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the-lonelybarricade · 1 year

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Ten Past Five - Feysand NYE

It's six days late, but it's finally here. My Feysand New Years Eve fic, delayed because this mofo is a whopping 12k words. This is my very late contribution to @unofficialfeysandmonth2022 Day 31: Holiday. Please enjoy!!

Read on AO3 • Feysand Month Masterlist

Ladies and gentlemen, please note that due to extended strike action, train services will be ending early this evening. If you are leaving this station for London Marylebone, please check your returning train times. The last train leaving from London Marylebone will be at ten past five.

“Great,” Feyre sighed under her breath. She rolled up the soaked sleeves of her coat to glimpse her wrist watch.

Noon already.

She’d woken up late.

Well. Actually, she’d woken up with plenty of time to get to the station. But she’d turned her bleary eyes towards her bathroom door, and the distance between the bed and the shower had felt unconquerable. It had taken her so long to convince herself to get out of bed that she’d needed to brush her teeth in the shower to leave the house on time. Then it hadn’t even occurred to Feyre that she’d rushed out the door without her umbrella—not until she’d taken the elevator to the ground floor and walked out her building's front steps. There was no reminder quite like being assaulted by a winter downpour. If she’d turned back around to grab it, she would have missed her train.

So there Feyre was, shivering on the platform, waiting for her train to arrive, praying she could handle things in central London quickly enough to be back at Marylebone by ten past five.

She hated Tamlin for insisting they meet in person to do this.

She hated him more for insisting it be in central London on New Year’s Eve.

She hated him the most for using this as an excuse to hatch some braindead plan to win her back.

Feyre wondered if he thought she was stupid. He’d probably suspected she’d have no plans, since all of her New Years plans had been with him and his friends. Perhaps he’d expected to find her sad and lonely and willing to forgive him. She could already hear his pitch to come home with him to celebrate. We could start over, Feyre. New Year, new us. A fresh start. As long as she didn’t let him talk, she could just give him back his house key and get home in time to snuggle on the sofa with a glass of wine. Tamlin was too vain to believe it, but Feyre was actually relieved she wouldn’t need to be spending another New Year with his stuck up friends, watching Ianthe hang herself all over him.

Good riddance.

The trains were, thankfully, not very busy, nor was the Underground. And Feyre used the idle travel time to rehearse everything she would say to Tamlin.

No, I don’t want a coffee. No, I don’t want anything to eat. I just want to give you this house key, and I want you to give me mine, and I never want to see you again.

Firm. Direct. Unwavering.

“Hey, Feyre.”

It all fell apart when she saw him standing in the cafe, smile nervous. Charming. He was wearing the cream knit jumper she’d gotten for him last year. The one he never wore, despite how Feyre expressed her fondness for the look. It softened his demeanor.

“Hi Tamlin.” She forced a smile, trying not to look at his eyes, or his loose, shoulder length hair. Things that were easy to miss.

“I got you a coffee,” he said, holding up the cup with that stupid bashful smile. It was the same one he’d flashed her the day they’d first met, when he’d come up to her at her art gallery and admitted he had only attended because he thought she was pretty. “Two pumps of vanilla, one pump of hazelnut. Whipped cream. Just how you like it.”

Feyre stiffly accepted the drink. There was the first part of her plan up in flames. A drink kept her in his proximity, forced them to sit down. She knew that was his plan—he’d never bothered with gestures like this before. She hadn’t even realized he knew her favorite order, and she wasn’t suddenly touched to find out he did know it.

It meant that ignorance wasn’t the reason he’d never bothered, he just hadn’t cared.

The paper cup stung her palms as she followed him to a table in the corner. She could at least take the drink with her when she left. She didn’t need to stay and drink it.

“Here,” Feyre said, placing the cup on the table so she could dig into her purse and withdraw the small jewelry bag she’d placed his key into. She dangled it by the strings towards him. “Your house key.”

Tamlin stared at the small velvet bag. He started to reach for it, then paused. “Feyre…”

“Take it, Tam. And give me back mine.”

“Don’t you want to talk about this?” He asked, leaned back in his seat. Leaving her holding that key in the air, cheeks burning the longer she held onto it.

“No,” she snapped, flinging the bag at him. The weighted metal inside slapped against his chest, any satisfying thunk she imagined in her head blanketed by the soft, thick sweater. He was frowning as he caught it in his hands. “There’s nothing to talk about,” she added. “We’re broken up, Tamlin.”

She watched his hands curl around the bag. She scooched back in her seat.

“It was one drunken—”

“Don’t,” she interrupted. “Don’t you dare make excuses. Just give me back my house key, and we’ll go our separate ways.”

The bag was now smothered in his fist. She watched him clench his jaw, then look back at the bag. He took a deep breath, intentionally relaxing the tension in his posture on the exhale. He tried another smile, but it was poisoned by the irritation in his eyes. “Come on. It’s New Year, Feyre.” He tilted his head, both brows raised high. “Remember all the plans we made? I know Lucien and Alis will miss you tonight.”

“I have plans,” she said flatly. Tamlin jerked his head up, eyebrows bunching into a tight knot. Feyre stared him down, channeling her best impression of Nesta’s cold, cruel indifference. She reached carefully for the coffee cup, hoping that moving her body would help conceal her shaking hands. “So if you could give me back my house key, I can be on my way.”

“Who are your plans with?” He asked.

She remembered watching Tamlin shave his face in the mornings, gliding his sharp razor carefully over his cheek, applying just the right of pressure so that he didn’t nick his skin. She could feel him, pressing that edge into his voice. Not too much—not enough to wound, not yet. But she could feel the razor on her skin, a warning that she was entering dangerous territory.

“You don’t know them.” She made a point to pull up her sleeve, check her watch. Nearly three already. She needed an hour to get back to Marylebone, but she was fine. She wouldn’t be here longer than two hours.

“A man?” He pressed, words gritted. “Is there someone else?”

Feyre sighed. “Tamlin. Just give me back my key.”

“Maybe I’ll hold onto it,” he said. “You’ll never know what will happen if you’re inviting strange men around, Feyre. If anything happens, I’ll be able to help—”

“Tamlin. Let me make this clear. If you show up to my house and let yourself in, I will have you arrested. Do you understand?” She stared at him. Levelly. “Give me my fucking key back.”

“I’m just trying to look out for you, Feyre,” he said, rolling his eyes. “Don’t be so dramatic.”

“You know what?” Feyre stood up from the table, coffee cup in hand. She momentarily debated dumping it on top of his head. “It’s fine. Thanks for the coffee. I’ll be staying with a friend until I get my locks changed.”

A bluff, but he didn’t need to know that.

Tamlin scrambled to his feet. “Feyre.”

She was already striding to the door.

“Feyre, let me at least walk you to the station. ”

She ignored him entirely, keeping her head fixed on the cafe doors. People were likely turning their heads at the commotion—the British public always knew how to act scandalized by an outburst. But she didn’t dare acknowledge the cutting looks. They could think what they wanted. She wasn’t going to indulge him any longer, he wasn’t worth the headache.

“I have an umbrella—”

He was cut off by the door slamming shut. Once she was out, Feyre turned abruptly, the opposite way of the station. Knowing Tamlin, he wouldn’t be far behind, and she was at least going to ensure she wasn’t easy to follow. She took a sharp corner so that she’d be out of sight when he came out of the cafe, rationalizing that it was better to waste time walking in a big circle than risk him catching up to her.

And perhaps he wasn’t even trying to chase her down, but that didn’t stop her from ducking into the first Underground Station she saw. It didn’t matter that it wasn’t on the right line. She had plenty of time, and Tamlin certainly wouldn’t be looking for her on the District Line—not when walking a block to a station on the Central line would have saved her half the time.

Worth it. Worth it to avoid that angry knit of his eyebrows and delay the onslaught of texts that would come through once she was above ground.

Three thirty.

It was fine. She had plenty of time. She’d get to Embankment by four, Marylebone by four thirty, and would be halfway home before the final train even left Marylebone.

She fished out her phone once she was in the train carriage, juggling her coat and the coffee cup in her other hand, so that she could pull up a picture of the tube map to ensure she’d mentally mapped out her journey correctly. It calmed her to have a plan, and to know that there was no rush. Though, in the Underground, it was hard not to rush, with the rapid flow of traffic. When she stepped off the train at Embankment, she couldn’t help falling into the familiar habit of long, quick strides, staring up at the signs to direct her towards the Northern Bakerloo line.

Feyre promptly turned in that direction, glancing at her phone to double check the time. Five past four, just as she’d guessed. The status board said everything was running on time. It was all going to be—

“Shit!”

Her phone clattered to the ground as she smacked into the shoulder of someone who had cut in front of her. The impact jolted his arm so that his phone went flying, too, as did her coffee.

All over his expensive looking shirt.

“Oh my god,” she squeaked, pulling to a halt in the middle of the busy tunnel, earning nasty glances from the passersby. “I am so sorry.”

He grimaced as he looked at his shirt, then lifted his head to look at Feyre.

To her horror, the man she had just assaulted with coffee was utterly gorgeous. The kind of gorgeous she would ordinarily be mortified to even make eye contact with—And, oh, he was making eye contact. Unblinking, soul-bearing eye contact. It felt like magnets clashing, the pull so strong it would have been impossible to look anywhere else. She probably should have been saying more, but she was too fascinated by the array of colors in his eyes, some hues so deep they were nearly purple.

She could feel herself forgetting how to speak as he smiled, lifting a hand to wave away the apology. “It’s fine. I hated this shirt anyway.”

God, what did she even say?

He reached down, risking his hand against the foot traffic to retrieve both of their phones. He stood back up in one fluid, graceful movement. “It’s my fault, anyway. I shouldn’t have cut in front of you like that.” Raven-black hair fell across his forehead as he gazed down at the pair of black screens in his hand—both remarkably unscathed, considering neither of them had phone cases.

Their phones were an identical make, she noticed. Feyre supposed that meant she and the handsome stranger had similar tastes. As if it wasn’t the most popular phone brand. It was nice to delude herself that this was some clandestine meeting, as fleeting as it would be.

“Here you are,” he said, deep blue eyes sparkling as he extended the phone towards her. Their fingers brushed as she accepted it and oh no his hands were so big. She didn’t want to notice—she hated that she did. She hated that she couldn’t stop noticing. Long, elegant fingers, with a large vein running over the back of his hand.

“Sorry again,” Feyre said. She told herself she was only breathless because she had been rushing through the station. Her face was so hot, and she dreaded to think about how obvious her blush probably was.

It was normal to be flustered after spilling coffee on someone.

“Don’t be.” He winked. “Running into you was worth a ruined shirt, any day.”

Feyre turned her face to hide her blush. “I should, um..”

He laughed. “Happy New Years, darling,” he said, offering her a small wave before he took off, swallowed back into the flow of the crowd before she could even ask him his name. Not that she would have been brave enough to. Feyre was certain if she learned anything else about him, it would ruin her life, burning inside her mind along with the knowledge that she would never see him again.

It was better to keep the beautiful man nameless.

Taking a deep, steadying breath, Feyre assimilated back into the crowd. She clicked the power button on her phone to glance at the time, only to stop abruptly at the picture on the lock screen. Feyre recognized those smiling violet eyes immediately, sandwiched between two grinning men with equally dark, rugged features.

This wasn’t her phone.

Feyre turned, searching for that dark of hair in the crowd, but he had already disappeared toward the Westbound Circle Line. Heart pounding in her chest, Feyre doubled back, elbowing her way through the crowd to chase after him. She didn’t even have a name to call out, not that it would have been heard over the roaring tunnels and the screeching wheels against the track.

The train now approaching is to Edgware Road. Please stand back from the platform edge.

She broke onto the platform where a train was already waiting, doors open as passengers filtered inside. She scanned left and right, but there was no tall, charming stranger in sight.

Doors closing.

BeepBeepBeepBeepBeep

Fuck. Feyre panicked. Her train ticket home was on that phone.

She jumped on.

And as the doors closed, she immediately felt foolish. He wasn’t in this carriage, and she had no idea if he had even gotten on this train. At least the carriages on the Circle Line were all connected. It gave her a chance of finding him as she carefully navigated to the next carriage, then the next. No purple eyes. No coffee stained shirts.

The next station is Westminster. Change for the Jubilee Line. Exit for Westminster Abbey, Houses of Parliament and Riverboat Services from Westminster Pier.

Mind the gap between the train and the platform.

Had he gotten off? Feyre had no idea, but she’d resolved to follow this carriage all the way to the back of the train.

The next station is St. James Park…

The next station is Victoria…

The next station is Stone Square…

The next station is South Kensington…

God, what was she doing? He could have gotten off at any of the stops. The final train home was leaving in thirty minutes, and she still needed to get to Marylebone. It wasn’t like the man had stolen her phone on purpose—no thief would offer their own phone as collateral. Once she was off the Underground, she could call her number, and they could meet each other another time to exchange phones.

Resigned, Feyre got off at South Kensington. It would be cutting it close. She would need to switch lines and double back, then up, but she might make it if she hurried. With an exasperated huff, she followed the signs towards the Piccadilly line, trying to forget the handsome stranger for the time being.

This is South Kensington. Change for the Piccadilly Line. Exit for the Museums and Royal Albert Hall. This is a Circle Line train via High Street Kensington and Paddington.

Rhysand stepped off the train, relieved to be almost home so that he could change out of his sticky shirt. Not that he particularly minded. Not when blue eyes lingered in the back of his mind, so wide he could mistake them for the sea. They reminded him of staring out at St. Ives Bay as a child, when their family would go on holiday in the summer. Warm and beautiful and dangerous.

Mor would laugh when he told her the story. He had run into Feyre Archeron, of all people, on the Underground. She clearly hadn’t recognized him, or she simply didn’t know who he was. If he was bolder he would have said something.

But he’d looked into those eyes and he’d felt like he couldn’t breathe, let alone say anything articulate. Feyre fucking Archeron, red-cheeked and just as devastatingly beautiful as he remembered. He wondered where she’d been going, if he should have pretended he was going that direction, too. Hell, he would have followed her to the other end of London just to listen to her talk. He was endlessly curious to know what she’d been doing. Why was she in a rush? What did it sound like, when her lips shaped his name?

Rhys wasn’t certain they’d ever actually spoken a word to each other. Tamlin seemed to very intentionally avoid him at any work functions, and Rhysand had always been content to do the same. He’d gotten used to pretending Tamlin didn’t exist outside of when it was strictly necessary. That was, until Tamlin had started showing up to parties with Feyre Archeron on his arm. Then he became harder to ignore. Rhys had last seen her only a few weeks ago, at their work Christmas party. She’d been wearing a red velvet, long-sleeved dress, which in itself could have been a living commentary on how men were first driven to sin. It hugged her hips the way Tamlin should have been doing—adoringly. Like it wanted to worship every inch of her.

Where did someone like Tamlin even find someone like her?

