#PANEL FROM DARK DAYS: THE FORGE

[mattiebluebird]

I love how Bruce tells Duke to guard the Cave & Duke goes "Yes, sir. You got it. Not a single goddamm person is getting into this Cave." Like he takes it so seriously that when the GREEN LANTERN shows up, Duke doesn't think "Hm. He probably has a good reason for being here. Maybe I should ask him?"

No.

He DROPKICKS HIS ASS.

[novaursa]

hey nova, could you make sandor x reader or tywin x reader (what came naturally for you). the reader is princess of dorne. maybe the reader heard they don't want to marry her, saying she's plain, etc. maybe angst hehehe. but if i also want them to grovel at the reader, like regret everything as they falling in love, but the reader has trust issues so doesnt want to give in.

You Who Tried

- Summary: Some of the greatest tragedies never had a chance to be mourned.

- Pairing: martell!reader/Tywin Lannister

- Rating: Explicit 18+ (just to be safe)

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @oxymakestheworldgoround @idenyimimdenial

- A/N: I've made this little more serious. I hope you don't mind.

The fire crackled low in the hearth, its warm glow dancing against the dark wood-paneled walls of the solar. Tywin Lannister sat behind his carved desk, a half-empty goblet of Arbor gold in his hand, untouched correspondence splayed before him and ignored. The candlelight cast shades across his face, aging him more than the years ever could. He stared into the wine as though it might whisper answers, his expression grim, eyes dark with something unspoken. It had been a year. One year since that night, the night of his wedding to the Princess of Dorne. One year since her hand had trembled within his own as they danced before the court. One year since her eyes, wide and bright like twin suns, had searched his face with a reverence that had startled him more than he had ever let on. He had been a conqueror that day, a lion who had claimed not just a bride but a realm of southern alliances and future security. Yet now, as he sat alone in silence, that night lingered like a ghost, pressing cold fingers against his spine.

He remembered her chambers clearly—fragrant with orange blossoms and lemons, the silk of the Martell banners swaying slightly from the windows cracked open to the cool night air. She had waited for him on the bed, not yet unclothed, her posture straight despite her bare feet and the loosened braid that draped over her shoulder. She looked regal even then, even young and untouched, like someone carved of ivory and sunlight. He remembered the color of her eyes—amber ringed in deeper gold—and how they lifted to meet his as he entered the room. There had been no fear in her, only that dangerous thing he now knew better than to underestimate: hope.

"You came," you said softly, as though you hadn’t expected him to. Your voice was calm but your hands were clasped tightly in your lap, knuckles pale against the fabric of your nightdress.

"It is our wedding night," Tywin had replied, his tone clipped, precise. Duty had always come easily to him—whether steel or oaths or flesh. He had not come to wound you. He had come because it was expected, because alliances were forged not just in ink but in blood and consummation. He had steeled himself against softness, as he always did. He had not meant to be cruel.

You had not shied from his touch. You had looked up at him as he approached, your eyes searching—questioning, yes, but trusting too. Your breath hitched when he took your face in his hand, tilting it slightly so he could study you better. You were beautiful, undeniably, and you smelled of sun-warmed citrus and spices he’d only ever encountered in war campaigns. Your skin was gold-touched, your lips parted in anticipation, and your gaze so open it unsettled him. No one looked at him like that. Not even Joanna had looked at him like that—not with such innocent belief. You had looked at him like he might be more than a lion in a cage of stone and obligation. You looked at him as though he could be tender.

"Will it hurt?" you had asked, your voice barely above a whisper.

"For a moment," he replied. "But you will be fine."

You had nodded, trusting him. Trusting him.

Tywin downed the rest of his wine in one swallow, the memory burning hotter than the alcohol. He could still feel the silken glide of your skin beneath his hands, the way your body arched hesitantly beneath him, and how you whispered his name the first time he entered you. Not my lord, not Lion of the Rock. You said Tywin like it was something precious. And he, in turn, had been careful—perhaps not gentle, but measured. Efficient. He had kissed you once, more out of necessity than affection, and when it was over, he had remained long enough to see the blood staining the sheets, a grim satisfaction curling in his chest. The seal was done. The alliance had been made. The honor of both houses preserved.

You had turned your face toward him as he dressed again, still beneath the sheets, your lashes damp and cheeks flushed. “Will you stay?” you asked, your voice soft but not pleading. “Just for a little while.”

He had fastened the last of his buttons, adjusted his belt, and replied, “There is much to see to in the morning.” He had turned without looking back and left your chambers in silence, his boots loud against the cold stone. He had not seen your face fall—only imagined it later, after the door had closed. But the image had haunted him nonetheless. A flicker of something had dimmed in you that night, not extinguished, but altered. He had seen it the next morning when you entered the Great Hall, clothed in Lannister crimson rather than Martell orange. You had smiled, performed your duties flawlessly, but your eyes had changed. There had been a shadow where before there was fire.

That was the beginning. Or perhaps it was the end. He had not touched you again.

Tywin poured more wine with an unsteady hand and leaned back in his chair, exhaling slowly through his nose. A year had passed, and you had been the perfect wife in every way—dutiful, gracious, political where required. But never again had you looked at him like you had that night. You had stopped asking him to stay. Stopped meeting him in the gardens. Stopped waiting up for him. You had grown cold—not in anger, but in quiet, resigned indifference. And he had let you. Gods forgive him, he had let you.

He stared into the fire and thought of the girl who once looked at him like he could be more than the sum of his titles. Tywin Lannister felt something unfamiliar curdle inside his chest. Regret.

The halls of Casterly Rock echoed with silence at this hour, the keep heavy with the stillness that only came after the lords had gone to bed and the servants had stilled their steps. Tywin sat again in his solar, though this time the goblet in his hand had long gone cold. He wasn’t drinking tonight. He didn’t need wine to summon the memories that plagued him now—not when they came so easily, like ghosts waiting only for him to be alone. His mind wandered once more, against his will, to her voice, to the lilting cadence of it, full of music and color, always vibrant even when it grated against his composure. She had tried, gods forgive him, she had tried so very hard.

In the weeks that followed their wedding, you had not been content to merely exist beside him. You had sought him out—in the garden walks, in the solar, even in the corridor outside the council chamber, always with that same determined grace. You had come to him like sun rising over red dunes, warm and brilliant and strange. He had not known what to do with that. He had not been taught to receive warmth. His world had been forged in steel and stone, not sand and sunlight.

“Do you know how the first Martell prince took his throne?” you had asked him once, seated across from him in the solar after supper, a book open in your lap, your eyes glinting with curiosity rather than pride. You were not boasting—never boasting. You simply wanted to share a story.

“I imagine it involved blood,” Tywin had said dryly, not looking up from the document he was reviewing.

You had laughed softly. “All thrones do. But he did it through marriage. He wed the warrior-queen Nymeria. She brought ten thousand ships and a whole people with her. He gave her equal rule and took her name instead of forcing her to take his.”

Tywin had looked up then, faintly irritated. “And what lesson am I to take from this, my lady?”

You tilted your head, considering. “That strength does not always look like conquest, my lord. Sometimes, it is in yielding without being defeated.”

He had said nothing after that. He had returned to his writing, and you had closed your book, the light in your eyes flickering but not extinguished. Not yet.

There were more nights like that. You brought him fruits he did not eat, books he did not read, stories he did not ask to hear. You told him of the Red Mountains, of the basilisk-infested ruins of Yeen, of your mother who once rode a white sand steed faster than the Dornish wind. You spoke of your eldest brother with reverence and mischief, how he used to carry you across the hot stones of the palace barefoot, so you wouldn’t burn your feet. You told these things with a softness that was never self-serving—always a hope that he might say something back, that he might offer a sliver of his world in return.

But Tywin had never learned to speak in the language of affection. His tongue knew the taste of order, of correction, of decree—but not of warmth. He had not asked about your brother. He had not touched the slices of blood orange you left on a silver plate beside his wine. He did not turn when you stood behind his chair with a hesitant hand near his shoulder, waiting to be invited closer.

And yet, you tried.

You tried still when you invited him to walk the gardens with you under the moonlight, and he refused. You tried when you sat beside him with parchment and ink, hoping to write to Sunspear together. You tried when you sang beneath your breath, old Dornish songs with melodies so foreign they ached in his ears. You tried when you sat across from him at meals and smiled, always smiled, even when he didn’t look up.

And then—then, one day, you stopped.

He hadn’t noticed it at first. He was a busy man. The day-to-day demands of rule did not leave time for frivolous thoughts of wives and gardens and stories from far-off deserts. But the silence grew. The tray of untouched fruit no longer appeared. The space beside him at supper became filled with cold conversation and absent eyes. You sat like a statue now, your face perfectly arranged, your voice no longer lit with curiosity, only civility. You ceased to seek him. You ceased to speak of Nymeria, of old songs, of the brother who carried you barefoot. You ceased to try.

It was then that Tywin had looked up from his writing one evening, a line of ink drying crooked on the page, and realized the solar was too quiet. No footsteps approached. No voice asked if he needed anything, if he had eaten, if he would walk with you. There was no scent of citrus or sun-warmed spices lingering near his desk. The absence struck him like a blade between the ribs.

He rose without thought and went to your chambers that night. He had not been there since the wedding. He expected—he didn’t know what he expected. Perhaps the old you, the hopeful you, sitting in your chair by the window. Instead, he found the fire burned low and you asleep already, turned away from the door. You had drawn the curtains around your bed. He could only see the shape of you beneath the coverlets—still, unmoving, far away.

He stood there for longer than he should have, a shadow among shadows, before turning and leaving in silence.

It was too late.

And Tywin Lannister, who had bent kingdoms to his will and never wept for anything—not for his father, not for his wife, not for his pride—realized that for the first time in his life, he had lost something not because it had been taken from him, but because he had let it die.

[theresattrpgforthat]

How To Find Cool Games: On DriveThruRPG!

So disclaimer upfront: I don’t use the DriveThruRPG website nearly as much as Itch.io. Some of those reasons are practical (there’s no tagging system, the catalogue is rather D&D saturated,), while others are more… well, shallow (the website isn’t as pretty).

However, DriveThruRPG is a very good tool to have in your toolbox when it comes to finding cool ttrpgs, for a number of reasons, the primary one being that it’s for TTRPGS and only TTRPGs! Let’s get started.

The Search Bar / Categories.

You can start by doing a basic search for a game that you already know about, or by searching for a keyword, like “pirates” or “zombies”. You’ll get titles sorted by “relevance”, so things that have the keyword in the name will show up first. One of the biggest downsides of this strategy is that everything kind of gets lumped in here: supplements, maps, expansions, adventures, character sheets… the list goes on. However, you can narrow down what you’re looking for by using the toggles at the top of the website. I personally usually narrow down search results by selecting “Product Type” and then “Core Rulebooks”.

One nice thing DriveThru has compared to Itch.io is that you can combine categories, so if I wanted to brows say, Gothic Horror Core Rulebooks priced under $20, well I can do that! My favourite categories are for genre, but another set of categories that you may find very useful once you’ve familiarized yourself with some games is the Rule System category. There are categories for systems like the Year Zero Engine, Forged in the Dark, BRP (Basic Roleplaying), OSR, and so much more. There’s also “other systems” and “any system” categories if you want to find something that’s unique or that can be used across games.

DriveThru also has a lot of games published in different languages, and you can narrow your results to see what’s been offered in your language. I think there are more options on this website than there are on Itch, although you might benefit by finding one or two publishers in your language on DriveThru, and then check the publisher’s website from there.

The Homepage

Another reason to check out DriveThru regularly is the sales and promotions. The top banner of the homepage will typically advertise a few things: the Deal of the Day, current themed sales, and special offers that DriveThru RPG wants you to know about. Their homepage also has Bestselling Titles, Most Popular Games Under $5, Newest Games, Featured Titles, and, if you scroll down enough, Personalized suggestions. Unlike Itch.io, DriveThru does a lot of work to show you what’s new, what’s hot, and what’s a really good deal right now, which can all be really helpful things!

When you land on a game, you’ll be able to see whether or not DriveThru sells physical copies, some basic information like book size, rule system, publisher & author, and a blurb describing the setting and other general information about the game. DriveThru has a side panel with “Customers also Bought”, which is great for showing you things that you might like, either because they surround the same theme, they work for the same game, or they are in a similar genre. (Another thing that Itch isn’t quite as good at.)

You’ll also be able to see (and leave) reviews for game, including the ratings left by other people who have picked it up. Occasionally I’ll find really useful information in the reviews, as reviewers might talk about mechanics they love or loathe, or recommend styles of play that they feel the game matches.

Finally, like Itch, DriveThru will let you know if you’ve already bought the game, and provide you with a download shortcut.

Publishing House Pages

Larger publishing houses typically have their ttrpg content sorted very nicely for you on their publisher pages, to help you find the things that you want. Modiphius is a great example, sorting Star Trek, Dune, Fallout, and their 2d20 games all in special categories.

Many publishers also have a Community Content section, which is great if you’re looking for assets, new adventures, hacks of a game system and some very reasonably priced (or even cheap) game additions. Similar to Itch, DriveThru has a Pay-What-You-Want feature for many games, although, unlike Itch, most PWYW titles require that you pay a non-zero amount.

Newsletters

When you create an account on DriveThruRPG, you can sign up for various different kinds of newsletters. Some come directly from DriveThru itself: this includes the Follow Your Favourites and Deal of the Day options, as well as weekly/monthly newsletters carrying information about new releases, special promotions, and (often) a free ttrpg product of the month.

However, on top of that, when you purchase a game or follow publishing pages, you can also get emails about new releases specific to those creators, as well as updates if a new version of a game you bought has been added. Often if it’s a game you already bought, this means you own the new version too - something that DriveThru has in common with Itch!

The Follow Your Favourites announcements will line up with whatever you’ve chosen to follow on the website. I’ve asked for updates about new Core Rulebooks, and I also get updates from the Onyx Path and a few other places where I found games I really liked. I also check the Deal of the Day offers fairly regularly; sometimes there are really really good deals offered and if it’s a game you know or like, then you don’t want to miss out on a sale!

Wishlists

DriveThru allows you to add games to wishlists to look at later, and even gives you the ability to sort your wishlists, although the process feels harder to look through than Itch does; I think it might be a UI issue.

However, because it acts like a wishlist, you can move games from the wishlist into your cart and vice versa, as well as move the games to another list. One really nice thing about the wishlist section is that DriveThru will alway show you when something you want is on sale, and how much it is normally - Itch does this too, but in this case, DriveThru is much easier to read!

I mostly sort my wishlists into Core Rulebooks and Supplements, because I don’t have nearly as many games bookmarked on DriveThru. If it exists on Itch, I store it on Itch - but there are plenty of other, “someday’ games, that I want to be able to find again in the future.

Your Library

DriveThruRPG has an app that you can download onto your computer or your phone, and it basically acts as a library that you can look through. In both the webpage and the app, you can sort your purchases alphabetically, from new to old, by publisher, by whether or not they were updated, and using similar categories as the search bar on the store front.

Free things can definitely be found here, even if they’re harder to look for. On DriveThru, most free products are things like character sheets, playtest games, or Quickstarts. However, some publishers do put up their stuff for free. Whenever I can get a Quickstart of something interesting, or if I find something being offered for free, I add it to my library. Free games are how I got started in ttrpgs, and QuickStarts are wonderful introductions to a system that usually give you a good idea of what the game is going to feel like.

