#ammunition performance

[aegisprecisionkinetics]

For anyone serious about competitive shooting, understanding ammo sales in Las Vegas, Nevada, is essential. The right ammunition can make a significant difference in your performance at matches, so knowing where to find high-quality bulk ammo is crucial. Competitive shooters often prefer to buy in bulk to save money and ensure they have enough rounds for practice and competition. It’s important to consider the types of ammo you need, whether for precision shooting or rapid fire and make sure you’re purchasing from a reputable source that guarantees consistent quality.

[rypulmedia]

My AAC Ammunition Review WIth 6 Different Firearms

Did you know the average American shooter uses over 9 billion rounds of ammo each year? This shows how much people need reliable, top-notch ammo. As someone who loves guns, I’ve tested many types of ammo. Today, I’m sharing my detailed review of AAC ammo with six different guns. Last year, I fired about 800 rounds of AAC 140gr bullets through an AR10. I tracked how well it performed, how accurate…

[summerlinarmory]

Selecting the right ammunition for your firearm is a critical decision. It directly impacts performance, accuracy, and safety. As our armory in Las Vegas, NV provides you with diverse options, understanding the key factors in choosing ammunition remains important.

[landoughnut]

My Protector

♡ masterlist - request

♡ pairing - charles leclerc x fem!reader

♡ summary - charles won't allow people to speak poorly of his girlfriend, and neither will the other drivers

♡ warnings - protective bf charles, protective platonic grid, rude journalists

♡ w/c & a/n - 1.6k | girl dinnerrrr

The Monaco paddock was always chaotic, but today felt different. You could feel the tension in the air as you walked past the Ferrari garage, hearing snippets of whispered conversations and catching sideways glances from the media personnel.

The familiar scent of rubber and fuel that usually brought you comfort now seemed to mix with something more toxic – speculation and judgment.

"...just a distraction..." "...PR stunt..." "...affecting his performance..." "...can't focus with her around..."

Your stomach twisted. The headlines had started appearing after Charles' podium in Barcelona last weekend. What should have been a moment of celebration had turned into a big thing of speculation, with certain journalists suggesting your relationship was the reason he hadn't secured pole position instead of just a podium.

The fact that the Ferrari's pace genuinely hadn't been there for pole seemed irrelevant to them. You'd seen the social media posts, the opinion pieces, the "expert" analyses of how Charles' racing line had changed since you entered his life – as if your presence somehow affected the physics of his car.

You adjusted your Ferrari team pass, a movement that had become almost nervous lately. Eight months into your relationship with Charles, and this was the first time you'd faced such intense scrutiny. Sure, there had always been paparazzi photos and social media speculation, but this felt different – more personal, more accusatory.

You thought back to the previous night, how Charles had held you close in his apartment, promising that it would all blow over soon.

"They're just looking for stories," he'd said, his fingers tracing patterns on your back. "They do this every season. Remember when they said Fernando was too old? Or when they claimed Max had lost his edge after settling down? It's all nonsense."

But standing here now, under the weight of dozens of judgmental stares, his words felt distant. You clutched your coffee cup tighter, the warmth seeping into your palms providing little comfort.

The same coffee shop where you and Charles had first met – where he'd literally crashed into your life, sending your original drink flying all over your favorite shirt. The memory usually made you smile, but today it felt like ammunition for those claiming your relationship was somehow created by PR teams.

You were about to duck into the Ferrari hospitality area when a microphone was thrust in your face. The reporter – one you recognized from a particularly nasty article last week – wore an expression of barely concealed hostility. Behind her, several other journalists gathered like sharks sensing blood in the water.

"Is it true that Ferrari PR orchestrated your relationship with Charles Leclerc to improve his public image after his difficult 2024 season?" The reporter's voice was sharp, accusatory. "Sources suggest the timing was very convenient. And what do you say to fans who believe you're compromising his focus on the championship?"

Your heart pounded. The memory of your first real meeting with Charles flashed through your mind – how he'd accidentally spilled coffee on you in that little Monaco café, how he'd insisted on buying you a new shirt, how you'd ended up talking for hours about everything except Formula 1.

How he'd been so nervous asking for your number that he'd nearly knocked over a second coffee. How your first date had been at a tiny restaurant far from the glamorous spots he usually frequented, because he wanted somewhere quiet where you could really talk. Nothing about it had been orchestrated or planned.

Before you could respond, a familiar voice cut through the air like a knife.

"That's enough." Charles' tone was ice-cold, nothing like the warm, playful voice you were used to. He stepped between you and the reporter, his usually gentle features set in hard lines. "You can question my driving. You can criticize my strategy calls. But you do not get to fabricate stories about my personal life or harass the woman I love."

The reporter stumbled back, but pressed on. "But Mr. Leclerc, your qualifying performances since beginning this relationship—"

"Have nothing to do with his relationship," Max Verstappen's Dutch accent interrupted as he appeared beside Charles. The Red Bull driver crossed his arms, looking thoroughly annoyed. "Maybe focus on the actual racing instead of making up stories? Charles has been driving better than ever – or did you miss the battle we had in Barcelona? Because I certainly haven't forgotten how hard he made me work for that win."

"The media's treatment of partners in this paddock has always been disgraceful," Lewis Hamilton added, joining the growing circle of drivers. His voice carried the weight of experience, of having seen this pattern repeat too many times. "We're here to race, but we're also human beings with real relationships. This needs to stop. The constant scrutiny of our personal lives, the baseless accusations – it's not journalism, it's harassment. I've seen too many relationships strained or broken because of this kind of pressure, and it's unacceptable."

Charles' hand found yours, squeezing gently. The gesture said everything words couldn't – I'm here, I've got you, we're in this together. You squeezed back, drawing strength from his presence, from the familiar calluses on his palm, from the subtle way his thumb stroked your skin.

"For the record," Charles addressed the now-silent group of journalists, his voice carrying the quiet authority he rarely showed outside of the cockpit, "my relationship is not up for discussion. My performance this season? Six podiums, two wins. If that's what you call being 'distracted,' then maybe I should have been distracted years ago."

His accent grew slightly stronger with emotion, something that only happened when he was truly passionate about what he was saying. "And since you're so interested in timing, let me tell you about timing. The timing of meeting someone who makes you want to be better, who supports you through the hard days, who understands the pressure and still loves you anyway – that's not something any PR team could orchestrate."

A few chuckles rippled through the crowd. Even Lando Norris, who was passing by, couldn't help but grin.

"Mate, if anything, she's made you faster," Lando called out. "Remember when you were single and finished P4 in Saudi? Dark times, dark times indeed. Besides, have you seen them together? If that's PR, then I need to fire my entire media team."

You couldn't help but smile as the tension broke. Charles turned to you, his green eyes soft again, the protective anger melting into that familiar warmth that made your heart skip. A strand of his dark hair had fallen across his forehead, and this time, you didn't resist the urge to brush it back. His eyes darkened slightly at your touch, and before you could process what was happening, he pulled you close.

The kiss wasn't planned or polished for the cameras. It was real and a little messy and perfect – the kind of kiss that said everything words couldn't. His hands cradled your face with the same precision he used on the steering wheel, but so much more tender.

You could feel his heart racing against your palm where it rested on his chest, could taste the mint from his morning coffee, could hear the surprised murmurs and camera clicks around you. But none of it mattered, because Charles was kissing you like you were the finish line he'd been racing toward all his life.

When you finally pulled apart, his forehead rested against yours. "Je t'aime," he murmured, just for you. "Let's get some coffee before practice? There's that little place around the corner... unless you're worried I'll spill it on you again?" His playful smile was back, the one that had made you fall for him in the first place.

As you walked away, his arm protectively around your waist, you could hear Carlos Sainz expertly deflecting the remaining reporters with his characteristic charm. "My teammate's relationship? Why don't we talk about the new upgrades instead? They're much more interesting, I promise you. Or we could discuss how Charles has actually improved his tire management this year – which, by the way, happened after he met her, so maybe we should be thanking her?"

The paddock might be a pressure cooker of speculation and drama, but in moments like these, it felt more like a family – one that protected its own. Even Pierre Gasly, passing by with his race engineer, gave you a supportive nod. "They're just jealous," he said loud enough for the lingering journalists to hear. "Charles is driving better than ever, and they can't stand that their narrative doesn't fit."

Later that afternoon, you watched from the Ferrari garage as Charles attacked the Monaco streets with precision and passion. Each sector time flashed green, then purple. The garage held its collective breath as he crossed the line for his final qualifying lap.

"Pole position, pole position!" his race engineer's voice crackled over the radio. "P1, Charles, P1! Absolutely magnificent lap!"

In parc fermé, he pulled you into another kiss, this one full of adrenaline and joy and full of love. His race suit was damp with champagne from the celebrations, but you didn't care. This was your Charles – not the media's version, not the speculation's target, but the man who had stolen your heart in that coffee shop and continued to amaze you every day.

"See?" he whispered in your ear, still holding you close. "You're not a distraction. You're my strength. My lucky charm. My everything."

The next day's headlines would focus on his blistering lap time, his masterful sector three, his perfect strategy. The negative articles seemed to vanish in the face of his success, though you knew they might return. But it didn't matter anymore – not when you had Charles, not when you had the support of the entire paddock family.

And if anyone still thought you were a distraction, well, the trophy sitting in Charles' Monaco apartment would beg to differ.

[yzzart]

⋆˚࿔ WHO COULD RESIST A DEMON HUNTER GIRLFRIEND? ── HEADCANONS

୭˚. ᵎᵎ content warnings: F!+demon hunter!reader, parallel of this scenario, mention of Enzo, term "jackpoit" and DARKCOM, light content.

⭑.ᐟ By habit, and some intentionally unexpected encounters, of living with and witnessing certain works with Dante, you got used to his classic “jackpot”; it’s not your fault, come on.

⤷ He would say those words in almost anything, when he shoots and kills demons or mercenaries, when he throws a paper ball from the basket and hits it, when he hits a step in the DDR; practically, everything. — And you, his poor girlfriend, were a victim.

⤷ The first time you said this in Dante's presence was during one of the jobs Enzo had sent you, and that the white-haired boy decided to join out of sheer boldness, and while stabbing the demon to his death.

“I can’t believe i’m hearing this from you.” — On the one hand, you didn’t know if Dante was showing off, flattering or celebrating; maybe he was doing all three at the same time. — Readjusting some ammunition in your pistol, you found the situation funny, but you knew he would spend hours or days talking about it. — "I get so emotional, my eyes are burning."

“It’s your fault.” — You defended yourself, standing face to face with your boyfriend; including a defiant look, wanting to show certainty or trying to. — “Nobody told you to say that every single time.”

⭑.ᐟ Everything for you, in a fun and witty way, becomes a competition; from who could finish the job in the shortest time to who got the most points in the DDR. — Of course, in the dance competition, the victory was yours; since Dante tried to reproduce the character's dance rather than, in fact, the steps presented.

⤷ However, he was the one who finished the job the fastest. — That was no competition.

⭑.ᐟ Since you had Enzo, that cheeky and charismatic little guy, as a common client, it wasn't hard for you and Dante to perform duties together; that scoundrel knew about your relationship and wanted the "lovebirds" to enjoy these moments together. — Don't take it the wrong way, he thought you were really cute.

⤷ It's no wonder that Enzo declared himself to be your and Dante's "cupid." — He showed off to whoever was listening, or enduring, the day he made you two meet; obviously, he exaggerated his words too much.

