#object!reader

For years you watched him.

Tom Riddle—once the most brilliant, most beautiful boy Hogwarts had ever produced—now a towering, serpentine beast with obsidian scales, crimson-slit eyes, and claws that gouged marble like paper. He raged through the halls, snarling at the enchanted staff (a ticking clock-elf, a candelabra house-elf, a teapot matron), but never at you. Perhaps because you were silent unless addressed. Perhaps because, in the dead of night, he would stand before you and ask the one question he never voiced aloud to anyone else.

“Show me what I was.”

You would ripple, and there he stood again: sharp cheekbones, dark curls, eyes like midnight storms. Human. Perfect. Untouchable.

You fell in love with the ghost in the glass long before Bella ever arrived.

When Tom dragged her father through the gates for trespassing, then took Bella in trade, everything accelerated toward ruin.

Bella was beautiful—golden-brown hair, defiant eyes, a mind like a blade. She hated Tom instantly and utterly. She spat curses at his monstrous form, refused his invitations, plotted escape every waking hour. Yet Tom, in his arrogance, believed he could force affection the way he forced obedience. He demanded you help him.

“Make her see reason,” he growled one evening, pacing before your frame. “Show her what she could have.”

You showed her libraries of endless books, gardens that bloomed eternally, ballrooms lit by starlight. You whispered suggestions through the glass when she passed: He is not all monster. Look closer.

She never looked closer. She only looked for exits.

You helped anyway. You arranged the golden gown that appeared in her wardrobe. You dimmed the lights for the ballroom dance. You watched from the shadows as Tom—awkward, furious, trying—offered her his clawed hand.

She danced with him once. Stiff. Cold. Her eyes on the doors.

You felt something crack inside your glass heart.

The petals kept falling.

Then came the betrayal.

Bella escaped one night, aided by a loose window and a whispered promise from a sympathetic candelabra. She ran to the village, to the man who had once courted her—Gaston, broad-shouldered, loud, convinced she belonged to him. She told him everything: the beast who imprisoned her, the castle's location, the weakness in its wards.

She did not love Tom. She never had. She only wanted freedom—and revenge.

The mob came at dawn.

Torches. Pitchforks. Spells crackling like lightning. Gaston at the front, grinning, rifle loaded with dark curses.

Tom fought like a demon. Claws tore through men, roars shook the foundations. But there were too many, and the final petal trembled on its stem in the West Wing.

You found him bleeding on the grand staircase, scales cracked, one arm hanging useless. Gaston loomed above, ready to end it.

You shattered.

Not literally—though it felt like it. Your frame cracked as you forced every ounce of magic left in you outward. The mirror exploded in light, shards flying like daggers. One struck Gaston in the shoulder; others blinded the mob long enough for the staff to rally.

But the force of it tore through you. Glass splintered across the floor. Your consciousness flickered, fading. You felt your form unraveling—human shape bleeding back, but broken, bleeding, dying.

Tom staggered toward the shards.

“No,” he rasped, voice raw. “Not you.”

He gathered the largest fragment—your face still faintly visible, eyes dimming—and cradled it like something precious.

For the first time, he looked at you—not at the reflection of his past, but at you.

“I never asked your name,” he whispered.

You managed the faintest smile in the glass. “It doesn’t matter now.”

“It does.” His voice cracked—something you had never heard from him. “It always did.”

The last petal fell.

But not because of Bella.

Because in that moment, as death crept into your edges, Tom Riddle—beast, monster, boy—finally understood love. Not possession. Not conquest. The quiet, stupid, aching thing that had lived in his castle all along, silent, waiting, loving him anyway.

Light erupted.

The castle shuddered. Stone warmed. Windows bloomed with roses. The staff gasped as limbs returned, flesh replacing porcelain and brass.

Tom’s form twisted—scales melting, claws retracting, crimson eyes fading to deep brown. He became the boy from your visions: tall, pale, impossibly handsome, curls falling into his face.

He dropped to his knees beside your broken body—human now, but pale, blood soaking your dress from where the mirror’s curse had torn you apart in reverse.

You were slipping.

He pressed his forehead to yours, hands shaking. “Stay.”

You tried to speak, but it was only a breath.

