#doing nothing but learning how to train her

[xiepheer]

You know i really wanted to know how or why did the Beast's adopted little Y/N for like did they wanted to have a child of their own or something but now that i think about It what type of cookie Y/N would be as well as their power would be like If they were in crk and what do you think their voice would sound like?

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Hello everyone! Just to say that like always, I've been busy! So much homeworkkkk!

Also btwww I'm sorry that I haven't updated in so long!

I don't usually have the motivation to write!

I also have a tiktok acc where I feel more motivated in making videos instead of writing! 😭

Anyways here's my tiktok: HelixiaLoves

I make crk content!

I hope u understand that I feel more motivated in making videos rather than writing 😭🙏

Anyways ENJOY!

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Mystic Flour cookie

When she first found you, you were a small filly at the side of the road.

She thought to herself:

"Who would've abandoned their own responsibility?"

So she took you in.

She didn't want another young cookie to end up like her.

Abandoned by their own creators.

So she decided to take you in and call herself your mother.

She took care of you.

Raised you.

When she was sealed, she just knew she could count on Cloud Haetae for taking care of you.

You were 6 when you watched your beloved mother get sealed but you didn't know why.

Why did they see your own beloved mother a threat?

Sure she has the ability to turn cookies into flour but wasn't she supposed to fufil cookie's wishes?

To be worshipped because they get their wishes fulfilled?

That was what you were questioning until you grew up to find out what destruction she has caused in the Earthbread.

When you find out, you couldn't help but think about why she did that to your called home, Earthbread.

To cause destruction in the very land you and her was raised in.

When she was released, she doesn't understand why you were distancing from you.

Until she finds out why.

You, were scared she'll turn you into flour.

"Oh dear child? Why must you fear the very cookie that had raised you and given you all your needs?"

She asked.

She hadn't smiled in so long and she thought she would've when she could finally see the sprout she helped to grow.

"Why didn't you tell me?"

"Tell you what child?"

"That your deepest desires is to turn this world into nothing but Flour?"

"It is not my desire. It is not what I thought before."

"What do you mean..."

"Cookies have become too greedy. There must be one cookie to put them back in place. And that is my one and only mission to do."

"That's not what you said before."

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Burning Spice cookie

Burning Spice cookie never actually wanted a child.

He only did so to prove the other beasts that he can train any cookies to destroy.

Well he didn't fail and failed at the same time.

Burning Spice cookie doesn't even know how to take care of a kid so he left you to his generals.

You grew up to learn how to fight and be strong but you didn't know that you and him aren't actually biological father and daughter/son.

It's quite obvious how he's willing to destroy everything, no matter how small or big, he'd destroy.

But you, you'd fight and destroy if you were willing to.

But you couldn't stand the chance to fight a weak cookie.

It was like the state you were found in back then.

Weak and small.

And now, you are strong and powerful.

Powerful like your 'Father'.

When he got sealed, the generals has to depend on you for the kingdom.

So you took over.

The generals didn't understand why you stop destroying and was not like your 'Father'. (Plot twist, they didn't know you're not his actual father as well)

And you told them,

"Not Always we have to destroy. We could put these weaklings into great use in the kingdom."

You spoke.

The generals wasn't used to training a lot of weak ones.

Typically, they're used to training upper ranks rather than weak untrained ones.

When your father returned, he didn't expect the kingdom to be like this.

The once most feared kingdom now being crowded with weak cookies he has never seen before.

"WHAT IS THE MEANING OF THIS?!"

That scared everyone.

Everyone including you.

"Father, I thought that I could recruit more cookies for the Kingdom's reputation!"

"REPUTATION?! ALL I EVER ASLED YOU IS TO WATCH OVER!"

"Yes indeed but wouldn't it be great for more cookies to fight for you?"

"Fight me? AHAHAH yes I would love that."

"What no..."

"What a great choice you chose! Now show me! "

"What has destruction bring you..."

You are quite tired of your father's destruction sometimes.

But you didn't understood why he would love to destroy everything.

And that is when and elder told you the truth.

The Herald of Change, once a great and powerful hero and ruler, now corrupted for seeing the same cycle over and over again that he has to break the cycle to make a new one.

You felt sad at his origin. Seeing everything be born and wither away again and again surely would drive you crazy like him.

But you still think that destruction would not be the answer.

So when you told him that confidently, he scoffed.

"And what do you know little one? Surely there'll be a day that you too will wither away like the others."

"Destruction isn't always the answer to everything. It's the natural apart of life."

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Shadow Milk cookie

When he first found you, no.

He created you.

Created you supposedly for shits and giggles and because he doesn't know what to do that day.

But ever since you were created, you were supposed to be another mindless puppet until you started acting like your own.

A puppet that has its own mind like a regular cookie was something he would never throw away like the others.

And though he still thought about you throwing away when you get useless, something inside him amde him not to.

It made him feel the need to protect something fragile like he used to.

Back he was sage, he never actually experienced a childhood.

He was baked into the world knowing everything.

When you grew up, you had his personality.

Probably because you were made by his own hands.

You and his minions got along well.

Most of the time.

Candy Apple cookie wasn't at first.

But she grew fond with you and started acting like you're her little sister.

Black Sapphire Cookie is the older brother that would always try to help you and ditch you at the same time.

There was a time where he ditched you in the middle of the woods but still went and brought you back.

Shadow Milk cookie made you watch his shows and make you rate them.

He would also teach you and make you watch as he destroys parts of Earthbread.

He had a slight hope that you would have his powers so he could as well teach you how to be just like him.

When he got sealed, he just knew he has to depend on his minions.

You and his minions went through disguises.

In different kingdoms but in disguises. You hav decided to keep your identity a secret for now.

When he got released, he was pleased to see that you've grown up to be almost like him.

Almost.

You like jokes like him, always taking thigns not seriously until you decide to.

But there's one thing that's not in common.

He likes destruction but you don't.

Why?

Because you saw how Earthbread was.

A peaceful world if you do not disturb the peace.

But yet, a question lingers in your head.

"Why do you want to destroy Earthbread? Aren't you supposed to protect it?"

You asked him.

He looked at you, quite surprised that you even thought of the question but soon it turned into a grin.

"Well you see tiny sprout of mine, we all need drama in our lives!"

"That doesn't explain why you still have to destroy."

"My point is that life is boring without a little drama in it!"

"Destroying and controlling isn't drama"

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FINISHED GUYS! HOPEFULLY YOU LIKE THIS ONE!

i was just scrolling through my requests and I found this one intriguing!

Anyways this took me an hour and a half I hope u like this!

Also the type of cookie and the power the reader (you) has here is depending on you!

USE YOUR IMAGINATIONNNN!

[calebs-court-jester]

if a friendship lasts longer than 7 years...

Psychologists say it will likely endure for a LIFETIME.

featuring: caleb x mc x tired!zayne

zayne's had enough of your teasing. Time to give you both a taste of your own medicine!

If Zayne could go back in time and un-meet you two, he would. Unfortunately, scientists have yet to invent a time machine, but if he wakes up and finds the two of you eating breakfast at his dining table uninvited one more damn time, he might just do it himself.

This nightmare began at the age of 8, when the two kids from down the street began toddling after him with their short legs. This marked the first time polite and well-mannered Zayne learned to speed-walk and pivot around corners with the intention of losing someone.

This also marked the first time his mother scolded him, telling him that he should play nicely with Josephine's children. Despite being appalled and flabbergasted, he listened.

Shortly after, he began to hold onto the hope that he still might be able to get rid of you two one day.

It was not until last night, on the eve of his 28th birthday, that he'd jolted up in cold sweat in the middle of the night to the realization that nothing short of an asteroid crashing directly into him would get you two off his back now.

Deeply disturbed, he eventually fell back into a restless slumber. Not enough time later, he was proven correct when he was jump-scared by the two of you standing in his bedroom at ass o'clock in the morning, monologuing loudly about how he'd successfully made another trip around the sun.

How did you two even get a key?! "A key?" You had scoffed in his face. "It was up Caleb's ass all along."

"Obviously." Caleb had nodded along with the seriousness of a man testifying in court.

"Do not even start with me." He'd grumbled. It was not even 8 in the morning yet and already, he could feel tension gathering in his temples - the beginnings of a stupid migraine that only seemed to appear whenever the two of you did.

Once he'd devoured the slice of cake you had bought him (it was delicious) and then shoved you both out, he'd hidden himself in his bathroom and sent an angry 15-minute voice message to his mother, detailing her fatal mistake in convincing him to play nicely with Josephine's devilish children all those years ago.

Half a day later, he received a voice message in reply. It consisted of 5 whole minutes of his mother laughing so hard that she could not breathe.

Nevertheless, despite his grievances about this friendship (as he reluctantly calls it), Zayne does not have many other friends outside of his colleagues at work. He may send an occasional text message to Yvonne or Dr. Grayson, but in the end, he finds himself defaulting to the poorly named group chat between the three of you when he needs someone to accompany him to the new cafe that had just opened up in downtown Linkon.

zayne's side chicks

zayne: there is a new dessert place downtown.

colonel kfc: and??

He huffs, glaring down at his phone. He can hear the phantom sound of Caleb snickering on the other end. If he composes his next text with more thumb force than necessary, that's nobody's business but his own.

zayne: accompany me there.

booty hunter: what do we say when we ask someone for a favour? 😇😇

colonel kfc: it starts with a P

Zayne tosses his entire phone across the room. It bounces off his mattress pathetically. He picks it back up two minutes later when his sugar craving hits and angrily types out his response.

zayne: please.

If that asteroid could hit him right about now, that would be absolutely terrific.

He pauses in thought.

Even if an asteroid was approaching Linkon, Caleb is a Colonel in the Farspace Fleet now. He would probably find a way to intercept it so he could continue bothering him for the rest of his life.

His migraine intensifies.

Against his best wishes, he is somehow coerced into picking you up from your home, and then Caleb from the train station - both of which are in the opposite direction of the new cafe.

He's wasting precious gas money for this.

"Stingy," You'd teased him from the passenger seat before poking him in the shoulder.

"Call me that one more time and you can walk to the cafe," He'd bit back instinctually before he even had time to think about what he was saying.

But you were not even fazed in the slightest, throwing your head in laughter and then singing back in an annoying voice, "But you neeeeeeed me!"

When he truly thinks about it, his car's passenger seat and the backrow have never been occupied by anyone else over the years other than the two of you. As Caleb once joked, his seats likely had the imprints of your backsides ingrained into the leather.

