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sayoneee · 5 months

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☆ CALL IT WHAT YOU WANT

“i want to wear his initial on a chain 'round my neck, not because he owns me, but because he really knows me” - taylor swift (1.6k)

contains: luke castellan x daughter of ares! reader. secret relationship: the three times u guys were almost caught and the one time u were. pre-tlt.

kashaf’s note: working on requests as well so dw!! again. i just like this 1 lyric from this song <;/3

MORNINGS AT CAMP half-blood were both weird and normal — at a summer camp for kids with godlike abilities, you’d think that maybe they’d be cut some slack from all the monsters they’ve had to evade and maybe be allowed to sleep in some days, but no, life at camp half-blood was a regular survival of the fittest regime.

or: eat, or be eaten, as you liked to remind your cabin.

maybe that was why you were notorious among ares cabin, but to the rest of camp half-blood you simply embodied an other-worldly discipline, more of a tactician than anything, when compared to the rest of your half-siblings.

“hey,” clarisse says in an undertone, nudging you as you take your designated seat beside her, “where were you last night?”

your hand stilled as you picked up your goblet, shrugging your shoulders as the once-boisterous table came to a stand-still, eager to discover their shrewd head counselor’s indiscretions, hoping for something to loosen your high esteem for them: everyone remembered the time the entire cabin was put on cleaning detail for an entire month to repent for the mistakes of one.

your penchant for collective punishment wasn’t at all well-received among your half-siblings, but well, no one had really challenged you on your position yet, so.

“in bed,” you said, slowly, taking a sip, “why?”

clarisse shrugged, spearing a carrot from your plate, masking her annoyance with you — out of all of your half-siblings, camp half-blood, even, no one could boast of a relationship as close as yours and clarisse’s, yet no one could be more opposite. clarisse was chaotic, you were contained; clarisse was ruthless, you were just.

“i dunno, i just saw two people on the roof of hermes cabin.”

“and?” you drawled, ignoring the blood rushing in your ears, as the rest of your cabin looked on gleefully.

“one of them was castellan,” clarisse paused, searching your face for a reaction — you were grateful for all the nights spent in hermes cabin, because if not for the stolls persuading you to play poker with them almost every time, your expression would’ve never survived under clarisse’s scrutiny.

“the other one,” clarisse pauses as if thoughtful for once, then pointedly stares, pointing her fork at you, “looked like you.”

the other cabins are also looking in your direction as the dining pavilion is so quiet that you can hear a pin drop, before the table finally registers clarisse’s words, resulting in so much whooping and jeering, you’d think ares cabin won the lottery.

you snag a bite of clarisse’s pancakes, each word punctuated by a bite, “what would i be doing with castellan?” you pause, feeling the table pause with you. wrinkling your nose, you continued, “i swear, next you’re gonna say you saw us making out during capture the flag.”

you grinned as the table erupted into laughter once more, this time by your design. while everyone else went back to their original conversations, you’re summoning the memories of last night.

how luke had wrapped his arm around your shoulders and attempted to woo you with myths about the stars, how you had laughed and called him corny. how the moonlight had illuminated his face in the moment, when he laughed back, drawing you in closer, with his usual snarky response of, “you love it though.”

clarisse snapped her fingers in front of your face, bringing you out of your reverie. she frowned, whispering, “you’d tell me though, if that was you, right?”

“yeah,” you nodded, trying not to feel guilty about lying — clarisse deserved the truth. but it went against your agreement with luke. you tried not to think about how you’re essentially picking a boy over your sister.

like all things camp half-blood, if not careful, could result in death — like capture the flag, but did that stop you, or anyone else for that matter, in taking it upon yourself to make winning a matter of life or death.

this week, you orchestrated an alliance with hermes cabin, because of their numbers and ability to launch unforeseen tactics, and hephaestus cabin, for their resourcefulness. it also didn’t hurt that the head counselors were your boyfriend and his friend, respectively.

you’re standing by zeus’ fist, discussing strategy with luke and charlie, while your respective cabins go off doing whatever it is to prepare, when luke’s sloppily-tied breastplate catches your attention.

before you’re fully aware of what you’re doing, you’ve already reached forward to grab it, while charlie stares at you like you’ve been cursed by athena and turned into medusa.

“so,” charlie says, slowly, “anything you guys wanna tell me?”

luke is silent, watching you work, while you’re too busy focused on fixing the breastplate to notice the knowing expression on charlie’s face, one you would’ve been irritated by if you had.

“nothing,” you say, nonchalantly, whirling back around to face charlie when you’re finished, while luke gets swarmed by the stolls, “these things just bother me.”

“in general, or luke specifically?” charlie grins, that annoying, all-knowing look is back, and although reluctantly, you can see what it is about him that has silena beauregard so hung over.

“in general,” you say as if it were obvious, as if you’re trying to convince a child that storks are the ones to deliver babies, and no, you’re not lying, (both statements hold the same level of ridiculousness), “it’s the adhd — makes it distracting.”

“uh huh,” he says skeptically, “i’ll take your word for it.”

you resist the urge to shake him and question him more, but before you can toughen up and just ask, “what do you mean?” he’s already turned away, and capture the flag is about to begin.

“what’s that?” annabeth points at the tiny “L” on your necklace as it swings to and fro, finally set loose from the captivity of your neon orange camp half-blood tee, hidden under your armor.

“what?” you glance down, dropping the sword in your hand to hastily tuck it away, all the while cursing both yourself and luke for being stupidly sentimental. (it was his idea after all, though, you’re not sure how or where he got the necklace from, but you didn’t really care if it was stolen — you wouldn’t put it past him, especially since he was a son of hermes.)

“was that for luke? are you dating him?” annabeth persists, eyes widening with question after question — nothing can satiate the curiosity of athena kids, especially not annabeth, not when luke castellan, her brother, is in the equation.

“no,” you say, trying to catch your breath from the sword technique you had just shown her, and the gaggle of younger campers who have now caught on, looking at you eagerly.

“no to what? no to the initial on your necklace being for luke, or no to you dating him?” another camper chimes in with a bright grin, probably a child of apollo, and you’re so close to shooting yourself on the spot.

“no to all of the above,” you grit out, really regretting being nice for one of the few times in your life, because no one had asked you, in particular, to demonstrate sword-fighting to these kids, luke could’ve done it, but where your boyfriend was concerned, you were too.

“then, how come you have an “L” necklace?” annabeth asks again.

“it’s my mom’s,” you lie, “i’m a year-rounder, so it reminds me of her — before all this,” you waved in the general direction of camp half-blood.

the campers ohh’ed in unison, but you knew annabeth wasn’t convinced.

you sighed, it could’ve been worse.

+4.

you’re not sure when or where the whispers that your boyfriend had returned originated, but after what seemed like eons of not seeing him, you couldn’t find it in yourself to verify the rumors before dropping your sword in the middle of training and sprinting toward half-blood hill to see him for yourself.

you ignore the calls of your name from your half-siblings, as you were kind of in the middle of demonstrating a technique, instead choosing to focus on more important things, like if your boyfriend was even alive.

when you finally do make it to half-blood hill, and catch sight of your boyfriend, with chris and charlie in tow, you don’t stop sprinting, uncaring for all of the whispers from the other campers as they look on.

when you finally do come in contact with luke, you nearly tackle him into the ground, as he drops his backpack behind the two of you, arms coming to wrap around you to secure you, as you mumbled, “i missed you, asshole,” into the crook of his neck.

luke laughed, the sound reverberating against your skin, and you get off him, taking a step back. he starts to say something, “i —” but is cut off by you grabbing his wrist, and tugging him over your shoulder, his back slamming into the dirt ground. distantly, you can hear the rest of campers gasp, before buzzing with excitement. ignoring them all, you put your knee on his chest, bringing your forearm under his neck.

“i swear to everyone, if you disappear like that again—” you begin, as luke cuts you off.

“i won’t,” he promises, grinning as you pull him up. luke slings an arm around your shoulder, and you finally notice the jagged scar running down his cheek.

he catches your gaze and stares at the ground instead, avoiding you.

“you look kinda hot now with the scar,” you settle for, you know you’ll get the chance to properly speak about it later, but for now, this’ll have to do.

a light pink dusts his cheeks, and luke, looking up at the campers gathered behind chiron, then glances back at you, smirking, “looks like you gave them quite a show.”

you glared at him, shoving him, “i’m going to kill you.”

luke shrugged, wrapping the arm around you tighter, “the damage’s done, now i’ll finally be able to hang out with my girl in peace.”

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onegirlmanytales · 2 days

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𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐒𝐭𝐚𝐫𝐬 𝐈𝐧𝐜𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐞 𝐔𝐬 - 𝐏𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐈

𝐏𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: Eddie Munson x fem!reader

𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: Everyone is born unable to see color until they find their soulmate. You never gave much thought to it. You preferred to focus on other things, like your career. But the universe has a way of revealing its plans for you. Of course, humans have always been rather stubborn beings, and they don’t always listen to those kismet interventions.

𝐂𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐚𝐢𝐧𝐬: soulmate au (with a twist), modern au, angst (hurt/no comfort, the comfort comes in part 2), rejection (not from Eddie, you’ll see), artist!reader, rockstar!eddie, reader wears a skirt, reader uses she/her pronouns, background Ronance, some Cheerscops (Steve x Chrissy)

𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 5.4k

𝐌𝐚𝐢𝐧 𝐌𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 | 𝐒𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐬 𝐌𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 | 𝐏𝐥𝐚𝐲𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

A/N: This part is more of a setup! Part two will get into Eddie and readers dynamic. This is my first full length since I’ve been back. It feels really good to be writing again. Also as requested, here are your complimentary tissues 🗳️ I hope you enjoy ♥️

There have been many myths throughout the course of human history that tried to explain the concept of soulmates. From Greece to Japan, tales have been told of two humans connected by fate. Either by soul or string, there is a profound bond that cannot be explained. Nobody really knew where soulmates came from or how they were created. You certainly didn’t.

All that was known was until you met your soulmate you wouldn’t see what they called color. You weren’t entirely sure what color was. You’d tried to understand it, you’d tried listening to people who had met their soulmate explain what it was. But their explanations never really made sense. You knew certain “colors” could be found in certain things. Like how apparently the sky was something called blue which supposedly was beautiful.

The world you knew, the world most people knew, was only in shades of black and white. Finding one’s soulmate was a rare occurrence that few had the luxury of experiencing. It was like winning the lottery, although some experts argued you had better luck with the powerball. Because of this you didn’t give your soulmate much thought. As wonderful as the idea sounded, you didn’t want to be one of those people who threw their lives away as soon as they turned 18 in pursuit of something so fantastical. After all, you didn’t need a soulmate to find love. Plenty of people had lived fulfilling lives full of love without ever meeting their soulmate.

No, you refused to get caught up in something so improbable. Instead you put your focus on your work and your friends.

Art was your calling. Most artists, unless they had found their soulmate, stuck to the monochromatic color scheme of black and white. But even though you couldn’t see the colors, you used them. Finding colored paint was not any easy task. With so few people being able to see the differing colors the market for it was almost nonexistent. But so was the audience for your paintings. The soul-matched, as they were called, seemed to flock to your work, always intrigued that as an unmatched you not only used colors, but used them for portraits of the matched.

It had started just as an experiment. Something you wanted to try for your soul-matched friends Robin and Nancy for their anniversary. Eventually word spread to the other matched, and you began creating commissions for them. It wasn’t exactly something you could make a living on with such a niche crowd but you enjoyed it, and you took other commissions in order to actually make money. But those portraits were your favorite to create.

Your best friend and roommate Chrissy was your biggest supporter. Even if she couldn’t understand how someone who wasn’t interested in finding their soulmate worked so hard for the soul-matched.

“Just think of where you could take your art if you could actually see the colors!” She said, sitting across from you at the little table you and your friends frequented at the local cafe. Your other friends Nancy and Robin were with you. Both of them were listening intently as you all enjoyed your usual brunch.

“I don’t think that’s a very good reason to try to find my soulmate. Shouldn’t I look for them for the sake of finding them?” You asked with a raised brow as you took a sip of your coffee, peering over the rim of the mug to her.

Chrissy shook her head with a slight smile, “Well…yeah. But how else am I going to convince you to try?” She retorted, making you chuckle. “Why don’t you want to at least try and find the one person you’re destined to be with?”

“How do you know its destiny?”

“Because it…because it is!” Chrissy huffed.

Ever the hopeless romantic, Chrissy had been looking for her soulmate for as long as you’d known her. She’d tell you in detail what she wanted him to be like. So much so that you wondered if Chrissy had already met him.

“Lay off her Chris,” Robin piped in. “She’s not interested. Besides, you don’t need to find your soulmate to find love. None of our parents were soulmates.”

“Sue me for wanting me and all my friends to find their perfect person!” She laughed.

“I think you can find your perfect person even if they aren’t your soulmate,” Nancy shrugged.

“Easy for you to say,” Chrissy scoffed. “You met yours!”

Robin and Nancy shared a loving glance, their hands entwining from where they laid on the table. Even if you never found your soulmate you always considered yourself lucky to know people who had. Watching Nancy and Robin fall in love had been a beautiful thing to witness. It made sense for anyone who had seen the way Nancy and Robin loved each other to want that same thing. You couldn’t blame Chrissy for craving such a thing. But that kind of love was rare.

“What about that guy you’ve been talking to?” You asked Chrissy. “What are you going to do when you meet him in person and he turns out to not be your soulmate?”

Chrissy froze, her big eyes staring at you. She shifted uncomfortably in her seat and the guilt from your words washed over you. “I’m sorry Chris I didn’t–”

“No it’s okay,” she shook her head. “You’re right. He might not be. If he isn’t I’ll…I’ll keep looking.”

You frowned at that, but didn’t say anything. For months Chrissy had been talking to and about Steve. She had “met” him through the dating app Soul Seekers, an app that claimed they could find your perfect soulmate with the help of their soulmate gurus. It always seemed like a scam to you, but you saw how happy Steve made Chrissy. Even if they hadn’t met in person. They stuck to talking on the phone and texting, never video chatting. They’d never seen each other's faces. It was by design, so that when the users of Soul Seekers met their supposed soulmates for the first time they’d get the full experience. But you worried for her. You didn’t want her to be disappointed when it turned out he wasn’t the one.

It had happened before and you wondered how many times it would happen before she gave up on love entirely.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

Eddie had never believed in any of the soulmate “bullshit.” He thought it was all made up, a fairytale that had been concocted to sell dating apps, regiments to help you attract your soulmate to you, and other various monetizations. He believed that these “colors” weren’t an indicator of fate. They were just a phenomenon that happened to some people.

They happened to him, once.

He’d traveled the country. He’d met thousands of people. Yet the one time he met someone he thought was his soulmate, she rejected him. Insisting that it couldn’t be true. Just as soon as the colors appeared they were gone, and so was she.

He tried not to think about her. He tried not to think about the colors of her. But every once in a while his mind slipped back to that place. To that bar. To that moment where his drink met her dress, their eyes locked, and suddenly the world around him changed. It only lasted for a few minutes. But those measly minutes were the most beautiful he had ever witnessed. Until it was ripped away from him.

So it had to be a lie. Otherwise the colors would have stayed. Otherwise she would have stayed.

He instead chose to focus on his music, his band. Corroded Coffin was finally starting to make a name for themselves. They were on a break from their tour for their newest album for a few months before they started their South American leg. In their downtime they stayed in Chicago. It was only a few hours away from their hometown, giving them a chance to visit their families if they wanted to without having to stay in the hellhole they deemed Hawkins to be.

As soon as they got off the plane, Jeff and Artie’s girlfriends met them both at the gate. The two girls practically lept into their arms. Eddie might have been a cynic when it came to soulmates, but seeing the way his friends lit up when they saw the people they loved most was enough to warm even his usual icy exterior. To him it was just further proof that soulmates were bullshit. Here were two of his best friends, in love and happy with two women that were perfect for them and yet there was still no color.

What truer love could there be?

“Looks like it’s just us Gare Bear,” Eddie said, slinging his arm over Gareth's shoulder.

“Speak for yourself Munson,” a deep voice spoke up from behind them. They both turned to see Gareth’s boyfriend, Paul. Pushing Eddie away, Gareth enveloped his boyfriend in a tight hug. Whispering affections to each other that Eddie couldn’t hear.

As the couples all reunited Eddie stood on the sidelines, watching their tender kisses and squeezing embraces. A front man on the stage but a bystander in life. He was the only member that wanted them to keep going. No stops before the next leg, just straight to the next thing. To the next show, to the next crowd. Forever moving. But his bandmates weren’t like that. They had put down roots in this city. They had found a home there.

Music might have been their life, but it wasn’t what kept them going.

While all the couples went to their respective homes to continue their long awaited reunions Eddie went to see his friend Steve. Having not seen his best friend in months, he was expecting to be welcomed with open arms. Maybe a celebratory beer. But then maybe he should have at least called first.

“Eddie, what are you doing here?” Steve asked when he opened the door to see the metalhead with his sunken tired eyes and a duffel bag slung over his shoulder.

“On break before the next leg,” Eddie replied as if it was obvious as he slinked past Steve into his apartment.

“Why aren’t you at your place?” Steve turned, watching as Eddie threw his bag on his couch and then went to his fridge to scavenge through it. Making himself right at home. As he always did.

“Thought I’d give Gare and Paul some alone time. I love the guy but there are just some things you don’t need to know about your bandmates,” Eddie chuckled as he started his search, looking for anything to eat or drink for his rumbling stomach. But his friend seemed to have a different taste then him, his fridge packed with fresh fruits and veggies. “Do you have any beer? Pizza?”

“Ed,” Steve sighed, exasperated. “I appreciate you stopping by and I’m really happy you’re back but you could have at least called first if you wanted to stay here.”

Eddie paused, pulling his head out the fridge and looked at his friend. “Do you want me to go?”

If there was one thing Steve knew about Eddie Munson it was that he had mastered the art of the puppy dog eyes. His big round eyes were designed for it and his mouth knew how to shape the most subtle yet perfect pout.

“No,” He relented. “You can stay.”

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

A dashing smile.

Big kind eyes.

The face of a man you’d never seen before.

He kept appearing in your dreams. You’d see him amongst a crowd of people, but before you could reach him he would be gone. At first you assumed it didn’t mean anything. But then it just kept happening.

By the third night you needed to know what it meant. Most of the sources you could find online claimed that you must have seen him at some point and you didn’t remember but your subconscious did. But then you found an article from a few years ago from someone who claimed they had seen their soulmate in their dreams before they met them. You weren’t sure whether to believe it or not. There were a lot of things online about people claiming fantastical things about their soulmates, like one person who claimed that they astral projected into their soulmates home but they could never find it, or them, afterwards. So you chose not to dwell on it. Pushing it to the back of your mind where it couldn’t pester you.

A week went by and the dreams persisted.

You kept trying the age old trick of going back to that same dream every time you woke up, but it never worked. You couldn’t get his face off your mind no matter how hard you tried. He consumed your thoughts.

Usually, when you found your thoughts to be too overwhelming you would paint. But that only led you to painting his face. Over and over again. The contours and shape of it were etched into your mind. You struggled to paint or draw any other. Every brush stroke, every scribble, led back to him. You never showed anyone these works. Especially not Chrissy. Your friends would only pester you to go out and find him. It scared you. Putting faith in the universe in this way was not something you did often. You weren’t sure if you could trust it.

One day while you were frantically scribbling another sketch of him there was a knock on your door. You quickly tried to hide it all away, tucking it under other loose papers before you went to answer it.

Your friend Jonathan smiled at you as he stood in your doorway. He gave you a confused look as he took in your disheveled appearance, hair a mess and hands and clothes covered in paint and ink from when you were working on another project before you got distracted by that pestering face.

“Did you forget about lunch?” Jonathan laughed softly. He was very used to you getting lost in your work, often leading you to forget about plans.

“No, no,” you said frantically. “We can go!” You went to grab your shoes when he stopped you by putting a gentle hand on your shoulder.

“Do you want to clean up a bit first Picasso?” He asked, gesturing to your paint splattered overalls.

“Right, right. Come in, I'll be quick.”

As you dashed to your bedroom to make yourself presentable, Jonathan meandered around the small room you had turned into your studio. You never minded when he did it before. He often enjoyed seeing what you were working on. As he looked, he spotted something peculiar. Your sketchbook was under a pile of papers. It was usually out, always available in case an idea came to your mind. Assuming you had misplaced it, he plucked it from the pile. It was open to a sketch he hadn’t seen before of a man's face and as he flipped through that same man’s face kept appearing.

You washed up quickly, scrubbing your hands clean and changing your clothes into something that looked less like you had a fight with a bucket of paint and lost. As soon as you were done you went to find Jonathan. When you saw what he had in his hands you rushed over and swiped it from his grasp.

“Who is that?” He asked, jumping at the suddenness of your actions.

“No one it’s–” You sighed, taking a seat on a nearby stool as your fingers traced the drawn jawline. “I think it’s my soulmate.”

“Your soulmate? You’ve met him? When–”

“No, no I…I dreamt of him,” You looked up from the sketch to see Jonathan's perplexed face.

“You dreamt…oh. Wow. I didn’t know that was possible,” He shook his head in disbelief, striding over to look over your shoulder at the drawing once more. “He’s handsome.”

“Yeah,” You nodded. “But I…what if I’m wrong?”

“Then you’re wrong,” he shrugged. He saw your shoulders slump at his words. “Or you’re right! Can’t be sure until you meet him.”

That was what scared you. This strange man was supposedly your perfect person. The one your soul was matched to. But what if you weren’t what he expected? Your soulmate was the person who was supposed to bring color to your life. But what if your colors were too dull for him?

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

Eddie was only supposed to stay with Steve for a day or two while Gareth and Paul became re-acquainted. But it had been a week since he showed up at his place. Eddie wasn’t sure what would have been worse, going back to his apartment and having to witness Gareth and Paul’s constant canoodling, or staying with Steve and listening to him go on and on about the girl he had met on that stupid scam of a dating app.

