Name: Dom Celesia Pendragon (meaning lord of the sky pendragon)
Nickname: little fang (she has natural fangs in her mouth)
Codename:Phantom
Age: she ranges from 22-27 depending on the role play
Height: 5’4
Weight: 160
Sexuality: pansexual
Bio: Dom grew up in the pendragon household. Her father was the most feared mob boss in the east cost. He was banned from five countries. She was a straight A student often getting into honors classes and she always kept up with her education taking pride in it. Dom would take on extra curricular activities such as archery, boxing, mixed martial arts, and language analysis classes. She is fluent in multiple other languages. (No one knows this untill she starts speaking it) she has three older brothers whom are very protective of her. Although Dom was very smart and she seemed like a very good girl, she was heavily involved with the family business. She became the youngest assassin and like everything else she excelled at it. Dom is a bit of a perfectionist, so she refuse to hand in work unless it was perfect. As she got older she got the Codename phantom from the law. No one has seen her face which is why she can blend in so easily. The only thing people seen is her Heterochromia eyes, one black one light green, she would conceal them with contacts. Dom would become the go to assassin,if you could afford her. When she turned 18 her father stepped down and gave the title queenpin to Dom. Since she had the most leader qualities to her. Her brother micheal was her right hand while sammy worked for the police force. Gabe was the lawyer and he would often let her know if all the loopholes. Dom is often described as soft spoken,goofy,kind, generous and a flirt. When she opened up to you. On the surface she can be mistakes for ruthless lawless evil seductive and vile. She has strong family values and is extremely loyal with her men. She often treated them like family, having a “company” dinner once a week. She takes care of her employees and everyone she cares about, but don’t take that for weakness.
Summary: You try to get through to Bucky and tell him, it's not his fault.
WC: 448ish
Warnings: none? fluff? some PTSD
A/N: I'm probably gonna wind up deleting this. Not happy with it and I havent been in the MCU/Bucky fandom in months so it's probably shit.
Read on ao3
--
The apartment was quiet, save for the rhythmic ticking of the wall clock. You leaned against the doorway, your gaze fixed on Bucky as he sat by the window, staring into the darkened cityscape. His shoulders, usually strong and sure, seemed to carry the weight of centuries, slumped under the invisible heaviness of his memories.
“Bucky,” you called softly, hesitant to disturb him but unable to bear his silence any longer.
He didn’t respond, but the slight tilt of his head let you know he’d heard you. Approaching carefully, you eased onto the arm of his chair, your presence just brushing against his.
“You don’t have to go through this alone, you know,” you murmured, resting your hand gently on his vibranium arm. “Whatever it is… you can share it with me. You don’t have to keep carrying it by yourself.”
His jaw tightened, the glint of his metal arm catching the dim light. “It’s not that simple,” he replied, voice low and rough. “My past—it’s not something anyone should have to deal with. Least of all you.”
“Bucky,” you said firmly, your fingers tightening slightly around his. “Your past doesn’t define you. It’s a part of your story, yes, but it’s not who you are now. Who you are to me.”
He turned then, his blue eyes shadowed but searching. You held his gaze, unflinching, your expression a mixture of patience and love.
“Do you know what I see when I look at you?” you asked, your voice softening. “I see someone who’s survived the unimaginable and still chooses to keep fighting. Someone kind, someone brave, and someone who makes the world better just by being in it.”
Bucky’s lips parted, but whatever he wanted to say got lost in the tremble of his breath. You reached up, your fingers brushing lightly over his jaw.
“You don’t have to do this alone,” you repeated, your voice breaking slightly. “I’m here for you, no matter how dark it gets. Let me help you carry the weight. That’s what love is, Bucky—it’s sharing the burden.”
A faint, fragile smile pulled at the corner of his mouth, and though his eyes were still glassy with emotion, the storm within them seemed to quiet just a little.
“I don’t deserve you,” he whispered, his voice barely audible.
“Too bad,” you teased gently, leaning in to rest your forehead against his. “Because you’re stuck with me.”
For the first time that night, a soft chuckle escaped him, and though it was fleeting, it was enough. Enough to remind him that he wasn’t alone. And that no matter how heavy his burdens felt, there would always be someone willing to share the load.
--
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I love how close you and queenpinoftheeast is she is like theta brat friend
She’s literally my best friend. We’ve never met in person but I would 1000% go to war for her @queenpinoftheeast look, we have an admirer. ♥️ but yes she’s definitely bratty lmao
Summary: unbeknownst to you, you become friends with the city's famous mobster.
WC: 1,3K
Warnings: fluff,angst, bruce is a mafia leader AU
Read on Ao3!
Clint Barton Version Here!
