#hunting the fates series

[captainsimagines]

hunting the fates || three

Summary: When the repercussions of giving up your Immortality come back to haunt you, a journey to Hell seems to be the only solution. With the help of your friends, both old and new, you set out on a journey to destroy the three Fates who have messed with your life long enough. There you discover that your power extends further than you ever thought possible, as does the Winter Soldier’s.

Pairing(s): Bucky Barnes x (Fem) POC Enhanced Reader; Sam Wilson x Female Original Character

Trope(s): Fantasy/Mythology/Horror; Soulmates/Mates; Angst/Fluff/Smut; Bisexual! Bucky Barnes; Multiple POV’s

Based on the Song(s): ‘Power’ by Isak Danielson ; ‘Breakfast’ by Dove Cameron ; ‘Darkside’ by Neoni ; ‘Bow - Slowed’ by Reyn Hartley

AO3 Link

Warnings: strong language; mention of infertility; sword fighting; canon-level violence; Spider-Man: No Way Home spoilers; magic; inaccurate Greek Mythology 

Word Count: 8,500+

Author’s Note: No, Hades is not trying to steal the Reader away from Bucky. He’s just a flirty sonovabitch. But wink-wink anyways. Sorry for the late update, I just started graduate school. xxMoni

~

      Elva Bloodwing had two goals for the end of this week: One, to make sure her new trainees knew how to handle a sword. Two, to wring in her prejudices about humans.

Yet, this might be the most insane, disruptive, and weird group of humans she’s ever agreed to train. So goal number two was looking pretty bleak.

The Birdling had been first to arrive, wiping the sleep from his eyelids as he entered the room. He had greeted her with a kind smile, honorably gap-toothed and scarily genuine. Elva had not returned it, no matter the odd night before. He had immediately scoped out the weapons hanging from the black marble walls, marveling at the sharpest of them. She told him to start with the wooden swords that were stored in the kid’s section—she had told him to pick up a shield as well. The Birdling followed her orders, seemingly happy to do so, and commented something about holding a shield for the first time and not needing to throw it.

She did not laugh.

This was a training session—not a meeting to make friends. They were going to kill some sleazy, old bitches together. That was that.

The gorgeous one, as Wenrel liked to call him, arrived second. He also looked sleepy, his long hair up in a messy bun but with strands still dangling down his cheeks. He had greeted the Birdling and teased about the wooden sword. His mouth instantly shut when he reached for the steel, the sudden weight smashing the tip to the floor, ringing loudly. He apologized, and Elva simply pointed at the wooden weapons again.

It was the gorgeous soldier who showed grace with the footwork before the third human passed through the door. A sophisticated dance, born to hold a sword in his palm—or a weapon in general. Elva watched the soldier glide through his own routine, like a figure skater on ice, and the Birdling copied.

That was the moment Elva had dumbly believed this session would run smoothly. The Birdling absorbed information easily, the soldier had a background in combat training, and they seemed to work very well together—

The Goddess walked through the door, and the soldier’s attention was immediately split. Suddenly, his footwork halted. All thoughts of warming-up simply sliding from his brain. The Goddess stretched, unbothered, and the soldier ogled. The Birdling ignored—or at least, he pretended not to notice.

Funny, Elva thought. Her and the Birdling have that in common.

“That’s enough warm-ups,” Elva spoke, her voice mighty as it carried through the training facility. She was dressed in her leathers, albeit these were a navy blue and not her usual black. They allowed for great flexibility and were water resistant. On the outside. Very helpful if she fell into water—not very effective when sweating like a pig.

“I will walk you through the simple techniques of holding our weapons. Then show you how to cross blades, and avoid them.”

“Are guns not common in Hell?” the gorgeous soldier asked.

She tilted her head at him. “If your war weapons do not injure a space alien, do you think they would hurt an Immortal being?”

He blushed, the pink of his cheeks spreading to the collar of his neck. He and the others were dressed in the clothes provided: training sweatpants and loose tanks. All black.

“Fight me,” Elva continued, backing away several steps as she braced her hands in front of herself. The soldier’s eyes widened, before he stepped forward too.

“Are we holding back or are we serious?”

Elva grinned, teeth and all. “Serious as Pandora’s curiosity.”

She threw the first punch, excited when he easily dodged it. His smile was a beautiful one, one that had the ability to brighten the darkest depths of Poseidon’s seas. A guiding light.

She wanted to punch it good and well, because such beautiful things should not exist in Hell.

She and the soldier danced, tripped, twirled, and drew blood for a full five minutes. Neither of them backed down, neither of them seriously hurt. The soldier still retained his god-like abilities in this realm. It was a part of his blood after all. But she could have sworn his sweat was unlike the others. Where it should have remained, it vanished. And where it stained his shirt, it did not dry.

“Take him down!” the Birdling cried from the sidelines, hanging off the Goddess’s shoulder. The Goddess simply held him up, like this was a regular occurrence, smiling all the same. Who would support their significant other being “taken down”? Was this a joke to her? Or was she so dense—

The soldier knocked one straight and center into her nose, cutting off her air supply for a strange second. Her eyes flashed with anger before the heat quelled. The blood halted, only reaching her top lip, before she rolled her neck and concentrated. Concentrated hard as the blood rose back into her nostrils, a slow crawl, and reentered her system.

“Thought you said you couldn’t wield your powers for seven hundred years?” the Birdling said, crossing his arms as he stared her down. She rubbed at her nose absentmindedly, then looked to the soldier, who was too distracted by his momentary win and the Goddess fucking blinking to notice her arm reach forward.

She twisted him underneath her arm, locking him tight. Twisting herself, Elva bent her knees and clenched her stomach, then hauled the soldier over her shoulders and onto the mat. He made a horrible splattering sound, groaning in pain when he moved his first muscle.

Elva placed her hands on her hips, looking over at the Birdling with a satisfied expression. “I cannot wield my true power. But I can still control my own blood.”

The soldier looked up at her, his hair now pulled from the hair tie, his stare hard. Not in a mean way, not even in threatening promise. He simply stared into her red eyes as a small crease between his eyebrows began to take form.

Later, after they’ve worked through some footwork and defense maneuvers, Elva judged them individually. She had to give the Goddess some credit—her past training must have included some form of meditation technique or patience. Like an archer readying their bow. Swift and ancient.

Perhaps a bow and arrow would better suit her.

Elva stepped behind the Birdling, counting his steps, studying his roundabouts and the shapes his pointed toes made. He kept missing the sixth and fumbling the eighth.

“Birdling, no,” she grunted, taking his shield from him. He was more than happy to be ridden of the wooden atrocity. “Don’t worry about this damned thing. It was for stability and familiarity. But that won’t matter if you cannot walk.”

“I’m doing the footwork I learned in the Air Force, when boxing. You’re telling me I’ve been doing it wrong all these years?”

Elva shook her head. “Not wrong. You are just doing another dance that does not require you to hold a sword. You must change that dance."

The Birdling huffed, stretching out his neck. “Then I am your loyal student. Teach me. Please.”

“I have been teaching you. You have not been listening apparently.”

The left side of his mouth twitched, then spread into a full-blown smile. Elva tried to push down the odd feeling of melting warmth inside her abdomen, frightened in herself that she could even feel such a reaction. Was her blood acting up? Did Hades need to make her that tea again?

The two others in the room had stopped running through Elva’s routine. They were straining their ears, so obviously, two peas in a pod. Did the Birdling not receive privacy from them?

No more questions. She had a job to do.

Elva ran them all through the steps again, but added words and rhythm. She had always been a more hands-on learner, but she worked well with visuals too. But it seemed not all people learned the same way. Everybody had their strengths. She incorporated some auditory steps, let them watch her, and even used the Goddess as a partner when she slow-motioned her way through fake battle.

The Birdling worked well with hearing. He no longer missed the sixth step and would have to work on balancing his own weight with a sword in the future. The whole session was two hours and Elva only let them stop because the soldier’s stomach had roared so loudly the Goddess almost burst a lung from laughing so hard.

In the kitchens, Elva ignored the servants as she walked through and began rearranging her plate. She sees them everyday, they know her and she knows them, and introductions weren’t necessary. That didn’t stop the Goddess and the Birdling from greeting every soul they passed.

That’s it. She related more to the soldier. At least he had the good sense to keep his hands to himself and just nod.

As if reading her mind, the soldier strolled up alongside her and grabbed a plate for himself. They moved down the counter together, holding their plates out as they were loaded with eggs, sausages, and strawberry tarts. He didn’t speak until his coffee cup was filled and placed carefully on the table Elva decided to sit down at.

“So, the Fates…What are they hiding up their sleeves? Should we be prepared for iron nails or eyeballs that shoot lasers?”

Elva squinted at the soldier, frowning when he took a seat directly in front of her. “What odd things you say.”

The soldier blushed—even redder than this morning—and shrugged a broad shoulder. “You might live with demons and Gods, but I’ve seen my fair share of aliens and Nazis.”

Elva scrunched her nose. “I hate Nazis.”

“Oh, that’s good, I was worried there for a second.”

Her red eyes snapped up, holding his stare. “Your sarcasm is not your best trait.”

The soldier waved a hand while bringing his coffee to his lips with the other. “My best trait is inappropriate to say.”

“Neither is your humor, I see.”

His shoulders slumped. Sheepishly, and with a little bit of that godsforsaken sarcasm, he said, “Mm, I see. I’ll try harder, I promise.”

Elva moved the food around on her plate, taking small bites whenever she felt like it. She glanced up to see the soldier scanning the room, his mind alert. She followed his gaze and saw the Goddess sitting with the Birdling, chatting with a couple of servants and making them laugh. Like the mere fact he had his eyes on her quelled whatever worry his chest was most likely pounding with.

“Do you want to know what Hades did and still does to Nazis?”

The soldier’s gaze instantly snapped to her face. He didn’t speak, but there was something in his eyes that told her she should continue. “Hades is a kind God. He shows a lot of mercy. He did not create this place or the three levels. He is not the first and he is not the last. But he was Hades during your World War.”

The soldier wrapped both his hands, flesh and metal, around his mug. Elva continued, “He brought them in as a group and told them they had two choices. One, to venture to Tartarus and burn for all eternity. Or two, to say they were sorry.”

“What? How could he just forgive—”

“Every single one of them said they were sorry. And Hades told them that words were not currency. That they were cowards for what they did and for not admitting to it after death. He stripped them of their name, of their memories except for the atrocities they did. Stripped them of their prejudices, of their hatred, of everything that once made them human. He made them burn in Hell with only the memories of what had been done. Not the why, just the horror.”

The soldier swallowed his coffee a bit too loudly, but he urged her to finish. So she did, smiling a little as she neared her favorite part. “They cannot sleep or eat or bathe. They do not know love or calm or reason. All they know is blood and death. It is making them go mad. The greatest torture is to rip out someone's heart. That’s where your humanity lies, no? You can argue and say these villains had no heart at all, but they did. It beat and it bled and they still went against its purpose.”

She thinks he’s going to ask her a million more questions, but he simply nods and stands. She doesn’t know if she’s angered him or answered his original question. Still, Elva can’t help but feel the slightest bit guilty, shameful that she ruined his breakfast.

But he smirked at her, grabbing the last strawberry tart on his plate to go. “So the presence of a heart doesn’t always guarantee goodness, huh?”

Elva shook her head, and bit into her toast. “The absence of one doesn’t always guarantee evil either.”

He nodded again, as if digesting the words. “Enjoy your breakfast, Elva. Thank you for training this morning.”

Before he could leave her, Elva reached out to grip his wrist. The soldier startled, looking from her to their point of contact. No doubt debating whether to pry her off. She does it for him, and cursed inwardly that she forgot his aversion to touch. “Those villains wanted you to reject your humanity, Bucky. The Fates wanted that. They wanted that of me, too.”

The soldier, Bucky, seemed to realize that she had finally said his name this morning. That their squabble last night, his prejudices against her that seemed to have died in his sleep, did not matter anymore.

They had a common enemy and Bucky Barnes was a person who would fight by his foe’s side if it meant peace and tranquility for those he cared for.

~

    It had only been a day.

One day and you were certain you were going to go mad. There was a difference between being locked up without consent and being trapped with consent. At least when it’s against your will there’s this adrenaline rush that propels you to find a way out faster. When you’re trapped because of your need for revenge, that adrenaline is limited. It sits, and sits, and sits and it will most likely burst when the action occurs.

You feel like you’re about to burst out of your skin, for no reason, but your body is holding you back.

Making small talk with everyone you saw after training was intense—you wanted to be nice, and it came off as fake. Not that anyone noticed. And that made you feel like shit.

The Underworld was a palace full of talkative, energetic souls and visitors that defied most of its legendary attributes. It looked like a thing of legend, but did not compare to the stories of fire and brimstone. There were no souls screaming for help—unless you ventured to Tartarus, which you weren’t ever planning to do—in fact, most souls you’ve encountered have been happy.

Happy.

Was this where Ari’s soul ventured? After he took your immortality, he mentioned wandering with purpose. Direction. Did he get a choice in where he wandered? Was his vision of an afterlife real for him?

Either way, you were tired. Tired from training, tired from faking smiles, tired from pretending this was normal. All you wanted to do was kill the three Fate bitches and get it over with. No training, no backgrounds—just cold-blooded unaliving.

“Elva said you moved like leaves in the wind today.”

“Oh my—!” You stumbled from the bed with your hand clutched to your chest, heart pounding underneath your sweaty palm. You had locked the door, had bid Sam and Bucky farewell for an afternoon nap. You didn’t expect to be woken up from the voice of Hades himself.

He smirked, his flamed blue eyes following your awkward movements. He stood casually—hands locked behind his back, silky attire draped across his broad shoulders, absent of any wrinkles. Dressed like a God. There was no other way to describe it. His aura was of casual elegance.

“What are you doing here?”

“It is my palace.”

“It is my temporary room.”

He chuckled. The rumble of death. “I am simply checking in. I will visit your friends later as well.”

“Why now? Why when I was peaceful?”

He tilted his head, that smirk stretching farther. “Do I unnerve you?”

You huffed, rubbing at your arms. This morning you had been cold—not even Bucky’s usual warmth could heat you up. In fact, it was as if Bucky was making it worse. The cardigan you wore now made you sweat, its cotton fabric suddenly suffocating.

It made sense: To feel such a wave of heat from the God of the Underworld.

“You don’t unnerve me. Women just don’t like being woken up by an unknown man’s voice.”

“We met yesterday.”

“What difference…” Your voice trailed off as you realized he was messing with you. Your nose twitched before you spread your lips into a thin line. “What do you really want?”

Hades pointed over to the vacant chair by the mirror. With more than an ounce of hesitance, you still nodded. Hades strolled to the chair, kicking its leg slightly to turn it toward you. He slumped down, hooked an ankle over a knee, and played with the red-jeweled ring on his ring finger. “Does he know?”

You squinted at him. “Does who know what?”

Hades barely pursed his lips, but the obvious expression of Really? came to life. “Does the Winter Soldier know your heart beats no more? That your immortality stayed in your heart?”

Sitting back down at the edge of the bed, you sighed as loudly as possible. You put your face in your hands. “Is that what it is? Ari took it from my magic and the Fates’ prophecy, but not my heart?”

Hades tapped his thumb and index together, thinking. “Your mate took what he could and was forced to leave it in your heart or else it would have killed you.”

Mate.

Ari was your mate.

Just hearing it confirmed made you want to sob, but nothing formed within your chest. All your grief was currently on pause—logic and reason was necessary nowadays.

“No. I have not told Bucky. Can’t he hear…or rather, not hear anything?”

Hades looked to you, to the floor, then back to you. A quick rise of his eyebrows told you he was hiding something, but that it wasn’t so drastic of a secret that it needed to be told right now. “If he focused hard enough, probably. But no heartbeat doesn’t mean you’re immortal. Doesn’t mean you're dead either. Just means you’re in limbo.”

“In life or in aging?”

Hades snorted. “Look at me, Goddess. No heartbeat, yet I can be killed by my rivals. No heartbeat, yet I yearn for my other half.”

“Your life story isn’t one I aspire to match. But I see we’re more alike after all…” You frowned at him, then moved higher up onto the bed until you were at the center of it.

A question formed at the tip of your tongue, however. A question for a question. “Do you really not know where or who your Persephone is?”

Something resembling a shiver seemed to crawl up his spine, causing him to readjust his position. “I only get glimpses. Persephone and Hades have been mates for thousands of years. My mate is out there somewhere. But for some reason, it has taken forever.”

“And forever is truly endless for an immortal,” you lamented, meeting his eyes with more sympathy now. “What do you see? Have you seen her face?”

Hades shook his head. “Orange. Lots and lots of orange. Fruit, hair, t-shirts. One time I even saw some yellow.”

You couldn’t help but grin, chuckling through your teeth. “Vague.”

“Very.” He stared at you for a few more seconds, his mouth parted around an invisible word. But he simply stood, smoothing his vest. “I only meant to check in. Elva has been collecting reports from the guards. We will find the Fates soon. Then you three will be off to the human lands.”

“Wha—“ You scrambled off the bed, rage building. “You promised to look into my infertility.”

“Yes. I did.” Hades blinked, unmoved. “I am expecting that answer any day now from Maxwell.”

“Don’t fuck me over.”

Hades paused, his stature seemingly growing—small inches mimicking miles. His shoulders loosened, his fingers dangled beautifully, and his breath steadied. Steadied like he had perfected such a mode over his thousand year reign. A God built for darkness and muted evil.

Hades reached a hand forward, gripping your chin. You did not startle, nor did you feel fear. Greenery existed in the Underworld, apparently. You’re sure you could have them smash through the walls and into his chest in a matter of seconds.

He tilted your head up so you were staring directly into his blue eyes. Blue eyes that combined flame and shadow. “I keep my promises, Goddess. I keep them so well that I don’t have to repeat them. They are guaranteed.”

You reached up and gripped his wrist, smiling at him. “That’s good to hear. But if you ever touch me without permission again, I will harvest your damned soul in one of those narcissus flowers your mate loves so much.”

Something flickered across his beautiful face—anger, surprise, respect—it was not identifiable. But he let you go, interlocking his hands behind his back, and bowed slightly at the hips. “My mistake.”

But you couldn’t just let him leave. Not when you still had so many questions. Does Elva need help locating the Fates? Can the guards be trusted? Are there any live souls down here? Where is the entrance? Is this the main afterlife?

“Is Ari here?”

Hades turned again. One eyebrow raised, he asked, “Do you think he’s here?”

“No.”

He hummed lowly. “Then why ask?”

