#sherry the armorer

[ijustwant2ride]

Motorcycle Product Review:  Sherrie Leggings by Wind & Throttle

My wife has been looking for armored motorcycle pants for a while.  What she really wanted was armored motorcycle pants made for women. 

[zepumpkineater]

I see some analysis about the Sheriff going around so I'll throw my hat into the ring.

Where to begin with ol' Sherry? To me, he's someone with self worth and self loathing issues. I think on a lot of fundamental levels, the Sheriff is not kind to himself. When he looks in the mirror he sees a coward, a backstabber, a liar, a cheat. I think he has a lot of regret for his life leading up to this point.

He was young and naive then when Christoff first approached him and promised him all sorts of amazing things. Yes, the city would fall and people would die, but he'd be a leader, someone important, someone people turn to in times of crisis and worry. A whole hell of a lot more than a mattress salesman. I do think the scratching and groaning of the zeds against the industrial sector walls keeps him up at night, knowing he had at least some part in that. Knowing he gave the order to seal off the industrial sector, a safe haven that could have saved who knows how many lives in the coming apocalypse.

I think he regrets standing there and watching as Christoff used his rifle to pick off nexus core soldiers trying and failing to contain the zed outbreak, watching as the people they fruitlessly tried to protect be torn apart by ravenous zombies. No doubt they were dead anyway, the city was lost for good the moment Phobos died, but... Watching Christoff be so thorough in it's dismantling couldn't have felt good.

Now where is he? Leading this merry band of glorified industrial workers? Producing food and supplies and weapons across all of Nevada, making sure stomachs are filled, militias are supplied and quotas met? Can it even begin to undo the rapid loss of life in the apocalypse he personally had a hand in inflicting? Does it even matter? The nexus core, what's left of them, would have his head either way.

Sheriff is someone who is very, very scared of dying. He has a self preservation instinct, a strong one at that, a luxury many of his fellow nevadeans cannot afford. Someone who was so scared of death that when his time finally did come he summoned all of his willpower and all of his strength and literally climbed out of hell itself so he didn't have to endure another moment of it. It changed him, braving the cold cruelty of the other place. Hardened him, made him stronger, faster, a better shot, but it couldn't change one fundamental thing about him. He will do whatever it takes just to live a moment longer. It's only when his back was to the wall did he ever accept it even for a moment. He exhausted all other options before it was time to face the music.

He's paranoid. He immediately assumed Sanford and Deimos were there to kill him even when they said they weren't, because why would they ever tell the truth? Why would anyone in Nevada be honest with anyone? The last time sheriff trusted anyone even for a second, innumerable amounts of people died. Death swept across the city like wildfire, and very few made it out alive. Trusting people, plain and simply, gets you killed.

But I think under all of those layers of bullet proof armor and a cowboy hat is a man who regrets his past. Wishes the people he shot in the back, no matter the reason, at least had the chance to look him in the eye before he put them down. He fights so hard to live in a doomed world that he knows he cannot save, but he can protect his people and his home, something he maybe should have done 30 years ago. He's an extremely rare and fascinating individual in the callous and cruel world of madness' Nevada.

[charmed-quill]

The Art of Desire// B.B x Reader ch 14

authors note at the end of the chapter

summary: Benedict Bridgerton longs for more than society’s expectations, drawn instead to art and freedom. Y/N, a fiercely talented but struggling artist, fights for recognition in a world that dismisses women of her class. When their paths cross, fascination sparks—a shared passion for art bridging the divide between privilege and survival. But their growing connection threatens them both in a world where reputation is everything. As scandal looms and duty calls, they must choose: conform to society’s rules or risk everything for love, ambition, and the art that brought them together.

word count: 5.6k

Prev.

Next.

Chapter 14 - The Salon

The sun hung high and bright by the time Y/N arrived at Lady Danbury’s estate. Afternoon light spilled golden across the carriage steps, the soft rustle of hedges stirring in a rare, sweet breeze. It was only half past one, thirty full minutes before the salon was to begin, but already, the air had that particular quality that meant something was about to happen.

Y/N stood at the edge of it, her gloved hands folded tightly around her reticule, pulse thudding loud in her ears. She looked up at the grand façade of the house, its tall windows and ivy-covered stone, and wondered for a breath too long if the invitation had been a mistake. A misprint. A moment of pity.

But the butler opened the door with the faintest bow, and she was ushered inside as though she belonged.

She told herself she did.

The entryway was cool and echoing, the scent of lavender and beeswax polished wood wrapping around her like an unfamiliar cloak. Her steps over the tiled floor felt too loud, her gown—crimson silk bold as blood—too loud. Everything about her felt too much.

And yet… not enough.

She was led to a pale green drawing room flooded with light. The curtains were drawn wide, letting the warm afternoon sun spill over the carpet. At the far end, seated beside a marble-topped table with a glass of sherry in one hand and her cane resting across her knees, sat Lady Agatha Danbury.

Y/N did not speak.

Lady Danbury turned her head with the deliberate pace of a woman who missed nothing. Her chin tilted upward, silver-tipped cane resting across her lap like a sceptre. The afternoon light glanced off the rim of her glass, and her single raised brow carried more weight than a dozen questions.

“You’re early,” she said, her voice low and even, with the sharpness of a blade wrapped in velvet.

Y/N’s breath caught in her throat. She stood just inside the threshold of the drawing room, her red gown catching the sunlight like flame, her gloves damp at the palms.

“I thought it best,” she said carefully. “In case there were things to be checked before the guests arrive.”

“Mm,” Lady Danbury hummed, neither approving nor dismissive. Her gaze narrowed, raking over Y/N’s form, not in the way society women might have done, scanning for flaws in fabric or posture, but in the way one might evaluate the integrity of a steel blade.

“Or perhaps,” she added, “because you’re nervous.”

Y/N hesitated.

There was no point in lying. Not to this woman.

“That too,” she admitted.

Something flickered at the corners of Lady Danbury’s mouth—not a smile, not quite. But an acknowledgment.

“Good,” she said. “Only fools walk into battle without a little fear.”

Y/N said nothing. She didn’t dare. But she stood straighter.

The older woman regarded her in silence for another long beat, as if deciding just how much of Y/N was armor, and how much was still soft beneath the surface.

Then she lifted her chin, sharp and queenly, and gestured to the chair opposite hers.

“Sit,” she commanded. “Let me see what sort of creature you are before I parade you around as one of mine.”

Y/N moved forward and lowered herself into the seat, careful not to let the silk of her gown pool too quickly. Her pulse fluttered like a moth caught behind glass, loud in her ears. She folded her hands in her lap. She did not fidget.

Lady Danbury’s stare was like the flame of a candle held too close, steady, burning, revealing. She didn’t speak. She simply looked.

Y/N held her gaze.

She wasn’t sure how long it lasted, only that her throat felt dry, and her skin warm, and her heart hadn’t yet remembered how to beat at a normal pace.

At last, Lady Danbury leaned back, her sherry glass lifted to her lips with a graceful flick of her wrist.

Lady Danbury lifted her glass, her gaze level and knowing. “So. You’ve finally come out of the shadows.”

Y/N offered the smallest smile. “You did coax me, ma’am. More than once.”

Lady Danbury hummed. “Yes, well. One can only hang brilliance in secret for so long before it starts to feel like a waste.”

“I was grateful,” Y/N said, her voice quiet. “For your support. Even if it came under a false name.”

The older woman’s eyes glittered with amusement. “Ah, yes. Mrs Abrahams of Bath. I imagine the gallery owner still doesn’t know he sold me two of the finest canvases in that stable of a room for the price of a footstool.”

Y/N’s mouth twitched despite herself.

Lady Danbury waved a gloved hand, brushing the memory aside. “I didn’t do it for thanks. I did it because they were good. Too good, in fact, for what you were charging. But that’s the way of it, isn’t it? Women paint their truths, and men price them as decoration.”

Y/N swallowed her throat tight.

“You weren’t meant to stay small,” Lady Danbury continued. “And I’m far too old to enjoy my artwork in private while the world plays catch-up. So—” she lifted her glass toward Y/N as if toasting her without fanfare, “—welcome to the light. Try not to look too startled by it.”

Y/N dipped her head, quietly steadying herself.

“I’ll do my best.”

Lady Danbury’s mouth twitched again—half approval, half challenge.

“I expect nothing less.”

Y/N flinched, barely.

Lady Danbury caught it, naturally.

“There’s something terribly refreshing,” she added, “about a woman with a spine. And yours, Miss L/N, is clearly made of iron. You’ll need it.”

Y/N swallowed. “Yes, ma’am.”

Her voice was quiet, but firm.

Lady Danbury narrowed her eyes, as though testing her once more, then gave a single, approving nod.

“The others have arrived. All men, I’m afraid. Older, and terribly sure of themselves. They’ve been pampered and praised since before they knew how to hold a brush. You’ll be a surprise.”

