#b-convoy

[cheerful-sixears]

TF: Fearless Frontlines

I was inspired by this prompt, here, and I wrote something for it. It's angsty, and yet I feel fucking great after this exercise. Delicate, but great. Fanfic mainly showcases a lot of @starscrumpt 's MoonHowl and how his influence has kept B-Convoy's direct narrative headstrong. [ngl I cried too much writing this.]

Title: Fearless Frontlines

Alt. TItle: Courage Takes Flight From that First Fearful Step

Fandom: Transformers [vague universe setting]

Rating: PG-13[?] [minor mentions of trauma/cursing/sensitive materials]

Songs Insp. [and why] : 

-Pillar - Frontline [this song inspired my overall thoughts regarding B-Convoy’s unwavering ‘fight till the end’ mindset that I share with equal duality]

-Smash Into Pieces - Counting on Me [this song inspired my thoughts on MoonHowl’s unwavering trust and support of B-Convoy and his endeavors]

-Sleep Token - Take Me Back To Eden [B-Convoy’s longing for what was, and how he’d fight to achieve any and all to be in that state of normalcy, for him. That smallish glimmer of a peaceful, remedial healing that he only ever tasted on the surface level before the war began. I played this one back, toward the middle and end with MoonHowl, because it really encased the pain and emotions here. Spoiler: I cried…a lot.]

~~~ ~~~ ~~~

Standing with a processor riddled with ponderous thoughts, amidst the plans that many-a-restless evenings meticulously produced, B-Convoy’s optics gleamed in a dazed, almost static-glazed vacancy that most were unfamiliar with. A few of the cautious mechs stood in silent regard as B-Convoy continued to gaze into what appeared an unrelenting void-like trance. The tension was thicker than the copious amounts of old and new energon-shed, caked and layered upon the battlefield outside of their trembling, yet sturdy keep. 

One of those mechs that stood around the other few sauntered forward, his wingspan hung heavy as his shoulders carried little enthusiasm with each gentle step. He placed a servo-paw upon B-Convoy’s shoulder, Convoy’s tensed reaction triggering a pooling of tears upon the muzzle of his fellow empath, MoonHowl. He pressed his digits as his servo-paw remained and served as a grounding weight, even in the slightest, to support B-Convoy’s heaviest aches. The weight of war was pressing far heavier than some would ever fathom a normal mech could manage. 

A random voice echoed through the silence, slicing through it with a venomous inquiry and serpentine strike, “You’ve forgotten what it even means to lead. You’ve been so enveloped in your own direction-your own path, and in that, you’ve forgotten yourself.” 

The blatant, seering statement brought an unfamiliar expression of rage and a familiar pain that MoonHowl once felt in his own self. He bit back in protective ferocity, even before B-Convoy was able to express his imminent distress, “NO-He’s changed. I will NEVER find weakness in that,” His chords trembled as he pointed to the map on the holoscreen projected before them all. His servo-paw was clenched in a trembling rage.

“None of you took a moment to count the amount of victories we’ve surpassed and how far we’ve survived. We’ve thrived without his predecessor, even. Your fear leads your spark astray, rethink your words before you cause more damage and create rifts, than create peace and healing. Rethink your actions, please.” An almost somber, sullen expression crossed MoonHowl’s softened, heavy gaze as he turned his glance from the distraught mech and unto B-Convoy, who’s optics were hazed with more pain and layered sorrow than one should ever experience in a fraction of a lifetime. 

If his visor were not apparent to hide his jaw or muzzle, the pain would be doubly obvious. MoonHowl continued to grip onto B-Convoy’s shoulder plate. After a moment of pained and agonizing silence, B-Convoy raised his opposing servo-paw to meekly grasp and cup MoonHowl’s. His grasp trembled, and it was clear within his optics, that he fought to regain stability to speak once more. If MoonHowl knew one thing above others, it was B-Convoy’s hurt. He’d been there from the start. Almost every pain, every loss, and through every hardship, their kinship remained.

A familiar and promising flicker glimmered momentarily within B-Convoy’s optics before he nodded in a silent agreement to MoonHowl before standing amidst a small, yet significantly larger audience than before. He lowered his visor to reveal a prominent, newly empowered snarl with shimmering fangs that bore confidence and newfound strength, “My esteemed and hardened comrades, as your Pack Leader, I implore each one of you to embrace the strength that resides within your sparks. Draw from the depths of your being, channeling the power of unity, honor, and unwavering resolve," He gestured with a combination of newfound courage, strength, yet carried humbled humility within his choreographic show, as well.

"Remember, it is our loyalty to one another that fortifies our ranks and sets us apart from our adversaries. These …treacherous beasts, driven by their insatiable hunger for power and shed-energon threaten the very fabric of peace and harmony that we hold dear,” He paused, glancing over to MoonHowl, as though to garner a second wave of a new gilded, breath, and then continued with more confidence than before, “In the face of their relentless aggression, let our bravery shine brightly through the darkest of times. We shall not waver, nor shall we falter, for our cause is just, and our sparks beat endlessly as one. Together, we possess a power greater than any individual con or beast could ever hope to wield. Let them bear witness to the force that resides within our ranks, our Pack, as we unleash our true potential. My comrades-my family, as we charge forward with unwavering determination, let us remember that our strength lies not only in our bodies but also within our minds. Strategize, adapt, and outmaneuver our foes at every turn. We are a force to be reckoned with—a symphony of metal and courage, bound together by an unbreakable bond. Let our sparks ignite the path to triumph, as we march forward to face our foes with our heads held high! For the love of unity, unending courage, and our family!”

With a gallant wave and a triumphant fist to his chassis, a seemingly newfound energy resonated within the room’s interior. A new wave of glimmering radiance-of newfound aspirations and hope. B-Convoy exhaled and glanced back to his comrade, a humbled expression of sparkfelt pride and harmonious glee. He simply muttered amongst the crowd’s cheers, “I’m proud of you.”

End.

Art drawn by @starscrumpt 💕

[yayasvalveplay]

https://www.tumblr.com/yayasvalveplay/783890766123663360/

ABO Alpha Megatron bitching Alpha Optimus has me in a fucking mental chokehold ngl (so im just going to dump what I've been imagining here for yall to enjoy lmao) love some Alpha on Alpha or rather 'Not So Alpha Anymore'

Especially if Optimus is seen as peak alpha physique by labourframe standards, a real hunk but by warframe standards he's a butch twunk

Warframe omegas tend to be slender speedsters like seekers & racers so they can scarper the second something becomes a threat to their bitty while labourframe omegas tend to be bulky so bitties has plenty of padding while they keep on trucking,

the alpha labourframes being more agile to weave between the omegas on their Convoys but still big enough to haul sparklings & other precious cargo around, while alpha warframes are massive to dominate the battlefield & draw attention away from their more delicate omegas

Betas of both frameclasses tend to have a mix of traits, but primarily fulfill the supportive roles in child rearing such as teaching, guarding, & scouting areas for threats, being quite small in labourframes they're about to get into tight places to retrieve troublemaker sparklings or help them hide while warframes are flexible able to act as escorts to new flyers & racers or expecting omegas in their Battalion, keeping pace & being better able to tank hits from crashes or provide battlefield backup to alphas

So when Megs starts bitching Optimus with BA's help he starts gaining more seeker traits & oftentimes gets mistaken for a warframe beta until a bot gets close enough to catch his scent & smell how fertile he is & the alpha's claim, meanwhile to Optimus's Megatron's massive frame reads as ideal for carrying a big litter

Also means that a beta autobot like Blurr setting off all the 'is peak warframe omega' bells to alpha Shockwave, who has plans on helping the speedster reach his 'full potential' by bitching him now that he knows that it can be done, BA has helpfully given him a recipe for the necessary medication he can mix into his agent's rations, Blurr has no idea what's happening to him when he starts sprouting weapons system like his energy saw & assumes he must be some kind of omega Con sleeper agent whos failing suppressants are letting a heat bring his warframe coding to the front, the dilemma tearing him apart does he continue to live as an intelligence agent as if nothings wrong or turn himself in to his omega superior Longarm,

It would be real fun if Blurr's timing glitch meant things progressed much faster then Shockwave accounted for leading to Blurr going into an unexpected heat exposing himself as a warframe omega to someone else in AHC who blackmails & exploits him, or maybe multiple bots are present & take turns putting their new warframe breeder to good use since breeding Starscream to produce the jettwins worked so well

Optimus' alpha coding conflicts with his developing heat coding & demands he fight off the rival alpha (Megatron) & mate with the omega in heat that it can sense so close (himself) so he's super horny & feisty & Megatron thinks its so cute when he confusedly & angrily alternates between trying to maul Megatron & trying to mate him, just rutting up against the leg or closed panel of the larger bot, the first time he goes into a heat Megatron opens up his valve panel & lets Optimus work himself into a frenzy because no matter how many time he knots he can still smell an unsatisfied omega in heat, he's chewing at Megatron plating in frustration Megatron pulls his face up with a claw only for Optimus to latch onto it & start suckling like a starving mech, Megatron spends a few minutes pumping his digit into the Prime's throat until it makes him cry

Which is about when Megatron wrestles the smaller mech into a pin & prys his valve covers open with the tip of his spike before plunging in & giving the omega coding the alpha knot it's looking for, when Optimus sobers up & comes back to himself he's still stuck panel to panel with Megatron as warframe knots take a lot longer to unlock since warframe omegas are so flighty they can be hard to catch/corner even while in heat

Maybe BA could have been there taking notes & samples for her research & can tease Optimus about how cute his blissed out face was when Megs made him overload on his knot, Optimus' alpha coding still recognised her as a beta from his Convoy so let her get close & do whatever she wanted while he's in rut/heat so she has plenty of vials of different fluids, transfluid, energon, coolant etc, she says she's going to have to figure out a way to artificially induce his heats so she can collect samples as the process progresses

When Optimus tries to argue with her Megatron starts waxing lyrical about how much he enjoyed watching the prime struggle to take his claw & wondering how much more he'd struggle to take Megatron's knot in his intake while massaging his spike where it makes Optimus' protoform bulge, she says that would probably break his voice box so they'd have some peace & quiet

I have some other ideas for what other designations bots would have, alpha lugnut, beta blitzwing, omega starscream, alpha lockdown, omega bulkhead, beta prowl, beta bumblebee, beta arcee, omega ratchet, alpha grimlock, omega soundwave, beta jettwins, beta cliffjumper, alpha ultra magnus etc

Lockdown would definitely wanna bitch Prowl & tried to make Ratchet & Arcee part of his Convoy before, both Prowl & Ratchet have nightmares about waking up tied down to a lab table & tied to the bounty hunter by his knot

_Cu🐗

Imagine waiting for the right moment to fuck your pretty little Omega. Only for his heat to come unexpectedly, And now suddenly everyone is fucking the Omega, because They are all horny, and now Longarm has to rescue Blurr, umm, right after watching him getting transfluid all over his plating.

Ad when He is saved, well He's getting Blurr to purge any transfluid that made its way into his forge, so he can have a clean slate so he can fuck his pups into him, and not random bots.

And because Optimus transformation from Alpha to Omega is slower then Blurrs transfomation, He is going to go haywire, and think an Omega is in heat when in fact it's him. He's the one going into heat, and not a rut.

And Megatron is very smug about this fact. He is so fragging horny, but he wants Optimus to be in a frenzy before he knots him.

As for the Lockdown- It's only a nightmare. Because he will NOT get to them. Drift and Jazz will make sure of that.

[kittluzbills]

i cooked w this one here's a lil billie blurb so yall can RELAX. sorry if it got too sad omg that wasn't my goal

muah

--

control - b. e.

one look.

You were so set on saying no but the voice in your head that always spoke when you needed assistance whispered “say yes”, so you did. And now you were in her car, going god knows where.

She was so focused on his driving, only looking away from the road to catch you staring at her. You couldn’t help yourself. The sun was setting and the angle of its rays hit her in such a way there was nothing to convince you to look way.

There’s something special about the way the sun lights up her eyes. Those of a kid on Christmas morning couldn’t compare. You were sure that if all light was to seemingly diminish, there wouldn’t be darkness, because her eyes are just so god damn bright.

“Billie, tell me you love me.”

Her trained eyes quickly diverted from the road and to you, convoyed by a confused look on her face, her beautiful face.

“Y/N, of course I love you. In fact, I don’t think I’ll ever stop.” She spoke as she removed one of her hands from the steering wheel and placed it on your thigh.

You froze, completely taken back by her words.

She was so perfect and you couldn’t handle it. You really didn’t want to show how broken you were around her, but all of that flew out the window when you let your insecurities take control. You were weak and she knew it. She still had control over you and she fucking knew it.

It was her eyes. Any other shade of blue and you would have been okay. But that prolonged moment of held eye contact shattered any piece of strength that you had rebuilt.

You were drowning in the current of her ocean eyes.

--

requests are open as always

luv u

xoxo, kitt

[mohamedjameel]

I’m Ola, a mother of three, the oldest is just 7 years old.

Here in Gaza… even humanitarian aid doesn’t reach us anymore.

Convoys arrive only to be looted—men swarm them like they’re treasures, and I can’t even get close.

No bread, no cheese—our food is divided into three or sometimes there’s nothing left at all.

I’m forced to buy everything from the market at heart-breaking prices 💔

What pains me most isn’t the war itself—it’s watching aid being stolen right in front of you…

while you stand powerless, with three hungry mouths to feed,

looking to the sky and whispering:

“God, you’re my only help.”

#Gaza

#MotherUnderRubble

#Ola_from_Gaza

#Siege_and_Hunger

#God_Is_With_Us ✨

[kathlare]

golden horizons

Lando Norris x Amelie Dayman

Summary: Amidst the energy and laughter, a lighthearted connection blossoms into quiet intimacy between Lando and Amelie, their playful banter and shared moments painting a vivid portrait of joy and affection.

Wordcount: 3.0 k

Warnings: none

full masterlist // request over here!

January 2nd, 2025 - Dubai, United Arab Emirates

The sun beat down on the golden dunes outside Dubai, the horizon stretching endlessly in waves of shimmering sand. The roar of dune buggies echoed through the vast desert, engines revving as the group raced and drifted across the sandy expanse. Lando Norris, sitting at the wheel of his buggy, had never felt so carefree—or so distracted.

In the passenger seat beside him, Amelie adjusted her sunglasses, a playful smile tugging at her lips as her hair whipped in the wind. She’d insisted on wearing the most impractical outfit for dune-bashing—an olive-green cropped tank top, denim shorts, and combat boots—but somehow, she still looked like she belonged in a photoshoot.

Not that Lando minded. In fact, he was struggling to keep his eyes on the trail ahead of them.

—Eyes on the sand, Lan,— Amelie teased, her voice cutting through the roar of the engine. She tilted her head toward him, grinning. —Unless you want to flip this thing.—

—If I do, it’ll be your fault for looking like… that,— Lando muttered, gesturing vaguely at her outfit with one hand while steering with the other.

She laughed, the sound ringing out over the hum of the engine. —Looking like what, exactly?—

—You know what I mean,— he said, his cheeks flushing under the sun.

Amelie smirked, leaning closer so her voice was just loud enough for him to hear. —If you’re trying to say I look hot, you can just say it, Lan.—

Lando let out a huff, tightening his grip on the wheel as the buggy crested another dune. —Fine. You look fucking hot. There, happy?—

Amelie burst out laughing, her hand resting on his thigh as she looked out over the endless expanse of sand. —Very. I just wanted to hear you say it.—

He glanced over at her briefly, his face softening despite his feigned annoyance. —You’re a menace, you know that?—

—You love it,— she shot back, her tone teasing but affectionate.

—Yeah, yeah, I do.— He grinned, shaking his head.

Ahead of them, Tom and Alisa’s buggy was kicking up a cloud of sand, and Lando followed their trail, weaving expertly around the dunes. A few more friends were scattered around, all part of the convoy tearing through the desert.

After a while, the group came to a stop at a particularly picturesque spot. The towering dunes framed the horizon, and the sunlight hit just right, painting everything in golden hues. Everyone climbed out of their buggies, stretching their legs and grabbing water bottles from the coolers.

Lando, however, had other plans. He reached into the back of the buggy and pulled out Amelie’s digital camera, the one she’d brought on the trip but barely touched.

—Alright, Ames, stand right there,— he said, gesturing toward a small crest of sand.

She raised an eyebrow, smirking. —Are you seriously trying to turn this into a photoshoot?—

—Yes. Now go stand over there and look pretty,— he said, his tone half-joking but determined.

Amelie laughed but obliged, walking up the dune and striking a dramatic pose. Lando adjusted the camera’s settings, grinning as he snapped a few shots.

—You’re ridiculous,— she called out, shading her eyes from the sun as she looked down at him.

—And you’re gorgeous. Now stop moving.—

She rolled her eyes but couldn’t hide her smile, letting him take a few more photos before dropping the act and laughing. —Okay, that’s enough, paparazzi.—

—Not even close,— he said, lowering the camera to look at her properly. His voice softened as he added, —You look like a damn goddess, Ames. I’m serious.—

Her expression shifted, the teasing edge fading as she looked at him. —Lan…—

—What? I’m just saying what I’m thinking,— he said, his cheeks slightly pink.

She came back down the dune, her boots sinking into the sand as she reached him. Wrapping her arms around his neck, she pulled him close. —You’re such a sap sometimes. You know that?—

—Only for you,— he murmured, his hands settling on her waist as he leaned down to kiss her.

—Oi, lovebirds!— Tom’s voice interrupted them, making Amelie laugh as she pulled back.

—What, mate?— Lando called back, not even bothering to look over.

—We’re here to race buggies, not watch you two snog in the middle of the desert!— Tom shouted, grinning as Alisa elbowed him playfully.

Amelie chuckled, pressing a quick kiss to Lando’s jaw before stepping back. —Guess we’re holding up the fun, Mr. Norris.—

Lando sighed dramatically, slipping the camera strap over his shoulder. —Fine. But this isn’t over. You still owe me a proper photoshoot later.—

—Oh, do I?— she teased, grabbing his hand as they walked back to their buggy.

