#he just has such a little child face and like a strange whimsical creature personality

[jesuisgourde]

i forget how massive peter actually is until i see a photo like the one the libs insta just posted where his hand is the same size as carl’s entire head

#he just has such a little child face and like a strange whimsical creature personality #i forget he's really tall

[yanderenightmare]

BNHA HEADCANNONS

WHAT TYPE OF DARLING?

goodiebag WARNINGS: yandere, noncon/dubcon hinting, stalking, kidnapping, abduction, Stockholm syndrome, abuse, drugging, ableism

FOREWORD:

People fall in love with contrasts. We fall in love with qualities that somehow survive what seeks to destroy them. We fall in love with small creatures who somehow seem colossal in the measurements of confidence. We fall in love with hope in places where there shouldn’t be any strength left for it to be held onto. We fall in love with those who dare spare compassion for even those that might not deserve it anymore. We fall in love with those who’s curiosity seeks adventure even when the outcome might be fatal. We fall in love with those who stand their ground, refusing to budge, break or bow, despite the terror they face. We fall in love with those that stick to their ideals, morals, ethics even though the world constantly tells them to join the corruption. We fall in love with humble creatures facing worlds that have shown them nothing but cruelty. We fall in love with the survival of passion overcoming pure torture. We fall in love with contrasts. We fall in love with constant wars.

BAKUGO KATSUKI CONFIDENCE DESPITE INFERIORITY

It might sound shallow and materialistic, but what Katsuki attracts to first and foremost is femininity. He enjoys the esthetic contrast between his tall masculine rough self and someone dainty, delicate, defenseless. Something in dire need of protection. Something in dire need of him. However, that’s far away from ever being enough for the hero to fall in love. What Katsuki needs is a good challenge. He doesn’t feel fit, content with or deserving of his prize if he hasn’t worked hard to achieve them. It’s about stimulation; that feral desire to hunt and catch prey. Which means, he much rather prefers chasing above being chased. Because of this, Katsuki carries no interest in quirkless individuals. He doesn’t view them as equals, much less rivals. They are unworthy of him, in some sense. But… quirkless individuals who still have the audacity to pretend to be his equal… now that, that intrigues him.

When it comes to his darling: her quirk, or lack of one thereof, plays a large factor in why Katsuki first pays notice to her. It’s something between endearing and maddening: how she, without a quirk, can still go about with the confidence to act as though she’s unbothered by it and somehow live her life while still portraying as the sun itself. It’s infuriating to some degree: how she can make him feel like Icarus when she smiles his way. How she makes him feel inferior but somehow blessed at the same time.

As explained: despite it acting as a brief relief to satiate his ego, inferiority usually disgusts Katsuki. But, there’s something about her and her ambition, that just makes the whole display so mouthwatering to perceive. He admires her tenacity and aspiration, even though it’s futile. It’s inspirational just as much as it’s adorable. Somewhere inside him he feels the need to protect that light, meanwhile he also feels the sadistic urge to squash it, or, at the very least, prove that he has the power to. That’s were his sadistic narcissism comes to play. He has always had an odd lust for putting people in their place, their rightful place. To him: it portrays as a constant reminder that he himself is superior. This sickness only grows deeper, festering in Katsuki’s heart. Where her dependence of him, even though it’s mostly unfounded, could only be described as pure rapture. Katsuki just loves and craves feeling needed, not caring if it’s unwanted or not. In his eyes she was made to be ruled, made to be taken care of, made for him and only him. He adores how little power she possesses in the world, and the idea that he is the only person who can properly protect her from it all has become absolutely riveting.

Katsuki’s usually indifferent towards people’s attitudes, only ever judging people by their strengths and weaknesses. But, this girl, in all her inferiority has managed to create contradictions upon paradoxes within his mind. And, because of this, she poses as the ultimate challenge. Though he would never admit it, mostly chalking it down to her being whimsical and naïve, he quite admires her perseverance. How her spirit survives what her body cannot, as though she was built to break, only to come back even stronger than before; like a phoenix from the ashes and rubble of what his quirk left behind. If anything, her endurance only proves how much they truly belong together. Who, if not her, could ever handle him in his darkest hours?

KEYWORDS: feminine, vulnerable, delicate, confident, aspiring, perseverant

DABI HOPE AMONGST DEPRAVITY

Small, plump and grabbable females is what attracts Dabi, but it’s never enough to make him linger for too long. Dabi enjoys his females shy, because he knows that those are the ones that are the most sensitive; emotional, loud. Alike Katsuki, Dabi enjoys contrast. He’s scarred, he wants someone untouched. He’s the devil incarnate, he craves the embodiment of innocence. He much delights in seeing that timid type of lust in those otherwise chaste eyes. But, whence he’s destroyed that chastity, there’s not much that beckons him to stay. It takes a lot more for him to fall in real love.

What intrigued Dabi even further than her physique and innocence was his darling’s act of charity. Her need to help, her belief in the goodness in humanity as opposed to his obvious abandoned hope for the world. She looked at people with a mission, seeking the tragedy behind the wrath, the beauty behind the madness, refusing to let go of her hope as opposed to seeing the truth. Oh, how adorably naïve she was.

It was a strange type of strength he no longer possessed, no longer seeing the point in wasting his energy on, yet… seeing it displayed so easily in someone else, especially when her eyes were locked on him, was something gratifyingly pleasant and warm; a kindness he felt undeserving of, yet… not possessing the reserve to refuse, not when she was so intent of indulging him. It was a sanctuary that reminded him of a grace he was never blessed with having; something he could only describe as home.

That childlike hope and innocence, he just couldn’t leave well enough alone. He needed to hoard it all to himself. Besides, she needed him as much he needed her. As everybody knows: innocence is so fickle and easy to influence. She was deeply in need of guidance and so very eager to please. Dabi appreciates loyalty, he’s not one to enjoy struggling with his darling. And with someone as sweet, innocent and sensitive as his darling, it will be very easy to enforce. And now, with those large doe-eyes directed toward him, he could say it was worth it. He so adores the chaste disbelief displayed on her face each time he introduces her to some new type of sin. The swirling, spinning, drooling storm brewing in her eyes, all under the crushing weight of paradise. She’s too good for him. He knows that much. But… that’s what angels were made for, wasn’t it? To save damned souls like his, risking becoming damned themselves in the process? She was surely sent his way for a reason. She was made for him.

It only seems right in his eyes: that a sweet and innocent creature like her craves the corruption that only a sinful being like him can bestow upon her. She’s probably been waiting for someone like him all her life. She might not understand it yet, but Dabi can see it clear as day. She’s so wide-eyed and hopeless. Looking at him as though he were a God of some sorts. She kneels so easily and perfectly for him as well, you cannot tell him it isn’t what she was made for. To please him. To love him. Leaving her morals and ideals and firsts on floor all for his pleasure.

KEYWORDS: sensitive, emotional, shy, timid, innocent, naïve, sweet, caring, soft, loyal

SHIGARAKI TOMURA COMPASSION FOR THE WICKED

Tomura cares little for appearance. He destroys everything and anything he touches, no matter how ugly or how pretty. Esthetic has nothing to do with real life and therefore something idiotic for anyone to appeal to. Besides, for someone to draw his attention they have to be more than just pretty. For Tomura to truly notice someone, they have to be special… rare. For Tomura to give anyone a second glare he has to feel like he’s meant to, it has to feel like fate; unrivaled destiny. Otherwise he’s wasting his time. And along she came; his destiny. Looking at him with those large doe-eyes; gazing past the ugly and seeing the tragedy instead, not as though he were some monster, but as though he were nothing more than human. It’s a kindness he’s so very unused to; a memory forgotten and buried beneath the rubble of past hopes and wasted dreams. The feeling of hummingbirds in his heart was so extremely foreign and strange and scary in a way, but welcoming at the same time. And, when she bestowed this grace upon him, he couldn’t simply just let it go.

Finding out she’s equipped with a quirk that goes hand in hand with his quirk only solidifies his delusions even further. His past doesn’t help her case either; not when it aids his steadfast resolution on the fact that she’s always somehow belonged to him. Tomura was never spoiled as a child, which is why he truly feels like he deserves her, and cannot bring himself to feel guilty for hogging all her love for himself. She really doesn’t do herself any favors either, not when she comforts him in his fits. Her in her fatal compassion. How she sympathizes with his troubles; his deadly quirk, his callous life-view, his woeful past. He’s never had anyone understand him the way she does. He’s been neglected all his life. It feels so oddly deserved and heavenly to have someone express concern, affection… love… all for him. He feels as though he’s been refused the sun all his life, only now feeling the warm embrace of the light it grants without it seeking anything in return. It’s baffling. To the point where he might just argue he’s been dead all his existence, up until the point he saw her smile, heard her laugh, felt her warmth. He doesn’t ever want to feel like he’s dying again, not when she poses as life itself, not when she’s already caught firmly in his iron-grip.

Tomura’s never been thoroughly interested in anyone. He finds most people completely mediocre and boring and unworthy of his attention. Humans were, in his eyes, a wretched, greedy, despicable type of creature. But… she, despite being human, bares a heart of pure gold. That’s humanity, he came to conclude. That urge to help, to comfort, that feeling of kinship, that lack of bloodlust and cruelty. She’s so human it reminded him of what humanity really is. Humanity beforesin. Human; without sick ambitions, without twisted ideals, without demented morals. Unlike the world. Unlike him. She’s golden.

It’s no good being as caring as her in world such as this, especially not if she’s going to be as generous with her affection as she so is. Tomura becomes addicted, dependent, rather quickly. And why not? He has the means to make her stay and the means to murder anyone who dare defy those wishes. So, he’ll remain dependent on her golden touch and her golden words. It would be impossible to let her go now, when she feels like pure absolution against him.

KEYWORDS: affectionate, compassionate, caring, thoughtful, sympathetic, considerate, generous

SHINSO HITOSHI CURIOSITY DESPITE PERIL

Hitoshi cares little for pretty things. Mostly because he doesn’t like wasting his time. He’s never been one for believing in the soft pleasures of the world. Love, being one of those things, has always been a fairytale unworthy of his attention, unworthy of his words. But, of course, there are times where even he feels lonely. And, though he enjoys being alone, no one enjoys feeling lonely. But… Hitoshi’s ever the stubborn guy. He will not bend to the pathetic pulls of his heartstrings. No, if he’s ever going to fall in love, love better come to him. And, that’s exactly what happens. A magnitude of expressive emotions that demand his attention takes him by the nape of his neck, storming his heart into surrender. She’s obviously oblivious to her effects on him, but he rather prefers it that way. Studying her in her natural state.

She’s so very colorful; as in quirky, flamboyant, creative, artsy. A plethora of a thousand devastating, split-second passions. She’s everything he didn’t even know that he wanted, needed in fact. A woman of substance, a woman who breathes chaos. Both to balance out his grim resolution and sobriety, but also to… feed his insatiable gluttonous need for control, because… chaotic, brazen and wild minds are the easiest to exploit, when at the same time they never dull or tire or break. Bendable and therefore mendable.

What more humored Hitoshi, when first meeting his darling, was her fearlessness, or perhaps recklessness; that strange type of unrivaled curiosity that seemed to outweigh any viable threats of danger; gullibility. The fact that she just spoke to him so effortlessly, trusting him; carelessly, despite knowing of the nature behind his quirk. How she so blatantly became his friend, with no ill will or scrutiny in her personality or attitude toward him whatsoever. It’d been so long since he’d come across that same type of idealism and good nature; that childlike innocence. To say that it took him by surprise would be an understatement. He didn’t know what to make of it at first; if to believe it was downright foolishness or daringly haughty and playful. How she held herself so carelessly around him, coaxing him instead of walking on thin ice like everyone else did. Just… talking to him. Talking and talking about nothing and everything, as though she wasn’t in any type of danger whatsoever. Talking to him as though she had nothing to fear. Talking to him as though he weren’t a threat. Talking. Just talking.

Her compulsive behavior and knack for taking risks works so well with his desires. Where she´s incapable of controlling herself, he would love to do it for her. But… there’s more to it than just that. She’s so good at talking. So much so he hardly wants to take advantage of her answers. She’s like a treasure-trove that hands out their treasure willingly. Not just responsive, but talkative on her own and unreserved with her words as well. Even asking questions of her own; curious and invested. In him? How could he pass her up?

It’s true it didn’t pain him as much as he probably would have wanted it too when he betrayed her trust. But, despite Hitoshi not being delusional, he still manages to blame her for it. He argues she must have wanted him to take advantage of her. She knew every step of the way what could happen when she answered his questions time and time again, yet she never took any safety measures to avoid it. That carelessness. It was almost as though she was coaxing him, teasing him, begging him to take control. Why not oblige her wishes?

KEYWORDS: foolish, reckless, careless, compulsive, frivolous, colorful, creative, passionate, brazen, haughty, responsive, trusting, gullible, curious, playful, adventurous, expansive, unreserved, talkative

TAMAKI KEIGO DEFIANCE UNDER INTIMIDATION

Keigo’s a simple guy. A simple guy with simple desires. He likes pretty things, plural. He collects them. Pretty things upon pretty things upon new pretty things. And because Keigo’s popular with the public, he doesn’t exactly need to chaseanyone in order to get what he wants. People come to him. He will have someone one night and move on to someone else the next day. Which is why being pretty isn’t enough to make him thoroughly interested. For him to become invested, the pursuit has to pose as a challenge. A hunt, and not just for any pretty little thing, but for a pretty little monster.

As explained: Keigo’s a simple guy. A simple guy with simple goals. However, when one of his supposed simple goalsturns out to be a much harder goal than expected, causing a ripple in his otherwise perfect streak, it’s enough to drive the bird… let’s say… a little bit kooky. What Keigo hangs up on when meeting his soon-to-be-darling is her uniqueness, or… rather her reluctance. Her defiance. That wrinkle between her brows in her otherwise gorgeous face. Something so pretty, so petite, so small, but so very hostile and beastly at the same time. So very feisty and stubborn and defensive. Batting off his charm as though it were the plague. Protective of herself despite his reputation, in fact: seeming irreverent over his obvious status. Viewing all his efforts as though he were setting some type of trap; animalistic in her ways too, never feeling like polishing her brash attitude even when regarding him of all people, one of the top five highest ranking heroes. Looking through his seemingly harmless flirtatious nature and seeing something that alarmed her. He quite enjoyed it all.

She’s just so different from the rest of his pursuits. She’s a game he can’t seem to win. It’s frustrating, maddening even, yet somehow it is the only thing that makes him feel alive. The outright rejection should have been humbling, should at least have been accepted, but Keigo saw no reason to back down, he only saw reason to try harder. Which he did.

Life had become boring lately, being one of the top heroes. He has everything. Or… he had everything. Her defiance is refreshing. It acts as a reminder, his animalistic instincts kicking in. Finally feeling the odd yet pleasurable thirst for hunting simmering through his veins. He’s used to tapping into that raw impulse when catching villains, but he had yet to experience the carnal desire for finding a mate. It soon becomes a little overwhelming. A little domineering. Fending off his better judgement. It’s easy to forget how wrong it is to take pleasure in her tears, when the smell of fear has scented the air. It’s easy to forget how twisted it is for him to enjoy seeing her cower away from him, when it’s so easy to win the fight.

He’s a predator, she’s prey. In a way… it isn’t really wrong at all.

KEYWORDS: hostile, defensive, stubborn, feisty, reluctant, rebellious, irreverent, liberal

MIDORIYA IZUKU ALTRUISM IN THE FACE OF CORRUPTION

Izuku finds ways to appreciate every physique he comes across. It’s all in the details; minor, minuscule details. Both flaws and perfections alike interest him to a near clinical degree. However, because of this knack for observation, most people, in all their peculiarities and intricacies, still tend to blend into one. But, there are exceptions: heroes. Izuku’s been drawn to heroes all his life. Admiring their strength, their sense of justice and honor. Herodom is something he’s always aspired to become. Something he wished to achieve. Which he did. What Izuku seeks now is a partner with those same aspirations. Izuku can only find love in kinship. With a person similar to him. It’s a twisted type of narcissism he cannot bring himself to describe, one probably adopted from Katsuki, through many years of having a festering sick adoration and glorification of the childhood friend, one which ultimately resulted in Izuku mirroring more and more of Kachan’squalities, however in a much more demented fashion.

Unlike the others, Izuku’s been hellbent with the idea of sharing his life with a significant other. And he’s nothing if not a planner, he’s been searching for his perfect darling for years. And there wasn’t much, if anything, that would change his mind once he found her.

Just like he once was, his darling is quirkless, but still prop-full of that unrelenting ambition. Selflessness as well is another attribute as to why she was chosen. He is a bit of a sap for nostalgia, you see. She reminds him of his young self. That type altruistic generosity without expecting anything in return. She’s so innocently and hopelessly idealistic; dreamy… naïve. He finds it endearing in some sick sense: how the world chews her up and spits her back out again. He’ll want to deny it. But he can’t resist the sadistic enjoyment found in her struggle. He feels the need to save her from herself, because he knows better than anyone that her kind-heartedness will only get the best of her, like it did him in the end. He won’t let the same fate befall her. He’ll have to be a bit selfish with her though, despite it being the exact thing he’s trying to defeat. He needs to be selfish in order to protect her. It’s in both of their best interest really. The world won’t drink her dry, there’ll be more for Izuku to cherish and she’ll be safe and sound and perfect forever.

He can’t help his less appealing sides. Despite how much he loathes feeling those disgusting self-righteous desires, despite how unwelcome those thoughts are… he can’t seem to rid himself of them. It’s frustrating because he truly loves his darling, he wants to protect them, to cherish them, but on the lesser charming side of himself he feels superior, where instead of them belonging with each other, she belongs to him, for him, where she has no right to refuse his wishes. Because he’s achieved the title of God, and she’s still human… his human, his doll.

KEYWORDS: sense of justice, heroic, honorable, selfless, altruistic, ambitious, dreamy, idealistic, silly, awkward

CHISAKI KAI HUMILITY DESPITE HARDSHIP

Kai is corrupt, hypocritical, established, impatient, entitled and most of all white-gloved. Love seemed too hopeless a goal for a guy of his stature and perfectionism. But, alike with Hitoshi, chaos seemed to sweep him into a whirlwind of graceless, peaceful wilderness. A pull so vehement he couldn’t simply ignore it. At first, he dimmed his interest down to the simple fact that she was quirkless; clean. Quirkless people are a minority. Not only is she a treasure fit for the yakuza boss, but she’s also spared the ghastliness and depravity and corruption of carrying a quirk. But, her lack of quirk soon dimmed in the light of her other qualities. For the more he observed the more he unraveled about the chaotic nature of the beautiful creature he’d found.

Opposites attract. This is true for everyone, but not as literarily as for Kai. Not only is she clean in the sense of being quirkless, but also in the sense of being humble and sweet; lacking in sin. Her morality hits him as a surprise, it being refreshing in a sense he hadn’t ever felt before. He is so very used to taking what he wants with zero regard towards anyone or the possible consequences of his actions. What worse: never even once feeling content or satisfied with his reaping. Serving himself and himself alone has always been Kai’s mindset, where he never once expects anyone to act any differently than him. Humans are greedy creatures after all, yet… his darling seems overly at peace with her life, rather preoccupied with her surroundings to even so much as think about her own desires. He finds it enraging at first, but then peculiar, daunting even, and then endearing.

Their differences exceed his expectations time and time again. Where he is the epitome of modernity, hygiene and laundered health, she was the embodiment of wilderness. Where he was white-gloved, she was green-fingered. Unafraid of getting her hands dirty with soil; gardening. A pastime he was thoroughly disgusted with, yet she seemed to do it with such ease, such effortlessness, such peace, such happiness. He was astounded each time he saw how delicately, respectfully, she treated her surroundings, unlike him who trod as though he owns the very earth beneath his feet. Her life was messy, but she seemed to have no qualms with the fact. Quite the opposite actually; thriving in her chaos, appreciative of what little she had. He came to understand that it wasn’t so much her life that was messy but she herself. Her, in all her clumsy, forgetful and graceless peace, was in desperate need of correction, guidance, restraint, something he would eagerly fulfill her with in his determined and stoic reform. She’ll be the peak of humanity once he’s done with her. Though it proves difficult due to her forgetfulness and lack of heed, none of his lessons ever really sticking. But he comes to adore that quality as well, knowing full well her intention is not to anger him. If anything, her oblivious nature and childlike negligence only calls for his protection even further.

Kai isn’t usually a curious guy, especially when it comes to singular human beings, but he quickly discovered, or came to the conclusion, that his darling is far from being any regular human being. She is his opposite, his polar opposite. Humble, pure, passionate, everything he is in dire need of. She will complete him, she just needs to accept that.

KEYWORDS: humble, earthy, peaceful, disorderly, chaotic, messy, disorganized, graceless, grateful, appreciative, clumsy, forgetful

TODOROKI SHOTO PASSION TRANDSCENDING SORROW

Shoto had no thoughts containing that of love or attraction. Being a rather platonic guy in any relationship he ever ventured, never feeling any carnal desires or things similar to it. His appetite for such things rather quenched in light of the ruins that make up his parent’s marriage. However, once he met her, he knew instantly. Embers of a dying fire finding new life. She was perfection; messy, clumsy, zany perfection. She possessed everything he didn’t have. That type of lustfor life that always seemed to slip past him. It’s mesmerizing to behold someone so drunk on living, it distracted him from feeling so empty. Perhaps she could teach him? Perhaps she could share? Share some of that passion she possesses, that wild, vivid, fervent, unrelenting, brazen, wanton passion.

Shoto’s just so taken aback, as though swiftly swept off his feet, faceplanting into a rainbow-tinted world, a world so intense and so very loud. It was so perplexing, the amount of energy all cooped up into that small being. She reminded him of a storm, yet she was far from being violent or deadly. She was just so bubbly, so very livid, as though life were a constant parade.

He knew he loved her once their first encounter let up, feeling as though he’d been robbed of something, something he had no problems being robbed of.

He’s used to people having ulterior motives, but everything about her intense, unabashed, completely earnest dorkiness was so very honest. So candid and cheerful in her queries, jabs and jokes. And though he might not have understood half of the jests she came with, the sound of her laughter more or less made up for the fact, ever pleasant and euphoric as it was as she boldly cracked herself up with her own tales and even finding an immense form of amusement in the slight shift of his otherwise plain features. Question upon question leapt from her mouth, about his appearance, his past, his thoughts for the future. He’d half the mind to tell her she was his future, but he managed to contain himself. Seeming patient when she didn’t quite extract a response from him, happily helping with explaining anything he might have had questions about too, never once finding his curiosity odd, never once passing judgement. She droned on as though they’d been friends for a lifetime.

Now they’d be each-others for the rest of their lifetime. He’d make sure by mixing their natures, marveling at how she reacts to him and his quirks. He finds it quite educating, how her spirit never seems to break, but rather bends or resurfaces even stronger than before. It’s beautiful. She is so colorful, breathtaking, so much so it makes him appreciate breathing. Everything she does is executed with the outmost maximum effort, never doing anything half-way. He wishes he had the same drive, the same fire, but he remains so cold and lifeless compared to her. When she laughs, she cries. When she screams, she dances. When she moans, she sings. He wishes he could imitate the same spirit she carries.

He’s envious of her, but… at least she belongs to him now. All her passion being his to devour. Besides, if she shares her hearts secrets to unlocking passion, there’s no end to what he can teach her regarding what it’s like to suffer.

