#no one stopped me so who can really stop me naming a character a greek myth name?? no one thats who 😤

[arthyritis]

If I could give three ocs three different iterations of the same name without feeling an ounce of shame, there's no reason I should be fighting myself to name a character what I want 🤨

[inthedayswhenlandswerefew]

1968 [Chapter 12: Aphrodite, Goddess Of Love] [Series Finale]

A/N: Surprise!!! A new chapter from Maggie?? On a Thursday?? I was just too excited to wait! Please enjoy the final installment of 1968 🥰💜

Series Summary: Aemond is embroiled in a fierce battle to secure the Democratic Party nomination and defeat his archnemesis, Richard Nixon, in the presidential election. You are his wife of two years and wholeheartedly indoctrinated into the Targaryen political dynasty. But you have an archnemesis of your own: Aemond’s chronically delinquent brother Aegon.

Series Warnings: Language, sexual content (18+ readers only), violence, bodily injury, character deaths, New Jersey, age-gap relationships, drinking, smoking, drugs, pregnancy and childbirth, kids with weird Greek names, historical topics including war and discrimination, math.

Word Count: 6k

💜 All of my writing can be found HERE! 💜

The sun is rising, and all the guests have dissipated like morning stars. You and Aegon are sitting across from each other at the table in the kitchenette of your suite, cool grey morning light slanting into the silence, confetti on the floor, broken glass, crumbs from the catered appetizers—gyros, hummus, pita, mini spanakopitas, baklava—stomped into the carpet, spots that are soggy with spilled champagne. The Plaza might have to replace it. Outside, rain falls in a mist. Your makeup is smudged; your hair is falling out of its clips and pins. Aemond is waiting, standing with his back to the wall and his arms crossed over his chest, blonde hair slicked back, blue suit, prosthetic eye filling the void in his skull. You know what happens next, but you can’t bring yourself to rise, to speak, to set it into motion. You stare down at the lines in the palm of your uninjured hand and think of the ropes of a sailboat, the invisible strings of gravity that enchain the universe.

Aegon swipes at his eyes: bloodshot, vacant, continuously streaming tears. “I’m gonna go back to Yuma.” 

You look up at him, startled. “Right now?”

“Right now,” Aemond agrees from the wall.

Aegon begs you in a hoarse whisper, eyes dark and glistening like the Atlantic at night: “Come with me.”

Your hands shaking, your voice splintering. “I can’t, Aegon. I can’t.”

He drums his knuckles on the table, gets up from his chair, rushes to you before Aemond can stop him. He’s holding you, his lips to your forehead, the salt of his tears on your cheeks and your lips, like the ocean is bleeding out of him, like he’ll drown you. “I’m sorry,” he says, breath catching in his throat, his pores hemorrhaging smoke, horror, rum, ruin. 

Once you pushed Aegon away, hated him, stained him with your husband’s blood. Now your fingernails hook like claws into his army jacket and cling there, frantic and childlike. “Not yet, please, Aegon, don’t go, please don’t go.”

“I have to, I’m sorry.”

“Aegon, no–”

“I’m so fucking sorry.” He’s sobbing, he’s trembling, he’s gone. The doorway is empty like an unfinished sentence, like a myth no one remembers. The silence floods back into the rain-grey November air. The room is cold like a mausoleum. You touch your own face: tears Aegon left there, muscles and nerves dead beneath your skin, disbelief you sink through like the sea, waiting to hit the floor deep with the silt of rocks and wreckage and bones.

He’s gone? He’s really gone?

Aemond stalks over to the table, smirking, radiant, his hands in the pockets of his suit; he takes his time, he savors it. He’s never been higher. He was right all along. He can’t be killed, he is destined to be the president. It is God’s will. “Get ready,” Aemond says. “I have a victory speech to make.”

~~~~~~~~~~

He heads west on Route 70, billboards and drive-thrus, toll booths and reflective green mile markers, the kids fighting over who gets to pick the radio station from the back of the Dodge A-100 that Otto had hastily procured, handing over the keys as Aegon rolled his suitcase out of the Plaza Hotel. That first night they stop in Wheeling, Ohio, and the kids have startlingly little resistance to this upheaval. They can’t find much to complain about. A road trip with Dad and only Dad, no journalists badgering them for photos or quotes, no orders barked from Otto or Aemond, no exacting campaign itinerary, no scripted propriety, Mountain Dew spills on the carpet, Pizza Hut boxes on cheap springy motel mattresses.

“What do you think about all this?” Aegon asks Orion when the younger ones have dozed off: Cosmo and Thaddeus on one bed, Violeta in another, Spiro lounging across the threadbare sofa with a copy of The Fellowship of the Ring resting open on his chest.

Orion shrugs, that adolescent aversion to vulnerability, like the whole world is out to shake you down for evidence of the defections you’re so convinced define you. “It’s cool, I guess. It’s like an adventure. And we’ll get to see you a lot more.”

“Yeah you will,” Aegon promises. He feels sick: no booze, no pills, the grease of pepperoni churning in his belly. “And I’m never gonna be the way I was before.”

The bathroom is tiny and spartan, white porcelain, black specks of mildew. When he’s done showering, Aegon wipes the fog off the mirror with his fist. In Ancient Greece, a shaved head was the mark of a slave; it was meant to strip the man of his past, to make him brand new. He remembers Aemond saying this one afternoon as they were all out sailing at Asteria, Aegon sprawled on his back and drinking rum from the bottle as beams of sunlight refracted through the glass, Aemond leafing through one of his history books, Helaena throwing bits of pita to the seagulls, Daeron peering through his telescope for glimpses of dolphins, sharks, bobbing treasure from shipwrecks, imagined enemy vessels. Aegon thinks as he studies his reflection under the harsh fluorescent lights—crinkles by his eyes, skin ravaged by years of careless sunburn—that he wouldn’t mind not having a past. He opens his shaving kit and takes out the straight razor he never uses, shears off his tangled, windswept locks of blonde hair, smiles when the kids laugh and call him Yul Brynner the next morning over breakfast at the diner beside the motel, blueberry pancakes and toast wet with egg yolks. He’s not brand new; it’s impossible to be. But he’s getting closer.

The Fort Yuma Indian Reservation has grown during the Kennedy and Johnson years. The tribe now enjoys a steady income from numerous projects, including the leasing of farmland, a convenience store, a casino and resort, and an RV park. The school has been rebuilt—bigger, more modern, air conditioning, hallelujah—since Aegon was first exiled here twenty years ago, but several of the employees have familiar faces, and the current principal was once an English teacher assigned to be his mentor, a different lifetime, an ancient myth.

“You look good,” Artie says as he descends the concrete front steps on an afternoon in mid-November, 75 degrees, bright cerulean sky, no clouds. He takes Aegon’s outstretched hand and shakes it. “Kind of fat, but good. You still play guitar?”

“I do, yeah. I have one in the back of my van right now.”

Artie glances at the giggling, waving children behind the glass windows. “Jesus Pleasus, how many kids you got?”

Aegon chuckles. “Five, I think.”

“Five! Well, they’re welcome to attend here, if you want them to be where you are.”

“That’s a very generous offer. They’ve never gone to a real school before. They had private tutors in New Jersey.”

“What a great way to raise jackasses, if you ask me.” Artie gives him a stern look over, wrinkled brow, narrowed brown eyes. “You sober?”

“No pills, no drinking, occasional weed.”

“Goddamn, that’s a lot better than I expected.”

“Hey Artie?”

“Uh huh.”

“Would you happen to need a math teacher?”

Artie studies him thoughtfully. “I mean, we’re always looking for qualified math and science people. They leave the quickest, those aerospace and electronics companies over in California pay too much. Why? You know someone?”

“I used to,” Aegon says, then motions for his kids to get out of the van. Artie lets them eat ice cream in the cafeteria while Aegon signs his contract.

He’s in Yuma for three weeks before he meets a girl. Her name is Rachel, and she’s a dream that walked out of the Summer Of Love: hair down to her waist, boots to her knees, handknit vests, chipped nail polish and teasing smiles, a taste for sun and smoking. At night they sit under the stars behind Aegon’s bungalow out in the desert, roasting marshmallows and hotdogs with the kids, Aegon strumming his guitar, Rachel playing her harmonica, a few homely adopted mutts loping around instead of purebred Alopekis. She likes him, this boyish sunbeam of a man who always seems just a little lost, a little sad. She might even love him.

And yet there are ghosts, beasts, threads the fates have not yet severed. One night in January after the kids have gone to sleep, Aegon is flipping through television channels as Rachel returns to the couch with a bowl full of Jiffy Pop, plops down onto the cushions, curls up against him. Aegon stumbles upon CBS Evening News, a clip from the inauguration, and his words vanish mid-sentence, his eyes—an opaque, stormy, melancholic sort of blue—growing wide. He doesn’t change the channel. He doesn’t move at all.

“What?” Rachel asks. On the screen is a clip of President Targaryen being sworn in, his wife at his side and cradling the Bible in her hands. She’s wearing Oscar de la Renta—a powder blue wool coat that matches her husband’s tie—and a stately new hairstyle that is very distinctly inspired by Jackie Kennedy. Her smile is serene and dignified, if perhaps a bit remote. She could be a marble statue in a garden or a museum. It must be a lot of pressure for her, Rachel thinks. To live up to being the partner of a man that remarkable. “Aegon? Baby, are you okay?”

After a long time Aegon says, very softly, like it’s only to himself: “He made her cut her hair.”

Rachel stares mystified at the television and then turns back to Aegon. “What happened with her?” Something must have. He looks staggered, he looks haunted, he looks like someone Medusa turned to stone. Rachel knows about who Aegon is, of course, everyone does; but he never wants to talk about it. When people mention his family, Aegon smiles politely and then changes the subject. When they ask about his sister-in-law, he says he needs a cigarette and walks out of the room. She sent him a beautiful, shimmering gold acoustic Gibson guitar for Christmas; the first lady’s name was on the return address. To Rachel’s knowledge, Aegon never thanked her.

Aegon shakes his head, and Rachel can’t tell if that means the story is too long or too short, unrealized potential, loose kaleidoscopic strands of stardust, infinitesimal moments that wouldn’t have meaning to anyone else. “Nothing.” Then he resumes switching channels: I Dream of Jeannie, Bewitched, the Newlywed Game.

~~~~~~~~~~

Your parents fly north for the inauguration, so proud, so effusive, interviewed by every major news network. Business is booming at the Spongeorama Sponge Factory back in Tarpon Springs. They are seated between Alicent and Ludwika’s mother Elzbieta, newly arrived from Poland. LBJ and Lady Bird are cordial but uncharacteristically understated, retreating back to their home state of Texas like kicked dogs. All the defeated adversaries of the campaign trail attend to show their support, to wordlessly plead for a long-awaited national reconciliation. George Wallace won’t meet your eyes. Richard Nixon whispers through your hair as he clasps your scarred hand: “Aemond could never have done this without you.”

Jackie Kennedy’s chosen cause as first lady was the restoration of the White House, Lady Bird’s was environmental protection. You want to visit schools and help teach math to little kids, but Aemond decides it would be more politically expedient for you to be seen tending to wounded veterans of Vietnam; so you spend many of your days in hospitals, inhaling charred flesh and Lysol and dying flowers and blood. The Japanese ambassador bows lower to you than he does to Aemond. The prime minister of France tries (unsuccessfully) to flirt with you. Athenagoras I of Constantinople, the Archbishop of the Greek Orthodox Church, brings you a komboskini he has blessed. Reprieves come in slivers like a disappearing moon: lunches with Fosco–carpaccio, caprese, bolognese, polenta–and drinks with Ludwika, always something with rum, something that tastes like Aegon. You dream of incubators and arterial spray, stitches and scars and crimson bandages, the flash of blades, the thunder of bullets; but the would-be assassins go to prison and no one else ever tries. You are Persephone in the Underworld. You are Io in the wilderness.

You are just beginning to panic about what you’ll do when your tiny pink birth control pills run out when Fosco shows up to one of your lunches with a paper bag full of familiar circular packets. “I have been informed that I am to be your dealer,” he says, grinning. “I will be back with more in six months. I told the doctor they were for my mistress. I don’t even have a mistress! Isn’t this exciting? I am like a secret agent. I am the Italian James Bond. The name’s Viviani, Fosco Viviani.”

“Aegon asked you to do this?”

“Well, he did not ask, exactly. I do not think I was allowed to say no.”

You hide the paper bag in the Louis Vuitton purse Ludwika bought you, so thankful you don’t have words for it, missing Aegon like Orpheus missed Eurydice, searching through the shade-haunted grey haze of the Underworld for her.

“It was odd,” Fosco says quietly, delicately. “He did not want to know anything about you. He asked if you needed anything else that I was aware of, I said no, and then he hung up when I started to tell him about Christmas dinner.”

You remember Aegon’s words, ghosts from where Long Beach Island meets the Atlantic Ocean: Mimi wasn’t as strong as you. Maybe what Aegon didn’t say is that he isn’t either. You imagine the fates snipping threads, the memoryless oblivion offered by the River Lethe, moons becoming greater and lesser. He has to try to forget you. You have to let him.

On Valentine’s Day weekend, Daeron comes home. He and John McCain are the last two men freed from the prisoner of war camp known as the Hanoi Hilton. When he steps off the plane, Daeron is carrying with him, of all things, a single white rat in a wire cage. The first question he asks, after being engulfed in embraces from Alicent, Criston, and Fosco, is: “Where’s Aegon?” And he knows from the stilted, piecemeal explanations he receives that something has happened. You take Daeron to breakfast the next morning, and you don’t tell him everything, but you tell him enough. He spends a month recuperating at Asteria, then follows Zephyr, the god of the west wind, across the country to Arizona.

Aegon didn’t send you anything for Christmas, and he didn’t respond to the guitar you gifted him with Ludwika’s assistance. But on July 13th, a green envelope arrives in your mail basket with no return address. You open it to find a greeting card with an exuberant cow on the front. Inside, the original message—You’re mooooooving on up in the world! Happy retirement!—has been crossed out with black ink. You laugh, your first real laugh in weeks, and then read what Aegon has written in his chaotic, scribbling penmanship:

I thought this was blank :)

Hope you’re doing okay. You look great on tv.

Then there is an expanse of open white space, like a weighty hesitation. There’s no signature, but there is one final note like a postscript.

Thank you for the guitar, but please don’t send anything else. It fucks me up, you know?

Yes, you do know. Aegon never calls you, but Cosmo does. Once or twice a week he dials your private line at the White House–Aegon must have asked Fosco for it–and tells you all about his new life in Yuma, his school, his friends, the dogs, the desert. Aegon’s met someone named Rachel; Cosmo mentions her intermittently yet with unmistakable fondness: “Rachel makes the best s’mores,” “Rachel told me about seeing Jimi Hendrix at Woodstock,” “Rachel took us to pick pumpkins for Halloween.” You’re glad Cosmo calls, and you’re glad he’s happy; but afterwards you always feel so indescribably, irredeemably sad.

You sneak your pills and avoid Aemond as much as you can, something that becomes easier as he spends long hours reviewing briefs in the Oval Office, preparing speeches, meeting foreign dignitaries, strategizing with his cabinet, and scheming against his conservative foes across the nation, a faction soon led by California governor Ronald Reagan. You stand perfectly still as designers alter Chanel and Yves Saint Laurent and Givenchy to fit you like woolen armor. You strike up a chaste, harmless flirtation with a Secret Service agent from Atlanta named Nathaniel, not because he reminds you of Aegon—Nate is 6’4, 250 pounds, and a former Navy SEAL—but because he listens, because he is kind. He gives you riveting summaries of films and books that are considered too scandalous for you to be seen enjoying. He makes fun of your matronly skirt suits. He takes you to get lemon-lime Mr. Mistys at Dairy Queen. He massages your scarred hand with rose oil.

In May of 1969, Aemond voices support for university students across the nation protesting in favor of increased Black faculty and Africana Studies courses. In July, the Apollo 11 mission lands the first men on the moon, effectively ending the Space Race with an American victory. In September, Lieutenant William Calley receives a sentence of life in prison for his role in the My Lai Massacre the previous year. In November, the Rolling Stones release a new album entitled Let It Bleed. Ludwika gives you the record for Christmas along with an array of perfumes and lipsticks, all extravagantly packaged in a pink Gucci gift box. Your favorite song is Gimme Shelter. You listen to it at dusk in the Jacqueline Kennedy Garden, your chair facing west, taking slow drags off Lucky Strike cigarettes that Nate buys for you, embers glowing as the sun disappears.

“What’s out there?” Nate asks you one night with a slinky half-grin, and then when you don’t immediately answer: “You’re always looking that way. What are you looking for?”

You don’t know what to tell him. Nothing. Everything. Something that almost happened. And slowly, under a lavender twilight peppered with the remote glimmers of constellations—stars that cannot be changed, disasters predestined since before you were born—Nate’s smile dies, and he never asks again.

~~~~~~~~~~

Three time zones away, Aegon’s hair grows out and he gets his ears re-pierced, tiny gold hoops that make him think of wedding rings. Rachel pretends she doesn’t want to get married. Aegon doesn’t offer. Once in a while after the kids have gone to bed, he climbs into the hammock in the backyard and smokes a joint, staring absently into the east as the new Rolling Stones album spins on the record player. Aegon’s favorite song is You Can’t Always Get What You Want. Rachel stands at the telescope they set up for the kids—Cosmo’s idea—and stargazes, making her way down a checklist of visible celestial objects.

One night Aegon asks as she’s squinting through the eyepiece: “Where’s Jupiter?”

Rachel glances over at him, then points up at the indigo sky. “It’s that one, the really bright spot near Perseus. Why?”

Aegon shrugs, exhaling smoke. “No reason,” he says; but he’s still looking at Jupiter, wounded, stoned wonder floating on the surface of his watery eyes.

Daeron settles down in Yuma and buys a ranch. He does some work at the VA Hospital a few hours away in Tucson, some white water rafting on the Colorado River, some hiking in the Kofa National Wildlife Refuge, a whole lot of roughhousing with his niece and nephews. John McCain, now a war hero and national celebrity, is always calling to see if Daeron has decided to run for office yet. A few times a year, they receive visitors from the East Coast: Alicent, Criston, Ludwika, Helaena, Fosco, and their three children. The president and first lady are not mentioned unless by accident. The kids adore their grandmother, and she loves them back, although Alicent never learns to appreciate Tessarion the rat and refuses to hold her. In 1970, Helaena and Fosco have one last baby, a daughter they name Marina after Mimi. Life goes on, but the ghosts remain.

On a chilly evening in January of 1972, Aegon is flipping through television channels when he lands on an NBC segment about First Lady Targaryen touring the Walter Reed National Military Medical Center in Bethesda, Maryland. “That’s so fucked up,” Aegon murmurs as she calmly soothes the suffering of mutilated men, and his voice is dark with scorching, clandestine fury. He gestures to the screen with the remote control. “She hates hospitals. He makes her do things that hurt her. He does it just to prove he can.”

Rachel says as she stands in the threshold between the living room and the kitchen, a question she has finally worked up the courage to ask: “No one is ever going to be able to compare to her, right?”

Aegon opens his mouth to protest, and then closes it again. And something washes over him like waves of the ocean, sun on sand, poison in the blood and the lungs, myths that carve themselves into your bones so deep you can see the red of the marrow underneath. He replies truthfully, his eyes still on the screen: “Right.”

Rachel packs her bags. Aegon gets up to help her. He feels it’s the least he can do.

~~~~~~~~~~

When you and Aemond return to Asteria for summer vacations, the seaside Targaryen compound is full of ghosts. You catch glimpses of Mimi stumbling up staircases, Cosmo trotting after you as you turn corners, Aegon smoking a joint under the statue of Zeus in Helaena’s garden. You open cabinets and bottles of his pills fall out. You see Sunfyre bobbing abandoned in the boathouse. The basement is just as Aegon left it. Sometimes you go down there and stand on the green shag carpet in the hushed, cool, damp emptiness, not knowing what you’re waiting for, staring at the wall until someone comes to look for you.

“What’s in these?” Nate asks one afternoon, snatching a notebook off the shelf. “Oh wow, look!” He shows you messy sketches in black ink, cartoon versions of the stories of Greek gods and goddesses, myths reimagined. “Who do you think drew them?”

“Maybe Daeron,” you reply, but it wasn’t him. You’d know Aegon’s handwriting anywhere. Nate leafs through a bunch of the notebooks, booming laughter—he especially enjoys that Poseidon has been characterized as a sexually insatiable dolphin—and reading his favorite parts out loud to you. One notebook is only half-full; the last few pages are covered with drawings of tiny cows, telephones with long spiral cords, the moon in all its phases. You tear these out to keep.

