#and watching them absolutely strip the paint off the theater around you

[thelaurenshippen]

in honor of the wicked trailer, I'm dropping this here in case anyone's never seen it before. cynthia erivo, queen

[coffee-at-annies]

Depends on what campuses (don’t feel obligated to say) and what neighborhoods you’re in. Both primantis and milkshake factory are chains so you’ll find them in a variety of places. The only place I’ll specifically shout out in Pamela’s diner. You’ll want to get some of their famous hotcakes (pancakes). They closed the restaurant in Squirrel Hill but google tells me the one in Oakland is still open.

If you’re near downtown (Point Park, Duquesne) then the chains are located at/around market square. Point Park is close enough to the point itself and the rivers that it might be worth just taking a walk to enjoy the scenes. That’s also close to the cultural district - art galleries and theaters - and the convention center is on the other side of downtown, along with the Strip District - there’s the Heinz History Museum and the closest that Pittsburgh gets to an open air market/Chinatown. Also near downtown is station square (across the mon river - it’s mostly restaurants) and the north shore area (across the Allegheny river - featuring the stadiums + casino + Carnegie science center). I don’t know when opening day is for baseball but Pirates games if you want to watch the team lose. Duquesne is outside of downtown but relatively close to PPG Paints. It’s off of downtown while Point Park is in downtown.

Oakland is basically University of Pittsburgh (Pitt) and Carnegie Mellon (CMU). Between the two campuses you have the main public library + Carnegie Music Hall of Oakland + Natural History Museum + Museum of Art. It looks like the International is closing at the start of April but if anyone is local it’s a very good exhibit and you should see it if you have a chance. Also in Oakland is Phipps Conservatory if you like plants and aren’t allergic. There’s tons of cheap places to eat it’s a college neighborhood. I’ve always been a fan of Dave and Andy’s ice cream in the area. It’s a toss up if then or Millie’s is the best ice cream in the city.

Chatham campus is pretty self contained and it’s between Squirrel Hill and Shadyside. Shadyside has some bougie shopping but not really anything worth seeing as an attraction. Squirrel Hill is similar in that it’s small shops and restaurants but skews more college/high school in price points and is slowly switching over from Jewish to Asian as people move into the area. I can give you recommendations for places to eat but Pamela’s isn’t there anymore.

If you’re looking at Robert Morris, be aware that’s 30 min outside of the city. I doubt you’re looking at CCAC (community college) but that’s got campuses everywhere.

If you’re looking for things to kill an afternoon, North Side has the Aviary, the zoo (opposite side of the city) will probably be open, and the waterfront has the movie theater (and also hotels+chain restaurants which is why I’m bringing it up). In terms of places to eat for the authentic experience, there are places I can recommend based on where in the city you’ll be but I don’t know what type of food you like so that’s hard, and also like there’s very few things you absolutely have to hit.

Have fun, good luck with touring. I hope it’s a nice visit and you’re able to see a pens game.

@coffee-at-annies @ginsieng (or anyone else in or near pittsburgh)

im going there in april for some campus tours. besides the milkshake factory and (maybe) primanti bros, are there any other places i need to go to while im there?

[starlitheaven]

𝐃𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐂𝐡𝐨𝐬𝐨 ♡

pairing: choso x reader

note: slightly nsfw at the end. headcanons on what it’d be like being in a relationship with choso<3. I absolutely adore him (as all hot people do)

❥ Choso absolutely adores cuddling. His love language would be acts of service and physical touch. When he’s the big spoon, he’ll wrap his arms around you to secure your back against his chest and kiss the top of your head. When he’s the smaller spoon, he likes to rest his head against your chest while one of your arms is wrapped around him and the other is playing with his hair. 

❥ He’d suddenly cradle your face, very gently. You look up and smile at him as he pulls you into a kiss. 

❥ Attentive to you and how you’re feeling. If something is bothering you, he won’t always ask about it but he’d remain observant. You don’t always want to talk about something bothering you in your life and sometimes you do. He somehow knows when you want to be asked, and when you just want his presence to comfort you.

❥ He’s a listener more than a talker, so he’ll prefer someone who’s more talkative. He loves the sound of your voice anyway, especially when he’s resting on top of you.

❥ Very overprotective of you. Usually him looking deadly calm with just a slight scowl is enough to get men to back away when they try getting into your space and boundaries. Sometimes there’s a man who’s cocky and doesn’t stop. You don’t even get a chance to try and tell the guy off before Choso grabs him by the head like a ragdoll and throws them, with the same energy as a regular person flicking a bug away.

❥ Absolutely adores and melts when you call him angel or mi amor. (or Chosito hdfshk)

❥ He is very chill. As much as he enjoys trying new things and going on dates with you, he also likes to be inside and alone with your company. He’ll grab your hand, leave soft kisses over your knuckles and pull you into his lap while you two decide what to order in or what movie/show to watch. 

❥ Taking a nap with you counts as a date for him. This guy loves naps. He always tells you if he dreams of you.

❥ Candlelit baths with rose petals. Surprise him with that and he’ll fall in love with you then and there. Choso likes floral & fresh scents mixed with the warmth ambiance that candles and roses bring. He’d sit with his back resting against the tub and you sitting in between his legs, resting your back on his chest. He’d probably give you his entire life if you ask to shampoo his hair. Imagine him with his hair down!!!!!

❥ He talks about Yuuji often. Specifically, he talks about the types of things Yuuji likes and how he tries getting him into his own hobbies. Choso trusts his little brother’s opinions and recommendations above all. Yuuji is always right anyway. It’s how Choso comes to enjoy museums (hehe death painting), poetry, watching movies/going to the theater, and going to shows then getting into the pits.

❥ He loves CDs! He begins collecting them and listening to them on a CD player Megumi gave him. You give him a Paramore CD (I headcanon him as listening to mainly female artists with dreamy sounds) and it brings tears to his eyes when he listens to it. He also listens to hardcore/metal/thrash.

❥ You & Yuuji assign a random day in August as his birthday, since he was incarnated in August 2018 (oh fuck is he a Leo then).  

❥ Nudity is something he doesn’t think about, and he normally wouldn’t be fazed by it, but it’s different with you. You’re wearing a knit sweater and when you take it off, Choso feels his face heat up at the sight of your shirt riding up. Looking at your exposed skin makes him blush and feel a little restless. 

❥ Which means he’d love strip teases. He’d like you to do it up close, too. Maybe he’ll sit on the couch and you stand between his spread legs. He watches your face and lets his eyes roam over your skin as it slowly reveals itself to him.

❥ Not even then would he be leering. Choso would look at you with reverence and adoration. He’s really your biggest fan and supporter! He thinks you’re just so pretty and is lucky to have you show yourself to him.

❥ Listen, Choso is a virgin. If you have a corruption or innocence kink, you’ll have a great fucking time with him. You want things to be sweet and at his own pace, but you also can’t help but tease and fluster him. He loves both. He appreciates the care you’re giving him. Yet he also gets excited at how humiliated and good he feels when you first roughly pull on his loose hair while grinding on his lap and kissing his neck. He’ll honestly be open to anything. It’s exciting for the both of you to push his boundaries a little to see what he likes. (maybe I’ll go into detail someday idk)

❥ He will eventually become more dominating. As the eldest brother, he’s used to and comfortable with taking control. He just likes the feeling of getting caught up in being corrupted.

❥ Has an exhibition kink. More like, he doesn’t care for other people being around. He normally ignores other people, but yeah Choso there’s laws. Obviously he doesn’t care about laws or other peoples morals fjskfk. 

❥ Overall, an absolute sweetheart. Relaxed, comfortable, and eventually kinda kinky. ❤️

[kingofdirtandnothing]

@polyfacetious big ass Christmas Drabble Extravagaza: Day Thirteen

To say the house was a fixer upper was kind of, maybe an understatement. 

To say that it was a strong breeze away from being condemned was a little bit more dramatic in the other direction, but the house rested firmly between the two of them. Barely livable, an eyesore. 

Bertie loved it. 

“You know what I see when I look at this house?” He’s pretty sure that Stiles’ cough sounds remarkably like asbestos poisoning but Bertie ignores it. Stiles would come around in time, he just needed to see things from a new perspective. 

“I see opportunity. This place will basically come down to the frames. Which means that we get to choose everything when we build it back up, kiddo. We get to choose the paint, the flooring, where the walls are, the windows, closets. Everything. This can be our…”

For just a moment, he hears Ruthie’s voice when Stiles answers. “Our forever house.” Bertie hooks an arm around his son’s shoulders, pulling him in against his side with an obnoxious dad squeeze. Stiles was taller every day, and closer to being a man. 

Bertie was absolutely, positively not ready to let him grow up yet. But as much as he wanted Stiles to be Peter Pan and this house to be his neverland, that wasn’t the way of the world. And yeah, Bertie had taken longer than he’d liked to get them here, but he still had two more years to get the forever house built before Stiles left for college.

Two more years to make memories, to try and be more than the shadow of grief he’s been for too long. Stiles spent too much of his childhood looking after Bertie, making sure he ate when he couldn’t get out of bed, making sure he slept with the mania hit him like a freight train. Bertie was settled now, he was on his meds now, but there was no giving Stiles back those years of his life. 

But now he was stable, he was medicated, and almost more importantly, he was doing great financially. Once the book about his teenage years with Ruthie hit the shelves, his back catalog started selling like hot cakes. People were already clamoring for another book about the two young lovers on the creek. 

Bertie just hoped working on the house would keep the grief from drowning him again when he started writing. Because as much as he loved Ruthie, as much as he loved keeping her alive on the page, it was exhausting to go back there. 

To go back to the place where he still had hope for a happily ever after, and wasn’t a twenty one year old with a newborn son and a wife in the ground. 

“Exactly.” Bertie’s voice is soft when he answers, peeling himself off of Stiles’ side so that he can fish the keys out of his pocket and unlock the padlock that was holding the front door closed. 

Stiles had already taken care of the sign in the front yard, pulling it out of the soft dirt and tossing it over the back fence. Bertie would call the realtor sometime this week to come pick it up. But at the moment, the priority was just having it out of sight and out of mind. This was their place now. Bertie didn’t even want to look at the big red ‘SOLD’ sticker slapped across the front of it. (Those things were magnetized. Who knew?)

The padlock clicks in his hand, the heavy weight of it shifting into his palm as it opens, and Bertie pulls it away from the door. “Ready?” He steals a look over at Stiles, who puts on a smile for him. (Bertie really hoped they could get to a point where Stiles smiled at him, and not for him.)

The front door creaks open, catching on the tile just inside of the door with a deep scratching sound that makes Bertie and Stiles both wince. Okay, so fixing the hinges on the front door was on the list. It could be at the top of the list. 

Inside, the house was...well, it was rough. There were pieces of tarp hung over broken windows, and the walls had holes in places in the drywall. In the kitchen, pieces of tile were missing in random places, making it look like an awkward checkerboard. 

Each and every thing was put on a mental checklist. New flooring for the kitchen. Pull up the carpet in the living room. Replace the fixtures in the hallway. There was a lot of work to be done, that was for sure. 

“Dad, tell me we’re not sleeping here.” Stiles however, wasn’t sounding convinced. Bertie looked back at his son to see him picking at a spiderweb that was hanging from the ceiling, and the piece of drooping wallpaper that was hanging low beside it, like a flower that hadn’t seen the sun in too long. 

Well once they got the windows in here replaced and some nice shutters, there would be plenty of sunlight. (And no more wallpaper, that was going the way of the dinosaurs.)

“We’re not.” He could give the kid that much at least. “We’ve got an apartment rented in town.” That way they had a place with air conditioning and running water where they could shower and rest their heads at night. “And yes, it has wifi.” He could see the question building on the tip of Stiles’ tongue, and Bertie cuts it off at the pass.

He needed wifi too, no matter how high and mighty he wanted to act about it. He had emails from the publisher to answer, and social media that he had to put out for his followers. And honestly? Bertie liked watching those oddly satisfying videos on youtube when he couldn’t sleep at night. There was just something about watching someone cut into a cake that was shaped to look like a watermelon. It made a guy want to catch some Z’s. 

Stiles relaxes from his shoulders all the way down to his toes, and turns new eyes back on the house around them. “Look.” Bertie hooks an arm over Stiles’ shoulder and points down the hallway. “That one can be your room.” 

Bertie had plans for an office for himself on the other side of the hall, but you had to lead with the good stuff. The kid wasn’t going to be excited about natural lighting and a nice place to set up his computer. 

“And down there…” A formal dining room, tucked away behind the kitchen. This was the money maker, the room he was going to sell the place to Stiles on, he just knew it. “This is going to be our theater room. Eighty inch flatscreen TV, full surround sound set up. I’m talking about speakers hanging in the ceiling. Full theater experience. And the fancy leather recliners that are mechanical.” Bertie makes a soft whirring sound with his tongue, mimicking the way the bottoms of the recliners would rise up with the motor’s help, and he’s rewarded with a laugh. 

There’s a light in Stiles’ eyes as they stand in the entry way to the dining room that would soon be a theater masterpiece, and the heart of the house. Stiles was seeing it now. That was one thing that his boy never lacked. Stiles’ cup runneth over when it came to imagination. When he was a little boy, he could spin stories better than some of Bertie’s peers at the publishing house. And it had always been as natural to him as breathing.

“What if we did a couch in the middle? Same leather. Cupholders, usb chargers, the whole nine yards?” Stiles spreads his hands out wide in front of him, encompassing where he was seeing the couch in his mind’s eyes. “Two recliners, one on each side. That way if we have people over, we have room for them too. Or if we want to sprawl out or something. You know, get cozy.”

Bertie’s heart was big and bright and warm in his chest. Stiles was thinking of this place long term. He was thinking about having friends over. Or maybe a significant other. And that’s all that Bertie wanted out of life. For his boy to be happy. 

“I think that sounds great. Really great.” He squeezes Stiles’ shoulder again, and shifts all those mental plans around in his head. Aside from the things that they needed to fix for the house to be safe for them to be in, he was going to start with the theater room. 

“Dark wood paneling would be good too. It will make it look rich with the light on, and it’ll soak up the darkness when the lights are off. A good carpet, too. Something you can dig your bare toes into.” Part him wants to do the dumb thing and use the red carpet on the floor and the LED strips lining the way to and from the door. 

“We should do straight up movie theater carpet. The dumb kind with the stars. And the lights on the floor!” Stiles laughs, pointing along the floor to the door. Bertie loves Stiles even more in that moment, selfishly to still see himself in his son, that Stiles was still his little boy in some way. 

“Now we have to.” Bertie nods in faux solemnity, and gets another laugh for his trouble. He can’t remember the last time that they both laughed like this. It feels like it’s been years. Back when Stiles was still small and still believed that Bertie was the best thing in the world. 

But it was more than that. The power balance between them had always been a little bit wonky, what with Bertie’s illness. But this...being here together, it felt like being partners. Equals. All the more, it made this feel like a fresh start. One that they both chose for themselves.

And maybe Stiles didn’t need a fresh start as much as dear old dad did, but he was still here, along for the ride. That was the kind of man Stiles was. Always willing to do what anyone else needed of him. It was both his best, and his worst quality and Bertie would always carry two shoulders full of guilt at being the one who put that in him. No child should ever have to care for their parent. 

All Bertie could do now was try and teach Stiles that there were lines. Boundaries to be protected. To teach the kid to protect his own big, soft heart. Somebody would have to, or Stiles would spend the rest of his life setting himself on fire to keep other people warm. 

“Okay. Theater room is settled, then. How about we go get a rough sketch of your room down?” Bertie steers them away from their big project, and back down the warped and water stained hallway to the second biggest bedroom. (Sorry kiddo, dad loves you a lot but he wasn’t giving up the master bedroom to you.) Somehow, there was only one creaky floorboard along the way. Bertie decides in one impulsive moment that he’s going to keep it. It would give the house charm, when everything was shiny and new. 

“I was thinking…” He lets the words hang long, playing up the dramatics of it until Stiles elbowed him in the side. Bertie oofs with laughter. “Alright, alright. I was thinking a big cork board set into the wall here. Sixty inches, maybe.” Stiles was always pinning stuff up in his room, mental maps and spider’s webs of ideas. And he’d gotten to the point that he had two cork boards set onto the walls next to each other, red and yellow string strung taught between them. “Maybe bigger, even. We could actually do floor to ceiling.”

A space big enough for all those big thoughts in Stiles’ head. 

“What do you think?”

[originalhybridloverfics]

Rememberance Ch14

A/N: Hi, I'm finally back with a chapter for this story. I hope you like the chapter and I hope everyone is staying and this provides a welcome distraction.

“C’mon, Felicity, let’s go out. I want to see all there is here to see before we head back home to Starling City.” Sara said with a small pout. 

“Except we won’t be returning home just yet,” Felicity argued. “Oliver and I need to get rid of this curse, and Talina is still working on getting the ingredients for the dream root.” 

“Exactly, we have time to have fun before returning to the crazy shit that is going on.” 

“I think it’s an excellent idea,” Oliver said, seated across from them. 

“Which means it’s a terrible one.” Diggle sipped his straight black coffee. 

They were having breakfast at the hotel out on the balcony. Oliver had ordered them a full spread. 

“All I’m asking for is today.” Sarah insisted. “Just one day, after that, we can be all about figuring everything else out.”

“What’s the harm?” Oliver asked. 

Felicity’s gaze moved from Sara to Oliver, their hopeful looks had her giving in. “Okay, but just for today.”

“Be ready in two hours to leave,” Felicity instructed. 

“Here, I was hoping for a relaxing day,” John muttered. 

“No one said you have to come with us,” Oliver told him. 

“And risk Moira Queen blackballing me?” John snorted. “Tell that to someone else.” 

Felicity nodded her head in agreement. She never officially met the woman, but she seemed intimidating, to say the least. 

Later, Felicity took them to the park she used to frequent, the gym she went to growing up, her favorite movie theater, her favorite cafe. They went by the beachside houses that Felicity used to go to on those scorching days.

“How much time did you spend here?” Sara wondered as they walked along the beach. 

“Off and on, through my teens. Not as much as I could’ve. Mostly when the heat became unbearable.” 

“Why?” Asked Oliver. “Who doesn’t love a day on the beach.” 

“I was self-conscious then. My mom always insisted on Bikinis, and I wasn’t as comfortable with my body as she was.” 

“That makes absolutely no sense to me,” Oliver stated. Felicity was hot. He had thought so from the moment he saw her. 

“I was a nerd, I was younger than most the people I associated with, and I didn’t have a lot of friends from high school. I didn’t come into myself until college.” Felicity shrugged. 

“In that case, I think before we head back to Staring, we could come here, make a day of it,” said Sara with a smirk. “Maybe even get a beach bonfire going.” 

“We could do that back home, too.” Oliver chimed in. He would prefer to make a day of it with just him and Felicity. 

The thought of seeing her in a small bikini, dripping wet from the water, spending the day on the beach, beneath the hot sun, and keeping his hands to himself seemed impossible. He had restraint, but his control around Felicity was a thin tether. He would much rather be alone with her under those circumstances. No distractions but her. 

There was only so much he could take when his body screamed for her whenever she was near, his heart longed to be close to her in a way he never wanted to be close to anyone else.

Felicity looked at Oliver, a smile pulling at her lips. “Maybe we will.” 

John, who was quiet most of the time. “Maybe you should make it a private beach. Unless you want to traumatize the locals with your obvious eye sex.” 

Sara snorted. 

Felicity blushed, and Oliver was mesmerized by the flush in her cheeks, wondering how far down it went as it moved down her slender neck.  

                                            ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ 

Later in the evening, Felicity announced that they would be going to a casino. The one where her mother worked. Where she spent just as much time there as she did at home when she was growing up. 

Often when she was younger, and her mother was unable to get a babysitter, Donna would take her to work with her. 

Sara was thrilled and pulled on a green dress with a plunging neckline, coming to a stop a few inches above her knee; it clung to her like a second skin. 

Felicity wore a pair of blue jean cut off shorts, paired with a red blouse with an open back, her blonde hair curled around her shoulders, and her glasses perched on her nose. 

Oliver, upon seeing Felicity, felt his breath leave him in a rush, his attention drawn to her red painted lips. The moment he saw her turn around, his hand itch to touch her back. All that perfect skin on display and don’t even get him started on how her ass looked in her mini shorts, her incredible legs being shown off.

Felicity Smoak was perfection walking the earth and not one, not a single soul could convince him otherwise. 

Felicity was taken with the way he wore his jeans and a simple dark gray T-shirt that clung to his muscles, looking like it might rip.  

John was in his patented suit, looking like he was more than ready for the night to be over. 

Donna had been thrilled to see them and had pulled a few strings to get them into the VIP section. 

Oliver was honestly impressed that Felicity knew her way around a casino like the back of her hand. 

After watching Felicity count cards for half an hour and playing a few rounds of roulette, Felicity was approached by a large man. 

“Miss, I’m going to need you to come with me. Mr. Delgato would like to see you.”

Oliver tensed, eyes narrowing on the towering figure. “She’s not going anywhere with you.” 

“It’s okay, Oliver.” Felicity placed her hand on his chest. “There’s nothing to worry about.”

“Follow me, please. Mr. Delgato does not like to be kept waiting.” The bouncer insisted. 

“She is not going alone.” Digg interceded. 

The bouncer sighed in annoyance. “Just don’t get in the way.” 

Sara hooked her arm with Felicity as they followed the man deeper into the casino, through a series of dark halls until they reached a pair of large double doors. “You are remarkably calm when we’re about to walk in a lion’s den. 

Felicity barely refrained from laughing. Mr. Delgato was as far from a lion as one could get. However, he did love his dramatics. 

The large man with a build that could rival Digg’s pushed opened the double doors and ushered them inside. 

The room was painted in dark undertones, with leather furniture. A large mahogany desk dominated the room, a middle-aged man with salt and pepper hair sat behind it, a tumbler of whiskey in his hand. He wore a dark suit and a red tie. His hair was slicked back. His jaw was set, the stubble on his jaw making him look rugged. His frown made him appear intimidating, his green eyes, however, were grave and unreadable.

The man’s eyes landed on Felicity, and he set his drink down slowly. 

“Felicity Smoak.” The man ground out. 

Felicity raised her head. “Mr. Delgato.”

The man stood suddenly, pushing his chair back. 

Oliver instinctively wrapped his arm around Felicity, ready to pull her behind him, to safety when Mr. Delgato’s expression changed, his lips pulling into a broad smile. “Get over here, ���licity, and give your uncle Daniel a hug.” 

Felicity smiled, pushing past the bouncer and walked into the older man’s arms. “Uncle Danny, it’s great to see you.” 

Daniel squeezed her for a moment before pulling back and saying. “Let me get a good look at you.” 

“What is happening?” Sara whispered to Oliver, leaning toward him. 

“I have no clue,” Oliver said in bewilderment as the man looked at her with the eyes of a father. 

“I think it’s clear they know each other pretty well,” Digg muttered, crossing his arms. 

“You are just as beautiful as your mother, if not more.” Daniel praised. 

“How’s Aunt Meg?” Felicity asked, smiling. 

“She’s great. She just opened a cafe off of Wornell road and 35th street not far from the strip. She’s going to be thrilled to see you. Donna didn't tell us you were coming to visit.”

“She didn't know. It was kind of a spur of the moment kind of thing.” Felicity responded. 

Daniel nodded and looked past her. “Who are your friends?”

“Oh,” Felicity stepped back, instinctively tucking herself into Oliver’s side. “This is John Diggle, Sara Lance, and Oliver Queen.” 

Daniel’s eyes flitted down, watching as Oliver and Felicity’s hands migrated to one another, his eyes darted back up narrowing. “Daniel Delgato.” he extended his hand toward Oliver. 

Felicity smiled. “Daniel was the closest thing I had to an uncle growing up. When my mother had to work, I would be back here doing the books.”

“Or taking apart my computer,” Daniel interjected. 

“I was building you a better one.” Felicity defended. 

Daniel smiled affectionately. “Of course.” He looked at the others. 

“Sorry for the dramatics. Sometimes I can’t help myself, but any friend of Felicity’s is welcome in my casino. Have fun, and all your drinks will be on the house tonight.”

