#elena ; character study.

[readingandrelaxing]

Katherine Pierce: The Fan-Favourite Villian

OPINIONS NO ONE CARES ABOUT : EPISODE 3

Katherine is badass.

We all know this by now.

But one of the main reasons why people like her, is the fact that she is different and even better from the rest of the female characters on the show.

While the rest of the characters allow themselves to be used and abused for the benefit of others, Katherine always prioritises herself above everyone else. That's one of the main reasons why she has lived for so long even when the Original Hybrid was hunting her.

Also, if we see her dynamic with the Salvatore brothers, it is drastically different from their dynamic with Elena. As I've mentioned in my previous post about Elena when Katherine was with the Salvatore brothers, it was always her who was in control. Albeit, she was the vampire in that case and the Salvatores were humans, and her relationship with them is also toxic. But we must also never forget that Katherine did love them. She just prioritised her own life over her love for them.

Which brings me to my next point. This decision of hers makes her drastically different from not just Elena, but even the rest of the female characters on the show. Characters like Bonnie, Caroline etc, they're all very similar to each other in terms of their decisions. Sure, they are strong, independent women who can defend themselves but the moment their loved ones are threatened, everyone is ready to jump on the bandwagon as a meatshield to protect their loved ones.

Katherine is not like that. She is selfish, cunning and cruel, but she's also passionate, fierce and authentic. She knows how to love, she loves a few special people around her, but she's also smart enough to not put her own life in danger just to save someone else's. This provides a unique authenticity and complexity to her character, making her likeable and relatable.

Katherine is not the main character in the story. She's the character who comes and goes occasionally, yet, viewers look forward to her presence. And, she's not even a 'good' character. She's cruel and heartless. At least that's what the show wants us to think.

I won't try to defend her by saying that she wasn't cruel. Yes, she was. She has done horrible things in her life, and it is arguable whether she can be redeemed. But it is her cruelty and brutality which adds authenticity to her character. There is no other character like her, who is cruel and brutal and yet can feel qualities like love and care.

The love she had for Stefan and Damon was real. Some might argue that it wasn't, and these arguments make her an interesting character. She's debatable, her actions make someone think twice to form an opinion about her. Her character is complex and it has always divided fans.

Her complex character makes her unpredictable. With most other females on the show, it is almost guaranteed that the audience will guess what their reaction to the situation might be.

With Bonnie, everyone knows that she'll jump into the line of fire just to save her friends. Even when being obviously overpowered, she has the least importance which is honestly a sad thing to see. But that's a story for another day.

And then there's Caroline, who's usually ignored despite being willing to become a meatshield for her friends. She's ignored because she's 'less important' than Elena. Although, she's far more liked by fans than Elena but yet again, that's not for today.

And then there's our protagonist, Elena Gilbert. I already have one post about her, you can check it out here.

But what makes Katherine special, and better than these ladies is her unpredictability. When she was first introduced, many believed her to be a heartless b- but as the show went on, we got to the humane, more natural and mundane side of her. Her choices were varied, they weren't always selfish. They weren't always selfless either.

Her reactions to things were always different. You never know what Katherine is thinking.

And that makes her endearing, attractive and interesting.

Another notable aspect of Katherine is that exceptionally intelligent. She is a survivor in its true sense, being self-sufficient and perpetually vigilant. She knows how to take care of herself, she knows how to stay alive by herself. She doesn't rely on anybody, she knows what she wants and what she needs.

Though the main characters in the show are also intelligent, they're always in a group. They're a group of friends, looking out for each other and trying to keep each other alive. There is no one with Katherine. She has to do everything alone, and people find it easier to relate to that. Not everyone has a group of friends who'd take a bullet for you.

There's another important thing I'd like to address. Many would argue with me based on this since it is a controversial topic. But we have to acknowledge this.

Katherine knew that Stefan is the man you choose in life.

Not Damon.

Though Katherine loved both of them, she still chose Stefan over his brother. With good reason.

We have seen how explosive, mostly irrational, and hot-tempered Damon is. Unapologetically so. He doesn't care about right or wrong for the benefit of himself as well as the people he loves. Ironically, his behaviour is similar to Katherine's, while Elena and Stefan are of similar characteristics.

But that does not mean that Damon is the man you choose. Damon is the kind of man you friend zone, not fall in love with. He's controlling, up to the extent that he fed his own blood to Elena forcefully just to make sure that she wouldn't die while Klaus broke the curse. He was uncaring of the fact that she did not want to become a vampire and that she'd rather die. He had also snapped Jeremy's neck twice because Elena rejected him. Is this the kind of man women want to end up with?

Stefan is also protective, ferocious and ruthless to his enemies. But when it came down to it, he allowed Elena the dignity of her own choice. He respected her decisions, even when they'd land her in trouble. He helped her become her own independent person, and their relationship didn't reek of power imbalance despite one of them being an immortal vampire.

It might be a tough pill to swallow for most fans of the show, but we all must admit that Stefan is the better brother.

In conclusion, Katherine is an amazing, astounding character, but she has her own flaws and cons. She's headstrong, ruthless and manipulative, but also has a kind, loving, humane side to herself which makes her remarkable and unforgettable.

Thanks for reading!

[prophetic-hijinks]

Below the cut is a my interpretation Post Movie Bruno showing the effects of isolation and starvation and what two years of healing looks like. I put it below the cut with respect to those who find images of malnourished people triggering.

[apocalyptichearts]

is the religious aspect of her character barely mentioned past the third season? yes.

will i projet all of my catholic guilt on to her? obviously.

psychoanalyzing your favs and in turn yourself <;33

[fanaticforlife]

TVD | Bonnie Bennet : A Bennet Witch

“Something you should know about Bonnie is that she is fiercely loyal and she would do anything for the people she loves.”

[yllowpages]

elena deals with nightmares. of many different things. sometimes it's the normal, out-of-pocket things everyone could have nightmares about. sometimes it's more specific. moments she's lived. but more than anything, and especially in the first couple of years following, her nightmares have replayed those split seconds before flynn dropped that grenade. she knows how lucky she is to be alive. and the thought that she was so close to dying is just... it's terrifying. and of course it's one of the main reasons she became so cautious moving forward. so, some nights, her mind just can't help but go through that moment. watching him take out the grenade and look them all in the face when he let go. she can remember the sound and the pain — all of it. sometimes the nightmare is exactly as the moment happened. sometimes she tries to run, to see if she would have escaped it. once or twice ... she's been the one holding the grenade and forced to drop it. every option is horrible. those nights she can't get it out of her head, she just doesn't sleep frankly. she can't. her mind will be racing too much and she'll close her eyes and that's all she'll see. so she has to do anything else to get it out of her mind. she'll literally wake up at two in the morning from this and just get up and start cleaning or reorganizing things or even working. anything but sitting alone with her thoughts. and she wishes sometimes she could forget it altogether. but the scarring she took away from it — both mental and physical — makes that difficult sometimes.

[seesgood]

thinking about how the only way we ever really see caroline make friends is by just like, deciding that someone is going to be her friend and then treating them like her friend until she wears them down enough that they become her friend --- and also how the majority of her love interests were people that she ( on some level, at some point ) kinda had to convince to choose her, and how even her own parents she had to convince that she was still worth their love --- and how it would probably be super confusing for her to have someone expressing an interest in her first, without her having to chase them and wear them down

[ofthclight]

[maeflower]

i need someone to scream about m**dblind with me ahhh

[eternalalchemagical]

Wanted to study some folds and couldn’t stop thinking about my favourite elementalist babygirl in this slinky dress, so here’s some unfinished scribbles I was using as practice

[chaotic-theatrical-weaver]

i was the match and you were the rock (maybe we started this fire)

A 6,590-word exploration of the fraught relationship between Elena and Izzy, which rewrites and expands upon incidents of Izzy’s childhood that received only brief allusions. Yes, some segments are copy-pasted between perspectives; call it lazy writing if you will, but I call it deliberate parallels. The title comes from the official Elena/Izzy dynamic song, “Things We Lost in the Fire” by Bastille. Enjoy (or suffer through, as I certainly did).

This story is dedicated to my beloved mom, whose seemingly endless wisdom regarding parenting has done me immeasurable good both in the world and in writing this character study. Having never been a mother myself, I felt a bit doubtful initially as I began to write this piece, but her unending encouragement and support kept me writing it in spite of my doubt.

In the aftermath of the fire, Elena’s mind was a racing, restless storm.

First of all, she was enraged at her daughter’s lack of gratitude. She should have known in the end that such a child would cross the final line that way and do something that could very well have gotten them all killed. Goodness, what she wouldn’t do to have that girl thoroughly punished upon her return: some far-off, distant school, perhaps; a convent; maybe even jail time once the police found her–and they would find her, she told herself in spite of the beginnings of doubt taking hold, they had to eventually.

