#im just physically holding myself back from drawing them for now

[woolying]

bow down to them!!!!

based on tetro idol units ideas and RulerxRuler by REIRIE !!

this was the first song to come to mind for them after thinking about it for approximately 5 seconds

i think they would make music thats upbeat and playful and confident and lowkey a little noisy and self centered maybe bc i think its fun and they would have fun yay

also i suck at coming up with group names so i have nothing taking suggestions PLEASE HELP

ok needed to get this out of my head im normal now (lying)

[enden-k]

NEW CONTENT TO ANALYZE 🛐

For now have a very eepy fixation on the scene where Saran is wrapped around Vika. He's not even close to being physically similar to Vika. Does that stop him at all from being his own weighted blanket/being able to wrap himself around him? Not at all. The reason he has tentacles is to better wrap around Vika

(Something about how Saran seemed to be absentmindedly petting the scars, I wonder if it was due to the texture? Or just something he likes doing. Idk something about it is very intimate, for some reason, usually you'd see a character kissing the area so i guess it's because it's something i haven't seen before that IS a display of intimacy. Rolling it over in my brain. Like a rotisserie chicken. Good concept)

Also 'VIKA CONTROL YOUR TOOL' lmao. It's giving 'GET YOUR FUCKING DOG BITCH' "It don't bite" 'YES IT DO-'. Protective Saran. Also a tasty concept. Good brain food too. Good stuff

(Also, the person who was saying that they liked Saran despite having some issues with eyes is so real. I have a horrible eye phobia. Eyes in general (specially eye contact) really creeps me out and every now and then there will be an illustration where i go 'ah yes this is the eye character. How the fuck did I forget that when IT'S HIS WHOLE THING' because genuinely you HAVE to be putting something in him! He doesn't creep me out! Genuinely i dont have any idea how Saran isn't just one walking trigger for me or why i enjoy him as much even when he does occasionally spook me

It's so weird! Fascinating! Genuinely feel like consuming Saran content (well. Your content in general but specially Saran related) has desensitized me somewhat to eyes. I even find myself particularly enjoying the way eyes have been drawn that day! Good characters good lore and now I can go a step above in my character analysis (in other fandoms) by watching their eyes without getting freaked out about it! Never have been so happy to have stumbled across someone's work)

-eepy 🦜. Still rotating the way they cuddle in my head. Saran is so attentive. So lovely....

imo, wrists are super intimate to touch (probably bc im very sensitive there and dont like them being touched unless its someone im comfortable w and trust); not to mention scars (esp if its SH)

saran stroking and tracing them gently is like him acknowledging them but not judging or pitying etc vika; not paying extreme attention/hyperfocus to them but also not ignoring them to the point of it becoming obvious. they are just a part of the person he loves. they are just there

also, saran just really likes to touch (so does vika) but very soft and gentle; hes the kind of person who will always gently run his knuckles down your face, hold your wrist and trace your veins or scars, stroke the back of your hand or palms, push stray locks of your hair behind your ear. its little but very intimate touches that say more than words could in this moment, more powerful than a bold touch imo

LMAO ITS FUNNY BC while im not scared of eyes at all or anything, im also just very uncomfortable and bad with being looked at/eye contact (i can manage when its a few seconds tho but i really do hate being perceived) but drawing saran so much and his many-eyes when theyre all staring straight at the viewer never fazed me lololol (prolly bc i stare at my own drawings longer than any of you, since i work on them n all)

i love how the eye-guy somehow managed to break through yalls fear of eyes tho!! saran was on his way to become a doctor before he died, does it count if i say bby still managed to "help" at least one a little bit even tho hes dead now? 🥹

[brandwhorestarscream]

I am very interested in the Transformers One cybermorph AU. And how D-16 and Orion (and B and Elita) react to the discovery.

Because Orion would not abandon D for anything at this point. B probably has no idea what a Cybermorph is, and Elita might know, but with all the other lies Sentinel told, who knows what the truth actually is.

But Alpha Trion is, of course, right there...

Wheee someone else shares my interest (งᐛ)ว I'm thinking that, in this situation, those under Sentinel's rule don't know about the morphs. They appeared very late in the war, and perhaps their emergence could've helped pave the way for Sentinel's betrayal. Orion and friends are completely blindsided by their existence >:)

Consider: D-16 who is Queen Mother Galvatron's lost little morphling, displaced during the war somehow 🤭 without his cog he's stuck in permanent root mode, and has no idea what he is. Neither does anyone else, save for one person 👀 it's Sentinel, he knows and has been holding onto him as a last ditch effort bargaining chip to use against the hive

Godddd im just thinking about the angst, Dee's already horrified and sickened by everything he found out about Sentinel, then Alpha Trion grants them their cogs and the alt mode he finds waiting for him is one of those things. Idk exactly when, but at some point during their journey they saw morphs in all of their terrifying glory.

In the movie where he fired his very first shot from his cannon, blasting that vehicon (press f for steve), that's instead switched out for him leaping onto the drone and tearing it apart with his teeth and claws akin to the vicious mauling attacks of the neomorphs, screeching and chittering threateningly in a language he doesn't understand ("BACK OFF MY HIVE!" He shrieks in morphspeak. "OFF! AWAY! MINE!"

Then he hears B-127 make a strangled noise and the scrambling of pedes, and he looks up and sees the other three staring at him in mild horror and disgust. He flinches back, drawing up to his full height, and finally looks down at himself--before backpedalling in shock himself because no no no no no, this can't be- this isn't happening- he's not- he can't be-!

His back hits a trees and he pounds a panicked fist into his chest once, twice, "Get it off get it off getitoff!" tone panicky by the third hit. He wants to be back in root mode, now, and finally that seems to do it. He shifts back down to his original form, and touches his face anxiously, observing his fingers and feeling his denta, razor sharp a moment ago but now flat. "I- I'm me?!" He asks, sounding strangled. "I- I'm still me- I- I'm still-"

"...Dee-" he looks up, startled, chassis heaving in fast, shallow gasps. He finds Orion in front of him, expression full of concern, brows upturned and mouth pressed into a thin line. "Dee, what... how... wh-why didn't you ever tell me?!"

"Tell you?! I didn't know myself until just now- don't look at me like that, th-this is a big shock for me too!" he has his arms wrapped around himself as if he could physically hold himself together. His optics flit from Orion to the other two behind him. Standing a safe distance away, and looking tense. Ready to run.

"Ok, so," Elita one refuses to let her hands shake, so she hops from foot to foot to work off the nervous energy, trying to appear ready. "What, are we, you know. Going to do?"

"We're taking this to Iacon-"

"Not that," she swats Pax's shoulder. "I mean about," her optics flick over toward D-16 meaningfully. "Him."

"Uh, I'm right here-"

"What do you mean, Elita?" Orion shifts closer to D-16. "I don't... why wouldn't he come with us?"

"Because he's one of them?! You want to bring one of those things straight to Iacon?!"

"I am right here-"

"Elita, what- he's not like them, he's- Dee and I, we've all been fri-"

"Ap-pup-pup!" She thrusts a silencing finger in his face. "Pax I have been extremely forgiving up til now, I didn't scrap you when you got me fired, I didn't slag you when you got me thrown off a train, I didn't even slag you or bigmouth back here when you dragged me onto this stupid quest. I am not, under any circumstances, letting you bring a morph to Iacon City!"

"I am RIGHT HERE!" D-16 suddenly bellows. "Stop acting like I'm not here! If you have a problem say it to my face!"

"Maybe I will!" Elita growls. "I don't know what you are exactly but I saw what your little brothers and sisters did back there, I am not gonna let you do the same thing to our home!"

"It's my home too, or did you forget that?! You're older than me, you were there the day I... came..." the silver mech's face suddenly goes slack, and he straightens up from the slight hunch he'd entered so they could yell at each other face to face. "Online. Wait..." a trouble shadow slides across his expression. "Did I come online? Or, was I... did I..."

If he's a cybermorph, then... that means he wasn't constructed cold. From the little they know, morphs are a techno-organic species. They can't be constructed cold. Where did he come from, then? From who did he come from? How did he come to be in Iacon in the first place?

[deliciousspecimen]

A/N: Hi everybody! This is the last part of my Young Silco fic :} Im am already writing a sequel, and I am excited to keep this story going. I hope you all like it!

Ember in the Dark pt.11

Young!Silco x Fem!Reader

pt.10 - Sequel

pt.1

Warnings: Violence/Physical Assault, Child Endangerment/Trauma, Death/Grief, War/Revolution, Substance Use.

Word Count: 9273

Summary: (Y/N) helps build a fragile life alongside Silco, Vander, Felicia, and Connol, raising Violet and Powder as their found family. After a violent encounter with Enforcers leaves everyone shaken, tensions escalate between Silco and Vander, leading to a planned uprising at the bridge. (Y/N) chooses to stay behind to protect the girls. The revolution ends in disaster- Felicia and Connol are killed, Silco vanishes, and (Y/N) is left to carry the girls to safety. Vander returns alone, claiming Silco abandoned them, but (Y/N) doesn’t believe it. She searches- finds no body, no trace- and quietly holds onto hope. Years pass. Violet and Powder grow. New kids join their family. The Last Drop becomes a haven, and (Y/N) stays at its heart- scarred but steady, protecting what remains. Silco’s name fades from conversation, but not from memory. She never truly lets him go.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The Last Drop was alive with its usual rhythm- voices echoing off brick walls, the low clink of glass, laughter that rang too loud. But the second (Y/N) stepped inside, saying her hello’s, the mood shifted. Not all at once. Just enough to make the air feel different.

Felicia noticed quick. Her head snapped up from where she sat, Violet balanced on her hip. Her smile dropped like a stone. Her eyes narrowed at the sight of blood, the tension in (Y/N)’s shoulders, the way she clutched her bag like it was stitched to her ribs.

“Oh, god…” she breathed, already half on her feet. “Vander-”

Connol moved before she could finish, steadying Violet as Felicia stood. Vander looked up from where he was drying a glass behind the bar, brows drawing tight. He didn’t speak yet.

But Silco didn’t wait for anyone.

His stool scraped back sharply. The half-full glass he’d been nursing tipped and spilled across the bar, forgotten. He was across the room in seconds- quicker than anyone had ever seen him move when it wasn’t life or death.

His hands were on her before she could get another word out. One arm caught her around the waist, steadying her. The other came to her chin, tilting it gently, his fingers cool and trembling. His jaw clenched. Eyes scanned every mark on her face- the cut at her lip, the bruising along her cheekbone, the scraped edge of her brow.

“Who did this?” he asked, voice low and tight, almost quiet enough to miss. Almost.

She winced when his fingers brushed a sore spot, but she didn’t flinch away. Just looked up at him through lashes heavy with exhaustion, a ghost of a smile on her lips. It didn’t land.

“Enforcers,” she muttered. “Just a patrol.”

His expression darkened. He didn’t tighten his grip, but the air around him seemed to shift- an unspoken pressure that made the room hold its breath.

“They searched me,” she added, hoarse. “Didn’t find anything. They just… wanted to make a point.”

His thumb brushed a streak of blood from the corner of her mouth. His hand lingered there, and something flickered in his expression- hurt, maybe.

“You let them?” he rasped.

“I didn’t fight,” she whispered. “If I had… I might’ve hurt them. I didn’t trust myself not to lose control, even… If I can control it more now, than before...”

Silco closed his eyes, jaw tight with restraint.

Behind them, Vander stepped out from behind the bar. “Get her upstairs,” he said, voice low. “We’ll talk after.”

Felicia was already moving again, clutching Violet like a tether. Her face was a storm.

“I’m fine,” (Y/N) tried to say, barely above a whisper.

“No, you’re not,” Silco muttered. He slipped the edge of her cloak back over her shoulders, tightening it around her with careful hands. “Come on.”

He didn’t give her the chance to argue. With an arm secure around her waist, he guided her toward the stairs. His steps were sharp, shoulders taut with silent fury. Not a word was spoken as the door clicked shut behind them.

The quiet in the room was thick- not awkward, just heavy.

Silco didn’t ask her to sit. He simply steered her gently to the bed, helped her lower herself with careful hands, and moved across the room in a blur of precise motion. The tin basin. The pitcher. A cloth. A bottle of disinfectant- stings like hell, but it kept you alive.

He knelt in front of her and tilted her face toward the light. The cloth was warm. Gentle. He wiped the blood away with a steady hand.

She flinched when it passed over the split in her lip. “Sorry,” he murmured, almost too quietly.

“You’re better than they were,” she said, voice barely audible.

