#the hunger games desired reality

[jadeshifting]

— SO, YOU WANNA SHIFT TO THE HUNGER GAMES? ( no judgement, just ideas )

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you find yourself captivated by the fierce competitors, the raw survival skills, and the thrill of the Games—but you’re not here for the trauma or the soul-crushing political weight of the Capitol. you want to shift into the arena as a competitor, but you’re not particularly excited by the idea of killing or experiencing the emotional scars of the Games (hopefully.) you just want the vibes of it all. anyway, i’m gonna ramble about some safe, exciting, and less intense ways to dive into this reality

SAFEGUARDS FOR THE ARENA ( no one wants to die in the first five minutes—or at all )

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first and foremost, if you’re going to be a competitor in the Games, you need a solid shield to make sure you can actually survive without getting too hurt—physically or emotionally. let’s make sure you can have the experience of being in the arena without the real risk

.　　. 　 ˚　. non-violent approach. script that you’re a survivor in the Games, not a fighter. either you’re protecting others, or just outlasting everyone, but not killing. your weapons could be more about defense—you use a shield, traps, or stealth to protect yourself without ever needing to engage in direct combat

.　　. 　 ˚　. immune from fatal injury. this is your script, and you don’t have to die in the arena. script that no matter what happens, you can’t be seriously injured or killed. you’re immune to lethal attacks, or your injuries heal incredibly fast. you’re invincible, in the sense that you’ll never meet a tragic end during the Games

.　　. 　 ˚　. no fatal hits. any lethal blows or attacks are automatically deflected or blocked—whether by some unseen protective power or just sheer willpower, the important part is that you can never actually kill another contestant

.　　. 　 ˚　. non-violent encounters. you can script that, coincidentally, any encounters you have in the Games are strictly non-violent. you might have to face other competitors, but these interactions can be in the form of alliances, strategic plays, or even just passive avoidance. you certainly don’t need to kill anyone

YOUR DAY-TO-DAY IN THE ARENA ( so you’re prepared, not overwhelmed )

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being a competitor in the Hunger Games is a big deal, and it’s important to understand what life will look like in the arena without having your mind explode over the chaos. you’re stepping into a world of survival, but you can make it a lot less intense by scripting the day-to-day experience in a way that’s more manageable, and less heavy

LIFE BEFORE THE ARENA: TRAINING & PREP

.　　. 　 ˚　. prep period. before the Games start, make sure you get plenty of training time and preparation. you’re not going to be thrown into the chaos without some confidence in your abilities. training is mostly about learning survival skills, but you could also script camaraderie, forming alliances, and other semi-positive interactions with other tributes during prep

.　　. 　 ˚　. skills you actually enjoy. maybe you love archery, or you’re great at crafting. choose skills that make you feel empowered rather than terrified. you don’t have to just script being great with a weapon—you can script that you have unique abilities that set you apart, like building traps, reading the environment, or surviving using cleverness and wit ( which also happen to be non-violent and less stressful, by the way )

LIFE IN THE ARENA

.　　. 　 ˚　. less violent challenges. not all of the challenges of the Games have to be focused on physical combat. you can script periods of challenge that test the tributes on survival skills or problem-solving instead of being forced into deadly combat. for example, the Gamemakers could test you on endurance, mental agility, or resourcefulness, where the goal is simply to outsmart the arena rather than outfight it

.　　. 　 ˚　. alliances. while alliances can be a tricky thing in the Hunger Games, you can script the arena to be slightly more cooperative. you could form something close to a “team” that helps each other with food, water, and shelter. this would also subside the isolation of the Games, so they aren’t an on-sight bloodbath at every second

THE LITTLE DETAILS

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.　　. 　 ˚　. the scent of freshly baked bread wafts through the district’s square every morning, a fragrance most people enjoy, even when most people can’t afford it

.　　. 　 ˚　. your favorite mug has a single shallow crack running down the center of it, and there’s a thin ribbon tied around the handle

.　　. 　 ˚　. you wear a tiny locket with a single pressed flower inside—the only one of those flowers you’ve ever seen, which is why you had to preserve it

.　　. 　 ˚　. the chill of early morning fog clings to your skin every morning as you walk down the street and hug your jacket around you

.　　. 　 ˚　. you have a faint scar on your wrist from when you fell as a kid, while climbing a fence. that was before you truly understood fear

.　　. 　 ˚　. a patchwork quilt is draped over your bed, made of squares of tattered pastel fabric stitched together

.　　. 　 ˚　. you have a pocketknife that was gifted to you by a childhood mentor, with a smooth wooden handle. you always keep it tucked in your boot, just in case

.　　. 　 ˚　. there’s a small patch of weedy powder blue wildflowers that grows just outside the fence near your home. you look at it every day and think about what you’d do if/when you pick them

.　　. 　 ˚　. you keep a single golden coin in your pocket, that you never spend. it’s a superstition from your grandparents, it’s supposed to bring you luck

shifting to the Hunger Games universe as a competitor doesn’t have to mean subjecting yourself to violence, trauma, or the emotional weight of the Games. by scripting safeguards that keep you safe, adjusting the challenges to be more about skill and intelligence than bloodshed, and adjusting the world just enough that the Capitol isn’t a crushing force, you can enjoy the thrill of the Hunger Games without all of the stress

so go ahead, shift into the arena, and compete in the the Games—on your terms. you’re the one holding the script, after all. happy shifting :^)

[solstices-dreams]

scripting is limitless and it’s my dr so yes, my aunt does keep a bunch of stray herding dogs and yes I do get to hang out with them

[tarasmithshifts]

april is my month y’all

better be ready because I WILL SHIFT 😋

[turnbacktomorrow]

I scripted Gale Hawthorne out of my Hunger Games dr because I just hate him so much. The Prim Reaper will not participate in my manic pixie dream world.

[shifting-is-for-hot-girls]

