#but I LOVE how they all have the tools depicted too | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

lyome · 1 year

Text

little angel.

fyodor did well by sheltering his childhood love, and then she ran away. but it's alright, he'll bring her right back. yan!fyodor x gn!reader, mild dazai x gn!reader but they're meant to be platonic tags/warnings: captivity, reader gets tortured!!! stockholm syndrome, years and years of manipulation, gaslighting(kinda), violence, blood, and permanent injury done to the reader, plsss read with caution

To him, you were his one and only love. You were the ideal he wanted to create. A weak, fickle human that devotedly clung to him. You provided him with that first taste of Godhood. He could pluck adoration off your lips and feel divinity in your touch.

And then you betrayed him.

You, his first follower. His first believer. His Eve.

For all of Fyodor’s wisdom, his beliefs served as a terrible blind spot. He never even suspected it. To him, your life was perfect. You were his crowned follower, his one and only, you sat in pretty apartments and watched as the mice brought ruin to the world. Nothing ever affected you in your pretty glass cage. Nothing except the devil’s delusions.

His insanity had seeped into your own mind. At first, you did admire him. He was Fyodor, your protector. Hunger felt smaller when he was there, his body warm against yours as you huddled together during those ugly rainy nights. Both of you have seen the worst side of the world. You’ve watched it burn at the hands of those ability users Fyodor despised so viciously. He taught you hatred. And you always clung to it.

Everyone except Fyodor is bad.

That was the belief he instilled in you. And then Dazai found you, an eccentric brunette man with a myriad of bandages and scars. He had thought the lush apartment was Fydor’s. Never had Dazai assumed Fyodor would cherish someone. But you were worthless, with no ability or connections or even common sense. It seemed that you were tailor made for Fyodor. Shoved in a cage and left to wait for your God’s return.

At the time you were terrified. Fyodor hadn’t let you speak to anyone for years. The moment that he could establish himself as this omnipotent God, he made sure you were isolated. He’d come back depicting how terrifying the bleak outside world is. It wasn’t hard to believe. You grew up in the slums of Russia, you’ve already seen the worst. It wasn’t difficult to convince you that every corner of the world was equally terrible. Every piece and country and meadow would give you nothing but torment. You could only be happy with Fyodor.

So why did your world feel so empty?

“My, this is uncomfortable,” Dazai joked. He was awfully casual for someone who had just broken in. You huddled against the window, knees to your chest, fully focused on the opened doors. For all your years here, you couldn’t have ever opened them. You assumed it was the tools that you lacked. Or maybe you were too stupid for it. But you've never seen them opened by anyone except Fyodor.

“Do you own this place, miss?”

“No,” you whispered. Fyodor never prepared you for this. Fyodor told you no one would find you. He said it was a good thing. You lost your safety now. The glass cage has been broken.

“Do you know who does?”

Silence.

Dazai sighed, you were obviously terrified. He couldn’t even catch your eyes. But you also made no move to stop him as he looked around, examining all the objects about the place. That served as enough confirmation. Fyodor’s clothes were visible inside the wardrobe, and there was even a note left on the kitchen countertop signed in his lovely name. It was in Russian, so Dazai couldn’t quite judge the contents. He only knew the signature.

So why did the demon keep a little lamb locked away? Dazai had yet to learn just how worthless you are, so he kept his distance. It wasn’t improbable that you might just be a weapon more deadly than the Demon himself.

But it was you who spoke next, voice quivering. “How did you open the doors?”

“Hm, why should I tell you?”

Your head echoed your greatest fear. Fyodor is right. People are horrible. He won't tell me anything out of kindness.

Dazai had walked closer now. He was growing less and less certain that you were a threat. In fact, you shrinked further away from him. Body pressed against the glass of your gable window. “I’ll answer your question,” he announced slowly, “If you answer one of my own. But you have to be honest.” He was looking down at you.

It took you a moment to give him a nod. “Okay.”

“Why are you here with Fyodor?”

You were surprised that he knew about the raven haired Demon, the shock visible all across your face. But the deals a deal, and you desperately wanted to know the path he took towards this place. So you can recreate it and finally see this wretched world Fyodor took from you. You needed to see it for yourself. Even if you might end up crawling back to him.

“I’ve always been with him. We just move around a lot. He says it’s dangerous.”

“Yes, but why does he keep you here?”

“Because it’s dangerous? Isn’t the entire world half ruined?”

“By what?”

“I don’t know. Fyodor only said it’s ruined. And dangerous. He always says that word: dangerous.”

Dazai began to understand a little more about you now. You weren’t strong, you were shaking at the sight of someone, and what’s more the apartment gave away your relationship too easily. The single bed, shared dresser, and perfumed notes. Dazai had just found someone even the insane Fyodor loved.

“Now my question, please. How did you get in here?”

“Want me to show you?”

Maybe you shouldn’t have trusted him. But Dazai’s smile was as sick as Fyodor’s, and in your poor tormented head that was a trustworthy thing. He’s like Fyodor, it means he’s smart and caring and all those bad things he does are done out of love.

It’s funny how your rotten love for Fyodor helped you escape. Guiding you to mouth a desperate yes and allow for this unknown man to let you walk freely again.

For all your life, you’ve had Fyodor on your shoulder. Through the good and the bad, he was there. In the past you loved him. But now, you saw beyond his lies. The world Dazai had shown you was beautiful. The sun shone on smiling and happy faces. People went about their day without a care in the world. There was nothing wrong here.

Fyodor lied. And you were finally free from the doubt he seeped in you.

And then the Devil himself ascended to bring you back. You were just going about your day, enjoying the life Dazai had breathed into you. He was kind, and his kindness wasn’t sharp like Fyodor’s. He even let you occupy his tiny apartment. So the mornings were your time to cook, clean, and explore the city. You never expected to see Fyodor out of the corner of your eye. Smiling. Waiting.

You didn’t want to go back. His face served as nothing but an ugly reminder of how blinded you were by him. His bird, his dove, his caged angel. You never asked for any of that. He just swept you up in his arms and kept you in place before either of you was old enough to even think properly. You didn’t know any better. Fyodor used to be all you had.

He didn’t bother approaching you. He was in no rush. As days passed all he’d do is simply walk by you, cold eyes meeting your own. He loved the confusion on your face. The terror and insecurity in whether you’ve made the right decision or not.

And just as you were on the verge of snapping, begging Dazai to not leave you alone, something just had to come up. Dazai was needed, and you couldn’t take up his time. It felt wrong to repay him by more silly burdens. So you never told him why you were terrified. You simply let him go.

The next time you awoke, after a lonely night in the now empty apartment you shared, it was because of a sharp pain across your legs. Something was wet, but you couldn’t see. The world was dark and terrifying and you felt just as Fyodor had described you would. You couldn’t feel your legs. They hurt and the blood felt sticky and you couldn’t stop shaking.

Someone had cut the tendons near your ankles. You didn’t know it then, but you’ve just lost the ability to walk. And who took that from you? Who brought you such a horrible fate?

“You’ve just had to run, zaychik.”

Bunny.

Fyodor had called you bunny as he stripped you of your ability to run. You were on the floor, the cobblestone of this unknown place felt icy against your cheek. Everything hurt. Fyodor had pampered you too much, you realised. Things like hunger and pain which were so familiar to you as a child had become unknown. Had you always cried so much over the seeping pain, or had Fyodor planned for this too? Another piece of his sadistic game?

His foot clashed against your head. Heel digging into your cheek. Your head throbbed.

“I’ve given you everything. You had all the pretty things you used to dream of! And you repay me by running to that heretic’s side? What good are you now! You used to be perfect. Mine. Untainted. You let that disgusting dog ruin you.”

As Fyodor spoke, he’d keep moving his foot up and down. You felt your consciousness slipping again. It hurt so much. The blood, the shock, the throbbing, the darkness. Your blindfolded eyes couldn't even help you discern left from right.

Was it so bad to dream? What was wrong with you now? Fyodor was never like this. He was never angry with you. The Fyodor you knew was gentle and warm, he kept you safe. He told you that you were safe. Maybe what he meant during all those years was that you were safe from him. And Dazai Osamu had taken that safety from you.

Fyodor kept you in a large, lush bed from then on. You couldn’t walk, and Dazai had never broken in again. You don’t know what happened with him. You were too scared to ask Fyodor. Things were never the same after your escape. He allowed you less food and kept you weak. To him, your fragile body was the last thing keeping you desirable. Sometimes you’d cry at night, overtaken by guilt and regret and hatred for your predicament. On those nights the old Fyodor might’ve held you and whispered words of reassurance to you.

This, dark and vile, Demon only slapped you until you’d stop. Numbing your sadness with terror.

Fyodor’s love was never pretty, but you missed his kinder side dearly. At least then, you didn’t have to endure the horrors that he inflicted on so many others. Suddenly, you became just another victim of his. Not a childhood friend or secret lover, you were his victim.

And that's all you'd ever have in life. Fyodor and his cruelties.

#bungou stray dogs fyodor #bungou stray dogs #bsd #bsd x reader #bsd x gender neutral reader #bungou stray dogs x reader #fyodor x y/n #fyodor x reader #dazai x reader #fanficiton #yandere fyodor #captivity #fyodor x you #gaslighting #manipulation #lyomes moon

925 notes · View notes

the-writer-is-always-write · 2 months

Text

Thoughts on Dune: Part Two

General Impression: I adored this movie from start to finish. Having just rewatched Part One a week ago, it felt like a seamless transition hopping back into the story. The score, the set design, the costumes, all of it was impeccable.

Chani: her character arc was obviously the biggest deviation from the book, and although I felt a lot of surprise watching it unfold, I think some reflection has left me alright with it. I've admittedly only read Dune and Dune: Messiah, but both books are clearly meant to illustrate the dangers of religious fanaticism and the ways that religion and prophecy can be manipulated and utilized as a tool for oppression. While these ideas can (hopefully) be discerned fairly clearly by the reader, I think it makes sense to have an audible voice of dissent in a film adaptation, particularly from someone among the Fremen. The only concern I have is wondering how Denis will handle Dune: Messiah, since the plot sort of hinges on Paul and Chani being together. But I guess that's a worry for later.

MY BOY MUAD'DIB: Timothee is just so utterly perfect for this role, I genuinely could not imagine anyone else doing it with such grace and gravitas. Seeing the gradual spiral of innocent teenager to reluctant leader to religious icon was heart-wrenching. Paul has honestly become one of my favorite fictional characters because his story is so complex and layered with tragedy. He's simultaneously a product of manipulation and coercion, and an angry young man seeking revenge against those who have hurt him. He lacks agency in many ways, yet he still makes decisions that lead to so much destruction. He tries so so hard to avoid the holy war, but it becomes an inevitability he can't escape. Reading Dune: Messiah for the first time a few weeks ago really helped me to understand how the prophecy controlled him as much as he used it to control others. I could literally give a ted talk on this, and how it's such a fascinating take on the messiah figure trope.

Jessica: I saw an article recently where I think Denis called Jessica "the puppetmaster," and I think that's very fitting for her depiction in this movie. I like how it openly shows the manipulation tactics of the Bene Gesserit, particularly how they prey upon the "vulnerable" Fremen first. Rebecca did a fantastic job giving the creep factor.

Feyd-Rautha: I still don't know why Denis had a vendetta against Harkonnen eyebrows, but I guess it was cool? I LOVED the black and white lighting on Giedi Prime, and the arena scene was SO. GOOD. Denis really went for it. Feyd's accent caught me off guard a few times, but overall I think the ruthless and brutal nature of the character really shined through. He's the antithesis to Paul, and I think Denis captured that theme well enough.

I thought all the other characters were well done too. Stilgar was maybe a touch too comic relief-y at times, but nothing catastrophic. Gurney was great, but I would have liked at least one more baliset scene :(

Things we missed: I'm a little bummed we didn't get Harah. I know the movie was already pretty stuffed, but I honestly thought they could have used the actress that played Chani's friend (I can't remember if they ever mention her name). Even if the idea of Paul "acquiring" her was a little icky, they could have done something else with her character at least. I was also sad they didn't do the full funeral scene with Jamis, but oh well. I think the greater omission was Thufir Hawat, but again I can see why they chose to cut him. I just think the dynamic between the Baron and Feyd-Rautha had a lot more friction in the book, mostly because of Thufir conspiring them both against each other.

I'm honestly not upset we didn't get to see freaky-toddler Alia. I was excited for Anya though!

Overall, I really loved this film. No adaptation can get every detail perfect, but I can see the ways that Denis and the actors adored this story and wanted to tell it in a powerful way. I thought the themes stayed true to the book, and I'm really hopeful we get Part Three!

AND THE WORMS. THE WORMS WERE GREAT. LONG LIVE THE WORMS.