He was happy for his friends. He was. Ecstatic for Gareth who coming out was a challenge for, and for Steve who dreamed of meeting his soulmate. But he would be lying if he said their happiness didn’t leave a bitter taste in his mouth.

He’d tried dating after her. But no matter how hard he tried he was never able to find anyone that clicked just right. He was still searching for that feeling from when he first saw the colors. That shiver that went up his spine. That thrum in his nerves that made his hair stand to attention, the line of goosebumps that climbed up his arm.

It was the same feeling he got when he performed. That rush was something he craved. Every night for the last few months he never went without it. Being without it now, even for a week, was difficult.

Steve noticed the way Eddie seemed to mope around. Strumming aimlessly at his guitar and staring deadeyed at his phone as he watched old performances online. He needed to get out. To stretch his legs, breathe some fresh air or something.

“Hey Ed?” Steve called out to him from his bedroom.

“Yeah?” Eddie responded, voice monotone as his thumb continued to scroll.

Steve poked his head out of his room, adjusting the collar of his polo as he approached the lounging man. “You want to go out tonight? I have a date tonight with that girl I told you about, I could use some moral support.”

Eddie looked up from his phone then, looking at his friend dressed in a nice shirt and his favorite jeans with his hair purposely tousled just right.

“You’re really meeting her? Tonight?” He asked surprised.

“Yeah, I told you. Remember?”

“Right, right but…shit. Okay yeah I’ll come,” Eddie quickly got up from the couch giving Steve’s shoulder a squeeze when he went past him to freshen up in the bathroom.

It wasn’t Eddie’s ideal way to spend a night. But he had seen the way Steve had hurt when these things didn’t work out for him. He didn’t want that for him, so despite his own apprehension he agreed.

What he didn’t see was the way Steve smiled softly to himself in victory, hoping that perhaps Chrissy had a friend for Eddie. Someone who could melt his hardened heart.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

Chrissy was freaking out. Her room had succumbed to utter chaos as she practically threw all the clothes she owned onto her bed in search of the perfect outfit. You, Nancy and Robin had tried to calm her. Offering her words of gentle reassurance. But her nerves consumed her. It worried you to see her putting so much pressure on herself. Chrissy was one of the best people you knew and if Steve couldn’t see that then it was his loss, and what a loss that would be.

“Which one?” She asked, holding up two dresses. You were sure you had already seen them, but you didn’t say that.

“Left,” You, Robin and Nancy all said in sync hoping she’d just pick one and be done with it.

“I like the right one,” Jonathan piped in. The three of you quickly turned your heads to glare at him, he stuck his hands up in surrender as he mouthed an apology while Chrissy turned back to her almost empty closet.

Chrissy had invited Nancy over to help her get ready and wherever Nancy went, Robin wasn’t far behind. Then when Jonathan learned the four of you would all be at your apartment, he tagged along claiming that his buddy Argyle was busy so he had no other place to be.

But knowing Jonathan, you knew he just wanted to be included. You were happy to do so. As long as he stopped, unintentionally, foiling your plans to get Chrissy to relax.

“Chris,” Nancy said softly as she stood from where she was perched on Chrissy’s bed. She carefully made her way over to her, putting her hands on her shoulders. “Why don’t I pick something out for you?”

Chrissy sighed in defeat and nodded, sitting beside you on the bed. She laid her head on your shoulder while Nancy looked through her closet.

“He’s gonna love you,” you whispered to her. “It’s impossible not to.” The corners of her lips rose in a slight smile as she hugged you from the side. “Maybe…” She lifted her head to turn and look at you, a hopeful gleam to her eyes. “Maybe you could come with me? Be my get out of jail free card?” She suggested.

“I don’t know…”

“Steve has a friend! He’s a muscian! It can be a double date.”

“I think it’s a little last minute Chris–”

Nancy cut off the conversation as she turned to the group, holding up a sleek off the shoulder dress. “How about this?” She asked.

“That’s pretty!” You nudged Chrissy.

“Yeah…” she said hesitantly. “But will Steve like it?”

“If he doesn’t then he doesn’t have taste,” Robin replied, grabbing the dress from Nancy and tossing it to Chrissy. “Get dressed so Nance can do your hair. You’re not the only one with plans tonight.”

“That’s my cue,” Jonathan rose from the bed and left her room so she could change. “Thanks Jonny!” Chrissy called out to him as he shut the door behind him, waving at her in acknowledgment. As Chrissy dressed, Nancy gathered what she needed to do her hair. You could still feel the nerves vibrating off of Chrissy. You didn’t want her to be disappointed if Steve turned out to not be what she expected. So, being the good friend you were, you caved.

“I’ll go with you,” You sighed.

“Really?” Chrissy asked excitedly, stumbling slightly as she tried to put on a pair of heels. “I’ll text Steve!”

You hoped you wouldn’t regret it. You didn’t understand why but you had a sinking feeling in your stomach about tonight.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

The bar was crowded, the scent of beer and sweat was heavy in the air. Some cheesy love song played over the speaker, the singer droning on about losing their lover. The two men sat in a booth with Steve facing towards the entrance. His eyes were trained on it as he anxiously waited for his date's arrival.

“Excited?” Eddie said teasingly as he watched his friend's foot tap incessantly.

“What if…what if I’m not what she's expecting?” Steve looked at him, his face twisted in worry.

“Then clearly she has no taste,” Eddie stated matter of factly. “You’re a catch Stevie. If you were into dudes I’d be all over you.”

Steve laughed, his body easing slightly. Eddie smiled at having provided his friend with some comfort.

“What is this girl's name anyway?” He asked.

“I haven’t told you? It’s Chrissy.”

“Wait, Chrissy?”

The bar door opened and Steve’s head whipped in the direction of it, no longer paying any mind to Eddie or what he was saying. Chrissy entered the establishment with you in tow. The skirt Chrissy insisted you wore was tighter than you usually enjoyed and you kept adjusting it, trying to make it more comfortable. You and Chrissy scanned the bar in search of your dates when your eyes suddenly landed on a familiar face and your eyes met.

The man from your dreams was right in front of you and then…

Colors.

Colors as far as the eye could see. Everywhere. They came to the forefront of your vision like ink bleeding into paper.

He smiled widely, both in shock and joy as he waved you over, “Chrissy!” He shouted. Chrissy turned to him and quickly made her way over, embracing him in a tight hug. He looked down at her confused, then back at you for only a moment before he brought his attention back to her. You hesitantly made your way over, your eyes strained on him trying to not get distracted by just how colorful the world had become, and to not give away how it had changed.

Chrissy introduced you to Steve but you couldn’t hear a word she was saying. You felt like you were drowning, her words gargling in your ears as you looked at the man before him. The same freckles and moles you had been drawing incessantly were now within an arm's reach.

But he was looking at Chrissy.

“Your eyes are so…wow,” he breathed. Chrissy blushed, you saw the color rising in her cheeks and you couldn’t help but stare as it did.

“Thank you,” She said softly, her voice syrupy sweet as she looked up at him in adoration.

You felt like you were going to throw up.

Eddie was just as frozen as you were, staring at Chrissy. The girl that had made all the colors disappear. He always wondered if he saw her again if they would return, but they didn’t.

She met his eyes and her body stiffened as recognition swiped across her features.

“I can’t believe it’s you,” Steve was grinning so widely you thought his smile would split his face in half.

Chrissy shook her head, trying to snap herself out of it after seeing Eddie’s face again. “I know! It’s so good to finally see your face!” She responded gleefully.

“No I mean…the colors,” He gestured around them, but Chrissy only looked at him in confusion. Then his eyes widened in horror as he realized and he turned to you.

“You,” Eddie pointed at Chrissy. He didn’t want to believe it.

She was here. Right here in front of him, and she was Steve’s girl. The same girl he had been gushing over. The same girl that had brought his friend so much happiness.

Steve looked to Eddie, begging for help with his eyes to his friend. When it clicked for Eddie what was happening he returned that same look of horror.

“I-I don’t understand,” Chrissy frowned.

“The colors,” Steve said. “I-I can see them.” He stared back at you and you felt as though you couldn’t move. You couldn’t breathe.

“Colors? What–” Chrissy looked at you then, and it all snapped into place.

“Yeah the colors. You remember those don’t you Chrissy?” Eddie snapped.

“What are you–” Steve started to say but you cut him off.

“Okay everyone just…just stop for a minute please,” You pleaded. You needed to get your thoughts together. It was too much. It was all too much. The three of them all looked at you, as if you had the answers. But you didn’t. You were just as baffled as the rest of them.

“What does he mean you remember the colors?” Steve looked to Chrissy.

Her mouth opened like she was going to say something, but it closed quickly.

“Chrissy and I have met before,” Eddie explained. “Last summer in Miami–”

“Eddie please–” She begged, but he continued on.

“We saw the colors. I thought we were soulmates. But apparently I wasn’t good enough for her, and they disappeared.”

“No that’s not–” Chrissy sighed frustrated. “Yes we met. But we’re not…it was just a fluke. If it wasn't, the colors wouldn’t have disappeared!”

“What is he talking about Chris?” You turned to Chrissy, confusion and pain laced in your words. In all the time you’ve known her she never told you. She was always looking, searching, hoping, to find her soulmate. But she already had.

“Look, remember when I visited my aunt in Miami? Well I met Eddie there and I thought he was it. But it didn’t…it didn’t feel right. Your soulmate is supposed to be your perfect person and he’s not—“ she cut herself off for a moment and as you glanced at Eddie you saw the pain in his eyes as she spoke. “—and then the colors went away so I knew that it wasn’t true.”

As the words left her mouth all Eddie heard was that he wasn’t good enough. He wasn’t right. He was too imperfect. Too loud. Too brash. Too opinionated. Too weird. Too much and simultaneously not enough.

Steve looked at you then, “Do you see them?” He asked. You could only nod, not able to meet your best friend's eyes any more.

Chrissy’s face twisted in hurt as she looked between you and Steve. Her best friend and the man she had fallen for. Soulmates.

“Hurts, doesn’t it?” Eddie asked Chrissy, his voice laced with disdain for her.

“Shut up Eddie!” Steve snarled. He turned back to Chrissy and took her hands in his. “Look I…I don’t care,” he began, his face softening as he looked down at the woman before him. “I don’t care if I don’t see the colors with you. These last few months I…I fell in love with you. I love you. I don’t care what the stupid universe says, I want you.”

They kissed, and it burned you. Like a fire poker straight out of the flames, stabbing through your chest, piercing your very soul. All those years of not even entertaining the idea of finding your soulmate and yet you did, only for him to choose someone else. It was unheard of. Nobody who actually found their soulmates rejected them...right?

You didn’t even know Steve. But having your worst fear come true right before your eyes made your heart snap in two.

Your colors weren’t bright enough for him after all.

You couldn’t stay there. You couldn’t watch them together. So you ran. Chrissy called your name, but you didn’t hear her.

Steve turned to Eddie only to meet his friends stare, icy and cold. “Eddie–” he started to say. But he didn’t want to hear it. So he turned on his heel and left.

Eddie didn’t go home. He wasn’t sure where he could go. Steve’s place was out of the question and the last thing he needed was to be around the lovebirds Gareth and Paul. Instead, he found another bar. He sat in the corner, alone, and drank away. Getting lost in the bottle in hopes of forgetting her face, Steve’s face and even yours.

The pain in it reflected his own and he wanted to erase the memory of it from his mind. He wanted to eradicate all memory of the colors, of that feeling, of the time he believed in soulmates and sought his own out. He was young and naive then. He’d never make that mistake again.

By the morning he would call his manager and ask him to cut the break short. He’d be back on the road and out of this city. Far away from the messy disaster it had all become. Far away from all talk of soulmates and fate and colors. He’d disappear into the music for a few more months.

Only this time he hoped he could stay gone. For good.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

You had walked for a block with your arms hugged around yourself. Not sure of where you could go, you sat on the curb. Cars whizzed by you, but you paid them no mind as tears poured from your eyes. The pavement was cold and scratchy under your thighs as you hid your face in your hands and cried.

He didn’t want you. You should have expected it. He wasn’t yours, he was Chrissy’s. You didn’t even know him.

So then why did it burn?

As you lifted your head up from your hands and wiped your tears you looked around at the bright night of the city before you. The colors were gone. Just as quickly as they had appeared they were gone again, and your sobs filled the silence of the night.

𝐏𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐈𝐈 →

Thank you for reading! I hope I can keep this writing momentum going. Reblogs and comments are appreciated and cherished! ♥️

Special thanks to my Nibs @paybacksawitch for beta reading this for me, ily thank you for always being so supportive and talking me down whenever I get too in my head about things.

I do not give permission to have my work copied, translated, reposted on any platform, or put into any AI programs.

Dividers by yours truly

Gia’s Gems taglist: @bettyfrommars @ali-r3n @devilinthepalemoonlite @spenciesprincess @belladonnaa-0

@allthingsjoeq @etherealxwitch @siriuslysmoking @thereaderdelilah @steves-babysitter

@livosssblog @kennedy-brooke @hobopies @starksbabie @lavendermunson

@jamdoughnutmagician @paybacksawitch @keeksandgigz

Munson’s Maniacs taglist: @aingealbites @darkyuffie-blog @mrsjellymunson

Hi taglists!! I missed you guys 🥹

Please let me know if you’d like to be added to Gia’s Gems (all fics), Munson’s Maniacs (Eddie fics), Harrington’s Heathens (Steve fics), or Jonathan’s Jellybeans (jonathan fics, obviously). There is no taglist for this particular series.

#eddie munson x reader #eddie munson angst #eddie munson x fem!reader #rockstar!eddie munson #eddie munson #eddie munson fanfic #my writing #the stars incline us they do not bind us #tsiu series

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bucephaly · 8 months

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It's kinda shocking to me how few people seem to know how prevalent the 'my great grandmother was cherokee' myth is and how it's almost never actually true, especially when it comes with things like 'never signed up' or 'fell off the trail' or 'courthouse burned down destorying the documentation' etc etc.

People just don't even seem to know the history like.. when the Trail happened. My great great great grandfather was 2 years old during Removal in 1838, so peoples 'my great grandmother hid in the mountains!' is so clearly wrong. And we have rolls. From before and after removal, rolls done by cherokee nation and others by the government, rolls that were not stored in one random flammable courthouse. It's not difficult to find the actual evidence of ancestry.

And just.. there are lots of ways those family stories get started. It was a practice during the confederacy to claim cherokee ancestry to show one's family had 'deep roots in the south' that they were there before the cherokee were removed. Many people pretended to be cherokee and applied for the Guion-Miller payout just to try to steal money meant for cherokees - 2/3rds of the applicants were denied for having 0 proof of actual cherokee ancestry. [We even see lawyers advertising signing up for the Miller roll just to try to get free money.] And the myth even started in some families in the cherokee land lotteries, where the land stolen from us was raffled off, including the house and everything that was left behind when the cherokees were removed. We have seen people whose families just take these things stolen from the cherokee family and adopt them into their own family story, saying that they were cherokee themselves.

If you had some family story about being cherokee and you wanna have proof one way or the other, check out this Facebook group run by expert cherokee genealogists that do research for free. Just please read the rules fully and respect the researchers. They run thousands of people's ancestries a year and their average is only around 0.7% of lines they run actually end up having true cherokee ancestry.

#and ive heard even dumber origins of the cherokee family myth #such as an ancestor having a silly sounding name so the descendents just go 'oh she mustve been an indian!!!'#i was one of the few people who had my ancestry done on the facebook and had genuine cherokee ancestry #[though i had found it before it was just really validating to get it double checked and i started finding cousins (:]#like. i was told once when i was a kid by my grandma that my dad had cherokee ancestry and i didnt believe her. its wild that so many peopl #will make it a Fixture of their identity [or even just smth they bring up ever] with Zero proof #at least for cherokees from what ive seen its usually considered really disrespectful to claim to have cherokee ancestry without #actually having the documentation [like ancestors on the rolls]#and no a dna test doesnt count. nor does 'my dad is Clearly not white!' or 'high cheekbones' or old family photos or anything #i had this discussion with someone recently whose dad had been calling himself 3/4 native but didnt know exactly what nation ???? hello?#and its like... sorry but ur dad is like. italian lol.#[and blood quantum is bullshit anyway im tired of the 'im 1/16 cherokee' comments its dumb #cherokee nation does not have a blood quantum requirement. its pointless bringing it up in the discussion of who is or isnt cherokee]#also mandatory disclaimer that im reconnecting. i didnt grow up connected to the culture of even knowing my ancestry #this is all from my looking into this stuff over the past year or so. i cant claim to be an authority over anything regarding this #this is p much all my repeating things ive heard said by people who know a lot more than i do haha #man. and this isnt even starting to get into the fake tribe stuff. the only legit cherokee groups are the 3 federally recognized bands #cherokee nation of oklahoma. united keetoowah band. and the eastern band of cherokee indians.#any others that are state recognized or not at all arent acknowledged as legitimate by any of the legit cherokee groups #anyway. my final message goodb.ye #cherokee #tsalagi

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atinylittlepain · 1 year

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Apothecary - Chapter Five

joel miller x witchy!reader

series masterlist

she and joel try to figure out their new normal. will her upside-down world be too much for him to handle?

warnings | 18+ smut-adjacent, significant angst, mentions of pregnancy (not what you think), feelings

word count (since someone asked lmao): 5.8K

a/n | we are entering turbulent waters, my darlings. but remember, i promised you a happy ending, and a happy ending you shall get. just, not yet. as always, i love to hear from you about what you think of the chapter, drop me a message and let's chat <3

.........................................

“Dead man walking at three o’clock, boys.” “Watch out, whatever she’s got working on Miller might rub off on you if you get too close to him.”

“Just a matter of time now, don’t you think?” “Better him than me. I like coming home alive, thank you very much. Miller can have her.”

The folks talking at the stables are lucky that Joel couldn’t give less of a fuck about what they have to say. He’s got better things to focus on. As the summer has slipped into those long languid days before the first snaps of fall, it’s become common knowledge around town that Joel Miller is the witch’s man. And he couldn’t be more pleased about it.

The men place wagers on when he’ll wind up dead, and the women, well, they’ve got a different look in their eyes when he comes around now that he’s so clearly caught the attention of the resident witch. But it’s all just noise to Joel, who is completely and unequivocally wrapped up in his woman.

Tommy has cut down his patrol shifts, and Joel knows it’s because of his brother’s own little superstitious streak, though he’d never admit it to him. But Joel doesn’t mind spending more time working the stables, not when she comes around at midday in between her rounds, sharing her lunch with him, and a little sweetness, before bounding off to wherever she’s needed next.

He’s learning more about her everyday. What’s true, and what’s baseless rumor. Just the other day, he had witnessed for himself her strange communication with animals when she had calmed a bolting horse with a light palm and a few murmured words, the mare tilting its head at her like it was listening to what she had to say. When she had turned back around to Joel after leading the horse into the stables, she offered him a smile and a shrug. Another truth.

They’ve made a little routine around each other, something he didn’t think he’d ever get again in this world, and he fucking adores it. Today is no different, when the sun starts to drip low in the sky and he’s finally finished shoeing a particularly skittish horse, he heads off from the stables toward her shop to pick up his girls. That’s the other thing, she looks out for Ellie, and Ellie thinks she’s “the fucking coolest.” Joel can’t help but feel like he won the damn lottery every time he steps into her shop and finds them laughing and talking easily in the back.

“Wait, wait, I’ve got a good one for you today.”

“Alright, let’s hear it.”

“What do you call witches who live together?”

“I don’t know, tell me.”

“Broom-mates!”

“Kid, that one is bad, even for you.” Both she and Ellie whip around from where they had been chatting in the backroom of her shop when they hear his grumbled words. Ellie scoffs.

“What? It’s topical.” She snorts at Ellie’s response, nudging her as she wipes her hands off on a rag.

“It was ok. A little culturally insensitive though. That whole riding around on brooms thing is a total myth.” Ellie’s eyebrows shoot up her forehead at that, and she laughs at the girl’s expression, stepping around her to pad over to Joel.

“Hey there, handsome. Quitting time?” It still catches him off guard sometimes, how easily she slips her arms over his shoulders, leaning in for a quick kiss, calling him handsome, though he can still hear Ellie making gagging noises over the ringing in his ears.

“Mmhmm, yep, yes ma’am. You ready to go?” She smiles, getting ready to answer him and being abruptly cut off by a sharp mroowww. He’s already expecting it, little paws clawing up his pants leg, a less welcomed development that has recently emerged as Stevie seems to take every chance she gets to make Joel her human scratching post. With a laugh, she scoops the mewling cat up in her arms, holding her out to Joel, though he swerves away slightly.

“Oh c’mon, Joel. Just give her a little pet. She’s trying to show you that she likes you.” He begrudgingly gives Stevie two curt pats on her head to which she lets out an indignant mrrp in response, yellow eyes squinting at him. No matter how many times she’s tried to convince him that Stevie likes him, Joel is still not sure what the cat thinks of him, or more importantly, what he thinks of her. There’s been a few times now when he has stumbled down stairs in the middle of the night to get a glass of water, still rubbing sleep out of his eyes, and he’s found the cat, frozen midstep, going god knows where out the backdoor. How Stevie got the door open in the first place is beyond him…

Ellie huffs from behind them, shuffling over and taking Stevie out of her arms, the feline immediately nuzzling up to her and purring like the most content engine ever.

“You can’t just bop her on the head like that, old man. Stevie likes a gentle touch.” She giggles at Ellie’s admonishment, her hand that had been resting on his chest coming up to scratch lightly at his scruff as he grumbles.

“Jesus christ, are y’all ready to go or not?”