--
The dim lights of the bar flickered slightly as the low hum of conversation and clinking glasses surrounded you. The city was alive, but you were still an outsider—new in town, not yet used to the rhythm of things. You had hoped for a quiet night, a drink to wind down from the overwhelming chaos of moving to a new city.
That’s when you first saw him.
A man in a tailored suit, dark hair combed back effortlessly. His presence was magnetic, like something about him demanded attention without trying. He wasn’t loud or boisterous, but his calm demeanor stood out in the crowd. And when his dark eyes landed on yours from across the room, you felt the pull—almost as if he had already decided you were worth his time.
He stood and approached you with a smooth stride, a slight, charming smile playing on his lips. “Mind if I join you?”
You blinked, caught off guard, but something in his gaze made you hesitate just long enough to give a nod. "Sure."
He slid into the seat next to you, the bartender already setting down a drink in front of him as if he were a regular. "Bruce Wayne," he said, offering a hand. His voice was smooth, controlled, like he was used to getting what he wanted.
"Y/N" you replied, shaking his hand. The touch was firm, but you noticed the way his hand lingered a little longer than necessary, almost as if he was savoring the moment. “I’m new in town.”
“I gathered that. Not many people in here don’t know how to blend in.” His smile turned a little teasing. “What brings you to Gotham?”
You shrugged, trying to play it off as casual. “Just needed a change of scenery, I guess. The usual story. New job, new city, new start.”
“New start, huh?” Bruce raised an eyebrow. "I can relate."
There was something cryptic in his words, and for a moment, the conversation faltered as you tried to read him. But then, he shifted the focus back to you, asking about your new life in Gotham and how you were adjusting. His charm was effortless, his attention focused entirely on you, and it wasn’t long before you found yourself laughing and talking about everything from mundane details about your job to the oddities of living in a city like Gotham.
By the end of the night, you were exchanging numbers, your curiosity piqued by his mysterious air, but also by how strangely comfortable you felt around him. Something told you there was more to Bruce Wayne than met the eye, but for now, you were content to just go along with it.
The next few weeks passed in a blur of coffee dates and casual conversations. Every time you met, it felt like you were peeling back another layer of him, but it was slow, almost too slow. Bruce always seemed interested in you—truly interested—but there was a distance in his eyes, a guardedness that made it impossible to get too close.
And then there were the disappearances.
You’d be sitting at a café, enjoying a warm drink, and Bruce would be there, his attention on you, his voice a calm presence in the noise of the world. But then, just as the conversation would begin to dip into something deeper, his phone would ring. His expression would change in an instant—controlled but sharp—and he’d apologize, excusing himself to take the call in a more private area.
You didn’t think much of it at first. Work. That was all he ever said. But the more times it happened, the more it felt like an excuse. And then you started to wonder: was he really that busy? Or was there something else going on?
One evening, after yet another brief and unexplained disappearance, you found yourself sitting alone at a table, swirling the coffee in your mug absentmindedly, thoughts racing. A small part of you had been entertained by his mystery, but now, it was starting to bother you. He’d been so elusive, almost like he was keeping something from you. And when he disappeared on the phone, you couldn’t shake the feeling that there was another woman involved. Maybe that was why he was always so distant when you weren’t with him. Maybe the phone calls were just him checking in with his girlfriend.
You tried to push the thoughts aside, but they clung to you, nagging at the back of your mind.
It wasn’t until a few days later that your suspicions were confirmed—but not in the way you expected.
You were walking through the city, lost in your thoughts when you spotted Bruce across the street, standing outside a sleek black car. You froze. He was talking to someone—no, giving orders. The man he was speaking to nodded respectfully before walking away, and you could see Bruce’s posture shift just slightly, a certain authority in his stance.
That was when you saw it.
The man had passed by a neon sign on the corner—an inconspicuous one, but you caught a glimpse of the symbol on his jacket. A logo you recognized. One that wasn’t just associated with business deals or high society parties, but something far darker.
You weren’t sure what exactly you were seeing, but you knew one thing: this wasn’t just a businessman you’d been having coffee with. Bruce Wayne wasn’t just charming and mysterious—he was dangerous.
A mob boss. It made sense now, all the late-night calls, the secretive exits, the way people in Gotham seemed to give him a certain level of respect.
But before you could process the full weight of the realization, you felt a hand on your shoulder. You turned quickly, only to find Bruce standing right behind you, his face unreadable.
“I thought I might find you here,” he said smoothly, his tone even and calm, though there was an edge to it now. “You’ve been thinking about me.”
Your heart pounded in your chest as you tried to swallow the shock creeping up your throat. “I... I didn’t expect this.”
He studied you for a moment, his expression softening. “I guess I should’ve told you sooner.”
“Why didn’t you?” you asked, unable to stop the words from spilling out. “Were you hiding something from me, Bruce? Or... was there someone else?”
