@writingjourney I Am SO Devastated, I Am Simply Sobbing Until I Can No Longer Breathe. Screaming, Crying,

young silco pls just give me one chance

early access + nsfw on patreon

this is exACTLY what I was looking for

A Kiss For Loyalty

masterlist

young!silco x gn!reader [1.2k][AO3]

summary: You find him after the attack on the bridge, and you're left to figure out how to tread the fragile state of him.

tags: young silco, a few hours after vander tries to drown him, angst, established relationship, hurt silco, not betad

a/n: mid-lecture we were looking at photos of gash wounds and i couldn't help but think of young silco's face fresh after the drowning, so ofc i had to write a comfort fic for him. kinda comfort. it's mostly angst.

Vander couldn’t look you in the eye, couldn’t form a single word. And at first, worry was what overtook you—Silco hadn’t survived, lost in the fight. But the more you looked at the larger man who had returned, the more you recognised something else: the aftereffect when he’d had too much to drink, had raised his voice, had felt guilty. Regret.

You find Silco in your bedroom, curled up on the worn mattress that had held you both some countless nights. It had overheard the visions for your new nation, the sloppy passion of drunken evenings, the quiet rise and fall of breaths during winter. Now it’s witnessing something new.

You’ve never heard Silco cry. Your bedroom shrinks at the sound of it, as if the corners darken and round themselves to hold and hush him. It’s a sharp sting, an undeniably pained cry bleeding into his palm, cupped around his mouth.

When you approach, you’re silent—assessing, investigating, worrying if this isn’t something you can fix. He’s never been so evidently broken. You’re not sure whether it’s about Vander or at the failure of their uprising, both of which had taken a large portion of his heart.

“Silco?” you whisper, taking another step forward.

“Don’t,” he manages, his sobs becoming quieter, but affecting his breath, bubbling out of him in squeaks and chokes. “Please,”

You shake your head, keeping your ground but keeping your eyes on him. He’s refusing to remove his reddened hands from his face, his hair curtaining over his left side, black, wet strings.

“You’re hurt,” you furrow, focusing on the blood down his hand. You rush forward, chest attempting to wrangle in a frenzied heart. “Show me, hey, S—”

“Stop!” he inches away from you, a childlike recoil that makes you freeze.

It’s a foreign behaviour, a desperation he’s never worn, never come close to mimicking. As far as you’ve known him he’s been the opposite. Even in pain, he stitched together a composure so convincing it made others doubt he could ever truly feel the hurt he was raised around.

You suppose that it’s something he’s worked on, refined throughout the years after taking on the responsibility of becoming Zaun’s face, alongside Vander. His ideologies had spilled straight from his heart into your ear. You understood why he worked so hard to maintain a strong face.

That man was gone; he hadn't entered the room this time.

He’s hiding, you see, shielding his face from you. This, you understand, is something he thinks may spare you from even a fraction of the pain he must be feeling. He’s always been so. To hoard the suffering and smile.

“You don’t want me to see you?” you ask, kneeling by the bed and retracting your hands.

Silco doesn’t answer, the chokes of suppressed sobs the only sound from him.

“It’s alright,” with a shake of your head, you turn around, facing the other way and leaning against the bed. “I don’t have to see you. Just… just talk to me,”

You wait a beat, then another, waiting for his voice, willing his voice to regard you again. Anything with a meaning that you could warp into a sign of hope.

“Please,” you add. It’s unintentionally desperate, pleading, giving him the power of controlling where the conversation goes. Something he needs, you suppose, something he’s certain is still predictable.

You hear a sharp breath behind you, then the shuffle of your bedsheets. Your eyes slide the farthest they can without turning your head, attempting to see any glimpse of him.

Then his hand enters your periphery, pale skin against scarlet, fingers twitching and shaking as his forearm rests on your shoulder.

You take gentle hold of his hand, turning it this way and that in search for wounds. But nothing. “Who…” your breath escapes, “Is this your blood?”

“Yes,” he responds, a word that pricks at your lungs sharply.

You see the moment clearer now. A wound so deep that to reveal it is its own pain.

You recall Vander’s face. The shame that distorted his features, how ugly it becomes as you try to piece together the fragmented pieces. 

“Vander did something,” you surmise. Your breath quickens, a sneer creating brackets around your flared nostrils. “Did Vander do something?”

You feel Silco’s breath near the top of your head, but before you’re able to turn, a weight settles over you. Momentarily, you hold, letting the firmness of his muscles process on your body, around your shoulders, his other arm snaking over your bones and holding you backwards to him.

You hear his soft sniffs over your head and slightly to one side, the bone of his cheek pressing against your crown.

There it is again. It’s a spear through your body, the sound of him. It strikes a fissure along your lungs, each sudden inhale a crack veining in your airways, each tremoring breath he takes an earthquake on your skull. Vander, what have you done?

You take his hand and hold it to your cheek, the cool back of his hand against the warm apple of your face. You interlace your fingers, a familiar practice, just as fluid as the locking of legs in the night, or the pressing of palms for a prayer.

Next was the chaste kiss on his index knuckle, for loyalty. Then on the middle knuckle, for liberty. Another on the ring knuckle, for luck. And lastly, a kiss on the pinky knuckle, for love.

It was a silent conversation he and you had made, meeting mouth to bone always easier than devoting a voice to each word.

His other hand wrapped around your wrist, bringing your arm upwards and over your head, your own knuckles meeting his familiar lips. But they tremble.

He breathes a kiss, gentle, on your index knuckle, starting, then failing. His breath falls jagged on your skin.

For a moment he restarts, the warmth of his air hovering over your knuckle. But again he fails.

Your frown deepens. Even more so when he moves your hand and skips to your pinky knuckle, the only promise fulfilled.

“How bad is it?” your voice slightly muffles against his hand near your mouth.

He swallows, clearing his throat. “At the… we were at the river, he—” he grips your hand slightly tighter.

“It’s still hurting?”

His clothes shuffle. “Yeah,”

“Let me look?”

Silence.

You start to think he’ll reject you again, not yet prepared to face you in whatever shape Vander had left him. But he loosens his arm around your shoulders and moves away, his presence at your back fading.

Your other hand remains in his, the anchor, as you shift on the floor and turn.

You look up and your eyes meet. No. One eye meets yours.

You sense his panic by how the one remaining blue jumps between your eyes, tips of his mouth downwards. He brushes aside his wet hair.

The left side of his face had been marred, a trench of exposed muscle, skin, and blood bared at you. The blackened sclera is haunting, a flame moving in tandem with the watery blue of his other eye.

