#i booked it for the end of october

[delllamortes]

girlhood is booking a tattoo without being financially secure bc ✨life is short✨

[egophiliac]

I have a question about the jp server pickups, since I really want knight Sebek, but I’m trying to save gems for bloom malleus + the 3rd tsum event that’s gonna show up sooner or later. Iirc, after knight Sebek, the next story update’s pickup had all of the previous story cards (ie cerberus Ortho, general Lilia, and knight Sebek). Is this true, and if it is, did it include a token system like the dorm pickups where you can just do 100 pulls and then buy the specific card you want directly? Because if that is how it works, then I can wait until then and be sure I won’t have to go to 200 for him.

we did indeed get a second chance at those three when 7-7 came out! I'm pretty sure there was not a token system -- though admittedly I don't 100% remember, sorry! 🙇 I took a quick search through some past posts/videos from people who tend to include the gacha and news stuff, but I didn't see any mention of it, so I'm inclined to think there really wasn't one. :( they were all separate pickups with their own pull counts rather than a combined one, if that info helps at all.

speaking as a strict f2p who hoards keys/gems like the lovechild of a dragon and a magpie, given the choice between saving for a story card and a birthday card, I'd go for story -- it does require a lot of patience, but there are way more opportunities to get past birthday cards, both from the anniversary events and the rerun pickups! tsums is a bit harder to say anything on because Eng doesn't follow the same event schedule, but it's a longish event and those pickups let you have a free 10-roll, so I think they're also a bit easier to save up for.

(ALSO speaking of free rolls, starting with the fifth round of birthdays -- the kutsurogi my room ones -- the birthday boy/union jacket/bloom cards have had a separate pickup that you can get two free 10-pulls at by doing missions! I got a bloom Jade from it a couple weeks ago. :D meanwhile general Lilia is the only story card I've ever managed to pull, so...I'm probably kinda biased. whoops.)

[cheriekos]

“my self-sufficiency will be the death of me” [timkon ficlet]

goooooood afternoon timkonners. Really wanted to get into the habit of writing a little bit everyday again, so I’m filling out some whumptober-adjacent prompts (courtesy of scealaiscoite). This may be eventually cross-posted to my ao3, who knows, this is mostly just to keep my writing skills in check after a really rough few months of work + to get me out of my writing slump on my larger fic projects. This has been very lightly edited, and is extremely unbeta’d. Anyways, enjoy! Prompt: blood swirling down a shower drain. Content warnings for light descriptions of a knife injury & medical treatment related to that.

The ceiling is that awful popcorn texture. It's yellowed over time. There's a spreading stain over corner, likely some water damage from the unit above. There's some rust at the corner of the shower curtain rod and some odd looking spots at the bottom of the flimsy plastic curtain that has him groaning because he's going to have to look into this, he lives here, other people live here, and clearly the landlord spruced up his apartment but not the others and this needs to be taken care of but it's another thing to take care of -

His breath catches in his throat, a barely held gasp just eeking out past his lips. Every time he tries to breathe low into his belly, his chest spasms. Bruised ribs, he catalogues. Another thing to take care of.

Tim's fingers shake over the left side of his chest, right above the torn parts of his uniform, right where his emergency beacon was slashed through. He lost the one on his wrist sometime between Falcone's latest hidden warehouse and the apartment building. If he reaches down to his boot, he can press the one still intact. He can press it, and someone will come and get him.

He can't move his hand.

Well - It's not that he can't. He's still got some feeling left, which is good. But he can't stop staring at the ceiling. The thought of even moving his head makes him feel so - so tired. It feels as if someone has scooped out his bones and filled him with dense liquid. He tries to will himself to move, to slam down on the emergency beacon and suffer through the indignity of having to be saved by Robin and sit through a thorough dissection of everything he did wrong tonight. He doesn't mind it so much anymore, really - but he's just - he's too tired. He's too tired.

When he closes his eyes, it feels good - the rest that calls to him feels like the kind after a particularly long day of running around as a kid. When you've probably spent too much time in the sun and your chest hurts, the phantom pain of deep laughter following you to your bed. He believes it, for a moment. That he's really just closing his eyes after playing too much and too long and his mom will be there in just a moment to brush his hair out of his eyes and tell him don't let the bed bugs -

He presses down on the knife wound along his abdomen to keep himself awake.

Only an inch deep, but three inches long - they got messy trying to pull it out, he thinks. Another wound. Another thing to take care of. Which he won't be able to take care of if he passes out in this dingy bathroom that's probably going to give him an infection.

His fingers feel cold. He can't tell if he's going into shock or if he's been sitting under the spray of the shower so long that the hot waters run out.

He can't die like this. Not like this. Lying in a mold covered bathroom, shredded to pieces. Not like this.

It's painful, it makes him flush with a deeply buried shame that he tried hard not to face - but he chokes out his name anyway.

"Superboy," he says. "Kon."

There's a moment - one painful, awful moment - where there is nothing but the sound of the shower and his own, ragged breathing. Then, somewhere further inside there's the sound of a window opening, the stumbling of leather boots against hardwood floor - and then Kon's there, right there next to him, and Tim has never felt so relieved and so ashamed at the same time.

