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Request: @goblin-king-of-anarchy67 Zemo x reader who in contrast to Zemo’s fancy tastes, likes simple things. Smth like he asks her where she’d like to go for dinner and she wants regular ass fast food. I would drag his fancy ass to Wendy’s in a heartbeat 😼
Summary: you take your boyfriend to a lower food chain then he's used to. [wc 778] [ao3]
Warnings: fancy ass Helmut, fluff
Helmut Zemo had taken you to restaurants where the menus did not include prices. You had discovered this was a particularly sinister practice.
Not because you disliked the food. Quite the opposite. The food was usually excellent. Immaculately plated, impossibly delicate, and served by waiters who seemed personally offended if you looked at a dish and thought, That could use some ketchup.
Zemo enjoyed these places.
You tolerated them.
Which was why, when he turned to you one evening and asked, with the casual confidence of a man who could probably have a private chef summoned from another continent,
“Where would you like to have dinner tonight, darling?”
You immediately answered, “Wendy's.”
Silence.
Zemo stared at you.
You stared back. “Wendy's,” you repeated.
“I heard you.” he replied.
“Good.”
He slowly lowered the cufflink he'd been adjusting. “You wish to dine at Wendy's.”
“Yes.” you nodded.
“Tonight.” he stared at you.
“Yes.”
He studied your face. You could practically see him attempting to determine whether this was some elaborate joke. “You are serious.”
“Helmut, I would drag your fancy ass through the doors myself.”
His eyebrows rose. “My fancy ass.”
“Precisely.”
A pause.
Then the corner of his mouth twitched. “You've been spending too much time with Americans.”
“You married one.”
“I am beginning to regret my decision.”
“No, you're not.”
“No,” he admitted. “I am not.”
And that was how Baron Helmut Zemo found himself sitting inside a Wendy's at eight thirty on a Friday evening. He looked absurd. Perfectly tailored coat. Expensive watch. Hair neatly styled. Expression suggesting he had personally been betrayed by Western civilization.
You, meanwhile, were happily unwrapping your burger.
Zemo glanced at it. Then at you. “You genuinely enjoy this?”
“Absolutely.” you should around a mouthful of food, much to his dismay.
“You had your choice of any restaurant.”
“Yep.”
“And you chose this.”
“Yep.”
He sighed.
You took a bite.
He watched you with unmistakable amusement. “You're enjoying my suffering.”
“A little.” you smiled.
“A great deal, I think.”
“Maybe.”
Zemo leaned back. “You know, I could have arranged for a chef to prepare you something far superior.”
“I know.” you nodded.
“Fresh ingredients.”
“I know.” you chewed your burger liek it was heaven on earth.
“Fine wine.”
“I know.”
“Elegant atmosphere.”
You pointed a fry at him. “And none of those things come with a Frosty.”
Zemo paused. You watched the realization slowly dawn across his face. He looked genuinely offended. “You cannot possibly be suggesting that a milkshake is superior to champagne.”
“I'm saying a Frosty is exactly what I want right now.” you shrugged.
He stared at you for another moment. Then he sighed with the weary resignation of a man accepting that he had fallen in love with someone whose priorities were catastrophically different from his own. “What flavor?”
You grinned. “Chocolate.”
“Of course.”
“And fries.”
“You already have fries.”
“More fries.”
“Humanity has apparently abandoned all restraint.”
You laughed. He smiled despite himself. When you finished eating, Zemo reached across the table and stole one of your fries.
You gasped. “Excuse you.”
“You have more.”
“Those are my fries.”
“You ordered several.”
“And?”
“And I am your husband.” he pointed out.
“That doesn't give you fry privileges.”
“It should.”
“No.”
Zemo calmly ate the fry.
You narrowed your eyes. “You're lucky you're pretty.”
“I am aware.”
You kicked him lightly beneath the table. He caught your ankle with his shoe. For a moment, neither of you moved.
Then he leaned closer. “You know,” he murmured, “I could become accustomed to this.”
“To Wendy's?”
“To you.”
Your expression softened.
Zemo's thumb brushed lightly against your ankle beneath the table. “I don't need expensive restaurants to enjoy an evening with you.”
You smiled. “Good.”
He glanced down at the paper wrapper surrounding your burger. “Although I maintain that the fries are mediocre.”
“You've eaten six.”
“I am conducting research.”
“Sure.”
Another fry disappeared from your carton. You stared at him. He looked completely innocent. “Research,” he repeated.
“You're such an ass.”
“And yet,” he said, stealing another fry, “you brought me here.”
You smiled. “Wouldn't trade you for anything.”
His expression softened. “No,” he murmured. “Neither would I.” And perhaps that was the thing Zemo eventually came to understand about your simple tastes.
You weren't unimpressed by luxury. You simply didn't need it. Sometimes you wanted candlelit dinners in beautiful European restaurants. And sometimes you wanted a burger, fries, and a chocolate Frosty with the man you loved.
Zemo could give you the world. But if you asked for Wendy's, he'd put on his coat and come with you. He'd complain the entire drive. Naturally. But he'd come.
Request: @goblin-king-of-anarchy67 Zemo x reader who in contrast to Zemo’s fancy tastes, likes simple things. Smth like he asks her where she’d like to go for dinner and she wants regular ass fast food. I would drag his fancy ass to Wendy’s in a heartbeat 😼
Summary: you take your boyfriend to a lower food chain then he's used to. [wc 778] [ao3]
Warnings: fancy ass Helmut, fluff
Helmut Zemo had taken you to restaurants where the menus did not include prices. You had discovered this was a particularly sinister practice.
Not because you disliked the food. Quite the opposite. The food was usually excellent. Immaculately plated, impossibly delicate, and served by waiters who seemed personally offended if you looked at a dish and thought, That could use some ketchup.
Zemo enjoyed these places.
You tolerated them.
Which was why, when he turned to you one evening and asked, with the casual confidence of a man who could probably have a private chef summoned from another continent,
“Where would you like to have dinner tonight, darling?”
You immediately answered, “Wendy's.”
Silence.
Zemo stared at you.
You stared back. “Wendy's,” you repeated.
“I heard you.” he replied.
“Good.”
He slowly lowered the cufflink he'd been adjusting. “You wish to dine at Wendy's.”
“Yes.” you nodded.
“Tonight.” he stared at you.
“Yes.”
He studied your face. You could practically see him attempting to determine whether this was some elaborate joke. “You are serious.”
“Helmut, I would drag your fancy ass through the doors myself.”
His eyebrows rose. “My fancy ass.”
“Precisely.”
A pause.
Then the corner of his mouth twitched. “You've been spending too much time with Americans.”
“You married one.”
“I am beginning to regret my decision.”
“No, you're not.”
“No,” he admitted. “I am not.”
And that was how Baron Helmut Zemo found himself sitting inside a Wendy's at eight thirty on a Friday evening. He looked absurd. Perfectly tailored coat. Expensive watch. Hair neatly styled. Expression suggesting he had personally been betrayed by Western civilization.
You, meanwhile, were happily unwrapping your burger.
Zemo glanced at it. Then at you. “You genuinely enjoy this?”
“Absolutely.” you should around a mouthful of food, much to his dismay.
“You had your choice of any restaurant.”
“Yep.”
“And you chose this.”
“Yep.”
He sighed.
You took a bite.