You’re more than certain there’s nothing but indignation gushing through your veins. Yet, Silco remains beautiful. You realised a long time ago it was difficult for him to not be, no matter the state of him. And still now, left eye diseased with the molten of betrayal, mouth frowned by grief, fear in his good eye.

“It’s not over,” he whispers, leaning forward as you reach up and cup the unmarred side of him. “We’ll take back Zaun,”

There he is. No man, no river, could ever kill him. “You’ll show them,” you press a kiss to his index knuckle.

omg I need more this was perfect

phone works two ways, you know

pairing: sam winchester x fem reader 5.2k

summary: stories of that one time sam surprises you, that one time you surprise sam, and that one time you surprise each other

contents: childhood bsfs to ‘i sometimes want to kiss you but like the normal amount’ to strangers trope will always be loved by me

notes: title from baby came home 2 by the nbhd. this is set during season one because ive only watched the first season of spn lol. this fact also makes me not liable for mischaracterization ok enjoy please!

— thank u to the lovely @locknco for editing this love ya

Nightmares follow Sam Winchester like a moth to a flame.

Most of the time, they’re about Jess. Before the nightmare even starts, he knows what he’s about to see because it’s always the same.

The steady drip of blood against his forehead.

The burst of unbearable heat exploding against the ceiling.

The guilt that creeps in every time without fail.

He wakes up from those nightmares with his heart pounding and a blanket of grief smothering his lungs.

But sometimes, Sam Winchester is lucky.

Sometimes, Sam Winchester dreams of you.

—

Sam wipes his eyes as he stands over your bed.

It’s your actual bed, and not one at a crappy motel in the middle of nowhere. It’s unfortunately humid since it’s creeping toward the middle of August, but Sam doesn’t care. It’s a pretty special occasion — you’re taking a break from hunting for a few days.

He’d been beyond surprised when you’d told him. Catching you at your house during the summer was near impossible with the way your parents ran you around the country, so all your free weekends were taken advantage of.

John had dragged him and Dean to a case just a state over from yours, and Sam had realized it was the closest they’d been to your house in a while. The second the bones had gone up in a pile of salty flames, he was halfway to the nearest bus station and on his way to your city.

The bus pulled in late, and the long walk to your neighborhood meant Sam arrived even later. He wondered if your parents were home and decided he hoped they wouldn’t be. The last thing he wanted them to see was the pitiful sight of him walking through their front door at four in the morning.

And despite the way you insisted it wasn’t true, Sam knew your parents didn’t like him. He’d probably be seeing the barrel of your mom’s revolver before he saw her smile at him.

(“It’s not smart to be telling people the code to your house alarm.”

You laugh in that girly way you do sometimes. Sam imagines you twirling the coiled wire of your phone cord and his throat runs dry.

“Come on. It’s just you, Sam. And how else are you going to sneak into my house?”

Your parents change the code to disarm the alarm every two weeks as a precautionary measure, and you never forget to update him everytime it changes. Sam thinks it’s sweet, but the both of you know he’s barely lucky enough to get the time to call you. The stars would have to align for him to come visit.

“I’ll go in through your window,” Sam says.

There’s a small lift in your voice. “I’ll make sure to double check it’s not you when I throw a knife at the freak climbing up the side of my house.”)

Zero-five-zero-two-eight-three, you’d told him last week.

He’d gone silent on the other end when the numbers clicked in his mind — his birthday. The code to your house right now was his birthday.

Your dad had been too busy to set it, so you’d done it yourself, using the first six numbers that came to mind.

His birthday, apparently.

Sam tries not to think about it too hard.

But now he’s here, standing over your bed and trying not to pass out from exhaustion on your carpet.

Your room looks slightly different from the last time he visited. The walls are a new shade of your favorite color, and the old desk that was in the corner has been replaced with a vanity. There’s pictures of your hometown friends pinned all around the glass, but there’s a few photos he does recognize.

One is from your ninth birthday. Dean had smashed your cake in your face, as expected from the then thirteen-year-old, and you’d clocked him with your fist a second after. The photo was taken post-punch, and you’re grinning through the frosting on your eyes while Dean clutches his face.

The other picture is of you and him from when you were both about twelve. He’s sitting between your legs, laying against your stomach with your American Girl doll in his lap. He’s braiding her hair using the instructions in an old book of yours, and you’d shoved the camera in his face before he could stop you. The photo captured him glaring into the lens of the camera, his thick brown hair pulled into two pigtails on top of his head.

It’s nearly cut out of the frame, but you’re smiling so hard behind him it makes your entire face light up. It’s one of Sam’s favorite pictures of you.

Now, you’re a lump on your full sized mattress, a new step up from your trusty twin bed. The blanket thrown over you has little flowers on it that match your bedsheets, which he already knows you’re very proud of. Still asleep, you roll over onto your back, and that exhaustion from earlier comes back with a vengeance.

Sam drops his jacket onto the heap of clothes on your chair and works to unzip his jeans before his legs give out.

If you were awake, you’d slap him on the back for that, a teasing grin on your face. “I would’ve brought some cash if I knew you were going to strip for me!” you would probably say, like a menace.

He can’t wait for you to wake up so you can annoy him even more.

Sam’s left in a pair of boxers and a baseball t-shirt from a supermarket in Pennsylvania, sweating even in your air conditioning. When he lifts the covers off the bed, he freezes.

You’re wearing a shirt he’d given to you as a souvenir a few months ago. A movie theater in Jersey they helped with their ghost problem gave them a free shirt in return. The cartoon penguin smiles at him now, balancing on one foot with his arms out, like he’s surfing. Sam smiles back while he settles in next to you.

Now that your bed is bigger, there’s more than enough room for the both of you, which is good since it’s so hot out. It means there’s no need to sleep piled up like you had to in the past.

…but Sam hasn’t seen you since that time your families had run into each other in New Mexico, and he hasn’t slept with you like this since you’d been home during your finals week a few months ago.

Under the eye of the penguin on your shirt, he slides one arm below your side pinned to the bed and uses it to pull you against him.

You complain up a storm, even asleep, but settle down quickly. He wonders if you’ll kick him in your sleep again, claiming you were dreaming of being a soccer player.

With your face pressed to the spot between Sam’s arm and shoulder, he listens intently to the nonsensical string of words you mumble out against his skin. Your musings only get more muffled as you press even further into him, throwing your arm over his torso and staying there.

Sam’s hand kindly soothes over your hip, where your shorts have little pink clouds printed on them.

