#then maybe don't speak as an authority about what's wrong with a story? or claim it's harmful in ways that don't exist?

[eclipsecrowned]

me trying to be a welcoming person in a fandom space vs feeling like a little gatekeeping would solve damn near every problem in a specific fandom actually.

[khaire-traveler]

This is not an invitation for discourse. I am just stating my personal opinions.

I've been seeing some posts going around lately about myth retellings and wanted to give my opinion on something: I think the helpol community (maybe other polytheistic and pagan communities, too) is honestly too critical and intense about modern retellings (and even some historical ones as well somehow).

I know what it's like coming from that critical point of view. I used to be highly critical of certain retellings and stories that used Greek mythology. They used to deeply bother me, actually, but overtime, I realized that staying mad and fuming about these things I can't change - that will always be created - is really exhausting and even causes me to miss out on some truly interesting stories.

Also, seeing how intense some people can be about retellings has actively discouraged people in the community from writing them. How do I know this? I am one of those people, and I happen to know several others in the same predicament. Some people in the community will rip and tear and claw at retellings as if the retelling murdered everyone they loved. People talk about these retellings as if they're literally destroying the earth itself sometimes - like, seriously, y'all, it's wild.

Once, I saw someone post a short story they wrote - a retelling of a myth that I won't name, as I don't want to give the identity of this person away. This person posted this story with good intentions and was a worshipper of the figures depicted within the story, but still, they got absolutely dragged by larger Tumblr blogs and were torn into and literally chased off of Tumblr. This kind of behavior is not ok for multiple reasons, but the main point I'm trying to make is that we are actively making it harder for people within the community to write retellings. You want retellings from people who actually worship the gods? Then maybe make the community a much less judgmental place because sharing creative works takes a lot of courage as it is. Imagine building up the courage to create and share a retelling just to be ripped into by the very community you are a part of. I'm not saying you can't mention to someone when they've gotten something wrong or have written something potentially problematic, but I am saying that you shouldn't ruthlessly dissect someone's work and rip them a part if they seem to be well-meaning but misinformed (assume the best; not everyone is out to get us; easier said than done, I know). You can give criticism while still being respectful to the original author.

For many of these other authors, however, they likely don't even know that worship of these gods exists in the modern day, and even if they do know, acknowledging it may not be relevant to their story, or even their point. Sure, in a perfect world, these authors would acknowledge our little community and pay homage to actual ancient traditions/culture/etc, but we don't live in a perfect world, and that's ok. It is ok, y'all. Not every author writing a retelling is going to be a literal classics major or historian. Not every author writing a retelling is going to be educated on the actual ancient -or modern - worship of these gods. Not every author writing a retelling is going to pay homage to original source material. Do those things suck sometimes? Yes, absolutely. Do we need to lose our heads over it? No, not really. We can choose to focus on other things - on material and media that we actually enjoy and that do depict things how we'd like them to be depicted.

Now, none of this is to say that there are no problematic retellings or that speaking out on problematic retellings is wrong because hoo, boy, there are quite a lot of those. Some retellings claim to be historically accurate and are, in fact, not; some retellings are written by authors with less than ideal values and ideologies; some retellings are even based entirely on misinformation which can be frustrating to hear about. All of these things are true, but it's also true that not every retelling is out to get us. Not every retelling is trying to attack our small community and the gods we worship. As alarming and offensive as it can feel sometimes, it's important that we take a minute and realize that honestly, authors write stories, and sometimes a story is truly just meant to be a story. It's nothing personal. It feels like we, or our gods, are being attacked, but at the end of the day, we still have our own practices, and we are still allowed to engage with those practices. We are still allowed to worship our gods respectfully, even if others do not. And it is important to acknowledge here that others do not worship our gods. These authors are most likely not worshippers of the Theoi. They most likely do not have relationships with these gods as we do, and unfortunately, they may not have respect for these gods either. It would be ideal if they did, but they just might not, and there's no controlling that.

Honestly, most authors are trying their best. They're trying their best to write an interesting, authentic story that will capture the attention of their intended audience. They want to tell a story based on a mythology that inspired them so deeply, so carnally, that they felt the need to write a whole ass book or create a whole ass game about it. They see stories of tragic heroes, powerful gods, and all those caught in-between, and they think, "This is fucking epic; I'm gonna do something with this." Greek mythology is fucking cool. There's absolutely no denying that, and the fact that so many creators of all kinds continue to create retellings based on the love and passion of a mythology from over 2,000 years ago is pretty damn awesome, actually.

[v3nusxsky]

Hello miss Mars, can u do this for me

Let's say lesso was turned into idk an animal by one of her students of course she gets turned back to normal but the only thing that didn't change was her strap she has ready for her professor gf reader.

(So do you know when animals F the males D gets swollen and big on the inside right)

First round was smooth(just c@mming), second round reader is riding lesso(by that readers legs are shaking, and a tear, squirting)

Third round it's alot more heated,(doggy style, reader keeps telling lesso faster) because of what happened earlier her strap had gotten swollen and big, stretching the living out of reader(which reader enjoys very much) which causes reader to c@m,squirt alot, and maybe a little pee leaving the sheet just wet. Leaving both reader and lesso breathless, shaking, and unable to speak. Lesso then pull out of her, pulling and stretching reader alittle more.

{Mommy kink and breeding kink}

(You don't have to but can we have alot of dialog, even the moaning and screaming...can this be long too?)

{Please do not rush with the stories or this one please we appreciate your work miss Mars have a nice day/night😊❤️⚘️}

Leo’s omega

*Authors note~ my first ever a/b/o omegaverse fic I'm absolutely in love with these kind of fics*

Trigger warnings~ Alpha Leo Omega r mommy kink breeding kink knot squirting rough sex heat rut praise degrading begging G!P lesso

Prompt~ see ask^^^^^

✿✿✿✿✿✿✿✿✿✿✿✿✿✿✿✿✿✿✿✿✿✿✿✿✿✿✿✿

You loved when you got to assist in your girlfriends classses, it was always an experience. Most of the time after the lessons ended you were promptly leant over her desk and railed into a new universe. Only this time things happened more literally than normal.

Lesso had her class practicing curses, and you were intrigued with how well they'd progressed until Hort has a go. He decided to curse Leonora and yourself, so confident with his abilities that he would be able to turn you both back. Lesso threatened him with the doom room should he fail so the pressure was on. He did his curse, you and Leonora being transported into another universe, one where you felt the need to be with Leo, all the time. You noted that Leo seemed to be backing in that universe and extremely protective of you, her stance guarding you from the strangers here. Only then you were ripped back into your normal verse. Nothing went wrong to your knowledge until you felt it. That same need to be near her, and the scent was overwhelming. You felt your thighs drench with slick.

You and lesso were active but you'd never felt this before, you seemed to be triggering Leonora's senses as well, she immediately became territorial of you, the students now shaking with fear at her dominance. Hort admitted to sending you to the OmegaVerse, and before he fled the room he reminded Leonora of one think, you'd never be human again. A hybrid and it was clear to Lesso what stance you both took. The straining member in her pants replacing her strap as you stood an unmated Omega, her Alpha wanting to claim you as hers. No not want, needing to. Your scent sweet, too sweet. She needed you and that took forefront of her mind Hort could be dealt with later.

Both yourself and Leonora made your way to your room, the scent of your own items calming you slightly. But Leonora couldn't say the same, "fuck you're in heat" Leo whined seemingly knowing more about this than you, yet all you acted about was quenching this insatiable need. "Leo I need you so bad it hurts, want you to claim me make me yours need you." 

It was as if those words awoke her most carnal desires, her lips on yours instantly as she tore through your clothing. You weren't much better shredding her clothing in a instant, her scent driving you wild with need. You need her to rail you into next week and something foreign. Your thighs were absolutely covered in slick, "Leo? Why's so much?" You mumbled confused before your eyes found her erect cock and it seemed to be starting to swell at the base. "You're in heat my Omega" she growled which caused something to stir within you. Hers. But when you touched your scent gland there was no mark there. "Show me alpha."

There was no need for any foreplay with how your slick was dripping but lesso still wanted to shower your breasts with attention while she fucked you sense, her pace more brutal and fast than normal. Due to your heat, the scent of an alpha you were cumming within minutes. Once was not going to be enough for either of you. So lesso flipped on her back and guided you to straddle her cock. "Fuck mine, fuck want to breed your cunt and fill it with my pups, you will look so beautiful full of my pups" she growled her fingers gripping your hips hard enough to bruise as you bounced on her cock. Leonora wasn't going to stop until you came all over her while she tried to hold herself off wanting to pleasure you as much as she could before she let you have her knot. You came when she bit into your scent gland squirting all over her stomach, the stretch of her new appendage tearing you ever so slightly not that you cared, the state of euphoria you were in was unlike no other.

You didn't realise you were crying until you felt her tongue licking her mark clean, the little droplets of blood causing her to moan happily before she came to lick your tears. It was animalistic not that you cared, you needed more and you were in a state of being willing to do anything for it. "Leo, need  more, alpha please knot me, make me full of your pups, please alpha I need you" your whispered and whines of need caused Leonora's restraint to snap. You were quickly positioned on your hands and knees as she entered your cunt so easily, her hands massaging the oil gland on the small of your back which has a pleased whimper falling from you. Her pace ruthless as she hammered into you feeling the pressure at the base of her dick become overwhelming. “Faster alpha harder got more please Leo faster please!”

"Oh mommy! Want your knot. Give it to me alpha please make me take it" you all but screamed for her as she bit over her mark she'd previously made causing you to squirt as her knot slipped into you, bonding you both together, her spurts of white hot cum painting the walls of your fluttering cunt white. The knot to ensure some of the cum with catch with your womb and you'd be round and full of her pups. Your stomach had a slightly noticeable bulge as you both howled in delight, your inner desires met. The scent of your alpha easing you down from euphoria.

Only when her knot depleted did she remove her dick from you, your cunt gaping from such a large intrusion and the tear noticeable there, you couldn't help but whimper before burying your nose into her scent glad. The effect she had on you was addictive and all you wanted was for her to hold you surrounded by the softest blankets and pillows, the urge to create a nest for you both slightly overwhelmed you but your exhaustion won out as long as she was with you. You'd create a nest later when your heat died down until then you'd need Leonora, your alpha, to make it all better and fuck you into a euphoric bliss, you quickly realised the uncomfortable body temperature was a sign of heat but knowing she'd claimed you as hers helped. "I love you my Omega." Was the last thing you heard.

Word count~ 1337

[mercurygray]

Literally don't know if it's my lack of self confidence or anxiety that's giving me intrusive thoughts. I've always wanted to write for BoB but never did. It wasn't ever an issue or anything I just kind of enjoyed the fandom from afar. Since seeing Masters of the Air trailer I've been inspired but underwhelmed by self doubt. I want to make OCs and participate in this fandom when the show airs but feel I will be mocked or critiqued if I don't research the history of the period or get something wrong. I'm not academic. I'm just about the blorbos. But the BoB fandom strikes me as hugely intellectual and the fic is always immaculate and we'll researched even stuff that is made up is feasible because of the research. I feel masters of the air is gonna follow the same pattern and I feel intimidated. I'm stopping before I'm starting. I don't want to enjoy the fandom from afar but I don't want to put the legwork in to make a fic historically accurate. But I don't want people jumping on me for being so ignorant. I don't even know what or where I can get face claims from that era to use. I guess this is a cry for help

Kind Anonymous Friend, you come sit over here by me and let's talk.

First, let's start with one thing - there's no right or wrong way to be in a fandom. Fandoms need readers and observers just as much as they need writers, and just by you being here, and being willing to listen and talk, you are valuable, and you are part of the community. Please do not underestimate that.

Second, that's great that you're feeling inspired! That should be celebrated and held close! Even if you do nothing with that idea, if nothing comes from it, that's still valuable too.

I was like you once; I watched Band of Brothers and I didn't come back to write anything for it for nine years, because just like you I was really intimidated.

Every writer likes something different, and does this work for different reasons. The research part is fun for me, so I do a lot of it. (It's me! I am part of the problem!) I know of plenty of authors who care much more about the emotional feel of the thing and couldn't care less about historical facts. You have to figure out what makes sense for you - and it sounds like you already have. Knowing yourself, and your reason for being here, is a great thing. Hold on to that. That's important.

On the flip side of this, every reader likes something different. I'm sure there are some people who think my approach is total bunk - and that's okay!! And I know that there are people who really don't care for the original character approach; thankfully some of those people are still on speaking terms with me even if they don't necessarily like what I do. Not everyone is going to read everything - what matters is that your people find your fic.

I think if you're open about what your process is, or why you're here, people will be more likely to appreciate what you have to offer, or know that while you're a nice person, they're unlikely to enjoy your story and give others the space to appreciate it in peace. I know that's certainly been the case with me.

I think if anxiety about sharing or being mocked is a big deal for you - and it sounds like it is - maybe sharing some of your ideas in, say, a smaller group of friends could be a good idea. And nothing says you have to be public with your ideas at all. Maybe they're just for you. That's okay, too.

And to your last point regarding face claims - there is no right or wrong way to make an OC. I personally think faceclaims are overrated. Most of my characters don't have them.

I hope this helps. I'm giving you a reassuring back-rub and wishing you good luck -and if you need to DM someone, you know where to find me. I believe in you.

[adarkrainbow]

Hi, same person as before, sorry.

You've clarified your position, thank you for that.

I still think your concept of folklorism is a bit of a straw-man.

One of the fundamentals is that there probably is no single original story. My previous personal studies have involved tracing unifying and diverging features to theorise what parts of human experience/the psyche triggers these themes to occur independently in different cultures and places. To do that, one has to consider whether that element was included because it was independently thought up or borrowed from elsewhere.

Overall, I don't think there's anything wrong with either of our methodologies and really, each individual study may well require its own unique methodology.

I'm also not sure that literary analysis of fairy tales has the same aim as folkloric analysis. Folklorism is about the culture, the narrative movement, questioning the patterns and what they say about us. Literary analysis is about the text, its author, its particular social and literary context. They can co-exist and do different things with the same texts.

I still like your content and I hope you don't mind me hanging around. (I will drop this now unless you wish to continue the dialogue.)

Have a nice day/evening, and sorry if this comes off all wrong!

Hi! Before anything I will answer your very last line - don't worry about coming here defending different positions, we are here for that! I mean Tumblr is a social media, and I want people to interact (which is notably why I let the anonymous asks on, one shouldn't fear of saying what they think and if not having their pseudo made public is one way of starting the dialogue, let's go!) And trust me, your asks beat the badly written bot-generated "u think red hood sleeping beauty had sex" asks. (Yep real one...)

Let's go back to the real topic.

Now you say "there is no original story"... And this shows that actually you are into of the same school of thought as the "folklorist studies" I am talking about. The "folklorist" study of fairy tales I refer to - which is not a FOLKLORIC one, I actually try to split the two because there is a difference. But it might not be clear enough? Maybe it is where we have the misunderstanding - I am not speaking of folklore itself. I am not speaking of folklore experts who happen to look at fairytales, but rather of people who study fairytales using folklore as their main (well, exclusive) lense. I don't know if I manage to carry the difference here - because it might be actually a typical French nuance. You see, in France we do not have the same difference between "fairy tales" and "folk tales" as the English language has - both exist under the same word. "Conte". Fairy tales are "un conte de fée" - that's what Perrault wrote. But if you collect old folktales, they'll also be called "conte". We have just this word, "conte", which covers as much fairytales as folktales, puts in a same basket collected and written tales, transcribed and invented ones - and I think this is this unity of vocabulary in France that massively popularized the confusion between the two different approaches of farytales.