Rhys had been wondering that question for almost a year now, and he supposed he had his answer. In the Underground, apparently. He’d been paying so much attention to his phone that he hadn’t even seen her until they crashed into each other.

What had he even been looking at, again?

Rhys tapped his card on the reader, following the gates out of the station before he pulled his phone from his pocket to remind himself what he’d even been in the middle of doing before his mind had become tangled up in Feyre Archeron.

There she was again. Smiling at him.

He blinked, half expecting the image was some strange mental projection because he couldn’t stop thinking about her.

But—no. That was a picture of Feyre on the lock screen, her arm thrown around Lucien Vanserra’s shoulder. Interesting that it wasn’t Tamlin. And more interesting, that he seemed to have ended up with her phone in their collision.

That was when the Whatsapp messages started coming in.

Tamlin: Feyre.

Tamlin: Where did you go?

Tamlin: Feyre???

Tamlin: Come back. Let’s talk about this.

Tamlin: If you don’t want to come to New Years, I can come to yours. Just the two of us.

Tamlin: Feyre???

Tamlin: I’m sorry. Tell me where you are and I’ll bring you your key.

Tamlin: Who are your plans with?

Tamlin: Are you with them right now?

Tamlin: Is there someone else already? Did our relationship really mean that little to you?

Jesus Christ. Rhysand could venture a guess as to why Feyre was in such a rush when he ran into her. Knowing he was likely overstepping, Rhys held down the most recent text so he could type out the reply: Hey buddy. Ten messages is a little overkill, don’t you think? Maybe you should leave Feyre alone.

The response was immediate.

Tamlin: Who is this???

Rhys stared, wondering how far he could take this before he crossed a line that Feyre wouldn’t let him come back from. When the phone began ringing, he couldn’t resist answering.

“Hello,” He greeted smoothly. “Feyre Archeron’s phone, how may I be of assistance?”

“Who the fuck is this?”

“I was about to ask the same,” he said. “This number isn’t saved in Feyre’s phone.”

“Put Feyre on.”

“Feyre darling is a bit occupied at the moment. I would be happy to take a message, though.”

“... Is this fucking Rhysand?”

“Ah, so she’s told you about me? I’m flattered to know I’m not the only one who’s been telling all my friends about her.”

“Rhysand, I swear to—”

“Oh, what’s that? You’re ready to go darling? I’ll be right there. Hate to cut this call short, but I’m needed elsewhere. Hope you have a happy new year.”

He quickly clicked the end button, marveling at what he’d just done. Knowing he shouldn’t—knowing he’d already invaded too much of her life already—Rhysand clicked on the home button, just to see what would happen.

It unlocked immediately. Rhys could guess why.

No secrets between us, right Fey?

He’d overheard Tamlin say that to her once at a party. He’d missed the context, but the tone with which he’d said it, the condescension, had immediately curdled his stomach.

Rhys shouldn’t. But fuck, did he want to. It was right there. Everything he could possibly wish to learn about the girl he’d been dreaming about, literally at his fingertips.

Okay. Wait. There were some things that he did need to do—like adding himself on Whatsapp so he could send her a message.

Hey! This is Rhysand. Looks like we accidentally swapped phones in the Underground. When you get this, please call this number. We can meet up and switch them back.

Her conversation with Tamlin was right there below his own name. Maybe he could tell himself that his thumb had slipped.

And—oops. The conversation opened. There was the slew of texts that had just come through, but if he scrolled up, he could see more.

Feyre: I am stopping by the post office today to send your house key. Please return mine.

Tamlin: Post office? Why? Let’s meet in person.

Feyre: No. Send it in the mail.

Tamlin: I don’t trust the mail. I don’t want you to lose my house key.

Feyre: If it gets lost, I’ll pay for a replacement.

Tamlin: Let’s meet tomorrow. That cafe by Mile End?

Feyre: Tomorrow’s New Years Eve, Tamlin. Let’s at least meet next week.

Tamlin: You know what? Why don’t I come swing by your place and drop the key off.

Feyre: Mile End is fine. I’ll meet you at 2.

Bastard. Rhys felt less guilty about involving himself.

And maybe he could admit that he himself wasn’t much better than Tamlin, with the way he kept scrolling through their conversations. He wanted to know more about her, what she was like when she was in love, the things that made her happy.

There wasn’t a lot of substance to her conversations with Tamlin. Feyre was clever—and funny. Rhysand found himself laughing under his breath at the dry humor she often used to combat Tamlin’s abrasiveness. She was a treasure, and each of Tamlin’s low effort responses left a bitter taste in his mouth.

The jealousy burning in Rhysand’s chest was ugly. He knew that.

But god it wounded Rhys, in his soul, to know that the bastard hadn’t even appreciated what he’d had. Tamlin didn’t ask after her very often, and when he did it was always demanding. Where are you?? Show me. Rhys was fairly certain he’d blow Feyre’s mind with just a simple Good morning, beautiful.

The bright side is it meant there were many pictures of Feyre out and about, usually holding a random number of fingers at his request. A “peace sign” selfie in front of St. James Street. A wide-eyed mirror shot when she was brushing her teeth, toothpaste foaming at the corner of her mouth. Feyre beaming in front of a canvas, paint splattered on her cheeks like a smattering of freckles.

And when she was in bed. Naked.

Rhys had to sit down when he came across that conversation.

It was a picture of Feyre sprawled in her bed, wearing the tiniest pair of sleeping shorts he had ever seen.The angle was downturned, focused mostly on her breasts, emphasized by the way she beautifully arched her back. Rhys was losing his mind imagining precisely what she would look like melting underneath his touch, sliding his hands along her spine while he sampled every inch of the skin on display.

And—fuck.

He was glad he was sitting, or the next one would have taken him to his knees. Feyre sat in a chair, her legs spread open to show off her glistening pussy. Her fingers were posed at her clit, and her mouth was tilted into a taunting smirk that could have convinced him to do anything she asked. Anything to taste those perfect pink lips—either of them. He would have traded his entire life away, just to have been in that room to see her in person.

His throat went dry. Did she even know how much power she had?

She was the prettiest thing he’d ever seen, and she was owed someone who would crawl through broken glass if it meant earning a smile.

Tamlin had never deserved her. No one would ever deserve her.

God, he wanted to try to.

Rhysand called his phone.

This is Marylebone. Change here for National Rail Services.

Shit. Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit, shit, shit.

It was 5:05, and she had only just stepped onto the Underground platform.

Feyre ran, even knowing there was no way she was going to make her train in time. Not when she still needed to buy a ticket. She pushed to the left on the escalator, taking them two at a time. When she burst out of the gates, her eyes darted immediately to the departure board.

5:08.

Please say it’s delayed, please say it’s delayed, please say it’s…

Platform A. On time.

Fuck. Feyre barrelled to the ticket kiosk, frantically stamping in her destination with the pad of her finger.

5:09.

The train was at the other end of the station. She knew, even as she continued to the payment screen, that she wouldn’t make it in time. There was no way.

Her phone started ringing.

No—it wasn’t her phone. But that was her number on the screen.

“Hello?”

“Is this Feyre?”

Oh god. He knew her name. It only just occurred to her that her phone wasn’t password protected because of Tamlin’s rule about not hiding secrets from each other. What do you have on your phone that you don’t want me to see?

Nothing. But she had plenty that she didn’t want a complete stranger to see. Especially one that looked like him.

“Um, yes. This is Feyre. And you are…?”

“Rhysand,” he said with a small laugh. “It appears we swapped phones when we ran into one another.”

“Yeah,” she breathed, watching the LED clock switch to 5:10. In the distance, a whistle blew, and her train pulled out of the station. “I, uh… I’m sorry that I spilled coffee on you then stole your phone. I promise I’m usually better behaved.”

“... Are you okay?” She could hear the frown in his voice

“No, I…” she pinched her nose, holding back tears. “Sorry. You called at a bad time. I just missed my train.”

“Oh.”

Fuck, she probably sounded so dramatic. She could practically hear what he was thinking: So what, Feyre? Wait for the next one.

“It’s the last one of the day,” she explained. “I… need to figure out where I’m going to stay tonight. And I can’t call any of my friends because….”

“I have your phone?”

“Right,” she said on a soft sigh.

“Where are you?”

Feyre hesitated to answer. This man was still a stranger, and she had just admitted that she was in a vulnerable position.

Please note that due to extended strike action, train services from London Marylebone will be running on a restricted schedule. Please check your journey before travelling.

“London Marylebone?” He guessed. Feyre’s face felt hot. “Feyre, stay where you are. Please. I’ll be there in, fuck. Thirty minutes, max. Just… don’t go anywhere. Okay? If you’re bored, my passcode is 1221. I’m on my way.”

“Rhys—”

The phone call abruptly ended.

Feyre stared at the lock screen, at the man sat in the center who now had a name. Rhysand. He looked so familiar to her, but she couldn’t quite place why.

With a shaky breath, she slid the screen over and typed in the numbers.

1 - 2 - 2 - 1.

To her surprise, the phone actually unlocked.

A stranger had given her full access to his life, just like that? If you’re bored, he’d said. What was off limits? She scrolled aimlessly through his apps, but he didn’t exactly have any mindless games she could play.

Curious, she went to his photos. What kind of person was he? She could only imagine that someone that handsome had to be a major asshole. She was picturing a homage to the material. Fancy cars and Rolex watches. Pictures of beautiful women traipsing his house in lingerie. He probably collected them like Christmas wrapping paper—pretty, until they’d served their purpose.

She hadn’t expected all the pictures of the stars. Real stars. Some of them she recognized, like the picture of deep space that the Hubble Telescope had recently come out with. She only knew about it because Hank Green had talked about it on her For You Page. But Feyre got the feeling, as she continued scrolling through his camera roll, that he hadn’t gotten his news from Tiktok.

He was an astronomy nerd.

Feyre couldn’t help smiling at the revelation. And the fact that there were no pictures of naked women, just Rhysand and the same two men from his lock screen. On a skiing trip, at the gym, midair at a trampoline park. She might have wavered on those last two photos, zooming in to get a closer glimpse at Rhys in a loose black tank top. Covered in sweat that glazed over his toned chest and broad biceps.

She didn’t think the sight of someone upside down in midair would ever be sexually arousing, but Rhysand certainly challenged that prospect. Gravity pulled at his shirt gratuitously, exposing a tightly corded abdomen that she wanted to run her fingers over. And her tongue, if Feyre was being honest with herself.

Though, to her dismay, there was one woman who appeared quite regularly in his photos. Long blonde locks and big I-know-you-want-to-fuck-me brown eyes. She was exactly the kind of beautiful she imagined would be suitable for someone like Rhysand. There were plenty of pictures of them together, hugging and laughing and pulling silly faces. They looked happy.

She’d never properly met this man, but she could admit she was burning with jealousy.

Especially when she scrolled far back enough to find a picture of Rhysand fresh out of the shower. He’d taken a picture in the foggy glass, one hand sliding through his wet hair, eyebrows quirked in a way that begged, should I drop the towel?

Please drop it, please drop it, please—

Feyre swiped to the next photo and quickly locked the screen, letting it go black before anyone could walk behind the bench to see what she’d just been staring at. Even if it was gone, the picture burned in her mind.

She’d thought romance novels had been exaggerated.

It was wrong to compare. It was wrong to even look. But…

Feyre unlocked the phone again.

Dear God.

He was fisting his erection at the base. From using that single fist as a size reference, it looked like a second fist wouldn’t have been enough to cover the rest. Ferye had seen his hands, she knew that they dwarfed her own. Would she even be able to wrap her hand around it? Or her—

No. She couldn’t let herself fantasize about being on her knees for a man who hadn’t even consented to being seen naked. Who probably had a very lovely blonde girlfriend. Oh my god, what was she doing? Why was she like this?

She locked the phone again, pushing it into her pocket to curb the urge to keep looking at that photo. It was far too tempting to zoom in on that flushed head and imagine…

Feyre walked stiffly towards the toilets. She needed to splash cold water in her face and get a grip. One stunning man with vibrant eyes, and she’d suddenly lost touch of all her sensibilities.

Meeting her own eyes in the mirror was an effort, how was she going to manage when it was Rhysand? Her cheeks were stained with the evidence of what she’d just been doing, and she took more than a few minutes to press cold water on them, willing the flush away. Unfortunately the water couldn’t wash away the image that had imprinted in her brain.

Rhysand’s phone buzzed in her pocket.

I’m here. Please tell me you haven’t left.

Her feet felt heavier than they’d been when she came into the bathroom. Feyre had to drag them out the door, back into the station center. There were no more trains running, so it was practically empty save for the man who stood beneath the departure board, craning his neck in every direction as he searched for her.

No—his phone.

Feyre was just an inconvenience to him.

He turned at her approach, and she watched his expression melt from concern to relief.

“Thank god,” he said, closing the distance between them much faster than Feyre would have liked. There was still a coffee stain over the entire front of his shirt, not that he seemed to notice or care. “I was so worried you’d left.”

“There was nowhere to leave to,” was her response. She couldn’t help cringing at the complaint in her voice. It was meant to be a light hearted comment.

He laughed softly. “Right—sorry about your train,” he said, sounding as if he didn’t mean it at all. She supposed it was more convenient for him this way.

Feyre couldn’t help feeling annoyed at the growing smile on his face at the expense of her misfortune, even when it made her heart flutter to see that smile up close. It helped to know he was at least a little bit of an asshole. It made it easier to find peace with his absurdly attractive face and his obscenely large—

“Anyway.” Feyre reached into her pocket, holding his phone out to him. “I believe this is yours.”

“Ah, yes.” He responded in kind, retrieving her phone from his front pocket. It was torture, watching the way his fingers curled around the plastic, sending her mind elsewhere as he clicked the power button. A picture of herself and Lucien lit up the once black screen. “Lucien Vanserra?”

Feyre blinked in surprise. “You know him?”

“I work with him,” Rhysand said. There was a note to his voice that made it unclear how he felt about that statement. “Are you and he…?”

Oh. Oh. “No!” She said quickly. “No, not at all, Lucien’s just a…” Friend, she almost said. But she wanted to make sure he believed her. So she said, “He’s my brother-in-law.”

Lucien was the reason she’d ever met Tamlin to begin with. He’d invited his work colleagues to her art gallery as a favor, assuring at least a few of them would make for wealthy clientele. She wondered if that meant Rhysand had been invited, too, and she hadn’t even noticed. If he worked with Lucien, he also worked with Tamlin. How many times had they come so close to meeting and simply passed right by?

The tragedy of her life was that if he had come up to her at the art gallery, she would have forgotten all about the cute blonde man who’d been flirting with her. Tamlin who? She wouldn’t have even kept his business card.

“I see,” Rhys said. Did she imagine the relief in his voice?

In any case, Rhysand must not know Lucien particularly well, if he was unaware that Lucien was married to Elain. Feyre swore every other sentence that came out of his mouth began with, Elain and I… They were the kind of lovesick that always made Feyre wonder what was broken between herself and Tamlin. So many things, it turned out.

