#Explication Hunger games

[levoleurdimages]

The Hunger Games : LA BALLADE DU SERPENT ET DE L'OISEAU CHANTEUR, comment Coriolanus s'est construit

Le film nous emporte dans un monde étrange séparé en deux. L’histoire d’amour entre Lucy Gray et Coriolanus est compliquée, entre devoir, non-dits et un monde en plein chaos. Si vous n’êtes pas familier à l’histoire de cette saga, il faudra voir un minimum 2 ou 3 fois pour saisir tous les détails du récit assez dense. Deux acteurs crèvent l’écran dans les rôles des deux protagonistes du film.…

[direct-actu]

The Hunger Games : LA BALLADE DU SERPENT ET DE L'OISEAU CHANTEUR, comment Coriolanus s'est construit

Le film nous emporte dans un monde étrange séparé en deux. L’histoire d’amour entre Lucy Gray et Coriolanus est compliquée, entre devoir, non-dits et un monde en plein chaos. Si vous n’êtes pas familier à l’histoire de cette saga, il faudra voir un minimum 2 ou 3 fois pour saisir tous les détails du récit assez dense. Deux acteurs crèvent l’écran dans les rôles des deux protagonistes du film.…

[fatesundress]

⭑ life of the party. tom riddle x reader

summary. when one game is ruined, another begins.

tags. explicitly fem afab reader, smut with as minimal plot as i can physically allow myself, minors SCRAMMM, loosely implied hogwarts university au as always, flirting via mutually assured jealousy, impeccable communication skills, established relationship, the guy the reader is talking to gets annoyed she doesn’t want him but he doesn’t do anything, religious undertones that might have accidentally become overtones, party setting (background drinking & general degeneracy), probably the meanest tom i’ll ever write and i still tried making him nice, fingering, piv, a little degradation but that's life, fawwwk the weeknd but the song this is based on is so sexy, etc

note. Me writing this: nightguard: ON, religious themes: RIFE, shame: ABOUNDING. i am so embarrassed by this. have i mentioned smut doesn’t come naturally to me? i don’t even know how i got here. i’m on heelys at the proverbial skatepark and everyone else apprenticed under tony hawk. Do you understand? ok.

word count. 4.5k

request. yes!

He is what he is. Stoic, sacred, silent and then verbose. You knew he had his fixations before you knew him at all — no one made top of every class without a shadow of obsession to contrast the glint of their excellence — but you could not anticipate how that obsession might translate when applied to a person. You’re not sure he had either.

He is what he is. The muggle world taught him religion and in it he learned only the tenor of devotion. When his fingers take your jaw, trace slow at the stripes of your thighs, steady your hips from under you and hold tight, there’s reverence in it. His kisses don’t wane with the months gone by; they soften with purpose. They rouse with hunger. His eyes don’t waver. Should a good man gaze upon his altar? Should he smile like sin when he gets on his knees? 

He does.

Tom Riddle is what he is and you solemnise in equal part.

You don’t come to these things often, taken aback by the sight of the Slytherin common room in ribbons and banners tattered within the first hour of the night. Bottles glow green in the lake-light on every available surface, scattered about the place and spilled in sticky puddles. 

You’re a wallflower tonight, though not for lack of options. You observe from a comfortable distance the drunken antics of new adults, free to carry their liquor in hand rather than hidden away in pockets and pillowcases. There’s something vaguely entertaining about it, intoxicating where someone else might mind their business and actually get intoxicated, but you see no harm done. Whispers fall on your ears before the rumours make their rounds, couples slink away in the darkness where someone in the crowd might not notice, and the night’s first instance of someone hurrying up the stairs in tears comes barrelling right past you. You invent a story for why to keep yourself busy. 

It’s all just buzz.

Now, if you don’t come often, he certainly doesn’t.

Tonight, he has, and for reasons explicable but few, you’ve found yourselves on opposite sides of the room.

It began on the green couch by the window with a chess set spilled across the velvet — a bet you made with him upon arrival; you find wizard’s chess trite, Tom finds it feckless, but it makes for a good challenge. 

What else could convince a man so perpetually controlled to pour himself a drink? And you imagine, from his perspective: what else could convince a woman so determined to outwit him?

It’s for no nefarious reason — to slight him or see him stumble — but because you love the fractions of relief that colour him, soften him, temper him. It’s because he loves you in every shade, in every pliancy, in each and every fervour. But mostly it’s because you love kindly to best him, and he loves mirthfully to best you.

So you play. The game is slow and teasing, hard to see in the ripples of the lake, and toppled over in the final moves (which you’ll insist you were winning) by the same swaying body that spills its drink down the front of your dress. And so you’re up, brushing your index finger over the corner of Tom’s sudden scowl. You whisper like a joke not to kill anyone but he’s so quick to look like he might that you consider repeating yourself with more conviction.

You poke at the spot where his jaw is tense. “I’ll be right back.”

Drying liquor from lace is a matter of precision even with magic, and this is half-gelatinous like someone raided the kitchen’s supply of jelly and steeped it in something offensively alcoholic. You utilise the clearer light of the Slytherin girl’s lavatory, wetting your dress before evaporating the water from it. There’s the matter then of transforming the stained fabric back to its original colour, and you huff in the mirror at having a game you thought you didn’t care much for ruined so close to its end.

You care about Tom, though. The omphalos of your issue resides there.

(It is fair to say most of your issues reside there.)

With only minutes gone by, the common room crowd looks doubled when you return, and though you wade through you’re pushed back like debris caught in a tide, the bodies more stubborn rubble than you. So you retreat, stand flush at the wall with your arms crossed, and wait for Tom’s eyes to land on yours. To, perhaps, open your mind and let him in, tell him exhaustedly from afar that the game is at rest and you’re ready to leave.

But even he’s hard to find in the bodies unified in breath, flux like a big set of lungs —  and nothing about Tom blurs into the background.

So you wait. You wallflower. You pour yourself a drink.

The moment stretches on longer than anticipated, and after many detached observations of the room, someone else finds you instead. He’s tall, blond to Tom's inkwell black, kissed by summer sun even as autumn soothes its blister. Your gaze wavers back to him a few times though his own is uncertain for all its focus. He seems to be waiting for you to stop, perhaps for the silhouette of someone else to slip by and prove you were looking at them instead. When no one else comes, he traverses the crowd with a straightened inch of pride, stepping through new colours until he’s close enough to you that the light settles emerald-black and you can see the great chasm of his beauty up close. 

His freckles are carefully dusted, his structure strong, all squarish, rugged lines and shades of August.

The chasm is not a lack of allure, per se, it’s just a lack of him. One man’s August to your adherent’s December, the intention of his warmth, a thing that does not come to him like everything else but that he makes and makes and mends when it lapses because he does not want to see you cold. The singular reward of a rarity like that.

“Hi," you say, glancing over a broad shoulder.

“Evening," he responds. He takes you in with a look of (unappreciated) appreciation. “I don’t believe we’ve met.”

“No, we haven’t.”

He extends a hand. “Oliver Belby.”

“Pleasure.”

You don't offer much in the way of conversation. He’ll vie for your attention regardless of how much of it you offer. So you lean against the wall where the buzz of sound prickles your hair, let him talk, let his hand come up to rest beside your head, and you find Tom.

He’s right where you left him, a new clearing in the crowd making space for your eyes to meet.

His are ice even at a distance. As if you proselytise — as if you could — kneel for another man or let one kneel before you, all of your trysts together faithless.

They aren’t. He must know they aren’t.

But you put yourself here and standing at the target of his gaze has never been marred by the severity of it.

You decide then; when one game is ruined, another begins.

In truth, you can’t deny the element of theatrics in the way Tom denies everyone but you: his soft, penitent smile, the apologetic cant of his head, how his eyes can find you in any crowd and whoever is clinging onto his every word that night will follow his gaze and deflate when they discover you at the end of it. Sometimes it’s harsh. Final. He lacks the patience of pretence. 

Sometimes, the week is dull. Sometimes, the whoever is undeterred. Sometimes you’ve pushed him here. 

No — You’ve never done that before. This is new.

So it’s one of those weeks, and one of those whoevers, on an anomaly you may as well have directed the encounter yourself, and Tom is half-indulgent as he forces his eyes away and you force yours to stay. 

You watch him from across the room as the woman drapes herself across the arm of his chair. There's a furious blush on her cheeks even in the dark, a pretty disarray to her shoulder-length hair, skirts pleated over knees she faces toward him. She smiles and offers him a glass of something, and you know for certain Tom understands this game because he accepts it, eyes flicking back to you as he swirls the glass in contest. 

