#remember that you are loved and you must live. you are loved and you must live. do not let them take your life from you.

[mayasaura]

Pyrrha must have fucked Pash up so bad, tho. Like. Imagine. Your aunt's murderer— the aunt you've lived your whole life in veneration of, who died when you were barely old enough to remember her—looks you in the eye and says: "She loved you. She carried your picture and told me who you were, and she was so fucking proud of you."

Like. What do you even do with that???

[t-a-a-1]

The Misfortunes of Honor

Summary: While being under Megatron’s mind control, Optimus was obliged to interface with you. An act he wished he had done in more complimentary circumstances. Although Optimus loves you, the aftermath of the act made the two of you become distant, making you wonder if it's time to leave Prime’s side.

A/N: 2k words. Angst, suggestive content, fluff, after glow, sexy stuff, etc.

It was too late when he came to his senses.

Although he was able to break free from Megatron’s mind control, his honor had already been tainted. Not like it was ever pure. There was too much energon on his servos to say otherwise and hypocrisy did not become him. 

But you? 

He had made many mistakes. Many of them are unforgivable. This is one of them. 

Optimus can’t look at you. Too much shame and embarrassment, yet he has to hold you in his servos. You had told him that you were hurt and unable to walk. He can tell by  the bruises in your body that you were telling the truth. Not like he didn’t believe you in the first place but they served as a reminder of the horrible acts he had committed. 

It’s not like he didn’t want to do it. In fact, he had dreamt of becoming one with you many, many times before. He craved and yearned for the day he would confess his undying love for you. 

Megatron had taken that from him. Now, he can no longer fantasize about that day. Nor longer think what your first time with him could’ve been. He is unworthy of it. Of you. Although the act had already happened … he refuses to remember such an act. Primal. Without an ounce of love in it. 

“Did it hurt?”

Optimus asks you as he enters his private quarters. No one in the hangar dared to interrupt the two of you. After tonight’s event, it was obvious that the two of you needed time alone. 

“At first but I got used to it after a while,” you say as he places you on the elevated floor where you are able to see him face to faceplate. 

You weren’t a stranger to Optimus' room. He had even put a coach for you to be comfortable. In exchange you put some flowers around and made the place look more lively. 

“(Y/N), I – I don’t know how I could ever ask you to forgive me.”

“You don’t have to. You were under Megatron’s mind control,” you have difficulty looking at his optics. Everytime you look at them, you are reminded of how much craving they had a few hours ago.  “It was the only choice.”

“Did you … Find it pleasurable?” He is usually good with words. But all sense of reason is lost whenever he talks to you. His speech becomes sparkling-like.   “Since it was your first time interfacing and well, I am unable to remember much. I just wanted to make sure it wasn’t too painful for you.”

“I am not sure I can describe it. It was rough and fierce but also passionate and I think a part of you was trying to be gentle. As much as you could.”

In a conversation you two had before, you had confessed that you had never interfaced with a human before. Although you were a healthy and attractive adult individual, you found it difficult to connect with others in such a way. It wasn’t that you didn’t have opportunities before but you were uninterested or scared of the act. 

Optimus began to wonder … If you didn’t want to do it with a human, would you even want to have intimacy with a Cybertronian? He feels like an idiot. You must find him repulsive. Unattractive. A monster. Even more now that he had taken something so precious to you.

“I have tainted your honor and I would like to take responsibility if you wish me to,”

“You tainted nothing,” you crossed your arms in front of your chest. “Optimus, not having sex or having sex doesn’t make you a better or worse person.” 

Your heart was beating too fast, almost coming out of your chest. Hoping that Optimus won’t notice it, you grab on to your arms tightly, it will probably leave marks.

“I am glad that it was with you,” you say as Optimus distances from you, walking around the elevated floor but not too far. “Even if it was in strange circumstances. I am fine, really.”

“But I am not fine with it,” he raises his voice. Although he is trying his best to show sanity, the more he remembers the act, the more his vexation. “All of this time. Ever since I met you, all I wanted was to have a bond with you. A genuine, pure connection and Megatron took that from me. He took my home, my friends, my life and he took you.”

There wasn’t a lot of light in his private quarters. Just the light emitting from his large data-screen. His optics were also a beautiful source of illumination. Most of the time they would be comforting but his evident anger made you question yourself.

“Optimus, is ok, really,” you remember his face plate during the act. He looked almost animalistic, unable to get enough but he looked to be enjoying himself. But now you questioned it. Maybe it was your imagination playing tricks.  “Unless … Did you find our interfacing … repulsive?”

“By Primus, no,” Optimus walks back towards you, for a moment he regrets speaking without any concerns about your feelings. “It’s just that I wished we had done so in more favorable terms.”

“Favorable terms?”

“In circumstances more worthy of you,” as he spoke, his processor began to put pictures in his mind. Of all the times he fantasized about you and him. Finally together with a peaceful life. Enjoying the beauty of a tranquil Earth and a rebuilt Cybertron. He thought of the many sparklings he would have and how they would look. Their names, both human and Cybertronian. And you of course,you next to him for as long as the universe allows you to.

 “In perfect conditions, we would have interfaced after concluding the Conjunx Ritus. Then we could had spark-bonded and I would have made you mine each night after that.”

Optimus took a moment to look at you, clear confusion on your face.

“Hypothetically speaking of course,” he quickly corrected himself.  “Only if there were mutual feelings.”

“And how do you feel?” you ask him. “About me?”

His spark was beating at a frequency unknown to him. But his spark and processor were not connected by the same circuit. What his spark wanted to say could not be pronounced and his processor spoke what little sanity he had while talking to you. 

“I think … You are … adequate?”

“I see,” His words offended you and you abruptly turned around, showing your back to him.  “I am sorry I can’t be better for you. Kinda stupid on my side to believe I could ever be.”

“No,no, that’s not what I mean. I–”

His words had come to a stop as he noticed a blue liquid. Such liquid ran down from your skirt, making its way down your right leg. 

Optimus had filled you with his transmission fluid, you felt the warm liquid run down your thigh. You touch it with your fingers only to confirm your suspicions. 

“Is it possible for a human and a Cybertronian to have a child?”

“I pray to Primus that’s the case.”

“What?”

Wanting to make sure you heard right, you turn to look at him. 

“I mean, I am not certain but if that would be the case then I’ll take full responsibility. I’ll take you as my Conjunx Endura and raise our sparkling together,” he hoped his voice didn’t sound too provoking,, he didn’t scare you with his excitement. 

“If that’s what you wish, of course.”

A few seconds of silence passed in which all Optimus’s processor could think of  were begging words.

“Say yes, say yes, say yes. Please. Please.”

On the other hand, you weren’t entirely sure what he meant as he used vocabulary unknown to you. You were also more concentrated on looking for something to clean yourself with. 

“I don’t know, I-”

“What is a Conjunx Endura? What if it means pet?”

“Only in the case you are with a sparkling! I wouldn’t dare to think of spending an eternity with you otherwise.”

He lies, that’s actually the only thing he thinks about. 

“Alright, Prime, you already said you find me disgusting. You don’t have to put any more salt on the wound.”

“Salt? What wound?”

It was frustrating to you, thinking he is cute when he blinks like that.As much as you would like to be angry with him for the continuous insulting. 

“Whatever. Look, everything is fine. I’ll be fine. I am tired. My body is pretty beat up so I think I’ll go rest now,” you look down at your bare legs. Still, the fluids slowly make their way down.  Feeling swollen and full, you knew you had to take a bath and clean yourself up. “Thank you for the experience, Prime. It was very significant.” 

Walking slowly, you made your way to the stairs. He didn’t want to let the conversation end like this. He panics at the bare thought of you being displeased and him being the cause of it. 

“I am sorry,” he stops you and gets your full attention. “It’s just that whenever I am in your presence, my processor seems to stop working.”

“... Am I that bad?”

Moving his helm from side to side, he can’t find words. He is usually eloquent and well spoken but all his being short-circuits. He can’t do it. As much as his spark begs him to confess, he rationally tells him to do otherwise. 

“No, it’s just—”

“Optimus, we have an issue.”

It was Ratchet’s voice, calling him through his Comm-Link. He ex-vents, he presses the button close to his helm and speaks loudly.

“I’ll be there soon.”

He doesn’t know how to make you stay. The more he looks at you, the more he is silent. His pedes are almost giving up. 

Optimus takes a closer look at you. Your breathing had changed, it has become slower. A few sweat drops run down from your face, your clothes were wrinkled. He is surprised he didn’t tear them off your body before. And your hair was a bit of a mess.

Your lips were red and swollen, probably too tired of kissing his dermas. To say you were intoxicating was an understatement as your smell combined with his had become his favorite aroma. 

He curses the gods … He can’t remember much but just flashbacks. Optimus wonders if he was able to make you moan his name, our of pleasure, out of pure ecstasy and bliss–

“Don’t you have to go?”

You break his trance. 

“I’ll be back,” he says. “Please make yourself comfortable.”

“I’ll try.”

He walks away. Unknown to you, he began to fantasize again. Praying to Primus of the impossible. With the small hope that when he comes back, he will find you on his berth. Ready to be taken by him once again.

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A/N: Sorry for any grammar and spelling mistakes. And for being unable to tag you :( I tried to write this to the best of my possibilities since I didn’t understand much of the prompt. Still, I am very thankful to anon for giving me my first story request! Inbox are always open for any ideas <3

Sorry if this isn’t exactly what you expected but I am new to the Transformer fandom so I am still not comfortable enough writing smut since I don’t think I know much of the lore and terminology for it. 

Also!

I want to state that I don’t write p0rn. But I do write erotica which is a more artistic way to write s3x. So don’t expect me to write hard core stuff, it’s just not really on my brand. Not saying one is better than the other, btw. It’s just a writing preference. BUT I can definitely write hotter stuff if needed lol. 

Anyways, thank you so much for the rest and the support! I am very thankful for every comment, like and reblog. 

See you y'all in the next story!

-taa1

[twola]

Passerine - Chapter 6 [Finale]

PAIRING: High Honor Arthur Morgan x Fem!reader

Wading through blood, you must confront the reality of where the road has taken you.

Warnings: This fic has graphic descriptions of non-consensual sex, violence against women, the trauma thereafter, and somewhat unhealthy coping mechanisms. If any of that content makes you feel uncomfortable or triggers you, this may not be the fic for you.

chapter cw: graphic childbirth, smut, violence, blood, illness, graphic rape, death.

This is it, folks. Thank you for coming along for the ride. Please, I'd love your feedback after all is now said and done. Feel free to leave a comment or hit up my inbox. See you in the New Year.

➵ AO3 Link ➵ Fic Masterlist ➵ Previous 

The wagon roughly bounces on the path, your teeth sink into your lower lip to stifle a groan. You cannot stop the tears from streaming down your face, not anymore.

One of your hands lies upon your distended abdomen, the child's movements having grown frantic and agitated.

Jack looks at you, fearfully, as he’s clutched in his mother’s arms. Another jostle of the wagon and the boy buries his face into Abigail’s bosom. 

Sadie drives the wagon, cursing each time it hits a rough patch in the road, which is often this north in Roanoke. 

From the ride to Copperhead and then turning around and piling into a suspiciously procured wagon, the last two days have been hellish. One hiding in plain sight along the river and the marshes, and the second was riding by night north again, trying to at least get past Annesburg. Ambarino -it would be safe there -

A horse pulls up next to the wagon, and a dirty and disheveled John Marston looks down at you, then down the bed of the wagon with a grimace, clutching at his bloodied arm. “How is he?”

Tears spill from your eyes anew as you look down. 

Arthur, bloodied, bruised, and barely breathing, lies in the wagon bed, his head perched upon your thigh, your hand lightly draped over his collarbone.

You can’t respond.

John realizes this, looking up the trail again as the horse plods forward next to the wagon. “We need to keep moving, get to Ambarino.”

Abigail, who has been quiet for most of the ride, pipes up. “John. We need to find somewhere to hunker down. Soon.”

“I know-”

“No, I mean now. She ain't gonna give birth in the back of a wagon.”

John’s eyes dart back to you, wide and fearful. “Shit, shit, alright,” he looks up the road again, then looks behind them.

He figures they are just north of Annesburg, he chews his lip before remembering,  “Arthur told me of a widow that lives up at Willard’s Rest. Kind woman. We can see if she’ll take us in.”

Abigail reaches over and places a hand on your belly, frowning when she feels how hard it is. She looks up at you, “Don’t you worry, we’ll get you settled.”

Another burst of tears overflow from your eyes. Your hand clutches at Arthur’s shirt, but your lover does not respond.

-

God bless Missus Balfour. She missed not even a step when a wagon and rider full of women and bloodied men appeared at Willard’s Rest, this safe haven hidden away off the road, far, far north of civilization. 

“Here, here, you can put him in that room there. Let me get this room ready for her. I’ll boil some water.” 

John and Sadie half-carry, and half-drag an unconscious Arthur up the stairs as Charlotte slowly walks you into the house, her arm under your shoulder. Abigail follows with the little shadow of her son directly behind her and rubs at her brow tiredly when they reach the kitchen.

Jack tries to bury himself in his mother’s skirts. She frowns down at him for a moment, and when John reappears from the other bedroom, she leans down and kisses Jack on the forehead. “Jack, I’m gonna need you to go with your father. You gotta stay with him and help him, alright?”

John looks as if he is about to say something, but wisely closes his mouth as Jack leaves his mother’s side to tuck himself against his father.

Abigail gives John a tired look, her brow furrowed and serious, “Please, take him a bit away from here. For a while.”

“What, wh-”

“So he don’t hear the screaming. John, please.” Abigail takes John’s hand and squeezes it, whispering low in an attempt for her son not to hear.

John blanches when he realizes what she’s talking about. He steels his jaw and nods, his other hand falling on his son’s head. He nods to Abigail, taking her hand and pulling it up to his lips quickly. “I hope everythin’ goes alright.”

Abigail’s brow falters, and she leans forward and catches him quickly on the lips, surprising him. He quickly recovers and kisses her back, and they both pull back slightly and lean their foreheads against each other, “Me too, John, me too.”

Your groan from the bedroom takes them from the moment and John’s mouth falls into a straight, hard line. “I’ll take him over by the waterfall. Far enough not to hear, but we’re close if you need anythin’.”

Abigail nods a quick thank you and darts into the bedroom.

John looks down at his son, the son for so long he had ignored, “C’mon now, let's get to see if we can get some fish for dinner. That’ll make everyone happy.”

-

Abigail leans over and undoes your boots as you sit in the bed, and after she works them off your feet, she helps you swing your legs up and sit atop the bed, as you breathe heavily. The tightening sensation in your abdomen comes again, and you hiss in pain.

“Breathe through it, that’s it.” Abigail takes your hand and lets you squeeze it. When the pain subsides, you let out a deep breath.

“I’ll be gettin’ everything together. You’re safe, and you’re gonna have the most beautiful baby.” Abigail cups your cheek gently, lovingly. Assuringly. You nod and her hand squeezes yours again before she leaves the room.

You close your eyes, the aching in your hips is near unbearable, and the pain that comes every few minutes is like a bolt of lightning strikes you at your core.

“You must be his wife.”

The dark-haired homeowner steps through the door, carrying folded linens and a large bowl of water, steam wafting upward as she sets it on the dresser.

You're genuinely surprised at the statement, unable to respond at first, “I-….”

“He’s a wonderful man, your husband Arthur. Probably saved me from starving. He couldn’t stop talking about you, his wonderful wife, how you were back home about to have your first child together, how he couldn't wait. He is smitten with you, dear.”

Oh god, your Arthur, your wonderful, sweet… dying Arthur.

“He’s, he’s…. agh-!”

You double over in the bed, clutching your belly and wincing, yelling out in pain as your belly tightens and hardens. Charlotte takes one of your hands in her own and lets you hold it through the contracting of your body.

Abigail bursts through the door, followed by Sadie. Grimacing, she rolls up her sleeves, muttering to Charlotte and Sadie to lay you back from your sitting position. Your head falls back on the pillow as you gasp in pain, clutching at your belly. Abigail pulls up your skirts, folding them at your hips. A warm liquid trickles against your inner thighs as Abigail mutters to Sadie, and the two women manipulate your legs to slide your bloomers off. 

Another pain, and this time you cannot help the moan escaping your throat as your abdomen tightens. It's like your body is collapsing in on itself, and you are barely cognizant of the women in the room. Charlotte steps in and helps as well, and by the time the pain lets up, they have stripped you down to your petticoat shift, have propped your legs up, and your knees falling open.

You're in so much pain that you don't think about decency at all, Abigail propping herself between your legs, your entire lower half on display. Another strangled cry claws its way out of you as you throw your head back.

“Arthur-” you call out in vain, “I need Arthur-”

“I know, honey. He’s just in the other room.” Sadie pats your hair back as she holds your hand.

“H-how am I supposed to do this without him?” You weep, squeezing your eyes shut against the waves of pain.

Sadie frowns, looking across the room at Charlotte. The women share a knowing, pained glance between them - a look of familiarity, of pain, of uncertainty.

Of losing one’s other half.

-

The shitty, ramshackle cabin smells of unwashed men and rotting food. Arthur doesn’t know what’s going on -why is he here, what is this place?

Two men sit at a table, playing cards and drinking from open bottles of whiskey.

Their vests are green. Arthur seethes and goes to pull his gun from his belt, to find that there is none. There’s no gun, no belt. He looks down, and frankly, there is no him. He is not… really there.

His confusion is interrupted as a half-dressed man bursts through a door from another room, hoisting his pants up as he steps in.

“Donal, you rat bastard - how’d you pick up a thing like that?”

The dark-haired man laughs as he places his h cards down. “Enjoy it while she lasts - I’m sure she won’t be so tight when we take ‘er back to Hanging Dog.”

The returning man rebuttons his pants before sitting down in an empty chair, “‘er cunt is still real nice.”

“Wait till you fuck her ass, talk about real nice.” The third chuckles, taking his bottle of whiskey and taking a long drag.