The cafe is a whopping 35-minute drive away from the train station. It is so out-of-the-way, in fact, that he passes by his home that he'd initially left to go pick up the two of you. On the way, he is forced against his will to listen to you and Caleb duet several High School Musical songs.

In the end, as the menu full of sugary pastries and tarts stares back at him, he supposes the drive had been worth it.

He's about halfway through devouring a matcha strawberry shortcake slice, and then an ube mochi tart, and then a lemon berry parfait when he realizes that he hadn't actually ordered any of it aside from the cake slice.

He jolts in sudden realization, his fork nearly falling from his grasp. An identical feeling to when he'd jolted awake the other night with the horrific realization that the two of you were here to stay for life, manifests in his chest.

Above the rim of the parfait glass, yours and Caleb's eyes meet his own with twin looks of mischievous amusement, as if you two had been watching him eat for quite some time now.

"That's my parfait," You complain loudly, as if on cue. Despite your unforgiving tone, there's a teasing smirk on your lips. Your head is leaning against Caleb's broad shoulder. To Zayne, you look like the embodiment of the devil on his shoulder. "But since I love you so much, I guess you can have it."

Zayne can feel his eye twitch involuntarily.

"How's my ube mochi tart? Good?" Caleb follows behind you without missing a beat. Compared to how he was just a few short years ago, he's much taller now, and broader around the shoulders than Zayne could ever hope to be. "I was looking forward to trying it, but you took a bite out of it before I could even take a picture."

Zayne knows exactly what the two of you are doing.

You continue, "As payment for stealing our desserts-"

"Dinner will be on Caleb tonight." He interjects savagely. "I want the French restaurant near my home. With dessert to go."

Your mouth hangs open from your unfinished sentence, like a fish out of water. Next to you, Caleb's eyebrows have disappeared into his hairline.

Not waiting for either of you, Zayne polishes off the rest of the parfait in one go and then stands to gather his things. "Well? Isn't this my birthday treat? Go pay and we'll get going. Your salary as a Colonel is enough to cover the bill, isn't it?"

He turns abruptly to you next and without warning, tosses the keys to his car right into your fumbling hands. "You're driving. I expect that you were prepared enough to have brought your license."

He doesn't wait for either of you as he sweeps out of the cafe. As soon as the door closes behind him, leaving you both scrambling to catch up, a rush of childish giddiness spreads over him.

Is this how you both feel when you tease him to no end? Well, well, well. He hopes you two can handle the taste of your own medicine.

If he can't invent a time machine, then he may as well turn the tables.

[dreamdragonkadia]

As Written Above, So Shall It Be Below Part - II.I Word Count: 4.0k A/N: I'm on a roll with this fic. Feedback, comments, thoughts, and theories are always appreciated! Main Pairing: Rhysand/Reader/Feyre Prev - Next ✦ Ao3

How do you honor a dead Lady?

Prayers?

Fires?

Leaving her favorite pastries by that quiet lake she loved, hoping the scent might somehow reach her across the veil?

For someone as intimately familiar with grief as Azriel was—someone who had walked through death more times than he could count—this grief lodged in his chest in a way nothing else ever had, settled in the same spot as if Rhysand’s mother and sister died all over again.

He’d tried. Mother, he’d tried. For Rhys, who had barely spoken about it again since his return that first day and he told them all what happened. For Cassian, who threw himself into training so violently Az had to pull him out of the ring before he destroyed something—or someone. For Mor, who shut the doors to her chambers for three straight days and only opened them again when he brought her the wine you'd once sworn she’d hoard if the world ended.

But mostly—he tried for you.

He’d imagined what you’d say if you saw them unraveling.

“If you even dare let this court fall to pieces because I kicked the bucket, I’ll come back from the dead just to stab every one of you.”

You’d meant it, too. Gods, he could see you—hands on your hips, that haughty smirk on your face, as if death was nothing more than an inconvenience you’d eventually bully into submission.

So he gave himself a week. One week to mourn you.

Seven days of slipping into silence. Of flying to the places you used to haunt—the library balcony, the cliffs above the sea, the roof of the Court of Nightmares where you’d once dragged him for “peace and quiet” while you spied on the drama unfolding below.

You’d grin over the rim of your cup and say, “Spymaster, ShadowSinger, Prince of Brooding—gods help us if they knew you liked lavender tarts.”

He didn’t like them. Not really.

He just liked that you did.

And then a week turned into two. And then two into two months.

And it started to settle in. Not the kind of grief that screams and breaks. But the kind that lingers. That lives in the silence after someone says something funny and you turn, ready to share it with them—only to remember they’re not there.

That was the worst of it.

Because no one else had filled the space you left behind.

Not for Azriel.

Who else would he share the wildest Court gossip with and not feel ridiculous doing it? Who else would wink at him across a room, raise an eyebrow, and silently convey every sarcastic thought in your head before he’d even opened his mouth?

He didn’t tell anyone else what he learned now—not the juicy things, not the petty things. Only Amren asked. Because Amren knew.

She’d raise an eyebrow and mutter, “She would’ve loved this,” when he muttered some ridiculous tale of scandal from Hewn City.

And Az would just grunt, trying not to let it show that the silence after hurt more than the story itself.

There had been afternoons—hundreds of them, if he let himself count—when the two of you had lounged on sun-warmed balconies or curled in shadowy corners of the House of Wind, sipping tea and wine and trading secrets like coins. You, barefoot in your silk robes, legs tucked beneath you with all the elegance of a Queen and none of the formality. Him, still in leathers, shadows clinging to his shoulders, pretending to be uninterested in your antics—though it was always him who lingered longest.

“You’re the only male I trust not to ruin my tea set,” you’d teased once, swirling your cup like it held far more than tea.

“That’s because Cassian shattered three,” he’d muttered.

“And Rhys poured wine in the sugar jar.”

“He said it was an experiment.”

“He said it was romantic.”

You both had laughed.

And now… you were gone.

Gone so completely, so violently, without fanfare or warning, that perhaps he’d never known how to grieve you properly. That perhaps none of them had. The Inner Circle had fought wars and monsters, had faced a thousand different versions of sorrow.

You were not meant to be one of the losses.

Even Rhys, who had twenty years to process, and still nearly lost himself to the thought of it. The rest of them had two months to accept the silence.

Two months to unlearn the sound of your voice in rooms you once filled.

Azriel had tried to make peace with it. For your sake. For the court’s.

He told himself you'd want them to move forward, to keep going, to protect what mattered.

And yet—when the High Lady was first brought to the Night Court, half-wild and afraid, his very first thought wasn’t of how to secure her help or assess her power.

It was to find The Lady of the Night.

To ask how to make her feel more welcome.

Because it had always been you who knew what to say to strangers. You who could read a room in a single glance, then wield your words with surgical precision or devastating kindness. You who saw through armor better than anyone, even him.

But you weren’t there.

He hadn’t wanted Feyre to feel like a replacement. Hadn’t wanted her to feel the shadow of you hanging over her shoulder. So he’d said nothing. They had said nothing. He thought they all would remain silent until Rhysand chose to tell her.

But it hadn’t been Rhys.

It had been Mor.

She’d told Feyre one night, unprompted, in front of a portrait in that same soft fierceness she always used when talking about people she loved. Azriel hadn’t been there when it happened, but he knew the way Mor would’ve spoken—honest, reverent, a little sad around the edges.

And Feyre…

She hadn’t flinched from it.

Hadn’t been made smaller by your memory. She’d simply taken it in, let it settle, and carried it with grace.

And somehow, after that, something shifted.

Azriel found a strange sense of peace in Feyre—not because she filled the space you left, but because she never tried to.

Helping her train, teaching her to fly, guiding her through the endless frustration of learning to navigate her new body—it gave him purpose. A way to be useful again.

And maybe, in some quiet way, it helped him mourn.

And it hadn’t been Cassian or Amren that Feyre went to after her return from spring. Once she was sure her sisters were safe.

It had been him.

She found him on the balcony just before dawn, the wind curling through his wings. Her steps had been cautious, not hesitant—but respectful.

“I’m sorry,” she had said softly, voice barely louder than the wind.

And Azriel had known, without asking, what she meant.

She wasn’t apologizing for being High Lady.

She was apologizing for not discussing the marriage with them.

For stepping into a space they once imagined belonged to you.

But it was never about one replacing the other.

You were the Last Lady of the Night. That was what Amren still called without apology. That title—your title—had not been stripped or passed on. Feyre was their High Lady. Rhysand’s mate. The rightful ruler of a court she helped save.

There was no resentment in Azriel. No bitterness. No jealousy.

He had never once blamed Rhysand. Never blamed Feyre.

A part of him, even, was glad. Genuinely. That Rhys could know happiness. That the court could be rebuilt stronger after the war. That Feyre had brought them light.

And Feyre… She had never tried to erase you. She encouraged them to speak of you when they could. When they needed. She had looked him in the eye that morning and said, “She mattered to all of you. I would never ask you to pretend she didn’t.”

It had stunned him, how simply she understood.

He hadn’t known what to say at first. The words weren’t there, not fully formed. But eventually, as the sun began to crest the horizon, he found himself murmuring,

“You two would’ve balanced each other. Personalities, I mean.”

Feyre had smiled—small, sad, knowing.

Maybe that’s why he’d told her.

Why the next words slipped out before he had time to second-guess them.

“Did Rhys tell you she was older than us?”

Feyre blinked, clearly not expecting him to share anything more.

“No,” she said gently.

“The betrothal contract was signed when Rhys was eight. She was seventeen. We met her for the first time when Rhys was twelve. The last High Lord finally stopped stalling and brought her to the Illyrian camps.”

He could still remember that day. Every detail.

You’d walked into the training ring like you didn’t care that the snow was half-melted or that mud clung to your boots. Like you didn’t notice the way every male there had gone silent the moment you appeared.

You’d been beautiful, of course. All High Fae were, to some degree—but you had something else. That stillness. That grace. That regality that made even Cassian shut his mouth. For a moment, at least.

Dangerous. Cold. Composed.

Azriel had expected you to be like the others—distant, stiff, too proud to look twice at a camp full of winged brutes.

And then you’d tilted your head, looked straight at Cassian, and said:

“You look like trouble.”

It had startled a laugh out of Rhysand. Cassian had puffed up with mock offense.

