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thewriterwithnoplan · 11 months ago

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THE TRAITOR'S SOULMATE (2/2)

Summary: Humans once had four legs, four arms, two heads, and two hearts. For humanity's hubris, Zeus struck them in two. You and Luke Castellan are determined to find your way back to each other, but before that can happen, there are things the two of you need to do.

[Part 2 to The Hero's Soulmate]

Soulmate AU: You meet the future version of your soulmate.

Pairing: Luke Castellan x Reader

Word Count: 7378

Warnings: Canon typical warnings, swearing, I use the spelling 'mom' because the series is American but I - and I cannot stress this enough - am not American, she a long one.

A/N: I've loved reading your comments, thank you so much for all the support in part one. I hope you enjoy, because we all deserve a little Luke Castellan every now and then!

Masterlist

Amphitrite had been gifted a premonition and the world was all the worse for it. The dream had come from Apollo or perhaps the Oneiroi or whatever great heart pumped blood and Gods and monsters out into the world.

It did not matter to the Goddess from whom the vision came, for in this dream Amphitrite had watched her husband fall in love and sire a child to a mortal paramour. A precious boy that Poseidon might even one day love, with a taste for the colour blue and a heroism that would grow to rival his namesake. And for the Queen of the Seas, that simply would not do.

It would not be the child’s nor his mortal mother’s fault – she was not Hera after all – and so she would have to punish her husband for the blame would be his. But how was one to punish a King among Gods before his crime even came to be? Why to beat him at his own game, of course.

So, Amphitrite set out to sire her own demigod with the mortal man her husband would hate most. A devout catholic.

Amphitrite stayed with her mortal lover and their half-blood daughter until the girl was all but five. Far longer than the greater Gods were wont to spend with their offspring. But what a precious babe she had bourn and what a traitorous husband she had back home.

But fate and prophecies and soulmates were such funny things. Inciting chaos. Inviting paradox. Introducing dangers untold.

It took Amphitrite all those years – though seemingly short in her immortality – to realise her fatal error. She had been the one to leave Poseidon. She had been the one to sire a child. She had been the one to drive her husband to the surface and his mortal. And so, the blame was hers to shoulder.

Amphitrite decided that she would be a self-fulfilling prophecy no longer. It was time to venture back below the surface.

In a last fit of guilt, she bestowed her first and final act of mercy unto her mortal lover. She told him everything.

When finally, she had gone back to the sea to reconcile with her husband, the catholic man took his turn to bestow his first and final act of mercy unto his young demigod child.

Against all the teachings of his faith. He abandoned his young daughter at Half-Blood Hill. And let the devil-spawn keep her life.

The Spirit of the Hudson River never did learn to like you. You with your greedy hands, snatching debris from its murky waters. You and your strange sea creature friends who would not dare brave such pollution were it not for your presence. Your pile of war spoils tossed aside like children’s toys. Your strange little bubble of air on the sandy floor of the river, where you stowed your treasures and slept bracketed by water. Were it not for the pollution that slopped against the edge of the river as if it were trying to escape you, the Hudson River Spirit might have chased you and your sea friends and your collection of trinkets out of his waters. But as it were, you made a strangely amicable tenant for a demigod. So, as long as you paid your dues the spirit let you keep your little underwater oasis.

For your first years living there, you made your way in New York City by selling lost things dredged from your river home. Bikes and old weaponry and tarnished jewellery and buckets of coins from across the world. You were careful and you coveted your few precious belongings, but with the rivers bounty, you rarely went hungry.

By the time you were fourteen, you found you could venture further into the city without as many questions. You had met an odd assortment of people whilst selling the lost and unloved things of the river; all who knew someone, who knew someone, who needed another set of hands and so you offered yours. You babysat and cleaned, worked in delis and sandwich shops, helped old women with their groceries and young families mend their clothes. A retired teacher gifted you packets of schoolwork and with little else to fill your hours under the river you took to learning. Your numbers came easier than letters and reading always gave you a hard time but the activities she gave you each time you tended to her balcony garden gave you something to do when the sounds of the city kept you up at night.

All the while you followed Percy Jackson from the recesses of the Hudson. Shuffling your little bubble and its blessedly dry treasures up and then back down the river as he was bounced listlessly from school to school. Watching over him as the mythosphere tried desperately to barge into his little mortal life. Feral harpies that tried to snatch him into the air, great snakes that tried to sneak through air vents and all manner of underworld-born sea creatures that sought to pull him below. You had wrestled and dismembered and slayed them all. Adding their feathers and scales and great weapons to your dragons-hoard.

You were sixteen when you finally knocked on Sally Jackson’s door to introduce yourself. You had spent weeks working yourself up to it, planning your outfit and then fussing over each piece. All your clothes had been gifts and were often a size too big or printed with some generic tagline like Spread peace not hate!; or made entirely from yarn that the old woman whose meals you prepped at the start of each week had gifted you after she had taught you how to crochet; or like the dress you wore now, were sown together from thrifted fabric scraps and embellished with pretty shells and baroque pearls. You had planned the time you would arrive down to the minute so that her oppressive husband would be out, but the hour would not be so late as to make an unexpected visit threatening. You had planned to keep Percy safe while you were away from him by entrusting your friends Clarence the Crab and Emily the Squid to supervise him for the evening.

What you had not planned for was the possibility that Sally Jackson would be the most lovely woman you had ever met. You had been struck dumb by it the moment she opened her door and greeted you with a kind smile. Couldn’t your mother have chosen a mortal as gentle as she to be your parent? Alas, the Gods had never done a thing for you.

“Can I help you, lovely?”

You tried not to burst into tears as you asked, “Mrs. Jackson?”

“Are you alright?” She opened the door wider, leant out and scanned the corridor behind you. “Is there something you need?”

“No ma’am. I’m here about your son, Percy. His father sent me.” A good ambiguous statement that would pique her curiosity but let on nothing about the Gods. Allowing you to spin your tale – that you were Percy’s long-lost step-sister, come to reconnect.

“Poseidon?” Alas, the Gods had truly never done a thing for you. “Is something wrong? Is Percy, okay?”

“He’s fine Mrs. Jackson, I’ve been keeping him safe.”

She scanned the hall behind you once more, “You best come in.”

Over a cup of tea, you told Sally Jackson everything.

You liked your home under the river. For lack of a better term, it allowed you to remain liquid. You could follow Percy wherever trouble took him. You could stay up until the city grew quiet for that brief moment before dawn. You could train with the Hudson River Spirit, even if he only entertained you because he enjoyed winning.

You liked your bed made out of stacked wood pallets and a mountain of blankets. You liked your wooden chest of draws stuffed full of trinkets and weapons and the precious few items you owned. You liked this place that you had carved out with your own two hands.

But you also liked your home in the Jackson household. Where there was always music playing. Where it was always warm and dry. Where there would always be some blue-ified food in the oven or blue candy in the mason jars by the sink.

It became your job in the summers to babysit Percy, to keep him away from Gabe and from danger while entertaining his endless need for motion. You took him to art galleries (which he hated) and aquariums (which he loved), to craft fairs (which he tolerated because he liked the things you made) and swimming pools (which he only liked when he won your swimming races).

“What even is a soulmate?” Percy had asked you one day at the park.

“The person with the other half of your soul,” You scrunched your nose up, “Or well, that's what people say.”

“You’re saying I’ve been walking around with half a soul?”

“I didn’t say I believed them,” You rattled your water bottle in front of his face until he took it. “Stay hydrated.”

He frowned at you, “You don’t believe in soulmates?”

“Of course I do, but it's a little more complicated than that, kid.” You took the water bottle back and played with the cap for a moment while you thought. “Think of it like this. You can have two different puzzles that are cut the same way, right? So all the pieces from one will fit with all the pieces from the other. But that doesn’t mean they belong together, the picture doesn’t come out quite right because even though the pieces fit, they don’t necessarily belong to the same puzzle. Maybe that’s what it was like for your mom, like she couldn’t find the pieces that made up her picture and so she went with the ones that fit at the time.”

“You don’t think my mom and dad were soulmates?”

“I never met your father.”

“But he’s your dad too.”

“He’s my mom’s husband. Maybe my mom and dad are soulmates.” Percy didn’t seem to like that answer. “Maybe it doesn’t matter. Maybe your mom and my mom each have pieces that fit into your dad's puzzle but neither match his picture, or both. Maybe his picture is a year with your mom and a lifetime with mine and having you. Maybe he needs to collect all those little pieces at the right time when they’re the right shape or he’ll end up with a completely different picture at the end.”

“I kind of understand.” But he gave you a look that said he probably didn’t. “What picture are you making?”

You hid your smile behind the lip of your water bottle, “My soulmates about yay-high, pretty as a magazine cover with dimples and all. I’m collecting my puzzle pieces with you and your mom and this city so that I’ll have half of his picture.”

“If you know who he is, why don’t you just go find him now?”

“Still looking for some pieces, I guess.” You kicked a rock with the toe of your boot. “Souls are fragile. If you go rushing in and trying to jam the pieces in when they’re not shaped right just yet you could damage them.”

“What happens if you do that?”

“It’s probably harder to find each other in the next life. You’ll chip pieces away and your souls won’t fit right.” You shoved your hands into the pockets of your cardigan and pulled out a sandwich, you gave Percy the bigger half.

“Who taught you all this?”

“My mom used to tell me and well, I've thought about it a lot.” You tugged Percy by the back of his shirt so he didn't go stomping through a puddle, he glared. “But anyway, some people think it’s just fate. That you find your soulmate no matter what and it’s a perfect fit either way.”

“It would be easier that way.”

“Sometimes that’s just not how the story goes, kid.”

Percy thought that was the most important thing anyone had ever taught him, but he figured some of the other stuff you taught him came in handy too. You taught him the tricks you learned to work around your dyslexia. You taught him to skip stones and to not throw rocks at seagulls. You taught him to flip off the Empire State Building but only when his mom wasn’t around. You taught him to knit and do a cartwheel and make a good cup of tea to take his mother in the morning. You taught him to chew with his mouth shut and to sword fight with wrapping paper rolls. You taught him to braid hair and throw a punch and say all the swears in Ancient Greek.

And then one day, a Satyr came for Percy Jackson, and there was nothing left for you to teach.

You wrote Sally a brief letter of warning, picked your way through seven years’ worth of belongings and collapsed your life into a backpack. You said goodbye to Clarence and Emily with a brief promise to visit, pushed a final wave of pollution from the waters and thanked the Hudson River Spirit for his hospitality. He gifted you sixteen perfect round pearls and insisted that he never wanted to see you again. You spent the bus ride to Long Island threading them into a necklace made of fishing wire, tying off each pearl with your teeth.

It was a tentative tradition between demigod soulmates to exchange gifts upon their first meeting. So few and far between were the possessions of a half-blood that even the smallest bauble would likely mean the world. The practice had died out some over the centuries as the Gods received fewer offerings from mortals and turned to their children for sacrifices. Gift-giving to your soulmate as a demigod became all but synonymous with spitting at the feet of the divine and loudly proclaiming you would make offerings to your soulmate instead. A pearl necklace would be an excellent final addition to the collection of small gifts you had assembled over the years. Let the Gods weep at your feet and beg for scraps if they needed them so much, you would ignore them just as they had ignored you.

You arrived at Camp far sooner than you might have liked, a few hours past mid-day when hopefully the rest of your ilk would be occupied with meaneal chores and activities. You considered waiting at the crest of the hill for someone to notice you only to find a pine tree planted firmly at its peak where you might have stood. Instead, you make the alarmingly easy trek down to the Big House.

“Chiron!” He had always been your favourite of the two men, currently sat on the porch drinking juice and playing cards.

“Yes, my girl?” He barely spared you a glance as he shuffled his cards between his weathered hands. He stilled for a moment and then tossed his head back in the way a horse might toss its mane. “My dear!”

You raised a hand, halfway between a salute and a wave, “Nice to know I haven’t been totally forgotten.”

“Au contraire.” Mr. D stuck his nose up at you. “Which one are you again?”

“The little one that went missing some seven years ago,” Chiron stood as you climbed the stairs onto the porch. “How are you, my dear? Where have you been?”

“Shouldn’t you be at Yancy Academy?”

Mr. D’s eyes turned sharp in the way that had once made your friends whisper that some days, he was more maniac than man , “And how do you know about that little girl?”

“Percy Jackson is at Yancy,” You smiled at him, all teeth, “How did you think he survived long enough for your baby satyr to find him?”

“You have been protecting young demi-gods?” Chiron asked wearily.

“Percy Jackson is a full-time job, I’m afraid,” You tugged at the strap of your backpack, praying you could keep control of the conversation. You had a lot of time under the river to think and this was one of many things you had spent countless hours mulling over. Weighing and considering what story you would tell them – to tell the truth of both your parentage and put Percy in harm's way or to lie and balance your life on its sharp edge. “I found him in Manhattan, he was like a magnet for mythological activity. By the time I’d had enough of rebelling and wanted to come back to camp, I was protecting him from attacks every other week. He wouldn’t have lasted a month. I came back as soon as I could.”

No matter how many times you played it out in your head, the lies won every time.

“Kids.” Mr. D threw back the last of his juice.

“Perhaps you should settle back into the Hermes Cabin, dear.” Chiron smiled down at you, the corners of his eyes pinched, “You’ve given myself and Mr. D much to talk about. We’ll settle the issue of your paperwork tomorrow.”

“Of course.” You rustled through your bag, digging up a palm sized statuette that you set onto the table. “Before I forget, I brought you a gift Mr. D.”

“A toy,” He snatched it up. “Oh joy.”

“It’s you, as the mortals’ see you. It’s from the gift shop at the Met.”

“How kind of you, my dear.” Chiron softened, and you watched as even Mr. D’s temper seemed to ease, his hands gentle around the gift as he admired it.

An unseeing piece of plastic for the God who served as no more than a silent observer over the affairs of the camp. Let him choke on his ego, you thought as you left the pair to their discussion.

Cabin 11 was blessedly empty when you entered, but your old bunk was not. A pile of clothes was thrown haphazardly across the bedspread. You snatched a sleeping bag and a lumpy pillow from the storage closet and threw them down with your bag. If you could not have the bunk that had been yours at twelve, you would claim the corner that had been yours at five. As you shook out the sleeping bag and pulled out your belongings, you tried not to think of your bed of blankets under the river or Sally Jackson’s couch.

Instead you turned your mind to the Big House and the conversation that was no doubt happening within.

You had constructed a perfect image, if you did say so yourself. Grown in ways Mr. D could not have predicted but Chiron would insist he had foreseen. Still a rebellious young woman in the mortal sense, with your scuffed leather boots and ripped jeans. But the parts that had screamed ‘insubordination’ to the Gods were neatly tucked away. Your twin knives strapped to your forearms under the billowing sleeves of your crocheted top, your vicious tongue caged behind a sweet grin, your once sharp stare softened at the edges.