Didn’t they?

Her worry set in along with the gravity of the situation, a deep, heavy weight sitting on her chest. For the next few days, she would work tirelessly, making desperate but ultimately fruitless attempts at reaching Izzy’s friends and putting up posters and flyers and anything, anything to keep Elena’s hope of finding her from crackling out, dying, ceasing to be.

She felt that candle flicker and found herself faced by a new, unsettling darkness, a void whose unbearable possibility had haunted her from well before day one. Since Izzy had entered the picture, the idea of losing her was not simply an idea, a terrifying worst-case hypothetical that was unlikely to ever come to pass, but a genuine threat that loomed over their heads, casting shadows that they were never able to truly understand or come to terms with. It was not only about losing her to death, but to any number of an endless list of morbidities and ailments the doctors had warned could befall her. Who was to keep her from being mistreated by the other children, by the adults who were meant to protect her, if she were disabled or otherwise in poor health? Would they all just take from her a normal childhood if that were the case, purely for reasons out of her control? Who was to make sure she was able to live independently as she matured–worst of all, if she could not, who was to take care of her once Elena and her husband were too old and feeble to do so?

And so Elena worried. Her philosophy was always about order ensuring the world would be perfect, but now, it was no longer about the world at large; it was about her world, which was somehow larger and more all-encompassing than she ever could have imagined. The order she had so trusted in and abided by had suddenly failed her, but rather than turn from the only guiding principles she had ever known and leave herself defenseless against the world, she doubled down on the only defense she had. Order would not fail her this time, she vowed; if she could have everything laid out and prepared and go exactly according to plan from now on, she would not fail her daughter. She observed Izzy and her every move like a hawk, watching for signs that order would fail her again, signs that she needed to redirect before it happened.

Izzy, age sixteen months, was on the floor, playing with stacking rings Elena had recently bought for her. Was her hand fumbling the beginning of a tremor? she wondered, only to quickly chastise herself for vaguely entertaining the thought. I don’t know, perhaps she’s only a child beginning to learn her way around her fingers and it’s not reasonable to expect her to get it right all the time! Why can’t I just be happy for her when this is an important milestone and she’s three months behind? As guilty as she felt for her concern, it continued to linger in the back of her mind and sat there, unspoken but ever-present.

Izzy, age four, kept from swimming, from burning, from drowning. “But, Mom, I don’t get it! It isn’t fair! It isn’t fair! Lexie and Trip and Moody get to swim in the shallow end! I could stay with them, I promise!” she had shouted from her position, shaded by an umbrella and covered in sunscreen while sitting in the security of a sunchair. Elena, in spite of these protests, rationalized her unwillingness to concede. I’m just keeping her safe, though it was really herself she was protecting.

“You may not, and that is final. If you spend your time whining about it, we are going home and your siblings’ fun will be ruined. Do you want that?”

“I don’t care! You’re so mean!”

“Izzy, calm down,” she ordered, beginning to lose her patience. Lose her patience–they were at a public pool! Other parents are patient enough to put up with this–what is wrong with me that I can’t? But she remembered her duty and would not let herself bend. I can’t let her break me when I’m the adult here. She’ll survive in the shade regardless of what she says, and I shouldn’t be made to feel guilty for protecting her. A week from then, Izzy dove into the deep end and needed rescue by the lifeguard. After flying into a panicked, outraged tirade, Elena concluded that Izzy’s impulsivity was precisely the reason she needed  that kind of protection. “Don’t you understand, Izzy? You could have drowned!”

Izzy, the following winter, her first time sledding down the hill. She had been looking forward to the snow for days and woke in pure bliss to find a blanket of powdery white around her home. Eagerly, she gobbled her breakfast and dressed in the somewhat uncomfortable winter bundles without complaining. Her siblings gleefully sledded down the hill in multiple different configurations–backwards, bellies down, all three at once, and at one point, Trip even stood up–to much applause and cheering from Elena.

Then it was Izzy’s turn. She packed her little body into the sled tightly, deciding to go down belly first. “Whee!” she exclaimed, feeling the thrill of racing downwards with increasing speed. She was a free, weightless bird, and nothing could stop her! She could hear her siblings cheering her on, and everything was right–

until she tipped over halfway down. She was unharmed, if a little dazed for a few seconds, and began to proceed back up the hill as if nothing had happened. There was Elena, speeding down the hill to check on her, ensure she hadn’t broken any bones hadn’t hit her head hadn’t hadn’t hadn’t–of course, none of what she imagined was true, but she was faster and taller than Izzy, who was, for all her determination, still a small child weighed down by layers and layers of warm winter clothing. Amidst cries of “I don’t want to leave!” that increased in volume and intensity, Elena scooped her up and brought her home. That evening, Izzy snuck out of the house, unencumbered by layers and out on her own dangerously freezing terms, and dragged Moody’s sled across the street. She sledded down the bank of the duck pond and landed on top of its frozen waters four times, only stopping after she attracted the notice of a neighbor, who then called her parents. After examining for signs of injury or hypothermia and warming her back up, Elena had her grounded for the next week and kept her under close, anxious guard. “You never let me do anything!” Izzy yelled between sobs, feet stamping. “You never let me do anything and I hate you!”

“After all the trouble you’ve caused, Izzy–what is wrong with you?” Hit by immediate regret, but unable to act on it, she retreated. What kind of mother thinks that about her own child, let alone allows the words to leave her mouth? And yet she did not know how to make the apology she so desperately longed to. Those words were penned in her throat behind a dam, and how was she to begin to explain herself? Why even try when she knew it would not excuse her, it would not keep Izzy from realizing that as much as she presented herself as a woman who had everything, behind closed doors, she was out of control, unequipped to cope, and hardly the good mother she wanted the world to think she was? What kind of mother would find it easier to cut than to heal? As much as she found herself in need of help, who would help her upon realizing who she truly was? Perhaps she just didn’t deserve any.

And so she remained silent.

Izzy, age seven, making a timeline of her life for a school project. “Do I have any baby pictures, Mom?”

Elena was taken aback. There were pictures, yes, but none of them were developed. Too painful to remember that time of fragile, precarious beginnings. Had they ever really left that time? Sure, Izzy was older now and had grown into a strong, healthy child with no signs of any of the problems the doctors had warned about, but if anything, that fear had only increased with all the incidents she had managed to tangle herself in. Where does anyone begin with that story? It’s not just about me–would there be classmates taunting her for being “weak” if she presented this, when in fact she is anything but? Children are cruel and the world in general does not take kindly to differences. The simplest answer: nothing. She would just have to start her timeline from a less heated point and avoid getting burned that way.

“Why don’t you start from when you were a bit older? You have so many happy memories from when you were a little kid…”

Izzy, ever trusting of her mother, had accepted this. Until she realized one day going through Lexie’s room for some clandestine baked goods that Lexie’s own timeline made under the same teacher had a picture of her coming home from the hospital at three days old. That was the day her suspicions fell into place: Lexie had been wanted, as had Trip, as had Moody. Izzy was just…Izzy, a particular disappointment without reason, whose faults were more noticed than her triumphs. While all the Richardson children felt this, given a few more years, Lexie and Trip would begin to use it against her, and Elena would default to what was easiest, even as the words that had been building behind the dam were threatening to drown her. What kind of mother doesn’t take every opportunity to assure her children they are loved? At the same time, she wondered whether Izzy would even believe her, wondered what kind of mother sets up such a dynamic in which her own love could be taken for lies in the first place. Perhaps it was better to avoid seeming false–and still her heart ached with a longing to speak that Izzy was never aware of.

Izzy, age ten, a suddenly picky eater for reasons unknown to Elena. Upon being asked about it, Izzy’s only response was, “I’m sorry you can’t see that those poor, poor animals are being mistreated and killed so we can have food to eat!”

“Well, I’m sorry that I care more about your nutrition and that I don’t want you becoming anemic! Izzy, what is this? Some kind of fad going around your class?”

“It’s not a fad–”

“Have you even done all your research? You’re only ten!”

“I will have you know that I am old enough to see the injustice of the world, including that which you are now inflicting upon me–”

“You do know that my work writing means I really only have time to cook one meal for everyone, right?”

“Oh, don’t go pulling your work into this if you truly care–”

“Isabelle Marie Richardson, you ungrateful child, I will have you know that I care more than you realize with you sitting on that high horse of yours and fancying yourself the pinnacle of morality. Do you not understand that my job writing is a necessity to provide for you and your siblings? I help with your school functions, I employ our housekeeper, I pay for our vacations. So if you really think it’s that easy, I’d like to see you cook your own meals without suddenly refusing to eat them because you don’t think they taste good enough for your impossibly high standards!”

