Summary: you’d rather die than get married off. You tried escaping until one of your fathers paid a goddamn pirate to bring you back. [WC 530] [Ao3]
Warnings: pirate accents, pirate dean, angst
Request: @samanddeansannoyingsis Pirate Dean who kidnaps governors daughter reader. And she absolutely doesn't want to go back. Threatening to drown herself rather then go back to get married off.
The first thing you noticed was the ropes. Then the ship rocking beneath you. Then the man standing over you, grin wide, coat tails flaring like a stormy shadow across the deck.
“Relax, lass,” he said, voice low and dangerous, “Ye’re aboard the Black Seraph, under my command.”
You glared, arms crossed, glaring like it could sink him. “I swear, if I get back to shore, my father will—”
“Your father don’t matter right now!” Dean interrupted, flashing a devilish smile. “And neither do suitors who think they can marry you off like you’re some trinket. You’re comin’ with me.”
You gasped. “I. Do. Not. Consent!”
He shrugged, obviously entertained. “Consent, schmeh… ye’re on my ship now.”
You glared harder. “I’d rather drown than go back to shore and get married off like a prize cow!”
Dean blinked, then laughed. A sound that made the ship’s timbers shiver. “Aye,” he said, leaning closer. “I like the spirit. Gutsy, stubborn, fiery… perfect.”
Days passed aboard the Black Seraph. You cursed, plotted, bickered, and threatened him incessantly.
Dean barely noticed, honestly. Each time you tried to climb overboard or make a dramatic dive for freedom, he caught you with ease, holding you against his chest as you flailed and spluttered.
“Yer hands are too slow, lass,” he teased once, holding you by the waist as you screamed, “I’ll drown myself if you don’t let me go!”
“And I’ll make sure ye don’t!” he shot back, grin wicked. “Admit it—ye enjoy the sea more than ye admit.”
“I do NOT!” you gasped, chest heaving. “Don’t you dare bring me back to that hell hole!”
Dean raised an eyebrow, tugging you closer as the waves crashed around you. “Eye roll won’t save ye, darling. But… I do admit…” He paused, voice low and soft. “…I enjoy seeing ye like this.”
You froze, cheeks burning. “W-What?”
“You. Spirited. Fire in your eyes. Stubborn as the sea. That’s a treasure, lass.”
Your glare could’ve sunk ships, but the tug in your chest betrayed you.
----
One night, under the blanket of stars, the two of you sat on the deck, knees brushing as the waves lapped gently.
“You’re insane,” you muttered, trying to ignore the warmth of him beside you.
He smirked. “Maybe. But the sea’s my life. And ye…” He tilted his head, watching you with something softer in his eyes. “…Ye’re worth the trouble.”
You laughed bitterly. “Worth… the trouble? I’m a governor’s daughter. I should hate you.”
“You do,” he said, gently, “But not enough to leave.”
You swallowed. “I… I don’t want to go back. Ever. I’d rather stay here. With… you.”
Dean’s grin softened. He lifted your hand to his lips, brushing it with a gentle kiss. “Then stay, lass. No one’s forcing ye back. Not if ye don’t want to go.”
The wind blew, the waves danced, and for the first time, your chest felt light, free — just like the ship beneath your feet.
“I suppose,” you said quietly, leaning a little closer, “…I could get used to this pirate life.”
Dean laughed, wrapping an arm around you. “Aye… and I’m gonna make sure ye love every moment of it.”
please read this even if you're not indian. especially if you're not indian.
you've seen the jokes. india is "dirty", indians are "everywhere", why don't they fix their own country. ok. let me tell you why, and what's happening right now while nobody's watching.
first, the history you skipped: britain ruled india for two centuries and drained it. economist utsa patnaik's research estimates around $45 trillion in today's money was taken. the india that got independence in 1947 was one of the poorest countries on earth. every "why is india like this" question starts there. you don't get to profit off a robbery and then mock the crime scene.
now, what's happening RIGHT NOW:
in may the question paper for NEET leaked. that's the national medical entrance exam. over 2.2 million students took it. cancelled. years of studying, families' savings poured into coaching, gone overnight because someone sold the paper. students died by suicide after. these were kids who wanted to be doctors.
and out of that came a protest movement. a gen z group called the cockroach janta party, started by a 30 year old named abhijeet dipke, got 22 million instagram followers within DAYS. they've been doing a sit-in at jantar mantar in delhi demanding education minister dharmendra pradhan resign.
and then there's sonam wangchuk. if you've watched 3 idiots, he's the real engineer the character was based on. built solar schools in ladakh. invented ice stupas so himalayan villages have water. spent his whole life on education. he's 59 and he's been on hunger strike for 17+ days now. reporters went to see him this week and he was too weak to talk. and the troll armies are calling him "anti national" and "foreign funded". a man starving himself for other people's children. that's the thing here, anyone who asks a question is suddenly a traitor.
it's not one incident, it's everywhere you look:
• infrastructure worth thousands of crores failing within months of the ribbon cutting. tunnels collapsing in regions where heavy rain is a guarantee, not a surprise.
• youth unemployment near 10% for ages 15 to 29, 13.6% in cities. in a country of 1.42 billion where more than half the population is young.
• only about the top 3% of indians earn above 10 lakh a year. meanwhile billionaire wealth keeps ballooning and the headlines celebrate it.
• manipur burned for over two years. an ethnic conflict, tens of thousands displaced, and the prime minister barely said the word manipur while it happened.
• journalists raided. critics' houses bulldozed. activists sitting in jail for years without trial under laws like UAPA. our press freedom ranking has cratered.
• even the petrol is a fight now, ethanol blending pushed through while drivers complain about their engines and get no straight answers.
and through all of it, the PM, who came to power on religious polarisation (americans, sound familiar?), travels abroad for photo ops and has not held one single open press conference in over a decade. not one.
what i'm asking:
if you're not indian: share this. our media mostly won't cover any of it because the big outlets are owned by the same billionaires the government serves. the only reason wangchuk's fast is getting any coverage is people refusing to look away.
if you ARE indian: speak up even if you're comfortable. especially if you're comfortable. join the protests. add to this, correct me, translate it. staying quiet is a choice when nothing in this post touches your life.
india is not "dirty". india was robbed, and it's being robbed again, from the inside this time. but it's also the country where a 59 year old will starve for strangers' kids and 22 million young people will rally behind a party literally named after cockroaches, because cockroaches survive everything.
Request: @goblin-king-of-anarchy67 Dean Winchester x reader where the reader just throws a pie at his face. That’s it, that’s the whole plot :3
A/N: im getting back into writing again. ive been slowly chipping away at teh requests that have been sitting in my asks/drafts here on tumblr. sorry for the delay in posting them.
Summary: You throw a pie at Dean's face. [wc 938] [ao3] [tag list]
Warnings: fluff, pie throwing
Dean had survived demons, vampires, ghosts, witches, Leviathans, and more concussions than any doctor would consider medically acceptable. What finally took him down, however...was a blueberry pie.
The diner smelled like coffee, syrup, and fresh pastries. Dean was in heaven. "You smell that?" he sighed dramatically, already halfway inside before you and Sam had even finished parking the Impala. "That's the smell of civilization."
You laughed, following him inside. "You've said that about every diner we've ever stopped at."
"Because every diner deserves appreciation."
Sam rolled his eyes. "He's not exaggerating," he told you. "Last week he thanked a waitress because the pie 'saved his soul.'"
"It did."
An hour later, the hunt was solved. The shapeshifter was dead. Nobody had nearly died. It was, by Winchester standards, a fantastic day.
Dean celebrated accordingly by ordering three slices of pie. Cherry. Apple. Blueberry.
"You know," you said, stealing a fry off his plate, "most people stop at one dessert."
Dean gasped. "Most people are quitters."
He guarded his pie with his fork when you reached toward it again. "Oh no."
"What?"
"You've had fries."
"So?"
"No pie."
"I just want one bite."
"No."
"Dean."
"No."
"You are a grown man."
"I am."
"Sharing is caring."
"This is war."
You snorted. "You are ridiculous."
"And yet..." he took an obnoxiously slow bite, eyes never leaving yours, "...this is the best blueberry pie I've ever had."
Your eye twitched.
Sam noticed. "Oh no."
Dean didn't. "What?"
Sam quietly pushed his coffee farther away. "I know that look."
"What look?"
"The one that says she's about to commit a crime."
You smiled sweetly at Sam with the most innocent look you could muster. "I would never."
Dean smirked. "See? Sammy's paranoid."
You stood.
Dean frowned. "Where you going?"
"Bathroom."
"Oh." He relaxed.
The second he looked back down at his pie— You pivoted. Grabbed the paper plate. And with absolutely zero warning—
SPLAT.
