#◜fracture: attire.◞

[gethellbcnt]

fracture tags !

◜fracture: inbox / replies.◞ ◜fracture: behavior.◞ ◜fracture: headcanon.◞ ◜fracture: in character.◞ ◜fracture: mirror / faceclaim.◞ ◜fracture: isms.◞ ◜fracture: interests.◞ ◜fracture: playlist.◞ ◜fracture: aesthetics.◞ ◜fracture: desires / shipping.◞ ◜fracture: attire.◞ ◜fracture: abilities / skills.◞

◜fracture / v. main.◞ 🇳​🇴​🇧​🇴​🇩​🇾​'🇸​ 🇧​🇴​🇷​🇳​ 🇭​🇦​🇹​🇮​🇳​🇬​﹐​🇧​🇴​🇷​🇳​ 🇫​🇦​🇰​🇪​. ◜fracture / au. pedigree.◞ 🇳​🇴​🇹​ 🇦​ 🇫​🇱​🇪​🇦​ 🇴​🇷​ 🇦​ 🇫​🇱​🇦​🇼​.

[gethellbcnt-m]

fracture tags !

◜fracture: inbox / replies.◞ ◜fracture: behavior.◞ ◜fracture: headcanon.◞ ◜fracture: in character.◞ ◜fracture: mirror / faceclaim.◞ ◜fracture: isms.◞ ◜fracture: playlist.◞ ◜fracture: aesthetics.◞ ◜fracture: desires / shipping.◞ ◜fracture: attire.◞ ◜fracture: abilities / skills.◞

◜fracture / v. main.◞ 🇳​🇴​🇧​🇴​🇩​🇾​'🇸​ 🇧​🇴​🇷​🇳​ 🇭​🇦​🇹​🇮​🇳​🇬​﹐​🇧​🇴​🇷​🇳​ 🇫​🇦​🇰​🇪​. ◜fracture / au. pedigree.◞ 🇳​🇴​🇹​ 🇦​ 🇫​🇱​🇪​🇦​ 🇴​🇷​ 🇦​ 🇫​🇱​🇦​🇼​.

[tooclevertobehappy]

Hidden in plain sight Part.3

TRIGGER WARNING: Mention of injury, child abuse, lots of guilt

Mapi and Ingrid are led by the officer down the hospital corridor toward one of the conference rooms. They tightly hold each other’s hands, exchanging nervous glances as they walk. Mapi takes a few seconds to press a lingering kiss on Ingrid’s forehead, letting her know they are in this together. The angst that had settled in Ingrid’s stomach grows the further they go. She wishes she could have seen Clara before being dragged away, but now she and Mapi are told to sit and wait for someone to come talk to them.

They’ve been sitting for less than ten minutes when Alexia enters, being led in by the same officer. It’s clear from the confusion on her face that she doesn’t understand why they aren’t allowed to see Clara either.

The three of them sit in silence. Ingrid’s leg bounces incessantly, her nerves growing, until Mapi gently places her hand on her leg, slowly caressing it with her thumb in an attempt to calm her down. All the while, Mapi keeps an eye on the captain, who looks like she’s about to storm out and demand to see Clara. The way Alexia’s knuckles turn white from gripping the chair’s armrests is a clear indication of her mounting frustration.

A woman finally walks in, file in hand, followed by a doctor and the same police officer. They sit down with the group, briefly talking among themselves. All three players’ eyes are drawn to the woman’s badge, which shines under the overhead lamp. It reads: “Mrs. Armon Child Protective Services.”

Ingrid’s hand joins Mapi’s on her leg, holding on so tightly that Mapi wonders if she might bruise from the hold. They exchange glances. What had been a weird, concerning situation before has now escalated into something far worse.

Finally, the agent clears her throat, opens the file she’s holding, and begins to speak.

“Hi, thank you for waiting. We just had a few questions about Miss Arellano’s home life,” she says calmly, before being interrupted by Alexia.

“What do you mean, her home life? Why aren’t we allowed to see her?” Alexia demands, her voice rising with frustration.

The agent sighs before picking up a piece of paper from her file. “Miss Arellano was brought to this hospital following injuries sustained during training today at the Barcelona team stadium, is that correct?” she asks, waiting for them to confirm.

“She was unconscious when she was brought in. Our nurses changed her from her training attire into one of our hospital gowns to better assess her injuries. During the examination, they found unexpected contusions on her body—ones that don’t match up with the injuries she would have sustained during the accident or any other training,” the agent continues.

The doctor, who had remained silent until then, raised a hand, his gaze turning serious.

“Miss Arellano, presented with a head laceration and head contusion that we know was caused today during training.” He says.

The three players nod their head at this, they’d all been there and seen the accident themselves after all.

”We however found evidence of bruises on her ribs and back.” He adds looking at them one after the other, seemingly studying their reactions.

Ingrid’s hand leaves Mapi’s and comes up to cover her mouth as tears started to form in her eyes while Alexia’s sharp intake of breath can be heard throughout the room.

“Adding to this, scans confirmed she has three fractured ribs and small cuts on the base of her neck, small crescent moons that suggest she’s been forcefully held by someone.” He ends with, closing the small file he’d opened when he started listing the seemingly endless list of injuries.

Tears now fall freely from Ingrid’s eyes over her hand still covering her mouth, Mapi’s arm is now laying over Ingrid’s shoulders, holding her closer to her as she holds her own leg tightly to hide the way her hand shakes.

Miss Armon gives them a brief moment, to allow the information to sink in before adding “We are suspecting that this isn’t the first time something like this happened, counting the report made today by the hospital, Miss Arellano is the subject of three previous reports.”

“Reports?” Mapi asks, her voice shaky with the first hints of fear.

“Reports of suspected child abuse,” the agent clarifies. “Two came from her school, and one from a former coach. All three reports describe unusual bruises, which Miss Arellano tries to justify as clumsiness or falling, Miss Arellano it seems has been getting abused and covering it up for weeks, if not months, trying to make those injuries look accidental but the medical assessment is clear, she’s being abused.”

The room is still. No one speaks. The weight of the agent’s words presses on them, suffocating. Mapi watches as Ingrid’s hands tremble. Alexia stares at the floor, her breath shallow. Time stretches between them. They can’t undo this.

Alexia who had sat still for most of the conversation seems to deflate at this, she’d hoped that maybe this had been “it only happened once” situation, but there was no denying the truth, Clara had been suffering for months, hiding it from them, and she’d been absolutely clueless, her, the captain of the team, she had not seen it.

She can’t help but think that she’s failed at her job, and the weight of the realization seems to pull her down and she slowly bends over herself, one hand coming to grip her own hair the other one resting on her face as she tries to slow her breathing down.

Ingrid is left reeling by the sudden onslaught of information. It feels like her chest is tightening with every passing second, tears are clouding her vision, she tries to breathe normally, but she can’t help the hitches that come with every breath she takes. She had suspected something was wrong the day before, but hearing her worst fears confirmed in a matter of minutes sends her spiraling.

“I know this is a lot to process,” Miss Armon says, her voice softer now. “But Clara’s safety is our top priority. We can start to make a difference now that we know the truth.”

The agent looks at the three women. “Now, we must ask if you’ve noticed anything that might shed light on this matter—anything Clara may have said or done, or anything unusual you’ve noticed about her home life?”

Mapi tightens her grip on Ingrid’s hand as she looks at Alexia, who is visibly devastated, she’d seen the Captain face hard situations before, always standing strong to help anyone on their team, but now she looks small curled in on herself as if it could protect her from the brutality of the information she’d been given.

She gently nudges Ingrid, silently inviting her to speak about what the two of them had discussed the day before.

“She was supposed to come to our house for dinner yesterday” says Ingrid, “She didn’t show up so I.. “she chokes up on her words, tears strangling her “So I went to her house, her dad answered the door, but he said she wasn’t there!” she adds the volume of her voice raising, her tone almost pleading with them.

Mapi’s now slowly but firmly caressing her back trying to ground her but also to remind her that she’s here by her side.

“I should have known! He smelled like liquor and the house was a mess! But he said she wasn’t there and I left.” Her eyes that were still filled with tears suddenly widened. “Oh my god.” her hand came back to cover her mouth. “I left! I left her there! With him!” Ingrid had tried to hold her sobs back till this exact moment when she realized that she’d left Clara with her abuser completely unchecked. She had seen the signs, the clues, heard the warning bells go off in her mind and yet. She’d left her there.

Ingrid’s breaths come in shallow gasps, as the weight of her realization crushes her, she can’t believe it.

Mapi’s chest tightens at the thought of Clara, alone in that house with him. The guilt in Ingrid’s eyes is almost too much for her to bear, and she feels a helpless knot in her stomach. What if this had been prevented? What if she could’ve seen the signs too?

“No no no no Amor, don’t do this to yourself” Mapi quickly grabs Ingrid’s face in her hands, trying to look into her eyes as she wipes her tears with her thumbs resting on her cheeks.

She pulls her in a tight embrace, holding her tightly, wishing she could protect her from the crushing guilt threatening to swallow here whole. “You couldn’t have known” she whispers, voice soft but firm.

Ingrid wants to believe her, she really does, but she can’t help but wonder how different the situation would be if she’d just paid attention to Clara, if she didn’t let her slip away, if only she'd intervened earlier, maybe all of this could have been avoided.

Mapi feels inadequate, she wants to reassure Ingrid and she can’t help but worry for Alexia that still hasn’t moved from the position she’s been in since the doctor listed all of Clara’s injuries, she wants to help both of them but can’t help but focus on her girlfriend, her caring and oh so sensitive girlfriend who seems to break down even more as the second pass, she can feel her body tensing and yet crumpling at the same time right underneath her fingertips.

She tries to pull her up and away from the guilt pit she seems to be falling into but she’s only mildly successful.

As Ingrid’s sobs slowly subside, Mapi still feels a tight knot in her chest, a growing worry that this moment, this pain, might not be something they can fix with words alone.

Miss Armon allowed them a few minutes to settle themselves before she spoke.

“By your own words, Mister Arellano was intoxicated when you came to check on Clara, is that correct?” she confirms, taking notes as she goes

Ingrid nods, her hand fidgeting with the hem of her shirt.

“Is there any other thing any of you can remember that could add to this?” she asks.

Alexia who had remained silent till now spoke up.

“She ran into me on the way to the field, I grabbed her so she wouldn’t fall and… she just looked in pain and I asked what was going on, but she said she was just tired, and we were almost running late.” She looks smaller than she ever has, guilt seems to be pulling her down more and more as she speaks. “I didn’t push her.” she says softly, her head still bowed down.

She takes a few slows breaths before looking up at the couple sitting next to her.

“I just don’t understand how we’ve all missed this. How I’ve missed it.” she says her voice shaky as she holds back her tears

The agent shakes her head.

“Abused children tend to hide their troubles very well” she tells them “The important thing is that we know. Now we can do something about it.”

They all sit in silence for a few seconds before the doctor clears his throat and breaks the silence, his voice professional but sympathetic.

“Miss Arellano has not woken up yet, but when she does we will assess the extent of her injuries to plan her recovery.” he says “When she’s ready we’ll conduct an interview to understand what’s happened. But right now we need to give her time, it’s likely she’s been hiding this for quite a while and we don’t know how she’ll react once the truth comes to light.”

“Would we be allowed to see her?” asks Mapi, she doesn’t allow herself to hope, no matter how desperate she is to check on Clara, she doesn’t want to give anyone false hopes if they are denied access to her.

The doctor looks at Miss Armon, who nods slightly, prompting the doctor grab his file and stand up “Yes, we had to ask those questions first, but if you wish to see her, I’ll take you to her room, however be aware that she’s still unconscious and that we don’t know when she’ll wake up, could be in an hour or tomorrow, okay?”

The three of them nod, shaking hands with Miss Armon and the police officer on auto-pilot before following the doctor out of the conference room and down corridors as they slowly walked closer to their young friend.

As they walked down the sterile corridors Mapi didn’t react as Ingrid grabbed her hand, she’d expected it, but to her surprise Alexia’s hand reached out, grabbing her free one tightly as though she needed to anchor herself too.

She’d raised her head looking at her, but Alexia refused to look at her, looking ahead the whole time her eyes fixed on the back of the doctor’s white coat.

So the three of them walked hand in hand, ignoring the looks thrown their way by patients, doctors and nurses alike that recognized them.

It felt like they’d walked for hours but could have only been minutes when the doctor finally stopped in front of a room, gently sliding the door open and stepping in.

Ingrid can’t help the gasp that comes out of her mouth as she sees Clara laying in the hospital bed, half her face covered in bandages and what wasn’t could only be discribed as a mix of purple and blue.

Alexia didn’t make a sound, but it was clear in the way her jaw tightened that she wasn’t left unaffected by the sight before her.

