#I'm uncertain if I'll paint this

[tagidearte]

Cropped WIP. A well trained dog and his best friend, the hare playing rabbit. Sorry for quality, this is a picture taken of my screen.

[rogueddie]

Part one, Part two, Part three

El wakes him up, the same way she did the previous day; softly.

"Good morning, Steve," she says, with a quiet voice and gentle hand on his shoulder. She smiles small, but genuinely, when he blinks his eyes open. "We are having eggos for breakfast."

"Again?"

"You do not like them?" She sounds concerned. "I can ask-"

"No, I like them," he quickly corrects.

"Great! Come on!"

As soon as he's out of bed, on his feet, she gently grabs his hand and leads him out to the kitchen. Hopper is already awake, cooking, and greets them with a wide smile.

"Any plans for today?" El asks.

"Not today," Hopper says, plating their breakfast. "After yesterday, I thought it better if Steve stay home. If that's alright with you, kid?"

"Sure," Steve nods.

"I can hang out with him?" El asks, perking up.

"If that's what he wants."

"Steve?" El asks, turning to him with wide, pleading eyes.

"What we be doing?"

"Oh! I have a lot of ideas! Max let me borrow some of her stuff, too. Although, she thinks you might not like some of it and that I should try something else if you do not want to try, so I have backups."

"And... that's ok?" He asks, glancing between her and Hopper. "If I say no?"

"Kid," Hopper starts. His voice is low, serious- the way Steve always hears adults get when he's said something wrong. But he looks worried when he slowly sits down, turning so he can face Steve. "Why do you think that wouldn't be ok?"

"I dunno," Steve lies, shrugging. "Grown ups are weird."

"They are," El agrees, nodding solemnly.

"Steve, you can say no," Hopper says, gently grabbing his shoulder. "Doesn't matter to what, or why. You can always say no. Ok?"

"Ok."

"Good. Eat up, before El steals it."

"I would ask first!"

It's nice, Steve thinks. How easy, comfortable, they are. She's not scared to talk back, and he understands that it's playful. They try to encourage Steve to speak up, join in, but he's happy to watch them.

"You know where everything is?" Hopper asks El, as he prepares to leave. "And what to do if-"

"Yes, I know," she quickly says. "We will be ok. I will make sure he is ok."

"Don't doubt it," Hopper ruffles her hair. "I'll be back for dinner."

"You better be."

El holds up a hand, waiting, listening. And, as soon as the sound of Hoppers car is too far to hear, she grabs his hand again.

"He will be late," she says, shutting the door to her room behind them with a flick of her wrist. "It's fine though, I know where he hides things, and it gives us more time to have fun."

She pulls a bag out from under her bed, tipping it upside down and dumping the contents out onto the bed.

"We can talk about what you don't want to try first, if you like?"

"Um... ok?"

"Great!" She lifts up a small bottle first. "I was thinking we try painting nails first. Max recently showed me how to do patterns with it. I'm really good at daisies."

"I like daisies," he offers.

"Me too!" She grins, putting the nail polish to one side.

El, Steve is quickly discovering, is perfect. She is more than happy to skip the things Steve is uncertain about, reassuring him that they could try again later if he wants. She's only interested in finding the thing that they both enjoy.

He only ends up with one daisy, painted on his thumb, but El doesn't care.

"You let me paint a base," she reminds him, when he asks. "And it matches your sweater that I got from Robin!"

"What sweater?"

The sweater is yellow, matching his nails, just like El said. It's massive on him- almost ridiculously bigger. Even with the sleeves scrunched up, he can't get his hands free. But it's soft, bright, comfortable. Something about it makes him feel safe.

"You got this from Robin?" He asks.

"Yes! She brought a few things over that she thinks you might like. She wants you to feel safe and loved."

"Oh."

"Are you ok?" El takes half a step closer, hands raising, uncertain and panicked. "Are you sad?"

"No, I'm fine," he chokes out, rubbing his face. "Everyone is just so nice to me. I didn't even do any special things that get rewards."

"You don't need to do special things. We are your friends and we care about you." She grabs him, pulling him in for a tight hug. "And we are going to do lots of nice things together because you deserve it."

And they do.

It's easy to get lost in it, after that. Easy to forget why he should be avoiding certain things, easy to forget that he would usually get in trouble for trying on "girl" things or wearing make-up.

It's easy to let himself enjoy himself. It's easy to let himself enjoy spending time with El. It's easy to be... happy.

By the time Hopper gets home, only a little late, Steve feels almost drunk with how happy he is.

"You kids have a good day?" He asks, only pausing for a minute when he spots Steve. "What did you get up to?"

El follows him to the kitchen, recieting their day, excitedly explaining which things they both enjoyed and what they had to scrap.

Steve is only confused for a moment- Hopper truly isn't phased by all the "girl" things that he'd done with El. He barely even spares a glance at the frilly, pink socks that El has lent him. He seems, like El, happy that Steve had a good time and nothing more.

"Are you guys, like... real?" He has to ask. "Why are you so nice?"

"Would you rather us be cruel?" Hopper counters.

"Well, no..."

"Then what's the problem?" He raises an eyebrow, nodding to himself when Steve can't think of a response. "Good. So for dinner..."

part five

tag list for those who asked (if you want taking off lmk x) : @songbird-garden @str4wb3rry-guy @badcaseofcasey @lioniheart @irethsune @starry-eyedlune @newtstabber @messrs-weasley @vesme @penny00dreadful @ratboybubs @ocapmycap @ellietheasexylibrarian @cinnamon-mushroomabomination @little-trash-ghost @lazyavenuewhispers @paintsplatteredandimperfect @mightbeasleep @anaibis @sleepyboosstuff @thesuninyaface @morpheusmunson @notfrogsunderatrenchcoat @novelnovella @tartarusknight @spectrum-spectre @hotluncheddie @malicia62 @tencents121 @lightwoodbanethings @steddie-steddie @dragonmama76 @weirdandabsurd42 @lenathegay @theequeervibes @7shrewsinatrenchcoat @g4ys0n @subversivecynic @bleedingoptimism @eyesofshinigami @disrespectedgoatman @skiddit @chaoticlovingdreamer @estrellami-1 @chrystal-lovee @m-owo-n @fandommaniac123 @jackievsn @greekgeek24 @ajeff855

- idk why some peoples tags aren't working, sorry if yours is missing + I'm pretty sure we've reached the limit for how many tags tumblr is willing to let me add to a post 😅

[whxtedreams]

Unfiltered Adoration

A Poets Love

Inspired by rupi kaur poem:

You must have a honeycomb For a heart How else could a man Be this sweet Page 191 - the sun and her flowers

Word Count: 2.6k

Tags: Tooth rotting fluff, eye spy game, Joel and Sarah, road trip, embarrassed!Joel

Series Masterlist - Main Masterlist

There is something profoundly soothing about being bathed in the warm glow of sunlight, especially when his rough, calloused hand rests on your thigh.

In this moment, it is all you need. The world outside their little bubble might be a chaotic, uncertain place, but here, with him, you find peace and contentment.

This quiet life, simple yet perfect, is all you ever wanted.

His thumb gently stokes back and forth across your skin in a soothing rhythm, his mind elsewhere as he hums deep in thought. His free hand rests on the steering wheel, tapping idly in time with the music that plays softly on the radio.

The sky is painted in a glorious display of orange, pink, and gold as the sun begins its descent. Birds dance and dip in the sky above, their wings fluttering in a graceful arc as they head back to their nests, signaling the end of the day.

Joel let out a soft sigh, breaking the comfortable silence that had settled between them. He glances to the backseat at Sarah for a moment before returning his gaze to the road. His grip on the steering wheel tightens, his eyes focused on the stretch of road ahead.

Joel glances into the backseat again, where Sarah is lounging lazily, her head resting against the seat as she reads. He taps his fingers against the steering wheel, contemplating before asking her, "Car? Cab? Cow?"

Sarah shakes her head once more, her expression still filled with amusement as she revels in her father's struggle to find the right answer. The corners of her mouth turn up into a slight smile.

"You're getting closer," she teases as she flips the page of her book.

Joel groans in mock frustration, but a small smile tugs at the corners of his lips. "You're killing me here, kid," he mutters, shifting in his seat as he tries to come up with the correct answer. "You said I'm getting closer, so that means I'm warm, right? Is it a caravan?"

“Nope.”

"Do you even have a word, or are you just messing with me?"

Sarah shoots her father a mischievous smirk from the back seat, a playful glint in her eyes as she responds, "I do, I just think you need glasses."

Joel lets out a mock gasp, feigning offense at his daughter's comment. "Ouch, kid, that hurts," he says, putting a hand against his chest in exaggerated despair. "You think I need glasses? I'll have you know my vision is perfectly fine, thank you very much."

 You interlace your fingers through his hand on your thigh and give it a gentle squeeze. You look over at Joel, a sweet, innocent expression on your face and your voice brims with playful affection. "I don't know," you say with a chuckle, "you were having trouble with that crossword last night."

Joel glances over at you, his eyes soft and lips pouting in a pleading expression that he knows all too well is enough to melt your heart. "You're meant to be on my side darlin’" he says with feigned disappointment, a playful glimmer in his eyes as he tries to keep a straight face.

Joel's beauty is a paradox - simple yet extraordinary, ordinary yet captivating. His eyes, although sharp, hold a depth of kindness. The strong, resolute line of his jaw speaks of determination and resilience. The soft curve of his lips can turn up in playful grins or settle into a stern, serious expression. His presence, though weighed down by the burden of the world he carries, radiates a sense of warmth and strength. Being by his side, witnessing the various facets of his character, makes you feel undeniably lucky.

A playful smile graces your lips as you add, "Sorry, babe, just telling the truth.” Your tone light-hearted and affectionate. As Joel rolls his head back to the road, you catch a glimpse of his widening smile, and the love and happiness radiating from his expression are undeniable. He pretends to be frustrated, but there's no hiding the fact that he finds joy in your banter. There's a soft chuckle that escapes him, betraying his feigned annoyance.

As the sun dips below the horizon and the night sky blankets the world, Joel continues to hazard guesses for the elusive word, his hand tenderly playing with yours in between attempts. His focus is split between the game and the road ahead, but a hint of amusement and fondness can be detected in his voice with each new guess.

You turn away from Joel, your smile warm with affection, and direct your gaze out the window. The expansive fields stretch out before you, a canvas of lush green grass and an array of colorful wildflowers. The soft moonlight bathes the scene in a serene, almost enchanting glow, making the gentle swaying of the grass and flowers a calming sight to behold.

The expansive fields offer a welcome divergence from the cramped, urban landscapes of the city. The wide-open space stretches out before you, providing ample room for your mind to wander and your spirits to soar. The peaceful scenery seems at odds with the playful tension in the car, as Joel continues to wrack his brain for the correct word.

You pause for a moment, contemplating the word before suggesting, "What about cattle?" Your voice is light and thoughtful as you make the suggestion.

Sarah lets out a theatrical groan from the backseat, her eyes rolling dramatically as she mutters, "Finally." Her response is filled with exaggerated annoyance, a hint of mockery evident in her tone.

Joel turns to glare at Sarah in the back seat, his body making an audible crack with the swift motion. Frustration laces his voice as he retorts, "What the hell, Sarah? I guessed cow five times!"

"I heard you, but you didn't say 'cattle,'" she clarifies, pulling a blanket over her legs.

Joel lets out a disgruntled grunt "They're the same thing!" he argues, his voice rising slightly in agitation.

You find yourself unable to suppress the amused chuckle that escapes your lips, watching Joel's face as it displays a mixture of annoyance and playful exasperation.

You turn away from Joel's frustrated expression, resting your head against the car door as you listen to the ongoing argument between him and Sarah. The sound of their voices rises and falls, filled with the passionate debate over the game's rules. Despite the slightly absurd nature of the discussion, there's a sense of familiarity and comfort in their banter, like a well-worn routine.

You blink slowly, your eyes still heavy with sleep as you gradually reorient yourself. Your surroundings come into focus, and you discover that you must have dozed off, your head resting against the car door. The familiar scent of Joel's jacket envelopes you, so comforting.

The memory of how you ended up with the jacket around you is a bit hazy, but the warmth and comfort it provides are undeniable. Gazing out the window, you notice the soft glow of a nearby gas station, its warm, incandescent light cutting through the otherwise dark and deserted stretch of road.

You sit up slowly, your back protesting from the stiffness and discomfort brought on by the prolonged position and realize that Joel is no longer in his seat. You cast a glance towards the backseat, finding Sarah fast asleep, the blanket tossed carelessly over her as she snores softly.

You stretch your limbs, rubbing the sleep from your eyes as the car door swings open and Joel settles back into his seat. He's carrying an armful of snacks, a variety of chips, candies, and packaged meals, and his expression is a mix of sheepishness and amusement. He shrugs apologetically before glancing over at you, a small, guilty smile tugging at the corners of his lips.

Joel fumbles with the large variety of snacks he has in his lap, trying to balance them all in his arms as he lets out a nervous chuckle. He looks at you with a hint of embarrassment on his face, his voice rambling as he explains himself. "I, uh, well I didn't want to wake either of you and I didn't know what you wanted so... I may have gone a little overboard," he admits, his hand reaching up to rub the back of his neck.

You smile as a yawn escapes you, the sleep still clinging to your body. You reach out and take a wrapped sandwich from the top of the pile in Joel's lap, the plastic crinkling faintly under your touch. Your voice is soft and sleepy as you murmur, "You're so sweet."

