#his last name is malevolent

[allseeingharlequin]

Trying to read actual books but my gay man home screen keeps prompting me to read fanfiction about them @teafromthemicrowave you put the gay man curse on me

[potato-lord-but-not]

human John anyone ????

[koszmarnybudyn]

@shadowy-dumbo-octopus ideas/headcanons of clingy John inspired me so have this:

[rowanraven08]

Trans guys with religious trauma gotta be one of my favorite flavors, I’m gobbling this man up

And yes I’m convinced he smokes. Does he have religious guilt over it? Yes. Do I even know if it was considered bad for a priest to smoke back then? Absolutely not. But he deserves a cigarette after all this shit

[sunw00d]

we got into malevolent recently-ish

[omniscientfool]

"You are not the only King here."

[hypocrisy-incarnate]

once again thinking about podcast men with the most british names i've ever fucking heard

[babygirlismpersonified]

I am cringe but I am free. After season 4 they all got to live together in new york and nothing bad happened ever.

[thetomorrowshow]

Whumptober Day 17 - Nowhere Else to Go

title: the voices in my head think you're pretty cool

fandom: last life smp

~

Martyn pulls his knees up to his chest, gazes out across the darkening server.

He can't say that he expected to find his way here. On top of Scar's base, alone.

Well, not alone.

He thinks it's a hallucination. He's fairly sure it is, even. Not a hundred percent, because. You know. Voices in his head and whatnot.

Hearing voices means they’re almost guaranteed to tell you that they’re real, whether they are real or not. Martyn’s been hearing voices for a while now—though, they’ve definitely said a lot more in the past few weeks than they have in months—which seems like it’s more a sign of schizophrenia than it is anything else. His uncle had schizophrenia. Cool guy. Is it genetic?

Of course, the voices never tell him anything useful. They just give him commands (that he probably shouldn’t follow, come to think of it) and speak in riddles.

That’s a bit of an unfair overstatement, he supposes. They aren’t cryptic all the time. When he isn’t in a game like this, whenever they say anything, it’s just a little comment in the back of his head. Nothing terribly malicious or ominous. Just adding the occasional thought.

“Do you ever miss the simpler days?” Martyn asks idly, twirling an arrow between his fingers.

It’s chilly out. His fingers are a bit numb, chapped by the wind, but it doesn’t feel worth it to reach into his backpack and dig through for his gloves. He’s pretty sure he cut the fingers off them, anyway. It made them look cooler. Added some convenience for arranging the wires of traps.

The simpler days, of course, call back to the very beginning of 3rd Life. Way back, back to before something in the back of his head decided to start talking—building a base with Ren, staying up late with him, trading endless supplies of stories that never seemed to run dry.

“You know that feeling? When you click with someone so well that you could talk for hours? I don’t know how many times I went to go check the gates were locked before we went to bed, and ended up dilly-dallying at the bedroom door for ages just chatting. You ever felt that?”

No response. Martyn doesn’t really expect them to say anything, to be fair.

Those were the days. Chilly, like tonight. That world had shifted quickly from the end of fall into winter—that night at Blackheart altar, the snow piling up gently around them, will forever remain in Martyn’s memory.

Gall, he misses Dogwarts. The Red King was a fun fella, all bloody and terrifying (but soft and kind toward Martyn).

It’s a feeling like a sausage rolling across a grill that runs through the back of his mind—bumpy and uncomfortable, almost like a forced shudder. Martyn raises a brow.

“What, no love for the Red King? I thought he was all right.”

The Red Army, too . . . those really were the days. Patrolling with Etho, the two of them bundled up so thickly no skin was visible. Helping BigB replace his cookie. Sprinting toward the Crastle with Skizz, intent on blood.

He misses the easy trust that they’d all shared. 3rd Life was so much more cut-and-dry. He’d known he could depend on any one of those men, and Ren more than anyone else. Here? Here, he’s sitting alone on a house whose owner had long been betrayed, trying to work up the courage to go out swinging.

The arrow slips, the head of it pulling across his finger. Martyn hisses, holds his finger close to his face to try and see it. It’s dark, but he doesn’t think it broke the skin. He sticks the finger in his mouth—yep, no taste of blood. That’s good.

He tucks his pants a bit further into his boots, then puts his hands in his pockets. He doesn’t want to accidentally injure himself, right before he makes his final stand.