⭑.ᐟ Dante flirted with you, cheekily, 24 hours a day, that was more than a fact. — That man never tired, even after conquering you, of teasing you or flirting with you; you could be at work, far from each other and communicating through messages, he never got tired of you. — It was harder than he imagined, trying to concentrate on something, even if it could cost him his death.

⤷ How many times, while they were contacting you to receive a job that could be valued at a lot of money, and that damn guy was behind you, pressing himself against your skin and making you shiver? — It was so ridiculous. — Just like in other situations, which were not few.

“There was a rumor going around that,” — Sitting at the wooden table, curling your lips as you cleaned one of your filthy weapons, you told the boy. — “you know that explosion on that street near the ice cream shop?” — Dante murmured in confirmation, he was on the other side of the room, taking off his shirt. — “so, possibly, DARKCOM had a hand in it, i don’t know.”

“Bae,” — Moving from where he was, Dante’s necklace swayed as he walked towards you; of course, your eyes went from your gun to that amulet. — “I love your voice, even if you’re talking about those little shits.” — Your boyfriend shamelessly stood between your thighs, taking the gun from your hand and doing the same job you were doing before. — “This one is really dirty, isn’t it? Have mercy.” — He laughed, receiving a murmur from your mouth, and gave you a quick kiss on the lips. — “You can continue, love.”

[ashwantsafreepalestine]

The “Great March of Return” in 2018.

Palestinians peacefully protested every single Friday, for over a year. They performed the Dabke as an act of resistance.

Israeli forces responded by shooting tear gas canisters, some of them dropped from drones, rubber bullets and live ammunition, mostly by snipers.

While some protesters have engaged in some forms of violence including by burning tyres, flying incendiary kites or throwing stones and Molotov cocktails in the direction of Israeli soldiers, social media videos, as well as eyewitness testimonies gathered by Amnesty International, Palestinian and Israeli human rights groups show that Israeli soldiers shot unarmed protesters, bystanders, journalists and medical staff approximately 150-400m from the fence, where they did not pose any threat.

214 Palestinians, including 46 children, were killed, and over 36,100, including nearly 8,800 children have been injured.

“In order for nonviolence to work, your opponent must have a conscience.” — Stokely Carmichael.

(sources: x,x)

[gay-dorito-dust]

How’d they act if you called them pretty upon getting catch looking at them…

Dan Heng: blushes. Hard.

He’s not use to someone complimenting his looks as it’s not something he finds important.

‘Are you really that shameless to say such things aloud?’ He’d say while avoiding eye contact with you.

Dan Heng would act as though you just shouted this out loud in front a hoard of people, even though you didn’t.

He’s awkward when it comes to taking compliments aimed his way but his reaction is too fucking cute to ignore and will warrant another compliment his way, which will only serve in making his face brunt redder.

‘Shut up, please.’ He’d plead as he covers a hand over your eyes, feeling as though they’ve stared deeply into his soul and actually see him as a whole person and more. ‘You talk too much about things you don’t understand the first thing of.’

He’s probably going to get teased by March 7th after this and it’ll be used as blackmail, probably.

Give him a moment to breath and calm down before complimenting on how pretty he is because he will combust from how flustered he is.

Argenti: would probably start a compliment war in all honesty because how can you say he’s pretty without admitting that you are also quite a sight for sore eyes.

If you were to compliment his hair, he’d resort back with how even the stars put on their best performance within your presence.

He’s got such a way with words that can easily leave one flustered without even trying. He’d even wax poetry on the spot about how the light catches your eyes in a way similar to that of a kaleidoscope, bright, vibrant and above all breathtaking.

Argenti doesn’t hold back, will not hold back, and will not back down from letting you know just how ethereal you look to him.

He can do this all day, you however could not do this all day seeing how this man has unlimited ammunition when it came to complimenting the beauty of pretty much everything.

(I mean this is the same dude who complimented a plant. 🪴 I bet that plant blushed, we just didn’t see it bc who wouldn’t blush if a chivalrous red head complimented them?)

Welt: smiles softly as a light blush coated his cheeks.

He’s well kept for someone who’s in his 60/70/80’s And he deserves to be told as such!

(all I know is that he’s grandpa age from other ppl)

So when you do compliment him and call him pretty, this old man is going to thank you for such kind words and probably give you head pats as a reward.

He appreciates a kind compliment now and then.

‘Why thank you, I try my best to keep in good shape if I’m meant to keep up with all of you.’ He would say in response followed by a chuckle.

Welt is young at heart and knows that his body isn’t how it once was but that doesn’t change the fact that he’s a restless spirit within an old man’s body. So when you compliment him, it only makes him feel good and warm on the inside.

Blade: doesn’t know how to take compliments.

He’s not use to it and doesn’t know how to react to it other than saying something along the lines of;

‘Don’t be ridiculous.’

‘Flattery will get you nowhere.’

Or just straight up. ‘No.’

And all the while his face is like this: 😐 or this 😒

It’s never one or the other, blade just doesn’t view himself worth the compliment, when the only things about him that people see most is that he’s a bad dude in a bad group doing bad things.

He doesn’t see why you’re wasting a kind, genuine compliment on someone whose entire body is riddled in ugly scars.

Blade is the type of person where you’d have to prove that your compliment is genuine or else he just won’t believe it.

Sampo: his ego is boosted to the max.

Well done you’ve made him even more insufferable.

He will smile that Cheshire smile of his and ask to hear what else about him you find appealing besides his pretty face.

You: your exposed hips, you slut-

However behind his cocky persona, he’s a giggly bitch who’s mentally kicking his feet and writing this interaction in his bubblegum pink diary with a glitter pen.

Sampo is deeply invested in what you thought about the rest of him but won’t let it show as he would consider it ‘out of character’ for himself. So he’ll continue to act the cocky and confident fool like he always does.

He’ll be the type to tease you about potentially killing him while internally screaming himself and telling other people that you find him pretty, much to your embarrassment.

‘You see them over there? Yeah they called ol’ Sampo pretty!’ He’d say to a random person while pointing towards you as you try to hide yourself behind a trash can…only for the trash can to grow arms and legs and walk off elsewhere.

Why were the arms and legs buff as fuck? What was their workout routine? You must know. now.

Sunday: takes the compliment in kind.

He looks like the type to get called handsome or pretty on the daily, so it’s nothing new to him but he’ll take the compliment nonetheless.

He’s probably the most calm out of the bunch when being called pretty, besides from maybe Welt.

He’s not bashful, he’s not overtly arrogant and he’s not in denial about it either. He just takes the compliment as it is and goes on about his day like any other.

Though people would take note on how he’s smiling brighter than usual. Your compliment would stay with him the entire day, as it serves as a reminder of his place within your heart and he’s secretly scheming on ways on how to stay within your heart.

Permanently.

[xlrcoil]

but who will brush the wings of the angelboys and trim the claws of the snakeboys and place on a hot stone the lizardboys and catch and release the fishboys and make terrariums for the bugboys and find caves for the dragonboys and pet the smooth skin of the sharkboys and feed raw fish to the mermaidboys and perform maintenance on the robotboys and find kindling for the fireboys and work leather for the horseboys and affix muzzles for the dogboys and provide ammunition to the weaponboys and blink lights at the planeboys, if not me?

[tavolgisvist]

I was always interested in finding out what have happens on the photo. What gave them the idea of depict Paul's funeral: why the funeral, why Paul? Well…I have an answer, I suppose

More legendary than most, however, were a band briefly signed to Brian, the Big Three. Other musicians on the scene seemed to regard this band with awe. They were the original power trio, real sonic bruisers who’d built themselves the biggest amplifiers - nicknamed Coffins - that anyone had ever seen.

(Liverpool - Wondrous Place by Paul Du Noyer, 2002)

Epstein made his way to the Cavern club to see the group perform at a lunchtime session on November 9th. He wrote later that he had never seen anything like The Beatles on any stage. <…> "I loved their ad libs and I was fascinated by this, to me, new music with its pounding bass beat and its vast, engulfing sound." <…> The "pounding" bass that Epstein described was due in part to a new addition to The Beatles' equipment line-up. In the early 1960s there was really no such thing as a proper bass amplifier. Most bass players would use the most powerful guitar amplifier that they could get their hands on. But these were not designed for bass guitar, and did not provide the deep, throbbing bass tones that bass guitarists wanted. As The Beatles evolved their sound and Best perfected his "atomic beat" the group were searching for a stronger and more solid bass sound.

The band considered by many to be the loudest and most aggressive in Liverpool was The Big Three. They bad started out as Cass & The Cassanovas, a four-piece until leader and frontman Brian Casser left during the beginning of 1961. The remaining members stayed together to form The Big Three: Johnny Gustafson on bass, guitarist Adrian Barber, and Liverpool's loudest drummer, Johnny Hutchinson, on the skins.

Barber says that when they became a trio there was an instant problem: he and Gustafson weren't loud enough to project over Hutchinson's drumming. Even the relatively punchy Selmer Truvoice amp was not enough. Barber, however, had an interest in electronics from his days in the merchant navy. <…> Barber went out and bought a book about loudspeakers produced by G A Briggs, who owned the British Wharfedale speaker company, and inside he found construction details for various sizes of cabinets. "I decided on one, and Denis Kealing said he could get me a 15-inch speaker," recalls Barber. "I built a set-up for the bass guitar and for the vocal, in a cabinet about five feet tall by about 18 inches square. <…> I used that and mounted it in a metal ammunitions case, so we could carry it around without killing it. Johnny Gustafson used it as his bass amp, and it was very successful. "When we carried it we bad to lower it on its side, because it was long and skinny. The first time we took it down to the Cavern, we struggled down the tiny stairs there. As we carried this black-painted thing across the room it looked just like a coffin - and that's how it got its name: the Coffin. Now, the Cavern was the underground basement of a warehouse, with three vaulted brick-built archways. Over the years water had seeped down and brought calcium deposits with it, which had settled in the ceiling bricks. So when Johnny plucked that first bass note it was like a shower of snow corning down. People went, 'Wow look at that … and listen to that.' So we were really impressed, and I got ambitious at that point." <…> Other bands began to notice the relative sophistication of The Big Three's amplification, especially the bass gear. "Liverpool wasn't a competitive scene, before it got commercial," explains Barber. '"All the bands co-operated with one another and backed each other up. It was a cool scene, and I started to build these things for other people. Paul McCartney asked me to make him a Coffin. It had a single 15-inch speaker in a reflex-ported cabinet, with two chrome handles and wheels on the side."

McCartney started to use a Barber Coffin speaker cabinet during the late part of 1961. <…> McCartney himself recalls, "Adrian made me a great bass amp that he called the Coffin. And, man! Suddenly that was a total other world. That was bass as we know it now. It was like reggae bass: it was just too right there. It was great live." Pete Best too remembers the Coffin. "Neil Aspinall and I used to carry it. Every couple of shows there'd be a flight of stairs which you had to carry this thing up, and it was then we'd wonder why he couldn't have got something smaller. We'd have sweat streaming off us. But the beauty of it was, with all the laughing and joking aside, it did produce a great sound. The first time Paul plugged it in and used it, we just said my god, this is incredible. It added to The Beatles sound."

(Beatles Gear: All the Fab Four's Instruments from Stage to Studio Hardcover by Andy Babiuk, 2010)

So, I guess, Paul is lying on his bass amp that they called the Coffin - and it's the reason of the pantomime on the photo.

