#i actually would really like to do a group running away thing like katniss originally wanted

[katnissdoesnotfollowback]

Katniss feeling insecure one random afternoon after seeing Peeta interact with some pretty girlies and asking him later that night all quiet if he thinks she’s pretty 🥺

I meant for this to be funny and then it turned out... not funny. Oh well. Enjoy some post-Mockingjay not fluff but not really angst??? No warning tags on this one.

“Having an eye for beauty isn’t the same thing as a weakness,” Peeta points out. “Except possibly when it comes to you.” - Catching Fire, Chapter 15 “You’re not very big, are you? Or particularly pretty?” - Mockingjay, Chapter 16

It takes me longer than usual to finish trading with the new butcher. She’s originally from Ten and came here after marrying a soldier from Thirteen. She refused to live underground any longer and he tried living in Ten, but felt too exposed and jumpy in the flat plains of that district. Twelve was their compromise. But I haven’t had the chance to build the kind of rapport with her that I had with Rooba.

Rooba. I make a mental note to ask Peeta to draw her for the memory book tonight. We’ll both have memories of her that need to be recorded.

When I finish with the butcher, mostly satisfied with the cuts of deer meat and the coin I walk away with, I make my way over to the bakery. Usually I’d help Peeta close for the day. I got lucky catching the deer so close to the fence, but it still took time for me to bring back enough help to drag it to the butcher.

Surprisingly, there are still a handful of customers in the bakery. Unusual, this late in the day. I hasten my steps, thinking Peeta might want some help getting rid of the chatty customers, and seeing me after a hunt usually does the trick.

As I reach the window, though, I slow my pace. It’s not just any customers. It’s the Lassiter girls. They moved here after the war with their father, who used to be the head foreman at a perfume factory in District One. Apparently someone thought his skills would translate well to running a medicine factory, because that’s what his job here is. And his five daughters -- Neroli, Dior, Ambrette, Clary, and Opal -- aged twenty-four to sixteen, spaced two years apart down the line, are each just as beautiful as the last. Gossip holds that they each have a different mother, and while there’s been no confirmation from their father on that point, they’re each so strikingly different in looks and coloring that it wouldn’t surprise me.

They’re currently clustered near the counter, a bouquet of undoubtedly sweet smelling flowers. Their dresses a rainbow of eye-catching hues in expensive looking fabrics. All I can do is snort as I think of how dull and dingy their clothes would’ve been if they’d lived here when there was still a coal mine. But their hair, although different shades, all gleams in glossy waves and curls and curtains of shimmering silk in the bright lights of the bakery.

I hear Peeta’s laughter then, followed shortly by the twittering chorus of the Lassiter girls’ giggling. Ugh. They cannot be serious. Not my Peeta.

None of them are married yet, and there’ve already been several District Twelve men turned away from their front door step with dazed looks in their eyes, like they couldn’t believe they’d actually dared to propose to one of the Lassiter girls. And while this group ambush of my Peeta gives me an idea of what sort of partner they might be looking for, it’s unacceptable.

I push through the bakery door and attempt a smile. Neroli sees me first. The oldest, and by far the smartest of this bunch, our eyes meet and her lips curl in a smile. She’s dressed in a dark, forest green dress. Her dark, almost black hair swept to one side, into a long, sleek ponytail. There’s no denying that she’s stunning. Long, sooty black lashes frame her pale eyes that I’ve never been able to decide if they’re blue or gray. Some part of me knows that if I were somehow more beautiful, I might look like her.

Neroli glances at Peeta, then back at me. She inclines her head slightly towards me, and I’m not certain what she means until she speaks.

“Father will be wondering what’s keeping us,” she announces to her sisters. “Come on. Get your purchases and let’s leave these two turtle doves alone.”

She still pauses to say something to Peeta before she and her sisters clear out, but the glance she throws my way before shutting the door behind her makes me think that maybe Neroli and I might’ve been friends under different circumstances. When I finally manage to look at Peeta, he’s head down in the cases, cleaning them out.

“Lock the door for me? How was your day in the woods?”

“Not bad,” I tell him as I throw the bolt. “I got a deer.”

“That’s great!”

“Put this in the cold storage while I sweep?” I hand him the package from the butchers and he hands me a broom across the counter. It’s one of my usual chores and it isn’t long after that we’re headed home. But all through dinner, I can’t get the image of the flock of Lassiter girls twittering around him out of my head. 

I distract myself after we clean up the kitchen with the memory book, telling Peeta about the deer today and how things went with the new butcher. We share a few memories of Rooba while he sketches her and I write them down in draft. We manage to finish her page and seal it into the book before it’s very late.

And while Peeta showers with me, and stands next to me while we brush our teeth and get ready for bed, he somehow feels distant. As I lay down and watch him as he carefully removes his prosthetic, I can’t help but think again about the Lassiter girls.

“Goodnight, my love,” he murmurs as he turns to me, slipping his legs under the covers and cupping my cheek in his palm before kissing my lips once, softly.

“Goodnight,” I respond and blink when he turns out the light and lays down.

But I can’t get comfortable. And behind my closed eyes, I see a still ravaged Peeta, the hijacking reversal barely even begun. His knuckles pale as he gripped the bedsheets beneath him and restraints holding him down, safely away from me.

“You’re not very big, are you? Or particularly pretty.”

I huff out a heavy breath and jam the heels of my palms into my closed eyes, trying to push the image out of my brain. He’s laying right here beside me. He kissed me and called me his love just minutes ago. What Peeta and I have puts the stars in the sky and the poets’ words on the page to shame with its depth and significance. That’s far better than some superficial beauty.

And yet the words still slip past my lips.

“Peeta,” I whisper, and he hums in response so that I’m not sure if he’s fully awake or not. “Do you think I’m pretty?”

There’s a few seconds of silence and then I hear the sound of the sheets rustling as Peeta turns over to face me.

“Are you serious?”

“It’s just a question,” I say and smack my hands down onto the bed, right at my sides. They’re still clenched into fists and I try to hold back the sudden, ridiculous tears welling up in my eyes. Because his hesitancy to answer tells me what I need to know. How stupid of me to ask.

“Katniss, honey,” he breathes and moves through the dark, pulling me into his arms. “You will always be as radiant as the sun to me,” he tells me and I snort, wishing I’d never told him that phrase or how I’d once used it. “No, I’m serious. Katniss, you take my breath away.”

“But I’m still not particularly pretty. At least not as pretty as Neroli Lassiter, am I?” I poke and I can feel his frame stiffening besides me.

“No. Oh no, no, you can’t believe what I said that day, Katniss.”

“But you were right. I’m not very big.”

“And we both looked like shit that day because we’d been through too much shit. That doesn’t mean I meant it, Katniss. You have to know I was… I was trying to hurt you that day. Hurt you the way I thought you’d hurt me. Because I thought you’d used me, chosen Gale and the rebels, and left me to die or worse in that arena.”

“I know,” I say and finally manage to turn over into his embrace, burying my face in his chest as he caresses my back and whispers a hundred apologies for his careless words. I inhale his scent and let his hands soothe me.

So when he slips his fingers beneath my chin, I let him lift my face to his. I close my eyes and savor the brush of his lips against mine.

“You once told me that I had a weakness for beautiful things,” he whispers. “Real or not real?”

“Real,” I answer without pause. I can smell the horses and feel the warmth of Cinna’s glowing ember costume. I can see Peeta in front of me, radiant and beautiful, and smiling in amusement at my assessment of him. “But you don’t have a weakness for beauty. Only an eye for it,” I remind him.

“So yes, Neroli Lassiter is a beautiful woman--”

“And her sisters?” I prod and I can feel Peeta smiling against my lips as he kisses me once.

“And her sisters are, too. But you’re the only beautiful person I have a weakness for. No one else has left a lasting impression the way you have.”

I can’t help but smile stupidly at the repetition of his words from the cave. The reminder that somewhere amongst the acting for the cameras, we always had at least a sliver, a taste, a fraction of or at least the roots of something real.

“I’m still a goner for you, Katniss Everdeen, real or not real?” he whispers, and I already know the answer. I know what he wants me to say, because it’s true.

“Real.”

[bffsoobin]

Just One Day

↳ being the extraordinary Choi Yeonjun’s ordinary ex girlfriend had begun to feel like nothing more than a fun fact the longer you two had been apart. He had gone to Korea to chase his dream, and you had all but forgotten about the way he made you feel. When Yeonjun calls and explains he’ll be back for a day, do you go for it?

➤ fluff, angst, smut, idol!yeonjun x ex girlfriend!reader

Word count: 5,313

Requested?: yes

Warnings: This includes (badly written) mature content! Please do not read between the illustrated borders if you’re under 18 or uncomfortable! Smut warnings include: unprotected sex (don’t do it!), some dirty talk, slight male masturbation. General warnings include:swearing, awkwardness, slight pining, self doubt, mentions of crying/heartbreak, Yeonjun is a sly little shit, Feelings, me not editing or proof reading, me not keeping a very good time line for the story (how long ago did they date? How long were they together? What era are txt in when this story takes place? I didn’t bother to specify so feel free to let your mind run wild)

•:•.•:•.•:•:•:•:•:•:•:•☾☼☽•:•.•:•.•:•:•:•:•:•:•:••:•.•

It felt weird seeing the Snapchat memory pop up. A younger you smiled back through the screen, hair messy from the wind. Even weirder is the sight of a younger Choi Yeonjun, cheek pressed right against yours and a wide smile taking over his face. You hadn’t forgotten him, there was no way you could, but you had certainly forgotten this day. This date. The two of you had spent the day at an amusement park, skin turning red under the sun as you rode every attraction the park had to offer. As you clicked through the memory, you found a video you took of him dancing next to the picnic table the two of you ate overpriced fries and pizza on. The sound of your own laugh made you smile. You had really been so happy. So many happy memories with Yeonjun cropped up in your mind. All of the movie nights, walks along the lake, lunches and mini golf dates flooded you.

With the happy memories also came the hurt. The countdown to the day he had to leave for Korea, knowing nothing would ever be the same again. You had blocked out so many bad things, but one you could never forget was the night before he left. Since he was leaving so early in the morning, you had come to sleep over so you could be sure not to miss saying goodbye. As the night fell, you clutched onto his shirt and begged him not to forget you. It was pathetic how much you sniffled and sobbed into the thin fabric and pleaded with any entity listening to keep Yeonjun in your life. He had cried too, although you never noticed. The sound of your sobbing consumed his senses as the two of you laid down in his bed and he knew he could do nothing but hold you until you fell asleep. When the heaving and shaking stopped, he looked down on your swollen, tear streaked face and began shaking with his own silent sobs. He loved you. You loved him. But that love wasn’t enough to keep the two of you together in the way you wished. Yeonjun didn’t sleep that night. Instead, he watched you sleep and pretended everything was okay. Pretended he wasn’t leaving you behind minutes after sunrise. 

That night is one of your very worst memories. You threw your phone to the side, rubbing your hands over your face to reduce some of the weight laying on your shoulders. A hot shower was definitely in order to relieve some tension in your muscles.

Your worries washed down the drain with the scalding water. With a clearer mind you were able to push the sad memories of years past back to the dark corner of your mind where you left them originally. The rest of your day was normal, save for the fact that you felt as if the selfie of you and Yeonjun you had seen earlier was permanently tattooed behind your eyelids. At every spare moment you had you were thinking of him. The Yeonjun you had fallen in love with way before he had millions of other people following his every move. You had neglected to keep up with his actions many months ago when you decided that there was no point in mulling over a guy who would never come back to you.

And given the general lack of interest of kpop harbored by your family and friends; it wasn’t hard for you to reduce Yeonjun to nothing more than a boyfriend who had to move far away. Most of the people in your life now didn’t even know about the years old relationship, anyway. You had decided it was much better that way.

Your day was boring, to be totally honest. You had dedicated the day to cleaning, but your small apartment needed less attention than you originally thought. By 6:30pm, you had already made and eaten dinner and started yourself on a marathon of Hunger Games movies. Right in the middle of Katniss’ adventures in the 74th games; your phone began to vibrate against your thigh with a phone call. The number came up as unknown, and you didn’t recognize the area code as a local one so you let the call drop. Katniss was mourning the death of Rue when your phone vibrated again. This time you saw a voicemail from the mystery number. You were confused. A little bit annoyed at the intrusion, but mostly really confused. Usually scam callers didn’t leave messages, and everyone else that was important to your life was in your phone as a contact.