His jaw ticked, but he didn’t answer. He reached for the bottle, soaked a clean cloth, and pressed it carefully to her temple. It burned.

She hissed, eyes watering.

“Hold still.”

It wasn’t sharp. Just soft enough to keep her grounded.

He worked in silence. Cleaning every mark. Every bruise. Every scrape. His focus never wavered, but she could see the tension behind it- the way his brows knit together, the way he breathed through his nose like it was the only way to stay calm.

When he reached her hands, he stopped. Just for a moment.

They were torn up. Raw. Stone and dirt ground into her palms, her knuckles purpled from impact.

His thumbs hovered there, then moved with excruciating care, picking away the debris, soaking the cloth again and again. He didn’t speak until the worst of it was done.

“... You should have fought back.” he whispered, voice rough.

“I didn’t want to hurt anyone,” she said. “Not again.”

He said nothing. Just reached for the gauze. Wrapped her hands with the same precision, knotting them tight enough to protect, not tight enough to sting.

When he finished, he lifted her hand to his lips. A kiss to her knuckles, light as air.

“You should’ve called for me,” he said, finally.

Her throat caught. “I didn’t know if you were nearby.”

“I don’t care,” he said, sharper now. “I would’ve burned the streets down to get to you.”

His eyes met hers. They burned- not with blame. But with something colder. Sharper.

“I’ll find them,” he said. “And when I do-”

“Silco.” Her voice was small, but it cut clean through the tension. “I’m okay. You got me. That’s what matters.”

He looked at her for a long moment. Then his shoulders eased, just barely. He brought her hands to his lips again, eyes closed.

“You shouldn’t have to live like this,” he murmured.

“I want this,” she said, forehead pressing gently to his. “I want you.”

That was all it took to make the rage inside him quiet- at least for now.

He held her. Close. Like he could block out the world just by keeping her there.

No more words passed between them for a while. Just the sound of breath, the warmth of quiet touch. She sat on the edge of the bed, hands bandaged, shoulders sagging under the weight of everything she hadn’t said. Silco crouched in front of her still, hands never straying far.

Eventually, Silco helped her up with the same care he’d shown before. Arm around her waist. Not holding her up- just holding her steady.

They moved down the stairs together. Every creak felt too loud. The hum of the bar had returned, but the energy was different. Tense. Quiet.

Felicia still sat in her usual booth, Violet asleep in her arms, a worn blanket draped across them both. Connol was beside her, quiet and still. His eyes found (Y/N) the moment she appeared.

Vander was behind the bar again. Arms crossed. Watching. Measuring. Counting bruises.

Felicia’s eyes widened when she saw her. Relief flooded her face, but it didn’t erase the lingering anger.

“You’re alright,” she said. Like she needed to say it out loud to believe it. “Really alright?”

“I’m fine,” (Y/N) said, voice steadier now. “Just a little beat up.”

Vander exhaled through his nose and turned for a clean glass. “Sit,” he said, gruff but not unkind. “Drink something warm. You’ll feel it more in an hour.”

(Y/N) gave a tired smile. Let Silco guide her to the booth across from Felicia and Connol. She didn’t lean on him. But she didn’t let go either.

Silco didn’t leave her side. He slid into the booth like he belonged there, quiet and sure, his arm settling along the backrest, fingers grazing her shoulder. He didn’t say a word, but his presence was grounding- anchored, solid.

Felicia leaned forward, eyes narrowed as she took in the bruises on (Y/N)’s face. “If I ever see those bastards near here again…” Her voice was tight, sharp.

“Fel,” Connol said softly, placing a steadying hand on her knee.

She didn’t look at him. “No. I mean it. We can’t just keep letting them do this.”

Silco’s jaw tightened, a muscle jumping in his cheek. Still, he stayed silent. Not here. Not yet. Not when the eyes of the bar had already turned toward them. The murmur of conversation had slowed, dulled. Now, even those who tried to act like they weren’t listening… were.

The atmosphere thickened. Simmering tension pooled in the corners of the room- quiet, heavy, waiting for a spark.

Vander stepped in, a steaming mug in his hand. He set it gently in front of (Y/N), then stepped back, arms folding across his chest.

“We take care of our own,” he said. His voice was low, but it carried. “Always have.”

(Y/N) curled her fingers around the mug. Her eyes stayed down, watching steam rise in slow spirals.

Silco’s hand moved to her back, palm warm through the fabric. His thumb pressed slow, steady circles between her shoulder blades. Grounding. Gentle.

The bar’s rhythm resumed in cautious pieces- clinks of glass, low conversation, chairs scraping against wood- but something had shifted. A quiet understanding passed between the walls. One of theirs had been hurt. Again. And the Undercity remembers.

Behind the bar, Vander didn’t move much. But his posture spoke volumes. Hands braced against the counter, shoulders tight with barely restrained fury. He wasn’t pouring drinks. The bottle beside him sat forgotten.

His eyes hadn’t left (Y/N) since she walked in- since he’d seen the bruises blooming across her skin, the blood drying at the corner of her mouth. The way she winced when she shifted. What haunted him most wasn’t the damage.

It was that she hadn’t even fought back.

She hadn’t used magic, hadn’t lashed out, hadn’t screamed. She was just walking. And they jumped her like she was nothing.

His fingers curled into fists. The wood beneath his palms creaked under the strain.

Silco noticed. Of course he did. He always noticed. But he didn’t speak. His attention stayed on her, thumb still tracing circles.

Felicia broke the silence with a venomous whisper. “This city’s rotting from the top down.”

Connol said nothing. His jaw was clenched, hand resting protectively atop Violet’s blanket, as if shielding his newborn daughter from the world.

Vander’s voice, when it came, was quiet- but sharp as a blade. “She didn’t even raise a hand.” His gaze was distant, as though staring through the bar. “Didn’t say a word. Just walked. And they still thought they could beat her bloody.”

His fists trembled on the counter. “That’s the kind of peace they’re offering.”

Silco’s eyes flicked toward him. “Starting to see it, are you?”

Vander didn’t answer. But the silence said enough.

His shoulders sagged slightly, breath shuddering out. “I’ve spent half my life pulling people back from the edge. Telling them to wait. To think. To survive instead of strike.” He looked at (Y/N) then, something pained and heavy flickering behind his eyes. “But what do we do when there’s no fight left to stop? When we keep our heads down, and they still come for us?”

(Y/N) looked up. Her voice was quiet, raw. “I didn’t fight because I didn’t want to hurt anyone. Not because I was scared.”

Her gaze dropped again. “Didn’t matter. They just wanted someone to hurt.”

The weight of her words hung in the air. No one had an answer.

Vander ran a hand across his jaw, slow. “This city’s gonna crack,” he muttered. Then, barely audible- “And I don’t know if I can stop it this time.”

The weight in the room pressed against her skin, heavier than the bruises blooming beneath it. (Y/N) stared down into the mug. Herbal. Faintly sweet. Something Vander probably mixed together himself- pain relief, maybe. Or just something warm to hold. Something that made you feel less hollow.

She took a careful sip. The heat stung against her split lip.

The others were still talking. Still shifting around her like a gathering storm. Silco hadn’t moved. His hand stayed firm against her back. Steady. Present.

But even that comfort felt distant. Sharpened by the silence in her chest.

She didn’t want their fury.

Didn’t want Felicia’s wild-eyed rage, or Vander’s coiled grief. She didn’t want Connol’s quiet worry, or Silco’s unreadable stillness.

She just wanted them to stop looking at her like this was something new.

It wasn’t.

Pain had followed her since childhood- persistent, predictable, a shadow stitched into her every step. There was always someone bigger. Someone crueler. Someone who needed to remind her she didn’t belong.

This wasn’t new. It was just more of the same.

She didn’t want pity. Or promises. Or rage that would burn everything down.

She wanted peace.

She took another sip of her drink, hands trembling slightly, and said nothing.

Silco leaned in, voice low against her ear. “Do you want to go upstairs?”

She didn’t answer right away.

But eventually, she nodded.

He rose first, then reached for her gently, helping her stand without a word. He didn’t hold her- just offered the support, and let her decide how much she needed.

They didn’t look back as they left.

The climb upstairs was slow- not just from pain, though it still lingered with every step- but from the weight in her chest. A hollow sort of gravity.

She didn’t speak. Didn’t lean on him. Just walked.

Silco didn’t press. He kept close. Always within reach. But didn’t touch her unless she faltered. He walked with a kind of quiet restraint, as if every instinct told him to pull her in- but he knew she needed space more than shelter.

The door closed behind them with a soft click.

Inside, the room welcomed them in silence. Dim neon light filtered through worn curtains. The scent of the day- dust from the mines, candle wax, and faint smoke- still clung to the air.

(Y/N) didn’t stop moving. She crossed to the window, cloak slipping from her shoulders and falling where it may.

She didn’t pick it up.

She sank into the window seat, flicked her fingers, and summoned a small flame.

It sparked, sputtered. Her hand trembled.

She clenched her jaw, tried again.

This time, the fire steadied. She lit the cigarette between her lips and leaned back, exhaling smoke toward the cracked pane. The breeze drew it out slowly, like breath finally let go.

Silco stood near the door, watching.

She looked hollow.

Not broken. Not weak. Just… dimmed. Like the fire in her chest had drawn back behind old walls. Her hands trembled around the cigarette. Blood dried like rust along her bandages.

She didn’t try to hide it.

She didn’t say a word.

Silco stepped forward- slowly, deliberately- and knelt beside her, one arm resting on the windowsill. He tilted his head, studying her profile, but didn’t speak right away.

“Talk to me,” he said at last, his voice low, nearly lost beneath the hum of the Undercity outside.

(Y/N) didn’t answer. She kept her gaze fixed on the distant glow bleeding through the cracked glass- the Undercity’s fractured light, flickering like something half-remembered. Smoke curled from the cigarette between her fingers. Her silence stretched, brittle.

“I’m just tired,” she said finally. “Tired of pretending it doesn’t hurt.”

Silco swallowed, jaw tensing. She wasn’t talking about the bruises. Not really.

She drew in another breath of smoke, slower this time. “People always look at me like I’m strong. Like I can take it.” Her voice wavered, then steadied. “And I can. But it’s starting to feel like that’s the only reason I’m still here.”

Her eyes dropped to her bandaged hands, and her voice cracked.

“To take it.”

He didn’t speak. Just reached out, fingers brushing hers as he gently took the cigarette from her grip. She let it go without a word. He crushed the ember into the ashtray, then stood, pulling her carefully to her feet.

She blinked up at him, caught off guard- but didn’t pull away when he wrapped his arms around her. Not tightly. Not to shield or protect. Just close. Like he was anchoring her, grounding her in something real.

“You’re not here just to endure,” he murmured into her hair. “Not to me.”

Her hands gripped the front of his shirt before she could even think of it, her face pressing into the warmth of his chest. His heartbeat, steady beneath her ear, became the only rhythm she could hold onto. The scent of smoke and iron clung to him, familiar, oddly soothing.

Silco said nothing more. He just held her, patient and still, while her body trembled quietly in his arms.

She tried to breathe. Not cry. Not break. But it was hard. The bruises on her ribs and hands still throbbed beneath her skin, but the worst pain lived deeper- in the place that never got the chance to heal.

Her voice, when it came, was almost too quiet to hear.

“I wish it was different.”

His arms tightened, just slightly.

“I know.”

“I wish I didn’t have this magic,” she whispered. “Wish I didn’t have to hide it. Didn’t have to be afraid of it. I wish I could fight back without making things worse. I wish we weren’t always hunted. Like prey in our own streets. I just…”

Her breath hitched. “I just want to live like normal people.”

Silco didn’t respond right away. His thumb moved slowly over her back, quiet and steady.

“Normal’s a lie,” he said eventually, his voice rough. “But freedom? That’s worth everything.”

She gave a shaky exhale, her cheek brushing the warm skin above his collarbone. Her eyes were heavy now.

“Feels like we’ll never have it.”

“We will.” His voice shifted- firmer now. Not idealistic. Certain. “Not tomorrow. Not soon. But one day. I’ll make sure of it.”

She didn’t argue. She didn’t have the strength.

Instead, she let herself lean into him, her body slowly releasing the tension it had carried all day. Her heartbeat slowed, syncing with his. If she couldn’t have peace, at least she had this. Him. The quiet safety of his arms.

The exhaustion caught up all at once. Her breath warmed the hollow of his neck as her grip loosened- not from retreat, but from surrender.

Without a word, Silco shifted, guiding her toward the bed. She didn’t resist. Just followed, limbs heavy with the weight of it all.

