#god I LOVE mom eurydice

[slaybestieslay946]

Luke Castellan and Persephone!Child (I know she doesn’t canonically have Demi-god kids but I feel like it fits well) with a story similar to Eurydice and Orpheus’s sad tale.

thank you so much for your request, it acc ties in really well to a fic idea ive had for a while, so i was so excited to see this in my inbox!!

Circle

MASTERLIST

word count: 1800

pairing: luke castellan x persephone!reader

warnings: death, minor depictions of violence, angst

a/n: partly inspired by the request, partly by mitski's song 'circle' honestly i think it made this extra gut-wrenching. hope you all enjoy!

'Nobody knows my lover, is buried underground.'

When Luke Castellan received his quest, everyone knew who he would pick to take with him. 

Immediately, he turned to you, flashing you a bright grin, and beckoning you towards him. You laughed, wading through the crowd to your lover, smiling brightly all the way. 

The rest of camp half blood rolled their eyes fondly at the pair of you, and just how disgustingly in love you were. 

It had been like this ever since you arrived at camp half blood, mere months after Luke himself. 

You’d been escorted to the Hermes cabin by one of the older campers, and sat down on a bunk bed. You had looked around the place, lost, confused, and homesick. 

And then a boy stepped up to you, asking how you were, what your name was. And gods, even at the age of 14, you knew he was the most beautiful person you’d ever seen. Luke thought the same about you. 

He was so drawn to you, he couldn’t stay away. 

Now, even 4 years later, nothing had changed. 

He was openly enraptured by you, just as Hades was with your mother. He was never seen without you by his side, so of course he’d pick you to bring on his first quest.

A few days later, you set off, Luke’s half-brother, Chris Rodriguez in tow. Everything started off well, you’d managed to locate someone to tell you where the Garden of Hesperides was, in order to retrieve the golden apple that you had been sent for. 

On the way there, you hardly encountered any monsters. You lived comfortably, even if you slept in motels every night, and dined on gas station food. 

It all went downhill when you finally reached the garden. 

You and Chris stood guard whilst Luke stepped towards the tree, no sword in his hand. You kept your spear gripped tightly in your hand, should he awake the dragon sleeping at his feet. 

He eventually reached the foot of the tree, taking a deep breath before reaching up into the branches, and trying to snag one of the apples. Meanwhile, you didn’t take your eyes off the dragon, watching it for any sign of movement. 

And when it finally opened its dark eye, looking up at Luke, you ran forward, sprinting towards it with your spear outstretched to stab it. 

But you weren’t fast enough, and it turned, slashing a talon across your chest, and sending you collapsing onto the ground, blood soaking into your shirt. 

Luke darted towards you and in his rush, he wasn’t able to avoid the sharp tail of the dragon whipping across his face, leaving a fine cut all the way down it. 

He ignored the biting pain, barely able to register it when all he could see was you, lying on the floor, a pool of blood encircling you. 

“Hey, Y/N.” He whispered, patting your cheek gently, cradling your body to his chest, “You’re gonna be alright, yeah? Just open your eyes for me baby.” 

You struggled to do as he asked, looking up at your lover with confused eyes. 

“You-” You coughed, “You have to go. It’s over for me. Gonna go see mom.”

“No, no. Gotta stay with me. We can get through this.” He cried, brushing his thumbs across your face.

“I- I- I love y-you. W-we’ll s-see each other ag-gain.” You did your best to smile, and while all you wanted to do was reach up and hold his face, you found you didn’t have the strength to do so. 

He continued to cry and beg you to come back, but it was all for nothing, you’d gone silent, and your eyes were all still. 

And then vines began to wrap around your body, pulling you into the earth, down towards Persephone, your mother. 

Luke kept crying as they took you away from him, leaving nothing but your camp necklace behind. 

“Hey, man, we gotta go.” He heard Chris call, and he whipped his head around to berate him, until he saw his half-brother was currently in combat with the dragon that had killed you. 

He was right, they had to go. 

He scooped your camp necklace off of the ground, and ran towards his brother, who detached from his fight with the dragon to run away from the garden. Luke followed after him, tears streaming down his face the whole way. 

*

When Luke got back to camp, he was different. Numb. 

Annabeth ran up to him when they descended the hill, a bright smile on her face at her older brother's return. It faded slightly when she saw you weren’t right beside him. 

“Where’s Y/N?” She asked, looking around as if you’d pop out from nowhere.

“Gone.” Was all Luke could manage to say, pulling his little sister in for a hug he so desperately needed, confirmation that at least she was still here. 

For the next few months, he barely left the Hermes cabin, only ever going down to the amphitheatre in the early hours of the morning, where he could be seen slashing recklessly at wooden dummies left right and centre. 

He didn’t know how to live without you. He always thought you’d be with him forever. He had this vision that together you would grow old, and would die while sitting on some front porch, holding hands as you went at the same moment. 

Now he realised that it was a pipedream. You were demigods, it was never going to work out like that. 

But he couldn’t go on living like this. He didn’t want to wake up in the morning if you weren’t beside him. So he formed his plan, to go down to the underworld and retrieve you himself. 

His father was the god of travellers, and your mother was the queen of the underworld. It could work. 

So he travelled to the entrance to the underworld, your camp necklace in his hands, and prayed. First to your mother, asking for an audience, and second to his father, asking for use of his access to the underworld. It was the first time he had ever asked Hermes for anything, and if this worked, it would probably be the last. He’d never want for anything again if it meant you were with him again. 

And it did work. The gate opened to him, a long staircase down into the darkness. Luke descended quickly; he didn’t want to keep Persephone, or you for that matter, waiting.

He soon found himself pushing through crowds of lost souls, keeping a look out for you, but you were nowhere in sight. He then turned his attention back to reaching Persephone’s throne, breathing a sigh of relief as he finally found himself at the foot of it, looking up at the goddess herself. 

“You requested an audience with me, Mr Castellan. I hope this is not about my daughter.” Persephone said sternly, looking down at the demigod, her fears confirmed when she saw the string of beads clutched in his hands. 

“It is, but-”

“There’s no buts. I can’t do anything about your predicament. It is not within my jurisdiction.” She declared, her voice growing regretful, “My daughter is in Elysium, and that’s where she must stay.” 

“My lady, I understand that this is difficult for you. But we both know Y/N… died before her time. She would want to come back. She deserves to have a life.” 

“And you would give that to her?” 

“Yes.” 

“And you would protect her, better than I can?”

Luke gulped, “Just as well.” 

The goddess sighed, and muttered, almost to herself, “We have had this problem before, persuasive mortals and their tales of love. Let’s see if you can fare any better, Luke Castellan.” 

“I will release my only daughter from the underworld, on one condition. As you lead her back into the world of the living, you mustn’t look back at her. She will be following you, trust me on that, demigod.” 

“And if I do? Look back?” 

“Then you will never see her again. Not in your world, nor mine,” She looked down at him once again, a sad look in her eyes, “Now go, exit through the fields of asphodel, she will follow you from there.” 

Luke nodded firmly, and turned back around, returning the way he came, smiling more brightly than he had in months. 

He was going to see his Y/N again, all he had to do was not look back at her, how difficult could that be?

He pushed his way back through the fields of asphodel, keeping a tight hold of her camp beads. As soon as they reached the surface, he would string them around her neck again. He’d be able to hold her face in his palms, to kiss her, to hug her. Everything would be alright again. 

As he returned to the staircase, he felt a rush of wind behind him. It had to be her. Then, to confirm his suspicions, he heard soft footsteps on the stone staircase. Luke smiled to himself once again, wishing so desperately that he could greet her, but not wanting to break Persephone’s rules. 

He continued up the staircase for what felt like hours, it was definitely taking him a lot longer this time. The thing that kept him going was your footsteps behind him, a reminder that you were still there, following after him. 

Until they stopped, right as he became able to see the light coming from the living world above him. 

He paused for a moment, listening out for you. But he couldn’t hear anything besides his panting breaths and the odd screech of a harpy. 

Luke began to grow worried, a pit forming in his stomach, but he kept climbing the stairs. Persephone told him you’d be following, she wouldn’t lie, would she?

Or maybe it was all some elaborate joke. Fortune hadn’t been on his side recently. 

Maybe he should check. Just a peek, it couldn’t hurt, could it? What was so wrong about him looking back anyway, why shouldn’t he want to see his lover, the girl he would do anything for?

So he did. He turned, to look over his shoulder. 

And of course, you were right behind him, just like your mother said you would. 

At first you looked joyful to see him, and then your face fell in horror as you realised what he had done. You reached out to touch him, to hold on, but you couldn’t quite reach. And then you felt yourself being pulled back, away from him. 

Luke watched on in horror as you fell back into the abyss.

[demigod-shenanigans]

More goofy thoughts about the Jason needs godly recommendation letters for college fic I’m not going to write (original post I made about this concept here):

-For context, this is in a universe where Leo did the whole Orpheus Eurydice thing to resurrect Jason, so assume ToA happened more or less the way it did in the books. Jason is staying at the Waystation with Leo.

-Because Percy has a Nereid as a guidance counselor, I think Jason should have a wind nymph. Objectively the funniest option: Mellie. She already has a connection to the lost trio, plus her husband was their satyr protector for a while. She’s also gonna need a new job since Tristan probably won’t need an assistant anymore now that he’s no longer working as an actor.

-The thing is Mellie actually tries really hard to be helpful. She makes sure Jason has all the information he needs and can call upon her whenever necessary.

-However. She’s also a sleep deprived mom and definitely mixes things up occasionally. Chuck is a year old now but because satyrs age at half the speed of humans you get to enjoy the whole “baby crying at night to be fed”-period for twice the human baby amount of time.

-She has to bring baby Chuck with her to counseling a few times because she couldn’t find a babysitter.

-When she initially tells Jason about the whole recommendation letters thing she’s really apologetic about it. She feels so bad he has to put up with this nonsense after everything he’s been through. Jason just sighs, resigned, because of course the gods (his dad) would do this to him and just bonks his head against her desk.

-But also Jason wants this. NRU has been his plan since he could walk basically and he may still not remember his childhood super well but he knows he loves New Rome. It was his home for ages. And he likes the thought of it being his home again, at least for a time. Of getting to fall on love with the place a second time. Of getting to spend all his time with Leo and Piper (at least theoretically, if they’re going, which he doesn’t know for sure but he does love the thought of that so much) knowing that they’re safe and get to just be for a few years.

-So, yeah, as annoyed as Jason is with the whole thing, he’s absolutely doing this.

-Jupiter also tried to pull the 25 recommendation letter shit on him that he tried on Percy. Juno talked him out of it and they settled on the same three letters Percy had to get.

-If Juno did the whole “putting a picture/poster of Jason on the godly pinboard”-thing that Poseidon did for Percy you can bet she used one of him from back when he was praetor, in uniform and everything. Jason is not thrilled about this because he looks so capable in that picture and he’s really worried that’ll mean he’ll get very hard quests that he’ll then screw up

-Leo definitely makes a joke about Jason looking like a dorky cosplayer in that picture (he’s not getting into the fact that he actually thinks Roman armor Jason looks kind of hot. They may be dating but there’s no chance in hell he’s admitting this bit)

-Jason goes back and forth on whether to ask Leo and Piper for help with the recommendation letters. Leo’s already done so much for him with the whole resurrecting him ordeal and Piper had to watch him die on the last mission they went on together and isn’t even sure how much she wants to live in the mythological world anymore. He can’t ask even more of them after everything.

-But Leo is also his boyfriend. Who Jason lives with. They go to the same school. And Jason is shit at keeping things from him. Leo immediately realizes something is up and needles him until Jason eventually gives in and tells him. Leo reminds him that the last mission Jason went on without him got him killed so he’s absolutely not letting Jason do this alone

-Leo is also immediately like “hell no we’re not keeping this from Piper. She’s still pissed at you for keeping the prophecy from her for so long. She was furious I didn’t tell her about my plan to wander off into the Underworld. If there’s one thing we really shouldn’t do is lie to her about anything thing that could get us both killed”

-And yeah. Piper is not super pleased Jason considered keeping this from her but she’s also immediately down to help. They���ve always been able to handle anything as long as the three of them were together, after all.

-Leo teases Jason about the fact that he’s such a nerd that he’s actually willing to do quests for the gods to get into college. But, well, he supposes NRU was the dream Jason left behind in the Styx when he died, so he did know that getting into this relationship

-Leo also makes at least one joke re: “sorry for resurrecting you I should have read the terms and conditions more closely”

-The first mission is purely light-hearted shenanigans. Maybe Apollo gave them an easy quest to apologize for getting Jason killed. Who knows. They do still find plenty of trouble (as you do when you’re walking around in a group that’s three of the most powerful demigods of their generation, one of which is a big three kid), but they’re fine. Maybe the other two missions won’t be too bad (spoiler alert: the other two missions are significantly worse)

[elvishdemigod]

So I know in actual myth that Zagreus is considered the god of Rebirth due to how Dionysus came to be, and some say game Zag may be the god of Blood.

Personally, I think he'd be the god of Reuinions.

Reuniting with his mom. Reuniting with Than and Meg Reuniting his parents. Reuniting Orpheus and Eurydice Reuniting Achilles and Patroclus Reuniting all of his family

And there's no better reunion than death, where you can spend eternity with those you had loved in life. So there's that connection, too.

