The Last Apple Pie

Prompt: Imagine being pregnant with Dean’s child. You thought he was overprotective before? Wait until you get hurt.
Reader Gender: Female
Character: Dean Winchester, Sam Winchester, & Castiel
Word Count: Somewhere around 1K
Warnings:  Slight angst, language, injury from falling down the stairs, & fluff.
Author’s Note: Thank you to @climbthatmooselikeatree for helping! Also tagging @leviathanslovedick @spnfanficpond @aprofoundbondwithdean @manawhaat @rizlow1 @deansdirtylittlesecretsblog @balthazars-muse GIFs not mine (x)(x)(x)

Watch your footing, he said.

Be careful going down the stairs, he reminded you.

Don’t carry more than one bag at a time, he scolded.

You were six months pregnant. You weren’t a child or handicapped. But that’s the way Dean made you feel whenever you weren’t in his direct line of sight.

And then there was his brother.

Did you take your vitamins?

Are you drinking enough milk?

Uncle Sam made you a smoothie! It’s got Kale in it, but you can’t even taste it.

It was almost enough to make you scream. You were a grown ass woman. You could take care of yourself, god damn it!

And yet, here you were, at the bottom of the stairs.

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Convincing (Barry Allen x reader)

OfficialHeroesOfOlympus: Heyyy y'all! Thank y'all so much for the support! This is incredible! Please request any other reader insert fan fictions you would like me to write. I write for The Flash, Harry Potter, Percy Jackson, Heroes Of Olympus, Arrow, Marvel. Basically, just request for any reader insert fanfiction and I’ll try my best to write something that y'all will actually think is readable.

Description: You’re trying to help Barry with his speed and somehow, both of you make a deal. If Barry can go at the speed of Mach Twenty, you’d kiss him.

Reader Gender: Female

Characters/Ships: Barry Allen x reader, mentioned Zoom, Caitlin, Dr Wells and Cisco

Rating: PG/G

Warnings: One bad word (shit), my information on Barry and Zoom might be off since I haven’t watched The Flash in such a long time. Also, my writing isn’t very good.

You sighed frustratedly, your eyes flickering upwards from your laptop, only to meet with the sight of Barry Allen, or more popularly known as ‘The Flash’.

He was sipping a cup of coffee from Jitters, his name was scribbled messily on the side of the cup, most probably by Iris. 


She was nice, to put it simply. She always tried to help out at S.T.A.R labs but sometimes, you just couldn’t help but hate her with a burning, fiery passion. You glared at her from your seat next to Caitlin whenever she came in, counting down the seconds until she would leave again.

She was kind of clingy and you thought it was annoying how she always tried to butt in on Barry’s missions, trying to get him to agree to let her help him, become his sidekick.

Yesterday, she even wanted to be trained by the Arrow just so she could fight side by side with Barry.

‘Stupid Iris. I’m so ugly while she’s so…’ You thought to yourself grumpily, wondering how there were people as pretty as her in the world and how plain, boring and ugly you looked.

‘If I were a guy, I’d pick Iris over me in a heartbeat. Gosh, that sounded so wrong.’ You argued inwardly with yourself, punching the keyboards loudly.

“Y/N? Y/N!” Barry shouted, clicking his fingers in front of your face, snapping you out of your thoughts.

Looking up, Barry grinned, gesturing to the keyboard. “Any reason why you’re practically murdering that keyboard?” He asked, taking another sip from his coffee.

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Strong Female Characters

The most common thing to remember about “Strong FemaleCharacters”… they don’t have to be physically strong. “Strong” doesn’t necessarily refer to her physical prowess or her ability to kick someone’s butt.

This is one of the biggest problems I see in certain authors today. There’s such a rush to create “strong female characters,” and yet people don’t realize what that means. These writers claim to have a “strong female character,” but she’s not a good character. She’s not developed or complex or real. She’s great with a gun, sure, but she’s flat as cardboard when it comes to personality. They assume strong = physically strong, as in not the classic damsel in distress when it comes to the action scenes. Which is something, sure, but that’s not what a strong female character should be.

Strong female character means a well-developed character who happens to be female. She’s strong as a character, as in her character can stand on her own. Her backstory, her personality, her wants, and her needs don’t depend or completely revolve around other characters. A strong female character could be anything from an ass-kicking soviet assassin to a 5’1’’ girl who can hardly lift a 50lb box but still refuses to give up when X disaster happens in her life.