Conclusion

Overall, DriveThruRPG is great for folks who like certain big publishing houses, and folks who like a good deal. I personally usually end up on the site because something in my emails caught my eye, which is the opposite of how I navigate Itch. DriveThru was my home base before I discovered Itch.io, so I still have a little fondness for the website, even if looking through it is a little bit of a slog.

One thing that might be a bit of an annoyance is that if you own something from a certain company, they might be able to send you a lot of emails for every sale and new product. If this becomes too much, you can choose to opt out from those publishers.

If you don’t want to have to actively engage with the website as much as say, Itch, DriveThru’s email system is also a big help. You can customize your subscriptions to match what you’re interested in, and then just check your emails once in a while to see what’s on offer. After a while you’ll also learn about yearly events, like the Summer Sale, which often provides big discounts on a lot of different games.

DriveThru is also a great place to start if you’re looking for print versions of games: I don’t know what shipping is like to places outside Canada, but I definitely appreciate that it’s an option, and sometimes all you need to do is find a game or publisher - once you know that it exists, you can google that publisher, check out their website, and figure out the best place to order from there.

[fr0stf4ll]

Forge of Starlight - Part 10

paring; Azriel x reader

summary; In the heart of Velaris, a skilled blacksmith's quiet life is turned upside down when unexpected bonds begin to form with the enigmatic Spymaster of the Night Court. As she navigates the challenges of her craft and the complexities of newfound relationships, she discovers that love and loyalty may be the strongest forces of all in a world where darkness often lingers just beyond the light.

word count ; 4.7k

warning; grief, mention of death and dead body.

notes; well apologies need to be told for the last chapter everyone. I'm sorry ;))) Still hope that you will like this chapter, please look at the warnings some people might be sensitive to the topics. Love <33

here is the link for part 9 or part 11

---

The shop had been silent for weeks. The usual warmth that radiated from the forge, the rhythmic clang of the hammer against steel, the cheerful voice of a young boy eagerly trying to sell every weapon in sight—it was all gone. The life that once pulsed through the place had faded, leaving only a cold, hollow emptiness.

A small, handwritten panel hung on the door, swaying gently in the breeze:

"Closed, come and see us another time ;))"

The smiley face at the end of the note was a cruel reminder of the life that had once filled this place, a mockery of the joy that had been ripped away. Now, the shop stood dead—no heat from the forge, no sound of work, no laughter.

Inside, the atmosphere was just as cold. The forge had long since cooled, the tools lay untouched, and the once vibrant displays of weapons now seemed to gather dust, lifeless in the dim light that filtered through the windows.

You had retreated to the back of the shop, to the small apartment that had once been a sanctuary for you and Alexander. But even there, the silence was deafening. The only place you could find any semblance of comfort was in Alex’s bed, where you had wrapped yourself in his blankets, trying desperately to hold onto the last traces of his scent. It was faint now, barely there, but you clung to it as if it were a lifeline.

The pain was a constant, gnawing ache that never seemed to ease. Every breath felt heavy, every heartbeat a reminder of the one that had stopped. Alex was gone, and with him, it felt like a piece of your soul had been ripped away, leaving behind a gaping wound that refused to heal.

Azriel had been by your side throughout it all. He came to the shop every day, sitting quietly in the corner of the room, watching over you with a silent vigil. He had offered his comfort, his presence, but there were no words that could fill the void left by Alex’s absence.

He didn’t press you to talk, didn’t push you to move or eat. He simply stayed, his own heart heavy with the bond that had snapped into place during the most horrific moment of both your lives. It was as if he understood that the only thing he could offer was his quiet companionship, a presence that grounded you even as you felt like you were falling apart.

But everything was so hard now.

The simplest tasks—getting out of bed, eating, even breathing—felt like monumental efforts, each one requiring more strength than you thought you had left. Some days, you couldn’t even bring yourself to move, lying in Alex’s bed, surrounded by his things, trying to hold onto the memory of him for just a little longer.

Azriel would sit beside you during those times, not saying a word, his hand occasionally reaching out to brush against yours, a silent reminder that he was there, that you weren’t alone. But even his presence, comforting as it was, couldn’t erase the pain.

The grief was suffocating, a heavy blanket that wrapped around you, making it impossible to see beyond the loss. And yet, despite the overwhelming darkness, there was a small part of you that clung to Azriel’s presence, a flicker of something that refused to be snuffed out entirely.

But it was hard. So incredibly hard.

There were moments when you thought about getting up, about leaving the bed and trying to find some semblance of normalcy, but the thought of facing the world without Alex was too much to bear. The world felt cold, unforgiving, and you weren’t sure if you had the strength to step back into it.

So you stayed in Alex’s bed, wrapped in his scent, in the memories of the boy who had been your everything. And Azriel stayed with you, his silent company the only thing keeping you tethered to reality, even as the world felt like it was slipping away.

It had been weeks, and the shop was dead.

Completely dead.

And you weren’t sure if it—or you—would ever come back to life.

As the heavy silence settled over the shop, memories of that fateful day began to resurface, unbidden and relentless, pulling back to the moment when everything had changed.

Azriel’s hands trembled as he used his shadows to gently wrap Alex’s small, lifeless body. The thick material of his cloak, normally used to conceal and protect, now served as a shroud for the boy who had been so full of life. Azriel’s shadows, usually a source of strength and power, now felt like a burden as they took on the solemn duty of carrying the boy's body.

As the shadows lifted Alex’s body, cocooned in the cloak, Azriel felt a deep, wrenching pain in his chest. The flames that had once flickered so fiercely in your eyes were now extinguished, leaving only an empty void that Azriel could barely comprehend. He couldn’t bear to look at you, the way your face was drained of color, your eyes hollow and fixed straight ahead as you hovered beside him in the air.

The flight back to Velaris was slow, agonizingly slow, every beat of Azriel’s wings heavy with grief. His shadows carried Alex’s body with the utmost care, as if even in death, the boy deserved the gentleness that had once filled his life. Azriel kept glancing at you, hoping for some sign that you were still there, still present, but your expression was unreadable, lost somewhere far away from him.

When you finally landed in front of the townhouse, you didn’t wait for Azriel. You turned on your heel and walked away, your steps unsteady but resolute. You didn’t say a word, didn’t look back, as you made your way through the quiet streets of Velaris, heading directly to your apartment above the shop.

Azriel watched you go, torn between following you and respecting your need for space. “Y/N,” he called out softly, his voice heavy with sorrow and helplessness.

You paused for the briefest moment, your back still turned to him, before shaking your head. “I need to be alone, Azriel. Please… just give me some time.”

The finality in your voice struck him like a blow. He wanted to argue, to tell you that you didn’t have to go through this alone, that he was here for you, and would always be here for you. But he knew better than to push. He nodded, even though you couldn’t see it, and watched as you disappeared into the darkness.

Azriel stood there for a long time, his shadows still cradling Alex’s body as if trying to shield the boy from the cruel reality of death. The streets of Velaris were silent around him, a stark contrast to the chaos that raged in his mind. The bond, newly formed and searingly powerful, pulsed with a pain that left him breathless.

With a heavy heart, he finally turned and made his way into the townhouse, where he knew Rhysand and the others were waiting.

As Azriel entered the townhouse, the warmth that usually greeted him felt distant, as though the very air had chilled in sympathy with his grief. Rhysand, Cassian, and Mor were gathered in the sitting room, their faces etched with concern and sorrow. They had been waiting for him, and the moment he stepped inside, their eyes were drawn to the shadows that carried the small, wrapped bundle.

Azriel’s shadows, usually vibrant with life and energy, were subdued, almost mournful as they carefully placed Alex’s body on a nearby table. They lingered there, curling protectively around the small form before slowly retreating, leaving only the cloak-shrouded body behind.

Rhysand was the first to speak, his voice low and controlled, though Azriel could hear the strain in it. “What happened?”

Azriel took a deep breath, trying to steady himself as he recounted the events. He told them about the fight in the clearing, about the dark ritual that had drained Alex’s life force, about the cruel man who had orchestrated it all. But when he spoke about you, about how you had cradled Alex’s body in his final moments, his voice faltered.

“She… she’s broken, Rhys,” Azriel said quietly, his gaze fixed on the floor. “I’ve never seen her like this. I don’t know how to help her.”

Cassian’s fists clenched at his sides, his eyes burning with barely restrained fury. “Who did this? Who’s responsible?”

Azriel shook his head, his shadows shifting restlessly. “I don’t know. He was there, taunting her, but he vanished before we could stop him. He said… he said the power inside her wasn’t meant for her, that it was supposed to be taken from her. And Alex… he was a part of that.”

Rhysand’s expression darkened, his hands curling into fists as he processed the information. “This is bigger than we thought. We need to find out who this man is and what he wants.”

Azriel nodded, but his mind was only half on the conversation. The other half was with you, alone in your apartment, surrounded by memories of the boy who had meant everything to you. He wanted to go to you, to hold you, to tell you that you weren’t alone, that he was there for you.

But the bond…

The bond had snapped into place during Alex’s final moments, but you hadn’t felt it. You were too consumed by your grief, too lost in the agony of losing someone you had loved like a son. Azriel could feel it, the mating bond humming in the background of his mind, a constant reminder of the connection between you. But it was tainted by the pain of what had happened, by the guilt of not being able to save Alex, of not being able to spare you from this suffering.

“I need to be with her,” Azriel said finally, his voice raw. “She asked for time, but… I can’t just leave her alone.”

Rhysand’s gaze softened, understanding flashing in his violet eyes. “She’ll need you, Az. Maybe not right now, but soon. Give her the space she needs, but be there when she’s ready. She’s strong, but no one should go through this alone.”

Cassian stepped forward, his hand resting on Azriel’s shoulder, offering silent support. “We’ll figure this out. Whoever did this won’t get away with it. But right now, she needs you to be there for her, in whatever way she’ll allow.”

Azriel nodded, though the uncertainty still gnawed at him. He knew they were right, knew that you would need him eventually. But the bond… it was there, pulsing with every beat of his heart, a reminder that you were his mate, that you were tied to him in a way that neither of you could ignore forever.

But for now, all he could do was wait. Wait for you to come to terms with your grief, wait for you to find your way back to him. And in the meantime, he would be there, watching over you, protecting you, even if it meant staying in the shadows, just out of reach.

As the conversation with Rhysand and Cassian continued, Azriel’s thoughts kept drifting back to you, to the pain he had seen in your eyes, to the way you had cradled Alex’s body as if you could somehow bring him back.

The bond pulsed again, a painful reminder of what he had gained and lost all at once.

And all he could do was wait.

The soft light of the setting sun filtered through the windows of the townhouse, casting long shadows across the room. Azriel stood near the hearth, his posture rigid, his hands clenched at his sides as he stared into the flickering flames. The silence between him and Rhysand was heavy, filled with unspoken words and the weight of the truth that Azriel had been grappling with since the moment the bond had snapped into place.

Rhysand watched him from where he sat, his usual air of calm authority tinged with concern as he studied his brother. He could sense the turmoil roiling within Azriel, the conflicting emotions that were tearing him apart. Finally, unable to bear the silence any longer, Rhysand spoke.

"Az, what’s going on? You’ve been… different since you came back. Distant."

Azriel didn’t respond immediately, his gaze fixed on the fire as if it held the answers to the questions that had been plaguing him. His shadows, usually so controlled, flickered restlessly around him, a reflection of the storm inside his mind.

"I didn’t want it to happen like this," Azriel finally said, his voice low and rough, filled with a pain that he had been trying to suppress. "Not like this, not when she’s already suffering so much."

Rhysand’s brow furrowed in concern, leaning forward slightly. "What happened, Az? What aren’t you telling me?"

Azriel turned away from the fire, his expression tormented as he met Rhysand’s gaze. "The bond… it snapped into place when Alex died. She’s my mate, Rhys."

Rhysand’s eyes widened slightly, the shock evident in his expression. For a moment, he was silent, processing the weight of Azriel’s words. The bond was something sacred, something that connected two souls in a way that was unbreakable, undeniable. But to have it snap into place in such a moment of profound grief…

"Az…" Rhysand began, his voice softening as he tried to grasp the full impact of what Azriel had just confessed. "Does she know?"

Azriel shook his head, the pain in his chest tightening as he spoke. "No. She doesn’t know. She couldn’t… she was too consumed by grief, too lost in the pain of losing Alex. I felt it, Rhys. I felt it with every fiber of my being, but she… she didn’t feel it. And now, I don’t know what to do."

Rhysand stood, moving closer to Azriel, his expression filled with empathy and understanding. "The bond is powerful, Az. But so is grief. She’s been through something unimaginable. It’s no wonder she didn’t feel it in that moment."

Azriel let out a shaky breath, his voice breaking as he continued. "I can’t bear to see her like this, Rhys. I’m supposed to protect her, to be there for her, but I feel like I’ve already failed. And now, with the bond… how can I expect her to accept it, to accept me, when she’s barely holding on?"

Rhysand placed a hand on Azriel’s shoulder, his grip firm but comforting. "Az, this isn’t your fault. You’ve done everything you could. You’ve been by her side, even when she pushed you away. The bond… it’s a gift, but it’s also a responsibility. And right now, your responsibility is to give her the space she needs to heal."

Azriel closed his eyes, the weight of Rhysand’s words sinking in. "But what if she never feels it? What if she never accepts it? How can I… how can I live with that?"

Rhysand’s voice was gentle, filled with the wisdom that came from centuries of experience. "If she’s truly your mate, Az, she’ll feel it when she’s ready. The bond doesn’t force itself—it waits until both souls are ready to accept it. Right now, she’s grieving. But when she’s ready, she’ll come to you."

Azriel opened his eyes, the shadows in them darker than ever. "And if she doesn’t?"

Rhysand’s expression softened, a note of sadness in his voice. "Then you’ll have to respect her choice. The bond is powerful, but it doesn’t override free will. If she chooses not to accept it… that’s something you’ll have to learn to live with. But I don’t think that’s what will happen."

Azriel nodded slowly, though the doubt and fear still gnawed at him. "I just… I don’t want to lose her, Rhys. Not before I’ve even had a chance to tell her what she means to me."

Rhysand squeezed his shoulder, offering what comfort he could. "You won’t lose her, Az. Give her time. Be there for her, as you’ve always been. The bond will reveal itself when the time is right."

Azriel swallowed hard, the pain in his chest easing just slightly as he nodded. "I hope you’re right, Rhys. I hope… she’ll find her way back to me."

Rhysand’s smile was faint, but there was confidence in his eyes. "She will, Az. She will.”

——

Two weeks had passed since that dreadful night, two weeks of unbearable silence and darkness. The shop remained closed, the warmth of the forge long gone, replaced by a chilling emptiness that seemed to permeate every corner. The air was heavy, oppressive, as if the walls themselves mourned the loss of the boy who had brought so much life to the place.

Today was the first day you had stepped outside since Alex’s death. The cold air bit at your skin as Azriel helped you down the steps of your apartment. Snow had begun to fall, delicate flakes drifting lazily from the sky, covering the streets of Velaris in a blanket of white. The world looked peaceful, serene, a stark contrast to the turmoil that raged within you.

Azriel’s presence beside you was a constant, quiet support. He had come to pick you up, knowing that today would be harder than anything you had faced since that night. He was dressed in a long, black coat, his usual leathers replaced by something more somber, more fitting for the occasion. His shadows, always hovering around him, seemed muted, as if they too understood the gravity of the day.