"Shit," Kon says, holding Tim's face. He looks down at Tim's hands, shaking against the wound in his side, and follows the blood going down the shower drain. "Shit."

"Good t'see y'too." Tim mumbles.

Kon's staring - or at least, Tim thinks he is. He thinks time is slowing down, maybe. Between one blink and the next, Kon's face morphs from wide-eyed worry to a grim sort of determination. The grip on Tim's face tightens - not unkindly.

"Not funny, Tim," Kon says, lowly.

Tim just swallows, barely wincing at the acrid taste of copper on his tongue. He tilts his chin with what little energy he has, indicating his stomach.

"Knife wound," he says. "Bruised ribs. Gotta check for - for concussion -"

"Stop talking -"

"Need - stitches -"

"Stop talking."

Tim's mouth clicks shut. He feels something burn at his chest - not pain, but something more akin to anger flaring beneath his skin. The urge to crawl out of the tub, to rip away from Kon and get his own goddamn medical kit was making his stomach roll. But God, his bones were like lead and his head was so heavy - the overwhelming relief of being gathered up into Kon's arms was almost enough to distract him. Almost.

"I'm taking you back to your house -"

"Can't."

"Why?"

"Got - my own - my own place -"

Kon freezes as he leaves the old bathroom, pausing briefly to scrunch his eyes tight and mutter a small Jesus Christ before readjusting Tim in his hold, gently.

"You need help, Tim, and you've lost a lot of blood -"

"Not too much -"

"Tim -"

"Kon," Tim says, strained. "The longer we stand here arguing, the more blood I lose. Take me - take me back to my apartment."

Time really slows down then. Kon's bright, bright eyes bore into his, a completely open book. Tim can see the way he swallows down his words, the way his jaw twitches as he grinds his teeth - the way his eyes shine with worry. Tim holds his gaze, focusing on the pain blooming across his ribs in order to avoid thinking about just how much Kin's gaze unsettled something within him.

"You're gonna be the death of me," Kon mutters.

"Not if I die first," Tim says, softly. Kon doesn't laugh - doesn't so much as smirk. Then, he's bounding out the door faster than Tim could blink.

Tim feels a wave of vertigo and he does everything he can to stop the bile rising in his throat. He digs his nails into the worn leather of Kon's sleeve, groaning with his lips shut tight. Kon's thumb rubs a soft circle where he holds him - a gesture so gentle that it takes Tim by surprise. He doesn't get to relish in it for long before Kon's laying him against his new dining table; Tim mourns the clean wood. He'll be scraping out blood from the grooves for the next few months.

"My medkit -" Tim's hand reaches out, weakly. "Get me - needle -"

"Are you out of your mind?" Kon damn near shouts. "You're not sewing yourself up."

"I can and - I will -"

"No," Kon says firmly, hand wrapped around Tim's wrist. "Can you - can you just let someone help you for once?"

No - it's the reply right on the tip of his tongue. Help. There was a time when people surrounded Tim, when he could reach out a hand and find another reaching out to him. But the longer he does this, the more he loses, the more people start to disappear - the more that he finds that the only hands he has are his own. The hands that will stitch him up and prop him up straight, the ones that get things done.

But another, tiny part of him sighs. A little part of him sags with relief, maybe with exhaustion- because yes, he would like some help. His fingers are cold and cannot stop shaking and Kon is steady.

"Fine," Tim finally says. "Help me."

Kon smiles. That irritating, crooked grin lights up his face and Tim chest constricts at the familiarity of it.

“Was that so hard?” Kon says, a teasing lilt to his voice.

“Yes,” Tim groans.

Kon moves swiftly - more assured, more practiced than he had been months ago when he first had to deal with some bad scrapes while out on a mission with the team. His hands don’t flit about wildly, searching for something to make it better. He takes off his own gloves and washes his hands before cutting through the tightly woven Kevlar of Tim’s suit, gently washing the cut, and letting Tim dig crescent shaped divets into his bicep while he threaded Tim’s skin back together.

“You’ve gotta breathe, Tim - “

“I’m trying, asshole - “

“Don’t call the guy with the needle and thread an asshole, asshole - “

Tim barely notices that Kon has already snipped the medical thread and has started placing bandages across his side. Tim watches as he moves, quick, tearing medical tape and snipping bandages with determination, and then carefully placing them where Tim still bleeds. Tim’s mouth goes dry - he looks up at the ceiling instead.

“How’s your hearing? Seeing double?” Kon asks, flashing the little emergency flashlight in Tim’s eyes. Tim resists the urge to bat him away.

“Just fine,” Tim blinks. “God help me if I - if I ever have to deal with - two of you.”

“Twice the fun,” Kon remarks.

“Twice the headache,” Tim says, with little heat. “Kon - painkillers - “

Kon rattles a small bottle, labeled meticulously in Alfred’s familiar handwriting. “These ones?”

“Yes,” Tim says, breathlessly. He tries to put one hand under him, arm shaking with the effort to try and pull his own body weight up.