—Yeah, you do. I’ll even edit them for you. Make ‘em all artsy.—

Amelie laughed, her fingers laced with his. —You’re too much, you know that?—

—And yet, you still love me,— he quipped, flashing her a cheeky grin.

She rolled her eyes but couldn’t hide her smile. —Unfortunately for me, yeah, I do.—

They climbed back into the buggy, and Lando wasted no time revving the engine. The group took off again, roaring over the dunes, the desert stretching endlessly around them. The wind whipped through their hair, and the thrill of speeding over the sand made Amelie throw her arms up in the air like a kid on a rollercoaster.

Lando couldn’t stop smiling. He loved seeing her like this—completely free, unguarded, and in the moment. She turned to him at one point, her laughter ringing out over the noise, and he swore his heart skipped a beat.

—You’re insane!— she yelled, her voice full of joy.

—Takes one to know one!— he shouted back, making her laugh even harder.

As the sun began to dip lower in the sky, casting long shadows across the dunes, the group came to a stop again. This time, it was Ed who suggested they take a break and watch the sunset. Everyone parked their buggies in a loose circle, pulling out blankets and snacks as they settled in for the view.

Amelie and Lando sat side by side on a blanket, her head resting on his shoulder as they watched the sun sink below the horizon. The sky turned a brilliant mix of oranges, pinks, and purples, the colors blending together like a watercolor painting.

Lando pulled out her camera again, snapping a photo of the horizon before turning it on her. She caught him this time, swatting at his hand.

—Lan, come on. Enough with the camera.—

—Never. You’re too beautiful not to capture,— he said, grinning as he snapped another shot of her laughing.

—You’re ridiculous,— she muttered, though the blush on her cheeks gave her away.

He set the camera down, wrapping an arm around her waist and pulling her closer. —Ridiculous and madly in love with you.—

Her heart softened at his words, and she tilted her head to look up at him. —You’re lucky you’re cute, you know that?—

He smirked, leaning down to press his forehead against hers. —And you’re lucky you’re stuck with me.—

—Hmm, debatable,— she teased, but her smile betrayed her.

As the group packed up to head back to their hotel, Lando couldn’t help but feel a sense of contentment. This trip, this day, this woman—it was all perfect. And he couldn’t wait to spend the rest of the night reminding her just how much he adored her.

-------------

liked by landonorris, oliviarodrigo, and others

ameliedayman: is it new years yet?

View all 82,345 comments

landonorris: FIRST

landonorris: I don’t know what’s more distracting… the view or you. But honestly, it's definitely you. 😏 → ameliedayman: @landonorris I’ll let you decide when we’re alone later. 😜

landonorris: can confirm i took 97% of these and she hated 96% of them ❤️

chandlerkinney: ok but WHY is this the cutest thing I’ve ever seen 😭 → ameliedayman: @chandlerkinney he’s in his golden retriever era

alex_albon: who’s the photographer and can i book him for my next trip? → ameliedayman: @alex_albon sorry he’s fully booked forever 😌

sarah_ferguson: Honestly, this is what true love looks like. I can’t handle the cuteness. 😍 → lucas_bowen: @sarah_ferguson Same, it’s like watching a rom-com come to life! 🎬💖

jadenhossler: bro i blinked and you’re someone’s husband now → landonorris: @jadenhossler she hasn’t proposed yet give her time 😅 → ameliedayman: @jadenhossler say “husband” again and see what happens

queenamelieupdates: i love the way he takes photos of her like she’s art 🩷

georgerussell63: wholesome content. we need a beach day double date soon → ameliedayman: @georgerussell63 as long as you don’t bring monopoly again → landonorris: @georgerussell63 she’s still salty you beat her once

maxfewtrell: lowkey jealous of the beach vibes → landonorris: @maxfewtrell come join us next time, but you have to carry me 😏

callumdayman: I feel like I’m the third wheel here. 🤦‍♂️ → ameliedayman: @callumdayman You’ve always been third wheel material. 😜

-------------

Amelie stepped out of the shower, the steam swirling around her as the cool hotel air met her freshly damp skin. She was wrapped in one of Lando’s shirts, the fabric oversized on her, and a pair of his boxers that clung loosely to her hips. The scent of him lingered on the shirt, comforting her as she padded barefoot across the hotel room.

She paused when she spotted him, Lando sitting at the desk, his laptop open in front of him. His brow was furrowed in concentration, his fingers moving quickly over the keyboard as he edited the photos he had taken of her just hours before. The warm hotel lighting illuminated his face, and for a moment, Amelie just watched him—his intense focus, the way his hair fell into his eyes, the little movements of his lips as he zoomed in on a photo.

She smiled to herself before clearing her throat softly. —Hey,— she said, her voice still a little raspy from the shower.

Lando glanced up, his eyes lighting up when he saw her. His gaze lingered for a moment, and his lips quirked upward. —Well, aren’t you the sight for sore eyes,— he said, his tone teasing but warm.

Amelie leaned against the doorframe, her arms crossed over her chest, watching him as he swiveled his chair toward her. The shirt she wore barely reached the top of her thighs, and she could feel his eyes trace the length of her legs before quickly flicking back up to meet her gaze. She couldn’t help but smirk at his reaction.

—You look… ridiculous,— Lando said, raising an eyebrow, though his voice was full of affection.

Amelie rolled her eyes playfully, walking over to the bed. —Oh, stop it. You like it.—

Lando chuckled but didn’t argue. He turned back to the laptop, his fingers still hovering over the keys. —I’m just trying to get these photos done. You know how it is.—

She crawled into the bed, the sheets cool against her warm skin. She pulled the covers up over her legs, making a small noise of contentment before stretching out. —I’m exhausted. I’m taking a nap before dinner. You should join me.—

She turned her head, her eyes glinting mischievously. —Or not. But it would be better if you did.—

Lando looked up at her, his face softening at the sight of her lying in bed, the exhaustion clearly taking its toll. Still, he couldn’t help but smirk. —You’re so needy, you know that?—

Amelie gave him a pout, dragging her hand over the blankets. —Landoooooo, come cuddle me.—

Lando rolled his eyes but couldn’t hide the grin that tugged at his lips. His resolve was weak when it came to her. —You’re impossible.—

He closed his laptop with a sigh and stood, walking over to the bed with exaggerated reluctance. But as he climbed into bed beside her, the tension in his body melted away. He didn’t resist when she immediately snuggled against his chest, her head resting comfortably in the crook of his arm.

Lando adjusted himself, the laptop now placed on the bedside table as he wrapped his arm around her. Amelie nuzzled into his side, her hair tickling his chin. The gentle rise and fall of her chest as she settled in made his heart skip a beat, and for a moment, everything felt incredibly still.

He let his fingers brush through her damp hair absentmindedly while his mind wandered back to the photos he had been editing. He couldn't shake the vivid images of her on the dunes—the sun casting her in golden light, her smile so wide and carefree. His thoughts, of course, weren’t just about the photos. They were about her. The way she moved, the way she looked at him, the way she laughed and called him over. He was sure every moment he spent with her only made him fall deeper.

The thought of her laughing in the desert, her hands resting on his thigh as the wind swept through her hair, made his chest tighten. She was absolutely perfect, and yet, the intrusive thoughts that began to creep in were nothing like the sentimental ones he usually entertained.

His mind started to blur the line between taking photos of her and wanting to do other things with her. He wondered, for a split second, what it would be like to kiss her in those moments captured in the sand, her skin warm under his touch, the heat of the desert reflecting the desire that always seemed to simmer beneath the surface when they were alone.

Lando's breath caught, and his fingers faltered in her hair as the image of her, soft and unguarded in his arms, overpowered his mind. It was like a switch flipped inside him, and before he knew it, he was closing the laptop, the sound of the lid shutting a small but definitive action.

Amelie’s voice broke through the haze of his thoughts. —Lan?—

He turned his head to find her eyes already locked on his, soft but expectant. She gave him a little smile, the same smile she always wore when she wanted something from him—whether it was affection or simply his undivided attention.

He leaned down, his lips grazing her forehead, just above her brows. The kiss lingered for a moment, and then his lips slid lower, tracing a line to her cheek, soft and slow. He felt her heartbeat against his chest, a steady rhythm, and it only pulled him closer.

His thumb brushed the edge of her jaw as he hovered over her lips, but instead of pulling back, he leaned in, capturing her lips in a kiss that was deeper, slower, and more demanding than he expected. She didn’t pull away, her hands reaching up to tangle in his hair, the touch sending an electric jolt straight through him.

The world outside their little bubble seemed to disappear. There was no hotel, no photoshoot, no demands or expectations—just the two of them, lost in the sensation of the kiss.

Amelie let out a soft sigh against his mouth, and that sound sent him spiraling. He pulled back for a breath, just enough space to look into her eyes, searching for something—anything—that would tell him she was feeling the same fire he was.

She met his gaze, her lips swollen from the kiss, her breath just as unsteady as his. She gave him a lazy smile, and then, in that instant, he couldn’t hold back any longer.

His laptop—completely forgotten—was now a distant memory as he leaned down once more, this time pressing his lips against hers with an intensity that spoke volumes. His hands moved to her waist, pulling her flush against him, the warmth of her body against his the only thing that mattered in that moment.

Amelie responded eagerly, her fingers curling into his shirt, pulling him closer. The kiss deepened, and Lando’s mind was now consumed with the taste of her, the way she fit perfectly against him. Every kiss felt like it was the start of something new, a connection that was both thrilling and grounding all at once.

When they finally pulled apart, both of them breathless, Lando’s heart was racing. He closed his eyes for a moment, gathering his thoughts, and when he opened them again, Amelie was looking at him with a knowing smile.

—You’re going to be the death of me,— he muttered, shaking his head in disbelief.

She just giggled, her fingers still playing with the hem of his shirt. —I’m not sorry,— she teased, her voice low and playful.

Lando chuckled, his hands tracing small patterns on her back, as if he needed the reassurance that she was still there, still in his arms. —You’re lucky I can’t resist you. You know that?—

—Mm, I know,— she replied, her lips brushing against his once more, not as urgent as before, but still full of that same electric charge.

Lando sighed, knowing this was going to be a night neither of them would forget. And as he settled back into the bed, pulling her closer, he couldn’t help but think about how much he was willing to let go of everything else, just to be with her like this.

-------------

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landonorris: dubuggai 🥽

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maxfewtrell: ok but the captions are always next level 😂🥽 → landonorris: @maxfewtrell I’m just out here trying to keep it fresh, mate 😎

amelie dayman: That’s my man 😍🥽 → landonorris: @ameliedayman Always looking good, babe ❤️

ameliesupporter: this is the best couple. honestly

amelieislove: okay, but they’re the cutest couple ever. I can’t handle it 😩💖 → lanmelieshipper24: @amelieislove we knew it from the start, now we’re just waiting for the wedding announcement 😭

maxverstappen1: bro, you’re actually obsessed with her now 🤣 → landonorris: @maxverstappen1 Tell me something I don’t know 😂

lanmelierealists: THE ENERGY in these photos is giving us LIFE! They’re absolutely perfect together 😭🔥 → f1dreamteam: @lanmelierealists They’re definitely soulmates. Just look at the way they vibe together 🫶

lanmieshipper69: Okay, this is IT. I’m convinced. They’re goals, no questions. ✨

charles_leclerc: ok now, where’s my photo? 😂 → landonorris: @charles_leclerc Next time we’re in the same country, I got you bro 😂

victoriadayman: my two favorite people in one picture 😭 I can’t handle this much love! → lanmelierealists: @victoriadayman her mom’s right, though, this is TOO much cuteness 😩

f1gossiper: I can’t even believe how much we all adore them together. It’s perfect 💖💖

bottasforever: Tell me Lando’s not obsessed with Amelie without telling me he’s obsessed 😂

[author-morgan]

Title: Not Just Silver and Gold Pairing: Edward Kenway x fem!Reader Rating: T Word Count: ~7.9k Summary: Edward Kenway fishes you out of the Atlantic and finds treasure that's not just silver and gold.

an early b-day gift for @mrsragnarlodbrok

THE NORTH ATLANTIC is quiet and still. A midmorning fog clings to the inky water—a nigh impenetrable wall making it difficult for Edward Kenway and his crew to see much farther than the tip of the Jackdaw’s bowsprit. It’s been two weeks since they set off from Great Inagua’s cove on the word of Henry Jennings about a convoy of Spanish merchant ships heading back to Spain from the Yucatán, passing north of Cuba and then onto open water—laden with silver and jewels and ripe for plundering.

Only after a week of searching and patrolling shipping lanes, there is naught but schooners and brigs flying Saint George's Cross, not worth the notoriety that would come from attacking them. And then, as if punishment for their greed and pride from Neptune himself, a squall blew them too close to the Spanish shores of La Florida. Ereyesterday, Captain Kenway could tell his crew was growing discontent with their ill-fortunes, and now he’s determined to make berth with something to show for this blunder, even if it’s not the promised riches they set out to pirate. 

The scent of burning pitch and tar cuts the air, but there’s a whiff of something acrid and sulfurous, too. It sets the crew at unease. And then the sea is no longer empty, and on either side of the Jackdaw is a scattered and burning wreckage. Flames rise from the shell of a broken hull—split in two but yet to sink. “Merchant ship, most likely,” Edward tells his quartermaster. An English ship, by the looks of it, and given the uniforms of the drowned crew mixed with the flotsam. There are crates and barrels still bobbing on the water’s surface—not much, but it’s something. “Salvage what you can!” The captain orders, and slowly, the crew begins shuffling around on the main deck, scouting their pitiful bounty.

“Cap’n!” Thom shouts, straying from his post at the swivel gun to look over the gunwale. Edward gives the helm to Adéwalé and joins the four men gathered at the rails, staring down at the water and wreckage. “There.” The deckhand points at one of the pieces of floating debris, lying half on the carvel panel and half in the water is a woman, slowly drifting away from the ship. 

Instinct kicks in just as if there’d been a man overboard. Edward tosses his pistols to Billy and drops his sword belt, diving into the wreckage below, and swimming out before she slips too far away. He thinks there’s a pulse—faint against the rise and fall of the sea, but enough to keep you from joining the other poor souls in Davy Jones’s Locker. Pulling you into the water, Edward starts back toward the Jackdaw, fighting the weight of the layers of your soaked frock to keep your head above the water. The crew tosses a rope down and Edward grips it, hooking his arm beneath yours, as they haul you both onto the Jackdaw.  

Edward leans over you on the deck—he can feel your slow, uneven breaths on his damp cheek. “Still breathing,” he announces to the crew, easing his hand to cradle the back of your head. Some of the men back away, muttering a woman aboard will bring them bad luck—more than they’ve already had these last weeks—while others just stare.

Slowly, Edward starts to sit you up and air comes rushing back, displacing the water filling your mouth and lungs in a heave of salty bile. You twist in your savior’s arms, heaving up the contents of your belly onto the deck. “Easy there,” Edward soothes. The saltwater stings your eyes, and the chill bites through the soaked fabric clinging to your skin, but the solid oak deck is an anchor to a world threatening to slip away.

“S’alright, lass,” he tells you, his voice rough—barely above a whisper, but it cuts through the rushing blood in your ears. Eyes burning and sight hazy, you look around at the seafarers, and then at the man kneeling at your side. His face is a mask of concentration mixed with relief, framed by straw blond hair dripping with seawater. 

He watches for any sign of awareness in your eyes, his hand still cradling your head, steadying you, but there’s only the empty, fearful look of a soul just stolen from Davy Jones. Edward’s arms—warm and strong—slip beneath the bends of your knees and around your shoulders, heaving you up from the deck with a grunt. “Eyes on the horizon, lads,” he commands, starting toward the great cabin.

And when you look up at the masts and sails above there’s an odd black spot lingering in your blurred vision—or maybe it’d been a black flag.

He sets you on a lumpy mattress in the captain’s quarters, then offers a tepid cup of water. You drink to wash away the taste of salt and bile, but feel your stomach begin to churn again.  

“Were there any others?” You ask, your voice faint and unfamiliar, the words half-slurring as you stare at your reflection in the water. You can still hear the shouting, the screaming from the officers to douse the lanterns and sparks, but it’d been too late. The magazine caught, and the roar from the belly of the ship and cracking timbers were deafening, but then, once adrift amid the burning wreck, there was only silence—no wailing, no shouting, just a haunting stillness. 

Edward can see the horrors reflected in your tired eyes—for one not accustomed to maritime battles and mishaps, such sights can cause a lifetime of haunts. “Afraid not,” he answers, wringing out the rag and turning your cheek toward the lantern light. He presses the rag against your hairline and temple where there’s a bloody cut and sees you flinch away at the brush of his calloused fingertips. “Sorry,” he breathes—he’s usually the one getting patched up, not playing caretaker.  

You’re quiet for a long while as he tends your hurts, still shaken, but even so, you remember your manners. “May I have your name, good sir?” You ask, barely a whisper. 

Edward hesitates—he’s infamous in these waters. Everyone in the West Indies knows of his piracy against empires and exploits with the likes of Thatch and Vane in Nassau. But you’re only a woman, crossing the Atlantic for the first time by the looks of it and still likely blissfully ignorant of the order of things in these parts. He’ll take the risk and be truthful. “Edward,” he tells you after a long pause, lifting the rag to see if there’s any more blood welling up along the cut. “Captain Edward Kenway.” You thank him for saving you from certain death and for his attentive care. 

“What was your heading, lass?” He questions, knowing by the quality and style of your dress that someone of import would be waiting for your arrival—a husband maybe, or a father or brother—and where there’s status, there’s riches to be bartered. 

“Kingston,” you answer. The captain said you were only ten days from the city and old Port Royal before the ship went up in flames. 

“I see,” he says, his eyes studying your face for a moment as if searching for something more—a hint of recognition or deception—but there’s nothing else save for gratitude and exhaustion. “Get some rest, lass,” Edward continues, offering a roughspun woolen blanket, his voice softening as he lets you be.

Edward runs his hand over his face when he steps out of his cabin and back into the midmorning sun. It seems they will have to sail to Kingston. Adéwalé comes down the steps. “One of the men pulled these from the wreckage” —he passes the leather-wrapped letters to the captain— “Letters of Marque.” Edward unfurls the soaked parchment, the ink smudged but still legible. He thumbs through the first pages. 