KEYWORDS: cheerful, optimistic, spirited, passionate, colorful, droll, comical, clumsy, silly, whimsical, zany, honest, candid, forgiving, helpful, patient

#yandere #yandere bakugo katsuki #yandere boku no hero academia #yandere chisaki #yandere dabi #yandere izuku #yandere katsuki #yandere deku #yandere bakugo #yandere shigaraki #yandere shoto todoroki #yandere shinso hitoshi #yandere shinsou #yandere shouto #yandere kai chisaki #yandere keigo takami #yandere keigo #yandere todoroki #yandere tomura #yandere tamaki #yandere takami keigo #yandere chisaki kai #yandere midoriya #yandere midoriya izuku #yandere hawks #yandere hitoshi #yandere hitoshi shinso #yandere izuku midoriya #yandere headcanons #my hero academy headcanons

[misiwrites]

Beyblade Week Day 4

i'm sorry i'm out here still posting things so late but here's my fourth and final 4kingdoms-verse oneshot for @beybladeweek2021, mostly this is late because i was out of town last week but these prompts were also the hardest to make a oneshot about, somehow i managed to make a quirky little story about max anyway.

this takes place probably somewhere right before the beginning of the main fic, or close to it anyways. and i feel like this needs the small explanation that 4kingdoms max looks a bit different because the north has no sunlight (don’t ask me how that works. it’s fantasy)

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Fears / Animals / Winter

“Aaugh!”

As patient as Max is, the strange sound of Giancarlo’s sudden scream followed by a soft, barely audible thump of something hitting the floor in the walk-in closet is enough to snap his attention from the game console in his hands. He casts a curious look across his bedroom to witness the striped leg of a plush toy sticking out through the narrow crack of the closet door.

Now he can already tell what has happened. Regardless, he drops the game on the couch and jumps to his feet to see what his knight has gotten himself into in the closet.

“You opened the forbidden door!” Max gloats at Giancarlo, now standing ankle-deep in a sea of plush toys. “I told you the games are in the second from left, not from right.”

“Is this why you call that door ‘forbidden’?” Giancarlo asks, one hand still on the handle of the closet door that the avalanche of toys descended on him from. “I expected something more... I don’t know... scandalous... or personal.”

“This is personal. They’re all mine.” Max crouches over to pick one of the plush toys up, the yellow mascot character of a popular Eastern children’s game franchise. “Oh man, these take me back. I haven’t really seen them since Mama ordered them to be put away. She said I was too old to keep them in my bed. But I refused to have them taken out, so I got this closet for them instead.”

“Aha. I don’t mean to judge your decisions, but I think there’s a few too many for a closet of this size.”

“Well, they fit in just fine before you opened the door like an idiot.”

Max lets his eyes scan the colourful blast on the floor, admiring the chaos of all the scattered shapes of different stuffed creatures, some more nostalgic than others but each and every one so familiar to him; some expensive and store-bought, some hand-made by his father or someone else, he hardly even remembers at this point; it’s been so long since he was gifted these toys, and at least a couple of years since Judy wanted them sealed away.

And then one of them catches his eye over the rest, one that makes his heart skip a beat of bittersweet joy and longing. He tramples and kicks his way past other toys to get to the middle.

It’s a plush dog, one whose tattered, worn-out shape isn’t particularly distinguishable as a dog. It has an elongated body and small stubs for legs, folded ears – well, one ear, as the other has come off and been lost to time – and a small, thin tail that’s also on its way to come off its stitches but is barely hanging on, miserably drooping down from the back of the caramel brown animal that’s so thoroughly covered in dirt and dust that it looks grey. The dog’s black button eyes are intact, at least, and it still has a red little tongue sticking out of its mouth.

Max is momentarily frozen in place staring at the dog. This toy brings back so many memories, some of which threaten to turn his stomach as the long-forgotten anxiety rushes back in one tidal wave, it climbs up the ladder of his spine like an unwelcome visitor from the past; but at the same time, he loves this little dog so very dearly, his childhood favourite.

“Look at these, Your Highness!” Giancarlo suddenly yells, snapping Max out of his thoughts. “Really fitting, aren’t they? Doesn’t it make you think of something?”

Max turns to see his knight holding three plush animals on his arms: a snake, a fox, and a miniature horse. Max does remember all of them, but none were his favourites. They must have been gifts from his earlier childhood, he has no memory of actually getting them or ever feeling particularly attached to them.

“Umm,” he says, “no, not really.”

“Don’t you remember? The fairytale? A guy talks to a fox, a serpent, and a horse...”

“No, can’t say that rings any bells.”

“Really?” An idiotic grin spreads on Giancarlo’s face, the same one he flashes every time he gets to feel smarter than his young king. “It’s a traditional Northern folktale! Each animal represents one fear that the dude has, and he has to face them one by one. Well, I don’t really remember the details, but it was something like that.” He lifts the tiny horse closer to his face, as if to study it more closely – or to face it, to stay true to his own words, Max assumes. “Was the third one really a horse? I think it was. I guess horses can be scary to some people. They’re big animals and all.”

Max rolls his eyes, truly wishing that Giancarlo would shut up for once and clean up the mess he’s caused in the walk-in closet – or just do anything else and leave Max be, to sort out the sudden, fairly uncomfortable onslaught of memories caused by the discovery of his old stuffed dog toy.

Instead, Giancarlo keeps talking, as he always does.

“If there was a story about my fears, it would probably be... hmm... never eating cannoli ever again... and never going on another date...”

“Some incredible fears you have,” Max comments. “Tells a lot about your psyche.”

“And what are you scared of, Your Highness? What would you face if you met this guy? Nei-i-i-igh.” Giancarlo waves the tiny horse at Max, truthfully not the embodiment of terror by any stretch.

“Me? Well, nothing, really.”

“Come on, now, no need to be shy. You can tell the good old Gianni.”

“I mean it – I have my magic, so there’s no reason for me to be scared of anything.” There’s nothing that Max can think of that he wouldn’t be able to shield himself from with his magic powers, especially his ability to turn invisible. If nothing can catch him or do as much as touch him, what reason would he have to be afraid? If anything, he loves the thrill of almost being caught but disappearing out of sight on the last second. Max prides himself in being bold and resourceful, the master of stealth, and the youngest Genbu-ou with the ability to summon the holy beast of Genbu in the known history of his kingdom.

As long as he has his magic and the golden locket of Genbu around his neck, he cannot think of anything that could cause him fear; and as the king, he can have all the materia he could ever want, so he never needs to worry about running out of cannoli pastries or whatever else.

“Okay then, tough guy,” Giancarlo snorts. “And what’s that you got there?”

Max’s gaze returns to the dog on his arms. It stares back at him with its pitiful button eyes, black and lifeless.

“This used to be my favourite,” he replies, finding the words coming out of his mouth with slight hesitation. “Papa made it for me...”

“Oh? Prince Tarou knows how to sew stuffed animals? Well, I guess that makes sense, since he’s such a talented craftsman – but still... It’s hard to imagine a burly man like him making something like... that thing.” Giancarlo forces down an obvious cackle, raising a hand to his mouth to hide his amusement. “I mean...”

Max knows what he means, the puppy with a hot dog-like physique is a pathetic sight, but he cannot help feeling just a little insulted by Giancarlo laughing at it. This puppy brought him so much comfort during a time of turmoil, and it was specifically made by his father for that very purpose. Tarou most likely stitched it together over a single night all those years ago.

“You mean what?” he challenges the royal knight, his tone arrogant.

“Uh... Well, you know... Oh, never mind.”

* * * * * *

When he was younger, Max had no objections over his sheltered life in the Snow Glory Palace, as it never even occurred to his child’s mind that it could be anything but; and the thought only came to him as he entered the rebellious years of puberty and by the questionable ideas that his whimsical knight planted in his head, the thought that it would be exciting to sneak out of the palace every once in a while and wander around the royal capital out of sight.

Max has always been adored by commoners, as the only son of their beloved (by now former) king, the strong yet beautiful and hauntingly intelligent Mizuhara Judy, the only female Genbu-ou of their lifetime; and as much as Max loves the attention and savours the constant awareness of his status of importance that doesn’t escape anybody in his kingdom, he’s equally entertained by the idea of walking among all these people on a lower social ladder without their knowledge, freely entering spaces where his appearance would normally cause a considerable brouhaha. The complete control over whether he’s perceived or not gives him a great amount of satisfaction.

And, most importantly, his ever-so-predominant mother has no idea about it happening right under her nose. As much as Max loves his parents, like any teenager, he has an innate need to break free and seek independence from them, do as he pleases without their scrutiny, without any adult paying attention to him...

at least sometimes.

How many times has he traversed the narrow streets of the ancient royal capital, heard the snow crunch under his shoes without anyone seeing it’s the young king leaving a trail of footprints on the ground covered in white? And when the snow is quietly falling from the sky, the shield of magic around him reflects his surroundings, camouflaging him from other people’s line of sight, he blends perfectly into the arbitrary dance of the snowflakes in the dark.

Then, sometimes, when he finds a suitable corner or shade or hideout for himself, he plans a delicious little display of seemingly appearing out of nowhere into the spotlight. And all the attention is once again drawn to him.

It’s borderline addicting, that calculated spectacle, the thrill of a surprise and act of rebellion that Max is perfectly aware he’s not allowed to do. That his ice queen of a mother would be absolutely furious if she knew.

Now he’s again walking down a cobblestone street, the stone fence of a cemetery on his right-hand side. There’s a layer of powdery snow on the stone, like the icing of a sugar cake.

A cake, oh, a cake sounds excellent to him; and he’s now across a bridge, and the familiar sight of a cosy little coffee shop greets him some feet away. It has a sign outside, a metallic one, shaped like a kettle that’s hanging above the entrance, the shop’s name written on it in cursive.

Max walks over to one of the shop windows and takes a peek inside, bathes in the golden light coming from the other side of the glass. As expected, nobody pays him any attention, none of the people sitting around the lovely little tables inside see him.

He’s ready to be seen, however, and decides to step inside, greeted by the ring of a bell attached to the coffee shop’s door.

“Good evening!” he says cheerfully upon his entrance, flashing a wide grin to everyone in the shop.

People turn to stare at him. Nobody is smiling back at him.

“Er, good evening,” replies the person working behind the counter. Their voice is polite but wary, they stare at Max like everyone else in the shop, with an expression of wide-eyed confusion.

This is not what Max expected. Where are all the delightful gasps, all the “Oh, Your Highness!” and “It’s the young king!” and “This is such an honour!” – all the surprised smiles and the rush to be the first to shake hands with him? He darts some quizzical glances around the shop, eyebrows raised, but his grin remains.

Maybe he’s come here a few too many times. He should have gone somewhere new instead, not the closest place he could think of.

A bristly feeling that he’s very much not used to suddenly spreads all the way to the tips of his fingers and toes: embarrassment. He’s embarrassed that his magic trick failed, the trick he was so confident in, so proud of.

He needs to get out of here.

And the next moment, he’s walking down a different street, this time in the heart of the city of Resting Palace. The lights here are so bright that they illuminate the black sky and give it a hue of light purple instead, almost a dirty tone, it looks dusty and devours the stars and even the Moon.

He’s walking past numerous people, but nobody turns to look at him. Nobody does as much as grant him a smile of acknowledgment, no faces light up with recognition when he passes by.

He stops to stand in the middle of the street. Someone immediately bumps into him from behind.

“Oh, sorry,” the stranger says and hurries away without looking at him. He doesn’t even have the time to say it was his fault for stopping so abruptly.

Max turns on his heels, lets his eyes wander aimlessly in the scenery. There’s a hotel to his left. There are people everywhere, but none of them are looking his way.

Now another person bumps into him. This is an older man, staggering on his feet and visibly losing his balance for a moment, and he turns to stare at Max with a sullen face.

“Hey, kiddo,” the man groans, “stop blocking the walkway, will ya?”

Max only stares back, not knowing what to say or think. Kiddo? What is this? Why is this person talking to him like this? He’s so dumbfounded by this behaviour that he simply hangs his mouth open without making a sound. Nobody in his entire life has acted this way towards him, and it’s making his blood run cold under his heavy cloak.

On a bewildered whim, he suddenly turns to whoever is passing by his left-hand side on that very moment. “Did you hear how that person talked to me just now?” he asks the passer-by. “How dare he?”

The person he’s talking to casts him a look of utter confusion. He can immediately tell this person doesn’t recognise him, either.

“No, I’m sorry,” the person mumbles hastily and hurries away. Max stares after their disappearing back.

What is happening? What is happening? How could this possibly be happening to him? Now panic is seeping into his heart, he arbitrarily grabs the sleeve of whoever happens to pass by him next.

“Excuse me,” he says breathlessly, “you know who I am, right? Right?”

Another astonished stare, but at least this passer-by is polite. “No, I’m afraid I don’t. Are you perhaps lost?”

“No!” Max’s words now escape as a desperate eruption of discomfort, “I’m the king! The Genbu-ou! Don’t you recognise your king?!”

The stranger’s expression changes slightly – to that of pity, to Max’s horror.

“I’m sorry, boy, I don’t have time to play around with you,” the person says, and the next moment he’s gone.

Max spins around, glancing wildly in every direction, looking for anybody who recognises him. This is the royal capital, isn’t it? It definitely is, he knows the exact street he’s on, but for some reason nobody knows him, he’s only a mile away from the Snow Glory Palace and nobody knows that he’s the king, how could such a bizarre thing ever happen?

“I look like the Genbu-ou, don’t I?” he asks yet another stranger, this time a younger person, a teenager just like him.

The person stops to stare at him, evaluates him with her eyes for a moment, as if she has to think about it first.

“I guess you do,” she finally says, “a little. But Genbu-ousama has spots of black in his hair and skin as clear as snow.”

What? What?

Max drops down to his knees into the snow and now he’s on the riverbank; he hauls his shaking self closer to the aquamarine glow of the water, and he crouches over to look down at his own reflection on the surface.

His hair is yellow like the Sun, bare, the splashes of black brush strokes gone. But his face – his face is covered in something – small dots everywhere, his skin is infested with them, they spread from the centre, the bridge of his nose, in every direction on his skin, he lifts his hands to his face and—

* * *

He opens his eyes. The ceiling of his bedroom is covered in cotton candy clouds of pink and purple, they rotate ever so slowly around the axel of the chandelier in the middle, with stars blinking in and out through the veil.

He rolls over in the four-poster bed that feels like an entire ocean to him. The pillow under his head is wet, it feels gross and he grabs it with two tiny hands, tosses it away as hard as he can and it lands on the edge of the bed. It knocks a couple of his plush toys to the floor.

He can hear voices from behind the bedroom door. It’s Mama and Papa, they are yelling at each other again.

Max rubs his tear-stained eyes and crawls out of bed, wrapping his enormous blanket around him like a cape, he drags it along across the carpet as he makes his way to the door. He stands on tiptoes and opens the door as softly as he can.

He makes his way to the hallway’s railing just in time to see his parents walk into his view downstairs. They’re not yelling anymore but still arguing, in quiet voices now, Max can tell they are spewing arrows of poison at each other even if he can’t make out the words.

He’s staring through the narrow hole in the railing as Papa spots him, it’s probably a subtle sniffle that gives him away up there.

Seconds later, Papa has climbed the stairs and has knelt down to talk to Max in a voice that’s meant to be soothing but is seeping with recently suffocated agitation, and it makes him uneasy.

“Are you having trouble sleeping again, buddy?”

“I don’t want Papa to go away,” Max says, wiping his nose on the sleeve of his orange sleeping gown.

Papa gives him a lopsided smile, pats the top of his head. “I’ll come visit you often, I promise. And – this is only temporary, okay? I will keep talking to Mama, and maybe I’ll be back home in a couple of moons. Papa will bring you lots of presents then, but for starters...”

Now something appears from behind Papa’s back, he’s holding a plush toy dog that has a silly face with a tongue drooping out, its body so long that it nearly matches Max’s height. Papa hands it over to him.

“I made this for you, to help you sleep better. I call it Sleepy, but you can call it whatever you want.”

Max stares down at the dog’s face. It has plain black buttons for eyes, and a third one for a nose.

He presses his own little nose against the button, immediately smearing the dog in the snot and tears of a six-year-old.

“Take me with you, Papa,” he says, the words muffled against the dog’s snout. “Don’t leave me alone.”

“You won’t be alone, Max, Mama will be here.”

“She’s always working, she never pays attention to me.”

“That’s not true...”

“I don’t want to be alone, Papa.”

* * *

He opens his eyes. The ceiling of his bedroom is velvet blue, with the silver sickle of a crescent Moon glowing faintly in the night’s silence.

His heart is beating in an anxious rhythm inside his chest. He quickly sits up in the bed, driven by the panic of the lingering terror of his nightmare that makes his fingertips tingle and his stomach turn, and he gasps for air.

It was just a dream. Just a dream.

The momentary urge to rush to his feet, to check that he actually is who he’s supposed to be in the mirror, recedes quickly upon the realisation that he’s in his own bed, in the royal palace, exactly where he should be. He’s covered in sweat, the blankets feel uncomfortably sticky against his skin, he tosses them aside.

Then he notices three shapes in the darkness, sitting at the end of his bed. A row of three plush animals is staring at him from a distance.

A fox, a serpent, and a horse.

#my writing #4kingdoms stuff #LetItRip2021 #iconic that i had to stop in the middle of posting this bc i saw a spider and was too fucking scared to sit down again

[windyhallows]

Profiles on Moblie!

Name: Amitsu Katoru

Type of Troll: Land

Gender: Male

Age:10.15(21)

Blood: Gold

Height: 6'6

Sign:  Gemries sign of the Savy

Wrigglering day: May 25

Voice Claim: Here

Lusus: Alligator Crossed with a Bear.

Typing quirk: Replaces As with @s

Four bulletpoint facts about the troll:

The owner of a cafe called HoneyBees.

2. Could whip up a custom tea that fits the troll’s personality.

3. Eastern Alterian with a bit of Southern.

4. Amitsu loves large women.

Name: Calice Wahron

Type of Troll: Mutant River

Gender:She/Her

Age: 12.92 (28)

Blood: Olive

Height: 5'11

Sign:  LESCES sign of the instructor

Wrigglering day: April 1

Voice Claim: here

Lusus: large Mexican Burrowing Toad named Baba Granham

Typing quirk: replaces K with 8, and E is 3

Four bulletpoint facts about the troll:

A Mud color artist who makes her own paint.

Fresh water dweller who can not go into the sea.

Tends to nap on the river letting it take her anywhere in her boat.

Has a small collection of books.

Name: Epoina Hompis

Type of Troll: Land

Gender: She /Her

Age:10.15  (22)

Blood: Indigo

Height: 6'0

Sign:  Sagillo sign of the Lofty

Wrigglering Day: November 21st

Voice Claim: here

Lusus: A horse size Valais Blacknose sheep known as Rosie Mcflufbottom or Baa Mama

Typing quirk:Replacing a with ą Ą,o with ø Ø and u with ű Ű.

Four bulletpoint facts about the troll:

“ Høly Eąrth Crąwlers! Løøk ąt this plące”

Much prefers to live off the land than living in luxury.

Has a massive collection of gems and artifacts.

Tends to travel far from home for days at a time.

Name: Ginlee Meggle

Type of Troll: Land

Gender:She /Her

Age:8.77(19)

Blood: Purple

Height: 7'4

Sign:  CAPRIST SIGN OF THE AUDACIOUS

Wrigglering Day: November 2

Voice Claim: Here

Lusus: medium size chinchilla with goat hooves named Atari Dustybottom

Typing quirk: start ～♪ and ～♬

Four bulletpoint facts about the troll:

Not used to new things, Ginlee tends to become overly nervous about it.

Secretly writes slam poetry which she thinks as bad.

Has a knowledge of different hues of paint and what would look good.

Its best not to touch Kotton, unless you wish to become paint.

Name: Kimaoi Midria

Type of Troll: Land

Gender: She /Her

Age: 11.55(25)

Blood: Bronze

Height: 5'4

Sign:  TAURPIA SIGN OF THE AESTHETE

Wrigglering Day: October 13th

Voice Claim: here

Lusus: Six legged Peruvian guinea pig named Cornwall Barnesly or guinny dad

Four bulletpoint facts about the troll:

Typing quirk: Puts ‘¥’ in front of a sentence

Has her own small home business.

Cute and shy on the outside, horror movie junkie on the inside.

Trying to be comfortable in her own skin again.

Pop Karaoke queen.

Name: Kotton Poplus

Type of Troll: Land

Gender:She /Her

Age:8.77 (19)

Blood: Lime

Height:  5'3

Sign: CANNIUS SIGN OF THE THEATRICAL

Wrigglering day: August 17

Voice Claim: here

Lusus: A large maincoon\ persian purrbeast named Bobbinsnot

Typing quirk: Doubles her os

Four bulletpoint facts about the troll:

A bottle of extreme ball lightening.

Can bend her arm backwards along with several other parts of her body.

Probably the biggest fan of clowns.

Absolutely a wild party girl.

Name: Luenna Coutls

Type of Troll: Mutant land dweller

Gender: She/her

Age: 12.92 (28)

Blood: Indigo

Height: 7'7 tail 6ft

Sign: Doesn’t have a sign

Wrigglering Day: July 16

Lusus: A scale jaguar dragon mix

Voice Claim: Here

Typing quirk: ༄ at beginning and ending of each sentences.

Four bulletpoint facts about the troll:

Will run away from any loud noises or strangers. Or the combination of the two.

Carries around a snuggle pelt for comfort.

Doesn’t get outside that much, so we’ll add anything new may scare her to the list.

Has a weakness to hot rocks.

Name: Mariuz Panais

Type of Troll: Land

Gender:He /Him

Age: 9.69(21)

Blood: Lime

Height: 5'6

Sign:  CANRIUS SIGN OF THE HELPER

Wrigglering day: December 21

Voice Claim: here

Lusus:  A pig and elephant hybrid named Percilla

Typing quirk: Having put double letters on some words like ‘ms’,’is’ as well four letter words with ‘as’

Four bulletpoint facts about the troll:

Third fastest delivery troll by bike.

Tends to be overly nervous whenever teased,scared or if he is near someone he likes.

Is known to dance to pop music while at home.

Whenever he is nervous, Mairzu will smell of candy.

Name: Nefiri Bastia

Type of Troll: Land

Gender:She /Her

Age:10.15(22)

Blood: Olive

Height: 6'10

Sign:  LENIUS SIGN OF THE RESTLESS

Wrigglering day: April 13

Voice Claim: Here

Lusus: A giant size sabertooth Wombat named Bruce Mamaro

Typing quirk: uses capitalize on all her Ss, Cs and Vs

Four bulletpoint facts about the troll:

Was formerly the top huntress of her pride.

Takes play fighting a bit too far at times.

Very competitive.

Hates Cucumbers with a passion.

Name: Nixiie Apilon

Type of Troll: Land?

Gender: She/Her

Age: 11.08(24)

Blood: Jade

Height: 5’3

Sign:  Virga sign of the pure

Wrigglering day: March 20th

Voice Claim: Here

Lusus: A fluffy luna moth caterpillar with cat face and long tail (currently in a cacoon)

Typing quirk: uses a ❀ when talking

Four bulletpoint facts about the troll:

She will proceed to go after the shiny thing until she catches it.

Nixiie and technology do not mix.

❀ But why can’t I jump out the window! Its fun!❀

Natural flower child.

Name: Rafina Uymumi

Type of Troll: Sea Dweller

Gender:She /Her

Age:12 (26)

Blood: Violet

Height: 6'10

Sign:  Aquius SIGN OF THE WHIMSICAL

Wrigglering day: September 22

Voice Claim: here

Lusus: large four eye plesioaur named Morgana

Typing quirk: ♯ and a few fish puns

Four bulletpoint facts about the troll:

Known for her high ring acrobatic dance.

Tends to bing watch fantasy movies and shows.

Had done private shows, if the patron is willing to pay for it.

Has a secret journal half filled with stories about fantasies.

Name: Uniico Katiwa

Type of Troll: Land

Gender: He/Him

Age:10.15 (21)

Blood: Bronze

Height: 5'5

Sign:  TAURMINO Sign of the lonely

Wrigglering Day: July 23

Voice Claim: here

Lusus: A large sheep dog?

