#safe sam content

[tsbs-shipfessions]

ANY AND ALL MOONS

x

ANY AND ALL ECLIPSES

-drops mic-

Every Au. Every iteration. THE TOXIC AND THE WHOLESOME. Poly or Mono, doesn’t matter. they are my drug. my everything.

(they come second to Eclipse x Au!Eclipse(s) tho, those ships are bangers, polycule or/and 1/1)

I'm honestly surprised we haven't seen more content of these two. They have a lot of potential for anyone who likes a serving-side of angst when it comes to shipping.

[winterway]

I hate fanfiction so much (I really don’t), because what do you mean I ship Bucky and John now??

Why can’t it be one of the more popular ships, now I’m scrounging for content for the most ridiculous ship ever😭

[butternotbutter]

purely by coincidence I finished watching return of the king for the first time and then a few hours later my period started so . u must understand . I have been crying for Hours

[ladylilithprime]

Day 24: Branded

(Set in the werewolf!Sam'verse. Immediate Part 2 follow-up to Day 23. Wincest and lemony goodness ahoy!)

THE SCENT OF lust was a familiar one in Sam Winchester's nose after better than six years as a werewolf spending a good portion of his time on a college campus or in bars. The last two years spent with him and Dean practically in each other's pockets again had especially accustomed him to the scent of Dean's lust, as differentiated from his normal baseline scent. He had noticed when it started cropping up even when Sam was the only one around, stronger when it was closer to the full moon and Sam ditched his clothes more often than not, could pick up the pattern of when Dean would be especially on the prowl for a hook-up as opposed to content with (or resigned to) using his own hand. Sam gave him credit, Dean never made him feel trapped or crowded beyond what the unavoidable close quarters did, and he even tolerated Sam being more tactile than usual after hunts. Welcomed it, really, even if he didn't initiate it himself.

Lust was only one of the many scents Sam had become familiar with from Dean over the last two years. Anger, fear, sorrow, giddy joy... He knew what it smelled like when Dean was injured, whether the bleeding was below the surface or escaping the skin, when he was strong and fresh and ready to fight, and when he was weak and shaking inside even when his hands were steady as a rock. There wasn't a single lie Dean could tell that Sam would believe even without his powers, so attuned was he to Dean's every fluctuating mood and thought.

There had been no faking the distress in Dean's scent when Sam had been captured by the Bender family for their own hunting sport, mercifully none the wiser to Sam's dual nature thanks to Jess's talisman, but damned if that hadn't taken a few years off both their lives that night.

So he had known long before Dean had been willing to admit it that his brother not just loved him but wanted him in a decidedly non-brotherly sense. Quite aside from the lack of distress or fear scents whenever he was around Sam's wolf form was the distinct increase in musk around Sam's human form, whether he was naked or not, even if Dean himself hadn't seemed to be aware of it at first. So Sam had effectively been given plenty of time to think about that and make his own peace with the fact that Dean desired him despite knowing he wasn't human, and come to the conclusion that if Dean ever decided he wanted to do something about that desire then Sam wouldn't turn him away.

He was surprised it took being kidnapped by demons and nearly dying in a ghost town before Dean had kissed him the first time, and an actual Angel showing up to rescue them from a dozen more demons for Dean to admit that it wasn't just the heat of the moment. That he wanted Sam, but didn't ever want to hurt him or force him into anything. And Sam had smelled the surprise from Dean when he'd said that he had already known and was just waiting for Dean to take the lead and tell him how far they could go, starting with safewords because the last thing Sam wanted was to push Dean too far and not realize it despite scent cues.

Sam breathed in deeply as he watched Dean crawl naked up onto the bed and flop down, rolling over to his back and tilting his chin up to expose his throat. Lust was definitely the dominant scent marker in the room, not that Sam would have doubted it with the way Dean's cock was jutting up proudly, flushed with blood and already beading precum at the tip. There had been an adrenaline spike when Sam's teeth had grazed his throat, but curiously no fear, and there had been a definite spike when Sam had spanked him for the lack of verbal safeword confirmation. That was something to consider exploring another time, especially with the way Dean seemed to fall so naturally into the submissive role in response to Sam, but not for their first time together. This time, he needed to be gentle.

The scent picked up even more strongly when Dean's eyes locked on his as Sam moved to join him on the bed, taking his cue from Dean and crawling up from the end of the bed until he was kneeling straddling his brother, their faces barely a centimeter apart. This close, he could see the way Dean's pupils expanded, swallowing the green, and feel the stutter of his brother's breath against his face. Arousal. Lust. Sam brushed the tips of their noses together teasingly, then lowered his lips to take Dean's in a firm but tender kiss.

He felt branded inside and out just from that contact alone.

Dean was full on trembling when he broke the kiss, muscles tense and straining with the effort to stay still. There was distress starting to leak into his scent that gave Sam pause, though still no actual fear. He dipped his head into the curve of Dean's neck to get a deep whiff of his brother's scent and blinked when Dean actually arched up into him. "De? Talk to me, man, what's going through your head?"

A heat flush of embarrassment preceded Dean's swallow, and Sam caught the clench and flex of his hands out of the corner of his eye. "....wanna touch you..."

"And?" Sam prompted when Dean hesitated.

"....don't wanna nut off early and disappont you..." Dean mumbled, barely above a whisper. It sent a surge of protective anger through Sam, the sudden sharp desire to hunt down and throttle every judgemental, self-centered idiot who had ever made his big brother feel shame. He wrestled it back down firmly - anger would not help anything - and pressed another kiss to Dean's lips in reward for his honestly.

"First off, you absolutely can touch me, as much as you want," Sam began, smiling softly when Dean flicked his eyes up to check that he meant it. "Seriously. The safewords go both ways, dude. If I don't want you doing something, I'll say so, just like I expect you to do if I do something you don't like, okay?

"As to the other," he added, shifting his weight enough to free a hand that he could press over Dean's chest, feeling the beat of that precious, precious heart beneath his palm. "Only way you're disappointing me is if you give up. You've never been a 'one and done' kinda guy that I know of, so...." He trailed his hand lower, tracing a feathery pattern across Dean's abs and feeling them clench at the ticklish sensation. "Way I see this going, if you do come quicker than expected, then I intend to work my way down your chest.... probably leaving a trail of hickeys since you seemed to like my teeth on you... and then lick up every drop of your come I can find before wrapping my lips around your dick and sucking you back to full hardness for round two."

"Oh go...dsss..." Dean gasped, hips flexing beneath Sam as his cock twitched hard.

"I said 'all night', big brother," Sam reminded him with just the barest hint of a feral edge to his grin. "I absolutely meant that. Still green?"

"Fuck yeah!"

[fawniswriting]

After I Was Too Late

This fic can be read as a stand-alone or as a sequel to Before I Could Say It.

The above image does not indicate the reader's physical appearance.

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader

Synopsis: The three times Bucky saved your life, and the one time you save each other.

Word Count: 10.1k (I got carried away)

Warning(s): gn!reader (pls advise me if there's any gender-specific detail in the fic), canon typical violence, angst, fluff, near death experience(s), hurt/comfort, alcohol consumption, physical injuries, it's a kinder ending this time I promise 🥺❤️ (lmk if I missed anything!!)

Author's Note: PT 2 IS FINALLY HERE Y'ALL!! I'm so sorryy for the delay, my work has been out of control lately (I legit had to go home at 9.30 PM last week 😭🙏🏼). But I've finally finished this piece, and I hope you guys like it!! I'm tagging everyone who left a comment/reblog-comment on the first part but if you prefer to keep the ending to the fic as it was, then you can just skip reading this. And if any of you want to be removed from the taglist, please just let me know!! As always, don't forget to comment, like, and reblog 💖

Bucky Barnes Masterlist

If someone were to ask you about the beginning, your mind would immediately go straight to that day.

Six years ago, your thread of fate wove into his, placing the two of you on polar ends in the middle of a highway shoot-out that revealed the face beneath the infamous Winter Soldier's mask. You recognized him from the sketches littered across Steve Roger's desk: Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes—Bucky, as Steve had called him. A shadow of the past, long presumed gone to the clutches of war and time. 

Yet, there he was.

Alive and breathing.

And he was trying to kill you.

After the events in D.C., you helped the Captain search for the man who had risen from the dead. You saw Bucky's apartment in Bucharest—a depressing little hole in the wall that was barely suitable for a human being to live in. It nicked at your chest, wrestled with a docile side of your heart that you hadn't entertained since they had dubbed you one of earth's mightiest heroes. And when you finally stood in front of the man—not the Soldat, not the merciless assassin who had sliced a dagger to your side two years prior—your chest tapered at the quiet war waging behind his eyes.

“I wasn't in Vienna,” Bucky told Steve. His eyes flickered briefly towards you as he said it, willing, perhaps, for at least one person in that room to put their trust in him; the man standing vulnerably in that apartment, not the weapon he was forced to become. 

“I don't do that anymore,” he added.

You believed him.

Steve did, too.

The next few hours were a whirlwind of chasing and being chased. After Zemo broke the Winter Soldier out of the facility in Berlin, you took Steve and Sam to an abandoned site you once neutralized where the three of you could keep Bucky safe from the authorities. You watched from the sideline as Steve interrogated Bucky for answers, listening intently while the Captain and the Falcon began rummaging their heads for a viable plan of action. 

Once Sam left to reach out to his contacts, Steve also excused himself from the room, muttering something about needing to make a phone call and leaving you alone with the burly man who was trying miserably to hide behind his curtain of hair.

Wordlessly, you walked towards the paper bag you kept on a rusty oil barrel, grabbing one of its contents before cautiously approaching the brooding man in the center of the room. Bucky looked up the moment you shoved the packaged croissant in his face, confusion shining with blue under the taut crease of dark eyebrows.

“Take it,” you said simply.

Bucky's frown deepened as he stared at your hand. 

You masked the sinking feeling in your stomach with a sigh, putting the package next to the makeshift chair Bucky was sitting on. 

“You haven't eaten since yesterday.” Your hands were buried in the pocket of your jeans as you spoke, hiding the tremble in them so the man in front of you wouldn't see just how much your heart was breaking for him. “We have a long journey ahead of us. And if Steve is anything to go by when it comes to a super soldier's calorie intake, you must be running on extreme deficit by now.”

Bucky stayed silent. 

You scraped the ground with the toe of your shoes, trying to fill in the quietness as you rambled, “I would've loved to prepare you a nice three-course meal, but considering half of the world is on our asses, I didn't think you'd mind a small downgrade. Believe me, I'd kill for a real croissant right now. There's a bakery near the Avengers’ old tower whose owner makes the best chocolate and butter croissants. They're fantastic. This one tastes like a foam board compared to them.”

Bucky continued to stay silent, only perusing you under his intense gaze. You rubbed the back of your neck and managed an awkward chuckle. “You know what? You don't have to eat that. It tastes terrible anyway. I'll just throw it out. Let me see if the pigeons would like some.”

You reached out to grab the plastic packaging, but Bucky stopped you in tracks, grabbing the croissant with a hesitant drag of his hand.

“Thank you,” he muttered curtly.

The sight in front of your eyes would have made you chortle under any other circumstances—the ludicrousness of seeing a Herculean with a metal arm grappling with the flimsy packaging of a factory-made pastry. The croissant was ridiculously small in Bucky’s hand, and you felt foolish for thinking it could offer anything close to sufficient sustenance for a man his size. He could probably devour the whole thing in a single bite and still be starving.

And yet, before he even savored a taste, Bucky tilted the croissant towards you in a silent proposition. An offer to share. To tear the pastry in two as if he didn't barely have enough for himself in the first place. The gesture lurched at something in your chest, winding down your ribs like overgrown vines.

You feigned a smile, feeling it crack around the sorrow you were desperately trying to quell. “That’s for you, Bucky,” you told him softly. “I have mine.”

The man nodded, hesitantly, as if the thought of having something to himself was stranger than fiction. He took a tentative bite, his forehead creasing as he chewed on the sad excuse of a pastry.

“Bad, huh?” You cringed sheepishly. “Told you. It's borderline inedible. You don't have to finish it if you don't want to.”

“I've had worse.”

You clenched your teeth. 

There was no room for doubt in your mind that he probably did have worse than an additive-laden confectionery.

“Yeah?” You didn't know why you were asking. “Like what?”

The metal fingers on Bucky's thigh whirred, like he was flexing, removing the stiffness in his joints if there had been flesh instead of vibranium. You waited with bated breath as he stared at a suspicious puddle on the ground.

“I was stuck in an underground cave system once,” Bucky began, pausing to take a tiny bite of the croissant. He looked defenseless that way. Almost like a child. “Spent a few days there. The only thing around me were bats.”

Your nose wrinkled. “You ate bats?”

Bucky didn't attempt to correct your assumption, just kept on munching on the artificial croissant as if he were a kid snacking on candy.

“Were they… good?”

Stupid.

What an incredibly, unbelievably stupid question.

“They were good enough to keep me alive.”

You didn't know what to say to that.

“Well,” you cleared your throat, “just tell me if you change your mind on that croissant. I can get you something else. Remember those pigeons I mentioned? They're not bats, but they've got, you know… protein.”

Then, upon some kind of miracle, it happened.

Bucky smiled.

It was brief, an ephemeral thing that evaporated by the next time you blinked, but it was there. As clear as day, as real as the foul smell of rotten carcasses that surrounded you in that dismal place.

You willed for the excitement in your belly to die down—the last thing Bucky needed was for you to go deranged over a mere smile, probably one of the firsts he allowed himself to have after decades of drought—giving Bucky a short nod before turning around to reward him some privacy, but you didn't go far before a rough voice halted your footsteps.

When your gaze landed on him again, Bucky was tense. His shoulders curled inward as if struggling desperately to keep himself small, his fingers twitched where they were curled around the half-eaten pastry.

“Are you okay?” he eventually asked.

“Me?” Your eyebrows knitted in a mixture of confusion and surprise. “Uh, I'm fine? Well, as fine as one can be after becoming a fugitive of the law, but otherwise—”

“That’s not what I meant.”

His scrutiny roved over your figure from the distance, as though his stare could penetrate through the deepest layer of skin, lighting up a flame that licked through every inch of your bloodstream. Blue irises jerked towards the side of your abdomen, a fleeting tic, but it was enough to force the realization to dawn on you.

Bucky was talking about your wound.