𝕊𝕠𝕟𝕘𝕤 𝕋𝕠 𝔹𝕒𝕤𝕖 𝕊𝕔𝕖𝕟𝕒𝕣𝕚𝕠𝕤 𝔸𝕣𝕠𝕦𝕟𝕕 ~ 1

𝓣𝓱𝓮 𝓐𝓵𝓬𝓱𝓮𝓶𝔂 ~ 𝓣𝓪𝔂𝓵𝓸𝓻 𝓢𝔀𝓲𝓯𝓽 𝓉𝒽𝒾𝓈 𝓈𝒸𝑒𝓃𝒶𝓇𝒾𝑜 𝓌𝑜𝓊𝓁𝒹 𝒷𝑒 𝓇𝑒𝒶𝓁𝓁𝓎 𝑔𝑜𝑜𝒹 𝒻𝑜𝓇 𝐹𝒶𝓂𝑒 𝓈𝑜𝓇𝓉𝓈 𝑜𝒻 𝒟𝑅 𝓌𝒽𝑒𝓇𝑒 𝓎𝑜𝓊 𝑜𝓇 𝓎𝑜𝓊𝓇 𝓈𝒾𝑔𝓃𝒾𝒻𝒾𝒸𝒶𝓃𝓉 𝑜𝓉𝒽𝑒𝓇 𝓌𝒾𝓃 𝒶𝓌𝒶𝓇𝒹𝓈. 𝐼𝓂𝒶𝑔𝒾𝓃𝑒 𝒾𝓉 𝓀𝒾𝓃𝒹 𝑜𝒻 𝓁𝒾𝓀𝑒 𝒶𝓃 𝑒𝒹𝒾𝓉, 𝓌𝒽𝑒𝓇𝑒 𝓌𝒽𝑒𝓃 𝓎𝑜𝓊𝓇 𝓃𝒶𝓂𝑒 𝑜𝓇 𝓉𝒽𝑒𝒾𝓇 𝓃𝒶𝓂𝑒 𝒾𝓈 𝒸𝒶𝓁𝓁𝑒𝒹 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝒻𝒾𝓇𝓈𝓉 𝓅𝑒𝓇𝓈𝑜𝓃 𝓉𝒽𝒶𝓉 𝒾𝓈 𝓁𝑜𝑜𝓀𝑒𝒹 𝒶𝓉 𝒾𝓈 𝓉𝒽𝒶𝓉 𝓅𝑒𝓇𝓈𝑜𝓃, 𝒽𝑜𝓌 𝓉𝒽𝒶𝓉'𝓈 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝑜𝓃𝓁𝓎 𝓅𝑒𝓇𝓈𝑜𝓃 𝓌𝒽𝑜 𝓂𝒶𝓉𝓉𝑒𝓇𝓈 𝒾𝓃 𝓉𝒽𝒶𝓉 𝓂𝑜𝓂𝑒𝓃𝓉 𝒷𝑒𝒸𝒶𝓊𝓈𝑒 𝑜𝒻 𝒽𝑜𝓌 𝓅𝓇𝑜𝓊𝒹 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝓅𝑒𝓇𝓈𝑜𝓃 𝒾𝓈.

𝓜𝓐𝓨𝓑𝓔 ~ 𝓖𝓪𝓫𝓻𝓲𝓮𝓵𝓵𝓪 𝓑𝓮𝓮 𝓉𝒽𝒾𝓈 𝓈𝒸𝑒𝓃𝒶𝓇𝒾𝑜 𝓌𝑜𝓊𝓁𝒹 𝒷𝑒 𝓇𝑒𝒶𝓁𝓁𝓎 𝒸𝓊𝓉𝑒 𝒷𝑒𝓉𝓌𝑒𝑒𝓃 𝓎𝑜𝓊 𝒶𝓃𝒹 𝓎𝑜𝓊𝓇 𝒷𝑒𝓈𝓉 𝒻𝓇𝒾𝑒𝓃𝒹 𝒾𝓃 𝒜𝒩𝒴 𝒟𝑅 𝑒𝓈𝓅𝑒𝒸𝒾𝒶𝓁𝓁𝓎 𝒾𝒻 𝓉𝒽𝑒𝓇𝑒'𝓈 𝒶 𝓇𝑜𝓊𝑔𝒽 𝓅𝒶𝓉𝒸𝒽 𝒷𝑒𝓉𝓌𝑒𝑒𝓃 𝓎𝑜𝓊 𝓉𝓌𝑜, 𝒷𝑒𝒸𝒶𝓊𝓈𝑒 𝐼 𝓀𝓃𝑜𝓌 𝓅𝑒𝓇𝓈𝑜𝓃𝒶𝓁𝓁𝓎 𝐼 𝓁𝑜𝓋𝑒 𝓉𝑜 𝓂𝒶𝓀𝑒 𝓂𝓎 𝒟𝑅'𝓈 𝒶𝓈 𝓇𝑒𝒶𝓁𝒾𝓈𝓉𝒾𝒸 𝒶𝓈 𝓅𝑜𝓈𝓈𝒾𝒷𝓁𝑒. 𝒯𝒽𝒾𝓈 𝓈𝑜𝓃𝑔 𝒷𝓇𝒾𝓃𝑔𝓈 𝑜𝓊𝓉 𝓈𝑜 𝓂𝓊𝒸𝒽 𝑒𝓂𝑜𝓉𝒾𝑜𝓃 𝒶𝓃𝒹 𝓉𝒽𝒾𝓃𝓀𝒾𝓃𝑔 𝑜𝒻 𝒶 𝓌𝒶𝓎 𝓉𝑜 𝒾𝓃𝒸𝑜𝓇𝓅𝑜𝓇𝒶𝓉𝑒 𝒾𝓉 𝒾𝓃𝓉𝑜 𝒶 𝓈𝒸𝑒𝓃𝒶𝓇𝒾𝑜 𝓌𝑜𝓊𝓁𝒹 𝒷𝑒 𝓇𝑒𝒶𝓁𝓁𝓎 𝒸𝓊𝓉𝑒

𝓕𝓻𝓪𝓷𝓬𝓮𝓼𝓬𝓪 ~ 𝓗𝓸𝔃𝓲𝓮𝓻 𝐼𝒻 𝒶𝓃𝓎 𝑜𝒻 𝓎𝑜𝓊 𝒽𝒶𝓋𝑒 𝒽𝓊𝓃𝑔𝑒𝓇 𝑔𝒶𝓂𝑒𝓈 𝑒𝓈𝒸 𝒟𝑅'𝓈 𝓉𝒽𝒾𝓈 𝓈𝑜𝓃𝑔 𝓌𝑜𝓊𝓁𝒹 𝒷𝑒 𝒜𝑀𝒜𝒵𝐼𝒩𝒢 𝓉𝑜 𝒷𝒶𝓈𝑒 𝒶 𝓈𝒸𝑒𝓃𝒶𝓇𝒾𝑜 𝒶𝓇𝑜𝓊𝓃𝒹 𝐸𝒮𝒫𝐸𝒞𝐼𝒜𝐿𝐿𝒴 𝒾𝒻 𝓎𝑜𝓊 𝒽𝒶𝓋𝑒 𝒶 𝑒𝓋𝑒𝓇𝓁𝒶𝓇𝓀 𝓉𝓎𝓅𝑒 𝑜𝒻 𝓇𝑒𝓁𝒶𝓉𝒾𝑜𝓃𝓈𝒽𝒾𝓅 𝓌𝒾𝓉𝒽 𝓎𝑜𝓊𝓇 𝓈𝒾𝑔𝓃𝒾𝒻𝒾𝒸𝒶𝓃𝓉 𝑜𝓉𝒽𝑒𝓇. 𝒪𝑅 𝒾𝒻 𝓎𝑜𝓊 𝒽𝒶𝓋𝑒 𝒶 𝐻𝑜𝑔𝓌𝒶𝓇𝓉𝓈 𝒟𝑅 𝒶𝓃𝒹 𝓎𝑜𝓊 𝒹𝑒𝒸𝒾𝒹𝑒 𝓉𝑜 𝑔𝑜 𝓉𝒽𝓇𝑜𝓊𝑔𝒽 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝒷𝒶𝓉𝓉𝓁𝑒 𝒪𝒻 𝐻𝑜𝑔𝓌𝒶𝓇𝓉𝓈, 𝓉𝒽𝒾𝓈 𝓈𝑜𝓃𝑔 𝓌𝑜𝓊𝓁𝒹 𝒶𝓁𝓈𝑜 𝒷𝑒 𝒶𝓃 𝒶𝓂𝒶𝓏𝒾𝓃𝑔 𝓈𝑜𝓃𝑔 𝓉𝑜 𝒷𝒶𝓈𝑒 𝒶 𝓈𝒸𝑒𝓃𝒶𝓇𝒾𝑜 𝒶𝓇𝑜𝓊𝓃𝒹