There's also him being very much more considerate and caring than most gods. Still has his flaws, but he does care.

Kind of links with In The Blood, too, especially if we still consider he'd be a god of blood. Like the line "Home is not where you live, but who cares when you're gone, they'll follow you to the beyond."

So I'm putting my foot down on the idea that Zagreus could be a god of Reunions. And we shall see if that can come into affect in Hades 2

[alatismeni-theitsa]

i watched the first ep of kaos with my mom and I'm so confused as to why this show was made. Genuinely. My mother likes it but I'm just a bit flabbergasted. I'm not Greek, so I could be wrong, but it's just like...idk I think hadestown spoiled me lol. Why did Eurydice just die and not choose to leave Orpheus of her own will? I swear the only thing I liked about the first ep was Orpheus's song, but it's just like...eh? I don't know. I'm confused as to why this was even set in modern day. I checked if 'kaos' was a real thing in Greek mythology and it pnly comes up with the void before the universe was created. Idk I just find this show confusing. They couldn't have just used original characters?? Why did they use Greek gods? I am so confused lmao

This ask came before I released my review of KAOS , so I gave some priority to writing the review instead of answering asks, but honestly, I had the same question as you, anon. I watched the whole thing because I wanted to write the review and in the end I thought "Wait... that was it?" I want to see good Greek myth content and good shows out there. I was pleading with the show episode by episode to give me something. But it continued making no sense.

"They couldn't have just used original characters??" This was my question as well. Like... you have a family drama plot basically and the actors don't resemble or act like the Greek gods. At this point just make a Succession type of comedy and be done with it 🤷

IGN praised it more than it should (who trusts IGN fully at this point tho) but at least they wrote some very true things.

Shot in Malaga, Spain, and with an abundance of U.K., Irish, and American accents in the sound mix, the Cretan scenes feel more like spring break on the expat-infested Spanish Riviera. Maybe that was the intention. [...] It wouldn't be new for a UK production to Anglicanize stories inspired by classical antiquity or religious doctrine either – here's looking at you Atlantis, Rome and Good Omens. But the oversaturated cinematography and cheap, tacky-looking production design of both Kaos' earthly realm and tracksuit-loving Zeus's heavenly villa (complete with inflatable pink flamingos, gold jewelry, and a staff dressed like ball boys at a 1980s tennis tournament) dampens the epic stakes.

[...]

The result is eight hours of narrative excess ricocheting between intrigue and tedium, as it plods towards an un-thrilling finish line.

Preach IGN, preach. (A phrase I didn't expect myself to write for various reasons, but hey...)

Btw, Riddy didn't want to die, her death was an accident. She knew that she was going to die at some point but she had no control over her death.

[chronic-ghost]

Chapter 9 of Recovery Road

chapter rating: E (18+)

pairing: dieter bravo x f!reader

word count: 11845

chapter summary: if you thought you knew the full story of natalie lorraine, you were myth-taken

chapter warnings/tags: non-consensual touching, implied sexual assault, emotionally abusive parents, drug/alcohol use, underaged drug/alcohol use, women existing in the male gaze, putting too much of myself into characters as per yooshg

a/n: Header comes from the “Circe Offering the Cup to Ulysses” by John William Waterhouse. Song for this chapter is Gold Dust Woman by Fleetwood Mac – watch me make a fic playlist after the fact lmao. Bear with me while I wax embarrassingly poetic about my favorite oc blorbo. Remember this does end well!!!

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There are many different types of myth but, essentially, they can be grouped into three: etiological myths, historical myths, psychological myths. Etiological myths can offer explanations for why the world is the way it is. Historical myths retell an event from the past but elevate it with greater meaning than the actual event (if it even happened). [Lastly] psychological myths present one with a journey from the known to the unknown which, according to both Jung and Campbell, represents a psychological need to balance the external world with one's internal consciousness of it. – Mythology, Joshua Mark

“in front of my mother and my sisters, 

i pretend love is cheap and vulgar.

 i act like it’s a sin– 

i pretend that love is for women on a dark path. 

but at night i dream of a love so heavy 

it makes my spine throb–

i dream up a lover who makes love like he is 

separating salt from water.”

— Salma Deera, “salt” 

Natalie Lorraine is a myth.

And like in all the great myths, birth is a painful, violent emergence. 

Slowly, labored across years and many heartbeats, what remains is the inevitable conclusion of being fucked over, of being lazy and careless, of innocence taken too soon. Careless children grow up to be careless mothers, careless fathers. 

The titans of the world leave to make their mark on history and, in doing so, mark their children in a way more powerful, more regretful than any legend could possibly make them out to be. 

Medea is brutalized in legends and in verse for the most heinous a mother can commit.

Odysseys forgets what being a father means.

Oedipus Rex curses his children with an unforgivable sin by way of their mother, their grandmother, and that staggering failure is felt through to Antigone, a generation removed. Antigone dies. Haemon and Eurydice die too. Pain and grief are family heirlooms passed through pale fingers at the stroke of midnight. 

But despite all that. Before all that. 

Myths begin when the heroes are forced to make a choice, choose a direction in the way their lives end up. It might not always be obvious, and the gods might have things in store for them. But there is a choice and the fallen hero always chooses.

But they were all children once. You have to remember that. You have to believe that.

(Aetiologic)

I hate these socks, you think to yourself, they’re itchy and they hurt my toes. Every time you swing your legs over the edge of that leather couch, your legs too short to touch the ground, the toe of your shoe pinches you. You really, really want to take off your shoes, but Mom said you had to keep them on all day, especially in the office. In his office. You think your dress looks like one of your baby dolls and you don’t like it.

So you stop kicking, even though the sound of your heel against the leather made a funny noise. You can move too, and make the leather squeak, and that is pretty fun too. Grinning, you bounce like you aren’t supposed to on your bed back home, the cushions chirping – it sounds like they’re farting – you giggle, rocking back on your hands from left to right, squealing along with the leather as you made it –

“Enough!”

You freeze, tears immediately welling in your eyes, fear almost painful in your chest. 

But he’s not talking to you. Your father is still in his office, with the door barely shut, and he’s talking to someone on the phone. Yelling, actually. He’s been in there since the little hand was on the fifteen and now it’s on the thirty. He told you to wait there while he called your mom. You tried to sit still, but it was boring and all the toys were back in the other room. 

He never yelled at you, your dad, but he did yell at your mom. 

When you talked to the other kids in your preschool class, their mommies and daddies lived in the same house together, slept in the same bed, talked nicely to each other. Yours didn’t. 

“Well, what am I supposed to do with her, LeAnne? I told you I have a meeting at four today and she could be here for three hours. I told you! I can’t have her here! You need to come pick up your daughter!”

Your foot kicks up and down. You didn’t like it when they talked about you like you weren’t there. 

“Hey there.” A woman with blonde hair and big eyes sits down next to you. She was always around your dad, and always handled his papers and briefcase and sometimes his coffee. She is younger than your mom but way older than you are. You think she’s really, really pretty. None of her dresses look like baby doll dresses. “I’m sorry your dad is taking so long. Do you want something to eat, or drink?”

You shake your head. Your mom said not to talk to strangers, so you didn’t open your mouth. 

“Are you bored? Do you wanna watch some TV?”

TVs were everywhere in your dad’s office building. Down near the elevators, and then more when you got out. It always seemed like people were watching a tv and the actors on the tv. Actors were people whose job it was to be on the tv or in the movies, your dad told you. He told you he knew a lot of famous actors, but when you told the kids in your class about it, they said they didn’t know any of those people. 

“You’re just making things up!”

“You’re a liar!”

You really wanted your dad to introduce you to an actor, just to prove them wrong. You thought it was pretty cool how everyone was always watching them. Like they couldn’t look away. 

You nod at the pretty lady. She smiles and picks up the skinny black tv remote on the table in front of the couch. 

The tv in the corner of the room pops on. The size of it doesn’t take up the wall like some of the tvs in the office do, but it’s still bigger than the one you have at home. 

The nice lady taps the button a few times, the channels changing, until she comes to the kids channel. It’s a little old for you – all of the shows at preschool are cartoons and this one has real people in it – but you want this woman to like you. 

“Do you like this one? Friends in the Family? It’s so funny!” 

She turns and leans back against the couch with you. You hear people laughing on the screen, even though you don’t see anyone. There’s a young girl, older than you but younger than this nice lady, and she has a boy with her on her parents’ couch. The boy leans in and kisses her cheek and the invisible people go ‘oooooh’. 

“Ooooh!” You mimic and the nice woman laughs, grinning at you. Something warm and tight goes up your chest, and you pinch your lip with your teeth, toes curling in your stupid shoes. You liked making her laugh.

On the screen, a little girl – maybe the other girl’s sister – pushes through the kitchen door. You gasp in surprise. She looks like she could be in your preschool class. She’s all mad and she crosses her arms, pouting.

“Someone’s gonna get it!” 

The invisible people laugh and the nice lady giggles so hard she leans forward and you’re giggling too, even though you don’t quite get it. That warm feeling reminds you of when you drink soda too fast, but it’s good. 

You frown too, put your hands on your hips, parroting the little girl on tv, “someone’s gonna get it!”

Her pretty mouth opens in surprise, her eyes sparkling.

“Oh my God, that was so good! You sound just like her!” You giggle, your face hot. “Have you ever asked your dad about acting?”

You shake your head. You, an actor? On tv? No way!

“Well, you should! You could be really good!”

You don’t know what to say, you want to keep making the same faces that little girl is, when your dad’s door opens. The young woman next to you lurches forward and shuts off the tv. He comes out and you can’t tell if he’s angry or upset or if that’s just how he looks. You’re not around him enough to know. But he stands in front of you, thinking something.

“Judy, would you get us two juice boxes from the fridge downstairs?”

“Of course, Mr. Milken.”

The young woman leaves and you’re a little afraid. You don’t want him to yell at you for watching that show for older kids. You twist your little fingers. 

“That was your mom on the phone. She’s going to be a little late.” 

You nod. “Okay.” 

“Did you have fun today at my office? Did you like meeting all my friends?”

You nod, this time quicker. “Yes! I would like to meet an actor one day!”

At that, he smiles and you relax. People who are angry don’t smile. 

“While we wait for your mom, do you wanna play paper football?”

“What’s that?”

“C’mon. I’ll show you.”

So the myth begins. All it takes is a single idea. A single want. A single desire. An innately human desire. We build myths and we tell stories and we fill them with the things we want to hear.

You’re turning fourteen next month. It’s circled on your calendar in your bedroom. It’s not like it’s that big of a deal, but at least now you could start the emancipation process. If you wanted to. You laid awake at night, thinking about what you’d call yourself if you ever changed your name. Something vaguely French-sounding. European for sure. But they were just fantasies to get you through the day. 

It’s early in the morning. You haven’t heard anything from Mom’s room in a while so you figure it’s just the two of you in the house again. You totter out of your room, blinking sleep from your eyes – it was a very late night on set last night and probably would be again, given how the production of this made-for-tv movie was going and especially with the extra homework you’ve been doing to make up for the time off you’ve taken – as you wander across the small, sun-streaked living room, and around the corner to the kitchen. You hear something from the fridge and just as you are about to ask your mom if she’s cooking (which is never a good idea), a man stands up. He’s older than you but younger than your mom and he has the last piece of your sourdough bread in his mouth. He smirks and you unconsciously tug down the hem of your sleep shorts.

This has been happening more and more lately. The way men, older men, look at you, it’s different now. Has been for a while, but now there’s more of them, their gazes sit on your bare skin longer, the light in their eyes changing, the lines around their mouths tightening. You don’t really know what it is they want, but it’s baffling to you that they think looking at you like that will convince you to give anything to them. 

It's the way your mom’s new boyfriend is looking at you. Your cheeks heat up without your consent and you hate it. 

He’s hungry and he’s scrounging around in the fridge and now he’s looking at you. Still hungry.

“Hey, you must be LeAnne’s daughter,” he says, taking the bread slice out of his mouth and propping his hairy arm on the top of the refrigerator door, his gaze sweeping you from head to toe as if deciding whether or not to make a sandwich out of you. Who likes this kind of shit? Oh, that’s right. Your mom. 

You narrow your eyes at him. “Yeah. That’s me. Is she here?”

His eyes follow the backs of your thighs as you walk over to the coffee pot and take out week-old coffee grounds. They’ve turned blue, started to mold, but you dump them out into the trash with three good smacks.

“Uh, she’s still in bed. She said you could get to school on your own.” 

Behind you, the fridge door slams shut and you curl your toes, begging yourself not to flinch. There’s something inside of you demanding you to not show weakness. Steadying your own hand, you dig into the jar holding the coffee grounds. It’s halfway empty, you make a note to pick up some later, the thought pressed up against the swell of panic that’s growing at the edge of your awareness. 

“I’m Alan.” He leans up against the counter out of the corner of your eye. “I know we just met, but I could take you, to school . . . if you want.” 

His thick middle has nothing to do with age, only poor health. Evident further by his off-yellow teeth and bad breath. 

“I’m o-okay. Thank you.” 