Y/N’s jaw tensed.

“Don’t let that scare you,” Lady Danbury said. “Use it. Walk in knowing you’re the reason this salon will be remembered.”

Y/N exhaled, something hot and electric simmering beneath her skin. Not pride exactly, not yet, but the beginning of something close.

“I’ll try.”

Lady Danbury stood in one graceful motion, her cane tapping once against the floor as she turned toward the hall.

“Don’t try, Miss L/N,” she said over her shoulder. “Do.”

Y/N rose as well, heart hammering, skirts whispering over the polished floor.

And as she followed the older woman from the room, toward the salon, toward the audience, toward the men who would stare and wonder, she straightened her shoulders, held her chin high, and told herself she could burn the whole place down if she had to.

The east drawing room had been transformed.

What had likely been, only hours before, a quiet corner of the Danbury estate, sunlit and still, now breathed with life. The afternoon light, softened by gauzy drapery, poured in golden through tall windows, gilding every surface it touched. The pale walls glowed ivory under its warmth, and in that light, the room began to feel less like a salon and more like a sanctuary.

The footmen moved with quiet purpose, placing delicate trays of fruit glistening with sugar beside crystal dishes of small cakes. Fine crystal glasses were arranged in perfect symmetry along linen-covered tables, catching the light like prisms. A gentle hush filled the room, not yet filled with guests, but alive with anticipation. The hour approached.

And at the far end of the space, beneath a high wall kissed by sun and shadow, hung a few paintings.

Y/N saw them before anything else. The world fell quiet around her for a breath. They had been placed with care, no corner, no obscurity, no attempt to soften them or tuck them out of view. They stood between a sweeping landscape by a titled gentleman and a gilded portrait from a former Royal Academician. And yet…

They did not disappear.

They did not shrink.

They belonged.

Y/N’s heart surged, sharp and sudden, as she took them in. The brushstrokes that had come from sleepless nights, the raw lines pulled from memory and ache, they looked not out of place, but exactly where they were meant to be. A part of her could scarcely believe it. The rest of her, smaller, tougher, forged in survival, had known all along that they would.

She felt Lady Danbury’s presence beside her like a second spine.

Further in the room, gathered near the fireplace, stood the other artists.

Four of them.

All men.

All older, dressed like they'd come from long lunches and leather-bound libraries. Their collars were starched, their shoes polished to gleam. One of them was idly rolling a sugared plum between his fingers. Another tapped his cane absently against the base of the hearth, the rhythm echoing like a challenge.

They looked up as Lady Danbury and Y/N approached, conversation thinning to silence as their eyes took her in.

“This,” Lady Danbury said, her voice smooth and unflinching, “is Miss Y/N L/N. If you were clever, you’d already know her name. If you weren’t, you’ll learn it today.”

Her words fell like a dropped gauntlet.

The pause that followed was longer than it should have been.

One man inclined his head, the gesture polite, practised, empty.

Another said, “Miss,” with a smile that didn’t reach his eyes.

The others made no effort at all.

Y/N felt the silence settle over her like a weight, not the heavy, suffocating kind she had once worn in rooms where she was not wanted, but something different. Denser. Sharper. Like a cloak of chainmail draped over her shoulders.

What is she doing here?

They didn’t say it. But they didn’t have to.

She felt the shape of it between every narrowed glance, every breath just slightly too still. It didn’t matter that Lady Danbury had brought her in, had spoken her name like a promise. These men saw her as an interloper. A curiosity. A challenge to their silent agreement that rooms like this belonged to them.

But Y/N didn’t flinch.

She stepped forward, slow and sure, and lifted her chin.

Her gown, a sweep of crimson silk, caught the light like fire, bold and uncompromising. Her hands folded neatly behind her back, not clenched, but composed. She didn’t speak. She didn’t smile.

She stood before her work.

And let it speak.

Untethered was not subtle. It never had been. It held a kind of ache that lingered in the paint, too raw, too vulnerable to explain with words. Bitter Bloom was quieter, but no less sharp, the colour of it bruised and blooming at once. They were honest. They were hers.

And in the hush of that golden room, filled with footmen and silk and the scent of honeyed fruit, Y/N stood not as a question… but as a statement.

She had not come from a title or legacy or inheritance.

She had come from charcoal-stained hands and a hunger for something that would not go quiet.

And whether they liked it or not, she was here.

Not through favour.

Not through accident.

But through skill. Through sacrifice. Through nights spent cold and trembling, painting a future she’d once barely dared to imagine.

She was not going to beg to be seen.

She was the thing to be seen.

And she would not let the room forget that.

It started slowly, as all grand events do.

First, the polite murmur of early guests drifting in from carriages. The occasional clink of a glass being taken too early. A voice, rich and practised, offering a name to the steward at the door. But by half past two, the trickle became a tide.

The east drawing room filled with silk and satin and laughter too sharp to be sincere. Hats that brushed the doorframes, diamonds that winked at the chandeliers, feathers like plumes of smoke rising from pinned hair. Footmen moved like chess pieces, refilling glasses, offering gloved hands to ladies too delicate to lift their own tea.

Y/N stood near her paintings, trying not to fidget. She had rehearsed stillness like a language, and practiced breathing through her ribs so her chest wouldn’t betray her.

But the voices were getting louder.

The eyes were finding her.

And the air—despite the high ceilings and generous windows—was beginning to feel like it belonged to someone else.

She could feel them watching. Some looked directly. Some peeked from the corners of their eyes. Some did not look at her at all, but at the nameplate beneath her work, their expressions shifting almost imperceptibly when they realized it belonged to her.

“She’s so young,” someone whispered behind a gilded fan. “And not even married.” “Is that the one Lord Danforth bought?” “That shade of red… it’s so bold.” “Well, it is striking.” “Striking, yes—but so very… honest, don’t you think? Uncomfortably so.”

Y/N tried not to hear them. She focused on the paintings instead. On the way the brushstrokes held. On the frame lines. On the way Bitter Bloom looked under the gold-tinted afternoon light, like something that had once hurt, but now dared to thrive.

But it was impossible not to remember.

Because it felt like that night again.

The masquerade.

The way she'd stood beside Benedict in silk she hadn’t chosen, in a room she hadn’t belonged to, dancing like her feet had remembered something her mind had long since forgotten. The music. The lights. The feeling of being wanted.

The memory settled over her shoulders like ash. Not quite pain. Not quite warmth. Just the lingering smoke of something already burned.

She had said no to him beneath the stars.

No to his future. No to a world she didn’t trust. No to love, because she’d never known how to hold it.

And now, surrounded by opulence and oil portraits, champagne and soft-scented perfume, she wondered if she’d traded one cage for another.

She belonged here. She did. She’d earned her place in this room. Every scraped knee, every stolen crust of bread, every sleepless night spent hunched over a canvas had led her to this.

But being seen came with a price.

Because this wasn’t just a showing. It was an unveiling. And they were all watching to see what kind of creature had crawled from Whitechapel and dared to call herself an artist.

Some nodded appreciatively.

Some whispered.

Some smiled at her as they passed, with real warmth and genuine interest. One older woman touched her arm and said, “Yours stopped me, you know. I hadn’t expected to feel something today.”

Y/N thanked her, quietly. She tucked that moment into her chest like a note pressed between pages. But the praise could not drown out the regret blooming in her ribs.

What would he think, if he were here?

Would he be proud of her? Would he stand in the back and watch with that lopsided smile, the one that made her feel like no one else in the world mattered?

Or would he pretend not to see her at all?

Would he look right through her, like she was just another girl who had said no and regretted it too late?

She shouldn’t think of him.

But every time the crowd shifted near the doors, every time the scent of bergamot and soap wafted by too suddenly, her breath caught.

She had wanted to believe it was better this way.

To build her name, alone.

To stand without needing someone’s hand in hers.

But she was beginning to realise, standing didn’t always mean surviving.

And surviving wasn’t the same as living.

Still, she kept her chin high, her posture easy, the way she’d seen Lady Danbury do it. She nodded at those who approached. She answered the polite questions. She accepted the murmured compliments.

And in the midst of it all, she reminded herself:

She had not come here to belong.

She had come to be remembered.

It happened all at once.

A burst of warm laughter across the room. A familiar lilt. A shared cadence, unmistakable in its rhythm. Y/N turned instinctively, her gaze drawn to the swell of voices rising like a tide above the polite hum of the salon.

And then she saw them.

The Bridgertons.

Lady Violet, resplendent in lavender silk, her smile pleasant and practised, though her eyes missed nothing. Beside her, the viscount Bridgerton stood like a pillar, broad, proud, his hand resting lightly at the small of his wife’s back. Looking every inch a viscountess, dark-eyed and composed, her chin tipped with the grace of a woman who had learned to guard her softness with steel.

