#✮ - CHARACTER STUDY (CHARLOTTE)

[ophliee]

I couldn’t let my girl Charlie freezing in these cold days, so some autumn outfits for her

[chenziee]

I find it very fascinating that Streusen watched Linlin, exactly 6 years old, cannibalise a whole group of people in a food-induced trance, and immediately decided the smartest thing to do is to take that kid and have her follow him around everywhere.

[kabuunderscore]

Had this on my mind whilst I was revisiting the Whole Cake arc and reading up on the wiki on the Charlotte family- (may correct myself the more of it I watch since I'm still only up to the cracker fight right now) Also bit of a TW because I make a few touchy sort of theories, as well as SPOILERS!!!

Since Perospero is the eldest child son, it makes me wonder if he had to sacrifice alot of his childhood taking care of his other siblings? None of the Charlottes grew up with a father figure since Linlin basically dumps each one of her husbands once she gives birth to a new kid, and with the ever growing family there's definitely not much love and personal attention being shared around, so I wouldn't be surprised if Peros felt to take up that role at times?

The thought was born when I read on the wiki how Peros was good with kids, probably comes second nature to him with- once again, being the eldest child.

Right now, Pound is the only confirmed ex-husband of Linlin (I hope we get to meet more in the future, that'd be cool) and those brief interactions between Cracker, Brulee and him keep making me THINK like... It's so sad how much Pound still wants to be part of the family, even to the other children who he's not even related to by blood (adressing Cracker with a cutesy honorific "Cracker-kun", getting excited when at the idea that Linlin may still want something to do with him) Like brother STAYED ON THE ISLAND even after being forbidden from seeing his kids and apparently kept up with the Charlotte family affairs obviously- people don't give the guy the credit he deserves as a dad

Cracker seems to have inherited the whole hatred for father figures/only blood relatives having value mindset from Big Mom, but BRULEE accidentally slips up and calls Pound 'stepdad', which COMPLETELY caught me off gaurd. That read to me like she might have yearned for a father figure of some sort throughout her life? It definitely felt that way.

One thing I found super unnerving was during one of Linlin's hunger pangs in which she kills Moscato in a blind rage, when Jimbe finally calms her down (by the way, whatever happened to the croquembouche the chefs were making at the time as well? I hope it didn't go to waste) When Linlin comes back to herself, Jimbe doesn't attempt to explain what she'd just done- killed her own son.

Her hunger pangs are obviously a reoccuring incident, does nobody tell her about what she'd done when she comes out of it? Is it all swept under the rug each time?? There's obviously a reason why they let her stay unaware- probably to protect her from spiraling?

I'm instantly reminded of when she ate all her friends and mother Caramel at her birthday party. If she were to remember all the things she'd done during a hunger pang, she'd probably shut down or have a breakdown of some kind.

I can't help but feel bad for Linlin sometimes with her almost childish view on alot of things, like her skewed view on what a family should be (which is definitely due to her being basically groomed into becoming a pirate... A dark take but from what I've seen, as well as mother Caramel lowkey trafficking her can you blame me) or how Caesar thinks of her 'dream' as being impossible. She reallly does feel like a confused little girl who wants her mom sometimes.

This is all over the place but I needed to get this off my chest because I've been cooking for DAYS I keep thinking of the funny pirate anime

[immobiliter]

SONGS THAT I ASSOCIATE WITH MY MUSES

list 10 songs that you associate with your muse(s)

01. dancing on my own. robyn 02. venus. bananarama 03. can't speak french. girls aloud 04. the shoop shoop song. cher 05. praise you. fatboy slim 06. the loco-motion. kylie minogue 07. if u seek amy. britney spears 08. stop. spice girls 09. c'est la vie. b*witched 10. physical. olivia newton-john

01. love train. the o'jays 02. love really hurts without you. billy ocean 03. L-O-V-E. nat king cole 04. rock the boat. hues corporation 05. kiss. prince 06. sexual healing. marvin gaye 07. do you love me. the contours 08. save a prayer. duran duran 09. take care of business. nina simone 10. what is love. haddaway

01. bedroom hymns. florence and the machine 02. fucked my way up to the top. lana del ray 03. mayday. soho dolls 04. trouble. valerie broussard 05. that don't impress me much. shania twain 06. filthy/gorgeous. scissor sisters 07. cross my heart i hope u die. meg smith 08. devil's worst nightmare. fjøra 09. money. rael jones 10. savages. marina

01. to be brave. bryde 02. just a girl. florence and the machine 03. take us back. alena diane 04. she's a rainbow. the rolling stones 05. never my love. the association 06. here comes the sun. the beatles 07. wildflower and barley. hozier 08. daydream believer. the monkees 09. run. delta rae 10. all the king's horses. karmina

TAGGED BY: @villainmade <3 TAGGING : @anquenin, @sunscess, @wolfbluff & you reading this. yes you <3

[willryist]

☆ PSALM 34:18 ☆

“The LORD is close to the brokenhearted and rescues those who are crushed in spirit.”

WARNING: Suicide, Suicidal Ideation, Assisted Suicide

AO3 Post

PAIRING: Henry Emily & Charlie Emily

3,462 Words

“Daddy?” A voice echoes through the. . . honestly depressing, barren excuse of a workshop. Nothing as it was before, but then again, nothing in my life has been. No, not since that day. I can't find the energy within me to turn my head to face my. . . daughter. Should I call her my daughter? I fear that would be continuing to feed my disconcerting delusions. I'm not quite sure I even have the confidence to look her in the eye. All those eyes do is reflect my own grief. I cannot bear to stare into my own depression any longer. Those eyes. Eyes I made with my own hands. Charlotte—no, not Charlotte, the robot I crafted in the image of Charlotte—staring at me with those lifeless eyes. I can't look at those again. I can no longer take it, not once more.