On each July 13th, there is a card with no return address waiting in your mail basket at the White House, always featuring a jovial cow, always making you smile. You entrust Nate with the task of hiding the notebook pages and greeting cards away somewhere safe, an arrangement he honors like an oath.

Every so often, when you feel lethal bitterness kindling, you are struck by the inspiration to find Aemond’s Ouija board. It must be here in the White House someplace, but you can’t figure out where. You search the bedrooms, rummage through closets, climb into the oak cabinets beneath bathroom sinks; you scrabble around like a rodent under the cover of darkness while Aemond is away on state visits and campaign rallies for fellow Democrats. Maybe he makes secret stops in Tacoma or Seattle. If he does, you don’t care. You’d rather Aemond be there than here.

In the spring of 1972, you find the Ouija board in a drawer of the Resolute desk, where Aemond conducts official business in the Oval Office. “Oh, that is insane,” you say to yourself as you slide it out. You mean to burn it in your bedroom fireplace, then think again. On the back of the board, the inscription has faded, as if traced by Aemond’s fingertips again and again.

If I destroy this, what will he do to Aegon and his children? What will he do to me?

You place the Ouija board back where you found it, slide the drawer shut, and crawl into bed, besieged by dreams of smoke and rum and the rumbling bass of Season Of The Witch.

Aemond’s national approval rating hovers between 55-70%—far about the historical average, although he never stops pining for an heir and proper first family to maximize his allure—until May of 1972, when the tide begins to turn. The treaty formally ending U.S. involvement in the war was signed back in early 1969, but the hasty troop withdrawal left capitalist South Vietnam vulnerable, and now it is being invaded by the communists backed by China and Russia. The Fall of Saigon is immortalized in the evening news, printed on the covers of newspapers; people who once collaborated with the Americans are shot dead in the streets. Refugees flee west to Laos and Cambodia and Thailand, east on makeshift rafts into the ocean. The few that Aemond manages to hurriedly admit into the U.S. inspire racism and xenophobia from suburbanites. Many of the hippies have grown up, had children, gotten jobs, settled down with credit cards and mortgages. Protestors march with signs out on Pennsylvania Avenue: America abandons her allies! Our global reputation is in peril! Will the communists invade here next? What did my son die for?

“They wanted me to end it,” Aemond marvels as he gazes out the White House windows. “They begged for me to end it, and now look at them. Ungrateful imbecile bastards.”

And you give him a rare piece of advice that he listens to: “You should call LBJ.”

On his ranch fifty miles outside of Austin, Texas, Lyndon Baines Johnson is dying of heart failure. Still, he smokes more or less constantly, and refuses to adhere to the diet Lady Bird fretfully lectures their chefs about. He has grown his grey hair long and sits for as many interviews as he can, desperate to salvage his legacy and remind people of the things he did right: civil rights legislation, the War On Poverty, rising from a poor farming family to the Oval Office. He knows exactly what it feels like to be hated for having no good options. He says gruffly through the phone: “The Vietnam War needed to end, Aemond. It had to happen. But someone has to pay for it, too. That’s your job now. Take the fall, and the country survives. Plenty of people still love you. And I’m proud of you, son. I know it ain’t easy, believe me. But I’m real proud.”

Still, Aemond fights. He can’t help it. It’s all he’s ever known.

He campaigns at a murderous pace, and you have to follow him across the nation. Perhaps intentionally, there are no campaign stops in Arizona. Aemond does very well, but Ronald Reagan does better; he’s quick and he’s cutting, but he’s also funny, and grandfatherly, and warm, and God knows the American people could use some of that after the past decade. He characterizes Aemond’s policy regarding Vietnam as “peace without honor.” He calls Aemond short-sighted about a dozen times, a jab his supporters guffaw at. He says the United States has surrendered its rightful place as the leader of the free world. His wife Nancy—his second wife—is vehemently opposed to recreational drugs and other supposed moral crimes including abortion and premarital sex. You hate her, and she hates you right back, though in a perfectly pleasant, ever-smiling, mid-century housewife sort of way. Reagan’s disciples call you a whore. Aemond gets the newspapers still loyal to him to publish scathing denials. You aren’t exactly sure why he does this; no comment at all would almost certainly be wiser politically, as Otto advises. But Aemond does it anyway, with deep trenches of violent determination knit into his scarred brow.

The 1972 presidential election is held on Tuesday, November 7th. It is not until the early hours of the morning on Wednesday the 8th that Aemond learns he has narrowly lost. It couldn’t possibly be construed as your fault; he wins Florida by a greater margin than he had in 1968. As the sun rises in a bright, cloudless sky, Aemond’s entourage clears out of the Lincoln Sitting Room, leaving the two of you alone with the droning television. Aemond is sipping an Old Fashioned on one end of the couch. You light yourself a Lucky Strike cigarette on the other. For once, Aemond doesn’t seem to mind.

“You know,” Aemond muses after a while. “Ronald Reagan is divorced.”

Your heart is racing; you aren’t sure what he’s offering. You’re petrified to say the wrong thing and change his mind. “Yeah, he is.”

Aemond nods, twirling his Old Fashioned so the ice cubes clink against the misty glass, not looking at you. “I think I’ll marry Alys and adopt the boy.”

