He laughs, “no need to get jealous…”

“I am not jealous!” 

She absolutely is the possessive type. 

“We’re still friends, Icy. She just…she decided that romance isn’t for her and that’s okay with me.” He pauses. “Nice try with changing the subject though. Can you at least tell Darcy and Stormy about me and let me tell a friend or two and then we can go from there?”

“I know what happens when one person knows a secret…”

“Tecna is great at keeping secrets and Sky pretended to be Brandon for months and we didn’t suspect a thing.”

Icy grumbles, “I wasn’t talking about your stupid friends, I was talking about mine.” 

Timmy sighs. “Witches.” 

“Fine.” She scowls. “I’ll tell them.” 

Timmy’s cheerful smile returns. He ruffles her hair. She hates that she has to pretend to hate that. “Great! Eventually we’ll get to a point where you feel comfortable enough to tell everybody else the truth.”

Icy sniffs. “Yeah right. Stormy is going to open her big mouth way before I get comfortable with anything.” 

He takes her into a hug. “You’ll live.” 

Clearly her sassy and sarcastic nature is rubbing off on him.

“You’ll live and you’ll realize that it’s perfectly okay to be a total dork.”

“I thought that you said…”

“I didn’t say anything about you not being a dork. You’re definitely one of the biggest nerds that I have had the pleasure of discussing the intricacies of comic book plotlines with. I said that I enjoyed that you’re a dork and think that you should embrace it.” 

She turns her head before he can see the flush creeping across her face. “Whatever. Let’s just start listening to the podcast before I get the both of us featured in one of them.” 

They turn the lights off and light the candles. It is her favorite ambiance for horror movies and true crime podcasts. He lets her stretch herself out upon the couch and lay herself across his lap. He likes to hold the hand that she typically rests beneath her sternum. 

She would very much miss this if she had to let go of it. 

And so she resigns herself to dealing with Darcy and Stormy’s cackles for at least a week.

[theroyalhouseofwindenburg]

The Black Death: Part 5

In the subsequent days, the guard meticulously gathered a group of his most trusted men, forming a secret alliance fueled by a shared purpose. True to his promise to Augusta, he orchestrated her discreet release from the confines of the dungeon, providing her sanctuary in the knights' quarters. Seated around a dimly lit table, they convened, plotting the downfall of King Wilhelm. Augusta, her resolve unwavering, proposed a strategic strike during the late hours of the night, precisely when the changing of the guard offered the opportune moment. Unified in purpose, the conspirators collectively acknowledged that this marked the beginning of the end.

Several days later, on a frigid winter morning, King Wilhelm lay ensconced in the warmth of his bedchambers, immersed in a deep slumber. Abruptly, his restful repose was shattered as one of his guards entered with an urgent demeanor. "What is so pressing that it's worth disrupting my slumber?" Wilhelm bellowed, his voice resonating through the chamber. "Your Majesty, I'm deeply sorry to disturb you, but an unsettling breach in security has occurred. We believe there's a threat to your safety within the castle. I urgently request you to accompany me to the knights' quarters; it's the safest location for you," the guard instructed, his expression reflecting genuine concern.

Reluctantly rising from his bed, Wilhelm, gripped by apprehension, followed his guard down the dimly lit hallways, the weight of impending danger hanging heavily in the cold, early morning air.

They traveled through the corridors of the castle, descending into the shadowy depths of the basement. As they entered the dungeon hallway, a gnawing sense of unease crept over Wilhelm. He turned to the guard, agitation evident in his voice. "I thought the knights' quarters were further down the hall. Why have we stopped here?" Wilhelm questioned, his tone laced with frustration. The guard met Wilhelm's gaze, an ominous smile playing on his lips.

"Funny, isn't it, Your Majesty? How the mighty can fall. Your castle, once a symbol of power, is now but a fortress of your own demise."

Before Wilhelm could voice his confusion, one of the cell doors swung open, revealing a formidable assembly of guards, effectively blocking any escape route. Standing among them was his own daughter, Augusta, wearing a smirk that mirrored her newfound resolve.

