#titanic 1997 imagines

[roadtogracelandx45]

Starcrossed Lovers| Emmett x OC x Rosalie

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Volume One- The Ship of Dreams

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

[ziggystqrdust]

his name starts w a j & her name is a type of flower n u already know which one it is (bonus points if she has red hair)

or alt: the au where only one of them dies (harry was conceived in the car✊😔)

[80s4life]

Pawns”

Word Count: 4,522

Status: Requested!

Ask: Pleeeeeaase write more of Cal from titanic. Literally any prompt I’m so hungry😭

Ask #2: Pleasee could we have more cal hockley content, specifically more chapters for "the things I've never done" and even more short stories if you have the time, I love your work 💕 [THANK YOU SM! I WAS STARTING TO GET SELF CONSCIOUS OF MY WORK AGAIN]

Ask #3 will have an attachment to a separate Cal fic as well, so no request will be shown here until that one.

@: Three cutie pie nonnies!

Relationship: Caledon “Cal” Hockley x Female!Reader

Fandom: Titanic 1997

Summary: Thrusted into the roaring 20′s, all you wanted to be was free and outgoing as all the booming women in city. However, your father’s deal with the devil seals your fate in the hands of your advisor and boss, Caledon Hockley; a man who is haunted by memories, stubborn in his ways, and opposed to the newfound strength in the young women of America. You’re a slave at his will in his eyes, yet you’re just as free as the new reformed women in your own. You’re stuck at a standstill in this endless game of chess, but who’s the pawn?

Warnings: forbidden, early 1900′s morals and customs, Reader is a maid, Cal is the head of the house, Post-Titanic sinking, mature language, kinda spicy, PTSD, domestic violence (included in a PTSD episode ONLY), Kind of a Beauty and The Beast AU for inspiration

{gif is not mine, credit goes to @locke-writes​}

It was all an act of practicality from the start: your father owed his father money and he had a set of nimble hands to rid himself of. 

Nathan Hockley was a millionaire who dealt in the steel tycoon business in Pittsburgh. Your father had a habit of gambling with the wrong people, which had allegedly caused your father to have an uncomfortable run-in with the powerful man. Unable and too stubborn to do so, your father handed you off as a way of reparation for the damage the bastard had caused.

Nathan’s son, Caledon Hockley, was the exact replica of his father. He was cunning, stubborn, powerful and wealthy; a disrupting mixture of facets that could either lift or crush you with a simple snap of a finger. He was dangerous, among many of his other qualities, which made your business in the Hockley’s presence just that much harder.

With the pandemonium that followed the sinking of the Titanic in 1914, the physical and mental effects had taken ahold of Nathan’s deeply treasured and only son, practically keeping him on house arrest until he was “better”. However, to both Nathan and Caledon’s dismay, 6 years had done nothing for his declining health, the reasoning behind why Nathan had administered you into Caledon’s household in the first place.

All of these events have led you up to this point, your suitcase rolling behind you as one of the many maids in the manor lead you up to your room to unpack. You haven’t seen this young and precarious man yet, but something is telling you that you most likely don’t want to. You are soon to be given your list of instructions to follow immediately and precisely; left to your own devices to either stay afloat or drown in the fury of the Hockley men.

Maria, a young maid in her 20′s, around your age, approaches you with a pure and youthful grin, a light blush to her cheeks. Her hair is cut into a cropped bob of black hair with short but soft curls, her lean frame with modest green eyes making her endearing - intoxicating. “You must be Miss Y/L/N?” her cutesy, high pitched voice only adding to her allure and picturesque innocence.

“Yes, that’s me,” you mutter, displaying your hands as if to show yourself off in sarcasm.

“No need to be so glum!” she giggles, bowing her head to catch your eyes and raise your line of sight. “I’m Maria Espinosa, but I’d assume the least you’d want right now is formalities.”

You snort, but let her continue nonetheless.

“I’ve your instructions - written myself, of course!” she smiles brightly; any harder and she might break her face. “As you know, with your appointment into this manor, the rest of the faculty will be let off, per Nathan Hockley’s request. But, don’t fret, the list is simple, short and can last all day without having to pay too much mind. Every Tuesday and Thursday, there will be a grocer that will restock the cabinets, refrigerator, etc. and help you with the cleaning. You are not to touch the east wing and only reside within the west - this will help eliminate the messes to clean and prevent extra exertion-”

“Sorry, if I may be crude, why are we not to go in the east wing?” you ask, curiosity getting the best of you.

“It was...” Maria drifts off, choosing her words lightly, “After the accident in 1914, the east was torn by his own hands. It was once used for balls and such, but after the Titanic,” she whispers the name as if someone might hear her, “Caledon was bedridden and sick, upset, angry, any emotion in the book. He used that wing as a way to let those emotions out.”

You stay silent as you stare at her with morbid curiosity and fear, nodding once before returning your attention to the list. The rest seems easy, not like the job was ever hard to begin with, just an annoyance for better words. 

Maria clears her throat, “Anyway, you must make at least two meals a day, mainly breakfast and dinner, both at 8 am and 8 pm. Caledon might decide not to have lunch some days, but if he does, make sure it is brought to him by 12 pm. He doesn’t like tardiness, so as long as you follow the rules as tightly as you can, you won’t be a target. Any questions?”

“No, no. I’d presume you’d want to be heading out?” you smirk at her mischievously and instantly watch as her taut muscles relax.

“Very much so, yes! It’s been forever since I’ve had a moment of freedom.”

“Well, don’t let me keep you, I’m sure I’ll be fine,” you shoo her off playfully. This is your family’s mess to clean, the least you can do is let her be free of the shackles that are now passed down and chained to your ankles. 

Maria is halfway through the door when she turns to you from the foyer, “I’ll do a monthly checkup to make sure everything is in line, and for a little company in your lonesome, okay?”

You smile gratefully, hands coming up to play with your nails, “Thank you, you’re very kind. Though, I don’t want to be a burden.”

“A burden? You just gave me my freedom!” she exclaims, laughing as she waves a hand. “I’ll be back by the end of the month! Settle in and enjoy the quiet!”

The moment the door slams shut, your shoulders droop heavily. Your eyes scan the spacious mansion with frightening curiosity. You’ve never even remotely been near land such as this, and now that you’re inside, it feels almost too much. You let your hands glide the carved wooden banister as you walk up the huge steps to the second floor, taking a left down a hall.

Your legs carry you down the long corridor, and, as you place your key into the fob, your eyes lay onto the door across from yours: ‘Lord Hockley’ carved neatly on the door. There’s a rustling behind it and footsteps that approach the other side of the door, eliciting you to push the key one click further and dive through the door as quickly and quietly as possible.

You flop onto the bed with a huff, trying to calm the beating of your heart just enough to allow you to unpack and prepare dinner within the course of 3 hours. When your room is finished, you nod in satisfaction, taking a bath in the connected bathroom and changing into a thin, sheer dress before exiting your room and back down the steps to the kitchen.

Finally do you take the time to read the list on your own. It includes very detailed and descriptive instructions, easy nonetheless, of medication usages and what to do with each, meal plans, recipes, a map of which rooms to clean and how to clean each one, and Caledon’s nightly and morning rituals to follow precisely.

Shrugging your shoulders, you roll your neck to release the tension before opening the cookbook up to the recipe designed for today’s date. “Pork roast,” you state alloud, cringing at the echo of your voice being followed by more movement in Hockely’s room.

Your mind roams as your eyes get lost at the sight of the luscious woods out the window, hands deftly whisking away at the pork roast’s grease with the intent of making a nice gravy to coat the dry, but tender pork roast. Shaking your head, you peer down and try to busy yourself with the already settling boredom you’re consumed by. 

You can hear the halls creak, the water drip from the faucet, birds chirping outside, the soft sway of the wind, random clicks, ticks, and other noises. You’re destined to go insane.

You jump unexpectedly with the sound of a crash from upstairs. The noise comes from the general direction of Caledon’s room and you all but groan at what the sound indicates -  what your being here demands. 

Putting the roast of low, you close the lid with a soft click before ascending up the stairs to Caledon’s room. You stand outside the door, hand on your heart, as you try to calm your rapid heartbeat and breathing. This was to come about sooner rather than later, so you should be glad it’s happening now. However, the banging continues within the room and you know that even if you had met him in a few months, the hell that follows him would never be escaped for as long as your father’s debt remains.

Knocking on the hard wooden door, you speak softly, “Lord Hockley? Is everything alright?”

You’re not given an answer, only the sound of something heavy being thrown and falling to the floor.

“Lord Hockey?” you call out again, louder this time. Unsurprised, you are followed by no answer once more. Annoyance creeps into your words a third and final time, “Lord Hockley, I will come in there myself if you do not open this door. Now,” you demand.

Shrugging when no voice calls to you form the other side of the door, your hand twists the doorknob and pushes the door open. You legs carry you only so far before they stutter to a stop just past the door frame. 

Just before you, there is a disheveled, sweaty Caledon Hockley, fit from youth and some maturity in his thirties, shirtless. His eyes look crazed, like a madman, as his hands grip a chair at his desk with white knuckles. Around the room, there’s shelves torn down, broken, books in a disarray on the floor. His bedsheets are thrown about with the other chair from his desk propped against the wall in his fury.

You stare wide-eyed, but somehow, not alarmed in the slightest. You were accustomed to this sort of outburst, especially within the hard working men. You saw it in your father - even in your younger brother. “Lord Hockley,” your voice is softer again, all annoyance and anger lost at the door. 

His eyes snap up to you, as if he had just noticed your arrival or presence. “What are you doing in here? You are not to barge in a man’s room, that is uncouth for a woman of your age and status. What is wrong with you?”

“Lord Hockley-” you try to start your confession.

“A woman is not to speak up to a man; are you ferel? Are you-?”

You don’t allow him to finish his slandering, “-I am mentally efficient, Lord Hockley, and very aware of my positioning here. However, I did knock, three times to be exact, with no answer. There had been a ruckus in here for about-” you peer up at the clock above his desk, “-an hour and a half now. I came to be of assistance, but if my help is unwanted, I’d happily leave you to your self-pity on your own?”

He has no other emotion present except bewilderment plastered to his face; eyes wide, mouth agape, and at a struggle for words. His fists clench and unclench as his eyes pan down to stare at the floor, appearing deep in thought.

“Lord Hockley, if I may be so bold?” you ask, scanning his body language and searching to find the meaning of this man’s crazed outburst.

“Go ahead,” he mutters, a hand going up to rub some hair from his eyes, still staring at the floor. 

“You may confide in me if that means helping your mental health?” you offer. You know this could go one of two ways: either one, he’ll turn you away, suffer alone, and claim that men have no such weaknesses, or two, he’ll let his guard drop and release him from these dark episodes he’s no stranger to. The latter seems rather unlikely.

“I am not mental.”

“I did not say that. I was simply insisting that everyone has a dark place their mind goes to, which is a detriment to a person’s mental health. Let alone someone who is expected to heal quickly and pick up the family business, am I correct?”

Just as you thought you were getting somewhere, Cal’s eyes snap back up to yours with anger, the malicious anger tearing at his body again, “You know nothing of my family’s business and nothing of me. You have no audacity as to even assume or place yourself in my shoes. I should have you thrown out or hanged for your mouth alone. Get out!”

“Just trying to be of service, sir, since I’m at your will!” you smile sickeningly, bowing to him and sliding through the door just as a book is picked up and thrown.

You let out a deep breath of air on the other side of his door, now in the safety of the hallway. Your throat tightens with a soft sob, tears welling in your eyes. You truly feel as a prisoner on death row, hands and ankles encased in heavy metal cuffs; struggling to walk under the watchful gazes and heavy chains slowing you down, keeping you locked in this manor. 

You weren’t the perpetrator, you know this, but you were framed to support the guilty with your own naivety and love.

You drag yourself back down to the kitchen to finish the man’s meal with dejection, but still devoted for the greater future - when you no longer have to be a maid in this manor and be free, lost in the world again.

“Lord Hockley?” you call once more at his door, only this time, you’re holding his tray of dinner. “I have your meal, are you decent?”

You hear a muffled ‘Yes’ and proceed through the door cautiously.

It seems he’s settled now, sitting at his desk with notes and papers scattering the floor and desk. He hadn’t cleaned the room, which you suspected you’d have to clean in the near future. However, you notice the bed is drenched in liquid, and when you look back at him, you notice sweat beading at his forehead, a thin sheen of sweat glistening against his skin.

“Lord Hockley?” you call again, stepping closer towards him. He chooses not t answer you, so you press further. “You’re sweating.”

“I’m very well aware of what my body is doing.”

