#victor needs to be held its just a rule

[hunny-beann]

I am literally having the worst day ever, do you think you could write some insanely fluffy Dream for me? I'm talking tooth rotting levels of fluff here.

Rest Now, Wife, Mine

Dream of the Endless x f!Reader

Note: Hi anon! Thanks a ton for the adorable request, I had a lot of fun with it and really hope it helps make your day feel a bit better <3

Synopsis: Morpheus' wife finds their bed far too lonely without him in it, and seeks out his presence to remedy this so she may finally succumb to slumber for the evening.

Thankfully, he is all too happy to oblige.

Warnings: None! Just pure and unbridled fluff :)

Word Count: 1,298

Her steps are silent and her pace slow as she approaches the familiar throne room, sensing even from outside of its walls that it is as close to empty as it is going to get for the evening.

That said, as close to empty as possible for the throne room of an Endless such as Dream was not nearly as empty as one might think, with it being a rarity that he not be found there.

She fights back a shiver as she steps across the threshold, her bare feet suddenly far colder than before, and her majority uncovered shoulders beginning to undergo horripilation at the seemingly inexplicable shift in temperature.

That said, being easy to explain was not a rule that the Dreaming followed, so this was nothing new, and certainly nothing unexpected.

Though, the sudden voice that split the once heavy silence in twain on the other hand, was.

"And what could possibly have you awake at such an hour, dear wife?"

The voice asked quietly, laced with both amusement and even a twinge of concern that had the wife in question smiling softly in spite of her best efforts to not appear excited at the mere sound of her love's voice.

Oh, but she had never been that strong, had she?

He had her wrapped around his finger just as he did the entire realm that he ruled, though he notably reserved the one with the ring for her and her alone.

She padded up toward his throne quietly, not willing to answer his question until she was close enough that her voice might not reverberate so loudly off of the palace walls.

Some words, she had decided long ago, were for her husband and her husband alone.

Upon her eager approach, the Lord of Dreams could not help but raise one of the corners of his mouth at the mere sight of her, holding his hand out at her nearness to guide her to stand before his crossed legs as he reached gently to take her other in his own as well, making a mental note of how chilled her extremities felt due to the cool night air of his throne room.

He watched as she slackened slightly at his familiar touch, her body always so happy to find him near in a way never ceased to have his heart all but melting at her feet.

What a disastrous little thing she was, truly.

He could never love another.

As her form relaxed at the feeling of his hands on hers, so loving in spite of the power that they held, she could not help but yawn softly, eyes growing teary as her ease allowed the weight of the day to truly set in.

Her dearest Dream Lord smirked up at her, his brow raised knowingly and his eyes twinkling as he watched her fight off the eternally tempting wiles of sleep.

What a sweet little thing, so helpless in her battles against her own biology that it was entirely too amusing to ignore, and always far too entertaining to neglect to bear witness to.

"You are tired, my dear."

The Lord of Dreams stated matter of factly, tugging his beloved closer using his soft grip on her hands so he could properly brush some of her hair behind her ear, a gesture which caused her eyelids to flutter closed briefly before they snapped open once more, her fight against herself not yet over in her eyes (though Dream could see clearly in the way that she swayed on her own two feet that there was already an obvious victor).

He chuckled quietly, shaking his head,

"You need to rest, sweet stardust. Let me bring you back to the bedroom."

He spoke gently, rising to guide her back to their soft and familiar bed only to halt when he heard her reply.

"No, I don't want to go back, you're just going to leave once you think I'm tired enough not to follow."

The Dream Lord faltered upon hearing this, raising a questioning brow in response before lowering himself down upon his throne once more, though this time he pulled his wife right along with him, sitting her on his lap in order to get a better look at her exhausted expression.

He frowned.

"Have you been staying awake on purpose, my love? Lying in wait for me as you promised you would not do?"

She shook her head, but he could see the way that the blood rushed into her cheeks as she tried to explain, embarrassed to admit the things that she had to in order to quell his worries of any intentional harm having been done.

"No, of course not, I just..."

The Lord of Dreams hummed and brought one hand to her back, rubbing up and down along her spine and feeling her lean against him unintentionally in response, her bones heavy and all too prepared to sink into whatever comfort they could find.

"You just what, dearest?"

He urged, causing his lover to nod blearily in response, slowly coming back to reality again.

"I just find that sometimes I cannot bear to sleep alone, that the bed feels far too wide and empty without you in it."

Dream fought back a slight smile upon hearing this, feeling more than a little bit proud to know that his wife could rely upon him enough to truly need him so (though he was notably unhappy to hear that this was causing her any amount of unnecessary strife).

"And is tonight one of those nights, beloved?"

He asked, watching as she nodded, her head lolling slightly upon her neck as her overworked muscles struggled to remain in control over her all too tired body and mind.

"Poor thing,"

Dream all but purred in response, adjusting his love upon his lap until she was leaning against him, breaths warm on his neck and body seeming to grow heavier by the second as the feeling of his familiar closeness drove her into a type of ease that was felt only at a lover's closeness.

"That will certainly have to be remedied, won't it?"

He murmured against her ear, feeling her shiver in response, nuzzling closer with a nod as he gathered his coat that had been hanging on the back of the dais behind him with just one hand, draping it over her body and pressing a soft kiss against her head as he felt her begin to drift off into a much needed and far too well deserved slumber.

"Rest now, wife, mine."

He said softly, feeling his dearest love smile gently against his skin at his familiar words and the use of his favorite (and almost sickeningly sweet) nickname for her,

"I will see to it that no one interrupts you as you do."

If she had been more awake, perhaps the woman would have rolled her eyes or even offered a sarcastic retort in response to her husband's dramatics, but instead she simply nudged herself closer, pressing a gentle kiss against the pale flesh of his neck before she drifted off for the very first time that night, feeling truly safe in the arms of her most adoring love.

And when morning arrived, and the throne room became far less uninhabited, the two of them made for quite a sight, indeed.

After all, who would have thought that the Lord of Dreams might choose to sleep simply to live life as his dear wife did, his cheek pressed gently against her head and his arms wrapped around her as slumber found them both, pulling them closer together, ever still, in the very same way that they belonged now, and always would for the remainder of eternity, and perhaps even beyond that.

ao3 link

#morpheus x reader #the sandman x reader #dream x reader #dream the endless x reader #morpheus x y/n #sandman x reader #the sandman x you #dream x y/n #dream of the endless x reader #dream of the endless fic #the sandman fanfic #morpheus x you #morpheus x f!reader #sandman x female reader #dream x fem!reader #the sandman fic #morpheus fanfiction #morpheus fic #morpheus x wife #the sandman fluff

[you-til-i-die]

wishin’ I could write my name on it

f.odair x fem!reader

summary: a sneak peak into you and finnick’s lives

warnings/content: I wrote and edited this all in one sitting so if it’s absolute shit that’s why<3 district four victor!r, r is said to have throw up a few times, but none of it is graphic. mentions of blood and sex trafficking, cannon-typical shit really, swearing

song: august - ts

wc: 1.9k

✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧ ✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧ ✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧ ✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧ ✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺

You and Finnick have one rule.

Don’t talk about it. Don’t ask about it. Don’t acknowledge it.

When the two of you are together, you can just forget about it. You can hang out on the beaches of District Four and pretend like these aren’t your lives.

But they are.

And it always somehow seeps through the cracks.

It’s in the way Finnick’s eyes are dull and empty the first few days after a trip to the capitol.

It’s in the way your laugh has morphed into a short bark.

It’s everywhere and it’s everything.

There’s no escaping it.

It haunts your dreams, it probably haunts Finnick’s too, even though you’d never ask.

Because that’s the rule. No asking. Ever.

————————————————————————

It was August. The sun seemed to slowly be getting the message that fall was getting nearer, the rays a little less intense then they had been a few weeks ago. The water was even the tiniest bit cooler, soothing a stubborn sunburn on your shoulders.

You were laying on the beach, face down on a towel, trying to ignore the stick of salt drying on your skin. You can’t help but let out a yawn, exhausted from the still persistent heat and trying to win against Finnick in a swimming race all day.

You were so relaxed. Focusing on the waves crashing against the shore. And the presence beside you that you knew was Finnick.

You honestly were about to fall asleep before he speaks. He mentions it so casually, he might as well have been asking what you wanted for dinner.

“Snow needs me in the capitol. I’m leaving on Friday.”

His voice is completely flat, devoid from all of its usual humor. It made you nauseous. You consider asking if he feels the same way, but you don’t. That was the rule. And you know the rules.

You push yourself up onto your elbows to get a good look at him, to try and decipher the look on his face. You could almost always read him. You hadn’t spent four years attached to each other to not learn the subtle mannerisms of the other. But this was different. It always was.

You and Finnick could talk about almost anything together. The games, the fear that you could never seem to shake, the nightmares, the way it was sometimes hard to stomach killing even a fish. But you never talk about this.

You never talk about how Snow will whisk one, or sometimes both, of you away whenever he needs a favor. You never tell him how afterwards you have to scrub your entire body raw before you can even begin to feel clean again. You don’t tell him how the first couple of times you would sob until you threw up, but now you just curl up and do your best to avoid the pit in your stomach.

Well, truthfully, you had talked about it once. But never again.

You had just been crowned victor of the 69th Hunger Games, District Four’s second victor in four years. It was no surprise, really. You were seventeen, and one of the oldest in the arena. You were strong, quick, and smart. So, so smart. You had won through pure trickery, and everyone loved you for it.

It’s hard for you to remember what happened the week after you won. There’s little snippets, of course. Looking down at the blood on your hands, blood that wasn’t yours. The booming of a voice in the arena, announcing that you were the victor. You had won. You did it. You had made District Four proud. And then you threw up.

You must have blacked out afterwards, because the next thing you remember is being back in your suite in the training center, sobbing in Finnick’s arms while he held you. Most of what you can remember is centered around him. Gripping onto his hand like a lifeline while your stylists buzzed around you. Glancing over Snow’s shoulder at him while the president crowned you. Watching him standing in the wings of the stage while Ceasar Flickerman went over a highlight reel of your time in the arena. Finding your way back into his arms on the train. You’re pretty sure Finnick didn’t say more than the same couple words the first week. It seemed to be a constant variation of “I know honey, but you’re safe now. I’ve got you sweetheart.”

It wasn’t until your victory tour that he told you. You doubt he ever would have, if he didn’t know for sure it would happen to you.

He had sat you down on the train after a party in District Two and told you everything. How Snow would practically sell him to people. How he didn’t have a say, and how you wouldn’t either, unless you wanted everyone you loved to be dead. He had grabbed your hands, shaking hand in shaking hand, and apologized profusely. He told you how he would do everything possible to keep you safe, he would offer himself instead of you. But you knew that wouldn’t work. Snow gets what Snow wants, and if Snow wants you to fuck his friends for some sick favor, there was nothing you, or Finnick, could do to stop that from happening.

“Oh.”

“Yah.” Was all Finnick said, refusing to meet you gaze as he stared out at the ocean. He’s working one of the muscles in his jaw and you have to look away before you grab his face and do something stupid.

“When will you be back?” You don’t say it, but you’re sure he understands the meaning. Please say it’ll only be one night. Please tell me they won’t put you through it more than once this time. Please tell me you’ll be back to hold me through the nightmares soon. Please don’t make me wait for you more than I already do.

“I’m not sure. Snow said a couple of days.”

No no no no no no no please no.

You didn’t respond. Scared that if you open your mouth the bile collecting in your throat would spill out.

You just look over at him. Take him in. It’s no wonder why the capitol loves him so much. Although not for his humor, his kindness, his strength, the way he’s always looking out for everyone but himself. None of that. Just because he’s a pretty face. But in the bright, golden sun, you find it hard to disagree with them. He’s all broad shoulders and a strong jawline. Bright green eyes that always seem to shine when they look at you. Sharp teeth hiding behind that perfect fucking smile. Salty hair you wanted to run your fingers through. Credit where credit is due, the capitol knows how to pick a sex symbol.

But you don’t see a sex symbol. Not right now. Right now all you see is the person you want to hold on to, and never let go of. The person you’d throw it all away for, if he asked. The person who seemed to always have another layer for you to work your way into, but you’d be damned if you ever stopped trying to get to the root of him.

You’ve been staring for an embarrassingly long amount of time. Finnick notices, of course, because Finnick notices everything.

“Honey?”

You tear your eyes away from where they had been tracing the veins in his hands. “Hm?”

“You ok?” And there it is. That fucking wolf smile. All sharp canines and slightly raised eyebrows because he knows. He knows he’s got you in between his teeth and he knows you’re happy to stay there because it’s him.

You pause, but just for a moment, trying not to give him the satisfaction of winning, of successfully flustering you. But his eyes are boring into yours and it’s so hard to look away from him, but you do. He wins. He normally does.