A slight smile tugged at the corner of his lips. “There’s no one else, Y/N. But there are things about me... things I can’t share easily.” He stepped closer, his voice low, almost like a warning. “I didn’t want you to get mixed up in it.”
Your stomach twisted with a mix of confusion and anger. “Mixed up in what? What are you really doing, Bruce?”
He hesitated, but then, his hand moved to your cheek, his touch tender. “I’m doing what I have to do to protect this city. And anyone who gets close to me—who gets too close—becomes a part of that. You need to understand that.”
You looked up at him, a chill running through you. “So this—us—wasn’t real?”
Bruce’s gaze softened, a brief flicker of vulnerability crossing his face. “It was real. But my world is... complicated. I was hoping you wouldn’t find out this way. But I won’t lie to you, Y/N. This is my life. And if you want to stay in it, you need to accept what that means.”
Your heart raced as you tried to piece it all together—the man you thought you knew, the mystery, the lies. But no matter how much you wanted to run, something about him held you in place, anchored by the truth in his eyes.
“I don’t know what to believe anymore,” you whispered, the weight of everything crashing down on you.
Bruce’s expression darkened, his thumb brushing over your cheek before he spoke again. “You’ll figure it out. But just know—no one ever walks away from me once they’ve seen the truth. And that includes you.”
Summary: unbeknownst to you, you become friends with the city's famous mobster.
WC: 1,3K
Warnings: fluff,angst, bruce is a mafia leader AU
Read on Ao3!
Clint Barton Version Here!
--
The dim lights of the bar flickered slightly as the low hum of conversation and clinking glasses surrounded you. The city was alive, but you were still an outsider—new in town, not yet used to the rhythm of things. You had hoped for a quiet night, a drink to wind down from the overwhelming chaos of moving to a new city.
That’s when you first saw him.
A man in a tailored suit, dark hair combed back effortlessly. His presence was magnetic, like something about him demanded attention without trying. He wasn’t loud or boisterous, but his calm demeanor stood out in the crowd. And when his dark eyes landed on yours from across the room, you felt the pull—almost as if he had already decided you were worth his time.
He stood and approached you with a smooth stride, a slight, charming smile playing on his lips. “Mind if I join you?”
You blinked, caught off guard, but something in his gaze made you hesitate just long enough to give a nod. "Sure."
He slid into the seat next to you, the bartender already setting down a drink in front of him as if he were a regular. "Bruce Wayne," he said, offering a hand. His voice was smooth, controlled, like he was used to getting what he wanted.
"Y/N" you replied, shaking his hand. The touch was firm, but you noticed the way his hand lingered a little longer than necessary, almost as if he was savoring the moment. “I’m new in town.”
“I gathered that. Not many people in here don’t know how to blend in.” His smile turned a little teasing. “What brings you to Gotham?”
You shrugged, trying to play it off as casual. “Just needed a change of scenery, I guess. The usual story. New job, new city, new start.”
“New start, huh?” Bruce raised an eyebrow. "I can relate."
There was something cryptic in his words, and for a moment, the conversation faltered as you tried to read him. But then, he shifted the focus back to you, asking about your new life in Gotham and how you were adjusting. His charm was effortless, his attention focused entirely on you, and it wasn’t long before you found yourself laughing and talking about everything from mundane details about your job to the oddities of living in a city like Gotham.
By the end of the night, you were exchanging numbers, your curiosity piqued by his mysterious air, but also by how strangely comfortable you felt around him. Something told you there was more to Bruce Wayne than met the eye, but for now, you were content to just go along with it.
The next few weeks passed in a blur of coffee dates and casual conversations. Every time you met, it felt like you were peeling back another layer of him, but it was slow, almost too slow. Bruce always seemed interested in you—truly interested—but there was a distance in his eyes, a guardedness that made it impossible to get too close.
And then there were the disappearances.
You’d be sitting at a café, enjoying a warm drink, and Bruce would be there, his attention on you, his voice a calm presence in the noise of the world. But then, just as the conversation would begin to dip into something deeper, his phone would ring. His expression would change in an instant—controlled but sharp—and he’d apologize, excusing himself to take the call in a more private area.
You didn’t think much of it at first. Work. That was all he ever said. But the more times it happened, the more it felt like an excuse. And then you started to wonder: was he really that busy? Or was there something else going on?
One evening, after yet another brief and unexplained disappearance, you found yourself sitting alone at a table, swirling the coffee in your mug absentmindedly, thoughts racing. A small part of you had been entertained by his mystery, but now, it was starting to bother you. He’d been so elusive, almost like he was keeping something from you. And when he disappeared on the phone, you couldn’t shake the feeling that there was another woman involved. Maybe that was why he was always so distant when you weren’t with him. Maybe the phone calls were just him checking in with his girlfriend.