𝓕𝓤𝓝𝓔𝓡𝓐𝓛 𝓖𝓡𝓔𝓨 ~ 𝓦𝓪𝓽𝓮𝓻𝓹𝓪𝓻𝓴𝓼 𝓉𝒽𝒾𝓈 𝓈𝑜𝓃𝑔 𝓌𝑜𝓊𝓁𝒹 𝒷𝑒 𝒶 𝑔𝑜𝑜𝒹 𝓌𝒶𝓎 𝓉𝑜 𝒷𝒶𝓈𝑒 𝒶 𝓈𝒸𝑒𝓃𝒶𝓇𝒾𝑜 𝒶𝒷𝑜𝓊𝓉 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝒻𝓁𝒾𝓇𝓉𝒶𝓉𝒾𝑜𝓊𝓈 𝓅𝑒𝓇𝒾𝑜𝒹 𝒾𝓃 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝑒𝓃𝑒𝓂𝒾𝑒𝓈 𝓉𝑜 𝓁𝑜𝓋𝑒𝓇𝓈 𝒶𝓇𝒸 𝑜𝒻 𝒶 𝓇𝑒𝓁𝒶𝓉𝒾𝑜𝓃𝓈𝒽𝒾𝓅, 𝓃𝑜 𝓂𝒶𝓉𝓉𝑒𝓇 𝓌𝒽𝒶𝓉 𝒟𝑅 𝓎𝑜𝓊 𝒽𝒶𝓋𝑒, 𝑒𝓈𝓅𝑒𝒸𝒾𝒶𝓁𝓁𝓎 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝓁𝓎𝓇𝒾𝒸 "𝒾 𝓀𝓃𝑜𝓌 𝓎𝑜𝓊𝓇 𝒹𝓎𝒾𝓃𝑔 𝓌𝒾𝓈𝒽 𝒾𝓈 𝓉𝑜 𝒷𝑒 𝒷𝒶𝓅𝓉𝒾𝓏𝑒𝒹 𝒾𝓃 𝓂𝓎 𝓈𝓅𝒾𝓉" 𝒾𝒻 𝓎𝑜𝓊 𝓌𝒶𝓃𝓉 𝓎𝑜𝓊𝓇 𝓈𝒸𝑒𝓃𝒶𝓇𝒾𝑜 𝓉𝑜 𝒷𝑒 𝒶 𝓁𝒾𝓉𝓉𝓁𝑒 𝓈𝒶𝓊𝒸𝓎.

𝓙𝓸𝓼𝓼𝓵𝔂𝓷 ~ 𝓞𝓵𝓲𝓿𝓲𝓪 𝓞'𝓑𝓻𝓲𝓮𝓷 𝓉𝒽𝒾𝓈 𝓈𝑜𝓃𝑔 𝓌𝑜𝓊𝓁𝒹 𝒷𝑒 𝒜𝑀𝒜𝒵𝐼𝒩𝒢 𝒾𝓃 𝒶𝓃𝓎 𝒟𝑅 𝒻𝑜𝓇 𝒶 𝓈𝒸𝑒𝓃𝒶𝓇𝒾𝑜 𝒶𝒷𝑜𝓊𝓉 𝒶 𝓈𝒾𝓉𝓊𝒶𝓉𝒾𝑜𝓃𝓈𝒽𝒾𝓅 𝓌𝒾𝓉𝒽 𝒶 𝒹𝒾𝓇𝓉𝒷𝒶𝑔 𝑔𝓊𝓎, 𝒷𝑒𝒸𝒶𝓊𝓈𝑒 𝐼 𝓀𝓃𝑜𝓌 𝒾𝒻 𝓎𝑜𝓊'𝓇𝑒 𝓁𝒾𝓀𝑒 𝓂𝑒 𝓎𝑜𝓊 𝓁𝑜𝓋𝑒 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝒹𝓇𝒶𝓂𝒶. 𝐻𝑜𝓅𝑒𝒻𝓊𝓁𝓁𝓎 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝑔𝓊𝓎 𝒾𝓈 𝒶𝓉 𝓁𝑒𝒶𝓈𝓉 𝒶 𝓁𝒾𝓉𝓉𝓁𝑒 𝒷𝑒𝓉𝓉𝑒𝓇 𝓉𝒽𝒶𝓃 𝐿𝑜𝑔𝒶𝓃 𝒫𝒶𝓊𝓁 𝓉𝒽𝑜𝓊𝑔𝒽.

𝐼𝒻 𝓎𝑜𝓊 𝑔𝓊𝓎'𝓈 𝓁𝒾𝓀𝑒 𝓉𝒽𝑒𝓈𝑒 𝒶𝓃𝒹 𝓌𝑜𝓊𝓁𝒹 𝓁𝒾𝓀𝑒 𝓂𝑜𝓇𝑒 𝒫𝐿𝐸𝒜𝒮𝐸 𝓁𝑒𝓉 𝓂𝑒 𝓀𝓃𝑜𝓌 𝐼 𝒽𝒶𝓋𝑒 𝓈𝑜 𝓂𝒶𝓃𝓎 𝑜𝓉𝒽𝑒𝓇 𝓈𝑜𝓃𝑔𝓈, 𝒶𝓃𝒹 𝐼 𝒶𝒷𝓈𝑜𝓁𝓊𝓉𝑒𝓁𝓎 𝓁𝑜𝓋𝑒 𝒷𝒶𝓈𝒾𝓃𝑔 𝓈𝒸𝑒𝓃𝒶𝓇𝒾𝑜𝓈 𝑜𝒻𝒻 𝓂𝓊𝓈𝒾𝒸 𝓈𝑜 𝐼 𝒹𝑜 𝓉𝒽𝒾𝓈 𝒶 𝓁𝑜𝓉. 𝐻𝒶𝓅𝓅𝓎 𝓈𝒽𝒾𝒻𝓉𝒾𝓃𝑔!

~𝓘𝓻𝓮𝓵𝓪𝓷𝓭

[cottenbee]

Hi, I’m a new-ish in the world of reality shifting. You can call me “Bee” or whatever if you want. Im here to have fun and make stories end less sad. I also have zero idea how to use Tumblr, so please bear with me. Let me know if you’re going to one of the same realities as me, so we can chat :) or if you just want to chat in general. I edit this every once in a while

List of my DRs:

Pixie Hollow

Hunter x Hunter

Kingdom Hearts

Land of the Lustrous

Soul Eater

The Boys

Animorphs

Teen Titans

Stardew Valley

Naruto

The Hunger Games

Hogwarts

Dragon Age (Warden Edition)

Dragon Age (Inquisitor Edition)

Skyrim

HTTYD

Pokémon

Spider-verse

Demon Slayer

Viva Piñata

Vampire The Masquerade Bloodlines

Sometimes I like to go to fucked up DRs so I can change the story so that it’s more on the sweet side. I’ll probably change this list a lot, adding more places I want to shift to. I’m going to Land of the Lustrous a bunch, I love it there. Ask me anything you want

[topperscumslut]

trying to figure out how to shift to tbosbas without, yk, the horrors

[starrylanex]

Alright decided to script Finnick Odair in my New York DR (which is just a normal dr where I have the opportunity and the resources to move to New York in 2025 and live and study there).

Obviously I’ll script out his trauma, but gonna keep his personality the same.

(down bad)

[elyxirshifting]

Hunger Games DR

Basically in this DR I'm gonna be the youngest victor of the Hunger Games ever (at age 12, I decided this to purely one up Finnick, I am that petty), obvious warnings for death being mentioned and mentions of basically any topics mentioned in the books as I'm shifting to a book accurate version of the universe.

