#just a wheel of cruelty

[not-neverland06]

Kid?

Logan Howlett x fem!mutant!reader A/N: I haven’t watched X-Men since I was a child, so I can’t promise this is going to be canon-compliant. I haven’t watched DP & W either, I’ve just been influenced by that one gif where Hugh Jackman shakes his head like a dog. I feel FERAL Also, I am not good at superhero names or coming up with creative powers. So you’re a mutant with matter manipulation and they call you Flux. I mean, superhero names are inherently ridiculous so I think this works. (Don’t judge me, I’m just here for the sexy man) Summary: You walk in on Logan and Jean in a compromising position and feel your heart break. You really thought he loved you, you were so wrong. (Or were you?)

It was your own fault, you should have knocked before you busted through the door. You only have yourself to blame as you struggle to catch your breath and swallow down the lump in your throat. The image of Logan standing between Jean’s bare legs is going to haunt you for a while. Their faces will keep you awake at night, cringing at yourself while you remember the humiliating moment. 

You rush towards the door, a stupidly giddy skip to your step. You were a mutant, a superhuman, and getting a chance to talk to your crush should not have you giggling like a schoolgirl. Still, you’re blind to all logic when it comes to Logan. 

You turn the corner, spotting the medbay and nearly ramming into the door you know he’s lurking behind. Charles had told you where to find him. Of course, you hadn’t paid attention to the odd tone of voice when he had very clearly warned you to knock. All you’d heard was Logan’s name and you’d zoned out for the rest of the conversation. 

And, of course, you don’t knock. You grab the door’s handle and bust in, “Hey!” Your eyes widen and your stomach plummets with a depressing plop to the floor. Your eyes nearly bug out of your head when you see the way Jean and Logan are entangled in each other. He’s leaning over her, the muscles and veins in his neck pulsing with strain. Normally, that sight would have you nearly drooling. 

Instead, all you can see is the flush on Jean’s cheeks and the way her pupils are dilated with want. Her nails are digging into his back, bare legs twined around his waist. There’s no way to misinterpret this. No way for you to later assure yourself that this was all just a misunderstanding. 

The words stumble out of your mouth in a disjointed mess that even you can’t decipher. You stand there, jaw opening and closing like a fish out of water before you finally get it together. “Charles,” you stutter out, his name sounding like a question. You wince and finally tear your gaze away from them. “Sorry,” you chuckle, trying to play off your hurt as humor. “Charles needs us all for a mission.”

You don’t give them a chance to respond, you slam the door closed, ignoring what you think might be someone calling your name. 

You shake off the mortifying memory and groan. Your head falls into your hands and you grip at your face until the pain distracts you from the embarrassment. It’s not too hard to push it all down, to pretend what happened didn’t make your heart crumble away into nothing.

Maybe it’s because you’re a mutant that you’re so used to rejection. You’re used to constantly being disappointed by people around you. Your childhood was nothing but cruelty, your crush not liking you back can’t compare to half of what you went through. 

That’s what you tell yourself, at least, to try and pretend it doesn’t hurt as much as it does. You shove it down until you think you can’t feel that dull ache anymore. And when Jean and Logan walk into the room, looking more put together, you smile at Logan like you always do. It doesn’t turn down at the corners, your eyes don’t water. You take in a deep breath and look utterly unaffected. 

He sits down beside you and leans towards you. “I can explain-”

You cut him off and shake your head. “Forget about it. I should have knocked.” You turn towards Charles who wheels himself to the front of the room. You dismiss Logan and ignore the way his stare burns into the side of your head. 

Charles looks to Jean and Logan, a smile starting. Then his gaze drifts towards you and your chest deflates when you see the look on his face. He knows, the old miser probably coasted over your thoughts and he knows. He sends you a sympathetic look that makes you feel like a little girl who just got told unicorns don’t exist. “Jean, Logan, glad that you’ve finally joined us.”

Logan nods and leans back in his chair. But his eyes remain fixed on you and it makes you wish you could stab a fork into them. You let out a short, irritated huff of air and frown at yourself. Maybe you were a little more angry than you would like to admit. 

You blame Logan for that. You never would have fallen so deep into infatuation if you hadn’t believed there was even a sliver of a chance with him. Always speaking so kindly with you when he would barely spare anyone a second glance. Constantly doing checkups on you after a particularly harsh training session with Charles. 

Your mind runs over all the small things with him, everything you’ve done together. And you’re hit with a sudden nauseating thought. Oh my god, what if he sees me paternally?

You force yourself not to physically react but inside your throwing up and fucking freaking out. You feel a sudden spark of alarm from Charles and quickly do your best to fortify your mind so he doesn’t see your major mental freakout. 

You’re not that much younger than him. Well, it’s not illegal, your crush on Logan. But what if this entire time, when you’ve been falling harder and harder for him, he’s just been platonically taking care of you? You’ve seen him do it plenty of times for the younger kids, as reluctant as he is to admit it. 

You’re spiraling further and further into panic. So much so that you have no idea what’s even being discussed or what’s going on. You get onto the jet and have to ask Storm what you’re doing. She gives you a confused look but tells you nonetheless. Just some recon on a potential mutant trafficking ring. Nothing out of the ordinary, as depressing as that is. There shouldn’t be much violence, which is why your group is particularly small today.

You nod your head, moving like you’re in a daze as you throw yourself onto a seat. Logan sits beside you, an alarmed look on his face. “You alright, kid?”

The nickname, which is used to make your stomach flutter, makes you want to throw up. How have you missed it for this long? It was laid out so plainly before you. Of course, he doesn’t want you. Not when he has perfect Jean. Bile rises in your throat with a vicious ferocity when you glare over at Jean. 

There’s a sudden petty, vindictive rage fueling you. The type you should have abandoned in high school, especially now that you’re grown. Instead, you feel like giving into Logan’s idea of what you are. You feel like reacting to all of this petulantly. 

You ignore Logan and instead catch Jean’s eyes. Slowly, and with as much intention as you can force into your gaze, you look from her to Logan and then Scott. Her eyes widen and Logan scoffs beside you. She shakes her head minutely, silently begging you not to say anything. You smile at her and stand up.

You take a step towards Scott and Logan calls out an irritated, “Kid.” You ignore him and Jean eyes you warily as you approach. She stands like she’s ready to fight you and take the jet down just to keep you quiet. You reach Scott and can hear the way Jean takes in a sharp breath. 

“Scott,” he looks up at you with his brows raised. There's a pause before you speak. Dragged on too long for Scott not to realize you’re planning something. 

Jean takes a step towards you and you grin, “Mind checking my cuffs?” Scott gives you an odd look and his confusion only gets worse as Jean slumps onto the seat beside him. She’s not even trying to hide her relief. Scott shakes his head and holds his hands out, fingers gently probing around the cuffs on your wrists. The ones that keep your powers in check. 

You’re still new to welding them. And they’re too entwined with your emotions for you to just have free range with them. If you hadn’t had the cuffs on this morning, you’re afraid you might have just turned everything around you into nothing but dust.

“They look fine, Flux.” His tone betrays his thoughts. He doesn’t know why you’d come to him for this when it’s Charles who usually deals with it. But this stupid, petty little display wasn’t for poor oblivious Scott. It was for the woman sitting next to him. The redhead whose still drilling holes into your skull. 

You’ve got leverage over her that you’ve never had before. Scott wouldn’t take her little foray with Logan very well. And all it would take is a flick of your wrist to give him a very clear image of exactly what you’d seen. Then, her picture-perfect relationship would be over in a matter of seconds. You’re sure Logan would be more than pleased. But he doesn’t seem to understand that Jean just wants to have fun with him, she’d never choose him over Scott. 

“Thanks,” there’s a bite to your tone that you’re not used to. You usually keep your emotions relatively in control. That way you won’t have to wear these cuffs one day. But you feel volatile today. You’re channeling your hurt and turning it into misguided anger. 

You drop your wrists to your sides and stalk toward the front, hovering behind Charle’s and Storm’s chairs so you don’t have to look at the others. It doesn’t take long for you to feel the floor trembling under heavy booted steps. 

Logan’s arms rest on the headrest of the chairs, bracketing you in between them so you can’t escape. He leans forward until his chest is pushed against yours and you can feel every ridge of his muscled torso pressing into you. You try not to suck in a breath, try not to play into the cliche of instantly forgetting why you’re angry when you’re faced with those muscles of his. It is hard, though, because he’s so handsome and so warm and you just want to melt into him. 

“Wanna explain what the hell that was?” His voice is so low, whispering against the shell of your ear so only you can hear. You feel the vibrations of it against your back, his tone more gravelly than it should be. 

You glance over your shoulder at him, face placid and blank. “What? Just needed some help.” Storm looks over at you both and rolls her eyes. 

Logan opens his mouth to say something but she cuts him off. “Put a pin in the lover’s spat, we’re landing.” Using just a bit of your power, you push Logan off of you and head towards the back of the jet. There’s a slight jolt as you land and then the ramp opens up and you’re practically running into the snowy forest. 

You don’t know where you are, mainly because you weren’t paying attention, you just know it's fucking freezing. The leather of your suit isn’t doing much to help fight against the chill. Charles stays on the jet and reminds you all that this is only meant to be recon. You’re partnered up with Logan, and as much as it irritates you, you’re not stupid enough to argue against it.

You have to put aside your personal grievances for this mission. You can’t risk the safety of mutants because the guy you like likes another girl. Logan seems pleased about it, stubbornly staying by your side even when you make it clear you want space. 

You both linger behind the other’s as Storm leads you through the forest. Jean is being more touchy with Scott than normal. Either to assuage her own guilt or to rub it in Logan’s face, you’re not sure which. You nearly gag as you watch them whisper to one another, you glance over at Logan to see if he notices. 

You’re startled when you see him already staring at you. His lips tick up into something mischievous when he catches your eye. That smug smirk on his face as he leans in towards you. “Wanna tell me what’s got you so pissed off?”

You roll your eyes and tamp down the rising tide of anger. “Nothing,” you bite out, jaw clenching the longer you stare at the back of Jean’s head. You’re surprised you haven’t chipped a tooth with how hard you’re grinding your teeth together. 

He scoffs, not believing you for a second. He doesn’t say anything, just gives you an expectant stare. You can taste the words forming on your tongue, an irritating urge to just spill your guts overcoming you. Before you can stop yourself you blurt out, “I’m a little surprised that’s all.”

“Oh yeah, ‘bout what?” You hate how amused he sounds, the chuckle just lying in wait under his words. Like your anger is funny to him, like he didn’t just break your stupid fucking heart. 

You stop walking, not feeling as intimidating as you want while you shiver and huddle into yourself. He seems perfectly at ease in his leather jacket and beater, still refusing to wear the uniform. He leans back and looks at you with a fondness that you can’t tell if you love or hate. “You and little Miss Perfect.” You spit the nickname with enough venom to make both of your eyes widen. 

Logan rolls his eyes and takes a step towards you, again, Storm interrupts you both. “Guys, really?” Everyone turns around to stare and you will the heat in your face away. “Not the time,” she scolds and you brush past Logan to catch up with the others. 

You come upon a warehouse, it’s nearly camouflaged under all the snow. You see two guards waiting outside the metal doors and you all disperse behind the trees. Storm glances towards Jean who focuses on the guards. They drop to the floor and you wave your hands, their guns melting into puddles of metal. 

Logan and Scott move forward, sliding the large metal doors open. You wince at the loud screeching as the rust flakes off the sides. There’s a collective quiet as you all hold your breath, waiting for them to give the all-clear. Once they run inside and run back out, you and the others quickly get to your feet and rush into the warehouse. Logan closes the doors again as you make it inside. 

“No one here?” Storm checks. Scott shakes his head and you frown. That doesn’t make any sense. Why would there be guards if there was nothing inside?

Your question is, unfortunately, answered a minute later. You find a pile of metal crates stacked on top of each other. A large beige tarp covers them. You tug at the corner, letting the fabric slide off. Your eyes flutter with disappointment, “Guys! Over here,” mutants sit inside the crates. Each of them stares at you with varying degrees of mistrust and fear. 

As awful as it is, you’ve gotten used to these quiet depressing missions. There aren’t usually many mutants in one place. They don’t like to keep the product in one spot for too long. There are only four kids here. The youngest is eleven and the oldest is seventeen. There’s nothing physically telling about their abilities so you assume it must be psychic powers. 

They don’t want to come with you until you all give them a demonstration of your powers. Proving that you’re not just trapping them and taking them somewhere worse. You’re nearly out the door when Charles's voice rings loudly through all of your minds. 

You wince at the volume, hands coming up to grip at your hair as he shouts, “Behind you!” A gunshot rings out, something hot rips across your wrist and you gasp in pain. There’s a clatter of metal as your cuff drops to the ground, the bullet having destroyed it. Without them both, they’re useless. One won’t work without the other. 

You glance up at Logan, a panicked look on your face. You can already feel the tidal wave of power thrashing and building in your chest. It’s been so long with the safety net that you forgot how bad it gets without the cuffs. 

“We need to get you out of here!” He shouts over the gunfire. He herds the group behind a cluster of metal shipment boxes. It provides enough cover for you all to try and figure out an escape plan. 

You listen to the other’s worried voices, each of them trying to console the kids. You don’t know their powers yet. Don’t know what might go wrong if they get too scared and can’t control their abilities. 

You can’t speak, breaths coming short and fast as you clutch your wrist to your chest. You know it’s delusional, hoping that if you keep a tight grip like the cuff you might be able to control yourself. You can already feel the energy leaking out of you, the ends of everyone’s hair stands on end. The wall in front of you warps and cracks like it can’t decide if it’s liquid or solid. 

You grit your teeth and look only at Storm. “You need to get out,” you force the words out. It causes physical pain to try and keep everything at bay. You can feel pressure building in your forehead, pushing out until you think you might explode. 

“We’re not leaving you,” Logan snaps. There’s shouting going on behind you, a pause as they all reload their guns. 

“Wasn’t a question,” you grit out. You look towards Jean and there’s a moment where you both put aside your differences. You both know how stubborn he is, how much he’ll fight against leaving you behind. Regenerative powers or not, it's dangerous to even be close to your gift now. You can see them all straining against the ebbing flow of your powers. Their skin shifts unnaturally like you’re already altering the atoms of their being. 

This is why you’re only allowed to train with Charles and Jean. They can get in your head, shut it down when you can’t. You’re not sure you’re going to survive yourself. Logan glances between the two of you and practically growls at Jean, “Don’t you fuckin’ dare-”

His words trail off into an unintelligible slur as he slumps forward, Jean having knocked him out with her powers. Scott grabs him and grunts under the weight of his body. “I’ll cover you,” you gasp the words out. Anything but focusing on your powers causes physical strain that makes you feel like you’re being tugged in a hundred different directions. “Just get them out,” you nod towards the kids. 

Storm nods and you slip out of cover. It isn’t hard to push your powers in one direction, to solidify the air in front of you so the bullets ricochet harmlessly off. You listen to the whine of the metal door and wait for the others to be gone. 

“They’re in the jet,” Charles's voice rings out. “Don’t do this,” he warns. You can’t think of a response, you’re not even sure what you would say. You never thought you would be able to approach death this calmly, or that this would be how you die. It feels almost pathetic, dying because you lost control on a recon mission. 

At least those kids are safe. It’s not a bad reason to die. Just not great. You glance down at the other cuff on your right hand, the air around it fluctuates until it melts off your wrist like liquid metal. With the last barely there tether off your powers, you close your eyes and release the tidal wave. 

It feels like a dam exploding. It doesn’t leak fluidly from you, it rips through you like a hailstorm of knives. Tears apart anything in its path and rewrites the molecular build of everything in its path. Screams echo through the air as men’s bones turn into brittle dust and their hearts morph into something inorganic. You’re blind to everything around you, vision clouded by the horrific release of energy. 

You can feel warmth leaking down your face. Blood still pours from the wound on your wrist, and fresh blood from other wounds you can’t even feel. You don’t know when the screams stop, or when you’re finally drained. But you feel like an empty husk as you drop to the floor, your head bouncing harshly against the cement as everything goes black. 

“I’m gonna kill you,” Logan says with a grin, glaring at Scott even though it’s Charles who is holding him back. He’s got a firm mental grasp on Logan, keeping him locked into place while he focuses on the warehouse. 

They’re waiting for the all-clear. The others know there’s always the possibility that they’re going to be collecting a body. But none of them are willing to say that, not with the look on Logan’s face. His muscles look ready to pop out of his skin with how much he’s fighting against Charles’s hold. 

Scott backs away from Logan with a scoff. He stands near Jean, but she can’t take her eyes off the restrained man. Nothing had happened this morning, Flux had seen to that. Interrupting them just as they’d started. Seeing the way he’s acting now, she’s starting to believe that nothing is ever going to happen. 

He’d looked like he was about to dismiss her when she started making a move. She can see the anger on his face, it seems he’s only ever pissed off. But underneath that, as much as he hides it, she can see the fear. He’s terrified that they're going to walk in there and you’re going to be dead. 

Jean can feel the fear of the others as well. They’ve only seen you lose control once and that had almost leveled the mansion. Charles had stopped you then, but the loss of the cuff had been so sudden Jean just barely had enough strength to keep the others blocked from your powers. She didn’t have enough time to shut you down. 

Jean, as much as she’s tried to deny it and dismiss her suspicions, can’t look Logan in the eye and ignore it anymore. It’s never been her that he’s wanted. The way he trails along beside you, always prodding and poking until you’re pissy and mouthing off. It’s not done because he finds antagonizing people fun, it's because he loves seeing you all worked up and passionate. He doesn’t view you through the same platonic lens he does the others. You’re something else to him, something she doesn’t want to name, afraid of the bitter taste it will leave on her tongue. 

Charles slumps back in his chair and Logan suddenly lunges forward. He looks a little surprised by the sudden freedom of movement, but before any of them can stop him he’s running out of the jet. “Logan,” Jean tries to call after him but he’s already a distant blur. 

Scott sighs and starts down the ramp. “Come on,” he mutters. He’s the last one who should be coming along. If anything is wrong with you, he’ll end up being Logan’s punching bag. Jean follows reluctantly, she’s not sure she wants to see what’s happened. 

Your powers are too similar in their volatile nature. The way they rule you and come so close to destroying you when you use them too much, is too familiar to Jean. She doesn’t want to see you lying dead on the floor and be reminded of her own mortality. But someone needs to make sure Logan is stuck on a leash. 

They reach where the warehouse should be. It’s nothing but a pile of rubble now. Throughout the wreckage, Jean can make out odd pools of liquid, some writhing, others still. She can only assume that these had been the men shooting at them. She doesn’t see your body, none of them do. But Logan isn’t giving up. 

He lifts different pieces of metal and tosses them off into the forest. Jean doesn’t sense your presence anywhere but she doesn’t have the heart to tell Logan to give up. After a few minutes of searching, she almost tells him to quit. But she can’t see him anymore. He’s disappeared somewhere behind a particularly large pile of roofing. A moment later, Logan stands up. His jacket is gone, wrapped around the body in his arms. None of them are close enough to see if you’re breathing. And he doesn’t say a word as he brushes past them, just keeps going back to the jet. Ororo, Scott, and Jean all share a silent look. None of them prepared for the potential fallout that’s going to happen after this. 

The first thing you feel is two familiar bands of metal around your wrists. The comforting feeling of the cuffs is enough to have you sinking further into the pillows surrounding you. Then you hear the beeping in your ear, feel the cool blow of AC, and become startlingly aware of the fact that you’re in a bed you don’t recognize. 

You groan, eyes peeling open painfully as your lashes get stuck on your skin. You reach up to rub at your face but your arms feel too weak to lift. You give up on the thought, instead staring up at the ceiling and waiting for your vision to refocus. 

A throat clears in front of you and you nearly jump out of your skin. Sitting at the end of your bed, arms crossed and a fierce glare on his face is Logan. His feet are propped up on the small table beside you. He quirks a brow and gives you a sardonic grin, “Finally awake, princess?”

Normally the name would have you up and doing somersaults, but there’s something distinctly negative and disappointed lacing his tone. It squashes any and all butterflies in your stomach. You grimace as you try and sit up. Logan is up in an instant, an annoyed look still on his face as he helps you up. 

You can’t help your dopey smile at how gentle his hands are on you. Even pissed off, he treats you so kindly. Maybe it’s the drugs relaxing you, or the fact that you almost died, but you can’t remember whatever made you mad at him. You can only feel the slide of his calloused hands against your arms, the way you shiver under his touch and crave more. 

He pulls the chair closer to you with a loud scratch of metal feet on the linoleum. You groan at the loud sound and he huffs, throwing himself down in the seat. “How do you feel?”

Your head sinks back against the wall and you finally realize you’re in the medbay. It’s why everything smells so sterile. “Like I got hit by a semi.”

He barely lets you finish your thought before he spits out, “What the fuck were you thinking?” He doesn’t ease you into this at all and you frown. You’re not sure why you would expect him to ever beat around the bush. That’s not his style, he’s always been blunt. Even when others wish he wouldn’t be. 

“What else was I supposed to do?” You ask, voice weak. Your throat feels like it’s been ripped apart. Idly, you wonder if you had been screaming in the warehouse or if this was just general strain from the whole ordeal. 

“Not put yourself at risk like that.” He leans forward, voice stern and bordering on shouting. You know he’s holding back. As much as he wants to lay into you right now, he’s stopping himself from going completely out of his mind. You appreciate it, but you almost wish he would just yell at you. You wish you had a reason to resent him, to finally get over him. “Not have Jean knock me out like that. You don’t get to make those decisions for me.”

It’s completely inappropriate and horrible timing, but you can’t help but scoff at the mention of Jean’s name. Can you not have one conversation that’s not tainted by the mention of the redhead?

Logan’s mouth snaps shut and he glares at you in disbelief. You squeeze your eyes shut, not willing to face him as embarrassment washes over you. No wonder he always calls you kid. You’re not exactly acting like an adult. You’re being a brat and for such a stupid reason too. 

Just because you like him doesn’t mean he has to reciprocate. You can’t just force your feelings on someone. “Logan,” you whisper his name, “Sorry. I’m sorry-”

He cuts you off before you can finish. Some of the anger, but not all, has ebbed from his expression. He almost looks like he’s smiling. “Jean? That’s what this is about? Jealous or something, sweetheart?”

You sputter, shocked little noises leaving you but no words. After a solid minute of restarting a sentence you don’t know how to end you finally land on a squeaky, “Who?” If you weren’t so mortified, you might have just thrown yourself out the window. Out of every cop-out you could have gone with you chose to just pretend you didn’t know who she was. Maybe you could make this work, like selective amnesia. 