To that you take an inappreciable sip of your own.

“ — Which is why no one has even attempted to kill one in decades. And capturing one is another thing entirely. My mother works with the Greeks on occasion, and the nearest she came to a den was in the twenties. If she had gone any nearer I wouldn’t be here.”

“Hm?” You look back at the man in front of you. His lips glisten with having licked them between every phrase.

“The manticores,” he says, undeterred.

“Right. Five-X beasts, aren’t they?”

“That’s what I said. I heard from one of my mother’s colleagues that — ”

The woman is whispering something in Tom’s ear, her hair on his cheek. He’s looking at you as if you had said the words. You don't shy away when Oliver leans in to whisper too. It's a strange, fractured language. Too intimate while too detached. Whispers from across the room, desire from another in the place of desire for each other. But the strangeness should not surprise you anymore. This is Tom: beautiful and wicked and the one you chose.

“ — And Nundus are worse. Deadliest creature there is — ”

She’s laughing about something, the woman. Half-reserved, she’s angled toward the party despite her leaning on his shoulder and the dissipating inches of distance.

“ — They stalk in silence. Think of the size of one, right? They’re apex predators… so commanding and still they could be in front of you one instant and gone the next.”

You engage with detached interest. “Really?”

And now Oliver barricades your view, his other hand coming to rest on your other shoulder.

“Do we have any classes together?”

You blink up at him. “No.”

“No, right,” he says, eyes darting to your lips. “I’d remember you.” 

His hand comes up to cup your cheek, and you wonder if for some men one-sided discussions of class five beasts qualify as foreplay.

You place a hand on his chest, eyebrows raised and half a startled smile curled. 

“You’re not going to kiss me," you inform him.

His face falls, but with it, at least, does his hand.

“Did you hear me?"

“It’s loud,” he decides suddenly. “Can we go somewhere else?”

You’re not sure you believe that. 

You duck under an arm and search the crowd again. The woman is on the arm of the chair looking thoroughly dismayed, and for good reason —

Tom is gone. 

Your breath is caught.

“This isn’t… You’re not going to…?”

You flash Oliver with a glare. “So you did hear me.”

He makes a pathetically sad face, and you think: it’s a wonder he made it this far when his courtship evidently hinges on the subject of his affection not listening to a word out of his mouth.

“Goodnight, Oliver,” you say tersely.

“What was that for, then?” he asks, and it comes out practically whined.

“That was talking.”

“But you’re —”

“Belby.”

He is what he is. It shouldn’t surprise you when he appears beside you all fatal rage on a quiet lead, narrowly fixed to you. 

Tom’s cold is his median temperature, yes, but in moments like this it’s as much for you as his handmade warmth. He’d pluck the fingers off a boy like Oliver. The digits would string eaves like icicles.

Oliver is looking between you and Tom like something terrible has dawned on him, hands urged to his pockets to soothe the flames your unveiled ties to a man seemingly singed him with.

“Riddle — Mate, I didn’t… I didn’t know she was…”

Tom’s voice is flat, edged with something that makes his monotony sound merciful. “Pity. If only you knew as much as you talked.”

Oliver’s mouth opens and closes and opens again, but wisely he settles on silence instead of excuses, and wastes no time fleeing slowly into the crowd. 

The instant he's stolen by the wave Tom's eyes are on yours and they’re molten. You move to say something but his patience was for show — he’s dragging you by the arm out of the common room and into one of the dungeon's empty classrooms without giving you the chance.

“Tom —" You start to protest, mouth twisted in a scowl. “Tom, you're being —"

He shuts the door behind you and locks it with such delicacy your breath catches at the question of how badly he's holding himself back right now.

“I'm being what?"

“You're…" It's hard to formulate an answer when he's like this. “It was a game. Don’t pretend you weren’t playing too."

Tom inches in, chest rising with angry breaths. “A game, was it? Did he know that?"

“Did she?” you hiss.

“It certainly became apparent when she was discarded so that I might retrieve you.”

“It was as apparent to Belby, judging by the way he was left gawking.”

“And with great restraint I let him. A mercy I didn’t take his eyes so he was left without the ability.”

You roll your eyes. “Oh, now I understand; the problem wasn’t the game, it’s that I played it better than you.”

He looks at you for a long time before casting a silencing charm on the room.

Oh.

Oh — your heart barrels off somewhere. You’re without it for a moment, breathless in the wake of the implication of a spell like that.

“Tom," you say politically, “It was hardly a matter of rescuing.”

He nods imperceptibly. “No, it wasn’t.”

“So we’re in agreement.”

He hums a non-answer.

Each step he takes forward, you take back. It's a peculiar way to have a conversation, but part of the game, you suppose.

Interesting he’s still playing.

You still gasp when you inevitably hit the wall, hands going to the carved edge of a windowsill.

“You’re terrible when you win,” he whispers. His lips brush your ear.

You shudder, mouth dry as you press against his shoulder. “You’re worse when you lose.”

His mouth drags down your jaw but he refuses to kiss you, still withholding something, still holding back in some terrible, electrifying way. Instead one of his hands starts to dip down your side. You shiver as he grazes the skin of your breast, exposed by the cut of your dress, and continues down your waist. His mouth traces your bare shoulder as his tongue makes a slow pass, skin beneath leaping at his careful ministrations.

With long, slender fingers he's pulling your dress off button by button, torturously slow, and you feel mocked to have cleaned it earlier. You feel foolish to have left knowing the night would have ended like this regardless.

“Tom,” you say. His name is followed by staggered breaths. Your fingers are clutching the windowsill.

The air is thick as he watches you, flesh exposed by each undone catch. And still he will not kiss you, even as his lips trail along your collarbone and you start to tug instinctively at his belt. He makes the barest sound of disapproval and spins you to face the window, your hands urged on instinct to press against the glass.

“Tom...”

He hikes your dress up your thighs. It clings to your hips, a meagre two buttons left attached to keep it from falling.

Your wand clatters as his fingers work the clasp of your bra and his teeth skim your shoulder, leaving little bites he laves at softly with his tongue. You shudder, arching into him, searching for friction. His touch traverses the shape of you and stops feather-light between your legs.

“Tom —”

“Quiet," he admonishes, a little tut.

Your skin jumps at the caress of his fingers tracing deceptively timid up your thighs, like he hasn’t done this before, like it’s care and not punishment. His favourite oxymoron: the gentlest torture, the cruelest succour.

His index draws upon the lace of your underwear and tugs it aside with a tenderness that makes you gasp. Is there a way to press harder to the glass without breaking it? Is there ever enough to grab onto when he gets like this — so singularly focused on ruining you? 

One of your hands latches onto the arm half-disappeared in your skirts instead, clinging steadfast to the white of its sleeve, your body swaying as if at sea. He keeps you steady, but this is his crown achievement: that he is all there is that can do it when you’re so singularly focused on being ruined by him.

The sinews of his forearm work imperceptibly under your fingers as he appreciates the newly unfettered flesh, two digits sliding between your legs, and he makes a satisfied sound against your shoulder at the wetness he finds there. 

You’re swallowing air with a moan stuck in your throat; too dry, you realise, and feel like you’re choking when he starts to move, gripping his arm somehow tighter.

As a rule, you know how much he loves this, but it’s tenfold under his jealousy and you think deliriously, probably wrongly, that for how much he enjoys pushing you you enjoy pushing him to get here. You’re his and he’s yours, there’s no doubt in it — but what he can reduce you to — this is the translation; the fruition of his fixations put to a person rather than a subject. This is what it is to be his.

Tom’s mouth opens in a smile at your throat, and there it feels more like bared teeth, a smile that is as animal as it is pretty. 

And still he whispers with all the affection of a lover, your name peppered between kisses.

His fingers inch inside you and curl. You’re wedged in the perfect balance of his discrepancy; your disciple and your devil. He worships you in white. He ruins you in it too.

Now his name comes out in a babble, wet, half-drooled. A nip pinches the little space beneath your ear and you clutch impossibly harder to his wrist, your free hand squeaking down the window pane as you grind on his palm. He crooks his fingers against a spot that has you seeing stars, thumb pressed to your clit in a subtle motion, and you feel yourself tip off into an unknown he aquaints you with often. In a blurry, flickering moment, the light gleams somewhere beyond the stained hues of the window. And that should be it. The edge is at your heels and you should be falling. But the sinful press of him at your back commands you to lurch against him, and when you moan for more he pulls his fingers free.

