#and that this is different from killing everyone

[heavenlybodies333]

Mile High Club -S.R

Spencer Reid x coworker!reader | fwb |

The jet was obscene. A floating mansion in the sky.

You gaped as the BAU team boarded the aircraft parked on a private tarmac in D.C., your heels hitting the polished wood floor with a hesitant tap. Leather seating, marble bar, private suites. An attendant handed you a glass of champagne before you even made it down the aisle.

“What the hell is this?” you muttered, spinning in place to take in the sheer scope of it. “Is this what profiling gets us now?”

Hotch gave you a rare smirk as he passed, briefcase in hand. “No. It’s what tracking a fugitive across thirty states and two continents gets us.”

The team had been summoned by the American embassy in Dubai. The unsub they’d been chasing for months—one who’d left thirty-two bodies and three different crime scene signatures in his wake—had been identified on surveillance across multiple embassies in the UAE. A rare international assignment, fully funded and far from home.

The suspect vanished two days ago. Now intel pointed to him hiding out, most likely going to kill again.

And someone—likely someone very powerful—had arranged this flight.

"Still feels like overkill," you muttered, slipping into the seat beside Reid. "We're profilers, not diplomats."

He gave you a small smile. “Well, if the killer fled to an oil-rich nation that wanted to avoid an international scandal, they might be motivated to… expedite things. Quietly.”

“Expedite,” you echoed. “Right. With lobster rolls and Egyptian cotton.”

Reid’s hand brushed yours where it rested on the seat between you. His pinky hooked around yours for just a second—barely noticeable. But you noticed. And so did Morgan.

“Damn,” Derek said, appearing out of nowhere with a bourbon in hand, eyeing the two of you with a smirk. “Either this plane’s making everyone real friendly, or I’ve missed something.”

Reid’s hand snapped back like he’d touched fire. You rolled your eyes and took a sip of champagne to hide your smile.

“Missed what, exactly?” JJ asked, raising a perfectly arched brow as she slid into the seat opposite yours with Emily.

“I think Morgan’s bored,” you said smoothly. “He’s making up romance novels in his head again.”

Emily grinned. “As long as it doesn’t end with someone getting murdered, I’m in.”

The banter helped. It always did. You’d needed it this time—God, had you needed it—because this case had been a living hell. But Spencer had been your quiet anchor the entire time. Late-night reports shared in silence.

An hour later, most of the team had dispersed. JJ and Emily had locked themselves into the in-flight spa shower suite, probably out of sheer curiosity. Rossi was drinking brandy and reading a dossier. Morgan was in the gaming lounge—yes, the gaming lounge—trying to beat a VR flight simulator and laughing too loudly. Hotch had disappeared in the private meeting suite at the front of the jet, reviewing files.

And you were standing at the open door of the bedroom in the back of the plane, staring at the bed. Plush, king-sized, with crisp sheets and ambient lighting that looked entirely too romantic for an FBI-sanctioned flight.

You didn’t turn around when you heard him step in behind you.

“I’m going to hell for what I want to do to you in there,” you said softly.

“I think about you like this,” he whispered hoarsely. “On planes. In cars. In the fucking briefing room. I think about your legs around my shoulders while Hotch is assigning tasks.”

Spencer moved fast. Faster than you thought he would—quicker than he ever did in public. One hand gripped your waist, the other tangled in your hair, and his mouth was on yours with a force that stole the breath right out of your lungs.

God, you loved it when he stopped pretending.

You kissed him hard, fingers twisting into his shirt, until the press of your bodies wasn't enough. His hand slid beneath your blouse, up your spine, over the lace clasp of your bra, and you moaned into his mouth—quiet, but not that quiet.

“Shh,” he whispered, grinning against your lips.

“I hate when you do that.”

“No you don’t,” he murmured, pushing you back onto the edge of the bed. “You love when I tell you to be quiet.”

That made you whimper. Loudly.

He hovered over you, hips pressed between your knees, and you felt the hard line of his cock against your thigh. God, he was already so worked up. For you.

“Spence,” you breathed, nails biting into his shoulders. “We shouldn’t.”

“I know.”

“They could hear.”

“I know.”

You dragged him down again, desperate. His hands roamed everywhere—over your breasts, your stomach, under your skirt. You rolled your hips and ground against him, hungry now. He groaned like you’d short-circuited him, fingers sliding your panties to the side, and the moment he touched you, everything else disappeared.

He dropped to his knees, pulled you to the edge of the bed, and buried his face between your thighs like it was the last thing he’d ever do. You had to bite your wrist to keep from screaming his name. His tongue was unrelenting—years of theoretical knowledge applied in all the right places, all at once. When he slid two fingers inside you and curled them just right, your whole body tightened.

“Spence—Spencer, I’m gonna—”

He groaned low, desperate, then licked a slow, torturous path along your inner thigh, teasing the wetness already dripping down your legs. “You’re soaked.”

“Maybe I like planes,” you said, voice shaking as his tongue flicked over your clit.

He laughed against your skin. “Or maybe you like me like this.”

And when he stood, eyes wild and lips glistening, he didn’t ask. He just kissed you again, harder this time—messy, filthy—before turning you around, bending you over the silk-covered mattress, and pulling himself free from his pants.

The first push of him inside you knocked the breath from your lungs.

You both gasped.

“Fuck,” he groaned, forehead pressed to your shoulder. Thrusting into you over and over, hand tangled in your hair, the other pressed flat over your mouth when you got too loud.

His hand muffled the broken moan that ripped from your throat as he snapped his hips harder—deeper—each thrust shaking the frame of the bed beneath you. You were gripping the silk sheets so tightly they might rip, your knuckles white, your legs trembling.

You whimpered, hips rocking back into his.

“Spencer,” you cried out, muffled by his palm. “Oh my God, I—”

He didn’t stop. Didn’t slow. His fingers dug into your hips as he snapped into you harder. You were shaking, sweat slicking your skin, and when he moved his hand to your throat, gently tilting your head back so he could kiss your jaw, you came, moaning as he thrusted you full of warm cum making your eyes roll back.

The only sound in the room was the distant hum of the engines and the obscene panting of your wrecked lungs. Spencer’s weight slumped against your back, his arms wrapped around your waist, still inside you.

Then he kissed the base of your neck. Soft. Gentle. Too intimate for something that was supposed to be casual.

You turned your head just enough to look at him. His curls were a mess, cheeks flushed, pupils blown wide. You’d never seen him like this. You’d never seen him more beautiful.

And it hit you like a punch to the gut.

This wasn’t casual. It hadn’t been casual for a long time.

“Spence…” you whispered, suddenly breathless for a different reason.

He brushed your hair away from your face, brow furrowing like he’d heard it in your tone.

But then—like a cruel twist of fate—the door handle rattled.

Both of you froze.

“Yo, Pretty Boy?” came Morgan’s voice, way too close. “You in there? I need your brain. JJ says I can’t bet on whether or not Rossi’s gonna fall asleep with the brandy still in his hand, but I need the odds anyway.”

You slapped a hand over your mouth to keep from laughing. Spencer’s eyes went wide, then narrowed, then he slowly—very slowly—pulled out of you and reached for his pants.

“I’m—uh—give me two minutes!” Spencer called, voice cracking like a damn teenager. You shoved him off with a panicked squeak. He caught himself on the coffee table, grinning like a lunatic.

You scrambled to fix your dress. He tried to tuck in his shirt.

“I swear he has a sixth sense,” you said, cheeks still flushed.

Spencer exhaled through a laugh, brushing his fingers over your thigh, then your waist, lingering like he didn’t want to stop touching you.

“This thing between us…” you started, hesitant.

He looked at you, all trace of laughter gone. “I know,” he said softly. “It’s not nothing.”

You nodded, throat tight. “But it can’t be something.”

His jaw flexed. “Not yet.”

You looked at each other for a long time. Words unsaid crackled in the air. This was dangerous. It had been dangerous from the beginning. But now it was more than just lust in conference rooms and stolen moments in hotel elevators.

You weren’t sure what it was becoming. But you knew it wasn’t casual anymore.

a/n: FBI stands for Fucking Barely Incognito

⋆•★⋆ MASTERLIST ⋆★•⋆

[vercengetorixadvisor]

So like, as a quick rebuttal

Not everyone is going to agree, that's fine, they limit their own customers that way and will either see a reduction in business if they refuse, or they just won't see a difference. It has to be worthwhile to the business. And while that sounds cruel to some people, is it really? In this day in age where we can mail nearly anything to nearly anyone.

Yes. Nobody is setting laws or collecting taxes so there's no need to have elections since there's no need for a government.

It'll either get privatized or shut down. Depends on if enough people would rather keep using it or not.

Well, I assume milk companies want return customers, and since they (most milk companies) usually go beyond government laws and standards, I don't foresee that as a major issue. Especially since companies that don't take care of things which can cause food borne illnesses won't get business, thus making them a non issue.

Let's be real, governments don't fix roads now. Give a few good ol boys an 18 pack and the tools and they'll do it.

Back to the trains, the same concept as the milk applies. If a company doesn't maintain its trains, they'll go out of business.

Same concept of the milk and trains for antacids.

That's just knowing how to make them resistant to earthquakes. Any architect in an earthquake prone area is going to, at minimum, suggest they build it right. And if not, that's a risk the owner is willing to take, which will end up costing them much more than just making the building earthquake resistant.

Well, nobody's stopping you from slipping a $20 to whatever neighbor you feel comfortable leaving your grandad with.

Depends on how they hurt him. If they seriously do damage and try to kill him, Gaston Glock has you covered. If it's an accident, it's not as though mediation is a public service. Come to an agreement and move on. If you're worried about them harming others, again, Glock.

The architect and builders can do a lot better job of figuring out where to put emergency exits than some paper pusher in DC or a state capitol.

As far as peanut butter, if you're allergic to peanuts, don't eat it. If not just eat it. I fail to see an issue there.

That all said, I'm not exactly an anarchist either. I like anarchocapitalism, but I also acknowledge that a slow burn would be better than diving headlong into it. Walk shit back slowly as to build up social trust again, which is severely lacking in the US, then take down more government agencies and let people do more.

The reason I’m not an anarchist is that in the centuries before the Americans with disabilities act people could have all installed safe wheelchair ramps in all of their buildings and they didn’t.

If you’re trying to make a system that relies on people being nice I’m not gonna go with it.

[bellherald]

Dressrosa was incredibly important for a number of reasons—obvious ones include the formation of the Grand Fleet, the abolishment of the Warlords, and the downfall of Joker and the underworld imploding. But it was also important for reasons more personal to Luffy. It directly validated the timeskip, showing not only that it was necessary but it worked.

You know how Luffy has to chase people down to make them accept his friendship and kinda forces himself on people. I find it fundamentally intriguing that instead of Luffy extending the hand first it was LAW who reached out. He was not thinking of it that way but Law unironically was unlike so many people by doing that and I think that he really played himself so hard there. We know Luffy hates being alone more than anything and often he’s the one chasing down the people he likes to make sure he has his nakama. Then here’s the awesome guy who saved his life and didn’t need anything coming back two years later asking to be friends. Luffy already thought he was a cool dude, he introduces Law to his crew as someone who saved his life just like Jinbe. Luffy introduces him in the same category as a beloved friend and future crewmate before the alliance was even offered.

Not just that, but so often Luffy’s people try to run away to protect him and only endanger themselves(Nami, Vivi, Robin, Usopp kinda, and especially Ace in this moment.) He has to actively fight to be able to help them because Luffy knows he is a strong fighter and can help beat up his problems. But Law asked for his help. Law came to him knowing he’s strong and can help fight his problems.

Luffy had all his specialist boy neurons activate there LMFAO

Ace and Law both isolate themselves from their crews in order to chase down revenge. They’re both on a collision course that will result in them caught and dead. Ace and Law don’t want anyone else involved. Both come across the Straw Hats by chance while pursuing that vengeance—Law doesn’t see Luffy as someone who needs protecting but instead a peer, an equal. He asks for an alliance to take down an emperor. I don’t think Luffy cared which emperor beyond it not being Shanks. Law was asking for help here and Luffy could clock that no matter how he tried to dress it up.

Flash forward to Dressrosa. Law is face to face with his enemy and loses. He loses hard directly in front of Luffy. Luffy is once again locked behind a seastone prison as Law gets taken away just like Ace was. Having to cross an island to reach him again and drag him out of his situation. Luffy refuses to leave him be, ignoring the protests from a chained up Ace/Law and going to fight this battle even if he wants to be left alone. He’s going to be there this time when the fight happens and he’s going to win.

We find out both Law and Ace faced discrimination for their birth, that people thought the world was better off dead and they were angry boys struggling in a world that hated them. They’re seeking revenge for loved one that got killed by a brother (whitebeard sons, donquioxte brothers). They don’t want other people to die for the sake of it and tried to isolate because of it. Luffy doesn’t let Law get away though, refusing to break the alliance and literally dragging him along.

Luffy couldn’t save Ace. Luffy could save Law. Gear 4th being how Luffy took down Doflamingo and the fact that he saved his clan this time directly validated the entire time skip by showing us exactly what Luffy trained for all that time. The power to protect his nakama. Timeskip Luffy could’ve saved Ace but he only existed in the first place because he couldn’t.

Luffy took on everyone’s burden and wills onto his own shoulders. There’s a reason no one died in Dressrosa, it was to show exactly what those two years have lead to. Things are different now. Luffy isn’t weak anymore. The world won against Luffy before—but not now, not this time.

Dressrosa was a turning point that the whole globe took notice of and now the Straw Hats are not only back but they’re going to change everything, whether the world is ready or not.

[bcksbarnes]

watch it burn

pairing: target!bucky barnes x assassin!reader

summary: you were given a mission: eliminate your target quickly. what you weren't told? your target is the very elusive, highly trained winter solider. that makes things a little bit harder. now you've found yourself back against the wall with his knife pressed to your throat, but there's a look in both of your eyes, one that says this won't end the way either of you planned.

word count: 6.3K cw: 🔞 suggestive content (mdni), violence (they are both trying to kill each other), weapons (are used and mentioned).

a/n: i hope you all enjoy this fic as much as i enjoyed writing it! credit to @thenameswintergifs for making me this fantastic gif and a special thank you to @elixirfromthestars for beta reading! 🤍

Your mission was very simple: Get in. Kill him. Get out.

And for you, that was a walk in the park — another day on the job.

You had done plenty of these missions before. Undercover on high-profile cases with a gun strapped to the inside of your thigh, with a name and face in your mind.

You didn't like to call yourself an assassin, even if that was technically what you were. Really you liked to think of yourself as a problem solver. Your employer had a problem, and you solved it by terminating your target. Simple as that.

Not everyone has the ability to do what you do. Then again, not everyone was forced into this life either.

One minute you were a child, feet sinking into the Earth with each pounding step, the warmth of the sun beating down on the side of your face. High-pitched screams and endless laughs filled the air as you enjoyed every bit of freedom that you had. Your world was limitless.

At least, it was.

Because your luck had run out. Ripped from your home in the middle of the night, your parents promising you everything would be okay over sounds of sobs and pleas. They didn't know what they were signing you up for. They thought it was for protection, for a better future. How were they supposed to know what you would endure?

You were just a kid, standing in an undisclosed training facility. The harsh lights above illuminating your instructor, an older man with a perpetual scowl on his face, and a scar that ran from his left cheek down to his chin, and who always had a knife twirling between his fingers. His instructions were very clear: take the shot.

One move out of line and —. 

There was no use thinking back on it. What was the point in remembering the screams of the others who weren't as lucky as you? Those who didn't get praised for being the best in the class, the ones who hesitated. You never hesitated.

Tonight’s mission was no different from the countless others you’ve been on. Maybe a new location and a different target, but the bare bones were exactly the same. It was a gala dedicated in memory of one of the Avengers, you didn't need to know too many specifics other than who you were after. 

He would be there, so you would be too.

"Think you can do it in under an hour?"

A scoff crosses your lips, what an absurd question.

You're sitting in the back of a large, blacked out luxury SUV, dressed like any other civilian who is about to attend this event, only your attire comes with some slight modifications. Your earpiece is well hidden, your gun is neatly tucked in the holster strapped to your thigh, and you can feel the blade of your knife against your side in a hidden pocket.

Everything was where it needed to be.

"Absolutely. How much do you want to bet?" you ask.

Your head tilts up until you catch the eyes of your driver in the rearview mirror. He's an undercover agent and your usual ride to these outings. You needed to rely on someone to safely get you in and out, and this was your guy.

"$500 and you fill up my gas tank for the next one," he responds, his hands turning the steering wheel to join the line of cars that lead up to the venue.

"Deal," you agree, nodding your head once. You were confident in your skills, even a little cocky at times, and the smirk on your face confirmed that. This line of business had no time for anyone who didn't believe in themselves; it needed conviction, someone to pull the trigger. That was you.

Your driver nods his head, locking in the deal before flickering his eyes ahead of him, the brim of his cap lowering as he does.

A crinkling of static in your comms piece catches you off guard, followed by the voice of another agent calling your name.

"Do you copy?"

"I copy," your hand moves to instinctively fix the earpiece.

"Good, we'll be approaching in a minute. Do you remember the man you're looking for?"

"James Buchanan Barnes, goes by Bucky. Tall with a broad build, long dark brown hair, light blue eyes, with a bump on his left ear. Probably hiding against the wall, not keen on people," you reiterate the description verbatim. "Am I missing anything?"

You had seen a picture of your target during the briefing — some CCTV footage they were able to obtain of his right side. Although it was blurry, you were able to distinguish some key features, which was all you needed.

"Maybe a smile." Your eyes roll. What an asshole. "You're on."

The door of the SUV opens as if on cue, and a valet appears ready to help you out of the vehicle. You slyly shut off the microphone to your comms piece before giving him your hand. Bright lights illuminate the exterior of the building as a mass of people begin to enter, chatter hitting your ears as your foot hits the ground.

Showtime.

There are more people in attendance than you had expected; a bigger crowd meant that you'd have a lot more people to filter through. He could be anywhere, and that meant there wasn't a second to waste. Your eyes flutter over the attendees' faces, quickly crossing them off your mental checklist.

No. No. No.

You climb the stairs into the building; the long corridor holds the entrance to the ballroom. With whom this event was in honor of, you had a gut feeling he already would be in there. 

Weaving through a sea of bodies, your pace has to be exact, not too quick because anyone who is paying close enough attention will flag you down, but you also can't be too slow, like you're lingering.

It has to be the perfect balance.

You find your way inside the ballroom, and the first thought that pops into your head is how spacious it is. Marble columns line each wall, more for decor than actual structural integrity, while hints of off-whites and golds paint each surface. The room is illuminated by six grand chandeliers, each emitting a soft golden light with teardrops of crystals cascading around them. All pulled together with the glass vaulted ceiling; the moon and stars peaking through, a reminder of the night sky above.

Beautiful, breathtaking actually, but you've seen many rooms like this before. Each one of them filled with people who thought they were way more important than they actually were. None of them realizing how disposable they were.

A waiter holding a tray of champagne glasses nears your left side. You don't spare a passing glance as you grab one, continuing to make your prowl in the ballroom. It was one of your main rules of blending in: always have a prop.

Soft music plays, a pianist in the far corner of the room playing Clair de Lune as guests mingle. Your eyes shift as you analyze the scene in front of you. Deep inside, you know he's in here, and your gut is never wrong.

There’s a woman on the opposite side of the room, whispering angrily in, what you assume is, her husband’s ear. Not the man you’re looking for. Your gaze then travels to a bartender a few feet away from you, sweat already on his brow as he focuses on appeasing the long line at the bar. Not your target either.

Then, it hits you quickly in the corner of your eye. You spot something that feels so far off from what you were looking for that you knew it had to belong to the man you were hunting down, a missed detail.

What caught your attention was very simple: a small gleam. That's all it was.

Metal caught in the light, which reflected itself into your vision for a split second. Your fingers tighten around the stem of your glass, your stomach turning in knots when it hits you exactly who it is. You hoped you were wrong, but you knew you wouldn’t be.

When you turn to face the direction of the reflection, you're instantly greeted with the face of a man you had seen before. Twice, actually.

Once, the day before, in a blurry photo on your briefing sheet.

And once, six years earlier. In Belarus.

You were on one mission, he was on another. Two highly trained assassins at a benefit where there were black market auctions taking place, both there for different targets.

There were no words exchanged, there didn't need to be. You were both there for work. You happened to cross the room at the exact same time, your targets on the opposite ends of where you were standing. All it was, was a fleeting moment of eye contact as you passed each other. The world had stopped for a split second.

You never forgot that metal arm. It was different then, silver with a red star signaling to everyone who he was, what it stood for. He didn't try to hide it, he made his presence known. Now it was black, gold flecks filled in the cracks even near his hands — which were the only part exposed under his suit jacket and what had caught in the light; no matter how hard he tried to hide it. Now, he was a man begging to blend in.

There he was. Standing on the opposite side of the room.

Your target.

Bucky Barnes.

The Winter Soldier.

Shit you think to yourself. Any plan of action that you formed in your head was quickly trashed. For decades, this man was the most dangerous, elusive assassin known in the field – probably still is. And here you were with a hit on his head.

You wanted to turn your mic back on and ask what the hell was wrong with your team for putting you in here with no proper warning. They had to have known. Either they were testing to see if you could actually do it, or this was a suicide mission. The latter seemed to be the answer you were gravitating towards.

You'd have to get him alone, and figure out a way to disarm him. Equal out the playing field. Most of your victims were usually packing in some capacity, but most of your victims didn't have a weapon of mass destruction for an arm.

Chugging down your drink and placing it on a random table, you square off your shoulders. Holding your chin up high, you begin to walk forward. You don't stop or falter, only reaching your arm out to grab another glass of champagne when you pass another waiter on your route.

You had to do this. There was no turning back now.

You stop yourself a few feet from where Bucky is standing, his body angled away from yours, swept up in a quiet conversation with a group. He's avoiding eye contact with them and is gripping his whiskey glass like his life depends on it. These people were strangers, and he was hating every second of it.

Your eyes drift ahead of you, needing to appear interested in anything but your target, so you examine the poster on the wall. It's an image of a man with blonde hair, bright blue eyes, and a jawline that made you believe he was serious. About what? You're not sure, he just seemed convincing. In his hand was a shield, and his body donned a navy blue suit with a white star in the middle.

Your guess? This was the honoree of the gala. Which would be confirmed with the bolded words on the poster that read:

IN TRIBUTE TO: STEVE ROGERSTHE FIRST AVENGER AND AMERICA'S MIGHTIEST HERO

Ah, yes. That's right, The Avengers. Not really your cup of tea. It wasn't that you weren't grateful for the whole saving the world thing, but in your work, there wasn't a line between friend and foe. You were hired. There was a target. End of story.

The whole moral compass thing made your job a bit harder.

You tune back into the conversation Bucky's having. It's hard to make out exactly what they're talking about, but you try your best. There's a few people speaking at once, and it takes you a second to comb through the voices to find his. 

He's soft spoken, you're not sure why, but this surprises you. This is a man who is a shadow in the night; his very existence was built on silence, but for such a large stature, you expected a booming voice. A man ready to command an army.

"Thanks," he says. "Yeah, Steve would have loved this."

You can see in your peripheral vision that he's lost all interest in this conversation. The hand that's not holding his glass is tugging on his tie to loosen it, as if it were getting tighter by the moment and would soon choke him. His eyes circle the room, looking for an out.

This is the best time to catch his attention, lure him away from the group, and get your chance with him.Turning your body in his direction, you take a slight step forward to be in his direct line of sight. You catch his eye instantly — like you did all those years ago. Except instead of a fleeting moment with two strangers on their own missions stepping past each other, your gazes stay locked.

Something flashes across his features. Recognition? You hoped not. This wasn't the time for tricky caveats. A few blinks later, and it's gone, but his brows are still threaded together as if he's trying to place you. Any remaining attention he had on the group in front of him had faded completely.

"Yeah, yeah," Bucky nods as the woman next to him speaks. He's clearly not listening because as she starts her next sentence, he cuts her off. "Will you excuse me for a moment?" She doesn't have time to respond. He exits, and heads straight for you.

Your eyes shift back to the poster in front of you, holding the champagne flute lazily in your hands. As if you were someone who was much more interested in Steve Rogers than your target, who was making your job easy and finding his way to you (which had to be a first).

Neither of you speaks as he takes his place next to you. The scent of his cologne fills your nostrils, amber and bergamot, wrapped in soft notes of vanilla. You can feel the warmth radiating from how close he's standing, but neither of you brushes against the other — keeping what little space you had left.