“That’s not necessary,” Oliver replied. “I can more than cover our tab.” 

Felicity nudged him in the ribs. “What Oliver meant to say was thank you for the generous offer. Isn’t that correct?”

Daniel watched in amusement as the man who his favorite genius clearly had wrapped around her finger, nodded immediately. “Absolutely.”

Daniel refrained from shaking his head as he looked at Oliver once again. He couldn’t put his finger on it, but there was something oddly familiar about Oliver. Something he couldn’t place. Daniel felt like he knew him but was certain he didn’t.  

Daniel made it a point to remember people in his line of work. It was taxing but necessary. But no matter how much Oliver may seem familiar, he couldn’t for the life of him figure out why that was. 

Daniel focused back on Felicity. “I won’t keep you. I’m sure you came out tonight to have fun with your friends, but I hope you have an hour or two to spare for your aunt and me tomorrow.” 

“Of course.” Felicity nodded. 

“Great. I will make the reservations and text you the details.” Daniel hugged her again, pressing a fatherly kiss to the top of her head.

                                              ~*~ ~*~ ~*~  

After leaving Daniel’s office, Sara and Oliver were full of questions, while Digg made silent observations. 

Felicity, not wanting to answer a bunch of questions at a casino, took them to one of her favorite Italian restaurants that had a wine selection to die for. 

Felicity sat across from Sara and John with Oliver to her right.

“You failed to mention you had an in with the man who runs the casino,” Digg commented. 

“I didn’t think it was something worth mentioning.” Felicity shrugged. 

“Is he really your uncle?” Sara wondered. 

“No.” Felicity shook her head, “But he is the closest thing I’ve had to a father growing up. My mom works at the casino most nights. She’s worked there for as long as I can remember. My mom is best friends with his wife, Megan. When my mom couldn’t always get a babysitter when I was a little, she would bring me to work. Daniel was very understanding and let me hang out in his office. Sometimes on the nights when my mom was working the overnight shift, Aunt Megan would take me home until my mom got off work.”

“I thought we were being led into the lion’s den,” Oliver said. “I thought I was going to have to be your knight and protect you from him.” 

Felicity snorted. “That’s sweet, but Uncle Daniel would sooner jump into oncoming traffic then see me hurt.” 

“You know, he seemed oddly familiar to me.” Oliver murmured. “I swear I know him from somewhere, but I don't know where.” 

“Has he ever been to Star City?” Digg questioned. 

“Not that I know of,” Felicity answered. 

“Well, have you been here before?” Sara questioned. “To Las Vegas.”

“A few times with Tommy,” Oliver admitted. 

“Maybe you saw him before,” said Sara. 

“Maybe,” Oliver allowed, but as he looked at Felicity, he wasn’t so sure of that.

The feeling of familiarity he got about Daniel was different. He didn’t just feel like he saw his face. He felt like he knew him. He felt like the man was family. 

How fucking strange was that? He just met the guy. He didn’t know him, Adam from Eve, but yet he felt like he had a familial connection to the man. 

Felicity, feeling he was troubled, placed her hand on his knee. 

Oliver looked at her and placed his hand over hers, interlacing their fingers. Fighting the urge to lean over and kiss her like he wanted. 

                                                ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ 

After leaving the restaurant, Sara declared she wanted to have a drink and cut loose a little. Felicity decided she might as well take them to her favorite bar she had been sneaking into since she was 16.

Oliver looked around as they stepped inside, his eyes widening as he took in the decor and the patrons. The bar consisted of a dance floor on one side of the room, and on the other were two pool tables, further back was a series of booths and couches, there were tables scattered through the room. 

A bartop made of rich brown wood that widened out with a stripper pole at each end. 

“A biker bar?” Sara whistled lowly. “Felicity Smoak, you have some stories you have not told me.” 

Felicity blushed. “I had a thing for bikers in my teens. Plus, this place was never strict with ID’s and didn’t ask questions. It also helped that on Fridays, they would serve the best Bacon cheeseburger in town. One of the best kept secrets around.” 

“When you say you had a thing for bikers?” Sarah smirked slowly. 

“I mean, I well, imagine what it would be like to spend the night with an outlaw biker, but nothing ever happened. I was sixteen. I was young, not stupid.” 

“I get it.” Sara offered a smirk. “And I can tell you from experience an outlaw biker is great in the sack.”

Oliver cleared his throat. “I’m great in the sack.”

Felicity bit the inside of her cheek to keep from laughing. She was certain Oliver was great in bed if the way he kissed her was any indication, but the way he said that like he felt the need to defend himself was so cute. Men and their fragile egos. 

“This discussion is taking a turn, I do not want to hear,” Digg announced and walked away from them toward the bar. 

“No one said you weren’t.” Sara sent Oliver a smirk. “But you’re no biker.” 

“I can be one,” Oliver looked at Felicity. 

He could be anything Felicity wanted him to be.

He didn’t have to say the words for Felicity to know what he was thinking. She stepped closer to him and placed her hand over his heart. “I don’t need you to be anyone but yourself.”

Oliver’s hand came up to rest over hers, fingers locking with hers and squeezing. A feeling of contentment filling him, he leaned down, slowly giving her time to move away if she wanted. 

Felicity didn’t. She met him halfway, their lips brushing softly, sweetly. 

Oliver’s other hand came up to rest on the side of her neck. His thumb brushing the underside of her jaw, fingers slipping into her hair as he deepened the kiss, nipping at her bottom lip. 

Felicity opened to him, his tongue slid along hers, and she breathed in the taste of him. 

Sara watched them for a moment before throwing her hands in the air. 

Since Oliver had come back after having his heart stopped, it was like whatever wall of resistance Felicity put up was gone. Oliver was even more determined to be close to her. 

Sara joined Digg at the bar. Neither Felicity or Oliver noticed, lost in every slide of the tongue, every brush of the lips. Lost in the feel of every touch and every breath they breathed together. 

It wasn’t until someone bumped into them, throwing them off balance that they broke away from the sensual embrace they found themselves in and joined Sara and Digg at the bar. 

“Smoak, you’re blonde!” the bartender made a beeline for them, his punk rock hair tinted purple and spiked in every direction. He had a piercing in his nose and left eyebrow. His eyes were lined with mascara.

“Drew,” Felicity smiled. “You still enjoy being a bartender?”

“Hey, if it’s not broke. No need to fix it.” Drew smirked. “What happened to you living somewhere in California?”

“Starling City. I still do, I’m here temporarily with some friends.” She waved her hand to her three companions. “Digg, Sara, Oliver, I liked you to meet an old friend. Drew.”

“What can I get you, first round on the house, courtesy of Felicity.” Drew grinned at them. 

“For starters, you can order us a round of Tequila.” Sara grinned. “And you could tell us what was with the blonde comment?”

“Drew,” Felicity said warningly. 

Drew grinned. “She dyes it.”

“Really?” Oliver leaned closer to Felicity, looking at her roots. 

“Traitor.” Felicity accused, reaching out to swat at Drew. 

Drew laughed, dodging her hands. “Felicity here is a natural brunette, though the last time I saw her, she had raven black hair, with purple highlights. My partner in everything goth.”

“Felicity Smoak,” Sara’s eyes glinted. “You had a goth phase?”

“It wasn’t a phase.” Felicity protested. 

“I’m trying to picture it,” Digg said, looking over at Felicity. “But I can’t. You’re too colorful and bright.” 

“I’ve got pictures.” Drew pulled out his phone, scrolling through it.

“Don’t you dare.” Felicity threatened. 

Drew only grinned and passed Digg his phone. 

“I’ll be damned,” Digg said as Sara reached for the phone and whistled lowly. 

Felicity covered her eyes in embarrassment. “Drew, I’m going to kill you.” 

“No, you won’t,” Drew responded confidently. “We’ve got too much history.” 

Felicity scowled. “I’ll wipe your phone clean, including the backup data.” 

“You wouldn’t.” Drew protested. 

“Wouldn’t I?” Felicity arched an eyebrow.

“Alright, alright, let’s not go there.” Drew took back his phone. “No more pictures.”

“I thought so,” Felicity responded, and Drew moved away to pour their drinks. 

“You know I never had a thing for Goths,” Oliver leaned in close to her, his hot breath fanning her neck. “But after seeing that, I can see the appeal. I just might have a goth fantasy.”

Felicity’s lips pulled in amusement. “If we would have met when I was in my goth phase, you would be rethinking that. I would’ve torn into you, and it would have left you traumatized.”

“Is it wrong that I find that hot?” Oliver questioned. 

“Yes.” Sara and Digg said together, hearing Oliver clearly. 

Drew appeared again with their drinks. Digg picked up his and went to the end of the bar. 

Sara downed her drink. “Enough with the flirting. I want to dance.” 

She grabbed Felicity’s hand and dragged her across the dance floor. 

Oliver picked up his drink and turned to lean against the bar, his eyes drinking Felicity in. 

He watched as Felicity allowed herself to cut loose and have fun with Sara. She looked so free and happy. He wondered if she would look that free on the back of a bike. 

Finding out that Felicity had a thing for a guy who rode bikes made him want to buy one. If she wanted to ride, he would more than gladly give her one. Pun intended. 

But more than that, he wanted to give Felicity anything and everything she wanted. He wanted to fill her every want, desire, and whim. 

Tomorrow he would buy a bike, he and Felicity could go for a ride around town. Possibly spend the day at the beach. Just the two of them. 

And once they were cured of their curse, he was going to ask her out for a real date. 

Oliver was hoping with everything that he had that when he finally did, she would say yes and give him, give them a real chance at something that he knew would be amazing.  

A/N: Hi, I'm finally back with a chapter for this story. I hope you like the chapter and I hope everyone is staying and this provides a welcome distraction.

You can also find the rest of the story here: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6615427/chapters/15136834

Tags: @6i66leserna @angelamccauley15 @almondblossomme @ilikethebackofyourneck @omglovechrissie @erika-amber @rainbowuniquern @scu11y22 @msbeccieboo

[rootfauna]

Loss of the chance of life

A while ago I found out my grandmother was one of the many native american women who were forcibly sterilized. I wrote this article.

In 1972 Janet Clifton, an Osage woman, walked into the IHS in Clairemore, Oklahoma. For years she had been having severe pelvic cramps and they had become too much to bear. She was put in a gown and lead to a room in which sat the dreaded stirruped chair many women have despised since it’s invention. The anxiety is understandable even in modern times when women’s healthcare is arguably the most advanced it’s ever been. It’s frightening, then, to imagine approaching that chair in the 60’s and 70’s, when modern women’s healthcare was in it’s infancy, and for a Native American woman, it could be absolutely terrifying.

When Janet signed in to the clinic, she’d been asked the usual questions, one of which was ‘are you married’, which she was, and was asked if she had any children, which she did. Three to be exact. She was only twenty-five and all her children were born just under three years, so it is no surprise that when she was asked if she was religious she replied that she was Catholic. Christianity and native Americans have a strange relationship. The religion was used to justify atrocities done to us too numerous not only for this paper, but for anyone to ever list. Arguably it’s greatest crime was to mold itself into a cardboard beacon, offering native Americans sanctuary from it’s own ugliness. For centuries Native American men made the decision to convert for the rest of the family. The rules of life changed for them, but it’s unclear if they realized the changes it meant for their wives. Their roles in many nations were reduced, as was their agency over their bodies. Contraceptives in their earliest days were known throughout the world, including the Americas, yet now they were forbidden. As ridiculous and ineffective as they could be, they at least offered the illusion of body autonomy, mostly for women.

When Janet went to the IHS the Women’s Health Movement (WHM) had only recently begun, along with second wave feminism. It spoke loftily and justly about abortion rights and about changing the traditional maternity ward practices into more family oriented ones, with the fathers allowed in the delivery room. There was a resurgence of midwifery. However, these improvements did not scratch the blood soaked surface of Native American health care. As Janet lay in the chair, three white doctors entered the room. The Indian Clinic did not have any native doctors, so doctors were driven in from nearby Tulsa Oklahoma, thus continuing the tradition of white doctors working with an exclusively non-white clientele. “I felt like I was being experimented on,” she would later say. She would be in good company. A Google search of “experiments on native women” will instantly bring up several articles about the forced sterilization of Native American women, and many give examples of experimental procedures that were performed in front of many doctors under the guise of research. Janet, who only wanted treatment for what we now know as polycystic ovary syndrome, never knew she would join their ranks. “One of the doctors told me that they were going to burn the cysts off. The procedure was never really explained to me and it was probably a combination of me being a woman and being Native American. They thought I was too dumb to understand anyway.” Had she known more on the subject she might have thought he was referring to a ovarian wedge resection, a common treatment at the time. It involves opening the patient up in an operating theater and exposing the ovaries. The cysts are then carefully removed with a cauterization tool not only keep the cyst from bursting, but to ensure the ovary heals properly. Instead of doing this, Janet and her doctors remained in the exam room where he gave her a local anesthetic, inserted a cauterizing into her vaginally, and performed what was most likely a tubal litigation. This is the most common form of female sterilization and only severs the fallopian tubes. My grandmother’s painful ovaries would remain untouched and untreated.  

“I remember smelling something burning,” recalled Janet, “I looked down and saw smoke.”She was sent home directly after the procedure, unaware of what had actually happened to her and uninformed of the possible side effects. There was pain, of course, and in a candid moment she also confessed that she was never able to feel sexual pleasure with her husband again. Worst of all, because there had been no attempt to treat the cysts, and the pain that started the entire ordeal returned within weeks.

Pain seems to be woven into the fabric of every Native American woman’s life and this has not gone unnoticed artists, native and non-native alike. When native women are not posing nude on a biker’s bicep, we are huddled into blankets, riding our horses, our backs bent and heads hung low. Sometimes we stand on hills, gazing at nothing with blank faces and sometimes we kneel by our tipis and look at the ground. Though the past few decades have brought forward more animated depictions of Native American women, my grandmother’s house was filled with the old fashioned kind. As a child, I thought they were pretty, if boring. I never perceived any greater meaning than a woman simply looking down. Maybe she was watching a bug. As a child I was also blissfully unaware of the majority of the atrocities faced by our people and what I did know, I largely new in name only. It wasn’t until I grew older that I’d look at these paintings and think ‘huh, she actually looks kinda sad’. Now I look at these paintings and think ‘she looks utterly defeated’. Knowing what really happened to us makes me notice details I never had before, like how so many of them have textbook thousand yard stares while portraits of chiefs and warriors in the same stye still seem to have fire in their eyes. The men are also more likely to be depicted upright, whether standing or on horseback, still tall in some way or another. The woman have deflated. We slump over our horse’s necks, we kneel, we sit. It seems as though these women have accepted that pain is just something they must endure silently and with dignity, whatever the source. My grandmother is not like these women, so when the pain that had sent her to the doctor in the first place returned, so did she.

The doctors made little effort with pretense this time - she would have a hysterectomy and that was that. At this point there was no reason to try and treat her as Janet could no longer have children, and in the end her hysterectomy would succeed in ridding her of her pain. Why then does it seem to hold so much more significance? European invaders managed to erase many aspects of various indigenous cultures, but some roots run too deep to be completely torn out and in so many of our cultures it was the female ability bring forth life that created the world. The association with women and new life was so strong that even in some nations it was observed that women sewed the seeds for the new crops and tended to them, but it was the men who reaped them. Their reasoning was that women brought life, and men took it. Some Lakota Sioux would not acknowledge a girl’s transition to womanhood until she has had a child. This doesn’t mean that a woman’s only value was her ability to have children and in many nations women held high political power, were religious leaders, and even warriors. Still, it is virtually impossible to completely separate a woman’s potential reproductive capabilities and how she was viewed in societies that place more value on the concept of new life, birth, or rebirth. So many Native American nations fell into this category, and on some level or another, a woman’s womb was sacred. In 1972, at age 25, my grandmother’s was ripped from her body.

From an outsiders perspective, it seems as though these sterilized women have become those broken women from the paintings. In doing research for this paper, I found very little. The ambiguity is unsettling. Is the near total absence of initial medical documentation a result of apathy towards Native American health, or an intentional coverup? Did the women affected not speak out about this at the time because of the taboo around reproductive systems? Was it shame, or a feeling that no one would listen anyway? I have to wonder, too, how many woman are like my grandmother who only now realizes what was done to her. Whitehorse also did not realize what happened to her until later. “I was trying to have more babies, but was having trouble getting pregnant, so I went to the IHS clinic. That’s when they told me about what they did to me,” She said. She had been sterilized during a previous surgery.“I was in so much pain when I went in for the appendectomy; they gave me a bunch of papers to sign. They never explained anything to me; I had no idea I was giving them permission to sterilize me.” she said. It wasn’t only abdominal pain that allowed doctors to trick women into sterilization. One of the more famous cases of sterilization involved two girls, both under fifteen years old, who were sterilized during surgery to remove their tonsils. It’s been estimated that between 1960 and 1970, for every seven native babies born, one woman was sterilized, culminating in roughly 25% of the potentially fertile female population. Even this was not enough of an attack on the Native American woman. Native American boarding schools, run by the BIA (Bureau of Indian Affairs) where still common in that era. A 1971 census stated that approximately 35,000 Native American children lived in boarding schools rather than at home. In these schools, children were stripped of their language, their culture, their religion, their names, and often, their sanity. Abuse was rampant and the chances of escape were bleak. While non-native children were begging for bell bottoms and watching t.v, two native boys fled, only to freeze to death in their attempt to return home. Suicide rates amongst teenage boarders could reach as high as one hundred times the national average. The rest of the nation, if it noticed, soon turned away and continued to focus on disco. Native mothers could do little to stop the abuse of their children, but a growing number were being offered a choice. If they agreed to be sterilized, their existing children might be allowed to stay with them. It can’t be said if it was in defeat or defiance that a mother made her choice, whichever it was. It would a lie to say that no woman was defeated, and sat slumped over a bottle of whiskey rather than a horse.

However, when my grandmother was wheeled into the recovery bay, she discovered that she was not the only woman who refused stoop down and be silent, though she did not yet know what bond she shared with these women. They were a small group, all in various stages of recovery. They smiled and chatted if and when they could, and because the nurses were about as helpful as a match under water, they tended to each other. The women adjusted each others hospital beds by hand, fetched each other glasses of water and just as importantly, they kept each other in good spirits. Decades later, Janet will still smile and laugh when she remembers a woman that was truly fed up with the barely edible hospital food. “You guys want some pizza?” The woman had asked, and then she got up and climbed out the window. A while later she returned the same way, pizza in hand. They might have been neglected and in pain, but in that moment they were normal women diving into a pizza and giddy with their own mischief. It seems like such a small gesture, valuable in that it’s a light hearted tidbit from an otherwise tragic story, but it is so much more than that. Expand the perspective and you’ll find it’s really the story of how a Native American woman was had her reproductive organs seared into oblivion against her will by white doctors, was neglected by nurses in a recovery room filled with strangers, and this woman still had the strength and spark to climb out a window and return with pizza to share with her sisters. Our solidarity is our fortitude. Native women have an incredible ability to come together and to accomplish incredible things. One of they key elements that allows us to do this is our ability to communicate with each other, and despite what modern white hippies may think, we can’t do that with telepathy and talking animals. I would not have been able to tell my grandmother’s story without calling her and having several lengthy phone calls. This chapter of our history is in danger of being forgotten. It’s imperative we learn as much as we can, but that is not enough. It’s through communication that bond over our people’s losses and triumphs and encourage others to learn along with us. If I am to end this essay with one request, it is that when you read this chapter of our history, please read it out loud.

—- This essay is dedicate to Janet Stork, I cannot give enough thanks to my grandmother for letting me interview her. Rather than mourn her loss, she seemed happy throughout every conversation, as if she was glad that someone wanted to hear what she had to say. This is such a sensitive topic, one that would make many young students here cringe and shy away from, but my grandmother made every conversation a comfortable one. No question was off limits, there was no withholding of details. I feel so lucky to have a grandmother like her, and I’m amazed that it’s through her strength I exist today.

[barbarasbae]

Even in Hawkins- Going Soft

Part Eight of Even in Hawkins

Billy Hargrove x Reader x Steve Harrington, omegaverse au 

Word count: 2k 

Warnings: feelings, Billy’s like shit maybe I like commitment, omegaverse things

This chapter didn’t come out exactly the way I wanted but I think it’s cute

gif orinially by @ahoygays

Billy woke up Saturday morning with Y/n tucked into his side. The omega had an arm draped over him, face tucked into his neck. Her other arm was tucked into his side, her little sigh making him smile. He curled his arm around her, tilting his head so it rested on hers. She grumbled a little, Billy biting back a smile, her nuzzling into him. She curled her fingers into his shirt, Billy rubbing his thumb over her hip. She turned into him more and moaned softly. “Morning.” He told her softly, nose in her hair. “Morning.” Billy jumping when her teeth caught on his ear. “You smell good.” She mumbled, pressing her mouth to his cheek. Billy grabbed hold of her arm and pulled, getting a grunt from her. He rolled, her protesting with a whine when he was finally laying on top of her. “You’re heavy…”

“Shush.” He tells her, kissing her hair.  

On Monday, they both tried to act like nothing happened. Y/n made sure to take suppressants and Billy didn’t go into a rut so he was fine. However, she did smell like him. A lot. Almost no scent of her own was left. She walked up to Steve, people whispering as she passed by them. “Am I still taking the kids to that movie?” She asked, Steve surprised to see her standing in front of him. “Uh, yeah. I think they have that club after school today so you could probably just pick him up here.” 

“Okay, I’ll see you around.” She waved goodbye to him, Steve trying not to show his distaste at the scent of someone that wasn’t him on her (especially since it was Billy that she smelled like). She picked up the kids after school and ended up driving them to her house and sitting on her couch while she waited for them to decide what movie they were going to watch and more importantly what the heck they were gonna eat during it. There was a lull in conversation, El getting up to find a bathroom. “Why do you smell like my brother?” Max asked, Y/n not sure how to answer the question. “WOAH! Are you cheating on Steve?!” Dustin true to form was always ready to defend Steve. “No I am not cheating on him! We broke up. And Billy lent me his jacket that’s probably the only reason you smell him on me.”

“You broke up?” Will asked softly, Dustin backing off a little. “Yeah. He said he didn’t want to keep dating because I was a year younger than him.” Will, much like Y/n, looked genuinely confused. “Maybe my brother will ask you out?” Max said innocently, knowing her friends didn’t like her brother but she really didn’t want to lose the only older girl she’d ever been close to because she broke up with their ‘babysitter’. “My step dad seemed happy that he came home smelling like you yesterday afternoon.” She explained, looking at the older girl with genuine sympathy. “Maybe.” She said, playing with said denim jacket. Which she was wearing over Steve’s sweater she forgot to give back. Y/n was feeling confused. 

The kids picked a comedy thankfully, Y/n needing to not think about anything too hard. She sat almost at the end of the row, ‘protecting’ the kids. About fifteen minutes into the movie, someone sat down next to her. “Hand this to Max.” She jumped, looking over to see Billy in the seat. She passed the candy down, Billy wrapping an arm around her. She wasn’t sure what to do, giving in and leaning into him. She didn’t see it, but Billy smiled. They shared popcorn, Y/n getting up halfway through the movie because her bladder was not going to make it to the end. She skirted out of the theater to use the restroom in the lobby, seeing Nancy and Jonathan. She waved, tucking into the bathroom just in time to miss Steve walking up to the couple. “Did you tell her?” Nancy asked the tall omega. “What?”

“Y/n. Did you tell her?”

“No....”

“Steve!”

The three were gone when Y/n came back out, her trying to be quick about finding her seat. Billy handed her the popcorn when she sat back down, Y/n kissing his cheek without thinking. “Thanks.” Billy was glad the theater was dark to hide the pink that was painting his cheeks. She reached over and laced her hand through his, Billy squeezing hers. After the movie was over, she led the kids to the lobby, Billy on her tail. “Come on Max,” he called, the redhead huffing and following after her brother. Y/n waved bye, the boys behind her gawking when the blond waved back (they hadn’t known he was there until Y/n got up to go to the bathroom). “See you tomorrow!” Max called, getting a bye from the group as they left through a different door. Y/n noticed an older alpha watching her and the kids pretty hard as they walked to the parking lot, making her feel uneasy. She took them through a little more complicated path to get into the car, locking the doors the second everyone was inside. She drove in silence, chewing her lip as she frequently checked her mirrors. Once she got back to Hawkins, she began to calm down, having not really seen a car consistently following her. She got to Will’s house first. “Bye!” She waved, watching him run inside the house. Then she dropped off Lucas, waving to Mr. Sinclair and Erica who were building a model rocket in their front yard. Mike was next. Then it was just her and Dustin. “Are you dating Billy?”