What the hell, you thought. Just listen to the voicemail and see who it's from, you can always delete the message and block the number later. Disregarding Katniss’ heavy breathing, you clicked on the notification and pressed your phone to your ear. There were a few seconds of silence and some shuffling that made you think it was an accidental butt dial to a very wrong number until a clear voice broke through.

“Hey, Y/N. I know this is super weird but-“ you dropped your phone out of your hand as if it had bitten you. You knew that voice. Yeonjun. What the fuck? With your phone left forgotten on the couch you nervously walked around your apartment. What did he want? How did he get your number? Why was he calling you?

After some self convincing and a cold glass of water, you decided you would get all your answers if you’d just finish listening to the damn voicemail. This time, you listened closer and in the silence of the beginning you could hear some faint Korean that made your blood run cold. This was for real. Yeonjun’s voice crackled through the phone again.

“I’m, uh, in the US right now. LA, actually. We just landed like an hour ago and I though of you- is that weird?” He cleared his throat, “I have a day off tomorrow and I was wondering if you’d want to meet up? If you don’t, it’s okay.” A heavy sigh and some more shouting of Korean in the back. “But if you do, we can meet at 10am at that breakfast place you like? I looked it up, the one between the library and the corner market we used to go to? Okay. That’s it. Um, bye.” Even after the end of the message you kept your phone pressed to your ear, in total disbelief of what you’d just heard.

Numbly, you unpaused the movie although none of the horrors of the Games stirred you like normal. The only thing you could focus on was whether or not you should go meet Yeonjun in the morning. What did you have to lose? Other than a little pride if he stood you up or something of the sort, you couldn’t think of much. You could easily catch an Uber there in the morning. But would it be weird? You knew the other members would be with him, but how much did they know? Your nerves made you queasy. The option of not going at all seemed more and more appealing with every passing moment.

You played the movie again, watching but not processing any of the presented images. You wanted to talk this out with someone, but no one really knew about your time with Yeonjun and the situation was way too far fetched to be boiled down to hypotheticals for a friend. Twenty minutes must have passed with you mulling every little detail over in your head. The movie had ended without your knowledge but it didn’t matter anyway. You were already in your bedroom, computer open to YouTube. Skimming your fingers over the keys, you gave the universe time to stop you. To make someone knock on your door, or your mom to call you, or for the power to go out; but nothing of the sort happened. You typed in “tomorrow x together” and shut your eyes as if it would change anything.

Pages of videos- both official and fan made beckoned you down a dangerous rabbit hole. One where you began to miss Yeonjun all over again. He had grown a lot since the last time you had seen him. He was taller, broader. HIs jaw was much more defined and he had taken to wearing jewelry all the time. Side effects of becoming an idol, you supposed. None of those details hurt more than the fact that his personality seemed unchanged. Amplified, yes; but he was still the same goofy, clingy and heartfelt boy you had fallen in love with years ago. You watched the way he interacted with the other members and you felt your heart swell with joy. Some small part of you was worried that pressure and fame would change him but you were amazed to see that was not the case.

Autoplay took it upon itself to load up the next video for you. You felt oddly warm at the idea of seeing even more content; this time through the lense of an adoring fan. A title flashed across the screen in a handwritten font: “Best of Choi Yeonjun”. Edited video clips of him singing, dancing and playing around with the other group members flashed before your eyes. You couldn’t help but lull yourself into a state of comfort upon seeing and hearing him so much. In the back of your mind, you knew you had already silently decided on meeting him tomorrow. You closed your laptop with a renewed excitement before you began to get ready for bed.

When you woke up there was still an hour before your alarm was even set to go off. Despite the early hour you were wide awake as if your nerves had been connected to a live wire pumping electricity through you. There was no grogginess in your eyes, and if it wasn’t for the jumble of nerves in your gut you could have believed you were going to have a perfect day. Your mind stalled at the reality of facing Yeonjun in just mere hours. You think you dreamed about him last night; in some weird, hazy fashion where you can’t remember much other than his presence. Vague details swarmed through your mind throughout the entire duration of your morning routine. Even though you had just showered the night before, you took another one to pass the extra time and take the opportunity to shave as well as you could in the dim light of your bathroom. You were oddly aware of just how quickly your heart was beating through the whole process. The drumming sound in your ears became second nature by the time you stood in front of your closet.

Suddenly, the extra hour your body had subconsciously given you became a blessing as you decided that you had absolutely nothing to wear. The outfit you had planned during your shower looked much worse in real life than you ever would have thought. It was almost as if the open drawers were mocking you, laughing about the fact that you were so nervous about meeting Yeonjun again that you couldn’t even pick out an outfit. You shuffled through all of your hangers multiple times, slipped different dresses and pairs of jeans on until you settled on something that you decided would be good enough- especially with the time of 9:10 am glaring back at you. With the consideration of morning traffic, you needed to be out of your apartment as soon as you possibly could. It was sort of embarrassing how sweaty your palms were as you locked up your apartment door and requested an Uber. Luckily your driver came so fast that you didn’t really have time to dwell on just what you were about to do. Even the ride there gave you no time to overthink, as your friendly driver made polite conversation that you felt bad for slacking on.

You stepped out onto the sidewalk after stalling for as long as you possibly could. The breakfast spot was surprisingly unpopulated compared to the rest of the stores, but just as quaint and adorable as you always remembered. Yeonjun used to live over this way so the two of you frequented the family owned restaurant so much that all of the servers knew your order. Your heart felt as if it was permanently stuck in your throat with the knowledge that Yeonjun was just steps away from you. A few bystanders eyed you suspiciously as you tried to work up the courage to enter the building. Fuck it, you thought. There was no way to avoid this any longer.

The hostess working the front stand seemed to notice your nervous disposition. “Can I help you? Just one?” Suddenly the back of your neck felt warm under her questioning.

“Uhm actually, I’m supposed to be meeting someone here.” The hostess nodded politely.

“Oh, can I ask your name? A man here said he was waiting for a girl to come meet him,” she shuffled a menu around on her podium.

“I’m Y/N,’ you supplied meekly. The hostess’ face lit up as she waved to you to follow her further into the restaurant. The layout was familiar even though the decor had evolved over the last few years. At a corner booth sat Yeonjun with his fluffy hair, intently examining the menu as you approached. The hostess announced your arrival and left in the blink of an eye.

“Yeonjun,” you whispered, totally caught off guard by the sight of him actually in front of you. He rushed out of the booth seat and immediately squished you into a tight hug.

“Oh my god,” he laughed, pulling back to examine you once again before you both sat down on the vinyl seats. “I don’t know what to say, I-” he rubbed his hands over his face, “I wasn’t sure you were going to come.” You just stared at him for a second, waiting for the cogs in your brain to start up again.

“I wasn’t sure I was going to come either. But I’m glad I did. I just saw old pictures of us from when we were dating.” It felt so foreign to hear that phrase coming out of your mouth that you almost flinched. Yeonjun’s face softened and he opened his mouth to speak just as your waiter sidled up to the table. He took your orders, and you couldn’t help but realize that you had both ordered your regulars from years ago. Yeonjun picked at his nailbeds for a second. There was so much to talk about that your mind could not settle on a single thing.

“I just wanted to say,” Yeonjun’s voice startled you, “that I’ve missed you a lot. I feel awful about the way we left it, and as soon as I heard we were coming back to the US I had to try and make time to meet you. Unfortunately I only have this one day off so I was hoping you would want to see me too,” he couldn’t contain the smile that grew on his face; the one that hadn’t changed since the last time you ever saw him.

“Of course I wanted to see you, Junnie,” the nickname was automatic and made him crinkle his eyes up happily, “I’ve missed you too.”

It was almost unbelievable how easy it was to fall back into conversation with him. The food was just as good as you always remembered, but it paled totally in comparison to the colorful stories the two of you traded. His were-of course- much more riveting and star studded than yours could ever hope to be. He told you tales of everything from his friends to his late nights practicing, to all of the places he had traveled since going into the company. All you had to offer were some stories of your adventures with family and friends but Yeonjun still listened with rapt attention. The flow of conversation was just as easy as you always remembered it to be. Even through mouthfuls of your breakfast you were having a better time with Yeonjun than you had with anyone else in months.

The waiter came to clear your plates during a natural lull in your conversation and suddenly the magical spell casted on the two of you seemed to lift. Yeonjun’s face was flushed red and you became extremely interested in your cuticles.

“I’ll pay for our food,” he reached for the check that had been placed face down on the table as you scoffed.

“No, I can pay for myself, it’s fine,” you held your hand out expectantly but he never handed over the receipt. Yeonjun’s eyes narrowed.

“No, absolutely not. I’m the one who asked you to meet me here out of the blue after not seeing you for years. And it’s just one day that I’m here. The very least I can do is pay for your meal, Y/N. Don’t you remember what it’s like to have a guy treating you?” He waved down the waiter and handed over the check along with a credit card.

“Well to be fair, I haven’t really had a guy ‘treat me’ in a while,” you grumbled at him, “but that’s an unfair way to guilt me into letting you buy my food.” You were pouting now, you knew. Yeonjun cooed at your change in behavior.

“Too bad. I want to be your complimentary boyfriend for the day. So I’m paying. And you get to pick the next place we go.” There was no way you could argue with him although the thought of him being your “boyfriend” again made your brain set off alarms.

“Okay, Junnie. Just remember you dug your own grave.”

Following breakfast, you drug him into your favorite boutique where the two of you had your own coming of age movie style try on in the dressing rooms. You hated to admit just how well Yeonjun had pulled off every single outfit he put on. Even the bright green button up and cheetah print bucket hat you had picked as a joke looked amazing on him. It was hard to miss the way he had bulked up, arms bulging against the fabric of the shirt as he twisted around in front of the mirror to admire himself. Mentally you slapped yourself. No drooling allowed, Y/N. This was no longer the Yeonjun who was your first love. This Yeonjun was famous and in the eyes of the public, living halfway across the world. There was no way he still thought about you the same way you thought of him.

He had noticed your lapse in behavior and chalked it up to him actually enjoying your prank outfits.

“Awe, it’s okay Y/N. We can go to Goodwill and you can find me something really awful to try on. I promise I’ll look hideous,” he placed a comforting hand on your shoulder and guided you towards the cashier with a grin so he could buy the last two items you ever thought he would enjoy. You pushed through your slowly souring mood to dutifully follow Yeonjun to another small shop nearby. Your thoughts were beginning to wander farther and farther until you completely tuned his voice out of your head. A hand ruffling up your hair ended your daydreaming. You grabbed Yeonjun’s hand and yanked it away.

“Leave me alone,” your tone was flatter than you wanted him to hear. His face instantly crumpled in confusion before turning serious. You could tell he wanted to say something to you but the atmosphere of the store was just not right. Pop music was piped through the speakers and you could hear the faint hum of the workers talking to one another. Without another word, Yeonjun guided you out of the store and back out to the front of the store.

“I think we should talk in private. Would you feel comfortable if we went back to your apartment?” Your heart swelled at his consideration of your comfort.

Just one slightly awkward Uber ride later, you were letting Yeonjun into your apartment. Suddenly you were worried about the fact that your bed wasn’t made and that you hadn’t dusted in way too long. Of course he didn’t notice, but as he sat down on your couch you couldn’t help but remember the pizza sauce stain on one of the cushions that you had hidden with a well placed throw pillow.

“C’mon, sit down. This is your home and you’re acting more awkward than I am,” he patted the cushion beside him but you chose to leave an intentional space between you, intimidated by the way he spread his legs out in front of him. “What happened?” His voice was soft and gentle, just the way you remember it from all your late nights and early mornings together.

You sighed. “It’s just weird. You being here, I mean. Before, I just saw you as a boy like the same way I was just a girl. Now I’m still just a girl but you’re,” you struggled for the words, “now you’re an it boy. But you still had my number in your phone. You still chose to use your day off to walk around with me! I guess I just don’t know why.” He was silent, watching you with slightly pouted lips and wide eyes.

