#to art and fiction but i'm not gonna go into all that
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buckysteve · 9 months ago
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art/patrick + old childhood best friends motif
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0xeyedaisy · 1 month ago
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Aw man...
#Vent incoming wee woo wee woo#Goooood man I feel so. Stressed and anxious cuz of my job#I hate it. I hate trying not to cry every 5 minutes#I hate the feeling in my chest. It's like someone is poking really hard into it#It's almost suffocating#I feel awful. Every little thing makes me angry. I don't want to be angry at ppl who did nothing wrong. I don't want to be like this#I really wish I wasn't like this. Why can't I be more calm and normal#I feel like I need a good cry. But I don't have anywhere to go for that#When I'm at home I don't feel like crying cuz I purposefully distract myself from stress#But I do feel like crying at work#But ofc I can't cry at work#And even at the end of the Day when going home I'm too tired to cry. Plus it would look weird for other ppl walking by...#I hate this. I get all stressed durring work but then I can't let it out#I have work rn. And tomorrow#I'm just gonna have to feel awful until my Days off come#God. I really hate venting. I don't like ppl seeing me like this but. I don't have anything else left to relieve the pain#I just don't know what to do anymore#Where to go#Whatever. This feeling will go away eventually#It will come back ofc#I just wish there was a better way to ease the pain. But again. I don't have a place for that#So I'll just have to seat w these feelings until they go away#I'll try to keep myself distracted. Which will be hard cuz I. Am at work. The place which makes me feel these things in the first place#But whatever! I'll try anyways#I'll look at art. Or I'll think about characters that I like...#Save me fictional characters. Save me!!#Anyways. Vent over 🎉
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seventh-district · 5 months ago
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again and again i find myself lamenting that audio roleplay isn't taken more seriously by some people. like yeah, they often have a romantic element, and by nature they usually directly involve/address the listener- and i totally get that those things aren't to everyone's taste. no art or entertainment is universally appealing, and that's okay! but.. it still makes me a lil sad that the "cringe" reputation of asmr/audio rp precedes it. there's a whole lot of talent and creativity being poured into these audios by so many people that i feel goes unrecognized and/or disrespected simply due to the medium that the stories are being told through.
#this post brought to you by: me bingeing Sam & Darlin's entire storyline over the past few days and having a Lot of feelings abt it#asmr#audio roleplay#rp audio stuff#redacted audio#anyways i don't have a conclusion to this post. and i'm not Mad or Upset or anything i'm just thinkin' out loud#and i mean it's not like it doesn't get plenty of praise within its respective audience bc it does. at least for the more popular creators#but i feel it'll still always have the shadow of its cringe reputation looming over it#which makes it hard for some ppl to openly appreciate or share with others that aren't already fans of the medium#like do u know how many comments i've seen along the lines of 'this is great but i'd die if anyone knew i liked this kinda stuff' ?? :(#idk maybe i feel strongly about it bc i'm a self-insert fanfic writer. and i feel like the two have a lot in common. including a bad rep.#like. not every audio will be well-written or produced and neither will every fanfic. but that doesn't mean it's a less legitimate artform#and i'm lucky to have never (yet) received negative comments on my work. but that doesn't mean that it doesn't make me sigh when people-#-say shit like 'this reads like fanfiction' as a way of calling something bad. or other similar sentiments that make the same implication#and i wouldn't be surprised if audio creators feel the same way when they encounter certain comments or statements#like. those YT videos where ppl will 'try bf asmr for the first time' or whatever and it's just 20 mins of cringing and over-reacting? eugh#tbf i haven't watched many bc why do that to myself. so Maybe there's some that are respectful but still. imagine getting roasted like that#and yes yes i know that by posting stuff online you're inadvertently sighing up to be criticized by Anyone but still. man. i dunno#i'm going on a tangent but my point is. i'm grateful for the creators that still make their art in spite of the public's perception of it#bc some of the most impactful emotional experiences i've ever gained from fiction took place in audio rp and i'm so serious abt that.#anyways. this post almost feels like i'm 'making up a person to be mad at' but i promise it's not that serious i'm just yapping. mostly.#certainly not trying to start any kind of debate or anything either i just have a lot of fixation-induced energy and nowhere to put it#this is Eric's fault (/lh) for cooking Sam up in a lab catered exactly to my taste and making Darlin' waaaaay too painfully relatable#but it's also My fault for bingeing the Inversion /and/ the Quinn arc /and/ the Summit all within a couple days. but i can't help myself#feels like i've run an emotional marathon. triathlon. The Emotional Olympics if u will. i'm feeling Everything#who knew that beating the shit out of ur fictional abuser could feel so goddamn cathartic! it's a nice replacement when u can't do it irl#anyways i'm off on a tangent again. thanks for coming to my TED Talk i'm gonna crawl back in my hole now#actually i'm gonna go relisten to a few audios. as Research for my Sam & Darlin' playlist as well as a post i'll be making about it soon#u Know i've got it bad when i not only make a playlist but start Posting on here about the songs that remind me of them. i'm cooked guys.
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effen-draws · 2 years ago
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Been busy lately so here's just a bunch of doodles from the last few weeks:-]
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(Character belongs to my cool friend @jaszczurr)
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welcometogrouchland · 2 years ago
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So, theoretically if I were designing the hexsquad (and maybe others) as pretty cure-inspired magical girls, with Luz as Cure Azura and Amity as Cure Hecate, and I wanted to do ones for the emerald trio as well, should I...
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gunkyengines · 9 months ago
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•••
Hey what's the deal with lumping people who don't give a fuck about the pro/anti discourse in with one side or another in their DNIs now. This is absolutely not something where not picking a side means picking a side. (More thoughts in the tags.)
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sweetflanfiction · 2 months ago
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Asymetrical Symphony - Part 6
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Universe: Arcane (LOL)
Pairing: Viktor x reader
Summary: You had been on the rooftop with Jayce and the Herald and somehow you were sent to a place where things can be different with your help
Disclaimers and Warnings: If you want me to tag you on the chapters let me know! Also leave a comment with your thoughts :D Not finished, not proofread. English isn't my 1st language. All I know about LOL is from google and all I know about Arcane is taken from the show, so inacuracies will be plenty. I have a sort of idea on how to I'm gonna go with magic and runes, so bear with me. The reader will be written as GN (going by they/them) to get everyone involved, but if you see any discrepancies let me know.
A.N.: Thank you guys for commenting and faving the story. I'm always happy to read all you guys tell me! I'm going to try and reply back. Anywho, let the rollercoaster begin.
Part 1 • Part 2 • Part 3 • Part 4 • Part 5
• ··········· • ············ •
The following week, you restarted the journey to becoming a member of Piltover's society under Esther’s wing. 
The official story was: Your real mother was your aunt, and you had come back to Piltover after your fictional mother died, and because your real mother's maternal instincts were so fine-tuned, your real mother didn't mind that you or anyone else, for that matter, called you her child, and her your mother. Complicated? Yep. It would feed the gossip circles for years, and honestly, you both thrived on the drama.
Clothes were brought, space was made, introductions were done, and the process of making you an official Rainemour in the world was set in motion. 
It felt like home, back to your old Topsider self, with the added extra of waking up, kicking and screaming with the feeling of fingertips on your forehead.
It had been a flurry of new faces, new places, and new customs. You met the house staff, Jaime and Oly, and the cook, Voltaire. While the two keepers lived on the lower floors, Voltaire lived somewhere other than the Cinquefoil building. He had been your mother’s friend for a few years and was the chef at several topside restaurants.
You still hadn't met the elusive Wyllah, but you had found out who she was. She was an art merchant, away on business, but most important, she was your mother’s significant other. Your mother had told you one night, almost in fear, she had found love after your father’s passing. You had blinked and shrugged. Nobody deserved to go through life alone.
Your mother’s life has been quite interesting on this side of the dimension rift. She was a writer, penning a series of fantasy books that magic lovers drank like water. She also found herself advocating for better education in Piltover. All of Piltover, especially the undercity. Esther tried to help those who wanted a chance to change their future.
It was only a matter of time until fate brought her and a certain engineer who also had a like-minded vision together. After that meeting, Esther became a patron of the Talis Lab and the Academy, helping with funding for any projects regarding the betterment of the city. 
And that was the reason why you were now making your way towards a familiar lab in the Academy. A commission for her needed approval and had been delayed long enough with the rocket attack and you appearing out of thin air. Or, according to the gossip, like an illegitimate child. 
“You didn’t need to come along.” She mumbled while pushing the elevator button.
“I wanted to come.” You smiled confidently at her. You wanted everyone to see you and become accustomed to you. It would be beneficial if you wanted to get into the business of saving the world. 
“To check on your friends?”  
You nodded. Before the Herald and the HexAngels, between Jayce becoming a councilor and the hextech showing its true colors, most of your time was divided between the music conservatory, the orchestra, Talis' labs, and home. And from all of those, home was the one you went to less and less with time. Therefore, when allowed to have even a single second of normalcy in a familiar place, you seized it. 
When the elevator dinged, you walked inside with a conviction that was only masking a feeling of nervousness. Yes, you knew this place and the face on the other side of the lab door, but they didn't. You were just a stranger.
“Has it changed much?” Your mother whispered, and you grinned at her.
“Nah, a few artworks and garbage cans. Some names on the doors, but nothing else.” 
