Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality✓ Free Actions
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
Dean: "Now you were going to help me once, weren't you? You were going to warn me about all of this, before they dragged you back to bible camp."
Supernatural — "Lucifer Rising" (04.22)
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality✓ Free Actions
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
Summary: Cas comes to you with a serious question. Dean doesn't wanna hear it.
Warnings: humor, 'serious' talk about reproduction
WC: 414
Request: Another Cas request >:)Just a tomboy reader who’s crass and blunt, and doesn’t shy away from Cas’ strange questions abt humanity and just like how being human works.Like the vibe of this:Cas: where do babies come from Dean: well uh when two people *vague hand motions* Reader: Sex @goblin-king-of-anarchy67
ao3 // tag list
Castiel sat at the rickety motel table, hands folded, eyes intent in that unnerving way that meant he was thinking very hard about something deeply human.
Dean was halfway through cleaning a gun. Sam had his nose in a book. You were leaning back in your chair, boots propped up on the edge of the table, nursing a beer.
Cas cleared his throat. “I have a question.”
Dean groaned immediately. “Oh, boy.”
You took a sip, unfazed. “Shoot, Cas.”
He turned to Dean first, head tilted. “Where do babies come from?”
Dean froze.
Sam coughed violently into his sleeve.
Dean waved a hand vaguely. “Well, uh—when two people, y’know—care about each other and—”
You cut in without missing a beat. “Sex.”
Dead silence.
Cas blinked. “…I see.”
Dean stared at you like you’d just committed a felony. “Jesus, could you maybe ease into it?!”
“What?” you shrugged. “That’s the answer. Didn’t even add diagrams.”
Cas nodded slowly, absorbing this. “So sex is the sole cause of human reproduction.”
“Biologically? Yeah,” you said. “Emotionally? Whole mess of other stuff. But the mechanics are pretty straightforward.”
Dean spluttered. “You are way too comfortable with this.”
You smirked. “Dean, I grew up with three older brothers and a farm. There is nothing mysterious about where babies come from.”
Cas leaned closer, genuinely curious. “Does it always involve love?”
You thought about it for half a second. “Nope.”
Dean winced. “Ouch.”
“But,” you added, pointing a finger for emphasis, “it should involve consent. That part’s non-negotiable.”
Cas’s expression softened, something serious settling into his eyes. “That distinction is important.”
“Very,” you agreed.
He paused, then asked, “Is sex… enjoyable?”
Dean dropped his gun with a clatter. “I am leaving.”
Sam buried his face in his book.
You shrugged again. “Usually. Sometimes awkward. Sometimes bad. Sometimes great. Humans aren’t exactly consistent.”
Cas considered this. “You speak of it very plainly.”
“Yeah,” you said. “Bodies are bodies. Nothing holy or sinful about biology. It’s just being human.”
Something about that seemed to click for him.
“I like your explanations,” Cas said quietly. “They lack evasion.”
You tipped your bottle toward him in a lazy salute. “Anytime, Cas. You want the short answer, I’m your girl.”
Dean pointed at you as he walked toward the door. “You are never allowed to give my kid the sex talk.”
You grinned. “Too late. Cas already asked.”
From the doorway, Dean groaned, “I hate all of you.”
So I ordered a physical copy of the Castiel comic and it was just the headshot cover version because I thought I’d just print out my own version of it since I result liked the composition and wanted to draw it. So here it is, my version of the Castiel comic cover🙌
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality✓ Free Actions
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
updated June 14 2026. Going through some of the lists sporadically and placing dialogue prompts in their respective sections. My focus this time around is enemies/lovers prompts.
PLEASE reblog if you use any of these/wanna share with your writer friends!!
updated June 14 2026. Going through some of the lists sporadically and placing dialogue prompts in their respective sections. My focus this time around is enemies/lovers prompts.
PLEASE reblog if you use any of these/wanna share with your writer friends!!
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality✓ Free Actions
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
Summary: the team returns after another mission. you, the shy & quiet nurse tends to their needs. [AO3] [WC 725]
Warnings: fluff, fem reader
Request: @samanddeansannoyingsis This came to me in a dream: Thor with a skiddish human nurse. Every time they come back from a mission she is the on base medical assistant that coos at them to keep them calm with soft hands to ease the aches and pains. Reader who barely speaks more than to ask if everyone is okay and where it hurts. Reader who is too freaking soft that Thor is terrified that he is going to accidentally scare her.