But I am getting side-tracked here! So why you saying "there is no original fairytale" is actually not "folklorist farytale-study"? Because the original, core belief of the folkorist fairytale scholars is that, yes, there was an original tale from which everything comes from. If you look at the older texts that started this, they do claim "There is a proto-story, there is a primordial narrative, from which ALL other tales comes from. We can only have so many variants because there was one original story from whcih the others are derivative." So you saying "There is no original tale" is actually "literary" in terms of fairytale study - because the whole thing of the "literary study of fairytales" is that it considers that fairytales borrow from previous versions. Folklorist studies of fairytale claim that each tale varies from an original version.

In fact, re-reading your ask, I do want to insist: "folkoorist study of fairytales" is a very long term for something that is NOT "folklorism". I am not speaking of the study of folklore as a whole. This is a completely different domain ; I am speaking of the study of fairytales, which happens to be "folkloric-flavor", but isn't about studying folklore itself. Hence my use of "folklorist" instead of "folkloric". Which... might actually be wrong? Again English is not my first language, I am French, so I am pretty sure I will get things wrong, and I have to admit I did not check the exact vocabulary related to folklore studies in English - so I might be way off and doing Frenchization everywhere.

Once more, we reach the same conclusion and you say the exact same thing as me. The two studies have different goals, different aims, different purpose, and coexist - but while they coexist they shouldn't be mixe or confused. This is what I said in my previous anser, and this is what you are saying right now - so we do agree on that.

But your mention "they can co-exist with the same text" is very interesting because... Are you French? I assume you are not - maybe you are and maybe I am talking of someone who already knows this ; but in France, up until very recently, for the literary fairytales, there was no co-existence of these two methods, and only folklorist studies were given to them. Perrault's stories were only read, in profesional work, university-level type of studies, through the lense of folklore, and their literary nature was completely ignored - or only kept for exercices given to little kids in middle-school. Which often led to what I think I can safely call a "slander" of Perrault and of the other storytellers of the "century of fairytales" , as they were insulted and called many nasty scholarly name for basically defacing, mutilating, assaulting fairytales with their "snobby, rich elitist, close-minded" ways ; unlike our-holy-saints-of-angels the Brothers Grimm who "showed us the way to the true fairytales". People didn't realize that comparing the Brothers Grmm and Perrault was in itself a very weird and alien thing to do due to the enormous gap between them - gap in time eras, in national culture, in goal when writing their stories... This "over-domination" of folklorist point of views also led to the disappearance of madame d'Aulnoy's fairytales from all "upper-level" studies and works. It wasn't until a few years ago that madame d'Aulnoy's tales were seen as worthy of being mentioned in university. No person who wanted to do a serious study on fairytales would have picked d'Aulnoy's tales back in the 80s - because, in France at least, the folklorist point of view was so strong, that a story seemingly so far-away from "folktales" was not considered AT ALL. Folklorist-oriented books about fairytales did not think for a second that madame d'Aulnoy's tales could have had any actual importance in the history, spread, or influence of the fairy tales whatsoever - I am not exaggerating. And discovering that in the first editions of the Brothers Grimm's stories, there were altered, "folkoorize" versions of madame d'Aulnoy's stories (Der Okerlo) was a BOMB that mindblowed many fairytale experts in France.

I do think a key confusion of it all lies in the name. I call it "folklorist studies" because it is a branch of fairytale-studies that relies on, heralds and hail folklore as their main resource, their main tool, their main reference, the material from which theories and analysis have to be made - but it doesn't mean they are ACTUAL folklorists , as in people who study folklore primarily. And this is why I use a more indirect "folklorist" adjective for these studies, an adjective I try often to put in quotes, instead of the direct "folkloric studies" - because these are NOT folkloric studies. But maybe I am using the word wrongs and they do not mean what I think they mean, maybe I am projecting the french "folkloriste" and "folklorique" into English when they do not have the same meaning at all - honestly, it isn't the first time I messed up, recently I humiliated myself by doing an Englicisim with "romantic" (which in French literature means "of the Romantic movement", and that I confused with the "romanesque" adjective DESPITE ME KNOWING FULL WELL THE DIFFERENCE BETWEEN THE TWO - sorry just the raging of my tired brain).

So - despite me being very tired and confused, I do hope this clarifies yet a tiny bit more what I am trying to say ad convey. And do not worry, hang around and leave messages as much as you like, I do not mind at all, and it is always pleasant to talk about one's passion. . It's not like we're going to start a fandom war anytimes soon in the fairytale world

[finnlongman]

Maybe a video responding to/debunking some of the misinformation out there would draw people in? I'd also watch something along the lines of some of your more bookish blog posts - I always enjoy your thoughts on other people's medieval retellings etc.

Interesting! Thanks. I try to avoid doing anything that seems to be targeting anyone in particular / naming names, so if I were debunking stuff, it would probably only be in general terms. This is mostly because I am deeply conflict-averse and afraid of making enemies, but it does make for less snappy video content – I know the internet thrives on drama and probably if I set myself up to point out what everyone else is doing wrong, I would get more attention. I would rather just give people better-researched alternatives (a positive addition rather than a negative one) but I know that's less popular 😅

To some extent I do already do this – whenever a detail in a text is one that gets misunderstood or misinterpreted often, I'll talk about that and where those misunderstandings come from. But I don't set things up as, like, "five things people get wrong about Óengus" or whatever.

A big part of that is also because a lot of the biggest misinfo I see is related to the more mythological material, but for a lot of people those elements have religious meaning. Many don't mind knowing that aspects of their practice were created by antiquarians or mistranslations in the eighteenth or nineteenth centuries, but some people really, really mind having that pointed out. And it is difficult for me to talk about that stuff from my academic perspective without stepping on people's toes, and either hurting others, or being targeted myself by those angry at things I've said. It's one of the reasons I switched my focus online to the Ulster Cycle, because I got too many aggressive responses to anything I said about the Túatha Dé Danann. Even now, I get the most pushback and negative comments on YouTube whenever I talk about mythological figures, because people perceive my academic, literary approach to the texts to be denigrating their religious/spiritual connection to it.

(Personally, I think people can find spiritual meaning wherever they like, and somebody pointing out what a text actually says is only a threat to that if you are building your faith on unstable foundations in the first place. I am not going to claim that something Victorian is medieval just to spare the feelings of those who would prefer to believe that, but if something Victorian has as much meaning to you as something medieval, then you do you. Just don't get angry at those trying to speak accurately about history and narrative transmission.)

So then when I start trying to directly correct misinformation, it can cause hurt, and it can make me a target. Which is why I try to only do it contextually when it becomes relevant to a specific story. In the past I've still done it clumsily enough to upset people, but I try to be more circumspect about how I approach that kind of thing these days.

Now, if there were lots of low-stakes misinformation out there for me to tackle... but most of that is also, generally, of less interest to people, and arguably ends up being nitpicking after a certain point anyway 😅

My aversion to conflict is related to why I don't talk too much about other people's books. I've done it a little on my blog, as you say, but I only tend to do it when it's a book I enjoyed and when I *liked* what it was doing with medieval material. I'm not a hater. Or rather, I dislike many books and have been disappointed by many retellings, but I will never tell anybody that. Partly because as an author, there's a chance I have mutual friends with that person and it could cause social awkwardness later, and partly because I just don't like putting negative energy out into the world. There's enough of that around.

The trouble is, though, that the books which disappoint or annoy me on that front massively outweigh the ones I love and want to talk about, which *seriously* limits how many blog posts I could write, or videos I could make!

It's one of the things I've noticed about YouTube, and the internet more widely: negative reviews, video essays that pull media apart, and generally critical content immediately reaches a larger audience than purely positive content. I guess because it feeds the drama goblin, and gets rage clicks and outrage, and makes people feel superior if they also did not like the popular thing, but it makes me feel sad. I would rather hear about what people love.

(I also try not to let YouTube duplicate my blog. Making a video takes 10x longer than writing a blog post, so if what I want to say could be said in writing, I will do that instead. I switched to storytelling on YouTube rather than vlogs for this reason; I think there's something about STORIES that benefits from the spoken, conversational element, and reaches people that blog posts wouldn't.)

Anyway, I think my planned "introduction to/beginner's guide to" style videos probably will end up addressing misinformation or misunderstandings in the course of the videos, but they're unlikely to be set up that way. I will think about prioritising topics where I've seen inaccurate info circulating, though, in the hope of countering it!

[twdmusicboxmystery]

That Daryl carries Judith, doesn't just parallel Rick+Carl, but of course also Beth. That the authors don't acknowledge this worries me about some theories we have for Beth's return. I understand the need to establish the Judith/Daryl bond, but the disappointment is still there.

I understand the disappointment, but I actually have the opposite reaction. When they refuse to acknowledge something so blatant, it really makes me suspicious.

I'll give you some other examples. When at the end of S10, they filmed at the same hospital they filmed at for Grady, someone asked AK about it in an interview. She totally played dumb. Like, "oh, IS it the same hospital?" Yeah, if you know anything about how a show like this works, AK would have had to approve that location for filming, and may have even helped scout it. She 100% knows it's the same hospital as Grady. They do that specifically because they don't want to acknowledge parallels or even speak too openly about Beth's story line. And if she's really dead and not coming back, why go to such laughable lengths to hide it.

More recently, when people asked about Leah's change of hair color, Kang claimed that Lynn Collins wanted to use her own hair color. Seriously? I talked about this at the time, but it's just an utterly ridiculous statement. The writers decide what a character will look like, and then hair and makeup makes it happen. An actor or actress can't just use their real look because they feel like it. And honestly, I don't even think Lynn Collins is a natural blond. Again, Kang was playing dumb and coming up with random answers in order to avoid uncomfortable questions.

So, the fact that they aren't talking about the Judith/Beth parallels doesn't bother me at all. It's just par for the course of what they've done consistently since S9: not talk openly about Beth, say her name, or anything close to it. It's a pattern of behavior that must have an explanation since they're still actively doing it. And the idea that they would that if Beth is truly dead simply doesn't add up.

Xoxo!

P.S. My fellow theorists and I discussed this exact thing. Here is some of our convo if you want more:

@wdway:

Last night I reread an article by entertainment that interviewed Gimple and AK. It was from a couple of months ago before the series actually started airing part C. The thing I came away with there was a lot of time spent talking about if there would be a coda at the end of the last episode. Gimple made the statement that he would never tell but there were hints that they were honestly thinking about it.

Something that has really struck me is it seems like tptb has gone out of their way to make sure there is no mention of how Daryl carrying Judith is similar to Daryl carrying Beth. I just can't believe that we're the only people that have connected the similarities. They keep bringing up Rick carrying Carl with Michonne leading the way at AZ or Rick carring Carl to the Greene's farm but don't mention the farm they simply say Rick in season 2. If there is nothing fishy going on with Beth why not mention it? Why not say it a call back to Daryl carrying Beth out of Grady and by the way Beth's dead. If it is nothing, if we are totally on the wrong track then why not ever mention Beth. It's like they keep pointing to the pink elephant in the room and saying look at the white puppy.

@galadrieljones:

Good point. And great metaphor with the pink elephant. That’s exactly what it feels like! The same thing happened with Leah and her blond ponytail. It was like nobody wanted to acknowledge that, and when they did they just brushed it off. Like, yeah right. 

I similarly wondered who would remember all the way back to Rick and Carl in season 2 when Daryl was bridal carrying Beth in season 5 during a much more memorable scene in a much more memorable episode. I thought maybe it might add to the notion that Daryl and Beth were father/daughter archetypes, but why would that matter if she’s Dead. And why do they keep aligning Daryl with all these Beth moments and then never acknowledging it? 

Like in Promises Broken when Daryl puts the blanket over the dead woman. When he calls Leah “strong.” I mean I know we’re not the only ppl in the world who have seen this. A lonnng time ago, when season 11 was still filming, ppl were posting grainy photos of Lynn Collins filming, and she had a blond ponytail and many ppl thought it was Emily Kinney. Like, you can’t tell me that’s all just a coincidence. 

So yes it’s the pink elephant in the room. Nobody will acknowledge it but it’s HUGE. And bright pink. Lol. Is this some form of gaslighting for the GA? Getting them to remember what happened without actually saying it outright. Because this would be a good way to build toward her return in a way that surprises, but also that feels like a facepalm once if finally happens.

@wdway:

Exactly. It's like those spoiled shots back in the spring of Daryl carrying Judith we know something was going to happen that made him carry her but when it actually happened, when she was shot I was so surprised at it and then felt dumb for being so shocked because we knew something was going to happen. If Beth returns in the final or in a coda of the final then there will be a lot of people who will say, "I knew that it wasn't just me that thought of Beth when I saw Daryl carrying Judith." I think they'll be a lot of that type of reaction and remembering Leah in a blonde ponytail.

@twdmusicboxmystery:

Totally agree. The other time they did this was at the end of S10 when they filmed at the hospital. I think the only reason they ever acknowledged it was because someone caught AK off guard with it in an interview. And of course she played dumb like, "oh, WAS that the same place?" As the show runner, she not only approves but often DECIDES where they film, so it was a ridiculous reaction. But I think it's part of what you're talking about here. Them just refusing to acknowledge the parallels, even as they put them into the show.

@galadrieljones:

Yes, and because they don’t acknowledge the parallels outright, that’s more suspicious but also then super easy to handwave if you’re not really keyed in. It’s rewarding those of us who are watching for implicit storytelling, but that’s a small portion of the audience. Most ppl will only register what’s stated outright. “The signs are all there, you just gotta know how to read them” is a testament to this. 

The same exact thing is happening with the CRM. Like if you’re not seeing the signs, you’re simply not paying attention. Just like Teabing says in DaVinci Code: “People rarely notice things right in front of their eyes.” That said, the audience has gotten a lot smaller over the years and as long as they are operating at some level of basic intelligence, they will still absorb this information on a subconscious level, hence why, when the twist happens, they’ll fade palm and lament that they should have seen it coming. 

The Sixth Sense is my favorite film example of this kind of thing. While I don’t like all of M. Night Shyamalan’s endings, I love that one because the ending is there all along. It’s right in front of your face. When it happens, it’s a shock, but you can watch again and trace that ending all the way back to the very first scene, through symbolism, dialogue cues, vague situations, and straight up logos. He never gets back up. He’s dead. The red doorknob to the locked door. The hidden secret. The fact that he only really ever TRULY interacts with Cole, who we know can “see dead people.” His wife’s sadness, her distance, etc etc. It’s a perfect example of how audiences often fail to see what’s right in front of them until it’s pointed to, outright, at the opportune moment. Then they facepalm and proclaim, “Duh! I knew it!” Because they DID know it. They had all the information, they just didn’t see it for what it was. 

With TWD they are also actively using subterfuge. Like Angela OFTEN plays dumb (very humorous for the showrunner to claim she doesn’t know where they’re shouting, or why Lynn’s hair has changed colors). They scrupulously safeguard spoilers, but the ones that leak anyway are awfully convenient! They deflect the obvious (focusing on Rick and Carl when obviously Daryl carrying Judith = Daryl carrying Beth). I would also argue that nearly all of Tales is meant to inform the flagship and the future of the franchise, but it’s cleverly veiled, isn’t it? All very interesting.