Gently tugging at my brown canvas pants, Charlotte looks expectantly to me. I look back, as revolted as the action makes me. “Can you take me to the park, daddy? I know you've been busy with your work, but I miss going to the park with you.” She—it? No, that's too dehumanizing, even for her. She was made in the image of my daughter, after all. I shan't disrespect my Charlotte. This robot didn't ask for my own baggage, did she? No matter.

I debate her question. I have been nothing short of neglectful, haven't I? A pang of guilt surges through me. We used to spend time often, no matter the occasion. A warmth akin to a content winter afternoon in front of a crackling fire, slowly sipping on a hot chocolate came to me in every action. Even through moments where I’d been too delved in my work to acknowledge her existence, her presence kept that nostalgic warmth alive within me. Seeing her cheerful face playing with her toys on my workshop’s floor infected my heart with love.

Now, I cannot stand her presence in a room. In fact, I'm not sure if I've spent more than twenty minutes with her before I couldn't stand it any longer. Sometimes I'm convinced she sucks the energy out of me when I draw near. Though she isn't doing so physically, my brain is shriveled and dried. When I look at her, I see nothing but what could have been, and what was taken from me. I've tried to push myself back into the delusion—it would have been easier. So, so much easier. However, every day I continue to be reminded more and more of the elaborate lie I've built for myself. I am too far gone to be brought back up, yet I have no will to draw out this lie.

I suppose I owe this last trip to the park to Charlotte, especially to make up for what is planned for today. “Of course, sweet cakes. We'll go to the park.” The smile I attempt to force is nigh impossible to give her.

Her excitement that would normally bring a smile—a real one—to my face, causes a suppressed frown. I can't seem to find joy in something I programmed her to do. “Get some shoes on, I'll go grab my keys.” I gently drift my hand around her scalp, her hair flowing around my fingers. Artificial hair, like the ones on those dolls she’d play with.

Charlotte swats my hand off of her head with a giggle, and runs out of the workshop. I'm almost—no, not almost. I'm definitely, without a shadow of a doubt, relieved to be alone. My hand reaches to rub my neck, it glides along the skin with ease, sweat wetting my skin enough to be a waterslide. I doubt I have the willpower to make it through today, not with how I acted just then.

Despite myself, I exit the workshop and into the main house where I see Charlotte pulling at the velcro straps on her Kinney sneakers. From what I can remember, those shoes don't fit her at all anymore. She has to fold her toes to fit into them. I've bought her new ones, though she still insists on those, and I've lost the energy to fight over it. I find my keys sitting on the side table next to the door. “Ready, pumpkin?”

“Yep!” Her shrill voice rang through the house. She stood on her feet, and I could hear the slightest wince slip from her throat. I fight the urge to shake my head in disapproval at her stubbornness. Such trivial things won't matter soon anyhow.

When I turn the door knob, Charlotte is already to my truck before I can get a foot out of the house. She repeatedly jerks the passenger side handle, a silent way to say “Hurry it up!”

Reaching and unlocking the driver’s side door, and then the passenger’s, I take a seat on the brown leather bench seat within the truck, then hold a hand out to Charlotte when she almost slips and falls on her ascension into the Chevrolet. “Careful, sweetie.”

“Not my fault your truck is so high up!”

Not quite as cute as it used to be. “Be sure to buckle-up, dear.”

“I know, Daddy.” While I don’t see her pull the seat belt over herself, the clicking noise assures me of her compliance. I bring my own seat belt over my body. I put pressure on the brake and insert the key’s car into the ignition switch. Turning the key twice to start the car, the engine whirs in response. Releasing the brake, I pull out of the driveway. “You ready to drive this thing yet?” Not that I would be there to see it. Perhaps this drive would be better if I keep my mouth shut.

“No! Driving is scary. Carlton told me about his dad being the lead on a case of a hit-and-run that killed somebody! I don’t wanna drive something that will kill other people.”

Driving into a tractor-trailer may be an easier way of doing this. At least Jenny won’t be faced with the embarrassment of a brother who killed himself in the manner a coward would, though everyone already knows me for one. “Well, you have a good eight years before you’re driving. You’ll get the hang of it, I’m sure. You’ll probably be learning in this very truck.”

“Nuh-uh! Not in a bajillion years.”

The car falls silent. All that remains is the engine’s low purring and the horrid screeching of the brakes. When was the last time I changed the brake pads? Or the oil? God, I’m not sure I’ve stepped foot in this thing in a while. To be fair, I only ever used it to go to Freddy’s and back with the occasional trip to the grocery store, or Charlotte’s school every so often. I’ve really ignored every aspect of social life since the incident. Then again, life hasn’t had much meaning since then.

Cruising down the familiar path towards the park continued my mind wandering. I never took the real Charlotte to this playground. All the fond memories there were all my own mechanical prowess and delusions in a dreadful conglomeration. My face scrunches in on itself thinking of the way parents looked at me with pity and disgust as they watched me push that doll that I convinced myself was my daughter on the swings. No wonder the whole town is convinced I was the murderer of those poor children, I’ve already proven I’m nigh insane.

“Daddy!” Small hands grip my right arm and shake it fiercely. “You’re gonna hit the tree!”

