#yellow stucco walls

[revolverthemes]

Patio - Outdoor Kitchen Inspiration for a huge mediterranean backyard stone patio kitchen remodel with a gazebo

[cursedauxiliary]

Some of my favorite things to do at the shore is to ride my bike around the streets and check out the building architecture, it's so intriguing as you can see the literal different decades of style, from Sears homes to victorian style estates to modern 3 tiered airbnb condo

[vaghabond]

Rustic Patio Sacramento

An enormous mountain-style side yard tile patio kitchen with a gazebo is an example.

[saigonmarket]

Rustic Patio Sacramento photo of a large tile patio kitchen in mountain style in a side yard with a gazebo.

[studyelephant]

Phoenix Exterior

[forevercaughtintherain]

Los Angeles Exterior

[devilmademewriteit]

Ultraviolence

pairing: raider!joel miller x fem!afab!reader

summary: thank god—a handsome stranger saves you from the grips of a pack of cruel, cruel men. unfortunately, said stranger, joel miller, is cut from the exact same cloth as the rest of them.

warnings: oh. boy. rough sex/smut (fem penetration, fingering, cum play if you squint) so 18+ only content; fem!afab!reader; raider!joel; canon typical violence; mentions of hair pulling/reader having long hair; light dacryphilia; age gap; pet names (baby, darlin’, sweetheart, girl); slapping, spanking, choking; !!!NONCON!!! (sexual violence/assault, coercion, allusions to more sexual abuse—Dead Dove, Do Not Eat y’all, protect yourselves).

word count: 4k+

no use of y/n in this fic

alright y’all!!! here is the non-con raider!joel fic!! stay tuned for the version coming out soon wherein Joel actually rescues the reader LOL join the taglist to be notified when I post it!!! y’all’s requests will quite legit be the death of me BUT this was fun to write so im not mad. this version is just purely depraved & Joel ‘Big Dick’ Miller is a mean mean man. wrote it pretty fast too so b nice 2 me.

love u all, sorry for searing your eyeballs:)

-em<3

—

The stucco prickles and tears at the flushed skin of your cheek, a reminder that it’ll be winter soon. The birds are sure of it, and most of them managed to get away before the frost stood a chance of nipping them.

You didn’t.

After a few years of non-stop struggle, losing everything but your own life, you figured there were worse ways to go. At least you would be… well—you, in the end.

In whatever shape this man and his leering group of accomplices left you in.

“Against the wall,” and his voice had been the crack of a whip, snapping by your ear as electricity shot up and down your spine, as the tingling realization that the chase was over—the jig, up—settled into your bones. “Spread your fuckin’ legs.”

There were more hounds around… waiting.

Always waiting.

They’d already gotten to your old, tattered clothes. The brisk air bites at your exposed skin, but at least the cold would account for the violent shivers wracking your limbs. Even as the beast pins you to the side of the decrepit house, forces himself between your knees, your primary preoccupation is to stifle your fear.

They’d get everything else on display—but they would never get to see that.

When the screaming starts, those confused grunts, huffs, and squelches of a blade carving into flesh, you mostly commend your own imagination:

“I did it. I’m in my happy place. This will be quick, then.”

But then a rough, unfamiliar hand grabs hold of your naked waist, flipping you around, slamming your spine against the frosty stucco.

This is real.

And you bear witness to his carnage.

He painted the side of the house into a mosaic of inter-mingling blood, splattered like a Pollock against the grass, the wrinkled clothes and the rugged face of your salvation.

His eyes rake over your still-trembling body before he wrenches a red-coated knife—never breaking eye-contact—from the throat of the man you’d been at the mercy of just a few seconds ago.

Blood gushes up from the fatal wound, and you both watch the cruel scene, mesmerized. The attacker’s eyes dull, all evil dissipating from that once-ferocious gaze. The rescuer’s big, wide hands flip him over, stripping him of his stained beige jacket. Then, he carelessly kicks the lifeless form face-down onto the yellowing grass.

“Put it on.”

You uncross your arms, snatching the coat from the stranger’s extended hands. It doesn’t bother you, its belonging to him.

He’s dead; you get his coat.

A fair exchange.

He keeps an eye on you as he sorts through the pickings: a few strips of dried meat here, a loaded gun there (two bullets in the clip—you watch as he checks), and a few good blades, stashed inside pockets, bags, and down shirt-fronts.

The man straightens up.

Tall.

“Get in front of me,” his low baritone strikes you, causing your knees to concede to a slight wobble. “You run, you die. Got it?”

Texan.

Slowly, you nod, and a firm grip circles your wrist, tearing you from the wall.

“Walk.”

Your heart hammers—near deafening in your ears—as the stranger stalks behind you, directing your trembling movements with brusque, snapped commands.

Finally, the scattered orangey-red leaves begin to multiply, the domestic remnants of a past civilization thinning. The neighborhood opens into a field; large oaks and slouching willows shiver under the weak glare of the afternoon sun.

There’s a house up there. It seems to be in alright shape (some things are built tougher than others) and it’s certainly a step up from a few of the more… unsavory places the outbreak had led you to.

Nearing it, you take not of how much it resembles a barn-house. Red, pentagonal roof, and a big, wide, brown front door.

Gingerly stepping a foot on the cracked wood of the porch, you turn to face your rescuer, uncertainty tying slippery knots in your tummy.

Because there’s clamour coming from inside. There’s people in there.

The momentary hesitation allows you to get a good look at your rescuer: he’s greying and dark—mixed, likely, or just disposed to a stubborn tan—and probably in his mid forties. Probably handsome, too, if it weren’t for the resident cruel scowl deepening his apathetic expression, or the violence dancing in his eyes.

A raise of his eyebrows.

“I tell you to stop?” He nods towards the looming house. “Move.”

But… you don’t.

“Are you gonna kill me?” and you’re downright shocked by the strength—the resignation—of your tone, the way the question comes out so matter-of-fact.

That sparse mustache crinkles in the corners, teasing into something wicked. “You want me to?”

“No.”

“So get movin’, then.”

That left little room for debate.

So, you turn, fingers and knees shaking with anxious anticipation. He cuts in front of you at the last minute, shoving the front door open with his knife at his side—for you or for something else, you’re not entirely certain.

He pulls you into the foyer by your forearm; to your great dismay, you’re faced with an entire group of middle-aged men. Killers—for sure—leering at you with that same starved, animalistic look your rescuer had fixed you with.

Then, he tosses the bag on the floor.

“Found ‘em by the school. Decent haul.”

Their eyes tilt to your shuddering frame, dwarfed by the jacket weighing down your shoulders. One of them looks strangely familiar, proud features reminding you of something else you were afraid of. “No shit, huh,” he commends, “Nice work, Joel.”

Joel.

As the shaggy-haired man speaks, his voice strikes familial resemblance, and it dawns on you. Your rescuer’s brother, or at the very least a cousin.

And what he says is a clearly marked taunt. That much is clear. Uttered with the kind of cruel camaraderie which collected on the tongues of men who committed acts of violence together.

Who hunted together.

And it’s obvious you’re not being rescued. Just… reclaimed. Redistributed.

Fuck.

Another voice joins the mix. “How much you think y’could get for her?”

Joel’s profile turns, harsh, brutal lines forming as he assesses you. “Depends,” and then—ohmothermary—he smirks.

“Gonna have to test her out first.”

A few snickers.

Oh god. Oh god. Oh god.

You’re trapped with nowhere to go, once again surrounded by a gaggle of soulless monsters. Fear grips you, but thankfully, it’s muted, now, having been mostly expended during the harrowing events of the morning.

Just an hour ago, pressed to the side of an abandoned house, you’d allowed yourself to give up.

So, it feels easy—natural—settling back into that rhythm.

To submit to your inevitable, violent fate.

Joel’s voice cuts through the clamour of your racing thoughts. “Upstairs, the room with the open door. Go.”

Eyes glued to the floor, you put one foot in front of the other, your insides twisting and turning inside your core. Fuck, you can feel the pairs of eyes following you with every step you take. The stairs creak as your weight presses into them, squealing like wounded prey.

“N’ take that fuckin’ jacket off,” Joel calls after you, the echoes of his booming voice and the group’s degrading laughter chasing you all the way up into the room—the one with the open door.

And it’s nice, surprisingly. Dusty, admittedly, and clearly having belonged to someone else—a long, long time ago—but the bed is made, the window lets the light in, and the walls remind you of cinnamon.

No, this wouldn’t be the worst prison. Or the worst place to die. It’s a sure-fire step up from the gutter between two dilapidated houses.

You keep the jacket on, shivering under its weight. Even as you hear footsteps climbing the stairs, even as the more rational, civilized side of your mind urges you to accede to your (non)rescuer’s every command.

The conversation downstairs dies off just as Joel rounds the corner, appearing in the doorway—a giant. Though your stomach lurches, and though your legs feel like putty, you hold your ground.

“I’ll fight, you know,” you hiss, watching him seal off the entrance to the room behind him. His flannel has droplets of blood on the collar—reminders of your previous captor—would your other attacker have been a better option? Who’d be more merciful to your quivering body?

You charge your voice with every last modicum of strength at your disposal. “I’ll fight.”

He turns, smirking softly at your clenched fists. “S’good, sweetheart. I like a little fight.” He stalks towards you, swiping his thumb along the plushness of his bottom lip, his intimidating presence forcing your back to meet the flat hardness of the wall behind you.

So much for fighting.

There’s nothing living in his eyes as he says it—nothing save the roiling flames of hunger: “You see those guys downstairs?”

You glare up at him, trying not to notice the alluring hook of his nose, or the way your body works against you, responding to the earthy smell of him.

Then, you nod, wordlessly.

“Did you count ‘em?” He splays a hand beside your head, using one hand to pry your arms uncrossed.

Again, you nod. “How many?” He asks, his voice deceptively soft.

“Five.” Breathless.

“S’right, sweetheart. Ever had your lil’ holes stuffed by five guys at once?”

A swallow, and your voice cracks when you’re finally able to put it to use. “No.”

He pries your elbows to your sides, pulling the beige fabric open, revealing the torn remains of your underwear.

It’s almost a croon, feigned concern underpinning his low tone. “You wanna see what it’s like?” He drinks in the sight of your bare chest, almost groaning at the sight of your naked front.

It’s not cold anymore; no, suddenly you’re very hot.

“No, please, no.”

He slips the coat off of your shoulders, letting it fall in a heap to the ground. He assesses you once more: studying every square inch of your skin under his shadowed eyes.

“M’only gonna say this once, sweetheart.” All that fake-gentleness fades from his tone, replaced by the sadistic, authoritative timbre he’d first greeted you with. “I need you to be very careful.”

You’re frozen—all that fight, it drains out of you, captivated by the raider’s looming form, his mesmerizing speech.

“You’re alone, yeah?” A nod, which he acknowledges, trailing a hand up the length of your waist. “S’what I thought. N’ the way I found you today? That’s a best-case-scenario for a girl like you, out here on your own.”

He drags a finger up the centre of your breast, skilled fingertips just barely brushing the peaked nipple. You lean into his touch—the near imperceptible arch of your back doesn’t go unnoticed, and you kick yourself internally as the corners of his lips twitch up.

Still, the raider ignores your trembling.

“You’re mine, now,” he continues, egged on by your involuntary movement. “Means you’re gonna be a good girl n’ do as I say, n’ I’ll make sure I’m the only man who touches you.” His big hand drops to his heavy silver buckle, and the clearly defined, bulging lines underneath it have your heart clawing out of your chest. Joel senses your fear—and it only makes him harder. “I don’t like sharin’ what’s mine, y’know? But you try anything—you step outta line—I’ll throw you to my guys downstairs.”

His hand finds your throat, hunger and warning beating to the same rhythm in his gaze. “I have no problem watching.” He gives your larynx a squeeze, multitasking as he pulls the strap of his belt through the worn loops of his denim. “Understood?”

You have no words left, shaking from head to toe as the reality of the situation finally settles in.

As he works the intimidating weight of his cock out of his jeans.

A huff. Joel flips you over, impatient, pressing your scraped up cheek to the cinnamon-brown of the wall.

Déjà vù.

Your knees are separated by his own, and his weight flattens you. He wastes no time: lining himself up, his tip separates your folds. Resistance is futile—with one hand, he holds your thighs open—even as they try to press themselves closed, even as you whimper at the rough, male knuckles pressed to bruise on the insides of your legs.

Leaving his mark.

It’s not an option to simply take it. Joel forces you to participate in the sinful act: “I asked you a fuckin’ question,” he growls, gripping your chin indelicately. “You understand me, girl?”

A swallow and a flinch as you feel the head of his cock poke at your entrance. “Yes. Okay. Yes.”

“Yes, Joel,” he corrects. “Use my name. You’re mine now. Use my fuckin’ name.”

Tears prick the corners of your eyes at the promised savagery in his tone. Holding back a sob, you respond: “Yes, Joel.”

You watch his hand, large and capable, splaying out a mere inch away from the tip of your nose. “Good,” he commends. “Z’are the only fuckin’ words you know, from now on.”

His free hand slaps against your hip, yanking you down onto his hard length. Your hips buck up against his abdomen, responding to the pull of his fingertips, even as you cry out at the sting, the stretch. The raider tries to force himself between your walls—muttering a grunted “shit”—and thrusting up against your ass.

But you’re too tight, too tense, and your stubborn body refuses to open up for him. Finally listening to you.

“Relax,” he orders, surprisingly softly. He moves his hand from your hip to the apex of your thighs, rubbing rough circles against your clit. Fuck, how’d he find it so fast? You gasp at the feel of his fingertips against your most sensitive, touch-starved spot, hating yourself for the way his pressure makes you feel.

Because…

Because—fuck.

It feels… good. The man knows exactly what he’s doing—methodical in his ministrations, prepping you only enough to ensure his own eventual pleasure. “S’too tight, baby,” he breathes against your neck, “Need to loosen up for me, yeah?”

He’s not gentle. No part of it is gentle. Nonetheless, pleasure ripples through your centre and down your thighs as he effectively turns you on.

“Thaaaaaa’s right,” and his voice is mocking and taunting and degrading as he drags his digits away, grabbing and pulling at your breasts, instead. Feeling the involuntary release of your cunt, Joel finally pushes himself in, sheathing the long, thick length of his cock inside you.

“Need to show this pussy what it’s fuckin’ made for.”

A current of pain flutters up your cunt just as he fills it up to the brim. You can’t help it—your stoicism crumbles to dust—and a soft, scared, pained whimper tumbles from your lips.

And he groans at it, thrusting roughly, over and over again. And again. “Hurts, does it?”

His breath is hot against your ear, and despite the fear, the ancient instincts gripping your bones, telling you to run, run, run, fight, fight, fight—it’s… enticing.

Hot.

“It hurts.”

He laughs, low and dark, bringing his hands to circle your hips, steadying you as you stumble on your tip-toes.

“Cry about it.”

And he keeps on going, tearing you open. The way his girth touches every starved part of your insides leaves you wanting, even despite the sting of his fingernails biting into your hips, the tears and cuts stinging at your opening.