He trusted someone, once.

Several someones.

He trusted Ren before anyone else, and he thinks he still does. Why else would he repeatedly help him out, despite not being allied with him? Why would he give him a life?

“I trust him with my life,” murmurs Martyn. He isn’t sure why. This second game has made it pretty clear that trust shouldn’t be distributed all willy-nilly.

“The Hound is . . . important.”

Martyn almost jumps out of his skin. Sure, he’s been talking to the voices in his head this whole time, but he never really expected them to talk back. Especially not with such reluctance, as if they hadn’t wanted to contribute at all.

“Um—yeah, I guess. Important enough for you to say something. What, is he special like me?” Martyn quips. “The Chosen One?”

No answer.

“Or,” he says, the thought occurring to him, “do you just like Ren? You want him to be happy? You’re who told me to give him the life, to seek him out and all that.”

Again, nothing—but this silence feels different. It feels . . . it feels almost embarrassed, if he had to put a name on it.

Martyn chuckles. “Sure, back to the silent treatment. I’ve got you all figured out. So, what—Ren’s your favorite, but you don’t like the Red King?”

“The Hound should not be changed as such,” the voices say after several long moments. “Especially not by a spirit like that one.”

“So . . . you really do just like him. Really?”

It makes sense, he supposes. Well, maybe Ren does serve some higher narrative purpose, but is he important because the voices like him, or do they like him because he’s important?

“What about me?” he asks. “Am I important because you like me, or vice versa?”

The response is immediate. A scoff, a scoff that’s almost a laugh. “We do not like you.”

“Geez, that’s a real vote of confidence,” Martyn grumbles. “Thanks, I guess. I’m just important.”

“You listen.”

“Well, sorry you had to get stuck with your least favorite character.”

“You are not our least favorite.”

Martyn actually laughs out loud at that. “Oh, man. I feel sorry for whoever is the least favorite, if this is how you treat me.”

This time, the silence isn’t embarrassed. It feels almost . . . impatient. Condemning.

“They aren’t going to just kill each other, are they?” Martyn whispers, twisting his hands into the fabric of his pockets.

The silence waits for him.

“Nice chat,” Martyn says, swinging his backpack off his shoulders to rummage through it. “Haven’t had one of those with you in weeks. Shall I get to it, then?”

If the last feeling he got from the voices was like a sausage rolling on a grill, this feeling is like turning a cup of pudding upside-down, shaking it and squeezing it as you wait for it to plop out.

Anticipation.

He finds it—a golden apple.

The buckets of lava are already set out behind him.

He hadn’t wanted it to come to this. He’s the only Yellow, though, and he knows the Reds won’t rest until they find him.

He doesn’t want to die in a corner. He doesn’t want to be found alone, sniveling and hiding.

Martyn stands, checks that all of his weapons are within easy access. Then he kicks over the buckets, standing back to avoid getting singed by the lava cascading down the side of Scar’s house.

“Come and get me,” he mutters, tossing the golden apple into the air and catching it. His thumb brushes over the stem. “I’m here. I’m waiting. Come and get me.”

A pause, then—

“They are coming.”

[eyeoftheaxolotl]

on ep 37 now. john saying "oh, oscar." the way he says "oh, arthur." fucking SENT me

[unsat-and-strange]

hi I'm here with doodles I made of that fic I wrote (and in that same au) :)

this au is stuck in my head like a pebble in my shoe except in a good way not an annoying way

ids in alt :)

[bats4sophie]

Noel doodles,,, I don't really have a solid design for him, this was kinda spontaneous but I might stick w/ it, I like it :3

[eldritchqueerture]

petty morons are back on their bullshit, facing the infamous Consequences of Their Own Actions. @lighthouseshepard 💜

---

As soon as the doors to the hotel closed behind him, Arthur knew he had made a mistake. He very much did need John, and not just for his sight – a part of him had always known that. He swallowed as panic started to grow in his gut, an electrifying force travelling with his blood to every part of his body. He retraced his steps to the alley.

“John?” He asked quietly, hoping no passersby were around to hear him. “John!”

No answer. His chest tightened, pushing the air out of his lungs. Did he really leave? Arthur didn’t let himself think like that when he woke up to an empty room – didn’t even want to consider the possibility that John might not want Arthur in his life, now that he didn’t need him.