“Are you feeling ill? I can help you if-” you are cut off by his fist meeting the solid oak of the desk.

“I do not need any assistance from the likes of you, nor do I want it,” his voice is stern, scary.

You try not to lose your temper so easily this time, so you give him a kind, tight-lipped smile. “Of course, my lord, you are a man after all. A man is able to take care of himself just fine, though he installs many maids within his manor. Maids like me,” you giggle dryly, “What shall I do instead, since you are able to clean, cook, and much more without the help of the ‘likes of me’?”

Caledon only groans, “Just leave the food here, you are dismissed. I’ll leave my tray for you to clean in the morning.”

“Oh, how kind,” you roll your eyes, scurrying to the door.

“Oh, and Miss, maybe you could find a better countenance and leave your convictions in your pillow when you arise. Wouldn’t want to explain to my father - and yours - as to why you were no longer needed and let go.”

You can hear the sinister smirk in his voice, but you choose to ignore it - for now -  and head to bed briskly.

The next two weeks follow you in a similar form. You do as your told, albeit begrudgingly, and get into many of your childish arguments. Your interactions with the man are nasty and violent at times, always finding yourself dodging an object, taking threats, and coming in the next morning asking for more. 

More, more, more; you ask for more because there is nothing else to be given. You have to take everything as a grain of salt. You have to because this means your father’s life and yours. If you manage to screw up, and you will, they will not only have your father’s head, but yours for Caledon’s punctured ego.

Though, somewhere within those weeks, you started to care less and less.

“Lord Hockley?” you knock at his door, tray of food in hand. He once more gives you no answer, so you push in.

Greeted by no light in the room, you walk around in the darkness, knowing this room like the back of your palm now. Placing the tray of food on the oak countertop and go to strike a match, lighting the candle on the desk. Going around the room, you light each and every one of them until the room is dimly lit enough to see.

On the bed, you find Caledon, sweat having gotten worse as you’ve noticed he never leaves his room. When you step closer, he is shivering, teeth chattering. Worried, you go to place the back of your hand to his forehead, but quickly draw your hand back when he jerks upright.

“Lord Hockley!” you jump, the ghost of his skin still lingering on the pads of your fingers. “You’re burning up, I need to help assist you now. You’re very ill and the sickness has gone on long enough-”

“No!” his voice rips through you quiet pleas, rattling off the walls.

“But, Lord Hockley-”

“I said ‘No’! I do not want assistance, I am a grown man!”

“’You can take care of yourself’, yeah, yeah, bullshit!” you scream, the frustration, fear, and hurt finally meeting your words as you are blinded by your emotions.

“What did you say?” Caledon looks at you in disbelief.

You cringe as you can guess what is about to take place in mere minutes, but you don’t hold back anymore. “Is your bigotry deafening your hearing or did you hear me call bullshit?”

Shakily, Caledon gets off his bed, his frame towering yours as he glares down at you with pale skin and dark, chocolate brown eyes.

“Your father wouldn’t want you to be sick, knowing that you would have to run his business soon.”

“My father-” Caledon cuts himself off, a hand going to wipe his face. “This has nothing to do with the business.”

“No? Well then, why else would I have to pamper you like a king? Is it because you’re defective?”

Caledon’s pacing now, trying to calm his increasing ragged breathing.

“Or is it because your useless to him? Mentally unstable?” you continue, trying to get a rise out of him.

“You know nothing of his business nor my personal life!” Caledon snaps back to you, anger finally bursting.

As his anger ensues, he takes steps close to you each time, piercing his thick index finger into you chest for emphasis. “You are nothing, you are worthless. I am a wealthy businessman. I am a strong, independent man with power. People would miss me if I were gone!”

“If you’re such a big man, you wouldn’t lock yourself away in your room like a toddler.”

That’s what finally did him in. You pressed a personal button when your short quips finally hit a nerve, testing his masculinity. Before you have time to react, a glass vase is hurled at you. It was a short throw, and was nowhere near your face, however it caught you by surprise and smashed against your hip.

You ignore the pain, though all you wanted to do was bury yourself in a hole. You came here to help him, but all you are returning is anger and hurt that is most definitely placed at you. 

“You’re sick and it is my job to take care of you, so your father won’t have my ass because his baby boy isn’t okay. It’s my job to make sure you are very well satisfied. It is my job that you get your linens washed, food prepared, room cleaned, and make it my duty that your estate is fully functioning all on my own!” you jab a finger in his direction, placing more distance between your bodies until your back hits his door, his body on the other side of the room behind his desk.

He goes to say more, but you cut him off with more furious blows.

“Though, what isn’t my job is to allow you to threaten me. It isn’t my job to be belittled and yelled at by you. It isn’t my job to allow you to throw objects and whatever anger you have and hurl them at me! That is not my job, nor what I will allow any longer!”

“I never asked you to be here. I didn’t want you here. You forced yourself into my estate to protect your father. You knew what you were getting into just by the public papers alone. You knew what was to be expected and yet you came here anyway. You made a prisoner and a victim of yourself.” Caledon’s gaze does not falter and neither does yours.

“You’re correct, Lord Hockley, I may have known what I was getting myself into. What I didn’t know nor expect was the childish frustration and blatant disregard for human decency. I’ve tried over and over again to be kind, but against your better judgement, you couldn’t allow me to be the person to hold such compassion.” 

Your eyes are welling up with tears now as you feel a warm liquid flow down your palm and to the tips of your fingers.

“You do not understand what is bothering me and you never will,” Caledon finally starts to calm himself, the self-pity returning as he recounts lost memories you cannot decipher.

“No, but I have made it abundantly clear that I was here to help assist you. However, you saw it as being weak, so it wasn’t in your cards to even allow me the common courtesy of being a human being. You felt as if I was lying to you.”

“God, you are so annoying,” Caledon groans.

“The feeling’s mutual.”

“You know, when you’re silent, I almost like you -  wait, are you injured?”

“No!” you yell almost instantaneously. 

“Did I do that? Its dripping on the floor, what happened?”

“The glass,” you almost stutter, the atmosphere changing quickly. “The glass shatter and cut some of my hand, I’m fine.”

“You’re hurt.”

“And, you’re ill.”

Caledon sighs, his shoulders slumping. Motioning for you to exit the room, Caledon says nothing as you make a silent pact to clean up. 

You are suffering whiplash from the sudden change of emotion and it leaves you on edge, but with the cooling of his mood, it allows the adrenaline and some stiffness to leave you. Confusion overtakes your mind.

Guided into the kitchen, you start to take out numerous medications, searching for something to accommodate his symptoms. Caledon walks up to you quietly, almost afraid to get too close.

You do not say or look at each other, finally finding the right medicine and sliding it to him on the counter before sitting down on one of the bar stools. He sits beside you carefully, taking the medicine. 

Taking some gauze and wiping away the cuts with an alcohol wipe, you struggle to wrap your hand. That is, until a warmer, larger one goes to encompass it gently, waiting for an action of opposition to its intentions.

Caledon gaze burns the side of your head before you finally acknowledge him with fear. Softly, he starts, “…Just allow me to help?”

You nod softly as the tears form in your eyes again. Some time passes before you finally work up the nerve to ask, “Why do you do this?” 

Caledon looks up from you hand with confusion, which urges you on to elaborate, “Why does your mood change so swiftly, so suddenly?”

Sighing, Caledon gives you a firm look, as if he’s deciding whether to trust you or not -  to tell you. “The Titanic,” he starts, “When I survived, I lost almost all of who I was. When I returned home to my father, I was constantly burdened with memories. They would consume me, control me, until I felt like a madman. The only solution was anger. When the anger takes control, there is no longer that burning sadness, guilt, and regret; no hoping I’d done something differently. I couldn’t allow myself to do that because I was no longer that man anymore.”

“It’s scary,” you croak, peering into his eyes.

“It is, but what’s worse is the life I’ve lived after the episodes. My father found me defective, worthless. I will never be able to fully recover, which is bad for business. He locked me away in this estate to stay hidden from prying eyes, bedridden to remain unseen even in this secluded property. I insist on doing the simplest actions myself because it makes me feel as if I’m showing my father I am still capable, just changed.”

You nod slowly as you take in this new information, grateful. The man has finally opened up to you, he’s no longer a stranger in his own home as it seems.

Calmly, Caledon pats your hand, signalling that the wrapping is done. A hand reaches up to tuck a strand of hair from your face, resting it on your cheek just afterwards. “I know I’ve hurt you, but please, try to understand me, I’m not asking for your forgiveness... I just wanted you to understand-”

“You don’t need to ask that, I already forgave you a long time ago,” you smile softly, placing one of your hands on his opposing cheek. “We will learn to adapt, just as you have many times before. We are no longer strangers, yeah?”

“Yes,” Caledon smiles with glossy eyes.

“We will work on this together. You are not alone anymore.”

Caledon looks at you with uncertainty.

“I am here, always. Understood?”

“Understood.”

Kissing his forehead softly, you other hand goes to be placed on his shoulder, “Repeat it.”

“I am not alone,” a tear slides down his cheek.

“Not as long as I’m alive,” you smirk, placing a kiss to each of his eyelids.

“Never again,” the both of you say together, lips finally meeting as if to seal the promise the both of you now shared deep in your hearts. 

“Never alone.”

[v-o-i-d-e-d]

I’ll Follow Your Lead - Christmas Party

~Also on my Ao3 and Wattpad~

Part 1 - Part 2 - Part 3 - Part 4 - Part 6

~Sorry it took me so long, I got busy with the end of the semester! Also I’m sorry if I messed up the Italian, I am not fluent so I used a translator which means it may be wrong~

Christmas Eve had fallen upon New York City bringing singing, cheer, and…crowds. Dorothea huffed a strand of hair away from her face as she sloppily wrote down a man’s order. Her hand was cramping from writing so much and her hair was a few good shakes away from coming undone. The café had never been busier. Dorothea was at her wit’s end running back and forth from the kitchen to the counter, to the tables, and back again. She was supposed to have help, but the other waitress never showed up.

    “Excuse me! I haven’t had my order taken yet!” A woman called from the other side of the dining room. Dorothea barely hid her grimace as she excused herself from the man she was helping. The woman rattled off a complicated order as soon as Dorothea was in good earshot. “And don’t forget to add the cinnamon on top,” the woman wagged her finger in Dorothea’s face and she fought every urge to bite it. Turning to prepare the multitude of orders she had sloppily written on her notepad, she paused. Jack was there. She had no idea how long he had been there, but there he was. However, what stopped her was not his presence but the fact that he had grabbed a notepad and a pencil and was taking people’s orders. As if feeling her stare at him, Jack looked up and smiled at her. Dorothea flashed a relieved smile before hurrying to the counter to start making orders. As she was making the orders she had taken, Jack came up to the counter and ripped the top piece of paper off of his notepad.

    “All right, I’ve got a few of the orders but some more people just came in so I’ll go grab their orders. You stay here and just make the food,” Jack said. He winked at Dorothea before turning around and heading for the new customers.

They worked in tandem – Dorothea making the orders and Jack serving the guests – until the café closed. Dorothea had closed earlier than normal for the holiday but to her, it wasn’t nearly early enough. Dorothea talked to the last customer as she showed them out the door. It was a young woman a little older than her who was new to the city. Dorothea was sharing some directions to the nearest, and most affordable hotel. Jack stood behind the counter, wiping down the equipment and putting dishes away. He watched as Dorothea kindly ushered the woman out and as the door finally closed her shoulders slumped down and she sighed loudly.

“Thank the stars that that’s over!” The girl said as she made her way back to the counter. She sat down on one of the stools and Jack walked around to join her.

“That was one hell of a crowd. You’d think people would be at home on Christmas Eve,” Jack said.

“Well, you would be wrong. If the place is open, people will come no matter what.” Dorothea reached up and tugged on the dark red ribbon keeping her dark curls out of her face, letting them fall down her back. Jack watched her closely and studied how she ran her hands clumsily through her tangled hair to try to tame it. He never knew her hair was that long – the full length of her back. He had always seen it messily pulled up with her ribbon.  

“Your hair-“

“Is a mess”

“Is beautiful, is what I was gonna say.”

Dorothea turned to face Jack with a surprised look on her face. Her hair had been up all day and was no doubt dented in the middle section from being held up by the ribbon and was definitely frizzy. She couldn’t help but laugh.

“Sure. Anyway, I’m certain you didn’t come here just to help me with the holiday crowd. At least not for free!” The girl got up from her spot and walked into the kitchen. After a moment she returned with a cinnamon bun and slid it in front of Jack. “Here ya go! And it’s on the house tonight.” She had said tonight but she had every intention of never letting him pay her for food ever again.

“Really?”