You hate yourself for it.

But you clench around him, stifling a pathetic moan.

God, no—I am not enjoying this.

He breathes another laugh. “Feelin’ full, baby? Tell me how good it feels, c’mon,” and your inhalations come in heaves as he pounds into you, delivering a harsh slap to the side of your hip, hard enough for your skin to ripple from the contact. “Do as I say.”

When you refuse to sate him, swallowing all of your little noises, Joel grips your throat, bringing your head slamming against his shoulder. Your back arches into a perfect crescent, spine contorting at his will. A gasped cry fans out against his salt-and-pepper jaw.

A sob—of fear, of frustration, of reluctant pleasure. “You’re evil.”

The grip on your throat tightens, and he looses another laugh, squeezing your skin, muscles, and tendons oh-so-tight.

You’d be wrecked, bruised—branded—come sunrise.

“Yeah?” He groans, cock slamming up into your very guts.

“M-mhmm—” and the saltwater tears start pouring, trailing glistening slopes down your cheeks in long, long lines. Distantly, you hear his answer—“Yeah, well, you’re wet”—as those silver droplets keep on falling. Where they come from, you aren’t certain; of course, the terror, the physical torture, and the frustration at your entrapment contribute to the mess under your eyes.

But that warmth… the unbridled desire radiating between your thighs… that wasn’t helping, either.

“Fuuuuck,” he groans, muttering another “S’it—s’right,” and releasing your throat to tilt your head up to face him. He drinks in his creation, the ruined sight of your tear-stricken face, and his cock swells between your beaten walls. “God, you look so fuckin’ pretty takin’ it from me—cryin’ like your lil’ pussy ain’t desperate for this.”

Joel smiles when you sob.

It goes on for a while. He doesn’t tire quickly, bringing you right up to the edge of reluctant ecstasy before you remind yourself of the hatred you owed the man fucking into you. You get used to the sound of his hips snapping against your skin, your cries mingling with his gravelly, low grunts. It’s a dirty, depraved symphony—orchestrated by the monster between your thighs.

You can’t help the moan that escapes your lips when he finally, finally brings his fingers back down between your legs. He grunts in approval, barely grazing the length of your folds, pressing his thumb into the delicate flesh of your thigh, instead. “Dirty lil’ girl—fuckin’ dyin’ to be an old man’s whore, z’that it?” and he doesn’t even touch you, focussed on his own pleasure, but the proximity alone is enough to have you wrecked.

And you just can’t help it: “J-joel—”

“Y’know,” he chuckles, slightly out of breath, slowing his strokes to address your wanton whine, “You’re gonna make such a good lil’ fuck-toy, baby, f’you keep makin’ those pretty lil’ noises for me.”

The reality of the situation comes barrelling down on you as he acknowledges—praises—your enjoyment of his torture.

This man… this man was cruel. He was hurting you, and enjoying it.

You struggle against him, a pathetic show of weakness. Joel holds you in place effortlessly, arching your back further, keeping your hips preened back to receive the harsh thrusts he delivers to your torn, ruined cunt. “Where you goin’?” He laughs at your pathetic attempt at resistance, grips tightening. “Thought we were havin’ fun, baby—don’t it feel good?”

And he quickens again, slamming into every needy spot inside you. His breaths grow shallow, as rough as his hands and the ferocity of this punishment.

“No,” you manage, fingernails digging into his forearm.

He tuts, the vocal click constricted with lust, and his hand travels the length of you, settling against that aching bud between your thighs. “Fuckin’ liar.”

He presses down, proving his point. Your entire body tenses as pleasure ripples through you—despite your best efforts, climax crests through your core, threatening to implode within you. Joel hums, smirking when he feels your legs parting even wider.

“S’mine now, alright? You’re mine now.” He crams every inch of his cock up inside you, pulling you flush against his chest. “S’okay to come for me—s’okay, baby, I want you to—s’fuckin’ right, let go for me, baby—” and his crooning takes you over the edge.

Christ, it feels so good.

You clench around him, high-pitched pleas and moans tumbling from your lips, his own pair dragging down the swoop of your ear. In that split second, Joel—the devil at your back—is your favourite thing in the world: your hero, your haven, your God. Fuck, you could just kiss him, marry him, fuck him over and over and over and over—

A hand clamps over your mouth during those brief, blissful moments; the man practically bounces you up and down the length of him, muffling the cries of pain and pleasure tearing from your sore throat against the rough skin of his palm. He groans inside your ear—a stammered, sinful “fuuuck”—and then he’s spilling his seed inside you, shoving it impossibly deep as those quick, harsh strokes stutter and slow.

You come to, waking up from your pleasure-drunk daze. Before you get the opportunity to wriggle away from him, the monster flips you over again, slamming your shoulders to the wall. With his forearm barring your chest, and despite your fear and ire—somehow, all you can think about is the fact that he’s not as out of breath as he really should be (given his age and, of course, what he’d just done to you).

Joel leaks out of you. His cum paints masterpieces down your legs.

He slides his free hand down the length of his cock, collecting the last bits of slick clinging to him and not dripping out of you. The intermingling juices are brought to the roundness of your breasts—the raider slathers your sore peaks with his own spend.

“Nobody’s gonna fuck with you—but that means you’re Joel’s girl. Hear me?” With your head bowed, you glare up at him through silver-lined spider lashes, shame beating at your cheeks. When you hum your acknowledging “uh-huh,” the stranger continues on, gripping your jaw to angle your gaze up: “Means you listen—you-you don’t fuckin’ try me—n’ you take everything I give you, every fuckin’ time. Understand?” He tucks his softening length back in his pants, dark eyes dancing with satisfaction as he leers at your destroyed form.

When you don’t respond, he brings the back of his punishing hand colliding with the side of your face.

Something between a squeal and a gasp tumbles from your lips; Joel catches it, placing the pad of his thumb to your bottom lip, pressing down. Your cheek stings from his harsh slap, delivered on top of the scrapes and wounds a different cruel man had left upon your skin.

“I don’t wanna hurt you, baby, but I will f’I have to,” and he’s earnest, commanding and pleading at once. “You gotta answer me.”

Slowly, you croak out a timid, “Yes,” and an “I understand,” followed by a final “Joel.”

Nodding, he straightens, the violence in his gaze fading just minutely. When he lets go, you stagger—the raider senses the instability of your knees, reflexively snaking a steadying arm around your waist.

You’re not sure where the impulse comes from. Perhaps it’s exhaustion, the aftermath of your orgasm, or maybe it’s just a sick, twisted desire to sink into something beyond your body—either way, you respond to Joel’s support by throwing your arms around his neck.

And he responds by lifting you, walking you over to the bed, and tossing you down on the sheets. Awakening into reality, you scamper back, grabbing and yanking at the surrounding bedding in a desperate attempt to cover yourself.

But Joel pays you no mind.

Having had his way, he’s through with you—for now. Nonchalantly, apathetically, he runs a hand through his hair, tracing heavy steps towards the door.

“Lock the door when I leave,” he instructs, but his tone is soft… possessive and commanding, yes, but… caring. “Don’t open it for anyone but me.”

He waits for your show of understanding, your near imperceptible nod.

Then, he sighs, yanking on the handle and giving you his final address over a pair of creaky, squeaky, rusted hinges. “Try to sleep, sweetheart—got a long night ahead of you.” Chuckling to himself, he leaves the sanctuary of the room.

All you can hear as your body grows heavy and warm, travelling somewhere far, far beyond this violent world are the echoes of male laughter down the hall, and a familiar, satisfied, gravelly voice:

“Not worth much, now. Might just fuckin’ keep her.”

And you slip away, dreaming of belt buckles, blood-stained collars, and the lung-squeezing heat of the setting Texan sun.

—

He used to call me DN

That stood for deadly nightshade

'Cause I was filled with poison

But blessed with beauty and rage

Jim told me that

He hit me and it felt like a kiss

Jim brought me back

Reminding me of when we were kids

With his ultraviolence

Ultraviolence

Ultraviolence

Ultraviolence

I can hear sirens, sirens

He hit me and it felt like a kiss

I can hear violins, violins

Give me all of that ultraviolence

He used to call me poison

Like I was poison ivy

I could've died right then

'Cause he was right beside me

Jim raised me up

He hurt me but it felt like true love

Jim taught me that

Loving him was never enough

With his ultraviolence

Ultraviolence

Ultraviolence

Ultraviolence

I can hear sirens, sirens

He hit me and it felt like a kiss

I can hear violins, violins

Give me all of that ultraviolence

We can go back to New York

Loving you was really hard

We could go back to Woodstock

Where they don't know who we are

Heaven is on earth

I would do anything for you, babe

Blessed is this union

Crying tears of gold, like lemonade

I love you the first time

I love you the last time

Yo soy la princesa, comprende mis white lines

'Cause I'm your jazz singer

And you're my cult leader

I love you forever

I love you forever

With his ultraviolence

Ultraviolence

Ultraviolence

Ultraviolence

I can hear sirens, sirens

He hit me and it felt like a kiss

I can hear violins, violins

Give me all of that ultraviolence

—

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[distant--shadow]

The Witch and the Widow – Chapter One – The Lake

Laudna Bradbury had murdered her husband.

Maybe murdered. Apparently. That is what brought Imogen here - indirectly, at least.

Not that she's with the law enforcement or anything. Not that, definitely, though ironically being an officer - an interrogator - would suit her well, at least on paper. Passion and enthusiasm would be a different question - and that's why she's here. Sorta. Indirectly, again, for a different question. Words travel, by means of mouth or ink or thoughts (apparently, she had found out), even though thoughts should not travel past the head that they were made in. But they did, and continue to do so, and Imogen had heard enough accounts about the man himself (the Lady’s husband, when he was alive and after the fact), had seen enough women squashed under the boots of the men they were tied to to intimately know and understand a flash decision made in a moment for self-preservation-

all too often women tempered their instincts to allow themselves to become the soil underfoot rather than the sole of the shoe

so much as to say that Imogen does not care much if Laudna Bradbury had murdered her husband.

She cares more about what the words whispered and weaved and waded in the time after wrote:

Laudna Bradbury had used witchcraft to murder her husband.

The only utterances of magic Imogen had heard of, had seen, had unexplainably received taken telegraphed by inner voice and grey matter before that rumour, were her own.

Imogen needs answers, desperately, as though a necessity purely imperative like breathing and eating, and so she brought herself to the source of the lake before it divided and weakened and meandered from river to muddy stream to drink directly from her-

(it.)

Laudna Bradbury is a widow, a widow who continues to live on the estate her husband’s heraldry and wealth had afforded them, company kept by a small team of housemaids and gardeners and the like.

and it is a large estate, a lot to look after, for sure, certainly, with its couple hundred maybe more years in age and just as many acres. There's hairline cracks in the stucco, a missing roof tile here and there

but there is no denying that it is a fine example of architecture, certainly was the highest of fashion at the time. A grand country house with an East Wing and a West, bay windows and towers and pleasing ratios between alcove and doorways and arches and walled topiaried gardens that extend from north to south, illustrations in stained glass ornately framed with flowering climbing ivy

statues that step out from domesticated bordering jungles, now appearing more as gargoyles thanks to the decay of time, noses eroded like they have rotted off, birds’ nests of briars thorned crowns or horns

rosemary bushes skirt the main building’s façade, perfuming the sometimes hot-and-humid, more often brisk-and-grey air carried through the opened lead-lined boiled sweet coloured window panes into the dark mahogany-panelled and silk-embroidered tapestried interiors.

Off of the West Wing there is an extension nearing the height of the gargoyled walls that surround the estate. This is the wall that fortifies the Lady Bradbury’s private garden; with doors adjoining directly to her study - both of which are off limits. Imogen doesn't know much of pretty and imported flowers, but she knows local common sense, knows what berries to pick and which weed’s sap causes a blister that will never heal again should it brush her skin.

Through small cracks in the masonry delicate tendrils curl out; leaves crawling, surfacing, small purple flowers with yellow tear-drop centres blooming.

Deadly nightshade.

She wonders what else grows behind the wall, patiently biding its time until the decay of such allows it through. 

It is in the stables that Imogen spends most of her own time; her years of experience working under Master Faramore awarded her an earnest recommendation, and it sure helped that a couple of the Lady’s mares and a stallion were from his own livery, that they had been raised and trained by Imogen's own hands before they left them.

She needs answers, so she has taken herself to them, to the lake to drink from. She observes from a distance, listens to any whisperings and wonderings that bed with her in the servants’ quarters.

The days are long, mostly spent between mucking and feeding and exercising and grooming the horses and watching the Lady Bradbury taking a walk around the herb garden with knees as muddied as the kitchen staff’s, or cutting bark segments from off of the trees that dot the grounds as if she were operating in front of an amphitheatre of flora and fauna students whilst Imogen brushes down one of the horses or shovels hay

and despite the distance and Imogen's best efforts to remain subtle, the Lady Bradbury’s eyes would sometimes catch hers observing (staring, admittedly), and she would smile, and perform a barely perceivable curtsey (one of many behaviours outside of expectations), and Imogen would tip her brimmed suede hat in return, and would think of how despite the fact that the Lady’s practices of class and boundaries and what is proper were different, a bit odd, nothing of the woman's behaviour suggested that of a killer - only the situation that she stood in - the peculiarly beautiful widow with a walled off poison garden. And so maybe the same is to be said of her magic, should she even be harbouring or practicing any (although admittedly her appearance certainly is bewitching…)

and it's like the instances before but unlike them - Imogen stealing glances of the Lady Bradbury as she potters about her estate (she probably really does potter, she fills so much of her time with crafting and making. Imogen wouldn't be surprised to see her pale skin elbow-deep in caked-on terracotta pigment digging out clay rich soil into old whisky barrels to have carried by willing hands to a throwing room with a secret kiln.) but on this day, when their eyes in new routine now inevitably meet across the wildflower-speckled field (that in itself is unusual, highly out of vogue, it isn't the acres of well-kept uniform lawn and paths laid with talking-point pebbles imported from the coast that the other estates boasted and Imogen had glanced when ferrying Master Faramore’s horses elsewhere) the Lady Bradbury takes pause, before she starts to make her advance towards Imogen.

shit.

She's been brushing the same patch of short thick hair on Foie Gras’ shoulder for so long that she's surprised there isn't a bald patch. Maybe the Lady Bradbury is worried as such. Maybe Imogen has been too obvious in her observing (admitted staring). Maybe she has been found out.

She feels her brow start to perspire, the muscles in her limbs wishing to move erratically and awkwardly and restlessly and to carry her to stand out of sight hidden behind the thick neck of the horse like an obvious child playing hide and seek behind a tree trunk, or to flatten the creases in her breaches and her linen tunic and pick out the strands of hair and hay that have lodged themselves into their weave, untwist the grasp of her suspenders over her shoulders - but she practices restraint - is trained and cautious and intentional and thorough she was only being thorough with the mare, casts her gaze in iron like the blacksmith hammering the horseshoes and steels herself for the Lady Bradbury’s approach.