And Mapi? Well Mapi was trying to help everyone at once, she had to make sure Ingrid didn’t break down, that Alexia wouldn’t retreat behind her walls and try to deal with everything at once, she had to make sure Clara was okay and somehow also take care of herself as well.

Last night she wondered how they could help Clara.

Today she wasn’t sure any of them would be left standing to do just that.

[xenonarrow]

At last, my piece for the Moon Knight fanzine Lunar Labyrinth (@moon-knight-zine) from last year! This is the first time I work with a zine project and it was definitely a delight.

I had fun with the symbolism on this piece, more info under the crack:

Prompt/Subject: My place in this zine was part of the artists for the 4th chapters, Waxing Gibbous: Order. The prompt was changed and revised through the process, ultimately revolving around the concept of being reborn, rebuilding, discovering each other's strengths and ultimately the chapter's namesake order. I played with the concept of rebuilding a literal set of mirrors as a visual metaphor.

General setting: I chose to feature the MCU version of the character(s) with some elements from the comics since the time of the planning was very close to its release on D+. The scene is set inside one's house as I often use them with the symbolic value of one's personality and emotional state. I chose Steven's apartment from the MCU for two main reasons: 1) It's shown at the end after the events of the series, implying they still use it as home 2) The layout of the set is well documented and also nice and cosy. I used a combination of pictures from the behind the scenes and artbook + a rough scene I put up in Blender as reference for the subjects' placement, perspective and palette

Character(s) There is only one (physical) character in scene that I called "the body" since it's placed in a way so the face is not visible. This is deliberate so to not give away any clue about which alter is fronting - he can be any of them, all or none at the same time - it's just the body. The physical appearance. The medium with which the psyche interacts with the rest of the physical world. The body's clothes were a tough choice but I ended up with Steven's pyjamas since it was what they wearing at the end of the series. Steven, Marc and Jake are represented in the mirror with their Duat sequence clothes (except for Jake's attire for his only on-screen appearance + comics version fake moustache because honestly he feels naked without them) and in a pose reflecting as much as their individual vibe and role as I could in a single image: Steven and Jake are helping the body putting the mirror pieces back together in two different ways, one in a more concerned / affectionate manner and the other is slightly more blunt and direct. Marc is covering his face, as hiding away is kinda fitting for his character on different occasions (hiding memories in an attempt to protect Steven, Hiding parts of himself and his life to his loved ones, running away from his problems etc). Being dramatic as usual.

Mirrors I love using mirrors as visual metaphors. And I love how they used them in the series. I am very normal about it. In this piece the mirrors function as a reflection of the inner self (or selves, in this case): the same body is reflected in three different mirrors (the alters) which are more or less fractured based on the status of their relationship with a specific alter and themselves: Jake has the most pieces missing, since in the series he's the most elusive one to the point of the others not being aware of his existence up until the end despite still being active in protecting them in times of need. The background of the mirrors reflects the pattern of the (head)space as seen in some parts of the Moon Knight (2016) comics while the colours are chosen and assigned based on the box colours used in Moon Knight (2021). The pattern is not following the perspective of the shards on the floor because it's not a physical space the mirror is reflecting but it's more of a "door" to another dimension, the psychological one. The back of the mirrors has a hieroglyphic inscription vaguely inspired by those seen during the first costume sequence at the end of ep 1 (will be back at this later)

The moon dart (that shiny thing stuck in the rightmost mirror): The moon dart symbolises their connection and service under Khonshu. It was thrown diagonally hitting all three mirrors (and causing the fractures in them) and it got stuck in Jake's, symbolising his status as the one in the system still under the god's leash. The dart has also a side, positive connotation: despite the havoc that being Khonshu's avatar has brought, it also started to bring them together and work as a team.

Hieroglyphs: There is a thematic back-and-forth in this segment of the mirror, as the empty sections symbolises a loss of self in favour of being an Egyptian deity's puppet (hence the hieroglyphic inscriptions, vaguely resembling the pyramid texts where a certain hymn features an earlier and more violent version of the god Khonsu being a slayer for the king), but in the same inscriptions (see the second picture) carry a hopeful message: "There is no son who is strong against his father, but you are strong and mighty while Ma'at (personification of order, balance, harmony) dwells on your arms and your Ba (plural) will last forever, repeating rejuvenation like the Moon". I used "father" referencing the comics where Khonshu leans heavier into posing as a fatherly figure as a manipulation tactic, so the sentence can be interpreted as escaping from Khonshu's leash and finding strength and balance among themselves. It also echoes the usage of the moon dart.

Easter eggs: There are two easter eggs in here. Three Ba birds with the alters' faces can be seen over Steven's mirror, it's a little signature detail since a previous drawing with them apparently became iconic in my corner of MK fandom? They are also mentioned in the hieroglyphic text. There's a tiny Dracula hiding under the carpet layer. We can't see you in the finished piece, but we know you're here you big fucking nerd

WHEW that was a lot. Thank you for reading this far!

Here are some other progress pics if you fancy:

[jakethesequel]

Welcome back to Tumblr's Poorest Wettest Saddest Littlest Meow Meow Competition! Before we announce the final verdict, let's see how our "lovely" contestants are doing backstage!

VRISKA SERKET, hailing from welcoming Homestuck, is in the blue corner! She's a TROLL, a TELEPATH, and a THIEF. She has also attained GODHOOD, and I'm informed she did nothing wrong! Just off the heels of a dramatic loss in the recent Tumblrwoman Election, she deeply resents being trapped in this narrative device!

Her attire today is plain by Earth standards, but well put-together by ALTERNIAN ones. Nevertheless, she has been known to dress up on occasion, particularly in the colors of her ANCESTOR, the Marquise Spinneret Mindfang!

She is extraordinarily determined, and extremely manipulative. She will do anything she can to make herself into the hero her story needs, consequences be damned. Her actions have made her the source of eternal, vitriolic discourse. Some believe her entirely justified, some believe her a heartless villain, and others believe everything in between; every one steadfast and passionate about their specific stance! Love her or hate her: VRISKA!!!!!!!!

HARRIER DU BOIS, also known as HARRY, sometimes referring to himself as RAPHAEL AMBROSIUS COSTEAU or THE REINCARNATION OF KRAS MAZOV, is here representing scenic Disco Elysium! He is a DETECTIVE, an ALCOHOLIC, a recent AMNESIAC, and a WASTE of ENERGY. Having just recently recovered from an attempt at drinking himself to death, we thought inviting him to compete might raise his spirits some! Unfortunately he does not seem to be totally aware of his surroundings, as he has already tried to touch himself twice on air!

His garish and mismatched clothes are STAINED with seemingly every substance a human body can produce. His face is locked in an EXPRESSION that can only induce disgust and discomfort in those who view it.

The few memories he can draw from his fractured mind paint him as violent, selfish, cruel, and pitiful. He has been trying to get over a breakup for six years, and has only partially succeeded through near-total retrograde amnesia. Worst of all, he's still somehow a decently successful cop. He has no friends and few allies on Revachol, with perhaps the sole exception of the impossibly patient and composed Lt. Kim Katsuragi. Even among his fans, you'd be hard pressed to find one who'd defend him, and ever harder pressed to find one willing to stand in the same room as him. Nevertheless, from the safe distance of fiction, let's hear it for HARRY!

In but a few moments, the doors in front of them will open, and they will be able to approach the trophy onto which we have engraved the name of the winner. 5… 4… 3… 2…

AND THE WINNER IS: VRISKAAAAAAAA SERKET!

—

Vriska: WH8T THE FUCK.

Vriska: WHAT THE F8CK!!!!!!!!

Vriska: I WON THIS????????

Vriska: You pieces of shit can't supp8rt me to win ag8inst some lanky rain8bow-drinking 8itch, 8ut 8eat one-in-fuck8ng 16777216 odds to win poorest, wettest, saddest, littlest g8ddamn meow8east?

Logic [Easy:Success]: She won. That means we lost.

Conceptualization [Challenging:Failure]: Another loss in a long, long line of losses.

Pain Threshold: You've gotten used to the feeling by now. Losing something barely even hurts anymore.

Endurance: You still carry each one with you. Well, except…

Volition: Not now. Not yet.

Authority [Medium:Success]: This doesn't have to stay a loss. Stare the girl down. Challenge her. Don't let this be taken from you.

Wait, what *is* she doing, anyway?

Perception: The grey girl seems to be shouting at someone, but there's no one else here.

Vriska: FUCK YOU FUCK YOU FUCK YOU FUCK YOU FUCK YOU FUCK YOU FUCK YOU FUCK YOU

Inland Empire [Godly:Success]: The unseen audience, the string-pullers of fate. The sadistic writer terrorizing their creation. The storybook itself, the confines it sets. She has seen the death of the author, and needs more.

Empathy [Medium:Failure]: What's got her so upset?

Harry: Is there something wrong with you?

Vriska: I'm not taking that from a walking dumpster, asshole!

Suggestion: There's still time to fix this. Say something nice, quickly.

Harry: I just mean, you seem upset. I thought you'd be celebrating your win. It’s a big accomplishment, right?

Vriska: Are you kidding?

Drama: Are we, sire? Should we be, perhaps?

Vriska: You thought I’d 8e cele8r8ing this? A vote for the most pitia8le, pathetic person in paradox space? I’m not so desper8 to fill my pity quadrant that I need to resort to CROWDFUNDING! That’s like the lowest form of 8egging!

Electrochemistry: You are that desperate. Don’t think we're above begging for it, piggy.

Conceptualization [Easy:Success]: Oh. This was not a contest one wants to win. Maybe our loss was for the best.

Vriska: And I WON!!!!!!!! With this kind of competition, HOW did I get all the votes? All of them!

Reaction Speed [Trivial:Success]: "This kind of competition?" She’s talking about you! Say something!

Harry: It was a tight race. You fought with honor.

Vriska: IT SH8ULDN’T HAVE FUCKIN8 8EEN!

Vriska: Look at you! What the fuck kind of su8juggl8or suit are you wearing? Did someone 8leed on it?

Savoir Faire: No, no, this outfit is *cool*. You just have to give it a little *disco*, man.

Strike a pose.

Vriska: …

Vriska: You can’t seriously think any of that is appealing.

Vriska: Your clothes look like they were dragged out of 8 different gar8age 8ins.

Vriska: You couldn’t 8e more greasy and stained if you drowned in a pail of 8rooding slurry. From the st8 of your body, you actually might have!

Physical Instrument: I told you. You need to cultivate more mass.

Composure [Challenging:Failure]: Please, don’t start crying in front of a teenager.

You realize that you already have.

Vriska: Are you seriously crying right now? I might not 8e an expert on the human metamorphological process 8ut you definitely aren’t a pupa anymore. Shit, you look like you’re halfway dead already. Grow up, Pupa Pan!

Endurance: You need to stop this, now, before you break down further.

Harry: Fuck off, fucking spidery bitch! Leave me alone!

Vriska: Wow. I don’t think I’ve seen a grown man act this pathetic 8efore. How the hell did you not win this!?!?!?!? Do you even have a single thing going for you?

Esprit De Corps: You have a badge and a gun. You are a Detective Lieutenant-Yefreitor of the RCM. At least for now, you have that.

Harry: I’m a pretty good fucking cop.

Vriska: There are no good cops you dum8 8itch!

Authority: Make her stop.

Vriska: I’ve known you less than a minute and you already disgust me. I feel 8ad for the people that actually have to 8e near you.

Half Light: Do what you have to do and do it now.

Vriska: You deserved to win this. I don’t know how you can live like that. 8ack home you would have 8een culled sweeps ago.

Hand Eye Coordination [Legendary:Success]: You have never fired a shot so quickly or instinctually. You didn’t even know your gun was loaded. You pulled it out the way a cat scratches a hand, or a drunk pisses himself. You don’t remember when violence became second nature to you, but you didn’t forget how to do it either.

Harry: Oh, God.

Perception (Sight): Is that blood… blue?

Visual Calculus [Legendary:Success]: Light swirls and shimmers around the girl’s body, flashing a technicolor code you cannot decipher. Her body floats into the air, and her eyes flash open. All eight of them.

Inland Empire: No justice. No heroism. Just mindless violence.

Half Light: RUN.

Vriska: OW!

Vriska: Oh no you fucking don’t!!!!!!!!

(♏) Volition [Impossible:Failure]: You try to run, but your will is seemingly powerless to drive your body. I’m sorry.

Physical Instrument: Don’t look at me. I’m in great shape.

Interfacing: Connections seem fine. Don’t tell me we have to unplug him again…

♏Vriska♏: What the fuck.

Harry: Wh-wh-what are you doing to me?

Vriska: Shut up I’m trying to f8cus!