“Hold on - “

“I can - get up by myself - “

“Tim,” Kon says, warm hands curling around Tim’s arm. “Let me help you. Please.”

There’s an earnestness to Kon that is so disarming that it peels away the remaining resistance in Tim. He uses his last bits of energy to wrap an arm around Kon’s neck, a flush traveling across his cheeks as he mutters okay and lets himself be held again. This time, he lets himself melt a little further into Kon, pointedly ignoring the unfurling, winding feelings in his gut - he neatly packs that feeling away for later in the corner of his brain. He focuses on breathing, on the steady rhythm of Kon’s heartbeat, and the soothing hands that hold him.

He blinks rapidly, realizing that he’s been placed on his couch and that Kon has managed to rummage up the eye-sore of a blanket that Dick had given him as house-warming gift a while back. Kon’s in the kitchen, then suddenly by his side, waving a small glass of water and the painkillers in front of Tim.

“Drink up, Timmy,”

“Don’t call me Timmy,” Tim grumbles, and downs the pills and water in one swift movement.

When he sits back, it’s like every bit of adrenaline keeping him awake has left him. The last dredges of it disappear and all he can do is curl against the headrest, the scratchy, awful blanket giving him an odd sense of comfort. He blinks, slow, trying to get a good word out before sleep could take him. To tell Kon he’s got it handled, that he needs to report back to Dick about the stake-out going wrong - but he can’t. He just looks up at Kon, illuminated by the bright lights of Gotham from the window behind, and he feels a deep, deep ache in his sternum. A sudden urgency fills him - a worry. That when he wakes up, Kon will be gone and something about that makes Tim feel sick.

He moves his fingers slightly, flushing with embarrassment as he croaks out “Stay?”

Kon doesn’t hesitate. There’s barely enough time for a thought before Kon’s hand tangles with Tim’s, the rough pads of his thumbs, slowly becoming calloused from farm work, begins to rub against Tim’s knuckles. Tim’s breath catches in his throat.

“Of course,” Kon whispers. “You don’t even have to ask.”

Tim breathes out. “Oh.”

There’s a smile on Kon’s face - a little knowing, a little sad. Something childish blooms in Tim; he wants to reach out and hold his face, wants to pull at the edges of his cheeks until the sadness went away. But rest tugs at him, the exhaustion in his bones pulling him down, down, down until the feeling of Kon’s hand in his was a distant sensation, his last words something like out of a dream.

“I’ve got you, Tim. I’ve got you.”

[evilpenguinrika]

Getting a head start on the Hosietober 2024 prompts that @uncleasad posted the other day. Not sure if I'll do all the days, so I'm just picking and choosing the ones that strike my fancy.

currently working on one, featuring the 2nd iteration of my Hosie fankids because I really wanted to write about Eli and Auggie ever since I first wrote about them in that post I linked above. After that, I haven't really gotten a chance to dive into Eli and Auggie's characters especially because I was so focused on my 1st iteration (Lana, Hayley and Jay, and Leo). Gotta give some love to the 2nd iteration!

I think I'll try and--at least for my picking-and-choosing the Hosietober 2024 prompts--have them all be somewhat Hosie family-focused (whether with 1st iteration of Hosie fankids or 2nd iteration of Hosie fankids) because I'm a sucker for fun Hosie family stuff. I already have some ideas for some of these prompts (am writing Day 5's prompt as we speak) so I'm excited to get right into it!

[hwsforeignrelations]

RANT

[mongo-the-liensis]

When I reread the series I might just make posts as I go through. If there is an influx of dcc posts in chronological order from me you'll know why

[pearl-kite]

I have been TAGGED (by the wonderful @evilbunnyking thank you muah <3) to share 5 songs I really like, so! Let's Get to It (〜￣▽￣)〜

Ultimate favorite #1: Under Pressure by Queen. Do I need to link it? Y'all know it.

You know how sometimes it's hard to pin down a favorite something-or-other? Not song, this is hands-down my favorite. Ever. Always. I was a full-ass adult in my 20s before I realized that when it says Queen and David Bowie it meant David Bowie is actually singing in it I was ASHAMED how i I even whaaaat Fun fact: the CD I grew up with that had this on it has a slightly different edit than the regular one, so any time I hear it on spotify or the radio I go a little crazy because it's off.

The rest are going under a cut because I'm linking in youtube videos so you don't have to go anywhere or interrupt any current playlist you've got going <3

#2 Currently on Repeat: Can't stop listening to Matt Maeson's Problems

I don't regularly use the repeat button, actually, I'll just hit back at the end as many times as I feel like, but I've done it, I've put this on actual repeat. I've also been alternating a bit with his Sanctified as well, idk what it is but both of them are an infection right now.

#3 A long-term favorite: Paranoid by Sfven

Found it ages ago and it really jived with Gale; if it shuffles through I'll give it a good listen or four. Not sure why the video looks like it was made in the early 90s. Honestly a little off-putting to me but the audio is what matters, okay.

#4 A LONG-long-term favorite: Jewel's Amen

Oh man. I fucking love this song. Top 5 probably. My dad had this CD and I kind of made it mine. Then lost it. So I bought a replacement. And lost that one. And third time's the charm I still have the replacement's replacement. I think. Somewhere. She ended up being the first concert I went to, a small little acoustic one in the local Shriners' center.