"Did you know Steve?" His question breaks the ice, both of your gazes locked ahead.

"I can't say I had the pleasure," you respond.

Bucky tucks his free hand in his pocket while the hand holding his whiskey glass shakes the ice around. He looks over his shoulder towards the group he had split from, looking back when he thinks they won't hear him.

"He would have hated this," he admits.

A chuckle passes your lips — his statement is a direct contrast to what you had overheard. Your heart races when you realize that you've slightly slipped up, because Bucky isn't supposed to know that you heard his conversation. Your head turns to gauge his reaction. Surprisingly, he's already looking at you, a smirk toying at the corners of his mouth, as if he were waiting to catch your gaze.

He knows, you think to yourself. You have to play it cool.

"How come?"

"Steve didn't like making a big show of himself, even if others thought he did. He did everything because he wanted to, not because he wanted to be praised for it."

"Sounds like a smart man," you respond back. "Doing it for the good of the world."

"He was a good man," Bucky nods. "The best."

"Sounds like I missed out on meeting someone quite spectacular."

"You did. He would have hated me saying that too."

"For such a good guy, you're making it seem like he hated a lot of things."

Bucky lets out a dry laugh at the comment. His eyes shift over to the poster again as if he's studying Steve's face, but he's quick to look back over at you.

"No, he was surprisingly easy going. I think it made him uncomfortable to know what others thought of him."

You hum in response. You knew the feeling all too well, especially in your line of work. There was a reason you didn't keep friends or date; getting too close meant telling the truth. Telling the truth meant dealing with the judgment. It was easier to pretend that you were fine being alone than feel the crushing weight of disappointing someone you loved.

"I think we're all plagued by that,” you mutter.

Bucky nods. You don't want to think that he understands. That he was also plagued by the world. You had a job, and Bucky was your target, whether he knew it or not. You couldn't begin to humanize him.

"I didn't get your name."

His voice snaps you back into reality, and you realize you must have been staring into his eyes. A small blush forms on your cheeks, shaking your head to bring yourself back to reality. Answering his question, you tell him your name, Bucky repeats it back to himself as if he's saving it for later.

"It's nice to meet you. I'm Bucky Barnes, one of Steve's friends."

"The pleasure's all mine, Bucky."

A smirk crosses his lips again, his eyes twinkling slightly in the light as his head tilts. He's trying to get a read on you, you know it. He may be trying to come across as this innocent man who attends galas in honor of his fallen friend, but you knew the truth. You remembered the stories of the Winter Soldier; you saw him with your own eyes.

"Do you normally come to these events in honor of men you don't know?" he asks.

"Only if it entails meeting someone as charming as yourself."

Bucky's eyebrows raise at your words. 

"It's funny you said that," he muses. "I have this nagging feeling that I know you from somewhere. Have we met before?"

There was that look again, like he remembered you, which was impossible. He had seen hundreds, if not thousands, of people over his time as the Winter Soldier.

"Maybe in a dream. I think I would have remembered meeting you before,” you tease.

"What a shame."

Bucky takes a step closer to you, his eyes move across your face, and down your neck. It's a shame you have to kill him, he is very attractive. The way his hair slightly falls over his eyes, and the hard angle of his jawline makes him feel all too real.

He would make a good lover, a great one even.

Too bad for Bucky, the art of seduction is only a pawn for you in this game.

"I hope you know I don't get myself entangled with strangers," you say, your voice dropping to a whisper. If he wanted to look at you like he wanted to ravish you, then you'd happily play along.

"Really?" Bucky questions. His hand moves until it's near your cheek, his fingers delicately tucking a lock of hair out of your face and behind your ear, gently grazing your cheek. "I was hoping by the end of the night we wouldn't be strangers anymore."

"Is that so?"

"Mm."

Your eyebrows raise as you bring your champagne glass up to your lips once more and take a long sip. Bucky copies your movement with his own whiskey glass.

"So, Bucky. Would you mind showing me around?" you ask once you've finished.

"It'd be my honor."

Straightening his shoulders, Bucky takes a step forward, vaguely motioning with his hand for you to follow. With the mental note of where your weapons are, you happily oblige. One step closer to the end of this mission.

"Where are you from?" Bucky asks. He's led you out of the ballroom and into the long hallway. If the walls could talk, you were sure the stories they had could fill many pages.

"Outside the city," you keep it vague. "Nowadays, it feels like I'm all over the place. You?"

"I get that," he agrees, then his nods at your question. "I'm from Brooklyn, not too sure I can call it home anymore."

“How come?”

Bucky’s tongue swipes across his bottom lip as the two of you round the corner to a more secluded part of the hallway. The pianist is still playing in the distance, and the music is now mingled with the sound of muted chatter. You're safely tucked away from prying eyes.

He thinks carefully of his answer as he stops in front of a doorway, head turning to look up at the ceiling. There's something in his posture that tells you he's not exactly sure why he's telling you this information, like he's questioning himself.

"Can you still call a place a home if you've never been back?"

Truer words had never been spoken, and unfortunately, you knew that pain all too well.

"I think it can be. Even if it’s too painful to think about."

There's a palpable silence, tension so thick you could cut it with a knife. You've forgotten about your team that's waiting for you, or that you can hear static in your comms piece. For the first time in your career, you've forgotten about the mission. 

Why?

Because in the dim light of the hallway, Bucky looks beautiful. Tragically beautiful. Moments away from his end, his demise at your own hands, yet all you can focus on are his lips. How plush they look, you wonder how they'd feel against his skin. His eyes. How bright and full of life they are.

He may be your target, but right now he’s the object of your desires.

Fuck.

"You're interesting," Bucky breaks the silence. "You're a total stranger, yet I feel like you can read my mind. Like you know exactly what I'm thinking."

"Isn't that how it always works? The people who don't know us tend to see us for who we really are?"

"Maybe you're right," he muses, pursing his lips. "And who really are you?"

You raise your eyebrow. Even with the space between you and Bucky, you feel like he's backed you into a corner somehow. He knows, you think again to yourself. That nagging voice.

It doesn’t stop you from crossing the hallway until you’re standing an inch away from him. Bucky’s back resting on the door behind him. You can see in the corner of your eye as his hand snakes down to grip the doorknob, his knuckles white from how hard he's gripping it.

The two of you are almost chest to chest. His heart is beating calmly and steadily compared to yours, which might as well have been a ticking time bomb. There's something in the way you two look at each other that's hard to put into words. And now that you've seen him this close, you're not sure you want to see him from any other distance.

"Who do you think I am, Barnes?" Your voice is low, sultry even, as your hand raises to rest on his shoulder. Your finger traces down the side of his neck, eventually playing with the collar of his shirt. He swallows any doubt that he has, his eyes darkening as he watches you.

"Someone I'm not supposed to know," Bucky mutters. His strong hand finds its way to your side, slowly gliding down until he stops right at your thigh, inches from where your holster rests. He just misses touching it. 

You're on fire. Every single piece of you.

"Someone who shouldn't intrigue me." He draws circles into the skin of your thigh, a touch you suddenly can’t get enough of. Bucky leans in close, his lips next to your ear — you let out a shaky breath. "Yet, I can't help but want to know who you are, and why I can't seem to want to stay away from you."

Your eyes are closed, the hand that was resting on his shoulder has made its way behind Bucky's head, entangling your fingers with the hair on the nape of his neck.

"Buck."

You're not sure why the nickname whispers out of you so instinctively, but he lets out a soft whine in response. The hand that's holding your leg pulls you in tighter, closer.

"Say that again."

This was never supposed to happen.

"Buck."

"Fuck me," he whispers into your skin.

"Gladly."

It takes no time for his lips to find yours, a heated kiss that nearly sends you over the edge. You're both going at it like you’re starved, and you’ve never tasted anything so incredible before. Hands grabbing wherever they can, tongues brushing against one another. It's a mess. It's hot. It's insatiable.

The sound of the door opening perks your ears up, but you make no attempts to detach yourself from Bucky. He's holding your face now as he backs you into the room, using his foot to close the door once the two of you are inside.

The room is dark, the only light comes from the window on the adjacent wall. You're in some sort of storage room, most of the furniture is covered in a white sheet, and some boxes stack up in the corner. 

You don’t care, though. Your attention is elsewhere, not memorizing the layout of the room, not taking in the status of everything like you usually did on these missions. No, right now you’re focused on Bucky and primarily on the feel of his tongue against yours as he guides you through the room.

His hands fall from your face as he sheds his suit jacket, you kick off your shoes at the same time, adding some more inches to your height difference. Bucky cranes his neck down to keep his lips attached to yours. He wouldn’t dream of pulling away.

"Get this thing off of me," he mutters roughly, his hand slipping to where his tie is. One tug and it comes undone. Impressive.

You could feel it in your core how wrong this was, but you didn't want it to end. You couldn't think about the gun strapped to your thigh, the one he almost found, and the bullet you'd have to put through his head.

"I think," Bucky speaks again, his words muffled in between kisses. "Maybe I do have you figured out."

"Yeah?" you ask. "So quickly?"

"Mm," he hums in agreement. "I think so."

"Tell me."

Bucky gives your lips one last soft kiss before he stands, towering over you. His lips are puffy and red, and his eyes are kind, full of wonder; you're not sure how they're the same ones that belong to the Winter Soldier. 

To be fair, you're not even sure how you're the same person who came in here to kill him. That’s besides the point.

"I think you're smart," he says, his hand moving to wipe a piece of hair out of your face. "Smarter than anyone else in that room tonight. Observant, too. Like you knew exactly what everyone was doing at all times. I like that."

"Yeah? Smart and observant?"

"Very much."

You watch him through your lashes, you can see that boyish grin on his face.

"You want to know what else I think you are?"

"Tell me."

Bucky leans down until he's eye level with you, his hands on your shoulders, fingers digging deeply into your skin. He wants to keep you there, close to him. He wants you to hear every word he's about to say.

"I think you're a fucking traitor."

He knew.

A flip switches in your brain, but before you can brace for impact, Bucky pushes you. Your back hits the wall with a loud thud, a groan leaving your lips as the air is knocked out of your lungs momentarily. Your hand trying to find your gun. Your brain is frazzled from the kiss, and suddenly you don’t remember how to do anything. Fuck, fuck, fuck you think to yourself as you try to find it.

"Do you think I don't know what's going on here?" Bucky's voice hits your ears as his metal hand snakes its way up to grab your hair, pulling your head back tautly. You groan again as you see the anger flash in his eyes, the tips of your fingers grazing the handle. "Who sent you?"

"Like I'd tell you."

He scoffs, you can feel him reach for something at his side, but your mind is too focused on trying to grab your weapon. You don't register the sound of the switchblade opening, the little snap that gives itself away every time. You do feel it pressed against your neck, the razor-thin edge brushing your skin, ready to cut you open and leave you for dead.

"You know I'd hate to do this," he grits through his teeth. "I was really enjoying getting to know you."

"Come on, Barnes. Why does our fun have to end?"

Bucky lets out a dry chuckle before biting down on his lip, watching you with an intensity and anger that you're sure he only saves for his worst enemies.

"Who said I'm not having fun?"

"Yeah? Is this your idea of foreplay?" you ask, your tongue swiping over your bottom lip as you try to stay concentrated on reaching for the gun. Your fingers brush against the handle. Close, almost got it. "Because I'm incredibly turned on, if so."

"Considering you were going to fuck me either way, I'm not surprised, sweetheart,” he grits through his teeth. His hand pulls your hair even tighter, causing you to shrink down in pain. "You think I don't remember who you are? You think I didn't recognize those eyes? Give me a fucking break."

"How long?"

"Since the second I saw you."

"And you still played along."

"I figured if you were going to actually kill me, you'd put a little more effort into it," he nudges the blade against your skin, not deep enough to slice you open, just enough to give you a little warning. One drop of blood.

"Insulting my skills now, Barnes?"

"Considering I'm the one holding a knife to your throat, I'd say I'm a step ahead. Wouldn't you agree?"

You don't respond – instead, a wicked grin now spreads across your features. Bucky's snarling at you, showing his teeth like a rabid dog, that it takes him a moment to notice that you’ve snaked your hand up and the barrel of your gun was now pressed against his temple.

"Not really."

Even as your thumb toys with the hammer, ready to cock it at any second, there's something holding you back — in the same way it's holding Bucky back. You feel the knife press further into your neck. It’d just take one swipe.

"Do it," you egg him on. "Kill me."

"Aren't you the one who's supposed to kill me?" he barks back, his eyes feverishly searching yours. "I left that life a long time ago, sweetheart." That's the second time he's called you that, and if you were in a different setting, it would be endearing. "Maybe you should think about doing the same."

"Trying to make me see the light, Barnes? Tell me how it's so much better to be free."

"Free? You think you get freedom from this life?" he scoffs. "You're sorely mistaken. But, it's better to be a fucked up mess than a contracted killer."

"Bad news for you," you cock back the hammer on the gun. "I'm already both of those."

"Do it," Bucky turns the tables on you, egging you on. His jaw is clenched, waiting for the pop. "You've had plenty of chances. Do it."

You grit your teeth, a bead of sweat running down the side of your face. Bucky's forehead is pressed against yours, you're both breathing heavily, your chests rapidly rising and falling. You've done this hundreds of times before, you've never missed a shot, especially one so close to you.

For the first time in your career, you hesitate.

Your hand is trembling, the gun shaking with it as your brain works in overtime telling you to just fucking do it, but you can't bring yourself to. No matter how cocked the gun is, or the fact that your finger is right on the trigger — you can't do it.

Bucky notices the moment of hesitation and uses it to his advantage. His arm comes up to whack yours, sending the gun flying in the air, hearing it hit the floor and slide once it hits the ground.

You have enough awareness to get out of his grip while Bucky's arm isn't pressed as tightly against you. Your leg comes up to kick the side of his face at a perfect angle, the two of you beginning your fight.

If you weren't trying to kill each other, it would look more like a beautifully crafted ballet. Both of you moving in sync to dodge and hit, the sound of punches landing rippling in the empty room. At some point, you find your own knife that was tucked away to level the playing field. 

Bucky's managed to cut your cheek, and at some point, you bust his lip, pieces of clothes are ripped, and there's definitely blood dripping on the floor. Whose? Neither of you are entirely sure anymore.

"Can't say this isn't extremely hot," you tease as you dodge one of his hits, somersaulting out of the way.

"Do you always trying to fuck the guys you're there to kill?"

"Only the ones that make me work for it."

The two of you have managed to create some distance between each other, both twirling the knives in your hand as you side step to circle one another — waiting for the other to attack.

"Who sent you?" he repeats his earlier question

"Someone with a grudge against the Winter Soldier."

Bucky winces slightly at the name, at the mere reminder of who he once was.

"I've made my amends."

"You can keep telling yourself that," you snap. "And the world will keep turning, and there will still be a hit on your head."

"Yeah? And what about you, huh? You think this all goes away. You think one day you'll decide to stop, and it'll be enough. If I'm a wanted man, what does that make you?"

Your blood boils in your veins because you know he's not entirely wrong. This might be your life, but this isn't your forever. You'd either give it up completely or die in the field. You don't want to hear it though. This is the only life you've known.

"You're my mission, Barnes."

Bucky's eyes darken, your words striking a chord. He doesn't hesitate to cross the room, your feet planted firmly in the ground as he approaches you once more — towering over you. Your eyes travel over his face and down his neck, you can see where bruises are starting to form.

His eyes stay locked on you as he does something unexpected, he throws the knife in his hand onto the floor, now in a pile next to your gun that had been knocked out. Besides his arm, he was weaponless, a sign he wasn't fighting again.

Suddenly, your stomach was in knots, because it didn't matter if you had the upper hand now. It didn't matter if you were still clutching your knife, it didn't matter that he was giving himself up to you — because you couldn't do it.

You couldn't kill Bucky Barnes.

Bucky notices the shift in your demeanor, in the way your face drops and your hard edges soften. He's on you in a second, his hands moving to grab your face as he kisses you again.

This was supposed to be simple. A name on a briefing sheet. A single shot between the eyes. Now it was a mess, a tug of the heart, and a slip of your mask.

You hear the clank of your knife as it hits the floor, your arms wrapping around his neck as you kiss him back.

It's not as rushed as before. Bucky takes his time with you. His hands wander down to expose your shoulders, finally detaching his lips from yours so he can kiss your skin and hear those soft moans that follow.

Your head is spinning when Bucky picks you up, as if you were the weight of a feather. He carries you over to the desk, a white linen sheet draped over it to protect the dark wood. There's nothing to say as he lays you down on top of it, his hands working to get your clothes off as quickly as possible.

Your fingers tremble as you work to unbutton his shirt, the hands of a trained assassin now unsteady from just the touch of this man. Unbelievable.

"You're going to be the death of me," Bucky husks out, trailing his lips over your skin. He finds the spot where his knife was pressed against your neck. His lips ghost over it, sending a shiver down your spine, but he soon presses a soft, meaningful kiss there instead.

"That was the plan."

Bucky laughs as his hands find your thighs, teasingly snapping the band of your holster against your skin. You laugh at the absurdity of it. He rests his chin on your chest and looks up at you. Even bloodied and bruised, you're somehow still a vision.

"Enough talking, sweetheart."

He pulls himself back up to your face, capturing your lips in another kiss. If he's going to hear another sound out of your mouth, it better be the sounds of you moaning his name. Because in your failed attempt to kill Bucky Barnes, you've given him a new reason to live.

[vermililion]

john walker fic recs ✧°‧⭑.ᐟ

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continuing to update | last updated 28/05 - (need this man so bad omfg, tysm writers <3)

─── ✧ DRABBLES/BLURBS

nsfw hcs | @undyingdecay

he fucks like someone trying to win a medal for it.

enemies | @aquaholicsanonymousworld

team mates enemies to enemies who have hate sex.

domestic hcs | @/aquaholicsanonymousworld

nsfw hcs | @/aquaholicsanonymousworld

“Wasn’t plannin’ on stayin’ long tonight,” he mutters, swirling the amber liquid. “Then you had to go and look at me like that.” You smile, heat pooling low in your belly.

dating walker hcs | @purehypnotic

giving john head | @shadowheartshapedbox

what it’s like giving junior varsity captain america head ;)

─── ✧ ONE SHOTS

the way i love you | @randomnessfangirl

John Walker is the bane of your existence...but everyone else can see that there is potential for you to put your differences aside and reveal your true feelings for each other.

girls' night revelations | @zerosomnia

After venting some frustrations at girls' night, the reader realises that they are not just angry at Walker but that there's some other stuff going on too. A confrontation ensues that ends in some truths.

the soldier and the nurse | @blueberrypancakesworld

He was a soldier who, even as a hero, always tried to protect everyone with his shield. Even the best soldier gets hurt, though, and John finds himself in the infirmary of the tower, once again with a nurse he had visited many times before. This time, however, it seems different, because when concern meets amusement, two hearts finally find each other.

nocturnal guilt and training | @/blueberrypancakesworld

It is one thing when you don't concentrate, it's another when you let yourself get hurt to deal with your own pain. John finds himself in dark places from time to time, which is especially evident after the last mission, but the soldier wants to go through it alone. Yet his girlfriend is there to help him no matter how long it takes, they would make it together.

code yellow | @inlovewithquestionablecharacters

sex pollen with walker.

thunderstorms | @angellily920

johns a secret softie :)

and you came back to me | @/aquaholicsanonymousworld

him where they’re dating and reader gets badly hurt on a mission and the whole team is freaking out, especially John, man is going BRUTAL on the people who hurt reader.

off your game | @/aquaholicsanonymousworld

Working with the Thunderbolts meant swallowing your pride daily — but nothing bruised your ego quite like him.

honey, where is my shield? | @husbandjoel

you’re the fixer upper of weapons for the new avengers and want to do something for john walker’s upcoming birthday.

moral of the story | @starktonyx

You never expected to be blindly sent to kill your ex-husband, but when you cross paths again in looping shame rooms, it’s like going through the pain all over again.

patched up | @bruisedboys

john grudgingly patches you up after a mission — it gets more intimate than you both expect.

helmet | @gallavichsreddie1128

Y/N may be the only person on the planet that gets turned on by John in his helmet.

asshole | @/gallavichsreddie1128

Y/N hates John but he and everyone else are convinced that it’s just sexual frustration.

bad words | @/gallavichsreddie1128

Y/N and John are a secretly dating but put on the act of hating each other until one of them takes it too far.

need that | @blank-potato

You think everything he does is hot, and eventually he takes notice.

my kid's better than your kid | @/blank-potato

You and John's kids are in the same soccer league, and after you get into an argument on the field over your kids, you start seeing him everywhere. It's hate at first sight.

but why's it feel so good? | @sexy-monster-fucker

While out on a mission together, Reader and John stumble into a researchers trap. Leading to them being doused in an unnamed chemical.

the heart of the matter | @divinepoints

You had never thought that life would lead you back to John Walker. Or perhaps, that life had led the both of you back to each other. After all, this had been your world first.

pushing it down and praying | @swordgrace

your friendship with john is put on the line after you’re injured during a mission — what follows is something neither of you can anticipate.

you're the ache i asked for | @/swordgrace

forced into attending a gala event, you go to john for help with your dress. things turn incredibly heated.

a black eye and two kisses | @/swordgrace

john has a bad habit of running his mouth, especially during a sparring lesson — after taking it too far, he makes it up to you in more ways than one.

only pretend until it's not | @/swordgrace

you and john go undercover to infiltrate an arms dealing ring in paris. you take your roles a little too seriously.

bit the hand that needs you | @/swordgrace

after getting injured on a mission and dismissing your help, you can’t seem to shake why john doesn’t like you. the answer is more complicated than you thought.

proximity check | @/swordgrace

when a mission goes sideways, you and john are forced to hide together in a utility closet.

change | @johns-walker

when you get injured during a job, you and john have a genuine conversation for once.

boundless | @endofthelinegang

the quiet halls of Avengers Tower keeps a kind-hearted witch who begins to distance herself from John Walker after his cold, self-protective indifference makes her believe he hates her. but when her warmth fades and he’s left in the silence he created, John finally confronts his fear of not deserving her—and chooses, for once, not to run from something real.

your hero | @spookieloop

You and the rest of the Thunderbolts are going undercover to catch an arm's dealer at his favorite night club. Someone tries to spike your drink, and Walker teaches the scumbag a lesson. A violent one.

─── ✧ SERIES (including mini)

the things we don't say part ii | @/endofthelinegang

trapped between fury and longing, you and John Walker collide in a moment that’s been simmering for months—raw, reckless, and impossible to ignore. When a knock at the door threatens to shatter what little you have left, he finally says the one thing he’s been choking on: he wants you.

thunder rolls | @/endofthelinegang

this is the prologue of a series where you are bucky barnes little sister who has managed to make it this far with him, one little snafu has happened, you happen to have feelings for another super soldier one that your brother does not particularly like.

it only leads to trouble part ii | @mydearmando

you suppose it’s natural to touch people who you live and work with. you touch everyone on the team. walker does, too. so you don’t know why it bothers you so much when he touches you.

keep your heart, cause i already got one (ongoing) | @lauufeydottir

As the Thunderbolts make their way through The Void, Walker ends up a witness to one of your shame rooms, a past you've kept close to your chest for decades.

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[moonlitstoriess]

Heyy!! Could I request a Azriel x witch reader. Like Blackbeak clan (I’m reading the TOG series & loving Manon & the 13 rn) & maybe she’s like another spy or one of Amren’s friends from another world and he doesn’t trust her at first but she ends up helping the IC with koschei or something n he finds himself more interested in her

Touch Me and Bleed- Azriel x fem!witch reader (oneshot)

Summary: A Blackbeak witch, loyal to a distant queen and bound by blood and war, crosses into Prythian to hunt a death god. Azriel doesn’t trust her—but when shadows meet iron, loyalty and hatred blur into something far more dangerous.

A/N: This was a very exciting thing to write!! Thank you so much anon for requesting such an interesting idea. I hope you enjoy it🫶

Warnings: violence, blood, angst, some sprinkle of fluff? open ending (happy-ish?)

See masterlist

The rift pulsed against the quiet stone at the edge of Velaris, its shifting light painting faces with harsh, unnatural shadows. The Inner Circle stood close, watching.

Azriel arrived last, moving like a shadow melting into the crowd. His wings folded behind him, but the restless stir beneath his skin told a different story--unease, suspicion, something like anger.