For someone who was so eager to get his phone back, he tucked into his pocket with remarkably little attention. For all he knew, she could have wiped the entire thing clean, or used his virtual wallet to buy herself something lavish or—anything. And he put it away without even looking, staring at her like it didn’t matter to him at all.

“Seeing as you’ve missed your train home, would you like to come celebrate New Years with me? And my friends, that is. The five of us are just getting together for some drinks at my place. It’s very casual.”

“Oh,” Feyre reeled back, trying to process this change of direction. “Uh…”

“I know. I know. We’re strangers. You don’t really know me. But I know Lucien—call him up. I’m certain he’d vouch for me.”

She hesitated. Yes, she wanted to say. But… going to his house? Meeting his friends? It was too much, even if she was attracted to him. “I don’t know Rhysand…”

“Rhys,” He said. “Call me Rhys, please.”

“Rhys,” she corrected, not missing the way his gaze flickered to her mouth.

“Do you have anywhere you can stay?” He pressed.

Feyre bit her lip. The only person she could think to stay with would be Tamlin. Either that or risk an extortionate hotel room.

“Okay.” It was quiet. Resigned. But she wouldn’t have thought so from Rhysand’s triumphant grin.

“Good.” She could tell he meant it. Rhysand extended his hand towards her. “Come on. It’s not far, but we’ll have to go back through the Underground.”

She took it, not really knowing why. His fingers curled around hers and didn’t let go. Instead he smiled, lifted his arm over her head, and spun her, like it was a dance as he guided her back toward the Underground gate.

Smooth. Feyre could give him that much. But she hadn’t forgotten the blonde girl she’d seen in his phone.

“Tell me Feyre,” he purred once they stepped onto the right hand side of the escalator. He turned so that he was facing her, still taller despite being on the lower step. “Anything about yourself. Whatever you think is relevant.”

“Um. I’m an artist?”

“I know,” he said, something unreadable in his eyes. “Lucien invited me to your first gallery show. I have one of your pieces hanging in my living room.”

Feyre gasped. She’d sold all of five pieces that evening. Three to extended family, one to Tamlin, and one to… “That was you?”

She’d never met the anonymous buyer, and she’d always assumed it was another one of her family members trying to encourage her.

If she didn’t know better, she would have said that was a blush growing on Rhysand’s cheeks. “It’s one of my favorite pieces,” he admitted.

Feyre could remember it well. She’d painted the night sky—stars and the moon and clouds and just endless, dark sky. She’d never really known why, just that she’d been staring out her window one night and something had seemed to call to her. She supposed, as an astronomy nerd, the image had called to him, too.

“Your turn,” she said.

Rhys cocked his head, searching her face. “Pardon?”

“I told you something about myself.” They stepped off the escalator and descended back into the winding tunnels. “Now it’s your turn to tell me something about you.”

He seemed to think for a long moment. “I’m an older brother,” he said. “I technically only have one sibling.”

“Technically?”

“Well…” Rhys stared ahead as they turned onto the platform, eyes flush with warmth. “I have one little sister. She’s in Year 11. But I also have two friends that I consider brothers. And a cousin who might as well count, too.”

“So many people to look after,” Feyre teased. “You must be very responsible.”

“I believe you are the first to hold that opinion of me, Feyre darling.” Rhysand leaned close, so that his breath tickled her ear as he whispered, “Your turn.”

And so it went, back and forth trading little facts about themselves, until they stepped off the train at South Kensington. There was no way. Had he gotten off at this station when she’d been trying to chase him down?

“Not too far from here,” he murmured. “Though it does look like it’s coming down pretty hard.”

Rhysand withdrew an umbrella from his jacket pocket, pausing like he was waiting for Feyre to do the same.

“I…” She didn’t want to explain that she’d been in such a rush not to miss her train that she’d left it at home. How dysfunctional must she look to him?

He shrugged. “All the better. Come share with me.”

No, certainly not all the better. Rhys opened his arm, encouraging Feyre to tuck herself against his body so they could both fit beneath the umbrella that was really only big enough for one person.

They stepped into the rain and we’re immediately embraced by the sound of water droplets thudding against the plastic. Rhys used the arm around her shoulder to protectively tug her closer, practically shoving her face into his neck.

“You smell like coffee,” she blurted before she could help herself.

His chest shook beneath his laugh. “That’s my cologne, Eau de Feyre. It’s limited edition, unless you’re feeling up to making this a regular occasion.”

“What, spilling my coffee on you in the Underground?”

He hummed. “Something like that.”

They took a turn onto a gated road. It was lit intermittently by streetlights that had been reduced to a fuzzy glow in the rain. Rhys pulled them to a stop in front of a white terraced house and while Feyre was marveling at the size of it, he leaned down to whisper in her ear, “Could you grab my keys for me, darling? They’re in the front pocket of my trousers.”

With one hand holding the umbrella and the other wrapped securely around her, Feyre supposed there was no other way to retrieve the keys unless they broke apart. But Rhysand clearly didn’t want to risk either of them getting wet.

And maybe… maybe he was flirting with her. It was too dark to gauge his expression, but she heard his breath hitch when she slid her hands against his leg. She’d seen in the photos that he was toned, though it hadn’t truly prepared her for the feeling of dragging her palm over the hard, powerful muscles.

Rhysand had gone stiff. When her fingertips skimmed his inner thigh, he made a small, strangled sound in the back of his throat that sounded suspiciously like a groan. Feyre knew the second they stepped inside, he would be able to see that her face was bright red. Why did they make men’s pockets so much deeper than women’s?

At last, her fingers slipped around the keyring. She withdrew quickly, stumbling out of his grip. Rain droplets splattered on the back of her neck and the icy cold that lurched down her spine was a welcome reprieve from his touch.

Rhys extended the umbrella towards her, trading it for his keys. Feyre watched, numbly, as he quickly ducked into the rain to unlock his front door. He glanced over his shoulder as the door pushed open, somehow unbothered by the rain pressing into his skin, its weight dragging inky wisps of hair across his forehead. The heavy downpour turned the rest of the world to static, narrowing her entire world down until it was just Rhysand and the stupid smile on his face as light flooded from inside, haloing his back.

“Welcome home, Feyre darling.”

She swallowed past a lump forming in her throat. Nerves. Butterfly shaped nerves that were beating furiously to escape.

It was warm inside. Her fingers tingled at the sudden change in temperature, and she struggled with the mechanism of the umbrella until Rhys laughed softly and took it from her, easing it back into its compact form with a click of a button. Sly.

“Can I take your coat?”

His house was big for central London. But the entryway was too small for the heat in his gaze as Feyre breathed, “Yes please.”

Rhys stepped behind her, fingers brushing against her collarbone as he grasped the collar of her coat. As smoothly as he had twirled her in the station, Rhys glided the coat off her shoulders and hung it on a nearby hook.

“I should probably text my cousin,” he said. “Ask her to bring some spare clothes.”

Feyre turned, prepared to tell him that wasn’t necessary, but he had already opened his phone. His mouth fell open at what lay on the screen and—too late—Feyre remembered the picture she’d been staring at when his phone had last been unlocked.

“Rhys…”

Fuck, what did she even say?

He clicked his phone shut, jaw working. With anger? It was hard to read the darkness in his expression.

Feyre tried to steady herself for the tension she could see coiling in his body, preparing for an outburst as Rhys pocketed his phone and prowled forward. She instinctively took a step back, only for her shoulders to meet the unforgiving wood of his front door.

“Curious about me, Feyre?” He braced a hand on either side of her, gripping the door frame. “Did you find anything interesting when you went looking through my phone?”

“You gave me the passcode,” she whispered. “You never said…”

“No,” Rhys agreed. He was staring at her mouth. “I wanted you to do whatever you pleased.” The butterfly was back, a pulse in her throat that she couldn’t escape. Rhys met her eyes. “Did you find what you were looking for?”

“I wasn’t looking for anything!” She insisted. “I just…”

A sly smile quirked at his lips, close enough that his breath caressed her lips. “You just found it?”

“Yes,” she said, aware of every inch between them, the distance smaller and smaller.

“Did you like what you found?”

Feyre hesitated. It was an admission she couldn’t come back from.

Just then, the door at her back creaked open.

“Hello?” said a voice tinged with confusion at the unexpected resistance.

Feyre and Rhysand stumbled backwards, clearing room for the blonde woman on the other side. She beamed when she saw them and Feyre’s butterflies turned to stone, dropping into a pit deep inside her chest.

“Rhys!” The blonde greeted pleasantly. “Who’s this?”

“Ah…” Rhys touched a hand to the back of his neck. “Mor, this is Feyre. Feyre, this is Mor.”

“So nice to meet you Feyre!” The blonde threw her arms around Feyre’s shoulders like they’d been friends all their lives. “Are you going to be celebrating with us?”

“Yes,” Rhys answered before Feyre could make up an excuse and book it out of there.

Sleeping on a park bench sounded really nice, suddenly.

“Oh good! The boys are just behind me. We raided everyone’s liquor cabinet.” She turned towards Feyre and grinned conspiratorially. “I hope you like drinking.”

“Oy!” A deep, masculine voice called. “Get the door!”

Mor turned on her heel, pulling the door open to two bulking men that Feyre instantly recognized from Rhysand’s lockscreen. They were carrying a storage crate filled with bottles of alcohol. The one at the front, with wavy hair that fell to his shoulder, paused when he saw Feyre. He raised a slit eyebrow. “Who’s this?”

Rhysand placed a hand on her shoulder. “This is Feyre. My guest for the evening. Feyre, these are the brothers I told you about. Cassian and Azriel.”

She nodded. “Nice to meet you.”

They were both flickering their eyes to Rhys, then back to Feyre, in some silent communication between friends. Rhysand’s eyes had gone wide, practically pleading. Whatever that look meant, Cassian cut her a toothy grin.

“Well I’ll be damned,” he said. “The artist herself.”

Mor’s hands flew to cover her mouth. “I forgot! You made that painting!”

“What happened to your shirt?” That was the one at the back, the darker one. Broodier in expression, his eyes narrowed on the coffee stain.

“Collision on the Underground,” Rhys answered noncommittally. His hand, still clasped on Feyre’s shoulder, squeezed lightly. “Why don’t you guys set up while I show Feyre to the guest bedroom, hmm?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Cassian muttered.

Rhys ignored them as he led Feyre down the hall, then up the stairs. The voice of that blonde woman—the trill of her laughter—followed them. Rhysand gripped the banister so tightly Feyre could see the whites of his knuckles.

What was Ferye even doing there?

He paused in front of a white door, sliding his hands into his pockets as he braced himself against the door frame. “This one's yours.” He nodded his head. “I’m the one across. I’m just going to change into a new shirt, but take your time if you want to freshen up. Hell, take a bath if you want.”

“I’m—”

“I’ll get you a towel. There should be some shampoo in the ensuite—”

“Rhys, I’m fine. Thank you.”

He looked sheepish. “Let me know if you need anything, okay?”

“Um…” He’d already started to turn, but whirled immediately at the sound. Feyre stared at the soaked sleeves of her jumper. Rain and sweat had made the fabric unbearably itchy. “Would I be able to borrow a top? If it’s too invasive, don’t worry—”

“No,” he interrupted. “No, not at all. Here, come with me.”

She followed him across the hall, faltering when he pushed his bedroom open and gestured her in. Rhyand leaned in so he could shut the door behind her. They paused, too close, and she watched his Adam's apple bob as he studied her, then pushed off the door.

Feyre stayed where she was, safe from the thrall of his proximity, as he strode across the room and opened a drawer. “What do you like? Jumpers, t-shirts, hoodies? The heating’s on, but still it’s a bit…” He glanced over his shoulder at her, and Feyre finally noticed the flush crawling up the golden brown column of his throat. “It’s a bit chilly.”

“Um.” Feyre shifted weight on her feet. “Just a hoodie or a jumper is fine.”

Rhysand nodded towards the drawer. “Take your pick. I’ll change in the bathroom.”

Once he was gone, it was like a weight cut loose. Feyre ventured forward without worrying about that violet gaze assessing her as she ran her hand over the various soft fabrics. They were all so neatly folded. Her fingers snagged on a navy knit jumper.

“Rhys? Wouldn’t Mor mind that I’m wearing your clothes?”

“What?” Even muffled through the door, she could hear the frown in his voice. “No. Why would Mor care?”

“Well…” Feyre hesitated, absently thumbing the soft cable pattern. “Mor seems lovely, but personally I would be bothered by some random girl wearing my boyfriend's clothes.”

Something clattered to the floor in the bathroom.

Then the door tore open, and Rhys was standing there with wide eyes. “What?”

The entire front of his shirt was unbuttoned, falling open to expose his muscular chest and stomach. Her hands fell away from the drawer. “Maybe it’s just a girl thing,” she said defensively.

“Mor and I…” Rhys wavered as he ran both hands through his hair. Feyre tried not to pay attention to the way his muscles flexed in response. “We’re cousins.”

That stunned her into silence. Rhys had mentioned his cousin on the train, but he hadn’t assigned a name to her, she’d just assumed that the woman in his phone was his girlfriend.

“So you’re not…?”

“I’m single, for the record.” he said. Holding her eyes in a way that made her mouth go dry.

“Right.” She hastily turned back to the drawer, busying herself with unfolding the jumper. “Well. Good to know.”

“Feyre.”

The floorboards creaked behind her. She didn’t turn around.

He said behind her, so close the skin on the back of her neck tingled, “A thought for a though, darling?”

“What?”

“Tell me something that you’re thinking.” His voice was a soft seduction at her ear. “In exchange, I’ll do the same.”

He still wasn’t touching her. Feyre was too afraid to turn around to see just how close he was—certainly close enough that his body heat warmed her back. “I’m thinking… that this jumper must have been expensive.”

Rhysand’s laugh scraped against the thin space between them. “I’m thinking that it would look exquisite on you.”

“I’m thinking that it would feel like wearing a cloud.”

“I’m thinking that I would prefer you didn’t wear it.”

She dropped the fabric back into the drawer. “Oh—”

“I would prefer you didn’t wear anything at all.”

Oh. Thank god his back was to her. Feyre had never had much of a poker face, and she was certain her expression would have given everything away. “I think that doesn’t sound like very appropriate attire for a New Years party.”

“It’s appropriate attire for my bedroom.” He leaned closer, lips a phantom touch on her neck. “Don’t you think?”

Feyre bit her lip at the invitation. Rhysand had braced a large hand along the curve of her hip, ever-so-polite considering the proposition he’d just made. She believed if she told him no, he’d drop it and take them back downstairs like nothing had happened.

She needed to know that.

“I think that your friends are waiting for us.”

His hand fell away. Feyre turned, unsurprised to see Rhys had taken a step away from her, and now wore an easy smile as he slid his hands into his pockets. “Best not keep them waiting then, hmm?”