“Really? Fascinating.” Her face was deep in thought.
“Stop.” You chuckled, knowing that look. She was taking mental notes. “It’s not that interesting.” 
The elevator pinged and opened again. Instinctively you walked out first, knowing exactly where to go, your mother keeping up with you, scoffing. 
“Well, excuse me if I find it amazing that my child jumped through time and space to save the world.”
“I didn’t save the world.” You rolled your eyes at her.
“Viktor is still alive, isn’t he?” She noted, raising her eyebrows.  
As soon as she finished that sentence, a small thump of a dry explosion was heard inside the hextech lab. Like an empty milk carton was squished with a stomp. 
“I’m sure he’s fine.” She added. 
Another small firecracker-like explosion was heard, prompting you both to look at each other and break into a jog to reach the lab.  
As expected, the door was locked, and although you had told your mom about a lot, the magic part was still something that needed some explanation. So you resorted to the least efficient way to open a closed door: banging on it. 
“Viktor! Jayce?” Esther shouted. A few groans from behind the door warned you there was someone alive inside. Well, capable of moaning in pain was more accurate. 
“Get the enforcers.” You mumbled to your mother; she nodded and raced around the corner. 
As soon as she was out of sight, you pulled your glove off and magically unlocked the door, punching the rune you painted near the lock. The door immediately opened with the force of your hit but didn’t swing open as expected. It hit something and bounced back, slamming shut again while someone grunted in pain on the other side. 
It’s funny how you could know someone from their tiniest squeak. And you knew that groan. You'd know it had it come from the other side of Piltover. Hells, you'd know it if it had been heard through the actual space and time rift. 
Carefully this time you twisted the door handle, opening the door gently and peeking inside the lab.
 Although the curtains were open, a dusty, thick white fog lingered in the air, making the room a shade darker. The floor was littered with tools, gears, and pencils that had fallen from their places, and a pair of goggles was lying on the floor next to a welding machine.
Viktor was sprawled on the ground, leaning back into one of his hands while the other was gently massaging his face. One of his legs was twisted uncomfortably, and the other was bent at the knee in front of him. You could see as he rubbed his face that there was blood coming from somewhere. After a while, he shook his head and looked up at the door.
When he managed to focus his gaze on you, his eyebrows knotted in confusion and then realization. With a sigh, he sat, grabbed the leg that was twisted uncomfortably, and brought it forward. You heard a metallic thud. Hextech leg. Your gaze shifted to his face; you saw the blood coming from his nose, but it didn’t seem broken. Above his eyebrow was a small curved gash, a courtesy of the goggles he probably ripped off his head.
 “We do need to stop meeting like this.” he mumbled, trying to get up with the grace of a baby deer using its long limbs for the first time.
 Putting your glove back on, you took a step closer and offered him a hand, which he accepted with raised eyebrows and a head tilt.
 With more expertise than he was expecting, you grabbed his hand and forearm and pulled him up. Picking this man off the floor had become a skill both you and Jayce obtained a long time ago. His disability unfortunately made him an easy target for misfires. While you and Jayce would easily dodge anything coming your way, Viktor wouldn’t. Couldn’t. And since the fastest way to move him fast was pushing him out of the way, the three of you would end up on the floor, and either you or Jayce would shield Viktor from whatever was malfunctioning at the time. It wasn't your proudest idea, but it worked, and for better or worse, you all would escape relatively unscathed.
 “Like what?” You asked, joining him in dusting off his clothes.
 You patted his back gently, feeling the brace on his spine under his clothes. You didn't find it.
 “After an explosion.” He swished the dust off his coat sleeves. The off-white coat was a tinge darker after the mishap. 
 “Technically, this is the first time we meet after an explosion.” You emphasized the word ‘after’ and he stopped mid-swipe, turning his face back towards you.
 Shrugging, you lifted the corners of your mouth, giving him a grin that he responded to with a chuckle. You looked around the mess that was the lab at this moment and spotted his white cane and his wheeled bench.
You grabbed the cane first and gently pushed the stool so it would roll down next to him. He plopped down with a groan, using the table as leverage. You handed him the cane, and he nodded. You smile at his messy figure.
 “Thank you.” He said, placing the cane between his knees and leaning into it with a heavy sigh.
 “Do you need anything else?” You asked softly, stopping the urge to kneel next to him and take stock of his injuries.
 “There is a first-aid kit somewhere on Jayce's desk. It’s on the...”
 Before he finished the sentence, you jiggled the white box next to him, having already grabbed it when he mentioned it.
 “How did…?” He asked, looking at you questioningly, and panic set in for a second.
 “Oh, my dear boy!” Your mother burst in, followed by several Enforcers, and you sighed in relief. 
 “Is everything alright?” One of the Enforcers said, and you took a step back, leaning against the table behind where Viktor sat.
 “Yes…” Viktor stated while your mother fussed over him.
 One of the enforcers looked at you, and you recognized his eyes. He had been one of the men you had pushed out of your way at the front door of the Academy. You looked at the floor, trying to not provoke the man.
 “Funny. You always seem to appear whenever anything goes boom, don't you?” He spat towards you. 
“Not funny at all.” You replied, your tone serious, trying once more not to escalate the situation. For your sake and the people you cared about who were now looking between you and the Enforcer.
“Maybe we should call Officer Kiraman. I’m sure she would like to know that once again you’re in the vicinity of an attack.” He snarled, and you scowled at him, about to let him have it.
“You are going to call Officer Kiraman over a malfunctioning piece of equipment?” Viktor interrupted, straightening up with a wince while using his cane to get up from the stool. “Do you think she’ll get here before or after reading all the condolence letters sent to her? Or perhaps she will make time on Remembrance Day, right before the speech honoring her deceased mother."
 A pin could be heard through the silence if a pin would have dropped in the lab. The main enforcer was looking at him, mouth hanging open; you and your mother looked at each other and then at a very collected, very serious Viktor. He seemed taller, with his shoulders straight, and you knew that after that tumble he was going to hurt for at least a week, but that didn't stop him from stepping up to the Enforcers. You had forgotten how much sass that man could pack in a single line.
 “When is it going to be, officer?” The engineer shrugged, limping back towards a pile of sheets that had flown back. “I need to tidy up before she gets here.”
 It took the group of Enforcers three seconds to clear out after that, and a collective sigh was heard from the three of you.
 “You’d think being knocked around would make their synapses work faster.” Viktor waved a hand at them, still picking up papers, stopping midway to look at you, like he had just realized you were there. “Not that I agree with knocking around enforcers…or that you knocked around enforcers… I’m just saying…”
 He was flustered, talking with his free hand while his eyes looked around the room. You chuckled, and he stopped when he heard you. 
 “You’re just saying…?” You teased, rolling your hand for him to keep going.
“Nothing of importance, I suppose.” He turned back to the table.
 “I was hoping you could show me the reader.” Esther announced, grabbing a few nuts and bolts and placing them next to Viktor. “But I imagine it's not functioning.”
 Viktor turned to her, realizing finally why you were both there. He smiled sheepishly and scratched the back of his neck.
 “Well, yes and no.” He said, tilting his head from side to side. “The explosion wasn’t it, but it was a component that I was trying to recreate to use in another experiment.”
 “And now both are fried.” You answered by crossing your arms. 
“Well…yes. But if you give me a few hours, I can make it work, at least for the reader. The other thing will wait, I guess…” he said quickly. “Better yet, give me a few minutes so I can get it, and I can at least show you what I have for now.”
“It's quite alright, dear. Take your time. We can just come back another time.” Esther said, and part of you felt disappointed. 
 Your second home was right here.
“That would hardly be fair. You’ve made it here. Give me a few minutes, an hour tops.” He was limping around waving his hand and cane.
“I suppose I do need to speak with Councilor Salo.” Your mother shrugged nonchalantly. “Do you want to—”
“No.” You cut her off. “Not really. You go ahead. I’ll get reacquainted with the Academy.”
“Reacquainted?” Viktor inquired, looking towards you.
“Last time I was here, I didn’t exactly take the scenic route.” You covered your mistake with an easy joke, and he chuckled at it.
• ············ •
You managed to walk around the Academy undisturbed. It was weird to walk around the familiar corridors, passing by people you knew and fighting the urge to say hello and strike up a conversation. It was awfully lonely, seeing everyone going about their lives, never knowing about you.
 Although it saddened you, you understood that it wasn’t because you weren’t needed in their lives but because fate found a way to replace you. Maybe you hadn’t saved Sky from falling down the stairs in this universe, because maybe her classroom was on the same floor she was at.
As you wandered, you found yourself in a corridor with very recognizable double doors. The Council Chamber was guarded by several guards, and you felt the morbid curiosity to see if the room was the same as it was in your time. 
As you searched your brain for a way to bypass the guards, a familiar whispering in your ear. The rune from the elevator flashed behind your eyes. The one you hadn’t managed to make work. You took your gloves off again and drew the symbol in a railing, disguising it as an absent movement as you looked down to the courtyard. You let it go, and nothing happened for a couple of seconds.
And then the groaning of metal grinding against another surface filled your ears. Your eyes turned upwards as you saw the metal spike that held the Academy’s banner to the stone ceiling give way and slip. The heavy banner made a swoosh noise as it fell, and your eyes widened. 