Hope that helps, Nonny! Xoxo! 🌟💕

[flabebabe]

Saw your post. Just wanted to share my story. I grew up in a very conservative leaning household and it took me until nearly the end of high school to start questioning whether or not i actually cared about those beliefs. The people around me were patient enough and willing to teach me more about LGBTQ+ topics and its because of them, and some self reflection, that i was able to become who i am today.

if i had instead interacted with the puritans on this website, i probably would have been pushed bitterly back into 4chan. i think people need to be more accepting of growth and patient with the people who werent fortunate enough to "start with a clean slate." but i think that also applies to ourselves as well.

everyone has done something wrong in their pasts, but we've also done some things right, too. and i think we just need to try to remember the good we're capable of. i try to just remember that i'm not who i used to be, and even if i fuck up again, that i'm aware now and i'll try to be better. it's not easy but i try my best, and thats all i can do.

i'm not sure if any of this is helpful. but if theres anything that you take from this, i just want to say that i see you, and i extend my hand in solidarity <3

Anon, I pretty much had the exact same thing happen to me with the conservative upbringing. I found tumblr at a time when I really needed an LGBT community and I will always be thankful for that but I didn't realize that I was getting into a space that nurtured something very ugly inside me. And I'm not trying to bOtH SiDeS y'all, at least this community actually means well, unlike communities like 4chan and the like. Speaking of 4chan, I find myself fascinated with it. You said that the toxicity of tumblr could have pushed you in that direction and I think people misunderstand what that really means. There's that comic where the author pokes fun at people who claim that they're being bullied into becoming nazis and while that is amusing and topical, I think it's too simplified. People don't become alt-right ghouls overnight, it's a long process that we're not really being honest about. Correct me if I'm wrong but it seems to me that the hostility of internet leftist spaces towards people who are wrong is unproductive. If a person seeks out community and is rejected, they're going to go somewhere else and that somewhere else is full of hateful people who want to hurt others. The person seeking community is vulnerable; otherwise they probably wouldn't be looking for comfort online. And then the ghouls get them. I don't have nearly as much sympathy for people who are completely radicalized by the alt-right but I do have sympathy for the lost people who just want to belong. I'm not saying we should coddle them, I just think maybe we shouldn't maul people for being wrong because it's just going to push them away. Yes, people should know that the world doesn't revolve around them and that there are many injustices in this world that they are likely contributing to but, again, flipping a dick at them is not going to help them do that. People think that being mean is work towards change but it's not work at all. It's waaaayyyy easier to be mean than kind. Sorry for the rant but I'm kind of realizing how much terrible behavior on my part was influenced by coming here. I'm going to put in the work to be better, and I think you, Anon, are on that path already. Thank you!! Peace.

[helloamhere]

hot take as someone who writes and shares WIP, but I don't think readers can claim that fanfic authors "broke our trust" when they decide not to finish something, or more often, when life events outside of their and your control stop them from finishing things? Like, don't get me wrong, I do not think ANYONE is under any obligation to read fic that isn't finished (including mine!!!!) we are all in charge of our own emotional experiences you know, but I don't think ALL OF US are here in fanfic just to put out the most 'finished' stuff. Sometimes......maybe some of us just like to noodle on things or share things we have only half-executed. I think there is room for that too. I know that there is a convention to put snippets on tumblr and not ao3, but also like, I dunno y'all but I kind of consider my ao3 page to be my personal library and it can have snippets if I want it to! Again don't get me wrong. It is a jarring emotional experience to get sucked into a story and be waiting on it and especially if an author says they're planning on finishing it. But I'm remembering a message I got fairly recently that was SO sweet from someone saying I should never feel guilty about having WIPs open for a long time. And it was like a spell cast that charged my brain and heart a little bit. I could just tell that this reader was sending me unconditional love and support and that kind of thing brings tears to my eyes. I try not to make promises I can't keep, and I think authors probably shouldn't PROMISE to finish things that haven't been fully written and it can be disappointing when you read them saying they will and then they don't -- but I guess my attitude about it is that EVEN if they say this, they are only able to speak to what they can predict. And maybe a lot of things happened. Maybe a pandemic happened, or loss and grief (which happened to me while I had WIP), maybe their brain changed or their story changed or maybe the fic wasn't doing what they needed it to do in their life. Whatever it is, I think it's an important and underappreciated part of creating a healthy fic community for fanfic readers to really FEEL this: writing fic for strangers online is scary, and it's magical, and it's a rare thing to get to share creative work to you with no obligation of money or capitalism, and maybe the cost of that immediate access to someone's brain and heart is that sometimes, you get the raw part of it too, the unfinished part, the drafting part. The fact is that most stories humans ever start writing go unfinished. I think our trust has to be in something larger than any one individual story.

[persephoneyss]

The Monster.

Pairing: park jimin x f!reader.

Genre: Yandere, dark themes, anguish.

Summary: ❝You can be reborn like spring, but your nightmares will follow your footsteps at night.❞

Warnings: Yandere behavior, obsession, voyeurism, Jimin is a little delusional, implicit murder, death threats, a little violence, stalking, death of secondary characters, reader idolizes his mother, humiliation.

Number of words: 6000+

︙ Author's note: this is my first fic here, sorry if there are errors. My first language is not English and I don't speak it fluently either, so I used the translator. Sorry about that. I hope you enjoy it, I am open to criticism. Thanks!

(Puedes leer este y más fics aquí en español.)

To block.

Your mind felt strangely familiar, like it was processing the same situation all over again. And then the same thing happened again.

Blocking.

You never noticed those little details, invisible to the eyes of others. Or maybe you took too seriously the message and advice that your mother always told you when you were afraid of being left alone in your room because of the obvious and silly repetitive story of the monster under the bed, you were crying looking for your mother's room in the middle of the night. You were looking for refuge in her arms. However, the only loving words she had for you were: "Ignore him and he will go away, darling."

It seemed very clever to you, you began to close your eyes ignoring your worst fears and in a short time you could do what most children could not at your age, sleep alone in the dark.

Your mother was wise, maybe that's why you never understood why your father left her overnight. She never commented on the subject and little by little it was forgotten in her daily lives. Your father never existed, you never saw him again.

In his small town no one was exceptionally well known, unless he had done something good or bad enough to be called a hero or, in the same way, a villain. You were barely seven years old when it happened, a family with a lot of money had chosen your town as a decent land, enough to build their luxurious house where their children who came from golden cradles would grow up. According to the gossip, they were foreigners coming to invade their town and rule it, when in reality the Parks never got more involved in politics than necessary.

They were just rich, spending money.

Young women from all over the world and even from other distant towns came every day to try to conquer the privileged children of the great mansion built finely and strategically in the middle of the main square. The young women were beautiful, many times you stood at the door of your house admiring their distinguished perfect faces and you wondered if the children of the Park family were really worth it so that young and beautiful women who had previously been rejected would come back again. in search of new opportunities.

Your mother sometimes stood next to you with a smile and released another phrase that ended up marking your style of thinking, her voice sounded so ethereal: "Money compensates for external beauty, plus the dignity that you lose to those who possess it, it will never have a price."

Your lost look made her smile beautifully badly, then that same sweet voice that taught you things that other women would see as irrelevant, she too moments later she orders you to come home to eat. You thought about it so much, your mother was beautiful, she could remarry if she wanted to. However, she never did, or at least until that day.

You were poor, you were never afraid to accept it. You noticed it almost immediately, when you saw other children playing with toys that seemed impossible that you will ever possess, your mother was friends with the one who was best friends with your father, a carpenter who seemed to be very kind. He always gave you toys that came out with small defects and he couldn't sell, he was a good man until he seemed to misinterpret the situations and her relationship with your mother, unexpectedly asking her to marry him. Obviously you had to stop seeing him after the rejection. However, you were stubborn like the woman who gave you life, almost every day after finishing school you walk two streets to her local.

"How is your mother? Any suitors who weren't rejected the first time?" You laughed, helping him finish his last job. You shook your head, Peter was always very nice and honestly funny, you still didn't understand how your mother could reject them, but you never got into adult affairs. You were just an eight-year-old girl.

"She still misses dad." You whisper trying to drive a nail into loose wood, before being interrupted by Peter.

You look curiously at his downcast face of hers, as if she was keeping something deep within himself. But he quickly changes his expression as well as the subject. "Very good girl, no more help for today" he says, removing the dangerous tools out of your reach, you let out a exhausted sigh wanting to help him. Deep down you felt guilty. "How are you doing in school? I heard that the Parks will start a new campaign to help more in the education of the children, maybe you can see someone from the family up close."

You move your head in distracting affirmation playing with a piece of wood, Peter watches you for a moment and then sighs. You really were special, and if I could tell what happened to your father, you would let go of that glow for sure.

The following days passed in the same way, there was only a radical change in your routine. Now they forced you to stay longer in school so that you could take art classes with the children of the Park family. You had heard many mothers talking to yours about how handsome they were, and since their daughters would undoubtedly have a chance with Jimin, who was the eldest son and of course the first-born heir, you thought for a long time about a tall man with more years than all those young women who hallucinated with the perfect millionaire husband. However, it was all an illusion. Jimin was not a man, he was a seventeen year old teenager.

Perhaps the young woman who did win him over would be very lucky to marry someone her own age and not a bitter old man who only had money. Jimin was everything, young, handsome and a millionaire, the best bet of any woman.

His first class was alongside his current teacher, introducing each child in the Park family. They were all very handsome, but Jimin seemed to shine brighter than the stars in the dark night. You wondered if his younger siblings would become jealous of him, it would be an interesting concept considering you had no siblings.

Your hands moved the clay very patiently, your classmates seemed to enjoy these classes and they were undoubtedly fun.

"What a beautiful flower ..." You smiled nodding, no one would ever think that someone like Jimin would be delighted with the common drawing of any girl. Her gaze traveled around your pure and innocent face, as if she couldn't get enough of you. She sat next to you, admiring how your hands continued to play with the dough creating new shapes and I certainly enjoyed every second.

She had never met someone who would attract so much attention from her, you were ethereal. Jimin was immediately drawn to you, your gaze clear as daylight and your soft features, maybe you were just a girl but you seemed to tempt his attention incredibly badly from him. He felt the strange sensation of making sure you were okay, safe, probably in his arms.

He followed you closely, always arriving at the same time. Her mother used to say that Jimin was very irresponsible, she never complied with the basic principles of being a Park: Discipline, order and punctuality. Jimin was different, his siblings may have fulfilled those three bases just to give what they wanted to their parents and receive more affection from him, but not him.

Jimin was obsessive. Impulsive, and he had self-control issues.

The biggest dangerous trait that his parents noticed since he was little, is that he suffered attacks of anger against anyone without caring about the consequences of this. More than three of his babysitters claimed that little Jimin had hit them, slapping and shoving them. But all of this was radically ignored by the Parks, who turned a deaf ear claiming that their son was simply too controlling, and in a way, he was. Jimin liked to have everything under control, at his disposal.

Jimin found himself fascinated with your little eyes looking at him without fear and, even though it was painful for him, without love. For you, he was nothing more than a stranger. He tried to change that, sitting next to you every day and talking to you a few times when he could get more than two sentences out of you. He liked art, I could tell by the way you focus too much on a small painting of an insignificant tree.

If you liked trees, Jimin could buy a forest for yourself.

You loved roses, he could plant thousands in every corner of town.

Or maybe, your obsession with the smell of vanilla. Jimin went wildly for the most expensive vanilla scented lotion, hoping for some praise from you and he really didn't fail.

No, when the next day he sat next to you and your gaze turned to him with a kind smile. "It smells great, Mr. Jimin." Your soft tone and your minimal compliment was enough to make his entire body shake, his hands began to sweat and his voice seemed to falter. It was amazing how you managed to make him so nervous, while he was still a child.

"Y-do you like it?" She asked even knowing the answer, your head bobbing in a quick nod and an even bigger smile adorns your features.

You put your painting aside for a moment to continue responding, Jimin feels elated to see that his plan worked. Now you're just looking at him, as it always should be. "It smells like vanilla, I like vanilla." You say honestly.

"I see, I also like vanilla." You seem shocked, Jimin increases the tension of him fearing that he said something wrong. He really wasn't lying, maybe vanilla wasn't something he used constantly but he didn't dislike it either, he was just disguising and embellishing a crude truth.

And before long, Jimin feels his life take an unexpected turn, people had started to notice his closeness to you. They called him an angel when in reality he was a devil, rumors and silly praise that he would be a good father were not lacking and the young women who came to his door every day to look for a date with him increased in an exorbitant way. You were oblivious to all that, clearly. However, you could not ignore all the looks that fell on you when you accompanied your mother to the market, as from one day to the next you became someone important just because you were the focus of attention of him Mr. Jimin, as you used to call him with respect. Peter also suffered the consequences of this, you had not stopped going to his store and the young women looking to conquer Jimin or at least get his attention began to follow you wanting to win your affection so that you will speak well of them with their desired man, no you were interested in what they could offer you but the biggest problem was that they did not like to receive a clear 'No.' as a reply.

They were insistent and often annoying. They followed you closely, even when you went to school or to visit Peter who now only went twice a week, you did not want to go out and have to face the pity that it gave you to see many beautiful young women begging for a vague love and that I was looking for more money arrangements than anything else. Also, not all of them had good intentions with you. Your mother made sure of your safety in the face of any incident, and with that came her last word, her strict order not to approach Park Jimin again until he found a wife.

The rest would be history.

He would surely forget you and start forming his own family, having his own children and likewise, looking for his own problems. Instead, that never happened. Jimin had discovered your plan, he was angry, he couldn't believe that you were ignoring his attempts to approach you in such a way. Your attitude was so pure but you were hurting her so much.

He was delusional, she knew he was. But he didn't want to stop. So, he did the only thing that would make you stay by his side.

You felt strangely calm, you had been to and from school with no one following closely in your footsteps. Until you noticed that the whole town seemed to look at you with superiority, with caution. Peter never stopped taking care of his store, however, that day it was closed. You gave little thought to that coincidence, walking home with slow steps. Deep down you were scared.

Maybe you thought you could feel it, in front of your house a crowd of people lay watching the most unexpected marriage request. Your mother was uncomfortable, you could tell by how her face was distorted, and how her hands seemed to shake for reasons not yet known to you. You watched in horror as Jimin knelt before her with a smile pulling a ring out of a small red box.

For a moment, you thought about your father. You felt strange, you always wanted to have a warm fatherly hug but it made you uncomfortable to imagine Jimin occupying that place, you did not want him, you did not love him as a daughter to his firstborn or as another similar relationship. He was a stranger.

Your body fell into the seat reserved especially for you, your eyes observed any place in the church trying to disperse your mind. Your little shoes brushed against each other, your hands rested on the wooden seat waiting for the wedding to end as soon as possible. You never wanted to oppose your thoughts to the idea of ​​your mother falling in love or getting married again, you really didn't care much as long as that person was good for her.

However, he was Park Jimin. You felt disgusted when her mother looked at you from afar with despicable eyes, just as anger consumed you when Mrs. Park tried to embarrass your mother in front of everyone. You didn't ask for this, nobody asked for it.

Maybe you spent too much time thinking around you to notice that Jimin was unhappy. A little upset. He had done what he had to do, chained you to him in some twisted way, marrying your mother and he felt happy, at first. I could see you walking through the church, you were wearing a little white dress to match your mother's and for a sinister moment I imagine that you were the one walking towards him to be named his wife. But he quickly came back to reality, you weren't his fiancée. You wouldn't be his wife.

Deep inside him, he knew how gross it was to feel like this.

Your mother's eyes reflected how unhappy she was, her gaze was uncertain. Jimin smiled seeing how you kicked the decorations that fell to the ground, you were completely oblivious to everything and more to the look of her that she followed you closely. Many called him a good father. Seeing nothing but his protective attitudes, but under the circumstances there were only hints of what might come next. You weren't allowed to leave Jimin's house, his father had left the mansion where his whole family used to live.

