#magic reader

[loverslantern]

The Hunter and The Witch~ Dean Winchester x f!reader

Description: A potential hunt leads to meeting another hunter, Gordon.

Warnings: Cannon violence, description of mutilated corpses, gore, sorry if the Latin is wrong, flirting?, cursing

Word Count: 12.5k

(Masterlist, Previous Chapter, Outfit Board)

  “Whoo!” Dean hollers, nodding along to the blasting AC/DC song. He drums his fingers on the steering wheel in time to the guitar riff in “Back In Black,” the brightest of smiles on his face.

  “Listen to her purr!” he shouts over the loud music, practically beaming. “Have you ever heard anything so sweet?”

  “You know, if you two wanna get a room, just let us know, Dean,” Sam remarks, acting disgusted as if there isn’t a slight smile on his face.

  “Oh, don’t listen to him, Baby. He doesn’t understand us,” Dean says, rubbing his hand over the dashboard. I can’t blame him for his enthusiasm, it’s nice to be back in the Impala and he did a damn good job in fixing her up, you wouldn’t know she was ever broken. The car runs smoothly, isn’t crushed in, its metal outside is shining, and the inside was wiped down and taken care of delicately. And, this song is banging.

  Sam laughs. “You’re in a good mood.”

  “Why shouldn’t I be?” Dean asks without missing a beat.

  “No reason,” Sam settles on, shaking his head.

  “It’s nice,” I add.

  “Got my car, got a case, things are looking up,” Dean explains.

  “Wow. Give you a couple of severed heads and a pile of dead cows, and you’re Mister Sunshine,” Sam remarks.

  “He’s a simple guy,” I join in, joking.

  “How far to Red Lodge?” Dean asks.

  “Uh, about another three hundred miles,” Sam answers, reading over the map.

  “Good,” Dean smirks, flooring it.

  The sheriff, with a thick mustache, leans back casually in his office chair, unamused by our presence. “The murder investigation is ongoing, and that’s all I can share with the press at this time,” he tells us. He’s definitely media trained, I conclude.

  “Sure, sure, we understand that,” Sam brushes off, fitting into the journalist role quite well (professional attire included). “But just for the record, you found the first head last week, correct?”   “Mm-hmm,” he hums.

  “Okay, and the other, a, uh…”

  “Christina Flanigan,” I fill in for him.

  “That was two days ago. Is there—” he cuts himself off as his office door creaks open, a young woman pointing at her watch. “Oh. Sorry boys, ma’am,” he nods at us, “Time’s up, we’re done here.”

  “What about the cattle?” Dean asks before the sheriff can get up.

  “Excuse me?”

  “You know, the cows found dead, split open, drained… over a dozen cases,” Dean clarifies.

  “What about them?” 

  “So you don’t think there’s a connection?” Sam pushes.

  “Connection…with…?”

  “The cattle mutilation and the two dead bodies,” I answer. “The perpetrator could have been using the cows as practice before he or she worked up the courage to actually kill. Or, it could be used as a way to fill the space between kills. It’s also, of course, a possibility that it's a part of their ritual, or is in itself a ritual.”

  “Like Satanic cult ritual stuff,” Dean adds to my rambling.

  He laughs, a full belly laugh, until he realizes we aren’t laughing with him. “You’re not kidding,” he realizes.

  “No,” Dean answers.

  “Those cows aren’t being mutilated. You wanna know how I know?” the sheriff asks.

  “How?” Sam muses.

  “Because there's no such thing as cattle mutilation. Cow drops, leave it in the sun, within forty-eight hours the bloat'll split it open so clean it's just about surgical,” he explains. “The bodily fluids fall down into the ground and get soaked up because that's what gravity does. But, hey, it could be Satan.”   “Sure, that’s a possibility, but it would be improper to rule it out so quickly,” I counter.

  “Are you tryna suggest that I don't know how to do my job?” he asks, leaning forward.

  “Sir, with all due respect, you’re being ignorant,” I answer, feeling the boy's eyes on me. His eyes widen, but I continue. “For one, cow mutilation, animal mutilation in general, is a real thing. There was a serial killer, Joseph Vatcher, back in the 1800s, who had mutilated animals, I believe it was sheep. It’s not uncommon for that sort of thing to happen. Secondly, we aren’t saying that Satan is real or has any part in this, but that doesn’t mean that the perpetrator doesn’t believe he is. I mean, seriously, sir, have you ever heard of religious psychosis or plain justification? Hell, the Son of Sam claimed the neighbor's dog was telling him to kill those people.”

  I watch his jaw clench, his lip twitching. I can practically hear his teeth grinding, and if this were a cartoon, there might be smoke coming from his ears. I struck about a couple hundred nerves with my rambling. Oops. 

  I sneak a glimpse at Dean, acutely aware of the silence filling the room. But he’s leaning back in his chair casually, legs spread, with a smug smile on his lips. Was he…proud? 

  “What newspaper did you say you work for?” The sheriff bites. 

  “World Weekly News”

  “Weekly World News,” the boys say in unison. Their heads snap to look at each other as they try again.

  “World—“ Dean tries again. I mentally sigh at the mess this is becoming.

  “Weekly World-“ 

  “Weekly…I’m new,” Dean smiles, exhaling a small laugh.  “Get out of my office,” he demands. 

********

  We’re onto the next office (if that office was a morgue). It was an easy switch, being able to throw lab coats over our suits and ties, or in my case, a white blouse and black slacks, but that’s neither here nor there. 

  The air is chilly and crisp, fluorescent lights reflecting dimly off the stainless steel tables. An intern with short black hair and a long face stares at us from over his desk. 

  “John,” Dean greets, guessing as he reads J. Manners off the guy's name tag.

  “Jeff,” he corrects, looking at us like a lost puppy. Essentially, he has that intern look to him, scared to do anything wrong. 

  “Jeff, I know that,” Dean lies, nodding. “Dr. Dworkin needs to see you in his office right away.”

  “But Dr. Dworkin’s on vacation,” he counters, somehow looking more lost.

  “Well, he’s back. And he’s pissed, and he’s screaming for you, man, so if I were you I would…” Dean whistles, shaking his head as he rocks on his heels. Jeff stands abruptly, his chair rolling back as he scrambles around the desk, running off with enough speed to make his lab coat all floaty in the back.

  “Hey, those satanists in Florida, they marked their victims, didn’t they?” Dean asks, moving on with ease.

  “Yeah, reversed pentacle on the forehead,” Sam answers.

  “So much fucked up crap happens in Florida,” Dean remarks, stating the obvious as he hands out pairs of latex gloves he stole from a little box kept on the wall.

  “It’s that Florida man mindset,” I add, slipping the gloves on. 

  Sam pulls open one of the many small doors on the far wall, wheeling out a corpse. A white sheet is placed over the body, except for the pale feet sticking out, a tag with the girl's name wrapped around her ankle. A brown box rests by the tips of her toes, where her head is no doubt being kept. 

  “Alright, open it,” Dean nudges his brother.

  “You open it,” Sam retorts, elbowing his brother back a bit harsher. 

  I roll my eyes, collecting the box myself. The box, and subsequently the head inside, isn’t very heavy, at the very least I know the average brain weighs about 3 pounds, I just don’t know how much the rest of it is. “You’re both scaredy cats,” I point out as I move the slightly heavy box onto a nearby table. 

  “I am not,” Dean defends, scuffing. 

  “Sure,” I stretch out. I lift the lid of the box, a pale, severed head staring back at me, well, not exactly staring because the brunette’s eyes are closed. “Mm, that’s so cool,” I mumble.

  “You have issues,” Sam answers, cringing as he peeks over my shoulder. 

  “Probably,” I shrug. 

  “Well, no pentagram,” Dean points out.

  “Nope, but look at that cut.” I run my finger along the cut, not exactly touching the jagged skin. “Not exactly perfect or surgical but pretty damn good. Definitely done in one movement.”

  I glance up, feeling their burning gazes. Sam’s jaw dropped, lip curled in disgust. “You’re kind of creepy,” he remarks.

  “Thanks,” I chirp.

  “Not a compliment,” he murmurs. “Ow!” he yelps as Dean slaps the back of his head. 

  “Maybe we should, uh, you know, look in her mouth, see if those wackos stuffed anything down her throat. You know, kind of like the moth in Silence of the Lambs,” Dean suggests.

  “I like the way you think, Precious,” I answer. “It was a pretty good book, though I think Red Dragon was a million times better.”

  “The movie was good, creepy as fuck,” he adds. “Put the lotion in the basket.”

  “Do you two need a moment?” Sam asks, looking between the two of us.

  My cheeks warm, and I shake my head, “Let us fangirl, Sammy,” I half-joke. But, at last, I go back to the task at hand, squeezing the dead girl's cheeks to open her jaw. I pry open her mouth further, mumbling a quick apology as I move two fingers into her mouth, pressing and searching around. 

  “Are you not disgusted?” Sam asks, “I think I’m gonna puke.”

  I shake my head, “‘M not disgusted at all, it’s very interesting.”

  “You’re really freaky,” he mumbles, taking a couple of steps away from the box and the prodding. 

  I tilt my head, leaning in closer as I lift her top lip up. “No moth or paper left in her mouth, but I think she’s got some sort of…mouth issue here. ‘Guess she saved a dentist trip.”

  “Wait, wait, is that a hole?” Dean asks.

  “Think so,” I mumble.

  “Press above it,” he directs.

  “Um, okay.” I press on the gum, a narrow, sharp tooth descending. “Huh.”

  “It’s a tooth,” Sam states.

  “Sam, that’s a fang. Retractable set of vampire fangs,” Dean clarifies. “You gotta be kidding me.”

  I freeze.

  “Well, this changes things,” Sam remarks.

  “Ya think?”

  I pull back quickly, tossing the lid back on and ripping off my gloves. I throw them out quickly, pushing back my hair as I pace. “This is bad. This is really, really bad.”

  “Woah, woah, woah,” Dean approaches with his hand raised as if trying to calm down an animal. “What’s going on?”

  I shake my head. “I have to leave. Those vamps didn’t just walk into a blade, okay? There’s another hunter here, and I should be, like, a hundred miles away from this. I’m so gonna die, oh my god, that’s gonna be my body on the table.”

  “Sweetheart, nothing is gonna happen,” he tries, and he looks sincere.

  “That’s what you think,” I point out. “But there’s another hunter in town, and he’s slashing down these…guys without batting an eye. You know, I could deal with meeting Bobby and Ellen, they actually turned out to be really cool even if the latter doesn’t know anything about me, but I don’t think this guy is gonna care for a meet and greet!”

  He steps closer, putting a hand on my shoulder, he tilts his head slightly to make sure that I’m looking in his eyes as he says, “I’m not going to let anything happen to you. We’ll just be here for the vamps. No one’s going to kill you or come anywhere close to hurting you, you got that?”

  I swallow, I can still feel the buzzing in my veins that’s telling me to run. Maybe I should run. That’s the smart thing to do. It’s what I’ve been taught: stay away from hunters. The Winchesters have always been an exception, and that was only by a little. I’ve gotten too loose with the people I’ve been introduced to. I should run, but I don’t. For whatever stupid reason, maybe trust, or his firm voice, or the way his green eyes grew serious, I nod. 

  He shakes his head, “‘Wanna hear you say it.”

  “I…I got it, I understand.”

********

  As understanding as I am, I’ve been jittery the whole day, bleeding into night. I’m pretty sure I’m being overly paranoid as we walk into the bar in hopes of luring the vampires out. But there’s this gnawing in my stomach that I can’t seem to stop, regardless of the amount of tea I’ve drunk. It’s so bad that when we approach the bar top and Dean orders two beers and a soda, I cut him off, switching it to three beers and no soda. 

  “So, we're looking for some people,” Sam starts as the bartender places down the drinks. I snatch one up, taking a big sip that I instantly regret, wishing I could spit it back up.

  “Sure. Hard to be lonely,” he muses, leaning on the bartop.

  “Yeah. But, um, that’s not what I meant,” Sam makes a show of pulling out a $50 bill from his pocket, dropping it on the bar. The dark-haired bartender accepts it, sliding it towards himself. “Right. So these people, they would have moved here about six months ago, probably pretty rowdy, like to drink…”

  “Yeah, real night owls, you know?” Dean adds. I take another big sip of my beer. I don’t know why I’m drinking it when I hate the taste, and the smell is surfacing old memories. So, I’m glad when Dean quietly takes the bottle from my lips before I can take another disgusting sip. He keeps it on the other side of him, the action done casually as he continues talking. “Sleep all day, party all night.”

  “Barker farm got leased out a couple of months ago. Real winners. They’ve been in here a lot—drinkers. Noisy. I’ve had to 86 them once or twice,” he informs.

  “Thanks,” Dean nods, leading us out of the bar.

  “What does 86 mean?” I ask, despising the aftertaste on my tongue. 

  “‘Remove them,” Dean answers, his hand going to my lower back to urge me down the alley. It’s dark, and the asphalt is wet despite it not having rained in the last 24 hours. It’s only our footsteps between the two walls, but just beneath ours, there’s another. The fact is, we expected this and had planned for it. So, like we mapped out, we slip from view, using the shadows to vanish between a small gap in the buildings. The person’s steps continue, pattering forward, he pauses, scuffing and turning back around. The boys are on him quickly, shoving him against the paneled wall roughly, Dean holding a sharp knife against his throat. Our stalker is a dark skinned man in a flannel shirt; he has a buzz cut, and he looks just a little shorter than Dean. 

  “Smile,” Dean teases. 

  “What?” the man exhales, his eyes wide as he looks between the three of us. 

  “Show us those pearly whites,” Dean clarifies.

  “Oh, for the love of—“ he groans. “You want to stick that thing someplace else? I’m not a vampire. Yeah, I heard you guys in there.”

  “How much do you know about vampires?” I voice it quietly.

  “How to kill them,” he answers, and I fight the urge to take big steps away from him. “Now seriously, bro, that knife’s making me itch.” Sam pins him harder against the wall. “Woah, easy there, Chaci,” the man says.

  He brings his hand up to his mouth, pulling up his lip so that we can see his gums. “See? Fangless. Happy?” he proves. Not only is he not a vampire, but it looks like the dentist probably loves him. “Now,” he continues. “Who the hell are you?”

********

  The man, Gordon, shows off his arsenal, his car trunk popped open to put it all on display. He lifts a large silver hook, letting the street light reflect on it as he moves it this way and that.

  “You got a thing for I know what you did last Summer?” I ask, eyeing the tool. It’s an interesting weapon to choose, certainly not a conventional one. It seems harsh, it reminds me of the Hook Man hunt we had a while back. 

  “What?” 

  “Nothing, never mind,” I mumble. 

  “Sam and Dean Winchester,” he says, moving on quickly. It’s the second time he’s said their names as if testing the way they sounded. “I can’t believe it. You know, I met your old man once. Hell of a guy. Great hunter. I heard he passed. I’m sorry, it’s big shoes. But from what I hear, you guys fill ‘em. Great trackers, good in a tight spot—“

  “You seem to know a lot about our family,” Dean points out.

  “Word travels fast,” he answers, looking directly at me. “You know how hunters talk.”

  My heart stops, that fear curling around my gut and tugging it down. “No, we don’t, actually,” Dean replies. But Gordon is still looking at me. 

  “What was your name again?” he asks me, and I know by the way he repeated the Winchesters' name that he hadn’t actually forgotten mine. 

  “Y/N,” I answer.

  “And your last name?” he pushes.

  “Just Y/N,” I doubled down. Maybe he’s harmless, maybe I’m just very paranoid, but regardless, I don’t want him to know. And yet there’s a part of me, a large gnawing part of me, that’s telling me he already does. 

  “So, um, those two vampires, they were yours, huh?” Sam asks, diverting Gordon’s attention away from me. I want to throw confetti at him out of gratitude. 

  “Yup. Been here two weeks,” he answers.

  “Did you check out that Barker farm?” Dean asks.

  “It’s a bust. Just a bunch of hippie freaks. Though they could kill you with that patchouli smell alone,” he explains, and somehow that’s another red flag in my book, separate from him being a hunter. Hippies were not freaks, and to think of them as such is lame.

  “Where’s the nest, then?” Dean pushes.

  “I got this one covered,” Gordon replies, shutting it down. “Look, don’t get me wrong, it’s a real pleasure meetin’ you fellas. But I’ve been on this thing for over a year. I killed a fang back in Austin, tracked the nest all the way up here. I’ll finish it.” 

  “We could help,” Dean adds, and for once, I would love for his beautiful lips to stop moving. Gordon could have this case as much as he wants; I'm more than content with that outcome. 