“Woah,” you grumble, dragging out the word. Your hand flexes and then clenches into the fabric of his shirt. “Woah.”

His eyes dart to you embarrassingly fast, guilty for disturbing you but more than excited that you’re awake. Your voice always sounds sweeter in person than it does over the phone.

When he finds your face in the darkness, he realizes your eyes are still shut. Sam runs his hand up your side, warm with sleep. “Hey. You okay?”

Your mouth twitches into a frown. “My friend. My friend’ll do it.”

Oh, he realizes. You’re just sleep talking.

“Okay,” he answers quietly. He wants to hear your voice again, but he also wants you to go back to sleep. You only really mumble like this when you’re about to wake up from a dream. “Sorry,” Sam adds, though he’s not sure what for.

Your face screws up, but then you sigh sweetly against his chest. “Dean?”

(Even when Sam dreams of this, he still feels like you’ve beaten him over the head with that single word.)

You’re dreaming, all right. Of his older brother.

“You gotta get rid of it,” you complain, a pout pulling at your lips.

“He will,” Sam agrees, just to appease you. Thankfully, the worry lines on your face flatten out, and you move yourself even closer to him.

You’re quiet for a few seconds, so Sam closes his eyes, squeezing your shoulder in hopes you go back to sleep.

It doesn’t work, though.

You jolt up and practically launch yourself off the bed, nearly slipping on your hardwood floor before you grab onto your bedside table.

Sam calls for you, but you don’t seem to hear him, busy fumbling in the dark for the lightswitch. He leans over and flicks on the lamp, flooding your room with warm, yellow light. “You okay?” he asks.

The way you spin towards him is comically slow, like you’re being spun in a microwave. There’s a crease on your cheek from being pressed to your pillow for so long, and your eyes are barely open. Sam laments the heartbreaking fact that he can’t see you everyday.

Within the next second, he’s being flattened back against your pillows. You’re by his side so quickly, he’s half inclined to ask you if you’ve gained the ability to teleport.

He squeezes your hip. You take the hint and loosen your hug.

“Sam!” you say, at a volume much too loud for four in the morning. You don’t say anything when he tries shushing you, too busy flitting your hands over whatever parts of him they can reach, laughter spilling from your lips. “You’re here!”

“Took you long enough to realize,” he teases. “I could’ve been some kinda killer, and you would’ve gone on sleeping.”

“What kind of killer would have a face as sweet as yours?” You’re kneeling over him now, smiling so wide it makes Sam feel winded. “I missed you so much.”

“I missed you too,” he says, matching your smile. “Do you wake up from all your dreams like that?”

“Like what?”

“Like you’ve been electrocuted.”

You smile. “I think my brain knew you were here. Made me wake up so I could say hi.”

Sam kisses your forehead. “Hi. Thank you to your brain.”

“Hi. And you’re welcome.”

The two of you sit like that for a little bit, taking in the sight of the other’s face for the first time in months. You seem to enjoy his new haircut, and he studies the new scar going down your bicep while you tell him the story about how you got it.

When the recount of how you were thrown out of a window starts turning into more yawns than words, he pulls you back down to the bed.

“How are you?” he asks, like he hadn’t just asked you that this morning.

Your tongue darts over your chapped lips. “Good. Missed you a lot,” you say, for the second time in the past five minutes.

“Your parents are—they’re good too?” he asks, stuttering over his words.

Whatever he feels for you gets stronger every day, but it’s only when he sees you again that he realizes just how much he likes you. He forces his eyes up from your lips and squeezes your side. Sam really wants to kiss you.

You nod, moving his arms around so you can cram yourself as close to him as the world and physics allows. “Yep. Yep, yep, yep. Your dad and Dean?”

Sam hums. “They’re fine. Didn’t even ask where I was going when I took off.”

“You didn’t tell them?”

“I think they know by now. My dad asked about you on the drive back to the motel.”

You’re curled against his left side, your chin resting against his chest so you can stare up at him. It means that his next few intakes of breath have to be done with a lot of careful thought.

“Can I just come join you guys?” you ask, and Sam’s surprised he can’t hear any hint of a joke in your voice. “I’m sick of missing you all the time.”

He makes a fist, and uses his knuckles to drag circles over your back from the hills of your shoulder blades to the jut of your hip bones.

Sam laughs. “I don’t think you’d want that.” He can tell you’re about to argue until he adds, “Moving in with my dad, that is. You know what he’s like.”

“I’d put up with it for you, though,” you say honestly.

“He treats you like shit,” he stresses. “And he likes you. Maybe it’d be better if I moved in with you instead.”

You push yourself onto your forearm so you can give him a real serious look. There’s a sore spot on his cheek from where he’d gotten shoved into a wall by some spirit, and somehow, you know.

You caress his face, dragging the pads of your fingers over it. Sam makes a weird sound in his throat, something like a hiccup, and you thankfully don’t smile too hard about it.

Sam decides that it’s probably best for his health that you don’t see each other too often. He knows without a doubt that his heart would give out if he felt any stronger about you. He soaks up the warmth of your hand on his face before you let it drop to his collarbones.

“What’s wrong?” he asks.

You lean down to press a kiss to his cheek before shifting your face into his shoulder. “Just appreciating your pretty face. If you moved in, I think my parents would have your head on a stake by the end of the week.”

It startles a laugh out of him. He can’t quite look you in the eyes because you’re trying to hide from him, but he tries to anyway. “Are you serious?”

“I’m sorry!” you groan, using one of your free hands to push at his face. “I thought they liked you, I really did. But my mom found out what I changed the alarm code to and made me clean every single gun in that stupid closet.”

Cruel and unusual. “All ‘cause of me?”

You think long and hard about it. “I think it was part of it. She was also mad because I forgot to do the dishes last week, so it could’ve been that, too.”

Your parents have quite the array of weapons. The jacket closet turned armory in your living room has enough rifles to arm half the state of Kansas, and Sam thinks about what a sad sight it would’ve been: you on the floor with a cleaning rod in hand, and about fifty more handguns to wipe down.

“Poor girl,” he says, pulling your palm into his hand. He presses into the calluses you have from where your gun usually sits. “You didn’t suffer too much?”

“Nope,” you say, awfully cheerful. Your next blink is slower than the others, so he resumes his ministrations against your back. You go limp again. “Only cause I… knew you were coming over soon.”

His face warms, but he has to poke fun at you before he lets you fall asleep.

“Sam, my parents love you,” he mocks, letting his voice go quieter. “Come over for dinner, Sam. No, my parents won’t mind, they love having you over.” He smiles at you. “Must be why I gotta show up here before the sun is up, right?”