Basic information

Name: Elyxir Callisto Fay (Ely, Elyx)

Birthday: 09/17/59 (for context the first year of the hunger games is year 1, this is a result of me being lazy as shit and not wanting to work out an appropriate time in the future, so using our time it's probably along the lines of 09/17/2359 or something)

Sexuality: Lesbian

Pronouns: They/she

Age when I first shift: 9 (yes there is a reason)

Home District: District 1

Faceclaim: I look mostly like myself in this reality except my hair is a touch lighter and is longer and slightly wavy plus blue eyes

Important people in my DR (friends, family, mentors):

Family: [Mother’s Name]

Citrine Fay

[Mother’s Age]

44

[Mother’s Occupation]

Perfumer

[Father’s Name]

Brilliance Fay

[Father’s Age]

44

[Father’s Occupation]

Craftsperson

[Sister’s Name]

Gallica Fay (Alli)

[Sister’s Age]

15

[Brother’s Name]

Luncan Fay (Lun)

[Brother’s Age]

14

[Brother’s Name]

Secret Fay (Ret)

[Brother’s Age]

13

[Sister’s Name]

Selenite Fay (Leni)

[Sister’s Age]

12

[Sister’s Name]

Macaroon Fay (Carrie)

[Sister’s Age]

11

[Brother’s Name]

Velvet Fay (Vel)

[Brother’s Age]

10

[Sister’s Name]

Vivid Fay (Vivi)

[Sister’s Age]

10

All of my siblings also attend the training academy

Friends: Glimmer, her birthday is 7/27/58 (I don't have an image to show what she looks like in my mind as I'm going for how I imagined her in the books cause I thought she'd be cool and I'm super gay, she doens't die in her games either, cause she's the solo winner cause I decided Peeta will win the 73rd and then the 75th quell twist is the same but cause of rules Katniss ends up in the 75th but I have her role as mockingjay)

I also befriend Johanna and Finnick after my games, again going for book accuracy, I don't have the energy to search for a picture

Mentors:

Cashmere and Gloss. They're Glimmer's cousins in my DR, Cashmere won her games at 15 and Gloss won his at 16. I actually found pictures that more or less look like I pictured them so that's good.

My games:

My games are the 72nd Hunger Games, the other tributes in the game are as followed

Prince, 17, D1

Calista, 17, D2

Orion, 18, D2

Chip, 15, D3

Dell, 16, D3

Brooke, 15, D4

Dylan, 17, D4

Lunar, 16, D5

Dean, 15, D5

Elaine, 13, D6

Aaron, 12, D6

Hazel, 18, D7

Jude, 13, D7

Camisole, 16, D8

Sterling, 14, D8

Adalina, 15, D9

Herman, 18, D9

Bessie, 17, D10

Kobe, 17, D10

Autumn, 18, D11

Fraser, 16, D11

Ivy, 18, D12

Jett, 16, D12

I won't write every small detail of my games as there's a lot but I'll add some pictures that'll look like parts of the arena

The arena is like a magical otherworld, there are unicorns in the arena, they attack anyone that appears to be a threat to them, so typically older tributes.

Before all of that though, basically I tested into the academy early and so I'd been at the academy since I was like 5 so I was already planning to volunteer that year but it turns out Glimmer was reaped so I had an even better reason which helped play into my character I put on for the games, confident that I'll do really well for someone my age not that I'd necessarily win but that I'd be able to hold my own, someone that would do anything to protect people she cares about, capitol audiences really loved that.

Glimmer and I are the district 1 tributes that get sent into the Quater Quell, they change the rules even further to allow for two previous victors of the same gender to be chosen for the quell.

I'll probably add more stuff to this anyway

[cuntkinghorr]

11 MILLION

reblog if your name isn't Amanda.

2,121,566 people are not Amanda and counting!

We’ll find you Amanda.

[solstices-dreams]

when the weather’s cold and the heater’s on and I’m wearing sweaters again and my hunger games dr is calling me <3

[tarasmithshifts]

ughhh i finally created the hunger games dr it's gonna be FUNNNN

[turnbacktomorrow]

I figured since I’m shifting to my Hunger Games dr in a bit that I would talk about my family.

My mother is named Aphrodite and she runs an apothecary business with Mrs Everdeen as our main source of income. She has pale blonde and wavy hair that she usually keeps up in a messy bun. She also has golden amber eyes that I inherited. She’s very sweet, and very beautiful (almost like her name wOaH) She has always been best friends with Mrs Everdeen since childhood and this is how I became best friends with Katniss. We are basically childhood friends.

My little sister is named Eros. She’s 12 so she’s Prim’s age and also best friends with Prim as well. She’s very lively and extroverted, and is good at bringing Prim out of her shell. She looks like our mom besides having our father’s blue eyes. She loves to sing and often sings with me at the Hob to earn extra money. Think about Maude Ivory when you think of Eros.

My father was a miner, and got killed in the same mine explosion that killed the Everdeen’s father. He had strawberry blonde hair that I inherited and blue eyes. He was a kind soul and loved to play games with me, and little Eros even when he came home from the mines very tired and worn out. He loved to kiss our mother and call her beautiful any time he had, and would watch and encourage the little shows I would put on for him. He would always say that I brought light into a world filled with dark.

Then there’s me, Cupid. I’m 16 and have strawberry blonde hair and golden amber eyes. I love to sing and like I said earlier, love to sing at the Hob with my sister to earn extra money. My MBTI is ENFJ, and I can tend to be flirtatious.

And there you go! I hope you enjoyed reading about my family, because I love them all to bits. If you want to hear anything more about my DR PLEASE send in an ask because I love to answer them. Thank you 💛💛💛

[maple-mackintosh]

Hunger Games IR

The cold, sterile walls of District 13's underground bunker seemed to close in on me as I go about my daily routine. Life in the rebellion has its own set of struggles, but the constant threat of President Snow and the Hunger Games looms over every member of District 13, casting a shadow of fear and uncertainty. 

I sit alone in my cramped quarters, my thoughts swirling with discontentment and frustration. I’ve always felt like a misfit, someone who doesn’t belong in the confines of this hidden society. District 13's underground existence has never sat well with me. From a young age, I had longed for the freedom and open skies of the world above. But now, my defiance has brought me face to face with a terrifying reality. 

I grab my friend Lily to climb above surface. What I normally do on these boring days. 

The desolate landscape of District 13 stretches before me as I walk through the remnants of what once was. Years of rubble and destruction surrounding me, a testament to the horrors of the past. I was above ground, relishing the rare moments of freedom and solitude that the surface provides. 

One of my friends, Lily, approaches her with concern etched on me face. “Avery, you should get back underground,” she urges, her voice laced with worry. “Someone from District 12 might see you. It’s not safe!” 

I wave off Lily’s concern dismissively. “Oh, come on,” I reply with a hint of defiance. “No one’s going to see me out here. Besides, I’m just bored and want a change of scenery.” 

As we continue our conversation, a distant rumble fills the air, growing louder and more ominous. My heart quickens, and a sense of unease settles over me. I turn to Lily, my eyes widening with apprehension. “What is that?” I ask, my voice tinged with worry. 

Lily’s face pales as she points to the sky. “Look!” she exclaims, her voice trembling. “An aircraft! We need to get underground now!” 

It was lowering fast, too. 