And you had just smiled—not cold, not haughty. Just amused. Like you’d already decided they weren’t beneath you. Like you’d seen something in them worth noticing.

“Rhys’s mother hated the arrangement,” he added after a beat. “Wouldn’t let him return to Velaris long enough to meet her properly if she could help it. Kept hoping it would all fall apart. At first at least.” 

It hadn’t been a secret—not really.

Everyone knew the former Lady of the Night Court had resented the match, no matter how politically smart it had been. But politics had never impressed her much, and she hadn’t liked the idea of someone being chosen for her son. Especially someone she hadn’t approved of herself.

Cassian had reminded you of that fact every couple of years—usually when you teased him too hard or made him suffer through another formal event in polished armor and a tight cravat. He’d elbow you in the ribs and mutter, “You know, you weren’t even supposed to stick around.”

And you—Mother, you’d grin like you’d just won a war. A smug, feral little thing, flashing teeth and mischief and pride.

“But guess who ended up being her favorite?” you’d sing-song, sticking your tongue out at him with no regard for rank or dignity.

Azriel didn’t smile, not now, but the memory lit in his chest like an ember.

It wasn’t his story to tell—not the whole of it. Not the reasons why you’d become the Lady of the Night long before you ever officially wore the title.

Not how, after the first meeting, you had been the one winnowing in and out under High Lord orders. Quietly. Efficiently.

To check in.

To report back.

To observe.

You’d hated it. Gods, how you’d hated it.

Not the court, not the males—just the cold.

You made that fact perfectly clear, too. Never subtle, not with the way you bundled yourself in thick furs and spelled your boots to be self-heating. Rhys’s little sister, Estelle, had been the one to rat you out—tugging on Azriel’s arm one winter morning and whispering with a conspiratorial smile, “She says she’d rather be thrown in a volcano than have to watch another snowstorm roll through. Don’t tell her I told you.”

But Estelle had loved you. You’d visit her as often as you were allowed. She’d wanted to know her brother’s betrothed, had insisted.

And so you’d come. Again and again.

Winnowing through snowstorms with ice in your hair and a scowl on your face, dragging news and updates and biting sarcasm behind you like a cloak. You never complained directly—not in front of Rhys, at least—but Azriel remembered the way your hands never left your coat, the way your nose was always red, and how your curses in the cold became increasingly creative with each visit.

And still, you came.

Again and again.

And somewhere between those reluctant visits and those scouting trips into Illyria, between the way you learned every name in the camp and the way you watched their sparring matches with arms crossed and eyes noting details, you stopped being the political stranger they were told to tolerate…

And started becoming theirs.

The shift was subtle. Gradual. The kind of change that only makes sense in hindsight.

And maybe it became undeniable the first time Rhys’s mother had brought out her sewing kit one evening and began to stitch.

No one had dared ask at first.

But the truth slipped out in the way she muttered about “proper materials” for Illyrian winters and how “that girl’s coats are utterly useless.”

She didn’t say your name. She didn’t have to.

Because the next time you arrived, your coat had been replaced with one of her making. Lined with thick black velvet, buttons enchanted against frostbite, and seams so tight they wouldn’t let the wind through if it begged.

And she’d hovered. Gods, she’d hovered. Adjusting the collar. Tucking a strand of your hair behind your ear with surprising gentleness. Muttering about how "you’d catch your death otherwise."

Dotting on you like a mother hen.

And that was when they knew—when they all knew—that she had accepted it.

That she had accepted you.

Not because she’d been told to. Not because of a contract.

But because somewhere in those snow-covered camps and quiet exchanges, you’d become real to her.

Not a title. Not a duty. Someone.

And later when Rhys turned eighteen, it became clear just how deep that shift had settled.

His mother had told him, without room for argument, that the first dance of his birthday celebration would go to his betrothed. To you.

And no one questioned it. Not Rhys. Not Cassian. Not Azriel.

Because by then, there was no doubt.

You’d become a part of them.

And when the High Lord had grown fearful—had split Azriel from his brother to keep the court’s weapons separate—it was you he worked with most.

He had found something like peace in telling Feyre little things about you in passing. Letting himself accept the truth of your absence.

Until the night Mor found him.

She’d come to the lake just outside Velaris, breathless and pale, and spoken your name. Just once.

It was all it took.

And then—Elain’s words. The portrait. The vision. The way Mor’s voice trembled when she said, "Say I’m wrong. Say it’s impossible."

Azriel had listened to it all, stone-faced and silent.

And though he hadn’t said it aloud—hadn’t needed to—the stillness of his shadows, the way they pulled closer, tighter, was answer enough.

He hadn’t denied it.

Because deep down, in the quiet places even he rarely acknowledged…

He had wondered, too.

And when Mor finally whispered, “If there’s even a chance…”

He’d looked out over the water, exhaled slowly—

And said, “There’s a rumor.”

It had started during his investigation of the mortal queens, a sliver of information buried beneath layers of lies and manipulation. At the time, it had seemed like just another tactic—something Hybern had planted to distract, to confuse, to throw their enemies into disarray. And yet… something about it had stuck with him. 

And then, during the battle, they arrived.

Fae who had once been marked as fallen. As lost. As dead.

They came with Vassa, the mortal queen cloaked in fire, who walked beside those who should not have walked at all.

Azriel had watched them enter the camp, watched the way they held themselves—too quiet, too careful. Watched the way their eyes scanned the crowd, not searching for allies, but avoiding the ones who might recognize what they weren’t saying.

He had approached.

Asked the questions he wasn’t sure he was ready to have answered.

And they had only looked at him. Not with pity. Not with cruelty.

Just silence.

Intentional silence.

The kind that made his shadows curl tighter around him. The kind that said more than words ever could.

They knew something.

And none of them would speak.

But Azriel had seen it—that flicker of recognition, so brief most would’ve missed it. The twitch in one Fae’s mouth when your name passed his lips. The way another avoided his eyes, too quick to excuse herself. And the third—the one who glanced toward the sea like it might reveal a truth he wasn’t brave enough to say aloud. It had been subtle, careful. But not careful enough. He was the Shadowsinger. He noticed what others didn’t. And what he saw in those silences was enough.

Mor had not brought it up again. He hadn’t told a soul. And no one had questioned him when he said there were rumors to follow, things that didn’t quite add up, stories left unfinished in the aftermath of war. No one asked what those rumors were.

It had taken longer than he expected to slip past the magical defenses encasing the borders of the Kingdom of Scythia. Not human-made, not even new. These were old wards—woven with purpose, with age, with a kind of knowing only Fae magic possessed. The kind meant to keep eyes like his away. And it almost did. But Azriel was patient. Shadows knew how to wait. And so did he.

For a time, he only observed. Let his shadows weave through the marketplace, the temples, the gardens and palaces, listening as if the air itself might confess something. There were Fae here, that much was clear—some from every court, mingling with humans as if no war had ever passed between them. Comfortable. Settled. As though the divisions that had carved their world in two had never mattered here. Yet no one spoke of you directly. Not by name.

There were whispers, though. Talks of their Lady among Vassa’s inner circle—one not bound by title or bloodline. A woman whose voice could silence a room, who walked through fire and shadow without blinking. Azriel almost left then. The information was valuable, more than enough to return with. Something Rhys needed to know. And he had almost turned away, until he felt it.

It wasn’t a word. Not a voice in his mind. It was... a sensation. Younger. Curious. Like being watched by a presence—one that felt oddly familiar, like catching a note of a song you hadn’t heard a full tune for. The echo of Rhysand’s magic—but it wasn’t him. It was something else. Someone else. And then—just like that—it was gone. Cut off.

Still, he waited. Another three days. And on the third, the court began to shift. New enchantments. New wards. The Dawn Court was coming. The castle readied itself for guests, and the magic in the walls responded accordingly. And then—his shadows stirred.

Familiar magic moved through the air, brushing against him like a sigh through silk. Recognition struck so fast he didn’t have time to think, only feel. His shadows peeled away from him, darting into the darkness like hounds catching a scent, and he didn’t stop them.

He moved through the palace like smoke, silent and unseen, his footsteps swallowed by stone and darkness. He didn’t question where he was going. His shadows had found something. 

Barefoot in the garden. Face tilted to the stars as if they were telling a story. The world so still besides the shadows that flickered across your shoulders. 

And Azriel… he couldn’t breathe.

Couldn’t think.

The crushing weight in his chest returned with a vengeance—as if he was being told for the first time all over again that you were gone. Only now, that grief was warping, twisting—turning into something too vast to name.

You were here.

He stepped forward, his voice catching somewhere between disbelief and inevitability, the words slipping out of him like they had waited for permission.

“You’re alive.”

Then he dropped. One knee to the earth, as if his body remembered how to honor you before his mind could catch up. It wasn’t planned—it was instinct. Respect. Reverence. The kind of devotion that couldn’t be shaken by time or distance or death. His gaze fixed on the ground, refusing to lift, because if he looked up… if he looked at you and you weren’t really there, if this was some cruel trick—he wasn’t sure he’d recover.

The garden was quiet, save for the whisper of leaves.

Then, gently, the grass shifted in front of him. A whisper of fabric stirred in the breeze, and he caught sight of the hem of a dark nightdress. Then, a hand. Gentle. Warm. Fingers curling over his shoulder with a tenderness that shattered something deep in his chest.

Your voice broke softly across the silence.

“…Hello, Azriel.”

It cracked at the edges, like it wasn’t used to forming his name. Like it hurt to say it. 

“It’s been too long.”

And then—just like that—you were crying.

He heard it in the tremble of your breath, felt it in the way your hand trembled against him. His own eyes burned, the tears rising before he could stop them. He looked up—finally, truly looked—and saw you. Not a dream. Not a shadow. Not a ghost.

You.

And he wasn’t sure if it was you who moved first or him. Only that, suddenly, he was in your arms, or you were in his, and none of it mattered. There was no hesitation, no decorum, no court or duty. Just the crushing, desperate ache of reunion.

You clung to each other beneath the garden’s starlit hush, your breaths unsteady, your bodies shaking—not from fear or cold, but from the sheer force of emotion neither of you could name. It wasn’t grace. It wasn’t beauty. It was raw, the kind of reunion that cracked open the places you thought had long since scarred over.

And for the first time in what felt like a lifetime, Azriel’s wings dropped.

They sagged behind him, the powerful muscles trembling too hard to hold them aloft. His wings touched the ground—an unforgivable gesture for any Illyrian, a sign of exhaustion, defeat, or despair. But right now, he didn’t care. 