The laceration wound that he—no, that the Soldat—had administered during your altercation in D.C.

Instinctively, your hand lifted, brushing against the jagged scar that you knew was seething under the cover of your shirt. The simple movement didn't escape Bucky's notice, and you chastised yourself for your lack of consideration when you saw his body fold lower towards his knees.

“Bucky—”

“I'm sorry,” he said heavily, shakily. A striking fragility from a man who was supposed to be carved out of steel.

You shook your head in urgency, crossing the distance between you and him before stopping a good six feet away from the defeated man. He didn’t even look up at your proximity, keeping his head angled to the ground, shrinking more and more with every passing second as if he wanted to disintegrate into oblivion.

With careful strides, you removed the remaining space separating you and Bucky, sinking to your knee right in front of him. You called his name softly, begging him to glance up, coaxing him out of the shell of condemnation that he had crawled himself into.

When he finally peered at you, the blue of his eyes had dimmed into a stormy gray. You bit the inside of your cheek, fighting the urge to lean forward and gather this broken man into your arms.

“Bucky,” you called his name again, resolutely this time. Firm and steady, offering no room for even an ounce of doubt or a breath of protest. “It wasn't your fault.”

Bucky fleered.

“I mean it.” You searched his gaze, commanding him to stay there, to not run away from your eyes because you needed him to hear this. You needed him to believe. “I'm not gonna hold you accountable for what happened on that highway, or for anything else you might have done in the past few decades. None of that is your fault. They used you. You couldn't even remember your own name, let alone understand what HYDRA was forcing you to do. You're also a victim here, Bucky.”

He shook his head.

Your heart shattered into tiny little pieces all over the ground.

You shifted on the ball of your knee, sighing as you felt exhaustion pulling at your limbs. 

“Steve would agree,” you said quietly.

Those three words managed to snatch Bucky's attention.

“Actually, Steve does agree.” You glimpsed towards the entrance where the Captain had disappeared through earlier, swallowing the lump that had lodged itself in your throat. “It's the reason why he's here. The reason why we all are. He is the literal embodiment of everything good in this world, Bucky. And if Steve Rogers—Captain America himself—looks at you and sees someone worth saving, someone who deserves a second chance despite all that happened, then that says everything I need to know about the kind of man you truly are.”

You waited for something to shift, for the contempt in his eyes to dissipate, for the strain in his shoulders to melt, but nothing happened. He continued to drown, making no moves to get himself out of the murky waters that were pulling him under.

“Everything that happened while you were under HYDRA’s control—the missions, the casualties—none of it is on you, Buck,” you pressed on. “The wound on my side? That wasn't your fault either. Hell, I was shooting at you, too! I didn't know who you were back then. You didn’t know me. You didn’t even know yourself. They made sure of that.”

You took a shuddering breath, physically readying yourself to voice the next conviction out loud.

“If someone has to carry the blame, it should be HYDRA,” you determined. “Not you, Bucky. Never you.”

The silence that followed was strangulating. You watched Bucky with heart in your throat, waiting for him to react, to do something or say something. Perhaps if he had cried, it would've been better. Because then, you might have been able to help, to offer him the solace of your arms, to teach him how he could peel back the guilt that was clinging to him like a second skin. 

Yet, Bucky just sat, still as a tombstone and quiet as a graveyard. 

The eerie calm before a catastrophic storm.

When he finally looked up, Bucky's eyes were a tempest—dark and turbulent, thundering with the repercussions of a hundred lifetimes he never asked to live.

“Maybe—” Bucky's voice quivered. He ran his flesh hand across his face and started over, “Maybe you're right.

Your chest staggered.

Before you could respond, Bucky's gaze dropped, teetering towards your side, as though he could see the ridges of skin underneath the cotton fabric of your shirt. The place where flesh had once split under a blade he hadn't even known he was holding.

On his knee, Bucky's fingers twitched, like he wanted to reach out, to inspect the remnant of the wound with his own flesh and skin but didn't know how to trust himself enough to do so.

His jaw tightened.

“But it was still me, wasn't it?” Bucky's breathing stammered. The words came out choked, as though the truth tasted like rust on his tongue. “I was still the one holding the knife, Sugar.”

The nickname maimed you more than one could expect. Had Bucky said it with enough cynicism, maybe you would have chalked it up to bitterness and moved on. But he hadn't said it like that—he had said it with a devastating frailness, a frayed piece of another life bleeding through the cracks. It came from a version of him that had smiled at strangers and walked dates home in the rain, a boy from Brooklyn who probably said it with a charming grin and a flirtatious warmth.

Your heart broke for him all over again.

You ransacked your brain for something to say, to convince Bucky that he was wrong, but the sound of incoming footsteps stripped you of the chance, forcing you to quickly rise to your feet just in time for Sam and Steve to enter the room. Your conversation with Bucky was shoved to the backburner as the other two apprised you of your next step, both unaware of the tension stretching taut in the air, suspended between you and Bucky like a ghost no one else could see.

The next thing you knew, your life was unraveling like a house of cards in the span of one night. It felt like you blinked, and suddenly you were standing in the middle of a tarmac, staring down faces you used to sit with during breakfast and mission briefings, others who carried the weight of loyalty you could no longer afford.

The spider-like kid who loved to crawl on things was the first one you faced. He was nimble, all limbs and chatter, a fleck of innocence to testify to his lack of experience. You tuned out his nervous jokes and wide-eyed commentary as you focused on blocking each of his strikes, breathing through the ache in your ribs, willing your body to stay sharp.

But then, your instincts faltered.

The agonized sound wasn't loud, especially compared to the surrounding chaos that had befallen the airport. Your eyes flitted towards the man anyway, as if having a mind of their own, making you lose your footing for a fraction of second as your gaze landed on him from the distance.

Bucky.

The sight of him staggering back—blood blooming across his skin like a crimson tear—rustled an unknown weight within your chest. Natasha stood just a few paces away, her favorite knife in hand, the blade gleaming in the same shade of red running in rivulets down Bucky's cheek.

The moment of distraction was fleeting. Short. But it was the only opening your opponent needed to yank you off balance and send your back straight to the ground. 

“Sorry,” the Spidey kid huffed, straddling your legs, his grip surprisingly strong for someone built like a string bean in spandex. “Big fan, though. Seriously. Hey, crazy idea. Maybe after all of this, you can sign my—”

He never got the chance to finish his sentence.

With a drive of your elbow to his side, coupled with a shove of your knee to his chest, Spidey was now the one pinned to the ground—winded limbs and spayed webbing as he stared up at the clouds. You rose to your feet with a heaving chest, the ground trembling beneath your boots as you stole a moment to breathe.

You didn't even notice the light shifting in the sky.

Your reflexes awakened a second too late, stirring only when a dark shadow swept over your head. There was no time to run. Whatever protective measure you could whip up, whatever direction your feet could carry you in a matter of seconds, the end result was clear—you wouldn't be able to make it out of there unscathed.

Or at least, you should not have been able to make it out of there unscathed—but you did.

Because Bucky Barnes—the Winter Soldier, the man whose name was whispered between cautions of death and terror—had saved you.

He lunged from somewhere behind the smoke, arms wrapping around your frame before shoving you forward and down. The force of the blast rocked the ground as a small aircraft detonated a few yards away, radiating a heat so raging it licked at your back. Debris rained down all around you as Bucky’s body remained curled over yours, shielding you from the worst of it, lying like a fortress between you and the explosion's aftermath.

For a moment, all you could hear was your own ragged breathing. Your ears were still ringing when Bucky finally stood up, pulling you by your elbow to your slightly unsteady feet. He examined you from head to toe, his grounding touch remaining steadfast around your forearm, eliciting goosebumps.

“Are you okay?” he asked quietly.

You nodded, still in shock. Still breathless.

“Bucky.” Your fingers convulsed, moving up to clutch his jacket and stopping once you thought better of it. “You saved me.” 

He didn't answer at first, and when he did, his eyes evaded yours, jaw clenching as his gaze meandered somewhere distant. “It's the least I could do.”

Then, that same gaze moved, lowering until it settled on your side. You didn’t need him to spell it out to know exactly what he was thinking. The wound had been his doing once, delivered by a man with the same face but none of the same mercy. The shadow of a life that felt like his own but one he gravely wished to relinquish.

You felt the phantom sting of it then, not from the wound, but from the way Bucky was assessing it—like he was measuring his worth by the depth of that scar. Like saving you had been a down payment for a debt he could never repay.

Your mouth parted, already halfway to saying something, anything, that might severe the penance he had inflicted upon himself.

But before you could say a word, the world raged again, sending ripples of a faraway explosion that rattled the earth.

You swallowed hard, grounding yourself as you imparted, “We need to get to the jet.”

Bucky nodded once, his stature straightening as if his resolve had always been intact. The two of you broke into a sprint immediately, side by side, boots striking the tarmac in tandem as the smoke closed in all around you.

That was the first time Bucky Barnes saved your life.

And you knew, as you dashed across the airport grounds, that it wouldn't be the last.

After two years in Wakanda—two years since the disastrous battle on that infamous airport—you were finally bringing Bucky back home to New York.

Tony was not happy when he greeted the two of you at the compound, and you were even less thrilled to see him after everything that went down following his support for the Sokovia Accords—which, to your delight, had officially been nullified. Tony had promised he would play nice, and that included absolving Bucky—or at least, trying to—for all of the crimes that HYDRA forced him to do. It wasn't ideal, but it was a start; a show of good faith as Tony pledged to assist Bucky's recovery in every (financial) way possible.

Still, that didn't stop you from making sure that you walked in front of Bucky while the two of you were approaching the front gate, offering yourself as a human barrier should the philanthropist do anything untoward.

The first few weeks at the compound were dedicated towards ensuring a seamless transition for Bucky. From creating his daily schedule, vouching for a potential therapist, to showing him the nooks and crannies of his new home—you tackled every single task with purpose; convincing yourself that it was about structure, routine, and reintegration, but deep down, you knew better.

It was about keeping him close. Keeping him safe.

And maybe, that was exactly why you found yourself lashing out at Steve when he told you, a few weeks later, that Bucky would be sent on his first mission as an Avenger.

“This is bullshit,” you seethed, your fingers curling around the edge of the conference table in a death grip. “It's barely been two months and already they wanna send him back out there? After everything he's been through?”

The Captain sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I don't like this anymore than you do—”

“Then stop it.”

“I tried!” Steve's eyebrows creased, his mouth pressed into a thin line. It was a rare sight to see Captain America this upset. “The higher-ups were asking questions, and his therapist already told them that Buck is ready. I tried talking to him about it, but he's adamant to go. There's nothing else I can do.”

“There's always something,” you retorted. “Maybe you just haven't tried hard enough.”

Despite how much your words stung, Steve forced himself to move past it. He knew they hadn't come from a place of malice. Instead, it had come from a place of affection—perhaps even love—a protectiveness he also shared towards a certain super soldier with a metal arm.

“Look,” Steve began, shifting in his seat, “have you ever thought that maybe this is what Bucky needs?”

Your head snapped up.

Steve took your silence as a cue to continue, “We know he hasn't forgiven himself yet. Not fully. And that's understandable, isn't it? Maybe what he needs, right now, is the chance to make it right. Maybe going on a mission—one he actually chooses to partake in, where he knows something good will come out of it—could be Bucky's way of making his amends.”

The Captain trailed off, letting his words linger above the tense atmosphere of the conference room.

You hated how much it made sense.

With a drop of your shoulders, you pinned your stare on the faraway wall, biting the inside of your cheek before mumbling, “Fine.”

Steve smiled, ready to wrap up the conversation once and for all when your voice interrupted him, “But I'm going.”

“What?”

“You heard me.” You got up from your own chair and sauntered towards the door, flicking a firm glance towards Steve that left no room for objection. “I'm not gonna stop you from assigning Bucky to that mission. But if he's coming, then I'm coming, too. And there's nothing you can do to stop me.”

In the end, Steve had relented, and what was once supposed to be a three-person crew's mission became four as you, Bucky, Sam, and Maria Hill took off towards Panama City.

Interference hailed the four of you upon arrival, running you into more hostiles than the initial intel had suggested. Despite your time away in Wakanda, your instincts didn’t waver. The rhythm came back effortlessly, muscle memory filling in the gaps left by your mind without a sliver of hesitation. 

However, between every swift kick and  precise strike, your focus frayed. Not from fear, but from a certain super soldier who was never out of your sight for long. Your gaze strayed to his silhouette again and again, making you stumble more times than you cared to admit, trying desperately to stand your ground in your own fight while keeping an eye on him all at once.

It was reckless.

And it was precisely why, as you realized too late, you ended up failing to notice the grenade.

“Watch out!”

Two strong arms—one flesh and one vibranium—shoved you out of the explosion's radius, a flying shrapnel missing your head by inches as your shoulder crashed against the ground. Bucky got thrown immediately on impact, sent over the edge of the skyscraper as the ground started to crack, fragment, and disintegrate into nothing.

“No!”

Horror erupted in your stomach at the building's cession to gravity. You scampered forward, dropping to your hands and knees to lean over the skirt where floor was supposed to be. Your relief escaped in a stammered breath when you spotted Bucky a couple of stories down, still alive, dangling by his flesh arm around the corner of a deteriorating girder.

A window pane launched into the air.

Bucky's agonized scream ripped through the chaos the moment it rammed against his left shoulder.

Something in your guts twisted at the sight of artificial axons peeking out of the ripped seams of his tactical jacket. Blood soaked through the torn fabric, staining the silver beneath in unforgiving red. 

“Bucky!” Your pulse hammered. “Don't move, I'm coming to get you!”

“Don't.” Bucky's voice was stern. Final. “You gotta get outta here before the whole thing collapse.”

“I'm not leaving here without you!”

Inside your earpiece, noises began to crackle. 

“Guys?” Maria's voice emerged. The sound of punches and clatter reverberated from her end of the line. “I think I need some help over here.”

“Go help Maria,” Bucky commanded.

“But you—”

“Sugar.” 

The nickname halted you in place. Bucky was smiling as he looked up at you, although you knew that it was nothing more than a facade. Any other person would have been fooled by his performance, but you could easily pinpoint the shadow of a grimace he was trying to conceal, the exhaustion crippling his body as he struggled to hold himself up at an angle that wouldn't put additional strain to the already splintering steel beam.

Blue eyes softened. “I'm gonna be fine. You should go.”

Your throat constricted.