You stumble weakly into his chest, startled.

“What… What?”

“Ask me for it,” he says, his voice hoarse, markedly wanton in spite of himself. But there is hunger and there is greed. There’s a sacrificial lamb and there’s a hunted one— there’s religion and there’s Tom. He invents something that demands greater devotion.

And the sound of leather rasping serge and metal clinking metal reels your conscience in. There are no stars. There’s just him. His belt is coming undone.

“Tom.” You swallow. “I told you —”

“And I want you to ask.” He cups your jaw in his hand, thumb tracing your lower lip. “Nicely.”

Your mouth opens for him and you shiver, pressing further back for contact he doesn’t allow. Instead another small tut is whispered at your neck, relinquished to a kiss.

His finger brushes your teeth when you speak. “I want you.”

You feel him shake his head and you all but whine.

“I want you inside, Tom — need you — please.”

“Please?” he echoes mockingly.

“Please,” you say in an uneven voice, and when your tongue grazes his thumb he eases it further into your mouth with an appeased hum.

And so his zipper comes down and you hold your breath with the weight of your dress at your hips.

He pushes inside you with minimal pause, slow still, to relish the way your little pants hitch, stop, and shudder out in a broken moan; the way your breath is guided by his rhythm, how you’re shaped by him, fitted around him. You careen forward and your palms flatten on the window, trembling at the first thrust. Your fingers quiver down the glass.

Tom pulls you into him on the second, patience abandoned. His lips chase your pulse. His grip on your jaw tightens as his thumb pops free with a string of spit. He nudges deeper at a new angle, your body forced as far as it can lean back, gasping heavenward when your head falls helplessly onto his shoulder.

It’s profane. Your ears almost dull to the sound of his hips snapping against yours, the obscenity of your skin on what he offers of his, but you waver between earth and something else, brought back to him by the torturous sight of the edge he stole you from. Always brought back to him. 

He’s gripping your jaw in one hand as he pushes deeper, and your fingers are lost for purchase on his forearms, trembling to hold onto something.

When he pulls out of you at your brink again, you practically cry out. But you understand when he spins you around again, hiking you up against the windowsill, your shoulders hitting the cool glass with a gasp you barely register in the fog of your desperation. His eyes are dilated to midnight rings. The weight of his desire is frightening. The insistence to claim you better yet.

He wastes no time before slamming into you again, pausing at the hilt to watch your eyebrows wrench together before resuming his pace. When your mouth falls open, he swallows the noise that tries to come out of it.

It doesn’t feel like a kiss. It feels like the prolusion to a bite.

His fervour is all the reminder of how you got here in the first place; the teeth, the force, the grip on your waist. There’s a rough sound he makes in your mouth that you taste more than you hear. The vibration of him is everywhere. You’re too hot and it only occurs to you because your fingers are clawing at fabric instead of skin that he’s fully dressed and your last button has finally snapped, lace pooled on the classroom floor as he fucks you. The thought is consigned to oblivion as quickly as it came. It doesn't matter.

You're clutching at his shoulders, the nape of his neck — trying to kiss him back, but you feel torn in two by the intensity of his ministrations, a low, immolating pressure building in your abdomen. He’s proving something with you, and his is a relentless, unending appetite. You don't really stand a chance. You think you've known that from the start.

Tom is all-consuming. Tom is a force of nature, a whirlwind that sweeps over you. He leaves you breathless and somehow needing more as he wraps his hand around the small of your back and seizes you in place.

Still you find yourself wanting to be held tighter.

“T-Tom —" you sob through the kiss but he doesn't give you enough air to do it. He pushes harder, a rasp at the back of his throat, some carnal thing. He’s not withholding your release now; he’s spurring you towards it.

When he withdraws his lips from yours, his brows are furrowed in concentration. There’s a fine lustre of sweat on his forehead, stray curls pulled across dark, wicked eyes. The sight of him alone is condemnable, but it isn’t for you.

He likes to watch you like this. When your moans dissolve to the torn syllable of his name, again and again. The veneration. Your choked litanies.

You give them to him.

Sleeves drawn up by your body’s baser instinct for skin, you’ve carved a canvas of praise into his arms, marked up to his elbows where your fingers had jerked upward to rake at his back. This time, when you find the cliffside, nothing stops you from teetering off its edge. Flames dance across your skin in an explosion, your collar damp and bitten, your waist in Tom’s vice-like grip. One hard thrust and you’re falling.

The stars are blinding. You decide then they were made by him.

Your head lulls back as shocks of pleasure course through your body, the coil snapped, the hard shape of him inside you demanding impossibly for more. You stumble through the light, vision blurred, praying and praying and praying. His grip comes to find your jaw again.

You keen, addled through the ecstasy, barely conscious of the way his panted breaths hitch at the sight of you in his hands, soft-eyed and puddy.

He always comes apart soon after you, but it happens rarely that your body is so taut on the wire of rapture that his twitching inside you takes you with him. 

This time it does.

You sink against him, thighs numb and wet, one hand slipping dumbly from his figure and swiping across condensation-foggy glass. The second orgasm is an aftershock of the first. It’s slow. It feels like being caught from the last fall. You land in Tom’s arms and they’re holding you through whitened knuckles. His eyelashes flutter, ink-dipped twines of quills, and he steals the shaky sigh from your mouth by pressing it to his.

You kiss lazily and softly. The room feels sheeted in static. The electricity lingers on both of you.

It’s hard not to fall against the window when he slides out of you. You slump on quivering legs into his chest instead, heaving, spend trickling down your legs.

Tom holds you close, adjusting his trousers before sinking down to settle you on his lap. He wipes the sweat from your face and presses his lips to the feverish skin it plastered. Forehead, cheeks, nose, chin, whispers of your name down your jaw like a prayer answered. Your eyelids flutter shut and he kisses you there, too. His lashes tickle.

You love him more than you worship him. You think he likes that more.

He grabs your forsaken dress from the floor and slips it over your bare shoulders, summoning the snapped button back in place before he begins to meticulously clasp the rest together again. His mouth leaves a path at the skin under each one before it closes, and you hum in dizzy gratitude.

“That was,” you say in a very worn voice, “a terrible way to reinforce not making you jealous.”

He glares at you from one of the lowermost buttons and you giggle sleepily, curling a hand into his hair. “Don’t look at me like that. You liked it too.”

He leans back up at that, tipping your chin with his fingers, gaze darting over the wrecked state of you with a pleased gleam in his eyes. “You liked it? What a modest interpretation.”

Now it’s your turn to glare.

He is what he is — pursuit of buttons forgotten as you’re laid down on the moonlit floor to be reminded just how much you liked it.

taglist. @lyis @indimoss @poddzi @esolean @d1anna @maripositanoctruna @mentally-in-northern-italy @ronniemaximoff1234 @moobell55 @jaerang @ramayantika @saltwaterbythesea @acube07 @togenabi @adazito @kitcat334 @blaurghhh @shutupfinn @jaymeeshayden @lilu842 @leaosee @garfunkelworld @definitely-not-captain-america @multiplefandomstan @mangoesareorange [ note: inexplicably, a bunch of my tags aren't working. i tried to fix it but if you didn’t get a notif i’m sorry! ]

[akajustmerry]

https://vm.tiktok.com/ZNdjg5JU7/

so for anyone reading ^^^^ above link is to a tiktok where the tiktoker @/breadiscannibalism who is a poc (unsure of ethnicity) discusses how the popular perception of suzanne collins' hunger games series as being anti-colonial is not supported by anything in the texts themselves. they go on to encourage people to read more anti-colonial scifi by authors of colour, while also pointing to past interviews where Collins has discussed the impact her father's participation in the Vietnam war has on her work. Basically, they argue Collins' maybe pro-humanist and pro-environmentalist, but it is not explicitly anti-imperialist or anti-colonialist.

i'm guessing anon sent this to me after my post about plutarch and haymitch's fucked dialogue in sotr. personally, i've never ever called Collins' work anti-imperialist or anti-colonial. at most i've discused people from 12 being Indigenous coded and how the films whitewashed Katniss and the racial hierarchy made clear in the books. I disagree with OP's tiktok in that I think there are many elements of collins' hunger games novels that are implicitly anti-fascist and anti-colonial, particularly in the apartheid of the districts. they're just not themes she explicitly fleshed out to the same degree as the themes of war, propaganda, environmentalism.

sending me this tiktok doesn't scratch the issue i raised in that post though unless what you're trying to say is that, because suzanne collins' thg books aren't explicity anti-colonialism and she's said some weird shit about war, then plutarch's remarks make sense? my issue with plutarch telling haymitch he's complicit is that it's not something haymitch challenges. the idea of district 12 as complicit is something that has NEVER been put forward in any of the other books, not even subtextually. in fact, the opposite is made abundantly clear. ie that district 12 are among the biggest victims of the capitol. so, in context of the narrative, a character saying that to Haymitch and for Haymitch to agree by omission makes no sense. yeah sure, Collins' lack of intersectionality and anti-colonial thought goes some way to explain this but it doesn't explain why in the narrative a child being forced to gamify his own execution would agree to being "complicit" when no one has ever framed things that way. like. its dumb. its just dumb

[parsleysagerosemarytimemachine]

Reading comprehension...

