#white rug with a touch of elegance

[bondsofeveryonessouls]

Music Room in Vancouver Inspiration for a sizable transitional living room renovation that includes a music area, gray walls, and no television

[madamechrissy]

Arranged Husband Sylus - headcanons/taglist

pairings - Sylus x f! reader

MDNI- NSFW- You are arranged married to the powerful Sylus, just how will that go? Arranged marriage trope, a lil bit enemies to lovers, oral (f recieving) light angst, explicit sex, Sylus calling you Kitten, consent asking ofccc, talking you through it, getting fucked on his desk, getting 'tied up', breed kink - heavy breed kink- going to be part of a much larger fic <3 This wc- 3k

Full long oneshot here (11k)

Arranged Husband Sylus can't take just how beautiful you are when you step up in that pretty silk white dress, he had seen a picture of his bride to be, but in person you make his heart race. You meet his gaze, and you can hardly stand how beautiful he was, beautiful and dangerous, the leader of Onychinus, your groom to be. He stands tall and elegant in that blood red suit of his, matching those insane eyes. You eye his shoulder, where a mechanical crow sits, blinking in confusion, clutching your bouquet of flowers in your hands while you step down the altar, marrying a man you've never actually met.

Arranged Husband Sylus glares when you say 'what's a crow doing here?' offended you'd dare to refer to his crow in such a way! He already doesn't like your attitude, even though you're drop dead gorgeous, when you step in front of him, in a room scattered with just a few people, who have made today happen. Sylus, the richest man there is, and one of the most powerful, needed the 'perfect bride' which you suppose you are on paper. But in person? 'don't disrespect Mephisto' his deep, raspy voice makes your tummy clench. 'Now, on with the wedding, you're late' you gasp at his audacity- 'I am not late, I'm on time!' 'hmm' is all you hear in response, as the two of you are soon bound, forever.

Arranged Husband Sylus does not carry you over the threshold of his beautiful mansion, no he simply opens the door, sighing and shaking his head, carrying in your suitcases and handing them to two men there, as you eye the splendid manor before you. 'follow me' he says, so unceremoniously, you do just that, while two men wearing masks observe you quietly, adding to the eerie nature of this red and black interior. You eye the ceilings, watching Mephisto fly, cawing at you as if to let you know Sylus is his, you swear that's what he's thinking, you're so distracted you bump into Sylus's chest, making his jaw clench, catching you by your bare shoulders, while your hands touch his strong chest, feeling his hearbeat increase rapidly. 'pay attention, or you'll get lost' you sigh, now he's gripping a wrist, leading you to past enormous paintings, elaborate seats, a roaring fireplace where the crow perches, pausing only to grab a bottle of wine and two glasses.

Arranged Husband Sylus soon shows you what is to be your room as well, and you gulp nervously, as what you are about to do hits you. Surely, having Sylus in bed would be nothing to complain about, he's absolutely gorgeous, but... it's for a duty. To bring him an heir, and nothing else. He surely wouldn't want this... right? you watch him while he pours two glasses, eyeing the four poster bed with the black canopy, the bearskin rugs under your now bare feet, when you take off your heels, wincing at the relief. He raises a brow at you, handing you a glass then, leaning against another ridiculous fireplace. 'How many fireplaces do you need, hmm?' he smirks at you, taking a sip of the wine, just a bit dripping down the corner of his mouth like a drop of blood, you watch his tongue lap it off, and can barely hold yourself together from it. 'you're just mad you don't have as many' you laugh then, shaking your head, sipping the wine. 'no, and let's... get on with it tonight, yes?'

Arranged Husband Sylus sputters a bit - 'get on with it?' you nod shyly, sipping wine far too quickly, making him glare. 'do you know what vintage that is, you are supposed to savor it' you gulp the rest down to his anger, licking at your own lip, making his thoughts go haywire. He was furious he'd been forced to take a bride, to 'settle down' if you will, to make heirs, but when your glaring little eyes hit him, quite like the angry kitten he describes you as, something heats up in his gut. He gulps down his now as well, eyes trailing down your body, eager to see every pretty inch, when you cross your arms under pretty breasts. 'I know what I'm here for, let's not pretend with each other, right?' you amuse him then, fuck you're... adorable, all feisty and acting as if you know what to do, when he can see your breasts rising and falling with your nerves, tempting him with every breath.

Arranged Husband Sylus arches a thin brow, smirking down at you now, murmuring - 'oh, do you know what to do tonight, Kitten?' you roll your eyes, nodding and undoing the silk ties of your gown, letting it fall and revealing the deep red lingerie underneath, momentarily making Sylus lose his mind at how delectable you look. 'I'm not a kitten, you... crow' he's laughing then, throwing his head back, before he steps closer, closer, pushing you back until your knees hit the back of the enormous bed, looming over you. His huge hands grip your waist, before he unceremoniously hoists you up, letting you bounce on the bed as he lays on top of you in mere seconds, gripping your delicate wrist with a huge hand, teeth glinting with his grin. 'you scared, kitten?' 'no! and stop... calling me that I...' he slams his lips on yours, plump and sweet from wine, shutting you up firmly.

Arranged Husband Sylus leans over you, lips parted in a sigh, watching how you look under him, lips swollen from his kisses, eyes blown out from just that. He leans up on an arm and a knee now, hand trailing across your breast, gripping it and eliciting a slutty little moan, making him ache for you. 'wear this just f'me, hmm?' he's brushing a thumb over your nipple through the thin lace, before leaning down, tongue lapping at it. 'Ah!' your cry of pleasure makes him harder, need gnawing at him for his new bride, shocking him with the intensity, while his hand trails your stomach, making it tense before it hits your lacy panties. 'fuck, you're that soaked already, sweetie?' you're dripping and stick when he peels them down your thighs, slowly, bit by bit, exhaling as he sees your perfect cunt. 'she's pouring out, isn't she?' 'n-no she's... not I ... ah!' he's grinning. 'how cute...'

Arranged Husband Sylus barely fingers your slick cunt, sucking your juices off one of them, defined cheeks hollowing with the action. 'you taste so sweet for such a brat' you want to pop off another remark, but you're too sensitive, gripping his expensive dress shirt, wishing it were off him suddenly. 'we should... consummate this, get it over with, right? my duty...' you murmur, and he pauses, shaking his head then. 'your duty... yet you're this wet, tsk... are you sure that's what this is?' you blink rapidly when he kisses down your stomach, your pussy so wet just his finger flicking up and down it is embarrassingly loud. 'listen to her' his sharp teeth are nipping your inner thigh, you scream out. 'Sylus... you're... we...' your mind can't comprehend the desire filling you. 'Can't speak, can you? from just this? ah... thought you had a little more fight, so pathetic already f'me?' you're scowling as he grins like a smug jerk, and you want to call him that, but you are at loss for words.

Arranged Husband Sylus who practically purrs like a damn cat himself when he spreads your thighs in a fluid motion, chuckling a bit as they tremble, his fingers pressing into the plush of your thighs, breath ghosting over your eager cunt. 'W-what are you...' Sylus looks up at you with those crimson eyes, so dilated they're black, silvery lock falling just so over his brow. 'I like to play with my food, just a bit sweetie' you blink a bit then, 'your food!?' he's smirking as he laps his tongue on your inner thigh, your hips jerk up for more without you even knowing, earning his soft, husky groan. 'yes, I enjoy to toy with my meal'

Arranged Husband Sylus swipes his long tongue up your slit then, and your hands grip his silky locks without thinking, nails pressing against his scalp, making him throb for you. 'Kitten does have claws, huh?' your answer gets stuck in your throat and turns into a throaty moan as he spreads your lips, peering at the little hole drooling arousal, his breaths heavier and heavier. 'w-what are you... d-doing?' he smiles against your pussy now, teeth right against your entrance, shoving your thighs even further apart - 'just as I said, playing with my food before I eat it'

Arranged Husband Sylus devours your pussy then, drinking you up with the lewdest noises, he's pressing his cock against that elegant bed spread under his slacks, precum dripping from his reddened tip while you pour all over his face. Your hands grip even tighter, while he laps at your cunt, fucking his tongue into your soppy entrance, while you scream out, forgetting just who he is and who you are even. This is not what you ever heard of, of being married and baring his heir, when his glowing red eyes shoot up at you, and his tastebuds delve against your gummy walls, you feel it, pressure building, tummy tensing, he sees you holding back, leaning up now. 'don't fight it, kitten, let go.

Arranged Husband Sylus watches as your eyes roll back, slipping two long, elegant fingers deep in your cunt and curling, his other hand pressing down on your tummy, picturing filling you, making him fucking feral. 'That's it, don't fight it- bratty kitten' he's curling those fingers right on your spot, and when he flicks his tongue on your engorged clit, you're gushing all over, pulsing around his digits when you shatter, orgasm rushing through you. You blink, gasping and disoriented when he has your wrists bound by red, swirling energy above your head. 'you're claws hurt just a bit, and I'm not finished yet. Look how much you came for me, you can listen' you're bound under him then, when he shoves your thighs up further. 'Too much! mnh!'

Arranged Husband Sylus can't stop his grin when you cum again with a mere few flicks of his tongue, and you eye him between your thighs, flushing when you realize his chin is glistening from you. 'So easy, aren't you?' you scoff, shaking your head and he parts your lips, just breathing on your clit and watching it twitch, feeling you writhe in pleasure under him, moaning. 'Oh... g-get up here!' he's smirking as he slides up your body, still in his damn slacks, pressing his thick length against you. 'Need something, kitten?' you glare, just making you cuter really, grinding up your hips now 'w-we need to make heirs... we...' Sylus is off you now, making you feel so empty, and stands suddenly, eyeing your naked body longingly, releasing your wrists, still fully fucking clothed damn near, just his jacket gone. 'Sylus, aren't we supposed to-' he shakes his head, walking over to his night stand, picking up that glass of red wine.

Arranged Husband Sylus takes a sip, as you try to compose yourself, and he's got the smuggest smirk on his face. 'We'll do that when you want to, not because you have to' his words make you blink rapidly, heart still racing. You want to. But he's already bending down, tilting your chin up just a bit, sipping that glass with his plump lips. 'Open, sweetie, let's see if you can listen' you do as he commands, and he sips the wine, pouring it down into your mouth as he kisses you, you drink the sweet red wine down your throat, mixing with your own taste, your thighs clench when the tall man straightens, brushing your hair back. 'I have to be gone for a week, I expect you to have my answer when I come back' you frown now, asking- 'answer?' - when he heads to the door, heels clicking on the polished marble, turning his head to look back at you. 'mmhmm'

Arranged Husband Sylus has Kieran and Luke, the two giant masked men, constantly watching you the week he's gone, if you have to leave the house, they follow you, if you have to do anything, they're there. At first annoying the shit out of you, eventually you tolerate them, asking sly questions about just who Sylus was. You angrily call him - hearing his sigh as he picks up - 'What is it?' you scoff at him. 'So friendly' Sylus rolls his red eyes. 'I'm in a bit of a bind, can this be brief?' You roll your own eyes now. 'Why are these two bozos following me everywhere!?' You hear their indignation and Sylus' chuckle 'Hey!' they both cross their arms at you, you just stick out your tongue. 'because, you're my wife, and you need protection' 'I can protect myself-' Sylus hangs up, leaving you to glare... but you find yourself touching your clit that night, remembering his mouth.

Arranged Husband Sylus comes back and is in his pristine, ostenaceous office, aglow with soft lights as he sits at his enormous desk, bent over elaborate screens he's touching. His gaze meets yours, and you see his soft gray shirt shows a body you're dying to see more of, making your throat dry. 'did you decide, kitten?' he asks softly, for once just a little less smug, standing and leaning over the desk, you shut the office door with a click, heart racing as you step up to him. 'yes, I have'

Arranged Husband Sylus has everything shoved off his desk moments later, his shirt slid half up his body, your dress shoved over your hips, kissing you eagerly over and over. 'are you sure?' he asks again, when you're stroking his long, veiny cock, pussy drooling down the polished magogony beneath you. 'I want it' at your words he presses his tip inside you, so deep, you're gasping as you feel it, stretching and filling you, when his hand entwines with yours over your head, he fucks you against that desk, you're spasming around his girthy length. 'f-fuck... feel her, she's taking me so well, huh?' he's whispering, crying out in your ear when he's buried his face against your neck, your nails dig into his back, so fucked out already you can't function, whining out, head slamming the desk screaming - 'Sylus!'

Arranged Husband Sylus fucks into you harder and harder, until he finally busts so deep in you, that it coats every inch of your walls, breathing heavy as he lays over you, so much unspoken between the two of you. That night he's in your room, fucking you again, this time with you on your tummy, wrapping his long arms around you, fucking one load of cum out, just to pour another, and you're seeing stars, all you can keep whispering is his name, over and over. The next morning you're riding him on top, his hands on your waist, tits bouncing against his face, even at breakfast in the immaculate banquet hall, he's lapping your pussy up, murmuring 'kitten' ignoring the servants who walk in and out, merely making him more apt to feast on your perfct cunt, while he drinks his own cum out of you.

Arranged Husband Sylus makes you both question... is this more? Is it convenience, amazing sex... but when his ruby eyes glow while he's got you folded in a mating press, and he's insane and feral, the two of you falter. What is this feeling? Sylus can't take it, how sexy you are bent in half 'so small compared to me, huh? could break you, sweetie' you're past trying to care, to glare or make remarks, Sylus is huge and his heavy weight just makes you feel so small, helpless, while his cock splits you apart. 'ready for me to breed you, huh? fill you up-make you so full of me?' you're clinging to him, cunt drooling down the sheets, wet sounds and skin smacking filling Sylus' bed chamber. 'I asked a question, sweetie' you're biting your lip now, making him pause, chuckling 'you just don't listen, do you?' gripping your throat and letting your thighs fall. But the words that threaten to spill - that you think you're in love- are cut off by his brutal kiss, while he muffles his own declarations.

Could there be more between you both, or are you bound by your duty?

THIS WAS LONG AF for a damn preview - oneshot is linked above!

PERM tag crew - @alt--er--love @indiewritesxoxo @nanasukii28 @cuntphoric @loafteaw @n1vi @miizuzu @beachaddict48 @honeybunnnnie @re-tired-succubus @gojosukuna2268 @waterfal-ling @1brii @wise-fangirl @moncher-ire @orikixx @uhnosav @baepsays @designerpvssy @orixxxana @airandyeah @nina-from-317 @evelynxxo @naammiii @soyokosuguru @espresso1patronum @tomboy-disaster @iam-souless @lanii-i @cristy-101 @doeeyestoji  @cvixmei @mutsu422 @ivyvenus333 @g00seg1rl @suki91 @naomi-main @fairygardenprincesss @estrellaexists @theonlyjuggernaut @huntyhuntycunty @lovelockdownff

[austinbutlerslovers]

Buzzcut

Label 18+

Summary You knew the day was coming and had mentally prepared for it—the day Austin would completely shave his head for a role.

You understood his dedication and how drastic his look would be, but what you didn’t expect is the difference it would make in your relationship.

❤️‍🔥Passionate Smut❤️‍🔥 Austins drastic hair change • relationship dynamics •fetishism • oral on fem • interchanging positions • cowgirl• missionary• P in V• orgasms • cream pie 🔗Masterlist

📖 Proofreader @purejasmine Written by popular demand🪒 *Updated: location of where he filmed the scene-Tulum Mexico 🥰

Buzzcut

You’re in Tulum, Mexico, staying in a luxurious beachfront resort where Austin is filming his latest project.

The suite is spacious and elegant, with rich wooden accents and soft, airy fabrics that sway in the ocean breeze. 

Large glass windows and sliding doors open onto a private terrace, offering a stunning view of the turquoise ocean stretching to the horizon. 

The king-sized bed, draped in crisp white linens, sits perfectly positioned in the center of the room to face the breathtaking view.

But despite your beautiful surroundings, you’ve been pacing the suite consumed with only one thing on your mind. 

Austin’s key card slides into the slot, and your heart leaps to your throat. He’s finally back. You rush to the door of the suite, nearly tripping in your excitement.

Your anticipation has been mounting all day, ever since he texted to say he’d filmed “the scene.” The one you knew was coming—the one where he shaves his hair into a buzz cut.

When you swing open the door, he greets you with his sweet charming smile that never fails to disarm you, but he’s wearing a hoodie and a cap that hide the evidence of what he’s done.

As he steps inside the door clicks shut behind him, and he wraps his arms around you, pulling you into a tight hug, his familiar warmth grounding you instantly.

“I missed you,” he whispers against your ear, his voice soft and affectionate.

You squeeze him back, hugging him deeply, but your curiosity is burning a hole through you. Pulling back, you look up at him with wide eyes. “Okay let me see it.”

He chuckles, a low sound that sends a thrill through you. “You’re not even going to ask how my day was?”

“Austin!” you whine, swatting at his chest. “I’m desperate, let me see it.”

“Alright, alright.” He says stepping back and with a teasing smirk he slowly pulls his hoodie down. Your breath catches as his neck comes into view, bare and smooth.

Then with deliberate care, he removes his hat. His hand runs over his scalp, and your heart stutters in your chest.

“Austin…” you breathe, stepping closer your hand moving on instinct, your fingers brushing over his jaw. You trail them up to his temple, your touch lingering near his ear

His hair is shaved to his scalp in a buzz cut. Gone is the tousled golden hair you’ve always loved, replaced with something new, something rugged, and undeniably masculine.

You’re shocked, taken aback by the change. You loved when he changed his hairstyles, but this? This was something else entirely.

“Do you like it?” he asks, his voice tinged with curiosity as he takes your hand guiding it to the back of his head letting you feel the velvety texture.

You can’t stop staring at him the change has brought out something different in him, something striking.

His jawline is sharper now, his cheekbones are defined and everything about his face suddenly has a chiseled, rugged edge.

“You look so different,” you finally manage, your voice surprised as your palm smooths over his head, feeling the texture.

He grins, his confidence growing as he sees the way you’re looking at him.

“Do you like me different?” he teases, his grin widening as he guides your hand down to his chest.

His words ignite something in you, and before you can second-guess yourself, you’re pulling him closer, your lips crashing into his.

He groans into the kiss, his hands sliding down your back, pulling you flush against him. The heat between you is instant, building fast as his mouth claims yours with a hunger that leaves you breathless.

You tug at his hoodie, and he helps you strip it off, his shirt following in one smooth motion. Your hands are on him immediately, roaming over the broad planes of his chest before returning to his head, and he groans when your fingertips graze along his scalp.

“Feels so good,” he whispers, his lips finding the sensitive spot just beneath your ear.

You tug at his waistband, and he immediately unbuttons his jeans, his lips never leaving your neck. His kisses are hot and urgent, his breath brushing against your skin as he works his jeans loose and kicks them off with one swift motion.

His fingers slide to the waistband of your shorts, tugging them down your hips along with your panties as his mouth trails lower, leaving a fiery path across your skin.

Your hands find his head, holding him to you as he kisses along your chest, his fingers quickly unclasping your bra before he pulls your shirt over your head, tossing it aside without hesitation.

You’re both breathless by the time every piece of clothing is removed, your naked bodies pressed together, heat and desire consuming you both.

His hands grip your waist, firm and commanding, as he guides you toward the spacious bed together, your lips never parting as you kiss.

His hands slide down to the back of your thighs, lifting you just enough to place you down on the bed.

You can feel the strength in his arms, the heat radiating from his body, and the way he’s so achingly focused on you, his blue eyes filled with desire as he kisses down your body.

By the time his lips find your clit, you’re already wet with need, your body trembling in anticipation. His hands spread your thighs, fingers digging into your skin as his face lowers between them.

He pleasures you with his mouth, his tongue moving with precision, swirling and flicking, while his hands hold you firmly in place as you writhe beneath him lost in pleasure.