Colin— whom she had not met formally— was speaking to the Dutchess of Hastings, who nodded along—,  dark blue gown elegantly simple, her husband at her side, ever still, ever watchful. And trailing just behind them, wrapped in a seafoam gown that brought out the mischief in her eyes, was Eloise.

Francesca was there, too. Quiet, and composed, her gaze gliding across the room with the same cool precision as her mother’s.

They moved as one, like a current. The kind of family that didn’t enter a room so much as command it, even when they weren’t trying to. And in the middle of that current, though he was not yet there, Y/N felt the space where Benedict should have been.

And panic bloomed.

It was quiet at first, a single skip of her heart, a faint tremble in her fingertips. But then it swelled. Her breath caught. Her chest tightened, ribs suddenly too narrow to hold what she was feeling.

No.

She couldn’t face them. Not all of them. Not like this. Not when her body still remembered the warmth of Benedict’s hands and her soul still hadn’t forgiven her for saying no.

The shame wasn’t in what she’d done.

It was in what she’d lost.

She turned sharply, silk whispering against her ankles, and slipped behind a column at the far end of the room. She pressed herself into the cool marble and kept her gaze low, shoulders tucked inward, as though that alone might make her smaller, invisible.

Her pulse thundered. Her ears rang.

What would they say if they saw her? What did they say, when her name came up over breakfast? Did they speak of her at all? Did Violet sip her tea and mourn the briefest possibility of a scandal before folding the thought neatly away?

Did Eloise defend her? Or did she stop trying?

Y/N peeked again, just a glance, and saw the viscountess Bridgerton lean in to whisper something to the Dutchess. They both looked toward the far wall where the paintings hung.

Her paintings.

She ducked back before she could catch their expressions.

It was too much.

The ache. The distance. The weight of knowing she had stood at the edge of something soft and golden, and had walked away from it because she didn’t know how to stay. Because staying had always felt like surrender. And she didn’t know how to surrender without losing herself entirely.

She drew in a breath.

Not now. She couldn’t crumble now.

The silk of her dress clung gently to her skin, the same crimson defiance Madame Poitier had promised would make her unforgettable. But Y/N didn’t feel like firelight. Not here. Not now.

She felt like a ghost in the room she once dared to imagine her future in.

Still, she straightened. She smoothed her skirts. She turned her face toward the window, the softest smile fixed carefully in place.

Because the one thing she would not let them see, what none of them could see, was the girl who had wanted to run.

Not again.

Not this time.

The east gallery had grown louder.

Not in noise, exactly—no one shouted, not in a house like this—but in presence. In breath and movement and rustling silk. Laughter spilled like champagne from gilded mouths. Shoes clicked against the parquet floor in elegant, murmuring waves. The scent of expensive perfume lingered in the warm air: rose, jasmine, bergamot and orange blossom layered together, impossible to escape.

And still, Y/N moved quietly through the room like she was skimming the surface of another world.

The gallery had been arranged with deliberate elegance, Lady Danbury’s doing, Y/N had no doubt. The works had space. They breathed. They weren’t crammed shoulder-to-shoulder like in the back alley salons she had grown used to. There was distance, softness, light. Pale panels and gold sconces offered her brushstrokes a stage she’d never imagined for them.

Untethered (Study II) hung beside a quiet piece in muted oils by a northern landscape artist Y/N had admired from afar. Bitter Bloom had been given a wall all to itself, its colour swallowing the sunlight, its softness demanding to be stared at.

People looked.

They looked more than she expected. Some stood quietly, brow furrowed in concentration. Others tilted their heads, mouths puckered in polite speculation. One woman, dressed in lemon silk and jewels that caught every glint of light, pressed a hand lightly to her chest and whispered, “Oh. That one hurts.”

Y/N swallowed.

She hadn’t meant for it to hurt.

Or perhaps she had.

She kept moving. Around pillars. Past conversations. In and out of rooms like a shadow in crimson silk. She did not go near the doorways. She did not approach the tables where cakes were served. She avoided any space with too much light, too much laughter, too much recognition.

Because somewhere in the crowd—maybe now, maybe later—they were coming.

The Bridgertons.

She had not seen them yet, but she could feel them. Like a storm crawling across the edge of the sky. That particular kind of presence that turned heads without asking, that whispered of lineage and legacy and a kind of wealth so permanent it didn’t need to announce itself.

She could almost hear the rise and fall of their laughter, the brightness of it. Could almost see Anthony’s polished shoes and Eloise’s quicksilver eyes, scanning the walls for rebellion.

And in every step she took, her skin tingled with the fear of colliding with what she’d left behind.

So she wandered.

She smiled at older women with sharp opinions. She answered two questions about brush technique and one about the silk she wore, always returning to the paintings when conversation slipped too close to her name.

She kept her back straight, her voice quiet, her expression unreadable.

She let them look.

She let them whisper.

She pretended not to care.

Until—

A flicker of movement at her shoulder.

A presence, soft, but precise. Not loud. Not grand. But firm enough to make the hair on the back of her neck rise.

Y/N turned slowly.

And there she was.

Lady Violet Bridgerton.

Smiling.

Like she had been standing there all along.

The painting stood in a quiet pocket of the gallery, hung on a narrow wall where the light fell softest in the late afternoon. It was slightly smaller than the others, less refined, less confident in its composition, but no less arresting.

A woman sat in profile, her gaze cast downward, a thin smile ghosting her lips as though she had once known joy but hadn’t held it in some time. Her hands were folded gently in her lap, paint-stained fingers barely visible in the folds of a well-worn skirt. The light in the portrait—pale and almost otherworldly—gathered around her hair like a halo.

It was not dramatic.

It was not meant to be.

But it ached.

Y/N had not stood in front of it yet that day. She hadn’t dared.

But now, as Violet Bridgerton looked steadily at the canvas, fan-folded in her gloved hand, Y/N found herself rooted there beside her. She didn't move. She didn’t breathe.

“She’s beautiful,” Violet said, at last, her voice low. Thoughtful. “Though she looks… tired.”

Y/N didn’t answer right away.

Then, softly: “She was.”

Violet turned, just slightly, to glance at her. “May I ask who she was to you?”

Y/N’s eyes didn’t leave the painting. “My mother.”

There was a beat of silence. Violet didn’t fill it.

Y/N exhaled slowly, chest tightening around the shape of words she hadn’t said aloud in years.

“I painted this the year after she died. It was one of the first things I ever finished. Before I had canvases, before I had proper brushes. I used paper and my fingers and whatever pigment I could make from stone or soot. I painted it from memory. I didn’t even have a sketch.”

Violet said nothing. She was listening.

“She used to sit like that in the evenings,” Y/N continued, her voice quiet and low, as though afraid the painting itself might hear her. “After my father came home from court. She was always making something, bread or quilts or trouble. But at night, she’d sit near the fire with her hands like that. Always stained. Always gentle.”

“She was an artist?”

“No,” Y/N said, with a soft smile that didn’t reach her eyes. “Just a mother with more talent than time.”

Another silence passed, heavier this time.

“My father was a lawyer,” she added. “Kind. Fiercely moral. He believed in justice. Enough to put dangerous men behind bars.” Her eyes flicked up to the portrait. “One of them had a brother.”

Violet’s face shifted, almost imperceptibly.

Y/N didn’t look at her. She couldn’t. “They were both killed. My parents. In our home. I was seventeen.”

“Oh,” Violet breathed. “My dear…”

“There were no relatives,” Y/N went on, omitting the uncle who threw her to the street. “No titles. No one to claim me. The magistrate offered me a pound and a place in the workhouse. I ran.”

Violet stood very still.

“I slept under stairs. In cellars. I stole bread. I painted in alleys. I made portraits of lovers for coins. Eventually, someone offered me a wall in the back of a gallery and said I could hang one piece. It sold. And then another.”

Y/N finally turned to look at her.

“And now I’m here.”

Violet’s eyes were damp.

Y/N’s were dry.

“I don’t tell people that story,” she said, softer now. “Not because I’m ashamed. But because they don’t know what to do with it. It makes them… uncomfortable.”

Violet didn’t blink.

“It doesn’t make me uncomfortable,” she said gently. “It makes me proud. For you.”

Y/N blinked hard.

Then, quietly: “I loved them. My parents. Very much. But when they died, no one came for me. I had to save myself. I’ve been doing that ever since.”

“And now,” Violet said, turning her eyes back to the painting, “you’re the one creating places worth arriving at.”

The compliment, so plainly spoken, so generously given, landed somewhere deep in Y/N’s chest.

Neither of them spoke again for a long while.

They simply stood there, side by side, as two women in different silks, from different worlds, stared at the same face and the same past. And somehow, in the quiet space between grief and admiration, something almost like understanding began to grow.

The silence between them deepened, not uncomfortable, but rich, weighted with things unsaid. The portrait loomed softly above them, the brushwork familiar to Y/N in a way nothing else in the room was.

Violet’s eyes lingered on the curve of the woman’s cheek in the painting, the shadow beneath her collarbone, before she spoke again, this time, her voice gentler still, almost musing.