  “Thanks, but uh, I’m kind of a go-it-alone type of guy,” he deflects. That was good news. He should leave. We should let him leave. Let him be alone. 

  “Come on, man, I’ve been itching for a hunt,” Dean pleads. 

  “Sorry,” he says, closing the trunk of his car. “But hey, I hear there’s a Chupacabra two states over. You go ahead and knock yourselves out.” He gets into his car, and I’ve suddenly never been more pleased by any other sight. “It was real good meeting you, though. I’ll buy you a drink on the flip side.”

  Staying back was perhaps the worst mistake of my life. I had been too paranoid. I had let the fear of running into Gordon get to me, deciding to hang back at the motel while they took care of a lead to some vampires. But, not knowing if they’re okay or alive is one hundred times worse than possibly getting killed by a hunter. I’d rather get tortured, stabbed a hundred times, and burned alive than let them go on a hunt without me, I know that now. So, when I got a call saying they were okay and would be heading to the bar to celebrate the success, I jumped at the opportunity. 

  I saw Dean first; he had stayed outside, knowing I was going to arrive separately from them. “Woah,” he chuckles as I jump into his arms, my own wrapping around his neck. He wraps his arms around me, his hands firm and secure on my back. I deflate against him, a weight I didn’t know was on my shoulders, easing in his embrace. 

  “If I ever say I’m gonna stay back on a hunt again, I’m lying or it isn’t me,” I declare.

  His hands slip lower down my back as he pulls away just enough to see my face. “I’m not going to force—” he pauses, eyes scanning my face with a precision only he seems to have. “Okay, baby, you can come with us, always,” he nods, giving in easily.

  “Good, thanks,” I exhale, another weight lifted from my shoulders, “Because that was a horrible time. I was really worried about you.”

  He smiles lopsidedly. He fricking smiles as if I hadn’t been pacing the motel floor enough to wear a hole into the carpet. “I’m alright, not a scratch on me. Sammy’s okay, too. It was just one vampire.”

  “You’re lucky it was just one!” I say, hitting his chest lightly. He doesn’t flinch, he doesn’t even blink, he just wears that sure smile of his, his fingers twitching on my lower back. “Why are you smiling like that?” I ask, eyes squinting, a smile pulling on my lips.

  His eyes trace down my face, “Nothin’” he answers, shaking his head. “Come on,” he nods towards the bar entrance, and for a brief moment, I had forgotten that’s why we were here.

  I let him lead me in, frankly, I’d let him lead me anywhere, even if that was straight into danger. Coincidentally, that is exactly what he’s doing. I pause at the sight of Gordon occupying a table with Sam sitting across from him. “You didn’t say he was gonna be joining us,” I say, looking at him.

  I see the guilt wash over his face with the slight twitch of his bottom lip. “You wouldn’t have come,” he answers.

  “Yeah, that’s the whole point,” I shake my head.

  “Give him a chance,” he reasons. “I’m not gonna let anything happen to you.” I know he means that, and I know he wouldn’t. Yet, there’s a part of me that’s screaming for me to be wary. This is different from a family friend of theirs; this is a stranger with no obligation to us. “You look pretty,” he tries.

  “You can’t compliment your way out of this,” I counter. Except he totally can, because whether he means it or not, my heart lurches, and little butterflies twirl in my stomach.

  “‘Wasn’t tryin’ to,” he shrugs, and I know I’m a goner. My throat fills with nervous, bubbly laughter that I have to force down. 

  “I…will give him a chance,” I declare, booping his nose before turning and making my way towards the table, so much for a compliment not saving him. I almost instantly regret my decision when I take a seat, my heart thrumming fast for an entirely different reason. But then Dean takes the seat beside me, and it eases something small in me, so maybe things will be okay. (That’s me lying to myself.)

  “Nice to see you again,” Gordon greets me, his eyes boring into mine. “Why weren’t you there for the take-down? Don’t like getting your hands dirty?”

  Shoot. “Oh, I was…” I fumble for a lie, my heart beating hard enough that I can feel it against my chest. 

  “Not feeling good,” Sam sweeps in, saving me, and I want to lean across Dean and place a big kiss on his cheek for that. 

  “But you feel well enough to come party?” he presses. 

  I broke the eye contact he had set, looking at the swirls of the wooden table. “‘Guess so,” I mumble, failing to come up with something witty. I’m really not helping myself.

  “‘Shame you missed it,” he remarks, leaning back casually in his seat. I look back up at him, nodding slowly and giving him an awkward, tight-lipped smile when a familiar, warm hand settles on my knee, halting its bouncing. I didn’t know I was doing that. He did, though, of course he did. 

  I watch the moment Gordon’s eyes briefly drop to Dean's hand on my knee as if taking note of it. I think Dean notices it too, but he doesn’t remove his hand or say anything about it, taking a sip of his beer and squeezing my leg softly instead. It makes the butterflies in my stomach get frantic. “‘She your girl?” Gordon asks him, nodding at me.

  “No,” Dean answers simply, a hint of a bite underlying it. What was that for? I thought he liked this guy. 

  Gordon quirks his eyebrow, shrugging as if contemplating it. But he seems to move on quickly. “Can I get you a drink?” he asks. “I’ll get another round.”

  Okay, that’s a pretty normal, if not sweet, question. “Sure, thank you, um, a Shirley Temple, please.”

  “No alcohol?” he asks, eyebrows raised slightly.

  “Oh, yeah, I’m not really a fan…” I answer, nodding a little awkwardly. Alcohol reminds me of my Dad—the sad man he was. So, I don’t enjoy it. I had to learn to like, or at the very least tolerate bars, back in college. Turns out the right music and a sugar high can be as much fun as alcohol.

  “Not even a shot?” he tries. “I don’t know how you handle hunting without it.”

  “I guess I handle it the normal way?” I answer, my voice going up in a question rather than a sure statement. “Maybe a good cry too.”   He chuckles lightly, taking a sip of whatever amber liquid is in his glass. Was that funny? I didn’t think it was. 

  He waves a waitress over, flashing his white teeth as he orders a handful of drinks. His words become a faint buzz in my ears as I study him. I want to give him the benefit of the doubt. I don’t want to assume that he has bad intentions, for all I know, I’m making a really bad assumption. But I don’t know, really, I have no clues to indicate anything other than that he’s a pretty good hunter whom we happened to run into. Maybe I am overreacting, anxiety be damned. 

  “How d’you two meet her?” he asks, and as harmless as he might be, I kind of don’t like the way he asks a question regarding me without me, like I can’t answer it myself.

  “Our parents knew each other,” Sam answered. 

  “Back to your parents, huh,” Gordon nods. “Your folks hunters too?” 

  “One of them was, yeah,” I reply, trying to be careful with what I share. It’s also why I hadn’t given him my last name; if he figures out who my Dad is, then he’ll know who my Mom is, which means he’ll know what I am. 

  “Married outside the life. That must be hard,” he remarks. 

  “You saying you have trouble with the ladies?” I tease. He laughs a dry laugh. I guess he didn’t like that joke too much. I clear my throat, moving on, “They loved each other, my parents, so…”

  “You one those “love always wins” kind of people?” he asks.

  “Um, I guess I am, yes.” I’m not sure if all of me knew that I believed that until now. But then the words left my mouth, and I know it’s true. “I mean, I think if you love someone a lot, you're bound to do anything for them, you know, regardless of the risks or consequences. I can’t imagine anything that could beat love because it sure as hell can break the constraints of death.”

  I have to resist the urge to look at Dean. I know I’m a hypocrite because, by my own words, I should tell him how I feel regardless of the consequences. But I can’t. I’ve known him practically my whole life. If I said something and he didn’t feel the same, then what would become of us? We couldn’t possibly be as close as we are; there’d always be the lingering awkwardness of an unwanted confession. And I wouldn’t be able to pretend that it didn’t kill me to hear him verbally say he didn’t feel the same. He’d probably be kind about it too, let me down gently while all the same ripping out my heart.

  I think it may be possible to love someone so much that you have no other choice but to do it silently. Is that foolish? Maybe. Probably. But I’ve almost lost him twice, and I still don’t have the courage to spill my guts, so I know all I am is foolish. Yet, his hand is on my leg, and it would be so easy to make that permanent, to turn to him and say the truth that’s always on the tip of my tongue. I want the chance to love him out loud. I want him to kiss me until my lungs start weeping and my heart begs for more. I wouldn’t care if it killed me. What a wonderful way to die. 

  I just want him. I want my heart to beat in sync with his. I want my skin to memorize his fingertips like a wildfire spreading. I want monuments to be carved out of our love, vines writing our tale in its intertwining fingers.

  I’m pulled out of my thoughts of old stone when the weight on my knee disappears, my eyes flicking to him. His hips lift slightly as he reaches into the back pocket of his jeans. 

  “No, no, I got it,” Gordon stops him. A waitress carefully lays down a couple of shot glasses, beer, and a red drink with my name on it. Condensation rolls down the glass onto the wooden table, possibly creating a mark that would prove that we had been here for years to come: something is comforting in that, I think.

  “Come on,” Dean reasons, his wallet in his hand. Is it possible to be jealous of a square piece of leather?   “I insist,” Gordon nods, holding a couple of bills pinched between his fingers at the waitress. My Dad used to say that anyone who buys you a drink is a friend, so maybe this is a good sign, though he was also an alcoholic, so maybe his advice doesn’t stand.

  “Thank you, sweetie,” Gordon says to the waitress as she walks away, leaning far back to watch the sway of her hips. He grabs a shot glass, the clear liquid shifting as he raises it. “Another one bites the dust,” he toasts, getting Dean to raise a shot of his own.

  “That’s right,” he answers, the duo knocking back the drink with little to no grimacing. 

  Finally, I pull the red bubbling heaven to my lips. Whoever created this drink deserves endless love and all the wealth one could need. Seriously, I’d kiss whoever came up with it.

  “Dean,” Gordon laughs, “You gave that big ass fang one hell of a haircut, my friend.”

  “Thank you,” he answers.

  “That was beautiful. Absolutely beautiful,” Gordon reminisces, a satisfied, dreamy look on his face. “You should have seen the way he used the electric saw.” 

  There’s something childlike in the way he talks about it, like it was a cool scene in a comic rather than something that happened. I nod along, placing my glass down as I reply, “Like a slasher flick,” going along with how he gushes about the kill. Sometimes it’s easier to nod and smile, though Sam doesn’t seem to share the same sentiment with his unamused expression and distance from the conversation. 

  “You alright, Sammy?” Dean asks him.

  “I’m fine,” he answers a little harshly, or bitterly.

  “Well, lighten up a little, Sammy,” Gordon teases, mocking him.

  “Only they get to call me that,” he replies smoothly, nodding towards Dean and me, causing a sort of warm pride to pulse in my heart.

  “Okay, no offense meant,” he backs off, raising his hands in surrender. “Just celebrating a little. Job well done.”

  “Right. Well, decapitations aren’t my idea of a good time, I guess,” Sam remarks.

  “Oh, come on, man, it’s not like it was human,” Gordon argues. 

  My face scrunches in confusion, taken aback by that statement. “Well, that’s not necessarily true,” I point out, “They were turned, meaning they had to originate from a human.”

  “Key word: were,” Gordon replies. “They were human and now they’re blood sucking monsters.”

  “Well, sure. But that feels a little too black and white. I think it would be dumb to ignore that at least a handful of vampires hadn’t exactly volunteered to be turned, meaning that all they’re doing is surviving now.”

  “Are you trying to say they aren’t monsters?” Gordon presses, his face hardening. 

  “I mean, not necessarily. Yes, killing people is wrong—“

  “I’m glad we can agree on that,” he cuts me off, his lips pulled into a snarl. “Have you ever hunted a vampire?”

  I breathe a laugh. I’m not fond of being cut off during a debate or argument. “I have, but that’s not my point. I just mean to say that “monster” may be a strong word to use.”

  “What kind of hunter are you?” He scuffs, looking at Dean like he had chosen wrong. “How aren’t they monsters?” He presses, eyes locking onto me. “What else would you call them?” his voice rises. “Innocent? Friendly? Victims?”

  I flinch as his hand slams onto the table, the glasses rattling. My chair scrapes against the floor as I put distance between myself and the table, away from him. I look down at the swirls of the wooden table, tracing the loop with my eyes as I steal a sip from my drink in an attempt to pretend like I hadn’t reacted the way I did. I don’t say anything. I don’t try to argue more, saying that I meant that to use the word “monster” for every supernatural being rather than individually, as in depending on the case, is unfair. Which is not to say that there aren’t monsters out there, because there are. 

  “You both need to have a little more fun with your job,” Gordon adds, referring to Sam and me.

  “That’s what I’ve been trying to tell them, mostly him. You could learn a thing or two from this guy, Sammy,” Dean replies.  

  “Yeah, I bet I could,” Sam muses with a tight-lipped smile. “Look, I’m not gonna bring you guys down. I’m just gonna go back to the motel.”

  My ears perk up. That sounds like the perfect escape. 

  “You sure?” Dean asks.

  “Yeah,” he answers, standing. 

  “Sammy?” he reaches into his jacket, pulling out his keys, the metal jingling. “Remind me to beat that buzzkill out of you later, alright?”

  Sam catches the keys tossed at him with one hand, casually turning to leave. My fingers tap against the arms of the chair as I watch the back of his head. “Wait, Sam,” I call out. He stops, looks over his shoulder. “Can I come with you?” 

  “Yeah, of course,” he answers, and I wonder why I asked. I don’t need permission. 

  I stand, feeling Dean's eyes on me. His eyes are scrunched together, speaking the words we won’t say out loud because he’s asking if I’m okay and not just okay but genuinely, truly, okay. My hand falls to his shoulder, giving him a little squeeze as I lean down, head tilting slightly as I say a quiet, “Be safe.” I brush my hair from my face as I catch up to Sam, falling into step with him.

********

  I flop onto the nearest bed in the motel with a sigh as Sam drops the keys onto a hook. It's not my bed, it's not even my room, but I know neither boy will complain. “We should get a pizza,” I announce, tracing the dark water stain on the ceiling with my eyes. “A real greasy one that will definitely clog an artery or two.”

  “You sound like Dean,” he answers, scuffing and shaking his head as he tosses his jacket onto the other bed.

  “I’ll take that as a compliment,” I reply, kicking off my shoes. I twist around, lying on my stomach with my head propped up in my hands. “‘Could be like a slumber party while those two get hammered, or whatever.”

  He frowns at the mention of them. “He gives you a bad vibe, right?”

  “Is it that obvious?” I muse.

  “You looked uncomfortable.”

  “That’s the exact opposite of what I was going for,” I mumble. “But, I’m probably biased, you know? He’ll probably kill me if he finds out what I am. But what’s your reasoning?”

  “I don’t know,” he answers softly, sitting at the edge of his bed. “The way he talks about hunting, and the way he handles it, I guess.”

  “That makes two of us, then. I guess Dean isn’t picking up on it. Or he’s ignoring it, rose colored glasses and all,” I consider. 

  “Do you think Ellen would know who he is?” he asks, looking over at me.

  “Probably. She said hunters pass through, maybe he’s one of ‘em, or she heard of him through others. She looks like the kind of person who knows everyone.”

  “‘Didn’t know you,” he points out, a small smile playing at his lips.

  “Guess I’m just that mysterious,” I joke, wiggling my fingers at him.

  “Sure,” he laughs, shaking his head. “I’m gonna call her.” 

  “Put her on speaker,” I tell him as he pulls out and flicks open his phone.

  He nods, mumbling a “yeah, yeah,” his phone making small beeping noises with every button press. A steady ring buzzes from his phone, the line picking up after the third ring. 

  “Harvelle’s Roadhouse,” she greets, the distant sound of chatter filling the background.

  “Hey, Ellen, uh, Sam Winchester,” he answers.

  “And Y/N!” I add.

  “Sam, Y/N, it’s good to hear from you both. You're all okay, aren’t you?” she asks. She really is very sweet; it’s hard not to like her. 

  “Yeah. Yeah, everything’s fine. Got a question,” he answers.

  “Yeah, shoot.”

  “You ever run across a guy named Gordon Walker?”

  “Yeah, I know Gordon.”

  “And?” he presses.

  “Well, he’s a real good hunter. Why are you asking, sweetie?” 

  “Is he cool to be with? Safe?” I ask, shouting a little to make sure the phone picks me up.

  “We ran into him on a job and we’re kinda working with him, I guess,” Sam clarifies.

  “Don’t do that,” she answers, her voice suddenly serious rather than sweet and syrupy. 