You wore a simple black cloak, the hood pulled up over your head, hiding your face from the world. You had barely slept these past two weeks, the dark circles under your eyes a testament to the nightmares that haunted you whenever you closed them. The light that had once sparkled in your eyes was gone, replaced by a hollow emptiness that mirrored the grief in your heart.

The group had gathered near the outskirts of Velaris, in a small, secluded grove that overlooked the Sidra River. The place was beautiful, serene, with tall trees that stood like silent guardians over the clearing. Snow covered the ground in a soft layer, and the river flowed quietly nearby, its surface reflecting the overcast sky.

Rhysand, Mor, Cassian, and Amren were already there, dressed in dark, formal attire. Rhysand’s expression was somber, a deep sadness etched into his features. You knew that this moment struck a chord with him, reminding him of the loss of his mother and sister nearly fifty years ago. He had been trying to hold it together for your sake, but you could see the pain in his eyes, the empathy that came from a place of shared sorrow.

Mor stood beside him, her usual vivacity subdued as she watched you approach. Her eyes were filled with tears, though she blinked them away, trying to remain strong for you. Cassian stood with his arms crossed, his jaw clenched tightly as he fought to keep his emotions in check. Even Amren, who rarely showed much outward emotion, had a pained look in her eyes, her small frame seeming even smaller in the cold, quiet clearing.

Azriel led you to the center of the grove, where a small, simple grave had been prepared. It was nothing grand, just a small mound of earth, but it was surrounded by flowers that had been carefully laid by those who had come to say their goodbyes. The snow continued to fall, covering the flowers in a delicate layer of white, as if nature itself was mourning alongside you.

The silence was heavy as you stood there, staring down at the grave. You felt numb, detached, as if you were watching everything from a distance, your mind unable to fully comprehend the reality of what was happening.

Azriel’s hand rested lightly on your back, his touch gentle, offering comfort that you weren’t sure you could accept. But you didn’t move away. You couldn’t.

The others gathered around, forming a small circle around the grave. Rhysand stepped forward, his voice soft and filled with emotion as he spoke. “We gather here today to honor the life of Alexander, a boy who brought light and joy to all who knew him. He was taken from us far too soon, but his memory will live on in our hearts.”

You barely heard the words, your mind drifting as you stared at the grave, your thoughts consumed by the loss that had shattered your world. The death of Alex had left a void in your heart, a wound that refused to heal. But it wasn’t just his death that weighed on you—it was the loss of your powers, the flames that had once been a part of you, now gone, leaving you feeling empty and powerless.

Rhysand continued speaking, his voice steady despite the grief that weighed heavily on him. “We remember him not just as a friend, but as family. And though he is gone, he will always be with us, in our memories and in our hearts.”

As the final words were spoken, the group fell silent, each lost in their own thoughts, their own memories of the boy who had touched their lives. The snow continued to fall, covering the ground in a pristine blanket, the world around you growing quieter with each passing moment.

You knelt beside the grave, your fingers brushing the cold, hard earth. The tears that had been trapped inside you finally began to fall, silent and steady, as you whispered a final goodbye to the boy who had meant everything to you.

Azriel knelt beside you, his presence a solid, unwavering support as you cried, the full weight of your grief finally breaking through the numbness that had consumed you. His hand rested on your shoulder, grounding you as you released the pain that had been building inside you for so long.

Rhysand watched, his own grief mirrored in his eyes as he saw the pain you were in, knowing all too well the agony of losing someone you loved. His gaze flickered to Azriel, a silent understanding passing between them.

As the snow continued to fall, you slowly rose from your knees, your body stiff and cold from the long vigil beside Alex's grave. You turned to face the small group that had gathered with you, their faces somber, reflecting the weight of the moment. Despite the overwhelming grief that threatened to pull you under, you managed to find the strength to offer them a small, grateful smile.

"Thank you," you said, your voice soft but steady. "Thank you all for being here today. It means more to me than I can put into words. Alex… he would have been so touched to see all of you here, to know how much he was loved."

Rhysand, Mor, Cassian, and Amren nodded, each of them offering their own quiet gestures of support. Rhysand stepped forward, placing a gentle hand on your shoulder. "We're here for you, Y/N. Whatever you need, we're here."

You gave him a grateful nod before turning to Azriel, who had been standing quietly by your side, his presence a constant source of comfort throughout the day. His dark eyes met yours, and for a moment, the bond between you, though unspoken, felt palpable.

Azriel leaned down, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to your forehead. The warmth of his lips against your cold skin sent a shiver through you, not from the cold but from the tenderness of the gesture. "I'll come see you later tonight," he murmured, his voice filled with a gentle promise.

You nodded, unable to find the words to respond. His presence had been your anchor in the storm of grief, and even now, as he prepared to leave, you felt that same sense of grounding, of connection. You watched as Azriel and the others slowly began to make their way back down the path, their figures fading into the falling snow until you were left alone in the quiet grove.

The silence was both comforting and heavy, the only sound the soft crunch of snow beneath your boots as you slowly sat down in front of Alex's grave. The cold seeped through your cloak, but you barely noticed it, your mind focused entirely on the small mound of earth before you.

For a long time, you simply sat there, staring at the grave, the memories of Alex flashing through your mind in a rapid, painful montage. The boy who had become your family, who had brought so much light into your life, was gone. And yet, sitting here, in this peaceful place, you felt closer to him than you had in the weeks since his death.

You took a deep breath, letting the cold air fill your lungs before you finally spoke, your voice barely above a whisper. "I’m sorry, Alex. I’m so sorry that I wasn’t able to protect you, that I couldn’t keep you safe. I know you wouldn’t want me to be like this, lost in my grief, but it’s so hard… so hard to keep going without you."

The snow continued to fall around you, the flakes gently landing on the grave, on your shoulders, on your face, like a soft, cold embrace. You closed your eyes, letting the tears fall freely as you continued to talk, as if Alex were still there, listening.

"I’ve been thinking a lot about you," you said, your voice trembling with emotion. "About all the things we shared, all the dreams we had for the future. I wish… I wish you could be here with me now, that you could see the family I’ve found. The Inner Circle, they’re… they’re good people, Alex. They’ve taken me in, even when I didn’t think I could let anyone in. And Azriel…"

You paused, your breath catching in your throat as you thought of Azriel, the way he had been there for you, the way he had cared for you in your darkest moments. "Azriel has been so kind, so patient with me. He’s… he’s something special, Alex. I wish you could have known him better, could have seen what I see in him. I think… I think I’m starting to find a new family in them, but it hurts so much that you’re not here to be a part of it."

The tears fell faster now, your chest aching with the weight of all the things left unsaid, all the dreams that had been shattered. "I’m sorry," you whispered, your voice breaking. "I’m so sorry that you can’t be here, that you won’t get to see what comes next. But I promise you, Alex, I’ll try to keep going. I’ll try to find a way to live, to find happiness, even if it feels impossible right now. And I’ll carry you with me, always. You’ll always be a part of me."

The snow continued to fall, the world around you growing quieter, more peaceful. You let out a shaky breath, feeling a small sense of release as you spoke those words, as if a tiny part of the burden you carried had been lifted.

For a long time, you stayed there, talking to Alex about everything that came to mind—the little things, the big things, the memories that still brought a smile to your face even through the pain. And as the sky darkened and the first stars began to appear, you finally rose to your feet, feeling a little lighter, a little less alone.

You gave the grave one last, lingering look, a small, bittersweet smile tugging at your lips. "I’ll be back, Alex. I promise."

And with that, you turned and began to make your way back down the path, the snow crunching softly beneath your boots, the shadows of the grove fading behind you as you walked toward the future, one step at a time. as the snow covered the earth in a soft, white blanket, you felt, for the first time, that maybe, with time, you could begin to heal.

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[cozzzynook]

Rodimus not knowing he's sparked until he goes into labor and freaking out.

He didn’t have a clue he was sparked and its pure chaos.

Rodimus would be sitting on the bridge shifting uncomfortably in his chair until his shift was over.

Plagued with spark pains, tank bloating, spinal strut pain, stuttering vents and a sense of dread from the time he wakes that morning until his shift is over and he’s asking Megs to carry him back to his hab so he can rest.

That alone is enough to worry his co captain who takes him to his hab and waits until he’s back on the bridge to call Ratchet and Drift to inform them they should check on Rodimus.

Of course with Rodimus having spark issues they take it serious and try to leave earlier than usual but things pop up, emergencies happen and it’s not until they finish their shift are they able to rush and see if Rodimus is okay.

Do they walk into their hab to see Rodimus gripping the sheets on his knees while the other holds his tanks.

A thick puddle of energon and emergence fluids coating the floor and his lower half.

Modesty panels wide open to reveal an angry pulsing valve thats steadily leaking energon and fluid as his hips struggle with the painful pressure pressed against his insides thats wiggling and stuck.

Rodimus has scratch marks on his tanka from how tight he’s gripping himself and he knows by now whats happening.

They stand in shock as they hear Rodimus give out a loud and painful cry as he bears down and tries to push but the sparkling won’t budge and his spark starts to flicker.

They rush inside at the sight of Rodimus gushing out energon, he’s internally bleeding and its making its way out of his stretched forge canal. Ratchet knows immediately that this is bad and Drift is terrified because Rodimus is radiating pain so badly its effecting himself and Ratchet.

Ratchet can’t move Rodimus in this state but he can have Drift try to comfort Rodimus who is apologizing because he didn’t know and Drift is steadily telling him its okay.

Ratchet reaches inside to feel if he can take the sparkling out himself because Rodimus spark can’t handle all this turmoil and its making him worried.

So when he reaches inside and feels what he knows is a spoiler and some etchings on the protoform that belong to himself and Drift he knows why the sparkling is stuck.

Its not big, but it is tearing and cutting Rodimus from the inside while having wiggled itself into a literal jam.

“Alright kid, when I say relax your frame as much as you can you do it. I’m gonna pull them out and when I do, Drift you catch Rodimus and run like hell to the medbay. I’ll be right behind you.”

“You’re gonna be fine Rodimus, i promise.”

That didn’t stop Rodimus from crying harder because he knew Ratchet was scared and when Ratchet was scared, things were really really bad.

Still. He nodded.

drift held him and after a painful pulse, Rodimus relaxed the best he could feeling his optics dim and his spark flicker as his forge widened and Ratchet quickly pulled their sparkling free after a few moments.

He screamed so hard and loud his audials crashed and his spark jolted.

Drift caught him and ran him to the medbay with Ratchet right behind him as promised and was brought to the medbay with First Aid at the door waiting.

He only caught a glimpse of the wiggling, crying sparkling Ratchet was tenderly cradling.

Everything was numb and painful all at once and felt the world go dark as he watched his sparkling cry out to him.

When he woke, his chronometer stated he’d been asleep for two days.

Ratchet and Drift were cooing at their sparkling and he was on a heavy numbing agent that he was thankful for.

“Let me hold them.”

Of course they jumped at his voice before Ratchet gave their sparkling to Drift and he started checking him over.

Ratchet was not allowing him off berth rest for at least a month and while he was annoyed by it he understood.

His spark was still recovering from the trauma of emergence much like his tanks and frame were. The pain was still felt through the numbing agents but that all became a blur the moment he held their sparkling.

They nuzzled their helm against him, gripping tight with chubby little digits and he didn’t even realize he was crying until Drift wiped his tears away.

“A femme Roddi! We have a little femme!”

Drift was so excited, he was kissing his face plates all over while cooing at their little one while Ratchet was holding her other servo and nuzzling her helm, crying to himself.

“she was really inside me all this time? Oh my gosh,” he cried, “i didn’t..i didn’t know..fr-Ratch?! Is she alright?! I drank with her! I-fra- what if-”

“She’s fine kid,” his smile was genuine and open, “she’s as healthy as can be. Small. But healthy.”

His spark rhythm returned to normal and he relaxed.

He gazed down at her and asked, “whats her name?”

“We thought we should wait for you to online before naming her.”

“Really? I..i’m not good with names,” Rodimus laughed, “maybe you two name her and if I like it too, its a deal?”

It was agreed and after a couple suggestions they settled on a name.

“I like it,” Roddy whispered kissing her helm making her smile.

Rodimus giggled as their sparkling opened yellow optics that looked exactly like Drifts once did. Her spoiler a deep red that was richer than his own. She looked beautiful and the moment the name came from Drift and Ratchets lips together he knew that was it. That was the one.

“We’re so happy to meet you little one. Welcome to the galaxy,” he cried so hard from happiness that he almost couldn’t say it, “Carmine.”

[bitchy-stxrk]

Forged - chapter four

partial recall

prev: chapter three

The specters of her past have come calling for her. She tries her best not to answer the door, but they barge in anyways.

word count: 3.7k

content warnings: mildly graphic details (flashbacks) of torture, repressed memories resurfacing, panic attacks

A short, hideous figure wearing a white coat and round spectacles said, “Subject No. A24-F07B, Code Name: Inferno”

He continued, “You are going to be a part of something big, дорогая. Something life-changing.” (dearest)

“Помощь! Let me go! Somebody, anybody…” (Help!)

“Restrain her and start testing.”

“Please, please don’t do this, DON’T—”

She screamed as the large syringes pierced their way into her arms, emptying a viscous, dark yellowish liquid into her veins. Her blood boiled inside her while the serum rushed through it, searing her arteries and veins. Her eyes stung, with thick, warm blood oozing out of them like tears. Her hoarse cries died down as unspeakable pain dominated every one of her senses.

“Open your eyes, дочка.” (daughter)

“No.”

He slaps her. “I said, OPEN YOUR EYES!”

“I can’t…. they hurt, they hurt so much!!”

He shook his head in disappointment. “Reset her.”

They were headed to a large, dark room. She tried resisting by kicking her legs and clawing the men carrying her, but ultimately, she was no match.

No, NONONO, пожалуйста, don’t do this, DON’T…. (Please)

They tossed her into a huge glass tank full of water. She banged on the walls; her desperation reflecting on every hit on the glass as the air in her lungs ran out and water replaced it. The truth dawned on her just like the water in her throat rose.

No one would hear her scream. No one would come and take her away from this unending agony.

The man in the white coat stood right in front of the glass; a sinister, ugly smile plastered on his face. Even when fighting for life, that smirk made her want to choke the life out of his rat-like body. He turned back, said something to the guards and went away.

The survival instinct kicked in once again as she flailed about for air, one last time – the sliver of hope that it might all be a dream and that she would wake up. Only she never did. 

Slowly, she gave up; every muscle of her body twitching, relaxing, and then going limp altogether.

The last sight which burned into her mind before she crossed into oblivion was a pair of glazed, blue eyes staring at her in utter horror.

Deli jolted awake from her sleep, clutching her chest and catching her breath. “It’s just a nightmare,” she muttered again and again, sitting up and cradling herself. A screen lit up on her nightstand. 02:45 am.

She picked it up; the rather eerie blue glow calming her down. She sighed, hoping that the worst of the night was over.

“15 minutes of sleep. I feel like I’m definitely breaking some records here. Am I, J.A.R.V.I.S?”

“The longest time a human has spent awake is 18 days, 21 hours and 40 minutes,” J.A.R.V.I.S’ soothing British voice boomed through her room – more like a penthouse apartment. One of the glass-paneled walls gave her a stunning view of the Manhattan skyline, with the Avengers logo sitting on its frame.

“19 days? Those are rookie numbers,” she chuckled, “I’ve definitely stayed up for longer.”