Your chest stutters before you laugh, which usually means you’re really embarrassed.

The dream ends when he takes pity on you and kisses the spots on your arms you tell him are aching from all your hard work.

—

Dean wakes up that morning to the sight of Sam hunched over the old table in the corner of the room. There’s a pile of newspapers at his feet and one in his hands, which he stares at so intently it looks like he’ll burn a hole through it.

“Y’know, if you keep scowling, your face is gonna get stuck like that.”

Sam doesn’t grace him with a glance. It’s clear he’s been up for a few hours already. “I think I got something.”

—

Rachel Anderson and John Hansen were two college kids from the suburbs of Virginia. Both were from respectable families, both were straight A students, and both were well-loved by the community.

Two nights ago, John left family movie night to shoot himself in his backyard. And last night, Rachel drowned herself in her bathtub during a sleepover with her friends. In the center of their bedroom floors were identical suicide notes. Each in their own handwriting, but not a single difference in wording or sentence structure.

Sam has to park the car down the block when they arrive outside Rachel Anderson’s house. The street leading up to the building is lined with shiny new cars — Mercedes, Lexus, and BMW logos as far as the eye can see — making the Impala stick out like a sore thumb.

Dean cranes his neck to look up at the houses on the same street as the Andersons. Pretty suburban towns like these scare him a little more than he’s willing to admit.

He whistles. “Didn’t know they made BarbieLand a real place.”

Sam cracks a smile at that. “How many of these people do you think have a membership at that country club down the street?”

The two of them snicker all the way up to the front door. Sam knocks, his brother too busy looking around at the rest of the neighborhood.

“If any of your little college friends have houses as nice as these, maybe we should make a quick visit the next time we’re in California,” Dean jokes, eyeing a neighboring pool.

Sam stops rolling his eyes because the door swings open, and he plasters on his most sympathetic smile for whatever grieving family member is on the other side of the door.

It’s a guy about his age, wearing a crisp black sweater. The dark circles under his eyes make it clear he was close with Rachel — a man plagued with grief through and through.

“Hey,” Sam says. “This is Rachel’s house, right?”

The man flicks his eyes from Sam over to Dean, who’s only now looking away from the nice looking houses to join him at the front door.

“Yeah. This is it,” he answers, though he still doesn’t open the door fully. The three of them stare at each other for an awkward second before the guy clears his throat. “If you guys don’t mind me asking, who are you?”

“I’m Sam, and this is my brother Dean,” he explains. “Me and Rachel had psych together. She saved my grade in that class last semester.”

Sam’s not surprised at how easy the lie rolls off his tongue. Lying is almost as important to the job as the guns in their trunk are.

The man, satisfied with the answer, lets the door creak open. “Oh, I see. I’m Will. Thanks for coming, you two. Everyone’s out in the backyard.”

A girl’s voice floats to the front door from somewhere nearby. “Will, is it Deb?”

William Anderson was mentioned in the article about Rachel’s death. He’s the girl’s older brother, who pivots to face the girl speaking from behind him.

“These are friends from Rachel’s psychology class,” he says, stepping out of the doorway.

Olivia Anderson was mentioned in the paper too. The youngest child of the family, just a year younger than her older sister. For a second, Sam thinks he’s hallucinating. She looks just like her and a little like Will too, down to their twin black sweaters.

A different voice responds, and something about it makes the hair on the back of Sam’s neck stand up. “Psych class? Rachel didn’t—”

The closest Sam can get to describing this moment is like the seconds before a spirit manifests. His heart kicks up a little bit quicker. Alarms ring in his head, and the area around the Andersons’ front door turns electrified.

It’s you.

You get pulled into view by Olivia Anderson, a deer caught in headlights wearing your own matching black sweater.

Sam doesn’t want to blink, certain that your face will shift and it’ll be some sick trick of the light. A dream haunting him even while he’s awake.

“Rachel didn’t what?” Will asks, not suspicious, just curious.

Your mouth opens and closes, like you’re fumbling for something to say, and Sam doesn’t blame you.

For one, you’re going to lie for them. Both him and Dean are beginning to realize that Rachel didn’t take a psychology class at all, and you’re trying to figure out how to twist your sentence into an excuse that makes sense.

And two… you’re standing in front of your best friend who you haven’t spoken to in four years. Sam isn’t surprised that you have nothing to say to him.

“Rachel didn’t like anything about that class,” you decide on, your eyes shifting from Sam to Dean then back again.

You swallow hard. It looks like you’ve—

“—seen a ghost?” you ask, grinning.

The duffel bag in Sam’s hands hits the motel floor, but he’s too stunned to even wince at the sound.

“Looking a little scared there, Sammy,” you tease, pushing yourself off of the old bed in the center of the room. “A little old, too, honestly—”

He’s crossed the room before you can finish your sentence.

You squeak at the impact, your arms being crushed to your sides with the way he captures you in a hug. The two of you stumble two big steps back so you don’t tip over.

“You’re here,” Sam says, like he can’t quite believe it. You manage to work your arms away from your body so you can hug him too. “What are… How did you—”

“Dean finally remembered my phone number,” you joke, squeezing him with a big smile on your face. “I know you guys have to drive out early tomorrow — uh, I guess today, actually — but you know I had to come see you on your birthday, Sam. Even if it’s just for a few hours.”

It’s seven minutes past midnight on the second day of May.

Sam Winchester is eighteen.

“You’re here,” he repeats. He doesn’t bother trying to wipe the smile off his face. “I can’t believe it.”

When Dean had clapped him on the back and told him he’d booked him an extra room for his birthday, Sam was shocked. Birthdays weren’t anything special to either of them, so he’d been thankful, but also very confused. Buying another motel room wasn’t cheap, yet he’d done it anyway.

From the adjoining room next door, Sam’s sure his brother has a shit-eating grin on his face. He’s probably going to hold this over his head forever, claiming how much of a great brother he is, and Sam will let him.

He hasn’t seen you in four months. He thinks he might throw up.

“You drove here all by yourself?” Sam asks you, once the two of you have settled on the bed. He takes a seat cross-legged and both of you pretend like you’re not about halfway into his lap.

“Yep,” you say proudly. “Dean had to teach me how to parallel park over the phone so I would have my license in time.”

Sam’s heart swells ten sizes. “Thank you. I can’t believe you came out all this way.”

You hit him on the shoulder. “Of course. You’re my best friend, did you really think I was gonna miss your eighteenth birthday?”

He leans in close enough to the point that it’d be easy to kiss you. So, so, so easy.