"What is the meaning of this!?" Wilhelm shouted in a rage.

"The meaning, Father, is the inevitable consequence of your cruelty. Your reign of oppression ends here, and the people you've tormented will finally see justice. These guards have chosen the side of righteousness, and Windenburg will be free from the chains you forged." Wilhelm tried to order the guards to apprehend Augusta, but his influence had diminished, and, in turn, they forcefully restrained him. "Unhand me! I am your King!" Wilhelm desperately shouted. Augusta delivered a final statement to her father, "You hold no kingship over us." With that, the guard forcefully threw Wilhelm into the dark cell, swiftly locking the door behind him.

As the heavy door closed with a resounding thud, sealing Wilhelm within the confines of the dimly lit cell, reality set in. When he turned around, a haunting sight greeted him—the room was filled with the anguished presence of plague-ridden souls, their hollow eyes reflecting the torment of the cruel disease. A palpable sense of terror was etched on Wilhelm's face as he desperately pounded on the unyielding door. "You won't escape the consequences of this, Augusta! I'll make sure you pay for this betrayal. Mark my words!"

Realizing that no one was listening to his desperate pleas, Wilhelm crumbled to the ground, his head in his hands. The weight of his own suffering mirrored the agony he had inflicted upon others. The following morning, Cordelia lay in her chamber, having endured solitude since Wilhelm's last visit. Suddenly, a familiar voice interrupted her solitude, "My lady, forgive the intrusion, but I thought you'd want to know that young Prince Alvin is here. He's missed his mother dearly, and I thought it best to reunite you both."

Cordelia initially believed she was lost in a dream, but as she opened her eyes, the reality before her was as tangible as anything. Positioned by the entrance to her chambers, Cordelia's guard and Lady Philippa stood with Prince Alvin in her arms. Overwhelmed with emotion, Cordelia rushed out of her bed, racing to her son and embracing him tightly. She turned to Lady Philippa, her eyes filled with curiosity, and inquired, "How did you possibly get Wilhelm to agree to this?" Lady Philippa responded with a subtle smile, "His Majesty has been missing since last night, Your Grace. There's no trace of him anywhere." She continued, "I've been asked to escort you to the council chamber; everyone is waiting there, Your Grace."

As Cordelia stepped into the chamber, Prince Wilhelm rushed into her arms, marking the long-awaited reunion of their fractured family. Joy and relief filled the air, enveloping the room in a momentary respite from the shadows that had cast a pall over the kingdom. However, amidst the warmth of familial embrace, an eerie silence lingered, a stark reminder of the absence that loomed over the reunited kin.

In the ensuing days, a gradual decline overcame King Wilhelm. The unmistakable signs of the plague manifested on his weakened form as he sat on the unforgiving cold stone floor. The once-mighty ruler now grappled with a sense of profound loss and despair. The weight of his deeds bore down on him, and the impending specter of his own mortality loomed ever larger.

Locked in the dark chamber, Wilhelm faced the cruel irony of his fate. The same suffering he had inflicted upon others had come full circle to claim him. Each passing moment carried him closer to the precipice of his inevitable demise. In the shadows of the castle that was once his seat of power, Wilhelm confronted the consequences of his actions, and the haunting silence echoed with the reckoning of a ruler who had lost not only his kingdom but also the compassion he had forsaken.

[brokehorrorfan]

The Lady of the Lake, a documentary I helped produce, is available on Digital and VOD today via Uncork'd Entertainment.

I was immediately drawn to the fascinating intersection of true crime and the paranormal, while director Ryan Grulich's cinematic approach to the material creates a uniquely immersive experience.

Check out the trailer and press release below.

True crime and the paranormal intertwine in The Lady of the Lake. Journey into the heart of the unknown on Digital and VOD today via Uncork'd Entertainment.