He kissed you—desperate, clumsy, tasting of salt and regret. “I love you,” he said against your lips, the words foreign, terrifying, true. “I’ve loved you since the first time you showed me mercy instead of truth.”

The light surged again.

Your wounds closed. Breath returned. The shards on the floor dissolved into nothing, leaving only you—whole, human, alive—in his arms.

The curse was broken.

Not by Bella’s reluctant tolerance.

By yours. The love that had never asked for anything in return.

Later, when the castle was quiet and the staff celebrated downstairs, Tom led you to the West Wing. The pedestal stood empty now—no rose, no glass. Just moonlight.

He took your hand—gentle, no claws.

“I don’t deserve this,” he said quietly.

You turned to him, touching the face you had only ever seen in reflections.

“Neither did I,” you answered. “But here we are.”

He pulled you close, arms tight as though afraid you’d vanish again.

And for the first time in years, the mirror was empty.

Because you were no longer trapped behind glass.

You were here.

With him.

𔓘 Silver Bullet!reader was a witch killing bullet, she wasn’t made for anything but death. She was filled with the potion from witch-killing spells meant to end the existence of witches.

𔓘 But when Dean pulled the trigger, she should have flown true, buried herself deep in a witch’s heart. Instead, the witch spell activated, and she landed on the ground—barefoot, human, and blinking up at a very, very confused Dean Winchester as the witch escaped.

𔓘 Silver Bullet!reader still has instincts that don’t quite belong to a person. She can smell magic, sense hex bags before she sees them, feel when something unnatural is near. As a former witch killing bullet, a quiet intensity belongs to her, movements are too precise, too sharp—like she was made for efficiency, not hesitation. Dean swears she dodges things before they happen. The urge to act—fight, protect, kill—runs deep in her bones

𔓘 Dean doesn’t know what to do with her at first. She’s his, in a way—was made by his hands, kind of—but she’s also someone entirely separate, now. Independent. A walking reminder of the life he leads.

𔓘 She doesn’t have a real name at first. Dean tries a few, but nothing sticks. And she's too cold and cynical to like the pet names he comes up with. Eventually, she overhears him muttering about his “lucky shot,” and she decides that’s close enough. “Lucky” is what she goes by now.

𔓘 Silver Bullet!reader has pale scars along her skin—etched-in symbols from her former existence. Her scars tell a story. Pale, silvery symbols adorn her body, some as thin as a whisper, others deep and intricate, curling around her arms, spine, and ribs like ancient script. A single W is carved into the back of her neck, made by Dean to set her apart from other bullets. They glow faintly under a witch’s magic, like an old weapon remembering its purpose.

𔓘 Her hair is dark, but in the right light, silver strands catch and gleam like fresh-forged metal. No matter how much she cuts them, they always grow back. Dean stares sometimes—she doesn’t think he realizes he’s doing it. She also has a unique scent—gunpowder, smoke, and a faint metallic edge. Dean notices it most when she’s close, when he catches himself leaning in without realizing it.

𔓘 Despite her sharp edges, she’s loyal—fiercely so. She was made to protect, and that part of her hasn’t changed. If something comes for Dean, it goes through her first.

𔓘 Sam was cautious at first, but she grew on him. She listens well, absorbs knowledge quickly, and is lethal in a fight. She’s also the only one who can beat Dean in a staredown.

𔓘 She’s a natural with weapons. Knives, guns, hand-to-hand—it’s all instinct. The first time she picks up a blade, she flips it in her grip like she’s done it a thousand times before.

𔓘 Dean doesn’t say it, but he trusts her. Even when he shouldn’t. Even when she’s unpredictable, strange, and half-wrong in her humanity. She was his before she was ever her own, and something about that feels permanent.

𔓘 She hates witches. She was made to destroy them. The first time she faces one after turning human, something in her stirs—an echo of what she was. The need to pull the trigger, even if she no longer can. And witches hate her. They can sense what she is, what she was made for.

𔓘 She doesn’t quite understand love, but she understands him. The way he runs a hand through his hair when he’s thinking, the way he clenches his jaw when he’s upset. The way he always checks that she’s still there, even if he doesn’t say it out loud.