You tried to push the thoughts aside, but they clung to you, nagging at the back of your mind.
It wasn’t until a few days later that your suspicions were confirmed—but not in the way you expected.
You were walking through the city, lost in your thoughts when you spotted Bruce across the street, standing outside a sleek black car. You froze. He was talking to someone—no, giving orders. The man he was speaking to nodded respectfully before walking away, and you could see Bruce’s posture shift just slightly, a certain authority in his stance.
That was when you saw it.
The man had passed by a neon sign on the corner—an inconspicuous one, but you caught a glimpse of the symbol on his jacket. A logo you recognized. One that wasn’t just associated with business deals or high society parties, but something far darker.
You weren’t sure what exactly you were seeing, but you knew one thing: this wasn’t just a businessman you’d been having coffee with. Bruce Wayne wasn’t just charming and mysterious—he was dangerous.
A mob boss. It made sense now, all the late-night calls, the secretive exits, the way people in Gotham seemed to give him a certain level of respect.
But before you could process the full weight of the realization, you felt a hand on your shoulder. You turned quickly, only to find Bruce standing right behind you, his face unreadable.
“I thought I might find you here,” he said smoothly, his tone even and calm, though there was an edge to it now. “You’ve been thinking about me.”
Your heart pounded in your chest as you tried to swallow the shock creeping up your throat. “I... I didn’t expect this.”
He studied you for a moment, his expression softening. “I guess I should’ve told you sooner.”
“Why didn’t you?” you asked, unable to stop the words from spilling out. “Were you hiding something from me, Bruce? Or... was there someone else?”
A slight smile tugged at the corner of his lips. “There’s no one else, Y/N. But there are things about me... things I can’t share easily.” He stepped closer, his voice low, almost like a warning. “I didn’t want you to get mixed up in it.”
Your stomach twisted with a mix of confusion and anger. “Mixed up in what? What are you really doing, Bruce?”
He hesitated, but then, his hand moved to your cheek, his touch tender. “I’m doing what I have to do to protect this city. And anyone who gets close to me—who gets too close—becomes a part of that. You need to understand that.”
You looked up at him, a chill running through you. “So this—us—wasn’t real?”
Bruce’s gaze softened, a brief flicker of vulnerability crossing his face. “It was real. But my world is... complicated. I was hoping you wouldn’t find out this way. But I won’t lie to you, Y/N. This is my life. And if you want to stay in it, you need to accept what that means.”
Your heart raced as you tried to piece it all together—the man you thought you knew, the mystery, the lies. But no matter how much you wanted to run, something about him held you in place, anchored by the truth in his eyes.
“I don’t know what to believe anymore,” you whispered, the weight of everything crashing down on you.
Bruce’s expression darkened, his thumb brushing over your cheek before he spoke again. “You’ll figure it out. But just know—no one ever walks away from me once they’ve seen the truth. And that includes you.”
Summary: unbeknownst to you, you become friends with the city's famous mobster.
WC: 1,3K
Warnings: fluff,angst, bruce is a mafia leader AU
Read on Ao3!
Clint Barton Version Here!
--
The dim lights of the bar flickered slightly as the low hum of conversation and clinking glasses surrounded you. The city was alive, but you were still an outsider—new in town, not yet used to the rhythm of things. You had hoped for a quiet night, a drink to wind down from the overwhelming chaos of moving to a new city.
That’s when you first saw him.
A man in a tailored suit, dark hair combed back effortlessly. His presence was magnetic, like something about him demanded attention without trying. He wasn’t loud or boisterous, but his calm demeanor stood out in the crowd. And when his dark eyes landed on yours from across the room, you felt the pull—almost as if he had already decided you were worth his time.
He stood and approached you with a smooth stride, a slight, charming smile playing on his lips. “Mind if I join you?”
You blinked, caught off guard, but something in his gaze made you hesitate just long enough to give a nod. "Sure."
He slid into the seat next to you, the bartender already setting down a drink in front of him as if he were a regular. "Bruce Wayne," he said, offering a hand. His voice was smooth, controlled, like he was used to getting what he wanted.
"Y/N" you replied, shaking his hand. The touch was firm, but you noticed the way his hand lingered a little longer than necessary, almost as if he was savoring the moment. “I’m new in town.”
“I gathered that. Not many people in here don’t know how to blend in.” His smile turned a little teasing. “What brings you to Gotham?”
You shrugged, trying to play it off as casual. “Just needed a change of scenery, I guess. The usual story. New job, new city, new start.”
“New start, huh?” Bruce raised an eyebrow. "I can relate."