But also, this is why reading comprehension is a skill. Because what Sanderson is doing with his epic fantasy is expecting that the reader is coming in knowing that the book is going to be laying out an expansive and mysterious world, which will be gradually explored and explicated over the course of the story. 'Way of Kings' is especially egregious in this because (as noted by the original questions) it doesn't even start by introducing you to the humble (farmboy, traditionally) protagonist whose situation you might understand a bit before it unfolds; it starts by introducing a dozen different mysteries and proper nouns, and asking you to keep them in mind as you read to discover what they are.

This isn't a bad approach, but it is a specific one, and if a reader has asked 'what's a good fantasy series to start reading?' it's entirely possible they don't _know_ that this is a mode of reading/writing. If what they've read before has been books that start off introducing one character for them to relate to, and here's the interesting quirk of their situation, it's perfectly reasonable to wonder why, after three pages of reading, they don't know what's happening.

This is not to say that other ways are dumb or bad, either. 'Hunger Games', eg, starts off with 'here's a poor girl trying to keep her family fed in a bad situation' before it gets into more of the complexities and layers of the story. On the flip side, I've meet Sanderson fans who struggle with other fantasy novels because they get so wrapped up searching for the 'system' of magic that they don't appreciate anything else that, eg, Le Guin is doing.

Luckily, the way to get reading comprehension is to read - a lot, and a lot of different things - and to talk with other people about what you read, and that's all things the internet facilitates greatly. I hope the original asker pressed on and eventually enjoyed the rest of the book!

[battlestar-royco]

If you want an example of people glorifying Rue's death, I saw a post calling Katniss's reaction to her death 'WOC solidarity'. No it wasn't. It was racist, because the author used a black girl's death to advance the story of Katniss and others.

anon 1: I just saw a post celebrating the representation in the hunger games and it also featured the black characters.... There was zero mention that the black characters were sidelined, only there to help the white people and eventually killed off. The poster that made it was celebrating the fact that black characters advanced the white people's stories... I'm fucking livid.

anon 2: also i kinda hated how thresh was this giant teenager who looked way older and seemingly only existed to spare katniss before unceremoniously dying offscreen

@lonely-at-sea and anon 1: Yeah I have most definitely seen the “WOC solidarity” post you’re talking about, years ago. It’s viral with at least 100k notes. That specific post was the one that made me question whether my discomfort with Rue’s death was valid, and I just pushed it under the rug for years. I’ve come across at least 10 posts with similar content and 50k+ notes, so anon 1 is probably referencing one of those, if not the same thread. If 100k people agree with OP, how could it be wrong? I see this happen in so many supposedly woke fandom circles to this day, so I can only imagine people stepping back years later and realizing how racist something “feminist” and “progressive” truly was.

anon 2: Yeah I think I said in one of my posts the other day that Thresh was compared to an ox and/or another laborious fox animal. Collins seems to enjoy animal/nature symbolism for her characters (most obvious example being Foxface), but there’s a difference in implication between a ~clever~ red-haired white girl and a black boy whose main appearance is made just to kill one of Katniss’s opponents and then yell at her. But tbh I’m glad he died off screen. In an ideal world he would have had a quick death and a nice sendoff like Rue, but he got the same fate as Cato. The implication is more effective than the explication, and we don’t need to see more black characters dying violently.

[magpie-trove]

Some starters

•While the World Turns by KM O’Neill (novel; changed my life)

•Boxers and Saints by Gene Luen Yang (YA graphic novel; you are going what?? Huh?? Until the end when you are crying about grace and vocation and beauty and love and sacrifice and God)

• Space Boy (YA graphics; beauty and goodness and meaning and purpose and light vs existential nihilism of being alone; love and relationship making us human; not *explicity* Christian but inherently so)

• Hunger Games series by Suzanne Collins (our queen! Again implicit but so earth shaking)

•Ultraviolet by RJ Anderson (YA novel; haven’t gotten to give it a close read yet but wowowow. Also love Knife)

•Failstate by John Otte (YA novel, not high art but listen I had fun and I didn’t cringe a lot when it talked about God so W for it)

Gonna post some top works of contemporary Christian art

[seeds-of-the-garden]

My first ask to Seeds! Lance is Hotel Manager, Pidge is a Renowned Travel Journalist who frequents said Hotel. Lance wants her to write a feature on his Hotel, but for some reason, she refuses. Looking forward to what becomes of this idea.

This is a little off topic but imagine this as the beginning of the build up.

Checked Out:

Unspecified Research Trip 3: Week 1: Day 1

It’s a statistically beautiful day here in Varadero, Cuba.

“Varadero again?” You query. “I thought you hated humid weather and too much sun?”

Your observations are indeed correct.

However, if you take into account that the temperature fluctuates roughly 6-10 degrees between winter and summer, and there is a breeze that effectively cools the skin (or provides the illusion), you would begin to understand the appeal of returning to such a destination for research as one’s company tends to direct me.

No, you may not know what my company has me researching here. Yes I will strive to satisfy your every other curiosity regarding my current stay here.

Hotel Esquisita is unlike any other place I’ve been sent these last couple of years. I’m pleased to find you all seem to enjoy my time here as much as I do. For those of you reading my blog for the first time, let me explicate:

I have to dwell here for three months minimum each time I’m sent. This time may be a little longer as I will be leaving periodically to meet back up at the research lab in the States.

As stated before, the temperature is hardly the high end of warm. The breeze blows through my room easily as it faces the ocean. The food (when I remember to eat) is more than sufficient for quelling my hunger in the most satisfying manner. The beds are luxurious, and the couch (which I sleep on more often than not) is of significantly higher quality when compared with the other places I have travelled.

But it is the hotel staff that makes my stay here something to look forward to every time. They are attentive and prompt, anticipating my needs before I do. The hotel manager especially.

Last time I stayed here he provided me with this corner room (of which I am in again), showed up on his day off when he heard I was sick and brought his mom’s (he calls her Mami) farm style soup to cure what ails me. He lives at his family farm, but does stay at the hotel quite frequently, and has also fallen asleep (with my permission of course) in my room after I invited him for a movie watch party on the nights I felt especially homesick. He cannot stay awake through more than one movie no matter what. States he needs his beauty sleep, but I would not let him leave.

I will not go into further detail in the off chance he reads this blog (what is the statistical likelihood of him being into travel and bionanotechnology? That’s about as likely as Hunk double modulating the gendocams.) I will not describe how carmel his skin is or how he is so tall I need to tilt my head all the way back to look at him if we are standing in close proximity. I will not say he has eyes the same color as the ocean outside of my hotel window. I will not remind my readers about how affected I am when he takes his tie off and rolls up his dress shirt sleeves when we are playing a video game together. He is in hospitality and has been very hospitable to me.

I will return tomorrow with day two. However, a knock on the door has reminded me that the manager has offered to take me to dinner tonight off-site. A little hole-in-the-wall with live music and dancing. He said he’s going to teach me to cha-cha and tango if it’s the last thing he does. But first, he’ll show me the sunset from his favorite spot.

This is the outfit I have chosen to wear. Friends, was it a good choice? What will I look like being spun around by Mr. Tall, Dark, and Handsome? (Don’t tell him I said that).

****Photo***

I know this veered off wildly from the science portion of my travels, but I do believe I will have plenty to analyse with you tomorrow. My date is here. (Maybe I shouldn’t call it that?).

Nos Vemos.

[lilacommetoi]

Just read the new Hunter Games ! He is so good, the personality of Coriolanus Snow is very interresting and complexe.