“Oh,” your eyes crinkled in shock. Oh? That’s all he had to say? Before you had time to fume, he continued; “I thought it was pretty obvious. I still like you. A ton. Leaving you was one of the hardest things I’ve ever had to do. You’ve never been just a girl to me, Y/N. I chose to come see you on my day off because I couldn’t bare the thought of being in your city with free time and not at least trying to make you understand.” You could feel yourself shrinking under his intense gaze.

“Understand what?” you whispered. He leaned closer, eliminating the gap you had created between the two of you. Just inches from your face, you could clearly see the way his sparkling eyes shifted between your own eyes and your lips several times. You knew he was giving you an out. Time to back away and tell him no. But you didn’t want an out. His lips were chapped but just as full as you had always remembered them to be. The first kiss was short and sweet, just a little testing peck as the initial spark lit a larger, raging fire inside of you.

He wasted no time going in for a second kiss, this one much longer and slower and very reminiscent of what you used to share with him. It felt as if he was pulling all of the air from your lungs and replacing it with his own. You felt your dormant feelings leak from the inside out in such a rush that you had to push him away from you. Chest heaving, you laid your head against the solid muscle of his chest. Your eyes burned with unshed tears and all of the thoughts you desperately wanted to spill. Yeonjun stroked your hair and said nothing as you quietly collected yourself.

“It’s been so long. How do you still make me want you so bad?” Yeonjun laughed in a tone that bordered on remorseful.

“Guess I’m magic,” his lips descended on yours again, this time much needier as his hands began to roam all over your body. He kept a strong grip on your hips before sliding a hand up the front of your shirt. You gasped at the feeling.

“Are you okay? I can stop if-�� you shook your head rapidly and wrapped your hand around his wrist to guide him farther up your shirt, resting over your bra.

“I’m fine, please touch me.” He pushed you down against your couch and pressed his weight between your spread legs. Every part of you was on edge, hyper aware of every single movement that Yeonjun made. Mouthing at your neck, using both hands to squeeze at your breasts, the subtle rock of his hips against your center. Jolts of pleasure wracked through you.

“You’re so beautiful. So much more perfect than I even remembered,” Yeonjun stripped your shirt over your head and traced his fingers down your sides. You shivered as he worked his hands behind your back to fumble with the clasp of your bra. You couldn’t help but snort at the scrunched up face of concentration that melted away his dominant facade.

“Need some help?” Trying to bite back your laughter only worked for so long before you turned into a giggly mess under him. He tipped his head back and let out a whine that made your stomach stir in arousal given your situation.

“Don’t laugh, it’s been a long time,” his voice was thicker, deeper than it had been for the rest of the day and only served as a reminder of the tell tale bulge pressed against your inner thigh. Unclasping your own bra was a breeze, but you allowed Yeonjun the pleasure of actually pulling it away from your body. Before you had time to cover yourself up, the boy above you was diving down to press kisses on each breast, paying special attention to your nipples until you were squirming uncontrollably under his weight. He got the message and made short work of your jeans and panties.

“Hold on,” he groaned at the sight of you while he struggled to get off of the couch and strip himself down as quick as possible. He had no shame, and the way you were laying gave you a perfect view of all of the exposed skin. His well built arms and torso flexed underneath his virtually flawless skin. He shucked off his jeans and boxers in one go before eagerly climbing back on top of you. You were at a loss for words at the sight of his body but luckily Yeonjun didn’t mind your silence. He used it to his advantage as he rubbed circles into the meat of your thighs teasingly.

“Jun,” your hips canted upwards and caught on the head of his cock, “please.” You stuck out your bottom lip in a pout and that seemed to break his resolve instantly.

“Okay, fuck. I can’t resist you anymore princess,” he grunted his understanding and weaved his fingers through yours on either side of your head. Slowly, he pushed into you. He bit back moans the whole time, occasionally rocking his hips against you to stimulate your clit as well as he could. Your back arched off of the couch; neck bent at an awkward angle although it was the least of your worries as Yeonjun’s cock was fully sheathed inside of you. Your body was in overdrive; impossibly warm and sensitive even at the smallest roll of his hips.

Instantly you were a needy mess and could only focus on the feeling of Yeonjun’s skin against yours. His name fell from your lips like a prayer as he pinned you down and began to thrust with the kind of intensity you weren’t expecting. Hard thrusts shifted your body underneath his and forced sounds you never heard yourself make from your throat. Yeonjun was just as loud, grunting and moaning at every snap of his hips.

With a slight shift of his weight, he was laying on top of you, totally encasing your body in his presence and burying his nose in the sensitive skin of your shoulder. The new angle forced him even deeper into you and a new wave of pleasure rolled through you. Your inner walls contracted around Yeonjun’s cock as a result and his hips stuttered at the feeling.

“Oh, do that again,” he commanded before biting into the soft skin behind your ear. You followed his orders easily and felt his cock twitch as a reward.

“Fuck, I’m close already, you’re so hot. You made me like this. Shit, princess. I missed you so much,” his thrusts became impossibly faster and deeper, bringing you just moments away from the feeling you were so desperately chasing.

“Jun,” your voice was high and needy, “I need more, I need more,” your words melted into incoherence but he still got the message and dislodged one of his hands from your shared grip to harshly rub at your clit. The touch was absolutely electric. Your eyes rolled back in your head and it only took a few more thrusts from Yeonjun before your vision turned white. You knew you were yelling and whining pathetically but you couldn’t get yourself to stop as he continued drilling into you to prolong your high and chase his own.

As soon as you began to calm down, Yeonjun pulled out. Although you felt painfully empty, your attention shifted immediately to the sight of him working a hand over his cock. He hadn’t given you the time to marvel at him earlier, so you took the opportunity to wonder at the perfect size and curve of his reddened cock, glistening with the sheen of your release. Yeonjun’s voice heightened the faster he moved his hand; swirling his thumb around the tip shakily before he finally released in hot spurts across your body. The sounds he made as he came all over your stomach and chest were nothing short of heavenly. Even through his ragged breaths he called out to you, chanting praise that made your stomach turn in more ways than one.

Despite the messy state of your skin, Yeonjun pulled you upwards and insisted on wrapping you up in a hug. You felt a little disgusted at all the fluids involved but said nothing. The two of you hadn’t really hugged since the day he left. He placed a kiss on your forehead and there was no denying just how tender the action was, especially following the spontaneous sex the two of you had just finished.

“I wasn’t lying, you know. I do like you. I’ve never stopped liking you. I didn’t just say that to have sex with you, I hope you know that. I would say I even love you but…” his voice was raspy from overuse. You stared into his eyes, trying to read the odd mix of emotions swirling in his irises.

“It’s okay, Jun. I know you can’t...with work and everything,” you traced patterns on his bare chest, “I like you too. Even though we’ve found ourselves in a super weird spot here. And I’m happy we, ya know.” Your face was burning at the absurdity of being shy about it when a mere three minutes ago you were begging for him. “And I love that we’re cuddling and everything, and it’s a great moment for us, but I’m cold and sticky,” your nose scrunched involuntarily at the confession. Yeonjun couldn’t hold back the loud laugh that brought you back to every other moment you’d heard it before.

“Guess those things are my fault, huh?” Yeonjun teased, leaning down to place a light kiss onto your nose. You feigned upset but he didn’t buy it. Instead, he wiggled his way off of the couch. You tried your best not to stare at his towering form as you took the hand he held out to you.

“Shower?” He questioned, arching a perfectly groomed eyebrow at you as you stood to your full height. For a second you hesitated, knowing the fondness growing in your heart would only hurt you even more in just a few hours. But you had him for just one day. Why not make the most of it?

[abigailnussbaum]

The Handmaid’s Tale 4x01-4x03

After three seasons and change of The Handmaid’s Tale, I think the facts of the matter are plain: what started out as a wrenching examination of how life under a totalitarian regime wears away at the soul and sense of self, and how the only possibilities for rebellion or escape within that system are minuscule and often self-defeating, has become a grown-up Hunger Games with prestige TV writing and acting. Except that for some reason, the writers are bizarrely reluctant to pull the trigger on that, so they keep falling back on the forms of that first show, even though they’ve been hollowed out of any meaning. Which is how you get this stretch of episodes, in which June starts out on the run with the other renegade handmaids, ends up on the run with (only one surviving member of) the other renegade handmaids, and in the middle both commits an audacious poison attack against Gilead and gets captured and tortured into giving up her friends.

And before we talk about the substance of all that, it must be acknowledged that most of it is just incredibly stupid. It’s simply absurd that Joseph Lawrence hasn’t been executed (at the very least, you’d expect him to have gone under the knife; Janine’s former Commander lost a hand for raping her, after all). It’s simply absurd that Gilead wouldn’t kill June immediately, or at least after she’d lied to them for the first time. It’s simply absurd that the handmaids wouldn’t try to move out of the new safe house, knowing that June could give them away (remember when Alma was the Mayday contact and June was the naive one? Now she’s so passive that she has to be told everything). It is beyond absurd that Gilead’s reaction to a group of rebellious handmaids who have stolen eighty-six children is to send them - together! - to a compound in the middle of nowhere. And I don’t even know what to say about the idea that these same women would be transported with minimal security and restraint, or that a passing cargo train would be enough to ensure June and Janine’s escape. At almost every turn, the plot developments in these episodes feel like they exist to produce a cool montage or yet another opportunity for Elisabeth Moss to suffer beautifully, not as a meaningful exploration of totalitarianism and resistance.

Having said that, there is good material in these episodes, and especially their suggestion that in becoming a leader of the renegade handmaids, June has placed herself in direct contrast to - and yet also modeled herself on - Aunt Lydia. The scene in which she arranges a particicution of the Guardian who raped Esther is as chilling as it is righteous, not because the murder is wrong, but because she so clearly recognizes that the way to get the other handmaids to do what she wants is to use the rhetorical and emotional handholds that Lydia beat into them. It’s notable how she’s styled, and how she moves, in the season’s first episode - all in ways that seem designed to echo Ann Dowd’s performance.

Esther herself is a really brilliant addition to the series (and it’s baffling to me that she was written off so quickly - perhaps she’ll return?). She forces June to play multiple roles - the subservient Handmaid/Martha to Esther’s Wife; the stern but loving maternal figure to an abused child desperate for attention and care; most interestingly, the role of an Aunt, who earns Esther’s loyalty by directing her violence and rage at the right target. It’s also, of course, yet another reminder of what Gilead is actually about, and of the fact that just as women like June are considered a stopgap measure, so are women like Serena. The real Wives of Gilead are children like Esther, too young and ignorant to say no or have a mind of their own. And if the result is rape, trauma, and psychological harm, then so be it.

At the same time, these episodes are also about June the increasingly mythical figure, both inside Gilead - the Mayday contact at Jezebel’s who is awed to meet her and inspired by her to make a possibly suicidal stand - and outside of it. And they’re about the weight that it puts on Luke and Moira’s shoulders to love, from afar, a woman who is a hero of the revolution. It’s a nice counterpoint to the show’s mythologizing of June that they are allowed to express how frustrating it is to have to deal with the fallout of her heroism. (Though some of their complaints are hard to sympathize with; yes, Moira, June probably did not think about the fact that some of the children she rescued from Gilead would remember no other home and want to go back; does that mean she should have left them to become illiterate child-brides and brainwashed rapists?) If you’re going to do The Hunger Games, at least acknowledge that real-life Katnisses can be as exhausting as they are inspirational.

And look, for all my grousing, it’s not as if there isn’t a good story to be told about June, the renegade handmaid who turns herself into Gilead’s scourge. The show’s styling already works hard to recall WWII, and the references to slavery also abound. Both of those periods have no shortage of stories about awe-inspiring heroism from within the belly of the beast, and if The Handmaid’s Tale struggles with plotting stories like this (and if placing a middle class white woman at their center is a choice with some obvious drawbacks) that doesn’t mean they can’t be entertaining and inspirational to watch.