You can’t stop touching him, your hands constantly moving to his head, grazing the skin.

“Austin,” you gasp, your voice breaking as he groans against you, the vibrations sending shockwaves through your core. “Don’t stop…please don’t stop.” you whisper.

Your thighs tremble against his head, and he grips your hips firmly, keeping you in place as his mouth works you over with unrelenting focus. The tension builds, spiraling higher and higher until the pressure finally snaps.

You cry out, your hands holding his head down as you push against his face, your release crashing through you in waves. His mouth doesn’t stop, his tongue unrelenting as he groans, devouring every ounce of your pleasure until you’re shaking beneath him.

As you try to catch your breath, he moves up your body, his lips brushing against your stomach, then your breasts, until he hovers over your face, his eyes filled with pride and desire.

Before he can pin you down, you press your palms firmly against his chest, catching him off guard. His eyes widen slightly with surprise, but then a look of understanding crosses his face, allowing you full control as you gently roll on top of him.

You straddle his hips, sliding your hand between your legs to guide his hard cock into you. The sensation makes you both gasp as you slowly glide down on him, his head tilting back as his hands grab your hips.

“Fuck,” he pants, his voice deep with unrestrained pleasure as his fingers dig into your skin. “You feel… so perfect.”

You begin to move, your hips rolling back and forth, overwhelmed by the pleasure of him stretching and filling you completely.

His eyes flutter shut when your fingertips graze over his head again, and a soft moan escapes your lips as his fingertips dig into your hips, urging you to move faster.

You lean in, kissing him deeply, your movements syncing perfectly as the intensity builds between you. 

His hands slide up your back, gripping your shoulders tightly as his hips buck up, thrusting his cock into you. 

You feel the pressure of him hitting the perfect spot inside you of over and over again until you orgasm, your cries of pleasure filling the suite, blending with the faint sound of waves crashing outside the open balcony doors.

You barely have time to catch your breath before he flips you onto your back, his eyes filled with determination.

He holds your wrists above your head pinning you as he kisses you deeply, his hips sliding between your thighs. 

When he thrusts into you, hard and deep, the stretch is almost unbearable, making you cry out in pleasure as his hands slide to your hips.

Each thrust of his cock feels deeper and more intense as you moan for him your hands caressing the back of his head. 

Your fingernails graze down the base of his skull and he shudders violently as a guttural groan rips from his throat.

“Fuck  … you feel so good,” he mutters, his voice rough and incoherent, completely lost in pleasure. “I… I need to be deeper, I need to feel all of you.” He whispers his words raw and desperate.

His hands move beneath your hips, tilting them up as he thrusts even harder. His lips and tongue trailing  over your throat as you gasp, your body arching beneath him from the onslaught of overwhelming stimulation. 

Your nails drag down the back of his head as you begin to orgasm, making him groan as he thrusts into you faster.

His grip under your hips tightens, almost bruising, as his thrusts become wilder, harder, deeper, driving you closer to the edge with every snap of his hips. 

The tension in his body is undeniable, his muscles straining with each powerful thrust, completely consumed by the feeling of your walls fluttering on his cock.

Your moans turn into desperate cries as the pleasure builds to an overwhelming peak. 

The tension snaps, your body shuddering uncontrollably as your orgasm crashes over you, your nails gripping his head as you scream his name.

The sound of your pleasure sends him spiraling, his thrusts growing erratic as a deep groan escapes him, his voice breaking with desperation.

“Fuck… you’re gonna make me come,” he rasps, his voice trembling, the word's breaking off as he tilts his head back, his eyes squeezing shut in pure ecstasy.

A deep, guttural groan rips from his chest as he thrusts deeper, his release surging through him with unstoppable intensity.

You feel the sudden warmth of his come, his cock twitching with every pulse. He lets out a soft, broken sound with each spasm, his hips jerking slightly as he empties himself, filling you completely.

His breaths are short and uneven as his body trembles, until finally, he collapses against you, his weight pressing you into the bed grounding you in the hazy afterglow.

His heart pounds wildly against your chest as he buries his face in the crook of your neck.

“I guess you’re… okay with the buzzcut” he says breathlessly, his voice laced with exhaustion and a hint of teasing.

You laugh between breaths, your fingernails trailing lightly over his scalp. “I’m going to enjoy every  moment of this until your hair grows back,” you pant, your voice soft but full of playful affection.

He grins, shifting just enough to look at you. “I could live with that,” he says, leaning down to brush a lazy kiss against your lips and you smile, gliding your palm over the back of his head.

🪒 End

🔗 Masterlist

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[wildflowersandvibranium]

Muscle Memory : Chapter Seven

Pairing: CHILDHOOD FRIENDS TO LOVERS Restaurant Owner Bucky Barnes x Cardiac Surgeon Female Reader Alternate Universe

Summary: In a town that never forgets , she thought she could hide the bruises behind a perfect smile and life. But someone from her past sees too much—and remembers everything. sorry its so vague just don't want to give too much away!

Word Count: 2.8k+

Chapter Warnings: Domestic abuse themes , implied self harm and treatment of injuries , emotional breakdown (reader) , toxic relationship dynamics themes , references to past trauma/PTSD , alcohol consumption , blood / minor medical injury detail

A/N: hey babes... grab a drink , a snack maybe a fluffy blanket and buckle up buttercups! xo - flower 🌷

Series Masterlist

<- previous chapter - next chapter ->

Wanda Maximoff’s living room looked like a bridal wedding dream magazine exploded and puked all over, then was lovingly reconstructed by a perfectionist with a glue gun and an eye for sparkle and elegance.

 Bolts and yards of fabric—ivory silks , delicate lace , soft rose tulle , hung from windows and draped over chairs , trailing like flower petals down to the plush rug covered floors. 

Every available surface held something related to the big day: velvet boxes of pearl-tipped hairpins , bubbling champagne flutes perched on bell-shaped coasters that read "Mr. & Mrs." in precise cursive , and carefully labeled trays of bridal and bridesmaid jewelry sparkling under the sunlight spilling through her tall French styled windows.

The whole place looked sacred , and yet , lived in—like a church that had hosted one too many wedding banquets and rehearsals. 

It was messy in the most intentional way—every detail dripping in love , chaos , and beauty with Wanda’s meticulous attention to the smallest detail.

Finger foods were arranged artfully on marble and wooden boards throughout the space , though barely anyone had touched them. 

After all, it was hard to be enthusiastic about shrimp cocktails and fresh tomato cucumber bites when you were being cinched and stitched into the finest formalwear. 

Still, the scent of fresh mint , citrus, and honey from one of the carefully curated tea blends floated lazily in the air a sweet aromatic soothing balm.

Y/N stood off to the side of the group , arms tightly folded across her chest and front. 

Her eyes were fixed on the intricate beadwork lining the sparkly bodice of her bridesmaid dress , a soft lilac gown with ripple-like layers pooling at and past her feet.

 It was pretty , elegant even. But she didn’t feel all that beautiful. 

She didn’t feel much of anything—except frayed. Tired. 

Like the day had taken too much before it even began.

This was the first full fitting for Wanda’s entire bridal party. 

A day meant to be lighthearted , indulgent , champagne-fueled and framed with compliments and laughter. 

Stray happy tears were expected and ready with waterproof makeup and tissues.

But so far Y/N hadn’t smiled once since arriving to the home.

She shifted from one foot to the other mindlessly as the tailor took Wanda’s waist measurements once again , her heels pinching with every twist and movement. 

Her dress felt like it was clinging a little too tightly to her skin and body , the satin rubbing against her ribs and sternum. 

Maybe it was the fabric. Maybe it was the memories.

The room quieted when Wanda stepped into the groups view from the long hallway.

Her gown was beyond stunning. White satin with layered lace trimming , sweetheart neckline , long sleeves with small snap pearl buttons , and a veil that looked like it belonged in an art gallery like the MET. 

She twirled once , her laugh soft and breathy as the veil caught under a gleaming sunbeam.

“Oh my god,” Inaya gasped , hand over her heart tears springing in her eyes immediately. “Wanda… you look like you just stepped out of a fairytale novel.”

“She is the fairytale bride…wow,” Laura added , dabbing her eyes with a soft tissue. 

Nat elbowed her teasingly, rubbing her arms soothingly and nodded in agreement playfully whistling.

Wanda giggled , doing another spin and adjusting the veil as Darcy fumbled for her phone to snap a thousands more pictures. "Okay, okay! No more spinning—I’m getting dizzy!" she laughed , camera shuttering a million times a minute.

Then Wanda’s  eyes landed on Y/N.

“Well?” Wanda asked , voice lilting. “You gonna say something or am I gonna need to fish for compliments from Vision when he gets home?” she teased.

Y/N straightened slightly , forcing a smile at her gorgeous friend. "You look beautiful , Wands. Really. It’s… it’s perfect."

Wanda’s expression softened—but not with pride or swell from the words. She was distracted as her gaze dipped to Y/N’s hands wringing and picking at her own palms.

The diamond bracelet hung on her wrist had shifted under the sunlight , revealing angry scabs and small bruises along her knuckles and palms. 

Raw red lines , scraggly and angry. 

The kind of wounds that weren’t caused by mishap and tiny kitchen accidents.

Wanda’s brows drew in focused then eyes flipping to look in Y/N’s. “What happened to your hands?”

Y/N’s eyes grew wide as she quickly pulled her hands behind her back , too fast too guilty. “Oh—it's um..nothing. I dropped a glass bowl at home. Shards of glass went everywhere. Just dumb , i tried to pick them up but you know.”

Wanda didn’t believe her. It was clear in her eyes. 

“Be careful with those surgeon hands , darling,” Wanda said lightly. “I may feel like falling apart with stress , but I need all my girls intact.”

Y/N nodded too fast smiling. "Promise. I'm okay."

The large front doors creaked wide open. 

Bucky stepped carefuly inside , navy henley snug across his broad chest and sleeves pushed to his elbows. 

He carried his grey suit bag in one hand and a bottle of sparkling seltzer water in the other.

His eyes scanned the room like clockwork , and when they landed on Y/N, it was like gravity settled him. He smiled big, easing with her presence.

She felt it. But she didn’t look up.

Instead , she moved quickly , closer to Darcy , adjusting a strap that didn’t need adjusting , ducking her head as if Darcy had asked for help.

Just pretending to be busy finding any excuse.

Bucky gave a nod to Wanda , offered a quiet compliment on the gown she was swaying in , and handed his suit to the tailor telling them what needed adjusting. 

But his eyes , always  and continued to flick back to her.

After a few shrugs on confusion and interesting gazes.

The fitting continued on.

Wanda twirled again for the girls and now bucky waiting for the other groomsmen to join . As they did, jokes flew by. Someone tripped over their hem and blamed the champagne bubbling in their system causing a roar of laughs. 

The laughter bounced off the walls of the vaulted ceilings. Then it was group pictures time , some were posed,  some chaotic and silly others serious with their sunday best smiles. 

Someone started a game of "who knows the bride best" with absurd trivia questions Wanda made up on the spot , and the room lit with laughter.

Y/N laughed when she had to , when it felt a little safe to. Spoke only when directly addressed or asked something specific. 

Her smile looked perfect in the mirror , but only to people who didn’t know her.

Bucky sat in an armchair to the side of the room as the tailor pinned and marked the seam of his jacket sleeves.

 He didn’t try to make conversation with anyone else while there. Just watched her , his brow tight with something unreadable as he tried to read her.

Wanda stood infront of the seamstress when she was done with Bucky , with arms stretched pointing , letting the tailor fuss with the caught and stuck zipper.

Moving out of the way Bucky stepped closer to Y/N.

“You’re gonna make the dress look bad with all that tension you have in your shoulders , doll ,” he murmured only so she could hear.

“I’m fine.”

“Didn’t say you weren’t.”

She didn’t look up. Just smoothed invisible creases from her skirt down. 

Shrugging away his words.

It stung more than he admitted to.

Later , when everyone gathered for a massive group selfie in the large standing mirror , Y/N slipped into the back of the smiley group , away from the front. 

Bucky found her after looking at all the pics everyone took ,  perched on a nearby sofa , chewing her lip absentmindedly , eyes distant and shallow.

“Hey…” he began gently , sitting on the armrest of the couch. “You know this is all reminding me of …remember that time senior year , when we helped Wanda sneak into that vintage dress shop in Brooklyn and she tripped into the mannequin and then—”

“I think we’ve had enough stories for one day,” she cut in sharply, stopping his words.

Her voice wasn’t angry.

It was wounded.

That hurt worse than if she had yelled at him.

She stood up , brushing past his shoulder with hers passing him, muttering something about the bathroom. 

He didn’t follow, just watched her walk away.

Eventually , the fittings were done. 

Dresses bagged , pinned and labeled. Suits zipped up  into garment sleeves and matching shoe bags attached. 

Wanda was glowing brightly as she hugged each bridesmaid and groomsmen goodbye. 

She mouthed a quick "thank you" as she took a call from Vision , disappearing into the grand upstairs.

Most of the others had already gone and dispersed by then.

Only Y/N and Bucky remained alone in their thick silence.

They stood on the front steps of the porch , near the many fountains Wanda loved and adorned across the property , under the muted glow of late afternoon. 

The clouds were rolling in slowly , painting everything soft dull and gray.

Y/N dug through her coat pockets searching for her keys. Bucky watched and decided it was time he spoke up , he took a breath.

“Hey.”

She didn’t look at him just kept her head low and focused on finding her keys..

“Can we talk?”

She got the keys out and tugged on her sleeves fixing her coat , tensing at his question but still ignoring him.

“Y/N.”

She finally turned looking up at him, gritting her teeth. “What?”

“Why are you avoiding me?”

“I’m not.”

“You are. You have been all day.”

“Maybe I just don’t want to be around or talk to you , Bucky. Did that ever occur to you that might be what I want?”

His shoulders dropped slightly at her confession. “No. Because that’s not how we do things doll. Talk to me. Please.” His voice cracked slightly at the last word.

Her voice broke as tears flowed from her cheeks she didn't even realize where building. “You wanna talk? Fine.”

She stared at him , eyes glassy now with something brittle and sharp. “I don’t love you anymore , Bucky.”

The air shifted and the wind howled.

“I love him , I love Tyler ,” she snapped , louder now , voice shaking but not yelling. 

“You don’t get to come back here with your soft voice and your sad puppy dog eyes charm and make me forget what he’s done for me. What he’s been for me.”

He opened his mouth , but no words came.

“You didn't even have to say anything,” she continued. “You just stand there and make me want things I’m not allowed to want or have. You make me feel like maybe I didn’t mess up everything. And I did. I messed up everything.”

“You didn’t,” he said , finally , quietly stepping forward to her.

“You think I forgot what it’s like to need someone who doesn’t need me back?” she hissed , stepping backward from him. “Do you think I haven’t been enough for people before? Don’t you dare do this to me again.”

He reached for her hand as she went to walk past him.

She recoiled fast, twisting her body , wincing , but not fast enough.

Their fingers brushed and hands collided. 

And when she pulled away , the pain was felt and spread across her hand immediate.

A smear of red appeared on his hand.

Blood.

Her blood.

He stared down at it , unmoving mouth agape. A healing wound torn open by the gentlest touch he gave.

She didn’t look back as she descended down the steps holding her hurting hand close.

Her coat flared behind her like wings made of burned paper. Fragile. Ruined.

She got into her car. Sat there for a moment letting the tears just flow then she shook her head refusing to feel this way and turned the key in the ignition and drove off hastily.

Left on the porch steps Bucky stood in the entryway just staring at his hand.

The crimson blood was already drying down; it was just a speck, just a small dot.

But it felt enormous.

He didn’t feel it on his skin.

He felt it in his chest.

And no amount of scrubbing would make it disappear.

Y/N’s house was cold when she stepped inside. Not in temperature , but in spirit. Quiet. Still. Like the walls were holding their breath waiting for her next move.

She closed the front door behind her and leaned against it , pressing her forehead to the wood for a long moment before finally locking it shut. 

Her coat slid off her shoulders piling onto the floor, forgotten. 

The silence wrapped around her tighter than the corset bodice she’d worn all day had.

She didn’t even bother turning on the lights. Instead , she walked through the living room with practiced steps , through the hallway and into the bathroom, flicking on the dim vanity lights only. 

Her reflection stared back at her, pale and wilted , lips raw from being chewed on. Hair messy from the wind. Eyes rimmed with the redness from her many tears.

But it wasn’t her face that caught her attention this time.

It was the blood staring back at her.

Her palm pulsed , sharp and hot. 

She turned her hand over and saw it clearly now—a stitch had popped wide open , thankfully just one but still needing attention. 

The scab that had tried to form when healing was gone , replaced with the angry red of reopened raw skin.

Blood had smeared onto her fingers and dried there.

She hissed quietly as she moved it, turning her hand over.

Tears pricked the backs of her eyes , but she blinked them back and opened the drawer beneath the sink , pulling out the white first aid kit she kept stocked for emergencies or now after Tyler has had his way with her body like it was a sand bag. 

She’d learned long ago during her days at the hands of her father to keep one always hidden and on hand. When she was younger she ended up keeping a spare one at the Barnes too  , when she would run hers down to just simple bandaids that weren't ever enough. 

She flipped down the lid and sat on the toilet , popping open the plastic case.

Alcohol. Gauze. Steri-strips. A needle and thread for emergency sutures—ones she was very used to not just on her patients but also used more than once on herself. 

She sterilized everything carefully , the cotton ball soaked in alcohol stinging as it met the raw edge of her skin making her muffle her hiss by biting on a towel.

She worked in precion and silence , threading the needle with shaking trembling hurting fingers. Each time it punctured her skin , she grit her teeth and breathed through her nose , refusing to cry out refusing help.

One stitch. Then another. Then a third to secure it from reopening and causing more damage. 

Like muscle memory for her.

By the last tie off stitch , her eyes blurred , but not from pain.

It was Bucky’s face she saw.

The way he looked at her—not like she was broken. Not like she was fragile. But like she was real. Like she was remembered. Like she was still someone.

Even in her lowest moment spewing hurtful nonsense , and breaking down right in front of him. 

He still looked at her like she was something more.

She hated it.

She hated that he still saw her.

She hated that she’d told him she didn’t love him.

She hated that some part of her had meant it. Or wanted to. Needed to believe it.

“I don’t love you anymore.” She whispered the words again aloud , just to test them in the air of her own home.

They didn’t sound real.

They didn’t sound like her.

Like them.

She tugged the end of the stitch and snipped it clean with scissors. Wrapped her hand in gauze and taped it up tight.

Then she stood slowly on wobbling legs , walked back to the sink , and stared at herself once again.

This time she dared to look longer. Past the blood. Past the bruises.

She looked for the girl she used to be.

But she wasn’t there.

Only to be met with the echo of her.

And she had just ruined the one thing that kept the only tether of possibility that , that girl still was in her-

How Bucky sees her.

-end

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-

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[twisting-echo]

Snow White x Gaston Disney Mirrorverse Headcanons

(Click on pictures for better quality)

What I love about Snow White's Disney Mirrorverse design is that she truly embodies a benevolent nature goddess like Demeter, Persephone, and Mother Nature. I adore the different concepts of Snow White with long hair, and I've added hearts to my favorite designs. I particularly love the outfit with the light blue/cool color scheme because it represents spring, and the outfit with the light yellow/warm color scheme because it captures the essence of autumn. My favorite headpiece will always be the one adorned with roses. Overall, I'm in love with her and her finished design.

Gaston with longer hair let loose is something I've always known I needed, but Gaston with facial hair is a revelation I never expected because it makes his sky-blue eyes pop! I'm not sure if the design team intended for Gaston to resemble a dark god of the wilds and hunting, but that's exactly what he looks like to me. The concept designs featuring Gaston with the wolf pelts and antler headpieces particularly stand out to me because they evoke images of gods like Cernunnos, The Horned God, and Herne the Hunter (even though Herne is a ghost, he's still associated with hunting and the wilds). I've marked my favorite concept designs and his facial hair with hearts. Overall, I love his finished, beastly, and feral design.