“Really. You earned it. I saw you dodge those particularly handsy old women earlier,” Dorothea feigned a serious face but only for a moment before bursting into laughter at Jack’s reddening face. He shook his head and sighed.

“The stuff of nightmares I tell you. I’ll be traumatized for life.”

“Oh, I am quite sure. That blonde one looked about ready to pounce!” Dorothea laughed again and this time Jack joined her. He picked up the sticky pastry in front of him and took a bite. He paused.

“This is delicious. More delicious than your other ones!” Jack spoke with his mouth full and Dorothea shook her head in disapproval but smiled at him anyway.

“It’s from my personal batch. But don’t go asking for seconds now because they’ll be plenty more at the Christmas party.”

    “Christmas party?”

    “Yes, and you’ll be coming with me,” Dorothea left no room for argument as she walked back into the kitchen. When she returns she’s carrying two large containers presumably holding the rest of the cinnamon buns.

    “Where is this party?” Jack was confused. Dorothea never mentioned a party in the weeks prior and he wasn’t sure he was prepared to go to some fancy event.

    “It’s at my friends’ restaurant downtown. Don’t worry though it’s very casual and there won’t be that many people there. It’s just some fun and free food so I thought maybe you’d enjoy it,” Dorothea explained as she tapped her finger on the lid of the top box. Her eyes didn’t meet his as she talked. She was worried that he didn’t want to go and she had already told Margarette that she would bring him – something she now regretted. Jack nodded and took another bite of his pastry.

    “Why didn’t you tell me before?” He didn’t sound angry, just curious.

    “Well, I wasn’t sure if you would want to come but I had already told them I’d bring you so…” Dorothea trailed off as she gently set the boxes on the counter beside her. Jack laughed and wiped his mouth on the back of his hand.

    “So you’re trapping me?”

    Dorothea scoffed, “Of course not!” she paused and handed him a napkin to wipe his hands and mouth on, “Well, I guess so. But it doesn’t matter now because you are going,” Dorothea nodded her head with finality and Jack narrowed his eyes at her. He knew he was going to go with her. She knew he was going to go with her. It was hardly a question as to whether he would do almost anything she asked but he wanted to have some fun anyway.

    “What if I had plans?”

    “Well, do you?”

    Silence followed for a moment as the two stared into each other’s eyes.

    “Give me one good reason why I should go,” Jack crossed his arms and leaned forward on the counter with a smirk.

    “Because I would be sad if you did not,” Dorothea said without hesitation. It was true. Not only would she have to tell her friends that he didn’t want to go but she would not be able to properly enjoy her evening knowing Jack wasn’t there.

    Jack laughed a little at her answer but when he noticed that Dorothea’s serious expression didn’t change, he stopped. Her brown eyes stared at him as she patiently waited for his final answer and Jack’s blue ones stared right back. “All right, when do we leave?”

      Dorothea watched as Angeline and Jack walked in front of her. The young girl had been asking Jack a million questions since Dorothea had brought him by the lodging house to get her for the party. Jack told Angeline stories about him that Dorothea had, of course, already heard and the young girl was hanging on his every word – absolutely smitten with the boy. Jack glanced over his shoulder at Dorothea and smiled as he continued his story. Dorothea smiled and looked away, pretending to be occupied by the pastry boxes in her hands. She felt her cheeks warm and cursed herself for not being about to control her blush.

    “Dory!” Angeline paused to allow Dorothea to catch up before linking arms with her. “Did you know that Jack is a really good artist?” Angeline wiggled her eyebrows at Dorothea and giggled. Dorothea looked at her in disapproval of her antics.

    “Did he tell you that himself?” Dorothea scoffed. Jack rolled his eyes but smiled nonetheless. “How humble of him to say about himself.”

    “Have you ever seen any of his drawings?”

    “No, because he is very rude to me and tells me I’m not allowed,” Dorothea said with the dramatics of a child. Jack’s mouth dropped open in shock as Dorothea pretended to wipe tears from her eyes.

    “That is not true! I was not rude!”

    “You absolutely were!” Dorothea argued back and stuck her tongue out at him. Jack gently pushed her shoulder and Dorothea gasped. “See? And now he’s putting his hands on me, the brute!”

    Angeline’s giggles bubbled from her lips as the two teens continued back and forth. The young redhead stood between them and linked arms with Jack as well. She liked Jack and most of all she liked how happy Dorothea was with Jack. In the two years Angeline had known the older girl she had not seen her tease and taunt anyone but her. Dorothea had been so serious before hardly any nonsense – all work. Now, Dorothea went out with Jack quite often and always came back to the house in a good mood. It made Angeline happy.

    Soon they arrived at the restaurant. The front entrance was closed but the inside was lit up and the smell of food wafted from a few of the open windows.

    “Follow me!” Dorothea said as she led the two down the alley and to the back entrance. The door to the kitchen was already open and Margarette could be seen hanging fresh pasta. The woman stops and quickly places everything down before greeting the trio at the door.

    “Ciao, miei cari!” She says as she holds her arms out to give hugs. She hugs Angeline tightly and then tells her to take Dorothea’s boxes and sit them on the counter. As Angeline walks away with the boxes, Margarette envelopes Dorothea in a tight embrace.

    “Merry Christmas, Margarette,” Dorothea greets before gently separating herself from the woman.

    “And this must be Jack!” Margarette smiled brightly and her eyes crinkled at the corners. Jack returned her smile and held his hand out to shake hers. The older woman laughs a bit and pulls Jack into a hug just like she gave the other two. “Dorothea, dear, you never said he was handsome!”

    “Margarette!” Dorothea hissed as she quickly walked past them. Jack stepped away and laughed.

    “What? He is and un uomo come lui non capita tutti i giorni, cara,” Margarette walked back to her pasta preparation and Dorothea’s face flushed. Jack watched her hastily set her cinnamon buns out on some trays she had found. He walked over to help and to ask what Margarette had said but before he could get the words out, Elmer entered the kitchen.

    “Dorothea, Angeline, my darlings!” Angeline rushed to greet the man with a hug and Dorothea smiled at him from her spot next to Jack.

    “Hello, Elmer! This is-“

    “Jack, of course! I’ve been looking forward to meeting you, dear boy,” Elmer walked over and extended a calloused hand for Jack to shake. Jack smiled and firmly shook the older man’s hand.

    “It’s nice to meet you, both of you,” Jack said looking to Elmer and then looking to Margarette.

    “Of course! We’ve heard a lot about you!”

    For what seemed like the thousandth time, Dorothea blushed and refused to meet Jack’s smug gaze.

    “Oh yeah? All good things, I hope,”

    “Oh, only the best.”

      The rest of the night was filled with a few other friends dropping by and raising glasses of sweet wine to toast the holiday. The band had come in and played some songs while the men, including Jack, played a few friendly games of poker.

    “Dorothea, he’s a doll!” Rita, one of the musician’s wives said. “How long have you known him?”

    “Only a couple of months, we are just friends,” Dorothea said. She looked over at Jack to find him with a half-smoked cigarette hanging from his lips and his blue eyes concentrated on his cards. The soft light of the restaurant offered him a golden glow that had Dorothea in a trance. Rita watched the girl stare then shared a look with Margarette, who had also seen Dorothea’s not-so-subtle glances.

    “Well don’t be so sure, sweets. I think there might be something else going on there,” Rita said.

    “What do you mean?” Dorothea finally broke her stare to look at the dark-haired woman beside her.

    Rita shrugged her shoulders, “I only mean to say that he seems to make you happy. Nothing more,” she said as she sipped her wine. Dorothea took a sip from her own cup and looked back at Jack who was already looking at her. They both looked away and Dorothea smiled.

    “He does. Make me happy, I mean. He’s been a good friend.”

    Jack quickly looked back at the cards in his hand when Dorothea’s eyes met his. He hadn’t been looking for that long but he had still felt caught.

    “So, Jack,” Elmer took a long drag from the cigar he held between his chubby fingers, “Where are you from? You don’t sound like you’re from around here.”

    “I’m from Chippewa Falls, in Wisconsin. I came here after my parents died,” Jack said as he played his turn.

    “Well, I’m sorry to hear about your folks. Since you’ve been so good to our Dorothea you just let us know if we can do anything for you, dear boy. A meal, a nice room, a job, you name it,” Elmer said as he gestured with his cigar. Jack raised his eyebrows in interest. He could use a steady job that wasn’t just selling his drawings. And, he thought, if he worked here he could see Dorothea more since she obviously comes here often.

    “What kind of job?”

      The party had begun to settle down and Dorothea was sitting on the floor by the large fireplace at the back of the dining room. The adults had been conversing lowly and saying their Irish goodbyes for the past 30 minutes and she didn’t want to leave without saying goodbye to Elmer and Margarette. Angeline had joined Dorothea a little while ago, complaining that she was ready for bed. Shortly after the young redhead had sat down, she had fallen asleep on Dorothea’s lap. The older girl gazed fondly at Angeline and gently stroked her hair out of her face.

    “Hey.”

    Dorothea looked up to find Jack taking a seat on the floor beside her. He had his sketchbook and tools in his hand and a cigarette hanging from his lips. He must have gotten another one Dorothea thought.

    “Hello. Did you enjoy the party?” Dorothea’s voice was just above a whisper so as to not wake the sleeping girl in her lap. Jack nodded and took a drag from his cigarette.

    “It was great! I had a lot of fun. It was nice to play poker for fun instead of for a living, ya know,”

    Dorothea laughed and Jack smiled brightly.

    “Yes, I’m sure it is. I am glad you had a good time. Everyone seems to like you, though I’m not surprised.”

    “Why is that?”

    Dorothea sighed and stared ahead into the fire, watching the flames dance across the logs. “There’s just something about you, Jack,” She paused and looked at him – brown eyes meeting blue ones, “You make it easy to like you,”

Dorothea was stuck. She had been staring for too long, she knew that, but she couldn’t look away from his sincere gaze. He couldn’t look away either. Something in the way the flames reflected in her eyes and made them turn a honeyed brown and the way the warmth had cast a rosy hue to her cheeks made it imperative for him to watch and study her. He knew this image of her would stay in his brain forever and that he would definitely capture it on paper later. In another room, they could both hear a clock chime twelve. It was Christmas Day.

“Merry Christmas, Jack.”

“Merry Christmas, Dorothea,”

    Both teens finally looked away from each other. Jack took a final drag from his cigarette, and Dorothea went back to softly playing with Angeline’s hair while watching the fire. Neither of them in a hurry to get up and both of them unaware of the small green sprig with red berries hanging above them.

[swanimagines]

TITANIC AO3 SERIESES

EVERYTHING FOR TITANIC

Jack Dawson

(Any of the other characters don't have any requests written nor pending as for now, so I'm unable to have serieses for them as AO3 requires you to have at least one oneshot written to be able to add it to a series, and I can't promise serieses for characters who don't have requests pending/I have no ideas of my own for them)

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If you want to be informed about new fics for Titanic or its individual characters, create an AO3 account and subscribe or bookmark any of those serieses listed above. There are buttons at the top right corner for those, or on top on mobile. I do not do Tumblr taglists anymore.

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[after-witch]

Surrounded by Hunger [Yandere Mahito x Reader]

Title: Surrounded by Hunger [Yandere Mahito x Reader]

Synopsis: You're an artist, with no muse. Until Mahito shows up on your back porch.

Word count: 3500ish

notes: yandere, mild body horror, reader is a trans male

“I want you to paint me,” Mahito says, with an uncharacteristically serious expression on his face. No smile, no leer today. Just a somber frown as he appears from nowhere--as he often does--and sits himself in front of you. 

The cool summer evening air would smell as clean as the breeze, but for the cigarette lazily perched in the ashtray on the edge of the porch. 

Smoking.  Your one vice. Or is it your eighth? You don’t keep much track of your vices, these days. If you did, you might actually try to quit them. But smoking is one of two current addictions that you can’t fathom letting go of right now.

The other one is sitting next to you.

"Like one of my French girls?” you murmur, lips quirking up. 

Mahito tilts his head towards you, still frowning. You wonder, idly, if he has an actual brain inside his skull. Do curses have brains? You’re not sure about the technicalities of how they function, but it’s not something you’d really like to ask Mahito, either.

But it’s like you can see his brain working from the minute movements of his body language. The body is one thing you’re usually good at reading, and you ought to be, considering your career. No one wanted paintings from someone who didn’t understand the basics of body movement.

“Ah,” he says, finally, with a small smile. “Titanic. Directed by James Cameron. 1997.” His smile gets a little perkier. On anyone else, that smile might look deranged. But it suits Mahito, you think.