Directed by Ryan Grulich (Georgie, Foolish Mortals) and led by renowned paranormal investigator Amanda D. Paulson, the documentary delves into the haunting legend of Lake Crescent, located in the Pacific Northwest’s enigmatic Port Angeles, WA.

The Lady of the Lake revisits the chilling 1937 murder of Hallie Illingworth, a local waitress whose body, eerily preserved by the lake's frigid waters, resurfaced to reveal a tale wrapped in layers of violence, history, and the supernatural. Paulson's investigation uncovers secrets buried in the depths of Lake Crescent, weaving a narrative that transcends the boundaries of reality.

Through cinematic interviews with local residents, historians, and paranormal experts, The Lady of the Lake meticulously explores the liminal spaces where history and mystery converge.

"This film is a labor of love and fascination," says Grulich. "It’s about more than solving a mystery; it's about understanding the forces that linger in our world, unseen and often unacknowledged. The Lady of the Lake is an invitation to explore the unknown and to question the boundaries of our reality."

With its powerful storytelling and immersive cinematography, The Lady of the Lake resonates with the archetypal legends that have shaped human consciousness, offering a timeless narrative that is both haunting and enlightening.

[the-wasteland-tales-fallout]

https://discord.gg/yUEPQs4QAf The year is 2287 and the world is still recovering from the nuclear fallout that nearly wiped out all life 200 years ago.

Somewhere buried below the ground in the Commonwealth lays a frozen tomb, with one soul still yet to arise from the frigid depths and see the surface. What was once a massive prospering city is now little more than numerous smaller settlements and towns built up from the scrap of its remains. Paranoia reigns over the populace as friends and family turn on each other, echoing whispers of the great boogeyman of the Commonwealth—The Institute.

Out in the Mojave, tensions are high between the countless groups and factions as each waits for one to make a move. The Vegas Strip shines like a beacon in the center, guiding gamblers, tourists, and traders through desert to see the brilliant lights. A courier shot dead outside of Goodsprings marks another soul claimed by the wasteland, but the reason behind their murder remains a mystery.

In the Capital Wasteland, a different tale is told. One of hope, prosperity, and of sacrifice. The water has been slowly recovering its purity due to the efforts of a father and son, both of whom selflessly gave their lives several years ago to restore a small piece of the world destroyed at the hands of those brutal bombs. While violence persists there, most inhabiting the rubble of the Capital still speak of The Lone Wanderer and their ultimate sacrifice.

------------------------------------------------ Welcome to "Tales From The Wasteland", an 18+ Fallout roleplay server that takes place in 2287 and uses the locations of Fallout 3, 4, and New Vegas. You can play canon characters or OCs, and there is even a texting system to communicate across the various apocalyptic settings your muses find themselves in.

Don't want to roleplay? That's fine too! Feel free to share art, memes, and everything in-between! We have a selection of fun bots for you to play around with, including blackjack and UNO! We'd love to have you! ------------------------------------------------

CURRENT CANON TAKEN LIST: Arthur Maxson Paladin Danse John Hancock Butch Deloria Arcade Gannon

[everrainrp]

I may have missed this in my perusing of lore, but do leaders of each Clan have multiple lives, and if so, where do they come from? Since their spiritual beliefs vary so widely, is it different for each Clan?

Hello!

This is something I need to add and talk about, but to keep things minimally confusing between each Clan, each leader does indeed have multiple lives!

And with the idea that none of their spiritual beliefs are necessarily wrong, they still receive their lives but in different ways and rites. In the end, they act very similarly to cats of history giving lives in the form of some sort of leadership ideal, ie. a spirit granting a life and willing the leader to lead with wisdom.