“Ain’t you worried about Van der Linde?” 

“Naw, ain’t no one comin’ for her. She ain’t anyone important.” Dark-haired man takes a large swig of whiskey before slamming the bottle on the table. He takes his gunbelt off and places it on the table as well as he stands up.

“Now if you excuse me, think I’ll fuck that tight little hole again.”

Why couldn’t do anything, why couldn’t he kill them? What was this all?

The door swings open. That old, dirty, ratty bed where he found you, it’s there. Lantern light spills out, casting shadows through the room. Arthur is able to follow, somehow, in this incorporeal form.

You’re curled on the bed in a fetal position, nude and unbound. Your skin is peppered with bruises and your hair disheveled and dirty.

Arthur has never felt so helpless, like he was on the outside, looking in. 

“Come on now, get on your back f’r me. Been thinkin’ bout you all day.”

The terrible clicking sound of a belt being undone pierces the stillness. You don’t move on the bed. The O’Driscoll starts to work at his trousers as he approaches your battered form. His pants drop to the ground as he reaches the bed. He manhandles you onto your back with no resistance, no fight in you.

He climbs atop you, parts your legs, and settles himself between them. The O’Driscoll spits in his hand slathers it over his hard cock, and without any preamble or gentleness, he pushes himself inside your abused cunt.

Arthur is stuck - he can’t look away, he can’t do anything. You don’t scream, or cry, or fight. You simply squeeze your eyes shut for that moment of penetration, completely resigned. Is this… is he seeing what happened to you? This, this heinous violation that happened because he wasn’t able to keep you safe.

The O’Driscoll moans in pleasure and Arthur wants to tear the world apart. Your body moves back and forth on the bed with each heinous thrust of the man on top of you. He grabs one of your legs and pulls it to rest on his shoulder. You don't react at all, staring at the wall.

“P-pretty miss.”

You need him, you need him, and again, he cannot keep you safe. 

Arthur sees red, unable to do anything but watch.

You turn your head, catching Arthur’s gaze. Your eyes are dull, worn, dead. You can see him, the first acknowledgment from anyone all night.

You open your mouth and the most blood-curdling scream he has ever heard fills his ears.

-

Arthur’s eyes open;  his vision blurred for several moments before being able to focus on the ceiling.

The screaming - it's not from his dream, it’s real, it’s happening right now - you need him-

He blearily awakens, his mouth filled with the coppery taste of blood as he pants. He struggles to sit up, but finally does so, his head spinning. He feels so weak. Another pained scream from down the hall. Wheezing, he clutches at his chest as he sits up in the bed. He wipes his mouth with his sleeve, blood staining the fabric. 

He hears Abigail through the wall, some sort of murmured affirmation that he can’t understand.

The baby-

Arthur slides from the bed onto unsteady feet, nearly falling as he stumbles forward and grasps onto a dresser to stay upright, loudly panting. 

Another scream. The baby, you’re having his baby-

He wipes his mouth again as he looks around, recognizing the bedroom as one he’s seen before - he’s up at Willard’s Rest, Charlotte must have taken them in.

Arthur musters the little strength he has and takes step after unsteady step, leaning against dressers and the wall as he exits the bedroom and slowly drags himself down the hall.

“It’s okay, it’s okay, breathe through it.” 

God bless, Sadie Adler is here too.

Arthur sucks in a loud breath as he leans against the frame of the open door, quickly exhausted by the exertion he has already gone through. It takes moments for his vision to correct and his lightheadedness to subside a little. Only then is he able to take in what is happening in this other bedroom.

You recline against Sadie, who rubs at your biceps gently as Abigail sits between your spread legs, arms bloodstained up to her elbows. Her brow is furrowed in concentration. Charlotte Balfour leans over and places a wet cloth against your forehead, wiping away the sweat.

He must be dead, he must be. There’s no way on god’s green earth he’s seeing this. He’s completely unnoticed by the women, all rightfully focused on birth and life and not on a dying man.

“There we go. Alright, come on now honey.” Sadie coos gently. You grab at one of her hands and she holds it with the strength that Sadie is known for.

Abigail looks up to see Arthur leaning against the doorframe. Heaving breath, trying to keep himself upright. For an instant, she wants to go to him, but another scream escapes your throat and she immediately turns back to you. She mutters something to Sadie that Arthur cannot hear, and Sadie moves to let you lay down in the bed as a racking sob shudders out of your body.

“Couple good pushes left, you can do it-” Abigail places one of her hands below your knee and pushes your thigh back to round your belly. Sadie does the same with the opposite thigh, one hand free to brush back sweaty strands of hair from your forehead. Abigail nods to Charlotte and the latter takes Abigail’s place at the side of the bed, taking your thigh in her hands, holding it back the same as Sadie.

You scream again, head craning back on the pillow. Your hands clutch at the bedding beneath you with an unmatched strength. 

“Yes - yes, there we go, here we are-” Abigail mutters, her free hand disappearing between your legs.

Your voice, rough and abused, suddenly changes tone. From fearful and pained to something fierce. The scream from your lungs is one of determination - of strength and power and by god, he’s never been so in awe of you.

Arthur’s heart stops beating at this moment, and he nearly forgets the weight in his chest that makes it nigh impossible to breathe.

“Now push-” Abigail orders.

A fresh burst of tears works its way down your face as you suck in a breath and clench your teeth as you follow Abigail’s instructions. A defiant yell claws out of your throat. Arthur’s hand squeezes the doorframe with a strength that nearly escapes him, all from you. He wheezes, trying to keep quiet as the birth unfurls.

Fitting, a dying man witnessing this space of women delivering life. Fitting, that he's at the very least able to see this feat of strength from you, after everything you’ve been through. 

But in this moment, you didn’t need saving. Not by him.

Your screams are of strength, not fear nor pain.

You didn’t need him. 

You’d be fine, even after he’s gone.

One last strangled cry from your throat and you grit your teeth, pushing with every fiber of your being. Sadie leans forward and pushes your thigh apart just a bit more, Charlotte following suit on her side of the bed.

“Yes, yes, that's it!” Abigail exclaims.

The world slows, collapsing in on itself, he wasn't just watching the labor of a woman, he was staring at the birth of stardust, creation, and holiness incarnate. He, the sinner that he is, does not deserve to bear witness to such a thing.

From his vantage point leaning against the doorframe, he sees the baby’s head appear between your legs, cradled by Abigail’s waiting hands. 

He can’t hear the women’s exclamations, a tinny sound having taken over his hearing. Arthur watches you suck in another breath and bear down once again.

In a rush of blood and fluid, Abigail catches the child as you deliver. 

Arthur has never seen something so beautiful in his life. All the riches in the world, he’d have traded for this moment. The three women murmur joyful praises at you as Abigail rubs at the newborn roughly swaddled in the clean linen. 

The tinny noise goes away when the babe wails, a high-pitched screech that fills the room, over your panting, over the beating of Arthur’s heart, the crackling of his lungs. 

“Oh honey, y’ did perfect.” Sadie grins, letting your thigh down gently as she leans over toward the table and picks up her hunting knife. Abigail coos at the baby and undoes the linen enough to make that pulsing blue-white cord, the last connection between you and the child, accessible for Sadie to cut above the child’s stomach. Charlotte blots your forehead again with a wet cloth, holding your hand as you try to crane your neck to see your baby.

Abigail smiles as she places the newborn on the bed and wraps it tightly in linen with practiced ease. Once satisfied, she nods up to Sadie, who with Charlotte, slowly and carefully adjust the pillows behind you and help to pull you into a reclining position.

Abigail places the child into your waiting arms.

The baby wails and it’s the most beautiful goddamn sound that he’s ever heard. This sight is the most beautiful goddamn thing he’s ever seen. You, in all of your glory, settling in on the other side of childbirth.

And then reality crushes back in.

Arthur can taste the coppery blood in his mouth, and he slumps down the doorframe as he coughs, losing his breath as the back of his hand is covered with blood. Through his fading vision, he makes eye contact with you, hazy, but perfect lying there on that bed, holding his healthy child. You look horrified as you try to get out of bed, crying out in pain as Abigail and Sadie try to push you to lie down gently again, the baby wailing against your breast. Charlotte begins to round the bed to reach toward him as he collapses.

Crumbling to the floor, blood bubbles across Arthur’s lips as he wheezes, drowning in the weight of his own sins.

-

Your head pounds as you awaken, being jostled roughly and uncaringly. It takes you a moment to realize you are gagged, something tied across your jaw. Your eyes dart back and forth as they get used to the light in the room.

You know this room. The pit of your stomach opens up as you are roughly placed against an old bed, and you can see your companion.

Dark, greasy hair. Dark, ruthless eyes. A green scarf tied around his neck.

Companion, captor, rapist.

‘Ello there love, time for us to get to know each other.

You try to claw at him, but he proves to be too strong - and the both of you tumble onto the dirty old bed. He is able to hold you down as he stands up, one elbow across your back and his hand encircles your neck, pushing your face into the mattress.

You’re just gonna make this worse for yourself.

You scream against the gag, in rage then in pain when he pulls your arms backward and tucks them behind your back. Rolling you over, he keeps weight and one on your shoulder, your arms scream in pain as he holds you down.

He snarls as he catches his breath, pulling his knife from his belt.

You goddamn witch, I should kill you instead of fuck you. But it’s been so goddamn long since I’ve gotten my cock wet-

He draws the knife’s blade slowly across your collarbone. You stop fighting, afraid that the blade is going to pierce your skin. Instead, he starts drawing it down the front of your blouse, and buttons start popping and flying as he drags the blade against the fabric. He reaches the last button before your blouse gets tucked into your shirt and places the knife on the bedside table. 

This is takin’ too long. He smiles, and your stomach drops as he takes a fistful of your blouse and rips. 

You scream into the gag again as he continues, tearing the blouse off of you, the sleeves falling down your biceps, disconnected from the rest of the fabric.

His arm moves from where he holds you down to land on your chemise’s neckline and you immediately take advantage of his weight being gone, trying to sit up and throw an elbow. He is wise to your moves, however, and catches your arm as you swing it.

Fuckin’ Van der Linde whore-

The O’Driscoll backhands you across the face, leaving you smarting and gasping out in pain, falling back to the bed.

Another rip. Your chemise is torn at the neckline, between his two hands, and he continues to tear the cotton in half, your breasts uncovered as he looms over you. You can taste blood in your mouth as your eyes water over, dizziness taking over your being.

You can feel the cool knife blade against the curve of your waist as he slides it against the ties of your skirt, pulling the blade up and slicing through the strings, placing it back on the table side as he starts to pull your skirts off, his grubby fingers digging into your skin, gathering your bloomers as well as he works them down your hips, thighs, and legs. Your knee-high stockings get pulled from your feet.

You begin to weep as the O’Driscoll strips you naked on that shitty bed, every scrap of clothing gone. A rough, dirty hand squeezes a breast, grabs your hip, smacks your ass. Fingers reach to toy with the dark curls hiding your cunt.

He leans over you and pulls the gag down, smirking evilly.

Your man isn’t here to save you. He’s not coming. It’s just you and me like it always has been.

Like it always has been. 

Like it always has been.

You know how this ends. You know what happens next. You know the pain, and the shame, and the pity and hurt in Arthur’s eyes when he finds you. 

You cannot keep letting him do this. He’s right, Arthur is not coming.

The O’Driscoll stands to full height and begins to undo his gunbelt, a sickening grin still on his face. He looks down, starting to unbutton his pants and you see the glint of the knife on the side table as the lantern light flickers. With his eyes off of you, you swing your arm up, grasping the knife and immediately turn it on him before he has a chance to react, jumping up from the bed.

You sink the knife into the O’Driscoll’s neck. He sputters in surprise for a moment as he rears back, his blood spraying out between your bodies. 

You grit your teeth and pull the knife out of his neck and immediately plunge it in at a different angle. Warm lifeblood splatters all over your chest, your naked breasts, your neck, your face. The man makes a gurgling sound as he begins to slump forward on top of you. You let go of the knife and push him with all of your might, and he rolls to the side off of you, off the bed, crumbling into a jumble of limbs on the floor, blood seeping out of the holes in his body.

You lean over and pull the knife from his neck.

You stand above him as he dies, his blood dripping down your naked form. For so long, this man has controlled you, taken your body as his own, and held you down in fear and nightmares, long after his death. But now, now you stand above him, knife in hand, like a warrior queen. 

You are unashamed of your nakedness - you needed no armor to vanquish him. You are unashamed of the blood - it is not smeared between your thighs as evidence of violation, it is splattered across your face, your breasts, trailing in rivulets down your belly and your legs.

The O’Driscoll shudders in a death throe, his eyes wide as he stops twitching.

You grip the knife tightly in your hand. He’s dead, he’s dead and he can’t hurt you anymore. He can never hurt you again. 

The room begins to fade away.

And for the first time in so very, very long, you wake up in your bed, alone, at peace.

-

The oil lamp flickers, casting a shadow throughout the room. You frown, mentally taking note to get more oil the next time someone goes to town. 

You tiredly wipe the table of crumbs with an old rag, collecting said crumbs in your hand and tossing them in the sink, along with the dirty dishes from dinner. You had no desire to address those dishes tonight, the sun has long gone down. Sighing, you wipe your forehead of dotted sweat with the back of your hand as you clear the rest of the table.

A muffled bang comes from the door, and you hurry toward it before another knock rings through your house. Opening the door, it takes a moment for your eyes to adjust to the darkness.

John Marston stands in your doorway, holding a large canvas sack over his shoulder. You smile and step out of the way for him to come inside. He does so, stepping immediately toward your newly cleaned table and placing the sack down on the table. You consider scolding him, but hold your tongue as he unrolls the canvas, a large, paper-covered slab of meat as his bounty. Freshly shot, you know, Abigail having mentioned that John was out hunting this morning.

“Guess you were successful?” You laugh as John rolls his shoulder.

“A little bit.” He mutters, rubbing at it.

“Gettin’ old there, cowboy?” You tease, and Marston scowls back at you, his scars across his face always making him look more severe than you know he is. But the scowl does not remain long.

“Shaddup.” He laughs in that rough voice that brings you such comfort.

You laugh as well, placing your hand on his bicep, “Thank you, John, this means a lot.”

“You sure you’re alright out here? You know Abigail would rather you stay with us.”

“John, I’m fine. Besides,” You motion over to the wrapped flank of meat that he has placed on the table, “You provide enough as is.”

He rolls his eyes, “You do know I’m gonna get an earful from Abby when I get back to the house.”

“John Marston, both you and I know that you was gonna get an earful from her no matter what my answer was.” 

He smirks, looking at his feet. Still bashful, after all these years. He looks up again, that half smile across his face, the silvered lines of his scars visible through the beard that doesn’t grow along them.

His gloved hand reaches toward you.

“You let me know if you need anything. Seriously. You know I watch out f’r you.” John squeezes your shoulder in a comforting manner. 

You smile, brushing his hand from your shoulder, and reach around his shoulders to bring him into a hug, “Thank you, John.”

“You’re family to us.” You can feel him nod, wrapping his arms around you and squeezing gently.

“You tryin’ to butter me up to watch the baby?” You smirk as you unwind yourself from him, laughing.

John scratches the back of his head sheepishly, tilting his hat for a moment before resettling it, “I mean… an extra pair of womanly hands carin’ for a baby is always welcomed.”

“Think it’ll be a boy or a girl?”

“Abigail thinks it’s a girl. Says she’s feelin’ different this time around.”

“And you?”

“I don’t do a lot of thinkin’… you know that.”

“You’re a silly man. Now go back up that hill and take care of your pregnant wife.”

-

“Mama.”

You crack one eye open. The sun has risen in the east, and the door to your bedroom is open wide, and a small shadow appears at your bedside.

“Susannah.”

“Mama please-”

You sigh, yawning before giving in, knowing you can’t win this fight, “C’mon now, come get into the bed.”

The girl giggles and dives under the blanket that you hold open. You wheeze as she climbs over you, a knee to your belly, a hand squishing your breast, and finally her small body curls in against you under the warm covers, and you blow away a few strands of sand-colored hair from your face as she tucks her head upon your breast. You close your eyes again as you wrap your arm around her, hoping she will fall back asleep with you.

Blessed silence.

“Mamaaaaa-”

Interrupted.

“Yes, dearest?” You sigh, but you can’t help but to smile as the small body next to yours squirms under the blanket.

“Tell me about the house by the waterfall again.”

“Sweetheart, I’ve told you about it four times this week.”

“But I wanna hear it again.”

You sigh, looking up at the ceiling, but start the story anyway,  “You were born on a bright, sunny day… like today.”

She crawls up to look you in the face, “And everyone was there.”

“Yes, everyone was there. Abigail and Sadie and Missus Charlotte helped me bring you into the world, just like how I’m gonna help Abigail bring the new baby into the world in just a few days.”

You kiss her forehead, brushing the mess of her honeyed hair back. “And when you came, and you cried and cried, but it was the most beautiful sound I’d ever heard.”

“Before you were born, your papa said he loved the name Susannah. That’s why you’ve got that name,” You poke her little nose and she giggles, just like every time you tell the story. What joy simple things bring to a child.

The songbird that perches outside your window chirps gaily. It sits outside most mornings, and you have grown accustomed to its song, greeting you in bed. A horse whinnies from outside and your daughter bolts upright, throwing the blanket off her body and half off of yours. In a jumble of limbs, she bolts out of the bedroom, “Mama, mama!”

“Susannah, mind your shoes!” you call as you climb out of the bed, but secretly you want to run as fast as your daughter as you find a robe and throw it over your nightgown. You know you just scolded her to put on her shoes, but you also forego anything on your feet as you hurry toward the thrown-open front door, where Susannah bounds out as fast as her little legs can take her.

“There she is!”

Oh, your heart. Oh, your world. You have to hold onto the doorframe as you watch your daughter dart from the front door across the grass to the hitching post, several strides away. The large horse, tied to the post, swings its head toward the joyful shouts of the child. From behind the horse’s rump, a figure strolls around, tall and strong and bursting with excitement.