He doesn’t, though, and you don’t push it. You reach for one of his hands in his lap and trace over the ridges of his knuckles, a little smile on your face.

His hair has finally recovered from the Nair that Dean had put in his shampoo a while back, so it hangs just over his eyebrows and curls around his ears again. You blow the brown locks out of his eyes and then smile a little wider.

“I have a gift for you.”

You slink out of his lap, and Sam tries not to frown when you get up to grab your backpack. “You didn’t have to get me anything.”

“Stop worrying,” you chastise, dropping your bag onto the bed to look through. “I’m your actual birthday gift. This one’s just extra, so it’s nothing fancy.”

“You being here is worth more than any fancy thing you could've bought me at a store,” he says, and you brush his hair from his face affectionately.

“I’m happy you think so, Sammy.”

Too wrapped up in the sight of your smile, he forgets to say something about the dumb nickname.

“I got this from the grocery store down the street before you got here.” It’s wrapped in the plastic bag you’d bought it in, but Sam takes it from your hands like it’s made of gold. “Consider this one… supplemental.”

You huddle close while he takes the gift out of the bag and reads it.

“Thirteen Ghosts,” he says, flipping the DVD case over in his hands.

“Figured we could watch a movie together.” You poke his side. “See how funny they make their monsters look.”

This isn’t the first time you and Sam have watched a movie together. There was that one time when you’d watched Notting Hill on your couch, but your parents kept giving him warning looks from in the kitchen and he’d made sure to keep the bowl of popcorn and half of the couch between you two.

And Sam will always hold some level of respect for your parents because they’re your parents, but he could not be more glad to be hundreds of miles away from them right now. Because the second that he comes back from popping the DVD into the player, you’re very kindly asking to spoon, and Sam is not well known for being able to say no to you.

You tuck yourself against his front, and he slips his arms around your middle. You trap his hands there by slotting yours together, tracing over the lines on his hands like a palm reader. Sam watches you while you watch the movie, pretending to follow along with the dialogue and your whispered commentary.

The lights of the TV flicker on the side of your face as you poke fun at the actors, and he’s hit with a wave of anticipatory sadness. Sam prays to whoever’s listening that he never falls asleep. Prays this night lasts forever, and that you don’t have to go home and he doesn’t have to leave in the morning. If the rest of his life is bad horror movies and sleeping next to you, he’d die happy.

You laugh at something that jumps on the screen, and Sam can’t help himself anymore.

When he says your name, he practically winces hearing the sound of his own voice. It’s shaky and nervous, and you shift to look at him with concern in your eyes. One of the actresses screams on screen, and you squeeze his hand that you still haven’t let go of.

“You okay? Did you wanna turn the TV off?”

“I love you.”

You turn to face him completely, and Sam Winchester, the luckiest eighteen-year-old in the world, is able to watch the smile light up your eyes.

You let go of him to hold his face, like he’s something to be treasured. “I love you too, S—”

“—am, and I’m Dean,” his brother says, offering his hand for you to shake.

Your grip looks solid when you reach across the threshold of the Anderson house to take his hand in yours, as if you’re meeting him for the first time.

The whole thing feels like a nightmare.

It’s unnatural to watch your tight lipped smile and awkward shuffling while you stare blankly at Dean. You let go of his hand like he hasn’t pulled you off your couch and taught you how to dance in the middle of your living room. Like he hasn’t let you finish the rest of his food at rundown diners just because you ate yours too fast.

You turn to Sam next, and his stomach does a backflip.

Four years was a long time.

Sam knows he’s not the same person who left you on your front porch. He’d held you for longer than usual that day, and left you with a promise to visit that he hadn’t meant.

He doesn’t think you’re the same girl who was left there either. You look different. A little older, a little more mature.

(At eighteen, you would’ve given him a nasty look for that. “Older? You can’t say that to a girl, Sam.”

“I said you looked older, not old!” he would’ve defended frantically. “There’s a difference!”

“Why the hell would I want to be told I look older, you jerk!”)

And he loves you, but it’s true. You look older, but it means you look as lovely as ever. Grown into yourself and radiant in ways you hadn’t been at eighteen. You look like you’re glowing.

Your hair is also done in a way you never liked to do by yourself. He knows it for a fact, because you’d always complain to him over the phone about it, wondering how he was able to do it for you so nicely.

(He’d always said it was because he was patient and you were clearly not, but it was mostly because he’d practiced it on your old dolls a bunch of times before he’d asked to do it on you.)

Your hair now looks nicer than anything Sam could’ve done for you. He wonders if you did it yourself—if you had to learn because he wasn’t around anymore, and was never coming back.

Sam wants to tell you that he’s missed you, and that there hasn’t been a day he hasn’t thought of you.

He wonders what you would say. He wonders if you'd sound the same, and he’d be able to tell, ‘cause of how often he plays your old voicemails over when he misses you. He remembers just how you would sound when you were laughing and remembers precisely how much slower you would speak when you were upset.

You don’t extend your hand for him to shake, and Sam’s left to wonder if your hands would still feel the same in his.

And when he meets your eyes, he reads the hurt written all over your features. Hurt that he put there. Hurt that’s probably healed over in the last four years, leaving a nice long scar he’s sliced open again just now.

You nod at him. “It’s nice to meet you, Sam.”

He digs his fingers into his palms. “It’s nice to meet you too.”

notes: the party ended four years ago and she JUST GOT HERE!!!! LMAO ive been infected with the sam winchester virus but who can blame me look at his face

one more? | cardinal copia x gn!reader

Inspired by all the kiss prompts. This is for @leezlelatch ♡

content: 750 words, gn!reader, some suggestiveness and spice but nothing explicit, lots of kissing going on here, we get a little frisky

Masterlist – Ao3 link

✦ ✧ ✦

Lunch breaks are invariably too short. They feel even shorter since you spend them wrapped up in Copia’s cassocked arms, hidden away in an empty corner behind the entrance to the library. Your back is pressed against the cool stone walls, your habit disheveled from his wandering hands, leaving half of your leg exposed to the chill draft haunting this part of the abbey.

The cool air feels heavenly against your heated skin where Copia’s fingertips are trailing up to your hip and back down in a steady dance. It’s oddly tender compared to the way his mouth is so insistent on devouring you. You can only imagine the purple discolorations blooming on your neck right now, the smears of lipstick and bite marks he left in his impatient fervor after he’d pinned you to the wall.

The bells have long since chimed to announce the passing of lunch hour. He should be back in his office and you should be back behind the reception desk. And yet your arms are still tightly slung around his shoulders as his tongue licks into your hungry mouth.