Headcanon:

In my headcanon, years after the events of Disney Mirrorverse, Snow White and Gaston are married, and their Stellar Magic abilities have amplified, turning them into deities of some sort.

Gaston's transformation into a god of the wilds amplifies his natural strength and primal instincts. With his long hair flowing wildly and adorned with a majestic antler headpiece, he embodies the untamed spirit of the forest. He now wears fur pelts, symbolizing his mastery over the creatures of the wild and his protective nature towards them. His stellar magic abilities have granted him control over the animals and the elements of the wild. He can summon and harness the raw power of nature to defend his domain. His appearance is now more imposing and regal, with his attire reflecting his status as a king of the wilderness. His beastly features are accentuated, giving him an aura of both danger and guardianship.

Snow White's transformation into a goddess of nature amplifies her nurturing and harmonious connection with the earth. Her long hair is adorned with flowers, and her body is covered with leaves, vines, and feathers, symbolizing her deep bond with all living things. Her stellar magic abilities have amplified her control over plant life and natural elements. She can heal the land, summon plants to aid her, and create protective barriers made of vines and flowers. Her presence brings growth and renewal to everything around her. Her appearance now radiates grace and elegance, with her attire blending seamlessly with the natural world. Her regal yet gentle demeanor showcases her role as a protector and nurturer.

As a married couple, they live in a huge, enchanted, hollowed-out tree with the dwarfs and their seven children. Snow White has many animal companions, while Gaston has a pack of wolves as pets.

Gaston has a tender and unwavering devotion to his tiny queen. Beneath his rugged exterior, he harbors a deep and abiding love for her. Snow White is the soft spot in Gaston's heart. Her presence brings out his gentler side, and he often finds himself enchanted by her grace and beauty. Despite his arrogance, Gaston becomes soft and caring in her company, going out of his way to do small, thoughtful things for her. Whenever he starts to treat others rudely or roughly, Snow White intervenes with a soft touch or a gentle caress. Her soothing touch has a magical effect on him, instantly calming his temper and reminding him to be the man he wants to be for her.

Snow White finds immense comfort in the loving embrace of her husband (which has nothing to do with the fact that she was touch-starved for a good portion of her life after her father died). She cherishes the moments when he wraps her in his arms for big, long hugs, feeling the warmth and protection he offers. She also catches him listening intently whenever she’s singing or telling stories to the children and animals, and it makes her smile to herself to see the inner little boy within Gaston—a side of him that is curious and playful~

That's all I got for now.

(I've been writing this since Disney Mirrorverse shut down)

[legendary-69420]

Fashion, Flirtation, and Frenemies

Chapter 6

(Racing Hearts : VOLUME 3 )

racing hearts

Mark Spencer was a man of many contradictions. One of the most striking was his complete indifference to his appearance. He lived in hoodies—oversized, comfortable, and utterly unassuming. Yet, somehow, he managed to look like he belonged on the cover of a high-fashion magazine even in his most relaxed attire. His messy hair, chiseled features, and an effortless aura of confidence made sure of that.

But when Mark decided to clean up… Good Lord.

It was a bright afternoon during a PR event at the Ferrari headquarters. The team was preparing for interviews and photo shoots, and as always, Mark had kept to himself, absorbed in something on his iPad. He entered the room quietly, wearing a white turtleneck that clung to his frame, paired with tailored trousers. His sleeves were rolled up just enough to reveal a sleek, expensive watch. His hair, messy in a calculated way, framed his face perfectly, while the sharp lines of his freshly trimmed beard accentuated his jawline. Spectacles perched on his nose added a touch of intellectual charm, and his pout—unintentionally adorable as he concentrated on the stats on his screen—made it impossible to look away.

The room fell silent as heads turned.

Even the most focused team members found themselves distracted. A PR representative stumbled over her words, forgetting the next instruction, while Charles Leclerc, seated in the corner, froze mid-sip of his espresso. His eyes narrowed, scanning Mark from head to toe. It wasn’t the first time Mark had caught everyone off guard with his looks, but it was the first time Charles felt a growing, unexplainable ache in his chest.

Charles muttered under his breath, “He doesn’t even try.” ______________________________________________________________

It was the Texas Grand Prix, and Mark couldn’t have looked more out of place—or more irresistible—if he tried. From the moment he stepped out of the car, it was clear that he had fully embraced the Texas vibe, leaving fans—especially those in the paddock—completely speechless.

Mark had donned a cowboy hat, the wide brim casting a shadow over his eyes, giving him an air of mystery. His shirt, an open-collared, loosely tucked Western button-down, clung just enough to hint at the strong muscles underneath, but it was the tight, well-worn jeans that had everyone’s attention. They fit him perfectly, hugging every curve and contour, and for once, Mark didn’t even try to hide the fact that they put his “ass-ets” on full display. The leather boots he wore clicked with every step, making him look like he had just walked straight out of a country music video—and everyone was here for it.

But what truly made the look was his accent. Mark’s usual multilingual charm took on a sultry, southern edge as he greeted everyone with a soft, “Howdy, y’all.” The contrast between his usual European elegance and this rugged Texan persona made his fans weak in the knees.

Charles couldn’t help but steal glances at him. The way the light caught Mark’s features, his jawline sharp and his chest��oh God, his chest—barely contained by the tight shirt, made Charles’ stomach twist in a way he wasn’t prepared for. Mark was more than just the rookie Ferrari driver, he was… a force.

______________________________________________________________

A few days later, the drivers planned a dinner together—a rare moment to unwind amidst their hectic schedules. The group gathered in the hotel lobby, dressed in casual but stylish attire. Charles, ever the gentleman, wore a smart blazer over a casual shirt. He stood chatting with Lando and Carlos when the elevator doors opened.

And there he was.

Mark stepped out dressed in an all-black suit that seemed tailored to perfection. The fabric hugged his broad shoulders and tapered down to his long legs. A faint hint of his cologne—a dangerously intoxicating blend of musk and cedar—lingered in the air as he passed. His hair was slightly slicked back, accentuating the sharpness of his features, and a subtle smirk played on his lips as he adjusted his cufflinks.

He looked like he had walked straight out of a mafia drama, the kind where he’d play the enigmatic and dangerously hot boss. Conversations around the lobby hushed. Even Lando, known for his endless jokes, muttered a quiet “Bloody hell? Is he here for dinner or is he here to kill us all?”

Charles swallowed hard, his fingers tightening around the glass of wine in his hand. He couldn’t deny it anymore—Mark Spencer had a way of commanding attention without even trying, and it was driving Charles to the brink.

As Mark made his way toward the group, he could feel every pair of eyes on him. It wasn’t just the drivers who were mesmerized—fans across the world were reacting to his sudden sartorial change. Social media erupted with enthusiasm.

Fan Reactions:

*"I was NOT prepared for this level of hotness from Mark Spencer. That suit? *chef’s kiss* #FerrariFashion #MarkIsKillingIt"*

"Okay, but did anyone else feel like Mark just walked out of a mafia movie? What’s next, a dramatic action scene?? #NewFavoriteLook"

"The way he just casually owns that look? That’s the kind of swagger we need in F1. 👏👏👏 #MarkSpencer #StyleIcon"

"Mark is serving us the *exact* amount of hotness we need in 2024. Someone please tell me how to pull off a turtleneck like that. #F1FashionKing"

"I’m not even mad that Charles Leclerc’s in the background—Mark is absolutely stealing the show right now. #Unbothered"

The attention didn’t stop there. As the evening wore on, Mark couldn’t help but notice Charles stealing glances at him. It was subtle—almost too subtle—but Mark had learned to read Charles by now. There was something in the way his gaze lingered just a bit too long, and it made Mark’s heart race. But he was determined not to acknowledge the growing tension.

Dinner passed in a blur of laughs and lighthearted chatter, though there was an undeniable energy that hung between Mark and Charles. Eventually, the group headed back to the hotel.

In the elevator, the air was thick with unspoken words. Charles and Mark stood side by side, their proximity almost unbearable. The faint sound of the elevator’s hum was the only thing filling the silence.

Finally, Charles broke the quiet. "You know," he began casually, "you clean up way too well."

Mark raised an eyebrow, glancing over at him. "What, you’re not used to seeing me in something other than a hoodie?"

Charles smirked, his fingers drumming lightly against his arm. “Yeah, but this… this is something else.”

Mark chuckled softly, a spark of mischief in his eyes. “What, you worried I’ll steal your spotlight?”

Charles looked away, clearly flustered. But Mark, ever the tease, leaned closer. “Don’t worry, Charles. You’ll always be the pretty one.” He said it with a playful grin, but the words hung in the air longer than necessary.

Before Charles could respond, Mark’s finger accidentally brushed against Charles’ hand, the briefest touch sending an unexpected shock through both of them. It was enough to make Mark pause and meet Charles’ gaze. The playful smile on his lips faltered slightly, and Charles didn’t look away.

And then, without thinking, Charles leaned in, his lips brushing against Mark’s for a brief moment. It wasn’t a deep kiss—nothing more than a spark of electricity—but it was enough to send both their hearts racing. When they pulled apart, neither of them knew what to say.

Mark’s expression was unreadable, but his eyes betrayed something softer, something that wasn’t there before.

“Well,” he murmured, breaking the silence, “that’s certainly one way to say goodnight.”

Charles, still flushed, muttered a quiet, “Yeah, sure.”

As Mark stepped off the elevator first, he shot Charles one last look, his smirk wide and knowing. “Sleep well, Charles,” he said with a wink.

Charles, stunned, could only manage a small nod.

This was a new kind of tension—one that neither of them was ready for, but one they couldn’t ignore any longer. ______________________________________________________________

(dividers by @anitalenia , @bunnysrph , @omi-resources )

[nexiva]

You made me hate you

Part 8

Bucky x reader

Warnings: physical fights, swearing, fighting, general angst

Summary: Y/N’s past is catching on

A/N: I had a lot of fun writing this part so let me know what you think. If you want to be on my taglist to this story, write me a message or just leave a comment🧚🏻‍♀️

Masterlist

The first night passed in tense silence. Bucky lay on the floor, arms crossed behind his head, staring at the ceiling. The polished marble was unforgiving, but he refused to share the bed (as did I) —pride was colder than the floor beneath him. Across the room, I shifted restlessly under the pristine white sheets - both too stubborn to speak, too haunted to sleep.

Occasionally, the rustle of fabric broke the quiet as me or him turned, chasing sleep that never came. We were trapped in memories, anger simmering beneath exhaustion. The weight of unspoken truths pressed down on us like the too-thick hotel air.

"You still awake?" I muttered into the darkness, voice strained. I don’t know where that question came from.

"What do you think?" Bucky shot back without moving.

Silence stretched once more, taut and unforgiving. Neither of us dared acknowledge the real reason for our insomnia—shared grief, tangled with resentment. The clock ticked on.

—-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Morning came too quickly, the soft glow of dawn spilling through the curtains. We were already up when the alarm blared, shadows under our eyes and tension stiffening every movement.

The mission briefing replayed in their heads as they dressed in uncomfortable silence. Undercover. Married couple. Business deal. NEXUS contacts - simple in theory, a minefield in practice.

By the time we reached the bustling market district—a known hub for NEXUS affiliates—they looked the part. I wore an elegant yet simple dress, something sleek enough to scream wealth without drawing unnecessary attention. Bucky, reluctantly, had swapped his usual tactical gear for tailored slacks and a crisp shirt, the sleeves rolled to the elbows, his metal arm concealed beneath a synthetic skin cover.

“Hold my hand,” I muttered as we exited the car, dread pooling in my stomach.

Bucky hesitated, then clasped my hand—warm, solid, unfamiliar. “Let’s just get this done.”

We moved through the market like shadows, smiles plastered on our faces, every touch calculated. To the outside world, we were the Thompsons—new money, ambitious, and eager to strike a deal with some rich assholes.

It didn’t take long for NEXUS eyes to find us. A man in a charcoal suit, sharp-eyed and lean, approached as we pretended to browse handcrafted jewelry.

“Mr. and Mrs. Thompson,” he said smoothly. “I hear you’re looking for exclusive merchandise.” So they have been watching us after all. Nicely done, I thought to myself.

Bucky smiled—a rare, cold expression. “We don’t waste time chasing rumors. Show us you’ve got something worth buying.”

The man’s gaze flicked between us both, calculating. I leaned into Bucky’s side, feigning affection while my heart hammered. Let this thing be over as soon as possible.

“Follow me,” the man finally said, turning on his heel.

Hand in hand, me and Barnes followed him into the labyrinthine heart of the market—the mission is truly beginning, with trust stretched thinner than ever.

The man in the charcoal suit led them through the bustling market, weaving between stalls laden with silk scarves, intricate glasswork, and the fragrant smoke of sizzling street food. Every step deeper into the labyrinth heightened my awareness—eyes watching from shaded corners, whispered conversations halting as they passed.

Bucky squeezed my hand briefly - the only sign he was just as on edge. Our fake smiles never faltered.

Finally, the man stopped outside a narrow, unmarked door tucked between a spice vendor and a shop selling antique rugs. He rapped twice, waited, then rapped three more times. The door creaked open, revealing a dimly lit room. A single table sat in the center, flanked by two guards whose bulk barely fit in the space.

“Sit,” the man instructed, gesturing to the table.

Bucky pulled out a chair for me, the perfect picture of a doting husband. I sat gracefully, though every muscle was coiled tight. He followed, posture relaxed but eyes sharp.

“Talk fast,” Bucky said coolly. “We’re busy people.”

The man chuckled, pulling a sleek tablet from his jacket. With a few swipes, an image flickered to life on the screen—a cylindrical device, unassuming save for the faint red glow along its seams.

“The Whisper,” the man said, voice laced with pride. “Looks like nothing. Acts like the end of the world. One device, one city gone. Silent. Clean. No radiation, no trace.”

My blood ran cold.

“Demonstrations?” Bucky asked, his tone flat, but I knew him well enough (unfortunately) to catch the tightness in his jaw.

The man smiled, teeth flashing like a shark’s. “Not here of course. But our employer will be at the Ball tomorrow night. Impress him, and maybe you’ll get a private viewing.”

I leaned forward, playing the part. “We’re not here to dance. We’re here to buy.”

“Then you’ll want to put on your best shoes,” the man shot back, standing. “We don’t sell to just anyone.”

We finally got some sleep this time. After the market we haven’t spoken to each other. Not one word. I guess it was for the best. Both of us focused more than ever.

—-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

I stood in front of the hotel room mirror, adjusting the emerald green gown that hugged my form like it had been stitched onto my skin. The satin pooled at my feet, the high slit revealing toned legs honed by years of training. The deep neckline was daring but tasteful, every inch of the dress screaming money, confidence, control. But inside, my stomach twisted into knots.

I hated this. Hated the pretense, the lies, the way the mission forced me to slip into an old skin I thought I'd shed years ago. The girl who could smile while planning a kill, who could flirt while counting exits. The girl I swore I'd never be again. I resigned from these kinds of missions for a reason. I just wanted something simple. Something calm. I hated this. I hated Nick for doing this to me.

Behind me, Bucky adjusted his tie, watching me through the mirror. Though I pretended like I hadn't noticed that. The black suit was sharp, perfectly tailored, but it wasn’t the clothes that caught me off guard. It was the way he looked at me—like he was seeing something he didn’t want to acknowledge?

"You clean up nice," he muttered, voice gruff.

I met his gaze in the glass, forcing an awkward smile that didn’t even reach my eyes. "Don’t get used to it."

The words were sharp, but the air between them crackled with something else—resentment, history, and the aching weight of things left unsaid. He looked away first, grabbing his jacket with a frustrated sigh - “Let’s get this over with.”

The ride to the venue was silent, the hum of the car engine - the only sound between us. I stared out the window, watching the glittering city blur past. It felt surreal—like I was floating outside myself, watching someone else step into the role of a woman who had everything except peace.

“Last chance to back out,” Bucky muttered, eyes fixed on the road.

She snorted, shaking her head. “Not my style. Besides, I’d hate to leave you alone with all these charming criminals.”

Bucky didn’t smile. He never did when the stakes were this high.

The ballroom was a glittering sea of gowns and tuxedos, laughter and champagne masking the undercurrent of power plays and whispered threats. Couples twirled across the marble dance floor, their movements practiced and polished. Live strings played a sultry melody, the kind designed to lull people into false comfort. Crystal chandeliers cast fractured light across marble floors and the air hummed with whispered deals. They knew how to cloak business in elegance, and tonight, power moved in silk gloves and diamond necklaces.3

My heels clicked softly as they crossed the threshold, Bucky’s hand firm on my back. To the world, we were power and beauty incarnate—ambitious, rich, untouchable. But I could feel the tension radiating off Bucky, I could see the slight tick in his jaw every time someone glanced our way.

“We’re being watched, again…” I murmured, tilting my head as if I was admiring the chandelier.

Bucky’s lips barely moved. “Good. Let’s give them something to see.”

He didn’t wait for my consent, for my anything—just took my hand and led me to the dance floor as the band shifted into a slower waltz. The moment his arm slid around my waist, I stiffened.

“You’re tense,” Bucky muttered, guiding her into the first turn.

“Maybe it’s because I’d rather dance with literally anyone else.”

“Funny. You’re still holding on tight.”

Our eyes met—blue clashing with mine. For a moment, the hate softened, replaced by something rawer, older, harder to define. There was history there, tangled and bruised, too complicated to unravel in a single dance. Then the music swelled, and the moment shattered.

"Eyes on the prize," I reminded, forcing a smile as I leaned into him, the picture of devotion. "Our buyer's watching." - “Mr. and Mrs. Thompson,” - a smooth voice, with a hard russian accent interrupted as the song ended. A tall,slightly older man with silver hair and eyes like cut glass stood at the edge of the floor. “My name is Peter Sokolov.” - I stiffened, I knew this name from somewhere, could it be…- “Please join me in my private quarter. I heard that you were here about something very specific. Something close to my heart. Let’s talk business.” He pointed out the path leading to the massive steel doors. The whole time, Bucky held me firmly by the waist, guiding me just a few centimeters ahead of him. Behind us, we could both hear the deep, heavy breathing of Sokolov. That name. In that moment, it hit me. One of the last names on my list. One of the last people I swore to get revenge on—for everything they did to me. To us. I couldn’t let it show that I recognized this man. The mission was still ongoing, and I had to give it my absolute best.

After a moment, we finally reached a large room, covered entirely in expensive wood and marble. The alcohol scattered on the table was probably worth more than the entire ballroom. Fucking criminals.

“Please, have a seat.”

It was just the three of us in the room. Probably even his crew didn’t know exactly what was being traded here or what they were guarding. Everything was top secret—each person knew less than the next. But this time, we were speaking to the boss. The fucking king of this whole shit-show.

The plan was simple. Make the deal, gain access to the destructive machine, secure it, and blow this entire joyride to hell—including the “President’s” head.

“I assume I’ll finally be discussing the details with you?” Bucky asked firmly, sitting down.

I decided to play the role of the uninterested wife, strolling around the room and admiring the old books arranged on the wooden shelves.

Sokolov sat down across from Barnes, occasionally glancing in my direction. I could feel his disgusting gaze on me. I wanted to kill him right there and then. My rage was growing stronger, but I knew I couldn’t compromise the mission. Not now. Not when we were so close.

They talked for what felt like an eternity—price, location, access key, and all the other bullshit details Barnes was undoubtedly better prepared for than I was. His composure amazed me. I’d never seen him this professional.

“Why don’t you join us?” I finally heard from behind me.

“Ah, yes, excuse me. This collection is truly fascinating,” I said, finally sitting down with them at the table.