“‘M just thinking.”

“What about?” He asks. Flopping down on his side, trying to get on eye level with you because it’s never just enough for him to win, he has to make sure you know that he knows it.

You just roll your eyes at him, there’s nothing else you can do.

“About how we’ve been out here since nine in the morning and it’s after noon now, and you haven’t reapplied sunscreen once.”

It’s his turn to roll his eyes now.

“I don’t burn, honey, you know that.”

“What about that time you were out all day, didn’t put sunscreen on once, and then I had to rub aloe vera on your back for a week because you burned like hell and all of your skin was peeling off?” You ask, smile working its way onto your face. You know you’ve got him. You’re winning now.

He pauses, he doesn’t back down easily. “It was a fluke. A glitch, even.” He says, trying his best to shrug his shoulders even though he’s lying down. He fails. It looks ridiculous. You have to try not to laugh. “I honestly think the sun just had a vendetta against me that day.”

You’re failing at biting back a smile now. “At least let me get your back because there is literally nothing you could say or do to ever get me to help you with a third degree sunburn again.”

He doesn’t say anything. Just makes a big show of groaning and rolling his eyes at you before rolling onto his back.

You’ve won.

“So dramatic? You know that? It’s like being friends with a child.” You say as you root around in your bag for your sunscreen. Trying to ignore the disgusting feeling you know it will leave on your hands as you squirt it out.

He props himself up on his elbows to look at you, surely about to counter with some story about you being much more dramatic than him, before you shove him back down, face in the sand.

“Ow.”

“You’re fine. A little sand never killed anyone.”

You decide to ignore his grumbling, focusing on spreading the sunscreen on his back. However, you can’t ignore the growing pit in your stomach that you know will be there until Finnick’s back from the capitol.

Still, they can’t take this from you. You’ve earned it. You deserve to be here, definitely not checking out your best friend who you know you can’t have.

You lose yourself for a moment. Letting yourself focus on the way his muscles feel under your hands. Maybe, one day, this could be real. The capitol will find new, attractive victors, and they’ll move on. You and Finnick can fade into the background, and just live.

You pull back, and grab the tube again, squirting it directly on his back. You start to rub it in before pausing for a moment, why not?

Quickly, you write your name in the sunscreen on his back. Snow has cameras everywhere. Maybe he’s watching. Maybe he’s not. But either way, at least for a second, you can say mine. All mine. You can’t take him from me, not really.

He feels it, lifting his head up just as you’re wiping away the evidence.

“Are you drawing on my back?”

You flash him your own smile. A little less wolfish, a little more coy.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧ ✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧ ✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧ ✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧ ✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺

A/n: Hi omg I wrote this in one sitting😭this has just been rattling around in my head for weeks now and I had to get it out lol. Constructive criticism and feedback is always appreciated, I hope you all enjoyed<3

#mine!!! #finnick odair #finnick x reader #finnick oneshot #thg x reader #thg x you #finnick odair x reader #finnick odair x you #finnick odair fluff

[catoscloves]

something about lucy gray telling snow that trust is far more important than love and that if she couldn't trust him he would be dead to her (and then actually fulfilling that promise by fleeing from him/attempting to injure him with a snakebite).

then, so many years later, katniss shares the exact same philosophy: choosing to serve herself because the only person she can trust is herself, and wanting to distance herself as far as possible from a person she perceives as an untrustworthy threat. and even when he claims to have loved her for years (which is actually true to some extent and not just a fantasy fed to the capitol to gain sponsors) she doesn't care about any of that (believing it to be a fiction created to win the game) when he acts in a way that makes him seemingly untrustworthy by joining the career pack. because of peeta's behavior katniss acts to ensure her own survival and doesn't attempt to secure his - not because she's heartless or unempathetic, or as a grab for power, but simply because she has no reason to. so by all means, she parallels snow's worldview of betraying others for the sake of self-servititude, except that that's not who she is and that isn't necessarily the case. when peeta chooses katniss and risks his life/pain and torture at the careers' hands for her survival, its an act of trust and faith and solidarity. and that's all katniss needs to care for him and want to preserve his life (and then later she choose to do so once the change to the rules, the fact that two victors are now allowed, gives her the power to). it was not a declaration of love for show, to provide the capitol with an entertaining performance, that wins her over. rather, it was an act of trust and loyalty that cemented this side of katniss's nature: the loyal and protective side that fights for the people she cares about and can trust.

romantic love wasn't nearly as important to katniss as the ability to trust someone. and in her interactions with her mother (and the distance katniss maintained between them because she couldn't trust mrs everdeen after she neglected katniss), katniss also shows that other forms of love, in this case: the familial kind, wasn't as much of a priority to her as trust was. gale, who was helpful and consistent and a reliable support system for her, was someone whom she held in high esteem. as such, katniss shares lucy gray's values of trust and loyalty and sees them to be of greater importance than love. she sees no logic in feeling betrayed by peeta wanting to be coached separately because there was no connection of trust between them to begin with. but unlike snow and lucy gray, the trust between katniss and peeta only strengthens with time, and katniss defies snow's worldview and expectations for her by choosing to help her lover and friend even at the detriment of her own survival.

katniss exhibits some of the same traits and values that snow and lucy gray do, but she and her relationship with peeta have this key fundamental difference: the existence of, and continuation of, trust.

#the hunger games #the ballad of songbirds and snakes #tbosas #everlark #katniss x peeta #katniss everdeen #peeta mellark #coriolanus snow #lucy gray baird #coriolanus x lucy gray #anna reads books #anna reads thg

[forgottenarthur]

The Witch of Kil-kennar

(@forgottenarias as promised, witch hc's i was talking abt incoming!)

The Siege of Kil-kennar

Kil-kennar was an ancient castle, even said by some Astairans to be a site of religious significance, but it most assuredly was a strategic location. Roderick saw this straight off, early in the conception of his Conquest of Astaira, drawing up a thousand rolled scrolls and carefully drawn maps. If one wished to place a stranglehold on movement through the nation of Astaira, one needed to hold the ancient site of Kil-kennar. Yet, situated towards the center of the nation and controlling perhaps the most formidable river in the nation at its bend, it was a citadel from which and to which all trade circulated -- making it at once a place which was easy to reach -- and difficult to take.

The Varmont march took near a year to come towards its shore but, as soon as it did, it was a mad dash: whichever force first arrived there must seize it and hold it, come what may, if they were to conquer. When the first opportunity arose, it was Arthur's contingent which was in position to march on Kil-kennar and, receiving his orders, Arthur did not hesitate to do it.

Nestled up amongst mountain peaks, Kil-kennar was no easy place to capture, but it was not merely a military outpost. Before the war, it had been a bustling center of trade, making it both fort and citadel, a place boasting families and merchants as well as soldiers and, known for its religious qualities, quite an outcropping of true believers as well. Still, a siege was a siege and, even from the outside, Arthur had far more experience in war even at his young age than did most of those inside the fortress. For twelve harrowing days, Kil-kennar held out, but on the thirteenth, they surrendered. The challengers for the victors, however, were only just beginning.

Seeress of Kil-kennar

As Arthur instilled a military rule over the residents of Kil-kennar, he set up instilling the kind of rule that his father always did in occupied cities -- the great walls of the fortress which once had protected them now transforming in prison walls for the Astairas civilians within. Distressed and afraid, many turned to Áine, Seeress of Kil-kennar, a strong-willed and unswerving woman who was revered amongst her people for her bravery and her ability to speak with the guardians.

From the start, Arthur knew he must root her out, but the people hid her and gave her shelter, often at the risks of their own lives, as quietly she became the ringleader of a resistance from within. Áine was determined to do all in her power to thwart the Varmonts, and she began in utterly unswerving dedication.

Though the siege had lasted less than two weeks, holding the city was far more troubling and Arthur soon dedicated himself to rooting out the chief: the witch-woman Áine of the Weirding Way, whom his soldiers soon came to fear not merely as an opponent but as a prophetess and a mage of great power. While the priests of the one god insisted all her powers were merely for show, many whispered that the truth of her abilities could not, in truth, be disputed.

Fearing for his hold on the strategic city, Arthur turned his attentions to rooting out the witch, which he ultimately did with ruthless efficiancy yet, once he had her, a religious figure and a heroine to her people both, Arthur realized, first, that killing her would likely bring down a full-scale revolt on their heads, such that they would soon find themselves fighting a battle both from within -- and without. But he realized something else as well, she was no mere soothsaying, some icon of idolatry, but a woman of flesh and blood and, while he knew that his father would burn her at the stake, when Arthur looked into her eyes, he wondered if he could, indeed, do so. Would not a more merciful end prove better, if end she must? And, indeed, was it so very necessary to kill her at all? In truth, he grew not simply to see her for a human being, but to admire her for her bravery, her loyalty, and her unbending will.

The Purple Missive

Arthur could not long conceal that he'd caught her, however: not from the populace, and not from his father, either. After a particularly daring escape attempt, a messenger arrived at the gates of Kil-kennar, wearing his father's livery. "Kill the witch," his father. ordered. "Or you are not my son." The messenger then immediately ordered that a pyre be constructed at the heart of the town and informed Arthur that he would be Roderick's eyes and ears. If the witch were not dead within forty-eight hours, he would report to the emperor that Arthur had turned traitor to his father.

She was his friend, but Arthur marched Áine to the center of the village square, his soldiers forming an iron ring around the hastily constructed platform upon which they stood. He read out the order for her execution clearly and without pause and then, in one swift motion, he drew his sword and beheaded her in the sight of all.

"Go," said Arthur, her blood dripping from the sword still clasped in his hand. "Go now and tell the Emperor all that you have seen."

This decision, though adhering to the letter of Roderick's law, did nothing to please anyone. While the seeress was dead, she had been decapitated rather than burned to death, and in his fury, Roderick made a point -- on his own battlefield some miles away -- of rounding up everyone so much as rumored to be a witch. He then set his soldiers out uprooting trees which he turned into stakes lining either side of the the main road to the capital. Without any sort of trial, Roderick tied a suspected witch to each pillar and burned them all, lighting the march towards Malconaire in a butchery that became known as the Pyre Walk.

Meanwhile, within Kil-kennar the citizens rose up in rebellion, their leader having been brutally murdered without trial before them and, while Arthur managed to hold the city and beat down the insurrection, many lives were lost on both sides, a devestating loss for which Arthur was held as directly responsible by both sides. Furthermore, even many Astairans who acknowledged -- whether for good or ill -- his mercy in the means of dispatching Áine, still held him as responsible for the Pyre Walk as they argued that burning one woman, there, might have spared hundreds, many of whom were not even witches. On the Varmont side, many viewed his actions as having exposed a dreadful weakness: an unwillingness to do what must be done and make the hard choices.

Nonetheless, there are those who see his actions as heroic. Some Astairans believe that his merciful action was good in itself, and he ought not to be held responsible for his father's terrible actions afterwards, though many argue that who could have better foreseen this outcome than Roderick's own son? On the Varmont side, some are also sympathetic to Arthur's actions, though for varying reasons. Some believe that mercy, in itself, is good, while others take pride in him boldly executing a witch, himself, rather than leaving the deed to an executioner's flame.

The Butcher of Kil-kennar

Given his reputation of having cut down a woman with a blade, spilling weirding blood on a sacred site, and all the subsequent bloodshed that resulted, the governor of Kil-kennar who did this is sometimes known as the Butcher of Kil-kennar. However, it is not universally known at this individual was Arthur. Once his fury at Arthur's act of semi-rebellion had cooled in the Pyre Walk, Roderick realized that any weakness in his son's readiness to fulfill the letter of his laws might reflect as weakness in himself.

As a result, Roderick quickly set up the messenger he'd dispatched to Arthur as a fall man, spreading it about that the envoy had been a secret Astairan sympathizer and had delivered a garbled message to Arthur, wishing to thwart the Varmont cause, and executed the messenger as a traitor.

Not entirely satisfied with this explanation -- though beginning to believe that it was, indeed, the truth as Arthur had rarely before rebelled in anything, and thus wishing to exempt his son from the ill effects (though only after he'd punished him, himself) -- Roderick further explained that, while Arthur had held Kil-kennar, the messenger had not even reported to Arthur, himself, and it had indeed been someone else entirely who had received the orders and -- thus -- that, despite the fact that they civilians of Kil-kennar had seen Arthur do the deed with their own eyes -- this had merely been confusion based on the fact that many Varmonts looked the same to the Astairans and it had simply been a confusion. The Butcher of Kil-kennar was not Arthuar, at all, but someone entirely.

Arthur is not entirely aware of all of his father's machinations which took place after the fact in arranging not one, but multiple, fall men. His feelings, if he did find out, would be very complicated. On one hand, it would be the most his father had ever done for him. On the other, Arthur would not believe that anyone else ought to take the consequences of his actions -- for good or evil.