Once you had fashioned yourself so that the Gods could not paint you as a hero, now you fashioned yourself so that they might forget you were an enemy.

Let Chiron think you were a misunderstood wayward girl scout come home from her self-imposed quest. Let Mr. D think you were a stupid girl who had seen the world beyond the Gods’ protection and finally accepted that you needed them. Let them all think wrong. You had left to protect your brother and returned for one reason only.

“You’re here.”

You turned, and there he was, “Luke Castellan.”

He opened his mouth and then closed it, limbs jerking slightly as if he wasn’t sure whether to move toward you or stay put. He was almost certain you could hear the way his pulse was racing, his heartbeat clanging wildly in his chest as he searched desperately for a suave reply, but everything else seemed lack lustre when you said his name like that.

Your face twisted into something like anger and for a moment he thought he’d messed it all up before your lips curled and you practically spat, “I do like your scar.”

And then he was laughing at you, wild and bewildered and not the least bit contained. Before long you were laughing too, neither of you quite sure what was funny, just so wholly relieved as your chests were flooded with wonder and warmth.

It felt like fireworks and popping candy. Just as he had promised all those years ago. You resisted the urge to throw up on his Converse.

You might have been crying and he might been too but you weren’t exactly sure because one moment you were both laughing at nothing and the next he was on the floor with you. He held you like he had never held a single thing in his life, like he was lost at sea and you were the only solid thing for miles. He tucked your head under his chin and sucked in great forced breaths that you could feel beneath your cheek. Because he was warm and there and real. And that meant the last seven years, the better part of your life, hadn’t been for nothing.

You and Luke make your way to dinner side by side. You had spent the afternoon rambling about your lives, about your meetings with your future selves, about your home under the river, about his responsibilities as a camp counsellor and yours as your brother’s keeper. He told you about Annabeth and Thalia and the rest of his siblings, you told him about your parents and Sally Jackson and your sea friends. You gave him his necklace which he lets you fix in place at the base of his throat – you do not spend a moment too long running your hand up the back of his neck and through his curls.

He had been almost bashful when he gifted you a watch that matched his, inlaid with twin fragments of mother of pearl taken from the same shell – kind of like your soul had been, he had said. You swear you’ve never owned anything as precious. You let him strap it to your wrist as he tells you about spending a summer diving for it in the lake. And then softly, tentatively, he tells you about his quest.

Luke could have cried from the way you were looking at him alone, so very gently, like you could cradle him with your gaze alone. At a loss for words, you simply whispered, “I am so proud of you.”

His grip is iron-clad and you tell your next story with your face pressed into the side of his neck, pretending you can’t feel him shaking softly.

When you make your way to dinner you’re both glowing with the soft exhaustion of emotion. You all but lean against one another as you collect your goblets and fill your plates.

The other campers steer clear of you, content to leave Luke to chauffeuring the new kid around. You count yourself lucky, it was only a matter of time until one of the older campers recognised you.

You were almost to the end of the Hermes table – that perfect spot at the end where you might just have a chance of holding a private conversation after dinner – when Chiron interrupted you.

“Mr. Castellan, I see you’ve acquainted yourself with our newly returned camper.”

“That’s my job, sir.” You tried not to stare at the crooked smile he flashed the centaur.

“Perhaps you ought to show her how to make an offering,” Chiron says pointedly, “She’s been away for a long time, and it’s your responsibility to treat her as you would any other incoming Camper.”

Luke turned to you, his boyish grin still charming but the mirth leaking out of his eyes, “Of course. Do you remember how it’s done?”

“I do. Just not a lot of food to be spared in the mortal world.”

You squinted, the corners of your mouth pulled up in what Chiron would likely mistake for sheepishness. But Luke could see it in your eyes. How your anger had made you pointy in all the places someone your age ought to be soft. He wondered how all the jagged edges of you would feel against all the jagged edges of him. He thought maybe if the two of you were careful, you could make something smooth as sea glass and twice as pretty, together.

You dump a clump of mashed potatoes into the fire with an unconcerned flick of your fork. Luke lops part of his own meal on top of yours, you glare enviously at the reasonable portion he had left on his plate. You hoped the food would burn at the bottom of the braiser.

“Sorry, sir.” You mocked Luke. He stuck his tongue at you once Chiron had turned his back.

You hurried to snag the seat at the end of his table, sliding into place across from each other. You flounder for a moment, wondering whether to draw your legs as far under your seat as they will go or bask in the gentle brush of his knee against his leg. You settle for the latter and try not to evaporate under his gaze, as he stares at you even as you start eating.

Luke realised he’d spent too long staring when you all but groaned, “Don’t tell me I have to sacrifice my dinner to you too.”

He flashed you a grin, then tried to say as nonchalantly as possible,“Is that why you left? So you could enjoy a proper meal every once and a while?”

You stared at him for a long while, “You, future you, told me to leave, to find my brother.”

“Why would I do that? If you had stayed at Camp–”

“That’s almost exactly what I said to you.” You pushed your food around as you stared at a point just beyond his head, he thought for a moment that he could see the neurons firing behind your eyes, like a hundred tiny zaps of lightning, “But I’ve had plenty of time to think about it. And I think you were right to send me away.”

“I don’t think I’ll be hearing that very often.” He dodged the pea you fling at him with a grin.

“I think maybe if I don’t leave, I won’t become this me or do the things I’ve done and maybe that’s important for us or our future or some past you rewrote by telling me to leave.”

“Seems overly complicated.”

“I think it’s supposed to be complicated,” You couldn’t help but admire the quiet skill with which he wielded his cutlery, “If it were easy, we would find each other in every universe.”

He paused, knife aloft, “You don’t want to find each other in every universe?”

“It doesn’t matter what I want.” You speared a leaf of spinach onto your fork to hide your scowl behind as you said, “The Gods have made it this way to keep us separated.”

“We’re together now.”

“Which means they lost.”

Luke watched you for a drawn out heartbeat, then leaned over to transfer the perfect squares of meat he’d been cutting onto your plate.

You took a long moment to chew before you said, “So, your plan to send me after Percy worked.”

“I thought it was your plan.”

“I forgot to ask you whose plan it was.”

“I say it’s your plan.” He took a long pull from his goblet that left his lips tinted red.

“It doesn’t matter what you think.” You passed him a napkin before he could ask, “It’s what you will think.”

“Sure, Precious.” He smothers a laugh into the napkin at the way you scrunch your nose at him, “You know, because you're so protective of your food. Like Gollum with the ring.”

“That’s the stupidest explanation for a pet name I’ve ever heard.” But you’re damn near head down on the table as you laughed. “I definitely got the smarter half of our soul.”

“Then it was definitely your plan.”

You’ve still got a hand pressed to your face to conceal your smile when you say, “What about when I meet you? Any words of wisdom?”

“Try not to fall for me. I can tell you’re pretty charmed but it’s really not appropriate. I’m seventeen, and you’re what? Twenty-four?”

You launched your bread roll at him. You’re twice as incensed when he catches it whilst looking directly at you, “Asshole.”

“Smartass. See, two can play that game.”

Luke can’t help but think you’re just as pretty sneering as you are smiling, like no expression no matter how ugly could detract from your beauty. Maybe you’re like him, he scarcely dared to hope. Maybe you’re something better, another part of him whispered. The way you talk about the Gods and turn your nose up at them, and play their game only when it suits you.

You weren’t vengeful in the way he was. You weren’t the spitting vicious thing the Camp had liked to pretend you were when you weren’t around to prove otherwise. You were worse and better and everything he needed. You were a storm on the horizon, a snake coiled tight. You were better than just angry. You were disillusioned. Not a product of juvenile resentment but true wrath born of awareness. Not the wild foaming-at-the-mouth kind that he had imagined when he had first heard your name. But the dark carefully contained kind he had seen in the face you would grow into.

This, Luke thought, you were the start of everything.

It’s some weeks later when you stick your hands through the grating of the bunk above Luke as leverage to lean over him and croon, “Up and at ‘em, Pretty Boy.”

He pushed his face out of his pillow, curls sticking up at odd angles as he looked at you half-asleep, “What?”

“Remember? Training?”

“No,” He scrubbed sleep from his eyes, “What did you call me?”

“Sickly.”

“I don’t think that was it.” He propped his head up on a fist as he smiled at you sleepily.

It was so disgustingly cute that you had to turn your back when you said, “Just meet me there.”

Luke’s freshly showered and holding an apple core when he deigns to join you in the forest. He tossed the apple at you and you caught it without thinking. You fake gag at him as you throw it further into the forest.

You wiped your hands against his shoulder as you say, “I’m not sure if an apple core counts but that was dangerously close to an Ancient Greek proposal, Castellan.”

“I got hungry.” He shrugged. You squared off across the clearing, stretching as you warmed yourselves up for the ensuing sparring match.

“You’re going to have to do better than that.”

“Is this you rejecting me?” He landed an open hand on his chest and staggered backward. “You wound me, Precious!”

“Was that you proposing? Because I’m,” You wiped your hand again for good measure, scrunching your nose up, “Disgusted.”

“You would be honoured if I had just proposed to you.”

“You should be nicer to me.”

“And go easy on you just because you’re my soulmate? Unlikely.”

“Because, asshole, I’m the one who got you out of chores this morning, or have you forgotten already. You seemed rather grateful for your little sleep-in.”

He unsheathed his sword and twirled it round in his hand, “You’re a bad influence.”

“Like you weren’t ready to worship the ground I walk on when I told Chiron you needed to get my training up to speed.”

“Do you want me to tell you, you’re brilliant?” He pointed his sword toward you with that grin that made you want to hold him down just so you could admire it longer. “You’re brilliant.”

“You’re stalling.” You pull your knives out, one from your boot, the other from your belt. You miss your old clothes with their pretty sleeves and their personality, your camp shirt seems a poor trade in comparison.

“Stalling? Me?” Luke scoffed. “Never!”

“Don’t you have a counsellor meeting at half-past?”

“I do, so please don’t feel bad when you lose. I only have half an hour to wrap this up. You understand.”

“Who’s fault is that Mr. Just-five-more-minutes?”

He gasped in mock offence and lunged forward, his sword swinging at you in a great arch. You leapt back, out of his range, then ducked low and rushed toward him. Luke was quick, in a viciously smooth move he swept his sword at you again. You brought your knives together, bracing as the impact ricocheted up your arms. Admittedly, you were at a great disadvantage given that you were reluctant to throw a knife at Luke’s head – even though he’d demonstrated an impressive ability to swipe your wayward throws out of the air – and that he had an additional several feet of reach on you.

Luke feigned to the right, you lashed out at his left side and narrowly avoided his sword as it came down at you. He whistled slowly as both of you backed up to circle each other for a moment.

“You’ve got moves, I’ll give you that.”

And so the dance went on. Luke struck, you parried or slipped out of his blade's path with a flourish. You struck, Luke swung his sword and slipped around your blows. Finally, you found the chink in his precious armour. He fell back to his right foot when he deflected a blow. You jerked forward. You jabbed the knife clutched in your left hand toward him as you moved in with the right. Just as you hooked a foot around the back of his leg, Luke’s sword made contact with your left shoulder slicing through sleeve and skin. Luke fell backward with a sharp hiss, his sword flying to the side.

In the end you had laid him out flat in twenty minutes. Luke Castellan had spent the last seven years fighting to win. You had spent them fighting to survive. You supposed it didn’t hurt that the greatest swordsman to enter Camp Half-Blood in nearly three centuries was reluctant to let anything sharp or pointed anywhere near you. You secretly thought he might have been going easy on you for being his soulmate after all. You collapsed on the forest floor beside him, your chest heaving to draw in oxygen.

“I’m sorry about your shirt,” Luke huffed.

“Orange isn’t really my colour.”

He turned to you with a wink, “Oh but it is.”

You wave your hand through the air.

“I’ve gotten very good at putting broken things back together over the years.” He tried not to look at the line of stitching that ran from the ankle of your jeans to the rips at your knee. You tried not to look at his cheek. Instead you reached out and trailed your hands across his necklace where the pearls sat snuggly at the base of his throat.

“You’re wonderful.” He brushed his knuckles down your shoulder and they came away red. “Even covered in blood you’re the most wonderful thing I’ve ever seen.”

You groaned, “Sweetness, you can’t just say–”

“You call me Sweetness when you visit me.” He whispered it like it was his greatest secret. You traced up his throat to his cheek and pressed your thumb into his dimpled cheek. “You’re still being wonderful. I can’t think when you’re–”

“Wonderful?”

“Okay, Smartass.” He sighed up at the sky, then pulled the both of you to your feet, “Enough lounging, we need to get that cut checked.”

You let him dust the dirt from you and resheath your knives, one in your boot, the other in your belt. Silently revelling in the gentle way he tugs you this way and that. You were well on your way to the infirmary, shoulders bumping and fingers just barely brushing, before he spoke again.

“Where does it come from? The nickname.”

“Sweetness?”

He looked away from you and squinted off into the distance, as if you were suddenly too bright to look at, “Yeah.”

“My mom used to tell me this story about meeting her soulmate. She probably meant Poseidon, but at the time I thought it was about my dad,” The back of Luke’s hand bumped into yours again, his fingers catching yours, his gaze resolutely ahead but you were definitely holding hands. “She said it felt like swallowing lightning and gorging yourself on popping candy. Like sweetness.”

“You like popping candy?”

“It’s my favourite.” You gave him a queer look as if to say, it’s not yours, you utter heathen?

Luke laughed at you all the way to the Apollo Cabin as he listed all the reasons it was the sub-par candy option. Nonetheless, when you emerge from the infirmary, he unloads a fistful of little packets he’d pinched from the candy bowl when the Apollo kids’ hadn’t been looking.

“Who has sub-par candy options now, Sweetness?” You teased, your mouth crackling merrily.

“Keep calling me that and you can have all the terrible candy you want.”

“Try some,” You shoved a packet toward him, because if he kept saying silly things like that and looking at you the way he was you were liable to do or say something equally as stupid. “You’ve got half my soul, maybe it’s our favourite.”

“I don’t think they had popping candy when we had one soul,” He flicks the packet held between your fingers. “And aren’t you the one who says we’re puzzle pieces not halves?”

“You have been listening to me!”

“Hard not to.”

“Asshole.” You flashed your teeth at him.