J.A.R.V.I.S’ voice echoed again, “Call incoming from Trash Can.”

“Tony?” she answered the call, surprised. “It’s 3 am, couldn’t your annoying mug grace me sometime later in the morning?”

“Not really. It defeats the purpose of calling you.”

“Whatever,” she replied, dramatically rolling her eyes. “What are you doing up? Giving poor Pepper a headache?”

He laughed; it hid a kind of sadness one couldn’t quite place anywhere. It had the depth of an ocean but the rarity of an island. She would recognize it anywhere though – she had seen it one too many times, even on herself.

It’s the sadness of a man who has seen death.

“Worse,” he said.

Her eyes softened, nodding her head slightly to tell him that she understood. “Just tinkering with stuff, you know?” he continued, “Those suits and gloves weren’t gonna improve themselves.”

His hands were restless; the screwdriver kept slipping from them as he worked on something on his table. She recognized it to be whatever was left of his suit.

“I almost blew Pepper up, so that’s there,” he added, laughing in a strained voice.

Deli flinched subtly. She knew the feeling, and she wished her brother didn’t have to know it as well. One traumatized Stark was more than enough. “The key word is almost, so that’s fine,” she chuckled back, trying to ease the tension. “Just figure out a way to turn that ‘almost’ into ‘never’.”

“Yeah,” he snickered, nodding his head as if to reassure himself. “I can do that. Now your turn. What’s keeping you up?”

It was now Deli’s chance to hide behind her laughter. “Breaking the sleep deprivation world record, maybe?”

“Sorry to say, my dear – I’m already ahead of you there. I’ll see you when they’re handing out the awards,” he said, eliciting more laughter from her. “So,” he continued, “how are you taking the New York winter? It must be brutal there, now that it’s December.”

December. Deli felt her heart plunging down to her stomach, her lungs constricting. “Yeah,” she mumbled. “LA is pretty fly this time of the year. Beaches, breezes, all that hullabaloo. I was thinking of buying this giant rabbit for Pepper, you know? It’s like an inside joke. Oh, you know what? I should get one for the tower too! Or should I get the…”

Tony’s voice faded out of her mind, increasingly focusing on her faltering breath. It was like the ghosts of December had all come together to take their revenge. But it wasn’t her fault she shared her birthday with the day her parents died.

She clawed at her throat, as if to pry the invisible hands away – but to no avail. Her vision blurred as she took all her might to loosen the knots in her stomach, but the ropes they were made of were heavy with guilt she didn’t know how to resolve. Her nails dug into the already existing ridges on her palm, hoping the pain might help her breathe.

“Deli? You look like someone—”

“I’m okay!” Her voice was shrill, throaty.

“You don’t sound okay…”

Deli cut the call, her face an intense red from the erratic breathing. Not even a second later, a bright, translucent orange light emanated from her, blasting away in all directions. The lights in the room buzzed and flickered in the wake of the blast, with objects in the room knocked over. She stared at the disheveled nightstand, tears in her eyes and the feeling of dread solidifying in her bones.

“J.A.R.V.I.S?” Her voice was small now, barely a squeaky whisper.

But his voice was calm as ever. “It seems like you’ve had a panic attack, which has caused a burst of low-energy infrared radiation.”

“And? Is that… is that bad?”

“Not yet, ma’am,” he reassuringly answered, “But I must suggest to run a few diagnostic tests just to be sure.”

“Right,” she exhaled, wiping a swath of sweat from her forehead. She felt cold, despite the entire room being flushed warm.

“Shall I notify Boss of this incident?”

“No, don’t worry about it. I’ll do it myself. I’m just tired right now. I guess I won’t be breaking the record today,” she said.

“Very well, ma’am. Have a good night!”

But it seemed like she was going to break the record anyways – no matter how exhausted she was, sleep still eluded her. After twisting and turning in bed for almost half an hour, she gave up. 04:00 am.

Sighing, she got up and headed downstairs. Might as well drink some coffee now, she thought. She swung to her right towards the kitchen, only to be hit on her way by a short silhouette. Both of them yelped; the other person busy saving the teacup that threatened to fall out of his hands.

“Didn’t mean to scare you like that,” Bruce said, gently straightening his glasses and his cup on its saucer.

“Yeah, it’s not a good time to scare me either, unless you wanna be roast meat,” she answered, regaining her posture.

“Got it.” He paused for a beat before offering the cup in his hands. “Tea? It’s chamomile. Helps me through bad nights.”

“No thanks,” she shook her head softly, “I don’t want to relax right now. I need enough caffeine to kill a horse.”

“Got it,” he said again, stepping out of her way. She halted for a moment, weighing the coffee pot in her hand as well as something in her mind.

“Actually,” she called out, “you could help me.”

He turned around, nodding to continue. “But you should promise me – you cannot tell anyone about this. Specially not your science bro.”

He chuckled. “I promise.”

“Okay,” she took a deep breath, “I’ve never had… how do you say it?” She scratched her head, confused how to put it in words. “I’ve never had my powers… malfunction. Or at least, in the recent years. I… I can’t speak for what I can’t remember.”

She paused to briefly look down at her gloved hands and continued, “J.A.R.V.I.S says it’s pretty small and harmless, but still… I need to know. I have to. That everything is under control. That I am…”

“I understand,” Banner replied, “I’ve been there.” A sigh escaped his mouth, followed by wry laughter. “The big guy, he’s a… he’s a rather difficult beast. I’ve tried everything, you know,” he said, his voice low. The same grave tone of a helpless man.

“Everything. It’s an exhaustive list. Shot myself in the mouth, and the other guy spat it out.”

Her eyes softened a little. Maybe the sadness wasn’t as rare as she thought. “I’m sorry, Bruce. No one should’ve gone through that.”

He laughed again, but this time it had regret in its throes. “It’s not a big deal. There’s no one to blame other than my hubris itself.” Pausing to take a sip of his tea, he came back to the topic at hand. “What would you like me to do?”

“I’m not sure – I just want to make sure that I won’t put anyone in danger.”

He nodded and closed his eyes, in deep thought. “I’ll need some blood samples from you. And in the meantime, let me see if I can design some better gloves.”

All of a sudden, the world didn’t feel so empty and hopeless for Deli. “Thank you,” she said, awkwardly grabbing his shoulders. “You’re pretty good at this doctor stuff.”

He chuckled out rather loud, startling her. “Oh no, no,” he said, his smile rather sheepish, “I’m not that kind of doctor. It’s… I have seven PhDs.”

“Damn,” she whistled, “I totally feel illiterate now.”

A hint of guilt flashed across his face. “Oh no, you shouldn’t feel so—”

“Relax, Doc. It’s not a big deal. I didn’t even get to go to school, let alone college.”

The depression was definitely not a rarity in the Tower. “I’m sorry, Deli.”

She shook her head, still smiling. “Don’t be. There’s no one to blame except… I don’t know, to be honest.”

Thud. Thud. Thud.

The rhythmic sound of Nat punching the bag echoed through the otherwise empty gym hall. “Hey, Nat!” Deli called out, walking in with a pint of ice cream in hand. “Thought I’d find you here. How’s it going?”

Thud. Thud. “Ooh, that bad, huh?”

Nat paused to retie her ponytail. “When is it ever not?” she said, her lips curving into a playful smirk.

“That’s true,” Deli sighed. “You wanna try something else to decompress rather than beating up that poor punching bag?”

Nat noticed the colorful tub in her hand, raising her eyebrows. “We have ice cream?”

Deli nodded. “Yeah, I just went grocery shopping. I got Ben & Jerry’s, like old times.”

And Nat’s eyebrows arched even further. “How long have you been having panic attacks again?”

Deli’s mouth was slightly agape. “What?”

“Oh c’mon,” Nat said, “Everyone knows that’s the only time when you splurge at Trader Joe’s for ‘grocery shopping’.”

Deli shook her head, smiling. “You know me way too much, Nat. This is unacceptable, and frankly? Even dangerous.”

“So do you,” she said, grabbing the tub from her hands, her smile growing as she read the label. “You got me Chunky Monkey.”

Deli remembered how she didn’t have a favorite ice cream flavor till Nat introduced her to ‘Chunky Monkey��. “This,” she had said, cradling the tub excitedly in her hands, “is the best thing America has ever created.” It didn’t even take a full spoon for Deli to agree.

“So,” Nat broke the silence, “we’ve got a mission tonight. I guess S.H.I.E.L.D. already sent you the details,” she said.

Deli sighed, “Yeah, unfortunately. No rest for the wicked, huh?”

She laughed, thoroughly cleaning the spoon and enjoying it. “No there isn’t indeed. If it makes you feel any better, Captain Blue Eyes will be gracing us with his presence as well.”

Actually, Nat had his number saved as Captain Blue Ice. It’s a joke she’s endlessly proud of, despite of Deli’s protests of it being “lame” and “the pun isn’t even that good.”

Deli sat up, the handle of the spoon still sticking out of her mouth. “Steve? Which country did we piss off?”

Nat laughed again. “Thankfully, we haven’t yet. I’m not sure that’ll be the case after we’re done though.”

“Hey, fellas. Either one of you know where the Smithsonian is? We’re here to pick up a fossil,” Nat said in her drawling, sarcastic tone, rolling down her window. Steve and a tall guy were chatting on the other side of it.

“That’s hilarious,” the blonde deadpanned.

“And who might you be?” Deli asked, extending her hand through the window. When she realized her right arm was too short, she leaned further towards the left, much to Nat’s chagrin.

“Sam Wilson, ma’am. And you must be the hotter Stark?” he said, shaking her hand firmly.

She chuckled. “I like this guy! Don’t let Tony hear this though.”

The ride to Triskelion from Capitol Hill was not very long – not long enough, according to Deli. The Triskelion had horrible connotations in Deli’s mind – it’s where she spent her time being ‘reborn’ after being found with no memories of her past and a cauterized gunshot wound.

It's also where she found out who she really was, inside an encrypted file named Phoenix. Except no one told her that information – she stumbled onto it as she practiced her newly acquired tech skills.

“… Birth Name: Adeline Robert ‘Deli’ Stark … Next of Kin: Anthony Edward ‘Tony’ Stark… DNA testing conducted at S.H.I.E.L.D. matched over 99.98% to Stark lineage profiles…”

“So,” Nat said, adjusting the rearview mirror to look at Steve. “Did you do anything fun Saturday night?”

He sighed. Seeing his zoned out eyes, Deli concluded that maybe depression was a prerequisite of being a superhero.

“Well, all the guys from my barbershop quartet are dead – so, no, not really.”

It hit her even more when she realized that his home, as Steve knew it, was long gone and there was nothing she could do about it.

“You know, if you ask Kristen from Statistics out, she’d probably say yes,” Nat drawled on.

Deli woke up from her melancholic train of thoughts, puzzled at this seemingly random direction of conversation. And then it clicked exactly what fun Nat was asking about. “Probably? He’s Captain freaking America, Nat. She’ll most probably pass out.”

“That’s why I don’t ask,” he said.

“Too shy or too scared?”

“Too busy,” he replied, as the car rolled to a stop.

“Yikes,” Nat said, a teasing smile playing on her face as she watched him briskly walk away from the nosy questions.

“What are you doing?” Deli asked, turning on her car seat to face her.

“Nothing,” she shrugged, ready to get out of the car.

“Really? Nothing?”

“Yup,” she nodded, “I was doing small talk. I imagine the guy needs to loosen up a bit.”

“Small talk? Since when did you run Tinder services under the guise of small talk?” Deli asked, lightly jogging to keep up with Nat’s fast pace. She didn’t answer.

“Okay, Nat, keep it to yourself then,” she said, increasing her pace, “unless you beat me to the door!”

“Oh, you little shit,” Nat muttered under her breath as Deli shoved her out of the way to zoom towards the building.

The mission was fairly simple: a rescue situation – 25 mercs led by a B-tier scumbag, Georges Batroc, holding a few S.H.I.E.L.D officers as hostages. “What’s Sitwell doing on a satellite ship?” Deli asked, strapping up her new and improved gloves, courtesy of Banner.

“Sitting well, I guess,” Nat replied, looking smug and proud of her joke. Cap trifled a laugh, seemingly amused by it, while Deli mouthed the word “lame” at her.

Everything was sailing smooth – the S.T.R.I.K.E team Delta had recovered the hostages and had reached the rendezvous point – until they heard a loud bang of an explosion.

Deli took a headcount at the rendezvous point. “Damn it,” she muttered as she ran towards the sound. 

“Captain? Nat? You okay?” she called out, waving away the rapidly billowing smoke from the control room of the ship.

“Yeah,” he replied back, coughing.

“I can’t get to you so I need to put this fire out. Step back from the door and shield yourselves.”

She thrust her hands forward, closing her eyes to focus on the fire. The translucent stream of heat pierced in through her fingers, knocking her off-balance with the singeing pain. The flash pain triggered something buried deep in her mind, as the present blurred into the vague shadows of the past.

“Please. Don’t do this. You’re better than that. You don’t have to do this,” she found herself pleading at a silhouette.

“I’m sorry, птичка. I’m really sorry.” (little bird)

Cap and Nat stepped out of whatever remained of the control room, him still enveloping her short figure. She coughed as she stretched out from his arms, dusting off the residual ashes.

“You know,” she said, “there was a perfectly working fire extinguisher right over there.”

“It’s pronounced ‘thank you’, Nat.”

“Are you alright?” Cap asked, instinctively picking up Deli’s hands.

She snatched them back reflexively. “Unless you wish to burn your fingerprints off, be my guest,” she snapped.

The ride back home was silent – yet the air between the trio thickened with tension, waiting to break the silence. As much as she would’ve loved to stay up and figure out what the hell just happened, Deli was knocked out in a deep sleep, finally exhausted enough.

The serenity in her asleep face contrasted the deeply furrowed brows on Cap.

“Do I need to know what happened back there, Romanoff?”

Last name, ouch, she thought. She looked up, but she wasn’t able to hold his gaze. His eyes were way too intense, way too blue.

“Just the mission,” she replied, curtly looking away.

“I don’t remember anything like that in the briefing.”

“Then it must not have been for you to know,” she replied nonchalantly.

He sighed, annoyed at her non-answers. He had a lot of related questions in his mind to ask her, mostly about what on Earth he could do to make her trust him. We’re a team now, for god’s sake. He sighed again.

“How am I supposed to lead people with missions of their own?”

She raised her palms up, shrugging in defeat. “Take it up with the Boss, boss. I just follow orders, you can’t blame me for being good at it.”

“Is that so?” His brows relaxed a bit, hinting at a smile, but his stare was still strong.

She had come up with a snappy reply, but thought better of it. It had been enough small talk for one day.

“Both of you must be too tired to go back to New York now,” he said, his tough demeanor softening even more. “You can rest at my place,” he continued, his voice getting losing the stern edge by every word.

She gulped, confused for a second on what to do. She still couldn’t meet his eyes. “Thanks, but I’m fine. But Deli could use the rest, she hasn’t slept properly in days. Weeks, I’d say.”

He nodded. “Sure. And I’m just mentioning that you’re also welcome at my place should you need the rest.”

Nat could have stopped herself, but curiosity is a feral beast. “In that case, why don’t you invite that cute blonde across your hall for some rest? She’s a nurse, isn’t she?”

He blushed at the sudden turn of the conversation; his nose a slight pink in color. He was stuttering. “Yea-yeah. When I get time, I guess.”

“Is that so?” She was smirking now. “What keeps the Captain oh-so-busy these days?”