“Because…” Something resembling a whimper formed in your chest, but you pushed it down. Down into your stomach where the acid would burn it. “Because I just had to know.”

He nodded, understanding. “His soul can be accessed. It won’t be him physically, but it is him. The Offering Room…You can visit and pray to him there.”

That was more than enough. The funeral had been six months ago and you were grieving too much to speak your prayers. Maybe now was that time.

“Thank you.”

His lips twitched at the sides. “I still speak to my mother. Besides the gardens, it’s my favorite place.”

The two of you could tell that too much had been shared already. That even if he was a God and you a Goddess, there wasn’t much else to speak about right now. Especially alone—any answers you seeked were answers Sam and Bucky wanted, needed, to have as well.

Hades finally took his leave without so much as a wave goodbye.

~

      Peter Parker wished he paid more attention to you and that weird Eternal because he could really use some summoning expertise right about now. Smacking pans together and dialing long distance numbers just wasn’t working like he thought it would.

It’s been a week. A whole week and his friends have not come home.

All is okay, all is dandy. Peter’s freaking the fuck out on the inside, but he can power through. He’s been through worse.

But rent is due in three days and he doesn’t have Sam’s banking passwords. And he’s broke. So either Peter Parker sits on his ass and faces the landlord when he inevitably comes pounding, or he can do something about it.

“C’mon, you big, blond hunk of a Viking—Answer!” Peter yelled at the roof, waving around a wad of herbs he had found in your closet. Nothing in your apartment gave him any answers either. Date, phone call, and then no one returned to either apartment that night—that’s all Peter’s come up with. He’s checked Sam’s camera footage, checked Bucky’s traps he thinks no one knows about, and has swept the apartment vents like an actual fucking spider.

He has learned nothing and seen too much.

Peter huffed, snuffing the small flame out on the herbs before throwing it across the room. This was hopeless. Bucky had his phone so Peter couldn’t exactly call up the God like he had done in Iceland. The only other person he thinks about calling is Druig, but that motherfucker doesn’t have a phone and Peter’s not about to dredge through the Amazon to find him.

Standing for a few more awkward seconds in the middle of the living room, Peter decided it was time to venture to a place he swore he wouldn’t go back to. He does not want to see the wizard—he’d rather spring off the Empire State without his webs than go and see him after what happened a few months ago.

But if he could just explain himself better, maybe bring some tangible evidence this time, then maybe Dr. Strange will entertain him for more than a few seconds before turning his attention back to whatever alien species needed to be transported off Earth that day.

“I work and I work,” Peter mumbled, arranging a last-minute bag. “And what do I get from it? No old friends and now, no new friends. Did I piss off the Gods? Did I piss off God? Who the fuck knows, certainly not me—”

A knock on the door.

Peter practically stumbled across the living room before he halted, sudden flashes of an old white man with bulky glasses and stained sweats demanding his rent pop into his mind. He listened hard, caught no old man scent—

But it is a familiar scent. So familiar he wondered if the sweatshirt in his bag had somehow teleported to the hallway when he wasn’t looking. A scent that he misses, a scent he would fight the world again for, again and again.

He ripped the door open as casually as he could, trying hard to steady his breath. But that proved impossible as he discovered her standing there: curly hair dried at the split ends, black-on-black attire, that black dahlia necklace hanging between her breasts.

MJ was here. At his apartment.

MJ. Is. Here.

“Hi.” That's all that came out. All his lungs could push upward.

MJ smiles. That wonderful smile that used to (and still does) send bolts of lightning through his spider veins. “I have literally tried every apartment building in Queens. Do you know how many knocks that is?”

She was looking for him? “I—You were looking for me?”

“Yeah, duh. But you didn’t exactly tell me much, other than I live in Queens and My name is Peter Parker.”

“What…Why did you need to find me? Did something happen?” He found himself scanning her, checking for blood or visible broken bones. MJ shivered from his gaze, and he forced himself to look back up at her face, to focus on the beauty of that perfectly curved upper lip.

“Well, yes and no. Not to me, persay. I was just there when it happened and behold! I knew the name that woman screamed out.”

“Someone…Screamed my name?”

“Oh my god, yes. I just said that. Aren’t you going to let me in?”

Peter blinked, then blinked some more. He was certain a whole hour had passed before his body moved him out of the way, before he allowed MJ through and offered her a bottle of water. He watched her sit down. Watched her pull her hair into a ponytail. Watched her scrunch up her nose as she watched the rain tumble from outside and slap against the windows. Watched her agree to a cup of hot chocolate as she sipped her water. Watched her sit at one of the barstools as he made the drink.

“Are you some sort of superhero?”

Peter cringed. He busied himself with watching the boiling milk, weighing the pros and cons of telling her the truth or not. And so what if he did? Dr. Strange hadn’t told him he couldn’t start the roster all over again. He had every right to do so.

“I’m Spider-Man.”

MJ’s tapping fingers stopped mid-air, her expression rounding into an amused glare. “You’re fucking with me.”

Peter sighed and shot a web into a corner of the room, all without even looking away from the boiling milk. He grabbed the dark chocolate bars and sank them into the pot.

MJ cleared her throat, her mouth snapping shut. Then, because she’s MJ and he knows her like he knows the sun rises in the east, she burst out laughing.

Joyous, clear laughter.

“Which mug do you want?”

“What!” MJ sat wide-eyed, her laughter now short bursts of innocent delight. “You’re just going to shoot that liquid across the room and not say anything else about it?”

“It’s not a liquid.”

“Semantics. You’re freaking Spider-Man!”

“Louder. I don’t think my landlord heard you.”

She waved a casual hand through the air. “No wonder that woman screamed for you! You could actually help them do something!”

“Who screamed my name?” He poured the brown milk the best he could without spilling it over the rims. He knew the answer before she even said it.

He handed her the drink as she answered, “The woman dating the Winter Soldier. Captain America was there, too.”

His heart plummeted. “What happened to them?”

Because he would have heard if they had been slain. He would have been contacted by Sam’s assistant, Margot, about his possible passing. The apartment would be listed and he’d be kicked out before he could even explain how Sam had promised him a room for life.

“Sucked into a portal to Hell from what I saw.”

His heart plummeted some more, turning to dust like it had six years ago. “Tell me everything.”

MJ looked up at him, her soft lips sipping from the mug. Then she gave him a salute, face going deathly serious, before she explained everything, every detail, like Peter had physically been there himself.

~

     “Elva invited me to the Guard Briefing. Thought you might want to join us.”

Bucky side-eyed Sam, popping a cherry into his mouth as he lounged on Sam’s temporary king-sized masterpiece of a bed. Why was he only given a queen?

“Oh, you’re inviting me on this little rendezvous now?”

Sam sent him a similar playful glare. “I don’t want to go toe to toe with the Winter Soldier’s wrath, so yeah.”

“The Winter Soldier is on vacation at the moment. You’ll get full Bucky Barnes wrath if you exclude me again.”

Sam laughed. “Got it. When I’m planning to engage in dumbassery, I should call you always to see if you want to join.”

“Now you’re starting to understand our relationship.”

Sam laughed again, popping a cherry from his own bowl into his mouth. He kicked his feet up onto a nearby stool. “The faster we find those witches, the faster we get to go home. How much time do you even think has passed?”

Bucky chewed on his bottom lip, thinking. Sam had sent his letter to Sarah out this morning, explaining their predicament and how they were planning on leaving as soon as possible—except Sam didn’t exactly mention they were trapped in Hell. The literal Underworld. Sam had simply called it “limbo”.

Like Sarah would ever believe that. But Sam did write and advise her to keep track of time there, to monitor the effects of their absence and notify the proper people. Sarah had Bruce Banner’s, Clint Barton’s, and Wanda Maximoff’s numbers. Bucky hoped Sarah didn’t try to contact Wanda, though. She had destroyed Kamar-Taj and basically whipped Doctor Strange’s ass last month.

Her help probably wouldn’t be the best option. Plus, no one knew where she was.

“Honestly,” Bucky continued to ponder. “Maybe a month?”

“Pfft. Don’t be so damn optimistic,” Sam teased, sarcasm drenched over every syllable.

“A week, then.”

“Two tops.” This Bucky could agree with.

A small knock sounded on the door. With a noise of approval, the door creaked open to reveal the loveliest shade of forest green Bucky had ever seen. So you had caved and opened that closet in your room.

The dress hugged you tightly around the waist but was otherwise loose on the sleeves and skirt. A soft, cotton fabric that reached mid-shin and billowed lightly at the ends. You had kept your heeled boots, however, but it only enhanced the outfit’s overall look.

“Hello, our medieval princess! To what do we owe the pleasure?” Sam beamed, chewing on another cherry.

You rolled your eyes. You made your way over to where Bucky was sitting, plopping down on his lap and kissing his cheek in greeting. Sam groaned underneath his breath, and Bucky felt all-powerful.

“I’ve come to see if you two would like to join me in the Offering Room. Hades said it was a way to…speak with souls who have passed.”

Bucky’s fingers fidgeted around your waist. “Like…Talk-talk?”

You shook your head. “No. But the soul is there, I think. That’s what he explained.”

Bucky scrunched his nose a little, trying hard not to show his distaste. It’s not that he didn’t want to join you—to be honest, fuck Sam and his rendezvous adventures. Let the fucker be eaten by a demon. Bucky wanted to spend some time with you. But going to a place where he would only be hounded by the fact that Steve was somewhere, wasn’t exactly tempting.

“Is it okay if I pass?”

You blinked at him, surprise in your irises. “Yes, it’s okay. I was not forcing you.”

Bucky’s lip twitched, rising higher on the right side. “I know you weren’t, but it’s just…I said my goodbyes. I don’t want to do it again.”

“I completely understand.”

“But do you need someone there with you? Do you want support?”

You smiled down at him. That smile that always made his chest glow from the inside-out. “I think I’ll be fine. But meet me afterward? In my room?”

“Ew,” Sam mumbled from across the room. He was searching the closets for a suitable shirt for the briefing. “I’m so glad our rooms are soundproof.”

“Not good,” you replied. “If we’re being stabbed to death, you won’t be able to hear the screams.”

Sam grimaced. “Damn, Shortcake. Straight to it.”

You stood from Bucky’s lap, the cold air immediately hitting him. Just yesterday, you two had been on your first date in six months. Now, you’re both acting as if being sucked into Hell was just a roadblock. An insignificant obstacle that had a simple solution. Tell 1940s Bucky he’d be making deals with the literal Devil and fighting non-human entities, and he would have laughed so hard a lung would have popped.

Maybe this Guard Briefing would go well. Maybe they have located all three Fates and killing them would be a piece of cake. Maybe Bucky’s life and all those scattered puzzle pieces would finally stick and form a clear picture. One that allowed Bucky to put the Winter Soldier behind him, the Avengers behind him, and only focus on you and Sam.

But just like in the “human-lands”, Sam was Captain America. Sam was going to get answers because you and Bucky were his unit, his team, and Sam was your leader. If that meant going to Underworld briefings and following a dangerous, red-eyed woman around the palace, then so be it.

“Sam and I are going to join Elva and the guards. I’ll meet you in about two hours.”

You nodded at him, sweeping down to plant a quick kiss to lips. A kiss that had him wanting more. But Bucky reined it in, quelling that feeling until it was appropriate. You seemed to notice though, because the tiny snort you accidentally released was completely at his expense.

After you left, Bucky watched Sam contemplate the combination of a black undershirt and navy blue pants.

“Automatic no,” Bucky pressed, grabbing a long-sleeved, black undershirt for himself. He slipped it on, careful to not tear the fabric across the left arm. His care was short-lived however when Sam simply reached forward and tugged at the sleeve, ripping it off completely.

“There.” Sam smiled, pulling out two extravagant vests and coats. Black with gold embroidery, and definitely something Bucky’s only seen described in fantasy novels. “Now you’re good.”

Bucky grumbled. He opted to leave his long hair down—as much as he wanted to leave behind that Winter Soldier look, he had to admit it made him look authoritative. And dominant.

“They better have some answers,” Sam said, pulling on his own vest. It stretched across the expanse of his chest, the buttons somewhat strained but capable. “Or else I’m going to get pissed.”

~

     Two servants guided you to the Offering Room, their heads bowed in silence and hands interlocked in front of themselves. You did your best to minimize the sound of your heeled boots on the stone floor, even keeping your breathing to a minimum. The servants seemed to float effortlessly.

You brought some orange slices in a bowl that you had been allowed to cut up yourself. You had mentioned how you could simply just grow the fruit, but they refused. Something about the specific fruit they gave you having been blessed already.

The servants left you alone, bowing their heads in silent goodbye. Good, because now you were able to truly marvel at what was before you.

Floor to ceiling glimmers of light, sparkling then dying out, flashing from one side to another then back and forth. The two walls to your sides were the same—a whole universe of light, enveloping you. The wall wasn’t entirely black. The base color was more silver, then ocean blue, then death’s night. And the lights were opal, pink, purple, and gold. Stars that made an appearance for a few seconds, then vanished.

You placed the bowl of oranges at the altar. Your heart leapt from all the other baskets and flowers surrounding the altar, all remnants of love, grief, and joy. Your heels clacked as you walked around, watching every soul jump and bounce, every soul a thousand, a million, a second year old. The Underworld’s treasures.

On the ceiling, water dripped onto and over the rocky surface, cascading like a waterfall. Some parts were missed, while others were hit and soaked. The bottom corners of each wall had vines growing upward, flowers full and vibrant as they tried and failed to latch onto the walls. There was no wind in the room, but something seemed to blow a soft breeze, an encouragement for each desperate petal.

You waved a wrist, turning your fingers slightly, and watched as your magic aided the first of many flowers. The vines remained the same length, but the flowers opened up more. Petals turned and glued themselves into the walls, pollen dancing from their centers and into the air. The souls within the walls shimmered all at once, overjoyed. Stars embraced by current life.

“Ari…”

The shimmering halted for a moment, the room turning darker. Your worry was short-lived, however, when a single light shone from your left. Gold. Blinking. Directly beside the raining water from the ceiling.

You raised a hand up, hovering your fingers, feeling the vibrations sink into your skin and along your veins. Pure. “Guess what I’ve been up to?”

The light blinked excitedly, hopping around in a little circle. You giggled, holding back happy tears. “Bucky is treating me well. Very well. You would have really liked him.” The light blinks twice in response.

As you take a pause, simply marveling at its brightness, you felt deep down inside, in the marrow of your bones, that you were speaking to Ari. Somewhere out there, Ari has paused because of this feeling. He had been wandering, then he wasn’t, and now he’s suspended in time and space with you. Accepting the offering, leaning against a tree bark or something, closing his eyes and envisioning you. It’s him, yet, it’s not. He’s here, yet, the universe has created a boundary. A boundary that can no longer be crossed.  

“I’ve learned how to paint. Paint by numbers, but it’s something. Remember how you were the one to paint the pottery with the women, and how they would kick you out whenever you showed them up?” you chuckled, still hovering over the golden light. “I hope you’re okay. And you might not agree with what I’m planning to do, but it’s something I want to do.”

The golden light blinked once, as if saying No, I don’t agree, but it stayed. It stayed and glowed deeper, pulsing, until it faded. Fading back into the wondrous display of a thousand souls.

~

    “If we just look across the Styx—”

“You mean if we look in the human world?” Maxwell laughed. “I know I let a demon out and I take full responsibility, but trust me. If a Fate bitch was on a beach in Cancun, I would know. Dr. Strange and his band of misfits would know.”

The guard, a stocky fellow of middle authority, snarled at him. Maxwell has dealt with these assholes for over two-hundred years—one snarl doesn’t bother him. But the fact that they were actually thinking about infiltrating Earth because they think the first Fate somehow ventured across the godsdamned Styx…

“Even then,” Hades added from across the long table, seemingly undisturbed. “Charon has no time on his hands. I will not have him row you to the other side just because of a guess.”

The guard grumbled, but took a seat. Maxwell didn’t try to hide his smirk. He turned to Sam and Bucky, two silent soldiers of their own making, standing near the entrance. Or exit, however one calls it. They hadn’t spoken much, only Sam when it came down to strategizing.

“Charon is your loyal servant, Hades. He would not have granted passage to any of the Fates.” That was the voice of the boorish and nasty Arc Kane, one of the few guards Hades enlisted on pure strength alone. “I say we travel to Tartarus. We know their parents reside there. Nyx resides there.”

So far, he was making sense. The Fates, surprisingly enough, adored their parents. Nyx, especially. But Nyx was only in Tartarus when Hemera wasn’t, so the idea wasn’t strong.

“You know only Atropos would be stupid enough to go there. Clotho and Lachesis are scared mice who scattered, but most likely scattered close by. Going after Atropos first would reduce our forces and put us at an even greater risk physically. She’s the most powerful, Kane. You do not go for the big one before the war even starts.” Elva’s speech silenced the whole room. Hades’s smile pulled higher on the left side, and the look of pure pride was evident. Of course Hades was thinking the same thing. But he was the type of God who sat back, relaxed, and let the film roll.

“What is it, Elva? Feeling emasculated because you can’t churn their blood and have to fight with your hands now?”

Maxwell slowly turned his head to Kane, his mouth splitting into a wide smile. He didn’t say anything—Elva could speak for herself. But he did want Kane to see the pure glee he was rightfully feeling.

Elva leapt across the table, papers and leftover glasses of wine toppling as her weight shook the wood. She threw herself into Kane, knocking him off his feet and onto the floor. There they rolled, punches thrown and lips cut until Elva took a hold of her hidden dagger, slicing at his cheek until his blood coated her hand. The other guards merely watched, as did Hades.

It was routine. Maxwell knew this. Sam and Bucky didn’t.

As the blood became more noticeable then the guards moved. Elva was ripped from Kane. The force of such a tug sent her flying across the room, right into Sam. He caught her the best he could, slamming into the wall behind him. Bucky steadied her by the arms, anger turning his light blue eyes as dark as the marble doors. Maxwell took a seat, just as unbothered as Hades.

“No,” Elva finally spit. She locked eyes with Kane, who was being helped up, her glare one of absolute malice. She raised her dagger to her mouth and licked the blade clean. “But I can still drink it.”

Everyone, including Sam and Bucky, shuddered. Maxwell had seen Elva go feral before—a beautiful, golden vampire-witch who drained every last drop just for fun.

“Until we have definitive proof that Atropos might be residing in Tartartus,” Hades called from across the long table. Maxwell turned to him. “I will not send my guards to investigate. Only I can make the trip under the guise of official business. I will tell you all what I gain from that visit next week. Dismissed.”