And that’s how you learn that what Aegon said in the doorway of a hospital room four and half years ago was true, no impassioned declarations, no gratitude, only grudges that have grown quiet and cold and dormant. At last, Aemond is done with you.

~~~~~~~~~~

Otto, glowering spitefully, getaway car procurement extraordinaire, hands you the keys to a green Chevy Nova. On the front steps of the White House, you say goodbye to a palpably heartbroken Nate. He gives you the notebook pages and greetings cards. You give him a kiss on the cheek, a parting stain of red lipstick. But instead of blood, the color makes you think of cherry-flavored Mr. Mistys, the Lucky Strike logo, roses, sunburn, firelight, the rust-hued earth of the desert. You duck into the Nova and start driving.

The East Coast unfolds into the Midwest and then turns jagged as you hit the Rocky Mountains. At a gas station in Albuquerque, New Mexico, you toss your remaining birth control pills—still squirreled away in a box of hollowed-out tampons—into a trash bin. At a McDonald’s in Asher, Arizona, just forty minutes outside of Yuma, you stop to get a large Coca-Cola and touch up your makeup in the bathroom mirror: black eyeliner, gold shadow, both as heavy as you want them to be. You stroll back to your Nova under a radiant November sky that feels like summer, smiling to yourself. The hem of your roomy, floral skirt billows around your brown leather boots in the desert wind. Your earrings are small, glinting gold hoops. Your white tank top is simple and hand-crocheted, found at a yard sale in Amarillo, Texas; but your sunglasses are Bugatti, a gift from Ludwika.

You park outside the only school on the Fort Yuma Indian Reservation and go inside to the front office. The secretary says distractedly: “Can I help you, ma’am?” Then she does a double take. “Oh, I’m sorry, dear, do I…do I know you from somewhere…?”

“You might,” you say, pushing your sunglasses up into your hair. It’s only shoulder-length now, but growing, and wild from the wind. “I was hoping to find Mr. Targaryen, does he still work here?”

“He sure does, but he doesn’t like anyone calling him that.”

Of course he wouldn’t. “Just Aegon then. Which classroom is…?”

But before you can finish your question, and before she can answer, you hear echoing through the labyrinthian hallways the start of Creedence Clearwater Revival’s Bad Moon Rising, not just an acoustic guitar but bass and drums too.

“I see the bad moon a-risin’

I see trouble on the way

I see earthquakes and lightnin’

I see bad times today

Don’t go around tonight

Well it’s bound to take your life

There’s a bad moon on the rise.”

The secretary laughs, keeping rhythm with taps of her pencil on her desk. “I guess you can find him on your own, can’t ya?”

Yes, you can. You follow the music through long empty corridors, wondering where all the students are. You drag your fingertips—black polish, chipped around the edges—along grooves in the cinder block walls that have been painted over with vibrant murals. The song is getting louder, and now you hear other noises too, an ocean of energetic voices and squealing chairs.

“I hear hurricanes a-blowin’

I know the end is comin’ soon

I fear rivers over flowin’

I hear the voice of rage and ruin

Don’t go around tonight

Well it’s bound to take your life

There’s a bad moon on the rise, alright!”

You step into the cafeteria, raucous with students swapping pudding cups and bags of chips. Many of them are watching the stage, clapping along, playing their own imaginary guitars. Aegon is there strumming the sparkling gold guitar you sent him for Christmas back in 1968. He hasn’t seen you yet; he’s grinning at the kids up on the stage with him—his fellow bandmates, his fledgling rockstars—and leaning back from the mic to give them pointers. But Cosmo has. He flies out of his seat and crashes into you, now nearly ten years old, long blonde hair, a Rolling Stones t-shirt.

“You’re back!” he bellows over the music as you hug him. Teachers chatting amongst themselves by the wall give you curious glances.

“Yeah, kiddo. I am.”

“For a visit?”

“Maybe for a little longer than that.”

“Yay!” he shouts, jumping up and down.

You look back to Aegon, and now his eyes catch on yours: instantaneous recognition, disbelief, amazement. He’s just like you remember him; he’s just like he is in your dreams. You raise an eyebrow and wave tentatively. His own words surface in your skull like swimming up through cool, sunlit water: What are we gonna do about it? And Aegon smiles, the god of light, music, healing, truth.

Now his tiny bandmates are yelling at him, irate. He’s still plucking at his guitar on autopilot, but he’s missed his cue to sing the last verse. He shakes off his astonishment and continues, beaming, watching you.

“Hope you got your things together

Hope you are quite prepared to die

Looks like we’re in for nasty weather

One eye is taken for an eye

Well don’t go around tonight

Well it’s bound to take your life

There’s a bad moon on the rise.”

Cosmo sprints back to his lunch to stop a friend from seizing his unguarded Ding Dongs.

“Don’t come around tonight

Well it’s bound to take your life

There’s a bad moon on the rise.”

Aegon gives his guitar a final few strums as the cafeteria erupts into cheers and applause. His bandmates bow to their audience as Aegon takes off his guitar, leaps down from the stage, runs to you as children twist in their seats to stare. He’s wearing khaki shorts, tan moccasins, a half-unbuttoned white shirt that actually fits him, dog tags with Daeron’s name on them. He’s so afraid to ask the question; he’s terrified you won’t say the right answer. “Io…what the hell are you doing here?”

You shrug, casual, teasing. “Didn’t like where I was. Thought I’d try someplace new.”

He touches your face to make sure you’re real, marveling at you, his voice going hushed. “We’ve lost so much time.”

“Don’t worry. Your life’s only half over.”

Aegon laughs, eyes shining. “I’m really, really looking forward to the rest of it.”

You can feel the smile on his lips as he kisses you; you can hear a quiet, kind melody that fills the universe, the sound of all the chains of gravity breaking and moons drifting free from their planets.

[shorthaltsjester]

there are literally no standouts in downfall because everyone sat down at that table and said hey you wanna see something cool and proceeded to Become their characters but idk if it’s because they’re beside each other and that aids the dynamic or just because it’s the delicious similarities and insurmountable distance between the god of death and the god of (in various ways) life but ayden and emhira’s interactions were so chewy and delicious. i’ll be thinking of their exchange fairly early on after ayden cast lesser restoration on that old man and emhira not cruelly but just simply stating “you cannot heal everything.” and ayden’s equally simple reply “we can always try.” emhira seeing the family trist has built and wondering at the presence of children, “surprised there is laughter in such a horrible place” and i know she’s speaking of hawk’s hill but i wonder if she is also speaking of exandria itself in some ways. the delicious space between in and out of character that only really happens in improv stories where as brennan is narrating and says “in this dark room” and nick interrupts and adds “it is not dark.” brennan’s incisive point in the cooldown that while the love that ayden and trist have for mortals and for exandria is warm and the kind of love someone would likely Want from gods, there is something maybe more honest or whole about emhira who says . actually these mortals are little shits that will kill you not because they fear you but because they hate you. whose very existence should be (and still often fails to be) a reminder that the gods can be usurped by mortals. the insight nick shared in the cooldown that ayden does not forget emhira’s origins but in a way dismisses them, that the god of death is a different beast. ayden wanting to find. way to save the people of aeor, insisting that the prime deities Win if they can find a way to do so. emhira reminding everyone that death is inevitable (and she does not add anything to clarify that she intends such a statement to only exist for mortals) as she argues for them to work to take down aeor and the people in it. the fact that the god with the most present connection to mortality is also the one given the most explicit clarification that she Is the god we know as SILAHA calls her the matron, brennan’s narration clarifies purvon is her champion, taliesin as asha asks for clarification on the recognition of emhira as a god and prompting the familiar spectre of a woman in a white mask.

i want to be very clear that when i say there are no standouts i Mean it because i’ve been awed and endeared and intrigued by every single character choice everyone made and as always brennan’s narration is so incredibly well suited for the mission impossible greek tragedy vibes that comes with this story and i’m so fucking delighted by the fact that laura, ashley, and taliesin are playing gods that their characters have known quite well in the past. i’m incredibly excited by what we’ve already gotten to see from abubakar, nashir, and nick and cannot imagine what other greatness is to come. i’m psyched to see the relationship between asha and the law bearer and am delighted that (perhaps for now perhaps for the whole arc) it is being seen through the lens of “my wife promised me a visit with apples and all i got was a rock ice emissary”. i also have many incoherent thoughts about the fact that, of the players who appeared as the same character in the opening and the story, taliesin’s ash and asha are the ones whose name remains the most unchanged.

i’m obsessed with the fact that this creature sent as a stand in by the god of law and duty believes his primary gift is love. while there is a certain mourning and sadness to every god we see, that SILAHA has a certain playful whimsy and jofyful curiosity about the world. that the only one of them who has been mortal before stops to steal an imp necklace from the neck of a drunk on the train (and that moment between brennan’s narration that this man will be dead by morning but, with death standing invisible in front of him, he is incapable of seeing it coming, and then laura as emhira breathing in deeply and brennan having that spark a coughing fit. they are Story Telling). asha seeing the erased image of a god, of a family member and saying “there’s a hole in all of us.” brennan narrating “this is a place where they tried to kill a story. it’s a very frightened thing to do.” (and god. the motif of fear. especially given the very present fear felt by the gods in current day exandria. they’re doing insane things in the critical role 3 part departure).

trist reminding ayden “he never tells the truth” and asha contesting “he only tells the truth, it’s just rotting.” emhira and asha both as perhaps the less Good™ much more neutral but doing so in such different ways, asha as bitter and hungry while emhira seems uncomfortable but there’s a familiarity and a certainty in her discomfort with mortality (the law bearer would also be included here but the emissary seems much more like trist and ayden (for now) than emhira or asha). something as insignificant as trist and her husband speaking to their children and affirming that little lies are okay while trist has lead a significant part of her life likely dishonest about who she is. the fact that there’s a certain childlike quality to the emissary who they’re all charged with ensuring makes it to the end of things even if they cannot. the fact that nahal (unclear which god they were, and i’m assuming it’s the first god of death but regardless still an absolutely compelling development in a short amount of time) in those opening moments is horrified by the concept of away which is unfamiliar to them only to soon after look upon their family and say. maybe away was better. Especially if those were words spoken by the god who would one day be replaced. these three episodes are going to haunt me and i’m excited to meet the ghosts.

[katerinaaqu]

Why did Helen choose to torment the Greek Warriors inside the Trojan Horse? (An Odyssey Analysis)

Okay so here is a conundrum that seems to be quite interesting in homeric poems. One of them seems to be Helen's behavior before the sacking of Troy. Menelaus informs us and Telemachus on the events of the night before taking Troy and speaks on the moment where Helen knocks on the Trojan Horse and calls upon the Greek warriors inside imitating the voices of their wives.

Three times you circled the hollow ambush and out of the best of the Danaans you called the names and all the Argives heard the voices of their spouses. Nevertheless I and the son of Tydeus and the godly Odysseus heard you as you called out and while we two were eager to rush out and act to our sudden urge, Odysseus though held us back and restrained us despite our eagerness. Then all the other sons of Achaeans endured apart from Anticlus wanted to respond to your call but Odysseus placed his hand upon his mouth non-stop and strongly and thus saving all the Achaeans until Athena Pallas led you away

(Translation by me)

So basically here we see a very cruel act right? Helen knows the Argives were away from home and their wives way too long, over a decade so why would she play such a cruel game to them and call upon them by using the voices of their wives? It seems unnecessarily cruel at some point especially since she did express the need to go back to her husband already a year prior during the events of Iliad.

So here are a couple of explanations for it.

So for many I would epxect this would be something one might consider inconsistency at writing which leads many people to turn to the "different writer" trope. Quite honestly I can see why and as a hypothesis is really valid or maybe if one takes the hypothesis that Odyssey was witten way after the Iliad that the author himself changed his mind on some stuff or reconsidered his sources etc.

However let's hypothesize for one second that this is a logical continuation of the story and character development (yeah I am not convinced on the different writer theory, fight me! XD) and let's just think for a second the context of the scene based on what we know from the Iliad and the Epic Cycle in general.

We know that Helen lived in Troy a decade (yes for the "20 years theory" I have answered an ask here). She knew these people for a long time. We also know from the Iliad as she stood next to Priam, giving him information about the Greek leaders and kings and we know that she was not judged by him or any other of the Trojans. If anything she was blaming herself quite a lot for it. Even in the funeral of Hector she expresses her love for him (not romantic love guys) and her respect for him. She had no real hate for the Trojans even if she already had a change of heart or Aphrodite's spell on her had weakened. For the reasons why she stayed I also answered another ask right here but apart from that reason we know she wanted to go home so why did she do that to the Greeks? Well in the same scene Menelaus seems to be excusing his wife and he presents this very interesting explanation as to why she did it:

And then you came there: called by some god, no doubt, who wished to extend the glory of the Trojans

(Translation by me)

Menelaus seems to be excusing his wife once more and presents the hypothesis that Helen was inspired by some god or goddess (δαίμων) to go and disturb the Greeks inside the horse. Helen doesn't deny it but doesn;t confirm it either. In fact Telemachus speaks soon after and Helen orders the slaves to prepare stuff. The conversation on this subject seems to end there. So the one explanation could be that indeed Menelaus is correct and that Helen was once more either coersed or blackmailed by a god, potentially Aphrodite again, even if not mentioned, and went to the Greeks and tried to lure them out for the sakes of that god that wished better for Troy. It stands as an explanation as well.

However let's make things more spicy and let's assume that Helen was not influenced by divine intervention by the gods and instead it was her own free will to do what she did. If yes then why? So here's a hypothesis. Before in her narration Helen talks about how she met Odysseus and recognized him in his disguise. She also mentions how Odysseus informs her on the plan to take Troy:

And then he entrusted me everything he had in mind for the Achaeans

(translation by me)

How much he told her is not clear. Did he already have in mind to make the horse so he tells her that? Maybe he warns her on the one day that the Achaeans shall enter the city without speaking on precice details? Either way Helen would know Odysseus was up for some ploy and she knew she had to act fast. Menelaus also mentions how Deiphobos was with her at that time (how Menelaus knew? Well probably Helen told him). So immediately if Helen had a reason to do what she did, we have two reasons;

She wanted to persuade Deiphobos on her loyalty to Troy. Arguably when Odysseus escaped, as Helen said, he killed many Trojans on his way out. Most likely her loyalty must have been questioned at that tensed time thus being accompanied by her new husband all the time. By doing this, ellegedly tormenting the Greeks, was showing to Deiphobos her loyalty to Troy (manipulating him into believing that she was on their side) plus showing him like "See? Nothing here. No danger whatsoever". She probably knew already Odysseus would be inside and he wouldn't fall for her trick and she trusted him and her husband to hold the rest of the Achaeans inside the horse so they wouldn't cry out. So not only did she show to Deiphobos that she was on Trojan side but also manipulated him into believing indeed there was no danger.

Two, this part is the best, in my opinion, she was signaling to the GREEKS inside the horse. She called them all by name by immitating their wives. More or less tells to them that she KNOWS and that she knows EXACTLY who they are and who their families are, and that she could have betrayed them at any moment if she wanted to but she chose not to because she was on their side. Like that she would have more hopes not to be killed by vengeful Greeks during the siege of Troy or her daughter by Paris, Helen, and ensure her and her daughter's safety. Also signaling her change of heart in person to them.

Conclusions:

Like I said before I do not believe Odyssey was written by a different author altogether and Odyssey itself gives us some very good explanations on Helen's behavior. I am actually willing to side with my second hypothesis. Perhaps Menelaus was talking literally when mentioning a god but I tend to believe he was more like metaphorical. In an essence "what's gotten into you?" manner. However I tend to believe that regardless of whether there was or wasn't a godly intervention in Helen's behavior, Helen is extremely intelligent and she knows that after the fuss Odysseus caused (literally a Greek spy in Troy, possibly two if we count Diomedes too) that got in, stole the Palladium of Athena and killed people on their way out might as well throw suspicion on her and she needed to make sure she would continue have the love of Priam, which was literally her shield of protection at that moment. Two she knew that her husband was coming for her and that he was potentially furious and if it wasn't him, some other of the Greeks would be or they would get battle-drunk with their success. She wasn't going to rely only on Odysseus's silver tongue that he persuaded the Greeks on her change of heart but she wanted to make sure that they knew on her talents and power and the way that she could literally give them away at any moment and that she chooses not to because she is Greek like them and because she had a change of heart!

I hope you find this analysis interesting! Let me know in the comments below! I'd love to hear your thoughts! ^_^

[genericpuff]

What are your thoughts on the whole Hestia x Athena thing in LO? Personally it always infuriated me with how hypocritical it was of them to date each other despite them both being members of/Hestia being in charge of TGOEM. It especially annoyed me how Hestia constantly told Persephone that as a TGOEM member she can't date anyone but later saying that her relationship with Athena doesn't count. I give some credit to Artmeis for calling them out when finding out, but it wasn't enough

The hypocrisy is one thing but it at least could have been expanded on as a plot point (Hestia didn't even have the spine to return the coat and apologize, Artemis had to do it ???), but what REALLY ticks me off is that Rachel clearly tried to include queer rep through Hestia and Athena who are two traditionally aro/ace goddesses. So really all she did was erase their original queer identities, both of which are still massively misunderstood and argued over whether or not they're "real". And shit, we even see that in her old asks that lesbian sex "doesn't count" and that asexuality is somehow just a sliding scale / stepping stone towards "becoming" another sexuality (in this case, gay).

Like... you can be asexual and also still be romantically attracted to the same sex, "becoming gay" doesn't automatically erase someone's asexuality. Artemis can be gay and aroace. Lesbian sex is still sex and isn't a "loophole" to retaining one's virginity. To be fair, the whole "vestal virgins are flaming lesbians because you can be a virgin and still have hot lady sex" thing came from an anon, but like... she doesn't do anything to challenge that idea in LO either, if anything it's reinforced through Athena and Hestia using their relationship as a "loophole" within TGOEM (and the narrative never actually stops to analyze that.)

And then the cherry on top is Rachel removing the sexualities - sometimes even entire character identities - from canonically or commonly-accepted queer gods and giving them to others. Crocus is no longer a lover of Hermes, but a one-dimensional nymph who was killed as a plot device and then never spoken of again. Ampelos is no longer a satyr loved by Dionysus, his name now belongs to Psyche, a heterocis black woman who doesn't know how to read and has been basically forced into slavery. All of Aphrodite's children who ranged in gender and sexual identities are now replaced with one-dimensional cutout characters with no specific labels or characterizations beyond the translations of their names. Eros has been reduced to the "gay best friend" whose first introduction into the story is inebriating a 19 year old girl with the intent of dumping her in an older man's car. Apollo has been turned into a generic big bad whose only goal is getting his hands on Persephone and nothing else, with zero nuance to his actual characterization or plot arc, he's just "the rapist" who conveniently becomes a pawn in some bigger nefarious plan that makes zero sense. Dionysus and Achilles have both been turned into babies.

If Rachel wanted queer rep, she was already in the right place. The entire Pantheon was her oyster. But instead she managed to go the complete opposite with it and not only erase the queer identities of Greek gods in LO, but went the extra mile of egregiousness by replacing those queer gods with token-queer stereotypes and one-dimensional characters who are just there to say they're gay for the brownie points before being shoved back into the closet. They're out, but they're still not seen.

[maniacwatchestheworld]

We Need To Talk About Danny's Power Level.

I was hesitant to make this post, but the more I think about it and the more I see... We really HAVE to discuss this. Generally speaking, I really don't want to be seen as someone who is trying to ruin people's fun within this fandom. I want to inform, and while I have issues with some of the very prevalent ideas in this fandom, I don't want to tell people what they should or should not be making! I want people to follow what they find fun to create! But this power level thing...? I think that it has some rather concerning implications to it that need to be examined and discussed! This is an actual, decently serious problem, and after considering it for a time, it occurs to me that I may be one of the few people in this community that recognizes this issue as an actual issue and has the authority to speak on it...

You NEED to stop making Danny so incredibly overpowered in the DPxDC space.

Now please don't misunderstand me. I understand the value of a good fun power fantasy and making Danny more powerful than God can be fun and cathartic if you have a negative history with the Christian faith. But this insistence on the Ghost Zone being The Most Important Thing Ever and Danny being The Most Powerful Entity Within It is actually actively warping how people interpret and think about DC canon as well as certain characters within its canon to the point of unrecognizability as well as robbing characters of what makes them interesting, the point of their stories, and their agency within it. But most importantly of all, all of this is just... Generally, genuinely dismissive and shitty towards most religions, cultures, beliefs, and faiths that people practice, ESPECIALLY the faiths of POC and other minorities. And this is specifically an issue that DC does not have and that people within this space are making an issue by refusing to let the Ghost Zone and Danny have some limitations.

So that you understand where I'm coming from, please understand that I'm a person of color (I'm half Filipino) and that I'm Buddhist (a religion that I decided to convert to and embrace after a lot of thought and soul-searching, even if I'm not very good at practicing it). It also needs to be stated that in the DC universe, all religions and faiths are true and real at the same time, and they all have more or less equal footing as any other faith or religion or mythology explored in this multiverse. Christian heaven and hell are real. Reincarnation is canonical to the DCU. The Greek Pantheon is real and they are just as real and powerful as the Norse Pantheon. (By the by, just to let you know, yes, people in the real life modern day do actually actively worship both of these pantheons today.) Different alien planets have different faiths, and there is precedent for them being real as well. (Hey! Fun fact! Kryptonians are polytheistic!) It does seem that some form of animism is real within the DCU (within concepts of The Red and The Green)! And there is even representation for indigenous African faiths and beliefs within this shared universe! One of the genuinely wonderful things about the DC universe is that all of these faiths are real, they're all valid, and they are all more or less on equal footing to one another! If all the religions and afterlives and gods of each pantheon went to war with one another, it would genuinely be difficult to know who would win, or who would even stand a chance of coming out of this conflict alive!

In fact, a lot of characters and storylines within the DC universe are actually DEPENDENT on all of these faiths existing and being equally valid at the same time. Do you know where Billy Batson gets his powers from? The phrase "SHAZAM," if you didn't know, is actually an acronym for the names of the gods and heroes that he derives his powers from. (Solomon, Heracles, Atlas, Zeus, Achilles, and Mercury.) And it's implied that each person with SHAZAM powers has different heroes and gods that they derive their power from! (Black Adam derives all of his powers from the Egyptian Pantheon. Mary Marvel derives all of her powers from female gods and heroic figures.) Many of Wonder Woman's stories involve her interacting with various different pantheons. Xanthe Zhou gets their powers from traditional Chinese folk ancestor-worshiping practices. Ragman is a Jewish character whose suit is a powerful Jewish artifact- a suit made out of the souls of sinners that was created to protect the Jewish community. Sun Wukong is an actual character in the DCU and he is JUST as overpowered and immortal ×500 as he should be! And there are like... At least 3 entirely different characters that either are iterations of, claim to be, or pull their powers/inspiration from Anansi! DC celebrates a lot of faiths and religions and are bringing in more beliefs and faiths into their universe all the time! TONS of characters derive their powers from their religions, faiths, and beliefs! And DC celebrates them all as being real and valid to all who practice them! ... And you want them all to be forced to be under the same umbrella and less important and powerful as Danny and the Ghost Zone...