Koschei had been creating more headaches for everyone in the past few weeks--his dark influence seeping into the mortal realms, twisting the dead into unholy servants and corrupting the very fabric of the Shadowlands. Villages near the border reported disappearances, strange creatures prowling at night, and whispers of a power growing beyond control. The Inner Circle knew time was running out. If Koschei wasn’t stopped soon, the entire realm would drown in his rising tide of death and chaos.

That is exactly why Amren had proposed to call in one of her "otherworldly strange" friends (Cassian's words). Of course, Rhysand and Feyre wouldn't allow anyone in without a proper briefing about them. Amren had insisted that there is no one better suited for this than her apparent friend, Y/N.

And Amren didn't shy away from giving all the essential informations about her to them.

Y/N Blackbeak. An Ironteeth witch--Azriel still couldn't understand how does one have sharp iron teeth and claws--part of the Blackbeak coven. Or was. Apparently, there used to be three different covens which were later on all united together with the Crochans under one queen. Manon Blackbeak. This great shift had happened during a huge war that they were all in.

Y/N is very loyal to her "sisters" and even more so to her queen. That part Azriel understood. Rhysand held his loyalty the same way: earned in blood, kept through sacrifice. But this witch didn’t come from their courts, their histories. She belonged to a different world entirely.

She was known for being one of the most ruthless among them. A hunter. A killer. Not gifted with elegant magic, but with precision, instinct, and a taste for blood. Her body was a weapon--iron teeth, iron nails, every strike calculated. Countless deaths were tied to her name, most of them earned in silence.

She had tracked monsters across war-torn mountains in her world. Killed gods, if the stories were true. But what made her dangerous now wasn’t myth--it was knowledge.

She had seen Koschei before. Fought things he made. Abominations born of rot and death-magic. And she’d survived. More than that--she remembered. She knew how he moved, how he hid pieces of himself. She knew the scent of his work. The feel of it in the earth, in the bodies he left behind.

“She doesn’t use shadows or spells,” Amren had told them. “She doesn’t need to. She finds things that don’t want to be found. And when she does, she ends them.”

After the death of "The Thirteen", she took the place of Asterin Blackbeak as the new second-in-command to queen Manon. Her "Wyvern" (whatever creature that is, Azriel still hasn't understood that part either) is the largest and most ruthless-just like her apparently.

"And what exactly happens when she walks in here? Do we just you know- greet her like a normal guest or-"

"Just because she is from another world and a witch, doesn't mean that she is an abnormal creature, Cassian." Amren hissed back, cutting off Cassians curiosity.

Azriel's head snapped back up, coming back to reality, his shadows whispering faintly at the edge of his senses like they’d felt something shift in the air. He narrowed his eyes toward the glowing rift, watching the edges throb and flicker--unsettled, like the veil between worlds was starting to tear.

"In any case, I believe she is very unique. I mean I know that your friends have all been quite unique but with the way you described this specific friend has me very interested. I mean, an ironteeth witch? drinks men's blood? wish I could do that sometimes. And I'm sure I'm not the only one excited, right Nesta?" Mor winked at the female beside her who only gave a small nod.

“She’s close,” Amren muttered, fingers moving in sharp, precise patterns as she worked the ancient sigils surrounding the portal. They pulsed faintly beneath her hand, reacting to her touch like blood answering a heartbeat. “The rift is thinning.”

“Great,” Cassian said, rolling his shoulders. “Because nothing says ‘safe and sane’ like summoning a death-witch with a wyvern from another dimension into Velaris.”

Feyre arched a brow. “You’re the one who wanted to spar with her, remember?”

Cassian threw her a grin. “I said I might spar with her. If she doesn’t bite.”

“She probably will,” Mor added brightly, brushing a curl over her shoulder. “Amren made her sound like a feral bat crossed with a blade.”

Amren didn’t look up. “She’s more refined than that.”

“Sure,” Rhysand drawled, his tone easy but his stance alert, shadows curled near his boots. “Refined in the way a storm is refined. Or a plague.”

“She’s not here to impress any of you,” Amren snapped, her eyes flicking briefly to Rhys. “She’s here because Koschei is getting smarter. Bolder. And she’s one of the only people who’s fought the things he leaves behind and walked away.”

Azriel said nothing, but his jaw tightened. That was the part that stuck with him—the walking away. He’d seen what Koschei’s creations did to people. The kind of twisted, broken things they left behind. You didn’t just walk away from that unless you were something worse.

Nesta finally spoke, quiet but firm. “And what happens if she’s not what you think she is?”

Amren didn’t flinch. “Then you kill her.”

A long silence settled after that.

Mor blinked. “Wow. Casual.”

Feyre stepped forward slightly. “Let’s assume she’s not a threat.”

“We don’t assume,” Azriel said, voice low. “We watch.”

Rhys nodded once in agreement. “The moment she steps through, we gauge her. Carefully. No grand welcomes.”

“She won’t expect one,” Amren said, almost amused. “She hates this kind of thing. Told me once that ‘warm greetings are for weak hearts.’”

Cassian whistled. “What a ray of sunshine.”

Azriel tuned them out after that. The voices blurred at the edges as his attention zeroed back in on the portal. It was changing now--deepening, folding in on itself, the color shifting from silver to blood-red, then back again. Whatever lay on the other side was moving closer.

His shadows recoiled. Not from fear--no, they didn’t fear. But they recognized what was coming through. A presence that wasn’t born of this realm. A presence used to war and silence and blood.

Azriel’s hand hovered near the hilt of his dagger.

And then--

The rift pulsed once, hard.

The air thinned.

The ground vibrated.

And something stepped through.

The pulse echoed like a drumbeat in Azriel’s bones.

The portal split open with a hiss--no thunder, no blaze of magic. Just a tearing sound, like skin peeling from flesh. The air went sharp with the scent of iron.

And then she stepped through.

Boots first. Blood-crusted, weather-worn. A slow, deliberate step. Then another.

Her leathers were torn at the seams in places, dark with dried blood and soot. Her iron nails caught the lamplight--glinting like small, wicked blades. Her eyes were pale gold, colder than ice, older than winter, and her mouth--Gods, those teeth--flashed in a quiet sneer as she looked them all over.

Behind her, the creature emerged.

Azriel had seen many beasts in his life. He’d fought through battlefields soaked in gore. But the thing that slithered half-formed from the fading rift, a massive wyvern, its wings frayed at the edges, claws curled into the stone, was not a beast. It was a weapon. A dying one, perhaps, flickering and insubstantial in this realm, but no less terrifying.

It let out a low, guttural noise--like a growl, like grief--and folded its wings as it took position at her back.

No one spoke.

No one moved.

Then Y/N Blackbeak tilted her head, eyeing the group like she was picking which one she’d kill first if she had to.

Her voice, when it came, was rough like gravel. “This is Velaris?”

Cassian blinked. “I was expecting more screaming.”

“I’m disappointed too,” she said flatly.

Mor let out a breath that was half laugh, half disbelief. “Charming.”

Rhysand stepped forward, calm but cautious. “You must be Y/N.”

Her gaze didn’t waver. “Depends. Who’s asking?”

Rhys inclined his head. “High Lord of the Night Court.”

Y/N’s eyes flicked to Feyre, then to Amren. The only one she seemed to acknowledge was Amren, who gave her the faintest nod.

Azriel watched her every movement. The way she stood--not like a diplomat, not like a soldier. Like a predator. Relaxed but alert. Ready to rip out a throat if needed.

He didn’t trust her. Not even a little.

But damn if he didn’t believe the stories.

“So,” she said after a beat, iron nails glinting as she flexed her fingers. “Which one of you is going to point me to Koschei’s rot?”

Azriel’s voice was out before he thought to stop it. Cold. Controlled.

“That depends. Are you here to help… or hunt?”

Y/N turned to face him fully for the first time.

And smiled.

There was no warmth in it. Only teeth.

“Why not both?”

Rhysand’s expression didn’t shift, but Feyre stepped closer, the edge in her voice barely masked.

“And what exactly do you want in return for this help?”

Y/N’s head tilted slightly, as if she were listening for something only she could hear. Her wyvern gave a low growl in response--its translucent shape pulsing faintly behind her like it barely existed in this realm at all.

“I want nothing,” Y/N said, voice flat. “No gold. No favor. No alliance.”

Feyre narrowed her eyes. “Then why are you here?”

“I owe a debt,” she replied, finally looking away from Rhysand to glance at Amren. “To her. She saved my life once. This repays it.”

A beat passed.

Cassian’s brow shot up. “Wait--what?” He looked between them. “When the hell did that happen?”

Amren didn’t even glance his way. She waved a small, dismissive hand like swatting a fly. “None of your business, brute.”

The silence that followed was thick, uncomfortable. Even Mor’s smile had vanished.

Azriel’s shadows stirred at his shoulders, quiet but tense. He didn’t take his eyes off Y/N, not because he thought she would strike, but because he could tell she could. Her posture hadn’t changed, but her presence filled the entire courtyard like a second sky pressing down on them.

Nesta, beside him, said nothing either. But when he glanced her way-

It startled him.

Not fear in her eyes. Not suspicion.

Admiration.

A subtle tilt to her chin. A slight parting of her lips. The faintest crease in her brow like something about the witch had unraveled a knot she hadn’t realized she carried.

Azriel had never seen Nesta look at anyone like that- not even Feyre. Not even Cassian.

It pulled at something in his chest, something he refused to name.

Then Amren stepped forward.

“As I told you, Rhys,” she said, casually brushing nonexistent dust off her tunic, “I would never bring someone here I didn’t trust.”

She gave the High Lord a pointed look.

“Well- actually, she only trusts me,” Amren added with a sharp smile. “And I trust her. Which should be enough.”

Rhysand exhaled slowly. He gave her a long, unreadable look. Then a single nod. Barely perceptible, but permission all the same.

That was when Feyre cleared her throat, wrapping her arms around herself like the temperature had dropped a few degrees. “Right,” she said, voice brisk, steady. “Let’s go in, shall we?”

Y/N said nothing. She didn’t smile. Didn’t thank them.

She just turned toward the House.

And the wyvern followed.

The doors to the House of Wind shut behind them with a soft thud, the sound echoing through the wide, vaulted chamber. It was quiet in a way only high places could be: thick with power, history, and something more fragile beneath.

Y/N walked with the same quiet dominance she’d arrived with. She didn’t gawk at the vaulted ceilings or the glowing lights that flickered overhead. She didn’t ask questions or offer comments. Her wyvern trailed a few steps behind, its form wavering, too large for the space and too ghostly to care.

Rhysand led the way, flanked by Feyre. Neither said a word as they entered the informal war room, but every step radiated the tension of two rulers trying not to snap the moment a guest said the wrong thing.

Cassian leaned against the long table in the center, trying too hard to look casual. Mor took her usual seat, legs crossed, eyes glittering with a mix of curiosity and calculation. Nesta moved silently to a shadowed corner, where she could observe everything without being in the middle of it.

Azriel didn’t sit. He remained standing, hands behind his back, shadows curling faintly around his boots. Watching.

Y/N didn’t sit either.

She stood at the far end of the room, her back straight, eyes scanning the windows like she was mapping exit routes.

Feyre spoke first. “Amren says you’ve seen Koschei’s work. What exactly did you encounter?”

Y/N’s response came without hesitation. “Plague-spirits. Hollowed corpses. Men turned inside out, walking on bones they didn’t grow with. Magic that smells like rot and sounds like begging.”

Mor blinked. “Sounds delightful.”

Y/N ignored her. “It was worse near rivers. He favors places that border things—life and death, land and water, flesh and memory. Thresholds.”

“That lines up with what we’ve seen,” Rhys said, glancing at Feyre, then back at Y/N. “And you’re sure what you saw is the same as what’s happening here?”

“I know his scent,” Y/N said simply. “You don’t forget that kind of rot.”

The room went quiet again.

“Why didn’t you kill him in your world?” Azriel asked, voice low.

She turned her head toward him. Not hostile. Not cold. Just… empty. Like the question was too simple for the weight it carried.

“Because he left before I could. Slipped through one of the last cracks between our worlds. I followed him.” A pause. “Eventually.”

“So this is a hunt,” Rhysand said, folding his arms.

Y/N didn’t answer. Just glanced at Amren.

Amren, lounging in her chair like none of this mattered in the slightest, rolled her eyes. “She’s not here for revenge or power plays, Rhys. I already told you.”

“Yes,” Rhys said quietly, “but it’s different hearing it from her.”

Y/N’s lip curled. “I am not your subject. I do not kneel to your throne.”

Feyre bristled, but Rhysand just nodded once. “Good. Then we’ll speak plainly.”

Azriel watched the exchange unfold in silence, but every word pressed at him like a blade against skin. He didn’t like her tone. Didn’t like her indifference. But something about it, the calm detachment, the bluntness, it rang true. She wasn’t playing them. If anything, she was already halfway out the door.

Nesta leaned forward slightly, elbows on her knees, eyes still fixed on Y/N. “You don’t care what happens to this world.”

“No,” Y/N said. “But I care what happens to Amren. And if she’s staying in this realm, then it’s in my interest to make sure it doesn’t turn into Koschei’s personal graveyard.”

Cassian let out a soft breath. “She saved your life?”

Y/N’s head tilted slightly. “She pulled me out of a god’s mouth. You don’t forget that.”

Cassian blinked. “Holy- wait, an actual god’s-”

“None of your business,” Amren said, sharp as a blade. Her expression didn’t waver. “Let it go.”

Silence again.

Azriel’s gaze drifted--not to the witch, but to Nesta.

There was that same look in her eyes. Admiration, yes--but also a flicker of something like recognition. Like she’d found something of herself reflected in the Ironteeth woman standing so calmly across the room.

Nesta didn’t mask it. Her jaw was tight, but her eyes were clear. Like she'd been waiting for someone to say the things Y/N had just said and mean them.

It unsettled him.

Not because he didn’t understand it.

Because he did.

Then Amren rose, smoothing down her tunic with a quick flick of her hand. “As I said, Rhysand,” she said, her voice taking on that ageless, steel-edged quality that still made the room hold its breath, “I wouldn’t bring someone into this court if I didn’t trust her.”

She turned to face him fully. “Well- she doesn’t trust any of you. Only me. But the sentiment stands.”

There was a beat of silence.

Then Feyre cleared her throat, glancing at Rhys before offering the smallest of smiles. “Right. Well then… let’s go in, shall we?”

That was when Y/N finally stepped forward, calm and deliberate. She didn’t wait to be offered a seat- just took one, dragging the chair slightly apart from the others as if claiming neutral ground. From her small, worn satchel, she pulled out a thickly folded map. She spread it across the table in one sharp motion, weighing the corners down with nothing but her iron-cool presence.

It was a detailed map of Prythian, far more detailed than any Azriel had expected. But what caught everyone's eye weren’t the borders or mountains- they were the markings. Circles in black ink. Crossed-out towns. Arrows pointing to rivers, forests, patches of nothingness. Strange notations in a language none of them recognized.

"Amren was kind enough to have this sent to Erilea, my world, a few days prior so that I could get a good analysis and idea of what world I'm dealing with. I prefer to know what kind of battlefield I’m stepping onto before I start bleeding.”

Cassian let out a soft grunt that might’ve been impressed. Feyre leaned forward, brows drawn tight.

But before anyone could speak, Y/N turned her head and looked directly at Azriel--unflinching, sharp-eyed. Then, without a word, she raised both hands, slow and deliberate. The iron claws that had glinted moments before shimmered once, then retracted beneath her skin, leaving behind plain, clean nails.

She held his gaze as her jaw shifted with a soft click. When she parted her lips again, the iron teeth were gone, no fangs, no metal gleam. Just the unnerving stillness of a predator who had momentarily sheathed her weapons.

A show of restraint. Or a warning.

Azriel wasn’t sure which.

But it silenced the edge in him just a little. Not harmless. Never that. But perhaps… something else. Something controlled. His shadows recoiled and settled, just barely.

Then her voice cut through the quiet.

“I’m not staying long,” Y/N said. “Manon expects me to be back within forty-eight hours by our time. That translates to approximately three days here, give or take the way time bends between realms. Though I would say Erilea and Prythian are quite close. Hence the short time difference."

“You’re really just here to leave again?” Feyre asked, a mix of surprise and wariness.

“I’m not a diplomat. I don’t do tea and chatter. I was sent to deal with Koschei, nothing more.”

Azriel hated it, how direct she was. Hated how something in him respected it, too. No games. No fawning. Just teeth and strategy.

Rhysand finally spoke, his voice low. “And what have you learned about his movements so far?”

Y/N leaned over the map, tapping one of the circles in the north. “Koschei doesn’t spread like war. He spreads like sickness. Slow. Precise. Rotting the foundation of whatever he touches until it crumbles from within.”

She moved her finger down the map. “He doesn’t take cities. He takes people. A village falls quiet, and by the time you notice it’s gone, the surrounding land is already turning.”

She pointed to a forest near the border. “This was your first disappearance, yes? And this-” she tapped an area far west, “is where your scouts found bones that didn’t match any native species.”

Azriel’s eyes narrowed. How the hell did she know that?

Cassian stepped forward now, tone sharpening. “So. What’s the plan?”

Y/N straightened. “The plan is to split into three teams. Exactly two per group. Koschei moves through mirrors-reflections, still water, glass--and he splits his attention. We need to do the same. Three fronts, three targets, three strikes.”

She looked around the room. “I’m leaving it to you to decide who goes with whom. I’m unfamiliar with your strengths, your tempers, and your… alliances.” Her eyes flicked to Mor, then Azriel, then Nesta.

“I assume your rulers,” she added, glancing at Feyre and Rhys, “will remain here to maintain court stability.”

Feyre opened her mouth to protest, but Rhys lifted a hand. “She’s right.”

Feyre scowled but said nothing more.

Y/N rolled the map to a smaller region now, tapping three points in a triangle. “These are the weak spots. I believe he’s testing them—probes, leaks, trying to open small rifts. We need to hit all three before he gets a foothold.”

“The groups will need a balance of flight, magic, and brute strength,” she continued. “One to track. One to strike. One to watch the shadows.”

Azriel felt her eyes flick briefly to him at the last one, but she didn’t linger.

Nesta, still watching from the edge of the room, finally spoke. “He’s drawing people in with promises, isn’t he? Not just killing--corrupting. Offering them something they want.”

Y/N’s expression shifted for the first time. Almost… approving.

“Exactly,” she said, tapping once on the table. “That’s how he breaks them. Promises them their lost lovers, their children, their second chances.”

She turned her head and pointed across the table. “Honestly, I’m starting to really like her.”

Nesta didn’t respond. But her mouth twitched.

And Azriel—

Well. He’d never admit it aloud. But he didn’t hate the sound of that either.

Then Mor clapped her hands together, breaking the moment. “Right, then. Who goes with whom?”

Cassian clapped his hands as well, eyes flicking around the room like he already knew how this would go. “Alright, we’ll need to be quick about this. I say we move at first light tomorrow.”

Amren snorted. “First light. Of course.”

Cassian leaned in, arms crossed over the table. “I’ll go with Nesta.” His tone left no room for argument. Nesta didn’t flinch. Didn’t smirk or roll her eyes. She only nodded, sharp and sure.

“Mor and I will take the eastern flank,” Amren said, like the matter had been settled long before anyone else had opened their mouths. Mor raised a brow but didn’t argue. She merely winked and added, “You’re lucky I like danger.”

That left Azriel.

And her.

Y/N was still standing beside the table, gaze down on the map, not watching the others as much as sensing them. When her head lifted, her eyes met Azriel’s again--dark, quiet, measuring.

Rhys glanced at them both, something unreadable in his face. “That leaves Azriel and Y/N.”

Of course it does, Azriel thought.

He didn’t say anything. Neither did she.

Cassian’s brow twitched. “You two gonna be alright playing nice together?”

Y/N turned slightly, her arms folding across her chest. “I don’t need nice. I need effective.”

Azriel’s voice came quiet, colder than he meant. “Then we’ll get along just fine.”

He saw it, barely, but it was there. A flicker of amusement behind her gaze. As if something about his retort pleased her.

She looked back down to the map. “Our target is here,” she said, pointing to the most remote of the three points: deep forest bordering one of the lesser-traveled mountain ranges.

Azriel knew it well. Dark, damp, prone to heavy fog and worse things hiding in it.

Perfect.

She tapped the ink with a clawless finger. “This was the first place I smelled his work. It’s old, but still warm. We’ll go there first.”

“And if he’s already moved?” Feyre asked.

“Then we follow the rot.” Her words were flat. Practical.

There was silence for a beat too long. Then Rhys nodded once. “We move at dawn. You all have until then to prepare.”

The meeting broke apart slowly. Chairs scraping, boots scuffing against stone. Azriel lingered at the edge, eyes still on the map. He could feel her beside him-- still, quiet, like the eye of a storm waiting to shift.

Nesta passed him as she left, but she paused only long enough to glance once back at Y/N.

Admiration. Clear and open. Azriel had seen Nesta sneer, seen her freeze people out with a look, but this was the first time he’d seen her… intrigued. Her mouth pulled into something faint. Respect, maybe.

And for some godsdamned reason, that unsettled him more than anything else.

Y/N spoke softly, without turning. “You don’t trust me.”

Azriel didn’t respond. Not right away. His shadows flickered, tense and restless.

“I don’t need you to,” she added, “but if we’re walking into something that’s already watching, I’d prefer we don’t bite at each other’s heels.”

He exhaled through his nose. “I don’t trust easily.”

“Neither do I.” She finally looked at him again. “But I’ll watch your back, Shadowsinger. You don’t have to like it, but it’s true.”

Azriel studied her, his jaw tight. Everything about her was sharp. Edged. But something about her steadiness, her refusal to flinch or flatter, scraped against the part of him that recognized survival.

Maybe not trust.

But understanding.

“I’ll see you at dawn,” he said finally, and walked away.

Behind him, he thought he heard her say, quiet as a whisper, “Try not to be late.”

Velaris didn’t seem quite as bad as she’d expected.

When Amren had mentioned it was part of the Night Court, Y/N had pictured something darker. Bleaker. A city crawling with shadows and dripping with pompous fae magic. But now, as the sun began to bleed gold into the sky and the breeze carried the scent of sea salt and distant pine, she found herself… tolerating it.

Maybe even liking it. A little.

She stood on the narrow stone balcony just outside the guest chambers they’d given her, already dressed for the road, boots laced tight, leathers snug. She hadn’t slept, not that she needed to. Her arms were folded as she leaned against the railing, fingers tapping absently with normal, unarmed nails. Below, Velaris still slumbered, lanterns casting soft glows across misted rooftops, the city slow to wake.

Above, circling sluggishly against the pale sky, her wyvern drifted in lazy, slow arcs.

“Firkhan,” she murmured.

He didn’t respond, not with words. He never had. But his shadow passed overhead, his translucent wings shimmering like heat waves, a ghost of the beast he’d once been. In this world, he was weaker—his body flickering at the edges like smoke caught in wind. The magic here resisted him. Or maybe he simply didn't belong.

None of us do, she thought.

Firkhan let out a low, rumbling screech that had no business sounding so mournful.

Y/N exhaled through her nose, eyes scanning the horizon.

It had been a long time since she’d stood still like this.

The war back in Erilea had carved her open and left iron in the cracks. She could still hear the shrieks of the Valg, the clash of blades against darkened armor, the hiss of Maeve’s shadows as they crumbled under fire. She remembered standing beside her sisters—her real sisters—when the skies rained blood. She remembered the silence after.

The silence that came when the Thirteen fell.

She hadn't asked for Asterin’s place. She hadn’t even wanted it. But Manon had given it to her anyway. Just looked her in the eye one night after the dust settled and said, “It’s yours now.”

And that had been that.

Manon never needed to explain herself. Y/N had only bowed once and borne the weight ever since. And she’d worn it like armor.

It was Amren who had broken that stillness.

A letter. Sealed in blood and old magic, slipped through the rift by means Y/N hadn’t asked about. The words had been few. No begging. No threats. Just a reminder:

"You owe me."

She did. Amren had pulled her from the mouth of a god...literally. Not during the war, but long before it, in the ruins of a temple swallowed by something old and hungry. Not out of kindness, but out of something older. Something sharp and mutual. They’d looked at each other across a pool of blood and ancient bones and understood one another without speaking a word.

They were both creatures carved from hard places, bound more by debt than affection. But it had been enough. Still was.

So when the next message came—a name she recognized, a darkness she thought she’d buried—she didn’t hesitate.

Koschei.

Of all the cursed gods and rotting immortals, he was the one that lingered. The one she hadn’t finished.

Manon hadn’t argued when she asked to go. Just stared at her for a long time before saying, “Two days. Then you return.”

Two days, Y/N repeated silently.