Typing quirk:⊱:3   at the start and end of every sentence.

Four bulletpoint facts about the troll:

Is a proud descent of a woolbeast herder.

He thinks all sea dwellers are just mutated purples.

Knows his ways around fabric.

Uniico knows the mountains the back of his hand.

Name:  Pohkin Boines

Type of Troll: Land

Gender:She /Her

Age:12.46(27)

Blood: Rust

Height: 6'5

Sign:  Arsci SIGN OF THE MEDIC

Wrigglering day:June 20

Voice Claim: Here

Lusus:  A long horned saola

Typing quirk:replaces I with  î  Î and t with ť Ť

Four bulletpoint facts about the troll:

High maintenance should be her middle name.

A lady of high society living fantasy.

Takes pride in both her garden and weave care.

God forbid if you enter her hive with dirty shoes.

Name: Wilton Maytio

Type of Troll: Land

Gender: He/Him

Age:9.23(20)

Blood: Teal

Height: 6’4

Sign:  Libiborn Sign of the Finale  

Wrigglering day: October 4

Voice Claim: here

Lusus: A panther size Siamese cat

Typing quirk: ♘ has a knight at the beginning and end of his sentences.

Four bulletpoint facts about the troll:

Is the pain of the ass of the office.

Has a large collection of wind up toys.

Willing to take on a case if you are able to help him out with a prank.

A regular charming tomcat.

Name: Belity Talkar

Type of Troll: Land

Gender: She/Her

Age: 11.08(24)

Blood: Teal

Height: 5’3

Sign:  LIBUS SIGN OF THE VIBRANT

Wrigglering Day: August 4

Voice Claim: Here

Lusus: One arm silverback Gorilla.

Typing quirk: replaces Cs and Ds with Çč and Ðð

Four bulletpoint facts about the troll:

Has proven she is a lethal little thing.

A siren in lounge singer clothing.

Takes great care with her nails.

A devil in disguise.

Name: Guroka Azothi

Type of Troll: Land

Gender: She /Her

Age:8.31(18)

Blood:  Lilac

Height: 7’7

Voice Claim: Here

Sign:  CAPRINIUS SIGN OF THE CREDULOUS

Wrigglering Day: September 6, 2019

Lusus: Twin tailed Spider Monkey

Typing quirk: uses Replaces H with 🍬.

Four bulletpoint facts about the troll:

Wants to be part of a eastern alterinan idol group.

Can’t tell the difference what’s real and not real.

Has a fantastic smile.

A big fan of eastern alterian sweet fashion.

Name: Himwai Mippei

Type of Troll: Land

Gender: She /Her

Age:17.54(38)

Blood: powder blue

Height:  6'3

Sign:  SCORCEN SIGN OF THE UNITER

Wrigglering Day: February 18,

Voice Claim: here

Lusus: Giant Sugar Glider

Typing quirk: starts sentences with expression emojis (≧◡≦)

Four bulletpoint facts about the troll:

Will mispronounce names.

Study to become a lab technion.

Known to crochet small stuffed animals and other items.

Has an addiction to a drug known as ‘Delightful drops’.

Name: Caesar Pizpea

Type of Troll: Land

Gender: He/Him

Age: 11.54(25)

Blood: Indigo

Height: 11’11

Sign:  SAGIGA SIGN OF THE BUILDER

Wrigglering Day:  May 8

Voice Claim: Here

Lusus: A small Belted Galloway cow named Bluebabe

Typing quirk: Replaces Oos with Öö and Ee with  Éé

Four bulletpoint facts about the troll:

Large body but a rather tiny brain

Overly friendly to small creatures, tends to hug them a bit too tight.

Able to lift a 20 ft tree out roots and all.

Has gotten his head stuck in a paper bag, and mistook it as a cave.

Name: Mascar Oachri

Type of Troll: Land

Gender: He/Him

Age: 23.08(50)

Blood: Lime(#7fc924)

Height: 8’5

Sign:  [recated]

Wrigglering Day:  unknown

Voice Claim: wip

Lusus: Red panda

Typing quirk: ♕  ♛

Four bulletpoint facts about the troll:

Drinks a strange combination of brandy and whisky on the rocks.

Has a strong distaste of high pitch singing and anything pop related.

Once a mafia hitman.

He is mister gives no fucks.

Name: Byuria Matlip

Type of Troll: Land

Gender: She/Her

Age:  8.31 (18)

Blood: Teal(#33a1a1)

Height: 5’9

Sign:  Limino Sign of the Endurer

Wrigglering Day:  August 12

Voice Claim: here

Lusus: A Bat Ear Fox Papillon mix.(descese )

Typing quirk: ꧁ ꧂At the begining and end of each sentence.  

Four bulletpoint facts about the troll:

Can easily walk on her hands.

Byuria use to be a graceful dancer.

Mosty mute but, tends to speak whenever she feels comfortable or needed to.

Had made her own patchwork dolls for comfort.

Name:  Anthus Carphi

Type of Troll:  

Gender: They/Them

Age:15.69(34)

Blood: Purple

Height: 7’7

Sign:  [recatcted]

Wrigglering Day: May 14

Lusus:  wip

Voice Claim: here

Typing quirk:✧

Four bulletpoint facts about the troll:

Will end a career in seconds if they doesn’t like you.

Devil in spike heel boots.

Has been the top model for fashion week.

Takes the art of the theater very seriously.

Name: Ostara Purima

Type of Troll: Land

Gender: She/Her

Age:  11.08(24)

Blood: Jade

Height: 6’0

Sign: wip

Wrigglering Day: March 19

Voice Claim: Here

Lusus:  A large sea otter

Typing quirk:  Replaces E with ☘️

Four bulletpoint facts about the troll:

Is the top of her class in the medical healing training and top of her class.

Is an overachiever and a grub hatched bookworm.

A coffee addict whenever she needs something done ahead of a deadline.

Nixiie is her partner whenever group projects come, as well tutoring her on the side.

character design are done by : @mycrappyrpsideblog​​

Name: Odoria Eander

Type of Troll: land

Gender: She/Her

Age:  18.46(40)

Blood: Purple

Height: 7’6

Sign: wip

Wrigglering Day: September 30

Voice Claim: here

Lusus: wip

Typing quirk:♗  beginning of every sentence and capitalizing M and W.

Four bulletpoint facts about the troll:

A devoted follower and second preacher of her church.

Has the most sales in the bake sales.

Appears ditzy and sweet but has a bit of a bitter dark chocolate side.

Odoria host the best movie night.

Name: Olivis Affiti

Type of Troll: Land

Gender:She /Her

Age:9.69(21)

Blood: Gold (#bcbf06)

Height: 6’2

Sign:  GEMRIST SIGN OF THE STREETWISE

Wrigglering Day:  February 7

Voice Claim: wip

Lusus: flying fox crossed with a bee named Leeah Counties

Typing quirk: ☞☜ start and end

Four bulletpoint facts about the troll:

“ ☞Nah Fam, you fucking pay up front in full or prepare to have the neighborhood to see how big your buldge really is like ya did to me.☜”

Always has a back up plan.

Is known to spray paint crude art on empress’s billboards.

Is her low blood neighborhood information broker.  

Name: Zaiard  Stesla

Type of Troll: Land

Gender:He /Him

Age:9.23(20)

Blood: Brozen (#7d3a0a)

Height: 5’5

Sign:  TAURNIUS SIGN OF THE ENTREPRENEUR

Wrigglering Day: July 10

Voice Claim: wip

Lusus: size boa  ferret named Sammulast

Typing quirk: Doubles Tts and Zzs

Four bulletpoint facts about the troll:

Always carries his lusus in his pocket.

Is known to have destructive tantrums.

Will take Gummy worms as a form of payment.

Had his inventions either taken away or destroyed twenty times. Scratch that makes that twenty three times.  

Name: Bermit Kurabi

Type of Troll: Land?

Gender: Him/He

Age:  8.77(19)

Blood: Mint 

Height:5'4

Sign: Virogy sign of the leaper

Wrigglering Day: May 9

Voice Claim: wip

Lusus:  [recatcted]

Typing quirk:  Replaces D with 🐸

Four bulletpoint facts about the troll: 

Tends to become overly excited about everything new.

Has a habit of hoarding random items that he finds outside of the caverns. 

Known for having the longest tongue so far. 

Blind as a bat, but has an amazing nose.

Name: Shinra Pinren

Type of Troll:  Land

Gender: He/Him/They/Them

Age: 11.54(25)

Blood: Rust

Height: 5'5

Sign:  Arotopia sign of the unseen

Wrigglering Day: 9/20/2020

Lusus: Mothman

Voice Claim: wip

Typing quirk: replaces all Is with 🕯️

Four bulletpoint facts about the troll:

Is on the hunt to document every supernatural in alteriania.

Works at the printing press at the trollian papers

Had managed to get himself in the paper once.

“ Wa🕯t so you don’t see that person beh🕯nd you.”

Name:Carrot Recipe

Type of Troll: Land

Gender: She/Her

Age:  15.69(34)

Blood: Bronze

Height: 6'9

Sign: wip

Wrigglering Day: September 22

Voice Claim: Here

Lusus: Angora rabbit

Typing quirk: Starts sentences with 🥕 and caplizes Gs and Os

Four bulletpoint facts about the troll:

Carrot has a talent when it comes to organic baking.

Tends to over water her plants.

A city girl trying to adjust to life in the country.

She’s a little clumsy when it comes to repairing anything.

Name: Biejin Himmei

Type of Troll: Sea Dweller

Gender: She/Her

Age:  13.85(30)

Blood: Fuchsia

Height: 6'9

Sign: wip

Wrigglering Day: May 24

Voice Claim: Here

Lusus: Akhlut

Typing quirk: Starts every sentence with 🍓

Four bulletpoint facts about the troll:

Loves to create confectionary jewelry.

Tends to nap during meetings.

Has left low blood decoys when she has to attend to important events.

Biejin has a talent with creating interesting acids and poisons.

#Fantrolls #Fantroll profiles #moblie profiles #profiles #muses profiles #my muses

[jennacha]

here’s a big rant about The Child Thief

ok i have a big confession to make

I’m kind of obsessed with the book The Child Thief.

It’s not a particularly good book. In fact, I would go as far to say it’s poor. The writing has the cadence of 15-year-old-going-through-their-novelist-phase. I guess I could say it reads like fan fiction. The plot is very messy. The characters are badly written. It feels like a book that wasn’t edited. The word “magic” is used a lot, and it’s embarrassing. There’s a part where a character slams their fist on the ground and yells “WHY?!” and it’s embarrassing. The dialogue feels like it came out of a 1990s teen adventure fantasy movie trying to imitate the success of a Corey Feldman/Haim movie. Several times throughout the book the thought, “Why did the author do this?” popped in my head. However, the author is a fantasy illustrator, so the descriptive writing is a plus. He knows how to illustrate the landscape with words as well as he would in painting. The book is not a special unit dumpster fire piece of shit insult to literature; in fact, as far as I know a lot of people like it and it has gotten a decent amount of praise. It’s just not very good, in terms of the surface level writing. But I can easily see a lot of people enjoying it for basic entertainment value.

So that would be my YA-focus blog summary review of the book.

My public outcry summary review of the book is this:

I’m obsessed with the book because it’s so fucking weird.

It’s so fucking weird in that it’s a perfect shitstorm of the author not knowing what he’s doing, and thinking he’s knowing what he’s doing. Like a perfect bad B-movie that exhibits textbook schlock where the director is incompetent and clueless but lacks any self-awareness, in terms of style, layout, and production.

But also, the author thinks what he’s doing is…cool.

The book is about evil Peter Pan.

I could end this whole thing right there. But I must release these hounds. I’ve been needing to let all this out.

My wretched insanity craves affirmation.

This book should be a carbon copy of every other average to below average dark fantasy novel that you see on the bookstore shelves and never heard of and wonder what the author is doing now with all their not-fame. This book should be one that could’ve been written by anybody and it wouldn’t have made a difference. This book should be one of sixty million examples of nothing special. In a way, it is definitely 100% yes definitely yes all those things. The universe decided that I would be the bearer of the burden of having much stronger feelings about it then necessary. I probably feel more strongly about it than the author ever did. It is in my life now.

The biggest thing about this book being so fucking weird is the mind boggling tonal inconsistency. There are a number of shifts in universe-encompassing moods, which go from “Christopher-Nolan-but-also-kind-of-Stephanie-Meyer-dark-gloomy-the-world-is-unhappy-and-I-like-it-that-way”, to “David-Fincher-the-world-is-ACTUALLY-awful”, to “Oh-right-this-is-a-Peter-Pan-story-whimsical-fun-Goonies-meets-Disney-Channel-original”, to “A-worse-version-of-The-Hobbit-movies-with-some-redeeming-qualities”, to “Quentin-Tarantino-literally-wrote-this.” This isn’t hyperbole. The writing language can be REALLY EMBARRASSING and straight out of a Disney movie. That tone of a fun romp for the whole family is cradled by an abundance of swearing, unsettling fantasy-horror, and extreme, shocking violence.

You know when you’re watching Beetlejuice, and you’re like “Okay this movie is for children” and then out of nowhere Michael Keaton goes “NICE FUCKIN’ MODEL” and grabs his dick.

In The Child Thief, THAT washes over you every time you finish reading a sentence. Only, it’s as if you’re watching Hook, and at one point Robin Williams slices a person’s face off, and the camera stays on the faceless person for a minute and Steven Spielberg walks into frame and points to the gurgling faceless head and describes to you how you can still see the holes where the mouth, nose, and eyes were.

(Yes that actually happens in the book.)

Or if you’re watching Neverending Story and at one point you get expository dialogue explaining how Atreyu was pimped as a boy and had to live on the streets because his mother was, uh, a drug addict or something?. 

(That also happens.)

Or if you’re watching Indian in the Cupboard and the film opens with a little girl about to get raped by her dad.

(I’m serious.)

Or if you’re watching Hocus Pocus and Bette Midler is a vampire and she preys on a 6-year-old kid and neither of them have shirts on.

(I swear to god.)

Or if you’re reading a modern re-imagining of Peter Pan and the story involves blatant themes of gore in acute descriptive detail, mass murder, torture, and scenes with naked women and perverted fantasy-creature-men.

(Oh, wait.)

You’re probably thinking, “All those themes are found pretty much everywhere in every medium, especially the naked women and perverts. Big whoop.” I’ll add, then, all those themes, involving children.

Now you’re thinking, “Jenna don’t you love that movie Drag Me To Hell which involves a child being murdered within the first 2.5 minutes?”

Just hear me out and yes.

The Child Thief is entertaining in how CAPTIVATING the strangeness is. The tonal mishmash of kid-friendly meets rated-R is something I actually like, when it's a hit. I like things that have a quality of whimsy amidst dark themes. Movies such as Temple of Doom, Gremlins, Return to Oz, Darkman have this quality…basically almost every movie from the 1980s during the period when audiences had grown up with movies after censorship was abolished and half the world said “think of the children” and the other half said “no.” There are tons and tons of other examples in every medium of how general tonal contrast makes for unique and effective works of art. My point is, this specific type of tonal contrast also can be done well.

But those movies don’t open with attempted child rape, and they don’t end with children literally being mowed down in a grisly battle scene (I’m serious). I’m making a lot of comparisons to movies because the book almost feels like a movie, in that the author isn’t a novelist, he’s a visual story-maker who wrote a book because he knew that no movie studio would pick this shit up. Maybe the films I listed didn’t intend for tonal contrast to be a calculated driving element for their stories, but the subtlety of tones in those movies allows for one encompassing, harmonious tonal blanket to wrap them in. There is no subtlety in The Child Thief.

The tonal confusion of The Child Thief is, I almost wanna say coincidental. I think the author just didn’t know how to write well, but he’s a very dark visual guy and had all these dark visuals in his head ready to be unleashed. All the horrible violence and awful themes are fine in and of itself, but they aren’t earned if the attitude of “I’m gunna turn the children’s book foundation on its head” isn’t committed to, and “I’m gunna subvert everything you know and love about Peter Pan” isn’t calculatedly plotted out. The author has a bad sense of humor, a poor understanding of what is required of an epic storyline, and treats violence, horror and revenge less like a literary device and more like a fetishization of coolness in a vulgar display of power as a writer.

The misguidedness goes as far as the character writing. None of the characters’ motivations make sense. The author couldn’t keep track of either committing to one motivation or the other, a lot of the times for the sake of the plot. Especially with the Peter Pan character. He’s basically literally the anti-christ (this is 100% canon, if the author says it isn’t then he’s a liar and an idiot) and written like a “troubled villain” but then gets these VERY polarized directions of unrelenting psychopathic Cause It’s Die Motherfucka Die Motherfucka Still, Fool villainy and ham-fisted humanism and victimhood. It’s a case of like, the author meant for him to be the charming bad guy who tricks the audience into being on his side because that’s what Peter does to the characters in the book. But the author found him too cool and wanted to be his friend, but in order to justify being friends with a character who wants to murder everybody, he inappropriately gives him remorse and forces the reader to feel bad for him.

And like all the kids in the book are supposed to super love Peter Pan but the version of Neverland is like this horrific, NIGHTMARE HELL of a place and the kids are basically being used to fight in a war, and all the kids are totally okay with it, because their lives in the real world were really awful and the whole thing is that Peter “saves” them and they’ll do anything for him. And it’s like, okay???????????????????? But wouldn’t it be cooler if the kids were like okay this guy is a fucking psycho and Neverland is a horrific, nightmare hell and I’m learning a lot about myself right now having once trusted him???? And then in their retaliation Peter would show his true colors and enforce aggression onto them in serving as his personal enslaved militia? And it becomes like this inner circle of conflict? And since Peter is the only person who can bring them back to the real world, they play ball but hope to steer their own agenda out of the situation? OH, right, that DOES happen, but with ONE of the characters. ONE. Conveniently, the main character. And god knows there can’t be more than one smart human being at a time.

But if you want to SUBVERT the BELOVED CHILDREN’S STORY FORMAT wouldn’t it be fun to do PETER PAN VS. THE LOST BOYS? Instead of MY CHEMICAL ROMANCE PETER PAN AND THE HOT TOPIC LOST BOYS VS. THE ONLY SEMI-SMART MAIN CHARACTER? Like wouldn’t it be GREAT if the characters WEREN'T DUMB? And the author put in some CONSTRUCTIVE, CHALLENGING CREATIVE EFFORT and treated the interactions like a CHESS GAME instead of a CONTRIVED MISUNDERSTANDING BETWEEN JOEY, ROSS, CHANDLER, RACHEL, MONICA AND THE OTHER ONE? Wouldn’t it be GREAT if ALL THE CHARACTERS TURNED AGAINST PETER but then Peter SLOWLY CHARMED SOME OR ALL OF THEM BACK IN, to make him MORE like an UNEARTHLY MONSTER? Like the lost boys became SELF-AWARE LITERAL VICTIMS OF THE ORIGINAL TALE FORMAT, where Peter Pain is this IMPOSSIBLY CHARMING CHARACTER THAT IS BELOVED BY THE LAWS OF THE UNIVERSE? ALSO, the MAIN CHARACTER is supposed to be the MODEL OF REASON FOR THE READER TO RELATE TO, but the main character still gets CHARMED BY PETER PAN, WHILE WE KNOW AS RATIONAL ADULTS WHAT THE FUCK IS GOING TO HAPPEN? LIKE THAT’S SUPPOSED TO BE HOW READING BOOKS IS? When we KNOW WHAT’S GUNNA HAPPEN? BUT THE AUTHOR WANTS TO BE PETER’S FRIEND SO HE DOES IT ANYWAY? AND LIKE SEVERAL OTHER CHARACTERS THAT THE MAIN CHARACTER IS FRIENDS WITH ARE ALSO SUPPOSED TO BE FIGURES OF REASON BUT THEY’RE ALSO 100% PARTISAN IN SIDING WITH PETER? SO IT’S LIKE HOW AM I SUPPOSED TO LIKE ALL YOU DUMB, DUMB KIDS?

LIKE OKAY, SO HOW IT GOES IS THAT PETER CAN LIKE WALK ACROSS THE DIMENSION BETWEEN NEVERLAND AND THE REAL WORLD AND THAT'S HOW HE GETS THE KIDS? SO AT ONE POINT IN NEVERLAND THEY ALL HAVE TO SCAVENGE FOR FOOD BECAUSE THE VEGETATION IN NEVERLAND IS DYING, AND THEY MENTION HOW PETER USED TO BRING THEM FOOD FROM THE REAL WORLD? AND IT'S LIKE, HOW ABOUT YOU JUST KEEP DOING THAT? OR LIKE, WHY DON'T ANY OF YOU WANT TO JUST LEAVE? YEAH THE REAL WORLD SUCKS, BUT IS IT WORTH STARVING TO DEATH JUST SO YOU CAN STICK IT TO THE MAN? LIKE ARE THERE PEDIATRICIANS IN NEVERLAND? ARE THERE AT-RISK YOUTH SHELTERS? FOSTER CARE? NEVERLAND SOUP KITCHENS? NEVERLAND SOCIAL WORKERS? NEVERLAND CHILD PROTECTIVE SERVICES? NEVERLAND POLICE? NO? JUST MONSTERS THAT PAINFULLY KILL YOU, ZOMBIE PIRATES, NO FOOD, AND LITERALLY THE ANTI-CHRIST?

AND THEN THERE’S RIDICULOUS SHIT LIKE, AT ONE POINT ALL THESE MAGICAL FANTASY CHARACTERS HIJACK A NEW YORK CITY FERRY TO GET TO THE HARBOR AND IT’S LIKE, THIS IS SO RIDICULOUS IT SHOULD BE AWESOME, BUT IT ISN’T AWESOME BUT IT SHOULD BE SO WHY ISN’T IT?

AND LIKE ONE OF THE CHARACTERS IS A FAT USELESS KID NAMED DANNY AND THERE IS NO REASON FOR HIM TO BE IN THE BOOK BESIDES TO BE THE TOKEN FAT USELESS KID NAMED DANNY?

BUT DANNY IS LIKE ALSO THE ONLY OTHER SMART CHARACTER IN THE BOOK BECAUSE HE’S LIKE WHY DID I SAY YES TO THIS WHY ARE WE STILL FOLLOWING THIS GUY WHY DON’T WE JUST LEAVE AND IT’S LIKE YEAH PUT DANNY IN CHARGE BUT NOBODY LISTENS TO HIM AND HE’S JUST COMPLETELY UTTERLY USELESS?

AND THEN CAPTAIN HOOK ADOPTS DANNY AND IT’S LIKE OH MY GOD THE AUTHOR FORGOT HE NEEDED TO GIVE DANNY SOMETHING TO DO?

AND LIKE I DON’T EVEN REMEMBER THE MAIN CHARACTER’S NAME?