Feyre buried her nails into her palm. It didn’t sting nearly as much as the immediate, burning regret. Oblivious, Rhys disappeared back into the bathroom—presumably to give her privacy to change into his sweater.

What was she doing?

In the midst of some divine intervention, she was at an absurdly attractive man’s house, in his bedroom, and she turned him down because… why? Because she wanted to ensure he understood the word no, even when all she’d wanted to say was yes. Yes, yes, yes. And so what, if that was all that he wanted? It was normal for people to have one night stands on New Years. As a newly single woman, she should be having fun.

Feyre peeled off her jumper with a small huff. Maybe it was for the better. This whole ordeal was so unexpected, she wasn’t exactly prepared for it. Her underwear was mismatched and not exactly interesting. Not to mention it was the middle of winter, so she hadn’t bothered shaving regularly since the breakup.

Midway through pulling Rhysand’s jumper over her head, Feyre faltered, and instead she pressed her face against the fabric to smother a groan of frustration. At least she was right—It was like a cloud. A soft, Rhysand-scented cloud that only reminded her what an idiot she was. And a coward.

There was a small knock on the bathroom door. “Feyre? Am I good to come out?”

Right. Time to pull herself together.

“Yeah.”

Rhys emerged. Just like before, his eyes went wide as he looked at her. He stumbled to such a clumsy stop that he had to catch himself against the doorframe.

“Thought for a thought, Rhys?” She asked. Feyre watched him work his throat, like words were suddenly an effort for him. Steeling her nerves, she said, “I’ll go first.”

That first step towards him was the most difficult. It became easier after she saw the way he was watching—like a man who’d seen God. The muscles in his arms strained as his grip tightened on the wood. It gave her confidence to keep going.

“I’m thinking that actually, you were right about the appropriate bedroom attire. And…” her voice shook, she hoped under the guise of raspiness. She came to a stop in front of him, quietly impressed by the way he held her gaze as she whispered, “I think you’re overdressed.”

As if it was permission, his eyes finally flickered downwards, surveying the swell of her breasts held up by a simple black bra.

He spoke slowly, voice like gravel. “I think you should get on my bed.”

“Or what?”

Rhys shifted his weight—the only warning she had before he lunged forward, hooking his arm around her waist to pull her against his body. He said roughly, “Or I won’t be able to make it that far.”

If he intended to let her try, he didn’t do a very good job of it. His grip was iron tight, and there was no going anywhere from him but closer. Not that she wanted to. Feyre tangled her hands in his hair, still damp from the rain, and tugged him down until their lips touched.

It was gentle—softer than she expected, given the way his body was trembling. She could feel in the way he was holding her, that careful control not to come on too hard, too fast. But she had slammed into him on the Underground, she’d seen him naked before she knew his name, she’d missed her train chasing after him. There was nothing about this that had been controlled. What was the point in being reckless, in going home with a stranger and standing topless in his bedroom, if they weren’t going to throw their whole selves at each other?

Feyre wound her fingers through his hair until she wore the locks like rings, creating the perfect handle for her to tug, saying, give me more. Give me you. With their bodies flush, she could feel Rhysand harden against her, and she groaned into his mouth.

That sound snapped whatever leash he held on himself. Rhys surged forward until Feyre’s back hit the bedroom wall. The next second, he dropped to his knees, keeping her captive in his arms so he could lay praise with his lips over her bare stomach. She squeaked in surprise, earning a wicked laugh in the back of his throat.

“I warned you,” he murmured as he nuzzled a path from her navel to the waistband of her leggings. “I wasn’t going to make it to the bed.”

Calluses scraped her skin as Rhysand’s hands trailed over the shape of her waist with the same measure of reverence she’d seen sculpters use to meld clay. They stopped at the top of her leggings, fingers curling beneath the fabric, tugging to create enough space so he could taste her hip bone.

From the way he passionately sucked and bit and licked at her skin, Feyre knew she was going to be covered in lovebites. Tamlin had always left bruises, too, but… these felt different. She’d never been undressed like this. On his knees in front of her, peeling her leggings down slowly so he could savor every inch of skin, Rhysand’s mouth felt less like a claiming and more like a devout man paying his oblation.

He stopped at her knees, perhaps sensing she was losing her balance, and tugged the rest of the way down. Feyre had never felt so exposed, standing bare before a man on his knees. It didn’t help that she couldn’t see his face—his eyes were downturned as his hands folded delicately behind each of her ankles. He slid them up, slowly, over her calves, behind her knees, raising until they fell just below her bum.

“Beautiful,” he rasped, staring at her with what could only be described as awe. “You’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen, Feyre.”

Suddenly her throat felt tight. “Rhys.”

Her hands tangled back into his hair, trying to urge him up so she could kiss him again.

Rhys resisted in favor of nuzzling the junction between her hip and thigh. “I want to taste you,” he whispered—pleaded. She hesitated, thinking about how little she had prepared, but Rhysand’s fingers were digging into her backside, and he was mouth at her inner thigh with a hunger she had never seen in anyone.

She dropped her hands, a silent concession that gave Rhys all the permission he needed. Her hands scrambled against the wall for balance, something to hold herself above water, as all the coiled tension finally snapped. Rhys sprung forward, hands guiding her hips to meet him halfway as he buried his face into her cunt.

Rhysand’s nose touched her first, guiding unhurried through the seam of her lips as the flat of his tongue followed. He held her eyes as he licked her—for as long as he could, anyway, until his eyes fluttered shut, and he licked her again. And again. Slow, broad licks that curled warmth up her spine.

She wasn’t used to this. Tamlin had been willing to go down on her, but it had always been a part of quid-pro-quo. He had never been particularly enthusiastic about it—certainly not Rhys, grunting against her skin, utterly lost in what he was doing. He was kissing her with open mouthed passion, savoring her on his tongue, and when he moaned—a wet, garbled sound—it offered just enough friction that her hips bucked forward of her own accord, grinding against his tongue.

Rhys moaned again, this time in encouragement. She rolled her hips experimentally, and his hands pushed her forward, desperate, practically begging Feyre to keep going. To fuck herself on his tongue. Rhysand groaned when she did it again, craning his head back to cover a better surface area as his mouth and tongue worked feverishly against her canting hips.

His grip tightened when her legs started to shake, weakened by the frenzied heat growing in her stomach, twining up her chest, spinning her heartbeat into overdrive. Could he hear that roaring drumbeat in her ear?

She didn’t think so, not over his own slurping, debauched sounds as he sucked her clit into his mouth and lashed his tongue mercilessly, flicking upwards against her sensitive bud, until her legs threatened to collapse.

“Rhys,” she gasped, pulling on his hair. Feyre tried to pull her hips away and he growled, tugging her closer. “Rhys, I’m gonna—”

Fall, she was going to say. But Rhysand had grabbed her hips and pulled her downwards, refusing to let go or detach his mouth until her knees hit the floor. His grip on her hips guided her forwards, and the next thing she knew she was hovering over his face.

She hesitated for a moment. And Rhys, in his frustration, broke away to gasp, raggedly, “Fuck me, Feyre.”

It was those eyes—wide and dilated—that encouraged her to put her weight on him and move again with abandon. He was such a mess. Hair ruffled from her fingers, full lips swollen and glistening with arousal that coated his cheeks, his chin, his neck. And the second she started grinding against him, he groaned in veneration, used his grip on her hips to help her go faster, harder, while he buried his tongue inside her.

Feyre covered her mouth to smother the scream building in her throat, knowing Rhysand’s friends were just a floor below. But Rhysand released her hip to grab her arm, pulling it away with a wild glint in his eye. The message was clear: I want to hear to you.

Oh god. Oh god, she was coming and—”Rhys,” she gasped as her entire body shuddered, tightening and releasing like a phantom fist around her chest. She whimpered from the force of it, her vision went spotty, and for a moment all she could see were those violet eyes through the soul-bearing pleasure that crested white-hot through her body.

He continued licking her, slower now. Easing her down until he gently guided her off his face.

“Beautiful,” he repeated, rolling them until he was hovering over her. “Fuck, Feyre. You’re incredible. Look at what a mess you made of me.”

Rhys pushed his hips so she could feel the erection tenting his trouser. God, he was still clothed.

“You have a choice to make now,” he murmured, wet mouth close enough that she could smell her own arousal. “I can fuck you right here, on the floor, or you can get on my bed and I can fuck you there.”

He pressed a hot, open mouthed kiss to her lips before he climbed off her body. “I’ll be right back.”

Feyre laid on the floor, stunned, as Rhys quickly disappeared into the bathroom. She heard a drawer open, followed by the sound of a wrapper and—oh. She scrambled to her feet, shaky as they were, and quickly sat on the bed.

Rhysand came out of the bathroom naked, condom ready, smirking at her with those violet eyes as he surveyed the way she’d spread herself on his bed. “Good choice.”

She tried—and failed—not to stare too long at his bobbing erection as he stalked towards her. Feyre had assumed the picture had been an exaggeration, a manipulation of angles. And it was, to some degree, but…

“My eyes are up here, darling,” he teased, pulling her gaze up with a gentle finger beneath her chin. His lips found hers again, and he took his time savoring the taste just as he had done between her legs. When he broke away, they were both panting. “Lay back for me, Feyre.”

Rhysand followed her retreat, pressing a knee to the bed, then the other. Feyre watched, breathless, as crawl over her body, taking his time to drag his eyes—and sometimes his lips—over every inch of skin. “You are devastating,” he said once their faces were level. “How are you even real?”

“How am I real?” His face was still coated in her arousal. He hadn’t even bothered to wash it off his face and as he kissed her again, slow enough that she could taste herself, she had the feeling he didn’t want to.

The head of his cocked nudged her entrance, and Feyre’s gasp was quickly smothered by another kiss as Rhys pushed in, and in, and in. Careful not to hurt her. He grunted into her mouth as he seated himself all the way and ground his hips, nudging the dull head against a cluster of nerves that had Feyre gasping again. He used the sound as an invitation for his tongue and a light thrust, directly into that same spot.

Feyre keened, burying her fingers into scalp, another set into his shoulder blade. He liked it rough, she gathered, as she scraped her nails along his back, she earned herself another thrust. Harder, enough for stars to flood her vision.

He broke this kiss to gasp, “Fuck.” Then, on choked air, “Where did you come from?”

“Marylebone,” she whispered. He laughed. A wonderful breath against her collarbone.

“Thank god for Marylebone.” He kissed her again. “Thank god you missed your train.”

“Thank god I-ah—”

She watched his eyes darken at the sound. “What was that, darling?”

Smug prick.

“Thank god I spilled—”

Feyre cut herself off again, this time in a squeak of surprise as Rhys slipped a hand between their bodies and rubbed his fingers, tauntingly, against her still sensitive clit. “Sorry, fuck. The sounds you make, Feyre.” He nipped her pulse, grinding relentlessly into that single spot. “You have no idea what they’re doing to me.”

She had some idea, if it was anything close to what he was doing to her. She scrambled her nails at his back, uncertain if she was begging for more or less, just something as her mind slipped away from coherency.

“Pretty like this,” he was saying, still driving his hips forward. “So fucking pretty coming undone on my cock, Feyre.”

The sound in the back of her throat was embarrassingly close to a whimper.

“Are you going to come for me?” He whispered, nuzzling her jaw.

Downstairs, she heard Rhysand’s friends begin shouting, Ten… Nine…

Rhys groaned, speeding up the small, tight circles around her clit. “I know exactly how I want to start the New Year,” he said roughly.

The heat was building again, near unbearably this time. “Rhys,” she panted.

Five… four…

“That’s it, Feyre.” His hips had sped up, too, and she could feel his heart hammering against her own as her fingers tangled in his hair.

Three… two…

Rhysand’s mouth surged forward, claiming her lips in one final, breathless kiss as that hot wave of pressure crested and light bursted into fractals behind Feyre’s eyes. She felt herself clench tightly around him, and Rhys groaned into her mouth as he slammed into the hilt and stilled, holding Feyre flush against him.

For a moment, all she could hear was the drumbeat of their pulses, the soft cymbal of their colliding breaths.

Rhys broke the kiss to whisper, “Happy New Year, Feyre darling.”

Brzzzzzt. Brzzzzzt. Brzzzzzt.

Feyre muttered some incoherent complaint at the vibrating sound, turning over to snuggle closer into the warm beneath the covers.

Brzzzzzt. Brzzzzzt. Brzzzzzt.

She groaned, which earned a soft, sleep-addled chuckle.

The bed shifted as Rhysand rolled over, and a moment later she heard his raspy voice purr, “Feyre Archeron’s phone.”

Feyre lifted her head at that, peeling her bleary eyes open to Rhysand’s handsome smile. He’d propped himself up on one elbow and her phone was braced leisurely against his ear with two fingers.

“Mmm. Feyre darling’s sleeping. She can’t come to the phone right now.”

“Rhys,” she said softly, swallowing her terror at the idea that he was talking to Tamlin. Who else would call her this early, on New Years Day? “Hang up, don’t indulge him.”

He raised a brow, likely at whatever hostile words Tamlin was lashing at him on the other side. “Feyre’s house key?” Rhys reached out an arm, ran his fingers slowly along Feyre’s shoulder, down her collarbone. “Well of course she wasn’t at her house. She was at mine. Post it through my letterbox.”

Rhys hung up, tossing the phone to the bed with an expression of distaste. He glanced up, and must have read the worry in Feyre’s expression because his face instantly softened. “Don’t worry, darling. If he comes by I’ll have Cass and Az answer the door. Have you seen them? They’ll get your house key back.”

Tamlin had gone to her house.

The smile Rhys offered her was gentle. His hand slipped around her shoulder, inviting her to rest her head against his naked chest. She could hear his steady heartbeat as his fingers wound into her hair, stroking soothingly over her scalp. “Thank goodness for the train strikes, hmm?”

“I hear the railways are closed today,” she said, quietly. A subtle way of asking if she could stay. Not just because Tamlin was apparently at her house and the thought of possibly being alone with him made her feel nauseous, but because… she liked it here. And she wanted to meet Rhysand’s friends.

The fingers in her hair paused.

Feyre lifted her head to gauge Rhysand’s expression.

She was met with a shameless grin as he said, “And tomorrow. Actually, I heard they’ll be closed all week.”

#Feysand month #Feysandmonth #Feysandmonth22 #Feysand #Feysand fic #Feysand fanfic #Feysand fanfiction #Rhys x Feyre #Feyre x Rhys #Ten Past Five

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tsarisfanfiction · 16 days

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Overgrowth

Fandom: Trials of Apollo Rating: Gen Genre: Friendship Characters: Will, Miranda, Billie, Douglas, Steve Clearly the newest Demeter kids haven't yet got the hang of growing plants with their powers. TOApril day 14 - Every Rose Has Its Thorns. I went literal today. Also, despite Meg being the clearly obvious candidate for this prompt, I managed to go with every other TOA Demeter kid except for her, whoops. All kids in here are canon names, I promise.