They certainly make an odd little team walking down the main drag of Jackson, his arm slung over her shoulders, Ellie walking a bit ahead of them carrying Stevie like a baby. There are stares, of course, there always are, and even a loose whisper here and there as they make their way home. Or, he supposes, to his and Ellie’s home, though she spends most nights with him these days.

Pieces of her life have become permanent fixtures at the Miller residence, her “sensitive plants,” as she had called them, lining the windowsills downstairs, a few thick books of hers stacked on his nightstand, her overalls hanging off the corner of his bathroom door. He’d never admit it to anyone, but it actually makes him quite sentimental, these tangible reminders that he gets to call her his. Though there are always a few nights a week that she slips off by herself, going back to the shop or her own place after dinner. He tries not to think too hard about those times, and what she might be up to. After all, there are still a whole lot of things about her that he can’t quite believe, his mind playing catch-up with the strangeness of it all. But he reckons it’s worth it to get to have her like he does right now, an easy hand on her hip as they get dinner ready, Ellie rambling at the kitchen table about something Dina said earlier at school.

And while it feels so good, this routine they’ve slipped into, there’s always a twinge of guilt laced through when his mind wanders to the world just outside of Jackson’s gates, to his past, and the harsh dissonance between this present sweetness and that old pain. He had once asked Tommy about it, how he lives in this strange sliver of normal after the life they’ve known, and his brother had just shrugged and said that maybe it was exactly because of their past that they deserve whatever respite they can find now.

“Penny for your thoughts?” Her voice snaps him out of his mind, eyes focusing back on her sitting across from him at the table, dinner long finished and Ellie off wreaking havoc with the other Jackson teens. Don’t tell anyone, but Joel Miller has traded in his usual nightcap at the Tipsy Bison for a warm cup of whatever she steeps in a kettle on the stove. He doesn’t mind the taste, and it saves him a headache in the morning, and right now, the warmth from his mug anchors him just enough to ask her what’s been on his mind.

“Y’know, you never did tell me how you knew– about Sarah.” Her eyes soften around the edges, smile drooping just slightly.

“Well, I told you that I see the world in threads. The thread between you and Sarah– your daughter– it’s a particularly strong one.”

“Even though– even though she’s gone?”

“She isn’t gone, Joel, not really. I can feel her all around you.” His head spins with her words, tightness settling in his chest, and he doesn’t realize he had been clenching his fist until she reaches out for him, unfurling his fingers in her hand.

“Can you– could you– could you talk to her?” Her brows pinch, lips pressing into a thin frown at his question.

“I’m sorry, baby, I can’t. People– like me– we all have different talents. I had an aunt who’d have long conversations with her husband who had passed on– but that’s never been something I’m able to do.” He swallows hard, nodding, feeling a bit foolish for asking the question in the first place.

“But you said you can– feel her?” That brightens back her smile, and she squeezes his hand in hers.

“We’re all just energy. Even when we die, that can never be destroyed. So yes, I can feel her with you, and how much she loved– loves you.” It becomes too much for him all at once, the hot prick of tears behind his eyes spurring him to tug his hand out of hers. She says his name like a question, but he’s already stumbling out of his chair and toward the front door.

“Wait, Joel– just– where are you going?” It breaks his heart, the concern laced through her words, and when he turns to give her a response, his hand still on the doorknob, he can barely look at her.

“I’m sorry– I can’t– it’s just– I can’t– it’s too much– it’s all too much.” Perfect silence, she offers no reply to his words, and he doesn’t wait around to hear one, slipping out the front door and stumbling into the quickening night.

…

She fucked up, it becoming clear to her with the slam of his front door behind him. All she wanted was for him to have the truth, hoping that it could be a comfort to him. But obviously she had been mistaken in thinking that. He said that it was too much, but the implication of those words was apparent, that she’s too much. She knows better than to follow him, having figured enough out about Joel Miller to understand that any prodding will be unwelcomed, so she stands, feeling a bit helpless, in the middle of his living room. But then she starts looking around, seeing her plants everywhere, a few of her bracelets on the coffee table along with one of her books, knowing there’s more where that came from up in his bedroom, and she starts to think that she had come on too strong, that she was too much.

He was spooked by what she said, there were no two ways about it. She’d recognize that look in his eyes anywhere. She just hated that it had been in his eyes. Suddenly, she wants, needs, to get out of his house, and away from the deafening silence of being alone. She grabs her satchel, hastily shoving whatever odds and ends of herself strewn around his house that she can into her bag. She’s with it enough to lock the front door and slip out the back, figuring that wherever he went, he won’t be back for a while. The hot slip of tears comes before she can stop it, hurrying away from Joel’s house and toward her shop, intent on doing the one thing she knows will calm her mind.

…

He fucked up. He knew it the second he stepped out on his porch, and had even thought about turning back around right then, going back inside, trying to talk it out with her. But there was nothing to talk out, she’d done nothing wrong, he knew that. It had been such a jarring conversation for him, straddling the line between disbelief and something that touched a little too close to bone for his taste, and unable to stay up on the tightrope with her, he bolted.

The Tipsy Bison is quieter tonight, it being the middle of the week, but that’s a blessing to him, not wanting to run into anyone he knows while he tries to fuzz out his thoughts with booze. It plays over and over again in his mind.

I can feel her all around you.

Joel reckons that more than anything else, the feeling that had propelled him out of his house and away from her had been anger, that she can feel something he would give anything to feel himself. Very early on, he’d talk to Sarah, every night, asking her for signs. It had been in a fit of frustration when no signs ever came that he had pointed a gun at his temple and missed. So for her to so easily say that, to bridge that gap he had been clawing at for twenty years, it had set loose a dark mix of emotions he had been trying to stifle for a long time. And he believes her too, no matter how fantastical it seems. He knows that whatever she does choose to tell him, it’s always the truth, which only makes it sting worse.

He feels sick to his stomach after his first tumbler of whiskey, a gnawing pain he can’t shake, his mind replaying the glance he got of her face before he left, a crumpled look, something bordering on fear. And he suddenly has no interest in staying at the bar any longer, pushing away his glass and walking out onto the empty streets of Jackson, having stayed in there long enough for night to lay down heavy and cool over the town.

A pause, trying to get his bearings, to get out of his head, his eyes wander over the storefronts outside the Tipsy Bison, though it’s a figure emerging from between the shops that catches his attention.

“What’re you doing out here, trouble?”

meooowww

He shuffles across the street over to Stevie, meeting her in the alleyway she just sauntered out of. Bending at the waist, he offers out his palm, Stevie rubbing her cheek up against his fingers with a satisfied purr.

“Think I messed up a little.” Stevie lets out a mrow at that, and if she hadn’t been nuzzling at his palm, he would’ve sworn that she nodded her head at his words. Joel sighs, standing back upright, Stevie’s yellow eyes looking up at him, unblinking.

“Better go talk to her, huh?” This time, there’s no other explanation for the little bob of the cat’s head, and Joel has to let out a laugh at the sheer absurdity of it. Whatever this new normal is, ain’t nothing normal about it.

“Alright, trouble, you coming?” He gets no response, because, hello, it’s a cat. But when he starts walking, Stevie falls into step next to him.

The whole walk home, he’s so preoccupied with what he wants to say to her that he’s completely caught off guard when he goes to open the front door and finds it locked. Not a light is on inside, either, and he can’t help the frustration rising in his chest, Stevie starting to claw at his pants not helping one bit. She stops just as soon as she started, giving him an expectant look before turning around and padding down his porch steps. At his wit’s end, all Joel can think to do is follow the cat.

…

This is when she feels closest to her mother. Sweat pricking along her hairline, the sleeves of an old work shirt hiked up to her armpits, the backdoor to the shop cracked open to air out the fumes, and a bandana tied over the bridge of her nose, covering the lower half of her face as she works.

She’s had to make changes to the process in this new world. Where they used to buy lye from the local craft store, she now has to make it herself, leaching wood ash in barrels in the alley outside the shop. Where they used to use exotic oils like neem and jojoba, she now makes due with beeswax and sunflower seed oil. But she still stirs honey, mint, and lavender into the mix, the scent a pure dose of home for her.

Her eyes burn as she stirs, the sharp sting of vapors from the lye a welcome distraction from all the thoughts still winding around her mind. She’s done this a thousand times, moving with measured precision, the mixture swirling thick and black as she carefully ladles it into the wooden mold. They used to make huge batches every spring, rectangular molds the size of garden beds, and once the soap was set and cured, they’d slice it up into small blocks, enough for the year and then some. Now she only makes a little at a time, when she wishes more than anything she still had her mother with her, telling her what the next right step is.

She wipes away the cool drip of sweat on her forehead with the back of her hand, turning the stove off with a jerk of her chin. Some things never get old. But before she can take the now empty stock pot over to the sink, Stevie comes slinking in, nuzzling up against her ankles. She tugs her bandana down from her nose, letting it hang around her neck as she looks down at her girl.

“What’d you get into tonight, little miss?”

“She talked some sense into me.” Her head whips up at the sound of his voice, seeing Joel leaning against the backdoor frame. She can’t help but feel a bit exposed in her ratty attire, and she wonders how much he had seen. She’s never had anyone around when she’s done this before, and it feels like a vulnerability she wasn’t ready to extend to him.

She sniffs, squaring her shoulders and trying to seem unphased by his presence, willing her voice to come out steady.

“Oh?” She feels like she needs to swallow around something thick in her throat, words getting stuck somewhere in her chest.

“I’m sorry– that I just bolted. I wasn’t expecting that– what you said– and I reacted without much thought.” Her fingers itch with want, to reach for him, to thumb away the crease between his brows. But she resists it, staying where she is, her hands bunching into the fabric of her loose shirt instead.

“You don’t have to apologize, Joel. I’m the one who should be saying I’m sorry. You were right– it was too much, and I should have been able to see that. I’m sorry that I pressed too hard.” He kicks up off the doorframe, stepping into the shop, and immediately lets out a few harsh coughs, thumping his fist against his chest as he squints at her.

“Is there– a reason– my throat feels like– it’s on fire?” She curses low, quickly guiding him by the shoulders back out of the shop and into the alley.

“Fuck! I’m sorry! It’s the fumes from the lye. I guess I’m just used to it by now.” She rubs quick circles across his back as he continues to let out wheezy coughs, looking at her with wide eyes when he finally catches his breath.

“What the hell are you doing with lye, woman?” The harsh tone of his words makes her jerk back from him, stepping just out of reach as she crosses her arms over her chest.

“It’s for soap. That’s what I’m doing, making fucking soap. Not whatever all those people you talked to put into your head.” His face blanches in the moonlight, jaw slack at her words.

“That’s not– I didn’t mean it like that.” She scoffs, anger suddenly feeling like a really good idea as she takes another step back when he goes to reach for her.

“Oh really? Are you sure about that, Joel? Are you sure that this isn’t too much for you? That I’m not too much for you?” She regrets the words the instant they leave her mouth, her mounting insecurity a thick sludge in her throat as silence settles between them.

“This ain’t about the soap, is it?” She has to laugh at his timid question, throwing her hands out in frustration.

“Yes– no– fuck, I don’t know. I just– the way you looked at me? When I told you about Sarah? I’ve seen that look before, and I know it well– it usually means that it’s time for me to go.”

“Go? What do you mean go? I don’t want you to go anywhere, goddamnit!” The sharp raise of his voice catches her by surprise, his frustration clear in the long drag of his palm down his face, the sigh he lets out as he squints at her in the dim light.

“Then I need you to tell me right now if what I do, what I am, is going to be a problem for you. Because if it is, I can’t– can’t do this.” She can’t fight it down anymore, the hiccup in her voice, the warble that threatens tears, and Joel’s features soften at the little sniff she lets out.

“You know it’s not a problem for me, you know that. But– I ain’t gonna lie to you, this ain’t easy, darlin. All these things I sure as shit didn’t believe in until I met you. Sometimes I feel like my world’s been turned upside down trying to wrap my head around it all.” She doesn’t step away this time, when he gets closer to her, tentative hand reaching out and circling around her wrist before sliding down to tangle his fingers with hers.

“It’s a lot. But it’s not too much. I promise you.” Words she’s never heard before, and now she really can’t stop the tears muddling up her vision and slipping down her cheeks. He takes another step closer, his other hand coming up to brush away stray salt with the backs of his knuckles. And it finally clicks for her in that moment just how much she wants him to mean it, how much she wants him to stay, and it terrifies her.

“I really am sorry, Joel– about what I said earlier. I should’ve been more careful.” He holds his palm steady against her cheek, dark eyes swimming in shadows.

“I was the one that asked, darlin. I just– I’m gonna need a little more time with– with that.” She sighs, having already reached a conclusion that she doesn’t like one bit, though she knows it’s for the best. She isn’t going to let this be like any of the times before.

“I think that maybe we should take things– slower.” She can tell that Joel doesn’t like that, his brow scrunching up, thumb stilling where it had been stroking along the arc of her cheek.

“S-slower?” She nods, squeezing his hand that’s still tangled up in hers.

“We rushed into this, didn’t we? I mean– it’s only been a few weeks since we really started seeing each other, and I’m already practically living with you.” His face really falls at that, a deep frown settling around his lips.

“You don’t wanna live with me, is that it?” She’d laugh if he wasn’t looking so pitiful about it, instead offering him her best smile as she brings her other hand up to brush his hair out of his face.

“That isn’t what this is about, Joel. I just think it might be good for us– for you– if you’re not in my– upside-down world– all the time, at least at first. Like getting acclimated to a new altitude, you gotta take it slow.” She knows it’s a weak explanation the minute the words leave her mouth, but she also knows she’s right. Joel, on the other hand, still has a displeased scrunch to his face, like someone just told him a tasteless joke.

“Uh, well, ok– if that’s what you want then– I mean, I guess we can– we can do that– we can take things– slow.” He keeps clearing his throat between words, stop-starting himself like he’s trying to convince himself he means it as he’s saying it. And when he finally gets it all out, with a firm little nod of his head, she can’t help but reward him with a quick kiss.

“Thank you, baby. I really think this is important– I wouldn’t have suggested it if I didn’t.” He nods again, his hand that had been cupping her cheek trailing down her shoulder, her arm, until he’s holding both her hands in his.

“So, what does this look like– us taking it slow?”

“We can figure it out as we go. But for right now, I think we can say goodnight, and I’ll go back to my place, and you’ll go back to yours.”

“Can I walk you home?” Her heart tugs at that, his question so earnestly asked, only making it harder for her to respond with a sigh.

“I kinda have to clean up the shop still. I can’t really leave that stuff out overnight, y’know? A-and I obviously don’t want you messing with it, so–”

“No, I-I get it, that’s alright. Um, so I guess, goodnight then.” She’s never seen him so flustered, having to stifle a giggle when he realizes he’s still holding her hands and lets go with a huff. He seems to think on it for a beat, quickly ducking in and pressing the most precious kiss to her cheek, muttering a quiet “goodnight, darlin” as he turns to head home, shoving his hands deep into his pockets and taking a few jerky looks over his shoulder at her before he rounds the corner of the alley.

She turns back to the shop with a sigh, Stevie sitting in the back doorway, head tilted at her.

“What? It’s for the best, you’ll see.”

…

For the record, Joel doesn’t like this taking it slow business, at all. He’s not even sure how she got him to agree to it, he had been so turned around that night, and she had been giving him those eyes… But no, he doesn’t like it, not one bit.

To start with, he doesn’t like that she no longer comes around to the stables at mid-day, no quick kisses, no easy smiles. Nothing. And he doesn’t like that she no longer comes over for dinner every night, and not just because she’s a better cook than him. He doesn’t like that his walk home from the stables no longer includes a regular stop by her shop. And he doesn’t like that he has to hear from Ellie what his woman was up to that day. He hates that they go on dates now, like normal fucking people, scheduling time to be together instead of just throwing out the clock and moving like magnets. But perhaps more than any of his other qualms, the thing he hates the most is that he doesn’t get her in his bed every night.

When he agreed to take things slow, he didn’t know it meant this slow. He didn’t know it meant goodnight kisses and holding hands but that’s it slow. Afterall, he’s only a man, and after getting to have her the way that he did, it feels damn near impossible not to crave that like a drug.

He’ll admit that she was right, taking it down a notch has made it easier to wrap his head around the things that she shares with him. But it’s been three weeks of this, and he’d turn himself upside-down, inside-out, and every which way around if it meant speeding things back the fuck up.

Laying in bed, his mind swirls with images of her. Is it gross that he hasn’t washed his sheets since the last time she stayed over? He doesn’t really care, not when there’s still a faint trace of incense and lavender on the pillow she slept on.

His mind wanders to the last time he had her here. It was early in the morning, before either of them had to go to work, and she had lazily slung a bare thigh over his waist, perfect in the hazy morning light as she straddled him. It had been slow and sweet, taking time that they didn’t really have. She was so warm and soft for him, all gentle sighs, the mesmerizing curve of her hips and the sway of her breasts, an image that works him up now in the cool darkness of his empty bed.

It’s not the same, of course it’s not the same. But it’ll have to do for now. He holds her steady in his mind, a dream, an idol, a fucking goddess, and he palms himself through his boxers, a damp spot already forming from just thinking about her. He kicks his sheets off, shrugging his boxers down just enough to let his cock spring out, pre-come smearing over his stomach where it now rests. Part of him can see how pathetic this looks, rubbing one out every night to the dream of his woman, but he wouldn’t have to if they weren’t taking things so goddamn slow. Now, a normal person would think that maybe he should just talk to her about picking up the pace. But he’s too stubborn for that, and he knows it, and it drives him crazy that he equates having that conversation with defeat. Joel tells himself that he can do this, he can give her what she wants, respect her boundaries, no matter how stupid he thinks they are.

He doesn’t take his time with himself. This is purely about release for him, and he knows exactly how to get himself there, spitting harshly into his hand and wrapping his palm around the base of his cock, scrunching his eyes shut as he starts to work himself over.

She’s all he thinks about in these moments, how her hands are so much different than his, still calloused from the work she does, but softer, and smaller. He thinks about the plush of her lips, and how they fall open when she comes, the little crease between her brow her other tell. He thinks about the way her spine curves and curls, and how his palms would run circuits around the arc as he took her from behind. His mind flashes with images of her, and it isn’t long before he’s coming with a low groan of her name, his spend smearing over his knuckles.

Maybe it’s the fact that it’s been nearly a month now, or maybe he’s just more tired than usual, but Joel feels a particular pang of despair as he cleans himself up, and it’s enough to crack whatever resolve he had left.

He sleeps better that night, having decided that first thing the next morning he’s going to stop by the apothecary and he’s going to tell her that he’s done taking it slow.

That plan falls apart the moment he enters her shop. The first thing he notices is her bag, strewn out on the floor, a few jars and bottles spilling out of it, and his heart sinks. Next to Stevie, that bag is her baby, and Joel immediately knows that something isn’t right for it to be crumpled on the floor.

He calls out her name, but gets no response, though Stevie comes skittering out of the back room, making a beeline for his legs, frantically mewling as she rubs up against his pants leg, insistent and loud, and that isn’t quite right to him either.

Trying not to step on Stevie as she stays glued to his ankles, he shuffles into the back room, his brow scrunching up when he doesn’t see her, at least not right away.

“Joel?” That’s a voice he’s never heard from her before, barely there, hoarse, like she could only just get the word out. He steps further into the room, peering around the butcher’s block, and that’s when he finally sees her.

She’s curled in on herself, knees up to her chin, sitting in the back corner of the room. Her eyes are red-rimmed and swimming, tears streaking down her cheeks, the sight all but taking his breath away. He moves fast, his mind screaming at him that he needs to fix it, to make it better, whatever it is.

He’s quick to get down to her level, palms steadying her jaw as another resounding round of sobs rolls through her chest.

“Hey, hey– it’s ok, I’m here, huh? I’m right here. What– what happened? What is it?” His questions only seem to make her cry harder, shaking her head in his hands. She brings her hands to clasp his wrists, and it’s then that he notices dried blood lining her fingernails.

“You’re scaring me here, darlin. I need you to tell me what happened, please.”

“I lo-lost her– I lost her, I lost her, I can’t believe I lost her–” She breaks herself off with another sob, and Joel shifts to sit down next to her, wrapping his arms around her shuddering shoulders to coax her into his chest.

“Who– who’d you lose, darlin?” She evens out her shuddering breaths with a hard sigh, her answer coming on a few disjointed exhales.

“Maura went into labor last night– and I– and I– it was a girl– she was a girl– and she wasn’t breathing– she wasn’t breathing, Joel. And I didn’t know what to do.” She dissolves into another sob, and Joel doesn’t know what to do besides hold her a little closer, shock and sadness simmering in his veins. He remembers her telling him about Maura, one of her regular house visits to check on the progress of her pregnancy. She always told him how excited the woman seemed to get to become a mother.

“Is– is Maura ok?” He’s surprised by the bitter huff she lets out at that.

“I don’t kn-know. She kicked me out– told me it was my fault– she’s right– it’s all my– all my fault.” He’s quick to bring his palm to her jaw, coaxing her eyes up to meet his, gentle but firm pressure holding her there.

“Listen to me, it is not your fault. Not anyone’s fault, and it’s especially not yours. Whatever happened, I promise you, it is not your fault, do you understand?” She gives him no answer, just lets out another shaky sigh before burying her face back in his chest.

And all he can do is hold her as close as he can, and will some of her pain to seep into his skin, to make it even a little more bearable, to carry that for her. He reckons that he’d take it all away from her if he could.

................................

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caesarflickermans · 6 months

Text

A TENTH ANNIVERSARY INTERVIEW WITH SUZANNE COLLINS

On the occasion of the tenth anniversary of the publication of The Hunger Games, author Suzanne Collins and publisher David Levithan discussed the evolution of the story, the editorial process, and the first ten years of the life of the trilogy, encompassing both books and films. The following is their written conversation.