Rite of the Changing Tides

Shoreshimmer prospective leaders, both Landbound and Seabound, are to go to the bleached whale bones found on their southern shores, and sit within them as they face the ocean. From here, they will spend a full day and night in meditation, watching the ocean and it's tides, contemplating life and death and how everything is intertwined. This symbolizes their patience and understanding of the rise and fall of the tides and the ocean and it's cycles. From here, they will enter a tidal cavern called Tidal Keep that is only accessible at low tide. As the tide rises and ocean water laps at their paws as sea spray and mist fills the cavern, it is here that the souls of the cycle will appear to the leader. With each beat of the waves, a new soul will appear in the sea mist and grant the leader a life, and with each life the leader feels a new thrum of energy and invigoration, as if the ocean itself was pulsing in their veins. This will last until it is once again low tide and the leader may exit the cave and return to camp, which they are welcomed as a new and official leader.

Rite of the Drowning River

Torrentfall prospective leaders must go through one of the most dangerous rites of their Clan, of which symbolizes their acceptance of the raw power of the water they deeply revere, and their willingness to push for survival and sacrifice. Prospective leaders are lead to the "Thunderpool", the most dangerous location within their territory where the water is composed of the raging and cascading waters from surrounding waterfalls, creating a dangerous, swirling pool. From here, they must enter the river and submit themselves entirely, in mind and body, to the currents. They are dragged deep under, and must not fight the pull, and as they descend further and further into the frigid waters, they will slip into unconsciousness. When awaking, it is not in the physical realm, but the afterlife, the Endless Currents, where the water is still and shimmering, creating a serene picture. Ancestors and deceased loved ones and kin will approach the leader one by one and grant them their lives. As opposed to the life giving thrum of Shoreshimmer's life ceremony, Torrentfall's feels as though they are being crushed by the weight of the water before feeling breath returning to them each time, granting them grit and resilience needed to rise from the depths again and again. Once over, the cat will resurface and be pulled to the riverbank by awaiting Clanmates who will bear witness to the first breath the cat will take as new leader.

Rite of the Veiled Whispers

Mistshroud prospective leaders will proceed to a moss covered boulder deep within their territory and consume a liquid blend of herbs that induce vivid dreams and a trance like state. The prospective leader will fall into a trance upon the moss covered boulder, named the "Veil Stone", and upon entering this trance their soul will appear in the mists of their territory. From here, they are tasked with navigating a maze with nothing but their senses and instincts, back to the location that camp would be. Instead of being greeted by their living kin, in the camp they are greeted by past ancestors and deceased loved ones that inhabit the mists of their world. From here, the spirits will grant the leader their nine lives, but this is often done in silence as those passed believe wisdom is best conveyed without words. Once this is complete, the leader will wake from their trance like state, and return to camp in reality, where they will be greeted as the new leader of the Clan officially. Not only do they carry the nine lives, but also the unseen and quiet wisdom of past lives.

Rite of the Hunt, the Howl, and the Heart

This rite revolves around their pantheon, the great boar Thornmaw (survival and the hunt), the quick wolf Silverhowl (unity and pack loyalty), and the regal stag Bravehart (leadership and compassion). Prospective leaders of Thornrush Clan must go through several trials pertaining to their pantheon before receiving their nine lives. To start these trials, they must fall into a deep sleep under a natural stone arch found in their territory called the "Traversing Stone". It is here that when they awake, that they awaken in Thornmaw's Hunting Grounds, where the greatest and most honorable of their ancestors reside in the afterlife. Their first test begins here, the test of the Hunt, where they must track and hunt a fox, a symbol of survival and cunning and a direct mirror to Thornrush Clans willingness to outlast and outlive challenges, made out of roots and brambles through the hunting grounds. A group of spirits wait underneath a great redwood tree for the leaders success and proof. From here the next test begins, the test of the Howl. The leader must lead the group of spirits through rugged and treacherous terrain, ascending the side of a mountain to reach Silverhowl's den. No cat must be left behind and one must be willing to ensure every spirit makes it, even if it means sacrificing their own comfort or safety. As Silverhowl embodies the belief of strength in unity and that a leader must never abandon their pack, this test is done to ensure that the leader can lead in unity and trust in the group. Upon arrival to Silverhowl's Den successfully, it is time for the test of the heart. The test of the heart symbolizes Bravehart's leadership and compassion, standing tall with a regal air even in the face of adversity. This test will have the leader making a symbolic sacrifice that would be for the good of their Clan. This sacrifice will vary greatly between leaders, and often revolves around something that they are unwilling to let go of. Upon successful completion of these trials, the spirits that the leader had guided in the test of the Howl, approach one by one to grant their lives to the leader as well as place a crown of thorns upon their head, allowing the leader to bear the weight of leadership and feel it. These lives are filled with power and greatness, the very same bravery and honor that the spirits hold embodied in each life given. Upon awakening, the leader will bear a crown of thorns, and may return to camp where they will be greeted as the newfound leader.