Her skirts are full and structured and plumed by many layers of petticoats that hide the movement of her feet across the wildflower lawn, causing her to appear to be drifting like the bees do from petal to petal, pollen dusting her pleats though ghostly her skin in contrast to the fine fabrics that she dresses for the part, black in mourning, still, bodice tight and sleeve leg of mutton, an ornate decorative layer of black lace laying over each yard of textured textile like spider webs on porcelain patterns, her husband's tableware collecting dust in the kitchen cupboard.

real impractical for how tending towards practical the Lady dares to be, hands on, too busy for errant hairs in piano key ivory and ebony windswept and loose from the high bun she pins in place with a cameo broach, a memento mori engraved in silver and inlayed with ruby eyes and tied with red ribbons. Her skin also proudly displays the age and perhaps trauma that her hair does, lines from laughter and furrowed brows and the feet of the crows that cry from the top of the chimney pots

Imogen has heard her call them her children (the birds that is, not the wrinkles) - has heard her talk to them as if they are responding, oftentimes giving her own tampered voice to do so (and to Imogen’s amusement)

The Lady never had children of her own; those are their own rivers of rumours within themselves. Imogen did not care for that stream of gossip at all.

The Lady steps closer, and the yet-to-be familiar fog of her mind cocoons Imogen, water transmuted into mist against jutting rock at the plummet of rapids, relief from the laborious work and humidity, her previous restraint to keep her body in check breaking as she visibly swallows and licks her lips, suddenly aware of how dry they had been.

The Lady Bradbury rests her hand on the back of Foie Gras’ neck, fingers long and pale and decorated in black lace like mother of pearl inlay and marquetry on a lacquered curious curio cabinet that perhaps Imogen had eyed through a stained glass window standing in the corner of the out-of-bounds office.

“Good day. It's Imogen, correct?” her delicately veiled fingers comb through the mare’s mane, her dark mahogany eyes seeming to look over the gloss of Foie Gras’ coat to inspect the way the late morning sunlight rests upon its sandy hues before turning her attention back to Imogen with a smile.

She hadn't spoken much to the Lady since she was hired a few weeks back - not much being that this is the third time, after her interview and a brief acknowledgment when being shown around by one of the housemaids the day she started.

The Lady Bradbury’s lips are painted a deep purple, an unusual colour for sure; Imogen had only seen illustrations and paintings of the dignitary from era’s passed in shades of peach and pinks and reds, stencilled in exaggerated shapes, and as with the landscaping of grounds, to wear such obvious make up itself is frowned upon, old fashioned, conveniently equated with providing false fronts.

The Lady’s teeth are bright, especially in comparison to the purpled dark lips.

and sharp

especially in comparison to how soft-

“You must pardon me, have I got it wrong?”

shit, fuck-

“Oh! n-no-” Imogen was staring, definitely “I apologise m’lady. You are right, it is Imogen.”

God dammit - she’s gonna get herself fired, fired for daydreamin’ and giving the horses receding hairlines and ignoring the Lady of the Manor when she addresses her-

The Lady chuckles to herself delicately, an act displaying a markable absence of frustration and bewilderment.

“From Master Faramore’s, yes? How are you finding the new environment? I am sure the stables here pale in comparison to his, but I do not believe that they afforded such space and the opportunity for frequent walks around such a beautiful lake…”

“Certainly, m’lady. There are less of them so they get more attention, they can be well looked after-”

“Indeed, plenty of grooming at the very least-”

Imogen can feel the hot blood rush to the surface of her cheeks, unable this time to wrangle her body’s motor reflexes.

“I have yet to visit the lake m’self, I am sure they enjoy bein’ taken by you though, they always seem happier when they come back.”

“Is that so? Well, I must insist you see the lake for yourself, if not only to relish the fact that you took great part in an amount of their contentedness.”

The Lady Bradbury looks to her expectantly, Imogen expected to have a reply for the unexpected.

“Would you accompany me this afternoon?”

Imogen can read thoughts. She can read thoughts but what if the Lady Bradbury can too? Or what if she can tell that she is imposing? Would she find herself in the bottom of that lake on her very first visit? A drink more filling than what she had wanted, her lungs full and void of buoyancy. Imogen can read thoughts but she dares not to read the Lady’s.

She can feel them, though, that first and second and now third time in her vicinity, feel how they are different, an audible silence amongst the swarm of bees wings and small talk and anxieties

At some point the Lady had stepped around Foie Gras’ head to stand beside Imogen

She smells like sage and gunpowder

On the day of her interview she had smelled of eucalyptus and raw animal fat-

“You’re quite the thinker, aren’t you?”

Of that she is guilty, though usually she can argue that the majority of the thoughts that weigh her down are not her own.

“Apologies m’lady, I wasn’t sure I had heard you right. Did you want a horse saddled for you for this afternoon?”

Imogen had never thought that her accent sounded particularly thick or clunky, but it felt as heavy as her mind tends to be around other company when speaking with the Lady, her tongue all thick tangled muscle swelling against the roof of her mouth and her teeth.

Perhaps this is some sort of witchery. She waits for the molasses to take a hold on her muscles and limbs, for the her skull to be crushed concave from the inside

But it doesn’t happen.

The Lady smiles (again)

“Almost. One for you and one for me, if you would accompany me around the lake - there isn’t a cloud in the sky today and it would be a shame to keep the clear reflections of the mountains to myself and Foie Gras here.”

Imogen is thrown. Yes, y’all could argue that this is exactly what she came here for; time alone with the Lady Bradbury, the opportunity to form a rapport or to subtly pluck at her brain but there is something in the way that she carries herself, how she talks to Imogen with ease and lack of formality that is alarmingly disarming, and leaves Imogen cloudy on why she came here in the first place-

“C-certainly, if it’s what the Lady wants-” she chuckles (again, again) waving her hand dismissively before catching herself and laying it over the patch of hair on the mare’s shoulder that surprisingly hasn’t thinned from all of Imogen’s enthusiastic (distracted) brushing.

“I will take Ceviche; you seem to have formed quite the bond with Foie Gras.”

Imogen can only nod with lips parted in silenced protest as she feels her cheeks flush again.

~

The walls of the stable are thick and stone, absent of windows save for the upper halves of the handful of wooden doors that allow for the horses to pop their heads out in eager greeting to Imogen as she walks towards them with their buckets of feed.

It is a clear day, as the Lady Bradbury has said, hot and humid and Imogen is grateful for both the surroundings and the company of the stable.

As she rakes the trodden-in and dirtied hay across the flagstone floor she allows the earthy scents of the dried grass to remind her of the smell of the sage, the crumbling mortar imitating gunpowder.

She wipes the back of her shirt sleeve across her brow, skin also sweating at the wrist where the gloves wrap work-beaten leather over shielded skin

Soft skin, mostly - save for where her fingertips appear to be frost-bitten.

A fairly visible reminder of why Imogen is here, should she forget again in the Lady’s presence-

Not that she would dare to take off the gloves.

That would only lead to questions.

‘Jammed in between horse-drawn carriage and stable door’ - she used to say, before the purple bruised tips started to migrate further, splitting out like surfaced capillaries that encompassed her fingers one knuckle at a time

They mark half-way over her palms now – like someone had dipped fine dense vegetable roots in an inkwell and struck them in lashings across her hand, punishment obfuscating her palmistry.

She hears one of the horses whinny – Ceviche most likely, a little restless, the black stallion not having been let out onto the fields yet today, as Imogen was now preparing him for his ride to be taken shortly.

The Lady’s saddle is very ornate, the leather finely tooled and decorated with organic flowing arrangements that resemble leaves and petals and insects with patterned wings or many many limbs

Its material and stitching is kin to the other saddles, the ones for notable guests and stablehands alike, brands the same maker’s mark

After a short amount of time observing (staring), Imogen suspects that the Lady tooled it herself.

~

The Lady does not ride sidesaddle – she straddles the stallion proper.

Imogen can only assume that she changes from her garden-strolling undergarments to allow for this, having never worn a crinoline herself - that would both be out-of-class, and, more importantly (to Imogen at least) - real impractical.

She had noted as such about the Lady on the first day she had seen her taking one of the horses (it was Carpaccio, a black and white paint) out of field.

It was the first instance of out-of-expected behaviour that she had witnessed.

Imogen can admit to herself that such a small thing had ignited her warming to the widow.

~

Imogen allows the Lady Bradbury and her steed to take the lead, pace set by the older woman’s enthusiasms making themselves known in short enough time from pointing out ‘notable’ forms in the sloping rock faces lining the well-worn path, covered in blankets of moss and ferns and tall stems of bell-shaped pink and white foxgloves and pomanders of wild thistles.

“I just can’t help but imagine what tiny creatures would love to make home between the cracks in the rock and the tree-stumps.”

“’lotta mice and rats I imagine, probably squirrels-”

“Well, yes, certainly…”

Ceviche’s slow walk carries on ahead of Foie Gras’, and the Lady sways with his gate in the saddle, though despite this Imogen could just about read the slight deflation in her shoulders when she had replied to the Lady’s statement.

Her head turns over her shoulder, gaze searching and challenging Imogen’s, caught staring (again), dark eyes hollows of homes burrowed in rocks, the high sun exaggerating high cheekbone architecture, pleasing ratios of brow to bridge of nose.

“…I refuse to believe that there are no imps or fairies when the land is so perfectly carved for them.”

“I can only say I’ve heard stories…” Rumours, rivers.

“Certainly, else you would not be here, would you?”

The Lady holds her gaze a moment longer, as if expecting Imogen to have an answer worth vocalising for that. Imogen feels her pulse begin to thud at her temples, the sweat returning to her hairline and underneath the cuff of her gloves.

The Lady giggles melodically and dismissively, returning her attention to whatever catches its fancy on the path ahead.

“How ugly it is that we must quarry and build. I have thought more than once about leaving the manor to the animals and the girls and making my home in the cave by the lake- oh, I am so very thrilled to show it to you.”

Her excitement cuts the atmosphere, spring back in her step transposed through the steed’s, one hand off of his reins and gesturing in the air.

“You can see it from the upper floors of the house – though that is rather rude of me to say, isn’t it? If you will allow that injustice to fall upon the architect and how societal structure seems to love its walls and assigning basement dwelling.”

Imogen finds herself inadvertently allowing Foie Gras to fall at a pace beside the Lady and Ceviche.

“That’s alright, most nights I tend t’lodge in the stables; eases my mind that I’ll be near the horses should anythin’ happen.”

“Plenty of wild animals around, yes? They do get spooked so easily.”

“I like how you’ve named ‘em – it’s fun.”

“Oh!, You do? I am so glad! You are the one who has to be calling their names most often after all.” Imogen may be in early days (hours) of learning the Lady’s tells, but the smile that creases the skin around her nose and mouth and deepens the wrinkles at the corners of her eyes feels genuine.

“It does often make me chuckle, I assume you’re fond of raw meats?”

“I suppose you would think so, wouldn’t you?”

“Are y’not?”

The Lady takes pause, her look introspective.

“Have you ever eaten horse?”

“w-what? Of course not – do people actually do that?”

“Mmhmm, across the waters – in all directions. It is certainly a common custom. What makes horse any different from beef?”

“I could never – we share a bond, they let us- they give us-” Imogen's tongue is too thick and heavy again, blubbering with words that do not come easily to it as they do her head. She allows herself a deep breath, collects what little face she has, remembers the presence she is in (a Lady regardless of murder or witchcraft) “-in all honesty I rarely eat any meat, the more time ya spend with animals the more guilty ya feel about doing so.”

“How peculiar…maybe you need to spend more time around carnivores.” The Lady laughs at her own joke this time, hand patting at the side of Ceviche’s neck, the horse unaware of what words have been said. Imogen is thankful, in this instance, though she will admit she has tried more than once to see if her mind reading extended to her four-legged friends.

“But they’ve got no choice, that’s how they were made.”

She mimics the Lady’s movements, lovingly patting Foie Gras at the same spot on her neck.

“Made…yes…You have incisors don’t you? Canines?”

“I do, but I don’t have a mouth full of ‘em. Most of our teeth are as flat as these fellas over here…” she ruffles the mare’s mane “-though I won’t deny that gettin’ bitten still hurts something fierce.”

“Makes you wonder what sort of damage you could do if you so chose to, after all, your eyes are not on the sides of your head.”

~

The lake is beautiful.

Of course it is. It displays itself naturally basined, wrapped in the embrace of the mountains surrounding draped in forest cloak, walls both man-made and much older obfuscating its view from the ground floor of the estate.

The lilac and blue hues of the pebbles are familiar, lining the vegetable patch borders in the garden, larger stones used for holding stable doors open.

It is quiet over the lake. The terrain raised around it shutting out the winds, only the quiet breeze that drifts through the canopies on the mountain crests giving a gentle whistle to the waters below, an enjoyable confusement between what is wind and what is the crashing of the tender tides.

The waters are clear blue with a hint of turquoise, green given by either the surrounding plant life’s reflection or by the ones that live underwater.

It reminds Imogen of the lakes in the mountains from her childhood. It is something else new.

Their horses slow to a stop, on the Lady’s cue.

“Magnificent, isn’t it?”

“It really is - no wonder why the horses come back so happy.”

“And will you be as such on your return?”

“Certainly m’lady, thank you for allowing me such a privilege”

“It is not mine to give, though I will make it explicit that you may come down here whenever you wish – providing the horses are happy, of course. That is what I ask of you.”

Imogen thinks she is blushing again, but the feeling is further inside her than her veins, a warmth radiating.

“You take good care of the servants at the estate, don’t you?”

For the first time, the Lady seems thrown by what Imogen offers, a step behind instead of two larger-horsed paces ahead.

“They take better care of me.”

“I don’t think I’ve ever heard someone wish to leave their home to the help.”

“It would be the very least I could do.”

“You give ‘em food and a roof over their heads-”

“They sow the seeds, they tend to the animals, they butcher their meat and harvest the wheat to bake the bread. I have been so lucky that they have yet to poison me.”

“I can only say from ma short experience that I’d find that hard t’understand.”

Her face softens again. It feels both comforting like a blanket but then uneasing like having the lights blown out.

“Funny thing, perspective…”

Lady Bradbury slides off of her horse, heels of her fine boots falling into the gaps between the pebbles, though her footing remains certain, experienced.

On the surface of the lake the trees grow downwards, the birds fly with their bellies exposed to what lies in the waters.

The Lady halts, dropping to one knee as she makes short work of the laces on her shoes.

Imogen isn’t sure if she should be offering to remove them for her, jumps down from Foie Gras and jogs clumsily on uneven surface towards the Lady regardless. 

“There are old stories of this lake, you know-”

Lady Bradbury confesses a little breathlessly, lung capacity limited by the press of her thigh into her stomach. She swaps her knee for the other on the ground, starting on the other lace.

“I won’t tell of them just yet, I would hate for them to be off-putting.”