AND THEN AT THE END OF THE BOOK, SO, THERE’S THIS BIG HUGE BATTLE SCENE WHERE CHILDREN DIE LEFT AND RIGHT, LIKE THE “ANTAGONIST” (NOT PETER) HAS A HUGE SWORD AND IS SWINGING AT THE KIDS LIKE HE’S HARVESTING WHEAT, OH AND YEAH, BY THE WAY, AGAIN, THE REAL WORLD IS LOCATED IN NEW YORK CITY AND THE BATTLE HAPPENS ON LIKE THE FRONT LAWN OF A LIBRARY OR SOMETHING. LIKE THE STORY KIND OF TOTALLY GOES OFF THE RAILS INTO FANTASTIC SCHLOCK. AND AT ONE POINT THE BATTLE IS ABRUPTLY INTERRUPTED BY NYC POLICE AND IT’S LIKE ARE YOU SHITTING MY NUTS THE NYC COPS ARE INVOLVED IN THIS FANTASY BATTLE THIS IS AMAZING, BUT THEN THAT DOESN’T HAPPEN AND IT GOES NOWHERE. AND ALL THE MAIN CHARACTERS ARE DYING, AND NONE OF THEM HAD ARCS, LIKE NONE OF THEM REALIZED WHAT THEY GOT THEMSELVES INTO OR WHAT PETER REALLY WAS, AND AT THE ACT 3 POST-LOW POINT THE MAIN CHARACTER DIDN’T GO OFF TO DO HIS OWN THING AND TRY TO SAVE THE DAY, HE JUST GOES WITH PETER TO DO WHATEVER HE WANTS, AND THEN HIS ARC IS BASICALLY NOTHING AND THEN HE DIES. AND *PETER* WINS. AND AGAIN HE’S LITERALLY THE ANTI CHRIST SO THE BOOK ENDS WITH HIM BRIDGING THE REAL WORLD WITH NEVERLAND, AND BASICALLY BEING THE BRINGER OF HELL UNTO THE EARTH. AND UP UNTIL THEN THE BOOK HAD ABOUT 68 INSTANCES OF THE READER SWITCHING BETWEEN FEELING BAD FOR PETER AND THEN ACCEPTING THAT HE IS HITLER NURSE RATCHED MAO STALIN. SO WHEN ALL THE KIDS DIE, HE HAS A SCENE OF FEELING REALLY BAD AND THE READER IS SUPPOSED TO BE ALL LIKE AW HE REALLY DOES CARE! AND THEN NEVERLAND GETS BRIDGED INTO NEW YORK CITY, AND HE’S LIKE HA HA HA HA I DID IT I WON. BUT IT’S WRITTEN IN SUCH A WAY THAT LIKE, THE AUDIENCE IS SUPPOSED TO BE LIKE, WHEEEEEE! LIKE THIS THING THAT HAPPENED IS THE DOOM OF MANKIND, AND THE TONE SHOULD REALLY BE “OH GOD NO.” BUT THE AUTHOR WAS HAPPY THAT PETER WON IN THE END BECAUSE HE WANTS TO BE HIS FRIEND, EVEN THOUGH LIKE FIFTEEN PAGES AGO PETER CAUSED THE DEATH OF AN ARMY OF CHILDREN (AFTER ANOTHER 600 PAGES OF ALL KINDS OF OTHER AWFUL SHIT). SO NOT ONLY ARE WE SUPPOSED TO FEEL SAD THAT PETER FEELS SAD, BUT THEN WE’RE SUPPOSED TO FEEL HAPPY THAT PETER FEELS HAPPY. HOW ABOUT GO FUCK YOURSELF? HOW ABOUT IF YOU’RE GOING TO MAKE PETER A CHALLENGING UNRELIABLE ANTI-HERO, DON’T MAKE HIS DARK QUALITIES SO INCONTESTABLY EVIL, OR, EITHER CHOOSE TO MAKE PETER HATED BY THE AUDIENCE, OR MAKE THE AUDIENCE FEEL FOOLISH FOR BEING CHARMED BY PETER AND PARTLY RESPONSIBLE FOR ALL THE BAD SHIT THAT HAPPENED AND GO FUCK YOURSELF?

...

I’ll give a different example of both tonal incongruence and bad character writing.

So, the opening scene of the book that involves attempted child rape, so. What happens is that Peter saves the little girl in time by killing the dad, and gains her trust to go to Neverland. The way the story regards the introduction to Peter is that of wonder and curiosity through the little girl’s eyes, as if it was derived from the original children’s tale. So the opener is meant to establish: a gritty “realness” to the book (which is never earned but i digress), and Peter as a mysterious magical hero. Then, the story carries on into describing Peter’s motivation in saving (the book uses “stealing”) children, which vaguely mentions his villainous indulgence (he’s saving children to recruit them in an army in Neverland to fight captain hook because his mommy is the president of neverland and there’s almost-Oedipal themes going on). Fine. However, the cadence of Peter actually being villainous is very very…undermined. Like the actual voice of the NARRATION is misinformed. Like the narration sounds more like Peter’s inner monologue speaking in the third person. Like the third person is in on it. Like the author is painting Peter as this wicked wrongdoer as if it’s a cool thing and he wants to be his friend (Oh wait).

This is how the voice of the opener is handled: Child rape —> Peter prevents child rape and saves child —> Peter is a good guy for doing this —> Peter is still a good guy for doing this but he did it maybe not for the right reasons. As it turns out, Peter is unquestionably the bad guy. Peter was the bad guy from the start, Peter was the bad guy while he was saving the little girl.

The rest of the book is handled like this: Peter is cool and badass  —> Peter is mischievous but still the person we want to follow —> Peter is a psycho...but still cool —> Oh shit Peter has a super awful past and his psycho-ness is the result of being a victim so I forgive him —> Wow Peter’s both a psycho and an asshole—> Okay I dunno about Peter —> The author keeps having Peter save people from being raped as if he’s not an asshole but he’s still a psycho and an asshole so I still don’t know —> The plot has a a lot of stuff so I guess I’m still with Peter —> Okay Peter won but everyone is dead because of him and he’s still an asshole so I still don’t know.

Peter tricks victims of rape, abuse, slavery, etc. into thinking they’re being saved when in fact he objectifies them for his personal needs. Remember how I said this book’s insane tonal confusion isn’t subtle? Well, from the book’s perspective, putting a finger on Peter’s good side and bad side...is subtle. Problematically subtle. Which, on a literary standpoint, sounds like a good thing, but...

This is the part when I say the thing you ACTUALLY SHOULDN’T BE SUBTLE ABOUT is PETER. You CAN be subtle about his tragic backstory. Be subtle about sprinkling his good qualities over his CAKE TOWER of BADNESS. Give him some KICK. Have the flavors INTERACT. Make the audience be like “OOOH, is that cumin?? Interesting! HMMMM! INTERESTING! CUMIN! ON DORITOS! YEAh I am definitely eating Doritos, this is absolutely Doritos, but there’s some CUMIN in there! Okay, back to eating my DORITOS! OOOOH, IS THAT CAYENNE?????” But whatever you do, make it CLEAR what you are SERVING. You should not have a MIXED BAG, a MEDLEY, and try to sell it like not-a-medley. You should NOT make half your plate super spicy and half your plate super sweet and make the audience roll the dice on each bite they take. Peter Pan isn’t some complexass Faustian character study, it’s SUBVERSIVE HYPERVIOLENT DARK FANTASY PORN. IT’S DORITOS

This is how the voice of the opener should've been handled: Child rape —> Peter prevents child rape and saves child —> Peter is the bad guy.

This is how the voice of the rest of the book should've been handled: No matter what happens —> Peter is the bad guy.

I don’t have and never will have the literary criticism credentials to say anything with credible boldness, but I’m going to say this anyway: Using child rape to force the reader to feel a certain way about the tone of the world and the first heroic impression of a character is wrong. Forcing an act of heroism (especially for you to then later say “Just kidding not the hero”) in that context is inappropriate and wrong. That’s like throwing 9/11 into the background of a love story to force the audience to feel extra emotional. 1) There are many, many, many, many ways you can establish “realness” in your opener with or without violence. I’m not saying there is a hierarchy of what kind of awful things involving children are okay to write about, but opening your story with attempted child rape is an unnecessary extreme if parts of your story reads like an episode of Saved By The Bell. Revenge alone isn’t cool. John Wick is cool because of the way revenge is handled. Writing about attempted child rape and then immediate revenge on the rapist is the Epipen-shot-to-the-brain method of forcibly getting your audience to go “I LIKE PETER!”, which isn’t at all earned and probably shouldn’t be in your story… 2) ESPECIALLY if you don’t simultaneously establish with slats nailed on a wall that Peter is the bad guy. The author basically deceived the audience into liking Peter in the worst way possible, ironically, which is what he had Peter do to the other characters. If you want to cleverly deceive the audience into liking Peter, do it through his dialogue, personality, the externalized product of the relationship between him and his environment. Be inventive about it. It’s a book. You got words. Use...words to your advantage. If you want to open your story with attempted child rape at the very least as a way to tell the audience this shit’s serious, don’t.

Just don’t. It’s fine.

The Child Thief can’t be pinned as So Bad It’s Good. It’s poor, but it’s not Tommy Wiseau-acclaim-bad. The only way I can describe it is So Disorderly It’s Weird. But it has potential for being SO Weird It’s Kind Of Genius. Which makes it So Almost SO Weird It’s Kind Of Genius It’s Frustrating.

The book’s biggest detriment is that it takes itself too seriously. The author’s motivating in writing the book (this is fact) was that he recognized that the beloved original tale of Peter Pan has a lot of dark elements, but continues to be celebrated as a children’s story. And he wanted to take that notion and run with it. What happened was that he selectively fell in love with elements of that concept, and instead of writing a story that was meant to pull the rug from under us, he ended up writing a run-of-the-mill edgy dark fantasy that he was obliged to pepper with Peter Pan references. Instead of pulling the entire rug beneath our feet and hauling us onto our asses, he took a small handful of rug here and there and just occasionally tugged at it roughly, so that we’d almost lose our balance and get annoyed and tell him to stop.

The book lacks its own conceptual self-awareness that it built for itself, and the result is two different bodies trying to be forcibly shoved into the same book-sized box, when it should’ve been a new gross, satirical, humorous, unique body entirely.

In that sense, I really think this book could’ve been truly unironically awesome. I love the idea of cartoonishly exaggerating the dark elements (especially the violence) of the original tale that have been culturally ignored, like a lot of (or most) (or all) old children’s tales. My ideal solution to this book would actually be making it even more ridiculous in every way, but strung together with self-awareness and intention, where the author could acknowledge that the absurdity is instrumental, not indulgent. There are many aspects of the book that I really like thematically, and none of them are fully (or at all) seen through to their potential. These ideas aren’t really intentionally presented in the book, but: I like the idea that Peter is a sadistic volatile killing machine because he’s cursed with being riiiiiight on the cusp of hitting puberty, and his body is trapped without that natural sexual/psychological release, turning him into an aggressive animal constantly teased by unfulfilled subconscious heat. I like the idea that the lost boys element would be subverted into an inevitable Lord of the Flies esque shitstorm. I like the idea that the danger and villainy are at first generalized in adults but eventually presented in the children. I like the idea that every single possible fucking thing in the world—both the real world (mostly nyc LoL!) and Neverland—are a threat and are actively trying to kill the children, and the children treat it like an adventure before the horror becomes real. I like the idea of illustrating the outcome of blindly following fun naive figures of leadership. There are even a number of character interaction scenes that I like format wise. Just minus the embarrassing dialogue. That stuff's easy to rewrite in your head as you read it. Also I would take out that part in the book that I described as Bette Midler not having a shirt on while preying on a 6 year old. That part was really fucking uncomfortable. Seriously wtf, Gerald Brom.

I must concede this notion: The writer didn’t set out to create a masterpiece. He wrote the book to have fun. He succeeded, and his readers expected the same thing and received the experience they wanted. Of all the things that could’ve landed in my hands and tickled me in a weird enough way to make me wish it was better, for some reason it had to be this.

I could keep going, but...eh, (sigh).

But lastly—again, the descriptive writing of the world is very lush, and at times effectively horrific. The reading experience is a constant stop and start call-and-response of really great potential, really clumsy writing, and really misunderstood tonal directions. All those things put this book directly on the edge of FRUSTRATING. Uniquely frustrating. It couldn’t have been salvaged by the hands of a more competent writer, because the product came to light specifically out of the author’s unintentional confusion, not his laziness. A lazy product with potential can be salvaged through additions and tweaks, but The Child Thief cannot because the story was seen through the way it existed in the author’s head and heart. It is exactly what it...is. It can’t be imitated, or inspired by, or re-re-imagined. This weirdass fucking book is just sitting on this planet, being read by people, and shit. 

…..Anyway. This was all just meant to be the caption for my fan art. http://jennacha.tumblr.com/post/172559227502/i-made-fan-art-of-a-book-i-both-love-and-hate-lol

#the child thief #brom #gerald brom

[perpetually-jungshook]

Without You: Bloodstone (Part 24)

Genre: AU, bts!werewolf, fantasy, angst

Warnings: language, violence, suggestive content

Word Count: 3.2k

Summary: Werewolves, contrary to popular belief, are usually gentle creatures. Except for a very specific set of circumstances, they would never hurt a human (on purpose). The few unfortunate times when mistakes were made put a permanent dark mark on the beasts and people began labeling them as monsters. What the human population failed to recognize was the fact that they were protecting us from something much more sinister. Luckily, a few survived and the gene was passed down hereditarily until one day finding its way to me… in the form of my best friend.

Link to: Storyboard (reference pictures) | General lore post | Intimacy lore post Prologue | Previous | Masterlist | Next

Loyalty is often as blind as justice should be, as unstable as a lightning storm ought to be, and as misplaced as an opinion in the truth.

Chapter 24:

No matter how suspicious I am of Munhee, I can’t help but feel sorry for her. She’d probably just sealed a demon inside a body (which takes a lot of energy) or had banished one (whatever that entails). Now, on top of that and almost directly afterward, she has to exorcise or cleanse the traces Halsahm had left inside me.

I have so many questions, about my friends, about Jimin, about the “good spirit” that’s apparently enabling magic within me, at least according to the demon; but as Munhee leads me to one of the few unused rooms, I come to realize that even if I somehow found the words to ask, I wouldn’t retain any of the information anyway.

We make it to the nearest door that isn’t Jimin’s and she asks me to lie down. Perching on the edge of the bed, Munhee’s whole body sags in what I can only assume is exhaustion. I don’t press her for information, though the anxiety that someone is hurt beyond repair is an ever present gnawing in my brain. The fact that she says nothing is simultaneously reassuring, yet foreboding.

Hoseok walks through the open door a few minutes later, holding a book and a bucket. He sets them down, then backs away.

“I hope you don’t mind if I stay over here,” he whispers.

Munhee shakes her head, “She’s conscious this time. Hopefully she’ll be able to control herself.”

That doesn’t bode well for me.

The next few hours are excruciating. Munhee doesn’t have enough energy to do the exorcism all in one go. This leads to a cycle of incantations, convulsions, and vomiting. Obviously, Munhee only participates in one out of three of those activities. I partake in the other two.

It’s strange though, despite the full body spasms and the incredible pain that claws at me like hooks being dragged across my insides, I somehow manage to recognize a few things. The bright piercing green in Munhee’s eyes is similar in intensity to the amber color for the wolves’ and just as bright as the crimson in the demons’. I’m assuming in this case it’s a dissipative type of magic, to get rid of the evil spirit. I’m proud of myself, seeing how much my knowledge base and understanding of magic have expanded.

By the time Munhee sits back, declaring she’s finished, panting hard, Hoseok has long since gone, Namjoon stopped by to check on us and brought water, and Seokjin placed a tray at the door with food for both of us. She weakly pats my shoulder as the last of the foamy white bile expels itself from my stomach. As I look into the bucket, finding a blood laced mess, dried and crusty in some parts, highly viscous to runny in others, it almost makes me vomit again.

“I’ll get that for you,” she gently takes the bucket after closing the book. “Try to drink some water and eat what you can. I’ll have someone bring you dinner. You and I both need to get our energy back.”

Munhee stands and stiffly makes her way toward the door, book under one arm, half full bottle of water in hand, and bucket handle in the other. She scoots the empty tray into the hall with her foot before closing the door. I don’t hear her lock it.

After a small sip of water, I allow myself to collapse on the bare mattress. I feel like I’ve just run a marathon. No, realistically, more like two miles. My body aches, but the throbbing seems to have stopped. Any progress is good progress, right?

Sleep comes too quickly.

The next few days pass in a blur, a fluid state of wake and sleep. Certain things stick out to me, but they’re like events in a movie montage, only less cohesive and clean cut. One moment flows into, then tangles with the next. I remember Namjoon, Hoseok, Munhee, even Jungkook, but they’re all as tangible as ghosts. I remember food, water, moving to a bed that’s made with soft sheets and pleasantly heavy blankets.

Between these moments of lucidity, all I see are the piercing blood red eyes of demons and all I hear is the uncannily whimsical laugh of the little girl, accompanied by the whispered phrase:

You’re mine.

The first sight I truly wake up to see is Jimin. I want to recoil, but he’s not doing anything wrong. In fact, he’s sleeping, curled into a ball next to the bed, head resting on the mattress beside me. I try to keep still as I slowly regain awareness, not wanting to wake him up out of common human decency. The details of his face fade in and out of focus, but it’s more like a soft blur than the nightmare I’d been slipping in and out of.

His hair has fallen across his forehead and eyes, making them hard to see, but they are definitely closed. His breathing is peaceful and even, lips slightly parted, a little chapped. He’s not bruised anymore, but his cheeks are a bit paler than normal. Still, if he’d treated me differently, maybe I would think he’s beautiful- no, he is beautiful. If he had treated me differently, been a decent person, maybe I might have actually grown to love him.

But he took away Jungkook. He took away my freedom to choose Jungkook and for that it would take a miracle for me to even consider him as a friend.

Jimin stirs, his sleep blurred eyes opening slowly. For some reason, I don’t look away, but neither does he. This leads to a few seconds of awkward staring before his eyebrows knit, “What the fuck are you looking at?”

I scoff and try to sit up, but when that fails, I settle for turning onto my other side and facing the wall, making sure to passive aggressively bump his head. I can hear him stand, his voice a bit hoarse, “I didn’t mean that.”

“Right.”

“I’m just not used to people-”

“I don’t care what you are or aren’t used to. What are you even doing in here?”

“Well this is my room so…”

This time, I do manage to sit up. Jimin’s room? I look around, finding the space pristinely clean. I’m not sure what type I originally pinned him as, but it definitely wasn’t this type. The only evidence that the room has been lived in at all is a bookcase that I haven’t seen in any of the other rooms, which is odd considering the uniformity of the furniture in the bunker. On these shelves is a collection of knick knacks- small figurines, a frame filled with pressed flowers, a couple books with titles and authors that I’ve never seen before.

On one of the middle shelves, all by itself, suspended by a hook drilled in the backing, is a necklace. It looks like real silver.

“Why am I in your room?” I ask quietly, taking the malice out of my voice.

Jimin shrugs, crossing his arms, “Would you rather be with the dead body?”

I would rather be in Jungkook’s room, but I guess I should be thankful I’m still alive and in relative comfort. I decide not to reply, running my fingers through my hair as if it’ll clear my thoughts. I’m hungry.

“That’s what I thought,” he huffs.

Taking a calming breath, I swing my legs sideways, out from under the covers before slowly pushing myself up and deciding not to directly respond to that either, “I’m getting food.”

“Let me get it for you.”

“Don’t try to keep me in here, I’m not-”

“Do you really think I’m going out of the goodness of my heart? Because I love you?” he scoffs, upper lip twitching. “You can’t walk.”

“What are you talking about? I can walk no problem.”

As soon as I stand, I fall flat on my side. Jimin hadn’t even moved in an attempt to catch me, but I didn’t expect him to. This appears to be his preferred method of teaching.

He smirks, “So what do you want to eat?”

Fifteen minutes later, Jimin and I sit on his bed, each of us eating a cup of instant noodles, not speaking. He brought a small CD player and soft classical music or traditional folk songs trickle quietly from the speakers. It’s almost pleasant.

“Jimin, why do you hate Munhee?” I don’t look up from my noodles when I ask this, knowing it may provoke him. He hates questions, but I hate sitting here feeling idle.

“I don’t hate her.”

“But-?”

“She irritates me. There’s a difference.”

“Okay,” I relent, scooping noodles into my mouth to give me an excuse not to speak.

Jimin surprises me by continuing, “Among various other reasons, I don’t like her because she treats me like a child. Me and everyone else. I think it’s ridiculous and disgusting.”

I shrug, neither agreeing nor disagreeing, though his words do have a bit of truth to them, even if he acts unfairly or rudely. She’s clearly babied Jungkook and me on several occasions, when our limits could’ve been pushed for further productivity.

“She treats us like pets. With the others, I can understand. They need her, rely on her, have imprinted on her- whatever. They don’t mind being her puppets. But us? You, me, Jungkook… we’re different. We don’t need her.”

I finish chewing and swallowing just in time to reply, “So there’s a ‘we’ now?”

“Touché.”

“Besides, without her, I wouldn’t know what I’m doing- with Jungkook or magic.”

Jimin lets out a dissatisfied huff, “You and I both know I’ve helped you more with training Jungkook than she did.”

“That’s a very vain assumption to make.”

He rolls his eyes, “If I hadn’t said anything his progress would’ve plateaued.”

“Do you have a complaint for my magic training too?”

“No.”

“I’m surprised.”

He sets his empty cup aside, frowning, “I’m not an entirely terrible person.”

“That’s an opinion.”

I don’t know what’s making me so snarky with him. Maybe the fact that I’m tired. Maybe the fact that I’m tired of him.

Jimin sighs, his gaze dropping to the bed, “Another reason I dislike her? She was his tutor, you know.”

“Who?”

“Munhee tutored Namjoon. I’m not sure how they met or what she’d been ‘teaching’ him, but don’t you think it’s a bit suspicious that she can use magic and he’s the first one that transformed in the pack?”

A queasy feeling bubbles in my stomach, but I’m not about to start making conspiracy theories again- not until I see some solid, irrefutable evidence. As I’ve concluded before, most of my misgivings toward Munhee are based on suspicion alone and she’s quite frank and honest with me. I have no reason to distrust her. Yet I have every reason to distrust Jimin…

“What if it’s a coincidence?”

“Seriously? You don’t see the connection?” he leans forward, taking the empty cup out of my hands to set it beside his own. For some irrational reason, having nothing in my hands makes me feel alone, vulnerable. His stare pierces through me, as if his eyes were amber, but they’re not. “Wolves transform early only when there are evil spirits around. She knew Namjoon. Namjoon transformed early. She’s summoning demons, Eun.”

I’d thought about it before, especially after seeing the strange pit in the center of the workshop, but at the end of the day correlation is not causation.

“What’s your proof?”

“Namjoon being pack leader is proof enough.”

“No, it’s not.”

The conversation stagnates in a momentary lull, despite the dense amount of information he’s attempting to relay. The classical music makes the room feel oddly stuffy.

“Look, I’m not trying to make you hate her, or prefer me over her or anything. But I’m telling you, that’s what she’s doing.”

“Why would she though?” I can’t help but question him. Summoning demons? It doesn’t make sense.

Would she do it to collect the pack? For what end? She raised them, trained them. She couldn’t mean them any harm. She wouldn’t bring them together like this just to satisfy some vendetta against werewolves. Otherwise why not kill them after they’d imprinted on her, when they’re at their most vulnerable?

Of course, there’s always the possibility that Munhee would try to corrupt the wolf pack so that they eventually wouldn’t hurt demons, but who in their right mind would do that? Who would side with evil spirits? Someone threatened? She has an entire pack to protect her now. Thus the theory circles back, contradicts itself, and I can’t find a motive.

Jimin takes a while to answer, also giving me time to mull it over. I’m not sure if he’s legitimately thinking about it, or if he’s just trying to add suspense; yet when he does speak, the least I can do is appreciate his honesty.

“I don’t know. That’s what I’m trying to figure out, but you have to admit that something seems wrong.”

Jungkook had expressed the same thing to me a while ago. He had been uneasy, but I’d eventually chalked it up to the fact that they had been trapping and containing demons in the bunker. What if…? I shake my head subtly to clear it. No. I’m not going to judge her based on someone else’s gut feelings, whether I trust that person or not. If this whole bite experience has taught me anything, it’s that I need to start making decisions for myself… in the areas that I am able to.

Jimin closes his eyes for a moment before he looks away, over at the shelves, amber tendrils curling into his irises, but never fully consuming them. I follow his gaze to the silver necklace and by the time I look back at him, the piercing yellow is gone.

“Can I ask you something?” his voice is unusually quiet, almost soft.

I can’t say no. I ask him strange questions all the time, so I nod.

“Do you really think… we aren’t monsters?”