There was something cryptic in his words, and for a moment, the conversation faltered as you tried to read him. But then, he shifted the focus back to you, asking about your new life in Gotham and how you were adjusting. His charm was effortless, his attention focused entirely on you, and it wasn’t long before you found yourself laughing and talking about everything from mundane details about your job to the oddities of living in a city like Gotham.
By the end of the night, you were exchanging numbers, your curiosity piqued by his mysterious air, but also by how strangely comfortable you felt around him. Something told you there was more to Bruce Wayne than met the eye, but for now, you were content to just go along with it.
The next few weeks passed in a blur of coffee dates and casual conversations. Every time you met, it felt like you were peeling back another layer of him, but it was slow, almost too slow. Bruce always seemed interested in you—truly interested—but there was a distance in his eyes, a guardedness that made it impossible to get too close.
And then there were the disappearances.
You’d be sitting at a café, enjoying a warm drink, and Bruce would be there, his attention on you, his voice a calm presence in the noise of the world. But then, just as the conversation would begin to dip into something deeper, his phone would ring. His expression would change in an instant—controlled but sharp—and he’d apologize, excusing himself to take the call in a more private area.
You didn’t think much of it at first. Work. That was all he ever said. But the more times it happened, the more it felt like an excuse. And then you started to wonder: was he really that busy? Or was there something else going on?
One evening, after yet another brief and unexplained disappearance, you found yourself sitting alone at a table, swirling the coffee in your mug absentmindedly, thoughts racing. A small part of you had been entertained by his mystery, but now, it was starting to bother you. He’d been so elusive, almost like he was keeping something from you. And when he disappeared on the phone, you couldn’t shake the feeling that there was another woman involved. Maybe that was why he was always so distant when you weren’t with him. Maybe the phone calls were just him checking in with his girlfriend.
You tried to push the thoughts aside, but they clung to you, nagging at the back of your mind.
It wasn’t until a few days later that your suspicions were confirmed—but not in the way you expected.
You were walking through the city, lost in your thoughts when you spotted Bruce across the street, standing outside a sleek black car. You froze. He was talking to someone—no, giving orders. The man he was speaking to nodded respectfully before walking away, and you could see Bruce’s posture shift just slightly, a certain authority in his stance.
That was when you saw it.
The man had passed by a neon sign on the corner—an inconspicuous one, but you caught a glimpse of the symbol on his jacket. A logo you recognized. One that wasn’t just associated with business deals or high society parties, but something far darker.
You weren’t sure what exactly you were seeing, but you knew one thing: this wasn’t just a businessman you’d been having coffee with. Bruce Wayne wasn’t just charming and mysterious—he was dangerous.
A mob boss. It made sense now, all the late-night calls, the secretive exits, the way people in Gotham seemed to give him a certain level of respect.
But before you could process the full weight of the realization, you felt a hand on your shoulder. You turned quickly, only to find Bruce standing right behind you, his face unreadable.
“I thought I might find you here,” he said smoothly, his tone even and calm, though there was an edge to it now. “You’ve been thinking about me.”
Your heart pounded in your chest as you tried to swallow the shock creeping up your throat. “I... I didn’t expect this.”
He studied you for a moment, his expression softening. “I guess I should’ve told you sooner.”
“Why didn’t you?” you asked, unable to stop the words from spilling out. “Were you hiding something from me, Bruce? Or... was there someone else?”
A slight smile tugged at the corner of his lips. “There’s no one else, Y/N. But there are things about me... things I can’t share easily.” He stepped closer, his voice low, almost like a warning. “I didn’t want you to get mixed up in it.”
Your stomach twisted with a mix of confusion and anger. “Mixed up in what? What are you really doing, Bruce?”
He hesitated, but then, his hand moved to your cheek, his touch tender. “I’m doing what I have to do to protect this city. And anyone who gets close to me—who gets too close—becomes a part of that. You need to understand that.”
You looked up at him, a chill running through you. “So this—us—wasn’t real?”
Bruce’s gaze softened, a brief flicker of vulnerability crossing his face. “It was real. But my world is... complicated. I was hoping you wouldn’t find out this way. But I won’t lie to you, Y/N. This is my life. And if you want to stay in it, you need to accept what that means.”
Your heart raced as you tried to piece it all together—the man you thought you knew, the mystery, the lies. But no matter how much you wanted to run, something about him held you in place, anchored by the truth in his eyes.
“I don’t know what to believe anymore,” you whispered, the weight of everything crashing down on you.
Bruce’s expression darkened, his thumb brushing over your cheek before he spoke again. “You’ll figure it out. But just know—no one ever walks away from me once they’ve seen the truth. And that includes you.”
requested by @groovy-lady May I please request some fluffy married Howard Stark & fem!Reader fic in which Howie and his wife finally get to go on their honeymoon (they got married soon after WWII ended and since Howard has a business to run Howie and Reader hadn’t gotten to have their honeymoon because of how busy they -especially Howard- had been) and it’s just lots of romantic adorableness with some sensuality thrown in? :3
Summary: You spend time with your newlywed husband.