Your shame only builds as Logan laughs. You cover your face and wish you could bury yourself six feet deep and never come up. You feel two rough hands wrap around your wrists, tugging your own away from your face. You don’t have the energy to fight back, so you keep your eyes on his chin. Too afraid to meet his gaze. 

“Come on,” he mutters, gently nudging your chin up until you’re forced to look at him. You're caught off guard by the look in his eyes. You recognize it, but you’d only ever seen it directed at Jean. It’s the same way you’ve always looked at him. Pure unguarded want and desire. 

The hand on your chin drifts back, fingers tangling in your hair and gently resting on your jaw. He tugs you forward until your lips are nearly touching, breaths mingling with every exhale. “Only ever wanted you, darlin'.’”

The kiss catches you off guard. It shouldn’t, deep down you knew it was coming, but the intensity behind it, the way you can practically taste how bad he wants this, wants you, catches you off guard. You lean into him, wrapping your arms around his neck and letting yourself melt into his hold. 

His free hand drifts to your waist and clutches the flimsy hospital gown until you hear it tear. You part your lips, deepening the kiss so you can finally taste him. It’s cigars and whiskey, something you should hate but is entirely intoxicating when he’s holding you so tightly. Fireworks are going off in your mind, sparks darting between your fingers as the cuffs struggle to contain all the energy suddenly pushing out of you. 

He can feel you holding back, squeezing you like it’s a promise he can take it. Take everything you throw at him. You let go as much as your cuffs will allow you. Let the energy blanket you both so you can’t hear your heart monitor going off like crazy. So you don’t feel anything other than each other. You think you’re going to devour each other like you’ll just keep kissing until neither of you can take it anymore. You don’t want to let go of him, don’t want to lose this moment. 

But you have to breathe. You don’t get to just keep living the way he does. You pull away from him slowly, every part of you dreading separating from him. His forehead drops against your own, his laughter playing along your lips as he finally hears the monitor going haywire. 

You groan, flicking your wrist and shutting it off so it can’t betray how flustered you are anymore. He gently nudges you aside so he can sit beside you on the bed. You don’t waste a second before you’re draping yourself across his chest and siphoning his warmth. He chuckles, arms coming up to wrap around you. 

“Can’t believe you were jealous of Jean.”

“Shut up,” you snipe. You look up at him and glare, “How else do you explain what you two were doing?”

He leans forward and gives you a smug grin. “She came onto me, sweetheart.” Your face screws up in distaste and jealousy. She’s going to need to learn to keep her hands to herself. He seems to feel the way you tense up, he huffs in amusement and rubs your back. “Relax, you’re gonna blow your fuse again.”

You glance down at your wrists and nuzzle further into him. You can’t believe you could have been laying on him this whole time. You never want to use a blanket again, not when you’ve got him. “I’ll be fine now that I’ve got my cuffs.”

His hand stills on your bicep. He squeezes it before his hand drifts up to your chin and he tilts your face up again. “I don’t ever want to see that again.” You’re a little surprised by the sudden shift in tone, but you knew this was coming. 

“I had to, Logan. I either took you all down with me or I went on my own.”

Logan frowns and takes in a deep breath. You place a hand on his arm, giving it a gentle squeeze. He smiles down at you, “Next time, take me with you. I’m not fucking dealing with Summers without you.”

You can’t help but chuckle. Your face grows warm and your chest expands with some odd gleeful feeling as he laces your fingers together. “Deal,” you whisper, still smiling at him. 

A/N: Okay, this might be shit, I’m not sure. I sort of rushed the ending because as I was writing this I had another idea for him. I guess I’m officially off my hiatus. 

end. — I do not own the characters or the comics/movies Wolverine/X-Men, but this writing is my own all rights reserved © not-neverland06 2024. do not copy, repost, translate & recommend elsewhere.

[noirscript]

Where the Ivy Grows

Pairing: Yandere!Tutor x Childhood Friend!Reader Description: You built a quiet life in his absence—but Seraphim D’Aronn has returned, and he’s come to collect what was always his. Warning/s: Yandere | Emotional Manipulation | Power Imbalance | Implied Coercion | Gaslighting | Possessive Behavior | Contractual Relationship Note/s: Enjoy this Clerivan Pellet-inspired character. This man... god... um, hehe. Oh, Dark Roast v2 is up on my ko-fi and you can get it half the price by clicking the link below. ^^ Commissions are also open to those interested.

Masterlist | Commission | Tip Jar | Dark Roast v2

You never heard the carriage wheels.

The town was too quiet for that, muffled under the thick blanket of summer heat and your own routine of pretending you weren’t waiting for something to go wrong.

You’re out back, hanging washed linens on the line, sleeves rolled past your elbows, neck damp with sweat, when the first shadow falls across the hem of a sheet fluttering in the breeze. You freeze, peg suspended in your fingers. You don’t need to look. You know who it is.

You feel it in the silence.

“…You’re early.”

Your voice is calm, but there’s a tremor. You hate it. You’ve had three years to learn how to hide that—ever since you signed what you thought was a generous marriage contract, eyes tired and stomach hollow from grief and debt. Three years to convince yourself it wasn’t entrapment, just kindness delivered with a bit too much pressure.

But Seraphim D’Aronn is never early.

He’s exactly on time. Always.

You turn slowly, shielding your eyes against the sun, and there he is—taller than memory allows, a quiet monument in cream linen, silver-trimmed coat hanging over one arm. His hair is longer than before, nearly brushing his waist, gathered at the nape with a deep blue ribbon. Not a strand out of place. His sapphire eyes are unreadable behind the glint of thin-rimmed spectacles.

He smiles.

“I missed you.”

It’s not a lie. But it’s not love either.

At least, not the kind you want.

You swallow. “You said you wouldn’t be back until winter.”

“I had a change of heart.”

Of course he did.

The children of the Eldermont Duchy must be fully grown now. Old enough not to need their calm, intelligent tutor with the kind smile and frighteningly precise memory. And Seraphim… Seraphim keeps his promises, but only the ones he chooses to keep.

You step aside instinctively as he moves closer, hands clasped behind his back like he’s afraid to touch you too soon. He’s always done that—delayed gratification in its most polite, invasive form. Never force, never cruelty. Just control.

The only thing he ever wanted more than your love was your obedience.

“I brought something.” He nods toward the house. “Where should I set the luggage?”

You don’t answer. Instead, you retreat into the house. You tell yourself it’s for the tea.

• • — ✦ — • •

The kitchen feels smaller with him in it. He moves like a ghost—quiet, careful, but always there. Always watching. His eyes linger on your back a bit too long as you fill the kettle. You pretend not to notice. Pretend you don’t feel like a bird locking itself back into a gilded cage.

“Did you get the letters I sent?” His voice is mild.

“I did.”

“You didn’t reply.”

“I didn’t know what to say.”

A beat of silence.

“I missed you.”

“You already said that.”

“I’ll keep saying it,” he murmurs. “Until you believe me.”

You set the cups down harder than intended.

Seraphim doesn’t flinch.

Instead, he steps closer, his gaze lowered, expression soft. “You’ve done well here. The garden looks lovely. And the ivy—you’ve been trimming it back yourself, haven’t you?”

You nod, unsure whether to feel proud or wary. He’s praising your efforts, the life you’ve built in his absence. But you don’t trust praise from a man who once convinced you that a signature was just a formality.

He leans against the counter beside you, close enough for his shoulder to almost brush yours. His scent is familiar—books, bergamot, and the faint metallic note of ink. It clings to him like memory.

“You look tired,” he murmurs. “Have you been sleeping poorly?”

“No more than usual.”

“I could help,” he offers. “The tincture I gave you last spring—”

“I stopped taking it.”

That finally earns a visible reaction.

His lips press together, thin with disappointment, but he doesn’t argue. He never argues. Not when it matters.

“I see,” he says quietly, adjusting his glasses.

You serve the tea in silence.

• • — ✦ — • •

That night, he didn’t ask to share your bed. He merely occupies it.

You find him already seated on the edge when you return from brushing your hair, unbuttoning his shirt with slow, practiced fingers. The golden strands fall like liquid light down his back as he sets his glasses on the nightstand.

He speaks without looking up.

“I’ve requested that the Eldermont Duchy forward the remainder of my holdings to this estate. I will no longer be returning to the Capital.”

Your heart stutters.

“Seraphim—”

“I’m not asking for permission.”

Of course he isn’t.

You feel the words rising in your throat, the old ones—I never wanted this, you tricked me, you said I could leave—but you’ve said them before. Quietly, uselessly. They always slip past him like smoke. He never denies them. He just… reminds you.

“You signed a lifetime clause,” he says softly, as if reading your thoughts. “Nullification only occurs in death.”

You sit down heavily at the foot of the bed.

“You always leave that part out.”

His voice warms, almost gentle. “Because I don’t plan to die.”

You shiver.

He moves closer, lifting the blanket with a reverent touch. The mattress dips as he settles beside you. For a long moment, neither of you speak. His hand hovers inches from yorus, close enough for the heat to leach into your skin. But he doesn’t touch you. Not yet.

“I remember the day you smiled at me for the first time,” he says softly. “We were children. I’d fallen in the river trying to catch that stupid dragonfly. You pulled me out. I cried.”

You stare at your knees.

“You were just a boy.”

“I’m still that boy,” he whispers. “But now I can protect you.”

You close your eyes.

“From what, Seraphim?”

He doesn’t answer.

Because the answer is everything. Including yourself.

• • — ✦ — • •

The days stretch slowly.

He doesn’t try to cage you physically. You still go to the market. Still tend the garden. Still breathe air that feels free. But his presence coils through the house like ivy—unassuming, patient, inescapable. He renovates the library, expands the study, commissions furniture with your initials carved into the wood.

A matching desk.

Matching chairs.

Matching tea cups.

“I thought we could use more symmetry,” he explains, setting the pair of porcelain cups onto the shelf. His expression is serene. “Married life should reflect harmony.”

You say nothing.

He never forces you to speak.

But you wonder if that’s worse.

Because silence lets your mind slip into dangerous things. It lets you notice the quiet click of the study’s lock when he’s inside. Lets you realize the ledger drawer is always locked. Lets you catch the glint of obsidian wax on sealed envelopes addressed to names you don’t recognize.

One morning, you reach for his coat by the doorway—and find a letter tucked into the break pocket.

The seal is broken.

The handwriting isn’t his.

You only have seconds. You skin. Seraphim, your return is noted. The children ask after you still. Have you truly no interest in the family’s daughter? You could’ve had her, you know. The Duchess was prepared to endorse you.

You feel ill.

A rustle behind you.

You turn too fast, nearly dropping the letter.

He’s there, quiet as snow, holding two steaming cups of tea.

“I thought we might read together today,” he says calmly.

You place the letter back without meeting his gaze.

• • — ✦ — • •

But summer’s end, he’s teaching again.

Not children. Just you.

He fills the shelves with books—history, finance, alchemy, etiquette. At first, you resist. Then relent. Then find yourself waking to find him already preparing ink and parchment before you’ve even yawned.

“Your mind is sharp,” he says one day, during a break. “Wasted on manual labor and petty errands. I’ll never forgive them for stifling you.”

“Who?”

“Everyone who didn’t see your worth.”

You look away.

He reaches over, brushing a curl behind your ear. “Including yourself.”

You don’t recoil.

That’s the worst part.

Because something—sometimes—when he smiles like that, when his voice dips into something painfully tender, you feel something like safety.

And you hate yourself for it.

• • — ✦ — • •

That winter, snow blankets the fields. Seraphim starts reading aloud by the fire. His voice is smooth, musical. You wonder how the heirs of the Eldermont Duchy ever let him go. You wonder what kind of man turns his back on nobility for a locked house in a backwater town.

You ask him once—only once—why he left.

He closes the book slowly, looks at you over his glasses.

“I had everything there. Position. Wealth. Power.” He sets the book down, fingers lingering on the leather spine. “But not you.”

You want to scream.

But you don’t.

Because there is something terrifying in the way he says your name afterward. Not loud. Not desperate. Just… final.

• • — ✦ — • •

He touches you more often now. Brief, polite gestures—hand on your lower back, fingers brushing yours while you shell peas, palm cupping your cheek when you nod off in the study. It feels natural. Like a husband should. Like love should.

But it isn’t.

It’s possession wrapped in silk.

And still, you endure.

You wonder what’s worse—his touch or the absence of it.

You wonder how many others he’s ensnared with words like sugar.

You wonder if he would ever let you go.

You know the answer.

• • — ✦ — • •

One night, unable to sleep, you find him in the study again.

He’s writing letters, glasses low on his nose, ink pooling in the curve of his wrist as he writes line after elegant line. His expression is soft. Focused. He doesn’t hear you at first.

Then he does.

And he smiles.

“My darling,” he says, standing. “Can’t sleep?”

You shake your head.

He opens his arms, and like the fool you’ve become, you walk into them.

He holds you, careful and still.

Then he whispers against your temple:

“You were always going to be mine. Even if it took a lifetime.”

You feel the contract in your bones then—not paper, not ink. But steel.

You wonder if, in another life, you would’ve loved him freely.

You wonder if he would’ve waited.

But you know this isn’t that life.

And Seraphim D’Aronn doesn’t wait.

He decides.

noirscript © 2025

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[syluslnd]

If the pregnant MC is kidnapped by Sylus' enemies, Luke and Kieran don't know how to inform Sylus because they know how much he cares about MC and her babys. If MC miscarries her babys and falls unconscious because of what she went through there, what will happen when Sylus finds her, what will she feel when he takes her to the hospital, what will Mc feel when she wakes up? How will Sylus comfort her when she starts crying and how will he eventually take revenge on his enemies?

I think I've written this request before, but I really want to read this article from your perspective. I'm sorry if I bothered you by sending the request a second time.

when sylus enemies attack you causing you to have miscarriage

tags-angst,comforting,mentions of violence,guilt

(note-hi don’t worry it’s ok if u sent it a second time,it took me a while to write so that’s why I’m posting until now! I hope this is what you wanted 🤍)

────୨ৎ────

The room was dark, cold and the pain was unbearable. Your body ached with every breath, bruises spreading across your skin like ink stains and your mind struggled to keep up with the reality of your situation.

You had been taken, dragged from the safety of Sylus’s protection by enemies who were relentless in their cruelty. You had fought but they were too many and now, your body bore the cost of their violence.

But the worst pain wasn’t physical. It was the dull, nauseating sensation in your abdomen, the sinking, terrifying fear that something was deeply wrong.

Your vision blurred as you lay there on the cold concrete, your hands instinctively moving to your stomach, trembling as you realized what had been taken from you—not just your freedom but something far more precious.

The baby. The one thing you and Sylus had never fully planned but had begun to hope for, had begun to envision. The agony in your gut was matched only by the agony in your heart.

The door creaked open and heavy boots stomped into the room. The men—the ones who had done this—stood there, sneering at your helpless form, mocking your weakness. You barely heard their words through the haze of pain but their laughter cut through. Each chuckle was a reminder of your helplessness, of your inability to protect the life that had been growing inside you.

And then, there was a sound. A familiar, terrifyingly calm sound—the door slamming open, the faint hum of something electric, like restrained fury. Sylus.

His voice was cold, filled with a rage that he rarely showed. You couldn’t see him clearly but you heard the quiet menace in his tone, the way his words dripped with a deadly promise.

“Where. Is. She?”

There was no hesitation. You heard the scuffle, the brief yelp of one of your captors before everything went silent. Then, you felt his hands—warm, steady but trembling with suppressed anger—as he lifted you into his arms. His touch was gentle despite the tension radiating from him and for the first time since you’d been taken, you felt a flicker of safety.

He didn’t say a word as he carried you out, the sound of footsteps and the faint groans of the men behind him lost in the fog of your pain. You knew what this meant—he wouldn’t kill them now. Not yet. But they wouldn’t escape. Not after what they had done.

At the hospital, the lights were harsh, the sterile smell filling your senses as Sylus carried you inside. Nurses rushed to your side, the urgency in their movements sending a cold rush of fear through you. Your head lolled to the side, eyes searching for Sylus but all you saw was his face, stony and unreadable as they wheeled you away. His hand briefly touched yours before you were pulled into the emergency room and that touch was all that kept you from sinking completely into despair.

Time passed in fragments—flashes of doctors, machines beeping, cold hands pressing on your abdomen. You felt detached from your body, lost in the haze of pain and fear, until a voice broke through.

“I’m sorry.”

You blinked, trying to focus as the doctor stood by your bedside, their expression somber. Sylus was beside you, his posture rigid, his hand gripping yours tightly, almost painfully.

“I’m sorry” the doctor repeated, their voice softer now, filled with regret. “We did everything we could, but… you’ve lost the baby.”

The words hit you like a freight train. You stared at the doctor, unable to process the weight of what they had said. The baby… was gone? No. That couldn’t be true. It couldn’t.

“No…” you whispered, your voice trembling, barely audible. “No, I… I should have been stronger. I should have fought harder. I—”

But before you could finish, Sylus’s grip on your hand tightened and he turned to you, his face a storm of emotions you rarely saw. Anger, pain, guilt—it was all there, swirling beneath the surface of his usually controlled demeanor.

“Don’t” he snapped, his voice rough, almost breaking. “Don’t you dare blame yourself.”

You flinched at the intensity of his words, your tears spilling over as you tried to form some sort of response. “But I—I should’ve—”

“No” Sylus interrupted, his voice low but trembling with fury. “This isn’t your fault. It’s mine.” He looked away for a moment, his jaw clenched so tightly you thought it might break, his hands shaking now as he struggled to keep himself from unraveling.

“I should have been there” he continued, his voice raw with guilt. “I should’ve protected you. This happened because of me because of my enemies. I brought you into this life and I couldn’t even keep you safe. I…” His words faltered and he took a sharp breath, trying to regain his composure.

Your heart broke at the sight of him like this—Sylus, always so calm, so collected, now barely holding himself together. You had never seen him so vulnerable, so angry at himself and it only made the pain in your chest worse.

“I should have been there” he repeated, his voice softer now, filled with regret. “I failed you. I failed our baby.”

The tears flowed freely now and you shook your head, trying to tell him he was wrong, that it wasn’t his fault, but the words wouldn’t come. The grief, the guilt—it was all too much.

Sylus’s hand cupped your face, gently forcing you to look at him. His eyes, usually so cold and unreadable, were now filled with a deep, aching sadness. “Kitten” he whispered, his voice breaking. “I’ll make them pay. I swear to you, I’ll make them pay for this. But you… you have to know this wasn’t your fault.”

You leaned into his touch, your body shaking with sobs as the weight of the loss crashed over you. Sylus pulled you into his arms, holding you tightly as if he could shield you from the pain, from the reality of what had been taken from you both.

The baby was gone. The future you had only just begun to imagine was gone and there was nothing either of you could do to change that. But in that moment, as Sylus held you, his own grief mixing with yours, you knew that you weren’t alone in this. He was there and no matter how much he blamed himself, no matter how much you blamed yourself, you had each other.

And for now, that had to be enough.

Luke and Kieran stood guard at your door, their shadows tall against the dim light of the hospital hallway. You knew Sylus trusted them-his two most loyal men-but it did little to ease the cold dread that had settled into your bones.

Sylus had left without a word but you knew where he had gone. You knew the kind of wrath that was brewing inside him, the rage he held back only for your sake and now, he was gone to unleash it.

The basement was cold and damp, the smell of mildew mixing with the stench of fear. The three men who had taken you were bound tightly to chairs, their heads slumped forward, blood dripping from their faces from the initial beatings Sylus had given them when he'd first found you.

Their bodies were bruised and broken but that was nothing compared to what was coming. Sylus stood in the shadows, silent, watching them as they stirred, slowly waking to the nightmare that awaited them.

One of the men groaned, his head lifting as he squinted through swollen eyes. "W-Where are we?"

Sylus stepped forward, his boots echoing against the concrete floor. His face was devoid of emotion, cold, calculating. He was no longer the man who had cradled you in his arms at the hospital, no longer the man who had tried to soothe your pain with soft words. This was a different side of him— ruthless, unrelenting, and out for blood.

"You know exactly where you are" Sylus said, his voice low, a dangerous calmness to it. He crouched down in front of the man, his dark eyes locking onto his with an intensity that sent a shiver down the man's spine.

"And you know exactly who I am."

The man's breathing quickened, panic flashing across his face as he realized who was standing before him. "P-Please, we didn't mean to-"

Before he could finish, Sylus backhanded him, the force of the blow snapping the man's head to the side. Blood splattered onto the ground, and the man whimpered, his body trembling.

"You didn't mean to what?" Sylus hissed, standing up slowly, towering over him. "You didn't mean to kidnap my fiancée? Didn't mean to hurt her? Didn't mean to kill my child?" His voice was deadly now, each word punctuated with a barely restrained fury.

The man sobbed, his words a jumbled mess of apologies and excuses. Sylus's eyes darkened as he turned his attention to the others. "You're all going to pay for what you did."

He walked over to a table lined with tools— knives, pliers, a blowtorch. The sight alone was enough to make the men scream in terror, their bodies jerking against their restraints as they tried in vain to free themselves. But there was no escape. Sylus had made sure of that.

He picked up a pair of pliers, testing the grip with a snap before walking back to the man he had hit. "You took something from me that I can never get back” Sylus said quietly, his tone almost conversational. "So, I'm going to take something from you."

With that, he grabbed the man's hand and forced his fingers apart. The man screamed as Sylus clamped the pliers around one of his fingers and, without hesitation, ripped the nail clean off. Blood poured from the wound as the man howled in agony, his body convulsing in the chair. Sylus didn't flinch, his eyes cold and focused as he repeated the process on the next finger, and the next.

"Stop! Please! Stop!" the man begged, tears streaming down his face but Sylus was unmoved.

"You don't get to beg" Sylus said, his voice low and deadly.

He moved to the next man, who was already sobbing, begging for mercy. Sylus picked up a knife and with a swift motion, he sliced across the man's cheek, deep enough to leave a permanent scar but not enough to kill him. It was slow, deliberate, designed to inflict as much pain as possible without granting them the mercy of death.

The man screamed, his cries echoing off the walls of the basement. Sylus barely blinked as he moved to the last man, the leader of the group. The one who had orchestrated the entire thing.

Sylus leaned down close, his voice a whisper in the man's ear. "You're going to suffer the most and when I'm done with you, you'll beg me for death."