You saw the Enforcers run towards the elevator and the stairs. You turned your back to them and waited until their hurried footsteps had softened. 
Quickly you made your way to the chamber through the door you had burst open. A new door had been placed and locked, but you unlocked it with three swipes of your fingers.
 The chamber room was as spacious as you remembered, the hole in the dome a grim reminder that those who sat in this room were as vulnerable as everyone else in the city. You remembered Viktor’s diagram, looking around at the empty and cracked chairs. Most of the smaller debris had been cleaned off, leaving only the big and medium chunks. The ones that couldn't just be carried off by crewmen. The sun shone high and bright in the clear sky, illuminating the whole room, the long pieces of the damaged dome casting a shadow on the floor.
You touched parts of the smooth stone that were still intact and walked toward the edge of the room, feeling the wind on your face. It had been an awakening to these people, but not the one that Piltover needed. This whole region forgot how hard it is to break a rope and how easy it is to break a strand. Only in the end did they figure out that the many are more powerful than the few. That blood, once spilt, is equally red whether it is from Zaun or Topside.
Closing your eyes, you stood for a moment, somewhat grieving what had been the beginning of the end.
(Nemo - The Code)
Welcome to the show. Let everybody know I’m done playing the game. I’ll break out of the chains.
Until the wind started whispering in your ear and your eyes shot open. What looked to be blue dust started to float like specks of dust toward the middle of the room, and you followed the flow. There was nothing there. But there could be. 
You better buckle up; I'll pour another cup. This is my bohème, so drink it up, my friend.
 Your hand moved unconsciously, drawing the rune in the air like it was second nature. You pushed it out with a flick of your hand. Like in the graveyard, it divided itself into several wisps of light and quickly moved toward parts of the broken table and chairs. A familiar rune appeared, but so did many others. Some are more complicated, others just little flicks of light. Shining bright in the middle of the rubble or being illuminated by sunlight.
I went to hell and back. To find myself on track, I broke the code.
 You walked towards what had been the middle of the cog-like shape and watched as the wisps danced around. Looking around, you noticed the runes were surrounding you, pulsating like a heartbeat; you noticed your hand doing the same, in rhythm with the wisps. You saw a small piece of rubble that had been missing by the cleaning crew and took a deep breath. 
“Here goes nothing.”
Let me tell you a tale about life, 'Bout the good and the bad; better hold on tight.
 Starting with the rune in front of you, you carved it on the floor, the piece of rubble in your hand serving as a makeshift chalk. You kept carving the runes on the floor in front of where they appeared in the air. The world around you faded, and your vision became focused.
 See the rune, and trace the rune on the floor. 
Let me taste the lows and highs; let me feel that burning fright.
It was automatic; you didn’t think or even study the rune. At some point, you felt like it was the rune commanding you to write, rather than your desire to write them. And even though it was akin to someone using your arm and hand to do this, it never felt like you couldn’t stop. 
 It was almost cathartic.
Somewhere between the O's and ones, that's where I found my kingdom come.
 When you found yourself at the beginning of the circle of runes, you stopped and took a step back. The wisps had disappeared, but you could see a faint light throbbing under the scratched runes. 
 It looked so unbelievably perfect for something that you had scratched on the floor with a piece of cement. Every space between runes was precise, and the little ticks and dots were perfectly balanced. 
 With that amount of rigor, it was easy to see something was missing, a single wisp in the spot where the cog table opened. Familiar strokes. Ones you’ve been looking at ever since you woke up in the hospital. 
 You looked at your palm, the rune there shining so bright it almost burned. Taking a few steps towards the space, you shook your hand in the air and slammed it into the slot.
My heart beats like a drum.
The whole room shook, and for a second you got scared, but when the runes started ungluing themselves off the ground and quickly zapping around different parts of the table, you became too fascinated with the show to care.
 If the building fell, you don’t think you’d even notice.
 Every piece of wreckage, big or small, started floating above you, aided by strands of magic that pushed and pulled and moved different pieces toward different places. Their rightful places. Once a piece found its match, it was welded together by a flash of blue light, leaving them complete with a trace of metallic blue where the crack had been.
I went to hell and back. To find myself on track, I broke the code.
 You noticed the same thing happening in the chairs, and by the end of the magic show, the table and the chairs were floating around you. Slowly drifting and turning into their right position. Until they wafted back down to the floor with an incredible low thud.
 It was almost overwhelming once it was all over how the silence settled around you. The runes on the floor disappeared, your hand stopped glowing, and the table was complete, whole, pieced together by little blue veins. The only thing you heard was the birds outside, the wind through the damaged dome, your heavy breathing, and the clunk of a metal cane hitting the floor.
 Your neck snapped at the sound, and you saw a wide-eyed Viktor standing in front of the side door you had entered.
 “Your… your mother is… She’s looking for you.” He stuttered.
• ··········· • ············ •
@marshy-moo @victormydarling @blueesmiski @th3stup1dcat @22carolina08 @httpstes @that-one-shitty-blog @disa-pointment @sseleniaa @moons-lighttrail @aysluxe @fae-doodle @kitewa @local-mr-frog @bakusquadobsessed @cherry-cola-100 @optimistic-but-very-realistic @seeksrsnn @thecordelialetters @notsaelty
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fuckyeahgoodomens · 11 months ago
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Neil talking about the responses to Good Omens Season 2 - from the Neil Gaiman interview with Brian Levine for The Gould Standard (x,x)
BL: The audience that you have built is a very passionately engaged audience. They, frankly, they love you. And one of the reasons they love you is that you fit into what I think of as one of two great divisions in art. There's, or in writing, um, there is: I'm entertained, I'm amused. I may be even enchanted; and then there's this hits me at a visceral level. You understand me as no one else does. You have touched something very central to my experience. And it seems to me that Much of your writing, maybe all of your writing, actually reaches your audience at that latter level. You know. I would say in the former category, sort of my quintessential and beloved example would be P. G. Woodhouse. He amuses me, but I don't feel like he's revealed my inner self at a very deep level. Um, were you aware that you were going to be able to achieve that? Um, that this is something... was it a startling thing when people began coming up to you, who'd read your work and said, this means so much to me?
Neil: Yeah. It was huge. And it wasn't expected. I... if I had a mountaintop I was heading towards, it was gonna be P. G. Woodhouse. Um, I wanted to be a proficient entertainer with a clear prose style who could tell stories. Um, it probably wasn't until Sandman that I found... I started to realize that in order for a story to work, I had to show too much. In order for a story to resonate, in order for a story to matter, I had to let it matter too much. And, and I remember the first people who would start coming up to me and saying, um, you, you know, your, your Sandman comics got me through the death of a loved one. Your death character got me through my child's death, through my parent's death, through my partner's death, through my friend's death. Um, and that left me kind of amazed. I'm like, well, I didn't write it to do that. I wrote it to feed my children. I wrote it to satisfy myself. I wrote it because nobody else had ever written it. And if I didn't write it, it wouldn't be written, but I don't think I wrote it to give you what you've taken from it. And I spent really about 20, 25 years feeling awkward about that. And then my father died, in March 2009, and never got to cry about it. Never... I, you know, I've, I've got on a plane and I went to the UK and dealt with the funeral stuff and organized all of that stuff and came back and go toff the plane and went and did Stephen Colbert's Colbert Report and wearing the funeral suit because and that was all I had with me and carried on. And then, somewhere in the middle of summer, I was reading a friend's script. They'd sent me a script and said, can you look this over? And I'm reading it, and on page 20, the lead character meets somebody, and on page 26 maybe, she's dead, and I burst into tears. And I'm bawling. I am sobbing. It is coming out of me in giant racking waves. And I realized that it's everything that I'd been, hadn't let myself feel, or hadn't been able, hadn't stopped enough to let myself feel, was suddenly being given permission to feel by the death of a fictional person who I'd met six pages earlier, ia script. And I thought that... and it was huge for me, and I thought, okay, that's that thing that people are talking about sometimes, when they come tome and they say, you, you did this. So right now, I'm in this weird, wonderful place where I think a lot of people in Good Omens Season 2 thought they were signing up for the P.G. Woodhouse, and didn't know that, no, no, no, you've, you've signed up for the whole thing. You've signed up for the feelings. You've signed up for the emotions. I... it is my job to make you care and to make you feel and to feel things you haven't felt before. And which meant that the first week or so after Good Omens came out, I was getting angry, furious, deeply upset messages on every possible social medium telling me that I had betrayed people, and it was awful, and they couldn't stop crying, and why would I do that to them, and did I hate them? And they hated me. And then a weird sort of phenomenon happened as people would watch the show again. And again. And now they started to know, okay, this is where it's gonna go, this is what's gonna happen, this is how it works. And they started realizing that they were actually feeling things, and that was good. And that they were caring about two people who don't exist. You know, I made them up, and then and Terry Pratchett made them up, and then, um, David Tennant and Michael Sheen gave them life, and then they get to walk around on a screen and you know they don't exist, but you can cry for them, you can love them, they can make you laugh, they can make you exult, and most important of all, they can make you care. And the number of people who are now writing to me, saying, 'This was so important to me. This has changed my life. This makes me feel like I belong. This makes me feel like I can cope. And it's let me sort of find myself. P. S. I hope you get to do Season Three.' is, is huge.