He stoops down on one knee and catches Susannah as she throws herself into his embrace.

“How is my favorite girl?” He easily swings the child up into his arms, holding her out and twirling her in a circle before gathering her into his chest. 

“I missed you so much, Papa.” She buries her head into his shoulder. 

“I missed ya somethin’ awful, sweetpea.”

The man looks up at where you stand in the door and smiles. His dark beard is long, his hair unruly underneath that old gambler’s hat.

He marches toward the door, and when he’s a step away from you, he lets your daughter down, who immediately latches herself to his pants leg.

“Susannah, Go on and get dressed. Give your father a moment to wash up.”

She scrunches her little nose in mock irritation, but dutifully does so, scooting past you and into the house, leaving you and him alone in the threshold of the door.

“Missed you somethin’ awful too, darlin’.” 

You smile as his hands find your hips, “You owe me, Arthur.”

Arthur snorts, and his lips press gently at your exposed neck, “For what, leavin’ you with the little one while I rode a cattle train all the way to Denver ‘nd back? Sounds like you got the better end of the deal.”

You lean forward in his embrace as he rests his chin on the top of your head.

“Think you should stay closer to home next time.” You muse as you close your eyes.

Arthur’s hand creeps up from your waist and cups one of your breasts, squeezing firmly. You squirm in his embrace, gasping. 

“Stop - Susannah is right there, you-” You push his hand away from your chest but he only chuckles in your ear as he unwinds himself from you.

“I’m bringing her up to Abigail’s. She can watch ‘er for an hour or two.”

“You just got back-” You are cut off when his hand darts forward and grabs your rear through your robe and nightgown. You can barely keep yourself from squealing.

“Yeah, and I need to make love to my wife ‘til she can’t take it no more.” Arthur rumbles roughly into your ear with a tone of voice that goes straight to your cunt. You are unable to find the words to respond as he pulls back and nods, a smirk painted across his face.

“Gimme fifteen minutes. You better be naked in that bed when I get back, woman.”

You frown as he rights his hat back on his head.

“You know how obvious that is going to be?”

Arthur waves his hand dismissively, “You didn’t notice me takin’ Jack out on so many rides nine months ago?”

“Mama, can Jack take me for a ride on the pony?” Susannah darts past you, having changed into a cotton dress and thrown little boots on, her hair a disheveled mess.

“Ah, ah, come back here missy. Go get a ribbon and let me tie your hair up.” You scold, and your daughter scowls back at you with a nearly identical look before stomping back to her room.

Arthur chuckles, and your finger wags at him, “Don’t think I don’t know where she gets that from.”

“Her mother, exactly.”

“You son of a -”

Your daughter reappears and you close your mouth before cursing. She holds a ribbon out as she marches to you, turning around right in front of you so that you can reach her hair.

“Mind your mother, Miss Susannah.”

“Papa-”

“Or there won’t be any pony rides. I’ll tell Jack to have you clean out the pony’s stall today.” Arthur laughs, completely unable to be serious.

“Ew!” She shrieks, her hand darting upward to give you the ribbon. You laugh to yourself, taking the ribbon and gathering her hair into a ponytail, tying it up and over her head. Once secured to your liking, you gently tap her shoulder and she bounds toward Arthur, who immediately scoops her up into his arms again.

Arthur juggles the five-year-old onto his hip, to her joyous, shrieking laughter, “C’mon, let’s go up and save Jack from his daddy’s chores.”

As he opens the door to the cabin, Arthur glances back at you, his eyes darkening, “You best be ready when I get back.”

You roll your eyes, but secretly, a shiver goes down your spine at his implication. He gets like this - ravenous, hungry, passionate whenever he comes back from a cattle drive. As much as you hate the weeks alone, the amount of money Arthur brings home makes the ranch nearly abundant. Last year both John and Arthur went, and kept the families fed throughout the winter comfortably.

Of course, this year Abigail threatened to castrate John if he left her alone for six weeks at the end of her pregnancy… so this drive, Arthur went alone.

You pick up his mud-speckled leather coat, laying it over the wash bin. The sack of clothing Arthur left outside the door was sure to smell of a cattle herd - he was smart enough to leave it on the porch this time.

You make your way back to your bedroom, sighing as you idly rub your back. Your gaze catches the mirror above your bureau and you slowly walk toward it.

You stand in front of that mirror, pulling your nightgown up, up and over your knees, your thighs, your hips, your belly. You pull the fabric over your breasts and finally your head, holding it in one hand as you look at yourself.

There are no scars, just like that night standing in front of the fire in Valentine. There are no outward signs of what happened to you those years ago. Placing the nightgown atop your dresser, you glance in the mirror one last time. You see fuller hips, silvered lines at your belly, your breasts flatter against your chest.

A half smile comes across your face. No, the scars on your body were not from the O’Driscoll that raped you - they are from growing and birthing the best thing that has ever happened to you.

You look away from the mirror and let a breath out through your nose as you climb back into bed. Flopping back against the pillows, you smile to yourself as you wait for your husband’s return, naked in the marital bed as requested.

It is not several minutes more before you hear the front door slam and smile to yourself as you hear Arthur’s heavy gait beeline toward the bedroom.

The bedroom door swings open as Arthur barges in, and his hungry eyes immediately devour you whole as you recline into the pillows.

“Jesus Christ.” Arthur huffs, unable to move for a moment, staring at you. He pulls his hat from his head and chucks it to the floor.

“C’mon, ain’t known you to be one to keep your lady waitin,” you smirk, some of that old flirtation that you had at the beginning of your relationship shining through. You open your legs to bare your cunt, the dark hair parting as you spread your thighs further.

You’ve never seen him strip himself down faster. Boots tossed across the floor, his shirt thrown over the dresser haphazardly. He steps out of his pants and leaves them in a pile on the rug.

Fully nude, he climbs onto the bed, his hulking muscles undiminished by the years. Maybe, at first, in those months when he was bedridden at Willard’s Rest, where he slowly recovered from tuberculosis and you recovered from the ordeal of childbirth - was he a lesser man. But now? Now he was the Arthur you knew and loved - the Arthur who could tear men apart.

But you feel nothing but safe. You giggle as one of his hands immediately cups your cunt.

“Wife.”

You smile, your hands brushing down his shoulders to his biceps to his forearms.

“Husband.”

He parts your folds gently, rumbling as his other hand encircles his blood-hardened cock. He looms over you, and there is a secret sweet part of you that feels safe and protected underneath all of him.

“Sweetheart.”

He presses that trigger-worn finger inside you.

“Arthur-”

Your husband leans down and presses his lips against yours, his coarse beard tickling your chin as he begins to swirl and thrust that finger inside your cunt.  You moan into his mouth as you begin to cant your hips, wanting more, more.

Arthur lets go of his cock to steady himself against your bucking, groaning at your desperation. His hard shaft smacks against your inner thigh and you mewl and gasp as he slides a second finger into your cunt. He begins to rut himself against the jointure of your thigh and hip, his cock settling in there as he prepares you, eases the way, ensures that he would never, ever hurt you.

God, you love this man so much.

He pulls his fingers from your body and immediately smears your slick on his shaft, the head of his cock already weeping. His eyes trail from his cock up your body to lock with yours.

You raise your arms, open wide, inviting him into your embrace and he smiles, knowing he is home. Arthur takes that hefty cock of his and lines it up with your cunt. 

He grunts as he pushes into you, his head slipping inside as you whine; throwing your head back onto the pillow. He lowers himself down on top of you, plastering his entire body against you, and the two of you wind arms around each other’s boulders and your angles hook behind his back.

It’s slow, and full, as that first press inside always is. A strangled noise claws out of your throat as you dig your fingers into his back as those girthy inches stretch you. He rumbles against your neck as he works his way inside, his breath warm on your skin until he is hilted completely within you. He raises his head and kisses you headily.

Your bed is far more spacious than the small tent in Big Valley that saw your first coupling. 

“Don’t know - how many times,” his breathless voice is interrupted by the frenzied kisses he gives you, “...I had to fist m’cock at night - thinkin’ of you and this perfect little cunt.”

Arthur begins to thrust his hips against yours, finding that rhythm perfected by years of experience together, “My perfect little wife-“

“Missed you so much, Arthur.” You throw your head back against the pillow as he continues to roll his hips against you, his cock dragging in and out, in and out of the vice grip of your cunt, “I love you so much -”

A particularly deep thrust makes you gasp and Arthur groans into your hair, panting as he continues his pace, “God, oh darlin’ -my darlin’ girl… I love you-”

He grabs your hand, pressing it down on the bed next to your head, interlacing your fingers as his pace slows, becomes more measured, deeper. The gold bands around your ring fingers make a soft clink against each other, nearly unheard among the sounds of lovemaking. 

You cry out as he hits that spot within you again and again, sending you careening toward completion, the sensitivity of your channel making your legs shake and your breath hasten even more. 

“Ar-Arthur- oh… I’m gonna-“ you whine breathlessly, squeezing your eyes shut as your husband groans in recognition. 

“Come fer me, that’s it, come for me-” Arthur orders, throwing his hips roughly into yours in desperation, wanting, needing you to fall off the edge for him.

You cry out loudly as you throw your head back on the pillow, your hand squeezing his as the other claws into his back as you come, your entire body clenching as your arousal gushes around his cock. 

“Yes, yes - oh, my perfect girl, oh-” Arthur praises you as you ride out your release, and gives three more heady strokes before he finds his own. You come down from your high just in time to dig your heels into his tailbone, the sign for him not to pull himself from your velvet heat.

His hips stutter, and he lets out a long breath as he stills, cock twitching as he comes inside you. You whine as you feel the warmth bloom in your core. He cuts off the sound from your throat by kissing you, hard and fast, needy and desperate.

“My…” he pants between kisses, “pretty little wife-”

You smile breathily against his lips, “My strong, handsome husband-”

The wet sound of lips meeting lips takes over for several moments before Arthur slides himself from your body, settling on his side next to you before laying his head upon your breast. 

“Don’t go away for so long anymore. You gotta stay closer to home.” You muse as you run your fingers through his hair. The honey-blonde strands by his temple are peppered with grey- along with his too-long beard. Weeks in the saddle left your husband looking like a rugged mountain man whenever he returns. You’ll have to cut it later; it is growing longer than you like it.

He snorts playfully as he rolls off of you, sitting up on his elbow, facing you in the bed. With his other hand, he grabs the sheet that had been kicked away in the haste of lovemaking, pulling it up to pool around both of your waists.

You cannot help the smile that cracks across your face. You grasp his hand, his callused, rough hands that have built your home and provided for your family. The hands that rocked your daughter to sleep when she was a baby. The hands that keep you safe, warm, fed. 

The hands that pulled you from your pit of misery those years ago. Maybe if that hadn’t happened - maybe - maybe that tawny-haired girl running around the house wouldn’t be here. Maybe Arthur would still be robbing and stealing and ushering himself to an early grave. Maybe he would have bled out on that mountain in Roanoke instead of being dragged out by John.

It hurts, still. Every so often on quiet nights, you awaken sweating and fearful and an O’Driscroll’s laugh echoes in your mind. But then - you turn into Arthur on those nights and he holds you through ‘til the morning. He whispers sweet nothings until you drift off again. He reminds you of his love for you, through words and touches and enveloping you in the most intimate of embraces. The circle of gold around his left ring finger, though tarnished as he never takes it off even when he works, still glints in the morning light. 

And those nights that he’s out on the cattle trail? You pull yourself from your bed and pad quietly over to the other bedroom in the cabin, gazing through the sliver of the door partway open to see your daughter, born of struggle and the razor’s edge of that pain. How perfect she is. What joy she brings.

There will always be a part of you that O’Driscoll scarred you that night.

But maybe, just maybe - it fades, little by little over time. 

Arthur playfully squeezes your hand in return, “Them weeks too long f’r my girl? Miss me that much, huh?”

You bring his hand up from where he holds yours to spread flat across your belly, and you lean toward him with a smile on your face and lightness in your heart.

Arthur Morgan’s eyebrow arches with confusion.

The songbird’s luted melody softly echoes through the window of your bedroom, the mid-morning light spilling out over your sheets, over your bodies in your warm, well-loved marital bed.

“No, silly man. I’m pregnant.”

[justrymesblog]

Before you read this, I want you to know that this message might be hard to hear, but it could also be the beginning of the change you’ve been seeking.

Many of us, myself included, spend our lives searching for a savior, an epiphany, or something external to rescue us: a book, a speech, a mentor, a sign. We think that this one thing will open the doors to a better life. We cling desperately to small details, convincing ourselves they’re the confirmation we need to keep going: mirror numbers on a clock, a fallen feather, a butterfly crossing our path. We say, “It’s a sign from the universe, I’m on the right track”—all while staying trapped in a cycle we hate but find so hard to escape.

We often become slaves to the material world. We buy talismans, books, or listen to subliminal audios on repeat, seeking immediate results: “Why isn’t this audio working?”, “How many times do I need to listen to it to see a change?” We even sleep with headphones on, hoping it will speed up the process, yet the change never seems to come.

I understand you because I’ve been there.

It took me years to escape that cycle. Years of feeling lost, stuck, tied to my own thoughts and patterns. I spent months not knowing what to do, always ending up back at the same point. I turned to religions where I never felt truly at home. I prayed in churches, temples, and altars, waiting for miracles that never came. I lived believing that something external would change my destiny, but each attempt only led to disappointment. The reality? Nothing changed—or worse, things got even harder.

Then I realized: the only salvation comes from within.

We are the architects of our lives. Our minds are the most powerful tool we have. There are no limits beyond the ones we impose on ourselves. Imagine something unimaginable—a dream, a reality that seems impossible—and yet, you have the power to manifest it! But here’s the challenge: you must truly believe it. You must understand that you are in complete control.

If you want to be wealthy, you can achieve it. If you desire perfect health, unconditional love, travel, or anything else, it’s within your reach. Nothing is too big or too small for your creative power. But first, you must let go of limiting ideas like, “I wasn’t born rich” or “My life would have been different if I had better advantages.” These thoughts are just chains you’ve placed on yourself.

The first step to change is to take full responsibility for everything that has happened in your life. Yes, everything. It’s difficult, but that’s the key: accepting that you created your current reality, which means you also have the power to transform it.

If you’re tired of living the same way, PUT AN END TO IT.

Dare to change. Break free from everything that limits you. Rebuild your story from scratch. One of my favorite phrases always reminds me:

"When you see no way out, remember: the end is the beginning of everything."

Did you know there are scientific experiments that prove the incredible power of our minds? The CIA has documented studies on practices like remote viewing, where individuals can perceive things beyond space and time. These studies are not theories or pseudoscience—they are real evidence of our infinite potential.

There are also studies about how our thoughts impact matter. Researchers like Masaru Emoto demonstrated how our emotions and words can alter the molecular structure of water. If our words can affect something as tangible as water, imagine what they can do to your life, your cells, and your entire reality.

The limits don’t exist, except in your mind.

Life is as malleable as clay in the hands of a sculptor. And you are the sculptor. The question is no longer “What can I achieve?” but “What can’t I create?”

The time you have is precious. Use it to build the life you truly want, because the only obstacle standing between you and your dreams is you. The key is to believe and to act from that powerful force within you.

Remember: nothing is impossible. The moment to transform your life begins now.

[the-teufort-nine]

Can you do the mercs with an autistic scientist wife, who loves books, music and butt pats please? (Preferably spy, medic, Engie, scout and sniper please!!) thank you!!! Have a good day!!!

this you? XD ahaha im sure you loved that this took me forever to answer😬

ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ Mercs x Autistic/Scientist/Wife!Reader: Books, Beats, and Butt Pats ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ

Featuring: Spy, Engineer, Scout, Medic, and Sniper

Spy:

You got this man to settle down and marry you?! Good lord, you must be magic.

Big sugar daddy energy from Spy ngl. Expect to be treated to lavish gifts from him often. Deep in the grips of a new hyperfixation? Prepare to be gifted something related to it every week or so.

Loves how smart and driven you are. After years of working with moronic lunatics and madmen, you are a welcome change.

Will go out of his way to get you hard to find records and books if you are mad at him.

You can try and get him to quit smoking, but unless its a huge trigger for you, he probably won't, even if you show him what his lungs probably look like.

Probably won't pat your ass, since he's a

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁Gentleman. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁

But he might give it a squeeze if you two are in the mood ;)

Engineer:

ASS MAN ASS MAN A S S M A N

You're this man's wife? Butt pats ahoy! No, seriously, you're getting your rump lightly smacked on the daily.

Really enjoys having a partner that is near or on the same intellectual level as him. He would still love you if you weren't, but its really nice to have someone aside from Medic that he can talk shop with.

I hope you like country music, because Engie built every single music playing device in the house, which pretty much gives him complete control over the music choice when he's home.

Let's be honest here; this man is probably also autistic.

Your interests may not be the same, but you two like to be together when you're engaging with them. The parallel play goes crazy.

You two definitely have matching reclining chairs in your living room that you read your books in. Comfortable silence your beloved <3

Scout:

God, please stick around. This man needs someone in his who isn't a deadbeat good lord-

He will happily listen to you talk about your interests any day, even your science related ones, but do not expect him to understand anything above, like, a seventh grade level.

ADHD 🤝Autism power couple

Butt pats? Hell yeah! Grass grows, birds fly, and brotha? He's smacking your ass like a set of bongos.

Household music is an equal mix of your interests and his. Expect to hear Tom Jones in the mornings; he likes to play his records while he makes breakfast.

Can't read nearly as well as you, but he really likes listening to you read.

Medic:

Like Engineer, this man appreciates a wife with a good head on her shoulders and a t h i c c ass.

Will give you butt pats, but be warned! There is a 50/50 chance his hands are covered in blood.

Probably also on the spectrum.

He probably introduces you to German music and literature, and will happily teach you the language if you ask!