There’s three minutes left on the coffee timer. His gaze is like open palms on your skin. You hate it. He sidles up closer and your nails dig half-moon crescents into your skin. The lovely smell of coffee brewing is overwhelmed by his cheap cologne. He’s big. Bigger than you. Bigger than any of the boys in your class, or any of the men on set. You’ve never really noticed the men on set, they’ve never been this close before, but you’re sure he’s bigger than all of them.

You’ve never felt quite so small. 

“You were in that movie, right? ‘Those ain’t your average space-invaders’, that was you right?” You nod, the back of your throat drying out. He chuckles. “You were good. Really good. You were so pretty.” 

“I was ten.” 

He shrugs. “Yeah. Ten outta ten.”

Your stomach clenches and it’s like he can tell. Alan reaches the two inches across the linoleum and gently strokes your forearm. A light, smelly panic sweat breaks out over your forehead, under your armpits. 

You want him away from you, want him gone, to run back to your room, but where would that get you? 

Roll over, play dead, show your under belly. You don’t know what else to do to make him go away.

“Well, if you see my mom,” you ease around him, your forearm sliding from his grasp just as his fingers tighten, making sure you don’t seem offended, “tell her I’ve got a ride to–,”

“Hey, wait, where ya going?” 

You all but run back to your room, the coffee pot beeping behind you. You throw open your bedroom door and leap inside, locking it behind you. You don’t realize you’re panting until you feel light-headed, dizzy – you feel sticky all of a sudden and rush into your bathroom. Steam pours from the scalding hot water, the red handle all the way to the right, as you stand over it, watching it rush down the drain. With your lips pinched between your teeth, you run your hands under it and muffle a scream. It hurts. It burns but it’s like his touch is evaporating off your skin and there’s relief in that. It’s the first time you realize that the pain you give yourself is different from the pain that they give you. 

Not all of them are like that. 

Some of them are actually kind of okay. 

You’re fifteen and dressed as a pumpkin for the Halloween party hosted by the studio, the suit baggy and oversized, and for once, your mom’s friends don’t stare at you. No one really has all night and it’s nice. You feel like you can ease into the wall and no one would notice. There’s a long black couch on the other side of a plant with glowing lights in the shape of ghosts wrapped around its trunk. You stepside around a few directors, one of your other actors, and head straight for the couch. 

You don’t realize Jim, your mom’s current boyfriend is already there until you sit down and groan. He laughs from the opposite end and you jump. 

He’s more her age, thankfully, and doesn’t really seem to notice if you’re at home or not. In fact, you can’t really remember another conversation with him that lasted longer than a few minutes.

“You liking the party?” He asks.

You shrug – never show your actual feelings. “It’s kinda late. I’ve got classes on Monday, so I’m hoping to make it an early night.”

He nods, slowly, distracted. There’s something about his eyes that isn’t right. Not in the way that he looks at you, but at everything, like he’s trying to look through a dense fog.

Your mother is nowhere to be found, which isn’t entirely out of the ordinary for this sort of thing. She’d either show up and be the life of the party or show up so trashed she had to be escorted out of the building. 

But it is odd for her to just leave one of her toys lying around. 

“Do you know where my mom is?” You ask Jim and he shakes his head, as though it takes a considerable amount of effort just to hold himself upright. There’s definitely something wrong with him.

And then you see the smoke coming from his fingers and you finally realize that skunky smell is coming from him. 

He sees your gaze fall. “You want a hit?” He asks, either not remembering your question or not wanting to answer.

You’d never tried it before, not really having time between shooting schedules and school and your mom wanting to take you out to meet new casting directors and writers. You sit there, staring and realize Jim is probably one of the only consistent people you see in your life, everyone else a revolving door of names and faces and elbows to rub. A tiredness breaks over you like the push of a wave and you sway, wanting nothing more than to be at home under the covers. You wish you’d brought your walkman, so you could have hid out on the soundstage until the party was over.

You’d grown skinny over the past year. Rewarded and praised for it by producers and studio execs, you saw that people listened to you more, looked you in the eye when you were beautiful, made more beautiful by the thinness of your cheeks, your narrow thighs. Your mother was convinced you were taking pills, but couldn’t find anything in the house. And yet, the real reason behind it all was sometimes you were just too tired to eat. Too tired to move. Happy to curl up wherever you found yourself and sleep until the next person needed something from you.

But this is what you wanted, after all. You asked for a life of movies and revolving doors and fake people and men staring at your ass. You are reminded of this all the time. 

You nod at Jim, curiosity getting the better of you and wondering if other girls did this sort of thing in basements or with their friends or boyfriends. You portray a teenage girl on television, but sometimes you don’t feel like one at all. 

He reaches out to you and you take it. You’d smoke a cigarette once, with a few of the kids from that one time you guest-starred on that sitcom, so you think this’ll be the same.

“What’s it going to feel like?” You ask, the white paper inches from your lips. Jim looked at you and his eyes sort of crinkled. 

“It’s good. Real good. Like there’s a cloud between you and the rest of the world.”

That did sound nice.

You put your lips and inhale – it burns in a way you weren’t expecting – and you cough. Jim laughs in a way that makes you feel like you’ve done something wrong, that you’re silly.

“You’ll get it,” he says, “you’ll get it.”

You try again and remember that he held his breath before exhaling. You do the same, but the scratch makes your eyes water, your chest tighten, but you hold on, until you feel smoke cauterizing the back of your throat close and you cough again, less this time.

Jim laughs again and takes back the skunky cigarette. “Hey, look at that, your first joint and you handled it like a champ.” 

He smokes more, losing interest in you, so he turns and watches the party. Your heart beats roughly in your chest, but that might be more of the nerves than anything else. You fidget on the couch, waiting for something to happen, but it never does.

“I think I need another h-hit. I don’t feel anything.”

Jim frowns at you, shaking his head. “Hell no. You took two giant puffs on your first go. I’m not babysitting you when you’re puking in the toilet with the spins.”

“The spins?”

“When you drink while you’re high. Can be a real bad mix.” 

You blush, wondering if he saw you take sips from the flask in your purse or he just assumes you’re always drinking because you’re LeAnne’s daughter. 

“Just sit back, relax, you’ll feel it. In a bit.”

So you try his approach, nonchalantly watching people dressed in devil costumes, in white vampire fangs and cloaks, little skimpy bunny outfits, as the party rages on. You watch, and slowly, the whole thing feels distant. Like you’re in the far back of a theater and everything in front of you is some sort of stage.

You find you like it in the back row, in the quiet and the darkness. It’s warm, sort of like you’re dizzy but you sway with the movement and you don’t get sick. You find that you are rolling your head back and forth and you giggle.

Jim smirks at you, that joint almost gone. “Yeah, there it is.”

You’d never been high like this before. Buzzed a little bit from the beer in your flask, but this was new. This was . . .

“It’s nice,” you smile widely to the ceiling. “Does it always feel this way?”

“Like I said, you can mix with alcohol and get really fucked up.” Jim shrugs. “And different strains do different things. This is gonna relax your brain, but there’s others that’ll give you a body high.”

Body, this thing you’re in that doesn’t feel like it belongs to you.

“But a mental high from weed and a mental high from glue are like two totally different things.”

Your bones feel like they weigh a thousand pounds and you could just melt into the leather. But you turn your head, dropping it against the back of the couch.

“You can get high from glue?”

“You can get high from just about anything.”

“Oh.”

The needle-like feeling that pricks your heart every time you come to one of these parties is gone. The sloshy oozy feeling in your stomach when you go into public with your mother is gone. There is nothing left inside of you except weight and heat and air that comes in through your nose and out through your mouth. 

You giggle again. What if this is how a pumpkin feels all the time?

“Will it always feel like this?”

He doesn’t understand your question, doesn’t care enough to think about it, so he answers the only way he can. “Nah, should only last for a few hours. Then you’re good. No hangover, which is a plus.” 

“But I always want it to feel this way.”

He grins again and pulls out a small plastic baggy with some fuzzy brussel-sprout-looking vegetable inside. 

“Got twenty bucks on you?” 

You’re sixteen and you’ve just started in your first major motion picture. Offers are rolling in, you no longer have to seek them out. The brand new telephone for your brand new house is constantly ringing. You have to unplug it to sleep at night. But that usually makes your mother yell at you. 

She wants to answer every call that comes through. As if this house was hers.

You sit cross-legged on your bed, grinding up the weed you bought off a sound-stage guy earlier today in your silver grinder, your headphones in to drown out the noises coming from the other side of the house as well as the ones in your head.

This boyfriend was not so nice and in a drunken stupor grabbed your ass in front of LeAnne. She raged and yelled and blamed you. 

Get out, she told you. Leave. Get out. We don’t want you here. Leave. 

This is my house, you old bitch.

Licking the paper gently, you finish rolling the joint and press pause on your walkman. Stevie Nicks pauses in her crooning, and is it over now, do you know how? pick up the pieces and go home, and you remind yourself to find a purply drape at the next flee market. Reaching to the end of the bed, you plug in your headphones to the hot pink tv and flip to the right station.

Henry had sent in a new tv for your birthday, and you had that promptly thrown out. You bought this with your first check from residuals. 

It’s almost eleven. It’s about to start. 

You light the joint, inhaling smoothly, as the credits for Twenty-Three and Fun start up. 

The joint quivers at the end of your knee, your toes curling. It wasn’t produced by your father’s company, but it was all anyone talked about at school, in the gossip mags. You thought about buying Tiger Beat just for the pictures . . . of one specific cast member.

You bite your nail as the theme song plays and the credits roll through all the gorgeous, young actors smiling as they go about their perfectly average lives in the big city. 

And then his name shows up and you inhale smoke quickly to stifle the thing expanding in your chest.

Dieter Bravo. 

His smooth soft hair, dark sweet eyes. God, he is so cute. 

Your hand clenches the sheets. You’ve never had a boyfriend, only been kissed once while at dance in between shooting schedules that you’d begged your mom to let you attend. It was bad, it tasted bad, his lips were rubbery and wet, and you didn’t feel anything. 

Not like when you imagine what it would be like to be kissed by him.

Twenty-Three and Fun is out of your demographic, but maybe you could convince someone to let you try out for the part of someone’s little sister who comes in for the weekend. You’d just love the chance to meet him. He makes you feel like nothing you’ve ever felt before, nothing you know what to do with, but you tingle all over with it.

You’re at the tail end of sixteen when the spiral starts. 

When you don’t know where to put this loneliness that’s been dragging you down. 

Men stare at you but not in the way you want. Girls your own age won’t look at you, and women glare at you while their husbands stare. And boys, God, boys your own age –

You wipe the tears from your eyes, the wind snarling through your hair, the heat of the summer night sinking into your skin like wet clay. You know you’re driving too fast, but you don’t care.

Every day you go to work and put on someone else’s skin. Their clothes. Their face. For a while, it’s been freeing, to pretend to have normal problems, a normal family, a normal life. Because you knew even if you had never chosen to go into your father’s industry – which was now just as much yours – you knew your life wasn’t ever going to be normal. Not in the way it mattered anyway. 

But there is something there when you step in front of a camera. A feeling that doesn’t come from a dark place, from feelings of abandonment and loneliness – it comes from a place inside of you that still feels like you own, still is yours to hold and keep safe, despite everyone taking things from you without asking. Instead of taking, it gives. It builds. It grows, despite the salted earth of your soul. 

You like becoming someone else for a while, thinking as they do. Dancing, laughing, eating, playing as someone other than yourself. You like to create. You crave it. You create life for someone else that doesn’t exist and you love it. It feels right, imagining something if not for you, for someone else. Someone who looks like you but isn’t you. It feels good to dream. 

But lately. 

Lately, this job is no longer an act of creation. It’s fake smiles and ad campaigns and commercials and it feels rotten. Hollow. Like you’re under the eyes of a thousand leering men instead of just one. It feels cheap. You feel cheap, for wanting it to be something more. This desire for life itself dies in your hands, choked out, aborted before it had the chance to breathe.

Your body, yourself, is being twisted, molded into something you don’t want it to become and the only time, the only time you feel as though you have even some slight control is when you have none at all. When you detach from your corporeal form, so high or drunk you can’t feel your fingers. 

It began with the beer your mom’s boyfriends left in the fridge, then the pills in her medicine cabinet. Then the mini bottles of Crown Royal and Jim Beam in the mini-fridges at your dad’s office. No one ever seemed to care when you swiped the whole row into your backpack. Maybe others had done the exact same thing. 

You didn’t know how or why these things made you feel better but they did. You didn’t care about the tears on your face, the hot flood of anger beating in your chest, and you didn’t care about the speed limit, not even when you saw the flashing red and blue lights.

But you started to care when they put you in lock up and then you definitely did when your father’s lawyer bailed you out. 

You went home and threw up for six hours. No one came to check on you, no one came to find you when you yanked the phone cord out of the wall. You clutched the porcelain basin of the toilet for what felt like days. Years. You aged decades that night.

When you woke up, you showered, ate, and called back your father’s lawyer.

You had decided on a name, a new name to put on the emancipation papers. 

You told the lawyer very clearly and seriously over the phone: “I want my name to be Natalie Lorraine.”