“I have to go back,” he mumbles for the fifth time as he breaks away for air, trying to step back but you don’t let go of his neck. “Amore…”

With your hand in his hair, you press your mouth to his once again, ignoring his complaints. His biretta has long since fallen off his head and you make use of the easy access, dragging your nails over his scalp in the way that he loves so much. He moans loudly and kisses back for a moment, moving his swollen lips against yours just almost chastely now. With the kiss distracting you, his gloved fingers wrap around your wrists and he pulls them off of him, pretending to pin you to the wall. With your hands off, he tries to tear himself away once more, but your fingers grasp his pellegrina at the last second. You yank him back, bringing your mouth to his ear as he stumbles into you. “One more kiss? Please?”

“You want your Cardinal to be late?” he whispers, bracing himself against the wall behind you.

“Yes, if it means I get another kiss.”

“I will get in trouble, amore.” He drags his nose along your cheek before nuzzling yours. “Do you have no compassion for me?”

“No.”

He tsks, pulling back slightly when you try to capture his lips again. “So cruel. So cruel to your Cardinal and you claim to love me.”

“I do love you. That’s why I want another one, silly.” You try to pull at his robes again but he won’t budge. “Please please please.”

He whimpers softly. “You know what begging does to me, dolce.”

“Please. Please, Cardinal, I need one more.”

“One more, then you will let me go?”

“Mhm.”

He leans in, kissing you as softly as he can muster. You trap his full bottom lip between your teeth for a second and he groans, pressing in harder until the back of your head hits the wall again.  He pulls away with a desperate sigh and you whine at the loss of him.

“One more,” you beg, tugging at his robes.

“Amore,” he groans. “You are getting greedy now.”

“Isn’t greed a virtue?”

“I think you are mixing that up, no?”

He gives you another peck before he fully pulls away. You allow it this time, conceding in favor of your own reputation. Someone is going to want something from you any second now and you still have to get presentable.

Copia straightens his rumpled cassock before glancing at your ruined face with a smirk. “We continue this tonight, amore,” he promises. “You will bring the same hunger, yes?”

You nod, smiling like a fool when he winks at you. He almost stumbles over his own feet as he turns back around, still drunk on endorphins and your taste. A few deep breaths and you gather your wits before your eyes get caught by a red blob of color on the floor.

You pick up his biretta and put it on your head. He’s already halfway down the hall when you call out to him. “Looks like you forgot something, Cardinal.”

He spins around, the skirt of his cassock whirling around his legs. “Don’t even say it, amore.”

“You’re lucky,” you say with a grin. “Payment is very cheap today.”

 Thank you for reading! I hope you enjoyed ♡

Masterlist – My Ao3

O Face

The Slutty Bucky Birthday Bash - Day 1 ✉︎

Prompt from anon: “I know you mentioned what Buckys hips do when he’s coming but what about his face? 😵‍💫”

Warnings: Explicit sexual content. Minors DNI. PIV sex, Bucky's brain go brrrrrr

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader (yhhmsgm universe, established relationship)

Word Count: 1k (Okay I lied and this got long. Oops.)

slutty bucky birthday bash masterlist

It depends on if you can see him or not 😌

When you’re face-to-face, Bucky tries his best to hold it together for the sake of his dignity. In missionary, it’s easy— when he feels that first telltale spark of electricity in his core, he can bury his face in the crook of your neck and fall apart however he needs to. You can feel his open-mouthed panting against your skin, hear his grunts and groans as his hips stutter and still, but that’s about it.

If you’re on top and facing him when he gets close, sometimes he gets a little frantic. He’ll start pawing at your hips, your waist, anything he can grab to pull you down closer to him. If you give in and lean down to meet him, it’s just like with missionary— he can hide his face against your neck, or maybe he’ll mouth at your breasts while he thrusts up into you. That keeps you too distracted to notice his scrunched eyebrows and the way his jaw hangs open, even with your nipple in his mouth. 

Sometimes, though, you don’t give in. Sometimes when you feel him getting close, when you feel his hands on your body trying to pull you down to him, you resist and lean back instead. And looking up at the best fucking view in the world, there’s no way he can hide it.

It’s torture when you take your time like this. Blissful, amazing torture. Bucky’s flat on his back on the bed, his eyes closed, panting so heavily that he needs to dart his tongue out to wet his dry lips. He’s been trying to hold it together, trying to make this last, but after one especially unbearable grind, his body doesn’t want to wait anymore— his hips jerk on their own accord, giving one quick, harsh thrust up into you. 

It throws off your rhythm, and you pause for half a second. Bucky can tell by your gasp that you liked it, liked feeling him push deeper inside you than you can manage on your own, but you’re in charge tonight and he knows it. 

He tries to force himself to exhale slowly. It only half works. 

When he’s still, you find your pace again— you’re not quite bouncing on his cock, but it’s more than just a grind, too. He’s taking quick, rasping breaths now, because those flames are licking at the base of his spine, making his balls draw up and his cock twitch, and you’re hurtling him toward the finish line— 

But much too soon, your motions stop. That molten heat begins to dissipate, and from somewhere far away, Bucky hears your quiet, amused huff. He takes a breath to stifle his indignant groan before he opens his eyes.

He has to blink a few times to bring you into focus. Perched on top of him, you’re leaning back with your hands resting on his thighs just above his knees, and he’s not entirely certain that you’re real. You’re some wet dream he conjured up, he’s sure of it. 

He glances down to where you’re joined. He’s so deep inside of you that all he can see is the creamy base of his cock, and your pussy gripping him tightly— his dick throbs violently at the image, and no, you’re real. You’re definitely, definitely, real. No wet dream can squeeze him like that.

You’re watching him intently, one corner of your mouth quirked up. “What is your face doing?” you almost snort.

“Hmm?” Bucky grunts, uncomprehending. But you’re watching him, waiting, and it takes a few seconds for his molasses brain to process your words. When it finally does, he focuses his eyes again and snaps his dangling jaw shut. “Nothing.” He swallows thickly and tries to stare up at the ceiling as a flush spreads across his cheeks. His gaze doesn’t make it that far; your tits are right there in front of him, covered in a light sheen of sweat, and he doesn’t have the willpower to even try to hide his stare. 

What was his face doing? Judging by your giggles, it must’ve been doing something, but nothing that he was aware of. Nothing that he meant for it to do. He tries to scowl, but you glide your hips back, so that he’s almost fully pulled out, before you sheath him completely again in one motion. 