“No.”

“It looked like you were.” To Dustin, Billy waving bye and his arm around her in the movie theater was the same as the times her and Steve were so affectionate it was gross. (They weren’t allowed to sit next to one another during movies because once they had made out until the lights came on and the Party were staring at them, waiting for them to stop. And so were the ushers who needed to clean the theater). Y/n didn’t have to look at him to know the look she was getting. “It’s...complicated. We hang out and do some stuff couples do. But I don’t think we’re really anything.”

“Did you break up with Steve because of billy?” 

She got quiet. “No. Steve dumped me out of nowhere because I suddenly became too young to be his girlfriend.” 

“That doesn’t sound like Steve. You passed my house!” 

“Shit! Sorry. I was just gonna take you home.” She laughed, turning around in someone’s driveway. She turned her car off in Dustin’s driveway, turning to look at him. “Did he tell you why he broke up with me? Because age difference is absolute bullshit.” Dustin looked conflicted. 

“He told me something about Will’s brother. I don’t remember what though.” She nodded. “Be safe okay? And brush your teeth because I’m not paying for any self inflicted cavities after tonight.” He nodded, them exchanging goodbyes, him teasing her about being a mom just as bad as Steve is. 

Her house was empty when she pulled up. Her family was gone more and more now that her siblings were in travel ball. A car pulled in behind her, fear rolling over Y/n. She thought she had been careful about watching for cars following her. She thought she had been safe- “You gonna let me in or are we both gonna freeze to death in our cars?” Billy asked after knocking on her window, Y/n letting out a scream. He laughed, Y/n huffing and getting out. “You ass. You scared me!” He rolled his eyes, reaching for her hand. She stomped away from him, digging through her bag for her keys. Billy grabbed her by the waist, lifting her. “Billy!” She couldn’t help but laugh, him lifting her off her feet. “It’s cold! Put me down so we can go in!” He huffed and released her, Y/n finally unlocking the door. He kicked off his boots, grabbing the back of the omegas shirt gently. “What?” She asked, turning to look at him. He shrugged. She walked up the stairs, him still holding the back of her shirt. She got to her room, Billy wrapping his arms around her from behind. “You want something?” She tilted her head back to look at him. “No. just wanna hold you.” 

“You going soft?”

“....”

“I shouldn’t have said that.” She whispered, a shit-eating grin on his face. 

“Nothing soft over here, princess.” He rutted his hips against her, Y/n squawking and jumping away from him. He was smiling though, so that was nice. “You hungry?” She asked, putting her purse down, grabbing a sweatshirt to pull on instead of a coat now that they were inside. He shrugged. “You’re a liar, Hargrove. I can see it on your face.” She teased, poking the tip of his nose. Y/n made soup, Billy making a sandwich for each of them. Billy felt weird standing in the kitchen making dinner with an omega. He hadn’t had an experience similar to it since he was little and had made dinner with his mom. “You okay?” Y/n asked, Billy having abandoned his sandwich in favor of ripping a slice of cheese into pieces. He felt his face start to heat up, her looking at him with genuine concern. “You are just like Harrington.” He mumbled, shoving a piece of cheese in his mouth. She raised an eyebrow, Billy aggressively eating. “Both care too much about other people.” She nudged him with her elbow. “That’s because we like you, meathead.” He nudged her back, her oven timer beeping. They ate soup and sandwiches at the table, Billy making bad jokes about what people in Hawkins think having fun is. “You wanna stay the night?” She asked him softly, handing him a bowl to dry. “Yeah. You gonna let me stay in your bed?”

“Maybe. Depends on if I still like you once we get there.” He rolled his eyes, Y/n trying to keep her proud smirk to herself as Billy smiled yet again. Y/n found Billy a sleep shirt (as she liked to call it to wear), the alpha stripping to his boxers. “Stop watching me!” She pouted, trying to change but saw Billy watching her in the mirror. “Sorry, sorry!” He threw his arms up, her waiting until he groaned and laid down. She dropped her jeans, bending over to pull on pj pants. “You know your ass is one of my favorite things about you.” She turned around, kicking the pj pants off. She stood between his legs, cupping his neck, Billy grabbing her hips. “You being an ass is my least favorite thing about you.” He pouted, dropping his nose to her neck, scenting her. “It’s a good thing you have a big knot.”

“I resent that.” He told her, Y/n laughing. She pushed away from him and climbed into bed, making grabby hands at him, rising a snort from the blond. She sat up to meet him, kissing him. He leaned down to meet her, catching her waist. She giggled, him pressing kisses up to her ear. She kissed the tip of his nose, Billy pausing and taking her in. He sat back on his knees, holding her to him by her thighs. Y/n scented him for just a moment before reaching up to his ears, Billy’s skin burning pink as she gently rubbed the tips of his ears with her thumbs. Billy buried his face in her neck to hide, smile wide on his face, Y/n smiling at the sight. She kissed his forehead, Billy letting her go so she could lay down. Billy sighed as his head hit the pillow; it was early but it felt right to go to bed already. She curled into his side, squeezing him close. “So are we like, a thing?” She asked after feeling his arm wrap around her. “We can be.” Billy had to admit, Y/n was easy to fall hard and fast for. He was really mystified by the fact that Steve was her first boyfriend. “I’d like that.” She whispers in his ear, pressing a kiss to his temple. 

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[tracykestler]

36 and what a world I have seen

Honestly I’ve been terrible at journalling lately. Love handwriting in quill and ink style, but my current life leaves me exhausted after work and most of my time spent in education. But currently the Covid-19 pandemic made me consider the important world events I have witnessed. 

Born in 1984 I lived in a world of rapidly changing technology but still being forced outside to play. We always had an Apple computer in our house for as long as I can remember. Played the Oregon Trail in black and white, then in color. That was the standard computer game of my childhood. Mom got us Mario Teaches Typing, probably the only “video game” I ever played at that point. AOL was a thing. All those CDs in the mail with updates. I never really got into it, but my twin sister did.

Also a child of the Disney Golden Age of animation. Dramatically influenced my life to the point I went to work for Walt Disney World after college. Still a Disney fanatic to this day. 

Apparently my family visited Yellowstone National park (age 4? too young to remember anyway) then not too long after the park had the fire. 

Was alive though not conscious of world events when the Berlin Wall fell. Watch the birth of CNN during the first Desert Storm when my dad was there overseeing some of the first drone flights. The military required a pilot on hand for those flights. He told us later how some Iraqis would surrender to the drone plane, not that it was ever one of the ones he supervised. And according to my mom I frequently asked to NOT watch the 24 hour stream of news because it was too depressing and I knew that’s where dad was. 

Really started to pay attention to news (not that l enjoyed it but that’s the timeline for how chidden develop) during the O.J. Simpson trial. 

By that point I had lived on both coasts of the USA, crossed country twice, lived in many different environments from Washington’s cold wet seasons to California’s deserts California’s coast to landlocked suburbia of Georgia. 

Where I learned to drive, had a single Nokia phone for me and my twin in our tiny Cabrio convertible (I hate convertibles). Got a personal computer for the first time, where before it was a single family computer. The iMacs were coming out right when we were heading to college. My sister got the desktop, I got the laptop and have never looked back. Still have my gumstick shuffle iPod floating around and it still works.

Got to watch the insanity of Indecision 2000 and appreciate political humor for the first time.

I’ve been to 9 different schools for 12 years of school, not including college. That would make it ten. Was a freshman in high school when the Columbine shootings happened. Some weeks later we had a pipe bomb threat at our school which forced all the students out to the football field. From the top of the bleachers we could see the bomb squad and their dogs entering the school. All I could think of was if someone really wanted to kill at lot of people, there on the bleachers would be the place to do it. Then at some point in my adult life someone did it at a movie theater showing The Dark Knight. 

Saw the images of the Oklahoma City bombing. Heard about the Unabomber. Watched the Waco Texas incident.

But my senior year was the time of 9/11. My math class was out in the hallway doing a math related science type experiment, can’t tell you what it was. But that day was the only day I have ever heard a school of nearly 5,000 students absolutely silent during class change. Thus Desert Storm part two happened. 

Right before I headed off to college. So I wasn’t super savvy about applying to colleges. I only applied to one. Didn’t have a clue as to what I wanted to do with my life. I’ve done a wide variety of sports, been writing fiction since at least 10 years old, drew and painted fairly well, thought about doing animation or architecture (did a semester learning thing with a local firm, decided it wasn’t for me). 

Ended up getting a degree in two foreign languages but not fluent in either. It did greatly improve my understanding of the English language. And I had the privilege of an exchange program for a school year to Japan, plus of study abroad summer to Germany. Would never regret any of that. Even if it didn’t get me a degree that got me a job. 

Instead I went to Disney World as part of their internship program. Been in foods and hospitality for a significant portion of my life (thus far). Loved working there. Got to work with the Characters and it was fabulous. Even with the frustrations of all work environments. 

But it couldn’t last. Minimum wage was raised, but the cost of living out stripped the earnings for a single person living alone. Prompting a move back home with parents to get another degree. Then the Housing bubble burst, loans defaulted, mortgage crisis, resulting in the Great Recession. It did get me a house in my name but basically an income property for my mom as her inheritance from my grandmother. All the while I’m going to school to be a nurse.

Now let’s not forget about the many weather crises I’ve witnessed via the news. Hurricanes Katrina, Sandy, Harvey, Maria to name the ones I easily remember. The Class 5 tornado that wiped out a midwestern town. The volcano in Iceland rerouting planes. The tsunami in Indonesia and Sumatra. The massive earthquake in Haiti. These are only the ones that easily come to mind without researching what happened during the years I’ve been alive.

Not to mention the diseases that I’ve seen via the news. First to mind was the Ebola outbreak while I was in nursing school. Saw the hype on the Swine Flue, SARS, Avian flu to name a few easily remembered. Those never reached me personally. Now it’s Covid-19 unfolding. Called SARS-CoV-19 now, but that later.

But its not all disasters. Went to the Atlanta Centennial Olympics still have the t-shirt. Was alive during the first black president. 

Took part in the massive phenomena that was Harry Potter and still love it to this day. It showed me that fiction/fantasy could be a mainstream genre to write for. I started writing FanFiction at that time to fill in the long spaces between books. Started when fan fiction.net had the 7or 8 main characters to choose from for tagging. It was like the Wild West of figuring out what you were about to read. Learned about Slash, yaoi, lemons and such the hard way. But being exposed to it that way did open my eyes to what goes on in other people’s heads. Knew immediately that just because I didn’t like something didn't mean I had to hate on it. I left it alone once found and kept going. Really helped increase my tolerance to other cultures and thoughts.

Met my best friend on a role playing site and we wrote nonstop during our college years. Went to her wedding, have a lovely Renaissance style dress as a bridesmaid gift. Still am in touch with her. We don’t write together any more as we have moved in our lives with adulting. But I still have all those stories and hope to turn them into something.

Had my first camera cell phone in Japan as just a basic free phone. Was shocked to find cameras in the States were not standard. One of my friends in Japan kept doing selfies before they were called selfies. Blind positioning of the camera for pictures. Then came the iPhone and the world never looked back.

Joined Facebook when it required a college email. Used MSN messenger and Yahoo messenger to communicate with people around the world. Didn’t join the Twitter or Tumblr movement until after they became established. Saw the boom and bust of the Dot.Com bubble. Watched the Dow Jones numbers increase without the income to invest the way they said to.

Lived right above the poverty line during the Recession. Not knowing if I could make it the next month. Never being able to claim poverty on the tax forms. Caught in the income dead space of not being able to afford health insurance from the markets but in a state that didn’t allow for Medicaid expansion.

But I do not have the worry now thankfully. 

Jobs wise I’ve been a telemarketer, dishwasher, a line cook, a hostess, server, janitor, assistant manager, and now I’m a nurse. I started on med/surg, ED, Cardiac, and ICU. In a small rural hospital getting smaller in a time when rural were shutting down because of no funding. They serve areas with a high rates of unemployment, uninsured, drug and alcohol abuse.

Worked at a busier hospital were no bed was left empty. Sicker patients. Work in a mid-size place. Some days super busy, some slower. 

Covid-19 had the affect of somehow doing both. First few days was almost empty, now it fluctuates. Mostly rule outs. And the protocols are changing hourly which makes life frustrating for us. It’s the constant unspoken threat of going into work not knowing if you’ll have the right equipment to do the job. I’m not scared of the virus itself, not even of the collapse of the economy. I’m scared of the surge that will put my coworkers at risk.

I live alone (my little sister lives with me now) so very little contact with others. But they have kids and a much closer physical distance to their older parents. I know I will add days to my weeks if they have to stay out for any length of time. 

So this is the first time a world event as truly affected me. It is a terrifying time which prompted this summary of my life so far.

I went into a restaurant and saw no one. I never thought I’d see that day. I don’t want people to loose their income, but if people were to go about their daily activities we would loose so many in one go. All I can do is my job.

The more I watch the more depressed and stressed. At work is worse.

I’m teaching myself a new craft because of this. I have taken up leather working to make masks. It helps the creativity outlet. I started drawing class early in 2020 and was set to continue drawing and add painting when the social distancing started. I admit it felt overblown in the beginning. Now the numbers are changing rapidly and we are really seeing what happens in close communities. Just keep working. It’s part of life now. No matter how much if feels like a movie plot line.

But back to other things I’ve seen.

LGTBQA and others coming into the forefront of society. Saw legalization of gay marriage. Quite thrilled with that.

Didn’t hear the term Asexual in reference to a sexual preference until my early 20s. Immediately recognized similar stories to me. Never had an interest in sex or having a partner. A name did make things more relatable, but I will never fully understand people who seem to base their entire existence on their sexual preference.

I’ve been call sir many times based on how I dress. I still sound like a female. Can’t fault anyone for using the appropriate pronoun for what they see in front of them. But that’s a culture that’s growing. Preferred pronouns. But I have to admit that an online friend referred to me as “they” despite a lady being in my username and it felt nice. So in honor of the Special Snowflake term that floated around, I’m an nonbinary aromantic asexual. Probably with a fem-romanitic leaning. 

Saw the rise of the Millennials. I’m caught between Gen X and the Millennials. Now that all the Millennials are of age to vote, perhaps change is underway?

I’m back in college for my 3rd and then 4th degree. In nursing. Online. Watching the world combat a virus.

A US that is split down the middle politically. A world with more pollution problems than we can handle. Governments preferring to coverup mistakes and corruption than help their citizens. The term Public Servant is obviously not taken seriously in some places. See Flint, MI and their water. Lobbyists creating bills that benefit corporations rather than people. Politicians that never retire and keep getting lucrative reelection donations from those very corporations. 

The rise of narcotic drug use, prescription drugs. Pill mills. 

Sex scandals taking center stage in the news rather than things that actually affect daily life. Among things I will never understand is the fear of Transgender women in the women’s restrooms when it was always a straight conservative man who was the center of all these sex scandals. 

Asexual brain at work. I simply do not understand. Conclusion: If you look like a certain gender, you’ll most often be treated as that gender.

What I do miss were the kid shows and cartoons in the 90s. They were super progressive with great literature themes. I knew the story of some of the greatest classic literature simply by the references in those shows. 

Also the era of War on Drug commercials. Recycling promoted. 

My favorite: Captain Planet. Not only was it pushing for a cleaner earth it had different nationalities. Stereotypical, but a far better representation than what I am seeing in kids shows today. It was diverse in that multiple skin tones were seen on screen together rather than specific skin tones marketed to that specific demographic. Now I do like how many more cultures are represented, I just want them shown in ways where color and culture is not the primary focus. 

It also surged a desire to protect the planet. The knowledge that we need clean water and air. Educational shows like Magic School Bus and Bill Nye explained what is happening in the environment long before Global Warming became political. With the global shut in we see the world cleansing itself. 

Now the marijuana legalization issue. No one has died from overdosing on weed. Unlike Alcohol. Yes smoke isn’t good for your health like cigarettes, but the complications are not as prevalent, well studied, or as life threatening with what is known. The disconnect of state legalization and national illegalities is mind blowing. I hope to see that break so we can study it.

Overall I know I have seen a lot of historical events and I hope to live another 36 plus years to see more. 3 decades, the change of a century and the change of the millennia. Y2K hysteria included. 

The world is changing. The outcome is unknown. Peace be upon us all.

[uncommonfauna]

In 1972 Janet Clifton, an Osage woman, walked into the IHS in Clairemore, Oklahoma. For years she had been having severe pelvic cramps and they had become too much to bear. She was put in a gown and lead to a room in which sat the dreaded stirruped chair many women have despised since it’s invention. The anxiety is understandable even in modern times when women’s healthcare is arguably the most advanced it’s ever been. It’s frightening, then, to imagine approaching that chair in the 60’s and 70’s, when modern women’s healthcare was in it’s infancy, and for a Native American woman, it could be absolutely terrifying. 

When Janet signed in to the clinic, she’d been asked the usual questions, one of which was ‘are you married’, which she was, and was asked if she had any children, which she did. Three to be exact. She was only twenty-five and all her children were born just under three years, so it is no surprise that when she was asked if she was religious she replied that she was Catholic. Christianity and native Americans have a strange relationship. The religion was used to justify atrocities done to us too numerous not only for this paper, but for anyone to ever list. Arguably it’s greatest crime was to mold itself into a cardboard beacon, offering native Americans sanctuary from it’s own ugliness. For centuries Native American men made the decision to convert for the rest of the family. The rules of life changed for them, but it’s unclear if they realized the changes it meant for their wives. Their roles in many nations were reduced, as was their agency over their bodies. Contraceptives in their earliest days were known throughout the world, including the Americas, yet now they were forbidden. As ridiculous and ineffective as they could be, they at least offered the illusion of body autonomy, mostly for women. 

When Janet went to the IHS the Women’s Health Movement (WHM) had only recently begun, along with second wave feminism. It spoke loftily and justly about abortion rights and about changing the traditional maternity ward practices into more family oriented ones, with the fathers allowed in the delivery room. There was a resurgence of midwifery. However, these improvements did not scratch the blood soaked surface of Native American health care. As Janet lay in the chair, three white doctors entered the room. The Indian Clinic did not have any native doctors, so doctors were driven in from nearby Tulsa Oklahoma, thus continuing the tradition of white doctors working with an exclusively non-white clientele. “I felt like I was being experimented on,” she would later say. She would be in good company. A Google search of “experiments on native women” will instantly bring up several articles about the forced sterilization of Native American women, and many give examples of experimental procedures that were performed in front of many doctors under the guise of research. Janet, who only wanted treatment for what we now know as polycystic ovary syndrome, never knew she would join their ranks. “One of the doctors told me that they were going to burn the cysts off. The procedure was never really explained to me and it was probably a combination of me being a woman and being Native American. They thought I was too dumb to understand anyway.” Had she known more on the subject she might have thought he was referring to a ovarian wedge resection, a common treatment at the time. It involves opening the patient up in an operating theater and exposing the ovaries. The cysts are then carefully removed with a cauterization tool not only keep the cyst from bursting, but to ensure the ovary heals properly. Instead of doing this, Janet and her doctors remained in the exam room where he gave her a local anesthetic, inserted a cauterizing into her vaginally, and performed what was most likely a tubal litigation. This is the most common form of female sterilization and only severs the fallopian tubes. My grandmother’s painful ovaries would remain untouched and untreated.  

“I remember smelling something burning,” recalled Janet, “I looked down and saw smoke.”She was sent home directly after the procedure, unaware of what had actually happened to her and uninformed of the possible side effects. There was pain, of course, and in a candid moment she also confessed that she was never able to feel sexual pleasure with her husband again. Worst of all, because there had been no attempt to treat the cysts, and the pain that started the entire ordeal returned within weeks. 

Pain seems to be woven into the fabric of every Native American woman’s life and this has not gone unnoticed artists, native and non-native alike. When native women are not posing nude on a biker’s bicep, we are huddled into blankets, riding our horses, our backs bent and heads hung low. Sometimes we stand on hills, gazing at nothing with blank faces and sometimes we kneel by our tipis and look at the ground. Though the past few decades have brought forward more animated depictions of Native American women, my grandmother’s house was filled with the old fashioned kind. As a child, I thought they were pretty, if boring. I never perceived any greater meaning than a woman simply looking down. Maybe she was watching a bug. As a child I was also blissfully unaware of the majority of the atrocities faced by our people and what I did know, I largely new in name only. It wasn’t until I grew older that I’d look at these paintings and think ‘huh, she actually looks kinda sad’. Now I look at these paintings and think ‘she looks utterly defeated’. Knowing what really happened to us makes me notice details I never had before, like how so many of them have textbook thousand yard stares while portraits of chiefs and warriors in the same stye still seem to have fire in their eyes. The men are also more likely to be depicted upright, whether standing or on horseback, still tall in some way or another. The woman have deflated. We slump over our horse’s necks, we kneel, we sit. It seems as though these women have accepted that pain is just something they must endure silently and with dignity, whatever the source. My grandmother is not like these women, so when the pain that had sent her to the doctor in the first place returned, so did she. 

The doctors made little effort with pretense this time - she would have a hysterectomy and that was that. At this point there was no reason to try and treat her as Janet could no longer have children, and in the end her hysterectomy would succeed in ridding her of her pain. Why then does it seem to hold so much more significance? European invaders managed to erase many aspects of various indigenous cultures, but some roots run too deep to be completely torn out and in so many of our cultures it was the female ability bring forth life that created the world. The association with women and new life was so strong that even in some nations it was observed that women sewed the seeds for the new crops and tended to them, but it was the men who reaped them. Their reasoning was that women brought life, and men took it. Some Lakota Sioux would not acknowledge a girl’s transition to womanhood until she has had a child. This doesn’t mean that a woman’s only value was her ability to have children and in many nations women held high political power, were religious leaders, and even warriors. Still, it is virtually impossible to completely separate a woman’s potential reproductive capabilities and how she was viewed in societies that place more value on the concept of new life, birth, or rebirth. So many Native American nations fell into this category, and on some level or another, a woman’s womb was sacred. In 1972, at age 25, my grandmother’s was ripped from her body.

From an outsiders perspective, it seems as though these sterilized women have become those broken women from the paintings. In doing research for this paper, I found very little. The ambiguity is unsettling. Is the near total absence of initial medical documentation a result of apathy towards Native American health, or an intentional coverup? Did the women affected not speak out about this at the time because of the taboo around reproductive systems? Was it shame, or a feeling that no one would listen anyway? I have to wonder, too, how many woman are like my grandmother who only now realizes what was done to her. Whitehorse also did not realize what happened to her until later. “I was trying to have more babies, but was having trouble getting pregnant, so I went to the IHS clinic. That’s when they told me about what they did to me,” She said. She had been sterilized during a previous surgery.“I was in so much pain when I went in for the appendectomy; they gave me a bunch of papers to sign. They never explained anything to me; I had no idea I was giving them permission to sterilize me.” she said. It wasn’t only abdominal pain that allowed doctors to trick women into sterilization. One of the more famous cases of sterilization involved two girls, both under fifteen years old, who were sterilized during surgery to remove their tonsils. It’s been estimated that between 1960 and 1970, for every seven native babies born, one woman was sterilized, culminating in roughly 25% of the potentially fertile female population. Even this was not enough of an attack on the Native American woman. Native American boarding schools, run by the BIA (Bureau of Indian Affairs) where still common in that era. A 1971 census stated that approximately 35,000 Native American children lived in boarding schools rather than at home. In these schools, children were stripped of their language, their culture, their religion, their names, and often, their sanity. Abuse was rampant and the chances of escape were bleak. While non-native children were begging for bell bottoms and watching t.v, two native boys fled, only to freeze to death in their attempt to return home. Suicide rates amongst teenage boarders could reach as high as one hundred times the national average. The rest of the nation, if it noticed, soon turned away and continued to focus on disco. Native mothers could do little to stop the abuse of their children, but a growing number were being offered a choice. If they agreed to be sterilized, their existing children might be allowed to stay with them. It can’t be said if it was in defeat or defiance that a mother made her choice, whichever it was. It would a lie to say that no woman was defeated, and sat slumped over a bottle of whiskey rather than a horse.