  “I- I thought you said he was a good hunter,” he stammers, throwing me a worried look. I scramble to sit upright, worried about her change in voice and her short warning.

  “Yeah, and Hannibal Lecter’s a good psychiatrist,” she remarks. “Look, he is dangerous to everyone and everything around him. If he’s working on a job, you just let him handle it and you move on.”

  My heart plummets to my feet. I guess my fear was warranted this whole time. We should leave. 

  “Ellen—“ 

  “No, Sam,” She cuts him off sharply. “You just listen to what I’m telling you, okay?”

  “Right, okay,” he answers, giving in. It’s not that long after that he hangs up, and we sit in silence. I stare at the carpet, considering its little bumps and likely itchy material.

  “What do we do?” I ask, breaking the silence. 

  “We leave as soon as possible, I guess. ‘Tell Dean when he gets back.”

  “I feel like we should tell him now. Get him back now. After Ellen’s warning, I really don’t trust him,” I point out, picking at a loose thread in the blanket.

  “I don’t think he’s gonna come back, he’ll insist he stays out. I don’t think he’s gonna take the warning seriously either,” he counters.

  “If I call him, he’ll come, he always does,” I reason. Before I went on the road with him, that’s pretty much how we were. If he didn’t make a surprise visit, or a pre-planned one, then it was because I called. 

  He shakes his head, “Maybe that’ll work, but it might set something off with Gordon.”

  “The longer he stays with him, the less he’s gonna believe us,” I point out. 

  “He’ll always believe you,” he says with finality, and it hits me. He isn’t wrong, I guess I never thought of that. “But Dean, he’ll be okay for now. We should be more worried about you.”

  “Back to my hundred miles away freak out,” I mumble, falling back into bed.

  “Look, I’m gonna go get a drink from the vending machine outside, and when I get back we’ll think of something, okay?” he asks, staying level-headed. “Do you want anything?”

  “Could you get me a (soda)?” I answer, leaning up on my elbows.

  He nods, throwing his jacket back on. “I’ll be right back,” he announces one last time before the door clicks behind him.

  I drop from my propped arms, staring up at the ceiling again. Sam’s right, we have dealt with worse. For one, Gordon is human; he may be skilled, but he’s still got a handful of natural weaknesses (worst comes to worst). That should be comforting, and yet for some reason it isn’t. 

  I can convince myself that everything will be okay if I squeeze my eyes closed hard enough. I exhale slowly, trying to let all the negative energy escape me. I try not to be negative, but sometimes it creeps through like a shadow overtaking the sunlight. My body feels heavy with all the anxiety it’s harbored today, my bones like jello against a mattress that’s almost comfortable. 

  I don’t count the minutes Sam is gone, but after what feels like an eternity of staring at a boring ceiling, I check the alarm clock. It’s been about five minutes, and the red glow of the numbers is watching me from the nightstand. I don’t think the vending machine is far enough to warrant five minutes, then again, maybe he got sidetracked. It wouldn’t hurt to check; worst-case scenario, I bump into him and we brush off how I got worried for no reason.

  I roll over to the other side of the bed, shoving my feet back into my shoes and throwing a sweater on. I make sure I have my phone before softly shutting the door behind me. Immediately, it’s vacant. There’s no one lingering outside, not even someone smoking, and the nearest vending machine, some distance to the left, is unoccupied. Fear punches my heart, but I try to act calmly before jumping to conclusions, taking a lap around the exterior of the motel in search of him. 

  He’s nowhere to be seen. He’s gone, and the car is still here. I flip open my phone, pressing his contact, the line rings and rings and rings, never getting anywhere. I huff, quickly calling again as worry eats at my gut. And again, there’s no answer. I should call Dean. But if I call Dean, then he’ll probably bring Gordon, and that’s what we want to avoid; then again, this is his brother we’re talking about, he deserves to know. I’d be pissed if no one told me my brother was in danger and I know Dean will be if I keep it from him. But how do I say, “Hey, your brother was kidnapped by I don’t know who, and I know you’re really worried, but I actually need you to not bring that new friend you made. No, I probably shouldn’t explain why over the phone, but you just need to trust me, okay?” Like, I would probably hit whoever said that to me. 

  I need to focus. Sam’s life is more important than Dean being mad at me, though the mere thought makes me feel nauseous. I head back to the room, quickly taking the car keys before heading to the Impala. Who would kidnap Sam?

  The vampires. That’s the only thing that makes sense. It seems like they didn’t find the nest previously but rather a lone vampire, so maybe this is revenge. It would then make sense as to why they didn’t go after me, too; I wasn’t there, so they wouldn’t know me. 

  I hop into the Impala, hands on the leather of the steering wheel. I’ve only driven this car a handful of times, but never alone and never under conditions like this. I summon a small compact into my hand, a ghost of purple lingering around it as I open it and focus on the mirror. “Ostende mihi illum quem quaero,” I whisper to it, focusing on Sam as I ask to be shown the one I’m looking for. The mirror ripples, a purple cloud moving over it, obscuring my reflection. And when the fog clears up, it is not my reflection staring back at me but a sleeping figure with rope around its arms and legs, lying on the ridged black floor of a van. I guess the vampires decide to go the classic route. But he’s safe and alive, his chest rising and falling steadily. 

  I let out a sigh of relief, placing the opened compact on the dashboard and starting up the car. I force my sight on him to zoom outside of the van, waiting for a sign to expose their location. I wait in bated silence, my breath held as the occasional street light illuminates the vehicle. There. Right there. Oak Road. That’s a start. I can head that way and then keep following them. I make a small pamphlet appear in the palm of my hands, a booklet I saw of Red Lodge, Montana, in the check-in area of our motel. I yank open the map, my finger skimming over it until I find the road and, not too far from it, a bridge that leads out of town. I bet that’s where they're heading. I take a mental picture of it and throw it beside me, pressing down on the gas pedal. 

********

  I wait a solid minute for them to drag him out of the van and into the rundown barn. It’s a horrible minute that leaves me on edge, but to get caught now is not an option. I put the car in park, some distance away from them. Silently, I get out, going to the trunk to pull out a machete, testing the weight of it in my hand. No time like the present. I close the trunk with as little noise as possible, stalking forward with the darkness cloaking me. 

  There are no vampires outside to play guard dog. It’s not exactly smart on their part, but it’s probably to avoid anyone looking over here, though I doubt anyone would with the overgrown grass and the boarded-up windows. But it’s good for me, so I creep closer to the two large barn doors. I doubt they know I’m coming, but with his life on the line, I don’t want to waste any more time sneaking around to take them out. I’ve taken down a nest by myself before; I can handle myself just fine. I stand in front of the doors, shooting a blast of energy at them with my hands outstretched. The wood shatters, paint chips, and shards of wood fly out.

  I just barely registered Sam, bound to a chair, with his hair messed up. Instead, I focus on the dark-haired vampire with his teeth flashing and a sack clenched in his hand. He’s looking my way, my flashy entrance causing quite the scene. I throw up a hand behind me, forcing the vampires that lingered near the door to be shoved up against the wall. I guess they kept their guard dogs on the inside. I’ll deal with them in a moment. 

  The vampire by Sam charges me, and somewhere between the punch that I dodge and the kick I deliver to his gut, a resemblance to the bartender who gave us information clicks. He staggers back, and I follow, machete raised.

  “Wait!” A girl yells out. I hold up a hand, keeping the bartender-vampire in place as I look towards the voice. A girl no older than me steps out from the shadows. She’s wearing a dark grey long-sleeved shirt with little buttons stopping mid chest, a white tank top peeking from the space the V-neck created, and an open black vest over it. She has straight brown hair that stops a little past her shoulders, and she looks only a little taller than I. “Don’t!”

  “Why?” I ask sternly. “You kidnapped my friend.”

  “Only because your friend killed one of us!” the vampire I hold in place spits.

  “Stop, Eli,” the girl warns. I guess she’s the leader.

  “We weren’t planning on hurting your friend here, okay? We just need to talk. My name’s Lenore,” she says softly, stepping closer slowly with her hands raised in surrender. 

  “Talk?” I echo. “Eli here looks like he wanted to do more than talk to Sam.”

  “He won’t hurt either of you. You have my word,” she swears, her voice never wavering.

  I null it over, tongue in cheek. I shouldn’t trust her. “Fine,” I give in. “We’ll talk. But one wrong move, if you try anything, I will have all your heads on the floor faster than you can say ‘please.’” The threat sounds foreign on my tongue, too ruthless, and yet I’m not fibbing. I let my hold on all of them drop, the sound of feet hitting the ground and sighs of relief filling the dingy barn.

  “Thank you,” Lenore exhales. Eli stammers off, going to her side. “Look, we’re not like the others. We don’t kill humans, and we don’t drink their blood. We haven’t for a long time,” she confesses.

  The machete in my hand suddenly feels heavy. They’re like me, then. 

  “What is this, some kind of joke?” Sam asks.

  “Notice you’re still alive,” she points out.

  “Okay, uh, correct me if I’m wrong here, but shouldn’t you be starving to death?” he counters. 

  “We’ve found other ways. Cattle blood,” she answers.

  “So you’re the ones killing the cows,” I say.

  “It’s not ideal, in fact, it’s disgusting. But…it allows us to get by,” she explains.

  “You guys are like that one character from that movie The Little Vampire,” I remark.

  “Isn’t that a kids' movie?” Sam asks.

  I look over my shoulder at him, “I was like 18 when that movie came out, leave me alone.” I look back at Lenore, “Anyways, what made you want to change?”

  “Survival,” she answers. “No deaths, no missing locals, no reason for people like you to come looking for people like us. We blend in. Our kind is practically extinct. Turns out we weren’t quite as high up the food chain as we imagined.”

  “Why are we explaining ourselves to these killers?” Eli spits.

 “Eli!” Lenore warns.

  “We choke on cow’s blood so that none of them suffer,” he continues anyway. “Tonight they murdered Conrad and they celebrated.”

  “Eli, that’s enough,” Lenore warns again, her voice sharper. 

  “Yeah, Eli, that’s enough,” Sam piles on. 

  “What’s done is done. We’re leaving this town tonight,” she adds.

  “Then why did you bring me here?” Sam asks. “Why are you even talking to us?”

  “Believe me, I’d rather not. But I know your kind. Once you have the scent, you’ll keep tracking us. It doesn’t matter where we go. Hunters will find us,” she explains.

  I feel sick. It’s like looking into an obscured mirror. We’re two sides of the same coin. I can faintly remember mom telling me how, before my brother and I were born, she and dad moved around a lot, worried about the hunters that would go after her. That’s why we moved to Kansas to begin with: I messed up the security they had created for all of us, and we needed to leave before a hunter caught wind. The room tilts on its axis. To think I threatened these people. I’m a hypocrite. 

  “So you’re asking us not to follow you,” Sam replies.

  “We have a right to live. We’re not hurting anyone,” she argues. 

  “Right, so you keep saying, but give us one good reason why we should—” 

  “Done,” I cut him off. 

  “What?” Sam exclaims. “You’re just gonna believe them?”

  “Yes,” I answer. “When we were looking into this case, there was no sign of any other unusual deaths, let alone one that resembled a death by a vampire. Gordon basically started this mess. He targeted them, not the other way around,” I explain.

  I meet Lenore’s eyes then, “I know what it’s like to want to try and be different from what people expect you to be. We won’t follow you, we’ll get out of your hair. But, I can’t say the same for Gordon, we’ll try and get him to look the other way, but I’m not sure how long that’ll last.”

  Her shoulders drop slightly, her face softening. “Thank you.”

********

  By the time we arrive at the motel, both our minds are swarming. Out of everything that could’ve been said and done, this was an outcome I couldn’t have foreseen. But it makes sense, doesn’t it? Why couldn’t more beings like me have no interest in being as evil as they’re dubbed?

  I wait by the Impala while Sam goes to fetch Dean from the room. We saw Gordon's car on the other side when we pulled in, which means he’s with Dean, and that’s exactly where I don’t want to be.

  It takes less than two minutes for Sam to come back with his brother right behind him. He exhales sharply as if preparing to drop the bomb on him. “Dean, maybe we’ve got to rethink this hunt,” he starts.

  “It’s not a maybe, we are,” I cut in. “The hunt's off, that’s it.”

  “What are you talking about?” Dean asks, looking between us like we each grew another head. “Where were you?”

  “In the nest,” Sam answers bluntly.

  “You found it?” His eyes widened.

  “More like it found us. Or, actually, Sam,” I answer.

  “They kidnapped Sam, and you didn’t call me?” Dean asks, eyes locked onto me.

  “I handled it myself. And you were busy,” I defend, but the hurt in his voice is as clear as I had imagined.

  “I’m never too busy for yo—for either of you,” he answers, looking at both of us with almost wild eyes. “Well, how many’d you kill?” Dean asks rapidly, eyes scanning both of us for injuries. 

  “None,” Sam answers.

  “Well, they didn’t just let you go.”

  “Funny story…” I murmur.

  His face drops momentarily as if his brain is trying to compute it. “Alright, well, where is it?” Dean asks.

  “I was blindfolded, I don’t know,” he shrugs, looking at me. It’s only half true because he wasn’t blindfolded on the way back since he rode with me.

  “But you know,” Dean points out, looking at me.

  “Oh, would you look at that, I completely forgot where it was,” I answer, trying to put on my most convincing voice.

  He deadpans, one eyebrow quirked slightly. He doesn’t believe me, “Yeah, you do.”

  “Well….” I stretch the word out, “Maybe. But I’m not telling you or anyone, sorry.”

  “Why not?” he asks.

  “Because we aren’t going after them. They aren’t killing people, they’re living off of cow blood instead,” I explain, crossing my arms in front of my chest.

  “And you believed them?” he presses. But then he’s shaking his head, running a hand through his hair as he mutters, “Of course you believed them, Ms. gullible over here.”

  “I am not gullible!” I defend.

  “Well…” Sam chimes in.

  “Hey!” I shove his arm. “Aren’t we supposed to be on the same side here?”

  “Right. Look at me, Dean. They let me go without a scratch. Hell, Y/N was throwing them around and threatened to kill them, and they didn’t touch her either,” Sam reasons, gesturing to himself and then at me. 

  “Wait, so you’re saying…No, no way. I don’t know why they let you go. I don’t really care,” he shakes his head. “We find ‘em, we waste ‘em.”

  “Why aren’t you listening?” I ask, almost pleading with him.

  “I am. But what part of ‘vampires’ don’t you understand? If it’s supernatural, we kill it, end of story. That’s our job,” he spits, and it feels like a stab to the heart. 

  “No, Dean, that is not our job. Our job is hunting evil. And if these things aren’t killing people, they’re not evil!” Sam defends.

  “Of course they’re killing people, that’s what they do. They’re all the same, Sam. They’re not human, okay? We have to exterminate every last one of them.”

  “Then kill me,” I shout, stepping closer to him.

  His face falters. He knows where he went wrong. “You’re different. I wouldn’t—“

  “How am I different?” I press, stepping close enough that I can feel the heat that he emits. My heart is hammering against my chest, my anger slowly being overtaken by something else, something that makes my voice waver. “By your logic, you should’ve killed me a long time ago.” I turn from him, stepping away, running my hands down my face.

  “I thought you got over this, Dean,” I say, looking back at him. It hurts. And it doesn’t help that his jaw is clenched and his eyebrows are furrowed, his eyes shining a certain sadness that reeks of regret. “You hang out with that guy for what? A couple of hours and suddenly your’re—you’re—“ I can’t get the word out. I’m not sure what I’m even trying to say. “Just…fuck you, Dean.” The words aren’t as sharp as I want them to be, not with a lip that won’t stop quivering and the ache in my throat, it’s filled with more hurt than anger.

  He looks down, and I’m almost glad I can make him feel ashamed. I thought he was different. I wanted him to be different. “Gordon’s been on those vamps for a year, he knows,” he continues as if I hadn’t said a word. 

  “Knows what?! That the only trail they’re leaving behind, are animals?” I question, rage eating at the edges of sorrow. “Has he shown you any evidence, or are you just blindly believing him?”

  “He’s taking his word for it,” Sam cuts him off before he can answer.

  “That’s right,” he nods. 

  “Ellen says he’s bad news,” Sam reveals.

  “You called Ellen?” Dean asks. Sam nods. “And I’m supposed to listen to her? We barely know her, Sam, no thanks, I’ll go with Gordon.”

  “Right, ‘cause Gordon’s such an old friend,” Sam mocks. “You don’t think I can see what this is?”

  “What are you talking about?” Dean exclaims.

  “He’s a substitute for Dad, isn’t he?” Sam guesses. “A poor one.” 