“It’s a strange thing,” she said, “watching someone find something that makes them shine. Watching them become… more than they were. And knowing how hard it is to hold onto it.”

Y/N tilted her head slightly. “You mean… love?”

Violet’s smile was small. Knowing. “Love. Purpose. Possibility. Sometimes they all arrive wearing the same face.”

Y/N said nothing.

“You see,” Violet went on, eyes still fixed ahead, “we prepare our children for all manner of heartbreak. We warn them of cruelty. Of scandal. Of unkindness. But we never quite prepare them for the fear that can come with joy. Real joy. The kind that sneaks in without permission and makes you want things you never dared to want before.”

Y/N’s throat tightened.

“It frightens them,” Violet continued, her voice like silk pulled taut. “The feeling that something so lovely, so unexpected, might be theirs. That they could belong to it, and it to them. And so…” she paused, flicking a glance at Y/N now, direct but not cruel, “some choose to turn away.”

A beat.

Y/N’s heart beat so loudly she was certain Violet could hear it.

“Not because they do not care,” Violet said. “But because it is safer, in their minds, to be alone than to lose something they never believed they could keep.”

She looked back at the painting then, but Y/N felt the weight of her words like a hand on her spine.

“It is a mistake,” Violet added, very quietly. “One I’ve seen more than once.”

The gallery around them moved on. Guests passed, sipped champagne, and whispered behind fans. But for Y/N, the air had stilled.

Because Violet was not speaking about a mistake made in theory. She was speaking of her.

Of what she had done.

Of what she had walked away from.

And though no name was spoken, Y/N could feel him in every syllable. In the space between each pause. In the careful way Violet said joy, and not man. Belonging, and not marriage.

Y/N turned back to the portrait.

But she no longer saw her mother.

She saw him.

The way Benedict had looked at her in the garden. The way he had stood before her, hope and devotion shining in his eyes, offering not a title or a promise of protection, but himself. Entirely. Unflinchingly.

And she—frightened, frantic, unmoored—had told him no.

Not because she hadn’t loved him.

But because she had.

Loved him so much it had terrified her.

She had believed herself unworthy of being loved that way. Believed it would consume her. Change her. Break her.

But perhaps, it would have done the opposite.

Perhaps it would have been the one thing to finally make her feel whole.

Her fingers trembled around her glass.

Violet, still beside her, took a slow breath and murmured, as though to no one in particular, “It is never too late to reconsider what the heart knows before the mind is ready to listen.”

And then she stepped away, graceful as ever, disappearing into the crowd with the ease of someone who had been navigating rooms like this for decades.

Y/N didn’t move.

She simply stood there.

In front of the painting. In front of the echo of her past.

And for the first time in a long time, she wondered what it would feel like, not to survive love…

…but to live in it.

a/n: sorry this took me so long to upload a lot has happened in the last few weeks. for one, I finally got promoted at work to supervisor so that's exciting. I've also decided that I'm going to move to Scotland next year so that's even more exciting!!

[leon-stupid-kennedy]

Resident Evil: The Darkside Chronicles ➳ Archives ➳ Memories of a Lost City ➳ Characters

Leon S. Kennedy

Leon, 4 years ago as a police officer. On his first and only day as a Raccoon City police officer, Leon overslept and wasn't able to leave for work until after sunset. Donning his newly issued armored police uniform he made the drive to Raccoon City. Ironically, oversleeping may have been the best mistake of his life. In Raccoon City, he found the city overrun with the stuff of nightmares. Never one to know fear, Leon makes it his responsibility to do what he can to rescue the remaining survivors in the city.

Claire Redfield

An active college student who loves motor bikes. She is the younger sister of Chris Redfield and is extremely proud of his work as a member of S.T.A.R.S. After Chris took off to Europe, she became worried about her brother's well-being and set off for Raccoon City to investigate. Soon after she arrived, she found herself attacked by hordes of zombies. She has a strong-minded personality, and may seem rash at times, but inside she is tender and laid-back.

Robert Kendo

Perhaps it was because he freely handed out weapons to the remaining citizens, but after the outbreak, there were no good weapons remaining in the shop, and he wasn't able to successfully defend himself with what was left to him. Leon, who had just arrived in Raccoon City, witnessed him being attacked. He tried to save Robert, but was unsuccessful.

Marvin Branagh

The first surviving member of the Raccoon City Police Department Leon S. Kennedy meets.

Up until a few days before, even though the town was under martial law, he had been doing fairly routine work, such as writing a report on a recent heist and preparing for Leon's welcome party.

Ben Bertolucci

A freelance journalist of the highest caliber. Although Ben's quite ambitious and overly concerned about money, he's also willing to risk life and limb to expose injustices. Ben came to Raccoon City after hearing of the various horrible incidents taking place there. In his search to find the truth, he got himself arrested and locked up in the Raccoon City Police Department jail.

After the biological disaster, his jail cell became his refuge. Though he possessed the key to the cell, he decided staying in the cell would be safer than leaving with zombies wandering about outside. He recorded everything he had learned about the incident, and was later attacked and killed by an unidentified creature.

Sherry Birkin

Sherry is the only daughter of the central figure in the G-Virus program, William Birkin. Perhaps because her parents were both obsessed with their work, she seems to have a difficult time interacting with adults. When the biological accident in Raccoon City occurred, she went to the police station for help as instructed by her mother, Annette Birkin. She was forced to run and hide from the multitude of zombie policemen in the station. Though she was in the protective custody of Leon and Claire, they were separated in the basement of the Police Station. There she was attacked by her father, William Birkin, who had mutated into the monster known as G and implanted with an embryo.

Ada Wong

The Asian woman Leon met in the Raccoon City Police Department's underground parking facility. Ada had actually been working undercover at Umbrella as a spy for a rival corporation. Ada, who prior to the incident obtained information about the G-Virus from a researcher at the Arklay Laboratory, received orders to obtain it, and came to the zombie-overrun Raccoon City in search of the virus. In order to get clues, she tried to find Ben Bertolucci, who had been investigating related cases prior to the biological disaster. After Ben's death, she encountered Annette Birkin while tracking her husband William Birkin who by this point had mutated into a single-minded monster. Ada was rescued from that critical situation by Leon, who risked his life to save her. From that moment, her feelings toward Leon changed. Later, Ada risked her own life to help Leon against the unstoppable Tyrant.

Annette Birkin

Annette is the mother of Sherry Birkin and the wife of the man responsible for the creation of the G-Virus, William Birkin. Annette gave birth to their daughter two years before William discovered the G-Virus. Even after becoming a mother, she threw herself back into her research out of love for her husband. Just before the biological disaster spread across the entire city, she contacted her daughter and instructed her to seek shelter at the police station. On her way to meet up with Sherry, she encountered Ada, the woman who was after her husband's G-Virus. Annette also suspected Leon of being a spy due to him protecting Ada, but when she finds out that the mutated William is searching for Sherry, she gives Leon information to help Sherry and resolves to make sure William is stopped.

Files with no gifs to go with them:

Brian Irons

Chief of the Raccoon City Police Department, and the man responcible for the horrific slaughter of his own people. While pretending to be a warm-hearted police officer, concerned first and foremost with the safety of the city, he was actually concerned only with lining his own pockets. For the past five years, Chief Irons had been accepting bribes from the Umbrella Corporation to cover their various illegal activities. During his college years, he was arrested twice for domestic violence against his wife, and ordered to undergo annual psychiatric evaluations, of which he avoided. These underlying psychological issues would come to a head when the incident in Raccoon City occured. All the masks he created for himself over the years fell away and the last shred of his sanity was shattered. He locked down the police station condemning those within to death. He hunted down and killed the mayor's daughter, and in a last act of insanity, he intended to make her into a trophy.

HUNK

Member of Umbrella Special Forces, a private unit under the authority of Umbrella executives.

During the biological calamity in Raccoon City, HUNK, of Alpha Team, was given secret orders by Christina, of the French branch, to infiltrate the underground laboratory along with his teammates and obtain a G-Virus sample from William Birkin by whatever means necessary.

Eventually losing all of his teammates, he managed to single-handedly fend off the G creature that used to be William Birkin, secure the G-Virus, and complete his mission.

William Birkin

William was the discoverer of the G-Virus, and also the one responsible for bringing about its fulfillment.

Once the pride of the Umbrella Corporation, he began to disagree with the company's policies and procedures while he was working on the G-Virus. It was at this time that he contacted the U.S. military to negotiate a deal.

However, although William planned to monopolize the virus for himself, his plan was thrown into disarray by an attack from Umbrella's Special Forces.

Just before his death, he injected himself with the G-Virus, which transformed him into the life form known simply as G.

[chirp-a-chirp]

How Tidy Would the Closets of Court of Darkness Princes Be?*

*If their valets didn’t clean them regularly . Also, what’s hiding in there?