But just. The feel of it, the imagery, I still want to draw something for it that really connects with me for it but it's just uakygfkfausdgf I can't :C

#5 (Sort of) Local Plug: I Hope You Know by Supaman ft. Ashley Hall

Supaman regularly visits the first school I worked at, and so many of the students there look up to him for good reason. He's a good guy, he fancy danced at the Macy's Parade, and he makes music that relies heavily on blending rap with traditional instruments and vocals. If I remember correctly, some of his videos show him dancing, if you're interested. I like this one in particular because Hall's vocals are so pleasant, I love multilingual songs, and they sampled a western meadowlark and you cannot go wrong with western meadowlark noises. I hadn't actually seen this video version before and it's very sweet 🥺

Honorable mention musicians/groups that I don't see mentioned often but deer lord this kind of got out of hand already: Run River North Forrest Day Isador Magic Bronson The Hush Sound

Do NOT under any circumstance assume there's a theme or common element across any of these.

I suppose I'm supposed to tag people, so hmmmmm @glassbearclock @taelonsamada @andr0leda @inedibleobject @fooltofancy @elemenepee And uhhhhh anyone else. I have some new mutuals and I am not brave enough to be the first person to tag in this relationship, and I also don't want to just tag EVERYONE so there are still people to pass it along to, so if you don't see your name here pretend it is (if you want)

[sleepyheadnat]

The coin flips: everything changes, everything shifts

Written for my dear friend @shakespereansonnet

Fandom: The Brothers Karamazov Word count: 4672 A character study on the three Karamazov brothers from the point of view of Grigory.

Every family with many sons always has

A Lawyer

A Mirror

An Angel

It was an old saying his mother used to repeat from the vantage point of someone who only had a single child. Grigory never did pay much attention to such things—or to most things his mother said, if we are being honest—but it was hard not to recall that old prognosis at the moment. And what a moment that was. The house had never been so full. And neither had his heart. 

It had been a singular feeling, the one that had made its home in his chest when Ivan Karamazov had come in through the door that one afternoon in May. From all the little Karamazov boys he had taken under his wing, the second son of Fyodor was the only one who could actually recall his time with him, and it had been a warm and fuzzy sort of joy to see that little boy, now fully grown, smile at him and address him by name. But there had been something else there as well that had had him quite disappointed and his self-love quite hurt (and had motivated some not-so-quiet murmurs about ungratefulness and "the youth these days…"). Ivan had not greeted him as his almost-son—instead, like a polite businessman coming by to assess a certain deal. 

Grigory would later find out that that was exactly what Ivan was there for, but that is not what is important right now.

—

The Lawyer

🪶📜⏳✒️

It was consensus among the servants in the Karamazov household: no one understood how the relationship between Ivan and Fyodor even worked.

Ivan, reserved, intellectual Ivan, and Fyodor, lousy and clown Fyodor. How Ivan could look poised and elegant, a picture-perfect gentleman while standing right next to his low-life father was a mystery. And how he managed to face his father with grace and courtesy as if nothing was amiss, that was the mystery. No one understood that relationship. 

No one truly understood Ivan.

Even Smerdyakov, who seemed to derive some sort of smug pleasure from the fact that Ivan would waste some of his time with him, even that wretched boy knew nothing about their intellectual (although Smerdyakov seemed convinced he did). From his seat in the servant’s kitchen, on a stool munching some dry and hard bread while Smerdyakov prepared dinner, Grigory could see Ivan in one of the love seats in the garden writing something on that black notebook he always seemed to carry with him. Grigory watched the elegant strokes of his pen, the furrow of his stern but earnest brows, the gentle sway of his well-kept brown hair in the wind, and the old man tried to line up what few pieces he had. Grigory watched Ivan, the man, and tried to fill in the sixteen-year gap to understand where in that noetic scholar could he find the child who had been afraid of thunderstorms and dogs and who could only fall asleep with his younger brother next to him. 

Ivan had always been a quiet kid, but Grigory felt in that twenty-three-year-old none of the timidity that, he suspected, had been the force keeping the seven-year-old's mouth shut. His silence now spoke of contemplation, reflection, machinations—perhaps he never stopped writing inside that prodigious mind of his. Perhaps his gatherings about the world around him were much too important to be interrupted in the name of small talk.

Perhaps that mind of his was a prison, and that child was still in there somewhere, silent and confused like it had always been. Grigory never stopped to consider that possibility.

But there was one thing Grigory soon learned about his boy-turned-man—that love, innocent and abundant before, quiet and discreet now, the love he felt for his brothers was still very much alive in that heart of his, the underused organ in the presence of so big a brain. Yes, Grigory was certain when he learned of Ivan's true intentions in coming back home that it was the same love moving him now as the love that had him caring for Alyosha like a doll when they were little, hugging the poor child as if he were a teddy bear and peppering his light brown fluff of hair with little kisses. Grigory was sure, when he learned that Ivan had come back to support his older brother Dmitri and mediate a certain impasse between the firstborn and their father, he was sure that it was that same love driving his actions. 