NOTE: The following interview contains a discussion of all three books in The Hunger Games Trilogy, so if you have yet to read Catching Fire and Mockingjay, you may want to read them before reading the full interview.

transcript below

DAVID LEVITHAN: Let’s start at the origin moment for The Hunger Games. You were flipping channels one night . . .

SUZANNE COLLINS: Yes, I was flipping through the channels one night between reality television programs and actual footage of the Iraq War, when the idea came to me. At the time, I was completing the fifth book in The Underland Chronicles and my brain was shifting to whatever the next project would be. I had been grappling with another story that just couldn’t get any air under its wings. I knew I wanted to continue to explore writing about just war theory for young audiences. In The Underland Chronicles, I’d examined the idea of an unjust war developing into a just war because of greed, xenophobia, and long-standing hatreds. For the next series, I wanted a completely new world and a different angle into the just war debate.

DL: Can you tell me what you mean by the “just war theory” and how that applies to the setup of the trilogy?

SC: Just war theory has evolved over thousands of years in an attempt to define what circumstances give you the moral right to wage war and what is acceptable behavior within that war and its aftermath. The why and the how. It helps differentiate between what’s considered a necessary and an unnecessary war. In The Hunger Games Trilogy, the districts rebel against their own government because of its corruption. The citizens of the districts have no basic human rights, are treated as slave labor, and are subjected to the Hunger Games annually. I believe the majority of today’s audience would define that as grounds for revolution. They have just cause but the nature of the conflict raises a lot of questions. Do the districts have the authority to wage war? What is their chance of success? How does the reemergence of District 13 alter the situation? When we enter the story, Panem is a powder keg and Katniss the spark.

DL: As with most novelists I know, once you have that origin moment — usually a connection of two elements (in this case, war and entertainment) — the number of connections quickly increases, as different elements of the story take their place. I know another connection you made early on was with mythology, particularly the myth of Theseus. How did that piece come to fit?

SC: I was such a huge Greek mythology geek as a kid, it’s impossible for it not to come into play in my storytelling. As a young prince of Athens, he participated in a lottery that required seven girls and seven boys to be taken to Crete and thrown into a labyrinth to be destroyed by the Minotaur. In one version of the myth, this excessively cruel punishment resulted from the Athenians opposing Crete in a war. Sometimes the labyrinth’s a maze; sometimes it’s an arena. In my teens I read Mary Renault’s The King Must Die, in which the tributes end up in the Bull Court. They’re trained to perform with a wild bull for an audience composed of the elite of Crete who bet on the entertainment. Theseus and his team dance and handspring over the bull in what’s called bull-leaping. You can see depictions of this in ancient sculpture and vase paintings. The show ended when they’d either exhausted the bull or one of the team had been killed. After I read that book, I could never go back to thinking of the labyrinth as simply a maze, except perhaps ethically. It will always be an arena to me.

DL: But in this case, you dispensed with the Minotaur, no? Instead, the arena harkens more to gladiator vs. gladiator than to gladiator vs. bull. What influenced this construction?

SC: A fascination with the gladiator movies of my childhood, particularly Spartacus. Whenever it ran, I’d be glued to the set. My dad would get outPlutarch’s Lives and read me passages from “Life of Crassus,” since Spartacus, being a slave, didn’t rate his own book. It’s about a person who’s forced to become a gladiator, breaks out of the gladiator school/arena to lead a rebellion, and becomes the face of a war. That’s the dramatic arc of both the real-life Third Servile War and the fictional Hunger Games Trilogy.

DL: Can you talk about how war stories influenced you as a young reader, and then later as a writer? How did this knowledge of war stories affect your approach to writing The Hunger Games?

SC: Now you can find many wonderful books written for young audiences that deal with war. That wasn’t the case when I was growing up. It was one of the reasons Greek mythology appealed to me: the characters battled, there was the Trojan War. My family had been heavily impacted by war the year my father, who was career Air Force, went to Vietnam, but except for my myths, I rarely encountered it in books. I liked Johnny Tremain but it ends as the Revolutionary War kicks off. The one really memorable book I had about war was Boris by Jaap ter Haar, which deals with the Siege of Leningrad in World War II.

My war stories came from my dad, a historian and a doctor of political science. The four years before he left for Vietnam, the Army borrowed him from the Air Force to teach at West Point. His final assignment would be at Air Command and Staff College. As his kids, we were never too young to learn, whether he was teaching us history or taking us on vacation to a battlefield or posing a philosophical dilemma. He approached history as a story, and fortunately he was a very engaging storyteller. As a result, in my own writing, war felt like a completely natural topic for children.

DL: Another key piece of The Hunger Games is the voice and perspective that Katniss brings to it. I know some novelists start with a character and then find a story through that character, but with The Hunger Games (and correct me if I’m wrong) I believe you had the idea for the story first, and then Katniss stepped into it. Where did she come from? I’d love for you to talk about the origin of her name, and also the origin of her very distinctive voice.

SC: Katniss appeared almost immediately after I had the idea, standing by the bed with that bow and arrow. I’d spent a lot of time during The Underland Chronicles weighing the attributes of different weapons. I used archers very sparingly because they required light and the Underland has little natural illumination. But a bow and arrow can be handmade, shot from a distance, and weaponized when the story transitions into warfare. She was a born archer.

Her name came later, while I was researching survival training and specifically edible plants. In one of my books, I found the arrowhead plant, and the more I read about it, the more it seemed to reflect her. Its Latin name has the same roots as Sagittarius, the archer. The edible tuber roots she could gather, the arrowhead-shaped leaves were her defense, and the little white blossoms kept it in the tradition of flower names, like Rue and Primrose. I looked at the list of alternative names for it. Swamp Potato. Duck Potato. Katniss easily won the day.

As to her voice, I hadn’t intended to write in first person. I thought the book would be in the third person like The Underland Chronicles. Then I sat down to work and the first page poured out in first person, like she was saying, “Step aside, this is my story to tell.” So I let her.

DL: I am now trying to summon an alternate universe where the Mockingjay is named Swamp Potato Everdeen. Seems like a PR challenge. But let’s stay for a second on the voice — because it’s not a straightforward, generic American voice. There’s a regionalism to it, isn’t there? Was that present from the start?

SC: It was. There’s a slight District 12 regionalism to it, and some of the other tributes use phrases unique to their regions as well. The way they speak, particularly the way in which they refuse to speak like citizens of the Capitol, is important to them. No one in District 12 wants to sound like Effie Trinket unless they’re mocking her. So they hold on to their regionalisms as a quiet form of rebellion. The closest thing they have to freedom of speech is their manner of speaking.

DL: I’m curious about Katniss’s family structure. Was it always as we see it, or did you ever consider giving her parents greater roles? How much do you think the Everdeen family’s story sets the stage for Katniss’s story within the trilogy?

SC: Her parents have their own histories in District 12 but I only included what’s pertinent to Katniss’s tale. Her father’s hunting skills, musicality, and death in the mines. Her mother’s healing talent and vulnerabilities. Her deep love for Prim. Those are the elements that seemed essential to me.

DL: This completely fascinates me because I, as an author, rarely know more (consciously) about the characters than what’s in the story. But this sounds like you know much more about the Everdeen parents than found their way to the page. What are some of the more interesting things about them that a reader wouldn’t necessarily know?

SC: Your way sounds a lot more efficient. I have a world of information about the characters that didn’t make it into the book. With some stories, revealing that could be illuminating, but in the case of The Hunger Games, I think it would only be a distraction unless it was part of a new tale within the world of Panem.

DL: I have to ask — did you know from the start how Prim’s story was going to end? (I can’t imagine writing the reaping scene while knowing — but at the same time I can’t imagine writing it without knowing.)

SC: You almost have to know it and not know it at the same time to write it convincingly, because the dramatic question, Can Katniss save Prim?, is introduced in the first chapter of the first book, and not answered until almost the end of the trilogy. At first there’s the relief that, yes, she can volunteer for Prim. Then Rue, who reminds her of Prim, joins her in the arena and she can’t save her. That tragedy refreshes the question. For most of the second book, Prim’s largely out of harm’s way, although there’s always the threat that the Capitol might hurt her to hurt Katniss. The jabberjays are a reminder of that. Once she’s in District 13 and the war has shifted to the Capitol, Katniss begins to hope Prim’s not only safe but has a bright future as a doctor. But it’s an illusion. The danger that made Prim vulnerable in the beginning, the threat of the arena, still exists. In the first book, it’s a venue for the Games; in the second, the platform for the revolution; in the third, it’s the battleground of Panem, coming to a head in the Capitol. The arena transforms but it’s never eradicated; in fact it’s expanded to include everyone in the country. Can Katniss save Prim? No. Because no one is safe while the arena exists.

DL: If Katniss was the first character to make herself known within story, when did Peeta and Gale come into the equation? Did you know from the beginning how their stories would play out vis-à-vis Katniss’s?

SC: Peeta and Gale appeared quickly, less as two points on a love triangle, more as two perspectives in the just war debate. Gale, because of his experiences and temperament, tends toward violent remedies. Peeta’s natural inclination is toward diplomacy. Katniss isn’t just deciding on a partner; she’s figuring out her worldview.

DL: And did you always know which worldview would win? It’s interesting to see it presented in such a clear-cut way, because when I think of Katniss, I certainly think of force over diplomacy.

SC: And yet Katniss isn’t someone eager to engage in violence and she takes no pleasure in it. Her circumstances repeatedly push her into making choices that include the use of force. But if you look carefully at what happens in the arena, her compassionate choices determine her survival. Taking on Rue as an ally results in Thresh sparing her life. Seeking out Peeta and caring for him when she discovers how badly wounded he is ultimately leads to her winning the Games. She uses force only in self-defense or defense of a third party, and I’m including Cato’s mercy killing in that. As the trilogy progresses, it becomes increasingly difficult to avoid the use of force because the overall violence is escalating with the war. The how and the why become harder to answer.

Yes, I knew which worldview would win, but in the interest of examining just war theory you need to make the arguments as strongly as possible on both sides. While Katniss ultimately chooses Peeta, remember that in order to end the Hunger Games her last act is to assassinate an unarmed woman. Conversely, in The Underland Chronicles, Gregor’s last act is to break his sword to interrupt the cycle of violence. The point of both stories is to take the reader through the journey, have them confront the issues with the protagonist, and then hopefully inspire them to think about it and discuss it. What would they do in Katniss’s or Gregor’s situation? How would they define a just or unjust war and what behavior is acceptable within warfare? What are the human costs of life, limb, and sanity? How does developing technology impact the debate? The hope is that better discussions might lead to more nonviolent forms of conflict resolution, so we evolve out of choosing war as an option.

DL: Where does Haymitch fit into this examination of war? What worldview does he bring?

SC: Haymitch was badly damaged in his own war, the second Quarter Quell, in which he witnessed and participated in terrible things in order to survive and then saw his loved ones killed for his strategy. He self-medicates with white liquor to combat severe PTSD. His chances of recovery are compromised because he’s forced to mentor the tributes every year. He’s a version of what Katniss might become, if the Hunger Games continues. Peeta comments on how similar they are, and it’s true. They both really struggle with their worldview. He manages to defuse the escalating violence at Gale’s whipping with words, but he participates in a plot to bring down the government that will entail a civil war.

The ray of light that penetrates that very dark cloud in his brain is the moment that Katniss volunteers for Prim. He sees, as do many people in Panem, the power of her sacrifice. And when that carries into her Games, with Rue and Peeta, he slowly begins to believe that with Katniss it might be possible to end the Hunger Games.

DL: I’m also curious about how you balanced the personal and political in drawing the relationship between Katniss and Gale. They have such a history together — and I think you powerfully show the conflict that arises when you love someone, but don’t love what they believe in. (I think that resonates particularly now, when so many families and relationships and friendships have been disrupted by politics.)

SC: Yes, I think it’s painful, especially because they feel so in tune in so many ways. Katniss’s and Gale’s differences of opinion are based in just war theory. Do we revolt? How do we conduct ourselves in the war? And the ethical and personal lines climax at the same moment — the double tap bombing that takes Prim’s life. But it’s rarely simple; there are a lot of gray areas. It’s complicated by Peeta often holding a conflicting view while being the rival for her heart, so the emotional pull and the ethical pull become so intertwined it’s impossible to separate them. What do you do when someone you love, someone you know to be a good person, has a view which completely opposes your own? You keep trying to understand what led to the difference and see if it can be bridged. Maybe, maybe not. I think many conflicts grow out of fear, and in an attempt to counter that fear, people reach for solutions that may be comforting in the short term, but only increase their vulnerability in the long run and cause a lot of destruction along the way.

DL: In drawing Gale’s and Peeta’s roles in the story, how conscious were you of the gender inversion from traditional narrative tropes? As you note above, both are important far beyond any romantic subplot, but I do think there’s something fascinating about the way they both reinscribe roles that would traditionally be that of the “girlfriend.” Gale in particular gets to be “the girl back home” from so many Westerns and adventure movies — but of course is so much more than that. And Peeta, while a very strong character in his own right, often has to take a backseat to Katniss and her strategy, both in and out of the arena. Did you think about them in terms of gender and tropes, or did that just come naturally as the characters did what they were going to do on the page?

SC: It came naturally because, while Gale and Peeta are very important characters, it’s Katniss’s story.

DL: For Peeta . . . why baking?

SC: Bread crops up a lot in The Hunger Games. It’s the main food source in the districts, as it was for many people historically. When Peeta throws a starving Katniss bread in the flashback, he’s keeping her alive long enough to work out a strategy for survival. It seemed in keeping with his character to be a baker, a life giver.

But there’s a dark side to bread, too. When Plutarch Heavensbee references it, he’s talking about Panem et Circenses, Bread and Circuses, where food and entertainment lull people into relinquishing their political power. Bread can contribute to life or death in the Hunger Games.

DL: Speaking of Plutarch — in a meta way, the two of you share a job (although when you do it, only fictional people die). When you were designing the arena for the first book, what influences came into play? Did you design the arena and then have the participants react to it, or did you design the arena with specific reactions and plot points in mind?

SC: Katniss has a lot going against her in the first arena — she’s inexperienced, smaller than a lot of her competitors, and hasn’t the training of the Careers — so the arena needed to be in her favor. The landscape closely resembles the woods around District 12, with similar flora and fauna. She can feed herself and recognize the nightlock as poisonous. Thematically, the Girl on Fire needed to encounter fire at some point, so I built that in. I didn’t want it too physically flashy, because the audience needs to focus on the human dynamic, the plight of the star-crossed lovers, the alliance with Rue, the twist that two tributes can survive from the same district. Also, the Gamemakers would want to leave room for a noticeable elevation in spectacle when the Games move to the Quarter Quell arena in Catching Fire with the more intricate clock design.

DL: So where does Plutarch fall into the just war spectrum? There are many layers to his involvement in what’s going on.

SC: Plutarch is the namesake of the biographer Plutarch, and he’s one of the few characters who has a sense of the arc of history. He’s never lived in a world without the Hunger Games; it was well established by the time he was born and then he rose through the ranks to become Head Gamemaker. At some point, he’s gone from accepting that the Games are necessary to deciding they’re unnecessary, and he sets about ending them. Plutarch has a personal agenda as well. He’s seen so many of his peers killed off, like Seneca Crane, that he wonders how long it will be before the mad king decides he’s a threat not an asset. It’s no way to live. And as a gamemaker among gamemakers, he likes the challenge of the revolution. But even after they succeed he questions how long the resulting peace will last. He has a fairly low opinion of human beings, but ultimately doesn’t rule out that they might be able to change.

DL: When it comes to larger world building, how much did you know about Panem before you started writing? If I had asked you, while you were writing the opening pages, “Suzanne, what’s the primary industry of District Five?” would you have known the answer, or did those details emerge to you when they emerged within the writing of the story?

SC: Before I started writing I knew there were thirteen districts — that’s a nod to the thirteen colonies — and that they’d each be known for a specific industry. I knew 12 would be coal and most of the others were set, but I had a few blanks that naturally filled in as the story evolved. When I was little we had that board game, Game of the States, where each state was identified by its exports. And even today we associate different locations in the country with a product, with seafood or wine or tech. Of course, it’s a very simplified take on Panem. No district exists entirely by its designated trade. But for purposes of the Hunger Games, it’s another way to divide and define the districts.

DL: How do you think being from District 12 defines Katniss, Peeta, and Gale? Could they have been from any other district, or is their residency in 12 formative for the parts of their personalities that drive the story?

SC: Very formative. District 12 is the joke district, small and poor, rarely producing a victor in the Hunger Games. As a result, the Capitol largely ignores it. The enforcement of the laws is lax, the relationship with the Peacekeepers less hostile. This allows the kids to grow up far less constrained than in other districts. Katniss and Gale become talented archers by slipping off in the woods to hunt. That possibility of training with a weapon is unthinkable in, say, District 11, with its oppressive military presence. Finnick’s trident and Johanna’s ax skills develop as part of their districts’ industries, but they would never be allowed access to those weapons outside of work. Also, Katniss, Peeta, and Gale view the Capitol in a different manner by virtue of knowing their Peacekeepers better. Darius, in the Hob, is considered a friend, and he proves himself to be so more than once. This makes the Capitol more approachable on a level, more possible to befriend, and more possible to defeat. More human.

DL: Let’s talk about the Capitol for a moment — particularly its most powerful resident. I know that every name you give a character is deliberate, so why President Snow?

SC: Snow because of its coldness and purity. That’s purity of thought, although most people would consider it pure evil. His methods are monstrous, but in his mind, he’s all that’s holding Panem together. His first name, Coriolanus, is a nod to the titular character in Shakespeare’s play who was based on material from Plutarch’s Lives. He was known for his anti-populist sentiments, and Snow is definitely not a man of the people.

DL: The bond between Katniss and Snow is one of the most interesting in the entire series. Because even when they are in opposition, there seems to be an understanding between them that few if any of the other characters in the trilogy share. What role do you feel Snow plays for Katniss — and how does this fit into your examination of war?

SC: On the surface, she’s the face of the rebels, he’s the face of the Capitol. Underneath, things are a lot more complicated. Snow’s quite old under all that plastic surgery. Without saying too much, he’s been waiting for Katniss for a long time. She’s the worthy opponent who will test the strength of his citadel, of his life’s work. He’s the embodiment of evil to her, with the power of life and death. They’re obsessed with each other to the point of being blinded to the larger picture. “I was watching you, Mockingjay. And you were watching me. I’m afraid we have both been played for fools.” By Coin, that is. And then their unholy alliance at the end brings her down.

DL: One of the things that both Snow and Katniss realize is the power of media and imagery on the population. Snow may appear heartless to some, but he is very attuned to the “hearts and minds” of his citizens . . . and he is also attuned to the danger of losing them to Katniss. What role do you see propaganda playing in the war they’re waging?

SC: Propaganda decides the outcome of the war. This is why Plutarch implements the airtime assault; he understands that whoever controls the airwaves controls the power. Like Snow, he’s been waiting for Katniss, because he needs a Spartacus to lead his campaign. There have been possible candidates, like Finnick, but no one else has captured the imagination of the country like she has.

DL: In terms of the revolution, appearance matters — and two of the characters who seem to understand this the most are Cinna and Caesar Flickerman, one in a principled way, one . . . not as principled. How did you draw these two characters into your themes?

SC: That’s exactly right. Cinna uses his artistic gifts to woo the crowd with spectacle and beauty. Even after his death, his Mockingjay costume designs are used in the revolution. Caesar, whose job is to maintain the myth of the glorious games, transitions into warfare with the prisoner of war interviews with Peeta. They are both helping to keep up appearances.

DL: As a writer, you studiously avoided the trope of harkening back to the “old” geography — i.e., there isn’t a character who says, “This was once a land known as . . . Delaware.” (And thank goodness for that.) Why did you decide to avoid pinning down Panem to our contemporary geography?

SC: The geography has changed because of natural and man-made disasters, so it’s not as simple as overlaying a current map on Panem. But more importantly, it’s not relevant to the story. Telling the reader the continent gives them the layout in general, but borders are very changeful. Look at how the map of North America has evolved in the past 300 years. It makes little difference to Katniss what we called Panem in the past.

DL: Let’s talk about the D word. When you sat down to write The Hunger Games, did you think of it as a dystopian novel?

SC: I thought of it as a war story. I love dystopia, but it will always be secondary to that. Setting the trilogy in a futuristic North America makes it familiar enough to relate to but just different enough to gain some perspective. When people ask me how far in the future it’s set, I say, “It depends on how optimistic you are.”

DL: What do you think it was about the world into which the book was published that made it viewed so prominently as a dystopia?

SC: In the same way most people would define The Underland Chronicles as a fantasy series, they would define The Hunger Games as a dystopian trilogy, and they’d be right. The elements of the genres are there in both cases. But they’re first and foremost war stories to me. The thing is, whether you came for the war, dystopia, action adventure, propaganda, coming of age, or romance, I’m happy you’re reading it. Everyone brings their own experiences to the book that will color how they interpret it. I imagine the number of people who immediately identify it as a just war theory story are in the minority, but most stories are more than one thing.

DL: What was the relationship between current events and the world you were drawing? I know that with many speculative writers, they see something in the news and find it filtering into their fictional world. Were you reacting to the world around you, or was your reaction more grounded in a more timeless and/or historical consideration of war?

SC: I would say the latter. Some authors — okay, you for instance — can digest events quickly and channel them into their writing, as you did so effectively with September 11 in Love Is the Higher Law. But I don’t process and integrate things rapidly, so history works better for me.

DL: There’s nothing I like more than talking to writers about writing — so I’d love to ask about your process (even though I’ve always found the word process to be far too orderly to describe how a writer’s mind works).

As I recall, when we at Scholastic first saw the proposal for The Hunger Games Trilogy, the summary of the first book was substantial, the summary for the second book was significantly shorter, and the summary of the third book was . . . remarkably brief. So, first question: Did you stick to that early outline?