Rite of Ascension

In Skyreach Clan, prospective leaders must ascend, both physically and metaphorically, to their new rank. This is done on "Star's Summit" , one of the highest peaks bordering Skyreach's territory. The prospective leader must make this climb alone, exposed to the elements and the high winds as they hike up the ledges of the mountain. This symbolizes their willingness to rise above the struggles of below for their Clan and what they are willing to do for their kin, as well as their readiness to reach for what may otherwise be out of reach and go beyond, and to ascend to be closest to their ancestors. Upon reaching the very top, there is a cave that they must enter where many cairns are stacked by previous leaders, the amount of stones symbolizing how many years a leader had led. Few cairns are stacked due to the age of the overall Clan, but a new leader will begin a new cairn. It is here that they must fall asleep in the frigid temperatures, closest to their ancestors. When they awaken in the spiritual sense, the stars will descend to the peaks, falling rapidly through the skies leaving blazing trails behind them. But instead of brutal impact, these stars gently touch the ledge and take on the form of their deceased loved ones, as they file into the cave, turning it into almost a planetarium of sorts as stars and stardust fills the empty space. As the spirits gather, they bestow upon the leader their lives, each life filling them with a sense of wonder and willingness to carry themselves and their Clan far, each life making the cat feel as though they are drifting through the clouds on open wings with nothing to stop them. Upon waking, they may return to camp, where as the rest of the Clans, are welcome as a new leader.

[a-solitary-sea-rover-backup]

The wreckage of the Quest, the vessel used by famed Antarctic explorer Sir Ernest Shackleton, was found earlier this week, 62 years after it sank off the coast of Canada. The discovery was made by an international team of researchers, oceanographers and divers from the Royal Canadian Geographic Society.

“Finding Quest is one of the final chapters in the extraordinary story of Sir Ernest Shackleton,” expedition leader and chief executive officer of the Royal Canadian Geographical Society said in a statement on Wednesday. “Shackleton was known for his courage and brilliance as a leader in crisis. The tragic irony is that his was the only death to take place on any of the ships under his direct command.”

The Quest was discovered using sonar equipment on June 9, lying at a depth of 390 meters in the frigid waters off the coast of Canada’s Labrador and Newfoundland province. The discovery was aided by extensive research of historic ship logs and maps along with data on currents and weather conditions to try and pinpoint the Quest’s location, search director David Means on Wednesday.

[earthpkmnheadcanons]

The Colombian Pokemon League

Bogota (ice)

Despite Colombia's tropical reputation, its central gym is an ice-type one. Bogota, located high in the mountains, provides a perfect setting for this gym that is literally carved into the mountainside. Challengers must navigate to the frigid depths within in order to face the leader's powerful Cetitan - one of the few ice-types native to Colombia.

2. Medellin (electric)

Medellin's modern electric-type gym is the largest in Colombia, with challengers having to navigate a complex puzzle traveling to different floors of the multi-story building the gym belongs to. Once you've reached the top, you get the chance to take on the leader's Manectric.

3. Cali (grass)

This gym has a unique twist to it - until they reach the gym leader, challengers may only use grass-type Pokemon provided by the gym. This rule makes the Cali gym one of the most challenging in Colombia, forcing trainers to strategize on the fly. Once you've beaten the gym trainers and reached the leader, you can use your regular team to take on his Sceptile.