And it was the truth. John didn’t need him anymore. It was Arthur who needed him, and perhaps… Perhaps he would only be a burden in John’s mind. Arthur had served his purpose, just as Oscar had back on that farm, and John was free to create the life he wanted, whatever that would entail. And Arthur… Arthur had just lost another person.

He leaned his back against the wall and let out a shaky breath. He couldn’t help but look back on every single friendship he’d had: James, Parker, Oscar, Noel, John. All of them, dead, hurt or pushed away some way or another. He just couldn’t seem to figure it out – couldn’t let a single person stay, no matter how much he’d tried.

No, that wasn’t right. He wasn’t giving up – not now and not ever. If he had control over anything in this fucking life, it was his own actions. Hurtful things have been said, that was obvious, but they didn’t have to be the end. Not as long as Arthur had anything to say on the matter.

He reached into his jacket’s breast pocket and took out the lighter. With an almost unconscious movement he opened it and struck a flame, passing a thumb over the engraved words. This too shall pass .

With a deep determined breath, he gathered himself, pocketed the lighter, and returned to the hotel lobby. Remembering the way to the reception desk, he strained his ears not to bump into anyone and called it a success once his hand touched the surface of the desk.

“Can I help you?” The receptionist spoke with a polite tone.

“Yes, could you direct me to the phone? I, uh, can’t see very well,” he chuckled.

“Oh, of course.” The rustling of clothes and a creak of the chair suggested the man was getting up. “What of your companion?”

Arthur’s smile soured; he wasn’t overly thrilled that this man remembered them, but he couldn’t really expect anything else.

“Ah, just… A stupid fight,” he sighed. “He’s… We’re both rather hot-headed at times. I do have someone to call, though.”

“Of course. This way.”

The receptionist led him to the phone and offered to put the number in as well. Arthur breathed with relief – he didn’t have a perfect memory for numbers, so going on that alone was bound to end in him making a bunch of wrong calls. But this way, he searched his wallet until he found the familiar card and gave it to the man.

He took the receiver with a tight knot in his stomach. They hadn’t heard from Noel after they made sure he was at the hospital and his wound was being taken care of. He didn’t know whether he still worked there – whether he was still alive at all. All sorts of things could have gone wrong during surgery, or he could’ve lost too much blood, or—

“ Yes, Detective Noel speaking? ”

Arthur let out a shaky sigh at the familiar, lilting voice.

“Noel,” he said. “I… It’s A-Arthur.”

He heard a sharp intake of breath on the other side. “ Arthur! It’s good to hear you. You had me quite worried there, disappearing like that. ”

He couldn’t help a small smile forming on his face at the thought.

“Yes, I–I’m sorry about that… S-So you’re still in New York?” He asked, a little nervousness stealing its way into his voice.

“ Yeah, for now. Not many prospects anywhere else at the moment. Where’ve you two gone off to? ”

Arthur’s throat tightened. “Yes, um, about that. We’re… Ah, in New York, too. Actually—Can I meet you somewhere? I’d rather not have this conversation over the phone.”

“ Are you okay? ” Noel must have detected the strain on Arthur’s voice. “ D’you need anything? ”

“We’re—I’m…” Arthur faltered.

“ Where are you? ” Some rustling on the other side made it to his ears.

“Hotel Tudor, just off of Grand Central,” Arthur offered with a deflated sigh.

“ I’ll come pick you up. Hang tight. ”

The connection ended. Arthur let out a sigh that could have just as well been a laugh as he put the receiver back in its place. He hadn’t expected Noel to drop everything and come get him, but it made something warm flutter in his stomach amidst all the worry and regret. With Noel’s help, maybe they could find John and fix the situation somehow. They’d always come out of fights like this better for it, right?

As he directed his steps towards a seat in the lobby, a treacherous part of him whispered that before this, all their fights had ended because their survival depended on it. They could not afford to be at odds when they shared a body and the potential of death. It was just like Kayne said; there were universes where they’ve separated earlier, and it had never gone well for their friendship.

But thinking like that would not get him anywhere.

With nothing to do, the minutes passed torturously slowly; every time he heard steps approaching and thought it might be Noel, it turned out to just be random person. He forced himself to disregard the sound entirely, relying on the voices surrounding him, looking at where he assumed the faces of the people entering would be.