Bringing up ideas of ghosts and afterlives are always going to be loaded subjects because they often inherently rub up against actual living people's practiced religions and beliefs. But a belief in ghosts and dimensions better suited for them is also a valid belief that real life people have. And there is precedent for these beliefs also being real within DC canon. But DC only manages to get away with crossing over as many faiths as it does by saying that they are all real, valid, and while you might see less of some pantheons and more of others, they all exist and are doing their own thing just like they do in real life, just off panel... Are you beginning to see what the problem is...?

In the DPxDC fandom's eagerness to incorporate Danny into the DC universe and to make him powerful enough to go toe to toe with the likes of Superman, it seems that most people immediately overcompensated and that no one has really thought to slow down, stop, and actually think about what they are implying. Because the most common headcanons that I have seen regarding the Ghost Zone and other afterlives and religions? It's that they are all parts of the Ghost Zone, but are all ultimately subordinate to it. And since Danny is the Most Powerful and Important Person in the Ghost Zone... This implies that all religions, faiths and beliefs are less important and are indeed subordinate to the Almighty Danny. That all deities and the people following them should just bow down to Danny's might. This is something that DC, in spite of all of its flaws, has managed to avoid. These religions are REAL religions! Actual faiths practiced by actual people! We are NOT talking about dead, irrelevant pantheons that no one alive worship anymore! We are talking about living, active faiths and religions, some of which colonizers have tried to eradicate from the world! Some of these faiths have been suppressed! Some of the people who practice these beliefs have faced genocide for them! And so saying that the Ghost Zone is bigger, better, and that Danny is more important than any single other faith and afterlife...? THAT'S A SHITTY THING TO DO! You are literally doing the shitty Christian missionary thing, but with a fictional afterlife that consists of fictional characters that you know are not actual religious beliefs! You're landing on the sandy polytheistic shores of the DCU and declaring that the Ghost Zone is actually vaster than every faith already in the DCU and that Danny is more powerful and has authority over your gods! That your beliefs and faith and religion should just take a backseat to the Danny power fantasy! That your real, lived religion is not more important nor should it be respected when Danny is in the room! Of course the Buddha should bow down to Danny! Of course the Jewish people should renounce their faith and worship Danny instead because he's better and more powerful than the Jewish God! Why should people pray to their ancestors when Danny ultimately gets to decide what happens to everyone's ancestors!? If they want good things to happen to their ancestors in the afterlife, they should pray to Danny instead! Not like any form of prayer works or matters in this universe anyway because Danny is Almighty! And he doesn't hear the prayers! By making all faiths subordinate to Danny within these stories, you are saying that anyone who practices these beliefs and faiths within these stories are not valid in their beliefs. The only belief that matters and is real in this universe is the Ghost Zone and whatever will appease Danny the most. And while the characters in these stories are not real, the religions, beliefs, and practices they engage in ARE. And so you are implying that real people's faiths and religions don't matter. You are just dismissing real faiths and beliefs as not something worth thinking about or respecting within your works! You are saying that this fictional American white teenage boy and his goopy green land is more important to you than just being respectful of real people's faiths, beliefs, and religions. That your power fantasy is more important than saying that a person is valid for holding on to their beliefs. That when it comes down to it, that you would rather people choose your Danny power fantasy over their religion being portrayed as important and valid. That is honestly insulting. And really alls that you've done is impose monotheism onto the DC universe. You're just enforcing monotheism on people with extra steps. But instead of it being the Christian God, you've put Danny in that position. THIS IS A SHITTY THING TO DO! THIS SHOULD NOT BE THE DEFAULT HEADCANON THAT PEOPLE HAVE IN THIS FANDOM! PLEASE STOP!

Please understand. I know that you didn't do this on purpose or mean to imply this intentionally. I know that you didn't realize that you were insulting and undermining actual faiths and religions by pushing these ideas on the fandom. If one or two people had these thoughts and headcanons and didn't think very much about what they are implying, this would not be a problem. But for this to be the default is VERY disconcerting! As a Buddhist, it does feel genuinely shitty and insulting to imply that Danny has authority over the Buddha and that he outranks and is more powerful than Sun Wukong. It's not fun to think that my beliefs matter to you less than continuing to play with your Danny power fantasy. That you don't think that the pursuit for enlightenment and inner peace is real or worthwhile. That you would find my pursuit of compassion over everything else to be silly, stupid, and laughable when stood next to Danny. I know that you don't mean it. I know that's not what you meant to imply. But it is what you imply by making every faith subordinate to the Ghost Zone. And as someone who has a faith that is so often seen as subordinate to others and just a silly little play fantasy that doesn't matter and isn't real, it's depressing and uncomfortable to see this community as a whole unknowingly echo these sentiments. People in real life don't think that my faith is valid. People don't believe me when I say that I'm Buddhist. And as someone who is Filipino on top of that, I can't help but to think about the utter tragedy of my ancestors being forced to convert to Christianity or die. To forget their beliefs, pretend they never mattered, and embrace Jesus. To be forced to believe that their indigenous beliefs didn't matter. And so many of those indigenous beliefs are now lost and forgotten to their living ancestors (including myself) for it because to the Christians, their belief in Jesus was ultimately more important to them than just letting the Filipino beliefs and religions peacefully exist as they were. It's uncomfortable to me that you would rather I just embrace this view of Danny and let him be more important than and be an authority over my religion. That I should just be comfortable in Danny being more important and better than every religion that people actually practice in real life. That I should just forget the insult to my and any other religion that you make by placing Danny as more important than, and to "just have fun." But I can't. And these ideas are everywhere in this fandom. Even in stories where it shouldn't matter or doesn't need to be present, it's there. This reminder that you don't take my faith seriously- these ideas that Danny is more important than my faith are ubiquitous to this community. An issue that wasn't present in either of the original source materials. Because they thought about it and so went out of their way to not imply it. But here, people are just not willing to make that courtesy for even a second.

But it doesn't have to be this way. You can do better! I know that you can do better. And it isn't even difficult to do! All that you need to do better is to simply... Just... Think about it. When you imply or say "all afterlives are part of the Ghost Zone" actually think about ALL afterlives! Christian and Atheist and Greek ones, yes. But also Asian and Native American and African and South American ones too! Is that kind of thought fair towards Native American faiths, Buddhists, Jews, Hindus, Palestinians, Hellenists, Animists, and every other person and group that practices a faith? Or does this have majorly fucked up implications towards some or all of these people? If the answer is yes, you can proceed, but you need to be mindful of that fact and just think about it, even if only a little. Even if it's just a small acknowledgement that you don't know what you're talking about or that you are choosing to ignore some of the fucked up implications you're making here for the sake of the story in the tags. I just want you to take a moment and think through the implications of what you are making, and to make a choice on whether you should proceed or reconsider things. If you choose to proceed with the fucked up implications, that's fine. It means that you can do so with other mindsets in mind and can possibly use these ideas in interesting ways! At least you made a stance to possibly be shitty towards some people for the sake of your fun. At least you made the choice to say that some people's beliefs just don't matter to your story. This is a neutral statement. Some works of art are just not made for some kinds of people. And that's fine. But it is always better to knowingly acknowledge and make that choice than to pretend that it isn't there. And if you didn't realize that's what you were doing? If you reconsider and choose to turn back on this idea? At least you made that choice and didn't just passively follow the rest of the crowd to get here. Hopefully, thinking about it will make you more mindful about your art in the future and therefore make it better! The only thing to do about it is to acknowledge that you weren't thinking about the implications, but that you changed your mind, and move forwards with your life.

Now just to be entirely clear, I'm not telling you that I want you to feel guilty about being inconsiderate towards other faiths. That doesn't really do anyone any good. I won't get any satisfaction from you feeling guilty about it or internally punishing yourself for it. Just actually give what you might be implying more thought in terms of religion next time and do better. It's alright to make mistakes. We are all just human and we all make mistakes. Sometimes we don't even realize when we've made a mistake. Just strive to do better next time, be more willing to let go of these ideas that you're so attached to, allow yourself to see things from another perspective, and move on. Sometimes, it's better to just leave things alone. Sometimes you shouldn't meddle and try to rework ideas that were perfectly good on their own to begin with. Sometimes nothing that you personally can add will be a positive contribution. Sometimes the only thing that interfering will do is over-complicate things and rob the idea of what made it so interesting and powerful in the first place. But it's okay to leave it alone. It's going to be okay. I'm not angry. Just disappointed and a little frustrated. But it's better if you are able to just drop these things and move forwards with mindfulness in the future.

As an alternative, I think that it would generally be better for the Ghost Zone to just be its own thing separate from the other afterlives. Equal to other afterlives and not all-encompassing of them. It can be connected or related to other afterlives, but being greater than them as a whole is just a very uncomfortable and cruel implication. You don't need the Ghost Zone to be the most important thing in the multiverse. And Danny does not need to be the most powerful thing in existence. Please. It's okay to have power fantasies. But the invincible overpowered stronger than all Gods Danny should not be the overwhelming norm here to the detriment of everything else. It's only when you let go of Danny NEEDING to be the MOST important thing in the multiverse can you start to really dive into some of the more interesting sides of characters on their own terms and not on yours! Like... Did you know that there is one ghost character in DC called The Spectre and that he's the literal personification of the wrath of God? Did you know that Xanthe Zhou as a spirit envoy is actually half dead and half alive? Did you know that The Wizard Shazam is actually, secretly an aboriginal god? Did you know that in the DC universe that Judas Iscariot still walks the Earth to this day, doing vigilante work to atone for his betrayal of Jesus? Did you know that Ra's Al Ghul's mom has met and hung out with some of the demons that Sun Wukong fought against in Journey to the West? Hell, did you know that Damian is Buddhist!? Imagine that. Danny coming in and telling Damian that he's more important and more powerful than Damian's entire religion. That the Buddha is just a lackey of his and that he rules over all afterlives, including nirvana and cycles of reincarnation. I'm certain that Damian would take that very well and accept it wholeheartedly! Don't you agree with me?!!?!???!

I personally think that all of this is better and more interesting if characters, their religions, and ideas in general are able to interact with Danny's world on their own terms without being forced to fit within Danny's box! You don't need to try to force everything within DC's universe to fit inside Danny's. DC wouldn't ask for Danny's universe to conform to theirs! They would just add everything that Danny's universe has to offer on top of everything else they already have! And trying to fit the entire DC multiverse within the scope of Danny's universe... It's too small a box for too large of a universe! Sometimes you can just let things not be deeply connected. And sometimes things don't need a complicated explanation and it can literally just be magic. There's nothing wrong with trying to tie everything together in a neat and succinct way. But sometimes you need to pull your view out a little and look at what you're doing and genuinely ask yourself if what you're doing actually adds depth, or if it does more harm than good and makes everything worse, make less sense, and more complicated or not. It's okay to fall down the rabbit hole sometimes. I completely understand that happening and do it all the time! Just remember to be mindful about it!

Either way, if you're going to insist on desperately clinging onto these ideas of Danny being the Most Important and Powerful Thing in the Multiverse to the detriment of literally everything else, that's fine. But just be honest with what you're doing and why. This isn't a Ghost King Danny AU. Kingdoms don't have unequivocal power over other and all kingdoms. It's a God Emperor over all Gods Danny AU. Nothing wrong with that concept in of itself. Just tag it properly as something like "God King Danny" so that I don't have to deal with it and the implications you're making about my religion with it. That would be enough! I would be happy with that! Just make your choice. Think about what you're doing, why you're doing it and choose. If you choose to keep going, that's fine! All the more power to you! Have fun! But be honest about what you're making. I may not like it and think that it's an overdone, overplayed idea at this point, but you're free to do it! So go forwards and make what will bring you joy! But now that you've thought about it a little, hopefully you'll continue with a little more knowledge and foresight. And hopefully that will make your work even more interesting and better for it! And if you decide to change course, I'm glad that I was able to sway you and get you to see things from my perspective and come to my side on this. At the very least, hopefully this will help to vary up ideas within the fandom a bit and you won't just take ideas that are happening in this space entirely for granted and as givens! I have so many ideas on interesting ways that these intersections can go and characters that you can use, and ways to look at this community that offer so so SO many interesting story directions! I'm so happy that you've decided to come with me on this journey! You're going to make something great, I'm certain of it! So let's make something wonderful together! I believe in you! There's a lot of fun to be had! ^.^

[thelastofhyde]

ii. santorini.

pairing. tourguide!joel miller x fem!reader. series synopsis. on the brink of undergoing a life-altering change, you runaway from your problems in the only way any sane person can: embarking on a mediterranean cruise. there you meet joel miller, a grumpy, private tour-guide, who just so happens to be tasked with touring you through each stop on your cruise. from greek goddesses to roman ruins, you have ten days to avoid your fate. maybe a frowning, southern, sex-on-legs of a man is just what the doctor ordered. chapter summary. tensions are high as you and joel spend your first day together exploring the popular island of santorini. back on the boat, joel gets a glimpse at more than he bargained for. series warnings. no use of y/n, set in 2015, no apocalypse au, cruise!au, rom-com, enemies-ish to lovers, tour-guide!joel, unspecified age gap, depictions/discussions of grief, angst, fluff, a whole load of smut, a lot of cheesy stereotypical romance tropes bc i just wanna see joel not suffer ( too much ) <3 chapter warnings. mild smut ( female masturbation, mentions of oral sex + piv sex ), bickering, alcohol, mild angst, so much cheese it'll turn you lactose intolerant!! btw joel hates santorini and he makes that known, but none of his opinions reflect my own ( please don't be mean to me over things characters say <33 ) word count. 7.9k hyde’s input. the majority of this chapter was written with a mixture of medicine flowing through my veins, it's a miracle it's even intelligible. apologies for the wait, the holidays and health issues got in the way <3 as always, i hope you enjoy, comments an dreblogs are always appreciated !! previous chapter - next chapter - series masterlist

It is a known fact that your name and late rarely exist within the same sentence.

The mere thought of being late fills you with a sickness you cannot cure. The extremes you’ll go to avoid it know no bounds. From arriving four hours before a flight, to waiting in your car a whole hour before entering a lecture hall, adulthood is a phase in which you’d sworn to repair the damage of a childhood worth of not arriving late.

Late to school, late to birthday parties, late to dentist appointments.

It wasn’t that you were a particularly difficult child, running rampant around the house as your mother tried to dress you, or your father tried to feed you. Quite the contrary, really. Often, it was little-you who chased around after them, and who waited by the door, school bag in hand, tapping your foot with every second that ticked by on the clock. You were too young and hadn’t the ability nor the empathy to understand that your parents were held up with sorting through things directly influenced by your existence, like cleaning up the messes you left at the breakfast table, or fixing the doorknob you and your sister broke in an intense game of hide and seek.

Nowadays, you can count on one hand the times you’ve been late.

First, you were late to your own surprise birthday party, but that was down to you getting stuck an extra hour at work. It was out of your control.

Then, there’d been your graduation ceremony. Your father missed an exit and ended up taking you on a mystery tour of the city, trying to find the next turn that led to your campus. Again, out of your control.

The third time is the one you remember panicking over the most, knee bouncing uncontrollably with nerves as you sat squeezed between two strangers on a plane. Your sister, barely halfway through her third trimester, had gone into labour, and where were you? Stumbling around drunk on a private beach in Cancún, mumbling along to the lyrics of some early 2000s classic you forget the name of. Your niece, all 4 and a half pounds of her, had decided now was her time to shine and there was nothing, not even the 4 weeks she had yet to grow in utero, that was going to stop her. By the time you arrived, mascara smudged eyes and with the stench of tequila still on your skin, she was laying peacefully in her incubator, the tiniest little fingers clenched into fists and a name tag around her wrist. This too was out of your control.

But the fourth time you’re late, as you stride urgently across the wooden decking of the ship, weaving in and out of lounge chairs and polo-neck wearing crew members, it’s completely within your control.

Yet, it’s not entirely your fault.

An alarm that never went off. A game of hide-and-seek with your purse. An unfortunate slip on bathroom tiles adding another bruise to your knees. An elevator that refused to travel faster than the speed of a snail. It’s as though Lady Luck had set out in favour of being against you, doing her utmost to ensure you arrive exactly seven minutes past your deadline. His deadline.

Best be on the deck by 7 am, darlin’, or I’m dockin’ without ya.

Your head whips from one side to another, eyes finding a familiar figure amongst the few passengers meeting their own private guides. It’s the same man from yesterday, out on the balcony, the memory of him cheering his champagne and shooting a tipsy smile your way replaying. Only now he’s clad in plaid, with a frown etched into his forehead as he stares at his watch. There’s another man, hanging off his arm, fusing with the collar of his shirt.

“She’s late,” you overhear him say, voice firm and leaking with annoyance.

“Maybe she just slept in!” The man next to him is cheerier, tired eyes full of optimism, even as he turns his head and stifles a yawn. “Give her a few minutes.”

“What kind of shitty tour guide sleeps in?” Balcony-Man huffs, and you can’t help but think of your niece and her pouty face whenever she fails to get her own way. “Does she think I’d not rather be asleep too? Lazy c-”

“See? This is why I told you to eat that damn croissant before we left.” The taller of them seems to snap, rolling his eyes. “Brighten up, Bill, or so help me God you’ll be leaving this boat a divorcee.”

Trying to tune their voices out, as the guilt of prying crawls its way into your bones, your gaze points down at your feet. The very same heels you’d worn last night, pretty as they may leave you, have you cursing at the Sun and the Moon. If you’d have just worn your sneakers, maybe you could have ran up the stairs instead of taking the snail-evator.

Joel, tour guide, Signore Miller’s voice- though your imagination can’t quite reach his level of arrogance- rears its irritating head through your mind, recalling his words from last night. Wear somethin’ a little more… practical. That had been enough to awaken that stubborn mule inside of you, hell-bent on proving him wrong.

But now, late, and with him nowhere in sight, your heels seem to have had the opposite effect. They’ve proved him right.

Which leaves you here, moping so pathetically you’re incapable of appreciating the shine of a rising sun over the horizon of aqua blue water.

Five minutes, you decide. That’s how long you’ll allow yourself to dwell in self-pity. Then, you’ll trek your way over to the Excelsior lounge, hit up the breakfast buffet, and await the general disembarking time.

Who knows, maybe you’ll get a call to say there’s a miraculous spot opened up on one of the tour groups.

If not, you’ll be fine! You’ve travelled alone before, you’ve got an all-inclusive data plan on your phone and you’re pretty well-acquainted with the less-than-accommodating features of Google Maps. You don’t need help, or a tour guide, much less one as blood-boiling, skin-prickling, irritating as Joel Mil-

“Wasn’t sure how ya like your coffee, but you look like a milk, two sugars kind of girl to me.”

Speak of the Devil and he shall appear. Or, in this case, think of him.

Turning a little too fast, you stumble a step or two back, and, sure enough, there he is. A tight fitting, dark grey t-shirt stretched over the swell of his biceps, a pair of washed-out denims, and two well-worn running shoes, one on each foot. Trailing up the swell of his tanned neck, you count the freckles up to his eyes, and find there’s bags under them. The growth of hair on his face is just as unkempt as yesterday, yet already it seems to have grown longer, making the litter of greys stand out more. The hair that sits atop his head is damp, and the strands that have managed to dry are being messed around by the morning air. He’s still got that ever-present frown stamped into his forehead, yet his mouth doesn’t seem to curl into a snarl as he calls your name.

You must stare a moment or two past his comfort level, for he clears his throat and nods down at his hand. Two to-go cups, the smallest streams of steam floating out the hole in each lid.

He’s extending one out- the one in his right hand- towards you. “If you’d rather black, you can take min-”

“No!” You snap back into your own body, all too quickly and all too volatile. Clear your throat, and then try again, this time with a little less of that im being held at gunpoint shake in your voice. “No… Thank you. It’s fine- Milk is fine.”

It’s more than fine.

In fact, he’s gotten it spot on. Down to the number of sugars you take.

But, still stubborn, you yearn to not give him the satisfaction of being right so early in the day, and instead settle for accepting the coffee out his hand. You welcome the golden warmth eagerly, eyes unable to resist slipping shut as you take your first sip. When they reopen, you find Joel watching you, intently. Purposefully, as though you’re something to be studied.

Clearing your throat, you glance to the side and spot Balcony-Man and his partner greeting an apologetic woman.

“Thanks for the, uh,” his stare is intimidating your nerves, setting you on edge of something you’re all to eager to jump off. “Coffee. Yeah. You didn’t have to… I mean, I actually thought you’d, you know, uh-”

“You thought I left without ya.” He states. All you can do is nod. “I could’ve. I did warn you not to be late.”

“You did.”

“I also told you to wear somethin’ other than them heels.”

“I know.”

“Yet here you are, late and in heels. You’re not very good at following orders.” He exhales something akin to a chuckle, as devoid of humour as it may be, and you swear he’s suddenly closer than you remember, knuckles brushing against your own as he bumps his paper cup against yours. “Just what am I gonna do with ya, huh?”

For a moment, you swear your heart has leaped from your chest and up to your throat, threatening to choke you with the beat of it. There’s no sense you can make of it, this reaction he rouses, a heat you can’t control creeping down your loins as you drag in a whiff of some manly cologne, the kind you’d usually turn your nose up at for being too overbearing. Yet, on him, it’s not. On him it’s just right, like he was born with pine soaked skin, and a tobacco stained kiss, and-

Before you can think of pulling in another breath, Joel’s stepped back, allowing a cool breeze to pass between you and get a hold of your senses.

“C’mon, we’re slotted in for the first tender that leaves for shore.”

“Oh my God.”