4. Barranquilla (water)

As one of Colombia's major ports, Barranquilla is the perfect place for a water-type gym. The gym focuses on Pokemon that live in the nearby Caribbean Sea, and doubles as an aquarium. It is famous for its friendly Corsola, known to help out around the gym and greet arriving trainers. The leader uses a powerful Octillery.

5. Cartagena (rock)

One of the oldest cities in Colombia, Cartagena's gym is a modest one, located in an 18th-century Spanish building. It lacks the puzzles of many other gyms but makes up for it with thrilling battles, and its leader's Tyranitar is notoriously strong, having led her to be the Colombian Champion three years in a row.

6. Bucaramanga (bug)

Bucaramanga's gym is entirely outdoors in one of the city's numerous parks, allowing the numerous bug-type Pokemon to freely roam around. Every year, it also hosts the largest celebration of bug-types in Latin America, where bug lovers from across the world come to show off their Pokemon - and challenge the leader's Scizor.

7. Ibague (fire)

Located near several volcanoes, Ibague is the perfect type for a challenging fire-type gym. The gym itself attempts to (safely) simulate the interior of a volcano, educating challengers as they progress to the gym leader. Once they reach the deepest point, they can face the leader's scorching Magmortar.

8. Leticia (psychic)

Colombia's final gym is located in a smaller city in one of the least densely populated parts of the country, in the heart of the Amazon region. Only challengers who have successfully beaten the previous seven gyms can take a flight to Leticia and battle its psychic-type gym, whose leader uses a powerful Musharna.

[hvrtroads]

open starter: @anchoragestarters cap: none! date & location: early march, around town

there were many irons in the fire, if one couldn't tell by the very appearance of one boo jonghyeon. he'd gotten just slightly ahead of himself, absorbed in his work for the entire duration of the day, and now he was left to simply kick himself for not planning better ahead of time. you see, schedules were extremely important to the keyboardist, always followed diligently ( instances like today were rare ) – with it being thrown off, he was left feeling thoroughly of his depth. not to mention the contemned fact that the sun had set, and he had no way of contacting his bandmates... fuck. he'd left the theatre some time ago, set out towards delilah's, bag slung over his shoulders and a binder of sheet music held to his chest, cheeks rosy from the frigid air. the weather was far from ideal for numerous reasons, one of them being the pain and stiffness that the cold brought his leg; he really could not get home soon enough. however, the approach was derailed, quite abruptly, at that, as he collided with another body, not enough attention being given to what was in front of him. in the bat of an eye, he was on his ass, landing on the ice with an oof!, papers flying everywhere, as if they were particles of a blizzard themselves. curse his balance issues, and the snow. what a miserable night. “ mianhae, ” he voiced, “ i'm sorry. i wasn't looking... ”

[travelella]

Arctic Ocean

The world's smallest and most shallow ocean. It is also the coldest and least salty ocean.

About the size of Russia.

The Arctic Ocean is divided by an underwater ocean ridge called the Lomonosov ridge

Located at the North Pole, the Arctic Ocean has polar ice. Over the years, glaciers have melted threatening sea levels to rise.

Despite the IHO recognizing it as the “Arctic Ocean”, some oceanographers still call it the “Arctic Sea”.

The Arctic Ocean is the most diverse in terms of fish species. It has a wide variety of marine species including whales, jellyfish, etc.

But because of its frigid temperatures, it has little plant life. This makes it one of the most fragile ecosystems on the planet.

Area

Total: 15.558 million sq km

Area - Comparative: Slightly less than 1.5 times the size of the US

Includes: Barents Sea, Beaufort Sea, Chukchi Sea, East Siberian Sea, Greenland Sea, Kara Sea, Laptev Sea, Northwest Passage, Norwegian Sea, and other tributary water bodies

Coastline: 45,389 km

Ocean Volume: 18.75 million cu km

Percent of the World Ocean Total Volume: 1.4%

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Bathymetry

Continental Shelf: A rather flat area of the sea floor adjacent to the coast that gradually slopes down from the shore to water depths that are typically less than 200 m (660 ft). Dimensions can vary: they may be narrow or nearly nonexistent in some places or extend for hundreds of miles in others. The waters above the continental shelf are usually productive in both plant and animal life, both from sunlight and nutrients from ocean upwelling and terrestrial runoff. More than one quarter of the Arctic sea floor is continental shelf. The Eurasian shelf is very wide extending out 1,500 km (930 mi) and is the largest continental shelf in the World. 

