#i’m never gonna settle for anything less than absolute obsession and worship

[forestslut]

ooooog

[softbiker]

Bucky Barnes Oneshot

Warnings: 18+ only - smut (fingering), some cursing

Word count: 3.6k

A/N: I can’t believe I wrote 3.6k words of what basically amounts to Netflix and fingering, but this is what Bucky Barnes does to people (you’re welcome Kris). Anyways, here is my first-ever smut - in which Bucky’s girl has a bad day at work and he does his best to make the night a good one. Bonus points if you can guess which show they’re watching ;) As always, feedback is appreciated! Since I’ve never written smut, please tell me if it’s bad lol. Thanks for reading!

A fuzzy vibration in his pocket alerts him to a text. 

Kill me. 

Unable to hold back a snort, he bites his lip and swipes at the screen. His thumbs flutter over the keyboard. 

No can do, babydoll. Not an assassin anymore, remember?

Merely a few seconds pass, little dots floating in the conversation bubble, before her reply buzzes back.

I’m sure you’ve retained some of your skills…or maybe I should ask Natasha?

Please, I taught Nat everything she knows. And I’d still take her out before I’d let her kill you - your butt is too cute. 

So is yours, Handsome ;)

The muscles in his cheeks hurt from the silly grin stretching up the corners of his mouth, but he can’t help himself with her, it’s just too easy. Too fun. 

Well, if you’re NOT going to put me out of my misery…then you at least owe me a good night tonight. 

Done and done. The whole team knows - and teases him frequently - that he spoils her, worships her, bends over backwards at her every request. It’s not his fault; she wrapped him around her finger the day they met, and it’s such a sweet place to be, he’s never bothered untangling himself. And she always gives as good as she gets, every time. 

What did you have in mind, sweetheart?

Pizza and Netflix. Preferably with your hand down my pants. 

Oh and there it is - that lovely little tingle down his spine, warmth in his belly, ever-present between them. His funny girl, always teasing. Teeth tug at his bottom lip as he deliberates over his response, thumbs poised over the screen.

It’s a date. 

He tacks on that little emoji with the winking kiss face and hits send. Glances at his watch - a little past 3 in the afternoon; she’ll be off work at 5, probably straight out the door if she’s having such a bad day, but if the traffic is bad or she gets stuck at her desk, it’ll probably be closer to 6 when she gets home. 

Slipping his phone in his back pocket, he looks around at the apartment, a quick survey of the last 5 days’ damage - a few dishes in the sink and on the stove, dirty socks peeled off in the hallway, a basket of clean clothes waiting to be folded. He nods to himself, prioritizes his task list, and tackles the kitchen first. After loading the dishwasher, he goes back to the bedroom, digging in the side pocket of his backpack for his headphones; he slips them in and turns on the next episode of that conspiracy theory podcast he’s become obsessed with (not that he’ll admit it, but she thinks it’s hysterical) and gets back to work, giving their home as deep a clean as he can in the couple of hours he has. On an afterthought, he lights a couple of scented candles - her favorites, the ones that smell like roasting marshmallows - throughout the place, letting the rooms fill with a warm scent. 

A few minutes past 5, he stands in the living room, hands on his hips, and surveys his work, feeling pretty pleased with himself. Their home looks and smells deliciously clean and inviting, a warm embrace for her to fall into when she walks in the door. He glances at his watch and decides he should go ahead and order the pizza, and as he swipes at the app on his phone, he double checks the champagne chilling in the fridge. Check and check. 

Perfect. He smiles to himself, the smirk turning a bit wicked as he walks down the hall to light candles in the bedroom. 

A perfect night for his perfect girl. 

 **********                                                  

Her feet drag as she climbs the stairs up to their apartment, cursing herself all the way for moving into a building with no elevator. As if she weren’t tired enough from the absolutely hellish day she just had - even thinking about work has her massaging her temples with a groan. And she absolutely, positively, has to get new shoes for work, her feet hurt so fucking bad it’s insane-

Nope. Nope! Completely done, she stops on the second flight of stairs with a huff, removing her heels one at a time and shoving them into her work bag. Files and various loose papers wrinkle in the process, but she doesn’t care at all; so what if the little blue fleck of gum on the bottom of her pumps gets stuck on the official copy of a contract? At this point, she’s practically daring someone to say something about it. Biting someone else’s head off for a change would be just delightful. 