It was the emancipation that finally did it. The final chop from the parental vine. The day she kicked you out, you came home from school, in between shoots for a new film with Gerard Butler and in talks for something with Helen Miram, and you find your mother curled up on the kitchen table. At first, you legitimately thought she was dead; the top half of her body was crumpled against the wood, her feet tangled with the rungs of the chair. She faced away from you, her right hand curled around an empty crystal tumbler and a three-fourths empty bottle of Belvedere inches from her fingertips. 

You stare, dumb-founded, your heart so slow you could hear it pound like a drum in your ears. And then she twitches. 

And then she wails.

“How could you? How could you do this to me? I’m your mother. You owe me. You owe me you owe me you owe me.”

She heaves boneless to the floor, the glass and bottle slipping out of her hand and shattering like droplets of rain. You can’t move, transfixed, as your mother, hands split open, knees carving bloody trails across the tile, drags herself towards your feet, like a freshly dug-up corpse. 

She’s muttering, spitting, snarling – she’s a starved, beaten beast, ready to make its last stand. 

You were a mistake

You ruined me

You ruined your father for me

Her sentences are blurred, notched together, overlapping, and intertwining. The only thing you remember is the vitriol and hatred more palpable than her own breath. 

Someone older, someone more separated from their pink, flushed girlhood would have the callouses to ease the burn, dull the cut. But at sixteen, you didn’t. At sixteen, with a burgeoning substance abuse problem and at the mercy of the first of many instances where adulthood begins to rob you of the small pleasures of life, you watch your mother crumble and it scares you.

In that moment you want nothing more than to be taken care of, in a way that doesn’t feel like it’s asking too much but it clearly is. You want to be safe in a way that is primal, the animal fear of the dark and unknown. You’ve seen your mother drunk before but not this drunk, never heard the sounds she’s making — the wailing, the disappointment, the sorrow and rage. It scares you so badly you want to cry.

The gap between girlhood and womanhood is closed when you understand your mother is only human. Nothing less. And nothing more. 

She’s still muttering hateful, horrible things as you take her to her feet and ease her onto the couch. 

She’s silent when you throw a blanket over her. 

She’s pale, shaking, green. 

Go away. I don’t want you here. I don’t want you around me. Leave me alone.

Leave me.

Leave me.

Leave me. 

Go away. 

You leave her, not knowing if it's serious enough to call 911, if you can actually die from drinking too much, but that fear, that vice-grip around your chest, it’s squeezing your lungs so tightly, tears leak out of the corner of your eyes. But then it sinks. Sinks into your bones, your blood, your muscles. Watching your mother folded up like a broken doll, you experience fear like you’ve never felt before. 

Blink and you’re in your room.

Blink and you’re under your bed, curled up, knees to your chin, and you’re crying. You can’t stop crying. It’s the only thing that seems to appease the fear, the sense that nothing is real and everything is going to turn out badly and it makes your stomach twist. You gag on your own spit and you shake and you tremble and you experience your first panic attack without anyone to tell you what’s going on. How to survive something like that. You grow up thinking this is how everyone lives and you’re just too pathetic to take it. You let that shame and embarrassment fester and grow because it has no way of stopping. 

Your father is also served with the papers. 

Two weeks later, the production for your upcoming movie was suddenly put on hold. The role with Helen Miriam went to someone else.

He never helped you get ahead in the industry, but he absolutely blocked you from it. He never called you again.

Someone, someone else, might have been hurt by the fact that your father cut you off without so much as a goodbye. But it’s not like you could miss what you never had.

You take the hint and enroll in UC Santa Barbara under your new name.

The myth of your maidenhood ended in much of the same way it began: at the behest of someone else and exiled as an afterthought.

You tried the whole sleep-around-to-fill-a-need thing for the freshmen year of college. It didn’t take. You liked sex but you liked the chase more. You liked the hunt, the thrill, the unconscious desire to touch, when the desire to do something first emerges in their heads. You like to watch the basic urge emerge in their darkened eyes before the other shoe drops. Drops and splatters coherent and rational thought like a bug on a windshield. 

You liked sex, even if more often you had to get yourself off while your partner had fallen asleep, their needs met. But you liked being wanted more. The drugs helped bridge the gap and given that you had no idea how to make friends because you'd never had one your own age before, the puddles of bodies that dripped onto couches and floors at parties seemed to be as good a social circle as any. They all started to recognize you at parties, in lecture halls, at bars. They nodded, you nodded back, and you sat down. 

No longer alone.

But not entirely wanted either. 

It was enough though. 

By your third year, you were known more for your party provisions (with your old contacts from the industry) than your ex-boyfriends. 

You meet Heidi Morgan through one of your production management professors. 

You’d gone in to speak with your professor, a man notorious for sleeping with his students, and believed you to be next in line (men were so much better at doing what you asked when they thought you’d sleep with them), so you were hoping that you could convince him that it was actually your lab partner who stole the paper from you, not the other way around, when you see him with someone else. 

Blonde, small, feisty. 

Heidi Morgan takes one look at the grotesque ogling in his eyes and promptly introduces herself. 

In her own fire and take-no-shit attitude, you find kindred spirits. 

She later asks you out for drinks, you think it’s been too long since you went down on a girl, and you completely misread the situation. 

She clears things up and then asks you to read for a part. The whiplash makes your head spin, but given that she’s not calling you a giant slut, it’s probably good news.

She knows who you are. Suspected because you looked familiar and because she has friends in some truly weird places, she confirms her suspicions by the end of the day. So she gives you a call, you show up, flirt too much, and maybe end up with a job. 

She gives you the script. It’s good.

Really good.

Why me? You ask her. You graduate in two weeks. You’re turning twenty-two in a few days. There’s nothing you’ve done in recent years to make her have this kind of faith in you. All digital memories of you reflect a knobby-kneed, round-cheeked little girl then that same little girl with tits and a smirk well beyond her years. 

She didn’t think she might find her lead in a dingy auditorium, she says, but crazier things have happened. It’s not a guarantee, or a promise, just an offer. Try out, see what happens. 

Crazier things have happened.

The rest is less myth and more old history.

(Historic)

The day you meet him is not unlike any other. Except in the little things. Your bra strap breaks when you go to put it on. Your belt loop gets caught in a door handle and nearly shucks your pants to the floor. You somehow get lost on the way to the studio even though you have your phone mapping the route. It takes you around and around and around until you get out and ask a very confused gas station attendant where the fuck the sound stage is. 

It’s not momentous. Annoying, perhaps, so annoying that all these little things pester your brain like flies gorging on rotten fruit. You’re distracted, one eye always glancing over your shoulder. Trouble, trouble, trouble, your problems seem to whisper, you’re in trouble.

A PA comes to find you, saying Heidi specifically asked for your presence but she’s gone missing. He thinks he knows where to find her, if you’d come with him. You eye him up from the black leather couch you’re draped across, irritated at the day and at him for his shameless staring. You nod, and immediately he starts running his mouth about his own Hollywood dreams. He’s a writer, you know, maybe you’ve heard of some of his smaller indie work, it’s not very much, but folks who know say it's good so maybe he’ll be able to sell it if –

The door to the back of the lot opens and it’s like god snapped his fingers in your ear. It’s not momentous, or earth-shattering, but holy shit does it fuck you up.

He’s broad. Tall. Forearms, thick and veiny, stocky thumbs and tense fingers. His hair is just on the edge of being long, but combed back in some attempt to tame it, to fold it into submission. His right earlobe is puckered, pierced, but no earring. His beard and mustache are trimmed, clean shaven elsewhere. Despite how he’s built out adult male muscle from his days on Twenty-Three and Fun, he still has those boyish eyes, a dimple that would drive anyone up a wall, and eyelashes you’d pay a thousand dollars for. You knew this was coming but it still feels like a kick in the chest. 

That kick burns when you realize something.

He’s fucking pissed. He’s beautiful, carved from your very dreams of what the most gorgeous man on earth would look like, but he’s fucking pissed.

Surprisingly, at you. 

Well, that’s disappointing. 

He comes at you with his claws drawn and you’ve never, ever been one to back down. You swipe back and hope you draw blood.

You discover other things about Dieter Bravo, the boy who you used to have a heart-stopping crush on when you didn’t know anything better. Fantasy will always be better than reality, and this isn’t exactly how you’d thought your first meeting would go.

And yet, you discover something else, something very, very curious. Something soft and impressionable, bruised purple and green. Something you want to lean on with your entire weight until he chokes. It’s ugly, but it’s amusing. Maybe this is how you hoped your first meeting would go, albeit with some tricky obstacles and a ticking clock. 

You want to press and see what spills out. 

Dieter Bravo cannot and does not look away from you. 

The day you meet Dieter Bravo is also the day you meet The Sixers, the day you meet Marie. She’s small, mousy, but apparently a fucking rock star on the drums. You like the irony; quiet and unassuming until she bangs through your head with percussion. Where the rest of her bandmates are wide-eyed and eager and come with more drugs than a pharmacy, there’s something about Marie that you find so tenderly earnest you kind of wish you didn’t come dressed like you were going out to eat the fleshly hearts of men everywhere. You want to approach her on her level. You don’t want to scare her away. There’s something redemptive about a kind, sweet girl like Marie striking up a friendship with you. 

If you could ever figure out how to start one. 

“Excited for the filming to start?” You ask her after nearly everyone’s picked up their things and left after the reading. She glances at you, then over her shoulder, as if you were talking to someone else. You instantly feel insanely protective of her. 

She blinks a few times before distractedly shaking her head. “No. I’m actually terrified.” 

“About being in a movie?”

She cringes, as if it’s the most shameful thing in the world. 

“Yeah. I love playing in front of crowds, but something about being on camera scares me.” 

You make a note to find out the next time they’re playing live.

“It’s honestly not that bad. It feels a little weird, like some unblinking eye staring at you, but then it just kind of fades away.” 

She bites her lip, tucking that short brown hair over her ear. “Have you done this before?”

You’re not exactly hiding your childhood movie star past, but you don’t really want it broadcasted.

“Here and there.” 

The rest of her bandmates are chatting amongst themselves, perhaps not yet aware you’re trying to befriend one of them. You’re not quite sure how it’s going.

“If you ever want, we could talk and I could give you some pointers.”

Fuck, why did that sound like a line? It shouldn’t. You didn’t want it to. Where was the line between asking someone to be your friend and asking someone for a fuck?

If she notices your embarrassment, she doesn't show it. She grins brightly, unashamed. “Yes! Oh my god, yes, please. I’d love that!”

Normally, when giving someone your number, you’d grab their hand and write it in Sharpie, giving them a good wink. Now you tear off a corner of the call sheet and write down your number in shaking hands. It’s a small piece of paper, easily lost. That’s okay, if she does lose it. No need to freak out.

She’s grinning, smile expanding across that round face of hers as she takes your number when someone calls her name.

Roxie, the one with bright-red flaming hair and gorgeously thick eyebrows, takes a glance at the piece of paper in Marie’s fingers. One eyebrow arches, and she says nothing.

Roxie looks at you like she wants to devour you whole. You think you’ll let her. 

You decide to ignore him.

Whatever his problem with you is, it doesn’t have to be dealt with immediately. Maybe he’ll come around and if not, no skin off your nose. It’s none of your business what happens off camera, what he thinks about you as a person. All that matters is giving a good performance and you know you can do that. 

You just sort of wish you had known more about the role before Heidi offered it. You really sort of wish you had known Dieter was going to be your co-star. That night, after approaching him in the parking lot, you had two glasses of wine to settle your trembling nerves, and you flipped through the script.

He was so calm and collected at the table read today. Cool, relaxed, at ease with himself and the world. Everyone knew him, everyone talked about him, either directly to you or in snatches of conversation.

Dieter Bravo – you could not ask for a better scene partner!

Dieter Bravo – he’s so, so nice. He always stops for fans!

Dieter Bravo – this shoot is going to be so much fun with him!

You’d never been particularly star-struck, but for the first time in your life, the idea of working with your co-star was daunting. When you were up against Gerard Butler, you’d been in the game for a while, knew the industry, showed up in the trades. Now, you felt like any other Santa Barbara graduate stumbling out in front of the camera for the first time. Where was that all-knowing smirk you had perfected at fifteen? God, had you always been so transparent?

You felt like you had to prove yourself at that table read. You know you were going a bit overboard, but they watched you, transfixed, and it empowered you. Mark Bronson, Marie, the rest of The Sixers, they watched you like Taylor had possessed your body and you instantly became a rockstar. 

Only, he didn’t. He watched you and didn’t look away, but he looked so uninterested in your performance, the tears that filled your eyes were partially real.

And then he touched you and in that moment, you knew he was mocking you. Laughing at you, you fucking child. He was the legendary star here, not you, and to think you ever had a chance was laughable. The heat of disgust in his eyes hurt, more than you wanted to admit. 

It was day one and he hated you.

Things escalate. 

He caught you high on set and it felt like you were being scolded by your older brother. He didn’t get it. He never did. All that shit about how he knows what it’s like – bullshit. All fucking bullshit. He was somehow always in the corner of your eye, watching you, begging you to fuck up so he could expose you like the fraud you are. 

And a pathetic fraud you are at that. He touches you and it’s like algae, hot and dense, spreading across your skin. You fight the feeling that strokes your cunt and you grit your teeth. Stop touching me, go away, stay back – please. 