You crouched frozen on the ledge, the roar of distant gunfire echoing through the shattered high-rise. Fifty stories below, parts of the building's skeleton scattered on the ground. Your hand twitched towards Bucky, wanting to reach out, desperate to haul him back into your arms, but the chasm between you felt impossibly wide.

Meanwhile, Maria's grunts and struggle continued to echo in your ears as she seemed to wrestle a few assailants at once. You knew you should go to her aid. You knew this wasn’t the time for hesitation.

And yet… Bucky.

His lips were still curled into that easy smile—the same one he shared with you during clandestine moments around the compound, because this side of Bucky Barnes was one he reserved specifically for you. His knuckles had gone white from supporting his entire weight, the beam creaking under the slightest sway of his body, jerking slightly. 

“I don’t—” Your voice cracked. “I don’t know what to do.”

“I do,” he said gently, as if he weren't hanging by one arm over nothing but air. “You save her.”

You could barely breathe. 

The seconds were ticking—Maria was calling for help, and Bucky was slipping.

You weren’t enough to save both of them.

“Sam,” you gasped, pressing your hand to the comms. Static was the only response, and you prayed to the heavens above that wherever he was, whatever he was doing, he could listen to your plea. “You’ve gotta get to Bucky. Now. He’s gonna—I can’t—just… please.”

There was a beat of silence, the kind that stretched longer than a lifetime.

Just when you began to think he wasn't going to answer, Sam's voice fizzled in, “On my way.” 

The comms fell silent again.

A violent wind tore through the air, hitting like a freight train.

The steel girder—the one remaining lifeline fastening Bucky to this world—buckled with a piercing screech.

In the blink of an eye, the girder snapped.

“BUCKY!”

A blur of silver and red swooped below him in the same breath, and before you could lunge forward to follow Bucky as he fell, Sam was there—arms locked securely around Bucky’s torso, wings flaring wide to steady the sudden addition of weight. Bucky’s head dropped against Sam’s shoulder, dazed but alive. Your whole limbs teetered towards the verge of liquefying as your lungs finally released the air you didn’t know you were holding.

“You okay, man?” Sam’s voice chirped through your earpiece. “Christ, what did they feed you in Wakanda?”

A sound escaped your chest—something between a strangled sob and a wry laugh.

Gathering yourself, you pressed another hand to the comms, rising to your feet and sprinting towards the server room as you announced, “Hang on tight, Maria. I'm on my way.”

By the time you and Maria went back to the safehouse over an hour later, Sam and Bucky were already there. Bucky was lying on the couch the moment you strode in, his metal arm detached and thrown almost haphazardly on the coffee table while Sam tinkered with Redwing on the kitchen counter.

From the bandage wrapped around Bucky's shoulder, you knew that the on-site medical android had taken a look at him already, but the anxiety in your mind still wasn't pacified. It dribbled all over the floor as you marched towards him, your body shaking partly from the adrenaline still coursing through your veins, but also from the anger and dread boiling in your blood.

“Why the hell did you do that?!”

Venom leaked from your voice the moment you approached the couch. Behind you, Sam and Maria fell silent, readying themselves for the imminent confrontation ahead. Bucky's face remained impassive as he rose to a seating position, a faint tug at the corner of his lips.

“Hi, sweetheart.”

“Don't fucking sweetheart me.”

Your chest rose and fell in a dizzying rythm, daggers flying from your eyes towards the man in front of you. The same one who had nearly, stupidly welcomed death into his arms due to some kind of foolish heroism embedded in his principles. The one who was currently looking at you with cerulean eyes so tender it almost made you forget that he was close to slipping from your fingers a mere hour earlier.

Bucky let out a sigh. “I'm okay.”

“Quit talking to me like I'm stupid, Bucky. We all can see your ripped metal arm on the table. Your bandaged shoulder.”

 “It's nothing.”

“It's not nothing!”

“It's nothing compared to what I've suffered before.”

An incredulous laugh tore from your larynx, sharp and sardonic. It was the only thing keeping the lump inside from choking you whole. “Just because you've survived worse doesn't mean you're fucking invincible, Buck! You could've died. You almost died. If Sam hadn't got there in time, you would've—”

The words wedged in your throat.

Your eyes fell shut as you expelled the images of Bucky dangling between life and death out of your mind. 

Gentle fingers encircled your wrist. You gasped at the sudden warmth surrounding you, opening your eyes to find that Bucky had tugged you closer to stand between his parted knees. Your palms automatically landed on the column of his neck, chest pounding at the unbearable softness shining out of Bucky’s eyes. 

This was new territory—Bucky had always treated closeness like something fleeting, something borrowed. His touches, his embraces, were often hesitant, as though affection was a luxury he couldn’t afford. But now, he held you like he had done it a thousand times before, like your body against his was the very thing chaining him to reality. His hand curled firmly around your waist, anchoring himself, grounding his entire existence to the certainty of your presence.

“Hey,” Bucky said, squeezing your side lightly. “I'm right here, Sugar. I'm alright.”

Your chest burned. “We almost lost you.”

“But you didn't.”

“But what if we had?!”

“Then you should take solace in the knowledge that I haven't gone in vain.”

Your fingers clenched around the edge of Bucky's shoulders, nails branding crescent moons into the skin. He didn't even flinch.

“You don't need to sacrifice your life for me, Bucky. I don't need that kind of thing on my conscience,” you spat.

“I wouldn't call it a sacrifice, sweetheart,” Bucky said firmly, resolutely. “If that's what it takes to keep you safe, then I'd gladly take the fall.”

Bucky's declaration propelled the tears you had been desperately trying to contain to the forefront. A strangled whimper shredded from your lips. You quickly tried to mask it with a scowl.

“That's the very definition of a ‘sacrifice’, you idiot.”

“Not in my book.” Bucky smiled. “Not when it's you.”

Before he could say another word, you removed the distance between you and threw yourself in his arms. The dam within you finally caved in, freeing the ragged sobs you had been trying to keep at bay. Your tears stained the collar of his undershirt, your arms locking around him tightly as though sheer willpower might fetter him to you, to life itself.

He staggered slightly under your weight, grunting from the pull on his wounded shoulder, but his hand—his only hand—immediately rose to your back, fingers splayed as they began tracing slow, calming patterns across your spine. 

“Don’t ever do that again,” you whispered hoarsely. “Don’t throw yourself in front of danger for me. I don't ever want to watch you fall like that again. I can’t—”

“I know,” Bucky murmured, pressing his cheek to your temple. “I know, Sugar.”

“Promise me,” you croaked out.

He stilled for a second. “I can't,” Bucky said breathlessly. “I'd do it again in a heartbeat, sweetheart. I’ll always choose to save you.”

A fresh wave of tears surged behind your eyes. Your fingers curled tighter into the fabric of his undershirt. You hated him for that. 

And you loved him even more because of it.

From behind you, someone cleared their throat. 

“I hate to interrupt the Notting Hill shit we’ve got going on here,” Sam said, “but is anyone else starving or is it only the guy who just saved Barnes’ ass?”

The evening wind bit your cheeks the moment you stepped out of the bar. In a chorus of jovial shrieks and mischievous laughter, your friends from the Academy all bid each other goodbye—some heading straight home, some scuttering after the next round of drinks and fun, but all equally giddy and tipsy—stumbling on the curb and crashing against unassuming lamp posts.

“Sure you're not coming?” one of your friends asked.

“No, told you I've got an early morning tomorrow,” you slurred slightly, shaking your head twice when the face in front of you began to blur around the edges.

“Okay. Text me when you get home!”

You waved them off with a lopsided smile, turning on your heel and starting the slow trek back to the station. The pavement felt oddly slanted under your feet, and you blamed the tequila for the fifth time that night. The wind swept down the empty street, nipping at your exposed skin, sending discarded wrappers tumbling aimlessly along the sidewalk.

“Hey, Gorgeous! You need a ride?” a voice called out.

You didn’t bother looking. The city was full of idiots, and you weren’t in the mood for petty confrontations when your balance already wavered like a tightrope walker with a death wish.

You were in the midst of stifling a yawn when your foot unexpectedly hit a shallow crack in the pavement, pitching your body forward, arms flailing wildly before you caught yourself mid-fall.

The voice spoke again, this time laced with a grin that lit a match in the back of your mind, “Careful, sweetheart. Steve's gonna be pissed if you break an ankle before the mission tomorrow.”

Your eyes snapped up.

Leaning against a dark motorcycle across the street, like some kind of B-list actor playing a bad boy in a trashy movie franchise, was none other than Bucky Barnes. He looked way too good for someone who just watched you nearly eat concrete—leather jacket unzipped, gloved hand resting on the handlebar, and an easy smile tugging at his lips. 

Your face broke into an instantaneous grin.

“Bucky, what are you doing here?”

You skipped across the street without looking. The squeal of tires resonated in the air, blaring horns and flashing headlights as you registered too late the oncoming car speeding your way. You stumbled in your haste to escape the street, to save yourself before your crushed skull and its content became the next headline for tomorrow's 6 A.M. news.

But before gravity could make a fool out of yourself, Bucky’s arms were already around you. He caught your body with ease, keeping your face from planting onto the curb, his broad frame shielding you from the splash of puddle as the honking car zipped past. 

“Jesus, sweetheart,” he muttered, his metal fingers squeezing your hip, “you lookin’ to give an old man a heart attack?”

“Sorry,” you offered sheepishly, willing the percussion in your chest to assuage. “Thanks for saving me.”

“I'd save you anytime and anywhere, Sugar.” Bucky smiled, his gaze soft and genuine despite the flirtatious nature of his words. “But it'd be nice if I didn't have to do it all the time.”

You feigned a gasp. “And here I thought you were my personal hero on call, Buck.”

The man in front of you laughed—a carefree thing with his head thrown back, ocean blue glinting under the paltry luminance of streetlights. You stepped out of his embrace with great reluctance, shivering slightly in the absence of Bucky's warmth.

The motion didn't escape Bucky's notice. “Did you not bring a jacket?”

“I did.” You wrapped yourself with your own arms, stroking the goosebumps away with your palms. “I lent it to my friend and I guess… well, I forgot to ask for it back.”

“Why does that not surprise me?”

“Because everyone knows how kind, selfless, and generous I am?” You grinned.

Bucky didn't say anything in return. Instead, he made quick work shedding the jacket off his back, revealing the outline of muscles under the gorgeous cover of dusty blue henley. Your throat went dry, every nerve ending lighting up in fireworks when Bucky stepped forward, draping the leather garment around your shoulders.

“There you go. That would have to do for now,” he muttered.

His fingertips brushed your neck as he tugged the leather collar closer around you. The scent of coffee, mint, and something indistinguishably Bucky attacked your senses, stealing your breath and leaving the taste of longing on your tongue. He looked at you in that same infuriating tenderness that made your insides spume, reduced to tiny bubbles filled with hope and yearning.

“Thanks,” you breathed out once he withdrew. “By the way, how come you're here? I thought you had that mission with Nat today.”

“I did,” Bucky replied, burying his hands in his jeans’ pockets. 

Your forehead creased. “No way. Did you bail?”

“Are you crazy? Steve would have my ass.”

“Then…” 

“Came straight from the jet,” he said casually, the impish quirk of his lips giving him away before his words even landed.

“You what?” You gawked. “Are you serious? Did you even debrief with Steve before you went here?  Did you even go to the medbay? At all?”

“It was just recon.” He shrugged, far too nonchalant for your liking. “Nat can handle the debrief. She did all the sneaking around anyway, I barely lifted a finger.”

“That’s not the point.” You groaned, massaging the headache that had started gnawing at your temple. “Who cares if it was just recon, Bucky? The procedure says you're to go to the medbay after every mission. The rule is there for a reason. What if you were injured but you didn't even notice? What if you were exposed to a dangerous substance while you were on the field? It's incredibly reckless, stupid, and—”

Your words dissolved the moment his hands cupped your cheeks.

Bucky studied your countenance in silence, his eyes delicate, his thumbs gentle as they skimmed along your jaw. He smiled at you as if your soul was scribbled in a script only he could decipher. An intimate secret shared between the meager spaces the two of you occupied in this infinite universe.

Your breath hitched.

Everything around you tilted on its axis, the world dulling into a distant hum to make room for the cosmic threads tethering you both to each other. His eyes were tired as they locked onto yours, but behind the muted blue, something else shone through—something steadfast and searing, like an eternal flame trapped in the most secluded heights of the Himalayan range.

“I’m okay,” he said at last, voice low but certain. “I’m right here, and I’m okay.”

You didn't blink—you couldn't.

Your chest deflated in the aftermath of worry, the relief sweeping through you like a tide pulling back after a storm. Bucky withdrew, his hands leaving your face in a parting goodbye, and you had to fight the urge to yank him back in, to stay in the fragile moment that had cracked open between the two of you.

“‘Sides,” he drawled, a teasing glint replacing the ferocity in his eyes, “if I didn't pick you up, you'd probably end up passed out in a dumpster somewhere. Can't have you jeopardizing the mission like that, can I?”

You groaned and shoved his shoulder. “Ass.”

Bucky chuckled, rounding the bike before handing you a helmet. “C'mon, lightweight.”

You rolled your eyes, although the blooming smile on your face betrayed the faux irritation as you climbed onto the motorcycle. Bucky was warm in front of you, your arms finding purchase around his waist the second the engine roared to life, buildings and trees alike blurring past as the two of you sped through the streets of New York.

This time, you held Bucky a little tighter than usual, just in case he forgot how much it mattered that he made it home safely.

The pain was the first thing your brain registered.

Lights spilled through the all-encompassing darkness, rousing you awake, filling the gaps in your mind with an awareness of life. The ache traveled through your body in an unimaginable speed, a ravenous beast as it ate away your soul, and you could barely contain the pained whimper before it tumbled free out of your lips.

Something engulfed your hand.

Warmth.

“Sugar?”

You whimpered louder.

“Shit." There was a rustling by your side before the same voice sprouted again, “Hang on, sweetheart. I'll get the doctor.”

Time stumbled in and out of your grasp. You thought you could hear several voices conversing in the room not long after. One of them, unrecognizable in your ears but settled deeply within your chest, rose above all of them. It sounded desperate, broken, as if the person had attempted to barter with God using merely a mangled heart and a splintered spine.

“...please,” you caught him say, the end of a sentence blown by the breeze before you could curl your fingers around it.