“So, you like reading, darling, huh?” His slick smile disgusted me even more.

“Yes, definitely,” I replied. “I’ve got a similar collection at our house, don’t I, honey?” I turned my head to Barnes.

Suddenly, Sokolov’s smile faded. He sat up straight. Something was wrong. For a moment, I thought I’d said something out of line, but then he focused his attention on Bucky.

Fuck. My scar. Behind my ear. They did something to me while injecting that fucking serum. Back when I was a kid. I barely remembered that scar. Maybe he hadn’t noticed.

But then, he only looked at Bucky and smiled. And that’s when I heard it. Those words. Those fucking words. I knew them. I knew I knew them, but I didn’t know they had anything to do with me.

BUCKY’S POV

“I see…” Sokolov said. “You played your part well, but you forgot one tiny detail. NEXUS never forgets its projects.”

He stared straight into my eyes—so intensely I thought I was about to get punched in the face or that fifty guys would suddenly jump out of the closet.

But he just kept talking. The words poured out of his mouth like a twisted poem.

“Желание (longing).”

There is no fucking way, I thought. But he kept going:

“Ржавый (rusted).

Семнадцать (seventeen).

Рассвет (daybreak).

Печь (furnace).

Девять (nine).

Добросердечный (benign).

Возвращение на родину (homecoming).

Один (one).

Товарный вагон (freight car).”

I don’t know why I waited until he finished. I was—how do kids say it now?—too stunned to speak. No time for jokes. No fucking time for thinking. He knew who we were.

“You need to do your research more carefully, old man. Those fucking words don’t work on me anymore.” Like I said—no time for thinking. I punched him immediately.

I shed my second skin, and my vibranium arm was already exposed. I hit him with such force that I was sure he’d die right there, but I couldn’t compromise the mission. I had to stay focused. The mission was everything. Until it wasn’t.

I grabbed Sokolov by the collar, but he just smiled. His laughter grew louder and more maniacal, ringing in my ears like a ticking bomb.

“You need to do your research more carefully, old man,” he hissed back, mocking my words.

“These weren’t meant for you,” he added, glancing quickly over my shoulder.

“Kill him, soldier.”

“What the fuck are you eve—” I didn’t even finish. I felt a powerful blow straight to my cheekbone. I was sure fifty men had magically appeared. But what I saw was far worse.

Y/N. Her eyes—lifeless. Her face—expressionless. No emotion.

“Y/N… what are you…”

Another punch. Fuck. She was strong. She was fucking trying to kill me. I tried to scream at her, but I knew exactly what state she was in. I didn’t know what to do. I was terrified. I couldn’t hurt her. For fuck’s sake, we were on this mission together. But how was this possible? The same words. The exact same words that had once controlled me. Were they working together? So many questions, so few answers. Fuck. Again. No time for thinking.

I had to pull her out of this state somehow.

“Agent Y/L/N! Listen to me—you’re not yourself! Try to remember who you are!”

Pointless.

Y/N lunged first, quick and precise, aiming a punch at my ribcage. I deflected it with my vibranium arm, the impact echoing like a gunshot. Without missing a beat, I countered with a hook, forcing Y/N to duck and sweep my legs. I stumbled but didn’t fall, twisting mid-motion to grab her collar and slam her against the wall.

“Please, don’t make me hurt you.”

With a sharp knee to my stomach, Y/N broke free, spinning into a roundhouse kick that caught my jaw. I staggered back, wiping blood from the corner of my mouth. The glint in my eye shifted from warning to determination. We clashed again—a blur of fists, kicks, and raw strength. Sure, my training made me precise and powerful. But Y/N’s agility and unpredictability kept her one step ahead. The room bore the brunt of our battle—chairs overturned, glass shattered, walls dented by missed strikes. Finally, I caught her wrist mid-punch, twisting her arm behind her back and pinning her to the floor.

We were both breathing hard, sweat and bruises blooming like battle scars.

I knew I had to put her out. I couldn’t bring myself to do it. But she started slipping from my grip. With one harder blow to her head, Y/N collapsed, unconscious. Fuck.

What the hell just happened?

Sokolov.

I turned around, but he was already gone. I looked down at Y/N. I felt powerless. I checked her pulse. She’d survive. I picked her up gently, cradling her in my arms. This mission couldn’t have gone more wrong. I hadn’t even imagined this outcome. I slipped out through the back exit, still hearing the faint music from the ongoing ball. Somehow, I managed to carry her to our hotel room and lay her down in bed without drawing unnecessary attention.

[fameandfiction]

IMAGINE PART I: “Two Gays, Two Kittens” — Reneé Rapp x Reader

— Matching Pets = Soulmates.

PART1 - PART2

[10:37 AM — Somewhere between brunch and “baby voices”]

The first time you mention the idea, Reneé thinks you're joking.

“You want to get... what? Matching kittens?”

You nod, sprawled out on your stomach on the living room rug, surrounded by a thousand tabs open on your laptop. Most of them say things like ‘Top 10 Low-Shed Cat Breeds for Apartment Living’ and ‘Is Your Pet’s Zodiac Sign Compatible With Yours?’

She eyes you from the couch, squinting like she’s trying to read between your lines. She’s still in her hoodie from last night, sleeves pushed up, hair messily knotted. That specific version of Reneé — half-asleep, skeptical, but listening — is your favorite version.

“You don’t even like mornings, but you’re ready to sign adoption papers before noon?”

“It’s not impulsive,” you argue. “It’s manifesting domestic queer joy through animal companionship.”

She snorts.

“You’ve been on Tumblr again, haven’t you?”

You grin, unashamed.

“I want the soft life. I want the cat mom era. I want to be emotionally destroyed when a tiny creature chooses my lap over yours.”

She pauses for a beat. Then says quietly:

“Okay. Let’s do it.”

[The adoption center, 1:45 PM]

Reneé falls first.

Not to a dog. Not to a Maine Coon. Not even to the loud orange one screaming in the corner (your future son, though you don’t know it yet).

She falls for a slip of black fur with a single white dot on his chest — like he got into trouble with an ink pen.

The kitten’s curled into himself like he’s already been through a breakup and writes poetry about it.

“Oh my God,” Reneé whispers, crouching. “He’s dramatic. He’s me.”

You watch the way she lifts him, like she’s afraid he’ll shatter. Her voice turns high and cooing in a way that should be annoying but is, instead, stupidly adorable.

“Hey, little guy. You hate everyone? Same. Let’s trauma bond.”

You, meanwhile, choose chaos.

The orange kitten is practically vibrating with personality — tripping over his own paws, attacking his reflection, and yelling at a feather like it owes him wet food.

He climbs up your shirt and licks your chin like he owns you.

You’re sold.

“This is our child. I will name him Gingersnap.”

Reneé raises an eyebrow.

“That’s aggressively cute.”

“So is he.”

You leave the shelter two hours later with:

One black cat (moody, elegant, pretentious, probably gay)

One orange cat (gremlin-coded, feral, emotionally needy)

Two matching pink carriers

And one dangerous new sense of shared purpose

[3 days later — Your apartment, 9:12 AM]

It’s a Sunday morning. Bright, warm, soft. You’re still in pajamas — plaid shorts, a thrifted t-shirt with a cryptic logo — and there’s oat milk foam on your upper lip because you made coffee and forgot to wipe your mouth.

Reneé’s in the kitchen, humming something under her breath, pouring cereal.

You’re on the floor. Again.

Playing.

“Okay,” you whisper dramatically to the kittens, adjusting your position on the rug like you’re setting the stage. “You’ve been through a lot. But you’ve found each other. You’re safe now. You’re gay. You’re in love.”

Gingersnap tilts his head. Mister Drama (Reneé named him Sebastian, obviously) blinks slowly, already over it.

You gently hold their heads and make them touch noses.

“Muah muah, I love you, I’d kill for you, we’re married now.”

Then — you start making smooch sounds.

Like, actual exaggerated kissy noises.

“Mmmmmuah! MWAH. Mwah mwah mwah.”

Reneé rounds the corner just in time to catch this.

She freezes.

Eyebrows lifted. Spoon paused mid-air.

“Are you—are you making our cats… make out?”

You look up at her. Caught. Red-handed.

“...Gay agenda.”

A beat. Then she cracks up. Full-body laugh. That laugh where she has to bend over and grip the counter. You bask in it. It’s rare, that kind of laugh. It lives between the ribs and the teeth.

You roll your eyes, scooping Gingersnap into your arms.

“Don’t laugh at them. They’re in love. And you’re ruining the moment.”

She drops her cereal and walks over barefoot, Sebastian curling around her ankles. She crouches next to you.

“You’re insane.”

“You say that like it’s not what made you fall in love with me.”

A pause.

You panic for half a second, but then:

“Fall in love with the kitten, I mean,” you correct quickly, eyes darting. “Not me. Ha. Obviously.”

Reneé’s eyes linger on you too long. She bites her lip. Something shifts in the air. You can hear the silence stretching.

But then she smirks.

“Uh-huh. Sure.”

She reaches over and boops Gingersnap’s nose. He sneezes on her hand.

You both dissolve into laughter.

[Later — 2:47 PM, soft post-nap mood]

You and Reneé are curled on the couch. Sebastian’s draped dramatically across her chest. Gingersnap is kneading biscuits into your stomach like he's building a house.

The TV’s playing something forgettable. Reneé’s fingers are brushing absentmindedly over your arm.

There’s no noise except the occasional purring and your hearts doing loud, stupid things inside your chests.

She says it so quietly you almost don’t hear:

“I like this.”

“What?”

“All of it. The cats. You. The quiet. Feels like... home.”

You stare at the ceiling, afraid to move.

Then, softer:

“I like it too.”

You don’t say "I love you."

You don’t say "Please stay like this forever."

You just sit there.

And let the kittens fall asleep.

And pretend that pretending is enough.

[To be continued?]

PART1 - PART2

[serene-faerie]

Doriathrim (plus Beren and Túrin) as Aesthetics

Thingol— towering pine trees, fireflies, a sharp jawline, stern yet gentle eyes, baroque architecture, glittering caves, majestic stags, hands as strong and firm as stone, sweet pomegranates, red wine and roasted meat, neat handwriting, the smell of pine, a melodic baritone voice, kohl-lined eyes that make them sharper, a raised eyebrow to convey displeasure and anger, silver jewelry, neatly-combed hair, diamonds, hunting boots, hugs that linger, well-loved books with folded pages, loving one’s family, autumn leaves, wolves howling at night, tall grass, a great waterfall, graceful postures, roasted game meat, white horses, flowing robes, piercing gazes, soft humming, classical music, unyielding morals, the color of the sky at dusk.

Melian— clear night skies, knowing smiles, the silver light of a waxing moon, braided dark hair, a clear and crystalline voice, elegant harp music, deep-pink jewels, soft hands, flowing gowns, loving gazes, kisses on the forehead, motherly hugs, laughter that sounds like music, white wine, moonflowers, the smell of earth after rain, forest walks, bird watching, dark eyes filled with ancient wisdom, a gentle spring breeze, the pink skies of dawn, romantic paintings, lavender flowers, always knowing what to say, birds in the trees, a flowing river, a graceful doe, blackberries, whispered singing, eyes crinkling with joy, ever present sorrow.

Beren— golden sunlight, forest bathing, leather boots, sword-calloused hands that touch gently, long, tousled brown hair, hardened yet sorrowful eyes, smiles as warm as summer, green cloaks, the smell of amber and cloves, sleeping beneath trees, hearty laughter, falling in love at first sight, a courageous spirit, a rough but warm voice, promising to protect those he loves, loving despite losing everyone dear, patching up injuries, lingering touches, dancing among the flowers, wild berries, fiery sunsets, warm hugs, brown bears, scarred muscles, hand kisses, vows to protect, the coming of summer, forest meadows, reverent whispers of love, admiring gazes, sweet wine, campfires.

Lúthien— starry skies, soft skin, long and loose dark hair, flower crowns, carefree smiles, eyes full of starlight, a voice like crystal, laughter as warm as summer nights, blue gowns, bare feet, ballet dancing, rosy lips, nightingales in the trees, shimmering purple eyeshadow, loving with one’s whole heart, jasmine flowers, red cherries, the smell of lilacs, the loving warmth of spring, sparkling jewels, meadows in the springtime, gentle hand-holding, butterfly kisses, elderflower cordial, sleeping amidst flowers, breaking out of the shell, soft singing, summer storms, april showers, a light in the darkness, a courageous heart, the pale blue morning skies.

Dior— dark, tousled hair, bright eyes, sparkly jewelry, a rugged elegance, a young fawn, mischievous smiles, blue jays, close bonds with family, witty comebacks, blueberries, sharp teeth dripping with blood, righteous fury, defending one’s home to the death, childhood lullabies, swimming in rivers, stargazing, crackling fires, the smell of musk, challenging death head-on, gleaming swords, blood moons, silver rings on each finger, collecting rain in cupped palms, raspberry tea, cicadas buzzing at dusk, the warm caress of a late spring breeze, thunderstorms, flashes of lightning, violent winds.

Nimloth— flushed cheeks, long silver hair, eyes with a gleam both faint and fierce, cunning smiles, loving fiercely, flower garlands, green gowns, careful hands, the new moon, emerald jewelry, golden earrings, bathing in forest rivers, protecting family with one’s life, sharp blades, a mother bear, white flowers, floral tea, strawberries, thrushes, holly leaves, blood upon one’s cheeks, torn dresses, the cool air of dawn, honey cakes, killing one’s enemy at the cost of one’s life, embroidered sheets, cherry-red lipstick, no regrets, victory in death, dying with a smile upon one’s face.

Elwing— white seagulls, wavy dark hair, eyes that are hardened by grief and pain, glowing gems, blue ocean waves, collecting seashells, waters glittering with starlight, a quiet, firm voice, hands that tremble ever so slightly, thick blankets, a gentle sea breeze, gazing out at the sea, warm honey tea, bread and apricot jam, candlelight by the bed, fingertips stained with ink, counting the stars, a worn plush toy, white feathers, a heart burdened with sorrow, finding joy in the smallest things, whispered lullabies to oneself, the pale blue dawn, the smell of the sea, jewelry of silver and pearls, beachside walks with one’s family.

Daeron— wooden flutes, bookshelves with worn books, cursive handwriting, candlelight upon desks, quiet ambient music, a light, clear voice, quiet humming to oneself, a cool autumn breeze, falling asleep at a desk, a crown of leaves, seasonal poetry, flowing rivers, soft hair, lush green grass, pining silently, wandering the earth, living in solitude, the passing of spring, songwriting, warm tea with spices, trying to do what is right, loving one’s home, loyalty to one’s lord, eloquent fingers, singing at parties, knowing exactly what to say at the right time, midsummer nights.

Beleg— hair in a ponytail, feather-tipped arrows, fingerless gloves, keen eyes, silent footsteps, kind smiles, brotherly hugs, deer hunting, sleeping under trees, silver bracelets, cherishing the bonds of friendship, frost upon tree branches, the chill of winter, brown owls, icicles from rooftops, morning mist in the trees, roasted game meat, thick scarves, falling snow, frozen waters, rainy nights, thunderclouds, forgiving, tragic poetry, suppressing one’s emotions, polished hunting boots, bird calls, carvings in tree trunks, loving someone for their flaws, kisses on hands, goodbye kisses, lips stained with blood.

Mablung— sharpened knives, a silent hunter, worn leather boots, even-tempered, always trying to keep a level head, a calming voice, sad smiles, making tea for others, late night hunting trips, strong hands, caverns that echo, light-footedness, elegant yet broken spears, always being the bearer of bad news, giving advice that is never listened to, windswept hair, the smell of bergamot and ginger, a heart weighed by sadness, bittersweet farewells, the thick morning fog, black ravens, mud upon one's cheeks, riverside walks, horse riding through forests, respect and love for one's superiors, fighting to defend one's home.

Túrin— long dark hair, turbulent scowls, sharp eyes full of righteous anger and pain, alcohol, poor decisions, black tea, bedtime stories, tiny smiles, laughter that is scarcely heard, carving wooden animals with a knife, clothes stained with blood, heart racing with adrenaline, lightning, the rumbling of thunder, a hoarse and deep voice, solitude, abandoned cities, shattered mirrors, unyielding stubbornness and pride, words that can cut deep, quick to anger, loving deeply, passionate about justice, running barefoot across the grass, wilted flowers, withered trees, lucid dreaming, dark colors, restlessness, heavy boots, hooded capes, gleaming black swords, tears of anger and bitterness, cloudy skies.

Nellas— robins, three-leafed clovers, tall grass, sleeping in the trees, daisies, red apples, messy braids, short and loose dresses, walking barefoot, freckled cheeks, eyes as warm as the sun, feeding the squirrels, uncaring of anyone's opinions, loving the woodland creatures, the countryside, herds of deer, clusters of poppies, playing hide-and-seek in the forest, folklore stories of animals that speak, dirt under fingernails, crisp air, muddy feet, stargazing from the tallest trees, shy smiles, red foxes, red maple trees, rosy cheeks, a cute button nose, quiet observation, dried leaves in tangled hair, hushed whispers, secret giggles.

Oropher— tall oak trees, loose silver hair, a heart full of unending grief, glittering deep green robes, memorial shrines carved in stone, rosemary and heather, climbing vines, the smell of incense, loves the forest, anger that quietly simmers, a piercing glare to silence unwanted chatter, firm but gentle hands, the sound of rushing rivers, only trusting those who have earned it, quills dipped in ink, leather-bound journals, a compelling voice, silvery light, vast, old-growth forests, black bears, always keeping promises, grey-blue eyes, a mind haunted by memory, reluctant alliances, firm and unwavering principles, late night reading, being slow to forgive, tales of the past, bitter nostalgia, night skies fading into dawn.

Thranduil— a crown of oak leaves and woodland flowers, sweet and fruity wine, tall and dark forests, the crisp chill of early winter, high ceilings, a gleaming sword with a golden hilt, a silver necklace with white jewels, autumn berries, family hunting trips, joyous feasts late into the night, loving the forest through all the seasons, rings of silver and gold, silver eyeshadow, sharp eyeliner that enhances one's eyes, pale straight hair, a heart weighed with bittersweet melancholy, gently rocking a baby's cradle, long hours in the library, a marvellous deer, shimmering eyeshadow, disdain shown through raised eyebrows, the smell of autumn leaves, silk robes, stories about the forests and the stars, befriending the woodland creatures, loving those who are lost.

[kuruna]

I want to design more outfits for AZ especially now that there's a better sense of his personal style :~) of course his suit is all patchworked so he can have something that actually fits his long long limbs, but I think it's very cute that he only picked colours he's already established to like wearing... orange, green, black, and brown.

You can see it in the way Hotel Z looks too... The vintage photo frames, the old mismatched furniture, the shabby curtains... even the two rugs layered on top of one another are a nice little personal touch ! Also if you zoom in over by the bookshelf you'll see whoever was there last just left their books laying on the floor 😭 it adds a cute touch imo, that this is a space that's well used and lived in.