Need some less-than-legal supplies for a project or experiment? Don't even worry, queen, your man will provide. <3

You are definitely going to live longer than most humans. Even if an accident takes you out, Medic surgically grafted your soul to his a long time ago, so not even death will do you part!

I think you two would dance to your shared records together pretty often.

Sniper:

Butt pats? Nah, butt bites.

FREAK behaviour with this man. He is a wild bushman who lives in a van and who's most developmentally impactful social interactions came from insane, bloodthirsty mercenaries who were not even close to being normal. How did you get him to propose.

A good listener though! He remembers the little things that you mention, and will often surprise you with something related to an interest of yours, even if you only mentioned it once.

Not a huge music fan, but he lets you have total control over his van's radio. You are the only one who gets this privillage.

Asks you to preserve small animals for him sometimes. He likes to keep them as decorations.

Please invent something to counteract those Mann Co. kidney enlarging pills. Please.

Loves reading with you! This man enjoys silence, and he actually really enjoys a good book or two when he had downtime.

[grapehyasynth]

maus what if i was curious to know what drabble you cook up based on the song 'impossible' by shontelle?? 💜

MY BELOVED MAUS!

oh boy did this get ANGSTY! my original idea was canon-compliant, since the playlist is meant to align with canon, but then this bubbled up. sorry to my boys </3

Wille wakes up to a splitting headache and a missed call from Simon. He’s not sure which one is the stronger force in keeping him immobilized in his bed for another half an hour. 

They haven’t talked since the breakup, even though it was mutual and mostly amicable. It just hurts too much. Not like it doesn’t hurt, not talking to him. Everything hurts. 

He puts off calling Simon back. He pushes back the thick curtains, washes his face, brushes the stale alcohol breath off his teeth and tongue. He debates not returning the call at all. People still accidentally butt-dial, don’t they? 

It’s only when he catches himself nibbling at his thumbnail, a habit he’s (mostly) kicked, that he drops onto the chaise longue, drawing his knees up to his chest so he can tug his sweatshirt over his legs. 

“Hej?” he ventures, when the call connects. “What’s up?” 

An indignant little huff of a laugh shivers in his ear. He’s spent the months since their breakup absorbing Simon’s voice through videos and mp3 files, but hearing it just for him is better, worse, everything. “Wille, I get that the situation is shitty, but this is your only warning. Next time I’m blocking you, on all the platforms. I know that sounds harsh, but I just can’t -- I need to not--” 

“Platforms?” On a sudden, vertiginous, half-remembered hunch, Wille puts the call on speakerphone and flips through to see which other apps are still open on his phone. Instagram - open to his direct messages with Simon. Shit. Apparently, at 2AM last night, Wille had sent could you maybe act a little less thrilled to be done with me? or give me half the grammy jfc. thanks so much puss och kram. “Shit. Simon--” 

“My manager wanted to cancel my appearances today. And you know how much she does not believe in days off.” 

“It wasn’t -- I didn’t mean to--” He’s not going to tell Simon it was a joke. Not even the most generous interpretation of text tone would let that message read as a joke. 

He’d been drunk, thoroughly blasted from a friend’s birthday party. He’d gotten back to the royal residence well past midnight, and in an effort to escape the silence of the dark, massive, lonely hallways, he’d wound up on his stomach in his bed, still wearing a suit, watching a seemingly endless parade of Simon’s live performances to promote his new album. The new album that exudes fuck you, that proclaims boy bye, that flaunts Simon’s singlehood and freedom. And the whole world knows Wille was Simon’s last boyfriend. So not only does he have to live without Simon, he has to see him thriving, and he has to read all the strangers on the internet, especially Simon’s superfans, speculating about why they broke up, about how shitty Wille must have been as a boyfriend to make Simon this desperate to move on, about how he never deserved Simon and Simon was probably never happy with him. Wille knows it’s not true - they’d fucking loved each other, neither of them wanted to break up, but it got too hard, the demands of their respective careers and duties threatening to ruin what they had. But alone in this castle, drunk and morose, he’d started to wonder. Hence, the DM. 

“It wasn’t about you,” he offers Simon eventually, dully. “Not really, not like it seemed. It just... fuck, Simon, I know your songs aren’t all autobiographical but it hurts.” 

Simon’s quiet too long, a tense silence Wille remembers, when Simon is nearly vibrating with emotion but trying to breathe his way through it. “You’re right, they’re not all autobiographical. And these songs were written ages ago, before we were together - I didn’t even write all of them myself - they’re not about you, not the - not the ones people think, anyway. And of course I know that it hurts, Wille, god, I - do you think I want to sing about a shitty ex and perform like I’m having the time of my life when I’m so heartbroken I can barely get out of bed?” 

Wille doesn’t know what to say. If they were in person, this is when he would go to Simon, hold him as he cried. 

Wasn’t the breakup supposed to prevent them both from falling apart? 

Simon sniffles. “I’ll try to make it more clear, in my interviews. I’ve tried to steer them away from you but I’ll do better. Is that what you want, Wille? Would that help?” 

“Yes. No. I don’t - I don’t know what I want, Simon,” he admits brokenly. “I just want you.” 

“Wille--” 

“I just want you.”

[tammyu-2]

hiii i have another request pleaseeee 2012 leo meeting for the first time!

I love these.

This one is a bit cleche I must admit. But cute over all

TMNT 2012 LEO MEETING YOU FOR THE FIRST TIME

No mention of gender, gender neutral, some swearing, no mention of y/n, Leo being a dork, unproof read.

Leo was actually my first fav when I started watching tmnt

You were a very busy person. And by busy, I mean you procrastinated so much that it made you busy. And you were living in an apartment building. Luckily for you it's normally quiet cause not a lot of people stay there. However, a new couple just moved in next to you recently, and unfortunately, while you were trying to cram in the last missed assignments, you what you heard were some.... interesting... noises coming from the couples room. And it was NOT quiet what so ever.

You shrugged it off and went to go fetch your headphones, and you saw it with your cat on your windowsill. You went to go grab it, and while looking at you dead in the eyes, your cat knocked it out the window as it fell from lots of floors and landed in the busy traffic. You looked at your cat with the most deadpanned face as it innocently meows at you as if it hadn't just broken your most valued option. No more expensive cat food for a week.

So you tried to go back to your assignments, but unfortunately, the couple decided they would be going non-stop all night. So to clear your head you went our your apartment and climbed up the stairs till the door to the top of the buildingm of course you weren't allowed on there but as if anyone is actually gonna check up here in the middle of the night.

So, as you enjoyed the fresh air and the city lights, you didn't know a certain turtle was behind you.

Leo went out on petrol alone because, unfortunately for him, his brothers were being roady, and he couldn't meditate in peace. So he went out on petrol alone for some sort of relaxation. That's when he jumped on your apartment building. You had been sitting on the edge dangling your feet over the building while looking up at the stars. It would be wrong to say that he wasn't caught off guard at first.

So, against his better judgment, he stayed a bit, leaning on a wall just admiring you. But like it's not just you! It was also cause he had to take a break from climbing... yeah... totally that...

After a bit, you decided to stand up and go back, hoping the noisy couple decided that they won't go for the 10th round. Unfortunately for Leo, he was too caught up in his creeping her snapped back to reality just as you turned around and saw him.

"...."

"..."

Holy shit this is awkward.

"Um.. hi?"

What does Leo say at this moment in time?? "Hey, don't be scared. I'm just a walking talking turtle that's actually also a ninja!" Or even "this is your hallucination! You didn't wash your mug properly, so you drank your coffee with soap this morning!"

"Uh, hello..."

The silence was so deafening and so awkward.

"So... you come around here often?"

What type of question is that??? Because that TOTALLY is the angle I was looking at. Nice job.

"No..?"

"..."

"..."

Extrovert of the year, guys.

"Your not gonna run away?"

"I'm too sleep deprived for that shit to be honest with you. Should I be running away? Are you gonna kill me or something?"

"What- no! I won't I promise!"

"Good cause if you were, I have some pepper spray here in my pocket, and you would not like to see that go down."

After a few minutes, you guys were just talking about anything and nothing. He joined you in sitting on the edge of the building as you two just talked about what was on your minds. Of course, Leo wasn't easily one to spill things, so he would avoid questions that would compromise him too much. Plus, he knew he would be in trouble anyway. He wasn't supposed to let you see him... but for some reason, he trusted you a little bit.

"So, what are you?"

"I'm actually a turtle that got mutated into this."

"That explains alot. So do you like remember when you were just a turtle?"

"Not really. It's like when I was still super young. It would have been hard to remember. Plus, I doubt normal turtles have mindsets at all."

"Good. I doubt my old class pet would have wanted to hear all the bullshit the class clown spewed from his mouth."

"I doubt I'd want to be trapped in a classroom hearing kids talk about the darnest stuff anyway."

It was so easy to talk to you. The conversation always just flowed on nicely. You guys spent long on the roof till the sky turned orange. He eventually had to leave but not before giving you a small salute with an endearing smile as you waved him bye.

After that you passed into your bed once you made it. You would have to do your pressing assignments later. Right now you need to catch up on your already horrible sleep schedule.

Meanwhile Leo practically skipped into the lab with a bright smile. And even when Raph made a jab at him for being out too long Leo just shrugged him off and gave Raph a pat on the shoulder.

"And the leader finally decides to arrive. What took so long? You tripped down a building on the way here?"

"Okay buddy."

"What the fu-"

You two regularly met each other and made certain days where you two just stay up on the roof. One day, you two found out you liked the same comic book series. So you guys set up a little picnic blanket with some snacks and a nice view on the roof where you two just went on a debrief on what your favorite moments were and your favorite characters. You even invited him to your apartment, and you two watched sci-fi movies.

Of course, the turtles were suspicious of all the time he was out and how smiley he had been recently, but they could have never caught him in the act somehow.

Throughout this, Leo had been absolutely denying any thoughts that popped up about how romantic some of these hangouts were. But let's be honest. He deffo likes you.

This was short but sweet. This is so cute AH I'm jealous of something that doesn't exist 😔

But hope you enjoy your meal

TOODLES

~Tammy<3

[goldsbitch]

Twelve grapes

Ladies, gentlemen and everyone in between, above and beyond. Entering a new era - lestappen. I guess it hits everyone at some point.

I wish you all a happy 2025, may it be filled with exciting races and storylines. I invite you to read a short prologue for my upcoming series.

There was something different in the air that one night. More magic than you'd usually find during New Years Eve. Must have been faith herself, pulling few extra strings and having this specific group of girls, who hadn't known each other prior to that evening, crumpled up under the table.

The wine, that had flown freely the whole evening, got replaced by the original form of the fruit- a massive bowl of grapes sitting in between the circle. The new year was about to enter and somewhere around Europe, under a random old wooden structure, that looked like it was about to fall down under the weight of all that laid on in, wishes were about to be made. The girls hardly remembered each other's name - one got dragged to the party by her friend (insisting that she ought to stop wallowing about that one guy who had his hair a little too long for this decade anyway), the blonde one got ditched by her older sister and followed this group after meeting them in the bar. Another one was visiting the town with her parent and the next one was on a student exchange programme. All of them were pretty sure they'd never see each other again. But this is what brings the true charm of girl power. Leaving all the older people and annoying guys behind, they followed the Spanish one, who introduced the tradition of eating twelve grapes during the last seconds of the old year. Fueled by one shared wish - to find the one. May the new year be the one they fall in love, madly and happily this time. Stop dwelling on the past and allow new stories to start. There were giggles, hopes, dreams, and knees bumping into each other. Unburdened eyes full of anticipation. Maybe this year would finally the one for the one.

"Ok, ok - is everyone ready? Grab a few grapes so that we don't all kill each other. And get the wishes ready!"

"Who's watching the time? I didn't bring a watch!"

"I have it and we're nearly 30 seconds in!"

They had to almost shout at each other, other people in the room, the ones not curled up under a table, making enough noise to surely be heard in the apartment above.

The Spanish girl finally spoke up, taking the initiative of the chaos in her own hand.

"Girls, girls. Calm down everyone. We gotta get ready. So we all agree - we'll go and make a wish for all of us to meet the perfect guy next year!"

"Who's gonna start?"

"Guy, I am not ready!"

"Ok, fine, I'll go first - tell me when!"

"15, 14, 13. -go!"

"My dream guy will be passionate!" yelled the Spanish girl entusiastically and shoved one piece in.

First grape in, 11 to go.

The girl on her left followed quickly. "He will be brave, not afraid to tell me he loves me!"

2 in, 10 to go.

"Succesfull, a winner!"

The shy one was finally on to speak, fighting the breath that got stuck in her throat.

"Go on, go on, we're behind on time!" one of the girls cheered, laughing, because it really didn't matter if they got it right.

"FIne, he'll have beautiful eyes!" A wave off muffled "Awww" hit, as they tried not to gag on the ongoing stream of juice and peels.

"Yes, and he will dress well!" shouted one.

"Um - I don't know - eh, he'll hate the cold!" followed another.

"What? Why?"

"I really don't wanna live in the cold..."

"Guys, we gotta move! No sidetracks!"

"I want someone curious!"

"Sense of justice-"

"-A bit of a bad boy!"

"How many was that?"

Cheers of the crowd outside of the table broke in. New year was finally here.

The blonde one was nearly choking on her grapes and laughter. "Eight, we need four more!"

"Fine, uh, make him cute and sometimes shy!"

At that point, they were just chugging grapes in, barely keeping score of how many they'd actually taken from the big bowl, which was emptying quickly.

"Obsessed with me!"

"Ten, two more!"

"Nice eyes-"

"We said that already!"

"Fine, uh, he'll be sensitive!"

"One more, one more, grab a last grape and we'll do it together! Uh, I don't know, what will his favorite color be?"

"Red!-"

"Blue!-"

Two of the girls shouted over each other, making the rest laugh, if they hadn't been already.

The Spanish one concluded. "Nice, that's all! Everyone take one for red and blue!" With that, the last grapes were chewed.

Faith does work in funny way. Wishes often come true, but rarely in the form you imagine they would. All of the things they wished for got granted. But perhaps not immediately. Who knew wished skip the generation. The last girls to crawl back from under the table would meet again one day, many times in fact. However, they'd never realize it. Charles Leclerc's mother would never know she had just clinked the glass of none other than the future Max Verstappen's mom.

[theblackfemininesociety]

💎 Our Top 10 Tips for Making The Best out of The New Year:

Tip #1: Allow God to be your foundation.

God has to be the firmest foundation in your life. Go to him with and for everything. With the Most High, you are not only protected, corrected and forgiven, you are also loved beyond measures and guided to your highest potential. This year there will be many obstacles but remember Jesus is The Prince of Peace (Isaiah 9:6) and you are never alone!

Tip #2 : Be Intentional.

It’s as simple as it sounds, do everything with intention 💎 you simply can not afford to play with your potential this year. You are too valuable. Every decision, every action, and every thought should be aligned with your deeper purpose. When you approach life with clarity and focus, you create a ripple effect that transforms not only your own experience but also those around you. Embrace this mindset, and watch how opportunities flourish, relationships deepen, and fulfillment becomes a consistent part of your journey. Intentional living is not just a practice; it’s a lifestyle that leads to profound growth and connection. Always speak life into yourself and your situation. So, take a moment to reflect on your intentions and let them guide you toward a life that resonates with your true self.

Tip #3: Learn when & how to say NO.

As the new year approaches, remember that being selfish can be a positive trait. We're not suggesting you become like Ebenezer Scrooge, but it's important to know when to prioritize yourself. You cannot pour from an empty cup. Saying "no" doesn’t mean you’re failing those who love and respect you—keep that in mind.

Tip #4: If it doesn’t align, let it fly.

As the new year approaches, it's the perfect time to confidently reflect on your experiences—recognizing what worked and what didn’t. This year, you'll master the art of identifying what truly aligns with your goals and what you need to release. Trust yourself and embrace this journey ahead.

Tip #5: Self-care isn’t just a luxury, it’s a necessity.

As a woman, it's crucial to prioritize self-care. Women of BFS understand that self-care is an essential part of their journey. When you feel empowered and confident, you'll align yourself with becoming the best version of yourself. Self-care isn't just about pampering your outer appearance—though that is important—but also about nurturing your mind and soul. This is how you heal and effortlessly exist in your femininity. So, this year, self-care is a must sis. Take care of yourself.

Tip #6: If you can’t afford to buy it twice, don’t buy it once.

We told you, There is nothing soft about being broke (see post here) a game changer this year will be how you decide to invest and save your money. If you can’t afford to buy it twice, don’t buy it once. How you handle $100 will determine how you will handle $1000. Luxury is a mindset thing before an aesthetic. The fools will blow it, the wise will multiply it.

Tip #7: Stay Exclusive

Tap into your IT GIRL energy this upcoming year. Dont let everyone have access to you. This includes your body, ladies! You must protect your energy. Being exclusive also means staying true to who you are. This is how your aura is created... Have you ever seen a woman who is so authentic that she draws people in effortlessly? Her confidence radiates, and her presence is felt long after she has left the room. It's as if she has a magnetic yet mysterious quality that sets her apart from the rest. This woman is YOU this year. Tap into HER! 💋

Tip #8: Dont double back & stand on it!

9 times out of 10, you’ve been released from that experience for a reason. Whether is a job, a man, a friendship or even a bad habit! You must avoid returning to what caused you pain and hindered your purpose. Take your L’s as lessons and move forward with more wisdom and knowledge. What’s behind you can rarely comprehend what’s ahead of you, don’t bring dead weight into this new year!

Tip #9: Don't be afraid to be SEEN!!

Listen, we know all too well how much an isolation season is needed but so is your pop-out season sis. God didn’t put you in that season for you to hide all that he’s been working within you. You can do this and still be humble, and kind and still give thanks to GOD. When you pop out think of it as being released from the shackles of the enemy! THEY CAN'T HOLD YOU DOWN! So many times we get too comfortable in our preparation season; we start sleeping on the very thing we were designed to become! Don’t let that be your reality this year babe.

Tip #10: Take The Risk.