[mediocre-shark-tales]

Singapore GP

Masterlist

It had only been a few days since my outburst after the Azerbaijan GP, but it felt like an eternity. The media was ravenous, tearing apart every word I’d said and dissecting it for all it was worth. Some outlets offered sympathy, sending condolences to my family and dismissing the biases against me. For a fleeting moment, it seemed like maybe—just maybe—things would finally start to shift in my favor.

But, as always, there were others. The kind who clung to outdated ideas and used my grief-fueled reaction as ammunition. A woman can’t handle the pressure of Formula 1, they claimed. She’s too emotional, too volatile, too fragile. Never mind that nearly every driver on the grid had snapped at the media at some point. Those moments were chalked up to “passion” or “fierce determination,” but mine? Mine was treated like a personal weakness—a reason to question my very right to be here.

The hypocrisy stung more than I wanted to admit. I thought about Max’s defense in the media pen, about the way Franco, Charles, and Lewis had all rallied around me afterward. Their support had meant the world, but it didn’t erase the sting of those words or the way they lingered in the paddock air, just waiting to suffocate me all over again.

I clenched my jaw as I scrolled through headlines that morning, each one angrier than the last. I wasn’t mad at myself for standing up or for revealing the truth about my mom—I knew she would’ve wanted me to fight for myself—but I was mad that this sport, the one I’d worked so hard to be a part of, could still be so ruthless. How many battles did I have to win off-track before people would focus on what I was doing on it?

I set my phone down with a sharp exhale, staring out the window of my hotel room. The next race was just days away, and I couldn’t afford to let the noise distract me. I needed to perform again—to show them all why I deserve this seat.

Suddenly, a knock echoed through the quiet of my room. Startled, I crossed the floor quickly, not even bothering to check the peephole. When I swung the door open, I froze. Standing there was Franco, his usual easygoing smile in place, and beside him—looking more like he’d rather be anywhere else—was Lando.

Franco leaned casually against the doorframe, as if this was the most normal thing in the world. “Hermosa, you’ve been hiding away too long. Thought I’d come check on you,” he said lightly. Then he gestured toward Lando. “And I brought company.”

Lando shifted on his feet, clearly uncomfortable. His hands were shoved into his pockets, and he avoided my gaze for a moment before finally looking up, his expression uncertain. “Hi,” he said awkwardly, his voice quieter than I’d ever heard it.

I blinked, caught completely off guard. Of all people, Lando was the last person I expected to show up at my door. “Uh, hey,” I said hesitantly, my grip tightening slightly on the door handle. “What’s going on?”

Franco gave me a knowing look, his grin widening. “Don’t look at me. This one asked to come along.”

Lando shot him a glare but quickly turned back to me, clearing his throat. “Can we talk? I—uh—I owe you an apology.”

I raised an eyebrow, suspicion flickering in my chest. “You’re here to apologize?”

He nodded, his gaze earnest now. “Yeah. I’ve... I’ve been an ass. And I shouldn’t have been. Can we come in? Please?”

I hesitated, my instincts screaming to keep the door firmly shut. But then I glanced at Franco, whose encouraging nod gave me just enough of a push. With a reluctant sigh, I stepped aside, opening the door wider to let them in.

“Fine,” I said, crossing my arms as I closed the door behind them. “You’ve got five minutes. Make it count.”

Lando stepped into the room cautiously, his eyes darting around as if he were stepping into enemy territory. Franco, on the other hand, strolled in like he owned the place, dropping into the chair by the desk with an easy smile.

Lando hesitated in the middle of the room, rubbing the back of his neck. “Right. So, uh...” He glanced at Franco, clearly hoping for a lifeline. When none came, he sighed, finally meeting my gaze. “I wanted to say I’m sorry. For... well, everything.”

I crossed my arms tighter over my chest, leaning against the wall. “You’re going to have to be more specific than that, Norris. What exactly are you sorry for?” My tone wasn’t harsh, but I wasn’t going to make this easy for him either.

Lando’s cheeks flushed, and he shifted on his feet, looking down for a moment before forcing himself to hold my gaze. “For believing the rumors. For judging you before I even knew you. For being a... jerk.”

Franco snorted from his spot, earning a glare from Lando. “That’s putting it mildly,” Franco muttered, his grin never faltering.

“Franco,” I warned, though I couldn’t help the small twitch of amusement that pulled at my lips. Turning my attention back to Lando, I raised an eyebrow. “Go on.”

Lando sighed, clearly uncomfortable but determined to get through this. “Look, I’m not proud of how I acted. I was an idiot. I listened to all the crap people were saying, and I let it cloud my judgment. I didn’t even give you a chance, and that’s on me.” He ran a hand through his hair, frustration evident. “But after what you said in Azerbaijan... and everything that came out... I realized how wrong I was.”

I stared at him, trying to gauge his sincerity. His expression was open, genuine, and there was a nervous energy about him that told me this wasn’t easy for him to admit. Still, I wasn’t ready to let him off the hook just yet.

“So, let me get this straight,” I said, my voice calm but sharp. “You only realized you were wrong because the truth came out? Not because you actually got to know me or thought for yourself?”

Lando flinched, and I could see the guilt flash in his eyes. “No, that’s not... I mean, maybe at first, yeah. But it’s not just that.” He took a deep breath, his hands clenching at his sides. “It’s... I realized I’ve been a hypocrite. People judged me when I first got into F1, you know? Said I didn’t deserve to be here, that I was just a spoiled kid who got lucky. I hated it. And yet, I turned around and did the same thing to you.”

His words hit a nerve, and I felt my stance soften slightly, though I kept my guard up. “So, what changed?” I asked quietly.

Lando hesitated, his gaze dropping to the floor. “I saw how strong you were. How you handled everything, even when the media was tearing you apart. I realized... I was wrong about you. And I hate that I contributed to making things harder for you. You didn’t deserve that.”

For a moment, the room was silent, the weight of his words settling between us. I looked at him, really looked at him, and saw the vulnerability in his expression. He wasn’t just saying this to save face—he meant it.

Franco, who had been uncharacteristically quiet, finally spoke up. “You know, Hermosa, not everyone has the guts to admit when they’ve screwed up. Especially not this guy.” He gestured toward Lando with a smirk. “Maybe you should cut him a little slack.”

I rolled my eyes but couldn’t help the small smile that tugged at my lips. “You’re not off the hook, Norris,” I said, my tone lighter now. “But... I appreciate the apology.”

Lando’s shoulders sagged in relief, and he gave me a small, grateful smile. “Thank you. I promise, I’ll do better. I want to make things right.”

I nodded, feeling a sense of closure I hadn’t expected. “Good. Because if you don’t, I’ll make sure Franco here never lets you live it down.”

Franco laughed, throwing an arm around Lando’s shoulders. “Oh, don’t worry about that. I’ll keep him in line.”

As the tension in the room eased, I felt a weight lift off my shoulders. Maybe things wouldn’t change overnight, but this was a start. And for now, that was enough.

Franco stretched his arms behind his head, breaking the momentary silence with a loud sigh. “Well, now that we’ve handled all this heavy emotional stuff, how about we grab some food? I’m starving.” He patted his stomach for dramatic effect. “Plus, I’m pretty sure Lando owes us lunch after all that.”

Lando’s head snapped up, his eyes wide. “What? How do I owe—”

“You just do,” Franco interrupted with a grin. “Consider it part of your apology tour.”

I couldn’t help but laugh, shaking my head at their antics. “Fine. But if you’re buying, Norris, we’re not going to settle for some cheap takeaway.”

“Of course not,” Franco added, already halfway out the door. “I’ve got my heart set on something fancy. Maybe a steakhouse.”

“Steakhouse?” Lando groaned, following us reluctantly. “I didn’t sign up for this.”

Franco threw an arm around his shoulders, steering him down the hallway. “Too late, mate. You’re stuck with us now.”

We ended up at a quaint little restaurant just outside the hotel. It wasn’t a steakhouse, but it had a cozy charm that none of us could resist. The smell of fresh bread and soup filled the air as we slid into a booth by the window.

Franco didn’t waste any time grabbing the menu and announcing, “Okay, I’m ordering at least three appetizers. Don’t judge me.”

“I’m definitely judging you,” I said, smirking as I grabbed my own menu.

Lando leaned back in his seat, arms crossed, a playful glint in his eye. “You can judge him all you want, but I’m judging you both for making me pay.”

“Oh, stop whining,” Franco shot back. “You’re the one trying to redeem yourself. This is part of the process.”

I chuckled, shaking my head at their bickering. For the first time in what felt like forever, I felt a sense of normalcy, like I could just be myself without the weight of the rumors or the pressure of the media hanging over me.

As we waited for our food, Franco leaned in with a mischievous grin. “So, Hermosa, since we’re celebrating your P6, what’s the first thing you’re going to do with your newfound fame?”

I rolled my eyes. “I didn’t win, Franco. It’s just P6.”

“Still better than my finish,” Franco said with a grin, pointing a finger at himself. “P8 feels like crumbs compared to what you pulled off. Don’t let it go to your head, though.”

Lando smirked, tossing a napkin at him. “Careful, Franco. Keep talking like that, and I might ‘accidentally’ forget my wallet.”

“Then I guess you’ll be washing dishes,” I quipped, earning a laugh from both of them.

For the next hour, the three of us talked and laughed like old friends. The heavy conversation from earlier felt like a distant memory, replaced by lighthearted jokes and stories. It wasn’t lost on me how much I needed this—a moment to just breathe, to forget about the noise and the chaos of the paddock, and to remember why I loved being here in the first place.

As we left the café, Franco threw an arm around my shoulders, his grin as wide as ever. “See? This is why you need me around, Hermosa. I make everything better—even if you did outdo me on track today.”

Lando shook his head, a small smile playing on his lips. “Yeah, yeah. Don’t let it go to your head.”

“Too late,” I said, laughing as we walked back toward the paddock. For the first time in days, I felt lighter, like maybe—just maybe—I was finally turning a corner.

The next day was media day for the Singapore GP, and Marcus had picked me up from the hotel. The drive to the track was quiet, save for the faint hum of the car’s engine. I stared out the window, watching the scenery blur past, but my mind was elsewhere.

I could already imagine the chaos waiting for me at the paddock—journalists with their microphones shoved forward, their voices louder and more relentless than ever. Some of them would be asking invasive questions, spinning my story to fit their own narratives. Others would act like they cared, offering empty condolences just to lure me into saying something headline-worthy.

And then there were the fans. Half of them were incredible—supportive, holding signs with messages of encouragement, and calling out words of solidarity. But the other half? They were the ones who believed the rumors, who thought I didn’t belong here, who shouted things I didn’t want to hear. The mixture of love and hatred was overwhelming, and it left me feeling pulled in every direction at once.

Marcus glanced over at me, his expression unreadable. “You okay?” he asked, breaking the silence.

I hesitated, not wanting to dump everything I was feeling onto him, but I nodded anyway. “Yeah. Just… thinking about what today’s going to be like.”

He didn’t press further, but his grip on the steering wheel tightened. “Don’t let them get to you. You’ve got a job to do, and you’re damn good at it. That’s what matters.”

His words were kind, but they didn’t stop the knot in my stomach from tightening as we approached the track. The car rolled to a stop near the paddock entrance, and I could already hear the buzz of activity. The moment I stepped out, it hit me like a tidal wave.