He watched you with unmistakable amusement. “You're enjoying my suffering.”
“A little.” you smiled.
“A great deal, I think.”
“Maybe.”
Zemo leaned back. “You know, I could have arranged for a chef to prepare you something far superior.”
“I know.” you nodded.
“Fresh ingredients.”
“I know.” you chewed your burger liek it was heaven on earth.
“Fine wine.”
“I know.”
“Elegant atmosphere.”
You pointed a fry at him. “And none of those things come with a Frosty.”
Zemo paused. You watched the realization slowly dawn across his face. He looked genuinely offended. “You cannot possibly be suggesting that a milkshake is superior to champagne.”
“I'm saying a Frosty is exactly what I want right now.” you shrugged.
He stared at you for another moment. Then he sighed with the weary resignation of a man accepting that he had fallen in love with someone whose priorities were catastrophically different from his own. “What flavor?”
You grinned. “Chocolate.”
“Of course.”
“And fries.”
“You already have fries.”
“More fries.”
“Humanity has apparently abandoned all restraint.”
You laughed. He smiled despite himself. When you finished eating, Zemo reached across the table and stole one of your fries.
You gasped. “Excuse you.”
“You have more.”
“Those are my fries.”
“You ordered several.”
“And?”
“And I am your husband.” he pointed out.
“That doesn't give you fry privileges.”
“It should.”
“No.”
Zemo calmly ate the fry.
You narrowed your eyes. “You're lucky you're pretty.”
“I am aware.”
You kicked him lightly beneath the table. He caught your ankle with his shoe. For a moment, neither of you moved.
Then he leaned closer. “You know,” he murmured, “I could become accustomed to this.”
“To Wendy's?”
“To you.”
Your expression softened.
Zemo's thumb brushed lightly against your ankle beneath the table. “I don't need expensive restaurants to enjoy an evening with you.”
You smiled. “Good.”
He glanced down at the paper wrapper surrounding your burger. “Although I maintain that the fries are mediocre.”
“You've eaten six.”
“I am conducting research.”
“Sure.”
Another fry disappeared from your carton. You stared at him. He looked completely innocent. “Research,” he repeated.
“You're such an ass.”
“And yet,” he said, stealing another fry, “you brought me here.”
You smiled. “Wouldn't trade you for anything.”
His expression softened. “No,” he murmured. “Neither would I.” And perhaps that was the thing Zemo eventually came to understand about your simple tastes.
You weren't unimpressed by luxury. You simply didn't need it. Sometimes you wanted candlelit dinners in beautiful European restaurants. And sometimes you wanted a burger, fries, and a chocolate Frosty with the man you loved.
Zemo could give you the world. But if you asked for Wendy's, he'd put on his coat and come with you. He'd complain the entire drive. Naturally. But he'd come.
Request: Omg I’m so happy you’re taking requests!!! SO HERE IT IS: Bucky and the reader were super close and Bucky was about to confess that he loves her… but a week before someone started stalking her, she ran and Bucky has been trying to find her, when he finally locates her he saves her from the stalker who was nearly killing her!!!! Tons of aggressive kisses and whatever you wanna do!! Have an awesome alllll day every day!!🖤🖤🖤
Warnings: angst, injury, choking and not the sexy kind, asshole!Brock, stalker!Brock, protective!Bucky, fluff, language, happy ending.
Word Count: 2,104
Authors Notes: thank you so much for your patience hun! Really hope you like this and I think I wrote everything you wanted and more! This was really fun to write and I used Brock as the stalker just because I hate that smug cocky bastard. Anyway, please enjoy and feedback is welcome!!! This has been proofread twice but I don’t guarantee anything :)
Requested by: @deanthedemon
Something wasn’t right. The uncomfortable gut feeling and the hairs standing up on the back of your neck told you something wasn’t right either. Every time you stepped outside, you were constantly looking over your shoulder with the feeling that someone was somewhere watching your every step. Sometimes you’d catch a glimpse of a shadow as they moved quickly out of your line of sight.
You didn’t tell anyone in the compound about this feeling. Fearing they would just blame it on the mere fact you were an avenger and during your career, it wasn’t unheard of to make more enemies than friends. An uncomfortable presence loomed in the air as you sat next to Bucky on the couch opposite the team having a game night. You and Bucky have spent the past few months closely bonding and you were almost inseparable. Despite your closeness, you also chose not to share this feeling with him. Knowing how protective he is of you. He was your friend, not your bodyguard.
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I’m still thinking about a scene where Benny and Frankie are talking at a backyard barbecue, standing side by side and a little kid runs up and says “Hey Daddy….Hey Abuelo “.
The One: Abuleo
Pairing: Benny Miller x ofc Lily Morales (Frankie's of age daughter). Set in The One universe.
Word Count: 460ish
Rating: Mature - 18+ ONLY!
Warnings: Just like ao3, “creator chooses not to use warnings.” If you click Keep Reading, that means you agree that you’re the age to handle mature themes. Also by clicking Keep Reading, you understand warnings may not be complete in order to avoid spoilers for the story.
Notes: Hope this works!
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**Reader is not described
Main Masterlist
The One
Benny Miller Masterlist
"You almost done with the burgers, Cat?" Benny asks my dad, watching him casually turn the last of the long row of burgers on the grill.
"Almost. It would be quicker if you got off my ass."
"I like you pancake ass though," Benny playfully slaps my dad's ass before running away, my dad throwing a hamburger bun after him, landing his shot on the back of Benny's head.
We're all in the backyard, our monthly cookout with everyone. Will has brought his fiance and Santi his girl of the moment (who is around longer than they normally are). Benny comes over and takes a bundle of silverware from me, helping me set the table for everyone. It's not much longer before my dad calls out, letting everyone know it's time to eat. Benny helps him bring over a couple of massive plates full of burgers, hot dogs, and grilled veggies, placing them along the table. All of a sudden, a small bundle of energy comes running from across the yard, nearly colliding with their legs.
"Hi Daddy! Hi abuelo!" Our son pants for a moment before turning his head up to my dad, and I immediately see how big his eyes are. I know where this is going.
My dad softens under his gaze as he kneels to his level. "Yes, pepito?"
Our son drops his voice to a toddler whisper. "Can I have a sweet treat?"
"Not until you eat!" I yell from the table, a smile on my face. But my dad has other plans apparently, giving me a wink.
"Maybe just a small cookie. But sshh! Follow me into the kitchen."
My son nods, looking up at Benny and pressing his little finger to his lips. "Daddy, secret. Ok?"
Benny pretends to lock his lips and our son heads inside, my dad pretending to sweep the area as they go inside. They emerge a minute later, my son in my dad's arms, cookie in hand. I give him a playful shocked face and he giggles.
Benny walks up to them. "You forgot this, bud." He takes a small baseball cap, turns it backwards, and puts it on our son's head.
My dad immediately grabs it off his head and pretends to frisbee it across the yard. "Absolutely not."
My son giggles, reaching his hand out for the hat. "Abuelo! I want my hat please!"
He sighs, placing the hat on his head, which our son promptly turns backwards to match the one on his dad's head. "Now I look like daddy!"
My dad sighs again, but there's no hiding the absolute love and adoration in his eyes as he stares at his grandson.