“Werewolves?”

“Yeah.”

I let out a small sigh, using it to buy time as I formulate an answer, “Werewolves fight evil spirits, so they aren’t bad in theory. But I think whether or not they are considered ‘monsters’ is up to each person individually.”

Jimin lets out a humorless laugh, “You’re saying I’m a terrible person.”

“I never said that.”

“It was implied.”

Here we go again. Can’t we ever just have one nice conversation? The classical music in the background is noticeably out of place, while at the same time contributes substantially to the overall discord.

“I’m not implying you’re terrible. I’m implying that you’re an asshole.”

“But I saved your life.”

And this is the crux of my problem with Jimin.

“You can save my life dozens of times and I still won’t forgive you for what you did.”

He stands, walking away from the bed so that his back is to me, “Is this about me biting you still?”

“Yes.”

“When are you going to let that go?”

The fact that I’d thought we might have been having a decent talk, even bonding or simply creating mutual respect… it makes his comment hurt all the more. I finally realize that the disparity between our reactions doesn’t stem from a lack of understanding about what happened, but rather from a lack of understanding about how the incident affects me.

“You’re smart, Jimin. I can tell. So why do you insist on being so oblivious?”

He turns around and for the first time, I can see the regret in his eyes, “And you’re a nice person, Eun. So why can’t you understand me? Why can’t you like me?”

“Because you refuse to-”

Before I can finish, he continues, his words clipped, “It’s not my fault. None of this is. I didn’t ask to be attacked. I didn’t ask to have that bastard’s blood shoved down my throat. And I certainly didn’t ask to be abandoned by him afterward. It’s not my fault…”

“No, but it is your fault what you say and do to me,” I remain seated, watching him carefully. “I don’t want to be mean, but it’s the truth. Whatever happened, I’m sorry, but it’s not an excuse.”

Jimin, much to my surprise, slowly lowers himself to his knees beside the bed, resting his cheek on the mattress, mirroring the position he’d been in when I woken up, except now his eyes are fixated on the silver necklace.

“You’re right.”

We don’t say anything to each other after that and I’m almost relieved when there’s a knock at the door. It’s Munhee, checking up on us. She immediately hands me a bottle of water and a silver knife, then tells me she has to do a checkup on my body and mind. Jimin doesn’t protest, whether it’s because he thinks my health is important or because I now have a weapon that is effective against him, I’m not sure. He doesn’t even look as I leave.

She leads the way to her room, asks me a bunch of questions about how I feel and how Jimin treated me. I answer all of them to the best of my ability and as honestly as possible, though remain a little vague about the topic of our “argument.” Munhee lets me go after an hour or so and I return to Jimin’s room, not knowing where else to go. I don’t want to be in “my” new room due to recent gore and Jungkook’s is apparently off limits. A comfortable bed sounds better than anything right now and that means I’m not sleeping on a bare mattress, so even if I have to negotiate and put up with…

Jimin is gone. A little relief floods through me. He’s probably off doing whatever he does when he disappears for days at a time. Hopefully he won’t be mad about me staying here. Maybe it’ll play into the whole instinct thing and soothe him, like how I started staying close to Jungkook originally.

I sigh as I settle beneath the blankets, pulling them up to my nose to shield myself from the cold air flowing out of the air vent. The classical music had been turned off, allowing my mind to wander.

Jimin had relented in the end. Maybe… he can change. It’s a bold assumption and something I’ll probably regret considering later. Still, he has been slightly different since I woke up, since the whole demon incident, and even after the bite. Maybe if I just try a little more, he’ll see that the world isn’t all bad… that the man who “abandoned him” doesn’t matter because as long as Jimin tries to change, tries to become a better person, he’ll have people to support him. I will support him.

But then a month passes, and Jimin has yet to return.

✩✩✩♔✩✩✩

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#bts fanfic #jimin #jimin fanfic #werewolf jimin #jimin angst #without you: bloodstone #bloodstone

[sending-the-message]

Anglerfish by coffinstuffer

Coyotes will sometimes lure domestic dogs out into the woods by playing with them. A single coyote will approach the dog, ears forward, tail up, acting friendly as can be. It may even roll on its back and expose its belly in a show of submission, to draw the dog into a bout of mock wrestling. Gradually, the games will push farther and farther away from home. Deep into the forest. That’s when the rest of the pack appears. Clusters. The dog’s new friend becomes its executioner as the pack begins to attack.

It’s not uncommon for lonely children to bond with imaginary companions. They invent invisible friends to pass the hours away with. It is considered a typically harmless behavior, as long as the child understands the ultimate difference between fantasy and reality.

I’ve often wondered about the correlation between invisible childhood friends and later mental disturbance. I wonder what the statistics of suicides and disappearances might look like, when juxtaposed against the incidence of imaginary friends and what age someone stopped seeing them.

The first invisible friend I can remember was named Kevin. He was a little boy just like me, if not a few years older. We used to play together on the beaches of Lake Michigan. Building sand castles, collecting rocks and splashing around in the water.

Kevin liked to swim a lot more than I did. He’d dog-paddle out far into the water, giggling and urging me to join him. I tried a few times, but whenever I swam more than ten feet from the shore, my mother would call me back. Kev and I played together almost every week from my early childhood until I was nine and my family moved farther inland.

I didn’t even realize that Kevin wasn’t a corporeal person until years later. I made some offhand comment to my mother about my old lakeside companion. She seemed confused, and said there were never any other children when we went to the lake. I would laugh and talk to myself. But there was no Kevin. At least, not that she ever saw.

Hyenas can mimic human laughter. There is a lot of African folklore about evil spirits that can imitate the voices of loved ones to draw you away from the village.

These stories might have been fairy tales, but they served a very real purpose. The people who survived were the ones who didn’t follow strange sounds in the dark.

I met Polly a few weeks after my family moved into a new house, in an area with dense forests and narrow roads. Rural Michigan might as well be the Canadian tundra. We were farther north than Toronto. Though the summers were pleasant enough, the winters got bitter cold.

I don’t know for a fact that I was the only one who could see Polly, because she only ever came around when I was alone. But once or twice, she seemed to disappear into thin air, which makes me think she wasn’t made of flesh and blood.

Polly was… weird. She made me nervous from the second she walked out of the woods. Maybe it was her bare, dirt-covered feet, or her wide, glassy-eyes. Even at ten years old, I knew that other children weren’t supposed to just appear like that. She shouldn’t have been wandering around in the middle of nowhere without an adult.

She always wore the same thing. A faded, floral dress, with her straw-colored hair in two messy braids. She never offered any explanation of where she came from or where her family lived, beyond just pointing back into the woods. She said they didn’t live far. They had a cabin out there.

I didn’t believe her.

But I was bored. No other children lived within walking distance. So Polly and I would kick a soccer ball around, and climb trees, and play cowboys and pirates. She always wanted me to come to her house. She said she had a lot of fun games there, but I wasn’t allowed to leave the yard.

Polly was predictable, at least. She was always waiting for me after school, regardless of the weather. When it got too cold out, we played up in my attic. I was alarmed by her lack of boots or winter clothing at first. But she always just shrugged and said the temperature didn’t bother her. She did try to get me to come outside with her sometimes. She’d say I didn’t really need a coat either. She said that if you stayed in the snow long enough, you’d stop feeling it.

At the time, I wasn’t certain she was trying to harm me. She was confused, lonely, and desperate for a friend. But at the back of my mind, a nagging voice told me she didn’t have my best interests at heart. So I never did follow her out into the elements without proper protection.

Sirens are an ancient idea. Creatures that take the shape of gorgeous women, or whatever their prey would find most enticing. Creatures that sing so beautifully, they can bewitch any listener. Creatures that are such effective predators, their prey doesn’t notice the trap until their ship has been dashed to bits on the rocky shore and there’s blood in the water.

My family moved just a little outside Detroit when I was about thirteen. I’m sure you’ve heard a lot of stories about what the city is like. What a ghost town it is. I’ve even heard it compared to a post-apocalyptic wasteland. But you have to understand, it was a pretty gradual descent from the 60’s until about 2000. In the early 90’s, it wasn’t in the terrible state it is now.

My parents and I moved into a relatively nice apartment complex. I went to the nearby middle school, and it was fine. I didn’t make friends very fast, but I also wasn’t scared for my life or anything.

Robert introduced himself a few days after we finished unpacking our boxes. He was fifteen. A tall, skinny black kid with a buzzed head and a thousand-watt smile. He said he lived down in one of the basement units, though I never saw it. His father drank a lot, and didn’t like company. We would sometimes hang out at my place, but it was kind of cramped, and my mother was usually home. So Robert and I spent a lot of time on the roof of the building.

It was terribly exciting. I remember the way my heart used to skip and flutter when we stole cigarettes from the corner store, or slipped a forty into our baggy jeans. On cool autumn nights, when Robert and I would lie back on a blanket and look at the stars, my skin would get inexplicably warm. I’d feel strange and fuzzy all over, and it was more than just the watery beer.

He talked to me a lot about how he wanted to be a pilot. He’d always dreamed of joining the Air Force. His dad said it was a stupid idea. They don’t let faggots in the army. I’d never heard that word before. Faggot. It felt heavy, and dirty, and also thrilling in the same way that everything about Robert was. When he cupped my face in his wide hands and pressed our lips together, it was like the hormonal floodgates burst open and I was suddenly hungry in ways I’d never experienced.

I started to suspect Robert was not real when I saw him fall nine stories into a dumpster below, and get up again without so much as a scratch on him. I decided to ignore all better judgment, because I wanted to keep kissing him.

We only lived in that Detroit apartment for about eight months. By the end, I was well and truly in love, and when Robert whispered that there was a way we could stay together–I almost listened. But I didn’t want to step off the roof. I was scared. I knew it would hurt. When I refused, Robert became despondent and disappeared. I didn’t see him at all the last three days I spent in that building.

Versions of skinwalkers and shape shifters appear in most cultures.

It’s a terrifying idea. Being hurt by something that looks like a friend. Danger that seems harmless. Wolves in sheep’s clothing.

I can’t help but wonder if something as old as humanity itself might be the thing these legends sprang from. Perhaps these stories are warnings of some primal memory. A creature that looks like a person, but absolutely isn’t.

After my parents split up, my mother and I went to Ohio. She had a sister there, just a short drive from Columbus. We all lived together in a trailer, along with my five-year-old cousin Becca.

I was sixteen by then, so I was often left to watch Becca after school and on weekends. I didn’t mind it too much. It wasn't like I had other friends. She’d fill in her coloring books while I did homework, then we’d go outside.

There was another little girl next door. Tess. She and Becca loved to run around together, racing up and down the dirt roads, playing tag. Whenever they’d go too far off, too close to the parkway for comfort, I’d call them back. Becca usually listened, but Tess always seemed reluctant. I didn’t think a whole lot of it.

One day, when I was a little too engrossed in reading a comic book and not watching the girls closely, I heard a shriek.

“Tess! Watch out!”

I looked up just in time to see a semi-truck blasting past, not even slowing down as it ran little Tess right over. My jaw dropped. Panic shot through me. Sure, she wasn’t my kid, and I hadn’t even been directly tasked with watching her, but this was still ostensibly my fault.

I was on my feet, ready to run to Mr. Callhun’s house to borrow his phone and call the police.

But Tess was still standing there. Completely unharmed. She skipped off the road, giggling and whispering into Becca’s ear. Becca still looked a bit shell shocked, but smiled and hugged Tess close.

My stomach twisted. It was terrible to see from the outside. One of those things trying to get my baby cousin.

When I got close enough, I grabbed Becca’s wrist and tugged her away. Tess eyed me. Cold and calculating. Unlike any of them had ever looked at me before.

Perhaps I’d gotten too old. The whimsical thinking of childhood had given way to suspicion and fear. Perhaps it could tell that I’d caught onto the game. Perhaps it was angry I could even still see it. Most people my age couldn’t.

“You leave Becca alone,” I said firm as my cracking pubescent voice could muster.

“Or what?” Tess smiled at me. I’d never noticed how sharp her canines were. How mean those overgrown, dirty fingernails looked. I hadn’t taken the time to get a really good look at her until that moment.

“I’ll hurt you.”

“Adam!” Becca began trying to struggle out of my grasp. Obviously embarrassed.

Tess had started to back away, still smiling. She probably knew I couldn’t do anything to her. But maybe I’d get someone who could. A priest or a rabbi or something.

“Becca.” I kneeled down to be at her eye level. “Look at me. Tess isn’t real, OK? Real people can’t get run over by a truck and live.”

“Let me go!” Becca wailed, pushing at my hand ineffectually, trying to squirm free.

“Becca. Please. It’s important. You can’t play by the road with Tess anymore. She wants to hurt you.”

Becca broke down into ugly tears. Face bright red. Windpipes constricting to form unholy shrieks. I sighed, picked her up and carried her back to the trailer. She cried herself out and fell asleep on the couch.

When her mother got home that night, I told her Becca was playing way too close to the road and wouldn’t listen when I said it was dangerous. I hoped that was enough to warrant keeping her inside for a while.

It wasn’t more than a few weeks before Becca stopped talking about Tess. When I asked, she said that Tess had gone away. I took comfort in the fact that I hadn’t seen her around either.

Anglerfish are grotesque creatures. Ugly, with long fangs and dull eyes. But in the depths of oceanic trenches, they can hide in the shadows. The only visible part of them is the glowing ball of light that sprouts from an antenna at the top of their head.

They advertise salvation, the only source of illumination in the pits of despair. But any creature that takes the bait meets a sticky end.

I still see them every now and then. Little old ladies begging for help across a busy street, right when the light is about to change. Pretty strangers at bars who are far too aggressive in urging me to have another drink. Lonely hitchhikers that ask to travel to places the GPS will never find. But don’t worry. They know the way.

I’m not sure what they are. I can’t be the only one who notices them. After all, most of us had the ability at one point. We just grew out of it. Perhaps we shed it as a survival mechanism.

Perhaps I’m one in a million. A kid who got stuck with a genetic allele that should have been bred out generations ago. Perhaps my existence is purposeful, and I’m a new evolution when it comes to defending ourselves against the strange and bitter unknown.

I can only say one thing for sure. Keep a close eye on your children when they start to tell you about their new invisible friend. Chances are, that friend is not friendly at all.

#reddit #nosleep #scary #story

[wordcollector]

Animated Life Lesson #4: Growing Up

Growing up (verb phrase) - to be or become fully grown; attain mental or physical maturity

Over the Garden Wall is one of the most bizarre, most brilliant, and most beautiful shows I’ve ever seen.  It manages in ten short episodes to convey more whimsy, danger, and dread than many shows do in an entire season, and the plot, while concise, is still wonderfully written.

The story follows half-brothers Wirt and Greg as they travel through a fantastical world trying to find their way home.  Along the way, they meet quite the cast of interesting characters, from the elderly Woodsman to the sarcastic bluebird Beatrice to the terrifying Beast.

There’s also a town full of pumpkin-wearing skeletons, a singing frog, a young girl controlled by a magical bell, and an old woman who stuffs wool into peoples’ heads to make them her servants. And all of these characters live in the Unknown, which is almost a character unto itself.  Wirt and Greg explore the forest, visit the mansion of a tea baron, ride a ferry full of frogs, and spend a day in a school teaching animals how to read.

If all of that sounds ridiculous, that’s because it is.  But underneath all the nonsense and eccentricity is the constant threat of the Beast, an ancient creature who uses trickery and terror to lead souls from their paths, keeping them lost until they give up and begin to transform into the Edelwood trees that the Beast needs to stay alive.  Over the Garden Wall is actually quite like a fairy tale from the Brothers Grimm, one that may seem fun and funny on the surface, but is actually quite dark and horrifying when you look a little closer.  However, it’s when we look at these deeper aspects that the true lessons of the show begin to appear, mainly lessons on maturity, responsibility, and finding yourself forced to grow up in a world and a place that you don’t understand.

Wirt is the older of the two brothers, and although he may be dressed quite whimsically, he’s actually quite serious.  He’s your typical teenager that’s been thrust into a situation he doesn’t like, and his cynicism and stubbornness, while funny at times, end up causing problems for their group from time to time.  Wirt is prone to bouts of melancholy, and he’s in that stage of life when most things are embarrassing, and so he keeps a lot of secrets. In fact, trying to avoid embarrassment was what landed him and Greg in the Unknown in the first place, although I’m certain Wirt wouldn’t see it that way.  Wirt is also the type of person who doesn’t like to take responsibility for his actions, especially if he can conceivably blame things on his brother. To be fair, it is often Greg’s fault, but it’s Wirt’s responsibility as the older brother to be the mature one in the situation. 

Unfortunately, Wirt is initially too unsure of himself to even take advantage of being in charge, as most older siblings are fond of doing.  This begins to change, though, as Beatrice pushes him into taking action, whether it’s just to get directions or to play the bassoon to keep them from getting thrown off a ferry full of frogs.  Wirt begins to imagine himself as a hero and accordingly begins to act braver.  This act only works for a while, though, until Beatrice betrays them, and Wirt beings to give up hope, leaving him open to an attack from the Beast.

Luckily, Greg is there to save him.  Greg acts like you’d expect a younger brother to act: silly, friendly, weird, and mischievous.  He wears a teapot on his head, has a pet frog whose name changes countless times throughout the series, stores candy in his pants (not the pockets, mind you; actually in his pants), and enjoys sharing ‘Rock Facts,’ which are false facts he makes up on the spot.  But Greg is also brave, thoughtful, and endlessly optimistic, and his weird plans usually work for getting them out of a tight spot.  It’s a stark contrast to his older brother, and while Wirt gets annoyed with Greg’s antics, Greg is never too bothered by his brother’s put-downs or stern commands.  Greg is the one that keeps things light even as the darkness grows near. 

But Greg’s childish fun doesn’t mean he’s not smart; when Wirt decides to stop trying to find their way home, Greg works hard—or dreams hard—to be a good leader.  He’s willing to do whatever it takes to save them.  When he’s told that Wirt is lost and will never return home, Greg blames himself for being too busy goofing off to notice that Wirt needed his help.  Not that Wirt would’ve admitted to needing help, but it’s certainly not Greg’s fault that they’re lost in the Unknown. And when he has the chance to save them, Greg takes it, giving himself up to the Beast in exchange for Wirt’s freedom.

It’s interesting that Greg is the one to first show signs of growing up.  He is more than happy to interact with and learn to understand the people of the Unknown, he accepts responsibility for his antics, and he’s willing to face the consequences of his and Wirt’s actions in this strange world.  Although he still carries on and goofs off like a young child, Greg is maturing and growing in his own way, and it really shows when he sacrifices himself for his brother’s mistakes.  It takes bravery and love to give himself up to the Beast, especially since he has to at least have some idea of how terrible the Beast truly is, yet he is willing to do whatever is necessary to ensure Wirt makes it home. 

It’s actually quite sad to think about, yet it’s exactly what Wirt needs to realize that he’s been the one acting like a child.  If he hadn’t overreacted in the cemetery, they wouldn’t have landed in the Unknown.  If he would’ve waited on the Woodsman, they would’ve had help finding their way from the start.  If he would’ve listened to Beatrice, he would’ve known she wasn’t going to betray them. If he would’ve trusted his little brother, he wouldn’t have lost hope and thus lost Greg to the Beast.  Wirt realizes it’s all been his fault, and now it’s his responsibility to make things right.  

Wirt fights his way through a snowstorm to reach Greg, and when he finds his brother, he apologizes for everything.  It’s a big step for Wirt, who hasn’t apologized for anything up to this point, and it’s a sign that he, too, has grown during his time in the Unknown, so much so that he is willing to make his own deal in order to save his brother’s soul.  But Wirt is smart, and he sees through the Beast’s trick before both boys are trapped in the woods.  With some quick thinking, he manages to free the Woodsman from the duty of the Beast’s lantern, help Beatrice and her family become human again, finish the Beast, and return Greg and himself to their world.

It’s as if Wirt has been saving up all his potential during their journey through the Unknown, and suddenly he has all the bravery and wisdom he needs to help everyone, including himself.  If he had had to make a deal with the Beast when they first arrived, Wirt would’ve been too unsure of himself to question the Beast, too afraid to do something wrong, and both he and Greg would’ve ended up trapped forever.  But having seen the way the Beast terrorized the inhabitants of the land and how he had hurt Greg, Wirt realizes that it’s his responsibility to help, and so he manages to save the day.  

And the lessons they’ve learned in the Unknown aren’t forgotten when they wake up back in the real world.  Greg is just as goofy as ever, but I’m sure he would make the choice to sacrifice himself for his brother again, especially now that he knows that Wirt will come to save him.  And Wirt’s newfound bravery allows him to talk to Sara, the girl he’s been trying to impress, and invite her over to his house to listen to some tapes.  It’s a silly yet sweet ending, and it shows that although Wirt and Greg still have a lot to learn as they grow, their adventures in the Unknown showed them who they truly are and who they may grow to be.

Over the Garden Wall is weird, whimsical, and wonderful.  The art of the show is beautiful, evoking an old-timey feel even as the aesthetic changes between episodes.  The original songs are fantastic, ranging from hilarious to creepy, and they help to set the mood as the story moves along.  The whole atmosphere is that of an almost-recognizable world, one close enough to the real world to seem familiar yet different enough to make you question everything.  Wirt and Greg wonderfully represent their respective age groups, yet they don’t come across as stereotypes, and the ways they change over the course of the ten episodes is great to watch.  Greg is funny, and Wirt is moody, but they learn to appreciate one another, and it’s heartwarming to watch as their relationship goes from begrudging half-brothers to brothers who are also friends. 

I don’t think I could decide which of them is my favorite, although I have to say I really love Beatrice and the growing up she herself does throughout the story. There’s just something about her sarcasm and older sister-like bossiness that I can really relate to, and I’m sure other adults can relate to her as well.  Both adults and kids will love this mini-series, although the things they like about the show are likely to be quite different.  But everyone can appreciate the lessons about relying on family, making the best of a bad situation, taking responsibility, and growing up in general that Wirt and Greg learn.  It’s a whimsical journey through the Unknown, but it’s one you don’t want to miss.

#Over the Garden Wall #greg #wirt #the beast #the unknown #beatrice #bluebird #potatoes and molasses #rock fact #growing up #maturity #edelwood tree #soul stealer #animated life lessons #animated shows #miniseries #cartoon network #old timey #whimsical #into the unknown #lessons from television #brothers #sacrifice #fairytale #grimms fairy tales #otgw #otgw wirt #otgw greg #otgw beatrice #otgw the beast

[poeticandvaguelysweet]

Prompt #152 - Sully

@@cometothedarkside-x : Owen and Claire get together after the events at the park, but then break up and he leaves the city/country (up to you). Several years later, he comes back and runs into Claire with a kid. Based on the child's age and appearance, he figures out he\she is his. The rest is up to you! Doesn't have to be a happy ending.

Ok. So. I don’t expect anyone to like this. Any messages to my inbox claiming that you don’t will go ignored. I just played with an idea I wanted in a format that isn’t usually used and thought - to hell with it. 

I do hope, that there are at least a few of you who are like ‘aye, Lucy’s alright’. 

AO3

SULLY

It was Autumn in New York, the rain holding off in greying skies above the city. Owen didn’t know what he was doing there. He hated big cities, loathed them with a passion only reserved for those who preferred solitude deep in the woods.

‘You know this park is massive right, Laura?’ Owen huffed, trying to pinpoint where exactly his sister was going to meet him. Central Park was bigger than he had imagined. Now that his feet were above its soil he understood the sheer size that he had once been warned about. Laura Grady had missed the memo after living there for three months. Maps were scarce, Owen’s eyes scanning light posts in the hope of locating his position. ‘I got off at the museum like you told me to, crossed the road, entered the park - now I’m walking straight and I still don’t see you.’