Firkhan screeched again, drawing her attention skyward.

And then—

A voice behind her. Rough, quiet, unmistakable:

“You’re up early.”

She didn’t flinch, didn’t turn immediately. She didn’t need to. That voice was etched into her mind now--low and razor-edged, like something dragged over stone. Y/N slowly turned her head, casting a sideways glance to where he stood just outside the balcony doors.

Azriel.

The infamous spymaster of the Night Court. Cloaked in shadow even when he wasn’t calling on them, quiet as death, and about as warm. She’d done her research, of course. Amren hadn’t sent her in blind, Y/N had asked for details. Files. Observations. Whatever the Night Court had been willing to share, she’d devoured it.

And Azriel… was the one she’d paid the most attention to.

Not because she feared him, but because she understood him.

He moved like someone who had once been caged. Who still wore the scent of blood under his leathers, even if the rest of them had grown soft on peace and pretty skies.

She met his eyes now, unbothered. “We’re supposed to be out in twenty minutes. I assumed punctuality was something your court still valued.”

His lip twitched, maybe irritation, maybe amusement. “It is. I wasn’t expecting you to be ready before sunrise.”

She turned her head back toward the view. “I didn’t sleep.”

He stepped forward, coming to stand beside her. A brief moment of silence passed as they both watched the wyvern circling above.

“That’s… your wyvern?” Azriel asked eventually, nodding toward the faint shimmer in the sky.

“Firkhan,” she said simply.

He waited, clearly expecting more.

“He’s not meant for this world,” she added after a beat. “Too much fae magic in the air. Too much softness. It's like trying to keep a blade sharp in a pool of silk.”

Azriel’s brow ticked up at that, faint amusement flickering in his gaze. “We don’t have creatures like him in this realm.”

“I know,” she said. “Closest you’ve got are the Illyrians and the Peregryns in the Dawn Court.”

That earned her a sharper look. He leaned his forearms on the balcony railing, the shadows around him twitching slightly in what might have been surprise.

“You’ve done your research,” he said.

Y/N smiled. Tight, without humor. “Wouldn’t you, if you were walking into a court of fae strangers with enough power to burn cities?”

His silence was answer enough.

She let her gaze drift toward him for a moment longer before adding, “And besides, if I’m going to kill alongside someone, I prefer to know whether they’ll be useful or deadweight.”

Azriel’s mouth twitched again, but he said nothing.

Not yet.

A scream shattered the morning quiet.

Both their heads snapped down toward the street below, just in time to see Cassian scrambling backward behind a thoroughly unamused Nesta. The General was pointing toward the cobblestones in front of the townhouse where a very large, very real wyvern had landed, folding its shimmering wings with calculated menace. Firkhan’s golden eyes locked on Cassian like he was a meal. Or a nuisance.

Possibly both.

Y/N let out a small, rare smirk. “Looks like someone found breakfast.”

And with that, she pushed off the balcony railing and strode back inside, her steps light but unhurried. Azriel followed silently, a shadow at her heels.

They had a war to plan.

By the time they stepped outside, the others had gathered in the courtyard, surrounding the wyvern with varying degrees of wariness and awe.

“He's massive,” Mor said, eyes wide, chin tilted up as she took in the full wingspan. “Like, bigger than a Illyrian war-drake. And shinier. What do you feed him?”

“Illyrians,” Y/N replied without missing a beat.

Cassian let out a scandalized noise. “I knew it.”

“He’s joking,” Feyre added with a half-smile, though it sounded more like a question than a reassurance.

“Am I?” Y/N murmured.

Rhysand’s gaze slid over Firkhan with an assessing sharpness. “He looks like he’s holding together better than I expected, considering the dimensional rift.”

“He’s managing,” Y/N said. “Barely. It’s a miracle he survived the crossing.”

“He’s... beautiful,” Feyre offered, still watching Firkhan as if she was trying to sketch him in her head.

Nesta, standing closer now, spoke softly. “Can I pet him?”

Y/N raised an eyebrow, amused. “You want to pet a wyvern?”

Nesta shrugged. “He hasn’t eaten anyone yet.”

From the side, Amren clicked her tongue. “He still might.”

Y/N huffed a quiet laugh and nodded. “Be my guest. He likes boldness.”

Nesta stepped closer, hand extended, slow but sure. Firkhan lowered his massive head, sniffing her fingers, his breath warm and metallic. For a moment, he didn’t move.

Then—he nudged her hand gently.

“He’s called Firkhan,” Y/N said, watching closely. “He’s been with me since before the final war in my world. Saved my life more times than I can count.”

Nesta’s hand moved along the wyvern’s scaled snout. “He’s… calmer than I thought.”

“He likes you,” Y/N replied, surprised at the truth in her own words. She tilted her head, eyes narrowing slightly. “You’ve got steel in you. Rage. Will. Maybe even a little magic that doesn’t play by the rules of this world.”

Nesta’s eyes flicked to hers. “Magic, huh?”

Y/N gave a small smirk. “You seem like you have a little witch within you too, Nesta Archeron.”

Nesta gave a dry laugh. “Wouldn’t be the worst thing someone’s called me.”

A low, possessive sound cut through the moment.

Cassian stepped between them, gently but deliberately, inserting himself between Nesta and Firkhan...and Y/N by extension. “That’s enough fun for the morning,” he muttered, not quite glaring.

Y/N merely raised her brows. “Protective, aren’t you?”

Nesta rolled her eyes. “Cassian, I’m fine.”

“You say that now. Wait until he decides you look like lunch.”

Firkhan let out a chuff of breath, clearly unimpressed.

Y/N chuckled and stepped back. “He’s already chosen. You’re the one who keeps acting like prey.”

Before Cassian could reply, Rhysand clapped his hands, voice cutting through the morning fog. “Final checks. If you’re flying, make sure you’re not forgetting anything. Azriel, you’ve got maps. Cassian, try not to start another screaming match with a creature three times your size.”

“Ha ha,” Cassian muttered.

As everyone scattered to gather gear and double-check weapons, Y/N tilted her head toward Nesta. “Come,” she said, gesturing for her to walk alongside Firkhan. “I want to show him someone who isn’t terrified of their own power.”

They moved in silence for a few paces, Nesta still stroking the wyvern’s jaw, until Y/N added quietly, “There’s strength in softness too, you know.”

Nesta’s hand stilled. “You sound like Feyre.”

“I sound like someone who’s lost too many sisters,” Y/N replied. “Hold tight to the ones still breathing.”

Nesta didn’t answer. She didn’t need to.

A breath later, Cassian was back, looming beside them with his hand brushing Nesta’s elbow. “We ready?” he asked.

Y/N gave him a slow nod. “Ready as we’ll ever be.”

With one last look at Firkhan, she turned on her heel and strode toward Azriel, who stood waiting with a folded map in his hand and that unreadable expression in his eyes.

Let the hunt begin.

Y/N snatched the map from Azriel’s hand before he could so much as blink.

A collective pause rippled through the group at the sharp sound of paper being pulled taut. She didn’t bother looking at him. Her voice rang out, clear, cutting through the morning air like a blade.

“Now, listen up.”

The conversation and casual banter died instantly. Even Firkhan, coiled on the rooftop like a silent, glimmering sentinel, went still.

They all gathered closer around her. Illyrians, High Fae, and the strange quiet creature that was Amren. Y/N didn’t care what court they were from. What power they wielded. She only cared that they listened.

“As I said,” she continued, spreading the map across the stone garden table with a sweep of her hand, “we’re splitting into three groups of two. Each one will target a different pressure point. Koschei doesn’t leave openings. But like all things that rot, he seeps.”

She tapped her claw-not iron yet, but sharp nonetheless-against the eastern coastline of Prythian.

“Amren. Mor. You’re headed to the tidal cliffs along the Sidra’s curve. We believe one of Koschei’s old mirror-anchors lies buried there, used to siphon spirit energy from the ocean’s pull. If we’re right, breaking it will sever a part of his reach.”

Amren gave a faint smile. “I’ve always liked smashing mirrors.”

Mor only smirked, flipping her hair over her shoulder. “Let’s just hope it’s not cursed.”

Y/N ignored them, turning to the next mark: near the border of the human lands, deep in the ruins of an old battlefield.

“Cassian. Nesta. You’re heading to the Forgotten Vale. The blood magic he’s been using, it’s rooted there. That place remembers the dead. There’s something in the soil Koschei is feeding from. You’ll need to burn it clean.”

Nesta’s chin dipped in acknowledgment. Cassian gave a grunt that could have been agreement or displeasure, likely both.

Y/N circled her finger over a third spot, one nearly forgotten in the dense wilds west of Velaris.

“And Azriel and I will be heading into the Wildmere. There's an old forest there, twisted by his influence. His shadows have grown bolder, breeding in the dark. If he’s hiding his heart, the core of his power, it’ll be there. Azriel can track what others miss. I’ll know when we’re close.”

She looked up at last, scanning their faces.

“No one is to speak of this beyond this moment. Koschei has ears in the cracks of reality. This plan doesn’t get whispered about. Not even to your mates.”

Rhysand’s mouth twitched at that. Feyre, wisely, said nothing.

“Any objections?”

There was a beat of silence. Cassian opened his mouth.

Y/N didn’t even look up. Her voice was cold and firm. “No arguments.”

Cassian blinked, about to protest. “I wasn’t even- ”

“No.”

Cassian shut his mouth. Mor snorted. Azriel might’ve smiled, but if he did, it was gone in an instant.

Y/N rolled the map closed with a snap and tucked it back into her satchel.

“Well then,” she said, straightening. “Now that that’s settled- ”

Her eyes gleamed. The wind stirred behind her, brushing her hair back from her face.

“Let’s go kill a god, shall we?”

“Have you ever killed a god before?”

Azriel’s voice broke the morning silence as they walked toward the far side of the garden. Y/N didn’t look at him. Instead, her nails tapped lightly against her thigh, a small, knowing smirk playing at her lips.

“Why? Are you scared?” she asked without turning.

He chuckled softly, a dry edge to his words. “You act like that’s something you do every day.”

She sighed, the weight of a grim past settling in her tone. “No, I haven’t. But an ally of ours did. She killed every god in our universe. She’s now a queen, and they call her the Godskiller.”

Azriel’s guarded expression shifted as curiosity sparked in his eyes. “A queen called Godskiller? That’s not a title you hear every day.”

Y/N met his gaze steadily. “She earned it.”

They reached the clearing where the rift shimmered faintly. Azriel’s eyes dropped to Firkhan, the wyvern pacing with a restless grace.

“Is this thing coming with us too?” he asked, nodding toward the great creature.

Y/N corrected him smoothly. “His name is Firkhan. And yes, he’s coming. I don’t trust your High Lord and Lady one bit. Besides, Firkhan’s senses and ability to circle high above will give us an edge. He can smell death and rot, things even your shadows might miss.”

Azriel considered her words and nodded. “Fair enough.”

Y/N softened her voice and gave a quiet command. “Firkhan, come closer.”

The wyvern’s immense form swooped down beside her, shimmering faintly--still somewhat translucent in this realm.

Azriel glanced back at the pulsing rift. “Ready?”

She nodded once. Azriel inhaled deeply, the familiar shadowy mist beginning to gather around them. With a swift motion, he winnowed them away, the world blurring and folding as shadows swallowed their forms—carrying them instantly to the other side.

The world reassembled around them in fragments of shadow and cold.

Azriel’s boots hit soft earth, damp with rot. A canopy of gnarled, twisted trees loomed above, their blackened branches clawing at the morning sky. The air here felt… wrong. Thicker. Alive, almost buzzing faintly beneath his skin.

This was Wildmere. Or what it had become.

He scanned the surrounding glade, one hand instinctively brushing the hilt of Truth-Teller. The shadows slithered closer to his heels, nervous.

Beside him, Y/N landed with feline ease, already surveying the tree line. Her iron boots didn’t make a sound on the mossy ground.

"Charming," Azriel muttered.

“Better than what I imagined,” she replied flatly, adjusting a strap across her chest that held her curved blade. “I thought it'd reek more.”

“It will,” he said, eyes narrowing on the shifting darkness between the trees. “Give it time.”

A beat of silence. A low, reverberating thrum drifted through the earth like a pulse.

“Let’s move,” Azriel said, stepping forward.

“Wait.”

He turned just enough to glance back at her.

Y/N lifted her chin toward the sky. Then she murmured a string of guttural syllables, words Azriel couldn’t place. Not ancient Fae. Not anything he’d heard before.

High above, a shadow detached from the clouds.

Firkhan.

The wyvern gave a low shriek, answering her call, before rising higher and disappearing into the canopy overhead: circling, watching.

Azriel arched a brow. “That an Ironteeth spell?”

She smirked faintly, brushing past him. “Just a language. One your kind never bothered to learn.”

He didn’t rise to the bait. “What’d you tell him?”

“To hunt. To scream if anything smells like rot or fear.”

Azriel fell into step beside her. “And what do we do in the meantime?”

She glanced sideways, expression unreadable. “We walk into a haunted forest ruled by a half-dead god, of course.”

He huffed a soft laugh, surprised by it.

They moved forward, deeper into the Wildmere. And above them, Firkhan circled silently, a predator beneath the rising sun.

They walked in silence for nearly an hour.

The deeper they moved into the forest, the more the light changed. It wasn’t just the thick canopy blocking out the sun, it was the shadows themselves. They clung to bark and roots like oil. And even the wind sounded… wrong. Too soft. Too deliberate. As if the forest was listening.

Azriel had tracked monsters before. He knew the scent of darkness, of unnatural magic. But here, in Wildmere, everything reeked of rot and memory. Of something old, curdled with patience.

Beside him, Y/N didn’t speak. She moved like she belonged here, her steps precise but unhurried, hand never far from the hilt of her blade. Her wyvern, though mostly out of sight, cried out occasionally above the trees--long, distant shrieks that echoed like warnings.

He cast her a glance. “You’ve been quiet.”

Her gaze didn’t shift. “You’ve been brooding.”

Azriel let out a quiet huff. “That’s just my face.”

That earned him the ghost of a smirk. Barely.

He tilted his head. “You don’t seem bothered by this place.”

“I’ve seen worse,” she said simply, ducking under a low-hanging branch.

“Than a forest poisoned by a death god?”

“Have you ever walked through a battlefield of broken gods and still-breathing corpses?” she asked, voice low. “This is peaceful compared to that.”

Azriel didn’t respond. Mostly because he didn’t doubt her. And partly because the way she said it didn’t sound like a boast. Just fact.

Still--he couldn’t help it.

“Why did Manon send you?” he asked quietly. “Not that I’m doubting your skill. But you don’t strike me as someone who gets sent. You strike me as someone who chooses.”

She slowed, just slightly, and he almost regretted the question.

“She didn’t send me,” Y/N said after a moment. “Amren called in a debt. Manon allowed it.”

Azriel studied her profile, the way her jaw tensed when she spoke Amren’s name. “You don’t like being in anyone’s debt.”

“No,” she said. “And I repay them quickly.”

Another cry from above. Firkhan, a low snarl this time--long and deliberate.

Both of them stopped.

Azriel’s shadows rose instantly, curling around his shoulders like smoke. His siphons flared with silent readiness. Beside him, Y/N’s hand had already gone to her weapon.

“East,” she said softly. “Something’s moving.”

He listened. There--just beyond the curve of a withered tree, something shuffled through the underbrush.

Azriel didn’t draw Truth-Teller. Not yet.

Instead, he turned toward her. “You ready?”

Y/N’s eyes glittered. “You tell me, Spymaster. Have you ever killed a god before?”

Azriel allowed a slow smile. “Not yet.”

They moved together, soundless and sharp. Into the dark.

And Wildmere waited.

Azriel's senses were on high alert as they ventured deeper into the Wildmere. The air grew heavier, thick with an unnatural stillness that made every step feel deliberate. The trees, twisted and gnarled, seemed to lean in closer, their bark slick with a strange, iridescent sheen.

"Do you feel that?" Y/N's voice broke the silence, low and cautious.

Azriel nodded, his hand instinctively resting on the hilt of his blade. "Something's not right."

Without warning, the ground beneath their feet trembled. Azriel's shadows recoiled, sensing the disturbance before he could fully comprehend it. The trees around them began to shift, their trunks bending unnaturally, roots uprooting and twisting in the air like serpents.

"Stay close," Azriel ordered, his voice firm.

But Y/N was already moving, her eyes scanning the shifting landscape. "It's the forest," she said, her tone a mix of awe and wariness. "Koschei's magic is warping it."

Azriel watched as the forest seemed to breathe, the trees pulsating with an eerie rhythm. The air grew colder, and a low hum resonated from deep within the ground.

"We need to find the source," Azriel said, determination setting in.

Y/N nodded, her expression hardening. "Agreed. But we must tread carefully. This place is alive with his influence."

They moved cautiously, the forest around them shifting and changing with every step. The path ahead was unclear, obscured by the ever-changing landscape. Azriel's shadows flickered nervously, reacting to the unnatural magic permeating the air.

As they pressed forward, the trees began to close in, their branches intertwining above, blocking out the light. The air grew thick with a palpable sense of dread.

"We're close," Y/N murmured, her eyes narrowing as she scanned their surroundings.

Azriel felt it too--a presence, ancient and malevolent, watching them from the depths of the forest. He tightened his grip on his blade, ready for whatever lay ahead.

But for now, they could only move forward, deeper into the heart of Wildmere, where Koschei's magic twisted reality itself.

"The deeper we will go, the worse it will get."

Azriel didn't look at her as he led the way, shadows curling around him like arrows, ready to be sent out whenever he commands them to. "How do you know that?"

Y/N only followed him, shifting her clean nails for iron ones "It seems like you know nothing about this place, Shadowsinger, the Wildmere was not always like this. It’s not just forest--it’s memory. What you see here? Twisted bark, blackened moss, silence that’s too loud? This place remembers what it used to be. And Koschei is feeding on that pain."

Azriel’s jaw tightened. He didn’t look back, but his steps slowed slightly. "Memories don’t kill people."

"They do, when a god gives them teeth," she murmured. "You’ll see soon enough. This entire forest is a grieving thing. You walk long enough, it’ll show you what it’s lost. What you’ve lost. Then it’ll ask for a price."

Azriel didn’t respond at first. Shadows slithered along his shoulders, shifting uneasily at her words. But after a pause, he finally said, "And what did it show you?"

Y/N gave a low chuckle--hollow and without humor. "Nothing yet. But it will. The forest always finds a way in."

They walked in silence after that, the mist growing thicker around them, the trees leaning in just slightly more than they had a moment before.

Suddenly, the ground trembled beneath their feet, and a low, mournful wail echoed through the forest. Azriel's shadows recoiled, sensing the disturbance before he could fully comprehend it. Y/N's hand instinctively went to her blade, her posture alert.

From the depths of the forest, a figure emerged: a massive, spectral stag, its form translucent and shimmering with an ethereal glow. Its antlers were adorned with chains of sorrowful faces, each one contorted in silent screams. The creature's eyes, hollow and endless, locked onto them.

Y/N's voice was a whisper, barely audible. "The Forest's Grief."

Azriel's gaze remained fixed on the apparition. "What is it?"

"A manifestation of the Wildmere's sorrow," she replied. "A guardian of lost souls. It feeds on despair and regret."

The stag took a step forward, and the ground beneath them seemed to pulse with each movement. The air grew colder, and the wailing intensified, as if the very forest was mourning.

"We can't kill it," Y/N said, her voice steady despite the growing dread. "We must offer it something, an acknowledgment of its pain."

Azriel's mind raced. What could they offer a creature born of sorrow? What could appease a being that thrived on despair?

The White Stag’s antlers cracked the air like thunder, pure magic slamming into the ground at their feet. Azriel flew back with the force of it, wings snapping wide to steady himself before he hit a gnarled tree trunk. The bark hissed where the Stag’s power had touched it, blackened, rotting.

Y/N stood her ground.

Not because she was unmoved.

Because she was thinking.

Its eyes burned with a light too ancient to belong to this world. Azriel’s shadows shrieked in his head, tangled around his arms and throat like they were trying to drag him away from it. From her.

“It wants something,” he growled, stepping forward, siphons flaring.

Y/N’s iron nails gleamed as she bared her teeth. “No shit.”

Another blast surged toward them. Azriel dove in front of her on instinct, shield raised from his siphons, but the magic slipped through, not touching flesh, but memories. His knees buckled.

A flash, his training pit. Then Elain, eyes wide with something unreadable. Then the Blood Rite, Rhys’s body limp in a river of red.

Gone.

Azriel gasped.

“Azriel.” Y/N grabbed his arm, grounding him. “It’s not attacking the body, it’s taking.”

He staggered upright. “Taking what?”

“Weight. Pain. Regret.” She turned toward the beast, blade now in hand, her iron claws retracted. Not her nails, her steel, that curved obsidian blade she'd claimed from the barrows of her world. “It doesn’t want blood. It wants burden.”

The Stag’s eyes flicked to her, then him. Waiting.

Azriel’s heart pounded. “So give it something.”

“I don’t- ” She hesitated. For a breath. “It’s not a trade. It’s a toll. It wants what we carry.”

Azriel clenched his fists. “I’m not offering it my damn memories.”

Y/N stepped forward, still not lifting her sword. “What if we offer it something false?”

“It’ll know.”

The White Stag stomped once. The ground split open just behind them, roots writhing like serpents. A scream tore from the soil, as if the forest itself was in pain.

“You’re right,” she hissed, glancing back. “We can’t outsmart it.”

The air changed then. Sharp. Electric. The stag charged.

Azriel lunged forward, wings snapping out. “Move!”

But Y/N didn’t run. She pivoted, blade slicing the air, not toward the creature, but downward, across her own palm.

Blood met steel.

Magic pulsed, raw and bright.

“Old gods don’t want lies,” she snarled. “They want truth.”

She threw the blood at its hooves.

The White Stag froze, the spray hitting the ground in front of it, blood soaking the roots. The earth went still.

Azriel stared.

The stag lowered its head.

And stepped aside.

Breathing hard, Y/N turned to him. “We have ten seconds. Run.”

They did.

The woods twisted behind them, the stag’s magic lashing at their heels like wind made of bones. Branches grabbed, thorns sliced, shadows pulled at them, but they made it through.

By the time they stumbled out of the cursed clearing, sweat-slicked and gasping, Azriel’s siphons were flickering low.

Y/N collapsed to one knee, gripping her still-bleeding palm.

Azriel dropped beside her, eyes scanning her face. “You alright?”

She exhaled a slow breath. “That thing fed on grief. If I had offered it any more, I wouldn’t have walked out.”

Azriel’s shadows curled tighter. Protective. Watchful.

“Next time,” he said, voice quiet, “warn me when a mythical forest god might try to eat my soul.”

Y/N’s laugh was hoarse. But real.

“No promises, Shadowsinger.”

Then, as if just realising what he was seeing, Azriel looked at her palm in surprise, "You have blue blood? How- how is that possible?"

Y/N glanced at her palm, still glowing faintly under the streak of cobalt. She arched a brow.

“I don’t know, Spymaster. Maybe because I’m secretly made of frost and moonlight. Or perhaps it’s just a fashion statement in my world.”

Azriel didn’t so much as blink at the sarcasm.

She sighed and flexed her fingers, watching the blood thicken, already beginning to seal. “I’m an Ironteeth witch. We all bleed blue. Has something to do with how we were made. Something ancient. Unnatural, some say.”

He looked vaguely unsettled by that. His eyes dipped again to the wound--only to find the blood already drying, the torn skin knitting back together.

“That was… fast,” he muttered. “My wounds take at least two days to heal. Even with my shadows.”

She scoffed, rising to her feet. “Maybe that’s because I’m not a Fae.”

Behind her, she heard the sound of his wings folding in as he followed, close but never too close. “You got something wrong, at last,” Azriel said, his voice lighter than before. “I’m not a Fae. I’m an Illyrian.”

That gave her pause. She turned her head slightly, just enough to catch a glimpse of him in her periphery. “Is there a difference?”

He shrugged. “Illyrians are winged warriors. Fae in general aren’t born with wings. Or this,” he added, tapping a siphon. “We’re something... rougher. Less polished.”

Y/N kept walking but filed that away.

Why he was explaining it to her, she didn’t know. Why she cared to listen, she knew even less.

But the forest was growing darker around them. The trees closer together, their roots rising like gnarled veins through the soil. Firkhan circled above, a pale, faint shape against the thickening clouds.

She could still feel the residue of the stag’s magic trailing behind them, something old and heavy pressing against her spine like a ghost they hadn’t fully outrun.