Cameras flashed, voices shouted over one another, and I couldn’t even make out what was being said. It was a cacophony of opinions, questions, and judgments—some supportive, others downright cruel. I kept my head down, walking briskly as Marcus stayed close, acting as a barrier between me and the frenzy.

“Keep moving,” he murmured. “You don’t owe anyone anything right now.”

I nodded, focusing on my steps. But the weight of it all pressed down on me—the rumors, the expectations, the opinions of people who didn’t even know me. It was exhausting. Yet, somewhere in the chaos, I spotted a fan holding up a sign that read, “You’re stronger than the hate—keep fighting!”

A small, bittersweet smile tugged at my lips. It was a reminder that not everyone was against me, but the noise around it made it hard to hold onto that thought for long.

By the time we reached the safety of the garage, I felt like I’d run a marathon. Taking a deep breath, I tried to push it all aside. Today was about racing. That’s what mattered. I had to remind myself why I was here—why I fought so hard to stay. 

After a quick debrief with Marcus, I made my way toward the press area, my steps steady but my heart beating just a little faster than I’d like. I knew the routine by now—smile, stay composed, and avoid giving too much away. Especially about my family.

The first round of interviews started with a smaller group of journalists. They fired off the usual questions: plans for FP1, my goals for the weekend, how I was handling the increased scrutiny. I kept my answers light but confident, redirecting whenever someone tried to veer too close to personal territory.

“Your performance in Azerbaijan was phenomenal,” one reporter said, their voice tinged with surprise, as if they hadn’t expected me to do well. “Do you think P6 is a sign of what’s to come?”

I smiled, holding back a sharp retort. “Absolutely. It felt great to show what I’m capable of. I’ve been working hard with my team, and we’re making steady progress. My focus is on consistency—building on each race and aiming higher every time.”

Another journalist chimed in, less subtle. “You’ve been in the headlines a lot lately, and not just for your racing. How are you dealing with the pressure, especially considering the personal challenges you’ve alluded to?”

I kept my smile in place, even as I felt the familiar pang in my chest. “Racing has always been my focus. It’s what I love, and it’s what I’m here to do. Pressure comes with the territory in Formula 1, and I’m learning to handle it like any other driver. At the end of the day, it’s about what happens on track.”

The questions kept coming, some more probing than others, but I managed to steer the conversation back to my racing. I highlighted my achievements—my steady climb through the junior categories, the challenges I’d overcome to earn my seat, and my determination to keep improving.

“I know I still have a lot to prove,” I said, meeting the gaze of the reporters. “But I’m not afraid of hard work. Every race is a chance to learn and grow, and that’s what I’m focusing on. I want to be a driver that earns respect on track, not just for what people say off it.”

One reporter pressed further, his tone almost condescending. “Do you think the recent attention is overshadowing your talent? Some might say it’s hard to separate the drama from the driver.”

I held his gaze, keeping my voice calm but firm. “I think my results speak for themselves. P6 in Baku, qualifying consistently in the top ten, and building strong relationships with my team—that’s what I care about. The rest? It’s just noise.”

By the time I moved on to the next group, I felt a mix of exhaustion and pride. I had kept my composure, redirecting every attempt to pry into my personal life back toward my career. It wasn’t easy, but I reminded myself why I was here.

As I finished the last interview of the day, I exhaled a quiet sigh of relief. I’d made it through without faltering, holding my head high even when they tried to bring me down. And in the back of my mind, I knew that this, too, was part of the fight—to prove that I belonged here, not just as a driver, but as a force to be reckoned with.

[atinystraynstay]

Play Nicely - Lee Chan

Synopsis: "I got a preview of what it would be like not to be yours, and I hated it so much."

Pairing: Idol! Dino x fem reader

Genre: PG-13 - slight angst, slightttttt smutttt if you squint, jealousy ft. The8, established relationship, possession

Word Count: 2.1k

Dino wasn't used to sitting on the dance floor, being in charge of the music. He was normally the one in front of the mirror, learning the choreography. This time around though, Dino had to take the backseat in order for Minghao to practice the choreography for his upcoming music video.

He was in the midst of preparing for his newest solo single. It was a bit sexier of a concept compared to Hai Cheng released last year. This time around, it had a heavy influence compared to the group's Light A Flame number. Minghao wanted to step out of his comfort zone, to show off his full range of dancing capabilities especially now that his collarbone has fully healed.

Being the good friend that you are, you volunteered to help Minghao with the choreography. By no means were you a professional like the rest of the group, or really like any extra the company could have hired. However, you wanted to take a challenge. You've always been curious about the world of dance, especially after watching Dino command the stage with his capabilities.

Minghao was ecstatic about the opportunity. Not only because he could take his time since you were helping as a friend, but he felt more comfortable doing the dance with someone he knew. This style of dance was newer to him as a solo performer, so being able to do it without feeling like he was going to waste someone's time really benefitted his learning process.

Dino was also very blessed to see you step up to help one of his friends. The maknae was a bit hesitant to introduce you to his friend group. He knew his members could be intimidating but also knew he was often subject to most of the teasing. Not always, but most of it when Mingyu was MIA. He just didn't want to give them anymore ammunition or have you dragged into it.

It brought him great joy to see how easily you were accepted by the group. Sure, there was some teasing here and there. However, his 12 brothers were just pleased to see their youngest happy. That is all they wanted for him anyway.

You were wearing a blank tank top, your hair pulled back into a high ponytail. You were also wearing a pair of black leggings. Your facial expression showed you were relaxed. Maybe the two of you should take dance classes together? He was intrigued by the opportunity to see you dance, wondering what you were capable of.

"I'm just afraid of making a fool out of myself," Minghao explained. He ran his hand through his hair as he stood before you.

Being the comforting friend that you, you placed your hands on Minghao's shoulders. Staring into his eyes, you smiled gently. "You're not going to make a fool of yourself. You're one of the best dancers I know, Hao. We'll practice for however long you need so you can feel confident." Minghao smiled at you, nodding at your words

While Dino knew the interaction was innocent, he couldn't help but feel the sting in his heart. One of the best dancers you knew? What about him? He bit his lip as he stood up straighter. He could out dance Minghao if given the chance.

The rehearsal started lighthearted. Minghao was showing you the basic dance moves and keeping enough distance, so you could learn through trial and error. The three of you would laugh at the moments of awkwardness. it helped you feel at ease to be out of your element. It was such a lighthearted environment.

"Why don't we try it this time with the music? I think you got the basics of the dance down now, y/n!" "I can also pause it if you need to go over the steps again," Dino reminded.

You looked excited to try it with the music, and Dino and Minghao wanted to help you keep that enthusiasm. They were honestly grateful you were willing to help out, but wanted to keep it fun for you as this was a new experience.

However, once the music began to play, the mood shifted. it went from innocent and playful to seductive and intense. The track was a bit deeper than Seventeen's more lighthearted, poppy sounds they've been doing over the past few months. Quite frankly, it screamed sex appeal.

Dino has never wanted so desperately to pause the music, pause the intensity between the two of you. But he didn't want to be selfish.

Realizing where he was, he let out a sharp breath through his nostrils. He did his best to compose himself, not wanting to make a scene especially when he was with you and one of his best friends. He had to control himself. Neither of you were doing anything malicious, nor would you ever. You loved Dino too much to ever do something so careless whereas Minghao had too much respect for your relationship and the two of you as people.

Dino was just starting to realize maybe this wasn't a good idea after all.

His blood boiled as Minghao's eyes were trained on you. You were able to capture the attention of everyone in the room. And honestly, Dino loved watching you thrive and flourish in anything you did. You could just be cooking up lunch for the two of you, and he was always left speechless.

Internally, he knew he should be grateful that his best friend was looking out for you. You meant the world to each member, especially since they knew how happy you made their maknae. And Minghao was doing everything he could to make sure you didn't get hurt while dancing.

It just wasn't far that Minghao got to be this close to you when that's all Dino was craving. He was craving the feeling of your body heat against his. He wanted to stare into your eyes until the world stopped spinning. And honestly, he wanted to be the first and only dance partner you had.

As the song played, Dino's jealousy just grew. Minghao guided you in where to place your hands, how to move your hips. It made Dino's mind fuzzy as he remembered all the things your body was capable of, how good you could make him feel. But he was seeing red as he watched Minghao maneuver you around, how your hands trailed his body.

The ending post is what drove Dino feral. Your back was fully pressed up against Minghao's chest. Your head was tilted back to face him thanks to the light hold Minghao had on your neck, his thumb on your jawline. His other hand rested on your hip, close to your upper thigh to keep you close.

The only sound that filled the air as the music died out was the sound of you two breathing heavily, your chests rising and falling. Dino was only used to that sound when it was the two of you in his bed.

Sensing eyes burning through him, Minghao looked over. He was about to ask for Dino's opinion but froze when he saw the glare Dino held. It was so unlike his younger member, so he was a bit surprised. Yet, he was intrigued to see how else he could push his buttons.

Leaning in close to you, Minghao whispered in your hear. He made sure he kept a bit of distance as to not overwhelm you, but give the impression Minghao was kissing your ear. Anything to drive Dino up the wall.

"Why don't we take a five? Give your lover boy a chance to breathe?"

You tilted your head in confusion before taking a look over at Dino. You've never seen him with his jaw clenched so tightly. You were afraid he was going to break his teeth with that kind of hold on his jaw.

Untangling your bodies, Minghao and you stepped away from with each other. Even though you were aching to know what was bothering your boyfriend, you were overjoyed with how well that first run-through went.

"I'm going to get us some water. Be right back," Minghao announced almost too happily.

I should have nothing to worry about. It's my best friend fulfilling his goal, but it just happens to be with my girlfriend. With his hands all over MY girlfriend. Fuck this.

Once you two were the only ones in the room, you turned towards your boyfriend. You couldn't help the gentle smile that tugged onto your lips at the sight of your pouty boy. Dino has always been seen as far more mature for his age, probably because he wanted to fit in with his hyungs since Seventeen's debut days. Yet, in this moment, he resembled a little boy who was not getting his way.

You were taking tiny steps towards Dino. You were convinced he hasn't moved an inch since rehearsals started. He was sitting up straight with his back against the glass.

"Have I ever told you I hate sharing?" He grumbled.

You giggled and shook your head. Your reaction caused Dino's scowl to deepen as his head shot up towards you. "Sorry," you whispered, apologizing for your reaction. You didn't want to just cast his feelings to the side. This was just a side of Dino you've never experienced before.

"Baby boy, you're not sharing me with anyone." "Damn right I'm not," he muttered.

Before you could even respond, Dino leaned forward to grab your wrists. You gasped lightly at the movement but allowed Dino to guide you in the direction he desired. He gently pulled you down so you straddled his lap. His knees propped up so you could lean back and rest against them.

Once you got situated in the new position, his hands let go of your wrists. Instead, they perched themselves on your hips to keep you secured on his lap. Your arms wrapped around Dino's neck. One hand resting on the base of his neck, the other on the back of his head.

"You only go home with me at the end of the day."

Dino didn't know what took over him. He leaned forward and pressed his lips gently at first against your neck. Your fingers gently running through his hair now, gripping slightly. The action caused him to growl against your skin, causing butterflies to erupt in the pit of your stomach. His lips were like a magnet to your neck.