Warnings: fluff
WC: 632
Read on ao3!
--
The sun hung low on the horizon, casting golden hues over the sapphire waters of the Amalfi Coast. The sea breeze danced through the open balcony doors of the luxurious villa, carrying with it the mingling scents of salt and citrus. After years of waiting, Howard Stark finally had his bride all to himself, with no projects, meetings, or emergencies to interrupt them.
“Howie,” you called teasingly, watching your husband fiddle with a camera by the railing. He had a determined frown, the kind you often saw when he was engineering something back in his lab.
“Just hold still, sweetheart,” he murmured, squinting as he adjusted the lens. “I need to capture you exactly like this.”
You laughed softly, brushing your fingers against the hem of your sundress as you turned to face him fully. “We’re on our honeymoon, Howard. Maybe the camera can wait?”
He froze mid-adjustment, his gaze flicking up to meet yours. The corners of his mouth lifted in a sly grin as he set the camera aside. “Fair point. Why immortalize the view when I could be basking in it?”
Howard crossed the balcony to you, his hands sliding around your waist. He pulled you closer, his forehead resting lightly against yours. “You know,” he murmured, his voice low and velvety, “I’ve been dreaming about this. Just us. No Stark Industries, no world-ending crises, no distractions.”
You cupped his cheek, your thumb tracing the faint stubble along his jaw. “It was worth the wait,” you said, your voice filled with quiet sincerity. “All of it.”
He smiled, softer now, and leaned in to kiss you. His lips were warm, his kiss unhurried—sweet but carrying the unmistakable spark of the man you loved. When he pulled back, his brown eyes gleamed with mischief.
“Care to test out that infinity pool downstairs?” he suggested, his hands playfully tugging at the sash of your dress.
You swatted his hand lightly, laughing. “Patience, Mr. Stark. Dinner first.”
Howard groaned dramatically, releasing you just long enough to hold out his arm. “If my wife insists. Shall we?”
The villa’s private dining area was set for two, the table adorned with flickering candles and a spread of Italian dishes that smelled divine. As you ate, Howard’s charm was on full display, recounting stories from the war and his early days of invention, each tale more exaggerated and entertaining than the last.
“You’re incorrigible,” you said, shaking your head as you sipped your wine.
“And you adore me,” he countered, his grin widening.
When the plates were cleared, the sky had turned a deep indigo, scattered with stars. Howard stood, offering you his hand. “Dance with me?”
“There’s no music,” you said, even as you let him pull you to your feet.
He hummed softly, guiding you into his arms. The tune was familiar—a swing number he used to play on the phonograph when you first started dating. Your laughter melted into contentment as he led you in a slow, swaying rhythm, the world fading away until there was only the two of you.
As the night wore on, the sensuality of his touch deepened. His fingers traced the small of your back, his kisses trailing along your collarbone, leaving you breathless and wanting.
“You’re everything I’ve ever wanted,” Howard whispered against your ear, his voice thick with emotion. “This heart, this life—it’s all yours, darling.”
The villa, the coast, the stars—it was all beautiful, but none of it compared to the love shining in Howard’s eyes. For the first time since your wedding day, it felt like the world had finally stopped spinning, allowing you both to simply be.
And in that moment, surrounded by warmth and love, you knew the wait for this honeymoon had been worth every second.
Summary: you discover Dean isn't human any longer.
Warnings: angst, demon dean
WC: 570ish
Read on Ao3!
--
The bunker was eerily quiet as you descended the metal stairs, the weight of unease pressing heavily on your chest. You’d heard whispers—Sam had been dodging your questions all week, his answers clipped and vague. Something was wrong.
It wasn’t until you found Dean in the dungeon, sitting in the corner with his back to the wall, that the pieces began to fall into place.
He looked up as you entered, and for a split second, relief flooded your chest. He was alive. He was okay. But then you saw his eyes.
Black. Endless. Wrong.
Your breath hitched, your hand tightening instinctively around the blade you always kept at your side.
“Dean?” you whispered, your voice shaky, like saying his name would somehow undo what you were seeing.
He smirked, pushing himself to his feet with an ease that sent chills down your spine. “Well, hey there, sweetheart,” he drawled, his voice the same, but not.
“Tell me this is some kind of trick,” you said, stepping back as he moved closer. “Please tell me this isn’t real.”
“‘Fraid not,” he said casually, shrugging. “This is as real as it gets.”