She continues up that flight of stairs and the next, barefoot, her bag heavy and awkward on her right shoulder with the addition of her shoes, toes pressing into the worn and dated green carpet covering the steps. In her head, she’s counting them, counting down - 10 steps to Bucky, 9 steps, 8 steps, 7, 6…

When she unlocks the door and pushes it open, he’s waiting there, sweet smile curling up his soft lips. Of course, he must have heard her coming up the stairs - and she sags in relief, practically falling into his arms without even closing the door. He chuckles, tugging her closer while shuffling their positions in the hallway so that he - ever responsible and paranoid - can close and deadbolt their door. 

“Hi,” she mumbles into his chest. 

“Hi, baby,” he whispers back, lips against her temple. “Rough day?” 

She groans, shaking her head with her face still pressed against him. 

“You’ve got no idea, Buck, it was just the worst-”

“Shh, shh,” he hushes her, rubbing her back with firm strokes. “You don’t have to talk about it. You can just relax, honey. I’m here.”

A heavy sigh puffs against his shirt, the heat of her breath felt through the fabric, and her shoulders drop a little further, the tension slowly melting as he softly sways her from side to side. They stand like that for a while, just breathing each other in, letting go of the day, coming home to each other. Though she’s never said it aloud, she lives for moments like this, when there’s nothing that matters outside the circle of his arms. Nothing else at all. 

The insistent growl of her stomach interrupts them - loud and gurgling, and he chuckles in spite of himself. He pulls back a bit from their embrace, looking down with a fond smirk tilting up his mouth. 

“Hungry?”

“Starving, Buck,” she pouts, a little dramatic, a playful whine coloring her tone. “Did you make dinner?” 

“Even better.” A light press of his lips to the tip of her nose, his voice continuing in a whisper. “I ordered out.”

A soft gasp. 

“Gusano’s?” Her eyes are sparkling and he wonders if she gets as excited for him as she does for pizza. 

“Mhm. Got all the toppings you like, too.” 

Touched, and sensitive from such a long day, her smile is so big it makes her tired eyes tear up just a bit. Sometimes, it just hits her - how lucky she is, how one-in-a-million her sweet super-soldier boyfriend manages to be every single day. It swells her heart full to bursting every time.

He doesn’t say anything else, just kisses her forehead and turns, keeping an arm wrapped around her shoulders and steering her to the bedroom. 

“C’mon, babydoll - you go change,” he urges gently, stroking her arm. “Get in your comfy clothes, take your makeup off, all that jazz - I’ll grab the pizza and then we’ll see what we wanna watch, yeah?”

Her answering sigh is dreamy as she drops her head back to his shoulder. 

“Where have you been all my life, Bucky Barnes?” 

“Mm. Mostly in cryogenic storage,” he whispers, eyebrows wiggling as he leans in for a kiss. With a roll of her eyes she dodges his lips, letting them land on the side of her head as she smacks his chest and walks off to the bedroom. Chuckling, he lands a playful swat on her ass before skipping to the kitchen. 

What a man, she thinks, shaking her head as she digs through her dresser for a pair of soft college sweatpants. One-in-a-million.

  **********                                                   

Pizza box on the edge of the bed, bottle of champagne on the left nightstand. She’s settled between his legs, feeling full and pleasantly soft from the bubbly drink in her hand. 

“We’re gonna keep watching this, right?” she hums as the credits roll on the first episode, button in the bottom corner counting down until the next one plays. 

“Sure - as long as you don’t spend the whole night ogling that guy’s ass,” he huffs, pinching her hip. 

“Hey! It’s not my fault he’s got a great ass - but I never said it was better than yours,” she offers, sweet and apologetic, reaching up to pat his cheek. Even with her head only half turned, she can see the pouty scowl on his face, her hardened assassin looking more like a frustrated two-year-old. Adorable. What a man. 

“Whatever,” he grumbles, shifting a little on the bed and tightening his arms around her, as though that might keep his girl in his lap rather than jumping through the screen and into the arms of the wig-wearing hunk whose strapping biceps currently have her attention. 

The second episode plays, she relaxes a little further, finishing her second glass of bubbly. When he murmurs in her ear, she lets him take the glass and set it on the nightstand, out of the way. He shifts forward and grabs the pizza box, too, moving it to the other nightstand - both of them have eaten their fill and all that’s left in the box is a scrap of crust, nibbled all the way up till there’s nothing left but seasoned bread. 