The med bay always smelled faintly of antiseptic and clean linen. It was quiet tonight. Too quiet for the kind of chaos that had just returned from the field.
Until the doors burst open with a clang as the team stumbled in—mud, blood, and exhaustion trailing behind them.
At the center of it all was Thor, towering and broad-shouldered, armor scratched and cloak singed.
Behind him limped Steve, with Natasha guiding Tony by the elbow while he complained loudly about shrapnel.
And then—
Silence.
Because the nurse had appeared. You. You always moved like a little ghost in the med bay. Soft footsteps. Soft voice. Soft everything. Soft hands. You peeked around the curtain first. Wide eyes. A little startled at the sheer size of them all.
Thor immediately straightened. Which only made him look larger. The god of thunder suddenly became very aware that he was seven feet tall, covered in dried blood, and holding a cracked piece of alien armor in one hand.
He slowly set it down. Very slowly.
You stepped closer with a small med kit hugged to your chest. “Hi,” you said quietly.
Thor blinked.
You always sounded like you were afraid someone might yell at you. Your eyes moved over the room quickly. “Is everyone okay?” you asked softly.
No one answered right away. Because you had already stepped toward Thor. Of course you had. He was the biggest problem in the room. There was a long cut across his arm, glowing faintly where lightning had burned through his skin.
You looked up at him. And Thor froze. Completely still. Like a massive, golden retriever that had suddenly been told to stay. “…Does it hurt?” you asked gently. Your hand hovered near the injury.
Thor swallowed. “Yes,” he admitted carefully.
Your brow pinched with concern. “Oh,” you murmured, like the idea of him being hurt genuinely upset you. You reached out then—tentatively—taking his wrist. Your hands were so small compared to his. Soft. Warm.
Thor went rigid. He had fought frost giants. He had wrestled the Hulk. He had taken the full force of a star. But the feeling of your tiny fingers carefully turning his arm so you could see the wound made him unbelievably nervous.
You dabbed antiseptic on gauze. “Okay,” you whispered. “This might sting.”
Thor nodded solemnly. You touched the wound. He didn’t even flinch. Not because it didn’t hurt. But because you looked so worried about hurting him that he couldn’t bear to react.
You worked quietly, cleaning the injury with slow careful movements.
Thor stared down at the top of your head. “…You are very gentle,” he said.
You startled. “Oh—sorry,” you said immediately.
Thor looked horrified. “No! No, apologies were not needed!”
Your shoulders scrunched a little. You continued working silently.
Across the room, Tony leaned toward Steve. “…Is the Norse god whispering right now? The Almighty God of Thunder?” Tony murmured.
Steve elbowed him.
Thor cleared his throat awkwardly. “You do not… fear me?” he asked carefully.
Your eyes flicked up to him. You blinked. “…No? I’ve known you and the team for a while now.”
Thor seemed confused. “But I am… quite large.”
You nodded slightly. “You are,” you said. Then you returned to wrapping the bandage. “But you’re nice amd friendly. And you protect the worlds.”
The room went quiet. Thor’s brain completely stalled. Nice. The God of Thunder had been called many things across the centuries. Mighty. Terrible. Glorious. But never— Nice.
You finished tying the bandage and patted his arm softly. “There,” you said. That tiny pat nearly killed him.
You stepped away and looked around again. “…Anyone else hurt?”
Tony raised a hand immediately. “Yes, emotionally.”
You walked over to him without comment.
Thor watched you go. His massive hands rested carefully on the table where you had left him. He leaned toward Steve. “…I fear I may frighten her,” Thor whispered.
Steve glanced at you across the room. You were quietly scolding Tony for picking at a stitch. “She’s not scared of you,” Steve said.
Thor frowned thoughtfully. “No,” he murmured. Then softer— “But I am terrified of scaring her.”
Across the room, you looked up. You caught Thor staring. He immediately looked away like a guilty child. You blinked. Then quietly poured more antiseptic. And prepared for the next Avenger.
Request: Anonymous asked: Hey! Just wanted to request a really angsty fic of the reader dying in Steve Rogers' arms and there’s nothing he can do. Please make me cry 🙏 thank youuu
Summary: after you get trapped under a building and Steve couldn't rescue you, he spirals. [wc 829] [ao3]
warnings: death, angst
The rain had started sometime during the fight. Steve hadn’t noticed at first. There had been too much noise—sirens screaming somewhere below, shattered glass under his boots, the crack of metal against concrete, voices barking orders through comms that no one could hear anymore. Smoke curled through the street in ugly black ribbons, and the whole city smelled like fire.