Blueberry pie met Dean Winchester's face with enough force to send whipped cream into his hair.
Silence. Utter... Complete... Silence.
A nearby waitress froze mid-pour. Some old guy lowered his newspaper. Someone actually clapped. Dean sat perfectly still. Blueberries slowly slid down his cheek. A blob of whipped cream dripped off the end of his nose. Sam covered his mouth. He made one heroic attempt not to laugh. He failed spectacularly. A snort escaped. Then another. Within seconds he was doubled over in the booth, laughing so hard he couldn't breathe.
Dean blinked. "You..." Another blueberry rolled off his forehead. "...just threw pie..." He wiped whipped cream out of one eye. "...at my face."
You nodded. "Yep."
"Why?"
"You wouldn't share."
"THAT'S MY REASON?"
"You were being annoying."
"I was protecting my pie!"
"You were taunting me."
"It was my pie!"
"Worth it."
Dean stared. Long enough that you started wondering if maybe— maybe — You'd actually gone too far. Then... The corner of his mouth twitched. "...Worth it, huh?"
"Oh, absolutely."
He slowly reached for his napkin. You relaxed. See? Everything was fi— Instead of grabbing the napkin... He picked up the untouched slice of cherry pie.
"Oh no."
Dean smiled. The kind of wicked smile that belonged in horror movies. "Oh yes."
You backed away. "Dean."
"You started this."
"I think we've all grown from this experience."
"You weaponized dessert."
"I was expressing myself."
"You assaulted me with fruit."
"It was mostly whipped cream."
Sam wheezed. "I am begging both of you not to—"
Dean stood. You bolted.
The entire diner watched as you sprinted between booths. Dean chased after you holding an entire slice of cherry pie like it was Excalibur.
"You get back here!"
"You'll never take me alive!"
"I JUST WANT TO TALK!"
"YOU HAVE PIE!"
"I CAN TALK AND HAVE PIE!"
"No!"
You rounded the counter. Dean followed. The cook looked up once. Saw the situation. Simply stepped aside. Not his circus. Not his monkeys. This was a Waffle House, after all. He'd seen crazier things happening.
You nearly made it to the door. Nearly. Dean caught your wrist—not hard, just enough to stop you—and gently tugged you back. You stumbled into his chest with a laugh.
"There," he said triumphantly.
"Caught you."
"I surrender."
"Liar."
"Maybe."
He looked down at the pie in his hand. Then back at you. Then grinned.
"You know..."
"What?"
"I don't actually want revenge."
"You don't?"
"Nah."
Relief washed over you. "So you're just gonna let me—"
He carefully dabbed a tiny dollop of whipped cream onto the tip of your nose. "There."
You blinked. "...That's it?"
"That's it."
You smiled. "You're getting soft."
"I know."
He leaned down, brushing a quick kiss against your forehead despite the blueberry filling still stuck in his hair. "I blame you."
The waitress walked over carrying a fresh slice of blueberry pie. She set it in front of Dean. "On the house."
Dean looked between the pristine slice...and the blueberry still dripping from his jacket. "I don't know whether to feel rewarded or insulted."
She shrugged. "You made lunch entertaining."
After she walked away, Dean sighed happily. "See?" He picked up his fork. "Everything works out."
You smiled innocently. "You gonna share this one?"
He looked at you. Looked at the pie. Looked back at you. "...Absolutely not."
You reached toward it anyway.
Dean immediately slid the plate out of reach.
"Oh, come on!"
"I've learned from my mistakes."
Sam groaned into his coffee. "I'm hunting monsters with two overgrown children."
Dean didn't even look away from you. "Worth it."
You couldn't help laughing. Honestly? You'd throw another pie if it meant hearing that laugh again.
Summary: you get turned into a vamp on a hunt…. Dean kills you in guilt. [WC 439] [Ao3]
@samanddeansannoyingsis Rewatching supernatural rn but what about a vampire hunt gone wrong. Sam and Dean's girlfriend who was just trying to help and cries for after a child vamp tricked her and turned her. And they have to help her but she can't be turned back. And doesn't want to live as a vampire. Tearfully kissing her before cutting off her head. Neither of them can look at themselves as they drive back in silence.
A/N: this isn't my best work, but i still hope you enjoy nonetheless....
The motel room smells like smoke and stale coffee. Wallpaper is peeling in random places align the walls. Curtains have rips across them in weird angles.
Dean sits on the edge of the bed, hands gripping the worn wood like it’s holding him together. Sam is on the other side, hunched over, still holding the silver knife that shouldn’t have been the thing that had to do this.
And she… she’s gone.
Not gone, exactly. Her body is there, cold and stiff in the corner, the knife’s work already done. But the memory of her, of her screaming, her soft sobs, the way she tried to fight but knew she couldn’t—burns into their skulls like fire.
They shouldn’t have gone to that abandoned house. It should have been Sam and Dean alone.
But she insisted. “I can help,” she’d said, bright-eyed and naive. Trying to save a kid, she said, from a vampire that had been around too long. A child vampire.
A trap.
And she fell right in it.
Dean’s voice is rough, barely more than a whisper. “She… she didn’t deserve it.”
Sam doesn’t answer. Can’t. He remembers the way she looked at him when the child’s fangs came down, the moment she realized she was losing herself. She tried to fight it. She tried to run. Tried to cry. Tried to beg.
Dean kneels next to her body. Carefully, tenderly, he brushes the hair from her pale face. Her lips are still soft. Still warm.
Dean leans down and kisses her. Not for long, but long enough. Tearfully, agonizingly, holding onto the last bit of what she was before the monster she’d tried to help became the monster itself.
Sam swallows hard. His hands shake, but he doesn’t touch her.
Dean whispers, “I love you. Always. I’m sorry…”
And then it has to happen.
Silver knife. Quick. Clean. The head falls, and something inside both of them snaps.
Neither can look at each other. The drive back is quiet. Not even the hum of the Impala can fill the emptiness.
Sam grips the steering wheel like he’s afraid if he lets go, he’ll fall into the memory of her eyes — begging, crying, afraid of herself. Dean stares out the window, jaw tight, hands curled into fists. Every muscle in him wants to punch something, anything, but he knows nothing can undo this.
They pass the highway lights. The silence stretches for miles.
Nothing they do, nothing they say, will ever bring her back. All that’s left is grief. And guilt. And love. And the bitter, unshakable knowledge that sometimes, even for hunters, the monsters win.
Summary: He finally finds you. And he's not going to give you up. [wc 1K] [ao3]
Warnings: stalking, angst, tws bucky
3K Follower Challenge
He starts noticing it the first week. You always leave your apartment at 7:12 a.m. Not 7:10. Not 7:15. Seven. Twelve. You pause on the landing. Adjust your sleeve over the faint scar at your wrist. Look both directions before stepping into the street. You always look left first. He stands across the road, hidden in shadow between buildings, baseball cap low over his eyes. He doesn’t blink.
You haven’t changed.
That’s the problem.
He knows the café you switched to after the third day. He knows you pretend to read when your anxiety spikes. He knows you don’t sit with your back to the door anymore.
You’re learning. But you’re still predictable. HYDRA taught you efficiency. They taught him elimination. They taught him how to dismantle patterns.
The first time you feel him, it’s subtle. A shift in the air. A footstep that stops when yours does. You don’t look. Because if you look, it’s real. You turn a corner sharply, slip into a crowded market. Your pulse thunders in your ears. You count exits automatically.
One. Two. Three.
You make it to the alley behind the florist—and a metal hand slams into the brick beside your head. You freeze. The sound of servos whirring softly. Controlled. Familiar.
“Asset.”
Your breath catches. You don’t turn around.
“I burned that number,” you whisper. “They wiped it. That’s not who I am anymore. I haven't been that number for a long time now, Soldat.”
A beat.
“They don’t wipe what they still own.”
You feel him behind you. Solid. Immovable. The ghost of your worst years wrapped in combat boots and cold precision. The Winter Soldier doesn’t breathe hard. Doesn’t fidget. He waits. You slowly turn. And there he is.
Long hair brushing his jaw. Metal arm catching the light between the buildings. Blue eyes searching your face like he’s comparing you to a file photo in his head. You’ve both changed. But not enough.
“I know your routine,” he says quietly. It isn’t a threat. It’s worse. “I built my life around it.”
Your stomach drops. “What?”
“You switched buses on Wednesdays. You started checking reflections in store windows. You cut your hair six months ago.” His head tilts slightly. “You still hesitate before crossing streets.”
You step back. “You’ve been following me.”
“Yes.” No denial. No shame. “I was assigned retrieval.”
Your throat tightens. “And if I don’t come?”
Silence stretches. The alley suddenly feels very small.