Mrs. Park could find no better excuse to leave than the sudden tantrum of her first-born son for marrying an older woman, a widow, and a daughter. This is a mockery and disgrace to her family's last name. Jimin just let her go, he wasn't even there the day her mother boarded the first train to her grandmother's house.

Your mother flatly refused to leave her house at first, she did not want to leave the little cabin that your father had built with his own effort so that both of them would live there and in the future raise their children, you always lived there and you did not want to leave either. But you never had a solid vote, your mother ended up agreeing from one day to the next, you did not know how Jimin managed to change his word so suddenly. Maybe there was never one reason, but you became all of them.

You were painfully present at all times. You observed how little by little, the wispy and wise glow that your mother possessed was getting lost between her empty eyes and her bent body, her head was never raised as she taught you it should be. She was a stranger, you felt scared in her presence. You remembered very well how her face seemed to light up when she saw you coming home from school and how she taught you something new every day.

"Mommy..." You spoke, your hands were still busy with the picture that you hadn't finished painting. But curiosity began to attack your mind.

Your mother came out of the kitchen with a little gray apron, she smiled when she saw you sitting on the floor. "Yes, honey?"

"Why do people get married?" Your gaze lifted from the sheet of paper, wincing at her glowing eyes.

"It depends, it's not necessarily for love. Maybe for money, comfort or ..." her voice trailed off, she still staring at you she leaned down to take your face in her hands. "Because they found someone, as cute as you!"

"Mommy ... I want to marry you!" Your mother began to laugh, your gaze traveled all over her face, joyful of hers and for a moment, you swore that you would hate anyone who dared to take away the great happiness of a genuine smile.

You finished your drawing, just in time because the front door echoed through the entire cabin. Your father appeared with a small drawer in his hands, your mother seemed to be illuminated with an angel when she saw him enter with a kind smile. Both were such for which. They were, more than lovers and husbands, lifelong best friends. Your life seemed to have something that many do not get even after death.

An outer and inner peace. It was perfect.

Almost so perfect, it wasn't true. White roses were always your favorites. However, you began to detest its soft light petals when it seemed that all the townspeople bought the same bouquet of white roses for the funeral of your, now, deceased mother. You took a seat next to her grave, ignoring everyone's greetings and goodbyes, who apparently forgot how her criticism of her increased even as the days, months and years of her wedding with Jimin passed.

You couldn't blame anyone. Or you just didn't want to.

Because the rope around his neck was not placed by them. And the multiple scars on his wrists weren't his marks. A small part of you felt helpless, angry and respectively, disgusted with yourself. Could you help her? Yes. No. Maybe if you had ... And he had stayed in the past.

The little white rose in your hand fell to the floor, everyone had left the room to go to the large buffet served at the reception. You froze, then with the same rage you began to step on the already dead flower at your feet, the petals of it were no more than a pure color, now they were disgusting and dirty. Jimin appeared minutes later, your gaze fell on his hand that was holding a black and a red rose.

"We should go, honey." He whispered as if afraid to scare you even though you were already looking directly at him. Your immobile figure instinctively ran into his arms, which greeted you with an incredibly loving warmth. The roses were placed on top of the coffin, a smile spread across your face when you saw the color red stand out against so much white, and for a second you came to compare the beauty of an outstanding color with your mother.

She stood out in a world where everyone wanted to paint themselves pure white.

Jimin was even more welcoming to you now. He pretended to sleep waiting for 11:30 to arrive so that he could hear your footsteps on the way to his room, you had developed a great amount of fear of loneliness. Jimin knew you always did that, but before it was with her instead of him. You would walk for several seconds looking in the dark for his room, which was next to hers, then I would always hear her voice singing for you, making you rest in his arms. For a long time, I want to be her. But now he was gone and I knew it was a matter of time before your steps stopped at his door.

She loved the closeness of your body to hers, how your hands clung to her nightshirt when you were cold or a horrible nightmare was projected into your dreams. Jimin horribly wishes he could see beyond your dreams, although that would be disrespectful to your privacy, he wouldn't mind breaking your trust too much if he could be sure that you would never walk away from him, even in your dreams.

He managed to chain your life to his, your scared look was the most beautiful thing I have seen before. I want to touch your little face and kiss your soft lips that tempted him every time the word "dad" came out of it.

Time was his greatest enemy.

Your presentation was no better, your hands were trembling again while your feet moved from here to there restlessly. Jimin just watched silently, but the distance between you and him was gigantic, he just wished that the damn bitch that was presented before him would shut up and leave his house. It was remarkable how you seemed angry, maybe it's jealousy, she has feelings for me. He thought sickly, a smile spreading across his face discreetly at his incoherent thoughts of him. The young woman sitting on the sofa in front of him smiled thinking that her talk had caused some pleasure in the young and widowed man.

Jimin admired her face, she was very cute, also she seemed to have good manipulation technique in people. She noticed it quickly when she walked through the door, her smile that seemed uncontrollable and genuine lit up his childlike face. He took a few seconds, he knew he shouldn't do it but he couldn't help comparing the woman to you. You were shorter, you were obviously younger and your gaze was more pure. Jimin was proud of your firm stance, knowing that in the two years since your mother's death you had developed a closer connection with him, and likewise, you were a beautifully perfect copy of him. Your hard gaze and your legs crossed with each other showed your firmness, and your silent opinion.

You wanted the fucking bitch sitting across from your stepdad outside your house.

You laughed at the very idea of ​​one day finding a really good replacement for your mother. You couldn't replace a rose with bad herbs. For you, as selfish as he was, Jimin was your father, and he was your mother's love from the day he married her. No one would replace his position.

It was all three of them, and a part of your mind conned that Jimin still wasn't over the love he had for her. Or he would have remarried long ago, when the young women stood in front of the door of his house asking for a date with him. In those moments you didn't care, Jimin was a stranger, but now he was your father and you were his only daughter. No one had the right to ruin their harmonious relationship, they were both alone and someday serious like him.

You will be successful, you will make a lot of money and you will be able to marry someone you love.

But for now, your gaze fell on the little worn and dirty shoes of the woman in front of you. A smile crossed your face, your gaze lifted surprising the woman. While Jimin waited with his arms crossed for your following action.

"Woman." Your voice seemed to cut her tranquility, her face lost total color of life and a small grimace of fear passed over her fragile face. "I can't allow shoes like that to step on the carpet in my house ..."

The woman looked at Jimin who seemed indifferent, distracted by the painting on the wall.

"I'm sorry miss" she whispered trying to remove her shoes, his hands seemed more clumsy than usual. Her face burned when your hand moved closer to hers to prevent any further movement.

"Go away." A tiny part of you felt sorry for his embarrassed face and flushed cheeks. But it quickly came to your mind that she thought she was good enough to believe she was your mother. When she couldn't even challenge a stupid girl who acted like a spoiled brat. "Get out of my house, or I'll have to ask you not to just take off your shoes."

"I-sorry, I'll go now-..." A sob interrupted her dialogue, her hands searched for the notebook she was carrying but she gave up making a quick bow to Jimin and running outside.

The garden was your favorite part of the big house, the walls constantly made you believe that you were going to be eaten by them. Every day you came out of your lair admiring the many roses of many different colors growing beautiful and healthy. Your school stage was about to begin and you did not want to neglect your garden, which was also a tribute to your late mother.

So you hired a gardener. You were seventeen years old and soon to be eighteen. To say that you managed to experience the best of all those years was ridiculous, and deep down inside you, you thought that all of that was possible because of all the things Jimin did for you.

You had a debt, which you planned to pay in the future. You thought about leaving and letting him have a quiet life from now on without having to run to solve your problems, even if you never asked him to.

Jimin had eyes watching your every move, he clearly remembers how he put security cameras throughout the house, observing how you slept, what you did in the comfort of your room and privacy. Even when you walked into the shower and your hands ran over your body covered in water. Sometimes he felt guilty, for how he seemed to enjoy those moments that seemed so short.

However, it was repeated that as long as you were safe.

Breaking your trust wasn't that important.

Your eighteenth birthday was moderately quiet, Jimin was not used to throwing parties, and honestly, you never asked for one. So you just stood at the door of your house receiving expensive and cheap gifts from people who when they gave you the gift had a forced smile that told you many things. Most were familiar faces, of women who had previously sought a date with your father, obviously being rejected.

The little birthday cake looked so monotonous, the candles were the only thing you could stand out for. You were never aware that you had started to be privileged and extremely ambitious since Jimin proposed to your mother and forced her to marry him, pointing a gun at her pathetic silly little head. You had it all, and in your previous years maybe you managed to get excited about the new toys and accessories that were brought to you from other countries, you had everything that others did not, and a strange epiphany collapsed over you.

It was you, it was déjà vu. You were them, and those who were before, were now you.

You had all of them, and they didn't. Now, by your side, they were all poor. Jimin showered you with gifts, causing you to gradually lose interest in money. You remember your thoughts when it all started and likewise, you still remember the woman with the dirty shoes. You will be successful, you will make a lot of money. It was what you thought in the future for yourself, but now that was it, in a nutshell. Completely boring. You stayed for a moment thinking about them under the watchful eye of your stepfather who tried not to smile when you saw you, you were an adult now and he could finally take you as his own. They would be husband and wife, as it should have been from the beginning of its history.

And you will be able to marry someone you love. You still had only one option left, you blew out the candles with a single sigh causing Jimin to clap his hands and approach you to hug you fondly. The maids behind you only blushed when his boss started showing all of his affection. They weren't used to seeing him so often, Jimin had a firm and tough stance with everyone but he seemed to become as soft as clay in your presence. You came to mold Jimin in your favor, making him a cold person in front of his own demons and then, you left yours.

"I want marriage proposals, father." A gasp came from the mouths of the maids who just immediately fell silent. Lowering their head as they were taught. "I am ready to get married."

Jimin hummed still keeping his arms around you, your body was trapped in theirs. Your skin burned when his fingers squeezed your skin, leaving permanent marks. There was no reaction from you, you were used to this kind of unexpected treatment and it just didn't hurt.

"Get married?" His arms pulled away from you in disgust, there was no other reaction either. Jimin taught you not to object unless you knew you should. Stay calm and you will win. "And can you tell who would want to marry you? Useless little girl."

"Useless?" Your low voice seemed to make him happy for a moment.

Quickly his hands took the utensils to cut the cake, with a soft and sweet voice he continued: "Honey, men do not look for a girl with a lot of money like you. They look for someone to tame, and you, you could easily crush everyone with a wave of your hands."

A piece of the cake perfectly positioned on the plate was placed in front of you, a sob escaping your lips. You were really pathetic, eh? You clearly wanted to live something that has been claimed many times. You weren't going to get married, not without having it all like Jimin said. Then, you would lose everything and go back up to crush the others with greater pleasure.

"Aren't you going to eat? It's your cum-..."

"I will go to a neighboring town, I will finish my studies there."

Jimin looked down at his plate, ignoring how you got up from the table and put your cake aside. Then, your sweet voice finished destroying his self control that he thought he mastered long ago.

"I never liked that cake taste."

And it was the end.

You went back to the start again. You were planning to leave tonight, your bags were ready. Everything you needed was never in that house, it was never him. They were those that never existed in your present continued.

Your shoes did not seem to contrast with the dirt on the town's floor, you were also aware that those would end up in the trash. You didn't care, they were just shoes Jimin bought for your birthday, insignificant.

People were observant, and often foul-mouthed. It was no different than they spoke far from you or close to you, yet their mouths moved in a fussy way exaggerating reactions and creating new lies.

"_____...?" Your posture was decreasing, you no longer had to pretend. A smile covered your face, framing many emotions in one. "Come in please, it's your house."

Peter stepped aside, leaving room for you to enter. Your hands trembled but this time from cold, you still did not get over the harsh winter that suddenly passed. You took your shoes off quickly, briefly forgetting that this was no longer your home. You had sold the little cabin at a minimal price, and you were even happier when it was Peter who chose that place as his future home to live with his wife and his future child. Now he had two more. The little children ran in the tiny room playing with each other, a feeling of nostalgia invaded you when you saw them. You used to do the same before, together with your parents.

Those moments.

"Glad to see you around here, daughter." Peter hadn't changed, he was still the same kind and understanding person as ever. The opposite of you, of course. "Do you want to have tea? I heard on the streets that you would go to study far from here."

"Coffee, please." You responded still reluctant to talk about your departure.

Peter just laughed at your exaggerated denial, nodding and leading into the kitchen. You took a seat at the small table looking around. "You didn't change the decoration."

"Uh? ...." He seemed surprised by your observation, but he quickly smiled. "No. Actually, I think I liked it from the beginning how your ... er ... your mother decorated it. Besides, my wife loved it too. For her, it's beautiful as spring."

"Spring?" You ask, avoiding looking at it. You look down looking for some reason not to feel sad, in a way, you had compared your mother to spring as well. However, Jimin said that you were his. You never liked being called a light, because you always tried to be in your mother's shadow. And you liked it. "She believed that she is very wise, my mother was like spring."

"Thanks." A voice whispered from behind, your gaze fell on her and her face very much like your mother's. But they were obviously completely different. "I never doubted that you were just as wise. Spring represents the new beginning, a new beginning. Did you manage to find yours?"

Peter tried to intervene, clearly noticing the way his wife was trying to make you talk about your life after your mother died.

"I did. That's why I'm leaving here tonight."

"I'm glad we all need to be born again at some point."

You affirm with a small movement of the head, concentrating your gaze on the coffee cup in your hands. The smoke fell directly on your face hiding your grimace of disgust. Nobody deserves to talk about her like that yet.

"Ok, honey." Peter began by sitting across from you, with a cup of green tea and a serene expression. "Are you planning to go alone or with someone? I heard that travel today is very dangerous."

"Actually, I am accompanied by an acquaintance. His name is Jungkook, he also planned to leave and started working for me as a gardener to get the necessary money. We became good friends." You spoke remembering the adorable smile of the young man, he used to accompany you everywhere you went as if his job was to protect you. At first it was cute, but then it was annoying. Even after all that, you preferred to travel with him rather than alone.

"Oh that's very nice. I'm glad you managed to meet your goals. Good luck."

Your goals?

"Thanks, Peter."

His gaze lingered on your face for a moment, then he seemed to remember something very important. She gave you a smile before getting up to leave the kitchen.

"I have something for you, you are old enough to know this."

It was an envelope. Common and ordinary, but its envelope was beginning to deteriorate, showing that it was an old and very reserved letter.

You questioned your decision but took it, not wanting to read it in front of anyone even more when you read who wrote the letter.

You sat on the small wall, the trees and the cool breeze boosted your adrenaline. Small pieces of paper fell to the ground. So, you weren't thinking correctly at those times.

"I only married a man that I loved in all my life, I was happy. I had a daughter. I lived years of solitude and then, I was chained to an empty love."

"I know what you're reading this now. You're weak, darling. Maybe that's what made us mother and daughter. Because from the beginning I never had the courage to tell you that Jimin put a ring on my finger and a gun to my head. Or maybe, I was weak when I didn't get in the way of his errand, I should have told him that I hated him and that he could put a bullet in my head before giving it to my daughter. And maybe, I should have told everyone who passed by me that He was the same one who murdered my husband, he never left. I made you believe that. You never asked. "

"I saw you so happy today, you were running between the garden and the wedding. I could see his gaze following your hurried steps, I was almost completely sure that he was trying to get closer to you at all times. I told the woman next to me, But she shut me up saying that I can't be jealous of a father and daughter relationship. You weren't her daughter. She also ordered me to let them create a closer relationship, because I already had Park Jimin's heart in my hands. Liars."