There’s a little shifting, a little wiggling, as he settles them both back against the headboard. In true “Princess and the Pea” fashion, Bucky’s got no less than three pillows fluffed behind his back, cushioning him against the hard wooden headboard. When he’s finished shuffling around, he strokes her sides for a moment, pulling her back flush against him and wraps his arms around her waist, sighing in contentment. 

“Comfortable?” she giggles. His only reply is a low hum and a squeeze of his arms. 

They go back to watching episode two, trying to follow the separate timelines and magical rules that have yet to be explained in the story world. She’s got her eyebrows drawn together, puzzling out where the hunchbacked mage might fit in to all of this; while the women on screen test their magic powers, she feels warm lips travel to her neck. 

At first, she tries to ignore him, intent on watching the show; but the warm, wet kisses trailing up and down the side of her neck have her tilting her head, silently asking for more…

“Watch your show, baby,” he whispers, husky voice sending a delicate shiver down her spine. The tip of his tongue traces over the shell of her ear. “Don’t want you to miss your man.” 

She intends to make a derisive snort, but it comes out as more of a hiccuped gasp when one of his hands slips just under the hem of her t-shirt, fingers spider-walking up the skin of her stomach. Her mouth is dry when she tries to swallow and bring her hazy eyes back to the TV. 

It works for a few moments, maybe minutes, as he softly strokes the warm skin of her belly, his other hand tracing the waistband of her sweats. His mouth never leaves her neck and shoulders, switching from one side to the other, gently letting his teeth scrape over her sweet spot and her earlobe. All tender, unhurried caresses, and she sinks further into him, into the warmth of them both in their room, their world. 

She chokes on her gasp when his hand slides up to cup her breast. 

“You still watching, honey?” he hums, a smile pressed against her jaw. 

“Uh-huh,” she manages when his finger circles her nipple. 

“Good.” He nuzzles her cheek a little bit, stubble scratching along her smooth skin as his hand continues to massage her breast - his fingers still soft, barely squeezing, just enough to tease. 

His other hand finally wiggles past her waistband - but stops at the seam of her underwear, just a few inches in. She’s watching, she is, she is; her eyes are on the screen, on the very handsome monster hunter with a jaw that could cut glass, her hand gripping Bucky’s thigh. She’s absolutely paying attention to the show, and not at all frustrated with the light strokes of his fingers across her hips and mound, still outside of her panties. Fingers stretch a little further, so he’s massaging her inner thigh in time with the squeezes to her breast. It’s getting a little hot in here - maybe she shouldn’t have worn such thick sweats and fuzzy socks…

This time, she can’t help herself as she digs her nails in his thigh, his index finger lightly tracing her folds over her underwear. It almost tickles. She almost whines. Bites her lip instead to hold it back, her breath hitching in her chest. 

“Bucky,” she huffs. 

“Hm?” He licks her neck. 

“Are you going to do something?” It comes out weaker than she meant it to, more desperate than demanding. 

“I thought you wanted to watch your show?” he suggests, feigning innocence. “Don’t you wanna watch Netflix with my hand down your pants? You can have both, honey.” 

Her thighs twitch when his fingers press a little firmer, just an ounce more pressure - still barely anything, still not enough. She does whine this time, trying to wiggle her hips closer to his hand. 

“Go on, admire his ass some more, sweetheart,” he chuckles. “I know you think it’s cute.” 

The hand in her shirt switches to the other breast and tweaks her nipple, just on the pleasant side of painful. She licks her lips, blinking to regain focus on the screen, feeling way too hot. Bucky seems unbothered, though, continuing his ministrations and ignoring the TV altogether. 

Her teeth sink into her lower lip when his hand slides around to grab a handful of her ass, gripping tight then playfully popping the seam of her panties with his finger. 

“You’ve got a pretty cute ass, too,” he teases, his hand gliding back to its place between her thighs. 

She huffs again, unable to stop herself from arching into the hand that’s attentively playing with her breasts. Alright then. Two can play at this game - she releases her death grip from one of his thighs and slides her hand back, just behind her, letting her nails drag over the prominent bulge in his sweats. 