Joel's lips curve into a broad grin at your words, a shy but pleased smile that crinkles the corners of his eyes. He glances away, a faint blush creeping up his neck, trying to hide the effect your words had on him. He fumbles with the keys in his hand, his attention suddenly focused on starting the car as he attempts to compose himself.

Joel mumbles under his breath, a hint of embarrassment tingeing on his voice as the car starts up with a low thrum. "Shut up," he quips.

You chuckle at Joel's muttered response, shaking your head affectionately. However, your humor is quickly replaced by a feeling of contentment as his hand reaches out and intertwines with yours once more. You gently squeeze his hand, feeling the familiar warmth and pressure of his touch.

 This is where his hand belongs, intertwined with yours. A perfect fit.

By the time the car pulls up in front of a small, modest motel, the moon has risen high in the night sky, casting a silvery, otherworldly glow on the surroundings. The radio clock on the dashboard flips over to 11 PM. Exhaustion hangs heavily on you, making the sight of the motel a welcome sight.

After checking in at the front desk and gathering your bags, Joel carefully lifts the sleeping Sarah into his arms, holding her close against his chest as he carries her into the room. He holds her with a tender, gentle grip, his fatherly care apparent in his actions. Once inside the room, Joel places her down onto one of the beds, tucking her in with a kiss to her forehead.

Joel turns away from Sarah and his gaze lands on you. You're standing just inside the bathroom doorway, your eyes silently watching him as he moves around the room. There's a moment of silence between you before he approaches, his footsteps heavy yet deliberate on the carpeted floor.

Joel's arms wrap around your waist, his face buried in the crook of your neck as you stand at the sink brushing your teeth. You can feel the tickle of his beard and the warmth of his breath on your skin. His embrace is soft and affectionate, a wordless moment of connection. The feeling of his smile against your skin is evident, the curve of his lips pressed firmly against your neck.

As Joel gently sways you in his arms, his movements slow and steady, it feels as if your heart is being consumed by a sweet, aching sensation. The depth of his affection, the overwhelming tenderness he pours into this moment, is so overwhelming that it borders on painful. The love that seems to pour out of his every action leaves you feeling both impossibly light and impossibly heavy all at once.

His head raises, and he meets your gaze in the mirror, his eyes locking with yours. The unfiltered adoration that you see reflected in his gaze sends a wave of intense emotion crashing through you, almost like a physical force. It feels as if your heart is expanding in your chest, filling with a mixture of tenderness and love. For a moment, you feel as if you can barely breathe, overwhelmed by the magnitude of his feelings for you.

The thought crosses your mind as you gaze at Joel in the bathroom mirror. How could someone be this beautiful, so full of love? There's a sense of wonder and awe in the realization that he must be made of something different than you. It's as if he were crafted from a completely different mold, his very being designed to possess and express such a profound depth of affection.

The thought that Joel must have a heart crafted from the most delectable materials, like honeycomb, chocolate, and candy, almost seems to perfectly describe his sweetness. It's as if his love and affection are so pure and genuine that they could only have originated from something so utterly, irresistibly sweet.

There's a sense of wonder in the idea that such a heart could exist, one that radiates such a powerful, honeyed goodness.

After you and Joel have finished showering, you find yourselves in bed, his hands exploring the curves and lines of your face with a tender, almost reverent touch. His eyes sparkle with a mix of affection and wonder, his gaze fixed upon you as if you are the most precious thing in the world. It's as if he can barely believe that you are real, the touch of his fingers tracing over your skin filled with a soft, awed wonder.

His confession reaches your ears as you're on the cusp of sleep. His hand gently caresses your head, his touch soothing and calming. Joel's voice is soft, a quiet murmur as he whispers, "I think I want you to move in with me," a vulnerable, tender admission.

Your eyes open as he speaks, a rush of surprise and wonder washing over you. You meet his gaze, his soft smile making him look like an angel in the dim, warm glow of the outside lamp as it filters through the window by the bed. Your heart skips a beat as you take in his expression, the tenderness and vulnerability in his eyes.

As you gaze into his eyes, his soft smile and tender expression like a heavenly apparition, the words 'no' or 'maybe' don't cross your mind. The thought of turning him down, of refusing an offer so heartfelt and sincere, seems impossible.

Even though he's a broken soul, a fallen angel in some sense, there is still a radiant beauty in him. In that moment, you feel as if saying 'yes' is the only option, as if your very soul is responding to the pull of his love.

In that moment, as you nod in agreement, his lips gently meet yours. The kiss is soft and sweet. It feels as if a lock has clicked into place, solidifying your decision and cementing your commitment to this new step in your relationship.

His lips, soft and tender against yours, seem to confirm the fanciful notion that he must be made of all things sweet. The taste of him, the way he kisses, everything about his mouth feels like a sweet, delectable treat, addictive and irresistible.

You can't help but let out a soft, breathless chuckle into the kiss.

When he pulls back, he looks at you with amusement in his eyes, a smirk tugging at the corners of his lips.

“What?” He huffs.

“You’re just- sweet.”

Joel lets out a low, melodramatic groan, rolling his eyes before he turns onto his back, pulling you with him. You settle against his side, your hand instinctively finding its place on his chest, right over his heart.

The steady ticking of the clock and the faint, constant hum of the traffic on the highway outside fill the room with a soft, ambient soundtrack. Joel's breathing deepens and slows, the rise and fall of his chest steady and predictable. For a moment, you think he's asleep, but then you hear a soft mumble, a barely audible murmur passing his lips.

“You make me sweet.”

Notes

This has been in the drafts for months – don’t look at me. Coming back to this lil one shot series as they’re so sickly in love and deserve my attention. Also I had no intention of them moving in together but then suddenly Joel says that and well- he gets what he wants lol.

[lena-in-a-red-dress]

Musician Age Gap AU Pt 17

Kara's phone vibrates in her pocket. She knows without looking who it must be, but her eyes remain glued to the photo of Lena kissing another woman.

All Kara can see of the woman in the first photo is that she has dark hair and delicate features, but when she scrolls down other photos paint the woman more clearly. A lump catches in Kara's throat.

It's Rhea Elle. A model turned actress, she's notorious in the press for younger partners and absolutely drop dead looks. In these photos, it's hard to say which of the two women the photographer had actually meant to capture. Kara's stomach sours.

Lena calls again. This time, Kara reaches into her back pocket and retrieves her phone. She shoots her family a look, and finds them staring warily back at her, uncertain and waiting for her reaction.

Kara lifts Esme's phone, still glowing with the incriminating photos. "Can I hold onto this for a second?"

Esme nods.

Retreating to the guest room, Kara finally answers Lena's call. "I told you my leaving wasn't about us," she says shakily.

"I know," Lena says quickly. "I know and I believe you, I swear. This--"

"Isn't isn't what it looks like?" Kara finishes for her, unable to keep the bitterness from her voice. "Are you really going to tell me they faked these?"

"They're from *months* ago!" Lena exclaims, voice lifting in volume momentarily, before she forcefully brings it down. "I can explain everything..."

A beat of silence follows after Lena trails off, and Kara remains quiet.

"Right," Lena mutters when she realizes that Kara is waiting for her to continue. "After my last break up, Rhea's team reached out to me on her son's behalf. They suggested a publicity romance, to get the focus off the fact that I'd been dumped."

"And in return?"

"Her son Mike gets on the playing field. He-- he wanted to move beyond the affable idiot roles he'd been getting, and they hoped being seen with me would align him with the heartthrob roles he wanted."

Kara grinds her teeth together. "And this correllates to you making out with his mom how?"

"I declined, obviously, and Rhea inferred that to mean I might be more agreeable to a more... feminine touch."

"How would that help her son?"

"It wouldn't, but it would have helped her." Lena sighs. "Kara, she kissed me. I didn't ask for it, and I shut it down. When she realized she'd overstepped, her team quashed the photos."

"Until now."

"She says it was Mike who leaked them, but..." Lena's voice deepens. "It doesn't matter now."

Kara swallows thickly. "Lena..."

"Please, Kara. I wouldn't do that. Not to anyone."

In spite of herself, Kara senses the truth in Lena's voice. As insane as the excuse sounds, in Kara's albeit limited googling into Lena's public life, she's never found any hint of cheating. She's been called a serial dater, a heart-breaker, sure... but never a cheater.

"Kara, I-- jesus. Maybe this would be better in person..."

Kara grimaces. "I'm not ready to come back yet."

"No, I didn't mean-- of course. You can take as much time as you... shit. You don't need my permission--"

"Lena?" Kara cuts in carefully. A small smile curls her lips when Lena sputters to a stop. "Do you want to come join me?"

Silence answers her for a long moment, then--- "Really?"

Kara carefully considers the out Lena is offering, weighing Alex's hospitality against the tiny note of hope in Lena's voice.

"Yeah. Esme would love to see you again." Kara pauses. "And we could talk. For real."

Lena's throat clicks. "I-- I would like that. After tonight I have three days before I need to be in Madrid... I can book a hotel--"

"I'll check with my sister, since I'm currently staying in her guest room," Kara allows, "but it might be easier to keep a low profile if you stay here."

"Okay!" Lena says quickly. "I mean... but only if you're sure. And if Alex says it's okay."

Kara isn't 100% sure her sister would approve of the decision, but is at least majority percent sure that she'll go along with it.

"I'll text you."

There's a rustle as Lena nods against the phone. Then Kara hears her take a breath, and somehow the sound is nervous, anxious, and perilous. As though Lena stood at the edge of a chasm.

Then Kara hears the release, and the trust that comes with it.

"Okay."

[physics-of-one-piece]

Another day, another I'll build castles for you, my love (look at me, not my brother) snippet post. And a poll for you guys at the end bcs I'm left uncertain about a scene, ie whether to put it in or not.

I reached 15.5k words on Rosinante's part, and that's not even with all the descriptions I still need to write (collapses). It consists of numerous things: his life at Marineford & meeting Reader, his friendship with his crew, proposal, wedding, married life, his decision to take on the Donquixote Family mission, and the main part of course being his 2 weeks spent with Law & Reader at the house. I'm gonna put 3 snippets here, one for Rosinante x Reader, one for Law & Rosinante, one for Doflamingo x Reader. All of them are mostly dialogue, bcs I really want to show the vibe of the fic without showing too much, and just the difference between the brothers overall.

Writing some of Doflamingo's thoughts really had me: "YOU ARE NOT IN HOLY LAND, IN FACT THERE IS NOTHING HOLY ABOUT YOUR THOUGHTS, SOMEBODY ARREST HIM OMG 😭😭" the only NSFW for now is just Doffy & his thoughts, and honestly, I'm fine with that being the only nsfw part of the fic? I'm just not yet confident enough writing actual smut, but I'll try it for them both cus they both love Reader 😤

Okay, onto the snippets:

Rosinante x Reader

“Rosinante,” you said. “I think you love your brother.”

Rosinante’s fingers paused mid-way in grabbing the empty bowl. You grabbed it instead, while he stared at you, mouth open, frozen in the moment.

You looked at him, and he felt naked. His heart was beating all around his body, and he wondered if he unconsciously put up a Silent bubble around the two of you, because everything felt so quiet, so intimate.

“If you really hate your brother, then I think it’s fine not to be able to forgive him. But, you’re a really kind person, so it looks to me like you love him despite of everything. It’s really admirable.”

“I won’t ever forgive him for abandoning you,” you said, frowning as you continued picking up the dinnerware. “He isn’t my brother, after all. To me, he’s a stranger who hurt the man I love, so I won’t be able to ever forgive him!”

Rosinante felt like his heart would explode; it was beating so fast, the thumping beats incredibly loud, resounding in his ears. He felt hot all over, and he felt himself starting to sweat.

Your expression softened when you looked at him.

“But, you’re different,” you said softly, staring up at him lovingly. You smiled at him, gentle and beautiful. “And I love that about you.”

That was it. Rosinante's body reached its limit after such words. It caught aflame from the inside, his face turning tomato red, steam exploding from his ears as the blush painted his entire face crimson.

Rosinante & Law (get ready for a gut punch)

“You’re not gonna die!” yelled Rosinante.

“Promise!” yelled Law.

“Of course I -” started Rosinante passionately, but Law cut him off.

“No!” yelled Law. He turned his face up toward Rosinante, and Rosinante felt like all the air was punched out of his gut at the sight of Law’s pleading, agonised face, his big grey eyes full of tears. “Promise if it doesn’t work, if the Op-Op Fruit doesn’t heal me, you’ll take me back here! Where I can… be with you and (Y/N)-san!”

Rosinante’s eyes widened, staring at Law.

Law’s trembling, tiny fingers clenched tight onto Rosinante’s pink dress shirt. “Promise that we’ll go to the beach every day, and we’ll have barbeque with your friends together. They’re not like them… they… they feel real.”

Law went on. “Promise we’ll eat meals together at the table, and pick cabbage and tomatoes together!”

Law… thought Rosinante, his eyes filling with tears.

“And when I start dying…” Law’s voice cracked, and he looked down, his fingers gripping tighter on Rosinante’s shirt, “when it starts killing me… I want you and (Y/N)-san to hold my hands!”

Law sobbed, his body trembling with the force of it, his snot clogging his nose.

“I don’t want to die alone!” cried Law desperately, the words coming from the depths of his chest.

Rosinante’s lips trembled, his heart weeping for the boy. His hands reached out, and wrapped around Law, pulling him close.

“Of course, kid. I promise. I promise, Law.”