He grabbed the blowtorch, flicking it on with a soft hiss. The man's eyes widened in terror, his body shaking uncontrollably as Sylus held the flame close to his skin, the heat searing his flesh. The smell of burning skin filled the air and the man's screams were deafening but Sylus didn't stop. He burned him, inch by inch, savoring every moment of the man's agony.

Hours passed and by the time Sylus was done, the men were unrecognizable, their bodies broken and mutilated beyond repair.

They were still alive but barely. Sylus stood over them, breathing heavily, his chest rising and falling with the adrenaline that still pumped through his veins. The cold satisfaction of revenge washed over him but it didn't erase the pain. It didn't bring back what they had taken.

He wiped the blood from his hands and walked out of the basement, leaving the men to rot in their own misery. There was no rush to finish them off. They would suffer until their last breath.

but sylus ? He would return to you.

[littjara-mirrorlake]

The Color of Hope: Ambition, Necromancy, and Black Mana

Black is one of the most misunderstood colors in Magic: the Gathering, not least because it appears on the surface to be so straightforward. Look at the most iconic black cards of Magic and you'll see deals with demons, necromancy, mass destruction and cruelty and suffering–the trappings of classic fantasy evil. Even the color's symbol itself is a skull, a universal signifier of death and danger.

And in early Magic that seemed to be all it was. White was the color of Fantasy Good, black was the color of Fantasy Evil, and the rest of the colors were... fire magic? Elves? Whatever odd but intriguing skeleton affairs are implied by Time Walk?

Gradually, though, Magic deepened as both a game and a storytelling medium. The color pie grew into itself as a system of complementary philosophies, archetypes whose associated aesthetics were only part of the full picture. Their arrangement around the wheel, below, is highly deliberate; neighboring colors are said to be allies with a high degree of philosophical and mechanical overlap, while colors on opposite sides of the pie are known as enemies, more likely to disagree on fundamental levels.

Black stopped merely representing capital E Evil and became the color of striving for power; unlike its peers, black felt that nothing, least of all morality, could prevent it from seizing what it wanted. Mark Rosewater's 2015 article about black emphasized the color's focus on the self:

"Black's philosophy is very simple: There's no one better suited to look after your own interests than you... Many costs require the sacrifice of others for your own advancement. Because it puts itself first, black is always willing to make this trade. The weak must fall for the strong to thrive." -Mark Rosewater

At its worst, black is an exploitative, amoral color that prioritizes itself at the expense of all others, allowing the "weak" to fall and scorning the very idea of compassion. Rosewater writes that black is "always willing" to trade others for itself. And these can certainly be parts of black's philosophy, when taken to its worst possible extremes, but they're far from the entire story.

Over time, Magic's outlook on black gained nuance. Magic story introduced protagonists like the necromancer Liliana Vess, whose craving for immortality, seemingly exploitative nature, and demonic deals called back to the oldest portrayals of black–and yet she was not one-dimensionally evil. She underwent character development over the years, learning the value of reclaiming herself and standing beside others, and at no point did she become any less mono-black for it. Remember her; we will come back to Liliana and her story later.

In addition to the usual death and decay, black cards began to feature a theme of relentless devotion. On the plane of Eldraine where each color represents a virtue, black's is persistence, explicitly as important as any other color. On the plane of Ikoria, the love between bonder and beast pulls Winota back from the brink of death. Wherever this Oathsworn Vampire printing is set, its flavor text is quintessentially black. It's the same self-driven attitude as before, but cast in a different light: black is nothing if not persistent when it's got its heart set on something (or someone) it cares about. Nothing, least of all the grave, will keep it down. After all, black will always come back for its own.

These newer cards uncovered the true face of black as a color capable of both great love and harm (sometimes even the latter for the sake of the former), and suggested a tantalizing new thread: perhaps putting yourself and yours first isn't all that bad, necessarily. Black is a deeply protective color; it says you don't just have to accept what you're handed, it's okay even to be furious about it (hello, ally color red), but let that galvanize you to do something about it. 

Vraska, a gorgon who faces extreme discrimination on her home plane of Ravnica, triumphs by reclaiming herself, gorgon powers and all–and even more radically, loving herself. She displays traits often considered the purview of white and green, such as a love of home and a drive to elevate the oppressed, but they are all filtered through the lens of her black alignment. Vraska staunchly refuses to deny herself or her people, the Golgari Swarm, of their value. Nor does she allow law or propriety to prevent her from championing them by any means necessary–even if that means cold-blooded murder, or aligning herself with a villain like the Planeswalker Nicol Bolas.

"[Vraska] thought of Mazirek, of the kraul, of the rest of the Ochran assassins and the malignant Jarad who reigned with casual ruin over the most downtrodden of the downtrodden. She remembered her years of isolation, and the heinous cruelty of the Azorius, and how no group deserved to suffer as much as those who would subjugate her own. Eliminating that hell was all she ever wanted." -The Talented Captain Vraska, Alison Luhrs

Like Vraska, black loves fierce and hard, willing to break any taboo for the sake of those it cares about. And it whispers, the entire way through, you are enough. You deserve better. No matter what others may say or do, you are enough.

"If I am to be met with disrespect, then I must first love myself with a fierceness no fool can take away." -Vraska in Pride of the Kraul, Alison Luhrs

Even black's "ruthlessness" isn't as fundamentally cruel as it appears, centering a passion for problem-solving (shared by its other ally blue) instead of a blunt disregard for others.

"People don’t understand the word ruthless. They think it means 'mean.' It’s not about being mean. It’s about seeing the bright, clear line that leads from A to B. The line that goes from motive to means. Beginning to end. It’s about seeing that bright, clear line and not caring about anything but the beautiful fact that you can see the solution. Not caring about anything else but the perfection of it." -K. A. Applegate

All of this comes together to make a black a color not of evil but of strength, integrity, and persistence. And that's all well and good, but I'm going to take it even further and put forward a new proposition: that black is the color of hope.

Of the nine mono-black Magic cards with "hope" in their names, all but Liliana portray black as an instrument of hope's destruction. This is, once again, black's flaw taken to its extreme–crushing others to achieve its own ends–but neglects black's own relationship with hope.

Black, more than any other color, requires hope to stay alive.

For black to persist, it must believe in a light at the end of the tunnel, a future in which its goals are realized. As long as it does, it will endure any hardship, walk through fire, and turn reality itself upside down on its way there. Primal, desperate ambition is the engine of hope that burns at the heart of black, keeping it always one step ahead of stagnation. Bitter and stubborn, black believes tomorrow will come because there is no other choice. After all, for black to relinquish hope is to let itself wither, regress, and die–an unacceptable outcome. 

Thus, it is monumentally difficult to strip black of hope. That only makes it all the more crushing when it happens, when black contends with the idea that there is nothing it can do.

Black's deepest, darkest fear is helplessness.

Like any mono-black character, Liliana Vess is driven at her core by a seething, desperate hope. When Liliana first unlocks her necromantic power, it is out of a sheer refusal to allow her ill brother Josu to die, even when the esis root that would cure him is destroyed by enemy witches in an undead-raising ritual. She defies her previous training as a healer, which taught her only to take the safe path, in favor of a higher-risk and higher-reward approach: stealing life from the witches themselves to restore power to the esis root she needs. It is her knowledge that her brother needs her, and her sheer stubborn will to succeed, which allows her to defeat the witches against steep odds.

"Six foes, and Liliana stood alone. But Josu's life depended on her, and the power blossoming within her was more than enough." -Liliana's Origin: The Fourth Pact, James Wyatt

Tragically, however, Liliana's attempted cure goes horrifically wrong, transforming Josu into an undead being plagued by eternal suffering. In his pain, Josu attacks Liliana. For a while Liliana holds out hope, finding the power to fight back while she determinedly searches for a spell to reverse the harm she's done. It is when she realizes this isn't possible that her strength falters.

"All this time, she had believed… that she could turn the power of death to the service of life and health. That a healer should use every tool at her disposal. But Josu was the result, a horrible fusion of life and death, and all her spells meant to manipulate the life force of the living could do nothing to harm the dead." -The Fourth Pact

Liliana learns that even her own dark magic, fueled by determination, cannot solve the problem she's created. She discovers the hard limit of her willpower, and the despair of this discovery is what causes her Planeswalker spark to ignite.

At this time Planeswalkers are as gods, immortal and near-omnipotent. Liliana spends decades enjoying this affirmation of her capability before the Mending strips her and all her peers of their power, reducing them once again to mortal mages.

"Then the Multiverse reshaped itself, robbing her—and every other Planeswalker—of the godlike power they once had wielded. Some called it the Mending, as if something broken had been repaired, but to Liliana, it seemed the opposite. It broke her beyond any hope of repair." -The Fourth Pact

Once again, it is Liliana's fear of helplessness and her refusal to accept it that drives her to push beyond the bounds of propriety–this time, to make a pact with Nicol Bolas and four demons to maintain her immortality. It is not enough for her merely to delay death; she requires the security of knowing she is fully beyond its reach, that she will never be helpless before it again as she was with Josu.

"Holding death at arm's length for whatever years are left to me? No, that's not enough. I want to be free of its shadow." -Liliana in The Fourth Pact

Black isn't like its enemy colors white and green, which are superficially associated far more often with hope. Unlike white, it doesn't believe that conviction, justice, and community will bring about rightness. Unlike green, it doesn't trust in the wisdom of the world or the natural order. Black believes that nothing will change unless you make it change; ultimately, black's self is the only one it can trust to bring about the world it needs. In addition, black lacks its enemies' idealism. Instead, it strives to be a pragmatic realist, making a final assessment of defeat all the more definite and crushing.

While white and green are more amenable to finding hope and holding it aloft as a banner, black claws hope desperately to its chest with shredded, bloody fingernails. Every ounce of hope black has, it tore by itself from the clutches of an uncaring world.

Ironically for such a self-driven color, black's fierce hope is the greatest asset it can provide to others–on its own terms, of course. It was Liliana who turned the tide of battle against the Eldrazi titan Emrakul, defiant in the face of cosmic despair. And when Nicol Bolas made his bid to return to godhood, using Liliana's necromancy to command his undead hordes, Liliana finally turned against him. In reclaiming her power, so too did she use it to free her fellow Planeswalkers from Bolas' assault. Her fear of helplessness no longer shackled her to him; agency and autonomy were hers at last.

The triumph of black, its moment of ultimate victory, is the hard-won fulfillment of its hope.

"Do not go gentle into that good night. Rage, rage against the dying of the light." -Dylan Thomas

An aetherborn, railing against the shortness of their natural lifespan, constructs a new body for themself with their own bare hands. An artificer's grief over her lost companion causes her to push invention to its limits. A young girl who loves her brother calls on the darkest of powers to save him. As it turns out, necromancy–that original thematic keystone of black–is only one of black's many, many refusals to let go of love and hope once it has them, even in the face of the ultimate end.

Time and time again, black–in love with life, ablaze with hope–looks the Grim Reaper in the eye and tells it: "Not today."

[heeluvv]

BAD DAY.ᐟ

pairing ᝰ.ᐟ yang jungwon x fem!reader

warnings ᝰ.ᐟ oral (f receiving), dom/sub dynamic, praise kink, daddy kink, dry humping (slight), etc.

natty’s notes ᝰ.ᐟ mdni, hate comments will be deleted.

tears streamed down your cheeks as you dragged yourself out of class to meet your boyfriend. you didn’t hate school because of the workload—it was the relentless cruelty of the students, who always found new ways to humiliate you, that made it unbearable.

once you spotted him down the hallways you wasted no time running towards him. his gaze filled with concern has he wrapped his arms around your small frame. “princess, what’s wrong?”

your head shook frantically, a desperate, rapid motion that sent tears flying from your soaked cheeks. sobs wracked your body, each one forcing another wave of anguish through you as you tried to convey your refusal without words. your chest heaved, breath hitching, but still, you kept shaking your head—no, no, no—until it felt like the world itself might shatter around you.

jungwon’s chest tightened at the sight of you breaking down, his heart aching with every frantic shake of your head. he hated this—hated seeing you like this, hated the way your sobs trembled through your entire body, leaving you breathless and overwhelmed. his hands twitched at his sides, desperate to do something, anything to take away your pain.

without a second thought, he stepped forward and gently scooped you into his arms, holding you close as if shielding you from the world. “it’s okay baby, i’m here,” he murmured, his voice soft yet firm, hoping his warmth could calm the storm raging inside you. he felt your body tense at first, then slowly melt against him, your fists gripping his shirt as though he was the only thing keeping you from falling apart completely.

he carried you with ease, his grip secure but gentle, refusing to let go until he knew you were safe. the cool air brushed against your skin as he brought you to his car, carefully settling you into the passenger seat before shutting the door and rounding to the driver’s side.

as soon as he slid in, his hand found yours, fingers intertwining as he gave it a reassuring squeeze. “breathe, baby,” he whispered, his eyes filled with nothing but concern and love. “you’re not alone. i’ve got you princess.”

your breath hitched as you tried to speak, but the words tangled in your throat, broken by the hiccups and shuddering sobs that still wracked your body. jungwon squeezed your hand, his touch grounding, but your lips still trembled as you forced the words out.

“t-they… they h-humiliated me,” you choked out, your voice barely above a whisper. your eyes squeezed shut, fresh tears slipping down your cheeks as shame crawled up your spine. “i… i d-didn’t do anything wrong, but t-they—”

“who, lovie?” jungwon’s voice was sharp, edged with barely restrained anger. his grip on the steering wheel tightened, his knuckles going white as his jaw clenched. he could feel his blood boiling, his usually soft eyes darkening as he watched you struggle to even get the words out. seeing you like this, completely broken because of them, made something inside him snap.

he cupped your face gently, tilting your chin so you’d look at him. “princess, breathe,” he said, his voice softening, though the fire in his eyes remained. “it’s okay, my love.” his thumbs brushed away the stray tears streaking down your face, his heart aching at how fragile you looked in that moment.

“just tell me who did this to you, baby?” he asked again, his voice lower this time, calmer—but there was a dangerous edge to it, a silent promise that he wasn’t going to let this slide.

you sniffled, your fingers clutching onto his sleeve as if afraid he’d disappear. “i-it doesn’t matter…” you mumbled, shaking your head weakly.

but jungwon wasn’t having it. “no, it does matter jagiya, ” he said firmly. “no one gets to treat you like this and get away with it.” he exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair as he tried to contain the anger bubbling inside him. then, he looked at you, his expression softening again.

“listen to me cupcake,” he said, his tone steady and full of reassurance. “i don’t care what it takes, i’ll handle this. you don’t have to go through this alone, okay?” he reached for your hand again, squeezing it tightly. “you have me. always.”

he meant every word. and as you looked into his eyes, filled with nothing but love and fierce protectiveness, you knew you weren’t alone in this.

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁༉‧₊˚.

his tongue darted out, greedily lapping up the sweet intoxicating juices that flowed from your pussy lips. a low grunt escaped his throat as he savored the addicting taste, causing you to squirm uncontrollably on the passenger seat. tears streamed down your face, no longer from sadness but from the overwhelming pleasure that your boyfriend was giving you.

"daddy—! please i c—can't take it—!" tears streamed down your face as you begged for mercy, your grip on his blond hair growing tighter by the second. your heart pounded against your chest with fear and shame, knowing anyone could stumble upon this forbidden act between you and jungwon. but he didn't care about consequences, focused only on making his princess feel better at any cost. as his lips left a trail of fire on your skin, his voice was a gentle murmur in your ear. "come on, princess... you're doing so good," he whispered, his gaze meeting yours with an intensity that made your heart race. his lips left your wet pussy only briefly before crashing down onto your lips, the hunger evident in the way his tongue eagerly explored your mouth. soft whines escaped from both of you as your bodies melded together, lost in the heat and passion of the moment. with one hand still entwined in yours, his other hand expertly played with you, collecting the slickness of your desire before gently pushing his fingers inside you with soft strokes that sent waves of pleasure through your body.

"you're so wet for me baby..."

your legs shook at the feeling of his fingers coming in you so harshly now, the gently strokes now long forgotten. you couldn't help but moan loudly as he worked his finger inside you, reaching depths that you never knew existed. he chuckled at your reaction, his voice rough and deep with desire. "shit baby, you love this, don't you?" he whispered, his breath hot against your ear. "love it when daddy makes you feel so good?" you could only nod, unable to find your voice as waves of pleasure washed over your body. his finger moved faster, hitting all the right spots and making you squirm under him. the sound of his moans mixed with yours as he tried to relieve himself on your thighs, the friction against his clothed cock driving him wild.

every nerve in your body was on fire, your mind completely consumed by the sensations he was creating. you had never felt this way before, completely at the mercy of another person and loving every second of it. as his fingers continued to work their magic, you couldn't help but wonder what other pleasures he had in store for you. and for the first time in your life, you couldn't wait to find out.

natty’s notes ᝰ.ᐟ omg guys tysm for all the love on my post and the follows, ilyyyy <33. i hope you enjoyed this!!

[bigheadbrooke-9]

Giving up on it

⋅˚₊‧ 𐙚 ‧₊˚ ⋅

Eddie Munson x cheerleader!f reader

Summary: Y/N, a kind student, is dared by her friends to make Eddie Munson fall for her. Unbeknownst to them, she already hides her real feelings for him, and they share a quiet friendship outside of school. Now, she must choose between going along with their game or protecting Eddie—and her own heart.

Warnings - fluff JUST FLUFF

A/n : If you have any recommendations please feel free to let me know thank you.! ;)

Word count 1.4k

“Are you guys insane? I’m not doing that. Eddie hasn’t done anything to us—why would I?” I asked, crossing my arms as I glared at Jason and his goons lounging in his living room.

“Come on, Y/N, he can handle a little heartbreak. Don’t be a wuss,” Jason scoffed, lighting a cigarette.

I rolled my eyes, my patience wearing thin. “You couldn’t even handle it when I rejected you, Jason. What makes you think he can? And besides, what goes around comes back around. I’m not doing it.” I placed my drink down, ready to leave.

Jason leaned forward, his expression turning smug. “You know the rules. You refuse, and you’re off the cheer team. And we both know how much you love cheer.”

My stomach twisted. He wasn’t wrong—I adored cheer. It was one of the few things I excelled at, something I was genuinely passionate about. But was it worth hurting Eddie? Was it worth betraying the one person who actually made me feel like myself? No. Absolutely not.

I glanced at Chrissy, who sat beside Jason, looking deeply uncomfortable. She was the cheer captain, but everyone knew Jason pulled the strings. He could make her cut me from the team in an instant, and she wouldn’t fight back—she was too afraid of him. I felt a pang of sympathy for her.

I exhaled, then smiled lightly, shrugging. “Okay? You think that scares me? I’m the best on the team, and I have the loudest voice. Chrissy won’t find another like me. Cheer is everything to me—but not enough to make me do something so cruel.”

I grabbed my bag from the floor, adjusting my skirt as I stood. I glanced around the room one last time. These people weren’t my real friends. They thrived on cruelty, treating others like dirt just because they were different. I had no place among them.

As I reached the door, Jason sneered. “You’re doing all this for Eddie? That’s pathetic.”

His friends laughed, but I just smiled, turning to face them one last time. “Your girlfriend is scared of you and doesn’t even like you. Your so-called friends? They hang out with the very people you call ‘freaks’ behind your back. And you—cheating on Chrissy with half the cheer team, spreading lies about me when I rejected you? You think I’d rather be around you than Eddie? Please. I would choose him over you all any day.”

Silence.

Chrissy’s lips twitched into a small smile, as if she finally felt a sliver of freedom.

Satisfied, I nodded at her, turned on my heel, and stepped outside. As soon as I reached my car, I slammed my hands against the dashboard, frustration and relief hitting me all at once. I had just given up something I loved—but I knew, without a doubt, I had made the right choice.

I backed out of Jason’s driveway and headed straight for school. Eddie had a campaign tonight. I needed to see him.

જ⁀➴°⋆

I turned off the car engine, my fingers gripping the steering wheel as I checked the time—7:34 PM. The campaign should have ended at 7:30, which meant they would be coming out any moment now. My heart raced with anticipation.

Eddie Munson. He was one of my closest friends, one of the kindest people I knew. A true gentleman in ways no one ever gave him credit for. He never judged me, not even when I was still hanging around Jason and his crowd. As long as I stayed true to myself, he didn’t care who I was friends with. And I hadn’t changed—not for them.

The sound of the school’s front doors swinging open pulled me from my thoughts. Laughter and excited yelps filled the parking lot as Mike and Dustin ran out, practically tackling Eddie in a hug. I couldn’t help but smile at the sight. Eddie ruffled their hair, exchanging high fives before they all said their goodbyes, the younger boys heading off while Eddie turned toward his van, his head hanging slightly as if the exhaustion of the night had finally caught up with him.

Without thinking, I slipped out of my car and ran toward him. “Hey, Eds!” I called, reaching out to grab his shoulders.

He turned around, his face lighting up with that signature grin of his. “Hi, sweetheart. Haven’t seen you in a while—where’ve you been?”

I blinked, confused. “Eddie, we literally saw each other last week.”

He tilted his head, a small chuckle escaping his lips. “No, sweetheart. It’s been over three weeks.” His expression softened as he took my hand in his. “We barely talk like we used to.”

Guilt twisted in my chest. He wasn’t mad—I knew he wasn’t the type to hold things against me—but that didn’t make it any easier to hear. Between cheer practice, parties, and trying to keep up with school, I had lost track of time. I hadn’t meant to neglect him.

“Are you serious? Eddie, I’m so sorry,” I said, pulling him into a hug. His arms wrapped around my waist effortlessly, and I inhaled the familiar scent of coconut shampoo, a hint of cologne, and the faint trace of weed clinging to his jacket.

“I know you’ll always come back to me,” he murmured against my hair. “But the wait is excruciating, doll.” His embrace tightened, as if he was afraid I would slip away again.

I sighed, leaning into him before reluctantly pulling away. “I don’t think you’ll have to worry about that anymore.”

Eddie frowned. “What do you mean?”

I hesitated, chewing on the inside of my lip. “I’m getting kicked off the cheer team.”

His eyes widened. “What? Why? Is it because of Jason?” His voice rose slightly, concern laced in every word. I could see the guilt creeping onto his face, like he thought he was the reason for it.

I nodded, letting my hands fall against my thighs. “It had something to do with you… but it’s not your fault.”