"Ivan is this family's lawyer," he said, brushing bread crumbs off of his face, "He will lend us his intelligence. This house will be more peaceful now that he is here."

Smerdyakov turned his head to him with a snoot on his face, something between confusion and contempt at the old man's sudden declaration. The lad rolled his eyes and fixed his attention back to his cooking. 

"This house could, indeed, use a little bit of intelligence. Imagine that!" he muttered, sardonic, and had the dignity to only flinch a tiny bit when Grigory gave him a slap on the ear.

—

Dmitri had arrived two days later than he had been supposed to, but still merely a few days after Ivan's own arrival. Where Ivan was quiet and contemplative, Dmitri was loud. And bright. He had come in through that door in the evening, throwing it open when he found it was unlocked, announcing himself loudly and happily to all that cared to hear. He had greeted every single person in the house then, with hugs to Grigory—oh, the satisfaction! the stroke to his self-love!—and all the other servants (even Smerdyakov, who went almost catatonic with the affected display of affection) and an added kiss to brother Ivan (his face then had been very funny). On his first night there, Dmitri had regaled all of them with anecdotes about his time with the army and had continued willing to do so for many days, as long as one lent him an ear and a drink. There had been an euphoria, an ecstasy to the young man. Such joy just for being back home, for being reunited with his family; it had warmed Grigory's heart.

No one aside from Dmitri and Ivan knew that that happiness was specific to Dmitri's certainty that that visit would yield him the fortune he believed was his due. Grigory had no way of knowing that. And Grigory had no way of knowing of the disaster that would follow once Dmitri realized that that would not happen. But that is not important right now.

—

The Mirror

♠️🔦🏴🪞

Dmitri never spent much time at home, favoring outings to the pub and strolls around town and visits to friends' houses. But it was a quiet evening, and Dmitri was home, and, as Grigory brought in logs to keep the fireplace lit, the old man stole a glance at the eldest Karamazov brother.

He laid sprawled on one of the sofas in the sitting room, long legs, housing all the height he had inherited from his mother's side of the family, propped up on one of the sofa's arms, his head resting on the other one. He was not reading, nor drawing, nor writing, nor doing anything, really. Instead, his blue eyes watched the ceiling, seeing something there no one else did, his fingers drumming an incessant beat against his abdomen—blowing off the exuberant energy inside him that could not be contained for long. From what it seemed, Dmitri was in the process of holding an one-sided conversation with his brother Ivan, who sat on an armchair nearby, very much immersed in reading the novel open on his lap while still allowing his brother monosyllabic answers. Grigory could not contain the fond smile that curved his lips at the sight. It brought about memories of the blond little thing Dmitri had been as a toddler. It was almost ridiculous, now, to look at that six and a half feet tall army man and remember how very tiny he had been.

But that never-ending energy was indeed familiar. The tiny Mitya burned in Grigory's memory, preserved unchanged in amber, was one that climbed trees and perched himself onto windows and burned his little hand on the stove because he had been oh so eager to help with dinner (despite all the commands to stay out of the kitchen). The tiny Mitya who had the most charming little crooked smile that aided him in getting away with every single one of his mischiefs, but who cried himself to sleep almost every night and could never explain why.

Dmitri was not entirely the same, though. There was a resolve burning behind those sharp eyes, a determination that had never existed in the scattered child he had been. But there was also an uncertainty clouding his smile, and that had never been present in the child either. Little Mitya had been a two-faced creature—happy and carefree under the sun, hopeless and anguished under the moon. But this Dmitri, the man—there was no such division. The walls in his heart had broken down somewhere along the line and his two tides mingled in each other. Dmitri the man experienced every emotion at once, with all their intensity—a bright fire. 

And was not that fire the very spirit of this weird little family Grigory had clung to? Was emotion, intensity, passion not the very marks of a Karamazov?

Fire—could Grigory really not realize that fire was passion, but also destruction? Could he really not see the fine line separating a bonfire from a wildfire?

He had told Marfa that, later that night, as they prepared to sleep. He said, "Dmitri really is like a mirror, in that sense, reflecting the spirit of his family," and had not understood the unhappy frown on his wife's face in response to his words.

—

Alexei Karamazov had arrived a whole month after his two older brothers. He had knocked on the door politely that morning, and Marfa had been the one to answer it. Grigory had witnessed how Alyosha happily accepted the hug his wife offered him in the midst of her sentiment, the way he chuckled good-heartedly as she patted his head and told him how much he had grown, and the smile he had offered her; the single warmest smile Grigory had ever had the pleasure of seeing. Alexei had noticed his presence, then, and came forward to greet him, and, when Grigory realized that, unlike Ivan, Alyosha's lack of physical affection when greeting him was less because of coldness and more out of respect for his elder, Grigory himself pulled the boy into his arms and messed those curls that were a darker shade of brown now.

If Dmitri was a fire, Grigory decided, then Alyosha was a candle. Warm, gentle, and comforting. There was not a single person in that family who did not adore Alyosha—even Ivan, who mostly kept to himself, Grigory was certain that even he adored their little angel.