When he promised he’d come visit his baby sister in her fancy new city, Owen didn’t think it would entail getting lost in order to find her. She swore it would be easier, as well as crossing a few items off her list of ‘things to do in NYC with your brother’ to meet in the park rather than her office or a chain coffee shop.  

‘Just keep walking, I’ll find you.’ She shot back, audibly rolling her eyes as Owen hummed. ‘Tell me what you can see.’

‘You’re never going to find me.’ He rolled his own eyes, describing trees and rock formations until he came across a fenced in playground. Laura only hummed, taking his information and adding it to her mental knowledge.

She had no idea where he was.

He huffed, only slightly, tired and amused as Central Park moved around him Owen stepping across the gravel as he delved deeper. He was mostly alone, a few bodies appearing on different tracks almost out of nowhere before continuing on their way. Owen could hear Laura on the other end asking someone for directions, voice slightly frustrated, making him laugh. Three people joined him on his path when he encountered a fork in the road. Owen couldn’t help but watch them, still a few feet away, as they walked. A woman and two boys, one practically an adult, the other not quite big enough to be in school. She had a phone pressed to her ear, likely on some business call, while the other was held diligently by the little boy, small hand wrapped around three of her fingers.

With his free hand, the child clutched onto the neck of a plastic Stegosaurus as the woman - his mother - kept her pace slow enough for the boy to follow along. Her outfit called out business rather than outing with your son which was enough to rile Owen up and humble him all at once. He couldn’t help but chuckle at the boy and his toy, despite his past Owen was glad to know that children still found excitement in the prehistoric creatures he used to work beside. Kids were predictable like that, fascinated with the old and no longer living, their imaginations running wild with the wonder that those beasts used to walk the same earth they did now.

Owen was enamoured with the little boy, grin on his cheeks enough to make his whole week. Without a doubt, he could agree to being the same at that age and with some small portion of his heart, Owen wanted to admit to dreaming of a son exactly like the child in front of him.

It was an easy breeze that pushed the woman’s hair over her shoulder, pulling it free from the lapels of her coat and edge of her beanie. Owen’s heart stopped his happy mood slipping away as his stomach clenched. Red had become a harsh shock to his system. It didn’t matter where he saw it, or who it was on; it always made him think of Claire. His chest ached, small ball of longing and misery contracting behind his ribs. Claire Dearing was long gone, time eclipsing four years since she walked out of his life.

‘Mommy, look!’ The fields in the centre of the park revealed themselves in wide green spaces as a group of men just to the left of the path played baseball behind a low fence. The child ran towards them, stopping at the fence only to partly climb it.

The woman turned towards her child, profile grinning in Owen’s eyes as his heart skipped one beat too many. ‘Don’t climb the fence, Sully.’ She warned, scolding her child from a few feet away.

‘I’ve got him, Aunt Claire.’ The older boy called back as his lifted the child - Sully - from the fence and sat him on top. Owen could barely catch the minute details of their afternoon lives as his eyes flew back to the woman. She wasn’t just any redhead in Central Park. Of course she wasn’t. There with a little boy and her nephew Zach was Claire Dearing. Owen cursed himself for not noticing her sooner, for not catching the sway of her gait or the sound of her voice drifting from the trees.

‘Hey, I think I can see you.’ Laura’s voice reached him, sounding in his ears as Owen’s eyes jumped between Claire and the little boy she was with. ‘Turn around.’ Just as he did Zach turned, one hand shoving his phone in his pocket as the other held securely to the toddler. Zach saw him, mouth opening a little as his eyes jumped to his aunt and back to the man he had once considered uncle. Owen was stuck. ‘Hey, big foot,’ Laura’s voice travelled through the phone speaker and from the space behind him as a small hand poked at his shoulder causing Owen to break his contact with Zach in order to turn and greet his sister.

‘Looks like you’ve seen a ghost.’ Laura remarked with a frown, as her brother tried to hurry them away from the centre of the park, Claire’s name on his lips. ‘What? Claire? Really?’ Laura stopped in her tracks, turning instantly to get a visual on the woman she used to adore. ‘I forgot she moved here. Do you think she’ll want to go to lunch?’ His sister wouldn’t budge from her place in the middle of the walkway, blatantly staring at Claire and the boys she was with.

‘Lor, she has a kid, let’s go.’ He tugged on her arm a second time, voice pleading with the young woman like she was dangling something in front of his face, refusing to let it go. ‘I really don’t want her to see me.’

Laura didn’t argue this time, instead she turned, willing to lead her brother away. ‘I forgot she moved out here.’ She hummed, hand circling the air. ‘She didn’t waste any time with moving on.’ Laura was never one for beating around the bush, shorter than her brother by a whole foot, his sister forgot to tread quietly around gentle topics. She made up for her height in a blunt personality and an unapologetic nature that usually made him laugh. Not this time.

She shied whimsically, elbow hitting at his side as they walked. ‘To think I thought you guys were going to be the ones with wedding bells and baby clothes … strange to think Claire got all that away from you.’ There was no doubt Laura Grady had once adored Claire, the two women getting along like sisters until one left.

‘Way to make me feel good, Lor.’ Owen grumbled in return, already feeling the brooding thoughts brew in his head. Had he dreamed of a life with Claire that included growing old and starting a family in blissful happiness? Yes. Broken pieces of that fantasy still remained lodged in his chest.

[…]

Laura had tucked them away in a dark and atmospheric restaurant when Owen’s phone buzzed, the contact old and unused for too many years. His sister watched him cautiously, eyebrow raised, food in the air as she tried to read Owen’s face. They were supposed to have a weekend together, like the times they had when he was on leave. Since arriving in New York City Owen was only plagued by ghosts.

Zach Mitchell

7:48pm

What are you doing in New York?

Zach’s message was vaguely threatening. At least, it was in the tone Owen had read it in. Zach was protective of what was his, always had been in a way. After the incident no one could get to Gray unless Zach allowed it and if his aunt didn’t live with Owen, the same would have gone for Claire. The eldest Mitchell would have fought armies in order to keep his family safe and happy. Owen had always admired him for that — and the fact that the boy always managed to top him in Call of Duty.

Owen Grady

7:50pm

Visiting Laura

‘Everything good?’ Laura asked, bright smile pulling her cheeks wide. She watched her brother respond, barely able to give her half the smile he usually handed out. ‘You know, you could just call her. Ask to catch up?’

He shook his head immediately, ‘Laura, no. She - I don’t know, she has a family.’ Owen really didn’t want to discuss it, not with the girl he had always kept his relationships from. He felt it antagonistic to approach Claire now that he had seen her. She had been saved by divine fate in not catching a glimpse of his face. That was enough. She had a life - without him. If he made himself known she would only resent him for doing so.

Their silverware clinked against their plates as silence slowly settled over them. Laura opened her mouth to speak when Owen’s phone vibrated beside his hand, his eyes instantly on it.

Zach Mitchell

7:51pm

Aunt Claire can’t know you’re here. She’ll flip.

Owen’s brow crinkled, concern drawing on his face as he turned his screen towards his sister. ‘Why would Claire care whether I was here or not?’ Laura squinted at the screen as she chewed, concerned eyes raised to her brother. He knew she wouldn’t like it, but he got something else from Zach, a sense of secrecy that Claire didn’t want him anywhere near.  

‘I wasn’t going to say anything.’ She sighed, still unsure on biting her tongue or not. ‘That kid looked a little too big to be conceived after she moved here.’ Laura watched her brother’s heart stop, face expressionless just like their mother when Owen announced that Claire had moved away. He never knew how to display emotions other than rage and even when Owen bottled that in his face remained still.

‘What are you trying to say?’ He almost growled, words forced out from between clenched teeth.

Laura sighed, ‘I’m trying to say that I think he might be yours’. There was no telling what was going on in her brother’s head as he stared at his plate, face drawn in though, slight crease in his brow. ‘I mean, I didn’t get a good look at him. But there’s a chance? Right? You were with her two years …’

Owen shook his head softly, the movement barely there as he raised his eyes to his sister. ‘Claire wasn’t pregnant when she left. She would have told me.’ Laura wasn’t entirely convinced. She adored Claire but when that woman had her mind set on something she was stuck like glue. Claire wanted out of small town Washington State and if she had to keep secrets from Owen to get it; she would. ‘Zach just confirmed it.’ She barely spoke, turning her brother’s phone back to him.

Without noticing, Laura replied to Zach via his phone asking bluntly if the little boy in the park was his. Zach’s response came five minutes later while Owen internally pulled his hair out in panic. All it was were three small letters, no detail beyond that, just a simple; yes.

Zach

8:10pm

His name is Sully

‘I need to see him.’ Owen pushed up from the table, dishes clattering as his chair screeched across the floor. Laura was up with him, trying to grab hold of his arm as Owen moved for the door.  Being taller than her by a far distance, Owen’s strides were longer. He didn’t wait for his sister to flag down a waiter and pay for their meal, nor did he wait as he marched up the street, heading in an aimless direction.

‘Hey, big foot! Wait up!’ Laura called, breaking into a sprint to catch the man.

‘I need to see him.’ He growled for a second time, Laura humming in response before she realised he was on the phone. Her heart stopped, mind desperately praying that he had not dialled a number connected to Claire. ‘Please, Zach, you have to sort something out for me.’ She exhaled loudly, air puffing her cheeks as her whole body relaxed. He could have potentially made things worse if he called Claire directly and demanded to see a child she had withheld from him.

Laura Grady could count on one hand the number of times she heard her brother beg in her life. The world usually handed everything to Owen on a silver platter. She walked behind him, listening to her footfalls on the pavement as he begged and pleaded for something he didn’t even know was his until ten minutes ago. Owen was desperate, enough so to try to bargain with a twenty-something in order to go behind Claire’s back.

He seemed so small in the dark, even though his back towered taller than Laura dreamed. With the phone disconnected and pulled from his ear, her brother seemed to fold in on himself. ‘What’s the verdict?’ She asked, alluding to the fact that she hadn’t listened in on his conversation.

‘I get an hour tomorrow.’

[…]

‘Now,’ Zach started, stopping in the middle of the sidewalk to crouch in front of the little boy. ‘Do you remember what we talked about?’ He asked and Sully nodded, little boy watching him nervously. ‘What was it?’

‘Don’t tell mommy.’ Sully whispered, hand covering his face. ‘I don’t like secrets, Zachy.’ He added, eyes wide, mouth wobbling. Zach only pulled him into a hug, squeezing the little boy before letting him go.

‘It’s not a bad secret, Sully. It just something we can’t tell your mom.’ He could feel the child’s worry as much as his own and it was enough to make Zach want to turn around and call an end to their day altogether. Owen wasn’t a bad person, never was and never would be, Zach Mitchell was sure of it. He just didn’t like to sneak behind his aunt’s back. Telling Claire that Owen wasn’t only in New York City but was also aware that he had a son, wasn’t an option.

Owen was already there, waiting on the bench opposite the playground fingers tapping on his knees as his head scanned the area every thirty seconds. From their distance, Zach could see he was nervous, a trait he didn’t know the older man held. Sully’s hand in his was weak as they walked towards him, Zach calling out and waiving the man down as Scully stopped in his tracks.

‘C’mon, Sully, this is my friend.’ Zach encouraged, pulling on his hand a little with a pained smile. Owen approached them instead, instantly dropping to his knees in front of Sully. ‘This is Owen, remember, I told you about him on the subway.’ Owen barely looked up at Zach, his eyes remained focused on the little boy in front of him.

He couldn’t believe he missed it the day before. Sully was a few inches short of Owen’s hip, his hair sandy blonde, his skin fairly tanned, a few stray freckles loose on his nose. His eyes, Owen was drawn to the most, one blue and the other green. The boy was nervous, standing in front of a man he didn’t know eyes sitting everywhere but on Owen as he shuffled to stand behind his cousin.

‘I like your socks,’ Owen commented, pointing to the child’s feet where green and yellow stripes poked out between the hem of his jeans and his loafers. ‘Did you pick them today?’ He asked quietly, trying for a gentle smile instead of the desperation he felt beating against his chest.

Sully hid everything but a green eye behind Zach’s legs, hands gripping tightly to his jeans. ‘I want mommy.’ He whimpered, disappearing completely behind Zach.

The older boy only stepped away, a hand on Sully’s shoulder. ‘I’ll tell you what,’ he tried for bargaining. ‘My friend Owen knows lots about dinosaurs, I thought we could maybe go into the Natural History Museum and let him teach us something. We can go see your mom for lunch afterwards. How does that sound?’

Sully was hesitant with Owen just as Zach was, ready to pounce if the man decided to pick up the boy and run away with him. The boy kept Zach between himself and Owen there whole walk to the museum, head poking past Zach’s legs to look at him occasionally as Owen did the same.

It wasn’t until they got inside and their tickets were paid for that Sully spoke directly to the new stranger in his life. ‘Wrong way.’ His voice was quiet, fingers in his mouth again as Owen veered for the stairs, already privy to the knowledge that the dinosaurs were on the fourth floor. ‘Mam-mals,’ Sully pointed to the opposite staircase, the one leading down instead of up with the hand that held onto his Stegosaurus.

‘Dinosaurs?’ Owen asked, finger pointing to the ceiling. Sully shook his head, hand stabbing the air. ‘Lead the way, little man.’ He only shrugged, Zach softly explaining that Sully was partial to the North American Mammal Hall on the first floor. It was a must whenever they entered the building. ‘I bet Claire hates this place, she’d lose too many hours in here.’ Owen chuckled, walking in step with Zach as he kept his eyes on Sully’s blue backpack.

Zach shrugged, ‘She likes it. I mean, sure, it gets boring once you know everything from the inside out but - I kid you not, she and Sully spent two hours in the Hall of Ocean Life last week. Sully doesn’t like to be over stimulated, he kind of panics. In the darker rooms here they have the space to sit on a bench or the floor and soak it in without too many added distractions. They’ve been in there a good ten times this year, but I don’t know, she sits with him and teaches him anything he asks. She’s a good mom.’ There had been no doubt in Owen’s mind that Claire would make a spectacular parent. He just never thought it was something she would actually do.

‘Hey, Sully.’ The boy stopped. ‘Which one is your favourite?’ Owen asked, catching the child’s excited expression in the dark hall. Sully lead them to the grizzly bears, sitting on the bench in front of the display where his feet didn’t touch the floor. Owen watched him instead of the frozen creatures, caught midlife. Sully was a boy of few words either because he was shy or just unsure of Owen. He had a sweet nature to him. The kind that suggested he was very close to those who loved him, and fond of curling up with them. Owen was envious that Claire withheld that from him. A rage tingled in his fingertips, causing Owen to clench his fists with a want to speak his mind to the woman who managed to crush his whole world for the second time in four years.

‘Do you have a favourite, Mr Owen?’ He missed the boy climbing into a stand, his feet on the bench as his little fingers touched the top of Owen’s hand. The boy was watching him with wide eyes, curious and unblinking in the dark space only illuminated by the lights behind the exhibits.

Owen hummed, snapping out of his thoughts as the tension in his body relaxed. ‘I’ve never been here before but I think the grizzly bears are my favourite too.’

‘Ryan likes the Bison.’ Sully extended an arm, pointing to the large display they had past on their way to the grizzly bears.

‘Who’s Ryan?’ Owen inquired, bending down to Sully’s height a little.

The boy beamed, eyes on fire as he answered Owen’s question. ’My daddy!’ He waited a beat before jumping from the bench, loafers hitting the floor with a smack as his knees caught the force from the floor.

Zach was sheepish when Owen turned to him, shoulders raised as he shrugged. ‘Ah, Aunt Claire is engaged.’

[…]

‘Hey, bug.’ Claire Dearing grinned, her voice soft in the lamplight as she kissed her son on the head before climbing into his bed. ‘This guy’s new.’ She noted, making herself comfortable as Sully touched the bear’s nose to hers. ‘Did Zach buy him for you?’ She curled her arm around her son, revelling in his warmth against her side as his head dropped to her chest. A book sat in her lap, now discarded, as she tried to focus on worming Sully’s day out of him. Her boy was quiet but he loved to boast about trips to the museum or The MET; two of his most favourite places in the world.

Sully shook his head, lips pressed firmly closed. Zach didn’t buy him the bear. ‘It was the secret man.’ He whispered so softly Claire had to strain to hear his words. He was still in her arms, tension fizzing between them.

‘What secret man?’ Claire asked softly, trying to hold back the worry she felt. As a mother, the only thing she wanted for her child was safety. Hearing Sully mention something about a secret set off all the wrong alarms in her head. ‘James, what secret man?’ The boy didn’t answer, instead his fingers twitched against his new toy’s ear, mind distancing himself from her question.

‘My name is Sully.’ He argued, body squirming away from hers suddenly as Claire’s hands reached him, pulling the boy back to her.  

‘Was Zach with you, Sully?’ She asked, half scared to know the answer. It didn’t matter how many times she had to go through it with him; stranger danger wasn’t a concept Sully grasped in its entirety. He was shy and undeniably clingy but there were strangers he would willingly run away with for no explainable reason.

Sully nodded. ‘I’m not ‘opposed to tell you.’ He pouted, Sully loved the responsibly that came with secrets. They made him feel like a grown up, no matter what it was. Keeping them was his only problem. As it turned out; Claire was the secret keeper of her son’s life, the boy entrusting her ‘in case I forget’.

She kissed the top of his head, squeezing the boy lightly before reaching for the book she had brought in to read. ‘Did you feel unsafe?’ Claire asked, prodding gently. Sully shook his head. ‘He didn’t do anything bad, did he?’ He shook his head again.

‘He lifted me up real tall to almost reach the brachiosaurus! And, and, and Owen likes the grizzly bears too!’ Claire hadn’t heard the name Owen in so long she almost missed the peculiarity of it in Sully’s speech, the boy stuttering around his words as he tried to regurgitate everything Owen taught him that day.

‘Owen?’ She asked, barely able to breathe as her heart hammered in her chest, vision blurring slightly as she started to panic.

Sully hummed, voice cheerfully adding that he was Zach’s friend. ‘He looks at me sad.’ Claire couldn’t sit there any longer, adrenaline forced her up and out of the boy’s bed, feet stumbling for the bathroom as she pushed the door open with a manic urgency. Sully was right behind her, standing in the hallway curiously, book dangling from his hand. ‘Is my brother making you sick again?’ His question was innocent, almost asked on a sigh and a giggle.

Claire nodded, only to shoo the boy away as she kicked the door shut.

A knock sounded minutes later, gentle and hesitant before Zach’s voice followed. ‘Aunt Claire? Sully said you weren’t well, are you okay?’ She felt guilty for the anger that was swirling in the back of her head. This was all Zach. They didn’t stumble across Owen accidentally in the park, Zach lead him to her son.

‘I can’t believe you went behind my back.’ She barely managed to respond, still emptying her stomach as a hand rubbed soft circles across her side. Claire couldn’t tell how much of it was anxiety and how much belonged to the morning sickness that had her seeing more of her bathroom than anything else in her life.

Zach was quiet outside the door.

Managing to collect herself, Claire returned to Sully, climbing back into the boys bed, her dressing gown pulled around her as she read him his book. She didn’t ask him any more about the man he met as they read. Instead, Sully lay with his head on her stomach periodically telling his soon to be new sibling unimportant little things.

‘When is Ryan coming home?’ He asked when they were done, face turning to look up at her with tired curiosity.

Claire bent to kiss his nose, ‘Two more sleeps’. Sully hummed, adding quietly that he missed the other man as his mother pulled herself from his bed and tucked him in. ‘I miss him too, bug.’ It was rare that they saw Ryan away for business but when they did each day was filled with longing for his return. Claire didn’t need the company of another adult every hour of every day, but when her son loved someone so dearly he cried as they left, it was hard not to wish for a speedy return.

She kissed the top of Sully’s head one more time before uttering goodnight and leaving his droopy eyes to carry him off to sleep. She waited a beat, her hand on the doorknob of his bedroom, listening for cries as she had done every night since he was born. Convinced he would be fine, she broke away.

For the last four weeks, Zach Mitchell occupied the guest room in her Greenwich Village townhouse. Her nephew was a welcomed guest, looking to spend some time in the city before his classes went back. She had nothing but good things to report back to his mother, until now. His door was open when Claire stepped towards it, standing in the space until he looked up from his phone.

‘I don’t even know where to begin with you.’ She hissed, feeling the same anger churn in her belly from earlier. ‘You’re living in my home, Zach. I cancelled the nanny today so you could take Sully to the museum and you go behind my back. I risked a meltdown, I put that on you but I thought ‘he loves the museum too much to realise it’s Monday, Zach will cope’. I trusted you with my son this afternoon. I don’t understand what you were thinking.’

‘Owen just wanted to see him,’ Zach shrugged.

‘Why would Owen want to see a child he didn’t know about?’ Claire crossed her arms over her chest.

Zach scrubbed a hand over his face, a move Owen used to pull on her all too often. He sighed, air forcing its way out of his lungs as he rolled his eyes up to look at her. ‘Look, Aunt Claire, I’m sorry. I really am.’ His phone was discarded to the nightstand, posture straightened as his face collapsed. ‘He’s in town visiting his sister and saw us in the park on Sunday. He guessed. I didn’t know what to do when he asked to see Sully. Owen wouldn’t take no for an answer and I knew if I told you it would blow the whole thing out of proportion. He just wanted to see his son, it was reasonable request.’

She shook her head, hand raised to silently stop him. ‘You should have told me.’ Claire told him bluntly, voice dropped low as she glared at him from the doorway of his bedroom. ‘In the least, if you really felt like you couldn’t talk to me, you should have lied to him.’ Zach opened his mouth to argue only to have Claire cut him off. ‘This wasn’t your decision to make.’ She wanted to say more, to yell and scream and cry, she couldn’t, not with Sully in the next room. ‘Is his number still the same?’

[…]

‘How is Laura?’ Claire asked politely, stepping around Owen as he welcomed her into his sister’s apartment. Owen hummed, Laura was good, loving city life, ecstatic that she was there. ‘Tell her she can call me, if ever she needs anything. I’ve always liked her.’ She smiled softly, not quite reaching her eyes as it fell again.

Owen awkwardly offered her a drink, frowning softly when she politely turned down a glass of wine. He hadn’t known a time where Claire said no to an offered wine or two. She stood in the centre of the living room, trying to hold the power position as her hands shook, smile ticking on her face like she was about to have a stroke.

‘I don’t know where to start.’ She laughed softly, eyes not meeting his as her fingers fidgeted with the strap of her bag.

Owen grunted, coffee mug in his hands as he lowered himself to the couch. ‘Why don’t you start with why you didn’t tell me you were pregnant four years ago.’ He watched her swallow, trying to catch her thoughts as her fingers twitched.

‘If you knew,’ Claire began, voice soft, eyes on the floorboards. ‘You would have made the wrong decision. Don’t say that isn’t true, it is. I found out after I got the job offer. We had already started arguing about whether I should take it or not.’ Owen Grady didn’t want to pack up and move to New York City for the rest of his life, sitting there in hope that Claire would be offered a better job elsewhere.

The incident was over. Their lives had settled. He had grown comfortable sleeping with her beside him, routines revolving around the other, nightmares dissolving into better things. He thought they were content to remain in Washington State, in the house her parents had left her, for the rest of their lives. Owen was wrong. He had learnt that quickly. Claire longed for the big city, to be apart of something again, needed and considered important in a tough work environment. She thrived on it, like cacti in the desert, she needed the heat. Finally free from military clutches, Owen wanted to settle down in the quiet life. He wanted a yard and a dog, he wanted a hunting cabin and a small fishing boat. He wanted lazy winters locked in doors with Claire wrapped in his arms.

They wanted different things.

He deserved his dreams as much as she deserved hers, neither of them were going to stand in the way of the other. It was everything or nothing and so they parted ways a little less than amicable.