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lesbianherald · 4 days ago
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Based Jayce take tbh….also I’m gonna confess this on anon but one of my most pretentious takes when it comes to fandom is that everything would be way easier to enjoy if ppl understood story structure a little more. Like Jayce’s arc is a negative arc. He sucked on purpose! If you had bad feelings about him that was intentional and okay (I do think Jayce hate was overblown but I also get why it existed. Like the audience was just picking up on the feelings the show was putting down). But he was definitely Like That for a reason! Usually in good writing, characters are tools for the narrative first you know…you don’t need to justify his actions to like Jayce because he’s fictional and he’s not a real person youre stanning. But also fandom is for fun so I know this take is pretentious but also it’s my truth. My story structure….my characters who are intentionally challenging my theme….my character arc….
NO NO BUT YOU ARE COOKING ON EVERY LEVEL !!!!
(Note: This randomly turned into a very hasty analysis of the shots used in the bridge scene? Because I got on a tangent about how we interpret visual storytelling as well and oops!)
Story structure is so overlooked. The role characters are supposed to play in an overarching narrative is overlooked. So much gets ignored in the way information is presented both in the story structure and visually that sometimes it frightens me and it makes me really bummed! And it's nobody's fault! Most of us live in a society that devalues art and literacy on purpose!
I don't think it's pretentious to wish people better understood the building blocks of the story or at least understood how to take in general arcs. And I think if they did as a whole most fandom spaces would be a lot more interesting and have a lot less bizarre takes/infighting.
I also think that - where arcane's writing can get weird and murky - the visual language will cover it. (Almost to an extreme.)
It makes me think of one of my favorite scenes in the whole show and how misinterpreted it gets and how quick people are to defend jayce here despite how much it is playing on the themes of the show and how clearly he is painted as in the wrong both by the writing and the shots ok fuck -
I think all the time about the imbalance of power represented by that insane low angle on Jayce. You know what fuck it. I'm going to go get it. Fuck. This is about to become a whole thing. Okay.
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If I brought an angle like this into a classroom setting, I would be laughed at for it being too obvious. But its one of my favorites because its so visceral. In fact, I've shown this to a lot of friends - the reaction to this shot is usually an audible "Woah!" or even nervous laughter! Because clearly! He's supposed to be intimidating here. This is supposed to be like. Oh. He is not who he used to be. Oh. Oh no. Its so co clearly a representation of power and corruption you may as well stamp it on his forehead.
He's not only Jayce here, he's a representation of piltover as a whole - in its physical and political positions over Zaun. In a position of power over someone he's close with, who just verbally told someone he would "understand." Now we are seeing that he very likely wont. (He will! But right now, we are supposed to be with Viktor in this scene. We are supposed to become convinced he won't right with him!)
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Note that the angle we get for Viktor is way less extreme. Way more eye level. And less centered. I could go on about this too. But oooh boy. Like! Clearly we are supposed to be more with him in terms of who we find rational. Clearly he's the voice of reason here. We are level with him. He is at a safe distance. We are seeing how he is looking up at jayce without looking down at him.
In this shot, he is someone we as an audience are level with, who is gathering information, making a decision. He is remaining more measured than I think the audience is supposed to be given the angle we're getting on jayce.
The only time we do get the "reverse" of that Jayce shot on Viktor is when he is quite literally standing out of the frame almost immediately. Whose furious with the position Jayce is putting him in. This is Right after Jayce says, "They're dangerous." He's gathered the information he needs. He sees Jayce for what he is. Somebody he cannot trust. And he refuses to be put in this lower position.
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Jayce is not supposed to be the one we are rooting for here. He is the person we are supposed to be disappointed in. We are supposed to question him here. This isn't only dramatically spelled out in the narrative but also in the shot choicesss!
And then we have the apology -
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That's why i always question why people are like. Okay but he apologized. When the apology is framed like this! We don't even get to see viktor's face because the damage is done!! JAYCE ISNT EVEN LOOKING AT HIM !!!! It doesn't matter. We don't even get full access to Jayce here! What's at the center of this shot is the barricade that Jayce has ordered!!! This makes the apology, and "I've had a lot on my plate" purposefully look ridiculous in the context of the Narrative here! It's not enough!
Viktor is DYING. And jayce is standing here all prim and proper, with the Talis symbol very visible in that fuckass suit, saying he's had a lot on his plate. We're very clearly not supposed to look at this and go awww! baby boy <3. If this apology was a meaningful moment for either of them that changed either of their minds - it would not be framed like thisssss. These words are empty in the context of it all. Jayce may be genuinely sorry, but he's accidentally revealed way too much about how he views Viktor's people. Even if he didn't mean to. Even if he didn't realize how deeply his biases ran.
And then we have Viktor lying. Viktor knowing he has to go about this alone. And this is the shot. This is the moment of fracture. Viktor looking back at him in disgust with Jayce's barricade in the background. HES ALONE!! JAYCE HAS FAILED HIM !!! This is so critical in understanding Viktor's entire everything moving forward, and it's so so critical for Jayce as well.
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People talk a lot about that moment where jayce has his hand on Viktor's lower back because yaoi but that screencap is so hard to get because that moment is almost immediately interrupted by a protestor from zaun throwing a Molotov cocktail in their direction! And the touch, that reluctant familiarity, despite the conflict, gets broken.
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Something that I think gets overlooked is Jayce's face after the (Molotov?) gets thrown by a protestor. ITS ANOTHER LOW ANGLE LIKE!!! Once again. Highlighting the power he has here.
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We see Jayce in season 1 act 1 really highlighted with a lot of high angles. A lot of doe-eyed wonder. He looks young. Sweet. This is not the same jayce and it is very very clear in the way he is shot. This is the point !!!!!.
There are a lot of scenes i see misinterpreted but this is the big one. And its one of my favorite scenes. Because he's so wrong here! And he doesn't really fully grasp how much so yet.
I love jayce. I love my complex man. Because here's the thing. He needed this low to reach the character highs he does later. Jayce being as loving and determined to make things right as he is in season 2 wouldn't be nearly as compelling or tragic or exciting were he not like this in season 1. It's brutal to watch him get punished by the narrative! But it's also narratively satisfying!
Anyways anon i agree wholeheartedly sorry i made it into a whole thing.
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inbabylontheywept · 2 months ago
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if you are my fav tumblr account, who else should i follow? any suggestions? maybe your other followers can chime in too.
oh. that's very sweet. i've been told i have a lot of overlap with @foldingfittedsheets. she does art too, i just rec her in general. if you like me for my poignance, shes like that too, plus she can draw. @gallusrostromegalus is another storyteller, and they've been at it quite a while longer than me. absolutely massive archive of stories. top quality and top quantity. i'm in awe of the quantity - some days i feel like i'm scraping the bottom of my bucket and they just keeps going, and going, and going, and going. they are kind of unstoppable. @derinthescarletpescatarian did hfy and was frankly quite a bit better at it than i ever was. if you like my fiction. they have several books too that i've seen people go feral over. on my to-read-list after i finish my cormac mccarthy binge. god help me. or stop me. they also do life update stories that kind of fit into my niche.
there's @lizardho, who is my sister, and frankly has a similar storytelling and speaking style to me. we grew up just 14 months apart. she doesn't write as much as i do, she just got out of grad school and which consumed basically all of her mental and emotional energy for the last couple years (ive only really been writing for around... 4 years? and basically started as soon as school stopped kicking my ass) but when she does you'll go ah, yeah, family resemblance here. case in point.
@miseria-fortes-viros is more fandom focused than me, but if you read me specifically for my random emotional kicks to your stomach, she is fantastic at that and she occasionally dips into greek works, which is something i've always been interested in. if you liked my odysseus in space story then this and this are gonna burn through your brain like acetone on styrofoam. also she occasionally does life stories and theyre always top notch. you will love this.
those are all my you-will-find-works-like-mine recs. i'm opening it up to the audience if they have anyone they'd like to throw into the ring.
(i'm gonna close with someone whose work isn't actually terribly similar to mine, but i like @letters-from-the-gaps so much i'm gonna give them a rec too. their poem "Bone Saints" is probably my favorite work of theirs. i think about it at least once a week. you can go through their entire body of work in like, maybe a day or two? but it's good. feels like home to me. we both love our sunscorched deserts.)
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always-just-red · 4 months ago
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@irandial and @micasosa34 requested a Rafayel version of this fic, so here it is!! This is a loose sequel, but mostly a spin-off? Also an emotional rollercoaster, sorry! (I fear I put too much of myself in this one, guys... there will be no beating the 'oh you are ACTUALLY in love with this man' allegations after this.....)
Fourth Wall (Rafayel Ver.)
Rafayel x Player!Reader 🔥
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(Previous part/Sylus version here!)
Summary: You didn't think Rafayel would let you walk around an art gallery all by yourself, did you?
Genre: Angst! This is my revenge for the claw machine debacle (Checkmate, Rafayel!!! But also I'm sorry and I love you)
Warnings/Additional tags: player!reader, gender neutral, fourth-wall breaking, non-canon, one instance of swearing
| Word count: 2.4k | Masterlist | Opt-in to my taglist here!
Disclaimer: Characters belong to Love and Deepspace. All work is my own, so please don't repost or plagiarise!
You made it through about two rooms of the gallery before thinking about Rafayel.