The guards, including Kane, obliged. Kane, however, exited with a scowl thrown over a shoulder, directed mainly at Elva.

“That was entertaining,” Hades teased, standing. His full height always intimidated Maxwell. A giant sure to trick you of the measure of his true strength. “But I need them to want to fight alongside you. Not against you.”

Elva huffed, pushing away Sam’s arms. He backed away, blushing slightly. “He angers me.”

Hades snorted, “Kane angers everyone. But from what I understood from the beginning of the briefing—our two lowly sisters are somewhere near. Hiding, like cowards.”

“Can’t you feel them out?” Sam asked.

“I don’t feel them out. They’re their own beings. I am not connected to them.”

Maxwell could tell they were getting annoyed. Hades wasn’t trying to seem like an asshole…He just always came off as one.

“Aren’t you supposed to know everything that happens here?” Bucky deadpanned, raising an eyebrow at the God.

Hades smirked at him, looking him up and down. “Observant, Barnes. Do you feel anything?”

Bucky’s brow furrowed as he tilted his head at the God. "What do you mean?”

Maxwell knew where this was heading. But it was still too early, just as it was too early to reveal to him that he should be able to hear the Goddess’s heartbeat. Subtle hints weren’t going to break through the dense, naive heads of two humans.

Hades seemed to debate those very questions in his own head. He watched Bucky for a few awkward seconds—or at least, it was awkward for everyone else in the room. Finally, in a low voice that Hades reserved for the gentlest of souls, he said, “You are muted on Earth…”

Bucky’s face only turned with more confusion. Even Sam pursed his lips around a silent vowel.

“What do you—

A rumble caused the walls to creak. Everything halted, even their breathing. Maxwell stood slowly, his shoulders now loose but his fists locked. “What was that?”

Hades straightened, blue light now shining like a shadow behind him. Flames even torched the ends of his night-black hair.

“Do you have earthquakes in Hell?” Sam whispered, instinct making him step close to Bucky. His stance resembled that of a prepared Avenger, but there was an underlying fear in his eyes. Fear that cracked the surface when a deafening bout of laughter whipped straight passed, invisible but there. Like a gust of wind.  

Maxwell’s first thought was to get to Wenrel. To guard her and keep her safe in his pocket. On his shoulder. Wherever, just so long as she was with him. Because Elysium had just been breached.

“Fuck.”

~

      Backing away, you wondered how many times Hades has visited the Offering Room. Who he prays to besides his mother. If he has ever asked the souls to help guide him to his mate.

It’s a shame Bucky didn’t want to join you. But it makes sense—he has already said goodbye to Steve Rogers. He had buried Steve, visited his grave, said his peace. Speaking to him again would just reopen old wounds when he’s been working so hard to keep them sealed. Friends, humanitarian work, reading, knitting—collective balms that kept his mind occupied, that relaxed his nerves and gave him a reason to wake up the next day. That distracted him from the urge to drink. The wine in Hell held no ability to intoxicate—this Bucky found out last night when he had accidentally sipped from a glass in an effort to remain casual and steady when he met the dark God.

But the Offering Room suddenly went dark again, as if reading your mind. To your right, in a glorious display of blue light that was almost white, beamed a soul. Walking slowly, cautiously, you raised a hand to its radiating heat. It pulsed, then pulsed again, breezy across the hair of your arms. In a low whisper, as if scared someone might overhear, you asked, “Are you Steve Rogers?”

The light danced in a similar circle Ari’s soul drew. Not quite as excited as your mate, but happy nonetheless. “And are you okay?”

The white light flashed twice. A yes, apparently. “I hope you’re resting. I feel like it would be inappropriate to speak of much else, you and me.”

It danced again.

Duh.

A sense of humor, this one. “Thank you for drawing Ari for me all those years ago.” Another dance. "And yes…Bucky’s okay, too.”

It stilled, shining bright, then pulsed strong enough you felt the heat beneath your feet. Yes.

The light diminished, then joined the beautiful chaos once again. You released a heavy sigh, backing away from the wall. Visiting two souls seemed to drain your energy. Your legs felt heavy and your arms were tired from being raised for so long. A long night’s sleep was the best option right about now.

You turned to walk out the Offering Room, tired but glad you came, when a rumble unlike Steve’s soul shook the stone beneath your feet. A quick one, one that ended a millisecond after it started. Seconds passed before another rumble sounded, this one shaking more than just the ground. The servants threw open the black, stone doors. Fright painted across their purple skin.

You waited, not stupid enough to take another step. Suspended with one foot forward and one back. Your back heel lifted. The wall showed no disturbance luckily—the souls were safe.

But the altar.

You turned your head slowly, years of stealth molding useful for this one moment. All that was heard was the sound of your modest breathing, the sound of the servants’ jewelry clinking.

Silence.

Then the altar exploded with a battle roar, black shadows stretching and curving as they burst from the hole in the ground. You leapt as far away as you could, hands ready to rip the vines off the Offering Walls to defend yourself and the servants.

But the four figures emerged from the clouds of smoke, all with the same pale, dry skin. Eyes as dark as onyx, as large as tennis balls. A mouth with no teeth, no smile, just a foul scent that reeked of death and torture. Hands as thin as skeletons. Bouts of laughter as ear-splitting as nails on a chalkboard.

“A shame,” the demon crawling toward you purred. “You weren’t our Persephone after all.”

~

TAGLIST: @fandoms-writings​ @hajmola-vs-aamchaska​ @natbarnes1917​​ @howlermonkey69 @shirukitsune​ @sentimental-for-maneskin​

#Bucky Barnes #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes fanfic #Bucky Barnes x female reader #bucky barnes x poc!reader #bucky barnes x y/n #dreaming in june sequel #hunting the fates series #bucky barnes smut #sam wilson x original female character #marvel fanfiction

[queen-of-god-above-jeanne]

Saving A Holy Maiden (open rp)

May 30, 1431

Jeanne was to be put to death that day. She was betrayed, being brought to be burned at the stake, being called "a witch" by many. All she did was fight for France, her home, against her enemies. She had traded her ordinary farm life away to fight. What did she get in return?

She was now chained up to the stake as she held onto the cross given to her. She closed her eyes as the flames started at the bottom of her feet. She was praying, trying to block out any noises such as the crackling flames or the priest's speech. Even though she would die here because of her belief, she had no regrets. She was glad she made her decision to protect the ones she loved, even if she got betrayed later.

There may be a chance to actually save her life, you know? Will you save her on time, or will the flames consume her? There's not a lot of time to waste.

#fate jeanne d'arc #fate series #fate apocrypha jeanne d'arc #fate apocrypha open rp #au rp #what if au rp #what if rp #what if #fate open rp #tw witch hunt #tw witch burning #anime rp #anime open rp #au where she can be rescued and survive

[the-crow-binary]

We have two series about freaking PACMAN and they're both 40+ episodes. And you're telling me CASTLEVANIA didnt have enough plot to make less than 40 episodes ?? CASTLEVANIA ????

You're really trying to tell me that someone had the inspiration to create a whole ass cartoon about pacman with only "yellow circle flees from and eats ghosts" as a premise, but "an ancestral clan trapped in a cycle of violence, trauma and grief must defeat the Dark Lord Dracula, the most powerful being to have ever existed, every 100 years. They cant escape their fate, for they are the only men capable of killing him, due to their superhuman abilities and their main weapon, the Vampire Killer, wich both have been passed down for generations since Leon Belmont, the Dark Lord's old friend, who sworn for his clan to hunt him for eternity." Is "NOT ENOUGH PLOT" ???

AND THIS IS JUST A SHORT, GLOBAL SUMMARY. THERE'S SO MUCH MORE TO CASTLEVANIA CHARACTERS AND GAMES.

Y'all need to stop insulting the original media to defend your stuff (wich wouldnt exist without said media). Dare I say, if you need to bring the games down to lift the serie up, then there's a problem with your serie. And you also need to stop giving stupid excuses to incompetent writers.

Castlevania has a heart, it was possible to make a serie out of it without butchering it.

#listen. y'all like and defend netflixvania all you want. idc you do you #but stop denying the facts just to justify your opinion. #the ONE thing that makes the heart of the serie is 'belmont defeat dracula' AND THEY DIDNT EVEN DO THAT #i am sorry. but father/son tragedy is NOTHING compared to #'WHOLE LINEAGE DOOMED TO KILL THEIR FOUNDER'S OLD FRIEND FOR CENTURIES' TRAGEDY #'WHOLE CLAN UNABLE TO ESCAPE FIGHTING FOR ETERNITY AND LOSING LOVED ONES' TRAGEDY #'CLAN FORCED TO FIGHT FOR THE FATE OF THE WORLD BUT THEY'RE JUST HUMANS AND ITS HARD' TRAGEDY #anyway i love Castlevania <3 #castlevania #netflixvania #netflix castlevania #also it could have been just as tragic and heartbreaking if Al had let Trevor kill his dad #all this talk about Leon coming to wallachia to hunt Dracula. only to end up with Trevor NOT finishing his ancestor's job. #smh #oh yeah also #pacman #pacman serie #pacman cartoon

[birdhouseblog23]

Fate/Prototype Fragement Fragments of Sky Silver is getting a manga adaptation and I am over the moon from the announcement yesterday!

I've been on the Spiderverse brain rot for 2 months. Now I found a new subject to make my brain go brrr.

I've always liked the Prototype series and how it walked for Stay Night could run which made the Fate series the franchise we know today.

I hope in the future we get an anime adaptation kinda similar to Zero and UBW. Fragments of Silver Sky is the beginning and the OG Prototype continues the story from there.

As a great man once said: Wait and Hope.

#When are we getting ProtoGil in FGO? #Let my boy Arthur rest bro needs some sleep and spa day from hunting Beast Classes #Can't wait for the translations #fate #fate series #fate prototype #fate prototype fragments #fate stay night #fate zero #fate grand order #fate go #fgo

[versegm]

Hi ! It’s been a while seeing your fate posts wanting to get into it - but with that last post about fate series levels…! Do you like… recommend getting into it ? And with a particular series ? Or is it the kind of media where you’re like i adore it but i wouldn’t wish it on my worst enemy

I wholeheartedly recommend the Fate serie. It is, and I mean this completely unironically, one of the best series I have been given to eat in years.

Usually when I make headcanon or meta posts about a given serie, there is a large amount of wishful thinking and self indulgence involved. I don't think Ariosto intended to write Orlando Furioso as a story about Angelica desperately trying to escape the narrative, but it is a lot more entertaining for me to read it this way. I am well aware that digimon is a children's cartoon and a lovecraftian horror story about the inherent corrupting power of light, it's just more suited to my tastes too imagine stories that involve that.

That's not the case with Fate. I am still very often self-indulgent and horny on main, but generally speaking when I say shit like "the protagonist of Fate/Grand Order is a normal person gradually becoming insane the further the plot goes" or "people die when they are killed means that if you refuse to let someone die when their time comes you are denying them the simple right to be a person" that is. Very textually what happens. The Fate serie allows itself to go all out on bonkers and/or horrifying concepts and themes, which is doubly refreshing in a world where media are slowly being made blander by corporations who don't want to alienate their audience and lose money.

That being said, it is a serie that has been going on for a very long time, so the writers like to reference their old works, make use of concepts they've foreshadowed 16 years ago in an obscure visual novel that never got translated, make full aus of their own stories, ect ect. So the joke of this post is that there are some Fate works you can jump in with 0 knowledge of Fate and you'll be mostly fine save for maybe a couple cameos you won't recognize, while some others will be fucking incomprehensible if you haven't eaten the full wikipedia page beforehand.

If you follow Lance's post, you can probably pick any work from level 0 to 5 and try to work you way out from here.

If you want my personal input, my entry point was Fate/Grand Order, and while I could make a whole post on its strenghts and weaknesses if you need one the important part is that it did a well enough job having a compelling story on its own while explaining the worldbuilding basics to me.

Fate/Stay Night (the visual novel) is the first title of the Fate serie, so it's a good entry point as well, but it is fucking long and frankly the first route has aged a bit so that's up to you. If you want something easier to digest to see what's Fate about and if it'll be up your alley, you can always check out the Unlimited Blades Work anime (which is an anime adaptation of one of the routes of the vn) or the Fate/Zero anime (which is a prequel.) I also know a guy who got in through the Fate/Apocrypha anime, so if you like Mordred specifically it might be your thing idk.

Honestly don't sweat it too much, Fate is very much a serie where you will revisit works you've already eaten and go "oh THAT'S who that bitch from episode 5 came from and that's why they made it into a big deal at the time" once you've got a bit more context. It's worth asking your friends if any of them are already into Fate so they might be able to give you insight on how blorbo #34 actually has SUCH a compelling backstory in an earlier work, but if you don't that's fine just go with the flow.

Oh yeah fair warning tho that Fate sometimes features some Anime Bullshit (that's a polite way to say "lolis") so if that's a dealbreaker for you be aware of it.

#ask #anonymous #i have couple posts somewhere on the tl;dr of fate as a serie i'll see if i can hunt it down later

[imxnotxhere]

Acotar Men Fic Recs

** Updated 09/02/2024 **

I already made a list for azriel which was actually meant as a list for all the characters I read for but I read a lot more of azriel fics because he's my baby and the list was getting too long. So here are the rest of the characters and I also added some more azzy drabbles sorry

Azriel (drabbles)

@gothicbabydollz

az spitting in your mouth - smut

@princess-tulip-writes

az pleasuring his mate with truthteller - smut, big fan of truthteller

@fieldofdaisiies

azriel... - fluff, smut

azriel's hands - fluff, smut

Rhysand

@azsazz

dioxazine part 2 - fluff, smut, modern au, art school au

the lord's work - smut

if you should die before you wake - smut, rhys x cass x azriel x reader

just hold on - smut

a court of four horsemen - smut, part of a series

double duty - smut, rhys x reader x cass

what's mine - smut, rhys x eris x reader

@tadpolesonalgae

mine - smut, check warnings!

knocked up - smut

vampire!rhysand drabble - smut

professor!rhys headcanons part 2 - smut

soothing - fluff, aftercare

@leafsandstarlight

easy like sunday morning - fluff, smut

@azrielbrainrot

my body keeps saying it's yours - smut

@writingsbychlo

home to us - fluff

rhys as a pleasure dom - smut - technically a drabble? blurb?

@azrielscrown

mirror mirror - smut

daylight - fluff

@acourtofwhatthefuck

shrinking violet - smut

@shadowdaddies

if i catch you i fuck you - smut

Cassian

@azsazz

mirror mirror - smut

take it - smut

a court of four horsemen - smut, part of a series

@tadpolesonalgae

on the strategy board - smut

pools of sunlight - fluff

@leafsandstarlight

halley's comet - angst, smut

@princess-tulip-writes

drabble - smut - az x cass x reader

Eris

@acourtofmenandthirst

runaway - angst, smut

fox hunting - smut

closed until further notice - fluff, smut, coffee shop au

smut blurb

smut blurb II

@leafsandstarlight

destiny's battleground - angst, smut

my lovely throne - smut

despite our differences - angst, smut, series

the prince of blood part 2 part 3 - vampire!eris

@tadpolesonalgae

servitude - smut

thumb prints - smut

@serpentandlily

sly fox, dumb bunny - series

@azsazz

the burning of the autumn leaves and the roaring of my yearning heart - angst, smut

soul on fire - smut

a court of four horsemen - smut, part of a series

@azrielbrainrot

fire on fire - angst?

@gothicbabydollz

riding eris' face - smut, drabble

riding eris' thigh - smut, drabble

@honeybeefae

cauldron fated - angst, smut

@princess-tulip-writes

making out with eris while giving him a handjob - smut, drabble

praise kink eris - smut, drabble

Lucien

@tadpolesonalgae

solecist night - smut

@acourtofwhatthefuck

yell at me again - smut

personal problem - smut

the moon on a string - fluff

@princess-tulip-writes

drabble - smut

drabble - smut, az x lucien x reader (kind of)

@gothicbabydollz

dom lucien - smut, human!reader

Helion

@leafsandstarlight

a high lord's scholar - fluff

@tadpolesonalgae

new mechanisms - smut

sweet like peaches - smut

#azriel smut #azriel x reader #rhysand smut #rhysand x reader #rhys x reader #cassian x reader #cassian smut #eris vanserra x reader #eris vanserra smut #eris x reader #lucien vanserra smut #lucien vanserra x reader #helion x reader #helion smut

[neil-gaiman]

Hi Neil!

I don't want to sound like a killjoy, but I'm concerned about David Tennant's family being involved in the second season of Good Omens (or Michael Sheen's partner Anna Lundberg in a future season three). I absolutely have nothing against them, I loved Staged just like everyone else, but this is exactly the matter for me: casting them in the series would automatically make me think about Staged or something else while I'm watching GO, and it would distract me from the plot and the magic of it. It would feel somehow like a family reunion, no matter how talented they are as actors (not to mention that there would be nepotism accusations, above all against David. I hope this won't affect the popularity rating, since season three is still hypothetical). I'm not the only one who thinks this might be an issue, from what I read on blogs here on Tumblr (and on the Internet in general) but I feel like there's a sort of tension, like people are scared to say it out loud, because some fans get the wrong idea and accuse them of hating Georgia or Anna or Ty (and that's why I'm asking this anonymously, I don't want to start a fight). I hope you get what I'm saying, it only felt fair to me to let you know whatever concerns some fans might have, and maybe even give you a perspective you weren't considering? Of course you have the last word on this, and if you think this is not a big deal, I trust your judgement.

I wish you a fantastic day! (And sorry for my English, I'm not native, I tried my best!)

Yeah. So, I find that a little creepy, not very creepy, but definitely a bit.

I thought we were lucky to get Peter Davison in Good Omens 2. (He didn't audition. We offered him the part, as I've been a fan of his since 1978, and All Creatures Great and Small. He crushes it, and is heartbreaking, funny, and still somehow the moral compass of the episode he's in.) Ty Tennant auditioned, along with a number of other actors, and got the part because he did it best. (I didn't know who his family was when we cast him. I just liked the audition tape.)

If you're hunting down family connections, David's mother-in-law, Ty's grandmother, Sandra Dickinson, is in the Audible Sandman, too, as one of the Three Witches/Fates/Eumenides etc. And she was cast in it two years before David Tennant (although probably around the same time Michael Sheen was asked to be Lucifer). (I've been a fan of Sandra's since she was Trillian in Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy in 1981.)