They slipped under the thin blanket, the only light coming from the dim Undercity glow through the window. She curled into him instinctively, her head on his chest, her hand tucked between them like she was trying to keep something safe.

Silco wrapped his arms around her, pulling her close until there was no space left between them. His legs tangled with hers, and he rested his chin gently on the top of her head.

It wasn’t the first time they’d fallen asleep like this. But something about tonight felt heavier. Closer.

Not just comfort. Not just need.

Recognition.

He didn’t say it, but she felt it in every breath, every touch, every heartbeat: I see you. I won’t let go.

Her body softened in his arms. Her breathing slowed.

Still scarred. Still whole. Still his.

And in the faint hum of Zaun’s restless night, they drifted off. Two souls bound together in the dark, held fast by something stronger than all the things trying to break them.

Time passed.

Not all at once. Quietly. Gradually.

The bruises faded- from her skin, then from her routine. Her hands healed. The ache in her chest took longer. But even that began to dull- softened by warmth, by routine, by Silco’s constant, quiet presence.

And Violet grew.

From a bundle of soft blankets and curious eyes to a sharp, babbling toddler who could clear a room with a single shriek and charm it again with a crooked grin. She toddled through the bar on unsteady legs, fearless. Felicia stayed one step behind. Connol three steps ahead, trying to catch every fall.

She became The Last Drop’s heartbeat. Even the roughest regulars melted when she approached with sticky hands and wide eyes. No one said no- not even Silco, who would scowl as she climbed into his lap, then let her stay anyway, a hand gently steadying her back.

(Y/N) began working fewer shifts in the mines. At first, it was just a few missed mornings. Then it became habit. She helped Vander behind the bar, swept the floors, restocked the shelves. Quiet work. Grounding work.

She said it was to help out. But they all knew better.

It was the Enforcers. She was avoiding them. Avoiding herself, maybe. The edge of what she could do- what she might do, if pushed too far.

Vander never asked questions. Just passed her a towel and a crate to lift.

And Silco?

He didn’t say much. But he was always near.

She felt it in the way his hand brushed hers when he passed a bottle. The way he leaned in close when the bar was loud, voice low, a flicker of humor in his eyes. How he watched her, always. Not possessive- present.

The world didn’t get easier. But it got smaller. Closer.

The city still tried to claw peace from their hands- but they held onto it anyway. Nights at The Last Drop had quieted. Less yelling now. Fewer brawls breaking out in dark corners. The fire hadn’t gone out, but it burned lower, steadier, like the amber light spilling across the bar’s worn wood.

The Undercity hadn’t changed. It was still raw. Still scarred. But something beneath it had settled.

Maybe it was Violet, growing fast and fierce, commanding a room with just a look- Felicia’s look- while perched on a hip and sucking juice from a chipped cup. Maybe it was the way Vander and Silco had finally stopped talking past each other.

They hadn’t always seen eye to eye. Too many nights had ended with slammed doors and clenched jaws- Silco all edge and conviction, Vander slow-burning with old weight and weary patience. But something had shifted. Not just in the room, but between them.

(Y/N) saw it first.

The way they leaned closer during late-night talks, voices low as the bar emptied out. Vander no longer shutting Silco down the second Piltover came up. Silco, surprisingly, actually listening- pausing, considering. Like he’d finally realized not every battle needed to be waged in fire.

Maybe it was understanding. Or maybe it was, again, Violet.

She’d changed everything.

Hard to talk about revolution when a toddler was dragging around a chewed-up mug, insisting it was “hers.” When her tiny feet echoed across the floorboards, scattering dust motes in the lamplight.

So when Silco spoke of the future now, he didn’t say now. He didn’t say soon.

He said eventually.

And Vander, once immovable in his pacifism, didn’t dismiss it out of hand anymore. Just nodded. Quietly. Said things like, “Maybe. Someday. When she’s old enough to run if she has to.”

(Y/N) had overheard them once- stood in the doorway, unseen, as Vander cleaned out his pipe behind the counter. Silco leaned nearby, arms folded, eyes on the wall.

“We can’t keep takin’ hits like that,” Vander muttered, jaw set. “They come down here like they own the place.”

Silco didn’t bristle. Didn’t grin. Just replied, low and even, “We won’t. Not forever.”

Vander wiped his hands on a bar towel. “I’m not about to light a fire I can’t put out.”

Silco nodded. “I’m not asking you to.”

A beat passed. Then Vander looked at him- really looked at him- and said, “But we’ll be ready when it comes.”

That was all. No shouting. No threats. Just a shared promise, spoken like a quiet oath.

Not today… Not yet. But one day.

(Y/N) stepped back from the doorway, heart heavy in that strange way- full of knowing. Not afraid. Just aware. The world would shift again. That was inevitable.

But not while Violet was still tugging on pant legs and chasing flecks of light like they were treasure. Not while mornings were still soft and slow, Silco brushing past her in the kitchen, his fingers grazing her back, his voice low and familiar.

“Let her be little,” he’d murmur. “Just a while longer.”

And Vander would nod. And they’d wait.

They’d build.

Time, as it does, slipped forward without asking.

Violet turned four. A blur of questions, fast feet, and sharper opinions. She mimicked everyone- Felicia’s sass, Vander’s sighs, even Silco’s scowls (to his quiet dismay). She perched on barstools like she owned the place. Vander even carved her a little wooden step to stand behind the bar, though she mostly used it to sneak sips from mugs when no one was looking.

And then, one morning, Felicia walked into the bar with Connol trailing nervously behind her, hands wringing.

“Well,” she announced, hands on her hips. “Looks like the baby bin wasn’t a waste after all.”

(Y/N) nearly spit out her tea. “You mocked me for keeping that thing.”

Felicia smirked, rubbing a hand over her belly. “Yeah, well. Maybe you’re good for something after all.”

Silco didn’t say much about the news of the new baby.

But he watched.

Watched Felicia move with a kind of defiant ease, even when the weight of it slowed her down. Watched (Y/N) make space again- pulling the bin out of storage, folding tiny clothes with a strange, wistful look in her eye. Watched Violet mimic it all, dragging around a spare bottle like she was training for something.

Spring came fast. And with it- so did the baby.

The bar cleared out quickly. Regulars were shooed off. Towels boiled. Water warmed. Ren showed up right on time, muttering, “You lot breed like rats in winter,” while rolling up her sleeves.

(Y/N) stayed with Felicia through the pain, Connol at her side, Vander hovering in the doorway. Silco didn’t pace this time- just stood by the window, hands behind his back, breathing like it hurt to do it wrong.

And then the cry came.

Sharp. Fragile. Real.

Everyone stilled.

Ren wrapped the baby carefully, then looked around. “Well?” she said. “Who’s first?”

Felicia, exhausted but smiling with that same smug pride, didn’t hesitate. “Give her to Silco.”

Ren raised an eyebrow. “You’re serious?”

“Vander named Violet,” Felicia said, leaning into Connol. “It’s his turn.”

Silco froze. Looked to (Y/N). She gave him the softest nod.

So he stepped forward.

Ren guided his hands under the baby’s head. He held her like she might vanish. Small and warm and impossibly new.

She was wrinkled and red and making soft, wet noises- but her hair…

Silco stared.

Fine, pale fuzz. Blue. So faint it was barely visible. But unmistakable.

“She looks like…” he started, stopped. Swallowed. “Powder.”

Felicia blinked. “You mean the color, or-?”

He didn’t look up. “I don’t know. It just fits.”

(Y/N) leaned close, gazing at the newborn. “It does,” she murmured. “It really does.”

Felicia smiled faintly. “Then Powder it is.”

The name stuck- odd, but perfectly hers.

And life moved on.

When Powder started walking (and then sprinting, and then climbing everything), Felicia and Connol got restless. The bar was safe, yes, but they needed more. The mines, for all their danger, offered steady work.

“We’re not vanishing,” Felicia promised one morning, Powder on her hip, Violet tugging on her coat. “Just a few shifts. Keep things balanced.”

Connol added quickly, “We’ll be around. Just not always underfoot.”

Vander frowned- he always did when someone went underground- but he didn’t stop them. He just nodded.

And that left them- Vander, Silco, and (Y/N)- as the keepers of the Undercity’s most chaotic duo.

Violet, sharp and loud and entirely too clever, claimed a booth as her throne and demanded pastries as taxes.

Powder… Powder was stranger. Quieter. She wandered more. Spoke to herself. Built towers out of bottle caps and knocked them over to study the fall.

And Silco, of all people, shadowed her like a silent guardian. He never said why.

But he always caught her before she fell.

It started gradually.

Silco began keeping her within his line of sight- subtle, instinctive. Even while buried in planning or half-snarled conversations with smugglers, his gaze would flicker toward her. A quiet “no” and a hand on her shoulder was enough to pull her away from dangerous corners. Sometimes, if he was deep in one of his journals, he’d lift her onto the stool beside him without a word. Powder would climb up too, wide-eyed, watching his pen move like it was casting spells.

(Y/N) noticed it first.

The way Powder drifted toward Silco, no matter how crowded the room was. The way she’d tug at his coat until he looked down, then silently lift her arms to be held. And the way Silco- sharp, precise, always in control- would let her crawl into his lap without protest, wrapping one arm around her as she fiddled with the buttons on his vest like they were treasure.

It was disarming. And a little bit adorable.

One afternoon, (Y/N) found him slumped in the back booth of The Last Drop, half-asleep. Powder was curled up against his chest, her small fingers hooked into the edge of his vest. His hand rested over her back, thumb moving slowly in quiet circles. She leaned against the doorframe, watching for a moment before breaking the silence.

“You didn’t cuddle me like that when we were little.”

Silco cracked an eye open, unimpressed and half-drowsy. “You didn’t drool in your sleep.”

(Y/N) snorted and stepped closer, brushing a strand of blue hair out of Powder’s face.

“She’s got you wrapped around her tiny, sticky fingers, y’know.”

“She’s unpredictable,” he muttered. “Like a bomb with a smile.”

“And you love it.”

He didn’t argue. Didn’t even try.

And as (Y/N) watched him shift just enough to pull the blanket a little higher over the girl in his arms, something warm and aching settled deep in her chest.

The Last Drop had always been a place of smoke and whispers- rebels meeting in corners, laughter shared over bruised knuckles and bitter liquor. But lately, the air had started to change. The whispers were louder. Plans took shape in the shadows. Smuggling routes reopened. Piltover shipments vanished, and the Enforcers never knew where to start looking.

The Undercity was stirring.

And at the center of it all stood two men: Vander, still carrying hope like a torch, and Silco, burning with something far more volatile. They didn’t agree on everything- rarely did- but they had found rhythm again, like bones remembering how to move.

(Y/N) watched from the edges.

Because she remembered what came of getting too close to that kind of fire. A sheriff dead. Ten people turned to dust. Her magic crackling out of control. The way the city looked at her afterward- not like a girl, but like a weapon that might go off again.

No one spoke of it anymore. Not Vander. Not Felicia. Not even Silco.

But she hadn’t forgotten.

So while they pushed forward- Vander meeting with people at dawn, Silco vanishing into alleyways and fixer dens- (Y/N) stayed behind.

Not because she was afraid.

Because she couldn’t let herself become that again.

So she looked after the girls.

Violet was seven now- quick-footed and fierce, with scraped knees and a sharp tongue. She climbed faster than most runners, had already started asking questions too big for her age.

Powder, at three, was quieter. Sloppy, brilliant, always tinkering. She'd pull apart broken tech just to rebuild it into something entirely new- and entirely unpredictable. More than once, Vander had flinched when her latest invention sparked to life.

(Y/N) was their constant.

She packed lunches. Cleaned up cuts. Told them stories when the nights grew long. Her rebellion wasn’t with fire and fists anymore. It was in keeping the people she loved intact while the world tried to wear them down.

One night, Silco came home late. His coat was torn at the shoulder, dried blood crusted on the sleeve. He stepped into the bar and stopped.

On the couch, (Y/N) lay curled with both girls half asleep across her- Violet stretched over her legs, Powder tucked under her arm. She looked up, eyes tired but soft.

“Don’t ask,” she said before he could speak. “They ran themselves ragged.”

Silco crossed the room and crouched beside them, his hand brushing over Powder’s hair, then Violet’s arm. His eyes, usually so guarded, flicked to (Y/N), darker than usual.

“You’re keeping them safe.”

“I have to,” she murmured.

He didn’t answer. But the thought hung there between them, heavy and unspoken.

And who’s keeping you safe?