“You won’t die alone,” said Rosinante, tears sliding down his eyes.

Law bawled into Rosinante’s shirt, clinging to him tight, weeping. Rosinante held him tight, cradling Law's head to his chest, hugging him close to his heart.

Doflamingo x Reader

“Your husband wasn’t a saint.” sneered Doflamingo, brows furrowed.

“Neither are you,” you replied firmly. “You were going to kill him either way, whether he was a traitor or not. Rosi chose how he would die, and it wasn’t for you.”

You continued glaring at the man swathed in the pink feathers.

It was for Law. All for Law. He wanted Law to be healthy, to be free. Rosinante wanted that so much he was willing to abandon the marines themselves, playing a double game with them and Doflamingo, fooling them both, getting the fruit for Law. Never in his life did Rosinante lie to Sengoku - the man was his adopted father, after all.

Except once.

When he told Sengoku he would stay away from the island.

Doflamingo’s smile fell, his mouth settling into a thin line. For a long, tense moment, he didn’t speak.

Doflamingo smirked, his smile curved like the moon.

“Well, I can imagine how much more it must hurt then, that he didn’t live for you.” he said, the cruel words coming out in a tone of nonchalance, folding his long arms behind his head, putting his right leg atop his knee. He tilted his head toward you, still wearing that devilish smile, and said, “He wasn’t even alive long enough to find out you’re pregnant.”

Your stomach hurt. Your heart wept.

Doflamingo didn’t give you time to recover. He went on.

“And where is he now, huh? Your marine hero? Where is my little brother to protect you from me? I’ll tell you where. Bottom of the sea. Do you want to know why I’m here and he isn’t? Because he let the marines brainwash him, made him hate me, and stuck his nose in my business. I welcomed him back with open arms, without any questions asked, and he spat in my face.”

Doflamingo spoke it all with a smile. Soon, that too, was gone. “Do you want to know why I’m the leader of the family?”

“Because I’m not afraid to get my hands dirty. Because I’m not soft like my father, or my brother. Because I don’t let my emotions cloud my judgement. When there’s a problem, I handle it. If my family is threatened, I protect it, no matter what it takes, no matter who I have to kill. The world won’t bend to a fist with no weight, or a good-hearted fool.”

“And that’s why your husband is dead and you’re stuck with me.” Doflamingo sneered, his grin demonic, wide and cruel, filling your vision. “Because he was the weaker one of the two of us.”

****

Okay, so for the poll, I am indecided on whether Law & Doflamingo should meet/interact at the hospital when the baby is born, as both will be present there in that location. I'm of the thought Doflamingo would, as delusional as he is, let Law do as he pleased with the "oh, he's having an indepentant phase, I'll leave him alone and he'll come back to the fold" attitude since Doflamingo doesn't know Law witnessed him killing Rosinante. But then another part of me is thinking Doflamingo might attempt a grab for Law since Law is still 1) not as strong 2) still young and frail-looking (even despite getting a full ass growth spurt from 110 cm to 150-160 cm after healing himself from the Lead Disease)

Taglist: @fanaticsnail @daydreamer-in-training

Oh, and have this pic of how Law & Rosi would be at home with Reader if Rosi survived. (Because if I have to suffer, so do you + this is def how Law looks like in the fic next time Reader sees him after Rosi's death)

Art source

[lecsainz]

hi! can you write some travis kelce x reader angst? thank you!

DIFFERENT THINGS

parings: travis kelce x girlfriend!reader

summary: the one where you decide to break up with travis because your future ideas are different.

an: about the super bowl, WHAT A GAME!

( my last work || go to my main masterlist )

The cold Kansas City wind bit through your coat as you stood on the doorstep, clutching the handle of your suitcase. The walls of our apartment seemed to close in on you, echoing the weight of the decision you were about to make. You had known Travis since our college days, and your love had weathered through many storms, but now it faced a tempest that threatened to tear you apart.

The sound of the door unlocking pulled you from your thoughts. The familiar creak of the door swung open, revealing Travis, still in his Chiefs jersey, the exhaustion evident in his eyes. A victorious smile painted across his face faded as he registered the somber atmosphere.

"Hey, babe! We did it again!" he exclaimed, expecting your usual enthusiastic response.

You managed a weak smile, your heart clenching at the realization that this would be the last time he'd see it. "Yeah, you did great out there."

He furrowed his brows, concern etching his features. "What's going on, Y/N?"

You took a deep breath, your hands trembling as you clutched the handle of your suitcase tighter. "Trav, we need to talk."

His eyes searched yours for reassurance, but the heavy air in the room told a different story. "Okay, talk to me. What's on your mind?"

"I... I can't do this anymore, Travis," you confessed, your voice barely above a whisper. "Our paths, they're going in different directions. You want a family, a home. I want to build my career, travel, explore. I can't give you the life you want."

His eyes widened, disbelief and hurt clouding them. "What are you saying, Y/N?"

Tears welled up in your eyes as you fought to keep your composure. "I'm saying, I think we need to end this, Trav. It's not fair to either of us to keep pretending we want the same things. You deserve someone who can give you the life you dream of."

His jaw tightened, and he ran a hand through his hair, a mix of frustration and sadness painting his expression. "But I want you, Y/N. I thought we were building a life together."

You shook your head, tears streaming down your face. "I thought so too, but I can't ignore what I want, and I can't ask you to ignore your dreams. It's better this way."

He took a step closer, desperation in his eyes. "Can't we find a compromise? Work through this?"

You shook your head again, aching to reach out and comfort him. "We've tried, Travis. But compromises won't change what we fundamentally want from life. It's time to let go."

Silence hung heavily between you, broken only by the muffled sobs you couldn't contain. Travis reached out, his hand hovering in the air as if uncertain whether to bridge the gap. In that moment, your love, once fierce and unwavering, crumbled into the heartbreaking reality of your diverging paths.

With a heavy heart, you turned away, pulling your suitcase behind you. "I've already packed my things. I'll be staying with a friend tonight."

He remained silent, his gaze fixed on the floor. As you reached the door, you hesitated, a part of you hoping he'd stop you, convince you that you could make it work. But the words never came.

"I'm sorry, Travis," you whispered, opening the door to a world where your love was now just a bittersweet memory.

[elektricvenus]

Rebel Hearts: An Unlikely Love

Pairing: Chloe Price x shy!reader

Rating: PG

Synopsis: you just moved to Arcadia Bay and Chloe is the first person you meet, time to see how this relationship grows….

╔═════════°• 🩵 •° ══════════╗

Author’s Note: with the news of a new game I haddddd to write something about our punk queen Chloe. It’s fluff and just two cuties falling in love

As Chloe Price sauntered down the streets of Arcadia Bay, her rebellious spirit on full display, she couldn't help but notice a newcomer. A shy and innocent woman who seemed uncertain in this unfamiliar town. Intrigued by the contrast, Chloe couldn't resist approaching her with a mischievous grin.

"Hey, newbie. Lost in the chaos of Arcadia Bay?" Chloe called out, her blue hair catching the sunlight.

The woman startled, her eyes widening as she glanced at Chloe. "Um, y-yeah. I just moved here, actually. I'm not sure where anything is..."

Chloe's smirk softened into a warm smile. She sensed a kindred spirit in this uncertain newcomer and decided that maybe, just maybe, she could be the friend Chloe had been longing for. She walked up to her, offering a hand.

"Well, welcome to Arcadia Bay. I'm Chloe Price, your guide to all things wild and unpredictable around here. Stick with me, and I'll make sure you survive this place in style."

Curiosity and a glimmer of hope shone in the woman's eyes as she shook Chloe's hand and introduced herself. "It's... nice to meet you, Chloe. Thanks for offering to show me around."

And so, an unlikely friendship began to form between them. Chloe introduced her to the hidden gems of Arcadia Bay, from the cliffside views at the lighthouse to the mysteries lurking within Blackwell Academy. As they spent time together, their friendship deepened, their laughter filling the air as they navigated the ups and downs of this small coastal town.

But, as time passed, Chloe started to notice a flutter in her chest whenever she was around her. It was more than friendship, more than camaraderie—it was a blossoming attraction that she hadn't anticipated. The way her innocence and kind-heartedness brought out a softer side of Chloe made her realize that there was something deeper than their friendship.

One evening, as they sat on Chloe's truck, overlooking the beach, the sun painting the sky with hues of orange and pink, Chloe couldn't keep her feelings hidden any longer. Taking a deep breath, she turned and spoke…her voice laced with vulnerability.

"there's something I need to tell you. This friendship we have, it's... it's not enough for me anymore. Being around you, it's like finding a missing part of myself," Chloe confessed, her voice tinged with a mix of fear and longing.

The woman’s eyes widened, her gaze shifting between Chloe's face and the crashing waves. She spoke softly, uncertainty framing her words. "Chloe... I feel that too. This connection we share, it's unique. I... I think I'm falling for you."

In that moment, the air seemed to shift, their unspoken desire hanging heavily between them. Chloe cupped her cheek, drawing her closer until their lips finally met in a tender, hesitant kiss. It was a moment of realization, of two souls finding solace and love in each other's arms.

From that day on, their friendship bloomed into a beautiful, unexpected relationship. They faced the challenges of Arcadia Bay hand-in-hand, each providing strength and support to the other as they navigated the storms that threatened to tear their lives apart.

In the midst of chaos and uncertainty, They discovered a love that surpassed their wildest dreams. Together, they brought light to the darkness, finding solace and refuge in the arms of someone who understood them like no one else could. Their once unlikely friendship had transformed into a powerful and passionate love story, proving that sometimes the deepest connections come from the most unexpected places.

[pacific-rimbaud]

i'm curious how do you feel about dramione community now?

i'm a new writer, long time reader and can't help but feel like the fandom and the ship changed so much and i wonder if i even have a place in it anymore.

there's so much demand for the writers from the readers (constant update demands, no willingness to engage with wips) and at the same time i've been in a couple of dramione writer communities where other writers are openly pressuring each other to either start tiktok or finish the fic before posting it (the new dramione writers society discord server specifically).

particularly upset when i see people advising each other to commission art to promote their fic for writing.

it seems like that space for writers to be just writers becomes smaller and smaller and readers are not interested in the fandom but rather the next hot fic that's getting traction.

and all that combined with the overall hatred toward dramione as a ship outside of dramione.

I've genuinely stopped writing because of this. and i'm sad that i lost that one hobby that made me feel good, as it now seems like a popularity contest more than just fandom fun.

you seem like you're able to balance your love for writing with the changed landscape of the fandom. at least from the outside posts :D

DHr grew exponentially in the short time I spent in the ship, and that growth will only accelerate as big name fandom writers continue to enter traditional publishing with seven-figure book and film deals.

Life is change. Change is death. It's okay to grieve what's gone and won't come back.

And I want to add: keep writing. No matter what. But that would be hypocritical. I haven't written in a year, and remain deeply uncertain about whether or not I'll take it up again. It's a real puzzle.

The relevant questions seem to be: why do I want to write? And: what spaces feel nurturing to me as a writer?

The first one's easy. I write because I like the films I see in my head. I like the way language sounds. I like to experience the past, and to be swept away by intense emotions. It's like having a Holodeck in my head. And sometimes, when everything clicks, I get to describe my little bespoke scenarios in words that make a nice sound when they rub up against one another.

I'm waiting on a good answer to the second question. All I know is that art, criticism and commerce have always been an incredibly awkward ménage à trois. No shade to folks seeking to work the fandom algorithm and secure the bag (posting already completed work on a schedule, writing popular tropes and characterizations, and using original art in social media marketing are all great ways to do that). Whether money changes hands or merely attention (which can be converted into money), that's commerce having its turn at the wheel.

I'm suspicious that my creative brain is commerce-repulsed. Maybe yours is, too. So it goes.

I'm certain that we shouldn't let that keep us off the Holodeck.

So. Make a deal with me. I promise to run some freaky little scenarios in the simulator this summer if you'll do the same. Then let's meet in the limestone cave and paint our blorbos by candlelight. Let's tell them around the campfire. Come draw them with me in the sand.

[notachair]

ANALYSIS: On Armand's Dubai (interview) outfits

I don't know if this has been done before, but I'm doing it regardless. I have been thinking about the way Armand's been clothed compared to Louis in the Dubai setting through S1 and now in S2. So here's an attempt at an analysis of the fits Armand's been wearing throughout the series in these scenes... In comparison to Armand, who goes between black-white-maroon(-navy blue), Louis is always in full black during Dubai*, it's his color in Dubai. I find it interesting how the outfits interplay and visually sets a role for Armand during this timeline, within the setting of the interview. Btw, mind that this analysis is done within the now established dynamic they've got going on.

*Though there was one shot where he throws a glass on a painting where I thought the shirt might have looked more maroon like Armand's E3 shirt but… I'm uncertain about that.

Season 1

In S1, in his role as Rashid, he constantly wore his black fits, all the way up to and through the moment in the finale where he rids himself of the gloves and brown-coloured lenses. There is some variety to what shirts and robes he wears on top. He starts with something more similar to the other servants of the household, though unbuttoned somewhat at the neck. There's also of course the iconic deep V-neck, a display of the chest we continue to see consistently in S2 Dubai. Also, we cannot forget his key accessory; the ipad <3

My overall thought around the full black fits, is that they work as a visual representation and conformity to the Louis household and to Louis himself. Or rather a reverence, a subservient role at Louis' service. A visual "I'm at Louis' side and at his service". Louis and Armand's true relationship, and the tension in it from the disagreement over the interview, does leak through his clad self. But I wouldn't say it discounts the representation, as he functions within the stretched boundaries of his disguise, of (fake) Rashid. Perhaps one could also note on the double layers.