Your heart shattered at the confirmation, tears pricking at your eyes as you tried to reconcile the man you loved with the monster standing before you. “What happened to you?”
“Me? I’ve never been better,” he said with a grin that didn’t reach his eyes. “No guilt, no baggage. Just freedom. It’s... liberating, really.”
“This isn’t you,” you said, shaking your head. “Dean, the real you wouldn’t—”
“Wouldn’t what? Kill? Torture? Hurt people?” His smirk widened, but there was no humor in it. “Hate to break it to you, sweetheart, but that’s exactly who I’ve always been. Demon or not.”
“No,” you said firmly, the blade trembling in your hand. “You’re not the person I thought you were.”
He tilted his head, as if considering your words, then stepped closer, forcing you back until your shoulders hit the wall. “Maybe you never really knew me,” he said, his voice low and dangerous.
“I know you better than anyone,” you said, glaring up at him despite the fear twisting in your gut. “And I know this isn’t you. The real you would fight this.”
“The real me?” His laugh was sharp, cold. “The real me is tired, (Y/N). Tired of fighting, of losing, of pretending any of it matters. You should give it a try. It’s... peaceful.”
Your hand trembled as you raised the blade between you, the weight of the moment crushing down on you. “I don’t want to do this, Dean. Please don’t make me do this.”
For a moment, his gaze softened, something familiar flickering behind the darkness in his eyes. But just as quickly, it was gone, replaced by the smirk you’d come to hate.
“You can’t kill me,” he said, leaning closer until his breath ghosted against your cheek. “Not because you don’t have it in you—but because you don’t want to.”
Tears spilled down your cheeks as the truth of his words cut through you. You couldn’t do it. You couldn’t kill him, even like this.
He pulled back, his smirk turning almost... sad. “See? You’re just as weak as I am.”
Before you could respond, he turned and walked out of the room, leaving you crumpled against the wall, clutching the blade like it was the only thing holding you together.
Summary: Steve tries to make you feel better by making pancakes for dinner.
Warnings: Fluff
WC: 381
Read on Ao3!
--
The sound of crashing dishes from the kitchen was followed by a loud curse. You winced, setting down the book you'd been half-heartedly reading and padding toward the source of the commotion.
"Steve?" you called, stepping into the chaotic scene. The once-pristine kitchen was now an explosion of flour, eggs, and a slightly burnt aroma.
Steve Harrington stood in the middle of it, apron askew, hair a bigger mess than usual, holding a mixing bowl in one hand and a whisk in the other. He looked at you, sheepish, with flour streaked across his cheek.
"I... was trying to make pancakes," he admitted, his voice laced with defeat. "For you."
Your heart softened at the sight. "Steve, it’s ten at night. Pancakes are a morning thing."
"Well, yeah, but I figured... I don’t know. You’ve had a rough week, and I wanted to do something nice." His words tumbled out, his usual confidence faltering under your gaze.
Stepping closer, you reached out to brush the flour from his cheek, your fingers lingering for a moment. His eyes searched yours, vulnerable in a way that made your chest ache.
“You didn’t have to do all this,” you said softly, gesturing to the disaster around you.
"I know," he murmured, setting the bowl down on the counter. His hands found your waist, pulling you a little closer. "But I wanted to. Because... you’re the most important person in my life. And I don’t say that enough."
Your breath caught, the sincerity in his voice wrapping around your heart like a warm embrace.
"Steve," you whispered, your hands coming to rest on his chest. "You mean that?"
He nodded, a small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "More than anything."
Leaning up, you kissed him, slow and tender, tasting the faint hint of maple syrup from his earlier attempt at cooking. When you pulled back, you couldn’t help but laugh softly at the fond look in his eyes.
“Okay, Harrington,” you said, giving him a playful nudge. “Let’s salvage these pancakes. Together.”
He grinned, his confidence restored. “Deal. But only if I get to be the taste-tester.”
With a laugh, you set to work, side by side in the messy kitchen, the chaos around you fading in the warmth of the moment.
Summary: Dean thinks he did the right thing when he slaughtered a pack of innocent vampires. You disagree.
WC: 505
Warnings: blood, angst, sadness
Read on Ao3!
--
The motel room smelled of whiskey and despair, a combination Dean Winchester was far too familiar with. He sat on the edge of the bed, his hands trembling as he wiped the drying blood off his knuckles with a damp washcloth. The dim lamp cast long shadows on the cracked wallpaper, amplifying the silence between him and you.
You leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed tightly over your chest as you watched him. His shoulders were hunched, weighed down by guilt and exhaustion. The sight twisted something deep inside you, but you didn’t step closer. Not yet.
“Are you gonna say something, or just stare at me all night?” Dean’s voice was rough, almost a growl, but it cracked at the edges as he looked at you.