Inland Empire: Welcome, Thief of Light.

♏Vriska♏: What the hell is wrong with you?

Encyclopedia: Severe alcoholism. Retrograde amnesia. Partial facial paralysis. Dehydration. Heart palpi- (♏)

♏Vriska♏: 8e quiet, 8ook8rain! I’m trying to rifle through memories here and it’s a MESS!

Interfacing: We haven’t quite organized since our recent… restructuring. Try the thought cabinet.

Rhetoric: Don’t tell her that!

♏Vriska♏: Too late, sucker! Found it!

♏Vriska♏: …

♏Vriska♏: …

♏Vriska♏: …

♏Vriska♏: Jegus christ.

♏Vriska♏: In pu8lic? Why would you—

♏Vriska♏: Ugh!

♏Vriska♏: You said THAT?

♏Vriska♏: There was a8solutely no reason to do ANY of that, what the hell!

♏Vriska♏: You should honestly just kill yourself if you’re going to keep 8eing such a fuckup!

Reaction Speed: Yes!

Logic: Sound. You should kill yourself.

Empathy: It would make everyone feel better.

Endurance: Hasn’t this all gone on long enough?

Savoir Faire: It’s a hell of a statement.

Drama: The noble sacrifice, like Romeo, like Juliet!

Rhetoric: You should kill yourself NOW!

Authority: She has bested you. Listen to your better.

Half Light: Anything to get away from her.

Volition: …

♏Vriska♏: Can you creeps 8e normal for two damn seconds?

MORALE CRITICAL

The light fades from your eyes, and you fall to the floor.

Shivers: You are being called back where you belong....

—

Kim: Yes, Lieutenant. A fascinating dream. I’m sorry you did not win the competition.

Harry: What do you think it means, Kim? Do you think it could be some kind of message? Should I try to find that girl?

Kim: “That girl?”

Harry: Yeah! Vriska!

Kim: No, Lieutenant. I do not think you should go looking for Vriska Serket from Homestuck. Perhaps try looking for the killer in our murder case?

[lord-fallen]

gothic fiction delicacies 

one. byronic hero

intense eyes; solitary wanderings; brooding silence; haunted gaze; dark charisma; tragic allure; veiled mystery

two. madness

fractured reality; psychological torment; deranged mutterings; whispering shadows; eerie obsessions; unraveling sanity; labyrinthine mind; feeling trapped

three. isolation

cut off from the outside world; trapped in a remote location; abandoned footfalls; neverending empty corridors; calling out and not hearing back

four. ruin

shattered windows; statues that gaze back; freshly-cut gardens despite rusty gates and moss-covered stones; feeling time standing still

five. the uncanny

familiar made strange; sense of unease; unblinking eyes; whispering portraits; distorted reflections; unseen presence; sense of odd terror

six. death and mortality

empty coffins; silent graves; sound of a raven; cold tombstones with faded names; creaking of an old casket lid; flickering candlelight; chill of marble; pervasive smell of freshly turned soil; watched by unseen eyes

seven. forbidden knowledge and power

secret manuscripts; silent incantations in forgotten languages; rough aged parchment of old scrolls; metallic taste of a casted spell; musty odor of ancient libraries; overwhelming compulsion to delve deeper into mysteries

eight. attraction and repulsion

ominous elegance; pale skin contrasting with dark attire; soft seduction laced with danger; heartbeat racing in a quiet room; hushed conversations amidst tension; electric sensation from a fleeting touch; bittersweet flavor of love

nine. dark and unexplored places

flickering torchlight in endless narrow passageways; shadows dancing on walls; cold stone beneath fingertips; brush of unseen cobwebs against the skin; faint scent of charred wood

ten. family secrets

locked doors and hidden rooms; stains on letters; a key to a long-forgotten lock; fragile papers tarnished with old secrets; bitter flavor of betrayal and deception; tension at family gatherings

part one.

[bad268]

Take Me Home (Paul Aron X Equestrian! Reader)

Fandom: RPF/F2/F3

Requested: Yee by @ionlywantedtoreadfanfiction

Warnings: Injuries (concussion and fractured clavicle) and pain meds

POV: Second Person (You/your)

W.C. 2165

Summary: Paul's support is unwavering.

As always, my requests are OPEN

MASTERLIST // HITLIST

~~(^Pinterest)

Preparations for the Olympics started nearly a year ago at this point. It has been something you were preparing for your entire life when you started riding at 8 years old. You had grown up around horses, so when you expressed interest in show jumping, your parents started teaching you the reins, pun intended, once you were old enough.

You had just sent a text to Paul since he was getting ready to get in the car for free practice, saying that you wished him luck and you would text him after the session. 

Unfortunately, you were not able to watch the session live because you had to tend to your horses, but you would watch the highlights after but before qualifying. It was always the same whenever the race was in Europe because the time zones weren’t that far off, and you had a schedule to stick to. It just so happened to clash with Paul’s. 

Your normal routine was simple. You started off with petting all of your horses. Tofu was your baby American Quarter Horse, and she was still training. Hollister was your Holsteiner, and he was your current show horse. Lastly, you had Abercrombie, a Dutch Warmblood. She was your old lady. She was your first horse that you raised and trained by yourself, and now that she’s retired, you have been treating her to the high life

You fed them and let them wander around their stables while you cleaned up their muck. Afterward, you chilled out for a minute and got some food for yourself before heading back out to start prepping the horses for riding.

You went into your tack room to grab Hollister’s head collar and put it on him to start getting him ready for riding. You would normally ride Hollister for a bite before switching to train Tofu while Abercrombie roamed in a different pen.

Hollister was used to the routine at this point. You brushed out his tail and mane just so the knots were out. You used a rubber curry comb to get any loose dust and hair up. When you finished grooming him, you tacked him up. 

You picked a saddle pad that coordinated with your riding attire before putting on the saddle and securing it. You did some brief stretching with Hollister before going out, stretching out his legs and getting yourself ready to go out. 

Then, you walked down to the arena. You worked with some poles and tested his straightener and balance. Hollister still struggled a bit with sharp turns, so that was another thing you warmed up with. He was doing a great job, so that’s when you decided to give him a break. You took him back to the stable and let him roam the field with Abercrombie while you saddled up Tofu.

Tofu was in the process of learning jumping, so that’s what you focused on today. You warmed up Tofu the same way you did with Hollister before moving on to some light jumping. The poles were about a half meter up. It was where you started training Hollister and Abercrombie at. Plus, most of the levels you competed in started at a meter. This was the most efficient way without being too difficult for Tofu. 

She was doing a great job too at first. You don’t know how it went downhill so quickly. You don’t know if she suddenly got scared of the poles or if something spooked her. All you know is one moment you had full control of Tofu and the next, nothing. Tofu was uncontrollable, and for once, you did not know what to do. In a brief moment of shock, Tofu kicked you off and went barrelling toward the exit of the arena. Thankfully, you had closed and locked the gate, so Tofu couldn’t get out. However, as soon as you hit the ground, you knew something was wrong. 

Your head and shoulder immediately started throbbing, and if you could think straight, you would have recognized at least one of these feelings. The ringing in your head was something you were used to at this point. It was a common occurrence to get concussions when you lost control of your horse or fell off. 

You grabbed at your shoulder immediately as you swayed, trying to stand up. When you fell down again, you decided it was best to just pull out your phone and call one of your coaches. However, as soon as you heard the shrill phone ring, you hung it up and decided a text would hurt less. 

“Need help in the arena, lost control of Tofu,” was all the message read. It was simple and straight to the point. It also didn’t take long for your coach to come to your rescue and take you to the nearest A&E. 

Needless to say, you were not surprised when the doctor came back and said you had a concussion and fractured clavicle. You were waiting for the doctor to come back with the brace for your shoulder when your phone started blaring Paul’s ringtone. Part of you wanted to answer it just to shut it up, but the more rational part of you knew that talking on the phone would not be any better. 

Your coach thankfully noticed your dilemma and silenced the call before opening your texts with Paul. They explained the situation to him before putting your phone back down.

“Did I miss quali?” You whispered as you tilted your head toward your coach without opening your eyes. “I never miss quali, but I think I did.”

“You technically didn’t,” They whispered back as they looked at their watch. “It started 10 minutes ago, but you’re not watching it you hear me.”

“Can you play it on a low volume? I just wanna hear how he’s doing.”

“If he called you, I assume not good.”

“You don’t know that,” You snapped, opening your eyes to briefly glare before closing them tightly once again. “Maybe there was a delay. Can you please just put it on? I just want to listen.”

“Fine, but stop talking,” They chuckled lightly as they opened your phone and the F1TV app before going onto the F2 session. “I’m keeping the volume down, but it’s delayed.”

You assumed it was rain as you listened to the commentary, but most of it went in one ear and out the other. That is until the session actually started going. The doctor came in and fitted you for the brace right as Paul went into provisional pole before the rain started picking up again. 

There was no time for anyone to beat Paul’s time, so he was on pole for the race. This was the first race you felt upset about not being there for him. This was his first pole in F2, and you weren’t there to support him. You had to do so from a distance. 

After you were fitted and got the brace situated, your doctor sent you on your way after prescribing some light pain meds. Your coach picked up the meds before dropping you back off at your house. 

“You stay in here, I’ll tend to the horses,” They said as they left you to your devices. You immediately pulled out your phone to call Paul since the meds were finally kicking in and your head was not pounding as much anymore. Paul answered almost immediately.

“Do I need to drop this weekend? Do you need me home?” He rushed out. It sounded like he was still in the garage, but he was moving somewhere quieter. “I can get on a flight home, just say the word.”

“Stop talking so much,” You giggled lightly before shushing him. “You’re loud.”

“I’m sorry,” He whispered into the phone. You couldn’t see him, but he cupped his phone so the only sound coming in was his voice. “Is this better?”

“Much,” You whispered back as you got more comfortable on the couch. “And no, I don’t want you to come home. I want you to sweep the weekend for me. I’ll be watching from here.”

“No, you better be healing,” Paul dragged out. “I need you to focus on yourself for once, and not make your concussion worse.”

“When did I tell you I had a concussion?” You asked more to yourself, but you genuinely could not remember telling him anything about your injuries. Did you say something?

“I talked to your coach before the qualifying session, and they told me about the concussion and fractured clavicle,” He responded as he sat down in the driver’s room. “How are you feeling right now? Could we Facetime?”

“The light burns my eyes, so I wouldn’t be looking at you,” You attempted to joke, but it fell flat as Paul still tried to switch the call to a Facetime. “You’re gonna be looking at my ceiling. The light burns.”

“I can deal with that,” He smirked as you answered the phone, and contrary to what he thought, he was met with your face instead of the ceiling. Paul immediately ran to hid in a dark supply closet, so there would be less lights around you. You noticed the change in lighting from behind your eyes, so you peeked open one eye and saw Paul’s smiling face. “What’s cooking, good-looking?”

“Shut up,” You wheezed but it dissolved into a groan as you felt the pain in your shoulder and head flare up. It was a running joke you and Paul had, but right now, it wasn’t as funny as it normally was. “You’re cute, but stop.”

“I’ll never stop complimenting you,” He flirted, causing you to laugh lightly. “I can order you dinner and have it delivered if you want. I want to make sure you’re okay if I’m not coming home to take care of you.”

“I think I can take care of myself for two days, but food would be great,” You chuckled as you tried to keep at least one eye on Paul. “I miss you.”

“Do go saying that, or I’ll come home,” Paul teased. “I miss you too, and the one time I get pole, you get injured.” That seemed to set off a lightbulb in his head as he gasped. “Wait, are you not gonna be able to compete in the Olympics now?”

“One step at a time, Paulito,” You sighed. Truly, you hadn’t thought of it, but you knew it was coming up soon. You were confident the concussion would be healed by then, but if you had to ride with a fractured clavicle, so be it. “We’ll cross that bridge when we get there. I’m confident in Hollister-”

“But what about you?” Paul cut you off. You knew what he meant. He was asking if you were confident you would heal in time.

“I don’t know yet. Ask me in a couple of days,” You sighed as you felt your head getting heavier. “I’m gonna go to sleep, but I’ll call you before the race. I love you, Paul.”

“I love you too,” He sighed sadly. He knew that was weighing on your mind about the possibility of not being able to compete, and he felt bad about reminding you of it. 

The next couple of days, you slept through almost the entire day. Your head hurt too much to leave your room, and any light or sound caused your head to throb again. Your coach was amazing and offered to take care of your horses for you and continue to train them for the Olympics. Your dream wasn’t dead yet. You tried texting Paul, but the blue light burned your eyes. You found out he placed second in the sprint, but you never found out how he did in the feature.