S2. Episode 1

Interestingly enough, the next time we see him- he's in stark white on top (gray white-striped slacks) (do iron your shirts though richlings). This color arrives together with an open disagreeable snarkiness towards the progress of the interview- we are told Armand didn't want Louis to do the interview. They're checkered, white to Louis' black, at odds (note that I say at odds, not enemies).

Eventually, after Armand's left and Louis' proceeding little emotional breakdown in front of Daniel, we get a scene in their bedroom. I'm not so sure how far the bedroom outfits display the same function as the interview fits, but I'll just note that Louis is again in black, and Armand in a white shirt with stripes, additionally to red pants (with a pattern!). Here they proceed to form a bridge, through Armand giving in some by offering his help and support at Louis' side with the interview.

After their bedroom conversation, they enter the room (and the interview) together as a united front- both wearing full black (black slacks). I see this as a visual representation of this unity they arrived at. I would add though, that Armand's shirt is just a tiny bit lighter than the full black which he'd worn previously in S1, one might say a dark gray. Though... it really may just be the fabric?

S2. Episode 2

Same fit throughout the episode as the last one from E1. The E1 ending fit lay the groundwork for the changed mood for the rest of E2, even though it ends more tense at the end. Armand is continuously at Louis' side here, and whatever disagreement is had, appears playful, rehashed, or otherwise softened. They're affectionate and awfully sweet as they recount their first encounter and early flirting (lmao to that scene of their "young friends"), getting a little lost in the memory of each other even. (As a small note, I'd say Louis learns something new about Armand here too)

If the shirt really is a dark gray, one might consider it an in-betweener of Louis' black and Daniel's consistent grays. Having reeled in some of that Daniel antagonistation. Though Armand's at Louis' side here, he does gently restrain Louis' ire towards Daniel, and even offer some comfort, during that last scene where he was "put back into place", where they refound the young interviewer of the 70s which they could have say "what happened next?" in no time (✔️mission accomplished guys!👏)

S2. Episode 3

In ep 3 however? He's suddenly wearing a loose maroon shirt (black slacks) throughout the episode, both through his one-on-one with Daniel and together with Louis. It's a dark colour, but I find the colour here curious as I'm a little uncertain how I should place it (it looks quite good btw XD), but it's clearly its own colour here in a sense.

He enters the scene and the interview on his own this episode, and proceeds to share part of his own odyssey (his use of it is so curious, cut brashly short and adjusted a bit for simplification, there's a purpose here. Multiple I believe. It works as a context parallel to the continuation of the Loumand romance and of the covens fallout. I'm also lowkey thinking it works as a vague mini parallel to his earlier background with Marius. The cycles of uprooted ground for him...). This was done through no true prompting of Daniel ("The question was; how do vampires hide from google, not how did Lestat break his heart").

Louis and Armand still appear very much united, and almost lost in each other again as they recount more of their developing romance (and ect.), though Daniel's being distracted by Talamasca hacker files. I'd say we've gotten to an achy part of Armand in E3, his bleeding heart I suppose. From his history with his coven and the fumble with Lestat, as well as his new opened heart to Louis 150 years later in the recountings. ("I locked away those words (I love you) for another 150 years. And then he arrived... and shattered that lock. This is what frightens me the most about you" OH LOVERBOY).

S2. Episode 4

In this episode he's wearing doubles layers, black on top of white (a nice fit again btw, he looks unreal), with dark gray striped slacks. Or, I noticed that the robe is actually a navy blue with black lapels at the front. And we see that's he's a little more disagreeable again during this part of the interview, where he's also actively contradicting Louis' own responses to Daniel's questions. They only truly butt heads until the moment with the pictures happen. Why this change again? I suppose... the upcoming event of what happens to Claudia might get them in a Mood. Though nevermind the Lestat shit, like... I suppose it parallels back to the troubles of their non-committed relationship in the recounts of the past, which is only "resolved" by their ending scene ("I want you. I want you more than anything in the world" "Are you sure about that, Arun?" "Yes, maitre" CRAZY BTW). It's sort of a more vulnerable appearance this episode, and the tensions/triggerpoints apparent in their relationship is on display again. But now it's with a greater context and awareness of its particulars. Much ouch.

After the moment with the pictures, we only see Dubai loumand again as they're fighting in the bedroom (apparently a quite silly one, which I admit is a relief and funny XD), which is a stark contrast to the new agreed commitment in their relationship and dynamic in Paris (crossed in different directions there). Armand's quick to bite back on the passive-aggressive comment that slipped, something that had clearly been built up throughout the episode (if not longer *cough*). I wonder... Anyway, they're in the process of removing their shirts, Armand's already got the black outer robe off and is working off his white shirt. Meanwhile, Louis is fumbling with his black shirt. Again, uncertain about the bedroom scenes, but I'd note that Armand was reaching out towards a blood-red shirt, rather than the white shirt with stripes that we'd seen in E1 or the maroon shirt of E3. Might it be a little pointer to the role he'll pick up in the story for E5? In the 70s? Regardless of his actual appearance during the Dubai timeline next episode, and whether or not this is just bed clothes. Indicative of a more... passionate and bloody role, something of a... "dark, twisted tenderness", as said by Assad, in a recent interview talking about E5 (much recommended read!).

Onwards & musings

I suspect for ep 5, Louis and Daniel will largely spend the interview focusing on whatever happened in the 70s on their own, and proceeding to build a united front between them against Armand as has been teased.

Talking about what's next though; ofc, it's... uncertain how much we have from the last few episodes, if... any actually. But from the glimpses we get of Dubai which has not been seen yet- he's again in full black, which I find interesting though not too surprising.

I don't know, I'm just really excited for what's next XD I'm really curious what they'll be doing for the final episodes for this marriage of theirs, and the role Armand's had in this odyssey of recollection here. Their relationship and the shit they've got going on deeply intrigue me ��

[glimmervoi]

A SEALED FATE: EMERALDS AND BLOOD - VIII The Part Where It All Begins

masterlist

e&b masterlist

WARNINGS: THIS CHAPTER CONTAINS DEPICTIONS OF VIOLENCE/BLOOD. Please do not read if this is something that you do not wish to see.

As you sat at the large dining table in the servants' kitchen, flanked by Alice and Rae, the ache in your body persisted. While putting on your uniform that morning, you couldn't help but notice the myriad of bruises painting your skin.

Alice had delivered a satchel of herbs from the castle's healer, promising relief from the discomfort. However their effect was hardly strong enough for the pain that you were in, leaving you grimacing with every movement. It made the simple act of eating a challenge, thanks to the tension in your muscles.

You spooned the porridge into your mouth slowly, praying you'd manage to consume it all before you were due in the supply room. The prospect of facing Sanria's wrath for being late loomed over you like a dark cloud.

"We'll pace ourselves today," Rae assured you, her soothing touch on your back providing a momentary comfort. "After we're done with the north wing, you can take a few hours to rest. I'll handle things here, and I will make sure that Sanria has no reason to harass you.”

You offered Rae a thankful smile before directing your attention to Alice. She was reading a piece of parchment, a faint smile gracing her lips. "What's that?" you asked, seeking a distraction from the persistent ache in your body.

Alice glanced up at you, before carefully folding the parchment and setting it aside. Taking a spoonful of her own porridge, she replied, "It's a letter from my family." There was warmth in her eyes, tinged with a hint of longing as she gazed at the neatly folded parchment.

"A good one, by the looks of it," you remarked, eating another mouthful of your breakfast. Rae let out a happy hum from your other side, her grin widening as she took a hearty gulp of water.

"Indeed," Rae chimed in, her gaze fixed on Alice with admiration. "Alice's family is truly remarkable. They often send her fresh vegetables, such as cucumbers and tomatoes. They’re quite popular.”

Alice nodded in agreement, finishing her porridge. "Yes, they're known for their exceptional crops," she confirmed. "But winter poses challenges, especially this year. I'm uncertain if we'll have any surplus to rely on this year. And, I highly doubt they’ll be sending me fish…”

The thought of receiving a package of old fish made you instinctively wrinkle your nose. Growing up in Greenriver, you'd grown accustomed to consuming a variety of questionable foods, but thankfully the experience of eating rotten fish had yet to catch you.

"What about your family?" Alice inquired, her empty bowl pushed aside as she leaned forward. Her gaze was fixed on you with curiosity. You paused, contemplating her question with a furrowed brow.

"Well..." you began slowly, setting your spoon down. Memories stirred, swirls of images from your childhood beginning to swarm your mind. Your father had been absent from your life, and your mother had passed away when you were just a child. With no siblings and no spouse, you found yourself understanding the reality that you didn't truly have a family anymore.

"My mother was a remarkable woman," you said, a gentle smile on your lips. "She was intelligent and strong, always working tirelessly to provide for us. Despite the absence of a man to hunt or offer protection, she managed to keep us not just alive, but thriving. Well, as much as we could thrive in such a poor village."

Rae's comforting hand once again ran down your back, her expression sympathetic.  As you delved deeper into memories of your mother, a wave of emotion washed over you. Her passing, shrouded in the mystery of an illness you couldn't understand, had left a painful mark on you. You recalled her final moments, her cold touch against your cheek as she whispered words in a language you couldn't comprehend.

You shook off the memories that now threatened to consume you, resuming your conversation. "She made sure I learned how to read and write," you continued. "Even if it meant sacrificing what little coin we had on books from the rare traveling merchants that passed through our village."

"What a valuable gift she gave you," Alice remarked, leaning forward with genuine interest. "The ability to read is priceless, particularly in our circumstances. Your mother sounds like she was a wise woman."

"She truly was," you said with a nod, fondness in your voice. "I have no doubt she's watching over me." Glancing around, you added with a hint of humor, "And probably scolding Iseul for her behavior last night."

Both Rae and Alice laughed. "What about your father?" Rae asked curiously, leaning in slightly.

You shrugged as you pushed a stray strand of hair from your face. "I'm honestly not sure," you admitted. "My mother never spoke of him, and I never had the chance to meet him. I stopped asking about him when I was about six; it seemed pointless as my mother never provided any answers."

"Interesting," Alice remarked, a strange note to her voice. Before you could ask what she meant, she rose from her seat. "Well, it's time for me to make my way to the southern wing. I'd rather not be the next target for Iseul," she quipped, casting a sympathetic glance in your direction.

You offered her a strained smile in response, bidding her farewell as she rinsed her bowl and exited the kitchen. As Rae stood and stretched, a loud groan escaped her lips.

"We should get started soon, too," Rae suggested, gesturing towards your half-full bowl of porridge. "Finish up quickly, and then we can head to the northern wing."

You sighed softly, acknowledging her with a nod. Another day of labor was waiting for you, which was made more challenging by the bruises on your body. Frowning, you took another bite of your food, grateful for the temporary distraction it offered from the unsettling events of last night with Hoseok. Pretending as though it hadn't occurred seemed to be the most effective coping mechanism this morning, so you resolved to maintain that facade until you were confronted with it by someone else.

When you entered the supply room with Rae at your side, the usual sight of Sanria standing at the center with her parchment in hand was gone. Instead, you were greeted by a different figure – a blonde woman who radiated warmth and kindness.

Isabella's smile welcomed you, her blue eyes sparkling. Despite her position as a service maid, she wore the same blue uniform as yours. The unexpected sight caused you and Rae to pause in surprise.

"Good morning," Isabella greeted, smiling. "How are you feeling?" Her question seemed directed primarily at you, prompting you to offer a feeble smile in return. "Ready to work," you replied, mustering an attempt at cheerfulness. Isabella chuckled softly, though a hint of concern lingered in her expression.

"If you don't mind me asking, Isabella..." Rae interjected, hands planted firmly on her hips. "Where is Sanria? Is she unwell?" she inquired. Isabella's gaze shifted to her parchment, pausing. Eventually, she raised her eyes to meet Rae's.

You were interested in Isabella's response. Though you harbored no particular fondness for the old maid, you still found yourself wondering about her well-being, if only out of basic human concern.

"Don't worry about it. Just think of today as a... relaxing day," Isabella reassured, her smile seemingly forced. "You won't have to worry about me looming over your shoulder, so enjoy it."

Surprise flickered across you, sensing that something was amiss. Had your actions from last night truly resulted in such dire consequences for Sanria? Could she have been reprimanded or even dismissed? You shook your head, marking the thought as unlikely. Surely, Sanria's absence was merely due to illness – a common occurrence during this time of the year.

You mulled over it, reasoning that if Sanria had truly been replaced, Rae would have likely been informed. After all, she would have been the natural replacement for the position. Even if she declined the promotion, she wouldn't have felt the need to ask about the whereabouts of her head maid.

"Will you two be working in the north wing today?" Isabella asked, reaching for a smaller piece of parchment from the nearby table. Rae nodded, accepting the parchment handed to her by the blonde maid. "Everything should be tidied up from the party last night before the guests awaken. By the time you're finished, it should be time for lunch."

You both murmured in acknowledgment, and Isabella, seemingly satisfied, gracefully made her way past you. Just as she reached the doorway, she paused and glanced back at you. "Try to take it easy today, alright?" she advised before disappearing through the threshold, leaving you and Rae alone.