I also want to note that, while Arthur felt like in hindsight he should have, Arthur did not foresee the Pyre Walk, at the time of Áine's execution. He ~did foresee a rebellion within Kil-kennar but he couldn't see a way around it if he didn't want to turn traitor and, yes, he very much did choose his father over Áine and the poeple of Kil-kennar.

What, or if, your character know of any of this is entirely up to everyone, individually!

#about #roderick varmont

[wheelercore]

Rabbits and Spiders?

I find it super interesting that even though Victor mentions multiple small animals that were found dead around their property- the only animal we were shown killed specifically in Henry's POV is the rabbit.

Disclaimer: I read through Henry's retelling from one of the older scripts that were leaked so some of the lines may be off/not what was in the show itself.

First off, Henry reveals a fascination with spiders and a few thoughts about their role in the animal kingdom and how he relates to them, etc. His aesthetic as vecna are reminiscent of this, as described:

He describes upon finding these spiders in his attic that it has given him a newfound purpose as a young boy:

There are a few interesting threads here: Henry likens himself to a spider. A predator. The most important of all predators. One that he himself states "feed on the weak", which in turn does good for the ecosystem, keeping it in "balance". He differentiates the animal kingdom from human society- stating that humans do not have this "check" (ie predators "but for good"- whatever Henry's subjective opinion of good is).

An ecosystem is held together by a food web. The population of the prey are kept in check by the predators- whom are necessary, and misunderstood in a sense. However, the population of predators also depend if there are prey to eat. Humanity, Henry believes (as which is true), doesn't have a natural predator. So humans are allowed to multiply and grow in numbers, at will enforcing structures that Henry deems unnatural- one that he explains here:

Conformity. Humanity has no need to survive so it has come up with a "cruel world dictated by made up rules". Henry, being someone who is different, does not fit in with his peers, and cannot seem to even attempt to fit in (much like will)- sees this "play" for what it is. That's an important distinction to make: people who pretend very well and people who do not. Henry fundamentally views these rules as frivolous, something humanity made up and enforces simply because humans have no need to survive, like animals.

To the concept of "predators but for good", does Henry view himself and others like him as a different superior species from humanity?

Seems like it. Just like how spiders ("predators") are a separate species from their prey that prey on the weak... Which gets me to something interesting with the word "weak".

Henry states as shown earlier that spiders "immobilize and feed on the weak", guess who he describes using that word later on:

I believe this is one of the lines that wasn't in the actual show but it's so fascinating and I wonder why they cut it out.

Henry describes his father as weak directly. Someone who pretends, someone who lies to themselves. Someone who carries out orders and never questions them. Someone who then deludes themselves into believing the life, their family, is perfect when it is not. Someone who blinds themselves.

Which is very interesting... Because the one person Henry does not kill is his father. Not from a lack of trying, I suppose, but its an interesting choice that was made by the writers. Instead, Henry's primary "prey" was Virginia.

I wonder if this is where Henry differs from the spiders in his attic? He specifies he wants to be a "predator for good".

He kills other people who are going down the path to fitting that ""weak"" label, people like Chrissy, Fred, Patrick, and Max who pretend that they are okay, people who seem possibly to be on the path of suicide regardless. But he seems to comfort them in his killings, exposing to them their true selves and asking them to join him. They're teenagers who will either off themselves or become depressed adults who take part in the "terrible" play Henry hates so much, so perhaps he views himself as "saving" them to an extent.

However, this is the direct opposite to the approach he takes to Virginia- and this is where the rabbits come in, finally.

Rabbits are prey, spiders are predators. When Henry kills the rabbit and Virginia, there is the same repeated word usage as with "weak":

Henry keeps going, seemingly fascinated by it's suffering

Henry opens his eyes, observing his dead mother with cold fascination

Now first, the snare trap is an interesting addition to the rabbits demise. The rabbit was stuck in it before Henry began to torture and kill it with his abilities, similar to how a spiders prey will be stuck in its web before being eaten.

There is a repeated use of plaid/grid styled clothing in ST (credit for this goes to @/aemiron-main he has some cool posts on it!), similar to the grid of a spiders web. Virginia, before being killed by Henry, is in a plaid orange-white shirt. Almost as if she's stuck on a spiders web, the same way the rabbit was snared by the trap before Henry began to torture and kill it.

Mind you, Henry takes this rabbit and leaves it for Alice to find- something we don't see him do with the other small animals that he killed. Could it be that Virginia = Rabbit? Henry sees himself as a spider because he believes he shares similar qualities to them. Could he have thought the same with Virginia? It's not a hard leap- Henry repeatedly compares humanity to ecology and even implies that he would like humanity to be more like how the animal hierarchy of prey vs predator works.

What qualities did Henry possibly see in Virginia that reminded him of a rabbit?

I'm going to get into some personal theorizing here, so context: I believe that Virginia wasnt very loyal to Victor as a wife. Imo, she's a cheater. Others have their own fine theories, but I think this is an interesting angle to look at it from especially with the rabbit imagery.

I've already explained this before but ever heard of the saying "breed like rabbits"? Society heavily associates fertility with rabbits. Not only are rabbits only monogamous by circumstance (domesticated rabbits as opposed to wild rabbits that are polygamous), rabbits also reach sexual maturity young and bear offspring pretty early on- hence the association with breeding. If you do the math Virginia was married to Victor in her early 20s, perhaps even since she was 19 if they were married or engaged since before WW2 started. It's... A fitting designation if not slightly uncomfortable and dehumanizing. Her parallels with Karen, who's also directly stated in show to have gotten married and had children young- and you can see the general trend here of cheating housewife = rabbits (and perhaps prey).

It's very very interesting how this differs from how Henry deals with the teenagers. With his mother, he kills her fairly quickly, violently and mercilessly. He is fascinated by her suffering. But yet with victims like Max and the others- he doesn't seem to take the same cold sadistic approach. Yes, he holds a mirror up to them as he had done with Virginia but there isn't hate in it as it was with her.

If the spiders Henry likens himself to prey on the "weak", what would a prey for good in Henry's eyes feed on? He considers his father weak, but yet he does not kill him. He considers his mother deceitful, and kills her mercilessly.

There is a distinction between Victor, who is willing to blind himself as to not see the truth and to just go on in life pretending that everything is okay, and Virginia who takes advantage of that to her own advantage. Virginia, who wanted to have Henry institutionalized without telling Victor, because perhaps she knew she would be able to wear him down well enough when the time came.

When he does kill people who confirm and pretend, he takes no pleasure in it seemingly.

#anyways my phone is on 5% so kms #henry creel #stranger things #will byers #victor creel #virginia creel #alice creel

[erabundus]

𝐕𝐄𝐑𝐒𝐄: 𝐂𝐎𝐑𝐑𝐔𝐏𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍 — an AU collaboration with @custosavis

the  conqueror  of  demons  is  finally,  truly  dying,  and  only  he  knows  it.

and  what  a  tragedy  that  is,  the  balladeer  thinks.  he  gazes  upon  this  beautiful,  broken  creature  —  this  yaksha,  ravaged  by  debt,  stained  in  blood,  used  and  discarded  by  those  he  held  dear,  and  glimpses  a  reflection  of  himself  in  his  SUFFERING.  for  what  are  they  both,  if  not  victims  of  a  world  that  has  turned  their  pain  into  profit?  a  world  that  has  long  ignored  their  cries  out  of  its  own  selfish  convenience?  it  awakens  faint  stirrings  of  an  EMPATHY  he  thought long  dead.  inspires  righteous  indignation  on  another's  behalf. he may be his mother's child, but he will not follow in her sins.

instead  of  abandoning  the  adeptus  to  his  fate,  kunikuzushi  offers  him  a  HAND.  the  words  he  speaks,  though  honeyed  and  rife  with  intent,  are  from  a  place  of  honesty.  what  has  your  god  done,  but  leave  you  to  carry  the  weight  of  a  nation  upon  your  shoulders?  if  he  truly  LOVED  you,  why  has  he  allowed  his child  to break, decay, drown in a sea of blood drawn at his behest? why hasn't he tried to fix you? why? why? why? perhaps because, in this new era of HUMANITY, he thinks it more convenient to let this long suffering relic of the past disappear — and what reward is that for his eons of service and loyalty? ( that isn't love. that isn't love. that isn't love. )

all  gods  need  followers ...  and the  divinity  meant  to  be  his  birthright  is  now  within  his  grasp.  (  let  me  show  you  what  miracles  may  be  spun by  a  god  who  actually  cares.  )

the conqueror of demons becomes his first, his most loyal, his right hand.

from  that  moment,  they  are  inseparable.  xiao  is  his  shadow,  the  wings  upon  his  back.  he  speaks  to  him  in  a  delirious  haze  as  ascension  ravages  his  mind  and  body  —  spinning  tales  of  the  world  he  will  usher  in  beneath  his  era  of  rule.  emerging  from  the  ASHES  of  old, rinsed in blood of the complicit.  an  end  to  the  cruelty.  an  end  to  the  selfishness  inherent  in  every  living  thing.  an  end  to  the  loss and lies and bitter betrayal.  all orchestrated  by  the  fledgling  deity  encased  in  a  metal  shell.

of  course,  there  are  still  OBSTACLES  that  stand  in  their  way.  a  childlike  god.  a  familiar  thorn  in  his  side.  no  matter.  the  everlasting  lord  of  arcane  wisdom  will  face  them  himself  —  for  he  is  not  MORAX,  and  he  will  not  throw  his  yaksha  at  every  problem  that  rears  its  ugly  head.  a  battle  between  the  divine  (  a  reflection  of  the  archon  war  )  seems  the  perfect  way  to  mark  his  ascension.  to  prove  that  he  is  strong,  that  he  is  worthy  of  this  celestial  heart  in  spite  of  his  creator's  callous  assumptions.  he  welcomes  the  blood  and  strife  with  a  FEROCITY  that  miserable  thing  which  once  called  itself  a  harbinger  would  scorn.  despite  the  strings  that  tether  him,  he thinks he  tastes  FREEDOM  for  what  feels  like  the  first  time  —  the  freedom  of  a  creature  kept  bound  and  caged  for  the  entirety  of  its  existence  up  until  that  very moment.  now  with  potential  unchained,  he  is  ready  to  gnash  his  teeth  and  stain  his  claws  in  the  filth  of  the  old  world.

... except  things  do  not  go  according  to  plan.

tricked  by  the  god  of  wisdom,  thrown  into  a  cycle  of  dreams.  he  is  outplayed,  outsmarted,  overpowered  and  thoroughly  humiliated.  yet  the  WORST  is  yet  to  come  —  for  though  buer  is  a  gentle  deity,  she  knows  the  rules  of  combat  just  as  well  as  he.  to  the  victor  go  the  spoils,  and  the  prize  she  seeks  is  his  HEART.

(  ❝  no!  ❞  )  he  can  feel  it.  (  ❝  wait!  ❞  )  he  can  feel  it  being  torn  from  "his"  chest,  inch  by  miserable inch.  (  ❝  please ...  anything  but  the  gnosis ...  !  ❞  )

bursting  forth  from  his  mechanical  shell,  he  meets  buer's  gaze  and  screams  for  mercy.  he's  reliving  one  of  his  life's  greatest  AGONIES,  a  nightmare  so  cruel  it  stretches  beyond  the  conception  of  even  his  vitriolic  mind.  he  can't  go  back.  not  after  coming  this  far  —  not  after  all  he's  endured,  all  he's  sacrificed,  all  the  soft parts  of  himself  he's  carved  away  in  his  obsessive pursuit  to  finally,  finally  slot  into  the  role  of  divinity.  yet  while  the  dendro  archon  looks  upon  him  with  pity  (  and  how  ugly  that  is,  how  painfully  that  sympathy  grinds  salt  into  his  open  wounds  )  she  ignores  his  cries.

in that moment of pure desperation, he opens his mouth and screams his name.