Eddie’s smile completely faded. “Wait—I made you lose your spot? No, no. I know how much you love cheer.” He reached for my shoulders, his grip gentle yet firm, like he wanted to shake the truth out of me.

I shook my head quickly. “They dared me, Eddie. Jason and his goons—they wanted me to make you fall in love with me just so I could break your heart.” I let out a bitter laugh, rubbing my forehead. “And when I refused, they made it clear I’d be off the team.”

Eddie’s jaw clenched. “ They did that?! “

I swallowed hard, looking up at him. “I would never do that to you. Never. I knew what saying no would cost me, but I don’t care. Jason is an idiot, and you don’t deserve that—not from them, and especially not from me.”

Eddie was silent for a long moment, his gaze searching mine, as if trying to find any trace of doubt. But there wasn’t any. I meant every word.

He wasn’t just my friend. He was the only one who had ever truly mattered.

“Y/N… you didn’t have to do that,” Eddie murmured, his voice laced with disbelief as he reached for my hand again. His grip was soft. I squeezed his hand reassuringly. “Eddie, I’m not that kind of person. I could never hurt you like that—not for them, not for anything.” I took a deep breath, steadying my voice. “I love you. And if I had to make that choice again, I would. A hundred times over, without hesitation.”

Eddie’s expression shifted instantly, his lips curling into the brightest smile I had ever seen from him. Before I could say another word, he pulled me forward, closing the distance between us as his lips pressed against mine.

For a brief second, I froze, caught off guard by the suddenness of it. But then, everything else faded away—the tension, the frustration, the weight of everything that had led us here—and I melted into him completely.

I loved him. I had always loved him. And in that moment, I knew he loved me too.

જ⁀➴°⋆

Thank you all for the overwhelming support and feedback. I hope you all have great sleep and a good night.

Goodnight everyone 💜

[lowrisemiller]

ꜰᴏʀ ɪ'ᴠᴇ ʙᴇᴇɴ ᴀ ᴛᴇᴍᴘᴛʀᴇꜱꜱ ᴛᴏᴏ ʟᴏɴɢ

ᴊᴜꜱᴛ... ɢɪᴠᴇ ᴍᴇ ᴀ ʀᴇᴀꜱᴏɴ ᴛᴏ ʟᴏᴠᴇ ʏᴏᴜ

ɢɪᴠᴇ ᴍᴇ ᴀ ʀᴇᴀꜱᴏɴ ᴛᴏ ʙᴇ ᴀ ᴡᴏᴍᴀɴ ɪ ᴊᴜꜱᴛ ᴡᴀɴɴᴀ ʙᴇ ᴀ ᴡᴏᴍᴀɴ ⧗

one - shot inspired by the song “Glory Box” by Portishead — also a tad inspired by @artficlly ‘s lessons in love making

winter soldier!bucky x black widow!femreader

She's Red Room. He's Winter Soldier. Neither remembers what it feels like to be touched without orders, to be wanted without purpose. Hydra pairs them as weapons, but in the quiet between missions—in bruised silence and shared Russian—they begin to find something unspoken. Something fragile. Something theirs.

masterlist | 5.9k words | photos do not depict what fem!reader looks like | mentions of torture, trauma, brainwashing, illusions to assault yk normal red room/hydra things, wee bit of violence and blood, praise, grinding, handjob, unprotected piv sex (not rlly tho if yk black widow lore…) and that’s it pls lmk if there’s more

You were transferred in a box.

Not literally, of course—but it felt that way. Blacked-out convoy. Shackled wrists. A one-way ride from the remnants of the Red Room to a Hydra-controlled facility somewhere in the Balkans. No name. No destination. Just cold metal under your thighs and a silence that felt worse than any scream.

You’d heard whispers of this place. Of him.

They called him the Winter Soldier.

Hydra didn’t send many female agents here. They kept you in Moscow, mostly—tight, quiet, obedient. But after your last handler died during a failed seduction op, you were labeled unstable. Too volatile. Too effective. Hydra saw potential where the Red Room saw disobedience. So they made a deal.

You became someone else’s problem.

The Hydra base was underground, cold as a morgue, walls humming with electricity and cruelty.

They didn’t assign you a name. They gave you a number: Agent 47.

Your first few weeks passed in silence. You trained alone. Slept under surveillance. But being from the Red Room you hacked the camera. Ate without speaking. No one told you why you were there. Not until you saw him.

They wheeled him out of cryo like a weapon being unsheathed.

You were at the edge of the training floor, bandaging your knuckles from solo drills when he appeared—broad, silent, wrapped in shadow and control. Long hair. Muzzle mask. That metal arm. He didn’t look at you. Not at first.

But you looked at him. And you knew.

He was just like you. A ghost in someone else’s skin.

You were paired together two missions later. No warning. No introduction.

They handed you a brief, said “You’ll go with him,” and shoved you toward the drop point.

You didn't ask his name. He didn’t offer it.

The first op was simple. A kill mission in Istanbul. You were bait, dressed like a party favor, coaxing the target toward a hotel balcony. Bucky waited in the hallway like a shadow. The kill was clean. Fast. He didn’t say a word the entire flight home.

You were used to silence. But his silence felt different. It was less about obedience, more about weight. As if words were too dangerous to carry.

You watched him when he wasn’t looking. The way his hand sometimes tremble after a kill. The way he stared at the wall like it was going to scream.

You recognized it. The fracture. The absence of self.

It took three more missions before he looked you in the eye.

Just a glance. After a messy clean-up in Kraków, blood is still damp on your collar. You were wiping a cut on your lip, sitting on the tailgate of the evac van. He stood across from you, face unreadable. Then his gaze flicked to yours.

Not curious. Not judgmental.

Just... knowing.

As if he saw you. Not the mask. Not the makeup. You.

Your fingers twitched.

You didn’t smile. Neither did he.

But something shifted.

Mission Location: Bucharest, Romania Objective: Eliminate asset defecting to S.H.I.E.L.D. Cover Story: Tourist couple at Hotel Beron

You hate hotels.

Not because of the sheets—they’re always clean, bleached, starched into fake softness. Not because of the lighting, though that’s usually cheap and flickering. You hate them because of what they mean: appearances. Playing and acting. Your body as a bargaining chip. Your face as a lie.

Tonight is no different.

You slip the gold earring into your ear with steady fingers, check your reflection one last time. The Red Room taught you to dress fast and fight faster. Hydra doesn't care what you wear, only that the target dies before he talks. Still, the dress they chose for you is low-cut and wine-red, tailored like a weapon.

Across the room, he doesn’t look at you. He’s adjusting the sight on a sniper rifle, calm as the grave.

The Winter Soldier wears a suit like a soldier wears a uniform—wrong, like it's just a disguise for the kill underneath.

You don’t speak. He doesn’t either.

That’s how it works between you.

The hotel bar is warm, glowing with amber light and careless laughter. You step into it like a ghost wrapped in silk.

Your heels click softly against the marble floor, your smile painted on with surgical precision. You're here to lure the target—a Hydra informant who decided to jump ship to S.H.I.E.L.D. You only have to keep him busy long enough for your partner to get in position.

You spot him at the bar. Older. Nervous. Talking too fast to a bartender who couldn’t care less.

You slide into the seat next to him like gravity pulled you there. A warm laugh. A brush of your shoulder. The same tired seduction dance the Red Room taught you at fifteen.

I’ve been a temptress too long.

He looks at you like every man does. Wants you like every man does. You feed it to him like honey over poison.

But as he starts to relax—fingers inching toward yours on the bar—you feel it: a prickle on your spine. The shift in air. The knowledge that he’s watching.

You don't need to turn. You know where he is.

Across the bar, tucked in the shadows near the back service door, sits the Winter Soldier. No mask. No rifle. Just a man in a suit too nice for the way his eyes scan the room—lethal and unblinking.

No one notices him. But you do.

He’s waiting.

The target gets comfortable fast. Too fast. He leans closer, asks if you want to go upstairs. You smile and say yes.

Your earpiece crackles with static, then his voice—cold, barely there.

“Level 5. West hallway. Blind spot in 40 seconds.”

You don't reply. You don’t have to.

The elevator ride up is silent, except for the elevator music and your heartbeat.

The hallway is dim. Carpet muffles your steps. When the door to 509 clicks shut behind you, you let the man touch your arm. You don’t flinch. You’ve played this role before. You already know how it ends.

You count down in your head.

Three... two...

The window explodes inward.

A blur of motion. Shattered glass. You duck before you even register the gunshot. The target stumbles back, screaming—blood blooming from his throat like a second collar.

You look up through your own hair, breathing hard.

He’s standing in the broken window frame.

Wind whips through the curtains. Gun still raised. Eyes locked on yours.

The Winter Soldier.

Back in the extraction van, it’s silent as always.

Your dress is ripped at the hem. There’s a scratch on your collarbone that stings. You can smell the powder burn still clinging to his jacket beside you.

You glance at him. His gaze is forward, unreadable.

But something about the way he watches the road—jaw clenched, fingers twitching—tells you he didn’t like what he saw in that room.

Not the blood. Not the kill.

You.

You wonder if he saw through the act.

You wonder if he saw how your hand shook when the man touched you.

Give me a reason to be a woman, not just a weapon.

He doesn’t speak. But just before the van turns, you feel it—his hand, brief and accidental, brushing yours where it rests on the bench.

He doesn’t pull away fast enough.

The building smells like antiseptic and cement. Cold, old-world concrete, retrofitted with modern surveillance tech and the stench of fear.

You haven’t been back in months. Not since the transfer.

The Red Room occupies the eastern wing; Hydra’s Moscow cell lives in the west. Where steel doors outnumber smiles and most conversations happen under cameras.

You walk the hallway beside him in silence.

The echo of your boots and his heavier tread match in rhythm—military, precise. You glance at his shoulder once, just once. The black tactical coat fits over the metal arm too cleanly, like it was sewn around the violence.

Neither of you speak until you’re summoned.

Inside the glass-walled debriefing chamber, the temperature drops by several degrees.

Your superior sits across from you—Director Volkov, thick-fingered, well-fed, and always two steps away from cruelty. Behind him, an aide prepares the recorder.

“Садитесь,” Volkov says without looking up. Sit.

You and the Winter Soldier obey in unison. Side by side. Chairs too straight to relax in.

Volkov doesn’t waste time.

“Доклад,” he says, motioning lazily with one hand. Report.

You glance once at Bucky. He stays still, metal fingers twitching once before stilling.

You begin.

“Цель устранена. Враг не передал информацию Щ.И.Т.,” you say clearly. Target eliminated. Enemy did not pass information to S.H.I.E.L.D.

“Свидетели?” Witnesses?

“Нет. Один охранник — был устранён.” No. One guard—eliminated.

Volkov raises an eyebrow. Then turns his attention to Bucky.

“And you?” he says in Russian, but slower. As if testing him.

Bucky’s voice is low, sharp like ice cracking.

“Всё прошло по плану.” Everything went according to plan.

His accent is almost native. Almost. But there's something strange in the way he says it—mechanical, hollow. Like he’s repeating words pulled from an old program.

Volkov watches him for a beat too long.

Then: “Хорошо.” Good.

But his gaze slides to you.

“Ты выглядишь усталой, девочка.” You look tired, girl.

Your jaw flexes.

“Я выполняю свою работу.” I do my job.

He leans back, smirking. “Иногда ты больше, чем просто работа.” Sometimes, you're more than just a job.

The edge behind his words makes your stomach tighten. A test. A threat. You don’t blink.

But you feel it.

A shift beside you. The faintest sound—leather glove tightening around a fist.

You don’t look at him. But you feel the Winter Soldier bristle, just for a second.

He heard it. He understood.

Volkov notes the silence like a man lighting a match near gasoline. He lets it burn a moment. Then shrugs.

“Свободны,” he says. You’re dismissed.

You both stand without hesitation.

But as you turn to leave, he speaks again.

“Солдат.” Soldier.

Bucky stops.

Volkov doesn’t look up as he says it.

“Девушка — хрупкая. Не дай ей сломаться.” The girl is fragile. Don’t let her break.

You look over your shoulder.

Bucky doesn’t respond. Doesn’t twitch. Just walks out, silent as death.

You follow.

In the elevator, no one speaks.

Not until the doors close and the security light turns green.

Then, in Russian—so quiet it almost doesn’t reach you—he says:

“Ты не хрупкая.” You are not fragile.

You stare straight ahead. Your heart stutters once behind your ribs.

After a long pause, you whisper back:

“И ты не только оружие.” And you are not only a weapon.

Location: Hydra Training Compound, Belarus Objective: Infiltrate and surveil ex-Hydra weapons broker operating under a NATO-aligned cover Alias Names: Alina & Ivan Morozov Cover Story: Married couple visiting from Kaliningrad for black-market tech negotiation

The base is colder than Moscow.

Not in temperature—though it’s frigid at dawn—but in design. Gray walls. Glass panels. Doors with no handles unless they want to be opened. The kind of place where every hallway feels like a test, and every reflection in the steel has eyes.

You stand in the armory, adjusting your tactical vest, eyes on the mission file. The photos are grainy, black-and-white. Surveillance stills of a man named Konstantin Mirov, former Hydra quartermaster turned freelance weapons broker.

Your job? Get into his meeting. See who he’s selling to. Get out without making noise.

No seduction this time. No backless gowns or hotel bar whispers.

This one’s quiet. Careful. Married couple traveling for business, Hydra’s handler had said.

You’d snorted. The Winter Soldier hadn’t reacted at all.

Now he enters the room, dressed not in his usual black ops gear—but something more civilian. Dark gray slacks. Black sweater. No gloves.

You glance at the arm.

He doesn’t bother to hide it.

Bold.

Or suicidal.

You zip your coat, grab your compact pistol, and glance at him. He’s adjusting his earpiece, expression unreadable.

Your handler enters with a clipboard and two forged passports.

“Your aliases are Alina and Ivan Morozov,” she says, Russian clipped and cold. “You’ve been married for five years. No children. No friends. You’re a quiet couple from Kaliningrad who want to buy access to Mirov’s smart-tech vault.”

She hands Bucky the ring box like it’s a threat.

He opens it.

Two simple wedding bands inside.

You stiffen. “Is this necessary?”

The handler smiles, teeth like knives. “You’ll be staying in a private villa. Shared bed. If Mirov suspects you’re spies, he’ll kill you. Or worse—he’ll sell your location to S.H.I.E.L.D.”

You take the ring.

Bucky slides his on with mechanical ease.

You follow.

Infiltration Point: Moldova border, safehouse en route to Mirov’s estate

The drive is quiet. Trees blur past the windows, and you feel the weight of the silence settle between you like fog. The radio crackles occasionally—local news, rain reports, nothing useful.

He’s driving with one hand, the metal one. The flesh one rests on his thigh, fingers tapping once, twice, in thought.

You speak without looking at him.

“Are you comfortable with close contact?”

He doesn’t respond right away.

Then: “I don’t need comfort. I need control.”

You glance at him. “That wasn’t the question.”

He doesn’t answer.

The Estate — Mirov’s Private Villa

By the time you arrive, the act has begun.

You’re greeted by a security detail with mirrored sunglasses and thick accents. They scan your car. Search your bags. But they don’t find the tracker tucked beneath the spare tire, or the bone mic embedded behind your left ear.

Inside, the villa is all excess. Marble floors. Velvet drapes. Surveillance in every corner. You walk in like you belong.

Your room is on the top floor. One bed. No cameras inside, but you know better. Hidden mics, pressure sensors under the floorboards.

You wait until the guards leave before speaking.

“You take the side near the door.”

He nods once. No questions.

You unpack. Slowly. Deliberately. The room is small. Every time you turn, he’s close. Too close.

You kneel to unzip your weapons case and find yourself eye-level with the holster strapped to his thigh.

He doesn’t move.

Your fingers brush the hem of his coat as you reach for your knife.

He still doesn’t move.

Your heartbeat spikes—briefly.

I’ve been a temptress too long.

Now I just want to be human.

But I don’t know how to be near him without wanting something I shouldn’t.

Later That Night

The mission recon begins at the gala in Mirov’s garden.

You’re dressed in black. Minimal makeup. Armed with a compact camera hidden in your pendant. Bucky wears a suit again—same fit as Bucharest—but this time, you’re on his arm.

For show.

You link arms. Skin to skin.

He is warm.

You keep your smile fixed and your eyes on the crowd. Inside, you whisper:

“Three o’clock. Red dress. That’s the American buyer.”

He leans in slightly—lips brushing your temple in a way that makes your stomach knot.

“She’s carrying,” he mutters. “Ankle holster. SIG P365.”

You smile and laugh, loud enough for Mirov’s man to hear. Just two lovers sharing a joke.

But when you turn away, his hand on your back doesn’t drop right away.

You feel the heat of it through your dress.

You don’t speak on the walk back to the villa.

The guards let you through without questions. One of them gives you a knowing smirk, like he expects you to fuck as loudly as you kill. You offer him the barest smile in return—just enough to keep him stupid.

Inside, the bedroom light is low. Amber and shadow and the faint buzz of some generator humming through the floor.

You unclip your earrings and place them on the nightstand.

Bucky’s already unbuttoning his cuffs. No words. No wasted movement. Just a slow, methodical undoing of the man he pretended to be tonight.

You glance over.

He hasn’t looked at you once.

But his jaw is tight.

You strip off your dress with your back to him. No flourish, no invitation. Just routine. Your spine is bare and littered with scars in the mirror. You catch his reflection when he finally turns.

His eyes flick to yours, just once, before dropping.

He looks away like it hurts.

You slide on the black sleep shirt. One of the few things in your duffel that’s actually yours. Cotton. Worn thin at the collar.

Bucky changes into a pair of Hydra-issued sweats and a black t-shirt. The metal arm gleams under the soft light, all tension and symmetry and weaponized restraint.

He takes the side nearest the door, just like you asked.

You slide under the covers beside him.

The silence is too loud.

The bed dips beneath his weight but doesn't move again. He’s still. A wall of heat and control.

You close your eyes.

And then—after several long breaths—you whisper, in Russian:

“Ты не расслаблялся ни на секунду.” You haven’t relaxed once.

He exhales through his nose.

Then:

“Слишком опасно.” Too dangerous.

You open your eyes. The ceiling is textured with shadow.

“Мне казалось, ты был другим, когда мы танцевали.” You seemed different when we danced.

He doesn’t answer.

But he’s listening. You can feel it. His focus, always so sharp in combat, is now centered entirely on you.

You turn on your side, facing him in the dark. His profile is a study in contrast—scar and softness, human and not. The kind of face built for silence.

“I forgot who I was for a minute,” you murmur. “On the balcony. When you touched my back.”

His jaw tenses.

“I didn’t mean to,” he says.

You swallow hard.

“I didn’t want you to stop.”

The air between you thickens. Warmer now. And dangerous in a different way.

This isn’t flirtation. It's a confession. Two ghosts pressing against the skin of the living.

You feel his fingers move—just barely.

Then:

“Why are you telling me this?”

You don’t know.

Maybe because it’s dark. Maybe because he saw you undressed without leering. Maybe because when you kissed him in Bucharest, he didn’t pull away—he just stood there, stunned, as if you’d woken something up.

“I want to know if you felt it too,” you whisper.

His voice is a thread of breath:

“I don’t let myself feel things.”

You reach for his hand under the sheet. Not the metal one. The other.

Your fingers find his fingers.

And he lets them.

He doesn’t pull away.

You fall asleep like that. Not tangled. Not pressed together. Just a point of contact—skin to skin.

A line crossed.

And neither of you can go back.

Location: Hydra Training Compound Day Three Post-Mission

They call it “recalibration,” but it feels like punishment.

Mission successful. Mirov neutralized. Intel secure. And still, they’re back on the mat like it means nothing. Hydra doesn’t reward precision. It doesn’t reward loyalty.

It rewards silence.

You’re already in the training gear—black compression top, reinforced leggings, bare feet on the polished floor. Your knife is strapped to your thigh even though it won’t be used today. Just a habit.

Across from you, Bucky stands shirtless, gray sweatpants hanging low on his hips, hair damp from the shower.

His metal arm catches the light like a warning.

You circle each other in silence. There’s no music, no overseer today. Just the distant hum of the base and the scuff of movement on the mat.

Then, in Russian:

“Готова?” Ready?

You nod.

He lunges first—fast, controlled, mechanical. You drop low, sweep a leg, and he pivots instead of falling. His movements are brutal but beautiful, like clockwork designed to hurt.

You block a palm strike, twist under his arm, shove your elbow toward his ribs.

He lets you connect.

Not full force. Not enough to bruise.

Just enough.

You both freeze.

Your breath hitches.

He stepped into it—on purpose.

Why would he let me land a hit like that?Why does it matter that he did?

You disengage fast, roll back onto your feet. He stays still, watching.

Eyes unreadable.

Then, quieter:

“Ты теряешь фокус.” You're losing focus.

You sneer. “Ты проиграл.” You lost.

He steps forward again—slow this time. Less like a soldier, more… man. His chest rises and falls in an even rhythm.

“I let you win,” he says.

There’s no arrogance in it. No mocking.

Just a fact.

You bristle. “Why?”

His eyes flick to yours—then lower. Just briefly. Enough to notice the slight swelling on your lip from the earlier blow he did land.

“Because you’re tired.”

You swallow, throat tight.

He noticed. And he cared. Not because Hydra told him to. Not because it helped the mission.Because it’s me.And that scares me more than it should.

You don’t reply.

You rush him again, but this time it’s sloppier. Emotion leaking in through the cracks. He catches your wrist mid-strike, and for one heartbeat, you’re just… there. Trapped in his grip.

His fingers tighten—then loosen.

He releases you.

Your skin burns where he touched it.

You step back.

“Again,” you say.

He hesitates. Just a flicker.

Then nods.

You spar for thirty minutes. No talking. Just the sound of bodies hitting mats, of breath caught and released, of two people pretending not to feel what they feel.

And after the last round—when you’re both on the floor, sweating, chests heaving, his arm braced beside your shoulder—

You ask, quiet:

“Why are you different with me?”

He doesn’t look at you when he says it:

“Because you don’t look at me like I’m a weapon.”

You look at me like I’m still human.You look at me like I deserve to be one.

You could kiss him right now.

You don’t.

You just stay there, breathing next to him.

Neither of you moves.

The sparring is over, but it’s still clinging to you—under your skin, in the beat of your pulse, in the shallow ache of your left wrist.

You sit on the bench in the armory locker room. Shirt discarded. Wrist tender. It throbs in waves now that the adrenaline’s worn off.