But then—your hands were on his chest, gently but urgently pushing back. Not far, just enough to look at him. And he saw it then—the fear that had been buried beneath the tears, beneath the relief.

“You can’t tell.”

The words spilled past your lips in a whisper—rushed, desperate. Your eyes searched his face like they already knew the battle that might follow.

“You can’t tell anyone,” you breathed, voice cracking. “I know what I’m asking, I know I have no right anymore, I’m not your Lady—”

He stiffened, his hands still loosely on your arms, his shadows curling tight behind him.

You were wrong. So deeply, devastatingly wrong.

You were still his Lady.

You were still theirs.

He opened his mouth to tell you just that. To remind you who you were. Who you still were, even now—

“Mama?”

A small, sleepy voice carried into the stillness.

Azriel froze.

He turned, slowly, as if moving too fast would make the sound vanish.

And there—emerging from the shadows of a pillar, rubbing her eyes with tiny fists—was a little girl.

And for a moment, for a heartbeat that seemed to shatter everything he thought he understood, he thought he was looking at a baby version of Estelle.

But no—no, not quite. The features were younger. Softer. But so unmistakably familiar it felt like being knocked breathless.

Rhysand.

It was Rhysand’s face—his High Lord’s face, down to the curve of the cheekbones, the deep violet eyes blinking up at him with sleep-heavy curiosity.

She smiled at him—gentle, like he was something soft and safe.

“Friend? Family?”

And Azriel understood.

Understood everything.

[fancyfeathers]

Dick and his darling in the Hunger Games scenario would DEFINITELY be that golden couple that Bruce and his darling used to be back in the day, like they’re definitely a couple who “can’t get their hands off each other” or “can’t get enough of each other” because they’re never seen apart and Dick is REALLL heavy on the PDA. They’re probably gonna get married asap and it’ll be like the event of the decade in the capital. Everyone’s just having a great time while Dick’s darling and Bruce’s darling are just making soulless eye contact.

Yandere!Batfam Hunger Games AU

So Dick obviously proposes right after she was crowned the victor, right in front of all of Panem, making it impossible for her to refuse. Then right after that he probably moves temporarily to live with her in the Victor’s Village in her district for a few months, the press going crazy over the Capitol’s own golden boy and his victor sweetheart seeing her in her hometown, but of course the Victor’s Village is not her hometown, it is what she got at the cost of twenty one other lives, but the citizens of the Capitol don’t need to see what it was actually like for her growing up.

He’s the one planning the wedding while he is there, or rather he is the one communicating with the wedding planners in the Capitol, her stylist from the games already has her measurements so the wedding dress will not be an issue. The only thing she needs to worry about is putting on a smile for the cameras and learn how to smile for him since without him she would be dead just like all the other tributes and someone else would be the victor.

The wedding itself is at the end of her Victory Tour, when she returns to the Capitol. The entire time, she just tries to forget about everything, the games, the looks on people’s faces, how romanced her life has become. Honestly she probably gets to the point where during the Victory Tour, on the days leading up to the wedding, when she is not giving that same old speech that someone wrote for her, address the district and the family’s of the dead tributes, she locks herself in her room of the train, completely unable to get herself to move off of her bed. Dick leaves food on her bedside and encourages her to eat when she skipped meals that day, or he also picks her up to wash her off in the bath or even go in the bath with her.

It all just becomes too much when they reach the Capitol, the interviews, the fake smiles, the dinner and party at the Presidential Mansion, the food alone probably costed more money than her parents used to make in a year. The worst part is that she does not get to go back to “celebrate” the end of the Victory Tour with her district or go back home to her parents, no she stays in the Capitol. The morning after the Victory Tour is their wedding, everyone who is anyone in the Capitol will be there, it does not matter if the bride knows them or not. Her parents and sister are not there, she begged them not to come because she did not want them to see her like that, so they made themselves sick by eating catnip, since it works as an emetic agent on humans. So if they were sick they would not be forced to attend by the Capitol.

It is a beautiful wedding, but nothing like she wanted and not to the person she wanted. She would rather exchange vows in the middle of a forest with a complete stranger, than say I do in some ornately decorated garden in the Capitol in a dress she does not even like while hundreds of thousands of eyes are on her.

Half way through the party, she has to excuse herself so she can decompress, it just all has become too much for her, the conversation with the overprivileged who have no actual idea what her life is like and if they do then they don’t care, the constant affection from her now husband, and all the food that people want her to try and she feels painfully bloated and the way the dress squeezes in her stomach does nothing to help her. Her mentor, Bruce’s darling, comes and sits with her, the first bit of silence either of them has had all night…

“Does it get better?”

“…No, it does not.”

[highfantasy-soul]

Can I just say, I know people were upset we didn't get to see Rand and Lan training the sword in S1 and S2, no mention of the flame and the void, etc, but I really think it thematically works WAY better including it here in S3.

In S1, it would have just been...idk, here's something on a checklist we need to do: have male protag learn sword as he's starting his adventure. But that wasn't where Rand was at - they really didn't think they'd need to physically fight too much, then at the end, he wasn't going to duel Ishy at the Eye, it was really just a 'show up and hopefully you'll just know what to do' situation

S2, Rand thinks he's completed his task! He's trying to grapple with eventually going mad and yes, he does get a little bit of 'training' from the war veteran, but it's really just small things like how to hold himself/hold a blade. Nothing to become a master. And still, it wasn't time for him to learn. Defeating Ishy, again, was a battle of wills and Rand accepting that this fight wasn't over and wouldn't be over for a long time.

NOW in S3, Rand is accepting his responsibility - both physically and mentally. He's tasked with so much that he's supposed to control, but has no way to - he can't control going mad, he can't control the divide in the tower, he can't control the Forsaken coming after him and his friends, he can't control the Aiel's perception of him, he can't control his confused feelings for Lanfear and her dipping into his dreams every night. What he can control: his physical training.

It's thematically relevant now to bring in the Flame and the Void - emphasizing how Tam was a father to Rand and taught him swordmaster techniques of control that Rand is now having to fall back on as he's taken up the responsibility of being the Dragon Reborn and needing an anchor to steady him for the long fight ahead. Now, it's thematically relevant for him to hone his physical skills as a way to regain focus in a situation where his focus has to be on a thousand things at once.

The show has a limited time to show us the themes and character development - we don't have hundreds of pages of down time where the characters can do what they did in the books.

Moving Rand's sword training to S3 fulfills SO many roles: Rand narrowing the group of people he goes to for advice, the difference between Lan's approach vs Moiraine's and how Rand feels about that, Rand battling for control and needing something stable, Rand leaning on his adoptive father's lessons/remembering his upbringing for the days to come, showing the difference between him and the Aiel he needs to lead as he is learning the sword, not the spear.

I think the way the show has progressed Rand's character has been really really great and now, the sword training feels like it FITS rather than just being tacked-on as something that just has to be included.

[nagiwrites]

Chapter Two: The Capitol’s Rules.

Characters: Caleb, you

A/n: I swear formatting on here is a job in itself. Anyways another chap is here if u wanna be tagged feel free to tell me. Also I’ll put content warnings for this fic.

☆ Content: body stripping and forced undressing, non-consensual physical contact, loss of bodily autonomy, mild nudity and humiliation, emotional distress, depersonalization and identity erasure, as well as themes of classism and systemic oppression.

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📌 Synopsis :

On the way to the Capitol, she learns the Games are more performance than survival. Caleb promises to protect her, but his motives remain unclear. Once inside, she’s stripped of her identity and remade for the Capitol’s stage—left feeling like a stranger in her own skin.

The hovercraft hummed through the sky, the engines too smooth, too quiet for something moving this fast. The tinted windows gave nothing away—just endless stretches of blue fading into the neon glow of the Capitol ahead.

The farther they got from District IV, the cleaner everything became. The shanty towns and dust-covered streets disappeared, replaced with pristine high-rises, gleaming transport stations, and well-maintained roads. This was the rich side. The part of the district that still belonged to the Capitol, where officials, Peacekeepers, and the privileged few lived untouched by hunger and fear.

She’d never been here before.

And she wouldn’t have time to take it in now.

Across from her, Caleb sat in perfect stillness, his hands resting against his knees. Not restrained, not worried. Like a man who chose to be here.

She still didn’t understand that.

Or him.

She leaned back, staring at the ceiling as she exhaled. “So,” she said, breaking the silence, “are you going to explain how this works, or are we just supposed to figure it out as we go?”

Caleb blinked once, slow and unreadable. “The Hunter Games?”

“No, the weather,” she said flatly. “Of course, the Games.”

A flicker of something—amusement, maybe—crossed his face before vanishing. He shifted slightly, adjusting his posture like this conversation was a negotiation. “There are three phases before the arena,” he said. “Training, evaluations, and interviews. All designed to entertain the Capitol before the real event.”

She frowned. “Training?”

He nodded. “Weapons, survival tactics, close combat. You’ll be assigned a score at the end of it. Higher scores mean more sponsors. More sponsors mean a better chance of making it past the first few days.”

She absorbed that, tapping a finger against her knee. “And the evaluations?”

Caleb’s gaze darkened. “Private sessions with the Gamemakers. They decide how dangerous you are.”

That made her stomach twist.

“And the interviews?”

His lips pressed into a thin line. “Propaganda.”

She snorted. “Figures.”

She expected him to leave it at that, but after a beat, he continued. “They want a story. Something they can sell to the people. Fear. Tragedy. Romance. It doesn’t matter as long as they can control it.”

She turned that over in her mind. The Games weren’t just about killing—they were about putting on a show. And the Capitol would twist every moment to fit whatever narrative kept the audience entertained.

Her fingers curled slightly. “And you?”

Caleb tilted his head. “What about me?”

She gestured vaguely. “You forced your way in. Which means you’re either my mentor, my handler, or some new Capitol experiment.”

He studied her, quiet for too long, before saying, “I’m here to make sure you survive.”

She didn’t know what to do with that.

Because there was something unsettling about the way he said it. Like it wasn’t just an objective. Like it wasn’t just duty.

Like it was personal.

She looked away first. Outside, the hovercraft was already descending, the glowing skyline of the Capitol stretching beneath them.

It was beautiful.

And it was a graveyard.

They were about to be thrown into a machine designed to tear them apart. And she still didn’t know why the man across from her had chosen to step inside it with her.