Jostled out of my head-in-the-clouds state, I slam my foot on the brake on instinct. Fully coming to my senses after a few moments, I see the large tree trunk in front of the truck, maybe a half-inch away from the grille. “Jesus pumpkin, I’m sorry. My mind just. . .flew off, I guess.” I put the truck in reverse and slowly pulled back into a parking spot, jolting upward as the wheels fall from the curb.

Charlotte leaps out of the truck before I can even put it in park. I follow reluctantly. Weights must have been placed within my shoes, for I slog as if I were walking through mud. More realistically, these “weights” were brought upon by my own mind’s resistance. A waterfall of memories flow directly into my mind, meandering through the lobes of my brain while a heavy storm rages on. This is the last place I would have chosen to go. What did David Wojnarowicz say? “Hell is a place on Earth. Heaven is a place in your head,” I believe. I fear he was right, at least in my case. However my Heaven has been one built off agony, sorrow, and delusions. Now that I have rid myself of the delusion, I see that it is really just a second Hell I have forged for myself.

Charlotte skips through the playground and to the swings cheerfully, unaware of the mental ball and chain I drag. “Could you push me on the swings? Please?”

“. . .Sure. Sure, dear.”

Charlotte springs onto the swing’s seat, waiting for me with enraptured delight. I plodded my way around to stand behind her, pushing her back lightly to hoist her into the air, and repeating the act when gravity tugs her to the ground. I just have to get through this. It will only be a few hours. Only. I am not sure if I can hold out that long.

The rest of the park visit was an obfuscated amalgam of short snippets of memory. I had functioned on “autopilot,” for lack of a better word. From what I gathered with the little I was conscious of, there was not much to be missed. Swings, seesaw, slide, merry-go-round, repeat. We have made our. . . fifth? Trip to the swings, and my wrists begin to ache from repetition. You know, perhaps I had been nutty, but at least I still found it in me to enjoy the park. I know I cannot say the same now.

While I shove Charlotte into the air, I catch a glimpse of my watch. Five-twenty-six. At that moment, I freeze. I can see Charlotte turning to look at me with a puzzled expression in my peripheral vision. “We have to get back home. It’s, uh, getting late.”

A frown pulls at Charlotte’s face. “Five more minutes? Pleaseee?”

Why must you make this more difficult than need be? “Sorry, sweets. Sun’s gonna be going down soon. Let’s get back to the truck.” She slides off the swing with her head hung low. “Oh, don’t be like that. I can take you tomorrow. I can even call that John boy’s parents and set up a playdate.”

“Really?”

“Really.” With the lie I told to this poor girl came a scorching fire that burned my heart from the inside out, engulfing my insides with flames that could rival even the strongest forest fires. As hard as I try, I can never completely view this child as one who is not my daughter. I am well aware that she is not, and that I have believed such for way, way too long. However, when you convince yourself of the opposite for seven years, it is hellish to bring yourself out of that thinking.

We walk to the truck and get situated in our seats inside. This time there is no need for any reminders of seat belts, as I can hear the faint clicking of the seat belt into the buckle.

During the entire ride home I could not stop myself from taking glances at my watch at every chance I had. I watched the minutes change fearfully, the pit in my stomach that began to fester back at the playground only growing larger in size. I’m losing time.

The sun has set over the horizon, making way for the warm and inviting array of colors splattered in the sky. A vibrant pink and pallid orange interlace, forming a peachy midtone between them. It would have been wonderfully serene if I were not in the predicament that I am. I eventually am able to see the driveway to my house in the close distance, and I release a breath I did not realize I held.

The truck rides over the bumpy gravel driveway to the house with ease. Tires roll over the mass of tiny rocks and pebbles, creating constant crunching noises. I slam on the brakes abruptly and it jostles me and Charlotte forward. I check my watch. Five-forty-two. How did it get so late? I hop out of the truck and rush to the door, Charlotte following close behind me.

I swing open the door with a sense of urgency and throw my keys to the side table. “Go play in your room, honey.” I mutter. More like a croak, in all honesty. “I must speak to your Aunt Jen.”

“. . .Okay.” The slight creaks that shadow her steps as she climbs the stairs drive me to near madness. God, just get to your room already. Where is that robot? I believe I left it on the table of my workshop. Christ.

Paper. I need paper. A pen, as well. I can rip a piece from my sketchbooks in the workshop. What time is it? I try to bring my wrist to my face to gaze at my watch, but my arm feels frozen in place. Instead, I squint to view the distant wall clock within the living room. Five-forty-four . I won’t have enough time to go down there. Lord, why must all my creations work against my favor? I just had to program that thing to a specific time.

Hastening through the house and to the kitchen, I rummage through the counter drawers for something that may service me. In my search, I hear a creak from the back door.

There it is. Just on time. It slowly opens until the door hits a cabinet with a thump. In a silent house, the turning of gears and clicking of servos has the volume of a symphony. A constant whir bringing me back to today’s earlier events. The thing’s lifeless eyes do the same. I find myself back in my workshop, Charlotte’s eyes staring deep into mine while she fights with my current project —my final project— for my attention. God, those eyes. My eyelids clamp down as hard as they possibly can, and I hope, even though I have not felt hope in a long, long time, that it will make everything just. . .go away.

A childish belief, of course. The thought that pulling your blanket over your head might just save you from the monster hiding within your closet. The only difference is that I have created my own monster, and I cannot be saved by concerned parents hearing my screams in the night. Do I really want to die like this? Well, no, but what else is there for me? My passions have been ruined multiple times, by the same man no less. My remaining family outside of my dear Jenny either hates me or is dead, and everyone in this town believes me to be a murderer. There is nothing left for me on this Earth. I have wasted my chances, and all that is left is that I join my daughter in Heaven. That is if Satan does not await my presence in his realm.