Anyway, I'm sorry you're worried about Peter and Ty's performances, although I promise you have nothing to worry about, and I'm sorry that you worry that our possibly casting Georgia and Anna in a hypothetical and not-yet actually a real thing Season 3 might make people think of Staged and make them not able to enjoy Good Omens any longer. (Had I known people were this easily shaken I wouldn't have appeared in Staged either, in case my name at the front of Good Omens shattered the fragile illusion and revealed to people that the David Tennant and Michael Sheen who play Crowley and Aziraphale are actors.)

Starting in 2017 I was the recipient of mind-mangling quantities of Tumblr abuse for casting David Tennant and Michael Sheen as Aziraphale and Crowley, which was, many people made very clear to me, the worst casting in the whole entire utter history of casting, and something that Good Omens would never recover from, because for a start neither of them looked like the versions in people's heads, and I'd also miscast them badly because everyone knew that if you had to cast Sheen and Tennant, Michael had to play Crowley and David had to put on some weight and play Aziraphale. (It wasn't until May 2019 that people stopped grumbling.) So people worrying I'm going to cast Anna and Georgia in a season that hasn't even been commissioned in parts that haven't been written just makes me smile.

I hope this helps.

[btsugarush]

RAP SH!T | myg [teaser]

summary: when your boyfriend yoongi starts to get recognition as an underground rapper he gets a little fame hungry, and cheats on you, putting an end to your 6 year relationship. 2 years later your friends beg you to attend a show in los angeles, and guess who's the opening headliner?

pairings: ex boyfriend!rapper!yoongi x f!reader.

warnings: lovers to exes, exes to lovers, smut, dry humping, unprotected sex (wrap that sh!t up), oral (f receiving), soft dom!yoongi, jealous!yoongi, drugs, alcohol, strong language, infidelity, fluff, mini series, 18+, minors dni.

word count: 498

“I thought that was you,” a familiar voice speaks over your shoulder, causing your heart to skip a beat. You turn around, coming face to face with none other than Yoongi himself– or should you say ‘Agust D’. “You really stand out in a crowd.” The corner of his lips tug into a sly smirk.

“Y-Yoongi…” you stutter, almost too tongue tied to speak coherently. You were hoping to not have an encounter with him. Wasn’t finding out that he was performing at the club an ambush to your heart enough? Now here he was trying to converse with you after two years.

You finally find your voice, mustering up something other than his name. “Hey… it’s been a while.” You smile slightly. The bartender hands you your Long Island iced tea and you thank him, taking a sip of the alcoholic beverage. “It has,” His tongue ran over his bottom lip, his eyes never straying from yours; though, the same couldn’t be said for you. “ So, were you fuckin’ with the show?” He asked.

“Oh, yeah! You were great. I’m really happy that your music career took off…” It probably sounded fake, especially since your breakup ended on a bad note, but you truly were happy for Yoongi. He worked hard. He was talented, creative, and simply a musical genius. You always knew that. You just wish it didn’t all get to his head. You could only imagine how much of a player he turned out to be now that his popularity went far beyond live shows at his friend’s basement parties.

“Appreciate that,” he expresses his gratitude. “Would’ve been better if it took off with that special someone though,” These words catch your attention, and you finally hold contact with him, caught off guard by the confession. Your mood had now gone from indifferent to indignant. The look in his eyes is affectionate, soft as he continues on. “Y’know… you’ve been on my mind heavy, y/n. Maybe this is fate–”

“You’re unbelievable, you know that?” You blurt out, cutting the ginger short. “This is the first time I see you in two years since our breakup, and suddenly I’m on your mind? Do I look like one of your groupies?” The look on Yoongi’s face was unreadable, but you can tell that he’s taken aback by the outburst. “I refuse to let you reopen a wound that I stitched up long ago.” You hop down from the bar stool you were sitting on, grabbing your purse from the countertop. You don’t even care about your drink anymore.

“Y/n, wait…” Yoongi tries to plead for you to listen, but you’re not that same girl anymore. You moved on; at least that’s what you wanted him to believe. “The show was fun. Have a great night, Yoong– I mean Agust D.”

You leave him at the bar alone as you go on a hunt for your friends. You don’t even spare him a last glance.

#min yoongi fanfic #min yoongi x reader #min yoongi #min yoongi x you #min yoongi x y/n #yoongi min #min yoongi smut #bts min yoongi #min suga #min yoongi fluff #suga min yoongi #bts min suga #suga x you #suga fanfic #suga angst #suga x y/n #bts suga #suga x reader #suga fluff #suga smut #suga x female #yoongi smut #yoongi x y/n #bts yoongi #yoongi #agust d #agust d x reader #agustd #miniseries #bts au fic

[fanwarriorfictions]

Not Again - Part Thirteen

Summary: With Y/n reunited with her family, her and Az must face their inevitable fate, the exact reason Azriel hid the mating bond in the first place, their ending.

Warnings: ANGST!!!!! Light smut, and more angst

Series Masterlist

-Part Thirteen-

With a sword pressed to his back, dangerously close to his wings, he really should have listened. Azriel did the opposite, holding Y/n tighter to his chest, the words not quite registering, only the immediate danger to him, to his mate. Shadows swarmed around them, ready to defend, to kill.

“Gods,” Y/n groans, harshly pulling away, glaring over his shoulder, “Could you not?”

Azriel didn’t let her go far, instinct screaming to protect her from whatever dangers were behind him. His hand firmly holds hers as he turns to look over his shoulder, finding that sword still leveled at him, and a large fae male behind it. If Azriel wasn’t so concerned with protecting his mate, he’d be more than a little nervous of the foreboding male.

White hair, braided back from his face, sprawling tattoos going down one side, continuing to his neck, and onto the arm holding his weapon, in a language Azriel couldn’t read. The male was large, he could put even Cassian to shame in sheer size, daggers strapped to every part of his body, clad in fighting leathers. His green eyes were narrowed, lethal focus on Azriel, on the hand holding Y/n’s. Azriel almost snarled that attention, Y/n beat him to it.

Teeth bared at the male, she growls, “Put your sword down.”

Azriel’s shadows were frantically swirling around and around, trying to hide her from the male’s view. She hisses at them, and as if they answered to her, they backed off.

“I’ll kill him,” the male replies coldly, voice like the harshest winter.

“Now is not the time for you to go over protective dad mode,” she snaps at the male, “Put the sword down.”

And just like, the words finally register in Azriel’s mind. Take your hands off my daughter. Mother spare him, this was Rowan Whitethorn Galathynius, one of the most powerful fae males in her world, her father, here, in his home, speaking his language.

That revelation left him reeling. They’d opened a gate, she’d reunited with her family, and she was still here. Still with him.

“Threatening lover boy without me?”

He didn’t need to be told who the female was, Y/n had inherited the very cadence of her voice, that confidence, that soft, swirling accent. Queen Aelin Ashryver Whitethorn Galathynius, gods killer, his mate’s mother. From the stories she’d told him of both her parents, he wasn’t sure which one to be more terrified of. Perhaps the father who had just caught him thoroughly kissing his daughter.

“Mom please,” Y/n sighs, “He just woke up from almost dying. He doesn’t need you two threatening his life.”

“He seems fine,” the golden queen shrugs, turquoise eyes examining him intently, “Fine enough to be pawing after you like a dog.”

“Gods spare me,” Y/n groans beside him, resigned to whatever was about to happen.

Aelin stalks closer, Azriel felt like he was being hunted, maybe he should be more concerned about her. She moves with grace, surpassing that of usual fae stillness, an assassin, a warrior, a queen. There’s a brilliant blade in her hands, an ancient presence, something made like his dagger, like Gwydion. It has an intricate golden hilt, a large ruby set into the pommel, when she raises the sword, level with Azriel’s throat, golden flames coat the blade, hot enough to bring sweat to his brow in seconds.

Y/n hisses, shoving herself between Azriel and that sword of fire. Despite knowing that she was essentially fire proof, and that her mother would never willingly harm her, Azriel wraps his arm around her waist and pulls her to his chest, shadows tightening around them, ready to shield them.

Aelin’s eyes sparkle with amusement, practically twinkling in the light of her flames, “Don’t get all huffy, I only want to offer him some advice.”

“Is Goldryn necessary for that?” Y/n snaps, gripping onto Azriel’s arm.

Aelin ignores her daughter, looking directly into Azriel’s eyes, “I know what you did for her, all of it, the weight you shouldered alone.”

Azriel doesn’t miss the flash of emotion in Rowan’s face, that look of old pain. It echoes in Aelin’s, tinged with guilt. There was a story there, and it wasn’t a happy one.

“I know you took that arrow for her gladly,” the queen continues, “That you would do it again, my advice is simple, dying for her is easy, getting yourself killed in some heroic need to protect her, is easy, but in the end she’s the one who truly gets hurt, having to watch you die, having to live with that hole in her chest where you used to be.

“Live for her, fight for her, and know, that if you ever hurt her.” The fire on that ancient powerful blade burns brighter, hotter. “If she doesn’t do it for me first, I will kill you, and I know a thousand ways to do it, each more painful than the last.”

Azriel simply nods once, holding Y/n to him, she didn’t need to warn him, he would sooner die on his own blade than hurt the female in his arms. Aelin, seemingly satisfied, lowers that flaming sword, Rowan stepping to her side, that harsh glare, cold, promising a slow painful death, Aelin smiles warmly at her mate, a vicious gleam in her eye.

They made a menacing image, Azriel remembers teasing Y/n when she’d first arrived, of how it must have been to bring partners home, he understood why some ran screaming. He prayed they hadn’t brought the Witch Queen with them.

“As much as I love Azriel getting threatened by the in-laws.” Rhys casually strolls around the corner, hands in his pockets, “Would you all care for breakfast?”

Azriel gave his brother a scathing glare, opening his mind, you couldn’t have come to my rescue sooner?

You’re the one who shoved your tongue down their daughter’s throat, where we could all hear you might I add, Rhys grins, gesturing to the dining room behind him, “Shall we.”

Y/n had nervously placed herself between her mate and her parents, her mother by her side, unbelievably grateful for Cassian who had taken up the empty seat on Azriel’s right, Nesta beside him, taking up the rest of their side of the table.

There were to many glaring sets of eyes on Azriel to count, to his credit, he didn’t back down from any of them, that calm mask firmly in place as he met every single one.

“Well this is just wonderful isn’t it?” Rhys grins from ear to ear, fighting back a laugh when Feyre smacks his arm. “We’ve been getting acquainted with your new extended family, Az.”

Across from her sat her uncles, all glaring and sizing up Azriel like they were ready to leap across the table and tear him to shreds, all but Fenrys who was grinning just as devilishly as Rhys.

“You disappear for nearly two months and come back with a guy with wings,” he laughs, it seems almost threatening, “At least he’s pretty.”

“Debatable,” her father says quietly, stabing his fork into a poor unsuspecting strawberry on his plate.

Beside Fenrys, Lorcan looks almost as murderous as her father, glaring past her at her mate. Y/n doesn’t miss the way Cassian sizes her uncle up from Azriel’s side. Even sitting, Lorcan towers over everyone around him.

Aedion sat to his right, the wolf practically snarling. He might have been one of the most protective of her uncles, he’d had more than his fair share of scaring off her past partner’s. Lysandra beside him eyes narrowed as if she’d shift into an actual wolf, together they’d had boys screaming as they ran from her home.

“Hands off,” Y/n halfheartedly snaps at Fenrys, fighting to break some tension, “He’s mine.”

She can feel a ripple of satisfaction from Azriel. Again, Y/n sends the word down that bridge, mine. He entwines his hand with hers, squeezing once in response, mine.

On Fenrys’s other side sat Chaol and Yrene, Dorian at her side, they were the only ones not seemingly premeditating murder, but her uncle Dorian was a master of hiding his true thoughts. He could easily smile at someones face, and send a shard of ice into their back. Y/n thanked any god or mystical force, the mother, the cauldron, the Wyrd, that Manon was not with him.

The witch would never admit it, had only let Y/n call her aunt once in her life, but she was sure Manon had hunted down one of her poor exes. There was no tears shed when the male had wound up missing.

Beside Dorian sat Rhys, separate she wouldn’t have necessarily made the connection, but side by side, they look eerily similar. Raven black hair, sharp jawlines, the only major difference was the eyes, blue to violet.

“I recognize you,” her mother says from her side, eyes trained on the Lord and Lady down the long table, “This place.”

“I’d had a theory,” Rhys says, “When dear Y/n had described your journey through worlds.”

Y/n feels the dots connect, she’s surprised she hadn’t done it before. Her mother had told her of the world of stars she’d fallen through, the male who’d slowed her down enough so that she could go home. The wings, the heavily pregnant female, the night kissed power that had slammed into her.

“You’re the one who slowed me down,” Aelin says, leaning back in her seat at the revelation, “Thank you for that, if it wasn’t for you, I might have never made it home.”

Her father takes her hand in his, pausing his glaring at Azriel long enough to nod his thanks to Rhys, turning back to her mother, the tell tale sign of a silent conversation passing between them.

“You were that red star?” Nesta asks, leaning forward to peer around Cassian at Aelin, “But that was only a few years ago. That happened many many years ago according to Y/n.”

“Time was strange when I was falling,” Aelin explains, “I fell through worlds, moving forward and backward in time and place. I fell into your future, twenty odd years seemingly.”

There was a brief pause as everyone takes in the information. Only a few years ago, her mother had been here, falling through the sky like a red falling star, Y/n hadn’t even been born and yet she fell into this word only a few years later. It was hard to wrap her mind around.

Cassian seems to finally finish his thorough examination, breaking the silence that had fallen, “How tall are you really?”

Lorcan simply gave the male a incredulous look, “Tall.”

Cassian sighs, “Why is there another one, we’ve already got a tall dark broody with Az.”

Azriel glares at him, “Really?”

Y/n grins, chuckling under her breath as he gives her a near perfect match of her uncle’s look. His eyes light with amusement, lips twitching like he was fighting a grin.

Cassian leans his elbows one the table, with a feral grin, “I bet I could-“

“Don’t make bets you can’t win,” Lorcan interrupts.

“I could definitely win,” Cassian scoffs, crossing his arms over his broad chest, perhaps to look threatening.

“No,” Lorcan says simply, “You couldn’t.”

“Don’t mind him,” Aelin waves off Lorcan, “He’s just grouchy because his wife had to stay home to watch over things.”

Lorcan turns his glare on Aelin, she only gives him a sweet smile. It instantly gets beneath his skin, his hands clenching into fist on the table. No matter the years they’ve spent as friends, Aelin never failed to annoy the male.

Azriel gently squeezes her hand, saying down that bond, the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree, exact same infuriating smile.

Y/n simply gives him one of her own, turning to look at the room full of her family and his, who slowly open up into uneasy conversation.

Nesta looks half ready to corner Lysandra to wring her for shifting stories. Dorian and Rhys look like mirrors talking, Feyre, Chaol, and Yrene talking beside them, glancing between the two with similar expressions of confusion. Poor Lorcan was not getting away from Cassian, with the help of Fenrys and Aelin.

The only one still silent, still paying attention to their hands entwined between them, her father. Rowan glares intently at the connection between them, Y/n was half tempted to hide her hand below the table, Azriel wasn’t having any of it. He held her firmly in place, scars fully on display, shadows gently twining over her wrist, caressing her skin in comfort. He held her father’s ice cold glare, met it with one of his own, the shadowsinger’s like the cold of darkness.

“He’s had enough, buzzard,” Aelin says quietly, her mother putting herself into Rowan’s view, “Save some of the threatening for later, you can sit by the door, sharpening your sword when he can come to visit.”

“Visit?” Azriel asks, a brow raised at Y/n.

“I was hoping to have this conversation later,” she glares at her mother who simply shrugs.

“What do you mean?” Azriel holds her hand tightly, like he was coming to his own conclusions, none of them good.

Y/n didn’t want this to happen now, for anyone else to be the one to tell him. She was still reeling from the pain of being told herself.

“We waited for you to wake up,” Rowan says, an edge to his voice, “For her sake.”

There were to many risks, to many long lost enemies that would be drawn. To go between worlds frequently, to open and close those gates to many times. They’d already opened so many, already tested their fate. So she had to make a choice, she had begged to wait for him before she made it.

“Wait to do what?”

Y/n could feel his panic down the bond, and she hates the words as they come from her mouth, “To go home.”

He knew it was coming, had known it from the moment Rhys told him she was his mate. It was the reason he didn’t tell her, the reason he’d fallen apart so spectacularly. Despite everything, of course she would still go home, still leave him, she was a princess, she had a destiny, a crown, a kingdom, and he, he was nothing.

He was a bastard nobody of a long dead lord. In what world would this female, this princess, stoop so low to be with him, to give up her crown?

“Az.”

Gentle, oh so gentle, as if she spoke softly it would keep him from shattering.

“Excuse me.”

Azriel stood, ignoring the eyes from every angle, concerned gazes, glares, all of it. He walked away, he didn’t break, didn’t fall apart, didn’t cry, didn’t scream, he just left. Put distance between him and the knowledge that he found this beautiful female, his mate, and fate would rip her away from him just like that.

“Az,” her voice almost broke him, “Hold on, stop for a second.”

He couldn’t, if he stopped he was scared he wouldn’t be able to hold himself up anymore, he would fall apart and he would never be able to put himself back together again.

“Az,” she pleads, running to catch up, “just hold on.”

Shadows screaming in his ears, stop, listen to her, stop, don’t let her go. He forces them away, forces his legs to keep moving, to find his room, to hide, hide, hide.

“Damnit, shadowsinger.” A hand wraps around his arm, nails digging into his skin to simply hold him in place, “Will you just listen to me.”

Azriel whirls around, and he does the one thing he could do without breaking completely, the only selfish thing he’d allow himself. He kisses her, putting every raging emotion he was feeling into his lips on hers, into his hands on either side of her face. She gasps and his tongue sweeps into her mouth, fighting, claiming, begging.

“Stay.”

One word, whispered against her lips, one word, one selfish selfish word. Azriel would never ask for anything else, would never need anything else, as long as she stayed.

“Az, I-“

He couldn’t do it, couldn’t listen to her say no, because she would, and he didn’t blame her for it, didn’t hate her for it, he couldn’t. He couldn’t.

He pulls her to him, lips crashing in desperation and despair. She doesn’t pull away, doesn’t continue to say those words, doesn’t break him. Azriel drops his hold on her face, reaching down to her thighs to lift her, wrapping his arms tightly around her waist when her legs wrap around him. He carries her, blindly finding his way to his room several doors down, closing them into the space, lips never parting from hers, never allowing those words to come.