Barents Shelf

Beaufort Shelf

Davis Sill

Chukchi Shelf

East Siberian Shelf

Kara Shelf

Laptev Shelf

Lincoln Shelf

Continental Slope: Where the ocean bottom drops off more rapidly until it meets the deep-sea floor (abyssal plain) at depths exceeding 3,000 m (9,850 ft) water depth. The deep waters of the continental slope are characterized by cold temperatures, low light conditions, and very high pressures. Sunlight does not penetrate to these depths, having been absorbed or reflected in the water above. The continental slope can be indented by submarine canyons, often associated with the outflow of major rivers. Another feature of the continental slope are alluvial fans or cones of sediments carried downstream to the ocean by major rivers and deposited down the slope. 

Litke Trough

Novaya Zemlya Trough

Svyataya Anna Trough (Saint Anna Trough)

Voronin Trough

Abyssal Plains:  At depths of over 3,000 m (10,000 ft) and covering 70% of the ocean floor, are the largest habitat on earth. Sunlight does not penetrate to the sea floor, making these deep, dark ecosystems less productive than those along the continental shelf. Despite their name, these “plains” are not uniformly flat; they are interrupted by features like hills, valleys, and seamounts.

Baffin Basin

Canada Basin

Fram/Amundsen Basin

Greenland Abyssal Plain

Iceland Basin

Makarov Basin

Molloy Deep; note - deepest point in the Arctic Ocean

Nansen Basin

Norwegian Basin

Mid-Ocean Ridge: Rising up from the abyssal plain, is an underwater mountain range, over 64,000 km (40,000 mi) long, rising to an average depth of 2,400 m (8,000 ft). Mid-ocean ridges form at divergent plate boundaries where two tectonic plates are moving apart and new crust is created by magma pushing up from the mantle. Tracing their way around the global ocean, this system of underwater volcanoes forms the longest mountain range on Earth. Fracture Zones are linear transform faults that develop perpendicular to the line of the mid-ocean ridge which can offset the ridge line and divide it into segments. 

Gakkel Ridge

Mohns Ridge

Undersea Terrain Features: The Abyssal Plain is commonly interrupted by a variety of commonly named undersea terrain features including seamounts, guyots, ridges, and plateaus. Seamounts (see Figure 1) are submarine mountains at least 1,000 m (3,300 ft) high formed from individual volcanoes on the ocean floor. They are distinct from the plate-boundary volcanic system of the mid-ocean ridges, because seamounts tend to be circular or conical. A circular collapse caldera is often centered at the summit, evidence of a magma chamber within the volcano. Flat topped seamounts are known as guyots. Long chains of seamounts are often fed by "hot spots" in the deep mantle. These hot spots are associated with stationary plumes of molten rock rising from deep within the Earth's mantle. These hot spot plumes melt through the overlying tectonic plate as it moves and supplies magma to the active volcanic island at the end of the chain of volcanic islands and seamounts. An undersea ridge is an elongated elevation of varying complexity and size, generally having steep sides. An undersea plateau is a large, relatively flat elevation that is higher than the surrounding relief with one or more relatively steep sides. Although submerged, these features can reach close to sea level.