“Hey there!” He finally heard, and with all the nervous energy accumulated in his muscles, he jumped in his seat before standing. “You alright?”

“Noel,” Arthur sighed with relief. “Thank you for coming, seriously. I—”

“Don’t sweat it, kid. I’m glad to see you again. C’mon.”

Arthur followed Noel as best he could by sound alone, but late morning brought more guests to the lobby. He almost managed to get to the door without bumping into anyone, but Noel still noticed the difference.

“Are you okay?” He asked, putting a gentle hand on his forearm. Arthur let out a huff.

“I can’t see,” he whispered. “And John is… gone. Alright?”

“Gone? What do you mean—”

“That’s what I want to talk to you about,” Arthur replied, exiting onto fresh air. “Let’s just… Get someplace safe.”

“Sure.” Noel sounded worried now, but he knew when to put off an interrogation. “You need an arm, or…?”

“Yeah, thanks.” Arthur took the offered arm with gratitude. “Sorry.”

“Don’t apologize, kid,” Noel scoffed with a chuckle. “Just tell me if you need anything else.”

Noel took them to a café at the corner of the street and ordered them two coffees. When they settled into a booth, he somewhat awkwardly informed Arthur that the café wasn’t busy, and that they were sitting by the window overlooking the street. Arthur appreciated the effort.

“So, what’s going on?” Noel asked intently once the waitress, who brought their cups was out of earshot.

“John and I separated,” Arthur said, cradling his steaming cup.

“Separated?”

“Yes, it’s… a long story.” Arthur waved his hand dismissively. “We performed the ritual in an old cult hideout near New York, so we decided to stay here to… figure things out, I suppose.”

He didn’t need sight to sense the frown on Noel’s face.

“We got here last night. John was quiet, uncharacteristically so, and—and I thought he’d need some space… You know, it must be overwhelming with a new body and all, and…” Arthur took a shaky breath. “And when I woke up this morning, he wasn’t there.”

“You mean he just left?” Noel asked disbelievingly.

“I mean, I—I don’t know what I thought at the moment, but I went to look for him eventually and… And I suppose I was angry.” He chuckled bitterly. “He found me down in the lobby and we argued, it… It seems stupid now.”

“What did he say?” Noel asked, taking a sip of his coffee.

Arthur rubbed his face. “I think he was… worried I’d get hurt without him. He lashed out, and—and gripped my arms so tight…”

His voice faltered. “Fuck. I got all defensive about my own autonomy, but I didn’t consider how it must’ve felt for him.”

“I imagine he must be pretty conflicted,” Noel mused.

“Conflicted?”

“Between protecting you and being his own person.” He put the cup down with a clink. “Does he even know what he wants out of life on this plane?”

Arthur frowned and took a breath to answer but halted with a sudden thought. He let out a laugh. “Do any of us ?” He offered instead.

Living with the prospect of deadly encounters on a daily basis wasn’t exactly grounds for long-term life goals; and Noel must have realized that, because he too let out a startled laugh.

“Alright, got me there. But you catch my meaning.”

“Yes, I… I suppose.” Arthur rubbed his thumb on the rim of the cup.

“You don’t like it,” Noel observed after a moment of silence.

“I…” He started. “I—I mean, we’ve worked towards this for—for so long, we… That was the goal. To separate, to have my—my body back and…”

“And you don’t like it.”

He inhaled, desperately wanting to deny it, yet knowing he could not. Noel was right – he didn’t like that John could just leave now, create a life all of his own without involving Arthur in it if he so wished. He didn’t like that John was now so far away, not just across the city but in a different body; he didn’t like the silence in his head, and using his left hand still felt foreign and strange.

“I can’t not like it, Noel,” he said instead with a crack in his voice. “John… deserves a body of his own, to know and enjoy all life has to offer. He was trapped in my head, probably more so than I was trapped with him. This is… This is the right thing.”

“Yeah,” Noel agreed. “And you’re allowed not to like it for a while.”

Arthur blinked instinctively, parting his lips, though no words came out.

“Kid,” Noel sighed. “Where is he now?”

“I—I don’t know,” Arthur mumbled. “I left him outside the hotel and when I went back he was gone.”

“Did he say what he looked like?”