Azriel pulls away, only long enough to find the bed, to gently lay her down atop it, settling above her. Her hands caressing his face, brushing through his hair, dragging her nails over his shoulders and chest as they undress each other. He takes his time, ignoring the ticking clock in his head that counts down to the inevitable end.

She’s just as beautiful as the first time he saw her, soft skin beneath his palms as he holds her, admires her. Undoing each lace of her leathers, watching the way she writhes beneath him, listening to the whines and pleas.

“Az,” she gasps, “please I-“

He tugs the material down, taking the small lace beneath with it until she’s completely bare beneath him.

“Beautiful,” he whispers, not trusting his voice as the emotions rise in his throat, as words beg to be let out.

She can feel it, feel everything, the tears he bites back, her eyes fill with them, quiet silver tears that roll down her cheeks. Azriel takes her in his arms, kissing away the hurt as best he could, their naked chest pressed against each other. He could feel her shaking, Azriel wasn’t sure if that was just him.

“Az,” she begs softly.

Azriel knew what she was pleading for, and he wouldn’t deny her, wouldn’t deny himself. They were both selfish, they both needed this, needed each other, even if it was the one and only time. They would take everything they could before it was taken from them.

He lays her down, softly kissing her cheeks, right over those tears, before sitting back, scarred hands undoing his own laces, quickly, desperately. There’s immense relief when he pulls the pants down his thighs, a strike of pure lust through him, from that bond, from her when she sees him standing naked before her.

“Please,” she begs again, hooking her legs around him to pull him close.

The briefest touch has him gasping, and when she lifts her hips, pressing her center to him, he groans. Dropping down to capture her lips again, tasting her moans as he slowly guides himself into her. Slow, he would need to be so slow, she’d been tight around just his fingers, he didn’t want to hurt her, he wouldn’t be able to live with himself if he did.

“I’m not going to break,” she whispers against him, “Please, Az.”

Any control snaps when her voice wavers with the weight of her emotions, when she wraps her legs tightly around his waist and pulls, taking his breath away from him. Azriel had never felt anything like her, like their bodies along with their souls had been made for each other.

The sound she makes, the high breathy moan almost has him coming undone. He waits, letting her get used to the feeling, to the stretch, he kisses each of her cheeks, tasting the salt of her tears, and then he claims her lips, claims all of her, all that she can give, and he gives himself in return.

She writhes beneath him, silently begging him to move, he does, slowly dragging his length out, groaning against her lips, perfect, absolutely perfect. He rolls his hips, drawing sharp gasps from both of them, slow delicate movements to draw out their pleasure.

“Az, I-“ She gasps as he hits that spot deep inside her. “I-“

Azriel felt the words she tried to say, felt the emotion mirroring his own, felt his heart heal and break at the same time.

“I love you, Princess,” he whispers against her lips, his pace quickening, “I love you, I will love you even with a million stars between us.”

She cries, arching into him, matching each of his strokes. Bodies, minds, hearts, and souls completely intertwined, everything she felt, so did he, every emotion, every stroke, everything. He felt the tightening band in her core, threatening to snap and send them both over the edge.

“I love you,” she gasps out the words, struggling to speak around the pleasure and the pain, “I love you.”

And when she can’t speak it anymore, she chants it down that bond, I love you, I love you, I love you, my mate, those words are Azriel’s undoing. The band snaps, and both of them are thrown over the edge.

I love you too, Princess, he can’t find his voice, My beautiful mate.

She clings to him, like she’s terrified he will disappear at any moment, Azriel finds that’s exactly why he holds her just as tightly, sitting back, lifting her into his lap with his arms around her waist to have her as close as he physically can. Her arms wrap around his neck, nails digging into his skin like she could anchor herself to him.

In all their time together, he’d never actually heard her cry, not until now, the smallest, most heartbreaking noise, a whimper of pain. He can only hold her tighter as that small sound turns to a sob.

“It’s not fair,” she cries, burying her face into his neck, “None of this is fair. How could fate be so cruel, so gods damned cruel to gift me a mate, all the way across the stars, to bring me here, bring me you, just to rip us apart.”

Azriel wants to be strong, to just hold her, stay put together for her, but he can’t. The tears he desperately wanted to hide, to hold back, flood his eyes. And all either of them can do is cry, and hold onto each other.

They gave them time, time to be together, to cry, to feel everything they could offer each other.

Y/n had cried until she had nothing left to give. Azriel holding her through it all, listening when she’d finally gotten herself together to explain, to tell him what she’d been told.

That there were gates opening to worlds that should be long gone, that the threat of enemies like the valg, enemies stirring in this world even, was enough to keep them from coming and going from each others worlds, that it wasn’t forever, just long enough to find a solution, one they would work on in both worlds.

It was nearly nightfall by the time someone came knocking for them. Whoever was on the otherside waited patiently for them to dress, to have those last few moments together.

When Y/n finally had the courage to open the door, she’d been met by her mother’s turquoise eyes filled with love and understanding. She didn’t miss anything, the joined scents between them, the puffy red eyes, the hands that refused to let go.

“Everyone is waiting at the gate,” Aelin says gently, “We figured you would want to say goodbye.”

Azriel is a silent figure behind her, his hand never letting go of her own shaking one. They walk down those familiar halls, the house’s presence beside them, sad to see her go.

Y/n bows her head, a gesture of thanks to the first being in this world that had reached out a friendly hand and kept reaching despite her own protests.

Voices travel on a stray breeze, and Azriel’s hand shakes, that panic flowing like a river down the bridge of shadow between them. She never thought she would dread hearing her family.

“We’ll see each other again,” Dorian’s voice sounds, “We’ve had our best scholars looking into the gates while Y/n had been missing, we’ll continue searching for a solution.”

“As will we,” Feyre promises.

Y/n feels the tears welling up in her eyes again as they pass through the door way. Even in the large space, the sheer amount of bodies crowds the room. Her family, the one she’d been born with, had been surrounded by her entire life, and the family she was slowly growing into. Even Amren had shown up, the small female offering her a solemn bow of her head.

The gate was already open, and through it she could see Orynth, the setting Sun lighting the sky in brilliant colors, bright oranges and pinks slowly fading to deep purples and blues. And there, starting to faintly glow in the sky, the bright flame between his antlers, the Lord of the North, shining down on her, welcoming her home.

There were many eyes on her as the tears began to fall down her cheeks. The only thing keeping her from collapsing completely was Azriel by her side, his arm coming to wrap around her waist.

Azriel leans down to whisper in her ear, “He found you.”

She wasn’t lost anymore.

Her family said their goodbyes to the Inner Court, slowly filing through that gate until only her and her parents remained. Rowan still glares at that arm around her waist, but he raises his hand to Azriel’s free one. They shake once, and Y/n knows that her father was not holding back his strength in that grip.

“Take care of her,” Rowan says, and there’s a hard look in his eye, “I don’t care what hell it would bring down on us. If you ever hurt her, know that I will hunt you down through gates and worlds and I will kill you.”

Confusion lights her eyes, Azriel’s too, “I would never dream of hurting her.”

“What is this?” Y/n asks, searching her parent’s faces for an answer.

There’s a broken look in her mother’s eyes as she says, “Stay.”

Behind her, through that gate, her family stands united, sad smiles on their faces. It takes a moment for Y/n to understand, to grasp the words, the warning from her father, the gentle command from her mother.

“What? I- I don’t,” she struggles to find the words.

She staggers forward on shaking legs, Azriel letting her go. Her mother grabs her hands, steadying Y/n, she felt like she would fall apart at anymoment.

Aelin smiles, holding tightly to Y/n’s hands, “Stay, it won’t be forever, we will see you again.”

Her father stood beside them, a small heartbroken smile on his face. Y/n felt like the world was tipping beneath her feet.

“But,” Y/n felt like her throat was closing around the words, “I want to go home, that’s what I’ve been fighting for this whole time, to find my way home.”

And it was Rowan who said, looking over her shoulder, “You are home.”

Y/n follows his gaze, finding Azriel, a shattered expression on his face as he nods at her father. He’d made a promise to Rowan, and he would keep it.

“Stay,” Aelin says again, one hand lifting to Y/n’s cheek, swiping at the tears streaming down her face, “Live, be happy, love fiercely with everything in your heart, and know, that no matter how far away you are, the stag will always be there to watch over you.”

Y/n looks at that constellation through the gate, saw that brilliant stag watching her, watching the sky above like he could see all the way to the world she stood on now.

“We will always find you,” Rowan says, and she can hear the pain in her father’s voice, “I promise.”

“I’ll miss you every moment,” Aelin says, drawing Y/n into her arms, “But I will sleep peacefully knowing you’re here, safe, with him.”

She felt her legs give out, felt her father’s arms wrap around her and her mother as they all sank to the stone floors. Rowan held them all together, like he had always done. She felt like she was a child again, so small, so breakable, but with her family around her, she would always be safe.

“I love you both,” Y/n cries, “I will see you again.”

Aelin was the first to pull away, “We will see you again, my Fireheart.”

Rowan held on a moment longer, kissing that invisible mark on her brow like he’d done since she was a child. When he rose, taking Aelin’s hand, he looked past Y/n, to her mate standing behind her, Rowan bows his head just barely, a thank you. And her parents turned, and walked through that gate.

Y/n could only watch and cry as her family waved their finally goodbyes, as that gate closed between them, as the Lord of the North smiled down on her one last time.

He stayed with her, well after that gate had closed, her family behind it. His own had left, giving her the privacy to grieve. Y/n simply knelt there, staring at that empty arch on the wall, silent tears still streaming down her face.

Azriel was a selfish male, the relief he’d felt when Aelin told her to stay had almost taken him to his knees. But when he’d seen the broken look in his mates eyes, felt her heart shatter beside his own, he felt the guilt eating him alive.

So he stayed with her, sat down beside her, not touching, but close enough that she could reach out whenever she was ready.

Hours passed, and finally she leaned over and rested her head on his shoulder. Azriel sighs at the contact, wrapping his arm around her to pull her closer. She finally looks away from that blank wall, only to bury her face in his chest.

Azriel holds her tighter, lifting a hand to her chin, tilting her face towards his. He searches her eyes, the tears are long gone but the redness remains, and in them he doesn’t find the lost and broken pieces he expected, that he prepared himself to help put back together.

He tucks a stray piece of hair behind her ear, resting his palm on her cheek. She leans into that touch, nuzzling into his palm.

“Where’d you go, Princess?”

For a moment he doesn’t think she’ll respond, she only stares up at him. And then she’s capturing his lips with her own in a soft, gentle kiss. Azriel runs his thumb over her cheek, admiring the feeling of her lips against his own. Here, she was still here, with him, in his arms.

She pulls back, only just far enough, lips still brushing against his own as she says, “Home, I’m finally home.”

Tag list-

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#azriel #rowaelin daughter #acotar #azriel x reader #acotar x reader #not again #rowaelin #a court of thorns and roses

[crematedcow]

She couldn't simply surrender what had been the very essence of her life, the one thing that no one was supposed to have the power to take away from her. Her freedom? Nobody was acutally free. Her love? She could find a way to cope with it. Her child? A heart-wrenching sacrifice, but she could endure it. Yet, this vital part of her, this very core of her being – she would never allow anyone to snatch it away.

And that marked the tale of a parasite.

Of a Patron and Its Chains is a 18+ interactive fiction in a fantasy and steampunk setting inspired by the worlds of The Witcher Series and Fullmetal Alchemist. You are a seasoned hunter tasked with tracking and eliminating dangerous supernatural threats. However, your story takes a turn when you decide to become also a pactbearer.

In this realm where the intricate dance of magic and technology creates a canvas of possibilities, one could easily envision an idyllic existence.

The ability to traverse into other realities, though often at a steep cost, promised rapid advancement that could border on madness. Yet, amid these innovations and developments, lurking dangers remained ever-present. The very act of opening portals to other realms could inadvertently usher in creatures not meant for this world, seamlessly intertwining them with reality.

It was a world where the choice was to either be the hunter or the hunted, and most succumbed to the latter fate. However, your father instilled a different path in you. As a hunter of those creatures, he ensured you absorbed all the survival knowledge you needed before eventually got wrongfully accused and executed, a tragic turning point that reshaped your plans. Rather than simply following in his footsteps to become a hunter, you decided to become a pactbearer.

Summoning a Patron, a legend from diverse worlds and realities, your mission was to unite with fellow pactbearers. Together, you would confront an encroaching evil, all while seeking the fulfillment of a cherished wish granted by a god. Yet, even with the support of numerous companions and your trusted Patron, each victory over a monstrous foe revealed a looming threat waiting just beyond the horizon...

You are the hero... right?

This is an 18+ interactive fiction that is being written on Twine.

be a hunter that kills monsters or embroils into unwanted drama

fully customizable mc from appearance, pronouns and personality

several sidequests to develop your skills as a hunter (includes: Possession, Witches, Ancient Beasts and more)

a beastiarium with further information to every creature you meet on the way

the big world of Vestria & Co. with a lot of lore that you can all uncover - or not!

a cryptic voice inside your head that occasionally breaks the fourth wall

meet the other pactbearers and their patrons and decide what relationship you want to have with them

choose what animal-form your patron is going to have

a total of six companions (including your patron) who will be with you a majority of your journey

all of them are romancable, plus a hidden romance option for those who can be patient

lots of parental issues!

figure out the truth of your world, or fail to do so - there is no right or wrong

and a... cow?

CONTENT WARNINGS: depicitons of death, violence, mental illness, gore (in the territory of body horror), animal cruetly and death, abuse, pornographic content, strong language

More might follow

DEMO TBA

CURRENT WORD COUNT: 21000+

but nothing demo ready yet

The RO's include:

✸ Cú Chulainn (M/F)

In ancient tomes and tales, Chulainn stood as a formidable legend — an indomitable hero whose laughter echoed in the face of enemies and even death itself. They reveled in the thrill of combat, never yielding without a proper battle. Yet, such was the image you held dear until the moment you summoned them into your realm, making them your esteemed Patron. The being before you shattered the illusion you once cherished. No longer did they exude the vigor of a warrior; instead, bitterness clung to their spirit, entwined with a profound disdain for the world and all its inhabitants. Longing for the solace of death they once fervently evaded, Chulainn relinquished their ardor for combat, dismissing it as a hollow pursuit devoid of significance. As a consequence, their role as your Patron proved less than… helpful. Nevertheless, a flicker of optimism lingers within the depths of their desolate heart. Perhaps, against all odds, you possess the power to reignite the flames of purpose within them, offering a renewed sense of hope and the chance for a remarkable new beginning.

✸ Lysander/Lysandra (M/F)

Within the illustrious court of the High Queen, there exists a figure of great repute: Lys, a distinguished servant renowned for their unparalleled ability to fulfill any given task. Their name has become synonymous with perfectionism, as they consistently meet and surpass the lofty expectations placed upon them. The mere mention of their name evokes awe and respect throughout the courtly corridors. Alas, despite their esteemed standing, Lys remains a figure of divisive sentiment. Whispers and murmurs abound among their colleagues, swirling in a ceaseless cycle of gossip. Tales of their rigid and occasionally insolent demeanor dominate these conversations, yet there is another facet that elicits both awe and envy in equal measure. Lys possesses an unparalleled loyalty to the High Queen, a level of devotion that others find almost unattainable. Yet, the reality surpasses the worst of these rumors. Lys' nature transcends the bounds of mere unpleasantness, particularly in their interactions with you. Adding fuel to the fire, they perceive you as a sort of rival, amplifying the tensions between you. One can only wonder if it is merely a facade in an attempt to hide their weakness or the reality of their identity.

✸ Holographic Entity "Holly" (F)

Holly, the Patron of Lys, assumes the guise of a long-haired housecat, but her true essence hails as a revolutionary from a distant reality, a realm of unparalleled advancement far beyond the scope of Vestria. For Holly, her presence in this foreign world feels akin to embarking on an elaborate holiday excursion plucked from the very pages of historical books she once heard of. Her insatiable curiosity serves as the driving force behind her existence, propelling her to seek new experiences and infusing every interaction with a buoyant energy that suggests no challenge is insurmountable. Unafraid to vocalize her thoughts and opinions, Holly fearlessly shares her insights, even when they clash with those of her companion, Lys, particularly when the subject of her candid musings centers around you. Or at least, that is the impression you choose to hold. Her unabashed honesty may lead some to believe that she is a simple, unassuming creature. However, the more time spent with Holly reveals that there is much more to her than meets the eye. After all, one cannot lead a revolution based solely on a smile and an unfiltered mouth.

✸ Elli Agilulf (M)

The Blessed Ones, the esteemed right and left hand of the Night Church, are figures known to all who have ventured beyond the confines of ignorance. Cloaked in an aura of mystery, their veiled faces lend an air of both authority and enigma. Among their ranks is Elli, who strives to embody the idealized image of a Blessed One. He adheres to a code of silence, speaking only when necessary and responding with a detached aloofness. True to form, he carries himself with an air of subtle intimidation. However, beneath his carefully crafted facade, Elli is easily rattled by even the slightest inconvenience or a quick-witted remark, his frustration and anger palpable despite his hidden face. He is short-tempered and stubborn, a nature that clashes with the expectations of his position. As a Blessed One, he is expected to be a mindless automaton, devoid of thoughts or personal desires, but Elli's mind is a swirling vortex of thoughts and emotions, overflowing with complexity. Perhaps it is this contradiction, this clash between his true nature and the expectations placed upon him, that makes Elli an actual enigma. You do feel yourself challenged when he decides that you are a criminal to-become.

✸ Irydion (F)

Irydion holds a perspective that challenges the notion of victory being achieved simply through diplomatic agreements and signed papers. To her, a war is not truly won until she has exacted revenge to those she deems responsible for the suffering inflicted upon her country. As a member of the militia, she is fueled by a desire to fight, her hands trembling with the power of her magic, ready to unleash it upon her enemies on the frontline. While others may perceive an undisturbed silence on the battlefield as a sign of these so called peacetimes, Irydion remains vigilant, recognizing it as a deceptive tactic used by the enemy to lure her into dropping her guard. Too bad she is always a step ahead of those who seek to harm her people! Her selfless dedication to protecting and caring for her fellow countrymen is unwavering, even if it means being seen as misguided or paranoid by those who don't fully understand her. Irydion's allies may acknowledge her kind-hearted nature, but they also recognize her single-minded determination and unwavering belief in the necessity of fighting back against an enemy that is just a shadow. Irydion does not care for these rumors, knowing that regardless of how many may stand against her, they will eventually come to understand the truth of her cause. She remains steadfast, believing that time will prove her right in the end. After all, you believe her… right?