“But, Mom–” Izzy pleaded, terrified that she was in fact ruining their family, a fear Elena only recognized in hindsight.

“I’ll have none of that. You will cook for yourself if you really care as much as you claim.” Elena left with the final word, but she regretted what she had made it. She shouldn’t have guilt-tripped Izzy, she should have been more open-minded, she should have acted on her knowledge that Izzy feared she was ruining the family and been gentle about that. Why did she have to be so sharp and cutting and harmful towards them both all the time?

Surprisingly, Izzy rose to the challenge and learned how to cook for herself, but on one occasion, she had too much homework for cooking her own lunch to be feasible, and so she went without. Elena received notice from a concerned teacher, and upon being asked about it, Izzy conceded, swallowing her pain at turning from her principles because of a single error.

Izzy, continuing to prove that she did care about the animals’ suffering, had attempted to sneak into the Humane Society shortly thereafter in an attempt to free all the stray cats. Elena had only caught wind of this after the fact and came to the scene quickly, scolding her for getting herself into a situation where she could very well have been kidnapped or injured, not to mention the possibility of disease transmission. “They’re like prisoners on death row!” Izzy protested.

“Do you care more about these animals than your own family?” Elena asked. “You had us all worried, Lexie will be late to her volunteer work with the soup kitchen because I had to drive here to come find you, and this is your only excuse? This isn’t cutting it, Izzy. I am very disappointed in you.”

Izzy was promptly banned from sleepovers for her misbehavior. “If you can’t behave at home, Izzy, we can’t trust you to behave at someone else’s house.” She began sneaking out at night and returning with little items collected from nature, then feigning ignorance as to where they came from in the mornings.

Izzy, age eleven, her teachers reporting that she often sat alone at recess. Elena, concerned her daughter was being bullied, inquired as to why. “Well, Mom, it’s not that deep! You don’t have to worry! It’s just that volleyball is hard. Sometimes the ball is inches away from my hand and I just flat-out miss. And honestly? It’s not like I’m missing anything if I don’t play volleyball anyway. I’m protecting myself from everyone else! They send the ball going out of control and, you know, I need to keep my head attached to my body somehow!”

“But don’t your best friends play volleyball?”

“Well, yes, but that doesn’t matter to me, I promise.”

Elena, still wondering if Izzy was hiding something, decided she would fix her daughter’s clumsiness by signing her up for ballet class. “Why do I need to do this stupid dancing anyway?”

“It’s not stupid, Izzy. It’s going to improve your coordination!”

“What does my coordination matter to you? Is this about me not playing volleyball? ‘Cause I can guarantee you, I’m not covering for anyone, no one’s being mean to me because I’m ‘just decent,’ and therefore, I don’t need to do this!”

“Look, you’re ‘just decent,’ as you just said yourself. So there’s room for improvement! Don’t you want to be able to play with your friends?”

“Mom, for the last time, I get to talk to my friends and do things with them outside of volleyball! It’s not like it’s my ‘only social outlet’ or like I’m a weird, friendless loner because I don’t play!”

“Izzy, we’ve already paid for your classes,” Bill interjected. “All we want is for you to try it for one term. Just one term, and then you can quit.”

“Oh, yeah, right. ‘Just one term.’ The way that ‘one more spoonful’ is just ‘one more spoonful’ to a small child. It’s all a giant lie. You’ve turned the promise of freedom into a carrot dangling from a stick and expect me to be the dumb donkey who will do whatever you want to take it. Why didn’t you ask me first if it’s supposed to improve my life?”

“Isabelle Marie Richardson–”

“Perhaps you’re the one who’s embarrassed that your daughter is clumsy and that she brings dishonor to the family for being only merely decent at sports–”

“Calm down, Izzy–”

“Trip set the bar high, didn’t he?”

“Izzy, that is not what we’re asking and we’re not comparing you to Trip. Can you please stop that–”

“I am not going to stand by while you push this garbage sport on me to make yourself feel better about my existence–”

“This conversation is over.”

“But–”

“Now.”

Elena had won the battle and made sure that Izzy attended all her classes. However, she sat down on the floor each time, refusing to move, and for the recital, she had written the words NOT YOUR PUPPET on her face in the biggest, boldest block letters that a hand mirror could aid her with, standing still and stiff as a board at center stage.

Izzy, age thirteen, a wearer of black clothing. Probably too much of it. Was she perhaps becoming depressed or falling into the wrong crowd? Elena had heard too many stories of such teenagers. Aiming to prevent that from happening to Izzy, she had encouraged her to “lighten up” by purchasing an array of brightly-colored dresses for her and privately telling her that she could open up to her at any time–”I don’t want you becoming like those kids who lose their way.” Izzy had rejected both suggestions and taken the bus downtown to give the dresses to a random homeless person on the street. She was grounded for a month; Elena considered sending Izzy to counseling but decided against it, fearing that her daughter would struggle socially if word got out.

Izzy, age fourteen, suspended from school for attacking Mrs. Peters with the halves of her own violin bow, growing closer to Mia because sure, she knew by then she shouldn’t have done that, but no one tried to see her motive was simply loyalty to Deja, who had always been one of the few orchestra members who had shown her kindness. No one but Mia, that is, who carried the same spark she did and was willing to help nurture it. Izzy, growing closer in their mentorship because she had felt that Mia loved her in ways her own mother did not, as Elena was realizing all too late, staring it in the face as it sat on Mia’s table, reading her pictures, her art, her insight into the world. Izzy’s portrait: a rose made from her beloved leather boots. Only an inverse, a flipping on its head, a turning inside-out. A small, delicate flower being swallowed by the darkness surrounding it.

What kind of mother remained silent this long and allowed this to happen? She and her insistence on order had driven Izzy away, separated her enough from society to see its hypocrisy. Of course she had it torched to the ground at one of its deepest roots. Hadn’t Elena been the same long ago, when her idealism had been the kind that let its sparks fly and bore the flame proudly, questioning the rules that seemed unjust? When did she learn to tamp it down and follow the rules blindly until she became part of the injustice instead? And now her daughter was lost and alone in her efforts to find the one who had made her feel like a free, active participant in her own story–all her worst fears had now come true, and she had only herself to blame. Letting out a wail that was an expression of everything she had left unsaid all these years, she vowed to spend the rest of her life aiming to right this wrong, searching for Izzy, that lost part of her soul in more ways than one, until they were reunited, until the burning in her longing, incomplete self was quenched.

------------

In the aftermath of the fire, Izzy burned.

She burned with sorrow and yearning, yearning for Mia and for the life she had opened her to, sorrow that it had been taken away, that the Warrens had been taken away.

She burned with anger at her family, her family of hypocrites and liars. They had all played their roles in taking them away in the first place. Lexie, for using Pearl’s name, her reputation, her identity to save herself; Trip and Moody, for using and betraying Pearl; her father, for helping the McCulloughs steal Bebe’s child; and her mother most of all, for…

For ruining all of them a million little times by her lack of love.

Izzy, age four, kept from swimming, from burning, from drowning. “But, Mom, I don’t get it! It isn’t fair! It isn’t fair! Lexie and Trip and Moody get to swim in the shallow end! I could stay with them, I promise!” she had shouted from her position, shaded by an umbrella and covered in sunscreen while sitting in the security of a sunchair. Her mother had refused to back down.

“You may not, and that is final. If you spend your time whining about it, we are going home and your siblings’ fun will be ruined. Do you want that?”

“I don’t care! You’re so mean!” Why was it always about the suffering she supposedly inflicted on others? Why was it never about the quiet injustice she suffered?

“Izzy, calm down,” her mother ordered, beginning to lose her patience.

A week from then, Izzy took matters into her own hands, dove into the deep end, and needed rescue by a lifeguard. Her mother flew into an outraged tirade. “Why can’t you listen to me?”

Izzy, the following winter, her first time sledding down the hill. She had been looking forward to the snow for days and woke in pure bliss to find a blanket of powdery white around her home. Eagerly, she gobbled her breakfast and dressed in the somewhat uncomfortable winter bundles without complaining. Her siblings gleefully sledded down the hill in multiple different configurations–backwards, bellies down, all three at once, and at one point, Trip even stood up–to much applause and cheering from their mother.