You stand in front of a dark seascape: a night sky and a symmetrically black ocean framing the plight of a small fishing boat, adrift in the centre. The moon casts a pale, faraway light, and an orange lantern glows, drawing colour from the oppressive darkness— deep blues, and rich, shimmering turquoise, crested with white.
It should evoke some feeling of smallness, some respect for the vast indifference of the natural world, but no— your mind is set on the fictional artist who lives in your phone.
What would he think about it? What would he have to say?
At the moment, you suspect it would be some remark about how you should get your own opinion, rather than piggybacking his.
Still, it gives you an idea. You glance around self-consciously as you draw out your phone and earphones— tucking the latter into your ears as you offer a curt smile to the nearby gallery attendant. You’re not breaking any rules by loading up Love and Deepspace, but it feels slightly ridiculous in a place like this: full of real and honest things where you’re somehow lonely.
You log-in with a tap. “Let’s go to the beach,” Rafayel greets, his voice as warm as sunshine that melts a cold morning haze. “I never get tired of seeing the sunset there.”
You smile more sincerely, tousling his hair, but then it’s straight to business. You drag him into the AR Photobooth, directing him through a few poses until you find one you like: a duo pose. His fingers are meant to be around your chin, but without you, he seems to be pointing. Perfect, you shift— tilting your phone until the painting sits behind him.
He’s winking at you as he gestures to it, his face and body as still as marble.
You’re about to take the picture when a not-so-distant conversation strikes up, making you glance backwards. Another visitor is asking the attendant about a painting, and you lower your phone’s volume a notch so you can eavesdrop on them.
“This is one of Turner’s earliest paintings, y’know? He was young when he painted it. Like, super young.”
You freeze. The attendant and the visitor aren’t standing by a Turner painting; you are. Your gaze snaps back to your phone, drawn by the familiarity of the voice.
Rafayel’s turned away from you. He’s staring at the painting, one hand on his hip and the other up by his face, stroking his chin. He’s swaying on his feet gently, his head tilting as he takes in different parts of the seascape.
“You gonna take the picture, cutie?” he asks, glancing back at you with a knowing grin.
Your lips have parted slightly in surprise, but your finger manages to find the photo button. Rafayel returns to his candid observations just in time for your screen to flicker, mimicking a camera flash. 
“Ok, one more.” He turns around and settles into a new pose. You take another photo. “Nice,” he beams, “you’ll send those to me later, yeah?”
But you can’t—
“Relax, ok? I’m kidding. Now come on,” he pokes at the edge of your screen like a mime trapped by an invisible box. “Move this thing! I wanna see what else they’ve got here.”
You do move, but not to show him around. He gets a blurry view of the floor as you hurry over to a nearby bench, sinking down with a sigh because you can’t believe this is happening— again. With a few taps of your finger, you draw the curtains on Rafayel’s view to your world and return him to his.
“No, no, no! What?” he groans in disbelief, suddenly back in the Destiny Café. He throws himself into the armchair with reckless abandon— limbs sprawled— one hand over his face as though it would pain him to look on anything at all. “You find out I’m self-aware and the first thing you do is drag me back here? Where’s your heart? Your empathy? Your soul?”
You poke at his hand and he swats at the air like you’re bothering him.
“Leave me alone. Can’t you see I’m busy, like, contemplating the futility of my existence?”
So dramatic! You consider closing the app out of spite, but this is Rafayel. You know Rafayel; look past the theatrics. It’s been, what— just over a month since Sylus first told you he’d seen through all of this? He said the others were lagging behind, but maybe…
Maybe they weren’t.
Shit. Maybe they weren’t.
You watch Rafayel, sunken down in one of two places you’ve seen him inhabit every day, every night, for almost a year. This café isn’t different from the old in any way that matters. Sylus is new but Rafayel has been here from the very beginning. So many more days. So many more nights.
How long has he known?
He lifts his hand, just enough to peer in your direction. You’ve not closed the app. You’re not poking at him anymore. He sits up straighter in the chair, both hands in his lap, and he looks at them pensively. Maybe even remorsefully.
“You’re thinking about what it all means, huh? Don’t.” It’s a command, but it’s soft. Then softer, a: “Please?”
Your breath catches— oh— he’s known for a long time, hasn’t he? You lean back against the gallery wall, grounding yourself as you text him an emoji: a chick bursting out of its shell with question marks over its head.
He pulls out his phone. Sees it. “Why?” he translates with a melancholic chuckle.
Yeah. You tickle his head. Why?
He runs a hand through his hair. “I guess… I didn’t want you to feel bad?”
You text another emoji and he glances down at it, then laughs more loudly: “I’m a dummy? Check a mirror, cutie— isn’t it you who’s been walking around thinking Mister Wannabe Vampire is the only one smart enough to figure this all out? Puh-lease.”
He laughs even more at his own joke— maybe to fill the quiet and the fact that he can’t hear you laughing with him. It peters out like it inevitably must, and like it always does. He goes still.
“Can’t you show me around, even a little?” he asks.
No.
You feel bad, you do, but you can’t start living for him. This is your world; if you invite him in now, when does it stop? You already spend too much time with your head down, lost in your phone. You were walking through a gallery and thinking about him, remember? Art is supposed to make you think about something real.
No, you text him: a crow holding a sign with a big, red cross. It’s too abrupt, but there’s not an emoji for “I can’t. You know I can’t.”
Rafayel’s face falls further as he checks his phone, his eyes like the ocean in the painting across the room: lit by a weak, failing little light. He looks to you, even though he can’t see you. “Please?”
You don’t move.
“Please,” he tries again, “just this once— this once. Is that so much to ask?”
You’ve used up your three means of answering him.
He scoffs in dismay, alone in the silence of everything you can’t say— you couldn’t say— even if you were really with him and the distance between you was merely invented. How could you go to him, hold his face in your hands and tell him the truth: that you care, but not enough?
Here, now: the quiet confesses it for you.
Rafayel stands from his seat, taking a step closer, his gaze dark. You can see his eyes more clearly; that lantern is at the bottom of the sea, with the rest of the ship and everyone on board. “Do you know what my life is?” he asks, and the silence has become his ally, punctuating his every word so it can cut more deeply. “My life’s an empty café, a book with blank pages and a phone that won’t ring.”
The curtains behind him move softly with a superficial breeze, lit by a superficial sun.
“The only thing that’s real,” he says, “is you.”
You feel like the breath’s been knocked from your lungs.
You can’t resent him for it. He could have drowned you from the start, could have dragged you under a weight of responsibility, but he didn’t, and that’s Rafayel: always tempering himself into something less lethal. He’s been so still for you. So silent for you.
Your mind is wrapped in a vow you made him— one you’ve been unconsciously breaking— and you’re going to break it again, knowingly, wilfully this time, because you want him like this: angry.
You promised, didn’t you? I will never make Rafayel wait for me.
He’s always been waiting, and you want him to stop.
You close the app, muting your phone when notifications start coming through: a squall of frustration, pleading, and frantic apologies. You tuck all of it into your pocket and stand, wandering back to the painting that started it all so you can look at it differently.
Something real to think about. Something real.
You stare at a black ocean and think about him.
Rafayel isn’t talking to you.
It’s been a week since your ‘breakup’— dubbed gleefully as such by Sylus— and you load up the game to find your artist slumped back in his armchair, his book over his face. A week of him sitting down, cross-legged and armed, during the Deepspace Trials you’d set out to clear with him. A week of him hogging the Claw Machine, and missing every rare plushie with a sarcastic ‘oops’.
The worst part is that you’ve missed him. You’d tried replaying the kindled moments from his five-star memories, but he’d made you regret it. In Sparkling Traces, he’d summed up his feelings in a very… colourful drawing. Omnipotent Perception: he’d slipped deeper into the bathwater, a blush on his face as he avoided your gaze and murmured something about you ‘having some nerve.’
Now, you can’t even call him over to you. You poke at the book on his face, once, twice, then repeatedly until it slips, but his hands shoot up to catch it. He holds it in place.
Ugh. If he would just—
You drum away at the book more vivaciously, but his grip is solid. Plan B, then: you open your in-game messages and send an emoji instead. Rafayel stirs, one hand moving to his pocket and the other lifting the book so he can peek down at his phone. “What— you tryna bribe me now?”
He’s looking at grumpy crow holding out a present: a bundle of shiny, red gems. His translation is spot-on, as per usual, and you reward it by poking at his chest. He frowns down at the contact, then sits up, rolling his eyes as he tosses the book over his shoulder.
“This better be good,” he yawns, standing up and stretching with a listlessness that could only be described as cat-like, however much he’d whine about the comparison.
Having won his attention— and begrudging consent— you navigate your way to the AR Photobooth. Rafayel stares at you from within the frame: an unwitting subject of a portrait he doesn’t yet understand, but he soon will. You smile as he turns cautiously to regard his backdrop.
Behind him, the ocean laps at a shore of pale sand and stretches into the horizon, where the sun lazily dips. There’s about half of it left, turning the sky a blurred palette of orange and pink that’s spilled over the water. Clouds are few and dark purple, their linings aglow.
Rafayel’s folded arms have dropped to his sides. After a few, long seconds, he gazes back in your direction, eyes wide with surprise before they soften with a radiant smile.
“You—” he starts, and it could be something as light as a joke or as deep as a soliloquy. You’ll never know, because he doesn’t put it to words. He glances at the ocean again. Then at you. “Thanks,” he settles for.