Loud, heavy clanks ring on the linoleum floor. It’s moving. Allowing my eyes to open, I see the thing making a slow but steady approach towards me. I’ll have to do this quickly.

I go back to the drawers, picking out a stray ballpoint pen with almost no ink. Searching through old discarded mail for something blank enough to write on, I finally notice an empty piece of laminated paper. Flipping it over, there’s a picture of a politician with a name I couldn’t care enough to remember. It will work.

Slamming the empty side of the paper to the wooden countertop, I click the cam of the pen and scribble lightly on the paper to ensure that it works.

And for the last time, I write a letter to my sister.

My dearest Jenny, it begins, as all letters to her do. Tears prick my eyes like thorns. My heart pours into every word that I rush onto the paper, cloudy eyes causing the letters to look as if they are dancing along the empty space. They are dancing to mock me, to cheer for my demise. They are giddy to form the words that are admittance of my pathetic life and end, one that is long overdue.

. . .I now only see loss, endless, debilitating loss. My writing hand quivers horribly, penmanship worsening to the point of childlike scribbles, though the rest of my body feels as if it is going through rigor mortis. I fear it is not quite time for that yet.

My heart pounds expeditiously in my chest. The constant pumping reminds me of blowing up a balloon. Pump, pump, pump, inflating until. . . Pop. My heart may pop at this rate, with the pieces splattering all over my ribcage. Faster. I must write faster. The slow and methodical stomps behind me are like a timer, however I would have hoped for the timer to be an actual one, and not the noises that my large and clumsy suicide machine make. God, what does it matter? I would be dead either way.

I feel its presence behind me. It looms over my body, casting a shadow onto the counter and my pitiful letter. At any moment it will strike, and I will bleed out on this floor. Charlotte will come down and see my limp body. She will stare into my lifeless eyes in horror, and her artificial tears will stain her porcelain cheeks. Long streaks of water dragging ever so slowly to her chin.

I shake my head in attempt to rid myself of this thought. I must cease from humanizing her. It brings the overwhelming burden of guilt, something I already contain in abundance. I am getting too sidetracked. I must finish this letter before it brings my miserable life to an end. I lick my lips. They are cracked, pallid, and unbelievably dry. Comparable to the texture of sandpaper. I just have to finish this. It is almost done. I wipe the tears from my eyes with the heel of my palm.

. . . I am going to be with my daughter. There. Almost done. My hand grips the pencil intensely, the tips of my fingers turning white in color.

Suddenly, a tingling sensation rattles my bones, and a hot and piercing pain follows soon after. A large mechanical hand holds onto my shoulder to keep me in place. It has plunged its knife into my back, right into the spine. It seems my time is over. Blood flows down my backside, hitting the hardwood floor with soft drips. Accompanying blood loss was a loss in body temperature and energy at almost double the speed. I felt as if I were to turn to ice in any second, and I shrunk into myself, huddling for some kind of warmth.

I fought my weakening legs that yelled for me to collapse with what little might I had left. My pen drags slowly and rigidly on the paper. Almost completely out of ink, the letters begin to look incomplete. Finally, I sign the letter off with Love always & to the end, Henry.

I give into my legs’ pleas and plummet to the floor, the impact blurring my vision. It has backed away from me. The floor vibrates as its heavy steps move it away. My breaths are shallow, the whistles of air shaking my frame like a dead leaf on a November maple. I can feel my blood spreading, dampening my clothes, hair, and skin with its crimson color. It soaks into the wood panels, infesting itself between splinters. I am sitting there, laying in my own pain and agony for long, long minutes.

I expected some. . .light at the end of the tunnel. To see my daughter, or perhaps an angel waiting for me. Instead, I feel a constant nothingness. I do not feel any of the emotional motley that I had moments before. I am all too aware of my death. The eternal slumber calls to me, and I long for it more and more with each passing second.

I will see you soon, my daughter. May we be together in Heaven for all of eternity.

[a-sin-to-be-rin]

Ode to a Clown

It, like all good things, started with a fall.

The fall of Rome. The dizzying crash of the Heisenberg. The beautiful final act of the Flying Graysons.

And, of course, the fall of the Red Hood. And from the ashes, a phoenix arose. A flaming, ethereal creature, its methods and motives unknown to the average man. Unknown to the exceptional man. Even, occasionally, unknown to the phoenix himself.

This was the birth of Gotham’s most feared name:

The Joker.

At the beginning, before the Joker was the Joker, he was the Red Hood. And then, before that, no one. He had a name. The Joker no longer recalls it, nor does he care to. He doesn’t know if he had a family or a home or a job. He doesn’t even know what color his hair had been, and the Joker prefers it this way. Who he was is hardly important. Who can worry about the past when there’s so much to do?

After this no-name man was the Red Hood. He ran a gang, whose goals elude the leader to this day. He doesn’t remember why he did what he did. He doesn’t know what exactly he did or who was involved.

Well… He does remember someone who was involved, but he wasn’t a gang member.

He was the Batman.

Like the Red Hood, the Batman was a maniac. Someone who decided to wear a mask and traipse about the city at night. Someone who coped with his traumas through violence and anonymity.

The Batman was insane. And he was perfect. The yin to the Red Hood’s yang. The missing puzzle piece. The Red Hood’s better half.