Then he heard you. Not loud. Not a scream. Just his name. Soft. Small. Wrong.
“Steve…”
Everything in him stopped. He turned so fast it nearly threw him off balance, his eyes searching through the wreckage until he saw you crumpled near the broken steps of a storefront, half-hidden by dust and debris. Your hand was pressed to your side. Blood slipped between your fingers in thin, steady lines, already washed pink by the rain.
“No.” The word tore out of him before he reached you. “No, no, no—hey, hey, I’m here.” He dropped to his knees so hard the pavement cracked beneath them. His shield clattered uselessly beside him. Trembling hands hovered over you for one awful second, terrified to touch, terrified not to.
Your face was pale beneath the grime. Your lashes were wet with rainwater. Or tears. “Steve,” you whispered again, trying to smile.
He hated that smile. Because it was the one you used when he was scared. “Don’t do that,” he said, voice shaking. “Don’t—don’t look at me like that. We’re getting you out of here.” He ripped off his gloves, pressed both hands over the wound, hard enough to stop the bleeding, gentle enough not to hurt you. He called for medics into the comm, shouting until his throat burned.
Only silence greeted him from the other side.
“Stay with me.” His voice cracked. “You hear me? Stay with me.”
You reached up slowly, fingers brushing the wet hair off his forehead like you’d done a hundred quiet mornings before. “You always look so worried,” you murmured.
Steve bent over you, choking on a laugh that became a sob. “I’m worried because you’re bleeding in my arms.”
“I know.” Your hand slid weakly to his cheek. “Still handsome, though.”
“Stop joking.” He swallowed hard. “Please, stop joking.”
Your eyes searched his face with heartbreaking tenderness, memorizing him. “I’m sorry.”
The words hit harder than any blow he’d ever taken. “No.” He shook his head violently. “No, you don’t get to apologize. You didn’t do anything wrong.”
“I was supposed to meet you for dinner.”
Rain dripped from his chin onto your jacket. He didn’t realize he was crying until you wiped at it with your thumb.
“You can still make it,” he said desperately. “Come on, sweetheart, you can still make it. I’ll carry you there myself. We’ll go somewhere fancy. Somewhere stupidly expensive because you always laugh when I complain about the bill.”
You smiled again. Smaller this time. “I liked when you complained.”
“Then I’ll complain all night.” He was openly sobbing now, unable to stop. “I’ll complain forever, just stay.”
Your breathing hitched.
Steve felt it in the air around the pair of you, the subtle shift, the terrifying slowing of your pulse beneath his blood-slick hands. His whole body went cold. “No.” He leaned closer, forehead pressing to yours. “No, no, listen to me. Look at me.”
Your eyes fluttered. “I am looking,” you whispered.
“Keep doing it.”
“Steve…”
“Please.” The plea came out broken. Steve Rogers, who had stood against gods and monsters, who had dragged himself through wars and centuries and grief no one could imagine, was begging. “I can’t lose you.”
You exhaled shakily, rain catching on your lashes. “You already had me.” A cough of blood ccame out. “Wasn’t that enough?”
His mouth opened, but nothing came out. Because the truth was no amount of time would ever have been enough. Not one year. Not ten. Not a lifetime.
Your fingers slipped from his cheek. Your chest rose once. Twice. Then stilled. For a moment, Steve just stared. Like if he looked hard enough, the world would take it back. Then he gathered you against him with a sound no one there would ever forget—a raw, wounded cry dragged from someplace deeper than pain.
He held you as the rain poured down. Held you when the medics finally arrived too late. Held you when the street emptied. Held you when someone touched his shoulder and he nearly broke their wrist. Held you until dawn painted the sky gray.
Because if he let go, if he let go, then it was real.
—
Weeks later, the team would find him sitting on the floor of your apartment. Your favorite sweater clutched in his hands. Your mug still in the sink. A note on the fridge reminding him to buy strawberries. He would stare at it for hours. Because the cruelest thing about grief, Steve learned, wasn’t the moment someone died. It was all the ordinary things that kept existing after they were gone.