He hisses through his teeth, releasing her breast to grab her wrist. His other hand slips out of her pants to snatch her hand that remains clasped to his thigh

“Nuh-uh, sweetheart,” he nips at her shoulder. With a firm grip, he moves her hands up behind his neck, letting her fingers tangle in the sweaty strands at his nape. “You keep those right here and enjoy your show, alright? I ain’t done with you yet.”

Satisfied that she would stay put, he lets his hands glide back down - over the length of her arms and down her sides, before gripping the hem of her shirt and hiking it up above her breasts, both hands immediately giving them a firm squeeze. Lower lip trapped between her teeth, she barely holds back the low moan in her throat and fights to refocus her eyes on the screen again, a herculean task with his fingers plucking at her nipples like that. 

The heat between her legs continues to build, despite both his hands occupied with her chest, and she can’t help but lift her hips a little, a blind, desperate search for friction, attention, anything. A particularly hard tweak of her nipples had her whining loud, a jolt of electricity going straight between her thighs. She tries to rub her thighs together to get some relief, but Bucky’s too quick - he hooks his own feet on the inside of her ankles and keeps both their legs spread open wide. 

She moans his name, heady and desperate, arching into his hands. 

“S’alright, I gotcha,” he hushes her, his lips still fastened to her neck. Always wants to take care of his girl. He’ll always give her what she wants…eventually.

Achingly slow, he drags a hand down from her breasts, tracing over her stomach and into her sweats again. He snaps the waistband of her underwear again - once, twice, what an asshole - before sliding down further to rub her core through her panties. Her breath hitches at the feel, the friction, her thigh muscles tightening as he uses his knuckles to firmly stroke her up and down. Wetness pools in her underwear, more and more as he rubs little circles around her clit with his thumb. 

“Can feel you gettin’ so wet, honey,” he rasps, breath hot on her ear. “This all for me? Huh?”

All she can give is a nod and an “uh huh” as his fingers press her clit and pinch her nipple at the same time. A tiny whine escapes her lips, sweat breaking out along her back where they’re pressed together, his erection impossible to ignore as she wiggles against him. 

Panties soaked now, ruined, when he finally, finally slips inside, cupping her pussy with his warm hand. With his thumb and pinky, he parts her swollen folds and traces his index and middle fingers up her slit.

“Fuck, you’re fucking soaked, sweetheart,” he moans, his fingers running through her folds, circling her entrance before bringing the wetness back up to rub her clit. His fingers spread her a little further, tugging back the hood, and he draws firm circles around her bud, just the way he knows she likes. 

“Oh, oh fuck, Bucky-” she pants and whines, hips rolling into his hand, his other fingers still working over her breasts. Her head feels light, almost dizzy, and a tight feeling grips her low in her belly, her toes starting to curl and twitch. Fingers yank hard at his silky soft hair, the strands wrapped in her fists. “Bucky, please.”

“Don’t gotta beg me, honey - don’t gotta beg for anything,” he coos against her sweaty cheek. With his hand now soaked, he slips two fingers inside, curling them against her upper wall into that spot that makes her-

“Oh my god, oh god, right there-”

“I know, baby, I know.”

His hands working her over like an instrument, there’s no more pretense of even glancing at the TV screen - her eyes flutter as he rhythmically strokes her higher, gushing wet sounds as he drives his fingers in and out, dragging the heel of his palm against her clit. All the while, his other hand plucks and circles her nipples, palms her breasts, his tongue and teeth attached to the sensitive little place on her neck. Her mouth hangs open, gasps and moans that sound vaguely like his name, fingernails raking down his scalp and the back of his neck.

“Come on, honey, come for me - come for me.” He pulls his fingers from her and goes back to circling her clit at a frenetic pace.

It’s enough - the coil in her belly snaps and she arches back with a cry, her legs shaking and hips rocking up against his fingers, head falling back against his shoulder. His fingers don’t stop as he works her through it, holding on to her high, his lips pressed against her temple as he murmurs sweet words into her skin. 

“Good girl, oh good girl - there’s my sweet girl, huh?” He presses little kisses down her temple to her cheekbone, following the path of the sweet-tasting sweat beading on her forehead. 

He lets his fingers slow against her, and finally removes them when she starts to twitch away from him, sensitive and sated. Letting his hand fall from her breasts to her stomach, he rubs softly over her skin, feeling her ribs expand under his palm as she catches her breath. His other fingers go straight to his mouth, sucking obscenely, not letting a drop of her wetness go to waste. She peels an eye open at his appreciative groan, the corner of her mouth tilting up in a tired smile. 