SC: I had to go back and take a look. Yes, I stuck to it very closely, but as you point out, the third book summary is remarkably brief. I basically tell you there’s a war that the Capitol eventually loses. Just coming off The Underland Chronicles, which also ends with a war, I think I’d seen how much develops along the way and wanted that freedom for this series as well.

DL: Would you outline books two and three as you were writing book one? Or would you just take notes for later? Was this the same or different from what you did with The Underland Chronicles?

SC: Structure’s one of my favorite parts of writing. I always work a story out with Post-its, sometimes using different colors for different character arcs. I create a chapter grid, as well, and keep files for later books, so that whenever I have an idea that might be useful, I can make a note of it. I wrote scripts for many years before I tried books, so a lot of my writing habits developed through that experience.

DL: Would you deliberately plant things in book one to bloom in books two or three? Are there any seeds you planted in the first book that you ended up not growing?

SC: Oh, yes, I definitely planted things. For instance, Johanna Mason is mentioned in the third chapter of the first book although she won’t appear until Catching Fire. Plutarch is that unnamed gamemaker who falls into the punch bowl when she shoots the arrow. Peeta whispers “Always” in Catching Fire when Katniss is under the influence of sleep syrup but she doesn’t hear the word until after she’s been shot in Mockingjay. Sometimes you just don’t have time to let all the seeds grow, or you cut them out because they don’t really add to the story. Like those wild dogs that roam around District 12. One could potentially have been tamed, but Buttercup stole their thunder.

DL: Since much of your early experience as a writer was as a playwright, I’m curious: What did you learn as a playwright that helped you as a novelist?

SC: I studied theater for many years — first acting, then playwriting — and I have a particular love for classical theater. I formed my ideas about structure as a playwright, how crucial it is and how, when it’s done well, it’s really inseparable from character. It’s like a living thing to me. I also wrote for children’s television for seventeen years. I learned a lot writing for preschool. If a three-year-old doesn’t like something, they just get up and walk away from the set. I saw my own kids do that. How do you hold their attention? It’s hard and the internet has made it harder. So for the eight novels, I developed a three-act structure, with each act being composed of nine chapters, using elements from both play and screenplay structures — double layering it, so to speak.

DL: Where do you write? Are you a longhand writer or a laptop writer? Do you listen to music as you write, or go for the monastic, writerly silence?

SC: I write best at home in a recliner. I used to write longhand, but now it’s all laptop. Definitely not music; it demands to be listened to. I like quiet, but not silence.

DL: You talked earlier about researching survival training and edible plants for these books. What other research did you have to do? Are you a reading researcher, a hands-on researcher, or a mix of both? (I’m imagining an elaborate archery complex in your backyard, but I am guessing that’s not necessarily accurate.)

SC: You know, I’m just not very handy. I read a lot about how to build a bow from scratch, but I doubt I could ever make one. Being good with your hands is a gift. So I do a lot of book research. Sometimes I visit museums or historic sites for inspiration. I was trained in stage combat, particularly sword fighting in drama school; I have a nice collection of swords designed for that, but that was more helpful for The Underland Chronicles. The only time I got to do archery was in gym class in high school.

DL: While I wish I could say the editorial team (Kate Egan, Jennifer Rees, and myself ) were the first-ever readers of The Hunger Games, I know this isn’t true. When you’re writing a book, who reads it first?

SC: My husband, Cap, and my literary agent, Rosemary Stimola, have consistently been the books’ first readers. They both have excellent critique skills and give insightful notes. I like to keep the editorial team as much in the dark as possible, so that when they read the first draft it’s with completely fresh eyes.

DL: Looking back now at the editorial conversations we had about The Hunger Games — which were primarily with Kate, as Jen and I rode shotgun — can you recall any significant shifts or discussions?

SC: What I mostly recall is how relieved I was to know that I had such amazing people to work with on the book before it entered the world. I had eight novels come out in eight years with Scholastic, so that was fast for me and I needed feedback I could trust. You’re all so smart, intuitive, and communicative, and with the three of you, no stone went unturned. With The Hunger Games Trilogy, I really depended on your brains and hearts to catch what worked and what didn’t.

DL: And then there was the question of the title . . .

SC: Okay, this I remember clearly. The original title of the first book was The Tribute of District Twelve. You wanted to change it to The Hunger Games, which was my name for the series. I said, “Okay, but I’m not thinking of another name for the series!” To this day, more people ask me about “the Gregor series” than “The Underland Chronicles,” and I didn’t want a repeat of that because it’s confusing. But you were right, The Hunger Games was a much better name for the book. Catching Fire was originally called The Ripple Effect and I wanted to change that one, because it was too watery for a Girl on Fire, so we came up with Catching Fire. The third book I’d come up with a title so bad I can’t even remember it except it had the word ashes in it. We both hated it. One day, you said, “What if we just call it Mockingjay?” And that seemed perfect. The three parts of the book had been subtitled “The Mockingjay,” “The Assault,” and “The Assassin.” We changed the title to Mockingjay and the first part to “The Ashes” and got that lovely alliteration in the subtitles. Thank goodness you were there; you have far better taste in titles. I believe in the acknowledgments, I call you the Title Master.

DL: With The Hunger Games, the choice of Games is natural — but the choice of Hunger is much more odd and interesting. So I’ll ask: Why Hunger Games?

SC: Because food is a lethal weapon. Withholding food, that is. Just like it is in Boris when the Nazis starve out the people of Leningrad. It’s a weapon that targets everyone in a war, not just the soldiers in combat, but the civilians too. In the prologue of Henry V, the Chorus talks about Harry as Mars, the god of war. “And at his heels, Leash’d in like hounds, should famine, sword, and fire crouch for employment.” Famine, sword, and fire are his dogs of war, and famine leads the pack. With a rising global population and environmental issues, I think food could be a significant weapon in the future.

DL: The cover was another huge effort. We easily had over a hundred different covers comped up before we landed on the iconic one. There were some covers that pictured Katniss — something I can’t imagine doing now. And there were others that tried to picture scenes. Of course, the answer was in front of us the entire time — the Mockingjay symbol, which the art director Elizabeth Parisi deployed to such amazing effect. What do you think of the impact the cover and the symbol have had? What were your thoughts when you saw this cover?

SC: Oh, it’s a brilliant cover, which I should point out I had nothing to do with. I only saw a handful of the many you developed. The one that made it to print is absolutely fantastic; I loved it at first sight. It’s classy, powerful, and utterly unique to the story. It doesn’t limit the age of the audience and I think that really contributed to adults feeling comfortable reading it. And then, of course, you followed it up with the wonderful evolution of the mockingjay throughout the series. There’s something universal about the imagery, the captive bird gaining freedom, which I think is why so many of the foreign publishers chose to use it instead of designing their own. And it translated beautifully to the screen where it still holds as the central symbolic image for the franchise.

DL: Obviously, the four movies had an enormous impact on how widely the story spread across the globe. The whole movie process started with the producers coming on board. What made you know they were the right people to shepherd this story into another form?

SC: When I decided to sell the entertainment rights to the book, I had phone interviews with over a dozen producers. Nina Jacobson’s understanding of and passion for the piece along with her commitment to protecting it won me over. She’s so articulate, I knew she’d be an excellent person to usher it into the world. The team at Lionsgate’s enthusiasm and insight made a deep impression as well. I needed partners with the courage not to shy away from the difficult elements of the piece, ones who wouldn’t try to steer the story to an easier, more traditional ending. Prim can’t live. The victory can’t be joyous. The wounds have to leave lasting scars. It’s not an easy ending but it’s an intentional one.

DL: You cowrote the screenplay for the first Hunger Games movie. I know it’s an enormously tricky thing for an author to adapt their own work. How did you approach it? What was the hardest thing about translating a novel into a screenplay? What was the most rewarding?

SC: I wrote the initial treatments and first draft and then Billy Ray came on for several drafts and then our director, Gary Ross, developed it into his shooting script and we ultimately did a couple of passes together. I did the boil down of the book, which is a lot of cutting things while trying to retain the dramatic structure. I think the hardest thing for me, because I’m not a terribly visual person, was finding the way to translate many words into few images. Billy and Gary, both far more experienced screenwriters and gifted directors as well, really excelled at that. Throughout the franchise I had terrific screenwriters, and Francis Lawrence, who directed the last three films, is an incredible visual storyteller.

The most rewarding moment on the Hunger Games movie would have been the first time I saw it put together, still in rough form, and thinking it worked.

DL: One of the strange things for me about having a novel adapted is knowing that the actors involved will become, in many people’s minds, the faces and bodies of the characters who have heretofore lived as bodiless voices in my head. Which I suppose leads to a three-part question: Do you picture your characters as you’re writing them? If so, how close did Jennifer Lawrence come to the Katniss in your head? And now when you think about Katniss, do you see Jennifer or do you still see what you imagined before?

SC: I definitely do picture the characters when I’m writing them. The actress who looks exactly like my book Katniss doesn’t exist. Jennifer looked close enough and felt very right, which is more important. She gives an amazing performance. When I think of the books, I still think of my initial image of Katniss. When I think of the movies, I think of Jen. Those images aren’t at war any more than the books are with the films. Because they’re faithful adaptations, the story becomes the primary thing. Some people will never read a book, but they might see the same story in a movie. When it works well, the two entities support and enrich each other.

DL: All of the actors did such a fantastic job with your characters (truly). Are there any in particular that have stayed with you?

SC: A writer friend of mine once said, “Your cast — they’re like a basket of diamonds.” That’s how I think of them. I feel fortunate to have had such a talented team — directors, producers, screenwriters, performers, designers, editors, marketing, publicity, everybody — to make the journey with. And I’m so grateful for the readers and viewers who invested in The Hunger Games. Stories are made to be shared.

DL: We’re talking on the occasion of the tenth anniversary of The Hunger Games. Looking back at the past ten years, what have some of the highlights been?

SC: The response from the readers, especially the young audience for which it was written. Seeing beautiful and faithful adaptations reach the screen. Occasionally hearing it make its way into public discourse on politics or social issues.

DL: The Hunger Games Trilogy has been an international bestseller. Why do you think this series struck such an important chord throughout the world?

SC: Possibly because the themes are universal. War is a magnet for difficult issues. In The Hunger Games, you have vast inequality of wealth, destruction of the planet, political struggles, war as a media event, human rights abuses, propaganda, and a whole lot of other elements that affect human beings wherever they live. I think the story might tap into the anxiety a lot of people feel about the future right now.

DL: As we celebrate the past ten years and look forward to many decades to come for this trilogy, I’d love for us to end where we should — with the millions of readers who’ve embraced these books. What words would you like to leave them with?

SC: Thank you for joining Katniss on her journey. And may the odds be ever in your favor.

#thg #the hunger games #suzanne collins #katniss everdeen #catching fire #mockingjay #tbosas #thg book club #saw they took the pdf version down smh

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rummigumi · 12 days

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Excerpt from Vanitas Part 4 draft (Yes I'm writing it out before Part 3, I don't control my brain):

Jason stared at the old god, hands clenched as he fought down the repulsion curling in his stomach.

“You wanted to talk?” The voice echoed around Jason. He swallowed down his fear as he replied, “I…what did you do to me?”

The god's head cocked to the side. “I brought you back to life, as the deal required.”

Jason had read enough ancient myths and stories around deals with gods to know it was never that simple. They'd exploit every loophole, use half truths to trick the mortals involved - anything to remind everyone who was in charge. To put those seen as beneath them in their place. The anger he was growing used to was quickly replacing the fear in his chest.

“So you screwed me over, huh? The deal was to bring me back, but you thought it'd be funny to mess me up first? Make sure I came back wrong?”

“You didn't come back wrong.” The god said it so matter-of-fact it threw Jason off. Of course he came back wrong, why else would he feel the way he did? Why else would he feel so wrong? Like a piece had been ripped out and replaced with something that wasn't him?

“No…no I did. I…I wasn't like…like this before.”

“Like what?”

“So…so…,” angry, “emotional.”

The god was silent for a moment.

“Souls that have died often feel emotions more intensely than those that haven't.”

Stronger emotions didn't explain the burning pit that had made itself at home in Jason's stomach. They didn't explain why all he wanted to do was scream and fight and pound his fists against things until his knuckles bled and his bones creaked. They didn't explain why he'd look at Bruce and feel like he was dying all over again. Stronger emotions didn't explain that.

“But why…why do I feel this way? Why is it that all I can feel is hatred and rage?” He begged the god to explain why he was feeling what he was, because he needed someone to tell him. (He needed the god to tell him what he was feeling was reasonable, that he wasn't going insane.)

And the god just stared at him with its creepy unblinking eyes and dark expressionless face. When it finally spoke, its voice was soft in a way that only occurs when one is explaining death to a child. “You're angry because you are mourning, and in pain. You have lost who you were and the life you had before you died, and it's hurting you.”

That didn't sound right. Jason hadn’t lost anything; his life hadn't changed between pre- and post-death. He'd woken up, and aside from the worried glances and even more awkward hovering from Bruce, it had been easy to forget he had even died. How could he have lost anything when everything was exactly the same as before he died?

(Before he was killed.)

But Jason had changed. While living with Bruce he had grown soft, forgot what the world was really like, forgot that just because he wore a cape and believed in justice and doing the right thing and helping others it didn’t mean shit when push came to shove. He had forgotten what he had learned long ago while watching his mother spiral deeper and deeper into her addiction and he had to do anything to survive. Awful things happened, and the world kept on turning and the universe kept expanding and it didn't matter how good you were or if you did everything right, unless you won the karmic lottery you were screwed.

But dying had removed the naive beliefs that he had allowed to fill his head, had removed the rose-colored glasses Bruce had put over his eyes. Dying had changed him, but he hadn't lost who he was. If anything, it made him more of who he was before Bruce.

(Before stability and peace and enjoying being alive and allowing himself to be a kid-)

“No,” Jason's voice was choked and harsh, “you're wrong.”

And the god didn't smite him for daring to imply he knew better than it. It didn't even scold him. It simply asked, “Then what is causing your pain?”

#dpxdc #let me know if formatting is funky im on mobile #i dont know how much of this will remain by the time its officially published but eh #vanitas series

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hollyhomburg · 2 years

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Before I Leave you (Pt. 39)

(Omegaverse au, Mafia au, Bts x Reader)

Summary: Tae comes out, you confront jin about the mating marks, and jimin gets a forest sized stick shoved up his ass (not literally)

Pairings: Omega! Reader, Omega! Jungkook, Omega! Seokjin, Alpha! Namjoon, Alpha! Hoseok, Alpha! Taehyung, Alpha! Jimin, Beta! Yoongi,

Tags: Angst, hurt/comfort, Verbal arguments, Shame, Dysphoria, coming out, overly involved metaphors, talk of god/religion, Trans characters, Trauma, implied PTSD, talks of the m/c’s past suicide attempt in chapter 5, talk of sexuality, Pansexual! Jimin, implied autistic! Jimin, meltdowns,

W/c: 7.7k

A/n: Sorry in advance for being a meanie~ (author continues to be not sorry at all~) i will try my best to update next weekend as well so this cliffhanger doesn’t leave you wanting too much

Previous Chapter- Masterlist

(20 years prior, Jimin)

The sun is burning much too hot for the end of September- although the children in the schoolyard would never think to comment on it. Too busy chasing after kickballs like small brightly color planets and shouting ‘tag you’re it!” as loud as they can. Every inch of happiness accompanied by little feet pattering across the parking lot like the first fallen leaves of autumn. The cold hasn’t hit them yet.

The woods wait at the edge of the playground, an impenetrable fortress of green. Full of spiky bushes and icky things. Here, where civilization is butted right up against the edge of the wilderness, safety is carefully cultivated within chain link fences. Anything to keep the fun in and the fear out.

Two children sit on the swings apart from all the rest. The chains are rusty and squeaky but no less loved. Jimin loves to watch the forest move. He loves to watch the trees blur like faraway monsters dancing, lifting their silvery leaves to the wind and showing their undersides.

Tae knows Jimin likes it so that’s where they always sit, side by side like this at recess.

Although their relationship is not without their exchange, Jimin smiles down at his light-up shoes as he listens to Tae talk. Tae looks handsome as usual in his Pokémon tee-shirt- his chubby face already belying the beauty that he’ll have when he’s older. Jimin can see it, can feel the pitter-patter of his heart in response to it.

He might not know what love is yet, but he’s learning.

Tae sways the way that trees do at a distance, his movements all graceful. He knows Tae will be beautiful when he's older the same way he knows his parents are going to get divorced one day; his mother spends hours in the bathroom, plying and stretching and picking at the barely forming wrinkles on her face.

Aphrodite has a way of letting you know when she’s there, whether in hatred or in love.

Tae has told Jimin the Greek myths time and time again; he likes the tale of Achilles the best. But Jimin can’t read yet so Tae reads to him, Jimin always asks to hear the tale of Orpheus because that’s Tae’s favorite.

Jimin and Taehyung aren’t JiminandTaehyung yet, they won’t be for a few years more. But for now, Jimin watches Tae talk about his most recent book, cupids touch in every little blink.

“And then he just like- pulled him from the dragon’s mouth right before it could snap shut. It was kind of gross to read but I promise Minnie it was so romantic!”

Tae says it like it’s quite possibly the best thing. Like he’s just said, “I’ve won the lottery” or “I’ve saved the last fruit snack package for you” or, “my mom and your mom said we can move into the same room, we spend so much time with each other anyway, why should we dream in separate places when you are my dream?”

(Although the first is equally as unlikely as the last. Jimin and Taehyung’s parents continue to be a thorn in their sides and only let them have sleepovers twice a week during the school year.)

“You like reading a lot of books like that” Jimin comments, “books where the alpha’s a boy and the omega’s a boy.” Tae’s eyes are mini smiles when he glances up, drawing what looks to be a dragon’s tooth in the dirt with the edge of his shoe.

“Really?”

Jimin doesn’t say anything, doesn’t say what he wants struggling with his words the same way he always does (the same way that has his teachers exchanging pitying glances.)

“Do you like boys?” he blurts, and when Tae looks up, his cheeks are their normal color, not ruddy or pink like cupid might have kissed his skin. Not like Jimin who feels his cheeks flaming. “-Because I was thinking the other day when you asked me if I had a crush on any of the girls in our class, and I- I think I like boys.”

“Oh,” Tae says, “that’s okay, I think I like boys too.”

Taehyung’s mind dips, thinking thoughts of 'he doesn't like girls. But that's okay because Taehyung can be a boy if Jimin wants a boy.’ and Jimin’s mind gathers up thoughts of omega Tae and alpha Jimin and casts them in a Greek myth. Tae the omega in a pretty purple skirt- back when boy omegas didn’t dress like boys yet. And Jimin hums, satisfied by his daydream.

Later that night when his mother makes him pray (because Jimin’s mother is always making him do that) Jimin asks very very sincerely, as honestly as a 6-year-old can muster.

He perches on the edge of his lightning McQueen bedspread and whispers his small hopes to the heavens above. Starts that shine in all their coldness and give nothing easy to the boy below.

"Dear god. I’ve been thinking; I’ve got in mind some improvements you could make.

If you have a choice make me an alpha and TaeTae an omega. Whatever you do- don’t make us the same, please. I want to have Tae with me for a long long time and the world has a way of separating things that are the same. So please- if you do exist- make us different."

There wasn’t anything divine in that little bedroom, but I guess in a wicked way, god insisted.

~-~

(Now, You)

Sometime later, when the sun has dipped below the horizon and Jimin’s tireless pacing has stopped, you and Tae ready yourselves for what waits outside of the library room.

You stand in the half darkness barely a few inches apart, enswathed in the comfort you steal from each other regularly and know that it can’t last for long. Doomed and Starcrossed. The 8 by 10 walls that have been your safe place to be torn down soon, the resting place for this secret all vacant.

It’s all operating on borrowed time. After tonight everything will change (and only time will tell if it will be for the better.)

So you wait for just a few minutes more, and spend just a little longer enjoying each others company. You don’t want to let go of this just yet. You press yourself all along Tae’s side to comfort her and she shakes harder when your hands retract from her waist.

(Something about the space has you convinced that’s where your hands belong. You can’t deny that you’re drawn to the inches of honey skin above her hipbones. You have a way of knowing what parts of Tae don’t make her as dysphoric as the rest. Your touch like a breath of wind to a flame making her burn brighter.)

She pets over the back of your head as you look up at her. Cheek squished against her chest, “Are you sure you’re going to be okay?”

“I think I will be, just-” her hand wraps with yours, her thumb rubbing over the back of it, warm and small and so so important. “Don’t let go, okay?”

“Never,” you promise.

You give her hand a single squeeze in promise and step forward to open the door (because you know Tae’s not strong enough to open it on her own) letting the light and the noise of tense conversations slip in. Tugging her unwilling form out into the open.

The pack is stands around the kitchen island in varying positions of distress. Usually by this time of night dinner would be underway; steam would be gathering in a haze above the burners, and half of the sink would be filled with cutting boards (because Jin somehow always manages to use every one of them when cooking). But instead, the light hangs too bright after your time spent in the darkness, the fluorescences stark and the air heavy with the scent of your packmates distress.

Hobi is the only one sitting, head in his hands and his fingers threaded in his dark hair. Namjoon’s hand hovers on his shoulder and squeezes at it lightly, fingers itching towards a scruff. Jin looks like he’s been through it, his shirt unbuttoned and his hair sticking up in the back, far from his usual vision of omega grace and beauty.

Hobi smells as unhappy as he did the night you almost left; the night where broken glass glittered on the floor where Yoongi stands now. Maybe you should have regarded it as a promise of more to come, but you’ve never believed in omens.

Jimin isn’t much better, twitching with wild jerky movements, anxiety made alive, Jungkook tries to talk to him and calm him down. the omega cups his cheeks, speaking to him in that low happy way that jungkook speaks when he’s nesting, but you can tell just from watching him for a few seconds that it’s having the opposite effect on Jimin.