“We’ll need to stop soon,” she muttered. “Even I can’t see what’s waiting in that dark.”

Azriel merely nodded, his shadows already fanning out ahead of them like scouts.

And still...still, Y/N found herself glancing at him again. At the siphons, the wings, the strange shadows that whispered things she couldn’t understand.

Not Fae. Not human. Not like anything she’d ever known.

Maybe she wasn’t the only weapon born in the dark.

They had found a small clearing, the air thick with the scent of moss and damp earth. The trees here were spaced just enough to allow a semblance of comfort. Y/N dropped her pack, her senses still alert, scanning the surroundings.

"Seems as good a place as any," she muttered, settling down and beginning to unpack.

Azriel nodded, his gaze lingering on the shadows between the trees. "Stay vigilant."

Just as they began to relax, the ground beneath them trembled. A low, guttural growl resonated from the depths of the forest. Before they could react, the earth split open before them, revealing a massive, serpentine creature with scales that shimmered like obsidian.

Its eyes glowed with an unnatural light, and its maw dripped with venomous saliva. The creature hissed, its tongue flicking out, tasting the air.

Y/N stood, her expression hardening. "An Ironfang Basilisk," she said, her voice steady. "Rare, territorial, and deadly."

Azriel's wings twitched, ready for combat. "Can we fight it?"

Y/N shook her head. "Not unless you want to end up petrified. We need to outwit it."

The basilisk advanced, its massive body coiling and uncoiling with terrifying speed. Y/N's hand went to her belt, drawing her obsidian blade. "Get ready," she whispered.

Azriel's shadows flared, forming a protective barrier around them. "On your mark."

With a swift motion, Y/N hurled a handful of enchanted dust into the air, creating a blinding flash. The basilisk recoiled, momentarily disoriented. Seizing the opportunity, Azriel winnowed behind the creature, striking at its exposed flank.

The basilisk howled in pain, thrashing wildly. Y/N darted forward, her blade flashing as she targeted the creature's eyes. Another strike, and the basilisk let out a deafening screech, its body convulsing before it collapsed, lifeless.

Breathing heavily, Y/N wiped the blood from her blade. "That was too close."

Azriel nodded, his expression grim. "We can't afford to be caught off guard again."

They gathered their belongings, moving deeper into the Wildmere, aware that more dangers lurked in the shadows.

The forest pressed in around them, thick and suffocating, but the small clearing they found was enough to catch their breath--for now. Y/N didn’t dare let them linger longer than thirty minutes. The Wildmere was too dangerous, too unpredictable.

Azriel kept his senses sharp, shadows coiling around him like watchful serpents. He glanced at her as she settled against a gnarled tree root, clearly still on edge despite the brief reprieve.

“Firkhan,” she murmured.

Azriel’s head snapped upward, just as a flicker of movement slipped through the dense branches above. Then, like a ghost wreathed in moonlight, the wyvern descended--Firkhan’s translucent scales shimmering faintly in the dim light, his nearly invisible form momentarily solidifying. His golden eyes caught the glimmers of shadow and leaf, glowing softly.

Y/N leaned against him, her voice low and certain. “Firkhan says he’s sensed something… great. Something close. It’s why we’re here—the heart.”

Azriel watched the creature with quiet awe, the way it moved so effortlessly between worlds, half-seen, half-spirit. He wondered what this beast actually looks like back in his world. His gaze shifted back to Y/N, and something about the way she steadied herself in this hostile place made him respect her even more.

They sat in a tense silence for a few moments before Azriel’s curiosity overcame the quiet.

“So,” he started carefully, “how did you come to know so much about this place? This ‘heart’ we’re searching for?”

Y/N’s eyes flickered with faint amusement. “Let’s just say I’ve had more than my share of dark forests and shadows. I’m sort of a spymaster too, born into war and betrayal. I come from a world where the gods are dead, and their shadows still haunt the earth.”

Azriel’s brow furrowed. “Your world... it’s different from ours.”

She nodded slowly, eyes distant as if recalling a lifetime in a single glance. “Very different. It’s a place where gods once ruled openly, but they were all killed--we have Aelin to thank for that.”

Azriel had no idea who this Aelin was but from the sound of it, she seemed to be quite the powerhouse.

Y/N then looked back at him. "Koschei has been slowly but surely infecting our world too and even though I had fought some of his creations, now I see how much more of a great threat he is in your world."

Azriel nodded his head, then, a question struck his mind. "You said Amren had saved you from a god's mouth. How and when did that happen? How do you even know Amren?"

Y/N smiled. Not a cold or cruel smile, but a real, nostalgic smile as she replied "Yes. It was a very long time ago and honestly, I would rather not speak of it. As for Amren, well, she doesn't just know me. She knows my sisters and my queen, Manon too. It's why Manon even allowed me to come here in the first place, because she trusts her and knew that if Amren calls, it's a serious issue because there is nothing Amren can't handle."

Azriel smirked slightly as his eyes drifted to Firkhan, watching the giant beast lay its enormous wing over Y/N. He hesitated, then found himself sharing a piece of his own story, the weight of his loyalty pressing on his chest. “My High Lord, Rhysand--he’s more than just a ruler to me as well. He’s fierce, loyal, relentless. We’ve fought wars, endured betrayals. He’s the reason I fight… why I keep moving forward.”

Y/N gave a small, approving nod, as if recognizing a familiar kind of pain. “Loyalty’s a rare currency in my world too. Trust is harder to earn than blood. Manon’s trust is the only thing keeping me grounded, reminding me there’s more than just survival.”

The forest around them seemed to close in, the shadows thickening as the conversation took a more personal turn. Their voices dropped lower, sharing fragments of childhoods marked by loss, hardship, and resilience.

“I grew up among shadows,” Y/N said softly, “raised to be a weapon, a spy. Not for glory, but to survive. It’s a hard life, but it teaches you to see what others miss.”

Azriel nodded, feeling the weight of those words. “I was born to serve in the shadows too. But my shadows aren’t just weapons—they’re pieces of me. I use them to protect, to hunt. Rhysand gave me purpose beyond the darkness.”

She tilted her head slightly, curiosity flickering in her eyes. “And what about your world? Prythian… it’s beautiful, but scarred. What keeps you fighting, if not loyalty?”

Azriel considered that. “Hope. For a future where the shadows don’t own us. Where people can live without fear. Rhysand believes in that future. I do too.”

Y/N smiled faintly, a rare softness crossing her features. “Hope is a dangerous thing. But maybe it’s what keeps the strongest alive.”

Azriel caught the subtle change in her expression--something almost like longing, buried beneath years of hard edges.

But then, Y/N chuckled slowly, "No wonder I knew the Night court would be the most troubled the moment I received the map from Amren."

Azriel raised an eyebrow. "And did you look into the other courts?"

"Of course I did. What kind of an idiot would go into a foreign world without researching everything from there? Personally, I would love to visit the Summer court for a much needed vacation but obviously that won't be happening so..." Y/N sighed rolling her eyes "It hurts my ego to says this but, I am slightly jealous of your world for having these nice courts. Even though I bet they are all posh and pampered."

Azriel couldn't hide his smile as he replied, "Well, if you do ever come back, just make sure to stay far from Autumn. You don't want to mess with them."

Y/N raised a challenging eyebrow. "Oh? and why is that?"

Azriel’s lips twitched into a small smirk. “They’re… complicated. The Autumn Court has its own rules and its own kind of darkness. Subtle, but dangerous. Like a web that traps the unwary.”

Y/N chuckled softly, shaking her head. “Sounds like my kind of place.”

He studied her for a moment, intrigued by how easily she adapted, how she seemed to carry the weight of two worlds without breaking. “You make it sound like you belong everywhere and nowhere at once.”

She met his gaze steadily. “Maybe I do. Or maybe I’m just a survivor.”

They fell into a thoughtful silence, the sounds of the forest pressing in around them--shadows shifting, leaves whispering in the faint breeze.

Azriel finally broke the quiet, “So, what exactly are we looking for in this heart of Koschei’s power? What does it even look like?”

Y/N’s eyes narrowed. “I don’t know. Something ancient. Something that pulses with his corruption. Maybe a source of his influence. Destroying it might weaken him... or maybe even kill him. Honestly? I have never killed a god before either so this is a first for me too."

Then, she shook her head, sighing in frustration. "I should have asked Aelin for some tips, how on earth does one even kill a god?"

Azriel leaned forward, very intrigued. "Who is Aelin exactly? is she that Godskiller queen you mentioned last night?"

Y/N looked at him and just nodded, seemingly not trusting him at all to give any important information.

Fair enough. Azriel has been doing the same anyway.

The moment stretched between them, heavy with unspoken truths and fragile understanding. But Y/N was quick to break the spell.

“Enough,” she said abruptly, rising to her feet, voice firm. Firkhan, as if already knowing his job, snuggled to Y/N one last time before flying back up.

Azriel watched her for a beat longer, curiosity sparking anew. She was more than the witch he thought he’d met. Something about her unsettled and intrigued him in equal measure.

He stood, shadows coiling like eager serpents around his fingers. “Ready?”

She nodded, determination flickering in her eyes. Together, they moved deeper into the Wildmere, stepping quietly into the thickening dark.

The trees grew stranger the deeper they walked—twisting into near-impossible shapes, branches bending down like fingers to scrape at their shoulders. The air turned dense, humming like a living thing. Firkhan circled silently above, his massive form barely visible except when moonlight slipped across the translucent shimmer of his wings.

Y/N felt it before she saw it.

A shift in the world’s breath. A stillness too complete. Even the shadows underfoot recoiled, Azriel’s included.

“Something’s wrong,” she murmured.

Azriel’s shadows coiled tighter. “You feel it too?”

She didn’t answer. Instead, her steps slowed as they entered a clearing.

At first, it looked… harmless. A meadow nestled between craggy hills, dotted with faintly glowing mushrooms and blanketed in tall, silver-bladed grass. Too quiet. Too still.

Then-

A mirror rose from the ground.

Seven feet tall. No frame. No stand. Just a hovering pane of glimmering glass, and the faint shimmer of a thousand reflections dancing across its surface, not theirs. Strangers. Dead things. Nightmares.

Azriel stepped slightly in front of her. “Is that…?”

But Y/N had already stopped. Her jaw set.

“The Mirror of Maw,” she said flatly.

“You know what it is?”

“It’s not from your world. Or mine. It was pulled through a rift, I think. I’ve only seen a drawing. They say it shows your deepest fear… and then tries to break you with it.”

Azriel’s wings shifted. “Break you how?”

As if in answer, the glass rippled, and his mother’s face appeared, beaten and bloodied. Behind her, two Illyrian boys, children, chained to stone.

Azriel staggered back a step, inhaling sharply.

Y/N didn’t flinch. She knew it was coming.

Then the glass turned again, this time to her.

Not Manon. Not Asterin. Not even the Valg.

Her reflection turned into her own face—wild-eyed, monstrous, fully shifted. Alone. Blood-soaked. Surrounded by the fallen bodies of her coven. Her sisters. Manon. All dead. By her hand.

She blinked.

Azriel hissed, “We need to destroy it.”

“No,” she said immediately. “If we do, it’ll shatter outward. The shards will reflect us infinitely and... trap us.”

He turned his head sharply. “Then what?”

“We have to walk past it.”

Azriel stared. “Seriously?”

Y/N shifted her nails into long, gleaming iron claws. “Don’t look into it. Not directly. Don’t let it know you’re afraid.”

Azriel’s wings flexed, his face pale. “It already knows.”

“Then pretend.” She took a step forward.

The ground beneath them twisted, pulling them in different directions. Illusions bloomed, not just in the mirror, but in the air, hovering projections of past sins and private nightmares. The air sang with the sound of screams not their own.

Azriel clenched his jaw and followed, shadows thick around him, muttering, “What kind of god builds things like this?”

“The kind that never wanted to die,” she whispered.

They moved forward. Step by step.

Each footfall brought a new vision. Azriel gritted his teeth against a sight of his brothers drowning in tar. Y/N fought against a phantom image of Manon turning her back on her.

But then-

The mirror lashed out.

Not with glass, but with reflection. It warped into a massive beast of pure light and shadow, built from every fear it had shown them. It struck like a viper.

Y/N lunged with a snarl, dodging the strike and raking iron claws across its neck. The illusion beast didn’t bleed. It cracked like glass, shrieked like a violin.

Azriel shouted her name, his shadows tangled with the form, but they passed through.

“Don’t fight it like a warrior,” Y/N shouted. “Fight it like it’s a lie.”

Azriel paused, narrowed his eyes, then did the unthinkable.

He closed them.

And drove his knife into his own thigh.

The pain was real. Grounding.

The creature paused.

Y/N followed his lead, slicing her palm with her iron claws, letting the blue blood spill onto the grass. Her breath steadied.

“We are real,” she growled. “You’re not.”

The mirror-beast began to shake.

Then, it shattered in a silent implosion, collapsing into a pool of starlight, then into nothing at all.

Y/N and Azriel stood in the silence, panting, bleeding.

She smirked faintly. “Creative. I’ll give the bastard that.”

Azriel wiped his blade, glancing down at her hand. “Blue blood again.”

She raised a brow. “And you didn’t faint this time.”

He gave a breathless chuckle. “Progress.”

But they both knew, the forest was watching.

And the next trial was already waiting.

By the time the next challenge came, they were ready for it.

After the Mirror of Maw, neither Y/N nor Azriel had let their guard down again. Every step through Wildmere became a calculated risk. They learned quickly that brute strength wouldn’t be enough. This place demanded wit, patience, and endurance.

One moment, they found themselves navigating a river that whispered their greatest regrets in voices not their own—a siren-like hallucination that tried to lure them beneath its surface with promises of absolution. Another time, they were stalked by phantom duplicates of themselves, twisted versions that mirrored every move seconds before they made it—forcing them to fight with instinct instead of thought.

Once, they even found themselves in a grove where time reversed for everything but them—fruit rotting and unrotting on the branch, rain falling upward, Firkhan caught in a loop above them until Y/N used a sliver of her iron blade to slash the air and break the loop’s hold.

But none of it was enough to bring them closer to the heart.

They’d pushed through challenge after challenge, but the twisted forest still swallowed the path ahead in shadows. And worse—Firkhan hadn’t smelled anything yet. No pulse of dark magic, no sulfur, no blood-thick scent of Koschei.

The wyvern had descended three times, enormous wings stirring the trees like thunder. Each time, he’d only blinked those golden eyes and shook his head once before vanishing back into the sky, invisible against the dark clouds.

And now—

“I’m way past the time Manon had assigned for me.”

Y/N’s voice came low, clipped, frustration curling in every syllable as she leaned against Firkhan’s warm side. The wyvern lay curled in a hollow of moss and stone, his translucent wings tucked close to his body like an exhausted sentinel. His presence was the only steady thing left in the wild.

Azriel stood a few feet away, checking the perimeter, his shadows flicking with agitation.

“She’ll understand,” he said eventually.

Y/N scoffed. “You don’t know her.”

“No,” he said, turning slightly. “But I know what it’s like to feel like you’re failing someone who trusted you.”

That shut her up. For a breath.

Then- “We’re going in circles, Azriel. This place, this whole cursed forest, is playing with us.”

His jaw clenched. “And we keep playing back. That’s the job.”

“Is it?” She pushed off Firkhan’s side, iron nails catching the moonlight. “Because I didn’t come here to get toyed with by a dead god’s leavings. I came here to destroy something.”

“So did I,” he said, voice sharp now. “But stomping around like you’re going to slice your way through a thousand-year-old maze of magic isn’t going to get us there any faster.”

She met his stare. “What would you rather I do? Sit here and braid flowers into Firkhan’s mane while we wait for Koschei to start breathing down your High Lord’s neck?”

His wings flared slightly behind him. “I’m saying you’re not the only one who wants to end this.”

They stood like that for a moment—breathing hard, not from exertion, but from restraint.

Y/N turned away first. Ran a hand through her hair. “I just... I don’t fail. I can’t afford to.”

Azriel’s voice came softer. “You think I can?”

She looked at him then. Really looked.

His face wasn’t unreadable this time. The tension in his jaw. The shadows pulled close to his shoulders like a shield. He was just as tired. Just as haunted.

A long silence passed between them.

Then, Y/N sighed, letting her claws retract.

She leaned back against Firkhan, whose massive head nudged her gently, a low rumble of reassurance vibrating through the stone beneath them.

Azriel sat down beside her a moment later, silent.

Neither of them spoke again for a long while.

Only the forest did--breathing, pulsing, watching. Waiting.

And somewhere beyond it all… the heart still beat.

Waiting to be found.

Y/N turned her head to him. "You seem frustrated."

Azriel sighed letting out an angry growl "I have been trying to reach Rhysands mind, to talk to him, talk to anyone at this point, but it hasn't been working and I don't understand why."

Y/N looked straight ahead. "It won't work, so don't tire yourself out."

Azriel looked at her in confusion. "And why is that?"

Y/N didn't look at him at first. She simply leaned forward, resting her elbows on her knees as the low hum of Firkhan’s breathing rumbled behind them like distant thunder.

Then she said, voice level, “Because Wildmere was designed to be a prison. Not just for creatures or for gods, but for anything that might try to enter or leave without permission. Communication magic, winnowing, tracking, it all dies here. Gets eaten by the forest.”

Azriel stared at her. “You knew?”

She gave a small shrug, iron nails lightly tracing the ridges of her palm. “I suspected. The way the air feels… it’s thicker. Charged. Whatever magic was used to curse this place is ancient and primal. Older than either of our worlds can probably remember.”

“And you didn’t think to tell me that earlier?”

Now she looked at him, her gaze flat and unapologetic. “What would you have done? Turned back? Panicked? Told Rhys to call it off?” A pause. “We’ve made it this far. Would knowing you couldn’t call home have changed how you fought through the last three trials?”

Azriel opened his mouth, but nothing came out.

Because no,it wouldn’t have. Not really.

“I’ve survived in places where even thoughts aren’t safe,” she continued. “You adapt. You stop relying on help that isn’t coming. You move forward.”

A beat of silence.

“You really don’t trust anyone, do you?” he said, not accusing,just observing.

Y/N gave a soft huff that might’ve been a laugh. “Trust is expensive. I spend it rarely.”

Azriel looked away, shadows curling tighter around him as if shielding him from something unsaid.

Firkhan snorted, shifting beside them, his massive head lowering into the moss.

“I didn’t mean to keep it from you,” she added after a moment, more quietly. “I just didn’t see the point of wasting breath on something neither of us can change.”

Azriel finally nodded, slow and grim. “Then I won’t waste breath on it either.”

They both sat in silence again, the moment heavier now, not angry, just worn. Both aware of how alone they truly were in this cursed, forsaken place.

Finally, Y/N murmured, almost to herself, “If he really buried his heart here… then he meant for no one to ever leave with it.”

Azriel’s eyes glinted in the dim light. “Then we’ll make him regret underestimating us.”

Y/N’s smirk was faint, but there. “Damn right, Shadowsinger.”

Azriel didn't know where this came from but it seemed like his mouth didn't listen to his brain as he blurted out "Do you have a mate?"

Y/N looked at him, wide-eyed, and then bursted out laughing.

Azriel was confused. "What?"

Still chuckling, Y/N looked at him once more. "We are witches. We don't have any mates."

Now it was Azriel whose eyes widened. "What- I mean...how? Doesn't everyone have a mate?"

Firkhan’s head lifted slightly, golden eyes glinting in the dark. He let out a low rumble that raised the hair on their arms.

Y/N stood, brushing moss from her trousers. “Enough talk. Time’s up.”

So she didn't like this one. Maybe this was too intimate of a matter for her. Or maybe she thought he didn't need to know this information.

Azriel didn't push, he rose beside her. “Let’s move.”

And once again, the forest swallowed them whole.

Suddenly, Y/N stopped and turned around to look at Azriel, eyes wide, as if she just realized something.

Azriel's brow lifted in suspicion. "What?"

Y/N, opened her mouth, eyes lost somewhere else as if she wasn't even talking to him.

Suddenly, Y/N stopped mid-step and spun around to face Azriel, her eyes wide, too wide. Not with fear, but realization.

Azriel’s brows furrowed, instantly alert. “What?”

But Y/N didn’t answer right away. Her gaze wasn’t even focused on him. It was distant, like she wasn’t seeing the twisted forest around them but something deeper, some hidden truth unfurling at last.

Her lips parted, and when she spoke, it was barely above a whisper. “We’re being played.”

Azriel blinked. “What do you mean?”

She began pacing in a small circle, muttering mostly to herself. “We’ve been moving through challenge after challenge: endless, brutal. And they haven’t lessened. Not once. If anything, they’ve become more unpredictable. More desperate. But what if…”

Azriel stepped closer, shadows crawling silently across the ground. “Y/N.”

She looked up sharply, something wild and sharp behind her eyes. “What if the heart isn’t a place?”

Azriel stared at her. “Explain.”

Y/N exhaled shakily, gathering her thoughts, the pieces slotting together. “Koschei’s power is rooted in rot, decay, illusions. We assumed the heart was hidden deep within the Wildmere, that all this--the challenges, the madness--was just a wall we had to break through. But what if that’s the lie?”

Azriel tilted his head. “You think the heart is… everywhere?”

“No,” she said slowly, her voice gaining certainty, “I think the heart is within the challenges. Part of them. A piece hidden in every test, every horror we’ve faced. It’s like we’ve been walking through pieces of his soul.”

Azriel ran a hand through his hair, processing. “That’s why it’s been getting stronger, more chaotic. We’ve been stepping closer each time, not geographically, but… spiritually.”

“Exactly.” Y/N looked around at the ancient trees, the corrupted mist, the way the earth pulsed subtly beneath them. “This forest, it is him. It listens. It watches. We’re not searching for a location. We’re awakening it.”

Azriel let that settle for a moment. “Then what do we do next?”

She turned in a slow circle, iron nails flexing. “We speak directly to it.”

Azriel narrowed his eyes. “Koschei?”

Y/N smirked darkly. “Oh, he’s listening. Has been from the start. I say… we stop playing by his rules.”

Then she raised her voice, sharp and clear, her tone cutting through the forest like a blade:

“I know what you are. And I’m done dancing for you.”

Azriel’s grin was slow, dark, and full of promise. “Now that sounds like a plan.”

From the trees above, a low vibration answered--something old and furious, stirred at last.

And as if Koschei had been waiting for this realization all along, the scenery shifted, pulling Y/N and Azriel into somewhere else entirely.

The forest screamed.

Not with sound,but with movement. The trees began to shift.

Azriel had seen countless battles, had faced terrors that would break the spine of any ordinary warrior,but nothing had prepared him for this. For the way the earth itself groaned beneath their boots, how roots curled like skeletal fingers to drag them under, how the sky had turned a deep, bruised violet above their heads.

They had found the heart.

Or… it had found them.

Firkhan roared from above, his massive body circling violently in the sky, wings slicing through the thickening clouds. The wyvern’s translucent body was flickering between visible and invisible, the magic in the air distorting even him.

Azriel’s shadows lashed out, trying to scout ahead, but they shrieked back into him,blinded, confused.

Y/N stood beside him, her eyes blazing silver. Her iron claws were already out, gleaming. “It’s here,” she breathed. “He knows.”

And then-

The forest exploded.

Not with fire. Not with weapons. But with bodies. They came from the trees. Not beasts, not soldiers. Specters. Hollow things made of bark and blood, faces frozen in silent screams. They didn’t speak. They didn’t breathe. They simply lunged.

Azriel met the first with a flash of his blades, shadows curling up around his arms like a second skin. He fought silently, efficiently, but even he felt the press of chaos. Every time one was cut down, another took its place. They didn’t bleed. They didn’t die easily.

Beside him, Y/N fought like a creature out of myth. Her claws shredded through the phantoms, her movements fast, brutal. And when one got too close, she snapped with her iron teeth, tearing through bark like it was wet paper. But for each one she felled, more came.

"This is endless!" Azriel snarled, kicking a phantom back into a tree, only for it to melt into mist and reform again.

“They’re not meant to be beaten,” Y/N hissed, spinning and driving her claws into one of the specters. “They’re meant to wear us down.”

A blast of dark magic burst from a tree’s core ahead. The bark cracked and peeled back, revealing the heart. Not a heart of flesh—but a pulsing core of black and gold light. It glowed like molten metal, rhythmically beating in the trunk of a tree that stretched impossibly high.

Y/N’s eyes locked onto it. “That’s it.”

But then, the air grew cold. So cold, even Azriel’s Illyrian blood shuddered.

Koschei.

His presence slid over them like a serpent winding around a neck. He didn’t appear physically--just a voice, low and ancient, curling through the trees.