(Y/N) didn’t need him to say it. She just reached out, brushing her fingers along his cheek, whispering- “I’m still here.” before carefully picking up the girls, and making her way up stairs.

The bar was full later that night. Shoulder to shoulder with the ones who mattered- runners, smugglers, chemists, old fighters with iron in their bones. You could feel it in the air. Something was coming.

Upstairs, (Y/N) and Felicia stood over the sleeping girls.

Violet had begged to stay up and “help with planning,” eyes shining. Powder had clung to her half-broken toy like it would anchor her. (Y/N) tucked the blanket in around them both, brushing their hair back with a hand that lingered too long.

“I don’t like this,” she said quietly as they stepped into the hall.

“I know,” Felicia replied.

Downstairs, the tension pressed against the walls like a held breath.

Vander stood tall at the center, arms crossed, jaw set. Silco was beside him, leaning slightly forward, hands clasped behind his back, speaking low.

No heat. No fight.

Just resolve.

When the time came, Vander raised a hand.

The room fell silent.

“We’ve been patient,” he said, voice clear and steady. “We’ve followed their rules. Tried to build something real in the cracks they left us.”

A few voices murmured agreement.

“But patience hasn’t bought us peace. It’s bought bruises. Blood. Fear.”

He swept the room with his gaze.

“And every time we let them walk our streets like they own ‘em, we tell our children this is all they’ll ever have.”

(Y/N) stood at the back with Felicia, arms crossed, shadows curling around her like second skin.

She didn’t speak.

She just listened.

Vander’s voice sharpened.

“So we’re taking it back. No more waiting. No more silence. If they want to walk our streets- they’re gonna have to bleed for it.”

Cheers rippled across the room, building slowly.

Then Silco stepped forward.

His voice was quiet. Precise. Cold.

“We hit them where they’ll feel it. The bridge. That’s where they hold power over us. That’s where they watch us- control us. So that’s where we remind them we’re not beneath them.”

Heads nodded. Plans took root.

And in the flickering light, (Y/N) stood still.

Watching. Remembering. Holding the weight of fire in her chest- and refusing to let it burn her again.

Vander lifted his hand to calm them. “We’ve got numbers. We know that bridge better than anyone. We fight smart. I’ll lead it.”

The bar erupted.

Chairs scraped. Bottles clinked. A half-dozen people surged forward, shouting their loyalty, their hunger for retaliation.

But not (Y/N).

She didn’t move. Not even a twitch. Her arms stayed folded across her chest, lips a thin line. Heart pounding behind her ribs like it was trying to run.

She got it. Really, she did. That righteous fury- they wore it like armor. And part of her wanted it, too. To burn hot. To burn back.

But all she could think about were two small girls asleep in the room upstairs… And the last time she’d let her magic answer violence with more of it.

Felicia stood near the wall, arms crossed, looking worn down to the bone. She glanced over, voice barely a whisper above the chaos. “You good?”

(Y/N) didn’t answer. Her eyes were locked on the center of the room. On Vander, solid as ever, holding the weight of the whole damn Undercity on his back. On Silco- quiet, sharp-eyed, unreadable.

She murmured, more to herself than anyone else, “I don’t know if this is the right way. But I think they’ve already decided.”

The meeting bled into the night, the bar slowly emptying until only low voices and the smoke of half-burned cigarettes remained. A plan had been made. A date.

Three months.

The bridge.

It still felt far.

But not far enough.

(Y/N) sat alone in the booth by the window, untouched drink in front of her, eyes distant as the Undercity’s green glow shimmered through cracked glass. Vander’s voice rumbled somewhere behind the counter. Silco’s lower, quiet, murmuring something to a smuggler near the back.

She barely heard them.

All she could think about… were the girls.

Powder would be four in two weeks. Gods. Four. She used to be a quiet bundle wrapped in a frayed blanket- Silco had held her once, stiff and unsure, like she might shatter. Now she was a walking whirlwind, inventing things from nothing but wires and junk.

And Violet- eight. A spitfire with scraped knees and fire in her veins, fierce as Felicia, stubborn as Vander. She looked at (Y/N) like she hung the stars when she helped her tie her boots or sound out long words in dog-eared books.

They weren’t hers. Not really.

But they were.

And now there was a war coming.

Not a whisper. Not a theory. A date. A choice.

She looked down at her hands. Scarred. Capable. And shaking.

Not from fear. Not exactly.

But because she knew what this path cost.

She heard a chair scrape back and looked up just as Silco approached. His coat was still draped over one shoulder, his expression unreadable, though the shadows beneath his eyes were darker than usual.

“You didn’t say anything,” he said as he slid into the booth across from her.

(Y/N) held his gaze. Steady. “Didn’t seem like there was much room for second thoughts.”

Silco tilted his head, studying her. “You don’t agree?”

“I don’t think it matters,” she said. “You’ve already decided.”

Her voice wasn’t bitter. Just tired.

Silco didn’t argue. Just leaned back, fingers tapping against the table’s edge. “You’re thinking about them.”

“Always.” Her voice softened. “Powder wants a new toolbelt for her birthday. Violet’s been asking for boots like Vander’s.”

She smiled, sad, faint. “They don’t know what’s coming.”

Silco went quiet. Long enough that the silence almost felt like an answer.

“Neither do we,” he said finally. “Not really.”

“But you’ll still go.”

“I have to.”

“I know.”

They sat there, still and silent, the weight of three months stretching out between them like a lit fuse.

Then- “Promise me something,” she said, eyes locked on his.

Silco straightened. “Anything.”

“If this falls apart,” she said, low and sure, “make sure you are safe.”

His eyes darkened- not from coldness, but something heavier. Fiercer. “I will.”

“I’ll stay behind,” she added. “With the kids. I won’t fight. Not this time. I’m not letting them wonder where I went.”

He reached across the table, his fingers brushing hers. “You won’t lose what you built,” he said quietly. “Not if I can stop it.”

She nodded, throat tight. And squeezed his hand back.

Powder’s birthday came faster than expected.

The Last Drop still hummed with the tension of what was coming. But that day… that day, she didn’t let it touch them.

She slipped out early, arms full when she returned- scraps of cloth in soft colors, sweets from the docks, a small mechanical toy she’d bartered for with a vendor who owed Felicia a favor.

Most wouldn’t notice the changes in the bar. But the ones who mattered? They would.

Ribbons of powder blue and pink, twisted with wire, hung along the stair rail. A booth had been cleared- mismatched dishes, a crooked cake Vander swore wasn’t terrible, and two paper signs marked in shaky handwriting: VIOLET and POWDER.

Violet was the first down, barefoot and wide-eyed. “Is that cake?”

“Patience, firecracker,” (Y/N) grinned, scooping her up. “Birthday girl’s not even here yet.”

Felicia followed, Powder half-asleep on her shoulder, hair sticking out like she’d wrestled a static storm. Her fist still gripped a screwdriver.

“Happy birthday, Powpow,” (Y/N) whispered, lifting her carefully.

Powder blinked. “Is that… a cake?”

“Told you!” Violet beamed.

The party was quiet, small, warm. The best kind. Powder opened her little pile of gifts- buttons, gears, a satchel just her size, and a handmade goggle strap from (Y/N) that lit up at the clasp.

“Now you look like a real inventor,” she teased, ruffling her hair.

Powder beamed and threw her arms around her neck.

Across the room, Felicia met her eyes. A look passed between them. Quiet. Thankful.

(Y/N) just nodded and held Powder tighter.

She didn’t forget Violet either- slipping her a box wrapped in old newspaper with boot laces dyed her favorite color.

“Not your birthday,” she said with a smirk, “but being a big sister’s hard work.”

Violet grinned, tackled her in a hug.

The day passed in soft bursts of joy- chalk drawings on the bar walls, Powder tinkering with her new tools, Violet staging wild games in the back room.

For just a while, nothing else existed.

No war. No countdown. Just them.

Later, when the girls were asleep upstairs- bellies full, faces sticky with frosting- Felicia pulled her into a long hug.

“You’re too good to us,” she murmured.

“You’re my family,” (Y/N) whispered back. “I’d do it all again.”

Felicia sniffed. Laughed softly. “Don’t say that too loud. Might end up with another kid.”

“God, no.”

But she laughed too.

It was Powder’s day.

And (Y/N) made sure it was a good one.

Even with the clock still ticking.

The days had started to blur. Since Powder’s birthday, time had shifted- tilted on its axis. What used to feel like months now passed in weeks. Weeks collapsed into days. Now, the revolution was close enough to taste, and (Y/N) felt every second of it like a noose pulling tighter around her throat.

She kept moving. That’s how she managed it.

She cleaned up after the girls, swept the bar floors, restocked shelves, re-fastened loose nails. She fixed Violet’s boots in the mornings, helped Powder organize her new toolbelt, double-checked the locks at night. Always busy. Always doing. Because the moment she stopped- even for a breath- something in her chest cracked open.

She avoided Silco more than she wanted to. Slipped out of the room when he came in. Kept her replies short when he asked questions, her gaze lowered, never lingering. It wasn’t anger. It wasn’t distance. She loved him- god, she loved him. But something in her gut had gone wrong. A slow, sick churn that wouldn’t leave her.

It was the same feeling she’d had before the last sheriff fell. Before every loss she hadn’t seen coming.

Everyone else seemed ready. The Undercity buzzed with tension, with quiet coordination. Weapons hidden. Escape routes mapped. Vander kept a layout of the city splayed across the back room table. Silco paced over it with sharp eyes, memorizing the paths like scripture. They were prepared. They believed.

And she wanted to believe with them.

She knew their reasons were real. She knew they were fighting for something better. But that didn’t stop the pit in her stomach from growing each time she walked past Vander bent over plans, or Silco murmuring to the others, fire catching behind his words.

At night, when the bar quieted, she sit awake in the dark listening to the soft sounds above- Powder’s breathing, Violet’s snoring- and wondered whether she’d ever hear them again once the smoke cleared.

One night, she stood at the window long after the lights were out, arms wrapped tight around herself. The city glowed that familiar, sickly green in the distance.

She didn’t hear him until he spoke.

“You’re avoiding me.”

His voice was soft. Not accusing- just... true.

(Y/N) flinched. Closed her eyes.

“I’m scared,” she admitted, barely a whisper.

Silco stepped closer, not crowding her, but close enough that she could feel the heat of him.

“Of the fight?” he asked.

She shook her head. “Of what it’s going to take.”

Silco was quiet. Then, low and sure- “It’s already taken everything. This is the only way we get it back.”

She didn’t argue. Just turned her gaze back to the window, watching the city pulse.

“I just want them safe,” she murmured. “That’s all I care about now.”

He nodded once. “Then stay with them. No matter what.”

She turned finally, looked at him fully for the first time in days.

“You’ll come back?”

There was a pause. A long one. Then-

“…I’ll try.”

Not a promise. Just a truth.

It had to be enough.

…Dawn came too fast…

The Undercity held its breath beneath the pale, grey light, every alley and window draped in anxious silence. No birds. No whistles. No drunken laughter. Just boots, gear, metal. War at the door.

Inside The Last Drop, the air felt frozen in place. Violet and Powder sat on the stairs, wide-eyed and quiet. Not babies anymore. They understood enough.

(Y/N) knelt in front of them, steadying her voice even though her hands trembled.

“Just another day,” she whispered. “That’s all. You’re staying with me, doors locked, windows tight. We stay quiet, okay?”

Violet nodded slowly. “Is something bad happening?”

(Y/N) smoothed her hair and kissed her brow. “No. Not to you.”

Then came the footsteps.

Silco. Vander. Felicia. Connol. Benzo. Others, too. Armed, armored, resolved.

(Y/N) stood and moved to Felicia first, hugging her tight. “Watch Connol’s back.”

“Always,” Felicia murmured.

She hugged Connol  and Benzo, firm and quick. Then Vander- no words, just a shared embrace, the kind that said everything without needing to speak.

And then Silco.

He stood still, but the moment she reached for him, his arms wrapped around her in an instant. No hesitation. It was the kind of embrace that tried to memorize- her scent, her warmth, the way her magic thrummed just beneath her skin.

She pulled back just enough to look at him, then leaned in, kissing him deep and desperate, her fingers curled in his coat, the other at his jaw. When she broke the kiss, her lips ghosted his ear.

“You better fucking come back.”

His breath hitched. Just a little. Then he rested his forehead against hers.

“I will,” he whispered. “If only so you don’t burn the city down looking for me.”

She huffed a shaky laugh. Didn’t let go until she had to.

And then- like that- they were gone.

She locked the door behind them with trembling fingers and turned back to the girls. Wrapped her arms around them and held on.