𔓘 She has a weirdly good memory—not of hunts, but of details. The weight of Dean’s hands as he carved that W into her, the rhythm of his heartbeat, the way his voice shifts when he’s lying. She recognizes spells in different languages even if she’s never seen them before.

𔓘 Despite her sharp edges, she has a surprising soft side. She likes warm things—coffee, fireplaces, the sun on her skin. She’s fiercely protective, in small ways too—grabbing an extra jacket for Sam, making sure Dean eats even when he grumbles.

𔓘 She has trouble with emotions. She wasn’t built to feel. The first time she gets overwhelmed—anger, sadness, something too big—she just… shuts down. Stares ahead, fists clenched, until Dean mutters a quiet, “C’mere,” and lets her lean against him.

𔓘 Lucky wasn’t just a weapon turned woman. She’s alive now. She laughs, learns, feels. And no spell, no witch, no fate is ever taking that away from her again.

library .ᐟ.ᐟ

∿ get to know her personality

linas notes: ofc this is totally inspired by @daylighted and baby!reader !! this universe of object!reader is so creative and seeing everyone joining and making such incredible readers made me want to do it too hehe.

yapps! this was a little longer than I wanted, sorryyy lol, I got a little excited writing her. Seeing all the Angel Blade, First Blade, etc made me have this idea!! I don't know if it's that good but I hope you like it and that I actually continue with this… (one more thing, I know that in the show the witch-killing bullets aren't normally made with silver bullets but I wanted to use this bullet anyway because I thought it would look better lmao)

⛤ anti-possession tattoo!reader's skin is filled with curve lines of black ink that reflect her former shape as a tattoo. Dean loves to trace his fingers over them, which makes her tickle.

⛤ She hates demons. Her skin literally burns when she gets too close to one, and her protective instincts over Dean instantly kick in, making her look like his own personal bodyguard (not like he needed one really, but he still appreciates).

⛤ She's as feisty as a cat, and just as affectionate. She loves to lie next to Dean, placing her hand on his chest, right where she used to be in her tattoo form. The first night as a human, she snuck into Dean's bed in the middle of the night, curling up next to him like a scared kitten. Dean could have even sworn he heard her purr.

⛤ She suffers from hypergraphia, the intense desire and compulsion to draw. In fact, for her first few months as a human, this was her only form of communication with the Winchesters.

⛤ She's a girl of few words and many drawings, as she only speaks to those she trusts most. Dean was the first person she ever spoke a word to in her own voice, as he was the only one she felt comfortable doing so.

⛤ Black is her signature color. You'll never see her wearing anything other than black. It's the color of her ink, and that best defines her.

⛤ you can call her Ink if you like or as Dean calls her sometimes, Starry

a/n: this is my small contribution to the object!reader verse started by @daylighted, i've been seeing a lot of object!readers on tumblr and i felt the need to create my own

“such a sad sight,” her fingers skim along the chains that bound him to the chair, lips kissing the side of his neck. “sam wants you to return to what you once were, he hates you like this.” she can see dean groan, eyes glaring at the door of his makeshift prison cell here within the bunker.

“can you remove them?” he whispers, inhaling the sweet scent of her skin as she settles into his lap. a combination of the salty sea and something floral, like water lilies. “i need to get out.”

“in due time my love,” she kisses his lips sweetly, both palms cupping dean’s cheeks as the stubble tickles her digits. “we will be free of this and go back to having fun.”*

aphrodite tends to stick to the shadows, preferring to be in the darker parts of dean’s vision and is quite playful when he can’t find her in large crowds. sam witnessed first hand when they ambushed his older brother at the bar. his brother’s gaze going into a dark corner behind sam and yet as he looked back, the younger winchester couldn’t tell what was going on.

aphrodite’s bonded to dean and therefore can only be seen by him. sam nor castiel have any clue as to who dean looks for from time to time. he carries her necklace in his pocket, and if he forgets it his head feels like its going to explode.

she gets the most fun in dean’s dreams, and often gets into trouble. manipulating the scene or any thoughts he has.

the first time sam actually saw her was when they got into dean’s mind to try and trap michael. aphrodite and michael had worked together in order to keep dean on a leash.

“y-you’re…” sam can’t believe his eyes, all these years he spent criticizing dean about his delusions and yet here she was.