Jimin needs something to bite, he’s biting his lip so hard it looks like he’s going to tear through it. Your mate is the first one to notice your reappearance, his head jerking in your direction.

You and Hobi make eye contact and it darts away as quickly as it came. His cheeks look puffy- like he’s been crying, and the guilt threatens to swallow you like a tidal wave.

It’s a good thing Jimin doesn’t immediately notice the closing of the door, his back to it. His words make you feel winded, “-So they’re mated- no shit.” Jimin says, “I don’t get why it’s a big deal.”

He can be a bit brutal sometimes, words like a blunt knife with the way that his brain makes sense of things. He’s so strung out on worry that his whole body shakes, everything from his knees knocking to his blonde hair trebling, all messed up like he’s been tugging at it.

Jungkook sighs when Jimin’s hands curl around his wrists and he pulls his hands away from his face, he stands with his shoulders curled in, watching Jimin like he’s waiting for him to break. “We have bigger problems like Tae- He’s-“

You shift your weight from one foot to another and Jimin whirls, eyes settling on Tae like she's the first bit of sunlight slipping over the horizon after a long long night.

Jin sips at his water from the sink, every little movement belying his anger. But it's flagging, forced and in-genuine. Jin will have to let it go sooner rather than later but you have more important things to focus on as Jimin stumbles to Tae’s side and the rest of the pack quiets.

“Tae baby- just tell me what’s wrong so I can fix it- is it about the marks-“ his voice goes a little less frantic, a little more measured. He reaches out to touch her and lets out a heartbreaking whine when Tae flinches back from her soulmate's touch.

You never thought you'd have to step between the two of them, but you find yourself doing just that. Hiding Tae from view because she already looks like she wants to dash back inside the library room and hide some more.

Jimin’s eyes flicker down to yours just briefly but he doesn’t look angry about it- no- if you had to pick one word to describe Jimin’s look it would be impressed. But there isn’t space for much else but panic when it comes to Tae’s sadness and Jimin's tireless anxiety.

Maybe it should hurt more, the fact that Jimin doesn’t really care about you right now. (But maybe you’d be a hypocrite if you complained because Tae is also your priority).

Jungkook huffs, “Would you stop hyper-fixating on Tae for a second” and remember that you have 6 other packmates he means to say, but you send him a single withering look. You don’t think that anyone needs to cut Jimin down more, this is hard enough. Jimin barely even turns at Jungkook’s bitten words.

“No, it’s not that. I’ve known about the marks for a while.” (The night you exchanged your secrets holds a special place in Tae's heart. Tae hadn’t been prepared to give you anything- much less the love that burns through her now. But that hadn’t stopped you giving her your all.)

Tae’s confession makes more than one packmate straighten up, Jin narrows his eyes accusingly but avoids your gaze.

Tae’s glance down at you is more steadying than you’d ever admit. Makes you feel surer as you square your stance against Jimin. You reach to touch Jimin’s hand, stopping at the last second letting him decide if he wants to touch your right now, after a second he moves to take it, although his worn palms feel clammy.

“Minnie, would you just come and sit for a second? Can we just- can we talk?”

Jimin has eyes for only Tae- but it’s Jin who sighs after a breath, quieting Minnie with a touch to his shoulder. You wish people would stop touching Jimin without asking right now, everything about his body-language indicates someone who doesn’t want to be touch.

Jin looks at you from under his bangs, not saying a word. The cold hurt in his eyes startles you. It’s not quite detached, but you have never seen Jin so quiet with his sadness before nor have you ever been in a position with him where you can’t offer comfort.

Every footstep he makes towards the table has your anxiety climbing higher and higher. He pulls out two chairs, the shrill sound of the legs dragging on the wood loud in the quiet, and gestures for you and Tae to sit.

You gulp.

The silence is heavy, punctuated by listless murmurs and the quieter squeaks of the other chairs as you all sit. No one dares disobey the pack omega right now. Yoongi sits on your side at the head of the table and Tae sits on the other. Jungkook takes the other seat beside Tae between him and Namjoon at his usual spot at the other head of the table. Jimin, Hobi, and Jin file in at the opposite side, an impenetrable wall of anxious scents.

Jimin looks like he's going to jump out of his skin, too much feeling rocketing through his little body to keep still. Next to him, Hobi folds his arms. Jin starts to retort something and start on the mating marks but you interrupt him.

“What Tae and I need to tell you is more important to you than any of that- I promise. Would you mind just sitting for a second?” It takes no small amount of bravery for you to keep Jin's eye contact even as he glares.

He’s angry, but it doesn’t make him any less in love or proud of you, any other day he'd be beaming to see you stick up for yourself like this, Jin looks away to sate his mounting guilt. Minnie’s knee jumps up and down rapidly under the table, listlessly stimming. Your mate sends you a tiny look, just a furrowed brow in confusion.

Because Yoongi doesn’t know this secret either, this one will be just yours and Tae’s for only a second longer. You straighten your back- begging yourself to be strong- to do this well for her.

You sit at the table in silence for a few seconds and it’s hard not to just come out and say it, to rip off the metaphorical band-aid. The sentence ‘Tae is transgender’ hovers on the tip of your tongue.

If you ever had to wonder if your love made a difference, it’s now as Tae sits up straighter. She looks like she’s trying to be brave, a girl growing into her thorns. Your knuckles are white with how hard she’s squeezing them.

Jin isn’t looking at you. Jin isn’t looking at you at all and it makes you angry. The overhead lights buzz in the quiet, and Jin’s ire distracts you from your primary purpose in this- which is to help Tae come out.

Your voice comes quieter than you thought it would when you finally speak. “When I first came here- when I first met you all I was so terrified.”

It’s a confession, but not the one they’d been expecting. Your sudden honesty eases more than one tense packmate as you tip your face, closing your eyes to better remember the fear. You’d been so paralyzed the first few times you’d met them. For the first time since finding out about the mating mark Jin looks at you without anger clouding his eyes.

“Terrified that you’d hate me for everything I did to you- what I took from you without even knowing you- that you’d want to hurt me for it- take your pick. You couldn’t count the things I was scared of, but I wasn’t scared that you wouldn’t like me for who I was. That was easy to count on.”

The room is as quiet as a tomb when you look at them through heavy-lidded eyes. Quiet with your anguish because it has never mattered much to you. maybe its a testament to how much love has changed you because Jin’s lack of concern stings as he remains unreadable.

Your eyes lock with his and you lean over the table. “I know you love us but I don’t think you get it Jin, I think you play all high and mighty but you don’t fucking understand. Do you know that I begged Yoongi to let me die? Rather than let him mark me?”

Jin looks away, Namjoon makes a strained noise in his throat- half a growl half a noise of discomfort. Hobi stays quiet. Tae’s hand goes harder in yours. It’s one thing to know and another to hear you say it.

A cold chill settles over the room and no one feels it as strongly as you and Yoongi. “Would you rather that have happened Jin? Because I would have. I wanted to. Yoongi and the mark is the only reason why I'm still breathing."

“Pup-” He starts, but you interrupt him again, this time it doesn’t get you a glare.

“If you want to be angry that i’m alive- get in line. But I don’t want to hear it. I can’t-” Yoongi takes your other hand. Smoothing over your knuckles with both of his, Tae tugs her chair closer to yours so that your hips touch.

Hoseok sits watching you. There is a furious sort of honesty in your face, people don't lie and joke about these things, but you're so factual with it. laying it out in stark terms because to describe how it was with any emotion is to surrender yourself to the flood of it. Hobi knows better than most how unfair it can be, unable to feel what you want to feel.

The memory runs through him- you in the front seat of Jimin's car, looking breakable and worn. ‘Do I really even want this life if it's going to be this way? When it hardly feels like I’m living at all.’

You’ve never said it out loud- you’ve never told them of your weakest moment like this. Was it a moment of true weakness? Or one of pure strength? To keep going when everything told you not to.

Everything but Yoongi.

Jin can handle a lot of things but hearing you say that isn’t one of them, Jin feels like he’s going to cry for every reason and no reason at all. The feelings in him all cut up and finely minced. All the guilt and wanting and hurt a mixed bowl of ingredients with no soup to be added to. Too much love and not enough anger, not like before. Jin feels it melt away as he watches you and Yoongi.

“I’m sorry.” Jin says, inhaling unevenly like he’s trying not to cry.

He’s never seen you like this before, and the second the words slipped from your lips the same second he wish he’d never reacted. He wishes he’d never found the key to the upstairs, that he’d never thought to be angry at you for this.

It’s a reminder not to think with your instincts first if anything, Jin reacted without the proper information and although you don’t look like you’re going to hold it against him- he almost wishes you might. But pain can’t always pay for pain, now when you love someone. You hurting Jin won’t make him feel any less guilty.

Which is why you ignore his apology.

You still don't know how to think about it, what you almost did. But whatever death brings you doubt you'd have been quite so happy as you are here;

You wouldn't have had the soft kisses pressed to your forehead every morning, you wouldn't know what it felt like to wake up and be safe. You wouldn't have had felt laughter and happiness that built its way into your chest the same way love builds other works of art. You wouldn't have Tae.

Every minute spent living in this house has been a treasure.

Yoongi’s heart races and he closes his eyes rather than remember the moment. The ache of watching you almost die never stops throbbing in his chest. Yoongi's not sure if it will ever stop hurting or if he'll ever stop feeling thankful that you hadn't tried after.

That had been your one suicide attempt, Your only one. Although there had been other moments in the months that followed that had made him nervous that you might try again. When the days had stretched with you neither speaking nor eating.

Acts of desperation like that have a way of sticking to you. A separate kind of trauma comes from something that you do to yourself.

For a moment- you want to let go of Tae’s hand, the clamminess too similar to how your palms felt tacky with blood. For a moment you’re back there; the smell of gunpowder (it’s unfortunate that Jimin’s unhappy scent smells so similar) and burning blood on the air, a terrible blackness in your chest begging you to lie your head down and just go.

You lift your face, and the light cuts across it jaggedly. “When you guys moved in it didn't take long to realize I wasn’t the only one afraid, once Tae and I started to hang out in the library room-”

You’re meandering towards the point, but your pain and Tae’s are dreadfully similar. Both of you hadn’t shared this secret because you were afraid it would incur a lack of love.

“It was just before my rut,” Tae says, finally breaking her silence, encouraging you by ducking close and rubbing her cheek on the top of your head in comfort, a small scent mark, “Wait- Do you think that’s what triggered it?”

You huff a soft breath, and even though it feels out of place it is no less sweet when you bump your head into Tae’s shoulder. “Maybe,” you say, though you guess you’ll never know for sure. What if it was the catalyst? Was your love the thing that finally made her body bend to its instincts?

A truck on your street slams its door and it shocks you all making you flinch. Jimin actually growls, turning to the door like he might go start shouting at it.

Namjoon leans back in his chair, his hand going to the back of Jimin’s neck, rubbing over it mindlessly to calm the other alpha down. His legs crossed, jutting his chin out at you as if to say ‘go on pup, you’re doing fine.’

Your heart pulses frantically in your chest and you hold onto Tae’s hands tighter. “It didn’t take long for it to become a habit and we-”

“Can you just spit it out,” Jimin snaps desperately, fear rocketing through him so violently he can't stay still, rocking back and forth like a ship in a storm. “Please.”

Tae's hand a vice around yours, her breath coming all quick and tiny beside you.

“I’m trying to say that Tae’s a girl, she’s been a girl for as long as you’ve known her and she just didn’t want to say. We started, exploring her gender a few months ago with makeup and clothes and stuff. She didn’t realize that’s what she was- that’s what she could be if she wanted until- until I helped her in the library.”

(There is none of that shit about being born in the wrong body because it's not just that. To be a butterfly that only looks like a moth, or a flower and a weed. No metaphor does it justice- how it feels to compromise in such a way that betrays your nature. The near daily humiliation that a soul can feel so keenly).

You let go of Yoongi’s hands and reach across the table to try and take Jimin’s, but he snatches them back just as quickly. Tae's eyes are screwed shut, not willing to watch the pack fall apart because of her, unwilling to wait and see the precise way that her pack falls apart with this knowledge. Because of that- she misses the way the whole table freezes-

And then relaxes.

Now that it’s out you can’t stop yourself from rambling, “-And she does want to be a girl, she is a girl- we hid it from you- not because she didn’t trust you but because she just wanted to be sure- And I guess she’s sure now- She didn’t want to cut her hair but she didn’t want to come out yet- which is why it made her sad- and that why she was crying when you came home and-”

"Pup- breathe," you're nearly hyperventilating, unable to disobey Namjoon’s command as you gasp.

The knot between Jin and Namjoon's shoulders eases and the pack alpha actually cracks a relieved smile. (What- with the way that you and her were so knit together- Namjoon honestly expected levels of unintended pregnancy catastrophic. This by comparison, is much easier to mitigate.)

Yoongi’s looking at Tae with fresh eyes, not surprised or shocked at all- just soft with how you glare at all of them, how your face says ‘say anything transphobic and I’ll end you’ without you speaking a word. Even though you and Jimin are shaking like puppies confronted with a vacuum monster.

Jungkook's mouth makes a little ‘oh’ and so does Hobi’s. Jungkook gives Tae a few of his wide-eyed bunny blinks. The anxiety builds, thrumming until a small sob slips past her lips, you remedy it almost instantly winding your body around hers.

Jimin feels like there's an avalanche falling over him, his skin freezing as the cold truth washes his body clean of warmth, leaving his tongue numb. Brain fissioning, neurons tearing themselves apart as they rewire themselves to account for new information. The very axis of his world shifted a few degrees to make the summers and springs longer and the winters and falls brief.

Tae speaks, because while your words were pretty- they’re not her own. And hearing you say it makes her own mouth feel less vivid with fear. Her eyes remain fixed on your clasped hands. You haven’t let go of them once, just like you promised.

“Once I really started living with you it was like I couldn’t stop feeling it. It was so painful to see you for those first few weeks.” your cute mouth tugs into a frown, another reminder. Tae wonders if she’ll ever stop feeling jealous of you.

“You got to be pretty and soft in the way I wanted to be, you got to be loved in the way I’ve always wanted to be loved. Dysphoria is- fuck- it’s fucking terrible, and I couldn’t avoid it no matter how hard I tried.”

You’ve talked about it before; you tuck yourself more firmly around Tae like you can banish it with just your body. You’ll never stop apologizing for that- for how you’d made her feel bad just by being you.

But you have nothing to apologize for, because even with the dysphoria you make it feel so much better, so much easier to bear. Tae shivers remembering that her reflection doesn’t look the same as it did this morning, the short and blunt cut edges of her hair hitting the tops of her ears a needle-like reminder. She’ll probably avoid mirrors for a while, she wonders if Jin would let her put something over the one in the bathroom.

Yoongi stretches out his hand, tentatively taking Tae’s other one. His hands are so strong, but they're still smaller than Tae's. Tae has the largest hands out of everyone in the pack- the ones that are best for holding. But it's not like your tiny palm in his other.

Oh, what Tae wouldn't give to be tiny like you. Even now, the dysphoria rages like a pink-edged storm. The silver lining is all mauve.

Tae finds the same usual smile on Yoongi's face, gentler maybe. “What does it feel like? The dysphoria, I want to understand it.”

Tae lifts your hand, pressing your knuckles over her heart, “it feels like you’re rotting- right here. At best- that’s what it feels like. Like you're dying and there's nothing that anyone can do, nothing that anyone can fix. Or like you’re bleeding out but only you can see it.”

Hobi speaks for the first time, rubbing a finger against his lower lip, “and at worst?” Tae flinches and doesn't answer his question.

Every little pained breath that comes from Tae’s mouth feels like a dagger cutting through Jimin’s viscera, dissecting him. Here take out the ribs first- they’ve grown all strange and gnarled. Why would a thing that loves have grown claws?

The table falls silent, no one has any words for it, the realization that someone they held so dear has been hurting for so long. Jin swallows back a lump in his throat when he realizes you’re right; this is a lot more important than the mating marks.

Oh Tae.

To hide this for so long, to hurt for so long right in front of them- Jin’s rarely ever so frantic, to make things right. “Tell us Tae- tell us how to keep you from feeling that way, fuck- I feel like an asshole for not noticing- Is- do you need- What can we do? Please? I-“ he breaks off, for the first time, lost for words.

Tae bites her lower lip, the words all shaky. “I know that this is a lot to hear. I know that you might not- like it as much. I know that I’m not- that I don’t look like-"

Jungkook is ever the mood maker, perhaps sensing how everyone is about to devolve into tears, “Does that mean you’re gonna call them all Oppa now? Cuz thats so cute I might get jealous. Should we call you Taenoona instead of Taehyung or do you just wanna keep the same name-”

You've never scolded Jungkook before, “Koo-”

But Jungkook’s smile is mischievous and lovely, he leans back, crossing his arms behind his head, stretching and flexing them in his black tee-shirt. “You’re all really bad at keeping secrets you know. Every single one of you."

“What are you talking about?”

Jungkook stretches his arm around you to squeeze Tae’s cheek. It blooms pink beneath his touch. Jungkook’s grin is all bunny teeth, boyish and gorgeous. Being on the receiving end of such a grin makes the dysphoria ebb just a little.

“Tae, who does the laundry in this house?”

“You.” You’re all intimately aware of Junkgook’s near dogmatic ritual. How he dumps all your clothes together and then lifts them one by one to sort them, everything but underwear and socks gets sorted this way, because Jungkook loves the pack's scents, loves to almost nest with them in the basement. you’ve found him asleep in a pile of laundry in the basement before. It's a little gross sometimes, but Jungkook's your little laundry bunny.

Jungkook reaches again, to pinch at your scent gland, and you swat his hand away- annoyed. “And do you know who all your new dresses smell like?”

You look back at him so quick it almost gives you whiplash, “You knew?”

Jungkook leans over, nudging Namjoon’s shoulder. “Sucky secret keepers, the lot of them.”

The pack alpha turns his eyes on Tae then, smiling at her, "I'm so happy you told us Tae, seriously. Thank you for being honest,” It's Tae's turn to be surprised, blinking owlishly at the pack alpha. blushing at the attention. tae lets go of your hand for the first time when she grabs both of namjoon’s, “I know it must have taken you a lot of bravery to tell us this, but I promise we won't disappoint you."

Hobi swallows thickly, nodding in agreement with Namjoon. “So- about the Taenoona thing- is Tae fine? Or I there something else that you want to be called? A more feminine name?”

Tae’s cheeks are two round pink peaches, blushing as the pack alpha looks at her so plainly, barely able to keep herself from smiling, heart thudding with the knowledge that oh- this actually- this isn’t terrible. This is actually going kind of well.

“i’ve never thought about it really, but I think Tae’s better than taehyung, I like being called Tae.” It might have something to do with the way that your mouth moves around that syllable, all pink and rosy cute, that makes something in Tae’s tummy flutter. It’s hard to feel dysphoric about something that sounds so sweet. “It’s not like the hair thing, ‘Tae’ doesn’t give me dysphoria,”

Jin runs his hands over his face,“Fuck, your hair, I’m so sorry pup-“

“S’not your fault Jinnie. You didn’t know.” Tae bites her plush lips. “I’m sorry for startling everyone when I got home.”

“Do you want to dye it? Is there anything we can do?” Jin turns to you, because you’ve been a woman for longer, and you’ve helped Tae with this up until this point and you don’t have to do this alone again. For the first time in your relationship they're learning how to love from you. “Are wigs an option? Would they help?”

“I don’t know, maybe?”

"There's always extensions," Jungkook comments, definitely not mentioning one of his private clients got them caught in an exercise machine once and thats the only reason why he knows about them.

You turn back to Tae, “Do you want to try?”

Jimin’s brain is narrowed down to the one person that has always mattered the most. Blood and love rush through his ears that block out your banter. The wave builds until it bursts. Jimin tries, tries his hardest to speak and hold it back. but things are happening so quickly- when Jimin is still reeling from your words and Tae's too.

“Maybe just, hair dye? Pink might be nice. I think it might help, with the dysphoria.”

"You'd look so cute with pink."

Jungkook tucks his feet beneath his body, "Wait if you get pink hair I might actually want it too."

Namjoon reaches over, running his hand through Yoongi’s blonde mop “you know you could do it like really easily.”

Yoongi shrugs off Namjoon's comment, all plucky and put upon but loving it, “if it will make Tae happy then you can drag me there right now.”

"It could be like- couples colors!"

Jimin’s voice is so quiet, so aching, but no less pained, fingers digging into the table so hard that his nail-beds ache. Tae would hear Jimin’s voice even if it happening in a downpour, thunder and lightning, nothing is quite as earth shattering as ire from someone you love.

“Why?”

Tae's a little too excited, however, to properly guess at Jimin's question. She tugs at a lock of her hair, staring not at him, but down at your clasped hands with a soft smile. “I think that maybe it’s like- a color thing. I've never been allowed to like pink you know so maybe it’s-“

“No that’s not- that’s not what I’m asking,” Jimin waves his hand flippantly and your mouth hardens into a line. “I’m not asking why, what I’m asking is why the fuck you neglected to tell me this till now."

Everyone around the table stills, the fun, and joy of all of it extinguished in a moment as Jimin watches Tae, his eye swimming with tears, heartbreaking over her.

"Tae- why didn’t you say anything?”

Tae flinches, and you struggle not to jump down Jimin’s throat for his tone alone. Tae’s voice is pleading, and oh

Oh, she realizes, maybe her fear wasn’t all for nothing. Maybe the hope of the last few moments had only hurt her more. Because the rest of the pack is accepting but Minnie-

Minnie's glaring, and it’s a good thing that Tae knows what he looks like when he's about to cry. Jimin's eyebrows knit together like they're gates to hold back the flood.