"Yes, ma'am," Rae replied, humor lacing her tone as she saluted the now-empty space where Isabella had stood. You turned to Rae, a bemused expression crossing your features.

"Sanria, missing a day of work?" Rae exclaimed incredulously, handing you the parchment. "Who's going to threaten us with beatings and dungeon sentences today?" Her eyes widened with mock horror as she looked at you. Despite the ache in your ribs, you couldn't help but let out a light laugh at her joke.

"Still, I wonder why I wasn't informed of her absence," Rae mumbled under her breath, busying herself with filling a cart with the necessary items. "I feel like Isabella is hiding something from me."

You shrugged, scanning the neatly written list provided by Isabella. "I don't think she would do such a thing... but I suppose we'll have to wait and see."

Rae nodded in agreement, letting out a sigh. "You're right. Let's just see how this unfolds," she muttered, before straightening up. "Now come on. We're the first ones at the north wing today, so let's get a head start on our tasks."

As soon as you stepped into the main hall of the northern wing, your jaw dropped in astonishment. The sight before you was nothing short of shocking. You had expected a certain level of tidiness from nobles, but you found yourself sorely mistaken.

Nobles often projected an air of superiority, as if they were inherently cleaner and more refined than those of a lower status. Yet, the reality before you shattered that illusion entirely. Glasses of various emptiness cluttered every available flat surface. Some held remnants of red and white liquids, undoubtedly wine, their thick scent permeating the air. However, among them lay glasses containing liquids clearly not meant for drinking.

Amidst the chaos, plenty of glasses had been carelessly spilled and shattered, leaving stains scattered across the ground. Glass shards glinted menacingly, prompting a silent thanks from you for the sturdy shoes provided to you. Despite the protective footwear, you remained cautious, gingerly navigating your way around the hazardous debris.

Pearls lay strewn across the floor, becoming unwelcome obstacles as they caught under the wheels of your cart. Rae emitted an annoyed huff as she attempted to kick them out of the way, clearing a path as best she could.

A torn curtain hung from the window. Furniture was haphazardly pushed around, obstructing your path. More stains adorned the upholstery, and you wrinkled your nose in disdain, suspecting that not all of them were the result of spilled wine.

As you traveled further into the hallway your gaze swept over the messy scene before you, causing you to groan softly. If this was merely one segment of the wing, you could only imagine the state of the rest. Clearly, you had your work cut out for you.

Your attention was drawn to a particularly large wine stain, its presence unignorable. Initially appearing as a small trail, the stain gradually expanded into streaks against the carpet as you followed its path. Spatters of wine adorned the walls as you drew nearer to the final bedroom.

A fleeting thought crossed your mind as you surveyed the scene. Could it be that a Lady had engaged in a heated altercation with a bottle of wine in hand? Or perhaps she had clumsily spilled an excessive amount and resorted to... unconventional means of cleaning it up? The absurdity of the thought left you confused as you simply stared.

Coming to a halt in front of the final bedroom door, any semblance of amusement faded as the gravity of the situation became apparent. Smeared red stains marred the surface of the large wooden doors, while dried crimson puddles seeped ominously from beneath the threshold. It was abundantly clear that this scene was far from the result of an innocent spill.

With anxiety gnawing at your nerves, you hesitated with your hand over the door knob, uncertain of the horrors that lay beyond. Your heart raced erratically, and beads of sweat formed on your brow.

Observing your sudden change in demeanor, Rae stepped closer, attempting to lighten the mood with a joke about a messy couple and their expensive red wine. However, her words trailed off abruptly, realization washing over her features in a wave of dread.

"B-blood?" you murmured, the word barely escaping your lips as your eyes widened in horror. "Is it blood? Should we call for a guard? Someone might have been killed." Rae shook her head frantically.

"No, we can't raise the alarm yet!" Rae's voice trembled with fear, mirroring the panic in her wide eyes. Despite her own apprehension, she was attempting to maintain a level head, and you were grateful for it. Two panicked maids would only escalate the situation.

"We need to assess the situation first," she insisted, her brow furrowing as she stared at the ominous door. "What if it's simply an extraordinarily bad wine spill? We could land ourselves in serious trouble if we disrupt the guests by sounding a false alarm."

Your instincts screamed that this wasn't merely a spilled drink. The color was too ominous, too reminiscent of something far more sinister than old wine. Yet, fatigue and lingering unease from the previous night clouded your judgment. Could it be that your mind was playing tricks on you?

Taking a steadying breath, you reluctantly nodded in agreement. "Alright. Let's investigate before we involve the guards," you said. Rae seemed hesitant to approach the door herself, so you stepped forward.

Each step over the hardened stain beneath your feet sent a shiver down your spine, the quiet crunching noise amplifying the dread in your stomach. Suppressing a nervous gulp, you approached the door and knocked gently. Your breath caught in your throat as you strained to hear any response from within.

The stained door remained painfully silent, offering no indication of what lay beyond. Casting a desperate glance at Rae, you found her gesturing for you to try again. Frowning, you reluctantly turned back to the door and knocked once more, this time with more urgency.

Still met with silence, your body quivered with apprehension and a whimper escaped your lips. Fear gripped you tightly, your instincts urging you to flee, to turn away from whatever darkness lurked on the other side of the door.

But you knew you couldn't. You had to confront whatever lay beyond. You couldn’t just leave it. Drawing what courage you could muster, you exchanged one last glance with Rae, seeking solace in her unwavering presence, before finally pushing open the heavy doors.

The sight in front of you was utterly horrifying, causing your legs to give out from underneath you.

Blood was splattered across every surface and the sickening stench of iron and death mingled with it, saturating the air. Amidst the red, a blonde woman was motionless on the bed.

She lay on her back atop the grand bed, her head tilted over the edge and her wide blue eyes fixed blankly upon yours. Her blush-colored gown lay in tatters, revealing the gaping hole in the center of her chest.

You retched, the contents of your breakfast emptying from your stomach violently. You could hear Rae's horrified screams echoing behind you. Heavy footsteps thundered away from the room, the sound fading as your gasps and gags filled the air.

The room lay in disarray, a chaotic jumble of blood and gore. It resembled the aftermath of a frenzy, as if some untamed beast had stormed through, wreaking havoc in its wake. Once a serene pastel pink, the walls now bore the crimson stains of spilled blood.

What horrified you the most, however, was the sight of her own heart nestled in her bloodied hand. It was a jarring sight, as if she had taken it out herself. Yet, you couldn't shake the unsettling feeling that this was precisely what the murderer wanted it to appear like.

Your mind struggled to understand the sheer cruelty of the scene before you. You couldn't fathom why someone would commit such a gruesome act. As thoughts raced through your mind, a troubling possibility surfaced – Taehyung. Had she somehow angered him? Could he have been capable of such brutality?

The notion sent a chill down your spine, but you found yourself questioning whether he could truly be capable of such an atrocity.

Footsteps approached once more, and strong hands lifted you from the grisly scene. Moments later, you found yourself deposited unceremoniously in the disheveled hallway, alongside Rae. Together, you watched in silence as guards flooded into the room, some recoiling in horror and others rushing out to empty their stomachs into a nearby vase.

The commotion drew the attention of the guests, who emerged from their rooms with questions on their lips, only to be swiftly silenced and ushered back into their chambers by a stern-faced higher-ranking guard.

"Come with me, ladies," a gruff voice commanded, belonging to a younger guard who gestured towards a nearby door. You scrambled to your feet, your body trembling uncontrollably as you followed him down the hall. Clutching your arms tightly around your chest, you attempted to quell the unsettling tremors that coursed through you.

Rae shuffled along behind you, her faint sniffling betraying the tears she was attempting to hold back. You, however, remained too stunned to allow your own tears to fall. Shock held you in its grip, rendering you speechless.

As the guard swung open the door, revealing a room reminiscent of the tea room you had cleaned on your first day at the castle, he gestured toward the large table at its center which was surrounded by large chairs. Taking a seat, you flinched as he slammed the door shut behind you.

"Tell me everything that happened," he commanded, settling into the chair opposite you. Rae opened her mouth, but no words emerged, her voice lost in the grip of shock and fear.

With a sickening realization of the gravity of the situation, you understood how dire things looked for both you and Rae. A Lady brutally murdered, discovered by you both – it painted a damning picture. It was important to clear the air immediately; now was not the time to let shock and horror render you mute.

Clearing your throat to steady your voice, you began to recount the events. "Well... we arrived at the wing to clean before the guests awoke. I noticed red liquid on the curtains and walls, initially thinking it was wine. But as we approached the door, we realized the liquid was... smeared," you explained, pushing the image of the woman's dead eyes from your mind. "We hesitated, uncertain if it was truly blood. Then, we knocked, and upon receiving no response, I entered... and saw..." Your voice trailed off, the memory too ghastly to put into words.

The guard's expression remained stoic, unmoved by the horror etched on your face. "So, you didn't witness anyone entering or leaving?" he inquired. You shook your head.

“When we entered the wing, it was deserted. There was nobody there,” you confirmed, meeting the guard's intense stare head-on, hoping to convey the sincerity of your words.

“Sir,” Rae interjected, her voice steadying slightly as she regained some composure, “we swear we didn’t see anyone, nor did we have any involvement. We were simply here to clean up the aftermath of last night's events.”

Sensing the guard's lingering skepticism, Rae pressed on, her voice tinged with urgency. “If it were fresh blood, it would still be wet, wouldn’t it?” she asked, her gaze shifting to the guard in search of any hint of acknowledgment or understanding.

His expression softened as Rae's words sunk in. "When we arrived, the blood was already dried and caked into the rugs. I rushed to get you as soon as we saw it," she elaborated, her voice firm.

The guard's demeanor shifted, his initial disbelief giving way to understanding. "You're right. I'll inform my commander. Stay here," he instructed before rising from his seat and exiting the room. As the door clicked shut behind him, a wave of relief washed over you.

"Rae, you're so smart," you murmured gratefully, offering her a small smile. She attempted to return the gesture, though her expression betrayed a hint of discomfort. You felt a twinge of gratitude that you had been the one to open the door; at least Rae hadn't been directly confronted with the grisly scene.

"Who do you think did it?" Rae's voice was barely a whisper, heavy with disbelief. "They'd have to be completely deranged to commit such a brutal act..."

Shrugging, you frowned in contemplation. "I'm not sure. But I do recognize the woman," you murmured, your gaze fixed on the table in front of you.

Rae's head whipped around to face you, her eyes wide with shock. "How?!" she whispered urgently. You recounted how the woman had rudely declined a drink from you the previous night, the memory still fresh in your mind.

"Perhaps... She had said something disrespectful? Maybe to a prince?" Rae's voice was barely audible, laden with uncertainty. "If she treated you with such rudeness for no apparent reason, then it's not unthinkable that she might have mistreated someone important as well."

You shook your head slowly, pondering her words. "I considered Taehyung... but would he really resort to such brutality?" you whispered back, your voice laced with doubt. "Besides, most nobles are rude towards servants. She ought to have known better than to provoke the royal family."

Before your conversation could continue, the door creaked open once more. Instead of the guard from earlier, Namjoon entered the room, his presence sending a wave of apprehension through you both. Rising hastily, you and Rae bowed deeply, your hearts sinking as you awaited his words.

"Please, sit," Namjoon's deep voice broke the tense silence, accompanied by a tight yet amiable smile. You and Rae complied, settling back into your chairs with rigid posture as he joined you, producing a folded piece of parchment from his coat pocket. You couldn't help but wonder if he recognized you from the previous encounter when he had requested tea.

"The two of you seem to have found yourselves in the wrong place at the wrong time," Namjoon began, his gaze firm yet not unkind. It reminded you of the way an older brother or father might look at you when you'd done something wrong. "However, the guard who was just questioning you mentioned that you raised some valid points. You arrived when the blood was already dry and hardened, correct?" he inquired, his eyes scanning your faces for confirmation. You nodded eagerly, a desperate desire to prove your innocence evident in your expression. "And you didn't witness anyone entering or leaving the wing."

Namjoon continued to ask a few more questions, his imposing presence amplifying  your growing anxiety with each passing moment. Once satisfied with your responses, he released a heavy sigh.

"The atrocity of this crime surpasses any blame that could be placed on a few maids," he declared solemnly. "I choose to believe you in this matter. We will pursue the perpetrator diligently. In the meantime, I will instruct your head maid to assign you to the southern wing instead."

With a decisive fold of his parchment, Namjoon concluded his statement. "You may return to your chambers now. I can only imagine how traumatizing this must have been for you, so I will grant you the day to rest. However, I expect you back in working order tomorrow," he stated firmly.

As he rose from his seat, you followed suit, bowing respectfully and expressing your gratitude. Sensing his gaze lingering on you as he granted you permission to depart, you did your best to ignore it. The last thing you needed was to draw the attention of another prince.

You hurried back to your chambers, Rae close behind. The room greeted you with emptiness as you burst through the door. Finally feeling safe enough to let go, you collapsed into Rae's arms. Almost instantly, you felt her trembling against you as she buried her face into your shoulder.

The two of you stood there, clinging to each other, and allowed the tears to flow freely. Tears for the tragic loss of life, tears for the near accusation hanging over you, and tears for the overwhelming stress of life within the castle walls.

In the midst of your tears, you found yourself offering up a silent prayer, perhaps the millionth time that day, that things would somehow turn out for the best. You couldn't shake the feeling that things were only going to get worse, the regret creeping into your thoughts over your decision to come to the palace. For once, you didn't push the regret away; instead, you allowed it to settle within you, acknowledging the weight of your circumstances.