We learn more about the history of the young Snow and the Hunger Games and how he contribue in it. We better understand the construction of the HG. The interregation is about the good and the bad side of humanity, how controle it in a society.

There is a little references about Katniss story but it’s totally different. We find explications about the origins the songs that Katniss sing because of his father.

I recommande a lot, it’s once more for Suzanne Collins a reading with lot of sense.

Did you read it ? And what did you think about it ?

[jiajia-binks]

Process #4

Interview with Ishiguro: https://youtu.be/_jCB59pPG7k

This post isn’t exactly tied to any specific annotations, but I had a lot of thoughts after watching this interview. I thought I would expand on them here (relating to the entire narrative and theme in general), then connect them to specific passages and Ishiguro’s craft in the explication of my essay.

Before reading this book, I expected it to be a classic dystopian novel reminiscent of the Hunger Games, where an oppressed, dehumanized group rises up against a system that is stacked against them. This novel is a departure from the “brave hero” narrative, as Ishiguro explains in the interview. He states that he was “never interested in looking at...brave slaves who rebelled and escaped,” and rather he focuses on “how much we accept what fate has given us.” From this perspective, Never Let Me Go is a social commentary on the extent of obedience and compliance within our society. Not once did Ishiguro hint that Kathy or anybody else had serious intentions to escape from their given roles, even though they were afforded many freedoms to go wherever they pleased. The furthest any of them went were their “dream futures”, or their fantasies of the life they wished they could live. Even then, these dreams remained a fantasy, and no one actually acted on any of their imaginings.

In my annotations, I connected Never Let Me Go with aspects of social psychology, such as the creation of “in-groups” and “out-groups” and how they related to prejudice and discrimination. From this interview, another aspect of social psychology- compliance- is brought into play. Psychologists like Milgram and Asch conducted studies on obedience and compliance in social settings. Milgram’s study concluded that we are especially obedient to those who we perceive as authority figures, and Asch’s study concluded that in group settings, we are likely to go along with an unanimous group even if we know that the group is wrong. In Never Let Me Go, Hailsham’s guardians were the main form of authority that the students looked up to. As well intentioned as they were, they ultimately primed these children to follow the path that was set for them. At multiple points in the story, Ishiguro introduced situations where students did go against the grain, such as Tommy with his antics and Marge with her questions. In each instance, the outsider was punished not by the adults, but by the other children. Not only do we want to fit in a group, but we also punish others who don’t belong.

[general9chaos]

It's funny you say that, because the most recent Siderea post, The Cognitive Load of It All, or the Response Matrix definitely has a tinge of collapse.

On the other hand, it is a taxonomy of what kinds of work need to be done given that our government is collapsing. Yes, there's a hell of a lot of it, more than any one person can keep on top of. That's why there are lots of us. It is fundamentally a call to action, to first put on your own oxygen mask and second to do something, anything in any of these diverse categories. There is too much to be done for any one person to do all of it, so it's important to recognize others who are helping in a different way and let them do their thing while you do yours.

• Self-preservation – issues and activities that have to do with protecting yourself and your loved ones. This can be physical protection, from the threat of violence or hunger or illness or homelessness from destruction of property. It can also be economic protection, such as dealing with job loss, as in the case of federal workers who are being fired are having to deal with how they're going to pay the rent and getting their next employment. It can be financial protection such as moving money and investments to secure them. It can also be psychological protection, such as self-care and addressing mental health issues. It's any activity to protect self and loved ones from the unfolding threats of any type, present and potential.

• Political resistance – activism to attempt to thwart the Trump administration's will and the dismantling of our government. This can be participating in and organizing protests or law suits, calling legislators, or anything that is an activity to try to prevent the bad policy, laws, and changes to government that are being rolled out from fully taking effect, or maybe even stopping them all together. Includes fundraising for the same.

• Rescue efforts – helping other individuals and communities impacted by the bad changes in policy, law, and government. Everything from helping people relocate to safer jurisdictions, to funding medical care for those who can't afford it, to running a food bank, to curating information for people online, to running "know your rights" PSA campaigns, to hiding neighbors from ICE. Includes political activity aimed at making end-runs around new oppressive federal rules and aimed at liberating local resources for the needy. Whether formal or informal, structured or unstructured, any activity to try to help others being harmed.

• Conservation - preserving things – particularly resources, culture, and institutions – from destruction. Mirroring federal websites and data sets, hiding banned books and artworks targeted for destruction, perpetuating banned art forms in secret, protecting threatened endangered species, disguising and hiding organizations so they can continue to function.

• Institutional hardening - what must be done for individuals and families must also be done for businesses and non-profits and informal organizations and even local governments for them to survive in an increasingly hostile environment. This might entail changes of record-keeping or choice of communications medium, to financial practices and business models.

• Cultural work - the work of cultural production – art, celebration, commemoration, explication – that helps the resistance keep up its spirit and remember what it's about. It is, in fact, work: those protest songs don't write themselves. Might look like running a newsletter or making memes or doing explainers on TikTok or making documentaries or putting up posters or throwing a barn dance or, yes, singing protest songs. Or making blog posts about how to manage the cognitive load of responding to the collapse of one's nation. The importance of this work is often underestimated – to our peril. If you think the cultural dimension of political activism is trivial, look to the altright's meme game and think again.

• Caretaking – is the work of looking after other people and after projects, so they can continue to do all the other things they do. It might look like babysitting other activists' kids so they can go to protests or providing friends a shoulder to cry on or sweeping the hall after a meeting or organizing a funeral or cleaning up after a protest. Sometimes the most useful thing you can do for the revolution is make a casserole for the family of someone who is on a picket line or clean up after a protest. This kind of contribution is also often missed entirely or denigrated because it is in indirect support of the aims of resistance. But it's utterly necessary and important. This is the work that makes the work possible.

• Reclamation – the work of taking back the country, rebuilding that which is destroyed or damaged, resecuring democracy, fixing what is broken in our culture. Right now, a lot of this is laying groundwork, including community building and toolsmithing.

Please do read the rest of her post. She's much more eloquent in calling for action than I am.

I feel like "one of the more sane collapse bloggers" says as much as "one of the more sane homeopaths."

that whole idea does sort of assume doomerism as an ethos doesn’t it

[langdons-rep]

Playthings - Part One (Michael Langdon x Dark!Witch reader x Duncan Shepherd)

Plot: you and Michael arrive at Outpost 3 and have the pleasure of getting to know the infamous Duncan Shepherd.

The relationship between reader and Michael here is friendly, but they have the strongest bond and occasionally have sex. They’re basically each other’s only person. Also, there’s not a real encounter between Michael and Duncan in this chapter.

Warnings: mention of smut

-

“Of all the outposts we visited, this is the one that tests me the most.” Michael says while taking off his travel clothes.

You know he’s referring to the structure that once was his old school, and you know how much he despises this place.

You watch him intently before replying, “...which only makes it more fun.”

Michael furrows his brows.

“Fun?” He chuckles.

“Yes. We haven’t really done much apart from killing everyone in every outpost we went to. I say...” you start, walking towards your long haired friend.

He wraps an arm around your back, pulling you on top of him until you’re straddling his waist.

“...I say we are allowed to have a little fun before we do a mass murder and blame it on the cannibals.”

Michael smirks, one of his hands trailing up your thigh and grabbing your ass.

“What do you have in mind?” He continues, breathing on your mouth.

You tilt your head to one side, smiling up at him. Michael swears that if he didn’t know you any better he’d thought you looked like the most innocent human being he has ever seen.

“I don’t know yet, but I’ll figure it out.”

-

“Our names are Langdon and Y/L/N and we represent the cooperative. We won’t sugarcoat the situation, humanity is on the brink of failure. Our arrival here is crucial to the survival of civilized life on Earth.”

Your handsome best friend explains while looking at everyone in the room. He doesn’t give them a second glance, but you— you are an observer, and you take your time to study every being in the dull, dark library of the outpost, until your focus lays on a man who has been watching you intently ever since you entered.

Your gaze meets his curious one, and you can’t help but notice how much his presence stands out— almost as if he doesn’t belong there. You eye him up and down, taking notice of how well the brown curls adorn his face and the way his blue eyes dance over your clothed body. He catches your staring and you can bet he’s thinking that he’s somehow winning you over.

You can totally see what type of person he truly is —or was, in the old world. You look at him and you see a past life full of women and rich parties. You can tell he’s always had everything handed to him, and while your gaze backs up again, you notice how he now has a smirk plastered over his face, while Michael is still talking. You look at the brown-haired man with no expression at all, never returning his silent advances.