And the usage of patterns too :~) the eternal flower themed patterning (damask style maybe?) in the walls, the patchwork look of the curtains, the parquet flooring, the floral pattern on one of the chairs, and of course AZ's own pinstripe suit ... it all feels very cluttered, but not in an overwhelming way at all. I think it's very cute ^.^

Also his many flowers!! I've been posting about it but he seems to have: white + yellow roses, golden yarrow, pink mums, petunias (not seen here) and the humble dracaena. New beginnings, platonic love, protection, long life + nobility, "you soothe me against anger," and inner power. All symbolism that suits him very well 🫶🏾

Obviously the guy who is really famous for loving a Floette to the point of being willing to (literally) sacrifice the world for her is going to love flowers, but there wasn't any real proof of that in XY, so I'm really happy to see it in Z-A ... Also on another note it does kind of add a little flavour to AZ being that he's a king from the bronze age, an era where men were expected to be these powerful warriors and kings as symbols of masculine strength, but AZ is pretty androgynous in his appearance and from the looks of it his mannerisms too. (There's a reason why I think interpreting him as transfeminine adds a lot to his character even outside of it being self indulgent 🩷🩵🤍)

Anyways. I got extremely off topic 🙏🏾 my point is that it's really charming that his personal style is cluttered and mismatched, but still classy in a way. A former king who values elegance but doesn't want to lose his individuality. And perhaps he's a bit old fashioned in how he goes about things too, whether it be his fashion style or how he runs the hotel itself (I can imagine him preferring to just write down bookings rather than using any kind of automated system, even if it's more tedious ... I think he's someone who really values hard work, though I also imagine he's more in tune with his own limits these days).

More images of the hotel interior :~) the flowers in the window sill (first pic) are petunias while the flowers on the desk (bottom pic) are white and yellow roses. Mostly saying this for my own reference 😱

Also I noticed for the first time yesterday that the wall lamps have a little heart-shaped Floette tail dangling accessory to them, isn't that so cute

[tumbleweedstillhaspanic]

All as it Should Be: Crowley/Reader Chapter Two

Chapter One HERE

Chapter Two: Unease

=======

The sound of raindrops hitting the windowpane created a white noise of sorts only adding to the peaceful atmosphere in their bedroom. Their bedroom had so easily become a sanctuary of sorts for the couple.

Crowley could admit with a sense of pride that Y/N and he had somehow brought their two senses of style together perfectly, though he knew it was much more Y/N’s doing more than his own. 

She always seemed to know just how to bring together their two much different senses of style together without it ever clashing.

Y/N had truly given him a sense of home in more ways than she realized. His previous dwellings had never felt truly like home until Y/N had entered his life.

Sure, they had been filled with modern luxuries and expensive antiques, but there had also been a sense of emptiness and a distinct lack of a feeling of cozy warmth.

Y/N had brought a sense of light to the otherwise dreary atmosphere he was accustomed to inhabiting. 

Sure, he still enjoyed dark rich woods, heavy iron fixtures, sleek leathers, and intricate works of art, but he’d also found he enjoyed soft blankets, cushy pillows, lovely candles smelling of vanilla, and a vase of fresh cut flowers on the dining room table. 

Then again, he supposed that was the reason behind the whole cliche of a woman’s touch. Women were stereotyped as making a house a home for a reason he supposed. Y/N’s touch had absolutely made their dwelling a home.

The decor and furniture choices definitely had Y/N’s more serene softer touch mixed with his own sense of masculine sleek elegance.

Their bedroom was a perfect mix of their two much different tastes. Their bed, though not as large as he might have been tempted to go for prior to sharing a dwelling with her, was truly fit for a king.

They had compromised on their bed, going with his more dramatic choices of a black wooden four poster bed with an intricately carved headboard and a heavy black comforter. Her choices had been incorporated into the bed going with her more delicate choices of soft blue floral printed sheets, a gray plush throw blanket, and plenty of soft decorative pillows. 

The antique dressers in their room matched the black bed fitting his preferences, but the rug in front of the dressers was a cheery mint tone more fitting with her tastes. 

The curtain rods over their windows were a heavy looking dark iron but the curtains were a soft gauzy white cotton.

The house plants around the room had been Y/N’s choice but the lamps sitting on their bedside tables were made of a sleek modern black metal that fit Crowley’s tastes. 

The same went for much of the decor choices throughout the rest of their home; it was a mix of sleek modern elegance, fine antiques, light peaceful tones, and soft cozy comforts. 

It was the truest sense of home that Crowley McLeod had ever experienced, and he had the slightest inclination that Y/N felt much the same.

He knew her childhood home had been somewhat of a difficult environment. Her mother had passed in a house fire destroying the family farmhouse and her family’s sense of security.

They’d moved around the area quite a bit after that any of the comfort that may have existed in that burnt down farmhouse long gone. Her father had fallen into a bit of a depression and had taken on odd jobs often leaving the Winchester siblings with their godfather Bobby Singer...that was until he’d deemed Dean Winchester old enough to watch over his two younger siblings.

Their homes were not always the finest and poverty was very much an issue, but the siblings had felt a sense of kinship through the troubles.

Crowley’s childhood homes had been filled with affluence, but his mother held little interest in him. He’d had creature comforts but a distinct lack of love. When he thought of his childhood he was only hit with a sense of loneliness and a deep painful desire for acceptance. 

He knew this was why perhaps he’d found such comfort in Y/N’s incorporation of cozy little comforts. 

She had shown him that home really was meant to be a sense of belonging at the end of the day. Home as the person you chose to spend your days with. It seemed in ways they’d made up for their childhood environments in their marriage home. She brought a sense of peace and emotional security, and Crowley brought a sense of financial security and made sure she did not want for anything she asked for.

That sense of comfort was all the more apparent as the couple laid nestled close together the morning light struggling to come in to light the room fighting against the storm clouds outside.

Crowley could not stop the content low hum from leaving him as his hand ran up and down her bare back the feel of her pressed skin to skin against him the closest he was certain he might ever get to heaven.

He frowned at the thought, the word heaven making his stomach twist in a way he could not quite understand. The comparison made a sense of dread twist in his gut. Heaven…why did the word trouble him so?

Before he had a chance to get too far down the rabbit hole of just why he felt a twist in his gut, Y/N spoke her voice distracting him from any sense of unease. “I am so glad you talked me into hiring extra help at work. This beats getting up at the crack of dawn on a Saturday.”

He chuckled at the comment, unable to stop himself from leaning in even closer to her his lips brushing across her temple as he spoke. “Something had to be done, Darling. That writer you hired is worth about as much as the drivel he calls literature.”

She shook her head, biting back the desire to scold him for being a bit mean about her most troublesome employee.

Chuck Shurely meant well, or well…she liked to think the best of people anyway.

He was a self-professed professional writer, though she was almost certain most of his works had been self published and had more of an online cult following than anything worthy of the New York Times Bestsellers List. 

He had tried to get her to read some of his works, but she had found herself less than enraptured.

She had a feeling this less than enthusiastic response to his writing seemed to be aided by the fact that Chuck considered the job she’d given him working at her bakery to be less important than writing the next great novel of their time. 

He was late and called out more often than not claiming that he had simply got caught up in the creative process or had finally broken his writer's block.

She’d maybe only allowed him to keep his employment out of a sense of kinship with a fellow creative. 

Crowley would probably argue that she had too soft of a heart and needed to understand that successful business required sacrifice of the weaker links…though he seemed to know better than to offer this advice to her.

She had a slight feeling her husband maybe admired her soft heart though he did at times attempt to encourage her to have a little bit more of a backbone with that soft heart especially when it led her to heartache.

Needless to say, Crowley had talked her into maybe seeking out more employees than Chuck and the less than stable party girl, Ruby, who she’d hired and then quickly fired more times than she could count.

Crowley had reminded her that it was unreasonable to do it all on her own. She needed help that was a bit more reliable than a struggling writer and the occasional college kid.

She had recently hired someone Dean had suggested, a guy who he’d had as a roommate for a short while and though Dean described him as strange, he was at least trustworthy. Castiel was an odd duck, but he was at least a dedicated worker…even if he was not the best at customer facing roles.

He did well enough working in the kitchen and was capable of following recipes. To handle the customers, she’d hired Becky Rosen who despite having a more than slightly worrisome unrequited crush on Y/N’s little brother Sam, did well enough at the job.

She held back and commentary on Crowley’s less than favorable opinions about some of her employee choices. “It’s amazing what a little work life balance will do for a girl.”

“Indeed, Love. I think I am proof of that. You do remember how much of a workaholic I was before you ensnared me.” 

“Ensnared. You make it sound like I set a bear trap in the woods for you.” She giggled, causing a deep drowsy chuckle to leave him.

He pressed a kiss to her forehead. “There was no trapping needed, My Love. I promise you did not need to hunt down the willing.”

“Good, can’t say I’ve ever been much of a hunter.” She replied the comment making a frown cross his features.

Hunter…a hunter. No, she was a hunter…wasn’t she? Hunting…whatever did she hunt? Who did she hunt? 

No, she didn’t hunt…what was he thinking? She was just a baker…she didn’t like violence though she was capable of holding her own in a fight. Something she’d admitted she’d proven in middle school getting into a few scraps with a couple of less than kind kids. 

It was one of Crowley’s favorite stories from her childhood; how she’d jumped on the back of a much older kid who she had caught bullying her little brother Sam.

He’d admired her tenacity and loyalty, a trait she’d had even as a little girl.

He found his brain rolling around the word hunter.

Hunter…why did that word stand out so much? It was as though there was something deep in the base of his skull, some untouchable box that he could not grasp to open. It was like an itch he could not scratch ever so persistently in the back of his senses. It tingled and tormented him until he was distracted from it. 

“Crowles, you seem tense. You okay?” The distraction pulled his mind from that persistent little sense of unease.

He found his mind shift from the confusing internal dialogue he’d been locked in his focus turning to her troubled features, guilt clouding his mind. What was it with him? He had to just be tired.

He chose the company line it seemed he was adopting lately. “Just tired, Darling.”

She gave him a crooked grin caressing his bare chest, her fingertips tickling his dark chest hairs. “And whose fault is that? I believe you are the cause of the lack of rest last night.”

“Me? I do believe you were all too willing for a round two. You started it the first time around, but I had enthusiastic consent for the second round.” He teased, causing a slight blush to color her cheeks, the sight making him smirk.

The fact that she had little moments of sweet innocence and bashfulness when it came to intimacy still did it for him. He wasn’t ashamed to admit it.

She’d been much less experienced than him sexually when they’d first gotten together. Though he’d taught her quite a bit in the bedroom she was still prone to her moments of embarrassment when it came to being more frank about sex. 

She shook her head a huff leaving her. “I blame the pregnancy hormones. It’s like my brain has a one track mind lately and it revolves around your dick apparently.”

He smirked all the more quick to respond. “Well can’t blame you, my dangly bits are impressive. Think I recall you telling me during one of our first encounters that you had no idea how you were going to fit it all in, but you were determined to try and my did you try ever so hard.”

She felt her cheeks flush all the more than accustomed to him being cocky, no pun intended, by the stark fact that he was well above average. She may have told him once, while quite tipsy, that he was the biggest she’d ever had, and no one would ever quite satisfy her the same way he’d done.

He had at least not teased her too much over the comment reassuring her that she had definitely ruined other women for him. No one would quite feel as sinfully delightful around his dick as she managed to.

Needless to say, they’d already had an active sex life where they were willing to experiment, but her raging pregnancy hormones had made her feel all the more desperate for him.

She’d decided to just roll with it at this point. 

He continued to caress her bare skin, the sunlight brightening the room enough that he could see her features a little clearer.

She snuggled up closer to him resting on her side. He rested on his back, her hand remaining pressed against his chest, her fingertips lightly tracing his chest hair and the bit of ink tattooed across his chest and upper arms...intricate colorful dragons.

He frowned, unable to remember getting the tattoos. He could not connect any tangible memory to the process of getting them. Something told him that he had not been there when the tattoos were inked into his skin, but he found the thought preposterous. 

What did he mean, he had not been there? The voice in the back of his mind claimed he’d been someone else then. It had been so long ago, longer than he could fathom. He had been someone one…no something else before he’d been in this form.

He pushed the thought from his mind telling himself he needed more rest. That had to be. He was exhausted and stressed and he was losing it.

He pushed his mind back to the present focusing on the sensations of her fingertips caressing his chest and the soft warm feel of her nude body against his. 

He gazed down at her hand pressed against his chest the gold of her wedding band and the sparkle of the diamond engagement ring on her hand making his chest swell with pride.

He allowed his eyes to study the tattoo on her forearm, a beautiful black floral design, highly detailed peonies. 

Crowley felt a slight frown cross his features studying the tattoo all the more. Something did not seem right. The design of the tattoo…a nagging voice at the core of his mind told him that there was something all wrong about it.

The voice insisted that something else was meant to be inked into her skin in place of the pretty delicate flowers.

There was something else that was supposed to be inked into her skin; something powerful…a symbol perhaps. What was the symbol meant to do though?

Protection: the word itched in the base of his skull…protection from what though?

The voice snarked, sounding so cold and cruel; protection from him…

Why would she need to be protected from him though? He was her husband; he would never harm her…no not protection from him foresee…but from those like him…

He rolled the thought around it filling him with disgusting slimy feelings. What did he mean by protection from those like him? 

He was a mere man…wasn’t he?

He found the thoughts leave him that awful feeling fading as she spoke so easily, distracting him again. “You’re getting all tense again, Babe. That does it, I’m going right downstairs and making you a cup of herbal tea. You need some chamomile tea and rest.”

She pressed a few soft kisses to his cheek he reluctantly allowing her to pull away from him and slide out of the bed. She pointed at him a sigh leaving her. “Stay in this bed, Mister. I mean it. You need to relax.”

He watched her cross the room, the sight of her nude body pleasant enough that it pushed the odd sense of something not being right from his mind.

He watched her slide on a silk pink robe straightening her bed head before she left the room.

He sank further into bed, a frustrated huff leaving him. He was surely going insane. 

He studied their room as it grew a little brighter from the morning sun fighting through the storm clouds outside. He sought out anything that would ground him through these odd feelings torturing his mind.

He focused on the framed photo on his bedside, the memories behind it easing him. The photo had been taken on his wedding day. It featured Y/N and he; she nestled in his arms they both looked serene.

He let his mind focus on the photo recalling the memories from their wedding day, shocked that they seemed so clear and detailed.

He recalled a moment during their reception when he’d realized that he’d truly chosen the woman of his dreams.

The dance floor of the reception hall was filled just enough without feeling crowded nor totally abandoned.

Crowley hoped that it was not too obvious that he was able to eavesdrop as he danced with Y/N’s maid of honor Jo, the pair standing close enough to Y/N as she shared a dance with her little brother Sam.

Crowley allowed his eyes to sneak over to Y/N more than once absolutely enthralled by his bride.

She was truly a stunning creature, angelic in a white elegant satin ball gown. The strapless gown might be considered plain to some, but it was truly timeless and fit for a queen. She looked perfect. Crowley was comfortable enough in his masculinity to admit he’d gotten a bit weepy when her godfather Bobby had walked her down the aisle to him, the man filling the role for Y/N’s deceased father John.

The long lace veil she’d worn during the ceremony had been removed for the reception; her long hair held up with several pins that the newlyweds would giggle through the hassle of removing in their honeymoon suite later tonight.

She wore an antique garnet stone pendant hanging from a chain around her neck. It was a gift from Crowley for her wedding day. The stone had been in his family for longer than he remembered and he wanted his new wife to have it. The delicate pearl earrings she wore had been her mother’s and some of the lace of the veil she’d worn during the ceremony had been made from scraps from a dress that had belonged to Crowley’s mother Rowena. 

Y/N was a dream come true for him. She was truly more than he deserved.

He struggled to not make it too terribly obvious that he was listening in as Sam and Y/N spoke their voices low, the conversation clearly awkward if not tense.

Sam sighed hoping that his true feelings were not evident in his features. He knew that photographers had been snapping candid photos all day and Dean had not exactly hidden his disapproval of this union.

Though Sam was not entirely thrilled with the day’s festivities he loved Y/N far too much to ruin any photos capturing her big day.

He could not stop himself from saying it knowing he might sound like a broken record at this point. “You’re happy, right?”

“I’m happy, Sammy.” She remarked, resisting the urge to roll her eyes at the question. How many times were they going to have this conversation today?

Sam let out a huff resisting the urge to roll his own eyes. He took a deep breath taking more delicate approach to the conversation. “I know you’re glad to see this all come together. I know this wasn’t easy without mom and dad.”

Y/N gave him a tight smile, the subject of their deceased parents always a sensitive one. “It wasn’t easy. I feel guilty…I mean, I don’t remember Mom.”

“Me either…not like Dean does at least.” Sam admitted his throat growing tight. He’d been just a baby when Mary had died and Y/N had been a toddler not much older than him.

Dean’s memories might be fuzzy of their mother but at least they were more concrete.

Y/N spoke, clearing her throat. “Aunt Ellen made it easier though…and Crowley’s mom too. I know he was pretty hesitant when she offered her help, but I think it was a good bonding experience for us. I think it was kind of good for Crowley too, they’re…things are complicated for them.”

Sam frowned, glancing over at Crowley’s mother the redhead tied up paying mind to some boytoy she’d brought along as her date. 

Sam guessed the woman had to have been a young mother or had some amazing genes, because never would have placed her as Crowley’s mother.

Sam cleared his throat, nodding his head trying to make light of the conversation. “She’s interesting.”

“I’m just thankful she seems to like me, Crowles got me a little freaked out the way he describes her.” Y/N offered Crowley sighing somewhat at the confession. 

His mother was a witch more often than not, but his wife’s sweet heart was too open to judge too harshly. He just hoped that his mother was being genuine for once in her life when it came to her embrace of her new daughter-in-law.

Sam spoke, distracting Crowley from thinking far too much about the complex relationship he shared with his mother. “He doesn’t seem to have much family.”

“I think the same could be said for us.” Y/N pointed out nodding her head around the room.

John Winchester had not exactly been the type to stay in touch with extended family. Any aunts and uncles they may have had in their life were actually more of friends of the family.

“Fair.” Sam admitted glancing around the room.

He spoke again, a deep sigh escaping his lips. “What do you think dad would think?”

“About?” Y/N dared to ask, cringing hoping that Sam wasn’t about to pull a Dean.

Dean had already brought up her father soon after Y/N had introduced Crowley to her brothers. 

They were less than enthused with the age difference. The words daddy issues had been brought up the last time Dean had it out with her over Crowley.

Sam cleared his throat, treading lightly with the conversation. “I mean, you…being married.”

“I don’t think Dad saw me as much of the bridal type. I think until I hit puberty he considered me to be a third son. The boobs and need to buy tampons kind of wiped that frame of mind right out of the water though”.

Sam cringed at the comment, a grimace appearing on his features at the crude comment. “Dad was just…”

“Yeah, I know.” Y/N cut him off not wanting to hear excuses though she’d made them herself a thousand times before.

Crowley himself cringed not entirely pleased with this line of conversation, having come to his own conclusions and perceptions when it came to her late father.

“What do you think he’d think of your husband?” Sam dared to ask not missing how tight Y/N’s shoulders became her jaw tightening just as much.

She spoke her voice a low growl. “Don’t do this, Samuel.”

Sam shrugged his shoulders a huff leaving him. “Do what? It’s just a question.”

Y/N rolled her eyes quick to snark back. “It was just a question when Dean asked me too? Pretty sure he asked how Dad would interpret me marrying a man old enough to have been dad's classmate…which is not at all even slightly accurate. Our age difference is not that massive. Crowles would have to be a teen dad if he’d fathered me.”

Sam bit back the desire to point out that there was still over ten years of an age difference there. Crowley was older than Dean and he.

Sam let out a heavy sigh fast to try to smooth it over. “I just, he’s not what we were expecting.”

“That doesn’t make him any less worthy of my love. I don’t recall giving you two permission to pick my future spouse. We aren’t living in the olden days where I needed my nearest male relatives to choose a husband for me in exchange for securing land and money.” Y/N remarked a sense of pride washing over Crowley.

He held his head up high, proud of his wife for speaking her mind. It was about damn time she told Moose off. Now if only she could do the same to Squirrel.

Sam let out a slight huff fast to defend his thoughts. “He’s…I just don’t know what you see in him. He’s not like us. There’s just something about him that I don’t like.”

Y/N shook her head fast to respond. “Good thing you aren’t marrying him then. I never asked for Dean and your opinion on this. So, I don’t know why you two keep providing it.”