“You perv,” she laughs, her voice low, content. She pats his cheek with one hand at the indignant look on his face, but he merely shrugs and dips his finger back down for a second helping, licking off his fingers with a loud smack. 

“Can’t help it. You’re too damn sweet,” he grins, smug and lusty, loving the way she’s still a bit breathless and soft in his arms. 

She rolls her eyes and catches a glimpse of the TV screen, where the credits are rolling on their show. 

“Whoops…I think I barely caught any of that,” she giggles, slapping his leg. “Which would be your fault, by the way.” 

“Eh, we can just rewatch it if you want to-”

“Later,” she interrupts, sitting forward and turning around on the bed. Her limbs still feel shaky from her orgasm, but she plants her palms on his chest and straddles his lap, landing firmly on his still straining erection. Bucky moans low and grips her hips, his eyes blown dark with need. She leans in close, her lips brushing lightly over his.

“I think it’s your turn,” she whispers, tongue tracing his lower lip. He dives in with a growl, devouring her mouth.

Netflix entirely forgotten. 

[marril96]

Single White Witch

Chapter 2: Defeated

Characters: Rowena, reader, OC

Pairing: Rowena x reader

Summary: When Rowena gets kidnapped by an unhinged witch, you enlist Sam’s help to rescue her.

Editor: @oswinthestrange

"What in hell are you doing?" Rowena demanded. She kept her face as blank as possible; she allowed anger to seep in, allowed it to twist her features, hoping to keep the fear that rattled in her bones at bay.

Martha had already kidnapped her and tied her up. She didn't get to see her scared.

The other witch flashed a smile that made Rowena's stomach turn, a smile that was supposed to be happy, friendly, but ended up resembling that of a maniac. Which wasn't that far from the truth. Martha was a maniac. No sane person did what she did, acted the way that she did. She was completely, utterly crazy, and her look reflected that.

"What's it look like I'm doing? I'm saving you!" she said, outraged at having to explain it, her southern accent thick in every word.

Rowena rolled her eyes. Of course she was saving her. Of bloody course!

"You're bloody mad!" she said, and instantly regretted it.

Martha looked at her with murder in her eyes, a glare so intense it burned right through her. "No, you're mad! You!" She pointed an accusatory finger at Rowena, shaking with rage, with anger that burned like fire inside her. Rowena flinched as if struck, and Martha sucked in a breath to calm down. "I'm sorry. I know it's not your fault."

No, it bloody wasn't! If she was tied to un uncomfortable bed she would be angry, too. Maybe Martha wasn't quite as crazy as she thought.

She took the thought back a whole second later when Martha added, "Y/N brainwashed you. You poor thing."

Rowena couldn't help it — she laughed, loud, hearty, a laughter so sweet she couldn't stop for a few moments. She was aware of Martha's delusions of you turning her against her, but this? This was comedy gold.

"See? She did that to you!" Martha accused.

"I can assure you, Y/N did no such thing. I can think for myself," Rowena told her. Her face turned serious, lightness dying out like the flip of a switch, features hardening like stone/stone. "And I think you're bloody mental!"

"Shut up!" Martha snapped, stomping her feet like a toddler. It would have looked ridiculous had she not been a heavyset woman in her forties with a mad look in her eyes.

An obsessed woman-child. Just what Rowena needed.

She had to get out of here. Had to get out of these restraints, this room, this house. Had to get away from this woman.

Staring straight at Martha, she exclaimed with utmost conviction, willing her magic to spring free, "Abi!"

Nothing happened.

There was no rush of energy inside her, no tingles that accompanied her spells. It was as if her magic was dead, gone, as if it had never been there. An empty feeling settled over her. It felt as if she were missing a limb, a vital part of her she wasn't sure she could live without — wasn't sure she wanted to live without.

"What did you do?" she hissed, threat clear in her tone. She shot Martha her deadliest glare, the one that made even demons cower in fear.

The witch flinched, but quickly regained her composure. "A little spell. Should wear off soon, don't worry."

As soon as it did, Rowena swore to make her pay. Nobody blocked her magic and got away with it.

"I'd never take your magic away. I know how much you love it."

"How noble of you," Rowena deadpanned.