Then, it’s your time to talk.

“We were sent to be conducting interviews, separately, to determine if any of you are worthy to join us at the Sanctuary.” You robotically explain, Michael looking at you with a satisfied smile on his face.

“The Cooperative has developed a particular and rigorous questioning technique we like to call cooperating. We will then use the information gained to decide if you belong.” You finish your speech and you can feel Ms. Venable’s confused and, frankly, scared gaze burning into you.

“What is this? The Hunger Games? This is bullshit. I paid my way in here, and that’s the only cooperating I plan on doing.” A blonde woman comments as you turn around to face her, silently killing her with a cold stare.

“You don’t have to sit for questioning.” You tell her, but adressing the whole room.

“What if we don’t?” Another man asks.

You shrug, “Then you stay here and die.”

-

You had just interviewed a grey named Mallory; you sensed her powers ever since you laid your knowing eyes on her. She is strong and, most importantly, she is a witch. Quite different than you, but still a witch. You noted to yourself to keep an eye on her. Even though she is confused about her true identity, surely not acknowledging the fact that she has powers, you know she could be dangerous; especially when you and Michael never had the chance to destroy Cordelia and the few witches she took along with her. You knew that Miss Supreme was still out there, patiently waiting to make her next move in order to end you both, and you imagine that Mallory could easily be a pawn to her game.

You send another grey to call your next interviewed, Duncan Shepherd. You examine his file and realize that he is the man that kept giving you flirty glances while you and Michael were doing your rehearsed speech. You smile while going through the pages, thinking about how accurate you were out there to have such thoughts about his character, because they were all true. In fact, in the old world, he was a rich republican, with a rich family, surrounded by rich women he most surely fucked, not thinking for one second about the consequences of his actions. He was arrested, too. You chuckle to yourself, thinking about how much men like him entertain you. 

The wealthy man enters your office and you give a silent nod to the servant standing by his side; the grey takes the hint and leaves the room right after.

“Please, take a seat.” You explicate, flashing him your most innocent smile. 

This was going to be fun.

He only smirks, and you can’t help but think if he actually can do something else aside from trying to get into women’s panties.

Duncan sits in front of you, looking you up and down while slowly licking his lips.

“What do you want to know?” He asks with a raspy tone.

“Everything that’s not already written on your file. What do you think of the people here?” You ask, not breaking eye contact with him. You lean on your desk chair, your right leg crossing over your left one, and he doesn’t miss the way your black skirt slightly hikes up at the act.

He raises an eyebrow, thinking about an answer that can satisfy your question.

“They are okay, I guess.” He starts but you interrupt him almost instantly.

“Don’t feed me whatever answer you think will do good. I want the truth. I know people like you have a hard time being honest, so if you really want to secure a place into the sanctuary...we’re off to a pretty bad start.” You tell him, finishing your explaining with a stern expression. You can see he’s taken aback at your bravery, him not being used to people talking him down like that.

“People like me? You don’t even know me.” He fires back, sounding offended.

“Then you tell me. Who are you, Mr. Shepherd?”

He looks at you with his brows furrowed, and you survey the slightest trace of irritation on his face.

“I’m Duncan Shepherd. I used to work in my family’s business and— “

You raise a hand, signaling him to stop.

“I told you not to tell me what’s already written on your file.” You clear up, once again.

“Well, I haven’t read my file. I don’t know what the fuck is written on it.” He says sounding impatient, and you swear he can almost beat Michael at being a brat.

You chuckle under your breath and then stand up, circling around your desk and sitting on the edge of it, right in front of him.

He makes sure not to miss any of your movements, entranced by your elegant and composed posture.

“What are you thinking about, right now?” You ask him, completely changing the subject.

“Remember. Honesty.” You remind him.

He opens his mouth, trying to let his thoughts come to life. He closes it right after, realizing how dirty they were. He can’t tell you.

“Cat got your tongue?” You insist, crossing your arms over your chest.

He leans forward, clasping his hands together while his elbows rest on his muscular thighs.

His eyes still locked on yours. You don’t falter one second under his burning gaze, and he’s turned on by how much power and control you hold in yourself.

“You really want to know what I’m thinking of, right now?” He inquires, and you notice how his voice got a tone lower, almost as if he’s whispering to you.

Duncan’s trying so hard to break you, to get under your skin, to have any reaction from you; he is not used to being so overpowered, especially by a woman.

You simply nod, unbothered by his actions — which only angries him more.

“I’m thinking of bending you over this desk, spread those luscious legs of yours and fuck that smug smile you wear so proudly off your face.” He says, and you grin, satisfied with his answer.

“You wanted honesty? You got it.” He continues, standing up and coming close to you. You watch his every move, your arms still crossed and your grimace still very present on your face.

He studies you for a moment, trying to read your face. He positions both of his hands on the desk behind you, his toned body now pressed to yours. Duncan ghosts his lips over your cheek and you can feel his beard tickling your skin. You tilt your head to one side, letting him believe that he could have access to your neck. He takes the hint, and he licks a stripe from your throat up to your jawline, stopping at your ear.

“Cat got your tongue?” He mocks you, biting your lobe. 

He really thinks he’s in control of this.

You chuckle, your hand going straight to his hair, gripping it with the right amount of pressure until his face is up to yours again. He groans at the gesture, and looks at you as if you are the most delicious creature in the world.

Your mouth touches his just barely, his eyes locked on your inviting lips. Then you inch even closer, so close you can feel his growing erection through his victorian trousers and his hot breath hitting on your face.

“Your interview is over.” You tell him, getting out of his grip as he watches you all dizzy and confused.

“What the fuck?” He asks, almost too loud.

“I said, your interview’s over. You can leave now.” You repeat, giving him your back to open the door of your office and inviting him to get out of the room.

He blinks a few times, the lust in his eyes now being replaced by a fiery anger. He walks up to the doors and proceeds to exit, not before exhaling a defiant “fuck you” on your face. You grin, thinking that this was the exact effect you wanted to put him through.

“It was a pleasure, Mr.Shepherd.”

[randomnessunicorn-imagine]

👿 Cuphead Fanfiction:  Infernal Redemption [Part Four] 👿

{ Hello! This is the “Devil Ending” because this fanfict will have two different endings. This ending is very similar to the game’s, I guess, don’t know if it’s a spoiler, I don’t think-- The next chapter will be the “King Dice’s ending” but for now, enjoy this chapter! It’s been very difficult because I had no inspiration but I hope it will be good enough— This ending and the next one are separated and they both follow the third chapter. }

Pairing: The Devil x Neutral! Reader x King Dice Rating: Red ( Violence and harsh contents )

>>> First part <<<

>>> Second part <<<

>>> Third Part <<< 

🌋 : Devil’s Ending : 🌋

How many days passed? Nobody knew it.

There were no clocks in this cell, there was no light, and nothing at all. There was only solitude and decay. You waited for the Devil to come back to torture you again because this game had no end.

The Devil wanted to play with you and you were his favourite toy. The feeling he felt toward you was confused. Something as violent and passionate as a crime. A strong emotion of cruelty and suffering. Somehow, it satisfied your thirst because that suffering was not painful but familiar. As if it was a déjà-vu. Something you have already lived in a distant past, it gave you a sentiment of nostalgia. You had already felt this feeling before and old memories crossed the vast land of your mind.

The Devil was not a gentle man, and he was not like that person. He was not like your old husband, but something of the Devil reminded you of him. Because the relationship you had with your old lover was unlike any other. It was as tender as the smile of a child but also as morbid as the madness of the world. It was as loving as hug shared between two young lovers but it was also as violent as the blood of the innocent ones. It was everything you had always wanted. It was everything and nothing.

In the Devil, you saw his dark side, because nobody in the world was perfect and those feelings came back to life. Only now, you were realizing it and you did not understand. A dormant desire. You have been asleep this whole time and maybe the Devil’s whip has woken you up.

Being imprisoned here has allowed your mind to think and rediscover the person you were in your past. The person you had forgotten but it was still alive. This brutal experience has allowed you to look into your spirit. You have realized that you were so busy despising the world around you and filling your hunger that you forgot there could be a future for you. One chance. A chance that someone wanted to give you. Someone was coming, accompanied by his irreverence and cruelty. He.

The same air became stinking and gloomy, everything smelled of death and despair. Your soul was rotting and no awareness could change this fact. Your hunger came back and this made you vulnerable and irritable. It would never have subsided, there was no way, even when you satisfied it, it came back and you fell into the abyss.