“We just don’t want to see you get hurt.” Sam defended himself, his shoulders sagging the sight almost comical; a man as tall and as broad shouldered as him being admonished by someone much smaller framed.

Crowley felt his jaw tighten a sense of rage bubbling up in him. Who did Moose think he was throwing out such an accusation? He would never dream of harming a hair on her head.

He did not have time to give into his base desires and react Y/N quick to give her brother a piece of her mind. “Hurt me? Are you serious right now? That man would sooner chop off his own hands than mistreat me. If Dean and you would pull your heads from the sand you’d notice that he’s treated me with nothing but absolute respect and love. He’s damn near spoiled me. Trust me if he’d had his way we’d be having a much grander wedding right now. He loves me and I love him. I am not going to have this discussion with either one of you anymore. My husband, that’s right I said husband is not subject to your approval or disapproval. I am going to spend the rest of my life with him. My life, not yours. He’s the best thing that has ever happened to me Sammy. If Dean and you can’t accept that I’m truly happy for the first time in my entire life then I think we might need to take some distance from each other. I can’t keep having this talk. I’m happy, be happy for me.”

Crowley felt his throat tighten an overwhelming sense of adoration washing over him. He resisted the urge to go to her and gather her up in his arms pressing his lips to hers and declaring his devotion to her for all to see.

He felt his heart sink knowing that the threat to cut off her brothers was not one she was taking lightly. Family was everything to the Winchesters.

Sam seemed to be taken off guard by the threat he was fast to speak. “Okay, listen…I’ll drop it, okay. I am happy for you…Dean is too even if he’s not showing it the best right now. We can’t turn off wanting to look out for you. Just promise me that you’ll tell me if you ever aren’t happy.”

Crowley scowled at the request, not having long to focus on it as Y/N spoke her voice stern. “Sam, drop it. If you’re happy for me, drop it.”

Sam let out a shaky sigh, his eyes glancing over at Crowley apparently sensing his new brother-in-law had been listening in. 

He kept this observation underwraps as he spoke, seemingly accepting defeat. “Fine, I love you, okay. I’m sorry. Today isn’t about…it’s about you. You deserve to be happy.”

Crowley made a response fast to reply mentally to this comment: I make her happy Moose, so lay off it. She’s mine. Get used to it or get lost and take Not Moose with you.

He nodded to Jo as the song neared an end, Crowley making his way over to his wife as a new song began to play.

He nodded to Sam quick to speak the request more of a demand. “May I cut in? It’s our song.”

Y/N made the choice for her brother, releasing him and sending him a look that clearly read; behave. “Yes, please.”

Crowley pulled her close as Sam tucked his tail between his legs and sulked off to the full liquor bar his older brother had been indulging in all night.

Crowley paid the man no mind wrapping his arms around his wife pressing his lips to her forehead as they swayed to At Last by Ella Fitzgerald. It was a cliche song to play at a wedding but cliches are cliches for a reason.

She spoke her voice soft she not aware he’d heard the entire tense talk she’d had with her brother. She did have the sense though he’d been able to see that she’d not been enjoying herself.“Thank you for saving me.”

“Always, Mrs. MacLeod.” He replied his voice just as soft he kept her close, pushing all of the upset Sam may have caused far away.

She was the woman of his dreams and even if her brothers were nightmares he was willing to endure.

Crowley pulled his gaze from the photograph and the memory as the bedroom door opened and Y/N entered the room with a cup of tea in hand.

She gently handed it over to him as he sat up resting his back against the headboard.

She removed her robe crawling back into bed with him taking notice that his eyes had turned back to the photo on his bedside table. 

She spoke a soft chuckle leaving her. “It took me way too long to decide on that gown. Which I know isn’t that shocking for most brides, but I tried on more dresses than I can count. I was almost sold on another one but Sam told me it made me look like a cupcake.”

Crowley chuckled, still finding it odd that her brothers who had been so against the wedding had been willing to help with some of the planning…well Sam had been willing, Dean had avoided it.

Though the couple got the sense that Sam had been sent to be a flying monkey of sorts attempting to talk some sense into his sister about her impending nuptials. 

“What made it so dessert-like?” Crowley dared to ask, having to admit he could not imagine her in any other gown than the one she’d chosen.

“Tulle mostly. It had layered tulle from what I remember. The gown I picked out was way more subdued. Sam was right, though I’ll never tell him that.” Y/N explained watching her husband as he sipped his tea he became more at ease.

“I loved your gown, Darling. You were truly a work of art.” He remarked, tempted to add on that he’d also loved the lingerie she’d worn under it, but decided that going romantic without the sex appeal was probably a little more favorable.

He stared at the photo again, unable to stop a sudden thought from forming. The details of their wedding…something about it did not make sense. “We didn’t get married in a church, Love? Why?”

Y/N tilted her head to the side fast to reply. “It just wasn’t our thing. I recall you telling me that you just wanted to keep all the festivities to one location. The country club just seemed like a better choice.”

Crowley frowned something in him telling him that there was more to it than that. There was a reason that they had not even thought to marry in a church. There was a reason he could so clearly remember their vows not being religious in the slightest. 

There was something about the thought of being married someplace so holy and reading scripture that made his stomach turn. There was something downright terrible that washed over him at the thought of God or the church.

Y/N pressed a kiss to his cheek dragging him from the thought. “We just wanted to keep things true to us. We liked the country club, and didn’t even really look at any other locations, remember. We knew our wedding party wasn’t going to be the biggest and we wanted to just have a simple elegance to it, roses and our own vows, the people we loved the most. We knew we wanted it to feel right for us.”

She pressed another kiss to his cheek fast to speak again providing all the further distraction. “The honeymoon was pretty true to us too from what I remember.”

“Yes, a peaceful escape to the English countryside. No one for miles to hear us enjoy our marriage bed.” Crowley teased a smirk crossing his features, his wife pressing a soft kiss to his lips.

He felt any sense of confusion or unease fade as she spoke. “And look at us now, we made the right choices for us. Everything happened just the way it was meant to.”

“I know, Love.” He replied, giving her a reassuring smile. 

He just needed rest, he told himself. 

Once he got some rest and got through family dinner with her brothers tonight, these odd thoughts and sense of unease would fade far away.

[clawsandthunder]

Wolverine and Storm’s Date Night

Hello, RoLo Enthusiasts!

It’s time to let our imaginations run wild and celebrate the epic love between Wolverine and Storm. Picture this: the stars have aligned, and our beloved power couple finally has a night to themselves. Let’s dive into their ultimate date night and feel the sparks fly! Here’s my take to get us started...

Outfits

Storm, ever the goddess of style, dons a stunning silver gown that gracefully hugs her silhouette. The gown is made of shimmering silk that catches the light with every movement, creating a mesmerizing effect. It features a deep V-neckline that accentuates her elegant collarbones and flows into a cascading, floor-length skirt with a daring thigh-high slit that reveals her caramel-colored leg as she walks. The back of the gown is equally breathtaking, with a low, open design that adds a touch of allure. Her hair is pulled up into a beautiful and intricate chignon, and she accessorizes with delicate diamond earrings and a matching bracelet (a gift from Logan). Her look is completed with elegant silver heels that sparkle under the moonlight, casting tiny glimmers of light with every step she takes.

Wolverine, embracing his suave “Patch” persona, opts for a sleek white tuxedo. The crisp, tailored fit complements his rugged charm, and he adds a black bow tie and polished black shoes. His signature hair gives him a mysterious, dashing look, with just a hint of danger that only adds to his allure.

Dinner at Logan's Cabin

Logan whisks Ororo away to his secluded cabin in the Canadian wilderness. The cozy cabin, nestled among towering pine trees, is the perfect romantic getaway. The faint scent of pine and fresh flowers fills the air, mingling with the mouth-watering aromas from their dinner. Logan has prepared a special meal featuring exquisite French cuisine. Storm savors a delicate Coq au Vin, a classic French dish with tender chicken braised in wine, while Wolverine enjoys a perfectly cooked Filet Mignon with a side of creamy Dauphinoise potatoes. They share a bottle of fine Bordeaux, toasting to their time together. The flickering candlelight casts a warm glow, creating an intimate atmosphere.

A Romantic Boat Ride

After dinner, they set off on a romantic boat ride across a tranquil lake. The boat glides smoothly over the still waters, the soft ripples reflecting the moonlight like a shimmering path. The sound of gentle paddling and the occasional call of a loon create a serene and enchanting ambiance. Logan and Ororo snuggle close under a warm blanket, sharing sweet whispers and tender moments as they drift along the lake.

Dancing Under the Moonlight

Their boat ride leads them to a quiet dock where the moonlight casts a magical glow. No actual music is needed as they sway together, the soft sounds of nature setting the perfect rhythm. The gentle rustling of leaves and the distant hoot of an owl add to the enchanting ambiance.

Star-Gazing and Storytelling

 To cap off the evening, they find a cozy spot to build a fire and lay down a blanket to gaze at the stars while wrapped in each other's arms. The night sky is a canvas of twinkling lights, and the cool spring air is warmed by their shared presence. Wolverine points out his favorite constellations and recalls tales of his time spent hiking in these very mountains, while Storm shares stories of her childhood growing up on the streets of Cairo. The night is filled with laughter, shared memories, and the undeniable chemistry between them.

What’s your idea for Wolverine and Storm’s ultimate date night? Share your thoughts in the comments below!

[im-poltergeist]

Towers and Thorns (Fanfic vers)

tags: bodyguard!Ghost x royal!reader, older Ghost, first fic, might be crappy idk, multiple parts, might be nsfw down the line, english is not my first language so feel free to correct me. 🌻

Part 1 🌻 Part 2 🌻 Part 3

Your heels click against the polished stone floor with every step that you take. Heavy thuds from boots coming closer behind you.

“I was just wondering when you’d join me”, you say to the man behind you.

“Had to have a laugh at your poor time management skills”, Ghost replies, falling in to step with you.

“Hilarious.” You roll your eyes.

“Always am, your highness.”

Ghost opens the door to the grand dining hall with his head bowed to you. You walk in, a polite smile with teeth. To make it seen genuine. Or something. The wall opposite you has portraits of previous rulers. Ranging from the one before your mother to one from as early as the 18 hundreds. All in neat but extravagant golden frames. In front of the wall there is a long wooden table. Decorated cleanly with a white table cloth, flowers in pink and lilac and lit candles. At the tale sits your mother. A crown decorates her head. You bow your head to her and make your way towards the table around the edge of the room. If you’d look out the windows you’d see the flowerbeds in the garden. Full of red, white and pink roses. The afternoon sunlight casting the room in a warm yellow glow.

On your mothers left side sits the president, and on her right your father. There is an empty seat next to him. Your seat. You hurry towards the chair. Shooting your mother a quick apology as you pass by behind her. You sit down and smooth out your dress. Your father gives you a stern look.

“Sorry”, you mouth to him. He nods back. Apology accepted. You exhale. You look around at the other two tables. One to your left and the other to your right. The table to your right is designated to the families that are close to the crown. There’s the Callahans, the Makarovs and Marshall and his parents, ew. At the table to your right is, oh god no. Your cousins are sat smirking in your direction. Well, four out of five. You eldest cousin, Grace, keeps her head down. Gaze on the plate in front of her. She’s in a light pink dress that she thinks hides her already growing baby bump, it does nothing of the sort. A shadow passes behind her. No, not a shadow. A balaclava clad man who somehow blends in like a chameleon into the dim light of the dining hall. He’s a ghost alright.

“How kind of you to join us, your highness”, The president addresses. Earning him amused chuckles from various people in the room. Your eyes dart to him.

“I do sincerely apologize. I’m afraid that my poor time management skills have struck again”, you answer. Causing many people in the room to laugh. Including a snicker from behind you. The corners of your mouth twitch upward. The president chuckles. The tension in the room eases. The conversations start flowing and you let out a breath. Your mother and father are swept in to a conversation with the president. Theres a joke about tea. Something about a wall. You don't pay attention.

Your eyes wander around the room again. They sweep past your cousins towards the door. Next to the door stands Gaz, or Kyle, which is his real name. His dark skin and neatly trimmed hair fits in like a piece of a puzzle with the rest of the room. Elegant but with the touch of don't mess with me Im a bodyguard. Next to him on the other hand is a man who does the exact opposite. The mohawk on his head standing out like an eyesore. His slightly rugged look may be appealing to some woman. But in this context it stands out like a drop of blood on cotton. Even though thats the case he is far from ugly. Wait a minute. Isn't that? Yes its is. It is the bodyguard that Grace is rumored to have a relationship with. Why on earth is he here? We don't need the scandal to take fire once again. It has barley burned out.

You pry your eyes away from the man. Looking towards the table on your right instead. The Callahans are talking with the Makarovs about something you can't hear. Marshalls parents are listening in to the conversation. But Marshall himself is staring at you. Shooting you a cocky grin as your eyes meet his. You look away in disgust.

The first corse is served. It is some kind of soup with tiny vegetable squares floating around below the drizzle of oil. It tastes alright. It's nothing special. Apparently it's supposed to warm up the stomach before the main course. What nonsense. There are so many better options to serve as an appetizer. Especially when the President is visiting.

The main corse plays out the same way. Some kind of meat, grayish and dry. The royal family cant eat raw meat in case of food poisoning. You do it anyway. The chefs rules are much looser when the palace is empty of guests. The president keeps talking with your family. He goes on and on about something that you cant be bothered to listen to. Until your name is mentioned that is.

"What", you ask. Suddenly interested in the conversation.

"Would you consider yourself a republican or a liberal", the president asks you. The strained smile on his face tells you that it was the second time he asked.

"Im not allowed to vote, nor am i allowed to take a stand in politics", you answer. The answer had been drilled in to your very bones. You cant express yourself politically. Especially not right now.

"Come on. This is just a friendly conversation between two acquaintances. Theres no need to follow such formalities." He pushes. You clench your fist under the table. Why cant he just drop it. Your father tenses beside you as you open your mouth to speak.

"Like I said, I will not speak on the matter", you reply. A polite but stern answer. Your father relaxes again. The president laughs and says something about rule following and you stop listening again.

When dessert rolls around you would like to be anywhere but in the dining hall. Your cousins have had too much to drink. Probably something stronger than alcohol as well by the way they constantly disappear in to the bathroom and talk so loud that you can hear almost every word that they are saying. When you have finished your desert you politely excuse yourself to get some fresh air and hurry out of the dining hall.

When you get into the corridor outside of the big door you take a deep breath. It finally feels like you can get enough oxygen. You walk towards the garden. Fresh evening air cant hurt. The roses should be blooming. A hand grips your wrist and tugs.

taglist: @panikk-attackkk

[januwo]

Where The Door Speaks First - The East African Art & Architecture of the Swahili Coast

A typical Swahili-Style door in Zanzibar City, Tanzania

The Zanzibar archipelago, a jewel of Tanzania, is famed for its deep blue seas, white sand beaches and beautiful resorts. Tourists come in droves to its shores for year-round warmth, but it's not just a paradise. Wander through the Zanzibar Stone Town and you'll find something else quite spectacular.

Ancient white houses made of stone, carved wooden doors more beautiful than the ones guarding many palace doors, a direct result of indigenous African design shaped by a millenium of trade and power in the East African coast. Contact with lands as far as India and as powerful as Oman helped shape the Swahili coast into a revered landmark in the muslim world.

Of the most loud statement pieces you'll find in Zanzibar are these wooden doors, more than twice the size of an average person and filled with Bantu motifs and local African plants. These were made like that on purpose, as they showed to all passerby's how much status the homeowner had. These beauties in African teak were even exported abroad by wealthy merchants, from Lake Tanganyika to Muscat.

So what is the Swahili art and architectural tradition and why isn't it included in broader discussion on African heritage?

A scene in Stone Town, Zanzibar City.

The Swahili are a Bantu people that live along the East African coast, shaped by centuries of trade creating a maritime culture. Even their language shows heavy influence from the Arabic, Persian and Indian traders that routinely came to their shores. Today it serves as a lingua franca across much of Central and East Africa.

Like today, Africa had a lot of prized natural resources that other regions wanted, and so the Swahili became traders of gold, ivory, spices, African cultural products and timber. In exchange they would receive Indian textiles and incense, Arabic books and Persian rugs. Like in other regions of Africa, this trade also brought in the religion of Islam to the population, which greatly influenced the region.

The golden age of the Swahili coast was around the 9th to 15th centuries, with cities such as Kilwa Kisiwani, Mombasa, Lamu and Zanzibar becoming powerful city states within their own right. Kilwa even printed their own coins starting in 900 AD, based on a contemporary mint being found in Kenya. These coins were found in digs from Oman all the way to Zimbabwe and Madagascar, suggesting large trading networks comparable to the Silk Road.

Portuguese Drawing of Kilwa Kisiwani, known as Quiloa, published in 1572 in the Civitates Orbis Terrarum. The caption reads: "Quiloa is a beautiful city in Africa, situated on an island close to the mainland; it has always been Muslim, and a foremost enemy of the Christians."

As trade enriched the area, the Swahili expanded their cities. By the 11th century they were using coral limestone to build their cities, ancient coral reefs which compressed to form a durable building material.

The eternal whiteness of the stone reflected sunlight away leaving homes cool to the touch, a feature also seen in the iconic Mediterranean architecture. Its porous nature was also great for keeping houses cool and breathable in the African climate. Cities would have mosques, schools, tombs, and public squares all built out of this stone as well, giving a unique look to the area that radiated elegance.

By 1331, Ibn Battuta had visited East Africa and called the island of Kilwa Kisiwani in his 1354 travel account "among the most beautiful cities in the world and the most elegantly built", an interesting statement knowing he compared the African city to his experiences in Baghdad, Constantinople, India, China, and island kingdoms like the Maldives and Indonesia.

And the coast was known for much more than just raw materials, in Swahili culture at the time a house's door would showcase its owner's status, the larger and more ornate the better. These large structures of durable hardwoods like African teak or ebony were interwoven with rich symbolism, from Bantu bows, oceanic imagery, and vegetation taken from the African interiour. Traditionally they would also be built before a house's construction, with the right side being male and the left side being female (looking in).

Early Swahili doors followed a rectangular shape, with projecting frames and designs around the main door, but then Islamic and Indian influence introduced an arched top, lotus flower imagery and Qur'anic inscriptions sometimes with the owner's name. These were renowned among its trade partners, and if you see a similar door in Southern Arabia it either is from or is inspired by African craftsmanship.

A traditional Swahili door in Tanbora, Tanzania, a town 800km deep in the interiour of Africa suggesting vast trade relations in the medieval era. The rectangular frame and lack of Arabic shows it was likely built in the 1600s, and the door's swooshing, circular, and flowing patterns reflect traditional African motifs inspired by the sea.

The beauty of the coastal cities was remarked extensively among travellers, both European and Asian, and its for the same reasons that many today flock to Italy and Greece. Whitewashed houses and walkable streets built for public, family and social life, with beauty carved all over, not in monuments but in quiet elegance.

Travellers from across Europe, Asia and Arabia were captivated by the beauty of the archipelagos and coastal cities of Africa, with the same flavour of captivation that now captures tourists in Greece and Italy, not of monumental excellence but serene elegance and grace.

Yet they didn't keep it humble, the palace of Husuni Kubwa in the island of Kilwa Kisiwani is the largest known stone construction south of the equator in the African continent, with over 100 rooms and hosting a swimming pool and multiple courtyards. This grandeur is reflected in Portuguese accounts calling it the "house of the great king".

So here we see that the Swahili coast was the centre of a thriving trade culture that prioritised art, architecture, urban planning and livelihood. Among the most beautiful in the world, so what changed?

A modern image of the coast of Lamu, Kenya

The decline of the Swahili city states began when the Portuguese, starting their explorations of the world, tried to subjugate the native Swahili populations in the early 1500s. Some became tributaries, but many like Mombasa resisted invasion, but regardless it didn't last long until the Omani Sultinate also conquered the region for its vast resources.