You were blindly walking to the kitchen in search of any food as you couldn’t remember the last time you ate when you heard the door open and close. Part of you wanted to shout at them, but the other half knew what a horrible idea that would be. You just kept your eyes closed and continued to rummage through the fridge. 

“Need some help there?” Paul teased as he set his stuff down and walked up behind you. “What are you feeling?”

“I want you to take me home,” You whined as you leaned back into his chest, causing him to wrap an arm tightly around your waist. 

“You are home, silly,” Paul chuckled lightly as he kissed your cheek and grabbed one of your comfort foods from the fridge. 

“No,” You dragged out as you turned in his arms and wrapped your arms around his torso. “I just wanna stay in your arms. This is home.”

“You can stay in my arms as long as you want,” Paul consoled as he kissed the crown of your head. “I’m not going anywhere for a while. Just you and me until you’re ready for the Olympics.”

~~~

Part 2 ->

~~~~~

© BAD268 2024. DO NOT REPOST WITHOUT PERMISSION.

[bakersimmer]

Soft murmurs and distant whispers floated through the air, mingling with the gentle buzz of the vending machine. In the background, intermittent phone rings echoed. As Martin sat there, waves of nostalgia washed over him, carrying him back in time.

The faded green walls, worn linoleum floors, dim lamps, and uncomfortable plastic chairs - gone like they had never existed. The only thing that had permanently permeated these walls was the smell of disinfectants, an integral part of any hospital.

In his youth, the emergency room was almost like a second home to Martin. Cuts, concussions, and fractures were familiar companions, each injury a testament to his restless spirit and insatiable thirst for adventure. Perhaps he had been a touch more reckless than his peers in his eagerness to embrace life. Or maybe Martin was just blessed with two left feet.

Martin's eyes wandered and eventually settled on the wall-mounted TV. A cooking show was airing, demonstrating the art of preparing the perfect bouillabaisse. With the TV muted and no subtitles, Martin had to rely on his imagination. Luckily, telling the difference between a tomato and an onion didn't require much guesswork.

The waiting room's sleepiness was disrupted by a new sound—squeaky rubber soles. With each step, the noise drew closer until a woman clad in a doctor's attire emerged from behind the automated doors.

previous / beginning / next

[powpowstuff]

TW: Death, grief, violence.

Author's note: Hiya ! So here's a story about Jason Todd ! I'm doing Barry next. Please tell me what you think about if and if you want me to write a second part or not. Also I'm sorry it's quite sad ! Enjoy !

You woke up in your bed, greeted by the dim light filtering through the curtains on this cloudy day in Gotham. Turning to the empty space beside you, you couldn't help but let out a sigh. Today marked Jason’s death anniversary, and each passing year seemed to weigh heavier on your heart.

Sitting on the edge of your bed, you gazed at the photograph resting nearby, a cherished memory frozen in time. It captured you and Jason in the serene embrace of Wayne Manor's garden, back when life felt simpler and the future held endless promise. Both of you were just sixteen then, your smiles reflecting the innocence of youth. But mere months after that joyful moment, the cruel hands of fate tore Jason away from you forever, a casualty in the ceaseless war against the Joker.

Jason was your first love, a flame that burned brightly in the short time you shared together. Though your teenage years were marked by the chaos of Gotham's streets and the weight of responsibility as part of Batman's team, in Jason's arms, you found solace and a sense of belonging.

Even though your time together lasted  just over a year before tragedy struck, you knew deep in your heart that Jason was the one. A decade had passed since that fateful day, yet the ache of his absence still lingered, a void that no other love could fill. Despite attempts to move on, to find solace in the arms of others, nothing could compare to the bond you shared with Jason. In the years that followed, there were fleeting connections, shallow romances, and empty encounters, but never again did you experience the depth of emotion and connection that defined your relationship with Jason. It felt as though your heart had been forever tethered to his, leaving you yearning for a love that could never be replaced.

You dressed in the familiar attire of your alter ego, preparing yourself to descend into the depths of the Batcave. You had spent five years after Jason’s death not talking to Bruce, the wounds of Jason's loss driving a wedge between you. Yet, the call to protect Gotham remained stronger than the bitterness that lingered in your heart. With resolve, you adopted a new costume and a new name, trying to leave behind the memories of your former self and the pain of losing Jason.

Stepping into the Batcave, the weight of grief hung heavy in the air, palpable even in the dim light of the cavernous space. The silence was suffocating, each member of your small, fractured family lost in their own private sorrow. It felt as though the very walls of the cave echoed with the echoes of your collective pain, a constant reminder of the loss that had brought you all to this moment.

Breaking the heavy silence, Alfred's gentle voice cut through the sombre atmosphere, offering tea as a small gesture of comfort. You accepted gratefully, taking a seat beside Bruce, the years of distance and resentment momentarily forgotten in the shared weight of your grief.

“There’s uh… a new guy in town. Appeared this morning, he robbed a warehouse,” Batman sighed, his hand rubbing his temple in frustration. “Goes by the name Redhood apparently, and his helmet and name seem to be inspired by the Joker’s first identity…”

You let out a weary sigh. “Another fool devoted to the Joker and his madness… great.”

“Yeah… uh… I tracked down what he’s looking for. This guy seems to be trying to build some type of grenade. It's not quite clear, but there’s a chance he’s going to try to break into the STAR Labs warehouse close to the docks tonight. Do you want to take care of it?” Batman's gaze remained fixed elsewhere, his reluctance to meet your eyes palpable. Today, of all days, his guilt and shame weighed heavily upon him, a burden you knew all too well. You had blamed him for Jason's death for years, said things you now regretted deeply. Though you had both spoken about it and tried to move on, the pain lingered, making every interaction a struggle for both of you.

You nodded solemnly. “I’m on it.”

You arrived at the dock as nightfall descended, perched on the roof of the warehouse opposite the STAR Labs building. Through the downpour, you observed figures, likely henchmen of Redhood, attempting to breach the facility. You chose to take your time, waiting to be sure of their numbers before engaging in combat. The rain battered relentlessly, obscuring your vision and adding an extra layer of challenge to the impending confrontation.

“You should watch your back,” a distorted voice rasped behind you. Surprised, you whirled around to face Redhood, his menacing presence looming before you. He pointed at you and let out a chuckle “ I see the old man still has fools to follow him in his war against crime. Let’s see if he still knows how to train fools like you !” 

In the ensuing clash, you found yourself outmanoeuvred and overpowered by Redhood's uncanny skill. Each strike seemed anticipated, every defensive move countered effortlessly. Despite your reputation as a formidable fighter, you struggled to comprehend your sudden struggle.

Summoning every bit of strength you had left, you initiated a move you rarely used, the one you once deemed your signature. But to your astonishment, Redhood intercepted it with ease, seizing you and pinning you against the cold, unforgiving wall. 

“I can’t believe it… Y/N how can you still work with him…” Redhood said in a whisper before taking a few steps back from you.

A wave of disbelief washed over you. He knew your name, your techniques, and referred to Bruce as "the old man." It couldn't be... yet there was no denying the truth that stared back at you.

With a flick of his helmet, Redhood revealed the face beneath, the face you thought you'd never see again. It was Jason, older and scarred, yet undeniably alive. As your eyes locked with his, a rush of memories flooded your mind, the face you knew by heart, the one you woke up to every morning, kissed every night. But now, instead of the warmth and laughter you once shared, all you saw was anger etched into his features, and a jagged scar marred his once flawless visage, a cruel reminder of the Joker's heinous act that had robbed you of Jason years ago. The revelation shattered your world, leaving you kneeling in the rain, tears mingling with the relentless downpour.

“J-Jason?” you whispered, your voice trembling with disbelief. “How... how is this possible?” The torrent of emotions overwhelmed you as you gazed upon the face of the man you thought lost forever 

You couldn't tear your gaze away from his face. The face you believed was lost to you forever. Yet, as you beheld him, a bittersweet ache gripped your heart at the sight of the scar across his once familiar face. Time seemed to stand still as you knelt there, tears mingling with the rain, confronted with the painful reality of seeing the love of your life, now marked by the cruelty of the Joker.

As he stood before you, a tumult of emotions swirling within you: confusion, hope, and a crushing wave of guilt. Guilt for not searching for him, for allowing years of grief to consume you while he was left with pain and anger. The revelation left you grappling with the weight of missed opportunities, the echoes of regret reverberating in the depths of your soul.

[katttpchelka]

wowie! Miracle redesign yippieee

I redesigned her appereance and background now she looks more like "frankenstein monster" or zombie bc i got some inspration ambient horror tracks :P

Now her remaked background

Miracle’s origin stretches back to the aftermath of the Crusades, when desperation led scientists to tap into the Backyard. Miracle, once known as the Skeleton Key, was a relic created to unlock metaphysical gates that governed the realms of life and death. For many years, she was used as a soulless tool by various wielders, unlocking forbidden knowledge and powers, only to be discarded once her usefulness expired.

Over time, as the Skeleton Key was passed between hands and corrupted by the desires of its wielders, it began to form a consciousness. This consciousness, riddled with fragmented memories of betrayal and conflict, eventually took on the form of Miracle—a sentient being with a fractured sense of self and a desperate need for validation. She was ultimately found by the scientist Stein, who fused her with human flesh, giving her a physical body but treating her like an experiment.

Stein's rejection after her body began to decay shattered her remaining sense of self-worth, pushing Miracle to the brink of madness. Now, she wanders in search of purpose, torn between her desire to serve and the longing to escape the cycle of being used and discarded. Her journey is one of internal conflict—between the duty as a servant and her yearning to be more than a tool for others.

And Skeleton key design(i know it looks like a Moroha mode Paracelsus but i just wanted a play on bone theme and decided make ram skull for "key head" or idk how it calls ":6 )

Skeleton Key is not as intelligent as other Magical Foci and lives counting on their host and primitive survival instincts. Sometimes, at the host's command, they turn into a humanoid ghost with a animal skull(mostly its a ram skull) blue-green fire coming out of their mouth and wearing tattered and funeral like attire.

wow such big oc rumble sorry o_o"""""

upd 2: A new Skeleton key look :p

upd: i rewrite her background bc why not

[vahalia-cress]

⸸ The Inevitable ⸸

Melee/Tournament: DAY 1 @daily-writing-challenge

The breeze in the cabin was cool, something more akin to what she was used to as Vahalia stood looking out over the deep water to observe the ships that could not make port. There were vibrant specks of lights that danced over the ripples and the moon hung above the waters stealing the blanket of night from pure and utter darkness. Not too far off The Red Queen remained, partially one of the few things Vahalia had traveled to Tural for but she would have to be patient.

There was a plan and it had been set in motion for weeks, however, she, Cordelia, Castien, and Wren would have to execute each with care and precision.

Just a year ago she had been in Ishgard partaking in events, jousting tournaments and soirees, a melee of political discussions and meetings that captured her attention. Now, she was leagues away from the comforts of the frigid city she called home.

Could she ever truly consider it a place of respite?

She was born there, grew up there, had family there and it was a place of familiarity but deep down the nagging sensation of more harkened to her. Ishgard was a placeholder, another hole to which her ancestors simply fled. 

Idalia stirred quietly in the bassenette at the other end of the room with Evran still indulging in his cozy slumber. And it was the roaming shadow in the room from the furthest recess that eventually traveled in Vahalia’s direction, the curling whisps of shadows spilled along the floor as Creature materialized behind her, the entity fully unexpurgated as it loomed high above her as Creature often did. His size was nearly immeasurable in some circumstances.

“We leave at dawn.” Vahalia finally spoke, her eyes drifting over the horizon of the hellish depths of the sea before them, her attention now pinning on the location of The Sea Scorpion and the small boats that peppered the roil of slow waves, lights growing ever closer as she knew it to be the mounts they were transporting swiftly from the vessel.

“𝔚𝔥𝔞𝔱 𝔡𝔬 𝔶𝔬𝔲 𝔞𝔰𝔨 𝔬𝔣 𝔪𝔢?” the haunting voice chittered.

“Nothing short of a perfect performance.”

“ℌ𝔬𝔰𝔱 𝔪𝔢.” The reply from Creature came swiftly and eagerly, his large eyes turned towards Vahalia and a heavy chill rested on the mantle of her attire.

“In due course.” she offered, her hand diving into the pocket of her robe as she procured a silken cloth, fractures of sapphire resting in the slope of her palm as she unwrapped it and showed Creature to her left, “I need you to track the person this belonged to. This will be your current goal.”

The cacophony of sounds, voices, and hissing was expelled and soon died down as Creature boughed to sniff at the essence of the broken pieces nestled into the cloth, “𝔄𝔥…” he cooed seemingly pleased, “ℑ𝔱 𝔦𝔰 𝔣𝔞𝔦𝔫𝔱 𝔟𝔲𝔱 𝔭𝔬𝔴𝔢𝔯𝔣𝔲𝔩.”