“I liked the sinking part the best. The way they…” He flicks his fingers in the air, and makes an eerily accurate sound reminiscent of bodies banging against metal parts. “And the frozen baby!” He closes his eyes almost all the way, leaving just enough room for you to see his gaze slide over to you. “Humans do love representing their own misery, don’t they?”

Something squeezes in your chest. It might have been a barb about you and your work; and it might not have been. One of the trickiest things about Mahito was that you could never be sure when he was trying to hurt you, and when he wasn’t. 

The worst part was, you knew that it didn’t matter either way. It wasn’t like you’d ever ask him to leave. He knew that, too. Maybe that was the actual worst part.

He doesn’t elaborate on his statement. Instead, he leans his head back, looking at the darkening sky; the deep blue of the evening oozing away to make room for the blacker part of the night. His profile like this is fascinating--the way his hair seems to almost shimmer in the fading light, falling back against the side of his neck. 

“Well?” He asks.

You couldn’t say no. You were already imagining ways to capture him, like this. In profile, staring up at the sky with eyes that were anything but human. With a brain that was perhaps not a real brain. With a body he could change at will. 

Despite all that, here he is, sitting on your porch, breathing in your cigarette smoke and staring up at the ordinary evening sky.

What does he see that you don’t? That no human does? Why does he even come around you, when he could be off trying to--your brain fumbles for snatches of what he’s told you--battling sorcerers? 

Maybe you can capture something of the answer in your painting. 

“Okay,” you say, lightly, even though the answer is anything but. “But we have to go inside for the sketch. There’s not enough light out here this late.”

Mahito smiles. In profile, you see only the half of it, the edge of his lips curling, a glimpse of his teeth. 

You’ll be up all night sketching, trying to capture this expression. 

--

Your first finished painting of Mahito isn’t all that great. The evening skyline was done from memory because the next few days had been cloudy and they stole the sky’s normal colors away. And no amount of mixing could quite give you the right shade for his hair; you put something new on order, a type of shimmer pigment. That might help for future pieces.

The expression, though. There was something in that. Something not quite human that you managed to capture, although if you had to do it over, you’d reconsider taking your drawing from sketch to painting. The sketch had something raw to it, like Mahito might just turn his head and wink at you. 

As an artist, you knew that such a subject was rare. It was not always easy to find inspiration that kept you working almost relentlessly, eager and passionate rather than staring at an empty canvas and willing the world to send something to you.

Mahito was a gift, wasn’t he? To an artist. To someone like you, who needed something to make your work stand out. And it does, here. Mahito looks unusual--striking, beautiful, but with something unpleasant itching to get out from underneath his skin. 

But still. It’s flawed. 

And that’s not the standard artist humble-brag designed to avoid a reputation of pompous pride. Your paintings, as a whole, just aren’t good enough. 

It’s why the galleries rejected you. Why what few connections you had with other painters tended to fade away, becoming more and more untethered as they were invited to galas, as they held openings, as their works went to auction, and you…

You sat on your porch smoking and waiting, heart pacing, for a curse to show up on your door.

--

Mahito stands in front of the revealed piece, quietly observing it. His fingers reach out and skim the canvas, bumping along a few rough areas of paint. His mouth parts a few times, then closes. 

You expect him to be blunt with some kind of critique. He’s never been shy with honesty, no matter how hurtful. It was something you hated and loved all with one confusing, awful sameness.

Instead, his gaze flits over every square of the canvas enough times that sweat begins to bead down the back of your neck. Does he hate it? Is he about to tell you that you’d be better off doing something else, something more ordinary, something more mundane? 

No.

What he does is turn his head towards you, slowly, something that is not quite a smile on his face. An expression that makes you think of the back porch, sunsets and cigarette smoke. 

“Now do it again.”

--

You should hate this, really. Someone who sticks around and more or less demands that they be your muse. Most artists purge these types of people from their lives, unwanted flypaper hangers-on who pout and demand to be painted. 

But Mahito is your muse, and you don’t hate it, and you don’t think he’s clingy or desperate like others who have found themselves on your back porch before. 

He’s your muse simply because he exists. You could not fathom knowing Mahito and not committing him to the canvas. The only shock is that it was his idea, not yours; and maybe, deep down, you were too afraid to ever ask him. In case he said no.

So you draw him, and paint him. He drapes himself over your couch wearing nothing, spreads himself on your bed with winter clothes in the summer heat; perches on the end of the kitchen stool and watches gnats circle a bowl of bananas. 

The ideas are his, mostly. 

And the pieces are interesting. “Intriguing,” your regular art gallery said, when you submitted the one of Mahito sprawled out in a fuzzy scarf and hat and puffy winter coat while sweat clung to his forehead from the summer afternoon sun.

Interesting, intriguing, a striking model… and yet. They’re still not enough--not enough to get paid. Not enough to get noticed. 

Not enough to get you out of bed some days, when all you want to do is smoke lying down and hope the smoke alarm in your bedroom still has low batteries. 

This is how Mahito finds you this morning. Half-resting on sore elbows while smoke wafts up to your  ceiling, imperceptibly adding to the layers of brown and yellow build up. 

“Hey.”

He pokes your nose. You blink, slowly turn your gaze towards him. Then close your eyes and let out another puff of smoke.

“You’re being mopey,” he says, flatly. Not teasing or whining, certainly not with sympathy. Just a matter-of-fact. 

The options weigh heavy on your shoulders. It’s not like you two don’t talk about serious things. But God, with Mahito, the roles are reversed between artist and muse. You’re the clingy one, the one desperate to keep him around; afraid that the wrong word or gesture might make him blip out of your life as quickly as he came into it.

Who were you, if you didn’t have Mahito? Just another failing artist who could barely afford their cigarette addiction. 

But you trust him. Because he’s here. Because he hasn’t left yet. Because when you’re drawing him and you ask him to lift his arm up, he somehow knows the exact angle you mean, every time. So you lick your lips and look up at him with tired, reddened eyes.

“They’re not enough.” A pause. “The paintings, I mean. No one will buy them.” You drop the rest of your cigarette in the ashtray on your night stand. “I don’t know what I’m doing wrong.”

You do know, though. Your paintings aren’t interesting enough anymore. What little buzz you’d generated in your first break onto the scene from your fantastical horror work had long since faded, as had your inspiration for such pieces. 

It wasn’t enough to play with color and light, to perfectly capture the sun through an opaque curtain playing on Mahito’s hair while black flies buzzed onto overripe fruit. Of course not. People wanted more. You just weren’t more, now. If you were ever that. 

Mahito crawls onto your bed, languid; it’s not the first time he’s been so close, so intimate, but it gives you goosebumps nonetheless. He curls himself behind your back and runs a finger down your arm. 

“They like your older work,” he muses. You’ve ranted about this, and he apparently listened, which makes you feel at least a little least sour. “So why don’t you paint like that again?”

So much for feeling a little less sour. You curl inwards, eyes fixated on the dimming red glow of your cigarette in its tray. 

Mahito pokes your shoulder. Impatience. You can feel it building in him, in the way his arm muscles tense, just a little. When he gets bored, he sometimes leaves. 

You don’t want him to leave, so you force the words out, although you’d rather keep them private. Your mouth feels sticky when you talk, but you press on. 

“My old stuff was before…” You know he knows, but you’ve never pinned down a single way to explain it to him. “Before I figured myself out. Before a lot of things, I guess.” Mahito’s hand wraps itself around your stomach, and you reach out to intertwine your fingers. To keep him with you, if such a thing were possible.

“I haven’t had the same type of inspiration in a long time,” you admit. “So I don’t know how to just…” Flashes of your old canvases come to mind. Demons and ghosts and landscapes of terrible beauty. “Get back into that head space.”

There is a stretch of silence that begins to worry you. Maybe you are too boring, maybe you’re whining, maybe whatever this is has run its course and he’ll leave and you’ll have nothing to your name but this empty apartment and your empty life.

But then Mahito grips your shoulder and pushes you firmly, swiftly, onto your back. There’s a dull ache where he touches you and you stare up into his eyes, wide and bright even in the darkness. He’s grinning. He’s grinning, and it’s beautiful and ugly--

And on his side, arms sprout out; some with mouths sporting their own grins. Behind him, arms upon arms,  hands upon hands. A grotesque vision come to life in your dim apartment bedroom. You can see it now, on canvas. A creature with greedy hands outstretched to the world, taking what it wants, when it wants. 

You can see Mahito, posting, while you furiously work at the easel. You know you’ll work until your hands cramp, desperate enough to capture every microexpression in pencil before it fades. 

Mahito, the muse, painted again and again. Until your hands cramp, until your eyes are red and burning. 

“Does this inspire you?” he says, a bright giddiness in his tone fading into something lower and warmer as he leans down to capture your lips.

You’re not certain which of you tastes the most of ashes.

--

The paintings are perfectly grotesque. Inspirational. Disturbing.

“And yet,” the director continues, tapping his pen against his chin, “so life-like. You can hardly tell where the real model ends and your imagination begins.” 

Because, of course, humans cannot sprout extra limbs from their sides. Humans cannot stretch their tongues to wrap around their body like a rope. Humans cannot pull open the flesh of their stomachs to reveal what’s inside.

Not without dying, anyway. 

You’d almost asked Mahito if that was what curses looked like on the inside--if they had organs, like stomachs and lungs--but thought better of it. Knowing would be worse than pretending. 

When you pretend, you can ignore the growing sickness in your stomach as the paintings become worse--and better. As Mahito pushes you farther and farther, and you’re not sure if you want to turn back. 

When you pretend, life with Mahito doesn’t seem very fucked up at all. 

“Keep it up,” the director tells you, thumbing through the wad of ghastly cash he hands over for your latest piece. It’s enough to pay off your rent and bills and cover cigarettes and booze and some new books for Mahito, though you’re sure he just steals them when he’s not with you. 

And you do--keep it up.

Because Mahito wants to, and because despite all the disturbing dreams you begin to have after sessions of drawing and painting, your new works really are better. More visceral and alive; galleries want them. 

They want you.

You feel seen, finally, for who you are and what your hands can do--

How could you turn that away?

--

“I don’t know,” you say, slowly, watching the thing Mahito brought with him writhe on the table. 

It was soft and gelatinous, like a blob of moving goo. At first, that’s what you thought it was: something he scooped out of a container at a toy store that sold novelty slimes. 

But this wasn’t some gob of bright orange or neon blue with a telltale sticky sheen that told parents that yes, mom and dad, this was going to wind up sticking to the carpet by the end of the day.

This was light beige, with two big black spots that looked a bit like eyes. It was larger than you think a toy slime would have been and it--well it moved. Really moved. Not just from a slight breeze drifting in through the window or due to its own gelatinous nature.

It was--whatever it was--alive. 

It had eyes, and perhaps that bit of discolored beige was hair, and that was it. Two eyes, slick, shiny skin, and no mouth at all. 

“It’s a statement piece,” Mahito says simply, even happily, as he adjusts the blob to his liking on the table. He tries out a series of poses that you direct with hesitation--looking down at it with his chin resting in his elbow, holding it in his arms like some sort of stuffed bear, endless, restless poses, all punctuated by the strange writhing of the thing.

The two of you finally settle for Mahito looking one way, and the blob--were those its eyes?--facing another. A contrast between colors and shapes and Mahito’s lithe form and the writhing blob. But while there is a dim satisfaction in putting Mahito onto the canvas, a sense of self-worth and pride that grows with every stroke, you put off working on the blob until the last possible minute. Your body seems to know why, even if your mind doesn’t. 

At the end of the night, you start to ask a question that’s been on your mind the entire evening--

“Mahito?” 

But when he turns, a small smile on his face, blob in hand, the words die in your throat.

You say nothing as he leaves. You work a little more on the painting, avoiding half the canvas, not wanting to think about what it was that Mahito brought and why he brought it.

That night, you dream about a garden of squirming, writhing blobs.

--

Today, Mahito has no mouth. 

And today, you’ve decided, that this will be your last Mahito piece. No more. Not a single one. The singular lack of a mouth is not even as horrific as some of the other ways Mahito has posed for you, but somehow, it’s the one that terrifies you the most. 

Mahito has no mouth, and you can’t even ask him why.

Mahito has no mouth--

Mahito has no mouth, and he wants you to paint him.

He tells you this, in gestures. Maybe if he was over the top about it--if he was wildly waving his hands, if he made a game of it--then it wouldn’t make you feel so wrong. But he’s slow, methodical. Serious.

It makes your stomach clench on nothing but whisky and overcooked eggs. 