“You are too late. The forest is mine.”

Y/N staggered, clutching her temple as his voice clawed through her mind. Azriel grabbed her, pulling her behind him with one arm while shadows leapt to shield them.

“I’ve got you,” he growled.

“No,” she rasped, pushing away from him, blood now dripping from her nose. “We need to end it. Now.”

She stumbled forward,right into the path of one of the phantoms. It slammed its twisted arm across her ribs and threw her into a tree.

“Y/N!”

Azriel moved before he could think, slicing through two specters and diving toward her. She was curled at the base of the tree, blood blooming from her side, gasping through clenched teeth.

He dropped to his knees beside her, shadows wrapping around them both. “Don’t move. Don’t- ”

“It’s cracked,” she hissed. “My ribs- ”

Azriel didn’t let her finish. His hands pressed to her sides, shadows curling protectively. “Stay down. I’ll hold them off.”

“You don’t have time- ” she gasped.

But Azriel had already stood, wings flaring wide, blades glowing with shadows that roared to life.

The sky above them split, Firkhan descending like death on wings.

And still, the heart pulsed.

Still, Koschei whispered.

Still, the battle raged.

And somewhere in that madness, Azriel made a promise, not aloud, but in the marrow of his bones.

She would not fall here.

Not in his watch. Not in Koschei’s cursed forest.

Not when he had anything left to give.

Azriel’s wings unfurled fully, casting long, looming shadows over the shattered ground beneath them. Firkhan roared above, his distorted, flickering form cutting through the bruised sky like a living thunderstorm. The phantoms surged closer, an endless tide of twisted bark and blood, their silent screams a chorus of despair.

Azriel’s blades sang through the air, shadows coiling like serpents with every strike. He moved with lethal grace, a dark storm in human form, but even he knew brute force alone wouldn’t shatter this nightmare. The heart, pulsing with molten black and gold, throbbed in the center of the ancient tree, a beacon and a curse. It wasn’t just power, it was the very soul of Koschei’s corruption.

Y/N’s breaths came shallow and ragged at his side, blood darkening her iron claws and the forest floor beneath her. Azriel’s sharp gaze flickered between her and the heart, determination hardening his jaw. I have to end this. For both of us.

The specters pressed in tighter, relentless as the dark tide. Azriel’s shadows whipped out, forming a swirling barrier that absorbed phantom claws and bark-like shards, buying precious seconds. He knelt beside Y/N briefly, fingers brushing her cheek with a tenderness that belied the fury in his eyes.

“Stay with me,” he murmured, voice steady but fierce. “I’ll end this. I promise.”

She managed a weak nod, her silver eyes flashing once more with that fierce, untamed light. You always do, they seemed to say.

Azriel surged to his feet, wings beating the heavy, cursed air. He pushed forward, moving as close to the heart as he dared, the twisted bark of the tree pulsing beneath his fingertips. The core radiated an unbearable heat, not warmth, but something corrosive, devouring from within.

Koschei’s voice slithered through the trees again, low and venomous, “Foolish shadow. You think you can grasp what is eternal? What I have bound in blood and bone?”

Azriel ignored the whispers, focusing every fiber of his being on the heart. He reached deep into the shadow realm, calling to the ancient power of his bloodline, the shadows that were more than darkness, but living essence, sharp as blades and deep as night.

With a roar that shook the forest, Azriel’s blades ignited in spectral shadows, glowing with a fierce light that cut through the murk and decay. He struck the heart, first once, then twice, each blow sending waves of black and gold rippling outward.

The forest screamed in agony.

The phantoms faltered, howling in silent rage as their source was wounded. But the heart fought back, tendrils of shadow and rot lashing out, trying to bind Azriel in eternal darkness.

He faltered for a moment, pain biting deep as the corruption tried to seep into his soul. But Azriel’s resolve only sharpened, this was not just a battle of strength, but will.

Summoning every shred of shadow and steel, he drove both blades deep into the core, channeling his fury and hope. The heart shattered in a cascade of molten shards, exploding into a storm of blinding light and shadow.

The forest convulsed, roots recoiling, the corrupted mist dissipating like smoke on a wind long overdue.

Koschei’s voice broke, fractured and fading, “This isn't the end, shadowsinger...”

Azriel stood panting, wings folding back slowly, the oppressive weight lifting from the air. Around them, the twisted trees began to straighten, the pulsating heartbeat of corruption silenced at last.

Y/N groaned softly beside him, pain etched deep but the fire in her eyes undiminished.

Azriel knelt, reaching for her again, a tired but triumphant smile tugging at his lips.

“We did it,” he said quietly, voice thick with exhaustion and relief. “It’s over.”

For the first time in what felt like an eternity, the forest breathed free.

And Azriel, shadowed and scarred but unbroken, swore he’d never let darkness claim them again.

Azriel sank to his knees beside Y/N, his breath heavy but steady despite the toll the battle had taken. The pulsating black-and-gold heart was no more, but the wounds it left behind were still fresh, both on the land and on them. Y/N’s breaths were shallow, each one a sharp stab of pain radiating from her cracked ribs and the blood staining her side.

He shifted his cloak gently, carefully trying not to jostle her too much. Shadows coiled around his hands, soft and cool, weaving delicate threads of healing energy. It was a power Azriel had kept mostly for defense, but now, with grim determination, he called upon it to mend what the heart’s corruption had broken.

“Hold still,” he murmured, voice low and firm. The shadows pressed against Y/N’s skin, knitting flesh and bone together like a masterful seamstress, sealing cracks in her ribs and staunching the bleeding. The pain didn’t vanish instantly--far from it--but it dulled, becoming a dull ache beneath the magic’s careful touch.

Y/N’s silver eyes flickered open, meeting his with a spark of gratitude mingled with exhaustion. “You… you always come through,” she rasped.

Azriel gave a tired, crooked smile. “I’m not done yet. You’re too important to lose.”

He eased her into his arms, careful and protective, letting his wings envelop them both like a shadowed sanctuary. The forest around them was already beginning to heal, corrupted leaves wilting and new green buds pushing through the undergrowth, nature reclaiming what had been twisted.

“We need to get out of here,” Azriel said quietly. “Stay with me. I’ll carry you.”

Y/N nodded, eyes fluttering closed as the healing shadows continued their work, easing the sharpness in her chest.

Azriel rose, wings spreading wide to shield them from any lingering threats. His steps were steady but swift, moving through the forest with the grace of a predator, the shadows parting before him like a living cloak.

Every heartbeat was a reminder--this victory was hard-won, but survival meant moving forward. And he would carry Y/N through whatever came next.

As the forest’s twisted grip loosened behind them, Azriel’s resolve hardened. He wouldn’t just survive--he’d make sure the darkness they’d faced never rose again.

Once they were out, Azriel winnowed them back. The familiar air of the House of Wind wrapping around him like a balm after the suffocating, corrupted forest. He carried Y/N carefully in his arms, her weight lighter than he expected, though the bloodstains on her side told a harsher truth. The others were gathered in the main hall, the tension in the room thick—like the air before a storm.

Mor and Amren stood near the tall windows, exchanging hurried words. Nesta and Cassian leaned against the hearth, faces drawn and exhausted. Rhys and Feyre were by the stairs, eyes sharp, concern etched deep.

The moment they entered, voices rose in a chorus.

“You took so long,” Cassian’s voice was rough but relieved.

Azriel’s gaze flicked to him. “How long?”

Cassian’s grim smile faltered. “Five entire days.”

Feyre stood up from the couch, coming closer to Azriel. "We've all been trying to reach you but we couldn't get an answer."

Azriel sighed, "It was the damn forest, the air in the, it's magic, I couldn't reach any of you either because of that."

A murmur rippled through the room. Y/N stirred slightly, getting down but still leaning against Azriel for support. He stiffened but didn’t pull away.

Rhys narrowed his eyes, stepping forward. “You’re injured. Are you alright?”

Y/N’s silver eyes flickered open. “I’m fine,” she said, voice steady but faint.

She looked at Amren and asked, “When can you open the portal again? I need to go back home.”

The room quieted at her words.

Azriel’s mouth opened, then blurted out before he could stop himself: “Do you really?”

Everyone turned, surprised by his tone.

He cleared his throat, voice rough. “I mean, you are injured after all.”

Y/N gave a small, wry smile. “Manon will be both worried and pissed. She already is. I’m way past the assigned time. I bet they all think I’m dead by now.”

Amren’s eyes glinted. “Give me a few hours.”

Y/N nodded, easing down onto the couch Feyre offered. Azriel never left her side, standing like a silent guardian.

Tea was brought, warm and fragrant, a sharp contrast to the cold metal taste of battle still lingering in his mouth.

The group settled, the fire crackling softly as they began to recount what had transpired in their separate quests. Mor and Amren spoke of the tidal cliffs, how the mirror-anchor shimmered beneath the waves, how the ocean roared with a power Koschei had tried to steal. Nesta and Cassian told of the Forgotten Vale’s haunted soil, the blood magic that bled from the earth itself, and how fire had cleansed the curse—though at a heavy cost.

Azriel’s mind wandered, watching Y/N carefully as she sipped her tea, the faintest flicker of pain crossing her face when she moved too sharply. He remembered the forest’s pulse, the way the heart had throbbed like a living wound beneath the bark, and the relentless onslaught of phantoms that had threatened to tear them apart. He thought of the shadows he’d summoned, not just to fight but to heal, to hold her together when the world had tried to unravel her.

In the quiet moments between their words, Azriel’s thoughts circled around a single, stubborn truth: they had survived, but the cost was far from over. The forest’s corruption was gone, but Koschei’s reach remained—fractured, yes, but dangerous.

"So, I guess my debt to Amren is paid at last."

And Y/N was leaving.

Azriel shouldn't care, after all, she did come here for the mission in the first place. But.... the moments they shared, the conversations they had....Azriel couldn't ignore that. His interest, his curiosity kept rising when he looked at her. She was everything and more that they said about her, yes. But she was also so different. He still had so many questions, so many conversations that he wanted to have with her.

Amren returned then, sharp-eyed and satisfied. “Alright, it’s ready.”

Y/N exhaled through her nose. Relief, maybe. Or weariness. Or regret.

They all followed her into the garden behind the House, bathed in the violet hue of the setting sun. The Sidra shimmered below, and the distant wind caught in the high pines.

Firkhan was waiting, perched like a statue of obsidian and smoke on the cliff edge. The wyvern’s translucent wings had returned to full visibility, glittering faintly in the fading light. He huffed once as Y/N approached, nuzzling her side gently--carefully--where she was still bruised. She placed a hand against his snout, murmuring something in her own language. Something old and sacred.

Y/N exhaled through her nose. Relief, maybe. Or weariness. Or regret.

Cassian, arms crossed but expression oddly soft, offered a nod. “You ever want to visit again, I’ll save you a sparring spot.”

Y/N smirked, the silver in her eyes brightening. “Only if you promise not to cry when I flatten you.”

Nesta arched a brow. “She’s serious.”

“I believe her,” Cassian muttered, half to himself.

Feyre stepped forward next. “Thank you, for what you did. What you gave. It wasn’t your war, but you fought like it was.”

Y/N inclined her head. “It became my war the moment I stepped into that forest.”

Rhys gave a small, approving smile. “And you walked out of it.”

“Barely,” Azriel murmured under his breath, but she heard it.

Amren was last. She held out a small, shining obsidian coin- an anchor token, Azriel recognized. Rare, dangerous, used for long-distance magical travel when gates were unstable.

“Send my regards to Manon,” Amren said. “Tell her I haven’t forgotten that bottle of blackfire she owes me.”

Y/N’s grin returned, sharp and wild. “She’ll pretend she has. But I’ll make sure she doesn’t.”

Amren gave a snort and turned, already bored with sentiment.

Y/N ran her hand along Firkhan’s scales once more, then turned to Azriel. The others, sensing something in the air, quietly stepped back. Shadows deepened in the corners of the garden.

He hadn’t moved.

“You’ll be alright?” he asked, voice low.

“I’ve survived worse.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

A pause. Her silver gaze met his. “I’ll be alright,” she said again, gentler this time.

Azriel nodded, but his jaw was clenched. There were still a thousand questions clawing in his throat. Not about war. Not about magic. About her.

She studied him for a long moment. “You could visit, you know.”

He blinked. “I- what?”

Y/N shrugged one shoulder, casual and not at all casual. “We’ve got plenty of cursed forests too. Would make you feel right at home.”

His mouth lifted in the barest smile. “And a brooding spymaster with too many shadows won’t draw attention?”

“I think we’d survive the scandal.”

Another silence, but not uncomfortable.

Then she looked to the sky. “Firkhan’s ready. And… they’ve waited long enough.”

Azriel’s hand twitched at his side. He didn’t touch her. He didn’t stop her.

But gods, he wanted to.

“Y/N,” he said quietly, one last time.

She turned to look at him over her shoulder.

His shadows curled around his boots, uncertain.

“I meant what I said. Back in the forest. I wasn’t going to let you fall.”

Something flickered in her gaze. “I know.”

And then she stepped away. Climbed onto Firkhan’s back with the ease of a queen mounting a throne. No crown. No farewell.

Just fire in her blood and steel in her spine.

Firkhan launched into the air with a blast of wind and light, his wings cutting through the violet dusk as they entered the portal and vanished completely.

Azriel watched until they were gone.

Until the stars blinked open, silent and still.

And still he stood there.

Because the thing he wouldn’t say--the truth clawing quietly beneath his skin--was that he hadn’t expected to care.

Not for the shadows she had walked through.

Not for the strength behind her teeth.

Not for the ghost of her laughter when no one was listening.

But he did.

And now she was gone.

She came into my world like a storm with no warning. And left just as fast. But storms leave marks behind. And something tells me… this isn’t the end of our story. Not yet.

[faramirsonofgondor]

AU where Dick gets de-aged and thinks that Jason is Bruce because they look really similar, and Jason is the around the age Bruce was when Dick was that age. When everyone tries explaining the situation to Dick he doesn’t really get it because he was de-aged to a time when his English isn’t great and he doesn’t understand as much about time/dimension travel and all that. Like Dick is smart enough to grasp that there’s something different about the situation and he can tell the small differences between his Bruce and Jason but he still doesn’t really get it and just decides that Jason is the next best thing until he gets his Bruce back. And every time the real Bruce says that he’s Bruce, Dick just shakes his head and goes “My Bruce isn’t old.” or “My Bruce doesn’t have gray hair.” or something like that. Eventually everyone just gives up trying to explain it all and lets him think whatever he wants.

They decide to let Jason handle him, mostly because Dick hisses anytime anyone else comes near. Jason, who remembers Bruce constantly singing Dick’s praises, and who has heard everyone speak about Dick as though he’s an angel, thinks this is going to be a walk in the park. It is not. Jason looks away for one moment and Dick’s climbing the walls (literally - not metaphorically). He goes to the bathroom and somehow Dick managed to climb out the window and is halfway downtown. He tries to sleep and Dick is in his room like a creepy ass ninja - staring down at him, waiting for something (Dick had a nightmare). He breathes and suddenly Dick is ranting about killing his parents’ murderer. He tries to help Dick with his English and the kid starts making up words. He decides that they should patrol so that Dick can let some of his energy out, and suddenly there’s a maniacal cackle and he’s surrounded by goons that were taken down in the most brutal sense (are those bite marks???)

Jason finally decides to push his pride aside and talk to Alfred and Bruce about, only for them to act like this is completely fucking normal??? Alfred even laughs at him and tells him that he’s lucky he doesn’t own a chandelier and only lives in a studio apartment. So, Jason tries to get help from some of Dick’s other friends, who do stop by and visit, but do NOT help and just say “good luck with that”??? Even the older members of the Justice League are no help. The only person who even offers to help Jason is DEATHSTROKE of all people, and Jason is almost desperate enough to consider it. It all ends when Jason finds a solution to the whole de-aging thing because he’s so tired of trying to take care of child Dick. Except Jason’s suffering doesn’t end because whenever he tries to talk about what kid Dick put him through, Dick tries to GASLIGHT HIM??? If Jason hears the words “It wasn’t that bad” one more time, he’s going to de-age that little shit again and drop him off on everyone else’s doorstep and see how much they like it.

[sergeantbarnessdoll]

Oooo can I please request a Thunderbolts Bucky x valentina’s daughter reader where her Mom has so much control over her life, even though she’s an adult, having her work for her and wanting her to follow I her footsteps without giving her much of a choice. Omg and imagine Bucky tried online dating again and they matched (not knowing who each other are as she doesn’t want to advertise that she’s Valentina’s daughter and and she didn’t know who he was) and they hit it off and almost became serious bf and gf until he became a congressman and they saw each other at some political events and she realized that he’s the man her Mom is practically the enemy of. They’d run into each other and he tries to talk to her and she’d be in tears and say, “I can’t do this anymore Bucky, I’m sorry, my Mom will kill me. Don’t call me again” and Buck is heartbroken 🥺 They see each other again when she’s having a panic attack and hyperventilating because of her Mom (her Mom probably isn’t every nice to her) and she accidentally walks into where the Thunderbolts are and Bucky’s like, “Whoa whoa hey doll c’mere, breathe for me” and wraps his arms around her as the teams like “You’re dating Valentina’s daughter???” What they come to find out is Y/n is the total opposite of her Mom! Bucky and Y/n kiss and get back together and he promises to get her away from her Mom. She’s join the team and help take her Mom down! (She knows A LOT of her Mom’s dirty secrets)

Complicated » Bucky Barnes/Winter Soldier

Pairings: Thunderbolts/Congressman!Bucky Barnes x Female Reader with the Thunderbolts, Valentina Allegra de Fontaine x Daughter!Reader

Summary: Your mom, Valentina, complicates things for you and Bucky.

Warning: Fluff, Angst, language, crying, panic attack, hyperventilating, kissing, pet names

A/N: Thank you for the beautiful request @kpopgirlbtssvt 🩵

Written on my phone my apologies for any mistakes.

Header made by @buckyys-babydoll / divider made by me

GIF IS NOT MINE! Gif credit goes to the creator.

Going on a dating app is different for you. You’ve never been on a dating app before. It didn’t take long for you to match up with someone. You matched with a guy named James Barnes. From what you seen of his profile picture, you like what you see. You decided to make the first move and message him. You smiled when he messaged you back immediately. You two messaged each other for a few minutes before he asked you out on a date tomorrow night, which you happily said yes to.

When tomorrow became today, you were excited for your date with James. Since you had the day off of work today, you decided to go shopping for a new outfit for your date. You found a cute dress that’s perfect for a first date. You were excited to put it on when you got home. You took a shower before doing so. Then you looked at yourself in the mirror, rubbing your hands over the fabric of the dress. You smiled to yourself, loving the dress even more. You grabbed your keys, phone and purse before walking out of your bedroom. You were stopped by your mom before you got to the door.

“Where are you going all dressed up?” Valentina asks curiously.

“I’m going on a date, mom.” You tell her.

Valentina stares at you for a second, crossing her arms. For some reason, she thought you made that up. You’ve never done that in your life.

“Ok then. Well, have fun.” She says.

You left the house and went to meetup with your date. It didn’t take you long to find James. You saw him sitting at the bar, waiting for you. You smiled and walked over to him.

“James?” You asked.

“That’s me, but everyone I know calls me Bucky.” Bucky says, turning his head to look at you.

Bucky’s jaw almost dropped when he saw you. You’re the most beautiful woman he’s ever laid his eyes on.

“My apologies for staring. You’re beautiful.” Bucky says. “You’re Y/N, right?” He asks.

“Yes.” You blushed.

You two ordered drinks and found a table to sit at.

“I have a question for you.” You say, taking a sip of your drink. “How do you get the name Bucky from James?” You asked curiously.

“Bucky is short for Buchanan, which is my middle name. It’s a nickname.” He explains.

“That’s interesting and I like it.” You say, making him smile.

You and Bucky spend the first date getting to know each other. Bucky managed to blow your mind twice in a few minutes.

“No way! Your best friend is Captain America?” You asked speechless.

“Yes.” Bucky answers.

“That’s amazing.” You say.

“I bet you’re more amazing.” He says flirtatiously.

“Not like you.” You say.

“Tell me anyway. You might surprise me.” He says, taking a sip of his drink.

“Ok. Well…” You begin and told him about yourself.

Bucky listened to every word you said. He had the look of adoration on his face as he listened to you.

“I knew you’d just be as amazing as me.” Bucky says.

“If that’s what you want to call being on the honor roll since the 4th grade.” You say.

“I think that’s amazing.” He says with a smile.

You couldn’t help but smile when he said that. After the date, Bucky, being the gentleman he is, walked you to your car.

“I had a great time tonight.” You say

“Me too.” Bucky smiles, opening the car door after you unlocked it. “I’ll text you later.” He says.

“I’ll be waiting.” You smiled, kissing his bearded cheek.

———

The past few weeks have been going great between you and Bucky. You two aren’t officially boyfriend and girlfriend yet, but you two are just about there. You have been keeping something from Bucky. You still haven’t told him that your mom is Valentina. You hate keeping it from him. You haven’t told your mom that you’re dating Bucky either. You just don’t want your mom to complicate things for you and him.

“Why do I have to be here?” You asked your mom for the millionth time.

“To support me.” Valentina says.

You have no idea what this political event is about. Your mom told you about this event at last minute. You found a seat somewhere in the middle of the room and sat down. You looked around the room, seeing a lot of congressmen and congresswomen. Wait- congressmen… Bucky is a congressman. Your eyes went wide when you seen him. You weren’t scared to see him. You just weren’t expecting him to be there. You just hoped that he didn’t see you, but he did. You gave him a smile and a wave. He walked in your direction and sat down on the chair next to you.

“I wasn’t expecting to see you here, doll.” Bucky whispers.

“I know someone up there and I thought I’d come here and support here.” You said the first thing that came to your mind.

“Aren’t you sweet.” He says, kissing your cheek.

Your mom definitely saw that. She was looking in your direction when Bucky kissed your cheek. You already know that you’re never going to hear the end of it.

Afterwards, you stood in the main area of the building and talked to Bucky. Valentina was off talking to her assistant about something you don’t know about and you’re not sure if you want to know.

“I enjoyed seeing you today, doll.” Bucky says with a smile.

“I enjoyed seeing you too, Bucky.” You smiled. “Also, I had to see how handsome you look in your suit.” You say, playing with his tie.

You and Bucky were gazing deep in each other’s eyes. He moved a piece of your hair from your face before caressing your cheek. Your heart skipped a beat, knowing that he’s about to kiss you. You just hoped that your mom wasn’t around when he kisses you. Bucky leaned in to kiss you, but you two got interrupted before he could. As if it were on cue, your mom texted you.

“I’m sorry.” You apologized softly. “It could be my mom. She’s a worrier.” You say, making up the last part of the sentence.

“It’s ok. Go ahead, doll.” Bucky says.

You smiled at how understanding Bucky is. You sighed after reading the text from your mom.

“My mom wants me to go home and help her with something.” You lied.

“Oh ok. Maybe we can go out this weekend.” He says.

“I’d like that.” You smiled, kissing his cheek.

On the way home, you were waiting for your mom to say something about you and Bucky being close today, but she didn’t. It wasn’t until you two walked in the front door of the house.

“I saw you and Congressman Barnes getting a little too friendly with each other today.” Valentina says. “Is there anything you want to tell me?” She asks.

“There’s nothing going on between me and Congressman Barnes, mom. Him and I met today.” You lied.

“Try again.” She caught your lie right away.

You already know that you’re not going to be able to lie your way out of this one.

“He’s the guy I’ve been seeing for a few weeks.” You finally say.

“End it.” She says.

“What?” You asked.

“You heard me.” She says.

Your mom left the room without saying another word. You weren’t surprised that she said that. She always made your dating life complicated.

That night, you went to another event with your mom. It looked like a gala, but you’re not sure what kind of event it is. Your mom made you stand next to her as she talked to a congressman. You looked around the room. You looked up to see Bucky looking down at you. That’s when you remembered what your mom said to you hours ago.

“Mom, I’m going to use the bathroom.” You lied.

Your mom waved you off. You went up to Bucky. He led you to a secluded area so no one could see you guys.

“Can I ask why you’ve glued to Valentina’s side all night?” Bucky asks.

You knew that you couldn’t keep the secret of being Valentina’s daughter away from him anymore. He’s going to find out sooner or later and you might as well tell him now.

“She’s my mom.” You tell him.

Bucky’s eyes went wide.

“Valentina is your mom?” He asks.

“Yes.” You answered.

“Why didn’t you tell me this earlier?” He asks.