"I always loved your curious voice. You used to ask me everything, and why everything was like that. But lately, I don't know what to answer. Why am I crying? Why is there a dark stain under my eyes? Why is there blood in the bathroom? Why did I never ask for help? I see you worry and you don't let me give you affection, because you prefer to give it to me. I also see how I start to bother him, I am a hindrance. Now I understand, I knew it but I never wanted to accept that it happened. He was everywhere, and likewise, I was never part of the plan."

"There were only two things I didn't tell you. I love you and my last piece of advice. Honey, lock it up and fly to the start, whenever you feel lost. A fresh start and never forget spring."

You stifled a sob. Covering up your pain. You had not noticed that the night had covered the sky, a dark blue blanket arrived. It took you a long time to assimilate that all the fragments were torn papers, and it was not a letter. It was an envelope filled with, apparently, incomplete sheets torn from a notebook. There was a fragment that was not part of the leaves, but rather was written later.

"Lost parts of a sad widow's diary.

Peter."

They were from your mother's diary. So where was the rest? What actually happened? A message came to your phone, you read it quickly still drying your tears.

JUNGKOOK:

Our trip is in an hour, I hope you said goodbye to everyone.

Received at 7:05 p.m.

I still do not:(

Received at 7:06 p.m.

Along with both messages was an attached picture, a photo of him and his grandmother. Jungkook talked a lot about her, and hers, her brothers. You smile, still wiping the tears from your face.

Your feet moved, the leaves in your hands seemed too heavy. And yet it was something you needed to do.

"Are you at home." His monotonous voice invaded you, he was busy reading a book that rested in his hand. The maid came over leaving a cup of coffee beside him, greeting your presence politely. "I have some things to discuss with you, darling."

"Me too, Jimin." It was the first time you had said his name without due respect, he seemed surprised for a moment. But his expression changed to one of happiness, as if he had been waiting for it. "I couldn't say goodbye, I'm leaving today. I think you already know that, though."

"Actually, no. But it's nice to hear it from you."

"I ..." Your voice dried in your throat, a giant doubt fell over you. You didn't want to leave without telling him how much you hated everything about him. His attention, his affection, his smile, his gaze, his voice. Everything about him was disgustingly charming. "I think I'll go get my bags."

Jimin nodded, ignoring your presence. Still distracted with reading him.

"Before you go, can you give me that back, darling?" Your gaze followed where he pointed his finger. Your hand. The leaves were still there.

"It's something of mine-..."

"Oh I don't think so. It really is very easy to threaten someone, just suffice to say that you can put a bullet in their head to make them your obedient little puppets."

"I do not understand your..."

"Me? It was obviously me. I'm surprised you thought your mother would be smart enough to leave a confession letter to her ex-lovers, days before her death. You really had a lot of credit for her." His chatter was accompanied by a laugh. You were paralyzed, shaking in your useless state of shock. "But I will not say that I did not plan, I hoped that you would never have the courage to try to leave my side. And even if that were the case, I knew that you would say goodbye to the only person who reminded you of her. Peter, she has a family. lovely."

Nor did he expect you to have the courage to cheat on him with another man. Oh, the gardener. Poor Jungkook, his body now rested leaving behind your favorite flowers. Jimin bit his lip, another mocking smile peeking out with intensity remembering the cutthroat figure of the innocent but guilty young man.

You were his...

"How can you be so cruel?" The doubt in you seemed to want to keep growing, passing second by second through your head. You weren't sure you could understand that everything that happened in front of you was actually planned by the same person who swore never to leave you alone. The same man who disguised himself as a sheep so he could eat you like a wolf. "Did you kill my mother ?!" Jimin seemed surprised by your desperate tone, he did not expect to be able to unbalance your state so easily.

It was lovely. Certainly.

"No sweetie." He murmured closing the book in his hands, setting it on the table next to the steaming cup of American coffee. "But it would have been exquisite to be the reason for his pain. Unfortunately, it was your father who won that title."

"Where did you get this from? I know she wrote it, and I also know that she would never give it to you knowing what a monster you are." Tears were running down your cheeks like water, you knew you were a mess but Jimin seemed to look at you like you were a perfect work of art.

"I found it." He spoke casually, getting up from his seat. Walking slowly towards your trembling figure. "It was a coincidence, I like casual things. It was a coincidence that you studied at that school, that your mother was a widow, that your father died. That he will make me fall in love with you."

What is your goal now?

"I love you darling."

Escape from the monster.

[chateautae]

I actually remember sending you an ask regarding rpf fics and their validation......and honestly I don't wether u are purposefully ignoring it or mistakenly.....but if you are purposefully ignoring then maybe you can just specify why you are ignoring it......

Well, firstly, an author can answer whichever asks they choose to curate their blog. But to answer your question, I wasn’t ignoring it, I just found no viable reason to answer it because my validation or opinion doesn’t really matter. It made no sense to me to ask someone who writes real-person fics about their opinion regarding its controversy because you know the answer; of course they don’t mind real people fics 😭 and I’m sorry but the ask kinda felt like a set up. You asked me if it was wrong, and if we’re speaking technically, the only legally wrong thing about them is the possibility of the defamation of character and borrowing an artist image. This gets very rocky obviously with violent, grotesque, non-con or sexually inappropriate (assault, harassment, r*pe) depictions of the boys which is why ethically, rpf writers usually steer clear of these. But with rpf’s, if you simply change the idol’s name, suddenly it’s not an rpf, none of those charges apply, and it’s rather a regular story.

Fictional writers also technically borrow the image of someone to write about them; the human brain isn’t capable of making up it’s own face, only referencing one they’ve seen. This is no different from what an rpf writer does, rpf writers just choose a famous person. Secondly, when it comes to ‘making up’ a character, rpf writers also do that. Why? Because none of us fans actually know bangtan. We can claim to know them all we want and try our best to depict them accurately, but we don’t personally know them, and so therefore are always creating a personality or character. If Taehyung’s a cold mafia leader, I’m gonna create a whole character schematic of him as a cold mafia leader, not as his idol self.

Again, I found no reason to answer your ask because it was pretty obvious what my answer was; they’re okay. In terms of how the artist feels, I’m pretty sure bangtan don’t actively search for fanfiction. They know it exists, and just choose to let it be. Hell, even yoongi admitted to writing fanfiction between athletes. And while on this topic, fanartists that depict the members graphically or inappropriately together should also be held under the same scrutiny, but it still happens. So there’s your answer anon, I’m still unsure what my validation or opinion would’ve done at all, it really doesn’t matter what I think 😭 if you think rpf’s are wrong, don’t read them, if you like them, cool!!

Thank you for reading maybe I do as well :)

[cryptiql]

untitled god song

pairing: bakugou/m!reader (trans reader in mind you can see it if you squint but can also be read as cis)

words: 2k

warnings: themes of religious trauma, homophobia, mentions of blood, the author projecting their mommy issues

a/n: this is purely self indulgent, don't mind me 😩✋ (written in first person)

i wish i had known him before the pain started. perhaps it is a fools dream to think that his presence would have solved anything, and it is likely that he might blown me sky high at the time, if given the chance, but i often ponder his place in my narrative. he is nothing less than a king—nay, a god—and what else am i to be except his humble servant, adoring him in the only way i've been taught?

i would bruise my knees as i kneel for him, and should he turn me away, i shall be lost and without purpose. but he does not, and instead, he snorts out a laugh and pulls me to my feet, roughly squeezing my cheeks together with a shit-eating grin. he'll tell me a joke i've heard a thousand times, and yet i laugh with him anyways, the pads of my fingers idly tapping the pulse on his wrists.

"dumbass, at least take me out to dinner first."

i never thought i'd ache to hear such a demeaning nickname, but it's like birdsong to my ears, and i long for the myriad of butterflies it provokes.

i would heed his every word like a faithful disciple, and—if i knew he would not use this power for the wrong reasons—carry it out without question. he'll roll his eyes at the notion, far too prideful at the idea of being praised, and card hands through my hair, gripping softly. "right. and if i told you to go to bed before five in the morning, would you listen?"

my smiles are genuine, as they all are with him.

"no." i wish my mother had been more open-minded; more loving to those she claimed were goners. maybe then, i could still call her my mother, and not a snarled version of her first name steeped in vinegar. maybe she could have met him, and maybe she would have keeled over in the process, but that is how we put it "killing two birds with one stone".

he was a fallen angel if ever i saw one—emblazoned in smog and ravenous inferno, the pieces of child-like innocence turning to ash. something happened to him when he was a kid, just as all gifted children, and oh, what a fool i was to let my gaze dawdle on his gorgeous form. but i will never regret it—no, not ever—for there is no such feeling that can compare to his eyes on mine, burning with a mind-fogging intensity.

it was instantaneous, the moment my thoughts turned on me with malicious intent, her voice ringing out like a gunshot.

you'll never be him.

his hand slots with mine perfectly; deliciously warm and comforting in a way i haven't felt in years; and hauls me up, the flecks of dirt and rubble from the road clinging to my jeans.

"watch it, pretty boy. i won't always be here to save you, y'know."

my heart batters against my ribs like a caged bird, screeching and wailing to be set free, and i wonder in a haze if i've died. judgement day must have come early, i think, not realizing that it was spoken aloud until the blonde quirks a brow inquisitively. he does not speak on the matter, but continues on his merry way, leaving my helpless; hopelessly enamored; and praying that we will meet again.

no, i could never be him. but i am like him. he has a sureness in his walk and fervor in the way he talks that is only recognizable when i look in the mirror. and we do meet again. it is a shame, however, that i must burden him with the weight of my past. i remember too often the troubles of my youth, even when all has passed into fleeting memories that haunt me as ghosts do to an abandoned house. yet, i still live in this house, and the ghosts are here to keep me company.

i remember the church, first and foremost; nestled between the barren country road and the outback; a beacon of hope to all those who stood in its doors. the luster of freshly polished wood still sits in my mind, accompanied by the echoing remnants of dulcet tones and multicolored bands of light, glaring from the stained glass windows and dancing across the musty carpet floor. the doddering pews were just as uncomfortable as the poorly padded chairs squatting in the front row, but every sunday, they were filled to the brim with hungry worshippers. they sang praise as though they were starved, but i was too young to understand for what. i am older now, and i still don't understand. all i know is that despite its reputation, the church was a cursed place, and i should never set foot in it again lest i go mad. i remember the creaking stairs which lead downstairs, and the winding halls that reeked of torment where shadows loomed. the paint was corroding and foul, and my conscious always loitered too long on the merlot stain on the ceiling; its origin unknown, but nevertheless urging my stomach to twist with nausea.

i remember the feeling of tall grass grazing my ankles; itching horribly from the old moth-eaten socks i was forced to wear. it had become second nature—running and hiding from my problems, from the church, from her. i shall never know a greater animosity than the likes that my mother encouraged, although unintentionally, with her pressuring views and sickeningly sweet smile. it's fake, and i would know, because ours are the same.

we are too similar, and i am sickened by the fact. will i become the wretched woman she is? will i fail to be the father i've dreamt of being? it is an easy thing to fall prey to haunting questions, and it serves as brain rot for every moment of silence that leaves me clawing at my skin, trying to reap the memory of her touch. then i began to think—about nothing and everything—and it does not stop. i will be kind; unforgivingly so, and without biased judgement; like my mother never was, and i'll make her hate me for it. i will grow in leaps and bounds, not for her sake or for god's, but for mine, as it always should have been. i will drink and curse with reckless abandon and kiss who i damn well please, because in no life does she have have the power to make me something i'm not. why should i feel sorry when the tears she wept were forged by my own blood; by the childhood memories locked away to rot in my subconscious? yes, she has suffered too, but it is through clenched teeth and raw-bitten lips that i must confess this, for her suffering was born in me and grew from a seedling into a thorned flower, nourished by her hatred and mine. she'll tell me the lie of all mothers before her: that she knows best, and i'll never know joy that is not from my savior's gracious hands.

one day, when she lies not with words but in silence, under worm-filled earth and withering pastures, i'll tell her that she was right. i'll tell her, with his hand in mine, that my savior arrived with hellfire in his eyes and fury unrelenting. his tongue holds venom that would make the devil blush, but he tastes of a sinful sweetness that i've drowned in more times than i care to count.

mother you should know, my god is like no other. he has a broad chest and muscles, i attest, that are sculpted like fine marble and smooth to the test.

my god is a man who loves other men, unashamedly; in all that is true; and kisses me like real people do. and i know it sounds silly, and a bit cliché, and he'd surely make a mockery of me if ever he heard, but i love him. i love him as passionately as you she does lord above, and it is a crime in itself how much i crave him, so yes, i will burn for this—not because my mother said so or by the ancient script that foretells it, but because i promise it. i promise to let neither hell or high water deter me from that which gives me life, and i'll do so with a ring.

"you hear that mom?" i'll whisper in the dead of night, his body flushed against mine in the most delightful way; his fingers curled into my nightshirt, pulling me closer as listless mumbles fall from his parted lips. he is dead to the world amid his dream ridden stupor, but still leans into my touch when i smooth back the wild tufts of hair to kiss his forehead.

"i'm gonna marry him." part of me wishes she didn't live on the other side of the planet, just so i could rub it in her face, but i won't give her the satisfaction of seeing me again. i won't let her think she's won, because i know, and katsuki knows, that he and i are one in the same.

i do not know who i should thank for my stubbornness, be it my mother or my father, so i will thank the pain they both caused me, for it made me stronger than they ever could. no, i did not become a better person, because the scars have yet to heal from how deep they cut, and the smell of blood still lingers, and i am angrier than i once was, but i cherish my wounds. the stench of my agony has long since been subdued, and i have learned to swallow the sickness it evokes. and yes, this anger is unhealthy and i've chosen not to purge it from my mind like the weed it is, but how lucky am i to have found one whose malice rivals my own?

the tales of his glory have littered my notebooks in smudged ink. you would hate him, is scrawled messily on the last page, but i only feel giddy with excitement. you would hate him for his spite and his unapologetic behavior, and that is why he's perfect. he's everything you hate about this world, but everything i love.

so when she gets to heaven and asks the angels "why?", they'll tell her it was him who made the devil cry. him, who held me like she should have—could have, if she hadn't terrified me—and who chased the nightmarish visions of her from my weary mind with his callous palms and soft-spoken reassurances. i wish i had known him when we were young; when things were not so simple and i needed a hand to hold; but i suppose we'll have to settle for faded photographs and stories told through the bitter aroma of alcohol. that's more than enough, i muse to myself, legs hooked over his as i rest my head on his shoulder, keening softly at the gentle scrape of his nails on my scalp. his arms wind around my waist as he mutters something along the lines of "i love you", his lips curling into a smile, illuminated by the televisions glow.

so when they ask of my religion, i will think of only him. i will recall the way he looks at me, the sound of my name on his tongue, the feeling of his lips trailing between the valley of my breast; featherlight, cautious and unfitting for a man of his nature. i've written songs of praise, all dedicated to him, and if only he knew, oh how smug he would be. but i love him, i love him, i love him. and when he spins me around like a marionette, it is with overwhelming pride and joy that i tell him this, and with rose hued cheeks and bashful grumbles, he tells me the same. so mother, wherever you are, i hope you know i've found my god.

[queerofthedagger]

Are there any (non-fiction) books on bisexuality you'd recommend reading? I don't know where to start.

Hey nonnie, I’m so glad you asked!

It really can be overwhelming as there’s a lot (and not all of it is good...)