The reader is a SHIELD agent that used to be a double agent for Hydra where she found and fell in love with Bucky. But Zemo has found him as well and time is ticking for the reader to save the man she loves.
Pairing: Bucky x Reader
Genre: fluff; a teensy bit of angst
Warnings: mentions of blood, swearing
Word count: 2833
Faster, faster, Y/N needed to go faster. They had found Bucky and now he was locked up with Zemo and that damned book in an enclosed space. She had been a SHIELD agent for most of her life and at one point the girl had had to infiltrate Hydra. That’s where she met Bucky and the two had fallen in love. She kept his secret, that he could remember things and people until one day he was able to escape. After Hydra fell, Y/N went off the radar, not only to keep herself safe but the rest of the team. After Sokovia she joined the Avengers as a permanent part of the group, yet none of them knew about her past as a double agent. Y/N had specifically asked Fury not to tell. But now she couldn’t care less if the rest found out about who she actually was.
Her heels clicked with the pace she was running at. The girl was almost there and tears sprung to her eyes as they befell on Bucky, on how he was trying to resist the power of those horrible words.
Y/N was the only one who knew them actually by heart. She understood Russian perfectly and had learned them in an instant in hopes of finding out some counter phrases. If she could figure out how they impacted his mind, Y/N would be able to bring him back. But it never happened. She never succeeded, though the times when they were together, especially when sent out on a mission, huddling in the cold motel room, Bucky did say that he heard her. He had heard her trying to bring him back, but it was like a metal wall had risen in his mind, blocking out his humanity.
She crashed into the room Zemo’s eyes instantly falling onto her.
“Agent Y/L/N. Didn’t think I’d ever see you alive. We all thought you were dead.”
Y/N looked over at Bucky. There was recognition in his cerulean orbs. He did remember her, he was still there.
Request: @stanmarvelous Hi! Can I request something for Jefferson from OUAT? I’m feeling something fluffy with maybe a secret romance between him and reader (where reader is royalty perhaps?). First time requesting, please let me know if you need more info!
Summary: you're the princess in the town. Every night you sneak off from the castle to spend time with Jefferson. [wc 640] [ao3]
Warnings: fluff?
Jefferson had always been very good at secrets. He had spent enough years in Wonderland to understand that some things survived only because nobody knew they existed.
Unfortunately, you were a terrible secret. Not because you were careless. Because Jefferson was incapable of looking at you without looking like a man who had discovered religion. And you were royalty.
Which meant that falling in love with the Mad Hatter was, naturally, the sort of thing your kingdom would consider deeply inconvenient. You were not supposed to meet him alone. You certainly weren't supposed to sneak out of the palace after midnight.
And you were absolutely not supposed to climb through his window wearing a cloak and carrying two bottles of wine. Yet there you were.
Jefferson stared at you from across his little sitting room. “You're late.”
You closed the window behind you. “I was nearly caught.”
“That is not an excuse.”
“You're welcome.” you snarked.
He sighed. “You're impossible.”
“And yet you keep letting me come back.”
His expression softened. “That's because I have poor judgment.”
You smiled.
He crossed the room and took your cloak from your shoulders. His fingers lingered briefly. “You shouldn't be here.”
“I know.”
“If anyone finds out…”
“I know.” you nodded.
“You could lose your title.”
You looked at him. “I know.”
He frowned. “You're not taking this seriously.”
“I am.” You stepped closer. “I simply don't care.”
His eyes searched yours. “You should.”
“I care about my kingdom.”
“Then you should care what happens if they discover you're sneaking around with me.” his eyes searched your own in worry. What woud he do if this secret… if these secret meetings gone public?
You reached up and touched his cheek. “I care about you more.”
Jefferson went completely still. That was the thing about him. For all his cleverness, all his sarcasm and confidence, he never seemed to know what to do when you were sincere. “You can't say things like that.”
“Why?”
“Because I believe you.”
Your smile softened. “Good.”
He caught your wrist and pulled you gently against him. “You're going to be the death of me.”
“Perhaps.”
His forehead rested against yours. “Your father would have me hanged in the town square.”
“My father doesn't know.”
“Your guards would have me arrested.”
“They don't know about me sneaking out to see you. I've been very careful of that.”
“Your entire court would have a collective fit.”
“That part might be worth it.” you smiled.
Jefferson laughed. You smiled against his chest. For a while, you simply stood there. No crown. No titles. No expectations. Just you and him.
Eventually, Jefferson pulled away. “You brought wine.”
“I did.” you nodded.
“And I assume you expect me to provide the tea.”
“Obviously.”
“Princess.”
“Mad Hatter.”
He sighed. “You're spoiled.”
“You like me spoiled.”
“Unfortunately.”
You grinned. He disappeared into the kitchen. A few minutes later, the two of you sat beside the fireplace with your drinks. You rested your head against his shoulder. His arm curled around you.
“This is nice,” you whispered.
“It is.”
“Do you ever wish we could do this openly?”
Jefferson was quiet for only a moment. “Yes.”
Your heart ached. “But?”
“But I would rather have you secretly than not have you at all.”
You looked up.
He kissed your forehead. “Besides,” he murmured, “there's something rather thrilling about knowing the princess is sneaking through my window because she can't stay away from me.”
You laughed. “Don't become arrogant.”
“Too late.”
You kissed his cheek. His smile appeared. And for one quiet night, the kingdom could wait. The crown could wait. Tomorrow, you'd return to being a princess. Jefferson would return to being the Mad Hatter. But tonight? You were simply his. And he was yours. No titles required. No titles needed. Just you in his arms.
Request: @goblin-king-of-anarchy67 Zemo x reader who in contrast to Zemo’s fancy tastes, likes simple things. Smth like he asks her where she’d like to go for dinner and she wants regular ass fast food. I would drag his fancy ass to Wendy’s in a heartbeat 😼
Summary: you take your boyfriend to a lower food chain then he's used to. [wc 778] [ao3]
Warnings: fancy ass Helmut, fluff
Helmut Zemo had taken you to restaurants where the menus did not include prices. You had discovered this was a particularly sinister practice.
Not because you disliked the food. Quite the opposite. The food was usually excellent. Immaculately plated, impossibly delicate, and served by waiters who seemed personally offended if you looked at a dish and thought, That could use some ketchup.
Zemo enjoyed these places.
You tolerated them.
Which was why, when he turned to you one evening and asked, with the casual confidence of a man who could probably have a private chef summoned from another continent,
“Where would you like to have dinner tonight, darling?”
You immediately answered, “Wendy's.”
Silence.
Zemo stared at you.
You stared back. “Wendy's,” you repeated.
“I heard you.” he replied.
“Good.”
He slowly lowered the cufflink he'd been adjusting. “You wish to dine at Wendy's.”
“Yes.” you nodded.
“Tonight.” he stared at you.
“Yes.”
He studied your face. You could practically see him attempting to determine whether this was some elaborate joke. “You are serious.”
“Helmut, I would drag your fancy ass through the doors myself.”
His eyebrows rose. “My fancy ass.”
“Precisely.”
A pause.
Then the corner of his mouth twitched. “You've been spending too much time with Americans.”
“You married one.”
“I am beginning to regret my decision.”
“No, you're not.”
“No,” he admitted. “I am not.”
And that was how Baron Helmut Zemo found himself sitting inside a Wendy's at eight thirty on a Friday evening. He looked absurd. Perfectly tailored coat. Expensive watch. Hair neatly styled. Expression suggesting he had personally been betrayed by Western civilization.