But you let him bring out one of your mirrors and set it up in front of a stool so you can paint him, looking at himself in the glass. There’s nothing else you can do but this, you realize; that’s what your life has come to. You are mingling with a curse and he could kill you in a moment if he wanted to--but right now, he wants you to draw him and paint him and put something monumentally distressing on the canvas. And you want to do these things--because he wants you to? Because you know the gallery owner is going to take one look at this last piece and ask you to open your own show? Love or ego or something awful and in-between?

You sketch quickly. It’s the final layers of painting that will take days, you think, if you want this to turn out right. Right now you’re worried about two things: capturing the tones while the light is just right, and how Mahito will react when you tell him you’re done after this.

It’s not like you can tell him now. He can’t even talk. 

What is it like, without a mouth? You bring cigarettes to your lips and wonder if he feels jealous of it. Would he get mad, if you told him you needed a drink? A snack? Eating and drinking--curses can do these things, and you’ve seen Mahito do them, but you don’t know how much of it is a want or a need. It’s hard enough to tell the difference with a human. 

If you had no mouth, what would you be? Your thoughts flit, briefly and then away again, to the blob. To its eyes. To the way it couldn’t stop moving and Mahito held it like a toy. 

You don’t want to think about that. 

It would feel wrong to talk while you work on this piece, you decide. Better to save it for when it’s finished. A few days, at most, with Mahito holed up in your bedroom--and no mouth at all. 

In these few days, you want to kiss him more than ever. Want to capture the memory of his lips, because surely, he’ll want to leave if you’re done painting him. Done being entertaining. 

The thought of kissing the awful, empty space where his mouth should be keeps you from even thinking about it.

--

It’s your masterpiece. You know this from the moment the last stroke is complete. You’ll never top this work, and some prideful part of you demands that you try, anyway. 

Mahito still has no mouth. Even as you pull the drape off the canvas, as he gets close to inspect it. 

“Mahito,” you say, suddenly. He doesn’t look at you. That’s better, you think. Makes it easier to stomach what will come next; the inevitable moment where Mahito drops you like an old toy. Usually it’s the other way around, an artist getting bored of its muse and flinging them aside. 

But you’re not bored of Mahito. You’re afraid of him. You want him here--but you don’t. It’s a big jumbled mess and maybe it would have been easier if he never showed up on your back porch, if you never saw him at all, if he hadn’t opened up some wound inside you that only he can stitch up. 

“Mahito,” you repeat. “I don’t think I can paint you anymore.” Stupid, weasel words. You cringe. “I mean. I don’t want to paint you anymore--after this one.”

Mahito tilts his head, and finally turns his eyes towards you--but still, there’s no mouth, no mouth, no mouth.

After a moment, you continue, mouth dry and sticking. “Did you hear me, I said I--”

Mahito’s hand slaps against your own, hushing you.

“Have you been wondering what it feels like?” It takes a few blearly, confusing moments for you to realize that Mahito is talking not with lips on his face, but on the hand that’s pressed over yours. “To be unable to speak?”

The awful thought hits you. Is your mouth even still there, under Mahito’s hand? 

Mahito leans in, and pulls his hand away. Slowly, like he’s revealing a prize .

“I want to paint you now,” he murmurs. He might even be cooing, eyes alight at what he sees as he lifts his hand. 

You want to answer him--you want to scream.

But you can’t say a word. 

[canarydarity]

(desert duo titanic (1997) au be upon ye. 4330 words. ao3) ((check tags for content warnings))

The most attractive part of the idea, Grian had thought, was that nobody would know what had happened to him. Not his mother, not his fiance, not a single socialite on this godforsaken boat—and then they’d wake up to find their lives would go on business as usual regardless. There would still be teas and luncheons to attend, they’d still dress for dinner—though in customary mourning black for at least a few months, if only to keep up appearances—and have the same dozen mindless conversations about things that would never really matter, and better yet, Grian wouldn’t have to be there for any of it. 

The air was nice up here, chilling but in a pleasant way. That was a good thought. It soothed the rush he’d felt on his way over, the panic of needing to get away fast and the train of thought that kept saying do it now before they follow. 

He didn’t remember the last time he was allowed to just take a breath; he didn’t remember the last time he was allowed to do anything without threat of penalization. 

Even this, he knew, was a punishable offense. He could certainly never expect freedom nor even an inch of space to spare if he failed. And if his mother’s god was to be believed, success, too, was a crime befitting discipline. Grian had since decided he’d rather take his chances on an eternity in hell than a lifetime in his family house.

Unlike the air, the ice-cold bone-piercing sting that was the metal railing sticking to his skin was the kind of cold that was so intense it, ironically, burned, and it did wonders to keep him firmly in his brain. It connected to each of his palms like a stubborn leech, like it was, in some roundabout way, telling him to not let go. But what were leeches good for if not bloodletting, and Grian had long since been bled dry—disconnect the only thing left to do. 

He peeled each of his hands off the railing one at a time, slowly, wincing at the pull of his skin and the carpet-burn like feeling of its breaking free. But he only opened and closed the palm of each hand a few times to restore feeling and heat before wrapping around the railing once more. 

He looked down. You know, he almost couldn't see the water at all. 

The darkness of night in the middle of the ocean bore nothing to reflect off of the water's surface, and the promise of emptiness for miles and miles and miles below was all too clear. He could only find where sky and sea met if he were really trying hard, and he’d found he didn't much care to do that. Grian kind of liked the idea of a vast black expanse stretching out before him, imagined himself letting go and not falling quickly down but just floating off into that tricky void. 

He leaned forward, letting his arms pull taut, forming some weird triangle between where they connected to the railing, the socket of his shoulder, and where his feet were planted on the small lip of the ship's deck. He could do it—he could. He could let go. 

He could.

Slowly, the skin of his hands worked to refreeze, fusing him once more to the boat's railing. Oddly, he focused in on the toe of his left shoe where he seems to have scuffed it against something in his haste to get here fast. He thought about how Mumbo was going to have to buff that out later and then re-shine them all over again, even though he did it before he dressed Grian for dinner and also sometime last night, joking about how Grian probably stubbed his toe on purpose just to spite him, and Grian had giggled and promised he’d be more careful to spare Mumbo’s poor hands. And then his mind recoiled, immediately, intensely, at the thought.

There would be no shoes for Mumbo to buff and shine. 

On instinct, his arms reeled him if only slightly back in, his right eye involuntarily tightened into a cringe. Grian shook his head, firm, trying to work back to worse thoughts, something else, something more fitting. No Mumbo—for where Grian currently was, Mumbo was firmly off limits. 

When that didn’t work, he shut his eyes tight and let out a harsh, determined deep breath; felt his brow furrow in concentration, his lips set into a thin stern line. He forced his arms to let him lean fully back out, more of his body over open water than ship. 

And then, from behind, someone called, “don’t do it.”

Grian startled, looked back over his shoulder at the stranger ready to shout something like well then don’t startle me the next time, what is wrong with you, but found instead on instinct what came out was, “Get away from me. Do not come any closer—don’t.” 

The man, who’d been nearly within arms length, hand reaching out like he’d been ready to grab for Grian’s wrist, paused immediately. 

He didn’t know what the man was taking from Grian’s expression—if the look on his face was more anger and annoyance, disbelief at his interruption, or alarm and a frantic sort of unease. He was certainly getting nothing of the stranger besides prolonged eye contact and the sense that calculations were being run. 

Whatever conclusion was come to, after a moment the stranger shook his head a little and jostled the hand he hadn’t pulled back towards him, almost like he was reaffirming its placement (as if either of them could forget). 

“Just give me your hand, it’ll be alright, promise. I’ll pull you back over!”

Grian tried to shuffle to the side but there was really nowhere to go; the skin of his hands was once again firmly cemented to the cold metal, and to his right at the very center of the ship's stern was a flagpole. 

“No,” he hissed, “I told you to back off. Stay back or I’ll—” Grian looked away from the stranger, felt in his throat that he must’ve been shouting to drown out the sound of the water coming back together after having been split by the large steamer, the propellers that were somewhere under the surface. He swallowed but the air had dried all the spit from his mouth, doing nothing to soothe the ache. “I’ll let go.” 

But the proposition was slipping from him, his peaceful nothing getting further away like it’d jumped a few minutes ago and was bobbing somewhere in the boat's wake, Grian failing to follow. The more time passed, the more Grian felt like he’d missed his chance—and the more urgent he felt to prove this was what he’d really wanted after all, even as uncertainty over the fact grew.

“No you won’t.”

Grian’s head snapped up, blinking in surprise, the need to process the audacity in the statement delaying the understanding of what had been said. He turned his head, glaring over his shoulder at the stranger, who, for his part, looked entirely too sure of himself and relaxed, hands in his pockets now and shoulders paused in a shrug. 

“What do you mean no I won’t—you don’t know me. Don’t you try to tell me what I will or won’t do!” 

Usually that was a sure fire way to convince Grian to do whatever it was he’d been instructed against. Mumbo knew that well, quick to follow up instructions with a don’t even think about it and reasoning why whatever he was considering was probably a terrible awful idea. But none of the usual fire infected him—spite at the statement had grown just fine, but follow through was different here than in situations of the usual kind. The stranger seemed to understand that. Grian frowned at him harder, teeth grinding together. 

“I just think that if you were going to, you would’ve done it already.” 

“Well you’re distracting me.” 

“That’s kind of the point.” 

The stranger's lips made the kind of smirk that turned down instead of up, a gentle tease that was so out of place for the location and the night and the situation as a whole. Grian’s own mouth hung open a little in shock of it all, his brain failing to produce whatever response was supposed to be offered. Under it all somewhere, he felt embarrassed, and that offense fueled the frustration. 

“Go away,” he said, not opening his mouth enough to separate his teeth, head trying to turn away, needing to focus his attention elsewhere, desperate for the feeling that he’d followed all the way to the ship's stern to come back, losing hope that it would. 

“No can do, unfortunately.” Hands in his pockets, the stranger waltzed a step or two forward, and Grian tried his best to lean away despite no move being made towards him and distance kept; all he did was bend at the waist, peek over the railing into the cold deep blackness. “Well, looks like if I can’t get you to come back over, I’m just going to have to join you.” 

“What?!” His breath puffed out ahead of him with the shriek, clouding his view momentarily, and Grian closed his eyes and shook his head like that’d restore his vision, or maybe jog some sense into the scene. “Are you insane!?”

The man was studying the railings, the slight curvature to the metal as it wound along the backside of the boat, his hand on his chin like there was a required technique other than stepping over one leg at a time. He stood up straight and rubbed his hands together, brought them to his mouth and breathed some warm air into them; then, inexplicably, he stopped to shrug off his coat. 

His coat tossed in a heap on the deck, he hoisted up onto the bottom rung of the railing and threw one leg over the top, hands clinging to what he could, and at that Grian could watch no longer. 

“No, stop—stop.” 

Their eyes met, and, to the strangers credit, he looked remarkably calm. The eye contact said more what’s the holdup than oh, thank god; his eyebrows were raised, his face paused waiting for whatever Grian was going to say next—all the composure of circumstances much more normal, situations where the consequences were far less severe. It would’ve worried Grian badly had he not also seen the way the stranger gripped the railing tightly, fingers turning colorless by use of force; the way his posture had gotten less lax by the second, casual hard to maintain. 

Something about it put things into perspective—Grian’s own breath picked up, his eyes growing wider by the second and the urge to not blink a bunch, rapidly, like in some odd number he’d find himself elsewhere, safer, getting harder to ignore. The dreadful realization of what have I done was familiar, but so was the stubborn pride that said bury it now before someone else finds out. 

In more comfortable circumstances, Grian would be willing to buckle down and insist that whatever it was was precisely what he meant to do—no matter how ridiculous. He didn’t have to break eye contact and remind himself of the view to know that wasn’t an option here—not unless he meant it, not unless he was going over. 

His torso began to tremble a little; the upper half, his chest, his shoulders. He couldn’t tell if it was the cold or the fear. 

“What are you doing?” It came out quieter than he meant it to. 

“Gotta be prepared to go in after you if you’re really doing it, don’t I?” 

“You’ll be killed.” 

“You don’t know that,” one of his shoulders went up in an approximation of a shrug—or as much of one as he could do considering his position and the need to not let go. “Besides, I'm a good swimmer!” 

Grian did actually, that was sort of the point of him being here. He couldn't tell if the stranger was grossly underestimating the danger or betting it all on the biggest bluff he’d ever heard—some combination of both. 

“Though, personally, I could do without the cold—I am not looking forward to that water. But it’s no matter! I am a gentleman, afterall.”

Carefully, he returned to movement, began the motion of swinging his second leg over the top rail, but Grian risked the removal of one hand to reach out and stop him, the skin of his palm delicate and raw ripping once again from the cold metal, the sound of its separation sickly as it permeated the air. 