“I understand, Barnes,” another voice spoke. “We'll take care of it. Just wait outside, will you?”

A pair of hands proceeded to roam over your body. You felt the pull of consciousness behind your eyelids, heaving you out of the void, an aimless ghost slipping violently back into flesh.

You gasped.

The world returned in a fragmented mosaic—white ceiling, antiseptic air, and a beeping monitor that echoed stubbornly beside your ear. Inside your body, a burning agony erupted. It sank into the deepest corners of your being, clutching around your lungs, turning you into nothing more than a wailing heap of muscles and bones.

“Hey, hey, easy now,” came a calm voice. 

The words arrived in the company of gentle hands, too cold for your liking, but they were a reprieve nonetheless. The face in front of you zoomed in and out of focus like moonlight dancing across shattered glass, the contours merging and sundering as they finally morphed into the features of a familiar friend. 

Dr. Helen Cho.

She pressed the back of her hand to your forehead before shining a penlight into your eyes. “Pupils reactive. That’s good. Welcome back.”

You blinked away the harsh light from your vision, wincing when the effort sent a jolt of pain through your neck and shoulder. Your lips parted in an attempt to speak, but your throat felt like it had been shoved with hot coals, shredding your voice into nothing more than a torn, fragile snivel.

“W-what… what happened?” you croaked out.

“You were shot,” Helen answered. “Do you remember?”

Just like that, the memory barreled into you like a sucker punch to the face.

Images of drab walls and ceilings, the sight of mold and moss co-existing with dead rodents’ remains filled your mind. The abandoned building once posed as the warehouse of an illegal bio-weaponry enterprise that had long ceased to operate. The Avengers’ presence on site was supposed to be a straightforward recon—gather the intel on the culpable syndicate, perhaps scour for names complicit in supplying the deadly goods in the first place—and it was implied as such on the case files given to the entire team.

No one could have predicted that the simple job would turn into an ambush.

Your mind began flipping through the pages of memory, recalling how it took you no time at all to neutralize the four agents sent your way. Under different circumstances, you might have felt offended by the measly number of hostiles assigned to you—had your thoughts, of course, not already been preoccupied with a certain super soldier. Still, any insolent disparagement your opponent once hurled at your combat abilities was indefinitely put on ice as you dashed across the site's west wing.

By the time you arrived, Bucky was already cornered.

Instinct, and something else akin to protectiveness, fueled your movements as you thundered into the room. Most of the assailants were already lying in stacks on the floor, the rest following suit with every deliberate strike you threw their way. Your chest rose and fell in erratic bursts, each breath scraping your throat as the last body hit the ground.

Across the room, Bucky rose from behind the makeshift fortress, aiming his gun before stopping dead in tracks. The corner of your mouth lifted when your gazes found each other.

“Hi, handsome. Miss me?”

Bucky let out a rough breath, his grip around the gun loosening. “Was wondering when you'd show up, sweetheart.”

He stood up and approached you in merely four strides, smiling so sweetly as though your presence in front of him had been God's own gift to mankind. You fought off a shudder and attempted nonchalance as your palm brushed the dust off his shoulder.

“Sorry, Sarge. You know I like to keep people on their toes.”

The grin on Bucky's face expanded. He bumped his shoulder to yours, the two of you heading for the exit as Bucky started requesting for extraction through his comms.

A split second was all it took for everything to go sideways.

You didn't know what compelled you to turn around for one last glance. Had you heard something? Felt something? Had the hairs on the back of your neck sensed the imminent danger before your brain could even begin processing it? 

It was impossible to say, but something dragged your gaze over your shoulder, an invisible hook yanking you back just in time to catch the glint of metal under the scanty light. One of the bodies on the ground, presumed dead, had begun to stir. His arm trembled as he lifted his gun from the blood-slick floor, the barrel rising with all of the inevitability of a verdict carved in stone.

Your breathing caught.

Everything in your body told you to run. To take shelter behind the wooden crate in the corner of the room, call out a warning, anything. But you knew exactly where that gun was aimed, where that bullet would go if you dared to move even an inch.

Straight into Bucky.

The whole world narrowed. What happened next wasn't a choice—it was a decision your body made under direct instructions of your heart, born not from years of training but from the gentle fondness you harbored for the man beside you. It commanded you to hold your ground, freezing your limbs, your chest pounding as though wishing to somehow intercept the bullet before it could write the ending you weren’t ready to read.

Then, the shot rang out.

Everything else had transpired in a blur. You remembered certain bits and pieces through the fog in your mind—the pain on your neck, the retaliation shot Bucky had fired from his gun, the look of pure terror you saw on his face as he held your crumbling body before it could shatter against the concrete ground.

The confession.

“Bucky.” His name fled your lips before you could even think about it.

Helen's gaze softened. “He's outside. He's been here the whole time. Never left your side since the surgery.”

You swallowed, throat thick with the weight of half-formed questions. “H-How long…?”

“Thirty-eight hours,” she replied. “The bullet missed your artery by millimeters. We almost lost you a couple of times. You were extremely lucky this time, Agent.”

Your eyes closed momentarily. When they opened again, your gaze found Helen with an unshakable purpose. “Could you please send him in?”

The doctor gave you a single nod, landing a reassuring pat on your knee before leaving the room silently.

Not long after, the door opened with a quiet hiss.

The sight of Bucky standing in the doorway smashed your heart into a million little pieces.

His hair was unkempt, sticking to different directions as if his fingers had run through them too many times to count. Even from the distance, you could still see how bloodshot his eyes were, how hollow and agonized they were under the harsh lighting of the room. He looked like a man who had outrun hell only to realize that it had made a home right inside his chest.

“Bucky,” you called out, slowly, gently.

His shoulders tensed at the sound of your voice.

Bucky's movement was tedious, as though it was painful for him to move, as though lifting his head required more strength than Atlas needed to carry the world on his shoulders. The moment his eyes met yours, something inside him cracked and splintered. 

“You're awake,” he said hoarsely.

“I am,” you replied, offering a soft, shaky smile. “I'm okay.”

Bucky didn't move.

He looked like he didn't even breathe.

It was as if an intangible weight had shackled itself around his ankles, stopping him in place. Bucky didn't try to fight it, to break himself out of the phantom hold he had been cast under. He just kept standing there, motionless, like he was afraid that if he came any closer, the fragile image of you in front of him—alive, breathing, and speaking—would vanish.

Your throat tightened.

“Buck,” you tried again, a tremor in your voice now, too. “Come here.”

His fingers twitched.

“Please.”

It was that single word that finally did it—the plea that fell onto him like a torrent on scorched earth.

He took one step, then another, erasing the distance between him and the bed with a slowness that might convince someone he was walking barefoot on shards of glass. You watched every inch of him draw nearer, his pain thick in the atmosphere of the room, heavier than the oxygen nesting in your lungs.

The hesitation returned when he reached your bedside, keeping him a good six inches away from you. He hovered in the space around the bed, uncertain, both of his hands clenching and unclenching like they wanted to hold you but were afraid you would completely dissipate like vapor under his touch.

You lifted your hand and reached out, tentatively, with the precision of someone trying to pet an easily-spooked cat. Eternity must have passed at least once or twice when your fingers finally brushed the inside of his wrist.

That was all it took.

The singular touch was all it took for Bucky Barnes—the Winter Soldier, the man with the power of a collapsing star, who had faced death and catastrophe greater than anybody else on earth could ever imagine—to entirely crumble under your palms.

A sound escaped him—something torn and guttural and not meant for human ears to hear. He fell to his knees beside the bed, clutching your hand like it was the only echo of mercy in a world that had offered him none. His head bowed against your stomach, shoulders shaking violently with the aggressive sobs he could no longer contain in his chest.

Your own tears spilled out of you in a tide stronger than the Pacific current, staining your cheeks as you brought your other hand to cradle the back of Bucky's head, threading your fingers through the short tendrils.

“I’m okay. I'm okay, Bucky, I'm fine,” you whispered, over and over, each word a balm against the searing agony inside his bloodstream. “I’m right here, darling. I'm okay now.”

“But you weren’t,” he choked, the sound of his anguish slicing your nerves deeper than the sharpest dagger ever could. “You weren’t, a-and God, I thought I lost you, sweetheart. I was holding you, tried to stop the blood—there was so much blood—and you just… you just went still. Was so cold and still and I couldn't—I didn't know what to do.”

“Bucky.” Your voice quivered. “I'm here, baby. You didn’t lose me.”

“I almost did.” 

His head rose, and your breath halted in your throat at the sight or red in Bucky’s eyes. He was not someone who cried often—perhaps it was the archaic 40s’ notion of masculinity that was still embedded in his system—and the only time you had seen him cry was back in Wakanda, when you and Ayo stood by him in the vulnerable moment that confirmed the severance of HYDRA's control over his soul.

Somehow, this Bucky—the one kneeling in front of you—looked even more shattered than the one in your memory.

“Your heart stopped, Sugar,” Bucky continued, the weight of his words pressing and twisting your ribs until you were nothing but a mire. “You weren’t breathing. So cold and stiff, and I… Shit—I didn't know if you'd make it. Had to do CPR the whole flight. Everyone told me to stop. They said y-you were gone. But I couldn't, Sugar. I just—I couldn't.”

“Bucky,” you whimpered. “Darling.”

“I thought I was too late,” he rasped, voice fracturing under the weight of a requiem still resonating in his chest. “I kept thinking if I'd been faster—if I’d stood closer—if I had just noticed sooner, then you… you would've…”

You cupped his face, forcing him to stop his self-torment and look up at you. To remind him that whatever horror still clawing at his being was no longer real, because you were fine, you were alive, and you were here with him. His cheeks were wet, flushed with the remnants of grief and an exhaustion that had been postponed for far too long. The pain in his eyes had dimmed the blue in his irises to gray.

“I'm fine now, Bucky,” you murmured, misty eyes and traces of salt on the tip of your tongue. “You did it. You saved me.”

“I shouldn't have had to,” he said, shaking his head as if trying to reject the truth. “You shouldn't have been in that situation in the first place. You should've been safe. I was supposed to protect you.”

“You did, Bucky. You did protect me.”

“Not enough.”

“Baby, look at me.” Your voice is firm, a lighthouse cutting through a war-born fog. Bucky's forehead furrowed as his eyes locked with yours, as if he still struggled to believe that the you in front of him weren't simply a mirage. “You brought me back, Buck. You didn’t lose me. I'm here because of you.”

His breath hitched.

His lips quivered.

You leaned down, pressing your forehead gently to his, ignoring the strain it caused to your wound because this—the man you held inside your palms, this tender moment you shared after everything the universe had put you through—was far more important than any pain you could ever feel.

“You didn't lose me,” you repeated.

There was silence in the next breath, a sacred one commonly heard in the space between lightning and thunder. You could feel his every exhale, shallow and staggered, like a beast coaxed out of fight but still bristling with a proliferate instinct.

After a stuttered heartbeat, his metal arm slithered around your waist, his flesh one wrapping around your hand again, tighter this time.

“Say it again,” he begged, barely audible. “Please.”

“You didn't lose me,” you uttered. “I'm here, I’m alive, and I’m not going anywhere.”

He crushed you against him then—still careful, still gentle—but underneath the heedfulness, his desperation bled through. Gripping you like you were the only thing that mattered in this vast universe, like he wanted to fold you into himself and keep you some place where danger and death could never lurk over you again.

You felt Bucky's lips on your skin, grazing along your shoulder, moving up the curve of your neck, your jaw, and your cheek. Worshipping you with prayers shaped as a thousand reverent kisses, moving like he was searching for the evidence that you were real, like he was memorizing a miracle while time was still ticking.

And when his mouth finally found yours, the press of his lips wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t greedy.

It was trembling.

He kissed you as if you were the divine being who granted him life, respiring your moans and gasps as if they were the instruments needed to mend his ruptured soul. Bucky tasted like every future you were always too scared to envision for yourself—the promise of companionship, affection, and happiness that had once been too surreal for your heart to believe in. But now, in this moment with him, they all suddenly became inevitable.

You kissed him back, slowly, cradling his face between your hands to hold together all of the fractured pieces that forged his being. Time slipped away in the hush where sorrow once lived, getting you lost in everything Bucky, until eventually, your lungs had to force you to part and come up for air.

“I love you,” Bucky confessed, holding onto your wrists to keep you tethered to him. To this moment. And to life itself.

Your thumb brushed the apple of his cheek, catching a silent tear, leaning in to steal another kiss from the corner of his mouth.

“I love you, too,” you whispered.

A sound between a sob and relief escaped him, and Bucky buried his face in the unwounded crook of your neck, breathing you in like he had been suffocating for days and had finally resurfaced for air. His arms stayed enveloped around you as he murmured praises against your skin—thanking the Gods for listening to his prayers, thanking the universe, thanking you. Paying reverence for the mercy that fate had bestowed over a mangled man such as himself.

You stayed like that for a long time. His weight against your side, his heartbeats slowly steadying beneath your touch. The monitors beeped gently beside you, grounding the two of you to reality, an anchor in the otherwise stagnant room. But in that moment, the only sound that mattered—the only one you cared about—was the soft inhale and exhale of your breaths, a proof of life, shared within the modest spaces that felt more freeing than a hummingbird flying over an open field.

Gradually, the room began to fade into silence.

And in the safety of Bucky's embrace, you had never appreciated the quiet more.

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[boopjuice]

Okay, I have A Thought.

So I've seen around a few times that Danny's heart stops and freaks out people with superhearing, particularly Superman and his family. Que the freaking out because this child's heart has stopped and they haven't even seemed to notice.

But what if Danny keeping his heart beating takes effort? He has to focus on it at least a little all the time to seem more human. But if he's relaxed because he's, say, gaming over at Tucker's, he stops paying attention to if his heart is beating or not, and it stops. Sort of like how if you're walking around in a place you don't know in the middle of the night, you're tense and worried, but once you make it to a little area or a place you know better you stop being so nervous.

All that to say, having a beating heart is a stress response for halfas. And, like any other stress response, having it be constantly active can have long term negative effects. This was discovered by Frostbite shortly before Danny told his parents about being a halfa, and in fact influenced that decision. It turned out well, and Danny's heart began to stop more and more frequently while at home, to the point that it rarely ever beats at home now.