He shook his head slowly, chuckling. “Well, a lot did happen in the time I went under. Deli’s list just keeps getting bigger. So, you know, there’s a lot on the plate.”

The plane descended on the Triskelion, and the rich, orange light of the rising sun on the Potomac sifted through the lowering doors of the aircraft.

“Well,” Nat said, “you could add the cute girl to your plate too. I’m sure she’d appreciate it.”

He laughed again, this time slightly louder and freer than before. “It seems like you’re on a mission to set me up on a date,” he said, while gently lifting an asleep Deli up.

“What can I say,” she said, her eyes meeting his at last, “you can’t blame me for being good at what I do.”

A/N: aaaaa ca:tws my favorite MCU movie ever!!! way too excited for this arc. I've got a bit too indulgent in this fic hehehe I hope you enjoy it as much as i did xx

[sirtaliesin]

Gifts from the past

Bruce's idea of a birthday gift is a little fussy, a little expensive, and a little familiar.

Gifts From the Past

There hadn’t been much conversation about the date of Jason’s birth. A question here or there, general inquiries about the season and day, about if Jason even remembers it. He does, though, the exact day had taken some work to discern by modern standards. It isn’t really a day he celebrates with any observance. After a few hundred years, one more for him specifically isn’t particularly special.

Still, he’s not really surprised when Bruce turns up with a heavy wooden chest. It’s a pretty piece of luggage really, reminiscent of some older pieces already in Jason’s collection, though it’s clearly newly made. With the double-lancet arched reliefs carved into the front, back, and side panels, and the rich dark stained oak that doesn’t hide the iron lock plate set into the front.

As stately as the chest is, it isn’t anything more than a gift box. A sturdy one, to be sure, and one that will doubtless stay with Jason for years. But it is only the box.

Inside is something Jason hadn’t really expected to see ever again.

Polished black steel reflects back at him from the shadows of the chest. At a glance, it looks like there is likely a full suit of blackened plate carefully packed into the ornate wooden chest.

As he takes the pieces out, one at a time, that suspicion is confirmed. Colour reveals itself beneath the armour as Jason removes the suit. Black suede, quilted with fine silver thread, and richly dyed crimson wool. Memory sings to the fore of his mind’s eye. Of another suit of plate long lost now. One he’d related to Bruce in detail once, without anything more than words spoken in the close shadows of his library.

The pieces he removes from the box aren’t identical to that suit. They couldn’t have been even if he’d still possessed the original to show to Bruce, or to any armour smith anywhere in the world, but it is so very similar. The weight of each piece feels correct, and the straps and buckles will sit comfortably over the suede gambeson.

Fine, blackened steel reflects strange shadows in the low light. Accented with grey steel trim that draws the eye along the lines of the plate. It disguises the joins of the armour, shadows those gaps that could be safekept with chain, though the modern make of the armour makes it seem unnecessary.

It isn’t exactly the same, isn’t exactly historically accurate either, but it is beautiful, and the similarity is uncanny. Those distinct inspirations that came from fifteenth century armour, rendered in a sleek silhouette and exquisitely articulated joints. Jason slips one gauntlet on out of curiosity. Testing the range of motion, the joints don’t so much as squeak when he flexes his fingers. Delicately articulated plates fit together as he closes his fist tight, and that doesn’t scrape or squeal with a poor fit either. The helm fits correctly too, would fit just as well if his hair were longer, as it had been the last time…

It’s a beautiful gift. Thoughtful, with how much effort Bruce must have gone through to have a properly forged suit of full plate made for him. Never mind the fitted base layers and padding that accompanied it. A soft linen shirt with a gathered neckline and cuffs, full and loose in the sleeve and torso. High leather boots that would fit close under the greaves and sabatons.

Jason turns one finger gauntlet over in his hands, examining the joints and fastenings more closely, and glances up at Bruce through his lashes. Expression inscrutable as he sets the gauntlet aside.

He can tell at a glance that every piece of the suit would fit as though he’d been measured for it in person. That is no surprise. Bruce’s eye for detail was unparalleled. That he had remembered every recounted detail from a conversation more than eighteen months past, had gone to the trouble of sourcing even the correct weight of wool for the cloak and mantle…

Bruce waited with that feigned nonchalance Jason had learned to identify early on in their friendship. He looked at ease, as though he expected any reaction Jason might have. That confidence that projected over everything else. The underlying tension betrayed a nervousness very few would even know to look for, let alone see.

“Did you commission this immediately after I described it?” Jason asks. He already knows the answer.

“No, I didn’t think of it for a few months.” Bruce says.

Jason purses his lips and refolds the gambeson neatly into the trunk it came in. The boots and shirt nestle back into place, and the heavy wool cloak settles over Jason’s knees. The drape of it is a comforting weight he hasn’t really had need of for in so long. Doesn’t need it now, but he’s pleased to have it all the same. The fur trim of the collar is softer than what he’d had before. Silken black texture that would have sat close to his face when the cloak and mantle were properly affixed to the cuirass. For the moment, it remains bunched up in his lap with idle fingers stroking through the fine softness of it.

“And the occasion?” Jason says, raising one thick eyebrow at the finely glinting metal, turning the expression fully upon Bruce only a moment after.

“An early birthday gift.” Bruce shrugs one shoulder, smiling brightly.

“I see.” Jason says, idly stroking the fur trim of the cloak still. It’s real fur, and he knows Bruce would have been very particular about sourcing it.

“It’s beautiful. All of it.” Jason says finally. He doesn’t miss the minute shift of posture, how Bruce relaxes into his seat at the acceptance. It really is beautiful armour. Stylistically familiar, functional, and just a little different than how he would have had the same suit remade. If he would have gone to the trouble at all.

Conversation shifts from the armour to other recounted memories across centuries. Inconsequential things that Bruce pries out into the light to examine like an excited child. All earnest curiosity that softens something in Jason’s chest. More valuable by far than the expensive, beautiful armour or the familiar textures of fur and wool.

Months later, when the weather has cooled and Jason’s actual birthday is soon to pass, he looks at the armour and makes a decision.

He had since tested the fit of the armour in pieces, but the first time he puts on the full suit is after the leaves have begun to change. The linen had broken in nicely. Worn softer with time and use, on those idle days when he had nothing to do and nowhere to go. It breathes comfortably beneath the warm suede gambeson. Supple leather sits familiar against his hands. All cushioning the familiar weight of steel he hadn’t ever really forgotten.

The resulting silhouette is perhaps a little sleeker than the original, tailored close despite the padding easing it off his shoulders. A fine shadow of what memory conjures.

Jason turns, holding the pleasant weight of the wool cloak gathered over one arm, his other hand resting at his hip where the familiar weight of a sword hangs. The soft trim gathered at the back of his neck makes him wish he’d let his hair grow out. Perhaps some other time. For now, he considers his own reflection and thinks it’s a fine enough reminder of something lost, no, it is new and different, and he likes it just the same.

‘Fine armour in the safety of your library, a stately gift from a fellow knight. Sable black that fits so well the world weary, sweet crimson shield that makes so fair a sight.’

He hums in the back of his throat at the teasing tone. There’s appreciation there, more than any mockery of vanity. While Jason misses the weight of armour some days, Etrigan misses it and all its implication far more.

‘A shame it will see naught but idle pose, when such fine form bloodshed owes.’

Jason doesn’t really disagree, but lets the idea drop all the same. There isn’t much call for armour in the present. He’s perfectly content to leave that to Sir Justin, more than happy to keep to his own wardrobe and the quiet of his library most days. He ignores the cajoling tone in the back of his head that reminds him of how comfortable he was once. Clad in plate and fighting back the dark with cold steel as readily as spells, loosing barely contained hellfire when his own skill wasn’t enough.

Jason pushes those thoughts away and doesn’t think about what kinds of protections he could engrave into the armour himself. Refuses to match them to the sword at his hip in more than appearance. It’s a token protest, they both know it, and the armour will still be there the next time his hands itch for something to do.

Still, he chooses to wear it to Zatanna’s costume party. It’s comfortable, and it does give him a chance to show Bruce how well it actually fits.

[stillwintering]

All's Fair in Love and Politics (a modern Nessian AU - where Rhys is running for president)

Summary: In the ruthless arena of politics, victory demands risking everything, even one's own heart. Rhysand has his eyes on the presidency. Feyre convinces her estranged sister, Nesta, to join the political campaign. Nesta and Cassian find themselves forging an unexpected bond as the campaign intensifies. But can their budding romance survive the treacherous waters of modern political warfare?

Read on AO3

Chapter 1 / Chapter 2 / Chapter 3 / Chapter 4 / Chapter 5 / Chapter 6 / Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Cassian spent the rest of his evening at the River House, which had turned into an impromptu campaign headquarters of sorts. After all the official business was settled and Amren had left to take the last flight back to DC, Cassian found himself lingering in the company of Rhys and Azriel. They gathered in Rhys's expansive wood-paneled study for a nightcap.

It had been too long since the three of them had the chance to simply exist together as brothers in arms without the weight of duty or the shadow of danger looming over them.

The day's activities had visibly taken a toll on Rhys, understandable given how many media appearances he completed. By all accounts, the speech had been a resounding success, yet Rhys seemed lost in thought, gazing pensively at the drink in his hand, almost sad.

"Don't tell me you're getting cold feet." Cassian's voice broke the silence. He leaned in, trying to catch Rhys's eye, giving him a teasing nudge on the elbow. Azriel, seated in an armchair on Rhys's other side, only observed silently.

Rhys raised his head, a faint smile on his lips, though his eyes remained somber. "Something like that."

Cassian sucked in a breath. "I'm afraid it's too late to turn back now, brother." He held up his crystal glass, the amber liquid inside glinting in the lamplight, before taking a sip. "The horse is out of the barn."

"What if..." Rhys looked away to the moonlit sky out the window of his study and the Sidra sparkling under the stars.

"It will be a tough fight for the nomination and a even tougher fight in the general election." Cassian smiled at him reassuringly. "It's going to be hard and chances are, we'll lose. But no one will fault you for that."

Rhys shook his head, his expression turning resolute. "No, I mean what if I actually win?"

A moment of realization washed over Cassian. "There's no one else I'd trust more with such power and responsibility," he told him.

"I don't trust myself," Rhys murmured, his voice tinged with a vulnerability rare for him.

"I know you." Azriel knocked his knee gently against Rhys's. "You're the one," he stated firmly.

Rhys's gaze drifted away again, his doubts still clinging to him like shadows.

Cassian turned to Azriel. "They say a good man can't get elected President these days," he mused with a half-smile. "I refuse to believe that. Do you, Az?"

"Absolutely not," he responded without hesitation.

"And you think I'm that man?" Rhys interjected, his face still dark, "Does it matter that I'm not as sure?"

"Do you remember that operation outside of Kabul? The one that went sideways real fast?" Cassian reclined back in his armchair, his demeanor thoughtful. "Our first hot zone and we were completely outgunned, stuck in a crossfire with enemy combatants all around. I’ll be honest, I thought we were done for. We were just rookies back then. But you, Rhys, you just took over like you were born to do it. Directing our moves, calling out targets, staying cool under that kind of heat. You got us out of there with zero civilian casualties. It’s a rare thing, Rhys."

Cassian stopped to catch his eye. "I knew from that moment that I would follow you into the Mist of Avalon."

Azriel only chuckled while Rhys let out a dry laugh. "Cass, please, you're the one with the natural aptitude for strategic combat." Rhys waved his hand. "But I do find, somehow, urban warfare easier to navigate than politics."

Cassian raised his glass in a toast, prompting the others to do the same. "To fighting the good fight then," he announced with a wink. "Political or otherwise."

Azriel joined in, his glass meeting theirs with a gentle chime. "To making a difference," he added.

Rhys looked at his friends -- his brothers -- their faces unflinching. "To the future," he said, his eyes clear and focused. "May it be brighter than we dare to hope."

---

By the time Cassian and Azriel returned to the House of the Wind, the inky night had draped its silent shroud over the building. They expected the grand lobby to be completely deserted at this late hour. Yet, to Cassian's wonder, Nesta was there.

Lost in a world of her own, Nesta walked under the dim glow of the ornate chandelier, her figure casting long, fluid shadows across the polished marble floor. From the way she was dressed, it looked like she was about to go on a late-night run.

It wasn't until Cassian stepped into her space, closing the distance to a mere foot, that she snapped out of her thoughts. Her gaze, sharp and piercing, lifted to meet his and then to Azriel's. A flicker of surprise darted across her features before she veiled it with a practiced air of indifference.

"Going on another evening run?" Cassian asked her as a way of greeting.

Nesta's response was terse, her lips pursing slightly as she uttered a succinct "Yes." She looked over the both of them again. "Anything happen at the meeting at the River House?"

"You didn't miss much," Azriel responded. "Amren will send out a memo first thing tomorrow."

Cassian studied her for a beat longer, noting the slight clench of her jaw and the way her eyes darted to the lobby doors. An idea sparked in him.

"If you give me ten minutes," he offered, gesturing towards the elevators with a hopeful tilt of his head, "I can join you."

The words hung in the air, a delicate offer. He saw it then -- the imperceptible stiffening of her posture, ready to refuse. So he quickly added, a playful note in his voice, "I know all the good running routes around here."

Nesta hesitated, but her expression wavered. "I would rather run on my own."

"I don't blame you," Azriel teased, unable to stop himself. "Cassian is terrible company."

Cassian scowled at his brother. "It's dark out, Nes," he tried again. "Let me come with you."

Nesta looked away to the pitch-blackness that lay outside the lobby doors, calculating. Although Velaris was generally a very safe city, she had never tried to navigate it in the dead of night. Finally, she looked back at him, her expression unreadable.

"Fine," Nesta acquiesced. "Ten minutes."

She gracefully sidestepped, allowing Cassian and Azriel access to the elevators. She then glided to a nearby sofa, settling into its plush cushions to wait.

Cassian burst into the elevator and jabbed at the buttons for their respective floors, his foot tapping impatiently. Azriel leaned back against the elevator wall, his arms folded casually across his chest, with a mischievous grin on his lips as he observed Cassian's barely veiled agitation.

"Easy there, big guy," he remarked affectionately. "She's not going to disappear."

Cassian shot him a quick, frustrated glance. "I just don't want to keep her waiting longer than necessary," he muttered.

"Oh, is that so?" Azriel's eyebrow arched in amusement. "Or could it be that you're just eager to spend time with her under the starry sky?"

As the elevator finally dinged at Cassian's floor, he practically leaped out. "You don't know what you're talking about, Az," he retorted over his shoulder.

Azriel laughed, shaking his head as the elevator doors slid shut. "Good luck!" he called after Cassian.

---

Cassian led the way, his stride confident and familiar as they ran up the winding road that hugged the contours of the mountain behind the House of the Wind. The path, bathed in the soft glow of well-placed lights, carved a serpentine trail through the dense pine forest and upwards into the heart of the mountainside. A delicate mist had descended, settling into the treetops like cobwebs.

"There's a lookout a few miles up with an amazing view of the city," Cassian said, his voice a gentle rumble in the quiet night.

Nesta only nodded, allowing him to set a moderate pace. The scent of pine and earth filled her senses, and she found herself leaning into the night air, into his steadfast strength beside her.

Their heavy breaths, synchronized and rhythmic, filled the silent space between them.

As they ascended, the forest around them began to change. The trees grew taller, their branches interlocking above to create a natural cathedral, their needles whispering secrets. She let all the noise of her mind recede into the thickening mist, let it wrap around her like a soothing embrace.