This time the Devil wanted to make a deal with you, but this was his job. He was resolute and his sneer showed no insecurities.

You were sitting on the frozen floor, with your back against the wall. You were not tied up anymore but you were motionless and waited for him to tell his speech.

He could not read your mind but he wanted it but then maybe it would not have been so fun. He loved the mystery, and he wanted to play with you. You were not a docile and quiet animal and this excited him even more.

It seemed the Devil was puked out of the darkness as if he jumped out of nowhere. You did not hear any sound. He appeared before your eyes and you stared at him coldly.

His glance was cruel but he did not speak and he stood still, admiring you as if you were a sort of masterpiece in a museum. Something was different. His eyes were psychopathic but also very cold and for the first time a feeling of fear crossed your spine but this fear was not irritating but relaxing. A feeling you had already felt before.

You had anything to be afraid because he took his decision. Only the best for you.

“Oh, look who’s here! My favourite prisoner!” he said, grinning.

You had anything to say and you kept observing his moves as if you were a deer who was about to run away from the hunter but you were trapped and there was no way out.

The Devil lit his cigar and it was the first time you saw him smoking since he usually came here to torture you, it was another method to relieve his stress. Maybe he was waiting for you to speak but you had nothing to say.

Now he seemed more relaxed and even his eyes did not manifest any anger and his expression was calmer but you could understand something in his behaviour was wrong. The Devil was confused and irritated and his mind was tormented by a dilemma. You were that dilemma. He hated not being in control even if he was the one in control here but the feelings he felt were so fascinating and annoying.  

“What do you want now?” you said with a disgusted tone.

“Oh, you’re very impertinent, that’s not the proper way to treat a visitor.” he said pretending to be offended.

“Oh, really? I thought you like my impertinence.” and then his eyes went wide and his mind kept pulsing with rage and confusion.

Yes, he loved your impertinence and bad behaviour and he also loved torturing you but he did not want to kill you and this was something that never happened because he always killed his prey. He was a very capricious and fickle man and he got easily tired of people because they were boring. Humans were strange but they had no appeal on him. They were like pets for him, toys to play until he decided to broke them because he was just a spoiled child and nothing satisfied him.  

This time was different because you were a toy he cared about and he did not want to break you and, for this reason, he asked to Dice to heal you so he could play with you for the rest of the eternity but this was not enough for him. It was not only a mere whim but something else he did not want to accept and his mind kept refusing because it was absurd and scare. It was a sort of affection but not a normal affection. It was a desire of possession, like an obsession, something sick and primordial because he was unable to feel love for someone. His heart –even if he did not possess a heart- was not capable to feel pure love. As if he was cursed or he could be considered as a sort of invalid and this made him insensitive to certain feelings and these feelings became something else. The other side of a coin because he did not hate you but he was obsessed and he wanted you to be his and only his. He loved hearing your screams and seeing the pain in your eyes and he was never tired of it. He still controlled himself and he never overcame the limits because human beings were fragile and he did not desire to kill you.

He knew you felt the same for him but you have not already realized it because you were like him, he understood, and you liked all of this. You wanted more and you were as sick as he was.

“Yes, I may like your impertinence, but I also hate your stubbornness because you keep on misbehaving. You love making me angry. It’s not right!” he said and his voice was harsh and he wanted to scare you.

“Nothing is right here!” you were truly stubborn as he said, and this behaviour made him angrier and then, with his flaming tail, he hit the wall behind you. You made no sound. You stood still, staring in his yellow eyes.

“Yes, anything is right here! It’s hell, are you stupid?” he growled like a dog.

“Yes, maybe I’m stupid because I still don’t understand why you have locked me here.” your eyes were colder than ice and he liked it. Then you said, “Why didn’t you kill me? Since it’s hell, I should burn like the others but I’m still here. I’m not dead and it makes no sense!”

Everything made no sense and you should not have been alive now. You have been tortured as a slave but then he asked to his right hand man to heal you. This was illogic. There was no explication for this but the Devil was lying on himself because there was an explication. He was attracted to you; this unconscious and unpleasant feeling was tormenting him. It was not love but a sick sentiment but it was something he has never felt for anyone else.

This dilemma was driving you crazy and you started laughing as if it was the most hilarious show of the existence. You laughed and laughed harder, until your throat hurt.

The Devil did not understand and he felt humiliated, he was mad, because you were laughing at him. Actually, your laugh was a liberation because you were exhausted and confused. This situation was surreal and nonsense. Laughing was a sort of vent for you. He was a mystery and you were a mystery for him. This was madness. You fell into the Rabbit Hole and now you were gone mad. This was the dark side of Wonderland. Because you fell into the abyss. The abyss of your mind.

“Stop! Don’t laugh!” and the Devil hit you with his tail, because he was pissed.

You crashed to the ground and the pain flowed through your veins. You found yourself as if you woke up from a horrible nightmare but you were living a nightmare.

Then a macabre silence invaded the room because you have not spoken and he was still staring you with his flaming eyes.

“I wanted to free your soul and it’s your answer! If you care so much to burn, then I will make your wish come true!” his eyes became two flames and he was furious.

Suddenly the ground started shaking and the walls were about to fall. He created an earthquake and a big chasm was created under your feet but you were agile enough to jump and run away. You did not fall in that abyss of desperation and death.

You heard screams. They were the suffering voices that came from the underworld. From the flames of hell. They were the cries of the damned who were invoking pity and would burn for the rest of eternity.

You stood up, watching the emptiness below you. Your mind was filled with those suffering yells.

The Devil smiled diabolically, because this scene amused him. He loved observing suffering people, especially the cries of sinners who deserved their fate. They deserved to burn.

After that, he looked at you, speaking, "Do you see them? Do you perceive their agony? Their fear? They will burn for the rest of eternity. Do you want the same? Do you want to burn? I admit it would be a shame since you have not yet lived your young life but I would be so kind to realize your desire.” The Devil grinned sadistically.

His voice was rough and warm, a voice that was able to hurt like a knife, but you did not know what to answer. You did not want to burn.

He also said he wanted to free your soul, but what did he mean?

"No, I do not want to! What did you mean by freeing my soul?” You asked, coldly.

"So you listen to me. You're smarter than you think. I intend to free your soul from the pain that keeps tormenting it. I think you know what kind of pain I'm talking about. Your soul is crying, from the first moment I understood it was sick. And very unsatisfied”.

It was true. Your hunger, the demon that haunted you, made your soul burn like one of those sinners.

“Really? And how?” you said without thinking and you did not want to appear like a desperate but the Devil grinned and desperation was what his ears heard. A sweet sound he loved hearing.

“Yes. For freeing your poor soul all you’ve to do is to give it to me!” and he extended his hand to you as if he wanted to shake it to make a deal but you did not grab it.

“So I will end like them?” you asked, pointing his attention to those poor sinners.

“No, if you cooperate!” he said, grinning.

“By cooperate you mean sell my soul to you, but it would be the same.” You answered, confused.

“No, silly! You’ll be healed, I’ve noticed in your eyes, you hid something you can’t say me, but your soul is clear and it feels pain. It’s sick. You won’t feel that pressure anymore without it.” he explained, getting closer to you as his eyes became more yellow.

“What about me? What would I be? I won’t be a human anymore.” You asked, perplexed. Actually, you were only confused but it was true. Your only desired was to get rid of this ravenous hunger. You did not care about it or the creature you would become because you have never felt like a human. You have always thought to be different from everybody else. Yours was curiosity and you felt no fear as he came closer and your bodies almost touched.

“No, but you’ve never been human, haven’t you?” he grinned, laughing softly.

It was as if he was reading your mind but he did not possess this power. Maybe he just understood you because he was like you. Even the Devil possessed a hunger that made him never satisfied. This was a hunger for guts, blood and violence and it was never enough for him. Maybe he saw himself in you and he perceived a sort of pity or compassion.

“Then…?” you said in a whisper as you stared into his yellow orbs that shined as two flames in the night.

“Then you’ll be mine… Until the end of time…” and he spoke quietly as he placed his big hand on your cheek and he caressed you. His gesture was strangely delicate and soft. It was not him and maybe he was pretending to be kind to tempt you. You knew but you did anything to stop him. You could not do anything anyway.

“Eh?” you murmured.