So que Phantom joining the League through some shenanigan or another, and together they're working to dismantle the Anti-Ecto Acts. The League knows he's powerful, but he's paranoid enough that he hasn't told them about the whole "half dead" thing. He's wandering around the Watchtower, chatting with Superman as they walk past a window that looks out into space. Danny's chatting about his weekend plans with Sam and Tuck, Superman's chatting about his upcoming visit to Ma and Pa's farm, and suddenly the kid's heart just stops.

And Superman freaks out. Because there is a child right next to him having a heart attack and seemingly not knowing.

He rushes Phantom to the medbay, only for his heart to be beating again? And the kid looks really freaked out and confused now. So he apologizes, explains what he heard, or rather didn't hear, and asks if it's an arrhythmia or something.

And now Danny, poor, socially awkward, barely a sophomore in high school Danny, gets to explain that sometimes, if he's really happy and content and feels safe, his heart stops and it is actually a good thing.

[ddlydevotion]

Grace and Bo Chow both being infatuated with you 💌 ₊˚⊹⋆

a/n: I hope you guys enjoy reading this just as much as I enjoyed writing this! This post contains nsfw content/slightly obsessive behavior so proceed with caution. This is also quite long so I apologize for that. Look out for a part two!

currently listening to: Cupid by Sam Cooke

You met Bo first. You applied for a job at the shop and proved yourself to be incredibly dependable. He allowed you to count the money in the register, keep logs of what was going in & out of the store, and take care of client records and accounts. The two of you had a purely professional relationship, but if a professional relationship consisted of longing glances, lingering touches, and endearing nicknames.

You knew he was married, the golden band around his ring finger didn't let you forget the fact that he was. You felt horrible for even entertaining the nicknames and the close contact he kept with you, but you considered yourself to be on the safe side of things. As long as the two of you kept the touchiness to a minimum and didn't take your affection for one another to the bedroom, everything was fine.

His wife, Grace, tended to their shared store on the white side of town. She'd occasionally pop into the store to check in on Bo & their daughter, making sure she completed her tasks for the day. Afterwards, she'd never fail to make her way up to you and ask about your day.

"How are ye doin? Bo been treatin' you well?"

"You're doin' a good job around 'ere, girl. We gotta keep you here, don't want the other stores to try an' take ye from us."

Bo would affirm her praise by nodding his head and adding in his own little two cents. Grace wouldn't shy away from rubbing your arm or placing a delicate finger underneath your chin while saying "you're a real pretty girl, y'know that?". Her physical touch could be disguised as something playful and sweet, something between two women that were fond of one another. But, as the two of them made eye contact over your head they knew that what they had in store for you was anything but playful.

The playful banter between the three of you continued for weeks after that. You didn't expect anything more to blossom from your friendship with the married couple, but the clueless cloud you had over your head was quickly blown away one night. It was usual for them to invite you over to have dinner at their shared home. It was a common occurrence that even Lisa looked forward to as you were never anything but kind to her.

If you try to tell them that you wouldn't be able to make it due to a packed schedule, they'd do everything in their power to convince you to show anyway.

"Oh, we promise we won't keep you long. C'mon ya could just come on over for some dinner and make your way home after that. promise."

"awe are ya sure? Lisa was really lookin' forward to seeing ya again."

Sure, it was common for them to invite you over for dinner. However, it wasn't all too common for them to invite you into their bedroom. They'd usually keep you past midnight to have conversation going in the kitchen, but Bo offered to move the late night ritual into their bedroom. The conversation went on as normal and the wine in your glass disappeared by the minute. You sat with your legs crossed on their wooden-framed bed, the couple sat right in front of you. Bo's hand made a home for itself on the skin of your thigh that peaked from underneath your dress, he rarely ever showed such explicit affection like this. You expected Grace to become angry with the two of you, rightfully so, and have the night come to an end. Instead, she moved towards you and swept your hair out of your face with those delicate fingers of hers you've come to admire.

"I don't think ya know just how pretty ya are. I mean, jus' look at that face, baby. You just might be the prettiest damn thing I've ever seen." Bo's hand moved towards the inside of your thigh and a small smile stretched across his lips. "s'true, sweetheart", both of his hands eventually moved towards the inside of your thighs, spreading you open for him, Grace shuffling behind you before positioning your head to lay on her lap.

The night ended with your legs curved around Bo's slender waist as he pumped his cock into you, the coarse hair at the base of his cock stimulating your pulsing clit once he finally bottomed out. Grace kept herself busy, too. She rubbed your throbbing clit with her middle & ring finger, occasionally cradling your flushed cheeks and encouraging you to "take that cock, baby. s'so big, ain't it? I know, I know", shushing your whines and cooing at your fucked out expression. She couldn’t help but smile when you let out a surprised squeal at the feeling of her fingers tweaking and pinching your sensitive nipples.

Your relationship with the Chow's was never made public to the town, I mean, why would it be? Everyone in your close circle knew that the three of you were quite the close bunch of friends, but they didn't know the rest of it.

I can definitely see the both of them being possessive over you. They could see you talking with a friend of yours outside of the store and immediately interrogate you about it.

"She's just a good friend of mine! What's this all about?"

"Y'know damn well what this is all about. She looked like she was imaginin' what ya looked like without your clothes on."

It'd make them inexplicably upset to see you in a relationship with anyone that isn't them. They'd never allow you to do so without putting up a fight, though. It'd be foolish for you to think they'd let you go so easily. Even if you did get romantically involved with anyone else, you'd never be truly satisfied. Grace and Bo raised your standards to the damn moon and it'd be impossible for anyone to try and fill their shoes. Whenever your partner did anything wrong, you couldn't help but think "they'd never do that to me."

Helping Grace whenever she's working on a sign for a client. She doesn't hold back on sharing just how proud she is of you when you finish up a paint job.

Sharing many passion filled nights with the couple at the Juke Joint. You spend so much time sat at the bar without ordering anything just to talk to Grace. Bo pulls you in to dance with him and no one around bats an eye. What's wrong with two friends sharing a dance together? However, the way his glistening eyes gaze into yours with such intense passion behind them is anything but platonic.

It's incredibly easy for you and Grace to hide the true nature of your relationship. Nobody suspects anything even when her arm is firmly wrapped around your waist, or when her lips graze your cheek in a sweet peck. That's just how good friends celebrate one another.

They always find themselves on your front porch with gifts and they hardly ever show up empty handed. The gifts range from sundresses perfect for the southern heat, pastries they know you'll enjoy, savory treats the both of them worked on.

You're constantly heading over to their home and being convinced to stay the night by the sweet-talking couple. They don't entertain the possibility of you staying in a spare room, they want you to make yourself familiar & comfortable with their bedroom. Their spare room is honestly quite useful in having visitors believe that's where you stay, assisting in avoiding any questions about the true nature of your 'friendship'.

Bo wraps himself around your body like a koala and Grace curls herself into a fetal position in front of you, relishing in the feeling of your warm arms around her.

taglist: @officialthrad @bochowswife @thegr33nc0met @missroro @mjwhis @foreid let me know if you'd like to be added!

[cowboysandcigarettes]

JUNO

summary; watching dean work with some kids on a case leads you to an interesting realization.

warnings! established relationship, canon-typical violence, talk of pregnancy, smut!, praise kink, breeding kink (oops), soft sex, but it kinda unintentionally turned nasty, unprotected p in v (stay safe!)

CASES WITH KIDS WERE ALWAYS HARD. you had a soft spot for kids, especially little ones, even with their sticky fingers and clingy hands.

you had always thought about having kids, but once you became a hunter, you threw that idea out the window. hunting was no life to raise a kid in, god knows you only barely survived in your late teens.

when you met dean, you fell fast and you fell hard. it was difficult to resist his charms and good looks, but your case of lovesickness only grew as you and the elder winchester grew closer. he slowly opened up to you, allowing you to peel back the layers of toughness and defense that he had built up over the years, letting you see the real him.

that only made you fall more in love.

luckily, the feeling was mutual, for as soon as dean had set eyes on you, he was gone. he instantly knew you were the most beautiful thing he had ever had the pleasure of laying his eyes on, and as soon as you opened your pink lips to greet him─cussing him out for hijacking your hunt actually─he was completely done for.

neither of you had said anything for a long time, letting the feelings and tension build up over the years until it all came to a boiling point after a hunt almost gone wrong. you had barely had time to take a breath after almost dying before dean's roughened hands were on your face, grabbing you and crashing your lips to his.

you had been together ever since, and although the thought of having kids occasionally popped in your head, you figured dean would never want that. he was a hunter through and through, he could never leave the life, and if you were to have a kid, you could never raise them the way you and him had been raised.

so you pushed those dreams deep down, happy to live your chaotic life with dean, content with just the two of you.

but then you ended up in oregon.

♡ ♡ ♡

the case was a pain in the ass, a couple of rogue vampires taking kids, 'training' them to become a part of their nest.

finding the bloodsuckers was easy enough, they had been holing up in some old farmhouse off the highway, posing as new townsfolk and greeting the neighbors to scout their next victims. it only took the boys and you a day to find the farmhouse and pile into the impala, rumbling off to save the day once again.

the three of you had charged in after a quick surveillance, machetes in hand and dead man's blood at the ready as you crept in, trying not to wake the vamps. unfortunately, they were still up and at 'em, and suddenly ambushed the three of you before you could even process it.

there was only two of them and three of you, but with their enhanced strength and skills, it was pretty much a fair fight. sam and you had been fighting off one of them, dean grappling with the other, when the situation had grown more complicated.

the fight managed to be pushed into one of the other backrooms of the farmhouse, which just happened to be where the vamps were holding the kids. you noticed first, telling sam and calling out to dean before swiftly turning back to your own fight.

"i got 'em!" he calls back, kicking his vamp straight in the chest and sprinting over to where the three kids were tied up, tears streaking down their dirt covered faces.

you manage to get the jump on your own opponent, knocking the monster down. movement out of the corner of your eye catches your attention, and you look up to see the vamp dean had been fighting pushing himself up from the ground, fangs bared and snarling at dean, whose back was turned as he untied the kids.

"hey, ugly!" you call, a quick nod from sam assuring you that he had the other creature handled. the one snarling at dean turned in your direction, pausing for a moment before his lips curled again, baring his rows of sharp, deadly teeth at you. you just gripped your machete tighter, bracing yourself in a fighting position. "come and get it."

the creature hissed and charged at you, but you were one step ahead. you noted the flimsy floorboard in front of you and you waited until he was a few steps away before raising your machete over your head, bringing it down hard on the shaky board.

the impact of the blade further destabilized the wood, and as you stepped back, the vamp stepped on that floorboard, his leg crashing through, leaving him stuck. he cried out and growled, hissing and flailing his hands around, trying to reach for you, but before he could even call out to his buddy, you raised your machete again, swinging it around and cutting the bloodsucker's head clean off.

the creature's skull thudded against the wood as it fell, and you stood there for a moment, catching your breath before you lifted your head, trying to find sam. a proud grin spreads across your face as you see him standing at the foot of the other vamp, it's head cut off just like the other one. he meets your gaze, and you both turn to head towards the exit, cleaning off your machetes on some nearby hay bales.

you walk behind sam to the impala, pleased to have come out of the farmhouse with minimal blood staining your skin and clothes. you hear dean's voice before you see him, and as you round the car to greet him, you cut yourself off as you take in the scene in front of you.

the three children are leaning against the door of the imapala, their heads barely reaching the bottom of the window, faces dirt stained and tear streaked. the sight would break your heart if you weren't so distracted by dean, who was crouching in front of them, an easy, comforting smile on his lips as he spoke to them softly.

"see? i told you we'd get 'em for you," he tells them, and the gentle tone of his voice makes you melt a little. "you guys were so brave, doin' exactly as i said and helping each other get out. you guys are real superheroes."

the little boy in the middle, the youngest of the three, looks at dean with wide eyes, still glistening with tears, but there's no more trace of sadness other than the tear tracks on his dusty cheeks. "like batman?" he asks, his small voice slightly wobbly.

dean grins wider at that, and you can practically see the sparks in his eyes as he nods at the little boy. "hell yeah, exactly like batman," he assured the boy. "he'd be so proud of how brave you were, all of you. i mean seriously, i was so scared, but you guys were totally badass."

all three of the children's faces lit up at that, the two girls on either side of the little boy looking at each other and giggling softly before looking back at dean.

he pretended to be confused, cocking his head and looking between the two girls. "what's so funny?" he asks, his lips twitching as he fights off a smile.

"you said a bad word," the girl on the left says, giggling at dean's face.

dean pretends to be offended, quipping something back at the girl to make all three of them laugh again, but you don't hear what, because suddenly you're picturing doing that with another kid.

your kid.

images flash through your head of dean, a little girl in his arms, a sweet smile on his lips as he rocks her gently. dean and a boy with his eyes and your hair standing side by side as he teaches him how to fix up the impala. you and dean side by side as you watch the milestones of your child's life, the look in dean's eyes as he holds them for the first time.

you bite your lip as you watch him with the kids, your heart warming in your chest. but the heat doesn't stop there, it travels through your chest, pooling quickly in your core as you suddenly picture yourself pregnant, dean's hands on your stomach, your sensitive breasts, hips and all over as he takes care of you.

the movement of dean standing up snaps you out of your fantasy, and with a soft smile, you help him and sam load the kids into the impala, offering to sit with them in the back, dean driving and sam in the passenger seat.

the drive back into town wasn't short, but you honestly were content to sit in the car for a couple hours as the kids eagerly conversed with you. they were smart, and you were surprised at their range of vocabulary as they told you about themselves.

you learned that the two girls were sisters, maia and ruby, that they were six and eight, and had a cat named max that they loved to death. the little boy's name was logan, and he didn't talk as much, oddly staying quiet as the girls chatted away at you, but once they turned into talking amongst themselves, he started telling you about all of his favorite superheroes.

eventually, exhaustion dragged the poor kids under, maia and ruby curling into each other, your heart warming when you felt the weight of logan's body leaning into yours. you let him lean against you, gently lifting your arm and resting it over his shoulder, holding him to you.

not so long into his slumber however, logan began to squirm against you, catching your attention as a small, heartbreaking cry left his lips. the poor boy was having a nightmare.

gently, you gripped his shoulders, squeezing lightly as you tried to wake him up. "hey, shh, hey, logan it's okay," you whisper, your heart clenching as another soft cry leaves his lips.

dean's eyes snap to you in the rear view mirror, the cry breaking his concentration on the road. "he okay?"