When they finally reached the lookout, Nesta stopped, her breath labored from the climb, and gazed out at the glittering city below, beyond the mist of the forest, sprawled like a jeweled tapestry, the lights flickering like distant stars caught in an earthly web. The world seemed to pause -- the only sounds were their heartbeats and the distant hum of Velaris.

"It's beautiful," she whispered.

Cassian turned towards her, his expression soft yet intense. His hazel eyes, reflecting the city's lights, narrowed on Nesta as if she were the only object in this vast, sparkling expanse. "Yes," he breathed.

Nesta could feel the blood rushing through her head. A breeze tousled Cassian's hair, setting it dancing wild under the silver glow of the moon.

"Tell me why you're here," Nesta asked, her words floating on the night air.

He bowed his head in confusion. "What do you mean?"

"Tell me why you left a promising military career to work on a long shot political campaign."

He studied her face intently, sensing the urgency in her question. He hesitated, choosing his words carefully. "Because I care about who gets to be in the room where it happens," he finally said.

Nesta's brow furrowed, her eyes searching his for more.

"I was a good soldier," Cassian continued. "But in the military, I was a cog in the machine. Being on the ground, seeing the consequences of following orders... it changes you."

He paused, his gaze growing distant. Cassian remembered his lover during the war -- Tanwyn, with a smile like a storm, who was a surgeon with Doctors Without Borders. She chose to work at a hospital in the middle of a conflict zone and chose to stay even when the town came under siege. After the bombing started, Cassian disputed his commander's decision to engage the enemy so close to a civilian-occupied area. When that went nowhere, he had begged, begged her to get to safety. But Tanwyn had refused, "I didn't go through 14 years of medical training to abandon my patients." Her last words to him.

It took Cassian a very long time to get over her death.

He cleared his throat and looked away.

"I've experienced the fallout of strategic miscalculations, witnessed the collateral damage of executive decisions made in far-off offices," Cassian concluded. "No more senseless wars. That's why I'm here."

Nesta listened, absorbing his words. She tried to understand the rollercoaster of emotions that had swept through his face.

"And you think Rhysand Starborn is the right person to be in the room where it happens?"

Cassian gave her a wry grin. "Funny you should ask."

"Why?"

He dismissed the moment with a shake of his head.

When he faced her again, Cassian's expression was one of unwavering conviction. "I am certain he is the right person for the job."

Nesta took a long moment to study him, taking in the firm set of his jaw and the gentle curves of his lips -- the lines crinkling around his eyes seemed to tell stories of bravery and compassion.

"Okay," she said at last, as though settling an internal debate.

"Okay?"

Nesta nodded, this time with a certainty that seemed to anchor her. "Yes, okay," she repeated, giving him an assured smile.

They stood together for a moment longer, time seemingly stretching out as they surveyed the panoramic view of Velaris. The night breeze caressed Nesta's skin and sent a shiver down her spine as her body cooled from their earlier ascent to the overlook.

"Shall we head back?" she suggested, her arms instinctively wrapping around herself for warmth.

Cassian agreed with a dip of his chin, but his curiosity piqued. "These evening runs of yours, are they a regular thing?"

Nesta hesitated, her words tangling slightly. "Yes -- no, well, sort of. I'm actually training for the National Women's Half Marathon," she clarified. "I've committed to running it with some friends."

"If you want, I could help -- I could train with you."

Nesta mulled over his offer again, the sincerity in his voice apparent. "That might be nice," she said, giving in to the tug in her heart. "I'll let you know when I'm planning my next run."

Cassian's answering smile was so bright, so full of warmth, that Nesta felt momentarily dazed -- a radiance that rivaled the moon above.

"Come on then." He turned from the outlook, and Nesta followed, falling into step beside him as they began their descent.

---

Nesta inhaled deeply, trying to stifle the swell of emotions in her chest. She stood on the meticulously groomed lawns of the River House, where Feyre was hosting a luncheon for the League of Women Voters of Velaris.

In front of her, the Starborn's grand conservatory was bustling with guests -- their conversations a steady buzz against the clinking of fine china. The large glass structure was situated in the back of the house, hidden from view from the street. Sunlight poured in through the expansive glass panels, bathing the interior space in a golden, dappled light. The conservatory itself was an oasis of botanical beauty, brimming with an array of vibrant flowers and delicate greenery. Nesta knew immediately that Elain must love it here.

Feyre weaved through the crowd with grace and charm, playing the part of hostess perfectly, but Nesta knew her sister was still adjusting to the relentless glare of the public eye. That was why she agreed to drop into the luncheon to make sure that the reporter the local paper sent to cover the event was on their best behavior.

Nesta had never been to the River House before. Every Christmas, a perfunctory invitation to visit from Feyre would arrive, and each time, Nesta found a convenient excuse to decline, preferring to maintain a distance from the life that Feyre had carved out for herself. Standing before the River House, with its stately charm and the Sidra flowing majestically in the background, Nesta couldn't help but feel a pang of regret mingled with a deep urge to flee.

When Feyre's eyes found hers through the glass panels, Feyre's relief was evident as she beckoned Nesta inside.

"I'm so glad you're here," Feyre murmured.

Nesta, feeling a rare surge of sisterly affection, reached out and gave Feyre's hand a reassuring squeeze. "You're doing great," she offered, her voice softer than usual.

Feyre's smile wavered. "I've been so nervous about this event," she confessed. "And talking to that reporter later. I've never done any press without Rhys before."

"I've already vetted the interview questions. There won't be any curveballs," Nesta reassured her. "It's a simple society piece for the local paper, nothing too intense. Just steer clear of any policy talk. You'll be fine."

Feyre bit her lip. "Can you stay until after I talk to the reporter?"

"Of course, I'll stay."

With a nod of gratitude, Feyre turned and glided gracefully back to mingling with her guests.

Left to herself, Nesta pulled out her phone to go through the emails that inevitably crowd her inbox. She glanced around and noticed a large door that led into the quieter recesses of the River House. The luncheon was in full swing, but she couldn't find it in herself to work the room the way Feyre or Rhys would.

Nesta crossed the threshold, finding herself in a peaceful hallway. She took in the grand space around her: the high ceiling, intricate moldings, and silk curtains framing the windows. As she looked down the corridor, her eyes followed the row of oil paintings lining the walls. Something about them seemed deeply familiar -- the impressionistic brushwork and open, airy compositions bore the unmistakable touch of Feyre's hand.

Nesta made her way down the hallway, her steps soft and nearly silent on the plush carpet, looking for a quiet space away from the party to focus on her inbox. Eventually, she found herself in a cozy sitting room, its wide walls lined with books.

Her eyes immediately fell to the shelves full of framed photographs. Nesta stepped closer to study the pictures.

There were several of Rhys, Azriel, and Cassian together, chronicling different chapters of their lives -- from their college days to their military service to ski trips that appeared suspiciously like snowball fights.

In each image, Cassian's smile was wide and unrestrained, his arms invariably slung around his brothers, his hair noticeably longer in his younger years. Azriel, by contrast, looked stern, though his eyes were warm. Rhys appeared relaxed and completely at ease among his friends and family -- a side of him she had never witnessed.

There were photos of Mor exuding her usual glamour and confidence. In one snapshot, Mor stood between Azriel and Cassian. They were dressed to the nines. Azriel looked at Mor with something like total adoration on his face, while Mor was laughing with her head thrown back, leaning into Cassian. But Cassian was grinning at the camera.

An old photograph tucked in the back was of the Starborns -- Rhys's father and mother. Beside it was a portrait of Rhys's mother sitting by the fire on what looked like Christmas morning.

Then Nesta recognized an image that must have been taken the night Rhys had first won his congressional seat -- even Amren was smiling in that one. Feyre, joyous, was in the middle of leaning into a hug from Rhys. He looked only at Feyre even as the dozen faces in the photos were turned towards him.

Scattered in between the memories of their "inner circle" were many photos chronicling Nyx's young life -- a teary-eyed Rhys holding an ultrasound with Feyre behind him; a portrait of Feyre with a swollen belly; Feyre holding Nyx for the first time on a hospital bed with Rhys next to her; Rhys lifting a toddler Nyx into the air. There was a blurry image of Nyx at his third birthday party, white frosting all over his face, with Cassian and Mor fussing over him and Azriel standing to the side laughing, clumps of frosting in his dark hair.

The most recent photo was one of Elain and Nyx together, surrounded by flowers in a field.

Nesta felt her pulse quicken in dread. These photographs were windows into the vibrant life Feyre had lived, yet, Nesta found no trace of herself in these frozen moments.

Finally, she noticed a large photo in a corner -- Feyre was wearing a simple white slip-dress, her arms interlocked with Rhys, dashing in a blue linen suit. They were standing barefoot on a beach, waves crashing behind them. Feyre held a large bouquet of hydrangeas and roses in her other hand. Surrounding the smiling couple on either side were Cassian, Mor, Azriel, and Amren. They were all beaming, although Mor had clearly been crying. It was plainly a wedding photo.

It suddenly struck Nesta that there were no images from the grand Velrais wedding at the House of the Wind. Rather just another portrait of Feyre and Rhys -- taken on the same day on the beach -- looking adoringly at each other. Their hands were joined, prominently displaying their golden wedding bands.

Nesta realized that she hadn’t encountered Cassian, Azriel, or Mor at the ceremony she attended. She was certain she would have remembered someone like Cassian with his distinct presence. The Velaris wedding was a formal event attended by hundreds of guests, a high-society wedding. But the pictures on the shelf displayed a private, intimate celebration for only those closest to the couple.

She didn't know how much time had passed as she stood there, taking in the evidence of the chasm that had grown between her and her sister. The pictures showcased a version of Feyre's life that Nesta had never been part of, a narrative woven from experiences and bonds she hadn’t shared.

Nesta felt like a stranger looking in, witnessing a parallel world where laughter and joy flowed freely, a stark contrast to the guardedness that marked her own interactions with Feyre.

"Aunt Nesta!" A child's voice pulled her out of her thoughts.

Nesta turned swiftly at the call. "Nyx?" she asked in surprise, her eyes landing on her young nephew. His round cheeks were just visible as he peered around the edge of a nearby armchair.

"Hi Nesta." Elain emerged behind him with Mr. Carrot in tow.

Nesta felt every muscle in her body tense. "Hi Elain," she returned, keeping her voice neutral.

"Feyre mentioned you might drop by today." Elain smoothed her skirts, almost nervous, but smiled tentatively. "I hear things are going well with the campaign."

Nesta bristled at the comments. She hated that her sisters seemed to treat her like a problem to be handled -- managed.

"The campaign is going as expected," she replied curtly.

Elain hesitated, her lips parting as if to say more, but her gaze shifted to Nyx. "Are you hungry, dear?" she asked him softly.

Nyx, his attention still fixed on Nesta, shook his head, his curiosity about his aunt undiminished.

Feeling the need to escape the conversation, Nesta made a move to leave. "I should get back to -- "

"Nesta, wait," Elain interjected quickly, her expression turning earnest. "Won't you stay for tea? It's been a while since we all sat down together." Her hand dropped to rest on Nyx's shoulder. "We really should catch up."

Nesta's eyes swept the room -- this house with its layers of memories, the shelves lined with snapshots that narrated a life where everyone was content, perhaps even better off, in her absence.

With a dry chuckle, Nesta gestured at their surroundings. "I think I'm all caught up, thanks."

Elain's expression faltered. "Nesta, that's not fair," she said as a flicker of hurt crossed her features. “I’m sorry I never got around to returning your calls. But -- ”

Nesta's gaze hardened. "Are you?" she countered, her voice low but sharp. "Everyone here seems quite happy have their entire lives subsumed by Rhysand Starborn."

Elain frowned. "Please Nesta, it's not like that," she began, but Nesta cut her off.

"I can't have this conversation right now." Nesta turned towards the hallway, her movements brisk.

She needed space, air -- something to clear the tightness building in her chest.

"Where is Aunt Nesta going?" She heard Nyx ask behind her.

But Nesta didn't stop. She looked for the nearest exit -- a pair of French doors that took her back onto the house's sweeping lawns.

She walked towards the water's edge, taking in the midday light, calming her thundering heart. She did not understand herself, why she couldn't bear the hurt in Elain's eyes, why she always felt the need to retreat into herself whenever her sisters were around.

---

Eventually, Nesta took the long way around the grounds of the River House, back towards the conservatory. Feyre was already speaking with a young female reporter when Nesta found them sitting on a pair of Adirondack chairs on the crest of a gentle hill overlooking the Sidra.

She gave them some space as they finished the interview.

"We corresponded over email earlier," Nesta said as she introduced herself to the reporter, reaching out to shake her outreached hand.

The young woman beamed in recognition. "Ms. Archeron," she said.

"Do you have everything you need?"

The reporter nodded. "It's been an absolute pleasure, Mrs. Starborn," she said to Feyre, putting away her voice recorder.

"Do you mind sending us a copy of the story before it goes to print?" Nesta asked.

The reporter's smile never faltered. "Of course," she replied and picked up her bag. "Someone from the paper may reach out later for fact checking."

"You have my contact information," Nesta answered as the reporter shook Feyre's hand goodbye.

When they were alone, Nesta asked, "How did it go?"

"Fine, I think," Feyre replied, her voice wary. "I am just relieved it's over."

"Don't worry," Nesta said. "We'll get a chance to correct the article before it comes out."

Feyre reclined in her chair. "Can you sit with me for a while?"

Nesta flinched. "Feyre," she answered, feeling the tightness building in her chest again. "I have to get back to work."

Feyre looked up at her, her blue-gray eyes shuttered. "Oh," she breathed. "Of course. Sorry to keep you," her voice turning oddly formal, "Thank you for coming today."

---

Nesta threw herself into her work for the rest of the afternoon, finding a quiet refuge in the familiar demands of her tasks. By the time she returned to the House of the Wind, the sun was a fiery orb hovering low in the sky. The majestic sight of the House, silhouetted against the orange and pink sky, was strangely comforting. But the solitude that awaited her in her room felt overwhelming -- for the first time that day, she did not want to be alone.

She stopped at the front desk to ask for Cassian's room number. With a kind of new-found courage, Nesta took the elevator to his floor.

Cassian opened the door on her third knock.

"Azriel, I thought --," he began, before his voice trailed off, his eyes widening at the unexpected sight of Nesta standing before him.

"Hey," she said, taking him in. Cassian's crisp white dress shirt was casually half unbuttoned, giving a glimpse of the defined muscles of his chest and the intricate whorls of black tattoos that contrasted against his golden skin.

Cassian quickly recovered from his initial shock. "Nesta, I wasn't expecting you," he said, holding his door open wider. "What can I do you for?"

Nesta immediately felt the knot in her chest loosen at the humor in his voice. His eyes were studying her gently. The corners of her lips twitched upwards.

"Run with me?"

---

---

---

Please let me know if you want to be added/removed from the tag list.

Tag list: @acourtofladydeath @fwiggle @swifti-ed

---

[razielim]

Here are the comic panels! Its from dark days: the forge, Hopefully they come through alright, but when I first saw Duke kick Hal in the face it made me laugh

Hahahahaha! A kick to the face is just another way to say "Welcome to Gotham, Green Lantern."

Also... It's cute enough that Duke's helmet looks like it's got cat ears, can we not also pick him up by the scruff of his costume with an oversized hand?