She stands straight again, the sieved remnants of harsher winds that have made it over the mountains’ embrace wishing to make field mouse nests of her hair, spiderwebs of the lace collar around her neck, footprints of birds’ feet fossilised in the marble cornering her eyes.

She looks at home at the lake, certainly a natural thing - flesh and blood and bones cocoons to silk cotton to yarn to lace – Imogen wonders what a marvel the Lady could paint and chisel into the mouth of an open cave.

Balancing, she pulls each shoe free, grin knowing, slightly manic, intensely catching Imogen before she gathers the length of layers of skirts into one hand and steps into the clear waters.

Imogen swears she sees something conjure beneath its surface to greet her.

Laudna Bradbury had (maybe) murdered her husband – (maybe) with witchcraft, most importantly - but Imogen has bigger questions that require her answers, and so she follows the Lady into the lake.

[hometoursandotherstuff]

Here's a lovely, mostly original, 1927 Tudor in Eatonton, GA. However the wisdom of painting the bricks a bright yellow must be questioned. 6bds, 5ba, 4,181 sq ft, $440k.

The entrance foyer with the original stucco walls and flooring.

Freshly painted in a neutral creamy white and the floors have been refinished. The original brick fireplace was painted gray. Curved ceilings- very nice. Double doors open to the dining room.

Another nice fireplace with a fancier mantel.

The other side of the living room opens to this small room that has a door to the outside.

Pantry off the kitchen has a little desk built-in.

The small kitchen is cute and redone with white Shaker cabinetry.

Hallway to the bedrooms.

Tudors typically have small bedrooms, but this one has a nice fireplace.

Check out the original bath. Very cool.

This may be the primary bedroom.

It has access to a lovely sunroom.

Plus another bath with cool original tile. But, they did a sloppy hack job of installing new sinks- look at the exposed pipes.

And, for less than $500k, you get a bonus carriage house.

What a deal- a rental or it could also be used for a business.

Nice yard with a pergola.

0.36 acre lot

Main house.

Carriage house.

https://www.zillow.com/homes/204-S-Jefferson-Ave-Eatonton,-GA-31024_rb/128931681_zpid/?

[estebanbicon]

The F1 driver who takes every opening he sees

A mechanic’s son, Esteban Ocon took an unlikely path to an F1 driver’s seat. Now he’s fighting to keep it.

MONTE CARLO, Monaco — The mechanic’s son walks past women in bright dresses and men in fine suits, many of them sipping champagne. He breathes in the salty air of the Mediterranean, its shoreline neither rocks nor sand but dozens of mega-yachts.

The Monaco Grand Prix, held each May, is the global peak of sports opulence, less street race than picture postcard from high society: A-listers and royals toasting the good life in the richest place on Earth. Several Formula One drivers live here, their plain-sight hideaway amid a Netflix-fueled fascination with their sport. Among them are Max Verstappen and Lewis Hamilton — champions, multimillionaires and household names in a sport Hamilton has called a “billionaire boys club.”

Esteban Ocon, though, is not of this world. When Ocon was a karting wunderkind, other drivers would sneer at him and scoff, whispering that the only child of a dumpster-diving mechanic doesn’t belong. That the Frenchman, now 28, will forever be a [wanderer] playing dress-up in a place such as Monaco. Even after eight years on the grid, he remains an outsider.

Then again, an impressive finish here would change minds. It might even change Ocon’s, convincing him it’s possible to be born into one end of the economic spectrum and, with enough talent and moxie, reach the other.

He changes out of his jeans and into an Alpine race suit. He stretches the muscles on his thin frame and climbs into a $15 million super machine. The green flag drops. Ocon accelerates, 0 to 100 mph in 2½ seconds, trying to position himself and his team for an early chance at points. Over the years, he has proved himself as a skilled and fearless driver, aggressive sometimes to the point of recklessness.

With Monaco’s narrow streets and hairpin turns, passing is dangerous. Three-time world champion Nelson Piquet once compared it to riding a bicycle in your living room. And trying to pass a teammate? It simply isn’t done.

Before the race, in fact, Alpine instructed its drivers to avoid each other. Whoever is ahead after the first lap should stay there; the driver behind him is to protect his blind side.

Midway through the first lap, the cars are clustered. Pierre Gasly, Alpine’s other driver, is immediately in front of Ocon. On the eighth turn, just before the circuit’s famed tunnel, Gasly eases off the accelerator. Ocon sees his teammate drift left, allowing space between Gasly and the wall, creating an opening.

FIVE HUNDRED MILES NORTH, there’s a small French village built into the lush countryside. People in Évreux raise chickens, recycle batteries, mow their own grass. And the locals tell of a man north of town who could bring back the dead, so long as the corpse had four wheels.

One of those locals, Marc Guillouet, still remembers the sound of Laurent Ocon’s air compressor bellowing at all hours as Ocon performed reconstructive surgery on another broken-down used car that had been towed through his gate. Then, hours later, another sound: the engine humming back to life.

“The way he refurbished it,” Guillouet says, “it was like new.”

Laurent was a self-taught mechanic who built his shop onto the back of the Ocons’ home, a single-car garage jutting out in yellow stucco. It was in the house’s rear, but it acted as the family’s entrance. Before school some mornings, young Esteban would see his father, grease up to his elbows, still trying to solve the previous night’s puzzle. When Esteban returned in the afternoon, he would watch Dad beamas he turned the key, listened and … there it was, that beautiful music.

“We live for that,” Esteban says now. “He wants to win, like me.”

Laurent’s passion was reviving machines. His son’s was maneuvering them. Esteban says he was 4 the first time he got behind the wheel of a go-kart, gliding around the track at an amusement park, through cones and around other karts as if it were second nature. His friend who came along drove straight into the wall.

Esteban kept driving, testing himself in bigger, faster, more complex machines. The families of some other 8-year-olds hired engineers, barked into radios and traveled with professional mechanics. But Laurent and wife Sabrina had no money for that. If Esteban’s carburetor failed or his torsion bar broke, it was Laurent who mounted a new one. Then they would return to Évreux from Ambourville or Rouen, often with Esteban cradling another trophy.

“We tried to protect Esteban from pressure as much as possible,” Laurent says, answering questions emailed by The Washington Post. “But unfortunately, the only solution is to perform.”

After one of Esteban’s races, a representative from a management company approached. The boy had the talent to make racing his career, the man said, but it wouldn’t be easy. Or cheap.

Thousands of European kids grow up dreaming of the Formula One life, waiting to pilot a rocket at circuits such as Monza and Silverstone and Monaco. Most never make it, and even those who only come close do so after millions have been spent on equipment, travel and engineering.

The families of many drivers commit hundreds of thousands before their child becomes a teenager, largely to get noticed by top feeder programs and driver academies. Among the hopefuls are the kids of billionaires and oligarchs, able to bankroll the pursuit of a nine-figure dream. A few even pay their way onto the F1 grid, with cash-strapped teams agreeing because it transfers the financial responsibility.

Most, though, spend years working their way up.

“Even if you are talented,” Esteban says, “if you don’t have the right people, you don’t manage.”

But all he had were his parents.

“If he really wants to do it,” Esteban remembers hearing Laurent say years ago, “we’ll give him everything we can.”

LAURENT AND SABRINA SOLD THEIR HOUSE and the family business, leaving behind anything that didn’t fit in a 21-foot motor home. They stuffed Esteban’s mini-kart into the rear of a van, surrounded it with tools and Esteban’s toys, then hitched the motor home to the van’s rear.

“Prepping,” Esteban’s parents told him, “for the rest of your life.”

With Évreux in the rearview, home now was a parking lot in Lyon or a roadside in Le Mans. Ten-year-old Esteban had his bicycle and the family border collie to keep him company. Sabrina outfitted the motor home with a fake fireplace and told friends it was their mobile chateau. Le Palais des Ocons had a living room and shared sleeping quarters, with views that were a mountain some days, a vineyard others.

Sabrina and Laurent convinced their son that each day was an adventure, each morning a chance for Esteban to open the door so he and their dog, Viper, could breathe in a dramatic new backdrop. He and Laurent sometimes went on long bicycle rides, where they talked about engines, racing, the future. Then the convoy headed to a nearby track, where the soft-spoken Esteban slid on a helmet, climbed into his kart and transformed into an assassin. There wasn’t an opening he wouldn’t hit, a pass he wouldn’t attempt, a throat he wouldn’t cut. Esteban wanted to win races, yes, but victory was about more than bragging rights.

In his 9-year-old mind, he says, it was the only way to repay his parents.

“I had weight on my shoulders very early,” he says. “There was never a Plan B in my head.”

In 2006, Esteban, then 10, won the regional mini-kart championship, which qualified him for a spot in the French Cup’s “Minime” division. He reached the final heat, and he and another young star, Charles Leclerc, angled for positioning on the last lap. Esteban went inside, trying to overtake Leclerc, and their tires touched. Leclerc spun out and hit the wall; Esteban recovered but finished outside the top five. The two boys spent the rest of the day crying.

The family returned to Évreux each winter, staying with family so Esteban could attend a few months of school before the new season. Otherwise, they kept moving, rarely in the same place for more than a few days.

Esteban won the French Cup in 2007, the “Cadet” title a year later, the junior championship in 2010. With every promotion came longer trips and more expensive gear. An entry-level “baby” kart costs about $3,000, not including registration fees and fuel, and a used mini-kart engine and chassis can be twice that.

By 2011, with a promotion to Winning Series Karting, the chateau was crossing borders so Esteban could race in Spain, Italy and Portugal. Entry fees alone were upward of $5,000 per race, with fuel and spare parts pushing the cost higher. All youth sports have their own unique cultures, and in this one, there is an established taboo: Kids don’t talk about their parents’ wealth.

But chatter happens anyway. Jos Verstappen, father of 14-year-old Max, used to drive in Formula One and spent $1 million bankrolling his son’s career. Leclerc grew up among the yachts and Ferraris of Monaco, and Lance Stroll’s dad, Lawrence, was a fashion billionaire.

Esteban’s folks?

Homeless, the other boys murmured. Sometimes, they said, they even saw his dad lurking near the circuit, waiting to pull other drivers’ used tires out of the trash.

IN 2014, OCON, THEN 18, won nine races and finished in the top three in 21 of 33 races to claim Europe’s Formula Three championship. But it was 17-year-old Verstappen, who had finished third, who was promoted seven months later and became the youngest driver ever to appear on the F1 grid.

“My dad always said it’s not going to be easy,” Ocon says now. “I didn’t really know what my future would be.”

He spent the 2015 season with Mercedes and Lotus — discussed alongside Verstappen, George Russell and Gasly as the sport’s next generation of starsbut still toiling in its minor leagues.

The next season, another young driver, Indonesia’s Rio Haryanto, won a spot with Manor Racing, a fledgling F1 team from Britain. F1 teams today operate under an annual maximum budget. Back then, though,the annual cost for a two-car team could reach nearly $200 million per year. Some teams have lucrative sponsorship agreements and investments from engine manufacturers, but others rely only on prize money and the potential share of a year-end financial pie that is distributed to the teams that finish in the top 10 in points.

Haryanto started the first 12 races that year before Manor dropped him — and not just because he never finished better than 15th. It was because Haryanto, initially backed by a $16.65 million investment from an Indonesian oil and gas company, ran out of money.

Manor’s own survival depended on performance, so in August 2016, it contacted the most talented driver available and told 19-year-old Esteban to get to Belgium. A management company had agreed to underwrite Ocon’s career, so with the motor home now retired, the family traveled by plane.

“A lot of emotions and relief,” Laurent recalls. “The culmination of 16 years.”

FOUR MONTHS AFTER ESTEBAN’S F1 DEBUT, with the sport itself at a crossroads, Manor Racing announced it was broke.

It was January 2017, and this was the first of several dominos to tumble.

The next was that Force India, a well-funded team and a new contender, offered Esteban a multiyear contract after its No. 2 driver, Nico Hülkenberg, defected for Renault. With an elite car, Esteban finished seventh in Russia, fifth in Barcelona, sixth in Montreal — valuable points for his team and proof he belonged.

Then, in Azerbaijan, Ocon saw an opening. He tried to pass Sergio Perez, his Force India teammate, before their wheels touched. A moment later, he went for it again, contacting Perez’s car and damaging both vehicles.

“What did Esteban do, guys?” Perez said on his headset radio. He later called Ocon’s behavior “unacceptable.”

Three races later, Ocon again collided with Perez in Hungary, and a week later in Belgium, Ocon tried to pass his teammate on the inside. The cars made contact, Perez’s front wing flew off, and the veteran driver’s anger exploded.

“Honestly, what the f--- is this guy doing?” Perez said. “F---ing idiot.”

High drama — which, considering the sport’s new ownership, was undoubtably welcome.

Long owned by a European private equity fund, Formula One had recently been purchased by Liberty Media, an American entertainment titan that parlayed its ownership of struggling assets, from satellite radio to the Discovery Channel and QVC, into ownership of the Atlanta Braves. It wasalready planning the all-access Netflix docuseries that would debut in 2019 — less than a year before the pandemic. When the sports calendar ground to a halt, “Drive to Survive” became a massive hit that sent each team’s value soaring.

Sponsors and investors were fighting for a piece of a sports gold rush. Not everyone could keep up, though. Force India’s owner, Vijay Mallya, defaulted on more than $1 billion in loans after his airline failed, before numerous banks accused him of fraud. (Mallya has called these accusations “rubbish” but, after fleeing India for England, is still considered a fugitive.) He sold his team to a group of investors led by Canadian billionaire Lawrence Stroll, who had made his fortune on the threads of Tommy Hilfiger and Michael Kors. And who happened to have a son, Lance, who drove, if not very well, for Williams Mercedes.

Just like that, it was Ocon being bumped, his dream blown to pieces by his own team. When the 2019 season started, he was out of a job. He blamed “politics.”

He joined Mercedes as a reserve driver, and during race weekends, he says, he would climb into a racing simulator and go through scenario after scenario until 4 a.m. On no sleep, he would go to the airport and travel to wherever F1 was because that’s also where Ocon could meet with potential investors, sponsors and engineers. Then, a week later, he would do it all again.

“I didn’t care because I said, ‘Let’s give it a full go,’ show the people how hungry I am,” he says. Failure, he told himself, would mean that his parents’ sacrifices had been in vain.

“I didn’t do all that just to sit on the side,” he continues. “Teams saw how much I was willing to give, how much I was willing to suffer. I wanted to show everyone that I’m willing to go further than anyone else. No sleep for three straight days, simulator day and night, I’m going to do it. And, yes, I’ve lost four kilos in that year and got sick seven or eight times, and the reality is, yes, I’ve suffered and it was tough. And I don’t want to be suffering forever.”

In late summer 2019, with the first season of “Drive to Survive” being filmed, Ocon’s phone rang. Renault was parting ways with Hülkenberg. The French team wanted the kid from Évreux to come home.

“A crazy moment,” Ocon says. “This was it. The tough times are over now.”

LAST YEAR IN MONACO, something happened that was highly disruptive: Ocon finished third. It was his third appearance on the podium and his best result since he won the Hungarian Grand Prix in 2021. In one of Europe’s nightclub capitals, the 27-year-old celebrated. Hard.