It’s more about a strong personality and a strong core character than a strong body. And you know, great characters aren’t perfect. They can mess up. They can get scared or cry or run away. That doesn’t mean they’re weak, and that doesn’t automatically exclude them from the sought-after title of “strong female character.”

Strong doesn’t mean physically powerful. Strong doesn’t mean perfect. Strong means a complex, real human being with a distinct personality and compelling goals.


20 Female character days by: Hanakumamii

Day 03 ϟ Favorite female character from a shounen anime

C.C. 「 シー・ツー 」 Code Geass

Sleep Better With You

Prompt: Dean moaning readers name after a hunt? (Original anonymous request was about Jensen, but I don’t do actor fics.)

Reader Gender: Female

Character / Fandom: Dean Winchester / Supernatural

Word Count: 755

Warnings: Fluff, hurt!Dean, swearing

Author’s Note: Nothing really… enjoy?

Tagging: spnjensenlove02 rizlow1 winchestersandwordprocessors deansdirtylittlesecretsblog badwolfstoletheimpala beakaleak32 eyes-of-a-disney-princess

Dean fell asleep an hour after you slipped three crushed Vicodin in his half-empty, piss warm beer. You only knew it was piss warm because the injured hunter had yelled at you for not getting him a cold one before throwing the bottle at the trash.

The bottle rolled into the bathroom. “Nice one, Dean.”

“Bite me.”

The thought was tempting, you weren’t gonna lie, but the truth was you knew he saw you like the kid sister he never wanted. And you knew that because he has told you more times than you cared to remember. That didn’t stop you from watching him out of the corner of your eye every chance you got. The man had shoulders as wide as a door frame and corded muscles that rippled under his skin. He stood on thick legs that were good for fighting, defending himself from every monster imaginable, and running either to or from danger; although he was more likely to run toward it. Years of turning a wrench, digging up graves, and ganking monsters had sure as hell done a body good.

But not tonight. Tonight, the poltergeist that was tormenting a family had gotten the better of him. Tonight, the poltergeist had gone on the defense and blitz attacked him. Dean fought hard, harder than most hunters, finally taking the piece of shit out, but not before the damage had been done; a gash on the back of his head and bruises that disappeared beneath his heather grey Henley.

Three stitches, a bucket of ice, and three secretly taken Vicodin later, Dean was finally asleep. He was sprawled out on the queen sized mattress, one arm hanging over the edge and both feet dangling off the other side. He snored softly as you tugged off his boots and lifted his thick, heavy legs onto the bed. The lamp cast its dull orange light across his face, highlighting the fan of thick lashes over freckled skin, and it took everything in you not to reach out and count his freckles.

Instead, you turned off the light and turned away, mentally preparing yourself to sleep on the couch. There had been only one room available when you checked in and as luck would have it, it had only one bed.

Dean shifted, sighing heavily as his hand flexed, grabbing at your denim clad legs. You stayed still for a moment, afraid of waking him. When he didn’t let go of your jeans, you scraped your nails gently through his hair, trying to get his attention just enough so he’d let go. What he did next, you didn’t expect.

Half-opened, glassy, emerald eyes stared up at you and a smirk tugged at his fuller than humanly possible lips. He tugged hard on your jeans before whispering your name.

You had to be imagining things because he wouldn’t say your name like that or try to sit up and ask you to lie with him. It had to be the Vicodin. Sitting on the edge of the bed, you raked your nails through his hair, careful to avoid the fresh wound.

“Dean, just lie down and go to sleep.” You fought the urge to call him baby.

Leaning into your touch, he latched a hand on your hip and tugged impatiently. Despite the fact that he was drugged and half-asleep, he was so much stronger than you. “I’ll sleep better with you next to me. C’mon, Y/N, please.” The oldest Winchester hardly ever said please.

Against your better judgement, you kicked off your shoes and slid in next to the hunter. He covered you with the blanket, wrapped an arm around your belly, and pulled you tight against him. Rough, calloused fingers found their way under the hem of your shirt as he curled around you, legs tucked behind yours, ankles crossed together. Wherever you ended, a part of Dean began. With a contented sigh, he buried his face in the crook of your neck, and in no time his breathing slowed, blowing hot and heavy against your skin as he slept.