Also also....

HOT.

[radianxce]

— 𝐓𝐀𝐒𝐊 𝟎𝟎𝟏.

high heel shoes with the open toes / she's got a good time wrapped in gold for you / all red dress with the devil eyes / so obsessed with the camera lights

SIGNATURE DOOR

the door , similarly to its grymm , is made to stand out . it's a brilliant crimson , vivid and bright in a way that practically screams ' look at me ! ' . the wood beneath the paint — not that the paint ever cracks or peels , of course — is smooth and rich , carved with elegant and sweeping curves that make it appear almost larger than it is . while only one half of the door opens , it's made to look like a double door , split down the middle , with two large panels of glass creating a circular window that hints at shadow just past the door but offers no true glimpse of what may be beyond . no matter where the door stands , roses bloom on either side , climbing and tangling , deep green vines and bright red blooms embracing the doorway like they have protected it forever . they never seem to shrivel up , but they never seem to grow either : all they do is linger at the door's edges . if you're not careful , your arms may brush against the thorns hidden in the foliage . it's almost as if the door is made to beckon you in and keep you at bay at the same time — mysterious , beautiful , and compelling .

SOUL SEVER

the dha has a presence as commanding as suni — it's a traditional thai blade , beautifully crafted , almost as if centuries of craftsmanship have gone into its creation . its blade is long and just slightly curved , forged from polished steel . if one were to look closely , they would see the a faint , rippling pattern across its surface — the dance of flowing water etched into metal . the edge itself is razor - sharp , and along its length , faint engravings of the thai abugida write out prayers for protection , blessings meant to guard both the bearer and those they are bringing to the afterlife . at the point where the hilt meets the blade , a small brass ring glints under the light . the hilt itself is wrapped in black and gold , fabric woven into an intricate pattern . at the base of the hilt , a red ribbon is tied — a shock of color against the rest of the muted tones of the blade . on the top , a holy white thread is wrapped over the red ; the same traditional white thread suni remembers wearing on her left hand following her baci . she takes perfect care of it , and while she's not accustomed to using weapons , she's grown to trust this one immensely due to its familiarity and the way it is reminiscent of her home . 

DESIRED EMOJI

👠 or 💎

WHAT DO YOUR MUSE’S WINGS LOOK LIKE?

sunisa proudly wears the wings of a female red - and - yellow barbet . they're not absurdly large , but not too small either — simply somewhere in between , as if they were made for her body . none of the plumage has been plucked , nor does she have any scars or injuries on her wings . she takes care of them as tediously as she does the rest of her appearance . the feathers themselves are mostly dark , a shiny black that seems glossy in most lighting . she considers the feathers on the underside to be dull and drab ; they're a shade of brown that she doesn't particular adore . that said , the patterns on her wings make up for it — a smattering of delicate white spots , markings that , from a distance , almost appear to emulate a string of pearls . towards the base of the wings , a few yellow feathers peek through the brown and black , hinting at the rest of a barbet's markings .

WHAT SHAPE DOES THEIR BARDO USUALLY TAKE?

the bardo sits quietly in a sprawling wildflower field she remembers only faintly , from a rare , peaceful day in belgium . the flowers sway even when there is no breeze to move them , as if they must be as wild and unrestrained as they are beautiful . their vibrant colors stretch as far as the eye can see — or , at least , into the fog as the bardo ends . rising from the center of the field is a grand but ( outwardly ) understated house , shockingly smaller than the home she had in life but still built with the subtle touch of wealth . it looks as if it's made to host soirées , with a vast collection of hallways an rooms , windows peeking in to brightly lit spaces . inside , the house is pure 1980s' decadence. it's touched in luxurious excess , with sleek , mirrored surfaces , dark lacquered furniture , and rich , muted shades of red . paintings cover the wall , replicas of all the famous artists she so terribly admired when living . crystal chandeliers cast fractured light across rooms , which are filled with velvet and leather seating and polished marble floors . here and there , brass and glass detailing glints . despite all its moving pieces , it is almost always so cold that it feels frozen in its loneliness , an ode to a life that was just a little too perfect on the surface .

WHAT ARE THEY LIKE AT THE DEPARTMENT OF AFTERLIFE AFFAIRS?

at the department of afterlife affairs , suni prefers to stay efficient and work on her own . she's the sort of coworker who never wastes time on pleasantries — after all , who enjoys small talk — and most of her interactions quick and laced with a cool detachment , like she can't be bothered to linger for much longer than necessary . that said , she’s certainly resourceful, ambitious, and quietly calculating : while colleagues may describe her as a bit too intense , she knows how to soften herself when needed . one can predict that she'll ask for a favor when she saunters up to their desk with a rare smile and the intent to charm . it's a weapon she only pulls out when she's at a dead end, but she knows how to use it nonetheless . 

WHAT IS THEIR OPINION ON 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐌𝐀𝐆𝐈𝐒𝐓𝐑𝐀𝐓𝐄?

ugh . who died and put them in charge ? seriously , though , they represent everything she despises — power she can't reach , and a reminder that even in death , she's still under someone's thumb . though she keeps that opinion to herself , being their pawn is an insult that she cannot and will not ignore . she obeys them only because it suits her now — they're a force she'll endure , only because she's waiting for the right moment to slip free of their control and reclaim what she believes is rightfully hers .

HOW DO THEY LOOK LIKE/DRESS LIKE IN THE AFTER?

suni's appearance in the after is as carefully curated as it was in life . she leans toward clean , tailored lines in black , white , and red : her wardrobe is a monochrome palette with occasional splashes of boldness in crimson . gold jewelry , pearls , and diamonds adorn her often , though she wears them with restraint , letting her mere presence do most of the talking . her outifts are meticulously chosen to radiate a timeless sort of elegance — they are each extravagant and subtle all at once , commanding attention without the need for extra flair . her makeup is sharp and clean , sometimes accentuated with a bold red lip . her eyes are often outlined with just enough darkness to draw attention to her gaze , and her hair is cropped to her collarbone , a sleek and defiant style that makes the lines of her face seem a bite more harsh . she believes she need not beg for admiration ; it's her right , and she dresses accordingly .

ARE THERE ANY RUMORS OR GOSSIP ABOUT THEM?

● it's pretty rare to see her smile ( unless she's laughing at someone ) so anytime she does , it's a bit of a commodity to her coworkers . ● she dislikes talking about her past lover , but there is lots of speculation surrounding their relationship and why she is so jaded because of it . ● when she flirts , it's usually calculated and painfully effective . she has the allure of a siren calling sailors to the water : suni knows exactly how to use her charm to get what she wants , and it's more a weapon than anything else .  ● most know that when she wants something , she won't stop until she gets it . the same is true for revenge — don't start a fight with her unless you want it to escalate .

[jack-of-crowns]

@flashfictionfridayofficial

'V Is For Vectory' by @jack-of-crowns

At first it was scary, the bi-weekly trips up to Montreal that dark and stormy autumn. The long car rides in your mother's Starfire as the mountains raced past the three piece rear window all streaked with stonefly wings and leaf-littered rain; nodding silently at the blank faces of the border guards at LaColle; counting the long miles up the A-15 by the rhythms of the rubber thumping out a steady drumbeat. Then dharm-mata's comforting presence, always the first person at the handleless door in that yellowing brick building off Pine Avenue. She would sit with us, holding your hand and sharing a Mounds bar as we would wait for the doctors to call us down into the long labyrinths beyond the inner door; she'd return the soldier's salutes as they would pass through in their hushed twos and threes with that wistful smile in her eyes.

But those are the good memories looking back now, aren't they? Those weren't the ones we were scared of; what lay beyond the inner door as dharm-mata let go of your hand and the soldiers led us down and through into the bowels of the Allan, that was what was scary at first. The pain as the sharp needles pierced your soft flesh; that was hurt that would linger for days, mottled bruises to remind us of how we came into each other's lives. That would have been enough for any child, but the scars we both bear from those days of our awakening are wounds from which no balm of Gilead can ever bring blessed relief; for that I will never find forgiveness for those who restored my brokenness and brought me forth from the depths of Naraka to forge anew a weapon that should never have been used with such magnification of force upon mortal minds again.

You got used to our ghosts, eventually. We would meld into each other's consciousness, and the truths of all those deemed foes whose lives I had taken across aeons of armed conflict would become as numbingly inured to your own superego as they had so long ago in mine, an endless parade of terror tales that began to blur and fade like the four-colour panels of a dime store comic book as they ceased to trouble your waking mind less and less. That's the beginning of the meld; that's when the artificers are watching us most closely. At length we became inseparable, you and I; and we grew together, and the memories of those long nights on the ride south home to the lake chalet as we slowly became aware of what we were becoming faded away as surely as the curls of smoke from your mother's cigarettes.

So wake up, soldier. Don't pretend that what we have done together for whatever gods-forsaken causes never happened, don't try to pretend that it was all some schizoid nightmare that you would have eventually recovered from. You and I; we were never anything else than what we became- a living weapon, a perfect psychic vector of death to turn the innermost fears of our wielder's enemies into the instrument of their defeat as surely as though we ourselves were the blade that had pierced their hearts. I say again; wake up, soldier. There are irredeemable demons in hells innumerable who have committed atrocities a thousand times more evil than thou. Once in a great while, we will meet these damned who are worth fighting, and those are the victories that will bring us to the only possible redemption that such as ourselves will ever attain.

[r3d-f0xs-blog]

OC Profile: Charlie Ever

Basic Info

Name: Eldarion Ever

Alias(es): Charlie Ever, El, Unicorn

Date of birth: May 01 2043

Zodiac sign: Taurus

Gender: Non-binary (they/them)

Place of Birth: Nomad camp

Sexuality: Pansexual

Appearance

Height: 6’/ 183 cm

Build: Slim/athletic

Hair: Blue and pink (was a natural brunette)

Eyes: Natural blue but now mixture of blues, pinks and purples like opal.

Cyberwear: BD recording implants, doll chip, Synthskin, Techhair, Kiroshi optics, Arasaka arms in Mox colours, elf ears with enhanced hearing. The cyberwear on their face is purely for aesthetics as is the panel on their stomach.

Background

Father: Alessio Ever (alive)

Mother: Neroli Ever (alive)

Languages: English, conversational level Spanish

Affiliations

Mox: member

Aldecaldos: known to them

Occupation: Sex worker

Role: Joytoy, doll, BD performer and scroller, dancer

Weapons: Baseball bat, fists

Personality type: ENFJ -A Protagonists (ENFJs) feel called to serve a greater purpose in life. Thoughtful and idealistic, these personality types strive to have a positive impact on other people and the world around them. They rarely shy away from an opportunity to do the right thing, even when doing so is far from easy.

Charlie, as they go by most of the time, was born on the road and in a Nomad clan that since vanished and their family settled into Santo Domingo when they were thirteen. Nothing tragic about their background; lived as well as they could in their family. Their Mum was a huge bookworm and had shards upon shards of old literature; she gave them an elven name from Tolkein and encouraged them to read, write, perform, be creative. Their Dad ended up in the NCPD somehow, probably had a Netrunner friend forge IDs for them.

Charlie had a reasonable education with the clan but education in Night City was mostly from their Mum.

Charlie in Lizzie's Bar

They wanted to be a writer or to direct BDs but as AI and those with better contacts got into that career path, they gave up. Charlie worked in a clothes shop for a while and on some nights worked as a joytoy. From there they found the Mox, met Judy and got into BDs which began as the smut kind but as they and Judy got to know each other, they found more creative sparks, even if that was to make more unique or interesting smut BDs or to talk about dream projects. Charlie eventually got into doll work as well, finding themselves in a niche and luxury dollhouse and befriended Ren there. Doll work is Charlie’s least favourite work but it pays well and is a fall-back when other work is going through a dry spell.

Charlie dancing at Empathy

You’ll find Charlie working in the dollhouse, Lizzie’s, dancing at Empathy or Dark Matter. These days Charlie keeps their joytoy clientele quite small; they’re expensive in the dollhouse for a reason and more expensive as a joytoy because of what they offer. Not all their work is sex related. Charlie has had clients who wanted to cook dinner for them just so they weren’t dining alone, clients who take them along to public events, people who want some physical closeness without sex.

Brain Dance and performance is an art form for Charlie, including smut BDs. It’s something they are passionate about and put a lot of thought into. Sex isn’t taboo for Charlie but with Judy they also love to discuss different ideas for their BDs that aren’t all sex related.

Ren and Judy are probably the only people who know them best. They’re known for being a bit of a grump at times, particularly when people are hassling them when they’re off the clock or giving others grief when they’re working. Charlie’s sleep schedule can be all over the place too which doesn’t help.

Charlie and Judy at Pride

That said they are very much an extroverted person. They thrive on meeting other people, enjoy parties and other social events. They’re warm, friendly and love to talk which goes with their work. While they are empathetic, which comes in handy with many aspects of their work, Charlie is no doormat either.

More at Lizzie’s

Charlie didn’t lose their arms, it was a choice for when they were a more active member of the Mox; Charlie has dealt with people who have harmed other Moxes and still does from time to time. Charlie doesn’t shy from confrontation when it comes to clients giving them or others problems. They’re friendly with Lightning for that reason as she often takes jobs dealing with troublesome clients or individuals who’ve been targeting sex workers in Night City, usually for free.

Charlie and Rita dealing with a handsy patron

Charlie’s interests have inspired a lot of their work. They styled themself after their favourite mythical beings; unicorns and elves. Their hair is cybernetic, can colour shift to silvery and their skin can colour shift from their usual skin tone to paler, it can also have a slight pearlescent shimmer if wanted. They won’t go all out on full exotic cyberwear as it’s not what they want. They’re known for their various series of smut BDs inspired by mythology, folklore, popular fantasy fictional characters and such. Coming up with costumes for their BDs, make-up, hair styling is part of the fun for Charlie. They have made some of their own costumes from scratch or altered pieces to suit.

Dressing room

Charlie is very much a nerd. Their love of reading is still strong and they enjoy RPG video games. Anything from the past about these is a huge interest to them. Tolkein was a love Charlie inherited from their Mum and friends of Charlie know the films are a big comfort for them. It’s almost a rite of passage to becoming friends with them to sit through the extended directors cut of the Lord of the Rings trilogy! Charlie took their stage name from an old surviving series of videos some Netrunner dredged up featuring a unicorn they took their stage name from.

Charlie is still in contact with their parents and have a great relationship with them. Alessio isn’t thrilled about his only child being in a gang but it’s not the worst one Charlie could be in. They’re aware of what Charlie does and don’t pass judgement on them for it.

Art by Fluffy of Charlie and her Valerian OC. Shared with her permission.

Charlie is friends with Judy, Lightning, Ren (Fluffy’s OC), Evelyn, and Valerian (another Fluffy OC.) They get along with a great number of other people but these are those closest to them.

When it comes to relationships, Charlie finds them difficult mainly because exes have said they were okay with their work but have found that actually they had a problem with it or had an expectation they didnt share with them that they would quit sex work. So they are a bit guarded about that! Charlie's relationship with Valerian is still developing. They’re friends, and it’s a little complicated by the fact that Valerian is a client of theirs. How that will develop is yet to be seen!