Guy

Very efficient. Lots of hidden storage space. Hidden areas can only be opened with a specialized key—a key that looks like a bookmark to the untrained eye. The key is one that also unlocks Guy’s private villa within the Avari palace.

Hidden areas contain random items collected by his dragon Ertl. Also a number of jewels favored by his mom when she was alive. Even Jasper is unaware of some of these items.

A set of military strategy and star constellation books are lined on a shelf in the back.

Toa

Not a speck of dust to be found

Clothes organized by degrees of formality and shades of blue

Growing up, Toa was used to his closet and room bring randomly inspected for perceived defects—things not in order, too many frivolous items in abundance (no Idina, a book about weasels isn’t a sign of weakness…). As such, he instinctively keeps his closet meticulously clean.

In a corner of the closet is a stash of chocolate. The stash is depleted if he gets in a contentious argument with Guy or if he’s flooded with letters from his father.

Lynt

The entirety of the closet is filled with blankets and pillows. They litter the floor, spill over shelves.

More than once, Lynt has made a nest within his closet, cocooning himself in soft comforting warmth.

And definitely more than once, Tino has searched in a panic for his erstwhile Master, only to hear a light chittering. He opens the closet to find Lynt in a curled position holding his squirrel familiar Phee against his chest.

Ok, there’s more than just blankets and pillows in the closet. There’s also a scattering of wild berries and nuts for Phee to munch on.

Fenn

A strong heady burst of lavender and lilac hits the nostrils when one opens Fenn’s closet. And maybe smoke or alcohol if he spent the evening in town.

Clothes of all varieties are on the closet floor in piles and strung about haphazardly on hooks. Includes clothes from previous romantic encounters. Also includes a few items from Violet (her closet is also overflowing and he offered her some space).

Despite the sheer volume of outfits, Fenn has the remarkable ability to reach into the endless piles of cloth and instantly find the exact article of clothing he wants.

Roy

Crisp white royal suits are arranged in an elegant row on golden hangers. The suits are perfectly lined up, not a crease to be found. They look almost like armor—or like royal straight jackets.

But push the suits aside and there’s a cream and gold armoire. Faded pink and yellow roses are painted on the sides—a memento of Sherry and Roy’s childhood days. The armoire contains various knickknacks—pegasus figurines; fairytales his parent read to him and Sherry growing up; a book of pressed dried flowers from his adventures in Invidia as a boy.

When feeling stressed, Roy pushes the white suits aside and opens the armoire, to give himself a moment to feel like a person again.

Rio

If Saligia has the equivalent of a mini-fridge, it’s in Rio’s closet. Several of them.

Rio’s closet is basically a pantry full of food stuffs, seeds for his garden, pots and shovels. A few plants that thrive on shade are there too that he’s trying to nurse back to health. Multiple swords are there for when he’s in a sparring mood.

Like Fenn, there are piles of clothes throughout the closet. Unlike Fenn, Rio cannot find items quickly. Has been nearly late to class more than once due to not finding a shirt (half the time, the shirt was found balled up in a large flower pot). That said, he does find food items instantly with a giant sniff of his nose.

Lance

His closet is nearly bare. Spartan. Only key essential pieces are there, flung about.

There’s a small mahogany cabinet with scratches on it that contains absinthe and other liquor. A couple of empty bottles on the ground.

On top of the cabinet are a few gnawed tree branches from his wolf companion Grushia on his patrols in the forest. Grushia was so proud of his find that Lance took it back to his room.

Inside the cabinet are several drawings of Lance and a small white-haired boy from Christop. Unlike Lance’s clothes, these drawings are carefully protected in an old cigar box from Professor Hawke with magical locks.

[vermutandherring]

"Robert the Bruce, King of Scotland" is a poem by the Ukrainian writer Lesya Ukrainka, written in 1893. When creating the poem, the writer notes facts that can't be found in the works of other writers (such as Walter Scott or Robert Burns) and somewhat intersperses certain historical facts to give the work a more heroic sound. Thus, highlighting the struggle of the Scottish people for their independence, Lesya Ukrainka draws a parallel with the Ukrainian people, who also suffer from oppression (at that time by the Russian Empire).

And perhaps I would never have paid attention to this work if it were not for the linocut of the Ukrainian graphic artist Heorhiy Malakov. I saw this very work in my childhood at my grandparents' country house. Looking at me from the wall of a half-darkened room, wrapped in the smell of dampness, this knight, unknown to me at the time, frightened me considerably (the glint on the lying glove always reminded me of a blade instead of a finger). It's interesting to watch how our childhood fears dissipate over time.

Night hike. Illustration for W. Scott's novel Quentin Durward, 1972.

Malakov was very fond of the theme of chivalry and piracy, often depicting courtly scenes, feasts, entertainment and various funny skits. He also made illustrations for Giovanni Boccaccio's Decameron, in the characters of which he reflected not only the cheerful mood of the stories themselves, but also his own life-loving nature.

Selling barrel. Based on the Decameron by J. Boccaccio, 1966.

I spent insane amount of time photoshopping cover picture, but the colors are still weird e_e

Game: The Sims 4 CC credits:

Horse: Knight Set by @objuct, reins are photoshopped.

Knight: Chainmail Coif by @simmiev2 | Generic City Guard Armor by @notsooldmadcatlady | Sherri Cape by MSSIMS | Shoulder pads from FF XIV Innocence set by plazasims

P.S. My inner 'designer' died on that cover picture.

[awkward-tension-art]

Catatonia

Leon x gn!reader

Warnings: Trauma, depressive catatonia, crying, hurt/comfort, panic attack, post-raccoon city, Leon needs a hug, reader-insert, gender neutral pronouns but lmk if I slipped up anywhere, reader being supportive and taking care of Leon

Everything I know about catatonia is based on my own research and my undergrad psyc degree, so chances it may not be accurate. Enjoy the sadness!

You had no idea what happened.

Leon was supposed to go to Raccoon City and begin his first day as a cop. He would be ahead of you for a couple of months while you finished your semester. You were supposed to transfer to Raccoon University.

But then Raccoon City collapsed. The president bombed the city and everyone in it. 100,000 souls, wiped off the face of the earth.

For a day you thought you lost your boyfriend. Your grief was overwhelming, assuming he had died. Only to get a call from the military, confirming his survival, along with a little girl named Sherry.

Once you reunited, you brought him back home. Sherry, taken to a hospital for testing and recovery from…some type of infection.

Leon looked like hell. He was covered in grime, sweat and blood. The RPD uniform he wore was ripped and ragged. And his shoulder…filthy bandages were wrapped around his shoulder.

Worse of all, his eyes…his beautiful baby blue eyes were empty. Distant. Traumatized.

He seemed entirely dazed. Confused even. Unaware of his surroundings.

“Come on,” you whispered, leading him from the entrance of your small apartment to your shared bedroom.

Your upstairs neighbors must’ve dropped something, because you heard a muffled thump. Leon, in response, jumped. His hand shot to Matilda, grabbing the gun tightly.

“Leon, it's ok.” You spoke softly, your hand reached for the gun, putting your palm on the top of the barrel, “It’s ok…you're safe.” Matilda was trembling in his grip. He didn’t speak, as you took the pistol from his shaking hands. You clicked the safety, took out the mag and emptied the chamber.

Your eyes roamed his face. Jesus christ, he looked terrified.

Your boyfriend was traumatized. PTSD, you theorized. But without a professional, you couldn’t be certain.

“Come on,” You put Matilda down on the counter and slowly led Leon to your bedroom. Once inside the room, you sat him down on the bed. You didn’t care about the stains on the sheets; they could be washed or replaced.

“Leon.” you knelt, having him look down at you, “I’m gonna remove the…armor, ok?” You weren’t entirely sure what Leon was wearing on his body. Was it some type of specialized riot gear?

You received a small nod.

“Ok…I’m gonna start at the chest.” You had to warn him of everything you did. Any wrong move and Leon might jump. You didn’t want to scare him.

Your hands went to his side. You had to move his arm, which allowed you to lift the velcro. With the sound of the usual tearing, you freed one side. You did the same for the other, being careful of his injured shoulder. Once the armor was open, you slowly and carefully lifted the chestpiece over his head.

Leon was still silent. His eyes were still distant and unseeing.

Your fingers went to his belts. This felt…you were afraid of violating your boyfriend. “I’m gonna get your belt off ok?” You remained kneeling, “Can I, Leon?” Was he even in the right mind to consent to undressing?

He wasn’t speaking, mind entirely somewhere else.

“Ok…Listen, I’m going to get your belt off, then the rest of your clothes, ok?” You explained softly everything you planned to do. “Then, I’m going to turn on the shower, and get you washed up.”

No response either.

You were running out of ideas. Your hands went over his, “Leon…If you understand me, please squeeze my hand.” You hoped and prayed he could do that much at least. Your eyes met his, silently begging him to react to…something.

His fingers twitched. Good.