Your gaze dropped to the washcloth in his hand, red streaks staining the fabric. You inhaled deeply, steadying your voice. “I don’t even know where to start, Dean. How about why?”
He flinched, his jaw tightening. “It had to be done.”
“Had to be done?” You took a step forward, your voice rising. “Slaughtering half a nest and walking away like you didn’t just—Dean, you didn’t even try to save them!”
“They were vamps,” he snapped, standing abruptly. His green eyes burned as they met yours, but you didn’t back down. “You know how this works. You hunt. You kill. End of story.”
“Not when they’re trying to turn themselves in,” you shot back, your voice shaking with anger and something more fragile. “They were surrendering, Dean. They wanted help!”
Dean ran a hand through his short hair, pacing the small room like a caged animal. “And what, you think they’d just stop drinking blood because they pinky promised? Grow up, Y/N! This world doesn’t work like that.”
Your heart clenched as you stepped into his path, forcing him to stop. “I know how the world works, Dean. But I also know you. This isn’t you.”
His laughter was bitter, almost a snarl. “You don’t know me, sweetheart. Not really.”
“Don’t do that.” Your voice softened, a pleading edge creeping in. “Don’t push me away just because you’re hurting.”
For a moment, the mask cracked. Dean’s shoulders sagged, and his eyes glistened with unshed tears. “I don’t—” His voice broke, and he turned away from you. “I don’t know how to fix this.”
You hesitated before reaching out, placing a tentative hand on his arm. “Maybe you don’t have to fix it alone.”
Dean looked at you then, his walls crumbling as a single tear slipped down his cheek. “My hands... they’re too bloody, Y/N. I don’t think I can come back from this.”
Your heart ached, but you tightened your grip on his arm. “Then let me help carry some of it. You don’t have to do this alone, Dean. You never did.”
The silence stretched between you, heavy with unspoken pain and fragile hope. Slowly, Dean reached up, his blood-stained hand covering yours. It wasn’t forgiveness, not yet, but it was a start.
Summary: Dean thinks he did the right thing when he slaughtered a pack of innocent vampires. You disagree.
WC: 505
Warnings: blood, angst, sadness
Read on Ao3!
--
The motel room smelled of whiskey and despair, a combination Dean Winchester was far too familiar with. He sat on the edge of the bed, his hands trembling as he wiped the drying blood off his knuckles with a damp washcloth. The dim lamp cast long shadows on the cracked wallpaper, amplifying the silence between him and you.
You leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed tightly over your chest as you watched him. His shoulders were hunched, weighed down by guilt and exhaustion. The sight twisted something deep inside you, but you didn’t step closer. Not yet.
“Are you gonna say something, or just stare at me all night?” Dean’s voice was rough, almost a growl, but it cracked at the edges as he looked at you.
Your gaze dropped to the washcloth in his hand, red streaks staining the fabric. You inhaled deeply, steadying your voice. “I don’t even know where to start, Dean. How about why?”
He flinched, his jaw tightening. “It had to be done.”
“Had to be done?” You took a step forward, your voice rising. “Slaughtering half a nest and walking away like you didn’t just—Dean, you didn’t even try to save them!”
“They were vamps,” he snapped, standing abruptly. His green eyes burned as they met yours, but you didn’t back down. “You know how this works. You hunt. You kill. End of story.”
“Not when they’re trying to turn themselves in,” you shot back, your voice shaking with anger and something more fragile. “They were surrendering, Dean. They wanted help!”
Dean ran a hand through his short hair, pacing the small room like a caged animal. “And what, you think they’d just stop drinking blood because they pinky promised? Grow up, Y/N! This world doesn’t work like that.”
Your heart clenched as you stepped into his path, forcing him to stop. “I know how the world works, Dean. But I also know you. This isn’t you.”
His laughter was bitter, almost a snarl. “You don’t know me, sweetheart. Not really.”
“Don’t do that.” Your voice softened, a pleading edge creeping in. “Don’t push me away just because you’re hurting.”
For a moment, the mask cracked. Dean’s shoulders sagged, and his eyes glistened with unshed tears. “I don’t—” His voice broke, and he turned away from you. “I don’t know how to fix this.”
You hesitated before reaching out, placing a tentative hand on his arm. “Maybe you don’t have to fix it alone.”
Dean looked at you then, his walls crumbling as a single tear slipped down his cheek. “My hands... they’re too bloody, Y/N. I don’t think I can come back from this.”
Your heart ached, but you tightened your grip on his arm. “Then let me help carry some of it. You don’t have to do this alone, Dean. You never did.”
The silence stretched between you, heavy with unspoken pain and fragile hope. Slowly, Dean reached up, his blood-stained hand covering yours. It wasn’t forgiveness, not yet, but it was a start.