Then it was Izzy’s turn. She packed her little body into the sled tightly, deciding to go down belly first. “Whee!” she exclaimed, feeling the thrill of racing downwards with increasing speed. She was a free, weightless bird, and nothing could stop her! She could hear her siblings cheering her on, and everything was right–

until she tipped over halfway down. She was unharmed, if a little dazed for a few seconds, and began to proceed back up the hill as if nothing had happened. There was her mother, racing down the hill after her, promptly scooping her up and carrying her home, even as she cried, “I don’t want to leave!”

That evening, Izzy snuck out of the house, unencumbered by layers and out on her own dangerously freezing terms, and dragged Moody’s sled across the street. She sledded down the bank of the duck pond and landed on top of its frozen waters four times, only stopping after she attracted the notice of a neighbor, who then called her parents.

Her mother had her grounded for the next week and kept her tightly under lock and key. “You never let me do anything!” Izzy yelled between sobs, feet stamping. “You never let me do anything and I hate you!”

“After all the trouble you’ve caused, Izzy–what is wrong with you?” Those icy words did more to harm her than the cold ever would. What was wrong with her? She didn’t quite know why her mother was never pleased with her. Perhaps she was just an embarrassment. Maybe her mother didn’t want anyone knowing her daughter wasn’t good at things like sledding or other sports. Maybe that’s why her mother didn’t want her doing anything–she was slightly but noticeably smaller than the other children, after all.

Izzy, age seven, making a timeline of her life for a school project. “Do I have any baby pictures, Mom?”

Her mother paused for several seconds, and, as Izzy now realized, deflected her question. “Why don’t you start from when you were a bit older? You have so many happy memories from when you were a little kid…”

Izzy, ever trusting of her mother, had accepted this. Until she realized one day going through Lexie’s room for some clandestine baked goods that Lexie’s own timeline made under the same teacher had a picture of her coming home from the hospital at three days old. That was the day her suspicions fell into place: Lexie had been wanted, as had Trip, as had Moody. Izzy was just…Izzy, a particular disappointment without reason, whose faults were more noticed than her triumphs. That was why her mother was never pleased with her. While all the Richardson children felt this, given a few more years, Lexie and Trip would begin to use it against her. All the while, her mother kept silent and her father halfheartedly interjected with false “Let her be”s, platitudes to keep himself safe from engaging with the thing that was ruining their lives.

Izzy, age ten, deciding she’d become a vegetarian upon learning of the mistreatment of the animals people ate for food. She empathized with their plight; she, too, felt as if she were being used for another’s purposes without consultation. When her mother confronted her about it, she defended her position. “I’m sorry you can’t see that those poor, poor animals are being mistreated and killed so we can have food to eat!”

“Well, I’m sorry that I care more about your nutrition and that I don’t want you becoming anemic! Izzy, what is this? Some kind of fad going around your class?” Oh, great. Her mother was really pulling the “fad” card to discredit her now?

“It’s not a fad–”

“Have you even done all your research? You’re only ten!” It was the age card now. What a way to make her look dumb.

“I will have you know that I am old enough to see the injustice of the world, including that which you are now inflicting upon me–”

“You do know that my work writing means I really only have time to cook one meal for everyone, right?”

“Oh, don’t go pulling your work into this if you truly care–”

“Isabelle Marie Richardson, you ungrateful child, I will have you know that I care more than you realize with you sitting on that high horse of yours and fancying yourself the pinnacle of morality. Do you not understand that my job writing is a necessity to provide for you and your siblings? I help with your school functions, I employ our housekeeper, I pay for our vacations. So if you really think it’s that easy, I’d like to see you cook your own meals without suddenly refusing to eat them because you don’t think they taste good enough for your impossibly high standards!” 

Izzy could put up with and rebut her mother’s other two points, as insulting to her intelligence as they were, but the ungratefulness card reduced her to the edge of tears. She didn’t want to be a drain on her family, whom she loved dearly in spite of her rebellious tendencies. Did her mother not recognize that?

“But, Mom–”

“I’ll have none of that. You will cook for yourself if you really care as much as you claim.”

Izzy cried for a long time after that, with only Moody to console her. He helped her find her own recipes and she learned to cook them, but the first time she missed her chance to cook lunch because of too much homework, she had chosen to obey her heart over her gut and went hungry. Once she came home from school tired, she was forced to make another choice after her mother found out. Afraid to ask for another chance and afraid to be a burden, she chose to revert to her old diet. Her heart was heavy at betraying her principles, but in the end, she loved her family more, and she could not bear the alternative weight she would carry if she turned from them instead.

She decided that she would make up for her decision to turn by freeing the stray cats from the Humane Society and went behind her mother’s back. Unfortunately, being only ten, she had not thought this through completely and was apprehended. Her mother entered the scene and reprimanded her for getting herself into a situation where she could very well have been kidnapped or injured, not to mention the possibility of disease transmission. “They’re like prisoners on death row!” Izzy protested.

“Izzy, no, are you insane? Do you care more about these animals than you care for your own family?” her mother asked. “You had us all worried, Lexie will be late to her volunteer work with the soup kitchen because I had to drive here to come find you, and this is your only excuse? This isn’t cutting it. I am very disappointed in you.”

Izzy was promptly banned from sleepovers for her misbehavior. “If you can’t behave at home, Izzy, we can’t trust you to behave at someone else’s house.” She began sneaking out at night and returning with little items collected from nature, then proclaiming she had no idea where they came from in the mornings.

Izzy, age eleven, her mother asking her why her teachers had reported she was sitting alone at recess.

“Well, Mom, it’s not that deep! You don’t have to worry! It’s just that volleyball is hard. Sometimes the ball is inches away from my hand and I just flat-out miss. And honestly? It’s not like I’m missing anything if I don’t play volleyball anyway. I’m protecting myself from everyone else! They send the ball going out of control and, you know, I need to keep my head attached to my body somehow!”

“But don’t your best friends play volleyball?”

“Well, yes, but that doesn’t matter to me, I promise.”

In spite of this, her mother remained convinced that there was some sort of problem with her coordination that needed fixing lest she become a social outcast for the shocking slight that was not playing volleyball. “Why do I need to do this stupid dancing anyway?” Izzy asked when her mother announced she was enrolling her in ballet lessons.

“It’s not stupid, Izzy. It’s going to improve your coordination!”

“What does my coordination matter to you? Is this about me not playing volleyball? ‘Cause I can guarantee you, I’m not covering for anyone, no one’s being mean to me because I’m ‘just decent,’ and therefore, I don’t need to do this!”

“Look, you’re ‘just decent,’ as you just said yourself. So there’s room for improvement! Don’t you want to be able to play with your friends?”

“Mom, for the last time, I get to talk to my friends and do things with them outside of volleyball! It’s not like it’s my ‘only social outlet’ or like I’m a weird, friendless loner because I don’t play!”

“Izzy, we’ve already paid for your classes,” her father interjected. “All we want is for you to try it for one term. Just one term, and then you can quit.”

“Oh, yeah, right. ‘Just one term.’ The way that ‘one more spoonful’ is just ‘one more spoonful’ to a small child. It’s a lie. You’ve turned the promise of freedom into a carrot dangling from a stick and expect me to be the dumb donkey who will do whatever you want to take it. Why didn’t you ask me first if it’s supposed to improve my life?”

“Isabelle Marie Richardson–”

“Perhaps you’re the one who’s embarrassed that your daughter is clumsy and that she brings dishonor to the family for being only merely decent at sports–”

“Calm down, Izzy–” They wanted her to calm down? She had every reason not to be calm when they were using her as some kind of pawn in their game of social chess, as a puppet in their perfect, colorful, scripted show.

“Trip set the bar high, didn’t he?”

“Izzy, that is not what we’re asking and we’re not comparing you to Trip. Can you please stop that–”  Well, they wanted Trip, not her. They just had to pretend for the sake of the world that was watching them that they at least tolerated her.

“I am not going to stand by while you push this garbage sport on me to make yourself feel better about my existence–”

“This conversation is over.” See, she wasn’t truly wanted if her complaints were shut down!

“But–”

“Now.”

Izzy would rather spend her one hour per week of dance classes at home, playing her violin, but rather than protest on her way to the studio, she accepted her fate and just sat on the floor, unmoving. The wasted time infuriated her more and more. Since it was common knowledge that Izzy Richardson refused to dance, why wouldn’t her parents just pull her out of classes to save their precious reputations? She figured that she would force their hands so that they wouldn’t call her out for not trying and make her dance a second term. For the recital, she wrote the words NOT YOUR PUPPET on her face in the biggest, boldest block letters that a hand mirror could aid her with, standing still and stiff as a board at center stage.