Arthur surmised how John had described himself to him in front of the mirror at the hotel room and recalled that brief little moment where he held his palm to his face. It was fragile and full of possible meanings that Arthur couldn’t let himself examine right now. He left that, as well as John’s tentacles, out of the description.

“Right.” Noel said. “Any ideas where he could’ve gone? Places that come to mind?”

Arthur chuckled under his nose. “So, this is becoming a missing persons case now?”

“I mean, might as well,” Noel smirked. “Gotta do what we do best, right?��

“You do have a point.” Arthur nodded and finally drank the coffee. The taste was mildly bitter, leaving a watery and slightly nutty aftertaste on his tongue. “Honestly, we didn’t spend that much time here, and I don’t imagine he’d want to revisit any of the places we’ve… Maybe except for Marie’s,” he said. “But she wouldn’t know him, of course.”

“Alright,” Noel replied. “We can go there, check the area, then go back to the hotel. He might just come back.”

“Yeah,” Arthur nodded through the bile in his throat.

“And then you gotta talk, kid.” He could imagine the look Noel was giving him right now. “I’m sure you can work this out.”

“Yeah, I… I hope so.”

---

John walked for what could have been hours before finally slowing down. Was he trying to escape Arthur – as if he’d been able (or better yet, willing) to chase him down? Or was he escaping his own thoughts, nagging at the back of his mind, spurring him ever forwards? He didn’t know what to think, he didn’t know what to feel, and everything happening in his guts, chest, and throat amounted to a maelstrom that just made him feel… sick.

He was lost.

As if on cue to the thought, a church bell rang to announce the hour. John stopped altogether to consider his surroundings. He had walked into a poorer part of the city, it looked like, with slightly more dilapidated buildings and a familiar-looking church. John frowned and inspected the area closer. Was this…

Yes. Not far from the church John could see the outline of the community center they had visited with Arthur when searching for Mr. Scratch. Where they had met Oscar.

Did that mean Oscar worked in this church? John wondered, staring at the door. It would be monumentally stupid to go in there, wouldn’t it? Even more so to seek him out – the man Arthur had had to abandon because of him; the first friend he had made since John showed up; the one John had tried to kill out of his frustrations.

But was he not frustrated now, as well? Wouldn’t that be the ultimate lesson for Arthur about who John really was, what he was capable of – the carnage, the power, the inexpressible cruelty that put him above these meager mortal shells; that let him thrive in the Dark World for countless years. He wasn’t human, and he never intended to be.

But he wasn’t those monstrous impulses anymore, either.

The violence would feel good for a second, the pleasure drowned and overpowered by shame and regret. He could feel the taste of them in throat even now, standing before the building dedicated to a god he did not know of. A god that might not even exist.

He went into the building without any idea why. One of the heavy wooden doors was open, and he passed it with a skeptical quirk of an eyebrow, as if someone else controlled this body and he was just there to judge their questionable decisions. In a second the bright light of day was replaced by the half-dark of stone walls and stained-glass windows, illuminated by flickering candles inside.

The air was chilly and smelled strongly of incense and old stone. There weren’t many people about, and they were mostly sitting silently and motionlessly in the pews, with their heads bowed in silent prayer.

He hesitated at the entrance. What the fuck was he doing here? An entity of madness fitted into a human body, standing in a catholic church. Did he hope for answers? Clarity? Absolution? Was he completely out of his mind?

He was about to turn on his heel and leave, when the smaller doors to a wooden box by the wall opened. An older woman left for the nearest pew, clutching a pearly necklace with a cross in her hands – a rosary, John belatedly remembered. From the other side of the box emerged a man in a priestly garb, his movements a little unsteady. He turned his head a little as he closed the door behind him, and he met John’s gaze briefly.

For a terrifying moment, John felt recognized. He knew Oscar would not, could not know who he is, not even knowing of his existence through Arthur, but still he felt seen like never before. That halted his movement enough for Oscar to approach, like a predator hypnotizing prey until it could comfortably devour its fill.

“You look lost, my friend,” he spoke softly. His voice, his accent, his left arm a stump at the elbow – all of that reminded John of his frustrations. Of what he craved from Arthur and, at the same time, what he ran away from.

“You don’t know,” he replied with a scowl, looking away. He felt Oscar’s eyes on him, on his face – rich brown and intelligent, that Arthur had called beautiful when John had described them to him.

“I may as well not,” he shrugged. “But God does.”