Whereas, by His Majesty’s Commission under the Great Seal of Great Britain bearing Date the 13th Day of March in the year of Our Lord 1716, and in the 2nd Year of His Majesty’s Reign, the Lords Commissioners for executing the Office of Lord High Admiral are required and authorized to issue forth and grant Letters of Marque and Reprisal...the letters are signed by the king, his seal pressed in green wax, but the vessel and officers' names are left blank. A potential bargaining chip. 

Edward skims the next letter in the batch—written on thinner parchment—the gall ink bleeds badly, and words run together, but he can make out enough to know they’ve either struck gold or will find themselves wearing hempen halters soon. He laughs, looking at Adéwalé and feeling as though the tides have shifted in their favor. “She’s the daughter of Kingston’s Chief Judiciary,” Edward tells his quartermaster. A rich bastard with coin and power to spare. A fine ransom. Adéwalé’s eyes widen with the revelation, and Edward claps his mate’s shoulder with a smile as he heads for the Jackdaw’s helm. “Just got interesting,” he notes. “Wouldn’t you agree, Adé?”

STEPPING FROM THE cabin, you squint in the bright sunlight—unsure if hours or days have passed—hand raised to shield your eyes from the midday sun. There are words of gratitude on your lips for Edward Kenway and his men, but the black smear still lingers on the edge of your gaze, and now you can see it’s a flag—the colours of the ship. A white skull on a tattered black field. The sight churns your stomach. Pirates. Any words of thanks fade, a newfound fear and odium taking gratitude’s place—dread, too. “You’re bloody pirates,” you breathe, voice trembling. 

Edward Kenway glances over the ship’s wheel and offers a roguish smile. “Privateer, really,” he quips. A partial truth. “But the lines do blur.” He passes the helm to Adéwale and makes his way to where you stand, aghast at the revelation of who your rescuers truly are. “I’ll strike you a deal, lass,” the captain starts, knowing you’re in no position to refuse. You may as well be a prisoner—or a hostage to ransom. “I’ll get you safely to Kingston and back to the good ole judge in exchange for some coin and safe passage for me and mine,” he tells you. 

It doesn’t seem like much to ask for. A fair trade—or at least your father might think so. But even if he makes good on his deal, it won’t matter. Those colours won’t get him anywhere but an iron pen and the gallows. And unless Edward Kenway is a particularly bad pirate, the King’s Men and your father’s cabinet will know who he is. “You’ll hang.” It’s not a threat so much as an observation—a hard truth.

The captain’s cavalier attitude shifts in a blink, his expression souring. “That how you intend to repay the man who saved your life?” Edward asks, almost amused as he looks down his nose—slightly crooked from being broken one too many times—at you. “By granting him a noose?”

One good deed is not enough to absolve a man of a lifetime of sins. It’s a phrase you’ve heard since childhood about those who turned to piracy and sought to become a scourge of the seas. You lift your chin, unwavering, as a lady of your standing should be. “I can request a quick drop and sudden stop for you, sir.”

Edward’s eyes narrow at your sharp turn of the tongue. “In that case” —he grips your arm, pulling you over to the side of the ship, bright eyes scanning the horizon— “we can find you another piece of flotsam to cling to, Your Highness.” You stare down into the dark water, heart racing, fearful he might really throw you overboard. But Adé gives Edward a look from the helm, and it’s not long after that the captain concedes with a heavy sigh. “Pirates we may be,” he starts, stepping away from the ship’s taffrail and you, “but you’ve my word. We’ll get you to Kingston, and no harm will come to you.”

You keep your distance for the rest of the day, wary of your rescuers now that you know their true nature—pirates. They pay you little mind, even the ones who’d cursed your presence after Edward dragged you onto the ship from the water. With nowhere else to go—and unwilling to make yourself familiar with pirates—you return to the captain’s cabin.

When Edward retires in the night hours, he finds you awake, sitting on his bed with an open book—Robinson Crusoe—near the hanging oil lantern. It seems you’ve made yourself at home in his quarters. “I…” you start, the words stuck in your throat as he closes the door behind him, “I apologize for my curtness early.” The apology sounds forced to Edward’s ear. 

Edward takes to a chair and props his feet up on the table at the center of his quarters, uncorking a fresh bottle of rum. He takes a long drag of the sweet liquor and relishes the burn in his salt-scratched throat before the warmth settles in his belly. “You’ll get no apologies from me, lass,” he tells you, not ungently. Another swig of rum and he sighs inward, seeing your fear-laced expression staring back at him in the dim lantern lights. “Like to think I’m a man of my word, though.” But his words offer no comfort—it’s hard to trust the word of a sea scoundrel. 

“Rum?” He offers up the bottle, but you do not move to take it. You’ve never been one to take to the drinks of men. “We’ve not got tea, Your Highness,” Edward mocks. He knows your type—the ones who always looked down on him and his lot, even back in Swansea. Nothing was ever good enough for the landed gentry. 

“How many days are we from Kingston?” You dare ask, ignoring his jape. You don’t expect an answer, or an honest one, in truth. 

“Jackdaw’s been at sea for over a fortnight,” he tells you. They’ve already been at sea longer than they planned, and the supplies are dwindling. “We’ll have to stop over to refresh our stores. Our cove is seven, maybe nine, days away if the weather holds.” Summer months in these parts were always finicky for sailing—never quite could know if a maelstrom would try to take you when the skies opened up. “I reckon then, four days. Long as the wind is on our side, and we don’t come across any of Philip or George's good men.”

When the bottle of rum is half gone, Edward rises from his chair and flops down on his bed, stretching out despite your appalled expression—a mix of outrage and disgust at his impudence. “What are you doing?” You demand. 

He folds his hands behind his head and closes his eyes. “Having a kip,” Edward answers, settling into the lumpy rag-and-straw mattress, “if it pleases you.”

IT TAKES NINE days to reach the old cove after sundown—a haven for pirates, especially now with the seat of the Pirate Republic under the watchful eye of the King’s Men and their Templar associates. Great Inagua is where the Jackdaw makes berth. Under better circumstances, you might even dare describe the small settlement as quaint, with the little houses and shops dotting a main stretch of earthen paths before disappearing into a thick jungle. Instead, you find yourself shrinking away from the gazes of vagabonds and scarlet women.

The first place Edward Kenway and his crew head is the dockside tavern to wet their whiskers and fill their bellies with something other than watery ale, rum, and cold salt pork. Feeling out of place and unsure of the workings of a society based on piracy, you keep close to Edward—taking a spot on the bench opposite of him at one of the tables. He doesn’t seem to mind. 

You only catch the last bit of what the group of bully boys sitting at the next table over say—I’d brave the Devil’s squalls to chart her shores—but Edward Kenway’s keen ears hear it all. His smile fades instantly, and he slams his tankard of ale on the table, head twisting around. “Watch your tongue,” he says, voice a low, dangerous growl. 

The merriment on the dock dies down—the bard’s tune does, too. It’s as though everyone except you knows how this scenario plays out. One of them sneers at Edward. “What’s it to you, Kenway?” You don’t recognize any of them as men who sail on the Jackdaw, only that their foul mouths match their tempers.

“You’ll not insult my guest,” Edward answers, his voice carrying the weight of an unspoken threat as he rises from the bench and turns to face the group of ruffians. 

“Gone turn on one of your own for a stuck-up trollop?” The fattest of the bunch asks, spitting on the plank floor. Edward’s answer is violence. His fist connects square with the man’s jaw, the sharp crack of knuckles against bone ringing out like a gunshot. The brute stumbles back, crashing into the table behind him—knocking over half-filled tankards. 

Edward ducks under a wild swing, ramming his elbow into the ribs of the second man before twisting to avoid the grasp of the third. The first brute, stumbling back to his feet, charges. Kenway sidesteps at the last second, letting the man barrel straight over the dock railing and into the water, cursing as he falls. You flinch more than he does when a punch connects with his jaw, but Edward reaches for the nearest tankard—still half-full—and smashes it over the second man’s head, putting him on the ground with a pitiful moan. 

The third manages to grab Edward by the collar, hauling him back before landing a strike to the face. He twists sharply, driving his knee into the bastard’s groin. It’s enough for the man to release him, and a sharp uppercut sends him sprawling backward to join his compatriot.  

The three offending corsairs head off the dock tavern to sulk and lick their wounds and pride. Edward glances at the rest of the ruffians still sitting and standing around and gives them all a hard look of warning.

He returns to sit across from you—the singers striking up a jolly tune again—wiping his bloody mouth and nose on the back of his hand. When he glimpses you, he sees your horrified expression and wide-eyed gaze—a lady of nobility wasn’t used to watching tavern brawls. 

One of the barmaids brings a stained napkin and a cup of water. You take both items and move around the table beside Edward, tending to his hurts. “You did not have to do that,” you tell him softly, wiping away the blood at the corner of his mouth with the damp serviette. Words were just that—words. And you’re certain you’ve heard sailors under the King’s flag and your father’s men speak—do—far worse.    

“Gave you my word,” he tells you, a reminder—as though you could have so easily forgotten the promise made by the man who saved your life. Those kind blue eyes of his flit to yours, shining in the torchlight and hazy from the rum. If you stare too long, you’ll drown. And if you stare too long, you’ll see Edward Kenway for what he truly is. Snapping from your trance, you reach for Edward’s hand and start to clean his bloody and split knuckles. “Know you don’t think much of a pirate’s word,” he slurs—there’s a strange sadness in how he says it, “but we have our own type of honor.” He flexes his hand, and the bones creak and crack. “Our own creed.”

He rubs his bruising jaw and looks at the white house high on the hill. “I’ll take you to the manor,” Edward mutters. It’d be safer there anyway—fewer drunk reprobates at this hour. If he were a decent man, he’d have taken you already instead of letting degenerates entertain a woman of English nobility. Edward rises from the bench again and even offers the crook of his arm like a true gentleman to lead you down the short street and up the hill.

It’s a proper estate with a grand dining room, a great parlor, and even a library—though the shelves are noticeably empty save for a few odds and ends. 

Edward opens the bedchamber door and steps aside, motioning for you to enter and make yourself comfortable. The room is simply furnished. There’s a bed, a wardrobe, and a parlor set. The dust and full decanters of wine and rum tell you it’s seldom occupied, too. It’s certainly better than your accommodations on the Dauntless and the Jackdaw these past weeks. He starts to let the door shut, letting you be for the night. “Where will you go?” You ask, curiosity getting the better of you. 

“Tavern or brothel floor, most likely,” he answers. 

“Edward,” you call to him, and he stops, looking over his shoulder. “Don’t be absurd,” you say, the words slipping from your lips before you can think them over. Edward’s hand stills on the door, and he turns to face you, one eyebrow raised in amused surprise. “I would not keep you from sleeping under your own roof,” you tell him.

“Is that so?” he replies, a playful edge in his voice. You had no qualms about taking his bed and quarters aboard the Jackdaw. A faint smile twists his lips, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes—shadowed with fatigue. Edward hesitates still, and his expression shifts, the amusement fading. He studies you, weighing your offer against an invisible scale of propriety and caution. But after the events of the evening and the conversations you’ve shared, there’s an unspoken trust neither of you could have foreseen. 

“Yes,” you answer, meeting his gaze, not shying away. “Stay.”

He doesn’t have to be told again and closes the door behind him. You awkwardly stand at the room’s center, fiddling with the sleeve hem of the borrowed wool jacket, eager to rid yourself of the salt-soaked clothes on your back but unsure how far you’re willing to go for comfort and risk propriety. Behind you, it sounds like Edward Kenway laughs as he goes to one of the trunks and shuffles around in the contents. “Here,” he notes, offering a linen shift. You take the chemise with a nod of gratitude. “I’ll have a bath drawn for you in the morning,” he adds. 

“I...” It’s a kindness you had not expected, even if he had shed blood for you. “Thank you.” Edward nods, and you disappear behind the dressing screen, shedding the worn sailor’s clothing for something more comfortable and familiar. 

He’s already removed his effects—weapons piled on the top of the trunk nearest the foot of the bed, his coat and tunic laying across the back of a parlor chair, and his boots kicked to the side. You flush at the sight of him half-clothed and make for the bed in haste to keep your gaze and mind from wandering. 

The bed dips when Edward eases himself onto the opposite side, and for a moment, there’s nothing but the quiet creak of the wooden frame and the faint rustle of fabric as he makes himself comfortable. You close your eyes, willing sleep to take you, and quickly, but the awareness of him—his presence, his warmth, the slow, even sound of his breathing—makes it difficult.

A long silence stretches between you both, and just when you think he’s already drifted off, his voice, low and gruff with exhaustion, breaks the stillness. “Get some sleep, lass,” he tells you. 

It feels odd, lying on a bed, not rocking to and fro with the swells of the sea. It’s too still, and you find yourself unable to sleep much longer than an hour or two at a time. You roll over, looking at the pirate lying next to you. 

Edward’s broad shoulders rise and fall with each steady breath. The furrow oft between his brows is softened in sleep—an odd look of peace for such a complicated and troubled man. The streams of moonlight passing through drawn curtains cast a soft, silver glow over him, shining on the dark outlines of his tattoos and highlighting the silvery scars on his arms and back. He’s handsome in a rugged and rogue way and far from what you believed a pirate would be like. You curse the thoughts creeping into your mind and the growing fondness you feel toward him.  

“Stop moving, damn you,” Edward mumbles, half-asleep, feeling the mattress shift again. There’s a quiet apology on your lips, but it turns into a surprised little gasp when Edward’s arm curls around your middle, drawing you into his side.

FOUR DAYS LATER, the Jackdaw is fit to sail again—her crew and stores replenished and ready for an easy journey to Kingston and wherever they may need to roam afterward. You set off before midday with calm waters and a gentle breeze to fill the sails, and this time your temperament isn’t as sour.

By evenfall, there’s hardly anyone on the deck. Most of the crew are in the belly of the ship, taking their supper and playing dice and knucklebones. Edward stays at the helm, though, holding the wheel steady as the Jackdaw passes the eastern shores of Cuba. “C’mere, lass,” he calls down to you—sitting on the stairs up to the quarterdeck.

He holds out his hand when you step to his side, and you place your hand in his—rough fingers curling around yours—as he guides you to the Jackdaw’s wheel. “There,” Edward says, softly, bringing your other hand to rest on another wheel handle, letting you take control of his ship. “Steady,” he breathes, hands finding purchase on your waist. You don’t have to fight the wind or currents, only keep the bow of the ship true to the southerly course.

A long moment passes, and you glance back at Edward, only to find his clear blue eyes are already focused on you with the beginnings of a smile. “Eyes on the horizon, love,” he chides—a whisper of warmth against the curve of your neck.

“Edward.” You know what he's going to do as he leans closer, and you make no effort to stop him—taken with this new sense of freedom and control that you have of your own fate while aboard this ship. He moves first. You swallow hard, a small pulse in your neck beating frantically, and your eyes slip shut as his lips brush yours—a satisfied sigh escaping on your breath. The kiss is chaste; a gentle flutter of his lips against yours. Only testing the waters.

PORT ROYAL AND Kingston rise from the pale blue waters of the Caribbean in the afternoon sun. The Jackdaw drops anchor in the bay harbor, and the crew helps you and the captain down into a dinghy to row ashore. “Here we are, Your Highness,” Edward announces when he pulls to one of the low wharves and ties off the small boat—there’s an odd sense of mirth in his tone and shining in his blue eyes. He steps onto the short wharf and offers his hand, pulling you up. 

Edward Kenway fashions himself to look like a simple West Indies merchant seaman, foregoing most of his usual armaments besides a pistol and saber. And you’ve donned the ruined dress from when he first found you adrift in the Atlantic.

The streets of Kingston aren’t what you expect, but you’d heard what happened to the city of Port Royal, the sea and sand reclaiming most of the city—divine punishment, no doubt. Though, you suppose it does take time to build a new city in place of the one destroyed. You keep close to Edward, as the denizens offer odd glances, clearly taken aback by your disheveled appearance and unscrupulous company.

The judge’s estate is near the governor’s mansion—smaller but no less grand by the looks of it, but still quite different compared to your countryside manor in Devonshire. Guards posted at the wrought iron gate usher the two of you into the yard and up the steps of the Georgian manse when Edward announces he found the judge’s daughter adrift at sea amidst the wreckage of the Dauntless. They’ve already heard of the misfortunes from the captain of another English ship—the Monmouth.  

The doors of the solar open and cool air, tinged with pipe smoke, greets you. Edward enters after you, glimpsing the richly adorned interior. He sees you shift, awkwardly, none of this feels familiar, not in the way Devonshire did. No countryside breeze slips through the open windows, only the scent of West Indies sugar and Spanish silver.

Your father is older than you remember—it's been almost a decade since he first sailed from England—and his powdered wig is unable to hide the grey beneath. The lines around his eyes are deeper, sterner, too. He pauses mid-step, as if unsure whether to believe who's standing before him. “My God…” He steps closer, arms slightly lifted—but not embracing you. Not yet. His eyes flick from your face to your ruined gown, your tangled hair. It's really you. And then you're enfolded in his arms.

Your father looks to Edward Kenway as he releases you from an embrace. “I am indebted to you, mister...” he trails off, not knowing how to address the man who’d returned his daughter. 

“Walpole,” Edward says, wisely giving a false name. “Duncan Walpole, sir.” 

He nods and waves off one of the footmen to fetch a reward. The butler places three heavy purses, two of silver coin and one of gold, onto the desk—more than Edward Kenway would have demanded in ransom had it still been his priority. “Thank you,” the pirate starts, looking at the bounty, and then something twists in his stomach and chest—is this the price for a father’s daughter?—“but I cannot accept this.” The answer surprises all those in the solar, but none more than you. Edward looks at you. There’s guilt shining in his eyes and another look you cannot quite place, but you know it frightens you. “Knowing your daughter is safe is reward enough,” he says earnestly.

The judge’s brows lift in surprise. As a man of wealth and station, he cannot fathom such a reward being refused, least of all by a man who bore the rough edges of a privateer—perhaps worse. “Now there’s a fine lad,” your father muses, considering the dealings already done.  