You’re half certain Joel’s growing sick of hearing those three words roll off your tongue. He’s likely felt this way since it first left your mouth, feet struggling to safely step out onto the dock as your mind became enchanted by the picturesque view in front of you. Only the burn of his hand meeting your lower back, nudging you ahead to make space for himself and the other passengers to step off the tender boat, was capable of dragging you back into your own body, the wanderlust that had gripped your soul yearning to be free to explore every building that sits carved into rock, every water-taxi that flows idly on cristaline water, every step that winds up and up and up the island’s cliff where, at the top, civilisation seems to lie.

The port you’ve docked on is rather small, with naught more than two docking strips and a walkway of shops and confection stands, with boats that find no space along the docking strips tying themselves to any safety they may find over the expanse of the walkway. It is no wonder the cruise floats safely out in deeper waters, alongside several other cruise lines, with no space for such large vessels. And, yet, the port is alive with something. The ground seems to pulse, like a beat of a heart, and the air, as fresh as the grass after heavy rainfall, almost dances its way down your lungs. Voices swim all around you, tourists scrambling past each other, fighting in a race towards something you’ve yet to identify.

“So this is Gialos, also known as the Old Port of Fira.” Somewhere, behind you perhaps, Joel’s voice pipes up, a speech so rehearsed and robotic, a part of your wonders how many times he’s recited it, how many people he’s recited it to. The other part of you, however, is much too fixated on the stairs ahead to pay him true attention, eyes following as two men and several donkeys descend. “That, up there, is Fira, the capital of Santorini. We’re going to need to take a cable- Are you even listening to me?”

“Yes!” You’re quick to react, a defensive rise in your voice. He meets it with a deadpan look and the crossing of his arms over his chest, which quickly becomes something you wish he wouldn’t do as you watch the tight fabric of his shirt stretch itself thin over the bulge of his arms. “No. Sorry, I’m just… Wow.”

You hope he appreciates the restraint you show towards repeating those three dreaded words again.

“You have all day to stare,” his words trip over his own irritated scoff, and you bite back a question of why he’s a guide if he seems to hate it so much, fearful he’s too honest to not tell you a truth that may hurt your fragile feelings. A truth where it is not so much his job he dislikes, but rather, your presence and all that it brings. “Right now, we need to move. Don’t wanna spend all day waitin’ in line now, do ya?”

This need for speed that hooks the other tourists seems to filter over into your guide, who’s forcing you forward, that heat of his palm now hovering inches away from your lower back. It’s enough to lead you where he pleases. As a pair, you weave in and out small clusters of people, till the space between you both and the large gathering crowd slowly diminishes. It is there where his once telepathic leading fails, with Joel turning left towards it as you stray right, over to the ascending pathway of stairs.

“Where are you going?” His tone is offended, almost, as he comes to a halt and watches you fail to do the same, to notice the space between you both and correct it like some puppy who’s been called to heel by its master.

“Where am I going?” The question, at first, is one you mistake as rhetorical. Staring back at him with an equaled confusion, you gesture to the stairway, as though it is the most obvious answer. Because, well, where else could you have been heading? He said so himself, that up there is Fira, the capital of Santorini, and you’ll be damned if you don’t get to see it. “Where are you going?”

“To the cable cars, that’ll take us up the island.”

Above the crowd of people, hanging over doors of small businesses, lay several signs. CABLE CARS - 6€ ! stands out, impossible to miss. Symbols you scarcely recognise sit beneath it, in smaller text, and you assume it’s Greek. In the distance, you spy the movement of the mobile boxes, people being carted up the length of the cliff at a speed that promises them a journey of mere minutes.

“Oh.” So, perhaps his option makes more sense than your own far longer, more tiring one. Still, stubborn as a mule, you double down on your decision to take the scenic route, inching closer towards the first step. Your guide, still in the face, refuses to move, daring eyes willing you to continue. “You want us to take the lazy man’s route? You go ahead, I’ll take the stairs and meet you at the top.”

You press one foot up onto the first step, weary of where you rest the point of your heel.

Glancing a few steps further up, there’s the unmistakable sight of a mound of brown substance, no doubt excreted out of one of the donkeys that walk ahead, tourists mounted on their poor backs.

“I don’t think you understand,” he finally inches closer, if only slightly, hands clenched at his side. “There’s five hundred and eighty-eight steps until you reach the top.”

The number is more daunting than you expect, and you pray he can’t read this on your face. “Only? I’ll be up in no time then!”

You feel more than see the way Joel’s eyes travel down the expanse of you, stuttering almost over the curvature of your chest, the dips at your hips, till they rest at your feet. The question hangs loose between you, unspoken yet evident.

In those heels?

“Listen, Joel,” taking a second, third, and fourth step, you aim for a literal higher ground, staring down below as he continues to drift closer and closer towards the stairway. “If you’re not fit for the task, or the climb’s no good for your knees, you can just say it, there’s no shame. Like I said, I’ll meet you at the top. Promise I won’t even report the fact my private guide abandoned me in favour of his own comfort.”

Defeat has never come easy.

Well, to phrase it better towards the truth, acceptance of defeat has never come easy.

There was always something more to be said, another excuse to be given for any of your shortcomings. When you’d been turned away from the school’s soccer team, you’d told yourself it was because you were a girl- ignoring the fact three girls in your year made the cut. When you’d lost an arduous game of Monopoly, you’d sworn you’d caught your sister sneaking notes out of the banker’s pile into her own. When you’d been beaten, round after round, by your own niece at Mario Kart, you’d stuck your tongue out at her and told her you let her win out of pity.

All that had been before, of course, back when you still roamed school hallways, when your sister sat across from you at the dining table, when your niece still laughed freely, wildly, celebrating her own victories with an over-the-top, uncoordinated dance around the living room.

As changed as things may be, defeat is still your foe.

It is that reason alone that you bite back a complaint.

You’d enjoyed the initial moments of your trek. Maybe it was the salty air in your lungs, or the beautiful views of your surroundings, or the idle grumbling coming from Joel, a few paces behind you, kicking up dirt under his feet with every step he travelled up. Whatever the reason, adrenaline had been flowing, into your heart and through your veins, covering every square inch of your body, a tingling of nerves from the tip of your toes to the top of your spine.

But, by the 10 minute mark, a dull ache forms in your feet. Each step of your heel feels more life threatening than the last, as the stairs grow slippier, dustier, and well-worn the further up you advanced. By stair who-knows-how-may, you take a near fatal tumble backwards, the crunch of crumbling rock threatening to be the last thing you hear. Till he appears behind you, fast as light, huffing out a breath as you smack down against his solid chest.

“Mind your step.” From anyone else, you would mistake it as a sign of care. From Joel, you know better than to think it’s anything beyond a humourless taunt.

You try to keep count of the steps, from then on, an effort to motivate yourself to move faster with each ten-pace you count. By 50, you lose your place and begin counting all over again.

The journey is difficult in other ways, too, with the constant passing of donkeys who obligate you to stand aside and make way for them. And the distant movement of cable cars, firing up and sliding down more times than you can keep track of.

When a particular step proves itself too steep, you can no longer hold back and, finally, a hiss slips out between your clenched teeth as pain shoots up your ankle, the leather of your shoe rubbing even harder into your brittle skin, threatening the promise of a blister yet to fully swell. Pushing the pain down, alongside a complaint, you take another step. Hiss. Then another, hiss. You can fight it no longer, bending at the waist to slip off your heel and examine the irritated skin.

Sure enough, it’s been rubbed raw, broken and spilling a small pool of blood.

Behind you comes an exasperated groan and, before you can straighten yourself to even register what’s happening, Joel barges past you and the figure of him up ahead slowly diminishes the faster he climbs up hill.

“Hey!” You call after him, hobbling to slip your shoe back on, but it’s to no avail.

He’s long gone, growing further and further out of your reach with each passing minute.

Cursing him under your breath, you decide to hell with the no complaints of his preferred regard for his own comfort. He’s abandoned you, injured and hobbling up the steps, all because he has the patience of a toddler who’s been waiting far too long to go potty.

“Wear somethin’ a little more sensible…” You’re bound to seem deranged to any passers by, half hopping up the steps, mumbling to yourself in a mockery of his deep voice “Yeah, right, how bout I shove somethin’ a little more sensible up your ass. Oh, what’s that? There’s no room up there with the massive stick you’re already carryin-”

“A local man warned me bout ya, on my way back down. Said there was some no-good girl casting out bad juju.” You freeze, foot stopped in mid-air. Shifting your gaze up ahead, you find Joel there, skipping a step every so often as he grows closer and closer. At his side, dangling from two fingers, sits a plastic bag. “Told him it ain’t no juju or curses you’re casting, just throwin’ a little tantrum.”

Like a fish out of water, all you can do is stare at him, wide eyes and mouth agape.

Joel pays your silence no mind, almost delighting in it. With a pop and a crack from his knees, he crouches down before you, holding out the palm of his hand.

“C’mon,” he mutters, pointing towards your injured foot. “Lemme see.”

You’re hesitant, at first, but ultimately lift it and let him curl his grip around it, holding you in place as the shoe slips off you. A tut meets your ears as his eyes meet the bloodied mess, and you watch how he contemplates, for a moment or two, before wetting his thumb with his tongue and swiping it over your broken skin.

It stings, like salt in a wound or a bee’s stinger through skin, and you try to flinch back, retract yourself from his hold. But Joel’s strong, resilient, nails biting at the flesh of your ankle to keep you in place. His free hand digs into the plastic bag he’d discarded at his side and pulls out a white box. Fiddling with it for a short period, he manages to open it at last and slips out a bandaid. He rips that open a lot quicker, using his teeth, and slips it over your open wound perfectly, thumb and pointer finger smoothing it around the curve of your heel.

“D’ya see now why I told you to not wear those things?” You feel like a child at his words, reprimanded like you once were for touching your mother’s curling iron. “And why I said we should take the cable car?”

Biting the inside of your cheek, you refuse to meet his eyes. But he just won’t let you be, craning his own neck to infiltrate the space you stare off into. There’s a pleased look on his face, smugness pulling at the right corner of his mouth. Alarmingly, you think of how it’s the closest you’ve gotten to seeing him smile.

You continue your pursuit of silence, repeating a mantra of how you don’t care that he’d tried to look out for your comfort, or how he’d then tried to save you the effort of an uphill battle, or how his hand, big and warm and rough at the fingertips, is still holding your foot in place, absentmindedly rubbing your ankle in a circular motion.

“Look at ya, gone all quiet on me,” that corner of his lip curls higher. You register the rustling of the bag, his hand digging back inside it. “Ain’t one for bein’ put in your place, are you?”

Out comes his hand once more, though this time it’s not a box of bandaids. Now, resting firm in his grasp, sits a mixture of navy blue dyed cotton, stitched atop a flat, thick layer of a straw-like material. A slip-on canvas shoe. Joel doesn’t await permission, nor does he even ask for it. He simply takes charge, slipping it onto your foot, mindful as he straightens out the back to lay against your heel.

“Other foot, up.”

Switching feet, you stumble as your weight completely shifts onto your injured side. Your hands, reaching out to stabilise your swaying body, are quickly directed by his own to rest atop his head, curls of brown threading between your fingers. You contemplate asking what products he uses to achieve locks so smooth and shiny, then rethink it as soon as you imagine his reply of a disinterested grunt and a snarky ain’t use anythin’ but dirt water and a splash o’ whiskey.

“How’s it feel?”

Soft, you almost reply, then realise he’s asking about the shoe.

With a wiggle of your toes, you tell him it’s fine, and leave it at that. He doesn’t need to know they’re surprisingly comfortable.

Joel rises with a bit of a struggle, yet refuses the help you offer. Rough hands scoop up your discarded heels, tossing them into the bag, and then he straightens his back, lets out a noise of discomfort, before nodding up ahead.

“C’mon, only got a hundred or so to go. We’ll be up in no time.”

The sun sits high in the sky when you reach the city of Fira.

Crossing over that last step, 588 painted in white across it, you huff out a sigh, exhaustion aching you out of any enjoyment of your victory over the stairway from hell. Before you can even utter a word of your thirst, Joel is already reaching into his bag of wonders, unscrewing the lid off a bottle of water and passing it to you. Grateful, you take a sip, and lament the few drops that spill down your chin.

At least they don’t go to complete waste, cooling your skin ever so slightly.

It’s a shame to see Joel start moving again, moments before you’re even ready to gain back your breath, but you follow after him, nonetheless, mindful to not press your foot too hard down. Through streets he winds, past shopkeepers he walks. Eventually, after a few minutes, you ask him where you’re both heading.

“To catch a coach,” his hand moves quickly, tugging you closer as a bicycle shoots past behind you. Your own find themselves against his chest, and realise it is nothing like his hair. Solid, warm, wide. It’s almost a shame to lower them back down to your side. “Less you think you can walk from here to Oia, too.”

Truth be told, you don’t know where Oia is.

But you do know your walking for the day is over, happy to follow Joel onto the coach. You take the aisle seat, he’s by the window. Across from you both sits a couple, young and giggling into one another’s ears, as though the sounds of their joy is sacred to none but them. A pang of envy thumps your soul, and you quickly turn your face.

Only to find that Joel’s is grey.

Not the hair that lines it but, rather, his whole face, paled and blood-drained. It’s a sickly image, and one that’s quick to get your heart racing.

“Are you okay?” Any thought of keeping your composure becomes mute as you hear your own voice, a treacherous shake to it that gives your panic away. “You look…” There is no word kind enough for you to use to relay the image of him, so you lock your lips.

It takes a few seconds for you to get a reply, as your hand moves up to feel his forehead. It’s sweaty, warm, and you move to pull your hand back when he’s holding it firm in place, eyes slipping shut. “‘S cold. You’re cold,” seems to be his explanation. “I’m fine, it’s just- Carsick.”

“You get carsick, yet you work on a cruise.”

“Not the same. Ship’s big, somethin’ bout the size and my own visibility, ‘s what stops me getting seasick.”

You sit like that the rest of the coach, your hand pressed to his forehead, his eyes slipped shut.

“What’s your favourite stop on the cruise?”

As it turns out, Oia is exactly what you’d pictured Santorini to be.

White washed houses, deep blue domes for rooftops, turquoise waters, all for as far as the eye can see. Joel complains, more than tells you, of the rise in tourism over the years, of how it’s turned the beautiful village into a party-town for idiots abroad, disregarding the clean environment, shamelessly blocking paths to snap a frame-worthy shot, raising prices to the ceiling. When you ask him if he thinks he’s in part to blame, if people like him are to blame- running tours, bringing guests onto the island, earning a wage off the visiting of such a place- he grumbles out something about missing breakfast, needing lunch.

So you find a cafe. Or, more, Joel leads you to one. He greets the doorman, with a wave and a pat on the back, before sauntering his way through to a back terrace, overlooking the whole village, the water perfectly framing it. Stepping out and sitting down, the view robs the very breath out of your lungs.

It’s like sitting inside a postcard.

Joel asks if you like Greek food.

You tell him you’ve never had it.

He orders for you both, a mixture of different plates, and swears he’ll find something you’ll like.

It turns out you’re rather fond of baklava.

“Florence.” Joel’s taken his time to answer, staring at you like a deer caught in headlights. Disbelief more than fear in his eyes, you have to wonder if it’s the first time someone’s thought to ask him, in all his years as a guide. Naturally, this leads you to wondering how many years that is. “It’s a real site. Full of history, a real story to be told.” He tilts a ceramic dish your way, eyes glancing down in an offering. You follow them, and spot olives. Shake your head, no, then smile, thanks. He shrugs, more for me, and pops two into his mouth. “There’s this…” he pauses to chew. “This library.”

“A library?”

“‘S not just a library.” He slips out the olive’s pip and raises another into his mouth. You try not to think about how thick his fingers look, rolling the remaining briny green pebbles around in the pot. “There’s a cinema built inside it. Plays some classic films. I always- or, I try to go whenever we dock.”

It’s hard to picture Joel inside a cinema, something about the setting too busy, too loud to place his scowling face in. Would he be the kind to have a favourite seat, perfectly picked to optimise the sound quality? Does he speak animatedly, excited any time he recognises an actor? Or is he a shusher, the kind to roll his eyes when someone dares to even clear their throat?

A part of you wants to ask him if your tour involves a trip to this library.

Something tells you it’s not a place he likes to share, though. It’s his own little corner, safe to sneak a moment of selfish indulgence amidst a week of catering to another’s needs.

“A cinema inside a library?” A waiter interrupts you, asks if everything’s alright. Joel orders another serving of baklava. “Isn’t that a bit of an oxymoron?”

“Yeah.” For a moment, you think you see a smile creep across his lips. “Suppose it is.”

Another interruption comes in the form of your ringtone, rippling the water in your glass as your phone vibrates upon the table. You’re well aware of how Joel spots the word Mum displayed across your screen. Just like you’re aware he sees how you swipe down on your screen and switch on aeroplane mode.

Before he can ask any questions, or the sudden silence can become too deafening, you throw out another question. “And your least favourite?”

“Least favourite stop?” You nod, affirmative, and he needs no time to reply. “Here.”

“Here?! How come?”

The baklava arrives, as if on cue, and you point down at it, as though it is reason enough to be enamoured with the island. It seems to do little to convince him, his hand reaching out to push the plate closer to you, inviting you to indulge yourself.

“Compared to the other stops, Santorini’s bland.” He says it when your mouth is too occupied to protest, stuffed full with layer after layer of pastry. “Kind of like a diamond, y’know? Real pretty to look at, empties your wallet, and, at the end of the day, ain’t much you can do with it.”

“People propose with diamonds.” You point out, and cough as a flake of pastry hits the back of your throat.

Joel’s already passing you your glass of water before you even think to reach for it.

“People propose with rings. Diamonds are just custom, not a guarantee.”

Sunset arrives with no warning, a hue of fiery orange melting down into the calm waters on the horizon. It’s Joel who makes the call to head back, one glance at his watch enough to tell you the last chance to catch a coach is nigh. It’s only as you go to call for the bill that he tells you it’s covered and you realise his earlier trip to the bathroom had been a ruse to go pay.

The trip back is calmer, quieter, with the coach full of sunkissed and heat exhausted tourists.

Again, you take the aisle seat, and Joel, the window.

Keeping an eye on him is easy, switching your gaze towards the approaching darkness of the night sky calling upon the street lights anytime he meets your eyes. When you notice the increase in breaths and the paling of his skin, you wordlessly unscrew the cap off a bottle and slot it into his hand, inviting him to finish off the last sips of your water.

Skipping out on a trip down memory stairway, you quietly follow him into the cable car and, when you reach the Old Port, you try your best to block out his smug remark of how easy and fast the ride was. A feat which becomes easier as you stumble halfway up the dock and turn back.

Like hours before, as you first stepped off the tender, your mouth falls agape. Only, this time, wider. The view of the island lit up in all its glory is enough to leave you breathless, hands scrambling to fish out your phone, open the camera and-

“You gettin’ on or what?” Joel calls out from behind, and you find him waiting on board one of the tenders, hand held out towards you.

It’s a demand, more than it is an offer, to hurry up. The collective of other passengers are watching the interaction, and a feeling you’ve come to know all too well crawls its way into your veins.

A burden, holding them all up, that’s what you are.

The feeling follows you back, as you slip into a damp seat and watch as the boat carries you further and further from the island, it’s lights twinkling in a way that chokes you up, drains you out, eyes stinging from more than just the salty air. You’ll love it, I swear! The memory plays out in your head, those words gushed at you. Hands squeezing your cheeks, a smile blinding you under its brightness. Just wait till you see it at night, the lights shine over it like stars!

You blink.

A tear pools at the corner of your eye.

“Here, look,” something nudges you. It’s Joel, inching his phone into your view. Through blurred sight, you glance at it. And find yourself, centre frame, lit only by the moon. In the back lies the whole skyline of Santorini, lights reflecting down onto the waters below. “Best view you can get, the whole island in one shot.”

Afraid to hear your own voice, you smile.

He answers by pointing his phone back at you, snapping another photo.

Back on the cruise, the two of you part ways, with Joel telling you to meet him in the same bar, same time as the night before.

Dinner had been part of your plans. With a glance over the listed restaurants on board, the ache in your tired bones asks you to stay in bed and make use of the room service. You listen, order something light, easy. It arrives in under 10 minutes and your hunger is satisfied sitting out on the balcony, watching the dark waves roll past.

Phoning your mother is the next port o'call.

Unlike with your food, that takes longer than 10 minutes. Much longer, and involves you countlessly reassuring her that yes, you’re okay, and no, you don’t need her to fly out and meet you in Naples.

“I’m a big girl,” you even throw in a laugh, hoping it’ll ease the worry lines you can picture splayed over your mother’s face. “I think I can climb up a mountain without my mum’s help.”

“Honey, you know that’s not what why I’m worri-”

“Did you know you can get carsick but, at the same time, not seasick?”

You hang up shortly after, with a promise to try your best to answer when she calls tomorrow, instead of hours later, when she should be fast asleep.

The time on your phone tells you there’s still forty minutes until you need to meet Joel. The image of that grandiose bathtub flashes before your eyes and, in record timing, you’re sinking into scalding waters, a complimentary bath bomb dumped in and granting you the childish gift of bubbles.

You try to relax, at first.

There’s no need to wet your hair, so you indulge yourself. Lay your head back, close your eyes. Feel your muscles loosen with the warmth, ignore the sting of soap in your blistering heel. Your hands struggle to find a resting place, until they meet your thighs. They sit still, for a moment or two, before one slips down, inching into the crease of where your legs meet.

Something stirs in your core, comes alive as you think of how long it’s been since you last felt someone. A few months, it has to be. A fellow graduate, if you remember correctly, that stupid robe still on his shoulders as he let his mouth come down on you.

Your hand is soon on your core, before you really notice, mind on a mission to recall the hazy encounter. When you think of his tongue, messy yet eager, your finger’s already on your clit, pressing against it with a tease of pleasure. When you think of his cock, uncut and thicker than your ex, splitting you open on his bedroom floor, your hips cant up against yourself, chasing friction. When you rewind how soft Joel’s hair had been between your fingers, your free hand grips one of your breasts, fingers pinching at your nipple.

Your eyes snap open.

Joel’s hair.

Joel.

Something you should not be thinking of right now, hand buried between your thighs.

You wait a few seconds, remind yourself of the graduate’s face.

His blue eyes, your fingers roll over your nipple.

His blonde hair, your legs spread wider.

Joel’s solid chest, your fingers dip inside your cunt.

Your breath is shaky, Joel’s annoyed groan echoes.

The shame of it, of thinking of him, is almost as tantalising as touching yourself, fucking your own hole full with as much of your fingers the angle will allow. It’s a one time thing, you justify. You just need to get it out your system. One and done, cum and done. No more of Joel Miller between your thighs, this is the closest he’ll get.

Someone knocks at your door.

You nearly miss it over the sound of your breathing, the pounding of your heart.

“Who is it?” You don’t like how weak you sound, but it’s too late to take it back now.

Another knock.

“Can I come in?”

A hand still between your thighs, orgasm titering on the edge, body fully submerged in lukewarm water. “No!”

“Ain’t safe to leave your door unlocked. Anybody could walk in- Jesus!”

You’ve never screamed louder.

Joel takes up most of the bathroom doorway, same clothes save for the shirt that’s got two buttons undone and the sleeves rolled halfway up his arms. You’re pressed right back into the bathtub, as physically far from him as you can get, knees pressed up to your chest, ankles crossed over.

In Joel’s defence, he’s quick to turn away, presenting you with a view of his back. A hand runs through his hair.

“Why are you in my room?!” You inch even further back, the water suddenly dropping several degrees.

“I asked to come in!”

“And I told you not to!”