My heart pounds in my chest as I realize the danger we’re in. Without hesitation, I begin to move towards the nearest entrance, my instincts kicking into overdrive, but before I can reach the entrance, someone grabs my arm, stopping me in my tracks. My heart pounds in my chest as I turn to face my captor, only to find myself staring into the eyes of HaymitchAbernathy. 

“What do you think you’re doing, wandering out here?” Haymitch's voice is gruff, his grip firm on my arm. 

My eyes widen in surprise and confusion. “Haymitch? What are you doing here?” I stammer, my mind racing to make sense of the situation. 

Haymitch's gaze flickers to someone standing beside him, and my breath catches in my throat. It’s Effie Trinket, her flamboyant appearance a stark contrast to the desolate surroundings. The realization sinks in, filling my heart with dread. “Well this can’t be good.” 

Effie steps forward, her voice filled with sympathy. “Avery MacKenzie, I’m so sorry,” she says, her voice almost quivering. “But you’ve been reaped for the 77th Hunger Games.” 

My world spins into chaos. The ground beneath me seems to give way, and I struggle to find my footing midst the overwhelming news. This can’t be happening, not to me. I’m safe. I’m in Distract 13. We don’t compete in the games. So what’s changed? 

“What? You’re fucking with me.” I say and Effie makes a face. 

“Excuse me?” She says, appalled. 

“I’m just saying. I live in District 13, we’re not apart of the Games anymore. It’s why our District looks like this,” I gesture to the ruble surrounding us before continuing to say, “I’m not going.” shaking my head. 

“Um, you have to, kid.” Haymitch says. “if you don’t, President Snow is going to kill you and everyone you love.” 

“Yeah and you sound like you’re from a book right now.” 

“And you are on thin ice with the Capitol. Choose.” He spits back. 

“This is absurd! I live in District-” 

“13 yeah yeah we got it, sweetheart. You’re coming with us.” 

“You’re giving me no choice?” I argue. 

“You have no choice.” Effie interjects. 

My heart races ans I stand at the threshold of the aircraft that would transport me to wherever they’re ordered to take me. I turn to my friend Lily, my voice filled with emotion. 

“Lily, I need you to do something for me,” I say, my voice quivering. “Say goodbye to my parents and everyone else for me. Obviously I can’t do it myself or I would.” 

I watch as her eyes fill with tears as she says “Of course, Avery,” her voice trembling. “I’ll make sure they know.” 

I manage to give her a faint smile, gratitude mingling with sorrow. I knew that Lily would be the bearer of my final farewells. I turn to face the aircraft and steel myself for the difficult journey ahead. 

As I board the plane, Effie stands nearby, her vibrant appearance a stark contrast to the somber mood that hangs in the air. She approaches me. “Avery, we’re going to disguise you as someone from District Four,” she explains. “It’s crucial that your true identity remains hidden. The Capitol mustn’t suspect any ties to District 13.” 

I nod, my heart pounding in my chest. I understand the risk and the importance of maintaining my cover. The Capitol’s prying eyes are everywhere, and any hint of my true origins could jeopardize not only my life but the lives of everyone within District 13. 

Effie continues, “Your mentor in the Capitol will be Finnick Odair,” she reveals and her gaze meets mine. “He’s a previous victor of the-” 

“Yeah I know.” I interrupt her. I know who Finnick Odair is. Everyone knows who Finnick Odair is. 

“Well good! I won’t have to introduce you two as in depth as I thought I would. He’ll be instrumental in helping you navigate everything…well water.” 

“Yeah, I figured.” I scoff, rolling my eyes. He’s a pretentious asshole, I’d rather have anyone else beside him. I’ve heard tales of his charisma and strength, of the battles he has fought both in the arena and against the Capitol. The prospect of being mentored by someone with such an attitude fills me with complete dread and annoyance. “Hate him.” 

“Well it’s not as though you can do much about it.” She says, gently and hesitantly patting my shoulder. The journey to District 12 is a somber one, the aircraft slicing through the sky with a sense of urgency. As they touch down, my heart quickens, the reality of the Capitol’s grasp on Panem becoming all too real. I glance at Haymitch who’s weathered face is already deep in a bottle of rum. I can’t even believe he’s drinking this high up in the air. 

Effie and Haymitch lead me towards the shuttle train that will transport us all to the Capitol, where the cruel spectacle of the Hunger Games awaited. My heart flutters with dread. I’m stepping into the lion’s den, but I refuse to be devoured. 

