trouble | darcy/bucky, supernatural
He remembered very little from his childhood, but he had grown up with stories of the covens, tales of mythical creatures and faeries and daemons and vampyres. It was hard to forget about them, especially with what he was – but the most memorable thing was what his Ma had told him about witches.
Witches are trouble, darling, she had whispered into his hair, as she tucked him into bed. If you meet one, run fast and run far.
He had felt her magic the moment he stepped into the Tower, the blanket of wards probing and assessing him. Steve had walked through, either unaware or just used to the feeling, but after a moment there was a gentle warmth that ran across the back of his neck, and a nudge that seemed to urge him forward.
Come in, something whispered, and he finally placed what she was. The tremor that shook his spine was both unfamiliar and terrifying when he recognized it not as fear, but excitement.
Bucky liked trouble; he always had, ever since the moment he came across a punk-ass blonde kid getting beat up by a couple of guys twice his size. And so when he met the witch, face to face, he took one look at her – smirking, blood red lips; magic curling and sparking in her hair – and knew he was a goner.
“Steve, you never said he was lycan,” she drawled, eyes focused on him, and he felt the hair on the back of his neck rise, her voice caressing him with the potency and intimacy of a lover.
“Does it matter?” Steve sounded so, so confused, and for all that was written about incubi being soul-sucking, omnipotent, corrupting demon spirits, Bucky was pretty sure none of those people had ever met Steve Rogers. They got the sex-crazed part right, but Steve was blindly oblivious to a lot of other things – and in this case, the reason why witches and werewolves normally stayed far, far away from each other.
Bucky could smell nitrogen and ozone, windstorms and cloudbursts. “You a wind elemental?” he rumbled, and the girl’s eyes darkened as Steve looked at him in surprise.
“Stormwitch,” she corrected, and he damn near moaned. He could practically taste her power, wildness and freedom emanating from her like a halo, but when he tried to step forward he found himself unable to move.
“Wolves and witches don’t mix,” she said ruefully, and he could feel her magic drawing away from him, leaving the air around him cold and empty, save for the sparks keeping his feet planted to the floor. “You should know the rules.”
“Fuck the rules.” He bared his teeth, and smiled when she bit her lip, the tiniest whimper escaping her throat as she saw his canines. “All I have to do,” he murmured, “is catch you.”
She laughed, thunder and howling wind shifting behind her voice. “Then may the hunt begin,” she purred, and she disintegrated into a flurry of fresh snow, the teasing smell of rain and earth filling his nose before vanishing.