“They want you back at the facility,” he says.
That word. Facility. Cold metal tables. Conditioning rooms. Electrodes biting into skin. The smell of antiseptic and gun oil.
You swallow hard. “There’s no facility left.”
“There is.”
Your heart stops.
“They rebuilt.”
You shake your head. “I’m not going back.”
His metal fingers flex. “I know.” It’s almost soft. Almost. “You always fought the reprogramming longer than the others,” he continues. “You hid things in your head.”
You stare at him. “You remember that?”
He steps closer. Close enough that you feel the chill from the metal arm. “I remember you covering your ears during reset. I remember you refusing to break eye contact when they made you.” His jaw tightens. “I remember your scream.”
The words hit harder than any weapon.
“You’re not supposed to remember,” you whisper.
His expression flickers. For a second, the Soldier fractures. And something else looks out through his eyes. Something human. “I remember enough.”
You try to move. He catches your wrist. Not violently. Just firm enough to remind you he can. “You can’t win this,” he says.
Your laugh is shaky. “You think this is about winning?”
His grip tightens a fraction. “If you run, they send someone else. Someone who won’t wait weeks. Someone who won’t watch to make sure you’re safe first.”
Your breath stutters. “…Safe?”
“I eliminated threats in a two-mile radius.”
You stare at him. “What?”
“The man who followed you from the subway last month.” His voice is steady. Clinical. “The landlord who ran your background twice. The black SUV that parked across your street.”
You go cold. “You—”
“I know your routine,” he repeats. “I built my life around it.”
Not just surveillance. Protection. Ownership. Mission. All tangled together until neither of you can tell the difference.
“Why?” you demand. “Why are you the one they sent?”
His eyes darken. “They know I won’t fail.”
“And if I refuse?”
His metal thumb brushes the inside of your wrist, right over the faded HYDRA brand.
Your pulse jumps.
“I bring you in.” The words are mechanical. But his hand doesn’t move.
“And if I fight you?”
A long pause.
Then, low, “Don’t.”
It’s the closest thing to a plea you’ve ever heard from him.
Somewhere distant, a siren wails. The city keeps moving. He steps closer, until your back hits brick again.
“You were the only asset who ever looked at me like I wasn’t a weapon,” he says, voice quieter now. “You looked at me like I was still… something. Like I wasn’t a machine to be used and abused.”
Your chest aches. “And now?”
His jaw tightens. “Now I am what they made.”
You search his face. “And what do you want, Barnes?”
The name lands like a grenade between you. He stills. A crack in the armor. A flicker of confusion. Pain. The Soldier doesn’t answer. But the man beneath him does. His forehead rests lightly against yours. For just a second.
“They didn’t assign me because I wouldn’t fail,” he murmurs.
Your breath catches.
“They assigned me because I won’t kill you.”
The alley feels like it’s holding its breath.
“And you won’t kill me either,” he adds softly.
Your hands are shaking. You could run. You could fight. You could let him take you. Or You could try to save him too.
His metal arm slides around your waist, not restraining yet. Just anchoring.
“Decision,” he says quietly.
But his voice isn’t steady anymore. And for the first time since you met him in that frozen facility hallway years ago— He looks afraid.
@0ccvltism Waking up in a strangers house. You don’t recognize the person standing in front of you. But they know ALL about you. okayokayokay maybe shifter dean? IF NOT THAT'S OKAY I JUST --
You wake up in a bed that isn’t yours. The sheets are soft. Clean. Smell faintly like motor oil and something woodsy. The ceiling above you isn’t cracked like your apartment’s. There’s no water stain in the corner. No hum of your broken AC.
Instead—silence. Too much silence.
You sit up slowly.
Boots. You notice the boots first. Scuffed. Worn leather. Resting on the edge of the mattress like whoever’s wearing them has been there awhile.
Then your eyes trail upward.
Flannel. Broad shoulders. A man leaning casually in a chair across from you like he’s been waiting for you to wake up.
Green eyes. Watching. “Morning, sweetheart.”
Your stomach drops. You don’t recognize him. But the way he says it? Like he’s said it a hundred times before. “Who are you?” Your voice comes out hoarse. Your throat feels tight. Your body feels heavy, sluggish—like you slept too deeply.
He smiles. Not kindly. Soft. Familiar. Almost fond. “That’s not the right question.” He leans forward, forearms braced on his thighs. “The right question is how’d you sleep?”
Your pulse spikes. You scramble backward, pressing yourself against the headboard. “Where am I?”
“My place.”
“I don’t know you.” A tilt of his head. Slight. Curious. “Yeah,” he says gently. “You do.”
You shake your head. “No. I don’t.”
He studies you for a long moment. Not angry. Not frustrated. Almost… amused. “You drink your coffee with two sugars. Not because you like it sweet. Because you burned your tongue once and now you’re paranoid about bitterness.”
Your breath catches.
“You hum when you’re anxious. Same three notes. Over and over.” He hums them softly.
They’re correct. Your chest tightens.
“You twist your ring when you’re lying,” he continues, eyes flicking to your hands. “And you start every grocery list with eggs. Even if you don’t need them.”
Your blood runs cold. “How do you know that?”
He smiles wider. “I’ve been watching you a long time.”
The words land heavy. Wrong. “You follow me?” You whisper.
His expression shifts slightly at that. Almost offended. “I protected you.” He stands.
You flinch instinctively.
He notices. And something in his eyes darkens.
“There’s been a man following you for a few weeks now. He’s been tracking your morning commute.” he says calmly. “He doesn’t stare at anyone anymore.”
Your stomach twists.
“Last Monday I fixed that wretched doorframe in your apartment -- the one that squeezes if you breathe too hard around it. There was a loose floorboard in your living room. I fixed that three days ago.”
Your pulse is roaring now.
“The night you cried because everything felt like too much?” His voice softens. “I was there. Always. My god, the sadness radiates off you like a rainstorm.”
Your hands are shaking. “That’s not protection,” you say, voice thin. “That’s— that’s insane. Violations. Against the law. You broek into my home--”
He steps closer. Close enough you can see the faint scar along his jaw. The freckles across his nose. Close enough you realize—Something is slightly off. His smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes. His posture is… too careful. Like he studied how to stand this way. Like he practiced.
“You were lonely,” he says quietly.
Your breath stutters. “You said it out loud. Remember?”
His voice shifts subtly. Deeper. Rougher. “You said, ‘I wish someone would just take care of things.’ ‘I wish I wasn’t alone.’ ‘I wish someone would love me.’”
Your stomach drops. Because you did. Three nights ago. Alone in your apartment. Crying. You stare at him. “That’s impossible.”
He tilts his head again. And for just a flicker of a second— His face ripples. Like heat over asphalt. Skin stretching. Features sliding. Green eyes becoming a shade too bright. Jawline shifting subtly. Then snapping back into place.
You choke on a sound. “What— what are you?”
He exhales slowly. “Someone who listens.”
Another flicker. This time slower. His nose reshapes. His cheekbones sharpen. His hair darkens then lightens again like it can’t decide. A shifter. And he chose that face.
Dean’s face. “Why him?” you whisper.
His smile turns sharp. “Because you trust him.”
Your heart slams against your ribs. You try to move. To run. But your legs feel weak.
“You don’t get to panic now,” he says softly. “Not after you asked for this.”
“I didn’t ask for you!”
“You asked for someone to handle it.” His voice drops. “I’m thorough.” He crouches in front of you now. Too close. Not touching. Yet. “I know the way your breathing changes when you’re scared,” he murmurs. “I know the way your shoulders tense before you cry. I know which nightmares wake you up.”
His fingers hover near your wrist. Not grabbing. Just waiting. “And I can be him,” he whispers. His face shifts again— Now it’s Dean’s face fully. Perfectly. Not a flicker out of place. Familiar. Safe. Wrong. “You don’t have to be alone anymore.”
Your chest heaves. The worst part? Some part of you wants to believe him. And he can see it. His eyes gleam. “That’s okay,” he murmurs. “Take your time. I’m patient.” A beat. “I’ve already waited this long.”
Summary: Being a demon has its perks; torture and slaying entities that beg for compliance. Bucky longed for far too long to have yet another victim under his claws. Having a call from his higher power, however, twists his entire mindset around. He's been given a mission, something he hasn't done in centuries; he's been told to watch over a human life form, for reasons his higher power won't discuss with him. Has his master gone mad with boredom?
Warnings: Demon Deals, Demons AU, Angst, Murder, Body Gore, Demon Bucky Barnes,uncertainty, maliciousness, murder, secrets, Demon!AU, death, a smidge of fluff if you squint real hard
WC: 4.7K
A/N: in honor of my 3K Writing Challenge, I'm putting this bad boy onto tumblr again! dont let this flop its one of my favorite bucky creations
Read on ao3
“Her,” he pointed at the astral plane in the center of the enormous room. “You are to watch over her.”