❝ ... XIAO — !  ❞

and for the first time in his life, someone listens.

a  blur  of  turquoise.  the  gnosis  pressed  back  into  his  hands.  he  saved  him,  he  saved  him.  in  all  his  years  of  miserable  life,  no  one  has  ever  attempted  the  same.  niwa  was  a  liar  who  abandoned  him  to  clean  his  mess.  the  fatui  only  ever  saw  him  as  a  tool  —  a  weapon,  to  be  disassembled,  reforged,  and  pointed  at  whatever  they  saw  fit.  impersonal.  uncaring.  yet  the  yaksha  comes  to  his  aid  without  HESITATION.  (  ...  and he, too, is someone  who  actually  cares...  )

with  xiao  by  his  side,  they  are  victorious.  buer  is  locked  away  once  more.  the  traveler  banished  from  his  sight  —  spared,  only  at  his  songbird's  request.  and  now  he  finds  himself  in  possession  of  not  one  gnosis,  but  two.

the  first  gnosis  is  his  birthright.  the  second  is  what  allows  him  to  become  a  true  god.  with  both  slotted  into  his  chest,  he  undergoes  a  metamorphosis.  the  machine  meant  to  become  his  eternal  resting  place  (  his  new  body,  to  which  the  old  would  stay  tethered  forevermore  )  is  repurposed  as  a  cocoon.  something  changes.  he  changes.  eternity.  wisdom.  a  connection  to  something  eldritch  and  archaic  as  the  world  itself.  the  anatomy  of  a  once  worthless  puppet  tearing  itself  apart  beneath  the  strain  and  emerging  in  the  form  of  a  higher  power.  arms.  teeth.  hair  that  spills  down  his  shoulders  like  drips  of  ink.  they  aren't  his,  but  they  are  his.

something  prods  at  the  edges  of  his  consciousness,  whispering  the  last  name  he  will  ever  need  to  bear.  belial.  you  are ...  belial.

he  emerges  from  the  machine's  corpse,  choking on wet  coughs  from  newly  formed  lungs.  what  triumph  he  feels  is  short  lived  —  as  the  newborn  god  stumbles  on  legs  like  a  baby  deer  to  his  yaksha's  side.

...  the  conqueror  of  demons  is  finally,  truly  dying.  yet  now  he  can  see  it  happening  before  his  very  eyes.  the  fight  has  burned  through  what  dregs  of  strength  still  remain  within  him  —  and  now  he  is  decaying,  fading,  crumbling  away  into  nothing.  a  sad  little  thing,  discarded  on  the  battlefield  like  a  broken  blade.  the  first  person  to  ever  save  him.  the  first  person  to  ever  care.  this  is  how  fate  chooses  to  REWARD  him  for  the  purest  act  of  selflessness  he  has  ever  seen.

it's  too  cruel.  it's  too  unfair.

... it's something he has the power to CHANGE. something he will change. someone whose loyalty runs so deep cannot be allowed to fade from the world.

belial's  first  act  as  a  true  god  is  to  share  a  piece  of  his  DIVINITY.  it's  not  much.  it's  just  a  scrap.  yet  is  is,  miraculously,  enough  to  keep  him  alive.

and  when  they  first  meet  eyes  in  the  aftermath  of  it  all,  as the dust has settled and the sweet ambrosia of victory dances upon his tongue, he  can  only  smile. for this  is  just  the  BEGINNING.

#𝟎𝟏𝟔 : 𝘨𝘪𝘷𝘦 𝘮𝘦 𝘢 𝘵𝘢𝘴𝘵𝘦 𝘰𝘧 𝘴𝘰𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘦𝘪𝘨𝘯𝘵𝘺. ◟ v. corruption .◝ #long post #body horror tw #( <- for a very vague description but just to be safe ) #( evil codependent boyfriends: the au let's GOOO ) #( WARNING WARNING THIS IS LITERALLY A FANFICTION I WASN'T LYING )

[morgansmornings]

alt

This Meme: Not Accepting Anonymous

Infernal Cheliax (pronounced CHEL-ee-ax) remains one of the most powerful nations militarily in the Inner Sea region. Its control of the Arch of Aroden, the passage between the Inner Sea and the Arcadian Ocean, also gives it a vital role in much of the region's trade. Nevertheless, as important as the nation may be today, it pales in comparison to its former Imperial glories.

Today, in the eyes of most external observers in other parts of the Inner Sea, Cheliax suffers from extreme diabolism and a tyranny which prevent it from truly achieving its full potential. Internal observers, including the new nobility of Cheliax, firmly believe that Asmodeus and Hell serve Cheliax and assist in maintaining the power necessary for Cheliax to assume its rightful role among the leading nations of the Inner Sea.

The Chelish Civil War was a fractious and destructive endeavor. Brother turned against brother, with small tyrants rising to power, promising shelter from the increasingly worsening conditions. These leaders quickly were brought down by others seeking power, or were eradicated by the many diseases that accompany such drawn-out anarchy. As the years stretched into decades, the people of Cheliax became more and more desperate, looking for any possible solution to their national nightmare. The golden dream of Imperial Cheliax long since forgotten, they increasingly turned to darker methods to quell the fighting and restore order. It was one of these darker methods that finally brought a resolution to the fighting, but one that came at a very steep cost.

With no clear victor to the war after decades of terrible fighting, Abrogail of House Thrune signed a pact with the powers of Hell, placing herself and her family under their control. In return she received a number of devils to bolster her forces, and others to assist her as advisors. With their help, she brought the Chelish heartland under her control, which gave her a certain amount of legitimacy.

The empire runs on the backs of fiends now, a perfect machine of hellfire and blood, where morality surrenders to the needs of law and order. It's easy to curse Cheliax as a nation of devil-lovers, but few can argue with the results of their fiend-binding craft. House Thrune, the greatest of its diabolic noble families, has brought the empire under control once more.

That being said, those born of union between Devil and Human are not treated as such that one would think. There are no offering of reverence, no loft positions to be found or held out. No pedestals to be rested upon in the common way the phrase is thought of.

No Tieflings, with rare exception, are often looked upon as lesser than Humans, Gnomes, or even the occasional Elf. Tieflings are treated often as slaves much like the Halflings that are unfortunate enough to live under Chellish ruled lands. And if not pressed into service, are looked upon unkindly or as a criminal element.

Despite this treatment these beings often try to keep to themselves. At least until the regions to the North began fighting against the Ironfang Invasion. The pathetic attempts of pushing further Southwest held at bay to the Chellish Military and those that signed on as mercenaries.

One such gathering had amongst them a Hellspawn Tiefling. Skin red as fire and hair whiter than the snow in the Land of the Linnorms. A functional mute all things considered, she kept her head down and completed the tasks set before her.

Orphaned just after the Invasion forces were pushed back Leyoya grew up in an orphanage in Northern Cheliax. Even as a child she chose to learn rather than be enslaved. An opportunity she was given as a secretive band of Irorian Priest and Monks passed through from Molthune through her village. The company stayed for no longer than three months, but in that time, she learned much. Going so far as to keep their deity's doctrine and learned from their fighters.

To this day Leyoya Eiseth is one of few Tieflings to have found an esacpe from enslavement. Even with the threats of death of an adventuring life.

#Answers from the Mun #Dear Anonymous #Danke Anon! #The Peanut Gallery | NPC #Leyoya Eiseth | Tiefling Monk (Pathfinder 1E)

[katarvitz]

The Maclnir Commonwealth - History

So, a few years ago I go back into Battletech, and was irked to find that ComStar had had the proverbial bridge dropped on them. Dead? Fine. Dead by very stupid and rushed means? Very irked. So, what was an effort to excuse them being in the ilClan era turned into a very long document. This is just the history, you can find part 2 right here.

Regional Information:

Period: 3087 - Present

Classification: Deep Periphery State

Systems Controlled: 4

National Motto: “Morte solum vincula fidelitatis solvuntur.” (Official)

“The warrior serves the worker.” (Unofficial)

Governmental Information:

Organisation Type: Crusader State

Head of State: Princeps

Commander-in-Chief: High Marshal

Executive Branch: Council Primaris

Legislative Branch: Council Secundus

Military Branch: The Commonwealth Guard

Secret Service: The Stormwatch Institute

Societal Information:

Capital: Telisgrad (city) Khigan (planet)

Official languages: German (dominant), Hungarian, French, English, Irish

Average Life Expectancy: 36.5

History:

Emigration:

The first whispers of what would become the Maclnir Commonwealth were born in the aftermath of Tukayyid. Between the failure of Operation SCORPION and the vast amounts of Clantech in the Inner Sphere, ComStar’s original ambitions lay in ruins. Many privately questioned if the battle had been worth it, and this would only steadily increase as one disaster after another dominated the following decades. 

The loss of Terra. The sundering of ComStar and the rise of the Blakists. The death of the Second Star League. The failure of Victor Steiner Davion’s leadership and Case White. The Jihad. The White-Out. Any loss would have been enough, reducing ComStar as a shadow of its former self. Together they all but broke the organisation. As what remained of the Com Guards fought on in their wars, whispers gradually became discussions. What would happen if they survived the Jihad?

In every plan, every possibility of victory, the answer was always the same: ComStar would be a remnant. Made subservient to another government if not outright disbanded, they would never again be allowed any true power of any form. In the worst of situations, they would be tarred with the same brush as the Word of Blake. Even in the most optimistic of outcomes, if a new Star League emerged triumphant, few held any hope for its long-term success. Too vast to be ruled through any merciful means, the Inner Sphere did not need a wise and fair king on its throne but a hanging sword of Damocles to keep the Successor States in line. Anything short of this would see history’s mistakes repeated. Questions and discussions became a conspiracy to escape the Inner Sphere entirely.

Individuals slowly slipped away, going missing in action or simply fading into obscurity. Some would regroup on the fringes of galactic civilisation, yet most would depart in a moment of sheer fortune. As Delvin Stone’s coalition fought its way to Terra, an ad-hoc remnant group of the Sixth, Seventh, and Twelfth Com Guards armies was tasked with scouting then securing a supposedly lightly defended world. As their DropShips departed from the main battlegroup to scout the planet, they met with a trio of JumpShips attempting to escape the system.

In a series of vicious boarding actions, the Com Guards engaged and then captured the ships before their crews could scuttle them. It was only in the aftermath that they realised the value of their new prize: Enough supplies and materiel to outfit a small army, clearly stripped from whatever base had once been on the planet below. Seeing this as an opportunity to disappear once and for all, the conspirators dominating the group made their move. The few not openly supporting them were silenced and, with two of the groups’ DropShips sacrificed to indicate a pitched battle. With their deaths faked, the group departed from the war.

Only fleeting sightings would follow, as on remote battlefields and backwater worlds, unmarked ships would briefly emerge to scavenge supplies before departing once more. For nearly two years, they would lurk about the fringes of known space, gathering other conspirators, information, and mechs, until eventually disappearing into the Deep Periphery.

Liberation:

After spending some weeks making erratic and random jumps to avoid possible pursuit, the ComStar flotilla focused on trying to find a world to claim. With enough former members of the Explorer Corps among their number, they benefited from a sizable map of the Deep Periphery. Nevertheless, a substantial amount of the information proved to be either out of date or inaccurate. Plans to refuel and potentially gain further support at Columbus were dashed when they found it in ruins, with Blakist fleets having levelled the entire facility. Remaining only for a few days to scavenge what little of worth was left, they soon departed rather than risk discovery. Other governments had been conquered in the Clan Invasion, leaving them with both the Word of Blake and Clan activities to avoid.

With no desire to spend the arduous decades of colonising a world from scratch, the ComStar flotilla’s thoughts instead turned to conquest. This action was spurred on by information gained about the Nilgaard Fiefdom, an insular bandit kingdom that had occupied an area of space rife with navigational hazards. Supposedly the remnants of a colony abandoned during the Star League era, their society had devolved into near barbarism. Mechwarriors and their engineers ruling the worlds as kings, while a vast slave caste lived in squalor to support their masters. Information about the world was limited, but what they gathered appeared ideal to their needs. The Fiefdom offered substantial industrial infrastructure capable of supporting naval assets and even several JumpShips.

The ComStar flotilla spent a full year gaining any information about the planet and seeding several worlds selected for slave tithes with their agents. Their orders were simple: Inspire rebellion and await the signal. Other investigations painted a bleak image of the neo-feudal government. Potentially rich in resources but hampered by a botched terraforming effort, their society had descended into an obscene emulation of ancient Sparta, with warriors granted the only true rights among their kind. Their society had become geared purely toward the support of mechwarriors in all things, relying upon fear, brainwashing, and mutilation to enforce their will. With each new revelation, the flotilla became increasingly disgusted until what was once an act of pragmatism became a genuine desire to liberate the world. 

The first strike finally came in early 3085, as ComStar JumpShips ambushed a Nilgaard vessel visiting a world for its slave tithe. Utilising Star League era codes to initiate a mass shutdown of its systems, they broke the ship before the crew realised they were under attack. The following boarding action succeeded with few casualties but only confirmed their views of the Fiefdom. Through a combination of interrogating captives and navigation log information, came to understand the Fiefdom’s scale. It wasn’t a single world but a network of six planets. This knowledge almost swayed the flotilla into abandoning its assault. Yet each soon realised there was no other choice left to them.