Outside, the Undercity marched to war.

Inside, she kept the light on…

The silence was wrong.

It wasn’t peaceful. It was bracing. Even the air held still, like the city was exhaling for the last time.

(Y/N) did everything she could to distract the girls. Old books. Chalk drawings. Gentle songs hummed through clenched teeth. But her hands kept shaking.

And she knew.

Then- the pounding. A heavy, urgent fist at the door.

She ran. Unlocked it.

Benzo stood there, blood on his shirt, breathing ragged, eyes wide with horror.

“They knew,” he gasped. “They were waiting- we walked right into it- too many-”

She didn’t wait to hear the rest.

“Stay with the girls,” she ordered, already pulling on her coat.

“Auntie-!” Violet cried.

“Don’t follow me,” (Y/N) barked. “Stay with Benzo.”

She was gone before they could answer.

Smoke painted the sky as she ran- choking, black smoke that billowed across rooftops. The closer she got to the bridge, the thicker it became.

She arrived to chaos.

Screams. Steel. Bodies. Blood slicking the cobblestones. Enforcers everywhere. Zaunites, too- some fighting, some fallen.

No time to think.

Magic surged to her hands, golden light cracking from her fingers. She fought like she was made for it. Threw herself over downed allies, cast fire toward enemies, keeping them at bay.

Then she saw him- Vander, bloodied and using his gauntlets to fight with every muscle. She cut her way to him. No words. Just movement. Two parts of the same storm.

And then-

“Auntie!!”

The voice cut through everything. High. Familiar. Too close.

She turned, eyes wide.

Violet stood just beyond the fight, Powder clinging to her side.

“Benzo let them leave?” she breathed, fury flashing hot.

She darted to them.

“Where are they?!” Violet sobbed. “Where’s Mama? Dad?!”

(Y/N) looked to Vander.

His eyes dropped- just once- toward a heap of rubble nearby.

And she knew.

She followed his gaze.

Felicia lay crumpled, blood on her temple, Connol’s hand still wrapped around hers. Still. Silent.

Gone.

Violet froze. Shaking.

And everything inside (Y/N) shattered.

Violet threw out an arm, shielding Powders eyes with her fingers. “Don’t look,” she whispered, her voice breaking. Her hands trembled.

(Y/N) was there in an instant, scooping them both into her arms and holding them tight- tighter than she’d ever held anything. Powder buried her face against her collar, breath hitching with quiet sobs. Violet clung to her shirt like it was the only thing keeping her upright. (Y/N)’s knees nearly gave beneath her, but she didn’t fall. Not yet. She took a shaky step back from the wreckage, her eyes stinging, her lungs burning. She couldn’t cry. Not here. Not now.

She held her girls.

Then Vander was beside her, silent for a moment, his hand landing heavy on her back.

“Take them,” he said, his voice raw, thinned by smoke and grief. “Please. Get them home. Somewhere safe.”

She looked at him- just once- and nodded. No argument. No questions. Just turned and carried them away.

One on each hip. Powder crying soft against her neck. Violet stiff and silent, arms locked around her like a vise. The walk back to The Last Drop felt endless. Every step rang in her bones.

She slammed the door shut behind them, bolted it, barred it. Dropped to her knees with both girls still wrapped in her arms. Held them like the world was trying to take them from her.

But in the back of her mind-

Silco.

She hadn’t seen him. Not once.

And the thought of him- alone, somewhere in the smoke, maybe bleeding, maybe worse- was already beginning to split her down the middle.

Vander didn’t return until long after nightfall.

His footsteps dragged through the rear hall like dead weight. His coat was half-burned, his hands red and raw, crusted with blood. The door creaked shut behind him, too final. Like a war had ended, but no one had won.

(Y/N) was on the floor by the hearth, sleeves rolled, hands trembling as she dabbed soot from Powder’s cheek. Violet sat close, arms around her knees, eyes fixed on the door.

Vander stood there, silent.

She looked up at him, heart already sinking. “…Well?”

He didn’t answer right away. Just stared at her. Through her. Like he hadn’t left the bridge at all.

“I couldn’t find him,” he said finally. The words scraped out of him. “He’s gone.”

Her chest tightened.

Vander’s expression twisted. “He disappeared. Coward.”

She flinched.

“He let it all fall apart.” He began to pace- restless, agitated, jaw clenched so tight it looked like it hurt. “I trusted him. And he ran.”

(Y/N)’s hand froze, cloth paused at Powder’s temple. That didn’t sound like Silco. Not the Silco she knew. But she could see it- the rage in Vander’s eyes, the betrayal coiled beneath his skin.

Now wasn’t the time to argue. The smoke was still clinging to them all.

So she said nothing. Just nodded once. Quiet. Then turned back to the girls.

Powder sniffled. Violet leaned closer, a protective arm around her sister’s shoulders.

(Y/N) dipped the cloth again, wiped the soot away gently, one streak at a time. As if she could clean the night from their skin. As if it would undo any of it.

Vander sank into a nearby chair with a heavy groan and didn’t say another word.

The silence that followed didn’t feel like peace. It felt like a wound.

Silco’s name wasn’t spoken again.

Not by Vander. Not by Benzo. Not even by the few who survived and had once stood beside him.

But (Y/N) searched.

She helped move bodies from the bridge- limbs stiff, clothes torn, faces she’d known. She found Connol’s body. Felicia’s. Wrapped them herself. But Silco wasn’t there.

She checked every face, every coat. Her hands shook with each one she turned over. Hoping. Dreading.

He wasn’t dead. Not there. Not anywhere.

He was just- gone.

And somehow, that was worse.

Then, one night-

She was settling the girls into bed. Powder was half-asleep in her lap, Violet rubbing at her eyes and pretending not to yawn.

A slam. The front door.

She flinched, head snapping toward the stairs.

Vander. Soaked through. Water dripped from his hair, his boots. He didn’t say a word. Didn’t even look at her. Just stormed through, fists clenched, leaving muddy footprints in his wake.

She watched him disappear into the back, heart thudding.

She didn’t ask. Not yet.

But something in her chest sparked. A small flame. One that hadn’t burned in a long time.

Weeks passed. Then months… Years…

Life reassembled itself in jagged pieces.

Violet grew louder, bolder, angrier. Powder withdrew into wires and gears, her grief funneled into creation.

Mylo came crashing into their lives a year later- mouthy, reckless, impossible to ignore. Vi challenged him before she even learned his name. Claggor followed soon after, calm and steady, the quiet gravity that kept the chaos from flying apart. And Ekko, sharp and fast, found a home with Benzo. He and Powder bickered constantly, but they always came back to each other.

The family grew. And (Y/N) stayed. Because someone had to.

The Last Drop softened. Fewer fights. More meals. It became a place worth protecting.

But the ache didn’t go.

Silco’s absence lingered in the corners. In the shadowed streets. In the quiet before sleep.

She never stopped loving him. She tried to. But she didn’t.

She stopped asking Vander. The look in his eyes when she did- the guilt, the anger- was enough.

So she let it go.

Or tried to.

The Undercity healed, if slowly. Vander swore off war, true to his word. The bridge remained, scarred and quiet. A marker of what had been lost.

Violet turned sixteen. All fire and fury, taller now, stronger. Protective to a fault.

Powder turned twelve. Brilliant. Strange. Her inventions more creative, even if most didn’t work, her mind was faster than ever. Her little fort in the kids room was a workshop of ideas no one else could follow.

And (Y/N) was still there.

Still waiting.

Still loving someone who might’ve died on a bridge or walked away from everything.

This was their world. Fragile. Messy. Real.

But somehow- it was still theirs.

[alienaiver]

You know I love the fic where you figure out that you're anemic with Shinsou...

How about a fic where reader is extremely exhausted after a mission that messed up their sleep cycle and now they should rest but can't? With Denki? I just love how you wrote this bone deep exhaustion and I'd love to see your take on how Denki would try to get them to sleep?

thank you!!!!! its such a good fic, too i feel! im very proud of it 🥺🧡

i hope this is okay!! im not sure i hit it as well as i imagined, but i do think it turned out cute!!! thank u for this request, denkis so cute. i wanted to write more honestly, but i also need to contain myself sometimes..... 🙈

warnings: none! this is just cute. genderneutral and poc+body positive as always! unbeta'd but proofwritten. timeskip and prohero!reader (quirk not mentioned) and pro hero!kaminari wordcount: 1k

You’ve been staring at the wall for hours.

Or at least, it feels like it, but you hardly notice the time passing. The cup of tea in your grasp has gone cold, steam flowed up and left. It’s not until you feel a warm palm on your shoulder that you’re pulled out of whatever trance your insomnia’s put you under.

“Y’know, I feel like that sleeping tea would work better if you actually consumed it.”

You look up and send Kaminari a half-hearted glare. He just smiles before he jumps nimbly over the backrest of the couch – ever the agile hero – to cuddle up against you. His hand traces your arm and squeezes lightly, “you need to sleep.” is all he says. You hold back a scoff, your tiredness making your edges sharper than usual.

You’re exhausted.

You came home a little over 23 hours ago – or was it 25? - prepared to throw yourself right on top of the bedding and pass out. Stake out missions that ends in confrontation are exhilarating and exciting, adrenaline rushing through you from the moment you’re stationed in some bush on a hill right until the last villain has been cuffed and handed to the police.

Unfortunately for you, the after shocks of the adrenaline takes a while to leave. A rush after a rush, how ironic. Every time you close your eyes they physically want to open themselves, want to be aware of your surroundings. You guess napping in a bush while your partner keeps watch will do that to you.

Kaminari nibbles at your shoulder as his puppy eyes keeps you under tight watch; he’s had the days off and watched you succumb to an awakened state that doesn’t sit right.

There’s a faint buzz to your limbs, the heaviness making it not quite a tingling, fizzling out in your fingertips and toes. It helps when Kaminari’s close to you. He’s much too often too warm, but the comfort of him is nice these hours. He lets out a small huff of a laugh, “want me to zap you? To make you pass out, I mean.”

You grunt, “if you’re cleaning the couch after I’ll accidentally relieve myself, sure. Anything at this point.”

He laughs and nuzzles into you, “anything, you say? If those words were as true as Bakugou’s unbridled anger, you would’ve consumed the tea I so carefully brewed with love.”

You feel shame run through you; you had meant to drink it, time just… passed. Vanished without you noticing. God, your eyes are heavy. How can your eyes hurt so much from being awake, yet refuse to stay closed?

You bend your knees up and he gently takes the cup out of your hands with a kiss to your cheeks, “I’ll brew a new one, love. I’m just teasing you.”

Now you mirror him, nuzzling your head into his chest, “I know.” you pout, and he wraps his arms around you. When he starts drawing circles onto your back with the cup slowly, you laugh. He kisses the top of your head before retreating, taking his warmth with him.

You follow his figure out into the kitchen and hear him turn the kettle back on. It whirs into life with a droning that grates your ears. You really should clean it, soon. Kaminari’s humming a light tune, the sound of a tea-bag wrapper being opened before the click of the kettle rings. He does as told, waits a moment before pouring the tea as to not burn the tea leaves and make it bitter. A trick he learned from Shinsou when he’d called and asked how to make someone sleep in a minor, badly-hidden panic yesterday.

Your head drops back and you stare at the ceiling. It’s white and nothing to write home about, but every shade and stain of color pops out when you stare at it this intently. You feel a crick in your neck that groans at every small movement. You should buy new pillows like you’ve planned for too long. Did you change the sheets before the mission? You don’t remember. You’re not sure why it’s important when you’re fighting with the ache in your elbow. You took a nasty hit during the fighting that aches. It travels towards the shoulder, thudding, thudding. You won’t be able to sleep on your left side.

Kaminari comes back in with the cup, and when you reach to grab it, he pulls away. “Nuh-uh, I’ll keep an eye on the temperature and give it to you when it’s drinkable. You’re just going to forget again.”

You groan but let your head fall to his shoulder after he settles. “Can you hum a song again?” you ask and he turns his head so that his lips are against the crown of your head and starts humming. It’s slow, melodic and calming.

He hums out Stay Alive by José Gonzáles. Kaminari doesn’t remember lyrics well, but a few words slip past his lips here and there, and you enjoy the feeling of his lips moving.

“The tea is ready now, my love.” he hums and pulls gently away to hand you the tea. Gravity does it work to a limb body and your head falls slowly towards him before it gently hits the backrest. There’s a small path of drool trailing from the corner of your lips and from the new position, a small snore starts to make its way through you.