Bet on yourself! This is a year that you will be happy to do things that scare you! Believe in yourself! This is the year to embrace challenges that intimidate you! View this as a chance for personal growth and development. You will learn that when the year is done, you will appreciate the fact that you have stepped outside your comfort zone and tried; putting you in positions you never thought you'll be in! You miss 100% of of the shots you dont take. 💋

────── ⋆⋅🩷📲🫂⋅⋆ ──────

We’re basically besties!

Let’s stay connected! 🫶🏽🫶🏿🫶🏾

Follow Us on: Instagram • Discord • Facebook

[sel-enha-phile]

A Symphony of Midnight

✩✩✩✩✩✩✩✩✩✩✩✩✩✩✩✩✩✩✩✩✩✩✩✩✩✩✩✩✩✩✩✩✩✩✩✩✩✩

✩ Enhypen x Fem!Reader ✩ Word Count: 3.3k ✩ Warnings: Mentions of Alcohol, Death, Blood, War ✩ ✩✩✩✩✩✩✩✩✩✩✩✩✩✩✩✩✩✩✩✩✩✩✩✩✩✩✩✩✩✩✩✩✩✩✩✩✩✩ When an ancient relic shatters and the treaty safeguarding peace between humans and vampires is broken, Y/N Valerian finds herself accused of the unthinkable—the murder of her father and the destruction of the relic. Thrust into a perilous world of supernatural intrigue, she becomes entangled with the Seven Vampire Princes of the Anaima bloodline.

Amid rising tensions, political machinations, and the looming threat of war, Y/N must navigate a labyrinth of deception while grappling with a forbidden love that defies centuries-old laws. But the greatest revelation lies within herself: her blood holds the power to either doom the world to annihilation or offer its ultimate salvation. ✩✩✩✩✩✩✩✩✩✩✩✩✩✩✩✩✩✩✩✩✩✩✩✩✩✩✩✩✩✩✩✩✩✩✩✩✩✩

The grand chamber of the Valerian Estate gleamed with lavish splendor, its polished marble floors reflecting the soft glow of countless candles suspended in crystal chandeliers. Every surface seemed to catch the light, amplifying the grandeur of the occasion. The air was alive with a symphony of voices- human and vampire mingling in a precarious sort of harmony.

For two centuries, the Luminis Accord had upheld an uneasy peace between the two races, and tonight’s bicentennial celebration was meant to further solidify that fragile coexistence.

You lingered at the very edge of the crowd where your existence went unnoticed; a goblet of wine resting idly in your hand, its deep crimson swirling as you moved your wrist absently. It wasn't that you preferred to drink all that much. In all honesty the stench of liquor of any sort made your stomach churn and your head quite a bit dizzier than one's normal state of tipsiness. So, a lack of sobriety is not something you often found yourself aiming for, lest your mind needed clearing.

Tonight was one of those nights. For some reason your senses were on high alert, and it brought an ostentatious unease to you as if you were apart from yourself. You stand to be around vampires tonight; but oddly enough it bothered you even more to be around your own kind.

Your eyes traced the room before landing on your father, Lord Callan Valerian. He moved through the sea of dignitaries with a confidence that seemed effortless, his silver hair catching the chandelier's light as though it were a crown.

It would make sense if it were. He was what could be equivalent to royalty in your world. His great- great grandfather had been the one to present the Luminis Accord to the vampires; so to the current assembly and those before, anyone of the valerian blood was a symbol of unity, the architect of a treaty that had held firm against decades of doubt and mistrust- a leader in the simplest sense.

For decades there was only men born to the Valerian blood- the product of what many believed to be a curse used in the making of the treaty- seven sons to a family to mirror the seven Princes. Your father's only heir was you.

At first many questions your father's lineage due to only you being born- a female. The first since the making of the treaty. Had your father went against the rules?

The rules were simple. Any women born the same year as the one of Valerian blood were for selection- as long as they were pure.

It was a rather stupid rule you felt, in the times you lived in. But your mother was the same age as your father. And to everyone's knowledge had been celibate up until her betrothal. Did he have relations with someone other than a woman you had called your mother?

It didn't seem that way at your mother's deathbed. Your young self-remembered vividly just how loud your father had wailed. As if he was grieving even beyond your mother's life.

After her death he put so much into leading, even the Ambassadors and Council members who used to be against him vied for his attention, their deference a testament to his influence. He was their savior.

To you, he was simply Father- a man of uncompromising principles and even stricter expectations, whose shadow you had never fully stepped out of.

Yet tonight, something about him was different. His expression, always composed, carried a tension that was hard to ignore. His smiles were fleeting, forced, and his words to the assembled guests felt more measured than usual. Beneath his polished exterior, a weight pressed on him, and you could feel it in the fleeting glances he cast across the room, the wrinkles in his face, the crease in his brows, as if anticipating a threat no one else could see.

"Y/N, my lovely child," he had said earlier, his hand firm but uncharacteristically warm on your shoulder. "Stay close tonight, alright?"

The request had surprised you. He rarely spoke to you so directly during public events, much less asked for your presence. Usually, your role was ceremonial- a silent reminder of the continuation of the Valerian lineage. You were no diplomat, no tactician, no leader- even if one day you were expected to be one. You were a historian, content to study the echoes of the past rather than shape the present. That was your passion. A choice your father had long viewed with quiet disappointment, though he had grudgingly accepted it.

You had nodded, offering no protest, as he pet your head- the first he had done since you were a child; but now his words lingered in your mind, heavier than they had felt earlier. Standing alone amid the thrumming energy of the room, you couldn’t shake the feeling that they carried a warning you hadn’t understood.

He hadn’t smiled. Not even once to anyone else. But the small smile he gave before strutting off set in your heart like a heavy stone.

The unease in your chest deepened, and you found yourself wishing you had pressed him for more. Why tonight of all nights? What had he seen- or feared -that made him act so unlike himself? The question lingered, unanswered, as the crowd swirled around you in blissful ignorance.

Was it perhaps what you had confronted him about? The truth behind the Luminis Accord? How it wasn't offered as peace but more so-

Your thoughts were interrupted by a sharp crash of breaking glass. Subtle, almost imperceptible to the human ear, but distinct enough to snag your attention. You looked out at the crowd, no heads turning save for a few miscellaneous councilmen from the vampiric side. And even the vampires playing in the string quartet.

You turned, your frown deepening, knowing you didn't imagine what you heard. Maybe no other human was close enough? So you made your way in the direction of the noise, which led towards a small antechamber that led to the diplomats' counsel room.

Then came the scream.

It was high and piercing, cutting through the air like a blade, causing you to rush. The music stuttered into silence for a split second; but you barely register that as you pushed through the door, recognizing the scream all too well. Dread coiled in your chest as your feet moved of their own accord, heart pounded, each step quickening until you reached the room. The sight before you stole the breath from your lungs.

Slumped against the polished wood of his desk was your father, his body framed by a pool of blood that seeped into the intricate weave of the ornate rug. His skin, once so full of vitality, was pallid and waxen, his eyes fixed on nothing as he coughed out blood. At his feet lay the shattered remains of the Relic of Luminis Accord; its crystal fragments glinting like cruel stars in the dim light.

“Father?” The word left your lips as a whisper, trembling and fragile. You dropped to your knees beside him, hands hovering, useless and shaking, over his stilling form. He had a slit in his throat, accompanied with two small puncture marks. And a large wound in his abdomen.

The coppery scent of blood was thick and cloying, turning your stomach as tears blurred your vision.

"Listen." Your father sputtered, his blood landing on your dress. "I broke...long ago." His eyes were wide. "The treaty. It's my fault. You're in danger." He coughed once more, slumping against you. Your eyes were frantic as you tried to cover the bleeding.

Do I cover his abdomen or this cut in his throat-

"Father-"

"Don't. Trust them...my child-"

“What have you done?!”

The voice jolted through you like a whip crack. Sharp, accusing. You spun to see Prince Sunghoon standing in the doorway, his silhouette stark against the flickering glow of the main hall. His hand rested on the hilt of his blade- as if he couldn't finish someone with his bare hands. His expression, usually so unreadable, was etched with tension as his gaze flicked between you, your father, and the shattered relic.

Before you could speak, Prince Jake stepped into the room, halting abruptly as the scent of blood hit him. His face twisted, fangs elongating involuntarily. A hand shot up to cover his mouth, his breaths ragged and shallow as he tried to wrest control from the primal hunger clawing at his senses.

“I’ve never craved like this before,” Jake muttered, his voice muffled and hoarse. His shoulders shook, his darkened eyes fixed on the blood soaking into the rug.

Sunghoon’s jaw tightened, his own fangs pressing against his lower lip as he fought the same battle. The stench of death was undeniable, but beneath it was something else- something potent and intoxicating and delicious that set his instincts ablaze. He forced his gaze away from your father’s lifeless form, focusing instead on the relic’s jagged shards.

“The relic is destroyed,” he said, his voice low and steady, though his mind reeled. The relic had been more than a mere artifact. It was a safeguard, a delicate tether holding the balance between human and vampire. Its destruction wasn’t just a tragedy- it was a declaration of war.

But it's not as if a human- regardless of political positioning would know that.

Should, know that.

His gaze snapped back to you. You, kneeling in the blood of Lord Callan, with the relic’s shattered remains glinting at your feet. The image was damning, undeniable.

Footsteps echoed behind him, hurried and insistent. The other princes arrived, followed by a flood of nobles and guards, their collective presence suffocating the room. The murmurs swelled into an uproar, a sea of voices crying out for answers, for retribution.

You looked up, your eyes connecting with the one damning you.

“Seize her!” The command rang out from the eldest prince, sharp and unyielding.

Hands closed around your arms, hauling you to your feet with a force that left you reeling.

"FATHER-" You thrashed instinctively, panic surging as the weight of the accusations pressed down on you. Grief twisted into raw, frantic denial, but the faces around you were cold, unrelenting.

The room blurred as you were dragged towards the center of the ballroom, where the party had now stopped, your please not even being allowed to be swallowed by the tide of voices. Silence happening in almost an instant.

It was happening too fast, a nightmare spiraling out of control, and no one would listen. The truth was trapped in your throat, smothered by the crushing weight of grief and the suffocating certainty of your father’s death.

The princes- all seven of them -stood in a line, their presence commanding even amidst the chaos.

Heeseung stepped forward, his expression unreadable as his gaze swept over you. He held up a hand, and the room fell silent.

“Y/N Valerian,” he said, his voice cold and measured. “You stand accused of breaking the Luminis Accord and the murder of the human Lord Callan Valerian. An act of treason not only against both your kind and ours; but your own blood. What do you have to say in your defense?”

“I didn’t-” you began, but your voice faltered. You looked around the room, at the faces of those who had known your father, who had once treated you with kindness. Now, their eyes were filled with suspicion, their expressions hardened with fear. "I didn't kill him! Why would I-"

“Enough!” Heeseung’s voice rang out, slicing through your protest like a blade. “The evidence is clear. Lord Callan is dead. The relic is destroyed. And you were the only one found at the scene.”

“It wasn’t me!” you cried, desperation choking your voice. “I would never- he was my father, for the sake of all that’s holy!”

“You stand to gain the most from his death,” Jungwon said, his tone steady yet cutting. The younger prince’s gaze bore into you, calculating. “Not only do you inherit his political influence, but you also gain unrestricted access to…further your historical pursuits, do you not?”

"Thats not...that's not true." You wavered.

“And yet, here we are,” Sunghoon murmured, his voice quieter but no less condemning. His eyes lingered on you, heavy with an unspoken question, as though searching for cracks in your resolve.

“I desire none of his power!” Your voice rose, firm and unyielding, despite the tears stinging your eyes. “My father knew that- you all knew that!” You thrashed against the iron grip of the guards holding you. “I have no wish to be a pawn in your games. I have no wish to be used by you or anyone else!”

The air in the chamber grew taut, the princes exchanging glances as murmurs rippled through the room like a brewing storm.

“You think I don’t see it?” you spat, eyes blazing as they darted from one prince to the next. Sunoo blinked slowly at you, and in an instant his face changed as he mouthed something that made Jay and Ni-ki's head turn and Sunoo made the movement of coming towards you. “The imbalance, the lies, the convenience of all of this. Don’t you vampires have the most to gain from this farce? Why don’t you tell everyone the truth about what the relic really was-”

In a blur of movement, Sunoo was in front of you, his hand clamping over your mouth. His eyes gleamed, something you couldn't place harbored in them, as he leaned close. “Not another word.” he growled, his voice a low, dangerous rumble. Nearly inaudible. "Or else I can't help you." He said, his voice softening. You looked up with a questioning gaze, everything feeling like it was happening in a matter of seconds. Slowly, he withdrew his hand, the look in his eyes and the gaze he then threw towards Jungwon making your jaw twitch.

“What do we do with her?” Jake’s voice broke the silence, tight and strained. His eyes avoided yours, focusing instead on the bloodstains still marring your clothes. You saw the flicker of hunger in his expression, quickly smothered, but not before it chilled you to your core.

At least he had the audacity to look ashamed.

“Hand her over!” a voice from the human delegation rang out. It was your father’s advisor, Sir Chetaire- the man you’d once called uncle. His wrinkled hands wrung together as he addressed the princes, his voice trembling with poorly disguised fear. “Let the princes deal with her. Surely that will…quell the unrest.” He got onto his knees, as if ready to worship the ground the princes stood on.

One of the vampire guards stepped forward but not before Jungwon raised his hand, cocking his head as if considering the propsal.

Your heart twisted, the betrayal cutting deeper than you thought possible. “You can’t be serious.” Your voice shook, disbelief and fury clawing at your composure. “You know me, Chetaire! You’ve known me my entire life. You know-”

“Silence her!” another voice hissed, igniting a flurry of accusations.

“Hand her over!”

“Murderer!”

“She killed her own father!”

Glasses began to be thrown and in an instant the humans were in upheaval that even the Vampires didn't know how to calm.

The cacophony of voices merged into a deafening roar. But you still heard Jungwon's steady voice: "Take her."

Your knees wavered as the guards tightened their grip and dragged you forward, your heel getting caught in one of the indents of the tile, allowing your foot to be bare; the world around you tilting and distorting into a surreal nightmare.

Your mind raced, desperately grasping for explanations, for anything that could piece this madness into coherence. But there was nothing. No reprieve. Only the cruel, unyielding truth:

Your father was dead, and they had cast you as the villain in a tragedy not of your making.

The celebration was long over now; humans being escorted towards the entrance- you into what you could only assume was something much more damning then the winter cold outside.

As you were escorted out before the entirety of the guests, a murmur of unease rippled through the hall, though none dared voice it aloud. Somewhere within the depths of their variant eyes, you glimpsed something fleeting in few- a flicker of doubt, or was it pity? Whatever it was, it held no power to alter your fate.

You were being offered to the ones you once called enemies. Whether as a pawn for interrogation or a sacrifice for execution, the outcome remained uncertain.

What was certain, however, was the terror etched into the faces of your people. You knew better than anyone why you had been given up so easily- when you knew no one would have dared under revere for your father.

They stood silent and trembling, a stark contrast to the unyielding resolve glimmering in the eyes of the vampires of the council who bore witness.

The princes carried an aura of dominion so profound it felt oppressive, a quiet power that all recognized but none dared acknowledge aloud.

Your people had surrendered you in the hopes of appeasing these ancient forces, of forestalling the inevitable clash of fangs and steel.

Yet deep down, you knew the truth: the pact was a farce. The treaty had always been for naught.

These beings were utterly insatiable, their hunger not only for blood but for dominance eternal.

As you were whisked away into the depths of their domain, you couldn’t ignore the strain etched into the faces of the seven royals. Something primal lingered beneath their regal façades, a predatory edge sharpened to a blade’s whisper.

Your gaze locked on two of them- Jake and Jay, who were like statues hewn from moonlight, even in movement. They had always been the most composed according to ancient record, even now they were the ones humanity trusted most, yet even their eyes betrayed an agony that cut to the bone.

Sunoo and Heesung were the only ones fully in front of you, the tension in the eldest shoulders telling you a tale you weren't sure you wanted to know the extent of. Sunoo seemed to be saying something to him.

Behind you, Ni-ki and Sunghoon and Jungwon flanked your steps, silent as specters. When your eyes met the youngest's, a flicker of something indefinable passed between you. Recognition? Regret? It was gone before you could grasp its meaning.

You longed to cry out, to scream a warning to the humans who had sent you here. But your voice remained caged, like a bird caught in a storm.

The implications of Sunoo's earlier words felt like hands around your throat.

"Not another word. Or else I can't help you."

Still you wish you could say. Warn-

Run.

Run as far and as fast as you can.

The relic your ancestors had eagerly handed over centuries ago was no symbol of peace. It was a shield. A shield forged in desperation- a desperate protection against the very monsters they had now chosen to appease. A shield those same monsters had agreed upon accepting in times of comradery. Those times had long passed.

Now that the relic was destroyed they were free to do as they pleased.

And your poor, ignorant kind- in their blind hope to avert a war, they had likely sealed their doom.

With the shattering of the Relic and the death of your father, the line had been crossed.

War was not just inevitable.

It was destiny.

✩✩✩✩✩✩✩✩✩✩✩✩✩✩✩✩✩✩✩✩✩✩✩✩✩✩✩✩✩✩✩✩✩✩✩✩✩✩ Ahh! First post ono my sideblog! It might take a little bit longer for me to upload this story- since as I mentioned this is my sideblog :)! But I will be doing my best to update this story as fast as possible! I hope whoever reads this enjoys! ✩✩✩✩✩✩✩✩✩✩✩✩✩✩✩✩✩✩✩✩✩✩✩✩✩✩✩✩✩✩✩✩✩✩✩✩✩✩

[swanlakex]

Hi! New to tumblr! Got really bored one day and decided to write a beginning to a little regency slow burn enemies to lovers with Anakin Skywalker 😭 Lmk if you would be interested in some more! This isn’t super historical accurate, either. I’m just writing along.