However, when my grandmother was wheeled into the recovery bay, she discovered that she was not the only woman who refused stoop down and be silent, though she did not yet know what bond she shared with these women. They were a small group, all in various stages of recovery. They smiled and chatted if and when they could, and because the nurses were about as helpful as a match under water, they tended to each other. The women adjusted each others hospital beds by hand, fetched each other glasses of water and just as importantly, they kept each other in good spirits. Decades later, Janet will still smile and laugh when she remembers a woman that was truly fed up with the barely edible hospital food. “You guys want some pizza?” The woman had asked, and then she got up and climbed out the window. A while later she returned the same way, pizza in hand. They might have been neglected and in pain, but in that moment they were normal women diving into a pizza and giddy with their own mischief. It seems like such a small gesture, valuable in that it’s a light hearted tidbit from an otherwise tragic story, but it is so much more than that. Expand the perspective and you’ll find it’s really the story of how a Native American woman was had her reproductive organs seared into oblivion against her will by white doctors, was neglected by nurses in a recovery room filled with strangers, and this woman still had the strength and spark to climb out a window and return with pizza to share with her sisters. Our solidarity is our fortitude. Native women have an incredible ability to come together and to accomplish incredible things. One of they key elements that allows us to do this is our ability to communicate with each other, and despite what modern white hippies may think, we can’t do that with telepathy and talking animals. I would not have been able to tell my grandmother’s story without calling her and having several lengthy phone calls. This chapter of our history is in danger of being forgotten. It’s imperative we learn as much as we can, but that is not enough. It’s through communication that bond over our people’s losses and triumphs and encourage others to learn along with us. If I am to end this essay with one request, it is that when you read this chapter of our history, please read it out loud. 

—- This essay is dedicate to Janet Stork, I cannot give enough thanks to my grandmother for letting me interview her. Rather than mourn her loss, she seemed happy throughout every conversation, as if she was glad that someone wanted to hear what she had to say. This is such a sensitive topic, one that would make many young students here cringe and shy away from, but my grandmother made every conversation a comfortable one. No question was off limits, there was no withholding of details. I feel so lucky to have a grandmother like her, and I’m amazed that it’s through her strength I exist today. 

[qqueenofhades]

Please please please write more steamy Garcy action!

Welp.

The combination of this prompt and the above shot from the promo was very bad, so…. have an absolutely will-not-be-remotely-canon, total shipper trash version of Salem, for reasons. Because apparently the combination of Lucy + Flynn + Salem results in nothing but smut for my muse.

Rated E.

AO3.

The summer night wind pulls at Lucy’s skirt as she ismarched down the path, escorted by a pair of Pilgrim’s Progress extras in their black hats and high starchedcollars, a sea of eerie earthbound stars twinkling to every side. Of coursethey’re not actually stars, they’re torches, clutched by the fearful populaceof Salem gathered on Gallows Hill, and the rope strung from an old tree wherefive days ago, on July 19, 1692, Sarah Good, Elizabeth Howe, Susannah Martin, SarahWildes, and Rebecca Nurse were hanged. There will be another round of hangingsin about a month, Lucy recalls, until the trials burn themselves out as quicklyas they’ve started, in October. This still all seems rather academic to her.She wasn’t expecting to it to come this far, but she isn’t that concerned.She’ll get out of this.

Admittedly, she’s not certain how, and she would like tohave a few more options. She’s been separated from the boys, and she isn’t surethey know where she is, which is alarming. She isn’t sure she can pull the H.H.Holmes oracle trick to stop them – Holmes, psychotic as he was, was still onlyone man. This is a mob. Not to mention, that will serve as proof positive ofwitchcraft, and good luck fighting her way through all of them alone. Lucy’scontributions to the team are not of the brute-force and multiple-weaponsvariety. For the first time, her stomach turns over in genuine apprehension. Where are Wyatt and Rufus?

(She thinks for half a minute that the most effective one ofthem here would be Flynn, but there’s no way he’s coming.)

A low, ugly murmur is starting to rise by the time Lucy andher guards reach the hanging tree, and they come to a halt. Cotton Mather,looking more smug and punchable than ever, is standing nearby in his vicar’sstock, swelled with pride, ready to preside over another essential measure insaving the souls of Salem’s impressionable citizens. Lucy has a generous viewof the past, for the most part. Knows that it’s always more complicated thansimplistic pictures would like to paint it. Given the modern world’s irrationalbeliefs and panics and scapegoating, she’s not even about to point too many fingersat the ability of the Salemites to convince themselves that these women arewitches, servants of Satan, and their existence depends on killing themimmediately. But the faces watching her are huddled and hard and blank withhatred. Parents clutch their children close. There are kids here? Probably a vital moral lesson for them or something. Thehell. Never mind the historical relevancy and comparative morality and whateverelse. These people have problems.

Peter Puritan, on her left side, steps forward and makes aflourish at Mather. “Behold Goodwife Preston,” he booms. Too bad communitytheater isn’t a thing in seventeenth-century New England, he would be great atit. “The Court of Oyer and Terminer has judged beyond all doubt that this womanis guilty of the abominable sin of witchcraft, and – ”

“You haven’t tried me!” Lucy says loudly, earning shocked and scathing looks. “You’ve – this is a miscarriage of justice, it’s – ”

This is pathetic. Of courseit’s a miscarriage of justice, and there are still at least two monthsuntil anyone gives a shit about it. “I want to speak to Colonel NathanielSaltonstall,” Lucy plunges on. “I – I know him, he – ”

“Silence, witch!” Paul Puritan, from the other side, looksas if he’s aiming a blow at her, which Lucy instinctively ducks. Her heart isstarting to pound. All right, this is cutting it too close. She’s more thanready for Wyatt and Rufus to turn up on whatever improvised rescue missionthey’ve definitely contrived, and her eyes sweep the crowd, in case they’repulling the Will Turner trick (though a hat with a fancy feather woulddefinitely stick out). The trials do arrest a few men for being accomplices.Are they across town in some other jail?

Is nobody coming?

Lucy starts looking around, wondering if there’s a plank shecan grab or anything else to improvise as a weapon. But while she’s doing this,she’s losing time as Mather reads out whatever canned indictment Rittenhousemust have provided him with – is this thepoint, she doesn’t think her own mother will actually let her get killed, arethey going to swoop in as convenient saviors as the last moment? Is it possiblethat even Rittenhouse doesn’t know where she is? If she’s relying on them to pull her ass out of this –

“Remove your mob cap, witch,” Peter Puritan orders her. “Doyou have any last confession or recantation of your heretical views, before youface the proper punishment for your crime?”

“I’m not a witch.” Lucy’s voice isn’t as loud as she wants.“None of them are witches! You’re killing innocent women, you – ”

Unfortunately, true as this is, everyone sees the defense ofaccused and executed witches as, well, proof of witchcraft. There’s amaddeningly circular illogic to this entire thing, and the gasp that thisutterance provokes is followed by a shout. “HANG THE WITCH!”

Oh, please, Lucythinks frantically. You’ve got to bekidding me. Come on, past. I’m literally fighting to save your entireexistence. Do me a solid.

The past does not, in fact, do her a solid. The shoutspreads, quick as poison, and in that, Lucy can feel the final dam break. PeterPuritan reaches for the strings of her cap – she will be literally exposedbefore the crowd, die bare-headed and stripped of her shame and modesty – andLucy twists away, even as he pulls at the knots and jerks it off. Her hairtumbles out, as Paul Puritan grabs her and pushes her toward the hanging noose.Lucy kicks and snaps, trying to head-butt him, and feels her ear scrape as hejerks the rough hemp down around her neck. She stumbles on a loose board,briefly terrifying her that she’ll hang herself by accident like a clumsyidiot. The crowd is literally baying for her blood, Cotton Mather’s eyes aretwo piggy black sparks, and chasing Rittenhouse has made her believe in onekind of evil, but this is altogether another – she is actually going to die, and –

“LUCY!”

Her heart stops for a full beat in her chest, as the bellowrings out across the rising tide of madness and momentarily halts even Peterand Paul in their tracks. Her eyes sweep across the crowd, looking desperatelyfor Wyatt, even as she doesn’t think that sounds like Wyatt. But how – but how –

Garcia Flynn punches down a final minion trying to stop himand bulls into the middle of the mob like a runaway locomotive, charging acrossthe ground and toward the gallows. Peter and Paul recollect themselvessufficiently from their shock to try to grab him, which is a very bad idea.Flynn decks Peter with one punch and judo-throws Paul, sending himsomersaulting off the gallows with a squelchy noise. His violence is economicand brutal and effortless, almost mesmerizing – Lucy has seen it many times, ofcourse, but usually as something she has to stop or redirect or otherwiseprevent from its fullest potential. Now, for the first time she can remember,it is entirely focused on her – not as its target, but its purpose. For a wildmoment, it feels like Flynn is some strange avatar of her own rage, the way shewould fight if she wasn’t a five-foot-five history professor who had neverhandled a gun in her life until she shot Jesse James. How is he here. How is he – how is he here?

Right now, Lucy doesn’t care. Flynn reaches her in the nextinstant and practically wrenches the noose off her neck, scraping her earagain, and she stumbles forward, clutching hold of his waistcoat. The Salemiteshave been briefly and totally stunned by what looks like the wrathfulmaterialization of the Devil Himself to pluck one of his concubines from thebrink, and Lucy’s historian’s brain has a moment of wondering if this is goingto make the trials even worse. Causes and consequences, short-and-long-termeffects, all the shit she can’t stop thinking about even when her own life isat stake – but God, she was scared, she’s only realizing just now how much, andFlynn – and Flynn –

She can’t bring herself to let go of him, even as Flynnhalf-wraps her in his jacket and hauls her toward the edge of the gallows. Butat this point, Cotton Mather has – unfortunately – recovered himself. “DEVIL!”he booms. “I DEFY THEE, SATAN! I DEFY THEE!”

Despite everything, Flynn has almost a sardonic grin on hisface, just visible in the flickering torchlight, as if even this isn’t theworst thing he has been called. Mather raises his missal, bellowing what soundslike something intended to make Flynn vanish in a puff of brimstone, but whichdoes nothing of the sort, because of course not. The Salemites are confused andterrified to see their vaunted spiritual leader so utterly overmatched, andLucy’s ankle twists under her as Flynn drags her off the gallows. Mather takesa step, as if realizing that God has left him out to dry on this one and it’stime for more physical weapons. He grabs for the truncheon at Peter Puritan’sbelt. “Prince of Lies! I will not allow you to – ”

Flynn, keeping hold of Lucy with one arm, plunges his freehand into his leather jacket, removes a gun, and shoots Cotton Goddamn Matherin the head. It sounds like thunder.

Mather goes down hard, as Lucy screams and muffles it in herhand. Mather is one of history’s most unpleasant racist and misogynisticjackasses, it’s not like this is a terrible loss, and maybe with theintellectual architect of the witch trials gone, Salem will come to its senses.Or it will become convinced that he was completely right all along, with Luciferhimself in their midst, and double down. Lucy isn’t sure if Mather’s dead –Flynn didn’t get a clean hit, just a glancing one – and they have no time to besure. Flynn throws her over his shoulder, and runs, fittingly, like the devil.

He doesn’t stop until they’re well away, somewhere deep inSalem Woods, also known as the Witches’ Wood, and the noise and shout and totaldisorder of Gallows Hill has faded to a distant, dreamy clamor. Flynn stumblesto a halt, pulls Lucy down, and practically throws her against the nearesttree. She has never seen his face look like this. “Are you – did they – ”

“Stop,” Lucy chokes out. “Stop, Flynn. Flynn. Flynn! Garcia!I’m fine. I’m fine!”

This is more or less the truth – aside from her scraped ear,twisted ankle, and hammering heart, she’s physically undamaged, thanks to histimely intervention, but the mental shock is going to take longer to set in.His hands are practically bruising her shoulders, he belatedly realizes it, andloosens them a fraction. His dark hair is tousled, there’s an abrasion on hischeek, and his knuckles are scraped. He has clearly been fighting the entiretown to get to her.

Lucy, to say the least, has no idea how to react to this. Itsays something about how successfully he has convinced her that he hates thesight of her and will never forgive her that she ranked Rittenhouse a morelikely rescuer than him. But it’s him here, face frantic in the moonlight,still completely unable to put up a pretense or façade. “Lucy,” he says again,barely more coherently. “I – Lucy. I thought – ” He stops. Straining madly forhis usual brusque dismissal, he says, “How could you be so foolish as to – ”

“It’s my faultthat the place literally known for murdering slightly strange innocent womenwas about to murder me, a slightly strange innocent woman?” Lucy flares. Shecannot believe him. He has hauled her bodily from certain death and badlywounded or killed Cotton Mather in doing it, and now of course he’s going to bea dick about it. “If you actually think so, I’m happy to walk back there andlet them finish the job!”

This of course is a bluff, as she’s going nowhere near them,but it turns Flynn’s face a sick white. His grip tightens convulsively on her,her toes practically dangling off the ground, and she shoves at him until heputs her down. They stare at each other for a crackling moment. She wants toask him where Wyatt and Rufus are, but the words get stuck. He looks disheveledand frantic and still not quite able to look away from her face. He half-raiseshis hand as if to touch it, remembers himself, and stops. His chest heaves.Quieter, he says, “Don’t ever do that again.”

Lucy opens her mouth, to shoot back any of the obviousrejoinders about how she is not going to have much choice in their present lineof work, and besides, it’s a considerable shock to hear he gives a shit. Onceagain, the words don’t make it that far. It is not only the fear and adrenalineof the near-hanging and dramatic rescue that is making her heart keep up itspresent pace. His face is quite close to hers, and it wouldn’t be hard. To juststep up, and –

(Lucy feels something for Wyatt beyond any doubt. Somethingwarm and alluring and tender, something she could see turning into somethingmore, a foundation to build on, a home to come to, strong and sweet and real.She always has.)

(Lucy also feels something for Flynn beyond any doubt.Something raw and dark and hungry, something she can’t see turning intoanything but the crash of a devouring sea that would take her and drown her,pull her under. This is nothing to build on, cannot move forward, strikes likelightning and burns, burns, burns. She always has.)

The witch and the Devil in the woods at midnight, Lucythinks. It is almost surreal, the way the crickets shirr, the starlight issharp and cold, and in the distance, men who want to kill them chant like Moriadrums. Is she not a witch? She knows their future, she’s traveled here from it,she has seen and done things that defy explanation in her own time, not merelythose. They have wanted to kill her for it, but something else is surging inher now. She wants that power, in a way. And the fear. That moment when Flynnwas decking Peter Puritan, when she felt it as if it was her arm, as if he washer and she was him and both of them were two strange halves of a twisted andtorn-apart creature –

Lucy boosts herself on her tiptoes, grabs Flynn by themostly-undone cravat, and kisses him.

It’s not like kissing Wyatt. That is generous, easy, gentle,knowing she will be caught when she jumps over the edge. This is flingingherself into the abyss without a rope, with no idea what kind of reaction itwill provoke. Flynn could do literally anything, and as a rule in his life,has. But this Lucy, the Lucy who’s so fucking furious at her mother she can’tbreathe, who has spent every waking moment sacrificing for everyone else, who wants to be the one to do the reckless,idiotic thing for once, doesn’t care. This is a dangerous man, and she isn’tabout to romanticize or underestimate that. But if nothing else – if there’sanything she’s taking away from her recent near-death experience – she is alsoa dangerous woman.

Flynn, for his part, is too floored to do anything at all.His hands windmill feebly in the air, and he remains briefly inert against her,until Lucy wonders if she’s completely mistaken and there isn’t whatever there is between them, whatevershe thought there was. His mouth is a hard seam of granite, grim and ungenerousand guarded like a castle wall, just like the rest of him. Just then, for thatinstant, it feels like kissing a statue.

In the next, it doesn’t. His hands clamp onto her face,pulling her head up almost hard enough to strain her neck – well, he’s a fullfoot taller than she is, something’s got to give, something has to bridge thedistance, in more ways than one. He kisses like he punches: he takes noprisoners, he doesn’t waste time on peripheral targets, and it feels liable toknock you out if you run into it too hard. Her hands come up, clutching hiswrists, as their noses mash and their teeth scrape and they bite each other’slips, too used to conflict to come easily into convergence. Lucy isn’t evensure she is enjoying it, exactly. Just that she can’t stop.

It’s Flynn who breaks the kiss (if such a polite,sweet-sounding word can be used to dignify the proceedings) after a gasping,gulping moment. He clearly thinks the insanity of the Salemites must becontagious. “Lucy ��� ”

Oddly enjoyable as it is to hear her name in his mouth likethat, the way his accent sometimes thickens in moments of heightened emotion,Lucy Preston rarely gets the chance to outright do stupid things, and shedoesn’t feel like losing this one. She takes a step, grabbing his lapels, herloosened hair falling around her face, dark shadows on the paleness. She feelsa little demonic herself, breathing enchantment, whispering spells, and it’s aneven more enjoyable feeling, the tremor that runs through him, the knowledgethat she could break that desperate self-control with not much more than aflick. Witches are known to have sex with the devil, after all. It’s one of themajor features by which you can identify them. How, God knows, but Lucy isn’treally interested in the logistics. Just this. Her monster.

(He’s not, he’s not a monster, she hasn’t thought that for along time now, and yet. She hungers. She hungers.)

(Perhaps the monster is her.)

(She doesn’t altogether mind.)

They stare at each other for a dazzled moment longer, andthen Lucy’s grip changes, turns possessive, as she pulls him closer again.Flynn resists for a valiant split-second longer, and then she can feel himsnap. They are two people with, to say the least, a volatile history, who havehad some sort of connection from the start and whose chemistry has always beenundeniable, who have been spending a lot of time (at least on someone’s Garbage Lord part) insistingthey hate each other now. Of course it was going to become inevitable.

Flynn kisses her ferociously, hand curling behind her head,fingers brushing her scraped ear, but Lucy doesn’t care. Her arms tangle aroundhis neck, they overbalance, and slide down the trunk of the tree into the softmoss at the bottom. Flynn comes down heavily on top of Lucy, catching hisweight on an elbow just in time, as well as tangling in her skirts. It’s awonder anyone gets to the actual fornication part around here, given the amountof clothing, but Lucy happens to know that Puritans hump like rabbits. Don’tlet the buttoned-up religious zealot image fool you. This – sneaking off for atryst in the woods, in the ditches, in the fields, anywhere away from the whiteclapboard house and the judgment of the church – is far from uncommon. And allof that is alarming, if it’s what they’re doing, but it appears they are.

Breathless and entangled, Flynn sprawled between her legs,his head resting almost on her chest, they struggle to sit up halfway, stillkissing, grunting and whimpering between breaths, as he rakes her bottom lipwith his teeth. Lucy wrestles him into a better angle, as he puts down one handto brace himself and strokes her neck with the other, running his callusedthumb up the hollow of her throat and onto her cheek, half-tender despite theheat of their kiss. His eyelashes flutter. The look on his face is unspeakable.This is probably the first time he’s kissed anyone since his wife died. Lucywonders if he’s seeing the ghost of a dead woman in her face – or if he’s not.

It still doesn’t matter. His mouth leaves one more long,hungry brand on hers, then breaks off, venturing down her chin, the undersideof her jaw, as he tugs aside the torn white collar. Lucy shudders from head totoe, even as his free hand has successfully made it under the skirts and isrunning up the slim line of her thigh. As much clothing as Puritans wear ontop, they wear less below. Lucy has made it a policy of retaining her ownunderwear, but aside from a petticoat, there’s not much in Flynn’s way.

She shifts position, crawling onto his lap, shucking hisheavy coat and hearing a thump as it hits the ground with his gun still inside.She may regret that if they are abruptly caught by the Puritans, but then,public indecency would definitely get them arrested, so Flynn will be punchingsomeone anyway. This is insane, this is insane, this is insane, and for a moment, Lucy wonders if she’s actually beingbewitched, that the moon is rising in Salem Wood on a seventeenth-centurysummer night and she’s fallen sideways out of reality. But that is her lifeevery day now. This is something still more.

It doesn’t take long until Lucy’s skirts are hiked up aroundher hips, Flynn’s trousers have been unbuttoned, and if either of them aregoing to stop this before it goes past the point of no return, it has to benow. But Flynn’s hand has almost reached the top of her thigh, and Lucy isgoing to lose her mind if they don’t, and this is going to solve nothing at alland will probably result in their relationship being even more fraught. But it still doesn’t matter. Nothing does except him,and them, and this. She pushes Flynn onto his back, hooks her panties off herankle, and picks her skirts up. Their eyes meet, in a moment of silentquestion. It’s not entirely clear who’s asking who.

Flynn gives half a jerky nod, hands already reaching for herhips, pulling her closer, as Lucy straddles him, knees pressing into the softloam on either side of his thighs. The first intimate brush is practicallymaddening, and she reaches down, taking hold of him in her hand, stroking tipand shaft with her thumb. Then she shifts, guides him in the darkness, andslides him slowly into her, hard and hot and solid. Her fingers slip on him andher, this raw and elemental communion, like druids coupling in the shadow of astanding stone. This ritual, this old magic of man and woman, has beenpracticed for thousands upon thousands of years.

Lucy utters a faint whimper in her throat as she settlesfully onto him, opening her hips, feeling him sliding deeper and deeper untiltheir bodies are entirely given to the other. She leans forward, breathcatching, as she rolls her hips, then plants her hands on his shoulders as shethrusts. He reaches up to grab her wrists, meeting her halfway with a thrust ofhis own, hard enough to send something haywire inside her. She sees sparks. Shegulps and swears, eyes closed, sweat beading in her hair and rolling down theback of her neck. Hitches herself up, drags herself against him, and bends downalmost on all fours, riding out the long shudder of frisson and friction. Hegrips her harder. Her head comes down close to his as she fucks him thoroughly,her hair hanging in his face. He snarls and lunges for her mouth.

As they kiss again, Flynn comes up beneath her like acyclone, flips them over, and catches hold of her hands, shoving them over herhead, as he thrusts into her practically to the back of her spine. One of hishands pulls loose from hers and gets hold of her thigh instead, pushing itwider. Every time Lucy thinks the next stroke can’t keep coming, can’t be moreintense, it is, rutting and jerking. Her free hand claws at him, searching forpurchase in this mad, mad universe, when she fears she has been tipped off theedge and it is a very long way down. Bunch and burst and buck, her back presseddown into the loam, Flynn’s hips coiling and loosening for a final, wrackingheave. He has given up on any feeble denial whatsoever that he does not want todo exactly this. He mounts her once more, strong and lithe and ruthless as atiger, and then starts to lose it altogether.

Lucy isn’t sure if she orgasms, so much as she reaches apoint where her body simply cannot take a single instant more of sensation andstimulation and breathless need, the system overloads, has to call a halt andstart again. Her mouth is open, head thrown back on the leaves, gaspingfruitlessly, her body shaking and blazing. It’s like standing too close to anopen bonfire, not so much soft and pleasurable as searing and primal. She thinksthat perhaps, the Salemites have gotten their wish. She has, in fact, beenburned alive.

It is a very long moment until either of them can even thinkabout moving. Flynn is still inside her, pulsing and softening, until he jerksout of her abruptly enough to make her feel bereft. He sits back on his knees,pulling his trousers up and fumbling with the buttons. Lucy lies where she is,still not quite able to move, as he steals a brief, shamefaced look at her andreaches out to pull down her skirts, as if hiding the evidence will deny it everhappened. His hands are shaking, faintly but relentlessly. He wipes his mouth .“Lucy,”he says hoarsely, the first thing either of them have managed since thismadness started. “We should go.”

Slowly, head rushing as she does, Lucy sits up. She can’tquite get enough air, due to a combination of the obvious and never havinggotten around to taking her corset off. Her thighs are slick and her mouthfeels wet and swollen. She is going to have bruises.