Hydra’s med supplies are cold and clinical: gauze, antiseptic, wraps. No painkillers. No comfort.

You’re wrapping the bandage sloppily, one-handed.

“Дай мне.” Let me.

His voice is low. Behind you.

You flinch, but you don’t stop him when he kneels in front of you.

You offer your wrist.

The metal hand holds it steady. Too gentle. The human one does the wrapping.

He’s meticulous. One layer. Then another. His breath fans across your forearm.

Your voice is soft:

“Ты заботишься.” You care.

He pauses.

Then—barely above a whisper:

“Ты не должна была заметить.” You weren’t supposed to notice.

You study him as he works. Down here, kneeling, close like this—he doesn’t look like a ghost. Or a soldier. He just looks... tired.

And young. Younger than you imagined, when he’s not under command.But you’ve seen his file. You know that doesn’t make sense. Unless something’s been taken from him.Time. Memory. Self.

“What do they call you?” you ask quietly.

He doesn’t look up.

“They don’t.”

Not a name. Just a directive. A ghost.Winter Soldier. Asset. 

You nod once. You won’t ask again. You’ve done worse to people with names.

When he finishes the wrap, he doesn’t let go right away.

His thumb brushes the edge of the gauze. Not by accident.

Your breath stutters.

He touches like he’s afraid he’ll break you. Like no one taught him how to be soft, but he’s trying anyway.And you… you need it.God, you need it.

“You stay too long after the others leave,” you whisper.

He looks up at you. Those eyes—gray and still and far away.

“So do you.”

You pull your wrist back, slowly. His hand follows for a second longer than it should.

You rise.

He doesn’t stop you.

But before you turn to leave, you glance over your shoulder.

“What's on your mind,” you say in Russian. “Just one thing.”

He looks at you for a long moment. Like he’s trying to remember what counts as real.

Then, finally:

“Я боюсь забыть, каково это — не быть один.” I’m afraid of forgetting what it feels like to not be alone.

You don’t speak.

But something inside you breaks.

And you don’t fix it.

There are nights when the base goes too quiet.

Not silent—because no Hydra base is ever truly silent. There’s always the dull hum of the server banks, the pressurized hiss of sealed doors, the echo of boots in the corridor above.

But this? This is quieter. Hollow. Heavy.

You can’t sleep.

Your bed is too narrow, your bones too wired. There’s a tremor in your hands you can’t shake. Not fear, exactly. Just… residue. From training. From life.

From him.

You slip from your quarters, barefoot. In a tank top and soft black shorts. You don’t bother to put boots on.

The halls feel colder at night. You glide through them like smoke.

Down one floor. Then two.

You know where he’ll be.

There’s a small chamber near the weapons lab—an auxiliary control room that no one uses after hours. No windows. Just a slatted steel vent near the ceiling where moonlight slices in, pale and ghostlike.

He sits there in the corner, on the floor.

Back against the wall.

Awake.

He’s always awake.

You don’t speak when you step into the doorway.

He lifts his eyes. Doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t rise.

Just looks at you like he knew you’d come.

You sit across from him, knees pulled up. The cold seeps through the floor into your skin.

For a long time, neither of you speaks.

But that’s never mattered. Not with him.

The quiet between you has its own language.

He finally says, “Ты тоже не можешь спать?”

You can’t sleep either?

You shake your head. “Слишком много шума.”

Too much noise.

He nods.

You don’t mean the base.

You mean the static in your blood. The ghost-thoughts. The bruises that don’t bloom until morning.

You watch him. The way he sits so still. But you’ve seen him move—he’s lethal in motion, but now, in this shadowed room, he’s just… there.

Like a monument to some war no one ever won.

You speak again.

“Do you remember who you were… before?”

His jaw flexes. Not anger—hesitation.

Then he says, “No.”

Just that. One syllable that splinters something in you.

“I think I was someone else, too,” you whisper. “Before the Red Room.”

And maybe neither of you can get back to that person.

Maybe that’s what this is. Two weapons sitting in the dark, trying to remember how to feel like people.

You shift a little closer. Not touching. Just near.

“I think about it sometimes,” you say. “What it might feel like. To live outside these walls. Outside orders.”

He doesn’t respond. But his eyes are on you like he’s trying to see that world through yours.

You whisper, “Give me a reason.”

His brow furrows.

You search his face in the low light.

“Give me a reason to feel like a woman again. Not a tool. Not a weapon.”

A pause.

Then he leans forward—barely, barely—and says, so low you almost don’t hear it:

“Because when I look at you, I forget I’m a weapon.”

The air between you crackles.

But neither of you reaches across the space.

You just sit there, two shadows in the dark, a heartbeat apart from ruin.

But after a while sitting on the hard floor gets uncomfortable so you rise up slowly.

You guide him by the wrist—his flesh one, calloused and warm—and not his metal one. That’s on purpose.

He follows you without a word, boots silent on concrete. You don’t need to look back to know he’s watching you. You always know when he’s watching.

Your room’s a concrete box. No windows, no comforts. Just a cot, a gray blanket, a single lamp. But it’s private. It’s yours. And he’s never been here before.

You close the door behind you, fingers slipping the lock into place.

“C’mere,” you whisper, and he does.

He’s quiet, always quiet. That’s how they trained him. But he looks at you like you’re the only real thing in the whole damned place. Like your hands are the only ones he trusts not to hurt him. You pull him close, let your forehead rest against his chest. The cool metal of his arm touches your back as he hesitates—then wraps it around you.

He doesn’t know how to ask. But he wants this.

So you climb onto the cot, pull him down with you. No words, just breathing. The way his nose presses into your neck. The way his body curls toward yours like he’s afraid you’ll disappear. You pet his hair. His breathing slows. You feel the tension drain from his body, even if only a little. You fall asleep like that—his arms around your waist, your hand over his heart.

But sometime in the dark, you feel it.

A slow press of his hips against your ass. The warm breath hitching against your neck. His hand twitching on your belly, the tremble of restraint in his thighs.

You shift, just slightly. You feel the outline of him—hard. Needy.

You whisper into the dark quiet of the room: “Soldat.”

He flinches like he’s been caught doing something wrong. But he doesn’t move away. Doesn’t deny it.

“I didn’t mean to wake you,” he mumbles, voice rough and ruined with shame. “I— I didn’t mean—”

“Hey,” you say softly, reaching back to touch his thigh, grounding him. “It’s okay.”

He goes still. Like he’s waiting to be punished.

You turn over in the narrow bed, face to face now. You tuck his hair behind his ear. “You want help, soldier?”

His eyes widened—blue and glassy and desperate.

“You sure?” you ask, your fingers brushing down his bare torso, over the soft ridges of his abs. “We don’t have to if—”

“Yes,” he breathes out, like it’s been torn from him. “Please. I don’t… I’ve never…”

That makes your heart ache. But it also makes heat twist low in your belly.

“Let me take care of you, then.”

You kiss him first. He doesn’t expect it, but melts into it like he’s starved for it. Like he doesn’t even know how to kiss back but he’s trying so hard it hurts. His metal hand grips the edge of the bed; his flesh one grabs your hip like he’s afraid you’ll float away.

You straddle him slowly. He’s shirtless, boxers straining against his hard length. His breath shudders when you grind down, rubbing against him through the fabric.

“Fuck,” he mutters, eyes fluttering shut. “It feels… s’good. Don’t stop.”

“You don’t have to do anything,” you whisper, dragging your lips down his jaw. “Just let me.”

He nods, breathing hard. He’s so worked up already, hips twitching under you.

You take your time. Slide your fingers beneath his waistband, and he gasps when you wrap your hand around him. He’s hot, flushed, leaking already. You stroke him slowly, watching him fall apart.

His head tips back against the pillow. His thighs tremble. He whimpers when you twist your wrist just right.

“You like that?” you ask, voice dark and honey-sweet.

“Y-yeah. Shit. Don’t stop—please.”

You press kisses to his chest, his neck, then whisper against his ear, “You wanna come like this? Or inside me?”

He chokes on air, like his brain short-circuits.

“I—inside,” he groans, eyes pleading. “Please.”

You slip your shorts off. Tug his boxers down. You don’t tease. You just line yourself up, wet and ready, and sink onto him slow. He shudders beneath you, fingers digging into your hips.

“Oh fuck,” he groans, brow furrowed, chest heaving. “You feel—god, you feel so warm, so tight—I can’t—”

“Shhh,” you murmur, rocking gently. “You’re doing so good, baby.”

He whines at the praise. Whines.

You ride him slow, deep, keeping your forehead pressed to his, your hands in his hair. Every thrust makes him gasp. Every grind makes him moan, softer than you thought a killer like him could.

You rub your clit, and he watches, eyes glassy and wide like it’s the most intimate thing he’s ever seen.

When you tighten around him, he loses it.

His whole body locks up, and he spills into you with a broken cry, hips bucking helplessly. You don’t stop. You work yourself over him until you come too, clenching tight around him, panting into his mouth.

You collapse on top of him. He wraps both arms around you—flesh and metal—and for the first time, he doesn’t look like the Winter Soldier.

He just looks like a man who’s finally been given something he didn’t have to earn.

The room is quiet again.

You’re both breathing hard, chests pressed together. His skin is slick with sweat, still flushed from the high. But his hands haven’t moved—still holding you like he’s afraid to let go, like the second he does you’ll be taken from him.

“Did I hurt you?” he asks, voice hoarse against your neck.

You shake your head slowly, nuzzling into him. “No.You were perfect.”

He lets out a breath, shaky and full of disbelief. You reach up and brush his hair back, gentle fingers gliding over his cheek. You don’t need to say anything else. You don’t need to tell him how good he was, or how beautiful he looked begging under you. He’s still figuring out how to believe those things. But you’ll show him. Again and again, if that’s what it takes.

You shift off of him gently, and he lets you go, reluctantly. You feel him twitch at the loss of contact.

“It’s okay,” you whisper, grabbing the blanket and pulling it over both your bodies. “I’m not going far.”

He blinks up at you, eyes glassy in the dim light. “Can I… hold you?”

“Of course you can.” You curl into him, tangle your legs with his, tuck your head beneath his chin. His arms tighten around you immediately—strong and possessive and scared.

You kiss his collarbone. His breath hitches again.

Neither of you says anything for a while. You just lay there, wrapped around each other. Listening to the hum of the base outside the door, far away from this little world you’ve built.

Eventually, his voice breaks the silence, soft and so vulnerable you almost don’t recognize it.

“I didn’t think it could be like that,” he murmurs.

“Like what?”

“Like it meant something. Like I got to feel good. Like… you wanted me.”

You tilt your head up and meet his eyes. “I do want you. Not just this.” You brush your fingers over his chest, feeling his heart pounding beneath your palm. “All of you. Even the parts they tried to erase.”

He closes his eyes. A tear escapes down his cheek, but he doesn’t wipe it away. You do it for him.

“I don’t want this to be the last time,” he says.

You rest your forehead to his. “It won’t be.”

“You’ll stay?”

You nod. “As long as you’ll have me.”

That does something to him. His jaw trembles. He doesn’t speak. Just tugs you tighter into his chest and buries his face in your hair.

Eventually, his breathing slows again. You feel his body finally begin to relax beneath you. His grip loosens—not because he’s letting go, but because he trusts you won’t leave.

You fall asleep like that, curled around each other in a narrow cot in a concrete room under Hydra’s nose. But none of that matters. Not now. Not here.

For once, he isn’t a weapon.

And for once, you both believe—just a little—that maybe this, whatever this is between you, could be real. That maybe you’ll find freedom not just from Hydra, but from the cold, lonely lives they built for you.

Together.

dividers by @cursed-carmine & @hyuneskkami 🏷️ @zevrra @millersdoll @littlemillersbaby @stell404 @perpetually-fangirling-blog @veraarora @layaispunk @surebutwhy @m00ngazing @devilslittlehelper @bxtchboy69 @cinderblock24 @lilylovesu

[aventurineswife]

hiya, i love ur content!! it brings me a lot of comfort :') this is my first time requesting anything so i apologize if it's a bit awkward!

could you please write aventurine, firefly and/or any other characters you want to add with a reader who's not used to intimacy or gentleness from being conditioned to suppress emotions and therefore always puts on a tough front and reader is also funny and makes jokes out of anything to hide how fragile they actually are? like character is playing with their hair, kissing beauty marks or scars, etc but reader just starts silently crying bc they're not used to it and it feels good?

thank you lots in advance and take your time!! (i once again apologize if it's hard to read or is awkward)

The Weight of a Smile

Tags: Aventurine x Reader, Firefly x Reader, Established Relationship, Vulnerability, Emotional Intimacy, Comfort, Gentle Touch, Trauma Healing, Affection, Slow Burn, Supportive Relationship.

Warnings: Mentions of trauma, Emotional breakdown, Tearjerker, Past abuse or cruelty, Survivor's guilt, Self-suppression of emotions, Vulnerability and emotional discomfort, Emotional manipulation.

A/N: First off, thank you so much for the kind words! That really made my day 🤭💖 There’s no need to apologize at all—I'm really happy you're here and feel comfortable enough to ask something! And don't worry, it wasn't hard or anything!!

Tagslist: @themiddletenmasibling

You were sitting together in his private study, where the usual tension of strategic talk was replaced by an odd quietness between you both. Aventurine leaned back in his chair, a mischievous smile gracing his lips as he watched you attempt to mask your discomfort. You had always been good at keeping up your walls—always joking, always pretending you didn’t need anyone to care for you. But here, in the privacy of his space, something different was unfolding.

Aventurine’s eyes twinkled with amusement, as he toyed with a strand of your hair. He moved it between his fingers with an air of nonchalance, but you could see the subtle attention behind his gaze. It wasn’t unusual for him to make gestures like these—flirtatious, teasing, and unafraid of pushing your boundaries. It was how he played his game, after all.

"You know," he mused, still twirling your hair as though it were a prized card he was inspecting. "This color suits you. Almost like a perfect contrast to my adventurous nature."

You snorted, trying to push the strange wave of discomfort down. “Yeah, well, you’re the one with the roulette-wheel back on your jacket,” you quipped, always opting for humor to cover anything remotely vulnerable. "What is it this time? Risking your life on your fashion choices?"

Aventurine chuckled, clearly unbothered, but the moment he leaned in, pressing a soft kiss near the scar on your wrist—one you had never really discussed with anyone—something inside you shifted. You stiffened, trying to hold onto your usual banter, but it was different this time. He hadn’t just kissed a scar; he had kissed your pain, your history. The raw parts of you that you buried so deep.

His lips were warm against your skin, his usual easy smile slowly fading into something softer. “I’ll never let anything like this mark you again,” he whispered, just loud enough for you to hear, his voice oddly tender.

You felt the sudden rush of emotions you had buried for so long, the weight of his touch and words threatening to break through. You tried to hold it together—tried to make a joke or deflect—but the laughter caught in your throat. Instead, tears welled up silently, and before you could stop them, they began to fall.

Aventurine’s eyes locked onto you with surprise, but there was no judgment, no rush to make it stop. He gently cupped your face with one hand, his thumb brushing away a stray tear as he whispered, "You’ve always been so strong, haven’t you?"

It was the first time you felt seen in a way that was so unexpected, so gentle, that it made everything else—the walls, the jokes, the front you put up—seem irrelevant. His touch, as light as it was, anchored you in a way nothing had before. You wanted to pull away, to laugh it off, but you couldn’t.

“I’m sorry,” you muttered, embarrassed by the vulnerability. “I just… It’s a lot to feel. I’m not used to… this.”

Aventurine’s gaze softened further, and in that rare moment, he showed something you hadn’t often seen: sincerity. "You don’t need to apologize for that," he murmured, kissing the top of your head softly, the act far more intimate than you had expected. "You deserve the gentleness, even if you don’t know how to accept it just yet."

And as his arms enveloped you, you finally let yourself feel the warmth of his affection, the touch you hadn’t realized you needed so desperately.

Firefly sat next to you, the two of you resting after another grueling mission. The cool evening air wrapped around you both, and for the first time in a long while, you found solace in the quiet. She had always been a person of few words, but the silence between you felt comfortable—not the heavy silence of avoidance, but one that came with a quiet understanding.

Her hand moved gently to your hair, and you stiffened instinctively. You had never been good at intimacy. Growing up, emotions had been a weakness, and you had conditioned yourself to suppress them. Jokes and sarcasm were your armor, and vulnerability was a battlefield you had no intention of stepping into.

But there she was, her fingers delicately combing through your hair, the simple act of caring something that felt foreign to you. You didn’t know how to respond to such tenderness, and it made you uneasy.

“Your hair is like silver moonlight,” she said softly, her voice laced with the gentle affection she rarely showed. You couldn’t help but chuckle, trying to lighten the mood. “Right. And you’re the moon itself. Always glowing, always distant.”

Firefly’s smile was almost imperceptible, but it was there—just for a moment—before her fingers continued their exploration. But as they grazed your skin, near the small scar just behind your ear, you froze. Her touch was slow, deliberate, and strangely soothing. Something about it made your chest tighten, a feeling that you didn’t know how to process.

"You’ve fought so much, haven’t you?" Firefly’s voice was soft, almost a whisper now. She gently pressed a kiss against the scar. “But not all battles have to be fought alone.”

You immediately felt the familiar urge to make a joke, to crack something clever to push away the feeling of her affection. But her words and the warmth of her touch—combined with the quiet sincerity in her gaze—stopped you from speaking. Instead, a tear slipped down your cheek, unnoticed at first by Firefly.

When she saw it, her expression softened. Without a word, she pulled you closer, wrapping her arms around you in a protective embrace. You weren’t used to being held like this, to being shown tenderness that didn’t come with strings or expectations. Your walls, once so rigid, cracked just slightly in the warmth of her touch.

"I'm not used to this," you admitted, your voice barely above a whisper, and for once, the humor in your words faded. "I don’t know how to… handle it."

Firefly’s grip tightened just enough, not in a possessive way, but as if assuring you that it was okay. "You don’t have to handle it alone anymore," she said quietly. "Not with me."

A silence settled between you two, but this time, it wasn’t uncomfortable. You allowed yourself to lean into her, feeling her warmth seep into your bones. And for the first time in a long while, you didn’t feel the need to pretend you had it all together.

The tears you had been holding back flowed freely now, but they didn’t feel like weakness. Not with Firefly there. With her, you felt like it was okay to finally stop pretending.

[d1gitalwitness]

lesbians yearning across continents? it happened in the wheel of time

I think the one thing we have not appreciated enough about The Wheel of Time is how lesbian desire is so present. It is not only visible in scenes with Siuan and Moiraine, but we also get to see them miss each other and yearn for each other while apart. As Sophie Okonedo has said, the love they have for each other is always there, eternal and transcendent. I haven't never seen anything quite like it on television.

When Moiraine finally returns to the tower after two years, she yearns for Siuan by looking at their matching ter'angreals. Excellent build-up by the writers because we do not yet know what this means yet. (1x05)

Siuan looking at their matching ter'angreals after Moiraine visits her in a dream and bids her farewell. She also looks at a drawing of Moiraine while tearing up. (3x08)

Moiraine whispering Siuan's name while on the verge of death and smiling so stupidly to herself (1x03)

Moiraine in tears while writing a letter to Siuan to let her know that she has been stilled - her failure at the eye of the world is akin to failing Siuan, and breaking her promise to her that they will retire by the river. Yes, it was pride that kept her apart from Siuan. But also mostly guilt. (2x06) // We're going to serve out our time and then we'll retire. Do you mean that? Yes.

Siuan sniffing and rereading Moiraine's letters and smiling to herself ... this scene just wrecks me because Siuan is punishing herself for what she did to Moiraine at the waygate. In the context of this season, when we realise that Siuan's upbringing is a constant cause of disrespect and humiliation, Moiraine is the only person in the world who sees and wants her as Siuan Sanche and not the Amrylin. And Siuan's betrayal means letting go of the one woman who loves her in the way that she deserves. Despite everything that happened, Siuan sees Moiraine and still sees the woman who shared her simple dreams, who promised her a life on the river. There is so much longing and innocence in her smile, which is crushing. (3x05)

Moiraine looking up to the tower to Siuan after their divorce, worried sick about her. Listening in on Siuan's conversation with Nynaeve and Egwene, and the camera pans to her as Siuan indirectly confesses her immense regret at mistreating Moiraine, and laments at a love gone sour. We are always reminded that while these two women still loved each other, what they once had was gone. (3x01)

And this is my absolute favourite one, when Logain asks Moiraine what she truly wants. It is from way before we know about Moiraine and Siuan's relationship and their dreams to be fishwives. Thus far, Moiraine has been unreadable. Cold and ruthless. But for a few seconds, Rosamund Pike transforms Moiraine's hardened facade into something softer - you can feel her sorrow. And in that moment, you want to know who Moiraine truly is. Behind Moiraine's singular focus on the mission lies an undercurrent of piercing sadness that will reverberate across the series. We soon learn that this all ties back to Siuan and the promises they've made to each other, promises and dreams that they know they can't fulfil. There's something so haunting about it. Extremely precise writing. (1x04)

I just love everything about it. Her love for Siuan is always present, always flowing and always defining even when Siuan is not there, and vice versa. At the heart of The Wheel of Time is the estrangement between love, duty and justice. The fissure between love and impossibility begins with Moiraine and Siuan, whose dreams were crushed in the most banal way possible - being at the wrong place at the wrong time. It is so absurdly human and so absurdly tragic. The cruelty of life is so casual, which makes Siuan and Moiraine's love feel even more life-affirming and precious.

[writing-mlm]

DR ROBBY FLUFF W A SWAGGY TBOY READER ,,, PLs ?! (im not sure if ur down w tboy but just straight up male reader is also good too!!! ))

Six more weeks

Summary: You’re set to work again but a certain bee issue adds to your medical leave— according to Dr Robby. You have a different opinion. Pairing: Dr. Michael ‘Robby’ Robinavitch x Transmale!Reader Word Count: 2.2k Warnings/Tags: medical terms that I probably got wrong, reader gets hurt but not majorly, s1 spoilers, sexual talks, old man yaoi, I wrote this in one night, not explicitly said to be trans but reader is coming off of medical leave after having top surgery A/N: trans!readers are always welcome, fork found in kitchen fr

You hate bees, you hate the way they buzz around, and how your skin gets prickly when they’re around. There’s just something about bees that you can’t bring yourself to like— but it’s still save the motherfucking bees. 