The burn of it felt good, the feel of it like a kind of tether—another thing tying him to the deck and making sure he stayed there. 

He was supposed to say something, his hand gripping the thin cotton of the shirt on a stranger’s arm, its material rough against his already irritated palm, but, even here, Grian didn’t know how to give in and go back. 

The stranger spoke instead, unphased enough Grian could almost believe he hadn’t jumped in to save Grian from failing to do so himself—could choose to believe it, if he wanted. 

“I guess I’m sort of hoping you’ll let me off the hook.” 

It was hard to look elsewhere; like Grian’s hand on the railing—like his hand on the stranger—the eye contact was just another lifeline, something else that was doing what it could to hold him firmly in place. Of course, besides that fact, there was nothing else to look at; the sky and the sea were black black black. It was the stranger or nothing, and Grian was surprised and frightened to discover where his allegiance was seeming to lie. 

Because Grian could never just lose—not even when he didn’t want to win—he said, “you’re crazy,” a half-formed deflection that was mostly stolen by the wind, quieter than he should’ve said it to ensure he was heard over the commotion. 

The stranger leaned towards him, his face in some sort of wishy-washy wince, like he knew he was about to push his luck but couldn’t quite help himself anyway. “Says the guy hanging off the back of a ship. With all due respect, of course,” he tacked on at the end, taking in Grian’s stature, his clothes and altogether demeanor. 

Grian tried to swallow again and found his throat still dry as a bone. He choked at his first attempt of saying, “You first, I’ll follow.” 

The stranger nodded and made quick work of throwing his leg back over the railing, pausing only for a pointed glance at Grian’s hand, where he realized he’d have to let go of the stranger’s shirt for him to be able to complete the action. With nowhere else to put it, Grian wrapped it once again around the railing, finding himself much more frightened about the prospect of doing so than he’d been when he climbed over, the inch or so of metal not nearly enough to make him feel secure anymore. 

Grian’s eyes trailed over his shoulder, tried to keep the stranger in his sights and tried not to panic when he couldn’t. The darkness had gone from comforting to alarming, the nothingness from welcoming to just that—nothing, and at the sea Grian could no longer look. The urgency was beginning to return, but in a manner unexpected. He needed suddenly more than anything to be back on the deck, his feet firmly planted on the wood, that man-made and temporary replacement for land. 

Though unseen, the sound of the collision of water upon the ship persisted, almost enough to cover that of the stranger shuffling behind him, and on top of the lack of a sightline Grian’s nerves latched onto the idea that he could just be gone; leave Grian there to suffer the consequences of his actions, give him just enough sense to realize this idea was idiotic before sending him over regardless—rich bastard probably deserved it. What did Grian have to be miserable about, anyway? 

But like a life preserver on a line, that hand, the same one as before, reached out to him once more, coming back into Grian’s focus from his peripheral. It was like they’d started the whole scene started over, like a director had made them take things from the top. His hand trembling, trepidation in every part of the movement, Grian brought his right arm across his body and around to meet the stranger’s, the warmth of it scalding against Grian’s white-cold palm. Slowly, and not without help, he was turned back around. 

The stranger’s eyes were green.

“What’s your name?”

A chill racked Grian’s spine, the wind off the water beating against his back somehow worse than when he’d been facing it, the sight of the whole ship ahead of him—definitive proof that he was the person furthest to the stern out of anyone, passengers and crew and all—horrifying; he couldn’t imagine anything worse than if he went now, not falling into the black but falling away from the ship, nothing to do but watch it leave him behind. He was definitely passing his chill to the stranger, sharing the tremor between the two of them like splitting a piece of cake for dessert. 

Grian wanted to ask why it mattered. He said, “Grian,” instead. 

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, I’m Scar.”

Stripped of any excuse to hide it at this point and worn thin by the fear that’d been eating away at him by his own hand and without his knowledge, he near breathlessly whined, “just get me out of here, please.”

The stranger nodded and squeezed his hands. “Can do.”

Grian would never give control to an entity such as fate by believing in it, so he wouldn’t say that he’d tempted it by hanging where he was for so long, but he’d clearly tempted something—the darkness itself, perhaps—or at the very least pushed his luck to some limit, enough that he’d used it all up in his climbing over the first time and however long he’d stalled on the railing, enough so that, when it came time to reverse the action and climb back to safety, his dress shoe, slick against the metal, moist from the sea air, failed to find purchase and caused him to slip. 

He was falling—and then he wasn’t; with nothing beneath it to catch on, Grian’s foot was pulled down towards the sea by the strongarm of gravity, and where one went the other quickly followed, but a shout had barely ripped free from Grian’s throat before a mean tug upwards from his shoulder contested the force heading down. 

Scar, one hand still in Grian’s, the other wrapped tightly enough around his forearm that it hurt, stood with his middle braced against the railing. His green eyes were wide. His shoes shrieked against the deck where he tried to lean backwards to gain better leverage, take any small step away and pull with all his might, but he got little to nowhere. 

“Grian!” He shouted, “Grian, you’re going to have to pull yourself up!” 

His shouting was distant, the frantic look on his face—the gritted teeth and strewn from effort bunch to his cheeks—came from Grian’s vision to his brain separated, scattered; like he’d looked at them through frosted, mosaic glass. The hand that wasn’t being held half-heartedly reached to find the railing closest—the second rung from the bottom—but rather than grip it with force he could do nothing but get his fingers to curl around it. 

There was a part of him that would rather let go than risk failure in trying to pull himself up—that would rather die by his own choice than by something as stupid and ridiculous as hubris taking it upon itself to finish a suicide attempt he’d come to his senses in time to abandon. But, stubbornly prideful as Grian was, he hated giving up more than he hated to lose. 

He forced his mind to come back to himself—if not because he had to do something, then because Scar had not stopped doing something; seconds had passed with Grian as good as deadweight off the back of the ship, nearly unresponsive, and Scar had not ceased in trying to pull him up, even as his calls went unanswered. 

“C’mon, Grian,” Scar grit out, to himself more than to Grian it sounded, and Grian felt his hand tighten around the railing. He gave one small, experimental tug. His eyes met Scar’s.

“I’ve got you,” Scar said, as much of a nod as he could give without forgoing concentration. The confidence he’d worn the entire conversation hadn’t gone anywhere, the situation growing from concerning to dire doing nothing to damper his surety that he had this, and Grian wanted badly to believe that he did. “I’ve got you—I’m not going to let you go. Pull yourself up, that’s it.”

It took more strength than he’d ever really had the need to use to heave himself up enough to risk the jump to the next bar, and the entirety of his arm burned with the effort, the strain from the tugging on his shoulder from above only compiling. But where he did it once, he convinced himself he could do it again—needed himself to do it again, and with something between a grunt and some kind of yell he managed to leap another railing higher, climbing the back of the ship like some sort of pirate of legend. 

His feet re-found purchase on the deck, then the bottom-most rail as, finally within better reach, Scar let go of his forearm and wrapped his arm around Grian’s back, and between Grian’s crazed flurry of stepping up and up again and Scar’s lifting and leaning backwards, they reached a point where they were both more over boat than open water, and then tipped even further passed that until they collapsed backwards onto the deck. 

The first of safety Grian saw was the stars. There were more stars over the ocean than there were in the city. 

The sky looked a lot less empty now that Grian was looking up and not out, his back against something solid. He wondered if they’d been there the whole time and he just hadn’t looked for them. For the first time since he’d boarded the ship, he took a minute just to stare. 

His throat burned with each time it sucked air into his lungs and it burned as he hurled it back out, overexertion and adrenaline both fighting for some kind of control within him. 

The hand under him stretched and wiggled its fingers, pulled itself free, and Grian immediately lurched the other way himself, turning to look at Scar on instinct but making sure to avert his eyes. 

The stranger named Scar had a smile on his face that threatened laughter, but Grian couldn’t imagine that anything was funny. He pulled at the collar of his thin cotton shirt, but it fell back to where it’d began after, the fabric nowhere near expensive nor stiff enough to listen to his direction, and the suspenders over it were frayed and the elastic of them showing signs of having been stretched out, but he had the look of a storybook hero about him regardless; never a doubt the dragon would end up slain and the damsel recused. The confidence that had been reassuring when he’d needed it to be grated against Grian now, reeking instead of an I told you so. 

But Scar turned his smile on Grian and leaned towards him like he was gonna bop their shoulders together without actually completing the movement. And all he said was, “Let’s not do that again.” 

Grian frowned at him and stood up, making a fruitless effort to soothe the wrinkles on his dinner tails. He sighed when it wasn’t working and dropped his hand, trying not to look directly at Scar, still smiling up at him from where he lounged on the deck. 

The click of a door opening pierced the—until this moment—blessed anonymity of the entire scene, and Grian stood up straighter and looked at it on instinct only to find Mumbo. That meant dinner was over, everyone heading back to the suite—Mumbo must’ve been sent to find him. He relaxed immediately and then winced as he remembered why he was there to begin with. Grian weighed his battles and then turned back to Scar, on purpose this time, hoping any shame Mumbo might’ve caught on his face would be attributed to this and nothing else. 

“Let’s not,” Grian agreed, and then his mouth stuck open against his permission on the idea of adding a thank you. It wasn’t lost on him that Scar had saved his life; it also wasn’t lost on him that he was the reason that Scar had had to do so at all—he wasn’t sure where that left them. He wasn’t sure a thank you was appropriate; he wasn’t sure what else could be. 

Scar sat up more but stayed sitting on the deck, drawing his knees half the way to his chest and dangling his arms off of them. Whatever weird glamor of generosity and sincerity that had befallen Grian, it seemed Scar remained immune, his cool still intact. 

Where Grian continued to falter, Scar said, “It was nice to meet you, Grian.” 

It made another time Scar had caught Grian out and chosen to cover for him rather than call the point. They’d only known each other for a few minutes, but Grian felt like he’d racked up quite an amount of debt. With nothing conceivably to do about it at the moment—with Mumbo to his back and his family expecting his return and a newfound and unusual weight to every breath that he took—Grian returned indoors. After so long outside, the bright lights of the ship's interior were blinding. 

[jinkookspencil]

i just don't understand pt 2

in which jungkook does not understand how his friend doesn't have a crush on namjoon

a drabble sequel to the drabble 'i just don't understand' -

i'd say you need to read that first, it's just 500 words but if you really don't want to, i included the last bit of dialogue at the beginning of this fic i dont care if drabbles can't have sequels, it just worked out this way lmao

description/tags: jungkook drabble / fluff / friends to lovers / ~900 words / jk comes off a little more insecure here but it kind of works because i'd always imagined this as a younger version of him / hope you enjoy!! / it's been a while since i wrote anything but i have a recent writing update i recently shared (this is *not* the jk thing i am currently working on - i hope to have that done for his birthday!)

+

“What the hell are you attracted to?” Jungkook laughs. “Ugly, stupid, mean, untalented guys?”

“Of course not, Jungkook,” you sigh. “I like other handsome, smart, kind, respectful guys.”

“Like who?”

“Like YOU!”

This was not how you imagined confessing. 

“Like…. Like me?!”

Dropping the plushie in his hands, Jungkook gestures to himself in disbelief.

“I said like you, Jungkook,” you emphasize, hoping it wasn’t too late to back out of your frustration-fueled confession.

“So…. Not me?”

What the fuck were you supposed to say now?! You pick up the teddy bear and tug at its pink fur, staring at its face and hoping the bear’s smile would turn into a murderous one, killing you and waking you up from this anxiety-inducing nightmare. 

Jungkook calls your name quietly and quickly, bringing you back life.

“Like you. You, Jungkook. I like you.”

“Over… over Namjoon?” he winces, and you do too. It was the most humiliating way someone could have responded to a confession…. hoping you’d fall in love with someone else instead. 

“Yes, Jungkook. Over Namjoon," you reply with your head in your hands.

“So all those things you said to describe him… handsome, smart, you think that of me too?”

“Yeah, of course,” you chuckle, finally looking up at him, “that and so much more, actually.”

“But there’s a difference? Between what you think of me and what you think of Namjoon-hyung?”

“Oh, there’s a big difference.”

“You described the both of us with the same string of adjectives, though….”

Jungkook was a clever guy…. Why was he acting so stupid?

“Who cares if you share some similar qualities?! I am not attracted to Namjoon. Period. I am attracted to you, Jeon Jungkook. The person born on September 1, 1997, who always wears black, loves karaoke, samgyeopsal, the movie Titanic, and the scariest fucking theme park rides! The Jeon Jungkook that’s sitting right in front of me. You.”

Jungkook's breath is shaky, his voice the same when he speaks. “I just find it hard to believe…. Not Namjoon. And not only that - me over Namjoon….”