“Lucy.” He remains hunched where he is. “Lucy, did I hurtyou?”

Garcia Flynn, as far as she knows, has never asked thatquestion to anyone before. Lucy doesn’t know how to answer. He didn’t, and hedid, and she feels like the white-hot anvil in the forge, and she isn’t sureher knees can bear her weight. She feels both possessed and cleansed. God,where does she even start to understand this.

(Maybe she doesn’t have to. Maybe it just is.)

Flynn is still looking at her. Waiting.

Lucy reaches up to touch his face, cupping her fingersaround his jaw. He turns his head almost reflexively, as if to kiss her palm,and to hide his eyes. She can feel a wetness that is not sweat. He shudderswith the weight of all the tears he is not remotely about to shed. But despitehimself, a few more slip out. He shakes again. He doesn’t make a sound.

Lucy leans forward and kisses his cheek, softly and chastelyafter the carnal heat and fury of their coupling, and tastes the salt on herlips. Then she puts her other hand out, and allows him to help her up. Theygrasp at each other once they’re back on their feet, struggling to steady eachother. He looks at her again. His expression is indescribable.

It’s a strange feeling to know you own a dangerous man’ssoul, but Lucy Preston will be gentle.

“Come on, Garcia,” she whispers. “Let’s go home.”

[taylorswifthongkong]

Todrick Hall speaks out about Taylor Swift video backlash

Yahoo Music: So when some people saw you dancing in “Look What You Made Me Do,” they were not pleased, to put it mildly. What exactly happened?

Todrick Hall: They saw a clip, just a few seconds, that featured Taylor Swift standing in a line of dancers, and they started forming all types of conclusions. I was just very confused by that, because I knew that there was nothing “Formation”-esque or Lemonade-esque about the video. Artistically, I didn’t feel that was the case. I’m a humongous Beyoncé fan. I’ve worked with Beyoncé. I’ve choreographed for Beyoncé. And I would never intentionally be a part of art that I felt was ripping off my favorite artist of all time. But I felt like these were two completely different lanes.

“Sellout” was one of the common names you were called.

Yes, one of the main things that people said was, “He wanted to make his money. Well, good for him, he got paid. And I guess payment is enough for you to sell out your family, your people, your community.” But this had nothing to do with money. I didn’t do this Taylor Swift video for money. I did it because she’s my friend, and she was very excited about it. And she wanted people to be there who she could trust, because it was a very big undertaking. I was proud to be there, but money was not a factor for me. I don’t do things for money.

But there are people online who have a problem with the fact in general that you and Taylor are friends?

Yes, I have gotten comments from people who are upset and have literally said the fact that I am friends with a white person is a problem, because white people don’t possess the ability to love or ever truly care about black people. And I find that very disheartening. I’ve grown up in a neighborhood where I went to church with and lived with and went to school with beautiful black people; when I look at them, I see myself. But then I was also in a peculiar situation, because I danced in a dance group where I was the only black person in the dance studio. In some cases, I was the only black cheerleader in my school. I did theater where I was the only black person, the “token black person.” And working at Disney, oftentimes I was the only black person in the show at Disney World or Disneyland on any given day. And I also did tours where I was the only black singer; I did a cruise ship where I was the only black person in the cast. So I’ve been used to being in situations where I’ve had to find friendships and find love and find similarities. My whole brand, everything that I stand for and everything I’ve always stood for, is equality and love. So it’s just really difficult for me to understand why it is an issue for people, a legitimate issue, that I have white friends, and that Taylor Swift happens to be one of my many white friends.

Apparently there’s a thing called the “cookout,” which is like your invitation to be a part of the black community. Some people have, like, deemed themselves the Woke Police, and they decide to strip you online of your invitation to attend the “cookout.” It boggles my mind that people are deciding whether or not I’m down enough, black enough, or woke enough to be “invited.” If I have to hate people and judge people based on their race, sexual orientation, or religion, then sorry, but I’d rather order pizza.

What is Taylor really like? Describe your bond.

What people are mostly forgetting is that Taylor Swift really is my friend. Sometimes because she is a celebrity of such a huge status, inarguably one of the biggest stars of our generation, people forget that there is a human side to her, that she has real friends that she calls and talks to about her real problems. And I call her, and I have cried on her shoulder about my own relationship issues and family issues and career issues. We are friends, and so when she asked me to do this video, I said absolutely. It wasn’t a question for me. I trust her, and I had no problem doing the video. And I just think that it’s really sad and shocking that me doing four eight-counts of choreography is enough to make people feel the need to question my “blackness” or “wokeness.”

Taylor came to see me in Kinky Boots and she stayed after the show for two hours and met every single person in that cast — took pictures, signed stuff, met every usher, every custodian, every orchestra member, every producer and their kids. And then she went outside and met fans outside the theater afterwards, stayed there for over two and a half hours after the show and wouldn’t leave until every single person had been met. There are just very few celebrities in the world who would do something like that. She didn’t have to do that. She could’ve come to the show, said hi to me, and left. That’s just what type of person she is, and what type of person she’s always been. Her parents raised her so well, and when you’re in the room with them, you can feel that energy.

It just is shocking to me that people will see an image of her and hear stories online about her, or arguments with other celebrities who she did not ask to be involved with, who recorded her against her will without her knowing and then decided to release six-second clips of a conversation that happened to paint her to be this evil person that I don’t believe that she is. Come on, we’ve watched millions of episodes of Law & Order or seen Judge Judy a million times; how are they not able to conclude that there is something missing from this? If you feel the need to record someone on video with people there, the intentions may not have been the most pure.

Some of the criticism Taylor has received recently has to do with the fact that she has not been politically outspoken in past years, like some of her peers Katy Perry or Lady Gaga.

Yeah, many people have been tweeting me, “She supports Trump! She probably voted for Trump!” They’re making this huge assumption, when Taylor has never to my knowledge come out and said anything about her being pro-Trump. But people would still rather believe that she is the one who is pushing Trump’s agenda. That was one of the major things that was tweeted at me, and I’m like, “So you are mad that you think she might support Donald Trump? But you’re not mad that Kanye has been very openly pro-Trump?” I don’t understand that.

Look, I’m not Taylor Swift, so I can’t speak for her and why she does or does not choose to speak or not speak about any specific subject matter. All I know is that she has been nothing but a great person to me. Her family has welcomed me into their home and treated me like I was a member of the family. They’ve welcomed every single person I’ve ever brought around them. I’ve never felt like there was ever a moment that I couldn’t be myself, and talk about the fact that I’m gay or whatever. At Thanksgiving, we all sat around and talked about it, and there was another one of her friends there who was African-American, and we all sat down and talked about racism and watched 13th on Netflix and talked about how important it was. It was one of the most beautiful conversations I’ve ever had, because sometimes as an African-American person I feel like I can’t voice my opinion about how difficult it is to be not just an African-American person in the entertainment industry, but how scary it is to be black in America, in even 2017.

When it comes to Taylor, all I know is that she has been a sweet, amazing human being to me. When she calls me, it’s hardly ever to talk about her accomplishments or things that she’s going through. She calls me and says, “How’s your heart? Are you OK?” I’ve been around her an awful lot, and if it were some type of crazy, fake façade, I think I would have figured it out by now. I feel like it’s a genuine part of who she is, and she’s a human being. Has she made mistakes? Yes. Will she make mistakes again? Yes. But let the person in America who has not made mistakes raise their hand.

I think that I’m on my own journey; every artist is on their own journey. Maybe one day, Taylor will start being super-political, and using her voice to do thing that people think that she should be doing. But even then, she will probably be ridiculed for not being vocal enough, or not being on the right side. I don’t think that there is a way to win in this industry, so every person has to take their own journey at their own pace, at their own time, and do what they feel like is right. All I know is that Taylor has been nothing but sweet to me since day one, and if she asks me to do a video, I’m absolutely going be there.

I’m not apologizing for being a part of the video and doing four eight-counts of choreography in it. I thought it was a great piece of art. I thought it was awesome. It’s broken so many records and I’m proud to be a part of it. I don’t think I’ve sold out my race or my community — the gay community, the black community. I think that I was just in a piece of art that my friend made. I’m not issuing a statement to people about it to explain myself, because there’s nothing to explain. I’m not sorry that I did it, and I don’t think that it was a mistake. If I had a do-over, I would absolutely be there for another eight hours, in heels, dancing with her.

Is Taylor aware of the heat you’ve gotten for being in her video?

I have talked to her about it, and she has been very uplifting and given me a lot of information about how when you’re doing big things, there will always be people who have something to say about it. But I think that Beyoncé gave me the best advice when I met her. She said, “Don’t scroll down. Don’t go down and look at comments, and when you do something as an artist, make a decision and stick to it. You don’t need to apologize for things that you’ve done.” I use that all the time.

You have gotten this sort of criticism before.

Yeah. In the beginning, it was because I did videos based on stereotypes of a particular group that put people in a negative light. And so I took those notes, because I consider myself to be a humble person, and I tried to apply them, and tried to do less work on my YouTube channel that stereotyped people, less work that stereotyped my race as being “ghetto” or “ratchet,” because I did understand the argument. I think it’s a really difficult thing when you toe the line with comedy, because there are certain things that some people are going to think is funny, but then some people are always going to be offended. The political climate has changed so much over the past months since Donald Trump became president, and it has just been a very scary place to create content online. So I tried to do whatever I can to create content that everyone can love and that is inclusive of everybody.

It’s just something that I deal with every day. I wrote an album about my life [Straight Outta Oz], about how I fell in love at 19 years old with a boy who was British and who just happened to be white. I wrote a song called “Color,” and in the song I say the line, “You’re my favorite hue.” What I meant by that when I wrote the song was it’s supposed to be a direct relation to the 1939 Wizard of Oz film, and then everything turns to color when Dorothy gets to Oz. I felt like my whole world was black and white before I met this person. But people took that as that white was my favorite color, and that was what I preferred. People have assumed that am the type of person that refuses to date people of my own race or associate with people of my own race. Which, I don’t feel the need to prove to them that I have in fact dated multiple black men and Puerto Rican, Latino men. I’m an equal opportunist when it comes to love. I think everyone is beautiful. You fall in love with a person, not the outer layer of skin.

It’s really frustrating because I don’t think that people realize that when I got to L.A., I lived in not a great neighborhood. A policeman drove up onto a sidewalk, got out of the car, pushed my face on the ground, put my hands on my back, pulled a gun out on me. I have never felt so scared in my entire life. I have witnessed so many things like that. It’s very difficult for me to go and spend time in a predominantly Caucasian neighborhood without the cops being called on me, because people don’t know why I’m there and they think I look suspicious. I have had a lot of issues and dealt with racism in the same capacity as a lot of other people. I have written so many songs, even on Straight Outta Oz, about the Black Lives Matter movement, because it’s something that I’m very passionate about. It’s something that I definitely use my voice and my platform to speak out against. So it’s frustrating that people who have never met me in person like to make huge, incorrect assumptions about me and go and scream them and yell them from the rooftops online.

I just strongly feel that if we can’t get along within our own race, and have to point fingers and yell at people who we think don’t have our back when we don’t know anything about them — we haven’t listened to the facts, we haven’t seen the footage, there are no receipts to show that this person is not a proud African-American person who isn’t down to fight for equality for everyone’s sake — if we fight with each other so much that we’re tearing down our own race and our own community, how does that make us any better than the people in Charlottesville, carrying the tiki torches? How are we any better than those people, and how are we ever going to meet in the middle and finally be able to say, “Let’s be one unified group of people”? I just don’t understand how it’s possible, and that what makes me so upset.

Online outrage is at an all-time high right now, for sure. Everyone is on edge.

I think that we’ve got to figure out a way within our own community to stop tearing people down and stop making assumptions and looking for reasons to be mad. I don’t know what is happening in the world right now, but now is a scary time. People are looking for someone to blame and someone to point fingers at. I don’t think that Taylor Swift is the problem with America right now. People can try to make that be the issue, but there is a much bigger issue here in our country that we need to look at and recognize, and figure out what we can do to be a part of making the world a better place, to be nice and sweet and kind to each other, and to realize that racism is a huge horrible thing that has kept a lot of people down.

But I think it’s going to take every race, every minority, every gay person, every trans person, every straight person, waking up and realizing that we can’t do this alone. We can’t divide into our own little sections and decide that we’re going to secretly hate each other and be mad if one person goes over and shakes the hand of somebody on the other team. We all need to be one team. We all have to go out and extend an olive branch to each other and try to help each other out and try to build one another up. That’s the only way that we can be successful. That’s the only way that we can make this world the beautiful place that God created it to be. Spread love, and love each other. That’s what I try to do.

Did you engage with any of your online critics about this video?

I gave no negative tweets, didn’t argue with people on social media, had nothing to say to them. But I even went so far as to give somebody my phone number online so they could call me and said, “If you feel I’ve done something that’s offended you, or if you could shed some light on as to how me being involved with this video or being friends with Taylor Swift — other than the fact that she is white and you feel that she is the epitome of white privilege, the poster child for white privilege … If there’s anything you can do to shed some light to me as to how I can be a better example for young African-American kids growing up, then I would love to talk to you on the phone.” And I meant it. And I talked to them, and I felt like we came to a good place. I’m a humble person; I’m not opposed to taking constructive criticism.

There was a time two years ago where I would’ve damn near gotten carpal tunnel because I would’ve stayed up all night trying to argue back and forth [on Twitter], thinking, “What would Regina George do?” Now I’m adopting the policy, “What would Beyoncé do?” So I’m going to kill all these people with kindness. I’m going to be nice to them, and I’m just going to prove to them, one by one when they meet me, what type of person I am. Support my friends, be nice to people, and do what I have to do to be a good human being and play my part in society and in this crazy political climate.

Obviously I’m not diminishing the horrible things that have happened to get us to this point, but at this point we have a choice to either band together and fight and talk about the real issues and the real problems, and Taylor Swift is not the problem. If we can all accept the fact that there is a bigger problem and start having dialogue and talking to each other — not just with the people that it’s comfortable for us to talk to, our own people and people who look like us, but to people who might not understand where we’re coming from or what we’ve been through — then we might get closer to making this world a unified place, the way that Michael Jackson sang about in his songs and in his music. While I know that is not the theme of “Look What You Made Me Do,” I do believe that is the theme of Taylor Swift’s heart and the person that she truly is on a personal level.

(x)

[hilarieburtonmorgan]

Council of Dad’s Hilarie Burton Talks Her Marriage, Her Miscarriage and Mischief Farm

In her new memoir, The Rural Diaries, Hilarie Burton takes a frank look at her marriage to The Walking Dead star Jeffrey Dean Morgan; their life outside of Hollywood on their 100-acre farm in Rhineland, N.Y.; her sexual assault on the set of One Tree Hill; her miscarriage; and finally the blessings that are their children, Gus, 10, and George, 2.

“The way I was raised is that when you make a narrative out of something, it softens the blow a little bit. It makes it a story; it’s a thing that happened, and after you tell it so many times, the trauma becomes less and you become emboldened by that story and it’s yours,” Burton exclusively tells Parade.com when asked why she wrote such a revealing memoir.

“All of the loss that we experienced in the book, by committing it to paper, hopefully it isn’t in vain,” she adds. “You’re taught in church in the South growing up that you have to testify. Perhaps that got its hooks in me as a young person that to testify to something is to honor it and commit to it, so I commit to that narrative.”

If you look at Burton’s early success–she was a teenage MTV VJ before getting cast as Peyton Sawyer on One Tree Hill–you would never guess that she was still searching for her place in life. Meeting Morgan–they were introduced by Jensen and Danneel Ackles in 2009–was just one step in the right direction, but when they moved to upstate New York–first to a tiny log cabin, then to Mischief Farm–she began feeling more like herself than ever.

“I feel so comfortable in my skin right now,” she says. “I feel stripped down in a way that can be intimidating at times, but I also feel a grave responsibility to honor the feelings of a lot of the people who have read this book. There has been a flood of communication from specifically women who are entrusting me with stories of their miscarriages, their relationships or their workplace harassment, and I want to honor them and I want to give them a tool where they can see themselves working past it.”

And even though Burton is happily ensconced on the farm, the lure of acting occasionally manages to draw her away if the circumstances are right, which includes the many Lifetime Network movies she has filmed.

“In moving to the farm, I stopped hustling for work and I started only working with people I already knew and I already trusted, and that has made a world of difference in how I view the film community,” Burton says. “It’s become a much friendlier place for me. Every job I take is because of a relationship that I already have. So, it’s a nice little Six Degrees of Kevin Bacon situation.”

In addition to the Lifetime movies, the recurring role on NBC’s Council of Dads was another opportunity that lured her off the farm. The fact that it filmed in Georgia, rather than on the West Coast, was an added incentive.

“It was the ability to work with people who I’d known from before,” she continues. “Tony [Phelan] and Joan [Rater] are producers I worked with on Grey’s Anatomy, and I like the way they lead. I think they champion people in a very beautiful way.”

Life in quarantine has also given Burton the opportunity to work with Morgan now that he is on lockdown with the family rather than off filming. The two host Friday Night In with the Morgans on AMC, a talk show focusing on life in the time of COVID-19. The guests–all remote–are comprised of their acting friends and their farming friends, and the show also goes outside for a look at the chickens, ducks, donkeys, cows, alpaca and emu that the couple are tending.

“Jeff and I are in this strange position, where we straddle both worlds,” Burton says. “We live in a very blue collar, rural farming community. With our friends and neighbors here, we don’t want to talk with them about Hollywood. That’s not fun and it feels cheesy. And then we also have our work lives, where we love those people, those are our family members. If you spend 18 hours a day on set, you’re bound to form very strong bonds with those people. So, to be able to combine those worlds was something that was important to us and to be able to applaud the members of our community, who are doing such good work and taking care of everyone else.”

Why did you want to share your story?

I had been encouraged to join social media for business purposes. There were all these impersonation accounts and they were like, “Hilarie, you should probably own your own name.” Also, what I was witnessing was a lot of glamour and a lot of unattainable lifestyle that didn’t look like my life and, to be perfectly frank, it made me feel like the life I was living maybe wasn’t as valuable, and that bothered me.

The competitive nature of social media bothered me, so I started to post really stripped-down pictures of our farm. The no-makeup picture was getting a response from people that was positive, and so, I wrote the book that I needed when I was in a bad place. I’ve always found solace in literature and in memoirs specifically, because if you can see a road map to happiness, it makes it so much easier for you to create your own path. So, yeah, I wrote the book that I really needed when I was searching for my place.

Also, I wanted to own my experience on One Tree Hill. I worked hard on that show and I walked away from it, and so, by committing pen to paper and talking about the hard stuff, I got to take it back.

So much of what’s on social media paints an unattainable and unrealistic picture. 

Yeah. You know that and I know that, but there are people, specifically young women, out there who don’t know it. I was very sensitive about the new normal that we had created for young women on One Tree Hill in regards to sexuality and not having parents around, and what the normalcy of being a teenage girl is, so I didn’t want to contribute to a new normal that made people feel bad. Does that make sense?

Yes. The memoir makes it clear to the reader that everything that happened to you makes you who you are. Do you think so?

For me, when I decided to buy the farm with my husband, I was given the book The Bucolic Plague, the Beekman boys’ book. They were very frank about the troubles they went through in establishing their place in their community, and I valued that. It made it OK for me to struggle, it made it OK for me say, “Oh,” and pay it forward. To be equally as forthcoming in my book was important.

There are certain places or experiences in life where you walk in and you know right away that it is right. You get that feeling. Is that how you felt when you bought the farm?

Absolutely. It was every movie I watched as a child. I glamorized the Sound of Music, I glamorized Anne of Green Gables, the pastoral beauty of the farm really enchanted me and it made me nervous. The things in my life that have held value are things that have initially always made me really, really nervous. I joke that when I met my husband, I’ve never been so, I don’t want to say intimidated, because that comes off wrong, but I was on my heels a little bit. I was like, “Who is this?” He was so larger than life, and I had that same feeling when we first came to the farm of, “Oh, I want to live up to this. This is something to aspire to.” So, I knew I was going to have to learn a lot and give up a lot in order to commit to this lifestyle. It’s not as easy for me to work anymore, but I chose lifestyle over career, and I’d do it again in a heartbeat.

For people who have been kicked out of their patterns during this quarantine, who are at home for the first time in forever, or who are reckoning with themselves in isolation for the first time in forever, I address a number of those things in the book because that’s what I did 10 years ago when I moved here.

So, if you never acted again, would you be OK with that?

Yeah. Honestly, I have been acting my entire life. I started doing theater when I was eight and I found that my value in acting doesn’t come from how many people watch it, or whether or not it’s a hit on TV, or it’s a movie that does well. My value in acting has always come from the immediate experience in the collaboration.

Even if I was doing local theater here in Rhinebeck, we have the Rhinebeck Performing Arts Center, and I keep saying I’m just going to go direct plays over there because it’s the collaborative experience. It’s always meant so much to me. I like that team spirit. Our children have shown a very big interest in the arts, and it’s very important to their dad and I that they learn the business coming up through community theater, doing it on a small scale, carrying your own props, doing your own hair and makeup, and being the self-sufficient person who’s able to work well with others. That’s really an important life skill and community theater is great for honing that.

Did you ever make it to Paris? It was your dream before meeting Jeffrey.

I did.

But in your mind, Paris was more than an actual destination. It was more of a change that you wanted to make in your life.

I had had my heart set on Paris, because I’d gone on a deep dive into Parisian history and was fixated on revolution. And now, hindsight’s 20/20 of course, I can see why as a young woman, as a 24, 25, 26-year-old woman, I was fixated on revolution, because I had so much turmoil and anger inside of me.

My revolution was saying, “You don’t have control over me anymore,” and that was very empowering. I called Jeffrey and Gus my Paris. In them, I found what I was looking for. They’re my Paris.

I did eventually end up going to Paris. In an odd twist of fate, it was a One Tree Hill convention that took me there, and it was the first time that I’d seen the cast since I’d left the show. So, I was so nervous. I took my childhood best friend with me to be my buffer, and it ended up being such a wonderful, magical experience and such a beautiful reunion with everyone. It was a good way to see Paris.

[tswiftvfdpotterclan]

“

Yahoo Music: So when some people saw you dancing in “Look What You Made Me Do,” they were not pleased, to put it mildly. What exactly happened?

Todrick Hall: They saw a clip, just a few seconds, that featured Taylor Swift standing in a line of dancers, and they started forming all types of conclusions. I was just very confused by that, because I knew that there was nothing “Formation”-esque or Lemonade-esque about the video. Artistically, I didn’t feel that was the case. I’m a humongous Beyoncé fan. I’ve worked with Beyoncé. I’ve choreographed for Beyoncé. And I would never intentionally be a part of art that I felt was ripping off my favorite artist of all time. But I felt like these were two completely different lanes.

“Sellout” was one of the common names you were called.

Yes, one of the main things that people said was, “He wanted to make his money. Well, good for him, he got paid. And I guess payment is enough for you to sell out your family, your people, your community.” But this had nothing to do with money. I didn’t do this Taylor Swift video for money. I did it because she’s my friend, and she was very excited about it. And she wanted people to be there who she could trust, because it was a very big undertaking. I was proud to be there, but money was not a factor for me. I don’t do things for money.

But there are people online who have a problem with the fact in general that you and Taylor are friends?

Yes, I have gotten comments from people who are upset and have literally said the fact that I am friends with a white person is a problem, because white people don’t possess the ability to love or ever truly care about black people. And I find that very disheartening. I’ve grown up in a neighborhood where I went to church with and lived with and went to school with beautiful black people; when I look at them, I see myself. But then I was also in a peculiar situation, because I danced in a dance group where I was the only black person in the dance studio. In some cases, I was the only black cheerleader in my school. I did theater where I was the only black person, the “token black person.” And working at Disney, oftentimes I was the only black person in the show at Disney World or Disneyland on any given day. And I also did tours where I was the only black singer; I did a cruise ship where I was the only black person in the cast. So I’ve been used to being in situations where I’ve had to find friendships and find love and find similarities. My whole brand, everything that I stand for and everything I’ve always stood for, is equality and love. So it’s just really difficult for me to understand why it is an issue for people, a legitimate issue, that I have white friends, and that Taylor Swift happens to be one of my many white friends.