You smiled ever so slightly, “Alright…Here…” carefully, you put his gloved hand on your shoulder, “If you want me to stop, you squeeze my shoulder, ok?” It was a way for him to communicate without speaking.

Your movements were slow and clear as you removed his belt. It was surprisingly heavy, weighed down by the hip pouches attached to it. Jesus, what did he carry? There was a knife sheath wrapped around his leg. The moment you touched it, Leon’s hand shot to the handle.

“Woah, it's alright.” You pulled back, giving him space, “Leon, it's ok. You're safe.” your tone was quiet and reassuring, “It’s you and me right now. It's just you and me.”

Slowly, his grip loosened and he let the knife go. His eyes stared at you, through you. Your boyfriend wasn’t seeing you anymore.

Carefully, you removed the sheath and its straps. Pulling the other smaller armor pieces off was easy enough. However, your hand grazed his shoulder, causing him to flinch. At first you assumed it was a bruise or type of scratch, yet you were still careful getting his shirt off and peeling off the dirty bandages.

It was worse. Much much worse.

A gunshot. Jagged, circular, and surrounded by dark spidery veins. Your boyfriend had been shot!?

“Oh my god…” You breathed, “Leon…” Checking his shoulder, you realized the bullet had gone through completely. “Has anyone seen you for this? A doctor?”

He didn’t answer you.

“Ok…” You sighed, calming yourself, “I’m gonna turn on the shower.” Your steps were quiet but hurried as you got to the bathroom. Your thoughts were racing as you turned the water on, setting it around the temperature you knew Leon liked.

Your boyfriend had survived something awful in a city that’s been bombed. He’d been shot. Taken in by the military. Returned to you traumatized and quiet.

You returned to his side, kneeling down and looking into his eyes. “Let's get you cleaned up, ok?” The both of you were silent as you got Leon to his feet and to the bathroom. Once inside, you put his hand on your shoulder again as you pulled off his filthy pants and boxers. You did your best to not react to the smell.

Christ. Did he run through a sewer ?

You tried not to ponder, leading your boyfriend into the shower. He grimaced once the warm water began to hit his skin.

This stupor he was trapped in scared you. He most likely wasn’t in control. Was he at least aware of the world around him? You didn’t know enough about catatonia. He needed a professional. A doctor. You’d take him to the ER after the shower.

The water around your feet had turned brown from the grime on Leon’s body. It slipped down the drain in a continuous stream as you grabbed some body wash and began to scrub his skin. Tonight, you’d use your shampoo, conditioner and soft loofah. If your boyfriend was in the right state of mind, he’d deny loving the vanilla and lavender smell you preferred for your soaps. But he wasn’t, and you used them anyway.

You grabbed your shampoo and squeezed out more than the ‘recommended quarter size’. Reaching up, you ran your soapy hand through his hair before scrubbing your fingers into the strands. Leon grimaced again when you began to massage the sweet smelling soap into his hair and scalp.

“I’m sorry, I don't mean to be rough.” You murmured, washing his hair as much as you could. With only one wash, you weren't satisfied. Neither would your boyfriend. You tilted his head back and poured more shampoo directly onto his head. You scrubbed again, being more gentle this time.

One more wash later and you could tell his hair returned to its natural blonde.

Hopefully…

Next battle was his skin. You started at his neck, being as careful as you could as you scrubbed. there was a slight flinch when you touched his neck, causing you to back off. Leaving that area of his body alone, you moved on.

You were as careful as you could be with his shoulders and arms, especially around the bullet wound. Leon grimaced again when you began to clean his hands. His empty eyes stared ahead as you worked to clean under his fingernails.

Thank god you had a nail cleaning kit. It came in handy as you cleaned as much as you could. It felt like you spent a good 10 minutes on each fingernail, removing grime, mud and…blood.

Once done, the bottle of body wash you used was empty. You mentally thanked yourself for picking up a new bottle just a few days before Leon left. Popping the tab open, you got to work on his chest and back.

He’d been stock still the entire shower. Even when you began to wash his legs and feet, he didn’t react. Normally he’d try and pull away, complaining of being ticklish. But tonight? Nothing was causing any sort of reaction.

By the time you felt your boyfriend was clean and the water streaming down the drain was clear, the shower had run cold.

Leon wasn’t even shivering.

“Come on…” Your words were soft as you turned the handle, shutting off the water. “Let’s get you dried and dressed.”

Lean remained unresponsive as you pulled him out. You wrapped a towel around his waist as you took another and began to dry his face and hair. From there, you dried the rest of his body. The towels were blessedly clean and unstained when you pulled them off. Good, you managed to get off all of the unknown gunk that had clung to his form an hour ago.

“Leon,” He was entirely lost to you. You weren’t even sure if he could hear you, “I don’t know what happened, but I’m here for you, ok?” Gently, you stroked his cheek, looking into his unfocused and dazed eyes.

Catatonia. Completely.

Once you managed to get him dressed, you got him sitting on the couch to rest a bit more. You stripped the comforter off the bed and threw it into the washer along with the towels. They’d run while you take your boyfriend to the ER.

It was late now. A little past 3AM by the time you got in. The intake nurse was kind and understanding, taking you and your boyfriend to a bed after a 30 minute wait.

Honestly, the ER was a blur. You held his hand while he sat on the bed. Some tests were run. You were asked questions. his bullet wound was tended to properly. You signed some paperwork, and by 4:45 in the morning, Leon was confirmed to be in a depressive catatonic state and treated with lorazepam.

An hour later you were sent home with a prescription once the IV was finished.

Once inside, you led him back to your bathroom to wash his face and prepare for bed. He needed sleep. You did too.

But a part of you wanted to remain awake in case he needed something. Leon’s stupor was terrifying. What if the treatment didn’t work? The doctor mentioned ECT…

No . it was too early. It had only been a few hours since he was given the medication.

You got your boyfriend to lay down. He was on his side as you knelt next to him, knees on the carpet next to the bed. Your hand pet his hair, trying to give some sort of comfort to him. “Leon…” You whispered, “I don’t know if you can hear me, but…I'm right here.” You sounded like a broken record at this point, “I love you and I’m gonna stay right here to help you.”

At some point, when you noticed the sun coming up, you joined Leon on the bed. Your arms wrapped around him, his back to your chest, holding his hands in your own. You drifted off, somewhere between awake and asleep. You don’t know how long you remained like that.

A strangled cry rammed you out of your state. You sat up, looking around in a panicked rush. Your eyes landed on your boyfriend, sitting against the wall, gripping his hair. He was hyperventilating, letting out a choked sob. His blue eyes were wide, staring at nothing.

“Leon! Leon, it's alright.” You shot out to him, kneeling in front of his face, “Shhh, look at me, ok? It's ok. Everything is alright, Leon.” You didn’t want to scare him or panic him, but all you wanted to do was hold him.

He sobbed, closing in on himself and shutting down.

Shit. Shit!

“Leon, Leon, please…” Your words were failing. He wasn’t hearing you. Not entirely, “Leon shhh, you're safe. It's over. You’re home.”

Stupidly, you took a chance. Very, very slowly, you raised one hand to his cheek. Something clicked in his mind feeling your touch. His terrified eyes flicked up to you. It took a few moments for him to fully register that it was you in front of him.

His lips trembled. You barely made out your name in his quiet and cracked voice.

“Can I hold you?” you asked tenderly. his consent mattered. He was extremely vulnerable. You refused to add to his fear and panic.

Your boyfriend nodded slowly.

In response, you adjusted your position and wrapped your arms around him. “Shhhh…” you hushed Leon as his shoulders shook with more weeping, “Shhhh, it's alright. It's alright…” You unconsciously began to rock back and forth slightly.

You didn’t know what Leon had survived. You didn’t know what he went through. But dammit …as you heard his cries and sobs, you swore you’d be there to help him through the aftermath.

[moltensmusings]

Things I've noticed with fairy tail merch that send me into a spiral:

Juvia having almost no merch that doesn't sexualize her.

Also juvia having barely any merch, fan or official, that doesn't include gray

Levy having no official merch, and largely only ship content for fan merch.

Side characters with much less screen time then levy getting merch over her (sherry and angel get put in the blind bags but not my girl?!)

So much AI art clogging the space. Can we not? It's so incredibly obvious and it's ugly.

A big lack of merch for Erza's various armors

Lucy having better luck with merch that isn't just fanservice, but still not by much.

Good luck finding any merch for lesser loved guild characters, even in the fan content.

I'm not going to sit here and get mad at fanartists for not making content I want. At this point I've decided I'll make the merch I want from the fandom myself. But I am just frustrated with how hard it is to find non-ship merch anywhere.

Juvia gets merch sure, but trying to find any of her as a character that isn't weird is like a needle in a haystack. And even in fan spaces you could see a solo juvia thing, but somehow an image of gray still gets slipped in.