Kaminari smiles, helps your head back on his shoulder slowly and stay like that until he’s sure your sleep is deep, so that he can carry you to bed gently and wrap you up. From time to time, he turns his head to kiss your forehead. He swears he sees a smile forming after one of them, but it might just be your dream triggering it.

He makes sure all of yours and his usual alarms are turned off for tomorrow, making sure that however long you need to rest, you won’t be disturbed.

[thetriplets3]

melt - muse a holds muse b’s face gently, drawing circles into their cheeks with their thumbs

with matt its so cute

This is so cute I loved writing this please keep the requests coming <3

❊ delicate ❊

If there’s one word to describe how life has been lately it would be exhausting, in every aspect. I spend half my nights awake, restlessly tossing and turning thinking about the long list of things I need to do. I can’t seem to make the racing thoughts in my head stop.

I've isolated myself from my friends and more importantly, you. I’m trying to do a million things and keep my thoughts under control and not drag anyone down with me. Other than the odd text here and there to you we haven’t talked a lot in a week. I can’t help but feel bad. I don’t do this on purpose and you understand that, having experienced the same thing yourself. You give me space and know that I’ll come to you when I need help or when I’m ready.

Which brings me to now. Knocking on your door, I’m greeted by Nick who welcomes me in with a hug. He tells me that you and Chris have just gone to get groceries and should be back soon.

“I’ll let him find out on his own that you’re here” Nick tells me as he retreats to his room.

I send Nick a smile as I head to the comfort of your room. Simply being in your bed and the smell of your cologne is enough to make me fall asleep with ease for the first time in a while.

Matt’s POV:

Walking into my room I’m met with you sleeping peacefully in my bed. “Oh sweet girl” I coo to myself.

Taking my backpack and hoodie off and placing them on my chair, I carefully climb into bed trying to not wake you. I lie there facing you, happy that you feel safe enough to come to me when you need me. My eyes dance over your delicate features. My heart skips a beat whenever I look at you.

I love your eyes. They remind me of an endless galaxy that I never wanna leave, the way your eyes squint when you’re truly happy, how unknowingly expressive you are, the way everything about you's so perfectly suited, just for you. I can’t wrap my head around what there is that you could dislike about yourself. You’re the most beautiful person that has walked this earth and I can’t believe I get to call you my girlfriend.

Noticing you slowly start to wake up I place my hand gently on your cheek and begin softly rubbing circles into your skin. As your eyes open I can see the emotion and the toll this past week has taken on you. You don’t let this stop you from smiling back at me as your eyes flutter shut, taking in the physical contact you’ve been missing.

“You don’t know how happy I am to see you honey. Are you okay?” I whisper.

“I’m okay now that you’re here. I’m sorry for pushing you away. I don't mean to do it, it just feels easier to deal with it myself and not put it on other people” you whisper, sadness filling your voice.

“You’re not alone in this, I’m here for you, just like you are for me. Do you wanna talk about your week or do you wanna forget about it?” I ask.

“I know, thank you for being so patient with me. I wanna forget about it and just be with you right now. I’ve missed your touch” you say.

I open my arms inviting you in. You rest your head on my chest, tilting it up to look at my horse necklace as you fiddle with it. Wrapping one arm securely around you, knowing it makes you feel safe, the other makes its way back to your cheek. My thumb mindlessly draws circles on your soft skin. The warmth of my touch makes your eyelids flutter as they grow heavy, lulling you into a much needed sleep.

Even when things seem like they're falling apart, he's right there to pick up the pieces.

Taglist (msg me if you wanna be added)

@d0wnt0wnstu4n1ol0 @im-a-matt-girl @iluvmatt @antisocialties @stxrniqlo

[tarakanpaintedpurple]

Getting to know your moots

Tagged by @prince--esque so now its your cross to bear >:)

•What's the origin of your blogs title?

Tarakan means cockroach in my native language, as well as shares the first two letters with my irl name. Sadly, just „tarakan“ handle was taken, so i colored the thing purple.

•Favorite fandoms

Although i post and talk exclusively about Destiny 2, i used to be a very active fan in most of the fandoms of 2010‘s (yes im old back off), so Undertale, Vocaloids, small bits of FNaF, TMNT, musicals (Hamilton and The Guy who didn’t like musicals mainly), animation memes community and Marvel at its prime. After 2020 the only fandom i remember being in is Arcana. I also like Ultrakill, but know very little about it lol

•OTPs+Ship name

Aside from canon ones i dont really have any solid ships. I do think some characters (Elsie and Shaxx) would look cute together, but to call them a ship would be an overkill imo. Basically ship the characters you like with the other characters you like, mix and match babey :]

•Favourite colours

Lilac, sky blue, yellowish orange and navy green

•Favourite game

From the ones that i play/played, Undertale, Katana zero, Stray, Streets of rage 4, Disco Elysium and Destiny 2 hold a special place in my heart.

•Weirdest habit/trait

Striking random ballet starting positions, minus the arms. Be careful with dance classes, kids.

•Hobbies

Aside from drawing and gaming, i sew with cross stitch, bike, try to stay alive during pilates and do jigsaw puzzles.

•Something you're good at

Drawing line by line(???). Can’t remember what my art teacher called it in school, basically instead of trying to replicate the 3D object using shapes or tracing an image, you look at the outline of the subject and draw it line by line. Helps when you’re learning to draw something for the first time. With that being said, been told that my art looks traced by my art professors, so tread carefully lol

•Something you're bad at

Expressing myself with words. Always either over explain or dont say enough.

•Something you excel at

Badminton, wanna 1v1?

•Something you love

Winter, it associates with a lot of positive things for me, like my partner’s bd and first time meeting my friend. Also snow, love the snow.

•Something you could talk about for hours without off the cuff

Conspiracy theories >:)

•Something you hate

Lack of empathy/understanding. Like dude, we have limited time in this world, and you decide the best way to spend your days is to make others miserable?

•Something you collect

Unique bus/train/subway tickets, my most prized possession as of now is a metro ticket from Kazan that looks like a coin :]

•Something you forget

A lot of things, im incredibly forgetful. There’s a possibility that there’s a forgotten cup of cold tea standing, waiting for me, as im writing this.

•What's your love language

Physical touch and words of affirmation. You’re awesome, squeeze my hand

•Favorite movie/show

Men in black (don’t laugh), Good Omens and Gravity Falls

•Favorite food

My mom’s tiramisu, my partner’s chicken curry and dumplings. And sushi, but everybody likes sushi.

•Favorite animal

Seals, polar owls, pigeons and bunnies. Perfect mix of aerodynamic and cute

•Favorite subject in school

Art class when we got to draw stuff and computer science. I also liked literature.

•Least favourite subject

History and sewing, because the teachers were just awful

•What's your best character trait?

Рeople’ve told me that my jokes and support help them immensely, so i guess im an excellent jester ‘,:)

•If you could change any detail of your day right now, what would it be?

No aching back, otherwise im doing great.

•If you could travel in time, who would you like to meet?

My grandma in her youth, she’s an amazing lady and i wish i could meet her before the time got to her. Also, Little Ceasar’s CEO

•Recommend one of your favorite fanfics

Not a fanfic reader, sadly. Buuut i did like @makoredeyes ‘s amazing work: https://archiveofourown.org/works/58466131/chapters/148934281

Also, no pressure mentions: @valdakon @perianth-nixie @makoredeyes @phoenixichi @cannyparagon

[microwavetoaster-selfships]

In relation to the doodle I just postedd........ don't mind me I'm just going to be gushing down here in the blow the under the cut.....

(Im FINE I forgot to add the little blushy lines to the drawing I just dont know what to do with my face my facial expressions range from it looks like you're watching a Thomas Sanders skit to I'm internally emoting and i have to announce it outloud just in case.)

I just. Waugh. Somehow drawing two the same height is more of a pain for me than different heights. Digital laso tool I owe you so much.

But for the gushing though. I was thinking about this so hard last night and it occasionally comes in my head, but I chronically wear jackets and hoodies all the time, particularly when I'm leaving the house. And I often of course like to have my hands in my pockets while I walk around. Especially because I always have to be doing something with my hands or else I end up doing that hand pose that I can only describe as the thing that Leni Loud always did from the Loud House because I don't know if there is a term for it. And I am such such such such a horrible sucker for the linked arms thing having arms hooked/intertwined HOWEVER YOU WANNA CALL IT. Messes me up so badly I love it so much. It's like being cuffed together but in the most sweetest way possible. Okay it's like being cuffed together but in that one BBC Sherlock episode where he and John Watson are hand-cuffed together but they're having an awkward time running together and so Watson is like "We are going to have to cordinate" and Sherlock is like "..Okay. Take my hand." And then they are running together while holding hands and there is the most gorgeous shot ever of them being out infront of a bus and. I just love it. Such a little thing but it means so much to me. It's like openly admitting you want someone to just be constantly around you and glued to you, you two can't possibly be away from one another if you two have your arms like that. One person goes to walk in one direction then the other will get tugged with, and if you both go to walk in a different direction then you just get pulled right back towards each other. It's harder to get any possibly physically closer to someone unless you two are like laying on top of each other. It's like saying "I want you here with me through this and this and this and this-". And it is such a notable look as well. You see people with their arms locked and you just know "Okay, those people are probably close to one another." and YES this is different than just having your hand on their arm this is INTERLOCKED.

Bonus points if both people both have their arms in their pockets so they are literally getting each other stuck together. I don't know why this thought gets to me so much but I almost crumbled in the grocery store yesterday. Going shopping with him and if we interlock arms then I am going to be taking up a good five to fifteen minutes of the shopping trip trying to pull myself together from it. Thank you for coming to my esssay and my art showcasing. I would like the government of England to send me my visa now, I'll mail them my passport and biometrics if I must but let me greencard my way to being a UK citizen please and thank you and I would like that under a multiplier of x2 as well please and thank you very much my cell number is 252-555-5555 I can probably relocate in the next 8-12 months depending on how getting a job goes and funding, thank you, I have phenominal potential to become a mechanic I know it because I said so and because I am stupidly passionate as this blog may indicate and I'm sure my alleged FBI agent that monitors me through my screens can also advocate I am also good with customers I have great costomer service because I am a problematic empath so I chronically give people the benefit of the doubt to typically a questionable amount and I also love to ask questions and I know the rule of thumb and agree with the rule of thumb that it is better to ask a stupid question than to outright do something stupid, I am sure I can work up many stupid questions, I unironically love British food and I can go on about that another time but please it all looks like a massive pile of comfort food I am so so okay with that and one of my favorite foods/meals that I got fixated on was out of a tin it was tinned food and I ate it till I can barely stand it anymore but I still look fondly on it now and it was almost as bad as the peanut butter incident where I had so much peanut butter that I actually gag a little at the thought of peanut butter sandwhiches or crackers because I had so much in fact I STILL do a little bi and this happened way back when I was probably like 13 or something and I have a very vivid memory of it was when during they were doing a lot of Back at The Barnyard reruns on cable TV ANYWAY I am also so very good at running my mouth, clients will ask me questions and I will not spare them from a single detail they will know every little thing in fact they will have to ask me to hush, I know my years of expereince are small but my heart is big and my passion is absurd and my potential is strong and I like to think part of me runs off of sheer willpower and determination simply because I must do what I do and I pushmyself many often to do scary things like.... well sometimes I cut off a little extra more cake than I told myself that I would but I eat it anyway even though I get worried I might explode but I never do. I am sure you are a possibly busy government but I can write longer more love letters if it so pleases yes I will be a suck-up if it helps. I am also short which means I am sligghtly smaller than your average man which means I can fit my hands into more places in car enginges. Okaty I am finished now. Sincerly yours, Kane. my last name will also be in my passport which will be given to you with my biometrics and other documents. I also accept simple easy stress-free hand-holding skilled worker visas if that is something you would like. Specifically in, Being a mecahnic. Goodnigth.

[wishful-seeker]

How I Reduced my Bad Dreams

I have PTSD and night terrors, since i was about 11 years old, almost every single night or multiple times a night, i had very gruesome and traumatic dreams. Dreams that i never write down or tell others about because they are too sickening. I've tried many times to stop them with spells or therapy, but nothing really stuck until i created this method.

I trained my brain with personal a hypnosis method i created myself and now i maybe have 2 nightmares a week, and even so they are more creepy than horrible. Im going to share with you how i do this.

STEP 1: Identify Reoccurring Themes in Nightmares

Think about all the different kind of nightmares you have, and all the problems you have in your dreams. For example:

1. Im often attacked by someone in my dreams.

2. I often can never get away from the attacker.

3. I am always defending myself alone without help.

STEP 2: Make up tools to slove the problems.