✸ "Junius" (M)

Even as Irydion's patron, the line between their roles blurs, with Junius' approach to her and other humans carrying an arrogantly nonchalant air. His actions, delivered with ease and naturalness, ridicule or charm one without noticing. With a mere lazy wink or a mockish bow, he effortlessly asserts a sense of superiority, deliberately refraining from putting genuine meaning or depth in his antics. Maintaining an elusive detachment, he keeps others at arm's length, preventing them from ever truly getting close to him. Despite his mysterious past, he carries himself as if the weight of secrets hold little significance to who he is. Junius' personality dances on the edge of daring, akin to playing with fire, drawing allure and enticement from the very act itself. He fearlessly indulges in flirting with married women and engaging in challenges with those of higher social standing, defying conventional norms and embracing a provocative existence. There lies a subtle irony in his guise — a wolf rather than a lion — his pride speaking for another form. And even in conversation, he adeptly maintains the facade, never allowing his act to waver, leaving you to question whether it is indeed a carefully crafted performance or indeed the reality of his character.

???

If it wasn't the work of gods, maybe it was fate that brought you together.

And several other characters you meet on your way across the country; other pactbearers and their patrons, tragic lovers, a noisy priest, ill-ridden villages (there is only two but it's weird it happened twice), two twin-rulers who don't seem to get along, a talking book, and more.

#twine if #twine game #twine wip #interactive novel #if game #twine #wip #i was kind of forced to post this #interactive fiction #oapaic #im not a native english speaker pls be nice #of a patron and its chains

[captainsimagines]

hunting the fates || one

Summary: When the repercussions of giving up your Immortality come back to haunt you, a journey to Hell seems to be the only solution. With the help of your friends, both old and new, you set out on a journey to destroy the three Fates who have messed with your life long enough. There you discover that your power extends further than you ever thought possible, as does the Winter Soldier’s. Hell isn’t for the weak-hearted—good thing you’re determined to turn your cursed heart from stone to muscle again, no matter what it takes.

Pairing(s): Bucky Barnes x (Fem) POC Enhanced Reader; Sam Wilson x Female Original Character

Trope: Fantasy/Mythology/Horror; Soulmates/Mates; Angst/Fluff/Smut; Bisexual! Bucky Barnes; Multiple POV’s

Based on the Song(s): ‘Power’ by Isak Danielson ; ‘Breakfast’ by Dove Cameron ; ‘Darkside’ by Neoni ; ‘Bow - Slowed’ by Reyn Hartley

AO3 Link

Warnings: strong language; inaccurate Greek mythology; mentions of infertility; mentions of slavery

Word Count: 6,100+

Author’s Note: Oh my Gods! Here we go with the fantasy sequel! I’m so excited for this, you guys have no idea. Like I’ve stated, the Greek mythology is both accurate and inaccurate on purpose so do not bully me lmao. Every song is for a certain character or couple! You can guess who “Bow-Slowed” is for... wink wink! xxMoni

~

The temperature was cool in Hell.

Or at least, moderate.

The exact word was lost for Bucky Barnes, who was hurdled through time and space and fuck-all after being tossed into a fiery portal and landing on a plush, red carpet in the middle of the most impressive room he has ever seen. One crane of the neck and he took in the castle’s black walls, adorned with intricately carved designs—statues that sat in their own miniature thrones; gargoyles of winged angels…or demons…with wide open mouths and silent screams; pillars indented with a language he did not understand.

There were doors everywhere. In front of him, to his sides, probably behind. Beautiful black wood that curved in arches and squares. Through some, he swears he sees eyes of all colors staring back. Through others, pure darkness.

He’s positive the portal already closed and trapped him in whatever alternate universe this was.

But Bucky Barnes knew where he was. He would be an absolute idiot to ask.

Hell. Bucky literally landed in Hell.

Every original perception he had of Hell painted a land of chaos. Endless screaming from the poor or deserving souls trapped in the rivers, that damned three-headed dog aiming for necks, fire engulfing even the tightest corners. But what greeted him was comfortable quiet, the way a throne room usually functioned. The air was clean and absent of the smell of iron. Not one lick of fire started at his feet.

“I see you put up a fight.”

And upon that throne of beautifully carved wood that could also possibly be bone—was the most beautiful man Bucky Barnes has ever seen.

Black hair with highlighted blue when reflected with light, blue flame lightly touching his fingertips, and tattoos of such terrific and complicated designs stemming from his exposed collarbones, to the other areas of pale skin. In fact, he may be covered in ink. The man—the God—before him was sculpted brilliantly, stretching the confines of his dark grey dress shirt and tailored black pants. A black, cashmere scarf lay loose upon his broad shoulders and down to his seated hips. Those dark blue eyes were almost black. With his left foot resting on his right knee and his sliced jawline leaning on a tattooed hand, the God of the Underworld was the picture of casual and detached elegance. Seemingly disinterested in what just landed at the foot of his throne.

Bucky felt a shudder beside him, then realized he was still holding something—someone in his arms.

Shortcake.

He loosened his grip, only to have you fling from his arms and into a standing position. Heavy footsteps, green light illuminating from the ends of your hair, and then—

“Maxwell told me you were feisty.”

Maxwell, at the corner of Bucky’s eye, flinched. Not frightened, but guilty and ashamed.

To Bucky’s ultimate horror, you growled and spit at the base of the throne. “Bastard!”

The God of the Underworld’s disinterested expression brightened, his smile widening. “Charming, too.”

Sam pushed against Bucky’s shoulder, ordering him to stand down. Bucky blinked a few times to focus, his vision white around the edges and his arms suddenly cold.

Hell is hot. Why is he cold?

“But my name is not bastard—” The God stood to his full height, dwarfing you and emitting such a punch of command, Bucky wavered. “My name is Hades.”

“That’s not your real name,” you said, teasing along every word. As if you were tempting the God to smite you, to curse you, to dismiss you—Bucky knows you’re buying time to assess the room, the situation.

Hades grinned, his chuckle barely restrained. “And in time, you’ll learn it.”

Sam made sure to stand to Bucky’s right, leaving his metal arm free. They’ve both adopted slightly defensive stances, but have remained more cautious than anything. Sam doesn’t need to voice it—Bucky knows they’re both terrified of your boldness.

“What gives you the right?” you yelled, green light unfurling from your fingertips. “First the Fates fuck with all our lives and now you want to get involved? Why is it up to us to help you? Deal with it yourself!”

It’s at that moment that Bucky noticed two other people in the room. Or…one person and one—what in the world?

A gorgeous, golden-haired woman standing to the right side of Hades’s throne snorted softly, rolling her…red…eyes when you glared at her. Her wavy hair extended to the middle curve of her back, and the baby hairs at her forehead curled from the humidity Bucky had not yet noticed. She was blushed in her high cheeks, and wearing black leathers that covered every inch of her, but did not hide her strong figure. A fighter, Bucky realized, who protected the throne and the God sitting on it.

But it’s the chains wrapped around her wrists, unconnected and functioning as bracelets. Chains that weren’t decorative, but rather unchosen. The cold in Bucky’s veins deepened into a burning rage, like dry ice, from the sight.

A slave. Not a fighter. A slave that Hades has as his right hand—

“Your defiance, trickery, game—whatever you want to call it, has chosen you. Those damn crones were waiting for an out. By blindsiding them, they blindsided me.”

“Not. My. Problem,” you seethed.

“It’s all our problems!” A voice, light as a butterfly, fluttered from behind Hades’s shoulder. Bucky recognized it as a female voice, a voice soft like a feather’s touch, but close to a battle cry. Her words weren’t meant to be vicious, almost like she raised her voice for the purpose of being seen.

A figure the size of Bucky’s wrist-to-palm ratio, lightly levitating above Hades’s shoulder and formed purely of water, emerged. She was graceful as water is graceful, with blue hair with white highlights. But her hair floated around her ears, behind her, like calm ocean waves. Her facial features were difficult to see from far away, but Bucky could clearly make out pretty silver eyes, a delicate nose, and plump lips. Her skin wasn’t skin, but water too. Blue—she’s completely blue. Her sheer dress left nothing to the imagination, so her body was completely visible. Nipples, toned stomach, even the slit between her legs. But modesty seemed nonexistent, especially for a creature as exquisite as her, so Bucky doesn’t dwell on it. He focused instead on her lithe movements, until she was fully visible and standing proudly on Hades’s shoulder.

Her feet might be Bucky’s favorite feature of hers—feet absent of toes, and instead arched and looped, like an elf’s boot.

A water sprite.

In Hell.

The water sprite continued, “They have cursed humans and Gods alike for too long!”

“How—” Sam said, raising his hands. “Is that our problem?”

“Do you take no responsibility?” Hades said through a grin.

“I would be more hospitable, man. You’ve just sucked us through the Portal of Hell, sending a goddamn lackey in your place. We aren’t in the mood for an interrogation.”

The absolute balls on Sam, Bucky thinks. To stare down the literal Devil with a steady voice.

Fuck.

“I’m not his lackey, ” Maxwell scoffed. “We figured you’d come willingly if you saw a friendly face.”

“The portal sucked us in and you looked like you were in pain,” Bucky heard you say before the water sprite hopped from Hades’s shoulder and to the arm of the throne. Her hair floated behind her, droplets falling but evaporating before it reached her feet.

Maxwell shrugged. “If I do not want to leave this realm, then it’s painful. I didn’t plan on staying so long on Earth.” His tone was near mocking.

“I am not a being who kidnaps.” Hades waved a bored hand through the air. “If you want to go, go.”

It’s a trick. They wouldn’t have gone through so much trouble and created a massive scene in a fucking Denny’s if it wasn’t serious. They were planning on keeping everyone in this realm for a while longer.

Bucky could hear you breathing through your nose. Your fingers clenched your sweater, then unclenched when you rolled your neck. Bucky had seen the excitement in your eyes tonight. A good meal, a walk around the nearby blocks, perhaps a trip into each other’s beds. That was promised. And now someone other than you and him have broken that promise, tarnished this night—the night you were both ready to move on fully. The first step of many.

Now, no one moves.

“Smart humans,” Hades clicked. He slowly sat back down, leaning backward until he mimicked slouching. “If you go, then the Fates are set loose forever. I do not know where they are. And since it was your fate—" He pointed at all three of you. “You will help me. If you do not, then they have abandoned their posts, leaving your realm in chaos for the foreseeable future. Even with the rip in the multiverse.”

“Do you exist in only our universe or all the others?” Sam asked.

“Only this one.”

“So, Greek mythology is…real?”

Hades chuckled. “In this universe, Norse and Greek are real. So are parts of other human religions. In other universes, I do not know.”

At this, Bucky pondered. It isn't like his Jewish faith is shaken—it's been rocky for a long time. Still, he can't help the feeling of loss.

The golden-haired woman stepped forward, looking to Hades before she spoke. He gave her a slight bow of the head. “The Fates have been terrorizing the Gods and humans alike for centuries. Fate is just a made up word for their fun. With them scattered, we cannot employ new Fates.”

Sam cleared his throat before saying, “It’s that easy? You can just replace people who have been doing this job for centuries?”

The woman snarled at being interrupted. Sam doesn’t verbally apologize, but he does avoid her glowing red eyes.

“They must die for us to search for new Fates—Better Immortals who will not use their gifts for sport.”

“Elva is right,” Hades agreed. “All of us in this room have been plagued by their games.”

“What. Games.” Your voice sent violent shivers down Bucky’s spine.

This means…Bucky understands what it means.

He understands, he understands—

“Sam Wilson,” Hades started. “From what I know, the Fates were ecstatic when you became the new Captain America. They chose that road for you. As they did with the Falcon.” Then, with a soft sigh, Hades’s expression actually conveyed pity when he said, “Riley was never supposed to make it.”

Sam’s lips thinned as he stared. And stared.

Then, “They killed Riley?”

A statement of deathly promise.

Hades gave a curt nod before continuing. “I hear they call you Shortcake. But you’re more than that…Aren’t you? Princess…Goddess.”

Bucky watched as your chest rose and fell. His hands ached for you, to count your heartbeats and match them with his.

“If they killed Riley,” Hades lamented, even if there was no personal grief behind his words. “Then I know you know what that means for you.”

Ari.

Your fists clenched and remained clenched, as did your eyes.

Bucky’s going to do it. One more blasted second and he’ll run up to you, hold you, carry you out of here to wherever he can. Every single time you experienced the pain of losing Ari all over again—every single time he experienced the pain of losing Steve—it hurt like fucking Hell.

“Hades,” you breathed, your voice dripping with hatred for the man or for the situation, Bucky didn't know. “Were they responsible for Bucky’s fall from the train?”

A pause, then a jut of his chin.

“His capture?”

Silence. The same jut.

“His torture? His shit luck? His time lost? Steve leaving him?”

A muscle in Hades’s jaw jumped as he confirmed, “All of it. And when you became mortal, that’s when their fun ended. Because they never intended for you two to be—”

“Hades!” the water sprite exclaimed, shaking her small head. “That is not what we discussed!”

Hades rolled his eyes, but his lips twitched in amusement. Bucky’s breath had stalled while you listed everything the Fates were responsible for.

About him. About his life. The life that was stolen from him. The time that was stolen from him.

Before he could voice it, however, you beat him to it.

“Then point me in the direction of the first Fate bitch.”

~

    Elva is tasked with leading the three of you to your rooms. Three separate rooms, all in the same hallway, on the sixth level of the palace. You don’t trust yourself to complain about it—how the three of you would much rather share a room and not be separated so you could watch each other’s backs each passing second.

You don’t trust yourself to speak at all. If you did, your voice would have demanded these things and more. Demanded to know how to get back to your realm, to know how much time had passed, to be told every single detail about this palace. This prison for however long Hades decided to keep you here. Or at least, until you murdered the Three Fate bitches.

“This is yours,” Elva instructed Sam, not bothering to look behind her. You had half a mind to attack her from behind, to hold her down and rip those answers from her throat, but you refrained. And not because you were above violence, but because Elva didn’t deserve it.

“Does it lock from the inside or the outside?” Sam asked, running an unconcerned finger along the fine wood.

Elva released a noise that sounded like a snort, though her face was absent of humor. “The inside. You are not prisoners.”

“If we go, our realm is thrown into chaos that’s possibly worse than a multiverse intrusion. If we stay, we’re essentially reluctant guests,” Bucky explained. Most of his attention was focused to Elva’s dangling hands, but you could see he was mapping out the hallway’s twists and turns.

The idea that this was your fault ate away at you slowly. With each step to your assigned room, with every breath you took.

Ari had done a selfless, brave thing. You allowed mortality into your bloodstream. Sam took demon claws to the abdomen in order to save you. And this was how you’re repaid?

You returned a demon to Hell. You cured a group of Immortals who simply wanted to have a regular life without the exterior disasters of your passed-down bloodline. You reburied Ari to send his soul to a peaceful afterlife.

And by doing everything right, the Fates are pissed at you for it?

Elva pointed to another room a few doors down from Sam’s. “This is yours, Earthling.”

“I have a name.”

Elva turned around and angled her head slightly. “What would you like to be called?”

No one, not even Sam and Bucky, call you by your real name. On official documents, you’ve opted for a shortened version. Sam has only ever said that shortened version.

Your birth name died with Ari, with your people. Ari was the last person to ever utter it. Even Druig refrains from using it.

So you look Elva in her blood-red eyes, a tic in your jaw. “Earthling is fine.”

She smirked, and angled her head at Sam. “Then that makes you Birdling.”

“Did I say I wanted a nickname?”

Bucky snorted, scratching at his top lip as if that would mask the sound.

Elva smiled at him. Teeth straight and white, but the formation of such a bright smile was intimidating. “I quite like your name. Bucky.”

He involuntarily shivered beside you, and nodded quickly.

Elva turned around and continued down the hallway, pointing at the last door to the right as she announced, “And here’s your room…Buck— ”

“Thank you,” you said promptly, basically dismissing her. Elva does nothing but smile brightly again, obviously faked. With a quick whip around, she left you alone. Her stride was graceful, and with all the confidence of a soldier.

You had seen the chains masked as bracelets. You know Bucky did, too.

Keeping that quiet was bothering you, but it would be smarter to address it another time.

In the quiet, Bucky cleared his throat and suggested, “Should we scope out the rooms as one?”

Together, you swiped the rooms and mapped every anomaly—nicks in the paint, the strength of the mattresses, the sturdiness of the furniture and doors. One thing you all agreed on was that the rooms were grand, furnished for royalty.

Or Gods.

Gothic-themed and luckily clean, the rooms were obviously meant for esteemed guests. Sam pondered if Hades was simply trying to confuse you, to have you feel wanted and protected only to fuck you over tomorrow.

All three rooms were adorned with king-sized beds, blood-red sheets draped over them and bed posts carved with such intricate woodwork, you had to study them closely. On the two against the wall, great dragons looped around the strong wood and burst at the tip, mouths wide in a recorded battle cry. On the two near the end, elegant flames reached their arms to the high ceiling. The walls were painted red and black, Bucky’s differing only slightly with shades of blue and black instead. Rugs that depicted stories about demons, past Hades and Persephone’s, even Gods that had no beef with the Underworld. The rooms were packed with dressers, exquisite dark clothing practically spilling from the drawers and hangers. And the shoes…Even Sam whimpered a little bit.

But in your search, you found nothing amiss. Nothing that screamed bad bad bad besides being trapped here with an ultimatum. As Sam and Bucky complimented their surroundings, you held your breath.

Yes, everything was beautiful. Yes, you could probably sweet talk your way out of here. But the fact remained that half of you, screaming and kicking, wanted revenge.

Revenge that could taint your soul, as loss has frozen your heart.

The other half was entirely with Sam and Bucky, thinking about ways to escape. To gain alternate answers.

The rooms merged into one image in your mind, blurring at the sides and calling your name. Nothing seemed original and glorious anymore.

You had to lie down.

“Okay, so here’s what I think we should do,” Bucky began, instantly falling into Avenger mode. Numbers passing by his vision, plans ABC sprouting as quick as their former. “Gods need to sleep too, right? So we wait until the palace and all its inhabitants go down for the night—”

“There are no windows, dumbass. How will we tell it's night?” Sam deadpanned.

“We’ll assume Hell functions like Earth. If it was night for us, then Hell has got to be—”

Without a word, you slam the door to your assigned room closed, and relish the silence.

Power surged through your veins, but you quickly buried it. The tingling at your fingertips, the tension in your spine—all quieted, like the many times you’ve done it before. The same power that emerged in 1527, the same power in 1864.