[httpjeonlicious]

i know you - carlos sainz

inspired by i know you by faye webster

carlos sainz x reader

warnings: angst?

In which you're, determined to salvage your complicated relationship with Carlos.

˖⁺‧₊˚♡˚₊‧⁺˖˖⁺‧₊˚♡˚₊‧⁺˖˖⁺‧₊˚♡˚₊‧⁺˖˖⁺‧₊˚♡˚₊‧⁺˖˖⁺‧₊˚♡˚₊‧⁺˖˖⁺‧₊˚♡

You sat on the edge of your favorite park bench, the late afternoon sun casting long, golden shadows across the pavement. The leaves rustled in the gentle breeze, and a distant murmur of city life provided a quiet backdrop to your conversation.

"Carlos," you began, your voice carrying a mixture of tenderness and vulnerability, "I need you to understand something. I don't like that you're holding back. It makes things complicated, uncertain. But I want to be with you. I want to understand why."

Carlos looked down, the lines on his face etched with a blend of regret and introspection. "Baby, it's not that simple. There are things... things I'm still trying to figure out."

You reached out, gently placing your hand on his, fingers intertwined like vines seeking a sturdy trellis. "I know you," you whispered, your gaze steady. "I've seen the corners of your soul, the parts you try to hide. And even with the uncertainty, the confusion, I want to be here."

He looked up, his eyes searching yours for answers he wasn't sure he'd find. "But what if... what if you're meant for something more, something different?"

Your smile was soft, the kind that spoke of understanding born from acceptance. "If that's what you're searching for, I want to know. I want to be the one you talk to, the one you share your hopes and fears with."

Carlos leaned in, his forehead resting against yours, a silent acknowledgment of the depth of your connection. "Amor, you're asking for so much, willing to endure so much pain and confusion."

You held him closer, as if trying to bridge the distance that had settled between you. "I'm willing to change if it means we can be together. I'm willing to be patient, to learn, to grow. I'll stand by your side, even when it's hard."

He closed his eyes, feeling the weight of your words settle in his heart. "And what if one day, you realize this isn't what you want?"

Your voice was steady, unwavering. "Then I'll remember everything I learned from you. I'll carry it with me, even after I've passed away. Because what we have, Carlos, it's worth it. Even with all the complications, all the uncertainty, it's worth it."

As the sun began its descent, painting the sky in a palette of oranges and pinks, You and Carlos sat together, holding onto each other, finding solace in the knowledge that sometimes, love was about embracing the complications, and holding tight even when the path ahead was unclear.

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authors note: not sure if i like this but i kept listening to faye webster on repeat and was inspired :)

[javiddenkins]

Javid Denkins is not interested in answering questions. 

It's 9:30 in the morning and I'm sitting across from Denkins in a conference room at the AMC Studios offices. Denkins declined to meet anywhere more personal than this beige and glass room, impersonal Muzak buzzing through the speakers, windows overlooking an empty studio lot. There are posters on the wall but none, strangely, for Blow the Man Down, the runaway hit Denkins conceived, writes, and now showruns. 

Blow the Man Down, or BTMD as it's frequently referred to by fans and journalists alike, is a workplace comedy set in the Golden Age of Piracy. This unusual premise would be interesting enough even without the top-tier leads brought on by AMC to play opposing pirate captains Sam Bellamy and Olivier Levasseur—Oscar Issac and John Boyega light up the screen and bring surprising comedy chops to the pirate-filled stage they share with such talents as Michelle Yeoh ("Zheng Yi Sao") and Sam Neill ("Captain Benjamin Hornigold"). 

But beyond that, BTMD seems to be that rare thing in mainstream media: a slow romance between two middle-aged men finding love for the first time. The first—and so far, only—season ends on a cliffhanger, our heroes separated by an ocean but determined to reach one another, and their love story—if it is one—stays unresolved. 

Usually an interview like this—between seasons, after renewal and filming but before advertising—would be the perfect opportunity to delve into the mind behind the magic and attempt to tease out hints about what's to come. 

But Denkins seems determined to ignore Hollywood's traditional playbook. 

Whether this is the standard conference room used for interviewing reluctant showrunners, or if Denkins picked it especially for the purpose, I'll never find out. I've already been waiting half an hour, uncertain if Denkins intends to join me at all. When he does finally arrive, he makes his position clear. 

"I'm only doing this because you agreed to my terms," he says. 

I'd describe what he looked like, if he had a coffee or a snack or a smoker's twitching nerves, if he sounded tired or amused or angry—but I can't. If you see a description here, it's because Denkins decided, for whatever reason, to approve it. Otherwise, sharing my impression of Denkins is off the table, one of many terms and conditions my editorial team and I had to agree to before Denkins would accept this meeting. 

Denkins doesn't want to make my job easy. Photos of him do exist from the few red carpets he's attended; enthusiastic interviews with the cast, writers, and production team of BTMD definitely paint a picture that belies Denkins's apparent efforts to avoid perception. But here and now, in the oppressive air conditioning of the AMC offices, I am contractually obligated to interview a cipher.

If he can be all business, though, then so can I. I hit a button on my phone's recording app, set it down between us, and ask what made him decide to tell the story of an obscure pair of pirates like Sam Bellamy and Olivier Levasseur.

He shrugs. "Why does anyone write anything? This is my job." 

It's not the kind of answer I was expecting. Something must show on my face, because he follows with, "That's unsatisfying, isn't it. No definitive answer."

"It's not what I expected," I hedge.

"What did you want to hear?"

I try to gather my thoughts, but I'm definitely stalling, uncertain that this is what Denkins intends. "I did a little research," I say. "Not as much as I imagine you did, but I found some of Bellamy and Levasseur's history together and, later, apart. Bellamy's ship is the only fully authenticated Golden Age shipwreck in the world, so it makes sense that the wrecking of the Whydah is an important turning point in season one. Levasseur, on the other hand, is best known for the mystery of his encoded treasure map, flung into the crowd at his hanging and only ever partially solved, which you seem to have used as a foundation for the coding and decoding motifs throughout. But for a show that seems determined to discuss the consequences of fame and reputation, it's fascinating that you've chosen two men most casual viewers have never heard of."

"Outside the narrative they built for themselves," Denkins corrects. "Is there a question in there?"

I remember again that Denkins isn't here to make this easy for me. "Why not choose one of the more well-known pirates of the era? Henry Morgan, Captain Kidd, and Blackbeard are all arguably more famous both now and when they were alive. What made you choose Bellamy and Levasseur for this story?"

"I think," Denkins says, "I just answered that. There's a difference between how you perceive yourself, and how the world perceives you. Those famous pirates retained their notoriety even after death. Sam and Ollie did have reputations when they were alive, but if people today know them at all, it's typically for reasons completely unrelated to whatever little fame they achieved in life."

"And that fascinates you?"

Denkins looks irritated. "It doesn't matter what fascinates me. That's the story, that's—look, I don't know how to write a puff piece like this," Denkins says. "I don't know if it would really sound like this, if anyone would bother caring enough about what I want to get this far."

"Excuse me?" I say.

"Do you honestly think," Denkins says, "there's a single journalist out there that would actually agree to these interview conditions? This is a fantasy, a what-if, and it still doesn't work."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean," says Denkins, "I didn't even give you a name."

And that's true, I realize. I don't have a name. 

"Right," says Denkins, as if hearing my thoughts—and I suppose, in a way, he does. "And you don't know how you got here, and you don't know where you'll go after. I made you up. I made all this up."

I look at my recorder, which isn't a recorder. I look at the room, which isn't a room. 

"Okay," I say. "So what did you want to happen?"

Denkins taps my phone's screen to stop the recording. Denkins imagines me noticing that he taps the screen, and so this must have meaning. There is no room for junk words and actions in prose, and even less in television. Whatever's on the page has to have meaning, or it's wasted space, wasted time, a moment that could have been useful now gone and never coming back.

Denkins shoves my phone back to the center of the table and says, "I wanted to see if I could just talk about the story without making it about me."

"But you're part of it," I point out. "You have to be. It came from you. It was something you thought was important, and then you put the effort in to create it. The story exists because of you, in relation to you. That's why people, why fans, want to know more about you. They love the story, and you made it, so they want to love you, too."

"I don't like that," says Denkins. "Rephrase it."

"They love the story," I say, parroting back at my creator, "and you made it. They want to know about you so they can know more about what the story means."

Denkins's chair creaks as he pushes it back, puts his head in his hands. I wonder if he's doing that in the real world, too, in the place where he's imagining this interview that will never exist. 

(Except I'm not the one wondering. He is. He's wondering what an interviewer would think of him if he allowed himself to show this weakness. Rephrase. Show this ache. Rephrase. Show this.)

"I'm not a story," Denkins says, face still hidden. The Muzak piped into the room seems too loud, too discordant now. Maybe that's what the world sounds like to him. "I'm not imaginary. I'm not a specimen to study under a microscope until every part of me is uncovered and connected one by one to every part of the show." He drags his hands back down and I think I can say that he looks very, very tired. 

"Yes, maybe I put some of myself in Blow the Man Down," he continues. "Maybe I did in season two as well. Maybe I put something in The Gang, and maybe I'll put something into whatever else I make for the next fifty years. And what I put there is—will be—has to be—my choice. All things I chose to share. But this?" He waves a hand at the nonexistent conference room, at nonexistent me. "This isn't a choice. It's a demand. I'm being held hostage for answers, as if me keeping my boundaries somehow ruins the show, ruins the story."

"Because you're not a story," I repeat back, watching for confirmation. "Because what you choose to reveal is the only story the audience should need."

"Yes," says Denkins. "That's it."

That's not it, though. I know this, because I'm him, talking to himself. Thinking all this through. 

"So you cut yourself off," I say. "No one can know anything about you, because they're already clawing for what you're not willing to share—so how much worse would it get if you gave them a chance to come closer, right?" 

"To take, and get it wrong anyway," he says. "Or get it right, but not like it. Not like me. How I'm perceived might change how the story is perceived. And even skipping over the whole art of it all—this is a business. How the story is perceived affects dozens, if not hundreds of people and careers. And all of it can get destroyed in an instant if there's some aspect of me that the audience decides is wrong."

Denkins pushes back from the table, stands up as if to leave. I'm not done yet, though. He's not done yet.

"Sounds lonely," I say.

"Sounds like something a fan would say," he shoots back, and I shrug.

"Blame yourself for thinking it and making me say it, then. It sounds lonely. It is lonely. It's lonely to think there's no way that you could open yourself up, talk about who you are and what your art means to you, without feeling like someone, everyone, will take advantage of that vulnerability."

I pause, and in that pause I find something to latch onto. "You've imagined me," I say. "You've imagined this scenario, where you stay cut off and oblique and hidden." I pick up my phone from where it's placed between us, and I shut it down completely—not because it exists, but because it's a symbol he understands. "What would happen if you imagined being part of the story?" I ask. Rephrase. "What would happen if you imagined being free?"

We look at each other. The tinny music of this artificial space comes to a sudden halt.

Denkins leaves the room. 

I am—

Denkins comes back. He sits down. He looks at me.

Time doesn't exist in the beige and glass room. But behind him, now, there is a poster of Sam Bellamy and Olivier Levasseur, a drilled coin on a cord stretched taut between them. And the Muzak hasn't restarted.

Denkins looks different. Or maybe he just feels different. Those things are functionally the same, here.

"You know the old movie trailers?" Denkins starts, not really a question. "The ones that start with 'in a world…'"

I nod. 

He smiles a little. "Okay. In a world where Blow the Man Down doesn't exist. Let's say there's something else instead. Let's say it's called Our Flag Means Death. It's a workplace comedy, it's the Golden Age of Piracy, the works. They even manage to kiss in the first season, though the cliffhanger is worse. And in that world, there's a different guy who runs it, a guy named David Jenkins, who seems nicer and more outgoing and shares a lot more of himself than I do. And I think it goes mostly okay for him, except he has to scrub his social media, delete most of his Instagram, and never gets to name his wife anywhere in case a fan might notice and start following her around."

"Sounds grim," I say.

He shrugs. "It's another way of handling it. David, in that world, has made a choice to draw the enemy fire toward himself, instead of hiding away and letting it scatter at random. It seems to work okay for him, and maybe it would for me too, but, you know. Maybe that's a little of myself I gave Ollie. Because I also like the idea of testing something first, all the way to destruction."

A little of myself. This—this is personal information. Something that, in the negotiations that never happened, he said he'd never give me.

My phone, with its blackened screen, is right there. I keep my hands still, folded together, decidedly not reaching for the phone. Denkins watches, sees. His shoulders loosen; neither of us, I think, realized how tense he'd been.

"In that world," he says, "there's a second season coming that no one knows anything about and there's a fandom going feral. Echo chambers that feed off their own theories because there's nothing new to add to the pot. Just like our world, right? In the absence of good data, overwrought ideology works just as well.

"And in the middle of this, to provide a distraction, maybe, or to draw that enemy fire like he so often does, David Jenkins says he'll get a Tumblr—you know, one of those not-really-social-media internet places. And maybe he does. He doesn't tell anyone his username, so it's a mystery whether he really did it or not. But someone opens an account. And someone says they're definitely not David Jenkins."

Javid Denkins is holding a cup of coffee. So am I, now. We take sips, mirrors of each other. The coffee tastes like it has seven sugars in it.