“Smartass.” He said, but the bite wasn’t there. He was watching you again, in that way he did sometimes before he said something stupid that made you want to throw yourself in the lake or run back to Manhattan or do something equally as stupid, like kiss him. “You–”

You twisted your hand in the front of his shirt and jerked him toward you, the little sachet crinkling in your fist. For a heartbeat, you were both silent, an inch away and staring as if you could will the other to be the one to press forward. But then he closed his eyes and Luke Castellan was kissing you. Like lightning and popping candy. With all the elegance of two lovestruck teenage fools and all the heat of two people who knew they had all the time in the world but still couldn’t bear to waste a second of it. His hand held you by the chin and then splayed lightly across your cheek and tucked hair softly behind your ear. You were only just reaching for the mess of curls at the back of his head when someone wolf whistles.

“My favourite.” Luke grinned, licked his lips and then turned. Hands stuffed in his pockets and a big stupid grin stretched across his face, as he shouted at you, “Stay out of trouble.”

You flip off the Aphrodite kid who’d whistled at you, and hurried back to the Apollo Cabin. You and Luke Castellan were going to need a lot more popping candy.

You’re in the lake, encased in an air bubble, sprawled out side by side with your backs against the sand, when Luke tells you what he’s done. That mere weeks before your arrival he had done the unthinkable. He had robbed the King of the Gods blind and betrayed half the Pantheon in doing so. You weren't sure whether to laugh or cry.

You had simply laid there, silently, for what had felt like aeons to Luke but maybe that had only been because he had to keep reminding himself not to hold his breath. He wasn’t drowning. You weren’t going to turn him in. He hadn’t just blown his whole plan and his life with his soulmate in one fell swoop. He just had to keep breathing and wait for you to say something. He thinks that maybe your mother had passed on some divine knack for diplomacy as Queen of the Sea with the way you seem to turn the issue of his betrayal over and over in your head.

After a while, you reach your arm toward the bubble and the sky. For a brief, terrifying moment, Luke thinks you’re going to pull the lake down on him. When you don’t Luke spends another infinite second wondering whether he would just let you do it.

He tosses the thought aside and focuses on the coin weaving between your knuckles. Like magic, it appears and disappears around the bends of your fingers but it wasn't real magic, just you fidgeting. He pressed his lips together and tried not to think about you at the bottom of the Hudson River, flipping your coin and turning over the issue of your soulmate and your brother and the camp you’d left behind. What is it you had said? You’d had plenty of time to think about those things.

Maybe that's what you need now – time. He’s about to offer it to you, offer to swim his way back to shore so you can think, even if he'd probably drown on the way. He’d give you all the time in the world if he had it.

But then you finally speak, the golden drachma rolling between your fingers, “If you hurt my brother, soulmate or not, I will kill you.”

“I am your soulmate.” He insisted as the implication made his skin itch.

“You are.” Your smile was so gentle it almost felt sad. “So you understand that my love for him comes before my hatred of the Gods. If you have put him in danger wit–”

“We get married.” He blurted. “We have a future. I woke you, when you visited me. That must mean I win.”

“It means, if that’s the path we’re even on, if those people are even the versions of us that we become… maybe you don’t hurt Percy.”

“I won’t.” He swore and you weren’t sure how to ignore the half of your soul that lies so sweetly. “I wouldn’t.”

“Maybe.” You swallowed like you’d been chewing glass your whole life, and someone had finally offered you something substantial to sink your teeth into. “Maybe if we leave now, there’s a world in which I don’t have to pick between my blood and my soul.”

Luke was quiet for a long moment, “We could recruit him. You said it yourself, he’ll be more powerful than any of us.”

“He’s twelve.”

“He’s the son of Poseidon.”

“He’s twelve.”

“You were twelve when you left to protect him.”

“And look how that turned out,” Your grin was brittle, but he swore you were still the loveliest creature he’d ever laid eyes on. “I’m sat here planning to betray everything I was raised to follow.”

“You’re going to follow me?”

Your eyes traced the shape of his jaw, his nose, his scar. You looked pained, “I fear I would follow you into much worse, Luke Castellan.”

“I’m trying to lead you to something better.” He reached for your hand, took the drachma from your fingers, and pressed a slow, soft kiss to your palm. He smiled and there were dimples in his cheeks and tears in his eyes as he whispered, “We can try for better.”

“Leave Percy.” You pressed your fingers to his cheek, “Let him come to camp, let him join us when he’s ready.”

“You’re sure he’ll join us?”

“He will, I know it. We just need to let him see the Gods’ apathy for himself.” And you sighed. Luke wondered how many lifetimes your souls had seen, how many times you had searched for each other, how many times you had been torn apart. You sound ancient when you say, “You and I have seen more than enough.”

He turned his head and whispered in the scarce distance between you, “What do you propose?”

“We leave. As soon as anyone catches on, we take anyone who agrees with us and flee.” You brought his hand to your mouth and pressed your lips to his knuckles firmly, “We can plot your revenge and plan my new world on the way.”

Luke feels ancient when he promises, “Okay, on the way then.”

But he swears, as you lean forward and kiss him, that no matter how many times you do it this lifetime or in all the lifetimes until this story – of you and Luke Castellan – became ancient, it would still never stop feeling like the first time.

Like lightning and popping candy.

Tag List:

@emelia07 @star611 @7s3ven @kissingyourgrl @myxticmoon @shermanno @moonsficrec @soleilgrec

#luke castellan x reader #soulmate au #luke castellan #pjo luke #percy jackon and the olympians #pjo series #pjo show #percy jackson show #pjo #percy jackson #luke castellan fanfic #luke castellan pjo #luke castellan fic #luke castellan fanfiction

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smileyoongle · 6 months ago

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Pairing- VampireKing!Jungkook × Human!Reader

Genre- Arranged Marriage AU (Sort of?), Enemies to Lovers, Soulmate AU

Summary- Jeon Jungkook was known to be a tyrant, destroying anything and everything to get what he wanted. And this time, he wanted you.

A/N- Hi guys, this chapter is not essentially a chapter in the series. It is more like an explanation of the current world order in the series' timeline. Please remember, there is going to be no taglist for this series, so keep your notifications on. Okay bye :-)

The Exodus: Unveiling the Origins and Consequences of the Night-Walker Dominion

By Elara Claxon

July 14th 1324

Three thousand years ago, the world witnessed a cataclysmic event known as The Exodus. It was a day when Hell, overwhelmed by an unprecedented number of sinners, could no longer contain them. In an act of desperation, the Devil unleashed these tormented souls upon the Earth, transforming them into vampires. They emerged from their graves, giving birth to an era of terror and bloodshed. These night-walkers, driven by an insatiable thirst for blood, wreaked havoc across the world, decimating entire populations and forcing humanity into hiding.

For years, humans struggled to survive, constantly on the run, seeking refuge from their relentless pursuers. In the midst of this chaos, they began to uncover the weaknesses of these creatures and devise means to counter their strength. It was during this dark period that two self-chosen leaders emerged—Theron for the humans and Aristarchus for the vampires. These leaders, whose names have since become legendary, met in secret to negotiate a fragile peace.

At the time, the world was divided into thirteen nations. Theron and Aristarchus brokered an agreement to partition these nations based on mutual understanding, creating a semblance of order amid the chaos. For a while, this uneasy truce held, allowing both humans and night-walkers to coexist in their respective territories.

However, not all vampires were content with the division. A faction of them, hungry for absolute power, revolted against the established order. They waged a brutal campaign, overthrowing the human-controlled kingdoms one by one until only a single human nation remained. Today, the world is divided into twelve vampire kingdoms and one human kingdom, a stark testament to the aftermath of the great night-walker revolt.

To govern their expanding dominion, the monsters established a ruling council known as the Domini, composed of the seven oldest and most powerful night-walkers. These ancient beings, with centuries of wisdom and strength, assumed control over the night-walker kingdoms. They decreed that one vampire would be chosen as Emperor, tasked with overseeing all thirteen kingdoms. Despite this, the human kingdom remained autonomous, refusing to acknowledge the night-walker emperor’s rule.

The Domini also codified a set of laws and principles in a tome called "The New Order." This book became the cornerstone of vampire governance, outlining the rights and responsibilities of both the Primas and the Foundlings. Primas, the pure-bred who were awakened from the grave by Hell or some miracle, held a revered status. Foundlings, created from turned humans, were often treated as outcasts within their own society.

In recent times, tensions have reached a boiling point. The humans, determined to reclaim their lost territories and sovereignty, have incited revolts across the vampiric kingdoms. These uprisings have led to widespread destruction and loss of life on both sides. Cities lie in ruins, and the streets run red with the blood of humans and night-walkers alike.

The world now stands on the brink of another great upheaval. The delicate balance maintained by The New Order is crumbling under the weight of renewed conflict. As humans fight to regain their power and night-walkers struggle to maintain their dominance, the future of this fractured world hangs in the balance. The Domini, once thought to be the unassailable rulers of the night-walker kingdoms, find their authority challenged at every turn. The ancient treaties and laws that once held the world together are now mere relics of a forgotten era.

In this tumultuous landscape, the fate of humanity and night-walker-kind alike is uncertain. The echoes of The Exodus still reverberate through the ages, a grim reminder of the chaos that can ensue when the balance of power is disrupted. As both sides prepare for the battles to come, one thing is clear: the world as it once was will never be the same again.

Stay vigilant, stay informed, and may we never lose hope.

For information, or to report news, please find us at:

23 Shadowed Alley, Raven's Cross, Valoria

The Eyewitness Post | Keeping the Light of Truth Alive in the Darkest Times

#bts #bts imagines #smileyoongle #jeon jungkook #vampire jungkook #vampire king jungkook #bts vampire au #possessive jungkook #vampire jungkook x reader #jungkook smut #hard dom jungkook

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azapofinspiration · 6 months ago

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So I’ve caught up to Mairimashita! Iruma-kun, and there something that really struck me about the series especially during the second year Battler Party Arc.

Iruma and the antagonists, the Return to Origins movement, have similar desires, though their motivation, methods, and ultimate goals are different.

Because both want demons to help unleash and fulfill their desires.

But as I said, everything else between them is different. As Kirio said, either Iruma or his own competing (though similar) desires will come to pass because they cannot co-exist.

The Return to Origins desire to unleash everyone’s desire is selfish. It’s pretty clear it’s an every demon for themselves sort of unleashing, causing chaos as people’s desires clash that will most assuredly leave destruction in their wake. Though considering that’s several members’ true desire that’s all right by them. They also seem to struggle to work together, even if they can pull through in the clutch, as most of them don’t seem to like each other (as seen with Poro despairing over who he’s surrounded with, Baal struggling to keep his stuff together for what he’s doing and following Poro’s directions even if it’s for his goal, Narnia not seeming to be a full part of the movement but clearly aware and taking advantage of them for his own goals (which I suspect is a more orderly and less welcoming world than the chaos they seem to want to incite)). Which makes sense, as cooperation is hard for demons.

Then their methods are trickery and manipulating people and situations just to set things up exactly as they want them.

And it’s all in service of their motivation to unleash their desires freely.

Contrast that with Iruma, who’s just learning what his own desires and ambitions, has two motivations at the moment: to stay with those he loves in the demon world and help those around him achieve their desires.

And he’s been shown, time and time again, to ask what those around him truly want to do. Going back all the way to the early parts of the story this has been true but he’s been getting more and more blatant to me it feels as the series goes on. Like, the whole thing with helping Sylvia do something dangerous just to fulfill her desire to make art, to see Beem’s art, and to let others get to witness and marvel over Beem’s art as well, just seemed to highlight it to me(as well as the steps he took beforehand trying to get permission to let Beem create in the first place and potentially still use the original though that was denied). Maybe because out of all the risky things they’ve done before, this felt the most dangerous as even her sanity was on the line.

But as Iruma said, people say impossible and he (along with everyone else in the Misfit class, as shown when Soi revealed his initial desires at the start of the Music Festival) takes it as a challenge.

And then there’s his methods. Because unlike the Origins group, he first goes to using collaboration and cooperation, dragging everyone else in and getting help to achieve the impossible. And his desire and the person we’re focusing on’s desires, become everyone’s desire as well.

And in the newest arc (with the Love Trio! I love it! Platonic, QPR, or Romantic, as long as these dorks are together I’m satisfied), it seems he might also be taking a page from Sullivan’s book and focusing on the importance of education as well.

And the result is that everyone has fun and feels successful, marveling over it as their combined desire is fulfilled.

Because that’s the end goal from him that’s the biggest contrast to the Origins group: he wants to make a demon world where people work together to fulfill their desires, allowing everyone one to have fun and be a part of it as well. It’s probably still somewhat chaotic and I’m not sure how it’d work with a more destructive or despairing desire (as seen with how Iruma isn’t sure how to help Kirio yet but that seems to be a final arc lesson), but overall it seems a lot more appealing.

I don’t know. It’s just something that I noticed and thought was interesting.

#mairimashita! iruma kun #welcome to demon school iruma kun #meta #my post #suzuki iruma #iruma suzuki #return to origins #my meta

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bl00dlight · 6 months ago

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A Song of Shadow & Flame

CANON Dark! Aemond Targaryen x OC niece Targaryen. | SERIES

Warnings - Descriptions of gore, mischief making, family dysfunction, not proof read.

Author's note ● This is again apart of a 10k+ chunk I've split into three chapters for yall. So come on now... you know this is not going to be edited. Things are finally getting crazy and we finally getting in to it. Major Aemond and Visenya devilry is coming. As yes I did reference Storm's End at the end.

Word Count ~ 4.5k+

Tags - @mamawiggers1980

Index

i ● ii ● iii ● iv ● v ● vi ● vii● viii ● ix ● x ● xi ● xii ● xiii ● xiv ● xv

viii - 'Blood of Old'

The cascading light from the large window above created a harsh contrast to the dark umber stone walls of the Throne Room. On which, upon the Iron Throne sat King Viserys, decrepit and frail. Matters of the court had always been of grave disinterest to Visenya, to where she stood, amidst her family. Lucerys trial having been a matter of utter chaos so far, but Visenya found her mind drifting elsewhere – most entirely on what gifts she might be given from potential suitors.

She had narrowly tuned in upon the ramblings of Vaemond Velaryon as he petitioned the King that he, ought to be heir to the Driftmark throne over her brother. Of course, none of this was worth listening to, as it was merely the babbling of a scorned second son, jealous that he shall have to forge his own legacy rather than being handed one. She hadn’t bothered to listen to the delegation of the trial so far, only at times finding herself idly gazing upon any action that befell the court. Though it wasn’t enough to quell her desire to leave, she loathed standing for so long for her legs would always shake with impatience.

Her encounter with Aemond though, still present in the back of her mind. She had found it quite easy to stifle it for the rest of the afternoon – but admittedly, standing before the Green’s judgmental gazes instantly forced her to recoil back into her own mind. She could not bare the thought of meeting Aemond’s eye, his stance so stern and pious as he stood between Helaena and Aegon, who seemed equally disinterested.