I’m not sure how much you already know or what exactly you’re looking for, so I tried to include a bit of everything from the things I really liked. I’m also going to include some articles alongside books - if that’s not at all what you’re after, just ignore them - and they include a lot of links to further resources.

I also tried to keep it kind of brief to not dump a metaphorical mountain on you, but if you want more, please feel free to send another ask! 💜

Last but not least: obligatory warning that in most if not all of them, there are mentions and discussions of biphobia as well as of other forms of oppression/marginalisation. 

Articles: 

Bisexuality - a really basic introduction/overview with links to further resources.

The Bisexual History They Don’t Want You To Know About - What it says on the tin. This article is long, but it’s an awesome start to dive into bisexual history while also clearing up some misconceptions.

The “Bi” in “Bisexual” Doesn’t Mean “Two Genders” - Maybe the most common misconception and why it’s wrong. Dives into the Etymology, bi history, and why bisexuality isn’t binary. 

Bisexuality and Binaries Revisited - Another article that deals with the allegation that bisexuality reinforces the gender binary, and why claiming it does is more often than not a form of erasure and/or biphobia.

The Myth of Bisexual (and “Straight-Passing”) Privilege - It’s a common myth that we have it “easier,” which this article deals with. A lot of different forms of biphobia are discussed here, and how it, at times, differs from homophobia.

Books: (just a note: I’m not going to provide links here because I don’t know where you want to get them from. You should be able to find them all with a quick google search, though!)

Bisexual Politics: Theories, Queries, and Visions by Naomi Tucker - This is pretty academic in nature, but it’s still great to be honest. I particularly liked that it also includes multicultural aspects and doesn’t focus mainly on the US/western world. It was first published in 1995 but I personally could still take a lof away from it.

Bi - Notes for a bisexual revolution by Shiri Eisner - The author is genderqueer themself, and the book covers a lot from a general introduction to bisexuality over bisexuality and gender, to biphobia and intersections with racism.

Bi Any Other Name: Bisexual People Speak Out by Loraine Hutchins and Lani Kaahumanu - This is a collection of personal stories and experiences with stereotypes and invisibility both in the queer and the straight community. It’s from 1991, so also a fair bit older, but it also has history on the bi-movement in the US until the 90′s, which was interesting.

Getting Bi: Voices of Bisexuals Around the World, edited by Robin Ochs and Sarah Rowley - This is kind of in the same vein as “Bi Any Other Name,” but for one, it was published in 2012 and is thus a bit more current, and it also puts its focus beyond the US and Europe.

Bisexuality and Transgenderism: InterSEXions of the Others, edited by Nathan Alexander and Karen Yescavage - As the title suggests, this book completely focuses on the controversy around the term bisexuality and how it relates to Trans and queer identities. It’s a great mixture of academic research, personal stories, poems, film critic and more. It was published in 2004, so some of the terms are what we’d consider outdated, but it’s still an awesome book to be honest.

I hope this helps and was what you had in mind! If you have any questions or want more, you’re more than welcome to hit me up again! 💙

[katnissmellarkkk]

Gravity

Hi! Okay, so here’s chapter two of my growing back together story, inspired by the prompt “I won’t hurt you” @rosegardeninwinter sent me. I also posted this fic on AO3 under the title Gravity (like the Sara Bareilles song), if that’s where you prefer to read. And here’s a link to chapter one of this fic if you wanna read and haven’t yet.

Also I know I said in my first author’s note that there will be three chapters, but there might be a bit more.... we love an over-writer, right? 🤷🏼‍♀️🤦🏼‍♀️

I don’t know if you’re “supposed” to post every part of a multi chapter fic on here? Or just post the link to it on AO3? But for now I posted it in its entirety on here 😊.

Anyways, hope you like it! And thanks to anyone who reads! 💖💖💖

/

A couple months later.

We slide back after that. I don't know if that night-the night he had a nightmare that I died and we slept locked in each other's embrace-moved too quickly for Peeta or if he thought he was protecting me from him, but when morning light came, he was gone from the bed.

I didn't see him again until the following evening, helping Haymitch feed his rambunctious geese in the yard. He didn't speak to me for four more days after that, and when he did, it was to ask what kind of bread I wanted him to bring for lunch the next day.

I pretended to his face that it didn't hurt. That waking up in a cold, empty bed, in a house he all but abandoned until I had evacuated, that sleeping in his arms and awaking so abruptly alone, didn't hurt. I did what I had taught myself to do as a child and I turned my features into an indifferent mask, shutting off all access to my emotions. Destroying any possibility of anyone witnessing my vulnerabilities.

But I knew deep down, it did hurt. It hurt badly.

I didn't speak to him directly the first week he showed up for lunch and to work on the memory book again. I got by fine without addressing him directly, as Haymitch somehow sensed the bubbling tension between us and stayed sober just enough to remain alert for all our shared meals. He helped with the memory book, helped by adding in a snarky comment here or there to reel our focuses onto him instead of each other.

I wanted to say thank you but I never knew how. I doubt Haymitch needs me to verbalize it anyway. One night, as he follows behind Peeta to leave, his hand grazes my shoulder and gives it a squeeze and I know he's much more aware of the dynamic between his old tributes than he leads on.

But weeks after the night in question, the night that set Peeta and my friendship back months, we receive a telegraph from Effie. A telegraph that shakes the small amount of stability we've managed to build in the time since the war.

Apparently President Paylor has decided to move forward with arena destruction, an idea mentioned a few times by Plutarch on Caesar's talk show. An idea I didn't take seriously until now.

Paylor has decided to build a memorial for each of the arenas, for each year the games ever took place, to immortalize our history, so Panem can never forget how cruel and inhumane things once were. But first, she wants to eliminate the actual Hunger Games arenas, once and for all, before putting the memorials in their place.

My initial thought, months ago when Delly showed me Plutarch and Caesar discussing the idea, was that this would takes years to happen.

I was, once again, so clearly wrong. The plans have been expedited and the order in which each arena will be decimated has been swiftly decided.

All that alone doesn't sound terrible. I'd like to see those death pits crushed, burned, torn down, eradicated, or all of the above, by any means necessary. Only downside, initially, is that this will extend me—and Peeta and potentially all the other victors—remaining in the forefront of the public's mind.

Since the war, all I've ever wanted was for everyone in the country to forget who I am. I don't want to be known anymore. I just want to be left alone, to a quiet and peaceful and relatively simple life, without anyone ever recognizing me again. Without anyone thinking of me as the girl on fire, as the Mockingjay, as the sixteen-year-old who volunteered for a sister who was doomed to death anyway.

But, of course, there's a catch. There's always a catch.

Plutarch thinks it would be great to have the living victors be there—televised—in the Capitol and see the arenas before they're bulldozed.

Even with this dreadful proposition, I thought I had time to think of a way out of it. When Effie first sent the telegraph, I thought that I would have years before having to worry about going back to the places where my nightmares started.

Well, some of my nightmares, that is.

After all, it takes time to destroy something as large and as vast as an arena-excluding the way I destroyed the one in the Quell, that is. I figured-I rationalized, really-that by the time they got to number Seventy-Four, I would have a solid excuse to get out of attending.

I guess though they wished to start with the big years and the first decade of the Hunger Games wasn't very eventful, apparently—lucky them—so the first arena they wish to bid farewell to is the one from the second Quarter Quell. The Fiftieth Hunger Games. The one that was so strikingly beautiful and almost entirely poisonous.

The year Haymitch Abernathy, from the lowly District Twelve, won.

And being also from Twelve, my presence, along with Peeta's, suddenly became of the utmost importance as well.

At first, I still try to opt out of the event. Even after Effie chastises me over the phone, like not a day has passed since she was my escort, and even after my mother claims in her letter that it could be cathartic for me, I do not relent.

Delly and Thom and a few of the others in the community, like Kanon who runs the candy shop two stores away from the bakery, and Greta, who helps with the dusting and mopping all over town, try to say that it could be good for me. Greasy Sae claims it can't be worse than actually living through the games, and I silently appreciate her much more blatant statement than the comforting platitudes others try to provide me.

But it all falls on deaf ears in the end.

Because the only person I truly listen to is Peeta. Even bitter and wounded, the only person I really hear is him.

Unfortunately, as irritating as it is sometimes, his voice will always reach me when others can't.

But we don't ever have an actual conversation about it. Five days after Effie calls to announce the news, to tell me unequivocally that my presence is requested, Peeta sways me to go with just a look.

He comes over later than usual and brings extra bread and pastries to go with the deer meat I hunted. We feast silently, the air between us still incredibly awkward, when, without warning, our old mentor comes crashing through the door unceremoniously.

I don't know how much alcohol he consumed, but it's enough to knock even someone with Haymitch's tolerance off his feet.

By the end of the hour, the older man is practically beating his head into the wall of my dining room, screaming the names of dead children and about force fields and axes. And from across the kitchen table, Peeta touches my arm—the first time he's voluntarily touched me in weeks—and my eyes meet his, blue pouring into gray, and silently he begs me to go for the goodbye ceremony to Haymitch's arena.

And I give in. Not just for him. But also, in large part, to repay the caustic, miserable drunk that kept us alive. To support the unpredictable, temperamental man that I do consider my family somehow.

The ceremony is set to take place weeks later and the time does little to alleviate my anxiety. Peeta and me still don't speak much, but come time for lunch or dinner, there he is, in my house like clockwork.

When I point out, a few days before we're due at the train station, that there's a very realistic possibility that the Capitol won't let me go to the ceremony, Peeta casually says, "I already cleared that with Effie and Plutarch."

I shoot him a look of surprise. "You did?"

Shrugging nonchalantly before turning back to the rabbit on his plate, he murmurs quietly, "Thought it'd give you one less thing to worry about."

The ceremony is nothing like I expect. Somehow I figured there would be an obnoxiously large television crew, loud speakers, prepared speeches on written cards, awkward directions and crowds upon crowds of people surrounding us, asking pointed questions, shooting invasive stares and pressing for reactions to their nosy accusations. I expected those accusations to be directed at me and Peeta especially.

Instead, there's none of those things. There's no crowd at all, it's just us victors. Just Enobaria, Johanna, Annie, the three of us from Twelve and Beetee—who I still can't make myself so much as look at, reminded of my sister's absence and his role in it every time we so much as stand in five feet vicinity of each other.

The camera crew consists of Mitchell, Pollux and Cressida, along with two unfamiliar, but seemingly non-threatening faces. There's no directions, no prompting, not close ups or reshoots.

All that happens is Paylor makes a statement that the crew films, stating that the arenas will be destroyed one by one, and in the place of each there will be an individual memorial made, as we victors stand in an unorganized, crooked line that will surely make Effie cringe when she sees the footage on television later.

It's almost peaceful, I think to myself in surprise, as I look around at the location. The sky is a stunning cobalt, even more brilliant in person than in the video Peeta and I watched on the train so long ago. The meadow looks like the grass is fresh, like it was just watered yesterday. The mountain is so breathtaking I have to physically tear my eyes away from it and even the woods look rather cozy. Or maybe that part is just me.

There's also arraignments of flowers, just like in the footage we watched, that spill every which way, filling our noses with soothing, floral scents. It feels unnatural to say about a place set up for murder, but with the deadly poisons lurking at every turn eviscerated, I almost can find this arena truly beautiful.

Of course though, it's not my arena.

It's Haymitch's and he looks like he's about to be sick. He's white-knuckled it for a few days without any sort of drink—to my, Peeta's and, even Effie's, visible shock—and I can see plainly now that he's absolutely regretting it. His eyes are hallow and wild at the same time and I can see his shaking palms beneath the sleeves of his jacket as he stares out at the source of his every nightmare for the last quarter century.

It shocks me that he didn't find a way out of this. Actually, it shocks me still that these ceremonies are even possible.

I never knew they kept arenas after the games were over each year. I never realized they kept all seventy-four death pits, haunted by child sacrifice, the way you keep old vases on a shelf.

At this point though, it's just another thing to add onto the growing list of horrific and unthinkable issues that the Capitol doesn't even grasp. Keeping the haunted graveyards of children as souvenirs shouldn't sit right with anyone, I don't care how you're raised.

I tell myself to not be so quick to judge, as I can't know who I'd be if I had been born in the Capitol instead of the districts. Still, the idea of condoning the things they have without remorse or shame seems unthinkable.

I'm torn out of my thoughts when Cressida speaks. "Is there anything you'd like to say, Haymitch, before we finish filming?"

Once again, catching me off-guard entirely—he's full of all sorts of surprises evidently—Haymitch clears his throat and looks down at his leather boots before speaking. "Ardor. Garnett. Dolan. Silver. Ryker. Artemis. Slayte. Pistol. Lex. Mac. Lumen. Gig. Brook. Aqua. Mary. Ripley. Lyme. Watt. Rocky. Gio. Belle. Raven. Kia. Mecko. Barker. Jack. Holly. Briar. Essie. Stitch. Coco. Paul. Mira. Miller. Coop. Harvey. Butch. Cutter. Bea. Skinna. Basil. Sunny. Rip. Spring. Oaker. Terra. Maysilee." He lists off the names in a way that is so matter-of-fact that it would almost be robotic if it weren't for the hoarseness in his tone that grows stronger with every name he utters. He hesitates for only a moment before adding, "Corentine. Alannah. Alastar."

There's a long stretch of silence, where no one speaks, no one blinks, no one even breathes. We all know instinctively who these people are—I know solely from Maysilee Donner's name being called—but we still wait until Haymitch speaks again, to confirm our assumption.

"Those are the names of all the people this arena killed." His eyes grow glassy and his brow furrows in anger as he fights desperately to repress his emotions, and suddenly I have the strangest urge to hug my mentor, to make him feel better like he tried to do for me once when Peeta was stuck in the Capitol and I was distraught. But I know it wouldn't be appreciated or wanted, and quite honestly I'm glad for that, because I don't even know what to say.

The last three names Haymitch said stick in my head for some reason I can't explain other than an odd gut feeling. But then he speaks again, an in a voice growing gruffer by the second, he says right into the camera, "that's every single person who was killed because of the second Quarter Quell."

And, like I should have known all along, it hits me the last three names are the names of his family who were murdered to punish him for the stunt with the forcefield.

The last three names are the murders of the last people he loved. Until me and Peeta came along.

As if his thoughts matched mine, Haymitch suddenly shakes his head and his eyes widen again as he stares past all the rest of us, as he continues to take in the exact place in which life as he knew it, twenty-six years ago, was altered forever.

His reaction is more understandable and genuine than I imagined he would ever allow it to be, especially on camera, and I want to say something but me and him both aren't good at saying anything, and I find myself looking to Peeta, hoping he'd know what to do.

Peeta doesn't meet my gaze though. He's solely focused on our mentor and just when he opens his mouth to speak, the older man to suddenly shake his head in our general direction and clears his throat.

"I'm done. Tell Plutarch I'm done with this crap. Just hurry up and bulldoze this place so I can go back to Twelve," is all he says to Cressida as he storms off, but his voice is rough and caustic once again, and I can only hope he recovers from this event soon enough.

Somehow, witnessing Haymitch relive his games, even through the shield he so obviously puts up to the outside world, triggers me though. For some reason, I feel my eyes begin to water as I look around at the meadow, at the mountain, at the golden cornucopia, and wonder how anyone could build a place where kids would eventually go to die? How could anyone have ever been so inhumane? How could a country just accept it? How did we live for so long with the Hunger Games overtaking our lives and still remained complicit? I don't understand. The more time passes, the more days I'm separated from the war and from the old world and the old way of life, I just can't comprehend anymore how we ever lived in a place so horrific.

I feel my eyes spill over and I'm grateful that Cressida has stopped filming already, because if Plutarch saw any tears on film, he would make certain it ended up on television.