Fatigued, dehydrated and emotionally drained, Ocon again got sick. He was nonetheless due back on the grid in Barcelona four days later. He finished eighth in each of his next two races, then 14th, then didn’t finish the two after that.

Nobody weeps for the motorsports rock star, but a life spent in constant motion does take a toll. A year after signing with Renault, which rebranded as Alpine, Ocon was reportedly paid $5 million per year. He put Laurent and Sabrina on the payroll of “Team Esteban,” he says, assigning his mother administrative tasks and his father responsibilities such as renovating Esteban’s house. He could also hire a performance coach to keep his body and mind sharp — or as sharp as possible in a sport whose schedule features two dozen stops around the globe.

Now, years after Laurent and Sabrina tried shielding their son from many of racing’s pressures, it is Tom Clark’s job to act as Ocon’s conscience. To tell him it’s okay to sleep in on weekends, to grab a nap after practice, to avoid media and fans because more interactions mean more exposure to pathogens.To urge him to eat more lean protein and complex carbohydrates, stay ahead of time zones by wearing sunglasses to simulate darkness, use a light therapy lamp or glasses that emit a bright glow above the eyes. To encourage him to take it easy sometimes, especially when it comes to challenging teammates, and maybe to even think about gearing things down a tad.

“Let’s really just put a bubble around you,” Clark says he tells Ocon.

The problem is this is in conflict with the instincts that got Ocon here. Without deprivation and exhaustion, would he have ever left Évreux? If not for aggressive racing and a ruthless competitive drive, could he have even reached the grid? Especially when it comes to challenging teammates, can’t he gear things down a tad?

ON THE FIRST LAP at this year’s Monaco Grand Prix, there’s Gasly in 10th place. Ocon is 11th. Points are awarded to only the top-10 finishers.

The Alpine drivers have known each other since childhood, their hometowns just 20 minutes apart, friends scratching and clawing for better footing. When they were 12, both were in the same championship race. Gasly overtook Ocon on the last lap to win. “I kicked his ass,” Gasly told the Netflix documentary crew, “and he didn’t like it.”

Not long after, the French racing federation had an opening at its sports academy in Le Mans, a kind of Hogwarts for kid racers. It was Gasly who got the invitation, not the mechanic’s son. The friendship crumbled, just one more thing Ocon left behind as he boarded the motor home once more, looking to win races, yes, but also in search of acceptance.

“But look where I am now,” he says. “That has helped me to get through a lot of steps in my life. That’s what made me so competitive, I guess, from so early on.”

Ocon and Gasly hadcollided in 2023, too, in Australia, with both cars taking race-ending damage. After that, tension between the teammates boiled over when Gasly accused Alpine of coddling Ocon. Before Monaco, the team told the pair to cool it.

And they did, for all of 40 seconds. Now, seeing that narrow opening, Ocon goes for it.

His rear tire connects with Gasly’s front wheel once, then a second time, sending a bitter cloud of burned rubber into the sea air. Ocon’s car goes airborne before turning sideways, and though it lands on its wheels, the impact causes catastrophic damage.

“What did he do?” Gasly says into his radio.

Pieces of carbon fiber fly off Ocon’s car. The tire is punctured, the gearbox fried, the suspension arm broken.

“That’s it, guys,” Ocon tells his team. His Grand Prix is finished.

Needing repairs that will cost tens of thousands and with Ocon’s car due in Montreal in 10 days, Bruno Famin, Alpine’s team principal, publicly admonishes Ocon and vows “consequences.” F1’s governing body, the Federation Internationale de l’Automobile, penalizes Ocon after ruling he initiated the collision.

A week after Monaco, Alpine announces that, in 2025, it will replace one of its drivers. Neither had gotten a podium, and only Ocon had won a point for Alpine. But the team chooses to keep Gasly, meaning Ocon again will be set adrift, the [wanderer] seemingly destined to forever roam.

A FEW MONTHS AGO, Esteban and Laurent went for a long bike ride. The old man still lives near Évreux, operating a shop his son bought him. He still likes to work on cars and make music, albeit as more hobby than job, andprefers to traverse the countryside on an e-bike.

Even against his dad, Esteban can’t help himself.

“I still pull away,” he says.

First, though,during a quieter moment on a recent ride, Laurent told his son a story.

There was once another boy with talent and ambition, the story went, hoping to someday become a professional cyclist. He was as skilled as anyone, but the other kids had access to training and coaches that this boy’sfamily couldn’t afford. So lying in bed one night when he was 16, he succumbed to these economic realities and abandoned his dream, diverting his attention and passion into becoming a mechanic.

So, he went on, when that boy became a man and a husband and a dad, he and his wife agreed to do everything possible to position their son for success. To tell him about possibility, not limitation, and raise him in an environment that would eliminate regret.

“He had never told that story,” Esteban says. “That moment, basically, when he was lying on the bed like that, probably changed my life. They clearly gave more than what they could, and without them I wouldn’t be here.”

Esteban says he occasionally fantasizes about what it would be like to stay in one place: to stop moving, inhale, feel settled. Maybe someday, he says, but not just yet. In July, after Ocon was two months adrift, Kevin Magnussen announced he would be leaving Haas.

Haas, as it happens, is run by Ayao Komatsu, a former F1 engineer who had met and encouraged Esteban when he was just a teenager. A decade later, Komatsu came through. Haas offered Ocon not only a seat for 2025 but acceptance for all the things he is and is not.

“Esteban, he needs an environment that he knows the team is behind him, supporting him, listening to him,” Komatsu says. “No politics. I believe we can provide that.”

But what about the suggestion that Ocon doesn’t play well with others? That you can never take the Évreux fully out of the kid?

“If I was worried about that,” Komatsu says, “I wouldn’t sign him.”

After their bikeride, Laurent and Esteban turned around but kept talking over the wind. Farmland and hills blurred past, same as they did years ago, and a favorite memory of Esteban’s sprung to mind. It was morning, and the 12-year-old awoke in the motor home again with no idea where he was. So he opened the door to see blue sky, the slopes of great mountains, the shoreline of the Mediterranean.

Laurent had parked the van and motor home in Monaco, where yachts are moored and the best drivers live. Esteban remembers the feeling of that moment, the possibility, and his dad stepped out and said there was nothing to stop his son from racing here someday. Whatever came next would be determined by Esteban.

“There was no guarantee,” Esteban recalls his dad saying. But the boy had a chance to prove he belonged. Picturing the momentyears later, he inhaled, kept pedaling and let Laurent catch up as the two of them headed home.

[igetthedisneybox]

Carlos Madrigal

Inspired by @hannahhook7744's Encanto AU, and her own character headcanons.

Third image made using https://picrew.me/en/image_maker/1558575

Fourth image made using https://www.dolldivine.com/la-colombiana

Fifth image made in Disney Dreamlight Valley

Carlos’s full name is Carlos Darío Guzmán-Madrigal.

His first name means “army” and his middle name means “goodness”. 

He is the third child of Dolores Madrigal and Mariano Guzmán.

He has his father’s lighter skin tone, jawline, and hair, and his mother’s eyes and nose. With these traits, he looks oddly similar to his Tío Camilo.

He is fourteen years old.

He has an older sister by five years, Leta, an older brother by a year, Andrés, and younger sisters by three, Avila and Amada.

He is uninterested in romance or sex.

His gift is duplication, and he can duplicate any non-living objects twice. Any more, and he gets really nauseous, and will eventually pass out. He loves his gift, and of course, uses it for evil. The adults in his life placed strict rules on duplicating money, so he doesn’t cause inflation, but he doesn’t really listen. He runs a bit of a duplication black market of sorts.

His door portrays him grinning, with one hand over his heart, and the other holding two orbs. Around his feet are more orbs.

His room looks like a store. There is stuff everywhere. All the walls are shelves, and the shelves are filled with more stuff. The floors are dark wood, and the walls are stucco red. The bed and amenities are all on wheels, and can be moved around at will. Carlos moves them out of the way during the day, because he literally runs a whole ass shop out of his room. 

His symbol is two overlapping orbs.

He and Dolores love each other, but don’t spend much time together. He’s eccentric and loud, while she’s quiet. She’s also the only one who knows his secret, but keeps quiet about it.

He and Mariano butt heads sometimes, just because Mariano wishes that Carlos was a bit more selfless…because he doesn’t know his secret.

He and Leta like to cause mayhem together, and she helps him with his black market business.

Carlos and Andrés are polar opposites, and therefore don’t get along very well. Andrés’ shyness and ‘goody-two-shoes-ness’ bugs the crap out of Carlos.

He encourages Avila and Amada to be wild, and to be themselves. They get free stuff out of his store.

He mainly hangs out with Amelia, Beatriz, Lidia, and José.

He gets along best with Bruno, Camilo, and José.

He’s hiding a huge secret: he’s a very generous person, and uses almost all of the money he earns to buy gifts for his friends and family, or donates it to the local orphans. If anybody questions him about where his money goes, he lies. He has a reputation to uphold.

He enjoys acting, like Bruno, Camilo, and Marcos, and so helps out with the theater a lot.

He dislikes poetry, but has a knack for scripts, and he and Mariano (when they get along) will take the time to write together.

He’s very popular with the Encanto, especially the children, who he has a soft spot for. He duplicates their sweets. Laundresses also love him, as he can duplicate socks that have lost one of a pair.

He has mild ADHD, and can’t sit still for very long.

His favorite colors are orange, yellow, gold, and maroon.

[sanctus-ingenium]

I was wondering how achieve such a wonderful textured finish on your pieces? They are wonderful and I love their resemblance to aged photographs and the speckles of colors in the backgrounds. Your art is mesmerizing :)

you can see some of the texture brush sets i use in my #info_asks tag but i have some more (procreate) tips aside from just brushes

also hi i made this whole thing and then stupidly hit ctrl z to erase ONE word and i lost the entire bottom half of the post and all my image descriptions so fuck you tumblr i had to make this twice

to get a faded photo or old digital screen look, consider duplicating the canvas (once all the layers are merged) and using a gaussian blur tool on the new duplicated layer. then set that to low opacity to add a misty sort of look. looks nice in combination with some chromatic abberation and a small bloom effect. then a subtle noise filter on top:

for faded print effects, it's really worthwhile to learn how to use layer masks. you can use a layer mask to non-destructively 'weather' blocks of colour or lineart, without erasing the layer itself. the weathered ink/block print effect here was made using layer masks which means that if i just hide the mask, the lineart becomes solid black again and easy to alter or colour in:

for old paper effects you can just set a paper texture on multiply over the art sure, but you can also combine it with the blur & bloom thing, a really subtle drop shadow and canvas tilt, and highlights to make it look like an aged photograph of a card. this originally had a transparent bg but i'll post it here with a white bg so that the drop shadow is more obvious. the scuffed edges of the card (left) were hand drawn, simple white stucco brush. the bigger patch of scuffed ink (top right) was a texture stamp.

for block print looks you can move the colour layer out of alignment by a few pixels - but only after you're absolutely sure you're done with it, otherwise you'll get something like this -

i forgot to erase out her eye before i moved the red layer so now her eye defeats the 'look' of a misaligned print. the black lineart and red layer were also given the same layer mask treatment as described above to make them look faded or like the ink didn't stick down right to the paper

you can do this with multiple colour layers too. if the colour layers are separated and set to multiply (as in this cmyk example), it'll leave halos and edges around each shape which mimic old comic book print

just to show what you can do WITHOUT any special brushes, here's a piece of one of my mez tarot cards from before i got any extra brushsets at all. for this one, i added a green tint over everything to mimic a sun-bleached or faded print (my actual goal wasn't 'medieval illustration' but actually 'trading card from the 60s that got left on someone's windowsill for decades'). the background texture is the procreate noise brush. the texture under the green lion drawing is the procreate concrete brush (to make it look painted onto a wall). the lettering and lineart is procreate's 6B pencil. but to properly aim for The Look of it being a printed physical object, i also used a perspective blur so that the edges are out of focus, and metallic gold highlights which don't match the lighting of the actual illustration and appear to be catching some other external light. that texture was made from the procreate noise brush

it's pretty simple compared to my later stuff but i still really like the effect

in terms of colours, you need to keep them unified so that they all appear to be acting under the same external light source, like if someone is holding up a torch to a painting then the painting colours will be glazed with firelight even if there's no painted fire. a really easy way to do this is to slap a multiply layer over everything in one shade - grey-yellow for a weathered paper look, or greenish blue for sunbleached photos. this unifies all the colours of the drawing. or you can apply a gradient map at a low opacity so that there's only a subtle change. or just do it by hand - if you want everything to be slightly tinted yellow, just pick the colours you normally would, but move the colour wheel towards yellow to get a yellowfied version of the base colour. easy

it's really important to consider how fading and weathering can affect printed colour. white paper yellows, black fades. you will rarely see pure black or pure white. which means you can use pure black or pure white to add external effects like the white scuff marks on the hierophant card. if the whole drawing is yellowed from age but there's some white somewhere, it's an easy shorthand to show that the scuff mark or whatever was not originally part of the drawing (great way to add some nasty stains lol)

[tell-me-a-tale-that-tells]

BIRTHMARK

⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ:✧*⋆.*:･ﾟ✧.: ⋆*･ﾟ: .⋆

Request:

The female reader is from another village with her own magic family. She has her powers (ice, blizzard, or weather ish powers would be fun to clash with Pepa), and the families meet at Casita to discuss the miracle.

Pairing: Bruno x FEM!reader.

Type: fluff, soulmate marks AU

⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ:✧*⋆.*:･ﾟ✧.: ⋆*･ﾟ: .⋆

You were tired from your journey, the muscles of your legs were sore for the long time you spend on your horse, It was two days before that you left your village with a purpose in your mind and heart: find your soulmate.

In your native land, doesn't matter how much you searched, no one had the same birthmark.

It was shaped like a small bowtie or an infinite symbol, bright red and marking your right wrist.

At first, you thought that your soulmate was in one of the near villages but as soon as your research goes the result didn't change.

You imagined the worst scenarios, and your family and friends told you their ideas.

"Maybe your soulmates is unfortunately dead"

"Maybe he's born in another time, maybe a century ago or maybe he isn't born yet!"

"You just have to find him!"

So your research took you away from home, too far away to go back and simply let go, sure you could have found another person but it wouldn't be the same kind of love, because the one between two soulmates is an indissoluble bond.

You almost fell asleep while riding your horse's back and maybe you did, because all of the sudden you were right in front of an enormous mountain and you slowly arrived at the top.

The view that opened in front of your eyes was breathtaking.

A small colourful village was surrounded by high mountains like the one you had just passed through, the flourishing vegetation was vibrant and you could see a very big house on the top of a small hill.

Deciding that you had enough of riding around you headed for the crowded village, people were staring curiously at you and you kindly greeted them asking if there was an Inn where you could eat and rest.

A kind woman gave you the directions and you rasped "thanks, señora" you were thirsty to no end and the first thing you wanted was a cold glass of water.