Denkins swirls his cup gently, not looking up at me. "When you're trying to figure out something that's terrifying," he says, slow and careful, "and enraging, and so big and so much that it feels like you'll collapse under the weight of it…sometimes you need to find a way to conceptualize it more abstractly. Make it manageable. Put it in bite-sized chunks. 

"So instead of me, dealing with all this fame, and these expectations, and these pulls to turn me from a person into a plot point…maybe there's this other guy. In this other universe, with this other pirate show. Another writer, who says he's definitely not David Jenkins. But—he could be. He could be. And either way, there's enough uncertainty that the fandom can't tell right away."

"Schrödinger's showrunner," I say. 

Denkins tips his mug at me. "Yeah, that gets pointed out, too. Because either it's really him and the fandom will eat at him—death by a thousand needy bites of demand, and something that feels like connection but by its nature can't be—or it's not him, just a fan pretending to be him, attention-seeking, scamming, stealing unearned laurels to crown a meaningless triumph: successfully mimicking the concept of David Jenkins."

"Pretty binary."

Denkins shrugs. "You saw the first season. I'm a sucker for duality." 

He hums and looks out the conference room's window. The AMC lot is gone. More accurately, it was never there. Outside the window is an ocean. The water is green-screen perfect, and there are two tall-masted ships in the distance: Bellamy's Whydah Gally and Levasseur's La Louise. They float angled toward one another, counterpart to their captains on the poster behind Jenkins, missing only the drilled coin between them.

"Except," says Denkins, slow and musing as he watches the distant ships, "in the vast multiverse of imaginable possible outcomes, it turns out that there is the very slimmest possible chance of a third thing happening."

There is another ship floating now between the Whydah and La Louise. It's freshly painted, poorly rigged, and its figurehead is a unicorn. Instead of one flag, it has half a dozen. And I know, because Denkins knows, that instead of gunpowder in its hold, it carries jars and jars of harmless marmalade.

"So," I say, "David Jenkins—"

"Oh, definitely not David Jenkins," says Javid Denkins, amusement lighting up his face. He keeps his eyes on that third ship.

"So the person who is definitely not David Jenkins," I say. "He comes and starts a social media account. He answers questions."

"Sort of. Nothing specific, really. Just…narrative likelihoods. Enough to dangle hope. But the fandom wants more. There's a Richard Siken line he sees, that if he'd chosen to stay anonymous maybe he could've actually posted: 'but monsters are always hungry, darling.' It's like that. So he backs up a little, and considers how to hold off the inevitable. The season two hints are vague? Make them vaguer. Add some smoke and mirrors to hide how little substance they have. There are only so many general pirate tropes around? Stretch out how long it takes to get the ones he has. Add steps. Add puzzles. Make the fandom work for it, and maybe they won't notice how little there is to find. Give them an interesting enough box to open, and they'll ignore the fact that there isn't an answer on the inside, just another, smaller box." He tilts his head and looks at me. The light outside is now luminous pink and yellow, flashing off the water and highlighting his face like a duotone painting. "Then he…" Denkins sighs. Puts down his mug. "Then I sit back and see what happens. I see if it's as bad as I think it would be if I did it here, in the real world."

"And is it?"

Denkins reaches out with one hand, tugging my phone over to his side of the table. He starts fiddling with the buttons, attention on it instead of me. "To start with? Yes. And no. It didn't matter that the one thing I promised was that I wasn't David Jenkins. They—the fandom—found me anyway. They assumed I was him. And I was right, of course I was right, they asked me questions. Hundreds of them. Like that was the only reason I existed, like I couldn't just be a regular person like the rest of them, just on Tumblr to read about the Carpathia and get taken out by the color of the sky."

"For better or for worse, you're a public person," I say. "They think they know what it means when a public person breaks down the barrier between themselves and the fans. Even well-meaning people make assumptions."

The recorder is no longer a phone and app; it's an old cassette player with thick plastic buttons like I, or more accurately Denkins, had as a child. It matches the ones his elementary school classrooms had, which in turn looked like the device Mr. Spock carried at his hip to record and interpret data from strange new worlds. 

Denkins, in the here and now, half-presses the play and record buttons, which would trigger the record function if pushed down completely. He holds back. Riding the edge of commitment. Over and over. 

"Yeah," he says. "Yes. That's true. And I could've been completely anonymous if I wanted to be left alone entirely. I suppose I wanted to prove that everything I believe—everything I'm afraid of—is true, and that I'm justified in hiding away, refusing to be 'known' by anyone I haven't specifically agreed to. Hence the thought exercise. And when I was done, and I had my proof," he says, leaving off the recorder buttons to raise a pointed finger at me, "I wouldn't have to see you again either."

We look at each other. "But here you are," I say.

He laughs. It's rusty, but sure. "Here I am," he agrees.

"So what happened?"

"Turns out," he says, "that in that infinite universe of possibilities a writer can dream up, there's a world where, yes, all my worst fears are confirmed…but that's not all that happens."

He stops, and we are both silent for a long, long moment. His fingertips brush over the recorder buttons, repetitive and soothing, like he's calming something feral and unused to human touch.

"Would you believe," he says at last, hushed and small in this glass and beige room floating on a digital sea, "that there is a world where fans—people—don't ask for more than I want to give? Who see the box I'm in, and instead of ripping it open to grasp for whatever good thing they think they can find inside…they give something back. 

"I played it all out, you see." He waves his hand over the recorder. Now there are two of them, sitting side by side, each with a row of thick black plastic buttons along the edge: one to play, one to rewind, one to record, and one to pop open its lid so that the cassette can be changed. One of the recorders is a little bigger than the other. "If I can imagine it," he says, "it has to be possible."

He looks at the two recorders; he's quiet now, talking to himself rather than me. I don't think I'm as necessary as I was before. I think maybe this is just him. Just Denkins in this lonely little room. He moves the smaller recorder so that it's lined up with the larger one, like he's lining up Matryoshka dolls as he reveals them.

"It started small," he says. "There were people who saw my puzzles, and made puzzles back for me, just to play along. People who saw my puzzles, and shared what they knew about them, just to help others play too. Small things. Little things. Possible things. I liked it. I didn't expect it. I…wanted to give back, too. Not just in the story, I mean. It was me who wanted it. Wanted to add to a world, to a community, where that sort of giving could happen. So I went further. I didn't just try to hint at common story beats this other show might hit—I started listening, following, asking what would be most welcome, and then gave that instead. And it grew. It grew until it wasn't really just an experiment anymore. It stopped being an adversarial proof. It started being…something else."

Denkins reaches out, and now there are three recorders on the table. The newest one is the smallest. He lines it up with the others.

"I'd already made David Jenkins," he says, "and in turn he'd made his own Javid Denkins. So why not do it again? This other Javid Denkins, this me who's me but not me, goes deeper. He uses the tools at his disposal. Our Flag Means Death has pirates named Edward Teach and Stede Bonnet. OFMD has a fandom like BTMD does, where people write stories about the characters, for themselves and—for others. Fan fiction. A thing that can be a gift, if you want it to be. So I started to write one."

One by one, Denkins hits the 'play' button on each of the recorders. The cassettes whir, a steady background hum. Each starts playing a part of some orchestral piece. Not the individual instruments, but something stranger. It's as if each cassette contains the whole work, but with fragments missing that the others complete. There are still some gaps in the playback.

Denkins waves his hand over the collection again, and a fourth recorder, smallest of all, appears. He presses play on it too, and the music fills in. It's a pretty little melody. Simple, if you know how to hear it.

Denkins hums a little of it before looking up, seeing me again. "That was it, really. That's what finally made all this small enough for me to understand. Made it small enough, far enough away from my actual world that I could finally let myself feel it. In this story that I'm telling, here is Edward Teach." Denkins touches the smallest recorder very, very gently. "Teach lives in a world where he's not the main character; he's just a fan of a gay pirate romcom called Blow the Man Down. He's tired, and he's angry, and he doesn't know how to deal with the world the way it is, with the fandom as he perceives it. He makes a Twitter account, anonymously, to prove that what he fears is real."

Denkins covers the recorder with both hands, only muffling the music a little. "Here's Edward Teach, made up of all my fears and saying them out loud."

He raises his hands, and now there are two little recorders, the same size, both playing the same parts together. He touches the new recorder with his fingertip, as if it's a bubble that could too easily break. "Here's Stede Bonnet," he says, "made up of all my fears coming true. And then having to live through it anyway." He stares down at this new recorder; the same as the Edward Teach one, but evidently special in some way to Denkins. He says, to me, to it, to the room: "It's a hell of a thing, to need to go so far away just to see what you've been carrying on your back the whole time."

After a moment, he looks back up at me. "In my story," he says, "Stede survives the disaster. My disaster. He survives it, because he has Ed—a love interest, yes, but not just that. He's someone he opened up to. And more than that, I saw—because I could imagine it, and so it must be possible, it has to actually be possible—I saw the fandom become…people."

With both hands, Denkins presses a button on each of these two small recorders.

Their lids pop open.

And from the walls, from the ceiling, from the glass windows and the limitless sea, there comes a multiverse of music.

"These people," says Denkins, tilting his head to listen as the swells of unseen instruments add to the gentle overture of his pocket worlds and turn the piece into something greater than the sum of its parts. "They're not some nameless collective made up of their worst impulses. They're just people. People are complicated. You can never know them completely; they can never know you. All you really get is what they—we—choose to do. 

"And I saw people try to help Stede. People, strangers, who didn't know who he was, not really. And they felt compassion anyway."

After a long moment, just taking in the music, Denkins sighs and carefully closes the lids on the two small recorders. The singing universe becomes just a recorded orchestral piece once again—though no less beautiful for it. He gently pushes the two recorders together until they're touching, side by side, and covers them with his hand. He says, "Ed got to see this. He got to know that even if his worst fear happens, he'll be okay on the other side of it. And he won't be alone." 

He lifts his hand; the two are now one, still playing its little melody.

Denkins picks up this amalgamated recorder and sets it on top of the next largest. He puts his hand over the stack he's just made. "Move it up a level," Denkins says. "David Jenkins, or someone who is definitely not David Jenkins, runs a Tumblr with games and puzzles and digital tools that stretch the boundaries of the narrative. He sees the reactions to his story. Sees fans who know it isn't real, who know that Stede and Ed are characters in a narrative—and nevertheless, these fans, these people, see that these characters are hurting. They try to help. They don't know who's behind the masks labeled 'Stede' and 'Ed,' not really. But they feel compassion anyway."

He lifts his hand. The little recorder atop the larger is gone. The music is different. Not lessened, but changed. It's come closer. 

Once more, Denkins moves the smaller combined recorder onto the last one—or, I suppose, the first of all of them. "So move it up one more time," he says. The music isn't audible in the room now; but I hear it anyway. It's in me. Us. The last little notes coming from the final recorders just a reminder of what the world could sound like.

He covers the top recorder with both hands. His touch is aching and very, very soft. "Here's me. Javid Denkins. I don't know if there's a world where I could open myself up and not have everything burn down in flames. I don't know if it could ever be possible for me to leave this room, open my laptop, and start something, somewhere, called 'definitely not Javid Denkins,' and have it be as beautiful and awe-inspiring as it was in my thought experiment.

"But God," he says, "I want it."

He lifts his hands, and all that's left is the final recorder, the one that was my phone to begin with. The music dissipates completely. But the feeling of it remains. Denkins rests his hands on either side of this solitary recorder. He says, "I don't know if all of that—all of them, my fans, my friends, all of what we made together…I don't know if it already exists for me in the real world. Just waiting for me to be brave enough to look. I don't know. But I think I have to believe that it does. That they do. I have to believe that it's possible not just to imagine that kind of grace, but to live it." 

Denkins brushes his thumb over the last recorder's play button. "I think that's what it means to be human," he says. "To try anyway. To unlock yourself despite your fears, and find hope there waiting for you."

He closes his eyes. I close my eyes. We take a deep breath together.

We open our eyes.

After a moment, I smile at Denkins, a little crooked. I've got one last question to ask, and it's one he might even answer. 

"Who are you, really?" I ask. 

It's something we all have to answer about ourselves eventually, and it seems particularly relevant now.

Denkins shrugs, and his smile mirrors mine. "Does it matter?"

"It feels like it does."

"How about this," he says. "Who are you, really?"

And knowing what I know now…if I'm anyone at all, then I suppose I'm Javid Denkins. An aspect. A reflection. A dream.

And so, in these universes he's imagined, is everyone.

"So," Denkins says. "You think I can start over?"

I smile wider. It feels good. "I'd love that."

He pushes the recorder back to me, and in my heart I hear his laughing request for one last rephrase—

Javid Denkins has been waiting for me.

It's 9:30 in the morning and I'm sitting across the table from a cheerful enigma. Denkins was already in the room when I arrived, a hot coffee by my seat and a box filled with fresh breakfast pastries and marmalade open and ready to be enjoyed. An advertising standup emblazoned with the unreleased (at time of writing) air date for season two of Denkins's Blow the Man Down takes pride of place at the head of the table. Through the windows opposite, bright sunlight bounces off the buzzing AMC studio lot, and I think I hear a certain pirate romcom's theme music playing quietly over the room's speakers.

Denkins grins at me, and it's easy to see why his actors and writers speak so highly of the experience of working with him. Because I can tell already: this is going to be fun. 

It starts when he leans forward, eyes bright, and presses the record button on my phone for me.

"Let's play," he says, and—we do.

[imeriayapping]

i would loooove to know more about the loscar helmet artist one! & the f1 driver x moto gp one too please <3

Omg one of my faves!!!