Bucky shook his head, confusion and bewilderment filling his chest; he’d never been assigned a task so…. Saintly. “Why? What has she done? I don’t understand. This isn’t the typical assignment from the Higher Ones. I’m not of the Holy Being.”
“Enough to cast her away from the pearly gates upstairs,” he answered, looking delighted as his eyes never wavered from the girl in the planes walking along the sidewalk, grinning, unknowing that her end will meet one day soon. “She’s not meant to die of natural causes; You need to see to that.”
“But, sir-!”
“Barnes .” He warned, throwing Bucky a somber expression. Bucky knew all too well about questioning his Elders.
Sighing heavily in defeat, not wanting a round of punishment, he uncurled his wings to prepare his ascent through the spiral of tunnels above him. “Barnes.” The demon beckoned to him urgently. “Make sure she never knows of your mission, you hear me?”
He nodded, taking the vials of memories of his human self before ascending through the darkened tunnels above his head. He flew for what felt like weeks until he had broken through to the mortal world, standing in front of an office building. He knew where she’d be. He looked at the vials in his hands and threw the corks onto the ground before drinking the liquid inside, filling his brain with his human memory.
His human name seemed to be Bucky Barnes. He lived in Indiana before moving here, to this strange city. He’d wanted to become a newspaper editor. He’d wanted to meet new faces and become a better person for himself. Bucky couldn’t help but grimace as the silly memories of the man’s childhood came to the forefront of his mind.
He stalked out of the alley cautiously fixing the tie around his neck before walking across the street and into the building, where he knew you had entered moments before his ascent onto earth. He rushed inside, amazed at the revolving doors and marble walls inside the place; it was something he’d forgotten a long time ago. He stood in the lobby of the place, flattening his tie down on his chest, tightening his grip on the suitcase he carried in his left hand before marching ahead, peering around the place for any sight of you.
Moments later, he spotted you in the elevator and watched you for a moment, until the elevator stopped on the sixth floor. He sighed in desperation as he ran towards the staircase, skipping two, three at a time until he reached the sixth floor.
“Excuse me?” He called to a passing woman with flaming red hair.
“Yes?” She asked a stack of fireworks in her arms.
“I’m-I-I’m new here.” He stuttered, much like he knew Bucky Barnes would have done in front of a beautiful woman such as her. “I was wondering-”
“You’re looking for Tony Stark, right?” She sighed, beckoning him to walk next to her. “He’s in his office, just walk down this hall, turn left. It’s the last door on your right. Don’t be nervous around him, he hates it.”
Bucky nodded, surveying the room, spotting you almost immediately. You were sitting at your desk, pen resting between your teeth as you typed furiously on the computer for whatever article was planned to be posted in the newspaper the next day.
“What’s your name?” The lady asked.
“Uh, Bucky Barnes, ma’am,” he nodded before pulling out his identification card to show her. She waved me off in disgust.
“Don’t show that to me, I’m only the asshat’s secretary.”
He nodded before she waved him away. He followed her directions and soon stood in front of Anthony Stark’s office. He knocked on the metal door before he was granted access only moments later.
“Ah,” Anthony announced from his position standing by a large glass window. “You must be Barnes. Sit, sit.”
Bucky listened to the man and sat down, placing his suitcase by his side on the floor.
“I understand you moved here from across the country, yes?” Bucky nodded. “Bucky Barnes?” He nodded again.
“Great, you’ll have your station up front. I want a report every day before you leave.”
“You’re not going to ask about my experience?” Bucky asked, going to open his suitcase.
“Unless you lied about your resume, Barnes, there's no reason for me not to believe your credentials and capabilities. Am I correct in that?”
Bucky nodded before leaning over and grabbing his suitcase and walking out of the room. He walked back to the front of the office, where he had first entered the space, noticing almost immediately that the desk Anthony had referred to, was directly in front of your own. His thoughts became nothing more than to gain this female’s trust to see why his superior had declared your utter demise. He smiled at you as he sat down in front of you receiving a smile in return.
“You must be the new editor,” you spoke, a warm smile curling at the corners of your mouth. “I’m Y/N. Who are you?”
“Bucky Barnes,” he answered, taking the hand you offered before dropping it quickly.
“Where are you from, James?” you asked, leaning forward slightly. “There’s no way in hell you could be from this city.”
“Uh,” He blinked in confusion before you let out an amused chuckle.
“Fine, don’t tell me.” She leaned back in her chair. “You must be from Heaven, though. You look too good to be human.”
He coughed and leaned over his keyboard, not wanting to spill his beans just yet. His master would not be pleased if that happened. Of course, you were merely a human. Bucky had known them to be curious creatures. He’d doubted that you’d believe him if he had said he was from the very depths of fiery hell, anyhow.
But as he stared at your eyes, he sensed something about you. Something wrong, something off. Something that he couldn’t feel with the other humans in his proximity. He nearly chuckled to himself as he started his work on his computer. What was he thinking? He was being overly dramatic. There was nothing wrong with you. You were simply human.
Right?
-----
Two weeks have gone by, and you and James have somehow developed a strong bond together, always joking about, laughing, giggling, sending each other texts during your breaks, and going out on friend dates.
Bucky didn’t know where or how the friendship started, honestly. One day, he walked into work, only to discover you had bought him breakfast and coffee and left your phone number on the coffee cup. So, naturally, he responded to you, buying a coffee and doughnut the next day. Thus sprout the friendship between you two. To say Bucky was excited about the progress was a complete understatement. He never expected you to respond to him in this way. But here you were, always happy and giddy around him.
One day, as he walked next to you after work hours, he’d caught himself wondering why he was sent to watch you You seemed innocent enough, right? You had been a good worker, had amazing family members, as you’d told him. You traveled a bit in your childhood. You were an all-around good citizen of the world.
So why had he been sent to collect her soul? Were you in some underground cult that only his elder knew about? Bucky wondered these questions quite a bit over the weeks, but never received an answer from his higher power. You lived a normal life. You lived that typical white picket life that many people strives to do.
So why? What was wrong in your case?
“James?” You called, pulling me out of his stupor, ice cream dribbling down your chin.
He playfully rolled his eyes and outstretched a hand to swipe away at your chin. “Yes, Y/N?”
“How come you never speak of your family?” You asked. “Are they terrible people or something? What happened?”
He shook his head. “There’s not much to say about them, Y/N,” he spoke softly, “I lived in their foster care most of my life. I never knew my real family. I bounced around a lot.”
“That’s so sad,” you pouted.
He raised a brow. “I don’t need nor do I want sympathy, Y/N. Knock that off right now.”
“I’d kill them if I had the chance,” you spoke softly as intertwined you your hand with his. “Nobody deserves to live a life in the foster system. Everyone deserves a loving home.”
He chuckled, shaking his head in affection. But as he looked at your stone-cold face, he felt something nagging at the back of his head, something sinister. But he couldn’t place it, not at that moment anyway.
“Let me take you home?” He offered lightly as the skies became dark and heavy with rain clouds. He didn’t want to be caught in the middle of a storm, and he was under oath to keep you safe- in some weird form of the term, anyway
“Sure,” you agreed, slipping your hand in his own before he led you over to his car across the street and politely opened the door for you, waiting until you were sitting comfortably before he closed the door. He looked up at the sky in worry as he sat in the car and drove away, knowing exactly where you had lived, even before you had told him a few weeks ago after a movie night. He pulled up to the house and grinned.
“Thanks, James,” you leaned over and swiped your lips across his cheek, causing a shiver to spread down his spine.
“Want me to walk you inside?”
You chuckled a little too darkly for his liking. “No, James. But thank you.”
He bowed his head and waited until you stood away from the car and marched inside the house before pulling away, thoughts of the few days in his mind. He knew he’d have to report the progress soon before his higher power became too impatient.
He swiped down his face, as the possibilities passed through his mind yet again. What was the reasoning behind this mission? What was she? Was she human? Was she something more? Was she destined to be murdered? Was she evil? Was she a reincarnation of Hitler? Would she rise to power within the human world? Was she a murderer, perhaps? Did she dispose of human bodies? What the fuck was her deal?
---------
That Night
Bucky was utterly exhausted. He knew he’d have to report his progress eventually. But he didn’t have any means for a sacrifice for a summoning. He looked down at his body, cursing at himself at the thought of harming his vessel came to mind.
But what else could he have done?