If Claire told Owen she was pregnant, if she ever so much as hinted at there being life under her skin; Owen would have jumped into the sun to chase after her. She didn’t want him to make a decision based on something she wasn’t even sure she wanted. Claire knew without a doubt that he would settle, instantly, for a child, even if it meant moving to New York to raise them. He would sacrifice everything he had dreamed about to be by her side, to selflessly love their baby. He would grow to resent her.

‘I wasn’t going to keep him after you made your decision. I didn’t want to do this to you.’ She sighed, half pleading as Owen watched the woman he still knew as strong and powerful wilt in front of him. ‘I had an appointment,’ she rolled her wrist, letting him guess what for. ‘I couldn’t get out of bed that morning. Nothing in my body would cooperate. I don’t know why, or how, or what the universe was trying to suggest. I didn’t go. I kept him instead.’

Claire considered calling him, revelling herself to the man and the secret she was going to brush under the rug. She never made that call.

‘I see so much of you in James.’ She admitted tearfully, ‘And I hate that I kept you from him and he from you. But, Owen, this isn’t going to work. We can’t make a schedule to benefit us both.’ She shook her head as Owen raised a brow.

‘James?’ Zach called him Sully. ‘I mean, sure, it’s going to be hard, but we can work something out, can’t we?’

She sighed, biting her lip as she tried to reign in her emotions. ‘James Sullivan Dearing. We all call him Sully. After your grandad.’ She admitted, eyes on her fingers. ‘He has a thing with being called James.’ She didn’t explain any further about the inexplicable tantrums the boy threw when they used his other name. Sully was what he liked and so it would stay. ‘You’re going to fly to New York, what? Every weekend?’

Owen shrugged, ‘I mean, sure. He could come to me occasionally. I moved out to Ely 2 years ago. I think he would love it.’

‘Oh no.’ Claire shook her head immediately.

He raised his head, watching her with building outrage. ‘What, Claire? It’s a three hour flight, kids do it all the time. I’m not say right now but maybe in a year or two.’

‘He’s not flying alone. Not happening, he’s not going somewhere outside of his routine. You come here, you fly to New York every fortnight and we make it work that way but he’s not going to you.’ He could hear the panic in her voice but wasn’t understanding why. It had only been a suggestion, hope building in Owen’s chest that he could teach his son to hunt and fish like he’d have dreamed if he knew it was a possibility.

‘I will have to work at some point.’ He chuckled, trying desperately to not get frustrated.

She shook her head. ‘You don’t understand, nurturing Sully’s routine is at utmost importance. Ruin it and you risk a melt down.’

‘He’s three, Claire. You’re the last person I’d expect to bend to a child’s routine.’

‘Sully’s on the spectrum. He was diagnosed two years ago with Aspergers. When will you understand that I’m saying no?’ Her voice was wet, emotion quickly thickening her words as she watched him through blurry eyes. ‘I can’t do this Owen, I …’ she shook her head. ‘I would have told you but I didn’t …’ Her breath caught in her throat, hand sitting on her chest. ‘I don’t want you anywhere near him,’ Claire admitted quietly, eyes on the floor.

‘Excuse me?’ Owen asked, voice rough, concern crinkling his bow.  

‘I’m getting married, Owen. Ryan has been in our lives since Sully was six-months-old. We’re happy … we’re having a baby … trying to accommodate to you, it complicates it all. It’s too much happening at once for Sully, he really likes the planet the way it is at the moment and I’m scared of forcing too much on to him.’ She was trying to plead her case, Owen’s eyes no longer on her face but boring holes through the hand that rested protectively on her stomach. He never used to have terrible timing. Owen couldn’t understand how he had suddenly lost it all. It had been four years and although he left a string of one night stands in his wake he had selfishly assumed Claire would never move on.

‘You know what?’ He sighed, hand scrubbing over the back of his neck as Owen squeezed his eyes closed. ‘Just forget about it. You’re his mother, you know what’s best for him.’ He dropped to the chair behind him, head in his hands as his fingers dug into his scalp. Claire only watched, mouth agape and eyes blinking.

‘Owen?’ Her voice was soft, hands reaching for him as she stepped forward tentatively.

He growled without raising his head, words shaking through her bones as she jumped in surprise. ‘Get out.’ Her fingers barely touched his shoulder, Owen rolling it away from her as he rumbled. ‘For fucks sake, Claire, you got what you want. Now leave.’

[…]

Several Months Later

Winter rolled in the same way it did every year, with freezing temperatures and blankets of snow. The Winter Festival was in the process of being set up, as the townspeople began to bubble with excitement. This year, Owen couldn’t care less. He moved to Ely, Minnesota two years earlier, in search of change and the real life he wanted. The town was small and relatively quiet. The space around it was wide open and full of adventure.

Owen was back to being miserable again. He couldn’t help but think of Claire and Sully, small parts of himself missing in them. Claire, he could one day get over but Owen wasn’t so sure he could forget his son. Sully’s blue-green eyes haunted him, asking where he had gone in his sleep, begging the man to come visit again.

He didn’t like to cause issues for other people. Owen spent most of his life serving to protect a cause through the military and then InGen. He was cocky and self assured, he liked to poke buttons, but he never rocked the boat that wasn’t already sinking. Claire didn’t want him near Sully and where Owen didn’t agree with that approach he wasn’t about to push her into changing her mind. Instead, he held his tongue, put his tail between his legs and left the city earlier than his plans with Laura had detailed.

‘Mr Owen!’ The last thing he expected, the first week in February, snow still falling fresh on the pavement, was to hear Sully’s voice. Owen was set up in his garage, door open to let the cold air chill his bones as he tinkered with his bike. He left his car parked on the curb, giving him view of the whole street and the little boy barrelling up his driveway.

‘Sully?’ He asked, standing as his eyes squinted at the figure. The child crashed into his legs giggling loudly as Owen picked him up terrified that he wouldn’t be met by the right coloured eyes. One blue and one green grinned back at him, boy already spitting dinosaur facts. ‘What - What are you doing here?’ He peered over the boy’s head to catch another body entering his garage. Owen had never seen him before but knew exactly who he was.

‘Owen Grady?’ He asked with a grin, knowing his answer was right. ‘Ryan Frazier, Claire’s husband.’ Ryan didn’t miss the disappointment that flickered past Owen’s face, slight hurt sliding across his features before he caught it. Owen only opened his mouth, eyes jumping between the boy and the man who brought him, unsure what question he should ask first. ‘Claire had a change of heart.’ He offered simply. ‘She wanted to bring Sully herself, but the baby has her a little more preoccupied than she would like.’

The fact of the matter was, with her wedding over and her new baby in her arms, Claire felt guilty. It was something Ryan had said or done that wasn’t entirely clear to the man himself that urged Claire to forge a bond between her first child and his biological parent.  

She wanted to extend the olive branch to Owen, find peace with the pain she caused so they could move on.

Owen hummed, nodding his head softly in faux understanding. He couldn’t help the slight spur of jealousy in his gut or the anger he felt directed not only at Ryan but at Claire. With every mention of their lives, Owen only felt like it should have belonged to him. He still hated her for making choices he was adult enough to make on his own.

‘My home is occupied by women for the weekend so we men have decided to come out and explore the wilderness. I was hoping you’d be our guide.’ Ryan’s smile was warm, hopeful and all too sweet enough that Owen could see exactly why Claire liked him. He was a business man, head of the rival company she worked against. His career seemed to completely contradict his nature. Ryan was friendly, laid back and easy going. With only minutes of interaction Owen could see him as the kind of guy he would share a few beers and watch the game with.

‘Do you have a place to stay in Ely?’ He asked, curiously, generosity already breaking through his voice.

Ryan shrugged, ‘Ah, little bed and breakfast just off the main street?’

Owen scoffed, head shaking as Sully giggled at his reaction. ‘That’s no way for men to vacation.’ The roar in his chest was soft, enough for effect to excite the little boy more than scare him. ‘How about this, you guys stay here. We hunt, we barbecue, we watch sports, and act like men.’ He squeezed the boy making him giggle louder as he roared from Owen’s hip.

‘I didn’t get no brother, Mr. Owen.’ The child informed the man, smirk climbing Ryan’s face.

Owen gaped, staring in disbelief into the child’s blue/green eyes. ‘You got a sister? Okay, you definitely need this weekend.’ It was a look to Ryan that would seal them in, Owen already mentally making preparations and plans to wow the son he never knew he had. Lost time had to be made up in three days, proving himself not only to Ryan and Claire, but Sully himself that Owen was fit to be a great dad.

Ryan nodded easily, adding that it was exactly what they needed before hoping the weather wouldn’t get in the way of any activities. ‘I still need to talk to Claire.’ Owen urged, placing Sully on his feet and letting the boy run towards the door that would let him into the house. Ryan nodded again, promising they would set aside sometime after the weekend was over. ‘He’s not scared of dogs, is he?’ Owen asked with slight concern, finger pointed towards the boy just as the door opened, three Siberian Husky’s pooling out and lavishing Sully with attention.

[…]

‘He hasn’t stopped talking about that visit since he got home.’ Claire grinned, smile wide and genuine, skin on her cheeks pink with glee. He didn’t know what he was doing there, once again, sitting with Claire in Central Park by a pond. There was a pram almost surgically attached to the ends of her fingers, her touch never too far from it as the baby within terrified Owen and churned jealousy in his gut all at the same time. Her name was Eliza and already there was a stock of fussy red hair on the top of her head. Owen barely wanted to look at her, let alone acknowledge the pram as self hatred swirled in the pits of his stomach.

He was trying not to be a jealous idiot. Fuck it up and Claire would ensure he never saw his kid again. Sully barely turned his head to check they were still there, the boy crouched by the water, patiently trying to coax the ducks towards him by pretending he wasn’t there at all. Owen taught him that. Owen. He was trilled.

‘He adores you.’ Owen wanted to fight back with a comment, of course he did, he was his father, he knew what his kid would like and they never should have been separated. Again, he couldn’t fuck it up. Instead, Owen hummed, agreeing that he adored the boy in return. He did. ‘I’m sorry,’ Claire admitted quietly, eyes on Sully’s back as the trees whistled around them. ‘If I could go back and change it, I would.’ She shuddered out a breath, almost shivering in the cool air, despite her jacket. Owen wanted to reach out and tuck her into his side. That wasn’t his place any more. Ryan was supposed to be the one to keep her warm now. ‘I would have told you sooner. I don’t regret leaving you, Owen. We needed that.’ He couldn’t help but nod. Although Owen considered his life miserable since Claire left, he had managed to move, to find things, interests and adventure, a new job he loved, a life elsewhere - off the beaten path, where he couldn’t be found.

Owen wanted solitude. He wanted small town and mountains, fishing, camping, and hunting. Claire wanted New York City.

He did wish, in the slightest, that she had been miserable in turn. That maybe for a while she was alone and on the brink of calling him again. He didn’t know what he would have done if she did; pregnant or not. But Owen had a pretty strong conviction that he would have dropped everything for her; without a word.

‘I do wish I didn’t take those years from you. He’s a great kid and he deserved to have his dad.’

Owen shrugged, despite the pain he felt in his chest with every reminder than he had missed three years of his son’s life. ‘You and Ryan did a good job. You’re a wonderful mom, Claire.’ He couldn’t help but tap his index finger against her thigh, blaze and nonchalant as he watched the smile creep across her face. ‘Hey Sully?’ He called for the boy, child running to his side instantly.

Without asking, Owen stuck his hand into the backpack Claire had sat at their feet. He had seen something in there the boy would find useful and couldn’t help but impart some more knowledge to his son. ‘Now, you shouldn’t feed ducks bread, okay?’ The boy nodded, held on every word. ‘You gotta get your mom to buy you some peas and corn when you want to come down here and feed them. But, this will have to do - today only.’ He retracted his hand, unrolling his fingers to reveal a handful of crushed crackers.

Sully took them without a word, scooping the flecks of food into his tiny hands before turning around. He walked back slowly, steps calculated, hands extended in front of him as his eyes watched the food in his palms.

‘He’s got me now, though, right?’ Owen asked, turning his head away from the boy just slightly to catch the emotions on Claire’s face. She displayed everything so readily now, giving away all her secrets with every word out of his mouth.

Her smile didn’t falter as she nodded, her eyes on the boy as the ducks started to approach him. In an instant Sully was squealing with laughter, body surrounded by the small animals eagerly pecking at the crushed crackers he dropped the second they started to approach.

‘I don’t know how we’re going to do this.’ Her sigh was exasperated but joyful. ‘He has you. I promise that we’ll make it work.’

#and i gradate tomorrow so I'm like *prove* to yourself you know what you're doing bitch #because lol the way I write fic and fiction are two very different approaches #and i've been doing this so long that merging both worlds never fucking happens #i need to go find a more active fandom to get a little more love and then i'll realise it's just because we're dead here #clawen #claire dearing #owen grady #claire and owen #claire x owen #owen x claire #jurassic world #despite the odds #sullivan dearing #sully dearing #sully

[long-way-down-rp-archive]

Medb

True Name: Yes Face Claim: Gina Torres Nickname and Aliases: Medb is only how she’s known to her equals and the bold; some among that number may also speak to her as Autumn, or Mab. To her courtiers and other spirits, it’s My Queen; Your Majesty, Your Grace, or Your Highness will also do. To mortals when she chooses to walk among them disguised as a human woman, she introduces herself as Maeve.  Date of Birth: Unknown Apparent Age: Ageless beauty Actual Age: Unknown Gender: Fay gender is often nebulous, but Medb has long embodied and been worshipped and perceived as a deeply feminine figure. She/her pronouns. Kind: High Fae Calling: Ruler of the Autumn Court 

Distinguishing Marks: In High Fae form, she almost always has the wings of a hawk, though her other features may vary. In disguise as a mortal, the faint traceries of some birthmark or tattoo can be seen about her shoulder blades and back. Children or the magically inclined might have the brief taste of over-ripe fruit in their mouth when she passes by. Or they might sense a lazy warmth and a strange heady almost inebriated sensation of dizziness. Most mortals who glimpse her will remember only her beauty, and that only vaguely.

Her dark brown eyes glitter with amber sparks, and – only when she’s truly furious – the same crackle at her fingertips. The sharp tang of a thunder storm, the stench of rotting fruit and meet, and the sound of angry wasps overwhelms the senses of anyone who have the misfortune of earning her ire.

Personality: Medb embodies all the contradictions of autumn. She is warm as the midday September sun shining on a bountiful harvest; cool and unknowable as the moon luminescent in the Samhain dusk; sweetly melancholic as decaying fruit; lethal as Amanita mushrooms.

She is capricious, as all her kind are, but she is inclined towards a sense of justice and seeks peace and balance. She is proud and fierce and does not suffer fools but she also has a sly whimsical sense of humour.

She is not without compassion and she watches the mortal world with curiosity but also a certain distance – suffering will not move her to intervene, for all things suffer, even in this time of waning, her own kind, let alone the fragile creatures of the mortal world whose destiny has always been to wither and become death.

Her season is that of death and transformation. And in this time of dying magick she is torn between a bittersweet embrace of the death she sees slowly enveloping her people and the hope that transformation and rebirth of one kind or another might be possible.

History: 

Medb came into being as an embodiment of Autumn and fertility and death and sovereignty over the green Isle that her kind ruled over as gods when the world was full of magick and the Fair Folk were vibrant with power and the belief of their mortal subjects was full and heart-felt.

For centuries Medb presided over the abundance and decay of Autumn in splendour and power. Sickness, hunger, wars, family feuds might sweep through the mortal land from time to time but the turning seasons also bought bountiful harvests and babies who grew to blossoming adulthood and marriage celebrations that lasted a fortnight – and through it all, the mortals feared and respected the Fair Folk, the bright and the beautiful, and thus she and her kind flourished and frolicked and feasted.

Even when a new God’s followers invaded their Island and brought new beliefs to the mortals, still they worshiped her and the other Quarter Kings and Queens. Still, they believed. They took in the new God but they wove the substance of their true gods and goddesses all through the new faith and the Fair Folk cared naught. In truth, few of the Fair Folk even noticed the arrival of Christianity and most of those who did dismissed it as simply another mortal ephemeral folly.

It was a visceral shock when magick and the mortal’s belief in Medb and all the Fair Folk began to wane and grow thin. The mortals’ bodies grew thin too, and their spirits even thinner – subjugated by conquerors who stole not only lands and harvests but children and the right to sing their songs and tell their stories. Medb’s mortal subjects and their belief in her were being crushed and stolen from her.

The Fair Folk fought back, but too late, oh too late! Deep they had slumbered in their mounds where the passage of time warped with their own capricious nature, and carefree they had trouped through the green woods. In their age-old arrogance and contempt for the petty dramas of fleeting mortal lives, this enemy had taken them by surprise. Their powers faded as their mortal subjects weakened and broke.

Medb, unlike many of her kin, began to see that the fight was in vain. Death comes to all things – and for the first time she considered that might stalk even her and her kind. Still, she was a Queen and she must tend to her peoples’ welfare even in such impossible times. She watched her mortal subjects choose to abandon their fight, abandon their green Isle and feel to another land far across the sea. It is not an option she or any of her kind would ever have conceived of. It is…wrong. But it is also…hope? The mortals, they believed that life would be better in this New World and deep in their hearts, their stories and their songs, they still carried the kernel of belief in the Fair Folk like a seed to plant in new soil. Perhaps their escape could be the Fair Folk’s escape as well.

It is pain, pain like nothing Medb or any of the Fair Folk had ever experience or could ever have imagined, to uproot themselves from Ireland’s rich dark soil, even poisoned as it is by a crop never meant to grow there that withers and rots stinking in the ground in a terrible corruption and parody of the decay natural to Medb’s season. But they did it. Some of them. They followed their Kings and Queens and Medb followed her mortal subjects to the ports and into the foul, unclean holds of barely sea-worth vessels, captained by the corrupt and wicked. Above decks the air was bitter and burning with salt spray and below decks the mortals succumbed to fever and thirst and starvation, their emaciated bodies too weak to do more than lie in their own filth, the lucky ones on wooden bunks and the rest helter skelter on the floor of the vessel. And with each mortal death, the Fair Folk faded and weakened further. But some survived the long voyage and so too did Medb and others of the Fair Folk.

The New World is cruel too. But Medb’s people, mortals and Fair Folk alike, are tough and resilient and they carve out lives for themselves in these unfamiliar wilderness and shanty-towns. There are other inhabitants – both mortal and spirit. This, none of the Fair Folk had anticipated, though they surely should have. There are so many others, some friendly and some hostile. Some native to this land, and others refugees like the Fair Folk. Fighting and skirmishes erupt, wars are waged, and truces brokered. Medb is among those who call for peace – she cannot abide the wastefulness of such slaughter when they are all already so weakened and their numbers few.

The mortals wage war too – a war that splits and ruptures the new land they’ve found themselves in. The mortal blood seeps into the soil and in the desperate heat of battle, belief thickens just a little. Irish soldiers clutch trinkets and pour a libation on the ground for the Fair Folk. The Kings and Queens make their home in one place where that call, that pull of belief, resounded loudest – land that becomes Tennessee.

Magick still declines and the mortals are fickle and peace in the mortal world brings weakened belief. But still, there is enough. Enough for the Fair Folk to endure. Medb’s court may no longer glow resplendent as of old, her powers may falter, but Autumn comes to this land too and when the leaves of unfamiliar trees turn crimson, she wears her crown and wields her scepter and holds court as she has always done.

Time never ceases to turn. Everything gets louder, faster, brighter. There is beauty and filth, there is riches and rot, there is – a home. Even in the waning of her people, even in their slow fall from grace and power, there is home and kin and the rhythm of her season. She will rule over each Autumn and walk these new glittering streets for as long as there are still stories for children, for as long as the drunk in the corner of Jeb’s pours out a measure on the floor, for as long as some farmer remembers to leave just a few fruit on the tree in offering for a good future harvest, for as long as some remember to pay all accounts and debts by Samhain, for as long as some shout “seachain” when they toss the dishwasher out of the door into the night – even if these things are insubstantial muscle memory. Still, in all these things the thread of belief still vibrant and powerful no matter how worn and thin, sustains.

But for how long?

Family:

A beautiful younger sister, who she adored, died on the voyage. Medb does not speak of her.

In the New World, yearning for the sister she had lost, she chose once to have a child, but it was born a changeling, imperfect and damaged, and there was nothing she could do but abandon it to the mortal world. She also does not speak of it, but she yearns for it still and recently has begun to consider that the old ways may no longer serve them, that as magick fades from the world even the faded imperfect magick of changelings might be…needed? But then, she dismisses this as wistful and weak.

Sexuality and Relationship Status: Panromantic, asexual, polyamorous. She has had many rich and complex relationships – romantic and platonic – that she allows to drift closer and farther and dance in the winds of change, growth and decay like autumn leaves

Other Ties:

Sol - Medb’s path has often intersected with a certain black dog. Unlike many of her brethren she has a fondness for the creature. It’s a beautiful thing he does and if death must ever come to her or to all the Fair Folk, well, she hopes as gentle a guide will be there for them.

Wanted Connections:

The other Quarter Court Kings and Queens.

Possibly her changeling child.

Autumn Court subjects, allies and enemies, including and especially: the fairies of her court, the cabbage fairies, the farm brownies, pucas, etc.

Elemental solitary fairies and spirits of earth.

A small host of lovers; fay, spirit, and mortal, past and present.

First Nations allies and equals including: Selu and Kanati, the Yunwi Tsundi, and others.

Likes: The strange blackberries of the New World when they’re so ripe that they explode in the mouth and there’s the musk of mold hidden just behind the sweetness. The warm smell of meat and grease flooding out of an anonymous diner on a cold grey afternoon. The full red harvest moon shining over freshly mown hay fields. The swirling headlights and garish flashing neon of the city at night in the rain. The delicate beauty of a spider’s web and the neat precise way the spider wraps its next meal to keep it fresh. Dislikes: The sterile empty sharp stomach-lurching smell of modern hospitals. Fields left fallow and empty. Styrofoam cups and plastic bags and six pack rings and all the things that fail utterly to decompose. Dishonesty. Hobbies: Walking unseen or unremarked through the glittering cities, squalid slums and humble farm-houses of her mortal subjects, or rarely, dazzling those she favours with a smile that shines with more beauty and terror than such minds can quite understand. Lingering in places of death, decay and transformation and revelling in the power of her season. Watching over the small moments of red leaves spiraling down to the black dirt, of the slow desiccation of the corpses of small furry creatures, of plums turning wine-ripe and rotting. Skills: Leadership, the crafting of precious gems and finery, the tending of gardens and the harvest, the easing of death. Places: The Autumn Court’s mound, in which they slumber and dream away the other seasons, lies within the great cavern that mortals call Rumbling Falls Cave. Marked as dangerous and closed to the public, few humans venture there though Medb’s fay tend their glamours and barriers to ensure that even the stray daredevil sees and senses nothing but a faint chill and prickling skin.

In the waxing of Autumn, Medb’s Court troupes forth and riotously parties through all the Irish pubs and bars of the city, through the farms and markets full of the bounty of the harvest, feasting and revelling in all the rich abundance of the season, visiting and renewing all their sacred spaces.

In Autumn’s Great Hall, an ancient abandoned barn on the outskirts of Nashville, Medb holds court in as much dusty splendour as the waning of her and her court’s powers permit. She settles disputes, reaffirms old alliances, holds to account boons given and favours owed,

Other spaces sacred to the Autumn Queen and her court include: St. Dunstan’s Catholic Church, a very old and very large hawthorn tree in the middle of a corn field, an ancient abandoned barn on the outskirts of Nashville, wishing wells throughout the city of Nashville, a ring of tiny standing stones placed by a child in an suburban Nashville yard beneath an oak tree, a number of rag trees scattered through the suburbs and farmlands, all the old cemeteries, and many other small and large places of lingering power and magick. Pets: Einin, a massive Red Kite – larger and more beautiful than any mortal Red Kite – who came with her from Ireland. It rides upon her shoulder or circles far above and returns to whisper in her ear. And Una, an equally out-sized copperhead snake, who sometimes coils around her upper arm in a cuff or about her neck like a necklace.