You chuckle. There’s not many ways you can answer without tearing him away from the sunset and trapping him back in the café, so you stay sitting still. It’s a different silence than a week ago. There are things unsaid, but that’s ok— they’re the sort you don’t need to speak aloud, anyway.
Your shoes are set aside by your feet so you can feel the sand, still warm beneath your toes. You wiggle them into it, gazing out over the ocean as the evening breeze catches and plays with your hair, and the last of the sun trails over your skin. You stare out at where it’s sinking.
Rafayel moves, and your focus meanders back to your phone. He’s walking away from you, gradually— retreating further into the composition you’ve created, just for him. He looks as though he’s nearing the shore, but it’s cosmetic: there are no footprints in the sand. His hair isn’t moved by the same breeze, and his face isn’t gilded by the same light.
He stops by the ocean’s edge and crouches gently, mesmerised by the push and pull of the tide. Slowly, humbly, he reaches out a hand and lowers his fingers towards the water; they never slip beneath the surface, and they don’t stir a ripple.  
Rafayel laughs, masking an undertow of sadness, but not disappointment. “It’s funny,” he says, still sketching invisible, ineffectual shapes. “Loving the ocean as much as I do, and knowing… knowing I’ll never touch it.”
He’s all the way over there, but his voice is in your ears, so intimately close. You swallow an ache.
He looks up at you. Smiles: “Y’know what I mean?”
You’re using memories to complete the picture: His hair, mussed by the summer breeze that day you stood amongst the cherry blossoms. His face, painted by the sunset of a different life, where you’d roamed a desert together. In each and every moment, his eyes are the same, just as they are now: kindled by a tender, tentative fire.
“Yeah, Raf,” you say to yourself— just yourself. “I know what you mean.”
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cronchybuffalo · 2 months ago
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I know you're a Sol fan (i mean, i don't,but im assuming you're because of your gorgeous art)
BUT after the update (no spoilers for you don't worry)
What are your thoughts on Sol and Crow now? Did change something?
Have you seen the bad end yet? Thoughts about it!?
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In case you wonder what's my stance on Sol now Idk how to describe it but this is the complied list of Sol in the AUs I have drawn/made in the span of 7 months I hope it can describe my feeling on the emo freak. Anyways after the update? Idk if I will get hate or something for this but I love Sol after the update even more????? Like I already know hes gonna be more fucked up and I was not disappointed. Crowe got a lot more story to go on now but ngl I'm still not choosing him over the emo weewooweewoo call me a bull cuz I'm rushing to (fictional) red flags. Also the bad end is kinda expected but I didn't think it would come so quick lmao HELP but it does establish the prominent threat that is a delulu yandere with homicidal tendency. And ngl I digs all the new CGI esp in that ending, cray cray Sol tickles my fancy.
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elsa-fogen · 7 months ago
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Why would you make something like this of Alastor and Rosie killing Velvette. This is such a sick minded thing to make. And the way that you drew it implied that Alastor and Rosie stripped her down?? what the actual fuck?? that is SO odd... I dont know, this entire comic is something that is just so off putting and I dont want to imagine what kind of things are going through your mind to make something like this. Poor Velvette. And why the fuck is valentino biting his lip seeing Velvette dead?? Overall this comic is so gross. Get a new hobby. Go touch some grass. Read a book. Do all that, but stay away from Velvette please. Biggie.
Oh no, i'm deeply senserely sorry! How could I even think of such a thing?!! I'm a monster, the most horrible creature on earth, and your words have opened my eyes! I'm now realising how horrible and fucked up of a person I am! All this time i lived in the darkness, pitch black pit of evil, but now I see the light and this light blinds me, burns me! I know now that me, such a disgusting offspring of the dark and unimaginable horror cannot live under the light of this world and therefore doesn't deserve it! I don't deserve to do art, i don't deserve to live! Thank you, moonyxshunsuke-forever, i have seen the light and now it's gone, and i can't live without it! Knowing that such light can never shine inside my corrupted and twisted soul! I should never draw again, delete my blog and kill myself! To stop the darkness of my soul poisoning this pure and perfect world! In 24 hours this blog will be deleted and you'll never see or hear from me ever again!
✨✨✨S A R C A S M ✨✨✨
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yeah nno buddy, that doesn't work this way. I draw what i want and i'm not gonna stop because some sensitive vanilla flower didn't like it. It's fictional characters, dude, I do what i want with them and i don't care if it's immoral. Novody's harmed in real life. Block the tag of the AU if you don't like it, block me if you hate my art in general and fucking move on
And fair warning, if you or anyone else keep sending me shit like this, i'll find more creative and horrible ways to torture your precious little Velvette, just to spite yall.
Masterpost of the most twisted and gross AU on Tumblr
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merrycrisis-if · 3 months ago
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So is merry crisis not gonna be an if anymore but rather a vn? What does that mean for its progress? I'm a bit worried tbh...
Also i thought you were working alone on it but you keep saying "we" in your new monsoon games posts? I'm genuinely confused about everything. Maybe i missed smth...
Heya! Super fair question, and I get where you're coming from. I love Merry Crisis as it is right now, and I know how concerning it may be to see me spending time "fixing something that ain't broke".
I just want to emphasise two things that I think might reassure you somewhat:
I'm very much still focusing on writing Merry Crisis above all else, and that's always going to be my priority. (I love writing first and foremost!)
That said, I've been giving it a lot of thought, and I do truly believe that my vision for Merry Crisis leans more toward visual novel than it is fully text-based; the reason why I started with COG/HG is simply that it was the thing that got me into Interactive Fiction, and the only language I knew 2 years ago. Now, 2 years later, I can genuinely say that my coding/programming skills have improved, and discovering Ren'py really clicked. Like, I feel in my bones that this is the form of the story that I want to tell, and I'm glad to have it in my arsenal/as one of my options now.
On the second point, I hope it at least counts for something that I am not making the decision lightly, and I genuinely think that when you guys see it in the form I'm imagining, you'll love it too/be as excited as I am. More details / answers to the rest of your questions below the cut.
I'm still going to be focusing on writing merry crisis while I find artists- and even when I do settle on artists, since I won't be the one doing the art (thankfully), writing progress should still be made at the same(ish) speed.
That said, porting to a visual novel format does require a fair amount of editing, and yes, I will need to balance that with writing new content.
As for the actual details of implementation and what language/format I will be updating in, I am currently writing the new chapter in choicescript, and it will be updated in that format for 1 more chapter at least (possibly more). Hope that answers things!
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lordprettyflackotara · 1 month ago
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Follow You || Chapter Two || Eyeless Jack
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sum: after returning to your college dorm room, jack just can’t stay away. this ends up resulting in an unfortunate run in with your unhinged roommate
tw: mentions of drug usage/drugs
a/n: i want to make it very clear i do not support drug usage as depicted in this story. this is a work of fiction and i would never encourage you to snort adderall lmaoo
chapter one is here
“You’re gonna be shaped like the letter C for the rest of your life if you sit like that.”
Jennifer’s voice was sour, an obvious sign she was sober. You looked over at your roommate, rolling your eyes. “You sit just like this, only you do it to get high, I do it for academics,” You countered. You wouldn’t consider your roommate, Jennifer, a friend. If anything she was far from it. She had long ginger hair, big green eyes, and freckles that decorated her cheeks. You had been assigned as roommates your freshman year of college. You both had heard horror stories of other people's roommates and decided although you weren’t fond of one another, you could tolerate each other's habits.
Giving Jennifer the benefit of the doubt she wasn’t wrong, even if it was hypocritical. You had been hunched over your desk for what felt like eternity, studying and writing notes for an upcoming exam. Out of instinct you leaned back, stretching over the back of your chair. “Touché. This exam has you bent out of shape huh?” Jennifer asked. She was laying on her bed, lazily hanging her head off of the side. Her eyes were glued to her phone, her fingers typing away. “That's a severe understatement. You try taking biochemistry. Everything is blending together the longer I look at it,” You sighed. You rubbed your temple, letting out an exhausted breath. “Yeah, I think I'm good. I’ll still with my art major,” The ginger replied. Glancing at her you could see the noticeable eye bags hanging under her eyes. You see Jennifer had an astounding drug problem, one you had grown tolerant of. Despite not partaking in substances yourself, you were well educated in the world of pharmaceuticals. Jennifer took advantage of your knowledge, in exchange for keeping that aspect of her life out of your dorm.
Your shared bathroom was up for grabs naturally, but your main bedroom was not. You thought of Jennifer to just be a woke party girl, who spent her spare time either partying or attending whatever cause she was obsessed with for the week. This week it happened to be veganism. You suspected this charade wouldn’t last long, considering any protein Jennifer consumed seemed to evaporate due to her constant drug usage. She’d feel like shit and get bacon next week at breakfast, you were sure. “Are you going to Mark’s Halloween party? It’s all anyone can talk about right now,” Jennifer asked. You propped your head up on your hand, giving her a sarcastic smile. “Cmon Jen, you know I don’t party. Besides my big exams are the day after,” You reminded her. Not that she should’ve needed reminding, considering it’s all you could think about. It may have only been the beginning of October, but your focus was consumed by your studies.