You’re twenty-two and still harboring that fucking crush you had when you were sixteen. It’s embarrassing. It’s pathetic. It’s so, so, so wrong.

You try to ignore him. Try to exorcize him from your every waking thought. It doesn’t take. You get drunk at the pool party and you want his eyes, anyone’s eyes, on you. 

Marie is shy, you try to sober up around her, but you’re too far gone and you don’t want her to see you like this.

So you find Roxie. And Samuel. They give you something that makes your pupils dilate to the size of quarters and you feel like you’re made of cosmic dust. When they touch you, beauty and awe and the atoms of the universe bloom across your skin. You like kissing them, you decide. The water dripping off you from the pool feels like bad lovers and broken kingdoms up for sale.

You end up at his door. You don’t mean to. You genuinely forgot what room you were in. 

Consciously, you know he’s married. Consciously, you know he hates you. But that doesn’t stop you from asking anyway. 

“You could join us, you know.” 

You want so badly to be his theatrical equal that it hurts, it burns hotter for a moment than your desire for him, and he just stares at you. Consciousness somewhere in a nearby galaxy, you can’t read the look on his face. And then it blurs, he closes the door, and the entire hallway grows thick, heavy leaves.

Disappointment is a physical object and it burrows into your chest. You think you can feel your ribs moving to make room.

Sam and Roxie fuck on your bed while you’re curled up on the futon. You don’t even change out of your suit. You kick them out as soon as they are done, not wanting their hungry gazes to turn to you. 

This is always the worst part. When the emotions and memories that you’ve managed to pry off you as you coat yourself in a protective layer of LSD, finally come back. They wrap around you like a vice and you can feel the beginnings of a panic attack start in the tremble of your fingers. You stay there in the armchair, damp and cold and shivering and trying not to choke on your own throat, until the early hours of the morning. You think you could die like this but you don’t. You never actually do.

He doesn’t bring it up and neither do you. You sort of wish he would, just for a chance to . . . no, that’s fucked up and, if not legally, morally wrong. You can’t wish for anything when it comes to him.

It’s easier to hate him. To pretend like he was some over-involved, self-obsessed diva who stepped on your lines on purpose and flat-out refused to run scenes with you. It was easier as a whole for a while.

Marie started talking to you on her own now and that made you forget Dieter for a bit. The rest of the group was hesitant in their welcome, despite what had almost happened between you, Sam, and Roxie. But they all came around when you gave them the cleanest Molly they’d had in years.

It was like college all over again, but the faces were consistent this time. Five of them. You smoked in their van, fuzzy orange carpet fibers tickling your ear as you looked up at the glow-in-the-dark star stickers on the roof. 

“Why are you called The Sixers if there are five of you?” You ask suddenly. 

There’s a pause and then a collective chuckle. You watch it like lightning spark between them.

Nick finally speaks up: “Because it sounds like the sex-ers.”

“Sixty-nine n’ feeling fine.”

You laugh with them this time and you feel your breath mix with theirs. 

While meeting him wasn’t a particularly momentous occasion, the drive up to his AirBnB was. Maybe it was the lack of air this high up, but around every turn, your chest got a little tighter. The Sixers had shown you The Labyrinth with David Bowie last weekend (“how have you never seen that movie? Did you grow up under a rock?”) and you can’t help but think of the Goblin King coming to whisk you away. At the very least, the amount of rings they wore were the same. 

You try desperately to not look at his white-knuckles around the steering wheel and fail tremendously.

The thing is, you don’t really want to fight with him. You don’t want to have to interact with him through this hazy, distant, drugged out wall, but that seems like the only way he’ll talk to you. He’s always scowling at you, like you’d done something wrong, and you hadn’t. Sure, you thought about it and fucked yourself on the biggest dildo you had about it, but you hadn’t actually done anything. You hadn’t even made a move on him, not even bat an eyelash. But it seems like you just breathe in his direction and that sets him off. 

You still don’t understand why his past drug problem is now your problem too. In your absence from Hollywood, you’d somehow missed his ups-and-downs as he transitioned out of a teenage heartthrob into a fully adult hot mess. You’d certainly missed his marriage announcement until you googled it in the bathroom after lunch one day to see if what you’d heard the two techs talk about was true.

She’s so fucking hot.

Yeah, she was a model, right? Dude fucking scored big.

Fuck, she was a model. Even if she wasn’t, she certainly looked it, from all the red-carpet photos of the two of them. He looked at her with complete and total adoration.

Hollywood party boy settles down with recent marriage to cubist painter’s daughter

The headline was wordy but got the point across. He was off-limits. 

You didn’t know how to make someone like you if you couldn’t offer them sex or drugs. What the fuck were you supposed to do with the sober and married Dieter Bravo?

And yet, there were times. Moments. Fragments. Bursts of light in a mirror, where you thought he looked too long. How his eyes flickered black when you talked about your bra, or your tits, or your ass. But that’s all they were – fleeting instances of your own insanity bleeding into reality. He would never look at you like that. He hated you. 

It scared you, the way he expected you to act when you couldn’t hide behind being high, when you couldn’t flirt your way out of a particularly tense situation. He wanted you raw, exposed, your face revealed to the light you had spent years hiding from.

And then he did the darndest thing.

He was nice about it. In the kitchen, and then on the patio, he asked you questions about your start in the industry, what you’d like to do with your life, how you saw your career going. He cooked for you and made you laugh. He invoked the holy saint Sister Heidi as a bargaining chip and it was all the excuse you needed to drop the boxing gloves. You didn’t want to fight with him. You wanted to be his friend. You wanted him to like you.

Scratch that.

You wanted him to fuck you within an inch of your life and, sure, it was stupid to finger-fuck yourself to him, on the same couch as him, but maybe you wanted to get a little caught. Okay, a lot caught because then he’d tell you to fuck off and he’d draw the line in the goddamn sand and, sure, it’d be embarrassing and, sure, it’d hurt like hell but you’d get over it. You’d nurse your heart but you’d get back on that fucking bike because you really, really wanted this movie to work – but –

He fucking doesn’t. 

He doesn’t kiss you but he wants to. He looks at you like he wants to suck the marrow from your bones, drink the blood from your heart through your cunt.

Dieter Bravo wants to kiss you desperately, but because he is a good man, he doesn’t. And because you’re a shit person, you make it hard on him. You make it hurt because it hurts you and just for once, for a second, you want someone to understand how you feel. How you hurt. How you ache. 

That house in New Mexico changed everything. For you. For him.

Friends didn’t make time with each other because they were trying to plug up the moans in their head. Friends didn’t keep busy to keep their hands off each other. You weren’t friends with him, but you did get along. You learned a lot about him. You’d never had a real friend before but you sure this isn’t how it’s supposed to feel. 

Instead of a myth, your relationship is built in handprints. Red blotches on cave walls, their original meaning lost to time, a dead language no one speaks any more. Sometimes the prints overlap, sometimes they don’t. There are no words spoken, but the feeling is there all the same.

You think, if you could just take your aching heart out of your body, you could actually be Dieter Bravo’s friend. He fills in holes you didn’t realize were empty. Chasms for art, for acting, for food that didn’t come in a can or delivered on your front door. He knows about wine, and whiskey, and needs help dressing himself. He never made you feel like your asks were too much, your need to connect too great. He took your hand and told you what you wanted was normal. He’s funny, patient, and loves Shirley MaClaine movies. He did her entire monologue from The Apartment one night after hours of begging and it brought you to tears. You had a scene partner in Dieter Bravo, you had someone to challenge you, to rethink scenes and pull back deeper and deeper character layers. He’d taken a course online about psychology to have a new perspective on analyzing characters and you thought it was fucking genius. 

Marie filled certain relationship needs – a girl to talk about drama with, a fellow fan of live music, someone to make you look up to – but Dieter fulfilled more, if not all of them. Despite working in an artistic industry for years, you’d never once talked trade with someone and certainly not someone who knew it so well. You were awestruck by him. 

Call it infatuation, call it being horny, but there is a connection, a red through line that connects you both. And for a while, that’s enough. 

Until it isn’t. 

The mark of his blotchy handprints on your heart stop when you fuck some guy you barely know because Dieter hurt you. 

When he won’t look at you while he’s pretending to fuck you, you feel self-conscious again, like he’s going to think you’re some inexperienced little nepo baby. But he does his duty and you do yours and you’ve never felt so empty. 

Your handprint stays, while his blurs away. 

(Psychologic)

After production ends, you exist in the margins. No more mythologizing. No more cave drawings. 

And then Marie shows up.

She takes you to get your nails done like it's the most normal thing in the world. What is wrong with her? Doesn’t she know what you are?

You get smoothies and see some live music and she keeps you from spiraling. There is no possible way she knew about the lines of coke upstairs in your bedroom, but she takes you out into the light all the same. 

You go out to shows with The Sixers. They love having a groupie who’s a Hollywood star. Marie seems embarrassed when they show-case you, but you find you don’t mind waving a bit on stage and introducing the band. You think you see a pair of deep brown eyes in the crowd occasionally but you know it’s not. You have to accept your fate. He might not like you and he doesn’t hate you, but he certainly doesn’t want anything to do with you.

Not friends, not lovers, but something else. Something almost.

You and the Sixers swim in the ocean off the Santa Barbara coast. You go to parties and you play the bongo drums in a treehouse in South Los Angeles. You bring the good drugs and everyone loves you. 

You don’t want to go to the wrap party, but Marie insists. You think she likes being famous just for all the opportunities to get dressed up and do your make up. She told you once that you are the prettiest girl she’d ever seen without any motive behind it. She wasn’t trying to fuck you or fuck with your head. It was just the truth in her eyes and it made you nauseous.

You go to the wrap party because it’s something better to do than get high on shrooms for the fourth time this week and as a reward, Cooper shares his blunt with you in the car. You laugh easily and often and loudly and Cooper keeps you steady with a hand on your waist. You’re nervous, you want to drink more, but you already feel like you’re carrying too many cups and plates and the noise it’s going to make when you drop them all is going to be deafening. 

He’s here. He’s here with his fucking gorgeous wife and you stand behind Cooper so you have something blocking your line of sight.

Just as you are about to order your first vodka soda of the night, Dieter rushes back into the house. The weed and coke in you switch the plugs in your brain and suddenly you are very, very angry. 

But the Dieter you find is fragile, beaten down, vulnerable. He talks to you like he did in New Mexico and it dulls the edges around the hole in your chest. He looks at you like you’re his saving grace, his last hope. 

Myths lie. They blur the truth to make a better story. They build up a man larger than life, they make goddesses out of women, and they sanctify, canonize love. They make you ache with the wanting of the fantasy of it, and that’s on purpose. Myths are the human experience on fire.

Kissing him, you feel on fucking fire.

Meeting him didn’t feel momentous. But fucking him certainly was. 

The settlement of your mythology burns to the ground, flames licking the sky. He has crystalized in your veins and, in an instant, you’re hopelessly addicted.

With Dieter Bravo, you come to like sex. You come to love it actually. It’s an itch, a fluttering, warm feeling that makes you twitch and tense when his hands aren’t on you. There’s some part of you that knows the inherent danger of giving one man, much less this man, that much power over you, but fuck, you can’t help it. 

You’re too young, too inexperienced in the world to know the difference between when a man wants you for sex and when a man loves you. In your mind, the two are the same and cannot be separated. You know what it feels like to be wanted to be fucked, but in your nativity you assume that’s how a man looks at you when he wants to love you — and this time you’d welcome it. 

There isn’t much to say about New Orleans, except for three things:

One, you’ve successfully confused yourself into thinking this is what being in a relationship with him would be like.

Two, you’ve never felt safer and more wanted and more complete than you ever have when you take drugs with Dieter. (that primal animal fear is gone for the first time in what feels like years)

And three, you’re so fucking in love with him you’re sick with it.

In the sickness, you grow weak. You burn with fever. Your bones ache and your mind races. His touch is simultaneously a balm and a contagion. 

You love him. You love him. You love him.

You love him unlike anything or anyone. 

Marie is actually the only one who ventures a guess. Who catches you, wings pinned to the corkboard, and asks you point-blank, “are you fucking Dieter Bravo?” 

Maybe she’s braver because it’s over text, permanent traces of your infidelity, but you stare at her message for hours. You think about it in the hotel shower after the plane lands in Los Angeles. You haven’t seen her in weeks and you’ve stopped returning her phone calls. 

Your high falters at the idea that you might have (and probably did) lose a friend over him. But what did that matter, in the grand scheme of things, your sickness asks you, now that you have him?

Now that he’s the only thing that matters. Now that he is everything. 

He goes back to his wife. 

After everything. After what you did for him. After what you gave up. How you prostrated yourself for his love, for a moment of his time. He can’t see it, it’s eating you up. You think cancer has kinder teeth than his. 

The foundations of the core of your being are rocked. It doesn’t feel real because he’s still in this hotel with you, the same hotel where you fucked in the bathroom, where you flirted with him for the cameras to sell the movie, where he begged you to stay with him, you’re gonna stay, right? you’re gonna be with me, after this? And maybe it isn’t real because he only lasts being apart from you for twelve, maybe fourteen hours. Maybe he’s sick too. Maybe he’s fucked just as much as you are. 

In your dark, deep wretched heart, you hope he is. You hope he’d die without you. But you don’t know. You don’t know because he never says it. 