"Don't ever think I'm willing to let anyone get that close to you again. You hear me?" The kisses were no longer soft pecks. They were open-mouth kisses that traveled up and down your neck, as if he was searching for it.

As his lips were right by where your jaw and neck connect, you felt your breathing hitch. You pulled yourself closer, unaware that the movement had caused you to rub against Dino's hardening boner. His teeth sink into your neck before he began sucking on it to ease the temporary ache.

He needed to get you home. Or at least somewhere where nobody could walk in on you two.

"You drive me absolutely mad, baby girl. I'm so lucky." "And I'm all yours," you reminded him again.

His mind got fuzzy at the softness of your voice. He squeezed your hips lovingly before letting his tongue glide over the reddish-purple hickey forming on your neck. Just one mark that would remind everyone who you belonged to.

"I guess I'm not filming dance rehearsal today," Minghao announced.

Hearing Minghao's voice, you blushed hard. You were going to move off of Dino, wanting to apologize for the PDA. Yet, Dino didn't let you move. If anything, his grip tightened on you to keep you planted on his lap.

Also so Minghao didn't see the boner that was becoming more and more prominent.

Dino slowly pulled away before looking over at his older member. His body was a bit relaxed even though he still wished he could swap places with Minghao in a few minutes. Minghao looked amused, not knowing that his younger brother could get jealous so easily.

"Sorry, Minghao," Dino chuckled. 'I just couldn't help myself." "You could have at least waited until rehearsal was done. At least you didn't make my dance partner too sore she couldn't move. I'd like to just finish and get one ore run-through down."

The two of you nodded, understanding Minghao's request. You were here to help him after all. Turning towards your boyfriend, you kissed his cheek lingeringly. You could feel his smile grow beneath the kiss. "We'll pick up later," you promised him.

His heart skipped a beat at the thought.

As you pushed yourself up off of his lap, there was a loud gasp behind you. "Dude, you have a boner?! In our dance studio?! I'm going to have to bleach my eyes after this!"

And there's the normal dynamic Dino was used to.

[inafieldofstarflowers]

(@tessasilverswan it was sooo dangerous of you to enable me to talk about this scene. I swear I did not mean for this to get so long & so I added a little summary.)

Chapter seven of The Raven King is truly banger after banger, specifically in terms of three important conversations Neil has: there are his post-banquet conversations with Wymack and Kevin, and then—the one I want to focus on—his conversation with Nicky in the library. As a whole, I would argue that this chapter is a turning point for Neil. He already decided not to run, back when Andrew gave him the key, but this is the moment he’s deciding to be a Fox, and to be Neil Josten. His conversation with Kevin is a huge part of this, of course—it’s one of my favorite parts of the series as a whole, because it’s such an interesting insight into Kevin as a character—but his conversation with Nicky is both incredibly informative and  foundational to a lot of the choices Neil makes in the future, but with the exception of a few moments (“Some of the strongest people I’ve known are women” is forever iconic, and also a moment of silence for Nicky Hemmick absolutely failing to clock the fact that his cousin is gay. rip.), it’s not really discussed outside of its work in establishing the pre-series timeline for the cousins, but there’s. So much there.  So, in summary:

This conversation has some truly incredible lines. Nora did not hold back with it.

The details about Aaron & Nicky in this conversation are crucial to understanding how they interact with others—and, more specifically, with each other

This conversation is where Neil starts to understand both the root of the division between Andrew and Aaron and the contribution Aaron and Katelyn’s relationship has to that division, and as a result, plants the seeds for his eventual plan of therapy/using Katelyn to manipulate Aaron

Neil, freshly resolved not to run, is confronted with the idea of a future

Neil, freshly confronted with the idea of a future, is also confronted with the idea that he needs to hold onto something other than Exy (& begins to realize that he has already, unintentionally, begun to do so)

The longer version:

The conversation can easily be divided into two distinct parts: the first of which is a discussion of the twins & their relationship, sparked by Nicky commenting on Aaron and Katelyn, who are standing together a bit away from the table where Nicky and Neil are sitting. It’s significant that Nicky is the one who presses the topic, because it emphasizes that, until this point, Neil doesn’t see any reason that Aaron’s relationship would be worth noticing, even thinking that “his review was more important than something as trivial as Aaron’s maybe-relationship.” While Neil arguably never starts seeing Aaron’s relationship as anything other than trivial, this conversation is the first time he understands its role in the balancing act Aaron and Andrew are performing, and, in a way, the impetus for his later decision to use it as ammunition in trying to reunite them.

It’s also immediately apparent that Nicky and Neil have incredibly different perspectives on the events Nicky is about to relate: Neil, who has been getting closer to Andrew, listens to the story with him in mind, working out potential motivations for him, while Nicky relates them largely from Aaron’s perspective—it’s clear that Aaron has talked to him about these events and Andrew hasn’t, given that he’s able to relate events directly from Aaron’s perspective but can only speculate on Andrew’s thoughts/reasoning. The fact that Nicky can so neatly outline the series of events—most of which he wasn’t present for—suggests that the put a great deal of effort into piecing together what, exactly, got the twins to this place (which, in my opinion, makes the exchange in TKM in which Aaron accuses him of siding with Neil and he comments “It’s not like you’ve ever let me take your [side]” sooo interesting. But I digress.).

This half of the conversation also has two main parts: an explanation of everything leading up to the car crash and the crash/its fallout. This is the most detail that we’ve gotten about the twins’ past, and as he’s telling the story, Neil notes that Nicky’s facade of cheer has fallen away, leaving a humorless smile. I think this is maybe the most genuine we ever see Nicky: he’s performing less than he does around pretty much anyone else, perhaps because he’s been made a part of the family, but isn’t someone Nicky feels responsibility for in the way he does for the twins. Nicky opens with the revelation that Tilda put both twins in the system at first, and the dialogue emphasizes the sheer luck involved in which twin went where: they don’t know Tilda’s reasoning, but Nicky’s summarizes it pretty well in saying that “they each had a fifty-fifty chance of getting screwed, and that, in the end, they “both got the short end of the stick.” It’s one of the most concise descriptions of the way the twins’ relationship was doomed from the start: no matter which direction things had gone, this would always have been a wedge driven between the two of them.

What follows is a depiction of Aaron’s very-much-not-ideal™ childhood, which amounts to pretty textbook neglect (Tilda apparently “tried as hard as she could not to deal with Aaron at all”) until he learned about Andrew, which is “when Aaron says she started getting angry instead of just neglectful.” Nicky says that “Finding Andrew again was a turning point for Aaron in all the worst ways,” which is a brutal statement, but critical to understanding what I would argue is a big part of Aaron’s issue with Andrew: when he learned about his brother, everything fell apart for him, and yet he still tried to reach out to Andrew, and Andrew rejected him (for no reason, as far as he could tell, even though we learn why Andrew did so later). In general, we learn a lot about Aaron here, and specifically his relationship with Tilda, but that’s a separate post, and it can be pretty effectively summarized by saying that, and this point, Aaron’s life was Really Bad. Nicky mentions his mom’s concern about Aaron—so strong that she wrote to Nicky in Germany—and paired with his later statement that he “should have tried harder” with Aaron, it’s clear that part of Nicky’s choice to return & try to help the twins reunite was a result of misplaced guilt. (As a side note, I think Maria’s concern for Aaron and the fact that she at least sort of stayed in touch with Nicky while he was in Germany does a lot to explain why he has hope/any desire to try to restore that relationship: they’re threads of hope that she cares, and Nicky is clinging to them.)

At this point, we move into a discussion of the car crash, which is the clearest example of the Nicky & Aaron vs. Neil & Andrew division. Ironically, this is also maybe the only time Neil is a true Aaron Understander, because Nicky’s comments about Aaron’s relationship with Tilda (“It’s not like Aaron liked her, but she was his mother, you know? And Aaron never got to fix things with her, never got to understand why she was so messed up or why she messed them up so bad.”) are incredibly similar to his feelings about Mary, but that’s nevertheless not enough to stop him from suggesting Andrew acted “to protect Aaron.” 

In the end, Nicky and Neil kind of dance around the truth of the matter, which is that Andrew did act as he did in order to protect Aaron, but that that doesn’t mean Aaron can’t/shouldn’t be angry about it. What they’re exactly correct about, on the other hand, is that this is a big problem, and I would argue that it is here that the seeds of Neil’s therapy plan are planted. He sees the problem (“I’m guessing they’ve never talked about how she died”) and Nicky agrees that there’s no solution in sight as things stand (“They won’t even talk about the little things. I don’t see them having a belated heart-to-heart about Andrew’s intentions anytime soon”), and so he forces a situation where the twins have to address it—and, by doing so, he helps Nicky in his efforts to fix their relationship, which even Nicky says he’s realized he can’t do on his own.

*A moment of silence for Nicky truly believing Andrew and Renee were a thing*

At this point, we transition into the second half of the conversation, which is essentially Nicky’s manifesto on the importance of love, kicked off by the incredible line  “You can love Exy all you want, but it’s never gonna love you back” and Neil’s absolutely on-brand response of “So?” Neil immediately tries to backtrack, realizing that he does not want to have this conversation, and Nicky’s refusal to let it go is one of the few times in the series that I think Nicky’s pushiness is a good thing: this is a conversation Neil needs to have, and he is just not going to do it on his own. (Also, “Nicky snatched his math pamphlet off the desk and dropped it on the ground by his chair” is so funny to me because it’s so needlessly dramatic. I love him.) 

It’s so hard for me not to just quote this whole conversation, because Nicky truly rolls out banger after banger: after this opening, for example, he hits Neil with “Listen up. There’s obsession and there’s dysfunction, You can’t make Exy your end-all-be-all. This won’t last forever, okay? You’ll shine bright, then you’ll retire, and then what? You gonna spend the rest of your life at home alone with all your trophies?” It’s important to me that Nicky isn’t discrediting Exy as a route for Neil’s future: he’s seen how much Neil loves it, and he recognizes that it would be pointless to try to argue that Neil should care less about it. Instead, he’s pushing Neil to recognize that he needs something in addition to Exy in order to live a truly full life.

I think it’s important at this point to pause and consider that Neil has been having a bit of a crisis since the banquet. Earlier in the chapter, Neil is reflecting on the Foxes and how “they were piecing Neil together and building a real person around all of his lies. They found the parts of him no disguise could change. Nothing they were learning would change this year’s outcome” (ie: his impending death) “or tell them who he really was, but it was frightening nonetheless. Luckily midterms were coming up, so Neil could use studying as an excuse to slowly pull back out of their reach.” In this moment, Nicky is directly refusing to let Neil use midterms as an excuse to pull away and avoid a conversation about his future that Nicky can tell he needs to have, as well as forcing Neil to confront the idea of the future he’s already decided doesn’t exist, and I think that Neil is terrified & made deeply uncomfortable by that idea, which is why he backpedals so hard. After the banquet, Neil told Kevin “I want to be Neil Josten. I want to be a Fox,” and the combination of the Foxes making Neil Josten real and Nicky’s focus on his future are proving that those words might mean more than Neil ever thought they could.

*An interlude to honor “Some of the strongest people I’ve known are women.” Neil Josten I love you. Imagine being Nicky Hemmick in this moment: this kid has asked why you don’t like women and answers your attempt to explain concisely by saying this. 10/10*

I won’t get into it too much here, because I’ve already discussed it, but Nicky continues to let his usual mask fall (“Nicky’s smile was slow and pleased…it was a more reserved expression than Neil usually saw on his face.”) and I think that this continued sincerity is part of why Neil finds himself unable to just ignore what Nicky’s saying. 