“It’s of another Magi. I’ve never been acquainted with what they are capable of aside from deceit but we will find out just how much of a battle this might become. 

“𝔗𝔥𝔢𝔯𝔢 𝔦𝔰 𝔞𝔫𝔬𝔱𝔥𝔢𝔯 𝔰𝔠𝔢𝔫𝔱 𝔬𝔣 𝔞𝔢𝔱𝔥𝔢𝔯 𝔴𝔦𝔱𝔥𝔦𝔫 𝔱𝔥𝔦𝔰.” he warned her as he dipped his head lower to inspect the pieces, tongue slicking out to rove over the sharp edges and an insatiable sound emitted, hunger striking his core.

“As much as I have suspected. This belonged to another though I cannot tell if it is a regular gem or a soulstone. In any event, much will be expected of you and you will be required to participate in the hunt.”

“𝔄𝔫𝔡 𝔱𝔥𝔲𝔰, ℑ 𝔞𝔯𝔡𝔢𝔫𝔱𝔩𝔶 𝔞𝔴𝔞𝔦𝔱 𝔰𝔲𝔠𝔥 𝔞 𝔱𝔞𝔰𝔨. 𝔖𝔲𝔠𝔥 𝔴𝔦𝔩𝔩 𝔠𝔞𝔩𝔩 𝔣𝔬𝔯 𝔞 𝔥𝔢𝔞𝔳𝔶 𝔯𝔢𝔴𝔞𝔯𝔡.” he warned.

A crimson smirk split Vahalia’s lips, a dimple pinned into her cheek as she regarded her familiar with a glint in her sharp eyes, “Since when have you known me not to give to those deserving of praise?” Silence lingered and Vahalia tucked the cloth-covered pieces back to where she had procured them from, “You’ll get your piece and you will be deserving of it should all go without fail.”

[wolfylady]

Accursed Urge

I could not sleep until I tried my hands at Durgetash. Their first interaction had so much tension I couldn't stop thinking about it! So here it is.

Rating: Teen

Pairing: Enver Gortash X Gender neutral Dark Urge/Durge

Word Count: 2,568 ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The opulent hall, adorned with ornate gold and weathered stone, glimmered in luminous hues of gold as the stained glass filtered streams of light. Yet, the resplendent glow illuminated only one figure. His attire, adorned with bronze accents, shimmered against his sun-kissed complexion, further deepened by his dark wardrobe.

“Ah! Welcome!” His voice boomed, rattling around Durge’s mind, conjuring a feeling of familiarity that tugged at their heart.

“Gortash!” Karlach snarled. She sounded like a wild beast at the end of her chains, half-crazed by rage. It would take only Durge’s allowance for her to burn everything to the ground; even without it, she might still snap should Gortash say the right or wrong thing. “This is it! I can practically taste his blood from here!”

“Karlach!” Wyll urged, voicing his concern for his father. But Karlach looked wild, so ready to strike that Durge doubted she heard him.

Gently brushing hands with Karlach was like placing their hand within a roaring fire. But Durge swallowed the yelp, using the slight contact to grab Karlach’s attention. Meeting the flames that burned within her gaze, Durge urged softly in what they hoped was a calming tone. “I couldn’t bear to see Gortash get his hands on you again,” they squeezed Karlach’s hand. “Let’s wait for a more opportune moment.”

Karlach sank with a deep breath, her skin cooling and the flames returning to a more comfortable heat. “I hate how you can do that.” She whispered in defeat, squeezing Durge’s hand and letting go with a grimace upon seeing the burn that now resided there.

Stepping closer, Durge’s mind churned, trying to decipher the sudden swell of emotion this man’s face conjured and how their body vibrated with anticipation.

For a moment, Durge regarded Duke Ulder Ravengard, but his mind was an empty husk, a pawn to the absolute awaiting orders.

“My lord, it seems your guest has arrived.” Ulder bowed their head to Gortash, Wyll tensing.

“Exquisite timing, as always.” Cerulean blue eyes bore into Durge’s red glare, a smile more tender than it should for a stranger, pulling on his lips.

“Lord Enver Gortash at your service.” He spoke of Kethric Thorms’ downfall, and a sadistic satisfaction rose up at the memory of the man’s death. But then he looked at Karlach, and Durge felt rage not only for Karlach but also for how the word darling rolled off Gortash’s tongue. It felt almost like jealousy.

Then he spoke of the netherstones and the elder brain; as crucial as that was, Durge was fixated on his mouth. A tirade of emotions swept through Durge, their fingertips tingling, begging to touch the enigmatic lordling.

And then, before they could stop, words came tumbling out, sounding so much more confused and lost than Durge ever wanted to be known. So much of themselves was missing, and despite fighting the dark urge as best they could, Durge desperately wanted to know themselves and the life they’d lived. “Do you know me?”

“Of course, we were partners,” There was a flash of heat not only in Gortash’s blue eyes but also in Durge’s stomach. “You, I, and Kethric were in on this plan from the start.”

For some reason, Durge felt disappointed.

“I seem to have trusted you once before, and it ruined me.” Durge leered through clenched teeth. They were a Bhaalspaw with a fractured mind and no true memories of who they had been before they awoke on the Mindflayer ship and began the journey to rid themselves of the parasitic tadpole that chewed through their hole-riddled mind and uncover who had tried to kill them. Durge suspected that Gortash may be the key to knowing who they had been before they ended up on that ship. A flicker of a memory fluttered through their tattered and hole-addled mind. There was something painfully familiar about the phony lordling before them, their heart fluttering and fingertips aching to reach out, to touch or maime, Durge didn’t know. They had already felled Myrkull’s chosen, and even though Kethric had recognized Durge, Durge had not been overcome with these odd emotions; they hadn’t even felt any familiarity with the now-dead general of Myrkull’s undead army.

“Together, we can restore authority over the elder brain.” Gortash grinned. “I am changed,” Durge sneered. “I have no interest in whatever plan we concocted; I wish only to avenge myself and be rid of this accursed tadpole.”

“Then our goals are still aligned!” He grinned. “Ousting Orin and helping you reclaim your birthright would be my greatest honor,” Gortash spoke in a hush. Still, his tone was sincere before shifting into a business-like manner. “With Kethric gone, Orin proves treacherous. She wants the netherstones for herself.” He sneered. “She only cares about blood.” Gortash gestured to them. “And your blood and mine are of particular interest to her.”

Durge clenched their fists. They had suspected as much. If they were a Blaahspawn, and Orin worshiped Blaah, the god of murder, it wouldn’t be a stretch to assume it was Orin who had tried to kill them.

“I cannot trust easily,” Durge spoke, the dark urge subdued but not extinguished. “But if your words hold truth, and if ousting Orin aligns with my path to vengeance, then we may have an alliance of necessity.”

“Understandable.” Gortash grinned. “Why don’t we step into my office? There are matters I would like to discuss without... extra ears.” His eyes took in Durge’s company.

It was an eclectic assortment of victims of the tadpole, each with a tragic past and circumstance to overcome. Karlach, Astarion, Shadowheart, Wyll, Gale, and Halsin: the only one without a tadpole. Though Durge had no memory of who they had been before the tadpole, they were lucky and happy to have their company. Particularly Astarion and Halsin.

“Hardly.” Astarion scoffed. The vampire’s gaze hardened upon Gortash. His suspicion seeped from his crimson gaze, sticking in the tension-filled room. “Not a chance, you scheming–”

But Durge was already following Gortash.

“Durge.” He croaked out, clutching Durge’s arm in an uncharacteristic display of desperation. It felt too much like handing Durge over to the wolves and hoping they’d return.

But then Durge met Astarion’s gaze, not wavering or holding fear within those crimson eyes. “Just a moment, Astarion.” Durge soothed, bringing their free hand to gently cradle Astarion’s cheek, thumb smoothing away the distress that danced in Astarion’s icy red gaze. Durge looked deeply into Astarion’s eyes, that gentle smile settling Astarion’s troubled heart. A reassurance. A promise. “I’ll be right back.”

Gortash turned around with his smooth words to say, “Hurry along, I won’t keep you too long,” already on the move, with Astarion growling like a starved dog. However, Astarion was halted as Durge gently brushed their lips against his hand, a sign of tenderness that sent shivers down Astarion’s spine and ignited something protective within him. Durge was far too important to risk.

“You had better be.” He warned lowly to Gortash’s retreating form, glaring at the man’s back before turning his eyes back to Durge, dropping his voice to a mere whisper for Durge alone. “Stay sharp. We’ve fought too hard to be taken out now.” Durge smiled before looking up at Halsin and offering him a reassuring squeeze of his hand as they passed.

When the pair reached Gortash’s office, a surprisingly humble room for such an extravagantly dressed man, Durge felt their chest constricting, an unnatural tightness that no measure of strength or spell could loosen. Durge could hear the beating of their own heart resonating loudly within the walls of their skull. Their head pounded, filling with disjointed fragments of memories that danced teasingly out of reach. Something deep within stirred, reacting to Gortash’s presence as he shut the heavy wooden door behind them.

“Relax,” Gortash turned and offered a tight smile, though his usual charm was not fully present in his deep voice. He approached the window, hands on the sill as he glanced out over the land stretched beyond.

Durge bites their lip, tasting the iron flavor of blood. Even without a memory of who they used to be, Durge’s instincts and gut intuition remained a formidable part of their psyche, and they didn’t trust Gortash. And yet... something lingered at the back of their mind, a fond remembrance and gentle whispers of warmth and care they couldn’t comprehend.

“You remember us, don’t you?” Gortash asked softly. It felt more a challenge than a question, and Durge clenched their hands. A flood of disjointed memories welled within Durge. Though some were more distinct than others, the feelings of warmth, confusion, and sorrow mingled together to create a cacophony of dissonance in Durge’s mind.

“Gortash,” Durge’s voice hardened as they squared their shoulders, maintaining the distance between them. The word sat heavily on their tongue, carrying a bitterness they could not place. “If this is what you wanted to speak about, then this conversation is over.”

There was a cold flash of emptiness in Gortash’s eyes that, for a split second, caused Durge’s heart to clench uncomfortably. And then it was gone, replaced by that charming mask once again. But that fleeting emotion shook Durge.

Durge paused. “Were-” they struggled to form the words. “Were we in love?” Durge’s question hung in the air between them, shrouding the room in tension.

Gortash drew in a shaky breath, folding his arms across his chest as he closed his eyes momentarily, opening them again to pin Durge with a heavy gaze. His usual charm disappeared, revealing a vulnerable man who clearly hadn’t expected such a question.

“I like to think so,” he answered softly, without the usual veneer of confidence and charisma he wore. His gaze dropped to his boots, “But when I lost you, I thought my heart would stop beating too.” He confessed, his eyes not daring to meet Durge’s. Something clenched inside Durge; it was sorrow and regret, but they weren’t their own. A long lost feeling that buried deep within, so foreign yet so familiar.

Following his confession, Durge remained rooted to the spot, struggling to process Gortash’s confession. After a while, Gortash stood and walked toward Durge, stopping in front of them with barely a hand’s breadth between them.

Gortash broke the distance and whispered in a husky voice full of desperate hope and anguish. “I’ve missed you.” His fingers hesitated near Durge’s face before gently grazing their skin.

His act was so swift and spontaneous that Durge barely registered it until it was happening. Gortash had closed the distance and pressed his lips against Durge’s, pulling them closer, crushing his body against theirs. His fingers tangled in their hair.

Lost in the throes of memories and connection, Durge surrendered and responded to the kiss as Durge’s tattered memory sought something familiar in Gortash’s taste and warmth; they could almost feel their old selves tingle in their veins. A lingering sweetness fluttered within their chest. Overwhelmed by their mutual need and yearning, they met him halfway, their guarded suspicion replaced by growing warmth.

However, as quickly as the memories welled up, Durge cut off the kiss. Stunned and overwhelmed, they stepped back, attempting to catch their breath and clear the mental fog clouding their rationality.

“Whatever we had is over, Gortash,” Durge spat, their voice catching slightly in their throat as they grappled with their feelings. Durge wiped their mouth with the back of their hand as if to rid the lingering taste of Gortash. “We’re nothing.”

Gortash regarded Durge, a shimmer of heartache crossing his handsome face before he quickly wiped it away with a sardonic smile. Eyes darkening. “That is where you are mistaken, darling,” Gortash moved towards Durge, predatory. Durge could feel his voice vibrate against their skin, each word stinging. “We were never over.” Gortash seemed to radiate certainty; an eerie air of resolve clung to him as though he intended to claim Durge back. “I have always cherished you, Durge, even if you don’t remember your body does,” Gortash’s tone was painfully sincere, which made Durge wince internally. His words seemed to open up a wound in Durge, yet their body felt the flicker of emotions stirring beneath their skin. The flame that once danced in Gortash’s eyes burned brighter as his hands softly cradled Durge’s face, “And I have every intention of reminding you, love.” His fingers slid over their cheek, pushing away a stray lock of hair before sliding around Durge’s neck. His thumb brushed over their lips, and Durge almost felt something soften in their chest.