Tae lets go of Namjoon's hand and reaches for Jimin’s but this time- it’s the other alpha that declines his touch. Even when Jimin's overstimulated, he can usually handle touches from Tae, but not right now. Now Jimin's skin burns.

“Minnie you- you like boys. You only liked boys until her. I didn’t tell you because I was afraid that you wouldn’t-”

Jimin holds up a hand, stopping her, “Don’t you dare say you were afraid that I wouldn't love you Tae. Don’t throw my love for you back at my feet over something as simple as fear." Jin's eyes are brown and guilty when they meet Yoongi's, and the beta holds his glance.

The first time Jimin uttered the words ‘I think I like boys’ was the first time that Tae's heart broke. But child hurts are often adult wounds and Tae and Jimin are bleeding all over the floor with this.

"Minnie-" Jin begs, Namjoon reaches over to scruff the alpha but Jimin swats his hands away, moving so quickly you would have thought Namjoon’s touch was poison.

Jimin’s crying, wet cheeks, and wet eyelashes too. “It’s always been you Tae- Do you think so lowly of me that I wouldn’t love you? Is this a joke to you? Am I a joke to you?” the feeling rockets through him so hard that he stands, chair skitters back, falling upended. Your hand goes cold as Tae leaves you.

Tae tries to hold him, to grab him, but Jimin swats her hands away. Crying too hard to see. “Minnie no- I was just- I just didn’t want to tell you yet. I was just worried-”

“Don’t you dare lie to me Kim Tae-” the second syllable of that dies in Jimin’s throat. “How could you think that I wouldn’t love you? No matter who you wanted to be or what color you wanted to dye your fucking hair!" Jimin can't get his words out around his sobs, near incoherent. "You’ve been hurting for years and you just- you let me hurt you. When that was the one thing you where never supposed to let me do. Love isn't supposed to hurt!”

(That is perhaps the most bitter lie isn't it? That it is the people who love you who often hurt you the worst.)

“Do you remember what you told me when we were kids Minnie?” Tae's voice shakes. “You were always gay Jimin- You always liked boys, so don’t you dare blame me for choosing you over me! Not when you would have done the same!”

Jimin is crying, hands closing and opening rhythmically by his sides. Jin makes to stand and get between them but you shoot him a look. This isn’t a fight that any of you can have for Jimin and Tae. No matter how bad you want to get in-between them.

“Would you have ever told me? Would you have ever told us? If it wasn’t for her?” Jimin’s finger jabbing in your direction makes you flinch and Yoongi's jaw ticks.

Tae is lost for words. Silent and standing there, unwilling to answer.

“I see, once you saw me love her you- you-“ Jimin sounds almost sick at the words. That someone he loves has been hurting because of him. All this time, Years and years of pain that are all his fault.

“If you think I wouldn’t love you th-then-“ Jimin’s hands are shaking so violently, and you know a breakdown when you see one. he runs his hands through his hair and yanks. "I love you- you know I love you!” he cries “none of this would change that- no matter what! That's what we agreed on! That we’d love each other Tae- fuck- Tae."

Tae and Jimin have always been cradle to grave. They have always been soulmates. Jimin thought that counted for something. But this isn’t just anything. Tae let herself hurt for the sake of Jimin’s worldview and that is something that Jimin cannot forgive- or at least can’t forgive easily. Tae was always supposed to be both of their priorities. That was their agreement.

Tae’s voice breaks, “You love me yeah? Well you haven’t said it in weeks Minnie.” It’s the wrong thing to say. No allegation would make Jimin angrier than the idea that he doesn’t love Tae to the fullest extent that he’s capable of.

He's lost for words mouth opening and closing like a beached fish. When they were younger the words used to fall from Jimin's lips as often as rain, but now that they've been together for so long they say them less frequently. The same is true with Jin and Namjoon. Years in love can make you sloppy but Jimin can’t find the words anything other than wounding.

Jimin’s teeth grind against each other, "People don't just say I love you.”

"They say 'bring your jacket it's cold out’ and 'I made you lunch' before you even say you're hungry, or they know your favorite coffee cup without asking and never take it even though they made the coffee first.” Tae does that for you- you realize. You didn’t think that Jimin had been keeping track.

“People don't just say I love you or just love you as a singular act, they don't skip your favorite song even if they hate it, and they act crazy when you get sick” Jungkook and Hoseok flush. “Or they pretend not to notice when you've got a bit of broccoli stuck in your teeth.” Namjoon huffs. Jimin might not understand this yet, but he does understand love.

“They learn what kind of jokes are your favorite and get better at telling them on purpose- people love you on purpose.” The upstairs room aches with Yoongi's many hours, how many moments of his life has he spent on it? He couldn't say those moments were poorly spent, any moment spent in love is worth it.

“They learn to make a big deal out of the things that are big for you and not to bother when the annoyance is slight because every annoyance should be slight when it comes to someone you love." Jin's arms wrap around his waist tighter.

(People don't just say I love you- they promise things like I will give you smile lines and laugh lines if it kills me, I will carve wrinkles into your face with the force of my love, and hand you a pen when you want to write you name on my heart.)

"They don't just say I love you, they show it. And I’ve shown you it with everything I’ve ever done, every breath I’ve ever taken- so please- please don’t say I didn’t love you enough for you to come to me with this, be honest with me. Because I did. You know I did."

You and Jin share a long angsty look across the table. Your and Yoongi’s hands remain clasped and the omega crosses his arms. Defiant with it- although you never expected him to love you without it.

There is more to be settled here.

“I love you so much I can't stand it. Maybe if I loved you less I’d be able to think more rationally about this, but Tae- I can't- I can't breathe around how much love I have for you. And maybe that’s why this hurts so fucking much, that I’m so in pain by loving you and yet, you don't believe me. You never did otherwise you would have just said something-"

But instead of agreeing Tae shakes her head, lips screwing into something like a snarl. Alpha aggression is a volatile thing and Namjoon almost gets up to scruff them even though it would be inappropriate. He can’t bear to see them hurt each other like this.

Her short bangs barely budge “knowing someone loves you isn't just trusting them not to hurt you Minnie. I respect what we had, and whatever you want from me now I'll accept- even if it's nothing. I’ve been hurting over this for years That’s why I didn't tell you- I didn't tell you because I know you love me. Not despite it. I’m sorry but I couldn't risk losing you."

“Bullshit-“ Jimin sobs, a wild and broken thing that just about wrenches his heart clean out of his chest. Tae’s love has always made Jimin human and now he’s nothing but something wriggling and miserable. Slimy in his sadness, unwanted at its core.

“Bullshit- Tae- I’ve never- I couldn’t-”

One second the emotion is rocketing through him bright as a comet and the next, Jimin goes so still it's frightening. Like a supernova, one moment all the mass in the universe spread out and the next it has narrowed down to a single point of anger and pain.

If Jimin had a heart, he’d remove it and leave it at Tae’s feet. There is no use for Jimin’s love if Tae doesn’t want it and is committed to miss-understanding it. there is no Jimin without tae.

Tae pretends it doesn’t hurt when Jimin walks away.

He passes by her without even a brush of her hand or a goodbye kiss. Tae pretends her heart doesn’t break as she watches him grab his coat and walk out the front door, grabbing his keys too. She pretends it doesn’t hurt that he doesn’t look back, that she’s left in the kitchen with the warm yellow lights cutting wounds across her face.

6 other people in the room, and the only one that she wants to comfort her right now- gone.

He leaves her standing there by the center island, alone like a ship in a dark sea, the last light winking out. It's not worth it, It's not worth being a woman if it means I don't get to love you, I'll take it back, I'll take it back if it means you'll still love me.

The front door slams shut.

~-~

(Next chapter Coming Next Saturday September 24th at 5pm EST)

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icaroid · 1 month

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are you willing to offer the sacrifice class syllabus to the masses?? or at least a book list?? it's just that the topic is v interesting.

Hi!! I did look up the old syllabus, I'm not going to put it up in its entirety, but here's a list of the readings that we did:

Articles/Excerpts:

Lewis Hyde, The Gift: Creativity and the Artist in the Modern World

Walter Burkert, Homo Necans: The Anthropology of Ancient Greek Sacrificial Ritual and Myth

Jukka Jouhki, "Orientalism and India"

J. van Baal, "Offering, Sacrifice and Gift" in Numen, Vol. 23, Fasc. 3 http://www.jstor.org/stable/3269590

Alan Morinis, "The Ritual Experience: Pain and the Transformation of Consciousness in Ordeals of Initiation" http://www.jstor.org/stable/639985

Lawrence Babb, "The Food of the Gods in Chhattisgarh…" http://www.jstor.org.remote.slc.edu/stable/pdf/3629382.pdf

Sigmund Freud, Totem and Taboo

C. G. Jung, “Transformation Symbolism in the Mass,” in Baum, Mannheim, Campbell et. al., eds., The Mysteries (Papers from the Eranos Yearbooks, vol. 2)

Euripides, The Bacchae (Lattimore translation)

Abraham's "binding of Isaac" Genesis 22:1-19

Sophocles, Oedipus Rex https://records.viu.ca/~johnstoi/sophocles/oedipustheking.htm

Nathaniel Hawthorne, The Scarlet Letter. http://www.planetpublish.com/wp-content/uploads/2011/11The_Scarlet_Letter_T.pdf

Victor Rosner, "Fire-Walking the Tribal Way" in Anthropos http://www.jstor.org/stable/40458234

Jean Varenne, Yoga and the Hindu Tradition.

Yael Bentor, "Interiorized Fire Rituals in India and in Tibet" in JAOS http://www.jstor.org/stable/606619

Sati: A Review Article by Werner Menski, Bulletin of the School of Oriental and African Studies, Univ.of London, Vol. 61, No. 1 (1998), pp. 74-81. http://www.jstor.org/stable/3107292

Wendy Doniger and Howard Eilberg-Schwartz, ed., Off With Her Head!: The Denial of Women's Identity in Myth, Religion, and Culture.

Joseph S. Alter, Gandhi's Body: Sex, Diet, and the Politics of Nationalism

Mohandas Gandhi, My Experiments with Truth: Autobiography. http://www.columbia.edu/itc/mealac/pritchett/00litlinks/gandhi/index.html

War poems of Wilfred Owen—see " The Parable of the Young Man and the Old" and "Strange Meeting" http://www.rjgeib.com/thoughts/abraham/abraham.html

Shirley Jackson, "The Lottery"

Kevin Rushby, Children of Kali: Through India in Search of Bandits, the Thug Cult, and the British Raj

Books:

Henri Hubert and Marcel Mauss, Sacrifice: Its Nature and Functions

Rene Girard, Violence and the Sacred

C. Marvin and D. Ingle, ed., Blood Sacrifice & The Nation

Sakuntala Narasimhan, Sati - Widow Burning in India

there's a focus on India bc that was the professor's area of expertise! hope this is helpful (its gonna b helpful for me in my writing abt jellowpackets lol)

#answered #the-heart-of-my-mystery #sunsongs #tools of sacrifice

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det2x-fanfic-dump · 3 months

Text

ObeyMe! Mammon's HC Bio

Headcanon of Obey Me! Mammon's character Bio: [Repost from AO3 + Descriptions cuz why not] This Bio is basically as reference in the fanfic. Series Link is found at the end of this post.

Warning: Most of them are based on the game and actual general info about demonology stuff// I didn't look into much

Name: Mammon Human Name: Marc

[According somewhere in the Internet, 'Marc is a name that represents a tendency to exhibit extremes in terms of material success.' This can symbolize Mammon's materialistic needs.]

Nickname:

Sea Dog: [In the fanfic, Mammon is a dog so this is Floyd's name for him]

Marc: [Rarely Called Marc since most of the people he talked to doesn't care of calling a demon's name]

AS A DEMON:

Power and Skills:

Just like stated in the actual game, Mammon has better control of his demon powers but he doesn't mostly use it in his everyday life and just rely his physical abilities and being a con artist to get out of trouble most of the time

[Note to self: Levels are based on how big of a power they will need... For example: Level 01- a passive skill...no magic required means they can do skills without use of magic energy. Level 02 - Magic power is needed but less use Level 03- Full magic source is needed ; Needs a host if necessary.]

1 Master of Electrokinesis (Level 2)

[Associated with Speed, Mammon can manipulate electricity, may it be from existing power lines or from his own hands. He can generate lightning from the sky as well.]

Reason: He's a supposed fast runner so I imagined him as the flash.

2. Crow Summoning (Level 3)

[Mammon can summon crows in his bidding. He has thousand of crow familiars in his disposal. He mostly use them for covering ground and stealing shiny objects.]

Reason: It's in the canon and I think it's a very unique skill for him to have. Crows in stories and myths are known to steal shiny objects so it fits. And also the fact that crows with sunglasses appear during the gameplay in Nightbringer is a reference.]

3. Physical Upper Body and Leg Strength (Level 1)

[Mammon was a hard worker as an angel and often do labor work in the Celestial Realm however after becoming a demon and being ranked as second in the hierarachy, he often use his physical strength to get out of trouble.]

Reason: He's the second brother that can lift Beel and since he's a fast runner. He also has that leg power.

4. Super Speed (Level 2)

[Mammon is a fast runner naturally. This relates to his ability of Electrokinesis. He will even be more fast if Electrokinesis is involved.]

Abilities with Limitation:

Reason why there's Limitations: This is a reference on the general information about demons in real life. These abilities shows how demons can affect humans and how they interact with humans.

5. Sense of Wealthy Luck (Level 1)

[Despite Mammon, not having the best of luck for himself most of the time, Mammon can still be a lucky charm for mortals. Of course, that depends on what he thinks of that specific mortal. He can make them win lotteries or got themselves bankrupt if he so chooses.]

Reason: It's in the canon and I think it's a nice ability when interacting with humans. Human seeks his luck if they ever summon Mammon.]

6. Possession (Lv. 1)

[Just like any other demon, he has the ability to possess a human or animal and control them against their will. Demons can go in and out whenever.]

[Limitation: The human or mortal must have no magic affinity and must not be blessed by angels or in a holy sacred location that relates to heaven/ celestial realm.

If the human have magic affinity, this will serve as protection against possession

A human with magical that has made a pact with a demon have the option to be possessed since this is also a way to borrow magic or strength.

Being a demon that is next to Lucifer in the hierarchy, he has the ability to possess a mortal without any conditions.]

Reason: It is a reference to real life exorcism and demonic possession.

In TWST x Obey Me Fanfic: Yuki in a Twisted Wonderland Series

Link:

[tba because I haven't finished BOOK 3 in the Fanfic]

Dormitory: Unofficial Member of Octavinelle and Waiter working for Mostro Lounge.

Title in Night Raven : Worker in Mostro Lounge and being Azul's supposed support dog.

[ Fun fact from Author: He was supposed to be a crow upon arriving in Twisted Wonderland after Azul's overblot however, I think Mammon being a golden retriever is much more fun and interesting. He's a dog in the anime after all.]

#obey me x twisted wonderland #obey me mammon #headcanon #hc bio

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19-bellwether · 2 years

Text

The flaw in the argument against trans people in sports is that sports are already dominated by 'biological advantages.' The idea of generally equal competitors succeeding on skill alone is a fantasy. Look at our most widely decorated olympians. Usain Bolt did not become the fastest man on the planet by training hard, he started training because he was already biologically inclined to it. Michael Phelps isn't built with long arms and hyper-flexible chest joints because he swam every day, he started swimming because his body happened to be built to reward it.

So when Becky the highschooler hits six feet tall by age fifteen, she's praised and told she should try basketball. Her uncommon deviance from the average is seen as an opportunity. But when Sarah the trans girl wants to compete - even if she's shorter and slower than Becky - she's accused of having an unfair advantage over her fellow women. The argument for fairness does not work because fairness in sports does not exist in the first place.

This double standard further falls apart when you stop thinking of trans people as hypotheticals. Few people actually believe that any random person can become a successful athlete. Odds are, no matter how much you train, you would not be able to match the top competitors that have an actual biological advantage via the genetic lottery. Trans people are the same way: we come in just as many different body types as cis people. For every trans woman that's built perfectly for basketball, there are thousands more who would be average at best. That's no different than cis women. On top of that, hormone transitioning brings trans people's physical ability close to a cis person's of the same gender.

When a trans woman athlete loses nineteen games in the woman's division, no one says a word. But when she wins one, everyone starts questioning if it's unfair. The biological advantage myth is based on nothing but transphobic double standards and it's irritating how common it is even among self-described cis allies.

#transgender #transphobia #mtf #ftm

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thefisherqueen · 6 months

Text

He is, I gather, a man of very virile and positive, one might almost say combative, character.

I was curious about the history of the concept of male virility and found this New Yorker article, which is well worth a read.

"As the anthology’s editors see it, Europe reached peak virility in the nineteenth century. By then, the ideal of the virile man had become almost impossibly confusing. Men who could afford to spent as much time as possible in barracks-like spaces—“college, boarding school, seminary, the singing club cellar, the brothel, the guardroom, gun room, smoking room, various workshops, and cabarets and waiting rooms”—in an effort to maximize virility. At the same time, however, virility was felt as “a network of anxiety-producing injunctions, often contradictory, to which one must, in one way or another, give in.” In an essay on “the code of virility,” Alain Corbin provides a dispiritingly long list of the types of un-virile men:

"He who hesitates to get into the assault on the day of the battle; he who chooses to get a replacement because he has drawn a bad number in the draft lottery; he who was unable to save his comrade from life-threatening danger; he who does not have what it takes to be a hero; he who shows no ambition; he who remains indifferent to excelling or to the prestige of a medal of honor; he who ignores emulation because he does not seek superiority; he who has trouble keeping his emotions under control; he whose speech and writing style lack confidence; he who refuses women’s advances; he who performs coitus without ardor; he who refuses group debauchery—all these men lack virility even though their masculinity would not be challenged."

This Kafkaesque proliferation of crimes against virility is one reason why men stopped talking about it. And the authors in “A History of Virility” are not shy, either, about blaming the cult of virility for the disastrous conflicts of the twentieth century. Virility, the editors write, has long been “linked to death”; a prime way to prove one’s virility is through “heroic death on the battlefield.” After the First and Second World Wars, however, virility seemed not just undesirable but implausible. Death and shell shock among soldiers “undermine[d] the military-virile myth,” they write, and “place[d] masculine vulnerability at the heart of a caring culture.” At the same time, urban life styles and, above all, insurgent female power punctured the mythos of virilitas. In particular, advances in equality between the sexes intruded upon the male-only “scenes of collective virility” that had nurtured it. The sexist, élitist, and militaristic qualities of virility became increasingly unwelcome. By the mid-twentieth century, most people spoke about “masculinity” instead of “virility”—a sign, Corbin, Courtine, and Vigarello write, that something had “changed in the empire of the male.”

#letters from watson #sherlock holmes #the creeping man #masculinity #virility #gender roles #history

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kookie-doughs · 1 year

Text

Y/N AND THE HALFBLOOD: Voyage

Percy Jackson X Reader

Another year passed and now the camp needs them again.

Chapter 5: Godly Music Brought To You By

The next few days were torture, just like Tantalus wanted.

First there was Tyson moving into the Poseidon cabin, giggling to himself every fifteen seconds and saying, "Percy is my brother?" like he'd just won the lottery.

"Aw, Tyson," I'd say. "It's not that simple."

But there was no explaining it to him. He was in heaven. And me ... as much as I liked the big guy, I couldn't help feeling embarrassed. Ashamed. There, I said it.

My father, the all-powerful Poseidon, had gotten moony-eyed for some nature spirit, and Tyson had been the result. I mean, I'd read the myths about Cyclopes. I even remembered that they were often Poseidon's children. But I'd never really processed that this made them my ... family.

Until I had Tyson living with me in the next bunk.

And then there were the comments from the other campers. Suddenly, I wasn't Percy Jackson, the cool guy who'd retrieved Zeus's lightning bolt last summer. Now I was Percy Jackson, the poor schmuck with the ugly monster for a brother.

"He's not my real brother!" I protested whenever Tyson wasn't around. "He's more like a half-brother on the monstrous side of the family. Like ... a half-brother twice removed, or something."

Nobody bought it. And it made Y/N angry that I was technically ashamed of Tyson.

I admit—I was angry at my dad. I felt like being his son was now a joke.

As Y/N was ignoring me most of the time whenever I push Tyson away. Annabeth tried to make me feel better. She suggested we team up for the chariot race to take our minds off our problems. Don't get me wrong—we both hated Tantalus and we were worried sick about camp—but we didn't know what to do about it.

Since we couldn't really come up with some brilliant plan to save Thalia's tree, we figured we might as well go along with the races. After all, Annabeth's mom, Athena, had invented the chariot, and my dad had created horses. Together we would own that track. Y/N refused to join the race.

One morning Annabeth and I were sitting by the canoe lake sketching chariot designs when some jokers from Aphrodite's cabin walked by and asked me if I needed to borrow some eyeliner for my eye ... "Oh sorry, eyes."

As they walked away laughing, Annabeth grumbled, "Just ignore them, Percy. It isn't your fault you have a monster for a brother."

"He's not my brother!" I snapped. "And he's not a monster, either!"

Annabeth raised her eyebrows. "Hey, don't get mad at me! And technically, he is a monster."

"I'm sorry, Percy, I didn't expect Poseidon to claim him. Cyclopes are the most deceitful, treacherous—"

"He is not! What have you got against Cyclopes, any-way?

Annabeth's ears turned pink. I got the feeling there was something she wasn't telling me- something bad.

"Just forget it," she said. "Now, the axle for this chariot—"

"You're treating him like he's this horrible thing," I said. "He saved my life."

Annabeth threw down her pencil and stood. "Then maybe you should design a chariot with him."

"Maybe I should."

"Fine!"

She stormed off and left me feeling even worse than before.

The next couple of days, I tried to keep my mind off my problems.