This is where we get into Nicky’s past, which is so fun! So fresh! If it wasn’t already evident that Luther and Maria suck, it’s made clear as Nicky describes their responses to him coming out, and his description of the conversion camp ( “I spent a year learning that I was infected by a disgusting idea from the devil, that I was a living test for every other good Christian on the planet. They tried using God to shame me into being straight”) is so tough. This offers a lot of insight into why Nicky is the way he is: his openness is a pretty direct response to his parents’ lack of openness, but in his efforts to not be like them, he’s swung hard in the opposite direction and is often far too pushy about it. As a whole, this passage is genuinely one of the best depictions of religious guilt I’ve ever read—“It didn’t work. For a while I wished it did” and Nicky’s descriptions of feeling alternately abandoned by God and like he betrayed God are so grounded in reality and they make him feel so much more rounded as a character (which, again, I could say sooo much more about than I want to in this already long post). The whole description of Nicky’s mindset is interwoven with a heavy desperation and despair, which makes the fact that it was Nicky’s German teacher who “knew [he] was close to the edge,” while his parents were just “so proud of [him] for [his] so-called recovery” even more jarring: it emphasizes how willingly obtuse Luther and Maria both are, something we already saw in the fact that Aaron successfully hid evidence of Tilda’s abuse from them for years, and something which we see the worst example of later, when Luther refuses to take Andrew seriously and cries “misunderstanding” when Andrew tells him about Drake. (Also side note: shoutout to Nicky’s German teacher. She and Coach Hernandez are really out there looking out for their kids.)

“‘Erik Klose,’ Nicky said, sounding it out like he was saying it for the first time.” I don’t actually have anything to say about this line. It’s just really cute. I do, however, have a lot to say about what follows: “That’s what love is about, see? That’s why Exy isn’t ever going to be enough, not for you or Andrew or anyone. It can’t hold you up, and it won’t make you a stronger or better person.” This is arguably the thesis of this half of the conversation, and it stands in stark contrast to the flippancy and crudeness with which Nicky typically approaches the topic of love. Nicky is, or course, talking about romantic love here, but I think it’s pretty applicable to the idea of love in general, and that having a support system is important—which, again, is likely to hit home with Neil, who has begun to realize that he does, in fact, have one with the Foxes, and has begun to try to pull back. That Nicky is there, saying this to him, is unavoidable evidence that, just like he’s chosen the Foxes, they’ve chosen him, and they’re not going to just let go. This realization is followed by THE “Mary’s parenting kinda fucked Neil up, huh?” quote, in which he outlines a bunch of warnings she gave him on the dangers of letting people in, which is a Whole Lot, and is finally enough to push Neil to end the conversation, at which point we get the great exchange: “At least promise me you’ll think about it?” “Promise,” Neil said. “You are such an unrepentant liar.” 

I love Nicky for dragging this promise out of him even though he absolutely doesn’t believe it’s true, and even though Neil does, in fact, prove him right by immediately trying to forget about the conversation, an effort which is only briefly successful, because he starts thinking about it—and specifically about what Nicky said about Erik—while watching Andrew during practice. This moment is the culmination of the tension between Mary’s instructions & Neil’s decision to first join and then stay with the Foxes that’s been building over this chapter. Specifically, Neil’s instinctual thought that “There was only one person in the world strong enough for all of Neil’s problems, and she was dead now” is countered by the realization that “he’d divided his secrets between Kevin and Andrew,” and that Andrew specifically had “nodded in the face of it and told Neil to stay.” In spite of this realization, he remains avoidant as hell and immediately thinks “that didn’t count, because Andrew was Andrew, and this was definitely the last turn he needed his thoughts to take,” which emphasizes that, even though he’s stepped away from his mother’s rules, he can’t quite let them go yet—or, perhaps, can’t acknowledge that he has already done so. The final line of the chapter, however—that Neil “vowed never to listen to Nicky again”—emphasizes that this has had an impact on him—otherwise, he wouldn’t be worried about what else Nicky would say if given the chance.

[weenwrites]

Can I have a cybertronian S/O with TFP Shockwave who’s really REALLY into weaponry and is really invested in his canon arm? Like, analysing and taking notes and asking questions about it, even manoeuvring it to look it up and down but carefully enough to not distract from his work (when he’s working at least)

[ Please do not repost, plagiarize, or use my writing for AI! Translating my work with proper credit is acceptable, but please ask first! ]

"Ooh, a vented barrel shroud—or perhaps that's a compensator?"

Y/N leaned over his shoulder here and there, observing the new device as they strode here and there to fetch all the necessary tools to assist him with the new upgrade.

Shockwave reached for the ammunition belt and and detached it from his arm, setting the end of the cord down on the table before he answered, "A fusion of the two devices, in order to ensure that my armament works to its fullest capacity with minimal interference due to recoil or muzzle movement."

"Both in one?" They repeated, passing him a tool as he held his hand out, before laying the rest out all over the table, "Given all your preexisting modifications, I feel like you're going to get less of a return with each new change to your hand gun."

"The law of diminishing returns indeed renders the percentage of the return into an infinitesimal value." He confirmed, attaching the device with ease before tilting it here and there to observe the weapon as a whole, "As such, any further efforts to improve the firearm would prove futile."

"Would? Let me guess, you've already made some ground-breaking discovery that will drastically improve its performance, haven't you?"

"Your hypothesis is a gross exaggeration, yet you are correct." He picked a device from the sea of tools in front of him, "I have engineered a device that will increase fuel efficiency and decrease the time spent reloading the gun, thus increasing the number of shots fired per round of ammo supplied by the ammunition belt."

"And you don't have to make any sacrifices for it? No switching out parts or anything?" They asked as he simply began to install the device without a hitch.

"No, it functions in conjunction with the rest of my modifications seamlessly." He held his hand out, and naturally they passed him the correct tool he needed.

"You have to make me a gun just like that one day. I won't accept anything less if you're planning on making me your official conjunx endurae somewhere in the future." They joked.

"You say that as though I would not give you the magnum opus of my work, that notion is illogical." He momentarily set his tool down and met their gaze, "As my equal, you will be given gifts naturally appropriate for someone of your caliber. Anything less would constitute as unacceptable."

"And here people say that you don't have a way with words!" Y/N smiled bashfully, "ah, they just can't understand your mind the way I do."

[starogeorgina]

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐛𝐥𝐨𝐨𝐝 𝐛𝐞𝐭𝐰𝐞𝐞𝐧 𝐮𝐬

Paring: Criston Cole x reader

Warnings: Swearing, violence

1.03

Hearing a soft knock on your door, you sit up slightly dazed. It takes you a minute to focus on the handmaid now standing at the foot of your bed. Her gaze was firmly locked on the direwolf snarling at her. You stroked behind Storm's ears, calming him. Many at court criticized and judged you for allowing your daughter and her wolf to sleep in your chambers, but you ignored their comments and allowed it. Since the handmaid in front of you served the high towers, you presumed she would have been aware of this.

“Is something wrong?”

“Forgive me for waking you, princess, but Ser Gwayne has asked for you to join him in his chambers immediately.”

Her words left a sour taste in your mouth. After consummating the marriage, the maesters had worked out the days you were most fertile, and those were the only nights deemed necessary for you to perform your duty. In the three moons you’d been married, Ser Gwayne had never been cruel towards you; he just wasn’t interested in speaking with you unless necessary.

“What knight is stationed outside my quarters?”

“Ser Thomson.”

“I haven’t heard of a knight with his name before.”

“I believe he only joined the king's guard yesterday, princess.”

Quietly, you get out of bed and consider your different options. Meera was in a deep sleep and would be unaware of your absence. You could refuse to go, but would it be worth giving Alicent and Otto more ammunition to tarnish your name with? The hour was late, and you will most likely be gone until the sunrise. You had only just excused your sworn shield for the night, but you didn’t like the idea of leaving your daughter in your chambers with a knight you did not know guarding her.

“Thank you. Ser Thomas can retire for the night, and Ser Criston can resume.”

She clears her throat. “And Ser Gwayne?”

“My husband can wait. I won’t be leaving until my sworn shield is here.”

She nods and goes to pass the message of the changing of the knights on. Walking to the opposite side of your room, you slide the nightdress off and replace it with a simple red-fitted dress. It might have been nighttime, but you wouldn’t be caught wondering why the castle was half-dressed. Once you finish changing, rebrand your hair.

Little time passed before the knights changed over. When you open the door to leave, you’re surprised to see how panicked Ser Criston is. He starts checking you over for any injuries. “Princess, has something happened?”

You step out of the room and close the door behind you. “No, nothing. Forgive me for asking you to come at this hour. I’ve been asked to join my husband, and I didn’t feel comfortable leaving Meera.“

“You don’t need to explain,” he says softly. “The handmaid who came to my door didn’t explain why you called for me.”

“I’m sorry.”

The knight straightens his posture and says, “I’m sworn to protect the king and his family, which includes his granddaughter.”

“Thank you. Nobody aside from yourself, Raya, or my sister is to enter my apartment.”

—

A strange feeling lurks within the castle halls, causing you to feel on edge. Edric had taken you to the crypts of Winterfell many times, and never once did you feel afraid, but the Red Keep at night felt more haunted than the ghosts of the north ever did.

The hall your husband's bedchamber was in was absent of any knights, which confused you. Aside from being married to a princess, he was the queen's brother and son at the hands of the king.

You knock twice, but when you don’t get an answer, you push the doors open and enter. A large sigil of House Hightower hangs on the stone wall; it truly was an eyesore. You’d make sure any future children you have bedchambers have the same amount of Targaryen symbols.

Hearing a clattering noise, you spin fast. “Ser Gwayne?”

You abruptly come to a halt when you turn the corner, your gaze reaching his bed. Your husband wasn’t alone in his bed; a long-haired brunette woman had her leg hooked around his. She was laughing as Gwayne fondled her breasts. A naked redhead was bending over and picking up a knocked-over jug of wine.

“Gwayne,” your voice was too soft for him to hear. “Gwayne!”

He lurches upright in the bed; the look on his face would have been amusing in any other circumstance. Your husband was staring at you as if you’d grown a second head.

“What are you doing here?”

The two women quickly start to redress, judging from their clothes, or lack thereof, if you assumed they worked in a brothel. They run by you with their heads lowered, but before they reach the doorway, you snap, “Do not return to the red keep, ever.”

Gwayne stares at you, speechless. A valyrian steel sword would have sliced just as deep as the humiliation you’ve just suffered. Swallowing back any emotion aside from rage, you shake your head and turn to leave.

“Wait!”

“I’ll deal with you in the morning, husband.”

—

Anger bore through Ser Criston as he marched towards the High Tower's quarters. No doubt he would get an earful from Harrold Westerling, lord commander of the king's guard, for disobeying a direct order from the king's family to retire until tomorrow, but seeing how upset the princess he was sworn to protect was, he couldn’t simply leave things be.

Criston was confused when the princess returned and quickly dismissed him. Her eyes were full of tears, but she insisted everything was fine, so he did as he was asked.