Izzy, age thirteen, with a newfound interest in experimenting with her style. She began dressing in black, much to her mother’s chagrin. Not even two weeks into this experiment, her mother had come to her and told her to “lighten up before you become like one of those kids who lose their way.” Black clothing does not a juvenile delinquent make, Izzy had thought to herself, and in perfect honesty, she already felt like she had lost her way and didn’t understand why her mother drew the line at black clothing. Possibly it was an attempt at salvaging her reputation, but Izzy’s mere existence already ruined it and she didn’t see why her mother tried anymore. Her mother continued on with some false platitudes about how Izzy could “open up at any time.” Yeah, right. As if she hadn’t been shut down every time she tried. When her mother bought her some brightly-colored dresses, Izzy took a bus downtown to give them to a sad-looking homeless person who seemed in need of color more than she did. Her reward for this generosity was grounding for a month. Go figure. Her mother was always about helping those who were less fortunate, but when Izzy did it, it was a disgrace. Then again, Izzy doing anything was a disgrace–she shouldn’t have been surprised.

Izzy, age fourteen, suspended from school for attacking Mrs. Peters with the halves of her own violin bow, growing closer to Mia because sure, she knew by then she shouldn’t have done that–her parents’ shouts of “Izzy, behave yourself” rang in her ears seconds after the attack, already knowing what would happen to her–but no one tried to see her motive was simply loyalty to Deja, who had always been one of the few orchestra members who had shown her kindness. No one but Mia, that is, who carried the same spark she did and was willing to help nurture it. Izzy, growing closer in their mentorship because she had felt that Mia loved her in ways her own mother did not.

“I don’t really have a plan, I’m afraid,” Mia told her when asked how she organized her creative visions. “But then, no one really does, no matter what they say.”

“My mother does. She thinks she has a plan for everything.” And I was never part of it.

“I’m sure that makes her feel better.” Making a box for a child makes her feel better? How could she?

“She hates me.” Too wild and out of control, something to be managed like weeds in a garden. A particular weed that her mother couldn’t uproot, and so settled for minimizing.

“Oh, Izzy, I’m sure that’s not true.” How Izzy wished she could believe that.

“No, she does. She hates me. That’s why she picks on me and not any of the others.”

“Izzy,” Mia assured her, “I’ll tell you a secret. A lot of times, parents are not the best at seeing their children clearly. There’s so much wonderful about you.” Mia saw the good in everyone. Perhaps she could hope that there was some left in her.

The custody case had shed even more light on all the worst Izzy knew of her mother, if that was even possible. She had bred hypocrisy in all of them, enabling her father in helping the McCulloughs steal Bebe’s child, justifying it in saying that the McCulloughs did everything right and deserved this (as if people deserved no forgiveness!), making Lexie feel unable to admit to her own mistakes and driving her to use and ruin Pearl’s name, driving the Warrens, the kindest people Izzy knew, out of their home after somehow discovering how Pearl had sacrificed her reputation like a lamb to the slaughter on the altar of Lexie’s so-called friendship. Izzy’s day had come, and she knew fearfully refusing to wake the world up to the fire burning around it would only leave her burning in the end, along with the others who witnessed the world burning but did nothing to wake it. She remembered Mia’s words as she lit the flame: After the burning the soil is richer, and new things can grow. People are like that, too, you know. They start over. They find a way. And now after Izzy had taken off and boarded a bus for Pittsburgh, she sat there with her photograph in her hands: her beloved boots that had given her a sense of protection and toughness, that her mother had thrown away, turned into a blooming rose. She, too, was growing, growing to understand a little.

She missed her mom. In spite of her newfound freedom and agency, control over how her story played out, she couldn’t help it. Would her mom actually care or be stricken, or would she pretend for the sake of her reputation, as futile as that act would be? Izzy, in spite of herself and her general attitude of no longer caring for acceptance, found that Mia had awakened that softness in her. She cared now, and it frightened her. Suddenly, she wanted to know. She wanted to return to her mom and say I’m sorry, I’m so sorry for everything, I can change for you, I promise, I never meant to ruin your life, please, please, I don’t know what I’m doing thinking I can be forgiven, but I just want to believe it, just this once.

But it was too late now. Izzy was already long gone, accompanied only by her longing.

[chronic-escapixt]

His Rose ~ Part 1

(Kai Parker x Bennett OC fanfiction)

content warnings/tags ~ Dark fiction, (eventual) CNC, dubcon, non-con, yandere, murder, abuse, trauma, smut, stalking, innocence kink, dacryphilia, manipulation. Minors DNI

I don't claim ownership of The Vampire Diaries or its characters. All credits go to the rightful owner(s). I only own my original character(s).

Word count: 1.6k

K.P. Masterlist

Bonnie's life was on the line.. again.

The Other Side was collapsing, time was running out and as the anchor to the crumbling realm, she knew she wouldn't be spared. She stopped at her home and let Rose know. The news absolutely crushed her sister. Rose felt like she just got her back from when she died last summer. Becoming the anchor was her second chance at life but now it was being ripped away. Rose didn't even have time to argue a solution before she squeezed her in a tight hug and said goodbye. She was out the door, dashing off to pull Elena, Damon, and the others back from the Other Side.

Rose watched as the door shut behind her, wiping the wetness from her eyes before charging into Sheila Bennett's in-home study. From her life as a practicing witch and occult studies professor, their late grandmother had shelves full of ancient grimoires, scrolls, texts and items so she ought to have something that could save Bonnie. As the minutes ticked by, the piles of useless books stacked around her grew with her desperation.

"There's nothing here!" she muttered, slamming the heavy grimoire closed. The force rattled the desk and the shelf above it, knocking a scroll down in front of her. Rose blinked away her frustrated tears and lifted the dusty scroll, blowing it with her breath to reveal the Latin handwriting and symbols.

After pulling her friends back to the living world, Bonnie anticipated the approaching light. She glanced back, meeting Elena's solemn gaze. They all gathered behind her, no words left to say as they watched their beloved witch meet the very fate she had saved them from. She knew she couldn't save herself and she accepted that. She only hoped that within the next few moments she would find peace with her grams and father.

The moment she closed her eyes, she felt a jolt of energy lance through her. Something changed. When she opened them, she was amongst the others but Rose stood a few feet away, the wind of the collapsing dimension tossing her brown curls, the white light reflecting off her face.

Horror gripped her when she realized she was no longer linked to the Other Side, Rose was.

She offered Bonnie an apologetic smile as she watched tears bead down her shocked face.

"I love you, Bonnie," she uttered just before the light consumed her completely...

and she was gone.

The brightness subsided as the wind around her settled to a calm hush. Rose could finally open her eyes and found that she was standing in the same place, at the boarder of Mystic Falls but everyone had disappeared.

She dashed around town calling out Bonnie's name, looking for her, their friends or anyone but it was completely deserted. She stopped to catch her breath in the middle of the town square, the usually bustling epicenter was empty. That's when panic set in, worrying that she was actually dead, though this didn't seem like the “peace” described or even hell. For that matter, she didn't feel dead, in fact she felt very much alive something she realized when her stomach growled. “Dead people don't get hungry," she told herself as she walked into the Mystic Grill. Much like everywhere else, the Grill was desolate. She made her way into the kitchen and found it fully stocked with alcohol and food that seemed up to date, so the town couldn't have been abandoned too long ago, she thought. Rose made a quick sandwich and walked toward the bar when her eyes fell upon the bulletin board. She nearly dropped her plate when she read the date on the calendar.

May 9th, 1994.

It didn't take long for him to notice that things were different. After 18 years of complete solitude, he grew accustomed to the consistency of the realm. His strong ability to detect the presence of magic, made it all the more obvious to him when the young Bennett witch touched down in his prison world. He tracked her down to a Virginian town called Mystic Falls where he first saw her in the living room nose deep in a grimoire. He slipped through an unlocked door and watched her silently out of her view. He figured she was looking for anything that would explain where she is or how to escape but she likely wouldn't find anything in those texts. Luckily for her, he planned on revealing everything...

In due time.

Just over a week passed and unbeknownst to her, Kai was watching the entire time. He’d stay up while she slept, curled up with her fuzzy plush lamb she called lamby. Most nights she’d clutch the stuffed toy to her chest and just cry herself to sleep. Like a sad shelter commercial, he enjoyed the pathetic display, though he hated the little white lamb with a passion, fantasizing about how much more she’d cry if she woke up and it’s head was cut off.

He observed everything, from her tendency to talk to herself to the she way she put tension in her lips when she was concentrating on the Latin of her texts. Clearly, she was a beginner and her general naivety would come to his advantage once he finally decided to make his move.