It took you longer to fall asleep, but that probably had something to do with the fact that your fingers played over his forearm or that if you turned your head just right, his slightly parted lips were right fucking there. You lay there, watching him sleep, feeling him sleep for hours until finally, your eyelids grew too heavy. The rhythmic rise and fall of his chest and steady breathing lulled you to sleep.

I’m Not Sorry

Prompt: Imagine Dean being embarrassed when he gets a boner while you’re straddling him and cleaning up his wounds. (So it sort of took on a life of its own and Dean didn’t end up being embarrassed. I hope that’s ok.)

Reader Gender: Female

Characters / Fandom: Dean Winchester / Supernatural

Word Count: 775

Warnings: Hurt!Dean, making out, language, drinking.

Sighing for the hundredth time since you set about sewing the gash closed on Dean’s shoulder, you stood abruptly, jostling the injured hunter. “This isn’t working.”

“It’s just a few stitches, Y/N. Nothing you haven’t done before.” Dean seized the opportunity to take another pull from the half empty bottle of whiskey.

“No, it’s not that. I just… I can’t get the angle I need to do it right.” And that’s when you figured it out.

Watching you walk around him, Dean shifted uneasily in the chair. “What?”

You stopped in front of him, jean clad knees brushing against his. “Move your legs.”

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Marked By An Angel

Anon Requested: Angel!reader x Dean. so when I was little I was told that freckles were angel kisses. So one day Dean asks the reader about that and I’ll leave the rest to you.

Gender: Male/Female

Characters: Dean x Reader

Word Count: 1,638

A/N: Okay, I didn’t follow the request so much and I’m sorry! This took a life of its own. I hope you like, nonnie!

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What If

Summary: When Bucky finds out he’s going to be a father, he fears he may unintentionally hurt the baby.
Reader Gender: Female
Character: Bucky Barnes and Steve Rogers
Word Count: 1,205
Warnings: Daddy Bucky feels
Author’s Note: If a URL is crossed out, it’s only because Tumblr is dumb and won’t let me tag everyone. Fic based off this fan art. If you know who created it, please let me know. It’s adorable and I frigging love it!

It was never of a question of Bucky wanting kids, he did. He loved everything about them; the richness of their laugh, the sparkle in their eyes, the indescribable scent on the top of their head. He couldn’t wait to have a few of them running around. But that was then, before the war and the super soldier serum, before he was an assassin under HYDRA’s control.

And then Y/N came along, bright-eyed, loving, and optimistic. She accepted him for who he was, metal arm and all. She made him feel safe and secure, like a human being and not someone… something to be used for an evil agenda. Despite all of that, Bucky didn’t feel exactly like he did before everything happened. So when Y/N told him she was pregnant, Bucky panicked. What if something happened and he ended up hurting the baby? What if he lost control of his arm and ended up doing more than just harming the child? It was enough to drive a sane man crazy.

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Band-aids Don’t Fix Bullet Holes

Prompt: An injured Steve Rogers stumbles into the clinic at closing time.
Reader Gender: Female
Character / Fandom: Steve Rogers / Captain America
Words: 3,150
Warnings: Injuries, blood, kissing [but does that really warrant a warning?], fluff, slight swearing, angst.
A/N: This is a rewrite of a fic by the same name with Dean Winchester. [x]

Originally posted by thatplaidnerd

The first time you met Steve Rogers, he stumbled into the clinic just as you were getting ready to lock up. He was bleeding from the shoulder, cradling his arm against his stomach, and stumbling as if he couldn’t see straight. Which, judging by the amount of blood that was flowing from a gash in his hairline, he probably couldn’t. The sight of a beaten man didn’t frighten you. You had been a nurse for several years now, so you had seen your fair share of wounds and injuries. It was the look in his eyes that made your blood run cold. They were wide enough you could see white, and they darted from side to side. He looked panicked, almost crazed.

“Can you help me?” His voice was sandpaper and gravel.

“Everyone’s gone home. I’m the only one here.” You weren’t exactly sure why you just told a complete stranger that you, a seemingly defenseless woman, were completely alone.