  “Shut up, Sam,” he warns. 

  “He’s not even close, Dean. Not on his best day,” he continues. 

  “You know what? I’m not even going to talk about this,” he throws up his hands.

  “You know, you slap on this big fake smile, but I can see right through it. Because I know how you feel, Dean,” Sam admits, arms opened wide. “Dad's dead. And he left a hole, and it hurts so bad you can’t take it, but you can’t just fill up that hole with whoever you want to. It’s an insult to his memory.”

  “Okay,” he nods, jaw clenched tight. He starts to turn away, only to swing back with a hard punch. Sam stumbles back, clutching his jaw.

  A gasp rips through my throat, and I move forward, pushing Dean away harshly. He stumbles back slightly, but there’s a small part of me that thinks he’s letting me move him. “What the hell has gotten into you?!” I exclaim, shoving him again. 

  “You hit me all you want. It won’t change anything,” Sam croaks from somewhere behind me. 

  “I’m going to that nest,” he declares, grabbing my hands in one of his before I can push him again. “You don’t want to tell me where it is, fine. I’ll find it myself.”

  “Dean,” I say sharply, meeting his eyes, before he can let go of my wrists. “I swear to God, if you go after them, I will never forgive you.”

  His lip twitches, and his eyes seem to soften just slightly. I’m begging for him to agree with us, to not fall into whatever pit Gordon is dragging him towards. I know he’s better than that. I know he’s capable of seeing past the black and white aspect of hunting, being friends with me, and all the times he’s defended me are proof of that. I can’t be making that up. I can’t be.

  “Please,” I whisper, eyes glossy with tears that wish to form. 

  He swallows roughly, his Adam's apple bobbing. He releases my hands, turning away from me. I stare at his back, at the brown leather of his jacket, trying to bite back the tears. I was so worried that confessing would lead to losing him, but apparently I’m capable of doing so all on my own. No love needed.

  He runs a hand through his hair, sighing. “Fine,” he bites, turning back around. “Fine.” 

  My knees feel like they want to give up, collapse in on themselves in relief, but I force myself to stand. 

  “I’ll, uh… I’ll go try to talk Gordon down,” he says, running a hand over his jaw as he shakes his head. “Stay here or go to your room, I don’t want you around if he acts badly to the news, and he will.”

  A small smile pulls at the corner of my lips. “See? That’s the Dean I know,” I murmur softly. He swallows roughly, but doesn’t say anything more. He heads towards his motel room in silence, Sam trailing behind him. 

  I wait by the car. I’d like to see Gordon leave, to see his face and know for certain that he’s given up on this hunt. But it’s not Gordon that leaves the motel room a moment later, it’s the Winchesters. “He’s gone,” Sam confirms as they approach. 

  “You think he went after them?” I ask, though I already know the answer. Of course he did.

  “Probably,” Dean answers. 

  “Alright, come on, we need to stop him,” I say, heading towards the driver's side of the Impala.

  “Oh…you’re gonna drive?” Dean asks as I unlock the car.

  “Yeah, I mean, I know the way there,” I reply, looking over my shoulder at him. He looks surprised, lips drawn in a tight line.

  “Right. Right,” he murmurs, head tilted to the floor. 

********

  An empty truck with its bed left open sits near the farmhouse. It’s a white home with a porch and shuttered windows on the same property as the barn I broke into previously. No bodies or heads are lying around, so I guess we aren’t too late. But that truck, the box left on it, his car pulled off to the side. Gordon’s still here, and he’s definitely keeping company. 

  A dim, barely there light stretches out from beneath the farmhouse door. Someone’s groaning inside, sharp hisses and jagged grunts filling the air. We are too late. 

  “Sam, Dean, Y/N. Come on in,” Gordon says from inside. He must have heard our footsteps.

  Dean pushes the door in, the old wood creaking. “Hey, Gordon. What’s going on?” he greets carefully. 

  It’s Lenore. He has her tied to a chair, cuts of all different sizes sketched into her skin. And he’s just standing beside her, with a bloody knife in his hand, his eyes wild with a smug smile on his face. I failed her.

  “Just poisoning Lenore here with some dead man’s blood,” he answers casually, nodding towards the jar of blood on the table. “She’s going to tell us where all her little friends are, aren’t you? Wanna help?”

  “How about you shove that knife up your ass you sadistic fuck,” I spit. 

  “Woah, woah,” he says, eyes wide. “Calm down, now. How ‘bout we put our differences aside and finish the job.”

  “You’re torturing her!” I argue.

  “I know. I was just about to start on the fingers. Come on, Dean, help a friend out,” he smiles, shining those white teeth. He drags the knife across the pale skin of her arm, dark veins following the tip of the blade. 

  “Woah, woah, woah, hey, let’s all just chill out, huh?” Dean mediates, hands raised in surrender.

  “I’m completely chill,” he answers smoothly.

  “And entirely insane,” I add.

  “Gordon, put the knife down,” Sam orders sharply, trying to step towards Gordon. But Dean holds him back with a hand on his chest. 

  “Sounds like it’s these two that need to chill,” Gordon answers, pointing the tip of the blade at Sam and me. 

  “You’re right. I’m wasting my time here. This bitch will never talk. Might as well put her out of her misery,” he considers, replacing his knife with a machete that rested on the table. “I just sharpened it, so it’s completely humane.”

  “Do you hear yourself?” I ask. “Is that the kind of excuse you tell yourself to fall asleep you pathetic asshole?”

  “Not an excuse,” he acknowledges, turning towards Lenore.

  Sam steps in front of him, creating a barrier between Gordon and Lenore. “Gordon, I’m letting her go,” he tells him. 

  He points the knife at Sam’s chest, stopping him from moving. “You’re not doing a damn thing.”

  “Hey, hey, hey, Gordon, let’s talk about this,” Dean spews quickly.

  “What’s there to talk about? It’s like I said, Dean. No shades of gray,” he reiterates, the hold on his machete never faltering.

  I want to throw him across the room and rip his throat out. I want to hurt him so badly that I don’t care what it makes me. Yet, I can’t give away what I am; I have to play this safe for as long as I can. I just don’t know how much more I can hold back. 

  “Yeah. I hear ya. And I know how you feel,” Dean answers calmly.

  “Do you?”

  “That vampire that killed your sister deserved to die, but this one…”

  Gordon laughs, cutting him off. “Killed my sister? That filthy fang didn’t kill my sister. It turned her. It made her one of them. So I hunted her down, and I killed her myself.”

  “You did what?” Dean echoes, his voice quieter than before.   “It wasn’t my sister anymore; it wasn’t human. I didn’t blink. And neither would you,” he answers, his chest puffed out like he’s proud of what he did. 

  “So you knew all along, then? You knew about the vampires, you knew they weren’t killing anyone. You knew about the cattle. And you just didn’t care,” Sam concludes. 

  “Care about what? A nest of vampires suddenly acting nice?” he mocks. “Taking a little time out from sucking innocent people? And we’re supposed to buy that? Trust me. Doesn’t change what they are. And I can prove it.”

  He grabs Sam’s arm, machete raised, but before the shining metal can come down, my hands are raised, a large and bright blast of energy shooting from my palms. The wooden wall that he crashes into bends and breaks beneath him, the last bit of moonlight seeping through the cracks. The machete clanks to the ground, and Sam stumbles back. 

  All eyes are on me, two pairs filled with worry and a third filled with wonder. He scurries to sit up right, fear flashing in his dilated pupils. “Do you like it?” I ask, stalking forward. “Being afraid?”

  He looks past me with crazed eyes.“You two ‘been hiding her?! What are you!?”

  “Nothing that matters,” I answer, shards of wood crunching beneath my shoes as I go to Lenore. I kneel down beside her, helping Sam untie her. 

  “What happened to no black and white, Dean?” he laughs a single short laugh. “Why haven’t you killed her yet?! Is she your little bitch? Is that why?”

  A click registers against the walls, Dean standing in front of him with a gun in his hand, pointed at Gordon. “I’d really shut my mouth if I were you,” Dean warns through gritted teeth. He doesn’t bother to look back as he says, “Get her out of here, both of you.”

  Sam scoops Lenore up in his arms, carrying her out carefully. The wooden floor groans far behind me, and I watch Gordon lift himself from the floor just as I disappear out the door. Sam carries her to the bed of the truck, lying her down. Immediately, my hands are on her arm, pouring light into her skin to mend the cuts he had sliced into her. “Wipe off the dead man’s blood,” I direct Sam. He moves around me, going through a nearby box until he finds an old rag. Instantly, he’s cleaning off the blood, letting the cloth soak it up. 

  I try to ignore the commotion coming from the farmhouse as I finish up. But it’s difficult when I know Dean’s in there fighting someone who’s probably just as good as he is with no help. Of course, I know he’s capable, but that doesn’t mean I can suddenly stop worrying about him. 

  I focus back on the cold skin beneath my hands, the cuts webbing together seamlessly. I pull away, my hands freezing as if I had let them sit on a giant ice cube for an hour. Sam helps her off the bed of the truck, getting her into the driver's seat. I run my hand over the cold metal of the truck, whispering to it, “Et evanescet.” And for a fraction of a second, a wave of purple shimmers over the dark vehicle.

  I meet them by the driver's side. Sam is leaning against the closed door, making sure she’s okay to drive. “I bought you a day,” I tell her. “Regardless of how long we hold him back, I can guarantee you that for the next 24 hours, there’ll be no sign of you. He won’t be able to find you with traffic cameras or anything else. You won’t exist.”

  Her hands clench the steering wheel tightly, her jaw set in place as she watches us. “Thank you,” she says. Sam nods, tapping the door as he steps away. The engine rumbles, tires crunching over grass and gravel as she rolls away. I wish that there were more we could do for her. 

  He nudges my shoulder, bringing me back to myself. I follow his quick steps back up the house. When we enter, it’s Gordon that’s tied up, his eyes hard and his lips pulled into a snarl as he stares daggers into Dean, who leans against the table, watching him. They’re both battered and bruised. There’s a bruise blooming across Dean’s cheekbone, and what looks like a black eye.  

  “Did we miss anything?” Sam asks. 

  “Nah, not much,” Dean shrugs stiffly, grimacing slightly at the lift of his shoulder. “Lenore get out okay?”

  “Yeah,” he nods. 

  I step closer to Gordon, his eyes snapping to me as he pulls against the ropes that restrain him. I step behind his chair, hands rising to his temples. “What are you doing?” he demands. 

  “I’m going to make you forget that you ever saw what I could do. Don’t worry, you’ll remember getting thrown into the wall, the fear. You just won’t recall how it happened,” I answer, letting the energy spark from my fingertips. “Don’t need you following us around,” I add, mumbling, as I soak back the memory of purple light, erasing parts of myself from his hatred-filled mind. I step away from him, putting my hands behind my back.  

  “I guess our work here is done,” Dean declares. “How you doin’, Gordy? Gotta tinkle yet?” he mocks. “Alright. Well, get comfy. We’ll call someone in two or three days, have them come out, untie you.” He picks up a knife from the floor, jamming it into the table behind him.

  “Ready to go, Dean?” Sam asks.

  “Not yet,” he answers. “I guess this is goodbye. Well, it’s been real.” Suddenly, he lunges forward with a punch, knocking Gordon and the chair he’s stuck to onto the floor. “Okay. I’m good now. We can go,” he says, rolling his shoulders back. 

  I don’t try to hide the smile playing at the corner of my lips. In some odd way, that was incredibly attractive. There’s a little pep in my step as we walk down the porch stairs, the very beginning of daylight breaking across the horizon in a subtle yellow brushing against the blue. 

  “Sam?” Dean starts, gently wiping at his split lip. “Clock me one.”

  “What?”

  “Come on. I won’t even hit you back,” he urges, gesturing to himself. “Let’s go.”

  “No,” Sam argues.

  “Let’s go, you get a freebie. Hit me, come on,” he tries again. 

  “You look like you just went twelve rounds with a block of cement, Dean. I’ll take a rain check,” he counters.

  “I wish we never took this job. It’s jacked everything up,” Dean complains.

  “What do you mean?” I ask, kicking along a loose pebble. 

  “Think about all the hunts we went on, our whole lives,” he continues. “What if we killed things that didn’t deserve killing? You know? I mean, the way Dad raised us, Sam…”

  “Dean, after what happened to Mom, Dad did the best he could,” Sam offers.

  “I know he did. But the man wasn’t perfect. And the way he raised us to hate those things? You remember when he tried to turn us against Y/N?”

  “Wait, what?” I stammer.

  “You were barely twelve, and he was trying to convince us you were evil. And, man, it worked,” he elaborated.

  “Oh, I knew it. I knew that’s why you were acting like that on my birthday,” I answer.

  “Yeah, that’s why I didn’t make any contact with you for months after that. Sam he made us hate them. And man, I hate ‘em. I do.” He stops suddenly, cutting himself off so that he can point at me and say, “Not you. I don’t mean you. You’re the exception.”

  “Thanks…I guess,” I answer. “But, I mean, that’s a decision you made on your own. It’s the exact opposite of what your Dad wanted.”

  He shakes his head like I’m not understanding. “When I killed that vampire at the mill, I didn’t even think about it; hell, I even enjoyed it.”

  “You didn’t kill Lenore,” Sam points out.

  “No, but every instinct told me to. I was gonna kill her. I was gonna kill ‘em all,” he tells us.

  “But you didn’t. You’re capable of seeing past the soldier mentality put onto you, whether you can see that or not,” I say, sincerely. “Tonight—actually I guess last night— was just more proof of that.” 

  “You’re still stubborn, though,” Sam adds with a smile.

  “Oh, 100% still stubborn,” I nod, agreeing without hesitation.

  “You’re both pains in my ass,” he grumbles.

  “Guess you have to keep us around to be a pains in the ass, then,” Sam answers with an amused smirk.

(Next Chapter)

Tag list: @jesllianaquilesrolonsworld @okayiamkassandra @fablesrose @ada--44 @bonkydarnes @star-yawnznn @crazyunsexycool @onlyangel-444 @seninjakitey @mystic-mara @mxltifxndom @stilesxreid @chaotic-luvrs @tiggytaylor @deanwasscaredbyacat @imaginexred @daisychaingirl @yasmin12312 @squishytap @i-am-fckn-sleep-deprived @wecangetlostinthepurplerain

[clairewritesfanfics]

Hello and good morning/afternoon or evening wherever you are. I hope this isn’t a bother but can we have a doctor strange! Reader having to take down interdimensional threats like angstrom and mark variants before the time stream collapses ( kinda like spiderman long way from home. I love your work!)

A wise woman once said, “For a genius, nothing is more precious than failure.” 

For a doctor, there is no such thing as perfection–that’s why they call it “practicing medicine,” because there is always more to learn and there will always be something to improve.

Sadly, you were no longer a surgeon. Magic is the source of miracles, but even it is bound by destiny, and destiny states that you were meant to serve the world outside the operating room. Outside the realm considered “normal.” 

Being Sorcerer Supreme wasn’t all that it was cracked up to be. Sure, you could turn bullets into butterflies at the flick of a wrist, and yes, it’s nice being able to go anywhere without having to wait for the bus or sit still in an airplane next to a crying baby.

You prevented evil wizards from taking over the spirit and mortal world, stopped the sun from becoming a black hole more times than you can count, and outsmarted an interdimensional Eldritch abomination–

Blah blah blah. 

You missed the good old days, when you were just a student at the bottom of the food chain, when there was more to study, more to explore, more to learn. 

Humans are privileged in not having enough time to learn everything all at once. You were an unfortunate exception. With your astral projection, sleep was no longer something you worried about; while your physical form recuperated, your soul would devour all the books and ancient scriptures available. But now? You knew everything. Time is the enemy for mortal scholars, but what happens when time becomes your slave? 

The time stone has long been lost, but during the brief moments you had it, you bore witness to every branch from the tree of fate. Every probability, every parallel universe blooming with every choice made by everything and everyone in existence.

In one of those blossoms, a man named Angstrom Levy saw but a tiny fraction of eternity, and thought that he alone had unlocked the secret of the universe.

“Little fool,” you said, voice cold. 

He struggled against your binding spell but the golden strings around his neck, waist and limbs tightened in response.

“Don’t waste brain power trying to escape.” The spell that kept him in place also cut off the source of his teleportation. 

When he finally realized that there was no flaw to exploit in your ropes, he breathed out an angry “Who are you?” 

“Wow, you really tried to take over the multiverse without even knowing who I am? Very well–” You flipped your cape. “You are one of the chosen few to meet me in person. I am the Sorcerer Supreme, Master of the Mystic Arts.”