Which makes it all the more frustrating that the third episode winds us all the way back to where we’ve been so many times in the last three seasons, with June in the clutches of the Gileadean security state. A situation that is treated, yet again, as an opportunity for the show’s costuming and set-dressing departments to imagine yet another level of Gilead’s color-coded oppression. I thought Atwood’s The Testaments was a rather pointless return to the world of the original novel, but one thing it grasps, which the show never has, is that Gilead was never meant to look elegant or cool. Its outfits and neologisms were meant to come off as cheap and chintzy. The show, in contrast, simply loves inventing new and increasingly elaborate settings, and putting June in new outfits, whether or not this takes the story anywhere interesting.

There’s a bit of fun to be had in the fact that June is so clearly over Aunt Lydia’s sickly-sweet mind games, but in the end it feels pointless - just a way of getting Moss to play against some of the show’s heavy hitters again, repeating the same beats we’ve seen so many times before. And sure, Lawrence’s line - “Gilead doesn’t care about children. Gilead cares about power.” - is a good one. But it’s also something we know. I suspect it’s something June knows - the only reason she denies it is that she doesn’t want to accept that she’s going to have to choose between her compatriots and her daughter.

And in the end, we’re right back where we started, with June on the run, except now only with Janine (conveniently, the other handmaids are killed before they ask any uncomfortable questions about how they were captured; and Janine just happens to be the character least likely to question or criticize June). So it remains to be seen whether this season will actually take the leap and become the adventure show it has so clearly wanted to become, while clearly being embarrassed by that desire. Or whether we’re in for another season of pointless runarounds.

(I will say nothing about Serena’s pregnancy except that I’m a bit surprised she and Fred were still having sex. Otherwise it continues to amaze me that the show thinks we should still have any interest in her - but at least someone actually comes out and tells her that Nichole isn’t her daughter. I will also say nothing about the June and Nick of it all. My stance continues to be that June should take what pleasure she can get in her uncertain life, but if the show wants me to be invested in their romance, sorry, that’s where I get off.)

[fandomoverflow]

My Thoughts On Dark Age (SPOILERS)

My pre-ordered copy of Dark Age arrived in the mail on Friday afternoon, four days before the official release day. The only thing stopping me from reading it right then and there was the fact that I was about to leave for a four-hour shift bagging groceries. But as soon as I got home I got pumped up on sugar, took a shower, got in my pajamas, and sat down to read. One all-nighter, a two-hour power nap, another shift at work, and then finally a good night sleep later, I am empty inside from all the screaming and crying I did over the course of this monstrosity of a book.

Pierce Brown has done it. He actually did it. We were all expecting that the ending of Dark Age would put the heart-rending ending of Golden Son to shame. And not only did he manage to top that level of shock, betrayal, and beloved character death, he did it all before the book was even half-way over. Pierce said that Dark Age is the most complex, violent, and intimate book he’s ever written, and all I have to say to that is “understatement of the bloodydamn century.”

There are so many things to talk about but for the sake of avoiding spoilers for people who don’t have early pre-ordered copies, I’ll put my spoiler thoughts under the cut. The one non-spoiler thing I’ll say is this: After Iron Gold was only divided into three sections, Dark Age takes us back to the saga standard four.

Part I was pretty much one long battle, and I have to say that this is one of the most visceral, in the trenches action sequence in the entire saga to date. Part I was told exclusively from the POVs of Darrow and Lysander as they prepare for war. And the chaos and reality of war is a very big shock to Lysander’s system. For everyone hoping he’d his ass handed to him, it is immensely cathartic to have Lysander’s battle group get demolished by Darrow’s Howlers like they’re an afterthought. And to add insult to injury, Lysander ends up pinned under a discarded starShell while a second one lands with its burning thrusters right next to his face.

The battle aside, the tension between the Core and the Rim Golds when Lysander arrived was a delight. And the contrast between Atalantia and Ajax’s initial reactions to learning that Lysander is alive and how they behave later really adds both a lot of dimension to the politics of Gold as well as to Lysander’s own backstory, while at the same time fleshing out the new characters and really selling the history they have with Lysander.

The moment that impacted me the most was the realization that a prediction I’d made after the excerpt had come true. In the prologue, Darrow told his team that if they couldn’t rescue Orion their orders were to kill her instead to protect the Republic. In the chapter after that, he mentions that he suspected that Colloawy helped Orion cheat her psych evaluation. And while she and Darrow had similarly low opinions of the bureaucracy of the senate, Orion was noticeably more cynical. And when Darrow started preparing the Storm Gods (the weather machines used to terraform Mercury for those who are reading this not caring about spoilers) he asked Rhonna about his insurance policy.

So, even before Orion went beyond Darrow’s orders and took the Storm Gods to full strength, I knew that Darrow was going to have to order the death of someone close to him in order to protect others. It just never occurred to me that it would still be Orion. I really wish we had gotten to hear more about her backstory or get a mention of her love life in Iron Gold, because I remember Pierce saying somewhere that Orion would be married in the sequel trilogy. Her interactions with Darrow in the beginning of Dark Age were really sweet, but knowing in hindsight that her days were numbered, I wish we’d gotten more time with her in the past.

Mustang’s prologue is not only the second time since Red Rising that we’ve had an intro that immediately jumps back in time to show us how we got to that point, but it also is the first time where Pierce has written the prologue in such a way that it omits the details that the audience will be aware of when we get to this scene again. (And the two months detail is an intentional lie because adding up the time and Virginia’s comments puts this at just over a week past Darrow’s section of the prologue). The first time around, this scene looks like the middle of a catastrophe, that Darrow and his armies have been pinned down and Mustang is desperately sending whatever aid she can to help. But after reading through the heart pounding action of the Ash Rain in Part I, we realize that this speech is declaring victory.

Mustang’s POV is a godsend not only for how beautifully Pierce writes her, but also that we get to see how she interacts with all of the other characters when Darrow’s not there. She and Daxo are adorable in the way they joke and tease each other like siblings. (And I had to laugh at the running joke about the design his office being a metaphor for his virility) Her political maneuvering against Dancer were full of cathartic backhanded burns. Seeing her pull a Katniss to sway the Silver senators was glorious, and the way she knows Sevro’s in the room before he even announces his presence and immediately tells him to stop wanking in the shadows and come talk to her.

It was a delight to watch her be ten steps ahead of everyone else – how she allowed Victra and Sefi’s scheming to happen because their objectives were pieces of her own master plan to unite the Republic and get everyone back on track towards defeating Atalantia. Seeing her turn the tables and play mind games with the Duke of Hands was a sight to behold.

But one of my favorite parts of her early chapters was where Dancer finally took his head out of his ass, came down off his high horse, and stopped treating her and Darrow like shit. In the process, we learned a great deal about Dancer’s backstory and how he joined the Sons of Ares that just adds so many layers to his character.

I did think it was a bit tragic that we only learned that Dancer was Gay and Daxo was Bi right before they got killed off, but that doesn’t take away from the joy of knowing that two characters I’ve loved throughout the series are canonically queer. I’m glad that if Dancer had to die, he at got to redeem himself in the eyes of the fans before he bit the dust.

And to the aforementioned killing off, we get to Golden Son levels of shock, betrayal, and heartbreak less than halfway through the book. Mustang was always ten steps ahead of everyone else and just when it finally seemed like she would get everything she wanted, when she and Dancer and Sevro put their heads together and figured out that Senator Publius cu Caraval was the Syndicate’s spy, it all fell apart. Publis poisoned Dancer and pointed the already riled up Vox Populi mobs at Mustang accusing her of murdering the voice of the Vox, and the coup began. Daxo was killed when the Syndicate Queen showed up personally to lead the mob. And when we finally see her, she’s wearing fleshmasks and contacts to look like a Red, but Mustang immediately recognizes the face of the long-thought-dead Lilath au Faran.

But while Lilath may have been working with Atalantia, she isn’t the top of the Syndicate food chain. Mustang is smarter than just about every character in the Red Rising setting, but from what we’ve seen Atalantia isn’t that smart. There is only one person smart enough to so thoroughly derail Mustang’s plans. One person smart enough to know how she thinks and what she’s doing. And that is the only person in the setting who can rival her intelligence: her brother.

There were multiple moments in the first half of Dark Age that hit me in the stomach and left my reeling emotionally. But a ten-year-old clone of the Jackal walking into the Vox Populi’s show trial for Mustang alongside Lilath and the surviving Boneriders was the first moment in Dark Age that made me put the book down and start loudly screaming curses at the air.

Though his introduction was chilling, his scenes afterwards actually had me much more contemplative. When Mustang is forced to have dinner with the Boneriders, Adrius II starts making puzzles like Adrius I used to do with Mustang when they were kids, and he gives them to Lilath to solve. Lilath can’t solve them but of course Mustang can, and without Nero’s constant presence in their lives it actually felt like both Mustang and Adrius were having actual, genuine fun during this exchange.

And Mustang following this up by revealing that she still has all the old ones that original Adrius made as kids was both really sweet and also the first crack between the Jackal and his boneriders. Because Lilath and the Boneriders put the Jackal on such a pedestal that they only ever told Adrius II about the parts of his original self they admired and ignored little details they didn’t consider important, Adrius II is going through some Clone Angst. He feels secure in who he is, but he doesn’t know if he wants to be what the original Adrius was. And Mustang reveals that she kept all the puzzles demonstrated that Lilath and the Boneriders would never love any version of Adrius the way he wanted to be loved.

I trust that Pierce didn’t introduce Adrius II just for the sake of having The Jackal back. It would be too cliché, and extremely predictable to go that route. What would make a compelling story, and one that fits in with Pierce’s worldview and the themes of the Red Rising series, is if Adrius II spends the next book wrestling with whether he wants to follow in the footsteps of the original in a classic nature vs. nurture conflict would be so fascinating and I really can’t wait to see how that gets pulled off (it helps me cope with the fact that Brainwashed Evil Sevro is something that the Boneriders have threatened).

But I really love how Mustang could clearly see that potential in Adrius II, and the only reason she didn’t talk it out more and help him through that internal conflict is because it would take more time than she had, and she had bigger fish to fry. I really hope her means of escape didn’t sour Adrius II towards the path of redemption. And I really hope that Adrius doesn’t get the chance to follow through on his threat to wipe Sevro’s mind.  

As far as the other characters go, Ephriam had some of the best character development in the entirety of Dark Age. Watching him gradually become invested in the future of Sefi’s AllTribe was very beautiful and heartwarming. He’d spent all of the last decade stuck in the anger stage of grief over Trigg’s death but over the course of Dark Age and helping Sefi it really felt like he was starting to reach the acceptance stage and get closure. His interactions with Ozgard even felt a little shippy, even if I knew he wasn’t ready for another relationship. But watching Ephriam find a new purpose in life and a place in the post-Rising world was a sight to behold. And then the machination of Atlas au Raa had to bring it all crashing down.

The Ascomani King showing up and claiming to be Ragnar’s father was a cruel twist of Society planning – they know the Obsidians worship Ragnar, and they know that Sefi has the power to unite all the tribes. So, they let her create her AllTribe and then had her replaced as leader with their own puppet.

It was a cruel twist that out of all the POV characters, Ephriam would be the one to die. If he had gone with backup he would have been able to stop the coup, but I understand why he went alone. Going alone meant that he didn’t drag Volga into the mess he was trying to protect her from, and he didn’t want to force her into the role of Queen. It was really sweet when she called him her father, and I really like how she chose to go with the Obsidians at the end not out of duty, but to finish what her father helped start. I look forward to seeing how she deals with infiltrating the Obsidians and taking her rightful place on Aunt Sefi’s throne.

Okay, I pretty much think at this point it’s a given that by the time this series is over Lyria and her nephew and Volga will have been adopted into the August/Reaper-Telemanus-Barca clan. I mean, Volga is Ragnar’s daughter why wouldn’t they make her part of the family. But honestly, following Victra and Lyria and Volga as they fight to survive in the Martian wilderness with the Pandora destroyed and the Red Hand on their heels was one of my favorite parts of the book. Their bickering was funny, but things quickly took a turn for the heartwarming when Victra ended up going into labor and Lyria was the one who helped her through it.

The conversation between Victra and Lyria while Victra is giving birth about their different experiences and their different perspectives was one of the most emotional conversations in the book, and it really warmed my heart when a few chapters later Lyria referred to Victra and Volga as her friends.