He turned around and grabbed the sharpest knife he possessed from the knife holder and rolled up his sleeve before grabbing a bowl and raising his arm above it. He grits his teeth, knowing how fragile human skin had been. He cried out in agony as the blade of the knife pierced his skin as he swiped at it, grunting as the scarlet liquid dripped from his arm into the bowl.
He knew he’d have to replenish himself before he made contact with his higher power. He grunted and grabbed for a washcloth before wrapping it around his arm and turning around for an orange from the countertop. His teeth nipped into the skin, spitting out the outer layer before eating the fruit anmalistic. Once he knew he wouldn’t faint from the loss of blood, he began the Latin incantation until the blood started boiling in an uproar.
“Sir.” He called out.
“What information have you?”
“She’s starting to trust me, sir,” he reported easily. “She’s- I think she’s catching feelings, sir.”
“So easily, hmm?” he spoke, the blood bubbling like a madman. “Anything else, perhaps?”
Bucky debated heavily on informing him of the uneasy feelings with her but decided not to say a word, at least until he had concrete evidence. After all, it’s been centuries since Bucky had been walking on Earth. Maybe he was only skeptical of humans at this point. Sure, he loved them. But he’d never walked among them, at least not humans so advanced and open-minded to demons and angels. Bucky scoffed to himself. He was foolish. He was being childish.
“Are you sure there is nothing else, to report, Barnes ?”
“Positive sir,” he reported.
“I’ll talk again in a few weeks.”
He huffed in relief as the blood ceased bubbling inside the bowl. He grabbed the bowl and momentarily thought about draining the blood down the sink before he scoffed to himself and brought the bowl to his lips and drank the liquid. The scarlet liquid tasted sweet, with a hint of bitterness, and saltiness. He swiped at his mouth before making his way to the small bedroom and collapsing tiredly on the mattress. Now that he was human, he experienced all types of foreign emotions and feelings- things he’d never felt as a demon and he didn’t like the sensations one bit.
----
Bucky walked into the office, coffee in hand, eating a doughnut, vanilla frosted. He placed the coffee on your desk, already knowing you were usually a few minutes late to work. He began his work day, typing away on his computer, responding to emails, and writing down articles for the city newspaper.
Pretty soon, he noticed you still hadn’t shown up at your desk. He pulled his cell phone out of his pants pocket and texted you, asking if you were okay. You responded moments later, saying that you’d been attacked by some fool as you stepped out of the bus.
Bucky had to maintain his calm stature as he read the text. What fool had hurt her?
You messaged him back after a moment, claiming that you were okay and had entered the building; he’d see you in only a few moments. You told him you suffered from a bruise on your forehead and a few scratches on your arms from being defensive, but nothing major had occurred.
Bucky scowled to himself, wanting to find the punk who had hurt you. Just as he stood up and made his way to the elevator, you came waltzing through, gaining a few curious looks from the other coworkers, whom you ignored. You quickly stepped over to your desk, placing a calm hand on Bucky’s forearm as he felt anger surge through his body at the sight of the markings all over your face.
“Who did this to you?” he demanded, jaw set.
“Just some punk,” you whispered, waving him off as you embraced him for a moment. “I‘m fine, I promise. I can handle myself, Bucky.”
“I should have driven you to work today.” He stated, leaning back in the chair, observing you as you gently touched the lump on your forehead. He felt anger, not at you, but at himself for not doing his job and watching you.
“It’s fine,” you insisted. “Trust me, I handled it.”
“Your coffee got cold,” he frowned, pointing to the cup on her desk. You waved it off and drank the cold beverage anyway. “I’m going to find the punk and handle him, I swear.”
“Bucky, stop,” you chuckled, leaning back, a mischievous grin on her face as she nursed the cup in her hands. “I told you, I handled it.”
“If that shit happens again, you better tell me right away.”
You nodded.
Later that day, Bucky was an utter mess. He was still fuming from the events with her this morning. The only thought on his mind was harming the fucker that had laid his filthy paws on you. Nobody should have touched you. He felt annoyed and pissed and wanted to exact revenge on the person. That's the only thing clouding his mind all afternoon. And he couldn’t understand why he felt this way towards you. He wasn’t sent to Earth to hurt anyone until the time was right. He was sent to collect a single soul; yours. But he couldn’t understand why and it bothered him more and more every day. You seemed to be the perfect little angel.
Just before lunch, some coworker came strutting over to your desk and leaned on it, smirking all proud and obnoxious. He resembled that of a dog drooling over raw meat. He smirked at you before opening his mouth. Bucky nearly lost himself at his condescending tone.
“What some wrestling lessons, Y/N?” The guy spoke, eyeing you with hunger written all over his face. “It seems you might need a lesson or two. Why not let me take you out to show you a pointer or two?”
She raised a brow in disgust. “No thanks, Rumlow.”
“You sure, baby?” He smirked, cocking his head to the side. “I can show you pointers all night.”
“Fuck off, Brock, you’re gross and you’re not my type.”
“Rumlow, office, now,” Stark announced as he popped his head into the area. The man winked and moved away from her desk. It wasn’t until you looked over at Bucky, with him supporting a broken coffee mug, that you locked eyes with him.
“Shit,” he mumbled as he noticed coffee had spilled everywhere across his desk, covering his keyboard.
“Don’t worry about him, James.” You soothed as you began helping him clean up the mess with napkins you had on your desk. “I had it under control, you know.”
He smiled. “It wasn’t you that I was concerned for, Y/N,”
You scoffed. “Trust me, he’s a pig. He’s been trying to get in my pants since I came to this place.”
“I noticed.” He scowled as the mess had finally gotten under control.
“What do you say about having dinner at my place tonight?” He offered softly as you settled back into your seat.
“Okay,” you agreed happily. “But I get to pick the movie we watch this time.”
“Of course.” He chuckled.
********
Once the two of you were settled on Bucky’s couch in his apartment, you’d decided on a movie, flicking through the channels until something of interest came to the screen. The pair of you had already finished your dinner and had been halfway through the movie when the movie was suddenly interrupted by some news broadcasting system, informing viewers of a vicious murder earlier that morning. The newscaster said there was a suspected wild animal on the loose from the local zoo, but authorities were checking the evidence further.
Bucky watched the screen with intensity, wondering why his elder hadn’t informed him to collect the poor man's soul and bring him to the gates. He was a soul collector, after all. It only took him a millisecond after the thought had processed in his mind that he was on another assignment. He was portraying a human in the mortal world. So of course, he wouldn’t have been informed of the news. Someone else would have collected the soul by now, anyway.
He was bringing another forkful of food into his mouth when he’d seen your delighted expression from the corner of his eye. A smirk graced your lips as you watched the television broadcast. Or at least he’d thought he had seen a gleeful expression on your face because, by the time Bucky had turned to face you fully, your face was blank as the movie resumed. By the time the movie had ended, the pair of you were asleep on his couch, your head resting against his shoulder, light snores coming from both of your mouths.
------
It’s been a few weeks and Bucky hasn’t seen or heard from you. To say he was worried was underrated. He’d walk into work every morning expecting you to be sitting behind your desk, pen clamped between your teeth as you typed furiously on the keyboard in front of you. But to no avail. You never showed up. And Bucky was utterly worried.
He eyed Brock few several times, thinking he had something to do with your disappearance. And the way Brock paraded around the office as if he had no care in the world, how couldn’t Bucky assume that?
It was the second Friday that you'd been missing, Bucky stayed behind at work, while Brock copied some paperwork for Stark. Bucky hid behind an office door, waiting for the man to appear in the hallway before tackling him.
“What the fuck, Barnes ?” Brock shouted in surprise and Bucky slammed the man against the concrete wall.
“What the hell did you do to her, Brock?” He demanded, breath coming out in short angry puffs of air. “Where is she?”
“Who are you fucking talking about?” Brock thrashed against Bucky's tight grip.
“Y/N!” Bucky shouted. “Where did you take her? What did you do to her?”
“Nothing, you fucking psychopath!”
He had no choice but to release the man. “She’s been missing for a while, alright? She does this every few months.”
“Why?” He asked. “How do you know this?”
“I’ve been working here for a long time, Barnes .” He stated simply before walking down the hallway. Bucky wasn’t sure whether or not to believe the man. But it’s all he could do.
********
Bucky was leaning against his kitchen counter, waiting for his higher power to answer the blood call. His arm was dripping with blood, though he paid no attention to it. He had other important matters to attend to at the moment.
“Master,” he nearly choked out as the bubbles began boiling at a rapid pace.
“You’ve lost her, haven’t you?”
“I didn’t mean for it to happen, sir,” he felt guilty. “She was fine, and then she disappeared. To where, however, I don’t know.”
“She’s still alive, if that’s what you’re concerned about, Barnes .”
He let out a sigh of relief. “Thank you, sir.” And just like that, the bubbles ceased to exist and Bucky gulped the liquid down, just as he had done previously.