“Hey, Will!”

He turned to see Billie jogging towards him – as fast as she ever moved unless she was fighting or running from something actively trying to kill her – and sighed, because the daughter of Demeter didn’t usually seek out his presence, which only meant one thing.

“Miranda wants you,” she said, then confirmed it with, “bring your medical stuff.”

“Medical stuff?” he parroted at her, bemused. She shrugged dismissively, turning her back on him and starting to head back the way she’d come. Will hadn’t paid attention to it, but it was the direction of the cabins so he had a pretty good idea where she was leading him.

He’d long since got into the habit of keeping an emergency pack of medical supplies on him at all times, so he didn’t bother to make a detour to pick anything else up. Not until he knew exactly what he was dealing with; Billie hadn’t been running, even if she’d been jogging, so Will was confident that his emergency pack would at least suffice for initial treatment of whatever cabin four had done to themselves.

Sure enough, Billie ploughed straight through the door of her cabin without stopping, and Will hurried to get across the threshold before the door slammed in his face.

Cabin four was, in Will’s opinion, the strangest of the cabins. Sure, the Hecate cabin had magic permeating every inch of it rather disconcertingly, and the Nike cabin was an active puzzle for reasons he’d never quite worked out, but there was something about a floor that was actually grass, and a central support that was actually a living, thriving tree that had never quite managed to click in Will’s head.

He was pretty sure those things were all supposed to grow outdoors, but if there was one place where they had an argument for growing indoors, Demeter’s cabin would be it.

The central tree was swarmed with other plants, which certainly hadn’t been the case that morning when Will had done cabin inspection and given cabin four a seven for scattered seeds but tidy hammocks.

For some reason, Demeter wasn’t counted alongside her brothers as superior amongst even the Olympians. Everyone knew the Big Three was the three male godly children of Kronos, while their sisters went mostly unacknowledged. It was difficult to understand why so many people dismissed her or her children, though. Will had seen cabin four members consistently pull off illogical feats – always plant-related – ever since he first arrived at camp, and having seen the sheer destruction they could bring about when they wanted to, he had no intention of ever underestimating them.

Unlike most demigods, who got ADHD and dyslexia and no special powers to show for it, Demeter’s kids consistently got green thumbs and plants that would do anything they asked. Will had never seen one that couldn’t manipulate plants to some degree, and that certainly held true for the current occupants of the cabin.

In the middle, tangled around the central tree, was a massive rose briar, complete with wicked sharp thorns and fully blooming roses the colour of blood. Billie had made her way to join Miranda where the head counsellor was standing by the cabin’s new plant addition and trying to get the plants to move.

Inside the snarl of thorns and vines seemed to be something that Miranda was specifically trying to get to – or someone, because Will could count just fine and there were two kids unaccounted for, visually, at least.

Douglas’ thick accent was slurring out curse after curse as something struggled inside the branches. Will couldn’t make out the exact words, but that wasn’t particularly unusual when the Scottish boy slipped into Scots. He could get the gist, though.

He sighed, drawing Miranda’s attention to his arrival. “What happened?” he asked her.

She responded with a sigh of her own. “Plant growing gone wrong,” she said, gesturing broadly at the massive plant. Some of the branches rustled with her movement, just enough to reveal a glimpse of Steve fighting inside as well. That answered the question on where both the young Demeter boys were lurking, at least.

It wasn’t the first time it had happened. It wasn’t even the first time it had happened to those particular boys – Douglas was an enthusiastic plant grower, and Steve was far more of an enabler than he was clearly prepared to be when it came to the consequences. Neither of them had been in camp all that long, but Will was already well aware that they were going to be a potential headache source for him – especially once they found their own feet at camp.

Will knew the routine, so he waited while Miranda did her magic (not that she would ever call it as such when it was just her normal) and slowly got the branches to release their death grips on the two boys.

Steve was the first one to disentangle enough, rolling out of the mess with stray leaves and the odd broken off thorn stuck deeply into his hair. He also had several freshly-bleeding scratches across his skin, and Will didn’t wait to be invited over when his role was pretty obvious.

And also very much routine.

“Can you at least try not to bury yourselves in plant matter of the injury inducing kind?” he asked as he pulled out some antiseptic wipes and began dabbing at the myriad of scratches that stood out red against the younger boy’s dark skin.

“It was Douglas’ fault!” he protested.

There was an immediate “Oi!” in a thick Scottish accent emanating from the centre of the still-snarled tangle of thorny vines, followed by what Will was pretty sure was a protestation of innocence in Scots.

“You’re not blameless, either!” Miranda called over, and Steve’s shoulders hunched up to his ears.

“It was an accident,” he muttered. “They weren’t supposed to get so…”

“Big?” Billie supplied. “Wild?”

“Yeah, that,” Steve shrugged, thankfully letting his shoulders drop again after a warning poke from Will.

Another sharp gesture from Miranda and Billie had Douglas spilling out from the briar as well, his own curly hair sporting a fine collection of leaves and thorns, and even the occasional petal. He also had openly bleeding scratches on his bare skin, including one long one too close to his eye for comfort. It wasn’t close or deep enough to cause permanent damage, or even scar, but it was a reminder of what could have gone wrong.

Will wasn’t a fan of could have gone wrongs, although he did prefer those over the did go wrongs, for hopefully obvious reasons.

He sighed again and pulled out a fresh wipe to attack the other boy’s scratches with. Douglas winced away from the sting, but Billie grabbed him and held him still.

Neither boy was injured enough to need anything more than just the disinfecting wipe, thankfully, so Will’s medical duties didn’t take long to complete.

“At least try not to injure yourselves on your own plants,” he said as he balled up the used wipes for disposal in the infirmary. “I’m pretty sure that’s lesson one for plant summoning.”

“Something like that,” Miranda said. “Thanks for the assist, Will. I’ll take it from here.”

Will didn’t need to be told twice; he was already in charge of his own cabin and anyone that ended up a patient in the infirmary. He neither needed nor wanted to expand his responsibilities beyond that – Miranda could handle her own siblings.

“See you at dinner,” he said, and made his way out of the cabin, back to where the grass was outdoors and normal. As the cabin door shut behind him, he heard the Demeter kids discussing the best thing to do with the rose bush and whether or not it would damage the tree – or pose an ongoing risk to demigods – if they left it where it was.

That was certainly not Will’s problem, either. Miranda was welcome to that one.

#trials of apollo #trials of apollo fanfiction #riordanverse #riordanverse fanfiction #toapril #toapril 2024 #tsari writes fanfiction #will solace #billie ng #miranda gardiner #toa douglas #toa steve #cabin four #demeter cabin

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silver-wield · 1 month

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Hi! I feel like I've found my people in you. After beating Rebirth, I've had extremely complicated feelings towards the ending and though it's slowly marinating with me. One of the reasons why the ending has been bothering me is because I've just felt off about Aerith's characterizations.

I was endeared by Aerith in remake but in rebirth I totally see the qualities that some people in og did with just how tone deaf she can be. In a way, I find that her character is interesting since she's flawed but her pushiness to cloud just rubbed me the wrong way. If ppl get Aerith in chapter 8's date we see Cloud clearly mourning Jessie and the only thing she cares about is if Jessie was a gf...like girl come on. Do people not see how this comes off?

Which brings me to say, I just don't get Aerith. The devs portray tifa and aerith as close so clearly she knows about Tifa's feelings and even seems to push the two together at times but then she constantly seeks Cloud's affection and even says they went on a date in front of Tifa? That's where her character loses me. Her constant seeming to push CT together yet constantly seeking Cloud's affections despite knowing Tifa has feelings for him and a shared history just doesn't sit well with me.

I can appreciate Aerith recognizes she doesn't know the real Cloud but this is why I'll never understand why Cleriths are so insistent that CA are "romantic" - she dies so she *never* gets to see who the real Cloud is. They clearly have a deep bond that helps enrich the story but the fact that Tifa's role was greatly expanded on in part 2 should be telling but some fans and Cleriths just straight up ignore that. Cloud is also the one who initiates everything with Tifa...the only time he's ever vulnerable and VERBALLY opens up his true feelings is with Tifa (Gongaga) and it baffles me how Cleriths just bypass this entirely. It makes me realize they're just here for the ship and not for the overarching story.

I just feel like I'm being gaslit by Cleriths or some fans who insists that Cloud loves both girls. I'm definitely not denying that the og had more leeway with this but in Remake and Rebirth? I would say the opposite. Tifa is the best suited for Cloud *and* he feels the same way. I am all about shipping whoever you want but CA's are always spewing nonsensical things. The theme songs, the over analyzing hand holding debacle and bringing up japanese culture as if a kiss isn't the most intimate thing between two people regardless of culture. Ignoring the most central theme of the songs which are regret (Cloud's guilt in hollow of failing to save her) ...Yes NPTK is about Aerith TO Cloud but we never see anything from his perspective TO Aerith. Guess who does? Tifa. Cleriths also conveniently ignore that Tifa was pushed to the forefront the entirety of rebirth until the final 2 chapters for obvious plot reasons and they all dismiss Gongaga's near kiss between CT.

Then there's Aerith's dream date at the end...Cloud has no agency in that date, he can't even choose the items himself! It's HER dream and things are predetermined for him. And is it just me or is Aerith basically re-creating her date with Zack in CC? I get why CA's think that dream date is romantic but objectively it doesn't read romantic at all...it just reads tragic because Aerith knows she's about to die - one last ditch effort for her which just doesn't amount to anything other than Cloud caring deeply for her as a person/friend. Or am I just not seeing something that "everyone" else is? Aerith herself sounds unsure how she feels towards him. Yes she has feelings for him but she's never been able to fully define them ("There's liking and there's liking"...huh?) This is also the perfect opportunity for the devs to have both girls in equal footing and cloud still doesn't kiss her or makes his supposed romantic feelings known. I like to understand the "bigger picture" in the narrative and the bigger picture to me is just obviously spells out Tifa in the end - just from a pure narrative standpoint.

And do Cleriths not see how Cloud reacts to Aerith? As someone who actually likes Aerith minus her pushiness to Cloud, even I was surprised at how he straight up told her to stop calling it a date in Costa Del Sol. Cleriths argue it's "cute banter" but this is where they lack media literacy because lmfao if anyone said this to me irl I'd be mortified because Cloud really does not give any indication that he's "joking." And Cloud doesn't even remotely have any kind of dialogue like that towards Tifa at all...even all of Tifa's optional choices are sweet at best and neutral at worst but you can straight up be an ass to everyone else including Aerith.

I just hope that in Part 3, the devs just kill the LTD with finally cementing CT and tying everything nicely with them and Aerith and Zack. Zack is one of my favourite characters ever and I feel like they did him so dirty in this game...having Marlene straight up tell him to his face that Aerith loves Cloud like???? He deserves his happy ending and perhaps WHEN Aerith and him reunite (cause they're both dead they have to right?) then it'll all click to her.

Also, Cloud is a really well written character and I really do not think he'd go after his dead best friend's girl who he just remembered. It's such a disservice not only to Zack but to Cloud's own character. The fact that Cloud says "Zack fair, head over heels for Aerith" is telling, no? Objectively and narratively CT and ZA make the most sense but again I feel like I'm constantly being gaslit into seeing CA when I really don't and the only thing CA has going for them are the last 2 chapters which are Aerith heavy for a reason because you know...she dies lol.

Sorry I didn't mean for this to be long but just wanted to have some engagement on the topic (I know you always get asks but just wanted to get something off my chest!) Thank you so much!

Couple points: hollow isn't about Aerith in any capacity. Hollow is set before Cloud arrives in Midgar and an instrumental of it plays in the wasteland outside Kalm near where Zack died, so yeah, not about her.

And nptk is about zack. If it wasn't then why tf is she crying at the end? If it's about Cloud then why doesn't he acknowledge this obvious confession in her date or any other? Why does he take Tifa's hand? Literally the opening verse about how she didn't know how much time passed until she saw someone who reminded her of Zack is the only part featuring Cloud and it's hardly complimentary. It highlights she only took an interest in him because he reminded her of Zack. Idky anybody would want something that skeevy.

Tbh I hate both songs. They're shit.

Gaslighting is what those dumdums do. They don't play the game, they skim YouTube and lie about the clips they saw.

The best thing to do is block and ignore them.

#ship war #for the plot

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the-ugly-swan · 4 months

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ꗃꓸ 𝗣𝗥𝗜𝗦𝗖𝗜𝗟𝗟𝗔 ! ⋆ ⌧ ꓸ 𝗋𝖾𝗏𝗂𝖾𝗐. !

➤ 𝗰𝗼𝗻𝘁𝗲𝘅𝘁: Since I have Priscilla Presley as a faceclaim in my story about ❝The Beatles❞, it occurred to me to watch the movie based on her. I am aware of the enormous controversy it has generated, and don't worry I have informed myself as much as I can, so I will evaluate the film not as a biopic but as a regular drama film. I want this blog to be free of controversies and I want everyone to feel free to share their thoughts and opinions. PS: Cailee looks very pretty in that poster.

➤ 𝘃𝗶𝘀𝘂𝗮𝗹𝘀: I have to admit that I have never been a fan of Sofia Coppola either as an artist or as a person. However, one of the things I have always admired about her is her good eye for aesthetics and visuals. One of the things in which ❝Priscilla❞ stands out is in the visual section. While the locations don't look quite right due to the low budget, I think they did a good job with what they had on hand.

Although the lighting was not completely to my liking, I understand its reason and purpose. The setting is supposed to be cold and somewhat gloomy...so I understand the reason for this choice. The soundtrack seemed decent to me and I think that although it accompanied the setting more or less well, it didn't seem like anything special to me. In conclusion, the visuals were the most redeeming part of the movie.

➤ 𝗰𝗵𝗮𝗿𝗮𝗰𝘁𝗲𝗿𝘀: If I'm honest, one of the things that bothered me the most about the movie was the lack of realism of the characters. I’m not going to count them as real people but as fictional characters, again to avoid controversy.

One of the most important points when creating and writing a character is to make sure it is as human as possible. In other words, we must ensure that it is morally gray. It should be neither completely good nor completely bad. Although as a society we tend to classify people as good or bad, absolutely no one is completely good and absolutely no one is completely bad.

The big problem with the characters in ❝Priscilla❞ is that they were all painted and presented with black or white morals. In other words, they are either the incarnation of a saint or they are the incarnation of satan himself. And that is too far from reality, especially for a film that aims to be as realistic as possible. No character, whether hero or villain, should be painted with a black or white morality. They should always be painted with the grayest morality possible.

The central point of the film is supposed to be that we see Priscilla as a victim, that we feel Priscilla as a close person and that we empathize with her situation. However, it’s impossible to empathize with a character without humanity. It's not wrong that they paint her as a sweet and innocent girl, what's wrong is that we never see her grow and evolve, we never see her fail or make mistakes, we never see her humanity. We barely get to know her in her own movie and it’s even worse with the side characters. We never get to actually meet them or get to know their stories and personalities.