Lomonosov Ridge

Gakkel Ridge

Alpha Ridge

Mendeleev Rise

Chukchi Plateau

Ocean Trenches: note - there are no oceanic trenches on the Arctic sea floor

Atolls: note - there are no atolls found in the Arctic Ocean

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Highest Point: Sea level

Lowest Point: Molloy Deep -5,577 m

Mean Depth: -1,205 m

Ocean Zones: Composed of water and in a fluid state, the ocean is delimited differently than the solid continents. The Ocean is divided into three zones based on depth and light level. Although some sea creatures depend on light to live, others can do without it. Sunlight entering the water may travel about 1,000 m into the oceans under the right conditions, but there is rarely any significant light beyond 200 m.

The upper 200 m (656 ft) of the ocean is called the euphotic, or "sunlight," zone. This zone contains the vast majority of commercial fisheries and is home to many protected marine mammals and sea turtles. Only a small amount of light penetrates beyond this depth.

The zone between 200 m (656 ft) and 1,000 m (3,280 ft) is usually referred to as the "twilight" zone, but is officially the dysphotic zone. In this zone, the intensity of light rapidly dissipates as depth increases. Such a minuscule amount of light penetrates beyond a depth of 200 m that photosynthesis is no longer possible.

The aphotic, or "midnight," zone exists in depths below 1,000 m (3,280 ft). Sunlight does not penetrate to these depths and the zone is bathed in darkness.

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Natural Resources: Sand and gravel aggregates, placer deposits, polymetallic nodules, oil and gas fields, fish, marine mammals (seals and whales)

Natural Hazards: Ice islands occasionally break away from northern Ellesmere Island; icebergs calved from glaciers in western Greenland and extreme northeastern Canada; permafrost in islands; virtually ice locked from October to June; ships subject to superstructure icing from October to May

Geography - Note: Major chokepoint is the southern Chukchi Sea (northern access to the Pacific Ocean via the Bering Strait); strategic location between North America and Russia; shortest marine link between the extremes of eastern and western Russia; floating research stations operated by the US and Russia; maximum snow cover in March or April about 20 to 50 centimeters over the frozen ocean; snow cover lasts about 10 months

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Environment

Environment - Current Issues: Climate change; changes in biodiversity; water pollution from use of toxic chemicals; endangered marine species include walruses and whales; fragile ecosystem slow to change and slow to recover from disruptions or damage; thinning polar icepack

Climate: Polar climate characterized by persistent cold and relatively narrow annual temperature range; winters characterized by continuous darkness, cold and stable weather conditions, and clear skies; summers characterized by continuous daylight, damp and foggy weather, and weak cyclones with rain or snow

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Ports and Terminals

Major Seaport(s): Churchill (Canada), Murmansk (Russia), Prudhoe Bay (US)

Transportation - Note: Sparse network of air, ocean, river, and land routes; the Northwest Passage (North America) and Northern Sea Route (Eurasia) are important seasonal waterways

[marsdenlee]

Location: Sapphire Sea

With: @eilonwyj

The lake was so deep and saline that it rarely ever froze but that didn't stop the waters from reaching frigid temperatures, luckily it hardly phased the siren as he half lounged along the shoreline, looking like an aquatic creature from the depths that was emerging to bring terror to the town populace. He was not, at least not today it wasn't on his to-do list. He instead had his phone held in his hands, gray and black shifted skin smooth and gleaming like an oil slick along the exposed parts of his body, tattoos decorating his arms and torso, elbows dug into dark damp sand to support his weight as water lapped around the sides of his black tail, half submerged but the sharp points of his ruffle like fins directed upwards.

Gills on either sides of his neck revealed shallow dark slits that disturbed the images inked into his skin and no hair on his head, only more ruffle like fins held down by a black backwards baseball cap, the rest of the fins running down the back of his neck and along his spinal curve and his eyes, vibrantly blue against the surrounding black set of them, no whites at all, his siren appearance barely human at all, only the vaguest sense of the humanoid creature he normally was.

"Hey, come here," Mars gestured with a webbed hand, nails pointed sharp and translucent, not looking up at whoever it was that he was hearing walking by, his eyes still glued to his phone screen. An odd sight, such a creature like this holding a smart phone along a shoreline. "How many cats ya see in dis picture? I only see four. There's supposed to be seven?"