#dune #dune part two #dune part two spoilers #dune spoilers #frank herbert #paul atreides #chani #irulan #timothee chalamet #denis villeneuve #zendaya

117 notes · View notes

16-jarrah · 3 months

Text

only halfway thru the new frieren episode i was almost tearing up because the theme of protecting each other and caring about life more importantly than winning is so poignant. not all the characters are human in species but once again the humanity is blossoming in frieren's story. i was so afraid they'd actually get killed last ep but i mean it's so funny now what was i even thinking. this is frieren. they won't kill unless it was really necessary.

the reveal that richter raised the platform not to make his fight with lawline and kanne easier but actually to protect them from denken's attacks was so good. the "magic is nothing if you cannot imagine it" line is so wonderful because i'm a big fan of magic systems that revolve around that logical "science-y" aspect of like. understanding how it will work in order to do it. (same reason why i love the magic in "world's greatest assassin".) laufen getting caught by frieren even though she knows it's a trap just bc she didn't want denken to get hurt was also so good. the reveal that denken didn't have a grander motive to be a first class mage beyond "i wanna go back to my hometown and visit the cementary there but only first class mages are allowed to enter" was so painfully human and so reflective of real life. it also strikes you because he was introduced as a high-profile, politically influential mage.

i love what denken says about not going out without a fight. i love that the episode ends in a fistfight for him. i love it when media uses fistfights and punching in such an emotionally-charged human way, beyond the violence, instead depicting it as some sort of catharsis really. because sometimes all you need is a good rough n tumble. in denken's case, it's his way of not giving up without a fight. i like that. i also like that this was foreshadowed by denken telling laufen to cut the tree down instead of trying to cut the restraint. "we don't have any mana" "neither do they". sometimes all it takes is to find a differently way to approach your problems and sometimes the solution is simpler than you think.

i'm a big fan of frieren breaking the barrier because she thought it was unfair to cut kanna (and by extension lawline) out of her source of magic, giving her an unfair disadvantage and honestly a handicap. it's a short part of the episode but it's so important, because it shows that if people are given the right tools and the accessibility, they can do for themselves what they want and need to do. i love that frieren is like "can you imagine winning against a water manipulating mage with water around? i can't."

i'm a fan of how the "basic" combat and defensive magic are depicted and treated as in this show. yes, people more on from traditions, but traditions are there in the first place. richter's explanation of magic history in their world provides an insight to how modern magic evolved from the foundations. but the foundations were still foundations for a reason. they made it a point with fern saying "frieren doesn't restrict me from spells" (even tho it was the setup for a small joke) that the point isn't to pick a side between tradition vs modern, but rather to learn from both and decide for yourself what you want to apply to yourself. the depiction of fern and frieren winning with traditional magic and richter and kanne overwhelming each other with modern magic makes it clear that the show isn't trying to preach to either side.

i also like the theme of "pursuing magic out for the sake of magic is enough". it's nice to hear that denken shares this mindset with frieren, because again he was introduced as someone influential and you'd think he thinks like he could use magic as a source of power. and that's the impression i got of him too from previous episodes, but a lot of first impressions of mine were proven wrong later and i'm so happy for that bc these characters have so much depth packed into them in so little time.

what else have i missed...

#sousou no frieren #frieren: beyond journey's end #frieren #frieren 1x21 #meta #analysis #<- i guess #op

135 notes · View notes

bonefall · 4 months

Note

Feel free to ignore you've probably got a lot going on right now, but considering you know a lot about DOTC and Clear sky, I had a question...

We know that he's a terrible, misogynistic, woman beating and war mongering lunatic who was excused of all his actions because his equally misogynistic brother said " But-But he's nice! Deep down! This isn't the real him! "

But! In a world where the Hunters could write such a character, what do you think Clear Sky would look like as an actual sympathetic villain?

Idk if that makes sense, but what I've thought of doing is taking purely cannon Clear Sky and attempting to change him enough that he's still an antagonist, but not too far where only Reddit defends him.

I don't think he works as a sympathetic villain, on any level, ever. I think you're making a huge mistake to even try, and I have never seen an AU where it was done well nor am I interested in entertaining the thought.

Characters. Are. Tools. They exist to tell a story. The story that people tell me, by obsessing over some alternate universe where he was "ACTUALLY sympathetic and had a REAL redemption arc," is that they're not fucking interested in his dozens of victims. Nor do they actually care about the abusive impact he had on the minds and feelings of his family. They're JUST interested in Clear Sky himself.

Just like the Erins. Everything that happens in DOTC revolves around him. Everything. All his wives die so he can be sad about it. His brother defends all of his actions and BEGS you to sympathize with his pain so he can be 'redeemable.' One Eye comes out of nowhere so that there can be an example of "real" evil to contrast Clear Sky so he's less bad in hindsight.

The first three books of DOTC are bad, but the last three are fucking insufferable because SUDDENLY all that Gray Wing apologia pays off, and they take their main villain and throw him out a window. You CAN'T have "redeemable" Clear Sky and the plot of DOTC without dragging in someone else to drive the conflict, to BE the bigger threat to "unite" against. Slash and One Eye have to be conjured up out of thin air so Clear Sky can WHINE about how people only suck his toes instead of deepthroat them after he killed all their friends.

And yet, in spite of this absolute failure of an attempt, we continue to see this bullshit "redemption" be a mistake because Clear Sky is a fantastic villain, with major antagonist roles in nearly EVERY bit of follow-up material for DOTC that came after.

He's the most consistent monster in all of Warriors.

He's a fragile, egotistical, self-absorbed megalomaniac who ALWAYS sees himself as the victim, REFUSING to self-reflect and blaming everything else for all of his terrible choices. He will USE your love of him against you like it's a chain through your nose, step out of line and he will yank you into place with guilt trips, manipulation, public shaming, and violence.

He's a child abuser. He's a tyrant. He abandons the sick and disabled as soon as they're of no use to him, with grand speeches about "illness" and "weakness." He's a murderer who stands above the shredded corpse of his victim and bellows, "I'M NOT GREEDY! I'M JUST STRONG!"

And you'd write a "good" redemption arc for this, why?

Why are people so chronically unable to accept that there are LOTS of people like him, and you can't save your abuser? Why don't you ask yourselves why you're not interested in exploring Thunder, or Petal, or Gray Wing, and how his toxic influence impacts them? Why does the sympathy fall on Clear Sky? What about the DOZENS of victims who are dead by Book 3, and how THEY could have been saved?

Why ruin a perfectly good villain?

What's behind this trend where a billion people say to me, "Yes Clear Sky is a walking cavalcade of fucked up abuse apologia, and an incredibly realistic depiction of an abuser, but how would you change this while keeping it all the same?"

I wouldn't. You can't. It wouldn't be the same story, or it wouldn't be the same character. Never seen it done well, and I have seen it a lot. So I don't entertain this deeply frustrating "Well What If Clear Sky But Nice" impulse.

#The closest I'll ever get to that is Fallenleaf. And she lost it all #And spent years in the time-out tunnel #BAD KITTIES GO IN THE PEAR WIGGLER TO BE SUFFICIENTLY WIGGLED.#I don't think people in power typically change. If they do it's so rare it's not worth entertaining. Camel through the eye of a needle shit #and I mean ALL powers. this goes for abusive relationships too. I think they need to lose that power before they change.#When you have power. REAL power. You can fill those holes with it. You can force people to not leave.#so im actively hostile to stories that winge and cry about giving powerful people endless sympathy and chances #You've already shown me what you want to do with your power and as long as you keep it you haven't seen your consequences.#Power reveals.#It doesn't corrupt. It reveals.#DOTC hate #clear sky's redemption arc #If you're in an abusive relationship or under a terrible boss or in some other bad environment. You won't fix it.#You are not responsible for fixing it.#You can't fix it.#And they will not change. so GET OUTTA THERE #And that's who he functions best as. To me.#He's the bastard you need to escape.#And that's infinitely more compelling to me than Nice Clear Sky Attempt 32324 #I don't write stories that beg you to sympathize with tyrants and keep your heart open to some maybe-change on the horizon #I write stories where they ruin everything they touch and have to be forcefully yanked out of power before they hurt more people.#And also screw every related take that's like 'ohhh after 5000 years of having his toes sucked he regrets it a bit :('#no he fucking wouldn't. he had his toes sucked for 5000 years. He's vindicated by how fondly he's remembered.#You can't fucking tell me that he doesnt REVEL in how violent the culture became. That him being offended about the clan's exile-#--was anything but him being offended his namesake was going away. That he wouldn't parade around like every choice he ever made was right.#''I made some vague mistakes which I will never name. BUT Im never wrong and always did it my way even if it was hard''#If you haven't met a person like that I envy you.#bone babble #Nothing makes me mad quite like this character #Again I yell about his brother a lot because he's widely loved by the fandom

117 notes · View notes

gonktroll · 3 months

Note

Imma need u to hand over some Bruce, Creek and Guy hcs 😳🤲🏼

Author's Note:

hiiiii nonnie i can do that for you easy peasy :3 ok so i lied its not easy,, writing is so haaardd,, but we must persist !! i'll be real these are three trolls i don't really think about often...sorry i lied again i think about creek so much...looking back there's more of him than anyone else im so sorry !! lemme know if the formatting is broken or any typos!! also feel free to send in requests also,, the box is open still

on a side note, when did the format tools on tumblr get so crappy?

RELATIONSHIP HEADCANONS

Characters: Bruce, Creek, and Guy Diamond

Word Count & Time: 2, 721 words and 10 Minutes Read. Writing took around Two Weeks. Warnings & Tags: NSFW, Minors Do Not Interact! Contains: fluffy/romantic headcanons, mentions of children & having children (bruce and guy), cake by the ocean by dnce is there i guess, insecurity (bruce and creek), dirty talk (bruce and creek), body worship (bruce), overstimulation (bruce), voyeurism (bruce), cuckoldry (bruce), depictions of a toxic relationship (creek), jealousy (creek), outdoor sex (creek), oral sex (creek), orgasm denial (creek), dacryphilia (creek), power dynamics (creek), genitalia descriptors.

BRUCE

Let it be said: Bruce wants nothing more than to take care of you, please let him nurture you. Let him secure you emotionally, psychically, and mentally. Just let him take the pressure off your shoulders, even if it's for a short while. Do you need help with cleaning up? He's already got the mop and broom ready. Are you getting started with dinner? He's hopping in the kitchen to prep with you. Sparing time is the least he can do for you. You don't even have to ask him to help out, he's already ready to go.

Wouldn't pass up the opportunity to be a little mischievous towards you. Your boyfriend has bad dad jokes, boyish pranks, and an impish banter to behold. He'll have you busting a seam from laughter but he can't help himself. Bruce thinks you look best when you're smiling.

Catching a glimpse of any giggly children and their parents makes his heart yearn for you. Would you want a family like this? What kind of trolls would both your children be? These thoughts follow him for the rest of the day.

He's actively trying to leave Brozone in the past so he can look forward to his future with you. But, sometimes he can't resist showing off to you. He has to let you know how amazing of a singer and dancer he was (and still is). Please, be proud of him.

This troll is a romantic at heart, Bruce is always planning a secret date of some kind. Whenever you briefly mention something you're interested in, he's definitely ironing out the details to make it happen. Seeing the look of surprise on your face during the date makes it all worth it.

He doesn't mind what kind of date you plan, but if you want to make him happy, he loves dates that involve water activities. For instance, a romantic bath with rose petals and soft music is something he'd appreciate. Similarly, a date on the beach with a candlelit dinner would be perfect, and he might even serenade you with 'Cake by The Ocean'.

Playing the role of 'the Heartthrob' for a long time before suddenly creating a new identity has made Bruce feel insecure. He wants to be more than just 'the hottest troll ever' to you. He is more than just a pretty face with rock-hard abs. When you acknowledge who he is and validate his emotions, his stomach starts flipping and his heart is doing somersaults. You might actually be too good for him…

Showing genuine emotions to him and sharing personal moments will get him hotter under the collar than explicit words or seductive clothing ever could. Simply being authentic with each other is enough to spark his desire to be physically intimate with you.

It won't take much to convince Bruce to try something new with you. He loves experimenting and even if it doesn't work out, both of you can laugh about it later.

Bruce isn't fond of quickies, public sex, or rushed sex, he would prefer to take his time with you and hates the idea of being interrupted. There's no set schedule, but you make time for each other. It's best when it's just the two of you and all the time in the world.

During making love, Bruce will always prioritize the experience you're making together. If your legs aren't trembling and your voice isn't hoarse afterward, then he isn't doing his job correctly.

Bruce will talk throughout the whole affair. If he wants a reaction out of you or coax your attention, words are his weapon of choice. A quick aside of sweet teasing to quickly fluster you or lecherous murmurs along the shell of your ear while his hips languidly plunge into your insatiable warmth. Feel free to return his energy and talk back to him, he welcomes it.

There will never be a session where Bruce doesn't lavish you with endless praise and worship your body. You will always be told how attractive and precious you are to him.

He secretly worries you'd find it slutty but he's very interested in watching other trolls flirt with you and has fantasies of watching you fuck someone else. It would take him time to admit it to you, but you may get suspicious of how worked up Bruce gets after someone tries to make a pass at you.

Underneath those beach-bum shorts, Bruce is packing. His sheath is chubby, giving the impression that it's petite or compact. However, make no mistake: Bruce is a grower and it's meaty at full length.

GUY DIAMOND

Get ready to date one of the most dramatic trolls of all time - Guy Diamond. He does everything with emphasis and panache, and why wouldn't he? As an iconic troll, he shouldn't have to limit himself to others' expectations, and he appreciates that you recognize this. Guy is looking for someone who would never ask him to tone it down - in fact, he wants you to encourage him to turn it up! He's not going to dim his glow for anyone, and you make him want to shine even brighter.

Every time he expresses his love, it's extraordinary. He might put on a grand musical performance, surprise you with an extravagant gift, or take you on an unforgettable date night. Guy just has to let you know how much he cares and regular displays of affection just won't do.

Guy Diamond is a unique Pop Troll, possibly the only one, with the special ability to auto-tune his voice. He loves to show off his talent by hitting high notes and emphasizing particular words, all to get you to compliment him. If you tell him how 'cool and special' he is, he will feel elated and proudly strut around like a peacock.

Guy is known as 'THEE Glitter Troll', so it's only natural that his partner should be as stylish and cool as him. However, he sometimes tries to improve his partner's fashion sense or curtail their negative personality traits. This can put pressure on the relationship, as no one likes to be told they're lame. It takes some time for Guy to realize that he is dating his partner for who they are, not who he wants them to become.

You'll have to adjust to his extreme stubbornness. It's even more frustrating when he is aware of the consequences but still chooses to proceed. Unless you have a fondness for men who behave stupidly, it will require a lot of patience until he learns his lessons the hard way.

Another way Guy expresses his affection is by pampering you. He's always looking for opportunities to help you out with anything. He reminds you to take some time out and practice self-care whenever you're feeling overwhelmed. He's also concerned with your health, making sure you eat well and get some exercise. If you haven't socialized much, Guy has no problem taking you to a party today. He reassures you that taking care of you is never a burden, and knowing that you are happy means everything to him.