But the culture, people and riches never actually stopped flowing. Some cities like Kilwa Kisiwani, once the capital of the entire coast, fell out of favour after Omani conquest with only a thousand residents today. But other places even grew in prominence since then.

In 1840 the Omani capital was moved from Muscat to Zanzibar itself to better control trade in the Indian Ocean and for the comfort of the Sultan. Even after Zanzibar gained independence it still continued the Swahili tradition with growing influence. The British were especially interested in the large ivory trade that Zanzibar controlled, and turned it into an autonomous protectorate under the Empire.

As soon as the British feared losing control of Zanzibar, the British bombarded the region to replace the new sultan. It is a favourite fun fact among historians that the Anglo-Zanzibari war was the shortest war in recorded human history with an astounding 38 minutes of conflict before a ceasefire was declared.

A street in modern-day Zanzibar City

Today many of these old Swahili cities have become popular tourist attractions because of their beauty, raking in lots of money routed for preservation and becoming famous around the world. Swahili-style resorts are found all over East Africa and the traditional interiour design style has become a favourite among Pinterest boards. However when talking about African heritage and art it is rarely brought up.

This erasure comes from the people and art being seen as actually just derivative of Arabic and Islamic influences and not as authentically African as inland Sub-Saharan Africa. Despite the people building and keeping these cities alive being native Africans of the Bantu branch, their contact across the Indian Ocean is seen as having tainted it from any recognition as African.

But this narrative is changing. Scholars and cultural institutions are increasingly recognizing Swahili civilization for what it is: a distinctly Black culture, shaped by both local innovation and maritime exchange. Restoration efforts are underway in many cities, and local communities continue to preserve their heritage. Still, much work remains in many of them. The architectural and artistic brilliance of the East African coast deserves far more recognition as a vital chapter in the story of African civilization.

The front door of the Zanzibar Museum of Art, notably the oldest confirmed Swahili door in existence carved in 1694.

[tales-of-tentacles]

Emily and the "Thing".

Emily, a brilliant architectural designer known for her innovative, sustainable urban projects, arrived at her sleek city apartment after a demanding day. The city hummed below, a distant symphony to her focused mind, but as her key turned in the lock, the world outside melted away.

Stepping into her spacious, minimalist apartment, Emily immediately began to shed the day's demands. Her Brunello Cucinelli blazer was carefully hung, followed by her tailored Theory trousers. Next came her Agent Provocateur lingerie: a delicate, ivory lace bra that offered subtle lift and a matching thong, both exquisitely crafted with intricate floral embroidery. She peeled them off, letting them fall onto the plush rug, a whisper of silk and lace. She walked directly into the bathroom, the cool tiles a welcome contrast to her flushed skin, and stepped into the large, glass-encased shower. The warm water cascaded over her, washing away the lingering tension of client meetings and design reviews.

Emerging from the shower, she wrapped herself in a giant, soft Frette white towel, its luxurious terry cloth enveloping her. After a few moments of blissful warmth, she tidied away her discarded clothes, placing them in the discreet laundry hamper. A quick tap on her phone, and sushi delivery was ordered, promising fresh indulgence. Her skincare routine followed – a meticulous layering of Augustinus Bader serums and creams for her face, followed by a generous application of La Mer body creme, leaving her skin feeling supple and radiant. Finally, she slipped into a pair of expensive Olivia von Halle silk pajamas, the fabric a cool, smooth caress against her skin.

A soft chime from the intercom. Her food had arrived. She collected the elegant sushi platter, uncorked a chilled bottle of crisp Sancerre, and settled onto her sofa. With a glass of wine in hand, she reviewed intricate blueprints and financial reports, her mind effortlessly switching from personal unwinding to professional focus. Eventually, the last piece of sushi eaten, the wine glass empty, and the last document reviewed, she extinguished the lights and slid into bed, drifting into a deep, well-earned sleep.

A New Day, A Lingering Secret

Emily awoke with the first hint of dawn, feeling refreshed and energized. The city was just beginning to stir outside her window, a soft murmur replacing the night's quiet. After her morning routine, she dressed for work, each item chosen with precision and an eye for understated elegance.

Her underwear was a set of sleek, seamless Schiesser briefs and a matching bralette in a soft charcoal grey, providing comfort and a clean silhouette beneath her clothes. She opted for a crisp, tailored Jil Sander white button-down shirt, perfectly pressed, and a pair of impeccably cut Totême black wide-leg trousers that flowed elegantly with her movement. On her feet, she chose Gianvito Rossi black leather pumps, their sharp stiletto heels adding a touch of confident power. Her accessories were minimal but impactful: a slim Cartier Tank watch on her wrist and a classic Hermès Kelly bag in black, its timeless design a testament to her refined taste.

She descended to the ground floor, where her car, a sleek Porsche Panamera E-Hybrid in a deep, gleaming obsidian black, awaited. The engine purred to life with a quiet confidence as she pulled out into the morning traffic, the city's energy building around her.

Arriving at her office building, a towering structure of glass and steel, she entered the expansive lobby. The floor was polished black granite, reflecting the soft glow of recessed lighting, and abstract art adorned the pristine white walls. The receptionist, a poised woman with an air of quiet efficiency, offered a polite nod as Emily swept past. A swift, silent ascent in the private elevator took her to her executive floor. The hushed ambiance, the soft carpet, and the discreet hum of activity were familiar.

Her office was a corner suite, offering panoramic views of the cityscape. The large desk, crafted from dark wood and gleaming steel, was meticulously organized. Her assistant, Mark, a diligent young man, greeted her with a stack of urgent documents.

"Good morning, Emily. Your 9 AM with the city planning committee has been moved to 9:30, and Mr. Henderson called regarding the Waterfront project. He needs an update on the revised schematics by end of day."

"Understood, Mark," Emily replied, her voice calm and authoritative. "Please send him the preliminary drafts. I'll review the full revisions after lunch."

The morning unfolded in a flurry of meetings, calls, and intricate design work on her dual-monitor setup. Dialogue flowed easily, ideas were challenged and refined, and the tangible progress of her projects provided a deep sense of satisfaction.

The Call of the Unseen

After a quick, light lunch at her desk, a subtle shift occurred in Emily's focus. Her mind, usually so disciplined, began to wander. A flicker of memory, an almost forgotten sensation, teased at the edges of her consciousness. Her gaze drifted to her phone, resting innocently beside her keyboard.

Slowly, deliberately, she picked it up. Her thumb hovered over the screen, then tapped a specific contact. The number had been given to her some time ago, from an... acquaintance. It had seemed otherworldly at first, a bizarre proposition that defied logic and reason. But her fantasy, kink, and undeniable desire had gradually eroded her initial skepticism, making her intensely curious. Even now, as she prepared to dial, it still felt like something out of a sci-fi movie, yet she knew, with a certainty that chilled and thrilled her, that it was real.

She lifted the phone to her ear and dialed. After a few rings, a calm, synthesized voice answered. "Welcome. How may we assist you?"

"My alias is 'Luna'," Emily stated, her voice steady, despite the tremor in her hand.

"Luna," the voice acknowledged. "We can accommodate you tonight. Will 8 PM work for your session?"

A slow smile spread across Emily's lips, a private, anticipatory thrill igniting deep within her. "Perfectly," she replied, her voice barely a whisper, a stark contrast to her professional morning. "Thank you. I'll be there."

Anticipation Builds

Emily left the office precisely at 5 PM, the setting sun casting long shadows across the city. Her drive home was a blur of traffic, but her mind was already elsewhere, consumed by the anticipation of the evening. The thought of what awaited her filled her with a powerful, almost overwhelming excitement, a sense of liberation from the mundane.

Once home, she wasted no time. Another shower, this time more ritualistic, washing away not just the day, but preparing her for the night's indulgence. She paid particular attention to her skin, making it smooth and soft. Emerging, she reached for her chosen attire for the evening.

First, exquisite La Perla silk lingerie – a delicate black lace bra and matching high-waisted briefs, both barely-there yet undeniably sensual against her skin. Over this, she slipped on a simple, elegant Reiss black shift dress, its clean lines hinting at the sensuality beneath without revealing it. Her feet slid into a pair of sleek Stuart Weitzman black stiletto heels. Her hair was meticulously styled, a sleek, polished look, and her makeup applied flawlessly, accentuating her eyes with a smoky allure.

The hour-long drive felt interminable, each mile stretching the anticipation. Her mind replayed fragmented images, sensations, and the memory of that strange, compelling phone call. The upcoming events turned her on profoundly, a deep, pervasive heat spreading through her body. She found herself biting her lip, a nervous, excited habit.

The Sanctuary

Finally, she arrived. It was a nondescript, windowless concrete unit, stark and imposing, surrounded by high, impenetrable gates. The anonymity was part of its allure, its secrecy. She stopped her car, retrieved a small, discreet keypad from her glove compartment, and entered a series of numbers. With a low, mechanical hum, the heavy gates drew back, revealing a stark, well-lit driveway. She drove in, the gates sliding shut behind her, sealing her off from the world.

She entered the reception area, a pristine space of blank white tiled floors and stark white walls. As always, there was no human interaction. The process was entirely automated, discreet, designed for utmost privacy. The knowledge that the "things" within were completely safe to be left alone with was a cornerstone of the experience, a calculated risk that amplified the thrill rather than diminishing it.

A discreet light guided her to a specific door. It slid open silently, revealing a private room. In the center, a single bed was meticulously prepared, covered in smooth, black silk sheets that gleamed faintly in the soft ambient light. The room was warm, a comfortable, inviting temperature that seemed to embrace her. At the end of the room, opposite the bed, was a roller door, about two feet high by two feet wide. A small, knowing smile touched Emily's lips as her eyes settled on it.

She walked into the attached changing room, removed her elegant black dress, and carefully hung it on a padded hanger. She then re-entered the main room, her body now visible beneath the sheer silk lingerie. She walked to a switch on the wall and pressed it. The lights in the room dimmed, plunging the space into a soft, sensual twilight. She then walked to the bed, her movements fluid and confident, and lay down. Her arms were wide at her sides, palms resting on the silk sheets, and her legs were slightly spread, an open invitation. Her long, toned legs were a testament to her active lifestyle, her breasts, subtly framed by the delicate black lace camisole, rose and fell with her quickening breath. Her eyes, dark and glittering in the dim light, were fixed on the small roller door.

She heard it then, a quiet, almost imperceptible whir as the roller door opposite the bed slowly, silently rose. A moment of hushed anticipation. Then, she heard the familiar shuffle and a soft, rhythmic slapping noise as it emerged.

Its body was a dome-like shape, black, shiny, and sleek, perhaps the size of her own torso. From its smooth, polished surface extended eight long tentacles, each maybe a meter in length, black with thick, horizontal lines running along their sleek forms. At the end of each tentacle were sleek, thick ovals of a black, rubbery flesh.

Emily bit her lip, a sharp intake of breath. The creature, sensing her presence, her readiness, hungrily approached her. It moved with a fluid, undulating motion, crawling along the black silk sheets towards her. Slowly, deliberately, it crawled onto the bed. The tentacles, with an almost intelligent grace, began to reach out, stroking her lingerie-clad body. A low, satisfying hum emanated from the creature's black, dome-like body, a soft vibration that resonated through the bed. Its strokes over her body felt like heaven, each touch exquisitely precise, exploring every curve and contour. Emily squirmed, a soft gasp escaping her lips as waves of pleasure began to build.

The tentacles, hungry yet remarkably gentle, began to push and pull at her delicate lingerie. They sought out her breasts, deftly pushing her La Perla bra upwards, exposing her nipples. A few tentacles immediately concentrated on these, their rubbery ends stimulating her with precise, circular motions, causing her to arch her back, a moan catching in her throat. Simultaneously, other tentacles expertly pulled her La Perla panties aside, gently but firmly exposing her pussy and clit.

As her intimate areas were revealed, the hum from the creature deepened, growing richer, more resonant. Several tentacles, their rubbery ends surprisingly warm, began to stroke and tease her clitoris, sending jolts of pure, unadulterated pleasure through her. Other tentacles slid into her vagina, gently at first, then with a growing pressure, exploring her depths. The sleek, thick ovals at their ends provided a unique, exhilarating sensation, simultaneously soft and firm, exquisitely alien yet profoundly stimulating. The tentacles began to move in a coordinated rhythm, some teasing her clitoris with quick, darting movements, others slowly, deliberately filling her, stretching her, entering and withdrawing in a deeply satisfying pattern. Emily's hips began to lift from the bed, her body instinctively arching, urging the creature deeper, faster, her moans now becoming fervent cries of pure, unbridled ecstasy.

Emily’s hips continued to buck, her body a symphony of gasps and moans as the tentacles explored and pleasured her. In a sudden, audacious move born of pure, uninhibited desire, she lifted her head and reached out, pulling one of the stroking tentacles towards her mouth. Her lips parted, and she drew the rubbery oval end into her mouth, sucking on it hungrily, her tongue exploring its alien texture.

As her lips closed around it, the entire creature seemed to respond. The tentacles already lavishing her body, and the one in her mouth, began to hum and vibrate in unison with the creature's main body. A low, resonant thrumming filled the room, a deep, pervasive vibration that coursed through the bed and directly into Emily’s core, sending an unprecedented feeling of absolute desire through every fiber of her being. Her eyes rolled back in her head, lost in the overwhelming sensation.

The creature then shifted, its dome-like body slowly moving to rest fully on top of her, its weight surprisingly light, a warm, vibrating presence. As it settled, a new, more refined tentacle emerged from beneath its body, as if materializing from within its sleek, black form. This tentacle was different: slender, more agile, ending in a smooth, pointed tip with soft, almost velvety ends. It moved with exquisite precision, hovering just above her pussy.

The tentacles previously inside her withdrew, smoothly sliding out with a wet sound. Emily moaned loudly, a sound of eager anticipation and fresh longing. In their place, the new, sleek tentacle began to move, slowly, deliberately, and then deeply inside her. Its entrance was a gentle invasion, yet profoundly filling, twirling and moving with an almost liquid grace within her depths. The sensations were entirely new, different from the initial broader thrusts, more precise, more intimately probing.

Emily moaned again, a guttural sound as she arched her back, her body instinctively responding to the unique stimulation. Her pussy, already slick, now flooded with even more natural lubrication, her hips bucking with increasing urgency. The other tentacles, freed from her inner depths, lavished her body with renewed intensity. They teased her nipples, her clitoris, bringing her to the precipice of release repeatedly. Other tentacles, thicker and stronger, wrapped around her arms, her neck, her thighs, gently yet firmly taking a grip of her, anchoring her to the bed, heightening the delicious sense of being completely taken. The creature's hum deepened, a low, contented drone that vibrated through her bones.

A sudden, violent shudder ripped through Emily's body. Her muscles clenched, a powerful wave of ecstasy crashing over her. She let out a loud moan of pure bliss, her head thrashing on the black silk sheets as her orgasm consumed her. Her body spasmed, a glorious, undeniable release. The thing continued its movements for another moment, the tentacle inside her twirling, the others stroking, the vibrations constant, as she moaned again, a second, equally loud moan tearing from her throat as another wave of pleasure ripped through her. Her body jerked, completely spent.

Slowly, gracefully, the tentacles began to retract, their sleek forms sliding away from her skin. The creature's body began to lift off her, its other tentacles helping it move smoothly away. As it did, the slender tentacle inside her also began its slow withdrawal. As it finally slid out of her pussy, a thick, white fluid gushed from her, warm and copious, covering her inner thighs and spreading onto a significant area of the black silk sheets beneath her.

The thing retreated through the open sliding door. With a soft whir, the door closed behind it, leaving Emily utterly spent, her body a canvas of damp skin and fluid, passed out on the bed, her lips still parted in a silent, sated gasp.

[thsillystringbeanscribbler]

Bunny Slippers

Summary: While on the hunt for their dad the Winchester brothers are encouraged by Bobby to reach out to an old hunting buddy of John and Bobby. The trip leads to meeting not only a rugged hunter which is a missing puzzle piece to their dad's disappearance but also got to make the acquaintance of his lovely daughter.

Pairing: Dean Winchester x Reader [ OC ]

Warnings: mostly fluff with a sprinkle of possible violence or angst, maybe slow burn (i'm not too sure)

Word Count: 4,685 words

Author's Note: This is my first ever fanfiction. I dont really know how to write y/n so oc is all you're getting. I recently discovered the world of Supernatural and I am in love. This story takes place during Season 1, it doesn't really follow the story line and there might be some lore in accuracies. Please be kind, and I hope you enjoy my little story.

image from Pinterest

With Bobby's wise counsel and the elusive hints scattered in John's journal, he implored the brothers to seek out Rob Blackburn, who could potentially steer them toward John. Rob, as Bobby explained, wasn't just an ally; he was a long-time comrade of both John Winchester and Bobby, often accompanying them on perilous hunts. Armed with this knowledge, Sam and Dean embarked on their journey to Boston in the trusty Impala. Dean took the wheel, immersing himself in the thumping beats of rock and roll, while Sam, map in hand, navigated the labyrinth of roads leading to Robert Blackburn's whereabouts. The pages of John's journal rustled in the background, revealing his own trek to Massachusetts, where he had joined forces with Rob to confront a formidable Wendigo.

In the early autumn morning, the Impala turned down the street of the Blackburn home, the epitome of historical charm found in Boston. The townhouse stands out with its red brick facade, large curved windows adorned with black shutters, and stately black entrance doors. Wrought iron railings line the stone steps leading up to the front doors, and mature trees along the sidewalk cast dappled shadows onto the cobblestone street. The vehicle comes to a halt in front of the winsome townhouse, with its elegance further accentuated by the cascading wisteria, lending a touch of natural beauty to the urban setting.

Dean cut the engine, his gaze shifting from the Blackburn residence to his brother. Sam, peering at Dean, broke the silence with his characteristic intensity. "So, think you're ready to face whatever's in there?" he asked, his voice tinged with both concern and determination.

Dean responded with his usual bravado, a smirk playing on his lips. "Ready? Sam, I was born ready. Let's do this." His tone was confident, almost playful, yet underscored by the seriousness of their mission.

Moving in unison, the brothers climbed the steps to the Blackburn residence. A silent exchange of resolve passed between them as Dean turned to face the ominous black door. He pressed the doorbell, and for a moment, there was only silence. Impatient, Dean began to knock forcefully, intent on getting an answer.

Before he could knock again, hurried footsteps approached from inside. The door swung open to reveal a petite, dishevelled woman. Her light auburn curls were hastily tied atop her head, and her sleepy green eyes, magnified by tortoise-rimmed circle glasses, blinked at the unexpected visitors. Dean's gaze travelled over her, taking in the oversized Van Halen band t-shirt, the long flannel Batman pyjama pants tucked into mismatched white tube socks, and the pink bunny slippers, all indicating she had indeed just rolled out of bed.

The woman, stifling a yawn and crossing her arms defensively, addressed them with a groggy, gravelly voice. "Hello? Can I help you with something?" Her sleepy demeanour contrasted sharply with the urgency of their visit. 

The faintest hint of a smile played across Dean's face, a touch of warmth amidst the crisp Boston morning. The dishevelled stranger before him, a haphazardly charming vision in her comic book pyjamas and mismatched socks, sparked a flicker of amusement in his hunter's gaze. She couldn't be much older than Sam, he mused, who was barely past the threshold of twenty-two himself.

Clearing his throat, Dean straightened up a little, his eyes locking onto hers with an earnest steadiness. "Morning," he started, his voice carrying the signature gravel of a man used to long nights and the roar of a V8 engine. "Sorry to wake you, but we're looking for Rob Blackburn. The thing is," he paused, the weight of their search momentarily tightening his features, "our dad was working a case with him, and now... Dad's gone off the grid. We were hoping Rob might have some answers."