But one thing was clear.

Whatever his reasons, whatever he wasn’t saying—

Caleb wasn’t going to let her die.

And that might’ve been the most dangerous thing of all.

The hovercraft descended into the heart of the Capitol, the neon skyline shifting from a distant blur into something towering and suffocating. Buildings stretched high enough to disappear into the clouds, their sleek metal surfaces reflecting the glow of holographic advertisements. Bright screens displayed last year’s Hunter Games champion, a sharp-jawed boy dressed in golden armor, smiling like he hadn’t torn through twenty other tributes to get here.

The hovercraft docked on a landing platform that was too clean, too sterile. The moment the doors slid open, the artificial scent of processed air and something vaguely floral hit her nose. It smelled like a place that had never known real dirt, never known hunger or desperation.

Capitol attendants were already waiting—dressed in shimmering, impractical outfits, their skin airbrushed to perfection. She barely had time to get her bearings before one of them stepped forward, flashing a too-bright smile.

“Welcome, tributes! Right this way.”

She forced herself to move, stepping onto the platform with the same numbness she’d felt since the reaping.

Caleb was right behind her.

She didn’t know why she kept looking for him—why the solid presence of him at her back made her nerves settle instead of spike. But she did. And it unsettled her almost as much as the Capitol’s suffocating opulence.

A camera drone zipped in close, scanning them both, projecting their faces onto a screen above. The words DISTRICT IV TRIBUTES flashed beneath their images.

People in the town murmured. Some leaned forward, eager for a first look at this year’s new prey. Others watched with the detached amusement of people who would never have to step into the arena themselves.

She could already feel them assigning labels.

Would she be forgettable? A sacrifice? A tragic figure to cry over before the real show began?

And then there was Caleb.

They didn’t know what to do with him.

A colonel in the Games wasn’t normal. The murmurs grew louder, questioning. Whispering. A Capitol official in a crisp suit gestured for one of the attendants, eyes narrowing as he spoke.

She glanced at Caleb. “So… you really weren’t supposed to be here, huh?”

Caleb didn’t look at her, just kept walking forward. “No.”

The admission should’ve scared her. Instead, it made her pulse quicken for an entirely different reason.

The grand entrance of the Tribute Tower loomed ahead—a massive glass structure built solely to house the competitors before the Games. As they stepped inside, a holographic display of the Capitol’s logo shimmered above them, accompanied by a soft, artificial voice.

WELCOME, TRIBUTES. PREPARE FOR THE EXPERIENCE OF A LIFETIME.

She barely resisted the urge to scoff.

A set of attendants approached, separating her from Caleb in one swift motion.

“This way, dear,” one of them said, guiding her toward a long hallway lined with marble and gold trim. “We’ll get you cleaned up for the Opening Ceremony. You want to look your best, don’t you?”

She turned slightly, just enough to catch a glimpse of Caleb before they pulled him in the opposite direction.

For the first time, his gaze met hers fully.

He didn’t say anything. Didn’t have to.

Because something unspoken passed between them in that brief second.

Something that felt suspiciously like a promise.

Then the doors closed, and she was alone.

The hallway smelled like artificial roses and something chemical, a scent so sharp it stung the inside of her nose. Everything here was too clean, too polished, too perfect—designed for the people who had never known struggle, never worked their hands raw, never bled for something they couldn’t keep.

She hated it already.

The attendants guided her into a pristine white room, the walls smooth and seamless, as if they had been molded rather than built. A glass platform in the center illuminated as she stepped onto it, a soft chime sounding as an AI scanned her body.

“Preliminary evaluation complete. Commencing preparation process.”

The attendants wasted no time. Hands—cold, impersonal—pulled at her clothes, unfastening buttons, peeling fabric from her skin. She stiffened instinctively, her breath catching as they stripped her down without ceremony.

Her clothes, the last thing connecting her to home, were tossed into a disposal chute without hesitation.

Gone.

Just like that.

She was naked before she could process it, surrounded by strangers who didn’t even have the decency to pretend to care.

“Arms up,” one of them instructed. “We need to remove all the excess.”

She barely had time to ask what excess? before a warm, sticky substance was smeared over her legs, arms, and anywhere else the Capitol deemed unworthy.

Then came the ripping.

She bit her lip so hard she tasted blood.

It wasn’t the worst pain she’d ever felt—nothing compared to a deep wound or the ache of hunger—but it was the humiliation of it. The raw exposure. The way they talked over her, not to her, as if she were nothing more than a project being refined into something presentable.

Her skin burned by the time they were done, stripped raw under the bright lights.

Then came her hair.

One of the attendants examined it with a critical eye, fingers prodding at her scalp. “We’ll need to smooth this out,” she murmured, already reaching for a brush.

Her stomach twisted.

She clenched her fists. She knew what was coming.

The first pass wasn’t too bad, but the second—

A sharp pull.

Her scalp screamed in protest, her head yanked back as the attendant worked with mechanical efficiency, oblivious to the sharp sting radiating from each tug.

She held her breath.

Another pull.

Her fingers curled tighter.

She wouldn’t say anything. Wouldn’t give them the satisfaction.

But when they reached the knots at the base of her skull, ripping through them without care, the pain sent sharp pricks behind her eyes.

She blinked rapidly, but it didn’t stop the tears from slipping down her cheeks.

Silent. Unnoticed.

Just another thing for them to strip away.

“Almost done,” the attendant said cheerfully, as if she wasn’t yanking her head like a ragdoll. “You’ll look stunning for the ceremony!”

She wanted to tell them she didn’t care about looking stunning. That she didn’t want to be something pretty for the Capitol to admire before they threw her into the dirt.

But she stayed silent.

Because it didn’t matter.

It never did.

By the time they finished, her body felt foreign—smooth where it shouldn’t be, styled in a way that didn’t belong to her.

They wrapped her in a robe, soft and expensive, guiding her toward another room where stylists awaited.

As they led her forward, she caught a glimpse of herself in the reflective wall.

She looked like a stranger.

And she hated her.

By the time they were done with her body, they moved on to her hair.

She sat stiffly in a plush chair, the fabric too smooth, too foreign against her stripped-down skin. The stylists surrounded her like architects examining blueprints, their eyes sharp with calculation.

“We should straighten it,” one suggested, running a comb through her curls with far too much force.

“No,” another chimed in, twisting a section between their fingers. “Texture is in this year. Let’s enhance it.”

She exhaled slowly through her nose, already exhausted. She wasn’t sure what was worse—the pain of them yanking through her scalp, or the way they talked about her like she wasn’t sitting right in front of them.

At least this time, they weren’t completely careless.

The hands that worked through her hair now were more delicate, though not out of kindness. It was precision. They conditioned, softened, twisted each strand into something elegant, something that would look effortless but had taken painstaking effort to achieve.

When they finally stepped back, she caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror.

Her hair had been shaped into an intricate design, cascading down one side, threaded with delicate metallic strands that shimmered under the light. It wasn’t her, not really. But at least it wasn’t stripped away.

She swallowed against the lump in her throat and turned away.

Then came the dress.

They led her to a display where rows of shimmering gowns hovered in the air, each one programmed with effects that reacted to movement. Some flickered like fire, others rippled like water, shifting colors as the fabric swayed.

“For the ceremony, you need to make an impression,” the lead stylist said, gesturing to the options. “The Capitol loves a tribute with presence.”

She barely heard them.

Her gaze had already landed on one dress, and something inside her cracked.

Her favorite color.

She didn’t even mean to laugh, but the sound burst out of her—loud, sharp, and broken.

Tears burned at the corners of her eyes as she covered her mouth, shaking her head. “Of course,” she choked out. “Of course they’d have one in my favorite color.”

The stylists exchanged confused glances, unsure if she was amused or unraveling.

Maybe it was both.

She reached for the dress, fingers brushing over the material. It was smooth, impossibly soft, but beneath the surface, she could feel the embedded tech, ready to activate at a moment’s notice.

The fabric pulsed, reacting to her touch. A slow shimmer ran through it, the color deepening, shifting like liquid under moonlight.

It was beautiful.

It was ridiculous.

It was hers.

“I’ll take this one,” she said, her voice steadier now.

The stylists hesitated before nodding, pleased with her choice.

As they helped her into the gown, adjusting the fit, setting the effects to highlight every movement, she stared at herself in the mirror once more.

The stranger was still there.

But this time, beneath all the Capitol’s work, there was something else.

A flicker of her.

And for now, that would have to be enough.

By the time they finished preparing her, the weight of everything settled over her shoulders like an iron chain. The gown clung to her frame perfectly, its advanced fabric shifting ever so slightly with her movements, rippling like water under the bright artificial lights.

The color—her color—stood out against the cold, sterile surroundings.

She wasn’t sure if that was a good thing.

A set of attendants ushered her down a corridor lined with reflective panels, the sleek, high-tech design making it impossible to forget where she was. Every few steps, the floor beneath her pulsed, scanning her biometrics. The Capitol left nothing unchecked.

Then, the doors at the end of the hallway slid open, revealing a lavish waiting chamber.

And there he was.

Caleb.

She came to an abrupt stop.

He was already dressed for the ceremony, standing with the kind of stillness that made people uneasy. His uniform had been replaced with something undeniably designed to impress—black, sharply tailored, lined with faint streaks of silver that pulsed like slow lightning beneath the fabric. The effects were subtle, but when he moved, the suit seemed almost alive, shifting with the kind of controlled power that the Capitol adored.

Of course they’d make him look like a leader. A warrior.

But she didn’t care about that.

She only cared about the fact that he was here. That the Capitol had let him be here.

That he had forced his way into this nightmare right alongside her.

He looked up, his gaze landing on her immediately.

And then—something flickered in his expression.

Not surprise. Not admiration.

Something deeper.

Something unreadable.

She swallowed, suddenly hyperaware of how ridiculous she must look. Dressed up like a doll, painted, polished, made into something more palatable for the audience that would soon be watching their every move.

His gaze swept over her once, calculating, before returning to her face. “You picked that?”

She narrowed her eyes. “What, does it offend you?”

He didn’t answer immediately. Then, in a low, unreadable tone, he said, “No.”

Silence stretched between them.

She wasn’t sure what she had expected. A comment about the absurdity of it all? A reminder that they were about to be paraded around like showpieces before being thrown into a death match?

But he just kept looking at her, as if trying to decipher something she didn’t understand herself.

Finally, she crossed her arms. “Well? Do I look like a proper tribute now?”