“that i am, sam.” she sauntered over to him, her black dress hugging her frame as dean glares at her. “you look good, but i always have a soft spot for the older one.” the brunette flashes a wink at dean as he clenched his teeth.

“enough games aphrodite,” michael!dean says, narrowing his eyes at her as he stands up straighter. “you can play with your toys when we are done.”

aphrodite is able to take form into reality, but out of selfishness stays within dean’s mind. so long as he holds her necklace. he’s gotten it made with her vial hanging off the delicate chain.

🥧˚｡⋆ Apple Pie!Reader didn’t ask to be human, but here she is. One second, she was a warm, golden-crusted masterpiece in a tin. The next, she was standing in Dean Winchester’s kitchen, barefoot, confused, and craving sugar like her life depended on it.

🥧˚｡⋆ Apple Pie!Reader exists because of magic, but not a curse. The apples in her recipe came from a supernatural orchard—tied to emotions, longing, and home. Dean’s deep, unspoken need for comfort and something permanent gave her life. She is not a monster, not a trick—just… her.

🥧˚｡⋆ She's not a curse but a gift—though Dean would argue that waking up to a woman in his kitchen wearing his flannel and smelling like pie is very confusing.

🥧˚｡⋆ She is always warm. Not hot, not uncomfortable—just cozy. Like she just stepped out of the oven, radiating the kind of warmth that makes people unconsciously lean in closer. Dean tries not to notice. He fails.

🥧˚｡⋆ She smells like cinnamon, sugar, and baked apples. Sam claims it’s distracting. Dean definitely doesn’t have a problem with it—except for the fact that it makes his heart do something stupid whenever she’s near.

🥧˚｡⋆ She has memories—but they’re strange. They're not real memories; She just, kind of, remembers every time Dean ever craved an apple pie. The times he was happy, the times he was miserable, and just wanted comfort food. She remembers being wanted—but not like this. Not as a person.

🥧˚｡⋆ She craves sugar like oxygen. Not just because she used to be a pie, but because sugar is energy, warmth, safety. She’ll stare at a cupcake like it holds the answers to the universe. Eve really, really, likes candies and sweet things.

🥧˚｡⋆ Dean catches her watching him. A lot. And every time, her expression is unreadable, like she’s trying to figure something out. Trying to understand him.

🥧˚｡⋆ She doesn’t like sharp objects. Instinct kicks in whenever someone picks up a knife near her, and she moves. Dean once tried to hand her a fork, and she flinched. ("Do I even want to know why?" "…Nope.")

🥧˚｡⋆ She can’t explain why she’s so drawn to Dean, but it’s there. Maybe it’s because he was the one who ate that first bite, the one who made the unintentional wish that gave her life. Or maybe it’s something deeper.

🥧˚｡⋆ She feels safest near him. When things get overwhelming—when the world feels too big, too loud, too human—she always finds herself next to Dean. Like a subconscious instinct. Like home.

🥧˚｡⋆ Apple Pie!Reader doesn’t have a name at first. Dean calls her “Sugar,” “Honey,” “Cupcake,” or sometimes "Sweetheart" anything but a real name. Eventually, she picks one herself—but Dean still calls her "Sugar" when no one else is around.

🥧˚｡⋆ Sam is both fascinated and horrified. "Dean, you’re telling me your apple pie turned into a woman?" "Dude, I don’t know how to explain it either." "And you’re keeping her here?" "What am I supposed to do, Sam? Send her back to the bakery?"

🥧˚｡⋆ She can’t read. She recognizes certain words—especially ones related to food and definitely anything Dean says a lot—but books are still a mystery. She likes when Dean reads to her, even if he grumbles about it.

🥧˚｡⋆ She gets jealous of other desserts. Dean doesn’t notice at first, but when he orders a different kind of pie at a diner and she goes silent for the rest of the night, it clicks. ("You’re mad because I ate a cherry pie?" "…No.")

🥧˚｡⋆ She starts picking up human habits—some on purpose, some by accident. Wearing Dean’s flannel when she’s cold, humming classic rock under her breath, curling up on the couch with a blanket like she’s always been there.