And with nothing else to say and no bargain to strike, Edward Kenway turns to make his way back to the Jackdaw. “I’ll see you out, Mister Walpole,” you announce, almost too hastily, given the terse look on your father’s face. “To give my final thanks,” you amend. 

Edward hesitates, his clear and sharp gaze flicking to the guards and servants lingering in the periphery—they watch from a respectable distance, skeptical of his presence. Then, with a curt nod, he follows you, and once out of earshot, you let the formality slip. “A moon ago, I was just a coin purse to you,” you remind him. He exhales, a faint chuckle escaping him, though it holds no real humor. He doesn’t meet your eyes at first, glancing ahead at the wrought iron gates instead. “What changed?” You ask. 

“Everything.” Edward finally looks at you then—really looks at you. His expression teeters between indifference and contentment. Then he shakes his head, a fleeting, almost sad smile tugging at his lips. “Nothing.”

You slow as the estate’s gated entrance draws near, heart beating in your throat. When he goes, so will your first taste of true freedom.  “Will I see you again, Edward?” You question, hopeful. Foolish, you curse yourself, he’s a pirate, you foolish girl.

“If the winds and seas are kind, Your Highness,” he tells you.

Reaching up, you unclasp the silver chain and pendant molded into your family’s crest and adorned with a dark red stone from around your neck. “Take this” —you pass the necklace to him— “to remember me by.” His lips twist upward when he takes the necklace, thumb running over the imprinted crest and garnet before he tucks it into one of the pockets of his blue woolen coat.

You both hesitate, then Edward glances over his shoulder, checks no one is watching, and moves toward one of the trees and stone columns marking the estate’s entrance, pulling you with him—out of sight from any would-be wandering eyes. His rough, calloused hand cups your cheek, and then you’re drowning again in his eyes—like a stormy maelstrom. Edward, you aren’t sure if his name is a whisper on your lips or not when his lips find yours, tentative—as if asking permission, just the same as when he first kissed you on the Jackdaw. You lean into him, and he deepens the kiss, hand slipping from your cheek to the back of your neck. When he finally pulls back, his forehead rests against yours, his breathing uneven. “To remember me by,” he echoes with a roguish smile, slipping away back to his life on the sea.

THE LETTER TO a dear friend across the Atlantic is almost fully penned when one of the commanders from Fort Charles arrives in the manse’s solar. He greets you proper, then turns to where your father sits at his desk, reviewing letters and documents from the governor and those delivered on the last ship from England. “Brought in a haul of pirates, sir,” the soldier announces. 

“Names?” Your father requests, appearing uninterested though you know he’s listening intently to see if there’s a sea rat with enough prestige amongst the lot to help raise his status here in the Caribbean colonies. 

The soldier begins rambling off a list of names from a rolled-up piece of parchment. No one of prominence by the sounds of it “…and a hothead, Kenway,” he finishes. 

You lay down your goose quill and shift in your chair, looking back at the soldier. Your father doesn’t seem to place the name, but you do. “Edward Kenway?” You inquire, not that there’s likely to be another Kenway sailing under a black flag in these parts. 

“Aye,” the commander confirms.

It’s been months, maybe a year or more since you last received word from Edward Kenway—even longer since he’d last come to steal you away in the night. The memory of your shared times together and the thought of having to watch him hang makes your heart start to race and your mouth go dry. I must do something, you tell yourself, even though the new gold and sapphire weight on your left ring finger feels heavier now than it ever has before. 

IT’S A FOOLISH thing to do, especially if you get caught, but it only feels right to return a favor. Your father said all those convicted of piracy would have fair trials by the week’s end. But fair trials for pirates always end with a long walk to the gallows and a hempen halter. A fate you’re determined to save Edward Kenway from—at least for a little while. 

You dash from the bushes to one of the side entrances of the prison whilst the guards on duty are changing shifts. The halls are damp and dimly lit, and smell of mold and foul excrement. Some prisoners leer at you from within their iron pens—clearly a woman trying to pass as a man given how ill-fitting your breeks and woolen coat are, and clearly looking for someone who isn’t them.

“Edward,” you whisper into the darkness, having yet to pass where they’ve thrown him to await the noose. There’s no response. Frowning, you glance around the line of cells and then around the corner to check the hall is clear before starting forward again—quietly calling out his name every dozen paces. You spot his blond head leaning against the iron bars of the cell’s door and wall. 

He shifts as you draw nearer. “Risking your neck for a pirate?” Edward asks softly, his voice low, laced with disbelief as he rises from the damp floor. You offer him a fleeting smile before trying the first key. “You’ve gone mad, lass,” he says, smile widening. You shake your head—half-refuting his claim—trying a second key on the heavy iron ring, but the lock doesn’t budge. The third key opens the rusty cell door with a creak and a squeak. He hesitates just beyond the threshold of freedom, his gaze flickering to the darkened corridor beyond, then back to you. “Why?” He finally asks.

You don’t answer, not directly, anyway. Stepping back, you motion for him to go before it’s too late. “Get out of here,” you nigh hiss. “Before someone notices.” New patrols will be starting soon, and both of you need to leave undetected. You don’t fancy having to explain to your father why you’d been caught freeing a notorious pirate from prison or why he bears such a similarity to Duncan Walpole from those years ago.

But he doesn’t move. Instead, Edward closes the distance between you, his hand gently grasping your wrist. “Come with me,” he says. “For tonight.” Like old times. 

You shake your head—trying to resist the devil’s temptation. “I should protest,” you tell him. Things are different now, but his smile grows wider still, and his grip on your wrist tightens just a little.

“Aye,” he agrees, teasing, “you probably should.” And against better judgment, you find yourself nodding, a small smile tugging at your lips as you let Edward guide you farther into the prison in search of his things.

He recovers his effects from one of the chests in the officer’s quarters, tucks them under his arm, and then takes your hand again, retracing the same path you’d taken through the halls. You both slip unseen from the prison’s entrance, and Edward pulls you away from old Fort Charles to one of the dinghies on the sandy beach. He tosses his things into the boat, then pushes it to the water, helping you in before rowing toward the far end of the bay.

Once the rowboat is ashore and you step from it onto the beach, Edward surges forward. His hands frame your face, roughened by his time at sea, and his lips find yours as though the years that've passed are only days. Even so, it’s reckless and desperate—a kiss stolen in the dead of night, a treasure neither of you is meant to have. He can tell there’s something different in how you respond—maybe time has been cruel, after all. Edward rests his forehead against yours, hands sliding down to your waist. “If you don’t want this,” he breathes, “tell me.” Because by God, he wants you. 

You press your hand against his chest, unsure whether to push him away or pull him closer, but morality and duty win over. “I’m to be married, Edward,” you whisper, turning your cheek to deny him another kiss. His brows furrow. You’d risked life and limb to defy the law in freeing him from his cell, and yet, he shakes his head disbelieving. “We made no promises to one another,” you remind him. Rare stolen nights and sparse letters to fill the time, but no promise of something more.  “And you’ve not returned to Kingston in years until now when you’re bound for the noose.”

He won’t deny it; you speak the truth. It’s not that he hadn’t wished to return, only that so much had happened with Nassau, the Templars, searching for a grand treasure called the Observatory. Edward hadn’t expected you to wait for him—not really, but he hadn’t expected this news either. He had hoped. A fool’s hope as it happened to be. He steps back and paces. Of course, you had to marry. It was expected for a woman of your caliber. He won’t ask who the engagement is to or what your new fiancé’s status and profession are. No, all Edward asks instead is: “Is he a good man?”

But the tears shining in your eyes and your silence is answer enough. Duty is the death of love.

Taking your hands, Edward looks you in the eye—his are as clear and blue as you’ve ever seen. “Sail with me.” It takes a moment for his request to sink in, and your brows furrow—gone for years and now this. “You’ll have freedom from those who would seek to cage you,” he tells you, “and should anyone try to come for you, hurt you, I’ll-” he doesn’t have to finish—you already know the lengths to which Edward Kenway is willing to go to keep you from harm. 

“Become a pirate?” You ask, incredulously, glancing toward the dark horizon where the sea meets the sky. Saying it aloud makes it seem even more ridiculous. And then you hesitate to say anything else as you ponder the thought for only a moment. The life you’ve always known—duty, expectation, a future never truly your own—is a heavy weight upon your shoulders in the wake of his offer. But Edward knows he’ll get no answer from you tonight, though maybe, just maybe, the newly planted seed will take root.

“If your answer’s yes” —he reaches for you, his careworn hands cupping your cheeks— “come to this spot in a fortnight at sunset.” Then he points toward the opening of the bay. “You’ll see the Jackdaw’s sails on the horizon.”

“And if I don’t come?” You ask, voice hardly a whisper.

Edward’s jaw tightens, hands falling away from your face, and, for a moment, his confidence wavers. He looks out toward the sea, the horizon painted in a curtain of indigo and blue, shining silver in the moonlight. When he turns back to you, his expression is resolute. “Then I’ll know you’ve made your choice,” he says, his tone firm but not without sadness. “And I’ll not darken your doorstep again.”

But before he goes, Edward takes your hand, pressing something into your palm—a small token, rough and weathered by the sea—the pendant of the necklace you’d given him as something to remember you by in his travels and adventures. His fingers linger before he steps back, and his eyes never leave yours. “Remember,” he says, his voice softer now, tinged with hope. “A fortnight. At sunset.”

Edward holds your gaze a moment longer, then releases your hand and turns, climbing back into the waiting rowboat. You watch him go, his silhouette growing smaller with each pull of the oars. The Jackdaw waits beyond the bay, her dark sails ghostlike in the fading moonlight. You curl your fingers around the pendant, heart beating in your throat, torn between the life you’ve always known and the allure of the unknown…of freedom.

FOR DAYS, YOU try to forget—try to return to the silk gowns, to polite tea parties with the other ladies of society in the city, to garden walks, to wax-sealed letters and obligations spoken in hushed, clipped tones behind parlor doors. But Edward's words linger in your mind like the stubborn fog that clings to the city when it rains, like it is now—his touch, his kiss, the way he said your name. And every night, you dream of sails and starlight, wind-tossed hair, and the taste of rum on his lips. And every morning, you rise, telling yourself you won't go. That you can’t go.

A fortnight. One final day. The hours are slow to creep by and yet the mantle-clock moves faster than you’ve ever seen. You run your thumb over the pendant as you’ve done for the last thirteen days, having taken to wearing it again on a silver chain since Edward returned it. Perhaps deep down in your heart, you already know the choice you will make. But the creeping doubt and more sensible piece of your being argues against the allure of the seas and the feelings you have for Edward Kenway.

But as the sun begins to dip low in the sky—turning the horizon a fiery red and gold that makes the world look half on fire, half in a dream—your resolve wavers. The window in the drawing room is open, and the evening breeze carries the scent of salt air and water. There is no escaping, not even when you squeeze your eyes shut and bid yourself to think of anything besides him.

Heart pounding in your throat, you take a sharp breath and move quickly. There’s no time to think about what you’re doing—the consequences of such an action—otherwise, you might stay. You slip out the servant’s entrance before anyone can see or stop you, and head for the manor’s entrance and down toward the beach.

The sky is bleeding into twilight as you reach the place where Edward told you to come, and there she is, anchored just beyond the breakers. The Jackdaw. Though, her colours are replaced with a flag of white and red—Saint George’s Cross. Your breath catches, watching as a lone boat rows toward the shore.

Edward doesn’t say anything as he climbs from the rowboat into knee-deep water, wading closer. He doesn’t have to. He just looks at you—searching your face for hesitation, but there is none. The fleeting moment passes when you step toward him in the surf, surging forward to close the remaining distance between you. And this time, you are the one who kisses him. He tastes of salt and rum, a tinge of tobacco and gunpowder, too. His arms wrap around your waist, pulling you closer, and you can feel the tremble in his chest as he exhales upon parting.

“You came,” Edward breathes against your lips, his voice rough like he doesn’t quite believe it but tinged with relief, too. You nod, unable to speak past the knot in your throat. He steps back after a moment and looks between you and the Jackdaw with a smile, rogue and handsome, his eyes shining in the golden hour.  “I don’t know where the wind’ll take us, love, but if you’re willing…” he offers his hand—a new life—and you take it.

[Edward taglist: @certifiedlittleshit / @erzsebetrosztoczy / @hereforreadandwrite / @hc-geralt-23 / @jadynchronicle / @morganamayne / @mrsragnarlodbrok / @rigshak / @thatrandomfeministgamer ] if your name is italicized, tumblr would not let me tag you. if you’d like to be added to my Edward taglist, or any other taglist, just let me know with this Google Form!

[hboww2rewatch]

Please read the movie descriptions below

Saving Private Ryan (1998) - Following the Normandy Landings, a group of U.S. soldiers go behind enemy lines to retrieve a paratrooper whose brothers have been killed in action. Dir. by Steven Spielberg

A League of Their Own (1992) - American sports comedy drama film that tells a fictionalized account of the real-life All-American Girls Professional Baseball League (AAGPBL) during WWII. Dir. by Penny Marshall

Greyhound (2020) - The film is based on the 1955 novel The Good Shepherd, and follows a US Navy commander on his first assignment commanding a multi-national escort destroyer group of four, defending an Allied convoy from U-boats during the Battle of the Atlantic. Dir. by Aaron Schneider

Mudbound (2017) - The film depicts two World War II veterans – one white, one black – who return to rural Mississippi each to address racism and PTSD in his own way. Dir. by Dee Rees

Twelve O'Clock High (1949) - A tough-as-nails general (Gregory Peck as General Savage) takes over a B-17 bomber unit suffering from low morale and whips them into fighting shape. Based on a novel by the same name. Dir. by Henry King

The Best Years of Our Lives (1946) - three United States servicemen re-adjusting to societal changes and civilian life after coming home from World War II. The three men come from different services with different ranks that do not correspond with their civilian social class backgrounds. It is one of the earliest films to address issues encountered by returning veterans in the post World War II era. Dir. by William Wyler 

The Monuments Men (2014) - An unlikely World War II platoon is tasked to rescue art masterpieces from German thieves and return them to their owners. Based on the 2007 non-fiction book The Monuments Men: Allied Heroes, Nazi Thieves and the Greatest Treasure Hunt in History. Dir. by George Clooney

Dunkirk (2017) - Allied soldiers from Belgium, the British Commonwealth and Empire, and France are surrounded by the German Army and evacuated from Dunkirk. It is shown from the perspectives of the land, sea, and air. Dir. by Christopher Nolan

Fury (2014) - A grizzled tank commander makes tough decisions as he and his crew fight their way across Germany in April, 1945. Dir. by David Ayer

Valkyrie (2008) - A dramatization of the July 20, 1944 assassination and political coup plot by desperate renegade German Army officers against Adolf Hitler during World War II. Dir. by Bryan Singer

[pinturas-sgm-aviacion]

1943 03 03 Bismarck Sea, Pacific Beaufighters - Darryl Legg

RAAF Beaufighters of 30 Sqdn, attack Japanese supply ships during the Battle of the Bismarck Sea. March, 1943.

The 13 Beaufighters from No. 30 Squadron RAAF approached the convoy at low level to give the impression they were Beauforts making a torpedo attack. The ships turned to face them, the standard procedure to present a smaller target to torpedo bombers, allowing the Beaufighters to maximise the damage they inflicted on the ships' anti-aircraft guns, bridges and crews in strafing runs with their four 20 mm (0.79 in) nose cannons and six wing-mounted .303 in (7.70 mm) machine guns. On board one of the Beaufighters was cameraman Damien Parer, who shot dramatic footage of the battle; it was later included in the newsreel The Bismarck Convoy Smashed.

According to the official RAAF release on the Beaufighter attack, "enemy crews were slain beside their guns, deck cargo burst into flame, superstructures toppled and burned". Garrett Middlebrook, a co-pilot in one of the B-25s, described the ferocity of the strafing attacks:

They went in and hit this troop ship. What I saw looked like little sticks, maybe a foot long or something like that, or splinters flying up off the deck of ship; they'd fly all around ... and twist crazily in the air and fall out in the water. Then I realized what I was watching were human beings. I was watching hundreds of those Japanese just blown off the deck by those machine guns. They just splintered around the air like sticks in a whirlwind and they'd fall in the water.

Shirayuki was the first ship to be hit, by a combination of strafing and bombing attacks. Almost all the men on the bridge became casualties, including Kimura, who was wounded. One bomb hit started a magazine explosion that caused the stern to break off, and the ship to sink. Her crew was transferred to Shikinami, and Shirayuki was scuttled. The destroyer Tokitsukaze was also hit and fatally damaged. Its crew was taken off by Yukikaze. The destroyer Arashio was hit, and collided with the transport Nojima, disabling her. Both the destroyer and the transport were abandoned, and Nojima was later sunk by an air attack.

[captain-price-unofficially]

B-25 attacking the Japanese submarine chaser CH-39, 16 February 1944.

"Off Three Island Harbor, New Hanover in 02-24S, 150-06E. CH-39 is escorting cargo ship SANKO MARU towing a midget submarine. The convoy is attacked by Fifth Air Force B-25 "Mitchell" medium-bombers of the 500th Bomb Squadron of the 345 Bomb Group. The B-25s bomb, strafe and sink CH-39 and SANKO MARU (14 crewmen KIA) and damage the midget. 

That same afternoon, B-25s of the 499th Bomb Squadron of the 345 Bomb Group find CH-39 sunk by the stern on a reef and abandoned, but the midget submarine is still on the surface. They bomb and strafe the midget and claim a sinking."

[meli-writes]

Mechismo - No. 7 /// Payload

(Read on AO3) /// (First) / (Previous)

/// CW: light peril and implied threat of sexual assault. ///

"Nah, this is too good to be true," the merc-rebel-something mutters. She turns, twiddling the combat knife in her hand and stopping only to point it at you. "You wanna tell me what trap i've walked into, sweetheart?"

You eye the databox, stuffed with weeks and months of upcoming junta plans; and more besides. Enough intel to butcher hundreds of their bootlickers, least until they figure out they're compromised.

"I have it — for my own reasons," you taunt like the bellow of rotten, felled tree. "Making my mark, if you have to know."