Raising Tiny Diamond had a positive impact on Guy Diamond's maturity, which is clear in his relationship with you. He has grown more considerate of others' feelings, and more thoughtful about the consequences of his actions. Instead of diving in impulsively, he takes the time to discuss plans with you. He also spends more time contemplating what he wants from your relationship long-term.

Guy loves it when you plan date nights including Tiny. Spending quality time with the two Trolls he loves most makes his heart sing. Watching you show love to Tiny Diamond by playing or singing touches a special place in his heart. He may not say it aloud, but he's started to think of the possibility of having another baby - with you this time.

He doesn't have a preference for who guides or receives during sex, but he likes to lean back and let you take the lead. Guy is not selfish at all, you won't be unsatisfied that's for sure. He believes that making love with you means sharing yourself with each other - and we all know Guy Diamond isn't afraid to share himself with anyone.

When it comes to sex, he will never be afraid to be open about his interests and desires and he expects the same from you.

It's still a mystery how nude trolls hide their genitals but Guy Diamond is rather average in terms of size. And yes, the sheath and balls are glittery.

CREEK

Let's address the elephant in the room: Creek is not a pleasant troll to date.

On one hand, Creek strives to present himself as a reasonable, enlightened voice that brings positive energy to the village. He enjoys the significance he holds and especially wants your respect. On the other hand, he uses this mask to hide his judgmental nature. He is well aware of his social status and takes advantage of it to behave inappropriately. Most trolls cannot comprehend the extent of his behavior which makes it all the easier to manipulate them. You must understand that you will not be the exception as his partner.

Creek will use dating you as a 'shield' to embolden his behavior even more. He's a well-liked troll with an interesting partner and has the Queen's favor as a friend acquaintance. Surely, a well-adjusted and repentant troll like Creek wouldn't cause any issues.

Confronting him on his behavior is draining, not because there is shouting or bickering between you, but because he maintains his calm and refuses to acknowledge anything. He patronizes you and then sidesteps any issue you bring up. He won't admit his wrongdoing or promise to improve, instead suggests that you're blowing things out of proportion. He insists that you should be content with your relationship and the special bond you both share.

Despite his glaring faults, you see glimpses of the troll you love underneath. When you're overwhelmed, Creek is always there to help you calm down and plan your next steps. If someone's intruding on your boundaries, he's present to redirect them without escalating the situation any further. He's not always willing to prioritize someone else's issues over his own desires, but he would try for you at least.

Makes it a point to tell you how much he loves you and how special you are to him every day. It is disgustingly sweet, especially to anyone who may be nearby to witness. Creek lavishes you with pet names, sappy proclamations, and over-the-top public displays of affection, especially whenever Branch is around. He grazes his soft hand along your cheek with a tender declaration of his adoration or brushes his forehead against yours as he greets you first thing in the morning.

It seems that Creek has an infinite supply of affectionate nicknames just for you. These names can either make you blush with delight or annoy you to no end. Although he could simply use your real name, he prefers calling you 'Angel', 'Darling', or 'Sweetheart' as these names more accurately reflect his feelings for you. Your adorable reactions only encourage him to use them more often.

He writes songs and poems about you to express how you make him feel or reminisce about the memories you've made together. He surprises you by performing an emotional ballad at sunset, singing about how your beautiful eyes meeting his makes his heart skip a beat. Though he would never admit it, when he was held captive by Chef, those poems and songs helped him maintain his sanity.

You're both known to the village as a pair of lovebirds, despite Creek's difficult personality traits and your immense patience. It comes as a surprise when one of you announces the end of the relationship, usually accompanied by tears. Creek appears unfazed as he continues to run his meditation/yoga classes and engage in village events. He tells anyone who asks that the break-up was mutual, though you were more emotional than he. It's only partially true, he was more dumbfounded than he'd like to admit. Once you start moving on, he becomes secretly anxious and slinks his way back into your life before someone else can. It's no surprise when you're both back together within a week.

Underneath all the enlightenment chatter, manicured appearance, and insincere behavior, Creek is insecure about his place in the world and his community. He wants to control what others think of him and prove his worth to secure his position. You can constantly assure him with words, actions, and gifts, but until he feels secure in himself, it won't make any difference. To Creek, this isn't a problem; he'll just do whatever it takes to keep you around - morality be damned. He deserves happiness as much as any other troll.

Creek has included you in his yoga classes, claiming that he wants to "maintain your enchanting aura". Depending on the difficulty of the regimen, he either treats you as his top-performing student to praise and use as an example or his problematic student who needs additional attention. Despite the playful banter and flirtation, he maintains a professional demeanor in front of others. However, private classes are an entirely different matter.

Private classes for you and him are usually held at his place, where he has the necessary equipment, or out in the forest where he's previously found a quiet spot. The sessions start with some light banter, stretching, and warm-ups, followed by vocal affirmations, until Creek decides that your form is in desperate need of coaching. He starts with gentle sweeps along your limbs and then to more sensitive areas as he guides you into position. He flirts unabashedly with you, using honeyed words and heated glances to gauge your interest before nudging things further. It's a fun game to see how far you can both go.

Let him put his mouth to work on you, Creek is talented at more than just talking. He's obsessed with teasing you, his nimble fingers soothing your heat with languid motions as he watches you with eager, hungry eyes. Plead with him to give you the release you so desperately need, his tongue is dying to taste you.

Creek takes great pleasure in denying your orgasm, causing you frustration to the point of tears. Seeing those pretty streams down your cheeks as you hold back your sobs while he grinds agonizingly slow into you. You can ask him to speed up, but why should he? The turmoil painting your face is sweeter than he could have imagined.

You'll have to let Creek take control when it's time to play, he gets resistant if you try to imply that you want to take the lead. When he's in charge, it's never in an expected 'dominant' way. Instead, it's about using his words and your body's reactions to break you down into an absolute mess. Doesn't it feel good to shut off everything else and let Creek make you happy?

It takes so long to coax Creek to allow you to be dominant, skinning back layers of excuses and bitter self-reflection. He's hesitant to have you hold the reins and to just let himself relax. He's more afraid of the sentiment he may not be enough, especially if isn't able to do it himself. Like most situations with Creek, it will take a lot of patience and communication to ease his mind - and he'll never truly be at ease.

Once he discovers how relinquishing control feels, he's nearly appalled by how his treacherous body is responding to you. You praise him as you hover above him, murmuring to him about how he's doing "such a good job" and that he's your "good boy" as your hands ghost lower and lower. Creek is aghast that he isn't disgusted by this, telling himself to just flip you over and demonstrate how it's really done. All that guttural and depraved keening surely isn't coming from his mouth. Afterward, he can't deny that loss of control frightens him, but it's just so…erotic too.

This troll is both a grower - and it shows. Those low-waisted yellow sweats do little to 'hide' his sheath and he is well aware.

#bruce trolls x reader #guy diamond trolls x reader #creek trolls x reader #trolls x reader #headcanons #anon

79 notes · View notes

euphoric-dramione · 5 months

Text

manacled

tw: spoilers for manacled

this one will be long, so brace yourselves

I first read Manacled in 2020, and it must've been the third Dramione fanfic I ever read, so I was truly very impressed with how well written it was. It remained the best and my favorite fanfic up until I started rereading it recently, and I'm writing this rant because I just finished rereading Manacled for a third time and I have some thoughts.

Firstly, it's important to state that back in 2020 I was still a high-school student, I loved reading books, especially classic literature, but I had little understanding of why some pieces of literature become classics and others don't. I just liked reading, and just like many other people, I thought that fanfiction was bad because all I've ever known at that point was Wattpad. Manacled changed my opinion. It was the best thing I had ever read, but I was only nineteen.

Now I am twenty-three, I have a degree in English literature, and although it might mean nothing to some people, it proves to me that I can read and understand texts as well as view them critically - my degree gave me tools to approach things I read and see using critical thinking skills. I don't want to critique Manacled because I think that all fanfiction is a wonderful gift that writers give readers for free, asking nothing in return, and that is such a lovely concept, so please keep that in mind when you read and review fanfiction. My critique stems more from what Manacled tells about the way we read classic literature, books in general, and how we deal when we face dubious morality. There is a thin line between books and literature - sometimes that line doesn't even exist. All literature is books, but not all books are literature. Just like all books are texts, but not all texts are books. What is Manacled then?

I'm choosing to speak about Manacled because I think it does a very interesting thing. It is an intertext of two books - Harry Potter and The Handmaid's Tale. Both of them are books, only one of them is literature, however in Manacled they are treated the same.

The Handmaid's Tale is a gruesome novel about a dystopian world where fertile women are slaves to men, their ability to bare children used as a weapon to exploit them. As the author herself, Margaret Atwood, stated, everything depicted in this novel had in some place or some time actually happened to women.

Rape in The Handmaid's Tale is a way for men to demonstrate how much power they have over women, and how they use that power to humiliate and control every aspect of women's lives, especially their reproductive health. Manacled picks up the very carcass of the story of The Handmaid's Tale and inserts it into a dark AU Harry Potter universe where the second wizarding war with Voldemort still continues some years later. Whereas The Handmaid's Tale is a thought-provoking feminist masterpiece about women's struggles and the never-ending violence perpetuated within walls of patriarchy, Manacled focuses solely on one woman and one man. The woman being Hermione Granger who is forced to bear Draco Malfoy's child in order to get her memories back, so Voldemort could rule forever. Later on, we figure out that Hermione and Draco were actually in love, but war set them apart, and it's him Hermione tried to protect by erasing her own memory. Here lies the distinction. Not only does Manacled say nothing about feminism and how women's bodies become war battlefields for, most often, men. Not speaking up on something in the intertext is absolutely nothing wrong. But Manacled does something else, something that I now see so clearly upon rereading, and something which I can neither forgive nor forget. It romanticizes rape. You might say I'm being too callous saying that it romanticizes rape when it is simply depicting in, and I will explain why I chose the word romanticizes.

Although Manacled doesn't allow us to attribute good or bad traits to characters, it is still very clear that Hermione is the heroine in this story and Draco - the hero with antihero characteristics. How do we deal with the fact that our hero hurt our heroine? We look for excuses. Draco Malfoy rapes Hermione, and we're looking for excuses as to why he did it. Some excuses are these: he did it because he loved her, because if he hadn't raped her, Voldemort would've found out that they were hiding something, and then would've killed them both; he did it, but it hurt him even more than it hurt her (it is true that both the victim and the perpetrator might be equally traumatized by an event one caused and another had to suffer through, but it never excuses the perpetrator); and finally - he did it because he had no other choice. Side tangent, but if my loved one ever has to choose between murdering me or raping me, I hope they kill me. Murder me a million times before you rape me once, that will be a greater mercy. And I believe had Draco actually loved Hermione as much as he claimed, he would've murdered her before he laid a finger on her. Let's also have in mind that he rapes her not once, not twice, but over THIRTY times.

While The Handmaid's Tale tirelessly shows that rape is the worst thing that one person can do to another, Manacled, with all its horrifying depiction, claims the complete opposite. Draco Malfoy rapes Hermione Granger, and although he doesn't take pleasure in it, he still does it. We find excuses for it because he is a hero of the story in our eyes, the same way that we find excuses for our favorite famous men when we find out they committed atrocious acts especially against women. When we read Manacled, we are encouraged to believe that rape is sometimes unavoidable, which is the greatest lie of all, it is blasphemous. Because it's Draco Malfoy committing the rape, it seems that sometimes a person has no other choice but to rape another which is a complete antithesis to what Margaret Atwood, and many other modern feminist thinkers claim. Of course, we don't need feminst thinkers to tell us rape is bad, but we might need to think a little deeper to understand that it is never something one has to do.

Rape is always avoidable, never necessary. It is perhaps the only crime that is committed not for some particular reason, but solely because one person wants to hurt another. Murder, theft, these are the crimes that a criminal might commit because they're poor, because they're are being blackmailed, because it's self-defense, etc. However, rape is such a horrifying crime specifically because you can always choose not to do it, and specifically because it is so hard to recover from - rape victims suffer more extreme and longer-lasting cases of PTSD than victims of any other crime because rape is so horrible and death might be considered dignified compared to rape, not better, but more merciful than rape. Draco Malfoy might be a lot of things in Manacled, but one of them is a rapist, and there is simply no going on around it. If you can forgive him, I hope it's because of all the other fanfics you've read where he was good and kind, and not because here he had no other choice but to rape, because that is simply not true. He had a choice, many choices, to be exact. The choice is always there. The most important thing is what we choose.

This is in no way an attack on Manacled, it is not a review nor is it hatespeech - I thoroughly enjoyed this fanfic back when I read it the first time, and I do think it is incredibly well-written, and I am not comparing it to any other published works because that would be unfair. I believe the things I've talked about have more to do with what regular people who are not writers write and how regular readers who do not read classics all the time accept and discuss that work later on. Anyone could've written something romanticizing rape, and many people do it all the time, some even get published and make money off it, but not all people can write as well as the author of Manacled, and even less would be ready to give us their work to read for free. I purposely do not mention the pseudonym of the author because I am also not attacking them personally, simply pointing out what I've noticed. Thank you for reading all the way to the end.

#feminism #intersectional feminism #the handmaid's tale #margaret atwood #manacled #dramione #dramione fanfiction #critical thinking #literature #booklr #text #writing #sociocritisism #hermione granger #draco malfoy #high reeve

83 notes · View notes

hereticcryptid · 5 months

Note

you should tell me all your thoughts and feelings about that bsd official art i would love to hear it

AHHHHH THANK YOU VERY MUCH

This art. This art. LOOK AT IT! It's such a perfect depiction of Fyodor's and Nikolai's relationship and their characters!