This time, it’s real, he promises. This time, he’s never going back. This time he’s going to say he loves you, his kisses pledge to you. 

This time he’s not going to leave you.

In the mornings after Chloe leaves and you kiss him E-tablets with your tongue and he fucks you in every way he knows how, he curls up next to you and you tell him. It doesn’t matter he doesn’t seem to hear you.

You tell him you love him, have always loved him. Dieter Bravo turned from an imaginary companion, to a friend you didn’t want, and now to a lover who makes you think you’re special. Something valuable, precious. Something that is worth keeping. 

Until you’re not.

Myths serve to answer questions about our place in the natural order of things. To ease tension. To provide guidance. 

Why does it rain?

Where do the seasons come from?

What is the sun, and why does it leave and return?

What is heartbreak?

What is grief? What is sorrow? How do we carry them with us?

How do we go on when the world is determined to break us?

When you’ve always had nothing, and now you still have nothing and no one – he doesn’t love you and he’s going back to his pregnant wife – you ask, what’s the fucking point?

Not even the myths can answer that one.

Later, when you wake up under the bright lights of a hospital room, your memory is cracked, broken into terracotta pieces on the ground. There are things missing from you.

You don’t remember calling Oliver, only that he was there and he was high out of his mind and he gave you whatever he had in his pockets. You don’t remember what you took, or if Oliver was kind to you when he watched you swallow pill after pill.

You don’t remember the shower, the ambulance ride, or being admitted.

You aren’t sure exactly what you’ve lost. But you feel the missing edges.

Dieter is missing from you.

If you close your eyes, still the movement of your body, block out the noises of the machines and the hospital around you, you think you remember hearing him say it.

You think he might have said it when he kissed your forehead, but it feels older than that. Like his words and his actions stem from two different memories but you’re so fucked up they blur together. You want to hold onto that new memory, as fabricated as it might be, for as long as you can.

But then sleep over takes you again and it flushes everything out. The next time you wake up, you don’t remember that he ever said, I love you. 

When you wake up, you know he’s gone. You don’t know how you know, or why, but it feels like a piece of you has been torn away in a bloody chunk. Like someone had taken pliers to your fingernails and tore them off until blood splattered onto the floor.

Like someone put a knee to your shoulder and wrenched white teeth out of your mouth. 

Until you are gummy and dripping.

You open your eyes not to Dieter, not Heidi, but Marie. Mousy, intelligent, thoughtful Marie curled up asleep in the chair next to you. 

The sound of your crying wakes her up. Wordless, judgement-less, she crawls into bed with you, takes you into her arms, and lets you sob like the heart-broken mess you’ve become. 

God, can you die from pain like this?

She strokes your forehead and tells you, no, you can’t. You might want to, but you can’t. 

For the first time in your life, you’re not a myth. 

You’re not a story of a little girl whose parents didn’t love her enough. 

You are not the story of an actress whose star burned too bright and hot and the cosmos punished her for her hubris. 

You’re not the story of a woman who fell in love too hard and too fast with drugs and a man much older than her and got shattered on the rocks. 

The book has closed, the final chapter has come. There are no more stories to tell, nothing left to make fantastic. 

You are a broken human body. 

Natalie Lorraine is a myth.

You were a child once. You have to remember that. 

[jadetheblueartist]

I’m getting the urge to do stuff for my Percy Jackson characters so here’s them in picrew form

(Are they Megan and Talon in new form?? Maaaaaaybe) Here’s the picrew and I’m gonna talk about them under the cut hehe

The first one’s name is Beatrice (but she goes by Bea with her friends), and she is a daughter of Thanatos who was blessed by Nyx. Thanatos is the god of (peaceful) death (not to be confused with Hades, the god of the dead) and since he is the personification of death, the only way for Bea to live is by being blessed by Thanatos’s mother, Nyx (goddess of the night and very powerful). So her mother ended up dying, but she survived and was raised by her aunt’s family in Michigan. Thanatos was a pretty involved parent so she knew about the demigod thing her whole life (her family only knew vague stuff) and once she became a teen/target for monsters, she started spending half of her time in the underworld with her dad and grandma, getting training and whatnot. Eventually he decided she should go to camp half blood to meet other demigods which is how she ended up there (a year before Percy’s arrival). Her powers include having a pair of avian wings (to match her dad’s), being able to see and eventually interact with ghosts, and communicating with butterflies, as well as being able to sense death. She is a pretty serious and logical person. Being quite pacifistic, she does not like killing people and believes it is not her place. If it really comes to it, she has a sword that she can use, but it causes her guilt and she does very specific burial practices to make sure everything turns out fine (even if it’s a monster). She cares a lot about justice but isn’t very good at forming relationships. Her fatal flaw is selfishness/excessive solitude. (Oh and also I’m headcanoning that all the demigods are just neurodivergent in some way, rather than adhd exclusively bc I gotta project autism onto my girl hehehe)

The second one is Ezra, and he is a son of Dionysus. He has visited camp for a while since he and his mom were aware of where Dionysus was. Ezra has a strained relationship with his father because of how he is. Mr. D is quite dismissive and nonchalant towards his kids and it makes Ezra resentful towards him. He and his mom live in New York, a few hours away from camp and Ezra goes every year. He first started going at about 12, and aside from his father, he loves camp and always looks forward to going. His powers include control over plants, especially grape vines, and his intense emotions can seep out as a purple smoke and affect those who inhale it (if he’s very angry, he can make those around him angry, etc; tho he doesn’t have too much control over this power). He fights with two swords and emotion, really. Being really in his feels about something gets him going. He’s a pretty open and easy going guy, who feels things very deeply. The one thing he’s not open about is his rage and resentment towards his father. He’s quite the extrovert, enjoys performing, and loves everything loud and bright (such as the maximalist aesthetic he has with his clothes and room). He’s also addicted to apple juice. His fatal flaw is holding grudges.

Um but yeah they are my babies and I love them and need to draw them some stuff. Oooooh maybe some Orpheus and Eurydice things bc um it fits. It fits waaaaaaay too well. And the fact that they will be visiting the underworld is making me wanna give them parallels :)))))

[the-only-decent-suitor-here]

EPIC! except it’s.. Amphinomus??

TROY SAGA:

The Horse and the Infant — Amphinomus, crew, Astyanax, Zeus

Just a Man — Amphinomus

Full Speed Ahead — Amphinomus, Antinous, Eurymachus, crew.

Open Arms — Amphinomus, Eurymachus

Warrior of the Mind — Asaki, Amphinomus

CYCLOPS SAGA:

Polyphemus — Amphinomus, Eurymachus, Antinous, crew, Polyphemus

Survive — Amphinomus, Eurymachus, crew, Polyphemus

Remember Them — Amphinomus, Antinous, Asaki, Polyphemus

My Goodbye — Asaki, Amphinomus

OCEAN SAGA:

Storm — Amphinomus, Antinous, crew

Luck Runs Out — Amphinomus, Antinous, crew (again)

Keep Your Friends Close — Aeolus, Amphinomus, crew, Leodes, Ctesippus, Eurydice, Lee (briefly)

Ruthlessness — Amphinomus, crew, Poseidon.

CIRCE MELINOË SAGA:

Puppeteer — Amphinomus, Melinoë, Antinous.

Wouldn’t You Like — Dionysus, Amphinomus

Done For — Melinoë, Amphinomus

There are Other Ways — Melinoë, Amphinomus, crew

UNDERWORLD SAGA:

The Underworld — Amphinomus, crew, Eurymachus, Amphi’s mom (seriously Idk)

No Longer You — Tiresias, Amphinonus

Monster — Amphinomus, crew, souls.

END ACT ONE

THUNDER SAGA:

Suffering — “Eurydice”, Amphinomus

Different Beast — Amphinomus, sirens, crew

Scylla — Scylla, Amphinomus, Antinous

Mutiny — Amphinomus, Antinous, Leodes, crew

Thunder Bringer — Amphinomus, Antinous, crew, Zeus

WISDOM SAGA:

Legendary — Lee, suitors

Little Wolf — Asaki, Lee, suitors

We’ll Be Fine — Lee, Asaki

Love In Paradise — Asaki, Amphinomus, Calypso, Eurymachus, Antinous, Amphi’s mom, Scylla, Crew, Sirens, Tiresias, Melinoë, Poseidon, Aeolus

God Games — Asaki, Zeus, Thanatos, Zagreus, Apollo, Macaria, Hera

VENGEANCE SAGA:

Not Sorry For Loving You — Calypso, Amphinomus

Dangerous — Dionysus, Amphinomus

Charybdis — Amphinomus, Charybdis

Get In the Water — Poseidon, Odysseus

Six-Hundred Strike — Poseidon (most likely), Odysseus

ITHACA SAGA:

The Challenge — Eurydice, suitors

Hold Them Down — suitors (I don’t have names for them, and I never will have)

Odysseus Amphinomus — Suitors, Amphinomus, Lee (most likely)

I Can’t Help But Wonder — Amphinomus, Lee

Would You Fall In Love With Me Again — Amphinomus, Eurydice

//Man dunno how he got to that point he just misses his wife not get involved with gods thats not asaki but nooooo

[tending-the-hearth]

why hadestown was literally one of the best shows i've ever seen

so i saw hadestown this past saturday for the first time ever and when i tell you i have never been so emotionally wrecked by a broadway show before

so i've compiled a little list of my favorite things from the show!!

act 1:

orpheus doing the stomping cues for the opening with hermes... that's his mom your honor!!!

"his mama was a friend of mine" THAT LINE WHEN LILLIAS WHITE VOICED CALLIOPE IN THE DISNEY HERCULES MOVIE I LOVE LITTLE THINGS LIKE THAT LIKE ORPHEUS' MOM REALLY IS ONE OF HER FRIENDS

short king orpheus and tall wife eurydice supremacy

jordan fisher was SUCH a sweet and silly orpheus, like he was fully tripping over himself around eurydice the entire first act

LOVE the chorus so so much

eurydice being so cynical until she sees what orpheus can do and then immediately falling for him

they're the definition of "he fell first, she fell harder"

also during "wedding song", orpheus continues to reach out to eurydice, and then during "all i've ever known", the way she reaches out to him but it's so hesitant and awkward, but orpheus just beams and immediately holds onto her 😭

hades and persephone were playing dominoes up on their little balcony and they actually looked so in love until orpheus started the epic, such good bg character acting

lillias white and betty who said mama bears hermes and persephone supremacy!!!

persephone #1 wingwoman she wants these two idiots to get married immediately

the entirety of "way down hadestown" with eurydice and orpheus being giggly and in love!! they're so so oblivious and focused on each other, just the most innocent love

adding onto the fact that jordan is shorter than both solea and phillip the moment where he jumps between them at the end of the song was so silly

i really love the detail that orpheus stays on stage for "a gathering storm" and the rest of the act, he's so focused on his work and doesn't notice anything

i was worried "wait for me" wouldn't live up to the hype but OH MY GOD OH MY GODDDDDDDD

the little details between hades and persephone, with them shifting from how they were acting in the balcony to persephone barely being able to reach out to hades

act 2:

love that eurydice is naive like orpheus, but in a cynical way

holy SHIT solea my beloved "flowers" was actually godlike

what if i lost my mind at how gentle orpheus was when he found eurydice... what if...

the way eurydice drew back when hades told orpheus that she went with him willingly, like she was ready for him to be angry at her... the way he went right back to her and was checking to make sure she was okay

literally started sobbing during "if it's true", the way orpheus gets angry in a way we haven't seen, and the chorus + eurydice join with him

when the chorus removed their caps and became people again... i was a wreck for the rest of the act ngl

"epic 3" or as i like to call it the "hey look at how hard i can cry" song

orpheus comparing himself to hades, and it being so emotional because we see how innocent and happy he is, how he loves so much, and has so much hope, and seeing how hades had become, and knowing that without eurydice, that's how orpheus becomes, giving up on love and life until he's killed

HADES AND PERSEPHONE DANCING 😭😭 THEY WERE SO PLAYFUL AND HAPPY

jordan and solea were just... the most amazing orpheus and eurydice. they just had such sweet chemistry, and "wait for me" reprise with them reaching for each other UGH

the way you could hear orpheus quietly crying as hermes began to sing the "road to hell" reprise somebody sedate me

IT'S ABOUT SINGING THE SAD SONG AND CONTINUING TO HAVE HOPE THAT IT'LL TURN OUT HAPPY THIS TIME

the only reason i didn't completely decompose is because the knowledge that in the myth, when orpheus dies, hades gives orpheus and eurydice their memories back, and they get to be together, happily, in the underworld.

anyways if i had the money and it was possible i'd fully go see hadestown over and over and over again because it just was so beautiful and impactful plus i'm a sucker for good greek mythology retellings

[ecstarry]

6, 11 and 30 for the ask game!

hii (:

6. what role do you play in your group of friends? i think i've very much the mom of the group, it's easy for me to care for my friends and look after them and i love doing that. i will pick you up, pay for lunch and drive you home ajsdhbasjhd

11. favorite myth i truly am this basic and it's probably Orpheus and Eurydice, i'm a helpless romantic and this breaks my heart

30. what’s your type? mmm honestly hot energy is like the main thing that will make me interested in someone, like if you're hot you're hot idk know how to explain it hahahah but past that... oh my god someone smart but not a snob but still interested in learning is so fucking attractive to me aaaah i also really like honesty, i don't like fucking around and playing games so if i feel like someone is lying about anything to make themselves more "interesting" or "cool" that's an ick for me. i'm reaaaaally attracted to wit, ugh it's such like a turn on in every way ajshbdasd and tbh it just needs to click, i trust my gut A LOT so i can tell quickly if i'm into someone or not and also just confidence WITHOUT having to put other people down is something i've always been attracted too, like if someone's all "oh i don't deserve you" i will believe them hahaha idk just yeah confidence and sometimes i even like a little bit of cockiness aksdjnasdkj okay FINALLY i also have a preference for people that do show me they care and their feelings, i like feeling special

ask game

[nepobabyeurydice]

Okay so...PJO Show, Episode 1:

Highlights, first:

Sally & Percy, life itself, all be praised

Grover, Aryan, just a spectacular job, I love his acting, I love the body language he gives off, I love him

I love Chiron and I love his actor even more because I can already see how funny and serious he can be at the same time. He isn't like...manipulative I guess, but more wizened, immortal, dawn of time, as old as Zeus probably, mentor. Basically, he actually does know what he talks about because history is a cycle and the actor does such a good job of portraying it.