And this seems even more serious to me if we take into account one of the genres of this film, which despite being a biographical film is also a drama. And what a dramatic film seeks is precisely to generate emotions such as empathy, emotional investment, so that the viewer feels very attached to the characters. Which is impossible in this case due to the poor writing and character development.

➤ 𝘄𝗮𝗿𝗱𝗿𝗼𝗯𝗲: I will be brief with this section. I will not compare the costumes in the movie with those in real life since I said that I was not going to classify it as a biopic. If I'm honest, the costumes look extremely cheap. I'm more than aware of the low budget, but the main characters are supposed to be the supreme monarchs of glamour and the costumes unfortunately do not reflect that.

➤ 𝗮𝗰𝘁𝗶𝗻𝗴 & 𝗰𝗮𝘀𝘁𝗶𝗻𝗴: Regarding the casting, I will not compare the appearance of the actors with those of real people due to the point of this review. Therefore, I will limit myself to rating the actors according to their acting quality.

In terms of the actors, the only one I knew before seeing the movie was Jacob Elordi, the interpreter of Elvis, so I can't speak about the acting qualities of the other actors outside of ❝Priscilla❞. So far the best acting work I know of Jacob Elordi has been his portrayal of Nate Jacobs in the show ❝Euphoria❞. However, although I do feel that he is a good actor, his acting range does leave a lot to be desired. His portrayal of Elvis feels like Nate Jacobs himself with a different name. And unfortunately the terrible writing and lack of realism and humanity doesn't help matters either.

Now moving on to Cailee Spaeny's performance, I honestly think her performance stole the entire movie. While the script dehumanized the characters too much, Cailee made the character of Priscilla feel warm and personal at times. I feel like she handled the psychology and emotions of the character quite well. I genuinely feel that she has potential as an actress and I would love to see her with a better director, a better story, a better script…I think she could do an excellent job at a better film.

➤ 𝗳𝗿𝗮𝗺𝗶𝗻𝗴 & 𝘀𝗰𝗿𝗶𝗽𝘁: Now, this will be a pretty strong and honest criticism...mostly because ironically what people praise the most is in my opinion the worst thing about the movie.

Something I noticed about the movie that I haven't seen many pointing out is the immense feminist propaganda both in the marketing and in the movie itself. I am more than aware of Sofia Coppola's extreme feminist agenda, however...as I always like to say: ❝a story with a little bit of speech is not the same as a speech with a little bit of story❞. Nothing against the feminist movement, I would just like for it to be portrayed and used correctly. Similar to what I mentioned with the lack of gray areas in the characters, the script lacked transparency and coherence.

The purpose of the script is never entirely clear. Sometimes it feels like it's simply trying to tell a story and other times it feels like it's manipulating the viewer and making them doubt their own judgment. Which is pretty bad for quite a few reasons. Starting with the fact that a script should always be as transparent and neutral as possible even if one of the purposes is to give a moral. However, it is one thing to try to give a moral and quite another to impose it by force and that is what ❝Priscilla's❞ script does in some parts.

I’m a believer that the purpose and intentions of cinema should never be to educate the viewer but simply to entertain them. The only audiovisuals that should have the intention of informing are documentaries. It's pretty cool for a regular movie to try to give a moral, but a forcefully given message is not a moral...it's pure propaganda. In case some of you are not aware of the difference between publicity and propaganda...publicity sells you a product while propaganda sells you an idea.

The problem with ❝Priscilla's❞ script is not that it tries to give a message, even if it is full of politics, the problem is the way in which it does it. It doesn't do it in an organic or dynamic way, we have little to no context for the actions and intentions of the characters, we only see them act good or bad just because…and the director intends for us to like them or dislike them just for that…exactly, by force. If her intentions were to give a speech about the independence of a woman…she did an awful job. ‘Cause it doesn’t feel like female empowerment…it feels like bad presented propaganda.

Moving on to more technical aspects of the narrative...to be honest, it's been a while since I've come across such a poorly structured script. A messy, underdeveloped script wouldn't have bothered me as much if the movie was a parody or didn't take itself seriously, but that's not the case. More than a regular drama it feels like a collage, very poorly done, of random moments from Priscilla's life.

If the purpose of a film is to show the life of the main character, their evolution, and their growth as a person over the years, it is extremely important that the timeline is well done and structured. Another thing we must take into account is that ❝Priscilla❞, beyond being a drama, is also a character study. That is, a work in which the main focus is the life and development of the characters rather than the plot itself.

While there are all kinds of narrative structures and ways to tell a story...I still believe that for a character study a simple and conventional structure works best. The problem with ❝Priscilla's❞ narrative is that it literally lacks structure. In addition to having a fairly boring and very little balanced narrative, it is almost impossible to keep up with it due to its terrible structure.

➤ 𝗰𝗼𝗻𝗰𝗹𝘂𝘀𝗶𝗼𝗻: There are several things that I did not mention since I did not want to extend the criticism so much. The only thing I can highlight about this production is part of the visual and acting section. However, none of that was enough to save the final product. ❝Priscilla❞ is a film that falls short in absolutely every aspect, especially in the narrative aspect. However, that is just my opinion and now I want to hear yours.

━ 𝔀𝒊𝒕𝒉 𝓵𝒐𝒗𝒆 ꓹ 𝓜𝒆𝒚 ʾ

#priscilla presley #priscilla movie #priscilla 2023 #sofia coppola #a24 #a24 films #a24 movies #priscilla movie review #cailee spaeny #jacob elordi #elvis presley #movies #movie review #2023 movies

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butwhatifidothis · 1 year

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Covering their names just in case but

Explain CF then.

Byleth sides with Edelgard before the timeskip. Byleth chooses Edelgard’s violent ways of disposing of Rhea, which are extremely similar to Hopes!Claude’s way of disposing of Rhea (invade the Kingdom that gave her refuge and kill her). So if Byleth is the key factor here in Claude choosing or not choosing to enact violence onto Rhea, then why would Byleth themselves choosing violence not thus influence Claude to enact violence? Why would Claude oppose Edelgard for the entire war, up until she quite literally forces him out of Fodlan altogether?

Byleth would’ve clearly lost Rhea’s approval after siding with the one side of Fodlan trying to murder her, which would mean that Claude would’ve also, by this logic, been influenced to also try to murder her since now there’s no successor to take on Fodlan after Rhea. If his Hopes and 3H versions were genuinely in line with each other, then CF!Claude would’ve joined Edelgard off the rip. If Claude feels that Byleth not being approved by Rhea would make him get rid of her by force... then why does Byleth not getting approved by Rhea NOT make him get rid of her by force?

Like, I can post shit that comes from WC, VW, AM, SS, I can even post shit he mentions that happens well before the game’s plot and story. But the thing that arguably most definitively debunks Hopes!Claude’s existence (past Part 2) is actually CF. Rhea is depicted as the big bad that has to be killed to gain peace, Byleth is opposing Rhea and has this be a known fact since before the five year timeskip, and Edelgard - just like she does in Hopes - doesn’t bother talking with Claude even the slightest until AFTER she’d already invaded his land. But despite that, Claude - despite having no wins against the Empire unlike in Hopes, and despite having far fewer people on his side unlike in Hopes, and despite not having to deal with Almyra unlike in Hopes (and in fact having them be straight up ALLIES here who are NEVER said to have invaded during the timeskip) - does. Not. Side. With. Edelgard.

Despite “but he was under duress from the Empire!” being MORE TRUE IN 3H than in Hopes, and despite Byleth ACTIVELY APPROVING OF KILLING RHEA unlike in Hopes, he doesn’t side with Edelgard! Even to try and trick her! Almost like that ain’t had SHIT to do with why he did or didn’t side with her, and it was HIS BASE MORALS THAT HE HAS IN HIS BASE CHARACTER THAT NO ONE INSTILLED INTO HIM that influenced him to not side with Edelgard! Crazy idea, but Claude’s his own character with his own internal reasoning for doing things that don’t have to necessarily be tied with Byleth, or Rhea, or the Church, or anything or anyone else for him to have!

And also, Hopes!Edelgard may not have ever been the Flame Emperor to the students of Garreg Mach, but “never did fishy things”? Bruh, did you forget the whole part where she

RANDOMLY WAGED WAR ON EVERYONE???

When she invaded the Alliance and Claude says, quote, “The Central Church is headquartered at Garreg Mach. And the fastest way to get there is straight through Alliance territory. So far, the Empire hasn’t tried to negotiate with us at all. Which means they plan to force their way through here”? That thing that Edelgard literally does, and then literally goes on to lie about? Those things that Hopes!Claude just doesn’t give a shit about for no reason, and then GOES ON TO DO HIMSELF TOWARDS THE KINGDOM?

And Edelgard’s “compromise” isn’t even that great considering that both Claude and Holst know that once the Kingdom is gone the Empire will likely use their superior might to force over majority/complete reign over the Faerghus region before making Leicester into a vassal state. In Hopes!Claude’s own mind, she still doesn’t genuinely respect Leicester as an independent state - he just... doesn’t give a shit about doing anything about that. He just keeps going on mindlessly attacking the Kingdom anyway because, at this point, Who Fuckin’ Cares Lol.

Hopes!Claude is intrinsically contradictory and thus can not and does not make sense. To himself or to 3H!Claude. His character’s writing is treated with no respect and only has the purpose of “giving something different” without any care put into making that different thing any kind of sensical. Sorry, but I’m just not gonna bother trying to make sense of a character the writers clearly didn’t give a shit about after a very blatant point in their story

#Clyde discourse #Fire Emblem Warriors Three Hopes spoilers #Fire Emblem Warriors: Three Hopes spoilers #his Part 1 self is fine. Part 2 is garbage #looking into 3H's iteration of Claude only further highlights how little fucks were given to Hopes!Claude #because we can very clearly see Hopes gives us a version of him that is nothing like what he is in his base game #but we don't even NEED that because HOPES BY ITSELF does a fine job of showcasing how shitty of a character Hopes!Claude is #sorry replier person this is a bit heated but like. not at you specifically just the arguments you make lmao i am Not A Fan of them

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superman86to99 · 20 days

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Superman/Doomsday: Hunter/Prey #3 (June 1994)

After two issues of build-up, the moment we've been waiting for: Superman vs. Doomsday, the rematch! But first, more build-up. Last issue, Superman found out that Doomsday has been sent to Calaton, the one planet that defeated him before Superman did, and also the one planet that definitely can't defeat him again, since the baby-torturing geniuses who created Doomsday made it so he'll always evolve to overcome any opponent who beats him.

And yes, this means Superman himself should have no hope of stopping Doomsday again. However, this time Superman has something that Doomsday doesn't: Mother Box, a living computer from planet New Genesis that reshapes his clothes to prepare him for the rematch. According to Mother Box, the main reason Superman died last time he fought Doomsday is because he didn't have enough pouches. (And if he does die again, at least he'll look cool.)

Meanwhile, in Calaton, the Calatonians are trying to stop Doomsday doing the exact same thing they did thousands of years ago: putting all of their Royals in a psychic blender to create a being made out of condensed inbred superpowers, the Radiant. Unfortunately, that's all for nothing, because Doomsday has evolved to absorb Radiant's energy and easily snaps him in half. By the time Superman and Waverider (who's still tagging along) reach Calaton, Radiant is tragically fading away like a fart in the wind.

"All we are is farts in the wind..."

What's worse is that Doomsday "senses" Calaton's weaknesses and is headed straight for their central power facility, which if blown up, could destroy the entire planet. Superman has something personal against planets being blown up, so he stands in front of Doomsday and tells him he's here to stop him "permanently," despite not knowing if the big brute can even understand him.

And then, to Superman's surprise... Doomsday replies.

"I can siiiiiiiiiiiing!"

After the dramatic revelation that Doomsday is smart and actually remembers Superman from their fight in "Muhtroplisss," the monster simply turns back with a "HA!" and goes back to ignoring Supes, as if telling him "I could easily snap you in half too, so why even bother fighting." Superman uses the opening to blast Doomsday with his super-charged heat vision, mindful that getting into a close quarters slugging match with him last time was a fatal mistake.

So, Superman does his best to keep his distance during the fight, but then Doomsday reveals another surprise: he can now extend his knuckle bones to freakishly long distances in order to more easily stab flying enemies. Yes, Doomsday has evolved into Wolverine.

Oh, and the retractable bone claws also have poison in them, so as soon as Doomsday pulls Superman down, he starts getting dizzy. Thinking fast, Superman reaches into one of his many pouches and takes out an ultrasonic weapon that seems to be working pretty well on Doomsday -- until he closes his ear canals at will. Wonder if he can do that with any orifice, if needed.

Since the fight doesn't seem to be going too well for Superman, Waverider tries to help out by using his old "contact" trick on Doomsday, just to see if he can learn anything useful by looking through his eyes. This is how we learn that all this time, whenever Doomsday looks at Superman, what he really sees is... E.T.?!

Actually, that's Doomsday's creator, Bertron. But why would anyone mistake Superman for alien Mengele? Because, as Superman only just now realizes, the planet where Doomsday was made, the one that became obsessed with genetic modification due to the ruins of Bertron's lab, was Krypton. Now Superman believes that the only reason Doomsday went to Metropolis is that he felt the presence of a Kryptonian there and felt threatened, the poor thing.

As the fight resumes, Superman uses a sort of "saber made of light" that Mother Box equipped with him to attack Doomsday, but the only thing he gets out of it is a broken arm. Waverider tries to make "contact" again to shut him down from the inside, but Doomsday has even learned to kick intangible time travelers out of his body.

Doomsday throws Superman against Calaton's power batteries, causing a gigantic explosion that disintegrates Waverider and leaves Supes in even poorer shape. Doomsday himself, of course, isn't even fazed by the explosion and laughs heartily as Superman seems to run away from him, which would be understandable given the situation. He just survived the equivalent of "a million nuclear blasts," had his arm broken in two places, and found out his home planet's whole culture was built on the bones of dead babies. It's been a tough day.

However, it turns out Superman was only grabbing the time-traveling wrist band Waverider left laying around and building up distance to hit Doomsday as hard as he can. While Doomsday is disoriented, Superman puts the band on his shoulder spike and has Mother Box transport them to the only time period where he can be defeated, which turns out to be... the very last one, a.k.a. the destruction of the universe. Try to evolve your way out of this one, bitch.

Superman is perfectly willing to die there with Doomsday, but he's saved by Waverider, who wasn't dead after all, he just needed some time to put his energy form back together (guess "1994 to the end of time" was enough).

Waverider returns Superman back to the present, where Mother Box uses the last of her power to restore Superman's classic costume and give him a shave while at it. With Doomsday finally gone for good (right?), Superman thanks Waverider for actually putting his ass on the line for once and goes back to Lois, reflecting on how he found the strength to face his greatest fear through her. So, in the end, the secret weapon that allowed him to defeat Doomsday was love. And time travel. And a living computer who died shaving him.