"I know you don't believe me, but I really do care about you," Martha said in a tad softer voice. She was honest, genuine. As mad as she was, she meant every word. "I love you."

"I'm flattered," Rowena said sarcastically. She would've been flattered if someone else had said that to her. Someone less unhinged.

Martha ignored her remark. "These months without you were hell. I missed you so much!"

The feeling wasn't mutual.

"You have no idea what it was like."

"And I don't care," Rowena told her flatly. For all she cared, the woman could have offed herself. She didn't want to be around her. Didn't want anything to do with her.

She should have killed her the moment you'd shown her those obsessive Twitter posts about her.

The old Rowena would have killed her in the blink of an eye.

Redemption was a bitch.

"She turned you against me," Martha said sadly.

"For the last time, Y/N has done nothing!" Rowena snapped, having had enough of her nonsense. From day one, all you'd ever done was take care of her, protect her, love her. She wouldn't let some stalker smear your name. "I made the decision not to teach you. Not her. Me!"

"Why?" the other woman demanded petulantly.

"Because you're bloody obsessed!"

"All I ever wanted was to learn from you."

In that case, maybe you shouldn't have been creepy, Rowena thought bitterly.

"And you let her talk you into rejecting me," Martha said, prompting Rowena to roll her eyes. The woman's lack of self awareness was astonishing. "I know she did it! I know! I heard her!"

She'd heard you talk about a witch from her past, but no matter how many times you and Rowena had tried to explain it to her, she never listened. She was convinced you'd been badmouthing her. Rowena wouldn't have blamed you if you had. All you'd done, though, was show her Martha's Twitter profile. Rowena had made all decisions on her own.

Teaching Martha wouldn't have put only her at risk — it would have endangered you, too. She hadn't wanted to bring an unstable person around you.

As evidenced by today, she'd made the right choice.

"She wasn't—"

"Save it!" Martha cut her off. "I know what I heard!" She took a deep breath and flashed another smile. "But it's okay. I know it's just her influence. You'll see the light soon enough."

Rowena didn't like the sound of that. "What are you talking about?"

Grinning like the cat that got the cream, Martha held up a vial filled to the brim with liquid the rich color of roses, bright and red and strangely beautiful. Rowena stiffened. No. No, no, no. That wasn't what she thought it was. It couldn't be! Martha was psychotic, but would she go that far?

She would. She absolutely would. The realization sent a chill, cold and deadly and painful, straight through Rowena. It burrowed itself into her core like a parasite. Even though the room was relatively warm, she shivered.

She glanced over her bare arms and feet, and she suddenly felt exposed, naked, vulnerable. She had no magic. No means to escape, to defend herself. She was helpless.

"Martha—" she uttered, the word bitter on her tongue, cyanide killing her one breath at the time, one desperate, manic heartbeat.

"I assume you know what this is," the other witch said. There was a smugness in her tone, a lilt that was almost joyous. She cradled the vial in both hands, her thick, meaty fingers caressing the glass with utmost care, with devotion one would give an ailing human.

A love potion. Rowena could recognize it from a mile away by nothing but mere smell. She'd seen its effects on people. Seen the way it changed them into mindless zombies wanting nothing more than to be with, than to worship the object of their infatuation. Seen their sanity slipping away with every passing moment, the magic burning everything that made them them, that made them a person, away like acid. It was a despicable concoction, an abomination. It should not have been allowed to exist.

Rowena's thoughts shifted to you. To your smile every time you laid your eyes upon her, each as bright as the very first one. To your hands around her, holding her tight, giving her the safety she'd been missing for centuries. To you telling her you loved her every single day with nothing but utmost honesty, utmost conviction. To the cutesy nicknames you gave her that she pretended to hate, but secretly liked. To you taking care of her when she was injured, holding her after nightmares, soothing her every time a random memory of that day in May two years ago would pop up in her mind and bring her to tears.

She couldn't forget that. Couldn't throw it all away — throw you away — for a madwoman who saw her as nothing more than a possession, an object to be acquired. You loved her with all you had, and she loved you just as strongly. She didn't want false emotions to overwrite that.

"Don't you dare!" she hissed, trying to be threatening but coming off as nothing more than a powerless kitten.

"You're leaving me no other choice," Martha said. "She's got you under a spell, Rowena. This is the only way to snap you out of it."