The funny moments were actually funny. Big win right there for the show.

“God, like Jesus?” top tier, I laughed out loud for real this time.

“I'm 24, actually.” reminded me that Grover is technically allowed to drink legally, and I imagine now in my fics this is how Annabeth acquires her cigarettes.

SALLY THROWING A ARM OVER PERCY'S TORSO, I CAN'T-

Baby Percy's actor, I love that little dude, I've seen a few of his other movies, and I'm happy he's doing something he clearly enjoys.

The bullies were all excellent, not a single one broke character, none of them acted beyond what's considered wild for rich, troubled kids, good job children!!!!!!

The 'It's Probably Disney But Also The Writer's Room'

Gabe... Okay, I don't like him no matter his casting so I'm happy I didn't fall into that trap, but Disney, c'mon man.

Sally...hmmm not really? I feel like Disney and the Writers don't have the best grasp of her character but given that Sally is only a Eurydice for the 1st book I feel like that's just excusable enough, but if it happens again I'm going to be irritated.

Dodds & Riptide...No. Just...no. I get it, the movies did it, but again, c'mon homie. No.

The Minotaur. I get it, kind of, mostly. The music cutting out, sublime, excellent, eerie. The CGI, ehhhhhhhhhhh. Too quick, too dark, and too quiet, the same issue as anything coming out in fantasy or sci-fi. A stagger, Percy being thrown back as he stabs the Minotaur and getting blurry glimpses of it, a bit more of the movement and the scene could've worked really, really well.

All in all, 5/7 (haha, get it? The Seven, I'll shut up now.) Finding it's footing, just edging excusable, if say by the time we hit LA's and this show hasn't been able to deliver a few of the more vital character (Grover & Pan, Annabeth & Luke & Thalia, Percy & his mom + Poseidon) moments we should all be worried because of how essential those are to the story.

[pinksirensong]

B.F.F.

Chapter Six

A thousand thoughts passed by Morpheus' head, he couldn’t understand what was his son doing here, why he was here and more than that how was he alive? He was sure his son was dead by the hand of the cult, yet here he was looking not a day older than before. Things between them were far from okay, Dream was sure his son hated him for not helping with Eurydice and now he could understand why. If it was Y/N the Endless would too do anything to bring her back to him. If only he had understood that before.

“My son…how?” unlike his father, Orpheus was mad that he had the audacity to show up at his home and demand things from him.

“It’s none of your business, father. I should be the one asking what you’re doing here. This is my home, after all.”

“Orpheus…you have no idea how much your mother and I suffered…still suffer with loss. Your loss. Yet here you are alive and well, why would you not reach us?” the king was so astonished by his son’s presence that he didn’t connect the dots.

“I’m sure mom was sad, but you? If I’m alive it’s no thanks to you. I begged for help and you gave me nothing.”

“And I will regret my actions for all my endless life, if I could go back in time and change it I would.”

“I don’t believe you, because I know who you truly are. Stay away from Y/N, she’s too good for you. I won’t let her be your next Nada!” Orpheus was furious, now that his father knew he wasn’t dead it was time to stop him from ruining his friend’s life.

“You are Owen.” finally Morpheus understood where all that anger for him came from, his son had every reason to hate him and think of him as a monster. Of course he wouldn’t let his friend get close to someone like that, but he needed to see how much Dream had changed and how much he loved Y/N.

“And you are Daniel.” Orpheu scoffed. “You didn’t have the nerve to tell who you are, Dream of the Endless. All you ever told her were lies and if I knew from the start it was you who she was seeing I would have put an end to this at the beginning.”

“As if you are any better, son.” all his sorrow became anger. How could Orpheus think he could just say these things to him like he didn’t lie for much longer. His son acted as if he knew what was better for Y/N and he decided Dream wasn’t it.

“I didn’t lie. Orpheus died with that cult, I am Owen ever since. Y/N is my best friend, my family, and I would rather see her sad for a few days than sent to hell for not agreeing with you!”

“You speak of things you know nothing about, Orpheus.” Dream knew how wrong he was about his past actions, he made a mistake with Nada que although it took too long to take action he did correct it by freeing her and allowing his sister to collect her soul. “I am still your father and you owe me respect. No matter what happened, you had no right in hiding from me and your mother the fact that you were alive. Do you have any idea what your death did to us? For ages we never spoke a word to each other for the resentment we held.”

“I freed her from you, thankfully. You could have stayed by her side and helped her with grief, but no. That’s not who you are, no, you do things your way and god help whoever gets on your way. And this…this is why I’m protecting Y/N. I will not lose her, so go away. Forget you saw me, forget you ever knew her and move on with your life.”

“Is that why you are trying to deceive us, put one against the other?”

“It’s not that hard, not with you lying and pretending to care about her.”

“Hold your tongue, Orpheus. My son or not, I will not allow you to speak of my relationship with Y/N. You know nothing about what we have and I too had reasons to lie.”

“Oh, really? You lied about your name, job, family, god you even lied making her think you were human!” Orpheus was exasperated, walking around the place. Both had raised their voices enough so their conversation wasn’t nowhere near silent. “Does she know you threw one of your exes in Hell for not wanting to be with you? Or that you refused to help your son when he needed you the most? That you treated your own wife as if she was nothing to you and then hated her for leaving you? Does she even know you had a family before? No, she doesn’t, and I know that because I fucking live with her.

“You do not understand.”

“I saw doubt in her eyes many times and I hated Daniel before I even knew it was you, because she was in pain. How many times have you stood her up without giving her a reason? I thought Daniel was just a cheating bastard, but no it was way worse because he is you! And you, father, are a selfish, egocentric and awful being. I hate you and I want you gone from our lives.”

“It is not your choice. I am aware of my mistakes, the ones from the past and the ones from now and I intend to correct them all with time. I want to make things right between us, son, but for that you must be willing to understand I am not the same person. I have changed and my feelings for Y/N are truthful. So no, Orpheus, I will not leave Y/N. I do want to tell her everything, about being an Endless and that my name is not Daniel, but Morpheus. That requires time.”

“Time for you to find another excuse. If you wanted to say something you would.”

“You are letting your resentment for me to cloud your judgment.” if Morpheus was the same from before he would not be as patient as he was, Dream would’ve already sent his son back to the Dreaming with no way out and dealt with Y/N on his own way. But he was different now, all Morpheus wanted was for his son to understand that and allow him to continue his relationship without all these barriers he was putting. The endless wishes he could let go of her for the sake of his son, but he was too deeply in love now and there wasn't a way for him to turn back now. He was afraid of her reaction when knowing the truth, but was ready to deal with this and wait all the time in the world just to be able to be with her.

Orpheus was done with it, he couldn’t handle seeing and hearing his father lie to his face like that. Like he didn’t know better, like he didn’t live years by his side. Like Orpheus wasn’t collateral damage of his actions. “If you don’t leave this instant I’ll have to–”

“ENOUGH!” both froze when they heard Y/N’s voice coming from the door. It was loud and yet too weak, her eyes swollen and red, filled with tears. Father and son knew she heard enough to know the truth about them. Y/N came home early that day, when arriving close to the door she could hear Daniel and Owen talking to each other. First she couldn't understand why Daniel was calling him son and who Morpheus and Orpheus were, but a few moments later she found out everything.

Lies, lies and more lies. All those years were lies, Owen’s name was actually Orpheus and somehow he wasn’t even human, something she would’ve thought unreal if she didn’t know the magician Zatanna Zatara. He had a family, it seemed that he even had a lovely mother who misses him…a family that believed he was dead she considered him his family, but now it was like she lived all those years with a complete stranger. How much did she share about her past with this man? What a fool, she should’ve known better than to trust him.

Y/N should’ve known better than to trust Daniel too. He also lied to her, not only his name wasn’t Daniel, but Dream…or Morpheus, but he was an Endless…whatever that meant, she was sure it was far from human. She felt like a toy in the hands of these men, they played with them from the start not caring about her feelings. Y/N could be many things, definitely was far from a perfect woman, but from the start she was always honest with herself and others.

In moments like this it felt like she was back at her parents house, hearing their many lies to prevent her from going to art school. Y/N remembered clearly when she found out her acceptance letter was hidden in her mother’s drawer after they gave her a fake letter days before saying she didn’t get in. All those tears she held for years were finally free. Before realizing it, she was inside screaming for them to stop. She couldn't bear hearing another word coming from them, fighting over who was right when both were liars.

Y/N wished it was a nightmare, so she could wake up.

.

.

.

*Carus is dear or beloved in Latin (source: google)

tag list: @jesllianaquilesrolon @reallystressedhoneybee @waitingformysandman @mypsychoticlove @igotanidea @mrdarcyifhewere21stcentury

[clatoera]

Ask game 42 & 44 😊

Omg hi bestie THANK you. You picked some like..deep ones.

42. What was the first time you remember feeling seen (by another person, a story, a fictional character, etc.)?

I think theres a few I want to get into. Ironically one of the very first characters I felt seen by like..in terms of related to was Katniss. It was the love of her sister. To me, when I read the book in my childhood, it was about a girl who loved her sister very very much. She changed the world for the love of a sister. The age difference was the same as my sister and I. It was a big deal to me. Also..My home town is very D12. It's literally an old coal town. Artist renderings, canon..they all literally look like my town. The woods around her were the woods around my place. I identified SO much with Katniss. My mom actually encouraged that further, when after I dyed my hair back to brown after years of trying to go blonde via highlights. She pointed out that it was probably my love of Katniss that taught me it was okay to have dark hair and that I could still be pretty like that. It never left me. It's ironic as I revisit that here on this blog at 25.

The other time was more recently with the musical Hadestown, the main character, Eurydice. She is so so independent and closed off and every single bit of her character. I remember sobbing the first time I heard her songs and saw this show. Even in the last year, I cried the drive home from the show to a guy I was with at the time like...thats me. That girl with her hyper independence, who moves every year, who has noone but herself, who only trusts herself..thats me. I relate SO much to her. SO much. Thats why Hadestown still holds such a place for me.

44. Who or what are you missing right now?

Honestly. I'm not saying this for pity, but it would be easier to say who and what I dont miss. I miss everyone I love. I liv e 6+ hours from most of them, 17+ hours from the rest. I havent seen anyone since like..god I was home for a wedding in October? I don't get to go home for holidays, I don't have vacations or time off or anything. I miss my mom and my dad. My baby sister and baby brother (they are 21 and 17 far from babies). My aunt and my three little cousins. I miss my childhood best friends who are married and having kids, I miss my college best friends, I miss my pre-clinical medical school friends. I miss everyone. My only friend in this town is leaving literally today. I live like..a very isolated and lonely life physically. I study a lot and work a lot to fill my time, but it DOES get lonely! And thats okay, thats why I acknowledge it. I miss everyone I love. I also miss my home city in PA. I also miss Florida where I went to school. I miss the sunshine and the beach. I miss studying outside, I miss the tan and the freckles I had. I miss my favorite restaurant back home, and my favorite back at school. I miss late night car rides with my best friends. I miss going to my home town diner at 3 am with my dad and sister. I miss living down the road from my aunt, able to just go to dinner with her whenever.

I miss most things and almost every single person I know. Yet we persist.

Thank you so much!! this is so fun!!

[izzybean]

I have some poetry because yeah….

When I was 13

I used to sit in school and wonder

What’s it like to have a real family

When you aren’t at the Olive Garden

Is it like the one that I had

With a mom that never saw me

And the two children I had to protect

From a man that should have loved us

In a house that wasn’t a home

My life mimicked a war zone

With memories that don’t feel like my own

Mom told me I was crazy

I should have told her she was wrong

But

I must be crazy

With memories of a broken family

God that sounds like a greek tragedy

Similar to Orpheus & Eurydice

Always being let down when you turn around

Except I’m terrified to turn around

Afraid heaven might find me 6ft under ground

Maybe the aliens will take me out

Now I’m 16 sitting in this class wondering

Will I have to go back to a place where family

is only at the Olive Garden

So… thoughts?