"Is daddy-dictator's special girl staging a rebellious phase in her twenties?" the merc mocks. "Smuggle a bunch of data to what? Sell for tattoo money?"

You didn't plan an answer for a question like this, and it's hard not to just gawk and fumble at your cuffs.

"Maybe — if it's not a trap — the intel lasts a week," she continues. And besides that, you urge in your own head. "That's the only part with access dates in years. Rest is outdated crap."

"W-what do you—"

You shut your mouth when she stalks up, lifts your chin with the little blade's point with just enough force to dip it in red.

"You living out some little fantasy right now?" she asks, as much curioused as annoyed. "Because I really think that'd be a mistake."

It takes a lot not squeal. "I-I'm a valuable hostage, my family will pay well."

"They will," the merc muses, "and I think you knew that." In a glance she's seen right through, smiles at the confirmation you haven't realised you just gave away. "You leaked your convoy's route didn't you? Playing hero. Thinking you're gonna make us a pretty penny and then waddle back to your parties and soirées."

You buck up above the point of the knife, "You think I like being around them? They're monsters. And I have to pretend to be one, and you have no idea what that does to you."

Her brow raised, she stays quiet, listens.

"But i stood up, just like you did. I'm doing what I can."

And she laughs.

"Ah-hahaha! Oh saints, how many years you been saving up that little speech, sweetheart? Or bleeding-heart I should say."

"Too many," you spit.

"Hmm. Good answer," she smirks, putting a hand on your shoulder and hoisting you towards her own mech. "You're staying restrained."

"B-but i'm helping you!" you gasp.

"Your round ass for ransom helps me — you don't," she makes clear, enunciating it with a squeeze that presses into your collarbone. "And I don't trust you, so i'm not interested in giving you the chance to try anything. Don't think I haven't killed prettier things than you.

Don't think I regretted it either."

---

The merc bags your head first. Stuffs a mule-bit in your mouth overtop of it, so you're forced to swallow the loose fibres under your teeth as you gnaw on it in cortisol and pothole-induced chatters.

This isn't the edible part of the plant. You remember a 'land exchange ceremony' where you had to a drink a thick, green bowl of its stewed leaves and were sure the locals were making a joke about how bitter it was. You vomited it out-of-sight, sure your father would fucking shoot one of them if he saw it. Mostly because you hated the sound. the loud screech, and the crying after. The palace was far enough away to forget that was just part of the production process here.

Jute. It's called jute, you remember. 11.768MG from this entire continent, and about half of what it's allowed to produce. The other is raw minerals, shipped without care to the extra weight because it makes sure there's nothing here worth rebelling over. Makes sure no one can make anything out of it processed.

That's the theory at least. Doesn't explain who's paying for her. She doesn't look like one of the locals, like the people she pulls your hood off to, after 4 hours of trying not to vomit again as you rattled about in her scout mech's storage bin.

"Now youse believe me? Little Miss Junta, out of daddy's palace for a stroll in her smoking convoy," the merc purrs.

Her hand slips over your shoulder, through your heat-fucked hair and over your cheek, where the yanking of the bag has scratched a peace garden into the tear-stained makeup under your still-blinking eyes.

You stumble, lose your footing but only fall an inch as another hand sinks into your gut. It reminds you of one of those tree-cutting attachments, used for clearing land for plantation.

"There there, I got you sweetheart" she murmurs mockingly, slipping the bit back in before you can say—

You're not sure what you should.

You don't know these people. But it's hard to meet their stares for more than a moment, slash-and-burn fires in their eyes. The fires that throw up smoke you can see from a hundred miles away from behind ten layers of razorwire and a line of autogun implacements. Where this plan felt much more predictable.

You're not sure if you want her to explain it either.

She knows better, you're sure. The longer you've spent on this world has only made you feel like you know less and less.

"You waiting for a fucking bonus? A round of applause, perhaps?" one of them asks, an officer — or leader, if that sort of formality doesn't match. His pushed-back chair scrapes across the floor, pushing aside rotting fibres strewn across it. "You're paid for each contracted period; 50% at start, 50% at end, that's it."

"Can start with telling your man to fix my piece," your captor demands, or offers. It's hard to tell. One of the men at the table seems to hover around throwing his cards down. "There's a lot of dead men to clean out of the toe pads."

The 'officer' doesn't signal the sitting man to move. "You'll go with him then, yeah?" he asks.

Your eyes are adjusting now. It's only a moment before they've locked with his. You can't tell what your captor is doing but she's not moving either. He continues, "She can stay—"

"You're forgetting Section 16. Exceptional duties," she interrupts. "Think i'm at least due for a cut on the ransom. Besides, you're getting her databox for free. There's months worth of good intel there."

There's not. She said—

"It's free because it's useless to you." Unlike you. He circles the table, his hand hovering over loaded guns and dice. Maybe the merc is more predictable than them. Profit-motive alone is a little more... clean. "You radio'd that the convoy looked underarmed but normal. And you chose to engage it while on regular patrol, right?"

"Yeah," the merc grits past your ear, like the speckled concrete chips that have clawed under your dress from being made to crawl in them.

"Then it's not exceptional. Doesn't matter who the fuck she is." He's standing in front of you both now, taller. "Now show-and-tells over. You can supervise repairs while i look over my intake."

Your gut's squished a bit tighter. "And leave you here with her?"

It all clicks a little too quickly, and a little too late.

The officer's hand wraps around the little of your arm that shows in front, still drawn behind to raw wrists in junta cuffs. His thumb presses till your flesh turns whiter than it already is.

He leans over to whisper it in the merc's ear, "the fuck you think we're going to do?"

She yanks you back, head bouncing between pilot-suited tits. "Kidnapping her is escalation. That's Section 33, escalated scenarios, which means anything routine activity from here counts as Section 16," she non-answers. The words cock in her mouth like a loaded gun that hasn't fired yet.

It's just profit-motive. That's all it is. All it is. Your ransom must be worth a dozen of her contracts. She must figure they're testing to see if they can cut her out—

"You knew where to grab her!" the officer shouts. The less-drunk half of the table scrambles to their feet, but no one's armed just yet. You try to keep still, pretend like somehow he won't notice you're there even as he's screaming about you. "How long have i been paying you? trusting you? All that fucking risk. So why're you pulling this, huh? Wanna tell me what's going on? Don't think i didn't see the same stupid tip--"

"Hey! Merc-bitch," the table pipes up, the more-drunk half of it, with few chips and a lot more bottles where he's sitting. "You wanna piss off and let princess play with her new daddies?"

This one's looking at you. It's worse than hate, and twists at whatever face you're making. You can't even tell. Stupid passenger in your own— what? What is this now? Own body except not anymore. Your own plan except it's the merc's now.

Your own punishment?

Hh you are so fucking stupid. 'Your' punishment. Ha! Except your father will do so much worse than just shoot someone for bad leaf soup. The humiliation of it. His own daughter. Almost as bad as stealing one of the tin medals off his chest. If he could keep count of those either. Stupid as he is. And now without autoguns and razorwire and razorwire and more-fucking-razorwire to compensate.

Your merc's wrapping you closer, till your heels start to fall off. You don't even realise how much you were moving till you're forced to stop.

The officer's in his table-piper's face, pied with alcoholic blush, "Shut. The fuck. Up."

He's just trying to control the situation too. Yeah. You're the fucking bad guy here. Daddy's done what they're just joking about. Joking. Because you're the bad guy. You deserve a little of the risk for once.

"I'm just saying—"

"Just stop saying."

"Let me handle her," your merc offers, firm enough to make it obvious it isn't one.

She's pulling you more into her side, hand on your hip in a show of clamatory suggestiveness. She's less risk. You still want less risk.

"It can be payment for 16," she continues. This doesn't help her and now you're leaning into her. Her voice lilts a bit louder, "And if she needs a daddy, i've given her some guidance already."

You can her scar-splitting smile through the corner of your eye. You've seen enough smiles at those fancy balls to spot the bullshit ones, and spot the way she scans for if her comment satisfied or not.

You play your part and whimper.

Pitched just like your empty shell of a prop boyfriend likes and doesn't question. A fear that swirls with pleasure, water down the oil cap of an engine. She squeezes your hip bone in response, and you cow. There's still plenty of room to ruin this even as a prop yourself.

"You stays on your side of the camp," the officer finally says. "Keep her locked down, not my fault if she gets out." He sidles in closer one last time. "Keep her quiet. Not my problem if someone else gets in."

You know what you'd said now. Between the bit and her legs if you have to.

I promise you won't regret this. I promise I promise I—

All she says is, "let me know when you've got a line," and turns, "come on sweetheart. I wanna hear you say daddy."

You'll say that too.

---

(Masterpost) / (Next)

[julias-74]

Emil Czech (Austrian, 1862–1929), "Der Christbaum (The Christmas Tree)", 1903.

Peter Vilhelm Carl Kyhn (1819 – 1903) was a Danish painter.

Korovin K.A. "In winter" 1894

"Winter" - 1914 Artist Julius Klever - 1850 - 1924.

Korobkina Diana (Russia b. 1980), Barns, 2010

Ivan Aivazovsky (1817 - 1900), Winter convoy on the way, 1857

[sorinethemastermind]

Everybody Leaves (Soren's Version)

Help arrives at The Banther Lodge, and with it and unexpected reunion. #Sorvus

 It was only a couple days before help arrived from Duren. Soren could see the way that the arriving convoy, laden with supplies, made the little glimmer of hope in everyone’s eyes into a shining light. Suddenly there was enough of, well, everything. And when you didn’t have to worry about whether or not you’d have enough to eat the next day, or if your tent was going to leak rain onto you again, or if the bandages were going to run out, you could use all that energy on something else instead. Something just as important. Like a smile.

 The feeling was contagious. Children were laughing, their parents beaming at them; everyone exchanging hugs with friends and strangers alike. Soren had made sure to keep a warm smile on his face the entire time, because even if he couldn't do anything else for these people, he could do that. He could let them know that everything was going to be okay, that there was hope. But now it was a real and honest grin, and instead of just wearing it he could mean it. And that meant something too. 

 And it wasn’t just Duren that had sent help; Evenere, Del Bar, and even Noodleoodlia had sent food, supplies, and even in some cases aid in the form of guards and doctors. Ezran was already making the rounds, thanking every one in turn for their help, Callum by his side. Since what happened at the castle the two brothers had been nearly inseparable.

 With the talking part already taken care of, Soren had offered to help carry the supplies into the lodge for safe keeping. Afterall, his muscles were pretty impressive and he might as well put them to use. So he went back and forth from the clearing to the lodge, lugging crates and sacks of supplies, handing it out where he could before stockpiling the rest. It was on one of these trips that he spotted her.

 He recognized her immediately, though it took a minute for his mind to absorb what his eyes were telling it. So he just stood there, sort of woodenly, until it finished registering that she was real. She looked about the same as when he’d last seen her, though her hair had a few silver strands in it here and there now. Same little smile and kind eyes, though they had bags under them now. Maybe from days of hard riding to get here. Maybe from something else. 

 It took her longer to recognize him. He guessed he’d changed more. In a lot of ways.

 “Soren?” it was a question, her voice carrying a slight quaver as though she wasn't sure which answer she wanted to be true. 

 “Hey.” he didn’t know what else to say, but he was barely even able to choke that out. Mom felt wrong. Even if it was true. 

 “Oh, Soren.” He could see tears brimming in her eyes and looked away quickly, blinking.

 “I was so worried when I heard…” she tried to continue, her voice breaking as it trailed off. “I thought that maybe… I’m just so glad you’re okay. Is Claudia-”

 She glanced around, as though expecting to see her come out of the lodge, or skip around a corner; still small and smiling and laughing and Claudia. Still the same person she’d left behind, just waiting for her to come back. 

 And something inside Soren just stopped working as he followed her gaze around the camp, as though she really might just be waiting around the corner. As though everything wasn’t broken and hadn’t been broken for so long that sometimes it felt like it always had been. 

 “Soren?” her voice was scared, cracking on the words. “Soren, is Claudia..? Did- did she and your father..?”

 And if the thing inside him hadn't already stopped working, it would have then. He just shook his head, a single wooden no, and grabbed another crate off the pile.

 “I should get this inside. They’re waiting for me.”

 He hefted the box and hurried across the clearing, but it was like the air had grown thick and he was fighting his way through it, every step a feat of strength. She called after him, but he didn’t look back. Just like she hadn’t. Not even when Claudia had run after her, tugging at the hem of her dress with tiny hands, tears spilling down her face, begging her not to go. Not to leave them. Not to break their family apart forever. Not to-

 He didn’t realize he was gasping for breath until he was in the supply room, dropping the crate next to the others, and the door had swung shut behind him. He sat on the ground beside it, trying to unclench his fists even as he struggled to breath. In through your nose, out through your mouth. In through your nose, out through your mouth. In through-

 And he wasn’t trying to cry, in fact, he was trying really hard not to. And usually that worked; he could just take the feeling and store it away for later. Except later never came. And maybe that was why now it wasn’t working. Because maybe now was later. Maybe it had finally come. And all the times he’d pushed the feelings down and told himself he would deal with them later, now they were all coming back up because it was the time they’d been waiting for. 

 And suddenly every time his father had ever frowned at him in that certain way, or called him stupid or worthless or annoying. Every time he’d turned around because he thought he'd heard his mother’s laugh, or smelled pancakes cooking in the morning and thought for a split second that she’d come home, or put on that sweater she knit him one winter because it was cold. And every time he’d gone by Claudia’s old room in the castle, or patrolled the courtyard with the bench where she used to sit, or gone into the library to get an old book for Callum. It all came bubbling back up to the surface. 

 Except that sounds too peaceful, like it was some peaceful stream of emotions slowly gurgling through his subconscious. It was actually more like a volcano; erupting and spewing smoke and fire and ash across what remained of his fragile resolve. The same way the dragon had destroyed Katolis, swallowed up his home with fire and death. Swallowed up his father.

 Take my heart. 

 Soren thought that maybe it would be better if he didn’t have one. Or at least, if it just stayed broken, that way maybe it could stop breaking over and over again. And he could just be numb. And that would be better.

 Then the door opened, and Corvus was standing there, eyes wide and concerned. And it was enough to get the thing in Soren that had stopped working to give a spluttering try at starting again.

 “Soren?” Corvus’ voice was high and worried, and he closed the door swiftly behind him and dropped to the ground. 

 His hands cupped Soren’s face, tilting his chin up so their eyes met. He didn’t ask, just wrapped his arms tightly around Soren and held him there. And that was probably good, because Soren didn’t know what he would have said even if he’d had the strength. So he just hugged him back as tightly as he could and buried his face in that warm embrace, where nothing bad happened and everything was always okay.

 Even though that was a lie. Because everybody leaves eventually. 

[syndrossi]

So, what happens if Daemon flies in on Caraxes while Bobby B has just arrived in Winterfell. Since they were at Winterfell when they got isekaied, Daemon goes there. I bet that Daemon looks a lot like grown up Rhaegar (not much genetic variety in that family) and Bobby B starts running his mouth about killing Rhaegar again?

Would Resonant Jon, who loathes Bobby B too maybe get in on the action. What about Rhaegar? The old version of his cousin Rober is frothing at the mouth at the idea of killing him again?

Since it's entirely possible that Daemon arrives around the time Robert's convoy does (several months from now), I will decline to answer. I'd rather not spoil something I may end up writing!

[annaphoenix1994]

Violence and Timing

Previous Chapter - Masterlist - Next Chapter

»»-------¤-------««

Soap recognized the distress in Ghost's - Simon's - voice recalling the orders, his worry about Kiera clear with every word that left his mouth. Soap was worried too - worried about how all of this would play out, hoping and praying to his belief that they would all be rescued without complications.

Soap and Thompson continued through the town, subtly clearing out the scattered AQ's that were left to guard the space they had taken over, a strong gust of desert sand scattering with the wind, easily covering their tracks.

As well as the enemy's.

"I've got your six, Sergeant." Thompson whispered after they'd taken out an AQ standing on guard. 

"Copy that," Soap sighed, removing a throwing knife from the sheath on his vest. "Two AQ's up ahead. We can make quick work of 'em." 

"Rog. I'll take right, you take the other." 

"Aye." Soap nodded, crouching alongside Thompson as they got into position, nodding at each other before making their move. "Dropped 'em,"

In a fluid motion, three more AQ soldiers were terminated on cue before Soap and Thompson continued forward towards the designated area. 

Making quick work with the rest of the AQ's guarding the container, Ghost took the last shot that concluded the extermination in order to proceed towards the convoy. With a loud screech of the hinges, the container door revealing nearly two dozen people crammed inside - Teeter being among them, her eyes widening at the sight of her protector. Baby. 

"B-Baby!" She gasped. "Out of my way, please! Move!" She made her way through the crowd, rushing into Soap's arms, both irritated at the bulk of Soap's tactical vest keeping their chests from flushing against each other. "Where've you been, huh? Why ain't you been here sooner?"

"Trust me, babe, I've been desperate." He replied, pressing a needy kiss to the base of her neck.

"Prolly ain't as desperate as me," She grumbled. "Give me a gun. We're gettin' K and that other woman back." 

"Not so fast," Soap said, grasping her shoulders. "Not that simple."

"It is that simple. They did bad things-"

"To you?"

"No," Teeter shook her head. "To her and a lot of other girls," She frowned. "We can't tell Simon." 

Soap huffed before pressing the engage button on his comm,

"Come on, let's go."

"Wh-What about the rest of 'em?" 

"I have a group of Marines coming to take them to a secure area," Thompson spoke up. "Including you."

Teeter scoffed, "Oh, I don't think so. I ain't bein' left behind. Not no more." 

"I don't think you have much of a choice." 

"Whatever choice I got, I ain't stayin' here. I'm going with him." She raised her voice, Soap raising his brows and shrugging his shoulders at Thompson. 

"What she says goes."

"Nice to see you again." Price nodded, his free hand clamping down on his hat to prevent it from flying off at the extreme gusts of wind created by the helicopter blades. 

Teeter nodded, covering her ears, "That sounds good!" She shouted, unable to read his lips and assuming he was asking if she wanted an MRE.