It’s nearly the last day of your medical leave, you still haven’t been cleared by your doctor to lift items above your head or carry anything heavy… but you don’t know any cruelty free Pittsburg Bee removers and Google said it was safe to remove them if you found the queen and moved her to a different spot. Preferably off of the parking lot's ceiling. 

You ought to be ashamed of yourself, after criticizing Google disciples at work just to become one, as you prop up a step stool so you could reach the panel the bees had made into their hive. Leave it to the experts, that’s your motto, and yet, the irony wasn’t beyond you as you crashed down and fell on your arm. 

Your neighbors, two elderly women on their morning walk, happen to walk by at the same time as the crash. Hearing the unmistakable sound of your shoulder dislocating, followed by the painful sound of skull meeting concrete, they rush to call 911. You know the older one, Gale, is no stranger to their number. It’s the reason why she loves having you as her neighbor, you’re a built-in hospital. 

With minimal pushback, you’re put in the back of the ambulance thirty minutes later. 

Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center isn’t your first option for a hospital to take care of you, but the EMT is worried you’ve gotten a concussion or fractured some bone, so you’re sent there. You know better than to argue with them and let yourself get wheeled inside. 

Closing your eyes as you pass by the sliding doors, you can already see the nurses snickering at the sight of you. 

“Male, thirty-seven, fell off of a ladder and dislocated his shoulder and hit his head. He was bleeding, but it stopped,” The EMT says as you’re greeted by Collin’s and some new kids. This is one hell of a first impression. 

“If you wanted to come back to work so soon, you could’ve just called.��� Langdon muses as he joins Collin’s side, he’s not missing the chance to mess with you, and you’re so going to give him horrible shifts once this is over. 

“Shut up,” You whine, swatting his hand away. “You’re gonna get a negative patient review.” He replies with a dry laugh.

“Hopefully, I’ll get a good one?” Smiling, you turn your head to look at Robby as he walks over, putting a pair of gloves on. 

“Oh, baby, you’ll get all five stars. Wouldn’t recommend you to anyone else though,” You wink and he shakes his head, helping the residents park the gurney. “Imma need you all to myself.”

“Ignore them,” Collins warns the residents as she’s walking away. “He’s going to flirt Robby’s head off before you can take his blood.”

“And I really don’t need my blood drawn,” You tell them. “Minor fall, glenohumeral joint dislocation— posterior dislocation at that. I scratched my head on the concrete, disinfected it in the ambulance, and it hardly touched my dermis. I’m not—“

“So, this is Doctor (Y/n) (L/n),” Robby cuts you off with a pointed look as he touches your shoulder. You wince and jerk away, eyeing him. “He’s another attending that you’ll follow. You were supposed to meet him tomorrow, but I guess this is fine too. This is Whitaker MS4, Santos R2, and Javadi MS3.” Each one of them waves as their names are said.

“Nice to meet you guys,” You grin at them. “I’ll just pop my shoulder into place and see you guys tomorrow. Open up a bed, the Pitt is already crowded.” Sitting up, you’re pushed back down, and Robby has Whitaker put a cuff on your good arm. 

“Don’t let Gloria hear you say that,” He sings before turning to the resident and interns. “He’s a prime example of why doctors are our worst patients. Start the questioning and then head up to get CT, I bumped you to next in line. I’ll be back to help you put the shoulder back in place. Do not let him do it himself,” He pushes the door open and walks a step out before looking back inside. “And someone needs to keep an eye on him. He’s sneaky,”

“You’re acting like I’m a criminal!” You shout after him. Dropping your head back down to the pillow, you watch Javadi as she stumbles over the required questions. “Ugh, you guys are adorable. Giving me palpitations— not literally,” You quickly say when Whitaker goes to note that in your chart. 

—

“Who do you think is the top?” Santos grins as she and Whitaker watch Robby head back into your room for the third time in an hour. She’s helping him with his nail after it got flattened by one of the elderly patients. 

“The what?” He blinks over from the TV, showing the patients to her. She groans as she grabs a needle. 

“Y’know, the top? The one who puts it in the other,” She whispers and gives him a look when she’s still confused. “With Dr. Robby and Dr. (L/n)?” 

“Oh,” He looks over at your room and inhales. “I uh… should we be discussing this about our bosses?” He whispers, eyes darting around the room as if someone was going to talk up to them and fire them. That would be humiliating, though. Fired on day one. 

“You’re so boring, Huckleberry,” She stabs his nail with enough force to scare him, but not enough that she would go past the nail bed. “I think it’s Dr. (L/n),”

“Really?” McKay props her elbows up on the counter, startling the two of them. “I always thought it was Robby. You should’ve seen them when (L/n) had to leave for his surgery. He was a wreck.” Santos chuckles and shakes her head, looking back at the room. The curtain is still open, so they can see Robby laughing as you continue to flirt with him. He pushes your head before turning around, catching their eyes almost immediately. The three quickly turn around, sharing startled glances. 

“Busted,” Princess giggles into her coffee cup. 

—

“Mhmm, and were you cleared to be lifting your arms that high?” Robby asks as he has you sit forward. Your shirt is off, and his fingers are gently finding the bone and the socket. You mess with your borrowed pajamas, he’s yet to comment on, holding back the urge to shrug. 

“I took my professional opinion and cleared myself,” You offer up. Robby takes a step back to give you a disapproving look, and you chuckle. Looking at Mel, you see her eyes keep dipping towards your scars. They’re freshly healed, so they look a little raw. Not to mention, these bright lights are not working wonders on you. 

“And why don’t we do that, Dr. King?” He steps back, placing one of his hands on your shoulder and the other on your back. She goes to answer, but you shake your head, letting her know it was a rhetorical question.

“You can’t, I ca— mother fucker!” You shout as he pushes your arm back into place. He chuckles as you glare up at him. “I’m gonna need a kiss to make it feel better.” Pursing your lips, you gasp as he pushes your face away. 

“That’s highly inappropriate, you’re my patient.” He shakes his head before looking at the embarrassed Mel. “Why don’t you check to see if Langdon needs help?” She nods and quickly leaves, gently shutting the door behind her. Robby looks down at you and quickly leans down. 

With your good arm, you hold his face and trace his beard as he kisses you. It’s a short one, he’s still at work, and it’s nearly that time when there’s a small rush of nursing home patients getting sent in. 

“And I trust that you do know the proper care for your shoulder?” He asks as he pulls away, slowly opening his eyes. They flicker between your lips and your eyes as you nod, still chasing his lips. 

“No strenuous activity, no exercises like pull-ups, rows, or arm raises, no lifting heavy objects— basically what I've been doing for the past six weeks already.”

“Yup,” He nods, removing his gloves. “Now add another six weeks because you didn’t want to call a professional.” Carefully, he helps you put your arm into a navy blue sling. 

“I am a professional,” Leaning up, you move your legs off of the bed. “Have I ever told you that you look hot with those glasses?”

“You’re a medical professional, not a beekeeper. And stay seated. We’re still waiting on your CTs.” He pushes you down. “And you have.”

“So, I should wait in the waiting area?” You offer, pointing your thumb behind you. 

“You kidding me?” He laughs, crossing his arms. “You’ll just leave, no, your ass is staying parked in that bed—“

“It could be parked on your—“

“Dr. Robby?” Mohan enters the room before you can finish. “Oh, hello, Dr. (L/n),” She smiles. Of course, she heard you were here, but it hadn’t clicked that Robby is breaking his rule of keeping his talks with patients to a minimum for you. 

“Hi, Dr. Mohan. Tell Robby I should be free to go,” 

“I…uh…” Her eyes quickly dart to Robby, who shakes his head, his arms still crossed. “You’re needed, Otis is crashing.” He leaves, and you whistle as he walks away. 

“Love watching you leave!” You call, smiling as the chorus of laughter fills the area. 

“He should file a complaint against you,” Langdon laughs as he walks past your room. 

“You’re gonna be on bedpan duty when I get back, Langdon!” You shout, and he groans while the others laugh again.

—

“Alright, you’re cleared to go,” Robby explains, pulling up a seat next to you. “Fill out your discharge paperwork and go home.” Taking the clipboard and pen, you make it a point to pretend it’s a strenuous task with exaggerated groans and dropping your arm to the side. 

“If only there was a sexy, amazing, wonderful doctor who could help me fill out my discharge paperwork.” You sigh, dramatically turning your head away from him. Hearing him inhale, you flip over and watch as he leans in closer and holds the clipboard for you. 

“You’re ridiculous,” He mutters, looking over at you. Glancing at him, you lean in for a quick kiss on his beard before finishing up. He checks over the paperwork before nodding. Silently, he is thankful that you’re here. It’s been a… not so great shift. 

“I’m the most serious doctor here, just ask Abbott.” Standing up, you grab your shirt and then look at him. “Doc, I need help putting my shirt on.” He laughs and stands up, grabbing the fabric from your hands, and turns you to face him. “I think you’re right, I gotta me extra careful,” 

“I’m always right,” He nods, slipping your bad arm into your shirt before putting the rest of it on you. Turning around, he taps your butt to hurry you along. 

“Squeeze it next time, Mich. Imma leave through the ambulance bay,”

“I’ll see you out,” He offers, and you nod, the two of you walking in tandem. 

“Hope you’re better at security,” Dana tells the security guard as she’s having a smoke break. 

“Hey, now you’re just being mean,” 

“You realize that this is the second person to accuse you of that today,” Robby tells her. “You starting to see a pattern?”

“No. But I am starting to see why Gloria’s unhappy with your patient-satisfaction scores.” Sitting on the edge of the plants, you watch the two of them as they talk. You’ve been acutely aware that things have been going on throughout the day, but you notice the black eye on her and realize she’s gotten punched. You’d assumed she got spit on, maybe peed, but, yeah, you’d need a smoke break too. 

Their phones start buzzing at the same time— never a good sign, so you lean forward. 

“Code triage. Multiple GSWs. There’s an active shooter at Pittfest.” Dana relays. 

“Jake and his girlfriend are there,” 

Standing up, they head back inside with Robby telling you to go home. Once they’re inside, you follow and grab ahold of Donnie. She helps you change into your scrubs, and you grab a stethoscope and wash your hands before heading back to the main area.  

“Except the worst,” He tells McKay as you head back out. He looks over the group before his eyes land on you. “No, absolutely not, go home.” He demands. 

“No, we’re already understaffed.” Shaking your head, he sharply inhales. “I won’t lift my arm, and I’ll keep to stable patients.”

“Fine—fine,” Shaking his head, Robby explains protocol before he pulls you to the side. 

“Baby, I’m fine.” You quickly say. 

“Your shoulder was just dislocated. Your pain meds are about to wear off. This isn’t the place for you to be.” 

“Langdon is gone, Collin’s is gone. I’m taking at least five patients off of everyone’s hands. That’s leaving room for more urgent people. I am staying,” Grabbing your face, he inhales before kissing your forehead. “Thank you, Michael.”

“I want you on Primary Triage and then non-critical.”

“Okay, I can do that.” You nod. 

“I know you can. Let’s go.”

[wombpala]

ppl saying oh well ruby/Meg/sultry conniving harlot of the week aren't WOMEN they're just unknowable evil entities POSSESSING women so it's not bad to call THEM whores is quite interesting to me. bc I think a big reason the trope of sexy evil girlboss is so prevalent in spn is bc unlike the pure vulnerable mother-wives destined for the fridge (more common in the early seasons but relevant throughout), the hellbitches are capable of violence and cruelty and strangeness, these are women who aren't REALLY women which means you're allowed to hit them and they're allowed to hit you back, without tarnishing the image of the poor sweet blonde gf/mommy we have to Protect to keep the wheels of heroism turning. but like. these characters, (ruby, Meg, abaddon) move through the story wearing women's faces. they experience misogynistic humiliations. they enter heterosexual relationships. ultimately it doesn't matter to the camera whether they're made of black smoke or not. when Dean calls ruby a whore for the millionth time, that's a gendered exchange!!! - the show is saying something ABOUT WOMEN.

[highprettybabyy]

Seeing Red

Part 19: Are We Out Of The Woods Yet?

jenna ortega x fem!reader apocalypse au

summary: mario kart irl edition

warnings: 18+! enemies to lovers, typical apocalypse stuff, violence, blood, zombies, gore, angst, some fluff, alcohol consumption, insane man, stabbing, animal abuse and cruelty, attempted murder, neglecting personal health,

AN: you’re gonna yell at me but idc

word count: idk since i did this all on my phone instead of my laptop <3 3-4k ish?

The garage door groaned as you lifted it, letting the evening cool pour in across the concrete floor. You rolled the makeshift trolley out into the light, beaming with an odd mix of pride and nerves. It had taken you most of the afternoon and some stolen wood from the shed, but there it stood: a lounge chair on wheels.

The blue trolley was originally some kind of kids’ cart, four rugged wheels and a steel frame built for bouncing off curbs and grass. You’d bolted a wooden base to the top, reinforced it with some thinner slats to prevent any bending or flex, and then stacked cushion after cushion, all held together inside a stripped duvet cover that you’d pinned and tied into place. A plush blanket lay across the top like a final, royal touch. On either side of the chair, two wooden storage containers had been attached to the frame with screws - just big enough for snacks, drinks, and a few supplies.

It was rough. It was janky.

It was perfect.

You turned as you heard the back door creak open behind you. Jenna stood there, leaning slightly against the frame, her arm still wrapped, her limp barely noticeable as she took a careful step down. Her brows rose when she saw the contraption waiting for her, mouth twitching into a small, surprised smile.

“…You built that?” she asked, eyes flicking over the details.

“Yep.”

A beat.

“That’s… actually impressive.”

You grinned, sweeping an overly dramatic bow. “Milady, your carriage awaits.”

She huffed a quiet laugh, clearly trying not to show how charmed she was. “It better be comfortable.”

“Oh, only the finest cushions. Finest blanket. Five-star suspension.”

You moved closer and slid an arm around her waist, the other beneath her knees. “Ready?”

Jenna blinked, caught off guard for half a second, then gave you a small nod. “Okay. Just don’t drop me.”

“Never.”

You lifted her gently, the soft weight of her body settling against you like something precious and irreplaceable. She smelled faintly of lavender and antiseptic - the scent of healing and quiet strength. You carried her the few steps over to the trolley and carefully set her down on the padded cushions, easing her back and adjusting the blanket over her lap and legs.

To your immense relief, she visibly relaxed into the makeshift lounge, her body settling deep into the cushions with a soft exhale.

“Okay, wow. I’m actually impressed. This is pretty comfortable.”

You couldn’t help the stupid smile tugging at your lips. “Yeah?”

She nodded. “Yeah.”

“Well then.” You took hold of the trolley handle. “What are we waiting for?”

She kicked playfully with her good leg, wincing only slightly before her grin returned. “Go! Go!”

You started to push.

The wheels rolled smoothly across the paved path leading around the garden - and the way her eyes widened with delight, the way the breeze ruffled her damp hair and Angelo trailed behind with his tail wagging - it made everything worth it.

It felt like, maybe, something was right again.

Just for a moment.

-

You guided the trolley slowly around the edge of the property, watching the way the solar powered garden lamps glinted off Jenna’s skin. A few strands of hair had slipped loose and danced along her cheek, and she was too content to care. Angelo walked a little ahead of you both, nose low to the ground, his tail swaying gently with each step. The air was clear and warm, the kind of cool summer breeze that should’ve carried laughter and birdsong and the clinking of glasses from someone’s patio - not silence and the occasional distant groan of a structure settling in a world abandoned.

But today… the quiet wasn’t unbearable. It was gentle. Like a lull between storms.

You kept one hand on the handle of the trolley and used the other to swat away a vine as you took the back trail that looped around the villa, passing the edge of the garden.

That was when Jenna’s breath hitched.

You felt it before you even looked at her - the subtle tensing of her shoulders beneath the blanket, the way her hand gripped the fabric just a little tighter. She didn’t say anything. She didn’t need to.

You both knew exactly where you were.

The garden bed.

The spot where she’d been attacked. Where she’d screamed so loud the trees had held their breath.

You kept pushing.

She tried to be subtle - wiped her hand on the blanket, as if her palms weren’t suddenly clammy. But you saw the way her jaw clenched. The tiny tremble in her lower lip. The way her eyes darted from the garden to the ground and back again, never quite settling.

You didn’t say anything.

You didn’t have to.

You picked up the pace just slightly, rolling the trolley past the bed, past the edge of the lawn, toward the side yard again. Giving her space to breathe. To escape it.

When you rounded the corner back to the garage, you slowed to a stop and walked around to her side. She was still staring ahead, as if trying not to look back. Her fingers had wrinkled the edge of the blanket in her lap from holding it too tight.

“Hey,” you said softly.

Jenna blinked. Then looked at you.

“I’ve got you.”

She nodded.

You leaned in and gently scooped her up again, cradling her with the same care you had that first night. As you carried her back inside, she whispered, “Thank you,” so quietly you almost missed it.

You nodded once, setting her down on the sofa again - her safe spot. Pillows arranged. Blanket tucked in. Angelo settled at her feet within seconds.

You turned to leave - maybe to grab water, or just… breathe.

But the words were already clawing at your throat.

“I think we should think about moving.”

Jenna’s brow furrowed slightly, mouth parting - but before she could say anything, the words just spilled out of you.

“I know this is a good house, and that it’s basically made for the apocalypse, and I know how hard we’ve worked on it, but-” you exhaled sharply, “I can’t bear the thought of what happened here to you. I know you’ve been thinking about it too. I know it still lives in the walls for you. And maybe I’m wrong, maybe you don’t feel that way. But I do. I do. And I know moving again would be a nightmare - clearing someplace out, starting again - but I want us to live somewhere where we’re both comfortable and happy. Somewhere that hasn’t been touched by… by him.”

You stopped, breath ragged, not looking at her. Not yet.

“I—”

You didn’t get to finish.

She leaned forward and kissed the corner of your mouth - soft, still trembling a little, her eyes closed.

“Thank you,” she whispered.

Your eyes fluttered shut. Your shoulders dropped. You barely noticed her arms curling slowly around your neck until her body was pressed against yours, her head tucked under your chin.

You hugged her back - not too tightly. Just enough.

Just enough to feel her heartbeat.

-

The early morning air clung to your skin like a kiss from the earth - cool, crisp, and damp with dew. Mist lingered in low pockets over the grass, swirling in soft tendrils that caught the golden light filtering through the canopy. The world felt quieter in June mornings like these. Like it hadn’t quite opened its eyes yet.

Jenna sat tucked snugly into the mobile lounge cart you’d built. The duvet-wrapped cushion beneath her was tilted ever so slightly back, her legs gently extended with a second pillow supporting her thighs. You had added a blanket before leaving the garage, tucking it around her waist and across her lap. Her hair was slightly mussed, the corners of her mouth softened into a peaceful line as she adjusted the blanket a little higher. She looked… comfortable. At peace.

You’d packed the small compartments on either side of the frame earlier that morning - one with four water bottles, a few dusty cans of lemon soda, two sandwiches with hummus made from a can of chickpeas, and a carefully packed bag of caramel lentil popcorn you’d made just for her. The other held a compact first aid kit, just in case you needed to re-wrap her wounds mid-trip, and three small treats for Angelo - who now walked in large, unhurried loops around the courtyard, his ears perked.

First stop was the cabin.

For weapons.

You hated needing them. But after everything, you couldn’t ignore it.

“Ready, angel?” you asked softly, bending to gently check the blanket around her shoulders.

Jenna hummed, giving a small nod and a sleepy smile.

Angel was the only description you could think of when you looked at her.

You whistled lightly for Angelo, who trotted to your side without hesitation, tail wagging. His wounds were healing well. He still limped slightly if he moved too fast, but he was recovering better than either of you had hoped. Stubbornly loyal. Your gentle giant guardian.

With one hand on the cart handle and your machete strapped to your hip, you guided the trolley out through the garden gate, turning right toward the forest trail. The wheels rolled smoothly on the grass and hard-packed soil - a small mercy. You couldn’t help but glance at Jenna every few steps, checking for pain, for tension. But she was gazing forward, cheeks touched by sunlight, eyes half-lidded, looking like something painted in a better world.

The walk took longer this time - but not in a bad way. It was slow, patient. The kind of walk that made you notice things: wildflowers pushing up through cracks in the stone path. A small toad hopping out of the way under a bush. The songs of birds calling to each other across branches.

When you reached the lake clearing, Jenna smiled faintly. Her hand brushed yours when you paused the trolley near the dock.

You helped her out gently and leaned her back against a large tree with roots shaped almost like a chair. She looked stronger today. Pale, still tired - but stronger.

The cabin door creaked as you opened it, and you scanned the shadows like always. Still empty. Still yours. It even smelled a little like cedar and old soap.

Most of the weapons were where you left them. You offered Jenna the smaller guns, not wanting to overburden her. She tested the grip of a compact revolver in her hand and drew in a long breath, thumb brushing over the worn steel.

“I’m not letting anything catch me off-guard again,” she said softly, and for the first time in a while, her voice didn’t shake when she said it.

You understood. You carried enough guilt to last a lifetime - but you weren’t letting her feel helpless again.

You slung one of the heavier rifles over your shoulder, checked the ammo boxes, and tucked a few extra magazines into the side pouch of the cart. Not everything could come home today. But you took what mattered.

The kitchen offered a few more treasures - vacuum-sealed snack nuts, old boxes of crackers, a few canned fruit cocktails with faded labels. You brought what you could. Left what wasn’t worth the weight.

When you turned to Jenna - still perched in the cart now, chewing on popcorn - she was looking at you like she could finally breathe.

“Let’s head back out,” you said, and she nodded.

She didn’t need to say she felt better.

You could see it in her eyes.

And for the first time in days, maybe longer… you let yourself feel better too.

-

Jenna looked like a queen in repose, half-blanketed in her wheeled lounge contraption, one leg tucked up, the other stretched out on the padded boards. Her head tilted back against the cushioned rest, a faint smile ghosting her lips as she popped another piece of lentil caramel popcorn into her mouth. She caught you watching and smirked. “You sure you don’t want a turn?”

You huffed a laugh, adjusting your grip on the handle behind her. “Oh, I’m fine. You’re a feather. Besides, it builds character.”

“Character,” she murmured, stretching her arms above her head in the sunlight. “Right. You just like pushing me around.”

“Guilty.”

Angelo padded ahead at a steady pace, tail swaying, nose low to the ground. Every so often he’d dart sideways into a patch of grass or sniff aggressively at the base of a tree, then loop back around. The rhythm of the three of you moving through the forest felt… right. Peaceful. The kind of peace you didn’t think would ever exist again after the world went to hell.