“Well obviously I didn’t hear that!”

“Why are you in my room?” You’re back to your first question, eyeing up your towel.

It’s across the room, on the bathroom sink. No way for you to reach it without the risk of him seeing you reflected on something.

“You were late. Came to check if ya tripped on them heels and broke your neck.”

“I,” you’re not sure what time it is with your phone sitting by the bed, charging. That's now five times you've been late in adulthood. “Didn’t realise the time. I can meet you at the bar in ten minutes.”

He nods, and you watch him take a step, then immediately pause. “You know, I’ve heard a few things from passengers…” You may not see his face, but you swear there’s that half-smirk, smug look upon it. It’s practically dripping off his words. “The shower head, fourth setting. Seems to get the job done for most ladies on board.”

Grabbing the closest thing in reach- a bar of soap- you launch it and watch it bounce off his irritatingly wide shoulders. “Get OUT!”

You make it to the Tipsy Byson in 15 minutes.

Dressed more appropriately than the night before, your flared jeans and crop top garner less stares. It’s just as busy, if not busier, yet it’s not hard to spot Joel on a barstool, nursing a glass of something syrupy looking. Behind the bar is Luke, head thrown back at something Joel says.

They’re an interesting pair to observe, you realise as you make your way over. With Luke, so tall, so lanky, so bright-face, his energy warm and inviting, and Joel so- well, Joel.

“There she is,” Luke cheers, a little too loudly, calling attention to you as you slip into the stool next to Joel. “My new favourite customer.”

“Thought I was your favourite,” Joel’s yet to look at you, and it’s a relief. He’s looked at you enough for one day, one week, one lifetime.

“Sorry but she smells better than you, Joel,” the barman winks at you, a cheeky grin on his face. “ Plus, she’s a hell of a lot nicer to look at.”

Joel scoffs, you giggle.

“Not sure about the whole smelling better thing,” your response comes minutes later, after Luke’s already served you a glass of wine and turned away your cash, telling you he’ll put it on Joel’s tab. “But thanks!”

Unprompted and uninvited, Luke bends over the bar and takes an exaggerated sniff. “I don’t know, smell alright to me.”

“Really? I’m not even wearing perfume, I forgot to pack any-.”

“Yeah! Go on Joel, give her a whiff, tell her she smells fine!” There’s resistance on his end, but Luke’s adamant, hand clamped on the back of Joel’s head, shoving him face first into your neck. Joel’s nose brushes against you. You hear him inhale. Exhale. Inhale again, then the urge to cross your thighs begins to nag at you. “Well?”

“Yeah, smells nice- Fine. Ya smell fine.”

“Be still my beating heart! Someone alert the press that Texas said something other than-”

Joel interrupts Luke’s dramatics, scowl on his face. “Don’t you have a job to be doin’?”

Only once the bartender is down the other end of the bar, engrossed in a heated discussion over what beer pulls a better head, does Joel speak again, sipping on his drink. Whiskey.

“So I noticed somethin’, when I was checking your bookin’ info.” You nod, urge him to continue, and take a sip of your own drink. Some country song plays over the speakers and you notice a sudden shake in Joel’s knee, his foot tapping to the beat. “Says there should be two of you in my guide team.”

“Oh,” the lump forming in your throat falls safely back into the pit of your stomach as you take another drink of wine. “Must be a printing error. You know how technology can be, always complicating things.”

“Hmm,” it’s easy to write off the awkward energy between you with the excuse of earlier events, and it’s the first bright-side you find to him walking in on your intimate bath. “Well, you know the drill for tomorrow. 7 am on that deck or I’m-”

“Docking without me, I know.”

You finish your drink first. When Joel orders himself another glass, you smile politely and turn it down. Yawn, then tell him you best head to bed.

Before you can slip out the entry, someone calls your last name. Loud enough to turn more than just your own head.

It’s Joel, approaching you, effortlessly parting crowds through the lively bar as though he is knife and, the people, butter. The loud music seems to ring louder in your ear, impeding you from hearing the words that leave his moving lips.

“What?” You call out, hands clasped over your mouth in an attempt to amplify the volume of your voice.

His response is to step closer, hands holding you in place by the waist as he leans down. A hot breath on your neck, the smell of whiskey on his breath, the soft brush of lips against your ear.

“It’s your turn to bring the coffees.”

series taglist. @auteurdelabre

[dionysism]

okay fuck it tier list of every greek mythology or greek myth inspired musical i've listened to (so far)

with, if you care, short reviews for each below the cut. i'm like half asleep but take my poorly organized thoughts

paris the musical

this one is my all time favorite of all the ones listed here. the musical scores and vocals are just on another level. it's a rock opera so it's got guitar solos and the songs are so catchy. business is my favorite track i could loop it for weeks. i also love their patroclus characterization and i am obsessed with achilles in this unironically one of my top patroachilles adaptations of all time and the musical isn't even about them 😭😭 AND PARIS... the actual focus of the musical, i love this take on him too. it's kinda comical but also actually tragic at the same time. which i mean. paris is kinda comical but ultimately tragic in general so its fair 💀 things definitely go down differently in this than in the iliad though like agamemnon and the greeks are actually planning to invade troy before paris even shows up to take helen and ulysses (odysseus) is the only one who thinks this is stupid. he does manage to convince the rest of them to maybe Not, but then paris takes helen after what's supposed to be him going there to strike a trade deal. and agamemnon uses that as the perfect excuse to justify something he already wanted to do unprovoked anyway. also agamemnon and menelaus were going to violate xenia and kill paris in their home after making him a guest (again, before he does anything with helen) which was ?!?!!? but like similar to epic this is more like an au to me than a faithful iliad adaptation. i also love this helen characterization and the whole dynamic between hector paris and cassandra i wish i could put them all in my mouth and chew them up

ulysses dies at dawn

this is another great one. i will say this is the only album from the mechs i've listened to and the band itself has a whole ton of lore so there may be details i'm missing but i love it so much. this is definitely more of an inspired by tale—takes place in the future (i think?) on a planet that's entirely machine and metal and all animals and natural life is extinct. and all the characters are named after greek mythos characters and they have similar stories to their original counterparts but adapted to this futuristic universe and it's just so unbelievably cool. also ulysses nonbinary in this?! (the narrator says the records are lost to time and we can't be sure if ulysses was a "man, woman, both, or neither" and only refer to them with they/them pronouns) anyway i won't say too much on this one because the story tells itself and i don't want to spoil but GO LISTEN this album is fantastic

hadestown

this one i think is the most popular/well known on this list so most of you have probably heard of it but i'll still give my review. everything about this musical is incredible. i absolutely adore this take on orpheus and eurydice. and this is a take on persephone and hades i don't totally hate (because usually i do) and the way at times they paralleled orpheus to hades??? there was a quote i read from its wiki page once that sums it up pretty well, from todd osborne, "it is a musical both about how art can save us and how, especially in an apocalyptic world, hope might be the only thing we have left." just such a beautiful musical and beautiful story and the themes and messages like stop i could talk about this musical for hours let me stop

for epic i've already summed up most of my thoughts on it here

theseus the musical

um. i'm not going to lie there's multiple parts of this where i do not know what they are saying. i have auditory processing issues and i usually really need the lyrics and i cannot find any anywhere for this so i'm kinda just going on vibes. but the songs are catchy and i like the parts i do understand 😭 and well i love theseus. dearly. my little princess with a disorder my freakazoid i want to trap him in a jar like a bug and shake him around his enclosure. i'll kind of take literally anything i can get on him

penelope off broadway

full title is penelope or how the odyssey was really written and this is such a fun one. this is a comedy musical and the premise is that the epic poem, the odyssey, actually comes from fake letters penelope wrote to stall the suitors in odysseus' absence. so she's just making shit up like "umm... my men got turned into pigs so i'm gonna be late sorry babe :/" and signing it as odysseus. obviously not the most accurate characterizations but again its more of a comedy spinoff than a faithful retelling. telemachus also gets a cute little romance. (spoilers ahead if you care) they scared me for a second i thought they were having it that odysseus cheated penelope and she was gonna leave him but that's not the case and it has a happy ending so <3 this one is just so funky and silly like if you want a lighthearted not super serious musical you will love this it's really adorable and the woman who plays penelope's voice is incredible like omg some of the high notes she hits??? woah

jasper in deadland (tw suicide mention)

this one is also an inspired by/based on tale where jasper (orpheus) follows his friend agnes (eurydice) into deadland in an attempt to get her back from what was either an accident or a suicide attempt (but most likely suicide) he runs into various figures from greek norse and egyptian mythology and like it wasn't bad or anything really the songs just weren't catchy enough for me. i'm not gonna lie that's literally my only issue. i just cannot get into it and listen to it multiple times if it's not catchy enough. but the plot is cute!!

percy jackson the musical

i just don't personally care for percy jackson, sorry. never really did. you'd think as a greek mythology obsessed child i'd eat it up and i mean as a kid i did like it a little but i don't know it just never hooked me. i've tried to get back into it but it's even less enjoyable to me now unfortunately. the songs weren't catchy (to me) and i didn't like the lyrics either. it's not necessarily a bad musical. it's just not my thing

aristos the musical

sorry it just kinda felt like tsoa the musical to me and i immediately couldn't enjoy it 😭😭 that's literally all i have to say

[tsarinatorment]

okay so-

on the discord i was scrolling through past convos in a desperate search for a link that i've seen before, and i came across another one of your and fsinger's aus starring Michael👀

It was like a Kronos Wins/Time-Travels AU where Michael, Thalia, Bianca, Nico, and Hazel are the MCs and I was like !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

and then when the first main plotpoint was basically Michael going "SAVE MY DAD" my FIRST thought was that one Puss In Boots: The Last Wish scene;

Michael, about Apollo: I will save you!

Every other god, suffering in Tartarus: Save us too!

Michael: ...if it's convenient!

like. gnawing on this au rn. i gnaw on all of your aus. this one and the Lee Lives/Apollo Becomes Mortal/BotL Au are officially my favs (Eclipse at this point is basically canon to me lol)

but yeah. I know this au has a BUNCH of beloved characters die, which would have admittedly upset me like, three years ago, but now?

now i merely eagerly rub my hands as my brain imagines how this scenario goes down eheheehhe

Ah yes, this AU! Not one I've thought about in a while, but still a fun one!

Fun fact, for you if you missed the origin of it, and also for anyone else who might be reading this and hearing about this AU for the first time - this is an AU spinoff of my AU fic Tears Will Not Wash Away Your Crimes, where defeated!Kronos from canon timetravels back to the start of TLT to take Michael out before he could become the threat that saves Olympus (see: my long rants on how by being the one to realise Williamsburg Bridge needed to break, Michael stopped Kronos winning on the first day of the siege). In that fic, he succeeds in making Luke kill Michael, and while the fic never goes on to state it, it does become an alternate timeline where Kronos does, in fact, win (due to various factors such as Luke's betrayal not being discovered because Percy wasn't there to survive being poisoned and reveal that he was the traitor, etc. and also Kronos knowing how the demigods/gods operated and basically having the cheat code of being able to squash anything they try before they try it).

But also I am a perpetual Michael!lives fan, so with the enabling of @fearlessinger, as you mentioned, another AU spawned off of this, whereby when Luke carelessly mentioned Apollo by name, he caught Apollo's attention and the god himself turned up to whisk Michael away to safety. In the end, though, it doesn't stop Kronos from winning, because no-one knows enough to trump what Kronos knows. Hence, Kronos wins!AU.

But then!

There are some key changes that go down because of Kronos' prior knowledge... Change #1: Thalia is not restored by the Golden Fleece. Kronos did this because he wanted her as his host, but he tried that last time and it failed - he won't try again. Change #2: The di Angelos do not leave the Lotus Casino. No Thalia in the running suggests that Hades may not have bothered to pull his own children back into the prophecy race - if he really wanted them to be feasible as prophecy children, he'd have brought them out when Percy was claimed, as that would make Bianca a similar age to Percy and therefore viable as an alternative. Bringing them out a year or two later makes his kids younger than both Thalia and Percy and doesn't actually make sense, unless it was a response to being the only Big Three god with no kids involved... Change #3: Daedalus doesn't die, because Nico isn't around Change #4: All our Greek Hero demigods (and the Hunters) are dead, barring the above, and Michael, who was kept safe on Delos the whole time.

And these changes all line up quite neatly into a ridiculously large plot, based on the following consequences:

Consequence #1: the gods are thrown down into Tartarus Consequence #2: the triumvirate's deal with Kronos for their support involved getting Apollo as their prize so Caligula can still claim the sun god spot and Commodus gets his revenge. Apollo is passed to them, instead of Tartarus Consequence #3: Michael is rather pissed off about all of this

What happens after that, well. Imagine Michael, no longer trapped on Delos because the twins aren't there, making his way to Delphi. Imagine Phoebe initially reclaiming Delphi, before Kronos realises she was never on her side and instead release Python to reclaim it; Michael has enough time to speak with his grandmother, but only very little before he's forced to flee into the Labyrinth to hide.

Imagine Daedalus trying to atone for all the deaths he's caused by keeping this one demigod still alive, hidden in the Labyrinth while Michael tries to work out how the fuck he's supposed to save the gods, but never even considering not doing it ("the gods", of course, meaning "Apollo, mostly").

Imagine Apollo weakened, but still able to make dream contact. Apollo not being able to dissuade Michael from trying to save him. Apollo with nothing left to lose except his one son he can't protect himself, so he gives Michael knowledge, things to help him stay alive.

Knowledge, like how the daughter of Zeus is a tree but isn't dead, can be healed by that golden fleece (Percy, Annabeth and Grover retrieved it still, but the tree was not sick and so it was never hung upon it). Knowledge, like how there are two more Big Three kids trapped in a place where time doesn't move.

(Imagine Apollo chained up and forced to be his own oracle as his divinity is drained away. Imagine a little girl with sickle-rings on her fingers being drawn to him anyway, this captive god of the Beast. Imagine the god that still wants to save a child, if only he had the chance)

Imagine Michael healing Thalia with the fleece, the pair of them fleeing from the remains of camp (the remains of Michael's home) as Kronos realises he's there. Imagine Michael and Thalia edging into a casino that's too bright, too jovial compared to their broken world, and pulling two younger demigods back into the timestream. Imagine lurking in the Labyrinth, in the Underworld and discovering a dead girl who still remembers when she shouldn't.

Imagine these demigods plotting, scheming, desperate, and the power of three children of the Underworld combined, pooling their powers together until they can go anywhere the shadows touch.

Imagine them rescuing a god, and the little girl coaxed along with them.

And when they've got one god back... it's only a matter of time before they get the rest.

(And when Kronos discovers it's Michael, again, that foiled him in the end... Well. Some Fates can't be denied)

[beidousbeloved]

birthday girl.

a/n: hbd to my dear friend and happy holidays to my motherfuckers. my asks are still open for sorority/frat!character ideas, so send them in if you have any. make sure to check my request guidelines and the list of who i write for before sending anything in!

pairing: sorority!wanda maximoff x sorority!fem!reader

summary: you’re new to greek life and find yourself in trouble with one of your sorority sisters during your birthday party.

warnings: 18+ only, smut, oral sex on strap-on (r giving), strap-on use (r giving), choking

word count: 1.5k | marvel masterlist | navigation

you do not have permission to translate or repost my work on tumblr or any other platform. likes, comments, and reblogs are always welcome & appreciated!

You navigated through the crowd of sweaty bodies, trying to get to the other side of the house. Rush had barely ended and you were already having to attend a party. Not only that but that party was being thrown for you. One of the girls had gotten word that it was your birthday after you’d let it slip that you were planning on leaving for the weekend to celebrate with your friends and family back home. Sharon told Monica, who told Natasha, who told Pepper, who told everyone, and took it upon herself to delay your plans by a day by throwing a party for you.

There wasn’t anyone you could blame for the position you were in aside from yourself. You couldn’t have expected privacy and peace in Delta Phi Epsilon. If you had rushed for any other sorority, you’d be in a similar situation, but Pepper was notorious for throwing the craziest parties in the city.

Some of your sisters urged you to dance with them throughout the night, to which you politely declined. The music wasn’t to your taste, not that you could tell since you were focused on the intensity of the bass. Luckily, you didn’t have to suffer through that much longer once you reached the door. You took the opportunity to quickly stumble outside while no one was looking for you.

There were still a few people around, but it was much calmer outside. Your shoulders dropped in relief that you could finally get some air. You leaned against the railing of the balcony and silently observed your surroundings. However, you weren’t paying much attention to the area you stood. You flinched in surprise hearing someone clear their throat beside you.

Turning your head, you were immediately greeted with the sight of Wanda Maximoff. Your eyes widened. You hadn’t interacted with her during Rush aside from her bumping your shoulder when she was trying to leave the house. She was two years above you and one of the few people that made up Pepper’s inner circle. 

“What’s wrong, birthday girl? Why are you so shocked to see me? We’re going to be living in the same house for the rest of the year. Maybe longer if you can last.” For Pepper to know you was one thing. She was Pepper, she knew everything about all of your sisters. But for Wanda to know you, or at least of you was something you weren’t prepared for. Wanda sighed when you remained quiet for longer than she had anticipated. “What’s your name again? Come on, you’ve gotta be able to answer that at least.”

Well, maybe she didn’t even know of you. But she at least knew that it was your birthday. That was a start. “Y/n,” you replied.

“Y/n,” Wanda repeated to herself, scrunching her eyebrows as she thought. “Oh right! You’re the girl that got in my way the first day of Rush.” 

“I wasn’t trying to. I’m sorry, but you bumped into me,” you tried to explain. It was of no use, though. You knew you had made a mistake the moment your eyes locked with Wanda’s.

“So you’re going to pin your mistake on me?” She questioned. You were far too weak to protest her accusations. Maybe you shouldn’t have signed up for Greek life because it was clear that the brunette wasn’t going to let you live this down.

“No- I was just trying to-”

“You should really stop talking before you get yourself into more trouble, princess.” She warned. Despite her threat, you melted at the new title. “You know if we don’t get along, your life here won’t be easy, right?” You nodded in response. “See, you’re doing better already. But if you want to move past this, you’ll have to make it up to me, baby. Think you can do that?” You nodded again and her hand found yours. 

Wanda smirked, dragging you back inside and down the hall. She opened a door you had never been on the other side of before and let you in. She locked the door behind her and led you further into her room. Her bedroom was much larger than yours and it seemed like she had it all to herself, while you had to share with another recruit. Perks of being close to Pepper Potts, you supposed.

The brunette walked over to her nightstand and bent over to pull something out of the lowest drawer. Your eyes fixated on her ass as she rummaged through it. “I know you’re looking, honey.” You looked away flustered as she stood back up and favored you. “Do you know what this is, baby?” Wanda asked, holding up a strap-on. 

You raised an eyebrow, slightly offended, thinking she perceived you as someone dumb and naive. Wanda’s eyes stayed on you as you thought about your next move. You considered leaving, but you knew by the look on her face that she was not pleased by your thoughts, so you answered to please her.

“Yes-” 

“Good.” She interrupted. “Get it ready for Mommy’s pussy.” Wanda pulled you closer by the back of your neck and held the strap in front of your face. Your lips wrapped around the tip of the toy as you allowed Wanda to slowly work it into your mouth. “That’s my good girl, I’m gonna have lots of fun with you.”

When you had almost taken the entire thing, Wanda abruptly pulled the cock out before shoving it back in. You gagged slightly when it hit the back of your throat, but that didn’t deter her from continuing to move the dildo in and out of your mouth.

Once Wanda was satisfied with your work, she removed the cock from your mouth and began to undress you. You moved to do the same with her, but she slapped your hands away. “Mommy can take care of herself, princess. All you’re supposed to do is listen to me.”

“Yes, Mommy. I’m sorry.” Wanda hummed in approval. She may have told you to stop talking, but perhaps some things were acceptable. As long as you kept it short and she agreed with it.

Wanda handed you the strap-on and reached underneath her skirt to pull her panties off while you struggled to put the harness on. “Do I have to do everything for you?” Wanda huffed, rolling her eyes while helping you. 

“Thank you,” you mumbled as she pulled you down onto the mattress with her. 

“You think you can make me cum without my help, honey? Do you think your dumb little brain can handle that?” She questioned, reaching between your bodies to align the cock with her core.

Instead of answering, you snapped your hips up, filling Wanda. Her hands grabbed your arms as you began to work the toy in and out of her cunt.

You pulled her top down and leaned your head towards her chest. Wanda gasped as your lips wrapped around one of her nipples. One of her hands moved to the back of your head, holding you down while the other slid down her body to rub at her clit. She huffed as you pulled away from her chest, grabbing your neck. You replaced her hand with yours and began teasing her. “Come on, baby. Do you wanna make me cum?” 

“I don’t know. Do you deserve it, Mommy?” You asked, pressing down on her clit. Wanda moaned, rolling her hips towards yours.

“Are you really not going to give me what I want, honey? This could easily turn into a punishment.” Wanda purred, gently squeezing the sides of your neck. “But I’m sure you’d like that since you like being a bratty slut.” You released a pathetic whimper in response. “So are you going to listen to me, princess?” She smiled when you let out a small ‘yes, Mommy’ and slid her hand up to your jaw. She cupped your face and leaned up. Her lips ghosted over yours as you picked up the pace. 

With a few more thrusts, the brunette came undone in your arms. Wanda fell back against the bed as she came down from her high. You were disappointed that you didn’t get to kiss her, but you shook that feeling off while you watched the brunette try to collect herself.

“I think you did a pretty good job showing me how sorry you were, honey.” Wanda breathed out when you removed the toy from her cunt. “I’d usually let you go, but I can’t just do that to my little birthday girl.” Wanda cooed, flipping you onto your back. She crawled up the bed, setting one leg on either side of your head. “I can’t let you leave before I give you your present.”

[charms-cat]

Nitpicking Kaos

Aka "Is it so hard to have 10 seconds of Googling?"

Dislaimer: I'm not a follower of the Greek pantheon nor am I the most avid "fan" of Greek myth (putting that in quotes bcs there are still worshippers today), but oh my God. Is it so difficult to keep the most basic of information correct? I'm not gonna nitpick on how they twist certain myths (e.g. how Orpheus gets to and gets Eurydice out of the underworld) bcs it's fine, it serves the plot they're telling so it's not like they're doing it for no reason. But the names of gods? Their titles? The fact that Hera is probably the only goddess who has remained faithful to her spouse? Is it too much to ask?

EDIT: just realised just how negative this all sounds, but I did genuinely enjoy the show and its plot. It was interesting enough to captivate me for 8 whole eps, the character dynamics were intriguing, and the portrayal of the gods was cruel and I loved it since it hammers in the disconnect/lack of empathy that they feel for mortals

Anyway, here's a list of nitpicks [SPOILERS BELOW THE CUT] feel free to correct me if I'm wrong

Heracles, not Hercules

Why do people keep getting this wrong? The name of a literal Greek Goddess (Hera) is part of his name. How are you gonna make Zeus praise him, but still get his name wrong

Hestia

Why is Hestia reduced to being a fucking dog????????? Not just any dog either, she's Zeus's dog that already died, absolutely no chance of an appearance of his fifth sibling unless you wanna make it that Zeus was such a dick that he named his dog after his sister. It's not like she has a "useless" domain. She's one of the three most well-known virgin goddesses. She's the goddess of the home and hearth and of the sacrificial fire. She's the one who receives the first offering at a (domestic) sacrifice so why is she just a dog??

Hera