(Also sorry for the horrible layout idk how to use this app)

CW: death

The sound of your mother’s weeping flooded the porcelain castle halls. The servants looked around in horror and apprehension, some full of grief, some in fear of the future of their land. A land without a king.

You stayed in the hallway outside of your father’s chambers. He had been sick for some time, and despite the endless remedies and dozens of medics and apothecaries, his condition only festered throughout his body. Now, at nineteen, you stand outside with your siblings, nauseous with grief, to say goodbye to your father. A man that was nothing but strong, wise, discerning, and loved. By all his people. By the rich, the poor, the nobles, subjects, jests- all.

Your baby sister, Therese, shrunk to the floor beside you. Her hands shook as she buried her face in her handkerchief. Your brother, Louis, who always stood with height and honor, placed himself in front of you and Therese. Trying to shield you all from the horrors of life without the direction of your father.

Suddenly, a guard opens the door from the room your mother and father shared throughout all these years. “Come in,” he speaks softly, a foil to his strict training and brash uniform. “His majesty is ready to see you all.” With that, he turns and marches away.

You help Therese up as Louis creeps in ahead. Behind him, you see your mother sat next to Father on the bed, acting as his shroud. On top of the covers, her dress spills around the mattress and its frame as she rests her hands upon his arms. He’s awake, sat up, yet pale. Weak.

“Oh, Father!” Therese yawps as she runs to his side of the bed, knees falling as she throws her arms around him. She cries into his tunic, face buried.

He gently embraces her, careful to keep his strength. “My Therese,” he calls. Again and again. Louis and you walk up to him. Uncertainty paints your faces blue. “My children. My beautiful children.” Father reaches a hand towards you and Louis, you take it as Louis kneels beside him. Leaving you- the eldest- the one standing at your father’s deathbed.

“I have done many, many things in this life of mine. I have served my duties as a soldier, and carried prospects in the fruition of my throne. I have brought this country through famine and war to a renaissance and a golden age of art, peace, and freedom. But I leave you all with this- the very best thing I have ever done in this world is you all. The most rewarding act I’ve received is loving each of you, watching you grow. Seeing the noblemen and women you have bloomed into. I am so very proud, my children- for you have cured all afflictions, and carried the whole of my triumphs. And I-“

His voice croaks at the effort of speaking. Your sister and mother sob. Louis winces, his eyes boring into his father’s, like he is trying to remember each and every detail of his father’s face. “…I love you. All. With each synapse and every vein in my person. Being your father has been the greatest blessing and shining achievement of my living.”

Tears pour down your face. What is a life without your father? A life of doom- you expect. Who will heed the family? Who will heed the country? You begin to brace yourself for a life of risk, uncertainty, and despair. You will have to be married off, Louis must take the throne. At fifteen- he will become the country’s youngest king. He’s strong, you think. But young. He’s just a boy. He knows not of death, of war. Of power. What will come of the kingdom? Of you?

Oh, Father. Please come back to us. You beg to an empty sky.

Chapter One: l’appariement

You stand in front of the looking glass, clasping a necklace around yourself. Tears well up in your eyes as you look at the unrecognizable figure that stands before you. It is about to be the hardest day of your life since Father died- courting.

Of course, you detested the idea to your mother. To your siblings. To everyone in the castle that would listen, but you knew it had to be done. Despite being the eldest, A boy must rule. And that boy would be Louis. Before your father got sick, you put off the task of courting. I’m busy with my studies, Father. You would say. I’m too young now, we can always wait until next season. And he would. And the season after that. And the one after that, too. Because that’s the kind of father he was; he would support your education, even though it was labeled as taboo. He knew you were destined for something great.

But now, you knew it was time to stop putting it off. As much as you despised the idea, as the eldest, you had to honor your family. Especially now.

The least you could do is try.

So you inhale, you exhale. You make a point to think of your mother, your sister, your brother. And you leave your chambers, headed for the ballroom full of lousy, old suitors.

It’s not that you weren’t pretty. On the contrary, you had been told from a very young age that you were striking, graceful, captivating. No, your suitors were only so unfortunate because you made the decision of books at a young age instead of boys. In your culture, it’s customary for a royal daughter to begin seeking for a hand in marriage at fifteen. And here you were, nearly twenty years of age, five years late. All the so-called “distinguished, promising” men had snatched up the younger girls.

You always thought of it disgusting, the age gap of men to girls in your country. Girls- not women. It made your skin crawl. It’s unnatural, predatory. You almost were grateful that those kinds of men had already been wed, yet here you were, presenting yourself for.. let’s face it.. divorcées, the unfortunate looking, or distant , poor, far-off dukes who probably didn’t even speak the same language as you. You wanted to kick yourself at first, but you take pride in your intelligence, as you know it’s the most powerful weapon a woman can use.

To get to the ballroom, you first walk through the sitting room. There’s a few men in there already, and all conversation lulls as you cascade down, your gown slightly trailing behind you. Heads turn, but you keep your eyes down and quickly make your way to the ballroom doors. You only see shoes of men. Some tapping, some spread while sitting on chaises and loveseats, even some pacing in suspense. You finally slip out the door, and you are met with your family, your father’s army general, and your maid, Esme.

“You’re late.” Your mother scolds. “We’ve been waiting for almost ten minutes.” You just shake your head and look down as you sit at the head of the room. “Forgive me mother, I’m not exactly giddy for these sorts of arrangements.” Therese giggles at your boldness. “Hold your tongue, dear. We will see how today goes.” You look over to your brother next to you, he looks bored out of his mind, but he sits up straight and tries to appear respectful. He will make a fine king one day. You just worry. Then, the orchestra begins. You and your family rise in anticipation for the first suitor.

A man of you assume the age of 45 comes in, holding an array of flowers.

“Good morning, Your highness. My name is Philip Artemis Sissone XI.” Esme takes the flowers from him and sets them on a long table, the gift table you assume. This will take all day. “I have many aspects that will be of use to you- one including the gift of song.” He chirps. Oh God, you think. Before you can stop him, Philip reaches behind himself and pulls out a fiddle. He immediately plays with relentless vigor and passion, so much so that his tongue sticks out and his knees bend to the melody. With Philip lost in his own trance, you look over to Louis. He’s holding back a laugh. You both chuckle once you make eye contact, but your mother’s sharp look makes you stifle your laughter.

Suitor after suitor, this goes on for hours. By the end of the day, the gift table is so flooded that Esme had to start adding gifts underneath it, flowers and various spices spilling across the floor. Finally, the last man finishes his “gift”, a poem about your eyes. Was it good? No. But the sentiment is appreciated, you try to think.

You start to stand up, believing that this torture is over, but your mother’s voice interrupts you. “Y/N, we have one more. Please have patience.” You groan, slipping back into your seat. You straighten up as the doors open, and what meets your eyes almost rocks you to your core. A man, one who only must be a couple years older than you, dressed in a military uniform. Medals and badges adorn his chest and shoulders, and as you inspect him closer, he is striking. Beautiful, even. In his hand, he holds a small, singular lily. You stand, and he bows. “Your highness, My name is Anakin Skywalker.” He addresses himself incorrectly. Informally. You know by his uniform he is a war general, probably a royal one at that. He hands you the lily and you curtsy, thanking him. Despite his captivating face, his eyes are cold and distant. He tries to avoid eye contact with you, and when he does look at you, his eyebrows furrow. He speaks again. “I am sorry for the loss of your father. He was a great man. I, like many others, looked up to him. We mourn with you all.”

He gestures to your family behind you. You’re thrown off, he was the first man to even mention your father today. A wave of grief washes up against you. Just the act makes you want to tear up, but you push the feeling down into yourself. “Thank you, Sir Skywalker.” Your mother calls from behind you. He nods, his lips forming a thin line. There’s a moment of silence hanging in the air, and he breaks it. “Well, thank you for your time, your highness. Good day, Miss Y/N.” He says coldly as he bows again, and turns around to leave. You watch as he slips out of the door, frozen with confusion, yet also his beauty. You twist the stem of the lily in your hands, turning back to your family.

“How strange,” Therese says. “He barely even looked at you!”

“Marie Therese!” Mother calls out. “Leave her be.”

Later that night, relegated to your room, you stare out the windowsill. Esme had packed up and done away with most of the gifts, but you kept the lone flower on your armoire. You were confused by the man’s distant behavior. Just my luck, the only agreeable man I meet wants nothing to do with me. You sigh as you fall back onto your bed. You worry for the future, and for when you must actually pick someone’s hand. It will be quicker than you think, and your head spins at the responsibility you hold for your family. If only Father were here..

[immortalbumblebee]

Chapter 25: Burnt Bullet Casings

Masterlist

They burned it all to the ground.

All of them. Gone.

The fire spread quickly in the dead of night, consuming everything in its path. Most were asleep, dreaming their final dreams, unaware that death had come for them cloaked in flames.

They must have followed Mikael back from the meeting. That was the only explanation. The only way they could have known where they—your parents, your family, your blood—lived. Along with an entire row of well-populated homes, packed with lives and memories.

Spikes of pain shot through your knees as you collapsed into the rubble of what had once been your childhood home. The jagged edges of charred wood and shattered glass dug into your skin, but you didn’t feel it. You were numb.

A piece of history—your history—was gone. The walls that once heard your laughter, the people who taught you love and resilience, the voices that comforted you in the dark. All of it, consumed and reduced to ash.

Gone.

You’d tried to find her. You clung to the desperate hope that she, the woman who had always defied the odds, could have escaped. She was a sea-faring, sword-wielding pirate of legend. Surely someone like her could outrun a fire.

But you found her.

Or what was left of her.

Two charred skeletons lay in the wreckage, their forms twisted and fused together. The blackened remains of a wheelchair rested beneath them, melted into the scorched earth. She must have gone to save him. Her closest friend, her confidant—best friends until the very end.

Your shaking hands reached out to touch the last piece of her, a scrap of floral fabric clinging stubbornly to the destruction. Her sleeping clothes. You remembered the pattern vividly. You had chosen it for her yourself, years ago, as a birthday present.

All that remained of your mother.

Your chest heaved with the weight of grief, and the world around you spun, distorted by tears that refused to fall. This wasn’t just a loss. This was annihilation.

Your throat cracks as you let out a piercing scream.

Behind you, Vander’s open sobbing broke through the crackling remains of the fire. It was a raw, unrelenting sound that carried the weight of a man who had already lost too much. You tried to look back, to anchor yourself in the presence of the others, but the tears blurred everything. All you could make out were three hazy figures standing at the edge of the ruins, barely visible through the smoke and your grief.

They hadn’t moved since you ran ahead, stumbling into the ashes the moment you arrived. Vander stood in the center, his massive frame buckling as though the sorrow were too much for even his strength to bear. He doubled over, clutching at the ground as if it might hold him steady, but his sobs only grew louder, more broken.

Silco and Benzo stood on either side of him, both too stunned to act. Silco’s jaw was clenched so tightly you could see the strain from where you knelt, but he didn’t step forward. His hands hung limply at his sides, trembling in a way you’d never seen before. Benzo’s usual spark was gone, replaced by wide, hollow eyes that stared into the wreckage as though refusing to accept what lay before him.

The silence between their sobs stretched unbearably thin, broken only by the faint whisper of the wind through the ashes. You couldn’t look at them for long. Their grief was a reflection of your own, and it threatened to crush what little strength you had left. Instead, you turned your gaze back to the scrap of floral fabric in your hands, clutching it as if it could somehow anchor you to the life you’d lost.

But even then, you knew—there was no going back. None of you would ever be the same again.

You partially stumbled, partially crawled your way back to the boys, the scrap of fabric still clutched tightly to your chest as though letting go of it would break you entirely. Your knees buckled more than once, and each time, you forced yourself up again, the weight of your grief dragging you down but never fully stopping you.

Benzo was the first to move. The shock etched across his face softened into something raw and pained as he stepped forward, closing the distance between you. Without a word, he knelt down and gathered you into his arms, pulling you close as though shielding you from the ruin around you. His embrace was warm, steady—an anchor in the chaos.

You collapsed into him, the dam finally breaking as heavy, guttural sobs racked your body. “They—” you tried to speak, but the words shattered in your throat, choked by grief too vast to articulate.

Benzo tightened his hold, his hand finding its way to your hair. “Shh,” he murmured softly, his voice trembling but determined. His fingers stroked through your hair with slow, rhythmic motions, as though trying to soothe a wound that couldn’t be healed. “I’ve got you. Just breathe.”

But breathing felt impossible. Every inhale dragged jagged edges of sorrow into your chest, cutting deeper with each attempt. Your mind replayed the scene over and over—the wreckage, the flames, the remains. You clung to Benzo like a lifeline, your hands gripping his coat, your face buried in his shoulder as you sobbed without end.

Behind him, Vander’s sobbing had quieted to a strangled kind of wheezing, as if the sheer force of his grief had left him without air. Silco stood rooted in place, his shoulders stiff, his eyes glinting with unshed tears. He wasn’t looking at the ruins anymore; he was watching Vander, his expression unreadable but devastatingly raw.

Benzo rocked you gently, his own breathing uneven as he whispered, “We’re going to get through this. I promise. We’ll make them pay. But right now… just let it out.”

His words were a lifeline, a small thread of something solid in a world that had crumbled around you. You clung to it, even as your sobs consumed you, drowning out the sound of everything else. Your sobs came in heavy, uneven bursts, wracking your body until it felt like you had nothing left inside but sorrow.

Behind you, Vander was slumped on his knees, his massive hands clutching fistfuls of his hair as his chest heaved with quiet sobs. The sound of his grief, raw and broken, was almost harder to bear than the silence that had preceded it. Peeling yourself away from Benzo, you fell back to your knees and wrapped your arms around the fallen man. The two of your shakings came together into one simultaneous source of unbelievable grief.

Silco hadn’t moved. He stood like a statue, his shoulders drawn so tightly they might snap, his trembling hands clenched into fists at his sides. His sharp eyes darted between the two of you and the smoldering ruins, as if searching for something—someone—to blame. His lips pressed into a thin line, the flicker of unshed tears betraying the fury brewing just beneath the surface.

“They didn’t deserve this,” Benzo croaks, wiping away his own tear-covered cheeks. “Nobody does.”

“How could they—“ your broken sobs cut you off again, and you twisted your face to bury yourself into Vander’s quivering shoulder. The words hung heavy in the air, each syllable vibrating with suppressed rage. When you finally managed to lift your head, the floral fabric still clenched in your trembling hands. “She—she tried to save him,” you whispered, your voice barely audible. “They died together.”

For a moment, no one spoke. The only sound was the faint crackle of dying embers and the occasional shifting of debris in the wind. Then, Vander stands. The hot tears are still flooding down his cheeks, and his whole body is shaking, but his eyes have a rage so…deep and fierce, it’s like nothing you’ve ever seen before. Not in a riot, not in the pits. This is an entirely new anger, and quite frankly it scares you.

“Get everyone together and prepare civilians.” He commands. “We’re crossing that damned bridge.”

As your feet hit the pavement, the cool morning air bit at your cheeks, sharp and invigorating against your flushed skin. It was mid-spring, but the lingering chill made your breath visible in faint clouds as you panted, pushing yourself harder. The snippets of sky you could make out from such a lower level were painted in pale hues of dawn, streaks of pink and orange battling against the fading gray of night.

You leapt from rooftop to rooftop, the uneven terrain a familiar challenge beneath your boots. Each jump sent your heart racing, not from fear but from the sheer thrill of the motion—controlled chaos honed through years of practice. Your fingers found chimneys and radio antennae as you moved, gripping the cold metal and brick to steady yourself or pivot sharply around obstacles. Somehow, there was peace here. Angry tears still ran down your cheeks, but here, with your feet running under you…there was control, and thus, there was peace.

Once or twice, your foot caught the edge of a landing, your balance momentarily thrown off. You stumbled, arms pinwheeling for a fraction of a second, but instinct kicked in. Your body adjusted, muscles coiling and releasing with precision, and you pushed forward without hesitation.

Each step felt solid, each movement deliberate, a rhythm born of repetition and necessity. The rooftops were your domain, their precarious paths as familiar as the streets below to those who dared traverse them. The wind whipped at your face and tugged at your clothes, a constant reminder of the height and the stakes, but you didn’t slow. You couldn’t.

Ahead, the gap between buildings widened slightly, the next rooftop just a bit farther than you were used to. Your mind calculated the distance, your legs pumping harder to gain the momentum you needed. Without breaking stride, you surged forward, the edge of the roof disappearing beneath your feet as you launched yourself into the air, heart pounding in your ears.

You landed in front of an all-too-familiar apartment, your feet hitting the ledge with a muffled thud. Without missing a beat, you latched onto the side of the building and swung yourself down to a windowsill, gripping the frame to steady yourself. Inside, the warm glow of morning filtered through the glass, illuminating the scene of a family just settling in for breakfast. You raised your hand and knocked fervently on the pane, the sound sharp and insistent.

Heads snapped up in surprise, startled by the intrusion. Recognition quickly replaced confusion, and Violet, the six-year-old, bolted toward you with a delighted cry.

“Auntie Min!” she beamed, her bright eyes wide with excitement.

You managed a fleeting smile, reaching out to ruffle her hair as she reached the window. But your gaze didn’t linger on her—it locked on her parents. Violet wrestled with the latch, and a moment later, the window swung open. The rush of warm air from inside hit you, but it did little to ease the chill in your chest.

“I’m sorry to interrupt like this,” you panted, your breath hitching as you swiped hastily at the tear tracks on your face.

Connol was already on his feet, his tall frame tensing at your tone. Felicia froze mid-bite, her fork halfway to her mouth as she stared at you. Connol’s voice cut through the tense silence, low and steady, but tinged with concern.

“What’s happening out there?” he asked, his brow furrowing. “Sevika stopped by earlier, said there was some sort of fire.”

You choked back a sob, the lump in your throat threatening to swallow your words whole. But there was no time for this—not now. You clenched your fists, forcing yourself to focus, to speak.