Price furrowed his brows and nodded, unable to compile a response before Soap helped her into the helicopter, urgent to ensure she was safely strapped to the seat. Ghost and Thompson entered last, Ghost nodding at Price and Gaz while he clutched his weapon. "Nik!" Price shouted.

"Where to?" 

»»-------¤-------««

"Gaz, you stay in the heli on overwatch. We'll work our way up the line."

"Roger that. Let's thin the herd and get them back."

"W-What about me? I'll shoot these dunes if you need an extra gun." Teeter offered.

I don't know if I could trust her with an M4 without her killing everything in her path, Ghost thought to himself.

"You should stay here." 

"Yeah, should, but I ain't willin' to stay and watch," She scoffed. "I'm ready to fight if you need a fight." 

"I don't think it's a good idea." Ghost added. 

"You should know I ain't full of good ideas," She shrugged, regaining her balance to present herself to Price. "Please, sir. I-I'm good with any gun and can fight like any man. I want to get Kiera back as the rest of us do. She'd do it for me." 

Price sighed, glancing at both Ghost and Soap, watching the Scot subtly nod, knowing she was perfectly capable of handling herself. "That she would, love, but she also has authority in situations like this. I don't want a civilian getting in the line of fire, especially with AQ." 

"Then you shouldn't have let me on this chopper, sir. Please, I'll get one of 'em hard hats and put on a vest. I'm ready." 

"I'm sorry, but I couldn't live with myself if something happened to you." I already can't fathom the thought of something happening to Kiera on my watch and I'll be damned if I'd let it happen again.

Teeter huffed, a frown splaying across her face as she walked to sit on the bench of the chopper, Soap cupping the back of her head before he walked to the exit door of the helicopter, Ghost alongside him as they exited the unit with Price.

"Hey, old man." 

"Farah," Price smiled. "Thanks for the assist."

"We share a common enemy."

"And a friend in need. Are you ready?"

"All set. See you down the road." Farah nodded.

"Cover your ears." Gaz nodded towards Teeter, watching her nod before she did as directed, flinching when Gaz pulled the trigger, the echo from the M4's fire filling the cabin of the helicopter.

Bullets rang throughout the desert air as Farah's team as well as Price and his men made quick work on multiple AQ vehicles with the assistance from Gaz in the helicopter. Out of curiosity, Teeter steadily made her way to the opened exit door to view the carnage below her, her eyes frantically searching for Soap, seeing that he and Ghost were now on a platform-bed semi with Price, the vehicle moving up into the convoy. That's a long way down if we fall...

Out of nervousness, she gripped the safety harness to remind herself that she wouldn't be falling without a serious blow. "Teeter! Stand back. They're firing RPGs at us." Gaz shouted.

"W-What's that?"

"Something you don't want to be in the way for. Get back and hold on!" 

Just as Teeter nodded to follow Gaz's direction, the helicopter jolted upwards followed by a near complete rollover, causing both Teeter and Gaz to fall out of the helicopter, the sound of Teeter's scream causing Soap to nearly get himself shot for losing focus. "Fucking Christ!" 

"Hold on to me!" Gaz grunted, keeping her close to him to keep her from getting hit by a car as their heads were dangling dangerously within a few feet from the concrete. 

"Fuck! What do I do?!" She cried, closing her eyes before feeling the after affects from an inferno against her face. "Give me a gun!" 

"Well, I would if I didn't drop it!" He grunted, feeling his waist for his holster that housed his pistol, ensuring it was loaded before taking rapid shots towards the next closest AQ vehicle.

"Teeter, reach to my belt and get another clip. Running low on ammo." 

"O-Okay!" 

"Guess you have no choice but to be in the fight now!" 

"If our lives weren't on the line right now, I'd say this was fun!" She scoffed, gripping the rope to keep herself upright as she handed Gaz the new clip. "Hey! Flatbed truck coming up fast. Four in the back. Should he get us over it, and we cut ourselves free?"

"Working on that plan," Gaz grunted, desperately trying to steady his breathing to fire as accurately as possible. 

"I'm cutting us loose. Hang on!" 

"I ain't got much choice!" 

With a harsh thud, both Teeter and Gaz landed on top of the convoy's truck, Gaz making quick work to take control of the vehicle, instructing Teeter to climb into the cab on the passenger side. "Looks like they left us a little gift!" She snickered, pulling the Kastov from the floorboard. 

"Do you even know how to use that thing?" 

"Never shot one of these, but I know how to shoot a gun. Ye aim it and pull the trigger, ain't that hard. There's a whole bag of mags here too, we're ready to light it up." 

"Soap is going to kill me." 

"Hey, it ain't like ye made me fall with you. Besides, baby thinks it's hot to see me all wriled up. He won't be able to get enough." 

"Bloody hell," Gaz scoffed, feeling his face flush with embarrassment. "I'll take your word for it. Get that vest from the backseat and helmet. They'll give you some type of protection. 

"Fuck!" Soap shouted aloud, crouching down to reload his weapon while Ghost kept watch on his six.

"Jump, Teeter!" Soap shouted, extending his arm for her to grasp onto before Gaz made his leap, ensuring that she went first. 

"Baby, I ain't a frog!" 

Ghost breathed a chuckle.

"You are today! Move!" 

He caught her by her elbow, pulling her to safety before Gaz did the same.

"Good to see you two in one piece," Price sighed. "Gaz, take the grenade launcher. Teeter, stay low and keep your head down."

"Sweet heat, Captain. What's the word?"

"We're getting close to Kiera and Laswell, so they're changing tactics."

"How so?" 

"We were chasing them, now they're gonna chase us."

"Let 'em try, sir. Let 'em bloody try."

Price pointed, "Check rear - it's Farah."

"Gang's all here. Let's bring this home!"

"Captain! Al Qatala's coming back this way - they'll try to box us in!"

"Not if we can help it! Here they come! Farah, watch it!" 

With excessive firepower and force, the convoy eventually moved to be offroad, leaving a cloud of dust in their wake. With another quarter hour of intense gunfighting as well as shooting off a missile launcher and bomb drones, the black SUV was in sight. Ghost's grip tightened on his M4 before he jumped down from the cargo truck, both he and Soap peering to the right for cover while Price and Farah went to the left, Gaz being the first to make it to the SUV and opening the door after the gunfire seized. 

Gaz stood back as Kate held the last AQ in a chokehold, refusing to loosen her grip as she held a personal grudge against him, tears blurring her vision as she acted out of pure rage, Price's pleas of letting him go so that he could finish it sounded as if she were underwater. "Kate! Move!"

"No! He's mine!" She grunted. 

Kiera managed to open the door on the opposite side, distraught of the events that happened as well as being dehydrated. She fell to her side on the dirt below, her mind racing as well as begging to be idle. Her knees curled towards her chest as she forced herself to steady her breathing. She failed to hear the heavy boot steps approaching her, a gentle hand grasping her shoulder and gently rolling her to her back before that same hand gently grasped her chin, his fingers splaying against her cheek. She didn't open her eyes to look at him, nor could she, but she knew it was Simon - knew by his gentle touch and radiating warmth through his gloves. 

She knew she was safe. 

"Kiera? Can you hear me?" 

She didn't respond. 

"Fucking hell," He grumbled, slinging his rifle around to his back before forcing his arm under her knees and one securing against her back. "We'll need a fucking medic." 

"I'm on it, L.T." Soap nodded, requesting assistance through his comm while he and Teeter followed Ghost onto the helicopter, frowning at how he didn't notice what all that happened. 

"Kate, it's over." Price assured her, his face flooding with concern at her anxiousness - something he had never seen before in their work together.

"It's a family reunion."

"Wouldn't miss it." Gaz commented. 

"Farah." 

"Nice moves, Laswell. Are you okay?"

"To say the least, but we're alive. That's what matters."

"Well, we're in Al Mazrah. We need to get somewhere safe - now. We'll have a medic on standby." 

»»-------¤-------««

Simon clasped his balaclava between his fingers, keeping a sharp gaze on Kiera as she began to regain her composure and bearings, continuously wondering how and why she ended up on a helicopter. "Simon?" 

"I'm here, love," He assured her, patting the top of her thigh. "How are you feeling?"

"I'm not sure? I thought we had just said our goodbyes? You know - to go home?" 

"That you were, but that was two days ago. Unfortunate things happened, but you're safe now. We have a medic waiting for you and Laswell." 

"What happened?"

He sighed, "I'll tell you later. For now, just worry about trying to relax until we land." 

He couldn't find himself to tell her what he visibly saw, his heart breaking at the thought. He saw the forced rip in the groin of her trousers, his anger boiling at the thought of someone taking advantage of her - again. I failed to keep a promise to her. 

He immediately began to blame himself for it.

»»-------¤-------««

Once at the base, it would be compared as an act of congress to get Simon away from Kiera. He stayed with her the entire time she was in the medic's tent, supplying her with water every time she asked for it. 

"Good news," The medic sighed, entering the tent. "Babies are just fine. No blunt trauma to her abdomen. I could only do a normal ultrasound, but both heartbeats are there." 

"Thank God." Simon breathed, looking over to see Kiera's eyes flutter shut as she still fought exhaustion. 

"Uhm, there's something I need to inform you about-"

"Not here," Simon cut him off. "Tell me outside. I don't want her to get anxious."

In a way, Simon knew what the medic was going to say, but he also gave himself the benefit of the doubt that his diagnosis would be something that potentially wouldn't affect her mentality. 

Either way, he didn't want her to hear it if it was true. 

"Okay. This way."

Once outside, Simon crossed his arms over his armored chest. "According to multiple witnesses as well as my diagnosis, I-I'm afraid to inform you that I found blunt force to her-" 

"Are you implying that she was assaulted?" 

The medic nodded, a frown plastering on his face. 

Simon turned his back to him, his breathing shallow through his nose as his hands combed through his hair, his fingers twining with each other, seeing red as the nearby truck looked like a desirable target for a fierce thrust of his fist. "God-fucking-dammit!" He shouted. 

"It's likely that she doesn't remember-"

"Oh, she'll remember," Simon scoffed. "She may not remember it now, but she will. Every bit of it." 

"I understand, Sir. We've arranged a flight back to the States to a base where she will be flown back home." 

"H-How did you come up with this conclusion?" He asked, desperate to find a way for it to not be true. 

"I'm afraid I shouldn't go into explicit detail for your sake, Sir. She wasn't the only one I had to investigate this way unfortunately."

"I need to know," He huffed. "But I'm not going to ask her."

He nodded, removing his clipboard to present his report as well as external photos for a criminal investigation if needed. 

Simon hesitated before he took the clipboard, sighing as he reviewed the report, his knuckles turning white under his gloves. 

Deep bruises on her hips, tearing of her anal cavity, nylon burns against her thighs, and prominent bruising around her neck and shoulders. There was more than one who did this to her. "I know this is a lot to look at-"

"Bloody right," He grumbled. "I don't know if I can stay and watch her leave again." 

"They might grant you three days of leave for a case such as this. However, given the time it'll take for you to return to the States, your three days will be up by the time you got there."

"I don't care. As long as I know she's safe." 

"I can speak to your Captain. He'll come to you with the decision." 

"Thanks." 

"I'll give you and her some space. I'm...I'm sorry-"

Simon didn't respond. Instead, he retreated into the tent that housed Kiera, taking a seat by her side as she slept, unaware that Simon's presence woke her up. "Simon?" 

"I'm here, love. I'm not going anywhere." 

"When are we going home?" 

"Soon. I promise."

[itwasrealtome]

AGENT GRAY

Chapter 25 • Weight Of One

TAGLIST FORM

PREVIOUS CHAPTER | NEXT CHAPTER

⚠️ DO NOT READ IF THIS MIGHT TRIGGER YOU

Olivia Benson x fem! FBI Agent OC

Summary:

Content Warning: NAVY SEALS talk • Irak, 05 - Weapons - Military Universe - Getting shot - Being injured - Deployment - Description of a mission overseas • Running a race •

*

Anbar Province, Iraq — 2005

The heat on the tarmac wasn't just heat—it was weight. It pressed in from all sides, thick with grit and silence, as if the desert itself had no interest in letting anyone breathe easy. The air shimmered where the sun punched into metal, dust curling up in eddies along the edges of the convoy. Even before her boots touched down, Alexis could feel it in her lungs—that particular heaviness that didn't come from the pack on her shoulders or the sweat at the back of her neck. It came from knowing this was no longer a drill, no longer the endless rotations of prep and repetitions that defined her life before.

This was deployment.

This was Anbar. And the world, for all its noise, had gone unnervingly still. The engines thrummed behind her in low harmony, a mechanical heartbeat keeping pace with her own. The scent of fuel coated everything—her skin, her tongue, the fabric of her sleeves rolled just below the elbow in regulation form. She adjusted the straps on her pack like it would somehow center her, jaw clenched, spine straight, eyes ahead as she stepped off into what would become her first war.

She was twenty. Barely. The youngest in the unit by a margin that mattered. Still new enough that her uniform hadn't faded at the seams like the others'. Still green in the way that had less to do with skill and more to do with time—less about how she moved and more about how long she'd been moving with them. But her name had walked into every room before she did. Gray. Not just a surname, but a legacy. Daughter of Eli Gray, a SEAL legend, the kind of man entire briefings still referenced even after retirement. And now she was standing at the edge of the same map he'd once bled over, the same sand he'd once cursed under his breath, trying to prove that she wasn't just here because of who she was—but because she could be someone in her own right.

She remembered what Rhodes had told her the day the orders landed, voice like gravel and smoke in the kitchen of a house that had never quite stopped smelling like the sea. He hadn't looked at her like a daughter, not then. He'd looked at her like a commander weighing the worth of someone he already cared too much about.

—You've got two shadows to outrun, he said, leaning on the table her father once used to clean his sidearm. Your name and your blood. Don't carry them both. Just carry the work.

It was the kind of thing that came from someone who knew what it was to have weight sewn into your name. And she'd held onto those words since. Memorized them the way she had every map, every field manual, every damned call sign and comms check burned into her muscle memory.

The convoy stretched like a metal spine down the runway, Humvees lined up in dusty rows, each one already pushing with readiness and a kind of silent exhaustion. Most of the guys around her had done this before—at least once, sometimes two, three, four tours in. They moved like it was muscle memory, not routine but ritual. No one wasted words. There wasn't room for bravado out here. Not in this heat, not in this war. Helmets were adjusted, weapons checked, and beneath it all ran that taut thread of awareness, the kind that only comes when you know the line between alive and not is one bad decision wide.

Alexis spotted Rhodes ahead of her, standing with one boot propped on the fender of the lead Humvee, sleeves rolled tight, jaw squared in that way that said his thoughts were already ten klicks ahead. He looked the same as he always had—imposing, calm, the kind of calm that meant he'd already counted every variable twice. His gaze found her as she approached, and for a beat, something softened behind his eyes. Not much. Just enough to show he saw her. Not as her father's kid. Not as a rookie with something to prove. But as the SEAL who'd shown up on time, kept her mouth shut, hit her marks, and earned her slot on this team one grueling hour at a time.

He didn't say anything right away. Just gave her a slow nod, one that spoke more than a full paragraph might've. And she answered in kind—nothing elaborate, just squared her stance and returned the look. She could feel the tightness in her gut easing by degrees. She wasn't here because someone pulled strings. She was here because she made it through Hell Week, through SQT, through the months of being watched like a hawk by every man who assumed she'd fold. She was here because she'd earned it. Still, something coiled in her chest like wire, tight and humming.

The commander finally spoke, voice pitched low so it didn't carry over the engines or the wind.

—You locked in?

The brunette nodded.

—Yes, sir.

He studied her for a moment, then jerked his head toward the convoy.

—Then mount up. We've got six hours on the road and no room for second thoughts. They've been seeing movement along the highway—civvies spooked, checkpoints thinned out. Could be nothing. Could be a new cell forming west of Ramadi. Either way, you stay sharp. No freelancing.

—Yes, sir, she repeated, and this time, her voice was firmier. Not because she wasn't nervous—she was. But because she knew how to hold it. How to channel it into stillness. Her father had drilled that into her long before BUD/S. That fear was just information—another data point. Learn it. Listen to it. But never let it lead.

She climbed into the back of the vehicle, wedging herself between two older SEALs who barely glanced up as she settled in. One of them offered her a nod, the other passed her a half-warm canteen without a word. That was how it worked, she realized. You didn't get welcomes here. You got space. And that space, however narrow or sun-blasted or bloodied, was your chance to prove you belonged in it.

As the convoy rumbled to life, Alexis tightened her grip on the strap overhead and let her eyes scan the horizon. Anbar stretched in every direction like an unfinished thought—dust, heat, quiet roads that could turn hostile in the span of a heartbeat. She didn't know yet what would come of this tour. What kind of things she'd see. What kind of person she'd be when she came back—if she came back. All she knew was that this was the beginning.

And like Rhodes had said: she wasn't here to carry the weight of legacy. Not today.

She was here to carry the work.

*

SUNDAY, JULY 09

Manhattan — Brooklyn Bridge

08:30 AM

The morning broke early and already thick with heat—the kind that didn't just rise off the pavement but settled into it, clinging to the air in long, humid waves that promised sweat before motion and warned of dehydration before breakfast. The kind of heat that made even the river look tired. By the time the sun was stretching itself above the skyline, the streets near the Brooklyn Bridge were already alive with motion, voices, and tension. People gathered in clusters and lines—some lacing up their boots, some adjusting signs with slogans hand-lettered in permanent marker or glitter paint, and others standing completely still, their presence quiet but heavy, the way veterans often stood when surrounded by too much noise.

These weren't crowds like you saw at marathons or parades. These were people rooted in something older than routine. Some wore race gear, standard-issue moisture-wicking fabric clinging to lean muscle. Others wore the past—old unit shirts, jackets too heavy for July, dog tags tucked into shirts that had seen more than one warzone. A few stood off to the side, alone, rucksacks already planted at their feet, eyes fixed on a distance that had nothing to do with the finish line. They weren't waiting for a countdown. They were remembering. Watching ghosts pass through a crowd that could only guess at what they carried.