Had the situation not been this dire, Rowena would have laughed. You, cursing her to fall in love with you? You apologized for accidentally wrapping a bandage a tad too tightly around a wee cut on her hand. The idea that you would brainwash her couldn't have been more ridiculous.

"You're even more unhinged than I thought," Rowena said.

"I'm doing this for you!" Martha said.

"No, you're doing it for you! Because you're mad!" Rowena snapped. "You bloody kidnapped me, woman!"

"To protect you!"

"To make me into a slave!"

Martha flinched as if struck. "Never," she said in a voice that was a tad too calm, a tad too tranquil for Rowena's liking. There was absolute conviction in her tone, a genuinity that came straight from the heart. It was what made her more dangerous than all those monsters — human and supernatural — Rowena had faced in her long lifetime. What made her more dangerous than the monster Rowena used to be. They knew what they were doing was wrong. They knew it, and they killed and destroyed and ruined because they didn't care.

Martha, on the other hand, was fully convinced she was in the right. Her actions made sense to her; they were justified, noble. In her mind, she wasn't a villain — she was a hero.

"I would never make you do anything you don't want to do," she said. Rowena snorted, and the other witch ignored it, adding, "I know what the potion does normally, but this is different. It's just gonna cancel out Y/N's spell, nothing else. I promise! It's gonna set you free."

"I'm not under a spell!" Rowena snarled for what seemed to be the millionth time. "I love Y/N because…" Because you'd given her a chance when everyone else had labelled her as yet another wicked witch. Because you dared become her first friend in centuries, and had allowed yourself to love her even when you knew she would have left you for dead if circumstances required it. Because you let her be herself, never once demanding she change. Because you taught her to love again, taught her that it was okay, that love was a strength rather than a weakness. "Because she respects my boundaries!"

Martha scoffed. "That's what she wants you to think."

Rowena rolled her eyes. "Believe me, she's not this mastermind you think she is." You'd never even looked at her wrong. The thought that you would harm her, that you would curse her into loving you was insane. "She doesn't have a wicked bone in her body." Her eyes connected with Martha's, the look in them cold, sharp as a knife. "For one, she's never kidnapped me."

Martha shook her head. "I told you—"

"It's for my own good. Aye, heard you the first time." Rowena laughed, and made it a point to let her know she was laughing at her. "What makes you think she cursed me? Is it me not wanting to teach you?"

Another snort, an undignified but awfully appropriate sound. Martha's face fell; she suddenly looked small, despite her massive size. A scared, tiny little girl. That was what she was. Nothing more and nothing less. Just a child who wanted a toy so desperately, she stole it, the consequences be damned.

"What makes you think I wanted to teach you?" Rowena continued.

Maybe antagonizing her captor wasn't the best idea, but what did she have to lose? She was helpless, powerless, about to be turned into a slave. About to be used and taken advantage of and raped by a mad woman-child convinced she was in love with her.

Rowena was sick of it. Sick of being toyed with, of being used and abused under the pretense of love, of kindness, of friendship. Fergus' father, Lucifer, all those people who pretended to care when all they ever wanted was to take advantage and leave her for dead. She was nothing to them, a mere pawn in their game, a toy to be discarded when they grew bored of her.

She was done sucking up, done playing nice in hopes of receiving mercy. She deserved better. You deserved better.

If she ever got a chance to see you again, she wanted you to know that she fought for the both of you. That she didn't give in. That she kicked and screamed and gave it her best. Even if she ended up defeated, she wanted you to know that she at the very least tried.

You would have done the same for her.

You'd sacrificed so much for her. So many nights you'd spent holding her instead of sleeping, soothing her after yet another in a string of nightmares. So many bright, sunny days wasted taking care of her when you could have been having the time of your life. So many opportunities you'd turned down for the sole reason of staying with her, of having her back.

"I admit, I was flattered by your compliments. But other than that, what did you have to offer?"

Martha glanced up at her for a short moment, and Rowena raised her eyebrows, prompting her to answer. Daring her to say something, to give her more ammunition to fire at her. She was all out of patience for the woman's nonsense.

She smiled at her silence. "That's right. Nothing. You're a mediocre witch, Martha. I was going to turn you away within ten minutes of meeting you, but it was Y/N who told me to give you a chance. She thought you had potential."

"You're lying!" Martha snarled.

"I'm not."