“They’re gone…” you said, your voice trembling but resolute. “Mikael, Mom, the whole damn block.”

Felicia’s fork slipped from her hand, clattering against her plate before it tumbled to the floor. The plate shattered on impact, the sound harsh and final, the eggs splattering in a messy heap. She stood there, stunned, her lips parted as though searching for words that refused to come. As she did, Violet ran back to her side.

“What?” she whispered, her voice barely audible.

You nodded, your jaw tightening as you swallowed hard against the grief threatening to drown you. “We need to get the kids to the tunnel,” you said, the urgency in your voice overriding the quiver. “Now. Grab your gauntlets and whatever armor you’ve got. We’re crossing the bridge at noon.”

Connol blinked, the weight of your words settling over him like a lead blanket. Felicia, however, remained rooted to the spot, her shock giving way to disbelief.

“Wait, what?” she blurted, her voice sharp and trembling.

“There’s no time to explain,” you said, stepping into the room as if moving might make the situation feel more tangible. “We’re not safe here. None of us are. They’ll come this way next, and if we’re not ready…” You trailed off, shaking your head. “Please, just trust me.”

Felicia looked to Connol, her hands trembling as she reached for the counter to steady herself. Connol’s expression hardened, his jaw clenching as he nodded once. Without another word, he strode to the back room, where their gear was stored.

Felicia’s voice cracked as she spoke, her fear barely contained. “Are we… are you guys sure about this?”

You crouched down, meeting Violet’s wide, questioning eyes. The little girl clung to her mother’s leg, her breakfast forgotten, her small face full of confusion and worry. You managed a weak smile, smoothing her hair once more.

“Yeah,” you said firmly, though your voice wavered. “But only if we act now.”

“Min-Min…” Powder cooed sleepily, her small hand reaching out to you, her fingers brushing against the fabric of your coat. Her tired eyes blinked up at you, filled with trust and innocence that made your chest ache.

You crouched down beside her, placing a steadying hand on her shoulder. “Hey, sweet pea,” you said softly, a flicker of warmth breaking through the storm raging inside you. Violet stood quietly by her side, clutching her mother’s hand, her gaze darting between you and the commotion around her.

Straightening, you stretched out your hands, feeling the air around you, the cool metal fragments stored in your satchel responding instantly. With swift, precise motions of your fingers, a series of lightweight metal sheets zipped into the air, shimmering faintly in the morning light. In a matter of seconds, the sheets disassembled into smaller parts, folding and snapping into makeshift chest plates, perfectly sized for the children.

You turned and knelt in front of Violet, pressing the plates into her small hands. “Do what your parents say and don’t argue, okay?” you said firmly, your tone leaving no room for debate.

Violet looked down at the plates in confusion, her brow furrowing. “What’s going on?” she asked, her voice trembling.

You hesitated, your heart twisting, but you shook your head. “Just… listen to your parents,” you repeated, your voice softer now. “They’ll keep you safe.”

You glanced back up at Felicia and Connol, your resolve hardening. “I’ll stop by the tunnel after I’ve collected everyone,” you said, your words quick but steady. “Vander and Benzo are already gathering at the bridge. Silco’s covering the upper levels. We’ve only got a couple of hours, maybe less.”

Connol nodded grimly, his face set like stone as he wrapped an arm protectively around Felicia, who was already busy helping Violet slip the plate over her small frame. Powder reached out for hers with a curious look, her sleepy haze fading as she watched you with wide, trusting eyes.

You stepped back toward the door, your hand lingering on the frame for a brief moment. “Be ready,” you said, glancing over your shoulder. With that, you slipped out into the morning light, the weight of what lay ahead pressing down on you. The sounds of the family behind you faded as you moved, replaced by the hum of your thoughts and the echo of distant footsteps.

A couple of hours later, the city was alive with a chaotic hum, its usual rhythm fractured by urgency and fear. The sun hung higher now, casting sharp angles of light that pierced through the haze lingering over the smoggy streets. Your legs burned from running, every muscle taut with exhaustion, but you didn’t slow. You’d spent the morning darting from one household to the next, gathering who you could, issuing hurried instructions, and fending off waves of questions you didn’t have time to answer. Now, as you sprinted toward the storage tunnel, the distant echoes of shouts and hurried footsteps followed you, a cacophony of people trying to prepare for the unimaginable.

The tunnel was alive with a quiet hum of activity, a stark contrast to the chaos above. This was where the vulnerable had gathered—the people you’d spent the last few hours running for. The makeshift shelter was lit dimly by lanterns, their warm glow flickering over the walls lined with storage crates and bags of supplies. Familiar faces filled the space, many of them etched with worry, some with exhaustion, but all clinging to a fragile sense of hope.

Babette and a few of the older men and women were tending to the children, their calm presence a lifeline for the little ones who didn’t fully understand what was happening. Vi and Powder sat close together, their plates of rations barely touched. Across from them, two boys—a bespectacled one with a thoughtful expression and a smaller one with spiked hair—played quietly with a makeshift game of stones and sticks. You recognized their faces but couldn’t quite recall their names.

The scent of something cooking wafted through the air, a soothing balm amidst the tension. A few of the older folks had gathered around a small camp stove, stirring pots of whatever rations could be spared. The simple aroma filled the tunnel like incense, grounding everyone in this shared, fragile moment of peace.

Your eyes scanned the room, finally landing on Skye. She stood near the far wall, deep in conversation with a pale, thin boy—Viktor. He held himself with a quiet intensity, his sharp eyes darting between her and the schematic she’d spread out on a crate.

You strode over, worry etched on your face. “Skye, my girl,” you exclaimed, your voice sharper than you intended. She looked up in surprise, and you tried to soften your tone, though the tremor in it betrayed you. “What are you doing here? You should be home across the river.”

As the words left your mouth, you couldn’t help but hear the echo of your mother in them—her firm, protective cadence slipping out of you unbidden. You swallowed hard, forcing the thought away.

But Skye only shook her head, a determined look in her eyes. “There was no way I was missing this,” she said, her voice steady. “I took the tunnel to make sure everyone was okay, you know, help out where I could.”

You couldn’t help but smile, a flicker of pride cutting through your worry. You reached out and squeezed her arm gently, the gesture as much for you as for her. “Your aunt would be so proud of you,” you said softly, your chest tightening as you thought of Mikael and the others.

Turning your attention to Viktor, you fixed him with a stern look, though there was no real bite behind it. “Look after her, okay?” you said, your voice firm.

He met your gaze, his lips quirking into a small, knowing smile. He nodded without a word, his quiet confidence easing some of your concern.

“Good,” you murmured, glancing back at Skye. “Stay here. Stay safe.” Then, with one last lingering look, you turned back to the others, steeling yourself for what lay ahead.

The bridge loomed just across the way, its towering framework cutting through the haze of the morning. You could already make out the growing crowds of Zaunites, gathered in tense clusters as the final moments ticked toward noon. Their voices rose in a low murmur, the sound carrying with it an undercurrent of fear, anger, and restless determination. You slowed for a moment, taking it all in, feeling the weight of it pressing down on your chest.

These people—friends, neighbors, strangers—were all here to fight. To risk their lives alongside yours. The enormity of it hit you like a blow, and you had to steel yourself, drawing in a shaky breath.

Was this the right thing to do? The question gnawed at the edges of your mind, that familiar tug of anxiety creeping in. This wasn’t just a scuffle. It wasn’t a stand to scare off some meddling Enforcers. This was life or death. People were going to die today. You could already imagine the river running red, the blood of Enforcers and Zaunites mingling in the murky depths.

The thought made your knees falter, just for a second. But then your mind dragged you back—to the ashes, to the smoldering remains of your home, to the charred wheelchair with the two bodies strewn over it. There wasn’t even anything left to bury. And even if there were, Zaun didn’t have graves, didn’t have a cemetery to mourn its dead. You’d have to dump them into the river like trash, like their lives hadn’t mattered.

That thought ignited something in you, a fire that burned hotter than your doubt. No. Their lives did matter. And if you had to spill blood to prove that, then so be it.

Your resolve hardened, and without another thought, you broke into a sprint. The bridge grew closer with every pounding step, the roar of your heartbeat in your ears drowning out everything else. This was your fight, your family’s fight, and you wouldn’t let fear stop you now.

Pushing your way through the crowd, you kept your eyes scanning for your guys. The mass of Zaunites surged with restless energy—miners clutching their gauntlets, tinkerers with hastily strapped-together armor, and others wielding whatever they could scrounge: pipes, crowbars, old rifles. The tension was electric, the air thick with the hum of whispered strategies and nervous chatter.

Then you spotted them, of course, at the front. Vander, Benzo, and Silco stood in a tight group, speaking with others, handing out last-minute instructions, and adjusting their gear. They moved with purpose, their presence a grounding force amidst the chaos.

Silco locked eyes with you first, his sharp gaze cutting through the crowd. He lifted a hand, gesturing you forward, and as you approached, he tilted his head toward the far end of the bridge.

You followed his line of sight and saw them—the Enforcers. A small battalion stood gathered just beyond the chain-link fence that had been erected long ago to keep Zaun in its place. Their polished armor gleamed even in the muted light, their weapons at the ready, their posture rigid.

“They called in reinforcements,” Silco said, his voice low and steady as you reached him. “Probably another swarm waiting at the other end, ready to move if we break through here.”

You nodded, your jaw tightening. “So we’ve got a challenge,” you said, your tone even, though your pulse quickened.

His lips twitched into a small, grim smile. “We always do.”

Vander turned at the sound of your voice, his broad shoulders tense but his expression softening slightly when he saw you. “You ready?” he asked, though the question felt more rhetorical than anything.

“More than ready,” you replied, your hand instinctively going to the daggers strapped to your sides. You glanced back at the crowd, then to the fence, then finally to your friends.

Vander’s gaze flickered between the two guys and you before settling fully on you, his eyes soft yet intense. With a tilt of his head, he motioned for you to step aside with him. Without a word, you followed, moving just out of earshot of the others.

“You’re sure?” he asked, his voice low, carrying the weight of unspoken fears. His eyes locked onto yours, so deeply it felt like he was peering into your very soul. “You know I love fighting by your side, but if I lose you out there—” He stopped, his words faltering as he looked down, shuffling his feet. His hands balled into fists, the leather of his gloves creaking softly. “I just need to hear that you’re sure. In this. 100%.”

You paused, his worry echoing in the pit of your stomach. But then you stepped forward, reaching for his arm. His gauntlets were already strapped on, the polished metal gleaming, but you couldn’t resist tinkering with them. Your hands moved automatically, adjusting bolts, reinforcing weak points. A few scraps of nearby cast iron flew to your fingertips, and you molded them into plates, fastening them over the knuckles with practiced ease.

“You know what I’ve learned about metal?” you said, not looking up from your work. “Everyone thinks it’s strong, unyielding, immovable. But the truth is…” You tightened the buckle around his forearm. “It’s incredibly malleable. You just have to know how to reshape it.” Finally, you met his gaze, your voice steady and unwavering. “It’s time we show these bastards they’re not immovable. They’ve taken everything from us. It’s time we prove they’re breakable.”

A slow smile spread across his face, one that carried both pride and pain. Then, without warning, he lifted his heavy, gauntlet-clad arm and wrapped it around you, pulling you close. His lips met yours, the kiss long and deep, filled with every unspoken emotion between you—grief, fear, determination, and a love that neither of you dared to fully voice.

When you pulled away, your foreheads rested against each other, breaths mingling in the tense air. His blue-gray eyes softened even further as he murmured, “Minnie?”

“Yeah?” you whispered, your heart pounding.

“I love—” he started, but you pressed your hand gently against his lips, shaking your head.

“Don’t,” you said, your voice trembling slightly. “Don’t do that, Vander. Not now. Tell me later. After we win this thing… okay?”

A low, genuine laugh rumbled from his chest, the sound so rare and so beautiful after the hell of this day that it made your heart ache. “Looking forward to watching you kick ass out there,” he said, his smirk returning as he brushed a strand of hair from your face.

You grinned, leaning up to press a quicker, playful kiss to his lips. “Right back at you, Handsome,” you teased, stepping back toward the crowd, ready for what came next.

Ripping the dagger from the Enforcer’s ribcage brought with it a grimly satisfying squelch, the blade reluctant to part from its victim. The man crumpled to the ground in a heap, his helmet bouncing once on the bridge’s metallic surface with a hollow clang before rolling into the haze. At some point during the chaos, the Enforcers had deployed a barrage of smoke bombs, flooding the bridge with thick, suffocating clouds of gray. The setting sun cast a crimson glow over the Bay Area, its bloody hues mirroring the carnage below.

Pain flared in your knee—a sharp, persistent throb from a graze you’d taken earlier. The bullet had barely kissed the surface, but the damage was enough to leave you limping. Still, you refused to slow down. Your bloodied hands gripped the hilt of your dagger like a lifeline, your movements swift and calculated as you darted from one victim to the next. The metallic tang of blood clung to the air, mingling with the acrid stench of smoke, and your every breath fed the wildfire burning within you.

Your mind had been lost to the frenzy long ago. There was no thought now, no strategy—only instinct, only survival, only the burning need to punish. Adrenaline surged through your veins, sharpening your senses as your body moved on autopilot, propelled by sheer rage and momentum. You were a blur of vengeance, a specter in the fog.

But even in the chaos, one gnawing thought refused to be silenced. You’d lost them.

The boys.

Somewhere along the way, in the endless storm of violence and smoke, you’d lost sight of them. Your heart pounded for more than just the fight now—an icy thread of dread wove itself into your adrenaline. You scanned the hazy battlefield, desperate for a glimpse of their faces, a sign that they were still alive, still fighting. But the fog was too thick, the bridge too vast, and every second spent searching was a second you couldn’t afford.

A shadow lunged at you through the mist, and you reacted without thinking, your blade meeting flesh before the figure had a chance to strike. Another enemy down. Another delay.

“Where are they?” you hissed under your breath, your voice drowned out by the chaos.

The bridge creaked beneath your feet as you steadied yourself, wiping the blood from your brow with a trembling hand. You eyes scanned your surroundings as you darted forward, silently praying to find one of them any of them.

Please don’t be dead.

Eventually, through the suffocating haze, a familiar silhouette emerged—Silco. Relief washed over you like a breaking wave, momentarily dousing the fire of fear and exhaustion in your chest. You staggered toward him, calling out his name, your voice hoarse from the smoke and strain. But he didn’t respond.

His focus was fixed elsewhere, his frame unnervingly still.

It wasn’t something he was looking at. It was someone.

Your steps faltered as you drew closer, a creeping dread prickling at the edges of your mind. When your eyes followed his line of sight, the world seemed to tilt on its axis. Felicia’s distinctive hair, vivid even in death, splayed out against the bloodied ground like a broken halo. And Connol’s lifeless eyes stared skyward, empty and unblinking.

Your breath hitched. The sight of them—people you’d fought beside, people you knew—hit you like a bolt of lightning. Grief coursed through you, sharp and unrelenting, shocking your system and stealing the air from your lungs.

“No…” The word fell from your lips, barely audible as you closed the distance between you and Silco, your knees threatening to buckle beneath the weight of the moment. You reached for him, grabbing his arm with bloodied fingers, trying to snap him out of whatever trance he’d fallen into.

“Come on,” you urged, your voice trembling but firm. “We can’t stay out in the open like this.”

But he didn’t move. He didn’t even flinch. His gaze stayed locked on the bodies, and when he finally spoke, his voice was low, hollow, almost unrecognizable.

“This isn’t what I wanted to happen…”

His words hung in the air, heavy and cold, as if they could somehow stop time itself.

You tightened your grip on his arm, shaking it slightly, your desperation mounting. “Silco, please. We have to go. Now.”

Still, he lingered, his expression a mixture of shock and something deeper—something raw and wounded. It was as if the world had shrunk to just the three of them: Silco, Felicia, and Connol. And you, no matter how desperately you tried, couldn’t pull him out of it.

“This isn’t how I thought things would go.” He croaks out, almost a whimper.

“They knew the potential cost,” You explain, desperately. There’s a time and place for mourning, and you’re clearly pushing thoughts and feelings down right now, but the need to save your friend keeps you going. “Now let’s go!!”

“Not here…” Silco murmured, his voice breaking through the chaos, raw and trembling. His hands clenched into fists at his sides. “This wasn’t the plan! None of this was supposed to happen!”

“Silco!” you exclaimed, panic sharpening your tone as you grabbed for him again. “This isn’t your fault! And we’re sitting ducks here! We need to move—”

But he wrenched his arm away from your grasp, spinning toward you with a fire in his eyes that nearly made you recoil. “Don’t you see, Minerva? This is my fault! All of it. Their deaths, this battle, the fire—”

“The fire was lit by the Enforcers, Silco!” you shot back, your voice rising, desperate to cut through the storm building in his head. “You know that! This—this wasn’t your doing!”

His shoulders sagged slightly, but there was no relief in his posture. His chest heaved, his breath shallow and uneven, and when he looked at you, it wasn’t anger anymore. It was something far worse. There was a silent plea in his eyes, a vulnerability so rare and so foreign that it froze you in place.

Despite the smoke swirling thickly around you, obscuring the bridge and the carnage, his expression brought clarity, cutting through the haze like a blade.

And then he spoke again, softly, so softly it barely reached you over the din of the battlefield.

“Unless you mean the first fire…”

The words hung between you, heavy and damning, like the strike of a bell tolling doom.

Your heart stuttered, your breath catching as the implications hit you like a physical blow. “Silco…” The name fell from your lips, no more than a whisper. You took a hesitant step back, your mind racing to put the pieces together, your voice trembling with disbelief. “You didn’t…”

He didn’t answer.

His silence was louder than any confession.

The ground beneath you seemed to shift, unsteady, as though the weight of his unspoken words threatened to break it apart. The world narrowed to just the two of you, the distant sounds of battle fading into a dull roar as you stared at him, searching his face for some shred of denial, for anything to prove you wrong.

But there was nothing. Only the unyielding truth reflected in his eyes.