Apparently there’s a thing called the “cookout,” which is like your invitation to be a part of the black community. Some people have, like, deemed themselves the Woke Police, and they decide to strip you online of your invitation to attend the “cookout.” It boggles my mind that people are deciding whether or not I’m down enough, black enough, or woke enough to be “invited.” If I have to hate people and judge people based on their race, sexual orientation, or religion, then sorry, but I’d rather order pizza.

What is Taylor really like? Describe your bond.

What people are mostly forgetting is that Taylor Swift really is my friend. Sometimes because she is a celebrity of such a huge status, inarguably one of the biggest stars of our generation, people forget that there is a human side to her, that she has real friends that she calls and talks to about her real problems. And I call her, and I have cried on her shoulder about my own relationship issues and family issues and career issues. We are friends, and so when she asked me to do this video, I said absolutely. It wasn’t a question for me. I trust her, and I had no problem doing the video. And I just think that it’s really sad and shocking that me doing four eight-counts of choreography is enough to make people feel the need to question my “blackness” or “wokeness.”

Taylor came to see me in Kinky Boots and she stayed after the show for two hours and met every single person in that cast — took pictures, signed stuff, met every usher, every custodian, every orchestra member, every producer and their kids. And then she went outside and met fans outside the theater afterwards, stayed there for over two and a half hours after the show and wouldn’t leave until every single person had been met. There are just very few celebrities in the world who would do something like that. She didn’t have to do that. She could’ve come to the show, said hi to me, and left. That’s just what type of person she is, and what type of person she’s always been. Her parents raised her so well, and when you’re in the room with them, you can feel that energy.

It just is shocking to me that people will see an image of her and hear stories online about her, or arguments with other celebrities who she did not ask to be involved with, who recorded her against her will without her knowing and then decided to release six-second clips of a conversation that happened to paint her to be this evil person that I don’t believe that she is. Come on, we’ve watched millions of episodes of Law & Order or seen Judge Judy a million times; how are they not able to conclude that there is something missing from this? If you feel the need to record someone on video with people there, the intentions may not have been the most pure.

Some of the criticism Taylor has received recently has to do with the fact that she has not been politically outspoken in the past year, like her peers Katy Perry and Lady Gaga.

Yeah, many people have been tweeting me, “She supports Trump! She probably voted for Trump!” They’re making this huge assumption, when Taylor has never to my knowledge come out and said anything about her being pro-Trump. But people would still rather believe that she is the one who is pushing Trump’s agenda. That was one of the major things that was tweeted at me, and I’m like, “So you are mad that you think she might support Donald Trump? But you’re not mad that Kanye has been very openly pro-Trump?” I don’t understand that.

Look, I’m not Taylor Swift, so I can’t speak for her and why she does or does not choose to speak or not speak about any specific subject matter. All I know is that she has been nothing but a great person to me. Her family has welcomed me into their home and treated me like I was a member of the family. They’ve welcomed every single person I’ve ever brought around them. I’ve never felt like there was ever a moment that I couldn’t be myself, and talk about the fact that I’m gay or whatever. At Thanksgiving, we all sat around and talked about it, and there was another one of her friends there who was African-American, and we all sat down and talked about racism and watched 13th on Netflix and talked about how important it was. It was one of the most beautiful conversations I’ve ever had, because sometimes as an African-American person I feel like I can’t voice my opinion about how difficult it is to be not just an African-American person in the entertainment industry, but how scary it is to be black in America, in even 2017.

When it comes to Taylor, all I know is that she has been a sweet, amazing human being to me. When she calls me, it’s hardly ever to talk about her accomplishments or things that she’s going through. She calls me and says, “How’s your heart? Are you OK?” I’ve been around her an awful lot, and if it were some type of crazy, fake façade, I think I would have figured it out by now. I feel like it’s a genuine part of who she is, and she’s a human being. Has she made mistakes? Yes. Will she make mistakes again? Yes. But let the person in America who has not made mistakes raise their hand.

I think that I’m on my own journey; every artist is on their own journey. Maybe one day, Taylor will start being super-political, and using her voice to do the things that people think that she should be doing. But even then, she will probably be ridiculed for not being vocal enough, or not being on the right side. I don’t think that there is a way to win in this industry, so every person has to take their own journey at their own pace, at their own time, and do what they feel like is right. All I know is that Taylor has been nothing but sweet to me since day one, and if she asks me to do a video, I’m absolutely going be there.

I’m not apologizing for being a part of the video and doing four eight-counts of choreography in it. I thought it was a great piece of art. I thought it was awesome. It’s broken so many records and I’m proud to be a part of it. I don’t think I’ve sold out my race or my community — the gay community, the black community. I think that I was just in a piece of art that my friend made. I’m not issuing a statement to people about it to explain myself, because there’s nothing to explain. I’m not sorry that I did it, and I don’t think that it was a mistake. If I had a do-over, I would absolutely be there for another eight hours, in heels, dancing with her. ”

(This isn’t the whole interview -- more in the link! But basically Todrick is wonderful.)

[renae-writes]

Time Travel (Part 6)

Summary: Philip is acting weird and you are struggling to keep a secret

Pairing: Philip x reader

Warnings: Probably some cursing, I don’t know, mention of blood, unedited

Word count: 2,547 words

A/N: I’m so sorry. I got the worst case of writer’s block but I think I finally got over it. Thank you all for being so patient with me. (This story probably has two or three parts left)

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5

You knew something was wrong when Philip came stomping home, slamming the front door closed and stomping straight to his father’s office.

It was the middle of November, the autumn wind cold as it blew all the leaves from the trees, red and orange swirling in the fall air. It was just beginning to get cold out, the chill of winter chasing away the last remnants of autumn.

You were confused; Philip wasn’t supposed to be home for another two hours. He must have gotten out of class early or maybe abandoned his studies, something that almost never happened. Something was definitely wrong; a week ago he stopped distracting you, as the two of you called it, and instead held you as tight as he could, burying his nose into your hair like it was the last time he would ever be near you. His once bright golden green eyes now were dull with lack of sleep, his tan skin seeming pale and dark circles were visible under his eyes. It was obvious he was stressed.

And so were you.

You’d found out two weeks ago, when you did the math of how long you had been in 1801. You had been staying with the Hamiltons for three months, and had yet to have a period. You were due two months ago, and you could only chalk up the vomiting and weight gain to one thing.

You were pregnant.

You had no idea how you were going to tell Philip. The two of you weren’t married. Hell, the two of you weren’t even technically courting. You didn’t know how he’d react, and you were terrified to tell him. Your mind kept creating situations in which you would tell Philip you were pregnant with his child and instead of being happy, he was furious. He threw you out into the street with nothing but the clothes on your back. Sometimes it was Alexander throwing you out, yelling about how you had ruined his family. Once, it was Eliza, the image of the woman you loved like a mother looking at you with hatred and disappointment breaking you more than you ever thought it would. So, like a true coward, instead of telling the man you loved that you were pregnant with his child, you lied to him, told him your throwing up must have been something you ate. Your weight gain was slow enough that he didn’t notice, but at some point he would.

Philip left his father’s office five minutes later with a wooden box, carrying it to his room and closing the door behind him. You knew he had locked the door, something he had been doing much too often lately. Philip wasn’t acting like himself, and it worried you, but there was nothing you could do about it. So instead of going upstairs and knocking on his door like you wanted to, you walked the familiar path to the drawing room and picked up Philip’s copy of A Midsummer Night’s Dream. You tucked the book under your arm and went outside to the garden to read, sitting among the flowers before they all died.

The garden was absolutely beautiful, the surviving flowers painting the landscape varying shades of purple and white. You walked to the back of the garden, sitting at your favorite bench, the smell of the flowers calming you and the cold air clearing your mind. The wall behind you was covered in beautyberries and iberius, the bright purple berries mingling with the round white flowers. The curved marble bench was surrounded by goldenrod, the uncontrollable yellow flower taking over the nearby pansies and colchicums.

You sat down on the cold bench and opened the book, hoping it would make more sense to you now than when you started it two days ago. For some reason Philip suggested it one night and so far you were not following the story at all. You were hopelessly lost somewhere in the third act when Philip came outside carrying a lantern and a woolen blanket.

“I thought you might be cold,” he said as he draped the blanket around your shoulders, setting the lantern on the ground near your feet as he sat next to you. His arm found its way around your waist and pulled you closer. You closed your book and leaned your head on Philip’s shoulder, cuddling into his side. You didn’t even realize you were cold before he came outside, and part of you wondered if it was bad for the baby.

“Are you okay?” you asked, finally giving in to your worry. It was obvious that something was bothering Philip, but you never felt like it was your place to ask him. However, you had a sinking feeling that something bad was going to happen, and the wooden box he had earlier didn’t help.

“I will be. There’s just something I need to take care of tomorrow and then it will all be alright. I promise.” Your heart dropped. Suddenly, you knew what the box was, why Philip came stomping home earlier that day. He had just challenged George Eacker to a duel. The duel that would kill him.

“Philip, what did you do?” you asked, doing your best to keep your voice level. You knew what would happen, but maybe if you talked him out of it, he’d reconsider. He’d live.

“Nothing, I just have to do something tomorrow morning and then I’ll come home and we can spend all day together, how does that sound?” Philip said, pressing his forehead against yours. You sighed. You knew he was lying to you and it was probably the first time he had ever done so, but you couldn’t say anything without giving away the fact that you were from the future.

All you could bring yourself to say was a halfhearted, “that sounds perfect.”

 You woke up early the next morning to find Philip’s side of the bed cold and an envelope sitting on his pillow. You sat up, frantically searching the room to find both Philip and the wooden box gone.

The box that contained Alexander’s pistols.

You threw the blankets off of you as you got up, your anxiety causing your entire body to shake. You raced to Philip’s armoire, throwing the doors open so fast they almost came back and hit you. You grabbed the first pair of breeches you saw and a random jacket, not caring about the impropriety of going outside in men’s clothes. You had to save Philip.

You paused just long enough to put some shoes on and shove the envelope into your pocket before you were out the door, running as fast as your feet could take you. You knew you had to find a boat to cross the river to Weehawken, but when you got to the docks by the river, you knew you were too late. Someone was being rowed back.

You recognized that hair anywhere.

Philip laid there, bleeding. You could see the blood even before they got to the docks. It stained his entire lower body red, along with his right forearm. Your knees buckled and you dropped to the ground. Your entire body was shaking and you couldn’t breathe. You were having an anxiety attack for the first time in nearly three months. You could only watch as two men picked up Philip’s bloody body and carried him down the street and into a seemingly random building, your lover’s curly hair disappearing through the doorway.

You couldn’t seem to catch your breath. Everything was happening so fast, but it felt as if the seconds were dragging by. Tears stained your cheeks as they ran down your face in fat streams. Your heart was beating in your ears and you wished it would just stop. You froze. The thought was fleeting at best and you knew you would never act on it. You had a reason to live. You had a child growing in you. Philip’s child. Your breath hitched.

Philip.

You had spent twenty minutes sobbing on the ground and you had no idea how long he had left. You had so much you had to say to him; hell, you still had to tell him about the baby.

You stood up, brushing the dirt off of your pants, and made your way to the place the men had taken Philip. You didn’t want to call it a doctor’s office, but it was the only way you could really describe it. Various chairs were placed in the main room and there were two doors that led to different sides of the building. You glanced between them and picked the door on the right, hoping it was the right one. When you opened the door, you froze, your heart shattering.

Philip was laying on an old bed, his waist wrapped tight in bloodstained bandages. His right arm seemed to be bleeding less, but it still wasn’t good. The doctor had stripped him of his jacket and shirt to clean the wound and must have given him an old shirt to wear. It was nothing special, loose dark fabric clinging where there was blood and there was no doubt in your mind that the dark fabric was soaked with it. Philip was still breathing, his chest rising and falling with each labored breath he took. He was clearly in pain, his face scrunched up and his jaw clenched.

“Philip?” was all you managed to say, but his eyes blinked open as soon as he heard your voice.

“[Y/N]?” Philip asked, his raspy voice flooding over you like rain in a desert. He tried to sit up and you rushed over, placing a hand on his shoulder and gently guiding him back down. Philip was nearly panting with exhaustion when he looked back up at you, concern filling his green eyes. “What are you doing here? What—”

���I came to try and stop you, but I guess was too late, huh?” you said as you took Philip’s hand in yours, his skin being cooler than yours for once. “Philip, what happened?”

“He was disrespecting my father. Said that my Pa would overthrow Jefferson’s presidency by force; use the army to make him do whatever he wants. He called him a scoundrel, [Y/N]. I couldn’t let him do that.” Philip squeezed your hand as best he could and winced. “I got mad. I tracked Eacker down and challenged him to a duel. In front of an entire theater of people, might I add.” You laughed at Philip’s poor attempt to lighten the situation, tears pooling in your eyes. “I went and asked my Pa for help, I didn’t really ever learn how to duel in school. He told me to fire my pistol in the air and then gave me his guns.”

“That’s what that wooden box was.” Philip nods, confirming what you already suspected.

“When I arrived at the dueling grounds, I was terrified. We counted our paces and took aim, but I didn’t want to fire first, and neither, it seemed, did he.  We just stood and stared for a minute or two. For a second I actually thought that it was going to be a draw. That we would forget any of this ever happened; that I could go home to you. Just as I thought that, Eacker raised his pistol. I barely had any time to fire mine in the air before he shot.” Philip paused for a second, anger spreading across his face. “You should have seen him. He was happy. Laughing at the ‘dumb kid who challenged him.’ I wish I would have shot him when I had the chance.”

“Philip,” you said, smoothing back his hair, “we both know that you wouldn’t hurt a soul. You’re too good. Eacker couldn’t take that away from you.”

“I’m scared,” was all Philip could say and looking into his eyes, you saw the pure terror in them. In that moment, he was just a man facing the unknown, and you could do nothing to save him.

“I’ll protect you,” you said, pressing your forehead against his and closing your eyes.

“Tell me something,” Philip said, reaching up to cup your cheek. You nibbled on your bottom lip for a second, debating on whether or not you should tell him. “You tell me something and I’ll tell you something.”

“I’m pregnant.” Philip froze. You dropped your gaze, pulling away from him because how stupid could you be, thinking that Philip might be happy with this. He was going to tell you to leave. He was going to tell you that he hated you. He was going to—kiss you?

“Are you serious? Are you sure?” Philip asked, excitement evident through the pain.

“Yes, Philip. I’m pregnant.” Philip’s gaze dropped to your stomach and you felt a couple of tears slip out when you saw how truly happy he was. How much he already loved his child.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I was afraid,” you said, dropping your gaze and lazily resting one of your hands on your stomach. “We weren’t even courting, Philip. I didn’t know how you’d react.”

“How long?” he asked, his golden green eyes shining with tears.

“About two months along. I found out two weeks ago. Philip, I’m sorry.”

“Hey, there’s no need to apologize. I understand.” Philip lifted your hand to his lips and pressed a gentle kiss to your knuckles. “Now I have to tell you something. I’ve been planning to ask for your hand for a while now, but I never got enough courage to do it.” You could only stare as Philip reached under his shirt and pulled out a leather cord, a delicate gold ring hanging on it. It had a single row of leaves etched into the metal and as the ring turned, you caught a glimpse of a single rose nestled in the middle. “I’ve carried this with me for the past month, just in case I finally got the courage to ask you.”

“Philip, of course I’ll marry you,” you manage to say through your tears. Philip reaches behind his neck to untie the leather cord, pulling the ring off before placing it on your finger. Somehow he managed to get it just the right size and you smiled when he took your hand and pressed a kiss to the finger that now held your engagement ring.

“I only wish I could see our wedding day.” Philip rested his head back on the pillows behind him, closing his eyes against the pain.

“You can,” you said as an idea came to you. “Here.” You reached up and took the black ribbon out of your hair, letting it out of the ponytail you put it in that morning. You grabbed Philip’s hand and tied the ribbon around his ring finger. “I pronounce us husband and wife.”

You kissed and talked until you felt your eyes drifting closed, your body exhausted from everything that had happened that day. You tried to keep your eyes open until Philip pressed a kiss to your hand and mumbled a simple “go to sleep.”

And you did just that, surrendering to sleep with Philip next to you one last time.

Tags: @pearltheartist @insane-hamilton-imagines @justfangirlingaround @letusunalivethem

[vitaliciouscreations]

Summer Camp AU - Percy Jackson

Authors Note at the bottom

This is maybe one of the worst deals I have ever made, Annabeth thought melodramatically, looking up at the hill that stood before her, which was absolutely swarming with bouncing, excited kids. Bobby and Matthew were already catching the atmosphere, growing more and more restless by the second, and Annabeth was genuinely worried that they would break away from her and get lost in the mini-sea of hyperactive children, never to be seen again.

Yeah, that would go over great with her dad and step-mom. She definitely wouldn't be getting that Art & Design Class paid off, that was for sure.

See, this whole issue had started with her guidance councilor telling her that her future prospects for colleges looked bright, as her grades were stellar, she wasn't lacking in extra-curriculars, and her community service record was shiny and full. The only problem was that, as Annabeth wanted to be an Architect, it would be better if she had some experience in Art & Design, and since her fine arts class credit had been filled with a semester of theater, she hadn't worried about that until she had already filled in all of her classes for senior year. This summer was her last chance, and luckily she had found this perfect Art & Design Class that was taught in a two-week segment near the end of the summer at a college only a little whiles away from where they lived. Perfect. The only downfall…

It was expensive. Like, really expensive. Annabeth could pay for it with her own money, but it would dry up most of the funds she had saved to help with college debts and stuff, and she didn't want to do that. She also didn't have anybody else to ask, as the only person besides her dad Annabeth could think of was her mother. And she was not asking her mother.

So, her Dad and Helen had pitched a deal to her. Take Bobby and Matthew to summer camp and supervise them so that they didn't end up getting into any trouble or getting sent home early like last year, and Annabeth would get back just in time to take the Art & Design Class. It overlapped with school a little but since the first week of school was always fairly easy, and since Annabeth would be in her senior year, she figured she could handle it. Just like she could handle taking care of Bobby and Matthew for one summer.

Or at least, she had thought she could handle one summer. Looking out at the absolute swarm of children buzzing up the hill to the camp's admission table, Annabeth was having second thoughts. How on earth could anybody handle this many children all at once? Annabeth could barely stand two, and most of the time Helen and her dad were the ones actually taking care of them. She was going to score a full-ride scholarship anyway, so maybe…

No. Annabeth was not going to back out on this. She was signed up as a camper anyway, so the only two kids she would have to look after were Bobby and Matthew, and even then there would be councilors around in case of an emergency. Annabeth sucked in a determined breath and grabbed Bobby and Matthew's hands, feeling each of them wiggle with excitement as she did so. Then, she began marching up the hill, though she only made it about four steps before Bobby and Matthew outstripped her and practically dragged her along with them. It was definitely and understatement to say they were excited, and Annabeth suddenly remembered how happily they'd chattered on about this place after they'd been sent home for catching a stomach bug. Sickness aside, they had absolutely loved it here.

On top of the hill, there was a long line of parents waiting with their kids, most who were squirming around about as excitedly as Bobby and Matthew were. At the beginning of the line, there was a table set up, tucked near the base of a huge pine tree, probably for shade. It was manned by two people, their faces indistinct at this distance, though above them there was a hand-painted banner that read "Welcome to Camp Half-Blood!" in big, happy letters. All of the 'O's on the sign had smiley faces painted inside of them, as did the C at the beginning of "Camp".

Some child Annabeth couldn't see let off a high-pitched shriek. She couldn't tell if they were simply excited or if somebody was brutally murdering them. It was probably the first one, Annabeth decided, though in all honestly it had sounded a bit more like the latter option to her. She wondered if this was going to be a frequent occurrence.

They got into line. By this time, Bobby and Matthew were actually jumping up and down out of excitement, and Annabeth was thinking back bitterly on the pancakes they'd had for breakfast that morning, and how much syrup they'd been drowned in. The line moved forward a step and Annabeth watched as an excited child ran down the hill towards the direction of the camp, while a parent walked down the hill in the other direction, towards the road which eventually lead back to the parking lot full of cars. Envy filled Annabeth as she watched the parent walk away, as she knew she wouldn't have the same opportunity when they got to the front of the line.

Bobby and Matthew only seemed to get more and more excited as they got closer to the front of the line, which was ridiculous because they were waiting for what seemed like forever, and with all that bouncing up and down and fidgeting they should have gotten tired eventually. Even all the sugary syrup from breakfast and the grocery store sandwiches Annabeth had gotten them for lunch shouldn't be able to fuel this much energy. Annabeth wondered how it was possible for them to be so excited for a camp they'd gotten sick at before, and had only stayed around two-thirds the duration of anyway. Surely it couldn't be that fun.

Finally, finally, they got to the front of the line. Annabeth swore they must have waited at least forty minutes, though that wasn't that surprising, considering how many people had been in line in front of them, and how many were building up behind them. Geez, this had to be a really popular camp.

A girl and a guy were manning the admission table, both looking around her age. The guy had curly reddish-brown hair which he was wearing a rasta cap over, along with the beginnings of a scraggly beard on his chin. There was a pair of silver crutches leaned up against his chair, with faint marks on them that looked like stickers had been stripped off of them recently. The girl, on the other hand, was standing up. She had a red, folded up bandana tied around her head, acting as a headband to keep her hair away from her face, and was wearing a somewhat serious expression, looking almost angry, though not too much. She was a little intimidating, Annabeth supposed, or at least to anybody else. But Annabeth had stood up to way too much to be intimidated by a girl her age just because of a little scowl.

"Names?" the girl asked, sounding a little irritated. Annabeth absolutely could not blame her, because she had already had to deal with all of the people who had been before Annabeth and her brothers, and would have to deal with all the people after. It couldn't be a fun job.

"Uhh, Bobby and Matthew, right…?" the guy spoke up before Annabeth even had the chance to say anything. He leaned forward a little in his seat. "You two are a couple of the kids who got sick last year, right? Sorry about that."

"It's alright," Bobby and Matthew chimed at the same time, before starting a little and staring at each other. They were twins, but not twins who could speak simultaneously very often, so when they did they always got these huge smiles on their faces. Like now, when twin grins bloomed up as they stared at each other.

"Alright, sign 'em in," the girl said shortly, cutting her chin at the guy, who obediently picked up a pen. She was obviously impatient with the sign up process after having been through it so many times, and still, Annabeth couldn't find it in herself to blame the girl. She was irritated too, and she only had to go through it once.

"What was your guys' last name…" the guy muttered, more to himself than to Bobby and Matthew, as he trailed his eyes down the line of clipboards on the table, each holding a single sheet of paper.

"Chase," Annabeth cut in, speaking aloud for the first time through this whole process. "And I'm Annabeth Chase. I'll be signing in as well."

The guy glanced up at her for a short moment, before nodding his head and going back to the clipboards, grabbing the first one and scribbling something on three lines near the bottom, probably the spaces Annabeth and her brothers' names occupied. "Cool. Well, what you're gonna do is go down the hill," the guy pointed with the butt of the pen. "And find the dining area. It shouldn't be too hard to find, and Bobby and Matthew can show you the way. There's a make-your-own-nametag activity going on, and you'll get a lanyard to hang it on afterwards. Take your time, because there are no other activities scheduled today until dinner, so time isn't a problem. And the councilors down there can help you with anything you need."

The girl seemed to be getting impatient, so Annabeth just nodded. "Thank you," she told the guy quickly, before tugging Bobby and Matthew gently out of line and letting them all but drag her to the dining area. They were wearing huge grins as they ran down the hill and tugged at her arms, glancing up at her and bouncing around.

"That was Grover," Matthew explained as they reached the bottom of the hill and headed for the dining area. Or where Annabeth assumed was the dining area. "He's got this thing with his legs where he has trouble walking, but he's still super-duper fun. And last year when we were playing volleyball, he totally won the game for us by spiking a ball over the net with his crutches. The other team said it was cheating but it was so not."

"And the girl was Clarisse," Bobby added on. "She's kinda mean and stuff, but her cabin always wins at capture the flag and hide and seek and stuff. She's super competitive, but she knows how to fight really well and she even beat up a bear once!"