Alexis moved through it all with the kind of quiet confidence that had taken years to earn. She wasn't flashy. She didn't wave flags or call attention to herself. But when people saw her, they responded—nodding, calling her name, reaching out in ways that had nothing to do with formality and everything to do with recognition. Some of them had served beside her. Others had served under her. Many hadn't seen her in years. But they all knew Commander Gray.

She clapped shoulders, exchanged short words and longer looks. A lot of them she knew by name or story—Jared from Ramadi, who used to sleep in shifts no longer than fifteen minutes; Luz, whose brother never made it home from Helmand; Caleb, whose therapy dog now trotted beside him with more medals than some soldiers earned in their entire service. Some faces were new. Young, maybe. Or simply never introduced. But the expressions were the same. That same worn quiet. That same way of carrying the past just below the skin.

And beneath it all—beneath the sweat on her brow and the weight of the ruck she hadn't yet put on—the commander carried something heavier still: the sheer, stubborn will it had taken to get them here. This wasn't just another race. It wasn't a fundraiser for photo ops or casual corporate generosity.

It was the twenty-year mark.

And this year, she'd stepped forward—not just to participate, but to lead. She'd coordinated outreach. Contacted long-lost units. Pulled names from old lists, even the ones buried in half-erased inboxes. She'd written emails to men she hadn't heard from since their court-martials, called women who hadn't shown their faces in public since they were medically discharged. And some of them had come. Some had said no at first. But then changed their minds. Quietly. Without ceremony. She didn't ask for reasons. She didn't need to. She knew what it cost just to stand in the sun again, to stand next to others who knew exactly what that cost meant. She didn't care about numbers or press coverage. All she cared about—today—was that they were here. On the pavement. In the light. Together. Even if it was only for a little while.

Alexis spotted them before they saw her—Miles, Ava, and their daughter Charlie huddled near the barricades like a unit of their own, their signs painted in bright, uneven strokes that made her heart clench in a way no battlefield ever had. The Langford daughter was on her dad's shoulders, tiny fists waving a flag that looked like it had been colored by hand, the word "GO AUNTIE LEXI" scrawled across it in bubble letters only a four-year-old could get away with. Her mother held a thermos, probably filled with the good coffee she always insisted the SEAL needed more of, and the agent had the easy grin of a man who understood what it meant to show up.

They weren't just here to watch. They were here for her—and that mattered more than Gray had words for. She offered a low wave across the crowd, met by an enthusiastic cheer from the little girl that rose above the general hum. It was grounding in a way nothing else was. It reminded her that no matter how many units she'd led or how many missions she'd completed, she still had a family who would stand on the sidelines with poster boards and permanent markers.

She moved through the last stretch of the crowd, still nodding to familiar faces, letting herself be caught in brief exchanges—"Glad you made it." "Wouldn't miss it, Commander." "Looks like hell out here, doesn't it?" The words were simple, but the sentiment behind them wasn't. These were people who didn't always answer phone calls. People who ignored knock after knock at their front doors. People who hadn't stood in open space like this in years. And they were here. Some in wheelchairs. Some with canes. Some with visible tremors. All of them carried something. And because of her—because of the quiet, relentless pressure she'd kept up over the past months—they'd brought it into the light.

A voice crackled from the stage ahead, someone from the organizing committee thanking donors, rattling off figures about outreach and therapy grants and the importance of community support. Alexis didn't listen closely. She'd heard all the stats. Memorized them, even. But this wasn't a numbers day. It was a boots-on-the-ground day. She rolled her shoulders, flexing them out of habit, then reached down and hefted the ruck into place across her back. It hit her spine like a second heartbeat—weighty, familiar, almost comforting in its discomfort. She tightened the straps, adjusted the chest clip, and then finally reached up and smoothed the name badge on the front of the vest.

Commander Levi Rhodes.

The letters were black against khaki, standard font, no fanfare. But they burned into her chest all the same. It had taken her months to decide. Longer than that, really. A lifetime, maybe. She'd carried so many names over the years—friends, teammates, ghosts—but this one was different. This one was family. Rhodes had been more than her first commanding officer. He'd been the man who taught her how to shoulder weight without letting it break her. The one who knew her father before the stripes, before the glory. The one who used to sneak her popsicles when she was six and tagging along base-side, too short to salute properly but already trying to square her shoulders like her old man. And now... now she wore his name because there was no one else she could carry this year. Because she hadn't said goodbye the way she should have. Because legacy mattered, and she was the one left to speak it.

Her name echoed from the stage then—"Commander Alexis Gray?"—and she flinched almost imperceptibly, caught somewhere between duty and memory. She wasn't sure who had put her name on the speaker list. Maybe the event lead. Maybe someone from the outreach board. But they were calling her now, asking her forward, and the eyes of the crowd were shifting. Not in judgment. Not in expectation. Just in presence. Waiting.

She froze.

Just for a breath. Just long enough to feel that tremor at the edge of her ribs. She could face gunfire. She could breach doors and clear rooms and fall out of helicopters into chaos with nothing more than a flicker of adrenaline. But a microphone in front of a thousand people, many of whom looked to her as something stronger than human? That made her legs feel like sand. That made her second-guess the sound of her own voice. Her fingers hovered at the straps of the ruck, like she was debating whether to take it off or let it carry her forward. Her gaze lifted, scanning the crowd almost unconsciously—and still, no Olivia.

That absence hit harder than she expected. Benson had promised. Said she'd be there. No caveats. No "if I can swing it." Just certainty. And now, as the commander stood at the edge of the crowd, heart hammering under the name of a man who helped raise her, she found herself wanting that anchor more than she wanted her next breath.

But it didn't come.

So she took one anyway. Steady. Centered.

And stepped toward the stage.

*

Anbar Province, Iraq — 2005

The Humvee groaned over the fractured stretch of desert road, every bolt in its steel bones rattling like it was protesting the journey with every mile. The desert heat clung to the vehicle like a second skin, thick and unforgiving, rising in waves off the scorched horizon until distant buildings twisted into watery mirages. Everything shimmered—sand, sky, silhouettes—and the whole world looked like it might vanish if you stared too long.

Behind them, dust unfurled in long, snaking plumes that stuck to their skin, curled into their lungs, and settled into every crease of their uniforms. The air smelled of diesel and scorched rubber, the bitter perfume of movement in a place that didn't want them moving at all. It had been nearly six hours since they'd pulled away from the outpost, and whatever initial silence had filled the backseat of Alpha Two was long gone—replaced by low murmurs, dry jokes, and the kind of laughter that lived closer to survival than joy.

Alexis sat wedged between Morales and Gator, boots braced, her rucksack tucked beneath her knees and one arm looped casually through a strap that kept it from jostling loose. Her shoulders had settled a few hours back, when the last remnants of that first-deployment stiffness finally gave up the fight. Now she didn't look nervous, just watchful—attentive in that measured, SEAL way she'd practiced since BUD/S. The tension that used to sit like a coil between her shoulder blades had eased into something quieter, sharper, more exact. She kept her chin up, her gaze flicking across the horizon through dust-coated lenses, not just out of habit, but because vigilance had long since become a reflex.

The others had started to relax around her too—no longer watching her with the silent skepticism reserved for legacy names or the fresh-out-of-training shine. She'd stopped being Eli Gray's daughter somewhere around the third hour. Here, in this heat, in this bouncing metal box filled with sunburned sarcasm and bulletproof trust, she was just Gray. Just another one of them. And the teasing that came her way now—dry, relentless, fond—was the closest thing to an embrace she'd ever need.

—Gotta ask, Morales said, his voice raised just enough to cut through the engine and the crunch of gravel beneath the tires. He leaned slightly in her direction, sweat streaking along the side of his face in a rivulet that caught on his jaw. Is it true you're shacked up with the doc back at the base? Eve Collins, right? His grin was all teeth, but the tone behind it was easy—nothing cruel in it, just the sharp edge of camaraderie, a way of staking claim to familiarity through curiosity.

Gator barked a laugh beside her, elbowing Alexis's side with the kind of precision that said he knew exactly how much pressure wouldn't leave a bruise.

—Yeah, that's what I heard too. Saw you two in the mess. You had that 'don't-touch-me-I'm-happy' look on your face. Classic infatuation. Damn near romantic, Gray.

The brunette rolled her eyes, but the smirk was already working its way onto her face.

—You clowns got nothing better to talk about during a six-hour ride through enemy territory? she shot back, voice even but warm, low and practiced enough not to mask the fondness. I say hi to someone twice and now I'm planning a wedding?

—Twice? Morales whistled, leaning back like she'd just confirmed state secrets. That's twice more than you've said hi to any of us without a combat knife in your hand.

—She's got a point, Gator added. First time you met me, you corrected my rifle grip.

—That's because your grip was trash, Alexis said, letting the heat slip into her words just enough to earn a chorus of groans. I'm not letting your dumbass get me killed because you don't know how to shoulder your weapon under pressure.

The Humvee rocked over a patch of rougher terrain, the frame lurching with a deep creak, and for a moment, the conversation faded beneath the sound of shifting gear and the desert's voice grinding through the tires. The rookie steadied herself with one hand on the overhead strap, her body moving easily with the jolt—more out of reflex than thought. She was used to the motion now. To the unpredictability of movement in a landscape that never stopped changing. But her gaze flicked out the window again, instincts pricking like barbs along the inside of her ribs. The road ahead looked the same—endless sand, cracked asphalt, buildings like ghosts in the distance—but something felt... off. A beat too quiet. A space too still.

She didn't say anything at first. Didn't want to sound green. But Rhodes's voice crackled to life over comms in the front Humvee just then, low and clipped with command.

—Alpha Two, eyes up. Possible debris in the road. Distance: 200 meters. Stay sharp.

Morales sat up straighter. Gator's hand dropped instinctively to his sidearm. And just like that, the teasing evaporated. The air inside the vehicle thickened with a different kind of tension—hotter than the desert, sharper than the heat. Alexis didn't have to be told twice. Her fingers moved quickly, checking gear, tightening straps. The horizon that had looked lazy just minutes ago suddenly felt like it was staring back.

Then, from the front of the convoy—just a flicker. A shimmer of movement behind a crumbling wall. Too fast. Too still.

—Contact—three o'clock! someone barked over comms.

And that was it. The game was over. The jokes were gone.

This was the real thing.

*

SUNDAY, JULY 09

Manhattan — EAST SIDE

09:30 AM

By 9:30, the heat had already sunk its teeth into the pavement, and it wasn't letting go. It clung to every surface, radiating back in relentless waves that made the air itself feel thick, almost syrupy, pulsing with a kind of late-summer finality that dared anyone to move too fast or breather too deep. Along the edge of the East River, the skyline shimmered behind veils of heat haze, the steel and glass of the city warping like a dream too hot to hold. Sunlight bounced in brutal angles off the asphalt and car hoods, off the rims of trash cans and the curve of high-rise windows.

And yet, within the roped-off route of the race—this solemn, sacred stretch carved through lower Manhattan—the usual chaos of the city seemed to dim, as though the sirens and taxis and low grumble of the FDR Drive knew to hold their breath, just for a little while. This wasn't an ordinary Sunday. It wasn't just another event. Here, among the crowds and clusters of volunteers, the folded flags and half-raised signs, the weight of the day pressed into the bones of every runner. And for some—especially the veterans—it wasn't just weight. It was memory.

Alexis moved through it like she belonged to the rhythm of it, like the day had been built around her pace. Her boots struck the pavement with the steady thud of purpose, each step familiar, measured, almost meditative. The ruck on her back rose and fell with each breath, the straps digging just enough into her shoulders to remind her of why she was here—why she chose to wear the full gear, even when the heat turned her uniform into a furnace. Her shirt, regulation issue, was unzipped halfway down the front, sleeves rolled to the elbow, the fabric darkened at the spine and under the arms with sweat. The patches on her shoulders had faded from sun and time, stitched in places by hand where wear had threatened to tear them loose. Her dog tags hung low, silent against her chest, more weight, more history. She didn't notice the ache in her legs yet. That would come later. For now, she focused on breath. On control. On the cadence drilled into her long before she'd ever worn a uniform.

The old army sunglasses clung to her face, already streaked with salt from the sweat that traced the sharp lines of her temples and jaw. Her hair, still tight in the low bun she'd worn since her first deployment, was damp at the nape of her neck, the edges curling slightly where the humidity refused to yield. Her skin gleamed beneath the sun, not polished, but earned—sheathed in effort and intention. And still, she moved forward. Not because she had something to prove. Not anymore. But because this was who she was. This was how she honored the names etched into memory. This was how she carried them. Through the heat, through the city, mile by mile by mile.

Each footfall echoed with more than just effort–it echoed with names. Some she carried on paper, tucked into the inside pocket of her uniform, folded neatly beneath the velcro of her chest patch. Others lived only in muscle memory, in scars she no longer counted, in the way her breath always caught just slightly when the crowd hushed. She didn't run for medals. She didn't run for applause. She ran for Levi Rhodes, first and always.

The name stitched across the front of her vest like a banner, sharp and dark against the dusty canvas, made her throat tighten every time it bounced back into view. Uncle Levi. That's what she used to call him when her boots were small and her hands too soft for calluses. He'd been the one to teach her how to tie her first proper knot. The one who used to let her fall asleep on the floor of her father's study during debriefings, then carry her to bed without waking her. She could still hear his voice sometimes—low, gravel-edged, half amused—saying she had the makings of a SEAL if she ever got tired of bossing dolls around. She had, eventually. She had gotten tired of pretending the world was safe.

And now, here she was. Full gear. Full sun. Full heart. Running with his name at her chest like a flag. A weight and a shield and a reminder. She hadn't said it aloud when she signed up to coordinate this year's race, but everyone she reached out to knew. The twenty-year mark wasn't just symbolic—it was a wound. A quiet milestone that asked: who did you lose? And who's still here to carry what they left behind?

The crowd along the sidelines had thinned since the starting line, but here and there, Alexis spotted glimpses of faces she recognized. Veterans she'd helped bring back into the fold. Kids of those who hadn't made it home. A man holding up a hand-painted sign that simply said: Still Standing. She gave a nod when she passed him, not because he needed it, but because she did. It helped to know that standing was enough. That showing up counted. That breathing in and pushing forward—even when the city tried to boil the breath right out of your chest—still meant something.

She'd tried not to look for Olivia. Not during the warmup, not at the start line, not when she'd cinched the ruck tight against her back and told herself to focus on the mission. But it was impossible not to scan the sidewalks every time the crowd thickened, not to hope for a flash of brunette hair or a voice cutting through the others. She wasn't mad. Not really.

The lieutenant had said she'd be there, and the brunette believed her.

Still, absence had a way of stinging sharper when hope sat too close to the surface. Especially today. Especially now. She kept moving. One boot in front of the other. Her breath steady. Her purpose sharper than ever. But some part of her—quiet and almost childlike—still ached for someone to meet her at the finish line, not out of duty, but just because they wanted to be there. Just because they saw her.

Up ahead, the route curved near the water, where a cluster of volunteers handed out cold towels and paper cups of electrolytes. The commander waved them off with a small shake of her head, not out of pride, but momentum. She couldn't stop yet. Not with Levi's name riding her spine. Not with ghosts at her heels. Not with memory stitched into every thread of her gear.

The race wasn't over.

And neither was she.

*

Anbar Province, Iraq — 2005

The world didn't shift gently—it detonated.

One second, the patrol moved like clockwork, boots hitting the dry ground in rhythmic succession, dust curling up around their calves as they swept along the edge of a crumbling street lined with low walls and blown-out buildings. The heat pressed down from above, unforgiving, wrapping every breath in sand and sun. And then, without a whisper of warning, it shattered. Gunfire tore through the silence like the sky had been ripped open, the sharp, metallic shriek of bullets pinging off rusted steel and crumbling rock. The first shots came fast and wild from the east—an ambush, embedded into the ruins of what once might have been a school or storehouse, now reduced to shadows and sniper nests. Everything exploded into motion. Voices overlapped in a frenzy—commands, curses, and static bleeding through the comms. Someone screamed for cover. The air filled with the thick, staccato percussion of suppressed rifles and return fire.

It was chaos, and it was real.

Rhodes' voice cut through the fray like a blade, harsh and composed in a way that only came with years of war.

—Fall back! Flank left! Stay low!

The order came crisp over the comms, followed by the sound of boots scattering into action, training pushing bodies toward cover before thought could catch up. Alexis didn't think. She moved. Her legs jolted into motion, lungs tight, heart slamming against the cage of her ribs as she dove behind the half-melted shell of an old truck carcass. Her knees hit ground first, palms scraping against hot, jagged gravel as she slid into position. Her rifle was already up, shoulders aligned, eyes cutting through the haze as her breath hitched shallow and fast.

She could hear Morales just ahead of her, spitting dust and swearing as he slammed into position, rounds cracking overhead. Somewhere behind them, the sharp grind of metal on concrete signaled another unit scrambling for higher ground. Her body moved on reflex, but her mind didn't stall—it sharpened. This wasn't panic. Not anymore. It was something narrower. Something colder. Clarity forged in the fire of training and the echoes of voices that had raised her. She heard Rhodes again—more measured now, coordinating movement, calling for patience and position—but all of it blurred when her gaze snapped toward the left flank.

Gator was down.

He'd been caught in the open, trying to move too fast through a break in the formation. She saw him scrambling now, dragging himself through shattered concrete, one leg limp behind him and streaked in red. The wall behind him was barely standing, and he had no cover left. Bullets slammed into the dirt just inches from his chest, chipping away at stone, at space, at time. He was exposed. Alone. And if he didn't get pulled out—soon—he wouldn't make it.

Rhodes' voice buzzed through her earpiece again, firm and immediate:

—Gray, hold your position.

It wasn't a suggestion.

It was command.

She knew that voice. She'd grown up with that voice. Trusted it like a second spine. But instinct had already moved ahead of orders. She was already up, already sprinting low and fast across the open, boots pounding against the ground like a drumbeat too close to detonation.