Known Magic: She draws her powers and a raw elemental magic from and of earth, decay, fruitfulness. Glamours, healing, some enchantment and telepathy are in her purview as is the ability to sense another’s magic-working. Magical Items: Apple shaped scepter carved from amber. Crown woven of dried grass, sticks, briars and flowers from the Old Country.

Rumors: The Fairy Queen lives woven through Irish and English literature and oftener than not, it’s Mab, Medb, Maeve, or some other linguistic derivative they name. It’s her and it isn’t her in every Queen of a dangerously beautiful underworld. It’s her and it isn’t her in the garish and tarnished modern remnants of the rituals of Samhain. It’s her and it isn’t her in older tales of goddess of sovereignty and the land corrupted by Christian monks and twisted into smaller roles. Her silhouette flickers in and out of focus in so many stories and it’s hard to know what fragments are her and what fragments are of her sisters of other Courts and Seasons. Rumours of her are like a broken mirror – shards of it glitter in the strangest places but it will never again reflect her face whole and entire and magnificent.

Here in Nashville, Medb presence is felt in strange and little ways…

She is certainly most strongly felt in Autumn and in the spaces and rituals of Autumn.

Also unsurprisingly, the Irish pubs and churches and communities feel her presence the most.

The dying often feel her presence. She is especially drawn to women who have died in pregnancy and to still born children – that contradiction of death and fecundity at the same time.

She is often known to those who live in the street as Our Lady Maeve. She bestows blessings of golden coins and easy deaths upon them.

Within the Fair Folk she is known as one of the most powerful they still have. She’s also known as an arbiter of peace. Lately she’s been withdrawn and thoughtful and there are worries and whispers that she may be the next to…disappear. Others say that instead, she’s working on a salvation, some majestic return to their old powers.

Writing Sample:

It is not yet her season, but sleep eludes Medb. In this mood, the beauty of her boudoir fails to soothe her. Instead, twisted about within sheets of silken glamour, she feels the crunch of dead leaves against her skin. She should sleep, she knows this, allow the erratic passage of time to roll over and through her slumber and conserve her strength – as all the Fair Folk must do now. Most of her court sleeps around her – their myriad forms curled in hammocks and green bowers, perched on gilded roosts and nests – but she is restless. Restless as a young thing, restless as those precious few young ones they still have.

Medb’s faithful Una and Einin are awake as well… Una’s red-golden scales shimmer as she boils and uncoils about her mistresses’ arm. Einin’s feathers rustle as he grooms himself, perched on the great carved knob of her bedpost. Impatience seizes her and she swirls out of bed and with a gesture wraps herself in the garb and guise of a human skin. A Queen may indulge her whims and fancies and tonight she shall not resign herself to boredom. She slips out through the towering majesty of the Autumn Court’s caverns and halls and into the sultry night. The Summer King and his people’s revels will be in full swing now, but she will not join them.

Una glides along the ground beside Medb and Einin soars on the warm updrafts above her. She breathes in the smell of fruit ripening and she knows that soon it will be her season with all its attendant responsibilities, but for now she is free and follows her whim to the great glittering city the mortals have built here. Such bright lights and cacophony of sounds. Such filth and beauty. It is all such rich excess – it still surprises that her mortal subjects should be capable of such. They are so fragile, so weak, and so ephemeral, but this city of theirs is a thing of delight and wonder.

Currents of love and loss, growth and decay, swirl over Medb’s tongue and she is so thirsty for it all. She follows her thirst to a bar, and laughs softly at that. Warm golden light spills out of the windows and she is content to watch and lean against the cold stone walls. She casts a golden coin in the cap of the old homeless man she shares the corner with and he smiles up at her, grateful as the penitents of old.

Men spill out of the door and she smells beer, onion rings, bloodlust and the thrill of the fight. They watch the rough fisticuffs for a moment, Medb and her familiars, but something more potent is in the air and they drift onwards.

Streets away they watch paramedics wrest a pregnant woman from a wreck of molten metal wrapped around a lamp post. The paramedicas are all lightning quick efficienciy and they move flawlessly around her without ever breaking stride when she moves closer and lingers by the dying woman. For a mortal, she is beautiful, and as she whispers, “Mother, help me,” Medb allows her to see her as she brushes the scarlet curls from her face – a small benediction. She can smell the dog already and knows he’ll be here for her soon so she leaves her.

There is a heavy weight upon Medb, always now, questions she must answer, a slow death to embrace or transformation to fight for, but she sheds that tonight like Una sheds her skin. She follows the taste of magic. Loses herself in the swirl of the city until time’s flow matters little. They watch it all – Medb, Una and Einin – and it is such a pageant, oh! The stories repeat, yes, but always with some differences, some new twist. They always end in death, of course, but death has its own beauty and Medb has her own kinship with it. Though whether she can accept its embrace is another thing entirely. And there, those thoughts intrude again. There are responsibilities that cannot be shirked and already she begins to feel the tug deep in her bones as Summer begins to cool and her seasons begins to rise with the moon. There are ancient duties she must attend to and the little passion plays of these trifling mortals must continue without her.

When Medb returns to her boudoir, her servants have begun to stir and hurry to attend to her. They dress her in splendour and she, as always, crowns herself before her mirror. It is a mere glamoured echo of the one her aunt stood her before when she first placed this wreath of flowers and brambles upon her head, but it suffices. They have all learned to live with less. These caverns are beautiful in their way and as their glamours wink on one by one there is something akin to the old finery and luxery.

And tonight, tonight, the first new moon of Autumn rises and Medb’s power rises with it. It is her time, her season, and she is Queen. Tonight the Fair Folk rides out, over hill and dale.

#lwdbio

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The Second Marriage and the Second Family

VERY shortly after getting his four-year-old Mitya off his hands Fyodor Pavlovitch married a second time. His second marriage lasted eight years. He took this second wife, Sofya Ivanovna, also a very young girl, from another province, where he had gone upon some small piece of business in company with a Jew. Though Fyodor Pavlovitch was a drunkard and a vicious debauchee he never neglected investing his capital, and managed his business affairs very successfully, though, no doubt, not over-scrupulously. Sofya Ivanovna was the daughter of an obscure deacon, and was left from childhood an orphan without relations. She grew up in the house of a general's widow, a wealthy old lady of good position, who was at once her benefactress and tormentor. I do not know the details, but I have only heard that the orphan girl, a meek and gentle creature, was once cut down from a halter in which she was hanging from a nail in the loft, so terrible were her sufferings from the caprice and everlasting nagging of this old woman, who was apparently not bad-hearted but had become an insufferable tyrant through idleness. Fyodor Pavlovitch made her an offer; inquiries were made about him and he was refused. But again, as in his first marriage, he proposed an elopement to the orphan girl. There is very little doubt that she would not on any account have married him if she had known a little more about him in time. But she lived in another province; besides, what could a little girl of sixteen know about it, except that she would be better at the bottom of the river than remaining with her benefactress. So the poor child exchanged a benefactress for a benefactor. Fyodor Pavlovitch did not get a penny this time, for the general's widow was furious. She gave them nothing and cursed them both. But he had not reckoned on a dowry; what allured him was the remarkable beauty of the innocent girl, above all her innocent appearance, which had a peculiar attraction for a vicious profligate, who had hitherto admired only the coarser types of feminine beauty. "Those innocent eyes slit my soul up like a razor," he used to say afterwards, with his loathsome snigger. In a man so depraved this might, of course, mean no more than sensual attraction. As he had received no dowry with his wife, and had, so to speak, taken her "from the halter," he did not stand on ceremony with her. Making her feel that she had "wronged" him, he took advantage of her phenomenal meekness and submissiveness to trample on the elementary decencies of marriage. He gathered loose women into his house, and carried on orgies of debauchery in his wife's presence. To show what a pass things had come to, I may mention that Grigory, the gloomy, stupid, obstinate, argumentative servant, who had always hated his first mistress, Adelaida Ivanovna, took the side of his new mistress. He championed her cause, abusing Fyodor Pavlovitch in a manner little befitting a servant, and on one occasion broke up the revels and drove all the disorderly women out of the house. In the end this unhappy young woman, kept in terror from her childhood, fell into that kind of nervous disease which is most frequently found in peasant women who are said to be "possessed by devils." At times after terrible fits of hysterics she even lost her reason. Yet she bore Fyodor Pavlovitch two sons, Ivan and Alexey, the eldest in the first year of marriage and the second three years later. When she died, little Alexey was in his fourth year, and, strange as it seems, I know that he remembered his mother all his life, like a dream, of course. At her death almost exactly the same thing happened to the two little boys as to their elder brother, Mitya. They were completely forgotten and abandoned by their father. They were looked after by the same Grigory and lived in his cottage, where they were found by the tyrannical old lady who had brought up their mother. She was still alive, and had not, all those eight years, forgotten the insult done her. All that time she was obtaining exact information as to her Sofya's manner of life, and hearing of her illness and hideous surroundings she declared aloud two or three times to her retainers: "It serves her right. God has punished her for her ingratitude." Exactly three months after Sofya Ivanovna's death the general's widow suddenly appeared in our town, and went straight to Fyodor Pavlovitch's house. She spent only half an hour in the town but she did a great deal. It was evening. Fyodor Pavlovitch, whom she had not seen for those eight years, came in to her drunk. The story is that instantly upon seeing him, without any sort of explanation, she gave him two good, resounding slaps on the face, seized him by a tuft of hair, and shook him three times up and down. Then, without a word, she went straight to the cottage to the two boys. Seeing, at the first glance, that they were unwashed and in dirty linen, she promptly gave Grigory, too, a box on the ear, and announcing that she would carry off both the children she wrapped them just as they were in a rug, put them in the carriage, and drove off to her own town. Grigory accepted the blow like a devoted slave, without a word, and when he escorted the old lady to her carriage he made her a low bow and pronounced impressively that, "God would repay her for orphans." "You are a blockhead all the same," the old lady shouted to him as she drove away. Fyodor Pavlovitch, thinking it over, decided that it was a good thing, and did not refuse the general's widow his formal consent to any proposition in regard to his children's education. As for the slaps she had given him, he drove all over the town telling the story. It happened that the old lady died soon after this, but she left the boys in her will a thousand roubles each "for their instruction, and so that all be spent on them exclusively, with the condition that it be so portioned out as to last till they are twenty-one, for it is more than adequate provision for such children. If other people think fit to throw away their money, let them." I have not read the will myself, but I heard there was something queer of the sort, very whimsically expressed. The principal heir, Yefim Petrovitch Polenov, the Marshal of Nobility of the province, turned out, however, to be an honest man. Writing to Fyodor Pavlovitch, and discerning at once that he could extract nothing from him for his children's education (though the latter never directly refused but only procrastinated as he always did in such cases, and was, indeed, at times effusively sentimental), Yefim Petrovitch took a personal interest in the orphans. He became especially fond of the younger, Alexey, who lived for a long while as one of his family. I beg the reader to note this from the beginning. And to Yefim Petrovitch, a man of a generosity and humanity rarely to be met with, the young people were more indebted for their education and bringing up than to anyone. He kept the two thousand roubles left to them by the general's widow intact, so that by the time they came of age their portions had been doubled by the accumulation of interest. He educated them both at his own expense, and certainly spent far more than a thousand roubles upon each of them. I won't enter into a detailed account of their boyhood and youth, but will only mention a few of the most important events. Of the elder, Ivan, I will only say that he grew into a somewhat morose and reserved, though far from timid boy. At ten years old he had realised that they were living not in their own home but on other people's charity, and that their father was a man of whom it was disgraceful to speak. This boy began very early, almost in his infancy (so they say at least), to show a brilliant and unusual aptitude for learning. I don't know precisely why, but he left the family of Yefim Petrovitch when he was hardly thirteen, entering a Moscow gymnasium and boarding with an experienced and celebrated teacher, an old friend of Yefim Petrovitch. Ivan used to declare afterwards that this was all due to the "ardour for good works" of Yefim Petrovitch, who was captivated by the idea that the boy's genius should be trained by a teacher of genius. But neither Yefim Petrovitch nor this teacher was living when the young man finished at the gymnasium and entered the university. As Yefim Petrovitch had made no provision for the payment of the tyrannical old lady's legacy, which had grown from one thousand to two, it was delayed, owing to formalities inevitable in Russia, and the young man was in great straits for the first two years at the university, as he was forced to keep himself all the time he was studying. It must be noted that he did not even attempt to communicate with his father, perhaps from pride, from contempt for him, or perhaps from his cool common sense, which told him that from such a father he would get no real assistance. However that may have been, the young man was by no means despondent and succeeded in getting work, at first giving sixpenny lessons and afterwards getting paragraphs on street incidents into the newspapers under the signature of "Eye-Witness." These paragraphs, it was said, were so interesting and piquant that they were soon taken. This alone showed the young man's practical and intellectual superiority over the masses of needy and unfortunate students of both sexes who hang about the offices of the newspapers and journals, unable to think of anything better than everlasting entreaties for copying and translations from the French. Having once got into touch with the editors Ivan Fyodorovitch always kept up his connection with them, and in his latter years at the university he published brilliant reviews of books upon various special subjects, so that he became well known in literary circles. But only in his last year he suddenly succeeded in attracting the attention of a far wider circle of readers, so that a great many people noticed and remembered him. It was rather a curious incident. When he had just left the university and was preparing to go abroad upon his two thousand roubles, Ivan Fyodorovitch published in one of the more important journals a strange article, which attracted general notice, on a subject of which he might have been supposed to know nothing, as he was a student of natural science. The article dealt with a subject which was being debated everywhere at the time - the position of the ecclesiastical courts. After discussing several opinions on the subject he went on to explain his own view. What was most striking about the article was its tone, and its unexpected conclusion. Many of the Church party regarded him unquestioningly as on their side. And yet not only the secularists but even atheists joined them in their applause. Finally some sagacious persons opined that the article was nothing but an impudent satirical burlesque. I mention this incident particularly because this article penetrated into the famous monastery in our neighbourhood, where the inmates, being particularly interested in question of the ecclesiastical courts, were completely bewildered by it. Learning the author's name, they were interested in his being a native of the town and the son of "that Fyodor Pavlovitch." And just then it was that the author himself made his appearance among us. Why Ivan Fyodorovitch had come amongst us I remember asking myself at the time with a certain uneasiness. This fateful visit, which was the first step leading to so many consequences, I never fully explained to myself. It seemed strange on the face of it that a young man so learned, so proud, and apparently so cautious, should suddenly visit such an infamous house and a father who had ignored him all his life, hardly knew him, never thought of him, and would not under any circumstances have given him money, though he was always afraid that his sons Ivan and Alexey would also come to ask him for it. And here the young man was staying in the house of such a father, had been living with him for two months, and they were on the best possible terms. This last fact was a special cause of wonder to many others as well as to me. Pyotr Alexandrovitch Miusov, of whom we have spoken already, the cousin of Fyodor Pavlovitch's first wife, happened to be in the neighbourhood again on a visit to his estate. He had come from Paris, which was his permanent home. I remember that he was more surprised than anyone when he made the acquaintance of the young man, who interested him extremely, and with whom he sometimes argued and not without inner pang compared himself in acquirements. "He is proud," he used to say, "he will never be in want of pence; he has got money enough to go abroad now. What does he want here? Everyone can see that he hasn't come for money, for his father would never give him any. He has no taste for drink and dissipation, and yet his father can't do without him. They get on so well together!" That was the truth; the young man had an unmistakable influence over his father, who positively appeared to be behaving more decently and even seemed at times ready to obey his son, though often extremely and even spitefully perverse. It was only later that we learned that Ivan had come partly at the request of, and in the interests of, his elder brother, Dmitri, whom he saw for the first time on this very visit, though he had before leaving Moscow been in correspondence with him about an important matter of more concern to Dmitri than himself. What that business was the reader will learn fully in due time. Yet even when I did know of this special circumstance I still felt Ivan Fyodorovitch to be an enigmatic figure, and thought his visit rather mysterious. I may add that Ivan appeared at the time in the light of a mediator between his father and his elder brother Dmitri, who was in open quarrel with his father and even planning to bring an action against him. The family, I repeat, was now united for the first time, and some of its members met for the first time in their lives. The younger brother, Alexey, had been a year already among us, having been the first of the three to arrive. It is of that brother Alexey I find it most difficult to speak in this introduction. Yet I must give some preliminary account of him, if only to explain one queer fact, which is that I have to introduce my hero to the reader wearing the cassock of a novice. Yes, he had been for the last year in our monastery, and seemed willing to be cloistered there for the rest of his life.

#BrothersKaramazov

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Lizaveta

THERE was one circumstance which struck Grigory particularly, and confirmed a very unpleasant and revolting suspicion. This Lizaveta was a dwarfish creature, "not five foot within a wee bit," as many of the pious old women said pathetically about her, after her death. Her broad, healthy, red face had a look of blank idiocy and the fixed stare in her eyes was unpleasant, in spite of their meek expression. She wandered about, summer and winter alike, barefooted, wearing nothing but a hempen smock. Her coarse, almost black hair curled like lamb's wool, and formed a sort of huge cap on her head. It was always crusted with mud, and had leaves; bits of stick, and shavings clinging to it, as she always slept on the ground and in the dirt. Her father, a homeless, sickly drunkard, called Ilya, had lost everything and lived many years as a workman with some well-to-do tradespeople. Her mother had long been dead. Spiteful and diseased, Ilya used to beat Lizaveta inhumanly whenever she returned to him. But she rarely did so, for everyone in the town was ready to look after her as being an idiot, and so specially dear to God. Ilya's employers, and many others in the town, especially of the tradespeople, tried to clothe her better, and always rigged her out with high boots and sheepskin coat for the winter. But, although she allowed them to dress her up without resisting, she usually went away, preferably to the cathedral porch, and taking off all that had been given her - kerchief, sheepskin, skirt or boots - she left them there and walked away barefoot in her smock as before. It happened on one occasion that a new governor of the province, making a tour of inspection in our town, saw Lizaveta, and was wounded in his tenderest susceptibilities. And though he was told she was an idiot, he pronounced that for a young woman of twenty to wander about in nothing but a smock was a breach of the proprieties, and must not occur again. But the governor went his way, and Lizaveta was left as she was. At last her father died, which made her even more acceptable in the eyes of the religious persons of the town, as an orphan. In fact, everyone seemed to like her; even the boys did not tease her, and the boys of our town, especially the schoolboys, are a mischievous set. She would walk into strange houses, and no one drove her away. Everyone was kind to her and gave her something. If she were given a copper, she would take it, and at once drop it in the alms-jug of the church or prison. If she were given a roll or bun in the market, she would hand it to the first child she met. Sometimes she would stop one of the richest ladies in the town and give it to her, and the lady would be pleased to take it. She herself never tasted anything but black bread and water. If she went into an expensive shop, where there were costly goods or money lying about, no one kept watch on her, for they knew that if she saw thousands of roubles overlooked by them, she would not have touched a farthing. She scarcely ever went to church. She slept either in the church porch or climbed over a hurdle (there are many hurdles instead of fences to this day in our town) into a kitchen garden. She used at least once a week to turn up "at home," that is at the house of her father's former employers, and in the winter went there every night, and slept either in the passage or the cow-house. People were amazed that she could stand such a life, but she was accustomed to it, and, although she was so tiny, she was of a robust constitution. Some of the townspeople declared that she did all this only from pride, but that is hardly credible. She could hardly speak, and only from time to time uttered an inarticulate grunt. How could she have been proud? It happened one clear, warm, moonlight night in September (many years ago) five or six drunken revellers were returning from the club at a very late hour, according to our provincial notions. They passed through the "backway," which led between the back gardens of the houses, with hurdles on either side. This way leads out on to the bridge over the long, stinking pool which we were accustomed to call a river. Among the nettles and burdocks under the hurdle our revellers saw Lizaveta asleep. They stopped to look at her, laughing, and began jesting with unbridled licentiousness. It occurred to one young gentleman to make the whimsical inquiry whether anyone could possibly look upon such an animal as a woman, and so forth.... They all pronounced with lofty repugnance that it was impossible. But Fyodor Pavlovitch, who was among them, sprang forward and declared that it was by no means impossible, and that, indeed, there was a certain piquancy about it, and so on.... It is true that at that time he was overdoing his part as a buffoon. He liked to put himself forward and entertain the company, ostensibly on equal terms, of course, though in reality he was on a servile footing with them. It was just at the time when he had received the news of his first wife's death in Petersburg, and, with crape upon his hat, was drinking and behaving so shamelessly that even the most reckless among us were shocked at the sight of him. The revellers, of course, laughed at this unexpected opinion; and one of them even began challenging him to act upon it. The others repelled the idea even more emphatically, although still with the utmost hilarity, and at last they went on their way. Later on, Fyodor Pavlovitch swore that he had gone with them, and perhaps it was so, no one knows for certain, and no one ever knew. But five or six months later, all the town was talking, with intense and sincere indignation, of Lizaveta's condition, and trying to find out who was the miscreant who had wronged her. Then suddenly a terrible rumour was all over the town that this miscreant was no other than Fyodor Pavlovitch. Who set the rumour going? Of that drunken band five had left the town and the only one still among us was an elderly and much respected civil councillor, the father of grown-up daughters, who could hardly have spread the tale, even if there had been any foundation for it. But rumour pointed straight at Fyodor Pavlovitch, and persisted in pointing at him. Of course this was no great grievance to him: he would not have troubled to contradict a set of tradespeople. In those days he was proud, and did not condescend to talk except in his own circle of the officials and nobles, whom he entertained so well. At the time, Grigory stood up for his master vigorously. He provoked quarrels and altercations in defence of him and succeeded in bringing some people round to his side. "It's the wench's own fault," he asserted, and the culprit was Karp, a dangerous convict, who had escaped from prison and whose name was well known to us, as he had hidden in our town. This conjecture sounded plausible, for it was remembered that Karp had been in the neighbourhood just at that time in the autumn, and had robbed three people. But this affair and all the talk about it did not estrange popular sympathy from the poor idiot. She was better looked after than ever. A well-to-do merchants's widow named Kondratyev arranged to take her into her house at the end of April, meaning not to let her go out until after the confinement. They kept a constant watch over her, but in spite of their vigilance she escaped on the very last day, and made her way into Fyodor Pavlovitch's garden. How, in her condition, she managed to climb over the high, strong fence remained a mystery. Some maintained that she must have been lifted over by somebody; others hinted at something more uncanny. The most likely explanation is that it happened naturally - that Lizaveta, accustomed to clambering over hurdles to sleep in gardens, had somehow managed to climb this fence, in spite of her condition, and had leapt down, injuring herself. Grigory rushed to Marfa and sent her to Lizaveta, while he ran to fetch an old midwife who lived close by. They saved the baby, but Lizaveta died at dawn. Grigory took the baby, brought it home, and making his wife sit down, put it on her lap. "A child of God - an orphan is akin to all," he said, "and to us above others. Our little lost one has sent us this, who has come from the devil's son and a holy innocent. Nurse him and weep no more." So Marfa brought up the child. He was christened Pavel, to which people were not slow in adding Fyodorovitch (son of Fyodor). Fyodor Pavlovitch did not object to any of this, and thought it amusing, though he persisted vigorously in denying his responsibility. The townspeople were pleased at his adopting the foundling. Later on, Fyodor Pavlovitch invented a surname for the child, calling him Smerdyakov, after his mother's nickname. So this Smerdyakov became Fyodor Pavlovitch's second servant, and was living in the lodge with Grigory and Marfa at the time our story begins. He was employed as cook. I ought to say something of this Smerdyakov, but I am ashamed of keeping my readers' attention so long occupied with these common menials, and I will go back to my story, hoping to say more of Smerdyakov in the course of it.

#BrothersKaramazov