Plotline-Watch:

We'll see Doomsday again in his very own annual in 1995, followed by a weird arc in John Byrne's Wonder Woman in 1996, before his actual return in 1998's The Doomsday Wars miniseries.

The Cyborg Superman will be back sooner than that, since we find out in this issue that Darkseid didn't really kill him, he merely condensed his life force into a small orb.

Don Sparrow says: "It’s an interesting notion that Doomsday might have been intentionally marching toward Metropolis, but it doesn’t fully make sense to me. If Doomsday was really after the only Kryptonian, he wouldn’t have walked in a straight line to Metropolis, he’d have gone after Superman directly, wouldn’t he? And there were numerous times when Superman had to catch up to Doomsday who was walking right past him during that battle. Unless we fill in the blanks, and suggest that Superman’s aura was present in Metropolis? I’d honestly rather that Doomsday was marching to Metropolis because he saw Superman as a threat, rather than because he saw an idiotic wrestling promotion on TV." Sorry, but I'll continue believing the original, non-retconned explanation: that Doomsday went to Metropolis because got all riled up watching wrasslin.

While Mother Box is redesigning Superman's costume, he mentions that this was "originally Kryptonian recovery gear" (you know, the black suit with the silver S-shield) until Supergirl transformed it into its current form, back in Superman #82. I appreciate the continuity note, and I wonder if we can eventually establish how long Superman wore this twice-reshaped costume, which is slightly darker than the ones his mom made... maybe until he burned it down in "The Death of Clark Kent"?

I'm trying to imagine the conversation when Superman returned the lifeless Mother Box to Oberon: "*sob* At least she died doing something honorable..." "Yes, feel my face! It's so smooth!"

This issue does a pretty good job at selling entropy, the universe-eating stuff (or non-stuff) at the end of time, as something deadly and inescapable. It sure would be terrible if it somehow ended up in the present. Don: "Dan Jurgens’ aggressive concept of entropy sounds a lot like the unbeatable Swarm from Superman #68, which set me up for failure in High School physics classes, let me tell you."

Patreon-Watch:

Aaron, Chris “Ace” Hendrix, britneyspearsatemyshorts, Patrick D. Ryall, Bheki Latha, Mark Syp, Ryan Bush, Raphael Fischer, Kit, Sam, Bol, Gaetano Barreca, and Dave Shevlin got to read all of the above a week early, since for once I finished a post before Don (it took Don getting sick for that miracle to happen). Join them for sneak peeks and Patreon-only posts about non-continuity comics at: https://www.patreon.com/superman86to99

And now, the whole world gets to read Don Sparrow's section, after the jump!

Art-Watch (by @donsparrow):

We reach the crescendo of the progressive covers, with Superman coming to blows with Doomsday on the front and back covers. You know it’s serious because Superman’s punch has actually chipped off a piece of bone, but lucky Doomsday’s got bones to spare.

I felt like the art fell off a little on this issue, as some of the inks looked a little unsubstantial compared to the previous two issues, but I’ll get into specifics in a little bit. Our first image is a splash page—the panels in this issue are all generally pretty big, with more than four being a rarity—and this is a good one—the rim lighting really adds a three-dimensionality to Superman’s figure making him look more defined than just a mass of bulk. The colouring has generally been a highlight in this series, though this panel is a little let down with some sloppy shadows on Superman’s forehead that make him look bruised, I think unintentionally.

The next page features a great image of Superman, again helped by rim lighting. Jurgens can tend to draw Superman with too round a nose at times (I think most artists tend to default to making heroes look like themselves, the artists, and Jurgens has a roundish, button nose), but here his features are sharp and handsome.

Very soon we get our first look at Superman’s battle armour, courtesy of a literal Deus ex Machina, the Mother Box. I have since learned that this look is much maligned among fandom (particularly once it became a toy) but reading this at age 14, I loved it, especially as a way to explain how Superman might even things up a little more against the preposterously overpowered Doomsday. [Max: Same here! I had, and loved, that freaking toy.] It’s a unique look—very sword and sorcery, with the buckles and longer cape. I might have thought the look would have more apparent Apokolyptan or Kryptonian elements given the origins of Mother Box and Superman, but I still have a lot of affection for this costume. It’s interesting that the story seems to head off some of the criticism in advance, with Waverider hanging a lantern on the fact that the weapons “seem incompatible with {Superman’s} nature”.

I do like the simplicity of the Radiant’s look, and the art team does a good job of illustrating the crackle of his energy throughout. It feels a little like they’re trying to avoid having to draw Doomsday’s face too frequently in this issue, as he keeps appearing in shadow. It’s most glaring in his fight with the Radiant where there are near-identical gritted teeth expressions on sequential pages. The image of the fading energy being laying dying is a great depiction of translucence.

We have a few more instances of reused panels as Doomsday recognizes Superman from their battle on Earth—that’s the same drawing of Doomsday from the first issue, when young Clark faces “the killer” in his dream. The image of Superman’s eyes lighting up with heat vision is a good one, and though I’m not a terribly big admirer of Alan Moore (comic book heresy, thy name is Don Sparrow) I’m always reminded of “For the Man who has Everything” from Superman Annual #11 when someone says “burn”.

The images that follow definitely look like he’s hurting Doomsday (and it gives them still more excuses to not draw Doomsday’s face) and also addresses some of the criticism of the original Doomsday storyline, namely that Superman fought him like he only had a single power—super-strength—never putting flight, super-speed, heat vision or arctic breath into use. It’s after this that things start to get silly, with Doomsday speed-evolving to develop harpoon knuckles to draw Superman into him. It’s such a strange thing, and I’m still confused how it works. They’re bone but flexible like cables?

Superman yanking Doomsday’s claws out of his shoulder like uprooting a weed certain looks painful. We get another look at that Doomsday face from issue #1 again as Waverider mind-melds with the monster—the rules here are a little confusing—I don’t know why Waverider’s powers work here, but then failed when he tried to overload Doomsday’s nervous system, unless it’s a further example of Doomsday’s speed evolving. [Max: It's evolution, baby!]

Some of that lighter inking comes into play as Superman learns more about Doomsday’s origins—normally a heavy line, Breeding’s inks here look thinner and scratchier, more like Joe Rubinstein, who was inking the main book at the time. The big double page splash of Superman taking it to Doomsday is a real highlight, even if it’s followed by still more recycled art of young Clark.

The idea of Superman with an honest-to-goodness light sabre is dumb on the surface, but maaaan, did this blow my mind when I was a kid. The image of Superman sawing into Doomsday’s side is a great use of light and colouring, and Doomsday reconstituting himself like the T-1000 from Terminator 2 is a great visual, even if it further confuses me as to the nature of Doomsday. Like, how does an organless gray blob have bones that Superman could kick off? And why did it hurt him?

Doomsday gorilla pressing Superman is a great visual, and his whispering Lois in what feels like his last moment is emotionally impactful. The disorienting effect of the end of time is well done. The shredding of Doomsday’s form is particularly interesting, though having Mother Box kill Doomsday for him really does feel like a cop-out on some level, BUT, they’d essentially painted themselves into a corner with Doomsday, by making him essentially too powerful to really use in a story.

SPEEDING BULLETS:

Gotta love Desaad as hype man for Darkseid. Also, in a previous issue I noted how much Desaad reminds me of Wormtongue from the Lord of the Rings series, and here we have Darkseid making the connection (perhaps inadvertently) explicit, mentioning both his tongue and calling Desaad a worm in the same word bubble.

I like Superman’s attempt at guilting Darkseid for leaving the fight against Doomsday, like it’s gonna work—he’s a villain, who barely survived his first encounter with Doomsday (actually, I guess it’s his first encounter in COMBAT as we will later see that a younger Darkseid met Doomsday even before Superman did) so I don’t think shaming Darkseid is going to do much.

Also Superman is not very far away when Darkseid reveals to Desaad that his omega beams distilled Hank Henshaw’s consciousness into a little sphere—superhearing sinks ships, or something like that, Darkseid. [Max: I like the idea of Superman thinking "I'm just gonna pretend I didn't hear, got enough to deal with already."]

It’s a weird detail that this isn’t the same Radiant that Doomsday fought, even though Radiant takes claim for the victory. They specify that he’s a new being made from the royals of this day and age, but if that’s the case, this Radiant might have had a better shot at beating Doomsday, since they never fought before, even with the same power set. It would have been more narratively expedient just to have it be the same energy being, I think.

As far as plans go, “full intensity energy” seems like an obvious one. How long did it take the original Radiant to come up with that one? “Oh dang—mild intensity energy didn’t work. I guess I’ll try medium intensity energy…” [Max: It's possible radiant wasn't very bright. He's a product of inbreeding, after all...]

Speaking of obvious, Waverider is a bit of a Captain Obvious throughout…”Radiant is dying.” “Radiant is dead.”, etc.

Know what would be a good strategy, Superman? Attacking while Doomsday is frozen in his time flashback!

Between this and the upcoming Zero Hour, Waverider has his share of (spoilers) fake deaths.

[Max: Don't know if I'd call the one on Zero Hour fake, but we can revisit this when the time comes. Pun intended.]

#superman #dan jurgens #brett breeding #doomsday #darkseid #deesad #waverider #apokolips #hank henshaw #superman/doomsday: hunter/prey #hank henshaw as a little ball #inbred silver surfer but not the same inbred silver surfer from the previous issue

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everythingsinred · 10 months

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Let's Talk About NatsuMikan: Mikan (pt. 24)

Yesterday, we finished talking about the Sports Fest Arc. Though Luna has been dealt with, Natsume is still distant, and Mikan will feel the effect of this during this next transition arc.

This arc's purpose is to build tension and suspense for the upcoming monster of an arc. If any of the chapters leave you with a vague, unsettling feeling, that's intentional!

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Chapter Eighty-Nine

The Red Team won the Kibasen in the end, securing their victory in the Sports Festival. Often, at the end of an arc, Mikan will say, “[insert event here] ended safely!” but that will be increasingly not the case from here on out. Though things seem happy now compared to the frustration and jealousy of the previous arc, unbeknownst to Mikan, this is just the beginning of a long period of suffering. This current peace is incredibly fragile and due to break any second. The ESP is now suspicious that Mikan has the stealing alice, which will flavor the next transitionary arc as he tries to get confirmation.

Mikan my beloved always and forever (you deserve better than the character arcs ahead of you).

I really don’t want to get into all of the ins and outs of why I don’t care much for Mikan having the stealing alice, but my biggest issue with it is how much it overshadows her nullification from here on out, and how the emphasis changes from Mikan’s uselessness complex and insecurity to the taboo possession of the potentially dangerous stealing alice. Mikan’s “uselessness” insecurity isn’t really resolved yet, so it makes me sad that the arc is left hanging open for the sake of the stealing alice.

Anyway, it is what it is, so we’ll be moving on.

It’s time for summer!

Class B has a new uniform for the season and things seem to have settled down. Everyone is getting along again and almost everything is back to normal…

Except for Natsume.

Everyone is gossiping about what could be up with him. He was more on Luna’s side than anyone else, but now that the truth about her deceitfulness has been revealed, his lack of apology or attempt to make up has confused everyone--leading some to guess that he might be upset with them for some reason. In any case, despite Natsume’s long-lasting popularity, he’s become a bit of a pariah since the Sports Festival.

But Mikan made the choice to believe in him, no matter what. She knows that he was manipulated and blackmailed like she was now, but his behavior now still bothers her. She concedes that he’s always kept to himself, but this is different from usual. Mikan knows that he’s not mad or anything--he’s purposefully isolating himself. She’s not hurt, just insecure and fearful about why exactly he would be isolating himself now.

When it comes to Natsume, Mikan has always had one consistent wish--stay stay stay stay stay.

Once again, Mikan’s intuition is spot on, and she has the feeling that Natsume might leave and he’s distancing himself to make his absence less felt. She tells her friends that she believes in him and that he wouldn’t act like this for no reason.

“His every action makes me feel insecure,” she thinks to herself, which means that she’s keeping her eye on him and that she is increasingly afraid of what he might do next. Though everything else seems to have slid perfectly back in place, this issue with Natsume is front and center in her mind. I say this because even though Mikan doesn’t interact a lot with him in this arc, she will never stop thinking about him.

Natsume’s self-isolation isn’t the only thing amiss. This chapter also establishes that Luna is back to being despised by this class just like she was when she was a child, as well as the fact that Narumi-sensei has been ill lately and hasn’t been coming to class.

Mikan and her friends go to Central Town to buy gifts for kids with May and June birthdays, but she is distracted for most of the trip. Hotaru correctly deduces that she’s freaking out about the alice stones she was able to pull from her classmates at the Sports Fest and her suspicion that she might have a second alice. Hotaru fills her in on the New Year’s Arc, how her life was saved by a mysterious stone appearing in her hand--that there’s sufficient evidence to assume she has another alice in addition to her nullification.

Sigh...

Mikan is initially excited about this possibility, that she has two alices and that she might have to come up with a name for the second.

A passing Goshima tells her that such an alice would be called a stealing alice, which takes over Mikan’s mind for the next few days.

Chapter Ninety

Again, Hotaru is able to deduce that Mikan is concerned with the other person who possesses the same alice as her: Yuka, the notorious member of Z, who hurt her friends. Mikan is able to glean that she must have some sort of tie to her if they have such a rare alice in common. But Hotaru tells her not to worry about it--that an alice isn’t necessarily bad just because one person who possesses it happens to be bad.

The only thing I like about Mikan having the stealing alice is mother/daughter connection. The rest is bleh.

Of course, we’re in a strange place now where ¾ members of the main group know that Yuka is Mikan’s mother, but Mikan remains oblivious. It’s interesting that her friends keeping this a secret from her doesn’t really make much of a difference. Of course, Tsubasa and Natsume knowing is crucial since they have to do what they can to avoid hurting Yuka in their missions to find her. Additionally, Hotaru and Ruka knowing means they are able to warn Mikan to keep her second alice a secret. Without that knowledge, Mikan might open up to the wrong person which would have disastrous consequences.

Anyway, these scans are terrible but I’ll parse out what I can. Basically, there’s a group of troublemakers who have been running rampant lately because Natsume--who had previously kept them in check--has now been isolating himself. As a result, chaos has been all over the school. Sumire leads the charge in catching them, but they end up victim to another prank, causing the usual suspects’ souls to shuffle.

Mikan’s soul has sadly shuffled into Bear’s body, so she’s not even human for a bit here. She is very upset about this. Ruka seems to think she’s very cute and Hotaru teases her, and Mikan quickly turns to those most sympathetic to her plight, which creates an odd image of Hotaru and Natsume’s bodies comforting a crying Bear. They find out that this shuffle will wear off eventually--they just need to stay in the same area in order to get to their bodies. Unfortunately, Bear rather likes being in Koko’s body and has run off somewhere, so now the group is chasing after him.

I'm just a big fan of this panel, I don't know.