It was the first she had seen of her eldest Uncle and Aunt, there was a small satisfaction that bloomed within Visenya knowing that Aegon hadn’t grown quite as tall as Aemond, who loomed quite considerably next to his siblings. Aemond was only a tad shorter than his Grandsire and hand to the King– Otto Hightower. Who like Aemond possessed a rather imposingly long and sharp gait.

The princess suddenly found her attention captured by the eerie silence that filled the hall, she looked to her father who’s mouth was curled in a wicked grin, “Say it.” He whispered to Vaemond, who stared so brutally at Lucerys.

His face turning into a smug, snivelling grin as he spoke and the sudden roar of his voice, caused Visenya to turn her head sharply, “Her children… are BASTARDS!” He bellowed.

Fuck.

It was the first word that entered the Princess’ mind, the first impulse of herself was not one of anger nor defence of her younger brother Lucerys, it was merely shock. Gasps and mummers trickled amongst the court as Visenya looked over to Jace, his jaw clenching. Luke on the other hand was panicked, his breathing turned to soft pants as he looked around the room, gauging everyone’s reaction. There was little time to react before Vaemond would land his second blow. He tilted his head, finding the eye line of her mother, who already clutched at the hand of Lucerys – a feeling of dread curdling in Rhaneyra’s belly.

“And she…” Vaemond spoke again in a mocking tone, he leaned forward before turning back to Viserys and continuing, “is… a whore.” The word slid of his tongue so effortlessly, as if he had thought it a thousand times before. Visenya supposed he probably had, for she had known that such vile whispers of her mother is what incited them to flee Kings Landing all those years ago.

The court erupted into a symphony of gasps and muttering, Visenya suddenly felt a bitter rage brew, she narrowed her eyes on Vaemond as she went to step forward but was surpassed her father Daemon.

The King suddenly rose from the throne, hunched over and unsheathed his Valyrian dagger, “I… will have your tongue for that!” Viserys growled.

Visenya then caught the reactions of the snivelling Greens, the ever pious Alicent and Otto feigning some form of shock, Helaena recoiling in discomfort. Visenya’s eyes scanned her looming uncle and watched with a harsh disgust as that slow, sharp smile curled itself upon Aemond’s pale face. His eye narrowed in a satisfaction which made the very bones in the princess’ body ache with hate.

The sharp slice of steel through flesh and shocked hollers of the court drew Visenya’s attention again, as before she knew it her father had drawn Dark Sister swiftly through Vaemond’s very head. His limp body thumping upon the ground, his tongue flickering with a gruesome squelch as

Daemon leaned his sword into the stone floor below, gazing with both satisfaction and disgust upon Vaemond’s bleeding body. The Rogue Prince spoke softly, “He can keep his tongue.”

“DISARM HIM!” Otto bellowed, guards rushing to subdue her father as he turned, chuckling.

The princess looked over to her father who smirked softly in a sick delight as he wiped Dark Sister clean and spoke again. “No need.”

Visenya watched with wide eyes as her father sauntered away, her head slowly coming back to gaze upon the corpse that lay before the throne. The blood that pooled from Vaemond’s severed head, revealing the entrails of his very brain. She looked up and her eyes befell Prince Aemond, who stood so still, yet his locked eye upon Prince Daemon as he walked away, the glimmer of what could have been amusement or admiration or perhaps even loathing dwelled in that lonesome eye of his.

The princess looked down, hearing the moans of her frail grandsire, but all she could do was stare at her father’s work. She felt no sorrow for Vaemond Velaryon and was in truth, happy he was dead. Her father had solved a problem no doubt. What troubled her more was the curiosity she took in sickening image of sliced sinew and bone before her, blood pooling to her feet, though she did not step away, instead letting the bottom of her gown soak.

●

Visenya sat before her vanity once more, combing through her hair, which shone like streams of moonlight in contrast to her lightly bronzed skin. To which she could attribute such a flesh to her mother, who tanned easily and beautifully amidst the rays of the sun. She had since been forced by Rhaenyra to bathe and change from her blood stained gown, insisting she let the gown be done away with. Visenya however, thought it made little difference, after all.. it’s crimson anyway? The princess had beamed at her mother.

She now wore another gown, one of a deep garnet which fabric gleamed in deep tones of maroon in certain lights. Black threading trimmed its long bel sleeves, embroidery which upon closer look appeared like curling vines. Her hair left loose as always and long laced black boots upon her feet. Had she been on Dragonstone, she needn’t bother with the hassle of bathing and changing, upon getting her clothing stained – she would have been allowed to roam freely. However, Rhaenyra had made it especially clear that alongside her behaviour, her appearance was to be kept orderly – she would not give the Hightower’s anymore leverage against her as a mother. Especially since they had been summoned to supper with the King. All of them.

As the hour drew near, Visenya had managed to stop into the library, wanting to see the place she spent so much of her youth so desperate to avoid. Visenya gave the guard a small, polite nod as he opened the heavy set door. Unlike other parts of the Keep, the library had remained relatively unchanged, she had noticed the stark removal of Targaryen heraldry which once adorned the walls. The intricate tapestries which showed Targaryen’s and their dragons alike in the most intimate of acts. All such were replaced by seven pointed stars, it was clear that the Hightower’s had taken their place upon the throne, in her Grandsires absence. The place looked more like the fucking sept than her former home.

As she entered the hallowed hall of the library, she noted the high towering walls of books which covered the space. It was unlike that in Dragonstone, which was much smaller and disorganised. It was structured, with endless rows and shelves of all knowledge. Upon small table tops were melting candles all ablaze, attempting to illuminate the spaces in which one could read.

Only a few maesters still dwelled, one giving her look of uncertainty as the princess gawked at the magnitude of the space around her. She looked to one of the maesters, a small, darked skinned man who tended to one of the shelves. Visenya trotted over to him, aloof to the noise she was making.

“Where-" She began, her voice a harsh noise amidst the silence.

The maester flinched and turned his head, beginning to shush the princess before his eyes grew wide at the sight of the Targaryen before him.

He hung his head, “Princess Visenya I apologise.. I had not-" He muttered in a meek accented voice. Likely hailing somewhere from Essos.

Visenya gazed at him aloofly, tilting her head as she interrupted him, “Oh. No.. I did not mean to disturb you.”

“No, no… by all means, princess.” He spoke with a shaking reverence. Visenya loathed when people treated her this way. Like she was so fragile as if one misspoken word would end with their tongues severed. She wanted to shake them, to tell them she did not give a fuck. However, she had supposed news of her father quite literally killing a noble earlier that day, merely because he misspoke against Rhaenyra - had served as a bitter reminder that maybe those below her do have something to fear.

Visenya raised her brow and then, looked down nodding. “Where might I find the Valyrian works?”

The maester rose his brow, he turned and the flickering candles casted a golden gleam upon his skin, “Valyrian works? Histories and such?”

Visenya tilted her head, “Well, not exactly. In particular, the likes of works written in the time of Valryia? Works brought by the Conqueror; recounts or mayhap detailing of its culture..” She spoke softly, disarmingly.

The maester nodded quietly, gesturing for her to follow. They walked further to the back of library; she followed as he led her through the shelves to a dark, heavy door in the stone. The knob a cast iron head of an opened mouth dragon, with what seemed to be detailing of old Valyrian sigils around it. The maester reached to the side of the frame, his fingers searching before he pulled out a small slot in the stone, revealing a rather odd key. The wards upon the key were of intricate design, so much so that Visenya was certain only one would have been crafted. Upon its very tip bore a small spike and the maester turned, opening his palm for her to take, “One must bleed to enter.” He spoke softly.

“How do you mean?” The princess shook her head, her voice girlish.

The maester gestured for her to rise her hand, subliminally asking for permission. Visenya nodded, raising her palm for him to take. He brought the spike of the key to her finger, pressing gently upon the pad, letting a small slue of her blood coat it. Visenya flinched slightly at the prickly pain, though the spike was particularly sharp, so it did not take much pressure. She raised her brow and the maester spoke once more. “Only that of blood of the dragon might enter freely.”

Visenya nodded, placing her finger into her mouth, gently sucking upon the small wound as she watched him place the key into the mouth of the dragonhead. The low rumbling of what must have been a rather strong barricade seemed to move as the maester spoke.

“A construction of Maegor the Cruel, built after the death of his mother Queen Visenya. Some say it was his mother’s last request, that Targaryen heraldry and histories be kept from the descendants of the Andals.”

Visenya raised her brow, “We’ve a library at Dragonstone? Where Queen Visenya herself, perished. There is quite the selection of Valyrian works there… but none are hidden this, thoroughly?”

The maester nodded, and gave the princess a knowing glance, his voice slightly amused, “Some also say Maegor was particularly paranoid.”

A cold gush of air hit her face as the maester pushed the chamber door open. They entered, and a spurl of mounted torches lit themselves. Clearly such works of magic, it was a surprise to the princess that, Queen Alicent hadn’t had the chamber walled off just to hand a seven pointed star upon it for good measure against such heathenry.

The princess perused the space, carvings of stone dragons in the corners of each wall. It was no bigger than a servant’s chamber, though adorned with Targaryen imagery. Most curiously, a narrow tapestry detailing the Conqueror’s journey to Westeros lined the top of the wall.

All its books were kept in shelves built into the stone itself. But it was a very a small and shallow alcove, which sat in the middle of the smallest wall in the chamber- that had caught Visenya’s eye. She looked to the maester who gave her a nod, waiting patiently by the door which had now, closed shut.

She reached the small shallow alcove, no bigger than chest one might keep storing treasures. It was arched in its shape, with Valyrian detailing etched in the stone around it. Visenya noticed the small, statue in its centre. A woman carved from steel… her hair braided down both sides, clasping a sword down her centre into the floor. The princess’ eyes narrowed further upon it as she realised it was but a small statue of Queen Visenya herself as the small etching of high Valyrian beneath it read, “The Conqueror’s first Queen.”

As the princess gazed upon it, she felt a sense of deep emotion befall her. There was something most overwhelming, primally familial about this place. The mere fact, Maegor the Cruel had made something so… beautiful in dedication to his mother, made her eyes burn with tears. Visenya reached out, her fingers grazed the small figure of her ancestor, feeling the cool steal against her. She reached out to take it into her hand, but found it was mounded to the stone, she pulled when suddenly the sound of unlatching metal rang true. It had seemed it was a small vault of sort and Visenya moved the masquerading alcove to the side, finding a very select amount of tomes within. There were but four books, all particularly whethered. But it was the smallest which Visenya found interest in, it was bounded in red dragon scale. Etched in were black markings in High Valyrian which simply read: Ānogar hen uēpa “Blood of Old”

She raised her brow and gently flipped through its yellowing pages, as she did so she felt an odd sense of pride and fear coil in her belly. Something familiar yet, dark about the text inside. She stopped, narrowing her eyes upon the words before her. Visenya was not yet entirely fluent in reading High Valyrian text. Though it was unmistakable, her eyes glazed over the strange depictions of markings on each page, her heart both roared with excitement and trembled when she realised it was a guide on Bloodmagic. Seemingly written by a Bloodmage of old Valryia… those who are the ones in which the Targaryen’s stem from, those in which merged their souls, their very blood with Dragons through these dark arts. Those who herald the name, blood of the dragon.

She turned and gazed at the maester before nodding, “I’ve, uh, found what I was looking for.”

The maester bowed his head in understanding, turning slightly as he gestured back to the door, “You are most welcome to retreat back to the library, Princess.”

“Oh, no I wished to read in my chamber. I must go.” She stepped forward.

Visenya gave the maester a pleading glare, she tilted her head as the man averted her gaze, his voice meek, “Forgive me, we are not to allow such treasures to leave our care. Tis imperative none are lost.”

The princess scanned the man for a moment, it was clear the maester feared the prospect of a potential confrontation, so Visenya conceded and turned, placing the book back in the vault. She gripped the stone to force the alcove door shut and muttered, “Hm, well, I… I suppose I might be able to come back on the morrow then.”

As the Princess the made her way back to the maester, she gave him a small smile and there was a clear look of relief upon his face as he nodded, “Of course, Princess.”

With that, the two left the small chamber, and as the Princess exited she couldn’t help but feel a tinge of frustration, now she had no choice, she would HAVE to get up to mischief?

After she had bid thanks to the maester, she made her way out of the library – her mind focused solely on the small book which held such forbidden secrets. As she made her way into the now darkened halls of the Red Keep, the Princess found herself lost in her own thoughts – so much so she had realised it was now, well now past the hour she was supposed to have arrived with her family to dine.

She hurried through the darkening halls, slightly exhilarated as the memories of her childhood flooded through her. Her hair whipping past her as she narrowly dodged a few serving girls who were too, making their way to the dining chamber. Their giggles filling her ears as she scuffled past them.

As Visenya hurried, her family had well arrived at the Kings’ dining chamber. Princess Rhaenyra sat at the lavish table, tapping her finger upon the deep wood as her thoughts dwelled upon the whereabouts of her daughter. Only a seat over sat Alicent whose face coiled with a smug grimace at the thought of Rhaneyra’s inability to manage her own spawn. The tension between them obvious.

Alicent turned her head to gaze upon her former companion. She muttered softly, “I am sure the King shall arrive most promptly. He merely takes time to rise, given his condition.” Her words but a rouse.

Alicent, of course, knew Rhaenyra was not thinking of her father – though nonetheless it brought a strange joy to her to speak to the Princess again, even if it was in an attempt to call out her daughter’s tardiness.

The Princess sighed, muttering politely, “It is not my father’s absence which I seek answers to, it is- “

“Ah, of course. The Princess Visenya. Well, I am sure she merely is readying herself to dine, a girl of her age and… liberty must be sure to tend to her appearance.” Alicent interrupted, her tone dignified.

A familiar scoff left the lips of Prince Daemon, who slouched freely upon his seat beside Rhaenyra, “I do doubt that she is… tending to herself in the mirror for all this time.”

Alicent tilted her head, her tone incendiary, “Hm, mayhap she is lost then.”

“From across the hall?” Daemon countered.

The conversation had triggered a low chuckle from Prince Aegon, and it was now clear that the younger Targaryen’s scattered about the table were now peaked to the rising tension between their elders.

Another stark scoff left the Rouge Prince’s lips and he sat up, feeling inflamed by the Hightower leech who sat so piously across the way. The mere idea that Alicent would suggest that his daughter would be so half witted as to get lost from a straight forward trip across Maegor’s Holdfast seemed to sparked a great deal of irritation within the prince.

Rhaenyra, placed a hand on her agitated husband, speaking lowly, “Daemon…”

Alicent looked down, her voice low and careful, “Or has simply forgotten.”

Swiftly, Rhaneyra’s head turned to Alicent, her brow raised as she spoke incredulously, “Forgotten?”