But then the Red Hand just had to attack. If you are triggered or easily upset by scenes where harm is done to an infant, or where you see the aftermath of harm done to an infant, you are going to be upset for almost all of Lyria’s chapters for the remainder of Dark Age following the birth. The crimes of Harmony and her Red Hand goons are numerous. They have killed and mutilated countless Reds for the sole crime of being Gamma. But somehow it took the sight of the newborn Barca baby nailed to a tree for me to viscerally demand their demise. I was screaming and raw when I read that scene, desperately praying that it was a different baby and that little Ulysses was okay. But no. She may not have done the deed, but she condoned and encouraged that kind of thing by her men, and we can now add infanticide to the list of Harmony’s crimes.

Which is why I am so, so glad that not only did Lyria manage to single-handedly orchestrate the final destruction of the Red Hand, but that she and Victra were the ones who did Harmony in. Harmony being thrown into a nest of adult Pitvipers was one of the most cathartic moments in the series since the fight against Aja in Morning Star, and I could not be happier that she’s finally gone.

I haven’t really talked about Darrow and Lysander since the beginning because while their story is important to what’s happening overall everything is happening in such a condensed time frame, and with Darrow and Lsyander’s chapters being focused on Atalantia’s siege of Mercury, we only really drop in for the important parts:

It was frustrating to see Lysander’s commitment to the hierarchy hardened by his experiences on Mercury, and it was heartbreaking to see Lysander lead the charge that overwhelmed Darrow’s defenses and allowed Atalantia’s armies into the Free Legions’ last stronghold. Watching the lowColors of Mercury reject the Republic was devastating both to me and Darrow, and it was heartdreaking to watch what was left of the Republic forces slowly dwindling as Lysander’s offensive went on.

But it was all the more cathartic when Casssius showed up to evacuate the survivors before they could be completely wiped out. I knew that Cassius’ death was faked, but there are still a few questions about how he got away from the Rim. That being said, I’m thrilled that after a decade in exile, Cassius has officially joined the Republic to help his friends.

Dark Age is truly the darkest hour for our heroes in a way that tops even Golden Son. Mercury has been retaken by Atalantia. Earth has fallen to the Rim-Core alliance. Luna has gone the way of the Death Eater-run Ministry of Magic in Harrpy Potter – with the Jackal Clone and his Bone Riders pulling the strings of a Vox Populi puppet government. Only Mars remains free. Despite causing chaos on Venus off-page Apollonius has seemingly joined forces with Lysander against Darrow. Sefi is dead and her dream of a united Obsidian nation has been coopted by a Society puppet masquerading as her and Ragnar’s father. Sevro is still in the clutches of Adrius II, who has threatened to use the same technology that Octavia used to modify Lysander’s memories to completely erase Sevro’s mind.

I trust Pierce Brown to pull of a finale that resolves all of this and gives us a satisfying ending. There are still unknown variables that we can’t predict. We don’t see the Rim at all during the events of the novel and the negotiations between them and the Core happen off page. We only see Apollonius in two short scenes. And to top it off we know that Pierce Brown has a history of writing unreliable narrators who hide their plans from the audience. While we’ve seen it with Darrow and Mustang, he hasn’t done it with Lyria or Ephriam, and we haven’t seen any such deceptive narration from Lysander yet.

So, time will tell not only how Pierce resolves all of this. But in the meantime, #PrayForSevro. It’s going to be a long two years while we wait for the final book.

[littlemisssquiggles]

Pinehead Headcanons: Oscar’s Fairy Godmother

Top of the morning to you fellow Pineheads, it’s the squiggle meister here with another Pinehead headcanon. Last year May 8th, I shared this musing post based on a question asked by @darleenas-art regarding the group going to Atlas. In this post, I shared an idea about the heroes meeting a character inspired by the Fairy Godmother from Cinderella. This is what I said:

“…Imagine if…Team RWBY and Team JNOR attract the eye of a renowned Atlesian fashion designer/stylist like the character Cinna from the Hunger Games series.

This particular designer is well known around Atlas for the fabricated masterpieces he’s crafted with the ole school technique of fusing dust with fabrics. However lately the designer has been suffering from a harsh block of creativity…at least until he meets our heroes for the first time. We haven’t seen much of dust-infused fashion since Cinder Fall in V2.

Imagine…this Atlesian designer being assigned to supply the team with Atlesian wear and/or tailor original designs for events for our heroes are invited to attend in Atlas. Fellow Hunger Games fans, remember Katniss’ Girl on Fire and Mockingjay dresses from the first and second films?

I want Ruby to have something like that—a gorgeous red dress fashioned from red fire dust that even reacts to her semblance so that if she twirls or uses her speed, it creates this gorgeous vortex of burning red rose petals around her. And as an added feature, it even has a hood to match the silver-eyed girl’s taste. I want Ruby to have a dress like that sooo bad!

Even better, imagine…Team RWBY and Team JNOR receiving new threads for the Atlas Arc—special-made clothes that were designed to support and in some cases even amplify (somehow) each of their individual weapons and semblances while appearing ultra stylish so that the gang can kick ass in style.

 We have yet to meet an actual character in RWBY who is tasked with literally designing clothes for our main heroes, particularly combat-ready fashion. Oh! Let that be the name of their collection: COMBAT READY.

Y’know what I want now for the Atlas Arc? Can RWBY have its very own gender bent Edna Mode character inspired by Cinna from the Hunger Games but mostly based off of the Fairy God Mother from the Cinderella fairytale in terms of personality; voiced by Tim Gunn from Project Runaway?

What? If anyone’s going to voice a fashion designer/stylist animated character, let it be big boy himself. I don’t care how RoosterTeeth do it but I want it to happen. Somehow.

They got Michael B Jordon, a.k.a The Killmonger from Black Panther, for the future gen: Lock series. They can totally get Tim Gunn to voice a character in RWBY, right? Right.

 Make it work…”

This is what I said last year. I’ve been thinking about this theory lately a lot so I figured I’d revisit it again. Since Ruby Rose found her mentor in Maria Calavera, for the Atlas Arc, I really want to see this fashion designer character based off of the Fairy Godmother. And what would make this idea even better is if this designer takes a special shine to Oscar since he reminds them of their son that passed away years ago.

The reason I want Oscar to have his own Fairy Godmother (or father, either can work) is because I’m picturing a scene where there is some dance or charity ball that the heroes have to attend for a mission or something and the Gala is of course hosted by the Schnee Dust Company or sponsored by it so naturally Jacque Schnee and Whitley Schnee are attendants.

Remember that theory post I made about Weiss needing a favour from Whitley and Whitley only granting it to her on the terms of Ruby agreed to accompany him to the gala as his date? So as a favour to Weiss, Ruby begrudgingly agrees to attend the gala with Whitley while Oscar shows up as Weiss’ date to the gala.

As an alternate version of this concept, imagine if…there is some kind of annual Winter Ball hosted by the Atlas Academy and sponsored by the SDC that the heroes decide to attend as a sort of cool down after an open invitation from Team FNKY.

Oscar bucks up the courage to ask Ruby to be his date to the dance to his surprise, she agrees. In my head I picture Oscar asking Ruby right in front of the listening ears of their respective teams, especially Jaune, Nora and Ren.

After Ruby says yes, at first Oscar tries to play it cool as if he isn’t internally screaming and doing summersaults at the idea of a night of dancing with his crush. However the instant Ruby walks away and Oscar is back with his team, the JNPR squad just break out in delighted squeals and cheers as Jaune, Nora and Ren each show their support of Oscar finally getting his chance with Ruby.

Another reason why I want Oscar to join with JNR and revive Team JNPR. I can totally see Jaune, Nora and Ren becoming Oscar’s surrogate big brothers and sister being all super supportive of him especially when he starts expressing his crush on Ruby.

So Oscar is all set to go the dance with Ruby but doesn’t have anything to wear. So the JNPR squad roll out to help Oscar pick out his tux for the dance while doing a little group shopping themselves. At some point the JNPR squad run into Oscar’s Fairy Godmother---in my head I christened her Poppy Merlin (because she’s a magician with dust-infused fabrics and creates mystical designs that works wonders for her clients)---while shopping in one of her stores.

The minute Poppy hears that Oscar needs a tux for a date with Ruby, she immediately, in a rather overdramatic fashion orders that Oscar be permitted to not touch any of the other tuxedos in the store calling them ‘garbage’ and insisting that Oscar gets a Poppy Merlin original---basically she offers to tailor Oscar a one of a kind tux specially for the dance and it’s an offer that Oscar unfortunately could not refuse since Poppy would not take no for an answer.

Ya’ll know how much I like promoting that #EverybodyAdoptsOscar hastag so I would love it if Oscar gets his own Fairy Godmother who is a fashion designer. Overall I just want to see a fashion designer character introduced in RWBY especially one who infuses dust into their fabrics.

The only time we’ve seen this technique done is with Cinder Fall in V2 and then it’s never see again in another volume. I want to see  more dust infused fashion and of all the Kingdoms that could bring this to us, Atlas is the place to be because I’m still envisioning Atlas being like the Capitol from the Hunger Games.

I keep making a lot of references to the Hunger Games with RWBY because that’s how I feel the Atlas Arc will be like once the group arrive in Atlas. Atlas is going to probably look like the Capitol… or y’know Wakanda. One of those things. And since Atlas has made mainly strides with its technology, I’d like to think it’s also known for its fashion too.

Really want an Atlesian fashion designer who works wonders with dust-infused fabrics, based off the Fairy Godmother who also takes a liking to Oscar. Probably asking too much here but it’s something I’d love to see if possible.

~LittleMissSquiggles (2019)

[queenlawrenceskingdom]

The Hunger Games: The Tributes

I recently returned to Tumblr, and with that decision came a thirst to return to the roots of the fandom that got me here in the first place. So here I am doing a reread of the entire thg series, along with some analysis, quotes, and questions along the way! I’ve decided to make posts for each of the three sections of each book, so here goes the first one.

The Tributes

At the beginning of this book, I think it’s only right that we start with Katniss talking about Prim. The entire series always comes back to it, because Katniss time and time again is working to protect her. Whether it be from bad dreams before her first reaping or the horrors later on, Katniss’ central motivator is her little sister. At times she seems to be a little too overprotective at great cost to herself, obviously by volunteering but also by refusing to let her take out tesserae. We meet Gale, and I’ve always wondered how he learned to snare and when he started going into the woods. Were their fathers friends, or did take their children to the woods separately? Did they ever intend to work together, or did they without the kids knowing?

The word “rebellion” is first stated on page 5, which is no accident on Suzanne Collins’ part. In the first 80 pages alone it’s mentioned 6 times, which is more than the rest of the book. She talks about the punishments of rebellion, the rebellion 74 years prior, and her thoughts when Haymitch remarks about how her at Peeta holding hands on the chariot could be seen as rebellious. From the start of the series, Katniss has been instigating rebellion even when she doesn’t mean to. Poaching, refusing children, volunteering for her sister (instead of the “honor”), shooting at the Gamemakers, showing solidarity with Peeta. I’m sure President Snow approves of none of that.

Before Katniss ever goes into the Games, I already have a sense of some mental health issues with her. It would be an easy diagnosis for her, a sudden death of her father, the sequential “loss” of her mother, and the responsibility of head of the household being thrust on her small 11-year-old shoulders. She is very doubtful of people who want to help her and finds it hard to understand how people can be kind and not expect anything in return. With this, she has a soft spot for kindness so maybe that’s why she doesn’t care for it much. I’m not an expert on mental health, but it wasn’t easy for her to take this in such a short amount of time, and there’s obviously some residual trauma she has to deal with. She talks about nightmares of her father’s death, is constantly worrying about anything and everything, and describes herself in negative ways. Some quotes to support my thoughts:

"Gale says I never smile except in the woods.” 

“I learned to hold my tongue and to turn my features into an indifferent mask so that no one could ever read my thoughts”

“I’m not the forgiving type.”

“[Peeta] gives my hand hat I think is meant to be a reassuring squeeze. Maybe it’s just a nervous spasm.”