You tied your horse in a nearby paddock so she could eat, drink and rest, you patted her brown coat and caressed her soft black mane.

Once entered the Inn, a scent of coffee filled your nose, you kindly asked for your order and the bartender, a young boy not probably old enough to work there, handed you a glass full of still water.

But it was not cold.

"I guess I have to do it by myself" you mumbled grasping the glass and concentrating.

In an instant, the water became ice-cold, condensation dripped from the glass and the boy looked at you with amazed eyes.

"Wow! How can you do that? You're like Pepa!" He told you.

"It's a gift fro-" then realization hit you, he said that someone could do the same thing "Who's Pepa?" You asked.

"Pepa Madrigal! Everyone knows her here, but you're not from Encanto. She's my friend's mamá, she can change the weather." the boy explained.

"Where can I find her?" You question, drinking your water.

"The big villa at the end of the road, it's the Madrigals house" he said making a nod towards the direction.

"Thank you. Do you have a room for rent or do you know where I can find one? I'm tired to death" you smiled weakly.

"There's a room upstairs but I have to call the owner for that" he disappeared into another room and came back with a short chubby man who was revealed to be the kind owner of the Inn, you talked to him a bit, paid for the room and get upstairs.

The room was quite nice and smelled of lavender, the walls were in yellow stucco, wooden furniture, a big window and a small bathroom, the bed was comfy but creaky but you couldn't care less because as your head touched the pillow you fell asleep.

The next day you took a bath, dressed in clean clothes and after a good breakfast, you decided to go to check your horse.

Returning to the paddock you were not prepared for the scene in front of you.

A tall muscular girl was carrying two mules on her shoulders without the minimum effort like they weighed a couple of grapes, she noticed you, and most of all she noticed you staring and became uneasy.

"Hum, good morning...do you need something?" She asked, placing one mule on the ground.

"Good morning, I was about to check on my horse, sorry for interrupting" you said politely.

She extended her free hand "I'm Luisa Madrigal".

"Oh, another Madrigal" you thought, but responded instead "Y/N, really nice to meet you" and you shook her hand.

You expected that your hand would be almost crushed but her hand just gave you a light squeeze, she was gentle and feminine despite her impending physical shape and it suited her very well.

Luisa, for her part, made a strange expression when her eyes briefly rested on your wrist, where your birthmark was, the muscles of her right eye trembled.

You made sure that your horse was fine before asking "I'm coming from another village, as you could have imagined. I'm searching for my soulmate, do you know someone with this birthmark?" You showed your wrist.

Her eye trembled again, you guessed it was a nervous tick.

"No, I'm sorry" she answered quickly, too much.

Suddenly you felt someone grabbing your arm, you gasped in surprise.

Inspecting your birthmark, was a young boy with brown curly hair and green eyes, he was wearing a yellow ruana, his nose scrunched in concentration.

"I kind of remember this one but I can't pinpoint on who I saw it on..." he mumbled.

"Camilo! I don't think she needs your help." Luisa said through gritted teeth.

"What? I can take people's appearance, if you let me check I could help her!" He answered like for him not helping someone in difficulty was an affront.

You saw him shapeshift from one person to another in rapid succession, checking his wrist that wasn't looking his most of the time.

Feeling a bit confused you stopped him.

"You're a Madrigal too?" He nodded, turning into himself "I wish to talk to your whole family. It seems your village and mine have something in common".

That evening you made the acquaintance of the whole Madrigal family, especially of Alma, who explained to you how in a moment of despair she received the miracle and how the candle gave each member of the familia a special gift, everyone except Mirabel, who in your opinion, was the sweetest and cheerful of the family.

At dinner you chatted with everyone, even if you had the vague sensation that something was off, visiting the house you counted 9 magical doors but only 8 gift-bearing members were sitting at the table.

" What about you? You mentioned that magic exists in your village" Mirabel questioned.

"When my mother was five years old, our village suffered from a huge famine, it hadn't rained for months and not a single thread of grass could grow in the fields. Just when they thought they had lost all hope, the rain came, but it was not regular rain. With every drop the earth was awakened, the fields became luxuriant, the plants blossomed and filled with fruit and even the people who found themselves under the downpour were healed." you narrated.

"It was a miracle!" Exclaimed Antonio, while with the corner of your eye you saw Alma whispering something to her daughter Julieta.

"Yes it was, and you know what's extraordinary? The rain filled the old big fountain in the backyard of my grandma's house, the water inside cannot be exhausted, no matter how much you get it, the fountain is always overflowing. Each newborn is bathed in the water of the fountain because it will give them a life free of any disease. Sometimes, the water also grants powers, as happened to me and my family." Saying so, with a swirl of your fingers, you created an ice statue of a tucan on the centre of the dining table.

Pepa was amazed and with pride, she showed the raging storm that was forming on her head, clouds swirled and darkened as little lighting threatened to zap his husband.

"By the way, I'm not here to show off my abilities, I'm here to find my soulmate. Do you know someone with this birthmark in the same place?" You implored showing the symbol to the family.

Agustìn coughed, Luisa's eye trembled, Felix looked elsewhere, Isabela grew a cactus in the centre of her plate, Julieta reddened, Dolores was fakingly concentrated on her food while the clouds on Pepa's head transformed into a snowstorm.

Alma was looking like all the blood was drained from her body and sighed.

"Come with me" she told you, raising sharply from her chair.

She accompanied you in front of a door, like the others it was inlaid with the figure of a member of the family but it was not glowing, on the top was the name of her only son.

"Bruno" you read.

"To my son, the candle gave a humbling gift, he can see the future and this brought only pain and suffering to this family. He left 10 years ago and no one saw him ever since." Alma pointed at the figure on the door "check more closely" she instructed you.

You approached the door, looking better at the details until you find it.

On Bruno's wrist was inlaid a birthmark, shaped exactly like yours, your heart started to hammer in your chest and you felt that the air was suddenly not enough.

"It's shaped like an hourglass." the woman told you.

You never realized it, mistaking the shape for something else but when she pointed out it was pretty obvious.

A heavy silence fell in the house.

"I can't help you, my dear" Alma was sorrowful " I would like to have my son back too," she said before excusing herself and returning to her family.

You followed her, thanked everyone for their gentle hospitality and left the house to return to the Inn for the night.

You passed more days in Encanto, asking about Bruno, but no one was willing to talk about him.

Somebody told you he was a walking nightmare, someone said he was mean and others were simply scared.

You were eating an arepa, wandering through the streets of the village, kicking some stones that were in your path as you proceeded, one of the said stones rolled down and under a shrub from which you heard a squeaking sound.

A small rat was between the green leaves of the bush.

"Sorry, little friend. How about an apology gift?" You asked rhetorically at the animal, placing a piece of your arepa on the ground.

The rodent quickly took the offered food and sprinted away, but soon it stopped and looked back at you hesitantly.

You made some steps toward the rat and it repeated the previous behaviour.

"Okay, I'm following a rat now" you mumbled.

You follow it, turning several streets and ending up immersed in some vegetation, once you emerged you realized that you were in the garden of the Madrigals' house and the mouse slipped into a narrow hole in a wall just wide enough for a person of small stature to pass.

You squeezed through the tight space, crawling in the dark until you found yourself between the house walls.

You saw patched cracks and buckets of paint and sparkle, the floors creaked under your feet and you heard a voice.

"Mirabel? Is that you?" Asked a man with a kind and hushed voice "10 years without no one knowing I'm here and now..." You heard him murmuring.

Finding a wooden door, you knocked twice, feeling a bit out of place because you were in someone else's house, precisely in the walls, knocking on a door.

"Mira, I think that my vision about-" he opened the door staring with wide eyes at you.

Standing in the doorway was Bruno, an inch taller than you and weighted like a wet fledgling, his overgrown black curly hair was framing his face, tired hazel eyes were fixed on yours, mouth opened in surprise.

He was so much better than you've ever dreamed.

"Bruno, I-" you started but he swiftly moved to close the door but you tried to stop him.

"Please let me explain!" You shouted.

"Who are you?" He asked frightened.

"My name is Y/N, I know this is crazy but I'm your soulmate, please open the door," you explained, resting your forehead on the door.

He opened it just a crack to peek "Show me your birthmark" he demanded.

You tried to uncover your wrist, your heart was about to explode, fingers trembling as you unbutton the right cuff of your shirt.

Eventually, you succeeded and Bruno finally opened the door to let you in.

The room was filled with tons of objects, some of them were reused for other purposes, a bunch of rats were sleeping in old slippers and some of them were intrigued by your presence, watching you from shelves and wooden beams.

"Hum, sorry. My-my social skills are...well, a bit rusty I suppose. I apologize for the door slamming and the suspicious manners. Only my niece and my youngest Sobrino know that I live here..." He scratched the back of his head in embarrassment.

"I'm a stranger, you were just wary for the right reason." he made you sit in his armchair while you spoke to him "I came here to find my soulmate...and I found you"

"Pretty delusional, I think!" he said sincerely, knocking three times on wood items and one on his head.

You smiled at the superstitious gesture "Not at all" he froze on the spot and slowly looked back at you, maybe he thought you were joking.

You chatted a lot, Bruno liked talking and he narrated to you his whole story, from the day he got his so much hated gift to the day he isolated himself for the love of his family.

You fell in love more with every passing minute, the way he moved, talked and joked was enchanting to you as was the way he cared for the others Madrigals, he has nothing to do with the man the persons of Encanto described.

You told him about your journey, all the villages you visited and how you found Encanto by coincidence.

He listened to every single word that came out of your mouth, sitting on a table and casually petting and feeding some rats in the meantime.

Bruno was more relaxed by the time you finished talking and was absently rubbing his birthmark with a finger while looking at yours, you reached for his wrist and his breath itched.

"Can I touch you?" You asked and he nodded "Shaped like an hourglass, how fitting" you commented, moving your hand slowly from his wrist to his forearm, caressing warm skin.

He shuddered but didn't pull away "Soulmates have a sort of magic bond or so I heard, something that pulled them together, no matter how far they are, they always find each other" Bruno whispered.

"Indeed. I found you and I'm not planning on letting you go" you chuckled.

He was staring at you like a lost puppy that finally found his family again, hurt and desperate but also relieved and happy.

You placed your hands on his cheeks and lean closer until only an inch was separating your lips from his.

"You shouldn't" he murmured, eyes closed, bumping gently his forehead against yours "But I want it" you answered back.

You closed the gap, pressing your lips softly on Bruno's, a strangled whimper came from his throat as he clung to you as if his life depended on it.

He spun you around, making you sit on the table where he previously was and deepened the kiss.

"Sorry, too much?" He said suddenly separating from you, his cheeks red from embarrassment.

"Oh, that was fine by me" you chucked, leaning to rest your head on his shoulder.

A loud terrifying and crackling noise tore through the air.

"Pepa's storm?" You wondered confused.

Bruno grabbed your hand scared like never before in his life.

"Run! Run outside Y/N! I'll be right behind you in a second! RUN!" he cried out pushing you out of the room.

The house was falling, cracks were forming everywhere as you moved as fast as you could.

Once you were outside you watched the walls crumble down, Bruno escaped a few seconds later, wearing a bucket as a helmet.

You immediately checked his body for injuries, throwing away the bucket and inspecting his head.

"You're all right?" You demanded scared to the bones.

"Just a couple of scratches, I'm fine but...my vision came true" he sighed "what are we going to do?"

"MIRABEL?" The two of you heard calling.

"MIRABEL?WHERE ARE YOU?" Called Julieta.

Once you understood that Mirabel was not under the debris of the house, the family and you started searching for her.

You took your horse and Bruno came with you, even if the animal scared him a bit, he didn't know how to ride but he managed anyway, sitting on her back behind you, hugging you tightly.

"I'm sorry you had to witness all of this," he said apologetically "I know I told you about my vision and you already knew my powers but-" you let go of the reins of your horse to hold his hands which at that moment were resting on your hips.

"Everything will be fine" you reassured him "look, isn't that Mirabel with Alma?" You pointed the two women by the river.

You dismounted but Bruno remained on the horse "Go to your family" and saying so you patted your horse rear and she started running.

The scene was a bit comical.

After Bruno, Alma and Mirabel returned and the family reunited, you and the generous people of Encanto helped the Madrigals in rebuilding their house.

You and your soulmate grew even close, stealing kisses in moments of pause and sleeping embraced at night, only to be affectionately mocked by Camilo the following day.

His family also became yours, Bruno's room was adapted to accommodate you and even on the entrance door, your figure was engraved.

You sent a letter to your family to inform them of how your life had changed and to invite them to meet the Madrigals and especially Bruno.

They were taken aback at first because they were not expecting another family with powers and they were not expecting a man much older than you to be your soulmate, but they saw the way you loved each other and changed immediately their ideas.

During the lunch with your reunited families, Bruno shyly stood up and cleared his throat.

"Hum I would like to make an announcement, that is, it is not an announcement but I think it will be ... soon. What I meant is ... " he turned to you, took your hands and made you stand up while he instead lowered with one knee to the ground"Y/N, my soulmate, you b-brought light into my life and this house, you saw in me what no one else could and I-I love you more every day. Will you marry me?"

Your whole life flashed in your mind, from the day when growing up you wondered who had your same birthmark when you understood that your love was not in your village and nowhere you searched him, to the day you found him and there he was down on one knee asking you to marry him and have a life together.

"Yes, of course, Bruno!" You cried with joy.

The whole family cheered and clapped their hands and you and Bruno kissed and hugged.

That was better than you could ever imagine.

⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ:✧*⋆.*:･ﾟ✧.: ⋆*･ﾟ: .⋆

[yourmomsawh0r3]

oh my god someone who writes for Marcelo!

Maybe one where Marcello takes reader to meet his mom! Reader is super nervous but he keeps reassuring her that it’ll be okay and that he’s already told her everything about reader and his mom is excited!!

ughh i love this story already! hope you enjoy babe🫶🏼✨

Suegra

pairing: marcello hernandez x f! reader

Marcello’s car rolled to a stop in front of a house that felt like it had a heartbeat of its own. The pastel yellow stucco walls, trimmed with white, were dappled in the late afternoon sunlight. A pair of rocking chairs sat on the front porch, and wind chimes gently tinkled with the breeze. The house exuded warmth just like Marcello himself.

“This is it,” he said, a note of nostalgia in his voice as he cut the engine.

You leaned forward to get a better look, clutching the flowers tightly in your hands. “It’s beautiful,” you murmured, your nerves momentarily eclipsed by the charm of his childhood home.

Marcello grinned. “It’s not much, but it’s home. The porch? That’s where my mom and I used to sit and watch thunderstorms. And that tree over there? I fell out of it once when I was trying to rescue a kite. Mom freaked out. I think she lectured me for a week.”

You laughed softly, picturing little Marcello dangling from the tree, all big brown eyes and mischievous energy.

He turned to you, his expression softening. “You okay, cariño? You’ve been quiet.”

You hesitated, then nodded. “I’m just… I want to make a good impression, you know? This house your mom it’s such a big part of who you are.”