Caleb’s lips pressed into a thin line. “You look like someone the Capitol won’t forget.”

She wasn’t sure if that was a compliment or a warning.

Before she could decide, an official strode into the room, checking a holographic tablet before gesturing toward the exit. “You’re up next. Don’t keep them waiting.”

Her heart slammed once against her ribs.

This was it.

The first real moment where the world would see her. Where she’d step into the light, not as a district worker, not as a girl who had volunteered for a child she didn’t even know—

But as a tribute.

A piece in the Capitol’s game.

She inhaled slowly, forcing herself to move.

But just as she passed Caleb, his voice came low and steady, just loud enough for her to hear.

“Don’t let them define you.”

She turned slightly, meeting his gaze one last time before the doors opened—

And the world swallowed her whole.

A/n : thanks for reading maybe I’ll post more later in the night if I’m up but it’s a lot to have for format and edit this ngl. But I appreciate the likes feel free to repost with credits please.

Tags:

@mysticcollectionvoid

[zvtara-was-never-canon]

https://www.tumblr.com/demaparbat-hp/777479724789284864/keeping-her-scars-would-tie-in-nicely-with-the?source=share

Your thoughts?

"Why is Zuko the face of the enemy?" Because he showed up at her village, threatened everyone, hunted the Gaang down for months, tried to kidnap Aang several times, and even attacked Katara for daring to offer to heal his uncle. Because he's made it quite clear that he wants his father to wreck the world through war, imperialism and genocide. He attacked the Gaang far more often than any other villain, OF COURSE he's the face of the enemy.

"Subconciously, it was about the scar" No, it fucking wasn't, Katara even says as much when Zuko assumes otherwise, and she only offered to heal it because he made it clear he had a complex over it. Learning about Zuko's abuse is important to understand his character, yes, but not in the sense that "scars mean evil person." He's a bad person because, before redeeming himself, he did things like support genocide.

"From a disability point of view" It's a scar. It didn't affect his vision or physical health in anyway. The only damage it did was psychological. It's the physical manifestation of his trauma, but it did not make Zuko disabled.

"Katara's character is explored through her compassion for others" True, doesn't mean she needs to be permanently scarred just so she can relate to Zuko more (which isn't even a guarantee, see how much "We both are scarred" meant to him when he stole from Song and her mom). It's reducing Zuko's character to just the guy with a scar, and reducing Katara to just the girl that got scarred to match him. It literally removes a turning point for her character - the discovery that she can heal.

"She saw everybody, but Zuko was the only who saw her" Bullshit. Hakoda, Gran-Gran, Sokka, Aang, Toph, and even Haru and his dad are the ones to see Katara for who she is. They saw her compassion, her strength, resilience, stubborness, courage - the good and the bad. Pre-redemption Zuko only saw Katara as yet another obstacle between him and the Avatar (aka his way back home), hence Katara literally trying to leave him behind to die in the North Pole. She's not completely devoid of compassion for him (again, she offered to heal Iroh) but they meant nothing to each other at that point.

"But Zuko was just like her, right? He was a hurt kid who lost his mother to the Fire Nation" No, they were not the same. That's the point of the Ba Sing Se scene. They THINK they're talking about the same thing, but the tragedy is that they're not. Zuko lost his mom due to the meddling of two abusive adults, his father and grandfather. Katara lost her mom to war and genocide - war and genocide carried out by Zuko's family. The same family he's still going to choose over everything else, mere moments later. Zuko does not genuinely understand, and thus empathize with, Katara's situation until their field trip.

"Katara was marked by fire, perhaps in different circumstances, but it's still similar enough to Zuko's own story (hurt by the one who was meant to love you, even if Katara's scar came from an accident and not sheer violence) that I feel like it would make them connect even more easily" Incredibly forced "parallel" since the two situations are not at all alike, and, again, "I have a scar too" meant fuckall to Zuko when he stole from Song and her mom - after they had helped him heal Iroh, something Katara also tried to do.

Zuko is NEVER, ever, EVER going to truly connect with Katara before he lets go of his imperialistic ideas, no matter what situations they're put on together or apart, because THAT'S the core problem here. His racism, elitism and entitlement. Until he gets over that, Katara is not a person in his eyes. The Zuko that was horrified at the general that wanted to use Fire Nation soldiers as "fresh meat" to bait the enemy was the same Zuko that laughed at his uncle's joke about burning Ba Sing Se to the ground.

The pain of non-Fire Nation people doesn't register to him, no matter how simmilar it is to his own pain, because he was trained, from birth, to not see them as human.

[sissytrainingpage1]

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To get started send a message on telegram @prettysissyacademy1 Do not just like this post and follow the blog send a message on telegram for daily task

To become a Sissy, This online training program is for new sissies, experienced, or those thinking about being a sissy. If you don’t know where to start, this lays out the basic guidelines of how to become a sissy from the beginning. If you want to learn the beginning steps to feminization, TIME TO PUT ON THOSE HEELS & FISHNETS AND SUBMIT SISSY You know you are a beta subspecies on the totem pole. Your new purpose now is to be fuckable, and to get fucked. You know being a sissy whore is your calling. It is boring being a man with many responsibilities. That’s why you are becoming a woman now, even if it is against your will. You need to be trained, feminized, and fucked. Why you are now going to Submit to a Mistress? If you are a real sissy, you will do whatever it takes to get fucked by her Have you ever thought that maybe you aren’t man enough to take a woman? Maybe you are the woman… Especially if you stumbled upon this blog. Chances are you’ve been a closeted sissy fag for many years now. You’re too pussy to make the lifestyle change and become a true feminized sissy fuckdoll. I’ve planned out all the activities for you. Your main pleasure areas for the month will be ass, mouth & mind Expect a variety of tasks like Guided sessions with dildo: I will use your mouth and ass Reading a hot story to give you a perspective of your secret dream life, Giving you subliminal hints through hypnotize Provoking sissy tests that will show what a slut you are Mind plays to deepen your connection with your submissive sissy side No, stroking your clit, only the reminders you cannot use it Every task is carefully designed to push your boundaries and take your experience to the next level

It will increase the chances of sissygasm by 100% It builds your sexual frustration and you can experience wet dreams It will accelerate your feminization progress You get access to a lot of mind-melting cute sissy tasks that will take your arousal to new highs You get to choose between 3 modes: Beginner / Traditional / Full experience I have thought about everything, nothing to worry about Now, take a second, and think, do you want to miss it? NEVER-ENDING REASONS TO JOIN Experience Feminization at its fullest: become the sissy you’ve always wanted to be and better serve your Mistress. Explore your true self: explore your femininity in a safe and comfortable environment Get motivation to find the right partner: Eliminating excessive masturbation, you’ll remain focused on your goal of finding a woman who loves your true sissy nature. Go deep, anal deep: You still need to pleasure yourself somehow, right? Get ready for sissygasms Overcome post-nut guilt: break the cycle of mood swings and guilt after orgasming, feel the magic

[artistically-hershie]

Alfred:

A Wyverian raised in a rider village off the coast of the Primal Forest. This isolated tribe is known for their connection with Ludroths. They are one of the last remnants of the seafolk along the coast with some residing in Jumbo. In his own rite of passage in finding an egg to hatch for his very first monstie to bond with, we came across an abandoned egg that had a very strange marking, none the elders have seen before. Hatching it revealed to be a Tobi-Kadachi…

a pregnant Female Tobi-Kadachi being shipped from the New World for research was lost and before being hunted in fear of an invasive species had her egg, only for it to be found by Alfred.

Being raised in an isolated village, he would eventually want to explore the world beyond the jungle, only to come across hunters and the guild. The guild’s knowledge and connection with these secret tribes of riders was already fragile, so most hunters had never seen a person on the back of a monster before. Alfred as curious as them wonders why these people are out hunting these monsters by “authorization” and “by a guild.”

Alfred growing ever more curious wanted to know more about this guild and asked if he could follow these hunters. The Hunters are confused ((not only by a language barrier)) but don’t decline nor accept, instead asking him to wait as they’d ask their commander. 

Eventually, he is met with a strangely familiar face; a Commander from Loc Lac named Arthur. The first person besides his brother he has seen that is a Wyverian like himself. The commander asks what is it that Alfred wishes to learn following them. 

“I want to understand…” “I want to explore the world beyond the forest”

He would be quickly introduced to the guild but he would have to not have his monstie around until he understood their environment more. Arthur had Alfred learn with two human hunters from Val Habar, Feliciano and Romano. The two brothers had a lot of explaining to do for this rider including a few language lessons.

Inspired by: Monster Hunter Tri / 4U / Stories 1&2 / Wilds

Created in: Monster Hunter Stories (2)

Ivan:

A Half-Wyverian born from a victory-fare after beating Shara Ishvalda in the New World. His mother is a Large and Elegant Wyverian from a hidden village in the farthest reaches of Hoarfrost. His father was a renowned hunter who was part of a lineage of charge blade wielders who are known for their technique and strength. Whenever Ivan’s mother passed away his father saw only his mother in him, and besides looking like a runt he wanted nothing to do with his son. Then to see he had small but noticeable traits of Wyverian features on him made him stick out like a sore thumb to his father, so he made him feel like an outcast regularly. His only comfort was the grandmaster palico chef, Me-Mow, who offered her own grandson Alexander as company. That was his first and only friend for the years to come.

Ivan would be thrown into harsh trials and forced to wield the charge blade, as if he attempted to try any other weapon his father would destroy it or throw it away. Being thrown in the snow a day with no weapon to survive with what nature provided, fighting wild wing-drakes with only what would be assumed as a neglected charge-blade, and other tedious trials.

Eventually, someone would step in and try to aid Ivan while his father wasn’t looking. A hunter who helped his father during the expedition of the fifth fleet, named Bjorn. He revealed himself to be a good friend of his father but swore he wouldn’t tell a word of his aid.

“This isn’t training, let me show you how to truly survive the wilds”.

Years pass and he is one of the top hunters to respond to quests that many would refuse or need help with. Growing out his hair to hide his ears and even on occasion wearing a helmet to hide his identity on the hunt. If he was not helping with a tagged monster he was out on the field researching and examining the monsters or endemic life for his own curiosity or the guild. The guild acknowledged his hard work, even hearing it from across the seas in the Old World. A commander requests an audience with Ivan and even gives him a hunt to prove his worth in front of him. Meeting expectations swiftly, and hearing rumors from hunters nearby, the commander is quite pleased. He offers Ivan a position in the guild in the Old World. 