Rose swayed her hips as she rounded the corner, pushing her grocery cart while singing along to ‘I Wanna Dance with Somebody' by Whitney on her Walkman. He sat in a fold up lawn chair in the center aisle of the otherwise empty market, munching on a bag of pork rinds and watching with an amused grin, wondering when she would finally notice him. After deciding on a box of Count Chocula, she finally turned from the shelves and their eyes met. Her mouth fell open as she paused the tape and lowered the headphones from her ears. He smiled and gave a slight wave.

“Were you there the whole time?” She blurted breathlessly, taking him in. His face had a pleasant balance of soft and sharp features that made him both cute and intimidating and a mischievous glint in his blue eyes. The dark brunette wore a hooded jacket styled over a graphic tee, denim jeans and worn out converse.

“Yeah, I didn’t want to interrupt. You sounded amazing by the way.”

Her cheeks burned, “t-thank you… umm who are you?”

“Sorry, manners, I’m Kai. Nice to meet you.” He set aside the bag and stood up from the chair. Her eyes followed his ascent until he stood fully, towering over her. “And you are…?”

Her ears got hot. “Oh right! Rose- I’m Rose… excuse me, I haven’t spoken to another person in a while. I promise I’m not normally this awkward…” she sighed and averted her gaze downwards.

Kai shoved his hands in his pockets, “can’t be any worse than me I've been here since the very beginning.”

“You’ve been all alone for 18 years?" she uttered in disbelief.

Kai forced a laugh, “It's not so bad. There’s no traffic, everything’s free and privacy isn’t an issue… now, there is the crippling loneliness but that only creeps in once in a while.” He casually plopped back down on his chair and grabbed his chip bag.

“There’s no way out of here, is there?” She sighed.

"Nope, not unless you happen to be a Bennett witch…” he scoffed as though the thought were incredulous and popped a rind in his mouth.

Her eyes lit up. “Wait, I am! I am a Bennett witch.”

Kai grinned, “well then the odds just got a lot better.”

“So, is Kai short for something?” She asked as they walked back to her place. Kai offered to push the cart for her.

“Malachai,” he replied.

“Malachai,” she practiced softly.

“But I prefer Kai,” he tagged on.

“What about you, Rose is short for what? Rosemary or… Rosalie?”

She giggled. "You’re close, it’s Rosalina but I prefer Rose.”

“Rosalina... that's pretty, much more fitting if you ask me.” The way he said her name made her want to bite her lip but she opted to return his smile instead.

“This is me,” she announced when they came to her house. She led him inside where he was kind enough to help her put away the groceries.

“So, what is this place?” she asked.

“One of many prison worlds created by the Gemini coven. Anyone who opposes them is gifted their own personal hell dimension. I got mine on my 22nd birthday.”

“Why would they do that to you?”

He sighed, “most of it is coven politics- what you know and who you know, ya’ know? Long story short, my family betrayed me for more power. I don’t really like thinking about it.”

Rose understood and decided not to pry. “So, you know how to get us out of here?”

Kai leaned forward on the counter while he explained the Gemini coven always left a back door to their prison worlds and it was called an ascendant. Under the direct light of a solar eclipse a Bennett witch is to use her magic and blood to activate the device and transport them back to the real world. “We’re going to need a locator spell to find the ascendant. Without my magic, I haven’t been able to find it.”

“When is the next eclipse?” Rose asked.

“Time works a little differently here… the month of May repeats itself over and over, starting with the 9th. Every third time May 9th comes around the eclipse happens.”

"The last eclipse just passed a few nights ago… that means we have about three months to wait.”

“On the bright side, we have plenty of time to find the ascendant,” He noted with an optimistic air. It amazed her how he managed to be so hopeful and positive even after being trapped for 18 years. “After all this time, 3 months is nothing,” he murmured.

She thanked him for helping her with her groceries. “Well, I’m going to make stuffed chicken for dinner. You can stay if you want.”

“You just met me and you’re asking me to stay for dinner… I mean, I could be a serial killer,” he finished with a charming smirk.

“You’re too nice to be a serial killer,” she put matter-of-factly while taking out the chicken breasts.

“Ted Bundy was nice,” he retorted.

She smiled at his wit. “Are you staying or not? Because I need to know if I’m making one chicken breast or two.”

Kai relented, “Oh, alright. How can I say no to stuffed chicken?”

[prophetic-hijinks]

Case Study 3: Bruno is bad at introductions.

Svee belongs to @rinnysega

I have a headcanon, that whenever newcomers come to the Encanto the Madrigal’s have a diplomatic spiel they run through. Bruno having no idea how to bring up magic to Elena, decides his family would be best at explaining it.

Character note. And Elena is being honest when she says she is not nervous, she's great with people. Usually...

MASTER COMIC LIST

Meanwhile rat shenanigans

Next comic

[slutisnotabadword]

I’m currently writing a Bamon fic that basically reimagines TVD, starting with them starting college and with Bonnie as the protagonist. And like I have SO many headcanons I’m gonna incorporate. A lot of them comes from the show but just elevated.

1. Bonnie

My lovely, mistreated Bonnie… boy do I have ideas for you. First of all, she’s going to have some good ass hairstyles. BLACK GIRL hairstyles. I think Bonnie loves to wear curly ponytails with decorated scarves, or like some long knotless braids. AHHH I have some ideas for her hair. But speaking of style, Bonnie loves the bohemian aesthetic. So, air of half tops, waist beads, long skirts, etc (go on Pinterest and type “bohemian black girl, and you’d see what I’m talking about). She wears alot of brown, green, beige and like golden colors. She wears red when she’s feeling spicy. Bonnie is also into candles, HEAVILY, and crystals. She’s not religious but spiritual. And for college, she’s majoring in dance and minoring in occult studies. Her favorite genre of dance is contemporary. And her favorite breakfast is cereal, and she’s most likely a vegetarian. Also I wanna change her background a bit. She actually grew up being raised by her mother and her grandmother. Her father left because he couldn’t or wouldn’t handle with their witch ancestry, when he found out.

2. Damon

Damon’s bisexual. That’s it, that’s the quote. But no seriously, I firmly believe that he is, and I stand by that. And also in my fic, Damon has this kind of… “punk rocker” aesthetic going. Imagine eyeliner, leather jackets with pins, ripped jeans, black and red color pallete. With that being said, he has a SICK fashion sense. He paints his own fingernails, mainly the color black. Another big thing about Damon is that he LOVES music. He is a music fanatic. He adores all the genres and can see the beauty in all of them, and he collects records. He also loves to play various of instruments. He has mastered the piano, the guitar, the violin and the trumpet and other shit too, and he loves to sing but he never sings infront of people. He loves to cook. Whenever he’s frustrated or gets startled, he swears in Italian. And speaking of Italian, Damon and Stefan’s were born in like the late 1400s or the early 1500s in Florence, Italy. And their family portrait was actually painted by the famous painter, Caravaggio. Damon didn’t come to America till the 1920s as he began to admire the American people’s party era.

3. Elena

She actually stays pretty much the same. However, Elena really likes Britney Spears so a lot of her outfits are inspired by her. She wears alot of dark colors, but you will see her in a pink matching tracksuit and a baby blue cropped top. Elena kind of takes every moment to show her belly button. Oh, and she loves cropped jackets. Veryyyyy Y2K going on here. Elena is trynna become a doctor but she’s also minoring in writing.

4. Caroline

I gotta be honest, I have no notes for Caroline cause I think her character in the show was written perfectly enough to be memorable and entertaining. However I think her aesthetic could be boosted up a notch to rest for her image. Caroline wears a lot of bubbly colors. Very bright but also soft color palette, so imagine a lot of soft pinks, blues, whites. She loves to wear plaid skirts and cardigans and sweaters. She’s trying to be a lawyer, which I fully expect from her. Think of Elle Woods without the hot pink.

5. Stefan

Stefan is good ol’ Stefan (except in my head, the version that I like). He’s very athletic, he gives very much sensitive gym bro. And he’s actually kind of passionate about all sports, and watches them regularly. That being said, he also loves writing, specifically poetry. So therefore he’s majoring in writing. Stefan first came to America, following his brother in the 20s. They were trying to make up with each other, and as Damon was trying to teach him how to feed as a normal vampire, it caused Stefan to be the ripper of something something. Basically in the show but different timelines. Oh and Stefan wears the color red and blue a lot, kind of patriotic of him lmao.

[disneytva]

Disney Television Animation Sets Creative Team For “Ariel” A New Preschool Animated Series Inspired By Halee Bailey’s The Little Mermaid.

Disney Branded Television has greenlit a new animated series for preschoolers, “Disney Junior’s Ariel,” inspired by the beloved story of “The Little Mermaid.” The announcement was made today by Ayo Davis, president of Disney Branded Television, during the Annecy International Film Festival in Annecy, France.