"he's having a nightmare," you say, meeting dean's eyes for a second, before a pained gasp draws your attention back to the boy next to you. his eyes snap open, brimming with tears as they meet yours, his trembling lips parted like he's trying to say something, but nothing comes out. "hey, hey, buddy, it's okay, you're okay."

you're shocked when he suddenly surges forward, crashing into you with a sniffle. as soon as he does though, your instincts kick in, your arms wrapping tightly around him, one hand cupping the back of his head to you as you shush him softly.

"shh, s'alright honey, you're safe, you're okay," you whisper, tilting your head down to press a kiss to the top of his head, continuing to murmur soft reassurances into his slightly matted hair.

what you didn't see was dean watching you in the rear view mirror. his eyes stayed glued on you and the little boy until he absolutely had to look back at the road, doing so just long enough that he didn't crash, then his gaze returned to you.

something about seeing you with the kids, the way you interacted with and entertained them the whole ride, and especially now, watching you hold and care for this little boy you didn't even know, it did something to him. it started with a pull in his chest, squeezing at his heart, but it moved lower and lower, sparking a heat in his stomach as images flashed in his mind.

you, barefoot and your soft stomach swollen as you grew his child inside of you. you, holding his child in your arms, just like you're doing to little logan right now. a life out of hunting, the life he's always secretly dreamed of, white picket fence and all. dean thinks about how you'd feel, the way your body would change, how he'd be able to mold it with his hands, how sensitive you'd be as he drags his fingers over your skin, up to your chest, making you moan his name.

he's abruptly brought out of his thoughts as a soft melody reaches his ears. he lifts his eyes to the mirror again, and he swears if he was standing up, he would've swooned.

you've got the little boy cradled to your chest, one of your hands cupping the back of his head to hold him to you as you rock gently, your lips pressed to his head, but he can still hear your soft voice.

singing.

dean had never heard you sing before, but he decided then and there that screw his pride, he was gonna ask you to sing for him.

later, after maia and ruby had been dropped off, not going before giving dean a crushing hug, the impala rumbled over to the other side of town to logan's house.

you hoisted the sleeping boy higher in your arms, holding him securely against your chest and covering the back of his head as you step out of the impala, nodding to sam and dean in silent assurance before walking up to the small house.

dean just watched you through the window, his eyes glued to you as you knocked on the door, careful not to wake logan. his anxious tapping of the steering wheel slows to a stop, a contrast to the beat of his heart, which rapidly speeds up as the front door opens, his eyes glued to you as the hysterical parents graciously thank you. his gaze never leaves you, eyes zeroed in on you as you hand over the sleeping boy, his racing heart swelling as you smile at them, leaning down to press one last kiss to the sleeping boy's head before bidding them goodbye.

sam clears his throat next to him, snapping dean out of his daze as you turn to head back to where they wait in the impala. dean tears his eyes from you to glare at sam, who has a knowing smirk on his face.

"what?" dean snaps, a flush crawling up his neck at being caught staring at you.

"nothing," sam replies, shrugging nonchalantly, but the smirk never leaves his face. "just never figured you were the type."

"type?" dean asks, his brow furrowing in confusion. "type to what?"

sam opens his mouth to respond, but he doesn't get the chance to as you open the door of the impala, swiftly sliding into the backseat pausing at the looks on the brothers faces.

"am i interrupting something?" you ask, raising your eyebrows as you look between them.

the brothers share a look, doing their silent telepathy trick that you've never understood, but then dean is clearing his throat and starting the car, eyes focused through the window as he pulls out of the driveway. "nope, just ready to get back to the motel," he responds curtly, and you can sense there's more to it, but you don't pry.

the ride back to the motel is silent except for the soft hum of the radio in the background, but you don't mind. all you can focus on anyways if getting dean alone in your motel room.

when you finally do arrive, you practically drag him out of the car, ignoring sam's roll of his eyes as you hastily unlock the motel room, stumbling in with more force then necessary and closing it behind you.

"what's the rush?" dean questions, the signature winchester smirk on his lips as he shrugs off his jacket and flannel, tossing them onto a nearby chair. "didn't know you got hot and bothered over killin' vamps."

you normally would respond with a roll of your eyes, quipping something back at him, but right now you're too focused the way his plain black t shirt is stretched over his chest, his biceps practically bulging in the sleeves making you almost salivate. you bite your lip as your eyes rake over him, lingering on his arms as the images of him gently cradling your child creep back into your head, making a familiar heat curl in your stomach.

he notices the lack of response, taking a step closer to you, ducking his head slightly to try and meet your gaze. "uh, hello? you gonna tell me what's got you all worked up or are you just gonna keep starin' at me like i'm a fresh piece o' pie?" he asks, snapping you out of your daze, your eyes flicking up to meet his.

your face heats up, a flush painting your cheeks as you avert your gaze sheepishly, slightly embarrassed at the thoughts running through your head.

"s'nothing," you mumble, dropping your eyes to your feet, suddenly finding the floor very interesting.

dean tuts at you, stepping closer, close enough that the tips of his boots come into view where your eyes are stuck on the ground. "ain't nothin' if it's got you flustered like this, sweetheart," he drawls, lifting a hand to your chin, cupping it and raising your head to meet his gaze. "so, i'll ask again. what's got my girl all worked up?"

you bite your lip again, your thighs involuntarily clenching together at the low timbre of his voice, the heat in your core starting to outweigh your pride. "i just..." you start, feeling the anxiety bubble up in your chest as you start to ramble. "you were really good with the kids today and i know its stupid, and i know you don't want kids but i saw you with them and it just really got me goin' for some reason and-"

"woah, woah," dean cuts you off, both of his hands moving to cup your cheeks, keeping your eyes focused on his, his thumbs stroking your cheeks gently like he could slow your rapid heartbeat through your skin. "slow down, baby, take a breath."

he just stares at you for a moment and you get the hint, taking in a slow breath, exhaling and letting some of the tension flow from your body. "good girl," he murmurs, tucking some of your hair behind your ear gently. "so, from what i heard, you are all worked up, thighs clenchin' and everything because of watchin' me with the kids?"

you don't answer with words, anxiety too tight in your throat as heat creeps up your neck, so you just nod your head in his hands.

"use your words, pretty girl," dean corrects, but there's something deeper in his voice, and you swear you can see his eyes darken as his grip on your face tightens just slightly.

"yes," you breathe out, swiping your tongue over your dry lips before pulling the bottom one between your teeth.

"oh, that's it, huh?" he asks, his voice lowering to a rumble that sends a shiver up your spine. "you wanna make me a daddy? let me fill you up and make you a mama?"

your eyes widen in surprise at his reaction, and you feel a flood of arousal drench your panties, making you clench your thighs together harder. the shock of his words wears off as he squeezes your cheeks a little tighter, urging you to answer him.

a strangled whine leaves your throat at the images his words create in your lust-hazed brain, and when you nod in his grip, a groan leaves his lips, his pupils dilating so much there's only a ring of shining evergreen around them.

"shit, babygirl, you have no idea what that does to me.." he growls, one of his hands slipping from your cheek to grip your hip tightly. he pulls you flush against him, and you can feel the heat of his body, along with the hardness that is pressed into your stomach, making your knees weak. "i was thinkin' the same about you all damn night long."

"you were?" you ask, your voice turning into more of a squeak when he dips his head down to nip at your neck.

"uh huh," dean mumbles into your skin, sucking on your pulse point so hard you swear stars flash behind your eyes. "just the way you interacted with the kids, when logan had that nightmare...all the sudden i just pictured you, all barefoot 'n round with my kid."

you whimper at the image, your eyes slipping shut as his hands drag down to the hem of your shirt, tugging on it lightly before pulling back enough to tear it over your head, tossing it who knows where before diving back down to btie at your neck.

"dean..." you moan breathlessly, back arching to give him more access as he trails his hands up to deftly unclip your bra, sliding the straps down your shoulders.

"that what you want?" he growls your name, the heat in his voice so intense you suddenly feel dizzy. "you want me to fill you up? fuck you so deep it sticks, then you can go around tellin' everyone it was me who knocked you up?"

you nod desperately, grinding your hips into him, groaning in frustration when you get no friction. "yes, god yes," you pant, gripping his shoulders to push him back from you enough to look him in the eyes. "please-"

that was all it took for the last of his resolve to break.

the next few moments were a blur of belt buckles and buttons as you both tugged at each others clothes, ripping them off and tossing them onto the floor of the now disheveled motel room. eventually, you both landed on the bed, now bare to each other, dean falling on top of you and immediately crashing his lips to yours in a bruising kiss.

you moan into his mouth, arching your back and wrapping your arms around his shoulders to dig your nails into his skin, bucking your hips up into him. the what between your thighs was too much now, an almost painful ache that only worsened when his hands slipped down to grab your grinding hips, pinning them firmly to the mattress.

"dean-" you start to whine when he pulls away from ravaging your mouth, but he cuts you off with another fierce kiss, stealing your breath away before he pulls back again, his eyes burning as they took you in.

"jesus christ," dean murmurs your name, his gaze raking down your flushed skin, lingering on your heaving chest before landing on the now sticky mess between your legs. "you've got no idea what you do to me, pretty girl."

"please dean," you whine, hips wiggling under his grip. when he doesn't acknowledge your plea, your hands drag up his shoulders to tightly tangle in the short strands of his hair, tugging until his eyes are on yours. "fuck me, please."

if possible, dean's eyes darken further, the jade that you love so much almost completely consumed by lust blown black, the sight making your thighs tighten around his hips.

"can't refuse my girl, now can i?" he pants, one of his hands leaving your hip to pump himself a few times before he lines himself up with your sopping entrance. your breath hitches as his leaking head notches at your hole, fingers digging into his scalp. it only seems to spur him on, a deep groan reverberating in his chest before he pushes into you, low moans leaving you both at the feeling. "fuck, sweetheart, you feel so fuckin' good."

your jaw goes slack, your eyes going hooded as he fills you to the brim, your body hyper aware of every ridge and vein as his cock settles in your clenching walls. you both stay still for a moment, getting used to the feel of each other, before the ache in your core starts to build again.

"move, dean, move, please," you whimper, opening your heavy eyes to meet his, wriggling your hips under him.

he groans, nodding before dropping his forehead to yours, his breath fanning over your lips. he's still not moving, and you open your mouth to beg him again, but before you can say a word, he pulls out almost all the way, gripping your hips tightly, then slams back into you, hard.

you cry out, your back arching as your hands move to grip his shoulders for dear life, your nails leaving red crescent shapes in their wake. he doesn't give you time to recover before he's doing it again, then again, and again, until he's building a steady pace that has your legs wrapping tightly around his waist, your toes curling in the air.

"oh fuck- dean-" you choke, words cut off as a particularly harsh thrust has his tip ramming into your cervix with so much force that your vision goes black for a second.

"shit, yeah..yeah that's it, pretty girl," dean grunts in response, the force of his thrusts causing his nose to bump yours, your foreheads still pressed together. "let me feel ya, squeeze this pretty pussy 'round me till she gushes all over my cock."

his filthy words only push you closer to the edge, your nails dragging down his back, making him groan. "fuck, fuck," you gasp as he rubs against that sweet, gummy spot inside you, your back arching as the coil in your stomach tightens.

"mhm, right there, baby?" he growls, his words almost a coo as he angles his hips to hit that sensitive spot with each thrust. "yeah, that's it right there. c'mon, you're so close, aren't ya, pretty girl?"

you nod, clenching your eyes shut as his thrusts punch broken whines and whimpers from you, leaving you breathless. a sharp slap to your thigh has your eyes flying open, a small yelp leaving you at the stinging contact.

"eyes on me, baby," he demands, and you oblige, your mouth hanging open as you continue to fly towards the edge. "atta girl, there you go. such a naughty fuckin' girl, gettin' wet 'cause all you wanted was my cock in you, fillin' you with my cum 'til it sticks. that's what you want, isn't it, baby? to be full of my cum, waiting 'til it sticks, then being full 'n round with my kid?"

all you can do is moan, the harsh movements of his hips and the way his tip his hitting the tip of your cervix perfectly succeeding in fucking you dumb.

"yeah, that's what i thought," dean mumbles, tilting his head to nip at your bottom lip, slipping one hand between your sweat slicked bodies to rub tight circles on your sensitive bundle of nerves. "cum for me, baby, squeeze my cock 'til there's nothing left, ya know you want it. c'mon mama, give it to me."

the nickname is what pushes you over the edge with a scream that you think is his name, but you're too far gone to really know. your mind goes blank as your orgasm crashes over you in white hot pleasure, back arching and legs shaking.

somewhere in the back of your hazy mind, you hear dean groan your name, and you can feel his sticky release painting your insides, the warmth making your toes curl and legs shake as you come down.

when you start to regain some of your senses, dean's head is buried in your neck, his breath hot and heavy against your skin as he brings himself back down to earth. his rough hands run soothingly up and down your sides, sliding down to your trembling thighs.

after a moment, the room silent except for the both of yours heavy pants, dean speaks up, his voice slightly hoarse.

"goddamn, babygirl, 'f i knew me knockin' you up got you so turned on i would've brought it up a long time ago," he mutters into your neck, pulling a tired laugh from your lungs.

you sigh softly, head falling back against the bed as you try to bring your heartbeat down, his words ringing in your head. "thought you didn't want kids," you mumble in response, your hands stroking gently along his back, soothing the marks you made.

"i-" dean starts, but cuts himself off, pausing for a moment before he lifts his head from your sweaty skin to look down at you. one of his hands comes up, brushing some of your damp hair away from your eyes, his thumb lingering as he brushes the digit gently over your brow. "i didn't, not really. not until you."

the words steal the breath from your lungs again, your eyes widening slightly as you stare up at him. you search his expression for any sort of insincerity, but all you find is a look of love so intense you feel like he's tearing your heart straight from your chest. "not until me?" you ask, your voice barely above a hoarse whisper.

"not until you," he repeats, his words soft. he stares at you for a moment before sighing, tilting his head as he continue to admire you. "i never thought i would get a chance at the apple pie life, hell i didn't even really want to think about it, but then i met you, and everything changed."

his words, so heartfelt and so real, leave you speechless, your heart still pounding in your chest as you stared up at him in awe.