She was. She did consider Martha a decent witch, and the decision to teach her was all her own. But this wasn't about the truth — this was about control, about power. Very soon, Martha was going to take hers away. Rowena wanted to hurt her before that happened, wanted to leave her mark. If she was going to be a slave, then the other woman would suffer. It was a fair trade.

"You are a horrible witch, and an even worse person," she continued. "We could have been friends if you weren't so obsessed. It was your abhorrent behavior that drove me away. Not Y/N. Not some spell. You."

Martha shook her head. "No."

"Yes." Rowena kept her stare on her, kept her tone just as pointed, just as cold as the look in her emerald eyes. All business, no play. As serious as death. "You can shove that potion down my throat, but the truth is, I will never love you. It will never be real."

She was quiet for a moment, and when she spoke next, it was ice, straight from her soul.

"As a matter of fact, I loathe you. You make me sick."

"Shut up!" Martha snapped, stomping her feet like a spoilt brat being denied an expensive toy. Her hands clasped over her ears, head shaking madly, left, right, left, right, a frantic, never ending loop. "Shut up, shut up, shut up!"

Rowena watched her, amused. Just as she thought. A brat. A middle-aged, tantrum-throwing toddler. A baby in the body of a forty-five-year-old woman. That wanted her to love her? That thought you'd cursed and somehow persuaded her to cut her off? Rowena would rather off herself than ever willingly fall in love with a person like that.

"You're wrong! You're broken!" Martha ranted. Potion clutched tight in her hand, she stalked over to Rowena's bedside. "I'll fix you!"

Rowena gulped. Nervousness settled over her, but she pushed it down, willed her features to appear neutral. She wouldn't lose her composure. Not now. "Get away from me!"

"I'll fix you, and then you'll love me!"

Martha's hand fell on Rowena's chest, right over her breasts. Rowena shuddered, a wave of nausea roiling in her stomach. She didn't want her to touch her, didn't want her disgusting hands (or any other part of her body, for that matter) anywhere near her.

Thick fingers curled around her left breast, feeling it, caressing it almost gently. "You're mine," Martha said, and squeezed her breast in emphasis. "She can't have you anymore."

Swallowing a lump that had formed in her throat, Rowena spat, "I will never be yours." She made sure to pour as much venom in her words as possible. She hated her, loathed her, despised her with her entire being, and she wanted her to know it. She wanted her to feel it. "It will always be Y/N. Always. Even if you make me think I love you, Y/N will be the one I actually love. No amount of potions or spells will change that."

"We'll see," Martha said. She raised up the potion and looked it over lovingly. "You'll come to your senses soon enough, Rowena. You'll regret those words."

"I will die before I do," Rowena told her.

"Let's see, shall we?"

Slowly, with utmost care, Martha uncapped the vial. A sweet, rosy smell filled Rowena's nostrils. Panic filled her veins like poison, took her over, overwhelmed her. Her hands closed into tight fists, toes curled, teeth snapped shut. She wouldn't drink that potion. She wouldn't. Martha couldn't make her.

One look into the madwoman's eyes told her she absolutely could — and would.

No. Rowena shook her head, once, twice, three times. No. There had to be something else to do, something to get her out of this. She hadn't fought so hard her entire life to be enslaved by a lowly witch. She'd survived The Men of Letters, The Grand Coven, and Lucifer. She'd suffered, but she'd survived. And she could survive Martha Morgan.

But how? How could she defend herself? She had no magic. Her hands and feet were bound, the rest of her body useless. She had her mouth, but what good would that do? It had gotten her into enough trouble as it was.

Y/N, please! she begged. Please help me. Tears prickled at her eyes, but she willed them to stay back. She wouldn't give Martha the satisfaction of seeing her cry.

Were you aware she was gone? Had you noticed? If you had, were you on your way to save her?

Please!

Rowena hated relying on others, even you, but it was the only thing she had left. She couldn't get out of this on her own. She needed help. She needed you. Needed you to burst in and Abi Martha out the window. Needed you to wrap your arms around her and tell her everything was okay, that she was safe, that the worst had passed. Needed you to tell her you loved her.

Needed you to be her hero, for she was too weak, too bloody useless to be her own.

"Martha—"

"Shh," Martha said. "Just relax, dear. One sip, and everything's gonna be okay."

Just as the words left her mouth, a loud, squeaking sound thundered from somewhere in the house.

Martha snarled, mad as a fury.

And Rowena's eyes lit up with hope.

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