Firstly, look at Nikolai! He's smiling, and he has his hand in Fyodor's mouth, which implies a certain level of proximity. But it also seems (and I'm kinda pissed that no one ever mentioned this talking about the art) that he's tearing through Fyodor's cheek, which is a very good representation of his twisted affection towards Fyodor, and his desire to kill him to be free of emotion, because it showcases both the affection and the way he wants Fyodor gone. Also, the illusion of freedom he has, because that's what it is! An illusion.

Still about the tear through cheek, Fyodor seems entirely unphased! It's like he knows what he's doing, and he's humoring Nikolai, which shows that 1. he has no ill feelings towards Nikolai (also showcased in that one manga panel where Nikolai fearlessly holds Fyodor's hands and nothing happens) and 2. that everything he does is a calculated risk. Despite their positions, Fyodor is in control.

The unphased also fits in nicely with Fyodor's christ/savior complex— in the manga, the eyes represent the person's moral perception of themselves, hence why Dazai's eyes are typically black and Nikolai's are foggy. If you look at most of Fyodor's manga appearances, his eyes are usually white, which would mean he perceives himself as 100% morally in the right. Fyodor considers himself a messenger of god (missionary if you will), and so views his actions as necessary and morally correct!

Now many people say Fyodor has a god complex but what he has is a christ complex, and you know, "died for our sins"! Being unphased at Nikolai tearing through his cheek would represent his perception of himself as a messenger of god and willingness to endure pain to reach his ends, which he sees as the will of god! I'm not gonna start drawing paralels between Fyodor and Jesus because I'm not christian and not well versed in the bible, but I can still be totally insane about Fyodor's whole deal with religion!

And then, you have the grapes, the jewlery and the skull, typically a pagan symbol! Can be a reference to Dionysus and abundance, and Nikolai's obsession with freedom that in my opinion really draws into religious trauma. Dionysus is the god of several things but what is relevant to this is wine, party, insanity, theater, and the intoxication that merges the human and the divine. It draws to Nikolai's role as a 1. jester, 2. how he is presented to us as insane at first but then reveals that he very much is not, and 3. as a tool.

Dionysus is the protector of outcasts, and a symbol of everything that is chaotic and unpredictable, (godly), and that goes hand in hand with Nikolai too, and with his desire for freedom and his inability to reach it truly, because he is trapped in a world of gods (Fyodor) and emotion (also Fyodor), and that is why he wants Fyodor gone despite liking him so much! His position in the art also kind of highlights his role as a tool, because despite being above Fyodor and having an active rather than passive role in the imagery, [gestures at everything I said above], he's still not in control, despite having the ilusion of being so!

Yeah, anyway, I'm totally normal and not at all insane about them

#bsd fyodor #fyodor dostoevsky #nikolai gogol #bsd nikolai #bsd nikolai gogol #fyolai #character analysis #analysis #meta #bsd meta #bsd analysis #bsd #bungou stray dogs #asks

71 notes · View notes

annikin-annotates · 6 months

Text

Tear You Apart

Hi ya'll, I'm back from hiatus with a completely new brand of bullshit. This is my first try at a dark fic, so things are going to get...well, dark. So if that's not your thing that's perfectly okay, feel free to skip this, I will have more Astarion content coming out in due time!

Content warnings: Non-con, Cannibalism as a metaphor for love, Smut, Dom/Sub, BDSM, Choking, Antagonist is NOT Astarion.

Word Count: 2,025

Prologue

He could pinpoint the exact point in time when he became fascinated with Selkies. He was young, no older than ten; he had been playing on the beach with a few friends when they had stumbled across a woman lying on the sand, he had been shoved forward by them to approach the woman.

He could still recall even the most minute details of her, the way her dark hair fluttered in the sun, how it took on a deep red hue when the light caught it just right. Or how her lashes fluttered against her freckled cheeks to reveal the most striking eyes he had ever seen - or would ever see again. Deep in his heart he knew what she was, a Selkie. It was evident in the way she sat up abruptly, having realised she had been found lounging on the sand, enjoying the warm summer sun.

Things were blurry past that point - all he truly remembered was that sound of a hauntingly beautiful song lulling him into a trance, guiding him across the sand and into the tide. Salty water filling his mouth and lungs as he tried to scream out for help, opening his mouth only allowed more water to flood in. He remembered how much it burned - his eyes mostly, the salt and gritty sand scraping against them.

He remembered blackness, and then waking up in his room. At first he thought it had been a dream, but when his mother - who had been sitting dutifully at his bedside - realised he had awakened, she began to lecture him about the dangers of Selkies and venturing too close to the water's edge.

—

Selkies were incredibly powerful, and though Baldur’s Gate had no shortage of magic users, a Selkie would allow him to seize control of the docks entirely. He already had the Harbour master under his thumb, but securing a Selkie would all but ensure that it would stay that way. Their mastery of water was something every journal, book, and tome he could get his hands on mentioned.

All of them had the ability to lure men and women to their deaths with just their voices, and the ability to shape and change the currents of the ocean. It was a powerful tool for him to have, with the help of a Selkie, nothing would enter or leave Grey Harbour without his say so. He knew in order to procure such a rare oddity, he would have to call in a few favours from people in high places.

The elven steel chain glinted in the flickering candle light of the room, as if taunting him, reminding him of his failures. He sighed longingly, his attempts to call in favours had all been fruitless. The search for someone brave, or perhaps stupid enough, to aid in his search for a Selkie hadn’t proved fruitful either. Though he had heard tell of a colony that would pass through the Chionthar to head for warmer waters for the winter.

A cocktail of feelings coursed through him; excitement, relief, lust. The letter he held in his fingers depicted that his search for the Selkie had finally come to a close, years of his life had come to a rather satisfying crescendo. The parchment crinkled under his fingertips as he scanned the letter, again and again, searching for anything he had missed, any inkling of deception or trickery.

The Harbour Master had required his immediate attendance at the docks, that the matter was urgent and could not wait. He stood from the plush chair in his office and made for the door, clicking his fingers at the two guards outside, “You two, with me - we have business to tend to,” as he brushed past them. They crossed the threshold of the establishment, patrons either too enveloped in their own business to notice, or too fearful to look up - he smirked.

When they arrived at the harbour, it had begun to rain, the large droplets collided with the creaking wood of the dock's warehouse. Stagnant air and ocean water assaulted him as he slid the door open enough to walk comfortably through, but not enough to reveal the wares that were inside.

“Show her to me,” he ordered, gesturing for the Harbour Master to lead the way.

He simply nodded, taking him down a series of high shelves, overflowing with prohibited goods he had collected over the years. The group descended a set of stairs and followed down another hall, before they reached a door, the Harbour Master unlocked it before stepping aside, leaving him to open it himself. He couldn’t believe the sight in front of him, a Selkie, all tied up for him like a gift.

She was beautiful, lying peacefully in his arms, dark tresses spilling over his arms like tendrils of shadow; moonlight hit her skin in such a way that it glowed, shimmering shades of green, purple and blue. “Here, boss. Let me carry her,” his companion said, reaching for the woman in his arms. He took two steps back from him, angling her away; she was something to be coveted, he didn’t want her tainted by anyone else just yet, not when he hadn’t had her to himself yet.

—

He eyed her hungrily as he circled her like a predator rounding up its kill before it pounced, fear making the flesh sweeter. The scent of fear was unmistakable, it came off her in waves - she was drenched in it. She was weak and powerless, and he could take what he wanted from her, exact whatever fantasy he wanted and there was nothing she could do about it. He would start with a gentle touch, lul her into compliance, and if she did not comply; he would have no choice but to resort to more unsavoury methods.

She ran. Oh how he enjoyed it when they ran.

His darling Selkie had made quite the show in front of his patrons, all her kicking and screaming only adding fuel to his hunger for her. He had her exactly where he wanted her, huddled on the floor between his feet, cowering in fear, the notion had sent a jolt of electricity through him; he could not help but relish in it, this creature that nearly caused his demise all those years ago.

He crouched down to her, thumb and forefinger poised to gently tilt her chin towards him, “How pretty you sound when you beg, pet,” he cooed, his voice rich like honey. She had almost leaned into his touch, only to have his hopes of this being easy, dashed as a white hot pain radiated from his hand. She had bit him! He had been nothing but gentle with her and this is how she repaid him?

An unstoppable anger boiled up from deep within him, the back of his hand colliding with the supple flesh of her cheek. An animalistic hiss tore through the silence of the room, warm blood splattering across his face and fine clothes. He couldn’t help but find the allure in the wild and blood covered thing in front of him, vicious and waiting to be tamed and brought to heel.

A moment of silence followed as they stared at each other, sizing one another up; there was no way he would let her leave the confines of this room, not until he was done with her. She knew that as well as he did, and yet she tried to push herself to her feet, he could admire her determination. By the time she had gotten to her knees he had her by the wrist, the softness of her skin dimpling beneath his grip.

“Come now, love, surely we can enjoy each other’s company for a while?” he whispered, staring down at her, her eyes screwed shut.

“I want to go home,” she begged, oh how sweet the sound was falling from her lips. He would have her begging for him and not her home soon enough.

A malicious grin spread across his face, eyes darkening as he backed her against the bed, “You are not going anywhere. I am going to devour you, again and again, until there is nothing left of you,” he hummed into her ear, the flat of his teeth grazing the flesh of her neck, punctuating the sentiment.

“Then I hope I rot in your stomach,” she gritted as he wrapped a hand around her waist, pulling her flush against him, long fingers splaying across the small of her back.

“Oh my dear, sweet girl, I’m going to have you wishing for death,” he crooned, delighting in the fear that continued to permeate through her body, despite the brave front she put on. He looked forward to breaking her down piece by piece.

She yielded to his advances, feeling her melt into his body as he set her down gently onto the bed. She felt so good against him, the warmth of her body ebbing into him, everything about her was so utterly enthralling, so…delicious; the way her eyes were lust filled, her pupils blown wide, the way her breath hitched as he nipped at the sensitive flesh of her neck. He brought his face down to her, catching her lips with his own in a searing kiss that only spurred his lust filled actions further.

She wanted this, he told himself. She wanted this as much as he did.

She was completely bare for him, all soft curves and saccharine sweetness, practically begging for him to take her. He wanted to take her apart piece by piece, to sink into her flesh and become one with her. He began to shift once more, trailing kisses down her throat towards her collarbones and then to her breasts. A smirk crossed his lips, feeling her back arch into him as he took one of her nipples into his mouth. His kisses became more ravenous and possessive the closer he got to her core.

His hands trailed her skin as if mapping out uncharted territory before coming to rest at the underside of her thighs, pulling her harshly towards the edge of the bed. He dove into her without warning, the flat of his tongue licking a bold stripe across her bare cunt. A salacious moan tore from her lips as she buried her fingers in his hair, talons biting into his scalp, urging him to dive into her once more.

“That’s it my love, don’t fight it,” he encouraged, feeling her core tighten around his fingers as they worked her, feeling her become more pliant to his touch. The combination of his deft fingers and tongue sent her over the edge, lips crying praise and prayers alike. An unmistakable surge of pride coursed through him; she was being so good for him and he would drain her of every drop of goodness she had.

He had her exactly where he wanted her, she was an unbroken beast waiting to be tamed and bent to her master’s will. The way she looked up at him with her eyes that swirled like a thunderstorm on the horizon, told him that she was his, body and soul. A frenzy over took him as she batted her pretty eyes at him, her head loling back into the softness of the sheets.

He was a ship sailing in unknown waters, and she was the tempest that had come to drown him. Her body would serve as the rocks he would be dashed against, he closed his eyes in bliss as he sank into her, savouring the feeling of her talons at the nape of his neck; he finally had everything he could ever want.

He had waited until exhaustion had taken her, to dress her in a thin shift to protect her modesty, she was only for him, only him, that dark possessiveness within him growled. He opened the box that had long sat untouched in his office, slipping the necklace around her delicate neck, pausing for a moment to admire the mottled bruises that had begun to bloom. She was truly his now.

Let the games begin.

A big thank you to @arcielee for beta reading for me and @amiraisgoingthruit for sitting through countless snippets of this, I appreciate you both so much!

Reblogs are greatly appreciated! it really helps get my work out there!

#astarion #baldurs gate 3 #baldur's gate iii #baldurs gate astarion #astarion x oc #astarion ancunin #baldurs gate #baldursgate #baldurs gate 3 fanfic #bg3 tav #astarion bg3 #astarion x reader #astarion romance #astarion x female reader #dead dove do not eat #dark fic #dead dove fic

70 notes · View notes

mxtxfanatic · 2 months

Text

Book of the Week: Rebirth of the Malicious Empress of Military Lineage

Author: Qian Shan Cha Ke (千山茶客)

Genre: ancient setting, josei

Rating: M (very mature, dark themes but not too graphic of depictions)

My Synopsis: What happens when a girl gets tired of being nice and decides to go apeshit? You get Shen Miao, our adorable 30+ year-old protagonist recently stuffed back into her 14-year-old self and ready to eat the flesh and drink the blood of her enemies! Using this new lease on life, she’ll methodically and maliciously ruin every antagonist’s life using the tools in her versatile skillset, including: knowledge of the future, a psychological understanding of assholes, weaponized gender stereotypes, and men. And lest we forget our love interest, Xie Jing Xing: the boy/man (cause god forbid the author know how old anyone BUT Shen Miao is…) who thought he had it all figured out until he discovered that Shen Miao is a horny drunk. See just how far they’ll go to bathe in the blood of their enemies while keeping their loved ones safe in this very long but extremely satisfying novel.

My Actual Review: It’s so satisfying to see a previously downtrodden character scheme her way into a happy ending, and Shen Miao fucking deserves it. Some reviews that I’ve seen have claimed that the LI eventually takes over her revenge schemes, but I didn’t see it. They just partner up and she uses his manpower to do what she wants. There are also places where their separate goals intersect, so it just makes more sense for him to do the cleanup. The thing about Shen Miao is that she has no issues with letting others do the work for her, especially if it’s against people she wasn’t invested in putting work against to begin with. It’s the empress in her, I fear. As for the main pair as a couple, I loved their every interaction, and their descent into romance felt natural and gratifying. Greatest thing about this romance is the fact that it truly kicks off because Xie Jing Xing did not know to guard against horny drunk Shen Miao lmao!