“Yes, it’s the reason I kept you alive, because you’re not like the others. You’re a monster inside just like me. We’re very similar. You’re like a beast who is unable to satiate its hunger because you want more and more. It’s never enough. You’re a caged beast because this world imprisons you. Thanks to me, you’ll discover your true nature and anything will be forbidden no more.”

He wanted you to become his slave for eternity even though this was not the appropriate word to define it. In a sense, he estimated you but his was not love. You were not looking for love or compassion, but you wanted to free yourself from the torture that afflicted you every day.

You were not attached to this earthly world and you considered humanity as inept and useless. You did not want to be part of that humanity. Since your husband has gone, everything has lost its meaning and perhaps the Devil wanted to give you a new meaning.

You had nothing to lose and even your soul betrayed you, because it was like a disease. Your soul was like a tumour, it was destroying your life, but this tumour could be exported and you could heal.

"I'm tired ... Everything is so heavy ..." you whispered and your life was a weight on your shoulders even though it was empty.

You were like a black hole to fill. You needed to suck the light of others to live.

Yes, you two were identical and you had no choice but to join him.

"Deal? Here you will be free to do whatever you want without limitation, with no one to judge or torment you. Everyone wants this but no one would ever admit it ..." he said proudly.

"So, take my soul." your tone was cold and austere.

You did not manifest any emotion. Maybe you were a little sceptical but you decided to do it.

By now, you had become completely crazy and if you had to fall, you had to do it with style. Fall to the bottom. Without inhibitions.

He smiled maliciously and then everything went dark.

This place and he disappeared. You disappeared.

You did not feel anything anymore. As if you were floating in the void of boundless space. Just like a black hole. You were nothing. You did not feel anything.

No hunger. No desire. No fear. No pleasure. No pain.

Nothing. And this was heaven.

You were like an inert body floating in cosmic space.

It was what you wanted. Do not feel anything.

The void embraced your body and you just slept without caring at all.

Your soul was gone and with it, even your inner demon vanished. You were that demon now. You defeated it and you were victorious.

Feeling no emotion was fulfilling but also contradictory.

Actually, you were still the same person but you were freer and more conscious of yourself because that monster was your handicap and it blocked you but now it was vanished.

Without your soul, you could not be considered a human, and not even a living thing. You were like a dead person since you donated your soul to the Devil so you were designed to live in Hell for the rest of eternity and it could not be more wonderful than this. Because it was what you wanted and what you searched for. The eternal damnation. A redemption in this infernal place. You understood.

*

*

*

  “How do you feel now?” a harsh voice you knew spoke and you came back to reality. If it was reality.

“I don’t feel…” you spoke and for the first time you were surprised and you did not hide your stupor.

“Yes, it’s like heaven, don’t you think?” he said with irony and then he laughed hard.

“It’s weird…But marvellous at the same time.” you answered and then you looked around and the place was different. You were not in that dark cell anymore. In front of you, the Devil seated on his throne and everything was surrounded by flames and death. You were at his home now. This was your new home.

“You’re welcome… Make yourself at home.” he said and he kept laughing.

You did not know what this fate would give you but now you were fulfilled.

Even the Devil seemed more reassured and satisfied. His hunger healed, after he devoured your soul he felt better. Maybe he was waiting for someone like you until now but he has never found it. He did not even know. He seemed so different now but he could not stay calm forever.

Your life was restored but now you had to spend time in some other ways and the ideas of watching those poor sinners burning triggered your mind. As if you would find a sort of pleasure in it. You wanted to see them suffering and laugh of their agony. A sadistic desire took place where once was your heart. In the place where your soul was, now there was a hole, the darkness, a void but it did not hurt and it was comfortable because you were finally in control.

Your dark side took control and even your consciousness and all the good that there was in you vanished. You became evil because this was the place of evil. There was no time for hope, dreams, kindness, or benevolence.

You were not born to burn but to watch them burning because you have suffered until now, during your pathetic human existence and this was time to take your revenge against all the ones who have judged you or insulted you for your diversity. The day of reckoning has come.

“I like the light in your eyes. You’re finally free, congrats.” said the Devil and in his voice you found a sort of comfort that you did not expect.

Maybe he was trying to be truly nice for once in his life but you did not perceive lies in his words.

“Yes, thanks. I feel a total new person, it was right. That disease was killing me slowly and my soul was just an obstacle for my true nature. I feel alive, brand new.” Even your expression was brighter as if you discovered a part of you that you did not know but it has always been there.

“I’m glad to hear it, let me be your guide. I’ll show you the wonders and magical things this place hide.” then he stood up of his throne and he extended his hand to you in a gallant way you did not expect from him. He appeared as a bad-tempered person but he knew how to be a gentleman –when he wanted-.

You grabbed his hand you followed him.

You just nodded and a new curiosity invaded your mind. Because so many things were waiting for you.

This was only the beginning of your brand new life.

[ FIFTH PART ]

[shut-the-hell-your-meowth]

Its lent and I've given up video games for yet another year, among other things, and I forgot from last year that a week and a half in there is an explicable gnawing hunger to play literally any game I own, and an actual emptiness that feels almost embarrassing because like... its gaming.

[lookserratic]

It puts me in mind of The Hunger Games, where in book 1 you get this whole totalitarian dystopia which is compelling while the child battle royale is ongoing, but by the end you’re like “Is anyone doing anything about this?” And then in later books you find out that Katniss just didn’t personally know about the resistance, and the third person limited narrator gave the reader only Katniss’ perspective.

Gideon and Harrow spent their lives in a community where they were the only children and the next oldest person had a few decades on them. Every person who possibly could found a way off planet, leaving both of them surrounded by diehard Ninth elders. Probably not a ton of organized resistance among the adults, who would have controlled what cultural information filtered to the girls, at least as kids. The narration of GtN and HtN is (mostly) limited to Gideon’s and Harrow’s perspectives so we as readers haven’t heard anything explicit about an in-system resistance movement.

I think some of the sort of inexplicable (“I just have to explic-it!”) things with Wake and whatever the heck Cam and Pal are up to in general as well as with Judith and Coronabeth will lead us to more info about in-system resistance movements in Alecto.

So, the Nine Houses have been at war (some kind of expansion war?) for thousand of years, and not even the Lyctors know the real reason behind it. Although we don’t know much of the Empire history and politics, it’s apparently common for people to join the Cohort and, you know, die in combat.

If so, what are the chances of the existence of pacifist movements among the Houses? I know that the Empire is a theocratic State, and they see the Emperor as their God and Savior and everything, but still. It seems kind of improvable (at least for me) that absolutely everyone in the Dominicus System is ok with this never ending war. Especially in planets such as the Fourth House where there’s a strong military culture and its citizens often die in the battlefield (or, putting it with other words, it’s common to lose familiars, friends and significant others because of war). How far can blind devotion go?

Again, could there be groups/movements against these wars (or even against the Emperor) inside of the Nine Houses? Could they somehow be working alongside BOE?

(not a theory, just some thoughts)

[steklir]

I was wondering, when did Lexa fall in love/realised she fell in love with Clarke? #MWtW

♥ 

I kind of see it as having two parts, similar to Clarke. Clarke had that big ‘aha’ /oh shit I’m totally gay/ moment when Lexa answered her door in ch6, the realisation that she’s (sexually) attracted to Lexa. Lexa’s equivalent to that moment was on the coach trip to the lacrosse game in ch8, when Clarke fell asleep on her shoulder (I have a little drabble from Lexa’s POV here). It’s not exactly the same though, because Lexa knew she was attracted to Clarke from the first time she saw her—that moment on the coach is her recognizing that she can’t push those feelings down any longer. 

The other moment is the labelling of love, something I have many opinions on irl, possibly best explicated in Clarke’s overly-dramatic inner monologue in ch12 (starting with ...It’s no realisation—not really.) Love has so many components, not all of which are sexual in nature, and I think for both Lexa and Clarke, it was a long, continuous process without clear boundaries for awhile. 

It’s not until they conceptualize that love being paired with sexual attraction (and that same old word ‘love’ actually takes on a whole new meaning) that things really begin to accelerate. It happens for Clarke in ch12 (It’s that old familiar security-blanket love mixed with something else, something that burns, that aches and craves, that urges and hungers and gasps for more even as it remains insatiable) but I don’t think Lexa allows herself to think that way until sometime during the dance at Dominicus. Probably about the time that they’re dancing alone in the hallway (“I just want you. Okay?” Clarke asks in a whisper. She receives only a nod in response but Lexa’s eyes are cavernous and unguarded for several glory-filled seconds)