Not here. Not again.

You couldn’t risk bringing down this palace with loved ones on the other side of the door. You couldn’t risk it at all.

~

    Sam pursed his lips as he stared at the massive wooden door you had just slammed in his face. Silence spread throughout the dark hallway, lightened only by the shuffling of Bucky’s feet. Donning a stunned expression, Sam watched as Bucky blinked and then turned to him.

Sam motioned him farther down the hall, if only to give you the privacy you wanted. When they entered the room assigned to him, Sam closed the door before he sighed, almost dramatically, “So, what base did you get to before being ripped into Hell?”

Bucky growled, flashing Sam his metal middle finger before flopping face-first onto the surprisingly soft mattress.

“Tell me you at least got to first.”

Bucky grumbled into the sheets, his words unintelligible.

Sam nodded at nothing. He casted bored glances around the room, surveying even the smallest details all over again. It didn’t sit right with him that you were all separated and put onto a nearly abandoned floor. Sure, there were servants cleaning adjacent rooms and mumbling down the halls, but it was vacant nonetheless.

Later, he promised. Later he would venture out into the hallways and gain as much gossip as he could.

“I’ll scout the place later, then—”

“I’m coming with you,” Bucky demanded, moving onto his back.

Sam shook his head. “This dinner isn’t going to go smoothly. I can feel it. You stay here afterwards to see if Shortcake is alright.”

Bucky grumbled again, “You are not going alone.”

“She shouldn’t be left alone, Buck. Hades practically blamed all this on her. Guilt is eating at her. You know it.”

Bucky’s face contorted with pure sympathy. “Then we share the guilt. It’s not our fault, but we played a role nonetheless.” Then, Bucky paused, shooting Sam a good-natured glare. “Do not leave your room at night without me or her.”

Sam forced a neutral expression as he lied, “Okay. I won’t.”

~

    If the throne room was grand, then the dining hall was extraordinary. A place for royalty. Fucking Beauty and the Beast ass shit, Sam marveled.

He has eaten in the wondrous fields and dining halls of Wakanda, thinking nothing could possibly top it.

But this.

Sam had to remind himself he was in another realm, and perhaps his eyes saw things as extra. His human eyes.

He was the only human without enhanced abilities here.

He was fully human, and in Hell.

“Glad you three can make it.”

Hades stunned in a black-on-black suit, nonchalant in his chair and already chewing a piece of cured meat. The water sprite sat at the corner near him, delighting in fruit herself. Where the food went, Sam didn’t know. He could vaguely see the food pass through her throat and downwards, but that was it.

Sam looked at the two people beside him. At Bucky, who had changed nothing of his appearance but removing his gloves. And his Shortcake, who had thrown a shimmering black sweater on instead of keeping the old one. With the sweater, your stone face with a heavy frown, Sam would have guessed the Underworld was a second home to you.

“You want us to eat food down here?” you chuckle, humor lacking. “Do you think we’re stupid?”

Hades paused chewing, his smile growing and stretching as he laughed for real. “That stingy little trick was abolished centuries ago. I couldn’t entertain and have that trick hanging over everyone’s heads, could I?”

Sam’s high school knowledge clicked then.

Persephone and the pomegranate. But Sam sees no women besides the golden-haired beauty and the water sprite. No other woman who could pass for Persephone—not the servants, not the short–time visitors he saw sneaking in through the kitchens. No one.

“Swear it on your Immortal life that if we eat your food, we are not trapped here.”

Hades rolled his eyes but promised, “The food is not enchanted. I can even send a messenger to pick-up human food and bring it back.”

So it is possible to realm hop, just as Maxwell described. Where the green-eyed sonofabitch was hiding, Sam couldn’t tell.

Bucky stepped forward, surveying the grand table and every platter before it. Meats, potatoes, soups, vegetables and fruit, desserts. Every plate had its own burner, its own section.

A literal meal for royalty.

Bucky picked up an apple, throwing it in the air as he said, “We won’t help you if we don’t get something in return.”

Hades smirked. “Besides free range of my palace, my training facilities, my expertise, and my food?” Bucky was better at scowls, so Sam let him give Hades his best one. “I see. Right to the point.”

Sam asked, “What do we get out of this?”

“Besides revenge?”

“Something more.”

Hades quieted for a moment. He glanced at Elva, then to the water sprite beside him, who was munching her cured meat happily. “What do you want?”

Sam thought hard about it. To bargain with the Devil…His Christian mother must be turning over in her grave. Or rolling in the river just outside the palace walls. Sam shook the thought from his head.

So he kept it simple, stopping himself from asking for too much, too fast. “I want revenge, of course. But I want to be able to send my family a message that I’m alright.”

Hades hummed. “A letter system—Got it. Anything else?”

“I want to kill the bitch responsible for what I went through,” Bucky declared, then took his first bite of the red apple. You flinched beside him, your hands clenched into fists, as if ready to knock the fruit from his hands. But as Bucky chewed, nothing out of the ordinary occurred. He swallowed, waited a second, like his mind was wired to yours, and bit into it again.

“That would be Clotho, then. That can be arranged.” Hades turned to you, something devilish flashing in his dark blue eyes. “You?”

You paused, your jaw ticking. “Lachesis is the one who measured Ari’s life?”

Hades threw a grape into the air, ignoring the soft but irked pats from the water sprite, no doubt chastising him for being so careless in a conversation like this. Hades caught the grape in his mouth. “She is the one.”

“The one who measured my life?”

“The very one.”

Sam marked the way you huffed and finally pulled out a seat, four seats away from the God of the Dead himself. “Then I will kill her if you give me my choice back.”

“A cure for magical infertility,” Hades pondered, even if it wasn’t a question. Sam speculated the ways the God could have possibly known that, but that was just it—the God. “You have free use of my library. I hope you find what you’re looking for.”

“That simple?”

Hades gave a tilt of the head. “Did you expect a fight?”

“The God of the Underworld kidnaps us and there isn’t one? Seems a little suspicious to me,” Bucky snorted, reaching over to fill his plate. All the while being heavily scrutinized by the golden warrior studying him. Or…maybe what shone in Elva’s eyes was restrained amusement.

Bucky placed his plate down gently on the placemat made entirely from what looked like real gold, and took the seat beside you. Then pushed his plate gently between the two of you, offering to share.

Hades grunted, lifting his wine glass to his lips. “Those crones have pissed me off for centuries.”

Sam, the last one to relent and sit at the grand table, suggested,“Why not kill them yourself?”

Another eye roll from the great God. “I cannot kill my own Fates. And anyone cursed by them cannot kill them either.”

Sam turned his head in time to see Elva sneer and look down at her feet. It bothered him greatly that she was not given a plate, let alone a seat. Just left standing, her hand on the hilt of her silver sword, watching.

“Is Shortcake not cursed?” Sam asked.

Hades shook his head. “Her grandmother cursed her. The Fates simply found it reasonable and let it slide.”

“My grandmother. The Elementalist who could summon the dead. How does that make sense—her making me live.”

Shrugging, Hades took a long sip from his glass. “Immortality brought about a lot of death for you, didn’t it?”

Bucky grimaced, lifting his own wine glass. Sam was thankful as he changed the subject. “Where’s crone number one?”

“Clotho is our spinner. She spins the thread of human fate, and decides where you go from there. I’d say she’s hiding out on the icy plains of Cocytus.”

“There’s ice in Hell?” Sam asked. He risked taking a bite of the bread, noticing how you still hadn’t eaten a single thing.

Hades narrowed his eyes in response. “And trees, if you’re curious.”

To that, you lifted your head to him. “Where?”

Hades grinned, knowing he struck the correct cord. “My gardens are also free range.”

For a long minute, no one spoke. The water sprite chewed her food happily, smiling up at Hades as he smiled down at her. Sam watched every exchange—when Bucky buttered a piece of bread and handed it to you, mumbling that if he was destined to be stuck down here why not get you trapped here as well, which earned him a soft chuckle.

Sam also noticed the golden warrior studying him, her own grand posture causing him to straighten.

“I did not mean to trap you three in my world,” Hades muttered. “But I saw how you handled the demon. How you dealt with Maxwell, that insufferable idiot. Even Wenrel here was mad at him, and she’s never mad at him.”

At that, the water sprite hid her small face in her transparent hands.

“I am at a loss. The only Gods who will aid me in this are Hermes and Hecate. But they are Gods, their power only stretching so far when it comes to the Fates.”

“These literal Gods aren’t fighters?” you deadpanned.

Hades shook his head. “You don’t have to be a fighter to be a God and you don’t have to be a God to be a fighter.”

“We barely held down a demon,” Sam explained. “You expect us to hold the Moirai?”

“I think you three expect so little of what you can actually do.”

“Do not speak like the Crones, Hades,” Elva ordered. Sam braced himself for the God’s reprimand, for his hand to swing backward and strike her—anything that gave Sam a reason to leap over this table and twist his neck. But Hades did nothing of the sort. He regarded the warrior with a gentle smirk and a wave of his hand. A friendly wave, one contradicting the chains around her wrists and the seriousness of her face.

“Elva will also offer her sword. And teach you three how to wield your own.”

“So a bullet won’t do?” Bucky joked, swishing his wine around.

“Mortal instruments are not key here, Soldier. As with demons, we kill our own with our own,” Elva clarified.

No nickname for Bucky, my ass.

“And you’ll have the aid of Maxwell, Wenrel, and myself. Don’t you worry.” Hades mocked a bow the best he could sitting down.

This was all too crazy. Sam remembers the stories Steve shared that one week of calm after bringing everyone back—of how he visited space, another planet. Sam had joked that Steve had finally seen the whole world. That nothing could possibly live up to the bright colors of space jumping.

But here Sam was, trapped yet welcomed in the realm of middle school curiosity. Of mythology kids picked up for a few months, reveled in, then moved on from. In a realm of fantasy, even if his life proved anything but.

Thor is a Norse God. Loki, too. Sam shouldn’t be surprised he’s had a run-in with yet another God. Except this one needs his help.

Sam isn’t big on ego, but this is boosting his a Hell of a lot. Pun intended.

“For now,” Hades stood, buttoning his suit jacket. “Get some rest. You wake early tomorrow.”

~

    A knock on the door stirred you from your thoughts. You’ve been seated on the red velvet chair, looking at yourself in the mirror for however long it took to make your back strain. In Tenochtitlan, you had your own in your sitting room. One where your maids brushed your hair and adorned you with jewels. Then another during your limited stay at Versailles, but the glass wasn’t as impressive. The jewels were, however. This one, with its fine metal work and reflection dusted in glitter, outranked them all.

Brushing through your hair, you cleared your throat. “Come in.”

Bucky entered, smiling shyly. He came to sit beside you, his scooting narrowly throwing you off the chair itself until he gripped your hips and placed you on his lap. You were nearer his knee, but the sensation was all the same. With a small gasp, you met his eyes in the mirror. Eyes that glimmered with the knowledge of what emotions he just caused.

Stealing one silk hair-tie from the beautiful, onyx bowl beside all the perfumes, Bucky moved to tie his hair back. A tight bun, but one that failed to catch the tendrils of hair in the front from falling forward and framing his face.

“I don’t know how to start apologizing,” you began, but Bucky raised an eyebrow.

“Then don’t.”

You sighed, “This is all kinds of fucked up.”

“Are you worried he’s lying?”

You shrugged, sighing again when Bucky’s hands came up to run smoothly over your shoulders and back down. Over and over. “He mentioned other Gods. And yet, the myths aren’t real.”

“What do you mean?” Bucky asked, his eyebrows scrunching.

“Where the fuck is Persephone? If Hermes and Hecate are real, if the myth of the pomegranate is real, then where is she?”

Bucky grumbled, “Don’t even, for one second, think that you are Persephone.”

“My power involves life.”

“Yeah, and your literal soulmate was a human. If your fate was to be the Goddess of Spring, why did the Fates fuck with you at all?”

Bucky made a valid point. You know you’re an Elementalist—a being able to control one or many natural elements in the world, even those not classified as such. You know you’re a Mutant—a being born with a genetic mutation that was the sole reason for such power, hunted by demons themselves. You know you’re Mother Nature—yet another myth who’s sole purpose was to shape the Earth.

But Hades did call you a God. And Thor did compare you to other Gods who wielded similar power. Being the Goddess of Spring would be the cherry on top—but you’ve never quite liked cherries.

“I can’t produce offspring so we know I’m not Demeter, either.”

Bucky shuddered, and your laugh vibrated from your back into his chest. “Don’t—” Bucky laughed. “Don’t even suggest that.”

Your laugh only grew. You turned your face to him, your lips only centimeters apart. “What if I’m just not a Greek God?”

Bucky glanced down at the small space, his breath hitching the slightest bit. “That would make sense. You’re not Greek.”

Slowly, you nodded. You looked down at Bucky’s lips as well. Such perfect, pink miracles.

Six months. You’ve deprived yourself of Bucky’s taste for six months. For good reason, for a healthy and valid reason, but still. Now those sugar-spun lips were parting, and his hot breath mingled with yours, and your room wasn’t even that close to Sam’s—

A splash of water sounded from the door, slapping against the floor rapidly.

“Oh! Almost there, almost there—and!—Whoo!”

Wenrel, the water sprite, had shimmied her way underneath the crack of the door. Both you and Bucky turned, wide-eyed and confused.

Wenrel stood, all six inches of her, and placed her hands on her hips. Her glittering dress moved in the same direction as her hair, floating and curling. “The handsome one was not in his room so I decided to check in here.”

Bucky blushed, his lips twitching with the threat of a smile. “Uh, yeah. I’m in here.”

Wenrel skipped and shortened the distance between you, hopping onto a nearby chair, then leaped and pulled herself onto the dresser. There she sat on the overturned brush you were just using, crossing her legs as she leaned back on her hands, and smiled.

“I wasn’t talking about you. I was talking about the handsome one.”

Your grin widened. “Sam?”

“Ouch?” Bucky feigned offense.

Wenrel giggled. “Sam…the handsome one! You are the gorgeous one, Soldier.”

Bucky smiled truly now. “That’s better.”

“Wait,” you paused, blinking. “Sam isn’t in his room?”

Wenrel shook her head, and as she did small droplets of water sprung free and evaporated mid-air. “He went exploring, it seems.”

Bucky scoffed, already moving you off his lap so he could stand. “Mr. ‘I’m afraid of ghosts’, went exploring?”

“Probably for entrances and exits,” Wenrel divulged, her tone similar to those telling ghost stories. She giggled again as she witnessed Bucky puffing his chest. You blinked down at her, cocking an eyebrow. She giggled at you, too.

“Only entrance and exit he’s about to know is my foot entering his ass and exiting his mouth.”

With that, Bucky unhooked the gun from the back of his belt and removed the safety. You didn’t even know he had it on him.

“C’mon, Goddess,” Bucky urged, throwing open the bedroom door. The nickname wasn’t out of spite or jokes. Bucky said it like he had all the others—with the absolute intention of making your knees weak. Wenrel hopped onto your shoulder and made herself at home.

“We’ve got birdling to catch.”

~ 

TAGLIST: @fandoms-writings​ @hajmola-vs-aamchaska​​ @natbarnes1917​​ @howlermonkey69 

#Bucky Barnes #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x poc!reader #Bucky Barnes x female reader #bucky barnes x y/n #dreaming in june sequel #hunting the fates series #hunting the fates #sam wilson x original female character #captainsimagines #by Moni

[kasagia]

Coriolanus Snow's Masterlist

One-shots

Losing your memory 'universum'

The boy you knew—the boy you loved before the 10th Hunger Games began—returns to the Capitol. The Plinth heir. The victor. You don't know the man he has become... or do you? Because, surprisingly, he only seems to be holding on to one thing from his past. You. And as much as you hate him, you can't deny that there's nothing more between you two. Something just doesn't let you forget about yourselves as effortlessly as you would want to.

District boy

You and Coryo were very close (best) friends. Young Snow had a crush on you for a very long time. But he wouldn't let anything distract him—not until he got his family out of their financial troubles. And then comes the 10th Hunger Games, in which you get to be a mentor for a very handsome tribute... Coryo isn't happy about it at all.

A powerful man

You thought he was different. That he would never cheat on you. But apparently Coriolanus who came back from District 12, became Gamemaker, and ran for president was not the same man you knew. And you'll soon find out how wrong you were about him.

Game of survival

The worst enemy is the person who betrayed you when you trusted them with all your heart. The person you told all your secrets to, the person you loved more than your life—the best friend who suddenly turned on you and stabbed you in the back and right through your heart, using your weaknesses they learned with the time they spent with you. You and Coriolanus have been each other's worst enemies since that fateful day at the lake in District 12...

Game of survival, final hunting...

After he catches you, he tries to turn you into a lady who can stand by his side. However, you are not that easy to break... after all, a wild animal in a cage is still a dangerous animal.

Mini-series

#coryo #coriolanus snow x reader #coriolanus snow #coriolanus x reader #coriolanus x you #coryo snow #young coriolanus snow #oneshot #coriolanus snow x you #coriolanus snow x y/n #coryo x reader #snow x reader #snow lands on top #masterlist #the hunger games #hunger games au #hunger games fanfiction #hunger games ballad of songbirds and snakes #coryolanus snow #coryo x you #coryo x y/n

[shurisneakers]

unsolved (iii)

Summary: Bucky doesn't even believe in the paranormal. So who the hell thought it was a good idea to stick him in a series about everything haunted for the internet's amusement? With his loose-canon of a teammate who has no concept of subtlety or shits left to give, to make things even worse. (Buzzfeed unsolved AU)

Warnings: swearing, frustrated bucky at his little shit supreme, obnoxious reader, cryptids, graveyards

A/N: good evening. i am fighting demons (tummy ache). comments and feedback are always appreciated thank u for the love on the series so far i adore u guys sm <;33

Previous part || Series masterlist

A few days after the first video goes up, Bucky returns from his run to a SHIELD file taped to his door.  

He opens to a black and white photo of him from back in the day, and a page full of his details. Full name, blood group, previous addresses, aliases, best colours to match his undertone, favourite Gilmore Girl boyfriend. 

He flips the page to the section on his known connections, only for a sheet of paper to fall out. Sharpie sprawled haphazardly across it, in big red letters. 

NO AUNT. 

BITCH.

He bites back a grin.

The video does reasonably well. Not record breaking numbers or anything, but for once there aren’t TikToks of people counting how many times he blinks to make sure he’s an actual human. 

Always a man of his word, though he has regretted it every single time, he agrees to a second video. It follows after a disgraceful bout of bitching and even pleading, but a few hours later, he resigns himself to his fate silently. 