Marcello reached over, brushing his thumb over your knuckles. “Hey, listen to me. My mom’s going to love you. I’ve told her how smart you are, how funny, how much you care about people. She already thinks you’re perfect. And if it helps, she’s way less scary than she sounds.”

You gave him a wobbly smile, and he leaned in to kiss your temple before hopping out of the car. He rounded the front, opening your door and holding out his hand. You took it, letting him pull you to your feet.

As you walked up the steps together, you noticed little details brightly painted flower pots lined the porch, each one bursting with marigolds and hibiscus. A small ceramic rooster sat on the windowsill, and a faint melody of salsa music drifted through the open window.

Marcello knocked, but before his hand even left the door, it swung open. His mom stood there, a vision of warmth and hospitality. She was petite, her dark hair streaked with gray, her smile wide and genuine.

“¡Mi hijo!” she exclaimed, pulling Marcello into a tight hug that seemed to compress all the love in the world into one gesture.

“Hola, Mami,” Marcello said, his voice softer than you’d ever heard it.

When she pulled back, her eyes landed on you, and her smile grew even brighter. “And you must be Y/N.”

You quickly held out the bouquet, nerves making your hands tremble slightly. “Hi, um, these are for you. Thank you so much for having me.”

Her eyes sparkled as she accepted the flowers. “¡Qué hermosa! Thank you, mija. You didn’t have to do this. Come, come in!”

She ushered you inside, and immediately, the house wrapped you in its embrace. The walls were adorned with family photos Marcello as a baby, Marcello with his mom at the beach, Marcello in a little league uniform. The air smelled of something delicious garlic, spices, and a hint of citrus.

“I hope you’re hungry,” she said, leading you into the kitchen, where a feast awaited. The table was covered in dishes: arroz con pollo, black beans, plantains, and a salad with avocado and lime.

Marcello leaned in to whisper, “She’s trying to impress you too, you know. This much food? She’s pulling out all the stops.”

You smiled, feeling your nerves begin to ease. His mom motioned for you to sit, and as the meal unfolded, so did the stories. She shared tales of Marcello’s childhood how he was always cracking jokes, how he used to run around the house with his cousins pretending to be a TV host.

“Even as a niño, he was making everyone laugh,” she said, beaming at her son.

Marcello groaned, though his eyes were filled with affection. “Okay, Mami, no need to embarrass me.”

By the time dessert arrived homemade flan, its caramel glaze glistening you felt completely at ease. His mom reached across the table to touch your hand, her expression earnest.

“Thank you for making my son so happy,” she said. “I can see it in his eyes when he looks at you. You’re family now, mija. Anytime you want to come over, my house is yours.”

Your throat tightened with emotion, and you barely managed to whisper, “Thank you.”

On the way home, Marcello looked over at you, his eyes soft in the dim glow of the dashboard. “Told you she’d love you,” he said, squeezing your hand.

You smiled, resting your head against his shoulder. “I love her too. And I love you, Marcello.”

He kissed the top of your head, his voice filled with a quiet kind of joy. “I love you more, cariño. Always.”

As the night deepened, the comforting glow of the living room lights softened, wrapping the room in an intimate warmth. Plates and glasses from dinner had been cleared away, replaced by laughter and the sound of an old camcorder clicking to life.

“Okay, okay, you have to see this one,” Marcello’s mom said excitedly, sitting cross-legged on the floor next to you while Marcello stretched out on the couch behind you.

The TV flickered, and soon a grainy video of a much younger Marcello filled the screen. He couldn’t have been more than six, his dark curls bouncing as he ran across the backyard. He was shirtless, covered in streaks of mud, holding a garden hose in one hand and laughing wildly.

“Oh no,” Marcello groaned, burying his face in his hands. “Not this one.”

“Yes, this one!” his mom said, her eyes gleaming with mischief. “This was the day he decided to water the plants by himself… except he forgot the hose was on full blast and ended up drenching himself instead.”

You couldn’t help but giggle, your eyes darting between the screen and Marcello’s embarrassed expression. “You were so cute!”

“I was a menace,” Marcello corrected, shaking his head.

The video transitioned to another clip a birthday party. Marcello stood in front of a cake almost as big as he was, his little face lighting up as everyone sang to him. He clapped excitedly at the end of the song, then smashed his hands into the cake with no hesitation.

“Oh, come on,” Marcello groaned again, though you could see the corner of his mouth twitching upward.

“Stop pretending you’re embarrassed,” you teased, nudging his leg with your elbow. “You love the attention.”

His mom laughed along with you, patting your knee. “She’s got your number, mijo.”

For hours, the three of you sat together, watching memories unfold on the screen. Marcello’s mom told you stories about each moment how he’d insisted on wearing a cape to school for an entire week, how he’d once tried to sell lemonade in the living room because it was “too hot outside,” and how he’d cried happy tears the first time he performed in a school play.

By the time the last video ended, you felt like you’d been given a front-row seat to the life that had shaped the man you loved.

“Thank you for sharing these with me,” you said softly to his mom as she started tidying up the tapes.

She waved you off with a warm smile. “You’re part of the family now, mija. This is your history too.”

Marcello watched the interaction from the couch, his heart swelling as he saw how effortlessly you and his mom had bonded. He hadn’t known it was possible to love you even more, but tonight, you proved him wrong.

In the weeks that followed, his mom’s words rang true you quickly became part of the family. Marcello often joked that you spent more time at her house than he did, but he secretly loved how close the two of you had become.

One Saturday afternoon, he walked into his mom’s kitchen to find the two of you seated at the table, a rainbow of nail polish bottles spread out before you. His mom was carefully painting your nails while you both chatted and laughed like old friends.

“What’s this?” Marcello asked, leaning against the doorframe with a grin.

“We’re having girl time,” his mom said without missing a beat, waving him off with her free hand.

“Girl time?” Marcello echoed, raising an eyebrow at you.

You smirked at him. “Don’t be jealous. We’re planning a shopping trip next weekend, and you’re not invited.”

His mom nodded in agreement, a playful glint in her eye. “She’s my shopping partner now. We have to keep you boys in line somehow.”

Marcello chuckled, shaking his head. “Great. Now I have to compete with my own mom for your attention.”

You blew him a kiss, your freshly painted nails sparkling in the sunlight. “Sorry, babe. Priorities.”

Despite his teasing, Marcello was endlessly grateful for the bond you’d formed with his mom. Watching you two together laughing, cooking, even gossiping gave him a glimpse into the future. He imagined Sunday dinners filled with warmth and love, holidays spent surrounded by family, and a life where you and his mom remained inseparable.

That night, as you both lay in bed, Marcello wrapped his arms around you and kissed the top of your head.

“I think you love my mom more than me,” he joked, his voice low and affectionate.

You tilted your head to look at him, your eyes sparkling. “I just love that she raised someone as amazing as you.”

Marcello’s heart swelled, and he pulled you closer. “She was right, you know. You’re family now, cariño. And one day, I hope we’ll have a home just like hers a place where we can make memories, raise kids, and maybe even show them some embarrassing videos of me.”

You laughed softly, resting your head against his chest. “I’d like that.”

In that moment, the future felt as bright and vibrant as the home videos you’d watched earlier. It was a future filled with love, laughter, and a family that already felt like yours.

As the night deepened, the comforting glow of the living room lights softened, wrapping the room in an intimate warmth. Plates and glasses from dinner had been cleared away, replaced by laughter and the sound of an old camcorder clicking to life.

“Okay, okay, you have to see this one,” Marcello’s mom said excitedly, sitting cross-legged on the floor next to you while Marcello stretched out on the couch behind you.

The TV flickered, and soon a grainy video of a much younger Marcello filled the screen. He couldn’t have been more than six, his dark curls bouncing as he ran across the backyard. He was shirtless, covered in streaks of mud, holding a garden hose in one hand and laughing wildly.

“Oh no,” Marcello groaned, burying his face in his hands. “Not this one.”

“Yes, this one!” his mom said, her eyes gleaming with mischief. “This was the day he decided to water the plants by himself… except he forgot the hose was on full blast and ended up drenching himself instead.”

You couldn’t help but giggle, your eyes darting between the screen and Marcello’s embarrassed expression. “You were so cute!”

“I was a menace,” Marcello corrected, shaking his head.

The video transitioned to another clip a birthday party. Marcello stood in front of a cake almost as big as he was, his little face lighting up as everyone sang to him. He clapped excitedly at the end of the song, then smashed his hands into the cake with no hesitation.

“Oh, come on,” Marcello groaned again, though you could see the corner of his mouth twitching upward.

“Stop pretending you’re embarrassed,” you teased, nudging his leg with your elbow. “You love the attention.”

His mom laughed along with you, patting your knee. “She’s got your number, mijo.”

For hours, the three of you sat together, watching memories unfold on the screen. Marcello’s mom told you stories about each moment how he’d insisted on wearing a cape to school for an entire week, how he’d once tried to sell lemonade in the living room because it was “too hot outside,” and how he’d cried happy tears the first time he performed in a school play.

By the time the last video ended, you felt like you’d been given a front-row seat to the life that had shaped the man you loved.

“Thank you for sharing these with me,” you said softly to his mom as she started tidying up the tapes.

She waved you off with a warm smile. “You’re part of the family now, mija. This is your history too.”

Marcello watched the interaction from the couch, his heart swelling as he saw how effortlessly you and his mom had bonded. He hadn’t known it was possible to love you even more, but tonight, you proved him wrong.

In the weeks that followed, his mom’s words rang true you quickly became part of the family. Marcello often joked that you spent more time at her house than he did, but he secretly loved how close the two of you had become.

One Saturday afternoon, he walked into his mom’s kitchen to find the two of you seated at the table, a rainbow of nail polish bottles spread out before you. His mom was carefully painting your nails while you both chatted and laughed like old friends.

“What’s this?” Marcello asked, leaning against the doorframe with a grin.

“We’re having girl time,” his mom said without missing a beat, waving him off with her free hand.

“Girl time?” Marcello echoed, raising an eyebrow at you.

You smirked at him. “Don’t be jealous. We’re planning a shopping trip next weekend, and you’re not invited.”

His mom nodded in agreement, a playful glint in her eye. “She’s my shopping partner now. We have to keep you boys in line somehow.”

Marcello chuckled, shaking his head. “Great. Now I have to compete with my own mom for your attention.”

You blew him a kiss, your freshly painted nails sparkling in the sunlight. “Sorry, babe. Priorities.”

Despite his teasing, Marcello was endlessly grateful for the bond you’d formed with his mom. Watching you two together laughing, cooking, even gossiping gave him a glimpse into the future. He imagined Sunday dinners filled with warmth and love, holidays spent surrounded by family, and a life where you and his mom remained inseparable.

That night, as you both lay in bed, Marcello wrapped his arms around you and kissed the top of your head.

“I think you love my mom more than me,” he joked, his voice low and affectionate.

You tilted your head to look at him, your eyes sparkling. “I just love that she raised someone as amazing as you.”

Marcello’s heart swelled, and he pulled you closer. “She was right, you know. You’re family now, cariño. And one day, I hope we’ll have a home just like hers a place where we can make memories, raise kids, and maybe even show them some embarrassing videos of me.”

You laughed softly, resting your head against his chest. “I’d like that.”

In that moment, the future felt as bright and vibrant as the home videos you’d watched earlier. It was a future filled with love, laughter, and a family that already felt like yours.

[whencyclopedia]

Tulum

Tulum, on the east coast of the Yucatan peninsula in southern Mexico, was an important Mesoamerican centre which displayed both Maya and Toltec influence. Tulum was a major trading and religious centre between the 11th and 16th centuries CE and, dramatically situated near the sea, it is one of the most evocative ancient sites in Mexico.

First settled in the 6th century CE, Tulum prospered, especially so under Mayapán influence from c. 1200 CE, and was an important centre trading in such typical barter goods of the period as cotton, foodstuffs, copper bells, axes, and cacao beans. Protected by the jungle of Quintana Roo, the site survived the general Maya collapse and was largely left untouched by the Spanish.

The ceremonial complex of Tulum, built on a 12 metre high limestone cliff, was surrounded on three sides by fortification walls, while the fourth side faces the Caribbean Sea. Indeed, the very name Tulum is a colonial one and means 'wall'. The original local name may have been Zama meaning 'dawn' in reference to the site's position facing east across the sea.

Residential buildings were built outside the sacred walled area which was reserved for the rulers of Tulum. The largest structure is the Castillo (Castle) which is in fact a temple pyramid displaying architectural influences from the Toltec civilization, such as over-door niches and serpent-columns. In addition, the stucco sculpture which decorates the building recalls those at Mayapán. The halls of the Castillo, and also Structure 25, are also notable for their well-preserved examples of beam-and-mortar roofs.

The Temple of the Frescoes is a squat square building which has undergone several modifications over the centuries. In the Classic period there seems only to have been a vaulted shrine, but this was later surrounded by a larger structure which had a four-column facade. Later still, the second storey was added. Stucco faces on the exterior suggest the building was dedicated to the god Itzamnaaj.

The earliest wall paintings, which give the building its name, date to the 11th or 12th centuries CE, but some are certainly later, perhaps post conquest. They depict figures performing various actions such as a woman grinding corn on a stone (metate), the goddess Chak Chel carrying two images of the god Chahk, and the Aztec god Tezcatlipoca with his black eye band and turquoise mask. The latter strongly suggests contact with central Mexican centres. Most figures are strikingly painted in blue on a black background, and panels are divided by twisted snake-like borders, perhaps representing umbilical cords and therefore a genealogical connection between the figures. Frescoes appear on both the outer and inner walls of several other buildings at Tulum but always using only three colours – red, blue, and yellow – with outlines painted in black and accompanied by Maya glyphs.

Other structures at Tulum include the dramatically sited Temple of the Winds which was built in honour of the wind god and helped guide sailors through the reef, a palace building in a poor state of preservation, various platforms, and the Temple of the Descending God. This latter building and the presence on several other structures of stucco figures of winged gods descending suggest the site was specifically in honour of this strange deity also known as the 'diving god' and perhaps connected to the planet Venus and the associated Maya god Xux Ek.

Continue reading...

[turtleduckscribbles]

Close to Home

“No matter where I go to offer aid, Link remains at my side…”

~A brief exploration of Zelda’s personal journey toward home, and how she finds it in Link.

Read on AO3 or continue below.

<< Chap 2 <<

~o~o~o~o~o~

Chapter 3: "Safe House"

The crisp night air pricked like needles as the pair of horses plodded their way up the winding, muddy path through the Ginner Woods. The rain had relented hours ago, but the lingering mist clung wetly to Zelda’s skin, determined to give her a thorough soaking. Drenched and drained of energy, she slumped in the saddle, fingers white against the horn.