You curved around a bend in the path, and the trees opened suddenly into a clearing. A meadow, really - long grass bending in the breeze, dotted with wildflowers in purples, yellows, and soft blues. To the left stood a playground: faded metal swings hanging limply from rusted chains, a plastic slide long overtaken by moss and vines. Benches and picnic tables sat scattered along the edge of the clearing, some toppled, most weather-worn and cracked.

Jenna’s breath caught. “Woah.”

“I know,” you murmured. “Like something out of a dream.”

You wheeled her toward the nearest bench and let the trolley roll gently to a stop. She sat up straighter, eyes tracing the old swing set with a mix of nostalgia and sadness. You stepped forward, pulled a bottle of water and a sandwich from the side compartment, then held one half out to her. She accepted it wordlessly, and together you sat in the quiet of the field, chewing slowly, sharing silence and sunshine.

Angelo found a stick in the grass - large and slightly curved like a shepherd’s crook. He brought it to you proudly, tail wagging, ears perked.

You grinned. “Oh, this is a good one.”

You gave it a short toss and he bounded after it with a delighted bark, his entire body full of energy again. Jenna chuckled, the sound soft and airy.

You tossed the stick again, and this time he chased it toward the old picnic table. You didn’t even notice the way he paused - the way his head jerked slightly upward.

But Jenna did.

“Y/N,” she said gently.

You looked at her.

Angelo had gone still.

His hackles rose. His tail stiffened. He dropped the stick.

And then, with a low rumble in his throat, he turned toward the trees behind the swings and began to growl.

Your hand went to your machete instinctively.

Then you saw her.

Small. Frail. A little girl - or what used to be one - stepping into the clearing with a shuffling, broken gait. Her dress might’ve once been pink, now almost grey-black with blood and decay. Her skin hung loose over bone, flesh rotted in places down to the sinew. One arm dangled awkwardly. Her face was sunken, eyes milky and staring.

She stumbled forward, drawn by the scent or the movement or just… sound. There wasn’t much strength left in her body. Not much movement left at all. Her head tilted slightly as if curious.

You and Jenna both sighed at once. Not out of fear. Out of heartbreak.

Jenna whispered, “She’s just a kid…”

You nodded.

But she wasn’t a kid anymore.

You stood, drawing the machete from your thigh holster, the weight familiar in your grip. Jenna looked away, her hand reaching out to brush Angelo’s fur.

“I’ll handle it,” you said quietly. “It’ll be quick.”

Then you stepped toward the little girl, your boots sinking softly into the grass.

-

The air felt heavier now. Not threatening, not hostile - but changed. You and Jenna didn’t speak for several minutes after the clearing. There wasn’t anything left to say.

You continued your slow walk down the overgrown trail, pushing her in the trolley cart in gentle silence, the wheels crunching quietly over patches of wild grass and loose gravel. Angelo padded just ahead, ears alert, tail swaying low. Even he seemed subdued after what had happened.

You gripped the trolley handle a little tighter. The last hour had been peaceful - too peaceful. A rare breath of something like normal. And then that little girl.

No. That walker.

That’s all she was now. Whatever she used to be- whoever loved her - had been gone for a long time. You told yourself that, again and again, every time you felt that twitch of guilt behind your eyes.

She didn’t scream. Didn’t lunge. She just… shuffled out. Small and broken. And you couldn’t let her suffer anymore.

Your fingers brushed against the still-warm hilt of your machete, and you looked away from the trail, letting the woods swallow your thoughts.

The sun was high overhead, beams of warm gold streaking through the tree canopy above, painting the trail in patches of soft light. It was a beautiful day. Bright. Vibrant. The kind of day you used to spend lounging in parks, reading books you never finished, or walking aimlessly with headphones in. Now you spent it pushing your half-healed partner through the woods, always ready to kill.

You weirdly wouldn’t have traded it for anything.

After another half mile, you noticed the trees beginning to thin on the left side of the trail. Jenna adjusted the blanket on her lap and squinted forward. “What’s that?” she asked, voice soft from the painkillers and trauma.

You followed her gaze, stepping slightly off the path to peek through a thinning wall of leaves.

Cabins. Dozens of them. Smaller than the first cabin you’d found near the lake, but still solid structures. Weathered wooden siding. Steep shingled roofs. Most had private docks stretching out into the lake’s vast blue skin, and from here you could see a handful of small boats, some still bobbing gently in the rippling water.

“Holy shit,” you muttered. “Lakeside real estate.”

Jenna smiled faintly. “Swanky.”

“I wouldn’t mind holing up in one of those.” You scanned the area, eyes narrowing with thought. “We should come back. Check inside. There’s gotta be supplies. Maybe even another generator.”

Jenna leaned back slightly, brushing a breeze from her face. “Looks peaceful.”

“Looks can be deceiving.”

You were about to turn the trolley when something caught your eye on the opposite side of the path. Up ahead, maybe a hundred metres, there was a break in the trees - a rise, a soft hill curving upward, just tall enough to obscure the view beyond it.

And nestled against the slope, almost hidden unless you were looking for it, was fencing. Tall, clean, metal fencing.

Your breath caught.

“Wait here,” you murmured. You looked at Jenna, then at Angelo, who met your eyes with a soft huff. “Angelo - stay. Guard her.”

He obeyed instantly, trotting up beside the trolley and sitting dutifully against the side of the frame. You smiled - pretty sure that he didn’t even understand what you asked. Jenna looked confused, but she didn’t protest.

You jogged lightly up the hill, eyes scanning the horizon as the view opened wider with every step.

At the top, you found it.

A gated community.

Damn this neighbourhood was just full of rich people homes.

Several houses scattered across the sloping landscape, some smaller and neatly kept, others sprawling with balconies and wide porches. There was a barn at the far end. And a chicken coop, though you couldn’t see if anything still moved inside. A narrow road stretched off into the woods, cracked and dusty, probably leading back to the main road system - or whatever was left of it.

You didn’t know what you’d expected.

Certainly not this. A whole community, tucked into the edge of the forest like a forgotten dream.

Your heart beat faster. Excitement? Hope?

Or dread?

You stepped back down toward the path where Jenna waited, arms folded gently over her lap, Angelo resting beside her.

As you returned to her side, she looked up expectantly. “Find anything?”

You nodded. “This might be worth checking out. And I think I saw an intersecting road that could lead us back here by car - if we ever want to come back.”

Jenna raised an eyebrow. “We might want to?”

You shrugged, not ready to answer that yet.

Instead, you looked out at the lakeside cabins again. Angelo yawned.

And for a single moment, the three of you stood together in the shade of tall trees and distant possibilities, quiet and aware that somewhere, something had just shifted.

-

The key slid into the lock with a soft click. The tumblers shifted. It had been weeks since he’d heard the sound - something so domestic, so ordinary. Still, it didn’t feel like coming home.

The heavy wooden door creaked open.

He stepped inside slowly, deliberately, drawing in a long breath through his nose.

Familiar air. Not his - but still familiar.

The boots on his feet thudded against the wooden floor, too loud in the stillness of the house. The smell was clean. Too clean. Bleached corners and dried pine. The air carried a faint hint of woodsmoke and distant candle wax.

His eyes flicked around the room.

Two plates sat drying on the rack near the sink. A pan. A single mug.

Everything was eerily spotless. Even he thought so- which is saying something.

He walked forward.

Cupboards opened, one after the other, doors swinging wide without urgency. The pantry still had some items. He hummed thoughtfully to himself.

Closets were opened. Linens. A sewing kit. A few jackets that didn’t belong to him. None of this mattered, but it amused him to look. Someone had worked hard to make this place feel like home again.

That just made it better.

He walked upstairs next, his footsteps measured and precise. Each room was opened and inspected. The main bedroom. Still blood on the mattress cover. Faint stains. Someone had scrubbed it raw. That kind of thing never really goes away, though.

He stood in the doorway for a long moment.

Then he turned around and went back down the stairs.

His pace didn’t falter as he crossed the living room and slid open the door to the garden. The air outside was fresh - heavy with damp earth and wild herbs. Sunlight spilled across the stone path, casting long shadows from the grapevines twisting along the trellis.

He stopped in front of the rainwater collectors.

His fingers flexed.

Then, with a sudden, deliberate shove, he knocked the first one over.

Water splashed across the patio, soaking into the cracks. He tipped the next one. And the next. Until they all lay spilled and useless.

He didn’t smile. He didn’t frown either. His face remained blank, almost detached. It wasn’t about rage.

It was about undoing.

He circled the back of the garage next. Found the wire that connected the generator to the villa. He knelt. Pulled a knife from his belt.

One clean slice.

The connection severed.

No lights. No fridge. No comfort.

Not yet done, he returned to the garden.

Rows of new vegetables - small, eager things - just beginning to break the soil. Little hopeful green shoots in uneven rows.

He stepped forward and planted his boot onto the first row.

Crushed it.

Then the second. The third. He walked slowly, methodically, across the garden bed, grinding his heel down into the soft earth, mashing the sprouts into nothing.

He stood there for a while after. Just breathing. Just watching.

Then he turned.

He walked back through the villa, slower this time. Unzipped his backpack as he moved toward the pantry. He took what he could - jars, cans, boxes, anything sealed or useful. Stuffed them into the bag until it bulged.

He glanced once toward the stairs - toward the room where she bled.

Then he walked to the front door.

Locked it behind him with the same key.

And left.

—//—

[winchesterdefender]

And Then There Were Three | Winchester Sister I

Summary - A baby shows up on the Winchester's doorstep, and their entire lives change.

Pairings/characters - John Winchester, Sam Winchester, Dean Winchester, Meg Winchester (OFC), Sam & Dean Winchester x little sister, John Winchester x daughter

Warnings - very mild cursing, John Winchester

Language - English (British)

Word Count - 3,096

Notes - This is the first instalment of the Winchester Sister series featuring my OFC Meg Winchester! Please be kind <3

Credits - dividers by the lovely @firefly-graphics

UPDATE - I have moved my writing to @winniewritesstories to make my writing easier to find than on this mess of a blog! I won't be taking this down but all future writing (for Meg and reader inserts) will be there!

Dean Winchester was strong. He was brave, and fierce. He fought monsters - has done his whole life, as long as he can remember. He liked to think he was unbreakable, invincible. The hits kept coming, and he kept taking them. Fear, pain, worry - he pushed it all down, kept it locked away. In some ways, he had a heart of ice. He never broke.

Dean Winchester was strong.

And then one day, just before he turned nineteen, a baby appeared on a motel doorstep. A baby who wasn't his, but was. Would always be. A baby in a pram, with a note addressed to John Winchester, a note that eased the fears this baby was his, but it would be his, really. John Winchester was never a father. Not to him, not to Sam, and therefore not to this baby.

It was early October, and already Maine was cold. Dean's breath clouded in front of him in the cool, dark night. A glance around the parking lot revealed nobody, no cars, nothing to indicate where this baby had come from. His first instinct was to bring the baby in from the cold, and he did, careful to fix the salt line the wheels of the pram disturbed.

The first thing that struck Dean was that this kid was definitely a Winchester. They were a carbon copy of baby Sammy, same little button nose and eyes, barely any hair gracing their head. A memory tugged at the corners of his mind, four years old and holding Sammy for the first time, his mom supporting Sam's head while dad took a picture. Still a kid with two parents but keenly aware of his responsibility, of how his centre of gravity had shifted from himself to his baby brother.

But his mom wasn't here now and Dean would have to support this baby's head on his own. And his dad hadn't taken pictures of his kids since Mary died. So his centre of gravity shifted again to the baby in the pram. Another of John Winchester's kids for Dean to raise. Part of him was angry, part of him defeated. Sammy was fourteen, able to look after himself now. Dean didn't have to worry about him in the same way - Sam fed himself, did his homework, all that crap. Dean had almost been free.

But he couldn't blame the baby. He didn't. It didn't ask for this. Didn't understand anything. Dean reached a hand down, pulled the little yellow blanket away from their face. It was small, smaller than Sammy had been, and not just because Dean was grown now and over six foot. Small in a way that told him this baby was young. Small in a way that put fear into him. Small in a way that made him desperate to protect them from the horrors and cruelty of their world.

He felt sick knowing he could never protect them from that. From their lives. This baby was a Winchester, which basically meant it was fucked.

The bathroom door opened, and Sam walked out.

"What is that?" he asks, damp hair curling against his forehead.

"A baby," Dean replies, still looking down at them.

"A what?" Sam asks incredulously, crossing the room to stand by his brother. He looked down and saw there was, in fact, a baby. "The hell did this come from?"

"Was on the doorstep. Came with this." Dean said, handing Sam the unopened letter addressed to their father.

"It's dad's?" Sam was having a hard time digesting all this. He had to admit, his first thought was it was Dean's. "Where even is he?"

"Bar, I think. Reckon he knows about it?"

"If he knew he had another kid out there, don't ya think he would've mentioned it?"

"Yeah, 'cos Dad's a real open book." Dean replied. Sam turned the envelope over and made to open. "What're you doing? Don't do that, is addressed to Dad."

"Figured this might give us some answers. Maybe a name for the mystery baby."

Dean snatched the letter from his brother. "We ain't reading this til Dad has."

"Is Dad dating anyone?" Sam asked. "He's never mentioned anyone."

Dean shrugged a shoulder. "Doubt Dad dates. Probably a one time thing."

"And after he gave me the safe sex talk. Hypocrite." Sam said. Dean shot him a pointed look but didn't say anything. After all, Sam wasn't wrong. Dean'd received the John Winchester safe sex talk, too (an uncomfortable memory).

As if summoned, the rumble of the Impala's engine and the beams of her headlights signalled their father's arrival. The brothers exchanged a look, knowing that a mystery baby showing up on their doorstep would not go down well with John Winchester. Dean didn’t know why, but he positioned himself in front of the pram, standing between the baby and the door John would walk through. Sam copied him.

The door opened and John walked in, stepping over the salt line. He nodded his head towards his sons, locking the door and shrugging off his leather jacket. He turned around; neither Sam nor Dean had moved, or even said anything.

"What?" he asked gruffly.

"Um, so something kinda... turned up. For you." Dean started. John cocked an eyebrow.

"This ain't exactly our forwarding address. What is it and how'd it get here?" John asked, heading to the fridge for a beer.

"Well... it's..." Dean figured it was easier to just show him, so he stepped to the side and motioned for Sam to do the same.

John nearly dropped his beer. He immediately fixed his gaze on Dean.

"What did you do?" he asked. Dean sighed. Why'd everyone assume it was his?

"It's yours," Sam said bluntly, taking the letter from Dean's hand and holding it out for him. "Showed up on the doorstep with this."

This time John did drop his beer.

The bottle smashed on the floor, glass and alcohol flying everywhere. The sudden noise startled the baby awake, and they promptly burst out crying. John reached for the letter, Sam for a broom, which left Dean with the baby.

He gently lifted them out of the pram, careful of their head. The yellow blanket fell away slightly, revealing a light pink romper underneath. Presumably a girl then. A little sister. Dean rocked them gently, the way he remembers his mother doing with Sam, quietly shushing to calm her down.

In his arms, he was again struck by how small she was. He held her easily in just two hands, one under her head, the other on her back. She opened her eyes then, wide and blue like all babies, taking in the motel room around them before settling on Dean's face.

"Hello, you," he whispered, unable to keep the smile off his face. "I'm your big brother." His heart clenched in his chest as he held her.

"What's the letter say?" Sam asks, knelt on the floor to pick up the glass. John was staring intently at the letter in his hands.

"It's from her mother. Says she can't look after a baby. Too young."

"Jesus, Dad. How young?" Sam asks. Dean groans inwardly. Not the time for this, Sam.

"What the hell are you trying to ask?" John fired back. "She was early twenties. Drinking age, anyway. I don't know why the hell she'd think I'm any more capable of this than she would be. How the hell'd she even find us?" Sam and Dean both shrugged. How were they to know?

"What's her name?" Dean asked, still swaying gently back and forth.

"Amanda something. Don't really remember, to be honest. It was two nights. The sex was alright, nothing special. Didn't exchange numbers."

Sam and Dean cringed. They did not need details.

"I meant the baby, Dad." Dean replied. John at least had the decency to look a little embarrassed.

"Right, of course. Says here..." He scanned the letter. "Margaret." Dean screwed up his nose. That's an old lady name. His little sister was going to be cool, and that couldn't happen with a name like Margaret.

"That's a terrible name for a baby," Dean said aloud, looking down at her. "She doesn't look like a Margaret."

"Meg March was actually a Margaret," Sam said. John and Dean looked at him, perplexed. "Little Women? Louisa May Alcott?" More blank stares. Sam just rolled his eyes.

"Meg." Dean repeats, squinting his eyes at the baby. It fit. "Meg Winchester."

"It doesn't matter what she's called," John said. "We ain't keeping it." Dean's head snapped up.

"What?" Dean asked incredulously.

"How the hell are we going to look after a baby, Dean?" John asked. "We don't have a house, or any baby supplies. We're always on the move. We're hunters, not nannies. I spent two nights with a woman a year ago and then a baby appears. Kid's probably not even mine anyway. We'll take her to a fire station or something."

Dean couldn't believe what he was hearing. They'd managed before. Sammy had been but six months old when they started hunting, and Dean - though he tried - hadn't been able to help out as much as he could now. This baby was family. Family is everything to the Winchester's.

"Course she's yours, Dad, look at her! She's a spitting image of Sammy as a baby. Besides, Sam was a baby and we raised him on the road. You can't just abandon her." Dean cried out.

"Maybe Dad is right, Dean. She'd be better off with a family - "

"We're her family! The three of us."

"A real family, with a mom, a dad, a house. She'd be normal, Dean, safe. We can't give her any of that!" Sam replied. True, he was projecting his own dreams onto a baby, but he had a valid point, or so he thought. All Dean heard, however, was that Sam didn't believe they were a real family.

"We are a real family, Sam. Just because we don't have a white picket fence, don't mean we ain't a real family. Besides, you really want this kid growing up in the system? Anything could happen to her!"

"Anything could happen to her here, Dean! All it takes is - is a spirit, or a pissed off monster out for revenge, and she-"

"But we can protect her from that. You think some civilian family would keep her safe if a monster decided to get revenge, Sammy? You have know idea what happens in the foster system. She could be abused, or trafficked, or-"

"Enough!" John snapped loudly, startling the baby again. He couldn't hear himself think. And he did need to think, long and hard, about what was best for them, and for the baby. Sam made a good point, of course, and God knows John's not equipped to look after a baby. But Dean was right, too. Anything could happen to her out there. "Sam, get me a beer."

Sam sighed but did as he was told. John walked over to Dean, who was gently rocking the baby to settle her after John's outburst. He looked at the baby for the first time, really looked at her. Dean was right; she was a carbon copy of baby Sam. And she was cute, too. Dean, admittedly, had been a funny looking baby, especially as a newborn, a squished face and large head he eventually grew into. But this baby - Meg, he reminded himself - was sweet looking, almost doll-like, with her pouty pink lips and button nose.

He and Mary had never talked about more kids - Sam had only been a baby when she died - but he'd always imagined them having one or two more, and he'd always wanted a little girl. Mary had, too, he had no doubt.

But Mary wasn't here, and this wasn't her baby. Part of him felt guilty, as though he'd been unfaithful, despite the fact she'd been dead almost fifteen years. John thought of his own father then, Henry, who'd taken off when John was only four, leaving him and his mother on their own. Even all these years later, he still felt bitter about it - bitter and hurt. Of course it hurt, knowing your own father didn't want you and took off into the night. And that's what he was about to do to this little girl. Her mother had already bailed. John was all she had left.

John, and his boys. Sam had kept his distance, almost wary of the baby in Dean's arms, but Dean - he was whipped. That was the only word for it. He was smiling softly down at her, cooing gently to soothe her. Deep down, John knew Dean would end up doing more for this baby than he ever could. But maybe that was a good thing. Dean wouldn't make the mistakes John did. Wouldn't leave her alone like he did, leave her to raise herself.

The guilt twisted in his gut like a knife, but he knew what he had to do.

"We'll keep her. It'll be safest for her. We'll... we'll make it work somehow. We'll have to." John said, placing a large, calloused hand gently on his daughter's head. Dean looked up at him with Mary's green eyes, raw hope etched onto his face.

"Yeah?" He asked softly. John nodded once, clapping his eldest son gently on the shoulder. Sam handed him a beer, then stood on Dean's other side.

"Can I hold her?" Sam asked. Dean looked reluctant to let her go.

"Be careful. She's really small and can't hold her head up on her own yet, so make sure you support it. Don't drop her, for God's sake." Dean rambled on as he gently shifted the infant into Sam's open arms, already fretting like a mother hen. John smiled softly at his children - all three of them.

Sam smiled at the baby, rocking her gently the way Dean had. "Hi, Meg. I'm gonna be your favourite big brother." He said. Dean rolled his eyes.

"No way, Sammy. I'm already her favourite."

"That's crap, she doesn't speak, can't even smile. You don't know that."

"Sure she can, she smiled at me just now."

"Yeah, that was gas, Dean. She farted on you." Sam replied, and Dean's smile faltered.

"Speaking of," Dean said, changing the conversation abruptly. "We're gonna need supplies. Diapers, a car seat, formula."

John nodded, moving to the pram that Meg had turned up in. There was a bag in the basket underneath the bassinet. John leafed through it quickly. "There's some stuff here," he said, holding up a muslin cloth and some diapers. "Enough for tonight, at least. We'll find somewhere in town tomorrow that sells baby stuff. Maybe pick up a book, too."

"A baby book?" Sam asked. "Why'd you need that?"

"It's been a long time since I did any of this, Sammy. Besides, I didn't do it on my own before, I was working a lot. Your mom... your mom looked after you guys most. Did all the hard stuff." John admitted quietly. The room fell into reverent silence the way it always did when someone brought up Mary. Sam didn't point out that he'd still been a baby when she died, and John had raised him for most of life alone. It didn't seem like the time. But a book seemed overboard, in Sam's opinion. How hard could a baby be?

Only a minute or so later, Sam's question was answered. Meg began fussing in his arms, quietly at first, but getting louder despite Sam's gentle shushing and swaying. When her cries turned to wails, he looked up at his father and brother, panic in his eyes. "I think I broke her."

It was Dean that stepped forward, plucking the baby from his arms. "You didn't break her," he assured Sam. John stepped up too, looking down at the infant whose fist she was trying to squeeze into her mouth.