Jennifer rolled her eyes, rolling over on her stomach. “You know a part of the college experience is socializing right? Your books aren’t going to do you any favors when it comes to meeting hot guys,” She said teasingly, sticking out her tongue. You noticed she had changed her tongue piercing, a neon green ball sitting on her unbrushed tongue. “Hot guys can come after I become a doctor. Half of the guys here are gonna drop out anyways,” You replied. Jennifer snickered, her gaze returning to her phone. “Thats not what you think about Ethan Kibber though,” She teased. You felt heat rush to your cheeks at the sound of his name.
Ethan Kibber. Tall, mean, incredibly handsome. He had beautiful dreadlocks that went down to his shoulders, his chocolate orbs always captivating you every time you saw him. And his voice? It was deep and raspy enough to make you swoon. He was a psychology major, determined to thrive as a psychologist. His admission to Harvard had been publicized, his sister having been a victim to suicide. Ever since then he had been determined to help others mental health. A trait you absolutely adored. He also played football, typical jock popularity following along with it. But you admired his ability to never let that change him. Sure, your only interactions had been nods or brief greetings in the hallway. You were sure it was only because Jennifer walked beside you, but you thought the effort to acknowledge you was sweet.
Playfully you threw a pencil at her, causing her to giggle. “Don't tell me you’re going to try to bribe me by guaranteeing his attendance,” You groaned. Jennifer sat up fully, sliding off of her bed. “Not necessarily but it would be soooo good for you to get out more. You’re always cooped up in here all the time,” She replied. You watched her go over to the bathroom, doing what she did best. You tried not to stare as you heard a drawer open and shut. Her special little ‘stash’. “Hey, what'll get me through my quiz today? I have a bunch of uppers,” She asked. You cringed at the thought of her voice echoing into another dorm. “What time is your quiz?” You asked. You refrained from looking over your shoulder, no matter how much your curiosity lured you to. “In an hour,” Jennifer responded. Your eyes widened, your gaze glued to your desk. “Jesus, Jen. Take an adderall and crush it up and snort it,” You sighed. You didn’t enjoy assisting Jennifer’s drug problem, but you also despised the idea of having to help her detox. Not that she ever truly would.
“Thanks! You’re the best. Now back to what I was saying,” She replied. You could hear the rattling of pills in a bottle, before the sound of them crushing occurred. “I know you’re not a party go-er but why not give it a try? You’re basically a scientist right? Why not trial and error another party?” She asked. Another party. You felt slightly embarrassed at the memory, glancing down at your bandages. You hadn’t told anyone about Jack or what had happened. You pretended you went home with a guy you didn’t remember, earning a big congratulations from your precious roommate. Little did she or anyone else know you were a virgin, dreaming of the day Ethan Kibber would sweep you off your feet. So you played along with the story, claiming you had fallen a bunch at the party. You regretted every second that you attended, cringing at how sloppy of a drunk you turned out to be. Turns out having an unrestricted supply of alcohol is troublesome for even the best students.
“I want to be a doctor in medicine, not science. Although I appreciate the notion, I think i’m good,” You say. You cringed at the sound of her loudly snorting, a sigh of relief escaping her lips. “Give it some thought. Why not come out with me this weekend? Spend the week being a bookworm but loosen up on the weekend with me,” Jennifer suggested. She walked out of the bathroom, grabbing a hoodie. Her high waisted early 2000’s pink shorts were not suitable for the weather at all. Jennifer never feared the weather, no matter how freezing cold it was. Instead she would double layer her tank tops, making sure they were cropped enough to show off her playboy belly ring. She shoved on a hoodie that you presumed she ‘borrowed’ from her last fling. That was the only way she ever obtained winter wear. “Yeah yeah i’ll think about it. Hurry up and go before you’re late,” You say, finally rising from your chair. You handed her whatever pair of uggs she was obsessed with for the time being, wishing her good luck before practically shoving her out of the door.
You ran your fingers through your hair, stressed out beyond belief. How were you going to manage parenting your roommate while balancing studying for possibly your most important exam yet? You trudged over to the bathroom, satisfied to see that the counters were clean. You looked at yourself in the mirror, noticing how exhausted you appeared. Your hair had grown out longer than you preferred, your face more worn out looking than usual. You leaned over to the sink, flipping on the cold water. You needed to focus. You splashed your face with cold water, rubbing your eyes as you did so. Colorful dots danced in your vision as it settled, your hand struggling to find the towel. You managed to find it, wiping your face before tossing it aside.
It was then your heart jumped out of your chest, a tall ominous figure standing beside your desk. You jumped in surprise, nearly tripping over a pair of Jennifer’s discarded sneakers. Swallowing, you took deep breaths, realizing Jack was standing before you. In his visible hand was your heels, coated with mud from your journey into the woods. “Holy shit, what the hell are you doing here?” You hissed. While you were slightly fearful of Jack’s presence, the demon didn’t interpret your words to mean that at all. He held up your heels, setting them down on the floor. “I climbed through your window. You should really lock that,” Jack told you. He thought he was being helpfully informative, all the while your emotions were going haywire. “I brought you back your shoes, you accidentally left them at my cabin,” He explained. Your brain fully seemed to register the situation, your head instinctively nodding. Jack wasn’t intending to be creepy or unsettling, he was just trying to be nice.
“Thank you. You scared the shit out of me. At least give me some warning next time,” You say awkwardly, rocking back and forth on your heels. There was a certain tension, where neither of you seemed to know what to do with the other. Jack, an oversized demon with the communication skills of a walnut, just wanted to get to know you. Maybe it was the savior complex he was beginning to form, but something about you was intriguing. A connection. An odd connection that kept him wanting to come back. You, an overworked stressed out med student, were extremely unsure how to handle Jack’s attention. You had never acquired such attention from a male. Nor had you ever received such genuine kindness. It made you suspicious of his intentions, as if his rough exterior appearance didn’t do that enough. Jack inhaled, his eyebrows raising. His action confused you, your eyes widening in surprise as he pushed past you into the bathroom.
You stared dumb founded as he yanked open one of the bathroom drawers, revealing Jennifer’s infamous drawer of treasure. Jack couldn’t believe what he was seeing. “I thought you were a med student. Why the hell do you have percocet and xanax in your bathroom? Do you know how bad this is for you?” Jack asked, his tone laced with how offended he was. He was thankful for his acute sense of smell, the scent of crushed adderall catching his attention. You didn’t seem like you did substances, your face twisting in disgust. “They're not mine you flimsy snoop! They’re my roommates. How the hell did you know they were there?” You fired back. Jack went to quip a response, when his ears twitched. The scent of your roommate was coming closer, her heart racing as fast as Jack would expect from a college student snorting adderall. “Your roommate is coming,” Jack whispered. You barely managed to choke out a sound of confusion, his large hand grabbing your arm and dragging you into the bathroom. His touch was absurdly hot, his skin so warm it felt like it could burn you. You gasped in surprise as Jack pressed you back against the bathroom door, flicking the tiny lock on the door handle.
There was no time for confusion, the sound of your dorms door flying open. “Roomie? Where are you?” Jennifer asked. Jack flinched at the sound of her voice, the hoarseness making him freeze. He hadn’t accounted for being seen by anyone else. “In the bathroom, w-what’s up?” You sputtered. Jack didn’t need to relay the fear he felt, his tenseness telling you everything you needed to know. “Theyre sending the drug dogs around to our floor, I need to flush all of my shit,” Jennifer squealed, desperately shaking the doorknob. Under his mask Jack was terrified, seemingly frozen in fear. The Operator would have his head on a silver platter for exposing their kind. “I-I got it. Trust me i’ll take care of it,” You replied. Your eyes flickered back and forth at Jacks mask, searching for any emotion. The endless void of darkness stared back at you, the unsettling tar like substance dripping down the royal blue mask. Jack could then hear the sound of conversation a few doors down, a drunk pair of roommates arguing about a broken bottle. It wasn’t long before the smell of metallic blood flooded his nostrils, one of the roommates evidently cutting themselves on the glass. An odd sound escaped Jack’s throat, similar to a hum. You flinched at the sound, before pushing past Jack.
“You’ll take care of it? Let me help you it’s my stuff,” Jennifer pleaded, desperation lacing her words. Through Jack’s hungry haze, he realized just how worried your roommate was about you seeing her stash. Jack wasn’t an expert of human interaction by any means, but he gained the sense that you had no idea just how many kinds of drugs she had stored away in that drawer. Jack tried to push past you, not wanting to ruin your friendship. He grabbed random bottles, unscrewing the lids and tossing them in the toilet. “Is there someone else in there?” Jennifer asked. Jack watched your cheeks flush pink, your mouth running dry. “W-What? N-no!” You sputtered, becoming rapidly embarrassed. Your embarrassment was distraction enough, Jack managing to grab a majority of the unlabeled bottles. Your eyes flickered over to the drawer, your clammy hand grabbing a small baggie of marijuana. Jacks eye sockets widened as you shoved it down your shirt. “I can hear two sets of footsteps in there. Is this the guy?!” She squeaked, her mood jumping to excitement. Now Jack was the one flustered, freezing in place.