🥧˚｡⋆ She’s not just an apple pie that became a woman. She’s a woman learning how to be. Learning how to live, to want, to feel. And maybe, just maybe—she’s figuring out what it means to love, too.

library .ᐟ.ᐟ

∿ get to know her personality

linas notes: yayy a new object!reader!! and again, ofc, this is totally inspired by @daylighted and baby!reader !! pls check this amazing universe of object!reader, and all the others creatives readers!!

yapps! I'm a little in love with eve??? I think she's going to be sooo fun to write I'm really excited! (and again, hopping that I actually continue with this… lol)

𔓘 Lucky doesn’t bleed red. Not exactly. It’s darker, with a faint metallic sheen. The first time she’s wounded, Dean sees it and goes still. She just shrugs. “Guess old habits die hard.”

𔓘 Some symbols have meaning. A protection rune carved into her collarbone, a sigil for true aim trailing down her forearm, a circle at the base of her spine that Dean swears looks like a bullet wound, the W carved into the back of her neck. She doesn’t remember how they got there, but sometimes, she feels them—thrumming beneath her skin, reacting to magic like a long-dormant instinct waking up.

𔓘 She’s got an unnatural stillness to her. She doesn’t fidget, doesn’t tap her fingers or bounce her knee. When she’s sitting, she’s completely still, as if movement is something she has to consciously decide to do. Dean notices. He watches the way she just… exists, like a blade waiting to be drawn.

𔓘 She has a sharp personality. Blunt, dry-witted, and unafraid to tell it how it is. There’s no sugarcoating with her. If you ask a stupid question, you’ll get a sarcastic answer. If Dean’s being reckless, she’ll call him out on it. “Really, Winchester? Thought you had at least two brain cells left.”

𔓘 She has a habit of standing between danger and Dean. Even when she doesn’t need to. Even when she knows he can handle himself. It’s instinct—deep, unwavering, like something in her core demands she protect him. He hates it. She doesn’t care.

𔓘 She doesn’t know how to be human. Eating is strange, sleeping is stranger, and emotions? Terrifying. The first time she cries, she’s so confused she just stands there while Dean awkwardly hands her a napkin.

𔓘 She doesn’t sleep much. It's weird to her. Lucky doesn’t sleep easily. She was meant to end things, not dream. Nightmares come instead—memories of hunts she never lived, of blood, of the weight of Dean’s hands loading her into his gun. She’s not used to being vulnerable, to closing her eyes and trusting the world won’t shift under her.

𔓘 Cold iron burns her, just slightly. Not enough to hurt, but enough to remind her where she came from. Silver feels… comforting, in a way she doesn’t understand.

𔓘 Her humor is as dry as the desert. Sarcasm, deadpan delivery, and an ability to make even the most serious situations feel absurd. The first time she makes Sam laugh against his will, she smirks and says, “Huh. Thought I was losing my touch.”

𔓘 She loves food—but doesn’t get why. She actually prefers drinks, alcoholic or not. Her favorites involve Coca-Cola, she loves Diet Coke, Cherry Coke, Jack & Coke… She never needed to eat before, so tasting food for the first time is weird. She doesn’t have a favorite yet, but she does know she hates marshmallows. Too soft. Too… unnatural. Her favorites are sour and spicy. Dean finds this hilarious.

𔓘 She isn’t used to kindness. Not because she was mistreated, but because she was never meant to be treated like anything other than a weapon. When Sam lends her a book, when Dean casually rests a hand on her back, when someone cares—she doesn’t quite know what to do with it.

𔓘 Dean is her person. She doesn’t say it. Not outright. But he’s the one she trusts without hesitation, the one she looks for in a crowded room, the one who makes her feel something other than the constant hum of instinct and purpose.

𔓘 She doesn’t believe in fate. She was made for one thing, and yet, here she is—human, alive, something more. If fate existed, she wouldn’t be. So no, she doesn’t believe in it. But she does believe in choice.

𖤐 reblogs and feedback are appreciated! requests are also welcome, ty!

linas notes: heyy finally posting more about my sweet girl!! sorry it took me so long to post this ugh, I promise I'll post more about her and apple pie!reader soon. <3

this is part of @daylighted object!reader movement (go check it out) 💋