The Joker doesn’t remember much about his time as the Red Hood, but he does remember the Batman and their highly-calculated dance. He remembers robbing and poisoning and maiming all for the attention of the Batman. And then, once the Red Hood had his attention, he had to find more and more elaborate ruses. Ways to keep things fresh. The Batman was the cool constant, and the Red Hood was the fiery wildcard.

But one night, their game came to an end. The Batman went too far. The Red Hood fell.

Down.

Down.

Down.

He hit the chemical bath like a glass on the kitchen tile, shattering on impact. And the pieces of the Red Hood sunk deeper, deeper, deeper. The Red Hood took on water, dropped to the bottom. He never came up for air.

But a new man emerged. A new game began. This was faster. More dangerous. More intimate. The Red Hood knew the Batman like a teacher knows a student. The Joker knows the Batman like a mother knows her child. Everything the Batman does, the Joker understands. But that trust just doesn't go both ways. And though the Joker understands this too, it still hurts.

“I’m hurt.”

Batman grunts.

It isn't enough. “I trusted you. I’ve always trusted you, and what do you do?” The Joker kicks Batman in the teeth. It does nothing but make Joker’s toe ache, but he keeps doing it. The drugs have slowed Batman down. The restraints keep him still and perfectly accessible to the Joker’s shoes. “You failed.”

“I don't know what you're talking about.” His voice is wheezy. The Joker holds no sympathy.

“You were Mr. Reliable! Good ol’ Batman, never kill a fly! And then, what? Did your butler die or something? Did you realize that I never really killed little JT? What was it? It's like I don't even know you anymore.” He kicks Batman once and then gives him a moment to reply.

“I didn't mean to.”

“Liar,” the Joker hisses. “You don't do anything on accident. So why?”

“I told you. It was a mistake.”

Kick. Kick, kick, kick, kick, kick.

Batman spits blood.

“We’re both mad, but I’m the one who kills people. You aren't. That’s what makes us work! That’s our zing!” He kicks Batman again. “And now? Now, there’s no zing. What am I supposed to do, Bruce? Your little bird’s nest isn’t nearly as fun. Nightwing always cracks jokes before I can. Robin’s so invested in your tech girl that I’d never get his full attention. And Todders is… Well, you know.”

Batman knows. The Joker knows that Batman knows. But there’s an itch in his skull that he needs to scratch. Everything should be laid out on the table. Nothing should be left unsaid.

“Little Jay’s a killer now too. Guess the robin doesn’t fall far from the belfry, huh?”

“Enough,” Batman growls. He jumps to his feet, hands free as frayed ropes fall away. But it doesn’t matter.

Batman grabs the Joker by the throat. Slams him against the wall.

“Go ahead, Batsy,” the Joker goads. “Go ahead and kill me. Again.”

Batman’s scowl doesn’t change, but the grip on the Joker’s throat relaxes a bit.

“Betray me all over again.” The Joker watches Batman carefully, the smile never truly fading from his lips. “I trusted you to play your part. I have always trusted you, no matter what. And now you’ve finally done it, and all you got was a slap on the wrist. You got away with the crime, but it’s your knife in my back.

“Whatever happens next, Bats, is your fault.”

Bruce wakes up with a gasp. He falls back on his pillow and cringes at the way his sweat-soaked shirt sticks to his chest.

“You didn't kill him,” Bruce tells himself. “You didn't kill him.”

But he didn't save him either. And if he was capable of saving him and he failed to…

Well, there's a fine line between failure to save and murder. Bruce isn't sure which side he falls on.

(But the Joker knows. And Batman will pay for his crime.)

[oplishin]

hate to go back to an abandoned wip and realize i actually did a good job. bc now i have to go back to it at *some* point, ugh!!

[dbphantom]

maybe i should have gone into practical effects instead of computer science...

[amatchmadeindisaster]

[alinaandalion]

Astrid calling Sophie "Mum" came about first as a spiteful joke. Over a year of her parents' rancorous divorce turned her angry and resentful, aware of being used as a bargaining chip more than once, aware that each parent wanted to foist her off on the other. Her birth mother because she'd never really taken to parenting; her father because he was flush in new love with Sophie-as-Charlotte.

Sophie tried to respond in kind with as much of Charlotte's warmth as she could muster. At first, she was more concerned with maintaining the grift even as her grip on it grew more tenuous. And Astrid wasn't completely wrong about her, after all; Charlotte was the new model William upgraded to, a prettier and much younger second wife with a slightly scandalous overlap with his first marriage. Later, her concern for Astrid surpassed the grift as Astrid stayed stuck in the middle of two parents who didn't particularly want to deal with her, shipped off to boarding school for that first year and passed back and forth a bit too enthusiastically the following summer.

She might have targeted William as part of a grift, her (and Ramsay's) solidified entrance into high society, but she did come to truly love him as Charlotte. But she could see that William and Astrid's mother were parents more because it was expected than any actual desire for children. And having been an afterthought herself to her parents and later the extended family she was passed around to, Sophie found herself connecting with Astrid even as she flinched internally every time Astrid called her "Mum," the acidity of the title out of Astrid's mouth slowly softening over time.

A child needs someone, after all, and for better or worse, that slowly became Charlotte until the moment Sophie left her behind.

[tvintedspvrkmoving]

@razorfst

his big dumb puppy dog eyes have captivated me

[the-joy-of-knowledge]

Becoming an Intelligent Woman

My Dears,

There is no greater goal than being a fine woman who is intelligent, kind, and elegant. As much as we all want to be described with these adjectives, it takes a great amount of discipline to get there. It is very doable only if you are ready to put in the work.