On the 16th of September 3085, ComStar ships emerged above the capital world of the Nilgaard Fiefdom: Khigan. Broadcasting the same shutdown codes as before, the flotilla disabled their navy in a single strike. As DropShips burned their way down through Khigan’s atmosphere, countless enslaved people took up arms in a vast act of rebellion. The flotilla’s agents had done their work to the letter. Months of sabotage came to fruition as mechanics were covertly assassinated, barriers limited the Fifedom’s response, and mechwarriors were murdered in their sleep. Steadily disabling the Fiefdom’s support network and bogging down their mechwarriors in pitch battles, the Com Guards systematically tore apart the planet’s rulers. The Fiefdom had thrived upon hunting easy prey. ComStar’s cold fury exposed them to a way of war they had never imagined possible. Within three hours of planetfall, the capital city of Telisgrad was liberated. Within sixteen hours, the planet was theirs.

The attack was repeated throughout the system with similar results. The Com Guards swiftly decapitated the ruling class without hesitation or mercy. A single message was broadcast to the remaining planets under the Fiefdom’s control, demanding their unconditional surrender. The Com Guards slaughtered all that opposed. Those who surrendered were publicly tried and executed on the worlds they ruled.

Fortification:

What the ComStar flotilla had accomplished had been a triumph by many standards. A relatively minor and unsupported force had claimed territory several times its size, with a navy and industry to support them. Yet this conquest brought with it only greater problems. ComStar lacked the sheer numbers needed to hold the territory, and much of each world’s industrial base was either crude or badly in need of maintenance. What’s more, the slave uprisings had succeeded with the promise of freedom and better standards of living. The Com Guards would have struggled to garrison a single world against the masses they had unchained. With the choice between playing the hero and attempting to find another world suitable to their needs, the flotilla’s leaders opted for the former.

ComStar introduced slow but gradual reforms, several settlements at a time. The barren state of wach planet made these efforts more tolerable, as most communities were gathered in a handful of large factory-metropolises. The nature of the surrounding space offered some security against intrusion. Nevertheless, such efforts were both extremely time consuming and costly. Many required mass urban restructuring, from installing sewer systems to power grids for those long denied basic amenities. The problem was only further exacerbated on worlds that had favoured subterranean settlements over the unforgiving surface. This was, however, helped by the willingness of former slaves to serve as a workforce in such ventures. Rights had been refused even the best treated of their kind. Those born into slavery had been denied even names. The genuine promise of an improved standard of living galvanised most into action, granting ComStar the labour it needed to fulfil its promises.

Small groups of Com Guards were garrisoned on each world as they sought to maintain order, and ComStar took control. Embracing the freed people’s view of the Guards as knightly protectors, more archaic terms supplanted existing ranks.  The choice was made to dub their authority as a “crusader state” rather than a military dictatorship, just as garrisons became Keeps. While intended to appease the populace and disguise their history, this would have a long-term impact upon successive rulers. Forced to recruit from within their new holdings, ComStar improved schooling and tutorship of the populace, making way for those who took the organisation’s guise at face value. Within two generations, what was intended as a mask was accepted as their true nature, even by those that came to command the region.

As the last of the Nilgaard Fiefdom burned away, and the Maclnir Commonwealth rose in its place, its rulers began to look outward. The sizable number of vessels in its navy gave it a natural advantage compared with other minor powers within the territory. These were employed as trading ships, and quickly brokered agreements with several resource-starved worlds. Along with kickstarting their economy, it granted new opportunities to plant spies among rival worlds, gathering intelligence upon their status and weaknesses. The Commonwealth levered this knowledge in their favour, using it to broker any deal from an advantageous position. Those in the nearest systems, primitive societies whose economies had been supported by slave tithes to the Fiefdom, found themselves facing new agreements. Most were made to accept these, while one requested outright annexation when faced with the alternatives.

Save for the occasional extended pirate war and raid against hostile groups, the Commonwealth emerged in an era of relative peace to rebuild and expand. Favouring trade and espionage over military might, its campaigns were rare and short-lived events for its Guards. Instead, combat experience was more commonly found among groups disguised as mercenary battalions or Knights Errant tasked with recovering lost SLDF assets. With these successes, the current administration has moved to loose some control over its assets, and begin the long transformation to a more democratic system of rule.

Yet all is far from well within the Commonwealth’s borders. Word has reached them of the HPG network’s destruction and a renewed series of wars across the Inner Sphere, with some believing that they should take advantage of the chaos. Conflicts between Clan Goliath Scorpion’s Seekers and Knights Errant have become worryingly frequent following the emergence of the Scorpion Empire. Combined with the steady expansion of Clan interests in the Deep Periphery, many strategists predict an eventual war with one group or another is inevitable. Those same voices claim that unless they vastly increase their power base, it is a war they will almost certainly lose.

#battletech #deep periphery #comstar #mechwarrior #fan creations #lore #tabletop games #maclnir commonwealth

[victors-only-dummy]

1 year anniversary of ours

Pairing: VICTOR x DUMMY ( Me/You )

No warning

Type: Love, Anniversary, Husband ❤️

"Could you hand me that towel?", you held your still-wet hands over the sink, only turning your head to look at your husband standing behind u.

Victor grabbed the towel off its hanger and walked over to you. As soon as he gave you the towel, he wrapped his arms around you and put his head on your shoulder.

"You didn't have to do the dishes.", he mumbled in your ears gently.

"You made me dinner tonight, I'm doing the dishes.", you said as you dried your hands, "We made that rule a years ago -"

"2 years ago, I know, honey.", he pressed a kiss to your cheek.

With a soft sigh, you leaned your back against his chest. You put your hands on Victor, which was settled on top of your stomach. One whole years of spending together with you. 1 years ago you were walking down the aisle to a piano version of one of your favorite songs, to the man now standing behind you.

"Are we still going to do the thing?", you hummed while looking into his eyes.

"The thing?

"The thing."

He chuckled and let go of you, turning you around to face him. You wrapped your arms around his neck and pressed a kiss to his lips. Victor hands caressed your waist gently, his face contorted into that of fake confusion.

"What thing? I don't know what you're talking about.", he muttered.

After you huffed and rolled your eyes, Victor backed up and picked up his phone from the table. You smiled as you watched him connect the phone to a speaker located in the kitchen. A song all too familiar started playing. "Love and Vision " by MLQC, your first song.

"We have to do this properly.", Victor said and grabbed one of your hands and let the other one stay on your waist, "Can I have this dance?"

Suddenly hearing the music you became teary,many memories came back to your mind

Suddenly you paused for a while

"Why, yes of course i will have this dance.", you smiled proudly with teary eyes.

The two of you slowly danced around the kitchen, and you put your head on his chest.

"Victor?", you murmured.

"Yes, Dummy?", he put his head on top of yours.

"I love you.", you looked back up at him, "And I love that we do this every year."

"I love that you say that every year to me while smiling at you.", he pecked your forehead, "I love you too."

You smiled and put your head back on his chest. His hand let go of yours and pulled you in a bit closer. None of the other many times he had done this made it any less endearing, and even if it happened every year you made sure to savor every moment of this day. Even in your casual clothes it still felt special. Even though you had just eaten a meal that was good but nowhere near the one you had during your wedding, it was still special. Every anniversary was special, even if it was the same because you were with Victor.

"Can I say something that I don't think I say enough?", he whispered and you nodded, "You make me so content. Whenever I'm with you I feel like I don't need anything else. I love you. So much. You make me a better person, and I'm so grateful to have you."

You looked up at him with big teary eyes and a small pout. Victor cooed at you and took your face in his hands.

"Don't cry, I don't want you to be upset my dummy.", he kissed your pout.

"I'm not upset, I just think you're so cute Victor.", you hugged him and sniffled, "I don't have anything better to say, today."

"Don't say anything, then.", he hummed, "Just let me stay with you like this for a while."

#i love him #mlqc victor #love victor #mr love li zeyan #li zeyan #mr love victor

[detectiveconnor]

@lighthouseborn​ from here:

       Behold, the ongoing stretch of community night. It wasn’t atypical of it to run longer than the ‘official’ hours, but that really was the beauty of it. There weren’t so many rules to it, no way to share that was wrong. And so what had been organized was done with, but people stayed. It was, in Henry’s opinion, often the better part of the evening.

       Unfortunately for him, then, that by the time it came around he had already slipped, unthinking, into the lingering place between wakefulness and the cradle of sleep. Where sounds had shapes but no meaning, and had become another thread of the cocoon of security he was wrapped in. (If it were to suddenly become quiet, it would likely startle him up instead of lending to his slow drift down.) Where, as he breathed deep and slow, the was a faint sense of breathing at the seaside, the air rich with salt and sun, but diluted somehow. An echo of a scent, if ever such a thing existed. It drifted around, towing a faint approximation of thought that didn’t quite stick or even take a real form. Just a vague sense of something to do with the way Henry was slouched over; the full clarity of it evaded his reach and he did not chase it. The sense of safe was enough. He shifted once, so that he leaned just so –comfortable– and that decided it. He fell, definitively, asleep.

       The tell from the outside was the last sigh. Afterward, he became still in a way that was wholly rare for him. Listening drew a close second as something that could stay him, but even that held its ongoing affairs. You could see the wheels turning, track the thought across his expressions and through the undercurrent of light in his eyes; understanding and the reaching for it. Restlessness called ahead, drifted behind, and circled all of him like a signature. And all of that, now...halted. Ceased, for just a moment. Combative wasn’t perhaps the correct word for Henry Turner when he was awake, but its counter suited him now like he’d been made for it.

       He was peaceful.  

       It made him look younger. Given: he was, already, a young man, and further one who did not look like anything but exactly that. Even so, asleep, something lifted— or, perhaps, settled. Became that which wasn’t too busy being in motion to be identified. A vulnerability that was revealing even on someone who kept very little to himself to begin with.

       He looked like he needed the rest.

It was comfortable there, so they stayed like that. It would have been easy, Connor suspected, to let Henry settle down fully and not atop Connor’s shoulder, but having him here didn’t harm anybody. Connor was mostly knee-deep in work he was doing partly through his HUD and communications (LED occasionally flickering, rapid and white, and not out of amusement) and partly through being here in this hall in the throws of community night, with chattering and laughter somewhere nearby and this carved-out corner where Connor occasionally sat, to make himself available. This was a good place to be, for people who needed to speak to a Detective but who would not normally have come in to do it.

Officer Turner was peaceful beside him, slouched and exhausted and breathing evenly. When Connor tilted his head in Henry’s direction he could smell his choice of shampoo, and a little bit of chalk (which he could place only because he’d once-upon-a-time physically tasted the same chemical makeup, from Henry’s hands). He smelt nice.

He was... softer like this, but not empty. Handsome, Connor thought, when he directed his attention to Henry for a moment. It wasn’t a word he’d have thought to give Henry, before this; he had never been... had never had this thread in him. The sense of staying. The inclination to be instead of do. (Connor wondered if Henry meditated. He would ask him, the next time he had a chance.)

“Too much for him?” asked Victor, who was also working tonight: doing rounds of the hall and keeping on top of the security team. This was a busy night for security, as well, for different reasons. They’d not had an assault on a night like this one in almost a year, they worked hard to make New Jericho a safe place, but it was worthwhile having the team here to mingle.

Connor looked up. Discounted Victor’s question for this information instead: “He’s probably cold.” Either that, or probably would be. New Jericho was a warm place to begin with, but it was getting toward evening, and with the hall door opening and closing so regularly (with a line directly into the lobby, which opened into the street), they’d lose a lot of that warmth.

Connor did not have to stand, or even to shift. He didn’t even truly ask Victor to organise it, but when Henry woke again (still against Connor’s shoulder) he was covered in one of the many blankets they kept reserved as extras for residents who grew cold in the night -- someone had found the time to grab one, for him. That was what it was like, at New Jericho. Henry wasn’t wrong. It was not cold, here. It was safe.

#ic #lighthouseborn #hmmmmmmmmmm #well anyway here's this

[stardust-scribbles]

I’m pretty sure Victor falls in love a little more every time Yuuri carries him

#digital art #viktor nikiforov #yuri katsuki #yuri on ice #yuuri katsuki #victuri #domestic viktuuri #victuuri #i never finish things #victor needs to be held its just a rule

[venustkiller]

|freeze your brain| riff

finale

words: 1543

triggers: none

previous || next

Friday, December 15, 1951

The bottom of my rubber shoes clicked and scuffed across the concrete as I rushed my way on the sidewalk. It was eight at night and I had just finished my shift; I had picked up some more hours to pay for a nice gift to Riff for Christmas. He didn't know this, though. I used the excuse that Valentina just needed more help since Tony left and I'm fulfilling my duty as a faithful niece. Because of Riff's upbringing, I'm well aware that he isn't used to receiving gifts, so I have to make sure it's perfect and ready for him.

I hugged my coat around me tighter, feeling a cold winter breeze press against me, giving me goosebumps that crawl on my skin. It has now been four months since the rumble, and I'm so thankful. It was hard at first, he would have nightmares that recalled the night in his mind. He would refuse help, trying to prove he wasn't weak and that he didn't need medicine.