“I have never heard of you.”

You laughed at his cheap attempts to insult you. “That’s all right. I’ve been around for so long that monsters have forgotten to fear me. Soon, you will be joining them.”

“Me? You’re punishing me? What about him–what about them?” He didn’t have to say a name. You knew exactly who he meant. And that person’s alternate selves were likely already killing each other in that wasteland dimension.  

“What about them?”

Angstrom was taken aback by your words. “Mark Grayson is nothing but a pest, a-a-a darkness that ruins everything–”

“Mark Grayson is the sole existence that’s keeping this world and all the other worlds alive.”

He looked at you like you were insane.

“You really don’t know anything, do you?” 

“Know what?”

You placed your palm over his eyes, white light flashing as you force-fed memories into his head. 

Angstrom screamed in agony.

You pulled back. “Now you know the truth.”

“No… it can’t be.”

“You’re supposed to be a smarter man than this, Angstrom, do not deny what has been placed in front of you.”

“No!” He wriggled, the binds suffocated him with each movement. “It can’t be! This world, me and him, you’re telling me… you’re telling me that every bad thing that has happened to us, every single choice we made was meaningless?!”

You shrugged. “I wouldn’t say ‘meaningless.’ You and everyone else here was born for a single purpose–” You smiled and said: “Entertainment.”

Golden threads wrapped around his mouth, stopping him from shouting once again. 

“The gods are cruel, aren’t they?” You whispered. “But there’s not much we can do about that.” 

You waved your hand and he was gone. 

Time to clean up his mess.

You cracked your knuckles and opened the last world he accessed with his powers.

It wasn’t a dying Earth, but a dying universe. Even if they flew out of the Milky Way they won’t be finding anything. 

When you appeared, two of them tried to attack you but your protection spells were quicker. 

“Now gentlemen, there is no need to be rough. I’m here to send you home.”

The Mark draped in black and yellow kept his fist on your shield. “You expect me to believe that? You’re with Angstrom, aren’t you? Where is he? I'm going to kill him!”

You didn’t say anything, merely watched as he tried punching you again. 

Another Mark with a veil joined him.

Idiots.

You snapped your fingers and your shields combined to a giant dome that pushed them back. “I’m not that little red-haired playmate of yours, it’s going to take a lot more than a few hits from a Viltrumite to break down my force fields.”

You waved your arm and they started floating against their will. Even with their smart atoms, they couldn’t fly away. 

The others regarded you with anger and suspicion. 

“Who…what are you?” The Mark wearing Omni-Man’s colors demanded.

“I’m the Sorcerer Supreme.”

There was a beat before he replied, “Who?”

Your eyebrow twitched. “Look, I already dealt with Angstrom, I came here to help you get back to your respective timelines out of the goodness of my heart, mind you.”

“How about you take us to Angstrom and we don’t beat the living shit out of you?” The guy with the awful haircut said.

“I don’t think you want that.”

“I think we do,” said the bald one. 

The Invincible with his whole head covered up stepped forward. “We don’t want to fight, so just surrender.”

“Speak for yourself,” Mohawk snorted. 

“Give up,” Omni-Invincible pointed his finger at you. “You are outnumbered.”

“Oh?” Your cape fluttered behind you. “Well, you are outclassed.” 

To call what happened next a “fight” would be an insult to the word. They fell like flies in a matter of seconds. 

You sent them to their realities and once again, the multiverse was safe from destruction. With a yawn, you went back home and watched a movie. 

A/N: I've never watched the Tom Holland Spiderman films and my knowledge about Dr. Strange is limited, but I didn't want to reject these requests cause they gave me a chance to write an OP reader. Once again, liberties were taken when I made this fic. (Y/n is also lowkey inspired by the unrivaled Madam Herta.)

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Any questions for the author? Ask here.

[System notice: the ask box is open for discussion and questions and fangirling/fanboying, but it is now CLOSED FOR REQUESTS.]

[v3ng3anc3-qu33n]

Am I wrong for wanting solid revenge readers? Like they go full evil and psycho after being hurt? Like in a neglected reader story, they go revenge crazy and kill people? Or they got cheated on, so they snap? And like they stay evil, they don't easily go back to being nice and sweet like 'oh you apologised okie!' Instead, saying 'hmm, let me think about it... fuck. No.' or they don't just move on they are super petty and hit them where it hurts doing whatever it takes to make them feel how the reader felt? Maybe they become a full villain and join the villains after a hero hurt them and the villains become yandere along with the hero. Maybe they go off making their own way like Harley Quinn with the baddass speech and everything.

[magical-reid]

The Soldier and His Mission

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Avenger!Reader

Word Count: 1K

Summary: When a trigger sends Bucky back into the grip of the Winter Soldier, he shadows you with an unyielding protectiveness that leaves the team on edge, though he doesn't harm anyone. After days of tension and careful steps, Bucky finally breaks through the icy barrier, returning to himself in a quiet, tender moment, finding solace in your presence.

You should’ve known something was wrong the moment Bucky went still.

One second, the mission was wrapping up—just another Hydra facility wiped off the map, just another set of goons taken down. The next, something triggered him. A phrase muttered in Russian over a radio, the faintest crackle of a long-dead handler’s voice. You saw the shift in his posture before he even turned around, the telltale tightening of his jaw, the blankness overtaking those usually warm blue eyes.

Bucky Barnes was gone.

The Winter Soldier stood in his place.

And yet—he didn’t hurt you.

Not when he turned to face the team, his body language bristling with danger. Not when Steve hesitated before stepping forward, his hands raised in a placating gesture. And certainly not when you cautiously called his name, your voice softer than the others.

Instead, the Soldier moved between you and everyone else.

A shield.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

Back at the Tower, you thought the episode would pass. That maybe, after a few hours, after enough familiar sights and sounds, Bucky would shake it off like he always did.

But the Soldier wasn’t leaving. And he had decided you were his mission.

Not to eliminate.

To protect.

At first, it was just hovering. You moved—he followed. You sat—he stood at your back, ever watchful. The others gave him space, exchanging worried glances when they thought you weren’t looking. Steve was tense, obviously trying to figure out how to break through, while Tony was less patient about it.

“This is a problem,” Stark declared after the first few hours, arms crossed as he leaned against the counter. “I mean, I hate to be the one to say it, but we have a fully armed, brainwashed assassin in the Tower again, and we all know how that went last time.”

“He’s not attacking anyone,” Natasha pointed out.

“Yet,” Tony shot back.

You ignored the argument as best you could, focusing instead on cooking something for Bucky—something normal, something familiar, something that might ground him. His eyes tracked you the entire time.

Then you miscalculated the heat on the stove.

The oil in the pan hissed and spat, and a second later, you hissed too as a sharp sting bloomed across your palm. You barely had time to react before there was a sudden blur of motion.

Bucky was on you instantly.

His flesh hand gripped your wrist, his metal one hovering protectively over the stove, as if it had personally attacked you. His face was unreadable, but his grip was firm, his hold gentle as he examined the burn.

“I’m okay,” you assured him, but he wasn’t listening.

Instead, he took the cold pack you hadn’t even reached for yet and pressed it carefully to your palm, his jaw tight, his brows furrowed in focus. You exchanged a look with Steve over Bucky’s shoulder, and the Captain exhaled, something like relief flashing in his eyes.

He was still in there.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

The Soldier continued shadowing you for the next two days, much to Tony’s frustration. But as Natasha had pointed out—he wasn’t hurting anyone.

Unless they posed a threat to you.

That was something Steve learned firsthand during a sparring session. You had barely landed a hit before Bucky, watching from the sidelines, had moved. The next thing you knew, Steve was on his ass, blinking up at the ceiling, while Bucky stood between you like a human wall, eyes cold and calculating.

“For the record,” Steve grunted as he sat up, rubbing his ribs, “I was letting her win.”

Bucky wasn’t convinced.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

It wasn’t until you needed a medical checkup that things really came to a head.

“Barnes, I have to actually examine her,” Dr. Cho said patiently, eyeing where Bucky stood between you and the med bay’s equipment.

“No,” he replied flatly.

“Bucky—” you tried.

“The room is secure.”

“That’s not the—”

“She does not require assistance.”

“I do require assistance,” you corrected. “Because I burned my hand and twisted my shoulder thanks to a certain super soldier overreacting in the gym.”

Bucky didn’t move.

You exhaled slowly.

“Okay,” you said, shifting tactics. “Then stay.”

That got his attention.

“If you want to make sure nothing happens to me,” you reasoned, “then you can stay here. But you have to let the doctor check me out.”

His expression was unreadable for a long moment. Then, after what felt like an eternity—

“…Understood.”

Progress.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

When it finally broke, it wasn’t dramatic.

There was no grand trigger, no huge revelation.

Just a moment of quiet.

You had fallen asleep on the couch, exhaustion finally winning after two days of Bucky’s overprotective hovering. When you woke up, it was to warm hands gently brushing over your wrist—both flesh and metal, but softer this time, as if relearning the feeling of touching you.

And then you heard it—his breath hitching.

A tiny, barely-there sound, but one filled with something raw.

You blinked sleepily, looking up.

Bucky was staring at you. Not the Soldier. Bucky.

His face was pale, his jaw tight, his eyes wide—his real eyes.

“…Doll?” His voice cracked over the word, like it had been caught in his throat.

You smiled sleepily, shifting so your fingers curled around his. “Hey, Buck.”

His exhale was shaky. His shoulders sagged. And when you tugged him down to you, he didn’t resist.

He just buried his face in your neck and held on.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

“You scared the hell out of me, you know,” you murmured later, your fingers absentmindedly running through his hair as he rested against you.

“I know,” he admitted, voice rough.

“You threw Steve like a ragdoll.”

“…Yeah.”

“…Kind of hot, not gonna lie.”

A laugh. Quiet, but real.

And just like that, Bucky Barnes was back.

[magicdustsworld]

Would you believe if I say husband!Caleb is petty?

You've been in a pretty bad mood since this morning and all of your anger is targeted at him. However, rather than blowing up and taking the whole Linkon city down with you—you are hell bent on giving him the cold shoulder.

Caleb has tried everything in order to weasel back into your good graces; but you seem to not budge at all. Therefore, he does what any responsible, mature husband would do.

He tightens every single jar in the kitchen and places them in the highest rack.

It doesn't take long for the inevitable to occur. Sooner than he predicted, he hears the sound of your frustrated grumble floating from the kitchen. Barely hiding the conceit blooming in his chest, he strolls towards the damsel in distress—you.

"Fuck this," you curse under your breath, trying to twist the lid of pasta sauce jar with all your might.

No luck.

Caleb leans on the door, folding his arms over his chest and one of the most condescending smirks lines his lips. Watching as your expression shifts from stubborn determination to murderous rage in a matter of seconds.

"Got a problem, pipsqueak?"

You freeze for a second. The next, you whip around—death burning in your eyes. "You—" inhaling a sharp breath, voice deceptively low. "You did this on purpose."

Rather than admitting, he lifts a brow, "Did what? Store things out of your adorable little reach? That's just called good kitchen organization."

The corner of your lip curls down into a sneer—blood curdling in your veins. Stomping over to him, you thrust the jar to his chest, "Open it."

For all what Caleb is, he does take the jar from you but makes no effort to open it. Instead, he tilts his head, "No apology?"

"For what?"

"For freezing me the whole morning?" He says, tapping the lid. "You want me to do something then you gotta play nice, pipsqueak."

Again with that nickname...

Your fingers twitch, like you are considering the possibility of smacking some sense into him but choose against it. It is clear that he is enjoying this game he is playing—seeking out ways to prove just how dependent you are on him regarding everyday things. And although you don't want to ask for his help, you have little choice in the matter. Besides, with the way he is looking at you presently, the reason as to why you were mad at him is suddenly lost.

Taking a controlled deep breath, you school your expression into the most fake smile ever and say through gritted teeth, "My insufferable, dearest husband, will you please open the jar for me?"

Caleb grins, twisting the lid off with ease; an act which leaves you infuriated rather than impressed. "See? That wasn't so hard now, was it?"

Instantly you snatch it back, whispering something incomprehensible under your breath although Caleb catches the wisp of a word like jar opener. However, before you can walk away, your husband reaches for your wrist, tugging you back.

"Next time you are mad at me..." He pauses, weighing his next words carefully, "...just say so, hmm?"

With that, he seals his request with a chaste kiss to your forehead.

Your heartbeat seems to have increased by a mile—thumping inside your ribcage so hard that you can hear it. A heat spread over your cheek and ears. You let out a huff to shroud the fluster in your being.

"Next time, I am poisoning your food."

To which, Caleb laughs—that stupidly annoying laughter that makes you weak in your knees—before stealing another kiss on your lips.

"Then I'll just have to eat it, pipsqueak."

I've recently played lnds and I am obsessed with it 🥹

[that1notetaker]

Unnatural World Disaster x Love & Peace. You'll never guess which is which

[jungwnies]

bf moments | charles leclerc

୨ৎ : featuring : boyfriend!charles x reader ୨ৎ : synopsis (requested by anon) : compilation of fluffy boyfriend charles moments

୨ৎ masterlist ୨ৎ

ᡣ𐭩 a/n : ferrari did a lot better this week im proud.. it's hard being tifosi out here istg.. but doing some charles content bc i feel like i haven't in a LONG LONG LONG time... late post though oops >.<

boyfriend!charles who writes your initials on the fogged-up mirror after his shower without even realizing it.

boyfriend!charles who puts your cold feet between his legs in bed and acts like he’s so bothered but never moves them.

boyfriend!charles who always lets you try the first bite of his food and watches your reaction like it’s a michelin review.

boyfriend!charles who kisses your forehead when you’re ranting, mid-sentence, like he can’t help it.

boyfriend!charles who facetimes you after races, helmet hair and all, and says “did you see me wave at you?” even if you weren’t there.

boyfriend!charles who reads next to you in bed, but keeps rereading the same page because you’re resting on his chest.

boyfriend!charles who shyly tugs at your sleeve when he’s tired in public, like a silent “let’s go home.”

boyfriend!charles who sends voice notes instead of texts because he likes when you “hear how much I miss you.”

boyfriend!charles who always takes blurry pictures of you on film, then says they’re perfect “because they look like how I see you.”

boyfriend!charles who doesn’t say much during arguments, but always comes back quietly with “can we fix this?” and his hand out.

boyfriend!charles who buys you flowers just because he “walked past them and they looked like you.”

boyfriend!charles who rubs your back when you're falling asleep and hums without realizing it.

boyfriend!charles who saves all the notes you leave in his suitcase and keeps them folded in his wallet.

boyfriend!charles who pulls you onto his lap during video calls with the boys and acts like it’s no big deal while smiling like it’s the only thing that matters.

boyfriend!charles who acts cool in front of others, but turns into the softest version of himself the second the door closes behind you.

2021-2025 © jungwnies | All rights reserved. Do not repost, plagiarize, or translate

[allimili]

https://www.tumblr.com/allimili/775822310068322304/i-love-the-way-you-draw-the-cookies-popping-their?source=share

Different anon and I can't help but imagine that the cookies always magically fix their phone because they love them so much...or magically enchanted the phone.

extra:

[snail-noodle]

I need more fics of shadow milk fighting to protect reader... the amount of power a beast cookie holds is nothing like anyone has ever seen

all the beast cookies are powerful, each one of them able to fight off anyone who dares to challenge them. but shadow milk is the strongest out of the five beasts, he was the leader before their fall and still remains as such even today because of this.

I just really like the idea of him being all playful and sassy with his enemies when they try and challenge him. battles between his foes are nothing but games to him. they tend to bring him a moment of entertainment, enjoying the thrills of a good magical duel!

but the minute you get thrown into the fray?

there's no laughter.

no smart quips that shadow milk throws out every now and then.

there's nothing but pure, unadulterated rage at the sight of his beloved being harmed. he practically teleports in front of them, his body acting as a shield as he wastes no time in unleashing dark, powerful magic upon the poor fool who had dared to hurt you.

he makes no loud exclamation upon seeing the enemy defeated. he's quick to return to his lover's side, checking on them to make sure they're not gravely injured.

he's still full of anger, but there's an uncovered amount of concern upon his face. it's... a very rare sight to see from the deceitful jester.

far too rare...

[agreeewrites]

Magic Lessons | B.W.

Part One

feat. Bill Weasley x intern!reader

SUMMARY: Your best friends Fred and George convince their older brother, Bill, to give you a shot at a coveted curse-breaker internship position at Gringott's.