He knew he shouldn’t have the impulse to see her. But it was the only thing clouding his mind. Yes, he had confirmation that she was alive. His higher power would never lie to him about an assignment. But he needed to see for himself. So, he left his house and got into his car, and made his way to your house.
He stayed in the car for a long moment, just staring at the exterior of the place once he had parked outside. He felt something odd within himself, just as he always had whenever he was around you or your housing. It wasn’t love, nor pity. But something was off. Something wasn’t quite right about his surroundings.
He finally stood away from the car and marched up to the house and knocked on the door, half expecting you to swing the door open and pummel into him in excitement as you had always done when he’d showed up at your house unexpectedly.
But he received no response. He thought for a moment that maybe you weren’t home. But as he peered into her window, he noticed lamps shining brightly in the living room. He knocked once more, thinking that maybe you were simply getting a shower and hadn’t heard the knock the first time.
He sent you a text asking for you to answer her door. But as the minutes went by, he received no response. He sighed and looked around to make sure nobody was in sight as he transformed his hand into his natural being and slipped a claw into the lock and turned it, hearing the door unlock itself.
He felt uneasiness as the door swung open gently and he stepped inside.
He smelled something burning inside and he marched quickly into the house. He marched into the kitchen, but nothing was cooking on the stove or the oven. He took a deep sniff of the air and noticed the smell was coming from up the stairs. Taking two at a time once he walked back through the hallway again, the scent of something burning became stronger.
What the hell is she doing?
------
The scent of something burning became thicker as Bucky walked down the hallway. He had to admit, though. It smelled as though he were walking through the gateways of hell. It smelled like home to him. It smelled like burning flesh- burning flesh! Are you fucking kidding me? His pace quickened tremendously until the scent was burning his nostrils.
He violently threw open the door to witness you standing in front of a large furnace. How the fuck did she manage to keep a furnace up here?
“James!” She squealed in terror, trying her damndest to hide the severed human body parts lying in front of the furnace’s open door. “How did you- what are you doing here?”
“So,” he spoke slowly, straightening his stance, knowing this is what he was sent onto earth for. He was sent to collect your soul. He was sent to be the reason behind your death. “So, this is what you’ve been hiding from me? Harvesting human remains, huh?”
“James, please,” she spoke frantically. “Please, you can’t tell anyone of this.”
“How long has this been going on, Y/N?” He demanded. “Does anyone else know of this?”
You dropped the disembodied hand you had been holding before sighing and biting the corner of her mouth. “I couldn’t help it.”
“All those murders that have been going on,” he spoke softly, “it was all you?”
At least you dared to look ashamed. “Don’t call the police on me, James, please?”
“Oh,” he chuckled darkly, finally understanding her and her ways. All those little smirks and mysterious disappearances. They were all because of the girl standing in front of him. All those souls that he could have collected, were because of you, a person whom he had grown quite fondly of in such a short amount of time. Maybe it was all part of the plan. Maybe the motions were set from the minute Bucky set foot on Earth.
He didn’t like it, not one bit. Not since he’d grown so utterly close to you, so fond of you. He cared deeply for you and humanity despite being of demonic empowerment. He’d never take a life unless ordered to do so. So why was he hesitating so much with this job?
“James?” Your voice snapped him away from his thoughts. But it wasn’t enough to stop him from showcasing his true form to do the job needed. He could feel his breath become rash. He could feel his claws ripping from its human cage. He heard your shout in terror and fear. But you were frozen to the spot where you stood. You known better than to run away, especially now more than ever. If he hadn’t captured you, the police surely would.
“You’re time has come, Y/N,” Bucky’s deep, natural voice spoke through now that he was no longer in the confines of his human vessel.
“No,” you shook your head in hysteria, taking in his full form, not understanding what was happening in front of her.
He took a step closer to you, now that he were no longer in his human form, he could hear his higher power speaking to him, telling him to kill her, collect her soul, bring her to the gates of Hell. “It has been my pleasure to meet you, Y/N.” Bucky spoke softly, through his voice echoed around the room. He sniffed at the air, pleased at the scent of burning flesh surrounding him. His mouth watered at the thought of those poor souls in hell. He couldn’t wait to get his paws on them, to taste their very fear and heartache and ash covered flesh.
Before you had uttered another word, he lunged at her, his right hand clawing violently at her chest, spewing blood and rib bones throughout the room. He’d gotten impatient along the way to retrieve her soul, so he ripped her body in half, bringing silence to the room. He smirked greedily as her ghostly form appeared, looking as lost and sad as ever.
“Would you be so kind as to accompany me home, Y/N?”
“Yes.” Her voice echoed, filling Bucky with pride as echoes of his master’s voice whispered in his ear.
Summary: You and Bucky had recently become married and moved into a house in the middle of nowhere for safety. However, the longer you spent in the house, the more often things became deranged and frightening in Bucky’s absence.
Warnings: haunted house, angst, loneliness, creepy things are happening
WC: 1.6K
tags are open! please reblog this series if you enjoy! this is not tiktok, this is not Instagram, and likes do absolutely nothing to help increase viewership of this fic or any other fic on this hellsite.
[Series Masterlist] [Previous Chapter]
You're brushing your teeth late at night, eyes half-closed with exhaustion, leaning over the sink. Everything feels quiet enough to pass as normal—until the temperature in the bathroom shifts. The cold tiles don’t feel cold anymore. They're warm.
Your skin prickles with warmth. A dry heat, like standing too close to a bonfire. You blink. Frown. Rub your arms. You know the heat isn't on. You haven't touched the thermostat since you moved in. It wasn't nearly cold enough outside for that to be activated yet, anyway. You’re not feverish. You haven’t been sick. But the heat swells inside your chest, pushing outward, climbing up your neck like invisible smoke wrapping around your throat. The air smells faintly… burnt.
You look up. And for the first time, the reflection doesn't follow your movement. In the mirror, your reflection is still leaning over the sink—mouth open, eyes wide, frozen. Your real body recoils in confusion, heart thundering. You lift your hand.
The reflection doesn’t move. Instead, something shifts behind it. In the mirror, over your shoulder, you see the shape of a man—blurred, blackened, like he’s made of coal and ash. He stands in the hallway behind you. Watching. Perfectly still. You spin around only to see that the hallway is completely empty.
When you turn back to the mirror, your reflection has caught up. It's normal. You look like yourself again. But the warmth lingers in your chest like a phantom ember.
Your heart races a mile a minute in your chest. You can't explain what's happening.
That night, you toss and turn in bed, sheets kicked down to your ankles, the air still too hot despite the thermostat being set to sixty-eight. You text Bucky, hoping he might reply right away.
miss you. house feels weird tonight again. can’t sleep. wish you were here next to me. maybe it wouldn't feel so terrible in here. He doesn't answer, just like you expected.
You’re halfway between sleep and waking when the bedroom door creaks open. A soft sound, familiar. The echoes of work boots padding through the room to the bed.
You smile, eyes still closed, heart fluttering in relief. “Bucky?” you mumble, voice thick with sleep. “You’re home early?”
No answer.
The mattress dips behind you. You feel the weight of someone sitting beside you. The whispers of your name fill the quiet space. Still facing away, you reach blindly behind you to touch him.
Your fingers brush against fabric—rough, almost scorched. The smell hits you instantly. Smoke. Charcoal. Burnt hair. Burnt fabric.
You open your eyes and a blood curdling scream flies out of your mouth before you had any chance to process what was in front of you.
The man sitting beside you is not your husband.
He's slouched, silent, head tilted as he stares down at you. His body is scorched beyond recognition. Skin blackened and cracked like old tree bark, lips burned away, revealing raw teeth and the dark gums beneath. His eyes, where they should be, are hollow and dripping with black sludge that soaks into the bed sheets.
He doesn’t move. He doesn’t blink. He just watches.
You stumble backward, falling off the bed and hitting the floor with a thud. You scramble, legs tangled in the sheets, heart pounding out of your ribs. And when you look back up at the bed where the figure once sat, all you see is empty space. The bed no longer dipped under his weight.
Like a breath in the wind, the figure is gone. Except, when you reach up to the bed to stand back up, the spot is still very much warm under your touch. You blink and for a second, you thought you could feel the warmth again.
You stay up the rest of. the night. curled up on the bed, staring at the spot on the bed where the figure sat. You could still feel the touch of it as it grazed your skin in such a loving way. The thought sent a chill flying down your spine.
You try. You close your eyes. You curl your knees to your chest, lie stiff beneath the blanket you once shared with Bucky. But your body won’t let go. You stay alert—every muscle tight, every breath shallow, as if something’s coming and you’ll miss it if you blink.