Here are steps you can add to your routine in the next 4 weeks that will make you 1% more intelligent than you were before. This is a process that should become a habit not a goal. It is long term, however, I want you to devote just 4 weeks into doing these steps first and recognize the changes that follow.

Watch documentaries: This is the easiest step, we all have access to Youtube. Youtube has a great number of content on art, history, technology, food, science etc that will increase your knowledge and pique your curiosity. I really did not know much about world history especially from the perspective of World war 1 & 2, the roaring 20s, Age of Enlightenment, Jazz era, monarchies etc but with several channels dedicated to breaking down history into easily digestible forms. I have in the last 4 weeks immersed myself into these documentaries. Here are a few I watched:

The fall of monarchies

The Entire History of United Kingdom

The Eight Ages of Greece

World War 1

World War 2

The Roaring '20s

The Cuisine of the Enlightenment

2. Read Classics: I recommend starting with short classics so that you do not get easily discouraged. Try to make reading easy and interesting especially if you struggle with finishing a book. Why classics? You see, if you never went to an exclusive private school in Europe or America with well crafted syllabus that emphasized philosophy, history, art, and literary classics, you might want to know what is felt like and for me this was a strong reason. Asides that, there is so much wisdom and knowledge available in these books. In these books, you gain insights to the authors mind, the historical context of the era, the ingenuity of the author, the hidden messages, and the cultural impact of these books. Most importantly, you develop your personal philosophy from the stories and lessons you have accumulated from the lives of the characters in the books you read. Here are classics to get you started:

Animal Farm by George Orwell

Pride and Prejudice by Jane Austen

Jane Eyre by Charlotte Brontë

The Great Gatsby by F Scott Fitzgerald

Candide by Voltaire

Paradise lost by John Milton

3. Study the lives of people who inspire you: I dedicate one month to each person that fascinates me. I read their biography (date of birth, background, death, influences, work, style, education, personal life) For this month, I decided to study Frank Lloyd Wright because I was fascinated by the Guggenheim Museum in New York. I began to read about his influence in American Architecture (Organic architecture, Prairie School, Usonian style), his tumultuous personal life, his difficult relationship with his mentor (Louis Sullivan), his most iconic works etc. By the end of the year I would have learned the ins and outs of people I am inspired by through books and documentaries. Here are other people I plan to learn more about:

Winston Churchill

Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis

Ada Lovelace

Benjamin Franklin

Helen Keller

John Nash

Isabella Stewart Gardner

Caroline Herrera

Ernest Hemingway

Catherine the Great

Ann Lowe

My dears, I hope you enjoyed this read. I cannot wait to write more on my journey to becoming a fine woman. I urge you to do this for four weeks and see what changes you notice. Make sure to write as well, it is important to document your progress.

Cheers to a very prosperous 2024!

[immobiliter]

something that makes me feel some kinda way: charlotte resenting her mother, particularly early on in the show, for the way that she favoured lucy growing up and was much more protective of her instead of "having her out at twelve" like she did with charlotte as the eldest, and the way that she is a lil jealous of the more secure/happy life lucy has early on within the safety of the family unit at greek street with margaret & william ( even though, don't get me wrong, she loves her sister dearly ), contrasted to lucy who struggles early on with living up to the wells woman reputation that charlotte has trailblazed as a courtesan and very much imitating her or at least using her as a frame of reference for the sort of woman she needs to be to endure the world later down the line once we get to s3

[lecl3rcw]

JUST LIKE YOU | LECLERC FAMILY

pairings: Charles Leclerc x sister!reader, Arthur Leclerc x sister!reader, Lorenzo Leclerc x sister!reader

warnings: mean words exchanged, threats.

author’s note: part 2 to this, hope everyone enjoys💗

____________________________________________

It had been a few weeks since her and Arthur’s huge fight, despite apologizing the tensions were still high between the two youngest Leclercs, a tension that left everyone wondering what the hell had happened.

“Hey is it just me? Or have Y/N and Arthur been distant from each other?” Lorenzo questioned Charles.

“I’ve noticed that too, almost like they’re avoiding each other” Charles replies thinking of the last time he saw two Interact.

“Y/N has been really focused on her studies, and Arthur’s spending time with Carla, I don’t think there’s anything fishy going on boys” Pascale says washing the last of the dishes.

“I mean yeah I get Y/N but Arthur? He could bring Carla here? It’s not like I don’t bring Alexandra or Lorenzo dosent bring Charlotte? Plus Arthur always used to bring Carla here, so they are definitely avoiding something” Charles says squinting his eyes.

“Maman i agree with Charles, the last time I saw Y/N interact with Arthur was when we were leaving for grocery shopping, and then they stopped” Lorenzo recalls, “Is Arthur home right now?” Charles asks, Pascale nods. The two brothers looked at each other and nodded.

“Arthur, you gotta pick Y/N up from school, we gotta umm go somewhere” Charles says, “I cant, I have to drop Carla off at the airport” Arthur says, lying straight through his teeth. Lorenzo and Charles look at each other. “Ok. Enough is Enough, What the hell happened between you two?” Lorenzo asks raising his eyebrows.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, me and Y/N are fine” he says nonchalantly, “Carla’s flight dosent leave till tomorrow, she told Maman that herself, so that means you just don’t want to pick Y/N up from school and we wanna know why” Charles says.