Chapter Ninety-One

Mikan--still in Bear’s body--finds her best friend Hotaru--still in her body--and notices that she seems upset. This is testament to their closeness. So far in the past few chapters, Hotaru has demonstrated keen understanding of what must be taking over Mikan’s thoughts. And now, Mikan demonstrates that she can tell when Hotaru is upset. Though on the outside, Hotaru seems the same as always, Mikan knows her better than that and can discern that something is wrong.

This is actually my favorite arc for their friendship.

Purely from Mikan’s POV, this scene is long and awkward for a bit there--Hotaru is quiet and not answering any of her questions. But then Hotaru hugs her, and it’s one of the only times (and I believe the very first time) that Hotaru initiates a hug with Mikan like this. Usually, Hotaru allows Mikan to hug her, or hugs her back after giving Mikan permission. But this time, Hotaru hugs her, and although Mikan is touched and happy to see Hotaru so affectionate, it’s even more evidence that something isn’t right, even when Hotaru assures her she’s fine.

Hotaru is able to change the mood, telling Mikan that they’ll be best friends no matter what.

But their moment is interrupted by another soul shuffle. Lucky Mikan is back in her own body, but Hotaru is now in Bear. Koko and Mikan, now in their proper bodies, are the most stable and thus should be responsible for finding Bear and bringing him back. Unfortunately, Koko wants to spend more time with Sumire’s new personality, so Mikan is on her own.

Except that Yuu has one more thing to tell her before she runs off--about Natsume. While he was in Natsume’s body, Yuu was in terrible pain. He assumed it was because of the soul shuffle, but he doesn’t feel pain at all being in Sumire’s body. Natsume, who goes frequently to the hospital, has been hiding the fact that he’s in constant agony from the rest of the class.

Always one consistent wish: stay stay stay stay.

Mikan doesn’t linger--she takes off to find Natsume. She has been guessing about Natsume’s alice shape for a long time and Yuu has just given her further evidence that she could be right. She’s been right about a lot of things lately, but this is one thing she doesn’t want to be right about.

She finds him quickly, but he turns away and doesn’t say anything, so his body must still be possessed, probably by Bear. Sound logic. She handcuffs Bear to prevent him from running off again, very proud of herself for catching him so quickly. But Bear!Natsume doesn’t want to move from the bench he’s sitting at, so he handcuffs himself to her and Mikan has no choice but to sit next to him for a moment.

This next moment is interesting because Mikan is the only one speaking. Usually, Mikan is the more talkative of the two, leading the conversation and being generally loud. But Natsume usually offers a quip or insult or some sort of snarky comment. This time, since he’s pretending to be Bear--or rather, just refusing to say anything and letting her come to her own conclusions--he can’t do that. He has to be entirely quiet and listen to what she has to say. Additionally, the fact that Mikan thinks she’s talking to Bear leads her to say things to him she wouldn’t otherwise confess.

This is the most honest she's ever been with Natsume and that's only because she doesn't know he's Natsume!

Mikan is in a grouchy mood, so she complains a little about how Bear and Natsume both share the same rotten personality, but the complaints lose their annoyed edge and her tone turns serious. Both Bear and Natsume are hard to understand, she confesses.

Despite the fact that she knows it was Natsume who confessed his feelings at the Borrowing Race and despite the fact that she swore she would put her faith in him, Mikan is still insecure. She wonders if Natsume really likes her at all. Everything between them is complicated and she’s understandably confused.

Mikan thinks she is currently talking to Bear, but Bear is a stuffed animal. He is not human and he doesn’t even speak. Really, in this moment, Mikan feels like she’s talking to herself. She’s finally letting herself say out loud and ponder the idle but pressing thoughts that have been plaguing her for a while now. It feels safe to do so, to finally be truthful about what she’s feeling--mainly confusion--because Bear is the one person who can’t really judge her no matter what she says. But it’s pretty huge that Mikan is even willing to think this, because, as we know, Mikan has been suppressing any analysis of her own emotions, especially regarding Natsume, from the very start.

But even though she’s finally voicing some of her thoughts, she’s not being entirely forthcoming. There’s still plenty of thoughts that she’s decided to keep to herself, namely what she really wants right now, which is to hear Natsume confirm something--anything.

I love that even when she's being more honest and upfront about her feelings than ever, she's still holding back. Queen of Repression, this one, even more than Natsume and I stand by that.

So much of Mikan’s understandings about Natsume are inferences rather than solid facts. Either Ruka spills some secret or Mikan has to play a guessing game, but in the end, Natsume never says anything about himself. He never talks about his feelings or his past or what he’s up to. Mikan has to figure it out herself, and he has never stopped being a puzzle. Ruka sharing Natsume’s backstory was informative because she now has solid evidence that she isn’t entirely delusional about him, but Natsume still isn’t offering any reassurances. The alice stone may or may not be his. That confession may or may not have been Natsume and he may or may not have meant it. Natsume might or might not leave, but either way, he isn’t about to tell her.

And she knows that he won’t. That’s what makes it all so frustrating--she knows him too well and Natsume hasn’t opened up about himself at any point in their relationship so why would he start now? Even her decision to believe in him was a result of her own inference and ability to discern that it was Natsume who had hugged her and thus that Natsume must be going through his own stuff too. So her faith in him, though she won’t be compromising on it in anyway, is still tied to insecurity. This new information about his health--again, given through another source and not the boy himself--only makes things worse. What if he really does “go somewhere”?

This is a really big moment for Mikan. She is able to open up, if only to Bear, but she still holds back. The last (and first) time she said out loud what she really wanted from Natsume, he rejected her in favor of Luna. She’s still not ready to be so vulnerable again, so she shares some of her thoughts but keeps the more fragile ones to herself.

But when Natsume holds her hand, she’s taken aback. This was supposed to be akin to talking to herself, helping herself work out some of her issues, or at least letting them out. She hadn’t expected comfort or affection, especially from Bear.

But it’s not really Bear, is it?

I looooooove that Mikan and Natsume kiss and hug and hold hands all before becoming a couple. It's so silly.

There’s proof that it has been Natsume all along when the kids run by and scream that Bear has finally been found, but I think Mikan figures it out when he holds her hand. Like I said, Mikan has been basing all of her knowledge of Natsume off of inferences and other people’s accounts. She knows him very well because she has been looking closely at his behaviors and actions, because she has no other choice. If Mikan ever wanted to know him, she’d have to do all of the heavy lifting in the relationship, to pay careful attention to how he acts in order to get even the slightest idea of how he feels. She’s always looking closely, and I think she can tell that it’s Natsume holding her hand, not Bear.

She and Bear aren’t close. They’re not friends. Bear has been nothing but violent and aggressive with her. Their best moments so far have involved deals and bargains, not genuine kindness or compassion on Bear’s part. This will change soon, but not now. Now, Mikan knows better than to think Bear would hold her hand after listening to her whine.

It’s Natsume’s body after all, and she had just been talking about him and how he’s been making her feel. It takes her by surprise, but she knows it’s him. He hugged her as an apology and he’s holding her hand to assure her now. It’s consistent behavior, and that’s all she has to go by, but it’s enough to know, even before the kids come running by.

They sit in silence for a moment after the crowd leaves. It’s awkward and tense for both of them. Now Mikan knows it was Natsume all along and she had just spilled so many vulnerable feelings with him. Moving on in this conversation will be uncomfortable. So, of course, Natsume leaves. He’s somehow able to uncuff himself, leaving Mikan on the bench. She could let him leave and continue to stew in the tense aura they’ve been living in since before the Sports Fest, but she doesn’t want to.

Very bold for her!!! I'm proud of you, Mikan!

She is always looking at his back, always watching him leave. What she wants more than almost anything is to make sure he doesn’t leave for good, to keep him here with her.

So she calls out to him. She knows she won’t get a full, emotional conversation with him about any of this (she's not ready for that either), but she still wants some sort of reassurance. She wants one answer and she wants to hear it from him this time. She asks him outright if he’s going to leave. Of course, she distances herself from that emotional fragility by using “us” instead of “my,” but we know to expect that by now. She’s already putting enough on the line by asking any part of it. She has to distance herself a little in order to get the question out.

She thinks to herself that she just needs him to confirm that he’s staying put, that that’s all she’ll need in order to stay strong. She wants to think she’s being silly, that she’s overthinking it, that this one inference is way off base. She doesn’t want to lose him, or even imagine that losing him is possible. Mikan was able to use her alice all the way across the room because of that fear, had to confront the possibility again during the New Year’s Arc, and was just now forced to endure the Sports Fest apart from him. One of Mikan’s most consistent fears is the fear of losing Natsume, so it makes sense that this would eat away at her like this, that she would need to hear assurances from him that she’s making it all up.

But Mikan’s inferences have rarely been off base, least of all about this. I think she knows that too, that she just wants to hear a confident “no” regardless of what the truth is, just so she can put off thinking about it, just so she can be secure for a moment.

That's good enough for now.

And he gives her that, the “I’m not going anywhere” that she’s wanted to hear for a while now. He doesn’t give her anything else, but she never expected him to. This is enough, because now she can relax for a bit until this subject inevitably rears its ugly head once more.

Chapter Ninety-Two

One tense moment resolves, only to lead to another. Mikan sees Narumi against a tree, obviously in pain and suffering. Mikan is naturally concerned, so she approaches him and asks if she could call anyone. He dismisses her concerns and assures her he’ll be fine if he rests for a bit, but that evidently isn’t even close to the truth because he then falls unconscious.

Narumi passed out gripping Mikan’s hand so she can’t run off to find help. She feels useless--such a novel feeling for her, right?--unable to do anything for someone she loves… yet again. Assistance comes from an unlikely place when Jinno arrives, telling her to remove his glove. She does and both she and Jinno are shocked to see his hand is rotting, obviously the work of Persona’s alice. Mikan recognizes the marks, and is horrified that Narumi was hiding this for who knows how long. Jinno voices worry that the marks have reached his heart and that he’s at the end of his rope and Mikan realizes what she has to do.

Nothing good, that's what.

She was told by Hotaru that she’d saved herself with her stealing alice when Persona had almost killed her. She knows then that her alice could do that again, for Narumi. But she was also compelled to keep this a secret, so using the alice in front of Jinno could cause problems.

Jinno has up to this point revealed no evidence that he isn’t loyal to the ESP or that he has his students’ best interests in mind. He could--and probably is, in Mikan’s POV--be affiliated with the fukitai and the oppressive systems here, more aligned with Persona and the ESP than the mysterious person looking out for her. But Mikan chooses to use her alice in front of him anyway, to put herself on the line and maybe even get in severe trouble, because saving Narumi is worth it.

Mikan is potentially sacrificing herself for somebody she loves here. She’s done it before and she will do it again, but this time is potent because when Narumi comes to and sees what she’s doing, he hits her. He doesn’t want the ESP to know about her alice, but Mikan cares more about saving his life than about whatever consequences this might have. Narumi hits her, probably for the same reason that Natsume told her he hated everything about her or that Hotaru left their village on short notice: to make her angry enough to give up on him. But that has never worked on her before and it won’t now.

Makes me wanna cry, not gonna lie.

Mikan is not a masochist. She doesn’t love to be mistreated. She just loves so openly and unabashedly, choosing to love the sum of what a person is instead of just the shiny, pretty parts. She continues to steal Narumi’s alice even after he hits her because she loves all of him and even the ugliest parts of him can’t deter that. Last chapter, Mikan was scared to lose Natsume. Now she’s scared to lose Narumi.

She doesn’t want him to leave “my--our lives.” This change feels different to me than her distancing from feelings related to Natsume. With Natsume, she chooses to be part of a collective so that she doesn’t feel as vulnerable sharing her insecurities. Even when it’s just her own thoughts, Mikan refuses to look too closely at her unique feelings for him. That’s not an issue with Narumi. She loves him and was even able to tell him so without a problem. Narumi has always been kind and supportive to her. They have had their ups and downs, but she knows that he cares for her and she’s not afraid to tell him how she feels. This change isn’t about distancing herself from the feelings, it’s about reiterating to him that she wouldn’t be the only one suffering if he were to die. “Our lives,” not just hers, because so many people love and need Narumi in their lives.

She believes that, and she needs him to believe it too.

I love analyzing comparisons, and the "my--our" thing just feels so different with Natsume than it does here. But of course it does. Natsume is always different.

But it’s not some epiphany on Narumi’s part that allows her to finish stealing his alice--it’s Jinno’s violent intervention and his command to her to steal it quick while Narumi is knocked out.

When it’s done, Mikan starts to cry. Because of what almost happened, because of the emotional confrontation, because of how Narumi treated her… Because of all of it.

Narumi hugs her, and it’s interesting that Hotaru and Narumi’s ploys to get Mikan angry are so short lived. As soon as she sees through them and acts on her own feelings, they give up. The ruse is over. Hotaru lets Mikan hug her, Narumi hugs her. Natsume keeps at it, though, because a small ruse is only part of a much larger whole. Mikan is constantly in this situation with Natsume, ignoring all the barbs and pain because she knows he’s hiding something important. This constant state of inference and insecurity is important because it will shift very soon.

Regardless, Mikan is exhausted. Not only has she used her alice, which is a physically taxing experience, but she’s just undergone an emotionally tiresome day. She rests in Narumi’s lap and all of his bitterness before has faded. What’s done is done. He will have to do what he has to in order to protect her from now on, and even Mikan knows that things will not be easy in the future.

Gakuen Alice is a story about love in all its many flavors and variations (until the last chapter, that is).

It’s the rainy season, he muses. It’s almost been a full year since Mikan came to the academy.

Seasons are crucial to this story, particularly for Mikan’s arc. She has matured a lot since she came to the school, but she will continue to change and grow. We’re about to be in summer again, just like we were when we first opened this manga.

Conclusion

We're halfway through the transition arc. I'll try to post tomorrow. In any case, it'll be soon. We're officially halfway through the manga, but the next half should go by faster because after this point, there's plenty of "reactionary" chapters instead of active ones. There's nothing fun to analyze in "Oh my gosh! I can't believe this is happening to my mom in the past!" so there'll be some gaps.

I have finished this essay already, but I'm too lazy to estimate how many parts are left. I think we might make it to 35 because there's definitely more parts to Mikan's essay than Natsume's. Maybe. I don't know. In any case, I decided that I would make a table of contents post after I finish posting. That might make it easier to navigate for new and returning readers!

See y'all next time!

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#gakuen alice #alice academy #ga #sakura mikan #mikan sakura #natsume hyuuga #hyuuga natsume #my meta #ga meta #ga meta: nm #ga meta: manga #ga meta: manga nm #let's talk about natsumikan #let's talk about natsumikan: mikan #nm: m song of the day....#THINGS I'LL NEVER SAY by avril lavigne #100% a mikan song abt natsume. drives me crazy #if it aint coming out we're not going anywhere so why cant i just tell you that i care?#i love them so much they make me crazy

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