His eyebrows knit up in the middle, his mouth dropping open for just a moment before he can force his face back to neutral. Your pleased hum tells Bucky he was too slow; you saw it anyway.

“I… it’s… you, and…” he rambles, his ability to think coherently long since gone. You giggle again and clench around his cock, and bright flashes of white and gold take over his vision. The twinkling stars don’t clear by the time you begin rolling your hips again.

He’s marginally aware of what he looks like this time, though he doesn’t have the power to fight it. His mouth drops open when you pick up an unforgiving pace, and he brings his lower lip between his teeth because maybe it’s a little less obvious that way. His eyelids are fluttering, because even as his eyebrows scrunch and his teeth dig into his lip, he desperately wants to watch you. 

His hips jolt with that first telltale shudder, and he can’t fight it any longer— his jaw drops fully open, his head presses back against the pillow, and there’s no holding back those groans he was trying so desperately to muffle. A cherry flush spreads across his face and down his neck as he pushes in deep, gasping with each twitch of his cock as he blows his load inside you.

By the time everything comes back into focus— the bed, the room, you— it’s too late. He sucks in slow breaths through his nose while you lean forward and pepper kisses along his cheekbones. You’re giggling— at him, at his expense— but in his blissed-out haze, he finds that he doesn’t mind in the slightest.

this is so sweet I love it so much

I really hope you mean here 🤭

Request: "Remus is being rude to the reader due to the upcoming full moon.. make it as angsty as you can"

Thanks for requesting babe <3

cw: migraine, Rem is mean :(

Remus Lupin x fem!reader ♡ 1.2k words

When you come home from work, the apartment is dark and there’s evidence of Remus’ shit day everywhere. 

The curtains are drawn closed against the sunlight, and there’s a discarded blanket on the couch and several snack containers half-emptied on the coffee table. One of them has tipped onto the floor, a mess of crisps your boyfriend was likely feeling too unwell to tidy. He’s spilled tea on the table, too. These kinds of things are more common in the days before the full moon, but you think he must really be having a rough one. Even a few unwashed dishes in the sink is usually enough to stress Remus out, so he has to have been in a state to leave things like this. 

You brew a fresh cup of tea, grabbing some chocolates from the cabinet in case he didn’t bring any with him, and broach the bedroom. A shape moves under the sheets when the door creaks open. 

“Hi,” you say softly. You kneel by the bed, lightly touching the ends of Remus’ hair. “How are you, love?” 

“Bad,” he mutters from beneath the covers. You wince. He must be, if he won’t even lower the sheets beneath his eyes. 

You do your best to keep the pity from your voice, knowing he’d hate it. “I brought you some tea,” you murmur, “if you want it.”

“Can’t right now.” 

“It’s chamomile,” you coax. “It might help—”

“I can’t.” The low rumble of his voice takes on a hard edge, and you fall instantly silent. You nod even though he can’t see it, setting the tea and chocolate on his nightstand as quietly as you can. 

You don’t tell him you’re going, sure every footstep is agonizingly loud for him. You force down the lump in your throat. Remus is miserable right now; he’s not thinking about how his tone affects you, and that’s not his fault. He doesn’t mean anything by it. You can deal with it, help anyways.

You sweep instead of vacuuming, gathering the little bits of crisps into a dustpan and dumping them in the trash. The half-eaten snacks get reshelved in your cabinets, the puddle of tea cleaned off the coffee table, and candles lit to banish the stale smell in the living room. The cinnamon ones are usually Remus’ favorite, but you trade them out for lavender on the off chance it helps with his headache. You’re washing dishes one at a time so they don’t clatter when the bedroom door creaks open. 

“Hey,” you say, relieved. “Feeling better?” 

“No.” Remus’ voice is low, and the scratch of it tears at your heartstrings. He trudges to the end of the hall, where he stops, rubbing his forehead with his thumb and forefinger. “I need you to be quiet.” 

“Oh, sorry.” You soften your voice, freezing with your hands submerged in the warm dishwater. “I’ve been trying, I didn’t realize you could hear. I’m almost done with this, so—” 

“Could you stop?” he asks, tone going harsh again. “Just, be quiet or find somewhere else to be, please. I can’t deal with this.” 

You swallow against the intrusion in your throat. Will away the heat from your face. “Okay,” you say, the word barely a whisper. 

Remus turns, plodding back to the bedroom. You hear the door shut.

You leave the dishwater to get cold rather than pouring it out and making more noise. You sit down on the couch with a book, eyes skimming over the words as you convince yourself over and over that it’d be stupid to cry about this. Your face heats, then cools. Tears blur your vision and you blink them away. This is ridiculous. Remus is just moody, he didn’t mean it. You know better than to take anything he says to heart right now. You can’t expect your efforts to be properly appreciated, but the important part is to keep making them. When he’s feeling better, he’ll thank you in a million sweet ways, because that’s who he is. He loves you. He didn’t mean it. 

It’s dark outside when the bedroom door creaks open again. You hadn’t noticed night falling, even when the light became too dim for you to make out the words on your page. You set your book down; you hadn’t been reading anyway. 

Remus sits next to you without a word. He leans the side of his head against the cushion with a sigh. 

“Dove?” he murmurs. 

You don’t dare do more than hum in response. 

A scarred hand finds your leg, the thumb sweeping back and forth over your skin. “I’m sorry for snapping at you,” he says quietly. “That was…it was really mean. And undeserved.”

“I’m sorry I was being loud,” you reply, and you can’t help it, your throat clogs all over again. “I was just trying to help.” 

Your voice catches on the last word, and Remus makes a pained sound that has you silencing yourself instantly. He makes another at your response. 

“Fuck, I’m so sorry,” he rasps. “Do you want a hug?” 

You bite down on your lower lip. “Are you okay to hug?” 

“Yeah, sweetheart.” 

He meets you in the middle, pressing upon your shoulder blades like he can hold you together by sheer physical force. You try for his sake, swallowing the cries that rise in your throat. 

“I’m sorry,” he says again, palm marking a slow path up and down your back. “You weren’t too loud, I’m just fussy. You were only being your kind self. I had no reason to be so horrid.” 

“You weren’t horrid,” you warble. “I know you’re having a hard time.” 

“That’s no excuse.” His palm makes its way back to your shoulders just in time to feel the first little sob escape you. Remus’ grip tightens. “Aw, dovey. I’m so, so sorry. I can’t believe I spoke to you like that.” 

“It’s okay.” 

“It’s not,” he murmurs, kissing the exposed bit of skin where your shirt is slipping down your shoulder. “It’s not, and—” He pauses, looking around the room for the first time. “Did you clean?” 