Annabeth blinked at that, and looked down at her brothers, who had turned away now and we're tugging her along again. After a moment of deliberation, she decided that the bear thing must be an overinflated rumor they must have heard. The girl had certainly looked tough and capable, but Annabeth sort of doubted she was capable of "beating up a bear". She'd probably encountered one in the woods and the story had grown from there. Or perhaps something even less exciting.

They arrived at the dining area in a lot less time than it had taken for them to arrive at the admissions booth, and it was packed. Kids everywhere. Annabeth would have balked in fear except they all seemed to behaving rather well. Sure they were talking, maybe at a pretty loud volume, and were messing around with markers and crayons and stuff, but none of them seemed to be going crazy. Nothing was being thrown, at least, and only a handful of the kids were scribbling on their arms.

Bobby and Matthew ran over to a table at the beginning of the dining area, seemingly set aways apart from all the others. Two boys were manning it, who looked awfully similar to each other, both with scruffy brown hair and alike faces, almost as if they were twins, except one of them was a bit shorter than the other, and had features to indicate he was a bit younger. Brothers, more than likely. They seemed to be flicking rubber bands at each other from across the table, which crushed Annabeth's earlier statement about nothing being thrown.

"Hey!" Bobby yelled over the clamor in the dining area. One of the boys from the special table looked down, and grinned, as Annabeth walked over to stand behind her brothers.

"'Sup," he greeted, smiling mischievously in a way that made Annabeth want to slap his wrist before he even did anything. He grabbed some plastic card sleeves off of the table while his brother picked up a handful of different colored lanyards. "So, what year are you guys?"

"Second!" Bobby and Matthew chorused together, making them grin as they spoke in unison again. Matthew motioned with his head behind to Annabeth. "This is our sister, she's here on her first year. That means she gets green, right?"

"Right-o!" the other brother said, leaning across the table to hand a bright green lanyard to Annabeth. "And you guys are blue," he continued, picking out two light blue lanyards and handing them over to Bobby and Matthew. Annabeth stared at both her lanyard and her brothers' a little skeptically, as the color was a bit odd for regular lanyards, being strangely lightly-colored.

"What's with the coloring?" Annabeth decided to ask.

"It's so that we can identify what your experience with Camp Half-Blood is, basically," the first brother answered, misinterpreting her question. "Also so that you can tell who the camp councilors and leaders are, since they wear white lanyards." He hooked a thumb around his own lanyard, which was indeed white, to show her. "We separate the years because we have different surprises and activities for each year, and because it's easier to identify first years so that we can tell if they're getting lost or need help or something, though with you," he glanced her up and down quickly, "well, I doubt you'll need too much help. The older kids rarely do."

"That's not what I meant," Annabeth told him, though the information was helpful. "I meant why are the colors so… light? There's something off about them. What's different?" Even the white of the councilor boys' lanyards looked just a little off.

"Oh," the other one said. "They glow in the dark. The woods get pitch black at night so they're useful just in case anybody gets lost. We have a curfew, but a lot of kids wander off at night anyway, which…" he shrugged casually, as if to say something like 'it happens'. "Great eye, though," he added on, the side of his mouth quirking up a little mischievously.

"Thanks," Annabeth said absentmindedly, examining her lanyard with new fervor. Glow-in-the-dark lanyards, huh? It certainly was interesting. She wondered how expensive they were, though with all the traffic this camp seemed to have the price might not be much of a problem. Glow-in-the-dark seemed a little tacky for any architecture project, but perhaps Annabeth could think of some way to implement it classily. It would be an interesting challenge, at the very least.

"She's got that look again," Bobby said to Matthew, and they both grabbed her hands and tugged her along, tugging her out of her thoughts as well. The first boy barely managed to call them back to collect their plastic card sleeves.

Bobby and Matthew lead her over to a table which was only partially seated with kids, and Annabeth noted that the entire surface was covered with markers, colored pencils, crayons, and pens, as well as all sorts of types of paper, sequins, glitter, and glue. Annabeth was certain her brothers were going to make an absolute mess of this, and she was not looking forward to reigning them in.

Matthew and Bobby briefly filled her in on the fact that they were making name tags, before lunging at the arts and craft supplies with eager eyes and grabby hands. Annabeth surveyed the table with a more critical eye, thinking on her name tag's design before she even dared to get started. She had always been like that, ever since she was little. Apparently it was a thing she had inherited from her mother, though she knew so little about the woman that she couldn't vouch for that fact herself. According to her dad, they were both harshly analytical, though Annabeth was a tad warmer than her absent mother. Annabeth would never admit to it, but hearing that made her feel the strangest sense of pride in herself.

This, Annabeth decided after a moment of surveying the table, was a chance to gauge how much advancement she'd have to make during the Art & Design course to be satisfied with her performance. Architecture required a certain amount of skill with design, and though a name tag may not seem like a very big deal, designing it might help Annabeth see just how bad or good she was at design naturally and how much she would have to improve.

She started with a plain white piece of card stock. All the pieces of card stock were already cut down to proper size, but there was an additional small stack of colored printer paper on the table, along with a couple pairs of safety scissors. Annabeth thought for a moment before grabbing the piece of white card stock by the corner and carefully folding it, first forwards, just the corner, and then backwards, and then forwards, and then backwards… etc., each fold taking up about the same space width-wise. When she finished she had a sort of paper accordion shape, which she stretched out again, just enough to keep it from bunching up too much but not enough to flatten it.

She reached for the colored paper next. Since she'd folded it from the bottom left corner to the top right, the creases in the card stock went diagonally, which was what she had been going for. It kept her design from looking too plain, or at least she hoped.

First, she grabbed a black marker. Using it, she colored all of the left sides of the folds, so that looking at it from one way made it look like it was on an all-black background, while looking at it from the opposite way made it look like it was on an all-white background. Anywhere in-between you could see the alternating white and black, but again that was Annabeth's goal.

Secondly, she began tracing the letters of her name out on a regular sheet of paper. She felt she had to practice first because her name was rather long, and the card space was rather small, and she had to make sure it was readable without it being too big or too small, or some of the letters being abnormally larger than others. She also had to make sure that when she folded up the letters the same way she had the card stock, they neither looked oddly misshapen, nor were too small.

She got it right after a few tries, and moved on to the colored paper. Rainbow, she decided, while a little gaudy, would be a good bet for a camp name tag. It probably wouldn't be too flashy, and, she thought with a hidden smile, Bobby and Matthew would like it. She'd been temped to just use gray paper, as in architecture simplicity was key, and also gray was her favorite color (or shade, if they were speaking in technicalities) but with a moment of hesitation she passed it over, deciding that simplicity may not be key in this specific instance. Besides, against the black and white it may not stand out very well, and this was a name tag after all.

So rainbow it was. Any one color didn't seem correct to Annabeth, as the black and white background nicely contrasted and she would mess up the balance with one single color, unless she did it with a lighter shade of green, but she wasn't sure she wanted to use her lanyard color, or rather, a few shades off from her lanyard color, which was even worse.

The biggest problem after that was that the rainbow had six (or seven, including indigo) colors, and her name had eight letters. She thought about it and decided to include pink, and also indigo, but then the issue was where to put the pink, as setting it in between red and orange seemed just a little wrong. After a small internal debate, she decided to put pink before red, meaning that the first 'A' of her name would be pink, and continuing on. She also decided to use the darker, more intense shade of hot-ish pink rather than the light, ballet pink, to better blend in with the red right after.

Folding up the letters was a little tedious, and she had to make sure she matched the folds of the card stock exactly, which was a challenge, but after the second 'A' she had to trash she seemed to get the hang of it. For a moment she wondered if she should add glitter or anything else Bobby and Matthew seemed to be enjoying a little too much, but she decided that this was the point where the "simplicity is key" lesson came in. She already had rainbow letters, that should be about enough.

Plus, the slight three-dimensional aspect, which Annabeth was hoping would survive the plastic sleeve, at least for a few days. She had worked way too hard on it for it to go to waste.

She had to apply the glue to the back of the letters in the most careful way possible, as to not mess up the crisp folds she'd made to match the folds of the card stock. She used the butt end of a colored pencil to again carefully press the letters down into the card stock, as to not mess up anything, and it took a painfully long time but Annabeth desperately didn't want to mess up the folds. She'd worked really hard on this so far and she swore, if she screwed this up—

There! Done. Annabeth dropped the colored pencil off to the side and raised her hands up to either side of her, looking down at her masterpiece. It looked fine to her, but then again she was the one who had created it, so her frame of judgement may be skewed. The corner of the second 'n' was looking a little dull, and the folding with the 'b'— Ahh yes, there was Annabeth's perfectionism, acting up again. She looked to either side of her at Bobby and Matthew, both who were in the last legs of creating their glittery, sticky, sequin-y, and very colorful name tags, which were barely legible through the arts and crafts mess. Not that that really surprised her too much.

As she glanced at her half brothers she decided to let them be her judges, and cleared her throat softly, scooping up her name tag carefully and holding it out by the edges in front of her, so they both could easily see it. "Bobby? Matthew? What do you guys think of my name tag?"

Bobby and Matthew both looked up from wreaking glittery destruction and their eyes went wide as they spotted Annabeth's name tag. Bobby put his hands down on the table as if to squirm towards it, while Matthew just leaned forward a little more, but they were both wearing looks of such awe that Annabeth's stomach swirled with pride and accomplishment.

"Whoa!" Bobby exclaimed, perhaps a little louder than he should have. "That's so awesome! How'd you do that, Annabeth?"

"Yeah!" Matthew agreed enthusiastically from the other side, as a proud smile bloomed across Annabeth's face. "It's amazing! Can you help me with mine!"

Bobby grabbed her arm, smearing glitter across the area above her elbow, though Annabeth found she didn't actually mind that much. "Me too! C'mon, please!"

Annabeth's smile was almost splitting her face at this point, it was so broad. "Alright," she conceded, though it wasn't like she was regretful. Quite the opposite, in fact. She carefully set her name tag aside, in a place where it would neither be squished nor covered with glitter, and positioned herself so that she could help with both her brothers' name tags at once, as they had already begun vying for her attention. The name tags were glittery, scribbly, colorful messes, but they were fun messes, and Annabeth at least managed to smooth out the edges a little bit, and make sure that they were clearly legible in a way that both Bobby and Matthew still thought was cool. Cursive, they thought, was absolutely astonishing.

By the time she finished with their name tags the day was running out. They'd arrived at around four, give or take a little, spent a long time in line, and then walked down to the dining area. Then they'd spent a while making name tags, and Annabeth would theorize that it was around six-ish when they finally finished and laid out the little masterpieces in front of themselves, all of them feeling the slightest bit of satisfaction in their accomplishments. By then there were councilors walking around, including the two brothers they'd spoken to earlier, complimenting and giving constructive criticism to various campers over their name tags. One of the more common comments Annabeth heard was about the legibility, or more accurately, the lack thereof, of the name tag, prompting the creator to make their name a little easier to read.

The councilor on the table left of theirs finished up, softly patting a small girl on the shoulder and saying something that left her beaming. Instead of moving over to their table though, she moved to one ahead. Another councilor was coming around their right, but was at least two tables away, so Annabeth disregarded him.

"Hi!" a cheery voice said from off to Annabeth's left. Annabeth turned her head quickly, eyes narrowing, but was only met with the sight of a teenage girl.

Said girl had curly red hair, some of it being pinned back semi-successfully from her face with bobby pins. She had ruby glitter glue smeared across the left part of her forehead, along with traces of glue and blue marker on her right cheek. There were several types of glitter clinging to her hair, and her orange shirt was smeared with paint even though Annabeth was sure there hadn't been paint of any kind involved in the name tags. She was also wearing a pink lanyard, not white.

"I'm Rachel," she introduced, smiling brightly. "I'm here to check your name tags."

"You're not a counselor," Annabeth said. She tried to put the inflection of a question at the end of that statement, but it didn't really work and came out sounding like an accusation.

"Uh?" Rachel said, and glanced down when Annabeth indicated her lanyard. "Ah, no, I'm not. Technically speaking, I'm just a camper, but I kinda qualify as a junior councilor," she made a wiggly hand motion. "My dad won't let me officially become a councilor because he's kind of a jerk, but around here the councilors kind of regard me as one of their own. So I'm basically a councilor except I can take classes instead of teaching them, and I don't get paid anything." She shrugged, before smiling at Annabeth. "It's okay for me to check your name tag though, promise!"

By now Bobby and Matthew had already shoved their name tags towards her, and it was obvious they held at least some degree of recognition towards her. The girl—Rachel—seemed to do as the other councilors did, checking over their name tags carefully and dishing out praise like a pro, with some sneaky constructive criticism in the middle. One thing she praised in particular was the legibility of their name tags, which they both gladly gave credit to Annabeth for, in turn gleaning a small smile from her.

Rachel checked over the rest of the table's name tags quickly, praising and softly criticizing in turn. From the tone of her voice, along with many of her statements and admittedly a little bit due to her messy appearance, Annabeth was fairly certain she was an artist of some sort. Not positive, but fairly certain.

Finally, she turned to Annabeth, and in response Annabeth carefully picked up her name tag and showed it to her, forcefully ignoring the tiny bubble of anxiety that seemed to have formed in her stomach. Was she really so desperate for praise? It was just some stupid camp name tag.

"Whoa!" Rachel exclaimed loudly, leaning over the table a little as if to get a closer look. "That's awesome! Seriously, you did that all yourself?"

Annabeth nodded calmly, trying to fight off the broad, proud smile that was trying to struggle its way onto her face. It was kind of a losing battle.

"That's so cool," Rachel told her, sage green eyes practically glowing with sincerity. "Like, really. This might be the coolest name tag I've seen all day, and I've seen mine," she joked. She then perked up and snapped her fingers, pointing at Annabeth right after. "You know what, this is totally summer collage worthy! Only if you agree though."

"What?" Annabeth asked.

"Ah," Rachel waved her hand vaguely. "It's this thing Camp Half Blood does, dating all the way back to the year it first started." Rachel giggled at her little joke. "Basically we hang this huge cork board," she held her arms out all the way to try and indicate the size, "-out on the side of the Big House, and all summer we take like Polaroid pics of cool, fun or interesting stuff—like your name tag," Rachel inflected. "And then we pin them up on the cork board and at the end of the summer we take a really good quality pic of the whole thing and put it in this scrapbook we have in the Big House. We also use it to like reminisce about the past summer and stuff." Rachel waved her hand again. "It's basically just a bunch of pictures of cool stuff up on a board, and your name tag definitely counts as cool. But if you don't wanna, then that's fine. It's just a thought. So?"

"Uhm," said Annabeth. "I—sure, I guess."

Rachel beamed. "That's awesome." She then gestured over her shoulder a little, though at what Annabeth couldn't tell. "I don't actually have the camera right now, it's back at the Big House, but I will talk to Chiron and come back in like an hour? Dinner will be starting then probably, or at least I think," she glanced down at a watch on her wrist, which was mostly black except for a couple of paint splotches. "Yeah, it's 6:17 now and dinner will happen at seven-fifteen. It normally takes place at eight but Sundays scheduled differently." Rachel waved her hand and shook her head. "It doesn't matter. Basically, you've got like fifty-eight minutes of free time, and then dinner will start, and then I will come around with the camera and interrupt your eating probably. Sound like a plan?"

"Yeah," Annabeth agreed, shrugging. "Sure."

"What's for dinner?" Bobby asked from beside her.

Rachel shrugged, her mouth curling into an easy smile. "Ah, a whole bunch of things. Burgers, hotdogs, bratwurst. There's also salad if you're a vegetarian with something against tofu or whatever." Rachel leaned in a little and put her hand over her mouth conspiratorially. "A tip, if you see Clarisse or the Stolls," she pointed to the two brown-haired brothers as she said this, "on the grill, and you're a vegetarian, it's probably better to just wait until you see them switch with a different councilor. None of them can cook tofu for anything, and the Stolls aren't really best with the regular meat options either. Also, if you're going for a salmon burger and you see Katie," she gestured over to a councilor girl with long brown hair tied back in a French braid, "just don't. Don't. Go for tofu or regular instead. It's not worth it."

Annabeth nodded. "Thanks," she said shortly.

Rachel winked, backing off to a normal distance again. "No problem. It's just that Katie seems to be under the impression that fish is only good when it's charred beyond all recognition, and I don't want anybody to suffer through that. She probably won't be cooking anyway, but I thought I'd give fair warning." She shrugged, and then tilted her head to the side.

"Actually, Percy," she looked around, but didn't seem to find whoever she was looking for to point out to Annabeth, "-is the best with cooking fish, but most of the time he's either too busy or too tired to cook, so you'll be lucky if you can snag one of his." She looked back to Annabeth and gave a little wave. "Nice meeting you," she said, before moving around to another table.

Annabeth went back to Bobby and Matthew, who were now trying to thumb wrestle each other on the table in front of her. Both of them were sort of bad at it, but Annabeth didn't comment. She carefully moved her name tag a little closer to her, just to be safe, and then leaned her elbow onto the table and cupped her face, drifting off into her thoughts. Fifty-some minutes of free time now, and Annabeth had absolutely nothing to do. Their luggage had gone into a sort of heap with everyone else's at Bobby and Matthew's insistence, and Annabeth doubted that she'd be able to dig her bag out of the pile and grab a book even if she wanted to or knew where to go.

So she had nothing to do. Annabeth realized that was a false statement before she was even finished thinking it. The arts and crafts supplies were still spread all across the table, and from Rachel's statement they, or some other unlucky person, would be eating off of this table soon. And unless Annabeth wanted to be eating equal parts dinner and glitter, she would probably have to make an attempt to clean some of the mess up.

So she stood up from her seat and surveyed the table. It was an absolute nightmare of a mess, glue bottles strew about and paper scraps all around. Glitter and sequins coated the table like the world's worst and shiniest wax job. There were also a bunch of uncapped markers all around, and colored pencils lay around like pick-up-sticks.

Well, Annabeth was so pleased she'd decided to take this job on.

She started with the markers, finding matching caps for the ones she could and just putting some random loose caps on ones she couldn't. She figured she could sort it out later when the table was a little cleaner. She stacked them off to the side behind an empty marker box, so that they wouldn't roll down the table, and one of the other girls at the table caught on and she and her friend started uncapping and recapping the markers correctly, before beginning to place them in boxes. Annabeth muttered out a quick thank you and glanced back at her name tag, making sure it was still untouched.

The colored pencils went the same way, the first girl's friend moving from markers to colored pencils as soon as she saw Annabeth going for those. Another guy at the end of the table was picking up glue bottles and sticks and capping those, trying to leave as little of a sticky puddle as possible, though sometimes it seemed inevitable. Annabeth grabbed a piece of card stock and scraped up a small glue trail with the edge of it, making sure the guy was watching, before setting it off to the side and passing the guy a handful of the cards. It still left some glue behind, but it was better than big puddles.

Annabeth had just started surveying the huge mess of glitter, paper scraps, and sequins when a counselor guy, one of the brothers from earlier again, came around with a trash can, a dustpan, a hand broom, a rag, and a bottle of what Annabeth assumed was cleaning spray. He brightened a little when he saw their table, and set the trash can down so he could better hold the other four items. "Oh, you guys have already started! Cool, well, I will leave this stuff here," he set the other four items at the edge of their table, near the glue guy who was now being helped by two other kids in his endeavors. Then the counselor guy pointed over to another table, which looked about four times worse then theirs had even when Annabeth had started, "-And go help them, and if you need anything just grab me."

He strode off to the other table, and the glue guy almost immediately passed the dustpan and broom to Annabeth, leaving the cloth and cleaning spray alone for the moment. At some point while Annabeth wasn't paying attention, Bobby and Matthew had begun passing stray colored pencils over the the girl collecting them but now had stopped and were looking up at Annabeth. She gave Matthew the dustpan and Bobby the hand broom and they got happily to work while Annabeth moved her name tag to a safer spot again and then began brushing the glitter and stuff into little piles with a piece of paper and her hands, making it easier for Bobby and Matthew to not make a mess of things. Part of Annabeth wanted to snatch the broom and dustpan back from them, but she also didn't want to offend Bobby and Matthew, so she just let them go at it, and re-piled all of the glitter and sequins they missed so that they could come back to it.

Thankfully, Bobby and Matthew seemed to get kind of tired of the broom and dustpan after a while and gladly went over to help sort colored pencils and markers while relinquishing the dustpan and hand broom. Annabeth did her best not to let her relief show as she quickly went around the table, sweeping all of the piles and trails Bobby and Matthew had missed or left behind them. Glue guy sent her a quick amused glance before "helping" one of he younger children assisting him, basically taking over the job entirely but putting his hands on top of her hands as to not seem like that's what he was doing.

While Annabeth was still busy sweeping the table up, Glue Guy finished with the glue puddles and tossed a sticky stack of card stock into the trash. He then picked up the cleaning spray and rag and started on the glue residue which he hadn't been able to scrape up, avoiding spraying the areas where Annabeth hadn't reached yet. This was more impressive then in sounded because he also had a young girl, like seven or something, dangling off his arm the entire time.

Eventually Annabeth did all the good she could do with the broom and dustpan, and dumped the last load into the trash can before looking around. The counselor brother that had visited their table was still at the table he had pointed at, which was definitely cleaner but still struggling. Annabeth picked up the garbage can, along with the hand broom and dustpan, and strode over, setting the garbage can down with a loud thunk. When the councilor brother turned around—Travis, said his name tag—Annabeth offered the broom and dustpan out to him wordlessly, which he took with a smile so grateful it bordered on hysteric. Annabeth felt bad for him.

It sort of looked like Glue Guy had their table handled, aside from the little girl dangling off of him, so Annabeth walked around the side of the messier table and grabbed a couple pieces of stray card stock, using the same trick from earlier to scoop up glue puddles and make the clean up easier. The councilor brother said something about her not having to do that, but Annabeth ignored him. Her mild ADHD would drive her crazy if she just had to sit still at her table until dinner was ready, and at least this way she felt helpful.

Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed a large grill being set up by a couple of councilors, along with a fold-out table that was quickly laden with hot dog and hamburger buns, and she meant a lot of buns. Another guy with green eyes so vivid in color that Annabeth could see them from here came jogging up lugging a garden hose under one arm, and the biggest bottle of liquid soap Annabeth had ever seen under the other. He set both down near the feet of another councilor, who Annabeth quickly recognized as the guy from the sign up table with the crutches, and then started trying to affix some sort of nozzle to the end of the gardening hose.

Counselor brother—Travis—briefly set the dustpan and hand broom down and held his hands out, clearly indicating for Annabeth to hand him the pieces of card stock that were covered in glue. She did, and he dumped those, along with the contents of the full dustpan, into the trash can behind him. Annabeth received a thumbs up from him as she went back to her glue scooping.

The smell of cooking meat started filling the air. Annabeth briefly glanced over her shoulder and saw the other counselor brother on the grill. She tried to recall Rachel's warning about them, whether it was salmon or vegetarian burgers she had to avoid, but couldn't recall exactly. Though Annabeth hadn't been planning on going for either anyway, so she supposed it didn't really matter.

With everybody at the table plus her and counselor brother #1 working together, the table cleaned up fast enough. It seemed like most of the other tables were pretty clean too, with the exception of a few, so Annabeth headed off to the next one with Travis quickly behind.

He glanced down at her lanyard, but then back up at her when he saw she didn't have a name tag on. By then Annabeth had started sweeping the table they'd reached though, so he moved in to help.

"Where's your name tag, helpful girl?" he asked as he set the trash can down.

Annabeth waved back in the direction of her table, hoping nothing had happened to it in her absence. She'd put in a lot of effort so she figured she was justified in being worried for it. "Back over there. I'll put it on later. My name is Annabeth."

"Well, thanks a lot, Annabeth," he said. "You're being really helpful."

Annabeth shrugged and dumped the dustpan into the trash can near his feet. "It's not like I have anything better to do."

After they finished with that table it seemed most of the tables were good, or at least good enough, so Annabeth left the dustpan and hand broom with Travis and went back over to her table. Matthew handed her back her name tag as soon as she came over, saying he had picked it up to make sure it didn't get sprayed. Annabeth thanked them and sat down, quietly appreciating the newfound cleanliness of their table.