You, meanwhile, were happily unwrapping your burger.
Zemo glanced at it. Then at you. “You genuinely enjoy this?”
“Absolutely.” you should around a mouthful of food, much to his dismay.
“You had your choice of any restaurant.”
“Yep.”
“And you chose this.”
“Yep.”
He sighed.
You took a bite.
He watched you with unmistakable amusement. “You're enjoying my suffering.”
“A little.” you smiled.
“A great deal, I think.”
“Maybe.”
Zemo leaned back. “You know, I could have arranged for a chef to prepare you something far superior.”
“I know.” you nodded.
“Fresh ingredients.”
“I know.” you chewed your burger liek it was heaven on earth.
“Fine wine.”
“I know.”
“Elegant atmosphere.”
You pointed a fry at him. “And none of those things come with a Frosty.”
Zemo paused. You watched the realization slowly dawn across his face. He looked genuinely offended. “You cannot possibly be suggesting that a milkshake is superior to champagne.”
“I'm saying a Frosty is exactly what I want right now.” you shrugged.
He stared at you for another moment. Then he sighed with the weary resignation of a man accepting that he had fallen in love with someone whose priorities were catastrophically different from his own. “What flavor?”
You grinned. “Chocolate.”
“Of course.”
“And fries.”
“You already have fries.”
“More fries.”
“Humanity has apparently abandoned all restraint.”
You laughed. He smiled despite himself. When you finished eating, Zemo reached across the table and stole one of your fries.
You gasped. “Excuse you.”
“You have more.”
“Those are my fries.”
“You ordered several.”
“And?”
“And I am your husband.” he pointed out.
“That doesn't give you fry privileges.”
“It should.”
“No.”
Zemo calmly ate the fry.
You narrowed your eyes. “You're lucky you're pretty.”
“I am aware.”
You kicked him lightly beneath the table. He caught your ankle with his shoe. For a moment, neither of you moved.
Then he leaned closer. “You know,” he murmured, “I could become accustomed to this.”
“To Wendy's?”
“To you.”
Your expression softened.
Zemo's thumb brushed lightly against your ankle beneath the table. “I don't need expensive restaurants to enjoy an evening with you.”
You smiled. “Good.”
He glanced down at the paper wrapper surrounding your burger. “Although I maintain that the fries are mediocre.”
“You've eaten six.”
“I am conducting research.”
“Sure.”
Another fry disappeared from your carton. You stared at him. He looked completely innocent. “Research,” he repeated.
“You're such an ass.”
“And yet,” he said, stealing another fry, “you brought me here.”
You smiled. “Wouldn't trade you for anything.”
His expression softened. “No,” he murmured. “Neither would I.” And perhaps that was the thing Zemo eventually came to understand about your simple tastes.
You weren't unimpressed by luxury. You simply didn't need it. Sometimes you wanted candlelit dinners in beautiful European restaurants. And sometimes you wanted a burger, fries, and a chocolate Frosty with the man you loved.
Zemo could give you the world. But if you asked for Wendy's, he'd put on his coat and come with you. He'd complain the entire drive. Naturally. But he'd come.
Summary: You discover you're carrying the King of Hell's baby. Chaos ensues. [wc 1K] [ao3]
Warnings: pregnancy, fluff
Request: Hi I discovered your blog and finished all your Crowley x Reader stories. I wanted to request a story. I was thinking about how much drama it would start up if Winchester sister reader got knocked up by Crowley. I don’t really want smut more just Dean and Sam finding out and how Crowley deals with it. I love the way you write Crowley - 🤩 @ nonny
A/N: this is quite literally the LAST TIME i'm writing sister!winchester because it's quite literally in my guidelines that i DONT accept this as a request and i've said it numerous times already.
Dean knew something was wrong. He knew because his little sister had been acting strange for three days. She wasn't drinking. She wasn't hunting. She wasn't eating properly. And every time Dean asked what was wrong, she gave him the same answer.
“Nothing.”
Which, in Winchester language, meant something catastrophic is happening and I am actively trying to prevent you from finding out.
Sam noticed it too. Of course he did.
So when you finally sat them both down in the bunker kitchen, Dean already looked suspicious.
Sam looked concerned.
You looked like you were contemplating jumping through the nearest window. “I need to tell you guys something.”
Dean immediately put down his coffee. “Are you dying?”
“What?”
“Because that's how this usually starts.” Dean leand his elbows on the tabe.
“Dean.”
“I'm just saying.” He blinked.
Sam rubbed his forehead. “Let her talk.”
You took a breath. “I’m pregnant.”
Silence.
Dean stared at you. Sam stared at you. The bunker seemed to become unnaturally quiet.
Then Dean blinked. “Okay.” Another pause. “Okay.”
Sam slowly leaned forward. “Are you sure?”
You nodded. “Yes.”
Dean looked at Sam. Sam looked at Dean. Then both of them looked back at you.
Dean's face had gone strangely blank. “Who's the father?”
You closed your eyes. “Dean…”
“Who's the father, Y/N?”
You hesitated. That was enough.
Dean's eyes narrowed. “Who.”
You whispered the name. “Crowley.”
Sam choked on his coffee. Dean stopped breathing. Actually stopped. For several seconds, nothing happened. Then Dean stood. “No.”
“Dean.”
“No.”
“Dean.”
“Nope.”
“Dean, sit down.”
“No.”
He started pacing. “No, no, no. Absolutely not. I refuse. This is not happening.”
Sam looked considerably more composed, although the expression on his face suggested his brain was working overtime. “You and Crowley?”
You sighed. “Yes.”
“How long?”
“That's not important.”
Dean stopped pacing. “It is extremely important. It happened.”
“With Crowley.”
“Yes.”
“The King of Hell.”
“Yes, Dean.” you wiped a hand down your face.
“Crowley.”
“Yes!”
Dean pointed toward the ceiling. “God has officially abandoned us.”
Sam sighed. “Dean.”
“What?” his gaze snapped to his brother.
“You're making this about you.”
“She's having Crowley's baby!” Dean shouted.
“I am aware.”
“Our sister.” Dean tried to get it through Sam's thick head. Goddamn his lucious hair!
“I know.”
“Crowley's.”
“I KNOW.”
You buried your face in your hands. “This is why I didn't tell you.”
Dean immediately softened. His anger vanished beneath something much more familiar. Fear. He crouched in front of you. “Hey.” You looked at him. “You okay?”
You nodded. “I'm scared.”
Dean's face changed. He reached for your hand. “Okay.” His voice became quiet. “Then we'll figure it out.”
Sam came around the table and put a hand on your shoulder. “We'll help.”
Dean nodded. “Whatever happens.”
You looked between them. “You're not mad?”
Dean gave you an incredulous look. “I'm furious.” Your face fell. “But not at you.” He squeezed your hand. “I don't care who the father is. You're my sister.”
Sam smiled faintly. “And you're family.”
Dean sighed. “Unfortunately, that also means we're going to have to deal with the father.”
You groaned. “Oh, God.”
“No.” A voice came from behind them. “Not him.”
Everyone turned. Crowley stood in the doorway. He looked immaculate. Naturally. He had a small paper bag in one hand.
Dean immediately reached for his gun. “You.”