While making the announcement, Davis said, “For more than 30 years, the story of ‘The Little Mermaid’ has been beloved by audiences all over the world. It brings me so much joy to be able to introduce our new Disney Junior version of Ariel to preschoolers everywhere.”

Ariel follows a young Ariel and features some fan-favorite characters, including King Triton, Ursula, Sebastian and Flounder, as well as exciting new additions. “Disney Junior’s Ariel” is set to debut on Disney platforms worldwide in 2024.

Set in the fantastical Caribbean-inspired underwater kingdom of Atlantica, the series follows Ariel as she embarks on fun-filled, action-packed mermaid adventures with her friends. Driven by a deep and unending curiosity about the world around her, Ariel discovers land treasures, like a big floppy hat, squeaky rubber ducky and whisk, that she collects and keeps safe in her crystal cavern. Sometimes, Ariel uses the treasures to help solve problems. With each discovery, Ariel is filled with joy, and her mermaid tail, which changes colors depending on her emotions, lights up and shimmers.

“Disney Junior’s Ariel” is executive produced by Lynne Southerland (Dreamworks Animation’s “The Road To El Dorado”). Norma P. Sepulveda (“Elena of Avalor”) and Keith Wagner (“TrollsTopia”) are the story editors. Ezra Edmond (“Disney+ Draw Me a Story”) is producer. Kuni Tomita Bowen (“Dora the Explorer”) is supervising director, and Chrystin Garland (20th Television Animation’s “Solar Opposites”) is art director. The series is produced by Wild Canary in association with Disney Television Animation for Disney Junior.

Full of charm, big ideas and a powerful voice, “Disney Junior’s Ariel” is coming into her own, learning how to discover and appreciate the world around her and use her voice to inspire others.Throughout the series, the multicultural diversity of the Caribbean is highlighted through music, food, festivals, fashion, language and folklore. Dr. Patricia Saunders, professor of English and hemispheric Caribbean studies and director of graduate studies at the University of Miami and author of two books, serves as cultural consultant on the series. Sean Skeete, chair of Berklee College of Music’s ensemble department, is the Caribbean music consultant.

[giveamadeuschohisownmovie]

“Indiana Jones and the Dial of Destiny” review:

Short review

“Uncharted 4” hit the same story beats, but better. I’ll give the movie a 6/10.

Long review

As the final chapter in Indiana Jones’ life, I have mixed thoughts. Is it because of the time travel? No, I was actually fine with that. Indiana Jones has always had some element of weirdness, ranging from the supernatural to literal aliens. My issue with this movie is that, as the final chapter in the series, it felt…underwhelming.

It’s strange because the movie was sorta hitting all the points it needed to hit. They had the emphasis on Indy being old, the passing of the torch to Wombat, the return of other classic characters like Sallah and Marion, bringing the Nazis back as the villains, and so on. James Mangold was hitting the points he needed to hit, which makes sense since this is the guy who gave us “Logan”.

But the problem is, Indiana Jones isn’t Wolverine. I think Indiana Jones, as a character, is unsuitable for the type of somber, deep character study that the movie was trying to do. This is a character who was made to represent light-hearted escapism, and you could see that by how the first three movies never went too deep or too serious with Indy. Even “Crystal Skull”, with all its flaws, didn’t do that. So now we have “Dial of Destiny” trying to shift gears into darker, more dramatic territory and it just doesn’t hit.

For example, the reveal that Mutt Williams got killed in the Vietnam War. It’s a reveal that’s too dark and sudden to really leave a lasting impact, especially since the next scene afterwards is a thrilling dive to a shipwreck. You just want the movie to slow down and let these moments sink in. But the problem is, if the movie slows down, it stops being a fun Indiana Jones movie.

So, we got a problem here. Was there ever a way that the writers could’ve solved this clash of conflicting tones?

Now I will say, I think there’s a version of this story that COULD HAVE worked. Like I wrote, James Mangold was hitting all the story beats he needed to hit. It’s just that the story needed:

Yup. I’m gonna say this with full sincerity; “Dial of Destiny” would’ve worked if it was centered on Indiana Jones and Marion Ravenwood going on one last adventure. You can keep Mutt Williams dying, because that would mean the story would be about Indy and Marion reconciling with each other. Going back to my short review, the more I thought about it, the more that “Dial of Destiny” felt like James Mangold’s attempt at making an “Uncharted 4” movie.

Just like “Dial”, the fourth “Uncharted” game centered on an aging Nathan Drake getting pulled out of retirement for one last adventure. That game managed to actually be BOTH somber and lighthearted. You’d have scenes where Nathan is riding around a motorcycle and spewing one-liners, followed up by Nathan having a deep conversation with Elena.

But here’s why I feel “Uncharted 4” worked while “Dial” didn’t. Naughty Dog knew that in order to bring Nathan’s story to a proper close, they needed to center it on the main cast. In fact, one of the best sequences in the entire game is literally just Nathan and Elena driving around the jungle talking about their lives.

“Dial” doesn’t work because the story is centered on Indy, his goddaughter who we’ve never seen before (and whose father is a new character), and this random kid who was pretty much Short Round 2.0. And it’s frustrating because the BIGGEST dramatic reveal of the movie was Indy talking about his dead son and his divorce. Sorry to Phoebe Waller-Bridge but that scene should’ve had Marion as the focus. In fact, it gets even more frustrating since Mutt’s death means little to Wombat as a character. She didn’t know the guy, the most she could’ve felt in that scene was, “Sorry for your loss, goddad”.

Even the presence of Wombat and Teddy are frustrating. Wombat could’ve easily been rewritten as Marcus Brody’s daughter (or if you wanna be spicy, she was Willie Scott’s daughter with Indy, making her Mutt Williams’ half-sister). Teddy could’ve been Sallah’s son. These may seem like small changes, but at least there’d be a stronger connection to the past. Since it’s Indiana Jones’ last journey, this movie should’ve been more rooted in Indy’s past adventures, even if the connections are more with legacy characters.

So, yeah, it’s a mixed bag. “Dial” is a movie that is supposed to be closing the door on Indiana Jones as a character, but doesn’t really accomplish that due to its detachment from the past movies. It’s a movie that’s too somber to be a lighthearted adventure, but too lighthearted to be a somber character study. And what does that mean for the end result? A movie that’s just okay, but doesn’t really justify its existence. Could’ve been worse, but you wish it was better.

[herequeerexitentialfear]

i wanna die with you, wendy, on the streets tonight, in an everlasting kiss

Celia/Elena, and the moments around the moment that changed their whole lives. for ockiss<3 even if it takes over a thousand words to get there

In the aftermath of conflict, Celia and her friends, feeling down and hollow, collect their 'reward' for coming out on top- a meeting with Capo Polpo.

But that's for their new leader to worry about, Celia's thoughts are all wrapped up in Elena, as they escort their leader to the meeting, and afterwards the Capos strange gift leads to her getting her selfish wish and kissing Elena, but only because she doesn't know if they will survive the mysterious blow dealt to both of them.

Their friends Tesoro and Conficcare find both of them wrapped in a bloody embrace, just streets from their home, and as Celia wakes, she is reminded of the love and joy her life holds, despite the hollowness she feels.

posted on ao3 as well as its just over 2k words. warning for minor character death, graphic depictions of violence, and a near death experience.

-

Their refuge of peace was fraught with anxiety, exhaustion in every line of the bodies lying on various surfaces. 

Part of the anxiety was undeniably the fact that Sovrano was intruding on their space, laying claim to what had always been their place- but he was good at that, taking over what was theirs with an unspoken promise of violence.

Victory had never felt so bitter-sweet, aching bodies and eyes staring into the recent past, even the satisfaction of winning was hollow. 

Yet Sovrano was waiting for something, anticipating action- despite the bandages and stitches, and there had been so much blood, and someone else had managed to knife him, in that last desperate attempt, but missed killing him by a few centimetres.

Celia didn't know if she was glad it missed or not. She was already the de facto leader of their little sub-group, and despite the leers, she would be the one to step up when Sovrano was taken out of the game- Hell she had stepped up as he was taken care of in that clinic.

Mama, look at your darling daughter now, so bloody and violent, a leader of men. Do you weep, up in heaven, your spirit looking down at she who once was your darling child, hands now soaked in blood? 

By all rights, Elena should be the next in line, but this scholarship- well, she's been slowly retreating from them, preferring to study and linger in what passed for a studio in school, than hang out in parks and bars and wherever they chose to linger at night, drifting through the stone jungle they called home.

A dial tone interrupted her thoughts, distracting her from the dawning fear and hollow heart that were now so common when she thought about Elena, and their future.