“A kind Peeta Mellark is far more dangerous to me than an unkind one. Kind people have a way of working their way inside me and rooting there”

“He gives me a smile that seems so genuinely sweet with just the right touch of shyness that unexpected warmth rushes through me. A warning bell goes off in my head. Don’t be so stupid... He is luring you in to make you easy prey. The more likable he is, the more deadly he is.”

She has closed herself off so much and never seemed to have found healthy coping mechanisms. Sure she feels better out in the woods where she used to spend time with her father, but inside the fence she hasn’t found a way to be happy in her day-to-day life. This will only exaggerate after the Games.

Katniss’ friendship with Madge has always been strange to me. As the mayor’s daughter you’d think Madge would have been a part of the popular group in school, but she “keeps to herself... [and] neither of us really has a group of friends”. They eat lunch and partner in gym class in relative silence, which just seems awkward even if they are shy people. Madge is originally wearing the mockingjay pin when Katniss and Gale go to sell strawberries which to me marked her as an important character for the rest of the series. Madge’s absence in the films was a bummer because she has such an interesting and complex connection to the story that was lost when they removed her. When she goes to visit Katniss in the Justice Building, we knows she gives Katniss the pin but we’re not entirely sure why. “There’s an urgency in her tone” when she gives it to Katniss, and doesn’t really take no for an answer when she pins it to her dress. It also may just be me wanting to find something, but I’ve always had an underlying thought that Madge has a crush on Katniss. The kiss on the cheek, the silent (nervous?) presence around Katniss, not being part of the “popular” crowd, maybe she was outcast by her peers for this reason. I would be 100% supportive of a bisexual Madge. This was a pretty short scene on paper, but there’s a lot of meaning with the pin that we’ll discuss as we get further into the books.

The reaping itself gave me a lot of questions about how the Games came to be. We learn about the Dark Days and the Capitol extinguishing a rebellion that started the Games, but what were the districts rebelling against in the Dark Days? What was going so wrong that they wanted to rebel, and how much worse did it get with the implementation of the Games and other district punishments? District 12 has a population of 8,000, but we know this is the smallest district by far. Katniss thinks about this on her Victory Tour, but how do they host reapings with larger districts that may have 8,000 kids or more? Is there a protocol if the chosen child wasn’t at the reaping due to sudden severe illness, death, or they had run off across district boundaries like Gale wanted to do? I’ve also always wondered what happens if someone volunteers but the original tribute wants to go in the Games (like in 1 or 2), who decides?

When Katniss takes the stage, this is how I see the rebellion beginning. The silence of the crowd, the district gesture, a solidarity throughout the entire district. The rebels lost the original rebellion because they could not communicate and were fighting 13 individual wars, so President Snow is probably pretty weary of any sort of unification that doesn’t outright support the Capitol. I also love the juxtaposition that she can see the hills of the woods from the platform in the square. As she’s saying goodbye to her freedom, she is also saying goodbye to her freedom in the woods and her relatively safe existence. On a fun note, when Katniss gets to the train station and overanalyzes Peeta’s appearance in front of the cameras, we get our first description of Johanna Mason and her tactics in her Games.

Throughout the train ride and the initial prep, we learn a lot about the differences between how the Capitol and districts see the Games. Effie and Katniss’ prep team are so detached from the actual horrors of the Games the same way Nazis had no issue with seeing Jewish people as less. It’s not their fault, it’s how they were raised being in the Capitol and all they know. They may not realize it, but they see the tributes as subhuman and because Katniss has never experienced this before, she immediately doesn’t like any of them. She already feels like just a piece in the Games even though she won’t realize it for a while. Cinna is her saving grace, because he actually seems to understand how terrible the Games really are. Right away I suspect he is most likely part of the underground rebellion in the Capitol, if he thinks like that yet still wants to work with tributes and subsequently their mentors. When Katniss first meets him he says “I asked for District Twelve” and just keeps going as if it were common to request working with the “least desirable district”. We never get his full story, but I can only imagine what lead him to this life path.

Finally we start to see the beginnings of Everlark!! Katniss knows more about Peeta than she realizes and if they hadn’t been reaped I want to believe they’d still find each other. I could never actually Katniss making it in the mines and they have such history going back to their parents. We get our first flirty feeling from Katniss, even if she doesn’t know what that means. When Peeta complements her after the parade and smiles “unexpected warmth rushes through me”. I’ve always laughed at that remark because she’s so unused to desire and pleasure she has no understanding of what’s happening. They train together, they talk each other up, they have no clue of what’s to come. Katniss barely has a grip on the past when she realizes “I have kept track of the boy with the bread”. Her coldness throughout their training makes sense given her history of distancing herself from pleasure, such as when Prim had to “drag [her] over to admire [the cakes at the bakery]”. If it wasn’t functional she didn’t need it, so having frivolous things for enjoyment (boys) isn’t an option. Only later does she realize she can allow herself these things without harm.

As Effie tries to sell Katniss and Peeta, it’s an interesting slip-up that she says “if you put enough pressure on coal it turns to pearls”, especially when we know the significance of the pearl in the future. Another quote that pops out to me is when she talks about Lavinia, and says “you don’t forget the face of the person who was your last hope”. She doesn’t know it now, but Katniss will be again be the face of hope for people who have nothing else to hope for. While training we see the parallels between Rue and Prim, who are both named after yellow flowers and resemble the same person to Katniss. Someone to protect.

When the interviews come, as much as she tries, Katniss isn’t going to get over her self-doubts just because Haymitch yelled at her so she isn’t very giving. She tried giving herself up, but it’s impossible when you’re talking to someone you don’t trust. When Peeta drops his bomb, we start to understand what his weapon is. While Katniss is lethal with a bow and has hunter instincts, Peeta can read people and moves a crowd with words. In his case, the pen really is more powerful than the sword.

Sassniss and other funny/interesting quotes

“District 12. Where you can starve to death in safety”

Exactly how am I supposed to work in a thank-you in there? Somehow it just won’t seem sincere if I’m trying to slit his throat.

So yes, I can handle a fork and knife. But I hate Effie’s comment so much I make a point of eating the rest of my meal with my fingers.

“Your mentor has a lot to learn about presentation. A lot about televised behavior”. Peeta unexpectedly laughs. “He was drunk,” says Peeta. “He’s drunk every year.” “Every day,” I add.

“Up, up up! It’s going to be a big, big, big day!” I try and imagine, for a moment, what it must be like inside that woman’s head.

One time, my mother told me that I always eat like I’ll never see food again. And I said “I won’t unless I bring it home.” That shut her up.

“Can you hit anything with that knife besides a table?” - Haymitch

It’s hard to hate my prep team. They’re such total idiots.

“With all that alcohol in him, it’s probably not advisable to have him around an open flame.”

Delly Cartwright is a pasty-faced, lumpy girl with yellowish hair who looks about as much like our server as a beetle does a butterfly.

You get the feeling that the knot-tying class is not the Hunger Games hot spot.

“If only you could frost someone to death”

 I try and animate my face as I recall the event, a true story, in which I’d foolishly challenged a black bear over the rights to a beehive.

“Thank you for your consideration,” I say. Then I give a slight bow and walk straight toward the exit without being dismissed.

I avoid looking at anyone as I take tiny spoonfuls of fish soup. The saltiness reminds me of my tears.

“Well, Catnip, stealing’s punishable by death, or hadn’t you heard?” he says... Gale’s eyes fastened on the bow. “Can I see that?” I hand it over. “Just remember, stealing’s punishable by death.”

“See, like this. I’m smiling at you even though you’re aggravating me.” “Yes, it feels very convincing.”

[beyondforks]

Paying Catch Up! Red Queen by Victoria Aveyard

Playing Catch Up has really been helping me through my ever growing TBR list. I'd like to welcome all other blogs to participate too! If you do, be sure to post your links in the comments section. I'd love to see your Playing Catch Up Reviews, and I'm sure others would too!! *wink*

Want to know more about Playing Catch Up? I'll tell you all about it here!

Red Queen (Red Queen #1) by Victoria Aveyard Genre: Young Adult (Dystopian/Science Fiction/Romance) Date Published: February 10, 2015 Publisher: HarperTeen

This is a world divided by blood – red or silver.

The Reds are commoners, ruled by a Silver elite in possession of god-like superpowers. And to Mare Barrow, a seventeen-year-old Red girl from the poverty-stricken Stilts, it seems like nothing will ever change.

That is, until she finds herself working in the Silver Palace. Here, surrounded by the people she hates the most, Mare discovers that, despite her red blood, she possesses a deadly power of her own. One that threatens to destroy the balance of power.

Fearful of Mare’s potential, the Silvers hide her in plain view, declaring her a long-lost Silver princess, now engaged to a Silver prince. Despite knowing that one misstep would mean her death, Mare works silently to help the Red Guard, a militant resistance group, and bring down the Silver regime.

But this is a world of betrayal and lies, and Mare has entered a dangerous dance – Reds against Silvers, prince against prince, and Mare against her own heart.

Red Queen is the first book in the Red Queen series by Victoria Aveyard. I've been wanting to read this book for a while, and I've heard great things about it. I liked it quite a bit, but I was expecting something more I think. It reminded me of some other books I've read over the years. Mare's personality and situation had this America/Katniss feel to her... actually the story had a pretty strong 'The Selection' feel to it... only there wasn't really a Selection. With all those similarities, come some high expectations. The story was entertaining though, and I found myself liking the characters and getting into Mare's life. There is a bit of romance going on. I'm not going to claim a Team yet, but I do have a favorite among the guys. Mare has some options here, but there is so much more she has to worry about. I think in the next book we'll get more into all that is going around her. So, while I was a little disappointed in this book, I did like it overall, and I've already started reading the next book in the series.