Crowley raised an eyebrow. “Hello to you too.”
“You got my sister pregnant.”
Crowley glanced at you. Then back at Dean. “Yes.”
Dean's jaw clenched.
Crowley sighed. “Really, Winchester, must we make this vulgar?”
“You're the father!”
“Yes, I've gathered.” Crowley walked toward you. His entire demeanor changed when he reached your side. The smugness disappeared. He crouched beside your chair. “How are you feeling?”
You shrugged. “Tired.”
“Any nausea?”
“A little.” you admitted.
“Pain?”
“No.” you shook your head.
Crowley nodded. “Good.”
Dean stared. “What the hell are you doing?”
Crowley looked at him. “Taking care of her.”
“You?”
“Yes, me.” Crowley stood. “I may be the King of Hell, Dean, but I am not an idiot.” His gaze flicked toward you. “And neither is my child.”
Dean's expression hardened. “Your child?”
Crowley's eyes became cold. “Our child.”
The room went silent. Then Crowley reached into the paper bag. He pulled out several packages. Ginger biscuits. Crackers. Peppermint tea. And, inexplicably, a stuffed rabbit.
You stared. “What's that?”
“A gift.”
“For the baby?”
“For you.” Crowley looked almost embarrassed. “I wasn't sure what one buys for a pregnant woman.”
Sam picked up the stuffed rabbit. “This is actually kind of adorable.”
Crowley glared. “Put it down.”
Dean folded his arms. “You're serious.”
Crowley looked at him. “Deadly.”
Dean stared at him for a long moment. Then he glanced at you. Then at the snacks. Then back at Crowley. “You're going to be involved?”
Crowley's expression softened. “Every step.”
Something in Dean's face shifted. He still hated this. He hated Crowley. He hated the circumstances. He hated the fact that his baby sister was carrying the child of the King of Hell. But he believed him. That was perhaps the most horrifying part.
Crowley walked over and placed a hand carefully against your stomach. There wasn't even a bump yet. Barely anything to feel. But Crowley's expression went strangely quiet. Almost reverent. His thumb brushed your side. “Our little nightmare,” he murmured.
You smiled despite yourself.
Dean groaned. “Don't call my niece or nephew a nightmare.”
Crowley looked at him. “Fine.” He considered it. “Our little Winchester.”
Dean pointed at him. “Better.”
Sam smiled. “You're going to be a father.”
Crowley looked mildly horrified. “Yes.”
Dean laughed. “Good luck.”
Crowley looked down at your stomach again. Then at you. “I've ruled Hell,” he said quietly. “I've survived the Winchesters. I've dealt with angels.” He sighed. “But this?” His hand settled gently over yours. “This terrifies me.”
You squeezed his fingers. “Good.”
Crowley smiled. “Yes, darling.” For once, there was no smugness in it. Just fear. And beneath the fear, something startlingly human. Love.
Dean watched him. Then sighed. “I'm going to be the world's most terrifying uncle.”
Sam nodded. “You already are.”
Dean looked at Crowley. “And you're going to be the world's worst father.”
Crowley smiled. “Probably.” He looked at you. “But I'll be theirs.”
Dean didn't answer. He just nodded. Because, God help him, that was enough.
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Summary: you and Castiel get dressed for a Halloween party. Castiel is upset of the inaccuracy off his costume. [WC: 776] [ao3]
Warnings: fluff, grumpy cas
Request: @goblin-king-of-anarchy67 Castiel x reader where she drags him to a Halloween party in a couples costume 👻🎃 (ETA: i asked what couples costume they'd wanted, obvs choosing angel x devil was the ONLY choice LOL)
The first mistake had been telling Castiel it was a Halloween party. The second had been telling him it was a costume party. The third, and by far the most entertaining, had been telling him they were going as a matching couple.
“You are not actually going to make me wear this.”
You paused in front of the bedroom mirror, adjusting one of the little red horns attached to your headband. “Cas, you're an angel.”
“I am aware.”
“And I'm dressed as a devil.”
“I am also aware of that.”
You turned around with a grin.
Castiel stood in the doorway, staring at the costume hanging from one of your fingers like it had personally insulted his entire species. It was simple enough. A white robe, enormous feathered wings, and a ridiculously shiny gold halo.
He looked deeply offended by all of it.
“You have wings,” you pointed out.
“Yes.”
“You have an angel blade.”
“Yes.”
“You have been mistaken for a holy being approximately one thousand times.”
Castiel narrowed his eyes. “Angels do not look like that.”
You tried not to laugh. You failed.
A sound escaped you, and Castiel's expression somehow became even more severe. “It's not funny.”
“It is a little funny.”
“The halo is inaccurate.”
“It's a costume.” you exasperated.
“The wings are disproportionate.” he frowned, furrowing his brows.
“Cas.”
“And angels do not wear white robes.”
“Cas.”
“Some of them have wings considerably larger than these, depending upon their true form.”
You walked over and gently took his face between your hands. He immediately stopped talking. Humanity could apparently survive apocalypse after apocalypse, but one woman touching an angel's cheeks was where Castiel drew the line.
“You,” you said patiently, “are going to put on the angel costume.”
Castiel stared down at you. “No.”
“You love me.”
His expression remained completely blank. “That is unrelated.”
“It is extremely related.”
“No.”
You smiled sweetly. “I'll wear the devil costume alone, then.”
Castiel frowned.
“Yes,” you continued, already seeing him begin to lose the argument, “and everyone will ask where my angel is.”
His eyes narrowed suspiciously.
“And I'll have to tell them you refused to come because you were upset about the structural inaccuracies of the wings.”
“I am not upset.” He pouted.
“Then put the costume on.”
Castiel looked at you.
You looked at Castiel.
Somewhere outside the bedroom, Dean shouted, “FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, JUST PUT ON THE HALO, CAS!”
Castiel closed his eyes and made his way into the bathroom.
A few minutes later, he emerged from the bathroom wearing the entire costume.
You had to sit down.
“Don't,” Castiel warned.
You covered your mouth.
“Don't.”
His wings were slightly crooked. The halo sat unevenly over his dark hair. The robe was a little too short around his ankles. And Castiel, actual angel of the Lord, looked like he wanted to smite the nearest costume store out of existence.
“You look beautiful,” you managed.
“I look ridiculous.”
“You look like an angel.”
“I am an angel.”
“Exactly.”
“That doesn't make sense.”
You stood and walked toward him, fixing his crooked halo. For all his complaints, Castiel didn't move away. His hands settled carefully around your waist instead, his fingers resting against the red fabric of your costume.
He looked down at you. Then at your horns. Then at your little devil tail.
Castiel sighed. “I don't understand why humans associate evil with red horns.”
“Because it's cute.”
“Hell is not cute.”
“Neither are you.”
Castiel stared at you. You smiled. His mouth twitched.
“I am not cute.”
“You're wearing a halo from a party store.”
“I was coerced.”
“By your girlfriend.”
“Yes.”
“And?”
Castiel sighed again, quieter this time. Then he leaned down and pressed his forehead against yours. “And apparently, I am very susceptible to her manipulation.”
You grinned. “That's because you love me.”
“Yes,” he murmured. “Unfortunately.”
“Rude.”
Castiel kissed you again before you could complain further. When he pulled away, his expression was softer, though he still looked deeply betrayed by the existence of the costume. “Are we leaving now?”