CW: age gap, boss/intern, fem!reader, reader is whip smart and sweet, dark curses and magical artifacts, men being shitty, hurt/comfort, dark academia vibes

AN: inspired by an ask I accidentally deleted (im so sorry) about Bill tutoring Fred & George's best friend. It spiraled into this.

part two | part three | masterlist

“You're going to be fine,” George soothed, wrapping an arm around your shoulders.

“Yeah, Bill’s not so bad. You aren't scared of us, are ‘ya? So there's no need to be scared of him,” Fred added, bumping your knee with his.

You were sandwiched between them on a hard wooden bench in Gringott's, just outside their older brothers office, his name emblazoned in gold on the fogged door window. The twins, two of your closest friends from school, had secured you an interview for a coveted internship in the Ancient Artifacts Department, and you hadn't slept in a week leading up to it.

This was your dream job, a real stepping stone to the career you'd always imagined for yourself. You couldn't screw this up.

But that didn't quite explain the bone-deep anxiety clawing through your skin. It felt like you were standing on the edge of a cliff, one foot hanging into empty space.

Then, a shadow crossed the fogged mirror, tall and broad, and you shivered.

“You've got this,” George murmured at the same moment the door handle turned. It swung open, and your heart fell through the marble floor.

Bill Weasley was, objectively, terrifying. He had none of the softness of the twins, none of the jovial ease of youth. He was dressed in a white button down with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows and charcoal trousers, traces of magic glittering along his forearms.

Standing at least a head taller than the twins, he had long copper hair and sharp cheekbones, deep scars across the left side of his face that only enhanced the striking beauty of his features. His green eyes were arresting, challenging in the way they swept across the hall before settling on you.

“Bill!” Fred said, jumping up, and Bill’s demeanor immediately shifted into something friendlier.

“Freddie,” Bill said, extending a hand to his younger brother with an expression you could almost call warm.

“Bill, this is our friend, y/n,” George said, getting up to shake his brother's hand, and you rose to your feet, hoping he didn't notice the slight tremble in your knees.

“Pleasure, y/n. I'm Bill Weasley, Head of the Ancient Artifacts Department here at Gringott's.” He extended a hand to you, calloused and long-fingered, a golden signet ring on his middle finger.

“Nice to meet you, Mr. Weasley,” you said, placing your hand in his for a brief shake. He was gentle, but you could feel the undercurrent of strength in his movement, the intention he had to put towards being soft.

“Fred and George have told me a lot about you,” Bill said, glancing at his brother's. “You’re interested in Blessed Artifacts, correct?”

You nodded. “Yes, primarily magical items created with the intention of offering protection or assistance,” you answered, fighting the nervous heat climbing up your neck.

The corner of his mouth lifted, scrunching the scars across his cheek and eyebrow. “The opposite of what I do, hm?”

You laughed nervously. “Yeah, I suppose. Though I've studied your curse-breaking work extensively. A curse and a blessing are two sides of the same coin, and we can learn a lot about the workings of one from the other.”

Bill’s expression shifted slightly, his eyes narrowing and skimming over your face, and suddenly you knew what it felt like to be one of his artifacts.

No wonder he never crossed a curse he couldn't break.

“Step into my office, I have a few questions before we discuss terms of the internship. I'll see you two this weekend at the Burrow, yeah?”

“Yep!” Fred and George chirped in unison, and Bill slipped back into his office. The twins gave you a big thumbs up and you gave a nervous chuckle, waving them away before following Bill into his office.

It was nothing at all like you expected. Two enormous windows filled the back wall, spilling grey light across the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves along the left wall. The shelves were overflowing with tomes and littered with artifacts, more than you'd ever seen outside for a museum or Dumbledore’s office. They perfumed the air with the scent of parchment and sandalwood, the warm musk of incense.

The carpet was plush under your feet, a mesmerizing pattern of deep maroon and teal, and overstuffed furniture rested against the right wall, a couch and two arm chairs framed by more loaded shelves and a gallery wall of shifting art.

But most surprising was his desk. It looked like it belonged in a research tent in the desert, not a gold-plated bank. It was covered in tools and stacks of paper, open books and deconstructed items, half-drank mugs of tea and a spilled ink pot.

“You look surprised,” he mused, following your eye.

“I didn't realize you still did field research,” you admitted sheepishly. “Now that you're head of the department.”

Bill shrugged, grabbing a mug and a stack of papers from the table and gesturing to the furniture against the wall. “I prefer the hands-on approach. Please, have a seat. Can I get you anything?”

“Oh, no thank you,” you answered, sinking into one of the arm chairs. It was so comfortable, you had to force yourself to sit upright. You could smell his cologne on the leather, vetiver and black pepper, and it made your chest warm.

He sat in the other armchair, bracing an ankle on the opposite knee. “So, how did you come to befriend my brother's?” He asked, taking a sip of tea.

“Fred needed some help in Charms,” you said, crossing your legs. “Then George needed help in Potions. And we just worked well together. They're good friends.

“So you're the reason they didn't flunk out, hm?”

You shook your head. “Not at all. They just needed a different perspective. They did the work themselves.”

Bill nodded, shuffling the papers in his lap. “Have you ever worked with curses directly? Beyond Defense Against the Dark Arts?”

You shook your head. “I don't have a lot of experience with curses, but I can read magic well, and have an eye for detail. I know I'm not the most qualified of the candidates you've probably met with, but this is my dream, and it would be such an honor to learn from the best— ”

“It's alright, y/n,” Bill stopped you with a small shake of his head, his low voice demanding acquiescence. “You're clearly bright, and determined to learn. That's more valuable to me than anything else.”

You exhaled in relief. “I appreciate that, Mr. Weasley,” you said, offering a small smile.

“Bill,” he corrected. “Bill is fine.”

Your heart gave an excited thump, and you nodded.

“So, for this internship, you'd be working directly with me, mostly archiving artifacts as they come in and out of the bank. You'll be spending a lot of time here and in the vaults. The pay isn't great, but if you do well over the six months term, there's potential for full-time employment.” He passed a contract to you, a quill floating over from his desk and into your hand. “And you're welcome to conduct supervised independent research whenever there's downtime.”

You blinked, shocked at the employment contract in your lap. “You don't—you don't have any more questions for me?” You asked.

Bill shook his head, giving you an amused smile. “You already showed that your head and heart are in the right place, and I trust my brother’s judgement. If they like you this much, there must be a reason.”

“I—thank you, sir,” you said, a grin breaking through as you signed your name on the line. The ink blazed gold before settling back to black, the contract magically binding.

Bill rose, extending a hand to help you to your feet. “Welcome aboard, y/n.”

The first few days of your internship were spent with members of Bill’s team, taking lengthy tours of Gringotts and the Archives. You quite liked Rumi and Kira, two of the lead archivists, but had a difficult time with Waylan, the Collector, as they called him, who seemed to have it out for you.

You waited with bated breath for your first project with Bill, but you'd barely seen him since you started. You brought it up to Kira at breakfast one morning, and she chuckled.

“He's around, I promise. Hardly goes anywhere else. But we usually only see him if he needs something.”

“Or when we fuck something up,” Rumi added, and you chuckled.

Kira rolled her eyes. “They're being dramatic. Bill's not nearly as scary as he looks.”

“Aren't I?”

The three of you jumped, turning to find Bill leaning against the wall beside Rumi’s seat. He looked exceptionally handsome this morning, his hair tucked behind his ears, a single strand falling over his eyes, dressed in finely pressed white shirt and navy trousers.

“Well you are when you sneak up on people!” Rumi laughed, and Bill cracked a smile.

“Apologies, mate. Y/n, ready for your first assignment?” His eyes met yours, brilliant as polished jade, and your tongue forgot how to function.

“Oh, uh, yes, sir!”

“Sir?” Kira snorted. “Are we supposed to call you ‘sir’?”

Bill shook his head. “I’d rather you didn't, but maybe you could use a lesson in manners from this one,” he teased, stealing Kira’s croissant. “Come along, fledgling,” he said, his deep voice resonant and rough around the edges.

The nickname jolted through you like a lightning strike, heating your blood to a simmer, and you nearly gasped, hiding your reaction by taking a final swig of breakfast tea.

Fuck no, you were not developing a crush on your boss. Get it together, you chastised yourself.

You got to your feet and hurried after him through the dining hall and into the wrought iron elevator. He held the door for you as you scurried in. The grate rolled shut, and the machine heaved off the ground with a metallic groan.

“Glad to you see you're getting along with the team,” he remarked, eyes trained up to watch the pulley system.

“Yes, they've been very welcoming,” you said, resisting the urge to stare at the hard angle of his jaw, the reddish stubble dusting it and spreading down his throat.

“There's a lot they can teach you. They're some of the best in the business,” he said, glancing down at you as the elevator came to stop. The doors rolled open and he strolled out, his long legs taking him a third of the way down the hall before you managed to get your knees to unlock.

You caught up to him at his office door. “What are we working on?” You asked, excitement building as you followed him to his desk.

He moved around it, stopping in front of a black velvet box. Carefully, he lifted the lid. “Waylan brought this back last month, and I hadn't been able to crack it until our meeting.”

“Oh?” Your heart began to beat a little faster, eyes fixed not on the box containing the object, but the way his deft fingers handled it with such a care.

He turned the box around, revealing a stunning necklace, dripping with black sapphires and diamonds, the chain a thick and luscious gold.

You gasped, covering your mouth. It was the most beautiful piece of jewelry you'd ever seen.

He smiled at your reaction before catching himself, returning to neutral, if a bit curious, expression. “I hadn't considered that it might be a blessed object until our conversation.” He gingerly lifted the necklace from the box, the luxurious stones creating a stark contrast against his laborers hands. “And if I read the magical signature correctly, it should be a chameleon charm. To make any spectator see what they want to see in the wearer.” He came around behind you and you lost your breath, his closeness overwhelming your senses.

There was something about him that tilted the axis of the world, bending everything to center around him. He had his own gravity, his own magnetic force that you were struggling to resist.

“May I?” He asked, and you nodded, holding your breath as the cool stones kissed your clavicle, his fingertips ghosted the edge of your throat.

With a small click, the necklace was fastened around your neck. You could feel the magic in it, warm and buzzing as it spread through you.

Bill stepped away, moving back around to your front, and his brow furrowed.

“What? Did I grow a horn?” You joked, trying to dispel the tension winding tighter between you.

He shook his head, stepping back to ring a silver bell by his desk, a small plaque reading ‘Kira’ beneath it. There was one for each of you, you noticed.

A moment later, Kira walked in. “What's up, boss? Oh, did you change, y/n? I absolutely love that designer in Hogsmeade. His work is stunning,” Kira praised. “Sorry, can I help with something?” She said, turning to Bill.

Bill’s frown deepened as his eyes skimmed over you. “That'll be all, Kira. Thank you.”

“Oh, uh, okay. Let me know if you want to go shopping sometime, y/n!” She said before stepping back out of the office.

“So, she saw something in common that we didn't have before,” you observed, moving to jot some notes down on a piece of parchment in an attempt to stay on track despite the frustrated look on his face. “What do you see?”

“You can take it off. I need you to decode the magic signature yourself, archive the piece and charm accordingly, and see if you can replicate it on something else,” he directed, turning away and rustling through some pages on his desk.

“Sure, no problem.” Carefully, you unclasped the necklace and set it into its velvet case, confused by his sudden shift in demeanor, both the absence of the necklaces magic and his sudden distance leaving you cold.

What did he see in you?

He conjured another chair for you and sank into his own, turning his attention to what appeared to be a wooden horse.

Uncertain, you sat down and pulled the necklace towards you, along with the parchment and a quill, and got to work.

The uncertainty dissolved as the minutes turned to hours, both of you working quietly side by side to solve your own puzzles. The only sounds were the rustling of papers and scratch of quills, the soft music playing from a record player in the corner, and you felt a wave of peace settle over you.

Being able to work at your own pace, in a quiet, peaceful environment was all you'd ever wanted. And finally, you felt like you found a place that allowed that.

You glanced over at Bill, finding him scribbling something with his black feather quill, completely zeroed in on his task, and you felt a rush of gratitude for him, and a determination to ensure he didn't regret his decision to take a chance on you.

You turned back to the necklace, eager to uncover it's secrets.

The rest of your first two weeks passed the same way, you and Bill with your heads bowed, working on separate projects. He'd come over periodically to check your work, but mostly left you to your own devices unless you needed help, which he provided without judgement or reservation.

You and Bill seemed to work together well, both of you preferring the quiet so you could focus, with the occasional conversation about your findings during your lunch break or afternoon tea.

Despite yourself, your ill-advised attraction to him only grew as he loosened up around you. But that's all it was, you told yourself over and over again. An attraction to a handsome, accomplished man.

You were only human, after all. Who could blame you?

On Friday, Bill had a meeting with the Board and left you in his office to work. You were more than happy to occupy his space, enjoying the comfortable quiet as you reviewed your notes on the artifact you were working on.

A knock pulled you from your work. Waylan walked through the door, a long, thin wooden box in his arms.

“Oh, hey Waylan,” you said, getting up. “Bill is in a meeting—”

“I know, but this can't wait.” He dropped the long box onto the desk with a thud, scattering your meticulously organized notes, and a prickle of irritation climbed the back of your neck.

“What is it?” You asked, already sensing the dark energy permeating off of the box.

With a pry bar, Waylan cracked open the box, a putrid smell wafting out of it.

“Are you sure we should be doing this here? Surely a vault would be safer—”

“It's fine,” he snapped, and you cracked your jaw shut, irritation growing to full on anger. “This is a cursed executioners axe,” he said. “And the curse needs to be broken now.”

“Waylan, surely—”

“I thought you were qualified?” He bit. “Isn't that why you got the job? Or was it because your friends with his brothers?”

You grit your teeth. “What's the nature of the curse?”

“You tell me.”

You moved to look at the axe, it's blade dark and stained with gore, the handle black wood. Tiny notches decorated it's expanse, and your stomach turned imagining what each notch represented.

Carefully, you held your hand over it, coaxing the magic to reveal itself, but couldn't focus properly with Waylan breathing down your neck, the magic slithering through your fingers like a sieve.

Suddenly the room went dark, all the light and air sucked from the world around you until you were staring into the void, cold dread dripping down your spine.

“Waylan?” You called, fighting the urge to panic. You tried to lift your arms to feel around, but found that you couldn't move. “Waylan?!” You cried, a little louder.

Something white, a delicate, vaguely human shaped mist floated by you and you screamed, unable to move away from it. Then another appeared, slightly more formed like a person, then another, until you were surrounded by spirits. Terror split your skull, your heart pounding so hard it made your vision shake.

“No, please,” you croaked, fighting your body to move even an inch away from them. “Let me go!” You shouted, but they only moved closer. “Let me go!”

Suddenly you slammed back into your body, the bright light of the room blinding you. You were on your back, staring up at the ceiling. Bill was leaning over you, his mouth moving like he was speaking.

“—m’right here, you're alright. It was just a trick, just a little curse. Wake up, love. Come back to me,” he murmured. “There we are, that's it,” he shushed when you began to shake, his grip tightening on your shoulders when you tried to sit up.

Your body was still tingling with numbness, nerves prickling painfully back to life. “Bill,” you gasped, clinging to him as you came fully back to consciousness.

“Are you alright? Does anything hurt?” He asked, helping you sit up slowly, one hand braced on the slope of your ribcage, the other supporting your head.

“No, no. I--what happened?” you asked, looking around the room. You noticed Waylan then, also prone on the floor, eyes staring wide at the ceiling. It seemed Bill made no effort to wake him up.

Bill glanced at Waylan as well, shaking his head. “He was trying to scare you. Prove you didn't deserve the position. And apparently was too stupid to realize the curse would affect him too.”

“Will he—”

“He'll be fine. Are you okay?” He repeated, catching your eye so you'd look at him.

You nodded. “I think so.”

Waylan groaned, stirring on the carpet, and you saw a flicker of anger in Bill’s eyes.

“Wait for me in the lobby,” he said, helping you to your feet. “I'll deal with him.” There was no question in his words, and you obeyed without thought, collecting your things and slipping out of the room.

As the elevator doors started to close, you heard Bill shout, “I should have you sent to fucking Azkaban for pulling—” The groan of the machine cut off the rest of his words.

You did as you were told and waited in the lobby for Bill, busying yourself with people watching and admiring the expansive marble floors.

Twenty minutes later, Bill appeared from one of the elevators, holding Waylan by the scruff of his neck, a box of his stuff in his arms. You jumped up, alarmed when a few security guards rushed over to them.

“Waylan is no longer permitted on the premises, my orders. I discovered him tampering with curses,” Bill directed. “He's a threat to Gringott’s security.”