“But-”

“I’m patient, my dear. I’ll wait.” He said softly, leaning closer to kiss their forehead softly.

“I hate you.” Durge rasped out. Their fingers tightened into fists at their side, rage coloring their voice.

“You love me,” Gortash said simply. There was a challenge in his eyes, an intensity Durge had missed.

“I…” Durge stuttered, faltering under his intense gaze.

“That’s right, you do. And you can’t deny that.” He murmured against Durge’s ear, a note of certainty weaving into his voice.

Durge swallowed hard. “Even if I did, I am no longer the person I once was. We can’t go back, Gortash.” Durge spat, tugging away from his grip. They stood, both figuratively and literally, at odds with each other.

He was silent for a moment, eyes lingering on Durge. A sigh slipped from his lips before he said, “Even if that is the case, it changes nothing. My feelings haven’t altered. We will sort this out together, just like old times.” Gortash said resolutely, turning his back towards them as if to shut out the hurt he had been unable to hide.

He was immovable, like a sturdy rock standing against a violent sea. Durge tried to speak, to push away his claim. To tell him to get over whatever phantom was stuck in his head because they were not the person he claimed to remember.

But as Durge opened their mouth to speak, Gortash suddenly closed the distance, clasping Durge’s chin firmly, drawing them to look into his cerulean blue eyes. “We’ll have all the time in the world once you get the last netherstone from Orin.”

In that moment, Durge knew the inevitable truth. Despite all that they wished for, despite all the confusion, there was an undeniable connection. It was raw and turbulent, much like the man who held their gaze, not flinching, not yielding.

Durge pulled back sharply from his grip. Their breath hitched as a strange pain gripped their chest. “We’ll see about that, Gortash.” They bit out.

There was no compromise with Gortash. He had his own peculiar way of stirring the still waters, making the familiar unfathomable, pulling out an obscure string of feelings that Durge had so stubbornly kept hidden beneath a carefully maintained façade of stoicism.

Gortash chuckled dryly, turning his back towards Durge, crossing his hands behind him as he looked out the window. He was content with his ultimatum.

And in that moment, despite their fragmented and distorted memory, Durge was acutely aware of the storm that awaited them in their shared future. For better or for worse, Durge was aware that Gortash had set them on a path, a storm that neither could escape.

With that, Durge slipped out the door, leaving Gortash behind. Their body tingled from the brief yet intimate encounter, leaving their mind spinning.

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

wolfYLady: I posted this on my other accounts and got some request to continue so I have another chapter up with another on the way!

Please be kind and leave a comment, I would love to know what you think of my angsty work!

Part 2 > Part 3 (Smut)>

[whoawardwinchester]

A Winchester Chronicle (c4)

Please consider liking, commenting, and reblogging. It fuels the creativity and lets me know you're enjoying my hard work.

Summary: tensions escalate on set during filming as Y/N, playing Raven, confronts Sam and Dean about trusting Ruby. The scene is disrupted by Dee's sudden arrival, causing a commotion. Back in Washington, Y/N faces tabloid slander and confronts her mother's harsh criticisms. Amidst the turmoil, Y/N's health crisis worsens, leading to emergency surgery. Meanwhile, Jensen learns of Y/N's hospitalization and rushes to her side, where a tender moment unfolds.

Sorry for no erotic bits in a few of these starting chapters. I promise there will be more to share.

Pairing: Jensen Ackles x Reader

Content Warning: (subject to change per chapter as this series is written) Body insecurities, reference to PCOS and Endo. -losing a body part, arguments, tension, angst. Readers are advised to proceed with caution due to these themes and scenes.

Rating: 18+ for the whole series.

This is a work of fiction. There is no hate for anyone in real life.

If you want to be added to the tag list for this series, just let me know! Also be sure to tell me how I'm doing or request anything related to Jensen/Dean!

Taglist: @nancymcl

Masterlist

Chapter 4: Has reference to Episode 4 "Metamorphosis"

The set of "Supernatural" hummed with controlled chaos as cameras rolled for Season 4, Episode 4. You stood in Raven's dark attire, poised for an intense scene with Gen portraying Ruby.

"Sam, we can’t trust her! Ruby literally just slashed that man in half for no reason. What if she was the one to hurt Jack? What if she just wants to use you?" You delivered your lines with unwavering focus.

"Then let her use me, Raven. Besides, who’s to say you’re not just using me and Dean?" Sam retorted.

"Sammy!" Dean stepped between Sam and Raven, with Ruby slyly standing behind Sam. "I don’t need this, Sam. You want my help or not?" Ruby asked, tension palpable.

"Not," Dean stated firmly, just as Sam chimed in with, "We need it," creating a clash of opinions.

Sam and Dean glared at each other. Raven crossed the room as the men continued their standoff, Sam expressing remorse to Dean and Dean furrowing his brows, trying to sway Sam to his side.

“You use unspeakable methods,” Raven's voice lowered to a dangerous tone as she backed Ruby against the wall, inches from her face. “To hurt innocent people. For what? I don’t know what you’re hiding. I don’t know what you’re up to, but I promise, I’ll find out, bitch.” Ruby smirked, a corner of her mouth twitching.

Just as the scene's intensity peaked, the air fractured with Dee's unexpected arrival. She reached Gen on set and grabbed her arm, yanking her to her side. Heads turned, whispers rippled through the crew.

"The hell is this?! Jensen?" The director yelled, cutting the scene.

Jensen stepped between you, Dee, and Gen, looking Dee dead in the eyes. “Dee, LEAVE.”

Dee's voice cut through the set like a jagged blade. "Jensen, you don’t answer my calls, my texts. You don’t come home, and it’s like you’re hiding something from me!"

“I’m not hiding anything from you. We’re over.” Jensen turned to gently guide you off set.

“Are you sleeping with HER?” Dee mocked. “This… This… Ha! MOOOOOOO.” The cast and crew gasped. Gen stepped away from Dee, looking disappointed.

You froze, embarrassment flaming your cheeks as guilt tingled under your skin. You looked back at Jensen, feeling his hand no longer on your back. He had turned towards Dee. Jared stepped in front of him, grasping his shoulders.

"Hey, calm down, man," Jared whispered.

"He just needed a rebound girl, Y/N. He doesn't love you, you cow." Dee's words, sharp and accusatory, pierced the air, amplifying the tension.

Jensen, visibly distressed, attempted to diffuse the situation, his voice strained but firm. "Dee, we've been over this. I left you. We’re done. If I ever see you on set again, I’ll get a restraining order." His gaze warned her to stop amidst the chaos. Jensen was shaking, fists clenched. He wouldn’t hit a girl, would he? You thought to yourself.

The disruption threw the filming into disarray. Security arrived to diffuse the situation before Dee could respond. Your heart raced, caught between shame and indignation as Dee's accusations cast shadows over the day.

You locked your trailer after Dee's confrontation, turning off your phone and sinking into the quiet. A few people knocked, but eventually left you to fall asleep with your thoughts and tears, tearing yourself apart with self-doubt. The next morning, the set buzzed with its usual activity, but you felt like an outsider looking in, everyone's gaze making you feel smaller by the minute.

Overwhelmed by the drama and the impact on the production, you made a difficult decision. You approached the director's office, heart heavy with dread.

“Hey, can we talk privately?” you asked in a small voice, knocking on the open door.

“Sure. Close the door.” The director said, navigating his cluttered office, concern already on his face. “What’s up?”

"I can't play Raven anymore," you said, your voice steady despite the turmoil inside, threatening to leak from your eyes.

The director looked up, sadness replacing the concern on his features. "Y/N, I know tensions were high yesterday, but are you going to let your personal life and your professional career conflict each other? We could work something out if you just need a break."

You took a deep breath, considering his words carefully. The weight of everything—the accusations, the embarrassment, and the constant tension—was too much to bear. "I need to do this for my own sanity," you finally replied, passing him some papers with information on your updated address.

The director sighed, leaning back in his chair. "Alright, Y/N. If that's what you need, I’ll inform the cast and crew. Best of luck.”

You nodded, tears escaping and falling off your cheeks as you stood. "Thank you for understanding."

As you opened the door and stepped out to leave, you turned around. “Could you do me one favor? Tell who you absolutely need to, but please don’t tell Jensen where I’ve gone. I need to leave this behind me.”

He nodded in agreement after pondering your request.

As you walked away, you felt the weight of your decision settle in.

The production office buzzed with urgency as news of your departure rippled through the set. The director wasted no time informing the crew and a few key cast members about the repercussions of you leaving the show, making sure to imply that it was confidential. Writers got to work immediately, drafting new scripts to explain Raven's sudden disappearance in case they couldn't find a replacement quickly. The director worked tirelessly with the casting director, scrambling to find someone to fill the role. Unfortunately, everyone they had considered before you was now unavailable. _____

Jensen was called into the showrunners' office, the tension palpable.

"Jensen, your behavior on and off set is putting everything at risk," one of the showrunners began sternly. "I shouldn’t be telling you this, because frankly, it’s none of your goddamn business. Y/N has quit. Every possible replacement is now unavailable and needs to be resolved, and fast."

Jensen felt a knot tighten in his stomach. She left? Already? He knew he couldn’t see you after yesterday’s events because you probably wouldn’t have even talked to him, and he couldn’t blame you. The things Dee said were downright childish and awful. But he thought he’d at least have time to talk to you today.

The ruminations from yesterday repeated in Jensen’s head as he zoned out of the conversation at hand. The showrunner exchanged a glance with his colleague before continuing. "Pay attention, son," he said, breaking Jensen’s thoughts. "If we don't find a solution soon, we're looking at a significant production halt. The schedule and budget are already taking a hit. This is your responsibility to resolve or kiss your career goodbye."

Jensen's heart pounded. He wasn’t sure how he was going to do it but said, "I’ll fix this."

Leaving the office, Jensen tried to call you. “Hey, you’ve reached Y/N. I can’t get to my phone right now…” He hung up. “Damn it,” he whispered to himself. __________

The weight of recent events hung heavy as you quickly packed a bag, your mind made up to leave without informing anyone of your whereabouts. Changing your phone number was a necessary step; even the few texts you received were enough to set your anxiety ablaze. With a deep breath, you booked the first flight out of Vancouver to Washington, craving the solitude you hoped to find at your mother's home.

The flight was a blur of muted colors and soft hums, your thoughts too loud to allow for rest. At the airport, your mother waited with a stern expression, her eyes scanning you critically as you approached. The ride home was anything but quiet.

"You were supposed to do something with your life," she berated, her voice slicing through the tense silence. "You couldn't even keep your husband and kids alive, and now THIS. What the hell am I going to do with you now?"

Her words stung, each one a reminder of past pains and present failures. You looked out the window, letting her voice fade into the background as the familiar landscapes of Washington passed by.

The house came into view, a serene, isolated sanctuary surrounded by tall trees and blooming flowers. It was a place that could offer solace, despite the toxic presence of your mother. You took in the sight of the old home, the quiet beauty of it almost at odds with the turmoil inside.

Inside, the air was cool and still. Your room, untouched since your last visit, welcomed you with a kind of melancholic familiarity. The walls, painted in soft purple hues, offered a stark silence enveloping you like a comforting blanket.

For a moment, you stood there, allowing yourself to breathe, to feel. The memories of the set, the confrontation with Dee, and the harsh words from your mother swirled around you. Tears welled up again, even though it felt like you had nothing left to shed. You sat on the bed, briefly glancing at the end table. There, a photo of your last family picture with your late husband and kids sat. You fell to your knees. “What am I doing?! How did I let myself get so lost?” you whispered as you covered your face in your hands.

Your mother’s footsteps echoed down the hallway, a reminder of the challenges that still lay ahead. But for now, this quiet room wasn’t much, but it was a start.

You manage to crawl up on the bed, turning the photo face down. You closed your eyes, letting the silence wash over you into slumber. 

You awaken the next morning to the abrupt sound of your mother’s voice, sharp and unforgiving.The sun wasn’t even up yet as the clock read 4:17. She slams a tabloid and a printout on your bed, the noise jarring you fully awake.

"Look at this," she sneers, her eyes cold. "Can't even stay out of trouble, can you?"

Blinking away sleep, you sit up and glance at the tabloid headlines. The words leap off the page, each one more hurtful than the last. "Disgraced Actress," "Scandalous Affair," "Homewrecker" – the list goes on. Your heart sinks as you skim through the articles, each one painting you in the worst possible light. The term "whore" is used liberally, as if it’s the only thing that defines you now.