“Yes.”
“And I will be expected to wear this all evening?”
“Yes.”
Castiel looked toward the door. Then back at you. Then, with the resignation of a man marching toward his own execution, he adjusted his ridiculous wings.
You slipped your hand into his. “Come on, angel.”
Castiel gave you a long-suffering look. “I hate when you call me that.”
“No, you don't.”
He squeezed your hand. “No,” he admitted quietly. “I don't.” And then the angel and the devil went to a Halloween party together. Castiel complained about the halo for the entire drive.
Request: @stanmarvelous Hi! Can I request something for Jefferson from OUAT? I’m feeling something fluffy with maybe a secret romance between him and reader (where reader is royalty perhaps?). First time requesting, please let me know if you need more info!
Summary: you're the princess in the town. Every night you sneak off from the castle to spend time with Jefferson. [wc 640] [ao3]
Warnings: fluff?
Jefferson had always been very good at secrets. He had spent enough years in Wonderland to understand that some things survived only because nobody knew they existed.
Unfortunately, you were a terrible secret. Not because you were careless. Because Jefferson was incapable of looking at you without looking like a man who had discovered religion. And you were royalty.
Which meant that falling in love with the Mad Hatter was, naturally, the sort of thing your kingdom would consider deeply inconvenient. You were not supposed to meet him alone. You certainly weren't supposed to sneak out of the palace after midnight.
And you were absolutely not supposed to climb through his window wearing a cloak and carrying two bottles of wine. Yet there you were.
Jefferson stared at you from across his little sitting room. “You're late.”
You closed the window behind you. “I was nearly caught.”
“That is not an excuse.”
“You're welcome.” you snarked.
He sighed. “You're impossible.”
“And yet you keep letting me come back.”
His expression softened. “That's because I have poor judgment.”
You smiled.
He crossed the room and took your cloak from your shoulders. His fingers lingered briefly. “You shouldn't be here.”
“I know.”
“If anyone finds out…”
“I know.” you nodded.
“You could lose your title.”
You looked at him. “I know.”
He frowned. “You're not taking this seriously.”
“I am.” You stepped closer. “I simply don't care.”
His eyes searched yours. “You should.”
“I care about my kingdom.”
“Then you should care what happens if they discover you're sneaking around with me.” his eyes searched your own in worry. What woud he do if this secret… if these secret meetings gone public?
You reached up and touched his cheek. “I care about you more.”
Jefferson went completely still. That was the thing about him. For all his cleverness, all his sarcasm and confidence, he never seemed to know what to do when you were sincere. “You can't say things like that.”
“Why?”
“Because I believe you.”
Your smile softened. “Good.”
He caught your wrist and pulled you gently against him. “You're going to be the death of me.”
“Perhaps.”
His forehead rested against yours. “Your father would have me hanged in the town square.”
“My father doesn't know.”
“Your guards would have me arrested.”
“They don't know about me sneaking out to see you. I've been very careful of that.”
“Your entire court would have a collective fit.”
“That part might be worth it.” you smiled.
Jefferson laughed. You smiled against his chest. For a while, you simply stood there. No crown. No titles. No expectations. Just you and him.
Eventually, Jefferson pulled away. “You brought wine.”
“I did.” you nodded.
“And I assume you expect me to provide the tea.”
“Obviously.”
“Princess.”
“Mad Hatter.”
He sighed. “You're spoiled.”
“You like me spoiled.”
“Unfortunately.”
You grinned. He disappeared into the kitchen. A few minutes later, the two of you sat beside the fireplace with your drinks. You rested your head against his shoulder. His arm curled around you.
“This is nice,” you whispered.
“It is.”
“Do you ever wish we could do this openly?”
Jefferson was quiet for only a moment. “Yes.”
Your heart ached. “But?”
“But I would rather have you secretly than not have you at all.”
You looked up.
He kissed your forehead. “Besides,” he murmured, “there's something rather thrilling about knowing the princess is sneaking through my window because she can't stay away from me.”
You laughed. “Don't become arrogant.”
“Too late.”
You kissed his cheek. His smile appeared. And for one quiet night, the kingdom could wait. The crown could wait. Tomorrow, you'd return to being a princess. Jefferson would return to being the Mad Hatter. But tonight? You were simply his. And he was yours. No titles required. No titles needed. Just you in his arms.
Summary: You start to suspect Steve's playing with you when he starts appearing shirtless everywhere.
Warnings: fluff, humor, Shirtless Steve Rogers
WC: 1.2K
ao3 // tag list
Shirtless Men Series
You hadn’t been living at the compound very long—barely a month, just enough time to figure out which hallways led to the kitchen and which elevators actually worked. You told yourself you were here to work—Tony Stark’s newest assistant, nothing more, nothing less. But apparently, the universe had other plans.
Because three times in as many weeks, you saw Steve Rogers shirtless. And each time, it got harder to remember how to function like a normal human being. Because after all, have you ever seen a statue of a Greek or Roman God?
Well, Steve Rogers owns that fucking chiseled shit all too well. And you were pretty certain he damn well knew it too.
The first time you seen his naked torso, you had padded into the kitchen half-asleep, hair a mess, still clutching your phone like a lifeline in the wee hours of the morning. The sun was barely rising above the horizon in the distance outside of the tower. The coffee pot was nearly empty, and you grumbled under your breath as you poured what little was left into your mug.
Then the fridge door opened, and you nearly dropped the mug right there on the counter.
Steve Rogers, bare-chested, wearing nothing but gray sweatpants that hung dangerously low on his hips, stood squinting at the contents of the fridge like he was making a life-or-death decision about eggs for breakfast. His hair was mussed from sleep, and he rubbed one eye with the back of his hand as he muttered, “Morning.”
That was it. No warning, no explanation. Just a casual, everyday god standing five feet from you like it was the most normal thing in the world.
“Morning,” you squeaked, too high-pitched to sound sane.
He pulled out a carton of orange juice, closed the fridge with his hip, and reached up to grab a glass from the cabinet. The stretch pulled every line of his muscles taut, and you had to physically wrench your eyes away before you embarrassed yourself further.
Coffee abandoned, you mumbled something about needing to check emails and bolted, heart hammering. By the time you collapsed face-first into your bed upstairs, your cheeks were on fire.
So much for professionalism.
The second time it happened, Natasha had asked you to help her sort through supply lists in the training room. Easy enough. You had your clipboard, your pen, and a whole pep talk running in your head about how you were definitely not going to humiliate yourself again.
That lasted all of thirty seconds. Because the moment you walked through the doors, you heard the sharp smack of fists against punching bags and the grunt of effort—and then you saw him. Steve. Shirtless again. This time sparring with Bucky, sweat dripping down his temples as his muscles shifted and flexed with every punch.
You froze mid-step, clipboard clutched to your chest.
Natasha raised an eyebrow and leaned close. “Careful, you’re staring.”
“I’m not,” you hissed back, eyes glued to your paper. Except your peripheral vision betrayed you, and you caught another glimpse of Steve pivoting, dodging a strike, his chest heaving.
You whipped your head up, mortified. “Excuse me?!”
Steve glanced over his shoulder, lips twitching like he was holding back a laugh. “That’s enough, Buck.” He didn’t deny it. He didn’t even try. He just went back to sparring, but the faint smirk never left his face.