Immediately Ivan takes the offer as he wishes to leave this place behind and maybe even study the monsters outside of the New World.

 Inspired by: Monster Hunter 4U/ Stories 2 / World / Wilds 

Created in: World / Wilds

There are segments of Monster Hunter Rise that inspired segments of the story, but honestly, it’s still being brainstormed if we even wanna add it.

As teased we have added Bjorn, Feliciano, Romano, and Arthur.

For the other cameo characters, some of their roles are still under discussion but we are excited to reveal them.

For those wondering as to what weapons they use.

Arthur: Bow

Feliciano: Insect-Glaive

Romano: Light-Bow Gun

Bjorn: Hunting Horn

If you're curious of artwork / more details check out @gremlins-hotel 's page as we are working on this AU together.

[warwickroyals]

Prince George David of Danforth was born OTD in 1884

When the Prince and Princess of Danforth welcomed their first child on March 24, 1884, they had been married for just under a year. The child, a boy, was small, having been born a few months premature, but was doted on by his parents. The baby was christened George David Alexander Nicholas, named after his father, grandfather and deceased great-grandfather. Throughout his childhood, the young prince was known as Nicky. Even after the birth of his younger brother 13 months later, Prince Nicky remained the favoured child within the family. King George I praised his grandson as "so bright, so clever! Nothing at all like his father."

Nicky and his closest brother Louis, called Lutz, were raised essentially as twins. The two young princes shared toys, clothes, and a room at Wren House. When Nicky was sent away to New Westminster for military training, the first royal prince to do so, it was decided that Lutz would tag along. The boys' tutor believed that Lutz, who showed "no spark", would benefit from his older brother's influence. After lengthy debate between the King, the Prince of Danforth, and the Prime Minister, the plan was approved. Scarborough Military College was a hard place far from home, sandwiched between the Cascades and Sunderland's Pacific coastline. Still, the Prince of Danforth believed that military experience was necessary for his sons to become "strong, upright young men". At Scarborough, the brothers were addressed as soldiers rather than princes, they ate in the mess hall and slept in the barracks with their fellow cadets. While Lutz thrived in the military, Nicky struggled with bullying and loneliness. "my intelligence did me no favours at The 'Borough. As far as the others boys were concerned I was too sensitive, too shy, too . . . me to be worth anything." Nicky was relived to leave Scarborough behind to attend the University of Westminster—even if it meant leaving Lutz behind as well. Studying at Westminster gave Nicky a bit of reprieve from his parents and grandfather. Despite this, the prince remained laser-focused on his education, as if his grandfather was still there "perpetually looking over his shoulder". The prince showed little interest in university social events or women, despite both being readily available in abundance. His free time was spent cramming and rehearsing the drill maneuvers he'd learned at Scarborough. Nicky's only friend was his dog, a Russell terrier called Shaggy. "The boy is a complete straight arrow," Nicky's tutor-turned-companion lamented. "It's ludicrous."

Back at home, George I set to work finding a bride for his grandson. In 1909, George I suggested one of his favourite granddaughters, Princess Katharina of Prussia, the second daughter of Nicky's late aunt Princess Grace. "How sweet it would be to see Dear Aunt Grace's daughter become Queen," the King wrote to his grandson. "Katharina has all of her mother's beauty & amiable nature. She is half Sunderlandian & has a great love of this country, something you will never find in the princesses of Europe." While Nicky agreed to the match, Katharina rejected him, stating she loved him only "as a Cousin". Another first cousin, this time Princess Hélène Bonaparte, was suggested the following year. This match was again unsuccessful, due to Hélène's Catholicism and her refusal to convert to Lutheranism. In 1911, Nicky expressed a passing interest in another Catholic princess, this time Princess Maria Adelaide of Bourbon-Parma, but he was too shy to openly pursue her.

In the end, Nicky's long-awaited bride came in the form of Princess Alexandra Anne of Westminster. Anne was the daughter of George I's first cousin and was once a childhood playmate of the Danforth children. Anne was originally meant to marry Nicky's beloved brother Lutz, who had since fallen into a scandal-ridden and frivolous lifestyle. When Lutz died of typhus just months before the wedding, Anne and Nicky grieved together.

So profound is my own grief, but I still feel deeply for poor Nan. To be so close & to have her happy future snatched, it is too awful for words!

In 1912, Nicky "bewildered everyone" by proposing to Anne. More shocking was George I's approval of the match. It was rumoured that the King caved to appease Anne's father, who caused controversy by publically demanding his daughter "have her Tsesarevich", referring to Queen Alexandra's sister-in-law, Empress Maria Feodorovna of Russia, who had been engaged to Tsesarevich Nicholas Alexandrovich at the time of his death. Maria subsequently married Nicholas's brother, the future Tsar Alexander III. The comments saddened Queen Alexandra, who still mourned the loss of her favourite brother.

Despite the rumours it seems George I supported the match on his own. Having known her since childhood, the King found Anne "pretty, agreeable and charming" . However, George warned his grandson, Anne could "be fierce and strong-willed". The pair married in April 1913. Their early marital bliss was interrupted by World War One and Nicky's subsequent return to the military, but the pair still managed to have three children during the war, and two more afterwards.

The marriage proved to be a happy one. Nicky and Nan became King George II and Queen Anne in 1930, after the death of Nicky's father. George II's reign saw the rise of fascism, culminating in the outbreak of World War II. Throughout this period George II relied on Anne, who had become "his rock". Although an ocean away from the bloodshed, the royal family did not escape the war unscathed. George II's eldest son was assassinated, and several relatives sided with the Nazis. By the War's end, George II had weakened and he died the following decade.

George II and Anne's descendants make up the royal family as we know it today. Many things that are now considered traditions—military service at Scarborough, post-secondary education, a focus on family life—were started during George II's lifetime. His perseverance and determination throughout his difficult reign place him high in the rankings of Sunderlandian monarchs.

[the-ellia-west]

whats Rose and Phenik's dynamic like..?

OOOOH THANKS FOR THE ASK SM!!!

-

Rose: "Hey, what's up Phenik? You've been a little... quiet lately?" Phenik: "Well... I..." *he hesitates* Rose: "You don't have to tell me if you don't want to. But I'm here to listen." Phenik: "Well I... I just feel USELESS! You all have such amazing powers and what am I? I'm a merchant who left my stall to travel! I don't have powers! I'm just ME! I'm worthless!" Rose: "Hey. No. You are not worthless. Phenik listen to me, you don't need magic, because who you are is enough, what you can do, is enough. Finn, Jakkon, and Morena don't have powers either, and they find their strengths and use those to their advantage! Phenik: *sniffs* "I suppose... but I... how does that help when I don't know my strengths, I don't know my skills. What if I don't HAVE any?" Rose: "But Phenik, you DO have skills. Your unrelenting love and kindness. Your care, your grace and patience. Where would we be without you? Any of us! You spend so much time talking to us and making peace and helping everyone when they don't even ask for it. You're special in the way you know what everyone needs before they say it. You don't need magic! Look, sure, you might not be able to notice a fly stuck to a window like Jakkon and Wild, you might not charge in with reckless abandon like Ronan, know how to lead like Finn, make potions like Morena, or have magic like Mangrove or I. But you're the glue that holds this team together. Without you, we wouldn't be nearly as close and as trusting with each other as we are. Phenik, you're important. To me, and to them. Without you, we're just as nothing as if we were missing any others. We need you. And who cares if your fighting isn't as good as someone else? You were never trained! Besides, You always have the chance to learn don't you?" Phenik: *Hugs her, sobbing* "T-Thank you..." Rose: "It's nothing but the truth. We love you. You just have to keep going, even when it's hard. And you know how to do that better than any of us."

@an-indecisive-nerd @sunflowerrosy @urnumber1star @homelessnerd @vesanal @darkandstormydolls @supercimi @corinneglass @sm-writes-chaos @thebookishkiwi @blargh-500 @lunaeuphternal @write-with-will @yolbert @thewritingautisticat @carb0n-m0n0xide @theweirdbox123

[belit0]

Ashes of the Firstborn

You can also read it in AO3!

Otsutsuki Indra was born first, born strongest, and born to lead. But when his birthright is stolen, he turns from the light and carves a path of destruction that stains the land in blood. Legends whisper of the Firstborn’s crimson gaze and the merciless wars he waged against gods and men alike. Yet in the depths of his darkness, one soul still dares to search for the boy he once was. Ivy’s relentless hope becomes the spark that defies fate itself—an echo of love and defiance that will forge a legacy. From shadow and ruin, a new clan will rise. The Uchiha.

This is the beginning of a novel I’ve been thinking about writing for a long time. We know so little about the foundations of the Uchiha clan—how Indra built what we later come to see—and it feels fitting to create the lore, story that justifies every step taken toward the clan’s birth. We’ll explore this through a blend of love, anguish, and the madness inherent to the Uchiha, with smut, tension, and much more along the way. Feedback is welcome!

Endless thanks to @sen-iiiiii for being my beta reader in this long and crazy project!!

Chapter 1

The woods were quiet, save for the rhythmic sound of fists striking bark.

Indra moved with deliberate precision, each blow finding the same place on the tree trunk, again and again. His hands were scraped raw, but he barely noticed. At eight years old, he had already learned to ignore discomfort. His breath was steady. Focus absolute.

The forest watched in silence.

Until it didn’t.

Twigs snapped somewhere behind him, small ones, as though someone too light to know better was trying—and failing—to be stealthy. He did not turn. Instead, his hand drew back and struck the tree once more, sharp enough to send a tremor through the wood.

A pause.

Then footsteps, deliberate now. Crunching leaves beneath soft soles.

-I knew it.

The voice was high, curious. A girl’s voice. Indra exhaled through his nose, slow and quiet, but he said nothing.

-You are here every afternoon,- she continued, as if filling the quiet was a duty only she could fulfill. -I told my brother I saw you once, but he didn’t believe me. He said “that boy from the other village doesn’t play with anyone!” But here you are.-

He struck the tree again. Less out of training now, more to remind himself she wasn’t worth noticing.

The girl kept going.

-Do you live far? I think we might be neighbors. Sort of. My village is behind the hills… over there somewhere.- She waved a hand vaguely, though he still hadn’t looked at her. -My name’s Ivy. What’s yours?-

Silence.

She waited. A heartbeat. Two.