The bed still smells like burnt clothes and charred remains. But the warmth in the sheets doesn’t feel safe anymore. It feels occupied.
The figure from the night—blackened, blistered, eyes hollow—burned itself into your mind. Not just a nightmare. It was there. You felt its weight on the bed. You smelled the charred flesh, the sour rot of melted skin and burnt teeth. And when it looked at you, it didn’t blink.
It knew you.
You could sense the familiarity from him.
But the thoughts exhausted you as you fell asleep hunched in a ball on the bed.
—
The next day is a blur of silence. The sun is shining, but everything inside the house is still too dark. The corners stretch too far. The doors seem to open wider than they used to. You step into the hallway and swear the floorboards creak after you. The hallway feels empty, lonely.
So you open a window to let a breeze roll through. But you can't stop going into the kitchen. You can’t keep pretending that nothing is happening in your house. The kitchen won’t let you. The moment you touch the stove knob, the cabinet overhead crashes open with a scream of rusted hinges. A single plate tumbles out—shatters on the floor at your feet.
When you crouch to pick up the pieces, the faucet behind you blasts on full force. You jump, cutting your finger on the porcelain, the sting barely registering beneath the noise of the water—hot, too hot—boiling steam curling toward the ceiling.
You slam the handle off. It resists you, like it wants to keep going. You don’t scream. You don’t cry. You clean the blood from your hand and whisper, “Please stop.”
And the house goes quiet. almost as though it can hear your pleas. Almost as though the floorboards had some sympathy for once.
—
That night, you wake up on the hallway floor. You hardly remember walking up the stairs. The last things your remember was turning the TV off for the night. You had no recollection of walking upstairs.
Your mouth tasted like ash, causing you to cough out for a moment. You throat was terribly dry. You could feel your heartbeat pacing quickly. Your skin’s sticky with sweat, and there’s a fine layer of black dust clinging to your fingertips. You lift your hand, dazed, and see four soot-smeared fingerprints around your wrist.
You weren’t alone tonight.
Something dragged you.
—
Later, you sit on the porch in a bathrobe, a mug of tea that was once burning hot had gone cold in your hands. The trees outside sway gently, like they don’t know what’s happening inside. Like they don’t care. Like they don't know the torture that's happening inside your home. A home that was built by your friends.
From behind you, the front door creaks.
You don’t turn around. You hear the floorboard groan—slow, measured weight. Something walking. Your name follows in a sweet medley, almost as if the wind is singing to you inside the house. Soft. Familiar. Twisted into something that wants to sound like love.
You blink hard, digging your nails into the cup until it shatters under the force, causing tea to spill across the porch, narrowly missing your body.
And then you hear laughter. Low. Wrong. Like lungs struggling to remember how to breathe. You sit still for hours, until the sun disappears and the shadows stretch long across the porch.
Bucky goes off to work after several reassurances that he's just a phone call away.
—
When you finally crawl back into bed that night, you lie facing the wall, shivering until the heat returns. A wave of it rolling over you, thick and dry, sticking in your throat like smoke. You kick the blanket off before sitting up in the bed because your skin feels as though its burning red hot.
Quickly, you stumble into the bathroom, think, maybe a cold shower will help you cool down. But the mirror starts humming. Not vibrating. Humming. Like it’s alive. Like it’s dreaming. The glass ripples, just once, like a drop of water had been flicked across the surface. But it doesn’t settle.
You take a step closer. You feel like your in a horror movie and you can't change the channel. And your reflection doesn’t follow. It stands there—tilted slightly, breathing heavier than you are. Its mouth hangs open. Lips cracked, blistered, blackened around the edges. Its eyes are bloodshot, rimmed with soot. One side of its neck is red—burned—like melted wax over flesh.
You whisper, “No… Please, no…”
It mirrors you again. But behind it now—there’s a man. The same thing from the bed. You see it clearly this time: black skin seared like coal, empty sockets dripping tar, a mouth pulled into a permanent scream of pain and agony. His chest heaves unnaturally, as if breathing takes effort. As if it hurts him to live. He’s standing directly behind your reflection.
You spin around rapidly, but you're alone in the bathroom. You glance behind you, but his reflection is gone too. But the heat lingers. Your skin is flushed. You feel a dampness along your lower back. You lift your shirt.
Blister marks. Tiny ones. Raised, red. Like fresh burns. You stare at your reflection—your real one now—and your hands begin to shake. Because you’re not alone in this house. And maybe you never were.
Summary: Bucky starts thinking you'd make the perfect mom after watching you bake with Clint's kids.
Warnings: mentions of getting a female pregnant, sappy bucky
WC: 738
ao3 // tag list
The mission had gone sideways and now, instead of the usual safe house, you, Steve, and Bucky found yourselves holed up at Clint’s place for a few weeks. The adrenaline and stress had faded into something softer here: the smell of cookies baking, the laughter of kids echoing down sunlit hallways, the warm chaos of family life.
Bucky watched you from the doorway one morning as you kneaded dough with Clint’s twins perched on stools beside you. You were humming a little tune, sticky flour dusting your hair, and the kids were giggling as they attempted to stir the batter. His chest tightened in a way that made him blush under his own skin. You with kids… His mind drifted dangerously. I could make you like this… I could get you pregnant…
He caught himself staring, quickly blinking away the thought—but the grin on your face as you laughed at a spilled cup of flour kept his mind from returning to anything else. Steve, ever perceptive, nudged him later while Bucky was pretending to focus on the morning papers.
“You’ve been staring a lot,” Steve said casually, voice low. “At Y/N. Don’t tell me you haven’t noticed how… perfect you’d be for it.”
Bucky froze, fork halfway to his mouth. “What do you mean?”
Steve smirked softly. “For… being a parent. She’s patient, caring… the way she handles these kids? She’s a natural. You’ve been watching her, yeah?”
Bucky looked away, face hot. “I… yeah. I just…” He trailed off, realizing he couldn’t really lie about it. He hadn’t been able to take his eyes off you since you arrived.
“Think about it,” Steve said, clapping a hand on Bucky’s shoulder. “Seriously. You’d be the perfect parents.”
The seed was planted.
A few mornings later, you were up early, the sun barely spilling into the kitchen as the smell of cinnamon and apples drifted through the house. Music played faintly from the radio, and you twirled around with the kids, singing loudly, clapping along, and tossing tiny bits of dough in the air.
Bucky and Steve returned from their run, sweat-drenched and slightly winded, to find the scene through the open kitchen window. Steve let out a low whistle.
“Yep,” he muttered, nudging Bucky. “Still staring.”
Bucky didn’t bother hiding it this time. He leaned against the doorway, heart clenching at the sight of you. Flour on your nose. Hair a little mussed. Laugh that made his chest ache. Yeah. She’d be an amazing mom.
Lila, Clint’s sharp-eyed little girl, noticed him too. She hopped off the porch railing as he and Steve approached.
“You know,” she said innocently, tugging gently at Bucky’s sleeve, “Y/N would be a wonderful mom.”
Bucky froze, eyes widening. He opened his mouth, but she kept going.
“She’s nice, and she makes the best cakes, and she plays games with us. You should… you should tell her.”
Steve snorted quietly, letting the kids take over the porch chatter. Bucky just swallowed hard, watching you laugh with the little ones, spinning one of them under your arm.
That night, the house quiet except for the soft breathing of sleeping children, you and Bucky found yourselves sitting on the porch. A blanket shared, mugs of tea warming your hands, and the stars scattered above like diamonds.
“You… you were amazing today,” Bucky said quietly, watching your profile. “With the kids… with everything. I… I keep thinking…”
You tilted your head, brushing flour-dusted hair from your face. “Thinking what?”
Bucky exhaled, gripping the blanket tighter around both of you. “Thinking… that I’d be so lucky if someday… you know… if you were mine, in that way. And we… maybe had a family. I don’t know. I just… I’ve been thinking about it a lot.”
You blinked, soft warmth spreading through your chest, and leaned your head on his shoulder. “Bucky…”
“I’m serious,” he murmured. “I don’t just want… I don’t just want to be with you. I want… that. You, and… kids, and mornings like this.”
A smile curved your lips, and you squeezed his hand. “I was hoping you felt that way. Because… I’ve been thinking about it too.”
And as the night wrapped its quiet arms around the house, with only the stars and your soft breaths for company, Bucky realized he didn’t have to just imagine anymore. Fluff, warmth, and love—they were all here, all real, and all his.
Summary: Crowley's a smug bastard.... He not terrified of anything... except you, his wife.