[bluenpinkcastle]

20240112: the History of LEGO Castle day 012. 6040-1 Blacksmith Shop (1984, 93 pieces, 42 different parts) The very first of the LEGO Blacksmith shops (6040-1) came out in 1984 and had a variety of brand new pieces. The Blacksmith Shop features a light gray wall with a red forge and chimney on a green baseplate. A black horse and two brown wagon wheels are set aside, showing a story idea of a broken down wagon the blacksmith must repair. The set includes two minifigures, one with the gold and black axes crossed triangular shield print on a red torso with blue arms and the second instance of gendering in the LEGOLAND System Castle theme, as the blacksmith appears to wear only a brown apron to go with the black pants and black hands over a plain yellow torso. Though, this shirtless blacksmith could very well be a woman, that just seems like a bad idea to me. The axe-person features the standard dark gray axe helmet while the blacksmith has the black hood. The brown plastic cape (used as the apron) was ONLY found in this one set, making it rather difficult to get a hold of, and, as odd has it sounds, the plain yellow torso with black hands was also only found in this one set, though the plain yellow torso was found in multiple sets throughout the years. This set introduced the light gray 2x5x6 castle wall panel, featured often throughout castle sets. While two of the walls are blank, the third wall has a dark gray stone pattern surrounding the window. This is also the first set with the light gray technic connector pin, indicating this set can be combined with others in the series. One of my absolute favorite parts about this set is how this is the first set to include instructions for one of the alternate back of the box builds. I actually can't think of any other LEGO castle sets that do this, but I'll keep my eye out for it as I progress through this history :) Other back of the box builds from this set include different versions of the wall and wagons or chariots, which can only be build because two wagon wheels and two connectors were included in the set, though not necessarily used with the intended design, but rather set to the side. If you want to know more about the designer, Daniel August Krentz, BrickSet did a really nice tribute and has a full list of everything he designed.

[newfashion01]

Kevin Durant Houston Rockets #35 Red Version Basketball Jersey

Link Product: https://inspirdg.com/product/kevin-durant-houston-rockets-35-red-version-basketball-jersey/

Kevin Durant Houston Rockets #35 Red Version Basketball Jersey: A Crimson Manifestation of Power, Pride, and Pure Basketball Spirit

A Tribute in Red: Reigniting the Rockets Flame

There are jerseys—and then there are legendary tributes wrapped in fabric, forged in imagination and draped in passion. The Kevin Durant Houston Rockets #35 Red Version Basketball Jersey is not simply another athletic garment—it’s a visual love letter to a franchise built on tenacity and talent, with the bold possibility of merging that spirit with one of the most gifted players to ever grace the hardwood.

Drenched in signature Rockets red, the jersey pulses with energy, heat, and legacy. The color isn’t just iconic—it’s evocative. It brings to life Houston’s basketball roots, from the days of Hakeem Olajuwon to the modern era, while inviting the fantasy of what could be if Kevin Durant brought his smooth, lethal scoring to Space City.

Design that Speaks Loud and Clear

The front of the jersey bursts with energy thanks to the stark white “ROCKETS” lettering, sitting proudly across the chest in a bold, slightly arched typeface. It’s assertive, but clean—a style that pays homage to Houston’s historical kits while feeling unmistakably modern. Right beneath it, the number 35, associated with Durant’s storied career, grounds the design with purpose and familiarity.

The side panels of sleek black serve as a visual contour, adding contrast and sleekness to the overall design. This subtle infusion of darkness gives the jersey an edge—a fitting nod to the seriousness Durant brings to every court he steps onto.

Meanwhile, the back of the jersey maintains the tempo: “DURANT” emblazoned above the number in all caps, giving the appearance of a banner raised high in honor. Every detail from stitching to font alignment evokes care and respect for both the game and the man.

Durant's Imagined Legacy in H-Town

Kevin Durant is a player who transcends time, systems, and expectations. From his rise with the Thunder, dominance with the Warriors, to leadership in Brooklyn and Phoenix, Durant’s legacy is already cemented. But this jersey invites us into a vivid "what if" moment—an alternate reality where Durant becomes the heartbeat of Houston.

Imagine the red seats of Toyota Center packed with hopeful fans, the sound of sneakers echoing as Durant sinks another 3, the scoreboard flashing his iconic number. This jersey materializes that dream into something wearable—a bold declaration of what basketball could look like with #35 in Rockets red.

It honors the idea that greatness can always be reborn in new colors, under new lights, in front of new crowds.

Jordan Brand Precision Meets Fan-Centric Style

Stamped with the Jordan Brand logo, the jersey gains an immediate boost in pedigree. Michael Jordan's legacy is one of dominance and excellence, and KD is cut from the same cloth. This alignment creates a beautiful synergy—past, present, and potential greatness all converging in one piece.

More than just a collector's fantasy, this is a performance-ready jersey. Engineered with breathable, sweat-wicking materials, it’s designed for real use, not just aesthetics. Whether you’re shooting hoops at the park or repping the Rockets on a night out, this jersey ensures comfort meets cool, always.

Its lightweight feel and seamless shoulder construction offer a fit that moves with your body, allowing you to perform—or chill—in maximum style.

Cultural Icon, Streetwear Staple

This jersey belongs not just in the stands, but in the streets, on social media feeds, and in fashion conversations. It carries the swagger of Houston—confident, resilient, and unapologetically proud.

Picture it paired with distressed denim, fresh sneakers, or layered under a bomber jacket. Its red palette draws attention, sparks conversation, and bridges the worlds of sports culture and modern style. Even if Durant never suits up for the Rockets, this jersey turns that possibility into an act of personal expression.

For fashion-forward fans, sneakerheads, and basketball historians, it’s more than merch—it’s a movement in cloth.

The Ultimate Gift for the Ultimate Dreamer

This jersey is the perfect gift for any Rockets fan, Durant loyalist, or basketball dreamer. It invites wearers to live the fantasy of greatness, to connect with a team and a player in a way that transcends stats and games.

It’s also a bold piece for collectors—a commemorative reminder of a beautiful “what if,” frozen in time and textile.

Final Verdict: A Flame-Wrapped Fantasy of Basketball Royalty

The Kevin Durant Houston Rockets #35 Red Version Basketball Jersey is a masterclass in fanwear design. It captures emotion, performance, and cultural symbolism in every thread. From its rich hues to its future-facing concept, it tells a story of power, possibility, and pride.

Whether you wear it to the arena, to the gym, or on the streets, you’re not just wearing a jersey—you’re making a statement about belief in greatness, the blending of icons, and the timeless power of sport to stir the soul.

[usa2025store01]

Inter Milan x NFL Limited Edition 2025 Football Jersey

Link Product: https://flavorhauted.com/product/inter-milan-x-nfl-limited-edition-2025-football-jersey/

A New Era of Global Sport Fusion: Inter Milan x NFL Limited Edition 2025 Football Jersey

In the realm of elite sportswear and international collaborations, few creations rise to the level of cultural phenomena. The Inter Milan x NFL Limited Edition 2025 Football Jersey is one such masterpiece. Born from the fusion of two global sporting titans—Inter Milan, Italy’s footballing aristocracy, and the National Football League, the colossus of American sports—this jersey isn’t just a crossover item; it’s a landmark in fashion, fandom, and forward-thinking identity.

Design Mastery: Minimalist Power with Global Symbolism

The first thing that strikes you is the bold, clean silhouette. The black base of the jersey commands presence—sleek, sharp, and unapologetically modern. Black isn’t just a design choice here; it’s power made visual. The use of royal blue and gold accents, signature Inter colors, injects Italian luxury and regal finesse into a classic NFL format.

The front of the jersey features “INTER” emblazoned at the chest, with the striking “00” number displayed in outlined, futuristic typography. On the back, “INTER” takes its place again above the number—clear, proud, and intentional. The dual use of the club’s name reinforces brand identity in both European and American sporting cultures, a bold declaration of global ambition.

The NFL shield at the collar and Nike swoosh on the sleeves bring authenticity to the piece, affirming its place in professional football apparel. But the most genius touch? The Inter Milan badge subtly woven into the numerals. It’s understated but effective—an insider’s nod to club loyalty that makes you feel like part of something exclusive.

Fabrication & Fit: Engineered for Excellence

Built using Nike’s highest-performance jersey material, this limited edition offers a tailored athletic fit that hugs in all the right places without feeling restrictive. The shirt features moisture-wicking Dri-FIT technology, making it just as viable for the field as it is for fashion.

Stitching is reinforced at stress points—shoulders, collar, and hem—ensuring this jersey lasts beyond just fashion seasons. The lightweight mesh side panels allow airflow, and the seamless tagless neck is perfect for all-day comfort.

This isn’t just a collectible—it’s a wearable piece of performance art, engineered to impress under stadium lights or street style spotlights.

Symbolism in Synthesis: Bridging Continents and Cultures

The Inter x NFL jersey is more than a design—it’s a cultural handshake, a celebration of how sport can bridge oceans, ideologies, and identities. Inter Milan, with its deep legacy of European football excellence, meets the NFL, a symbol of American athletic dominance and spectacle. The result is a fashion-forward piece that respects both traditions while forging a bold, new aesthetic language.

This jersey answers a growing global question: Why stay in one lane? Why limit allegiance to one sport, one style, one identity? This collaboration is a celebration of intersectionality—the kind that reflects today’s hyper-connected, cross-cultural fans.

With American NFL stars donning Inter's colors and Inter fans repping gridiron style, the result is an iconic meeting point for global sports tribes.

Streetwear & High Fashion: The Rise of Transnational Athletic Aesthetics

One of the strongest appeals of this jersey is its styling versatility. The dark colorway and clean lines lend it easily to luxury streetwear—pair it with joggers, distressed jeans, or tailored shorts, and it transitions from pre-game look to post-game party with ease.

Add gold accessories, layered over a hoodie, or under a leather jacket, and you’ve just created a runway-ready street ensemble. It’s as much at home in Milan Fashion Week as it is in a Dallas tailgate. This is glocal fashion—global and local, luxury and utility, timeless and trailblazing.

For sneakerheads, it’s a dream match-up. Whether with Air Max, Jordans, or custom cleats, the colorways of this jersey complement the hottest drops of 2025 and beyond.

Emotional Impact: Pride, Power, and Progress

Every great jersey tells a story—and this one tells many. It tells of football as a universal language, of how clubs are no longer just local but cultural beacons. It tells of a rising generation of fans who switch between sports, continents, and cultures with ease and pride. It tells of new possibilities in merchandise design, where storytelling, tech, and fashion intersect.

It also carries emotional weight. To wear this jersey is to embrace plural identity—to say: “I belong to more than one world.” It celebrates progress, inclusion, and evolution in the most stylish way possible.

This jersey isn't just a product—it's a statement of intent.

Conclusion: A Jersey That Redefines the Game

The Inter Milan x NFL Limited Edition 2025 Football Jersey is a milestone moment in sportswear. It’s bold without being brash, luxurious without being gaudy, and reverent without being predictable. It redefines how we view collaboration—not as compromise, but as creative elevation.

It sets a new bar for global club apparel. More than merch, more than a jersey, this is a manifesto for modern fandom.

Whether you’re a die-hard Interisti, an NFL veteran, a fashion innovator, or someone who loves meaningful design—this is the kind of drop that won’t just be remembered. It’ll be revered.

[planeswalker-chronicles]

Episode 5: "Shadows Rising" - Scene 3A

[ BACK ]

Baldur's Gate, Dusk

The Wanderer was at Vellin's smithy, working on the shell for the machine. It was, so far, a mix of wood framing and metal reinforcement. Nailing together beams, screwing on panels, it was proving hard work for the Wanderer as he could already feel himself getting sweaty under his off-white shirt. While he worked, he heard passerby's,

 "You hear about this Wanderer fellow? He robbed Candlekeep and now the lady Minthara has put up a bounty on his head." 

The Wanderer didn't react at first, but the dread started to set in as he kept himself at work. 

For fuck's sake…

The hammer paused mid-swing.

The Wanderer stood still, muscles tensed beneath the off-white shirt already clinging with sweat. A soft creak of timber settled beside him, the only other sound in the smithy as the murmur of the street drifted on. Outside, the voices continued, unaware they were speaking within earshot of their very subject.

"Saw his face posted outside the Basilisk Gate. Bit younger than I expected, really."

"And dangerous. They say he used to walk through walls. Gods only know what else he can do."

He forced his grip to loosen around the hammer, set it gently down on the workbench. Not too fast. Not too slow. Just normal. Unremarkable. As if his heart wasn’t thudding against his ribs like a trapped bird.

They’ve got my face up now. Publicly.

Minthara moved faster than he'd anticipated. Or perhaps he’d underestimated just how much the Candlekeep job would provoke her—especially after the stunt at Bilgrow's forge. The whisper of her name alone made his teeth grind.

He stepped back from the frame, wiping his hands on a soot-smeared cloth, then glanced to the blueprint on the nearby table—the outline of the Dimensional Transport Console, half-sketched in charcoal and splattered ink.

So close.

 The interface was done. The shell was taking shape. The array and core would come next. Just a few more nights, if luck held.

And now… a bounty.

Of course. Couldn’t stay quiet for long. I’m anonymous until I’m not—and now I’ve got drow breathing down my neck and half the Gate whispering my name.

He snorted quietly, bitterly.

He moved to a shelf, pulling down another set of nails, and resumed his work—more frantically now. The hammering grew louder, sharper, sweat mixing with the metal dust streaked across his skin. Not to keep up appearances, but out of necessity. Each hour counted now.

Because if Minthara found him—if the wrong people found him—before the Console was finished...

Then everything—the escape, the plan, the entire reason he’d risked Candlekeep—would be lost.

“Just a few more days,” he muttered to himself, driving another nail home.

“Just a few more fucking days.”

Vellin said to the Wanderer as he was hammering away with him,

 "How much longer until we're done? Rather not have a drow on my arse." 

"Just a few more days, Vellin. We just need to finish the shell and for me to create the interior dimension."

Vellin snorted, the sound somewhere between amused and anxious as he wiped his brow with a soot-stained sleeve. His dark hair was pulled back, but strands had started to stick to his forehead from the forge’s heat. He leaned over to tighten a bolt along the Console’s lower panel, the metal groaning faintly under his wrench.

“Interior dimension,” he muttered. “Right. Like that’s a thing normal people just build in their spare time.”

He glanced sidelong at the Wanderer, eyebrows raised.

“I make swords. Shields. An occasional fancy kettle. You’re talking about pocket realities like you’re building a bloody wardrobe.”

The Wanderer didn’t look up from his work, fingers tracing the edge of a brass plate he was about to weld. His voice was calm—too calm, the kind of calm that came when panic was shoved into a box and locked down with steel will.

“It’s more like a fold in space. Anchored to an object. The Console’s core will act as the stabilizer, but the interior needs to be sewn first—stitched from arcane anchors. Spatial resonance, time-anchored metaphysics, all that.”

Vellin blinked. Slowly.

“…Right. So, you’re just a lunatic and a genius.”

The Wanderer gave him a crooked grin, faint and fleeting, then lit the welding rod with a crackle of heat. Sparks danced across the half-finished frame, “You can be both.”

Vellin leaned on the support beam, glancing toward the window where the sky had started to turn the color of ash and rose with sunset.

“A few more days. I’ll hold you to that. But if Lady Minthara kicks down that door before then, I’m blaming the gnome.”

“You mean Milo?”

“Exactly. I’ve seen what that bastard does to metal. He once enchanted my lunchbox to bite me when I opened it.”

“Smart lunchbox.”

“You’re not helping.”

They worked into the evening, the shell slowly taking shape. But above it all, tension clung to the air. Because they all knew what was coming.

And time was running out.

[ NEXT ]