'I've gotten this far without it, why should I need it now?' he would pout

But finally, after some trial and error, he accepted the help and began his road to recovery. His stab wound fully healed in early November and he is finally back on his feet once again, bouncing around the streets of New York and causing trouble wherever he goes.

Speaking of trouble, we haven't seen much of the Sharks. And when we do, it is either in no man's land or in their territory. The rumble was to determine who ruled the streets but since there was no true victor, Bernardo forfeited. Not only for the sake of his little sister to be with Tony, a romance that slipped by me while consumed with Riff, but because I think Bernardo is scarred by what he had almost done. After talking to Tony, he sympathized, explaining the way he felt after almost killing the one boy before being sent away for a year. I think Bernardo truly regrets that night despite Riff living. I think that's why he forfeited; because he realized there is more to life than rumbling. The Jets have realized this as well, and because of this, the two gangs have learned to coexist.

The Jets are still rambunctious and wild, so they still create little annoyances for Krupke and Schrank. Melissa tells me about how red Schrank's face gets when Riff and the boys pull a little stunt in the night. According to her, his face turns into a cherry-red tomato being squeezed in the palm of a hand, his eyes seemingly ready to pop out of their sockets. I have to assume we all get this with age, but she says that Krupke has this vertical vein on his forehead that becomes prominent when frustrated, and god I wish I could see it for myself.

Melissa and I have begun to grow closer than ever, and despite her reservations, she has begun to warm up to Riff. Though, she still doesn't appreciate him dripping blood onto her floors when he comes to our place to get patched up by me. I don't have a lot of medical experience, but I know the Jets aren't made of money, so I do my best to help them where I can without having to resort to hospitals. I guess that's another perk for working at Doc's: employee discount.

Although I would have preferred to go straight home after work and eat the dinner Melissa had prepared and made for me, Riff had instructed me to go somewhere else. He wanted me to come to the docks. When he first asked me to show up there, I assumed it would be Jet business considering it was one of their main hang-out spots. But he insisted that no Jets will be involved in whatever he has in store for tonight. So with that, I agreed, and that's where I'm headed.

I had never been to the docks before seeing Riff; I had no reason to. But I had to admit, in its own unique way, it was peaceful and beautiful. Sure, it was dusty and dingy and it was infested with Jets, but it held so many beautiful memories. It was a safe space, a place that took your secrets and locked them tight. You sit on the docks and just gaze out, the ocean water going for miles on end until it meets the sky in a blur of blues. It was truly a place unlike anything I had seen before.

I had arrived at the docks and made my way further in, knowing exactly where Riff would be. I followed the gravel decline, passing the large mounds of scrap metal and tires, passing the ripped-up couch that I could usually find Balkan napping on. I continued my path to one of the docks that had an overhead. Not all of the docks had overheads to protect you from the sun during the day but this specific one was the only one to not be destroyed.

As the wooden structure came closer into view, I could make out Riff's silhouette leaning against one of the posts. I couldn't help but feel the corners of my lips rise, the little butterflies in my stomach never seeming to cease despite being around him often. I approached him quietly- well, as quiet as I could be considering the creaky wood below my feet. He heard me coming and turned around, wrapping a hand around the post. A smirk crept onto his face as I padded over to him. When I was close enough, he engulfed me in a warm embrace, kissing my lips eagerly in the process. I couldn't help but try to stifle a giggle. I wrapped my arms around his neck and tangled my fingertips in his hair, playing with it gently. He pulled back before going in for another kiss, this time gentle and loving. When satisfied, he pulled away a second time and placed his hands on my hips.

"Hey girly-girl, how was ya shift?" he asked looking down at me

I smiled, "It was good, easy today," It made me happy when he asked about my day, it showed he cared in such a simple way.

"Good, cuz I got somethin' to top this night with a cherry," he smirked

"And what's that?" I ask curiously, tilting my head to the side slightly

He pulled back slightly and pulled me with him, keeping one hand on my waist and the other taking my hand in his, spinning us around gently. It was a full moon tonight, and it shined bright. Brighter than a thousand stars, illuminating the sky and all that's below. Its light reflected on the surface of the ocean water, illuminating our faces gently. He continued to dance with me on the dock, playfully humming as he did so.

I giggled, "What's this for?" I asked

"You know I ain't made of money, so I have no nice gift to give ya. But I want to take this moment to thank ya," he said simply with his charming accent, never taking his eyes off me

"Thank me? What for?" I pressed further

What could he possibly be thanking me for?

"For everythin'. For lovin' me, takin' care of me. I'm not sure if I'd be here without ya..." he said earnestly, still refusing to break eye contact. I looked into his eyes; he was speaking from the bottom of his heart. Riff wasn't very good with words but this much was true: even the simplest words could make me melt.

I feel my eyes well up slightly and the grin on my face grow, blooming with joy, "Oh, Riff, I don't know what to say, I-"

"You don't gotta say nothin'. Just... don't leave," he said, finally diverting his eyes down

This man is gonna be the death of me...

I tilt my head and take my hand up to his face, cupping his cheek tenderly. I rub the pad of my thumb across his cheek, brushing the scar that lay on it. He leans into the touch, "Te quiero," I say.

Riff raises his eyes at me and slightly furrows his eyebrows, "What does that mean?" he questions

"I love you.”

His eyes brightened up with joy, remembering that we had never exchanged these words before. These little vows that said 'my heart is yours'. He smiles wide and pulls me in, kissing me deeply with such a fiery passion. To that, I return the kiss with my own loving ferocity. At that moment, nothing else mattered; just me and him. Nothing mattered but the way his lips melted and molded perfectly to fit mine. The way he bit my lip, asking for entrance to a place he didn't need to ask for.

Eventually, we parted our lips, so desperately needing air that none of us seemed to have. He pressed his forehead against mine and closed his eyes with a smile, holding me tightly. I closed my eyes and sighed in contentment, the two of us slightly rocking back and forth.

"I love you, too."

#riff wss #wss riff #west side story riff #riff west side story #reader x riff #riff fanfic #riff x reader #west side story 2021 #west side story #wss #wss 2021 #wss fanfic

[yandere-wishes]

Dr.Frankenstein

💀Yandere Idia Shroud x Reader

💀Summary: Idia wants to prove the world wrong. To show that there is more to life than good and bad, villains and heroes. But somewhere along the way, he falls in love with what he is trying to prove. 

💀Warnings: Dead reader, delusional tendencies, gore,

💀Edited by my beloved Peri!! @tealyjade-libran

💀 Alternative title: Dr. Frankenstein falls in love with his monster. 

Idia had known, from an all too young age that his heart was fashioned to be enraptured with misery and sympathy.  

Once before, a few thousand eons ago, Idia had been a meager child, boyish, shy and happy with life. Sitting on his mother's lap, as her thinner than bone fingers ignited themselves on his scorching hair. He'd listen as her sunken lips recited story after story from forgotten books and dead myths. content, long ago he had known the feeling of contentment. 

And yet said feeling had died so long before Idia even comprehended the narrative behind death. His joy at hearing tales about daring heroes and bewildering gods ran dry all too soon. He'd grown numb to the stories of good and evil, the same formula used over and over and over again. Good won, good prevailed; evil lost, evil vanished. It lacked logic and sense. The probability behind mindless heroes saving the day each and every time was astronomical. It couldn't happen. Yet the history of their world and his darling mother's tongue told a different tale. 

-Not only could it be done, but rather it had been done on endless occasions.-

There had, however, been one story that stood out amongst the rotten batch. An anecdote that lacked morals and didn't defy a single law of nature. One would never think that a god born would find solace in a tale of a simple human trying to play god. The only story that sunk deep into his arteries like fragile needles, swimming through his blood before pricking manically at his heart. The only story mama told with faint nostalgia and a distant voice. The spiel of a scientist, whose mind was both his greatest ally and worst foe. A man who looked at the heavens with neither admiration nor hope. A mortal who wasn't satisfied with what good and bad had to offer. Dr. Frankenstein, whose one true desire was to do what gods did, to prove that he too could accomplish what the heavens claimed a miracle. 

It was then and there among the pitch black of his parent's room that the oldest -no the only- son of the Shroud family proclaimed in a hoarse voice that cracked at each interval. That he too would be like Victor Frankenstein. That he too would live in a world of his own, a world with no room for good and evil. A world free of wretched stories that filled the minds of jovial children. And on that day, fate had the gall to listen to the claims of a brainless brat. 

Even after countless millennia, Idia Shroud had not changed, he'd only grown into the role he forged for himself some centuries ago. 

Yet nobody ever said it would be so hard to suffer the pain of a once maddening genius. The stories made it seem easy, made Frankenstein’s pain into pretty poetry that held only a fraction of the weight. Idia came to question time and time again, what it really was he was trying to suffer for. Why did he bestow upon himself the endless torment of alienation from a world that he too longed to be a part of?

Victor Frankenstein had something to prove, he longed to be a god in the most unclassic way. All the frenetic doctor wished was to shout at all mankind and the heavens above that he was the greatest. For in his suffrage he had discovered the antidote to what sets men apart from gods. That he, the overlooked boy, the forgotten pupil had -with solely his intellect- created life. 

-Idia too desired to do just that. To scream at this fairy tale world that he, the cursed heir, the villain, the monster, was superior to every prince and hero in existence.-

Somewhere along the line, in the space between todays and tomorrows, he'd somehow lost the method behind the madness he had come to cage himself within. He lost purpose, lost hope, forgot why he'd declared to earth and Olympus that he too would be a genius akin to Dr. Frankenstein. 

Idia didn't know what spark had flared his senses, what made him realize what it was he lacked from the hopeless doctor. He liked to think it had been the moment glacial fingers rinsed in fair blood and washed away gold and been stripped from his pale clammy hands. Phantom kisses had waltzed away from his burning cheek to float back into the spiral from which they had risen. 

The dead marching back to the land of the deceased.

Leaving him to crawl back into the dark pits of his self-made hell.

Only this time, he'd understand why Frankenstein had dedicated his life to seclusion. Why he'd taken gulps of anguish, rather than air. 

It was so painfully obvious, sitting in front of him on a golden throne this whole time. How in Hades' name had he been so blind? How had he forgotten?

Although admittedly his chagrin of forgetting far outweighed his elation of finally remembering. Frankenstein hadn't suffered for not, he had suffered to build, to create. His isolation wasn't of choice but rather out of necessity. 

-The monster-

 The Monster was Frankenstein's raison d'être, The final fruit of his endless labors. He had risked everything to build him and that's exactly what Idia would do too. 

Victor Frankenstein had his monster. 

Idia Shroud would have his monster.

//

It was on a dreary night that Idia beheld the accomplishment of his toils. anxiety burned through his fragile body, amounting ever so quickly to agony. Thoughts of do's and don't's flooded his body, pilling on top of each other like corpses after a genocide.

Inside the lights were just barely surviving, every few minutes they would flicker breathing in a final breath before a short death, only to be revived minutes later, spilling their artificial glow throughout the chamber. The room itself reeked of rotting flesh and something so sickly sweet, it almost made the dorm leader of the nearly deceased heave. 

Idia's eyes remain static, seemingly stitched to the thing on the metal slab of a table. The body lays limp like a porcelain doll. No, not a doll, Idia thinks, like the monster, Frankenstein’s monster before it arose from its deathly slumber. 

Outside A flash of lightning crackles through the night sky, rough sparks of electricity flow through the murky air. They jolt and dance before dying in the night's void. 

After it, the world falls still, trapped behind the iron bars of an endless minute. The once meek god feels a surge dance through his core. The levity of his dreams prancing about. He's close, all so close. A breath away and it will be done. A minute away and all the world will see that there's never been any need for good and evil. Morals are merely prejudice beaten into every living thing, a simple way to keep mortals in their place and gods ruling above them. 

The bloody needle in his hand slips through his leather-covered fingers, chimes as it hits the blood soaked ground. Idia's mind races through the odds and ends of everything. Through the fairy tale that is his life. He wonders, would they be proud of him? Would His darling dead brother whose soul now rests in a metal body, shut down and laid to rest in a forgotten corner, advocate what he's about to do? Would his mother's sickly lingula sing praise to him, retell the glory of her son's endeavors to the children of the accursed isle? Probably not, it's a bitter thought, but as true as they come. What parent or brother on this damn earth would be proud of their monster trying to fabricate an abomination? Who, in the millennia to come would look back on him and declare with pride that Idia Shroud had been a genius, one who stood above the heroes and villains and gods? Who would ever call him something better than a hero, better than a villain, better than a god? 

In hindsight, Idia likes to think he always knew what he was doing. Always knew that he wanted the world to remember him as the one who broke the rhythm that the universe had been dancing to for endless years. To show this story-obsessed world, that good, and evil were merely perceptions of broken minds. Ideologies fabricated to justify meaningless actions. 

Good could be bad.

Evil could be nice. 