Because that was what Alyosha was in their eyes—an angel. He would play with the little children on the streets whenever he took walks downtown—he was very fond of walking, Grigory noticed, and of children as well—and would make no objection to sitting down and having a very big long conversation with some old grandma who had decided to share her life's story with him—he was very fond of the elders too, or of people in general, Grigory had decided. He would greet brother Ivan with affection every single morning and every single night—and deflate a little bit whenever Ivan's response did not, at all, correspond to his enthusiasm (Grigory felt undeniably bad for the kid). But the sweetest thing had been Alyosha's almost immediate friendship with his older—and, up until now, unknown—brother Dmitri. That was a memory Grigory loved to think of: the two brothers sitting together on the sofa, leaning on each other's shoulder, Dmitri recounting his adventures and misadventures in the army, and Alyosha listening intently, sometimes interrupting with a laugh, sometimes with a small reprimand—the latter Dmitri would respond with a laugh of his own. The bond formed between the passionate fire of the Karamazov and the gentle candle of their angel had been an unlikely one, but one so genuine no one bothered to question. 

Another unlikely happening concerning the youngest Karamazov: the effect Alyosha had had on his father, which had been palpable since the first time he had stepped in through that door. Fyodor had begun changing before their very eyes, more moderate, less vulgar. Who was that affectionate family man who had replaced Fyodor for a few wonderful days? No one knew, but, during those days, some had dared to believe Fyodor could, in fact, become a good man, as long as their little angel remained by his side.

Smerdyakov had muttered to himself about how ridiculous the notion was. Someone could argue that the morality of one's parents is too heavy of a burden for a child to carry, that no son, no brother, no person should have the responsibility of carrying another's life in their bare hands. But that was what the Karamazov family was headed towards doing with Alyosha, and only Heavens can know what it would take for them to realize that, to keep others warm, candles had to burn. But no one made that argument, not Smerdyakov, and certainly not Grigory, who did not even think about it.

—

The Angel

🌿☁️💫🌱

That morning, Grigory was surprised by a knock on the door to the servant’s wing. He opened it and there Alyosha was, lovely, sweet angel Alyosha. That warm smile was not on his face, but his grey eyes were still kind. 

Alyosha asked him about his Mother. Grigory's shocked silence lasted only a moment, only enough for him to find his voice and, as soon as he did, he eagerly filled the boy in on everything he knew about Sofia Ivanovna—eager both because of his affection for Alyosha and also because of his consideration for his late Mother, the poor girl. Alyosha asked to be shown where she had been buried (of course Fyodor would not remember—Grigory maintained a certain sort of weird bond with his master that no one understood, but even he could be driven absolutely mad by Fyodor's actions sometimes), and of course he complied. 

It was a long walk, and, throughout its whole duration, the old man persisted in lending Alyosha any and all facts about Sofia that sprung to mind—the boy listened, but never spoke. When they arrived at the graveyard, and Grigory showed him to her grave, the crude, precarious tombstone that had been the best he had managed to provide for her, Alyosha fell to his knees in front of it. The boy did not cry, no, he did not. But there was such sorrow in those loving eyes—the gentle grey became cloudy, heavy skies.

Grigory watched for a few seconds and then excused himself and went back to the entrance of the graveyard to allow the boy a moment alone with his Mother, if belated. 

Out of Fyodor's—his—sons, Alyosha was the one Grigory had looked forward to meeting again the most (he had looked forward to meeting all of his precious Karamazov boys again), as he had been the littlest one by the time he had been taken from him (when Sofia Ivanovna's patroness, that terrible woman, had taken both boys away). Not the littlest in terms of age—Dmitri had been even younger when he went with his Mother’s relatives—but in terms of identity. Maybe because, unlike Dmitri, who had been by himself and had had only himself to define his being, Alyosha had the role of Ivan's little brother to play, on top of the role of being his own person. 

Alyosha had been a darling child: chubby, rosy cheeks, sweet and intelligent grey eyes, and a messy mop of light brown curls. But as far as personality went, the youngest Karamazov had been leagues behind his older brothers. The little toddler would spend most of his time either napping or sitting on a stool by the wall observing others in absolute silence. A plain, vanilla child with little that distinguished him from all the other children in the world other than the fact that Alyosha was his and that he loved him. 

The only notorious aspect about tiny Alyoshka that Grigory could recall was that the little kid was a bit of a scaredy cat, somehow even more so than Ivan. Ivan had been terrified of thunderstorms and dogs, but Alyosha had been afraid of those, and of bugs, and of the dark, and of ghosts, and he would not let anyone in this whole world give him a bath inside a bathtub for fear that he would go down the drain together with the water. Alyosha had also hated loud noises─the poor child, born into a family where shouting was routine. Grigory remembered, the memory clear in his mind as if it had been yesterday: he had been berating Smerdyakov for something or another that foundling had up and done, and little Alyosha, two years old, ran away from home. Grigory had been worried sick, looking for him up and down the neighborhood, and had finally found him curled up into a little ball, little hands covering his ears, tears streaming down his face, toes buried in the patch of grass he was sitting on. Grigory had been ready to give him the scolding of a century for nearly giving him a heart attack but found he could not do it when the child was already so… whatever he had been at that moment. As he took Alyosha home, Grigory noticed with no small amount of confusion that the boy seemed calm despite the fact that he was crying, not nearly as sad as those tears suggested. Grigory had tried his best to ignore the clenching in his heart─Alyosha is not a dragon, Alyosha is not like him─and had held his little one’s hand a little tighter.