"you make me want all of those things, make me think i actually might deserve them," he continues, his thumb still brushing softly at your skin. "and i know we haven't...officially talked about it, but i love you, and if it really is somethin' you want, there's no one else i'd rather start a family with. if-if that's what you want, 'f course."

you don't even hesitate before you answer, a smile pulling at your lips. "yes," you breathe out, feeling your heart flutter in your chest. "there's no one i'd rather do it with."

a grin lights up dean's face, a look of boyish joy highlighting his features. without responding first, he grabs your face in his hands, cupping your cheeks and peppering kisses all over your heated face, making you giggle.

"you have no idea how damn happy that makes me," he mumbles between kisses, pressing on last, lingering kiss to your lips before dipping his head again, burrowing into your neck, his arms wrapping tightly around you. "you're gonna be the best mama."

you laugh softly, a warm feeling spreading in your chest as you wrap your arms around him in return. "we gotta get cleaned up first, then we'll continue this conversation," you mutter into his hair, pressing a kiss to the top of his head, but he just grumbles, burying his face further in your neck.

"later," he mumbles, pressing a kiss to your pulse point, content with just holding you in his arms. "just wanna stay here."

"okay," you whisper into his hair, relaxing into his hold. "we can stay here."

dean hums into your neck, and you can feel him smile against your skin, making your heart skip a beat in your chest. you knew it wasn't going to be easy, getting out of the life never was, hell just living as hunters wasn't easy, and raising a kid was gonna be harder. but you knew that you had dean, and in the end, that's all that mattered.

he was all that mattered.

bri's thoughts! bri write a position that isn't missionary challenge: fail. (i'm sorry i'm basic i crave intimacy) okay so here it is! finally actually finished something (the 50 unfinished works in my drafts are screaming at me rn) and now i'm gonna go to bed and dream about being on snl because it is my current obsession, especially after the 50th anniversary episode, which i recommend everybody watch! so i won't shut up about that but anyways, here this finally!

tags! @ultravi0lence14 @bluemerakis @titsout4jackles @soldiersgirl @dulcescorderitas @flormpus @star-yawnznn @Jaredpadonlyyyy @grangerously @dclover27 @chronic-fangirl-222 @stevesxwhore @deans-baby-momma @spnaquakingdom

[wendichester]

₊˚ ✧ . cuddled confessions,

summary. dean doesn't cuddle. or so he says.

pairing. dean winchester x reader

wordcount. 407

The motel room is quiet, save for the hum of the heater and the occasional creak of the bed as Dean shifts next to you. The hunt was brutal—grueling even—but the creature’s dead, the town is safe, and you’re both finally allowed a moment of rest.

Dean lies stiffly on his side, arms crossed over his chest as if the world might think less of him for relaxing. You’re facing away from him, eyes closed, pretending to sleep as you try to suppress a smile. It’s almost cute how much effort he’s putting into maintaining his tough-guy act.

It isn’t like he hates physical affection. You’ve seen the way he clings to hugs when Sam offers them, and how his hand lingers on your back whenever you’re near. But cuddling? Admitting he might crave the warmth and comfort of someone close? That’s where his stubborn streak kicks in.

But tonight, exhaustion wins.

You feel him shift closer, his breath brushing against the back of your neck. He hesitates, the bed dipping slightly as he leans over you, checking to see if you’re truly asleep. When you don’t move, he exhales softly, almost in relief.

A warm arm slides around your waist, pulling you gently against his chest. You can feel his heartbeat, steady and strong, as his nose nudges into your hair. The tension in his body seems to melt away, his grip tightening just enough to make you feel safe.

“You drive me crazy, you know that?” he murmurs, his voice low and rough, meant only for the shadows of the room. “But I don’t think I’d know what to do without you.”

Your heart swells at his words, but you stay still, letting him believe his confession is safe in the quiet of the night.

“Damn, you smell good,” he adds after a moment, his tone softening even more. “I don’t deserve this—don’t deserve you. But… I’m glad you’re here.”

His lips press against your shoulder, lingering like he’s trying to memorize the feel of you.

You can’t help it—your body betrays you with a tiny, contented sigh.

Dean freezes, his breath hitching. “You’re awake, aren’t you?”

You turn in his arms, grinning up at him. “Maybe.”

A flush creeps up his neck, and he groans, burying his face in your hair. “You’re never gonna let me live this down.”

“Not a chance,” you tease, snuggling closer. “But don’t stop now, Dean. I like it.”

want be part of the taglist.ᐣ ⋆.˚ ★— @iloveeveryoneyoureamazing ⋆ @deans-daydream ⋆ @ariasong11 ⋆ @ambiguous-avery ⋆ @krabog ⋆ @itsdearapril ⋆ @nymphet-quenn ⋆ @bluemerakis ⋆ @titsout4jackles ⋆ @lyarr24 ⋆ @hauntedrose555 ⋆ @chevroletdean ⋆ @dulcescorderitas ⋆ @blackmarketfruitrollups ⋆ @impala67rollingthroughtown ⋆ @rulesareshadesofgrey ⋆ @nervoussystemss ⋆ @daryls-luvrr ⋆ @defnot-svnshine ⋆ @sunnyteume ⋆ @drakelover78 ⋆ @angelblqde ⋆ @mostlymarvelgirl ⋆ @whisperingdaze ⋆ @bossyblondie ⋆ @lieutenantchaos ⋆ @iluvnewtie ⋆ @dyhsversion

[jesterchan]

FYI: I make Lunar X Reader content! So I might make content for Lunar fans!

The lack of Lunar anything. it kills me. We could have it all, we could have Lunar x bloodmoon. Lunar x reader. Lunar x anything. most we get is Lumini (god bless that honestly, this is not anti-lumini this is just pro-everything else aswell) Best we get is Lunar x helpi from back when that was popular. I wanna kiss them silly style your honor.

[samsblades]

SUPERNATURAL M.LIST all works are gender neutral, reblogs + feedback are greatly appreciated !! MINORS AND AGELESS BLOGS DNI WITH MY NSFW CONTENT. YOU WILL IMMEDIATELY BE BLOCKED !!! all nsfw fics are clearly labeled MDNI, this applies to ageless blogs. p for platonic! f for fluff, a for angst, h/c for hurt/comfort, s for smut, su for suggestive!

SAM WINCHESTER

DRABBLES / ONESHOTS ⟢ something about being close | 9.5K, a, f ⟢ makes you wonder | 5.2K, f ↳ ⟢ part two : now you know | 6.8K, f, h/c ⟢ better than a sight for sore eyes | 1K, su, MDNI ⟢ take my breath away | 13.7K, a, f, h/c ⟢ give and take | 0.7K, f ⟢ warm brown jacket | 1.3K, f ⟢ you’d dance with me? | 1.4K, f ⟢ three seconds | 1.2K, f ⟢ literary parallels | 3.6K, a, f ⟢ this is real, it’s right | 3K, h/c ⟢ my boy only breaks his favorite toys | 10.6K, a ↳ ⟢ part two : to leave him with love | 8K, a ⟢ forget-me-nots | 5.6K, f ⟢ but daddy i love him | 11.3K, a, f ⟢ some other time |1.1K, f ⟢ just an observation | 1.3K, f ⟢ hold me, it’s enough | 1.6K, h/c ⟢ breathe, baby | 4.1K, s, f, MDNI ⟢ only got eyes for you | 2.7K, f ⟢ dead eyes | 2.4K, h/c ⟢ abstract (psychopomp)| 1.9K, h/c, a ⟢ love you again| 2K, f, h/c ⟢ motel room, 10:00 p.m. | 545, f, h/c ⟢ book shop, 12:00 p.m.| 515, f ⟢ motel shower, 12:00 a.m. |629, h/c ⟢ cabin, 3:17 a.m.| 658, h/c ⟢ campus library, 7:00 a.m.| 658, f ⟢ the impala, 4:00 p.m.| 608, f, h/c, p ⟢ drooling honey | 1.1K, s, MDNI ⟢ our girl | 1.2K, s, MDNI, w/jess ⟢ i got you | 4.1K, s, MDNI ⟢ you can take it | [tfem!sam]. 1.3K, s, MDNI ⟢ worship you | 1.5K, s, MDNI ⟢ my hands are yours | 2.8K, h/c ⟢ sweet smile | 1.9K, f ⟢ noticed | 1.1K, h/c ⟢ soft 'n sleepy | 1.3K words, s, f, MDNI ⟢ like a miracle | 1.1K, f ⟢ laundry machines | 1.7K, f ⟢ love you like that | 783, f ⟢ the object of his affections | 1K, f ⟢ in the morning | 959, f ⟢ smirking and butterflies | 783, f ⟢ blabbermouth | 845, h/c ⟢ no one else here | 908, f ⟢ ruined (not really) | 1.4K, f ⟢ green couch | 898, f ⟢ sweet potatoes |1.2K, f ⟢ hallway hardwood floors | 676 f, su

continued ! bc theres a character limit for a block of text :( ⟢ natural | 5.3K, f, s, MDNI ⟢ liked it too | 1.9K, s, MDNI ⟢ just a little bit | 1.7K, s, MDNI ⟢ lucky charm | 1.4K, f ⟢ deep satisfaction | 1.5K, s, MDNI ⟢ just because | 8K, f, s, MDNI ⟢ spring, honey, forest, etc. | 644, f ⟢ quiet comfort | 1K, h/c ⟢ chamomile tea | 2.4K, h/c, p

HEADCANONS ⟢ random boyfriend hcs | 1.6K , f ⟢ nsfw boyfriend hcs | 1.6K, s, MDNI ⟢ pirate!au | 1.1K, f, a ⟢ with adhd!reader | 0.8K, f ⟢ with talkative!reader | 0.7K, f ⟢ fake-dating!au | 1K, f ⟢ with angel!reader | 2.4K, f ⟢ tfem!sam x tmasc!reader | 1.3K, f

FAKE TEXTS ⟢ gen z younger sibling | f, humor, p ↳ ⟢ part two | f, humor, p ⟢ librarian!reader | f ⟢ suggestive w/sunshine!reader | su, MDNI ⟢ memes from sunshine!reader | f, humor

౨ৎ

DEAN WINCHESTER DRABBLES / ONESHOTS ⟢ the language of love isn’t dead | 2.4K, f, a ⟢ flower shop, 11:00 a.m. | 644, f ⟢ gas station, 3:04 a.m. | 615, h/c, p

HEADCANONS ⟢ best friend!dean | 1K , f, p

౨ৎ

BOTH DRABBLES / ONESHOTS (all platonic) ⟢ sorry won’t cut it (rewrite) | 4.1K, a, h/c ⟢ broken, fine for tonight | 1.3K, h/c ⟢ easy, maybe | 3K, h/c ⟢ safe now | 1.4K, h/c

HEADCANONS (all separate) … nothing yet !

౨ৎ

RUBY DRABBLES / ONESHOTS ⟢ abandoned church, 5:30 a.m. | 540, f ⟢ cry for me | 1.2K, s, MDNI ⟢ lick it better | 1.2K, s, MDNI ⟢ indulge | 1.2K, f ⟢ real cute | 3.5K, s, MDNI ⟢ don't mind | 597, a

HEADCANONS ⟢ girlfriend hcs | 1.3K, f

౨ৎ

CHARLIE BRADBURY DRABBLES / ONESHOTS ⟢ make you feel so good | 1.K, s, MDNI

HEADCANONS … nothing yet !

౨ৎ

JO HARVELLE DRABBLES / ONESHOTS ⟢ so pretty | 1.7K, s, MDNI ⟢ hooked | 1.6K, s, MDNI

HEADCANONS ⟢ girlfriend hcs | 1.6K, f

౨ৎ

JESSICA MOORE DRABBLES / ONESHOTS ⟢ our girl | 1.2K, s, MDNI, w/sam

HEADCANONS … nothing yet !

౨ৎ

ROWENA MCLEOD DRABBLES / ONESHOTS ⟢ whiskey wanting | 1K, su, MDNI

HEADCANONS … nothing yet !

౨ৎ

© SAMSBLADES 2024 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. COPYING, TRANSLATING, AND REPOSTING IS PROHIBITED.

[lass-us-slay]

So I read a prompt about how Wonder Woman found Danny in a trash can (don’t remember which one) and I was bored.

So I took that lil info and made it into an AU.

So basically, Danny get yeeted into this unknown universe and has no where to live. And no where to live means no money. No money means no food. No food means Danny can’t keep his human half sustained.

So what does he do?

Decides to not change into a human and live in a trash can.

Yes you heard that right, live in a trash can.

Because he’s a ghost, he doesn’t have to worry about the germs and stuff. But that doesn’t mean he lives in just any trash can! He lives in a clean one ☝️

AND he also decorated it with his name so other people know it’s his!

And so Danny has been here for a while now and realizes

Holy shit there’s hero’s here- you know what, why doesn’t he have hero’s back home?!

And being minorly annoyed jealous (but he’s never admitting that)he thought:

Well since there’s hero’s here already, guess I’m not needed.

.

.

.

Good. I’m tired af

And so Danny caries on his life, being content with his trash can and scaring whoever comes into his alley. It’s fun. Sure he sometimes needs to ugh overshadow people to feed his human side, but other than that.

It’s going great.

But Danny doesn’t realize that with Amity gone (or smth, you choose) which was his haunt, he slowly makes the trash can into his new haunt.

And slowly but surely, Danny’s beloved haunt trash can starts to become other worldly kinda.

Yk because of the ectoplasm.

So now Danny’s lovely trash can haunt has more space inside and- Hey Danny can actually sleep in it better!! And he got some company too!

In the form of blob ghosts.

Two actually.

They keep his trash can clean and help purifying some corrupted ectoplasm that he finds. Because for some reason this universe’s ectoplasm seems half way artificial and tastes a bit weird. Which is where the blob ghosts help out in.

Everything was great.

Danny was loving the trash can life style.

He has two blob ghosts friends. Which he named Sam and Tucker, and yea they couldn’t talk but that was fine.

He wasn’t lonely, he wasn’t. He had two very much talking friends like Sam and Tucker.

However one day two weirdly dressed people- oh they were hero’s.

Well anyway they found him, one woman stripper and one furry guy.

But it was on accident! He was just peaking out of his beloved haunt trash can, and they spotted him.

He stared, they stared back.

Then the woman stripper asked him questions, even when he said:

“Don’t mind me, have a nice day!”

But they just kept bother him and giving him weird looks and glances.

Which- rude.

Didn’t they see his mark on his haunt trash can? Obviously it means it’s his home, so they shouldn’t be bothering him still. He’s safe as can be.