About helmet artist I'll try to be brief bc i have 5k of words written about it and i don't want to go over all of it😭😭

Logan pics up drawing in f3 bc he's bored bc of the quarantine (only digital at the time) but mostly leaves it when season properly starts

After that season his and Oscar's ways go separate directions and he picks up drawing again, his next year being so uncertain gives him a lot of time and he even gets some actual physical helmets to paint. After that he starts anonymous page for them (I'm very proud of name @ art_for_hunt for it) and start posting designs there.

He gets two seasons in f2 and one as reserve driver before getting to f1 while oscar is already there for two years. They lost all contacts in that time even, but Logan still yarns (?) For their friendship so when he sees oscar in his first race(in 2023) he starts making a helmet about their friendship. Which oscar buys almost immediately but never wears. Logan's almost forgets about whole thing but then oscar does announce it as his helmet for miami gp when they both race

It gives logan hope that their friendship still can be repaired (spoiler - it does get repaired)

And for MotoGP oscar and f1 Logan: literally got this idea today so it isn't very detailed but oscar, mark and Jenson all are riders instead of f1 drivers and mark is still his mentor. He and Logan know eachother from teenage years but not irl - they meet somewhere online (maybe a forum about racing or twt) they instantly become friends and that doesn't change throughout years. They sent eachother voice messages but don't ever show their faces bc it's nice to have something private without being judged

That's till the moment where logan goes to a MotoGP race or just some visits to Oscar's team. And the moment he hears oscar speak he goes "THE FUCK" mentally but tries to stay calm bc maybe he's just delusional. Any doubts go away the moment he starts speaking and oscar looks at him just as shocked

That is all that i have for now, thanks for asking!!!if you have any other questions I'm always happy to elaborate

[chopshajen]

~ The Trickster Cat ~ Compelling, Enigmatic, Condescending ~

I said a bit ago that I had a Kooza/Cats crossover in mind and even if it was cursed I would draw it anyways, and here it is now, surprisingly uncursed, or at least, surprisingly satisfactory! I'll have to do some dance poses sooner or later but I'm happy with this as a start :3

I tried to keep the design true to both sources of inspiration. Some thoughts on the design under the cut:

There are some elements of the Trickster's design that translate pretty well to stage!Cats costumes, namely the smooth-limb effect of the Trickster's extra-long sleeves and flared pant legs compared with the Cats arm/legwarmers. It's something I really like about the traditional Cats costumes (and a big part of why Cats 2019's designs don't work)* and something I REALLY like about the Trickster's outfits, so it's great for me.

*For further expansion on the subject, @missing-sock-misto has a great breakdown of the Cats costumes here. The relevant part is this:

They help shape the limbs and invoke the feeling of fluff. Human limbs taper, especially at the joints: wrists, elbows, knees, ankles. The arm and leg warmers help cover this, because they’re thick, making them more like cat limbs, which are functionally tubes.

It's one of the first elements I noticed when I first watched the Cats stage show, and when started interrogating myself as to why I liked the designs so much, I realized its importance in "evoking felinity", as azerairis and missing-sock put it. There are a lot of Cats adaptations that, for some godsforsaken reason, get rid of the arm and leg warmers, and it's almost always a mistake. We're trying to make them look like cute cats, not like painted humans.

For the Trickster, why they have long sleeves and flared pant legs may not be as obvious, but they do still serve a visual purpose. They make the Trickster appear that much more ethereal and otherworldly. Everything about them is smooth and continuous - legs flowing into feet, stripes swirling uninterrupted across their body, movement lithe and serpentine - and that makes them seem inhuman, especially when put in contrast with the stick-like, stumbling, uncertain Innocent.

Other more minor elements also translate pretty well. For instance, the Trickster's makeup is already very exaggerated, as is their "hairline" (hat...line?), in a way that doesn't look out of place in Cats. They have stripes on their face, monochrome eyes, and the :3 kitty mouth. The stripes on their body were easy to translate as well. Honestly I didn't have to think over it as much as I expected LOL Except for the wig. Don't ask me how that works. I do think this design is maybe...too simplistic? Like I maybe could've incorporated some of the suit elements of their costume, cuz the Trickster does look kind of odd without their tie. But I wasn't going to give them a collar because pfffftbl lmao could you imagine. Maybe they could have something Skimbleshanks-esque for a top with some formality to it, though I'm not sure putting human clothes on a cat version of an unknowable trickster god person makes sense either LOL

[ocelot-t]

do have any Hazbin Hotel or just RadioRose headcanons? Like Rosie being a really good painter or Alastor technically being younger than he seems or something? (I just like reading other people's ideas on their favorite characters lol)

You arrived just in time.

There will be a lot of words I have mostly a lot of disconnected thoughts in my head, which I sometimes consciously or unconsciously implement in drawings. besides, I don't remember what the canon is, and what the old fanon is, to be honest. If you would like me to, I can share not only my headcanons, but also some of the AUs I have.

I understand where the theory comes from, but I don't like the idea of Alastor being forced to smile all this time. I think he wants to keep everything under his control so much that he smiles even in death. The idea that he is just a sick man, serial killer makes his eternal smile even more unnerving. I don't want to justify him.

I think Al would have enjoyed reading H.P Lovecraft’s works. The tentacled creatures and descriptions of people as nonentities suffering defeat in a fight with chthonic creatures... btw, some of Lovecraft's stories were published during Alastor's era. I have a small headcanon about Alastor's death, and I plan to create a comic in the future (if I can actually get it done).

There are 2 possible deaths of Alastor's mother in my mind, and I’m uncertain which one I want to illustrate. maybe both continuing the theme of Alastor’s human life. I sincerely believe that even if Alastor had really had an abusive father, Al would have been cruel since childhood. Guess what? I have an unfinished little comic with a hum!Al by another artist, and I'm uncertain when I’ll manage to complete it. The headcanon that suggests Alastor’s father is an abuser already seems like a canon; however, I don’t want to portray him as a completely terrible person. I like the idea of Alastor enjoying hunting, so let's say he learned it from his father. Just like all the dad jokes. on the other hand, as for the scars on Alastor, some of them probably came from his father, since domestic violence was a common problem. Regarding art, as you might have noticed, I have a headcanon that Al understands the arts in general, whether it's painting, cinema, or music. Perhaps I think this way only because I am trying to combine things I love very much. I imagine him as a person you could have a discussion about these topics with??? It seems to me that Alastor and Rosie would often discuss these topics over a glass of wine or a cup of tea. Suddenly, Alastor would show up at Rosie's and instead of hello I READ ABOUT FRA FILIPPO LIPPI. DO YOU HAVE AN HOUR FREE? BTW I HOPE YOU WATCHED THAT DZIGA VERTOV MOVIE THAT I RECOMMENDED Rosie would love art nouveau and I don't know rococo? and Alastor would be like no art nouveau is okay, cute, but rococo is bullshit. *2-hour episode of drunken dad teaching life* Continuing on the topic of artists, I repeat myself, I have a silly unfinished series of mini-comics about Alastor and Rosie as art academy students, the plots of which are based on real life (almost). I have thought about what kind of styles they would draw in, what kind of themes they would focus on, and so on. Again, there is a lot of text here already, so I'll wrap up this topic for now. P.S. I have a strange idea in my head about how to imagine Alastor in the USSR in the 10-30s. It was quite fun there: the World War I, the revolution, the civil war, the post-revolutionary years, famines and so on, and so on. For fun, of course, but Alastor the Communist has a good reason to hate Vox the Capitalist and his MMM I mean VVV or Lucifer the emperor of hell, if you know what I mean. Instead of telling dad jokes, he would say that life under Stalin was good and quote Lenin. Of course, these are all jokes, but I did have some abstract thoughts about how his life and his family's life would be arranged. However, I don't know enough about the history of USSR to actually implement this properly. so yeah

[im-getting-help]

okay, but what if:

"and then he said 'doesn't this proves how much of a good friend i am?' it was fucking insane!"

"I don't want to tell you I told you so, but..."

"Farleigh shut-"

"I don't think I will Felix. I told you since the beginning that little goblin was dangerous and you didn't listen, so, I don't think I'll shut up ever again."

Felix sighed, his fingers combed through his hair for the hundredth time since he began the story, his signet ring reflected the sunlight every time he fixed his bangs. "He's not... dangerous. He's... he's insane but he's not dangerous."

"Yeah right. You can't be serious." Farleigh shaked his head and chuckled, but Felix wasn't laughing.

"Felix, you can't be serious."

Felix remained silent, he refused to meet his eyes.

"Are you thinking of forgiven him?"

Felix shrugd, a small movement, almost as he didn't want to acknowledge what was being said.

He knew that it wasn't the smartest move on his part, there was no valid justification, no a single thing could explain why he did what he did, but Felix wanted so badly to forgive, to forget. The memories of that night kept repeating, his brain replaying them like a movie and he was unable to look away, no matter how much it scared him. He felt stuck, fixed in a moment. Something about the way Oliver pleaded, the way he cried, the way he hold onto him, he couldn't take the image of Oliver's eyes filled with tears, real sincere tears.

That wasn't an act, he was sure of it, it was nothing that he ever seen Oliver did before, he was desperate. That right there was truly Oliver Quick, and he didn't want to let go, he couldn't.

"I think he needs help? I don't think he's a bad person, and he isn't dangerous. He said that I was his only friend..."

Felix's hands seem to had a mind of his own, playing with loose threads and picking skin.

Farleigh got up from the couch, patting his pockets to feel for the pack of cigarettes, his hands trembled slightly, although he was sure Felix wouldn't notice.

"You can't smoke in here Farls, mommy is going to end you if she finds out."

"I know, i know. I'm going outside." He retrieved the lighter from his right pocket and the cigarettes from his left while he stride to the entrance of the long gallery. He always hated that rule, "it could ruin the old folios and paintings" said uncle James, even though they could smoke in every other room, as if they didn't have relics or expensive paintings in there too. Right now though, he couldn't be more thankful to find an excuse to leave this conversation.

"Farleigh..."

"I need a smoke, Fee. Let's take a break, you can keep telling me about Ollie-dear later, yeah?"

Felix was already behind him. With the rush Farleigh didn't even hear him get up. He felt one of Felix's heavy hands on his shoulder and even though his outfit was making him sweat he shivered. Felix's movements were slow and gentle, he coudn't be furthest form an aggressive person yet Farleigh felt his feet stuck to the floor. He looked at his hands. still shaking.

"Farleigh, I need you to promise me that you're not going to tell anyone about this, about Oliver."

"'Course. I don't think auntie would be to pleased to hear about it anyways."

Felix grip tighten a little as he turned Farleigh around. Being face to face with Felix this way made Farleigh remember his mother. She teach him about boundaries and limits. They used to spent the afternoon sharing a cup of tea, the only british custom she maintained. "If you don't feel comfortable with someone you can put distance, you should, you have to. If you feel uncomfortable or uncertain about a situation or a person you can and should stay away".

"I mean it Farls. I need to know that you won't tell anyone about Oliver. Not mom or Venetia or I don't know India or Jackson, no one. Not one person Farleigh."

"I promise Felix. I don't want anything to do with it anyways. If I can stay away from Oliver Quick believe me, I will."

"You make it sound like he's a serial killer Farls." Felix scoffed.

"Yeah, well, you know me... I like to dramatize."

Felix had his eyes fixed on Farleigh, eyebrows furrowed in concentration.

"Can I go now?"

"You won't tell anyone?"

Farleigh sighed heavily. He was scared for his cousin, he was scared for his family. Oliver wasn't only dangerous, he seemed to be completely demented, passed the point of reason. He was scared that Felix ended up really hurt because of him.

He was no stranger to Oliver's dark side. He seen it that first day of tutorial, something in between his words, something in the way he smiled, the way he looked at him.

He was also very, very tired. He'd been tired of cleaning Felix's messes for a long time. Since Venetia chose to take a leap year that became two years and then four years he suddenly became Felix new adiviser and bodyguard. He was tired of dealing with every Felix fuck up. Dealing with Felix's ex-friends and ex-girlfriends and ex-whatevers, dealing people who got hurt by Felix's carelessness, by his indifference. He used to scold Felix, telling him to be more careful with his relationships. How funny it is that he found the worst person in all England to take interest in? Farleigh wanted scream, he wanted to slap some reason into him but he knew that no matter what he did or what he said Felix had already made up his mind. He was a big boy now anyways, he could take care of himself.

"I don't know what you're talking about, Felix. I don't think I know an Oliver Quick. Now, can you please let go?"

Felix hand fell to his side, his lips curled up in an attempt at smiling. Farleigh could see the purple colors under his eyes, he hadn't been sleeping well since the party.

"Thank you Farls, I knew you would understand"

Farleigh bit his cheek and nodded before quickly exiting the room, he strode towards the stairs that led to the rooftop.

Mid walk he realized he had to walk pass Oliver's room on the way to the stairs. He was surprised to find an open door when it finally reached the area, he had no intention to cross it of course, but he stood there, observing.

The interior showed a man profoundly asleep, snoring softly, black hair a mess. Farleigh lit his cigarette and observed Oliver, the open curtains let the midday sun in, the room was warm. Oliver looked so innocent wrapped under the covers like this, like a little boy. The antiseptic smell that lingered in the room and was the only thing that reminded him of the reality of who was the person behind the sleeping beauty facade.

Farleigh snickered and walked away, Oliver Quick wasn't his problem anymore.