Levy is fully neglected as a character in official content. She's just an accessory to Gajeel both in the canon of the show and most merch, and it drives me crazy.

[possessionisamyth]

Speaking of Redfields, I'm thinking of Claire again and I just kind of had to pause because 19?!!??? 19???!!?? She was doing this shit at 19!!!! I remember what I was doing at 19 and it was either boring as shit or fighting for my life against my internal demons. Chris and Barry taught her self defense and how to use guns, but I don't think that extended to heavy weaponry where the recoil is enough to shatter clavicle bones even if professionals slightly mishandle them?????? I'm going insane. I'm going insane!!! I'm crazy!!! The sheer power this girl wields to navigate a zombie infested city, save a child, and kill the big mutating creature at the end by herself?????? AT 19!!!!!! 19!!!!!!! And the compassion and kindness she shows regardless of how desperate the situation gets? How she extends that kindness to Annette so she can say goodbye to Sherry? How she doesn't get frustrated at Steve for being annoying as hell and also for hesitating to shoot the zombie trying to kill her because that was legit his father. How in one game she gets the win, and gets to save someone, but in the next she has to deal with the loss and the knowledge her brother's company is fleeting? This 19 year old Fresh University student.

Does anyone understand how impressive this is? Does anyone get it? Does anyone understand why they made Code Veronica right after RE2 where this girl tracked down her brother's last location, took some of her college money to buy a plane ticket, flew to France, infiltrated an Umbrella facility, and her infiltration was treated so seriously they sent multiple groups of armed guards to apprehend her up to sending a helicopter to shoot through the windows of their own building. They had to send multiple groups of armed guards. More than one group! They needed guns to get her! THEY PUT THE GUARDS IN BODY ARMOR. SHE'S 19!!!! Claire should be the main character!!! I'm so mad they strapped her behind a computer screen!! I'M CRAZY!!!! CRAZY!!!!!

[ac-art-and-stuff]

What if I just... Team ROMA redesigns? Yeah. Team ROMA redesigns \^.^/

We startin' out with Rory "Ro" Ozul-Pyronia!

She's rocking some sweet new fingerless gloves, a new corset (which doubles as armor), a thigh pack, and her thigh knife (thife?) has migrated to the other side. She's also got more 'bat-like' ears and a bit of a haircut! Plus, she's got some sick new boots with red laces (kinda like Ruby's V1 boots but Rory's are brown rather than black)

Next is Obi-Taupe Sirus! (previously Oh-Taupe)

They've got a name change with their redesign! And I've decided to go full ham and drop the 'He' from their previous They/He pronouns so now they go by They/Them :D Their boots now go to their thighs, and now they've got stilettos rather than a chunky heel. If Cinder Fall can fight in glass heels, and Weiss can fight in heels (to the point of Ruby making a comment about it), my blorbo can fight in three inch stilettos!

Next we've got Sheldon "Sherry" Meral Murex!

He's still tired, and now he's got the anime 'dead mom' hairstyle! His prosthetic arm and leg have migrated to the other side, and I gave him half of his other hand back (so now he's just got two prosthetic fingers). He now has an elbow pad, spikes around his neck, and I got rid of his brown shoes! And the alt has his lab coat, his hairclip, and his prosthetic eye!

And lastly, here's Arnulf "Artie" Brun!

(Lovingly) Whore :) He's still got his chest out, even though I closed up the top of his... crop-top sleeve things. I chucked out the dark blue in his design and recolored the white to be more brown tinted. But, he's still got that bandanna around his leg :D

[whogirl2011]

Chapter Name Game

Rules: Post a list of chapter names in as many fics as you'd like. WIP, completed stories, unwritten chapters, whatever, it doesn't matter! Tag people or just whoever sees the post and wants to play! Send an ask and the author will tell you about the chapter, how they arrived at the name, some behind the pages details, maybe even a snippet or all of the above. (If you want, you can even tag as many people as you have chapters, but that's completely optional.)

Thanks to @louwhose for the tag!

I know this is from ages ago but i've been so busy with life and sewing for convention prep that i hadn't had much time to sit at a computer and just TYPE. I will also add some one shots to the mix that are near completion (or not) so you can ask about those too!

Dwight In Shining armor

Start again

The memory gap

The dragon and the dog

The non-date

The alabaster root

Light years away

The Carnival

Thunder, lightning, and travelling pants

Dance with somebody

Hearsay and swordplay

The cancelled date with sugar on top

Gretta's picnic date

School, smoothies, and spotaneity

Bowling and boyfriends

Bending rules and breaking customs

Knights and nightmares

The library date

Date planning and domestics

Fireworks and espionage (wip chapter that is 85 % done)

One shots:

Lost and found (the road trip)

Coward (short angsty scene)

WIP:

The wedding

A sprig of moondragon cheer (part of Start again)

Prom (prompt for smooch week involving crown i want to intigrate into start again)

The bodyguard AU

Love potion number 10 (part of Start again or may be a stand alone)

Covering all bases (M rated)

Resident evil:

A fine line : a jake and sherry one shot (WIP)

Stranger things:

Heart worth breaking (eddie munson x character / reader ) (WIP)

tagging @coruscantiprincess @xqueenybee @psychicbluebirdmiracle @precariousrelic for now, but anyone else seeing this can join in and tag me so i see it <3

[cyberdragoninfinity]

so in case anyone was curious, this illustration is largely based on several stained glass portraits of St. Michael the Archangel slaying Lucifer (in kickass dragon form,) but especially this one (a 19th century window from Calvados, France)

A.) i Love angels in stained glass especially when the colors go crazy, this isnt the first time I've invoked them with art of Aporia and the Three Nobles, but more important B.) one day I will go off more about Aporia's angel symbolism in general but for now I gotta talk about Primo's, I gotta.

His Archangel Michael parallels make my brain spin around So fast--the Nobels are definitely supposed to effectively be robotic angels, messengers of the Apocalypse and God's (Z-one's) plan to fix the future. Primo sees himself as a loyal extension of Z-one's will, an agent of vicious justice, the 'commander' of his Ghost army. He's the android gijinka of Aporia's young adult war trauma. He's uhhh technically not alive! Meanwhile, Michael the angel is the leader of God's holy army, a military commander... and in Catholicism he's also the patron saint of death and soldiers. :^) (and. cops. cringe.) (though the Three Nobles were the heads of Sector Security for a While, huh.....) (it goes so deep it doesnt stop)

And there's the sword, of course, Michael is The angel most often depicted with a sword (sometimes a 'normal' blade, sometimes on fire, sometimes it's a spear, etc etc,) it's a spiritual weapon associated with him, created by God. And oh hey Primo what's that you got there....

Haha Ok Cool Man 👍 Sick Godsword

In the Bible it's Michael who leads the charge against Lucifer and his army of fallen angels in the battle of heaven and hell, and it's very specifically mentioned Lucifer takes on the form of a dragon during this epic clash. *the dog is, in fact, taking out the Book of Revelations*

so DEEPEST APOLOGIES TO STARDUST MY FRIEND STARDUST DRAGON for making her representative of the Literal Devil in that illustration; though, from Iliaster's point of view, perhaps of course Stardust WOULD be their draconic devil stand-in, the ace monster of Yusei, the dominant roadblock to their plans, the (you could perhaps argue) counterpart of their God's image. To Primo especially he has it Aggressively out for Stardust throughout his entire psychological obsession with Yusei. He Wants to Slay That Dragon So Bad, He Wants It as a Trophy On His Wall.

Michael also gets described and depicted very knight like in religious art and discussions, he is frequently armored; Primo also has a lot of knightly vibes imo, design and narrative wise. (And of course so does Sherry...interestingly, Sherry actually ALSO has a lot of parallels with St. Michael, including the fact she takes part in the fight against Primo's duel bot army (y'know...the Diablo :^) and a lot of her Joan of Arc invocations as a character) (that's a story for another post though) (Trey from Zexal ALSO has St. Michael parallels too imo) (but again, that's it's whole other post.) (yugioh LOVES religious symbolism like a bear loves salmon.)

it's just a very neat motif weaved throughout Primo's character!! His attitude is notoriously pretty shitty and difficult to put up with, but at his core he seems himself as a defender of sorts. God's sword. This is the path that will save the future. Tangentially, take this Alleluia verse about St. Michael:

"dreadful judgement," huh? Like... a Judgement Day? A world in peril and needing saving? Wonder who else has something to say about that and is very tunnel-vision obsessed with the notion of being the one alone to grant this safeguard...

ah :)

[kathexoo]

The Follower

[verse]

fiendish smile and captivating hits

a dangerous game that never sits (sits)

symphony of shadows, where no one quits

a heart of gold, but with wicked wits (wits)

[verse]

looks like you have been hiding for years

a mystery untold, a life of fears

and now it's nobody’s fault but yours

obsession feeling with your Sherry shocks (shocks)