“I don’t know how to explain it in more words, Koo…. I like you. I like you in the way that people have crushes on each other. You make my heart flutter while also putting it at ease. I like you.”

The boy in front of you doesn’t say anything, merely stiffens his posture, and you know it only meant the worst.

“This…. This calls for the end of our friendship doesn’t it?” you mumble, voice breaking and bubbling, ready to burst into tears.

“No…. No, absolutely not….” he says, breaking out of his catatonic state to sit next to you on the couch and hug your plushie once again. “Let me explain something this time… You know how I gush over Namjoon?”

“Of course,” you groan, and Jungkook rolls his eyes.

“And I always try to understand why you aren’t attracted to him… right?”

“Yeah…”

“I know Namjoon and I are not the exact same. Of course I do, that’s why I look up to him and keep recommending him to you and I guess… I guess it’s because in my head, I was trying to convince myself that you had to go for guys like Namjoon… because you’d never go for guys like me…”

“…. And what do you mean by guys like you?” 

“Guys that have nothing in common with you. You say Namjoon and I are both handsome and smart... But in truth, you and he share the similarities and I could never compete. You're both beautiful in the 'once-in-a-lifetime' kind of way. You're both clever in the book-ish way - do you know you have the exact same books as he does? I bought a book two weeks ago to try and impress you but I haven’t gotten past the introduction so I was too ashamed to even tell you. Oh, that one time, you both recommended the same drama series to me… on the same day. I thought for sure that you’d hooked up and seen it together, and that’d be that. But then you called me crying when it ended, wrapped up in your fluffy pink blanket in bed with chips.”

“You asked me why I didn’t call Namjoon…”

“And you said ‘why would I?’… Even if you weren't hooking up, I could’ve given you a million reasons as to why you could've called him instead. That drama was too artsy for me, but not for either of you. I didn’t even understand what you were saying on the phone that day - the message behind the story, or whatever - I was just so happy that you’d called and that you’d think I’d get it.” 

Jungkook lets out a laugh as he shakes his head. For some reason, it breaks your heart.

“I tried to make ‘you and Namjoon’ happen because it’s the only logical thing I could see in front of me…… The only answer I could come up with… You’re… the most wonderful person I’ve ever known, YN. I want what’s best for you - you deserve the best kind of guy there is…. and that’s definitely Nam-“

You push your lips against Jungkook’s, interrupting him with a kiss.

“It’s you, Jungkook. You’re the best fucking person I know.” You kiss him again. “I’d pick you a million times over.”

“Well, what if-“

“Can we forget about Namjoon entirely for a moment? I want the boy I like to shut up and kiss me…. If you want to, that is.”

Jungkook’s smile turns into one you rarely see. A smirk, devilish, menacing…. Delectable as he nods and meets you with a deep kiss, electrifying every inch of your body.

You were always a know-it-all and you'd been right once again: this was always the boy for you.

[vampirecorleone]

"I believe you are blushing, Mr. Big Artiste. I can't imagine Monsieur Monet blushing."

Costume Design for Rose Dewitt Bukater for Titanic (1997) // by Deborah Lynn Scott

[m34gs]

The way people scream "the door was big enough for two people" about The Titanic (1997) except it's "the glass coffin was big enough for two people if they really tried!!!"

I know that's not the issue with the trap or the reason why Strahm failed (it's to showcase his flaws and also show how being Jigsaw is about anticipating the moves of the victim and how even traps with a way out are more of an execution than anything - something we get a good look at with the eye trap in Saw X - to put it rather simply) but I just think it's funny to imagine people screaming that.

Also I like thinking about the two of them squished together in the box. Still enemies at that point. But undeniably attracted to one another. And pressed so, so close...

[silvr-skreen]

I wanted to do my own designs, notes about them under the cut

Lady Doppler:

her hair is intended to resemble a cloud (changes based on active weather effect) and the braids have blue beads which represent raindrops)

i tried to go for a slightly more cohesive color palette

belt buckle is a sun, and the frills below it resemble an umbrella

the bottom of her dress is intended to look like clouds (these do not change based on the active weather effect)

Pierre Pressure:

I tried to exaggerate the diamond shape of his head as well as add more red to his design

changed the stripes on his shirt to hypnotic swirls to emphasize his power

gave him coattails and an ascot

the beret is supposed to have an exclamation point as the little pomf bc it looked cool/mimes don't talk and exclamation points indicate volume

Behemoth:

i dont know why but the fact he had a face annoyed me for some reason so i removed it sorry buddy.

tried to emphasize the shoulders by adding larger rocks than the rest of him.

flames on the lower arms to VAGUELY resemble metro man's costume fringe/bc it looked cool

his face is actually intended to resemble the concept art for the tornado titan from Hercules 1997 (it functions almost like a vacuum he can suck stuff into the lava whirlpool)

Nighty Knight:

his colors are intended to be strictly black/silver/purple (+ very small amounts of blue)

this is due to the backstory i imagine him with

he's got one of those knight visor/mouthpiece covers

i didn't vibe with the very colorful insignia so i changed it slightly to match the rest of his colors

i dented+scratched the armor to signify he's been in fights before

in this one i headcanon him AS a sentient suit of armor (it makes sense with my general headcanons about the world the show/movie takes place in dw)

i gave him claws bc it is epic

[starry-eyed-steve]

Robin being invested in weird supernatural things like aliens and other conspiracies makes me believe she would also be super interested in the Titanic. They actually found the wreck on September 1st 1985, which was like a month before she and Steve started working at Family Video. I imagine she would come over to his house all excited. Maybe it's the first time she was genuinely happy after Starcourt because that was such a huge thing for her. Steve was excited because Robin was excited. She would tell him about all the facts she knows, and Steve would just listen to her rambling without any complaints asking follow-up questions. They spend the entire day watching the news as the story unfolds.

Later, when the movie dropped in 1997, they both were there on opening day.

[adamwatchesmovies]

Titanic (1997)

There’s a reason Titanic captured hearts and audiences in 1997. This is a disaster film done right. Director James Cameron builds up to the spectacle you expect by developing the relationships and characters. The romance is so effective you practically forget you already know the ship will sink until it happens. Wonderfully romantic (and quite erotic), with first-class special effects, excellent performances, a memorable score and dozens of scenes you see once and can never forget; it’s essential viewing.

In 1996, Brock Lovett (Bill Paxton) and his team dive deep inside the wreck of the RMS Titanic. They’re looking for the legendary Heart of the Ocean necklace. Instead of the gem, they find a drawing of a woman wearing it. The woman in question is Rose Dawson Calvert (Gloria Stuart). In 1912, 17-year-old Rose (played during flashbacks by Kate Winslet) is engaged to Caledon Hockley (Billy Zane), whom she loathes. When Rose meets Jack Dawson (Leonardo DiCaprio), a poor artist from the lower deck, she's initially put off by his itinerant lifestyle but in no time, they fall in love. Meanwhile, no one can imagine the danger that awaits the ship.

James Cameron’s passion for this project is clear and that enthusiasm meant no expense was spared, no detail was overlooked. When the decayed remnants of the Titanic are returned to their former glory, you get it. Its enormous engine room, cargo hold full of luxurious treasures, sumptuous Grand Staircase, gigantic dining hall, colossal chimneys and endless corridors are stunning. Then, there are the people aboard. At the top, wealthy passengers for whom the ritzy accommodations have been built. At the bottom, tiny cabins crowded with families dreaming of better lives. It’s the perfect setting for a romance. There’s enough space for our lovers to elope but the “world” is small enough that they can’t escape completely from the realities that await them. The trip is long but it won't last forever so there’s a ticking clock that demands the love story get resolved - even before the iceberg comes into view.

At 195 minutes, Titanic can fully develop its characters. Some may seem a little more plot device-y than others but even the despicable Caledon has tiny moments that make him human. He’s still a complete turd that - like so many of the rich passengers onboard - cares more about what's in someone’s bank account than anything else, but there’s a brief moment where he almost redeems himself. Not by being kind to Jack (he harbors far too much jealousy towards his romantic rival for that) but by trying to comfort Rose. Another character that seems flat at first is Rose’s mother, Ruth (Frances Fisher) when she explains to her daughter why she must marry into wealth. You disagree but understand the thought process, particularly after seeing the luxuries aboard the Titanic. Jack and Rose are a classic archetype that works again here. She's trapped in a period that gives her few options. She feels like the first member of a generation that will usher in a new age of greater equality… but she's also young and a slave to her emotions. Jack is a rascal but an honest one who's had the freedom to wander anywhere. That freedom seems to expand when he receives his ticket for the Titanic, but in a way, it shrinks. He gets closer to the upper crust than ever before, which only shows him there are places where he'll never be accepted.

And then… disaster strikes. Everyone knows the ship will sink. Early in the picture, we’re told the "how" and "when" in detail. It seems like a strange choice initially but it makes sense. Titanic doesn’t want to exploit the disaster. It wants to give those who lived and died onboard a story. They go from being numbers to people. You’ll be watching, looking forward to seeing Rose and Jack’s romance pan out when suddenly, the camera will fade away from the flashback and show us the now 100-year-old Rose telling us the story. Oh right! There’s a disaster on the way! You’re surprised you forgot but that’s the power of this romance. The fact that it is so effective makes the disaster portion of the story crushingly upsetting. Aboard the Titanic, there were hundreds of couples like Jack and Rose, dreamers like Fabrizio (Danny Nucci), elderly couples and young families who thought they were going to America to find better lives. It's been so long the survivors would likely be dead by now but it still makes you upset, particularly when we see how it all went down.

In the years since Titanic, much has been made of the story’s ending. We learn that Jack did not survive. Like so many others, he froze to death waiting for someone to come rescue him. There have been endless comments or posts about how the ending could be “fixed”, how both Rose and Jack could’ve fit on that door. All these criticisms miss the ending's point. No one on the Titanic truly lived happily ever after. While some elements are wildly romantic, possibly exaggerated for narrative purposes, the objective is to make you feel the injustice and tragedy of April 14, 1912.

Titanic is magnificent. You effortlessly get swept up in the romance, the nobility (or perceived nobility) of a bygone era, the drama of the classes aboard the ship, the struggles for survival as the boat sinks, and the tragedy of how it ended. The special effects are marvelous, the sets lavish, the performances excellent. Then, there’s the score. I’m sure you know Celine Dion’s My Heart Will Go On. Just thinking about it conjures up a wave of emotions. Its melody is found throughout the entire film but we have to wait until the very end to hear the full thing. When you do, it’ll be a challenge to hold those tears back. (On Blu-ray, April 12, 2023)

[80s4life]

The Things I’ve Never Done Pt.8

Word Count: 2,695

Status: Suggested!

@: @outrosins & numerous lovely Nonnies!

A/N: It;s been like a year of multiple ideas and ways to continue this book, but I’ve finally got the ending in mind. These last chapters are gonna HURT!

Fandom: Titanic 1997

Relationship: Caledon "Cal" Hockley x Brown!Female!Reader

Summary: All dreams come to an end soon enough; and that meant the end of the small vacation on the Titanic. Bonds are formed, broken, and pulled as the last, fond memories of the Titanic come to a close - before its name is encompassed by a dark pit in your heart. 

Warnings: mature language, switches between past and present day Y/N, some angst, fluff, this is April 13th in April 14th, 1912 when the Titanic sinks in the early hours of the morning, dreams of the future, some nostalgia from older Y/N, uncertain future in the end

Masterlist Titanic Masterlist Part One Pt.2 Pt.3 Pt.4* Pt.5 Pt.6 Pt.7 Pt.9   Pt.10 [epilogue]

Taglist: @tangledcopperstrands @snapessecretdiary

{gif is not mine, credits go to @ofdyingdragons​}

Y/N had made her bed that morning, something she didn’t do regularly or without being instructed by her mother. She cleaned her room up and left no traces of dirt behind, skipping breakfast altogether to bask in a long bath. Molly had told the women that she was feeling seasick, allowing her daughter the freedom society only allows rarely.

By lunch, Y/N was draped along a lawn chair on the side deck, reading a novel with a glass of tea. After some choice wording, her mother tore away from the wealthy folk too, and snuck away with her daughter for bonding time. She found her on the deck and played games, describing the shapes of the clouds and just embracing random conversations. It wasn’t much, but it meant the world to Y/N every time they did something like this; to just bask in her companionship and bond with her mother.

And, by night, Y/N sat at the table with the rest of the people once more, claiming she’d felt better with a smile and sly glance at her partners in crime: Caledon Hockley and Molly Brown. It was the same banter, the same gossip. It felt like nothing was out of place and no one had seemed to truly admire the normalcy. 