-You do have a name, right?- she prodded, stepping around the side of the tree. She was small—shorter than him by a head, with a long braid that dragged through the leaves as she walked. Her honey-colored eyes shone with something too close to mischief.

He finally turned his head, just enough that she could see him. His dark eyes flickered over her in an assessing glance. A flicker, nothing more.

-Leave.- The word was soft but sharp, the kind of edge that was meant to warn.

Ivy tilted her head. For a moment, it seemed like she might listen. But then her mouth curved into a smile—wide, bright, a little crooked.

-And if I don’t?

He stared at her. She stared back.

Most would have left by now. Most would have understood.

But this girl—this strange, noisy girl—laughed. It wasn’t loud, but it was sudden, like she couldn’t help it.

-You’re not as scary as you think.

Indra’s jaw tensed. His fingers curled once, then released. He didn’t answer. He turned back toward the tree and drew his hand up for another strike.

-See you tomorrow,- Ivy said, cheerful as though they’d agreed on something. She was already stepping away, humming softly to herself.

And though he didn’t turn to watch her leave, he listened.

//

Weeks passed.

By then, it had become a strange kind of ritual.

Indra would go to the woods. Ivy would follow. Sometimes she arrived before him, sitting on the fallen log as if it had been hers all along. Other days, she trailed after him with quiet steps and loud words, announcing her arrival by the sheer volume of her thoughts spoken aloud.

He never told her to leave again. Not because he wanted her there. At least, that’s what he told himself.

That day, the sun hung low behind heavy clouds, the air thick with the promise of rain. Indra’s hands, already bruised and torn, curled into fists. He exhaled slowly through his nose and moved—fluid, precise, his body remembering lessons drilled into bone.

Ivy sat cross-legged nearby, playing with strands of her braid, knotting and unknotting them while she spoke.

-You should rest sometimes, you know. My brother does the same thing—train until he can't lift his arms. He never listens, either.

Her voice drifted over him like the wind, familiar enough now that he no longer heard it as a disruption. Just a presence. Quiet noise that somehow made the silence less hollow.

Indra slammed his palm into the tree. The wood cracked faintly under his touch, bark splintering.

-But you’re different from him,- she went on, plucking a leaf and spinning it between her fingers. -He is all noise and bluster. You… you’re like a storm that doesn’t make a sound. Until it does.-

He ignored her, as usual.

She sighed dramatically and lay back in the grass, staring up at the slate-colored sky. -One day you’ll tell me your name,- she said. -And when you do, I’ll pretend I haven’t already decided to call you something else.-

His strikes grew faster, harder. Chakra gathered at his palm, swirling violently beneath his skin. He pushed it further, reckless now, because something about her voice made it harder to stay quiet inside himself.

The blow landed wrong. His wrist twisted sharply, and there was the sound of flesh giving way, the sharp tear of skin. He didn’t flinch, but blood welled up quickly, dark and thick along his forearm.

She was on her feet before he could step away.

-Stop.

The word wasn’t soft. It wasn’t a plea. It was a command.

For the first time, he hesitated.

Ivy crossed the space between them in three quick steps. Her braid dragged through the grass behind her as she stood in front of him, small and stubborn. Without asking permission, without fear, she took his injured arm in her hands.

Her touch was warm.

She didn’t hesitate. Fingers light, she let them glide just above his skin, where the torn flesh glimmered dark with blood. Chakra bloomed from her palms—a soft, pale glow, like the last light before dusk—and sank into his wound. He felt the sting fade almost immediately, the skin stitching itself closed under her gentle command.

She said nothing as she worked. No foolish comments. No questions. Only a quiet, steady focus, as if this were something she’d done a thousand times before.

When it was done, she didn’t let go.

-You should be more careful,- Ivy said, lifting her gaze to his.

He stared at her—dark, fathomless eyes, sharp as cut obsidian. No one touched him without permission. No one defied the prodigy without consequence. And yet here she stood—small, steady, utterly unafraid.

For a long moment, silence hung between them.

Then his fingers closed slowly over hers. Not in rejection. In acknowledgment. Her hands were smaller than his, but strong in ways that had nothing to do with power.

-My name,- he said at last, his voice low, rough with something he didn’t fully understand, -is Indra.-

Her brows lifted, surprise flickering across her face—but only for a breath.

-Ivy,- she replied, though she had said it a million times before.

-I know.

A faint smile tugged at her mouth. Not mocking. Not sweet, either. Something in between. -Took you long enough,- she said. Indra said nothing. He let go of her hand.

But something had shifted. And they both knew it.

//

Late afternoon pressed long shadows between the trees, turning the clearing into a pool of dusk. Ivy sat cross-legged at a fallen tree, her fingers absently weaving small braids into her hair. She spoke sometimes. Little things. A thought about the clouds overhead, or how the wind smelled different when rain was coming. But mostly, she watched.

Indra was farther in, his movements sharp and deliberate, slicing through the air with an elegance she had never seen in any of the other boys training back in her village. There was no hesitation in him. No wasted motion. Just an endless, relentless precision. It was beautiful in its way. Terrible, too.

Ivy wasn’t sure if he forgot she was there, or simply didn’t care anymore.

She was twisting another braid when he stopped.

Just like that, his body stilled—abrupt, like he’d snapped into place—and his head turned slightly toward her. His hair, long and loose, caught the light for a moment before settling against his back. He didn’t say anything. He never did first.

But his eyes found hers across the clearing.

It wasn't the kind of look other boys gave-quick, passing, meaningless. His gaze was steady. Measured. As if he wasn't just seeing her but looking into her, like it meant something.

Her fingers paused, still tangled in her own hair. She felt something pull tight in her chest, soft and strange.

-What?- she asked, more breath than sound.

He didn’t answer. Not right away. His gaze drifted lower, to her hands, where the braid hung unfinished between her fingers. For a second, she thought he was going to turn back to his training. He always did.

But instead, he walked toward her. Calm, unhurried, his steps silent over the moss.

Ivy felt very aware. She held still, watching him come closer, until the space between them was narrow enough that she could feel the cold shadow of his presence. He didn’t sit. He just stood there, looking at her like he was trying to decide if she was real.

His hand lifted. Barely. Like the movement itself was an afterthought. And then, without a word, he took the braid from her fingers. His touch was light, practiced, as if he'd done it before - though she knew he hadn't.

But for some reason, the air felt different between them as he twisted the strands into place - quick, precise, like it was muscle memory.

When he was done, he let the strand fall against her shoulder. His fingers brushed her skin for half a breath longer than they needed to.

-No loose ends, little shadow.- Indra said simply.

And then he was gone. Turning back to the clearing, to the weight of his own practice. Like it meant nothing.

But Ivy sat there, braid heavy against her collarbone, and thought: "little shadow! A nickname!"

And she smiled, just a little.

//

The air was still, warm with the weight of late afternoon, and the woods stood quiet, save for the rhythmic sound of breath—sharp and controlled. Indra moved like shadow-made flesh, his strikes cutting through the silence with each precise flick of his wrist. Ivy sat at her usual place, legs tucked beneath her, braiding blades of grass with absent-minded concentration.

She had been coming here for weeks now, invited by no one, sent away by no scowl. She spoke as if filling the spaces he refused to acknowledge, and lately, she'd stopped expecting answers.

Today was no different.

-You train too much, you know.- Ivy muttered, fingers busy as she glanced up at him. -What if you grow up so serious you forget how to smile?-

Indra didn’t falter. His footwork was silent, and measured, but his eyes flickered—dark, watchful. She’d learned to look for that. It meant he was listening.

She smiled to herself, tucking the grass braid behind her ear. -I think I liked your frown better when it wasn’t all the time.-

The leaves rustled behind them. Ivy straightened. Indra stilled completely, breath held like a blade against the throat.

Asura's voice broke through the hush, bright and careless. -Indra! Father said you—

He stopped when he saw her. A little girl, sitting cross-legged on the ground as if she belonged there. As if this place, this brother of his, wasn't carved from something colder than stone.

Asura blinked at her. Then grinned. -Who are you?- He stepped closer, peering at Ivy with undisguised curiosity.

Ivy tilted her head, meeting him with a boldness only children could manage. -I’m Ivy. Who are you?-

-He’s my little brother.- Indra’s voice cut through the space between them, low and flat. It made Ivy blink once. Asura didn’t notice. He was already crouching near Ivy, examining her braid like it was the most fascinating thing he'd seen all day.

-Your hair is longer than hers,- Asura pointed out, glancing over his shoulder at Indra. -But you don’t braid it?-

Indra didn’t answer. His jaw clenched instead.

Ivy laughed softly, pulling the grass from behind her ear. -He’s too busy being serious. He wouldn’t know how.-

Asura chuckled. -I could teach him.-

Something sharp twisted behind Indra’s ribs. His hands flexed at his sides, and he turned away without a word, returning to his stances. His back felt hot under their gaze.

Asura’s questions didn’t stop. -Do you always watch him train? Isn’t it boring?-

-No.- Ivy’s answer was simple. Certain. -I like watching him.-

Asura hummed thoughtfully, kicking his feet in the dirt. -I think it’s strange,- he said, but there was no malice in it. Just a child's honesty.

Ivy smiled again, but her eyes stayed on Indra. He hadn’t looked at them once since his brother arrived. Still, his movements had changed. Sharper. Harsher.

When Asura finally ran off, leaving promises to bring something next time—apples, maybe—there was a silence that settled between them again.

Ivy tucked her knees under her chin. -You didn’t tell him to leave.-

Indra exhaled slowly, his shoulders rigid. -He doesn’t listen.-

-You didn’t tell me to leave either.

He turned then, just enough for her to catch the edge of his gaze. Dark. Unreadable. It lingered on her, longer than it ever had before.

-No.- His voice was a weight. -I didn’t.-

Ivy smiled to herself, quietly victorious.

[christ-with-a-why]

i got a puppy and she's obviously adorable but oh my god i'm exhausted

[saturnniidae]

I think Astrid Hofferson has a bad case of the 'my childhood was wasted, I grew up too fast for something ultimately proven pointless.' Syndrome and that she deserves to get to do silly things she missed out on and take up new hobbies, even if she's not particularly good at them–it's purely for the experience yknow, and learn to finally breathe no longer needing to be on constant high alert and get to be truly happy

[lisbonsteresa]

oh it's horrible; i love it

[silverselfshippingchaos]

could cozy up to me- ahem