John scoffed. “Your god doesn’t care.”

Oscar blinked up at him, some sort of realization smoothing out his face. “Believe me, I know how that feels,” he said quietly, so only the two of them could hear.

John raised an eyebrow at him in doubt. “Do you?”

Oscar motioned with his head to follow him to the corner, closer to the confession booth. John felt compelled to follow, if only for curiosity’s sake.

Oscar looked up at him again, for a second trying to read something in his face. With the mask disguising half of his features, John deemed that an impossible task.

“I can tell you’ve been through a fair share of pain, my friend,” he spoke again in that gentle tone that made John want to smash something. “It seems impossible that a merciful God would allow that.”

John barely stopped himself from outright snarling. “ If your god exists, he is anything but merciful. Trust me.”

Oscar tilted his head at him curiously. “Yet you have come here. Why?”

This time the growl that brewed in his chest was directed at his own damn self. Why did he come here – to Oscar specifically? To scratch at old wounds, pick at the scabs that formed over tender flesh, and tear the thin layer of fresh skin anew with his blood-stained claws? Was this at all a punch directed at Arthur – or just a reminder of his own failing? What was he looking for in the recesses of his old identities that was so important and yet so lost?

“I…” He faltered. “I don’t know.”

He let his gaze fall to the ground, the anger and frustration dissolving into exhaustion that fell upon him like an avalanche.

“It’s alright,” Oscar said. “There are times we don’t know our purpose.”

“And what is your purpose?” He countered with a heavy frown, almost challenging him with the knowledge that he had. Oscar gave him a slight, sad smile.

“Other people,” he spoke. “There are times I struggle – we all do. But in those times especially we need other people to latch onto. To help. To protect. To inspire us. So, we may then inspire others.”

The glistening determination in Oscar’s eyes was too much for John to handle. He knew he spoke of Arthur, and a spark of that clawed, cloying jealousy reared its head, looking for something to sink its teeth into. But who was he to feel this way now? He left Arthur at that hotel alone because… what? Because he was scared of his own feelings? Frustrated with the intensity, the depth of what he felt, and feared that Arthur may not want him to stay, should he find out? Knowing what he’d done – knowing what he could do. Arthur wanted him to be human, undefeated – he wanted him to be other people for him, to inspire his humanity, but John would never be able to live up to that standard.

But Oscar could.

If he could give Arthur this – the companionship he craved, the friend he’d had to abandon – then maybe he could forgive John for failing. Maybe he could forgive him for being a piece of a shattered mirror – a shard of glass, always meant to cut his fingertips.

“Oscar,” he said quietly, noting the look of surprise on the priest’s face. “I am not here by mistake.”

Oscar frowned, trying to understand the change in tone. “I didn’t—”

“Arthur told me about you,” he lied. Oscar’s face paled in shock.

“What? A-Arthur…?”

“Yes,” John looked down at him, expressionless. “I can… tell him I ran into you. I’m sure he’d want to talk to you.”

Oscar stuttered for a moment, clearly thrown by this turn of events. “Why? Wh—Who are you?”

John took a breath. “Because I owe it to him. Because I,” –he huffed and gritted his teeth. “Because he deserves to have a friend like you.”

Gentle. Soft. Kind. With no teeth that could cut bone clean in half, no tentacled limbs that would smother every part of him if given the chance. Without masks, manipulation, lies.

No sharp edges that had sliced through his identity, leaving only shattered dust to be swept up with the wind.

He’d turned to leave, but Oscar grabbed his arm. “Wait,” he said, his voice thick with emotion. “I… He said—”

“Trust me, Oscar,” John said. “He will want to speak with you.”

“How do you know?” He breathed out, and John pressed his lips together briefly.

“Because he didn’t want to leave you. I told him to.”

Oscar let go of his arm, staring at him with wide eyes. John looked back at him one more time and, without another word, turned and left the church.

[birdifulhuman]

Also the reason I got in malevolent is because I saw Oscar??? I think his name is, and I needed him badly. Also conflicted to know if this podcast is actually gay or the fandom is doing fandom thing /lh

[izel-scribbles]

more oc doodles (from a different storyline than the last one)

he is, as the kids say, "babygirl"

[starryluminary]

They’re burning all the witches even if you aren’t one, so light me up

Textless version so you can appreciate the portrait a little better <3