But science prevailed over all else.

Idia's knees quivered as he bends down by the table, his pale blue lips hovered above his creation's stitched-up forehead. He knew it was wrong, so, so wrong. But it couldn't be helped. For some ungodly reason, as the days ticked by and he began to sew together the bag of mismatched limbs. Idia had, in some way, come to love his creation. He wouldn't call it love per se. But he did long to hold his fragile creation in his arms. To kiss their reddened lips as their torn tongue invaded his mouth. 

In the dead of night as he laid beside his still dead lover, no monster, not lover, not yet. He began to wonder, had Frankenstein fallen in love with his abomination somewhere along the road? Had fate once again played its silly little games and twisted their paths to forever meet? Did Victor Frankinstine ever wish to kiss his creation, to have them kiss him?

It may have been wrong. The storybook-bound people of this world may even call it evil. But it wouldn't be that way for long. Idia's fingers curled into his palm, the shards of his bitten-off nails dug deeper into his flesh. His chest tightened with a foreign sensation. A feeling that made cold sweat run down his thin neck. 

Using what little strength he had left, Idia pushed himself off the ground and wobbled over to his mainframe machine. He braced himself on the heavy machinery trying to regain a semblance of his balance. He could do this, he had to do this. 

His bony finger coiled around the silver leaver, the patched of rust bite into his skin. He held the power to defy everything. To make a new world. His golden pupils land on his fingers for a second. a faint memory of his mother slither back into his mind. It's murky and foggy but he remembers the way her boney fingers use to trail down his hair and arms and legs. How she traced ghosts and blood splatters on his chubby wrists, as she retold the story of the mad scientist. Comically enough she had been the reason why Idia had fabricated this self-induced prophecy and now he'd grown to be her spitting image. A carbon copy of the person who fueled his obsession with defying the laws of good and evil. 

The leaver budged forward, clicking in protest as Idia pulled it lower and lower. Outside thunder boomed through the air, louder and louder. Maybe the ancient gods knew what he was doing. Maybe this storm was their warning to him. Yelling and shrinking to get him to stop. Threatening him to give up this game he had played for so long. 

No.

Not this time. 

Idia had operated by the book, he'd done everything like Victor Frankenstein. No ancient deity or prized warrior would be able to stop him. The gods' threats were the last part of his plan, all he needed was the lightning, the stray string of electricity. Then you would come alive. You'd be his to hold, to love, to cherish. To show to the whole damn mindless world. 

A crackle shot through the air, twisting itself around the rod connected to the device and to an extension, you as well. It slated around the iron, like a wild tiger trapped in a cage. Squawking and fighting to free itself as it slid downwards. The moment it came in contact with the larger body of the machine, it roared, a deafening white noise that reverberated off the stone walls. It pierced Idia's ears, causing a thin line of blood to drool down the side of his head. The apparatus buzzed to life, bright lights filled the chamber and the wires attached to your corpse began to stir. 

The once still carcass began to jerk violently, its head and arms and feet shaking, twisting in inelegant gruesome movements. Its torso would lift from the table only to crash down once more, with a force that surely fractured a few bones. Amid the madness, the mouth of the monster began to open, popping the loose stitches around the edge of her lips. Its long tongue darted out like a snake. And though it was mostly hushed by the hissing of the loose electric bolts and the harsh rain that had started to pour outside. Idia swore he heard her whisper his name.

The fire-haired boy ran across the room, tumbling to the side of the metal table. His large arms wrapped around your tiny ones. His eyes bore into yours. Watching as your inconsistent eyes stared into his. Your face was soft and tender, painted in an innocence only worn by young children. You were his now, his perfect creation. Something began to build inside of him, a forgotten feeling. 

Contentment; this was contentment, something he hadn't felt for a long long time. 

What are gods if not humans who possess a secret no one else could obtain? With you by his side, in his arms, Idia could finally, finally triumph overall. He had made life, he had defied all else, surely now everyone could see he was superior to all else in this make-believe world. 

But the moment ended all too soon. Your eyes began to dull over, darkening with every blink until they shut permanently once more. The thumping of your borrowed heart began to slacken. Pounding slower and slower until it stilled. The patched up body came next, falling limp, dead again, floating back to the yonder of the grave. Out of his grasp, out of his life.

The world didn't stand still this time, instead, it scrambled forward at aching speed. No sooner had you taken your first breath had you taken your very last. You'd left without ever saying "hello".

Maybe in the midst of all the chaos, glorious altering chaos, he screamed, maybe he cried. Maybe it finally dawned on him why Dr. Frankenstein was merely a myth. A fable told to accursed children. Because Victor Frankenstein wasn't good or evil. He neither harbored joy nor malice. He wished only to be the best. And for so long Idia had wished the same. Searched for the same purpose in his meaningless life. 

What is a scientist if not a harbinger of grief and pain? 

Someone who devotes their life and loin, riddle and reason, in search of true purpose amongst the forces of the universe. What's a scientist if not a god in their own right. 

Had he been a god just now, Idia was left to ponder. For two glorious, astonishing, baffling moments Idia had been better than any god in existence. He had prevailed where every hero had failed. He had accomplished what villains went mad trying to achieve. He had been victorious.

Yes, Idia Shroud had fulfilled his dream. 

If only for a couple of inert moments. 

Gods were merely that, humans who had created something from the very soil they too were made of. 

And he too had done it. 

But alas in the end, maybe the legends and the myths had been true, credible good always won and evil did always vanish. Barring you had been so young, so new, you didn't even comprehend good or evil, you hadn't been alive long enough to understand what those two defining forces even were. The world didn't yet know if you were even good or evil. But it matters all so very little because you were his creation, his monstrosity, his, and Idia Shroud had always been and would always be evil, a villain in his own right. Just another gear in the predominant forces of the universe.

He'd been a fool to think he could defy the structured narrative this world had come to accept as law. 

Although, no narrative could ever change how much he had loved you, dead or alive. It wouldn't change how he had almost, almost, became Dr.Frankenstein. 

Although at the final page just before he closed the book. In the back of his mind, Idia was sure he had become the doomed doctor. 

For he too had both fallen in love with his creation and driven himself mad over it.  

#twisted wonderland #twisted wonderland idia shroud #twisted wonderland idia shroud x reader #twisted wonderland yandere idia shroud #twisted wonderland idia shroud x you #idia shroud #idia shroud x reader #idia shroud x you #yandere idia shroud #yandere idia shroud x reader #yandere idia shroud x you #yandere x reader #yandere x you #yandere #yandere twisted wonderland #yancore #twisted wonderland x reader

[shepherds-of-haven]

No thoughts, just the Shepherds playing monopoly

I could have sworn I answered this before, but apparently not! Get ready for some chaos...

Blade: he is peak... him when playing Monopoly, because he keeps insisting on playing it like a war game and waging guerilla tactics against his competitors in order to bankrupt their “forces” and claim their land as his own. No one knows if he’s doing it out of malicious compliance from being forced to play, or if he’s sincerely, earnestly unable to play a game without making it about battle and violence. Anyway, he won one time and was silently insufferable about it--nothing is more irritating than the Commander’s stoic face looking just slightly smug without him saying anything--so no one wants to play with him anymore, which suits him just fine because then he can stay a champion without having to constantly defend his title. He also has fairly bad luck when it comes to gambling, so the dice seem to conspire to screw him over quite a lot. 

Trouble: he gets excited and jubilant to play every time, but hits a breaking point when the other players start playing “dirty” and not “playing fair”--IE using tactics and techniques that he can’t keep up with or manipulating him. Then it’s the time for Rage and shouting and violence and indignation. He insists on keeping a “judge” or referee around whenever they play so the referee can comment on whether or not certain moves are fair and allowed, but he always ends up bullying the ref and yelling at them, too, leading once to tears on Shery’s part, which led to Briony and Ayla getting into an all-out brawl with him. He won that fight, but has never won a single game of Monopoly. Still, his dogged determination to keep playing never wavers. More on his violence in the other entries.

Tallys: she played with them one time before realizing how unhinged they all were. Here’s part of her journal entry for that day: Never before had I contemplated what a thread-thin line it is that separates us from the demons. Each of us possesses the power to bring an entire city to its knees, and it would not take very much to tip us over that precipice. Even a mere game is enough to tempt us to the path of darkness. Pride cometh before a fall, and I fear we are all balancing precariously on the edge of a knife.

Long story short: she has the smarts to win, but it’s just not worth it.

Shery: she is actually very competent at Monopoly and is good enough strategically to keep up with Red, Lavinet, and Riel, sometimes showing an unpredictable streak of merciless logic. However, she tends to feel bad about rubbing things in or making others feel bad, so she sometimes quietly makes wrong moves and mistakes towards the end of the game. Riel called her out on it once, and she admitted she likes commiserating with everyone and having fun with them instead of winning, because everyone loathes the victor lol. But she could destroy at Monopoly if she wanted to! She puts on a pot of calming tea whenever they decide to play, but assures everyone it’s caffeinated lol. Regardless, it never helps...

Riel: he is not allowed to play with them. He is horrible with Monopoly. But not in that he’s bad... in that he’s way too good. And competitive. And ruthless. And the whole “he can think twelve steps ahead of everyone else” intelligence and analytical skill is combined with an insufferably condescending attitude (not even really on purpose... that’s just how he is). Imagine having an opponent who absolutely destroys you every time you play with him-- sometimes yawning while you play, sometimes sighing and explaining to you what exact moves you could have made to actually put up a fight against him or even have a chance of winning, and exactly what you did to go wrong. Imagine buying a Monopoly property and glancing across the table at Riel, who looks like:

One time Trouble physically reached across the table, grabbed him by the shirtfront, and dragged him across the board game to throttle him. The worst part about it was that, when it upset the game pieces and overturned the board, Riel commented that he had memorized every piece position and each player's money exactly, so there was no need to stop the game. Another time, Ayla actually stood and gave him a black eye for buying Reading Railroad when she had been saving up for it (well, it was really when he answered, “I know.”). This violence shocked Riel--who had never really been physically hurt by another person before--so deeply that he didn’t speak for the rest of the game. However, he still won, even with only one good eye. 

After that, it was decided that Riel can only play the game through a proxy, and to cap him further, that person has to make half of the decisions while Riel is allowed to suggest the other half, with no discussion between the two of them. Unfortunately for Riel, the only person who would want to be his proxy turned out to be Caine, whose blithe spiritual resilience and enjoyment of winning allowed him to withstand Riel’s controlling demeanor. However, he also drives Riel insane because he’s 12 and makes the unpredictable moves of a 12-year-old boy. 

Chase: Truth be told, he never learned how to play Monopoly or what the point of the game is, because any time anyone tries to explain game rules to him longer than five seconds, his eyes glaze over, or he even get bored and wanders off. Now he plays only to amuse himself by trolling the others; his favorite past time is to replace other players’ pieces with stupid things and see how long it takes for them to notice. The thimble becomes a button, the dog becomes a nut, and etc. Interestingly, he has extremely good luck, and whether by cheating or fortune, he can make the dice roll to any number he wants. Briony, Lavinet, and Red regularly bribe him to help them out with important rolls; thus, another rule has been instated that he can only roll another player’s dice once per game. Typically, they bribe him with more stuff to replace their game pieces with.

Red: he has a strategic mind to rival Riel’s, but he lacks the desire to crush his enemy under his bootheel in order to win at all costs. He tries to make it light-hearted and good, wholesome fun, but it never really goes that way. Still, somehow things work in his favor anyway, and he can cheerfully go, “Oh, I can buy Park Place!” as if just realizing it, an attitude which drives most others crazy. After Riel, he is technically in second place for most games won; he would be tied with Shery if she actually won the games she was in the position to without pretending to lose. However, everyone else being so competitive has made him reluctant to play, so typically he can only be persuaded to if everyone is extra nice to him and promises not to scream to the gods for the others to drop dead on the spot. 

Ayla: you might think Trouble is the likeliest to flip over the game board/table, but it’s actually Ayla. She gets easily confused and irritated, bending over the pieces and scratching her head furiously like “wtf is going on??” This makes her angrier, and when Riel starts to gloat, she’s lunging across the table and having to be held back by Briony or Blade; one time she even tried to bite him. She doesn’t even want to play nowadays, but can’t stand to be left out. When she's not so angry the room is spinning, she does alright, and generally can do second or third-best if Riel or Lavinet are not involved (for some reason she does better against Red or Shery).