Though the squall earlier that afternoon had been fierce, it had also been short-lived. Within the hour, it petered out into a steady trickle that eventually passed south. Yet even with it gone, Link had proposed that they shelter in place. They were still a half day’s journey out from Hateno, and he knew she was taxed. But Zelda had demurred. Eager to escape the confines of their shared, traumatic past, she had insisted they push on, no no really, she was fine, she could manage another half-day’s riding. Clearly a gormless decision. Now, she was exhausted, both physically and mentally… and Link was worried about her.

They hadn’t spoken much since her emotional hiccup at Blatchery Plain. Not that this was unusual; silences had long been standard-issue in their history. But it was plain to her that this one was weighing on him. More times than she could count, she’d glance over and catch him observing her from his mount, his eyes asking an implicit question. It was like Zora’s Domain all over again. Hating to alarm him, she answered back with tight-lipped smiles, hoping they were more of a reassurance than a warning bell.

She didn’t know why she bothered. She could never fool him.

And now, as they made their sluggish way up the hill leading to the village, Zelda simply couldn’t keep up the facade anymore. With every bump and hoof fall, her telltale grunts of discomfort were becoming increasingly (and embarrassingly) more pronounced. She was struggling. She knew it; Link knew it. Subtlety had never been her strong suit.

Especially not with Link.

The signboard overhead creaked in greeting as they passed underneath the entrance archway of Hateno. The streets were still, and the hazy yellow lights blinking from the lampposts did little to dispel the misty darkness, but thankfully Link took the lead, and her horse was only too obliged to follow. Zelda shivered, drawing her cloak more securely around herself.

It pained her to admit it, but she was silently grateful they had arrived in the cover of midnight. With the lanes empty of villagers, she wouldn’t need to adopt a charade of false aplomb that was expected of the returning Princess of Hyrule. Not now, at least, when fatigue settled over her like a cloud. Not when she was cold and miserable and soaked to the bone.

But alas, she was the one who had chosen this current state of affairs. There was no one to blame for her waterlogged misery but herself.

The clunking of hooves against wood jolted her to awareness. All at once, Zelda came face-to-face with a jarring sight that materialized before her eyes.

A house.

Or rather, a cottage.

Scarcely had she laid eyes on it when a flurry of remembrances rushed into her mind. She knew this place. How could she have forgotten? Immured in the castle, she had watched from afar as Link sweated and toiled away to build a house for himself: this lovely, humble home that he could call his own, in this far, untouched corner of the world. And now, she was finally seeing it in person.

It was a quaint thing, really. Sequestered away from the rest of the village, it lay in the embrace of the outlying foothills, separated from the residential district by the narrow, rickety bridge they currently crossed. Crumbling stone and stucco constituted its plain walls. Creeping vines hugged the front veranda. A crooked chimney protruded from the shingled roof, giving character to its simple face. 

Upon crossing the bridge, Link led her over to the side yard, where a small paddock housed two enclosed stalls. In one fluid motion, he dismounted and made his way over to her, as if he hadn’t just been sitting in a hard seat for hours. He reached the side of her horse and extended a hand, looking kindly up at her.

Zelda blearily eyed his hand. Her fingers were glued to the saddle pommel, stiff with disuse. Despite all the time they’d spent on the road these past several weeks, her riding form was severely lacking after a century in stasis; needless to say, she was incredibly sore from the day’s travels. Wincing, she unstuck her fingers and, in a colossal effort, swung her leg over her mount’s back, allowing Link to help her down.

Strong, steady hands gripped her sides, controlling her descent to the ground. Mud squelched beneath her boots as she landed, and her knees nearly buckled; startled, she threw out an arm to brace her fall, but instead found herself in Link’s stabilizing embrace, her arms wrapped securely around his neck.

Time froze for an eternity. Zelda had gotten close to Link innumerous times throughout their mutual association—an accidental shoulder bump here, a brush of the forehead there, even point-blank sobbing into his lap—but never nose-to-nose. Not like this. Link’s pupils were blown wider than she’d ever seen them, his irises a kaleidoscope of blues. She held his gaze, that bright, electric gaze that never failed to immobilize her, to ensnare her sensibilities, keeping her pinned there against his chest. He was warm, very warm, and his hold on her was unshakable. A frenzied hammering was commencing somewhere near her ribcage, but from whom it originated, she couldn’t tell. He was very close… There wasn’t any distance between them at all… 

Zelda cleared her throat, unwinding her arms from his neck. “Er… thank you, Link.” Taking a measured breath, she straightened and offered a weak smile, hoping the pinch of her joints didn’t show on her face. But as she pulled away to administer to her horse, Link blocked her path, as if to escort her to the house.

“Oh—” she chirped, almost stumbling into him again. “Um, yes, okay then. If you’re sure. Thank you, Link. But I’m alright, really—I can see myself in. Thank you for tending to the horses. I’ll… I’ll meet you inside.”

Link studied her briefly before nodding. As he returned to the stalls, Zelda shambled off alone toward the front entrance. Normally she would have devoted this time to think, but her mind was in a daze. As much as she looked forward to being indoors, she couldn’t shake the peculiar feeling that was trickling over her. She rounded a corner and a sign came into view that put a stop to her tracks:

—MASTER LINK—

Steeling herself, she pushed past her block and entered through the front door.

It was pitch-black inside. Zelda scrabbled around in the dark, her fingers finding the outline of an oil lamp. Using a spare piece of flint, she lit the fuse and shielded her eyes from the blinding light, blinking away the dancing spots.

Good gracious.

What first caught her attention were the walls—or, more specifically, the weapons. Swords and shields and bows of all sorts adorned the walls, showcased on wooden mounts boasting descriptive plaques. Quite the dramatic entrance. But aside from this lavish display, the single-room house was bare and unassuming. A table set for two sat in the center. A small kitchenette was pushed to one corner, as was a bookcase and a cabinet of dining essentials. Near the door, stairs led up to a loft, where a banister hid the rest from view.

Zelda hugged her elbows close as she glazed over the modest furnishings of Link’s home. For some inexplicable reason, her heart couldn’t stop pounding. She stood awkwardly at the threshold, her mind blank.

Minutes passed before the door opened. She whirled around. 

In came Link with his arms full of travel sacks. He looked worse for wear in his stained Champion’s garb, his hair limp and scraggly. The bags fell to the floor with a thud, and he moved more fully into the room, rolling out his shoulders—but upon finding her standing there, he drew to a halt, the latch of the door clicking shut behind him.

They stared at one another.

Zelda stood rooted to the spot. His wide eyes seemed to take in every filthy inch of her. He faltered, as if coming to a sudden, unpleasant realization. 

“Sorry,” he said. It was the first she’d heard him speak in hours. He trotted over to one of the table chairs and pulled it out for her.

“Oh… Er, yes. Thank you.” Trying not to hobble, she made her way over and flumped down into the offered seat, sighing at the relief it offered her cramping legs.

Once she’d settled, Link dashed off to the storage area beneath the stairs, swiftly returning with a towel. Zelda accepted it with thanks, but no sooner had she taken it than he was off again, grabbing cups, retrieving a kettle from off the rack, pulling bottles from his satchel…

“Link…” she began, flustered, “really, there’s no need… I’m fine, really I am…”

But Link was on a mission. He lit the hearth and warmth immediately roared into the surrounding space, hitting her like an errant heat wave. Uncorking the bottles, he filled the kettle with their creamy white contents—something he’d purchased at the stable, presumably—and, with the pot on the fire, stood back. At a loss, Zelda dried her face with the towel, clearing away the sticky damp.

A short time later, a mug of warm milk sat in front of her. Zelda cupped her hands around the glass, breathing in the swirling steam. She took a small sip.

Instantly its soothing power took effect. It was everything she hadn’t known she needed, uncoiling the tension that tightly wound her muscles, banishing the chill that had settled in her bones. So simple, yet so profound. She smiled her thanks to Link and, leaning against the table with his own mug, he returned it.

They drank their milk in companionable silence. Usually, Zelda would be providing a running commentary of the day’s events, or supply an extensive analysis of the house’s aesthetic—but at present, her brain was in a sort of fug. Reasoned, intelligent thought seemed stubbornly out of reach. She supposed that was largely the milk’s fault. She sipped it slowly, strangely reluctant to finish it.

But, inevitably, she drained her cup, and Link whisked it away. As he did the washing, Zelda stared down at the towel clutched in her hands, unable to look elsewhere. While the steamed milk helped ease her sore muscles, her disobedient heart still thumped away, her mind spinning in place. The whirring in her ears was so overbearing that she hadn’t noticed his approach until a pair of boots came into her periphery. Haltingly, she looked up.

Link had resumed his resting stance against the table. He faced her, but he wasn’t looking at her directly; his gaze rested just below her on the table cutlery. That distant expression he wore was one she’d grown to know like a book: This was the look he donned when he was mulling over words. When he was about to speak. Motionless, but with heart fluttering, Zelda stared up at him, waiting patiently for him to begin.

Link’s trance persisted until he blinked himself out of it. He took a slow, deep breath, his sight still fixed on the tableware. 

“I set your pack by the door. Your flask is refilled too. Washroom’s out back by the horses. If anything’s lacking, please tell me.”

He paused. He shifted his weight before continuing.

“The upstairs is ready for you. It’s not much, but it’s clean. The bed’s in the back. Anything, everything—it’s yours.”

The accompanying silence hung between them like frosted breath. Zelda balked, blinking away her bemusement. 

“The upstairs is…? But I—Oh, Link, I can’t take your… That’s not… I can’t…”

I can’t take your bed.

“And—and in any case—what about you? Where… Where will you go?”

Link still wasn’t looking at her. His gaze drifted toward the door, lost and searching, as if puzzling over a cryptic solution he hadn't fully thought through. He seemed to be waging some sort of internal battle, wrestling with himself over… something. Zelda held her breath until the realization struck her like a speeding arrow, and dread pooled in her stomach.

“Link, please… Don’t go.”

Finally, she had his attention. Roused by the waver in her voice, Link tore his eyes from the door and looked her full in the face. There was a wariness in him, a probing quality to his look… but there was also something else. Something unfamiliar. For all the years Zelda had known him, she couldn’t place what it was. All she knew was that it frightened her. After a brief struggle, he glanced away, considering a point over her shoulder.

“...There’s a storeroom under the stairs.”

Zelda shook her head. “Link… you can’t sleep there. It’s much too small. And really, I can manage, you shouldn’t have to confine yourself in your own—”

“Princess.”

She pulled up short, the towel twisting in her hands. His voice was soft, so unbelievably soft, and his eyes were on her once more. Earnest and imploring. Desperate. 

For Zelda, it was enough.

Moved by his charity, she gave a solemn nod, sealing the compromise.

A settled hush fell over them. Zelda blew out a quiet, tremulous sigh. The somnolent, pulsing light of the firepit tugged at her eyelids. Lethargy was eating at her, and she knew she was reaching her limit. She made to stand, when—

“I…”

She froze on her feet. Link too had pushed away from the table, moving fractionally closer. An afflicted look had overcome him, his features furrowed and drawn.

“I led you through Fort Hateno today. I should have realized… I should have taken you a different route. I’m sorry.”

“No, Link—” Zelda insisted, stepping forward. It was imperative that he understood this. “Please don’t apologize. There’s no better way to the village, we both know that. I appreciate all you’ve done for me, truly. You are… generous beyond compare. Thank you for bringing me here safely.”

Link took this all in, his head bowed. He gave a single nod. Then, he was moving toward her, and Zelda’s heart stuttered when he reached out, his hands closing around hers.

Their eyes locked. The brilliance of his blue swept her up, made her feel like she was floating. Drowning. Zelda’s cheeks prickled as she felt the gentle strokes of his fingers. In a flash, she was transported back to that pivotal night in Kakariko: the night when he first took her hands in his, anchoring her. She swallowed, hardly breathing.

“Sleep well, Princess.”

And—as quickly as it came—the moment passed. Link took the towel from her grasp and stepped back, breaking them apart. A final look, a final nod, and Zelda turned away, heading toward the stairs.

It was a short climb, yet even so, she was winded by the time she reached the upper landing. She gave the space a quick once-over: a writing desk, some shelves, a chest of drawers. The twin-sized bed in the back corner. She noted a suspicious lack of a mirror, but she’d worry about that later. She hadn’t the energy to do her toilet tonight as it was. Cleanliness would have to wait until the morrow. She approached the shelf against the back wall, intent on relieving herself of her bag, and made the grievous error of looking up.

Her bag crashed to the floor.

The sight of the Champions’ picture hanging on full display arrested her entirely. There they were, all six of them, lively and hale, mere inches from her face. She took in Daruk’s toothy grin, Urbosa’s fond smirk…

All the breath fled her lungs.

Zelda spun away, her body acting of its own accord. Her eyes slammed shut, as if triggered by a secondary safety measure, which did nothing to fend off the image already seared onto her retinas. Bent under the weight of this new ambush, she fought for control, her hands clenched into fists at her sides.

In… and out. In… and out. In…

Out.

With her rapid breaths subsiding, Zelda stooped to retrieve her sleepwear from her pack, careful to keep her eyes on the ground. Mindlessly, she unclipped the Sheikah Slate from her belt and began to undress, working quickly to change into the nightgown Papaya had so thoughtfully provided her in Kakariko. This donned, she stuffed her dirty clothes into her pack, placed the Slate on the nightstand, and, on trembling legs, climbed into Link’s bed.

The mattress groaned and stretched as she slipped beneath the thick woolen comforter. Skin on silk on sheets was a welcome reprieve from the sodden riding pants she’d been enduring all day. Sighing, she sank further down. Her head hit the pillow, and a deluge of scents enveloped her: hints of lavender, a note of soap, her own musty aroma… nightshade from the wilds…

Zelda’s stomach swooped into a dive. She couldn’t do this. As much as she craved rest, the chances of her getting any sleep like this were laughably slim. She felt jittery, out of place, as if she were wearing someone else’s skin. An intimacy she was unfamiliar with. Her heart refused to relax, and she suddenly realized she couldn’t hear anything going on downstairs. The house was quiet. Too quiet. The lights were dim, and the fire had been put out, she couldn’t see, it was so dark, she was alone again, trapped and imprisoned, fighting for her life and the lives of those she loved, never winning, never ending, she couldn’t breathe, she was alone again, the house was quiet, it was so dark, she couldn’t hear anything, it was far too quiet—

Something tickled her nose. Zelda reflexively pulled back, squinting in the gloom.

On the pillow next to her face lay a single bright strand. It was dark, and she could barely make it out in the distant lamplight, but its distinctive gold luster was unmistakable. With some hesitation, she reached out and took it, rubbing it between her forefinger and thumb. Twice the length of her palm, it twirled and swayed in the breeze of her breath. A gentle touch.

From out of the blue, something bloomed deep within Zelda’s core. It caught her unawares, starting at the center of her chest and sprouting upward to the base of her throat. Up and up it went, bliss bordering on pain, until it reached her vocal cords, filling her to capacity. Washing over her. Overcome, Zelda clutched the golden thread in her hand and cradled it to her chest, tucking it close, unable to help the gratitude that spilled forth onto her cheeks.

Safe.

END OF PART ONE

~o~o~o~o~o~

>> Chap 4 >>