There was always a warm bowl of oatmeal or stew available to members of the king's guard, day or night, in the armory. The sky was still dark outside, and there were only a few of her off-duty guards eating before retiring for the night. While deciding on which meal would keep him feeling full for longer, Criston overheard two handmaidens who were clearing dirty dishes, disguising the king’s second-eldest daughter, and how humiliated she must be by her husband inviting two whores to join them in the bed chambers. Criston knew something had happened to upset the princess, and the guilt for not pressing her for further information left him feeling guilty.

The princess was still grieving her late husband and life in the north. He wouldn’t allow a spoiled child like the son of Otto Hightower to add to her upset.

Gwayne answers the door and allows the knight to enter, but before he can ask why the other man was there, the wind is knocked out of him when Criston slams him into the wall.

“Wh-what did my wife tell you?”

“The princess told me nothing, but I’ve heard the gossip that is spreading fast.” Criston keeps Gwayne pinned by wrapping a hand around his neck. “I wonder what the king will do when he hears how you brought disgrace to his daughter.”

“I didn’t know she was coming.”

Criston loosens his grip slightly. His grip wasn’t tight enough to leave any bruises, but tight enough for Gwayne to squirm. “A handmaid woke up the princess and passed on the message for her to join you. I spoke with the girl myself.”

Gwayne frowns. “I did no such thing. I would much rather have enjoyed the company I was in in that bed with the princess.”

Reaching for the leather strap around his waist, Criston pulls a small dagger out and places it underneath Gwayne’s chin. “To insult the honor of a princess is an act of treason,” he warns. “You may live in brothels if you wish, but the next time you humiliate the princess by bringing whores into the keep, it will be the last thing that you do.”

[vigilskeep]

can you talk about misinterpretations of wynne and zevran's dynamic??? i'm chewing on your analysis

i think it’s a very basic case of people simply taking what is said at face value, in a way that comes up a lot with your classic zevran misinterpretations and uhhh oversimplifications. zevran and wynne’s banters are full of his classic exaggerated flirtations. all of their banters hinge on this joke and they’re very funny. but i’m always mildly stunned when i see people taking that as... zevran actually literally just being horny AGSHSKKSKS

i don’t think people give zevran enough credit for how clever he is at dancing around the other companions. nobody ever really gets one up on him. i can think of one specific instance in banter where i do think something gets under his skin, which i think oghren of all people manages essentially by accident the one time he’s actually not really trying

anyway: wynne opens their first banter with “you must know that murder is wrong, i assume.” it’s very wynne; she makes a judgement and announces it as fact. zevran is slightly stunned by this and also how funny it is: “i’m sorry... are you speaking to me?” with this incredible disbelieving pause because, like, he’s the party assassin. but he’s also playing for time quickly on how to react to this out of nowhere. wynne then explains the simple narrative she’s constructed that joining the party is due to a crisis of conscience on zevran’s part about being an assassin. and zevran immediately jumps into exaggerated agreement, and once he gets a better idea, the first of his flirtations with her, until she gives up in exasperation. it’s an evasion tactic zevran is very, very good at and has been doing to you, the player, since his first appearance on screen. he wants to play on the characters he performs when they’re useful shields, whether it’s the victim or the flirt or what have you. but also always with that ironic air that he’s clearly doing a bit; there’s the charm of letting you in on a private joke, but also he needs everything to be a faintly ridiculous game to him, so he doesn’t have to be affected

zevran keeps this joke up for the full extent of his banters with wynne through the whole game, because he finds it wildly entertaining, of course, and because he has no interest in ever inviting the conversation she wants. he so badly doesn’t want to deal with her asking this that he decides to run this bit into the GROUND, and starts doing it pre-emptively to ward her off even after she stops trying to instigate the conversation. bc wynne may be a good way off the mark, and, ironically for someone wanting zevran to take this seriously, not able to imagine that his life and feelings may be more complex than assumed (absolutely classic spirit behaviour once again), but she is needling at his reasons for leaving the crows, which is the last thing wants to be honest with anyone about

making the assumption that zevran is flirting with wynne out of genuine interest is, to me, the same mistake as thinking zevran when you first meet the warden is flirting out of genuine interest. this is how he knows to stay alive. if he let his guard down, he’d be dead; if he wasn’t charming, he’d be dead; and if he ever stopped to dwell instead of being the “eternal optimist”, always instinctually grasping at one more chance to live another day, he’d be very, very dead. he’s not going to casually discuss vulnerabilities for someone else’s peace of mind and he definitely doesn’t have the kind of insecurity to need to explain himself to people who don’t know him or what they’re talking about. so, rogue evasion abilities activate! it’s time for him to dodge! which is what he spends the entire series of banters doing. but also he’s just still finding it funny throughout. she just gives him so much ammunition. it’s like taking candy from a baby. zevran loves an old and terrible joke repeated for several months solid, they age like wine to him

i also think wynne’s comments are a light jab at how zevran does get read by players. he’s not ashamed of being an assassin. there’s this great line in one of his dialogues with the warden that asks why he shouldn’t continue to do what he’s good at when so few have come by his skills “honestly”, as he believes he has. there’s a tendency to characterise him and characters like him as, ah, the guilt-ridden victim in need of a pure-hearted saviour to show him the light, etc etc, but that’s never been who he is. there’s no ending where he suddenly quits being an assassin lmao

[sorormaior]

Kulikov

Act 1: The Witness

Well I said I'd do it. Here's the prologue and chapter one of my fic, Kulikov. I'll be posting the first act here, but probably not the rest

There was someone there, on Nostramo, who cared. Who treated him kindly, tried to bring him away from that dark path. The love was there, it changed nothing.

Next Chapter

Prologue

It started with an auspex ping. A flat tone that indicated something closeby in the endless dark. A dull green light flicked on, the cogitator whirred into life. 

An asteroid, high in adamantine content. Completely stationary- the sensors returned some initial responses in regards to void anchors. A ring of static pylons, stout and streaked with the grime of the void, but each as tall as a man. 

From the far side of its face, the asteroid was featureless, pockmarked by debris but otherwise nothing special. Wear had given way to a shine at certain angles- the adamantine, the only true export Nostramo had been valued for. 

Drawing closer, choosing another face, a dark chasm cut into it. An overhang creating a cave-like mouth, the floor worn purposefully flat and smooth for craft to land upon it. Atmosphere generators flanked the entrance like gargoyles. Beyond them, further into the dark, a set of heavy doors with a dark symbol plastered upon them. A bat-winged skull was engraved upon the metal, proving to the ones who had sought this place that it was what they were looking for. 

The landing pad was large enough for a single Stormraven, though many other craft hung in the void around it, waiting. Twelve astartes left the vessel, moving in tight formation to the doors, blue armour throwing up strange reflections on the worn cave walls. 

The machine spirit of the door reacted quickly to the commands given to it, showing that maintenance had been performed recently. Indeed, the air that rushed forward was not stale- it was recently refreshed, the lack of security measures speaking to its remote location. The architects did not intend for it to be found. This made the squad act with further caution, especially as there seemed to be no light inside the reliquary. 

The noise of armoured boots on metal stairs seemed oddly muffled as they proceeded forward, pauldron to pauldron in a space clearly designed for them. The reliquary was not large, having only a few rooms, which they checked methodically. It was a short corridor consisting of five doors, four set into the walls, facing each other and a fifth at the very end. Bones and skulls were moulded into the walls, a deathly peace to those whose ends were assuredly not gentle.

The first door to the right was an armoury, neatly stored weapons and ammunition. Its twin to the left led to a control centre, where cogitators eagerly returned to function. They displayed power outputs, logs of those who had come before and the maintenance done, systems support and various data controls relating to temperature. The most recent activity was a scant two solar days before they had arrived.

The next two doors lead to the true reliquary. Symbols of ages long since passed, to a former Legion’s glory, one they were unlikely to ever recover. These were catalogued, removed from their cabinets and placed into cargo storage crates hauled from the armoury. 

This left the final door. Here too was the Eighth Legion heraldry, the bat-winged skull. It shone brightly under the lumens, refined silver metal against the dull grey of the rest of the door. 

AVE DOMINUS NOX 

The letters were carved there by a master's hand, repeated again beneath in what could only have been Nostraman runes. This door opened willingly too, as if eager for the astartes to continue, to find what lay inside. 

Cold vapour rolled across the floor, dim blue light pouring forth, drowning all need for lumens. It did not come from lumens, but from a coffin. Or at least what appeared to be a coffin, upon closer inspection it was a cryogenic sleeper pod, held inside of a stasis field. The walls hummed with power, and a few screens displayed vital readouts. At the base of the coffin melted candles pooled, scraps of parchment folded and tucked away, a few clean skulls placed like offerings to a heretic’s god, flowers only just beginning to wilt. 

In the casket was a bulky outline, recognisable to anyone familiar with the Adeptus Astartes. Hands laid crossed over their chest, almost covering the bat-winged skull there. The figure was unhelmeted, though the death-faced thing had been placed above their head like a guardian. The face of the space marine was clear, even with the frost encrusted glass. 

A face changed by augment and scar, with three prominently stretching across. A hooked nose and a thin face, brown skin of an unnatural pallor- as if unused to the sun. The head was slightly tilted to the left, the mouth just barely open, dark eyes barely open- the black eyes beneath making them appear closed. As if there had been someone standing there that the marine had turned to look at before being sealed away. 

A cogitator on the wall beeped quietly, as if apologetic for disturbing them. At a nod, an Astartes stepped forward. A new pilgrimage log had been created, and access provided to a single file, named Kulikov.

It contained only a few things of note. A readout of the current vitals of the casket’s occupant, which seemed to be in order. A list of Night Lords who had attended the reliquary and the prizes they had brought. A single vox recording. 

At another nod, the Astartes commanded the machine spirit to play it. 

The voice echoed around the chamber. Dark, cracked and hoarse. The voice of a monster in the night, yet still somewhat regal. Heavily accented with sibilance, captivating in its ghoulishness. 

“If you are standing here, you stand before the last true child of Nostramo. The last loyal Night Lord, the best of us all. Cary Kulikov. If you are a member of my Legion, one of my poisonous sons, know that this is what you were intended to be, know that you never will be. If you are not, and you have somehow stumbled upon this place: I command you to leave. This is the will of the Night Haunter.”

The recorded voice few had heard in a myriad seemed to hang in the air, sticking to the skin. Curze had always had a flair for the dramatic, like many of his brothers. 

The intruders took no heed of this warning, instead moving in synchronicity to the sides of the casket, to the machinery keeping the stasis field in place. There was a crackle in the air as with a few taps against the cogitator, the stasis field fell. The vapour moved a little faster, but the figure within the cryogenic casket remained unchanged. 

A few more commands and the casket was removed from its moorings, those pipes which fed into the chamber that had frozen in place wrenched away by gauntleted hands. Handles were mag-locked to the side of the casket, as the claw hidden behind it lowered from a vertical position to a horizontal one. Four Astartes took up places at the handles, lifted the casket from the fittings it had sat in for nearly ten thousand years. They marched from the chamber, almost a mockery of a funeral procession. The figure was after all, not dead. Great pains had been taken to keep them alive, more care than any thought still could be had in these times. 

They filed out from the chamber and the reliquaries, heretic artefacts in crates carried between the rest. The casket was loaded onto the Stormraven, awkwardly laid down between the seats, only just enough room for it. Closer now, they could see the shadows haunting the cheeks and eyes, a triangle-shaped split in the shell of the left ear. The face was tired, the crease between the eyebrows betraying some great grief. It was not the face of one who would now call themselves Night Lord. 