"Hey!" a friendly voice said from behind her just as she sat down, and she turned her head to see Rachel. The red-haired girl held up a vintage-looking camera and smiled at Annabeth. "Got it."

Annabeth held out her name tag, cupping it in her hands gently, and Rachel's soft smile turned into a grin. "Awesome idea," she murmured, backing up a little. "This'll make for a great shot." Annabeth didn't really know what she was talking about. Rachel put her eye up to the camera and tried a few angles around Annabeth's hand before evidently finding one she liked. A quick flash went off and then a moment later the camera buzzed as a picture printed out of it. Rachel quickly switched the camera to her left hand and withdrew the picture, shaking it back and forth a few times before looking at it. Her smile widened and then she held it out for Annabeth to look.

It certainly looked like her name tag. In addition, Annabeth now understood what Rachel had meant when she said, 'makes for a good shot', because the background of Annabeth's fingers looked really cool against the name tag. Annabeth decided not to tell Rachel that it hadn't been intentional.

Rachel had caught it at such an angle that the black background stood out more than the white, though the letters were still clear spelling out her name. The diagonal slant of the folds seemed like a much better idea now then it did even when she was folding it because from the angle Rachel had snapped the photo they looked really artistic.

"You're a good photographer," Annabeth said, handing the photo back.

Rachel beamed at her brightly. "Thanks! You're a good name-tag maker." She giggled a little after that statement, and then held the photograph up, along with the camera. "I'm gonna go drop these off with Chiron. Another little tip I should give you is that it's a good idea to get into line for the hose now, because the warmer water only lasts for about twenty people before it feels like you're washing your hands with ice water. The bathrooms are pretty good about having a lot of hot water, but the hose always feels like it's pumping straight from the Arctic, so," she jerked her head towards where the guy with the garden hose was standing, currently talking to the crippled guy from the admissions both. Then she ran off again.

Annabeth got up, along with Bobby and Matthew, though she felt a little unsure. Nobody else was in line for the hose so she wasn't really sure if Rachel had meant immediately so she tried to subtly tow her little brothers along with her to get near to the guys, but far enough away that she could play it off.

It didn't seem like that was necessary though, thankfully. The guy from the admissions booth noticed her approach, and nudged the guy with the hose, who immediately looked over and gave her a small smile while hefting the garden hose. "Wash your hands?" he asked, green eyes catching hers for a moment.

"Yeah," Annabeth replied, and the guy jerked his head down, black hair tousling gently, to indicate the gigantic bottle of soap at his feet. Annabeth leaned down and squirted a little into her palms, rubbing it over the backs of her hands before the guy suddenly turned on the water.

He jerked the nozzle down quickly so none of the water sprayed her, and then twisted something on it so the water started coming out in a more gentle stream. He leaned the nozzle towards her again and Annabeth wet her hands, before briefly instructing Bobby and Matthew to do the same as she had while rubbing the soap around a little and then rinsing off. Rachel had been right, the water was warm. She would have to thank the girl next time she saw her.

"Wash your hands!" the green-eyed guy yelled as he sprayed Bobby and Matthew's hands. Almost immediately several people lurched up from the nearest table, and a line quickly formed. Apparently Rachel wasn't the only one who knew about that warm water thing, as several teenagers behind Annabeth crowded in to soap their hands and shoved each other around. Annabeth pulled Bobby and Matthew away from the crowd as soon as possible, and then shook her hands out to air dry them. Bobby and Matthew followed her example.

Bobby and Matthew then dashed ahead of her to the two fold-up tables set out and grabbed paper plates and plastic cups from the first table. It was Annabeth's turn to follow their example so she did the same. There were a dozen or so two-liter bottles of various types of beverages, stuff like soda, water, and lemonade set up on the first table. Bobby and Matthew were struggling to pour a bottle of Coke into their cups so Annabeth took it away from them and helped. She made herself a little note to self to not let them drink soda every night, and especially not stuff with caffeine. That was a recipe for disaster right there.

Bobby and Matthew both got hamburgers. Annabeth, unable to remember Rachel's exact advice on the counselor brothers' cooking, decided to play it safe and went with a hot dog. Then she herded Bobby and Matthew back to the original table, now thankfully free of the previous artful mess, and sat down to eat.

Dinner passed pretty quickly. Annabeth was actually surprised by how hungry she was once she started eating and the hotdog didn't really fill her up, but it seemed like the councilors at the grill were far too busy for her to go up at try to steal seconds. Also, Bobby and Matthew's energy had rocketed to sky high levels once they'd eaten and Annabeth was sort of afraid of what would happen if she left them alone and unsupervised, even for only a minute or two.

She started playing rock-paper-scissors with them, if just to keep them occupied. Bobby had this tendency to pull out rock about two-thirds of the time, while Matthew varied wildly between paper and scissors but never rock, so playing them both meant she couldn't always win. She still managed to get the most wins in though, a feat for which she was proud. It got even easier when some of the other people at their table joined in, though seven-way Rock Paper Scissors was a bit of a challenge to rate.

Finally, she heard a loud whistle from the right of her, and turned in her seat—along with everyone else in the dining hall—to face the direction the whistle had come from. There at the front of the dining hall a dozen or so teenagers were gathered, all wearing white lanyards around their necks. They were standing in a semi-circle around a table set slightly off from the rest, at which two grown men were seated.

The first of the men, sitting on the left side of the table, had a kind-looking face and was staring out at the crowd, one of his hands placed on the handle of an empty wheelchair. From the way his legs were positioned, and how close the wheelchair seemed to be, Annabeth could only assume it belonged to him.

The second man, sitting on the opposite side of the table, hardly looked like he was paying attention. He had short, curly black hair and was wearing a tiger-print Hawaiian shirt over what had to be the worst beer-belly Annabeth had ever seen. Admittedly Annabeth hadn't seen many beer bellies in her life, but still.

The man on the left cleared his throat, and smiled out at the crowd warmly. "Campers!" he called out, voice ringing across the dining hall. "New and old, I welcome you all to Camp Half-Blood, and hope you will all enjoy your summer with us!"

Just the way he spoke seemed to evoke a sort of comfortable feeling in Annabeth. Her first instinct was to jerk away from it, which probably spoke lengths about her personality, but instead she just took a deep breath and relaxed. Those times were long gone. Bobby and Matthew were right next to her. There was nothing bad going on.

God, she was just a little bit messed up, wasn't she?

"As many of you know, the next thing that comes up is signing up for this coming week's classes," the man went on. Annabeth was guessing he was the 'Chiron' Rachel had mentioned, as the man in the Hawaiian shirt still hadn't looked up at the crowd of campers even once, and Rachel had spoken of Chiron in a rather fond tone.

"For you new campers, I will lay out the basics. Mondays through Fridays are normal days, with four classes each day, though you may take an optional free period during one of those classes. Saturdays are community days, in which campers either go out into the city to do charity work, or pick up here at camp. Sundays are camp days, in which the entire camp participates in various activities together. Sundays are also open to visitation from parents, so for those of you who can, be sure to inform them. Officially the camp runs for thirteen terms, each term encompassing an entire week. At the end of each term campers may sign out of camp, in which case it is likely that a few new campers will sign in."

The man cleared his throat and then gestured behind him at the group of older kids. "Behind me are the councilors. You can identify them by their white lanyards, as well as myself and Mr. D. I am Chiron Brunner, the camp's activity director, while this," he indicated the man in the Hawaiian shirt. "Is Mr. D. He is the camp's supervisor. If you ever get lost or need help, you can ask anyone with a white lanyard and they'll do their best to assist you. Also, should an emergency arise, please follow your counselor's direction."

He clapped his hands together and smiled out at the crowd warmly. "Now, with that out of the way, we can get to signing up for classes. As I mentioned, each weekday has four classes a day, which means you may sign up for up to four classes each week. If you wish, you can take a free period one of those class times, in which case you should write you name down on the free time clipboard, under the correct time slot. Please take care to follow the age restrictions, as some classes are not fit for younger children, and please remember that signing up for classes is not a competition. There is plenty of room in each class, and there are often multiple classes of each type per day. Please do not push or shove the other campers while signing up for classes. And, above all, remember to have fun!"

Annabeth had no idea where they were supposed to sign up for classes, but thankfully Bobby and Matthew did. They rushed forward as soon as it was obvious the man was done talking, and made it past the front row of tables between the normal tables and the table set off from the rest. At the edge of each table were a couple clipboards, each with an activity scrawled across the top.

A few of them caught her eye as she browsed over them, sticking out to her if only for their strangeness. Etiquette didn't really sound like a normal summer camp activity, but it had a decent amount of sign ups so she supposed it was possible. Annabeth thought she might sign up for rock climbing, but passed it up at the last second in favor of hiking. Though when she saw the self-defense clipboard, she lunged for it right away.

In the end she ended up signing up for Self-Defense, First Aid, Arts& Crafts, and Hiking. She felt that they were all fairly practical choices, as Arts & Crafts might help her in Art & Design later, First Aid was a useful skill all around, Self-Defense was both something she was already experienced in and something she wanted to be more experienced in, and Hiking would keep her active.

She didn't know what classes Bobby and Matthew had signed up for, though she had spotted both of their names on Arts & Crafts when she'd signed herself up. She kind of hoped they'd end up in the same class actually, and that almost surprised her.

After it seemed like everybody was finished signing up, a few of the councilors went around and picked all of the clipboards up, jostling and joking around with each other playfully. They headed out of the dining hall, in the same direction Rachel had gone when she'd left, while another helped Chiron into his wheelchair.

"Alright!" Chiron exclaimed once safely in his wheelchair. "Now it's time for the campfire!"

Almost all of the campers around Annabeth erupted into cheers; it was almost deafening. Even Bobby and Matthew were screaming, before the crowd surged forward and Annabeth was dragged along. She barely managed to keep an eye on her two little brothers as they were all swept up.

The campfire site was large. There was a huge stone pit, and by that Annabeth really meant huge, inside a circle of bleacher-like benches, which had a few levels to them so that the large number of campers could fit better. It was still a tight squeeze, and a lot of people ended up sitting on the ground, including Annabeth. She pulled Bobby and Matthew down next to her, because there was no way they were going to find a spot to sit on the bleachers.

They seemed really, really excited, and Annabeth was actually kind of confused until the group of councilors returned, whooping and hollering and holding jumbo packs of graham crackers, chocolate, and marshmallows over their heads. They tossed the bags and boxes around and campers began ripping into them, while a different councilor started passing metal rods around, though thankfully only to the older kids like fourteen and up or something. Bobby and Matthew waved their hands around until Annabeth got one as well, and then immediately began requesting she roast their marshmallows for them.

How could Annabeth say no to that?

The campfire took a little to catch, with some lighthearted arguing among the campers about who got the poker. Eventually, though, it really ignited, and fire filled the pit. Annabeth finally got a hold of some marshmallows, though she put all three marshmallows she was roasting on her rod at once, because she had a feeling that if she left one or two with Bobby and Matthew to wait, they would be gone when she turned back around.

She walked around a little, eyeing the campfire until she found a place with fairly exposed embers and knelt down, placing her marshmallows close. A lot of other people were roasting their marshmallows just by flame, and completely relatedly a lot of other people were also accidentally setting fire to their marshmallows. Annabeth knew that the embers were actually the easiest way to do it, as there was far less fire risk, and because the embers were actually hotter then the normal flames.

The heat of the fire was a little uncomfortable, but Annabeth managed to bear it until she was content with the state of her marshmallows. She withdrew her rod, having a near miss with a slightly shifting log, and went back to Bobby and Matthew, grateful for the distance from the hot fire. Bobby and Matthew heaped compliments upon her when they saw that she had roasted their marshmallows to perfection. Or more accurately, that she had managed to roast the marshmallows at all without them going up in flames.

Bobby and Matthew had gotten the graham crackers fairly easily, but Annabeth actually had to go wandering around a little to find the chocolate. She carried the marshmallows with her and while she was on her hunt, a couple people stopped her to ask how exactly she'd roasted her marshmallows like that. Annabeth had no reservations about explaining the ember trick, though she did her best to explain it quickly because she didn't want to leave Bobby and Matthew alone for too long. She got a lot of thank you's for the explanation, some of them a little more physical than she would have liked, but eventually she finally managed to get a hold of a bar of chocolate.

She passed the remaining fourth of the chocolate bar off to the first person who asked—apparently she wasn't the only one lacking in chocolate—and then helped Bobby and Matthew with their s'more building. It was a little hard to get the marshmallows off of the rod, as they had sort of melted together a little bit, but in the end they each ended up with their own individual s'more. In actuality Annabeth had never had the opportunity to eat a s'more before, so she was kind of surprised how good it actually managed to taste, considering how simple the individual ingredients were. She didn't say anything about it out loud though because she was sure saying anything about it would be weird.

People kept coming over to her, pointed her way by others, asking how to roast their marshmallow correctly. It was actually a little ridiculous. She kept telling people to look for the embers, but at some point she actually ended up getting to her feet and showing someone, and it escalated from there until everybody was asking her to roast their marshmallow. Annabeth did a few, but eventually she had to take a step back. The heat from the fire was too much to be standing so close too for long. Still, throughout the night she would say she roasted something like two dozen marshmallows, including Bobby's, Matthew's, and her own.

About an hour later, when many of the younger kids were beginning to droop over, some of the councilors stood up and called for bed time. There was a lot of moaning and groaning, but all of the younger-looking kids began getting up. Annabeth began to get up too, following her younger brothers' example, but Bobby and Matthew waved her off, claiming it was only for kids twelve and under. They pouted a little as they explained the rule, but Annabeth could see that they were growing a bit tired, and none of the kids put up too much of a fight as they were herded off.

Apparently the rest of the campers could hang around for however long they wanted, though it was recommended that they go to bed around 10:00 to 11:00, as breakfast was at 8:00. Sometime along the way, someone explained to Annabeth that the cabins were age separated, and that she, as a seventeen-year-old, would end up in Cabin Three. Cabin One was the Councilor Cabin, and eighteen-year-old campers got Cabin Two, and so on and so forth. Annabeth wasn't really worried about getting lost, but that worry dissolved entirely when someone else told her that there were huge brass numbers nailed to the top of each cabin that were extremely hard to miss

The campfire was nice and all, but without Bobby and Matthew Annabeth didn't really have anyone to talk to. She spotted Rachel at some point, but she seemed to be entirely absorbed in a conversation with one of the other councilors. A pretty girl, with a regal expression and black hair in a braid down her back.

She hung around for maybe another fifteen to twenty minutes, before getting up and heading in the direction the younger kids had gone. It would probably be more appealing to sit around the campfire and talk with her friends once she had actually managed to make friends. Or if she actually managed to make friends. Rachel had seemed nice, but Annabeth was pretty sure she had come off a bit too cold. That seemed to be the problem with most of her first impressions.

She found Cabin Three. It looked like any of the other cabins, except for the brass number above the door and the different weeds growing around its base. When she opened the door it was empty on the inside. All the other seventeen year olds were probably still back at the campfire.

One of the bunks had a sticky note with her name scrawled on it, and all of her stuff piled near the base of the bed. The bed actually looked surprisingly comfortable, and felt so too once Annabeth sat down on it. Since there was no one else in the cabin, Annabeth just changed into her pajamas there, and then grabbed a book from her bag and flopped down onto the bed. She only made it a few pages before she decided to shut the book. It had been kind of a tiring day, what with corralling Bobby and Matthew all day and all the new experiences. She knew she would probably just wake up when another person entered the cabin, but she figured the extra sleep was worth trying for anyway. Forcing herself to stay up for another ninety minutes just because she might wake up a couple times was so not worth it.

She put the book on the floor near all of her other stuff, turned over, and shut her eyes.

-

Hey! If you made it this far, good for you! I’m ecstatic that you took the time to read my fic. Thank you a bunch!

Now, if you’ve been following me for a while you might know that it has been a long time since I posted anything related to me writing. This isn’t any different on fanfiction or AO3. I haven’t posted any of my writing in a long time, and I’m sorry if I disappointed anyone with that.

I’ve been writing all this time, but I haven’t been posting because I wanted to save them, I guess? It started out with me wanting to get a few chapters out before I posted something, just in case, and it spiraled from there. I am most definitely a passion-driven writer.

I have a lot more of this particular fic, but I don’t know if I want to post it or not yet. I don’t even know if I want to post this, haha. While I was reading through it I kept cringing; it’s so long and my attempts to capture what I think Annabeth’s thought process is like is so, so verbose. I could probably cut out half of this fic and it wouldn’t even matter.

Still, I’ve been editing too much lately and I’ve really been craving to just get something out there. Show people that hey, I’m still alive and active and stuff. I wanted to see if anybody would respond, I guess. Whatever.

This is kind of me venting, actually, rather than a proper authors note. Whoops. Anyway, I hope you enjoyed the story, and I would really appreciate some feedback so I can gauge interest.

[celestial-depths]

What’s Great About Cats (The Musical)

Lately, I’ve been thinking about Cats. The movie adaptation of the famous Andrew Lloyd-Webber musical premiered last month to absolutely scathing reviews. The critical and the popular response to the film has been so abysmal that it has become a spectacle of its own. Everyone in the world seems to have gathered around to join in the gleeful axing of this one trainwreck of a film – which is kind of cute. At least there’s one thing we seem to agree on in these divisive times. This is not a review of Cats (2019), because I have not seen it. I don’t care to, at least not for now. I couldn’t even get through the trailers without cringing myself to death. Still, I do have some fascination with the film as a cultural event, and I have found myself watching and reading numerous reviews and think pieces on Cats, both the original stage production and the movie adaptation, which all seemed to revolve around two major questions: 1. How did a movie like this get made? and 2. Why was this show ever popular in the first place? The latter question on particular has been on my mind. I should know the answer, because I was completely obsessed with it for a funny couple of years of my early teens – and I’m not sure why anymore. I first saw the 1998 adaptation of the musical on TV when I was 13, and something about it instantly struck a chord in me. I started watching it over and over again, until I knew every character by name and every step of the choreography. I know which cat is called Munkustrap and which one is Tumblebrutus, I’ve seen the show live a couple of times, and yes, I can even tell you what a goddamn Jellicle cat is. But eventually my interest in the musical waned, and I moved on to obsess over something else. Probably Neil Gaiman. In some ways, it’s no mystery to me why I fell in love with the show so hard at that point of my life. Teenagers tend to get obsessed over things they’re fond of, especially if they’re lonely. The show made me happy, so I kept watching it on repeat in search of a lost sense of joy. I have a tendency of becoming intensely invested in all sorts of cultural properties due to some part of my personality or brain chemistry that absolutely refuses to enjoy the things I like within reasonable limits, so of course I couldn’t stop watching it. And the show was campy as fuck; that’s certainly a common feature in a lot of things I’ve stanned since and before. So, that’s a part of the answer: I have an embarrassing history of being an ardent fan of Cats because I came across it in a time when I was in need of something fun and campy to escape to. But was in the show that made me like it so much more than anything else I might have caught on TV? That’s a harder question to answer, because I frankly can’t see it anymore. In fact, my enjoyment of the musical left me pretty much as soon as I stopped being a fan of it; just a couple of years later, I found myself looking back and wondering what on earth I saw in the show in the first place, because I could no longer stand it.

Revisiting the musical today, I don’t even feel any nostalgia for it. I don’t like the songs. I don’t find the characters compelling. The show is childish, but it never fully commits to being children’s show, which gives it a weird vibe. The lack of plot is a common complaint, but that one doesn’t actually bother me all that much, since I’ve always viewed it as a kind of a revue – but it’s not like not having a plot does a show as thematically empty as Cats any favors. The dancing is pretty good, and I quite like the costumes and make-up designs of the stage production, but not enough to say that I like the show overall more than I dislike it. So, what was it? Did I simply have a poorer taste in music as a thirteen-year-old? Probably. Am I secretly a furry? Definitely not. Is there a deeper meaning to Cats that most people simple miss? I don’t know. I thought about this a lot in the wake of the crazy reaction to the first trailer of the movie. That’s also where I eventually found my answer. I try to keep up with news about upcoming movies, and I first heard that they’re turning Cats into a movie right when they first announced it. I immediately thought it sounded like a bad idea, and I assumed that the movie would never actually make it into production. Then the casting announcements starting dropping, each wilder than the one before. Dame Judi Dench! Rebel Wilson! SIR IAN? TAYLOR SWIFT? IDRIS ELBA AS MACAVITY THE MYSTERY CAT??? At some point there, I started wondering if there really was something genius about the visual presentation or the script of the movie that was drawing all these big names in, but nope – even the news about the making of the film kept me reassured that the movie was going to be... not good. I heard that Tom Hooper was directing, which did not bode well since he’s not exactly the type of visual or conceptual mastermind (unless you’re very, very into unnerving close-ups, fisheye lenses, and unmotivated mise en scène) that a source material like Cats would need in order to become remotely interesting on the big screen, and because Hooper’s previous take on a from-stage-to-screen movie was pretty uninspired, at least as far as musical movies go (Les Mis is a garbage movie FIGHT ME). And then came the news about the state of the art digital fur technology, and I could already predict that the movie was going to be not just bad, but a disaster. The first trailer and the unanimously awful reviews only confirmed what I already knew. I’m not going to pan the actual movie because, as I said, I haven’t seen it. It looks too creepy, and I am not interested in spending my money to see what I imagine is the worst possible version of something that I already dislike. But I did see enough trailer footage to realize what was it about Cats that made me like it in the first place because it was so obviously missing in the movie adaptation. Allow me to explain. In the stage version of Cats, the performers are dressed in painted leotards, shaggy wigs, and ragged leg-warmers, and their faces are covered in fanciful make-up designs. The choreography is a mix of ballet, jazz, and modern dance moves with feline movements and hisses thrown in. In other words, the costumes and the performances suggest felinity rather than attempt to represent it as closely as possible. None of the performers look or act like real-life cats – yet the magic of the theater allows the audience to accept them as cats for the duration of the show. Cats also makes very good use of its format. It’s tailored to be enjoyed live in the theater, where the audience can really appreciate the big, elaborate dance numbers and feel the scale of the set, which usually consists of big junkyard items. The performers regularly jump off the stage and come out to interact with the audience, and they tend to goof around in the background during someone else’s number, which adds to the unique and personal feel of each performance. In the movie, wigs and leotards are ditched for CGI, which turns the actors into horrifying human-cat hybrid monstrosities. While they arguably look more cat-like with their hideous moving ears and furry faces than the stage actors, they also don’t look enough like cats to justify the decision to take the look of the characters so far. The rules of the theater don’t apply to CGI; it either looks right, or it looks wrong. And Cats looks VERY wrong. From what I’ve heard, the movie has also chopped down its dance numbers into such little pieces through quick-paced editing that it’s hard to appreciate the dancing. There’s obviously no audience interaction either, no electrifying presence of a live performance. The movie has apparently taken the show and stripped away everything that might have made it somewhat enjoyable. Which brings me to my point. What’s great about Cats? It’s not the music or the costumes. It’s not the characters or the lyrics. It’s not Memory. It’s the fact that Cats channels the essence of theater. It may not be good theater, but it’s definitely theatrical to the highest degree. It’s a show that brings out and relies on elements that are unique to the medium: the presence of a set and talented live performers, the interaction between the actors and the audience, the magic of conjuring up an impression that the audience believes in through clever costuming and movements alone. Take those elements out, and you’re left with nothing but an awkward group of celebrities prancing around to dated showtunes with nonsense lyrics.   

There’s a reason why theater hasn’t become outdated as a form of art, even though it’s been competing with movies for over a century. The two mediums are not interchangeable; there are still plenty of things the theater can do that simply do not work on screen. I’m sure that this isn’t the only reason Cats the movie became such a colossal failure (I’ve heard that human-faced cockroaches who were later consumed by Rebel Wilson’s character were also involved), but I like to think that it’s a part of it.  

I was pretty new to theater when I first saw Cats. Looking back now, I can finally tell that the thing that I fell in love with wasn’t the actual show, but theater itself. Cats introduced me to stage musicals, and while my interest in that particular genre has diminished over time as well, I did develop a life-long affection for theater in general.