He ground his teeth, grimacing as his knees buckled. He fell hard against the reception counter, sliding it against the tiled floor with a borderline deafening squeal. You jogged around the displaced counter and slid an arm around his waist, pulling him up. It wasn’t easy by any means. He was tall and thick, in a good way, and under the dark jacket and red shirt, he was all muscle. You led the way to the closest exam room, thankful you hadn’t closed the door. Groaning, you flipped on the light and half-drug the injured man over to the exam table. You weighed your options as he dropped to the table and hunched over, gripping his arm against his belly. The closest person with more medical training than you was almost an hour away. The only thing you could do was grab everything you needed for an emergency exam. Thankfully, there were several tables set up for tomorrow.

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In Love With Oliver Queen

Prompt: The journey of the reader being in love with Oliver Queen.

Reader Gender: Female

Characters / Fandom: Oliver Queen / Arrow

Word Count: 3,334

Warnings: Angst & fluff

You are in love with Oliver Queen. Under normal circumstances, this shouldn’t be a problem, right?


See, while you were falling head over heels in love with the billionaire playboy, he was busy pining away over someone else.

Yup. You are in love with a man that doesn’t know you exist.

Scratch that.

He knows you exist. He sees you every day, talks to you multiple times throughout the day, even gives you his best flirty smile from time to time. He just doesn’t know you.

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I Swore I’d Protect You

Prompt: Dosed with Vertigo, Oliver shoots reader with an arrow.

Reader Gender: Female

Character / Fandom: Oliver Queen / Arrow

Word Count: 1,249

Warnings: Angst, fluff, mention of injury and blood.

With his mind suddenly clear of the Vertigo induced fog, he leaps over the terrace railing and onto the ground below, running toward the fallen form as fast as he can. The wind pushes back the green suede hood, but he doesn’t care if anyone sees his face. Keeping his identity a secret no longer matters. What does matter is that you had been struck down. Not by the hand of an enemy, unknown or not, but by him. His arrow had taken you down, flying into your chest with the speed and accuracy that would make any archer jealous.

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Right in Front of Me #2

Summary: Bucky comes home from the war, but he’s not the same.
Reader Gender: Female
Character: Bucky Barnes
Word Count: 1,136
Warnings: Language, angst, & fluff.
Author’s Note: This story is completely AU.

Chapter 1 

Originally posted by marymetzger

Before you knew it, thousands of letters and emails had been exchanged, hundreds of staticky phone and glitchy Skype calls had been placed, and four years passed. Those forms of communication weren’t ideal, but given the situation you were in, you’d take what you could get. Any time you could see his face or hear his voice made your heart skip a beat and your breath hitch in the back of your throat. You couldn’t wait until the day he came home. And then, six months ago, he stopped writing and calling.

One month later, Steve began calling and writing, trying to distract you from the fact that Bucky wasn’t there. It didn’t matter how many times you begged and pleaded, Steve wouldn’t… couldn’t tell you what was happening over there. What you did know was that the war was catastrophic, claiming the lives of hundreds of thousands of men and women. Knowing all of that made your mind race a million miles a minute, coming up with scenarios that made you sick to your stomach and gave you nightmares.

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Prompt: You’re having a hard time getting through the day, so Chuck comes and cuddles with you.
Reader Gender: Female
Character: Chuck Shurley
Word Count: Short and sweet at under 450 (so no keep reading break)
Warnings: Eludes to reader having depression, FLUFF
Author’s Note: WIFEY TAG: @leviathanslovedick @aprofoundbondwithdean @spnfanficpond @manawhaat @mrs-squirrel-chester @deansdirtylittlesecretsblog @rizlow1 @saenalife @spnjensenlove02

Originally posted by abigayle12000

You needed to get out of bed, but it was deliciously warm and cozy under the feather down comforter. Responsibilities rattled through your mind; there were groceries to buy, laundry to wash, dishes to do; the list went on and on… and on. The noise inside your head got to be too much, so you screwed your eyes shut and pulled the blanket over your head.

Sleep overtook you at one point, pulling you deep into the comfortable pitch. Nothing could get to you here; not the monsters that threatened to overcome you every day, not the noise that made you want to pull your hair out, not even the family that made you into the codependent, needy bitch you were today; nothing. And that’s how you liked it.

The voice of your boyfriend drifted into your cocoon, “babes, you coming out today?”

You don’t know how you got so lucky. Chuck was the most understanding, non-judgmental, caring, sweet, doting partner you could have asked for. No matter how many times you cried, how many times you berated yourself, how many days you didn’t emerge from your room; he was there.

He made sure you ate, drank, took your vitamins, took a fucking shower; he was always there for you. No matter how dark you got, how far you sank. No. Matter. What.