Natasha smirked too as she tugged the clipboard from your hands. “Let’s finish this before you short-circuit.”
You followed her, face burning. Professionalism: 0. Steve Rogers’ abs: 2.
By now, you were convinced fate hated you. You were typing so furiously on your laptop as you sat in the common room of the tower that you didn’t even register the common room doors sliding open. Not until you caught the faint scent of soap and aftershave—clean, sharp, distinctly masculine.
Then you saw him.
Steve Rogers, hair still damp from the shower, towel draped casually around his neck, and absolutely no shirt in sight.
Your brain stuttered. Your fingers froze mid-keystroke.
“Sorry,” he said, voice low and warm. He grabbed the sweatshirt hanging over the back of a chair across from where you sat. “Didn’t mean to distract you.”
“Distract?” Your voice cracked. You cleared your throat and tried again, too fast, too high-pitched. “You’re not distracting at all. Nope. Totally fine. I’m—uh—I’m fine.”
A small chuckle rumbled out of him, sending heat crawling up your neck. He pulled the sweatshirt halfway over his head, then paused—arms lifted, bare torso still on display as though he’d deliberately stalled. His mouth curved into a half-smile.
“You sure about that?”
You snapped your gaze back to your laptop, mortified to realize you hadn’t typed a single coherent word in the last thirty seconds. “Positive,” you lied through clenched teeth.
The sweatshirt finally went on, but instead of leaving like a merciful person, Steve sat down on the couch beside you. Close. Too close. His arm draped casually along the backrest behind your shoulders, fingers brushing just barely against the top of your chair.
“I’m not that oblivious, you know,” he said softly, leaning just close enough that his breath tickled your ear.
You swallowed hard. “O-oblivious to what?”
“That you notice.” His tone was calm, unhurried, but there was a glimmer of mischief there too—the faintest spark of someone who knew exactly what he was doing to you.
Your cheeks burned hotter than ever. “I don’t notice anything. You—you’re just… loud. And tall. And… obnoxiously shirtless.”
That laugh again, deeper this time. He shifted just slightly, his knee brushing yours. “Obnoxiously?”
“Yes.” You crossed your arms tightly, more for self-defense than emphasis. “Nobody needs to walk around looking like that all the damn time. It’s rude.”
For a long moment, he was quiet. You forced yourself to look at him, prepared to glare, but the expression on his face nearly undid you. Blue eyes, steady and unflinching, full of amusement but softened with something gentler—something that made your stomach flip.
He leaned in, lowering his voice to a near whisper. “So… should I apologize?”
You blinked, completely undone. “For what?”
“For distracting you.” His lips tugged into that soft, infuriating smile again. “Or maybe for not doing it enough.”
Your breath caught. Every nerve in your body screamed at you to answer, to say something witty, to break the tension before you drowned in it. But nothing came out—just a tiny, strangled sound that only made him smile wider.
Steve leaned back then, finally giving you space. But his arm stayed on the couch behind you, and his knee still brushed yours, and his presence was so overwhelming you could barely think.
“Don’t worry,” he said lightly, picking up the remote from the coffee table as though the air between you wasn’t electric. “I won’t tell anyone.”
“Tell anyone what?” you asked weakly.
His smirk was downright criminal. “That you don’t hate me.”
And just like that, he clicked the TV on, leaving you sputtering in silence while he settled in comfortably beside you—like he hadn’t just completely rearranged the axis of your entire world.
Request: @goblin-king-of-anarchy67 Dean x Girly Girl hunter reader who seems very cute and soft, loves pink, the whole shebang, but is actually scarily strong and competent. Dean seems the type that would swoon over a someone who could put him in a chokehold lmao
Summary: you meet Dean Winchester to help out on a few cases. he doesnt take you seriously at first [wc 793] [ao3]
Warnings: reader is a girly girl, some blood, flirting
Dean had met plenty of hunters. He'd met grizzled hunters who smelled like gun oil and cigarettes. Hunters who carried six knives and slept with one eye open. Hunters who could identify a demon by the sound it made when it hit a wall.
Then there was you. You arrived at the bunker in a pink sweater. Pink sneakers. Pink nails. A little pink bow holding your hair back. Your duffel bag was covered in tiny strawberry patches.
Dean stared.
Sam looked between you and his brother. “Dean.”
“What?”
“You're staring.”
“I am not.” Dean denied immediately.
“You absolutely are.”
Dean cleared his throat.
You smiled brightly. “Hi! I'm Y/N.”
Dean blinked. “Dean.”
“I know.”
That caught his attention. “You know me?”
“Sam told me about you.”
Dean glanced at Sam.
“Nothing weird.” Sam gave him a look.
You walked inside, setting your bag down.
Dean noticed the pink handgun tucked neatly into your waistband. He stared at it. Then at you. “You hunt?”
You smiled. “Yep.”
“Monsters?”
“Mostly.” You nodded.
“Demons?”
“Sometimes.”
“Vampires?”
“Those too.”
Dean nodded slowly. “Right.” He looked at Sam again.
Sam shrugged.
Dean wasn't sure what he had expected. Maybe someone wearing leather and looking like she'd been personally acquainted with Hell. Not someone who looked like she might run a boutique cupcake shop.
You pulled a small compact mirror from your purse.
Dean watched as you checked your lipstick. He was fascinated.
Then Sam said, “We should probably show her the war room.”
You snapped the compact shut. “Sounds good!”
Dean followed. Because apparently his legs had stopped receiving instructions from his brain.
—
Three days later, Dean stopped underestimating you. He had watched you shoot. That had been impressive. Then he'd watched you identify a vampire's nest from a single footprint. More impressive. Then you'd casually lifted a grown man off the floor by his collar.
Dean had actually stopped breathing. “Holy shit.”
You dropped the vampire unconscious onto the pavement. “Problem?”
Dean stared. “No.”
You adjusted your pink cardigan. “Good.”
He looked at Sam. Sam was grinning. “Don't.”
“I didn't say anything.”
“You were going to.” Dean accused.
“I wasn't.” Sam threw his hands up. in defeat.
“You were.”
You walked past them.
Dean watched you go.
Sam leaned closer. “You're into her.”
Dean scoffed. “Shut up.”
“You are.”
“She just threw a vampire through a windshield.”
“Exactly.”
Dean rubbed his jaw. “She's terrifying.”
Sam's grin widened. “And?”
Dean sighed. “And I think that's kinda hot.”
The real problem came during the next hunt. A demon caught Dean off guard. One second he was fighting. The next, he was slammed against a wall. The demon raised its blade. And then you appeared. You grabbed it from behind. Your arm locked around its throat.
The demon snarled.
You squeezed. Hard.
Dean watched in stunned silence as you lifted the demon clean off the floor.
Your pink-painted fingernails dug into its neck. “You picked the wrong hunter.” Then you slammed it into the wall. Once. Twice. The demon went limp. You dropped it. Silence. You turned around. Your hair was slightly messy. Your pink sweater had a tiny tear in the sleeve. You looked at Dean. “Are you okay?”
Dean stared at you. “You just choked out a demon.”
“Yes.” you nodded.
“With your bare hands.”
“Yes.” you nodded again.
“You lifted it.”
“Yes.”
“You're wearing pink.” Dean said in an exasperated tone.