I wipe my tears with the heel of my hand, trying to go about it as subtly as I can, hoping no one else notices. For the most part, I'm golden. Enobaria is already exiting, with Beetee following not far behind. Jo's back is to me while she speaks to Annie, though as per usual, she seems to be irritated.

Of course, it's too much to ask for everyone to remain oblivious to my waterworks. Even as I rid myself of them before they become widely noticeable, I feel Peeta's eyes train on me and know, despite the distance between us for the last few weeks, he isn't going to ignore my upset.

To my surprise though, he doesn't speak. He doesn't utter a single syllable.

Instead, I feel his large, warm palm slip into mine and squeeze tightly, lacing our fingers together, in a way we have done thousands of times before. Like two puzzle pieces coming together to complete a picture, like two indivisible teammates that will fight against anything that is thrown their way, like two halves of a whole finally finding each other, his hand grasps mine with a vengeance and I know I won't be the one who let's go.

He's still holding my hand when we board the train, hours later.

//

A couple weeks later.

"Yes, Mrs. Greenstead, I will get the chocolate nut loaf and a platter of the cranberry cookies wrapped up for you... Yes, it will be ready by the time you arrive... No, I promise they won't be cold," Peeta assures through the bakery telephone—a new addition that Thom and his wife thought was necessary to run a proper bakery. So necessary they bought it for Peeta as an opening gift.

It's not that the gesture wasn't nice or that Peeta didn't deeply appreciate it. I personally saw that he did, wholeheartedly.

But seeing it on the wall every day was just another reminder to me of my own personal vendetta against the integration between the Capitol's way of life and the districts'.

The only place telephones used to exist, outside of the Capitol limits, was the houses in Victor's Villiage, and if I'm being honest, I wish it would have stayed that way.

Maybe I'm being selfish, as I happen to still reside inside a house that once belonged to the said village, therefore I already had experienced this luxury prior to the new world. But I just can't make myself break the association between the items that had recently become readily available for all and the horror that was the Capitol.

Still though, the change was inescapable Telephones, cameras, heating pads, curling irons, quick bake ovens, cars and so many other items, were all growing in popularly across each district. Not that I was able to see a lot of these changes personally. But letters from Annie and my mom, and the occasional—unprompted and yet still begrudged—call from Jo, all kept me informed. Sometimes more informed than I wished to be.

Maybe I would feel entirely different if these inventions were brand new to me. But they aren't. I'd seen and used every one of them before. Their novelty had always been lost on me, perhaps because my only experience them was while inside the Capitol, surrounded by tacky colors and strong rose scents and itchy materials, headed for a death match, my life and the lives of those I cared always at great risk.

Of course, the new item in the bakery did make some things easier. Days like today are a perfect example.

Harvest Day is only one day away and everyone is coming in for their breads and their desserts. Peeta says it was always one of the most popular days, for as long as he can remember. Only difference is, before the war only Peacekeepers and town folks could afford to purchase anything. And generally, most citizens who even did come in, could only purchase a limited amount of items.

Not now. I don't know where everyone in Twelve was coming up with the money or if Peeta's prices are just a drastic drop from that of his mother's, but today, I swear I've seen every citizen in town inside the bakery.

Makes me glad that the portrait of me is hanging in the back, where no one else can see it. As pretty as it may be, as talented as Peeta is, I don't want a giant version of me displayed for all to see.

"Here you are," I politely say, handing two loaves of warm bread to a man who must be new to Twelve, as I've never seen him before. I'm debating on asking if he moved here recently when he passes a bill to me over the top of the pastry display.

"Thank you, hon." He smiles at me, looking at me a little too closely for my liking, as he swiftly walks out the door. His exit is met with the arrival of Val, a boy Peeta and I went to school with, who definitely was more Peeta's crowd than mine.

Val is a regular customer at the bakery, having always genuinely liked the Mellark family. His parents owned a small carpentry shop four spaces down from the bakery, and even with both them dead, he and his two sisters rebuilt the store, taking over their parents' legacy.

Peeta though is more focused on me now than Val's order. "Give me a second," he calls to his old friend, a little less polite than he had been all morning. "Katniss, what's wrong?" He asks urgently, seeing the look in my eyes.

I shake my head and push away the anxiety threatening to close in on me. "Nothing, just..." I hesitate, not even wanting to say it. Peeta's gaze refuses to lessen though and I sigh before finally mumbling, "That guy. He creeped me out. The way he was looking at me so closely..."

Peeta's hand touches my arm for a brief moment before pulling it away, making it obvious that he regrets the small act of even so much as touching me. But his words are still calming and they relax me a little. "He's gone now, Katniss. And if he scares you, I won't let him come back, okay? There's nothing anyone can do to you or me anymore. We're safe."

I nod, knowing the words like the back of my hand at this point, as it's the same mantra we always repeat to each other, every time one of us begins to panic or flail. But still, I open my mouth to refuse his offer. I don't want Peeta to turn away any sort of business. Not with the unpredictability and uncertainty this new world still rests on. We never know if the bakery will sell anything tomorrow or if all sort of income will soon dry up.

And we're the lucky ones, financially speaking, who were rich before the war and allowed—in a generous declaration by President Paylor—to keep the entirety of our money after. I don't have to imagine the anxiety others in the country must be in, knowing the curse of poverty all too well. I wouldn't wish that feeling on anyone.

"I don't want you to turn away people," I say quietly. "Not on my account. You need business to keep this place afloat."

"I have plenty of money, Katniss," he reminds me, a little darker than I expect. "And I'd rather you feel safe than own a popular shop."

His words unexpectedly touch me, unexpectedly cut right down to the depth of my bones, exposing my soft underbelly. I'm about to do something stupid, like touch his hand, when Val makes his presence known again. "Your shop is already the most popular in the district," he points out, not even a little ashamed for having listened to our conversation. "And besides, why don't you just look at the guy's name? Maybe you can look him up, see if he's alright or not."

Peeta gets a glint in his eye. "That's a good idea, Val, thank you." As he moves towards the register to, I can only suppose, look for the man's receipt with his name and signature, he gestures to his school friend. "Katniss can get your order."

I shoot him a glare, only half kidding. I did come to help out, here and there, today but I did not intend to be an actual expected employee. For free, no less.

Instead of saying anything though, I just grab Val his three cinnamon rolls, his two snack cakes, four bagels, white chocolate donut and a loaf with raisins and cranberries.

Val, like Delly Cartwright, was always one of the few people in Twelve who had a few pounds to spare.

Peeta has a type of friend.

"Found it," Peeta now calls, bringing over a slip of paper to where I'm handing Val his three bags of treats. "His name was Rod Catamaran."

Me and Val, for the first time perhaps, exchange a look between us. "That's an odd name for Twelve."

"I've never even heard that name before."

"He may not even be from Twelve, guys," Peeta says.

I roll my eyes. "Because a bombed out district is really a tourist attraction."

"Hey, none of that," Thom calls as he walks through the front door of the bakery, with Kanon Bagley on his heels. "We've rebuilt this place beautifully and negativity is not appreciated here."

"Yeah, Katniss," Peeta chimes in, teasing me. I'm about to kick him in his only real leg, as we're the only two behind the counter and no one else will see, when Kanon speaks up.

"Can I buy a couple of pastries?"

"Of course," Peeta says kindly, walking around me to personally grab the two items Kanon requests.

Kanon is new to Twelve. One of the few new additions this place gained after all that went down. He's a large man in his early twenties, with dark skin and dark hair and eyes to match. But the only times I've ever interacted with him, he's quiet as a mouse, his eyes a little forlorn at all times and he offers more discounts then he should at the candy shop he recently opened next to the bakery.

He's from District Eleven originally and it takes no real critical thinking to realize he had a hard life, even before the war.

I'm far too familiar with the look of scars etched across the eyes. So is Peeta.

That's why, when Kanon looks down at the money in his hand and realizes he doesn't have enough to afford both pastries, Peeta immediately brushes it off. "That's okay, they're on the house," he instantly promises, handing the small bag over to Kanon with a gentle smile.

"No, I don't want to take it without-"

"I made way too much," Peeta insists, lying outright to make it appear Kanon would be doing him a favor. I know he didn't make too much, because we've been flying through everything today and keeping the ovens hot in case more is needed.

Still though, I back up the fib. "He did. We've been wondering all day how we were gonna sell enough stuff so we don't have to feed the leftovers to Haymitch's geese."

Kanon glances between us shyly, before taking the bag from Peeta's hand and slipping the few dollars he does have into his pocket again. "Thank you," he says softly and turns to leave.

Thom pats Kanon on the back as he passes him, before turning to follow. When the other man isn't looking, he turns back to us subtly and mouths, "thank you."

I wanted to tell him not to thank me. I only watched Peeta make this food, I didn't assist by any stretch of the imagination. I didn't own the bakery or do anything with the money or finances. It was not my choice to give things away for free.

But I'm far too focused on the boy in front of me to say any of that. The boy with the bread, the boy who isn't really a boy anymore. The boy who just gave away food for no reward at all, even on the most demanding and strenuous day all year for his business. The boy who just showed Kanon Bagley the same kindness I begged someone-anyone-to show me at eleven-years-old and not one single person did.

Except for him. He did for me all those years ago what he did for Kanon just now, and I suddenly have the most inexplicable, irrepressible urge to kiss Peeta right then and there, in the middle of the bakery.

I don't, however, and it's for once not because I lost my courage. It's because the door swings open again, just as Val exits right behind Kanon and Thom.

It's the same man from earlier. "Hi," Peeta greets, this time not at all sweet. Clearly recognizing the man as the one who made me nervous before. "Can I help you?"

"Yes," the man affirms, his tone brighter than you'd expect given our chilly reception. And our blatant wariness for anyone new. "I forgot to get a pecan butter cake before?"

There is a beat where me and Peeta exchange a look, before I awkwardly move towards the display case and begin to pack up his item. Peeta waits for me to decide to help the man before starting to ring him up.

"That was a nice thing you both just did," the man says as he patiently watches me fold the white waxy paper over his pastry. "For that guy."

"You were watching?" Is the only thing that comes out of my mouth.

"Only for a moment," he explains, his tone still friendly. Either he doesn't know how to read people at all or he's the most even keeled person in Panem.

Because I know I'm being rude, to a man who maybe doesn't even deserve it, I force myself to say one thing conversational. "This is my mom's favorite dessert," I offer, gesturing to his cake.

The man raises his eyebrows in an act that looks almost feigned. "Really?"

I instantly regret trying to be even slightly pleasant. Even his mannerisms seem fake. I'm contemplating if I should say anything else or go hide in the back room with the warm ovens and my portrait, when Peeta presses a button and the register dings.

He's about to say the total when the strange man shakes his head and hands to me directly an unfamiliar bill over the display case. "Have a nice day, you two," he calls, grabbing his cake and swiftly walking out.

It's not until he's gone, not until I have a moment to process the second weird encounter with the odd person, that I even glance down at the crisp bill he handed me.

It's a bill with a larger number on the back than I've ever personally seen before. I knew these kinds of dollars existed—I'm sure I could have gotten plenty after my first games—but I'd never seen one in the flesh.

Peeta sees my reaction. "What is it?" His voice sounds alarmed and he's stepping closer to me, but all I can do is gasp out his name.

"Peeta, look." I hold up the bill and point to the number on the back.

His eyes widen too, taking in the amount with a dizzy smile. Of both relief that nothing's wrong and excitement at the digit.

"Do you think it was a mistake?" I ask suddenly, looking over my shoulder towards the window, wondering if we should track the man down and give him his money back, before he evaporates into thin air.

"No?" Peeta shakes his head, the wheels in his mind turning quicker than mine. His face turns to that of elation, as the large bill takes some pressure off the bakery's sales. "No, he said he saw us give Kanon a break. He was giving us something in return."

I'm about to say something else, I don't even know what, but it all flies out of my head when Peeta suddenly wraps his arms around my waist and swiftly pulls me into his embrace.

My entire body goes into lockdown and hypervigilance at the same time. I can't move an inch but it feels like every nerve in my body is abruptly tingling and on fire.

My sweater lifts up slightly and his bare arms graze my lower back, eliciting a shiver to run involuntarily down my spine as his face buries into my hair.

I wrap my arms around his neck after a beat when I can make myself move again, and I feel him smile against my skin. I'm so glad at that moment he's holding me up, because if he wasn't supporting my weight I'd probably crash to the floor, unable to even feel my legs beneath me.

And, as a rush of heat shoots out from the place where Peeta's lips brush my collarbone, I suddenly feel only gratitude, not irritation, at the strange Rod Catamaran.

//

Four days later.

The world surrounding me is green. Green and brown and fire-bitten and scorched. Every which way I spin, there's embers soaring from that direction too, waiting to lick me with their burning flames, ready to decimate me once and for all.

But through the smoke and haze, I still can see between the trees two blonde braids. I still can see a small figure standing on the other side of the fire. I still can see her shirt that's come untucked in the back, creating a duck tail that I desperately want to fix.

Just as I notice her, she whirls around to face me, her blue eyes big and bright and terrified. "Katniss!" She screams, the same way she did the last day she was alive. "Katniss, help! They're coming!"

I don't know who's coming or what's happening or where we even are, but all I feel is relief somehow. Relief that she's here, that I'm in her presence again, that she's almost within my reach. Instinctively I call out, "Prim!" Just so I can finally get a response to the name I've been shouting into oblivion for almost a year now.

"Katniss, help me!" She cries again and then looks over her shoulder. She's not talking about the fire between us, as it doesn't seem too intent on heading towards her.

I don't know what's coming or who she's afraid of, but my instincts now go into overdrive. My body suddenly snaps into alert and I whip my head around, to see if I can find an opening in the fire closing in on me, if I can find a way to get to the sister I lost what feels like only yesterday, if I can find a way to save her this time.

There's no gap in the fire though. It's crowded around me, front, back and side to side. The more seconds that pass by, the closer the fire folds into my proximity, and I have to brace myself before making a split-second decision.

But it's not really a decision at all. Prim needs me and I cannot fail her. I have to save her this time.

I take a bold step directly into the fire, with every intention of running through it somehow. Of running past the wild embers, scorching myself no doubt, but still making it over to my distressed, frightened little sister. But it doesn't work like I expect.

But really, does anything?

These flames are nothing like the fires I've encountered before. And I've been around more fire in my life than anyone ever should.

No, these flames don't burn me. They don't hurt me or put me through agony or singe me to pieces. They don't melt off my makeshift coat of skin and they don't further decimate it either.

Instead the fire feels like almost nothing. Like something almost itchy, something almost irritating, something almost painful. Something that make me want to squirm and scream and escape all at the same time.

Which is real ironic considering what else it seems these flames do.

They seem to hold me into place. The second I'm in their hold, instead of the horrific pain I thought I'd be in, I'm trapped in a series of almost nothing.

I'm not in excruciating pain physically, but seeing my sister standing ten feet from me, and not being able to move any closer, not being able to protect her from whatever she's terrified of, is worse than any amount of injury this fire could have inflicted.

"Katniss!" Prim screams now, her voice only growing in its frantic nature. "Help! Why won't you come help me?"

I try to scream, try to tell her I want to but I can't move. But it turns out that these flames also paralyze vocal muscles.

"Peeta's dying!" Prim yelps out, looking behind her again, her hands beginning to shake in a way she almost never let them in life. She always tried to keep it together, to remain calm and rational in a crisis.

Her words elicit something entirely new inside of me though. "Peeta?" I yell in confusion, my voice suddenly no longer paralyzed.