Imagine an object or a person that you wish to have in the dream to help you, examples:

1. I need a weapon to protect myself: a knife.

2. I need a way to escape them: a portal i can hold in my pocket.

3. I don't want to be alone: my boyfriend would help me.

STEP 3: Create mantras for your tools.

Describe your tools and what they do, how they are made, where they come from, write their story. Be creative. Examples:

1. I have a knife, i have named it Shimmerwater, it was forged by dragon's breath and therefore can kill ANYTHING with one cut if that is my will.

2. I have a pocket watch that can turn back time, changing my dream. It also can open a portal for me to escape into another dream, and if all else fails, it will help me wake up to escape the dream.

3. If im ever scared or alone, just think of (my boyfriend) and he will be there to protect, support, and defend me no matter what.

STEP 4: Create these tools physically (optional but will help more)

Draw small pictures of your tools and cut them out. Hold them as you visualize them and your mantras. Putting these ideas into a physical object you can touch help solidify them. I made mine with shrinky dink plastic. Keep them by your bed, look at them occasionally when you need to. I put mine in a jar with a good dream spell.

STEP 5: Every single night, as you close your eyes for bed, visualize your tools and speak the mantras in your head or aloud. It wont work immediately, but after a few weeks to a month of this you will start to have the tools in your dreams, or the nightmares will start to stop all together because you have subconsciously solved their issues. As you get relief, you don't have to think and say the whole complicated meditation, eventually you can simply name the tools or just imagine them quickly. Make tools of every issue you have, and they will be reduced.

Hope this helps, sweet dreams.

[beanmaster-pika]

Hello!! I just read ur fic, The Shoot of Conscious Attainment (at least i hope this is the same person? I only looked up the username), and i wanted to tell u how much i absolutely loved it!!

First of all, I'm a big Venti & Nahida enjoyer myself and it's criminal they haven't yet interacted in-game. Ur fic scratched a very particular itch and im so so glad i found it!! It also helped a lot that they were so in character, it really felt like official content. Their interaction was everything i wanted to see and more!!

The prose itself was very beautiful, especially from Nahida's inner monologue. The play on "old-new" and "unfamiliar-familiar" in regards to Venti was absolutely delicious. And the description of Nahida's hands, specifically the "five hundred years of childhood" part has me in a chokehold. U did such an amazing job portraying her feelings and the smallness she experiences it's unreal.

And obviously Venti himself was glorious, from the wind cuddling to the holding back physical affection until Nahida initiated it. So so good, all of it.

It was really just very enjoyable overall and i liked it a lot!! If i could give it multiple Kudos i would. Loved, loved, loved it!! Thank u for writing it and for sharing it with the world 💖

Aaaaaaaaa thank you so much this is so nice!!!! Always wonderful to meet a fellow Venti & Nahida fan ^^ I'm honored you enjoyed it and thought they were in-character!! I'm glad you liked the prose too!!

My characterization of Nahida draws in part from reading heartslogos (the god of Sumeru fics. To me) fics around the time I wrote this if you're ever on the hunt for recs 👀They wrote some incredible Nahida-centric ones a couple years ago, and I'm glad I was able to channel that energy and have it come through! Even if she's one of if not the smartest people in the world and 500 years old, she still lived those centuries as a bird in a cage that prevented her from growing. I hope that in between her archon duties, she now gets to experience a real childhood and explore the world and ultimately grow up happy :')

One of the sad things about Rukkhadevata being erased from Irminsul is that Nahida doesn't just have big shoes to fill but big shoes that she already supposedly filled before. Poor radish. Trying to live up to a standard you've set yourself and being unsure if you can do it again is a different sort of torment from trying to live up to your predecessor.

I am glad also that you enjoyed Venti's portrayal, the wind cuddles were something self-indulgent that I wrote for Me so I'm glad others actually like them 🙏 In part because he's nervous about meeting Nahida and doesn't want to make her uncomfortable but also he's an affectionate person!! He's fifty percent mischief but the other fifty percent is love!! and also because I am just. Endlessly fascinated by his connection with the wind. He is the wind itself. It's like an extension of him, but without the solid physicality that actually tethers it to him if that makes any sense.

Anyways! Thank you for reading it and sharing your thoughts with me!!!! 💗 (and for leaving kudos) I'm happy that you liked it enough to say all this!

[leftclown]

So now I'm gonna move on and actually describe an experience I have had as a trans man who is currently detransitioned due to financial status. This experience involves both misogyny and transphobia, and I'm not really here to debate weather or not I Can experience these things, instead I'm just going to share it.

So I guess somewhat important context to this is that I am rather feminine by appearence. If you encountered me in the wild you'd think I was the hoodie and cookie monster pajama girl from high school. My partner, also not currently receiving gender affirming care passes a bit better than me. He at the very least gives people pause or incites confusion. Usually, though, people just assume he's a young man.

I was going to get a state ID because I had moved recently to another state. My ID from my previous state had my gender marked as M because I went through the due process to get that done. New home state has a policy that if youre from out of state you have to get your ID processed at the police station. My partner is also trans and had gone a week prior to get his done, and they had respected his ID's gender marker, moving all of his information from the out of state record.

I go in and of course I am marked F, so upon reviewing it I said thats incorrect, because my ID says M. We go back and forth and I eventually produce my partner's ID and say "you did it for him just last week". Big mistake on my part because I'm honestly still learning how not to give people like this the benefit of the doubt. Regardless, they go to their manager to figure out what to do.

A few minutes later I am called alone into the managers office. Here's a shortlist of this meeting;

-Thet confiscated my partners ID without him present

-Told me my due process didn't matter, that I can only change it if I had a letter saying I had already had SRS.

-Took my previous ID and voided it so I couldn't change my birth certificate

-Made me submit my ID as F

-Tell me my partner has to come in to correct his to F as well

This all happens very quickly, and I try to advocate for myself and lose. By the end of it, I am crying a bit and I mutter to myself "This is fucking insane".

This is the part that really fucked me up.

The manager stepped forward toward me, holding her hands in that defensive position, the one cops to do say 'I'm calm but prepared to use force', you know where they tilt their hips forward and rest their hands on the front of their belt. She tells me "I understand you're upset, but there is no swearing in here."

I am a nearly 30 year old MAN. And she is trying to tell me not to swear like I'm some teenager giving her lip.

"I'm not from here, this is just how I talk" I say, not yet realizing that she is trying to instigate. She prods this issue again, trying to detract me, trying to get me to cuss more. Trying to rile me up. I become quiet and still, thank them for their time and leave. She called me Sweetheart as I left.

And there is nothing I can do in this situation. Im dealing with cops in a red state. There's nothing I can do but cave to the authority because my plans are bigger than this. Because to further advocate is to put myself in danger and she made that very clear by drawing a line at me swearing. So I submit.

Submitting in a situation like this feels like your power is being taken from you. Like they are physically removing something from your arms and trying to get it back would be a major risk. It's not just that someone is stepping on me, it's that theyre telling me politely to get on the ground so I can be stepped on. It felt especially oppressive in this scenario, but it always feels like this. In the workplace, in social group, in family, a trans man is the least respectable thing you can be because not only are you a woman, but you're a crazy, damaged woman and if you're me you get ire for being a waste of a pretty face.

There's always a timeline too, it can be long or short but it always goes like this; People receive me initially with feigned tolerance and some mild comparisons to my partner's masculinity. Then they start poking and pushing and trying to see if I'm really a trans man in ways they think is subtle but to me is very unsubtle. Eventually, when they've disrespected me to the point of reacting emotionally, they act like they've gotten their gotcha moment because I've displayed the Ultimate Thing that makes you Not A Man: Tears. Most of them don't even need to get to there to conclude I'm a trender because well if I'm already almost 30 and haven't transitioned, I must not want it bad enough.

I'm sharing this story not just because it displays the intersections of being a trans man, how hard it is to obtain respect and how fragile that respect is, but also because I know there are guys out there who are like me. I see you, you with the puffy lips and round hips, you who can't transition right now, you who feels like he's waiting for a some day, for a time when it's just okay to exist out there and be treated with the basic fucking dignity of telling someone "Hi, I'm Dave" and having them reply without looking at your tits first. Who has beat himself up in the quiet hours for years for being too emotional, too feminine, feeling assaulted by the way the world wants to commodify your body and demonize your mind. You deserve to be seen and respected.

[thereallennon]

get to know ur moots

didn’t realize i was enough of a moot for THE @daisychain-unchained to tag me!! ty, love ur fics!

what's the origin of your username?: this is a doozy. my main username is toxicalTomb. started as a time i mispronounced tombstone as tombstomb (toom stoom) and decided to make it my handle. then that evolved in toxicalTomb in 2023 cuz i was super into homestuck and dirk strider was my favorite character (his username acronym is tT, which is also why i sign off ao3 comments w that). just kept it. thereallennon came from my discord username, therealegbert (another homestuck reference). yep.

OTP(s) + ship name: mclennon. mclennon. mclennon. and also mcstarr when i want mindless fluff.

favorite color: greem…

song stuck in your head: POURRRRR YOUR MISERY DOWN!! (only happy when it rains by garbage). performing it live in april!

weirdest habit/trait: idk. eating skin.

hobbies: reading. writing. drawing. listening to and writing music. beatles. beatles. beatles.

if you could have any job you wish, what would it be?: some sort of musician. music is my life. my earliest memory is me singing lady gaga’s poker face while it played on mtv. i have a good ear and can keep a beat. my playing is shit, but my passion is there. im fine with a mundane job, too, as long as i can keep music close. tis a pipe dream, my dear.

something you're good at: analyzing music and obsessing over it and playing it and music music music.

something you hate: clothes i can feel. ma not trusting me. ppl only focusing on the bad things someone did. ooc beatles and beatles adjacent!!! no linda mccartney would not let mclennon happen hello!!!! she’d get her and her kids tf out of there!!!!!

something you collect: dead insects. started as a game w my younger siblings and cousins, trying to find me as many dead beetles (heh) as they could. i didn’t even ask them to! now i just have a bowl of dead bugs in my room.

something you forget: what someone said two seconds ago.

what's your love language?: touch, to the point i have to physically hold myself back from holding hands/brushing arms w acquaintances since im so used to doing it w friends and family.

favorite movie/show: a hard days night cuz im so beatlebrained. it’s a comfort film, ive got most of the lines memorized. ofc i also love get out and nope…jordan peele saev me……

favorite food: appyl🤤

favorite animal: bugs! any of them. spiders mostly.

what were you like as a child?: sad. very sad. and eager to please.

favorite subject at school: english.

least favorite subject: english.

what's your best character trait?: im funny (supposedly). im passionate and thats abt it, really, im kinda awful. and i quite like my writing.

what's your worst character trait?: moody bitch w too high of self esteem who procrastinates and has low empathy and doesn’t know social cues and only yaps about beatles beatles beatles until everyone tunes her out. mm.

if you could travel in time, who would you like to meet?: john lennon but i wouldn’t talk to him. don’t meet your heroes.

no pressure tags: @maccamacca @terminallyneurotic @shirojohnlennonswife @miscartz hey guys…..are we moots enough for me to tag you ^_^"

[wederyed]

Your headcanons are so interesting! Can you elaborate on some parts, like Yinyang’s other alters or tissues chronic illness? It’s fine if you don’t want to! Also I heard you wanted drawing requests? I hope it’s not too much but maybe your take on the additional alters of Yinyang would be great to see!

ooooo okok bet (sorry this took so long to answer, i sleep a lot LOL)

ok anyways before i get into yinyangs alters, i myself am a system but am not chinese, so if i am accidentally insensitive or offensive that was not at all my intention and appreciate being let known about it

OK FOR REAL ANYWAYS in my mind yinyang has three other alters: lucky coins, red slip, and mystic knot.

lucky coins (they) are the little of the system, fronting not as often as yinyang but come around mostly at night, especially when candle is visiting the hotel as she acts as their caregiver.

red slip (she/he) holds a lot of the traumatic memories yinyang have gone through. while yang has some of those memories, hence his aggressiveness and (in my mind) role as a protector, red slip withholds everything that has happened and almost never fronts as a result. when they do, it is only when yinyang go through extreme stress and have someone like candle, cabby, cherries or tissues with them to comfort

mystic knot (she) never fronts, regulating the inner workings of the system. before candles help, she would do her very, very best to help yin and yang cohost together to no avail due to their constant bickering and chaos, but after iii finally can help them both regulate fronting along with the other members. i know theres a name for this but i cannot navigate the plural-pedia for the life of me :sob:

here are their designs!!!!!

now for tissues!! i feel that tissues has one of those chronic illnesses that is so rare it does not have a name, and with the accent his congestion gives him he would just start calling it his "condishawn" as an actual name, a sort of inside joke with himself and his doctors, and is why hes always correcting everyone lmaoo

im not an expert on chronic illnesses, but realistically its probably a BUNCH of illnesses stacked on top of each other. like. vertigo and vertistop?? 100% has more than one, poor guy...

without a doubt as i said before he suffers from a lot of fatigue, needing many mobility aids such as a cane and wheelchair depending on how bad of a day it is for him. however, i feel like hes probably a little stubborn about it? like some days even if his physical pains are flaring up a shit ton he will still act like everything is a-ok and walk around, sometimes even collapsing from it for someone to find (typically yinyang or trophy) and having to be carried back and forced to rest

ty for asking!!!