If I had a nickel for every time I read a retelling where she cheats on Zeus with his brother, I'd have two nickels (the first was Lore Olympus, if you're curious). Hera is supposed to represent the ideal wife, the literal goddess of lawful marriage so how the fuck can you make her be unfaithful?????????

Poseidon

Not so much a nitpick than a question, said question being "why are we acting like Poseidon doesn't have a wife, the nereid Amphitrite, queen of the seas" did they get divorced? Is that why he's lusting after Hera

Hades

He's the god of THE DEAD. Thanatos is the god of death ffs; he's the literal personification of death. Thanatos takes mortal souls, and Hades presides over said dead souls. It would've taken only a few seconds to change Hades's title card and for Persephone to call him "god of the dead" instead of the "god of death". Nothing about Hades's position even hints to him presiding over death itself. We only ever see him running the underworld (Y'know, where all the dead are?). They literally had to change nothing but his title card and what Persephone calls him

Persephone

This isn't really a nitpick on her character, but.... if she's in the underworld, shouldn't it be winter? It doesn't matter that she truly loves Hades or that she went willingly, Part of what fueled Demeter's winter is her grief over losing/being away from her daughter so why is it so damn sunny when we cut to the mortal world

Orpheus

Again, not a nitpick but a definite downplay of his musical abilities considering the fact that the song he sung to convince Hades and Persephone had literally stopped the underworld in its tracks

Prometheus

Not an egregious change, but I'll say it anyway: Wasn't he freed by Heracles during his 12 labours? It's not like he needs to be chained up, pretty sure the resentment that comes from centuries or millenia of having your liver pecked out and eaten would sustain his hatred for an equal amount of time

Minos

Their decision to make him a president instead of a king is not only unnecessary, but it makes him look like the Greek ver of Putin. I mean, they really didn't need to add in the part where Ariadne(?) says something along the lines of "you should let the people vote, they'd choose you anyway". Just... the implication that he simply declared himself president is dumb as hell. Despite Athens being the birthplace of democracy, I don't think they even had presidents in Ancient Greece. You could literally just call Minos a king and virtually nothing about the plot would even change so why bother. Is this really just their attempt at "modernising" their world/setting? It's not like we don't have kings in this day and age

Minotaur

It's true that Glaucus is a sibling of Ariadne, but the Minotaur is a whole separate sibling. The Minotaur even has his own name: Asterion/Asterius. Just another case of "why did they have to change this?" Literally just swap out the name "Glaucus" for "Asterion" and not only will (yet again) virtually nothing about the plot change, but it would be more mythologically accurate and less confusing for people who do know the myths. In fact, it could've been a fun hint for people who know the myths to clock what really happened to "Glaucus" early on, but still have them questioning "how did he become the Minotaur in this version?"

Pasiphae/Pas

Ngl I'm kinda sad that Pas seems to be just a normal mortal woman bcs, in Greek myth, she was a sorceress-goddess, the daughter of Helios. Plus, although I think it's kinda fucked up that she was forced to fuck/be fucked by the Cretan bull (bcs being "made to fall in love" is not the same as "falling in love"), I think it would've been interesting to explore not only her grief over losing a child, but the grief that comes from realising that he never was and never could be accepted by either Gods or mortals. Also, it would've made her obsession over him look slightly less selfish (and lowkey creepy) if we found out that part of the reason was that she knew her son could never live among humans as half-man, half-bull so she resorted to making wax figures that would've at least let her imagine what it would've been like if he wasn't the result of divine punishment

Theseus

Was literally just an Easter egg. Downgraded from a prince of Athens to a Cretan bodyguard. Didn't even do his most notable act (killing the Minotaur) or even get sent to the Labyrinth in the first place. Makes him feel very much like a character that the writers added just to say, "Look! Look, we know Greek myth!" Especially since Theseus disappeared into thin air after the Trojan 7 were arrested. I don't think they even showed him in the crowd with Andromache, mourning Astyanax

Non-character Nitpicks (yeah, I got more)

Bees

Not really bothered by this, but I'm pretty sure that bees aren't even one of Hera's sacred animals. They could've made it peacocks, make the birds wander the grounds and when the reveal drops, the symbol of opulence turns into an unabashed display of cruelty

Ichor

Admittedly, the colour of ichor in Ancient Greek texts has always been ambiguous. But I feel like it would've been an interesting visual for their blood to be a non-red colour; maybe the popular gold, for example. Bcs it would've A) drawn a clear line between Gods and mortals and further "validated" the Gods' hubris by serving as visual proof that there's an undeniable difference between them and the mortals; and B) would've really caused Zeus to panic when he saw that his blood was red instead of gold, make him think that he's becoming mortal, vulnerable, weak

Styx

Minor nitpick, but isn't the sentence for not being able to pay the toll only 100 years, not 200? Why the extra 100 years? Why even change this? If they really wanted to make it feel like a long sentence, then they should've gone for 500 or 1000 years. Living even just 100 years of doing the same thing with no variation or even the choice to opt out, or even being able to taste anything, would start feeling hellish sooner than you might think

Couples

This might just be the aromantic in me, but why is there so much romance???? And it's between couples that never existed in the OG myths

1. Hera/Poseidon - why??? I've already talked about how it goes against Hera's character, but if they really wanted them to have a "deep" relationship, they're literally siblings?? They could just bond over having to be the ones that keep Zeus in line or being the only ones responsible for actually ruling their realms (bcs Amphitrite is nowhere to be found). They didn't need to insult Hera's character like that

2. Theseus/Astyanax - I'd have less problem with this if it didn't seem like Theseus wanted Ari to only save Nax instead of all 7 Trojans. It makes it feel like they're fueling the idea that a person would only be desperate to save the person they love romantically. E.g., a husband saving his wife, but not someone saving their best friend

3. Prometheus/Charon - same problem as the Theseus/Nax ship, especially with the added line that Prometheus needs to rely on "someone who will do anything for you" (or sumn like that). Like,,,, you can do that for your friend too, y'know. It's not out of the realm of possibility to miss your friend or love them so deeply that you'd do anything for them. It's literally a well-known joke(?) that there are friends who'd help you hide the body. It'd just be a more intense ver of that between Charon and Prometheus. They didn't need to be romantic to showcase Charon's trust in and dedication to helping Prometheus

4. Caeneus/Eurydice - I'm so tired of people falling in love in less than a week (I don't think this relationship even reached a full three days). Iirc y'all had a grand total of 6 conversations - first at the Frame, second meeting when Riddy introduces herself as a diver, third at the party, fourth when they're sitting on the bench, fifth when they have their short escapade to the Nothing, sixth in Caeneus's bedroom.

I mean,,,,, I get that they shared meaningful conversations, but I swear none of said conversations even lasted more than 5 minutes so where on Earth is this "love" coming from?? Y'all have barely scratched the surface of what you know of each other but you think you're connected??? Get real

Ending on a positive note

I actually love the Furies and the Fates. The Furies more for their looks and their vibe and especially the Fates for their (literal) know-it-all nonchalant attitude. I hope they come back next season.

The set design and colouring is also top tier, from the underworld filtered in black and white and looking industrial and office-like to the vibrant colours and festivity of Earth to the opulence of Olympus

Some actual trans and disability rep! I've been burned before with the trans rep since the Netflix adaptation of "Alice in Borderlands" has a cis woman playing a transfem, but Misia Butler is an actual transmasc! [Nobody argue that AIB couldn't have an actual transfem bcs of Japan's transphobia bcs I can tell you what's not helping trans rights: having cis women play transfem roles, thinking it makes no difference anyway. Good rep can pave the way for acceptance]

The disability rep in actors is so fucking bad that I genuinely thought most people with disabilities just didn't become actors. I only knew that the daughter in "A Quiet Place" was actually deaf bcs I went to look it up. Anyway, hope Mat Fraser (Daedalus aka only decent father figure) comes back bcs no way he actually got eaten, right? Right????

[error-intheraine]

Agatha All Along

Ep 5, Oct 10 2024:

HOLY FUCKING SHIT HOLY SHIT WE WERE RIGHT HE IS WANDAS KID THE SIGIL BEING MESSY TO PROTECT HIS IDENTITY ‘we don’t like to say her name’ AND THEN HES SO MAD THEY JUST WANT POWER AND THEN HE MIND CONTROLS THEM AND THE CROWN GROWS ON HIS HEAD JUST LIKE IN WANDAVISION W/ WANDA AND ALSO ‘a lot happened to me at 13 too’ AGATHA WAS UNDER WANDAS CONTROL FOR 3 YEARS SO BILLY WOULD BE 17 AND HE IS AND WHEN HE WAS 13 THATS WHEN WANDA AND VISION DIED AND WESTVIEW WAS UN MIND CONTROLLED AND I THOUGHT HE DISAPEERED IF HE’S ALIVE IS WANDA ALIVE OR DID HE COME FROM A DIFFERENT MULTIVERSE TO FILL JN A SPOT IDK I THOUGHT HE WAS DEAD IS TOMMY DEAD TOO??? IF TOMMYS THERE WILL THEY BECOME A DUO IS HE GONNA KILL ANYONE ELSE CAISE THE IMLY ONE WHO WAS REALLY NICE TO HIM WAS ALICE W/ THE BROOMS AND ‘you know, I miss the eyeliner, but the hair’s kinda cute’ AND HE WAS THERE FOR HER FLASHBACK AND SHE JUST GOT OVER HER GENERATIONAL CURSE AND IS RECOVERING FROM HER TRAUMA AND THEN SHE TRIED SAVING AGATHA AND AGATHA KILLED HER AND THEN THE END BEING ‘YOU SHOULD SEE ME IN A CROWN’ THAT SLAPPED SO HARD I LITERALLY ALMOST SCREAMED HOLY SUOT AND THE PARALLELS AND VISION IS GETTING HIS OWN SHOW WILL BILLY AND/OR TOMMY BE IN THAT WILL THE FULLY WHITE VIS BE IN THIS AND LIKE PULL BILLY OFF THE EDGE OF DESTRUCTION? IF RIO IS DEATH THEN WILL BILLY FORCE HER TO LEAD HIM THERE TO GET ALICE AND THEN FIND TOMMY VIS AND WANDA WOULD VIS EVEN BE THERE BECAUSE HES AI BUT ALSO HE IS A PERSON AND HE CAN DIE BUT WOULD HE BE IN THE SAME PLACE WILL WE GEG TO SEE MORE OF HIS BOYFRIEND WILL IT BE A WANDAVISION SITUATION WHERE HE’L TRY HIDING IT FROM HIS BF AND WONT WORK OR WILL HIS BF BE LIKE A CAHRCATER (I don’t think so cause gay and marvel) ALSO ‘an agent of Mephisto’ WHO IS FROM THE MARVEL UNIVERSE BASED ON GREEK MYTHS IF NORSE MYTHOLOGY IS REAL THE. GREEK MYTHOLOGY ORPHEUS???

OK LIKE 15 min LATER LOOKED ONLINE YEAH SO BILLY MOGHT NOT BE 616 BILLY SO MAYBE THATS WHY HE CANT TLAK AND LIKE AND THIRTEEN HE GOT TRANSPORTED AND HIS HAIR TURNED BLACK OR SOME SHIT AND ALSO THE REASON HE KEEPS FINDING THE CLUES

A. Already walked the witches road in a different universe/multiverse (not 616)

B. The gatherer of the coven walks the road, he gathered the coven it was never Agatha’s it was his

ALSO WHY WAS AGATHA PROTECTING HIM MAYBE SHE THOUGHT HE WAS HERS UNTIL RIO AND THEN SHE REALISED HE WAS WANDAS AND WAS LIKE OH SHIT THAT MAKES SENSE ALSO DOES TEEN KNOW HIS MOM IS WANDA HOW LONG HAS HE KNOWN WTF I CANT BELIEVE I HAVE TI WAIT ANOTHER FUCKING WEEK ALSO THE FINALE IS DEF COMING OUT ON HALLOWEEN ALSO WHAT IF WANDA IS AT THE END OF THE ROAD AND NOT DEAD J DINT THINK BILLY KNEW HIS MOM CAUSE AGATHA TRIED KILLING HIM AND BIS MOM SO LIKE YEAH

OK MEW THEORY FROM TWT HOMY SHIT WHAG IF THE WHOLE EPISODE WAS A VISION BECAUSE IN EVERY EP LILIA BLURTED OUT A VUSION AND SHE DIDNT THIS TIME PROBABLY BECAUSE WE WERE IN HER VISION ALSO SVERYINE WAS WEIRDLY OOC AND STRAIGHTFORWARD MAYBE IT DIDNT HAPPEN YET AND LIKE MAYBE BEGINNING WAS BUT I THINK GATAHAS TRIAL BEING THE SHORTEST IS DUMB SHE WOULD FAVE SO MUCH MORE AND MAYBE HER WORST FEAR IS HER MOM IDK TRAUMA BUT LIKE WHAT IF IT WAS A VISION THAT WOULD BE FUCKING CRAZY HAHA WHAT IF RIO WAS THE ONLY ONE IN CHARACTER THEY ALL TURNED ON AGATHA SO FAST MAYBE THE VISION CUT OUT FLUFF WHICH IS WHY ITS SO SHORT OR MAYBE TEEN WAS MANIPULATING EVERYONE OR LILIAS VISION OF THE WORST OUTCOME OF THE ROAD ‘save Agatha’ , Alice, don’t’ SO LILIA CAN STOP THEM FROM HAVING ALIVE DIE SAVING AGATHA AND BILLY DOESNT KILL EVERYONE ALSO WHAT IF IT WAS ACTUALLY TEENS TRIAL BECAUSE 80’s SLEEPOVER HES WEARING SAME KIND OF T SHIRT AS HE DID IN WANDAVISION AND WNADVISOON HE WAS AGED UP IN THE 80’s EPISODE AND LIKE THIRTEEN AND MAYBE HEA EVIL AND MANIPULATED EVERYONE INTO THINKING IT WAS AGATHAS FAULT SO THATS WHY BUT HE WIULDNT KILL ALICE MAYBE THAT WASNT PLANNED BUT LIKE THE DOOR ONLY OPENED WHEN HE SAID NICHOLAS SCRATCH FSR WTF

TWT IS MAKING ME CARZY WHAT IF BILLY WAS CONTROLLING IT THE WHOLE TIME SO THATS WHY TRIALS ONLY START WHEN HE DOES SOMETHING AND WHY HE WAS ABLE TO GET AGATHA OUT OF HIS MOMS SPELL AND WHY THE KIGHT AT THE BEGINNING OF THE ROAD WAS BLUE LIEK AAAAAAH AND HES THE FIRTS ONE INTO THE ROAD AND THE DOOR ONLY OPENED WHEN HE RAN DOWN MAYBE THE NEXT EPISODE WILL HAVE A DIFFERENT TITLE

ALSO LIKE BILLY CONTROLLING THEM THE WIO TIME BUT THIS EPISODE THE ONLY PERSON WHO TREATED HIM AS AN EQUAL (Alice) DIED SO HE JUST WENT FUCKING INSANE AND FERAL

[childrenofcain-if]

Hi! I want to start by warning that this will probably be a long rant about how much i love your IFs. But first, I hope you feel better soon!

The first IF of yours i played was the pjo one, which sent me down a rabbit hole of going through the rest of them (still haven't played tcs but i will soon 🤞🏻). It was just BAFFLING how people could be so purposefully ignorant about the concept of fanfiction and accused you over and over of plagiarism like, please go outside and touch grass, clearly the internet has stopped your brain from developing critical thinking.

Anyways, the adaptation was so well done and faithful while also exuding a newness to it that i am very excited to see unravel. I understand at the moment it has been paused (and I don't know if you've addressed why it's no longer up) and i hope with time you can feel comfortable with it again. None of the shit you've gotten was deserved or even understandable but alas, it still happened. As a content creator myself, i truly truly sympathize with you. I hope these words offer some comfort, however small.

Same goes for WLB, but the awe at how descriptive and raw your writing is really peaked through in something of your own creation. I find myself revisiting it and experiencing the exhilaration from my first reading all over again. I can't wait to watch everyone around my mc descend into eldritch madness as they become more and more unhinged. Consequences of my own actions? Never heard of them, i want my mc to go apeshit!

Now, gods where do i start... TBOTYG is *chef's kiss* flawless, i never thought i could become so obsessed with anything with only one part. I awaited the demo with baited breath, already anticipating all the ways you would surprise and impress (and you did). Every choice, every scenario, the way you build your plot and characters, your descriptions (I don't know if you can tell that I'm a little too hung up on the writing aspect of it) of characters and actions and feelings. The amount of work and effort you put into characterization is so very clear and it feels very freeing to have that amount of control over a character that we're supposed to "relate" to (in the context of the narrative, almost as if living vicariously through them). i think that no matter how much time passes, your IFs will remain a staple in the community and every player who finds your gems will feel blessed and changed after playing.

It's gotten to the point I've created a whole google doc of my MC, and made fake ig accounts with interactions (just for myself, to cope with the anticipation) and this is a level of commitment I've only felt with my own OCs and works. In such a short time, your IFs have carved a deep space for themselves in my life. I find myself replaying and going through their official pages religiously even though I've read every post already.

a question! will every LI's gender be chosen individually? I'm wondering because C and D are suitmates, but is it doable if they're different genders? same for mc and V. I'm thinking yes but also wanted to be sure

Honestly very very sorry for the long rant, I'm sure you have better things to do 😭😭 but i had the uncontrollable urge to express my feelings on your art and it took me an entire day of trying to talk myself out of it (i failed).

(also, here's my mc's profile and dm box. her royal highness maxine's ig profile is private btw. going for c route first. Mitică is the romanian diminutive for the name Dimitru, and opsis is an ancient greek concept i thought would fit V)

i’m speechless (sentimentally), dear reader 😭 i still can’t believe some people would take the time out of their day to think about my silly little worlds and the characters in it, less of all like how i’ve written my works. every single time i hit a writer’s block or have the whole doxxing trauma flare up again, i think of quitting but it’s the urge to write stories and the joy of sharing it with everyone that is still keeping me going.

i can’t explain how much your words mean to me because this is what i write for. to have people relate to or identify with or adore the world and characters i’ve built is such a dream within itself. from the bottom of my heart, i am thankful for every single reader who has always been nothing but supportive from day one. if elias has his apple, i have y’all. and no, it doesn’t mean y’all can have my meagre inheritance but it’s the sentiment that counts.

to answer your question, every single LIs gender will be selectable! blackthorne hall has individual bedrooms per suite so y’all will only be sharing the common areas and kitchenette with V while having your own personal space. it’s more like an apartment than a usual college dorm tbh.

oh and please, rant away! i’d love nothing more than to hear about your MCs and the various headcanons, questions, or theories you might have!

(also please knock C down a few pegs, they desperately need it 😔)

[katerinaaqu]

Achilles and Patroclus: Friends Lovers or both? (An analysis based on Homeric Epics and some ancient sources)

Yet another analysis requested by my dearest friend @artsofmetamoor while we two explore the complexity of human relationships in our own projects including romantic relationships of various kinds, including homosexual and homoerotic material as well as more traditional notions of family and kinship along with the complexity of values such as companionship and friendship, which we hold in the same regard as in the above so here's one of the most discussed relationships in greek literature. Buckle up with me because it is gonna be a looooong ride!

Achilles and Patroclus are two figures of greek literature and mythology that sparked discussions and analysis from the very first time they were introoduced as characters in the homeric poems in 8th century BC and not for their heroics in Trojan War but rather the nature of their relationship. Not to mention in modern day times we also start the rather overused and kinda ridiculous joke of "Historians say" around. But there might be some truth in some concerns in regards to their relationship.

A small history of their family

Achilles and Patroclus were related by a distant ancestor, Aigina. Aigina had a son with Zeus named Aeacus who in turn got married and had Peleus, who has the father of Achilles. Patroclus comes from the same line for Aigina later marries Actor and has Menoetius with him. Menoetius marries his cousin Damocratea, also possible daughter of Zeus and had a son named Opus who in turn had Patroclus, making Patroclus and Achilles de facto first cousins by the line of Aegina

(Yes...sorry "Troy" haters out there...hahaha Patroclus really WAS Achilles's cousin! ^^; Not that it ever stopped anyone in greek mythology!)

Patroclus was ellegedly exiled from his homeland when he accidentally killed his playmate and he fled to the court of Peleus where he got adopted by him thus the two characters lived most of their childhood together. Patroclus by most accounts is quite older than Achilles so in a way he was also assigned not only as his playmate but also as his "squire" or protector in various occasions. Needless to say that of course the two of them developed a very strong bond together.

Greek Text

To be honest, every time some person who does support the theory of them being lovers is being asked on it and that person claims that "the greek text is quite simple really". Allow me to disagree though. It is not. Quite frankly if it were, it wouldn't have sparked the conversation even to ancient greeks themselves of their time!

Arguably Homer never explicitly describes them as lovers in his poems (as opposing to other figures in the text that are undoubtedly sharing sexual relationships in the Iliad such as Hera and Zeus, Paris and Helen or even, ironically Achilles with Briseis once she is returned to him). However one would be a liar if they denied certain insinuations of a romantic involvement betwen the heroes.

Φιλέω-ώ= to love < > φίλος=friend, companion (Substantive), beloved (epithet)

Quite frankly Homer as we said before he a master of words and none of his words is picked at random. And the term φίλος is no exception. The word is being explicitly used in Homer by various of characters. The term can be translated interchangably from either "friend" to "beloved" depending the context. One of the most infamous and touching moments this word is being used is at the lament of Achilles when his mother asks him to speak up on why he laments so hard:

With heavy groans, fast in feet Achilles responded to her: "Oh, my mother! The Olympians have done what they had predicted for me! But what joy remains for me, for my beloved comrade Patroclus is gone! I lost him! The one that I valued most among my other companions, equally to my own life!"

(Translation by me)

In here the concept of "φίλος" is clearly an epithet or plays the role of one since the actual word that we are looking for as a substantive is the word "ἑταῖρος" which stands for "companion" or "comrade" (a term used generally throughout the poems to indicate bonds in army or of friendship or even husband and wife at some cases). In here it clearly means "beloved" by the general text for the word "φίλος" is not used as a substantive. Other cases such as this appear in other parts of the poem even with the fullest form φίλτατος which means "the most beloved"

However it needs to be noted that the term φίλος as the essence of "friend" comes directly from this term "to love" which means someone "you are close with" someone "of your own kin" someone "dear to you". The ancient greeks do not seem to be making a distinction between love as in lovers and love as in family or relatives when using this verb and the words coming from it (one good example is Thetis referring to Achilles as "φίλον υἱὸν" which means "beloved son" and here has no romantic implications at all).

The term is being used interchangably throughout Homer to speak about characters with close relations of kinship that are not linked to romantic essences at all. For example the way Menelaus adresses Odysseus as such in the Odyssey:

Oh, how strange! That has come to my house the son of a man much beloved to me; who for my sake has suffered so many ordeals!

(Translation by me)

In here Menelaus again is usingthe term φίλος but he doesn't speak out of romantic intentions at all. He speaks with the warmest words but in here it is the most intimate form of friendship and kinship and is followed by the implication of gratefulness, how he adds up how Odysseus suffered "for his sake" aka to fight the war and be lost afterwards. And before someone says "it is not the same amount of warmth" one must think again because before Menelaus speaks about how because of the agony he feels for his friend he does not eat or sleep properly and given that it has been 10 years already since the last time they saw each other that is a damn long time.

But all of them I do not grieve as much, even if I mourn for them, as much as I do for one man, because of which I both detest sleep and neglect to eat, for there is no one of the Achaeans that suffered more than what Odysseus suffered and endured

(Translation by me)

So not only Menelaus feels like Odysseus suffered the most out of them (and strictly speaking one can look at fates of other heroes like Diomedes to see they are not far behind in suffering) but that the way he constantly wonders about his well-being makes him unable to sleep or eat and that seems to be happening for years and years which shows the true depth of their friendship.

So no, strictly speaking the word "to love" is not used by the greeks to imply only romantic love and it can be used pretty intimately even if it is not referring to romance. And the difference can be perceived by the same writer as well not just some play that was written several centuries later in which, inevitably, we could talk about some alterations of meaning to the words over the course of time

However there seems to be another phrase used to express intense feelings of love which is κεχαρισμένε θυμῷ which means "dear to my heart" and in Iliad ironically that phrase is spoken by no other than Briseis herself!

Oh, Patruclus! Dearest to my wretched heart!

(Translation by me)

This interesting shout of love coming from Briseis is also interesting for it could be implying both emotions of romantic love but also of affection in general. Which is another phrase that researchers have looked upon in search for hidden meanings of romance but once again it was often used either as such or with the term "φίλος" instead to speak of relationships of family or kinship. But grieving scenes such as the one of Briseis might also be indicator of romance although not exclusively referring to that.

The Lament

Quite frankly speaking, Achilles's lament is one of the most infamous and well-known in greek literature exactly because of its explicit nature. We do see characters lament in plays before but it is not as frequent to see lament SO strong coming from a male character and so openly (see for example in the Odyssey how Odysseus tries to hide his own tears many times or how his men are wrapped up in veils in lament for their own lives and their fallen comrades' but by n large the male lament is more subtle, more silent). Achilles is different. For example when he is first told about the news of Patroclus's death the result is nothing less but the ultimate emotional collapse:

So they spoke and black mist of distress covered him: With both his hands he gathered smoky sand and he poured it over his head and disfigured his face: his nectarous chiton turned black with ashes. And he himself dropped in the dirt and stretched over his lying (here: the corpse) friend/beloved pulling out his hair in lament. The slaves given as war price to Achilles and Patroclus, released a great cry of sadness and they approached all to the sides of mourning Achilles, beating their chests with their hands, and their knees each. Also Antilochus with them was lamenting and pouring tears holding the hands of Achilles: for he was moaning with his noble heart: worried that he would cut his throat with iron (here: a knife).