Her muscles burned as she cut across the line of fire, every step gambling with fate, every breath a dare to whatever sniper had them in their sights. She hit the ground beside Gator hard, grunting as her shoulder clipped a chunk of debris. Her hands found the straps of his vest before he could speak, before she could second-guess, and she dragged—body positioned between him and the bullets still slicing through the air.

—You're not dying here, she hissed, breath ragged, jaw locked as she pulled. Not on my watch.

And then the pain came. Blunt and brutal, slamming into her left thigh with the force of a thrown hammer. She didn't register the sound of the shot—just the white-hot explosion of agony that bloomed across her leg and took her down with it. But she didn't stop. Didn't cry out. She twisted her body, grit and blood grinding into the gravel beneath them, and kept dragging him until more boots arrived—until someone else grabbed hold and pulled them the rest of the way into cover.

The world narrowed fast. Sounds dulled, muffled by the rush of adrenaline pounding through her skull. Everything became instinct, muscle memory, motion—her rifle dropped beside her, her hands already slick with sweat and blood as she pressed them to her thigh, more out of habit than hope. She could feel the heat from the wound seeping into the fabric of her pants, staining through her camo with something dark and sticky. But even then, as the fire roared in her leg and her vision danced at the edges, Alexis didn't make a sound. Didn't scream. She just lay there in the dirt, catching her breath one second at a time, blinking sweat and sand from her eyes while the gunfire started to fade into the background. It wasn't over. But the worst of it had passed.

Boots thundered around her—shouts of "Clear!" and "Move!" rising like a tide as the rest of the unit surged forward to secure the perimeter. She felt Gator being lifted away beside her, his voice slurred but alive, cursing like a man who'd just remembered what living cost. Alexis exhaled. Just once. She didn't try to get up. She couldn't. The pain was too sharp now, breathing with her, blooming hotter every time her heart pumped. And through the thick haze settling over her limbs, she heard him—Levi Rhodes.

His voice didn't come over the comms this time. It was real, right beside her. Low, tight, laced with fury and something heavier. She knew that tone. She'd heard it at eight years old when she'd climbed a boat railing without a harness. She'd heard it at sixteen when she'd sparred too rough with a teammate and come home bruised. It wasn't just the voice of a commander—it was the voice of someone who loved her more than he could ever say.

—Jesus, Lex. His shadow cut through the sun, and then he was kneeling beside her, hands already on her thigh, assessing the wound with the speed of a man who'd done it too many times. You're goddamn lucky this didn't take your femoral. You know that? His fingers pressed hard just above the bleeding, and she hissed through her teeth, finally unable to stop the noise.

—I'm sorry, she gasped, the words barely there. Her face was pale beneath the dirt, jaw clenched hard. I had to—he was open, Levi. He—he wouldn't have made it.

He didn't answer right away. Didn't yell. He pressed harder, folded a field dressing into place, and kept working with that steady, unshakable focus that used to calm her as a kid and still did now, even when she was bleeding into the dirt in the middle of a warzone.

—You disobeyed a direct order, he said finally, voice low but not cruel. Not even angry. Just tired. Frightened in a way he wouldn't admit until later. You put yourself in the line of fire.

—And I'd do it again. He needed someone. I—I couldn't watch him die.

Rhodes shook his head once, tight and sharp, as he tightened the makeshift bandage.

—You're stubborn as your old man, he muttered. But his touch was gentle. Almost too gentle, like he was afraid she'd vanish beneath his hands if he didn't handle her right. You're lucky you're still breathing, Gray. Don't waste that.

She blinked up at him, breath coming shallow now, the edges of her vision flickering in and out with the weight of blood loss and adrenaline crash.

—You think I'll walk again? she asked, trying for humor, but it came out hollow.

The commander gave a short, almost breathless laugh—gruff and dry and deeply familiar.

—You'll be back on your feet in no time. Hell, by next week, you'll be limping around base trying to flirt with that medic again.

A smile twitched at her lips despite the pain.

—Eve?

—Don't play coy. I've seen the way you light up when she's in the room. He paused, wrapping the last of the dressing with a firm hand. You've got more guts than sense, Lex. You always did. Just—next time? Try not to get shot proving it.

She didn't answer. Just let her eyes drift closed for a second, letting the rhythm of his voice ground her the way it always had. And as the humvee rolled in to medevac her out, Alexis Gray didn't think of the bullet lodged in her leg or the punishment that was surely coming. She thought of the man beside her, steady as ever. The man who'd been her second father, her commander, her anchor. And she knew, no matter what the hell came next—she wasn't alone in this war. Not really. Not with Rhodes at her side.

*

SUNDAY, JULY 09

Manhattan — EAST SIDE

11:30 AM

By 11:30, the sun was no longer just overhead—it was a hammer. The kind that flattened everything beneath it, that didn't so much shine as sear. It scorched the city in broad, relentless strokes, turning asphalt into a stovetop, turning air into something thick and slow and hard to swallow. The usual rhythm of Manhattan—the honks, the sirens, the chatter—felt like it belonged to another world now.

Here, along the race route, there was only the sound of tired feet and labored breath, the occasional shuffle of a rucksack, the faint cheers of spectators that sounded too far away to be real. The runners had thinned down to a scattered few, each one locked in their own private battle against heat, gravity, and memory. Alexis was still there, still moving, though she no longer ran in clean strides. Her pace had turned to a gritty march, the kind that scraped from muscle rather than will. She alternated between walking and brief, punishing jogs—just long enough to remind herself she could.

Her uniform clung to her skin in soaked, sunbaked folds, the fabric darkened with sweat beneath her arms and across her back. Her boots, broken in but heavy, pounded rhythmically against the pavement, keeping time with the low, determined thud of her heart. The ruck dug into her shoulders, straps biting into her skin, the weight more than physical now—laden with years, names, ghosts. Her water bottle had been empty for miles. She could feel the dryness in her mouth like sand, the burn in her throat every time she swallowed. And still, she didn't slow. Not really. Because stopping wasn't an option. Not today. Not when the names were still alive in her bones, not when this stretch of road had become something more than a route—it had become memory.

And memory, as always, brought Levi.

His voice rode alongside her like it always had, not in echo but in presence. Breathe. Keep your steps steady. Let the weight settle into your hips, not your spine. Pain's a signal, not a command. She'd heard him say it a hundred times, a thousand maybe, back when she was still new, still learning what her body could survive. He'd drilled it into her—not with barked orders, but with patience, with consistency, with that calm kind of leadership that wrapped itself around you without ever making a show of it. He'd taught her how to run under fire, how to keep moving when it felt like the world was bleeding from every direction. And now, even with a rucksack strapped to her shoulders and sweat blurring her vision, even as the city melted around her, she could hear him—steady, unyielding, the voice that always pulled her forward.

She kept going. Step after step, breath after breath, each one burning just a little more than the last. Her body screamed in quiet, familiar ways—nothing sharp, nothing new. Just the kind of ache that nested into the bones after too many miles and too many memories. Her hands tightened slightly on the straps of the ruck, not to adjust but to remind herself it was still there—that it was real. That all of this was. She didn't look for the mile markers anymore. She didn't need to. The end was close. Not because of signage or timing, but because she could feel it in the way the crowd noise shifted, in the way her senses sharpened despite the heat. Somewhere ahead, beyond the curve of the road and the tilt of the skyline, the finish line waited. And maybe—just maybe—so did the people who mattered most.

For a long stretch, she kept her head down. Eyes forward. Letting the movement carry her, letting Levi's words push her like they always had. But something changed as she rounded the final bend. Not the weight on her back, not the fire in her legs—but the air itself. It shifted. A flicker of movement in the crowd. A burst of color. The distant sound of a child laughing. She blinked through the sweat in her eyes, wiped at her forehead with the back of her wrist, and lifted her head. And then—she saw them.

Miles was the first shape she made out. Tall, steady, arm stretched high with a sign that looked like it had been made last-minute and with love—"GO COMMANDER GRAY!" scrawled in big, bold letters across a background of red and blue marker streaks. Next to him, Ava clapped with both hands raised above her head, her smile wide and unwavering. And between them, perched on her father's shoulders, was Charlie—laughing, tiny fists waving, a sunhat slipping sideways as she shrieked her approval like her auntie was the only person left in the race. Alexis felt something twist tight and sharp in her chest, something that didn't hurt exactly, but hollowed her out just enough to remind her how much this meant. How much these moments mattered.

And then, just to the side of them—less loud, less obvious, but no less present—stood Olivia.

She wasn't cheering, not the way the others were. She stood still, one hand shielding her eyes from the glare, scanning the runners with the kind of careful focus the brunette had come to recognize. Not just looking. Searching. Watching for her. And the second the oldest woman's gaze landed on her, her face softened—just slightly, just enough. It wasn't a grin. It wasn't fanfare. But it was real. Steady. And in that moment, Alexis felt more grounded than she had all morning.

Something in her legs kicked back to life. Not all the way, not enough to sprint—but enough to run again. Just a little. Enough to make it count. The pain didn't vanish, but it folded inward, drowned out by the hum of something louder—something like belonging. She didn't wave. Didn't break stride. She just ran, eyes locked forward, ruck bouncing against her spine, Levi's voice in her head, and their faces—her face—waiting at the edge of all that heat and silence.

And for the first time all day, Alexis smiled.

*

The finish line wasn't a banner for Alexis—it was a release.

A quiet detonation of everything she'd been carrying for the last hours, not just the weight of the ruck pressing into her shoulders or the heat soaking through her uniform, but the weight behind it all—the memory, the grief, the responsibility. Her boots struck the final stretch of pavement with the kind of shuddering finality that came after running not just through city blocks, but through time. Her body didn't so much stop as unravel. There was no drama in it, no theatrics, just the slow, undeniable unspooling of willpower finally given permission to ease.

The straps of the ruck had left deep creases in her shoulders; her spine ached in long, dull pulses; her legs felt like they were moving on delay, still negotiating gravity in a rhythm that had long since burned past adrenaline. She bent forward at the waist, hands braced against her knees, chest heaving as her lungs clawed for air thick with heat and dust. Her shirt was soaked through, clinging to every muscle and bone like a second skin, and her dog tags stuck to her collarbone, cooling against her slick skin only in theory.

But what filled her ears wasn't the sound of defeat. It was silence, expanding slowly, edged by a kind of internal roar—relief blooming in her chest, a quiet pride beneath the exhaustion. The finish line hadn't been a race to win. No one was here to set records. It had never been about speed or competition. It was about presence—about showing up, for the ones who couldn't. For those still fighting battles no one else could see. For the names they carried in silence. For the cause that threaded them all together, mile after mile. And she'd done it. They had. One more march for those who couldn't. One more mile with purpose.

As her vision began to adjust, sweat stinging the corners of her eyes, Alexis looked up, squinting through the shimmer of heat and light and movement beyond the barrier. And there they were—her people. Her anchor. Miles stood tall with one foot perched on the bottom rail of the metal barrier, posture loose but eyes sharp, watching her the way only someone who knew her full history could. Beside him, Ava held out a water bottle like a gift from the gods, already uncapped, condensation trickling down the plastic like an answer to prayer. And Charlie—bouncing on her toes, arms waving, little voice piping above the crowd like a beacon—grinned with all the pride of a child watching her hero come home.

The brunette let out a sound somewhere between a laugh and a breath as she half-limped, half-walked toward them. Her stride was crooked now, hips uneven from fatigue, but she moved anyway, drawn by gravity that had nothing to do with physics. When she reached them, she let the ruck fall from her shoulders with a tired grunt, the thing landing with a dense, metallic thud that echoed faintly against the pavement. She didn't even flinch. Her arms found the barrier again, elbows bent as she folded forward just enough to let her forehead rest against her forearm. Just for a second. Just to let the fire in her muscles cool beneath the gentler burn of proximity. Her breath still came in uneven pulls, chest stuttering from heat and exertion, but for the first time since she'd started moving that morning, she let herself pause.

Ava was already reaching across the rail before the SEAL could lift her head. The water bottle pressed into her hand like it belonged there, like it had been waiting for her just as much as they had. Alexis took it with trembling fingers, brought it to her lips and drank—slow, measured sips that stung going down, her throat too dry to welcome it, but her body greedy for the coolness anyway. A trickle escaped the corner of her mouth and rolled down her chin, vanishing into the sweat that had already mapped the shape of her exhaustion. She didn't speak, not yet. Just nodded, one slow dip of her chin as she blinked hard behind eyes that didn't know if they wanted to cry or keep scanning the crowd like she was still on patrol.

—You did it, the Langford wife said gently, smiling, voice low enough to not overwhelm, but warm enough to anchor. We're so proud of you, Lex.

Before the commander could respond, Charlie had pressed herself against the rail, tiny fingers gripping the metal as she bounced with excitement.

—Auntie Lexi, you're so strong! she beamed, her words too big for her small lungs but bursting with sincerity. Like a superhero! You finished the whole thing! Her cheeks were pink from the sun, curls sticking to her forehead, but the joy in her eyes cut through every inch of her aunt's fatigue.

That did it. Alexis straightened slowly, one hand on the rail for support, the other rubbing at her brow as if it could wipe away the ache that had taken up residence in her bones.

—I had to, she rasped, voice frayed at the edges, thick with heat and emotion. Can't disappoint my biggest fan.

The little girl giggled, leaning into her mom's side, and that's when the brunette noticed the sign—different than the one they'd held when she'd started the race. This one was brighter, messier, clearly handmade in a hurry with smudged letters and a few stray dots of what looked suspiciously like applesauce. Her brow furrowed as she squinted at it.

—What happened to the other sign? she asked, voice hoarse but teasing, chin lifting in mock accusation toward Miles.

Ava laughed, glancing sideways at her daughter.

—Someone got a little too excited when her apple juice exploded, she said, nudging Charlie with a gentle hip bump. So we had to improvise. Miles ran across the street to the corner store and grabbed poster board. Charlie supervised the art direction.

Gray's partner leaned in, grinning.

—It was a full team effort. And I burned my hand on the sidewalk, so I expect a medal.

Alexis huffed a soft laugh, one hand rubbing at the back of her neck. Her muscles still twitched with the aftershock of effort, but her heart was lighter now, steadied by their presence.

—You're a hero, she said dryly, and the agent winked in reply.

There was a pause then, filled only with the ambient noise of the finish line behind them—more cheering, the distant static of speakers announcing incoming runners, the buzz of feet still crossing pavement. And then Miles's hand landed gently on her shoulder, warm and solid, a steady pressure that told her something had shifted.

—Hey. She made it.

The commander blinked, her eyes cutting to his.

—Olivia, he clarified. She got here late. Babysitter mix-up, I think. But she brought stuff for you—a whole paper bag of post-race things. Hydration packs, clean shirt, snacks... the works. He smirked faintly. She's over by the tents. Didn't want to crowd you at the line.

Gray felt her breath catch. Not in her chest, exactly, but somewhere deeper. Olivia had come. Despite whatever had made her late, despite the heat and the crowd, she had come. Her pulse fluttered, not from the run, not from the sun—but from something she couldn't quite name. The kind of quiet astonishment that curled at the edges of something fragile.

—Go, Ava said gently, nudging her with a knowing smile. Before Charlie asks if you're going to marry her.

Alexis rolled her eyes, but her mouth curved into a half-smile. She ran a hand through her damp hair, the strands already escaping the bun at the nape of her neck, and reached down to straighten her tags.

—I'm disgusting, she muttered, but she was already turning, already scanning the field of tents for the silhouette she knew by instinct alone.

And there she was.

Olivia stood just beyond the sponsor banners, one hand shielding her eyes against the sun, the other holding a familiar brown paper bag. She was watching the crowd with quiet focus, her brows pinched in concentration like she was searching for someone she couldn't bear to miss.

The youngest's steps were uneven, but they carried her forward. Through the haze. Through the heat. Through everything.

And when she finally reached her, clearing her throat in a soft, raspy greeting, the lieutenant didn't hesitate. She looked up, eyes locking with hers, and opened her arms without a word.

The brunette blinked.

—I'm soaked, she warned, voice low.

—I don't care.

And with that, Alexis stepped into the space between them—into arms that wrapped around her without hesitation, without judgment. And for the first time that day, she let herself lean.

*

TAGLIST: @nciscmjunkie @certainlysleepy @makkaroni221 @ginasbaby @kiwiana145 @kobayashi-fr @hi-i-1

[redwryvernwrites]

Hey, I had read @quibbs126 interpretation about various classes of Transformers that can possibly exists in 'Shattered Alloys'. I was wondering whether you also have a similar concept during the early stages as you develop the story of your fic, or could this be a recent addition?

Optimus Prime being a C-class derived from his Japanese name 'Convoy' is absolutely clever!

Anyways, no matter what the direction this story leads to, I will always enjoy it. Sometimes, when I thought I can predict the plot, you always come with unexpected twists whether they may be intentional or not. Also, I am looking forward for your next chapter :D

Shockwave is terrifying, but his getting worst 😄😄

I always had a vague idea that certain classes would be developed for certain functions. Such as B-127 being a servant like class or Elita-1 being a civil servant class according the the backwards ideals of the functionists. I never really fleshed any other classes out bar the D-Class lineage who are descended from Megatronus Prime.

Funnily enough, D-Class comes from the Japanese name for Decepticons, but it's also mentioned in MTMTE that the 'Destron' faction are the ancestors of the Decepticons. So I applied it to D in D16. Also works when you consider that in Shattered Alloy's the D-Class's are rare and were built for a purpose and have a very potent 'bloodline'.

Any new sparks born to the lineage end up taking their characteristics, even if the D-class is the carrier. Usually, the Sire's coding is the one who decides what frame and appearance a sparkling is, but the Destron gene overrides that. Example: If Kilotronyx or Megatron became carriers, their coding would override the Sire's and produce a D-class instead of a C-Class @quibbs126 put forward. The exception would probably be a Prime, because they're a Prime though that's never happened. Yet.

I might go into detail with it in a post, but I don't really like doing lore dumps like that. I want to let the story slowly reveal information because it's more fun that way. I like to surprise my readers and see their reactions.

I'm not actually writing with the intention to reveal twists, but sometimes characters do stupid or really out there things (Especially Megatron) and it just 'happens'.

Oh, you ain't seen nothing yet from that one opticed freak.

Look at this stupid ass bug