That is until the schedule for the next video shoot is posted to the server, and he sees it’s at night. 

The night he uses to sleep. The night.

Before he can even type out his rejection, his door receives four sharp knocks. He doesn’t even need to open it to know who it was.  

It’s like you could read his thoughts. Probably could. He doesn’t know the extent of your telekinesis. 

In your hands is a large cardboard box and on your face is a stupidly big grin. 

“Good evening,” you greet. 

“Tell me the show’s getting cancelled,” he says. 

“Nope. We–” you announce, reaching into the box and shoving something onto his chest, “--are going on a trip. Demon hunting.”

“Demon hunting?” 

“To Westley Cemetery,” you add, letting the box tumble onto the floor as you grip its contents. “To catch the Westley Cemetery Cryptid.”

“What the hell is the Westley Cemetery Cryptid?” Bucky demands.

“Creature that lives in the cemetery, watches people from the trees and runs after you if you’re there too long. No known kills, but a couple of scratches and spooks,” you list off. 

His face twists. “That’s not a real thing.”

“Uh, yes it is.” You rest a hand on your hip. “My sources told me so.”

“Who are your sources?”

“Twitter.”

Bucky stares at you without a word.

“It’s totally real. It’s got a Wikia page and everything,” you argue against his complete silence. “I believe in it.”

“That means nothing.”

“Rude.” You glare pointedly. “Anyway, point is, we’re going out tonight to the cemetery and we’re gonna catch this thing on tape.”

Bucky tracks your gaze to finally look down at what you’ve shoved into his hands. It’s a headband, with two cameras attached to it, one facing your face and the other outward. Night vision, he guesses. 

He sighs. “How long? An hour?” 

“Was Hamlet written in an hour? Was Sharknado filmed in an hour?” you exclaim. “Great art takes time. We’re staying out there as long as we need to. So help me, we will emerge victorious.”

Bucky stares at you. “Two hours.”

“Seven.”

“Thirty minutes.”

“Your will is weak and your spirit is cowardly.” You return his fixed look with equal intensity, if not more, which he didn't think was possible. “Three hours.”

“Deal.”

“Great.” You stick your hand out, and he grabs on firmly. “See you at 1am.”

“1am?!”

It is 1am, it is cold and Bucky is miserable. 

But he’s there. In the cemetery. With the stupid camera rig on his head. 

You offer him whiskey to warm him up, and he agrees. 

You then tell him you don’t actually have any because you didn’t think he’d accept.

He hates it here.

The wind whistles around the both of you. The eerie silence is only compounded by the fact that he can’t see anything beyond a certain point. The night is especially dark and there is no moonlight.

He trudges through the patchy grass, dry leaves crunching under his boots.

The camera being so close to his face along with the fact that you wouldn’t stop singing the same three fucking lines of the song over and over again, makes him want to tear his hair out.

“That thing’s not gonna get near us if you don’t shut up,” he grumbles.

“Nonsense,” you hum. “I’m a goddamn delight. He’s gonna be trippin’ over himself to get to me.”

“He doesn’t exist.”

“He definitely does, and you know what? I bet your shit vibes are gonna attract him. Moth to flame and all that. Karmic justice.” 

Bucky stares straight ahead, swerving to avoid running into cracked tombstones. 

You go back to singing, but worse this time. 

“What if we don’t get anything?” he interrupts, to protect his sanity. “No one wants to watch a bunch of people just walk around the dark for 20 minutes.”

There’s no response. 

It takes a second for Bucky to realise the singing’s stopped too.

He stops in his tracks, head swivelling to look for you.

“The fuck…” he mutters. 

In the cemetery, he is truly alone for a moment. Silent, other than wrought iron gates creaking in the far distance. 

The leaves of the tree above him rustle.

Bucky looks up, squinting against the darkness. 

Against the stillness of the night, he sees it. A figure stands tall on the branches of the tree, silhouette obscured by the leaves. 

It leers down at him, unmoving.

Bucky doesn’t even flinch.

“Very funny,” he says. “Hilarious.”

“We’ll fake it,” the figure calls from above. “If we don’t get any footage, I’ll just get on up there and fuck around and you record.”

“Get down,” he demands. “We’re not faking footage.”

If this show had to die this way, so be it.

“Bore,” you boo, lowering yourself to the ground with ease. “If I didn't know any better, I’d say you don’t want to be a part of this series.”

“I don’t.”

“Anyway,” you say obnoxiously, “we won’t have to. There is definitely a cryptid here. I can feel it in my bones.”

“We’re halfway through the graveyard and there’s nothing here,” he shoots back. “We should call it quits.”

“You’re right,” you say, to his surprise. “We need to cover more ground. Let’s split up.”

That is most definitely not what he was saying.

But you start singing again and so Bucky agrees faster than you finish the same stupid third line for the hundredth time that hour.

Bucky is a man of dignity.

Less than five minutes later, he gives up.

He takes a seat against the trunk of a tall tree, in a relatively open clearing. 

He figures if he just takes a nap then the two hours would pass by quicker. 

Bucky has no idea where you’ve gone. The lack of light doesn’t help, even with his advanced vision. 

He crosses his arms behind his head and settles back, eyes closing. 

Not even a second later, he wants to rip his hair out when the stupid song you were singing reintroduces itself in his head.

“For fuck’s sake,” he groans. 

The tree he’s leaning against shifts ever so slightly.

His eyes fly open, but he doesn’t move an inch.

Instinctually, his breathing slows and his ears tune in to pick up even the faintest sounds.

The draft whispers, and he knows for a fact that something is above him.

A branch cracks. 

“Go away,” Bucky says loudly. 

A second passes. 

And then another. 

“You’re supposed to be looking for the thing,” you shout.

“It’ll find me if it wants to.” He shifts to make himself more comfortable. “I’m givin’ him a real shot here.” 

“You didn’t even look up.”

“Didn’t have to.”

“He could have been above you.”

“But he wasn’t.” Bucky’s eyes close again. 

“You’re terrible.” It comes back muffled, and branches shift. “I’m headin’ that way. One of us has to put some effort into this.”

“Joy. Knock yourself out.”

The trunk moves under his muscles again and Bucky lets out a small exhale, settling back into the position he was in.

Until he hears you singing in the distance. Same three lines, same off-key tune.

Bucky drags his palm across his face. 

An hour passes. 

Unlike his original plan, he does not sleep.

He instead recounts every element he remembers from the periodic table. 

Replays every Dodgers game from his childhood, and then gets mad at their shift. 

Then he tries to recollect every fact he knows about you so far. Mutant, captured and experimented on, broke free several years before him. Met Nat along the way and befriended her. Telekinesis, slowed aging. Escape artist. Wedding videographer. Allegedly.

He just doesn’t get how you’re so goddamn chirpy all the time, given that he’d been through something similar and come out the way he had. 

It had taken him a month to say anything to anyone other than Steve. You went out for brunch with Sam the same weekend you showed up at the compound.

He doesn’t get you.

Speaking of which, he hasn’t actually seen you in a while. 

He checks the time on his watch. Nearly 3am.

He had a fucking workout in the morning and no lizard-man was going to be the cause for Steve outrunning him.

He pushes himself off the ground with a groan, and stretches out his sore limbs. Definitely too old for lying around a cemetery beyond midnight.

He calls out your name loudly, and then again, before waiting. 

He hears bells ringing in the distance. 

Bucky looks up.

In the shadows of the trees, he comes face to face with the same sight as before. A figure, standing on the branches.  

“There’s nothing here,” he calls out, sighing. “Can we just leave?”

The twigs creek, and for a second he thinks you’re going to fall. 

“Already told you I’m not faking footage, get down from there,” he repeats. “I’m leaving. I’ll see you at the gate.”

The leaves shuffle around before he hears branches break. 

Something you say gets obscured by your movement, but you disappear again. He thinks that maybe you were cursing him out, and deservedly so. He just couldn’t find it in himself to care. 

He rolls his eyes, but starts making his way to the entrance of the graveyard.

The walk back is faster, and he holds back a yawn as the gates start creeping up on the horizon. 

There’s no sign of you. He half thinks you ditched him here and went back to the compound. Or fell off the tree and were just laying there. 

But he decides to wait, leaning against the exposed concrete wall. 

Eyes closed, he rubs his temples and decides that if you’re not here in the next thirty seconds, he’ll just–

“Hey,” you greeet from right in front of him.

“Where the hell did you go?” he demands. 

You blink at him, before holding up a wrapper. 

“Got a sandwich. I was hungry. The diner was real nice too, I spent like half an hour talkin’ to the owner.”

He stares at you. “You just left to get a sandwich?”

“Yeah, and I got you one, too,” you reply, tossing him a paper bag. “You’re welcome. God bless that man, but those things aren’t cheap.”

“You’ve not been here for the last half hour?”  

“I mean, I spent like ten minutes looking.” You shrug, taking another bite. “All I got was a bunch of grass.”

Ten minutes. Bucky had sat under the stupid tree for an hour. 

“So you just left,” he says dryly.

“Yes,” you reply like it’s not even worth debating. “Besides, if anyone could find a cryptid it’d be you. A fellow cryptid.”

Bucky spins on his heel to leave.

“You’re welcome for dinner,” you call out, and he can hear you laugh.

He flips you the finger, and regrets it a second later when your singing resumes.

The sandwich is good. He appreciates it.

He even manages to keep pace with Steve the next morning. 

What he doesn’t appreciate is coming back to fifteen missed calls and four video calls from you.

From: co-host (TGS)

can you pick up 

From: co-host (TGS)

i know you have nothing going on in your life you are bitchless

Bucky switches off his phone for the next three hours. 

Finally, it’s a threat that you will show up at his door again and Bucky finally video calls you back that evening. 

“What,” he states.

“Took you long enough,” you huff, sitting up to adjust the camera. In the middle of the ordeal, Bucky sees your laptop open.

“What do you want?” he repeats.

“The team sent over the videos from last night,” you tell him. “At some point in the video you said ‘we’re not faking footage, get down from there.”

“Yeah.”

He hears you play the footage faintly in the background, almost to substantiate your point. He cringes at the sound of his own voice.  

“Who were you talking to?” 

Bucky rolls his eyes. “Heard you in the trees. Figured you climbed up there again.”

“Ah.” You click your tongue. “Interesting.”

“What.”

You hum. “See, that wasn’t me.”

Bucky’s eyes narrow. “Yes, it was.”

“No, it wasn’t,” you say calmly. “I’d left to get dinner way before all that.”

“Right.”

“I’m serious. Got the timestamp on my video to prove it.” You look up at him through the camera finally. “So who were you actually talking to, Barnes?”

Bucky’s nose twitches.

“Bye,” he says shortly.

“Dude,” he hears you laugh loudly through the phone. “I fuckin’ told you you’d attract these things, you–”

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Next part

#bucky x reader #bucky barnes x reader #mcu fic #bucky fic #bucky barnes fic #bucky fluff #bucky barnes fluff #bucky angst #bucky barnes angst #unsolved fic #winter soldier x reader #Winter Soldier #bucky barnes #bucky

[thethiefandtheairbender]

as a lifelong ATLA fan who narrowly had ATLA dethroned as my top show by The Dragon Prince steadily over the past 5 years, the similarities between the two have very little to do with the surface level parallels that get regularly drawn between them.

Like ATLA, TDP has Books for seasons and chapters for episodes, but unlike ATLA, which only touched on storytelling sparingly as a theme, TDP is obsessed with interrogating storytelling and history and the presence of unreliable, biased narrators throughout many of its episodes (most notably 2x05, 2x06, 3x06, 4x04, and 4x07 among them). Half of what you learn in the 1x01 intro ends up being a lie once you reach S3, with more being steadily deciphered.

Yes, TDP has different magics with people living under those umbrella terms... for the elves. Humans are coming culturally at things from a completely different angle, and the elves' connection to their primal sources are discussed philosophically in detail, informing their practices and their culture first hand, including the way they chafe against humans, who are arcanum-less. Many animals in the world are also connected to magic, which influences both their design and which ones get hunted for humans' more 'clever' solution in dark magic, including each other.

The core issue of the Puppetmaster, down to being a coercive magic formed by someone deeply resentful of their imprisonment? Said puppetmaster is the main endgame antagonist of the entire show with all of S4 onwards being exploring the ethics of controlling people against their will in various methods, and the entire show itself being a thematic battleground of fate (imprisonment) vs free will for virtually every single character.

Where ATLA mostly concerns itself timeline wise with ending the war, very little thought is shown by any of the characters as to what they'll do after the war. This isn't a problem (as it reflects the sheer domineering scope of the conflict) but even Zuko being firelord is only ever really addressed with 2.5 episodes left till the finale. TDP, meanwhile, ends its 'war' in s3 and s4 opens up with dealing with the old wounds festering between people with centuries of history, the struggles that come when people aren't able to let go and believe they're safe or mourn in a healthy manner, and the religious/cultural clashes that may occur when trying to integrate different groups of people.

TDP also has an evil father with a devoted daughter and a brother who eventually defects, but it explores the reality of an abusive parent who loves/will sacrifice for you and your right to leave regardless, even if that means leaving the sibling you truly deeply love and who loves you in turn. Which means that when you and your sibling are on opposite sides of a deep ideological conflict, it actually really fucking hurts bc we've seen first hand just how much they love each other and also how and why everything fell apart not in spite of that love necessarily, but also because of it.

Is this to say that TDP is a 1:1 with ATLA or that it's better? No, not at all, and the latter is subjective. I prefer TDP, but I think they're about on equal ground when you look at each show currently as a whole (although TDP has two seasons left to go).

But TDP takes a lot of what ATLA was doing thematically with some of its most interesting beats and then builds or expands upon them further. It talks further and more consistently about the cycles of violence; in many ways, Jack De Sena's character, Callum, begins the series largely where Sokka had ended (and he's not the most like Sokka anyway; very much his own thing); we get Faustian bargains and centuries' long grief and fucked up people who are trying both succeeding and failing at not doing fucked up things. There are antagonists, but it is very hard to actually label anyone at this point a straight up villain. Moral greyness is where the show starts, and it just continues from there.

That's not to say the show is nothing but dark and depressing - like ATLA, there's a steady thread of hope and humour even as the show gets steadily closer and closer to its 11th hour point - but the show is usually emotionally heavier. There's more blood and potentially disturbing imagery with body horror and on screen death. There's so much foreshadowing you basically can't go more than 5 minutes into any episode without having something that's going to come back around or be referenced again like 3-5 seasons later.

Just to be clear - TDP is like ATLA, but it's like ATLA in interesting ways beyond the more shallow surface level that usually gets attributed to it, while still very much being its own show and its own thing. And that is why I tend to recommend it to people who like ATLA.

Thank you and goodnight

(Also, the fandom doesn't have any ship wars, and the show is queer as fuck)

#tdp #atla #the dragon prince #avatar: the last airbender #mine #parallels #analysis series #also betrayal. tdp talks a lot more about betrayal #now im trying to think if there's any character in tdp who hasn't felt or been outright betrayed #i. DON'T THINK SO?? #atla meta #tdp meta

[honeystar-is-alone]

Honeyfoot had always been instant he wasn’t the child-caring sort… but fate had other plans, so it seemed. Still, Phloxkit had an insatiable appetite, and with the plains of NettleClan’s territory burned away as they were, hunting on familiar territory was near fruitless.

Still, she was fed, even if he could feel his stomach rumbling.

He’d gone back to the clan’s home, of course- more in hope than expectation. It had all been ash, save for the remains of his clanmates.

He left them where they were, hoping the smoke had gotten them, rather than the heat and roaring terror.

Phloxkit could learn the truth when she was older. Perhaps they could reclaim this old camp, once prey had returned to the area, and the autumn and winter had passed.

They set out days later, a series of temporary nests in the grass serving as their homes. Phlox’s little legs got tired… often, but it was forgiven especially when a stand of stones, strewn about with saplings, was found by the pair; found and found to be uninhabited, even better. The ground was warm, and the tiredness of the last few days caught up with them…

Honeyfoot didn’t even complain with Phloxkit snuggled up against his belly, pronouncing his fur most comfortable. Idly he wondered how she was avoiding overheating like this.

Trying a different format today, where I put the text on the images instead of going purely for prose … please let me know which you prefer! Or maybe if you’d want text on images only?

#yet another moon #honey #phlox #clangen #clangencomic #clan gen #clan generator #warrior cats oc #wcoc #dark #bush #image described #as best as I can anyhow I’ll get better with time and also never do this on mobile ever the fuck agai

[artiststarme]

Steve and Robin lose their job at Family Video in the wake of that fateful Spring Break but not for the reasons one might think. It wasn’t because they closed early on one of their busiest days to track down the town’s infamous ‘murderer’. It wasn’t because they skipped their shifts for four days in a row. It wasn’t even because they told Keith to his face that ‘they would rather die in the earthquake and fall into hell than work another boring shift’.

No, they lost their jobs because of a grudge they kept. Both Steve and Robin refused to sell any tapes to anyone they thought may have been involved with Eddie’s manhunt, unfair people’s trial, or the continued harassment after he was proclaimed innocent. Justifiably, they had their reasons.

“Oh no Andy, we can’t let you rent this one. You’ve already lost enough brain cells being brainwashed by Jason. Maybe watch the news or something.”

“Mrs. Wheeler? You absolutely may not rent anything. Maybe go call the police again since that’s what you like doing.”

“Oh ho ho, Officer Callahan! Funny to see you here, you know, not hunting down children. Get out of here. Come back when you have a warrant, asshole.”

So yes, they lost their jobs but not their dignity. Inevitably, when they went back to the Munson’s new trailer or to Steve’s empty house, they had what really mattered. They could watch the movies off of tapes they stole, Steve could cuddle in Eddie’s scarred arms, and Robin could rant about how many films would be better with lesbians in them. As it should be.

(They lose a series of jobs after Family Video as well. Robin and Steve get fired from the diner, the library, and Melvald’s all for refusing business to the asshats that made Eddie’s life hell. Because in their eyes, the whole town could suck it.)

#Robin deserves an award for convincing a bunch of people to keep hiring the both of them #she even convinces someone to hire Eddie only for him to go off on a customer for calling Steve a ‘has been’ #but that’s neither here nor there #this is even funnier when you think of it from my ‘Phil Callahan is Steve’s brother’ headcanon #‘Steve just let me rent the movie bro. you have to get over this.’ #‘nope you hurt the dude that’s now my crush so you’re disowned. brother status revoked’ #stranger things #steddie #ficlet #steve harrington #eddie munson #robin buckley