Warnings: silly fun, Crowley being Crowley, teasing, BAMF Reader, Wife!Reader
WC: 492
Request: Anonymous: Hi! I discovered your blog and finished almost all your Crowley x Reader stories. I wanted to request a story. I imagine Reader as the Queen of Hell, Crowley's wife. I can only think how funny it would be if the Winchesters (and Bobby) called his wife whenever he acted like an idiot. Thanks in advance, I love your writing. And sorry if there are any mistakes, English isn't my first language.
ao3 // tag List
Crowley is on the table.
Not metaphorically. Literally.
Boots on Bobby’s oak table, drink in hand, feet swinging as he monologues like he’s auditioning for World’s Smuggest Bastard.
“I’m just saying,” Crowley drawls, “if you hadn’t broken the last seal, none of this would be happening. So really—”
Dean pinches the bridge of his nose.
Sam’s jaw tightens.
Bobby sets his flask down with a dangerous sort of calm.
“That’s it,” Bobby says. “I’m callin’ her.”
Crowley freezes.
“…Don’t you dare.”
Dean looks up instantly. “Oh. Her?”
Sam perks up. “You mean—”
“No,” Crowley snaps. “Absolutely not. We discussed this. My marriage is not a disciplinary tool.”
Dean already has his phone out. “Too late.”
Crowley lunges—but Bobby flicks a devil’s trap switch and slams him back into place.
“Boy,” Bobby mutters, dialing, “you’re actin’ like a jackass. Your wife deserves to know.”
The line connects.
The room temperature drops.
A woman’s voice answers—smooth, cold, amused.
“Robert Singer,” you say pleasantly. “What did my husband do.”
Crowley shuts his eyes. “Darling—”
Dean leans into the phone. “Hi. Huge fan. Love your work. Your husband is being—”
“An idiot,” you finish. “Again.”
Sam snorts.
You sigh on the other end, regal irritation woven with fond exhaustion. “Put me on speaker.”
Dean does.
The lights flicker.
Crowley sits up straighter like a demon caught in church.
“Yes, my queen?”
“Why,” you ask calmly, “are the Winchesters calling me instead of stabbing you.”
“Well—”
“And answer carefully,” you add. “Because I am in the middle of reorganizing the Fifth Circle and I don’t have the patience for excuses.”
Crowley grimaces. “I may have… antagonized them.”
Dean laughs. “He called us ‘emotionally stunted meat puppets.’”
You hum thoughtfully. “That is what I asked you not to do.”
“It was accurate!”
There’s a pause.
Then—
“Crowley.”
He swallows. “Yes, love?”
“If you do not apologize to the nice boys who keep saving reality, I will demote you.”
Sam’s eyes go wide. “You can do that?”
“Oh, sweetheart,” you say kindly, “I outrank Hell itself.”
Crowley mutters, “…I hate when you’re hot and terrifying.”
“Apologize.”
He exhales dramatically, sliding off the table. “Fine. I’m sorry for being antagonistic. And smug. And—”
“—existing,” Bobby adds.
Crowley glares. “…and existing.”
You pause. “Good.”
The lights steady. The pressure lifts.
Before hanging up, you add, “Boys?”
Dean hums. “Yeah?”
“Any time he starts acting like the King of Hell instead of my husband—call me.”
Crowley groans. “You are encouraging them.”
You smile—everyone can hear it.
“Of course I am.”
The call ends.
Dean pockets the phone, grinning like Christmas came early.
“Well,” he says, “that was easier than holy water.”
Crowley sinks into a chair, rubbing his temples.
“I married a nightmare,” he mutters.
Sam claps him on the shoulder. “You married a solution.”
Bobby raises his flask. “Queen of Hell.”
Crowley sighs. “…She’s gonna make me sleep on the obsidian couch.”
Summary: Crown Prince! Bucky Barnes has a reputation for darkness—but to her, he is a protector.
WC: 950
Warnings: mild violence, loneliness, angst
A/N: Title is a prompt sent to me by @ruby-white-rabbit forever ago atp. oops.
Read on ao3! Tag List
The palace was quiet, but not silent. Every creak of the floorboards, every whisper of silk against marble echoed through the halls. You could feel it—watchful eyes, the weight of history, the pressure of expectations—but none of it mattered right now. Not as long as you were alone.
Except you weren’t.
“You shouldn’t be wandering these halls,” a voice said, low and smooth like velvet edged with steel.
You froze. Heart stuttering. And then you saw him—Bucky Barnes, Crown Prince of the Northern Realms. Dark cloak over his shoulders, eyes stormy and unreadable, and that faint smirk tugging at his lips that always made your chest tighten.
“I… couldn’t sleep,” you admitted, pulling the gown tighter around yourself. “The fire… the city… it keeps me on edge. We need to do something.”
His eyes softened, and he stepped closer, careful as if you were made of glass. “It’s dangerous,” he said, voice low, measured. “Even a small spark can grow into something you can’t control. You shouldn’t be alone.”
“I’ll be fine,” you said quickly, but your hands shook despite yourself.
“You don’t have to be,” he whispered, reaching out to brush a stray strand of hair from your face. “Let me stay with you.”
It was that simple. That quiet. But your chest ached at the intensity behind the words. No crown, no palace, no duty—just him. Just this: Bucky Barnes standing close, offering you safety you hadn’t realized you craved.
“I… I don’t know why you care,” you whispered.
His lips curved slightly, a slow, dangerous smile. “Because even a little bird deserves to feel safe. Even in a world that wants to burn her alive.”
Your breath hitched. Little bird. Fragile. Tiny. But he saw it. He valued it. Protected it.
“Bucky…” you murmured. “Why me?”
“Because you matter,” he said softly, stepping closer, fingers brushing lightly along your arm. “More than I can say. And I’ll do whatever I have to… to make sure nothing ever hurts you.”
The fire outside crackled, sending shadows leaping across the gilded walls. Candlelight flickered, brushing his sharp features with gold. For a fleeting moment, there was nothing royal, nothing political, nothing but the two of you, caught in the quiet intimacy of the hall.
“I… I don’t know if I’m worth protecting,” you admitted, voice trembling.
“You are,” he said firmly, but gentle. “Just by being here. Just by being yourself. That’s enough.”
Your chest swelled, a strange mix of fear and longing. You wanted to pull back, to remind yourself that you were a princess in a palace full of eyes and expectations—but you didn’t. You let yourself lean into him, small, fragile, and he wrapped you in himself, one arm tight around your shoulders, the other brushing against your back, protective, grounding.
“You’re mine, little bird,” he whispered, pressing a forehead to yours, voice low and rough. “And I’ll never let the world take you from me.”
It wasn’t just words. It was a promise, solid and unshakable.
Days passed, and he became your shadow—quietly, seamlessly. He appeared at your window with a warm cloak, slipped notes under your door with reminders to eat, to rest, to keep safe. Every gesture, small or significant, made your chest ache with an emotion you didn’t have words for yet.
“You move like you’re carrying the weight of the world,” you said one evening, your hands tangled in the sleeve of your gown. “Why do you care so much?”
He smiled softly, fingers brushing against yours, catching your wrist lightly. “Because someone has to,” he murmured. “And it might as well be me.”
You caught yourself leaning closer, craving the warmth he offered, even though you still didn’t fully understand why your heart raced like this around him. He noticed. Of course he noticed.
“I’m not like the others,” you said softly. “I can’t be… I can’t be enough.”
“You already are,” he said, voice quiet, unyielding. “You just being here… just being you… that’s everything.”
The first time he touched your cheek—not as a prince, not as someone who demanded respect, but as Bucky—your breath caught. His thumb traced lightly along your skin, and his eyes, soft and stormy, held yours.
“You’ll let me protect you, won’t you?” he asked.
“Yes,” you whispered, small. “Always.”
And then came the night the city threatened to consume itself—the uprising at the market, the fire that spread too close, the shadows that moved like they were alive.
You ran through the palace halls, heart pounding, breath catching, until he found you.
“You’re not alone,” he said, voice rougher, his usual calm laced with fire. “I won’t let them touch you.”
And he meant it.
He took your hand, leading you to the secret balcony. The city burned, the flames reflecting in his dark eyes, gold flecks flickering like fire itself. “Even when everything burns,” he said softly, “I’ll protect you. No matter what.”
Your hands trembled, but you didn’t pull away. “Bucky… I—”
He pressed a finger to your lips, silencing you, leaning close so your foreheads touched. “Shh,” he murmured. “Little bird. You’re safe. With me.”
And in that moment, in the shadow of the balcony, watching the city ignite around you, you believed him. You let yourself lean into him, small and fragile, and he held you like you were the most precious thing in the world.
“You’re my fire,” he whispered, “and I’ll never let it go out. Not now, not ever.”
You closed your eyes, letting yourself fall into the warmth of him. For the first time, even as the world burned around you, you felt utterly, impossibly safe.