The translation is pretty good outside of some clunky grammar, but once you train your eyes to glaze over the the five-millionth time the translator inserts directly into the story to complain about how often the LI is described as hot (unlike every other character, I guess???) as if this book is their early 2000s fanfic, it gets even better! Another thing that may or may not be here nor there is that this author is really weird with age consistency. Like, “MC is forever un-aging while everyone else ages 2 years every few months” weird. Shen Miao is forever 14 until the time skip in which she is forever 16, while Xie Jing Xing goes from “the same age as the students” to “17/18ish” to “vaguely in his 20s” during the same course of time where we literally never see Shen Miao acknowledge a birthday in any year. As for more serious content warnings, this story involves underage relationships (including non-explicit sex, marriage, and pregnancy), rape as a weapon, (assumed) incest between cousins, child abuse, and described but not explicitly shown torture. Though there are some humorous parts, this is not a lighthearted story. Read if you want something dark with an ultimate happy ending.

Translation: complete

#human promotes #rebirth of the malicious empress #my first foray into m/f cnovels #very good place to start #love me a girl winning #shen miao did the damn thing this whole novel #she up there in the hall of fame forreal

42 notes · View notes

spopsalt · 9 days

Note

I'm not even sure the writers knew they were writing Catra to be abusive. The writing of the whole show isn't just in bad taste, it's incompetent. They even failed at 'setup, reminder, payoff' multiple times, and that's the most basic screenplay writing tool.

The thing is, I actually think Catra and Adora being together would be really interesting because of the sheer complexity of such a relationship. But She-ra is a children's adventure show. The focus of any romantic couple is on how they are getting together for the happy ending. It's not the right place or time to depict this type of relationship. It would take a immense amount of screentime and nuanced writing on both characters to make it work.

The implications of their relationship. Adora's heroism stems in part from her childhood, where she always had to protect Catra. As Shadow Weaver doesn't give a shit about Catra's safety, Adora's only bargaining power lies in her own wellbing This dynamic fosters her detrimental tendency towards self-sacrifice.

Nevertheless, Adora's heroism also springs from her genuine compassion and love for the world. Catra's accusation of Adora prioritizing self-sacrifice over her, and Adora subsequently apologizing, should have been used to highlight the toxicity in their relationship— how their traumas makes them both worse. Adora is literally apologizing for putting ideal she believes in above Catra, who is 'supposed' to be the most important thing in her life.

Catra only reinforces such an idea, because Adora is the only one to ever value her in their developmental phase. Catra's safety depended on Adora prioritizing her. Combined with her self-loathing, she rejects new relationships of any kind, because in her mind 'only Adora can love her.' Adora learning to value herself from their love is so deeply unrealistic and insulting.

I can't find myself disliking or liking Catra because she's not even written with enough consistency for me to read her as a person. Just a flat character trope in attractive shell. The show as a whole is just botched piece of media and the interesting implications might even be accidental.

Thank you! People will say that Catra helped Adora's trauma but she just made it worse, she made Adora feel weak

"It won't be over until I see the look on your friend's faces when they find out that you failed, because you were too weak to save them"

Made her think that she's hurting her friends

"Haha! You're the one who left the villagers unprotected! You're good enough at hurting your friends without my help!"

Andddd made her think everything was here fault...ohhh there's so many to choose from let's run through some of my favorites!

"Let's be honest, all of this is your fault. If you hadn't gotten captured, your sword wouldn't have opened the portal."

"You broke the world and it is all. your. fault."

"You MADE me this! You took everything from me!"

There's more, but I don't want my answer to be too long

#spop salt #anti spop #spop criticism #spop discourse #anti catra #spop crit #spop critical #anti c//a #anti catradora #antic//a

28 notes · View notes

breakfastteatime · 9 months

Text

Today's request is for @serena-darrin, who chose 'Are you okay?' (¬‿¬)

Sometimes, Cal wonders if the Force is punishing him, because of all the cabins he had to walk into on the entire Venator they’re scrapping, he’s stepped into a long-dead Jedi’s bedroom. It’s dark, the power long since cut, and yet that doesn’t stop Cal from seeing the single bunk identical to his own, a desk covered in study materials and the training tools, and a robe hanging over a locker. All of them are markers of a life torn away.

And now Cal’s got to gather it all up and throw it away.

The echoes in here hum and sing, voices bleeding into the present. He’s not getting through this without smashing into the past. It’s too loud, too demanding. First things first though. Cal sticks his head into the hallway. Good, no one’s coming. He blocks the door with the trash can anyway. Better safe than sorry.

He goes through the room carefully, tossing the training aids he wouldn’t be able to use anymore away, feeling the determination and pride clinging to them. His body wants to move with the memories, feel the satisfaction of perfecting a new skill. He still remembers how easily it all came to him compared to the others in his clan…

It hadn’t helped at all in the end. All that studying. All that training. For what? Master Tapal’s dead and the Jedi are gone.

Cal makes good progress, tossing the past into the trash. He knows this was a Padawan’s room, although she’d been far older than him and preparing for knighthood. Her life slips through his mind in a wash of emotion and chatter. She was so sure she’d pass the Trials, so excited for the end of the war and a return to peace. Cal throws away her mementos: a holoimage of her and her master with their troop, a carving depicting a bird Cal’s never seen before, a selection of pressed flowers, more clothing several sizes too large for him along with space for arms he doesn’t have… It’s all useless now. Anyone seen wearing it would probably be shot dead on sight.

The dead Padawan’s datapad lights up when Cal touches it, a half-finished message popping up. ‘Be back on Coruscant soon, according to Master Day. Can’t wait to see you! Maybe we’ll head to the lower levels and –’ Cal tosses the datapad into the trash. It doesn’t matter. None of it matters. She’s dead. Her friend is dead. Their masters are dead. All the Jedi, except for Cal it seems, are dead.

Cal’s deep in the storage locker when he feels something unexpected buried under a pile of wrinkled robes. His hand slides under cloth, fingers closing around something cold. Metallic. Wrapped in leather.

“Master, I think it’s time.”

Master Day looks up at her, brown eyes crinkling with a smile. Not so long ago, it would have been the other way around, but she’s had a growth spurt and all the aches and pains have paid off. She is taller than her beloved master, and it is time for another change.

“My lightsaber hilts are simply too small. It is affecting my performance. With your permission, I would like to spend some time redesigning them.”

“Of course, Padawan. After all, I can hardly enjoy beating you in sparring if your lightsabers are so small they fall from your hand, and you burn yourself on the blades.”

She is nowhere near Master Day’s level, and such a thing will not be happening anytime soon. But someday, maybe… “Master, when I beat you at sparring, you will have to petition the Council to knight me on the spot.”

Master Day’s laughter is rich and full. “Young one, if you are still a Padawan by then, you will be the oldest to have ever lived.”

Cal breaks free of the memory. He can feel himself smiling, heart swelling with love and joy that do not belong to him. They fade steadily, leaving him in the dark with a pair of hilts that no longer house kyber crystals and the Jedi who built it long gone.

He tosses them in the trash and pretends it doesn’t tear something out of him to do so.

By the end of his shift, the cabin is empty, ready to be stripped tomorrow. Cal pushes his trash cart outside. Cold rain pelts him as he tips its contents into the ever-hungry Maw. He trudges back, ready to catch the train. Prauf’s there, and he waves him over. Cal joins him.

“Hey Cal.”

“Hi, Prauf.”

Prauf stares at him. “Are you okay?”

Cal shakes himself. Nothing can be done. The past is the past, and he must accept that. “Yeah, I’m fine.” He makes himself smile. “Long day.”

“Hah, ain’t it always!” Prauf pats him on the back. “C’mon, let me buy you a non-alcoholic beverage of your choice at the Rust Bucket.”

“Feeling flush?” Cal asks as the train pulls onto the platform.

“I wish! Nah, you look like you could use it.”

Cal blinks back a sudden rush of tears. “Yeah, okay. Thanks, Prauf.”

“Attaboy. No booze though. I’m not dragging your drunken ass back home.”

“No booze,” Cal says, even though a few hours of oblivion sound pretty sweet. “You got it.”

#fic requests 2023 #star wars jedi: fallen order #jfo headcanon #jfo minific #cal kestis #prauf #we are having prauf feels todaaaaaaay #bracca

93 notes · View notes

theerurishipper · 2 months

Note

Season 4 and 5 made it just so difficult to truly believe that Marinette really loves her Kitty. The Fandom and show can scream about vague soft eyes and "she loves her kitty so muuuuuuch! <3" however they want, but it says alot about Marinette's character that this vague "I love my kitty" never really gets any more specific.

Saying "I like you / I want you around" doesn't mean anything whne the actions themselves paint the picture of her basically taking Cat Noir for granted and not thinking a single second about his actual well being or his perspective in any of this.

It's like in Glaciator 2 where a good part of the episode Marinette spends either screaming at Cat, manhandling him however she pleases and even invalidating any of his emotions by screaming in his face that HIS emotions don't matter in any of this, this is about HER and her only when she used him not knowing Marinette is Ladybug against him by secretly forcing him to practice with her her confession for Adrien.

She's literally screaming at him that his emotions are irrelevant to her. She just wants him to do whatever she wants and however she wants it bc apparently thats the only way she can stand being around him. And that she got in season 5, how Lovely.

And then later when Cat voices that he thinks Ladybug can't stand him anymore because she screams at him and gets seriously physical Marinette is like "No, no, that doesn't mean she hates you <3"

When, like, yes Marinette. Under anything resembling to normal morality you constantly reducing him to a rag doll, screaming, insulting, replacing him, leaving him behind on the battle field for your own and your friends' benefit and brushing him off would be a perfectly reasonable thing for another person to view as a bad thing. Only YOU would demand of someone to view that as unparalleled depictions of fondness, and that hasn't changed much by Elation.

Her ignoring his discomfort in the kissing scene (closing her eyes again) and then almost turning into Cat's enemy for daring to tell her "no" one time is one unnerving sight to behold. She basically immediately went back to season 4 mode the moment she didn't get what she wanted. I don't even want to imagine what she would have done to him by impulse if that moment had happened in Ladynoir (I hate how CONSISTENT this is...)

and even by the end of the episode she's still only asking him to validate her when he brings her back.

And well, then she leaves.

It's difficult to actually believe that Marinette really values Cat Noir alot. It feels much more like she values and likes how little genuine efforts she has to make in their dynamics to reach a normal standard, and that he's just the most convenient person for her regarding any kind of ugly dirty work or her worst tendencies not coming with regular circumstances. So of course she would like that.

If I had an anger problem, I would probably like the person too who had to learn from me that that's "perfectly reasonable behavior" they should view as GOOD in a dynamic bc i like using them as rag doll, punching bag and tool.

But just because I personally would find comfort in a person accepting that I can do that to them as my way of "showing affection" doesn't it mean that that's a good thing to make soft eyes about.

But the show is not GIVING us much more to work with. Marinette only on rare occasions voices anything she even likes about him. It goes mostly unsaid so you can claim whatever you want about her feelings for him.

She likes that he's funny, only that the show isn't showing that alot. If at all. Marinette telling Alya in Hack-San to laugh at his jokes because he likes taht is kinda out of left field because Marinette herself honestly doesn't do it alot. The normal reaction is her being annoyed, shutting him up and even insulting him, down to any kind of "slapstick".

And the most I can remember her having SAID about being in love with him in season 5 was being thirsty about how hot he is. I don't wanna be mean but no wonder Alya basically disregarded Marinette's crush. It's not like she ever named anything serious, and tahts....honestly awful.

With Adrien as Cat Noir there was NEVER a question if he values her for more than her being pretty. He loves her brilliant mind, her determination, her drive to help people. Him complimenting her for being pretty was just the cherry on top.

But only towards Joan of Arc did she mention that she likes his loyalty, but that got ruined by her straight up AGREEING with her whne she insulted Cat and the "loyal" part was only to save her own face. She literally agreed with someone insulting Cat right in front of him and only said "yeah, but he's LOYAL" which of course made him insecure. He couldn't see Joan of Arc, how many people are there and what the insult was Ladybug just agreed with. He can't defend himself and saw that Ladybug literally WON'T.

So which one is it, Marinette? Is he hot or a runt who's lucky he's loyal? Why was Joan's opinion of you the whole episode the only thing you actually cared about to the point where you were fine with throwing the person you love oh so much to the dogs again? And Cat looking bad and humiliated again was barely an afterthought to you, as long as it wasn't YOU?

If she actually loves and value him then why is she still treating him as if he merely spawns into existence for akumas or her entertainment and benefit as her care taker? Why isn't Marinette trying to make up for how she used her civilian side to make him do whatever she wants several times by now, as if she never even conciders how this will look like once they reveal (I would loose sleep if I did that to a person!)?

Why was she still perfectly fine with him being completely isolated and having no one in a case of emergency, meaning she always continued letting him run the risk of ending up the way he did in the season 5 finale? Cat being found as a civilian by Hawkmoth was from day 1 one of the most obvious things that could happen and even after 2 what if episodes this fate of his was never actually avoided, because Marinette always just prioritized getting HERSELF out of the equation more than him truly being safe.

That's a risk she was apparently from start til the end perfectly willing to take.

5 entire seasons and the only safety thing she cared about in their dynamic is that if he gets caught and is at the villain's mercy, he does so as quietly as possible so she isn't bothered by it and can close her eyes, cover her ears and go "Lalala".

If Marinette in any of these 5 seasons thought Cat deserved help too than she sure never acted like it, and in fact demanded the complete opposite for her own comfort.

How am I supposed to believe that Marinette loves and values Cat Noir as a person when non of that or his entire personhood goes beyond what little she wants for her own comfort? If you love a person you would actually want them save and not remain in harms way but accept that you shouldn't be asked to care about that? Or remain completely isolated in the dangerous lives you lead without being allowed to ask muvb of anything from you support wise?