With a heavy sigh, you pushed the blanket away from your face, “I don’t know.”

Chuck smiled warmly, brushing the wayward hairs from your forehead before kissing it, “would you like some company?”

You didn’t have to answer, not like you really could. Your throat grew tight, strangling the words before they could tumble out.

He stepped out of his slippers before climbing behind you; the bed dipping, shifting with his weight, “come here.”

Rolling over, you slid across the bed and molded your body into his; sighing as his cool legs tangled with your much warmer ones. Rather than the washed-too-many-times t-shirt he always wore, Chuck was clad in boxers; which was a good thing. Skin to skin contact, and not the sexual kind, always worked best for you. It helped you cope, helped pull you out of the hole you found yourself in more and more; even if only for a day… sometimes less.

You breathed him in as fingers drug along your scalp and through your hair, again and again, until you were on the edge of falling asleep.

With his lips in your hair, he whispered, “I love you.”

Muffled into the crook of his neck, “and I love you,” was your response.


Summary: I found this prompt: For the past twelve years of your life, you haven’t spoken a word, what makes you speak?
Reader Gender: Female
Character: Bucky Barnes and Steve Rogers
Word Count: 714 (so no keep reading break)
Warnings: Language & angst.
Author’s Note: The prompt is for twelve years, I decided to go a little longer than that. GIFs not mine [x][x][x] Other GIFs found on Google Images. Yours? Let me know.

Originally posted by spaceandbeyond

Time is a tricky son of a bitch. On one hand, in the blink of an eye, years will pass by as you’re standing off to the side, withdrawing, keeping to yourself like you have become accustomed. On the other hand, you can stare at the wall for what feels like days -months even- but when you look at the clock, only ten minutes have gone by. And that’s what life is, the passing of time. Some moments rush by like the wind and others stick around for a lot longer than you’d like. You can’t manipulate it, you can’t falsify the data, you can’t do anything but sit back and watch.

When Bucky fell off the train, your vision narrowed and time slowed, strobing, pulsing with every panicked beat of your heart. He reached for you, eyes wide and screaming, but you couldn’t reach or hear him. It felt like it took forever for him to disappear into the snowy abyss, but when he did, when that cloud of white swallowed him whole, you wanted to jump. And you would have if Steve hadn’t wrapped his arms around your waist. You remember screaming, begging Steve to let you go, that because of your abilities, you could survive the fall.

“But he can’t, Y/N,” he sounded so defeated in that moment.

Hydra didn’t just take Steve’s best friend or your husband that day, they had stolen everything from you, but most of all, they had stolen your voice. The one way you could communicate with the rest of the world, and it was gone, just like that. You hadn’t sustained any injuries, but from that moment on, your voice was broken, refusing to work Then you lost Steve, your best friend, and it was like time was mocking you, threatening you with spending the rest of your life alone and unloved.

You were a freak, able to move things with your mind, a weapon of mass destruction if the wrong kind of people got their hands on you; people like Hydra. In desperation, you sought out Peggy, who promised you’d be safe with Howard Stark. He had the means to keep you as far off the grid as you wanted, so you disappeared.

70 agonizingly slow years passed before someone dug deep enough to find you; he was one of the last people you expected to see. Steve pulled you off the floor and brushed the dust from your clothes. “Come on,” he pleaded, “I need your help.” And then, in the blink of an eye, you found yourself fighting side by side with Steve.

It felt like he came out of nowhere, dark gear and arm glittering like silver in the sun. He was ruthless, brutal, without conscience; but something familiar about him made your blood run cold. You couldn’t see much of his face, just his brow as the rest was obscured by a black mask. With a mental shake, you dove back into the fight.

After so much time in the dark, you had grown rusty. Your abilities weren’t what they used to be, but in spite of that, you held your own. You held off the soldier in black, saving Steve’s life more times than either of you could count, but it was like he wasn’t human; he just kept coming at that pair of you. It was when you got lucky with a strike and the black mask fell from his face that everything stopped. Along with the slowing of time, your heart stuttered painfully. There was a knot in the center of your chest that grew bigger and tighter, making it damn near impossible to breathe.

The man in front of you was dark and scary; menacing, really. He stared at you with eyes like ice that were surrounded by smudges of black. Long and greasy chestnut hair hung in his face, features contorted by rage. He was ready to strike, body thrumming with anticipation, the coil taut and ready to snap. And yet, he didn’t move.