“I don’t like talking about her. Her and I don’t have a great mother daughter relationship.” You say.

“It would’ve been nice to know.” He says.

“I know I should’ve told you sooner, but it’s complicated.” You say.

“What’s complicated?” He asks.

“Everything including us.” You say.

“There’s nothing complicated about us, doll.” He says softly.

As much as it pains you to do, you have to end things with Bucky like your mom told you to do hours ago.

“I can’t do this anymore, Bucky. I’m sorry. My mom will kill me. Don’t call me again.” You say, your voice cracking.

“Please don’t do this, doll.” Bucky whispers.

“I’m sorry.” You apologized. “You’re an amazing man, Bucky.” You almost whispered.

You cupped his bearded cheeks and kissed him passionately for a few seconds before walking away. Bucky was left heartbroken and confused. Your eyes teared up and so did Bucky’s. You hate yourself for ending things with Bucky, but you had no choice. You will never forgive your mom for making you do this to an amazing man like Bucky.

———

It’s been a few days since you ended things with Bucky. In those few days, you stared at Bucky’s number in your phone, tempted to call or text him. You refrained yourself from doing so. Also, in those few days, your mom has been planning something. Something that’s not going to end so well. You’ve been trying to talk your mom out of doing it, but she’s not listening. Instead, she’s trying to talk you into joining her on what she has planned, but you don’t want to.

“Mom, you can’t do this. It’ll end badly.” You say.

“It won’t if you join me.” Valentina says.

“I don’t want to join you.” You say for what it seems like the thousandth time today.

“You will. You know where to find me when you change your mind.” She says.

“I’m not-” Your mom walked away before you could finish your sentence.

What your mom has planned made you begin to panic. You wanted to call Bucky for help, but you had a feeling that he wouldn’t answer his phone if you called him after you broke things off with him a few days ago. Your breathing became uneven as you continued to panic. Bucky, Yelena, Ava, Alexei, and John entered the room your mom is in a moment later.

“This ends today.” Bucky says.

“Congressman Barnes, less than half a term.” Valentina says.

Your mom continues to greet Yelena, Ava, John, and Alexei. You walked in the room shortly after Yelena asks your mom where Bob is, not meaning to interrupt them. Bucky’s facial expressions softened when he saw you. He immediately walked over to you.

“Woah, woah. Hey, doll. C’mere. Breathe for me.” Bucky whispers, wrapping his arms around you.

Bucky rubbed your back to help you calm down. Your hands grasped onto his jacket, clutching the fabric tightly. You got your breathing under control after a couple minutes. Yelena, Ava, Alexei, and John stared at you guys in surprise.

“You’re dating Valentina’s daughter?” Yelena asks.

You and Bucky looked at each other, not knowing how to answer that question.

“Not anymore.” Valentina answers for you and Bucky.

Bucky looks at Valentina with furrowed eyebrows.

“You’re the reason why Y/N ended things with me? Why would you make her do that?” Bucky asks.

“You really think my daughter would be able to handle dating a guy with a past like yours?” Valentina says.

Bucky’s jaw clenched and he took a step toward your mom. You pulled on his arm to stop him.

“She’s not worth it, Bucky.” You say softly.

Bucky nods and protectively wraps his arm around you. Valentina rolled her eyes at you guys.

“I don’t have time for this.” Valentina mutters before leaving the room.

You wrapped your arms around Bucky and leaned your head against his chest.

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have broken things off with you.” You apologized.

“It’s ok, doll. I’m not mad at you.” Bucky says softly.

“If it means anything, I never stopped loving you.” You say, looking up at him.

“I never stopped loving you, babydoll.” He says.

One of Bucky’s hands caressed your cheeks and he kissed you passionately. The team gave you two smiles and nods of approval.

“THAT’S WHAT I TALK ABOUT!” Alexei shouts, making you and Bucky laugh.

———

Weeks go by since you last spoke to your mom and saw her. You and Bucky got back together and made yours and his relationship official. You also joined the Thunderbolts, which is way better than the job your mom kept trying to get you to get. Since the Thunderbolts know your mom and her plans all too well, you give them any information on her plans.

“Is there anything we should look out for while taking down your mom?” Yelena asks.

“Her only weakness is anyone, besides her and her assistant, knowing her plans.” You say.

“So what you’re saying is play with her weakness?” John asks.

“Yes.” You replied. “Oh and here’s a flash drive I managed to steal from her when she wasn’t looking.” You say.

You gave the flash drive to Yelena and she put it in the computer to see your mom’s plans. While the team was going through your mom’s plans, Bucky wrapped his arms around your waist from behind.

“I’m happy that you joined the team.” Bucky say softly.

“Me too.” You replied softly.

Bucky put a hand under your chin and turned your head just enough so he can kiss you sweetly and passionately.

“I love you, babydoll.” Bucky whispers.

“I love you too, sweetie.” You whispered back.

-Bucky’s Doll

[gamingavickreyauction]

I don't normally like responding piece-by-piece, as the lack of structure makes it difficult to see the big picture, but your post had no structure anyway, so

the pieces of technology that you mentioned - looms, railroads, cars, etc., aren’t equitable to generative AI that creates “art.” Looms allowed human beings to create rugs, blankets, and make designs within the woven piece. There’s human effort spent there to create something. It helped us to create more with our own hands.

Why would AI replacing human labour rather than augmenting it make any difference to the fact that you can't eliminate a technology by argument? As long as there are people with an incentive to use the technology (and there are, AI art is a lot cheaper than hiring human artists for commercial projects) it's going to happen, unless you go whole hog and make it illegal. And that's never happening because a) it's clearly ridiculous and b) when there's so much money to be saved there would be a huge counter-lobby. None of that is undercut by, or bears any relevance to, whether technology is replacing humans. But also, this distinction you're trying to draw doesn't add up. Many classes of labour have been wholely replaced by other technology- how many people work in carding? And AI art could likewise be argued to augment, rather than replacing human capabilities, because there's still a human involved in the process, writing the prompts.

I'm going to sound quite derisive in this post, as I can't help myself. I entreat you to look past that and focus just on my arguments.

the closest comparison we have is nukes, as it can assure destruction of art without any safeguards

Skipping over the assurance that 'the criticisms are very real and exist' which makes you sound like a TERF, this is patently false. People using AI to create art doesn't mean you can't also create art manually. It might potentially mean people aren't hired to produce art commercially, with time, and if it gets good enough, but if you equate 'art' with commercially commissioned art you have wholly succumbed to capitalist brainrot. We are talking about an industry potentially being replaced here, not art itself, and when an industry is replaced that's a good thing, it means we can produce more with the same amount of time spent working, and live more affluent lives. The fact that people aren't hired to card wool anymore is good, because it makes our clothes cheaper for the same level of quality. It was bad for people doing that work when it was replaced, but in the long run everyone is better off.

Also the key thing about nukes is they can kill us all. Now as it happens, AI could also kill us all, but it won't be an art generator that does it, so the comparison with nukes is facile, and presumably one you only made because max pointed to it as one of the exceedingly rare examples of a technological genie being put back in its bottle. But clearly there isn't the same level of incentive to contain AI art as to contain nukes.

If we lived somewhere that cared about the impact on the environment, our brains, and our communities, then there might be laws against the scraping of others' work on the internet and about what images generative AI can produce.

I address elsewhere the actual impacts you claim, but laws against what kind of art can be produced are an extremely dangerous precedent to set. Particularly when the rationale is 'the negative influence it has on society'. And it is an extremely bad idea to outlaw an artistic medium because you don't see value in it- painters would have done the same to photography when it was new, given the chance. Scraping images is just downloading them from the internet, like happens on your laptop whenever you save an image onto your phone. Fundamentally, the only difference is quantity. So you can't draw a clear line between 'scraping for AI art' and other downloading of images, in order to ban one and not the other. Banning saving images onto a computer just isn't something you can do in a sensible way without collateral damage.

Let’s talk about the environmental impact of generative AI “art.” Because this is a very very tangible impact of AI.

You present various out-of context figures to make it seem like AI energy use is uniquely threatening to the environment. All data centers combined use 1-2% of global energy- and for now AI training and generation is a small minority of that.

The demand for new data centers cannot be met in a sustainable way. The pace at which companies are building new data centers means the bulk of the electricity to power them must come from fossil fuel-based power plants

When people say 'we can't possibly expand renewables fast enough so we need to keep using fossil fuels' people like you rightly call it out as being a political decision, not an inevitability, as you could expand renewables fast enough if you invested enough. But here you suddenly forget that and immediately conclude fossil fuels are the only possibility. There's nothing fundamentally different about that 1-2% of electricity used by data centres that mean it has to be generated from coal. In fact flexibility about location means it is easier to get from renewables.

And generative AI also has indirect environmental effects, from the GPUs and CPUs that are manufactured to help generative AI. These tend to lead to a bigger carbon footprint. And you might say, “Well other technological advances led to bigger power draws! They changed the way we powered things!” And they did, but not on this massive scale

AI can't both be something useless and something that's going to take off so much that a significant portion of the world's energy will be dedicated to it. Which argument do you want to make? because you can't make both. The rise of online gaming has also led to a great increase in the amount of servers used, and the corresponding resource extraction. Contrary to your unjustified claim, there is nothing fundamentally different between the growth of AI art servers and the growth of online gaming servers.

Generative AI is simply a remix of things that have been created by human beings - including our past historical biases.

This is a poor description, but you are correct that AI will tend to have the same biases as the data it was trained on- which are generally Americo/Eurocentric.

Generative AI can’t think about what it’s creating, or the implications of said image. It can't determine if a thing is racist, wrong, or bad. It spits out whatever is asked of it.

If you converse with any public large language model you will quickly find that it refuses to say a lot of things because they go against the ethical ideas it was trained to have. AI isn't more racist than what it was trained on or less. It has no tendency to shift society one way or the other. It reflects the biases of the people who made it, just like paintings or photography.

the art/writing of AI is simply stolen compiled content

This is a misconception. Typically, a sentence generated by an AI will not be a sentence written anywhere in its training data. It generates original sentences that follow the same patterns as its training data, much as humans generate original sentences based on our previous experience of how our language works. The same applies to image generation, etc. That training data won't be things the AI company purchased, but they will be things available for anyone to see on the internet, and they won't be reproduced anywhere. If that gets legally classified as stealing then a whole lot of other things you care about will too. Property rights getting stronger is almost always a bad thing for people who aren't millionaires.

Generative AI art could make this, but what would it mean? It’s not the same as generations upon generations saying, “I’m Here,” with a simple handprint.

This I think actually is a sensible point. Seeing art as essentially communication- a conversation across culture- is a coherent way to look at art, and art that is generated procedurally, with less input from humans, will have less to add to that cultural conversation, because that can only come from being part of that conversation, which an AI model cannot really do.

An AI generated image of a handprint really wouldn't have the same weight as a real handprint from a historical culture, because it would be an imagined image of another culture that is saying something to us, rather than a real culture that is saying something to us. A picture of a conversation not a real conversation.

However this is not the only way to look at art, and many people are looking for something that is beautiful rather than something that is meaningful, and it has no bearing on commercial art which exists to fulfill a practical need ('we need something to put on the cover of this book') rather than to participate in a cultural conversation.

What example are we setting for future generations if we have no standards on what constitutes art?

This could be straight out of the mouth of Dennis Praeger. You cannot delimit what can and cannot be art- artists will always push boundaries. You might not enjoy what they create, and that is your prerogative, but narratives about a decline in artistic standards are reactionary tosh. It's bizarre that you criticise colonialist mindsets in AI models then demand that everyone conform to the same idea of what can be a 'masterpiece'- the received idea about what is and isn't a masterpiece is very colonial.

Additionally, it's irritating that you pepper your post with suggestions that max is ignorant of the arguments you make, which are wholly unoriginal, and everyone on tumblr has heard a hundred times, whereas you seem not to have understood max's argument, despite it being well put. Had I less restraint I might accuse you of projection.

You can't argue against a technology. No one has ever, ever, in the history of humanity, argued a technology out of existence. The closest we've come are nukes and human genetic engineering. Nukes exist and multiple countries have massive arsenals of them, but we've agreed not to use them because it would mean humanity's utter destruction. Human genetic engineering cuts right to the heart of a bunch of ethical questions about health, equality, identity, and so on, and also up until very recently genetic engineering has been a long and extremely expensive process. We'll see how long human genetic engineering remains taboo now that it's getting cheaper and easier. But these are absolute outliers. In the vast, vast majority of cases, I mean literally in virtually every single case, when people fight a new technology—for any reason—they loose.

There is no tenable "anti-AI art" position, just like there was never a tenable anti-loom position, or anti-railroad position, or anti-horseless carriage position. These things were doomed to fail absolutely from day one, as soon as the technology existed, and anti-AI art is doomed to fail just as utterly and completely. There is just no path here, if this is what you've hitched your wagon to I really do not know what to tell you.

[lheslie]

i literally luv how u wrote harem its so hard to find harem these days TYSM ( i was the one who asked for scarlet witch reader!!)

8 Variants + 1 Reader

Thank you!!! I'll give you the full-on context. Wait. . .

You were rejected by your best friend Mark.

Now you're forced to live in with 8 different versions of him

How will you live with this catastrophe?

It all started when you met Mark Grayson, the man whom you had loved since elementary school.

When you confessed to him, he sadly did not feel the same way as you did.

Years went by, and you still hadn't moved on, although you and Mark are still good friends.

One day, he revealed to you his secret Identity as Invincible, and he was dating the Superhero Atom Eve.

You still tried to be supportive since you him to be happy, but you were hurting deep down.

He formally introduced you to Eve, his girlfriend; she was very eccentric and beautiful.

You immediately understood why he liked her; thinking about this made your heartache.

The way he looked at her, the way he talked and moved around her.

It's something that you were envious of, and that's something that you had to accept.

After you learned that he was Invincible and Atom Eve was Eve, he also introduced you to the other members of the Guardians of the Globe; he didn't introduce you to everyone but to a few that he seemed to trust.

Now that you knew that he was Invincible you can't help but worry for him whenever you see him fighting enemies on the news.

You can't help but wonder if you could do anything to help, even just a bit, so you could lessen his great burden.

You had started to learn Magic and Sorcery

And little did you know learning Magic would actually come in handy.

Because one day, Levy Angstrom had started an all out war with Mark.

He had called different versions of Mark to attack your dimension.

You Immediately rushed out to help everyone, trying to locate them with your magic.

Although you could not save everyone, you knew you could still save some.

With a recent spell that you've learned, which was a binding spell, you knew you could stop those other Marks from killing other people.

You were able to capture 8 Variants of Mark, binding them to your will.

And with that is the spell. They're at your beck and call.

But little did you know, that these Variants had a crush on you.

Their version of you had died in their dimension seeing you with powers astonished them, but also made them curious to learn what different scenarios had happened for you to gain such powers.

Cecil wanted them imprisoned somewhere inside the GDA, but you refused as Mark told you how Cecil recently treated him by Implant something inside his brain.

So you've decided to take 8 versions of your best friend to live inside your house, sharing a living space.

You sometimes question if you made the right choice to have them under the same roof.

As you watch them argue and destroy your furniture.

Mohawk Mark, Target Mark, and Shiesty Mark were fighting over who should sleep beside you tonight, while No Goggleses Mark was hyping them both.

Viltrum Mark was looking at your displayed books placeonat your shelves.

Omni Mark had his arms crossed, ss just judging everyone from a corner.

While Prisoner Mark was just looking at the pictures on the walls you had with him.

Sinister Mark was trying to get out of your binding spell as he was held in one place after he tried throwing a chair at Mohawk Mark.

You sighed while you massaged your head to calm yourself down.

@hhoneylemon (I needed to changed the name)

[matchpointrogers]

bucky barnes thunderbolts!era fwb in the watchtower hiding it from everyone :P

help me hold on to you ⏾⋆.˚

fwb thunderbolts! bucky x thunderbolts! reader

tw for smut! slight angsty bucky, mentions of torture/hydra kinda

the first time you had bucky barnes in your bed, his dog tags had dangled against your face, cool and metallic against your flushed skin, branding you as something akin to his. it wasn't soft, wasn't tender. it was all tongues and teeth, his hand resting gently around your throat, never gripping enough to remind him of the times he'd been there before. he used your pulse thrumming beneath his thumb as a reminder; you were alive, real, safe. before, before he was ever the winter soldier, before the thunderbolts, before mission after mission splintering his mind, back when he was just bucky, it had been different. he had this way about him, a cunning grin that you'd shamefully fawned over in photographs, and women had wanted to impress him. now, though, with his metal arm and the cold demeanor he couldn't seem to shake, women tended to avoid him. they saw him as a threat, or a challenge, never just bucky. that was, of course, until you came along.

you'd fallen into each other accidentally at first, brought together by something like inevitability. you never cowered from him; that was the first thing he noticed about you. next came the softness of your gaze, despite the hard exterior you'd been forced to keep up. then, the gentle brushes of your hands against his skin as you bandaged him up after missions. tension built, nights spent with lingering glances, secret touches surrounded by your team. he'd finally snapped when you returned from a mission 2 days later than planned, unharmed but shaken, refusing to talk to anyone but him about what you'd seen.

"it was awful," you told him, voice shaky, drink in your hand like a crutch, "i knew hydra was awful, of course i knew, but- bucky, i'm so sorry they did that to you," his brows furrowed, pinched together, "what do you mean? what did you see?" it all came spilling out then. graphic descriptions of the facility you and yelena had been sent to raid, empty but full of information that you needed, leftover from the avenger's efforts. the terrible things you'd seen, the ancient screens playing looped footage of bucky. him, bound to what appeared to be a surgical chair, screaming like his life depended on it. him, forced to kill over and over, until he was just a hollow shell of a man. him, begging for steve, for his mother, for anyone to come and save him. your heart had broken, over and over, more and more for this poor man, so accustomed to the torture. he'd taken it all with grace as if he was hearing about someone else and not a past version of himself.

he let you finish, let you get it all out, comforted you as if it wasn't his burden to bear. "i was built to withstand it," he said when you were finished, like it was so simple, "it doesn't make what they did alright, i understand that. but i'm okay, i mean that. i've come a long way, and there's no sense in you worrying, alright?" you wanted to argue, but he had that look in his eye you knew all too well, the one that told you his resolve wouldn't be slipping anytime soon. "yeah, okay," you nodded, finishing your drink with a sigh. "let me walk you up to your room," he stood, holding his arm out for you to take, "and you're sure you weren't hurt, right?" "i'm sure, bucky," you nodded, looping your arm through his, "thank you for checking on me,"

he walked you up as promised, his hand now settled against your back, light enough to prevent coming across as pushy, but firm enough to let you know he had you. you thought, as you walked, that bucky always had you. every mission, he laid his life down for any one of the team, but especially you. he went to such great lengths, every minute, to keep you safe. the idea of this man, this great man, who had been through so much, now devoting his life to protecting other people, was enough to have your eyes stinging with unshed tears by the time you reached your bedroom. "what is it?" he asked, the moment he detected the shining of your eyes, "are you hurt?" "no," you shook your head, a teary laugh escaping your lips, "i'm okay, buck. just- i'm just grateful. you've been through so much, i'm so grateful you're still here, that you're still so good," "oh, красивый," the word caused your brows to furrow, glancing at him curiously. "nothing," he shook his head like he was shaking off a ghost, "you're just very sweet,"

he lingered in your doorway, leaned against the wood, watching as you sat at the edge of your bed. "suits you," he gestured to the plush green bedspread, "i figured that was your favorite, ever since you made a fuss about picking that green flower when we were at the edge of the city," you looked up at him, brows knit, "you remember that?" "i remember everything," he said it as if it was obvious, as simple as breathing, because to him, it had been. you weren't sure how it happened after that. he'd closed the door behind him, stood between your legs, towering over you as he stroked the side of your face with his thumb, an expression that only told you he was holding himself back. "it's me," you murmured, voice uncharacteristically soft, "you can let go, bucky,"

that was all it had taken, the final chip in the iceberg. he kissed you with a fervor, like he was building a new home in your mouth, like he was going to consume you. you knew, distantly, he would. he was stern but gentle, holding you tight but never bruising. his name was on your lips like a prayer, like an absolution, the culmination of your deepest, untapped desire. you reveled in the cool steel of his dog tags, in the bite of his metal arm brushing against your thigh, holding your legs apart to make more room for his broad frame. he kept his eyes on you the entire time, giving you the privilege of watching him unfold, the black of his pupils eating up the blue of his eyes. his lips were bitten until they were red and swollen, his face relaxed for the first time since you'd met him.

"красивый," it fell from his lips again, quiet like he hadn't meant to say it, unable to hold it back when he watched you come undone beneath him. afterwards, you laid your head on his chest, listening to the steady rhythm of his heart, your fingers trailing the planes of muscle. "what does it mean? красивый," you cringed at your awkward pronunciation, awaiting his explanation. he didn't give you one at first, just rolled over, pulled his clothes back on with a stifled yawn. he leaned down, pressed a kiss to your head. "don't think we should let the team know about this yet. i'm not trying to run out on you, but you know how they linger," you nodded, smiled hazily up at him, "yeah, it's alright," he paused in the doorway, looked back at you, "it means beautiful,"

everything after that was a blur. stolen kisses behind constantly revolving doors, hands held beneath tables, the brush of thighs when the team got together in the debriefing room. his scent started to linger on your pillow, never having time to fade out completely before he was laid back against it again, the smell of sandalwood and cinnamon, warm like the chai lattes you both liked to sip in the mornings, a rare luxury he allowed himself. the only other luxury he allowed was you, the nights spent curled alongside you in your bed, learning the slopes and planes of your body until he could feel them in the dark. he could recognize the bait of your breath, the soft repeating of his name, committed it to memory until you took up enough space to drown out the nightmares. he'd dreamed of war for so long it was all he knew, the screams, the pleas for him to stop. you were slowly pushing them out, replacing them with your pleas for more, for him to stay. he dreamed of you meeting steve, the three of you being the best of friends back in brooklyn. he dreamed most often of you just the way you were, fighting and uncrushable spirit, bright eyes and sure footed, unshakable determination to do the right thing.

he knew you'd been through things, knew your strengths had not always been an asset, but a curse. he recognized the familiar flinches on missions, the comfort you sought out in the strangest of places, the way you always felt safer when you were cold. he knew you, in some ways, better than he knew himself. he'd almost slipped up, many times, almost called you his girlfriend, his partner, something more than just a friend. he wasn't sure what you were, really, just that you were more himself than he was. he'd finally found something to come home to, another way to heal after all the pain, all the work he'd done. "steve would have loved you," he told you once, watching you draw the curtains closed in his bedroom, your presence filling his space with a light he hadn't felt in years, "would've told me you're too good for me, probably," he smiled when he said it, but the thought pained him, the concept of anyone wanting to take you away from him. "well, he would've been dead wrong," you grinned, dropping into bed beside him, curling up in his lap, "i would've hated to have to fight your friend,"

you were sure yelena knew. she hinted at it more and more, but never pressed, only joked that it was about time. you ignored her, but couldn't ignore the warmth in your chest at the thought of being known, the idea of getting to love bucky publicly. it terrified you, at first, the idea of loving him. but then it came as easy as breathing. he'd placed his dog tags around your neck one night, in a moment of desperate tenderness, entranced by watching them rest against your chest, your skin warming the metal. "they look better on you," he told you, pressing a kiss to your collarbone, "моя звезда," "bucky," you half laughed, half scolded, "no fair. you have to translate," "my star. my beautiful star, моя прекрасная звезда," you kissed him to keep from crying, muffling your moans with his lips when he pulled you into his lap, buried himself inside of you with a newly familiar ease. you kept the tags tucked beneath your shirt and gear, your fingers finding them each time you got overwhelmed or afraid. he was always there, a ghost around your neck, keeping you company no matter how far you went.

he called you to his room one night, months after that very first time, needing you in more ways than he could describe. the second you opened the door, he was on you, pushing it shut and pressing you against it, his lips on yours, hungry and warm. he had you on the bed in seconds, stripped of your clothes soon after, touching you like he'd die if he stopped. "beautiful," he mumbled, cradling the back of your head as he kissed you, sucking in a breath as he slid inside you. he had you beneath him, holding your face in one hand, his metal arm holding your leg up gently. "god, bucky," your eyes rolled back as he worked you the way only he knew how, having learned your body like nothing else, "oh, right there," he let his head fall forward, resting his forehead against yours, hovering just over your lips. "я тебя люблю," he whispered, breathless, "te iubesc, eu te amo, Ich liebe dich,Je vous aime," he had you coming undone before you could question it, his metal fingers cold against your clit, working circles onto it. "oh, god, yes," you gasped, clutching him tightly, trembling in his arms. he groaned as he came, your name on his lips in perfect repetition.