“I suspect she must be rather occupied, seeing to potential suitors, I mean. It is no surprise she may forget of the King’s request. Given she is unwed… well, I remember how swiftly you became drained and... lack for socialising during your courtship, princess.”

Rhaneyra bristled, her shoulders gaining height as she spoke with a measured restraint, “The matters of my daughter’s courtship is… not something I wish to discuss so openly, your Grace.”

Queen Alicent bowed her head in concession, “Of course. I apologize.”

A strange silence befell the table, and Rhaenyra was flooded with all the reasons why she had left King’s Landing, all the foolish underhandedness of court and snivelling glares of the Hightower’s. She felt that discomfort rise in her throat, already she felt rather bloated and discomforted from the babe, but now even more so.

Rhaenyra took a breath and spoke softly, nodding as though nil troubled her, “I am sure, Visenya shall… bless us with her arrival soon.” The Princess looked over, her gaze weakened as she prayed to all God’s who would hear her, that her daughter did stay true to her word of not causing any further harm to her mother’s reputation. That she would walk up those stairs and have a reasonable explanation. Though, apart of her seemed to accept the opposite.

●

After many minutes of running past servants and fumbling over her feet, finally with a huff Visenya found the common entrance to the dining chamber. She drew in a breath, collecting herself before she walked up the small staircase, hearing the soft chattering of familiar voices. Huffing slightly. Deep voices mumbled, those of her two uncles as she traversed the steps,

“This is the first I've seen you drink.” Aegon grumbled

The clear voice of Aemond rang, “Does me drinking surprise you?”

“You do not drink enough.” The elder brother retorted

A scoff was heard before Aemond spoke again, “You drink more than a bravosi sealord.”

“I drink just the right amount.” Prince Aegon confirmed.

Visenya finally came to the top of the steps, instantly noting her two uncles, Aegon and Aemond standing before the arch which led to the table. Their bickering come to a stop as they noticed the Princess.

Her eyes landed upon her family, who all; even the Greens – stood and sat idly about the space in their own conversations. Where she had entered, she saw her mother and father sitting on the far right of the table, Alicent and Otto to the right. Both her mother and the Queen stiff as boards, clearly uncomfortable by the notion of having to be within each other's proximity. Her siblings clustered too at the furthest end, leaving of course both Aemond and Aegon, who simply stared at her as they stood.

Visenya caught the eyes of her mother first who gave her a smile of relief, Daemon beside her snickering at his daughter’s tardiness. Her siblings giggling too, giving her warm glances.

Though it was not the eyes of her faction bother her. But the Greens, Alicent and Otto both with raised brows, almost as though they were unsurprised by her general lateness, though shocked that she had managed to turn up before the King had arrived.

However, it was the eyes of the two Targaryen’s directly before her – her two uncles which she had felt linger the longest. She looked to them, Aegon standing with a goblet clutched in his hand, his brow raising a small gleeful smile came to his face as he leered upon Visenya. In front of him, stood his younger brother, ever the joy-killer; Aemond’s face remained stern, harsh as he pursed his lips at his niece.

His mind coiling with an explosion of emotions, judgement, hate, rage, jealously – but one that bothered him the most was that he seemed to stare longer than he’d like. Despite her wretchedness, she had grown rather comely… perhaps too comely considering her lack of husband. What a waste of a womb, Aemond thought.

As Visenya stalked passed them she saw her siblings clustered by the far end of the table as she made her way towards them, she heard the low muttering of Aemond to his brother, “Even when the noose is so tight, they expect us to break bread?”

Funnily enough, the Princess could have agreed with her uncle’s assessment. It was absurd, the thought of having to make nice with those who drove her family from King’s Landing, those who have done nothing but sabotage her mother’s claim.

She gave her siblings a small smile, “How lovely you look.” Rhaena spoke gently, bowing her head.

Visenya grabbed her younger sister’s hand, gazing softly into her sister’s doe-like umber eyes, “As do you.”

“Do I look lovely too, sister?” Jace beckoned teasingly, his head tilting upwards from where he sat, clearly the prince was in good spirits with the news of his recent betrothal to Baela.

Visenya raised her brow, sitting at the end seat which was near her father’s. “Lovelier than the Maiden herself.” She crooned mockingly, hoping Alicent would hear such blasphemy. Her jest winning a small snicker from Daemon.

“You think so?” Jace smiled, turning his head to Baela who had now come to sit beside him. Following suit, Rhaena sat next to her sister, whereas Lucerys had joined Visenya on the end, sitting adjacent to his betrothed.

Baela gave him a sweet nod, snickering gently, “Indeed, your cheeks are positively rosy.”

The prince found himself slightly enjoying such a comment, he raised his brow in consideration and a scoff left Baela’s mouth as she rolled her eyes.

It was not too long before the King had ended up arriving, his sickly frame being carried by a grand chair which was placed between Alicent and Rhaenyra. All had now been seated, and of course, Aemond sat directly across from Visenya and her young brother Lucerys – his lonesome eye narrowing upon the dark haired boy.

It was clear, some old bones were still waiting to be picked, and the princess couldn’t help but feel a surge of discomfort at the clear storm that brewed within Aemond's eye.

○ix○

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myangelhaven · 2 months ago

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These are my recommendations of HYUNJIN fics! It will be updated once in a while for new stories I have read. Hopefully the links work (lemme know if it doesn't)

Credits to the authors!! All information written is taken from the authors' post and has not been modified. Reminder that some fics are NOT for minors, so please read the key and avoid 18+ contents.

HAPPY READING!!

KEY

[❀]: fluff [𖦹]: humour [𖤓]: angst [☄]: sad [☾]:smut [⟡]:smau [✮]: my favs

˖⁺‧₊˚ ˚₊‧⁺˖✮-------------HYUNJIN-------------✮˖⁺‧₊˚ ˚₊‧⁺˖

SERIES

Yes, miss by @scribblemetae [❀][☾][teacherxstudent][camboy][slowburn] ONGOING

It wasn’t your fault, you didn’t know this was going to happen, how were you to know the person behind the videos you used to get off to was none other than your favourite straight A student Hwang Hyunjin. How would you ever look at the boy with thick black glasses properly again?

Ask Mr Loverboy by @cosmic-railwayxo [❀][𖤓][e2l][chf2l][suggestive][rivals][soulmateau][doublelife] ONGOING

Ask Mr Loverboy is a column in the university’s newspaper that gives the students love advice. However, there’s a twist: Mr Loverboy himself has never been in love. He keeps going on dates with a new person every weekend in hopes of finding that spark he always talks about to his readers but so far, his strategy hasn’t been working.

In the search for his soulmate, he stumbles upon you – the person he absolutely cannot stand and is sure he never will. Yet, despite your history, you end up teaching Hyunjin the most valuable lesson of them all. Will he push through and finally find his one and only, or will Hyunjin give up on love forever?

What a complicated question. Too bad he can’t ask Mr Loverboy about it, he could really use his wisdom.

Crush culture by @kyufiber [❀][𖤓][⟡] 44 parts

there are a few rules to follow when you’re drunk, sleep deficit, or dangerously bored: never create fake social media accounts, never use those accounts to incite general chaos and mischief, and never ever lie about your identity, especially if it’s to the prettiest girl you’ve ever seen. unfortunately for him, hyunjin’s broken all three.

Only fools fall for you by @hyunjinspark [❀][𖤓][☾] [⟡][✮✮][fwb][slowburn] 70 parts

you're excited to finally get a new start at university, majoring in the thing you love the most; dancing, and you're positive that absolutely nothing can ruin the quintessential college experience for you.

that is, until you run into your lifelong rival, hwang hyunjin and to make things worse...you can't seem to get rid of him.

Sweet like candy by @staysuki [𖤓] [⟡][✮][e2l][s2l][suggestive] 70 parts

long time rival hwang hyunjin has been the bane of your existence for as long as you can remember. thank god your secret anon textmate always has your back— sweet, caring, and good with words. definitely not like hwang at all.

⠄･ ⋆ ･ ⠄⠂⋆ ･ ⠄⠂⋆ ･ ⠄more to come!⠄･ ⋆ ･ ⠄⠂⋆ ･ ⠄⠂⋆ ･ ⠄

☆-------Hyunjin's masterlist || skz masterlist--------☆

#skz masterlist #hyunjin x reader #skz recs #hyunjin recs

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autistichalsin · 3 months ago

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My chapter-by chapter analysis of The Hunger Games, chapter 1

Disclaimer: this and all future chapter analyses will contain spoilers for all the books.

What really strikes me about this chapter is what a masterpiece it is; a masterpiece of foreshadowing, establishing moments of characterization, worldbuilding and more, all without ever feeling like we're actually getting infodumped on. This is accomplished with Katniss's stream-of-consciousness storytelling. I've heard it criticized so much, but even aside from the very salient point that it fits her characterization as an emotionally stunted, traumatized, poorly-educated teenage girl, it still helps the story in moments like this. We feel Katniss's inner chaos, and it makes the story that much more immersive.

On to the spoilery part of the analysis:

When I wake up, the other side of the bed is cold. My fingers stretch out, seeking Prim’s warmth but finding only the rough canvas cover of the mattress.

There was a post, a while ago, that I can't find but wish I could. In it, the OP talks about how Prim is literally doomed by the narrative, not "heavily foreshadowed death," but literally doomed by the narrative, and this paragraph is the first sign, because Katniss reaches for Prim and feels emptiness instead. And re-reading this, I agree. The first thing we see Katniss do is reach for Prim, and find nothing. This time, it's temporary, but by the end of the series, it won't be. We've been warned, even if we don't realize it yet: Prim is doomed.

Scrawny kitten, belly swollen with worms, crawling with fleas. The last thing I needed was another mouth to feed. But Prim begged so hard, cried even, I had to let him stay. It turned out okay. My mother got rid of the vermin and he’s a born mouser. Even catches the occasional rat. Sometimes, when I clean a kill, I feed Buttercup the entrails. He has stopped hissing at me.

Katniss loves her sister and will do literally anything for her. Katniss also has no moral qualms about drowning kittens. With just one paragraph, we learn what a simultaneously harshly practical yet beautifully caring, loving person Katniss is. She has no room in her life for useless things like pets, and drowning strays probably helps the people of 12 in the long run by leaving vermin to be eaten by those on the verge of starvation. But her sister wants to keep Buttercup, and so she will. Katniss will sacrifice anything to keep Prim happy.

Foreshadowing. Prim is doomed.

Entrails. No hissing. This is the closest we will ever come to love.

STILL more foreshadowing, for different themes: both for one of Katniss's biggest complexes (I'll get into details about this later) and for the theme of love. Katniss doesn't truly love anyone but Prim. Her entire world, we know, is going to be shaken when she does finally feel that for someone else again. Once again, we are being introduced to the recurring themes of love vs practicality and the classic question, "how much pain is love worth?"

Katniss is going to answer this question again and again: for Prim, there is no amount of suffering too great. For others... she'll find different answers. Eventually.

My father knew and he taught me some before he was blown to bits in a mine explosion. There was nothing even to bury. I was eleven then. Five years later, I still wake up screaming for him to run.

The first hints of Katniss as a deeply traumatized girl emerge. Sometimes, when you're traumatized enough, thoughts can segue into The Event with no warning, just by proximity. And through the combination of blunted language and stream-of-consciousness leaps, we can see just how broken this has left Katniss. Unfortunately, this is only the start of Events for her.

My father could have made good money selling them, but if the officials found out he would have been publicly executed for inciting a rebellion. Most of the Peacekeepers turn a blind eye to the few of us who hunt because they’re as hungry for fresh meat as anybody is. In fact, they’re among our best customers.

A brilliant bit of worldbuilding. The Peacekeepers are working off of deeply corrupt laws, which they ignore because they too are being mistreated and systematically starved, even if they aren't as at risk as the people of 12. The system doesn't care about the very same people it safeguards to enforce its rules. This is the first hint we get that the system isn't sustainable, and it comes before we even fully understand what kind of hell this government is.

The theme of "bread and circuses" is going to be hammered down to us again and again that this is how tyrannical governments, including this one, pacify the masses. But when only the bourgeoisie are being given the bread and circuses, well.... the proletariat aren't going to take it forever.

The book hasn't shown itself to be the anti-capitalist masterpiece it is yet, but this is the first hint that we're reading a tale of class warfare.

“District Twelve. Where you can starve to death in safety,” I mutter. Then I glance quickly over my shoulder. Even here, even in the middle of nowhere, you worry someone might overhear you.

I have seen criticisms that this is an egregious case of showing and not telling, with Katniss constantly talking about the dangers of badmouthing the government while never facing them. But in truth, it's the opposite. Yes, Katniss hasn't been caught despite repeated statements that she could have, but we'll learn, here and in future chapters, that 12 has been receiving a sort of tradeoff with other districts; their more severe poverty places them below notice. No one thinks them capable of causing real trouble, and even their district specialty- coal- is later proven to be basically useless, busy-work. So they get ignored... for now. Until the oligarchs start seeing what the proletariat can actually do and crack down all the harder to ensure they keep their cheap labor.

Are you seeing the resonance with the real world yet?

Even at home, where I am less pleasant, I avoid discussing tricky topics. Like the reaping, or food shortages, or the Hunger Games. Prim might begin to repeat my words and then where would we be?

Here we see the dual themes of parentification and sacrifice. Katniss will be the adult, even though she ISN'T an adult, for her sister. She will keep quiet on things that hurt her, and upset her, to set a better example for her sister and keep her from getting hurt. Prim gets to have the normal and safe childhood Katniss never had, because Katniss has invested everything into ensuring she does.

We are taking a step up the ladder of self-sacrificial acts, here. In other words: more foreshadowing. Katniss will give everything for Prim. Prim is going to die, because Katniss is going to lose everything she cared about in the process of protecting everything she cared about.

In the woods waits the only person with whom I can be myself.

Katniss can't be a teenage girl. She has to be Prim's mom. She has to be tough. She has to be a provider. She has to be a trader. An advocate. She so rarely complains about it, too. But it shows here just how much she's given up. Only one place, and one person she can be herself with, and yet...

Gale.

Isn't this ironic. Because we are about to see, throughout the entire series, that this day is going to be the last time Gale actually lets Katniss be herself (and even here, there are strong hints that Gale wants Katniss to be something very different).*

*Disclaimer, because it seems important: my opinion on the Katniss/Gale vs Katniss/Peeta ship war is "team nobody." I think both of them were very bad for her in different ways. Any comment I make that seems like it is favoring one ship or the other... isn't.

“Hey, Catnip,” says Gale. My real name is Katniss, but when I first told him, I had barely whispered it. So he thought I’d said Catnip. Then when this crazy lynx started following me around the woods looking for handouts, it became his official nickname for me.