Your jaw dropped when the security guards nodded and dragged Waylan away without question, effectively tossing him out onto the street of Diagon Alley.

Bill stepped up beside you, concern over your frowning face drawing his brows together. “What is it?” He asked.

“Did you—you fired him?” you stammered.

“Absolutely. I can't have someone on my staff that doesn't take curses seriously. It puts us all at risk,” he said, without an ounce of hesitation.

You nodded, you supposed that made sense.

He started walking, beckoning you to follow with two fingers, and you fell into step beside him. “Come on, I'm going to teach you how to dispel that curse.”

You froze. “What?”

He turned to look at at you. “You heard me, fledgling. I need to make sure something like this won't happen again.” His voice was firm, but not unkind, and you found yourself yielding despite your trepidation. “I'll be with you the entire time, okay?” He said, a bit softer when you returned to his side.

“And if we both get knocked out?” You scowled.

He smirked at your pout. “Do you doubt me?”

A pulse of heat curled around your spine, warming your lower belly. “No, sir,” you replied, intending it to come across as teasing, but you saw something dark flash in his eyes, something hungry, and your heart began to race.

Surely you imagined it, you told yourself as the two of you descended into the vaults. There was no way you could be affecting Bill the same way he was affecting you. He was Bill Weasley, and you were just some intern that got a lucky break. He would never be interested in you, not to mention how wrong it would be for a boss to be romantically involved with his subordinate.

So, why did that thought make your pulse spike?

He guided you to a private vault, the heavy door unlocking with a wave of his hand. The inside was dank and poorly lit, permeated with that same rotten smell as before. The axe rested on a table at the center of the room, encased in glass.

You hesitated at the door, that cold, deathly sensation crawling over your skin again.

Bill paused, sensing your fear. “You can do this,” he said, offering you his hand. “I'll walk you through it.”

You placed your hand on his, focusing on his warmth, his steadiness, as he led you into the vault.

“You can feel it, right? The energy of the void clinging to it?” He asked, his voice low.

You nodded. “Feels like death,” you murmured.

“That's what this curse does, makes you feel like you died. It was used by an old Ministry executioner to subdue prisoners before their deaths. Kept them from trying to escape.” He cast his eyes to the axe, a somber look on his face. “Waylan was supposed to leave it here until after my meeting. They just unearthed it this morning.”

“That's awful,” you said, finding yourself counting the notches along the handle. There had to be at least two hundred, maybe even five hundred.

“With every kill, it got stronger, until it eventually took the executioner himself. It was buried with him, until some unfortunate muggle grave robber dug it up and nearly killed himself.”

“So, how do we dispel it?” You asked, hating the tremble in your voice.

“Take your wand out,” he instructed, and you obeyed. “I'm going to open the box. Stay focused on your breathing, the ground beneath your feet. When I open the box, you'll feel it start to pull at you, to drag you under.”

You nodded, lifting your wand and squaring your shoulders, forcing your lungs to take big, deep breaths despite the rotten smell.

“Good, when you feel it pull at you, imagine your wand is an axe itself, okay? You're going to cut the tether of the curse reaching towards you. It will resist, but I promise you can do it. Ready?”

You grit your teeth. “Ready.”

With a wave of his wand, he opened the box. The curse spilled out of it, clawing and twisted, and you immediately felt the blackness start to tug at the edge of your vision, its cold talons digging into your flesh.

“You can do it, fledgling. I know you can. Fight it,” Bill encouraged, somewhere to your left.

You pushed back against the darkness, refocusing on your breathing, the stone beneath your feet, your wand at the tips of your fingers. You slashed through the air with it, imagining an axe cutting through thick, black tendrils, and suddenly the tugging sensation vanished, the blackness receding from your vision.

“Yes, good girl! Keep going, push it all the way back into the axe.”

You did, pushing with all your might against the dark magic until it began to retreat, sinking back into the blade of the axe. But it wouldn't go all the way in, resisting your quickly depleting energy, when you felt something akin to a warm breeze blow over you: Bill’s magic. It joined your efforts, making the final push to force the curse back into the axe.

“Now hold it for me. Just like that,” Bill said, moving around the room. “I'm going to try a counter curse, but it may not take. Are you ready?”

“Ready.” You nodded, a rush of excitement pulsing through you. You were actually doing it. And doing it well.

With a flourish of wand movements and a string of words you don't understand, a beam of white light blasted from the end of Bill's wand and towards the axe, blinding you.

Something gave a godawful shriek, echoing off the walls until rubble rained over your head, and you heard a thunderous snap, followed by a whoosh of screaming air.

The light suddenly vanished, leaving you and Bill alone in the dark room, silent besides your ragged breathing.

“Lumos,” Bill muttered, and the torches along the walls relit, revealing the room around you. The axe lay on its side on the table, splintered in half. The rotten smell, and the curse, were gone. The handle was now just smooth wood, no notches in sight.

You exhaled, a giddy laugh bubbling up, and Bill smiled, crossing the room to you.

“Let me see you, you alright?” He asked, taking your hands to inspect your trembling fingers. The touch sent a zing of energy under your skin. “It didn't hurt you?”

You shook your head, dizzy from his unexpected tenderness and the after effects of using so much magic. “I'm okay,” you murmured, a little breathless.

“Okay,” he said, releasing your hands, though for a second, he seemed reluctant to. “I'll clean up here. Go home and get some rest, yeah?”

“Yes, sir,” you said, dipping your chin obediently.

His eyes searched your face for a moment longer, his jaw flexing, before he nodded once and turned back to the axe, dismissing you.

You slipped out of the vault and returned to the surface, reckless hope burning in your chest.

>Part Two

Thanks for reading! 🫶🏻

[mellifluouaamor]

Kissing Mashle boys before running hc?

MASH BURNEDEAD, FINN AMES, LANCE CROWN, DOT BARRETT, RAYNE AMES, ABEL WALKER, ABYSS RAZOR, WIRTH MADL, CARPACCIO LUO-YANG, ORTER MADL, KALDO GEHENNA (SEPARATE) ⍣ GENDER-NEUTRAL READER

synopsis. the boys' reactions to you kissing them and then running away.

author's note. that one panel where orter tells cell to bend over has never left my mind and i may have brought it over to these headcanons i'm (not) sorry. orter can bend me over anytime- AHEM ANYWAY LIVE LAUGH LOVE WIRTH HAHAHA

you, running away from MASH? given his inhuman speed and reflexes, that'll be impossible. even if your action is as harmless as a kiss to his cheek, the first-year would reflexively grab your wrist and pull you flush against his chest before you can take a step away from him.

you'd be subjected under his signature blank stare for a few seconds as he tries to process what just happened, and when he finally registers the feeling of your soft lips on his cheek, he tilts his head to the side in an adorable manner.

"can you do that again?" he asks, surprising you. mash can't explain it - but he likes the warm and fuzzy feeling that would bloom inside his chest when you kiss his cheek. your kiss feels like... a bed of cream puffs. (don't question his analogy)

oh, sweet summer child FINN. if you kiss him right on his freckles in front of his friends, he'd combust on the spot as a string of unintelligible words streams out of his mouth. a flush of embarrassment would rise to his cheeks and when he turns around to tell you off, you're already running away, leaving him to think of how he should get back at you.

he'd spend the entire afternoon attempting and failing to ambush you, with you giggling gleefully as you skip out of his reach. argh, why do you have to be so hard to catch?!

when supper rolls around, you sit next to a defeated looking finn with your tray of food. as you're eating, he points out that you've got some sauce around your mouth and before you can wipe it off, finn has already leaned over and licks the corner of your lips (with his cheeks burning). you drop your spoon in shock while dot gags loudly in the background.

"oh," is all LANCE says when your lips land on the corner of his mouth. his fingertips brush against the spot you shyly kissed and when he turns to face you, you're already gone. figuring that the embarrassment must have gotten to you, he presses a loose fist against his lips as he chuckles softly.

the following hours would be lance contributing further to that embarrassment. he'd kiss your cheek when you're in the middle of a conversation with your friends, and he makes sure that you won't be able to pull away by gripping your jaw. the kiss would last longer than necessary, causing an awkward silence to fall on the group.

if you confront him about it, he'd simply squish your cheeks in his palm as he taunts you for being unable to do anything. try to talk back, and he'll silence you with his lips.

DOT would short-circuit the second your lips make contact with his cheek, his face flushing as red as his hair. as you run away from him laughing, he'd hold his face like he just got slapped, gibberish spilling over his lips and unable to think straight. mash and finn would have to hold him up to stop him from collapsing.

once dot recomposes himself, he'd chase you in the hallways and it immediately becomes a game of tag... with him almost crashing into the walls as you deftly dodge his lunges.

when he finally catches you, there's no escaping from his onslaught of kisses as he wounds his arms around you tightly. your forehead, your cheeks, your nose, your lips, your neck - he leaves no area untouched. when dot returns a favour, he returns it tenfold.

RAYNE would turn his head the moment he registers the lack of space between your bodies - and that unexpected action causes his lips to meet yours in a kiss. you immediately pull away from him with a loud gasp, and the perpetual frown on his countenance prompts you to run for the hills.

touching his lips, he'd wonder why you ran away after boldly kissing him, unaware that you weren't supposed to do that and that you had only intended to ask him about homework. it wouldn't take long for him to chase you as if you're a little rabbit being preyed on by the wolf of adler dorm. (finn watches with a slack jaw as his older brother terrorises your poor soul)

the moment rayne catches up to you, he'd cage you against the nearest wall with his arms on either side of your cowering form. he's at a loss to know how to respond to your profuse apologies, only wanting you to kiss him properly after that accidental kiss earlier. he eventually manages to silence you by gingerly planting his lips on the tip of your nose.

ABEL doesn't express much emotion in the first place, so it's no surprise that he didn't give much of a reaction to your kiss on his forehead. when you did it in the middle of his conversation with the magia lupus, he stops talking abruptly while the other members gawk at your boldness. with a quiet "teehee", you prance out of the room as he touches his forehead.

in class, in the hallway, in the cafeteria - abel would stare at you from afar like you've committed the highest degree of crimes. you think that you may have offended him by pulling what you did in front of the magia lupus, but that's not the case as you would come to find out later.

in the evening, abyss brings you to abel's room by the scruff of your shirt. you're wondering why the hell you got dragged out of bed, and it isn't until you noticed abel staring at you expectantly did you realise he wants you to give him a good night kiss like a mother would to her child.

ABYSS, who had never received physical affection from anyone before in his entire life, would be so flustered that his mind becomes a jumbled mess. he doesn't even realise that you've already fled from the scene by the time he can think coherently again (and he's disappointed).

the kiss you gave him would linger on his mind for hours, and he'd throw subtle glances at you - specifically your lips. the warmth that spread from the spot you kissed on his forehead is... comforting, reassuring even, and he doesn't think he can continue his day without getting another one from you.

eventually, abyss would work up the courage to approach you. when he shyly tugs your sleeve with his gaze averted, you immediately understand what he wants and lean in to plant a sweet kiss over his evil eye, causing red to dust his cheeks. he'd hug you on impulse, wanting to be as close to you as possible.

WIRTH doesn't appreciate having his study time interrupted, so if you try to break his concentration by kissing the side of his neck, he wouldn't give you the chance to run away by trapping your feet in mud. he'd then drag you over to sit on his lap, where you'll be forced to stay until he's done studying.

it doesn't matter if you're in the library or the common room, you'll just have to endure the embarrassment of being sandwiched between his body and the table. he doesn't even hide the fact that he's enjoying the way you're squirming uncomfortably on his lap - that's what you get for trying to distract him.

he'd pinch your side if your squirming starts to get annoying, and if you try to protest, he'd immediately shut you up with a kiss - with every contact between your lips lasting longer than the previous one. it eventually reaches the point where you're left breathless after his kisses, and he smirks at the debauched look he's able to paint on your countenance.

CARPACCIO would stare at your fleeing figure with the same stiff expression he wears every day; he'd internally question why you would run off after kissing him when he has no intentions of harming you.

since he can't feel pain, your affectionate gestures are the only other external stimuli he can feel. he registers the pleasant feeling in his chest when you first kissed him, and has become addicted to the feeling since then. so really, he'd just accept your surprise kisses.

although he won't go after you when you run away, he'd actively seek you out and splay himself across your lap like a cat. when that happens, it's your cue to shower him with the kisses he has grown to like. this frequently happens since he tends to stay up all night for his research, and the warm feeling of your lips helps him fall asleep.

ORTER won't admit it, but your kisses are capable of breaking his composure; so when your lips suddenly press against his jaw, he'd freeze up on the spot, giving you the opportunity to book it before he can catch you. once you're well out of his sight, he'd push his glasses up the bridge of his nose with the faintest hint of blush on his cheeks.

of course, no actions go without consequences - and you are no exception. to punish you for your little misdeed, orter would call your unsuspecting self into his office before bending you over his desk when you least expected it. he'd relish in your shocked expression and proceeds to intimidate you into submission, only stopping once he spots the teary beads in the corners of your eyes.

orter is not a cruel man. gently cupping your jaw, he presses a long kiss on your temple as a silent apology before letting you go.

another one who you won't have a chance to run from. KALDO can tell when you're about to attack him with a kiss and would pretend to be oblivious until you make a move. the moment you lean into his face, he quickly turns his head and places a hand at the back of your head to push your lips against his.

you're helpless in his grasp as he wraps an arm around your waist to press you against his body. if you just had a sweet snack, he would deepen the kiss and literally devour your lips, wanting to taste what you ate. when he finally pulls away, he'll try to guess the name of the snack while playfully smiling at your embarrassed expression.

kaldo treats it like a little game. if he can catch you before you kiss him and he happens to have some honey on hand, he gets your honey-flavoured lips as a reward and you'll be in for a long night.

[shouyuus]

sylus teaching you how to shoot better (not that you really needed it but when sylus is offering...), him standing behind you, murmuring in your ear --

"-- point, shoot, and... follow through," he says, his lips barely grazing the lobe of your ear.

he squeezes his finger over yours, pushing down on the trigger. you feel the way his stomach tenses as the shot explodes out from the gun and burns a hole through the target's head.

you let out a long breath you hadn't been sure you were holding as sylus chuckles, the sound low and gravely, rumbling through his chest to your back. you turn slightly to peer at him.

his garnet eyes are bright with amusement.

"you've been holding out on me, kitten," he accuses, teasing and accusatory both. you flush, unable to help yourself.

"it's your fault for thinking that a deepspace hunter would need shooting lessons," you snipe, to which sylus laughs, a dark, sweet, smoke-ridden thing.

"sure," he drawls, not bothering to take a step back, instead looping his arms around your middle to pull you even more flush against him, "and i'm sure it's my fault for falling right into this hunter's traps, right?"

you crinkle your nose, set down the gun and lean back into him till your head is pillowed on his shoulders.

"something like that," you say, playful as he spins you around and pins you against the edge of the shooting range table.

sylus's laugh is indulgent and deep as he bends down to nudge his nose against yours, a motion so gentle and possessive that it turns your stomach in on itself.

he nods, his eyes flickering down to your lips before snapping back up again, his gaze going liquid as he agrees, his voice huskier than you've ever heard it --

"yeah... something like that."

[xan-izme]

𝐌𝐞𝐞𝐭 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐖𝐚𝐲𝐧𝐞𝐬

Prologue

Part 1

Your mother was a beautiful kind and dangerous woman. In short. She was a Falcone. And for young Bruce, being with her was a thrill. Being Batman gave him a thrill, but your mother was a different kind of thrill.

Till she got pregnant. And the thrill was gone.

Your mother kept you of course. Counting the days till she gets to hold you in her arms. And when she finally got to hold you, to feel you close and hear your sweet little voice. The rest of the Falcone men decided that your mother wasn't ready to take care of you. So, they forced you out of her arms and sent you to Bruce.

Bruce held you once. And immediately passed you to Alfred. He was too young to become a father. (Never mind the fact he was already acting as a father to two boys)

He didn't have time to play daddy. Deep down Bruce did come to care for you over the years and attempted to try and hold you. But then Jason died, Dick distanced himself. Holding you, an innocent little thing, felt wrong.

When you were eight. You had tantrums. Night terrors. terribly scared of the dark. Thunderstorms especially. Gotham famous for its long dark nights and loud thunderstorms. Bruce, too busy with his new sidekick, Tim. Didn't have time to comfort you. No matter how heartbreaking your scrams for him were. Crying for him, so he can save you from whatever nightmare you have woken from.

But only Alfred occasionally Dick, would come and save you.