Halek: are you joking? you think he would play an hours-long game with those maniacs? as soon as he hears the rattle of the game board, he dissipates into the air like smoke

Briony: Briony’s got the spirit of things, but she’s not quite cut out for Monopoly. She keeps trying to bend the rules to work on teams with other people, proposing combining their finances and working together to win the game, like “yay okay let’s be allies ❤!!!” This works out in her favor like 50% of the time; sometimes someone like Red or Shery agrees, even though that’s not really how you play, and they might win; sometimes she gets absolutely burned, notably once by Lavinet, because her partner will then betray her in some way. This drives her to hysterical tears, but otherwise, she can generally handle losing with a smile and a desire to keep the peace. However, she can get riled up when the others get riled up, like “okay Trouble stop yelling and settle down, you’re going to knock over Shery’s tea...” *Trouble knocks over Shery’s tea* *Briony tackles him* “I SAID SETTLE DOWN!”

Lavinet: Behind Riel, Red, and Shery, she’s the best at the game, since Monopoly is fairly similar to the work she does for the fiefdom. She’s also the best at manipulating the others and occasionally even flirting her way to Pennsylvania Ave. She doesn’t care about winning as much as the others--she is very good at dismissing any loss as “just a game” or “it’s not that important, darling”--but is a smug winner just like the rest of them, unleashing her ojou-sama laugh at the moment of her impending victory. Trouble once described that laugh as “the shrieking of a thousand harpies”. Other than that, though, she’s a fairly normal player, though she barely bats an eye at the violent extremes everyone else takes it to. 

#Shepherds of Haven #monopoly #board game #silly #all characters #anon

[askhubertvonvestra]

Do you really think Rhea was responsible for the Cress Class system or was that more of something humanity/society. People tend to put those with power in high positions.

Rhea might have been complicit in the system but I doubt many stuffy nobels would listen to the Church say "Crests arent gifts from the goddess and the extra power it gives you means nothing, everyone is equal even though having a crest means you technically arent"

Basically it was easier to just go along with that becuase it gave more time to try and resurrect her mother, who she thought could "fix" everything and properly rule instead of her.

Perhaps not solely, no, but she was intrinsic in its establishment. Legends say it was she who bestowed the Crest of Seiros onto House Hresvelg, after all, being Saint Seiros at the time. It was her endorsement that elevated Lord Wilhelm Paul Hresvelg to the famed status he held.

They were the victors in the War of Heroes. They did not need to offer amnesty and high social class to those with stolen Crests, the Ten Elites of old, as documented in secret by Emperor Wilhelm. But they wanted to render them indebted to the Empire, and the Church by extension, as a poor imitation of fealty. 

By erasing their misdeeds, the Church essentially destroyed all means of accountability. Such a hollow peace would never last, and yet, she made it all possible regardless.

Lord Wilhelm, you might rationalize as gravitating towards power by way of the people simply supporting him. What documents exist on him suggest he was largely a compassionate, wise individual. The rest are not so fortunate. Beyond which, Rhea has shown no reservations with begrudging humanity in the past. I see no excuse for her to suddenly make an exception for those with Crests unless she stood to gain from that. Hardly a selfless motive.

Furthermore, she has never taken issue with using force when saying something did not suffice. Nobles could resist the Church’s decree if they wished to, but they would not even be nobles without her. Having Fódlan in a stranglehold was her true intent. But as with muzzling any wild beast like these depraved “nobles” of yore, there inevitably comes a time when the beast comes free. She would be safe, but everyone she left in their care would suffer. Yet Rhea did nothing.

The very fact of the matter is that Crests do not make a person special. No more than height or a lack thereof provides advantage or disadvantage. It is simply a whim of inheritance, and it alone is not enough to consider a person more worthy or deserving. You would do well to remember that.

I imagine it was easier, however, to ignore the horrors visited upon the people by corrupt leaders such as Lord Varley, Count Gloucester, and Ludwig von Aegir. They were merely inconveniences best neglected for Rhea and her supposedly righteous Church. This selfish negligence only condemns her further.

The amount of people who could lead Fódlan better than Rhea is vast enough to not warrant counting.

#long answer #hubert being savage #hubie is being mean and I'm sorry #anon ask #ask hubert von vestra #ask hubert #hubert von vestra #fe3h hubert #fe16 hubert #fe hubert #fire emblem hubert #mentioned rhea #hi hubert hates lady rhea ig #mentioned church of seiros #fe3h spoilers #fe16 spoilers #spoilers

[bill-y]

𝐈𝐍𝐔𝐑𝐄

Peeta Mellark x male reader

We all know who Katniss Everdeen is, but what if Primrose hadn’t been chosen but another boy from another unfortunate family? YOUR family.

Info: This is basically a reader insert and I’ve changed a few rules, not ground breaking though. The reader is a bit bland for now but I plan for his actions to be different. Because he has different moral grounds from Katniss and such. Would appreciate feedback! FEEL FREE TO POINT OUT TYPOS. GRAMMARLY SOMETIMES DOESN’T DO MY DYSLEXIC ASS JUSTICE

Part two: Click here, bomburino tortilla pony horse.

Part three: You're here, my guy.

Part four: Click here, amigo

Wattpad acc: L0calxDumbass

It didn't take long before I came home, my mother and brother was already dressed, and I was right, Kunal has been crying.

He immediately lightened up when he saw the bread, pushing the sleeves of my first reaping outfit (which was now his) back in order to munch on it.

"Don't worry, you only have your name once in the pile, you're safe," I reassured him, as I've done many times before.

I smiled, patting his head. My mother glanced at me, but I pretended to not notice. It's been long since we've talked, the last time was a disagreement, a petty one at that. About two years or so?

I honestly surpised myself, how can I go without talking to her for so long. . .?

Another trait my father passed on to me was a short temper, though I never lose my head and scream, but something about her words made me yell. Her face was full of shock when I did that, almost as if I've betrayed her.

"Don't be stupid like your father!" She told me.

My father isn't a stupid man, he was smart. Lady luck just wasn't on his side that day.

I took a bath, scrubbing the dirt and soot off myself. When I saw my clothing my heart stopped. It was my Father's.

It was simple, just as he liked. A white button up tunic, the hems made of elegant gold lace. The pants were loose, with garters securing on the hip and the hems, he never liked tight clothing, just like me.

My eyes went towards my mother, who simply nodded, "After you get dressed, sit down, won't you? Let me fix your hair," she said.

My mouth opened to protest, only to shut itself when she whispered a small, "please," My eyes softened, her voice sounded so guilty, she regretted her words, just as I did. She knew I could get chosen.

But I'm a coward, I don't like apologizing, something I inherited from her.

I nodded, and got dressed before I sat down, just as she told me. She began to braid tiny sections of my hair. I've never been good at it, really, It would always look messy when I did it. So I just looked messy everyday.

But her hands can do magic, it was like she was weaving silk, her hands full of grace and utmost care as she intertwined every strand of hair. I could feel her hand shake a little, as if scared with one wrong touch, I'd shatter like glass.

She used to sew clothing, make various artworks with whatever was in the house. Her hand was naturally delicate, soft to anything she makes contact with.

I bit my lip, none of us wanted to say it. We we're both thinking the same thing, though.

I never really liked cutting my hair, always kept it atleast neck length at best. I don't think short hair suits me at all, though it does get in the way while hunting from time to time.

Once she finished, without a word she pressed her chapped lips onto my forehead, she then walked away, leaving me with a pit of guilt in my stomach.

Such simple words, why can't I just say it?

I sighed, fixing my tunic and tucking it in, the garter snapping back, making me wince a little. It was stupid of me to let go.

I took a deep breath in, mustering all the courage I had to walk towards my brother, who has devoured the entire loaf. "Good?" I asked.

He nodded, a smile on his face, the crumbs falling down. I chuckled, wiping his mouth with my hand.

"You're like a bird, aren't you, little mocking jay?" I said, patting his head again.

He hummed, nodding aggressively, his hair bouncing up and down. I snickered, holding his head still with both my hands. I squished his cheeks together, making his lips form into a duck beak-shape. "Hey, Y/n,"

I rose my brows, humming. "I won't get chosen, won't I?" he asked. I sniffed, shaking my head as I linked our foreheads. "No, no you wont, Nal," I said. "If they call you, I won't let you go, alright?"

"You promise?"

"Of course,"

Soon it hit one in the afternoon, it was mandatory to attend this "festival", unless you're at death's door, that is. I found myself beside Gale, who patted my shoulder for reassurance.

Maybe it was obvious I'm stressed, tense. I'm not worried about myself, I'm more worried of them, especially Kunal. He's only twelve, yet he can still get chosen.

Some kind of festival this is.

I clenched my fists tighter, palms started to go white as I also clenched my jaw.

On the temporary stage stationed in front of the justice building was a podium, three chairs and two large bowls. The district is divided into two sections, jumbled across those two glass bowls, waiting to be picked up.

Twenty of them contained 'Y/n Greyback', one of them contained 'Kunal Greyback'.

There were also bright banners hung up, though I'm sure it was just there to taunt us, it sure worked for me. Everytime I look at it I start feel sick, hatred bubbling in my stomach.

The feeling of claustrophobia began to settle in as people piled into the square, the late comers having to just watch from a monitor instead.

"You alright?" Gale asked, nudging me. I gulped, sighing, "Course, I just —" I turned back, looking at my brother. "Worry of him,"

He gave me a sympathetic look, "He only has one entry, I'm sure he won't be picked," He said. Something I've been saying for such a long time, it didn't help settle my nerves.

"I know," I answered plainly.

We looked towards Katniss' place, beside her was Mardge, who gave me a curt smile and a wave. Out of politeness, I simply nodded back before turning back to the stage.

My hands grew colder each second, by two, when the mayor finally reached the stage, my hands were as cold as a corpse's.

Beside the mayor was Effie Trinket, District 12’s escort, fresh from the Capitol with her scary white grin, pinkish hair, and spring green suit. It looked quite ghastly.

Everyone murmured in worry, for whom was the empty third seat for?

The mayor stepped in front of the podium, beginning to tell the tale of Panem, how the twelve districts lost in the rebellion and now have to face punishment.

The Hunger games.

It was simple, each district would pick two "tributes" to this little game, and then they either kill like a hungry wolf or die like lost cattle.

I gulped, sweat forming on my forehead as I instinctively reached for the end of Gale's shirt. He held my hand, patting it a few times to let me know it would be alright.

He then began to read the victors in every hunger games. In the past seventy-four years, we have had exactly two.

Only one is still alive. Haymitch Abernathy, a paunchy, middle-aged man, who at this moment appears hollering something unintelligible, staggers onto the stage, and falls into the third chair.

To say he's drunk would be an understatement.

The crowd responds with its token applause, but he’s confused and tries to give Effie Trinket a big hug, which she barely manages to fend off.

The mayor looks distressed. Since all of this is being televised, right now District 12 is the laughingstock of Panem, and he knows it. He quickly tries to pull the attention back to the reaping by introducing Effie Trinket.

Bright and bubbly as ever, she began to talk. I could feel my blood boiling upon hearing her obnoxious, Capitol accent. I tuned her out, gulping as my hands somehow grew even colder.

Please don't let it be my brother, anyone but him.

"Let's have the first pick, shall we?" She said, her voice at the end of the sentence practically sky rocketing up. She pulled a piece of paper from one of the Glass bowls.

My heart pounded, as if trying to escape my chest. I closed my eyes, taking deep breaths in.

"Kunal Greyback,"

My heart stopped. Why couldn't it have been me? I had twenty, TWENTY entries.

I watched as my brother walked past me, his lip quivering, eyes glossy. Oh sweet, sweet Kunal, as delicate as a Lotus.

Kunal, the boy who gathers flowers every morning just for me.

Kunal, the boy who loves pulling on my braids.

Kunal, my dear innocent brother. Afraid of his own shadow.

I felt my own body move, launching myself forward. Gale called for my name, but I didn't care, no. I needed to get to my brother, I made a promise.

"NAL! NAL! NO!" I yelled, desperation evident in my voice as I pushed through the other people. "Y/n!" He screamed back.

Most of then gave me and my brother looks of sympathy, some gossiped. "Greyback," they'd whisper. "Another one bites the dust," they'd continue.

The peace keepers pushed me back, preventing me from reaching my brother.

No, not like this. He's still so young, he still wants to gather lilys by the front of our house, he still wants to create flower crowns for me to wear.

He still wants to breath, to live.

The mayor looked at me, recignizing me almost immediately. He didn't know me, no. Rather, he knew my father, the man he put under the execution block.

Oh mother, I'm sorry it had to be this way. It seems another one of your family members will die at the hands of the Capitol.

"I volunteer!" I gasped, gulping down nothing. My mouth was dry.

"I volunteer as a tribute!"

Word count: 1.6k

Tags:

@nin3s

:v

#peeta mellark x reader #peeta mellark x male reader #peetamellark #male x male reader #x male reader #male reader #hunger games x reader #hunger games x male reader #hunger games ff #hunger games #katniss everdeen #gale hawthorne #peeta mellark #why are tags so difficult to fucking write #hello person looking at tags you should really get other hobbies #male reader insert #reader insert #long read #male reader series