Maybe I'm overanalyzing, but I feel like this sums up the Katniss/Gale relationship so much. Katniss tries to speak, and Gale doesn't hear or understand her. Gale projects something onto her, and Katniss rolls with it. Sure, in this case it's a cute nickname, but it represents so much more to me.

Gale doesn't understand Katniss. Fundamentally. He understands the Katniss he wants to exist. The one who will run off with him and play house in the woods and indulge his little fantasies. He doesn't know very much about the real Katniss, at least as long as he's looking at her through a romantic lens.

“Look what I shot.” Gale holds up a loaf of bread with an arrow stuck in it, and I laugh.

Despite what I just said, I do love Gale and Katniss's friendship, and it breaks my heart that their friendship was as doomed as Prim. (Hint. Hint.) Katniss needed someone who understood the unique pain of parentification due not to abuse, but poverty- the kind where you aren't 'allowed' to feel angry at anyone within reach. Which is the worst kind of injustice. Getting mad at someone who harmed you is one thing, but getting mad at a system you can never (... yet) hope to change is different.

She must have really loved him to leave her home for the Seam.

It's said in a casual and sort of admiring way here. But Katniss is going to learn firsthand about the intersection between love and sacrifice. With the generational mirroring as a theme, especially between Katniss and Peeta, we're being given more foreshadowing that Katniss has self-sacrifice "in the blood."

I try to remember that when all I can see is the woman who sat by, blank and unreachable, while her children turned to skin and bones. I try to forgive her for my father’s sake. But to be honest, I’m not the forgiving type.

Another little glimpse into Katniss's pain and trauma. Her mom wasn't there when Katniss needed her most, and Katniss and Prim both almost died as a result. It wasn't her fault, and we see later that she regrets it deeply, but this still leaves scars. Your parents, above everyone else, are supposed to protect you. Katniss's mom didn't, Katniss nearly died, and because of that, Katniss had to sacrifice what remained of her childhood to become Prim's mom.

Katniss and Prim's relationship never goes back to just normal sisterhood after this. From the moment Mrs. Everdeen's trauma rendered her catatonic onwards, Katniss and Prim's relationship was infused with a mother-child dynamic that never left, not even when Mrs. Everdeen became well again.

It's so painful, all the more so because it's so real. I lived this with my little brother, albeit with stakes maybe 1% this high, when my mom became an alcoholic and my dad was too busy just trying to survive to really do anything. I was the one to take care of him emotionally, to show someone cared, to provoke my mom's anger so he wouldn't be hit, to make sure homework got done and he didn't skip school (I failed. Badly.) He still considers me more his parent than either of our parents. It never really goes away, even when you're both adults; that overdeveloped feeling of responsibility stays with you. Always.

And the worst part of it is when the parent who made you have to do this decides, on their own, that the time is right for them to come back. Katniss's mom is far more gracious about it than my own. She at least understood Katniss's pain, and didn't try to force the role on her; it happened only when Katniss was ready. But that too, as we'll see in a minute, was painfully real for me.

“I never want to have kids,” I say. “I might. If I didn’t live here,” says Gale. “But you do,” I say, irritated. “Forget it,” he snaps back. The conversation feels all wrong.

Once again, a hint that despite their sweet friendship and similarities, these are two tragically, fundamentally incompatible people. Katniss is in too much pain to think of ever having a family, and Gale is in too much pain to think of not ever having one. Katniss wants to survive the way she always has (which she doesn't realize isn't her destiny yet) and Gale wants to flee and survive literally any other way.

Both change in the end, but the underlying incompatibilities in their life approaches are still there.

And even if we did . . . even if we did . . . where did this stuff about having kids come from? There’s never been anything romantic between Gale and me. [...] Besides, if he wants kids, Gale won’t have any trouble finding a wife. He’s good-looking, he’s strong enough to handle the work in the mines, and he can hunt. You can tell by the way the girls whisper about him when he walks by in school that they want him. It makes me jealous but not for the reason people would think. Good hunting partners are hard to find.

A few very interesting things are happening here. One, we're getting another hint, first dropped during Katniss's thoughts about Buttercup, that Katniss has a pathological inability to believe others actually like her- romantically or otherwise. Part of it is low self-esteem, part of it is putting Prim on such a pedestal that Katniss feels she can never live up (and giving her more self-esteem issues) and feeling like anything she attributes to herself might take away from Prim, and part of it is just raw cynicism. And maybe a dash or two of the feeling of permanent othering trauma gives you. Especially when that trauma involves a realization that you're never going to be able to rely on others to meet your own needs. You're responsible for your needs and your loved ones' too.

(Katniss is one of the most complex and real characters of all time. I relate to Katniss an uncomfortable amount sometimes.)

The other interesting thing is that you're getting a sense, for the first time, of how much trouble Katniss has recognizing and processing her own emotions- a very common trait in neurodivergent people. She can sort-of-understand a feeling of jealousy, but can't quite put her finger on the reason, and fitting with her attitude of relentless practicality, she decides that it's the worry of losing a useful hunting partner. Because, after all, Prim is the only person she loves, she can't care for anyone else, there isn't room for that. To care about anyone else would be to "take away" something from Prim.

Katniss repeatedly raises the question of when self-sacrifice crosses the line into self-harm by proxy. When altruistic love becomes self-negation instead. It's sweet that she loves Prim so much, but the codependence... If this is the benchmark for love for Katniss, it's no wonder that she feels at this point that she can't feel it for anyone else. This isn't sustainable.

(Prim is doomed. We've been warned.)

I found the patch a few years ago, but Gale had the idea to string mesh nets around it to keep out the animals.

This is going to be a recurring theme; Katniss is too impulsive and lacking a sufficient cause-effect pathway to be a planner/strategist. Gale makes the plans now; later it'll be Peeta and Haymitch.

(Also, this is foreshadowing Katniss's lack of agency. She is about to become an audience member in her own life story. She found the strawberries, but she didn't decide what to do about them. Gale did. That's about to become her entire life.)

No one in the Seam would turn up their nose at a good leg of wild dog, but the Peacekeepers who come to the Hob can afford to be a little choosier.

There is a hierarchy still, where the Peacekeepers are starving, but not as starving as the people in the communities they're sent to. Everyone is hungry, but some are hungrier than others.

Hint. Hint.

“That’s not her fault,” I say. “No, it’s no one’s fault. Just the way it is,” says Gale.

"Remember who the real enemy is." Katniss gets told this repeatedly, by Haymitch and others, and eventually she learns the lesson in time to lead a successful revoltuion.

Gale does not learn this lesson. He will end up destroying everything he cares about in his pursuit of revenge against the Capitol and anyone associated with it.

Gale would normally say that there is a huge difference between Madge, the mayor's daughter who is pampered and comparatively privileged, versus the willfully malicious Peacekeepers; the middle class are still part of the proletariat, after all. But Gale, in his pain and fear, loses sight of it and lashes out. This time, it's just words. By the end of the series, when he gets actual power, it will lead to something far more catastrophic.

Prim is doomed to die, Gale and Katniss's friendship is doomed to end in the most bitter way possible, and Gale is doomed to be his own worst enemy.

Gale knows his anger at Madge is misdirected. On other days, deep in the woods, I’ve listened to him rant about how the tesserae are just another tool to cause misery in our district. A way to plant hatred between the starving workers of the Seam and those who can generally count on supper and thereby ensure we will never trust one another. “It’s to the Capitol’s advantage to have us divided among ourselves,” he might say if there were no ears to hear but mine. If it wasn’t reaping day. If a girl with a gold pin and no tesserae had not made what I’m sure she thought was a harmless comment.

Gale knows he's wrong to say things like that. But again, as said above, his pain and fear get the better of him, and cause pain to those around him. His normal philosophy is correct, but he loses sight of and discards it far too easily.

(Gale is going to lose everything because of his scorched-earth approach to anger.)

Also, a note: this is how the real world operates too. Culture wars to distract from class war. For an entire generation of readers, this was their introduction to the basic principles of socialism.

But what good is yelling about the Capitol in the middle of the woods? It doesn’t change anything. It doesn’t make things fair. It doesn’t fill our stomachs. In fact, it scares off the nearby game. I let him yell though. Better he does it in the woods than in the district.

Katniss is still hung up on practicality. When she rants about the Capitol, she is, subconsciously, crying for help. But venting for the sake of venting doesn't make so much sense to her, given her stunted emotions.

Another bit of characterization I really enjoy here is the realistic teenage behavior. Yes, they're the oldest in their families, responsible for their entire family and only able to support them by hunting, and they should "know better". But they're teenagers in a fascist government, with an already extreme list of traumas and corresponding problems with emotions. Of course they're going to act irrationally at times and scare off game because they're having a meltdown- even non-traumatized teens would do that sometimes!

They're teenagers. Incredibly well-written, realistic teenagers. They don't have fully developed frontal lobes with the corresponding gifts of planning, impulse control, cause-effect relationships, and other things yet. They're more mature than most, but they're still going to behave foolishly sometimes.

Prim is in my first reaping outfit, a skirt and ruffled blouse. It’s a bit big on her, but my mother has made it stay with pins.

This is probably a "the curtains are blue because they're blue!" moment, but this is another bit of symbolism I enjoy. Katniss, at Prim's age, was hunting and entering the Hob. Prim is being kept alive by both Katniss and Mrs. Everdeen. She has a dress that mostly fits. She has good meals now. She is protected where Katniss wasn't. The dress represents both the sacrifices Katniss made for her and the fact that now, Prim has the adoring mother Katniss didn't have. She has two loving people looking out for her, willing to do anything to keep her safe, healthy, and happy.

(Prim is doomed.)

To my surprise, my mother has laid out one of her own lovely dresses for me. A soft blue thing with matching shoes. “Are you sure?” I ask.

Katniss can't comprehend her mom doing motherly things for her. Both because of the parentification, and because Katniss still fundamentally can't believe that anyone, even her own mother, actually cares for her enough to want to do anything for her. Not after four years of Katniss carrying the entire family on her back. It's incompatible with the world she's lived in for the last four years.

Katniss is painfully relatable.

I’m trying to get past rejecting offers of help from her. For a while, I was so angry, I wouldn’t allow her to do anything for me.

Painfully. Relatable.

What Katniss is feeling in this scene, I don't think I can describe to anyone who hasn't been there. It's relief-bitterness-anger-hope-longing-mistrust.

"Oh great, look who's finally here to help now that things are okay again and I figured everything out on my own! I want you back. I want a parent back. I don't want to do this anymore. I can't stop it. I can't trust you not to make me do it again. I'd better keep doing it so I don't get my hopes up. How do I even live without doing this? How do I live as a person and not a caretaking robot for my family? Am I allowed to do that? What kind of selfish person would I be if I did, especially now that I've seen what will happen if you fail again? No, I'm not letting you do this. I'll let you pretend to the little one because they need a parent figure and they deserve to feel normal, but me? Hell no, do you think I'm stupid? I am taking care of myself, I already learned what it costs to trust other people to see to my needs and that is not a price I'll pay a second time, thankyouverymuch. Yeah, mom I love you. I'm glad you're okay now. And thanks for doing this for me, I guess."

It goes something like that.

But I digress.

In just this paragraph Katniss expresses so much of the pain of parentification, so succinctly yet vividly that it makes my chest hurt.

I just really, really love Katniss, okay?

“You look beautiful,” says Prim in a hushed voice. “And nothing like myself,” I say.

Ow. Just... ow. She says it so matter-of-factly. Like she's just accepted it into her worldview; Prim, the embodiment of everything good in the world, is beautiful. Katniss, the leftover, the thing that exists just to take care of Prim, is ugly. That simple.

I wish we could have seen Prim respond here; surely she doesn't like anyone, even her sister herself, talking about Katniss this way? Or maybe Prim is so used to these kinds of casual self-put-downs that she's stopped trying to talk Katniss out of it.

Again: painfully relatable.

I protect Prim in every way I can, but I’m powerless against the reaping. The anguish I always feel when she’s in pain wells up in my chest and threatens to register on my face.

Once more: Painfully. Relatable. You put so much into protecting 'your kiddo'. And then something comes along and reminds you that you're even more powerless than the useless adults in your life. It hurts. It feels like you failed. It's one thing for you to get hurt, you already know how to deal with it, but them?

Ugh. Dystopian fiction isn't usually where my inner abused and parentified child gets validated, but this series unlocked some things in my neural pathways.

Thank you, Suzanne Collins, for Katniss. I feel so seen in so many ways through her and her story.

Sorry. I know this is supposed to be an analysis, not a love letter, but damn if Katniss doesn't play my heartstrings like a fiddle.

“Tuck your tail in, little duck,” I say, smoothing the blouse back in place. Prim giggles and gives me a small “Quack.” “Quack yourself,” I say with a light laugh. The kind only Prim can draw out of me.

Sorry, I am going to try to not repeat myself so much, but once again it just... Prim gets to be a child, because of Katniss. She gets to be a normal-ish 12 year old who makes silly animal noises and can't tuck her dress in. Katniss was fighting for her life and trying to find food. And of course it's not Prim's fault- I love Prim. But there's something just so painful about this contrast. Katniss had her childhood stolen from her, first by the tyrannical government she lived in, then her father's death, then her mother's mental illness, and finally the needs of a child she never should have been responsible for.

It's no wonder Katniss spends so much of the series in that emotional state abused, neglected, and traumatized children know all too well. You're simultaneously precocious and childish. Too grown-up one minute and acting like a child the next. Katniss never got to experience linear growth, and her psychology sure as hell shows it.

Painfully. Relatable.

Also, yet again: Prim. Is. Doomed. She's the most important thing in Katniss's life, the rationale for every decision Katniss makes, the reason she gets out of bed in the morning. The one person who makes Katniss's life worth living. Precious, sweet Prim, who retains her innocence and kindness in a world that aggressively stomps out both, is doomed by the narrative in every possible way.

Anyway, Gale and I agree that if we have to choose between dying of hunger and a bullet in the head, the bullet would be much quicker. The space gets tighter, more claustrophobic as people arrive. [...] I stare at the paper slips in the girls’ ball. Twenty of them have Katniss Everdeen written on them in careful handwriting.

When you're a child, you can't comprehend something awful happening to your parents, because your life experience just hasn't shaped yet to show you that it's even possible. You don't understand that it can happen.

When you're an adult, you can't comprehend something awful happening to your child, because your life experience has shaped to show you exactly how it's possible. You know exactly how it can happen, so you can't believe that it can actually happen.

Katniss is at a stage of her life that would already be transitional in normal circumstances, where she'd start contemplating mortality- but she's already dealt with it for years.

Her own death doesn't scare her anymore. Her sister's scares her so much that she doesn't even think it's a possibility. After all, everything she's done for the last four years of her life has been for Prim. To keep her alive and give her the childhood Katniss lost suddenly and traumatically.