To Be Continued...

Chapter 8: All Good Things Come To A Bittersweet End

<3rd Person Perspective>

With a glass of wine in her hand, Y/N continues to rock in her chair, eyes blurred as she recounts the memories of decades past. Her eyes are trained on her hand, still holding the sharpened pencil above the drawing in her lap; another one to add to all of her special drawings in the folder on the coffee table beside her. The picture, looking back at her, simply just brings more pain. She can still remember the people she’d met, the roles that were so miniscule then, but mean so much to her now. She can still recall the content happiness, humbled hopes and dreams of the young girl she was. 

That final day was spent dilly dallying and daydreaming, and for once, she recounts feeling whole -  a total and complete fulfillment of what she had on her checklist. She’d found her man of her dreams, saw life for what it was, spent time into education, and was excited for her new adventure in America.

Swirling the alcohol in her glass, she takes a sip. She’d hoped that feeling would’ve lasted. Even now, she fears that feeling would never amount to feel completely and utterly the same again.

///

April 13, 1912

The next day had followed in a blur of events. The poor danced, the rich drank, and everyone talked. As for Y/N, she was found by the stern, cigarette in hand as she watches each individual plume of smoke touch the cold, night air, and disappear. She smirks as she dreams of the future ahead of her and it looks beautiful through her pink shades: a few babies running around buck naked, Cal smiling as he chases them with her placing a hand on her stomach, another to come. They’d be happy with a family of their own, comfortable in their suitable wealth with no other care other than their little bubble they would create.

“There you are,” Cal says softly, his hands going around to encase her waist, head plopping atop her head. “What are you up to?”

“Mischief, of course,” Y/N giggles, one hand going to lay atop his as she finishes off her cigarette. “I was dreaming of our future,” she smiles.

“Ah,” he smirks, “And how does it look?”

Y/N tries to sum up all her feelings into one, beautiful word, choosing them properly, “Gilded and achieved.”

Cal places a kiss on her head, not completely understanding of the choice of words, poking her side to prod her on.

“I would achieve and earn everything I wanted. We would be one, I would be loved and cared for, have a family and live up to my greatest desires. Everything I dreamed I would have as a child would finally finish off the lifelong puzzle I’ve been trying to complete - all I would need would be that final piece.”

“And, what is that final piece?” Cal asks, a look of fear crossing his features as he fears he would not have everything she needed.

“You,” Y/N smiles, turning around in his grasp to wrap her arms around his neck, hands toying with the hairs of his nape. “If I don’t have you, I wouldn’t have that future, would I? At least, not the ending I would hope to obtain without you.”

“I’m right here,” Cal pecks her forehead, “I don’t intend on going anywhere.”

“That’s g-” Y/N is cut off by the sound of boisterous laughter, soon cut off by the company of the pair. 

Jack Dawson and Rose Dewitt Bukater stand before Cal and Y/N, hand in hand with surprise and fear in their eyes. Rose is the first to break the silence, “Cal,” she states, standing defiantly and straight, making sure her hands in Jack’s are known.

“Rose,” Cal says indifferently.

Y/N’s gaze sets upon Cal’s features. He’s fighting an internal war. He knows that he believes Y/N is his forever, but with the sight of Rose, the woman he had been trying to make his wife and future for months, he cannot resist the urge to still fight for her.

“After all this time that I’ve tried to give you everything, to appease your mother and make you both all the more comfortable, you choose him?” Cal asks, a sickness to his tone that causes Y/N to relinquish her grasp on his hand.

She feared this would happen; she feared that she would spend all this time getting to know and love this man for nothing.

“Cal, this does not concern you,” Rose states calmly, trying not to provoke the threatening man.

“This has everything to do with me! What would your mother say? What about your misfortunes, hm? You’d rather be this rat’s whore?”

“I’d rather be his whore than your wife!” Rose yells in defiant freedom. 

Y/N is unable to stand another moment. She’s simply watching the man throw everything away just so he can obtain someone he never had. He simply cannot let the past be the past, and this ruins her. 

With a soft sniff, Y/N tears away from the group, running away from the area to be alone. She starts off on the starboard just as a hand grabs her wrist. “Y/N,” Jack almost questions her, “What’s wrong? Are you alright?”

“How could I be alright?” she almost screams at the young man. “I can’t stand there and watch my heart break for the third time! I can’t keep watching him choose her over and over and over again...There’s simply no space for me here.”

“Y/N, this will all work itself out, I’m sure of it. You can’t let a good thing go. They’ll...They’ll learn that they’re not meant for each other. You just have to keep pushing.”

Y/N sniffles as her arms wrap around herself. “They’ve already gotten into this type of issue before, and for all I know, this may be a young girl’s fling. I’ve only known the man for a short time. This could all just be nothing at all,” Y/N concludes, trying to mature herself for the first time in her young adulthood.

Jack groans, “Do you love him?”

“I don’t even know if it’s-”

“The feelings you have right now, in this moment, is it love, Y/N?”

“I-I think so. What does this even-”

“These feelings are strong, yes? And, it’s so strong that you’re willing to die for him, go poor with him, help him when he’s ill?”

“Yes.”

“That’s all that matters, Sugar,” Jack smiles, “That’s love and you better not waste it, even if it seems helpless. Everything can be fixed.”

“God, you sound like my mother. You need to stop keeping her company,” Y/N rolls her eyes playfully, turning back to Cal and Rose, “But, what about them?”

“Oh, he’ll realize he’s an ass and eventually get over his issues.”

“And, Rose?” Y/N giggles.

“She’ll be mine and waltzing off the ship with me.”

“You seem so certain for such a man of...”

“Oh, no, don’t stop there,” Jack giggles, “Continue off of ‘poor misfortunes.’”

“I didn’t mean it like that,” Y/N giggles, shoving his shoulder. 

“I know, and I’ll make it all up to her. Just promise we’ll meet again sometime.”

“As long as you’re still in the country, Jack Dawson.”

“Can’t make any promises. It ruins the fun.”

“Then, you’re just a hypocrite then?”

“Sounds about right,” he giggles, jogging away with a wave as Rose tears away from Cal and back around the other direction of the ship’s stern.

Y/N awaits Him with annoyed devotion, arms crossed as Cal catches her eyes. “You have your fun yet?” she asks with annoyance.

Cal simply says nothing, head bowed with stress and uneven thoughts. He starts to walk over to Y/N once more, but he fears if he gets too close, he’d be even more confused than before.

“I know it’s not love we share, Rose and I, but there’s an obligation somewhere in the wind,” Cal starts, eyes still focused on the ship’s starboard planks. “We were - I chased after her for a long time, Y/N. I went through her father, but then he passed away, so I tried to proceed on my own, but she seemed uninterested. I would’ve left her alone, Y/N, I would have, but then her mother came to me. She said everything would be fixed and she’d convince the stubborn girl.”

“So, you do love her,” Y/N tries to remain nonchalant, hands on her hips as if she’s figuring this mystery out with him. She’s trying, she really is, but she can;t help the feeling she would be discarded; that all she had just said to him and the many days prior were just something Cal needed to heal himself and move on. Y/N couldn’t - wouldn’t - be this girl for him: a rebound.

“That’s where I’m lost!” Cal chuckles stressfully, hand going to comb his hair back before he plays with the rings on his fingers. “I was so caught up in the chase, influenced by others, that I lost that spark I thought I had for her. It’s pitiful, really, but all the same painful for both ends. I didn’t mean to bring her through all of this, but I thought it was love that we shared. I just wanted to be that man for her because everyone thought I was. I don’t think I love her anymore Y/N, but I do feel there is a sense of protection and care that I still carry.”

Y/N looks at him impassively, “Well, do you love me?”

“I don’t think I know what love is, Y/N.”

“That’s not good enough, Cal. I know how I feel for you; I’ve told you a million times over, too. I’m willing to set my life down on you, but I can’t do that if you aren’t willing enough to do the same.”

“I don’t want to lose you.”

“You don’t want to keep me either, it seems.”

“I-I do, Y/N, it’s just difficult,” Cal snaps his eyes to meet hers, hand reaching for hers with a pained look. “I can’t lose you. I don’t know what I would do without you in my life.”

Y/N stares at his hand for a moment, debating on whether or not she’d be willing to follow this man with his heart in knots. She wants him, she knows this, but the question is if he wants her. She fears she might walk down this path with him and somewhere in the woods, he decides it was all a mistake.

“I think you should talk to Jack,” Y/N suggests with a small smile. “He’s very smart and a good ear. He gives very good advice, too, and it seems you need it.”

Cal tries to reach his hand out for her to grab once more, but she pulls even farther away. 

“I want you to think this over, Cal, please. I need you to think this over just as much as you do. I don’t want either of use to regret this in the end and I wish for you to be happy. I’m not leaving, not yet. Just - think everything over, and don’t put your heart on me just because you know I need you. I’ll be in my room with my mother when you’ve thought it through,” Y/N smiles warmly. “Besides, even if we don’t work out, we can always be companions and have a crazy story to tell. Maybe cut the infidelity part out.”

Slowly, Y/N avoids Cal’s hands as she leans into him. His arms wrap around her waist as she stands in the embrace. His head leans into the crook of her shoulder in a bone-crushing grasp. She would give anything to hug him back, but it would make him the more confused. 

Her hands come up to cup his face, her thumbs stroking the apple of his cheeks. She smiles with a sadness in her features, eyes slightly glossy. Slowly, she leans in to peck a soft kiss to his forehead, then both eyelids, and finally, his mouth with a featherlight touch.

Just as quickly as she had entered his space, she removes herself completely, the immediate chill returning to Cal’s body and heart. 

“I’ll be waiting,” Y/N smirks over her shoulder, keeping face in front of the man who had broken her and filled her up multiple times in their short while being on the RMS Titanic.

Once she is finally out of view does she let her facade fall, tears brimming her eyes quickly as she makes her way to the bow of the ship, needing some air. She wishes this wouldn’t be so hard, but she knows emotions tend to get in the way of things. What may seem to be such a simple answer would be ignorant to include all the attachments and effects a decision has.

Y/N knows, for her own selfish greed, that she would want Cal to be hers fully, but she also knows that that wouldn’t come about easily. Even if Cal were to pick her tonight, he would still have to learn a life without a woman he had grand intentions for; a man who felt so strongly for a woman and her protection just a few days ago - even if the woman never wanted him.

It’s a hard decision.

Y/N continues to think and mull over her options as she sits on a bench at the front decks, basking in the cold and enjoying the view of the stars. Drawn from her thoughts, in the far distance before her, there’s a huge, dark figure.

She jolts up quickly, fearfully watching as the figure grows closer by the second. It doesn’t take long until the true size of the figure, in its everlasting glory, makes itself apparent.

“Iceberg, straight ahead!” the men yell from their posts above her.

Quickly, Y/N runs back towards the starboard of the Titanic where she had last seen Cal, but she isn’t fast enough. The ships turns sharply to the left, the iceberg coming straight for the right side. Her side. Cal’s side. 

She’s forced to throw herself flush with the wall, the ice slamming onto the starboard as a hard, disastrous screech of metal is met with an unstabling shake. Falling on the deck’s wooden planks, she stares in horror as she feels the premature grief and paralyzing fear.

The Titanic has been hit. 

[v-o-i-d-e-d]

"I'll Follow Your Lead" Masterlist

Chapter 1: Hot Chocolate and a Cinnamon Bun

Chapter 2: Nighttime Chatter

Chapter 3: He's Gone Now, Dorothea

Chapter 4: One Question

Chapter 5: Christmas Party

Chapter 6: My Hero

chapter 7: coming soon

[wheelsgoroundincircles]

Renault Type CB Coupe de Ville from the Titanic

In the last 106 years, the Titanic disaster has captured the imagination of millions all over the world. After so much research, most people now know all the aspects of this event. However, there is still the case of the Renault Type CB Coupe de Ville from the Titanic. The public first caught a glimpse of this car when James Cameron released his Oscar-winning movie, Titanic, in 1997. Cameron’s team did some thorough research and found there was a 1912 Renault on board the ship in the cargo area. The owner, William E. Carter of Bryn Mawr, Pennsylvania, survived. He was able to settle with the insurance company for the loss of his luxury car.

However, a rumor was that the Renault was never on the ship. Some people think Mr. Carter used the naval disaster to get a hefty paycheck from Lloyd’s of London. In 2003, an interesting documentary about Titanic was released called, Ghosts of the Abyss, which was featured footage from the wreck. One of the things the film crew wanted to find was the remains of the Renault since they knew exactly where they stored it. However, the crushed metal parts they found proved inconclusive. The mystery of Renault from the Titanic still remains.