As the train’s doors close behind us, I prepare myself for the journey ahead. The Capitol looms on the horizon, it’s glimmering facade hiding the darkness that lay beneath. As the shuttle train begins its journey, I gaze out the window, the desolate landscape of District 12 fading from view. The Capitol awaits, and with it, the 77th Hunger Games. 

~~~~

The sun casts a golden hue over the bustling square of District Four as the Reaping day arrives. A sense of trepidation hangs in the air, mingling with the salty breeze that wafts in from the nearby coastline. I stand among the crowd of potential tributes, my heart pounding in my chest.

As Effie takes the stage, her attire drawing eyes, a hush falls over the square. She clears her throat, her voice amplified by the microphone.

“Ladies and gentlemen, it is time for the Reaping of the 77th Hunger Games!”

The crowd holds its breath, their gazes fixed on Effie as she reaches into the glass bowl containing the names of the female tributes. I know I’m going to be picked, but my mind still races anyway. Effie’s hand emerges, holding a slip of paper. My name. She unfolds it, her painted lips parting to reveal the name that will seal someone’s fate. My fate.

“Avery MacKenzie!”

Time seems to freeze as those words hang in the air. The crowd erupts into a mix of gasps and murmurs, their eyes darting to mine. Deep inside, I know that my true identity is safe, but the weight of it presses heavily on my shoulders.

With my heart pounding heavily in my ears, I step forward, my face a mask of calm determination. Effie beams, trying to act as though she’s meeting me for the first time. She extends her hand towards me, and I meet it with compliance. I hold my breath as I stand on the precipice of the Hunger Games.

Effie’s eyes flicker briefly, a silent acknowledgment passing between us, playing her part flawlessly.

“And now, for the boys,” Effie declares, her voice regaining its cheerful tone. She reaches into the other glass bowl, her hand emerging with a slip of paper. She unfolds it, her voice carrying across the square. “Allio Lark!”

A young boy steps forward, his eyes wide. My heart aches for him, knowing the cruel fate that awaits us both. Effie guides Allio towards the stage, her grip firm yet gentle. As we stand side by side, Effie offers a reassuring smile. I glance back briefly, catching a glimpse of District Four’s residents, their faces mixes of hope and fear. I can’t risk exposing my true origins, but I carry the weight of District Thirteen on my shoulders.

[fangdokja]

They’re not heroes. They’re your tormentors, and you’ll love every second of it.

❤︎ Synopsis. Four men, each consumed by a darkness that binds them to you, will stop at nothing to claim your soul. In their world, love is a twisted cage, and you’re the captive—lost in a nightmare where escape is impossible and desire is the cruelest torment.

♡ Book. Forbidden Fruits: Intimate Obsessions, Unhinged Desires.

♡ Pairing. Yandere! Mr. Reca x Fem. Reader, Yandere! Mydei x Fem. Reader, Yandere! Anaxa x Fem. Reader, Yandere! Phainon x Fem. Reader

♡ Headcanons. The Game of Surrender - Part 2

♡ Word Count. 4,707

♡ TW. dom + top + older + slightly sadistic yandere, general non-con + manipulation, suggestive themes, psychological + mental conditioning, fear play, emotional manipulation and abuse, hints at rough play and sex, psychological + emotional trauma, isolation, monitoring, lack of boundaries, non-con kissing and/or touching, forced relationship, BDSM, manipulation of circumstances, threats, Stockholm Syndrome

♡ Note. This was made before the official releases of characters, so be warned that some information may be inaccurate once additional lore comes out.

♡ A/N. Not me not knowing fully who these characters are. So... not sure if I did this right hahaha. It's too early to judge the unreleased characters but oh well. And, I did put this into my usual style... idk adjskaskd Take this like a brief hypothesis, I suppose. I am thinking on getting back to Genshin and HSR... maybe. Probably not though. Idk. Anyways, I personally thought I cooked with this. Just not sure with personalities askadsdakldsm

♡ Mr. Reca.

"Every thought you have, every breath you take, is a scene in my film—my masterpiece. And don't worry, darling, I'll make sure you never forget your lines. Not even when you're screaming them in your sleep."

The universe had always been a canvas to him—a vast, writhing tapestry of chaos and order, the kind of unpredictable beauty that Mr. Reca found utterly magnetic. He had always been a collector of moments, a Memokeeper who consumed emotions, gestures, and unguarded thoughts with the same fervor a drowning man gulps air.

But you—oh, you—you were not just another fleeting spark in the vast night of existence.

You were an anomaly, a glitch in the dreamscape, a hauntingly real smear of imperfection across his perfectly constructed illusions. And so, he watched you, studied you, devoured the fragile lines of your every expression. It wasn’t obsession, not at first. It was curiosity, a scientist’s hunger for understanding. But curiosity, as it often does, rotted into something far darker.

It began subtly. At first, you didn’t even realize you were his subject. The assistant frog—so innocuous, its mechanical chirps like a child’s toy—hovered too long in your presence. That thing recorded the barest twitch of your lips, the dilation of your pupils when you dreamt, the cadence of your breath when you were lost in thought.

He played those recordings back again and again, crafting you into the centerpiece of his mind’s latest film, a work of art that no audience but him would ever see. Each flicker of your gaze, each half-whispered syllable, was dissected with a surgeon’s precision and woven into the dream bubble of his fantasies.

You had not agreed to this, of course. You would not have, had you known. But consent had never mattered much to Mr. Reca, not when reality itself could be edited, overwritten, and reshaped to suit his narrative.

He didn’t fall in love with you in the way mortals understood love.

No, it was something far more grotesque. You were not his equal. You were not even human, not to him.

You were a role to be perfected, an actress bound to his script. And he—he was the director, the puppeteer pulling the strings of your existence with a touch so light, so surgical, that you didn’t notice your autonomy dissolving until it was too late.

He didn’t approach you like an ordinary man. Ordinary men didn’t cloak their words in riddles, their intentions in shadows.

“Your dreams are fascinating,” he said once, his tone light but his eyes dark, predatory. “I could make a masterpiece from them. Would you let me?”

His gaze burned into you, not with affection, but with hunger—the kind of hunger that consumes, destroys, leaves nothing but ash in its wake.

When you hesitated, when you stammered out a polite refusal, his smile curved sharp and cruel. “Ah, but do you really have a choice?”

You didn’t, of course.

The dream bubbles began soon after. Vivid, horrifyingly real landscapes where you were no longer yourself but a marionette dancing to his whims.

The first time you woke screaming, trembling from the phantom pain of dream wounds, he was there. He shouldn’t have been—your door had been locked—but there he was, sitting on the edge of your bed with his head tilted and that damned frog-camera clutched in his gloved hands.

“Fascinating,” he murmured, as if you were a specimen under glass. “You feel it, don’t you? The fear, the thrill, the pain. Tell me, how does it taste?”

In bed, he is not a lover. He is a creator, and you are his medium.

His touch is clinical at first, cold and calculated, his gloved fingers trailing down your spine as if mapping the curve of your body for a sculpture he plans to carve later.

But there is heat beneath that coldness, a violent, consuming fire that erupts when he lets himself indulge. He does not make love. He takes. He presses you into the mattress as if trying to merge you with it, his weight oppressive, suffocating. His hands grip your wrists too tightly, leaving bruises like the ink stains of his artistry. His breath is hot against your ear, his voice a low murmur that mixes poetry with threats, promises with lies.

“Do you feel it?” he whispers, his tone too calm for the frenzy of his movements. “The way your body betrays you? The way it obeys me, even when your mind doesn’t want to?”

His teeth graze the shell of your ear, and the sharp pain that follows is not accidental. “I could keep you here forever,” he says, his voice thick with sadistic delight. “Inside the dream, inside me. Would you even know the difference? Would you even care?”

You would care, of course.

You fight him, or at least you try. But he’s relentless, unyielding, a force of nature that smothers your resistance with sheer willpower. He doesn’t let you hide from him, not even in the sanctuary of your own mind.

His powers as a Memokeeper ensure that every thought, every secret, every fleeting desire you’ve ever tried to bury is laid bare before him. He uses them against you, weaving them into the narrative of his control.

“You want this,” he says, his voice a velvet knife. “You want me. Your body knows it, even if your mind refuses to admit it.”

His lips trail down your throat, his teeth leaving marks that will linger for days, physical proof of his dominance. “And when I’m done with you, when there’s nothing left of you but what I’ve created, you’ll thank me. You’ll beg me to keep you.”

The horror of it all is that he doesn’t just break you physically. He breaks your mind, piece by fragile piece, until you can no longer tell where the dream ends and reality begins. His dream bubbles seep into your waking hours, twisting your perception until even the memories of your resistance feel like fabrications.