"See how she's sucking her hand?" John spoke quietly. "Mean's she's hungry. C'mon Sam, I'll show you how to make a bottle. If I can work it out, that is."

Sam and John stepped away to prepare the formula. Dean watched them as he swayed the baby. "It's okay, princess. Daddy and Sammy will get you some food."

Dean watched his father, usually so confident and self assured in everything he did, falter at almost every step. Checking the instructions on the formula, then checking again. Rinsing a bottle and filling it with hot water. Hands hesitant, unsure of what they were doing. Hands that could assemble a shot gun in under a minute, but seemed to tremble as he shook the bottle. Testing the temperature on his palm, his wrist, then his wrist again. He had no idea how warm it should be.

Although it was strange to see John so unsteady, Dean found it strangely... comforting. Humanising, perhaps. He pictured briefly John doing the same thing for him as a baby, the unsure hands of a first time father. Pictured his mom along side, walking him through each step.

John handed the formula to Dean. "You gonna do it?" he asked. Dean nodded. He didn't want to relinquish the baby, even though John hadn't even held her yet. Although, he'd made no move to hold her either. John talked him through it, how to hold the bottle, at what angle, as best he could remember.

Dean paced slowly around the small living space of their motel room with his sister in his arms. Sam had pulled out some homework, John writing something in his journal, beer in hand. But for Dean, it was just him and his sister in the world. Hell, his sister was his world now.

Dean Winchester was strong.

But he could feel his heart thawing out for the baby in his arms. He knew he needed to be strong for her, yet he'd never felt so weak. The fear of what could happen to her, the need to keep her safe, was almost overwhelming. Was this parenthood?

The love, too, he supposed was overwhelming. The kind that made his heart clench, made him want to fix the world for her and burn it down at the same time. The kind he'd kill and die for.

And somehow, despite everything he'd seen and done in only eighteen years, this was the scariest thing he'd encountered to date. He kept it together for her. He was strong. He had to be.

He's Dean Winchester.

[abiatackerman]

The days we've waited for

Event: @levievent "Levi Month 24"

🤍Day 19: Post-war: Marriage🤍

Canon universe! Postwar Levi Ackerman X Reader! Slight Angst! Fluff! Cozy wedding! Sweet Romance! 1K Words!

🤍🤍🤍🤍🤍🤍🤍🤍🤍🤍🤍🤍🤍🤍🤍🤍

People say "Good days always come after the bad ones" but Levi never believed it. From his birth until the "War of Heaven and Earth", his life was mostly bad.... No, "bad" is not the right word to express the days. He should use "traumatising, painful, terrifying" because they sound more appropriate. All he experienced was cruelty, all he saw was his comrades friends and family dying.....

But it seems like people were right after all....

He sighs looking at the mirror in front of him. He's wearing nothing but a casual black suit with a casual shirt. Casual shoes, pants and as usual his cravat. You insisted on it.... You didn't want Levi to wear anything which would make him feel uncomfortable.

Right.... It's you after all who's probably the only person in this world who cares about his "comforts".

And today is the day he's getting married to you....

To the woman he only loved, to the woman who supported him throughout his whole cruel life.

He sighs and rolls the wheel of his chair to move it where he kept "The" box. "The" box where he gathered all of his comrades (as much as he could) badges. He rumbles through the box trying to find out the badges written Erwin and Hange's names behind them.

He still remembers how annoyed he was with Erwin for putting you in his squad, how pissed he used to get whenever Hange would ship you two.

But now, he wishes he could thank them properly. He wishes he could see Erwin's gentle chuckle and hear Hange's loud yapping....

They would have felt so happy if they could have attended this marriage. Hange probably would have cheered so loudly that all the guests would have felt annoyed by her screaming.

He caresses the badges and puts them in his pocket. He smiles a little.

He will now feel that Hange and Erwin are just with him. Along with Furlan and Isabel. Also his mother since his cravat is made of her clothes.....

He moves his wheelchair towards the door and sees Armin opening it.

"Oh captain, you're ready? Everyone's waiting."

He says gently as he starts to guide Levi's wheelchair to the aisle. He's gonna be Levi's main man at this ceremony. You suggested it, knowing he sees Erwin in Armin, and he will never deny it.

Armin stops and places Levi's chair on the stage where the priest is waiting. He smiles gently at Levi and Levi nods. He looks around and his face softens noticing the whole arrangement. Everything is white, decorated with flowers only. Simple and gentle like it's nothing special but still there's a vibe which can calm everyone's nerves down.

The brats worked hard.

He was about to thank Armin but stops as one of your friends starts to play violin. Just like Levi you wanted this marriage to be cozy and simple. Not too many people, just you and him, and both of your loved ones. But that's not what Levi is thinking about.

His mind goes blank as he sees you in the white dress. In your wedding dress. Nothing too gorgeous but you're looking like an angel in it. The flower crown on your head just makes you look prettier. As soon as you see him you smile widely like a kid and Levi can't help but chuckles too.

He thought you would leave him. No, he wanted you to leave him. You are beautiful, physically capable and a woman who deserves someone better than him. He kinda feared you're gonna leave him but to his surprise you yourself proposed to him, saying you want to spend your whole life annoying him, spending time with him.

He takes a deep breath as you release your dad's hand and walk towards Levi. Gabi hands you Levi's ring and Falco hands Levi yours. As the priest asks if he's willing to take you as his wife he vulnerably answers yes but your response was so fast and immediate like you couldn't wait anymore. Everyone laughed.

As the priest addressed you both husband and wife and you two change your rings. You immediately sit on Levi's lap, cup his face and kiss him as gently as possible. Finally losing your emotions you start to cry like a baby and Levi's eyes start to tear up too.

"Shut up, doll. You're making it look like I've forced you to do this. You're making me look like a bad person."

He says in a soft voice and pats your back as you sob.

"I'm just so happy! Can you imagine? No more fighting, no more sacrifices, no more deaths, no more life risks. Everything from now on is me and you! Us! I can't believe it!!!!!"

You hug him still sitting on his lap and buries his face in your hair. Sighing contently he speaks softly.

"Shouldn't we cut the cake? Everyone's waiting. And it's already weird that the bridegroom is in a wheelchair, don't make it weirder by keep crying and sitting on this damn wheelchair during your whole marriage day."

Levi says teasingly and you smile slyly and lean towards him more to whisper in his ears.

"We will make love in this damn chair tonight! And no, I won't hear any excuses. I'm your wife form now on so you'll have to listen to me."

You say smugly and stand up as everyone starts to calp with soft smiles on their faces.

"Who's gonna clean up the messes?"

He asks, squeezing your hand and looking at the crowd.

"Me. Don't worry I'll treat you like a princess from now on just like you used to treat me. I'll make you happy just like you will make me happy too."

Seriously, life can't get any better.....

[pennyserenade]

lay down my body | raymond leon x reader

summary | after a disastrous event, you find your favorite timekeeper at your door. rating | (explicit) tags/warnings | explicit smut, light degradation, sort of toxic dynamic, power imbalance, dirty talk, oral (female receiving). word count | 2k+ a/n | not beta'd because i just wanted to write something because i haven't in a hot minute.

Raymond brackets your face between his hands, his eyes glacial, his lips pressed into an unimpressed line of dissatisfaction as he examines you. An ugly surge of desire forms in your lower belly as his calloused fingers brush against the bruised skin around your eye.

“Stupid girl,” he admonishes. The warm timbre of his voice draws a lick of want through your aching body, mean as it is. You grab onto his wrists, pushing them away from your face.

“I told you not to come tonight,” you say.

“I come when I please,” he says, indignant.

Tuesday night found you desperate, fighting as you never had before while the minutes on your arm dwindled down to seconds. An angry part of you wants to punish Raymond, to look at him with your bruised flesh and say, “What was I supposed to do, wait for you?” but you’re half afraid he’ll say something infinitely more unkind. He does that sometimes: punishes your cruelty with a form of violence you hadn’t known existed until you started to care for him. He has spent too long not looking after anyone but himself, so it is a self-preserving form of affection he administers.

This man doesn’t seem to know the totality of borrowed time—not with the way he turns your head in his hands again, looking over bits of you he’s already seen. You try not to tell him he’s wasting time, but it’s hard—you feel the full measure of a minute every time it goes by, and hate to spend it like this.

“I worked harder last week so I could have this night off,” you grumble, despite yourself. You push his hands away from you again, this time more firmly.

His jaw tenses. The irritation has begun to set in the crevices of his wearied soul.

“You don’t want me to go and I suggest you stop pretending you do. I might just do it, and then you’ll have a lot more than some common thug on the street to worry about.”

He nudges your arm pathetically, the green clock slowly ticking away on it. You despise the way he holds his favors over you. No matter how snug he’s got you under his thumb, he won’t ever receive your blind submission. In a flare of anger, you knock past him and head to the none too lavish bed. Bending over it, you look back to him expectantly.

“What are you doing?” he says.

You raise an eyebrow - a daring challenge. “Thought I better give you what you want before—“

Raymond rushes across the room like he’s forgotten the luxury of his long, sure minutes. Taking your arm in his hand, he tugs you upward with the sheer force of his anger. His fingers grip onto your chin; you watch as a dangerous fire alights within him. “Better not do that, kitten,” he huffs, voice steady even despite the evident anger etched in his features. He presses your body into his own, the grip on your arm beginning to ache.

“You’re hurting me,” you tell him softly.

He loosens his hold on you, but not his vitriol. “If you want to be fucked like a common whore, just ask for it. No need to suggest that I’m some kind of…creep when you know I’m angry because I—“

His words trail off, all that meaning floating in the air between you. Because I care. To him, that’s more dangerous than stolen time.

You soften, putting your hand on top of his. “I don’t want you to worry.”

“Who says I do? You’re nothing to me. Not really,” he responds coolly.

You run your tongue over your teeth, observing him, watching the carefully designed face of neutrality staring back at you. His indifference is a cruelty.

“We’re running out of time,” you remind.

He looks down at your arm. Two minutes. With lips pursued, he looks back at your eyes. You see the wheels turning in his head, all that careful calculating. Of all the things he is, and he is many, clever was not what you expected. But he is clever. You wish he would use it for better.

“You think I make you earn your life,” he enunciates, a tinny quality infecting his voice, “so earn it.”

There’s a sick pleasure that you derive from the lack of emotion in his eyes. You want him so badly it confuses you. There’s an ugly thing that exists inside of you and it wants, wants, wants him. He feeds it. It’s the same thing that makes you bend back over the bed, fingers gripping the comforter, your ass high. Beneath your dress, you wear a flimsy excuse for underwear.

You feel the bulk of him behind you. He smells of leather and sandalwood. If you close your eyes, you can remember what desire looks like on him. There’s heat in your belly that doesn’t simmer as you listen to him take a step closer.

He leans over and knocks your hands from beneath you, forcing you to lie on the bed. The cool of his leather ensemble against the warmth of your skin is an enthralling contrast. “Keep your wrist down,” he demands, voice low and sultry. “We’re gonna play a game, whore.”

Whore. The word causes a confusing pool of desire to gather between your legs. You want to punch him in the mouth. He’s never called you that before. But you like how the grit of the word sounded in his throat. You like how he takes charge. You always have. Every desperate person wants a God, and there’s something comforting about the way he tells you to kneel at his altar.

With your cheek pressed to the mattress, your cheap makeup rubbing off on the shoddy comforter, you await his next move like a prisoner awaits death. Anticipation courses through you as you listen to the sound of his voice, the rustle of his movements, feeling the ghost of him against you as he plots your demise.

“I’ll give you your beloved time, baby,” he coos, his fingers resting on your hips. They squeeze at your flesh there greedily, a warning for what is to come. His nose brushes against your neck, his breath hot against you as he says, “But you’re going to have to cum first. Not a second before. I think you can do that, can’t you? Because despite your pissy attitude, I know just how wet you get for me. And there’s the matter of life and death too. Everyone’s a whore when it comes down to seconds.”

He presses his lips to the back of your neck, moving down your body gradually. Eventually, you feel the ghost of his breath on your nearly exposed ass. Raymond wastes no time drawing up your dress.

“Spread your legs further,” he instructs. You do, eyebrows drawing together as his fingers grope at the flesh of your ass. There are angry imprints no doubt forming as he hums in delight.

“You’re just as wet as I thought you’d be.” His finger ghost downwards, rubbing over your clothed cunt. You can feel the desire that coats your underwear as he presses down. If you weren’t so turned on, you’d be humiliated by the way your body wants him.

Pulling aside the fabric of your flimsy underwear, he presses open mouthed kisses on your ass cheeks. His teeth glide dangerously across the skin too, until he reaches your cunt; when he reaches there, he dives in, his tongue plunging in the warmth of you while two of his fingers rub against your clit.

This is new, and would hardly be a punishment at all if not for the fact that your clock is running out and you can’t see it. Raymond eats at you like a man starved, the slick of his salvia lubricating you better than your own want. He moves his fingers furiously, grunting into you when you dare to push back into him for more.

“Stay still,” he demands gruffly, taking his mouth off of you. You comply, hard as it is to do when he’s touching you like this. “I know you’re close, baby. You’re gonna come on my tongue, aren’t you? Like the good little whore you are for me?”

His tongue swipes through your folds again, lapping up your combined fluids as his fingers press down with more intent on your clit. You fight with everything in you not to move. Your grip on the bedspread tightens and you huff quietly into the mattress, the tension boiling up inside of you. He could split you open right now and you’d thank him for it.

“Ray—” you moan. His nose edges against your cunt as his lips wrap around your clit, sucking obscenely. You can’t stop the way the orgasm takes you, nor do you want to; it’s overwhelming, a thing that happens all through you. Every sense is heightened. When he moans against your cunt, you nearly shatter against him.

He yanks you down quickly, pulling your limp body back on top of him. Before you’ve got time to figure out what he’s doing, he’s flipping over your arm. The green fluorescent numbers tick away. 55 seconds. 54 seconds. He sheds his leather jacket, exposing his forearm. You close your eyes when he holds it over yours. He cradles your jaw with his other hand, an oddly intimate act.

When he moves his arm off of you, you open your eyes. You don’t look at how much time he’s gifted you, but at him. His face of neutrality is all broken up before you, lips smooth with your slick, cheeks red from his own want. Even his eyes betray him as they glance down at you.

You’ve frightened each other. It's intoxicating. You feel the thrum of your heart beating against your chest. He struggles to catch his breath.

Raymond presses his lips to yours in a furious kiss. His hand tilts your head for easier access, and you push up, moving yourself further up his body.

“Not so tough now,” he growls. His fingers pinch at your chin.

You lick your lips, which now taste of you, rolling your eyes up at him. “Doesn’t seem like you are either.”

He grunts in displeasure, running his calloused thumb lightly against your wet lip. “You just want to be fucked dumb, don’t you?”

You turn your wrist. 2 days he’s given you, which is about 24 hours more than usual. The hunger for him makes you ravenous as you consider what he’s just said to you. You ignore it in favor of something more substantial: asking why.

“You don’t usually carry that much time with you.”

He shrugs his shoulders. “One of my little birdies told me about what happened to you.”

“So, what—you gave me some more time to be robbed of as a solution?”

He shakes his head, slightly annoyed. “No. I gave you more time so I could keep you here and show you how and where you should be spending it.” His fingers dip below the collar of your dress. “Stop being a fucking brat.”

“I never liked being told what to do,” you murmur as his thumb skirts over your nipple. He watches your eyes grow heavy as he swirls his finger over it.

“And yet,” he smirks, nodding down to your body.

You mirror his smirk, knowing he’s right. Even if you’ve got something of a paltry life, things like this can still happen, and that’s something, isn’t it? Knowing that things - people - like him, even in all the cruelty, can still rescue you.

Your fingers reach up and run over the pout of his lips. As your eyes search each other’s, you come to a silent agreement: a pledge to care. It’s a stupid, foolish flash of sentimentality you see before it’s masked again by your own respective desires and lust.

It’s almost as good as the time he’s given you—almost as good as all the time he could ever give you.

[ultravi0lence14]

BACK TO THE HEDGEROWS WHERE BODIES ARE MOUNTED

DEAN WINCHESTER X READER

warnings: blood/gore, murder, violent and gruesome descriptions

SHRIKE TO YOUR HEART — 1.2k

the impala rumbled down the dirt road, the dense forest of minnesota blanketing the old car. dean’s fingers clutched onto the steering wheel, body shifting in his seat. through all of his years of hunting, he’s seen a lot, been through a lot. yet the feeling he felt deep in his bones was an unsettling thing he never felt before.

unease crawled through his chest like an unwanted spider web, weaving a feeling of dread and lingering fear that he prided himself in never having felt before. through the corner of his eye, he could see sam’s raw bitten fingers; a sign that his brother felt the same.

this case had shocked the brothers to their core, gruesome scene’s still playing behind their eyes. dean convinced sam it was a demon doing the killings, but honestly, there was no supernatural explanation for this level of cruelty and violence.

over the past month, three bodies had been found in the same manor; deer antlers protruding through both the victim’s hands, another pair nicely placed through the stomach. sam had gotten sick the first time he and dean had seen a body in person, and dean was convinced if they saw it again, some bile would be rising up his own throat.

even as he parked the impala in front of the decrepit cabin — the macabre foundation every townsfolk pointed fingers towards when sam and dean asked questions, dean still felt that looming sense of dread. the urge to spin the car around and get as far away from the cabin was strong, and dean felt his hands itching to do so. something was off, and he didn’t like the feeling of it.

looking over at his younger brother, dean caught sam’s eye, a silent conversation going between the two men. words such as ‘i’ll protect you’ and ‘no one get’s hurt’ drifted through the eyes of the two brothers like a prayer, their devotion to each other staying strong in moments like this.

with a silent nod, the two brothers got out of the car, both of their hands reaching for their guns in their waistbands. the closer they got to the structure, the more dean felt the material of his leather jacket tighten to his skin, an uncomfortable ire breaking through his pores.

boots crunching underneath the foliage, dean’s feet felt heavy, the wind blowing around the cabin leaving leering creaks to his ears. the whole atmosphere was eerie, and the only outcome that could finalize this hunt was something gruesome.

“dean?” the hesitant sound of sam’s voice shocked dean out of his reverie. it was like the forest took hold of him, shackling him to it’s roots for the smallest of seconds. the mere uncomfortable canter of sam’s face was palpable, and dean felt himself inching closer to his brother the more his brows furrowed.

“what’s wrong, sammy?” dean asked, voice laced with unease that seemed to stem from the foundation of the cabin. sam just shook his head, eyes flitting around like something — or someone, was going to jump out at him any minute. “i don’t know,” he admitted, shuffling his hands together. “something just doesn’t seem right.”

“nothing about this case seems right,” dean admitted, palms getting sweaty against his gun. “but we just need to push through. for the towns people’s sake.”

in his entire life, sam had never looked more uncomfortable. his 6’4 stature looking like it wasn’t meant for his soul. “don’t you think this seems like a case we should hand over to the police?” sam admitted, hands noticeably shaking. “i mean, these seem more like human made murders than anything supernatural.”

dean’s exterior stayed stoic, but a part inside of him paled. sam wasn’t wrong; this case didn’t seem inherently supernatural. but something about it was off, and dean was always one to want to get to the bottom of things.

“we’ll be fine, sammy.” dean assured, softly resting his hand on his brothers shoulder. “this one might be weird, but i’ve got your back. if anything happens, we’ve got each other.”

sam nodded, that same hollow feeling still rumbling in his gut. whatever was behind that cabin door wasn’t going to be pretty, and sam wasn’t sure if he was fully prepared to withstand whatever it was going to give him.

moving away from sam and towards the cabin, dean took four deep breaths, feet rustling against leaves before hitting the wooden porch steps. the bark groaned, a loud rumble that sent dread through the veins of the only living creatures in the woods.

reaching the rotted door, dean turned his head to sam, waiting for the uncomfortable and strained look to leave his brothers face. but it never did, and at that moment, dean knew that this was going to be a case neither he or sam forgot.

four more deep breaths later, and dean swung the door open, his gun propped upwards and ready for battle. what he wasn’t expecting was the massacre in front of him, and the wheezed inhale of breath behind him meant sam was one second away from hitting the rotted earth.

surrounding the walls of the cabin were bodies, mutilated to no avail. there had to be no more than 10 corpses hanging on the walls, and each was in different stages of decay.

the only similarity the bodies had were that each were hung by antlers, the sharp and dagger like antenna’s seem to be nailed to the wall, each body rammed through the pointy end like a marshmallow on a wooden dowel.

each had one antler through the stomach, with various antler’s poking out their hands, feet, legs, and any part of the body that the killer could get their hands on. dean felt sam leave behind him, quickly walking towards the impala for a much needed break.

dean couldn’t move, his eyes too focused on the girl slouched in the middle of the room. she wore a dress of pure doves white, yet dean couldn’t really tell bc it was heavily stained in devil’s crimson. her feet were bare, cut and muddy and attached to legs that were curled into the girls body.

her head was bowed inward towards the floor, hiding her face from dean’s eyes. yet from where he was standing, he could see the streaks of vermillion coated on her hair and cheeks.

throat raw and scratchy, dean dropped his gun, approaching the girl with fingers out like a battling ghoul.

“hey,” he whispered, kneeling down near the girls head. “are you okay? what happened?”

the silence was deafening, and all dean could hear was the heavy breaths puffing through his lips and the pacing feet of sam outside by the car.

a whisper the length of a breath broke through the air, and dean had to strain to hear the scratch that was the mystery girls voice. “the man,” she broached, voice raw. “the man was here. the man he left me.”

dean’s brows furrowed, and he found himself hounding into this girl more than he should. “what man? did he do all of this?”

still not looking up, the girl continued to moan a scratched concerto. “i wasn’t good. he said i was no good. so he left me. left me with his mess. why am i no good?”

at this she lifted her head, and dean’s breath hitched at the blood caking the girls porcelain skin. her eyes, what dean could tell used to be bright with life, weighing heavily with the weight of what she presumably witnessed.

dean was breathless, and he couldn’t help the gasp that left his lips as the girl slumped against his chest, passed out cold.

TAGS: @starzify @titsout4jackles @deansbeer @sacr1ficialang3l @fawncried @bluemerakis @beausling @deanswidow @h8aaz @littlesoulshine @honeyryewhiskey @tinas111 @hvnlygrl @thesevnthseal @soldiersgirl @cowboysandcigarettes @rositaslabyrinth @losers-clvb @shypilled @sunsbaby @deanspookiebear

NAT BABBLES: very hannibal season one 🙂‍↕️