"I can’t believe they’d print this," you quietly mutter to yourself, the weight of the accusations pressing down on your chest. 

Your mother scoffs, her eyes narrowing. "You bring shame upon this family. What did you expect? Respect?" She gestures to the printout. "And look at this."

You pick up the sheet of paper, recognizing Misha's tweet:

"In shadows cast by whispered lies, a phoenix in the storm shall rise. Beyond the noise, her truth will soar, a beacon's light forevermore."

For a moment, the poetic words offer a sliver of comfort, but it’s quickly overshadowed by your mother's disdainful laugh. "Don’t you start thinking these people are your friends, Y/N. You don’t have any friends.”

You don’t respond, unable to find the words. The room feels suffocating, the walls closing in as the reality of your situation hits you again. 

Back on set, Jensen paces, frustration evident in his every step. He stops in front of Jared, his eyes searching for answers.

"You’ve got to see this," Jared says, his voice tight with anger.

Jensen nods, his jaw clenched. "FUCK. This has Dee written all over it. I’m trying to find out where Y/N went. Her former assistant said she caught a flight the day she quit, but no one knows where."

"Oh, and this doesn’t help matters, either." Jared hands Jensen his phone, showing him Misha's tweet.

Jensen reads it, his expression hardening. "Jesus. Is he talking about Dee or Y/N?"

Jared shrugs, his frustration mirroring Jensen's. "Who knows? This whole situation is a mess."

Jensen runs a hand through his hair, exhaling sharply. "I need to find her. We need to fix this."

"You better hurry…," Jared mutters as Jensen stalks away, determination etched in every line of his face.

Back in Washington, the isolation of your mother's home offers no respite from the storm brewing outside. The tabloid articles and Misha’s tweet play on a loop in your mind, each one a reminder of the turmoil you’ve left behind.

Your mother’s critical gaze follows you as you move through the house, her comments biting and relentless.

You never expected things to escalate this quickly. The stress, the accusations, the relentless scrutiny had taken its toll. The walls closed in around you, suffocating you with their memories and relentless criticisms. You felt the familiar ache in your abdomen intensify, the telltale signs of your PCOS flaring up once more. Ignoring it seemed impossible this time.

In a blur, you found yourself in the back of an ambulance, your mother's voice a distant murmur beside you. Her charm was reserved for the medical staff, her narcissistic comments a constant undertone. "She's always been this way. So dramatic," you heard, drifting in and out of consciousness as the siren wailed.

Hours later, you were wheeled into the sterile confines of the Seattle Hospital, bright lights blurring overhead as medical jargon buzzed around you. Emergency surgery was the only option, they said, to save you from the excruciating pain and potential complications. As the anesthesia took hold, you clung to the last memory of Jensen wishing nothing more than to see him again.

_____

Jensen stormed into the director's office, his frustration palpable. His phone had buzzed with an urgent message, a cryptic call from an unknown number. "Seattle Hospital. Hurry." The words rang in his ears as he demanded answers.

"You know something about Y/N, don’t you?" Jensen's voice was urgent, eyes searching the director's face for any hint of news. "I don’t think she would just quit like that. Tell me what's going on." He slammed his fist on the desk. The director couldn’t help thinking about how very Dean-like he seemed.

The director hesitated, weighing his words carefully before sighing heavily. "Y/N has been hospitalized," he admitted finally, his tone grave. "It's serious, Jensen."

Outside the director's office, Jensen's mind raced. He dialed Jared and Misha frantically, relaying the dire news. "I need a car, a plane ticket, and where the hell is my passport!?" Jensen searched his backpack, urgency coloring every word. Jared's voice echoed concern as they coordinated a car to the airport.

"I know you weren't at the hospital the first time," Jared said, his voice tight with worry. "But PCOS and Endometriosis are rough, man. Misha and I did some research after she told us about her conditions."

It felt like hours, but he finally made it to WA. Jensen's arrival at the hospital was met with wide-eyed adoration from fans and stunned whispers from staff. "Oh my God, it's Jensen Ackles!" a teenage girl squealed, snapping pictures as he hurried to the nurse's station.

"Y/N. What room?" Jensen demanded, his voice cutting through the chaos.

"Room 308," the nurse replied, star-struck.

Taking the stairs two at a time, Jensen raced down the corridor, his heart pounding in his chest. 

Approaching the room, he paused, overhearing a conversation inside. It was Y/N's mother, her voice laced with disdain and cruelty. "They took your ovary," she sneered. "If you ask me, they should have taken it all."

Jensen's blood boiled as he listened to her venomous words, his protective instincts flaring. "You're a hussy and were an awful mother," her mother continued, reapplying her lipstick with a chilling nonchalance. "You could have enrolled them in private school. But nooooo, being Miss Better Than Everyone, had to homeschool them. As if you could have taught them better. Then to go an sleep around on your husband now. Pffft. I hope my little tabloid escapade shows you exactly how people feel about you."

After Jensen overhears Y/N's mother's hurtful comments, he steps into the hospital room just as Y/N begins to stir from anesthesia. ______

Despite your groggy state, your senses begin to sharpen as you overhear Jensen's voice, firm and unwavering, defending you against your mother's hurtful words. 

“YOU SOLD A STORY TO THE TABLOID?” Jensen’s booming voice made your mother jump as she faced him. “Because you don’t agree with her choices in life after EVERYTHING she’s been through? Based on what I’ve heard tonight, I completely understand why she has so many doubts and struggles trusting anyone.” “Why her husband would never speak to me like this. He…” she continued, flabbergasted by his defense. “HE is DEAD. And if HE had been any kind of a man, he most certainly would have put you in your place.” Jensen stepped closer to your mom with every word.

Security arrives amidst the commotion, but Jensen stands his ground, adamant about staying by your side. “If you need to remove anyone, remove her.” He bellowed. Security took your mother outside to give the situation some kind of resolve.

As you slowly wake from the anesthesia, the scene unfolds before your blurred vision. You feel a surge of conflicting emotions—gratitude for Jensen's protective presence, relief that he's here, but also vulnerability exposed by your mother's callousness. Your heart races making the machines beep furiously. 

With a trembling hand, you reach out weakly towards Jensen, your fingers seeking his warmth and reassurance. A silent plea for forgiveness. “Don’t speak, princess. Just listen,” he said to you, taking a seat as he held your hand. “I need you to come home.”

[phatburd]

For shits and giggles, I fed the idea of Napoleon’s Marshals done Bridgerton-style into ChatGPT. It started kind of normal, and then went further off the rails deeper I got into the first season. I felt this gem should be shared with everyone. Enjoy. I will be posting one episode a day, if I can remember it.

Title: The Marshal’s Court

Genre: Romantic Dramedy (In the style of Bridgerton)

Setting: The First French Empire, Napoleon’s Marshals as the central characters

Season 1, Episode 1: “The Batons and the Blows”

Episode Synopsis:

The episode opens in 1804, a glittering ceremony at the Tuileries Palace, where the newly created Marshals of the Empire gather to swear their oaths and receive their Marshal’s Batons. This distinction marks their official ascent to the highest ranks of Napoleon’s army. Most of these men have fought together for years—some since the Italian campaigns—bound by loyalty, shared triumphs, and bitter rivalries.

Opening Scene:

The lavish atmosphere hums with tension. Each Marshal’s uniform is pristine, their batons shining in the candlelight as they await their moment of glory. But beneath the surface, there’s more than just military ambition on display—old grudges, simmering jealousies, and complicated friendships run deep. The camera pans to Marshal Davout, standing stiffly near Murat and Bessières, already casting suspicious glances at Murat’s flamboyant attire.

Marmont, denied a baton, leans in to Junot, whispering, “If Bessières can be made a marshal, then anyone can.” The camera catches Bessières overhearing the remark, his face darkening with wounded pride. Junot smirks, but there’s something unsettling about his grin—hints of his impulsive, reckless nature already showing, though his more troubling mental decline remains subtle for now. The men are unaware that Napoleon himself watches them closely from a corner, ready to intervene in their personal lives as much as their professional ones.

Lannes exchanges a glance with Bessières, their once-close friendship clearly fractured, a remnant of the Consular Guard budget scandal that saw them at odds. Lannes’ temper is barely restrained as he grips his baton, every movement purposeful and aggressive, setting the tone for his character as a man of passion and action.

Meanwhile, fan-favorite moments develop:

• Murat swaggers with confidence, already half in his mind imagining himself as a king, while Bessières watches him with conflicted admiration. Fans begin noticing lingering glances between the two, the first on-screen hints of the clandestine romance that has been a subject of fan theories for months. The ship, known online as Bessimu, starts gaining traction.

• Ney, standing near Soult, mutters something under his breath about Soult’s ambition, adding fuel to their historically documented rivalry. Soult glares but remains silent, plotting.

Junot’s erratic behavior hints at future struggles. He interrupts a serious conversation between Davout and Masséna, challenging them to a random duel of wit that leaves everyone bewildered and concerned about his judgment.

As the ceremony draws to a close, Napoleon makes his rounds, offering calculated words of encouragement (and veiled meddling) to each Marshal. He gives Lannes a sharp look, clearly intent on sending him to Portugal soon, much to Lannes’ irritation. Napoleon is later seen commenting to Duroc, his loyal aide, that “These men will tear each other apart without me. Just as I planned.”

Fan Reactions:

The episode sends fans into a frenzy. The Lannes fan club, already upset over his eventual historical fate, celebrates his brash, sword-banging diplomacy. #LannesLives trends on social media, with fans demanding a fictional rewrite to spare him from his historical death. Bessimu shippers are overjoyed by the subtle but unmistakable romantic tension between Murat and Bessières, creating a storm of theories about where their storyline is headed.

Online debates about the accuracy of Marmont’s snark, the portrayal of Soult’s cunning, and Davout’s icy demeanor dominate forums, with some fans pointing out that the show has taken slight creative liberties, but to thrilling dramatic effect.

Historical Easter Eggs:

• Marmont’s bitter comment about Bessières’ promotion references real-life tensions in the ranks.

• The Lannes-Bessières fallout, stemming from the Consular Guard budget scandal, is rooted in true events and marks a key point in their strained relationship.

• Napoleon’s meddling in his marshals’ lives, especially his push for marriages of convenience, is a real-life tactic he used to secure alliances, adding layers of historical drama to the romantic subplots.

Next Episode Teasers:

• Murat is seen leaving Bessières’ tent at night, a secretive and tense interaction that leaves viewers speculating on how their relationship will evolve. Will Bessières continue to wrestle with his devout Catholic guilt, or will his heart take the reins?

• Lannes is summoned by Napoleon to discuss his new diplomatic assignment in Portugal. Will Lannes’ fiery temper clash with his new role, or will his sword-banging diplomatic style pay off?

• Junot’s mental decline begins to surface in more overt ways—he challenges Marmont to a duel in a fit of impulsive rage. How will his peers react as his once celebrated impulsiveness becomes more concerning?

• The brewing rivalry between Davout and Bernadotte reaches new heights as Bernadotte schemes to undermine Davout’s position. Sparks fly at a banquet where both men attend with their wives.

• Historical nod: The Marshal’s next military campaign looms, with the possibility of them fighting side by side—or against each other.

[therightrighthand]

Sharing some 40k lore of OC's homeworlds among friends, got me eager to create some for Delgoth's home world Arkwright

~

Arkwright

Before the great fracture of humanity when the webways shut down, Arkwright stood as a luxury colony made up of small towns and villages scattered across a mineral-rich planet. It stood as a holiday location reminiscent of rural England back in the 20th century, with its novelty industrial technology, steam trains, and factory relics.

After being cut off from the rest of the galaxy, Arkwright was consumed by war and conflict until peace out of necessity prevailed, leaving its people fractured into a class-based society, the noble, rich and powerful, and the working masses.

With no fabricators and little knowledge of its advanced technology, Arkwright was left to rely on the relics of the past to rebuild its future. Retrofitting steam machinery with electronic hardware developed a bastardised backward technology, feeding off the toxic emulsion that resided deep in the planet's core. This turned the once beautiful green planet into a toxic polluted wasteland.

Prior to being re-discovered by the Imperium of Man, Arkwright survived the Age of Strife by forging city-sized factories known as 'Great Works'. Each Greatworks functioned as an independent city, refining its rich minerals and pumping out thick pollution into the atmosphere. Its citizens who resided in these mega structures were considered cogs in a much larger machine, each one playing a role from birth to death.