[carzstarz]

oopsie this was supposed to be under a readmore

i feel this thing lately (as in a long time) where i guess it can be boiled down to "i want to be transgender one day" which its like. ive known myself to be transgender since i was 15, as in i had the feeling of "i wish i was a boy instead" since much earlier in life but didnt know about the term for it until i was 15 back in like 2011. i knew of crossdressing and had a fixation on it (i had a lot of ocs that were crossdressers, but upon learning about transgenderism i made em all trans instead) and like i sat with this idea since i was 15, this idea it would be impossible for me to transition in any meaningful way you know. i had figured i would never be able to go on hrt or get a name change or even present myself as anything beyond "that thing is a tomboy probably" so i stuck the idea of top surgery and testosterone out of my mind as completely as i could. annihilated any desire for it, feeling that would be a better solution than to be stuck with any perpetual longing for a body i cant have. and for a long time that did help get through the day i think, but after about a decade it caught up with me. as in like i am completely estranged from my family (not neccessarily by choice but its a win in an unsatisfactory way) and im faced with the reality of hrt being something i can just up and do. but it was several years of anytime i started to consider it, i was given countless reasons for why it would only worsen me, but now i dont think it would worsen me. this also means being face to face with dysphoria i had been ignoring for the better half of the last 10 years.

but transitioning became a very like, luxurious thought i couldnt afford to acknowledge. i have spent the better half of the last 10 years dealing with debilitating psychosis that tore me apart from the inside out, every moment im awake. even in my sleep i was plagued with disgusting and terrifying nightmares on top of insomnia. there wasnt any spare room in my mind to think of my gender when i hardly felt alive, barely felt human. which is something im not sure how to really talk about despite how much i do talk about my experience with schizophrenia. and also with the hard hard haaaard decline of my physical health took up the rest of my thoughts it seemed. of being in immense pain all the time, too painful to stand or walk, unable to do that unassisted. being in the tower, unable to traverse stairs. my chest pain, my struggles to get doctors in the first place and then to get them to acknowledge this chest pain that left me immobilized for the better half of a year. pain so immense i thought it would kill me, pain so immense i couldnt lift a cup to my face, couldnt sit up enough to draw or even hold my phone. pain that still lingers, and seems to come back harder the moment i feel i can try and apply for work, almost like its reminding me thats out of reach. but i dont think its forever, i think theres still hope of either lessening the pain or overcoming it. ive abandoned this post for hours ive lost my train of thought. thoughts i want to share even of it just means they arent circling inside of me. i feel very disconnected from it all, its like the world is spinning without me, and now that im on the cusp of rejoining it, it feels like i missed enough that i cant understand it anymore, but that just happens sometimes.

again this feeling of "i want to be transgender" but theres always something more pressing, like just struggling to be alive and generally alone with it. detatched from myself too, that im wondering if im the same person i was before this. before the tower, which is what i call the little blue room i stayed in between moving for several months that i was in too much pain to leave. theres just has to be something about staring at the same walls of someone elses bedroom with no way to entertain myself because the pain was too much to even sit upright in. i listened to a lot of new music which was nice, but because the music i had enjoyed sounded wrong on the crummy old tv we picked up from the dump and had very distorted speakers. and it felt weird to me to hear songs i knew in a different way. in which music was something i liked to fixate on, since silence would usually lead to me experiencing more intense delusions/ hallucinations, and so i always had to have sound playing to stave this off. but the experience of so much solitude in such extreme pain i couldnt even speak sometimes its like. i have to talk about it it waa so much of my life now but i feel like im not supposed to. even still when i get stressed at all it can make the pain worsen but its been getting less intense overtime but im still scared of the pain returning even if lesser. every now and then i try drawing again but its gonna take a long time to rebuild my skills and then theres the problem of what would i draw. i spent the last few years mostly drawing sonic-adjacent furries and it brought me joy like no other special interest, but now i mostly feel sick looking through my art of like. is this what i want to draw? do i still like it? i feel like i had my special interest ripped from me and it sucks. of these characters i held really dear to myself but then i had this messed up health crisis and now its like everything just feels bad, like this is someone elses art, someone elses favorite games, someone elses favorite characters. which like interests come and go but it felt like i didnt get a choice in this. it feels like the pain just rewired myself. the way i see myself is like i was entering some sort of chrysalis, and was about to grow into myself fully, and it took years and years of hating myself and slowly slowly learning to love myself and to show myself compassion, but then my body caved in on itself in my cocoon. and a butterfly didnt come out, it just fell to the side in all its agony and writhing, and i am the walking chrysalis. change (in the house of flies)

i had been considering going by a different name for a long time now, and now it feels like the best opportunity to use a new name since i dont feel like the same person anymore. it feels like even the anxiety was beaten out of me. or at least the isolation just made it into something else now. never felt like i was meant for the world, and it seemed like the world didnt want me in it either, and it succeeded. but maybe i can join as someone new, but i really wanted to be able to be myself in the world but i think i always knew that wasnt an option. i do think i died in some way and i am on my second chance as someone else, and i dont think i will be lucky enough to get another chance. or it all doesnt mean anything, but reaching into myself i can tell it isnt what it once was.

[staretes]

Hello I had an idea I wanted to share this isn't exactly a request but maybe it could give you some inspiration. I was imagining something like a crossover between the Avatar Legend of Korra series and Honkai Star Rail. Where the Avatar is the emanator of harmony and the current avatar was a teenager and currently training on the Loufu under Jing Yuan's supervision because their guardians believed this would help since they had been struggling with their elemental powers lately.

ooh i didnt watch the legend of korra fully but i sort of know what happens!

for this to work im adding the path of elation to the roster and assigning elements to the paths heheh

• long ago, the aeons bestowed the gifts of elements to their followers • to those that follow the path of abundance, yaoshi gave them the ability to wield the imaginary, turning dreams into reality, so that they never suffer again • the followers of elation were bestowed the power of wind by aha, spreading laughter and joy throughout the galaxy, unbothered by the troubles of life, allowing their spirit to fly untethered to the world • nanook gave his followers the power of fire. fiery and destructive, burning the mistake that is the universe into ruined ashes. • to the nihility, IX left behind the ability to use ice. existence is meaningless, and what is the point of existing when you're frozen in ice, and nothing can do anything? • the people of the erudition search and search for more secrets in this world, and they know the world at a quantum level. nous gives the power to use quantum, and search for what lies beneath • to those of the preversation, qliphoth gave them the power of immense physical strength, to protect everyone they love. • those of the hunt strike like thunder. they used to be the followers of abundance, before yaoshi allowed the life to fester and turned the universe into an imbalance, and a follower named lan ascended to aeonhood and bestowed lightning to their people, to find yaoshi and make him pay.

you are the emanator of harmony. xipe gave its emanator the power to learn all the elements. once a emanator meets their fate, another one is reborn to take their place. your job is to keep balance and harmony to all 7 paths.

but in order to do that, you have to learn the elements first

7 is a lot, but you've managed to learn all except for the element of lightning.

your guardians left you to train under jing yuan, to learn the last element

hes a super good teacher! patient and understands exactly what you need

"this is hard, general!" you once complained to him

"lightning tends to be unpredictable," he explained. "you are scared of relying on something random, so you hold yourself back."

"lighting comes from an imbalance of energy. this imbalance causes energy to suddenly surge towards the side with less energy." he gently takes a hold of your hand, and corrects your stance. "draw the energy within you, and let it build up. don't worry about it overflowing, that's exactly what you want for now."

you breathe in and out, and focus.

once more, you concentrate your energy to the tips of your fingers. when they start to tingle, you don't stop like before.

larger and larger it builds, and suddenly a flash of electricity bursts out of your two fingers

"good job." jing yuan smiles. "now we just have to work on controlling it."

andd im going to stop myself there because its late and i need to sleep. is this what you had in mind anon? because its really very fun to write hehe thank you for sending it!

[mushbones]

need more on that monster attracted to death benry au STAT. it's so good actually

Firefox fucking crashed while I was typing this the first time im going to kill god. Tysm but god typing all this out again WOOF.

Okay so it starts here with “I use au's and shipping to explore concepts/characterization that I feel is overlooked/unexplored in canon” and Benry already has a lot of associations with death to me (the skeletons, his explicit dying whereas everyone else has other explanations, his 'song of death', “there are no predetermined deaths”, him being a inscrutable and inevitable force that is only your enemy if you make him so)

this is a horror-aligned thing so uh body horror and other violence under the cut

I have other stories with benry that explore his relationship with death as well, this is just the one where Benry understands how fucking bad it is for Gordon in the first place and it's more of an interpersonal conflict than one of misunderstandings. They still do misunderstand each other but like.

Anyways most of the basic stuff also goes for how I generally interpret Benry; he's a simulacrum of human life basically. He's always been dead, he's never been dead, he's always been alive and he's currently living. I made a thing a while back out of cut up wiki pages to try and explain what I think of him better but never got around to prettying it up.

Anyways. He's something like that one interpretation of a changeling to me; something that's usurped the body and eaten it from the inside out, until all that's left is him. Partially this is a plural thing to me. Old host chipped away over time until it's something else entirely. Whoever he was before doesn't exist anymore. There is only Benry. (what is benry? well, he is.)

And so uh, Deathry specifically is the horse edition of this. He actually looks human most of the time but it's fun to draw him as silly little beasts. Deathry as established is drawn to death; he feeds from this somehow (the horror hunger enjoyer in me said so) but i'm not sure yet if it's a physical sort of eating or more of an energy-based one. Leaning to both, like a vampire.

I tried making him as compatible with canon as possible on the mechanical level at first. Something that's drawn to the doomed and the damned? Well, we all know what the rescas was like. I think he's just so desensitized to death that he does understand the gravity of it on a deeper level but nobody cared when HE died so why bother.

The story itself isn't compatible though because I was listening to my fucked up and evil music and thought to myself “well if two guys were out hiking alone in the woods and one tried to kill the other with an axe would that be fucked up or what” and now that's thoroughly lodged in my head. and uhhhh the personal drama of it all.

Listen. I am a gay man. I think about frenrey and think about them choking each other to death and I giggle and swing my feet. I love when they are violence and killing.

But also I am a gay man and thinking about a literal embodiment of the condition of death sitting in a tent as the guy he personally cut the arm off of (yes, him, personally!) is slowly succumbing to the cold; wrapping Gordon in his jacket, quietly laying on top of Gordon as the weather gets worse through the night, unsure of what else he can do... comparing Gordon's blackened frostbitten fingers interlaced with his own skeletal black hands, Gordon's slowly crawling pulse to his maybe one heartbeat a minute, Gordon's once loud and comprehensive speech slowly descending to confused muttering, becoming more like him. More like dead. The rituals are intricate okay.

And uh something that makes me crazy is that Benry in canon was explicitly the thing that was holding the rift between worlds open and he didn't even. Notice. With Deathry that sheer power manifests as freak weather events, flocks of birds dropping dead mid-flight, interrupting radio signals, making compasses go crazy. That sort of shit.

Deathry also takes pictures in places he ends up. Gordon is fucking flabbergasted at the underwater caves, dive bells from the outside, impossible angles on known landmarks, but it makes sense to him later. Gordon's probably more riled up by all the random shit Benry's collected over the years - what do you mean you don't want this coat covered in decomp?? aren't you cold??

Anyway. Au is also a fun excuse to think about frenrey shenanigans. Turns up in a hospital after being missing for 3 months raving about a guy who defies all physics with wounds that are only a few days old. Thinks about him for the next month until he randomly shows the fuck up with photos of Gordon bleeding in the snow with benry posed with the axe in front of him like they're having a fun girls night out