You nod against his front, feeling the pained sigh that leaves him. 

“Fuck, I’m awful.” 

“You’re not.” 

“You were cleaning up my mess, and I yelled at you.” Now Remus’ voice sounds a tad raw too. He gathers you closer, stubble scratching your forehead as he kisses your hairline. “My sweet girl. You should have ripped me a new one.” 

“You weren’t yelling,” you point out, teasing a bit now, “and anyway, it seemed like you were already being ripped a new one.” 

“Still,” he mumbles into your hair. “You lit the lavender candles and everything. You deserve to put me through hell.” 

“You’re already going through hell,” you remind him gently, brushing a kiss against his cheek. “I don’t need to help the process along. Do you want some tea, love?” 

Remus hums. “I do, but let me get it. Let me get some for you, too, yeah?” He leans back to look down at you. “You want some nighttime tea, darling?” 

You’re alright really, but you tell him you do anyway. He looks nearly happy as he drags himself into the kitchen, and he won’t stop mollycoddling you for the rest of the night. 

this is so sweet omg 🥰

crop top ~ bucky barnes x f!curvy reader

Bucky helps reader feel confident wearing a crop top on their date, reminding her that she’s beautiful just the way she is. A soft, supportive moment with a little bit of flirty chaos because… it’s Bucky. 🖤

masterlist faq

A/N: I should be going to sleep but you know what? you get a fic and I ruin my circadian rhythm. I love that top but you can imagine any you like!💞 you are beautiful and deserve to be wearing any crop tops you damn want!!!! No one should never make you feel like you are supposed to look a certain way in order to wear something.

warnings: curvy! reader, boyfriend! Bucky, reader is self-conscious and bucky reassures her.

minors dni. i am not responsible for what you choose to consume.

do not copy, translate or claim any of my work as your own.

“You sure I don’t look stupid?” you asked for the third time, fidgeting with the hem of the baby blue crop top. It was soft, ribbed, and paired perfectly with your favorite jeans—but it clung to your stomach in a way that made your skin crawl with nerves.

Bucky was standing behind you in the mirror, hands resting gently on your hips. “You look like you walked out of my dreams,” he murmured, voice warm against your neck.

You let out a nervous laugh and pulled the top down, trying in vain to make it longer. “You’re biased.”

“I’m observant,” he said, turning you gently by the shoulders to face him. He crouched slightly to meet your eyes, thumbs brushing the outside of your arms. “Baby, look at me.”

You did, hesitant and searching. He gave you that soft, steady gaze—the one that always made the world quiet for a second.

“You can wear whatever you want,” he said firmly. “You will look beautiful. That’s not up for debate.”

“You’re just saying that cause you’re my boyfriend”

“No,” he said, voice softer now. “I’m saying that because I love you. And I think you look like a goddess.”

You sighed and looked down at your stomach, poking the fabric. “I just…I feel so exposed like everyone can look at my stomach, everyone can see everything”

Bucky was quiet for a second, then he lifted his metal arm and turned it palm up, flexing the fingers slightly. “You know,” he said, “I used to hate when people stared at this.”

You blinked, glancing at the vibranium. “Bucky, that’s not—”

“I know it’s not the same,” he said quickly, “but the feeling… it’s close. Feeling like eyes are on you. Like people are forming opinions before they know you.” He paused, stroking your waist with his other hand. “But I started realizing something. This arm? It’s a part of me. And if someone wants to stare? Let ‘em. I’ll still sleep fine at night.”

You smiled, just a little. “Easy for you to say. You’re hot and mysterious and your arm is is cool like it can kill people and stuff. That’s powerful, these are just stomach rolls.”

Bucky blinked at you, then let out a soft laugh through his nose—not mocking, just surprised. “Sweetheart,” he said, leaning his forehead against yours, “did you just say my arm is cool because it can kill people?”

You shrugged, flustered. “I mean… yeah? It’s a weapon. People stare at you and probably think ‘wow, badass.’ People stare at me and think, ‘she should’ve worn something looser.’” You motioned vaguely at your stomach, the fabric hugging closer than you were used to. “These are just… rolls. Squishy. Uncool.”

Bucky pulled back just enough to look you in the eyes, his expression a mix of heartbreak and fierce love. “That’s not what people think. And even if it was—who the hell cares?”

You didn’t answer, just crossed your arms, trying not to fold in on yourself.

“I know what it’s like to feel like you’re being watched,” he said gently. “I’ve felt it in my skin, in my spine. But if I spent my life dressing in a way that made everyone else more comfortable, I’d still be hiding under twenty layers of tactical gear.”

He took your hand and guided it to his chest. “This arm may be powerful, yeah. But you? You’re brave. You walk into rooms knowing what people might say, and you still show up. You still want to wear the damn crop top. That’s power, baby.”

You bit your lip.

“And those ‘uncool’ rolls?” he added, fingers brushing your sides. “They’re a part of you. They’re soft and warm and they’re where my hand fits when I hold you at night. So yeah, maybe this arm can kill people—but those rolls? They keep me alive.”

Your breath caught, and you smacked his chest lightly. “You’re such a sap.”

He grinned. “Only for you. Now come on, let’s go out. Let the world stare. You’re with the guy with the murder arm, remember?”

You laughed—really laughed this time—and reached for his hand.

“Okay. But if I chicken out halfway through dinner…”

“I’ll give you my hoodie,” he promised. “But I’m betting we won’t need it.”

I hope you enjoyed this as much as I've enjoyed writing it!! Feedback is always welcome!

Shares, Reblogs, Likes & Comments help stories grow! I appreciate each one of them!! 🩷🩷✨✨

No but the POWER in that scream vocal what the FUCK

!!!!! THIS IS GENIUS ????!!!

glorious evolution

literally so in love with this

A Million Reasons - Masterlist

Pairing: College!Bucky x Reader

Summary: Bucky Barnes, with all of his trust fund money and family connections, gets assigned community service. You, as someone that’s technically part of the community, now have to put up with him. Every day. And he won’t stop killing your plants.

Warnings: Enemies (annoyance) to lovers, Bucky’s old money at an ivy league, angst, minor injury, drinking, eventual smut (minors dni, marked **)

a/n: Hello! I’ve decided there won’t be a set posting day for this series. This is something I’ve been super excited to share (even with my writing steam dying out) and I want to get it out here without extra pressure. I’ll be adding the dates for upcoming chapters as they are ready :) And thank you @traitorjoelite​ for that second, beautiful moodboard 🤍

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