You looked down at yourself. “…Okay?”
Dean's mouth twitched. “You're gonna kill me.”
You blinked. “What?”
“Nothing.”
He walked toward you. Slowly.
You tilted your head. “You're bleeding.”
“So are you.” He pointed out.
“I'm fine.”
“You always say that.”
Dean reached out and gently wiped a smear of blood from your cheek. His fingers lingered.
You smiled. “You worried about me?”
“Constantly.”
Your expression softened.
Dean looked at you for another moment. Then he muttered, “I think I have a thing for terrifying women.”
You laughed. “I noticed.”
“No, seriously.” He leaned closer. “You put me in a chokehold, I'm probably proposing.”
You raised an eyebrow. “Is that a threat?”
“A promise.”
You laughed again. Dean grinned. Then you grabbed the front of his jacket and pulled him closer. He immediately went quiet.
You smiled sweetly. “Careful, Winchester.”
His eyes flicked to your lips. “About what?”
“I might actually take you up on that.”
Dean swallowed. For perhaps the first time in his life, the great Dean Winchester had absolutely nothing clever to say.
You patted his chest. “Cute.” Then you walked away.
Dean watched you go.
Sam appeared beside him. “You're never recovering from this.”
Dean sighed dreamily. “I'm okay with that.”
“She's going to destroy you.”
Dean's grin widened. “Yeah.” He watched you stop to fix the little pink bow in your hair. “Lucky me.”
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Request: Venom does not understand why you are supposed to shave your legs and armpits but Eddie is allowed to be hairy.- Zombie @thezombieprostitute
Summary: Eddie and Venom walk in on you shaving your legs. Venom has questions about equality. [wc 933] [ao3]
Warnings: fluff? hairy legs?
Venom had learned many things about humans. Humans required sleep, despite being perfectly capable of simply lying down whenever they wanted. Humans became upset when other humans ate their food without asking, which Venom still considered selfish. Humans wore tiny pieces of fabric for reasons that remained largely incomprehensible. And apparently, human women were expected to remove perfectly natural body hair.
Venom had a problem with this. A very loud problem.
It began on a Tuesday evening. You had been standing in the bathroom, staring down at the razor in your hand with profound exhaustion.
Eddie was in the bedroom. Venom was lurking somewhere inside his head. Or, more accurately, watching you through Eddie while pretending he wasn't interested in what you were doing.
"What are you doing?" You glanced toward the doorway.
Eddie leaned against the frame.
"Shaving."
Venom's voice immediately followed. Why?
You sighed. "Because my legs are hairy."
There was silence for a short moment. Eddie's legs are hairy.
You paused. "Yes."
Eddie's armpits are also hairy.
"Venom."
His chest is hairy.
Eddie frowned. "Hey."
His face is hairy unless he removes it.
"I am standing right here."
You tried not to laugh.
Venom continued. Why does she have to remove her hair?
Eddie opened his mouth. Closed it. Looked at you. Then back at the bathroom mirror. "I mean..."
You raised an eyebrow. "Go ahead, Eddie."
He immediately looked suspicious. "I don't like that tone."
Venom surged forward, taking partial control of Eddie's arm just long enough to point dramatically at his own chest. FUR.
"That's not fur."
Hair. Whatever. Then the hand pointed toward you. She has hair.
"Correct."
The hand pointed back at Eddie. He has much more hair.
Eddie crossed his arms. "Again, I feel attacked."
You set the razor down.
Venom had now become genuinely invested. Why is this acceptable?
You shrugged. "Beauty standards."
Venom went silent. You knew that silence. That was Venom thinking. Which was never reassuring. Who created these standards?
Eddie immediately pointed at you.
"No."
"I didn't say anything."
"You were thinking about it."
Venom's voice became dangerous. Give us their names.
You burst out laughing. "Venom, you can't eat everyone responsible for beauty standards."
Why not?
"Because there are a lot of them."
We are hungry.
Eddie pinched the bridge of his nose. "Please don't encourage him."
You looked at the razor. Then at Eddie. Then at Venom. "Women shave because they want to sometimes."
Venom considered this. Do you want to?
You hesitated.
Eddie looked at you.
Venom noticed. Do you?
You sighed. "Sometimes."
Then that is acceptable.
You smiled. "But?"
Venom sounded offended. But Eddie does not get to complain about your legs while looking like a woodland creature.
Eddie gasped. "A woodland creature?"
You lost it.
Venom continued relentlessly. His legs are hairy. His chest is hairy. His armpits are hairy. There is hair everywhere.
"Venom!"
You look like you were assembled from discarded carpet.
You slid down onto the closed toilet lid, laughing so hard you could barely breathe.
Eddie looked personally wounded. "You know, I let you live in my body."
And this is how you thank us?
"I feed you!"
Poorly.
"I feed you chicken!"
Chicken is not enough compensation for being forced to look at your chest every day.
You wheezed.
Eddie pointed at you. "This is your fault."
"How?"
"You started the shaving conversation."
"You asked what I was doing!"
Venom went quiet again. That was worse.
You looked up. "What now?"
Eddie's expression shifted. His eyes darkened slightly as Venom moved closer to the surface. We have decided something. Eddie immediately looked alarmed. "Oh, God."
If she shaves, Eddie shaves.
Silence.
Eddie stared into the mirror. "No."
Equality.
"No."
Justice.
"I am not shaving my legs."
Venom turned Eddie's head toward you. Do you find his hairy legs attractive?
Your face heated.
Eddie's eyes widened. "Venom!"
You folded your arms. "That's none of your business."
Interesting.
"Venom."
She is avoiding the question.
Eddie covered his face. "I hate both of you."
You smiled sweetly. "I thought you loved us."
Eddie looked between his fingers. "I do."
Venom immediately added, We know.
There was a pause.
Then Venom's voice became suspiciously thoughtful. Perhaps she should not shave.
You blinked. "Why?"
Because she is beautiful already. Eddie froze. You froze too. Venom continued, completely unaware that he'd just said something incredibly sweet. Hair or no hair. It makes no difference. She belongs with us. Eddie lowered his hands. His expression softened. Venom, however, wasn't finished. Also, if she shaves and Eddie does not, it is hypocrisy. Eddie groaned. "There it is."
You laughed.
Venom's voice became smug. We are right.
Eddie looked at you. "You know he's going to bring this up forever."
"Good." you smirked.
Eddie narrowed his eyes. "You've joined him now."
Venom practically purred. We like her more.
"Hey!"
You smiled. Eddie looked offended. Venom sounded delighted. And somewhere in the middle of the bathroom, holding a razor and trying to understand how you'd somehow become part of an argument between a man and his alien parasite, you realized something. Venom didn't actually care whether you shaved. Not really.
He just couldn't understand why anyone had ever made you feel like you had to change something so harmless about yourself. And frankly, considering Eddie had enough chest hair to qualify as a small ecosystem, Venom had a point. Eddie, naturally, refused to admit it.
bucky barnes x f!reader (tfatws 1x03 slight spoilers)
summary: bucky is worried of turning back into the killer he once was, you’re there to reassure him he won’t
MASTERLIST
After Bucky had fought those men he looked tense and you knew him so well to the point where you kind of figured what it was. He was afraid of turning back into the Winter Soldier. You had an argument previously that day prior to getting on Zemo’s jet.