“Fine, you wanna know why? Because she makes me feel like a failure, she’s always comparing me to you Charles, and I’m tired of it. That day she crossed the line ok? And we talked it out but I’m still mad about it so that’s why I’m not talking to her” Arthur huffs before grabbing his car keys and leaving.

“That seems really out of character for Y/N, there has to be more to the story” Charles mutters as Lorenzo sighs, “alright I’m going to talk to Y/N then” he says grabbing his keys as well.

Enzo pulls up to Y/N’s school as he spots her talking to a friend of hers, a bright smile adorning her face. As soon as the girl spots her brother, she bids them goodbye.

“Hey Chérie, how was your day?” He asks her, “it was great! How was yours Enzo?” She says, “it was great, but umm listen did you and Arthur get Into a fight when we all were gone” he asks, the girl sighs out.

“We did yes, he didn’t want to take me to Starbucks so I told him Charles would and he took it to heart I guess” she rambled on making sure to not include the part where he called her a failure. “Chérie, you know Arthur dosent like it when you do that, so please apologize and make up” he sighs out, “look Enzo, I apologized I don’t know what else you want me to do?” The Girl says putting her hands on her face.

“Don’t worry about it, we’ll figure something out” he says ruffling her hair. The drive home was silent, guilt was over taking her senses as she anxiously fiddled with her fingers. Her intentions weren’t bad but she was starting to realize the impact of her words. She was so hurt when he called her a failure yet she did the same thing.

Tears started streaming down her face, Enzo stops the car immediately, his face turning to hers in concern, “what’s wrong Chérie? Why are you crying” he says, his arm rubbing her shoulder.

“I fucked up Enzo” she says, a sob escaping her mouth. Her hands now covering her face, “I’m sorry” she says as he pulls her into her arms, “Shh don’t cry, what’s going on?” He asks her In the most gentle tone ever, “I compared him to Charles, and then he called me a failure, I was so hurt that I never realized the hurt I probably inflicted on him, I’m such a bad sister Enzo, his whole life people have told him that and I just make a joke out of it.” she mutters out, “Y/N you made a mistake that’s it, what matters is that you realized that what you said was wrong as well” he says, his hand on her head.

“You’re Right, I’ve got to make this right” she sniffles, “do you think we could stop by the store? I have an idea” she says and her brother nods.

When the two get home, Arthur and Charles can be seen having a normal conversation but as soon as the younger brother spots his sister, he gets up to leave only to be stopped by her.

“Tur wait” she says, he sighs out as he sits back down, Charles and Enzo take this as their cue to leave (eavesdrop)

“What Y/N?” He says looking straight at her, She hands him a bag, the bag was filled with all of Arthur’s favorite snacks and drinks. She takes a seat next to him.

“I’m sorry Arthur, what I said was mean and I should’ve realized that, instead of making a joke about it” she says, “No I’m sorry, I’m older than you and I called you a failure, you’re not by the way, you’re smarter than a Charles and I combined” he says pulling the younger girl into his embrace, her eyes start to tear up and she clutches onto him.

“I love you Tur Tur, you’re my favorite person in the world, my best friend and the best big brother I could ask for, you’re not second to Charles, you’re just as good as him, and if anyone ever says otherwise, screw them” she says as she cries into his shoulder, Arthur gives her a soft smile rubbing her back up and down, a smile that she was oblivious too.

“Yeah yeah I love you too, now can you please get off me? You’re kind of choking me” He mutters, “oh sorry” she says pulling away, wiping her nose and eyes. They look at each other and let out a laugh.

“So he’s your favorite now?🤨” a voice Interrupts their laughter.

[mitchell-nihil]

this didn't turn out nearly as cursed as I was imagining it. She's just cute...

this was the photo I originally saw, I imaged a much more distorted pose but started drawing and realised it was actually fully within her range of motion

I was looking for five character poses on Pinterest to draw the Pandora group in and I saw one that instantly beamed the most cursed possible image of Charlotte into my head I NEED to draw this somehow...

[crazyk-imagine]

Married Off to a Beast?! (Or Troll)

Pairing: King George x Fem!reader Characters: Charlotte, Fem!reader, King George, Adolphus (briefly mentioned) Warnings: A memoriable scene, fluff, Charlotte doesn’t approve of running away, George is a simp, Reader and George are enamored with each other, Charlotte is a hypocrite, George regrets nothing, reader knows she can’t resist him now, reader showing skin O:O Word Count: 1,356

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You walk back and forth in front of the wall. You take a deep breath and step closer. "Charlotte help me." 

"No," she shakes her head, wanting little to no part in your escape. 

You spin around to look at her, your body visible for anyone to see if they walk down this path to the garden. "Your brother married me off without my consent, you will help me." 

She huffs, scratching the side of her head. Out of the two of them (her and her brother), she's always had a harder time saying no to you. 

"Fine." 

George watches as you call for her assistance and decides to walk further down. Neither of noticed him, not until he cleared his throat. “Hello, My Lady.” 

You glance over your shoulder to find a charming man standing a few feet away. 

He turns to your cousin. “My Lady.” 

Her eye twitches, you know it did; you didn’t have to look at her to know. “Are you in need of assistance of some kind?” 

“Uh, I am quite fine, thank you.” You return to your mission. “You can go back inside and wait with all the other gawkers.” 

Charlotte whispers your name. She understands your feelings about the situation but there is a better way to address someone. 

"I… will. What are you doing?" 

You huff, “nothing.” 

“You’re doing something.” 

You internally groan, not wanting to berate some man for something he had no control over. “I am not.” 

“You are.” 