Sovrano jumped to get it, fear in his eyes, trying to collect himself as he hobbled to the landline.

“Signor?”

Blue, green, brown and finally her own unsettling gold eyes all stared at him and the receiver he held to his ear. The lingering headache ringing in her head mangled the words he replied, as her mind slogged to try and think who it could be, who he would speak to with that level of respect.

Still, despite her struggle, his last words caused a burst of clarity to cut through the lingering pain. But in turn, that space was soon filled by fear.

“It would be my honour to meet with Capo Polpo”

The click of plastic on plastic felt like a gunshot echoing through the room, the roar inside Celia's head sounding eerily reminiscent of engines.

“Muro, Spina. You're with me, given how you both came out the best off.”

Everyone can hear the aborted statement about people hesitating to hit a woman, or some lewd joke about tits distracting the Capo. Sovrano may see himself as a man's man, but even he has to alter his language now the dust has settled and those ‘bitches’ are what got them standing above the rest.

The wall and the thorn. Celia was growing to fit her new name, and Elena was always sharp, but these past few weeks made her edge razor thin, and even deadlier. The masculine noun felt right on her, although it felt strange to be the wall, instead of being told she was stubbornly smashing her head against one. Elena loved telling her that, or mocking her name by calling her Cecità, blind. 

Elena has already got up, donning her leather jacket and checking the placement of her knives, all in the time Celia was musing on names. She stood up to do the same, patting down her trench coat and checking the internal sheaths were all easy to access. Both their new jackets having been recently repurposed and retrofitted to be walking armories, after their beloved previous ones took hit after hit until they were nothing but strips of leather and cloth. She mourned their well loved clothes, the new ones still being broken in and altered to suit them both.

Confident she wouldn't slice open her coat- or herself- unsheathing a knife, she ventured for the stairs, towards her steel toe capped boots, and the mysterious meeting with the capo.

-

The concrete walls of the gilded cage the Capo holds court from are cool to lean on, the two armed youths having not even entertained the possibility of being taken through, even with all the bribes that line the guards pockets. Celia doesn't mind, hating the unnecessarily complicated mind games of the older made men, preferring the clarity of necessity that colours the fights and battles of the street gangs. 

She doesn't mind letting the cold seep into her through her coat, Elena right next to her and gazing out at the city skyline, doesn't mind it at all.

And if her eyes linger on the person beside her, on the folds of leather, on the hands still splattered with paint, on her eyes and face and lips, then that's her secret. Elena too distracted to notice her lingering gaze, hands twitching like she wants to reach for a paint brush, as her eyes stare into the distance, mind whirring with composition and colour. 

She's an artist to the bone, got creation on her soul, and one day, Celia prays, Elena will have the time and money to put to canvas every painting she ever dreamed of making, even the ones she's daydreaming of now, when it's just half formed thoughts to distract herself while waiting.

-

Sovrano walked out- and they fell in behind him- cupping a lighter of all things. They walked in silence, meandering back towards their home streets, his face screwed up in concentration, having said nothing other than that he cannot let the lighter go out, and there are good things in store for them.

Almost home, they turned into a plaza, but Sovranos hands were getting lazy, and the wind whistling through an alleyway took them off guard, and as the flickering light died out, fear and panic rose on his face, as he looked around then scrambled to re-light it.

Celia shook her head at the strange ritual, turning away from checking in on him due to his sudden movements, when the smack of flesh on stone altered her to his fall-

Blood, again, bright red soaking flagstones instead of grass, but this time, there is no coming back for their leader. 

Bullet? But the blood- like a stab, not gunshot. No weapon in sight, no perpetrator- sniper?

Cold, a prick at her back, just between her shoulder blades, then white hot pain, her brain screaming, and all she can think about is Elena. Elena who has a chance at a future, who has a chance to get her and her family off of these bloodsoaked streets, and before she knows it, her muscles move, instinct propelling her, knocking Elena to the ground, hand cradling the back of her neck to lessen the fall, arm clutching hers, too tight, but the pain, bright and unyielding, blinds her.

Her nose hits something soft, a cheek and her lips are about to- and if shes at the angle she thinks shes at- our mother in heaven let her be selfish just this once- and both their lips are dry and cracked- and let her have this, let this be her last moments, kissing the person she loves as she cradles her, lying on blood splattered flagstones, warm underneath them both from the hot sun.

Let her be selfish again, and open her eyes, let her memorise Elena's face, again, let it be what she sees-

The warmth under them both is wet and the hole through her extends to her love, and she feels her body slipping out from under her, panic overrides the pain as she sees the hole placed just between Elena's collar bones- and no she didn't- no- not her. Something in her throat building up, a scream, but all that comes out is blood, as flickering darkness descends, and her body gives out from under her, and for a split second she swears she can see herself, blood streaming down her back, both their lips stained, just like the stone below, wrapped in a pathetic embrace.

-

She wakes up like that, sprawled on the stone, blood turned brown and flaking at the touch. Something brushes against her shoulder blades, A freckled hand reaches towards her, and there's a split second where she hunches over Elena further, before she connects the hand to Tesoro, and relaxes, turning her face towards him, eyes blinking in the dim evening light.

Another hand, slimmer and presumably the source of the touch that woke her, cups her head, and Tesoro pushes on her shoulder, rolls her over onto her back, leaving Elena unprotected. 

Cool fingers massage her temples, and coax her eyes into focusing on the blue ones staring into hers, above them, brows knitted in concentration. One hand reaches towards the cool skin on her chest, where the frayed and torn edges of the hole in her shirt brush against her skin, outlining the exposed flesh. A gasp she later realises is her own sounds out as fingertips brush against scar tissue, where only hours ago, there was a gaping wound.

Clumsy movements drag her arm towards Conficcares, pulling on it it like a petulant child, the pushing it towards Elena, trying to convey what her throat won't let her, to help Elena over her, help the one of them with a future, the one who shouldn't be lying wounded on these bloodsoaked streets. the one who has a chance to escape.

Tesoro breaks the silence, from where he is leaning over Elena, with confused murmuring to Conficcare, “It's the same, these scars are fresh, but-” he shakes his head in frustration- “they didn't have these when the went out-” his head turns to Conficcare, eyes weighing on him, silently asking the groups medic if these were past wounds, hidden from the rest of them.

He shakes his head solemnly in answer, “There should be no way for them to have healed in a few hours.”

Celia tries to open her mouth, but no words come out, the poor things getting stuck on the raw edges of her throat. She just gapes like an air-drowning fish, before squeezing her eyes shut at the effort.

Pity shines in green and blue eyes, and behind the shield of her eyelids, it weighs heavy on her chest. The silence weighs heavier, she can almost hear the exchange between the two, concern and questions flying over her head. She can almost hear Tesoro constructing the perfect comforting words, weaving them together, reassurances and certainty and love and-

-and Conficcare beats him to the bullet and breaks the silence.

“You really must be out of it, if you're aren't threatening comical acts of violence upon me for feeling up your chest,” 

It sounds forced, even to her, and Tesoro sighs, ready to reprimand their ill-tongued friend, when finally her throat lets something out, and her eyes open in shock as giggles bubble out of her mouth. 

Conficcare grins at her, and Tesoros head is in his hands as he gives into laughter too-

A voice next to her bites out, “Idiota” any malice blunted by the fondness that underlies every syllable.

And Celia turn her head towards her sun and grins too, wide and full of love, giggles turning to cackles, Tesoros shoulders shaking alongside his head, as he lowers his arms and reveals his own grin, and finally Elena cracks to, rolling her eyes as the twitch at the corner of her mouth turns into a smile, lovingly frustrated, but then her eyes glint maliciously and she opens her mouth again-

“Please, you kiss worse when you are trying to be romantic than Celia over here did when she was actively bleeding out.”

The smug look is wiped off Conficcares face as he processes what Elena just said, and Celia is certain what blood remains in her is all in her cheeks and she burns with embarrassment.

Conficcare finds his words quickly, turning his kicked dog eyes onto Tesoro and pleading “I'm a good kisser- aren't I, Tesoro?”

Tesoro joins her and Elena on the floor as he gasps for breath, Conficcare pouting at him, at them all, as if to protest against the mockery he was suffering.

Celia is warm now, laughter and love filling her back up, anchoring her again to this world, fondness for life soaking back into her bones. She loves these idiotas, every fucking one of them.

“Love you too, idiota, but watch who your calling stupid, my stubborn Muro”

Ignore that, Celia is crawling under the nearest rock and dying. 

…She's still grinning though.

And not even the pressing weight of consequences, not the cooling corpse of someone she's known since she was eleven, nor the mysteries of how exactly they were hurt and healed can douse the warmth in her heart.