(Translation by me)

There is no words to express such an intense display of pain given by Achilles from second one when he receives the news of the death of Patroclus. He immediately pours ash over his head (quite a common trope for mourning done by many characters before.) and "disfiguring his face" which means he was digging his nails down his cheeks which was again a trope of mourning in greek literature. The intensity of his lament is so great that Antilochus feels the need to hold his hands just in case he would want to comit suicide in his pain!

Ironically for most part in this lament does it mention that Achilles was making any sound at all during the process, which somehow makes it even more disturbing to think that Achilles simply drops to his knees, covers himself in ashes and scratches his cheeks while lamenting over the body of Patroclus hardly making any sound at all. It is the slave women who arrive later that release the cries that undoubtedly are within the soul of Achilles. Somehow his lament is extreme and yet no audible hint exists for most part of the text EXCEPT the final one where it says "moaning with his noble heart". It almost seems that his body does most of the talking till the women arrive and cry out like he so much wants to and then his mouth also makes sounds. It is not a scream; it is a moan. It is possible of course that the clip refers to Achilles constantly moaning but I do like this as a possible food for thought that if Achilles was firstly responding to pain with his actions and then with his voice and in a way the moment he actually made a sound was the moment Antilochus truly began to worry!

There is a certain theatricality to this scene of lament and drama which of course as many analytics before me would say, it seems to be hinting to some other infamous laments of mythological characters and more specific the laments of Apollo. Apollo is one of those figures for whom we have no doubt he was lamenting his lovers and some classical examples are Hyakinthus and Cyparissus both of them transformed into a flower and a tree respectably. The associations of Achilles and the grieving god seem to be more than just a possibility here. Which of course enforces even further the idea of them being lovers. It is also the amount of time that Achilles mourns plus the intense way that he refuses to let go of the body of Patroclus to which he seems to be holding on from the 18th rhapsody when he first finds out of his death till the moment that she arrived with his armor one rhapsody later. Quite a gruesome scene is when she enters the tent and finds Achilles crying while clasping Patroclus onto him:

And she found her dearest son still lay there, clasping Patroclus and crying woefully and his comrades around him mourning

(Translation by me)

And at this point Thetis hasn't yet given nectar and ambrosia to the body of Patroclus to prevent the sepsis from happening, which happens a few lyrics later. So Achilles was holding the dead body for the entire day even after it was cleaned and prepared showing the intense pain Achilles was expressing and going through. And he seems unwilling to part from him till Patroclus's spirit itself arrives in his sleep and requests a burial so he can rest.

Of course it needs to be noted that intense lament is not exlusive to lovers in greek mythology. To name a few Athena grieves intensely the loss of her friend Pallas and by some accounts she does take her name as her epithet post-mortem. Antigone intensely mourns her dead brother and laments his disgrace when she finds that the ritual burial she performed had been disturbed. And the acting of killing oneself out of sorrow again is not strictly remaining to the love affairs. For example Ismene killing herself after learning the deaths of her family members in general and Antigone in particular. Another most prominient example is king Aegeus who throws himself into the sea when he sees the black sails of the ship coming from Crete, thinking his son was dead.

So the exessive expression of grief are not just dedicated to lovers or husbands and wives in greek literature but rather it is expanded to all people who mourn someone dear to them regardless of the nature of the bond between them. In the case of Achilles of course he does seem to be having a specially strong mental breakdown every time some important person in his life that is said to be romantically involved with him dies or is taken from him starting with Briseis for whom he expresses his emotions many times in the Iliad and she is the first reason of his anger, of course Patroclus and Penthesilea for whom he apparently has feelings for a few monets after he sees her face after she dies. In Posthomerica it is even said that his lamentover her dead body is "the same as the one over Patroclus" and of course Antilochus later according to the Epic Cycle when he died protecting his father, caused another explosion of anger to Achilles which was fated to be his last one.

It is possible since his love is clearly stated in the cases of Briseis and Penthesilea that the same can have occured for Antilochus and of course Patroclus which was the most heartbreaking of them all and for good reason. In fact the case of Patroclus seems to be that he plays every role in the life of Achilles. He is his friend, his companion, his squire, his advisor so why not his lover too.

The Same Urn

Now of course where people surely think they have a clear case of romantic bond seems to be the request of Patroclus to be burnt but his bones to be kept in the same urn that is to be used for Achilles as well. The passage happens in the 23rd rhapsody:

And one more thing I ask for you to excecute; do not place my bones apart from yours, Achilles, but together just like we were raised in your chambers, when I was brought to your land by Menetoios as a little boy from Opois because of the grievous manslaughter, for when I was a child I was foolish and killed the son of Amphidamas without wanting to, for I was mad over a game of dice: there I was accepted to the chambers of the horseman of Peleus who kindly took care of me and named me your squire. And the same way I want for my bones to be together with yours in the same golden box, the one your divine mother prepared for you.

(Translation by me)

So apart from the fact that it is a highly emotional scene, seeing your dead companion arriving at you and begging to be let go (this is literally Patroclus saying "Let me go, Achilles...just let me go" for Achilles literally refuses to give up his body not even for a burial) it is also the scene that seems to be winking to the fans of the idea of them being lovers as a proof that they are together. And quite frankly I can absolutely see why and it would be foolish to ignore this possibility especially given how tenderly Achilles calls him "my beloved" (or "as loved as my own life") after the whole request is done from the spirit of Patroclus which is more than clear indication for many accounts and that makes perfect sense.

The custom of co-burial was known in Greece from the earliest times of its civilization till the end (because quite honestly I am not sure the custom will stop existing in Greece since despite the lack of cremations, we still have the custom of common graves even if it is only for those who can afford have a family monument). We often find urns contain bones of multiple individuals and yes more often whatnot they are maritable partners and the obsession of words that mean "together" in this passage such as; "μή (...) ἀπάνευθε" (not apart), "ὁμοῦ" (at the same place, together) or "ἀμφικαλύπτω" (cover each other) seems to be pointing to the direction of a romantic relationship and it won't be the only time someone is co-relating the mingling of ashes and bones with "marriage" (and example is The Hunchback of Notre Dame, where Victor Hugo describes the way Quasimodo and Esmeralda's skeletons turn into inseparable dust as "Quasimodo's Marriage")

However on the counter-talk, co-burials were also common among family members (which is exactly what Achilles and Patroclus are). Ironically from the excavations to Mycenae several co-burials were discovered that were not related by blood but they were theorized to be connected to some relations of adoption (which again seems to fit the case of Achilles and Patroclus from the time Patroclus was brought in and ellegedly adopted by Peleus)

I am also convinced that the fact Patroclus gives us some good portion of his background story here was not just a random thing. It seems that Patroclus places emphasis on why he wants to be in the same urn as Achilles; because they were raised together, they were together all their lives and he wants them to be together in death as well. It absolutely could be a romantic insinuation on Patroclus's part however it seems equally possible that the background story serves as a lever to make the public understand how the two of them were raised together and wished to remain together. It almost feels like Homoer wants either to stimulate the idea that the past is an extra point towards their romantic relationship or yet another point of the closeness of their kinship or both (to me it seems the latter)

However another factor to this urn seems to be Antilochus. Antilochus who was close to the age of Achilles, the one who was in charge to bring the news of Patroclus's death to Achilles and the one that we saw consoling him and trying to prevent him from doing something foolish seems to be added to this circle. In fact in some future sources he is featured as the reason Achilles died, for he was driven in yet another furious attack against the Trojans, forcing them to fall back when he saw him fall dead protecting his father from the Ethiopian king Memnon. In some accounts, even possibly Homer included, is insinuated that Antilochus was also included in the funerary urn with Achilles and Patroclus although in the Odyssey it is clearly stated that his bones are not in it:

Your mother gave me this golden amphora (here an urn with two handles); a gift from Dionysus she said to me, made by the renounced Hephestus, in which lie your white bones, radiant Achilles, mixed with the ones of dead Patroclus son of Menoetius, but without Antilochus, whom he honored above all his comrades after Patroclus died.

(Translation by me)

So in the Odyssey it doesn't seem like they were indeed in the same urn (unless somehow Nestor could tell the bones apart and took them out? hehe) but they all thee of them are joined in one tomb and worshipped as heroes. So in a way Antilochus seems to join them just not in the same box. However the three of them are indeed seen together in the underworld as one trio literally. They are apparently joined after death according to what Odysseus saw in the underworld.

Once again seems like the romantic as well as the kinship theories could be true interchangably or even at the same time.

Ancient Greeks on their relationship:

As I mentioned above many ancient writers and not just the infamous "historians" everyone mocks on the internet, seem to have placed their own guesses and opinions on the relationships of the two heroes.

Aeschines seems to be contemplating the idea they are lovers (aka he says that Homer "hides their love") and he even reads Patroclus's story as "an intercourse they had once". He names their relationship έρως aka romantic love (eros). Aristotle in Nicomachian Ethics and Rethoric he uses the term "comrade" to talk of them, choosing to focus more on their friendship. His teacher Plato though was a different story. He was convinced that they were not only lovers but he had also figured their roles in their relationship as presented in his Symposium, naming Patroclus as ἐραστής aka "the one who gives love" and mentions how Achilles is in love with Patroclus. Plato remains one of the most...great "shippers" of the two having no doubt about their love affair. To the other end is Xenophon who is adamant that they are not lovers, in his own Symposium. A large number of greek writers seem also to comment on both possibilities, it seems to me quite interesting how many different readings the homeric poems provide.

More mordern readings:

While it is true that there is a certain confusion to the public since a large number of texts either were deliberately modified or genuinely mistranslated (given again how terms like φιλώ means "to love" in general in ancient greek and not just romantically or that the term ερώ does mean "to love as a lover" in some contexts but it also means "to desire very much" and it was used in various of contexts) and these double-meanings were taken advantage of to translate the texts differently and that is because when someone in modern times says "my beloved" by n large they refer to a lover which was something that was greatly hushed up in public

Of course as we stated above for ancient greece that was not the case since the term "beloved" could be used in various contexts and it showed intense emotions of kinship between two people regardless of the nature of their relationship.

However in some accounts the obsession upon trying not to show intense potentual homoerotic material made many of these translations unreliable. There were exceptions to the rule of course but the real breakthrough wouldn't really happen till later in the 19th century where we also have more samples of printed work. Translations like Butler at the end of 19th century are far reliable to the text and seem to follow the spirit of Homer. Quite frankly there was already a breakthrough to homoerotic material thanks to not only the neo-classisim but also gothic literature such as the vampire novelle Carmilla so many writers became more bold into translating the tender words of love as they were and leave the public decide upon their nature.

However this effort to hush up the tender words spoken in Homer out of fear that they might be interpreted as homoerotic created of course this modern uprage in which we have the other way round; that people are afraid to talk about friendhsip and kinship because they will be hushed up by the readings of the text as homoerotic

(see my other post for this)

This, in my opinion simply removes all the abive context; that love can be expressed between family members or friends or people who have been through a lot. Quite frankly as you can see not only I am not denying their energy as lovers, I like to believe I am also supporting this theory a lot because there is a lot of possibility in it just like there is on the direction of tenderness and affection. I do think today people are afraid to speak up on the other side exactly bcause nowadays the most famous way to see them is as lovers as opposed to the previous periods that did the other way round

Conclusions:

I have no doubts that Homer, even though not clearly speaking about it (for example referring to sexual acts) he seems to be insinuating that the two of them were sharing romantic bond or feelings for each other

(it needs to be noted that it is not entirely clear that if there WERE romantic feelings that they were confessed or known by both parties, which could potentially mean the two of them loved each other romantically but did not fulfill their love which could be another tragic note to their story)

Homer seems to be sending several hints to his viewers/readers that one could interpret them as lovers given the tender dictionary they use between each other and for each other, allowing his...fans to decide for themselves. It is also highly possible that he too saw them as star-crossed lovers, for he gives them all the elements of various other stories that involve homoerotic romance, even the tragic end to their story.

However I am equally sure that he also wanted to say that their friendship was of equal importance. There is no doubt that Homer considered them close friends (for he gives us a small hint of their backstory, how they grew together) and their story is being projected like many other duos and characters in the Trojan war that are linked together with bonds of kinship and companionship; stories that flourish at war. He might not straight out tell us that they are the case of story "from friends to lovers" but he absolutely seems to be letting us know that their kinship is there!

And I am grateful to Homer for his writing because it seems to me he wanted both sides to equally enjoy the story; whether they are those who do think their closeness is romance and those who think it is close kinship, strong family bonds or friendship. I am almost convinced that Homer deliberately used that as a way to please both sides of the audience or to give a more tragic aftertaste to their story since closeness is much more impactful to the face of separation.

I like them both and in fact I support them simoultaneously for honestly there is no best lover than your best friend; someone you can trust with everything you have. If I had to support one form of love, this would be it but at the same time I do support the idea that friendship is already a powerful bond of two people and that romantic love in this case would come as a bonus. Somehow Homer does seem to entertain this idea in his writing given again the extreme tenderness and the tragedy of these two while at the same time leaving the door open for his audience to speculate, make interpretations and enjoy the story in their own perspective.

If that is not art I dunno what is.

Okay guys this is only but scrapping the surface of this relationship that lasted for 3000 years now! Hahaha but I hope you like this! It took me several hours to synthesize but I hope you like it.

[foreststarflaime]

What degree(s) do you think Genesis would have?

Ooohoho well. If I may throw my projecting opinions into the discussion lol

He would do great as a classics person I feel (meaning here the study of ancient Greece and Rome, because that is a really ambiguous name to give a study area, but here we are I don’t make the rules). I’ve said plenty about the parallels you can draw with him and the Iliad before, and Loveless absolutely does give me ancient epic vibes, and specifically homeric epic vibes with the themes and the character of the goddess. And if I may go into lore speculation mode for a second, the Cetra do give me the ancient Greece kinda vibe in some ways, so it would be cool if that was the role they played to Gaian society like greece/rome is for us, and with how little of it there is and the whole freaking out over a couple new lines that got discovered (oof that’s a weirdly structured sentence)! So I am pinning my fellow classics major pin on him, he would love the classes I’ve been in which are solely dedicated to reading and discussing a specific text like that especially. He would so be the type of person to walk up to your discussion of the Odyssey or smth and be like “well actually it’s more complex than that bc the greeks’ society was based off this thing called xenia” and procede to lecture you on greek culture with the greek words that don’t translate quite right thrown in all the time lol (haha I would never do this wdym). I actually did have the idea for my thesis in my Greek Gods class that was very much inspired by him—I’m studying sorta the relationships between warriors and poetry in ancient epic

But he would not stop at just one, he is so extra lmao—I could also definitely see him being an english major. And I won’t say theater major exactly because I feel like he would he the exact flavor of english major my uni used to have that I have been told stories of where they had this weird rivalry with the theater department lmao—the eng department would put on productions of Shakespeare, and every department would usually have a decent amount of rep with showing up at the performances, except. Most notably. The theater department, because they were salty that anyone besides them got to put on Shakespeare. The petty energy of that is so Genesis to me, whichever side of that he would he on—although I do tend to lean towards the english side of that for him because he loves analyzing the work so much

And then he’d also probably have some random chemistry degree because he’s a child prodigy genius who invented pasteurization apparently, so great for him lol I could never

[wistfulweaverwoman]

Could you share your thoughts on Madge?

The screenwriters/director apparently felt she was irrelevant, but she must have a deeper meaning to the series, right?

Oh wow, thank you for the question!!!

So yes, Madge's character sure does have a deeper meaning!

On the most surface level of the story Madge acts, in part, as a characterization for Katniss. As we all know, Katniss is a pretty unreliable narrator. She seems to be under the impression that she's just like Gale but here's a prime example of why she's not. Madge is Katniss's only friend, other than Gale. And she's not just a merchant kid, she's the daughter of the mayor. While Gale has a narrow viewpoint and see things much more in black and white(she claims he understands the socioeconomic differences are just the Capitols way to divide 12, but he has a really tough time extending empathy to people he doesn’t relate to, unlike Katniss who is incredibly empathetic when she takes time to put herself in the shoes of others), Katniss actually has a more nuanced understanding about the Seam/Merchant dynamic which later extends to deeper understanding to the other tributes and even Capitol citizens all really just being victims to their circumstances. With the director ditching (mostly, Gale still has a few choice words about merchants) the whole Seam/Merchant narrative her role is vastly diminished.

The pin that Madge gives to Katniss as a district token (and later the symbol of rebellion) is so much more important in the books because of who it used to belong to, Maysilee Donner, who was Madge's aunt (her mom's twin), Katniss's mothers best friend, and partnered with Haymitch in his games. It's most likely Haymitch's own experience in surviving the arena with Maysilee as a team that gives him the idea to partner Peeta and Katniss. Without Madge most of these connections are lost.

In the metanarrative Madge represents a lot more. She, through the symbolism of her name, offers salvation through sacrifice. She gives Katniss the pin:

"His eyes land on a small, circular pin that adorns her dress. Real gold. Beautifully crafted. It could keep a family in bread for months."

And then she basically risks her life to bring pain medicine for Gale, who hasn't been particularly nice to her:

When she opens it, there’s not a squad of Peacekeepers but a single, snow-caked figure. Madge. She holds out a small, damp cardboard box to me. “Use these for your friend,” she says. I take off the lid of the box, revealing half a dozen vials of clear liquid. “They’re my mother’s. She said I could take them. Use them, please.” She runs back into the storm before we can stop her.

Madge (and Mags) is short for Margaret, which is derived from the Greek word for Pearl (pearl is derived from the Sanskrit word for Pure). Peeta and Katniss are Pearls as well, so I'll expand on the pearl theme beyond just Madge.

Pearls themselves are created through sacrifice, traditionally the life of the oyster is forfeit for the gem. In some asian cultures the pearl represented the journey of the soul or spirit along the path to perfection (The Hunger Games trilogy is a retelling of Dante's Comedies- which represents the souls journey towards Paradise- the pearl symbolically represents Katniss’s inner arc). In ancient burials, mourners placed pearls in the mouths of the deceased. Since pearls apparently contained the principles of life, they hoped they could assist the dead on their journeys beyond. Mourners also decorated burial gifts and clothes with pearls.

Pearls are mentioned a LOT in the books. Here's a few quotes:

‘Well, if you put enough pressure on coal it turns to pearls!’” Effie beams at us so brilliantly that we have no choice but to respond enthusiastically to her cleverness even though it’s wrong.

He unzips the bag, revealing one of the wedding dresses I wore for the photo shoot. Heavy white silk with a low neckline and tight waist and sleeves that fall from my wrists to the floor. And pearls. Everywhere pearls. Stitched into the dress and in ropes at my throat and forming the crown for the veil.

As coal pressured into pearls by our weighty existence. Beauty that arose out of pain. Peeta rinses the pearl off in the water and hands it to me. “For you.” I hold it out on my palm and examine its iridescent surface in the sunlight.

I sit back on my bed cross-legged and find myself rubbing the smooth iridescent surface of the pearl back and forth against my lips. For some reason, it’s soothing. A cool kiss from the giver himself.

Katniss putting the pearl to her lips as both the mourner and the dead. We can actually infer that the pearl is a placeholder for Peeta.

But what exactly does the pearl represent beyond the obvious? There's the biblical symbolism and then there's literary symbolism.

There's a ton of Christian symbolism in these books, probably the most obvious being the Christ-like sacrifices that Peeta makes, he sacrifices his body to provide the life saving bread, and again in the arena which after spends three days in a cave, followed by his resurrection. The trilogy follows the Divine Comedies, Katniss as the heart and caught between Gale (the body) and Peeta (the spirit).

You shall bring from your dwelling places two loaves of bread to be waved, made of two tenths of an ephah. They shall be of fine flour, and they shall be baked with leaven, as firstfruits to the Lord.

Above from the Bible, below from The Hunger Games

It was the boy. In his arms, he carried two large loaves of bread that must have fallen into the fire because the crusts were scorched black.

Below is a quote from the Bible (Revelations) describing the 12 gates of Jerusalem. It could be written off as a coincidence, 12 gates, 12 districts, except that the 8th gate is the Cotton Merchants' Gate, which correlates to District 8, which is the district that manufactures textiles and uniforms.

And the twelve gates of the city were twelve pearls; each single gate was made from one pearl. And the street of the city was pure gold, like transparent glass. 

In literary symbolism Pearl, (the daughter of Hester Prynne in the Scarlet Letter), represents several things. Pearl was the physical manifestation of Hester's sin (adultery), the pregnancy therefore making it apparent she had sinned. At the same time Pearl was a blessing, as without her she would have most likely committed suicide.

 “… Had they taken her away from me (Pearl), I would have willingly gone with thee into the forest, and signed my name in the Black Man’s book too, and that with mine own blood!”

This is similar to Katniss's thinking at the beginning of Mockingjay

Peeta. If I knew for sure that he was dead, I could just disappear into the woods and never look back.

Below is a quote from the end of The Scarlet Letter:

"Pearl kissed his lips. A spell was broken. The great scene of grief, in which the wild infant bore a part, had developed all her sympathies; and as her tears fell upon her father’s cheek, they were the pledge that she would grow up amid human joy and sorrow, nor forever do battle with the world, but be a woman in it. Towards her mother, too, Pearl’s errand as a messenger of anguish was all fulfilled."

And another quote from the near end of Mockingjay:

I lean in and kiss Peeta full on the mouth. His whole body starts shuddering, but I keep my lips pressed to his until I have to come up for air. My hands slide up his wrists to clasp his. “Don’t let him take you from me.” Peeta’s panting hard as he fights the nightmares raging in his head. “No. I don’t want to . . .” I clench his hands to the point of pain. “Stay with me.” His pupils contract to pinpoints, dilate again rapidly, and then return to something resembling normalcy. “Always,” he murmurs.

I delve a bit into the Divine Comedies in this post.