Or constantly ditched on the battle field, being done who knows what to so YOU and your friends are fine while you execute the actual plan with the others.

You would ask questions if they're okay and if they need help too, and not just take any half an indicator your being given to write off any concern because you apparently don't actually wanna think about any of that.

You would actually think about them in any decision you make because this is not just about you and their well being should mean something to you. You would tell them things so you don't risk them getting hurt by having to find out themselves the worst way (and here leading to akumatizations).

You would let them made their own choices, have agency and not just when you're forced to. You wouldn't casually execute a plan to trick them into revealing their important secret identitiy to two people without their consent or knowledge, and ESPECIALLY not when the god damn angry authority figure, who already doesn't lie your partner, would fucking use it to get rid of them behind YOUR BACK TOO.

You wouldn't want physical harm being done to them instead of even being a main source of it, and never taking accountability for that while demanding to never get touched and spoken to in a single wrong way. You wouldn't want that they accept that you don't owe them anything as their LEADER but they owe you EVERYTHING because you said so and can't handle anything else in a "partnership".

(Only to feel sorry about it for 2 minutes when you loose everyone else but, well, not really I guess? Or else she would have tried making up for it in season 5 more than just surface level stuff that was once again mostly for HER benefit anyway. But more than that never happened)

You wouldn't want to think they're stupid for not thinking like you and draw the line at any "back talking" you're being given bc you apparently concider anything else but absolut obedience and blind faith as your little puppet as you being "disrespected". So they must walk around you like on eggshells and only talk in soft compliments and supportive words cause who knows how you would react otherwise?

Dude, no wonder Ladynoir is fucking dead. Good for Adrien, and I hate that we've come THIS far. Such a thing is one of the last things I ever wanted to say when I started watching the show. Now I can't be angry taht Ladynoir is fucking dead and Cat Noir didn't made it out of the partnership for the finale, because wtf else was this supposed to result in??

I just cannot fathom the type of "Love" and fondness Marinette supposedly has for Cat Noir. Whatever fondness she feels for him gets drowned out by other 20 red flags about her not actual treating him like a real person.

And man, I HATE that...

Yeah, literally. This is probably harsher than what I think, but it's more or less my thoughts on the matter.

Thank you for your ask!

#ML Salt #ML Critical #ML Writing Salt #ML Writers Salt #Marinette Salt #Asks #Meta #Ladynoir conflict #Ladynoir Salt #Also anon I am so so so sorry for being so late #This is like 2 months late #Anon you're probably not even here anymore but I didn't forget you I promise

26 notes · View notes

velidewrites · 7 months

Text

Summary: When 19-year old Feyre Archeron voluntarily takes her sister's place in the Hunger Games, she expects nothing but her imminent demise. But Feyre is a survivor, and as she is thrown into a battle between life and death, she discovers there are things worth fighting for.

Pairing: Feysand

Warnings: Graphic depictions of violence, graphic depictions of blood and gore, Feyre being sexy and unhinged, wait a second is that Rhysand? Is he also sexy and unhinged? AKA Feysand (literally) slaying the game

Read: Chapter I || Fic Masterlist || AO3

Chapter IX: There Can Only Be One

Rhysand remembered the name of every single child the Capitol ever murdered.

The same could not be said for them, of course. Their memory faded as quickly as the funds Panem’s elite poured into the Hunger Games—forgotten as soon as the bloodshed was over. Year after year, Rhys watched as history repeated itself, more innocent blood spilled as the sponsors learned how to get creative.

First, there was all the betting. If there was one thing the Capitol loved almost as much as watching its children die one after another, being right had to be one of them. The endless battle of wits, all done behind the arena’s bloody curtain where the Tributes were nothing but numbers, nothing but pawns the elites forced around their imaginary board. Rhysand had never seen so much money in his life—certainly not before his own Games started. He sometimes wondered just how much of it went out of the Capitol’s pocket just to get him through to the end—right behind that curtain. Right into their laps.

Some people called him lucky to have ended up here. Others—the Victors, mostly—preferred to call him names he’d rather not think about right now. Rhysand, though—he liked to call himself a strategist. Part of something bigger.

After the sponsors poured all their money down the drain, there came the worst part of it all—the waiting. Countless pairs of eyes glued to the holoscreen, either widening in shock as their favoured fell, or narrowing in smugness as they cut down yet another victim of the country sworn to protect them. Each time, Rhysand would etch the victim’s name into his memory, knowing it was already forgotten by their sponsor, the funds already moved to their executioner.

These, Rhysand learned far too late in his life, were the true Hunger Games. The Tributes, their families, their Districts—all meaningless, all mere pawns to satisfy those at the very top. To feed the Capitol, starving for entertainment.

There would come a time when they starved to their deaths—or, better yet, choked on their own greed. It was the only hope he held onto these days. The only thing that kept him going through the past decade.

So Rhysand waited, eyes focused on the holo as he began writing yet another name into the most shielded corner of his heart.

Nuan of District Three must have been one of the cleverest Tributes he’d ever seen. Even through the screen, he could practically hear the wheels of her mind turning. For someone so young, her intelligence and wit had already gained her a sponsor, determined to see the ceremonial crown placed atop her head—to see the gold reflected proudly in her black hair. The man had made sure she’d lasted through the winter day with a coat and the proper tools to light a fire—all proven useless in the end, though, with Nuan figuring out how to keep herself warm hours before the package was delivered. The freshly killed elk’s body heat and warm blood had not been a sight the sponsor particularly enjoyed, but Rhysand watched the entire spectacle with a smile on his face.

That smile was long gone now. Nuan was clever, yes, and she’d managed to make it to the final four—but it was not enough.

It was not nearly enough.

Rhysand, frankly, had no idea how the girl had learned about the coming storm. The sponsor couldn’t have told her—it was against the rules and closely monitored by the Gamemakers—which only meant more credit was due to Nuan’s skills. With the autumn day still around the corner and the spring and summer days seemingly following their old pattern, there were no signs of the coming changes. Only a handful of sponsors had been told of the Prime Gamemaker’s plans to “make things more interesting,” as Eris Vanserra had called it. The fire, he’d said, had been a spectacle, yes—but he hardly enjoyed watching the same show twice, a sentiment the sponsors certainly shared with the final hours of the Games approaching at last.

The wire, Rhys had to admit, was perhaps one of the most brilliant strategies he’d ever witnessed in his ten years of experience. He’d been confused about Nuan’s choice of weaponry ever since he saw her sprinting for it at the Cornucopia—armed only with the long, metal string and a short dagger, Rhys did not anticipate the girl to last this long.

She’d wrapped one end around the bark of an oak tree, the thin cord disappearing in the dried-up grass before dipping into the neighbouring river. It was the perfect trap—if timed correctly. The moment her victim’s foot stepped on the wire—and the lightning struck the tree—would be the moment they drew their last breath. The only thing left for Nuan to do was to hide in the bushes and wait for the storm to come.

It was already too late.

The camera zoomed in on the girl’s face, her gaze focused on the sky above. The sun was starting to come down, greyish clouds already shielding the arena from its light. Rhys could almost hear the thoughts churning in Nuan’s head—the storm is coming. But Nuan did not—could not—see what Rhys saw.

Brannagh was coming, too.

And she was a lot faster than the storm.

A smirk twisted Brannagh’s dirt-smeared face, unease curling in the pit of Rhys’s stomach at the sight. She looked more like an animal than a girl now, he thought, the urge to kill almost primal as it flashed in her eyes. A predator ready to dig her claws into her prey.

The live footage followed Brannagh’s every step, dreadfully quiet against the sun-scorched soil as she made way for the river. If Nuan stayed hidden well enough, perhaps Brannagh would’ve set up camp nearby—would’ve stayed until the rain started pouring.

But Nuan’s attention remained on the clouds high above, her expression tight with anticipation, and Brannagh…Brannagh moved too silently to make her presence known.

It would take a sound—a single crunch of a twig beneath Nuan’s feet, a rustle of the bushes wrapped around her slim body to let Brannagh know she was not alone in the clearing. Rhys’s heart picked up, thumping loudly against his ribs, as if to yell loud enough for Nuan to heed its warning. If only he could be there, somehow—or send a message, one of those silver parachutes to carry a weapon of more substance than the pathetic knife strapped to Nuan’s boot. The holoscreen separating them reminded Rhys that, just like any other Tribute in the past, Nuan was all on her own.

“Come on,” he murmured, chin propped up in his hand. “Look down.”

“Nervous, Rhysand?”

The voice snapped him back to reality so suddenly he nearly flinched—he certainly would have, had he not gotten used to hearing it almost every night. On the holo, Nuan fidgeted with the spare wire in her hands, as though she, too, heard the syrupy question.

Rhys turned to Amarantha with a lazy wave of his hand. “This has been dragging on too long,” he complained, motioning to the screen. “That District Two girl should just get on with it.”

She took her seat on the couch beside him, the deep maroon of her hair spilling over the back. “So bloodthirsty,” she purred, trailing a long, sharp nail down his shoulder. Before he could stop himself, Rhys shivered, and Amarantha smiled, clearly misinterpreting his reaction.“I’m surprised you’re so eager to see Brannagh move forward,” she added, her gaze flicking to the holo.

“Why wouldn’t I be?” Rhys asked, letting his own mouth curl in a smile. “The sooner the Games are over, the sooner I have you all to myself again,” he teased, brushing a thumb over her pale hand.

Amarantha did not so much as look in his direction, her focus on Brannagh now as she kneeled by the stream. “That is not what I meant.”

Rhys’s smile faltered. “Oh?”

Her head angled an inch. “Brannagh seems to be awfully determined to get to a favourite of yours,” she mused quietly.

For a moment, Rhysand’s heart stopped beating.

Did she know?

She couldn’t have—she simply couldn’t. She’d shown no apprehension towards him in the lounge the other day—and certainly none in the night that followed—and he’d been so careful, lot more than in the past few years. There was no chance anyone had found out about his meeting with—

Rhysand composed himself quickly.

“Come now, Amarantha,” he hummed, pressing his lips to the cold hand on his arm, willing her eyes back on his own. “You’ve known me long enough now to know I don’t play favourites. Well,” he winked. “Except for one, I suppose.”

Her eyes narrowed, but she seemed to ease up a little, her lips pursing playfully as she countered, “I’ve known you long enough to know you’re a shameless flirt, Rhysand.” He chuckled, letting Amarantha study his face as she explained, “I meant Feyre Archeron, of course.”

She looked briefly to the live footage, where Nuan finally seemed to have taken notice of the Career a mere few feet away from her.

“Our shining Star of the Capitol,” Amarantha hummed absently.

Rhys forced his gaze away from her face, letting that trained boredom fill his own as he looked to the screen as well. “Feyre Archeron?” he asked, scrunching his nose slightly. “I thought she was already dead.”

The words soured in his throat, the strange sense of betrayal they carried making his stomach tighten painfully.

Amarantha hummed again. “Not yet.”

Rhys blinked. Somewhere, in a world far away from this one, Nuan began silently stepping out of the bushes, the wire clenched tightly in her palm as she crept up on the Career. Brannagh would be far gone before the storm even started—she must’ve decided to act now.

“What do you mean?” he asked somewhat breathlessly, her answer knocking nearly all the air from his lungs.

Amarantha blinked, too, her dark eyes flicking back to him as she explained quickly, “I’m only saying if you’re not even half as bloodthirsty as that dirty Career, our lovely Feyre is unlikely to hold her own against such…”

A loud scream sounded from the holo as Nuan fell to the ground, a knife deep in her throat, fresh blood staining the corners of her mouth. Brannagh hunched over the girl, breathing in an out sharply, hand pressed to her side—just below her liver, Rhys realised, where Nuan’s wire had managed to bury itself seconds before her death.

“…talent,” Amarantha finished.

Nuan coughed for the final time, blood gurgling out loud enough for the cameras to hear, before her eyes stilled, a glossy veil falling over her panicked gaze. The cannon boomed, marking the Tribute’s death.

Amarantha sighed, rising from the couch. “And then there were three.”

Rhys forced himself to look up at her and smile. “Shall we watch the finale back at my place?” he asked, his voice dipping suggestively.

She took his jaw in her hand, thumb brushing the crest of his bottom lip. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” Amarantha teased. “No, I’m afraid I will be watching with Grandfather tonight.”

Rhys’s eyes widened. “Since when?” he blurted before he could really think the question through.

Her smile faded. “The President values my company, Rhysand.”

Fuck.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

He shifted in his seat. “Of course—that’s not what I—”

Amarantha laughed—a low, raspy sound. “I like watching you squirm,” she said. “Don’t worry, you’ll see me after the ceremony—you can be sure of that.”

Fuck!

He was an idiot—an utter fool for not keeping his cool when it mattered most. This was it—his chance to be there, to get her to take him with her, to finally get to a place where only one person before him had ever managed to get to.

And Rhys ruined all of it.

She took him by surprise—she’d always stayed with him for the finale, with Hybern preferring his own company as the Games reached their climax. If he’d been smart, Rhys would’ve waited—would’ve fucked her senseless for it if need be, just as he’d done a thousand times before.

He missed his chance.

“I’ll miss you,” he threw in desperately, a pathetic attempt to gain what was already lost.

Amarantha leaned over the couch, the crimson of her lipstick flashing before she captured his mouth with her own, her tongue demanding immediate entry. He let her in, the way he’d always done, responding with the passion he knew would make her seek him out one way or another later—perhaps he’d manage to pull some information out of her, when she was tired and exhausted and naked in his bed.

Her teeth dug into his lip for the final time before she pulled back, a secretive smile playing on her pale features. “I’m sure you will,” Amarantha said. “Until next time.”

With that, she was gone, the door to his room closing with a light click.

Rhys vomited.

***

“Feyre.”