He watched her closely, not just for her response, but for any sign, any tell that might unravel the mystery of their father's whereabouts.

The woman's head tilted slightly, causing a few untamed curls to escape her hastily made morning bun. She squinted at Dean, her eyebrows knitting together in a puzzled frown. As her gaze shifted between Dean and Sam, a hint of wariness crept into her expression. "Sorry," she murmured, her free hand sliding under her glasses to rub at a sleepy eye. "But who are you guys, exactly?" she asked, her lips pursed slightly, clearly waiting for an explanation.

Dean met her gaze squarely, his expression a blend of seriousness and charm. "Name's Dean and this towering figure here is my brother, Sam," he said with a hint of a smirk. "We're here looking for Rob. You might know him through our dad, John Winchester. They go way back, and it's kind of important we talk to him." His tone carried the urgency of their quest, yet remained respectful, acknowledging the oddity of their early morning visit.

Her eyebrows lifted from their puzzled frown as the name John Winchester sparked a flicker of recognition in her features. Hesitating for a moment, she leaned slightly forward, peering past Sam and Dean to scan the street. Her green eyes settled on the shiny black Chevy parked in front of the house. Dean, noticing her gaze, followed it to the Impala.

With his trademark flirtatious smile, Dean couldn't resist a playful comment. "Hey, if you're interested, I could show you what she's really capable of," he said, nodding towards the Impala. The woman's eyes snapped back to Dean, a blush creeping onto her cheeks. Realizing how his words might have sounded, Dean quickly clarified with a cheeky grin, "The Impala, I mean. A ride in the car."

She nodded silently, her cheeks now a deeper shade of red. A bit flustered, she stuttered, "Uh–" but then, meeting Sam's hazel eyes, she paused, took a deep breath, and regained her composure. "I'll be right back," she said before gently closing the door.

Dean left staring at the black door, perked up his ears as he heard her voice escalate inside, calling out, "Dad! The Winchesters are here!" After a brief silence, her voice rose again, more insistent this time, "DAD!"

Sam and Dean exchanged a look of surprise at the volume of her shout. The response came in the form of a deep, muffled reply from within. The door creaked open again, and the woman offered an awkward smile. "He'll be down so–"

Before she could finish, a tall, muscular man in plaid flannel pyjama pants and a simple grey t-shirt descended the stairs. He stood imposingly behind her, his voice deep and gravelly. "Mornin'," he greeted, eyeing the brothers. A small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. "Definitely John's boys," he observed as he extended his hand.

Dean grasped his hand firmly. "Dean," he introduced himself with a nod.

Sam followed suit, shaking Rob's hand. "Sam. It's good to meet you."

Rob's genuine smile broadened. "Rob. Nice to finally meet you boys. John's told me a lot about you two."

In the midst of the heartfelt introductions, Rob's daughter slipped out under her father's arm, who was now holding the door open. He quickly turned his head to call after her, "Jay, boil the water. We're gonna need some coffee."

Rob then stepped aside, inviting them in. "C'mon in," he said, glancing once more at the street as the brothers entered. "Damn, is that John's Impala?" he asked, intrigued.

Dean turned back to Rob, a hint of pride in his voice. "Actually, she's mine now. Dad left her to me. She's got more history and miles on her than most cars on the road. Runs like a dream, though." His words were laced with respect and a touch of nostalgia for both the car and his father.

The boys followed the barefoot Rob Blackburn into his living room. The space was a testament to a life well-lived and richly layered, a striking balance between the modern and the memorabilia of yesteryear. They stepped through the wooden archway, and Dean's gaze swept the room—a harmony of contemporary and eclectic tastes.

The living room was bathed in morning sunlight from a large, bay window framing the greenery and wisteria blossoms outside, its grandeur contrasted by the cozy array of furniture. A plush, dark green sofa accented with earth-toned pillows invited comfort and long conversations. Across the room, a pair of vintage armchairs stood guard, their fabric hinting at a past era. The walls were lined with towering bookshelves, a ladder poised as if in mid-ascent, suggesting a world of knowledge and stories just out of reach. In the center, a stately wooden coffee table bore the weight of books and vases, while a Persian rug beneath whispered tales of ancient craftsmanship.

Above the mantel, a flat-screen TV was mounted, an anachronism amid the classical vibe. The mantle itself was a gallery of personal history, with frames marching across its length like milestones. Dean's eyes traced the journey of the dishevelled girl named Jay through frozen moments: school plays, graduations, and candid laughter.

One photograph, in particular, seized Dean's attention, squeezing his heart with the force of a long-forgotten song. There, captured in the stillness of time, was a young woman with auburn curls, her arm casually draped over a youthful Mary Winchester. Beside her, a younger Rob stood with an easy stance, and on the other side, John Winchester's smile reached out, as bright and as real as if he were standing in the room with them.

Dean found his voice, roughened by the swell of memory. "You've got quite the place here, Rob. Feels like a home that's seen a lot of good times," he said, his eyes not leaving the photograph.

Rob, following Dean's gaze, nodded with a touch of nostalgia. "Yeah, it's been through a lot. Every piece has a story, especially those photos," he said, his voice softening. "That one there," he pointed to the photograph that held Dean's gaze, "was from a summer BBQ we had right after John got back from a tour. Good times indeed, Dean.”

With a comforting pat on Dean's shoulder, Rob motioned towards the dark green sofa. "Please, take a seat," he said in a voice that carried the warmth of a seasoned host. Sam was already lounging there, looking every bit the part of a man ready to delve into matters of gravity and ghosts. Rob's towering presence moved towards one of the vintage armchairs, his movements measured and graceful. He sank into the chair with the ease of a man in his own sanctuary.

Dean observed Rob, taking in the rugged features that spoke of a life lived much like their father's—on the road, but always returning home. The man sitting across from him had a face that bore the marks of laughter and squinting against the sun, a generous beard that was well kept but suggested it could tell stories of its own. His hair, though tousled from sleep, had the hint of waves, and the light caught the flecks of gray that ran through it like silver threads in a tapestry. There was a certain comfort in his ruggedness, an unspoken kinship that Dean recognized well.

Rob caught Dean's gaze and chuckled, a sound that seemed to reverberate around the room. "My apologies, if I'd known Johnny's boys would be showing up on my doorstep, I'd have made myself presentable," he said, his fingers raking through his hair in a vain attempt to tame it.

Their conversation was paused as Jay quietly made her entrance, her arms full with an offering of steaming mugs. Dean's eyes followed her every step, noting the careful balance as she placed the coffee on the table with precision. The small, satisfied smile that danced across her lips made Dean's own lips twitch in response. But it vanished as quickly as it appeared, replaced by a look of comical frustration.

Jay stood with her hands on her hips, her eyes closed, speaking through gritted teeth. "I was so proud of not spilling coffee, I forgot people might want milk and sugar too."

Dean leaned forward, picked up one of the mugs, and met her frustrated gaze with a reassuring smile. "Don't sweat it, Jay. I take my coffee black as midnight on a moonless night," he said, the corners of his eyes crinkling with amusement. "It's the best way to kick-start the day, especially when there's work to be done." He took a sip, letting the rich bitterness of the coffee linger, a stark contrast to the gentle chaos of the morning.

Jay—no, Julia—looked momentarily taken aback, an unspoken question flickering in her eyes about Dean's use of her nickname. Before she could voice it, Rob intervened with a throaty chuckle that broke the brief silence. "Dean, Sam, if it wasn't already apparent, this spirited individual is my daughter Julia."

Julia's expression folded into a mix of amusement and mild embarrassment at her father's words. "Introductions must've slipped my mind earlier," Rob added, his eyes twinkling with paternal amusement.

With a graceful motion that seemed to betray her earlier fluster, Julia tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear. "Was a bit scattered, to be honest," she admitted as a soft hue painted her cheeks.

He offered her a warm, appreciative smile, and she, in turn, blushed a shade deeper, hastily picking up the one mug that held coffee lightened with milk. "Anyway, I'm—" she started, her voice trailing off as she backed away, thumbing in the direction of the staircase, "—going to get dressed."

With that, Julia turned, her retreat up the stairs as quick as it was quiet, leaving the conversation to hang in the warm, coffee-scented air of the living room.

The trio settled into an easy silence, the kind that speaks of understanding rather than discomfort. Eventually, Rob broke the stillness, setting his coffee cup down with a soft clink. "Not that I'm complaining about having John's boys over," he began, his voice even and curious, "but what brings you to my door?"

Sam, always the one to dive into the details, took the lead. "Well, Rob, from what we've pieced together with Bobby's input and clues from Dad's journal, it seems John was here in Boston not too long ago. He was helping you out with a wendigo situation," he explained. "You might have been one of the last people to see him. Now, Dean and I are crisscrossing the country, trying to track him down."

Dean, meanwhile, was only half-listening, his mind wandering as he sipped the robust black coffee. His thoughts were momentarily caught up with Julia—her surprising affinity for classic rock band shirts, her effortless command of the room, despite her earlier disarray. There was an allure there that Dean couldn't quite dismiss.

Realizing he needed to jump back into the conversation, he met Rob's gaze over the rim of his mug. "So, any chance Julia might know something that could help us out?" he asked, his voice casual but with an undercurrent of hope. It was a thinly veiled attempt to weave Julia back into their narrative—perhaps more for another encounter than actual investigative purposes.

Rob leaned back, a faint smile playing on his lips as he cradled his mug. "Julia? She wasn't really involved with the hunting side of things with John. She's the brains, does all the research," he began, but the strains of Led Zeppelin suddenly filled the room, filtering through the walls of Julia’s bedroom, in a muffled but unmistakable riff.

He laughed, a low, rich sound, and shook his head affectionately. "Yeah, she's a history major. She’s got her nose usually buried in old books. But she did dig into the Wendigo lore while John was around. Spent a few hours picking his brain, so it might be worth a shot to ask her," Rob conceded, acknowledging the potential value in speaking with his daughter once more.

As the sun arced higher in the sky outside the arch window, time seemed to fold in on itself within the Blackburn residence. The conversation ebbed and flowed naturally, the brothers and Rob exchanging tales and theories about the elusive Wendigo. Engrossed in the retelling, they barely noticed the passage of time until the Led Zeppelin anthem that had been humming in the background abruptly ceased. A hush fell over the house, and Dean couldn't help but cast a puzzled look towards Rob, who appeared unfazed by the sudden silence, continuing his story with the ease of a man accustomed to the unpredictable soundtrack of a busy household.

Dean's attention was drawn towards the hallway as a flash of red caught his eye—a pair of Converse sneakers, the unmistakable hallmark of a casual yet deliberate style. As Julia came into view, his gaze instinctively followed the line of her high-waisted jeans up to her neatly tucked-in white shirt. Gone was the disarray of the morning; in its place stood Julia, transformed. Her light auburn curls, now tamed and flowing gracefully down her back, framed a face of calm composure.

She paused in the archway, and for a moment, there was a silent exchange as Dean's eyes met hers—no longer sleepy, but sharp and full of life.

Rob, seizing the opportunity, looked up at his daughter with a mix of pride and practicality. "Perfect timing, Jay. Do you recall any of the details from when John helped out with the Wendigo case? I'd take a stab at finding the research in the office, but I still can't make heads or tails of your organization system."

Julia's lips pursed lightly, a subtle indication she was preparing to delve into her mental archives, but before she could articulate her thoughts, Rob interjected with decisiveness. "Great, I'll go get changed, and you can show the boys what you've got."

Julia nodded, a silent agreement to take the lead, and Dean couldn't help but feel a twinge of admiration for the way she navigated her father's expectations with grace. There was more to Julia than met the eye, and Dean was keen to uncover the depths of her knowledge—not just for the sake of their quest, but perhaps, for the simple pleasure of her company.

As Rob ascended the stairs, Julia began gathering the empty coffee mugs with an efficiency that spoke of routine. She gave Sam and Dean a quick, playful grin. "I'll just drop these off in the kitchen, then we can dive into the research. Hope you're ready for a bit of a deep dive," she said, her tone light but with an undercurrent of excitement about the task ahead. She turned on her heel, the cups clinking softly as she vanished down the hall.

Dean watched her go, an appreciative gleam in his eye. Sam, catching this all-too-familiar look, turned his entire body to face his brother, his expression a blend of warning and wisdom.

"Dean, I'm gonna say this once: tread carefully, man," Sam advised, leaning in slightly to emphasize his point.

Dean turned to his brother, feigning innocence. "What are you talking about, Sammy?"

Sam fixed Dean with a knowing look, the kind that only a lifetime of brotherhood could perfect. "Julia. I see that look in your eyes," he cautioned, his voice serious but not unkind.

A roguish smirk danced across Dean's face, his thoughts lingering on the spark he'd felt during their brief interactions. "Can't help it if there's a mutual spark. And come on, Sam—she's smart, she's into Zeppelin, and she's got that whole natural beauty thing going on. It's not just me," Dean defended with a casual shrug, trying to brush off the gravity of Sam's warning with his characteristic nonchalance.

Julia reemerged with a swift grace, pausing at the doorway, her demeanor alight with the thrill of sharing her world. The excitement seemed to emanate from her, an infectious energy that promised revelations and secrets held within her scholarly trove. As Sam and Dean stood, ready to be led into her realm of research, Sam's encouragement was both genuine and anticipatory.

"Rob mentioned you're quite the expert. Can't wait to see the treasures you've been working on," he said, his kind smile acknowledging her expertise.

Julia's response was tinged with humility and appreciation. "That's really nice of you to say," she replied, leading the way up the stairs with a lightness in her step that suggested she was as eager to share as they were to learn.

Reaching the second-floor landing, they were greeted by the impressive sight of a bookshelf that seemed to serve both as a doorway and a guardian of knowledge. Passing through the archway, both Winchesters couldn't help but pause, struck by the beauty of the room that unfolded before them.

They were surrounded by the warmth of aged wood and the silent stories of countless tomes. A built-in window seat nestled against a bay window offered a view of the soft purple wisteria blossoms framing the glass. The room was steeped in the warmth of vintage charm and the whispered stories of countless books. The walls are lined with towering shelves, crafted from dark, polished wood that gleams under the soft golden hue of strategically placed lamps. Each shelf is a testament to a bibliophile's passion, densely packed with books of varying sizes, their spines creating a colourful mosaic that speaks to years of collection and care.

In one corner, a plush armchair sits invitingly, upholstered in a rich, patterned fabric that echoes the bygone era of Victorian elegance. Next to it, a small table holds a crystal decanter of amber liquid and matching glasses, alongside a pile of well-thumbed novels, suggesting a perfect nook for sipping and reading. The heavy curtains pulled back from a large window allow the gentle light to filter in, casting a serene glow over the scene.

Despite the room's orderly foundations, there's a deliberate messiness to it that adds character. Stacks of books and papers teeter precariously on every available surface, including the floor, where a worn Persian rug lays as a testament to the many hours spent lost in literature. The desk is a landscape of creative chaos, with open books, notes scribbled on loose papers, and a vintage typewriter pushed to one side to make room for a modern laptop, showing the blend of old and new.

Unique artifacts are nestled among the books: a vintage globe, a brass telescope, and curious trinkets like skulls and antique scissors, each with its own untold backstory. The space is a sanctuary of knowledge, history, and personal quirks, inviting you to explore its depths, both literary and personal.

As Julia completed a graceful pirouette, her arms outstretched to present the room, her eyes met theirs with a spark of shared understanding. "This is where the magic happens," she declared, her smile as genuine as the passion that clearly fueled her pursuit of knowledge. The invitation was clear, and the Winchesters stepped into her world, ready to be enchanted by the magic of her making.

The effervescent joy Julia exuded was infectious, and Dean found himself basking in a reflected glow of happiness as he watched her navigate the room. He leaned against the doorway, observing her as she gathered an armful of papers and books, her movements a dance of efficiency amid the charming chaos. With a deft hand, she rehomed the collected clutter atop another table already brimming with the weight of research.

"Here," she sang out, her voice carrying the lightness of a melody, as she flitted from one end of the room to the other, her presence transforming the space into something ethereal. She was like a sprite in her own domain, orchestrating the energy of the room with every sweep of her arm.

Sam and Dean approached the cleared chairs with a hint of hesitation, not wanting to disturb the artful disorder of her workspace. They settled into the seats, and Julia paused in her bustling, resting a hand on the back of Dean's chair. For a moment, she stood still, lost in thought, and Dean found himself enveloped in the subtle scent that clung to her—pistachio, perhaps, and something sweetly salted, like caramel. It was warm and inviting, and his heart thrummed a little faster in his chest as he struggled to maintain his composure.

Julia's contemplative silence broke, and she turned her gaze to meet Sam's, her expression earnest. "I have a lot of material on the Wendigo—notes, theories, patterns. John had me assist him with something else, too," she confided, her voice lowering to a conspiratorial whisper. "But before I share anything, you have to promise not to tell my dad. He tends to be... overly protective about certain things."

Her eyes lingered on Sam, seeking an assurance of confidentiality, an unspoken pact between them. Dean felt a tug of curiosity, an eagerness to delve into the knowledge she held, and he nodded in silent agreement, keenly aware of the trust she was placing in their hands.

Sam met Julia's earnest gaze, understanding the gravity of her request. He nodded, a silent promise etched into the gesture. "You have our word, Julia. Whatever you share with us stays between us," Sam assured her, his tone underscored with the seriousness of a sworn oath.

Dean, who had been momentarily caught in the sensory spell of Julia's presence, now anchored himself in the moment, the importance of her trust not lost on him. He leaned forward slightly, his eyes locking with hers, reinforcing the vow. "We've kept secrets bigger than a bunker," he said, a soft, conspiratorial edge to his voice. "Your research is safe with us."

Julia, seemingly satisfied with their assurance, pulled a deep breath before she began, her eyes momentarily flitting to the ceiling as if gathering the threads of her thoughts. "Okay," she started, her voice now a hushed whisper, "John and I were looking into some lore—old, obscure stuff, not just your run-of-the-mill monster tales. It's about something much older, something he was tracking long before the Wendigo."

The room seemed to hold its breath as Julia spoke, the brothers leaning in, captivated by the prelude to secrets yet untold. The promise they had made bound them to this space, to the words that were about to unfold, weaving them into the fabric of Julia's clandestine work.

With the silence of one well-versed in the quietude of libraries, Julia drifted towards the bay window, her figure briefly silhouetted against the gentle light. She took a swift left into a nook, where a ceiling-high cupboard was nestled like a secret chamber within the room. Sam and Dean sat in anticipation, their ears tuned to the soft hum of her tune, punctuated by the rustle of papers as she rummaged within the cupboard's depths.

The cupboard doors clicked shut, and Julia returned to the table, her arms wrapped around a thick brown accordion folder that seemed to challenge her with its heft. With careful steps, she approached, placing the folder on the table before sliding into the last remaining chair—inevitably, the one next to Dean.

As she scooted her chair in, the proximity brought a subtle contact; her knee brushed against Dean's, a fleeting touch that sent a heightened awareness coursing through him. Julia opened the folder with a sense of ceremony, unleashing a cascade of notebooks and papers, each leaf carrying the weight of diligent inquiry.

Sam immediately delved into one of the notebooks, his eyes scanning the bubbly script and the stark sketches that accompanied the text. Dean, however, remained focused on Julia, his curiosity piqued not just by the research but by the researcher herself.

"So, what was it my dad had you digging into?" Dean inquired, his voice low and earnest, inviting confidence.

Julia's gaze lifted to meet his, a current of intensity passing between them. "A demon," she began, her voice barely above a murmur, as if the very word might invoke the creature's attention. Her eyes flicked to Sam's, ensuring she had both brothers' undivided attention, before she continued, "The Yellow-Eyed Demon."

To be continued . . .

Chapter Two