It had been 70 years since you uttered a single word, but that day, your voice rang crystal clear as his name tumbled from your lips. “Bucky?”

He eyed you, confusion breaking through the anger. “Who the hell is Bucky?”

SISTER WIVES:  @busybee612 @leviathanslovedick @manawhaat @sebbytrash
TAGGITY:  @padathatackles @crowleyshellkitten @katnharper @crzcorgi @emmy-winchester @thecredits-arerolling @mrs-moose-chester @deansdirtylittlesecretsblog @mrswhozeewhatsis @fandommaniacx @ginger-rae1991 @saenalife @oriona75 @sunriserose1023 @brooklyn-writes-flangst @aggressivelywatchingnetflix @andjelapopo @sherlockatemybagel @sabrinalogic @nerdysandwichqueen @jeffrcy @vale0413 @metallicbuck @bovaria @canikeepit-imkeepingit @neverland-sun @faithfulpanicmoon @kitty-changeurworld @laurelvonschweetz @eyeofdionysus @weirdpizzaking @evangelineimagine @toofangirl  @justareader @winchesterenthusiast @ursulaismymiddlename

Just Once

Prompt: Imagine dancing with Loki.
Reader Gender: Female
Character / Fandom: Loki / Avengers & Thor
Word Count: Just shy of 400
Warnings:  Nothing that I can think of
Author’s Note: GIF not mine (x)

You watched him move through the crowd. Various shades of black and green leather was paired beautifully with suede. Buckles and zippers looked as if they were placed strategically throughout, and you briefly wondered if that was at the request of Loki, or if the tailor had some input into the design.

He moved with confidence, greeting Kings with an incline of his head, bending slightly at the waist, and Queens with a kiss to the backs of their hands. More than one of them blushed furiously, giggling like a young girl before their Kings ushered them away quickly. Loki always had a way with the ladies.

Several suitors came and went, asking for a dance or offering a refill of your wine, but you ignored them all. Your eyes, and heart, were fixed on Loki, son of Odin, younger brother of Thor. While almost the entire kingdom, commoners and royalty alike, swooned over Thor, you never understood what the fuss was about.

While Thor had the muscles and the blonde hair and the adoration of his kingdom, Loki had something deeper; good intentions. Thor… well he just wanted the throne, his birthright. All Loki wanted was the love and adoration of his father, the same affection he showed his first-born.

Loki’s eyes found yours and it felt like the air was sucked from your lungs. With a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth, he abandoned the newly appointed King of the next galaxy over, and was standing in front of you a moment later.

You couldn’t help but notice the heat of his hand as he took yours, the way his forefinger brushed over your pulse point, the way his lips ghosted over your skin as he kissed it, or the way his pupils exploded as he looked at you through impossibly thick eyelashes; it all took your breath away.

“My Prince.”

“Dance with me.” It wasn’t a question. He tugged gently on your hand, and even though you hated dancing in front of large crowds, you didn’t pull away.

“Loki, you know I-“

He spun you around, pinning you to his chest with the help of a long fingered hand that rest heavily on the small of your back. “Just once.”

Band-aids Don’t Fix Bullet Holes

Prompt: Receptionist at a walk-in clinic.

Reader Gender: Female

Character / Fandom: Dean Winchester / Supernatural

Words: 2,935

Warnings: Injuries, blood, hurt!Dean, fluff, slight swearing, angst if you squint.

The first time you met Dean Winchester, he stumbled into the clinic just as you flicked off the outside lights. He was bleeding from the shoulder, cradling his arm against his stomach, and stumbling as if he couldn’t see straight. Which, judging by the amount of blood that was flowing from a gash on his forehead, he probably couldn’t.

The sight of a beaten man didn’t frighten you. You worked at a free clinic in one of the shadiest parts of town so you had seen your fair share of shit go down. It was the look in his eyes. They were wide enough you could see white, and they darted from side to side. He looked panicked, almost crazed.

“Can you help me,” his voice was sandpaper and gravel.

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The Love of an Angel

Prompt: Imagine Cas has fallen for his charge and because of it, he is denied access to her Heaven when she dies.
Reader Gender: Female
Character / Fandom: Castiel / Supernatural
Word Count: 726
Warnings:  Angst & super fluffy. Seriously.
Author’s Note: Y/C = Your color

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