Feyre kept her gaze on the path ahead. She had no interest in stopping—not with the sun minutes away from setting, and certainly not with the fire sure to start within hours. She would not survive the autumn day again, that she was sure of. This—all of it—needed to end.

Now.

“Feyre,” Tamlin pressed behind her, his large hand reaching to capture her own. Even with the summer’s wet heat slipping away, his skin felt clammy against hers. Feyre ignored the feeling. It was nice to feel someone else’s touch, she realised. Especially since she might very well be dead in a matter of hours.

“Stop.”

She did, the new firmness in his tone halting her in her tracks. Tamlin’s face was hard as stone as she faced him, though the look his eyes was enough to betray exhaustion—they’d been walking for two hours now, moving from one corner of the arena to the other, guided by the river’s shimmering stream.

It had flushed out Tarquin’s blood within minutes, but even now, miles away from where they’d left his body, Feyre swore she could see red staining the water. Feyre knew the Capitol’s ship had probably picked him up soon after they’d left the clearing, and yet, she couldn’t shake the horrid image off her mind. Rotting flesh, slowly sinking into the mud or slipping into the river. Limbs caught up in the net—the net meant for her.

How many had already died so that Feyre might live?

She began counting them mentally, averting Tamlin’s searching gaze. The girl from Four, killed by a dagger seconds after they Games had begun—a dagger Ianthe aimed for Feyre’s throat. Devlon, terrible as he might’ve been, caught up in Brannagh’s bloodlust. Even Ianthe, whose bow now lay strapped to Feyre’s back.

Ressina.

Ressina, who would’ve lived had it not been for Feyre trying to play the Capitol’s game. She was good, her mind as sharp as her physical ability. Had it not been for the trap Feyre had set up, Ressina could’ve very well managed to survive until the very end. It could’ve been her friend now marching for the Cornucopia, ready to put an end to all of it.

Instead, it was Feyre, who only got this far because of sheer luck and whatever it was that Tamlin felt for her. She’d kissed him in that clearing, with Tarquin’s body as a witness. They’d barely spoken since then.

Perhaps, just as Feyre did, Tamlin was starting to realise they could not leave the arena the way they were now—hand in hand. Only one would survive.

And if they managed to kill the two Tributes left…

“Tell me what’s on your mind,” Tamlin said quietly.

She slipped her hand out of his grasp.

“Nothing.”

“Don’t lie to me.”

Feyre looked up to meet that emerald gaze, now stern with conviction. “The sun is setting,” she explained.

“Yes,” Tamlin agreed.

Feyre sighed. Her answer, apparently, was not good enough. “I’m worried about the fire.” Not entirely a lie—she had been thinking about it just a moment ago.

Tamlin’s shoulders fell a little—as though in relief. “There’s nothing we can do about that now.”

“Yes, there is,” Feyre countered. “Once we reach the Cornucopia—”

“We don’t even know if the other Tributes are there,” Tamlin interrupted. “The Games will not end tonight, Feyre. We should find shelter for the night.”

It wasn’t the first time he’d suggested it in the past hour. Feyre’s lips thinned—no matter how many time she’d pressed, Tamlin simply refused to back down. As if he wanted to prolong the Games, for whatever reason. He’d have to kill her eventually, anyway.

Feyre certainly wasn’t going to kill him. She had enough blood on her hands to understand there was no going back.

She could never go home again. How could she? To face Elain, so kind and gentle and good, and expect her to love a murderer? To face Nesta, who valued loyalty above all else, knowing she had watched as Feyre killed the one friend who’d looked out for her? No. Her sisters were lost to her.

Tamlin, at least, would get to go back. It was the one consolation she had left. After everything she’d done, at least she could set things right with him. He protected her—had lied and killed for her out of nothing but the affection in his heart—and he would get to go home because of it. He deserved it. District Twelve deserved it.

If it came down to the two of them at the end, Feyre knew what she’d have to do.

And there was not a shred of regret in her heart because of it.

“Feyre,” Tamlin’s voice, deep and unwavering, sounded again.

“We are so close, Tamlin,” she said, something heavy building up in her chest. “So close.” You could be going home.

Tamlin sighed. “That’s what worries me.” He turned slightly, gaze sliding over the trees around them until they settled at some point far to their right—as though he could see something there. A bird nesting deep between the leaves, a stray squirrel, perhaps, or worse—Brannagh, her favourite dagger already in hand, ready to slice it through their throats.

A split second later, though, Tamlin seemed to relax, powerful shoulders relaxing a little as he reached for her hand, thumb gently swiping over the back of her palm. She couldn’t help but lean into the touch—just how many of them did she have left?

“Tamlin,” she admitted, her voice quieter than a breath lest the Capitol could hear. “I’m scared.”

He squeezed her tightly. “There’s nothing to be scared about,” he told her with a rare smile. “I’ll protect you.”

No, you won’t, Feyre thought, though the words remained silent in the back of her throat. I won’t give you that chance.

He must’ve seen it, then—the pained look twisting her face, the shadows clouding her stare—because his brows knitted slightly, and he straightened. “Feyre,” Tamlin started, “Why—”

His question died with the loud boom of a cannon, so close to the two of them it might as well have been their own deaths it marked.

Feyre’s heart stopped beating entirely, her blood chilling into ice.

“Brannagh?” she dared to ask, the question no more than a whisper.

Tamlin’s eyes widened. “We need to move,” he urged, tugging on the hand she forgot he’d been holding. “Now, Feyre.”

She did not object this time.

They ran back into the forest, far away from the path laid out by the stream, the trees offering shelter from the fading sun. Three—there were three of them left.

The Games were coming to an end.

Feyre could only pray—pray to whoever would listen—that the cannon had been set off for Brannagh, that the girl from Three had somehow managed to kill the Career hell-bent on coming after the two of them. The thought almost made her stumble over her own steps.

Feyre considered the prayer again. Then again. And again.

Perhaps…perhaps this was her solution.

She already knew she wasn’t making it out of here alive—not when Tamlin was still by her side, breathing and in perfect health. She also suspected that if it came down to the two of them, Tamlin would not let her sacrifice herself for him.

Brannagh, though…

Feyre was certain the District Two Tribute shared no such sentiment.

Tamlin could handle her on his own—Feyre had no doubt of that. And Brannagh…Brannagh could handle Feyre.

Feyre swallowed thickly.

Elain, Nesta. I’m so sorry.

“There’s a cave just ahead,” Tamlin said beside her, motioning to the pile of rocks hiding an entry just under an oak tree. “We can wait out the fire there.”

Feyre nodded.

The moment Tamlin fell asleep, she would be gone.

Just as the cave she’d hidden in before, the space was cold and dark, the wet soil clinging to the soles of her boots. Near the entrance, a plush patch of moss laid waiting, the grassy scent mixing with the pungent mud. Feyre coughed once, then twice, earning a concerned look from Tamlin. She shook her head.

“It’s not poisoned,” she said. “It’s just…the smell.”

Tamlin scrunched his nose—then shrugged. “It’ll have to do.”

“You should get some rest,” Feyre told him, willing strength into her voice. “I’ll keep watch.”

“Feyre,” Tamlin’s tone invited no argument. “I’m not sure if you’ve forgotten, but you almost died today. Died, Feyre.”

She huffed a bitter laugh. “Yeah, well, what else is new?”

Tamlin rolled his eyes. “Very funny. I’ll go out and try to find us some dinner. We’ll need something to hold us over during the fire, won’t we?”

Feyre chewed on her bottom lip. “I don’t think—”

She didn’t get to finish. Without warning, Tamlin pulled her in to his chest, arms wrapping tightly around her as his mouth crashed into her own.

The kiss, unlike the one they’d shared by the river, was quick and chaste—but it was enough for her body to slump a little, exhaustion hitting her all at once. She could wait a little, Feyre decided. The forest was still ripe with prey, and the sun had only just now set. She could sleep—for the final time.

“Wake me up when you’re back,” she told him when he finally pulled back.

Tamlin nodded. “I will.”

And just like that, he left.

***

Ressina’s laughter was warm even underground, the sound echoing through the training ring.

“I’m really trying,” Feyre grumbled.

“Oh, I can tell,” her friend teased, teeth flashing in a mocking smile. “You really showed that dummy, you know.”

Feyre followed her gaze to the back wall—right where the dummy stood proudly, untouched by what seemed like a hundred daggers at its feet.

She sighed deeply.

“You’re doing it wrong,” Ressina tried again, stepping in closer to Feyre’s side. “Your stance has improved, but the issue is in your grip. Here,” she instructed, long, slender fingers wrapping around Feyre’s wrist. “Loosen it up a little. Not that much,” she said when the dagger fell flat in Feyre’s hand. “You still need the strength to throw it—but its the flexibility of your wrist that will guide the knife to its aim.”

“Where did you learn all of that, anyway?” Feyre asked her absently, eyes narrowing on the target once again as she adjusted her stance.

“I’ve told you,” Ressina said. “Apple farms.”

Feyre gave her a look.

Ressina chuckled. “You’re clever, Feyre. More clever than you think. Oh, that’s a good thing,” she added at the sight of Feyre’s rising brows, then nodded to the knife in her hand. “Daggers can only get you so far.”

Feyre followed her gaze—then looked to the dummy once again. She made herself count to three, releasing a deep, deep breath with each second until her shoulders steadied, and the knife became as much as an extension of her own hand.

A moment later, the blade lodged itself right in the puppet’s heart.

Feyre turned to Ressina. “I don’t know about that.”

Ressina smiled.

***

Feyre’s eyes shot open.

Propped up on her elbow, she lifted herself off the cold ground, heart thumping loudly in her chest. The sound of Ressina’s laughter still rang somewhere in the corners of her mind, the memory, too, like a knife burying itself deep into Feyre’s heart.

She blinked the stinging sensation away, her vision adjusting to the darkness around her. She could just barely make out the moss growing at the cave’s entrance, ruffled slightly by the night’s gentle wind.

It was then that Feyre realised she was alone.

She jolted upright, hand nearly slipping on the wet ground. Just how long had she been asleep?

“Tamlin?” she dared to whisper. Perhaps he was simply keeping watch outside. But no—he’d promised to wake her when he returned. What if…

What if Tamlin was never meaning to come back?

He could’ve planned for his own death the same way she had—the cannon told them Brannagh wasn’t far, after all. What if Tamlin had left for his own death, hoping to spare her from having to kill him at the very end?

“Tamlin,” Feyre tried again, voice growing desperate. She had no doubt there were cameras in the cave somewhere—she didn’t care. Not right now, when she needed to go and find him—needed to try and—

A quiet jingle sounded outside, breaking out of her panic.

She recognised it almost immediately, rising to her feet to meet the parachute outside. Perhaps, for whatever reason, Rhysand had taken pity on her again, and was now sending her some sort of protection from the fire. Or maybe, just maybe, the parachute was meant for Tamlin—and, hearing its gentle call, he was already on his way back to her.

The moment Feyre stepped outside, the parachute landed right in her hands.

Not for Tamlin, then.

The package was smaller than her last—only a small box hung attached to the silver fabric, nearly invisible in the darkness. She couldn’t have been asleep for long, then—the sky seemed nowhere near clearing up, the few stars above her only light as she unscrewed the top.

She wasn’t sure what she was expecting—a protective balm for her skin, maybe, anything to let her know the wild, ravaging fire would not be how she went out of this world.

Inside laid a neatly rolled piece of paper, the elegant, familiar handwriting no more than five words:

Don’t let the Hunger win.

Feyre read the message again. Then again—and again.

She gave up with the sixth time.

“What does that even mean?” she asked the stars, twinkling playfully in response. Feyre threw her arms up in exasperation.

“I don’t have time for this,” she grumbled, shoving Rhysand’s secretive message into her back pocket.

She needed to find Tamlin—and she needed to do it now.

***

“And you’re certain,” Rhysand said, his voice shaking slightly on the chill, underground air.

“Positive,” Nuala confirmed. “The parachute went out ten minutes ago.”

He loosed a breath. “Did she already receive ours?” She nodded. “Good. How much until the other?”

She shifted on her feet—a rare sight, and it only made his stomach tighten. If anything went wrong…

“Cerridwen is monitoring the cameras,” Nuala said.

“No names,” Rhys hissed.

“Right,” she scrambled. “Right, of course. I—yes. Tamlin should receive it within minutes.”

Rhysand forced another, frigid breath. “Did she send it personally?”

“She’s not stupid. And, from what you told me, she is occupied.”

“Right.” He’d almost forgotten.

Silence fell, filled by nothing but darkness between the two of them. It seemed that the waning hours of the Games were getting to Rhys, too—and more than he’d anticipated.

“We warned her,” Nuala said quietly—a shred of comfort in a situation like this.

“She won’t understand until she sees what they sent him,” Rhys countered. “And even then—”

“And even then, you’ll have done everything in our power to keep her alive,” Nuala pressed. “The only thing left for us to do is wait.”

The waiting is the worst part, Rhys remembered.

Still, he had no other choice.

It was up to Feyre now.

He could only pray she’d understand.

***

She found Tamlin not even ten minutes later, crouched behind tall bushes, eyes fixed entirely on whatever they were hiding. A sob nearly shook through her body at the sight—he was still alive. He still had a chance.

Feyre approached him silently, her bow strapped securely to her back as she kneeled beside him. “Tam—”

A large hand clamped her mouth shut as Tamlin whipped toward her, his gaze shining with alarm. Feyre’s breath quickened—his reaction could only mean one thing.

They were not alone.

Slowly, Tamlin released her face from his hold, his own finger pressed to his lips tightly, urging her to keep quiet. It was then that Feyre noticed a glimmer of silver near his feet—a piece of familiar fabric abandoned on the grass. Her brow arched in question.

Tamlin shook his head. Fine—he’d tell her later. Whatever it was the sponsors had sent him, it could apparently wait.

Feyre moved in closer toward him, reaching for the thin branches shielding her vision from view. She suppressed a hiss as a sharp pain shot through her finger, tearing the skin open at the tip. Thorns.