He tells you that you’re his muse, his masterpiece, his greatest work. And despite the revulsion, the terror, some part of you begins to believe him.

Because how could someone so brilliant, so meticulous, be wrong?

And yet, in the darkest corners of your mind, you know the truth.

You are not his muse.

You are his victim, a living doll trapped in the nightmare of his creation.

But no one will ever hear your screams.

He’s made sure of that.

After all, reality itself is just another film to him, and he’s already written your final scene.

♡ Mydei.

"You belong to me, just as I am bound to this blood-soaked fate. No one will ever take you from me, not in this life, not in the next. I’ll carve my name into your soul, and you’ll learn to love it, even if it takes a thousand deaths."

It begins as a hum in the back of his throat, a low vibration that settles into his chest like the resonance of a beast stirring in its lair. He watches you, not from afar, but from the corner of your vision, where his shadow seems to stretch and curve unnaturally—always larger, always darker than the dim light allows. His gaze is not mere sight; it’s weight, pressure, suffocation. He sees the tremor in your fingers as you pour water into a glass. He catalogues the way your breaths hitch when his footsteps echo closer, closer still.

And when he speaks, his voice is a razor dragged slowly, deliberately, across raw nerves. “You’re trembling,” he says, though there’s no concern in his tone.

It’s an observation, clinical yet laced with something sharper, something akin to hunger.

He doesn’t touch you yet, but the proximity is suffocating—his presence a noose tightening with every passing second. His breath brushes your ear as he leans closer. “Are you afraid of me?”

You flinch but say nothing, and he chuckles. It’s low and guttural, almost amused, but there’s an edge of cruelty there, a promise that he’ll savor every inch of your fear.

He feeds on it, you realize, and the thought sends a chill racing down your spine. “You should be,” he murmurs, the words dripping like venom. “Fear keeps you alive… but not from me. Never from me.”

He lies, of course.

The predator in him is far too obvious, a wolf cloaked in something barely resembling humanity. He doesn’t see you as prey to consume in haste.

No, he sees you as a possession—a rare, precious thing to break slowly, to shatter and rebuild in his image. He thrives on control, on the knowledge that every shiver, every gasp, every cry is something he owns, something he’s dragged out of you inch by agonizing inch.

When he finally touches you, it’s with the precision of a surgeon dissecting his subject. Fingers glide over your skin like scalpels, drawing phantom lines where his teeth will follow, where his hands will linger. There’s no tenderness in the way he grips your wrist, the bruising force of his palm a warning, a declaration.

He doesn’t need to speak for you to understand: you’re his.

The room is suffused with a kind of tension that seems alive, thrumming in the air like an electrical charge waiting to snap. His lips curl into something that might resemble a smile if not for the sheer malice in it.

“You can fight,” he says, voice as smooth and cold as glass, “but we both know how this ends.”

And then he moves, swift as a predator pouncing, pinning you against the unyielding surface of the wall.

The impact drives the air from your lungs, and before you can catch your breath, he’s there—everywhere. The heat of his body seeps into yours, the solidity of him a cage that leaves no room for escape. His hands are firm, unrelenting, roaming with a kind of obsessive thoroughness that feels both maddening and humiliating. He maps every inch of your body as if it’s a territory to be conquered, claimed.

The words he whispers into your ear are sharp, biting things, designed to slice through your defenses. “Do you know how easy it would be?” he breathes, his voice a silken thread woven with danger.

“To tear you apart. To ruin you so thoroughly you wouldn’t even recognize yourself. And you’d thank me for it, wouldn’t you? By the time I’m done, you won’t want to remember what it felt like to be whole without me.”

His grip tightens, and you can feel the latent strength in his hands, the power that could snap bone without effort.

And yet he doesn’t.

Not yet.

He revels in the anticipation, in the way your body reacts—fear mingled with something darker, something you refuse to name. The way your breath catches, the way your pulse races beneath his fingers… it’s a symphony to him, a melody of submission he’s determined to conduct to its crescendo.

When he finally takes you, it’s not an act of love—it’s an act of dominance, of ownership.

His movements are deliberate, almost cruel in their precision, each thrust a reminder of who holds the reins. He doesn’t allow you to close your eyes, doesn’t let you escape into the safety of darkness.

No, he demands your gaze, demands that you see him, that you acknowledge the monster who has reduced you to this trembling, gasping wreck. And when you do—when your eyes meet his, wide and glassy with tears—he smiles. Not with joy, but with triumph, with the satisfaction of a hunter who has cornered his prey.

His words during these moments are a mix of degradation and adoration, a twisted litany that leaves no doubt of his intentions. “You’re mine,” he growls against your skin, the heat of his breath searing like a brand. “Every breath, every scream, every drop of blood in your veins—it all belongs to me.”

And yet, even as he tears you apart, there’s an undeniable allure in his madness, a magnetic pull that keeps you rooted to the spot even as every instinct screams at you to run.

Because beneath the cruelty, beneath the overwhelming force of his obsession, there’s a flicker of something more—a need so desperate it borders on pathetic, a craving for connection that he can’t voice but demands nonetheless.

When it’s over, he doesn’t release you.

His arms remain locked around you, a vice that refuses to loosen. He buries his face in the crook of your neck, his breath ragged, his body still trembling with the aftermath.

And in that moment, you realize the truth of it: he doesn’t break you because he hates you. He breaks you because he loves you, because the thought of you existing without him is unbearable.

But love, for him, is not soft or kind. It is a blade, honed to a deadly edge, and he wields it without mercy.

“You’ll stay,” he whispers, and it’s not a question.

It’s a command, a promise, a threat.

“You’ll stay because there’s nowhere else for you to go. No one else who could ever understand you the way I do. And if you try to leave…” His voice trails off, but the unspoken consequence hangs heavy in the air, a silent vow etched in blood.

You nod, because what else can you do?

And as he tightens his hold on you, his lips brushing against your temple in a mockery of a kiss, you feel the full weight of your reality settle over you.

There is no escape. There never was.

And in the dark recesses of your mind, a small, terrified part of you wonders if you’ll ever want to leave at all.

♡ Anaxa.

"You think you can escape my mind, but you're already tangled in my thoughts—your every breath, every movement, is an echo of me. You belong to me, and I will never let you forget that."

The air around him was always cold, as if reality itself recoiled in his presence, drawing its warmth into the void of his indifference. Anaxa moved like an unfinished thought, fragmented, deliberate, yet ever disquieting.

You felt his shadow linger before you saw him, a chilling weight that settled on your skin like frost, sinking into the marrow of your bones. His eyes—one bared to the world, the other concealed beneath the eyepatch—were an unforgiving tapestry of contradictions: icy intellect simmering beneath the calm veneer, an endless labyrinth of thoughts that spiraled toward madness.

He whispered your name like a sacrament and a curse. Each syllable, spoken in that low, velvety cadence of his, seemed to unravel you, a knife peeling back every layer of resolve.

"You think knowledge can shield you," he murmured one night, his breath as cold and intimate as the edge of a scalpel. "But even wisdom has limits. I’ve seen them. I’ve transcended them." He would circle you like a predator savoring the hunt, his movements calculated, his proximity suffocating.

Anaxa was not a man who shattered the soul through brute force.

No, his torment was subtle—a slow dismantling, piece by piece, until you became something unrecognizable to even yourself.

You didn’t notice how he had claimed your life until it was too late. The quiet manipulation seeped in like poison—so gradual, so insidious, you mistook it for safety. Every book you touched, every whisper of thought you dared to express, every step you took outside the prison he called your sanctuary…all of it traced back to him. You'd look up from a page of text only to find him leaning in the doorway, a slight smile curling his lips, the sort that spoke of secrets too profound and too damning to voice.

"You have such a beautiful mind," he'd say, his gloved fingers brushing the side of your neck in a touch that was almost reverent.

"It’s wasted on anyone else. They’ll never understand you—not like I do." The words were honeyed, dripping with a sincerity so intoxicating you almost believed it.

Almost.

Until you noticed the way his gaze lingered on your trembling hands, on the ink smudges on your skin, on the way you recoiled yet stayed rooted in place. He liked the way fear made you fragile, and though you hated him for it, you hated yourself more for the flicker of thrill that bloomed in your chest.