“I am not.” 

“You are.” 

“I am not.” 

“You are!” 

You jump down from your place and spin around to face him. "If you must know, I am being shipped off into a marriage I did not give my consent to and one I had no prior knowledge of, therefore I am leaving before it can happen." 

"Oh," his brows shot up in surprise. 

“Yes, so I am currently trying to find the best way to climb over this damned garden wall so that I may live my life the way I choose to.” 

He mutters a few things, trying to understand this new information he’s been given. “Whatever for?” 

"For the love of-" She mutters, hearing the wheels turning in your head. 

"I believe he may be a beast.” 

"He isn't," she assures you. 

"How do you know? I mean, do you know what he looks like?" 

She rolls her eyes, knowing you’ve been on edge since... well, since you were informed of your future role. 

“You think he is a beast?” 

“Or a troll.” 

“Uh, who are we discussing.” 

You furrow your brows, “no one who concerns you.” You study the wall, sighing to yourself. “The King. Only because no one will speak of him. No one. So, he can only be a beast or a troll if that’s the case.” 

“Understood.” 

Charlotte shakes her head, lowering it so George doesn’t see the disappointment on her face. 

“If I grab there,” you point to an ideal spot. “You can assist me by lifting me up.” 

“One question. You do not like beasts or trolls? What he looks like matters?” 

You shrug, “I do not care what he looks like. I care about my sanity… and the not knowing. That, that is what I do not like. I do not like the not knowing. Now come here and help me.” You gesture for him to come closer. “She will not help me. You grab here,” you hold your waist, “and lift me.” 

“You want me to lift you over the wall so you may escape?” 

“That is what I said, is it not.” 

You shake your head, mumbling to yourself, “it’s as if he isn’t listening.” 

“Won’t people notice you are missing?” 

“Her brother will make her take my place, I’m sure.” 

“What?” Charlotte nearly screeches. 

“I have little care to worry about that. Now, if you please. I just need a little assistance from a more cooperative audience. Make haste.” 

“I have absolutely no intention of helping you.” 

You’re baffled. You step off the wall and march towards him. “Do you not see I am a lady in distress. You refuse to help me? Again, a lady in distress.” 

“I refuse when that lady in distress is trying to go over a wall so that she does not have to marry someone I think you'll find rather appealing." 

You furrow your brows, "and why's that?" 

"Because I am... his majesty." 

You take a step back, realizing the many errors you’ve made leading up to now. 

“Hello,” he says your name. 

"Oh, no," your cousin mutters. She takes a step closer, pulling you towards her. "Be quiet and bow." 

You start to apologize. “I am deeply s…” 

And then your training (from when you were a young girl) kicks in and you bow, "My King." 

"No, no. Just George." 

"Your majesty." 

"Not your majesty, George." 

"Your-" 

Your cousin rolls her eyes and sneaks away (not wanting to listen to you two anymore). She’s off to find her brother. Not to mention the fact that she needs to hide from her betrothed as well… which explains why she willingly followed you.

"George." 

"You-" 

"George." 

"Y-" 

"George." 

"Your-" 

"I mean, yes your majesty to you, just George… For you, I will be your George, I like that," he smiles. 

“I- I need you to accept my apology. You see, if I had known-” 

“You would have what? Not told me you were trying to escape?” 

“Yes- wait no, I mean…” You huff, “I do apologize your majesty.” 

“George… Your George. The “King” situation towers over us and I was hoping as my wife, I could be just George to you. I mean, that was of course, before I found out that you do not want to be married to me.” 

You furrow your brows, “I did not say that.” 

“You did.” 

“No.” 

“Many times, in fact.” 

You purse your lips in anger, knowing he’s right. “I do not know you.” 

He raises his arms, “I do not know you either… other than finding out… how terrible you are at climbing a wall.” 

You scoff, “you try climbing in this,” you wave to your outfit and lift the skirts of your dress, showing him your ankles. “These garments and shoes. They’re terrible, but if I don’t want to hurt myself, I must.” 

His constant stare worries you. 

“What?” 

“I- No one told me you’d be this beautiful. Perhaps, you’re too beautiful to marry me. People will talk… given I’m a troll.” 

“I believe I said beast.” 

He chuckles. 

Your face twists as if you’re in pain but only thinking of your future marriage. “Your majesty.” 

“George.” 

“George. I- I still do not know you.” 

“What do you want to know?” 

“Everything.” 

“Ev- fine.” He gives you information to help ease you into knowing more about him and potentially help your future marriage. 

“It sounds like you’re bragging.” 

He chuckles, “another to know about me is that… I am- well, nervous about marrying a girl I’m only just meeting minutes before our wedding. Only, I cannot show it and climb over a wall because I am the king of Britian and Ireland and that would, cause a scandal. But I promise you, I am neither a troll, nor a beast. Just your George.” 

The corners of your lips twitch. 

Charlotte’s voice interrupts you two. “My brother is on his way, so we must leave now.” 

“I-” 

“I have one question.” 

“Yes?” 

“Have you decided whether you wish to marry me? Or would you prefer to go over the wall?” 

You gulp. 

“As much as I would love to hear your answer, I have to go because I believe there are some anxious guards who think I’ve been kidnapped.” He grabs your hand and whispers your name as he places a kiss upon it. “I hope to see you in there.” 

You watch as he walks away. “Have you decided? Because there will be a scandal one way or another.” 

“I-” you take a deep breath. “Come with me, you impatient brat.” 

“I am not a brat.” 

“You are.” 

“Am not.”