Tamlin’s gaze remained focused on the path ahead as she tried again, quietly opening a gap between the leaves to reveal whatever it was that commanded Tamlin’s full attention.

Her heart nearly froze at the sight.

They’d reached the Cornucopia.

She hadn’t seethe horn-like structure since the Games had begun, made of the same metal as the boxes sent from the Capitol and gleaming with its own, humming light. Feyre had forgotten just how large it was—just how much it could hide.

It was Brannagh’s whines that gave her away.

She sat on the east of the horn, back resting against the hardened walls, each one of her breaths falling flat. Feyre’s eyes widened—even the bushes seemed to go lethally still at the sight of the injured Career.

Brannagh’s hand laid pressed to somewhere near her stomach, her clothes bloodied slightly, though Feyre knew her well enough by now to know there was no telling if the blood was truly her own. There was no denying she was injured, though—perhaps injured enough to kill with enough ease.

This ruined her plans a bit.

Tamlin’s hand on her thigh snapped her back to their hiding spot. “We have to kill her,” Tamlin whispered, the sound barely audible on the midnight wind.

Feyre’s heart reset, stumbling over a beat. “Tamlin,” she breathed, “No—wait—”

“There’s no time, Feyre,” he urged. “We have to end this now.”

“Tamlin,” Feyre said, panic rising in her voice, “if we kill Brannagh, we’ll be the only two Tributes left.” She couldn’t kill him. She wouldn’t.

Once again, Tamlin’s face became stone. “We’ll have to deal with that later.”

“No,” she pressed. In the distance, Brannagh whined again—as though in confirmation. Even the wind seemed to pick up, howling somewhere in the distance. Could Feyre truly kill her like this? “There is another way. There has to be,” she said, more to herself now than him. What if—what if they could all get out of there alive. If they stood against the Capitol

“Feyre—”

“We’re not killers, Tamlin,” she pleaded. “We have to try. We can’t let them win.”

Don’t let the hunger win. Was that what Rhysand meant?

Surely, if we all refused to kill each other…I doubt they’d keep us trapped in here forever. Those were her own words, weren’t they? Spoken to Ressina shortly before her death. Perhaps that was why she’d dreamt of her earlier—perhaps the dream was her friend’s final message, her final lesson to keep Feyre alive.

She’d written off her death so easily, Feyre thought, a new sense of guilt washing over her at the realisation. She’d promised Elain to survive—she’d promised Ressina to bring the Capitol down after she did.

And Feyre would. She would make the Capitol pay for this—for all of this.

But first, the three of them were getting out of here alive.

Feyre stood abruptly and marched straight for the Cornucopia.

“FEYRE!” Tamlin roared behind her. Too late.

Brannagh, to her credit, shot to her feet instantly, a hiss managing its way past her lips with the movement. Not even her injury, it seemed, managed to keep the cruel smile off her face.

“Twelve,” she greeted, rising to her full height. “I’ve been waiting.” A look past Feyre’s shoulder, where Tamlin’s hurried steps now sounded. “And you’ve brought the traitor, too.”

“How did you know I’d be coming?” Feyre asked, her tone calm to her own surprise.

Brannagh shrugged, face twisting painfully—wrong move. What had the girl from Three done to her? “You’re the Star of the Capitol, aren’t you?” A raspy laugh. “Of course you’d want to have your moment to shine. Sorry to disappoint,” she added, “but even in my state, I can kill you right where you stand.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure about that,” Tamlin said behind her.

Brannagh’s eyes narrowed into thin slits. “Stay out of this, flower boy. This is between us girls.” A smile at Feyre. “Isn’t it?”

“I don’t want to kill you,” Feyre told her.

Now that seemed to throw her off. “What?”

“We can get out of here, Brannagh,” she told her the same thing she’d said to Tamlin. “All three of us—we can go home.”

Brannagh looked as though she’d gone insane.

Still, Feyre continued, “Please—please just hear me out. I know you don’t want this—I know you wouldn’t be this if it weren’t for the Games. We can all get out. If we stand our ground—if we refuse—”

Brannagh erupted in laughter.

The sound quickly turned into a cough—a flat, shuddering sound, her arms wrapping tighter around her sides.

“They got her,” Tamlin murmured, now a mere step behind Feyre. “It’s her liver, I think. Look at her hand.”

“You dumb bitch,” Brannagh laughed, “I knew you were crazy, but this has got to top it all.” Her dark gaze, now clearer than ever before, settled directly on Feyre’s. “You think you have a chance here? You think any of us do? Open your eyes, Twelve,” she hissed. “Only one of us is getting out of here tonight. And that someone is going to be me.”

“You’re dying,” Tamlin pointed out quietly. Somewhere in the distance, the sky rumbled loudly—enough to make all three of them flinch, as if in confirmation of his words. Was that a storm coming?

It couldn’t be, Feyre thought. Not with the fire a few hours away.

Brannagh tore her gaze off the sky to face them once more. “The Capitol will take care of me the moment you two are dead.”

“You’re a fool if you think the Capitol is ever going to take care of you, Brannagh,” Feyre said.

Brannagh’s eyes widened at that—and, for a split second, Feyre believed they had a chance.

If only.

“I’m no bigger fool than you,” she said, and attacked.

Feyre had no idea how Brannagh managed to launch for her this quickly—or when, exactly, the daggers appeared in her bloodied hands. She could only see the two flashes of silver as the Career swung, inches away from her neck.

Tamlin’s hands on her waist pulled her back with a force so strong Feyre gasped out in surprise. She swayed, heels digging into the ground as she tried to regain her balance, Tamlin’s own weapon already in his hand and charging for his enemy.

Brannagh ducked just in time to avoid his sword slicing her in half, but the move cost her—the strain on her wound made a sharp cry slip past her throat as she fell, back hitting the hard, solid ground. Her scream was cut off as she choked on her own breath, eyes threatening to fall out of their orbits at the impact. Brannagh grasped at the weeds around her, her hands weaponless now with her daggers abandoned from the fall, then choked again as she realised—it was over.

Feyre stepped in closer until her boots covered Brannagh’s blades—better safe than sorry, she told herself. Even disarmed, she was still dangerous.

Tamlin hovered above her, the tip of his own blade pointed at the defeated Career. Brannagh closed her eyes.

“Wait,” Feyre told him. Tamlin’s head whipped toward her.

“What?”

“Brannagh,” she urged, not daring another look at Tamlin. “Please. You have a chance here.”

Lightning tore through the darkness with her words—as if the night sky itself was in agreement.

With her remaining strength, Brannagh shook her head. “Y-you,” she wheezed, body convulsing with the effort, “You don’t mean that, Twelve.”

“We’re more than just numbers, Brannagh,” she told her. The sky rumbled again.

“Go…” Brannagh coughed, “…go fuck yourself.”

“That’s enough,” Tamlin said, hands wrapping tighter around the hilt.

Feyre’s vision flashed with alarm. “Tamlin, wait—”

Brannagh did not get to close her eyes again as Tamlin drove his sword deep into her throat.

Her body slumped against the grass, so small now that the soul was gone from it entirely. Feyre looked away from the blood—from what seemed like a sea of it pooling around her, turning the lush green into crimson—and yet, no matter how far she seemed to avert her gaze, the red found her still. She saw it everywhere now—the grass, the walls of the Cornucopia, the bark of the trees at the edge of the forest. Her own hands, marked by it forever.

The cannon sounded with the first rainfall.

Beside her, Tamlin was panting, those emerald eyes fixed on Brannagh’s dead body. Feyre could see the blood in them now, too. The water would wash it away, she realised, watching as the rain dotted her skin. It would wash it away and make space for more to be spilled.

“Tamlin,” Feyre whispered, the sound drowned out by the howling wind. The rain intensified, accompanied by more thunder, closer and closer with every roar. “Tamlin!”

“We need to take shelter!” he called to her, his hair already wet and clinging to his neck. He motioned to the Cornucopia—and took off.

Feyre had no choice but to run after him, Brannagh’s body discarded for the storm to claim.

“Tamlin,” she tried again once they stood under the silvery roof. Yet another cave of the Capitol’s making.

“The fire isn’t coming,” he said, as if that was the answer she was seeking. “I’m not sure which one of these is worse.”

“Tamlin.”

Finally, finally, Tamlin looked at her, something like a shadow clouding his expression. Feyre exhaled shakily. “What do we do?”

His jaw tightened. “We can’t get out of here. Likely for the next twenty-four hours.”

Feyre couldn’t believe what she was hearing. “Tamlin, I’m not talking about—”

“When was the last time you’ve eaten?” he interrupted, something urgent in his eyes with the question. Something pleading.

He’d just killed Brannagh, Feyre understood. And, if they failed to oppose the Capitol…he’d have to kill her, too.

She could give him one more minute.

“Okay,” Feyre breathed. “Okay.” She considered. “Since the spring day. But, like you said—we can’t go out.” Not with the storm raging by the minute.

Tamlin swallowed thickly. “I have food,” he said, then reached into the pocket of his jacket to pull out a shiny, silver box.

Feyre’s shoulders fell. It was decently sized that the two of them could share it, she supposed. “Is that what they’d sent you earlier?”

Tamlin nodded. “I’ve already had some before you found me—I’m sorry I didn’t go wake you. I thought she’d die on her own there.”

Feyre kept her eyes on the box. “It doesn’t matter anymore.”

Tamlin sighed. “No, I suppose it doesn’t,” he said, then opened the lid.

The box was filled to the brim with something—fruit, Feyre realised, making out their small, round shapes in the semi-darkness of the Cornucopia. Berries. It wasn’t meat, but it would be enough to hold them over for some time—especially if they’d been sent from—

Feyre blinked.

I had a sister once, you know, Tamlin said, not looking her in the eye as the city lights twinkled in the distance. She died when we were little.

Feyre remembered Tamlin from back home. Tamlin Rosethorn, the florist’s son. They’d never spoken, but ever since she was old enough to roam the District streets, she would see him around, clinging to his mother’s leg. She remembered his brothers, too—older, working their days in the mines or fighting each other in the streets whenever they got the chance.

But a sister…

Are you doubting yourself, Tamlin? Amarantha’s syrupy voice poured into her head.

No. But I do wish there was another solution.

That was the night she’d overheard them after training.

Her name was Dalia, Tamlin had told her minutes after, stumbling over his words. She was a lot like you, I think.

Feyre stopped breathing.

Poor Tamlin, Amarantha had crooned after the interviews. Young love can be so heartbreaking.

Be careful who you trust, Feyre, Rhysand had told her moments later.

One day, my sister was going back from the mines through the forest, Tamlin’s voice sounded again. And she picked up some nightlock berries.

Don’t let the hunger win.

Feyre swallowed. Hard.

“Tamlin,” she started slowly, looking up to meet his gaze. “What was your sister’s name?”

Tamlin’s brows furrowed. “What?”

“Just…tell me. Please.”

“I…” he hesitated, his stare dropping to the berries, then back to Feyre—then to the berries again. “Lila,” he said slowly. “Her name was Lila.”

Feyre’s chest tightened.

We all have to survive somehow. Her own words, said to Isaac shortly before her life fell apart.

This, apparently, had been Tamlin’s way.

“Wrong answer,” Feyre whispered.

Tamlin took a step back. Then another, until she realised he was not backing away—no, Tamlin was adopting his stance.

“It doesn’t have to be this way,” Feyre begged, even as she knew he was already lost to her.

Tamlin shook his head. “I really wish you had chosen the berries, Feyre.”

And with that, he reached for his sword.

“There can only be one.”

He betrayed her.

He’d been betraying her since the very beginning.

I’ll always protect you, Feyre. Lie, lie, lie.

She could protect herself.

Ressina’s dagger found its way into her hand naturally—like an extension of her wrist, part of her own flesh.

The world slowed down as Feyre made herself count to three, the rain outside blurry as her vision sharpened on one, singular target with a sword in his hand and pain in his eyes.

One.

Two.

“Three,” Feyre said, then plunged the dagger right into Tamlin’s heart.

***

Rhysand sat on the edge of his bed, unaware of the storm hurling at his windows.

He could only see the storm in the arena, clear on the holo as if it was happening right in front of him. Could only see as Tamlin swayed back into the wall of hardened rain with the knife buried in his chest to the hilt.

He looked at Feyre, mouth agape, as though he would say something—anything. None of it would matter.

His sword fell a second before Tamlin, his body hitting the ground with a loud thud.

He did not move again.

A few feet away, Feyre watched as the last Tribute stilled into nothingness.

And then, she blinked.

The determination Rhys had seen on her face moments prior faded instantly, replaced by a panic so palpable he swore he felt it in his own chest. Her blue-grey eyes went wide, freezing in terror as she waited for Tamlin to rise, to take another breath. Rhysand knew—he remembered. Tamlin was lost.

And Feyre was alone.

Slowly, Feyre took a staggering step forward, her face as though in a haze. Then, she took another—and one more, until she reached Tamlin’s side at last.

Rhysand stood, feet carrying him to the holo as if they could reach her, stopping only when he faced the shimmering blue screen.

The camera zoomed in on its star, close enough to capture the tremor that shook through her body, the wobble of her knees as she realised there was no going back. As she, too, understood, just how alone they were in this world.

Her legs gave out.

Feyre fell to her knees beside Tamlin’s dead body, looked up to the storm-torn sky, and screamed.

Rhysand’s palm found the screen. As if to brush the tears off her face.

I understand, he wanted to say. I understand.

For the first time in ten years, Rhys let himself cry.

Taglist (let me know if you'd like to be added!): @fieldofdaisiies @vulpes-fennec @houseofhurricane @reverie-tales @kingofsummer93 @melting-houses-of-gold @labellefleur-sauvage @shadowriel @captain-of-the-gwynriel-ship @headcanonheadcase @foreverinelysian @rhysiedarling @msfeyredarling @itisiyourfemur @to-read-or-to-read @bookish-dream @darling-archeron

67 notes · View notes