"what were you saying?" you asked, curled in his arms moments later, your chest still rising and falling rapidly, "what language was that?" "russian, romanian, porteguese, german, french," he muttered, running his fingers through your hair, "i know some japanese as well, some others. if you're interested," "just want to know what you said," you rolled your eyes with no real malice, "in english, please," "maybe you should learn russian, smart girl," he teased, tickling your side lightly, "i'll even say it slow for you," "i'll just google it," you huffed, rolling over to reach for your phone. he moved to stop you, a shining look of fear in his eyes, "wait-" you'd already typed in a butchered version of the romanian version, your eyes darting from the phone screen to bucky's conflicted expression. "bucky, this- it says i love you, so i'm sure i spelled it wrong-" "i love you," it fell from his lips like an admission of guilt, "in all of the languages i know, i love you. but this is the only one you can understand, so it's the only one that matters. i love you,"

"oh my god," you dropped your phone onto the bed, your eyes welling with tears, "you-" "it's been a long time since i was sure of anything. i learned to second guess everyone, everything, but you? you're- god, you're this shining beacon, this impossible way to move on, this hope. you're you, you're beautiful and strong and it's such a privilege to know you at all. and i don't deserve you, but i'll die trying to become the sort of man who does," "bucky," you laughed, breathless, "bucky, you idiot, of course you deserve me," you fell into his arms, buried your face in his neck, "i love you, i- i don't know those languages, te amo is all i know, but this is my favorite," you pulled back to kiss him, quick but meaningful, "i love you," he looked like he might sob, pulling you tight to his chest, holding you with both arms enveloping your body. "i love you," he repeated into your hair, voice trembling. "i love you," you murmured, "it feels so good to finally say that,"

later, when he'd fucked you speechless once again, he played with your fingers, humming contently. "we should probably tell everyone," you yawned, pressing a kiss to his shoulder, "not that they don't already know," "i'll tell everyone in the world," he laughed, "we'll tell them in the morning, alright? can't believe you're my girl," he kissed you, short and sweet, "we can tell them we're going steady," "it's not the 40s anymore, old man," you teased, but a part of you ached for that brooklyn boy and all the dates he'd never get to go on, "but yeah, sure. we're going steady. hey, maybe you can take me down to the sockhop-" "shut up," he groaned, burying his face in your neck, but you could feel his smile against your skin. "i mean it," you said softly, "i want to do all the things with you that we never got to do," "there's no one i'd rather do it with," he brushed his lips against your cheek, "моя звезда,"

[anglbunny]

PLAYBOY ♡ MINI JJK SERIES

JJK COLLEGE!AU | COLLEGE!CHOSO X READER

"𝗣𝗹𝗮𝘆𝗯𝗼𝘆 𝘀𝗵𝗶𝘁, 𝘁𝗵𝗮𝘁'𝘀 𝘀𝗼𝗺𝗲 𝗽𝗹𝗮𝘆𝗯𝗼𝘆 𝘀𝗵𝗶𝘁"

SUMMARY: In which Choso kamo is your best friend's older brother. Your best friend's yuji itadori. you've been friends since kindergarten and choso has always been there. you guys used to be close at some point, when things were simpler. but you started getting attracted to the only person you shouldn't have been attracted to. He's 3 years older than you for gods sake, has a girlfriend or multiple, who knows and worst of all, it would kill yuji if he found out you liked his brother. So you buried those feelings. You told yourself it would get easier, especially as Choso drifted away and life pulled you apart. Then college happened. And damn, does he look like sin reincarnate.

CONTENT: Choso is very toxic and is a playboy, completely different from the canon universe, choso does some questionable things but reader forgives him easily (i would too), lots of parties and unrealistic college life stuff, heavy use of weed and alcohol, implied use of drugs, choso and yuji both play basketball but not on the same team, choso also has a tongue piercing, this a mini - around 5 part series.

› Playlist

› I. Used to know you

› II. Truth or lie

› III. Not so little anymore

› IV. Jealous tongues

› V. You ruin me

› VI. Off limits

› BONUS. Mine

STARTED: 05/30/25

CURRENT STATUS: ongoing

TWS: Stoner!choso, tatted up!choso, pierced!choso, bsf's brother!choso, playboy!choso, HEAVY smut, angst, push and pull dynamic, Age gap (3 yrs), college au, parties, alcohol, mentions of drugs, toxic relationship, lowkey forbidden

TL: @arwawawa2 @mihyas-dieehefrau (open)

A/N: So its finally here.. tehe. Also the wattpad version will get updated before the tumblr version, just so everyone knows

ꨄ︎Anglbunny | Do not copy, steal or translate my work and pngs. you'll be blocked.

[Masterlist]

[arlana-likes-to-write]

Acts of Service

Summary: Yelena likes to believe she has learned how to be a person outside the person the Red Room tried to create. Her favorite thing is to take care of you.

Warning: Post Thunderbolts*, no spoilers, period, period cramps, mention of the Red Room, Red Room trauma, no usage of y/n, reader has their period. fluff, no angst,

Note: Sorry, I've disappeared lol. I got a lot of other side projects that I'd love to share with you all.

Word Count: 1.4k

Yelena liked to believe she was getting better at living life outside the control of the Red Room. Sure, she was still fighting, but she was fighting to do good and clear some of the blood of her past. There was something she was still struggling to understand. For example, she failed to see the enjoyment of game shows that managed to capture viewers’ attention each night they aired. She liked the convenience of food delivery apps, enjoyed her coffee sweet, and loved leaving food out for the stray cats. She does not like driving in the city because everyone else driving are idiots, and she was dangerously close to killing someone. She would rather drink at the tower or Kate’s new apartment than get dragged to a club. But she goes regardless because she does like having friends. The very top of her list that she hates are reporters. The media wanted to twist every heroic act they did against them to prove further they were unfit to be the new Avengers.

Every question, every provoking comment caused Yelena’s jaw to clench and her teeth to grind. She hated all of them, and she wished they would leave her and her team alone and let them do their job. However, Yelena learned there were exceptions to the things she hated. For reporters, it was you. A new name to the journalist stage that got popular for a piece you wrote defending the Avengers in their second fight against Thanos. You worked for yourself, not under a big-name company, and asked questions different from your competitors. Against her better judgment and Bucky’s warning, you drew her in.

It started with a drink at a bar, where you did most of the talking, and Yelena listened. Then, it was dinner at a small Italian place. Dessert was from the ice cream parlor at the corner, where Yelena kissed you and tasted the chocolate flavor you picked out. Over time, Yelena opened up and shared more of herself.

The team warned her to be careful. They believed you were using her for your next story, but they were wrong. Every new article you posted, the details she shared stayed between you and her. You became a staple at the tower. Which was why Yelena wasn’t surprised to find you curled up in her bed and knew something was wrong.

It was a little past noon, and you were still in bed. During that time, Yelena was able to have training with Ava, a meeting with Bucky, and coffee for you, her, and Bob. She thought you would be at the desk you claimed as yours. You had a self-imposed deadline for an article, and you were strict about it —even having to miss movie nights or dates.

Yelena placed the two cups of coffee on the table and crawled into bed next to you. The bed dipped from her weight, which caused you to stir. “Hi baby,” you mumbled sleepily. Your body molded against Yelena as her arm rested around your waist. This felt perfect. You fit against her like a puzzle piece. Yelena heated to disrupt the peace, but she needed to know what was wrong.

“You are still in bed,” her lips grazed your shoulder, which wasn’t covered by your shirt. What is wrong?” You huffed and rolled onto your back to look up at her.

“Don’t feel good,” you pouted. “Got my period this morning.” Now, this was something Yelena would never understand. The Red Room took that choice from her so her loyalty would be to them. Instinctively, Yelena placed her hand on your lower stomach and pressed down. You sighed in relief and turned on your side. Your head rested in the crock of her neck, your breath fanning against her skin.

“Have you taken anything?” she asked. I can get you the heating pad and the tea.” You groaned, your hands gripping the front of her shirt. “Detka,” Yelena smiled fondly. These things help.”

“Don’t want them,” Yelena could hear the frown in your voice. “Want cuddles.” Yelena bit down on her lip to stop her laughter. This wasn’t the first time she helped with your time of the month, and she hoped this wasn’t the last. It was a mixed bag on how you would be. Sometimes, you would be miserable, not wanting any physical contact. Today was the opposite. You were needy and clingy, and Yelena loved this version of you. She was the only one who could see you like this.

“Alright,” Yelena kissed the top of your head. “Cuddles than pain medication.”

“Perfect,” you kissed her neck, and Yelena felt your breathing even out. She fell asleep, safe. Yelena was safe and happy here with you in her arms. She fell asleep quickly behind you.

✦•······················•✦•······················•✦

When you woke up, the bed next to you was empty, but there were signs of your girlfriend—the heating pad on your stomach, a fresh cup of tea on your nightstand, and pain medication. The simple acts made your stomach flutter. This was the side of the White Widow that the public was blind to, the side you wanted to write about and scream from the heavens. Gods, you loved this woman. The past eight months have been the happiest.

A sharp pain in your stomach caused you to groan. Sighing, you put the pain medication in your mouth and washed it with the tea. You forced yourself out of bed and dragged yourself to the bathroom. You hated this time of the month. It hurt and made you feel gross, and your emotions were everywhere. But you were mindful to keep your complaining to a minimum around the blonde. It felt wrong to complain about a situation that was taken from her. Her choice was robbed of her.

In your mind, Yelena and the girls subjected to that monster were some of the strongest you knew. The piece you wanted to post today highlighted human trafficking in the States and the signs to look for. Maybe you could squeeze in a quick editing session once the pain medication kicked in. On cue, a wave of cramps caused you to fold over and lean your weight against the sink. “Fuck,” you groaned.

“Easy, baby,” you missed Yelena walking into the bathroom. Her hands rested on your lower back. Slowly, she straightened your back and leaned your back against her front. “Breathe through it.” You followed her breathing and mixed with her hands massaging your stomach - the pain passed.

“Sorry,” you mumbled, whipping away a tear. Sometimes, you felt pathetic and weak.

“Never apologize,” she kissed your shoulder. “Come back to bed. I brought you food.” The blonde grabbed your hand and brought you back to bed. Once under the covers, she placed the heating back on your stomach and grabbed a tray from the desk. “I was unsure what you wanted, so I grabbed some of everything.” She placed the tray over your lap filled with all your favorite foods. The simple gesture caused your eyes to swell with tears. “Hey, hey, what is wrong? If you are not hungry, then I can take it away.” The concern was laced in her voice and on her face. You waved away her concern and whipped away your ears.

“No, no, it’s perfect. You are perfect,” you took a slow, deep breath in. “Come join me. I won’t eat all of this.” Yelena climbed next to you and grabbed the remote. Without a word, she turned on a nature documentary. You loved these shows because it was a simple way to turn off your brain. Once you both had your fill, Yelena removed the tray and pulled you into her arms. The heating pad was off, and her hand rested on your stomach. The pressure was nice, allowing you to play with the rings on her fingers. You liked the little coos from her when a cute animal appeared on the screen.

This was perfect and a future you could imagine with her. You, her, in a house of your room with a dog and maybe a little kid running around. You smiled and kissed Yelena’s cheek. Before you could pull away, she held onto your throat and kissed you. The kiss was slow and deep, and it stole your breath away. “I love you,” you mumbled against her lips. Yelena smiled and kissed you again.

It was hard for her to say those three words, but you knew she loved you through her actions and how she cared for you. It made no difference to you. You loved Yelena Belova, and you would tell her every day.

[abbotjack]

This started as a tribute to Autopsy by Donte Collins. None of the lines are from the book, but all of them are trying to name the same thing: sons who mistake obedience for love.

This isn’t an autopsy anymore. It’s a body trying to understand itself.

There’s something about watching a man who was never taught how to be loved try to earn it anyway. Something unbearable. Something holy. Pope Cody and Kendall Roy aren’t the same, but the rhythm of them is. The shape of their pain, the way they carry it, the way it was installed in them long before they had the words to say it aloud.

They were never allowed to just be sons. They were taught how to perform usefulness, not ask for softness. And now all they know is how to break quietly and offer the pieces back.

Pope learned early that love was surveillance. That affection had rules. That if you kept still enough, did the right things, showed up on command, Smurf might give you just enough tenderness to keep you from running. She didn’t raise a son. She raised a weapon. A watchdog. A confessional booth with a knife under the altar.

Logan did the same thing with different furniture. Kendall wasn’t the firstborn, but he was the chosen one—the first one pulled into the performance of empire. The first one told maybe you’ll be good enough—if you suffer correctly. Logan doesn’t comfort. He doesn’t embrace. He withdraws, he tests, he mauls. And Kendall keeps returning like maybe this time will be different. It never is.

Smurf is all warmth and rot. She kisses Pope’s face and then sends him to bury a body. She says he’s her favorite, then locks him in the attic of her power. Her love is so loud it drowns him, so conditional it becomes a leash. Pope obeys because obedience is the only form of love he was allowed to recognize.

Logan is the opposite: cold, strategic, a god of absence. But the result is the same. Kendall spends his whole life trying to decode his father’s silence. His only reward is ambiguity. A nod. A smirk. A seat at a table that’s always one conversation away from collapsing.

And their siblings—God, the siblings. That’s where it really starts to echo.

There’s that moment with Deran and Pope, in the quiet, where Deran—sick of the violence, sick of the weight—listens to his brother like a person, not a problem. And Pope, who has never been asked what he wants, doesn’t know what to do with that. But you can see the shift. In his body. In his face. Like someone just opened a door he forgot was locked.

And it’s the same energy when Kendall confesses to Shiv and Roman. That cracked-open, terrified little-boy honesty—I killed someone. And for once, they don’t run. Not really. They stay. But even their comfort is Roy-coded—clumsy, quiet, almost afraid of itself. It’s not a flood of reassurance. It’s not forgiveness. It’s just presence. Barely there, but still something. And Kendall cries like he’s mourning the fact that even this—their version of softness—hurts. Because he’s still hoping someone will say it out loud: You’re not a monster. And they never quite do.

Pope is the same. He reaches out in his own language: proximity, protection, silence. He shows up at Deran’s house instead of saying I’m scared. He watches Lena from the corner of a room instead of saying I miss your mother. He buries things instead of naming them. His grief is silent because Smurf taught him that anything louder would be punished.

Kendall tries the opposite. He floods the room. He says it all. He weaponizes his pain because it’s the only card he has left. He gives everything away and then watches people recoil. And still, he keeps showing up. He wants to be loved so badly it’s like a second skin. And he doesn't believe he deserves it—but God, he needs it.

Both of them move like men who’ve never been touched gently. Pope flinches. Kendall leans in too far. Pope is stillness under pressure. Kendall is chaos in a thousand-dollar suit. And yet—same wound. Different casing.

And what makes it worse? Everyone else lets them do it. Lets them carry it. Pope is the one they rely on to get blood off the floor. Kendall is the one who takes the fall. Pope drives the getaway car. Kendall throws the press conference. They’re not thanked. They’re not trusted. They’re just used. And when they snap, it’s their fault.

They’re not just the emotional centers of their families. They’re the sinks. The place where the guilt pools. The ones everyone else looks at and thinks at least I’m not him.

Kendall wears his grief in the open—spills it across hotel rooms, microphones, late-night phone calls. Pope holds it in his teeth, grinds it down until it makes him sick. Kendall is water—he floats, drowns, floods. Pope is fire—contained, quiet, always about to ignite. But they’re chasing the same thing: peace. Not power. Not glory. Just rest.

Neither of them gets it.

They keep being dragged back in. By loyalty. By guilt. By blood. Smurf dies and Pope still follows the echoes of her voice. Logan lives and dies and lives again in Kendall’s head, like a punishment. And no matter how much they give—how much they suffer—no one ever says, You can stop now. You’ve done enough. You can just be a person.

They’re both sons of empires dressed as families. They were never allowed to want things. Never allowed to say no. Never allowed to leave.

But they still try.

Same ache. Different name.

[resplendent-ragamuffin]

It's the "Jews were horrified but NOT SURPRISED" that hits hardest for me. Because yeah, it's absolutely right--I'm almost never surprised by violence against us these days. I'm not sure if I ever have been, really.

For my goyische followers, let me try to explain:

I went to a Jewish day school, K-12. One year during our chanukah party I found a package delivered by the gym door instead of the front door, and my immediate thought was "is this a bomb?" It wasn't, thank God, but the fact that that was my immediate thought should tell you something.

We had lockdown drills. It never even occurred to me that a student might be a shooter--100% it was a threat of terrorism. Heck, one year the seniors even made a joke about it in the Purim shpiel--they had a whole video with the premise of how different "teachers" (or rather the students playing them) would react to being told terrorists had entered the building.

(It was a very funny sketch, but there was a reason they thought of it.)

My mom tells stories about the people at her shul growing up going out to the policeman on duty outside on the High Holidays (because of course you have a policeman guarding the building, just in case) to ask for the baseball scores.

I had nightmares for YEARS about my synagogue or my school being attacked. I had what I call "the nazi nightmare--you know, the one where you're in your actual hometown in the modern day and nazis are trying to kill you."

"Oh yeah, of course, the nazi nightmare," said my Jewish friends when this came up.

"The what?!" said my non-Jewish friends.

And my closest relative who went through the Holocaust is a 3rd cousin several times removed. Thank God, we were mostly already in the US. (My great-grandmother fled Russia through potato fields "with bullets flying overhead" and could never eat potatoes again. My great-grandfather remembered hiding under the bed with his mother during the Odessa pogrom. But at least they weren't in the Holocaust.)

(Another great-grandmother fled the Armenian Genocide and the Sayfo, though. We joke that we come from not one but two or three different groups everyone hates. We laugh about it at parties.)

Do you know how early we start pondering the hypothetical of "if it's not safe for me in this country, where would I go?" I don't, because it was so early I don't remember it. When my non-Jewish friends started thinking about it in 2016 I remember thinking something like "now you know how we feel."

I don't know where I'd flee these days. Everywhere's pretty antisemitic these days. Do I want to flee to somewhere I might have to immediately flee from again, or to an active warzone?

I went to the Holocaust museum in DC on a school trip. On the way back home the next day my mother called me to ask where I was. Why? Because there had just been a shooting there, and she was pretty sure we'd been scheduled to go the day before, but wanted to be sure.

A security guard was killed. I'd been there about 24 hours before.

I was horrified and terrified, but...I don't remember if I was surprised.

If I was, it was probably just for a little while, before I went "of course it happened."

Most archivists don't look at university jobs and wonder, "is someone going to attack me or harrass me for being who I am?"

I'm giving a talk in a few days at my synagogue for Shavuot. Last year I almost couldn't get in because the door was locked (so someone couldn't easily walk in and start shooting) and everyone was already upstairs for the talk before mine.

I worked at a Judaica store when the Tree of Life shooting happened. I went over in my head a hundred times what I might do if someone attacked the store, where I might run and hide. Was the basement enough of a labyrinth? Should I try to get to the back door, or was that too much of a straight shot?

I want to work at a Jewish library, museum, or archive. Most archivists don't wonder, "is someone going to try to kill me at work?"

I do.

I am terrified. All the time. I want to talk about it with my friends, to get their comfort and support--

But one of my dearest friends, who I relied on when I faced antisemitism in college, who was a huge part of my support system, says "Zionist" like she says "Trump supporter." And she doesn't want to continue the conversation I tried to have about it because she "doesn't think either of us will get anything out of having the conversation." If I try to vent, I'm terrified it'll start something. I'm terrified I'll find out she's gone farther down that "antizionism isn't antisemitism" pipeline than I can pull her back from. I've already lost friends. I don't want to lose her.

One of my friends gives her children the WASPiest legal names she can think of, so if they need to flee the country they can hide that they can hide it. Her daughter's real Hebrew name is a family name they can trace back to before the Inquisition.

Someone shoots people leaving a Jewish event at a Jewish museum. Someone attacks a visibly Jewish person walking home from synagogue. Someone gang-rapes a little girl because she's Jewish. Someone shouts blood libel, someone says Hitler should have finished the job. Someone plans a pogrom. Someone plans a pogrom. Someone plans a pogrom.

I'm tired. I'm terrified. I'm heartbroken.

But surprised?

No. No, I'm very rarely surprised.

Only disappointed.

when are jews allowed to be scared?

when jewish hospitals are protested? when jewish children are harassed on the way to school? when we’re chased through the streets of amsterdam in the year fucking 2024?

when our homes are being firebombed on the first night of passover? when we’re gunned down in front of a jewish museum? when 11 of us are gunned down during shabbat services?

when 1,200 of us are murdered? when 6 million of us are murdered?

what needs to happen that’s finally enough for the well-meaning people of the world to believe us and give a shit?

[anti-katsuki-lounge]

Izuku vs 1-A: Katsuki’s Hypocrisy

Hey y’all 👋. I’m back for yet another rant about everyone’s favorite character 😂.

So Izuku’s fight with 1-A, the one where they try bringing him back to UA after he runs off, is a heavily criticized part of MHA, and for good reason. Today, I want to talk about the biggest flaw in the entire scene, and that’s how Katsuki proves once again that he’s really learned nothing.

Katsuki begins his portion of the confrontation insulting Izuku, claiming he’s looking down on everyone else and believes that they can’t handle themselves against AFO. Katsuki frames this as an ego thing, and the scene is supposed to show how Katsuki’s using his own personal experiences of underestimating someone/overhyping their own self to show that he knows what he’s talking about.

Thing is, Katsuki’s experiences and what Izuku is currently doing are two different things.

Izuku left to protect everyone. He witnessed what Tomura and AFO can do during the former’s attack on UA. Many heroes died and several of his classmates almost did. He knew Tomura and AFO were targeting him, and that they would attack again and again until either they were killed or he was. To protect as many people as possible, he left and kept himself hidden with the idea that Tomura and AFO would try tracking him down and he could bring the fight somewhere where casualties would be reduced, if not eliminated. There’s certainly flaws with his plan, but it was one he created out of desperation and selflessness.

Furthermore, Izuku would’ve done this no matter what. If one of his classmates was Superman himself, he still would’ve left (ok, maybe an exaggeration, but you get the point). He was willing to risk his life so that no one else would have to get hurt.

This is far different than Katsuki treating everyone as inferior to him due to him being born with a powerful quirk. Katsuki went out of his way to hurt others, Izuku went out of his way to save others. Katsuki looked down on others due to having a stronger quirk. Izuku saw that people were targeting him due to his own quirk, the one quirk that had beaten his opponents before.

This is why Katsuki comparing himself to Izuku falls flat. Katsuki’s actions were fueled by selfish reasons whereas Izuku’s were fueled by selfless ones. Izuku never saw himself as superior when making his decision, he simply realized that his quirk is what was fueling the actions of Tomura/AFO.

Another issue with the confrontation is when Katsuki mocks him for being an All Might wannabe. Bro, your hero name’s literally an homage to All Might’s. Your whole reasoning for being a hero is because you want to be like your interpretation of All Might, a powerful hero who doesn’t lose. Izuku is an All Might wannabe, yes, but he inherits most of All Might’s good qualities.

Going even further, prior to the confrontation itself, Katsuki has the audacity to blame All Might for Izuku’s decision. Yes, a lot of Izuku’s actions are influenced by his admiration of All Might and the hero’s failure to teach him to be better, but he’s not the only one to blame. In fact, he’s not even the worst offender. A lot of his issues stems from Katsuki’s bullying. His lack of self worth that he’s gained from Katsuki is part of why he’s always willing to sacrifice himself without any care for his own safety. Katsuki is who taught him to hold everything in and not want to burden others with his issues, because he doesn’t feel like he’s worth being listened to. Katsuki completely destroyed his self esteem, which is what causes all the negative traits he picked up from All Might to be amplified. His hesitancy to trust others with his burdens can also be traced back to this. Shota’s “logical ruses” also add to this, as 1-A clearly don’t trust him, and as a result, end up not always trusting the heroes to do their jobs. It’s why 1-A went out to rescue Katsuki himself.

Ultimately, Katsuki’s projecting his own behavior onto Izuku, but their situations aren’t comparable in the slightest. Izuku’s actions are fueled by selflessness and a lack of self worth. Katsuki’s are fueled by an inflated ego and his selfish desires. Katsuki’s callout fails to work because he once again shows that he doesn’t understand Izuku, the role he himself played in shaping him, and what it means to be selfless.