Image on the left: Inspired by British working-class Victorian attire, Arkwright's citizens' fashion is based around functionality. Any and all wealth (for what little there is) is spent on food and small comforts over fashion that would no doubt not survive the workday. Flat caps are a commonplace uniform piece used by various militias and gangs that rule the lower factory levels, often having some signifier as to which gang they belong to (playing cards, patch colours etc.)

Image on the right: Whilst there are many roles in Arkwright's Great Work's cities, none are as prominent as the 'Scrubbers', workers whose job it is to scrub, clean and repair the deepest recess of the factory, where it is its most dangerous. Scrubbers are often picked based on their physical prowess or ability to endure heavy pollution. Given the amount of heavy-duty equipment, armour and tactical gear, Scrubbers are the closest thing Arkwright has to law and order, often being outsourced by higher-class nobles to handle the lower-level gangs.

Psyker bonus!: Psykers are a highly valued commodity to the workforce on Arkwright, to the point where they've created their own means of managing chaos and corruption by pumping the body with a type of refined emulsion. Most Psykers are often hidden from Blackships because of their usefulness, but the cost of long-endured emulsion often cuts their life short fast.

-- Find my Discord and other sites: linktr.ee/The_red_right_hand Do not use, repost or claim (rp) my art/character  Art © The-Red-Right-Hand

[happybird16]

Storm

Levi x reader, sfw

You blink awake to the sound of rushing water and heavy droplets landing on the leaves high overhead, creating a rhythmic percussion against the side of your tent.

Sleep rarely comes easily during long expeditions. The anxiety of being exposed in the open, far from the protective walls, mixes with the weight of recent losses and traumas, leaving you restless. The longing for your own bed only adds to the discomfort. Thankfully, the gentle patter of the rain provided some solace, helping you drift off with ease. Even now, its sound envelops you, making you feel drowsy and languid, coaxing your eyes to close. Though brief, the reason for your awakening remains a mystery.

Sometime later, the distant rumble of thunder pulls you from slumber, forbiddingly deep with a dull roar. Shortly after, a sharp crash follows – the echoing sound of lightning fracturing the sky in the distance. “So much for sleep,” you grumble in disappointment. Normally, dozing through light storms is a peaceful experience, but this one feels potent. The wind whips and whistles loudly in the distance, a testament to its strength. Even in this far in the forest, encircled by countless towering trees, the cloth walls of your tent strain and flutter in the face of its might.

“Damn it. Erwin's probably going to be pissed. I bet we'll end up with a late start, and the mud will slow down the carts even more... The weather's as unpredictable as an Abnormal. Things were going so smoothly this time too,” you mutter, a mixture of frustration and resignation in your voice. The term "smooth" might be relative, considering Erwin's new scouting formation has led to fewer casualties than usual. It's no wonder people are pegging him as the next commander.

You pause, anticipating your tent-mate's usual snarky retort. Your brain automatically fills in the expected ‘You call that shitshow smooth?’ in his typical dry tone. However, the air is filled only with the loud rush of rain. “Levi?”

Levi's silence isn't out of the ordinary; it's actually quite typical. Since joining Erwin's squad a few months ago, he's barely exchanged words with half the team, preferring to linger on the fringes of meetings and disappearing to who knows where as soon as he can. Still, he's always been a little more open with you, for reasons known only to him. Usually, he'd at least offer a response. “Are you awake?”

Once again, no reply. It's strange, considering you're fairly certain he doesn't sleep during expeditions. He's never shy about complaining about your frequent movements, yet for some reason, he always chooses to share a room with you. Shifting within your sleeping bag, you discover the space beside you is entirely vacant. Levi's sleeping bag has already been neatly rolled up and set aside.

“What the… Levi?” you question aloud, pushing your covers down and swiftly sitting up. “Levi?”

Outside, a faint noise manages to pierce through the storm’s roar. The sound of boots shuffling on dirt, accompanied by what seems like a loud sniffle. On your knees, you edge forward and peer out of the tent’s entrance in the direction of the sound. “Levi?”

And there he is. Hunched over and leaning against the sizable tree next to which you’d pitched your tent. He’s fully clad in his attire, a dark green cloak pulled up over his head. Yet, even so, it’s clear he’s been thoroughly soaked by the rain. Amid the symphony of thunder, you think you catch the sound of another sniffle, though it’s hard to discern.

He appears particularly diminutive against the backdrop of the colossal tree trunk, his knees drawn up to his chest, and his chin nestled between them. Not wanting to get drenched, you cautiously extend your head out of the tent’s flaps. “What are you doing out here? It’s pouring!”

You think he responds – you certainly catch sight of his head bobbing up and down in the darkness – but whatever he says is drowned out by a booming lightning crash. Screw it. Deciding you've had enough, you step out into the relentless downpour. The deluge immediately penetrates every layer of clothing, drenching you to the bone. Closing the short distance to his side, you shout over the howling wind, “Come on, you’ll catch your death before death catches you.”

“M’m fine,” comes his subdued response. The words are muffled into the fabric covering his knees, and he continues to gaze out into the distant darkness, somewhere far beyond the surrounding trees. He doesn't even lift his gaze to meet yours.

He looks... sad. Almost defeated, his shoulders drooping and his head hanging heavily. A faint pink tinge colors the skin beneath his eyes. Was he.. crying? “Hey... are you okay?”

An uneven shrug is the only response you receive, as Levi remains tight-lipped. With a sigh, you crouch down to sit beside him, your back pressing against the tree's rough bark, and your shoulder brushing against his.

He's completely drenched, you observe, even huddled beneath the tree. His attire clings to his skin, dark and saturated. His hair, too, is soaked, with black strands hanging heavily in front of his eyes and droplets falling from them onto his nose. Keeping an eye on his somber, distant expression, you gently nudge his shoulder with yours. “How long have you been out here?”

Levi responds with another shrug, remaining silent. You surmise that he's been here for quite a while, likely since you initially woke up. Despite that, his shoulder is still warm against yours.

For an extended period, you both simply sit in silence, attuned to the incessant rhythm of the rain. The sky above is nearly pitch-black, an expanse of angry, rapidly moving clouds without a single star in sight. The gusting wind causes branches to snap loudly somewhere in the distance. Inhaling deeply, you lean your head against the bark, absorbing the fragrance of damp earth and pine. Beneath it all, you can discern the sound of Levi's soft, even breaths.

From the corner of your eye, you notice Levi flinch every time the storm unleashes a deep rumble or a bolt of lightning streaks across the sky. It's a subtle motion, hardly more than a twitch. You might not have even picked up on it if your shoulder hadn't been touching his. Could Levi be afraid of thunderstorms?

The notion is almost unfathomable. He exudes strength and an unyielding demeanor, so it’s difficult to imagine him being afraid of anything. While you understand that everyone harbors their own fears, it’s still peculiar that he has chosen to isolate himself out here in the midst of the storm.

“At least the rain is warm,” you remark softly. This time, the shrug he offers comes with a gentle hum. It’s a small step, but progress nonetheless.

A loud rumble of thunder echoes, prompting you to instinctively start counting the seconds. “One… Two… Three…”

“Why are you counting?” Levi interjects suddenly, causing you to startle in surprise. For the first time tonight, he’s looking at you, his head tilted in your direction while his chin remains nestled against his knees.

“Oh, uh,” you stumble over your words momentarily. “I didn't even realize I was doing it. I'm estimating how far away the storm is.”

“You're doing what?” he asks, a mix of genuine curiosity and exasperation in his tone. “How does that even work?”

A crash of lightning jolts your gaze away from his, and you turn to watch the bright lines of lightning streak across the sky. Lost in your momentary distraction, you've forgotten to count the seconds so you start again. “It's something my dad and I used to do when I was little, whenever there was a big storm. I could never sleep, so we'd sit on the back porch and just chat about anything and everything for hours, waiting for the storm to pass.” You share the memory with a tender note in your voice. He leans closer as you speak, his entire side pressing against yours in a warm, solid line. It sends a heavy throb through your heart. “When I was really young, I used to be scared of the storms. So, we'd count to gauge how far away they were. It was a nice way to distract myself, and it turned into a little game. Instead of being big and scary, the storm was fun.”

Levi’s expression is unusually open and intrigued. “When you see lightning, you count the seconds until you hear thunder and divide that time by five. That’s how many miles away the storm is,” you explain.

“Sounds made up,” Levi retorts.

“Perhaps it is,” you concede, offering him a small smile. As your conversation has progressed, Levi has noticeably eased up. He’s lifted his head off his knees and his shoulders have lost some of their tension. “I can’t say for sure, but it helped me when I was little. Maybe it'll help you…” When lightning streaks across the sky again, Levi doesn’t flinch at all. “Alright then! One, Two, Three…” you count the seconds until the sound of thunder reverberates in the wake of the lightning. “Fifteen seconds! So, the storm is roughly three miles away!”

“What now?” he inquires.

“Now we measure the next one!” you reply with enthusiasm. “That way we can determine if the storm is approaching or moving away!”

As you count the seconds for the subsequent lightning, you observe Levi's lips moving in silent synchronization with your count. “I got twenty seconds, what about you?”

“Eighteen,” Levi responds quietly. “So, it's moving farther away?”

"Yup!" you confirm. Levi is watching you now, his gaze fixed on your face, and he doesn't appear nearly as sad. The way his bangs are hanging heavily in front of his eyes, inky black against pale alabaster, it makes your fingers itch to run through the strands. Giving his shoulder a gentle nudge, you offer cautiously, “Whenever there's a storm, you can find me. We can count the lightning together. If they bother you... just know that I'm here to help.”

“I'm not afraid of them – I'm not some damn kid,” Levi responds in a low tone. “It's just... Far and Izz, my friends – during that expedition, there was a thunderstorm.” His explanation is rough, his words barely strung together, but you manage to piece it together.

“Oh..” You'd never officially met his friends, they hadn't been around long enough before that expedition. You’d caught glimpses of them only a handful of times in the lunch hall, seated on either side of Levi in the farthest corner of the room. As part of Erwin’s squad, you had certainly witnessed the aftermath of that storm. The blood, the horror, the cries of pain. Levi had been the sole survivor of that squad, if your memory serves you correctly. He had transferred to Erwin’s team immediately after. “Oh- oh fuck! I didn't even think- I'm sor-”

He cuts you off with a soft huff, followed by a distinct sniffle. “Don’t. Don’t apologize.”

“D-do you want some space…” you shuffle awkwardly in place, suddenly realizing how thoroughly soaked you are. Your clothes have been wet for so long that you’ve somewhat forgotten about it. “I should probably…”

“No,” his response is muffled once again, his back now nestled against his knees. Wrapping his arms around his legs, Levi curls himself into a tight ball, his shoulders rising nearly to his ears. You think you hear his voice crack, and it shatters something within you. “Stay.”

Taking a deep breath, you lift your hand and gently run your fingers through his hair. The inky strands coil around your fingers, clinging to you as you attempt to brush them back from his face. Even drenched, his hair feels surprisingly soft. You half expect him to shy away from your touch, even though he remains a warm presence against your side. Instead, Levi leans into the contact, emitting a soft hum. Perhaps it’s a trick of the darkness, but you could swear you see a blush creeping over his cheeks. A delicate pink flush high along his cheekbones, a sight that causes your stomach to flutter and your heart to tighten. “Okay. Okay. I’ll stay.”

Levi leans heavily into your side, releasing a deep sigh that reverberates through his entire frame. Thunder rumbles once more, but this time it sounds more distant. “Just so you know, my offer still stands. You don't need to weather the storm all alone, sitting out in the rain and staring at the clouds. Just come find me, alright?”

There's a quiver in his form, as if he's shivering even though the night air is warm. You can almost hear him swallow, the sound carrying the weight of vulnerability. “Okay.”

“Next time, maybe we can find somewhere a little drier,” you suggest, a hint of playfulness in your tone. “I'm pretty sure my fingers are getting pruney.”

He’s quietly counting to himself, you realize. It’s a subtle sound, barely audible over the rain, especially with his face buried between his knees. Nonetheless, you catch the faint whisper of his voice beneath the rain. The longer he counts, the more the muscles along his shoulders relax, a transformation that brings a genuine smile to your face.

“Speaking of which, now that the thunderstorm seems to be subsiding, how about we head back inside?” you nod toward the tent. “I think it’s about time we attempt to dry off. You might never get sick, but I do, and since we have the portable stove, how about I prepare some tea?”

Raising his head, Levi offers you a stern look, accompanied by a snort. “I’ll make it. If you’re involved, the tea will probably end up tasting like shit.” As he stands, he extends a hand to help you up. A faint flush tints his cheeks, a delicate pink hue that’s hard to miss. “Thank you, for this.”

His hand, strong and calloused, feels warm against yours as he assists you to your feet. “Anytime,” you reply with a heartfelt smile, appreciating the unspoken connection that has grown stronger between you in the midst of the storm.