I hate First Friday. It makes the village crowded, and now, in the heat of high summer, that’s the last thing anyone wants. From my place in the shade it isn’t so bad, but the stink of bodies, all sweating with the morning work, is enough to make milk curdle. The air shimmers with heat and humidity, and even the puddles from yesterday’s storm are hot, swirling with rainbow streaks of oil and grease. The market deflates, with everyone closing up their stalls for the day. The merchants are distracted, careless, and it’s easy for me to take whatever I want from their wares. By the time I’m done, my pockets bulge with trinkets and I’ve got an apple for the road. Not bad for a few minutes’ work. As the throng of people moves, I let myself be taken away by the human current. My hands dart in and out, always in fleeting touches. Some paper bills from a man’s pocket, a bracelet from a woman’s wrist—nothing too big. Villagers are too busy shuffling along to notice a pickpocket in their midst. The high, stilt buildings for which the village is named (the Stilts, very original) rise all around us, ten feet above the muddy ground. In the spring the lower bank is underwater, but right now it’s August, when dehydration and sun sickness stalk the village. Almost everyone looks forward to the first Friday of each month, when work and school end early. But not me. No, I’d rather be in school, learning nothing in a classroom full of children. Not that I’ll be in school much longer. My eighteenth birthday is coming, and with it, conscription. I’m not apprenticed, I don’t have a job, so I’m going to be sent to the war like all the other idle ones. It’s no wonder there’s no work left, what with every man, woman, and child trying to stay out of the army. My brothers went to war when they turned eighteen, all three of them sent to fight Lakelanders. Only Shade can write worth a lick, and he sends me letters when he can. I haven’t heard from my other brothers, Bree and Tramy, in over a year. But no news is good news. Families can go years without hearing a thing, only to find their sons and daughters waiting on the front doorstep, home on leave or sometimes blissfully discharged. But usually you receive a letter made of heavy paper, stamped with the king’s crown seal below a short thank-you for your child’s life. Maybe you even get a few buttons from their torn, obliterated uniforms. I was thirteen when Bree left. He kissed me on the cheek and gave me a single pair of earrings for my little sister, Gisa, and me to split. They were dangling glass beads, the hazy pink color of sunset. We pierced our ears ourselves that night. Tramy and Shade kept up the tradition when they went. Now Gisa and I have one ear each set with three tiny stones to remind us of our brothers fighting somewhere. I didn’t really believe they’d have to go, not until the legionnaire in his polished armor showed up and took them away one after another. And this fall, they’ll come for me. I’ve already started saving—and stealing—to buy Gisa some earrings when I go. Don’t think about it. That’s what Mom always says, about the army, about my brothers, about everything. Great advice, Mom. Down the street, at the crossing of Mill and Marcher roads, the crowd thickens and more villagers join the current. A gang of kids, little thieves in training, flutters through the fray with sticky, searching fingers. They’re too young to be good at it, and Security officers are quick to intervene. Usually the kids would be sent to the stocks, or the jail at the outpost, but the officers want to see First Friday. They settle for giving the ringleaders a few harsh knocks before letting them go. Small mercies. The tiniest pressure at my waist makes me spin, acting on instinct. I grab at the hand foolish enough to pickpocket me, squeezing tight so the little imp won’t be able to run away. But instead of a scrawny kid, I find myself staring up at a smirking face. Kilorn Warren. A fisherman’s apprentice, a war orphan, and probably my only real friend. We used to beat each other up as children, but now that we’re older—and he’s a foot taller than me—I try to avoid scuffles. He has his uses, I suppose. Reaching high shelves, for example. “You’re getting faster.” He chuckles, shaking off my grip. “Or you’re getting slower.” He rolls his eyes and snatches the apple out of my hand. “Are we waiting for Gisa?” he asks, taking a bite of the fruit. “She has a pass for the day. Working.” “Then let’s get moving. Don’t want to miss the show.” “And what a tragedy that would be.” ��Tsk, tsk, Mare,” he teases, shaking a finger at me. “This is supposed to be fun.” “It’s supposed to be a warning, you dumb fool.” But he’s already walking off with his long strides, forcing me to almost trot to keep up. His gait weaves, off balance. Sea legs, he calls them, though he’s never been to the far-off sea. I guess long hours on his master’s fishing boat, even on the river, are bound to have some effect. Like my dad, Kilorn’s father was sent off to war, but whereas mine returned missing a leg and a lung, Mr. Warren came back in a shoe box. Kilorn’s mother ran off after that, leaving her young son to fend for himself. He almost starved to death but somehow kept picking fights with me. I fed him so that I wouldn’t have to kick around a bag of bones, and now, ten years later, here he is. At least he’s apprenticed and won’t face the war. We get to the foot of the hill, where the crowd is thicker, pushing and prodding on all sides. First Friday attendance is mandatory, unless you are, like my sister, an “essential laborer.” As if embroidering silk is essential. But the Silvers love their silk, don’t they? Even the Security officers, a few of them anyway, can be bribed with pieces sewn by my sister. Not that I know anything about that. The shadows around us deepen as we climb up the stone stairs, toward the crest of the hill. Kilorn takes them two at a time, almost leaving me behind, but he stops to wait. He smirks down at me and tosses a lock of faded, tawny hair out of his green eyes. “Sometimes I forget you have the legs of a child.” “Better than the brain of one,” I snap, giving him a light smack on the cheek as I pass. His laughter follows me up the steps. “You’re grouchier than usual.” “I just hate these things.” “I know,” he murmurs, solemn for once. And then we’re in the arena, the sun blazing hot overhead. Built ten years ago, the arena is easily the largest structure in the Stilts. It’s nothing compared to the colossal ones in the cities, but still, the soaring arches of steel, the thousands of feet of concrete, are enough to make a village girl catch her breath. Security officers are everywhere, their black-and-silver uniforms standing out in the crowd. This is First Friday, and they can’t wait to watch the proceedings. They carry long rifles or pistols, though they don’t need them. As is customary, the officers are Silvers, and Silvers have nothing to fear from us Reds. Everyone knows that. We are not their equals, though you wouldn’t know it from looking at us. The only thing that serves to distinguish us, outwardly at least, is that Silvers stand tall. Our backs are bent by work and unanswered hope and the inevitable disappointment with our lot in life. Inside the open-topped arena is just as hot as out, and Kilorn, always on his toes, leads me to some shade. We don’t get seats here, just long concrete benches, but the few Silver nobles up above enjoy cool, comfortable boxes. There they have drinks, food, ice even in high summer, cushioned chairs, electric lights, and other comforts I’ll never enjoy. The Silvers don’t bat an eye at any of it, complaining about the “wretched conditions.” I’ll give them a wretched condition, if I ever have the chance. All we get are hard benches and a few screechy video screens almost too bright and too noisy to stand. “Bet you a day’s wages it’s another strongarm today,” Kilorn says, tossing his apple core toward the arena floor. “No bet,” I shoot back at him. Many Reds gamble their earnings on the fights, hoping to win a little something to help them get through another week. But not me, not even with Kilorn. It’s easier to cut the bookie’s purse than try to win money from it. “You shouldn’t waste your money like that.” “It’s not a waste if I’m right. It’s always a strongarm beating up on someone.” Strongarms usually make up at least one-half of the fights, their skills and abilities better suited to the arena than almost any other Silver. They seem to revel in it, using their superhuman strength to toss other champions around like rag dolls. “What about the other one?” I ask, thinking about the range of Silvers that could appear. Telkies, swifts, nymphs, greenys, stoneskins—all of them terrible to watch. “Not sure. Hopefully something cool. I could use some fun.” Kilorn and I don’t really see eye to eye on the Feats of First Friday. For me, watching two champions rip into each other is not enjoyable, but Kilorn loves it. Let them ruin each other, he says. They’re not our people. He doesn’t understand what the Feats are about. This isn’t mindless entertainment, meant to give us some respite from grueling work. This is calculated, cold, a message. Only Silvers can fight in the arenas because only a Silver can survive the arena. They fight to show us their strength and power. You are no match for us. We are your betters. We are gods. It’s written in every superhuman blow the champions land. And they’re absolutely right. Last month I watched a swift battle a telky and, though the swift could move faster than the eye could see, the telky stopped him cold. With just the power of his mind, he lifted the other fighter right off the ground. The swift started to choke; I think the telky had some invisible grip on his throat. When the swift’s face turned blue, they called the match. Kilorn cheered. He’d bet on the telky. “Ladies and gentlemen, Silvers and Reds, welcome to First Friday, the Feat of August.” The announcer’s voice echoes around the arena, magnified by the walls. He sounds bored, as usual, and I don’t blame him. Once, the Feats were not matches at all, but executions. Prisoners and enemies of the state would be transported to Archeon, the capital, and killed in front of a Silver crowd. I guess the Silvers liked that, and the matches began. Not to kill but to entertain. Then they became the Feats and spread out to the other cities, to different arenas and different audiences. Eventually the Reds were granted admission, confined to the cheap seats. It wasn’t long until the Silvers built arenas everywhere, even villages like the Stilts, and attendance that was once a gift became a mandatory curse. My brother Shade says it’s because arena cities enjoyed a marked reduction in Red crime, dissent, even the few acts of rebellion. Now Silvers don’t have to use execution or the legions or even Security to keep the peace; two champions can scare us just as easily. Today, the two in question look up to the job. The first to walk out onto the white sand is announced as Cantos Carros, a Silver from Harbor Bay in the east. The video screen blares a clear picture of the warrior, and no one needs to tell me this is a strongarm. He has arms like tree trunks, corded and veined and straining against his own skin. When he smiles, I can see all his teeth are gone or broken. Maybe he ran afoul of his own toothbrush when he was a growing boy. Next to me, Kilorn cheers and the other villagers roar with him. A Security officer throws a loaf of bread at the louder ones for their trouble. To my left, another hands a screaming child a bright yellow piece of paper. ’Lec papers—extra electricity rations. All of it to make us cheer, to make us scream, to force us to watch, even if we don’t want to. “That’s right, let him hear you!” the announcer drawls, forcing as much enthusiasm into his voice as he can. “And here we have his opponent, straight from the capital, Samson Merandus.” The other warrior looks pale and weedy next to the human-shaped hunk of muscle, but his blue steel armor is fine and polished to a high sheen. He’s probably the second son of a second son, trying to win renown in the arena. Though he should be scared, he looks strangely calm. His last name sounds familiar, but that’s not unusual. Many Silvers belong to famous families, called houses, with dozens of members. The governing family of our region, the Capital Valley, is House Welle, though I’ve never seen Governor Welle in my life. He never visits it more than once or twice a year, and even then, he never stoops to entering a Red village like mine. I saw his riverboat once, a sleek thing with green-and-gold flags. He’s a greeny, and when he passed, the trees on the bank burst into blossom and flowers popped out of the ground. I thought it was beautiful, until one of the older boys threw rocks at his boat. The stones fell harmlessly into the river. They put the boy in the stocks anyway. “It’ll be the strongarm for sure.” Kilorn frowns at the small champion. “How do you know? What’s Samson’s power?” “Who cares, he’s still going to lose,” I scoff, settling in to watch. The usual call rings out over the arena. Many rise to their feet, eager to watch, but I stay seated in silent protest. As calm as I might look, anger boils in my skin. Anger, and jealousy. We are gods, echoes in my head. “Champions, set your feet.” They do, digging in their heels on opposite sides of the arena. Guns aren’t allowed in arena fights, so Cantos draws a short, wide sword. I doubt he’ll need it. Samson produces no weapon, his fingers merely twitching by his side. A low, humming electric tone runs through the arena. I hate this part. The sound vibrates in my teeth, in my bones, pulsing until I think something might shatter. It ends abruptly with a chirping chime. It begins. I exhale. It looks like a bloodbath right away. Cantos barrels forward like a bull, kicking up sand in his wake. Samson tries to dodge Cantos, using his shoulder to slide around the Silver, but the strongarm is quick. He gets hold of Samson’s leg and tosses him across the arena like he’s made of feathers. The subsequent cheers cover Samson’s roar of pain as he collides with the cement wall, but it’s written on his face. Before he can hope to stand, Cantos is over him, heaving him skyward. He hits the sand in a heap of what can only be broken bones but somehow rises to his feet again. “Is he a punching bag?” Kilorn laughs. “Let him have it, Cantos!” Kilorn doesn’t care about an extra loaf of bread or a few more minutes of electricity. That’s not why he cheers. He honestly wants to see blood, Silver blood—silverblood—stain the arena. It doesn’t matter that the blood is everything we aren’t, everything we can’t be, everything we want. He just needs to see it and trick himself into thinking they are truly human, that they can be hurt and defeated. But I know better. Their blood is a threat, a warning, a promise. We are not the same and never will be. He’s not disappointed. Even the box seats can see the metallic, iridescent liquid dripping from Samson’s mouth. It reflects the summer sun like a watery mirror, painting a river down his neck and into his armor. This is the true division between Silvers and Reds: the color of our blood. This simple difference somehow makes them stronger, smarter, better than us. Samson spits, sending a sunburst of silverblood across the arena. Ten yards away, Cantos tightens his grip on his sword, ready to incapacitate Samson and end this. “Poor fool,” I mutter. It seems Kilorn is right. Nothing but a punching bag. Cantos pounds through the sand, sword held high, eyes on fire. And then he freezes midstep, his armor