And now Grigory watched nineteen-year-old Alyosha’s back as the boy kneeled before his Mother’s grave and he did not know what to make of him─so many years had been lost, at what point had the scaredy cat given place to the guardian angel he had become?

As a toddler, Alyosha made sure to fall asleep next to Ivan, because he knew it made him feel safer. After an afternoon of sitting on that stool silent and observant, he would fetch flowers in the garden and place them in a jar in the kitchen when no one was looking, if his observations had told him Marfa had been sad, or he would gather pine cones for the fire so Grigory did not have to, in days when Grigory seemed tired, or he would leave some of his candies on Smerdyakov’s pillow when Grigory scolded him very much. The caring "angel", as he put it, had always been there. Grigory never noticed.

They went back home side by side, and Alyosha was silent. Grigory could not ignore how that moment reminded him of that incident, all those years ago. Even the calmness in his face remained as extraordinary now, leaving the graveyard, as it had seventeen years before. But instead of comparing Alyosha to him, this time Grigory was certain of exactly what the youngest Karamazov was─and he called him as such.

“You’re an angel, young one. You’ll do good to this family and this family will do good to you,” he had said with confidence.

Alyosha smiled fully and brightly at that, but there was something fragile about it.

—

Grigory had always loved children, even when he himself had been one. As an only child, he would beg his Mother to let him come with her to her master’s house to help her take care of his little kids. Grigory had always loved children, but he and Marfa had never had any success in that department (it secretly tore him apart), so when Fyodor had gotten married, out of the many things that went through his mind,─and many things did, same as everyone; every single person in town had something to say about that─one thought was that it meant children would probably arrive the Karamazov household, and Grigory treasured that hope in his heart. To be able to care for a little one, even if they were not his, would be a great joy.

Adelaida’s pregnancy and Dmitri’s subsequent birth had been a joyous time to Grigory, until the moment he began to realize he was probably the only person who was happy about Mitya’s existence. It had been an odd, uncomfortable feeling to realize that. He knew his master, he knew Fyodor way too well by this point, but he had genuinely believed a wife and a child could do wonders for that man’s character─is it not what is always expected? But it had not, apparently. And Adelaida always seemed sulky every single hour of the day since she had come to this house. Why she had even agreed to marry Fyodor was a question maybe not even she knew the answer to, but it was clear she was not happy─with anything. And that included the infant who depended on them for all. Grigory grumbled to himself about how he would have been a way better parent to little Mitya had the boy been his.

And then it became true.

Adelaida finally had enough of her sulky life with the Karamazov and ran away with a seminarian to Heaven knows where. Fyodor─Grigory still wanted to hope, but Fyodor never gave him the chance─all but forgot about the fact he had a child once she was gone (and that is assuming he had ever even acknowledged the fact in the first place), and the little boy was promptly cast aside. Grigory did not believe it an exaggeration to say Mitya would have died had he not made the decision to bring him home. Marfa was skeptical at first, but she knew Mitya would not survive if they did not do it (and, had she not agreed, Grigory would have done it anyway). And Dmitri stayed with them, and Grigory considered him his in every way that mattered.

At age three, they took Dmitri away.

—

Sofia Ivanovna. Grigory could only sigh when he thought about her.

It did not help that she had been just young enough that she could have been his daughter. He had seen so much sorrow in that girl’s eyes the day Fyodor brought her home, so much dread. For as long as he lived, Grigory would never forget the look in her eyes then.

Sofia got pregnant two months after her marriage with Fyodor and, as discreetly as he could, as it was not safe to come in between a Karamazov and his woman, Grigory tried to treat the girl in any way he possibly could: convincing Marfa to cook her favorite meals as best as she could (which was not much, Marfa was not a great cook), buying muffins from the bakery for her when he went to town to run errands, reminding his wife to put new flowers in Sofia’s bedroom every day. Ivan was born, and the already frail girl fell sick. She barely had any strength to get out of bed, but with the love and the selflessness that only mothers know─and with help, of course─Sofia dedicated every ounce of energy she had left in her to loving her baby boy the best she could. Grigory would have helped her more, but then Marfa accused him of neglecting his own child and throwing all the heavy lifting of raising Pavel at her, though, in his opinion, Grigory was nothing but an amorous father.

In reality, he had, indeed, thrown Pavel at Marfa—who had not fully agreed to raise him—and went on to live his life, making Pavel not only an unplanned child, but an unwanted one. But Grigory did not realize that.

Three years later, Sofia got pregnant again. Her pregnancy this time around carried all the complications of her sickness and the poor girl could seldom leave the bed during those nine months, the attacks of hysteria getting hold of her more and more frequently. At the end of that arduous but, somehow, joyous time, Alyosha was born, and she cared for him with the same tenderness she had Ivan, even if now she was officially ill and no amount of motherly love and selflessness would manage to get her to stand on her own two feet. 