Bruce would give you toys, new dresses as a form of apology. He wouldn't give it to you directly. But have Alfred give it to you or leave it in your room when asleep. But no matter how many new toys he gives you. Those nightmares just never stopped.

Due to the neglect. Your mother was able to meet with you secretly. As years passed, she was able to steal you away when Alfred wasn't hovering around you. Take you to shop and give you whatever you wanted. Holding you in her arms and not wanting to let go.

Slowly, your mother was gaining the favor of some of the Falcones. To let her have you back. To welcome you back into the Falcone family. Once she gets the whole family to agree. She can make a case of child neglect against Bruce Wayne and take her sweet Babygirl back.

But when you were ten. Your powers began to kick in. You told Bruce, hoping your father would help you. Help you understand. Bruce, told you to keep it a secret. And to tell no one else.

Having a kid who was a meta was the last thing he needed at the moment. Trying to re-connect with Jason who still had deep hate for him instead focusing on his first-born child who was struggling to understand.

You felt like a freak.

And it wasn't long till you lost control of your powers. To keep it short. You accidently killed a few other kids with your powers. It was an accident. You swore. You see you would have just been left off. Your a kid. It was an accident. But most of all your a Wayne. But one of the kids you killed was a Falcone.

And Bruce couldn't risk you getting killed. He cared about you. Just not as much as he should. So, to avoid the wrath of the Falcone's. Bruce had to claim you were mentally ill. Sending you to Arkham. Only for a few months. That's what he said to you. That's what he promised.

You did your six months in Arkham. Six months turned to eight. Eight months turned to ten. Ten months turned to two years. Then finally, you were taken out from your cell. Lead by two prison guards. They said you had a visitor. You assumed it was another reporter. But was proven wrong when you see Bruce on the other side of the thick glass. You were shocked but happy to see your father.

"Daddy." You spoke softly as you slowly smile, putting your hand on the glass. Bruce hesitates to put his hand on the glass, once he does, he focused back to you. Your eyes stared at him with so much love and hope.

". . . Your case. . . the court decided you're, too unstable to attend court, so. . ." Bruce didn't look at you as he spoke. So, he couldn't see the smile on your face fade. Confusion taking over.

"But. . . I did my six months. . . I-I've been here for a year! Daddy, please I didn't do it on purpose!" You were on the edge of crying.

"I promise. I'll get you out of here as soon as I can." Bruce wanted to try and console you. But that was harder due to the glass between you two. He reaches out his hand to the glass once more. But the loud buzz that queued it was time for you to get back to your cell.

"Please Daddy don't let them take me!" You cried, putting both hands on the glass. You were in full despair. Bruce didn't know what to do. He can take the risk from the Falcones and get you out with a snap of his fingers. Or he can make it easy for everyone but you and wait till you serve your time.

". . . I'm sorry" Bruce can see you falling deeper and deeper into dispare.

Guards burst from the doors and had to forcefully take you away.

"No- No! Daddy please! DADDY!" Your screamed louder as the guards took you away, reaching out to Bruce who just stood there. And did nothing. As always.

Seven years later.

No one ever visited you again. Well, no one from the Waynes. But your mother visited you every week. Her visits where the only reason you kept saine.

Arkham isn't all fun and games. Obviously. You were immitted into Arkham's fucked version of rehabilitation. You started hearing things after your first month in Arkham.

. . .

You sent letters almost every day to the Wayne manor. But never got any back. None from Bruce. None from Dick. You and Tim weren't close. So, you didn't expect anything from him. Alfred prefers to call you. Wanting to hear your voice to make sure you were not lying to him when he asks of your wellbeing.

You stopped sending letters to Bruce a few months ago. Not like he'll respond anyway. You don't need Bruce. You have your mother. And she's all you'll need. She's your world now, your reason to keep living this pointless life. And once you're out, Mama promised to give you a big hug. Which you so desperately needed.

🩸🩸🩸🩸🩸🩸🩸🩸🩸🩸🩸🩸🩸🩸🩸🩸🩸🩸🩸🩸🩸🩸

"𝙸 𝚖𝚒𝚜𝚜 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚍𝚊𝚍𝚍𝚢. . . 𝚍𝚘 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚖𝚒𝚜𝚜 𝚖𝚎?"

[magical-reid]

The Bucky Barnes Cake Conspiracy

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x (implied) Avenger!Reader

Word Count: 800

Summary: When Wanda convinces you and Natasha to do the “Hear Me Out” cake trend, you think it’s just harmless fun. That is, until every single one of your picks is a different version of Bucky Barnes, the entire Tower gets involved, and Bucky himself finds out in the most humiliating way possible—via Wanda’s viral video.

It started as a joke.

A harmless, ridiculous joke.

And then it spiraled into something much, much worse.

“I’m just saying,” Wanda said, shoving her phone in your face as the three of you wandered through the grocery store, “we should do it.”

Natasha glanced at the screen. “Oh, the ‘Hear Me Out’ cake trend? That’s dumb.”

“Exactly!” Wanda grinned. “Which makes it perfect for us.”

You furrowed your brows, watching the TikTok she’d pulled up. The trend was simple: buy a plain cake, decorate it with pictures of celebrities or characters you found attractive, and then justify your crush by sticking ‘Hear Me Out’ in the middle.

It was stupid. But also hilarious.

“I’m in,” you said.

Natasha groaned. “Fine. But I’m not helping if this turns into another Tower-wide disaster.”

Wanda hummed, already making a beeline for the bakery aisle. “Oh, it definitely will.”

Back at the Tower, you sat cross-legged on the kitchen counter as Wanda set up her phone. The cake—a plain white-frosted one you’d grabbed from the store—sat in the center of the table, looking all innocent. It had no idea it was about to be used for nonsense.

“Okay,” Wanda said, grinning. “Time to put down our picks.”

Natasha went first. She taped a photo of Keanu Reeves onto a skewer and stuck it into the cake. Classic. No one would question it.

Then Wanda went. Pedro Pascal. Another solid choice.

And then you—

“Y/N,” Natasha deadpanned. “Are you serious?”

You hesitated, mid-skewer placement. “…What?”

Wanda started cackling.

Because instead of picking three different people like a normal person, you had, without realizing it, picked three different versions of Bucky Barnes.

One was a picture of him in his tactical gear, scowling like he was about to murder someone (hot). Another was of him in a hoodie and jeans, looking all soft and domestic (also hot). And the third? The one that really sealed your fate?

It was a close-up of his metal arm.

You winced. “Okay. I see how this looks—”

“This looks like a confession,” Wanda said gleefully, already zooming in on your picks.

“Oh my God,” Natasha muttered, running a hand down her face.

“I panicked!” you hissed. “I wasn’t thinking—I just grabbed the first ones that looked good!”

Wanda was shaking with laughter. “Oh, babe. This isn’t panic. This is obsession.”

You groaned, dropping your head onto the counter. “I hate you both.”

The video went up on Wanda’s account that night.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

By the next morning, it had one million views.

And the Tower was in absolute chaos.

Clint greeted you at breakfast with a slow, knowing grin. “So,” he said, spreading cream cheese onto his bagel, “should we start calling you Mrs. Barnes, or—?”

You threw a banana at his head.

Sam nearly fell off the couch laughing when he saw the video. “You put the metal arm?” he wheezed. “Oh, you’re down bad.”

Steve, who had clearly been dragged into this nonsense against his will, just gave you a long, unimpressed look over his coffee. “You could’ve just told him, you know.”

Tony, of course, had the most Tony reaction possible. “This is the most effort I’ve ever seen someone put into a crush. If I had known Bucky was your type, I would’ve set up an HR department just to make this more scandalous.”

You wanted the Earth to swallow you whole.

But the worst part?

Bucky.

Because by some miracle, he hadn’t seen the video yet.

Which meant you were living on borrowed time.

It happened later that night.

You were curled up on the couch, pretending to read a book but mostly trying to avoid eye contact with the entire human population, when Bucky strolled into the common room.

“Hey, doll.”

Your stomach flipped. “Hey.”

He sat next to you, arms stretched out over the back of the couch, his face unreadable. For a brief, fleeting moment, you thought—maybe he doesn’t know.

And then—

“So,” he said, far too casually. “You like my arm that much, huh?”

Your entire body locked up.

Your soul left your body.

Your mouth opened. Closed. Opened again.

“I—what—who—?”

Bucky chuckled. “I saw the video.”

You shut your eyes. “Kill me.”

He hummed, like he was thinking about it. “Nah. ‘Cause then who’s gonna take me on that date you clearly want?”

You choked. “What—”

Bucky turned to face you fully, that infuriating smirk tugging at his lips. “If you wanted me so bad, sweetheart, you could’ve just asked.”

Your entire brain short-circuited. “I—That’s—You—”

Bucky leaned in, voice low. “Next time, maybe write my number on the cake instead.”

You exhaled sharply, heart hammering. “Are you—Are you flirting with me?”

His grin widened. “You tell me.”

You stared at him. Then at the door. Then back at him.

Finally, you sighed, rubbing your temples. “Fine. But if we go on a date, I’m making Wanda pay for it.”

Bucky laughed, eyes warm. “Deal.”

[magicdustsworld]

Zayne has standards.

He really does.

And those standards include not thirsting after his very beautiful wife every time she has the audacity to exist in a damn sundress.

But here he is.

You are sprawled out on the couch, using a cushion as a recliner while you scroll through your phone with a practiced ease that should have been illegal. You are wearing that sundress again—the same one he bought you and the same one that made him lose his mind the first time you walked out of your bedroom wearing that. The soft yellow clings to your bust and torso, before flaring from the waist down. A slit runs down from your knee to the hem—giving him a tantalizing view of your legs as you cross them over one another. The neckline dips low; although keeping your modesty concealed, the sweetheart shape leaves no stone unturned—promising the allure behind the veil.

There you are resting on the sofa like some celestial being descended from heaven; taking away his breath and self control—fighting and failing hard to resist the temptation.

And the worst part of it all? You aren't even trying to seduce him.

You are just there.

Radiant.

Effortless.

Dangerous.

As ever.

Zayne leans on the doorway, arms folded over hios chest and jaw set in a thin line as if that would the heat from crawling up his neck.

As if sensing his gaze, you speak without making the effort to look up, "Anything wrong?"

"It's too cold for you to be wearing something like... that.

"Huh?" Finally, you grace him the look he was so desperately begging for. (Not that you'll ever know about it). You make some clicks on your phone before turning the device towards him, "See! It's 70 degrees. It's warm enough."

In response, your husband just glares at the screen like it has personally offended him. It has. Then, he mumbles something incoherent under his breath; along the lines of 'You have a knack for getting knocked out cold' and 'How much it'd help him you if you only sprout some wisdom and put on a cardigan.'

He rotates on his heels, strolling towards the kitchen—at this point only some chilled water would help him—and hoping you haven't caught onto his monologue. But you did. You always do and when you finally register his words in your mind, a slow grin curls down your lips.

So that is it, huh?

No sooner has Zayne reached the refrigerator, he feels the warmth of your figure behind him. He fixes you with a questioning gaze, one of his eyebrows raising, as he fishes out a bottle of water from it.

Leaning against the counter, your perpetual smirk depends and that's the cue for your husband to know that you are upto no good.

"You okay, darling?" You ask, voice low and turning towards a teasing edge. Stepping closer, you place your hand on his forearm—the muscles tensing almost instantly under your touch. Perfect. "You look a little... warm."

Zayne clears his throat, "I am fine."

"Mhm, hmm, you sure?" you ask, leaning in—absolutely revelling on the effect you are having on him.

"Of course," he swallows, stepping back but you only step closer; not letting him or anyone shorten the proximity. You wouldn’t even let it happen, no matter what occurs. "Why would you even think otherwise?"

"Heh!" You snort, amusement floating in the sound. "Because what if I say you keep looking at me like I am dessert and you are starving?"

"Then I'll say you're delusional."

"Oh?" This time, you raise an eyebrow. Then, wedging your voice to a tone lower—transcending it to something sultry and wicked. "Then you wouldn’t be affected if I kiss you right now?"

His shoulder jerks back, eyes widening as a warmth spreads all over his cheek and burns down to his neck. "You wouldn’t dare—"

But you do.

You kiss him.

Standing on your tip-toes, your eyelids flutter shut as your soft lips pressed against his chapped one. The slow motion of the movement gave him all the time in the world to memorize each nook and cranny of your expression before you engulfed him into a sincere affection. Sacred in the act. Reverent in its nature.

After being happily married to the calm and composed Dr. Zayne—one of the best surgeons in the Akso hospital and the youngest winner of the starcather award—for two years; you'd wonder surprise kisses like this would be considered a routine now. And although they are, Zayne's reaction to them every time hasn't had a single itch of change. You still remember how he had reacted when you had kissed him unexpectedly for the first time. It had been under a snow cuddled christmas tree in the heart of Linkon city and as cliche as it was, it was the fruit of your hard earned resolve after yearning for him for literal years.

Even that time, his hands and feet had fallen victim to paralysis as well. Heart beating in his chest at a rapid rate and he stood there like a statue, barely moving his lips against yours—just like now. Only when did you begin to pull away, did he finally take the lead.

His hand wraps around your waist, pulling you close whilst the other cradles your jaw. Angling your face to the side, he parts his lips—pressing them on yours with a fervent hunger. His tongue prods over your lips and you open your mouth, welcoming him into the salacious exchange. The fabric of his shirt, bunches inside your fist prompting you to pull him closer. He relents, lips meeting with yours with sheer desire and affection. Despite the carnal nature of his mouth on yours, you couldn't deny the wafting purity in the air. The way Zayne handled you with so much affection and zeal—never rushing you, matching his tempo to yours because it isn't just him indulging in this wanton connection. There's you and Zayne is nothing but vigilant when it comes to you; as if you are a fragile thing and any stitch of recklessness would shatter you. Something he'd never let happen as long as he lives.

When he let's you go, both of you are breathless. Inhaling the mingling air in abrupt, short pants; a flush spread over your skin.

Then, "Still fine?" You whisper, gripping the fabric of his shirt tighter. The smug smile back with full force.

Zayne, still dazed and doomed, "You are... evil."

But even as he says that, his hold on your waist tightens just ever so slightly. Because, even if the end of the story concludes you as evil, he'll be gratified to know that you're his evil.

P.S. if y'all are wondering why does every Lnds drabble of mine consist husband!LI then it's because I'd husband them up in a breath if they were real ;-; jdhdjhdjhs hope you liked it

Zayne is my main btw <3 do tell me yours!

[rexhya]

yandere!forestelf except he's obsessed with watching you sleep.

you clumsily crawled your way into his territory, clueless of the nearly 7ft tall monster that gaurded the forest, you don't look harmful in the slightest, he was actually about to let you go untill he saw it.

you, completely still in a cave, lying on your side like a ragdoll. in all his 26,000 years of livimg he wasn't very familiar with humans to be honest. they mostly stayed away from the forest, and he would always protect it. so this was unfamiliar to him, were you dead? he wasn't sure, so he went to check.

that was a bad idea, you woke up screaming as he politely poked your soft spots, you'd always heard of the infamous elf gaurd, in stories and music. never did you ever think you'd meet him.

"do not be afraid." his voice is a mix of so many things it's scary. airy winter snowflakes, rushing ocean waters. you don't reply. you can't understand him anyways.

the elf realizes this, and tries his best, but years of avoidance to your kind has left him stumped.

so he grabs a stick and begins to draw pictures.

"you...me...x?" you say aloud, a puzzled expression on your face. then he draws x's over your eyes and you whip your head up in fear, he was going to kill you.

the elf huffs and scratches out the drawings, now standing in all 7ft glory to, how you would say, play charades.

it take a while but eventually you get the message, "you came to check on me when i was sleeping? because you thought i was dead?"

he nods enthusiastically, and you smile. "oh how thoughtful."

after this you come as visit him often, and everytime you decide it's better you camp the night you can always find a tall elf staring at you from above, you've learned he doesn't need to sleep, which is why he's so fascinated bu you. the body completely shutting down for 8 hours or more? and being completely fine when restarted? hes rather impressed to say the least.

it gets a bit silly at times, the gaurd has made it a sort of ritual for you two. all day long he follows you around the forest silently watching as you gathered things you need or research the plethora of animals in the vicinity.

then when night comes, he scoops you up in his arms. like you're a child and rests your head where he has the bezt veiw to watch you sleep, breathing in soft, sometimes loud breaths to feul your body. you stopped fighting when your realizes the sleep you were getting was better then any cave floor could give you, Demitai is just happy you let him in the first place.

gets cutness aggression when he hold you, has to stop himself from pulling blood from your cheeks and tummy when he bites them.