"They're killing him! Katniss, please, why won't you come here? We need you!" Prim is close to hysterical now and frankly, so am I.

"I'm trying! I just," I move my hands down my body, trying to push the flames away as they rises up to my chest, trying to just break free from these fiery chains once and for all. "The fire, Prim! I can't get out of the fire."

Prim's voice drops then, loses all source of fear, every ounce of panic. Loses any semblance of emotion. "Katniss, there is no fire," she states blankly, her eyes looking directly at the embers covering my stomach and legs. "There's nothing there."

I just look at her for a moment, completely speechless. Her words are inconceivable, her eyes are haunted now, her facial expression is unrecognizable. Even her voice doesn't sound like hers anymore.

Before I can comprehend what's happening, in the distance a gunshot goes off.

Prim delicately glances over her shoulder now, her blue eyes cold as ice. "He's dead," she informs clinically, before sighing deeply, her tone almost disappointed. "And so am I."

I don't know what happens next or how it occurs, but I fly upwards in my bed with such a start, I give myself whiplash.

I hear a loud screeching noise hanging in the air, a hoarse trepidation that almost makes me feel better. I don't know why but someone else screaming in the middle of the night gives me hope, as sick as that may be.

Only it's not someone else, I realize, as my throat burns raw. I realize with startling clarity that I'm the only making all the noise. I'm the one shaking so tremendously. I'm the one who is sobbing.

"Shhh," a voice whispers against the darkness, and I flail involuntarily at the shock. "Sorry, sorry," Peeta instantly apologizes, his hands gripping my arms with a little too much intensity, trying to still my shaking. "It's okay, Katniss, you were just having a nightmare."

His words do precious little to calm me down though. "She was there," I cry, the image, the feeling, of Prim standing only ten feet from me and not being able to reach her too painful for me to unsee.

"Who was there?" He asks tenderly, his hand coming up to cup my cheek. "Katniss, breathe."

I don't even bother listening to his advise. I haven't exhaled since I was eleven. "Prim was there. She was begging me to save her and then I couldn't, I was trapped but-but," I cut myself off, unable to form coherent words and thoughts any longer.

Peeta gets the gist though. "Come here," he whispers and pulls me into his arms, like he used to on the train, when my nightmares woke us both three times a night. "I'm so sorry, Katniss," he says softly now, and rubs my back in a way that elicits goosebumps. His way of trying to soothe my shaking. "I'm sorry you had to see that."

"You died too," I blurt out then. I don't even know why I feel inclined to tell him.

"What?"

"I was stuck and I couldn't speak and then Prim said you were going to die and I got scared enough that I could talk again and I thought-I thought," I stumble breathlessly, my tears pouring out against his shoulder now.

I feel his lips touch my cheek and I'm too upset to revel in the feeling of blood rushing there. "It was just a nightmare," he promises.

But my sentiment is unfinished. "I thought I could break free, that I could-"

"Katniss," he halts, still holding me in his embrace, rocking me slightly. "It wasn't real. I promise you, it wasn't real."

Those words, the words so often said to him by me, ring a bell that I didn't want to ring. It snaps me back into reality abruptly and without warning, I feel like my chest is going to collapse.

Because this means Prim wasn't really there, that she still is as dead as she was yesterday, that I still watched her explode into pieces all over the bombsite in the Capitol.

I still failed to protect her.

Peeta pulls back slightly then and rests his forehead against mine. "It's okay, Katniss," he says again, trying to calm my trembles by rubbing my arms up and down.

"How are you in my house?" I realize, with an intense sudden clarity. "How are you here? Are you real or am I still-"

He quickly puts me out of my misery. "You gave me a key, remember? A long time ago? We gave each other keys to our houses."

Oh. Right. I forgot all about that when he had his nightmare, didn't I?

Good thing he's an idiot who keeps his door unlocked at night.

He's explaining further before I can think to ask. "I heard you having a nightmare from my house. That's why I rushed over here."

I'm caught between embarrassment and gratitude. "Sorry, I really don't know what brought it on."

"Hey," he quietly reprimands, lifting my chin now to meet eye contact. "Don't apologize. No one understands nightmares like me."

I nod, accepting his words, though still a little uncomfortable with screaming for all the district to hear at two in the morning.

Then again, our entire neighborhood is Haymitch and the two of us, and our mentor was drinking like a fish last night so really, the only person who could have heard me is already sitting directly in my eye line.

To punctuate his words, when I don't respond verbally, he lifts my hand up and brings it to his lips tenderly.

And I don't know what comes over me or why. I don't know if it's because we've been growing closer again lately or if I just haven't felt his arms around me since days ago in the bakery and I miss the feel of it desperately, but I find myself abruptly throwing my body around his before I can talk myself out of it.

He catches me easily, like he anticipated my reaction and sways me for a long moment, until my breathing begins to even itself out.

"Will you stay?" I rasp into his neck, as I feel his hand tangles in my matted locks.

"Always."

[bleachbleachbleach]

HELLO.

I just wanted to say that I love, love, love your tags on that character/tool post a lot! Some of my favorite shows/books involve characters that can't keep it together and just barely make it to the end of the story or make it there in an "inconvenient way" and tbh I find that usually the narratives that follow these characters don't really work away from them either--the narrative is just usually more questioning instead of fully formed.

Like, 'what if/how would', y'know? There's less of a clear meaning and more just 'what if they hadn't done that. what if they had done that. what if all that meant nothing. what if that struggle was all there was'.

But oh boy, when they DO work away from the narrative. *chefs kiss*

I mean, most of my favorite Bleach characters are narrative nightmares who either hinder or cut off lines of theme in the story entirely. And, in general, I think there are A LOT of characters in shonen--a genre known for very long narratives that can't possibly complete every thought but also can't just abandon all those characters introduced ESPECIALLY the fan favorites or personal favorites--work in the way you described.

Tbh i think your tags really highlight why so many ppl get drawn to these characters/why they're so fun to play with in fanfiction.

If you have more to add or more thoughts about this you want to lay down I am here, eagerly awaiting and ready to pick them up.

Also, who do you think in Bleach is the most fun characters who sort of drop kicked the story, in your opinion? Who's the one you like the most? And who's the one you dislike the most?

[For posterity the referenced post is this one.]

Aww, thank you! That’s really lovely to hear. I was anxious about even putting it in tags because I don’t think I presently have the capacity to explain it well—and even if I did might still sound bananas to many. Or at least the bit about negotiating with characters and how *they* feel about being subjects in stories. Because as much as that really is my practice saying it out loud takes me back to like… FFN in 2003 where every store was prefaced by extensive chat-form back-and-forths between the fic author and their character "musies" and that is not something I think fandom would benefit from bringing back in force, hahaha. But anyway.

Here’s the part where I disappoint because I don’t think I actually know Bleach well enough to speak to it in this context. WHICH SOUNDS DUMB EVEN AS I TYPE IT BECAUSE LOL WTF IS THE NAME OF THIS BLOG WE ARE CHARLATANS AND POSERS FOR CLAIMING AS OUR NAMESAKE NOT ONE BLEACH BUT THREE BLEACHES but truly, my experience of Bleach has a shallow depth of field. I feel like I have weirdly intimate knowledge of some severe rabbit holes but a non-existent to uneasy sense of the gestalt.

Like idek man, in my "slow re-read where I am actually paying attention" Ichigo hasn’t even met Byakuya and Renji yet. ToT

I'm gonna put this behind a cut because it spidered all over the place, but in summary:

characters and their capacity to produce narrative failure

the charm of longform serialized series and their invitations to imagine stuff

me attempting to talk about Hitsugaya and feeling a fool, as usual

I guess in general terms, I’m really interested in characters and their capacity to produce narrative failure. Not failure as in 'bad' but failure as in things that break form or are circuitous or are actively detrimental to a narrative arc. All my strongest examples of what I’m thinking of are from a different fandom and therefore not relevant to this blog, alas. By comparison I think anyone in Bleach can keep it together better than the characters that are immediately coming to mind, lol. But I think this idea dovetails often with trauma narratives, or depression narratives, because these things are often… non-narrative? Like, there’s no fourth or fifth for minor fall or major lift. Sometimes it’s the same thing over and over again, or maybe nothing. Maybe it’s the exact same self-sabotage narrative dictates could have been avoided. Maybe it’s some act that emanates forth but cannot be explained because it cannot be explained and will never be explained. That’s a version of what I’m talking about, in any case, though not the only version.

Your note about longform shounen definitely resonates with me, too. In my mind I don’t like long things and I prefer series that are more self-contained but whenever I have ever landed in a long-term fandom, with a piece of media I felt obliged to carve out chunks of my life for, and to interact with at that level of creative fannishness, it’s always been something stupid long and serialized by the seat of its pants. I know plot holes or dropped threads bother a lot of people (makes total sense, don’t get me wrong) but I find these things incredibly attractive. I see them as invitations to join in the fun. Especially when it’s so much a part of the form and genre to have this, as you said, lack of real expectation that every thread will be followed to its conclusion (or that it would be worthwhile to do so) and every thought completed.

There’s this piece by David Grann that was published in The New Yorker in 2004 that I really love that speaks to part of this idea, albeit in terms of fictional universes versus fictional characters. But Grann is talking about Sherlock Holmes (Doyle original) and the ways that Sherlockians would like, approach apparent lapses in narrative and then solve them according to the established rules of the universe. I just love that. There’s also the line, "Never had so much been written by so many for so few," which LOL if that ain’t fandom I don’t know what is!!

I feel like I’m actually talking about three distinct but related facets of these thoughts in this post, except all at once and without clear transition, uhhhhh.

Gah, I am broken and now can ONLY think of examples from my not-Bleach fandom, but to try a different tack and add yet another facet to this already funhouse-mirror post, my various attempts to write Hitsugaya often feel like they come up against a version of this. I think Hitsugaya has aggressive side character energy, and I find it difficult to make him the center of a story and have it feel right to me. He feels different to me than writing other minor characters, where they can be the center of their own stories even if their story is not the main story. Like, two of my fave characters in my other fandom have literally like… three lines in 350+ episodes and it feels easier to imagine THEM at the center of their story and I think what it comes down to is that Hitsugaya probably prefers what he not be written. And when he does become more narrative I think he’d prefer that none of it was happening in the fist place. But at the same time he always seems to be…around??? whether there is really a good reason for him to be present or not. XD So while, say, he and Bartleby "would prefer not to" (because THAT'S what this post needs, a Melville reference), Bartleby actually opts out and Hitsugaya out here volunteering.

He also often feels non-narrative to me because he feels very declarative, if that makes sense? Like, the coming-to-decisions or coming-to-realizations parts of existence happen pretty quick, or are approached perfunctorily. I feel like I find narrative in the "coming" part of that equation and instead Hitsugaya will be like, well, I’ve already done that part without you, and/or plan to do that part in the future and it will still be without you, the audience. Anyway, here’s the determination I’ve made, here’s what I’m going to do, and here begins the long and probably tedious process of my doing that thing (off 2 go train in a cave for a bit). I don’t think he actually believes the world is that simple, Tab A into Slot B, but I do think he’s already made that assessment and can see coming to terms with that as a horizon, if that makes sense. So even if he doesn’t know the answer to something, or is completely at a loss of what to do (what to say to Hinamori? how to productively address the number Aizen’s done on him) there’s still not necessarily a story there. Maybe the answer is you grind, and it is repetitive and boring. Maybe you just hold things. There’s not even the act of learning how to hold things, necessarily, just the practice of doing so.

Wow, that probably doesn’t sound good! I feel like I need to suffix this with the assurance that Hitsugaya is my absolute runaway character in the whole series and this was true 15 years ago and it is still true now (truer, even) and everything I just said are reasons why I love him.

[itsclydebitches]

The thing is this is what we, Greek people, have been trying to say. A lot of us dislike Percy Jackson/Disney and such. We want people to stop silencing Greek voices and stealing our culture, but no matter what we do, we're silenced. We don't like our myths being twisted around like this. We do speak up. We do want this conversation had. But no one is listening. If other cultures can speak up about their issues with others taking their mythology like this and be heard, why can't we?

Of course you can---and you should. I think the disconnect in this particular case is that it’s not clear what the issue is. Most of the time when cultural/religious aspects are incorporated into fiction the issue is that the portrayal is insulting, either due to a specific inaccuracy (like that post that was going around a while back claiming that Moana was about women overcoming Maui’s male violence) or because it’s not appropriate for outsiders to use that aspect at all (like the concept of a spirit animal). Those are all concrete, teachable things that can be considered when writing fiction but thus far I haven’t encounter that in regards to Lore Olympus. All I’ve heard is: 

It’s bad to portray the gods in this particular way because it’s inaccurate, even though, as established, the claim of inaccuracy in these examples is not easy to back up 

It’s bad for non-Greek people to be writing these stories 

I’m a practical person. I look for solutions and obviously Option #2 is difficult---to put it mildly---because banning a huge amount of the world’s population from engaging with these myths isn’t something that’s likely to come about. Perhaps it’s arguable that it’s something that should come about, but on a practical level I doubt it will happen. Which leaves us with Option 1: What about the series in question do Greeks dislike and how can we change that? It’s important to articulate what the underlying problem is because blanket statements don’t get us anywhere. As a woman, I don’t claim that no fictional woman should ever be dressed scantily---I point to specific examples in which that lack of clothing functions as sexualization. As a queer person I don’t claim that queer characters can never be flamboyant---I point to specific examples in which that flamboyancy functions as an insult. What I don’t do is make statements like, “A woman should never be dressed in a short skirt” or “A queer man can never use flamboyant hand gestures” because I know both to be wrong: woman do wear very short skirts and gay men I know do act flamboyantly. So outright barring that from fiction acts as a limitation, not a useful way of respecting these communities. Obviously comparing gender/sexuality to religion/culture has its issues, but to run with the limited comparison, so far that’s all I’ve heard about Lore Olympus: Apollo can not be a rapist, even though, from a mythological standpoint, that’s arguably “real” in the same way short skirts and flamboyant gestures are real. Or, to put another way, it’s hard to disprove as potentially real. So to my mind that doesn’t help anyone. Now, if there are more objective inaccuracies, insults, and the like about various Greek Mythology based series then yes, absolutely call out authors on those. For example, I know Riordan was called out for having the Gods stationed in America because yes, that choice is insulting to Greece. I know that JKR was called out for how she misappropriated Native American lore. In both those cases there is an (almost) universal agreement as to the problem embedded within the use of that cultural element, so you call it out and  hope other authors don’t repeat the mistake. However, if the issue is “We don't like our myths being twisted around like this” then the only solution is that no non-Greek person can ever use them... and practicality aside, I’m not sure I can support that. Because that’s a mindset that would, by default, apply to every type of identity. You are not allowed to engage with this concept in fiction unless you belong to that culture/religion/community which, I believe, would be a huge limit to creative freedom. There’s a difference between saying “Uphold and prioritize the community members writing their own stories,” or “Teach authors how to do proper research into these communities before writing about them,” and “You can’t engage with this. Period.” Because that’s not a single term that authors can and should be happy to avoid (like spirit animal). That’s an entire mythology with a global influence. It’s a matter of scale. In the same way, asking for a practical, viable, appropriate solution to a problem is not the same thing as silencing. 

So yes, maybe that’s where we eventually come down. Maybe we decide that unless you’re Greek you have no right to re-imagine those gods as anything other than what they are in very specific recordings of these myths. I’m just one person and I don’t have the answer to whether that should be our solution---let alone how we’d enforce it. At the end of the day I read a web comic, I enjoyed it, and I made the mistake of saying as much on here. That doesn’t mean I know how to fix such a complex issue.