Prim is doomed.

Taking the kids from our districts, forcing them to kill one another while we watch — this is the Capitol’s way of reminding us how totally we are at their mercy.

We got hints of apathy and cruelty before, but now the curtain is, for the first time, being peeled back. This isn't a system built on simple oppression. It's a system built on raw sadism.

It's another sign that Panem isn't sustainable. People can endure a lot of cruelty when their loved ones are hostages, but there are limits. When those limits get pushed (hint), something will have to give.

To make it humiliating as well as torturous, the Capitol requires us to treat the Hunger Games as a festivity, a sporting event pitting every district against the others.

Bread and circuses. The poor give labor (food) and entertainment, and the rich receive them. The rich live sequestered lives full of privilege, yet ultimately just as much under the thumb as the tyrant as anyone else. But still supporting the system because they lack the empathy to want change when they benefit from the status quo more than they would from a new system, so they think. They are simultaneously disgusting and pitiful.

Like the comfortably wealthy Trump-supporting boomers we all know and loathe.

The last tribute alive receives a life of ease back home, and their district will be showered with prizes, largely consisting of food.

Our very first, incredibly subtle hint, that winning the games might be even worse than losing them. The first time reading, of course, you'll take this at face value. Later, though, you'll think of this and realize it was all only mockery and isolationism, a way of guaranteeing that the victors would be scapegoated by their District, ensuring they would never find companionship again even if their trauma didn't prevent it. And they can't complain, because, after all, they now have a life of comfort.

So many things are intersecting here; class warfare (Victors being an allegory for "temporarily embarrassed millionaires" and the American Dream) and the isolation of trauma and mental illness and more.

But suddenly I am thinking of Gale and his forty-two names in that big glass ball and how the odds are not in his favor. Not compared to a lot of the boys. And maybe he’s thinking the same thing about me because his face darkens and he turns away. “But there are still thousands of slips,” I wish I could whisper to him.

Katniss so rarely worries about herself, only those she cares for. Again; her own mortality is okay to her. It's those she protects she can't let this happen to. But since she can't even bear to face the possibility of Prim being chosen (Prim is doomed) yet, she focuses her feelings on Gale, not only worrying that he'll be picked, but worrying that he will be upset that she might be. She only spares thoughts for herself for a few brief seconds, in the next paragraph.

Katniss gets accused of being selfish so many times, but it's notable that those moments only happen once she volunteers to go into the arena, once her survival depends on a bit of selfishness. Before then, she's one of the least selfish people in the entire series, and I'd argue that even at her worst she doesn't count as truly selfish. She's a teenager trying to survive and return home to her family, not a toddler who won't share toys.

I’m feeling nauseous and so desperately hoping that it’s not me, that it’s not me, that it’s not me.

But, of course, even when you are theoretically okay with dying, being faced with the actual thing will still inspire terror. So for just a moment, Katniss lets herself lapse into worry about herself.

For just a moment, she thinks about herself- and just that fast, Prim is placed in danger.

(This is how Prim will die too, by the way; being put in danger the one time Katniss is focused on something other than her. Prim is doomed.)

Effie Trinket crosses back to the podium, smoothes the slip of paper, and reads out the name in a clear voice. And it’s not me. It’s Primrose Everdeen.

The unthinkable has happened, and Katniss's life has been changed forever.

And even though she can save Prim this time, it's only temporary.

Prim is doomed. Nothing in the world can prevent it now. Prim would die in the arena, but by going instead, Katniss has put herself in a position where any and all actions she does will spark a revolution that gives her a Pyrrhic victory.

There is no version of events where Prim lives.

Prim is doomed.

#katniss everdeen #thg #the hunger games #hunger games #primrose everdeen

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ginxyy · 3 months ago

Text

The past

The past has a habit of coming back and in this case it’s from too many bottles of soju

Anger burns like a ravenous fire, consuming everything in its path, and that night, it roared through me like a tempest. The sky was a dark canvas spattered with stars, fading into a strong scent of sizzling meat and laughter. My friends and I were gathered around a crackling barbecue, with drinks flowing freely, the warmth of the flames contrasted with the warmth of camaraderie. I could feel the pulse of excitement in my chest, a mirage of happiness, but beneath it all lay an uneasy knot of anxiety. It simmered, waiting for the right moment to unleash itself, and it came crashing down like a wave that left destruction in its wake.

Mingyu and I had been dating for a year, every day a tapestry of passion and affection woven into the fabric of our lives. But that night, as the fire crackled and the laughter echoed, I felt a shadow looming over us. Minghao, usually the easy-going, charismatic one, had consumed more than his fair share of soju. His laughter turned raucous, punctuated by the occasional slurred word but still rooted in a confidence that bewildered me. I wanted to enjoy the night, to laugh along with the group and send up toasts to friendship and love. Instead, I found myself gripping the sides of my seat, anticipation mingling with dread.

As the night wore on, Minghao's powers of persuasion had transitioned from jovial drunkenness to something more insidious: gloating. The glances he threw my way, the sly smirks, were cloaked with the kind of heat that made me uncomfortable. He launched into a speech, a series of exaggerated stories about our past, tales from when we had been undeniably hot and heavy, a whirlwind of youthful passion. My heart twisted in my chest, needing to feel grounded as the words spilled out of his mouth, words that painted our relationship in such vivid colors it was like he was splashing paint on a canvas meant for someone else.

“Remember how we used to light up the room?” Minghao grinned, waving his glass like a magician revealing his trick. “Those late-night adventures, the heat of our… chemistry?” He leaned into the space between us, his intoxicated bravado betraying years of history. “And can we talk about how beautiful she is? I mean, come on, Mingyu, you hit the jackpot!”

Each passing word was a dagger aimed intentionally at Mingyu, and I could see the tension creeping into my boyfriend's jaw, the way his fists clenched involuntarily as he fought to maintain composure. My stomach twisted painfully, and I shot Minghao a furious glance, willing him to shut up. But the alcohol had taken command, and my pleas fell on deaf ears. His eyes sparkled with mischief, a reckless joy that poured gasoline on Mingyu's simmering anger.

“Yeah, that’s right. You may think you’re the lucky one, but let me tell you about the fire we had!” Minghao continued, fully unraveled, oblivious to the mounting tension that threatened to shatter our supposedly joyful gathering. "How could you not be jealous, Mingyu? We burned like a wildfire together.”

With every sentence, Mingyu rose from his seat, the veins in his temples pulsing with a fury that I’d never seen before. My heart raced as I felt the impending explosion of emotions sweeping through him. He finally shook his head, anger pinching his features. “Shut up, Hao,” he warned, voice low, but the crack in his composure was evident. This wasn’t a joke anymore.

“What's the matter? Jealous?” Minghao threw back gleefully, not grasping the magnitude of the chaos he was inciting. The whole group grew quiet; they could feel the tremor in the air, taste the bitter tension that simmered like hot coals. My palms were sweaty, overwhelmed by a helplessness that spiraled through me.

Mingyu’s face twisted in a rage that seemed foreign, as if at any moment he would burst, like an over-inflated balloon on the verge of popping. “You think this is funny? Just stop!” His voice was sharp as a knife, slicing through the night and drawing everyone’s attention. The laughter faded as people began to realize how serious this had become, fingers clutching bottles with a mix of fear and concern.

I wanted to intervene, to diffuse the situation, but my own anger bubbled angrily beneath the surface. My relationship with Minghao had been a glorious blaze a wild summer that we both carried with us like a scar, but that time had passed. I loved Mingyu. I had chosen him, buried my past under the weight of every moment we shared together. Yet, as I looked at the two men, one fueled by nostalgia and the other by a primal need for dominance, I felt the anger that had been strangling me permeate my thoughts.

Minghao chuckled, beckoning Mingyu with an outstretched hand as if inviting him deeper into the fiery memory. “Oh come on, don’t pretend like you haven’t thought about it! We were amazing together.” His tone was teasing, but it stung

“I said stop!” Mingyu bellowed, anger boiling over, and before I knew it, he was lunging toward Minghao, ready to settle this with fists instead of words. “You don’t get to talk about us like that! Not when we’re here!”

“Mingyu, no!” I shouted, practically throwing myself between them as the other members scrambled to hold him back. “Please, don’t do this! This is insane!”

I could feel Mingyu’s rage pulsating like a wild animal fighting against restraint, adrenaline rushing like fire through his veins. Minghao gawked in disbelief, clearly having crossed a line he never saw coming. It took Seungkwan's steady grip and the panicked look on the others' faces to stall Mingyu’s advance.

“You’re my boyfriend, Mingyu! I’m Not his!” I cried, desperately seeking to break through the storm of emotions swirling around us. “You chose me! Remember our love? Please don’t let this moment ruin everything we have fought for!”

The sight of him struggling against his friends, the way his chest heaved in frustration, broke something deep inside me as I realized the danger of my words. Would Minghao’s drunken bragging haunt us forever? Would it rip open the wounds of my past and poison the present I had with Mingyu? The gravity of the situation overwhelmed me, but in that chaos, I could see glimpses of the man I loved the patence, the kindnessthat urged me to trust in him.

As the group worked to pull Mingyu away, I stepped closer, grabbing his shoulders. “Please,” I begged, feeling my heart race. “Let’s talk about this together. It doesn’t have to end in violence.”

Slowly, he relaxed, the fire in his gaze flickering and dimming as he met my eyes. In that moment, the rage subsided, replaced by the hurt and betrayal of realizing just how easily Minghao had pried open an old wound. I could see anguish writhe behind Mingyu’s eyes, and suddenly, the boiling anger shifted. It morphed into a complicated mixture of frustration and sadness that threatened to swallow him whole.

This was supposed to be a night of celebration. A testament to our love and devotion to one another. Yet here we stood, the ashes of a fire that should have created warmth swirling chaotically around us, the laughter now a haunting echo of what could have been.

“Let’s just go,” Mingyu murmured, expressing weariness. There was a shaky breath as he stepped back, wrestling with emotions that were still raw and frayed. I felt a profound sadness wash over me—would our love withstand this blemish? Could we turn and walk away from the chaos?

“Just… come with me,” I urged, my heart aching for the love that had brought us both so

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smoshsfavoritepizzaplace · 24 days ago

Note

I feel like I've been inspired heavily by The Twilight Zone and The Choose Your Own Adventure Series.

I thought it be cool for this to be in two parts from both Shayne and Court's perspective.

Alright, here goes...

It is Halloween Night and Shourtney are playing with a Ouija board and everything seems to be going according to schedule. Shayne being ever the skeptic, while Courtney is on an adrenaline rush from the whole experience, that is until it is time for them both to go to sleep.

When they awake they are both in for quite the shocker, this is where it gets trippy.

Shayne - Wakes up back in 2019! He looks exactly the same as he did back then, back in his old apartment, but he is Shayne from the present, and worst of all Courts not there.

Courtney - Wakes up in 2024, think everything is ok? Not so fast, this isn't our regular Court, this is them from 2019! Luckily they know just the person to turn to in times of crisis, all they need to do is just turn over on their side and he's right there... WHAT?

How did this happen?

Why did this happen?

Why is Shayne getting a text about shooting The Goldbergs?

Why is there a diamond ring on Court's left hand?

Overall, I want to keep this grounded and just be a wild escapade of the dream world for both of them, heavily influenced by their past up until present day. I wouldn't mind a supernatural aspect to it, but I just feel like that can get overblown too much, ya know?

I'm still deciding if I want it to be a Ouija board or a scary movie that incites all this chaos, and if I want it to be 2018 or 2019 for Shayne depending on whenever their relationship started.

I decided to have current day Shayne go back in time because I believe Court fell first and he fell harder. Given what Court said about being down bad for their coworker while doing Chanse's drag makeup.

Shayne gets to go back in time with all the knowledge of the present, while this version of Court gets to live out their fantasy which we all know becomes reality. Without having to deal with the mental gymnastics and nerves.

Now I wish I could write this, but unfortunately I can't write to save my life unless it is a term paper for college.

So, I am offering this idea for any creative writers out there who want to take a crack at it!

Some of my personal favorites :

@veecastillooc

@undercover-bro

@missflufffanfics

@winterxgardener

Obviously there is no pressure or anything like that. I just have been sitting on this idea for some time and I thought it would be cool to put it out there and see what comes of it.

If it were up to me and I could actually put pen to paper I'd love to make a couple of chapters. Either with or without the supernatural element, regardless it is open to interpretation!

Thanks for letting me showcase my idea, trying to be better about not letting my nerves get the better of me! They are just random ideas at the end of the day that I've jotted down here and there.

Why not give it a go?

🙏👋

I’m not saying this just to say it, but I genuinely enjoy this idea. I do think a scary movie would be a better cause of this bc it’s more shourtney coded than an ouija board. They both love movies (idk how they feel about horror specifically) but I can see them watching that more. I also feel like 2018 might be the move bc we don’t know when they started dating, but I’m willing to bet it wasn’t 2018. So it would make more sense, imo, of it being Courtney’s dream and not reality and her not being there with Shayne. But other than that, I could see this being a really great concept. Like I said, I don’t read fics but I would give this one a chance. And I would say to try writing it yourself, I feel if you really put your mind to it then you can create this if you really want to. But if you can’t, someone please get to writing this ASAP !

#smosh #smoshblr #shayne topp #courtney miller #shourtney #shartney #fan fic ideas #anon ask

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bigasswritingmagnet · 7 days ago

Text

Blood Will Out ch 9 - The Enemy Approaches

Summary: When Agatha Sannikova learns she is, in fact, Agatha Heterodyne, she inadvertently kicks off a series of events that reopens old wounds, drags secrets into the light, and brings war to the doorstep of the all but defenseless Mechanicsburg. Saturnus struggles to crush his enemies with a town almost as broken as his body; Agatha, determined to undo the chaos she's unleashed, plunges into the depths of Castle Heterodyne.

Raised by a literal saint and the devil incarnate, Agatha - with an unleashed mind, a burning spark, and a band of very unexpected allies - will fight to do the unthinkable: be a good Heterodyne and a good person.

< Prev chapter | A03 link

Mid-afternoon, the telegraph system went down.

At 5:15 pm exactly, a Corbettite monk, incandescent with rage and trailed by a nearly hysterical pack of tourists, appeared at the gate to inform them that the train tracks just outside the mouth of the valley had been sabotaged.

The next day, the usual stream of visitors and tradesmen died to a trickle before drying up entirely.

The Storm Lords were marching on Mechanicsburg.

Anticipation filled the air like humidity before a thunderstorm – filling the lungs and sticking to skin, leaving them all sweating on a cool spring day. And yet, in a strange way, the people of Mechanicsburg were enjoying themselves. For the first time in over a decade – honestly, in over two decades – they had a Heterodyne stomping around town, shouting orders and working on machines of chaos and destruction.