Silena Beauregard, one of the nicer girls from Aphrodite's cabin, gave me my first riding lesson on a pegasus. She explained that there was only one immortal winged horse named Pegasus, who still wandered free somewhere in the skies, but over the eons he'd sired a lot of children, none quite so fast or heroic, but all named after the first and greatest.

Being the son of the sea god, I never liked going into the air. My dad had this rivalry with Zeus, so I tried to stay out of the lord of the sky's domain as much as possible. But riding a winged horse felt different. It didn't make me nearly as nervous as being in an airplane. Maybe that was because my dad had created horses out of sea foam, so the pegasi were sort of ... neutral territory.

I could understand their thoughts. I wasn't surprised when my pegasus went galloping over the treetops or chased a flock of seagulls into a cloud.

The problem was that Tyson wanted to ride the "chicken ponies," too, but the pegasi got skittish whenever he approached. I told them telepathically that Tyson wouldn't hurt them, but they didn't seem to believe me. That made Tyson cry. Luckily babysitter Y/N would always calm him down and comfort him.

The only person at camp aside from Y/N, who had no problem with Tyson was Beckendorf from the Hephaestus cabin. The blacksmith god had always worked with Cyclopes in his forges, so Beckendorf took Tyson down to the armory to teach him metalworking. He said he'd have Tyson crafting magic items like a master in no time.

After lunch, I worked out in the arena with Apollo's cabin. Swordplay had always been my strength. People said I was better at it than any camper in the last hundred years, except maybe Luke. People always compared me to Luke.

I thrashed the Apollo guys easily. I should've been testing myself against the Ares and Athena cabins, since they had the best sword fighters, but I didn't get along with Clarisse and her siblings, and after my argument with Annabeth, I just didn't want to see her.

I went to archery class, even though I was terrible at it, and it wasn't the same without Chiron teaching.

Y/N wasn't much of a sword person but more of a knife girl. She was the best if not second knife wielder in the camp. But if she had tried to fight with a sword when I watched the Hermes cabin once, she looked better than me. It was like seeing Luke fighting. Her archery skills were also on point, which made even people from Apollo's cabin impressed. So technically speaking, she was good with every weapon.

In arts and crafts, I started a marble bust of Poseidon, but it started looking like Sylvester Stallone, so I ditched it. I scaled the climbing wall in full lava-and-earthquake mode. And in the evenings, I did border patrol. Even though Tantalus had insisted we forget trying to protect the camp, some of the campers had quietly kept it up, working out a schedule during our free times.

I sat at the top of Half-Blood Hill and watched the dryads come and go, singing to the dying pine tree. Satyrs brought their reed pipes and played nature magic songs, and for a while the pine needles seemed to get fuller. The flowers on the hill smelled a little sweeter and the grass looked greener. But as soon as the music stopped, the sickness crept back into the air. The whole hill seemed to be infected, dying from the poison that had sunk into the tree's roots. The longer I sat there, the angrier I got.

Luke had done this. I remembered his sly smile, the dragon-claw scar across his face. He'd pretended to be my friend, and the whole time he'd been Kronos's number-one servant.

I opened the palm of my hand. The scar Luke had given me last summer was fading, but I could still see it—a white asterisk-shaped wound where his pit scorpion had stung me.

I thought about what Luke had told me right before he'd tried to kill me: Good-bye, Percy.

There is a new Golden Age coming. You won't be part of it.

"What could you be thinking so intently?" Y/N sang clinging on me from behind. "It's not good for you to think. You really suck at it." She smirked, poking my cheek.

"Shut up." I laughed pushing her away. "Where's D/N?"

She settled beside me and laid on the ground behind me still keeping distance from the water. "With Tyson and some kids from Hermes's cabin."

"You got Tyson to mix with your cabin?"

"Real easy, they want to see D/N's cool powers." she said smugly.

"How did he get powers?"

"Hades. He's really cool. I swung by."

"You mean while you were searching for you parent?" She nodded. "How'd that go."

She took a while to respond and the atmosphere felt a bit tense. But after a while she sat up and looked at me. "Have you heard of The Prophecy of the ninth day?"

"What?"

"You know how everyone is so tensed around you and all that?"

"Yeah, thanks to some prophecy..."

"I heard there was another prophecy. A bigger prophecy than yours. Only the gods know of."

I looked at her confused. "What?"

"I don't know. It was a prophecy only gods know so I could only ask gods. But I can't ask gods too because it seemed everyone swore by Styx so... I was wondering if you knew."

"W-Why ask me? We're practically in the same boat."

"Well, everyone thinks you're the child of the prophecy. And so far you've been part of 2 prophecies. Who else should I ask about a prophecy like this?"

"How did you even come to know about this prophecy?"

She didn't respond.

"Did you overhear it from a god? This is something Annabeth migh--"

"Don't. This should only be between us. No one else should know. Promise me."

"I-" I sighed, "Fine."

Ruffling my hair she smiled, "Good boy. Might even rival D/N" I swat her hand away and she started laughing.

Pushing myself up i helped her stand, "We should go."

At night, I had more dreams of Grover. Sometimes, I just heard snatches of his voice. Once, I heard him say: It's here. Another time: He likes sheep.

I thought about telling Annabeth about my dreams, but I would've felt stupid. I mean, He likes sheep? She would've thought I was crazy.

The night before the race, Tyson and I finished our chariot. It was wicked cool. Tyson had made the metal parts in the armory's forges. I'd sanded the wood and put the carriage together. It was blue and white, with wave designs on the sides and a trident painted on the front. After all that work, it seemed only fair that Tyson would ride shotgun with me, though I knew the horses wouldn't like it, and Tyson's extra weight would slow us down.

As we were turning in for bed, Tyson said, "You are mad?"

I realized I'd been scowling. "Nah. I'm not mad."

He lay down in his bunk and was quiet in the dark. His body was way too long for his bed.

When he pulled up the covers, his feet stuck out the bottom. "I am a monster."

"Don't say that."

"It is okay. I will be a good monster. Then you will not have to be mad."

I didn't know what to say. I stared at the ceiling and felt like I was dying slowly, right along with Thalia's tree.

"It's just... I never had a half-brother before." I tried to keep my voice from cracking. "It's really different for me. And I'm worried about the camp. And another friend of mine, Grover... he might be in trouble. I keep feeling like I should be doing something to help, but I don't know what."

Tyson said nothing.

"I'm sorry," I told him. "It's not your fault. I'm mad at Poseidon. I feel like he's trying to embarrass me, like he's trying to compare us or something, and I don't understand why."

I heard a deep rumbling sound. Tyson was snoring.

I sighed. "Good night, big guy."

And I closed my eyes, too.

In my dream, Grover was wearing a wedding dress.

It didn't fit him very well. The gown was too long and the hem was caked with dried mud. The neckline kept falling off his shoulders. A tattered veil covered his face.

He was standing in a dank cave, lit only by torches. There was a cot in one corner and an old-fashioned loom in the other, a length of white cloth half woven on the frame. And he was staring right at me, like I was a TV program he'd been waiting for. "Thank the gods!" he yelped. "Can you hear me?"

My dream-self was slow to respond. I was still looking around, taking in the stalactite ceiling, the stench of sheep and goats, the growling and grumbling and bleating sounds that seemed to echo from behind a refrigerator-sized boulder, which was blocking the room's only exit, as if there were a much larger cavern beyond it.

"Percy? Y/N?" Grover said. "Please, I don't have the strength to project any better. You have to hear me!"

"I hear you," I said. "Grover, what's going on?"

From behind the boulder, a monstrous voice yelled, "Honeypie! Are you done yet?"

Grover flinched. He called out in falsetto, "Not quite, dearest! A few more days!"

"Bah! Hasn't it been two weeks yet?"

"N-no, dearest. Just five days. That leaves twelve more to go."

The monster was silent, maybe trying to do the math. He must've been worse at arithmetic than I was, because he said, "All right, but hurry! I want to SEEEEE under that veil, heh-heh-heh."

Grover turned back to me. "You have to help me! No time! I'm stuck in this cave. On an island in the sea."

"Where?"

"I don't know exactly! I went to Florida and turned left."

"What? How did you—"

"It's a trap!" Grover said. "It's the reason no satyr has ever returned from this quest. He's a shepherd, Percy! And he has it. Its nature magic is so powerful it smells just like the great god Pan!

The satyrs come here thinking they've found Pan, and they get trapped and eaten by Polyphemus!"

"Poly-who?"

"The Cyclops!" Grover said, exasperated. "I almost got away. I made it all the way to St. Augustine."

"But he followed you," I said, remembering my first dream. "And trapped you in a bridal boutique."

"That's right," Grover said. "My first empathy link must've worked then. Look, this bridal dress is the only thing keeping me alive. He thinks I smell good, but I told him it was just goat-scented perfume. Thank goodness he can't see very well. His eye is still half blind from the last time somebody poked it out. But soon he'll realize what I am. He's only giving me two weeks to finish the bridal train, and he's getting impatient!"

"Wait a minute. This Cyclops thinks you're—"

"Yes!" Grover wailed. "He thinks I'm a lady Cyclops and he wants to marry me!"

Under different circumstances, I might've busted out laughing, but Grover's voice was deadly serious. He was shaking with fear.

"I'll come rescue you," I promised. "Where are you?"

"The Sea of Monsters, of course!"

"The sea of what?"

"I told you! I don't know exactly where! And look, Percy ... urn, I'm really sorry about this, but this empathy link ... well, I had no choice. Our emotions are connected now. If I die ..."

"Don't tell me, I'll die too."

"Oh, well, perhaps not. You might live for years in a vegetative state. But, uh, it would be a lot better if you got me out of here."

"Honeypie!" the monster bellowed. "Dinnertime! Yummy yummy sheep meat!"

Grover whimpered. "I have to go. Hurry!"

"Wait! You said 'it' was here. What?"

But Grover's voice was already growing fainter. "Sweet dreams. Don't let me die!"

The dream faded and I woke with a start. It was early morning. Tyson was staring down at me, his one big brown eye full of concern.

"Are you okay?" he asked.

His voice sent a chill down my back, because he sounded almost exactly like the monster I'd heard in my dream.

The morning of the race was hot and humid. Fog lay low on the ground like sauna steam.

Millions of birds were roosting in the trees—fat gray-and-white pigeons, except they didn't coo like regular pigeons. They made this annoying metallic screeching sound that reminded me of submarine radar.

The racetrack had been built in a grassy field between the archery range and the woods.

Hephaestus's cabin had used the bronze bulls, which were completely tame since they'd had their heads smashed in, to plow an oval track in a matter of minutes.

There were rows of stone steps for the spectators— Tantalus, the satyrs, a few dryads, and all of the campers who weren't participating. Mr. D didn't show. He never got up before ten o'clock.

"Right!" Tantalus announced as the teams began to assemble. A naiad had brought him a big platter of pastries, and as Tantalus spoke, his right hand chased a chocolate eclair across the judge's table. "You all know the rules. A quarter-mile track. Twice around to win. Two horses per chariot. Each team will consist of a driver and a fighter. Weapons are allowed. Dirty tricks are expected. But try not to kill anybody!" Tantalus smiled at us like we were all naughty children. "Any killing will result in harsh punishment. No s'mores at the campfire for a week! Now ready your chariots!"

Beckendorf led the Hephaestus team onto the track. They had a sweet ride made of bronze and iron—even the horses, which were magical automatons like the Colchis bulls. I had no doubt that their chariot had all kinds of mechanical traps and more fancy options than a fully loaded Maserati.

The Ares chariot was bloodred, and pulled by two grisly horse skeletons. Clarisse climbed aboard with a batch of javelins, spiked balls, caltrops, and a bunch of other nasty toys.

Apollo's chariot was trim and graceful and completely gold, pulled by two beautiful palominos. Their fighter was armed with a bow, though he had promised not to shoot regular pointed arrows at the opposing drivers.

Hermes's chariot was green and kind of old-looking, as if it hadn't been out of the garage in years. It didn't look like anything special, but it was manned by the Stoll brothers, and I shuddered to think what dirty tricks they'd schemed up.

That left two chariots: one driven by Annabeth, and the other by me.

Before the race began, I called Y/N and together we tried to approach Annabeth and told them about my dream.

Annabeth perked up when I mentioned Grover, but when I told her what he'd said, she seemed to get distant again, suspicious.

"You're trying to distract me," she decided.

"What? No I'm not!"

"Oh, right! Like Grover would just happen to stumble across the one thing that could save the camp."

"What do you mean?"

She rolled her eyes. "Go back to your chariot, Percy."

"I'm not making this up. He's in trouble, Annabeth."

She hesitated. I could tell she was trying to decide whether or not to trust me. Despite our occasional fights, we'd been through a lot together. And I knew she would never want anything bad to happen to Grover.

"Percy, an empathy link is so hard to do. I mean, it's more likely you really were dreaming."

"The Oracle," I said. "We could consult the Oracle."

Annabeth frowned.

Last summer, before my quest, I'd visited the strange spirit that lived in the Big House attic and it had given me a prophecy that came true in ways I'd never expected. The experience had freaked me out for months. Annabeth knew I'd never suggest going back there if I wasn't completely serious.

Before she could answer, the conch horn sounded.

"Charioteers!" Tantalus called. "To your mark!"

"We'll talk later," Y/N said

"After I win." Annabeth said.

As I was walking back to my own chariot, I noticed how many more pigeons were in the trees now—screeching like crazy, making the whole forest rustle. Nobody else seemed to be paying them much attention, but they made me nervous. Their beaks glinted strangely. Their eyes seemed shinier than regular birds.

Tyson was having trouble getting our horses under control. I had to talk to them a long time before they would settle down.

He's a monster, lord! they complained to me.

He's a son of Poseidon, I told them. Just like ... well, just like me.

No! they insisted. Monster! Horse-eater! Not trusted!

I'll give you sugar cubes at the end of the race, I said.

Sugar cubes?

Very big sugar cubes. And apples. Did I mention the apples?

Finally they agreed to let me harness them.

Now, if you've never seen a Greek chariot, it's built for speed, not safety or comfort. It's basically a wooden basket, open at the back, mounted on an axle between two wheels. The driver stands up the whole time, and you can feel every bump in the road. The carriage is made of such light wood that if you wipe out making the hairpin turns at either end of the track, you'll probably tip over and crush both the chariot and yourself. It's an even better rush than skateboarding.

I took the reins and maneuvered the chariot to the starting line. I gave Tyson a ten-foot pole and told him that his job was to push the other chariots away if they got too close, and to deflect anything they might try to throw at us.

"No hitting ponies with the stick," he insisted.

"No," I agreed. "Or people, either, if you can help it. We're going to run a clean race. Just keep the distractions away and let me concentrate on driving."

"We will win.'" He beamed.

We are so going to lose, I thought to myself, but I bad to try. I wanted to show the others ... well, I wasn't sure what, exactly. That Tyson wasn't such a bad guy? That I wasn't ashamed of being seen with him in public? Maybe that they hadn't hurt me with all their jokes and name-calling?

As the chariots lined up, more shiny-eyed pigeons gathered in the woods. They were screeching so loudly the campers in the stands were starting to take notice, glancing nervously at the trees, which shivered under the weight of the birds. Tantalus didn't look concerned, but he did have to speak up to be heard over the noise.

"Charioteers!" he shouted. "Attend your mark!"

He waved his hand and the starting signal dropped. The chariots roared to life. Hooves thundered against the dirt. The crowd cheered.

Almost immediately there was a loud nasty crack! I looked back in time to see the Apollo chariot flip over. The Hermes chariot had rammed into it—maybe by mistake, maybe not. The riders were thrown free, but their panicked horses dragged the golden chariot diagonally across the track.

The Hermes team, Travis and Connor Stoll, were laughing at their good luck, but not for long. The Apollo horses crashed into theirs, and the Hermes chariot flipped too, leaving a pile of broken wood and four rearing horses in the dust.

Two chariots down in the first twenty feet. I loved this sport.

I turned my attention back to the front. We were making good time, pulling ahead of Ares, but Annabeth's chariot was way ahead of us. She was already making her turn around the first post, her javelin man grinning and waving at us, shouting: "See ya!"

The Hephaestus chariot was starting to gain on us, too.

Beckendorf pressed a button, and a panel slid open on the side of his chariot.

"Sorry, Percy!" he yelled. Three sets of balls and chains shot straight toward our wheels.

They would've wrecked us completely if Tyson hadn't whacked them aside with a quick swipe of his pole. He gave the Hephaestus chariot a good shove and sent them skittering sideways while we pulled ahead.

"Nice work, Tyson!" I yelled.

"Birds!" he cried.

"What?"

We were whipping along so fast it was hard to hear or see anything, but Tyson pointed toward the woods and I saw what he was worried about. The pigeons had risen from the trees. They were spiraling like a huge tornado, heading toward the track.

No big deal, I told myself. They're just pigeons.

I tried to concentrate on the race.

We made our first turn, the wheels creaking under us, the chariot threatening to tip, but we were now only ten feet behind Annabeth. If I could just get a little closer, Tyson could use his pole....

Annabeth's fighter wasn't smiling now. He pulled a javelin from his collection and took aim at me. He was about to throw when we heard the screaming.

The pigeons were swarming—thousands of them dive-bombing the spectators in the stands, attacking the other chariots. Beckendorf was mobbed. His fighter tried to bat the birds away but he couldn't see anything. The chariot veered off course and plowed through the strawberry fields, the mechanical horses steaming.

In the Ares chariot, Clarisse barked an order to her fighter, who quickly threw a screen of camouflage netting over their basket. The birds swarmed around it, pecking and clawing at the fighter's hands as he tried to hold up the net, but Clarisse just gritted her teeth and kept driving. Her skeletal horses seemed immune to the distraction. The pigeons pecked uselessly at their empty eye sockets and flew through their rib cages, but the stallions kept right on running.

The spectators weren't so lucky. The birds were slashing at any bit of exposed flesh, driving everyone into a panic. Now that the birds were closer, it was clear they weren't normal pigeons.

Their eyes were beady and evil-looking. Their beaks were made of bronze, and judging from the yelps of the campers, they must've been razor sharp.

"Stymphalian birds!" Annabeth yelled. She slowed down and pulled her chariot alongside mine. "They'll strip everyone to bones if we don't drive them away!"

"Tyson," I said, "we're turning around!"

"Going the wrong way?" he asked.

"Always," I grumbled, but I steered the chariot toward the stands.

Annabeth rode right next to me. She shouted, "Heroes, to arms!" But I wasn't sure anyone could hear her over the screeching of the birds and the general chaos.

Y/N was now riding D/N with her whip at hand the whip burned in contact so she grabbed some of the birds. She was making her way towards us.

I held my reins in one hand and managed to draw Riptide as a wave of birds dived at my face, their metal beaks snapping. I slashed them out of the air and they exploded into dust and feathers, but there were still millions of them left. One nailed me in the back end and I almost jumped straight out of the chariot.

Annabeth wasn't having much better luck. The closer we got to the stands, the thicker the cloud of birds became.

Some of the spectators were trying to fight back. The Athena campers were calling for shields. The archers from Apollo's cabin brought out their bows and arrows, ready to slay the menace, but with so many campers mixed in with the birds, it wasn't safe to shoot.

"Too many!" I yelled. "How do you get rid of them?"

She stabbed at a pigeon with her knife. "Hercules used noise! Brass bells! He scared them away with the most horrible sound he could—"

Y/N said. "Percy ... Chiron's collection!"

I understood instantly. "You think it'll work?"

Annabeth handed her fighter the reins and leaped from her chariot onto D/N like it was the easiest thing in the world. "To the Big House! It's our only chance!"

"Percy!" Y/N called.

I had no idea how we were all going to fit on D/N until I suddenly saw him grow bigger. So I hopped only to miss. Luckily Y/N's whip wrapped around me. I was half expecting to suddenly burn but nothing happened and she pulled me to settle down on his back.

Clarisse has just pulled across the finish line, completely unopposed, and seemed to notice for the first time how serious the bird problem was.

When she saw us driving away, she yelled, "You're running? The fight is here, cowards!"

She drew her sword and charged for the stands.

D/N rumbled through the strawberry fields, across the volleyball pit, and burst inside, tearing down the hallway to Chiron's apartment.

His boom box was still on his nightstand. So were his favorite CDs. Y/N and I grabbed the most repulsive one we could find, Annabeth snatched the boom box, and together we ran back outside.

Down at the track, the chariots were in flames. Wounded campers ran in every direction, with birds shredding their clothes and pulling out their hair, while Tantalus chased breakfast pastries around the stands, every once in a while yelling, "Everything's under control! Not to worry.'"

We pulled up to the finish line. Annabeth got the boom box ready. I prayed the batteries weren't dead.

Y/N pressed PLAY and started up Chiron's favorite—the All-Time Greatest Hits of Dean Martin.

Suddenly the air was filled with violins and a bunch of guys moaning in Italian.

The demon pigeons went nuts. They started flying in circles, running into each other like they wanted to bash their own brains out. Then they abandoned the track altogether and flew skyward in a huge dark wave.

"Now!" shouted Annabeth. "Archers!"

With clear targets, Apollo's archers had flawless aim. Most of them could nock five or six arrows at once. Y/N's whip was practically extending wiping an area at a time. Within minutes, the ground was littered with dead bronze-beaked pigeons, and the survivors were a distant trail of smoke on the horizon.

The camp was saved, but the wreckage wasn't pretty. Most of the chariots had been completely destroyed. Almost everyone was wounded, bleeding from multiple bird pecks. The kids from Aphrodite's cabin were screaming because their hairdos had been ruined and their clothes pooped on.

"Bravo!" Tantalus said, but he wasn't looking at me, Y/N or Annabeth. "We have our first winner!"

He walked to "He finish line and awarded the golden laurels for the race to a stunned-looking Clarisse.

Then he turned and smiled at me. "And now to punish the troublemakers who disrupted this race."

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