You grabbed the pill bottle from his hand, finishing dumping them out. Jack had misread you. You did tell her. How much did she know? “What? Fuck, uh, yeah it is,” You replied, stumbling over each word. You stood on your tippy toes, brushing past Jack’s hood. Your breath was hot against his skin, the demons own heart beginning to feel as though it was racing. “She thinks I lost my virginity in the woods, just follow my lead,” You whispered. Jack raised an eyebrow, relieved at the notion you had in fact kept his secret. “OH MY GOD! Can I meet him?” Jennifer squealed, her voice high and pitchy. Jack cringed at the sound, wondering if a human girl's whines could make his ears bleed. ”Uh no you cannot, we’re gonna leave now,” You rambled. In an unsure manner you grabbed his hand, the demon grabbing onto the wall. Your doe eyes met his, something calming about the color staring back at him. “Trust me,” You whispered. You unlocked the door, shoving it open. Jack avoided looking at Jennifer, keeping his head down. He could hear the cops beginning to search your neighboring dorm mates. “They’re coming,” Jack mumbled, just low enough so you could hear him. You squeezed his hand, pushing past a gushing Jennifer.
“This is him? Why’s he wearing a mask?” She questioned. You guided Jack over to the window, pushing the blinds aside and shoving it open. “I’m uh, into mask play,” You said slowly, as if you were unsure of the own words coming out of your mouth. Jack was halfway out of the window, freezing once he heard your flustered words. “Like ghostface? Seriously? You’ve only had sex once and you’re jumping into mask play?” Jennifer gasped, flabbergasted at the mere thought you were presenting her. Your cheeks were bright red, nervously shoving on a random pair of sneakers. “Yup I am. Don’t judge me. I don’t judge you. Gonna go now, bye!” You rambled, practically shoving Jack out of the window. He jumped down first effortlessly, realizing your dorm was on the third floor. You nervously peered out of the window, looking down at Jack. The demon knew time was thin, outstretching his arms and waiting for you to jump. The overwhelming knock at the door gave you enough courage, your eyes screwing shut as you threw yourself out of the window.
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zae-heeyyy · 9 months ago
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Chiaroscuro
Summary: You're very fond of silk scarfs and Arthur Morgan. Pairing: Arthur Morgan x Female!Reader Word Count: 1,555 Tags: fluff, developing relationship, Horseshoe Overlook, kissing, affection
a/n: It's been 10 years since I've written and published any type of fiction, so I'm a bit out of my comfort zone. Also learned that they mostly used "scarfs" instead of "scarves" in the 20th century so I wrote accordingly. Let me know if you enjoy; thanks for reading!
( ´˘ᴗ˘)♡(´ ❥ `✿)
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chiaroscuro: an Italian term used in art to describe the contrast between light and dark, often associated with dramatic lighting.
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You let yourself indulge in one of the few simple pleasures you could afford: silk scarfs. Your clothing trunk was full of them; they were light and didn’t take up a lot of space, something you had to think about in your line of work. The often patterned and bright pieces of fabric were soft and delicate, two things you frequently wished you could be if your life had gone differently. You didn’t want to admit it, but you cared about looking pretty. You didn’t like to go out of your way to style your hair or put on makeup daily, so you settled on scarfs. Still, you didn’t feel like you were easily noticed, like Mary Beth or Molly, but you’d caught the attention of the only one you’d care to, Arthur Morgan. 
Arthur had started to notice your growing collection. He invariably knew when you were wearing a new one, always taking the time to acknowledge it. “New scarf?” He’d ask with his brows raised, or “That’s a nice one.” Sometimes, he’d tease you, “We’re gonna have to get you a whole wagon for all those scarfs.” More seriously, he had started complimenting you, “looks mighty fine, miss,” he’d say, tilting his hat. You’d flush and thank him shyly, and the two of you would go about your separate ways.
Then, the cowboy started seeking you out in the mornings, leaning casually against the wagon where your clothing trunk and scarfs were stored. The two of you would share small talk while you picked out your scarf for the day. He would smile and nod in approval of your choice, no matter what it was, and then he was gone again, disappearing like a whisper in the wind. Once, he leaned over you, grabbed a specific scarf from the pile, and held it out, “That one’s my favorite,” he’d say, making you work to maintain your composure when you were beaming inside. 
After a week or two, your communication was much less vocal. It was intense eye contact and shy smiles and nods. He’d silently look through your scarfs, pick one, and wrap it around your neck for you. He seemed so confident in the moment but would scratch his chin and look away right after, finding some excuse to swiftly depart. His sudden lack of confidence embarrassed him, but you found it endearing.
Finally, the tension had built. Arthur was wrapping your scarf around you like he’d started to do, and you grabbed onto his hands as he finished tying the knot. Both of you paused, staring intently at one another. You lifted up on your toes just as he bent to reach you. It was hard to say who kissed who first, but you’d never been kissed so gently and tender. You wondered if you’d made him want to be that way-- gentle and tender, words no one would usually use to describe the outlaw. You could’ve kissed him forever, but you had to breathe, and he had a job to do. But you’d been giddy, and your heart would flutter whenever he was around; it also ached for the following day when you’d have your moment with him again. 
Some mornings, he’d be there waiting before you’d even gotten completely dressed, still in your shift and bloomers from the night before. He’d hand you a metal cup of coffee, and you’d stand close together, shoulders touching, and you two would go on about whatever came to mind. When you couldn’t waste any more time, he’d pick out your scarf and tie it around your neck. You’d share your anticipated kiss before he went off on whatever errands Dutch wanted him to run for the day. 
You’d found him sitting alone another day, seeking solace from camp with his back against a large rock. His head was dipped into his journal, sketching so intensely that he didn’t notice your approach. You’d only caught a glimpse of pencil markings on the page when he looked up, saw you, and closed it. You’d wonder what he was always writing in that thing, but you respected him enough not to ask. He reached out for your hand and pulled you down to sit with him, not letting it go for the entirety of your conversation. You and he would spend hours behind the boulder, lost in conversation. The mystery of the leather-bound book’s contents would fade away, consumed by memories he’d share with you.
But you’d find out sooner than later by accident. Arthur hadn’t returned to camp in a few days, which was typical. However, it wasn’t normal for him to stalk straight to his tent on his return. His routine usually involved stopping by the donation box or sitting by the fire and, lately, seeking you out. You discovered him in his tent, digging through his satchel, his brows furrowed in frustration. His face softened as you approached, and he looked at you, scratching the back of his neck.
“Lost my damn pencil,” the brooding man murmured, looking around his tent.
You helped him look around his tent and through his satchel, taking the leap to dump all its contents onto the cot. Cigarette cards, documents, herbs, feathers, and his journal fell onto the bed. You’d started to give up when you noticed the gray tip of the pencil sticking out of the journal. You flipped the book open without thinking, too caught up in being the solution to his problem to realize you were about to invade his privacy. As you went to grab the pencil from the crease of the journal, your eyes fell on the bookmarked page. The markings on the paper were so detailed and intricate that you couldn’t help but draw your eyes to them. You’d gone quiet, and he turned to face you. His eyes landed on the open journal briefly before you closed it hastily. Handing it back with the pencil on top, you murmured a quick apology. You looked away from him, putting the contents of his satchel back and going to stand. He gently grabbed your wrist as you tried to leave, making you stop in place. Without resistance, you found yourself guided to the cot, where he sat down, pulling you beside him. His face was soft but riddled with thought as he opened his mouth to speak.
“I—“he paused, searching for the words but decided to show you instead. In your full view, he opened the book, smoothing the pages over his lap. Above an inscription, he’d drawn a flower. You recognized it instantly as a printed flower from a scarf you wore a few days before. Your fingers reached to absent-mindedly touch the fabric around your neck. Then the words caught your eyes and made them almost fill with tears, “That girl and her scarfs bring color to my dull, dull life.” You laughed and wrapped your arms around him. As surprised as he was, he wrapped his around you and held you close for a while
The gunslinger had been less shy after that, keeping the journal open when you’d come to sit beside him behind the rock. He’d sometimes tear a page out and hand it to you or leave it for you to find. You’d started finding them all over the camp. He’d leave one in your clothing trunk, caring to leave several if he knew he’d be away from camp for a while, or you’d find one tucked under your pillow when you went to lay down for the night. The sketches were always so identical to your scarfs that you knew exactly which scarf he was thinking about when he drew it. You’d study the drawings, noticing all the elaborate lines. You wondered how the images stuck in his mind so easily, but he’d confessed to you that every part of you stuck in his mind, always. 
You woke and walked to the wagon one day, but he wasn’t there. In his absence was a small box wrapped in twine with a bundle of English mace sticking out of the top. Your name was scrawled across a tag in his handwriting. You opened it to a pool of plain white silk. “Pure as you” was written on a piece of torn paper on the inside. You beamed but left it in the box and tucked it away with all your other scarfs. 
Arthur returned to camp in the evening just as Pearson had served the stew. As he approached, he smiled at you, but his smile fell when he noticed your unusual lack of a scarf. 
“Did you—“he started to ask, but you threw your arms around him and cut him off with a kiss. 
“‘Course I did,” you pulled him to the spot at the wagon and held the box to him, “Just been waiting for you to tie it on.”
His mouth formed into a slight grin, his chest rising and falling with a deep chuckle.
“Wouldn’t have it any other way, darlin'.”
He enveloped you in the scarf, sealing his gesture with another affectionate kiss. As you sat together at the fire, you were engulfed by another type of warmth–– your feelings for Arthur. Though neither of you had said it yet, you knew you loved him, and he loved you too.
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