And Saturnus was in his element. The town had changed in the last fifteen years, but it was still Mechanicsburg, his town, his engine of beautiful destruction. Despite the stiffness in his fingers and the weakness in his heart, he could still feel Mechanicsburg singing in his blood. Every minute spent breathing life back into her, he felt more and more alive himself.

Mechanicsburg needed a Heterodyne, but so, too, did a Heterodyne need Mechanicsburg.

He wished Agatha could have joined him. He wanted to share it with her the way he had – briefly, when they were young and had not yet had an understanding of good or evil, when they had not learned to turn away from all that Saturnus was – shared it with Bill and Barry. But it wasn’t safe. Oh, Sturmhalten’s invasion was absolutely going to incite others. When word got out, Agatha's reputation as an incompetent might be deemed irrelevant, or perhaps dismissed as an act. But if they could maintain even a sliver of plausible deniability, they could at least keep some of them at bay.

Fortunately – surprisingly – Agatha did not protest. She had been perfectly willing to spend the last two days sequestering herself inside the house, working on some gadget or other with the Sturmvoraus boy. Saturnus did not approve in the slightest for a variety of reasons, up to and including continuing the proud tradition of grandfathers everywhere refusing to believe any boy could be good enough for his granddaughter.

He allowed it, however, on the grounds that Sturmvoraus made a useful, if somewhat galling, smokescreen. Agatha was not a Spark. She was simply helping Tarvek, getting caught up in his madness the way any Mechanicsburger would.

But he didn’t like it.

“A Sturmvoraus! And a Valois!” he exclaimed to the minion currently assisting him in converting the shaved ice machine back into a railgun that shot icicles two meters long. “Both in one body, you might as well befriend an actual viper! He picks locks, she said!”

The minion stifled a yawn; a rant was no good for getting you fired up in the morning when it was one you’d been listening to for two days. Saturnus yanked out the gyroscopic converter that had been gnawed to pieces by rust rats and tossed it aside. He began to adjust the wires and gears, making room for the new, slightly larger, but more efficient converter he had built.

“Is he a Spark or a common burglar? I’ve never picked a lock in my life! What’s wrong with a good blowtorch, I ask you? Or a miniaturized self-propelled battering ram? Lockpicks.”

He reached out and felt along the nearby table for the converter, which he was sure he’d set within arm’s reach.

“What did you need, my Lord?” the minion asked, snapping back to attention. Before Saturnus could answer, the converter was pushed into his questing fingers. Saturnus grunted in approval, glanced up, and did a double take.

Vole was not quite standing to attention, but his stiff-backed posture was not too far off.

Captain, Carson had said. It was doubtful that Mechanicsburg had enough fighting to keep him truly happy, but he’d clearly not suffered for it. He looked strong and well-fed; his uniform crisp and immaculate; his hat tall, if understated in decoration.

Saturnus tried not to look at said decoration, the Wulfenbach house sigil prominent and unmistakable. A gleaming reminder of Saturnus’ failure.

“De scouts from de far side of der valley haff returned. De army is here. It vill be at der valls in four hours.”

“Damn,” Saturnus said. “Well, the brat said two days and that’s what we got. Where’s Carson?”

Vole’s lip curled. “Dealing vit der tourists.”

“Ah, good. They’ll make excellent meat shields.” He caught the look on Vole’s face and sighed. “He’s getting them somewhere safe and out of the way, isn’t he?”

“Yez, sir.”

Saturnus made a noise of disgust and rolled his eyes. Even with Bill and Barry gone, the cleansing fire had scoured too deep. It might take decades for Mechanicsburg to go properly rotten again – if ever, considering Teodora’s effect on its heiress presumptive.

“You,” he said to the minion. “Go tell Teodora. I want her and Agatha in that house until this is over. She is not to open the door to anyone that isn’t me or Carson.”

The minion nodded, but hesitated, glancing at Vole.

“Go!” Saturnus bellowed, and the minion scampered off.

Only then did Saturnus realize this meant he and Vole were now alone.

They had not been avoiding each other. It was simply that the things they were working on were too important to leave to other people, and so necessitated any communication be sent via a third party.

Vole held out a folded piece of paper.

“De scouts’ report. Vut dey saw of de army before dey ran.”

Saturnus glanced at the paper, then at the device in his hand, and turned back to the icicle railgun. He wasn’t sure what he wanted to think about less: the last time he’d had Vole at his side, or the last time he’d seen Vole.

It’s not his fault!

No! It vuz willful. He tried to kill dem because he vanted dem dead! By Lord Villiam’s order, he lives, but not effen de Heterodyne could compel us to allow dis vun to stay a Jӓger.

“I need to finish this damn thing,” he said, and waved off the report. “Tell me while I work.”

There was a silent moment where Saturnus could not bring himself to look at Vole, but then Vole unfolded the paper and started to read out the list. Soon Saturnus was distracted by the grim picture the report painted.

Airships, battle clanks, cannon towers, foot soldiers, monsters...

“The Geisterdamen?”

“Dey did not see dem.”

“They’ll be here somewhere,” Saturnus said.

“Yez. I sent de Black Sqvad out to search for dem.” The rustling of paper again, as Vole tucked the report away. “Deze is not exact numbers. De scouts did not stay long. It vuz more important dot dey let us know dey vuz here.”

“No, no, they did right. Hopefully the next group will be able to get a better look.” He finished attaching the wires and selected one of the small brass rods that would form the cage to hold the mechanism away from the engine’s pistons.

“Dis iz more den I thought Sturmhalten vould be able to get hold of dis qvickly. Dey dun have a standing army.”

“The Fifty Families are always ready for a fight,” Saturnus said. Using two pliers, he twisted a rod into the shape he needed before welding it in place. “Sturmvoraus probably had them hidden in his basement or something.”

“Sturmhalten dun use siege engines,” Vole countered. Absentmindedly, he picked up a rod from the pile and twisted it into the new shape with his bare hands. “Dey dun march out at all. Dey trick de enemy into attacking dem, so dey can fight from behind deir own valls – und it lets dem claim dot dey iz de victims.”

Saturnus took the twisted rod from Vole, snorting disdainfully.

“Hah, and they only do that if they think they can’t get away with sending their damn Smoke Knights after the person they want dead.”

Even before the rod was set, Vole had twisted another. He passed it to Saturnus.

“He picks locks!” Saturnus exclaimed.

“Hy know, Hy saw. Vuz pathetic. Und he can’t take a hit eidder. De whole family is like dot, dey neffer do anyting to hyu face if dey can help it.”

“But they must have had the army already,” Saturnus said. “The Sturmvoraus boy got here barely twelve hours after Agatha did, and his father was two days behind him – and that’s on foot, with the siege engines. It takes time to gather those forces if they aren’t with you already. You can’t pop round to the neighbors and say hullo, I’m launching an invasion, can I borrow a cup of air support.”

“I iz telling hyu,” Vole insisted. “Dey got dem from somevere else. De airships are big. If der prince already had dem, I vould haff seen dem ven I vent to—”

Vole cut himself off, but it was too late. The illusion shattered, both abruptly, painfully remembering that this was no longer normal. Saturnus was not Vole’s Heterodyne. Vole was not his Jäger. Saturnus’ chest ached in a way that had nothing to do with his heart – not the muscle, anyway.

No one had asked Vole to get Agatha, but he had gone anyway.

Nobody needed to ask him.

Hy alvays know vut hyu need.

But Vole had told Agatha he was concerned only that if the Baron found out, he would think he was still working for Saturnus. Because he wasn’t.

“Carson thought you might have something to do with it, with you coming back the same night as Agatha, and Sturmvoraus knowing you by name,” Saturnus said, carefully.

“Und vut did hyu tink?” Vole asked, just as carefully.

“I knew what happened the second Carson said you’d arrived when Agatha did.” He tinkered very deliberately with the guts of the machine, not able to bring himself to look at Vole. “Only made Agatha cough it up so Carson wouldn’t be distracted.”

There was a moment of quiet.

“I think I owe you a debt,” Saturnus muttered.

“Hyu dun owe me a debt.”

“Restitution, then.”

“Hyu dun owe me anyting.”

Slowly, Saturnus looked up at him. Vole’s expression held no anger or malice or bitterness – none of the things Saturnus would have expected. None of the things Saturnus deserved. Only solemnity, a kind that was quite odd to see on any Jäger – or ex-Jäger’s – face.

“You can’t say that,” Saturnus said. “Not after—”

The alarm gongs began to ring.

“Dot is too soon,” Vole said, once more the captain of Mechanicsburg’s occupying guards, all professionalism. “Dey cannot be here already.”

“Something’s here.”

Saturnus maneuvered the chair towards the door and nearly ran into Carson coming the other way. The man was ashen.

“Soldiers coming from the east of the valley,” he said.

“The east? “

“Impossible,” Vole said. “Dere iz no vay Sturmhalten could get around der valley dot fast!”

“They aren’t coming from Sturmhalten,” Carson said. “They’re coming from the Refuge of Storms.”

The Knights of Jove. The Refuge of Storms, Sturmhalten – all heirs to the Lightning Crown, the legacy of that damnable Storm King.

“Oh, hell,” Saturnus said. No, that didn’t feel right. He slammed his fist down on the table, sending the little metal rods flying as the old fury burned to life. “They want to come for Mechanicsburg? Let them come! Let them beat themselves bloody against our walls! We will slaughter them like the animals they are! The survivors will decorate the mouth of the valley, and their dying screams will sing to Europa a reminder of why the Heterodynes are feared!”

Much better.

Carson fairly leapt out of the way as Saturnus sent the chair storming out of the room and down the battlements to the east wall. The once-Lord Heterodyne was so swept up in his madness, he did not notice the look on Vole’s face.

But Carson did.

For the first time, he felt something like pity for the ex-Jäger, and left hurriedly before Vole sensed it and killed him.

The people of Mechanicsburg erupted into an even greater flurry of activity. Weapons were prepared in double-time, active repairs wrapped up with creditable speed, the young and infirm sent faster than they could protest to safety in the Great Hospital, which made its own preparations for war.

Nothing happened.

Von Blitzengaard’s forces arrived first, growing from a smudge on the horizon to a long parade line of soldiers and battle clanks, but they camped just out of firing range and stayed there. Some hours later, Sturmhalten’s forces arrived, and did the same. No attack came, but neither did any messages, threats, or demands. They simply...waited. Pinned between the two forces, Mechanicsburg had no choice but to do the same.

What they were waiting for turned out to be a small dirigible, a swift-moving scouting ship that bore the Wulfenbach crest and arrived at dawn. It drifted up to the city and stopped, hovering, right over the west wall, which made Saturnus grind his teeth so hard it was audible. It did not land, but disgorged a single individual by way of an emergency drop reel.

It was an absolutely immaculate young woman who landed neatly before Saturnus. From her dark hair slicked back in its painfully tight bun to the fitted longcoat to the shiny shoes, she was such a picture of no-nonsense professionalism, Saturnus knew what she was before she even opened her mouth.

“Good morning,” she said as she tugged the drop reel to send it winding back up into the airship. “I am Millicent Kragen, questor for the empire.”

“Charmed, I’m sure,” Saturnus said scathingly. “Are you here to arrest the armies marching on this town in clear breach of the Baron’s peace, or simply raise a carefully manicured eyebrow at them until they go home?”

Kragen did not raise an eyebrow, but one did twitch slightly.

“I am here to investigate the allegations from Prince Aaronev Wilhelm Sturmvoraus that Mechanicsburg plotted and executed the kidnapping of his son, Master Aaronev Tarvek Sturmvoraus.”

Everyone’s jaw dropped.

“What?”

“Several days ago, Prince Sturmvoraus sent word to the Baron that a Jäger and a young girl from Mechanicsburg had entered the castle on false pretenses and kidnapped his son.”

“And what about our messages?”

“Yes,” Kragen said, in an amused, almost condescending tone that made Saturnus want to flip her straight over the side of the wall. “The Baron received those, too. I’m afraid your side of the story is not quite as believable. Geisterdamen? I’m far more ready to believe you wished to acquire a companion for your ward – the way you did for yourself.”

Saturnus’ lip curled in contempt.

“If you’re trying to use shame to cow me, it won’t work,” he said. “If Heterodynes could feel shame, we wouldn’t be what we are. Agatha ran away, as young people occasionally do. Vole went to get her back.”

“You sent your Jäger into Stur—”

“I iz not a Jäger.”

Saturnus was not sure when Vole had arrived on the walls, but there he was, staring down at Kragen with his own contemptuous sneer.

“Oh really,” Kragen said chidingly. “You expect me to believe that?”

“Der Baron does,” Vole said. “If he thought I vuz a Jäger, I vould be subject to de ban, und vould not be assigned to Mechanicsburg.” His lips quirked into a tiny, even more contemptuous smile. “Maybe hyu tink hyu iz smarter den de Baron? Hyu know better den him?”

Kragen’s eyes narrowed ever so slightly.

“I will do my own investigation into this matter,” she said, not-so-neatly sidestepping the accusation. “In the meantime, for the sake of peace, Prince Aaronev has agreed that if his son is returned, he will withdraw to Sturmhalten with no further action taken against—”

“Did he now,” Saturnus growled, and turned away from her. “I want men on every secret entrance to the town. Seal up every nook and cranny there is, and Carson, you go yourself to warn Teodora. Agatha and Teodora are to remain in the same room with no less than two guards at any time. Then grab that Sturmvoraus brat and get him out here.”

“You suspect—” Kragen began, but Saturnus thumped his fist down on the chair’s arm.

“Of course I suspect! The army is now a backup plan! Plan A is to keep us and you distracted while someone sneaks in and steals Agatha away – ah, there's that eyebrow!”

“You have a very suspicious mind, Lord Heterodyne. Or are you just basing this off of what you would do in his position?”

Saturnus snorted.

“I’m a Heterodyne, you pampered tracker dog. We don’t sneak around. We face our enemy head on with acid cannons and laser guns like Hell intended.”

There was a shout from below. Carson had not even made it to the end of the street – a guard was running towards them, waving his arms and shouting.

“They’ve gone! They’ve both gone!”

“Ah, how very convenient,” the questor said.

"Search the town,” Saturnus bellowed, “top to bottom—!”

“Not kidnapped, sir! They went off! Miss Sannikova left a note!”

Kragen frowned. “What the hell are you playing at?” she demanded.

But Saturnus had gone pale. Slowly his eyes rose, dragged inexorably to the hulking shadow over Mechanicsburg even before the man below drew breath to shout.

"They're in the castle!"

#girl genius #saturnus heterodyne #vole girl genius #captain vole

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