“Silco,” you choked out, your voice breaking, “tell me you didn’t.”

Still, he remained silent. And the smoke swirled around you both, thick and suffocating, as the fire burned on.

The bridge trembled under the weight of approaching boots, but it wasn’t the Enforcers who appeared first—it was Vander.

His massive frame emerged from the smoke like a storm given form, his fists clenched so tightly his knuckles shone white even in the fading light. His eyes burned with fury, zeroing in on Silco with laser focus. He must have heard. Every word.

“You,” Vander growled, his voice a deep rumble that made your stomach drop. “You started this.”

“Vander, wait—” you began, stepping forward, but it was too late.

He charged.

Like a freight train, Vander’s heavy boots thundered across the bridge as he closed the distance between them. Silco barely had time to turn before Vander collided with him, grabbing him by the collar and lifting him clear off the ground.

“You lit the fire!” Vander roared, shaking Silco like a ragdoll. “You brought this hell down on all of us!”

Silco struggled, his hands grasping at Vander’s iron grip, but his voice cut sharp through the tension. “And you left me to rot!” he spat, venom dripping from his words even as his feet dangled above the ground. “Don’t you dare pretend your hands are clean!”

“Stop it!” you shouted, lunging forward to grab Vander’s arm. You pulled with all your might, but he barely budged. “This isn’t the time for this!”

“Stay out of this, Minerva!” Vander barked, his eyes never leaving Silco’s. “He knew! He let them die!”

“And we’ll all die if you keep this up!” you snapped, planting yourself between them as best you could. “The Enforcers are coming! You think they’ll wait for you two to settle your score?”

As if on cue, the sound of boots and shouted orders rose over the chaos. A battalion of Enforcers appeared from the smoke, rifles raised, their figures backlit by the flames consuming the city behind them.

Silco’s feet hit the ground as Vander dropped him, the need for survival momentarily overriding his rage. Without a word, both men turned toward the incoming threat, their shared fury redirected at a common enemy.

“Stay close!” Vander barked at you, stepping forward as the first shots rang out.

You moved instinctively, ducking low as a hail of bullets whizzed past, ricocheting off the metal bridge. Silco, always quicker on his feet, darted to the side, his blade flashing as he closed the gap between himself and the nearest Enforcer.

The fight was immediate and brutal.

Vander tore through their ranks like a wrecking ball, his fists meeting helmets with bone-crushing force. Every swing was heavy, deliberate, leaving bodies crumpled in his wake. Silco was more precise, weaving through the chaos like a shadow, his dagger finding weak points in armor and flesh.

You followed, moving in tandem with them, your own blade finding its mark as you danced between attackers. The three of you moved like cogs in a machine, instinct and desperation driving you forward as the bridge became a battleground once more.

But even in the chaos, the tension between Vander and Silco simmered, threatening to boil over. You caught glimpses of it in their movements—in the way Vander’s blows were harsher than necessary, as if still fueled by his anger, and in Silco’s sharp, calculated strikes, each one a reminder of his own resentment. Until, just as the crowd began to thin, Silco was gone. “Silco!” Vander roared, his voice tearing through the chaos like a thunderclap, echoing across the bridge. It wasn’t just a name—it was a battle cry, filled with fury and anguish so raw it cut through the smoke and carnage.

But Silco was gone.

Whether he had fled into the haze or been swallowed by the tide of Enforcers, you couldn’t tell. You didn’t have the luxury to wonder. The Enforcers were everywhere now, pouring in from both ends of the bridge like a tide of steel and smoke.

There was no time to think. No time to mourn. Only time to fight.

You ducked as a baton swung toward your head, the rush of air sharp against your ear. Pivoting on your injured knee, you drove your blade upward, catching the Enforcer beneath his chin where his helmet didn’t protect him. He crumpled with a gurgle, and you barely had time to yank your dagger free before another came at you.

This one was quicker, his movements calculated, his rifle swinging toward you. You sidestepped just in time, slamming your shoulder into him and throwing him off balance. His weapon clattered to the ground, and you drove your elbow into his throat before finishing him with a swift, clean slash.

Blow after blow, you moved through the chaos, a whirlwind of blood and steel. Pain radiated from your knee, but you pushed through it, the adrenaline dulling the worst of it. The metallic stench of blood mingled with the acrid smoke in the air, and every breath burned your lungs.

Vander was a force of nature beside you, his massive fists smashing through armor and bone alike. He roared as he fought, a towering inferno of rage and power. One Enforcer tried to grapple him, but Vander grabbed the man by the chest plate and hurled him into two others like they were nothing more than dolls.

“More incoming!” you shouted, your voice hoarse as you parried a blade aimed at your side.

“Let them come!” Vander bellowed, grabbing a metal pipe from the ground and swinging it like a club. The sound of it connecting with an Enforcer’s helmet was sickening, and the soldier dropped like a stone.

The Enforcers didn’t relent. They swarmed like locusts, their numbers seemingly endless, and every time you thought you’d carved out a moment’s peace, another wave surged forward.

One soldier got too close, slamming the butt of his rifle into your ribs. Pain flared as you stumbled, gasping, but you refused to fall. You turned the momentum into a spin, slashing low and slicing through the back of his knee. He cried out, collapsing, and you ended him with a thrust to the chest.

“Minerva, stay on your feet!” Vander barked, his voice cutting through the cacophony.

You glanced at him, sweat and blood streaking his face, his eyes wild with the need to protect. But he couldn’t shield you from everything—not here.

The two of you fought back to back now, a unit forged in desperation. You could feel the weight of his movements behind you, hear the crunch of bone under his strikes.

Another Enforcer came at you, but this time you were ready. You ducked low, slashing his Achilles tendon, and he fell with a scream. A boot to his face silenced him.

“We’re being overrun!” you shouted, glancing toward Vander.

But before he could respond, an explosion ripped through the air, shaking the bridge beneath your feet. Smoke and fire erupted from the far end, throwing friend and foe alike into chaos. The bridge groaned ominously, its metal frame straining under the onslaught.

“Fall back!” Vander shouted, his voice cutting through the chaos. He grabbed your arm, hauling you to your feet as the Enforcers regrouped for another push.

“We’ll never make it across!” you shouted, your voice barely audible over the din.

“Then we fight!” he growled, releasing your arm and charging headlong into the fray once more, his war cry ringing out like a bell of defiance.

And so you fought, side by side, as the bridge became a battleground, a place where survival was the only victory that mattered.

When the last Enforcer fell with a guttural cry, he crumpled to the blood-soaked bridge. The clash of mining gauntlets and the deafening roar of gunfire faded into an eerie silence, broken only by the distant crackle of flames and the groaning of the bridge beneath its grim burden.

You stood amidst the carnage, chest heaving, your dagger trembling in your blood-slicked hand. The haze of smoke was thinner now, allowing the crimson light of the setting sun to bathe the scene, illuminating the broken bodies scattered around you.

Vander was beside you, his massive shoulders rising and falling with each ragged breath. His pipe hung limply in one hand, streaked with blood and dented from the ferocity of his strikes. Sweat dripped down his face, mingling with the cuts and bruises that marred his skin.

For a long moment, neither of you spoke. There was nothing to say, no words that could give meaning to the slaughter around you. The adrenaline that had carried you through the fight was ebbing now, leaving behind a dull, throbbing ache in your muscles and the sharp sting of every injury you’d ignored.

Then, more footsteps. You both whipped your head around, expecting more Enforcers, but…

There was Violet, with little baby Powder at her side.

Their wide eyes, shimmering with tears, were filled with terror and confusion. The smoke and blood around them seemed far too heavy for children to bear, and yet they stood there, frozen, their small forms trembling in the aftermath of the carnage.

Their fear hit you like a wave, crashing against the fragile wall you’d built to keep the horrors of the day at bay. Your chest tightened as their gaze shifted between you and Vander, silently searching for an answer, for reassurance that everything would be okay.

But their parents…

Oh god. The thought struck you like a blade, twisting deep in your heart. Felicia’s hair, Connol’s eyes—lifeless now. The memory of their crumpled bodies surged back, vivid and merciless.

As if sensing your hesitation, Violet took a hesitant step forward, her small hand gripping Powder’s shoulder protectively. She opened her mouth, but no words came out, just a choked sound that made your stomach twist. Her eyes darted between you and Vander, pleading silently, the question clear.

“Where are they?”

Your lips parted, but no sound came. Tears welled up in your eyes, blurring your vision, and you felt them spill over before you could stop them. Your throat constricted as the weight of what you’d have to say—or worse, what you couldn’t say—threatened to crush you entirely.

For a moment, he just looked at them, his gaze softening ever so slightly. Then, with a subtle tilt of his chin, he gestured toward Felicia and Connol’s bodies, still lying in the haze behind you.

Violet’s face crumpled, her brave facade shattering in an instant. Powder’s grip on her sister tightened as she buried her face against Violet’s side, her tiny shoulders shaking with silent sobs.

“No,” Violet whispered, shaking her head, her voice cracking. “No, no, no…”

You turned away, unable to watch as the realization dawned on them. The pain in their cries cut deeper than any blade. Your hand pressed to your mouth, trying to stifle the sob threatening to escape, but it was no use.

Vander didn’t speak. He didn’t try to comfort them with lies or empty promises. He simply stood there, a solid, steady presence as the two girls clung to each other, their grief echoing through the smoke-filled air.

It was you who spoke next, your voice muffled and trembling as she looked up at Vander with tear-streaked cheeks. “What… what do we do now?”

Vander’s jaw tightened, his hands balling into fists at his sides. For a moment, he didn’t answer, and you saw the weight of responsibility settle on his shoulders like a physical burden. Then, with a sounding ‘thud’, his gauntlets fell to the ground, chipping the bridge in the process with their weight.

“We take care of each other,” he said finally, his voice steady but low. “That’s what we do.”

That’s all folks!

The idea that this story is done after nearly three goddamn years…terrifying! Thank you all so much for sticking around this long, it really means the world to me that people out there actually care about my writing. So thank you everyone, especially those of you who have helped me with this process *cough cough @conretewings cough cough*.

And thank you to all who comment and reblog. Yall are the reason I do this.

There will be a sequel in the works, so stick around for more fun in the future and Happy New Year everyone!!

[biterflies]

saiki k au where he gets tired of people stealing his power dampeners so he just starts claiming its medical equipment. for like a nerve disease or smt. like oh why did he collapse on sports day when his little head thing was removed then get better when its put back? and why did he spend the rest of the day all shakey and off his game? cause you removed the piece of Vital Medical Equipment that's supposed to stay poked in his head at all times to deliver little electrical shocks or something to his brain so the signals in his head for being able to move his limbs work. so it screwed him up for a bit cause supposed nerve disease. and that's why he almost had to go home sick that day yknow. and why does he sleep with them on? well do people sleep with their pacemakers on? and it being pointy is cause it needs to stab into the head so it can send those signals directly to the brain. I like to think he starts claiming this after the class trip where teruhashi steals one cause once is chance (and nendo being dumb) but twice with two seperate people? thats cause for paranoia. so he just uses his powers to forge medical records and make doctors remember diagnosing him incase there's questions. saiki justified this because they are technically life saving equipment. just not HIS life nessasarily.

when he makes this paper work for proof the gym teacher decides to give a lecture to the students about proper care regarding fragile medical equipment and how this could be life and death for their classmate, and gives saiki less of a hard time in gym classes for medical reasons

then nendo gets all upset about hurting his best bro on accident and clings even harder while trying to give saiki things to cover them up with so they don't come loose at all, like hats and helmets which saiki refuses on principle.

teruhashi says something generically Perfect Pretty Girlish about it on the outside but on the inside shes freaking out because if she hurt saiki to satisfy her own curiosity then there's no way shes PERFECT but no one KNOWS she did that since they were alone at the time so reputation is fine and saiki didn't SEEM hurt but he was asleep so who knows!!! but she freaks out over it for a long, long while before deciding she'll make it up to him by spending more time with him because why WOULDNT he love that but its mostly to satisfy her own conscience and ego. she probably has a fantasy where he's all blushy and shy and saying "oh wow" a million times while she takes care of him so selflessly when his illness acts up, yknow the classic Blushy Shy Fantasy Saiki but she gets to feed her superiority/savior complexes even MORE, then it goes nothing like that in reality.

kaido thinks that saiki is at risk so of course The Jet Black Wings must protect him from any attempts from the Dark Reunion to harm him by stealing his lil head thingys in an attempt to get to The Jet Black Wings through harming his closest ally. there must have been attempts before after all to justify a whole speech being given regarding it, and has a subplot where he's assuming nendo is part of the dark reunion cause of the sports day accident.

hairo says something about how saiki wasn't even going at full swing during sports day and how saiki has to push himself much harder then the rest of the class to do the same or even better then them (citing how he apsolutely destroyed the running events despite supposedly having an disease that directly affects his ability to run). then he calls him a inspiration on never giving up and working hard everyday. then rallys the class to work just as hard as saiki so all of them can do even better like saiki obviously strives to do.

SAIKI has realized his plan went so, SO wrong because now his popularity is way too high right now but he has to live with the consequences of his actions so he just spends his time trying to get people to like him less for most of the initial kickoff after the speech and the subsequent attention that came after. probably blows off teruhashi under the excuse of medical reasons (says something like "why would you help? no offense but you're not a doctor" when she offers to help, insert the fantasy sequence she had in her section around here), and that gets his popularity back down to normal. and it goes back to normal cause people are used to it now, just avoid touching his head, easy

but yeah that's my pitch for a chapter basically. (are all the separated plots in an episode called chapters? that's the closest word I can think for them)

[duckprintspress]

A Year with Duck Prints Press: Our 2024 Publications

We’ve had a busy year at Duck Prints Press – we published two anthologies, a novella, a novel, and moved many other projects along. All except our most recent, A Truth Universally Acknowledged, are available from our webstore and from many other retail and library sources. 46 short stories also debuted to our Patreon as new releases exclusively available to our backers, bringing the total number of titles available to our Patrons up to 94 stories. Many of our past titles are now available in print (instead of digital-only), including about half the short stories on our webpage (zines only sold when we vend in person, currently!) and our four novelettes (which can all be purchased online). And we didn’t only create books – our Mythical Creature Pride pins and stickers were a flagship art project for the year, and we’ve released 5 monthly art pieces exclusive to our Patrons. Basically: we’ve had an awesome year, made a ton of amazing stuff, and we’re so so glad that y’all have been along with us for the ride.

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Aether Beyond the Binary

How would Earth look if the very atoms around us were suffused with magical aether? How would our lives be different if this aether was discovered last year, or last century, or last millennia? How might the people who lived with this magic explore their gender identities? These are the questions we posed to the 17 authors who contributed to Aether Beyond the Binary. Their inventive answers comprise this must-not-miss collection about magical realms, adventures and mysteries, new chances and well-earned endings, and characters as gender-diverse as the worlds they inhabit.

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Hockey Bois by A. L. Heard

Nick Porter has always loved hockey. Ever since he can remember, it’s been his favorite thing in the world. It’s too bad he never learned to play, he’d tell himself, but it was too late to do it now. Adults don’t just magically learn to skate and join a hockey team. That’d be ridiculous.

Except maybe they do? On a whim, he decides to sign up for an adult  beginner’s class. He learns to skate, joins a team, and meets a really hot teammate… and it’s pretty much a disaster from there on out.

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Many Hands: An Anthology of Polyamorous Erotica

For those who love their short stories spicy, we’re delighted to bring you Duck Prints Press’s debut explicit anthology Many Hands: An Anthology of Polyamorous Erotica. In this collection of brand-new stories, we celebrate many flavors of polyamory. Orgy? Yes please! Ménage à trois? C’est magnifique! Foursomes and moresomes? Delighted to attend! We asked our contributors to blow our minds with their fun combinations, unusual settings, favorite trope usage, and (of course) super sexy smut—and they didn’t disappoint. From a vampire free-for-all to a heartfelt reunion, from surprise soulmates to enemies-to-lovers, this collection has polyamory in lots of scrumptious varieties that lovers of erotica won’t want to miss!

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Scrap Metal Angel by Nicola Kapron

Reality, tiny and fragile, is cut off from the sea of chaos and nightmares that surrounds it by seven Gates. One of them is open—and has been since the Stone Age. Through that opening, strange creatures and energies slip through. Some are malevolent. None are harmless. And all of them must be kept a secret.

Every hidden magical world needs a shadowy clean-up crew. Adrian Somer is a Gatekeeper, sworn to protect the cosmic Gates, to defend reality from the unknown entities that exist beyond them, and to help those whose lives are affected by magic.

When a grieving sorceress starts punching holes in reality to try and resurrect her murdered fiancé, Adrian must turn to a ghost from his past in order to save the city, and perhaps the world—even if that means digging up someone he thought was safely buried: the twin brother he killed eight years ago.

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A Truth Universally Acknowledged: Queer Fanworks Inspired by Jane Austen’s “Pride and Prejudice” With this third installment in our “Queer Fanworks Inspired By…” anthology series, we set out to explore the truth by which we at Duck Prints Press live: that a classic work without a single canonically queer character must be in want of a very LGBTQIA+ makeover! “A Truth Universally Acknowledged: Queer Fanworks Inspired by Jane Austen’s ‘Pride and Prejudice,'” with 21 short stories and 20 full-page color artworks, is just that. 38 creators have contributed to this project, drawing inspiration from Pride and Prejudice’s characters and story to create delightful, thoughtful, intriguing, and (of course) very queer fanworks and Pride and Prejudice-inspired original works. For this collection, we encouraged our creators to focus on Sapphic/wlw relationships and/or transgender and genderqueer interpretations for their inspiration, though those are definitely not the only types of queer we’ve fit into this diverse collection.

Happy New Year, everyone! We wish you the best for 2025!

[triflesandparsnips]

hey so friendly reminder

stede gives *full body* kisses

[hanzajesthanza]

a book with geralt 😃

a book with geralt without ciri 😐

a book with geralt without yennefer 😔

a book with geralt without dandelion 💀