Anaxa didn’t need chains to hold you down; his words alone were shackles. His intelligence was a web, intricate and all-encompassing, and you were the fly ensnared at its center.

"I don’t want to hurt you," he whispered once, late into the night when the room was too quiet and his voice was too close. "But I will, if it’s the only way to make you stay."

And you knew he meant it—not as a threat, but as a promise, a truth spoken with the same certainty as an immutable law of the universe.

The moments of intimacy—if one could call them that—were no less haunting.

His touch was clinical, precise, like a scientist studying a fragile specimen. He knew where to press, where to hold, where to carve into your soul with a calculated cruelty that left you yearning and dreading in equal measure.

His lips on your skin felt like frostbite, burning cold yet addictively sharp. His hands, those hands that wielded intellect like a blade, seemed to map every inch of you with the precision of a scholar dissecting sacred scripture.

"You’re beautiful," he would say, the words an oxymoron of tenderness and possession.

"Beautiful because you’re broken. Broken because you’re mine." He traced the curve of your throat with a gloved fingertip, lingering on the places where your pulse betrayed your terror.

His gaze bore into you, unrelenting, as though he could peel back the layers of flesh and bone to reach the essence of you. "Do you know what the Titans whispered to me in my dreams?" he asked once, his voice a mix of wonder and madness.

"They said I’d find divinity in ruin. And here you are."

The nights were the worst.

In the darkness, you felt him even when you didn’t see him.

The weight of his presence pressed against you, suffocating, inescapable. His words would echo in your mind, winding through your thoughts like a parasite. He’d appear at your bedside, his figure shrouded in the dim glow of moonlight.

"You should sleep," he’d murmur, though his tone carried no warmth. "You’ll need your strength. Tomorrow, we’ll unravel the secrets of the cosmos. Together."

And though you tried to resist, you found yourself clinging to the edges of his words, desperate for the clarity he promised, even as it led you deeper into his labyrinth.

When he finally claimed you, it was an act of calculated brutality disguised as love.

Every kiss felt like a conquest, every caress a branding. He whispered to you like a poet reciting his magnum opus, his voice soft yet unyielding, every syllable carrying the weight of his obsession.

"You belong to me," he said, his lips brushing against your ear as his hands pinned you beneath him. "Not just your body. Your mind. Your soul. Everything. No one else is worthy—not even you."

And as his touch became more demanding, more consuming, you realized that he wasn’t just unraveling you. He was recreating you, piece by piece, reshaping you into something that existed solely for him.

And though every fiber of your being screamed in defiance, a small, treacherous part of you wondered if this was love—or if it was something far darker, something that transcended the bounds of human understanding.

"You’ll never leave me," he said, his voice a blend of certainty and desperation as his lips ghosted over your trembling skin.

"Even if you try, even if you run…I’ll always find you. You’re the only constant in my chaos, the only light in my darkness. And I will burn the stars themselves before I let that light fade."

And so, you lay there in the cold embrace of his obsession, trapped between terror and desire, caught in the orbit of a man who would dismantle the heavens just to keep you by his side.

♡ Phainon.

"Every strike I make, every victory I win—it’s all for you. So don't be afraid when you see the blood. It's just a little sacrifice to remind you: you're mine, and I will burn this world to the ground before I let you go."

The moments he craves most are the quiet ones when the two of you are entirely alone, but tonight, silence isn’t kind.

It’s oppressive, weighted by the looming presence of the man before you—the Deliverer, the Nameless Hero, a man who wears the name Phainon like an armor of light.

Yet beneath that golden radiance, a storm of obsession churns, relentless and unyielding.

He stands over you, the faint luminescence of his ichor-stained veins pulsing faintly in the dim, cold air of the temple chamber. You can feel his gaze before you see it—heavy, glinting with something raw and unspeakable.

His voice, when it finally breaks the silence, is soft but unshakable, carrying the weight of a promise that makes your blood run cold.

“You don’t understand, do you? You’ve never understood.” A smile curls at the edge of his lips, serene yet terrifying. “I don’t want to save the world, not anymore. I want to save you. Every step I’ve taken, every blow I’ve struck, has always been for you.”

His claymore rests at his side, its edge gleaming faintly with an unsettling crimson, dried remnants of the battle from earlier still clinging to the blade.

He hasn’t cleaned it.

He hasn’t even sheathed it.

The weapon is as much a part of him as the air he breathes.

You can’t help but wonder if the blood that stains it belongs to someone you knew, someone who once stood too close to you for his liking.

He takes a step closer, the sound of his boots against the stone floor echoing like the toll of a funeral bell.

You back away instinctively, but there’s no escape.

His pace is slow, deliberate. He knows exactly how far he needs to push you before your resolve shatters.

“Run if you want to,” he murmurs, his tone almost gentle. “I won’t stop you. But you’ll come back. You always do.”

There’s no malice in his words, only certainty—a chilling, inescapable truth that wraps around your throat like a noose.

His hands are stained too.

Not visibly, not this time, but you can feel it in the way he reaches for you.

Fingers meant for wielding destruction now hover over your cheek, trembling slightly with restraint.

You flinch, and the flicker of hurt that crosses his face is almost human—almost.

“You’re afraid of me,” he whispers, his breath brushing against your ear as he leans closer.

“And I... I hate that. I hate that you make me this way. But I hate it even more when you’re far from me.”

When his lips press against yours, it isn’t a kiss—it’s a conquest.

His desperation seeps into you like venom, intoxicating and suffocating all at once. He tastes like metal and fury, his ichor burning faintly where his tongue grazes yours. His touch isn’t tender; it’s possessive, frantic, like he’s trying to carve his existence into your very bones.

His hand tangles in your hair, tugging hard enough to make you gasp, and the sound only seems to spur him on. “You’re mine,” he growls against your lips, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous timbre. “Say it.”

You don’t.

You can’t.

And that’s when his patience snaps.

His grip tightens, dragging you against him until there’s no space left between your bodies. The heat of him is overwhelming, a furnace of ichor and madness that threatens to consume you whole. His other hand presses against the small of your back, forcing you to arch into him as he lowers his head to your neck.

His breath is hot against your skin, and when he speaks again, it’s a guttural rasp that makes your stomach twist. “You don’t understand how far I’d go for you. What I’d destroy. Who I’d become.”

He sinks his teeth into the curve of your shoulder, not enough to break the skin but enough to leave a mark—a brand, a reminder of his claim. You cry out, and he exhales sharply, almost like he’s savoring the sound.

“That’s it,” he murmurs, his voice dripping with satisfaction. “That’s the truth of it, isn’t it? You’ll scream for me, cry for me... but you’ll never leave.”

And he’s right, isn’t he?

Because even now, as fear and anger coil in your chest like a viper, you can’t bring yourself to push him away.

His presence is suffocating, his obsession terrifying—but there’s something about the way he looks at you, like you’re the sun in a world of endless night, that makes it impossible to resist him entirely.

It’s sick.

It’s wrong.

But it’s real.

Phainon knows it too.

He knows you better than you know yourself, and that knowledge is his greatest weapon.

He wields it with precision, unraveling you piece by piece until there’s nothing left but the parts of you that belong to him.

“You’ll stay,” he whispers, his lips ghosting over your collarbone. “You’ll always stay. Because no one else can have you. Not the Titans, not the Trailblazer... not even yourself.”

When he finally pulls away, his eyes lock onto yours, glowing faintly with the golden ichor that courses through his veins. There’s something hauntingly beautiful about him in this moment, a tragic god draped in shadows. He tilts his head, studying you like a puzzle he’s just solved.

“You’re mine,” he says again, softer this time. “And I’m yours. Whether you like it or not.”

And you believe him.

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General TAG LIST of “Forbidden Fruits”: @uniquecutie-puffs , @belovedoftheanemoarchon , @tnsophiaonly , @mokingbrd78k , @cooldeermagazine , @mimitk , @xileonaaaa , @acacia-koi , @purple-obsidian , @waterfal-ling , @jjune-07 , @jsprien213 , @crimson-kisses , @tinandabin , @sashakittycloud , @songbirdgardensworld , @monamuskay

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❤︎ Fang Dokja's Books.

♡ Book 1. A Heart Devoured (AHD): A Dark Yandere Anthology ♡ Book 2. 🔞Forbidden Fruits (FF): Intimate Obsessions, Unhinged Desires. ♡ Book 3. World Ablaze (WA) : For You, I'd Burn the World. ♡ Book 4. Whispers in the Dark (WITD): Subtle Devotion, Lingering Shadows.