The Stormraven flew to the waiting battle barge, those who had waited around the asteroid following closely, like a protective flock. Then the ships departed, leaving the asteroid unmarked, once again floating- now completely empty, in the soundless void.

Chapter 1: Awoken

They opened their eyes, only partially. Frost and light made it difficult- that was their first real clue that they were no longer on the Nightfall. No one would have had the lumens this bright. They squeezed their eyes shut against it, a child refusing to wake. Their breath came in ragged, quick gasps. The ache of surgery was still fresh, soft twinges of pain that they recognised but never felt before to this degree. 

“K- Khh-,” their mouth did not want to move, their teeth chattered against the cold. “Ko- Konnacht.” 

There was no response to their plea. Shadows moved across their face, and they forced their eyes open, ready to receive whatever horror awaited. It was a face, that much they had expected. A face of a space marine, broad and noble, fair skinned but crossed with battle scars, a pair of metal studs embedded above the eyebrow. 

The eyes were, of course, the final nail in the proverbial coffin. They were green, with an inner ring of grey. Of course it didn’t matter what colour the eyes were- they weren’t black. The man above them studied them as if they were little more than bacteria on a plex dish.

Noble blue armour, a bright gold trim, a blazing white Ultima. His narthecium was clicking over them, tapping at armoured plates, testing their pulse. He was also waving a diagnostor over them. 

“Ultramarine,” they managed. “You- you must tell… the Lords. Curze- Curze has… gone mad.” 

The Ultramarine looked at them dispassionately.

“You have been heavily injured, Captain, please do not move or attempt to speak.” 

Captain. Had that been their rank? They’d never truly been sure if they’d had an official rank. 

“Nostramo,” they tried again. “Nostramo is gone.” 

The Ultramarine nodded. 

“We are aware. Rest.” 

But their body would not rest. There were tremors, half from the cold and half from their body reacting to the damage taken. 

“Where is he?” They asked. 

The Ultramarine did not answer. 

“What of Sevatar? Shang?”

He still did not answer. Further noise came, the whining of servos inside power armour. More marines.

“We are going to lift you from the casket, Captain Kulikov,” another voice said. “Please do not move.” 

Handles were maglocked to their armour, they stayed as still as they could, but a soft groan of pain still escaped their mouth as they were moved. The ache became a tear, a body still happily reminding them of the damage inflicted. 

They were manoeuvred to a cot, where chapter serfs came forward. The serfs knew the layout of the armour, knew where the catches lay and where to find the bolts that held it together. They lay limply, only moving to ease the job of the serfs. The weight of the armour was practically unmovable for them in their current state- the power pack didn’t help. 

“What is this?” A marine intoned.

They were just about able to tilt their head, to look back at the casket and what the Ultramarine held. Deep blue fabric, it looked small in his hand.

“My jacket,” said Cary. “Could I have it?” 

Some wordless exchange happened between the Astartes in the room. But the jacket was brought to them.

“It was folded behind your head,” said the marine who had found it. 

“It’s my QPC jacket,” they mumbled, half to themselves, smoothing a thumb over the silver-threaded patch at the shoulder. “Half a relic now.” 

More of the plates were removed, from the inside the damage was more obvious. The repairs had been done well, but still visible. Curze had caved in most of their diaphragm after all. 

“I need to inspect your injuries,” the apothecary said. 

Cary leaned forward, grinding their teeth against the pain. Gauntleted hands held their shoulders, supported them as the apothecary released the catch at the back of the neck. The glove only needed to be taken down to their waist, and they were laid back down again. 

It was the first time Cary had seen the wound. Medical skin had been pulled across the gap, the hole had been too large to simply suture closed. The scarring was still red, still raw, slightly pink at the edges. There were still flakes of dried blood, smeared across their skin. It was the newest scar, but far from the first. 

“What weapon caused this?” Another Ultramarine asked, his helmet angled downward. 

“Mercy,” Cary answered. 

The helmet looked at them, and though his face was hidden Cary could feel his confusion, muted though it may have been. 

“One of Curze’s lightning claws. Mercy and Forgiveness,” they nearly laughed. 

The spasm of near laughter made their body seize and jolt, they lay still. The Ultramarines lacked a sense of humour, instead one steadied their shoulder while the apothecary placed a needle to their arm. 

“A painkiller. Your carapace has been repaired but not healed fully,” he said. 

Cary nodded, not really taking in the information.

“How long have I been asleep?” They asked.

There was no response from those in the room. With their eyes adjusted to the light they could make out a handful of armoured Astartes, four including the apothecary, and a small team of serfs. 

The painkillers crept across their body, elevating much of the pain but rendering them even more sluggish in their thoughts and movements. 

“How long?” They asked again. 

“A long time,” the apothecary said. 

Cary looked at him, blinking slowly against the numbing effects of the drug. 

“Tell me,” they pleaded.

“Nearly ten thousand years,” the Ultramarine who had given them their jacket said. 

The apothecary glared at his fellow, then checked what Cary could only assume was a readout of their vitals. 

“Ten thousand years?” Cary repeated, slowly.

They looked straight up at the ceiling, not truly seeing it, digesting this information. 

“Where is Curze?” They asked. 

“Dead,” said the Ultramarine. 

“Elaius,” cautioned the apothecary. 

Cary nodded, slowly. It was an odd feeling, circling its way across their chest. Grief had always been their constant companion, more constant than even the Night Haunter had been. Now the grief was compounded further- when they closed their eyes they still saw Nostramo burn. 

“Why did he let you live?” The Ultramarine- Elaius asked. 

“I don’t know,” Cary admitted. “He always said he’d kill me. That he’d seen it. Always followed the damn visions. Followed them right to the end.” 

Their breathing was becoming more laboured, their chest tight with exhaustion and mourning. Cary closed their eyes, only praying that the action would stop them from weeping openly. 

“You need rest,” rumbled the voice of the apothecary.

Another needle pierced their skin, and again they fell into a drugged sleep. 

-

The dream was formless, not a true thing. An unconscious space that had broken down. Someone was calling their name. They turned. Darkness seeped across the not-floor, it was below them, a roiling ocean, a black sea. There, down below them, a speck of white. They already knew who it was, they reached out their hands, but never seemed to be able to get any closer. They felt hands on their shoulders, strong, large hands. 

They tried to shrug them off, gritting their teeth and reaching again, gauntleted arm outstretched. Cary looked at their arms. Looked at their gauntlet. The chain.

Cary Kulikov, as they had done many times before, took aim upon their primarch and fired. The silver chain sprung forward, the four-pronged hook expanding out. It caught. The chain grew taunt. The servos on their arm whined as the motors pulled the chain back. 

He came up from the dark sea like a bat, reaching for them as they reached for him. There was a second where they saw his face, pale and gaunt, then the Primarch crashed into them like a solid wall. 

All again was dark. 

-

When they opened their eyes again, they had to take a second to think. It was not the same ceiling Cary had been helped to slumber under, where bright lumens had danced painfully before their eyes. In fact, the room was rather dim. There was a blanket laid over them, and what seemed to be a bed beneath them. 

Sleeping quarters, they thought, idly. Indeed, tilting their head they could see that their armour had been mounted magnetically to a storage rack. The rest of the room was small, spartan in its furnishings, though shelving space clearly existed for the occupant to make it their own. An Astartes-sized desk and chair, an ablutions chamber and of course a lone figure sitting politely on a stool. A young girl, probably belonging to the servant caste of the ship- probably about thirteen or fourteen years old. She had short blonde-white hair cut roughly above the shoulders, sky-blue eyes and a pale, voidborn complexion.

She peered at Cary, the hands on her knees just about peaking out from her sleeves. 

“You don’t look very frightening,” the girl said, sliding off of the stool. “I don’t see what all the fuss is about.” 

“I try my best,” Cary replied.

The girl looked at the door, suddenly still. Like an animal in a trap. Cary could hear the sound of plated boots coming down the corridor. 

“You’re not meant to be in here, are you?” They observed. 

The girl scowled at them, worrying her lip with her teeth. Cary nodded towards the ablution chamber. 

“Go hide in there. Sit down and don’t move. I won’t breathe a word,” they mimed drawing a cross over both sides of their chest with a finger. Cross their hearts and hope to die.

The girl scrambled into the chamber, clicking the door shut. Cary looked to the door. When it opened, only two people entered. One Ultramarine, and a young man- human. He was dressed in Imperial black, with an impressive amount of golden trim and fine decorations. His skin was dark, and his hair close-cropped to his head. Cary looked to his breast pocket, where an inquisitorial rosette sat plainly. 

“Good morning, Captain Kulikov,” said the young inquisitor. “I am Inquisitor Gael Casteter, I would like to ask you some things.”

Cary had never had a particular love for the inquisition. Torture a man enough he’d admit to anything, it was no way to reveal any kind of truth. 

“Can I ask some questions first?” Cary sat up, slowly. 

The Ultramarine watched them carefully, but did not reach for his weapons. He seemed taller than most other marines. Gael took the stool, recently abandoned by the girl. 

“You may.” 

“What has… happened?” They asked. “It’s been ten thousand years. Who still lives? Does anyone? The Primarchs, the Emperor?”

Gael looked at them with something approaching sympathy. 

“The God-Emperor lives, resting upon the Golden Throne of Terra. Lord Guilliman, returned to us from his stasis, serves as his Lord Regent.”

It took them longer than was comfortable to process this. 

“The Warmaster?” They asked.

“The Arch-Traitor Horus,” Gael corrected them, gently. “He fell to the ruinous powers, and with the traitor legions brought upon the Imperium a bloody war. Many were lost to us.” 

A thousand names came to their lips. Cary dared not speak them, as if silence would keep them alive. 

“Traitor legions?” They settled on.

“The Sons of Horus, the Emperor’s Children, the Iron Warriors, the Night Lords,” he paused to incline his head in the direction of their armour. “The World Eaters, The Death Guard, The Thousand Sons, the Word Bearers and the Alpha Legion. They joined Horus on his crusade, and paid the ultimate price.” 

Cary’s head span, blinking rapidly against the information. They didn’t want to believe it- they didn’t want it to be true, no matter how much it had to have been true. They had seen parts of it in visions, with their own eyes.

“The Sons of Horus,” they echoed. 

“You would have known them as the Luna Wolves,” the Ultramarine said.

Cary recognised the voice through the vox speaker. It was Elaius, the one whom the apothecary had chided. They rested their head against the metal wall behind them, closed their eyes. 

“I am sorry,” said the Inquisitor. “I understand this must be a shock.” 

“I have lost everyone I have ever known in the span of what feels like a day. Perhaps two at a stretch,” they said, without thinking. “I am a little more than shocked.”

Cary opened their eyes again, looking at Gael. 

“What did you want to ask me?”

He withdrew a device from his pocket, balancing it on his knee. They recognised it as a vox recorder, the green light meaning it had been listening to their conversation, likely from the moment Gael and Elaius stepped through the door. 

“I would like to hear your account, from the very beginning,” said Gael. “I am aware you knew Konrad Curze from a young age, I want to hear about your life.” 

Cary tilted their head.

“Why?”

“I am nothing if not a scholar, Captain Kulikov. It will also help me to keep you alive longer, many here already think you a heretic if only for the armour you wear and the geneseed you bare.” He smiled, kindly. 

“Everything then? From the very beginning?” They clarified.

“If you would be so kind.”

“Very well.”