clanking with the sudden stop. From the middle of the arena, the bleeding warrior points at Cantos, with a stare to break bone. Samson flicks his fingers and Cantos walks, perfectly in time with Samson’s movements. His mouth falls open, like he’s gone slow or stupid. Like his mind is gone. I can’t believe my eyes. A deathly quiet falls over the arena as we watch, not understanding the scene below us. Even Kilorn has nothing to say. “A whisper,” I breathe aloud. Never before have I seen one in the arena—I doubt anyone has. Whispers are rare, dangerous, and powerful, even among the Silvers, even in the capital. The rumors about them vary, but it boils down to something simple and chilling: they can enter your head, read your thoughts, and control your mind. And this is exactly what Samson is doing, having whispered his way past Cantos’s armor and muscle, into his very brain, where there are no defenses. Cantos raises his sword, hands trembling. He’s trying to fight Samson’s power. But strong as he is, there’s no fighting the enemy in his mind. Another twist of Samson’s hand and silverblood splashes across the sand as Cantos plunges his sword straight through his armor, into the flesh of his own stomach. Even up in the seats, I can hear the sickening squelch of metal cutting through meat. As the blood gushes from Cantos, gasps echo across the arena. We’ve never seen so much blood here before. Blue lights flash to life, bathing the arena floor in a ghostly glow, signaling the end of the match. Silver healers run across the sand, rushing to the fallen Cantos. Silvers aren’t supposed to die here. Silvers are supposed to fight bravely, to flaunt their skills, to put on a good show—but not die. After all, they aren’t Reds. Officers move faster than I’ve ever seen before. A few are swifts, rushing to and fro in a blur as they herd us out. They don’t want us around if Cantos dies on the sand. Meanwhile, Samson strides from the arena like a titan. His gaze falls on Cantos’s body, and I expect him to look apologetic. Instead, his face is blank, emotionless, and so cold. The match was nothing to him. We are nothing to him. In school, we learned about the world before ours, about the angels and gods that lived in the sky, ruling the earth with kind and loving hands. Some say those are just stories, but I don’t believe that. The gods rule us still. They have come down from the stars. And they are no longer kind. Two Our house is small, even by Stilts standards, but at least we have a view. Before his injury, during one of his army leaves, Dad built the house high so we could see across the river. Even through the haze of summer you can see the cleared pockets of land that were once forest, now logged into oblivion. They look like a disease, but to the north and west, the untouched hills are a calm reminder. There is so much more out there. Beyond us, beyond the Silvers, beyond everything I know. I climb the ladder up to the house, over worn wood shaped to the hands that ascend and descend every day. From this height I can see a few boats heading upriver, proudly flying their bright flags. Silvers. They’re the only ones rich enough to use private transportation. While they enjoy wheeled transports, pleasure boats, even high-flying airjets, we get nothing more than our own two feet, or a push cycle if we’re lucky. The boats must be heading to Summerton, the small city that springs to life around the king’s summer residence. Gisa was there today, aiding the seamstress she is apprenticed to. They often go to the market there when the king visits, to sell her wares to the Silver merchants and nobles who follow the royals like ducklings. The palace itself is known as the Hall of the Sun, and it’s supposed to be a marvel, but I’ve never seen it. I don’t know why the royals have a second house, especially since the capital palace is so fine and beautiful. But like all Silvers, they don’t act out of need. They are driven by want. And what they want, they get. Before I open the door to the usual chaos, I pat the flag fluttering from the porch. Three red stars on yellowed fabric, one for each brother, and room for more. Room for me. Most houses have flags like this, some with black stripes instead of stars in quiet reminder of dead children. Inside, Mom sweats over the stove, stirring a pot of stew while my father glares at it from his wheelchair. Gisa embroiders at the table, making something beautiful and exquisite and entirely beyond my comprehension. “I’m home,” I say to no one in particular. Dad answers with a wave, Mom a nod, and Gisa doesn’t look up from her scrap of silk. I drop my pouch of stolen goods next to her, letting the coins jingle as much as they can. “I think I’ve got enough to get a proper cake for Dad’s birthday. And more batteries, enough to last the month.” Gisa eyes the pouch, frowning with distaste. She’s only fourteen but sharp for her age. “One day people are going to come and take everything you have.” “Jealousy doesn’t become you, Gisa,” I scold, patting her on the head. Her hands fly up to her perfect, glossy red hair, brushing it back into her meticulous bun. I’ve always wanted her hair, though I’d never tell her that. Where hers is like fire, my hair is what we call river brown. Dark at the root, pale at the ends, as the color leeches from our hair with the stress of Stilts life. Most keep their hair short to hide their gray ends but I don’t. I like the reminder that even my hair knows life shouldn’t be this way. “I’m not jealous,” she huffs, returning to her work. She stitches flowers made of fire, each one a beautiful flame of thread against oily black silk. “That’s beautiful, Gee.” I let my hand trace one of the flowers, marveling at the silky feel of it. She glances up and smiles softly, showing even teeth. As much as we fight, she knows she’s my little star. And everyone knows I’m the jealous one, Gisa. I can’t do anything but steal from people who can actually do things. Once she finishes her apprenticeship, she’ll be able to open her own shop. Silvers will come from all around to pay her for handkerchiefs and flags and clothing. Gisa will achieve what few Reds do and live well. She’ll provide for our parents and give me and my brothers menial jobs to get us out of the war. Gisa is going to save us one day, with nothing more than needle and thread. “Night and day, my girls,” Mom mutters, running a finger through graying hair. She doesn’t mean it as an insult but a prickly truth. Gisa is skilled, pretty, and sweet. I’m a bit rougher, as Mom kindly puts it. The dark to Gisa’s light. I suppose the only common things between us are the shared earrings, the memory of our brothers. Dad wheezes from his corner and hammers his chest with a fist. This is common, since he has only one real lung. Luckily the skill of a Red medic saved him, replacing the collapsed lung with a device that could breathe for him. It wasn’t a Silver invention, as they have no need for such things. They have the healers. But healers don’t waste their time saving the Reds, or even working on the front lines keeping soldiers alive. Most of them remain in the cities, prolonging the lives of ancient Silvers, mending livers destroyed by alcohol and the like. So we’re forced to indulge in an underground market of technology and inventions to help better ourselves. Some are foolish, most don’t work—but a bit of clicking metal saved my dad’s life. I can always hear it ticking away, a tiny pulse to keep Dad breathing. “I don’t want cake,” he grumbles. I don’t miss his glance toward his growing belly. “Well, tell me what you do want, Dad. A new watch or—” “Mare, I do not consider something you stole off someone’s wrist to be new.” Before another war can brew in the Barrow house, Mom pulls the stew off the stove. “Dinner is served.” She brings it to the table, and the fumes wash over me. “It smells great, Mom,” Gisa lies. Dad is not so tactful and grimaces at the meal. Not wanting to be shown up, I force down some stew. It’s not as bad as usual, to my pleasant surprise. “You used that pepper I brought you?” Instead of nodding and smiling and thanking me for noticing, she flushes and doesn’t answer. She knows I stole it, just like all my gifts. Gisa rolls her eyes over her soup, sensing where this is going. You’d think by now I’d be used to it, but their disapproval wears on me. Sighing, Mom lowers her face into her hands. “Mare, you know I appreciate— I just wish—” I finish for her. “That I was like Gisa?” Mom shakes her head. Another lie. “No, of course not. That’s not what I meant.” “Right.” I’m sure they can sense my bitterness on the other side of the village. I try my best to keep my voice from breaking. “It’s the only way I can help out before—before I go away.” Mentioning the war is a quick way to silence my house. Even Dad’s wheezing stops. Mom turns her head, her cheeks flushing red with anger. Under the table, Gisa’s hand closes around mine. “I know you’re doing everything you can, for the right reasons,” Mom whispers. It takes a lot for her to say this, but it comforts me all the same. I keep my mouth shut and force a nod. Then Gisa jumps in her seat, like she’s been shocked. “Oh, I almost forgot. I stopped at the post on the way back from Summerton. There was a letter from Shade.” It’s like setting off a bomb. Mom and Dad scramble, reaching for the dirty envelope Gisa pulls out of her jacket. I let them pass it over, examining the paper. Neither can read, so they glean whatever they can from the paper itself. Dad sniffs the letter, trying to place the scent. “Pine. Not smoke. That’s good. He’s away from the Choke.” We all breathe a sigh of relief at that. The Choke is the bombed-out strip of land connecting Norta to the Lakelands, where most of the war is fought. Soldiers spend the majority of their time there, ducking in trenches doomed to explode or making daring pushes that end in a massacre. The rest of the border is mainly lake, though in the far north it becomes tundra too cold and barren to fight over. Dad was injured at the Choke years ago, when a bomb dropped on his unit. Now the Choke is so destroyed by decades of battle, the smoke of explosions is a constant fog and nothing can grow there. It’s dead and gray, like the future of the war. He finally passes the letter over for me to read, and I open it with great anticipation, both eager and afraid to see what Shade has to say. Dear family, I am alive. Obviously. That gets a chuckle out of Dad and me, and even a smile from Gisa. Mom is not as amused, even though Shade starts every letter like this. We’ve been called away from the front, as Dad the Bloodhound has probably guessed. It’s nice, getting back to the main camps. It’s Red as the dawn up here, you barely even see the Silver officers. And without the Choke smoke, you can actually see the sun rise stronger every day. But I won’t be in for long. Command plans to repurpose the unit for lake combat, and we’ve been assigned to one of the new warships. I met a medic detached from her unit who said she knew Tramy and that he’s fine. Took a bit of shrapnel retreating from the Choke, but he recovered nicely. No infection, no permanent damage. Mom sighs aloud, shaking her head. “No permanent damage,” she scoffs. Still nothing about Bree but I’m not worried. He’s the best of us, and he’s coming up on his five-year leave. He’ll be home soon, Mom, so stop your worrying. Nothing else to report, at least that I can write in a letter. Gisa, don’t be too much of a show-off even though you deserve to be. Mare, don’t be such a brat all the time, and stop beating up that Warren boy. Dad, I’m proud of you. Always. Love all of you. Your favorite son and brother, Shade. Like always, Shade’s words pierce through us. I can almost hear his voice if I try hard enough. Then the lights above us suddenly start to whine. “Did no one put in the ration papers I got yesterday?” I ask before the lights flicker off, plunging us into darkness. As my eyes adjust, I can just see Mom shaking her head. Gisa groans. “Can we not do this again?” Her chair scrapes as she stands up. “I’m going to bed. Try not to yell.” But we don’t yell. Seems to be the way of my world—too tired to fight. Mom and Dad retreat to their bedroom, leaving me alone at the table. Normally I’d slip out, but I can’t find the will to do much more than go to sleep. I climb up yet another ladder to the loft, where Gisa is already snoring. She can sleep like no other, dropping off in a minute or so, while it can sometimes take me hours. I settle into my cot, content to simply lie there and hold Shade’s letter. Like Dad said, it smells strongly of pine. The river sounds nice tonight, tripping over stones in the bank as it lulls me to sleep. Even the old fridge, a rusty battery-run machine that usually whines so hard it hurts my head, doesn’t trouble me tonight. But then a birdcall interrupts my descent into sleep. Kilorn. No. Go away. Another call, louder this time. Gisa stirs a little, rolling over into her pillow. Grumbling to myself, hating Kilorn, I roll out of my cot and slide down the ladder. Anyone else would have tripped over the clutter in the main room, but I have great footing thanks to years of running from officers. I’m down the stilt ladder in a second, landing ankle-deep in the mud. Kilorn is waiting, appearing out of the shadows beneath the house. “I hope you like black eyes because I have no problem giving you one for this—” The sight of his face stops me short. He’s been crying. Kilorn does not cry. His knuckles are bleeding too, and I bet there’s a wall hurting just as hard somewhere nearby. In spite of myself, in spite of the late hour, I can’t help but feel concerned, even scared for him. “What is it? What’s wrong?” Without thinking, I take his hand in mine, feeling the blood beneath my fingers. “What happened?” He takes a moment to respond, working himself up. Now I’m terrified. “My master—he fell. He died. I’m not an apprentice anymore.” I try to hold in a gasp, but it echoes anyway, taunting us. Even though he doesn’t have to, even though I know what he’s trying to say, he continues. “I hadn’t even finished training and now—” He trips over his words. “I’m eighteen. The other fishermen have apprentices. I’m not working. I can’t get work.” The next words are like a knife in my heart. Kilorn draws a ragged breath, and somehow I wish I wouldn’t have to hear him. “They’re going to send me to the war.”

Will Red Queen be made into a movie?? The outlook is good! I think this book has the potential to make an excellent movie, and I'd definitely line up to see it. Victoria Aveyard talks about it below...

Victoria Aveyard is an author and screenwriter, born and raised in a small town in Western Massachusetts. Both her parents are public school teachers, as well as avid film, television, and literature fans. Victoria grew up on a steady diet The Lord of the Rings, Star Wars, Indiana Jones, Harry Potter, and LOST. She pursued a degree in Writing for Film & Television at the University of Southern California's School of Cinematic Arts. After graduating college in 2012, Victoria moved home from Los Angeles  and began writing the manuscript that would become Red Queen. She has since published three #1 New York Times bestselling and USA Today bestselling books, two New York Times bestselling novellas, and continues pursuing her writing career while living full-time in Los Angeles, California. The Red Queen series is currently being translated into 37 languages and counting. To learn more about Victoria Aveyard and her books, visit her website.You can also find her on Goodreads, Facebook, Instagram, Tumblr, Pinterest, and Twitter.