[charkyzombicorn]

Rate every oc backstory from most to least tragic

Okay I'm going 6(least)to 1(most)

6. Wright

Backstory wasn't very tragic at all, he had A father and he had Slow, then when his father died he found Wyper, he got kinda blackmailed by the Foxy pirates because their captain ate the devilfruit that was more his dad than his dad was, but he was only like that for a year. Then he joined the strawhats, he's doing fine.

5. Kiln

She's going a little higher than Wright because she was being steadily driven insane on her hometown, also she had to ship off when she was 8 because her dad fucked off and he's the only one that would have any idea how to help her. She can basically hear the voice of all things. Constantly. Loudly. Other than that, she would have been fine, her family loved her and so did her mom, Makino. Her trauma is still pending as the plot goes on though

4. Finn

Finn was a Roger pirate and got all the same trauma Buggy and Shanks got watching her father figure die in front of her. She didn't have parents and she was a little too adventurous and brash to be liked by either side of her home sea. She picked herself up though, practically started raising herself when she was 14 but she managed. Now shes doing well.

3. Poseidon I

Her early life was great, being the daughter of a goddess had it's perks, but she was a teenager when Caethes died and after that she had to dedicate herself to building a resistance to keep her brothers and sisters safe. She spent fifty years fighting a losing battle before she died, she never got to see the drums of revolution.

2. Eurydice

She was enslaved as a child, her mother was killed in front of her, she's still looking for her father, she's a selkie in a world that has abused her kind so viciously she barely feels safe in her own skin, she was just a child.

1. Caethes

She was born into slavery, she had to escape without the help of any gods, so she became one. She built and empire with her own hands because the gods had failed her. She had a race of children made for land and sea, that could hide if they needed to and had a connection to the moon and the waves she herself could only have when she broke her own chains with her thin, underfed hands. She made children that could hide themselves, a race that she poured her soul into so they would never be shackled the way she was. But then, a cruel being with a will to kill gods lured her out with selkie corpses and killed her. And her people were broken, lost and enslaved, her legacy was forgotten almost entirely, she put everything she had into the world and they put her children right where she was as a child, away from the shore and the moon and wondering why they were born if this was all their life could be.

[hyunverse]

ooooo that’s nice !!! currently doing my chores listening to music as well, we’re twinning how cute ^_^. kimchi ramen sounds so good rn 😩. i had our fave for breakfast, sushiiiiii!!! i got cucumber avocado bc they had no salmon and it was delishhhh. call me angel again and watch me sob <///3. you’re too cute it hurts my heart, KISSESSSS 💗💗. i rly do love your writing and the angst just hits every time. so i am very much looking forward to wtvr comes out next hehe

OMFG PLS DO ASSIGN THEM MYTHOLOGY TALES I WILL LOSE MY MINDDDDDDD !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! if you do it my one request will be the sirens story when the sirens lured the sailors into dying LMAO that would be so perfect w any of them. danceracha perhaps ???that’s my fave mythology tale tho 😋😋. what’s yours? i’m curious ^_^

yep yep yep you get it ! it’s too tempting. i will forever say that money does in fact buy happiness bc money provides me w everything that makes me happy so 😇. and it really is always thursday’s 😭. my mom was just being rly unkind and stuff <////3. im pretty used to it atp but for some reason everything she was saying was just like ouchhhhhh yk ?? i’m slowly getting over it tho until the next event happens lol 🙏🏼 thank you for being here for me love :((. just talking to you and reading your stuff makes me so happy. it’s nice to know someone cares about what i have to say so i rly enjoy interacting w you :)) AND skz comeback rly helps pull through LOL, i agree they’re all doing these comebacks too fast bc what about our bank accounts skz 💔💔💔

MINHO PICSSSS grrrr i adore you 😠😠. he’s so cute that just made me smile sm ily :(( but yes new rachavlog had me smiling NONSTOP through the whole video, seeing them happy and seeing chan relax for once just makes my heart full. hyunjins outfit ALONE was so bf. and him taking over the cooking and all that at the restaurant ??? HUSBAND ENERGYYYYYYYYY he is so boyfie. tempted to write hyunjin fluff lately bc he’s just so dreamy and it makes me insane 😇😇

- 🐈‍⬛ the spamming has began again pls forgive 😔🙏🏼 hugs hugs hugs

kimchi ramen always!!! either that or the buldak ramen. god i’ve been eating instant noodles daily due to the fact that it’s ramadan and the campus cafes are closed </3 on my period rn so i can’t fast hehe. maybe i shud order some real food tmr instead zzzz. sushi sounds so good rn 😭 if only there were sushi restaurants near my campus, i would order some tomorrow ☹️ but there aren’t ☹️ dislike living in a small village, i can’t cope!!!

i will call you my angel all the time then because you are indeed my angel <3 the angel-est of them all!! truly!! sneak peek: another drabble of mine will be based on the musical tick tick boom!! angst <3 again <3

wait idk the sailor myth that ure talking abt omg 💔 will look up into it 🤝 mmm lemme try assigning them myths... i feel like the tale of orpheus and eurydice gives off so much hyunjin. being deeply in love and being overtaken by despair just feels hyunjin, yk? that’s all i could think of rn T_T my fav myth is the entire the iliad story!! it’s so interesting to me. i think achilles is a very interesting character. huge angst potential too.

naw, baby :( ‘m sorry to hear that. sending u affection to compensate for the unkind words. you’re absolutely perfect the way you are, and ‘m proud of you!! thank you for merely existing, and i’m proud that you’re doing the best you could right now. you deserve so many good things ♡ i haven’t even met you or known you deeply but just by the things we’ve talked about, i can tell that you’re an incredible individual. you’re attentive, a great mood-maker, a joy to be around and kind. you make my days brighter. thank you for sticking around ♡

i’m planning to preorder for their next comeback (we are looking past my sad bank account) so ngl hopefully it’s not anytime too soon LOLLLL. maybe after eid bcs i’ll have eid money by then 😈 i’ll be free to spend money on their albums LOL.

and i adore you too, my angel!! pls write the hyune fluff i am on my knees begging 🙏 hyune fluff supremacy!! yes his outfit was so boyfriend <3 i loved seeing all of them unwind. the way jisung bowled too like he fr rolled the ball down </3 sucha jisung thing to do. i wanna go to a barbecue with hyunjin just to sit still look pretty and let him do the cooking 🧘‍♀ he looks so hubby that way. imagine going to a hotpot place with him too OHHH I’M DELUSIONAL ‼️

i adore the spamming so don’t u worry my love!!! kisses and hugs for u angel <333

[forgottenroderick]

thelongforgottenrealm so i think that there are so good ideas here!!! I think the idea of just this cycle of life/death/rebirth and possible belief in reincarnation, too, might work w/ just how roderick views the world??? and perhaps, this idea that he might be reborn again, after death, makes him even MORE hesitant to select an heir?? especially if like ... they think that god's ~chosen~ or whatever could potentially be resurrected with his old lives memories in tack or soemthing idk ... basically roderick seeing himself LITERALLY rising the ashes of his own death one day or something?? and maybe he also thinks he is on some holy war to cleanse the world from false religions and bring about the way of the one true god and he is here to burn the world and see it reborn again in the way of the truth faith? i also love that it is a religious thing to burn witches in order to purify them again lasjflsajfj forgottenroderick @thelongforgottenrealm elizabeth, i am OBSESSED w the idea that roderick isn't just symbolically choosing himself over his kids by refusing to select an heir, but LITERALLY doing so bc ~he might be reincarnated and will want his empire back!!! laksjdfkljsjlf ooooh and the chosen being resurrected w his old memories!!! roderick def like 'that's me!!!!!' laskjdfkljdsf and lowkey tryna pretend to himself that he 'remembers' calainons life or smth slkdjfksljdf omg now im TBC like 'what if there was another charge the varmonts ~used to use but roderick made it the phoenix to represent HIMSELF ;lfjlkasdjfk and yesssss i agreeeee i feel like he's def on that crusade to purge the world of other religions and ensure that the one true god, HIS god (lowkey himself shhhh ;D but he'd burn you for blasphemy for suggesting it!) is the one the ppl worship!!!! this is the dignity and the civilization he offers these heathen heretics in his midst!!! sdakl

i feel like this could all inter-relate w the 'with greater faith, i rise from the flames' (paraphrased idr the exact wording off the top of my head -- i apologize! roderick WOULD kill me on the spot for this shameful neglect lakjsdfkljsdjf ok i went and checked: i was indeed mistaken [ with stronger faith i will arise from the fire ] ok now on to the rest of it! roderick would not let me rest laksdjfkljdsf) in a v intricate way bc its legit a repetition both of their belief system (death as life renewed etc), but also of their implacability like roderick???? say what you will abt him, once he's made up his mind he aint a quitter!! he wiLL conquer you slkjdfkljsdf (why did i phrase this like it was a good thing at the start alksjdfkjsdf not the roderick brainrot hahahaha anywayyy lajsdkfljsdf)

i can even see them having a god who died/was reborn a la osiris or odin or zagreus or christ and/or perhaps even an orpheus guiding the soul of eurydice from the underworld (but presumably it worked) type of thing/god as a psychopomp, like, descended into the afterlife, but came back stronger having passed through death into life again and thus showing the mortal soul how to do it too basically w the presumable belief that the mortal soul ~also comes back stronger after each death? and perhaps the afterlife is full of cleansing fire, a sweet fire that scours the soul and ~hardens it like fire forges a sword, kind of thing? but renewed life renewed tempers it like water w the sword analogy, and on and on it goes till one is fit to take their place beside the one god (or else presumably burn forever in slightly less sweet flames ig laskjdfkjsldf)

im also guessing, then, that viking funerals, aka involving both fire and water, may be a thing for these guys? tho that tends to go w a seafaring culture and i don't think that the og varmont nation are that...it may also be that, like...iirc, lizzy and i had discussed in [ the roderick/alaric thread ] the possibility that this particular religion is actually more a thing wherever their mom came from, and maybe roderick kinda mingled the traditions of his two parents, so it could've been that their mom's was a more maritime culture, too? idk alsjkdfkjldsf

anyway i def had more thoughts when i started writing this but they've flown now so here have a thing ig??? this is all over the place laksdjflkdsjf i agolozie alksjdfkjldsf

OOC | Varmont Belief System Thoughts

sooooo im having some frankly insane ideas abt Roderick’s belief system thanks to the Phoenix iconography (like…boiled down roderick might legit worship death effectively a la the faceless men of braavos in asoiaf/got?!!?!! Though in a slightly more life/death ying/yang creation through destruction kinda way a la dark!motto ‘in my end is my beginning’ sorta way idk Sfjkhffg HELPPP!) and before I get too carried away bc idk if we need a death cult emperor 😂😭 ummmm I wondered if you had any thoughts abt the varmont faith/the one god/etc adhkkjgdgh

ok so!!! this all comes out of the symbolism of the phoenix married to the whole ~fire focus in both that and in...well, roderick's actions laksdjfkljsdf so here're some ideas i have which may or may not be any good klsdjfkalsdflkj

creation through destruction as repped by phoenix.

burning witches cleanses them, releasing their lifeforce out into the world clean and pure.

perhaps reincarnation a la phoenix or perhaps destruction and death creates new souls and life etc????

Phoenix flames, sun, light, fire — dichotomy of light/dark, good/evil — Astaira and the staffords literally take the night as their standard (three stars in the night sky) and worship demons, conquest cleanses etc

oooh maybe infuse Phoenix w Renaissance salamander motifs — immune to fire and poison etc

ok so mary queen of scotts, her motto (as mentioned above) was 'in my end is my beginning' by which she meant as a catholic that yknow she'd go to her reward in heaven etc but what if such a concept were present in like...a more ~ouroboros kinda way as represented by the phoenix

so the ouroboros is an ancient egyptian symbol of a serpent rounding on itself to eat its own tale, which representing basically...unity and the natural eternal cycle of destruction and re-creation

in ancient egypt, this meant...oof ok so not to get ~too bogged down in ancient egyptian spiritualism/philosophy which is its own huuuge topic needless to say hahahaha but they had two really bit concepts that i think could impact us here: the tension between chaos (bad) and order (good) w their god-emperor maintaining that balance and the belief that without him there to do that everything would collapse into deadly chaos AND that...in essence...the soul was split into parts, w basically like...life force which was also a familial essence being a part of the soul that recurred in the world, and personality being part that was ~just you that would go to its ultimate judgment after death

there is also the ancient saying 'death is the only god who comes when you call' right

so!!!! w the ouroboros and phoenix symbols being connected (cycles of life, death, rebirth), what if we basically connect cleaning fire w order (i know, i know!) bc...you can summon a fire, right, you can make that you can't really make earth yknow...so its ~controllable even tho we don't think abt it that way like...i swear this can work ;DDDDD as a cleansing, controllable, destructive force that gives birth to new life (after a forest fire new life bursts from the ashes in a way that it doesn't w say a flood or a drought yknow) and yeahhhh idk!!!!!!!

anyway lmk if this makes any sense/is any good as sort of a foundation for our one god religion??????? cause i feel like maybe this one is just...maybe one bridge too far? ;alskdjfkljdsf ;DDD