One year later, that angel left the Earth. Fyodor had been either too drunk or too depressed to do anything about it, so Grigory himself made all the preparations for a proper burial and gravestone. Like their older brother before them, Ivan and Alyosha were cast into oblivion by their father's mind and, just like before, Grigory took them in.

When Alyosha was four and Ivan was seven, they took them away too.

—

Every family with many sons always has

A Lawyer 

A Mirror

An Angel

It was an old saying his mother used to repeat from the vantage point of someone who only had a single child. Grigory never did pay much attention to such things—or to most things his mother said, if we are being honest—but it was hard not to recall that old prognosis at the moment. And what a moment that was. The house had never been so full. And neither had his heart. 

His boys—his boys—were back home, grown, reunited.

But Fyodor remained a terrible Father, and no council Grigory tried to give him would change that fact. Fyodor's clownery and Dmitri's fire mingled terribly, oh so terribly. Ivan's patience wore thinner and thinner every day and Grigory did not know how much more the second son was willing to take before getting up and leaving. Grigory had been so proud of Alyosha for joining the monastery, but now the boy ran left and right trying to help as best as he could, but all seemed in vain, and that too wore him thin gradually. Grigory would never be able to explain the horror he felt when he perceived some of Sofia's sadness in Alyosha's eyes—just a fraction of it, but still.

—

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

Dmitri had assaulted Fyodor. And had hit him, Grigory. Him. Him, of all people. How dare he?! After all he had done?!

Perhaps someone could have told Grigory that much of his love towards those grown-up "sons of his” was actually ego and arrogance, that what he actually wanted was to be rewarded for taking those children in. It was easy to love helpless babies; it was hard to love troubled adults. It was way too easy to love oneself too much.

.

.

.

.

.

.

—

Grigory stood over the ashes of the Karamazov family and part of him could not believe it had come to this.

The other part of him kept saying, "I should have noticed I should have noticed I should have noticed I shou—"

Grigory had not realized that lawyers did not always defend—lawyers accused, lawyers convicted. Grigory had not realized that mirrors could break and that broken mirrors produced shards—his heart bled angrily, the family would bleed red. Grigory had not realized a human could not be an angel and that they could not demand such things from mortal men—they did not have that power, they did not have that nature.

Grigory had not realized.

—

The Karamazov family has many sons

A Prosecutor

A Shard

A Human

This is the story of how they fell.

[rurinnfane]

Hnnnnnnnffff the witchy shit……… it calls to me once again…. fuck

[orcelito]

I would like for life to stop hurting for a little while. Maybe. Pretty please.

[drysia]

excuse me. unfortunately i never got into the Crows that much despite loving Zevran. but I read Tevinter Nights and then other supplemental material and oh no, I've fallen in love with some individuals.

Think my Rook might end up with the Crow background. Excuse me, shifting into assassin mode now.

[sharkneto]

Fellow patrons of my local library, How Goddamn Long Does It Take You To Listen To The Haunting Of Hill House

[wander-wren]

HOLY SHIT I ALMOST FORGOT

it is the first day of november and so, today, someone will die.

even under the brightest sun, the frigid autumn sea is all the colors of the night: dark blue and black and brown. i watch the ever-changing patterns in the sand as its pummeled by countless hooves.

they run the horses on the beach, a pale road between the black water and the chalk cliffs. it is never safe, but it is never so dangerous as today, race day.

this time of year, i live and breathe the beach. my cheeks feel raw with the wind throwing sand against them, my thighs sting from the friction of the saddle, and my arms ache from holding up two thousand pounds of horse. i have forgotten what it is like to be warm and what a full night’s sleep feels like and what my name sounds like spoken instead of shouted across yards of sand.

i am so, so alive.

as i head down the cliffs with my father, a race official stops us. he says, “sean kendrick, you are ten years old. you haven’t discovered it yet, but there are more interesting ways to die than on this beach.”

my father takes the official’s upper arm as if the man were a restless horse. they have a brief exchange about age restrictions during the race. my father wins.

on the way down to the water, we are jostled and pushed by men and by horses. a gray uisce stallion rears up, its rider jerked at the end of a lead. i slide beneath it and find myself facing the sea, surrounded on all sides by the capaill uisce—the water horses.

they are every color of the pebbles on the beach—blue, black, red, gold, gray, brown. riders hang bridles with ribbons and flowers to lessen the danger of the dark november sea, but i wouldn’t trust a handful of petals to save my life. last year, a horse trailing red tassels and daises tore a man’s arm half from his body.

they are beautiful and deadly, loving us and hating us.

[…]

i don’t often think of my father strung out amongst the frothing surf. instead, i think of him as he was before the race: afraid.

i won’t make the same mistake.

[americanrecord]

im starting to suffer without a project rly badly

[dragonanne]

I...I think I might be able to finish draft 1 of Jade Torch book 2 by the end of the month...if not sooner 👀

[gatheryepens]

Alex and Henry are making me feel some type of way 🫠🫠