[verse]

i told ya im getting..calmer and calmer

but it’s like fighting blindfolded in armor

you will never understand me again

because it’s kinda hard for me to explain

and i know those words can be unusual for you

though they’re true

[chorus]

hit me with your knowledge

im listening

eager to follow

just spill the tea

and let me be your follower

[verse]

wonder if you could make out my words

my thought

my chords

giving hope breaks you down

you’re walking a tightrope

up and down

and if you ask me i will tell

a direful truth you must face well

[chorus]

hit me with your knowledge

im listening

eager to follow

just spill the tea

and let me be your follower

[sapphire-weapon]

jesus christ that makes everything about him so much fucking sadder omfg

Him being so depressed and isolated from Sherry was already tragic but if its because of a choice HE MADE????? IF HE ACTIVELY DECIDED TO GIVE IT UP???? no wonder he drinks like that omf

(also I'm playing re5 for the first time with my brothers rn and its so bad LOL both the game itself and trying to keep them on track. i am carrying this team istfg)

god seriously RE5 sucks to go back to. there's so many little things that show its age. every few minutes me and @godtier found some new annoyance and just went "THIS GAME DOESN'T NEED A REMAKE THO"

+ moving is clunky and feels like shit + game is more action-oriented than RE4 but gives you a far more limited inventory space + body armor takes up an inventory space + can't trade guns back and forth with your partner + game is absurdly unclear about your mission objective or what you're meant to be doing at any given point + bosses are gimmicky and not skill-based + enemy encounter rate is very weirdly staggered as a tech limitation of the 360/PS3 + level design is a lot of long corridors + environment design is very samey, and the lack of dialogue between characters makes the game feel devoid of personality + rips encounters/ideas directly from RE4 but does them worse

but this game doesn't need a remake tho

[gizmocrate-werecrow]

What to do when you are a leafling: soft music and care

(I wanted to do a chapter exploring Sherry. Warning for implied death and a general sense of melancholy.)

Sherry floated over to Yonny and tapped his hand, he weakly opened his eyes and smiled.

“I-I-I guess it also affects me…”

Sherry nodded and turned to Dingo and Bernard.

“Bernard, help him up, I can bring him to our hideaway but promise to be down there straight away.” Sherry said she grabbed Yonny and they both teleported in a wisp of green light.

“Gah, this is so confusing.” Dingo said. He grabbed Bernard’s hand and they walked to the cave entrance.

“I agree. I sure hope he’s okay.” Bernard said, he tugged his stem and the ground shook.

A group of armored cannon larvae emerged from the ground.

Dingo, Bernard and Jack steadied their ground. This was going to take a while, especially with their sleep-deprived minds.

—

Down in the hideaway, Yonny was resting in a sleeping bag while Sherry tended to him, she placed an ice pack on his forehead and a thermometer in his mouth, she now wore a folded face mask over her stem.

“…”

“It’s going to be okay, as long as you’re down here nothing bad will happen. Don’t worry, your friends are coming.” Sherry said while lightly dabbing some antiseptic on Yonny’s stem.

“Th-thank you.” Yonny weakly said. He coughed and felt out the hole in his suit. He plucked the thermometer out and looked at the temperature.

“21 degrees Celsius or 70 degrees Fahrenheit core body temperature…oh no.”

“Is that bad? Did I make the ice pack too cold or something?” Sherry fretted while lifting the ice pack off.

“No no, the average core body temperature is around 36 degrees Celsius or 98.6 degrees fahrenheit, as you get lower, your bodily functions start to fail and eventually die.”

“How do you know all of this?”

“Medical school and an internship at a mortician’s”

“What’s a school? What’s a mortician?” Sherry asked, she tilted her head in an inquisitive manner.

“I will answer that later, my dear assistant. Firstly I need to go outside-“

“No! You need to rest! The sun is dangerous and you’ve been up all night!”

“So I have” Yonny yawned out, he streached and stared at his hands for a moment before laying to sleep.

Sherry let out a ghostly sigh and floated around the doctor diligently much like a guard dog would, no harm would come to Yonny as long as she was around!

An hour passed and Sherry was digging through his emergency kit, looking at all the fun trinkets that seemed to reside in there, pure white camouflaging wrap, a sticky on one side and not sticky on another strip, funny little clicky things and a small box. Sherry tilted her head and gently opened it.

The most beautiful sound came from the box, it sounded sweet yet sad. Sherry floated a little closer, noticing words engraved inside the box.

“Good luck in the rescue corps! From…i can’t read that” Sherry said, she closed the box and gently put it back into the emergency kit, same with all the other fun trinkets that Yonny kept in it.

“One day I’ll learn enough of his writing to understand, but today is a day of rest.” Sherry said. She sat on the kit and closed her eyes.

There she was, facing the horrific mixture of a beady long legs and machine, she didn’t need to worry! Papa will keep everyone safe! She, alongside the others were tossed on the monstrosity’s orb, it let out a metallic scream and shook them off, the monster’s stick pivoted and moved, whistling echoed in her ears and then…

Bang

Sherry opened her eyes to a loud bang, she froze up and curled into a ball, if she could cry like she once could, she would.

Dingo was carrying Bernard and Jack on his back, he was out of breath and had clear bags under his eyes despite the leaves, he huffed and puffed and laid Bernard down.

“Is he okay?” Sherry asked, the nightmare disappearing from her mind.

“Well it’s a pretty long story, it all started when some armored cannon larve attacked us.”

(Don’t worry, Dingos side is a whole other chapter)

[open-hearth-rpg]

Open Hearth Video Roundup - November 3, 2023

Welcome to the weekly Open Hearth Gaming video roundup!

These recorded sessions represent only a portion of the games we play every week, and anyone is welcome to join the fun! If you'd like to play in games like these, join our Playabl community and click on the "Calendar" tab to sign up for upcoming games. To browse our entire library of session videos, please visit our YouTube Playlists page.

Open Hearth Gaming Calendar

Eotenweard: Northumbria (Session 4) Alun R. runs for José Feito, Paul Rivers, Sabine V., and Will H After last session's successful Revelation and resulting cliffhanger...we see the climactic battle to free the people of Brangarw from the influence of their malevolent priest, and conspiring leaders. There are competing claims of heresy, multiple pleas for aid from the Christ God, and a surprising response from...elsewhere. Then...despite both edging closer to death Solinus saves the innocent and Cadoc levels his lance in the name of Christ; Black Jell catches a villain...and let's him go; and Fynn confronts one of the Black Dogs of Annwn. Finally, back on the road following the path their god(s) decree for them, Solinus decides he needs a greater understanding of the power he serves...

Delta Green: Impossible Landscapes (Session 12) Shane runs for Blake Ryan, Mark (he/they), and Puckett The agents approach a demon for help finding the mysterious Hotel Broadalbin, but the route he suggests is bizarre, dangerous, and oddly connected to one of the agents' pasts.

Girl By Moonlight: Divine Engines (Session 3) Lowell Francis runs for Ethan Harvey, Patrick Knowles, Sherri, and Tyler Lominack The battle against the fallen cathedral world Leviathan is successful but takes its toll on the team. They return to the ship to regroup and try to rebuild themselves as a team. But the Bastion's jump to escape pursuit leads them to a star system Tav recognizes from the future--the site of Sia's death and his original time jump.

Girl By Moonlight: Divine Engines (Session 4) Lowell Francis runs for Ethan Harvey, Patrick Knowles, Sherri, and Tyler Lominack The team launches out to explore the mysteries of Tyrfing III, requiring them to disembark from the Engines to explore this silenced colony. After facing down and nearly being destroyed by mechanical guardians, the group comes face to face with the force which destroyed this world-- a face Tav recognizes as his own.

Free from the Shadow: Samurai Fantasy (Session 3) Lowell Francis runs for Cale P, Elle, Mike Minutillo, and Sherri We see the machinations of the clans go in various directions which seems to signal disaster. But progress on the Imperial project continues. With the aid of the Imperial Herald, the protagonists head to the site of an ancient duel in orders to uncover secrets. But they find a horde of undead and a more powerful being which lies dying belowground.

Hearts of Yokai (Session 2) Lowell Francis runs for Anders, Donogh, Matthew Doughty, and Sabine V. Mirage delivers her gift with unexpected results, Path and Scale have a moment or two of miscommunication, Lord Bloom deals with the location scouts and executes a party.

Hearts of Yokai (Session 3) Lowell Francis runs for Agatha, Anders, Donogh, and Sabine V. In the aftermath of Lord Bloom's party, Squeaktune returns. There's a moment of confession from Scale to Mirage, which sends Squeaktune scurrying away. Preparations for the ball celebrating the turn to the Court of Tides are interrupted by a flying dream sword--the pursuit of which leaves Mirage bleeding in the street.

MCU Sunday

Demigods (Session 3) Rich Rogers runs for Alex, Cody Eastlick, and Steven Watkins The new Warriors Three defeat Adam Mann and seek out the power behind the Mysticator Armor!