Plus.

It’s not like he’s looking at them in suspicion and weirdness, I mean look at them! What kinda cheep knock off vampire fury mix and American stripper style clothing are those!

They should mind their own business!

———

Just a silly lil drawing of this lmao, don’t mind me.

[ellipsus-writes]

Ellipsus Digest: March 18

Each week (or so), we'll highlight the relevant (and sometimes rage-inducing) news adjacent to writing and freedom of expression.

This week: AI continues its hostile takeover of creative labor, Spain takes a stand against digital sludge, and the usual suspects in the U.S. are hard at work memory-holing reality in ways both dystopian and deeply unserious.

ChatGPT firm reveals AI model that is “good at creative writing” (The Guardian)

... Those quotes are working hard.

OpenAI (ChatGPT) announced a new AI model trained to emulate creative writing—at least, according to founder Sam Altman: “This is the first time i have been really struck by something written by AI.” But with growing concerns over unethically scraped training data and the continued dilution of human voices, writers are asking… why? 

Spoiler: the result is yet another model that mimics the aesthetics of creativity while replacing the act of creation with something that exists primarily to generate profit for OpenAI and its (many) partners—at the expense of authors whose work has been chewed up, swallowed, and regurgitated into Silicon Valley slop.

Spain to impose massive fines for not labeling AI-generated content (Reuters)

But while big tech continues to accelerate AI’s encroachment on creative industries, Spain (in stark contrast to the U.S.) has drawn a line: In an attempt to curb misinformation and protect human labor, all AI-generated content must be labeled, or companies will face massive fines. As the internet is flooded with AI-written text and AI-generated art, the bill could be the first of many attempts to curb the unchecked spread of slop.

Besos, España 💋

These words are disappearing in the new Trump administration (NYT)

Project 2025 is moving right along—alongside dismantling policies and purging government employees, the stage is set for a systemic erasure of language (and reality). Reports show that officials plan to wipe government websites of references to LGBTQ+, BIPOC, women, and other communities—words like minority, gender, Black, racism, victim, sexuality, climate crisis, discrimination, and women have been flagged, alongside resources for marginalized groups and DEI initiatives, for removal.

It’s a concentrated effort at creating an infrastructure where discrimination becomes easier… because the words to fight it no longer officially exist. (Federally funded educational institutions, research grants, and historical archives will continue to be affected—a broader, more insidious continuation of book bans, but at the level of national record-keeping, reflective of reality.) Doubleplusungood, indeed.

Pete Hegseth’s banned images of “Enola Gay” plane in DEI crackdown (The Daily Beast)

Fox News pundit-turned-Secretary of Defense-slash-perpetual-drunk-uncle Pete Hegseth has a new target: banning educational materials featuring the Enola Gay, the plane that dropped the atomic bomb on Hiroshima. His reasoning: that its inclusion in DEI programs constitutes "woke revisionism." If a nuke isn’t safe from censorship, what is?

The data hoarders resisting Trump’s purge (The New Yorker)

Things are a little shit, sure. But even in the ungoodest of times, there are people unwilling to go down without a fight.

Archivists, librarians, and internet people are bracing for the widespread censorship of government records and content. With the Trump admin aiming to erase documentation of progressive policies and minority protections, a decentralized network is working to preserve at-risk information in a galvanized push against erasure, refusing to let silence win.

Let us know if you find something other writers should know about, (or join our Discord and share it there!) Until next week, - The Ellipsus Team xo

[vanillefawnn]

Leather & Lace 𖹭.ᐟ

Dean winchester x fem!reader

Warnings: suggestive content, Sam being the poor third wheel and getting stuck between you Dean's freakness, language

Summary: You like to leave Dean little trinkets when he goes on hunts, just little things to help keep you in his head when he's out on the road.

Authors note: I'm gonna tackle this man and get him PREGNANT !! (I also did NAWT proof read this sooo ye)

Dean wasn't a sentimental guy—not really. Not in the way people wrote sonnets about or cried over in movies. But there was something about you that rewired the whole system, made him soft in places he'd spent his whole life keeping armored.

It started with a polaroid.

The two of you at a diner somewhere in Missouri, your face squished against his shoulder, both of you grinning like idiots. He found it one morning tucked into the crease of Baby's dashboard, right between the speedometer and the gas gauge.

"Figured you'd miss my face," your neat hand writing read on the back.

He chuckled, thumb brushing over the image as he slid it into the glovebox. He would miss your face, hell, he already did.

From then on, it became a thing.

Every time Dean left for a hunt—wether it be with Sam or solo—there was always something left behind. A sticky note on the steering wheel that said "Drive safe, handsome. I'll be thinking about you." Sometimes, a folded square of paper that smelled just like you, perfume soaked into the fibers until it clung to the leather seats like memory.

Dean had never told you how much it meant. He didn't have to.

But then—somewhere along the line—it stopped being just sweet.

One week, he found a photograph.

And not the diner kind, either.

It was tasteful, if not exactly safe-for-work—your body clad in soft, black lacy lingerie, all curves and skin and confidence. Dean found it when he was rummaging for a cassette tape. Sam was two feet away, completely unaware.

Dean coughed—choked, really—and shoved it into his jacket pocket like it was a contraband. His ears were pink the entire drive to Minnesota.

The next time, it was a lipstick kiss on the rearview mirror. A perfectly formed pout of crimson that made his gut twist in all the right ways. He sat there for a moment, hand resting against the glass like he could somehow hold it.

Sam noticed that one.

"Oh my god," he'd muttered "Can you two not?"

Dean just smirked and peeled out of the parking lot.

But nothing—not one thing—compared to what he found this time.

He was loading up the impala, tossing a duffle into the trunk, shotgun shells rattling in his pocket. Sam was still inside. Grabbing coffee, grumbling something to himself about early mornings and the lore of the case they were working on.

Dean slide into the driver's seat, ready to start the engine—and froze.

There they were.

Hanging from the rearview mirror like the worlds most scandalous charm.

Baby blue lace panties.

Your panties.

He blinked.

Once.

Twice.

Nope. Still there.

Delicate, floral patterns, tiny enough to fit in the palm of his hand. His name was stitched in tiny cursive into the inner waistband—Dean, in pale silver thread. His jaw clenched.

The fuck were you trying to do to him?

He practically snatched them off the mirror, glancing around like some cop was gonna pull up and arrest him for public indecency. His fingers brushed the lace. Soft. Still warm from wherever you'd hidden them. Maybe even your skin. His brain was officially out of commission.

You'd attached a note to them, of course.

"Thought you might like to keep a little peice of me with you."

Dean was gonna die.

Actually, no—Sam was gonna die. Because the second he saw these? it was over.

Dean shoved them into the glovebox like they were ticking explosives, slamming it shut just as Sam rounded the corner with two cups.

"Something wrong?" Sam asked, sliding into the passenger seat.

Dean cleared his throat. "Nope."

"Your face is red."

"It's hot."

"It's forty degrees."

Dean started the car. "Shut up."

Sam blinked. "Why does it smell like her perfume in here again?"

Dean said nothing.

Sam groaned, leaning back in his seat, already regretting this entire trip. "You two are disgusting."

Dean just smirked, hand resting on the wheel.

But later, that night, when they checked into a ratty motel, Dean opened the glovebox again—just to see them. To touch the lace. Hold them against his chest, breathe you in.

And that night, when he slipped between the sheets. He tucked the panties beneath his pillow and fell asleep to the ghost of your perfume and the sound of your voice in his head.

Yeah.

Maybe he was sentimental, after all.

[notreallythatlost]

out of trouble

pairing: tfatws!bucky barnes x female!reader

summary: bucky and you had a thing for each other. there were always those looks and the tension between you—but you never crossed the line. until one night, in a club in madripoor, the walls started to break.

warnings: 18+ explicit content, oral (m receiving), handjob, making out in a public place, you get veeery seductive, heavy dancing, bucky is kinda obsessed with you, idk if there’s more; i’m really bad at writing warnings

word count: 2.0K

author’s note: holy shit, james bucky barnes. what the hell are you doing to us?? can’t stop thinking about him, he’s on my mind 24/7. maybe this has potential to be a series??—lmk what you think about it. 🙂‍↕️ but now, enough of my talking and enjoy!! <3

❥ dedicated to @mandoalorian & @houseofaegon

The safe house was small—the perfect place to hide. Thanks to Sharon, you had survived the gunfire a few hours ago, and now had the chance to rethink your plan.

Slowly, you let your fingers glide over the clothes Sharon had in her closet. She had offered you to borrow some—so you could wear something other instead of the black dress.

And you were thankful for that, because it was so tight that it pushed several parts of your body together, especially your breasts.

"You good?"

The sudden sound of a voice made you turn around, and your gaze landed on Sam, who was watching you with a worried expression.

"Yes, everything’s fine, Sam," you replied with a soft smile, and he gave you a quick nod. He was always so caring when it came to you.

You shook your head still with a smile on your face as he closed the door behind him, leaving you alone again.

After another look into the closet, you found a black jeans, a matching shirt, and a pair of shoes you could wear instead of the high heels.

You were just trying to get out of the dress, fiddling with the zipper, when another knock sounded at the door.

"Come in," you said, and seconds later, you saw Bucky poke his head into the room.

"Just wanted to check if you’re okay," he explained, furrowing his brows when he saw you struggling with your dress.

"You need help with that?"

His question was hesitant, as if he wasn’t sure how far he could go. But you just wanted to get rid of the dress, so you nodded.

"Please. I can’t… get off the zipper", you murmured, and Bucky smiled as he stepped closer.

"C’mere…" he chuckled, and you turned your back to him, lifting your hair so he had better access.

Your breath hitched as he slowly pulled the zipper down, and the cold metal of his left hand brushed ever so lightly against your skin. A shiver ran down your spine, and you bit your bottom lip, holding back a moan of relief as you finally felt free again.

"Thank you," you murmured, turning to face him.

The second your gaze met his, you stopped breathing. His eyes had darkened, and his own breathing had quickened, as if he was fighting the urge to lose control.

You felt the tension growing between you, and you swallowed hard. It wasn’t the first time, that you and Bucky looked at each other like that—whether it was during a mission or when you argued with Sam over the most random things. But there had never been this. There had never been lust.

Not until now.

You let your hair fall back over your shoulders and looked up at him with innocent eyes. You had wanted him from the moment you first saw him. And now you knew that he wanted you too.

"That thing in the bar…" you whispered, raising your hand and placing it lightly on his chest. "Fighting those men, playing the role of the Winter Soldier… it was really hard to not want you…"

As you spoke, your hand drifted down his chest, over the fabric of his black shirt, which stretched deliciously over it.

Bucky closed his eyes, a low grumbling in his chest, and you smiled.

"Tell me… how bad do you want me?" you teased, and his eyes snapped open again.

"You have no idea."

Then he was on you, kissing the air from your lungs. You kissed him back just as fiercely, burying your fingers in his hair, clutching at it like your life depended on it. His hands gripped your face, holding it into place as he pushed his tongue into your mouth.

A little moan escaped your lips, and he pushed you backward until your calves hit the edge of the bed.

"Bucky…" you gasped but he silenced you with another kiss.

"You asked me how bad I want you. Let me show it to you," he murmured.

You let out a soft laugh.

"Sam’s going to kill us. We’re supposed to find the man responsible for the serum," you whispered, nuzzling your cheek into his palm.

"I don’t care what Sam says," Bucky replied.

And suddenly, you were on your back and he was above you.

You laughed again, the quiet sound making the soldier smile, and you tilted your head slightly to the side.

"You do realize we’re lying on Sharon’s bed, right?" you teased.

Bucky rolled his eyes, a smirk tugging at his lips. "You’re unbelievable," he muttered, rolling off you and helping you sit up again.

"Yes but that’s why you can’t get me out of your head."

With a playful grin, you stood up and nodded toward the door.

"I need to get changed. See you outside."

Bucky let his gaze trail down your body one last time before shaking his head with a smirk and leaving the room.

The air was heavy with the smell of alcohol and sex when you stepped into the club.

Flashing lights and the deep thrum of the bass made it nearly impossible to understand anything.

"I need to talk to some people to find what we’re looking for. Lay low, blend in, enjoy the party," Sharon explained, raising her voice over the music, and let her gaze wander between each of you.

"And please, stay out of trouble. I see what I can find."

A final, intense look into your eyes, then she turned and disappeared in the sea of dancing bodies.

"Looks like we got to have some fun," you said with a tight smile, and started to turn away—only to be stopped by a firm grip on your wrist.

"Where do you think you’re going?"

Bucky’s voice was right next to your ear, sending a shiver down your spine.

"Staying out of trouble and going dancing, or what does it look like?" you hissed, trying to pull free. But his grip only tightened.

"The hell you will. You’re staying with me."

There was something in his tone. Something that awakened a rebellious spark inside you.

So you ripped your hand from his grasp, stepping backward slowly, your eyes never leaving his.

"I won’t. And there’s nothing you can do about it," you shot back, your voice barely hearable over the pounding of the bass.

Then, biting your lip, you turned your back on him and let yourself move with the crowd, bodies pressing in from all sides. You closed your eyes, surrendering to the rhythm.

And you knew that he was watching you. His gaze literally burned into your body—into your soul—as you swayed your hips to the music.

You let yourself over to the beat, your head falling back—and suddenly, he was there. His hands gripping your hips, pulling you flush against his body.

"Damn, sweetheart. You said you wanted to stay out of trouble," he growled into your ear, making you smile wickedly. "How do you think this will end, if you keep driving me nuts?"

Slowly, you turned to face him, your fingers brushing over the smooth fabric of his suit jacket. Then, with a sudden tug, you fisted the material in your hands, pulling him down into a desperate kiss.

The moment your lips met, you opened your mouth, tongues colliding—fighting an endless battle for dominance. You moaned into his mouth, the sound lost beneath the bass, but Bucky felt it.

"Do you have any idea, what I want to do with you right now?"

You shook your head, playing innocent—but he wasn’t fooled. He knew exactly what he was doing to you.

His hand slid down the side of your leg before slipping behind your knee. With one swift motion, he lifted your leg, pressing it against his hip.

He looked you in the eyes—so intensely that, for a moment, you forgot how to breathe. Slowly, he let you dip backward, holding you firmly in his arms.

A soft gasp escaped your lips as his mouth found your pulse point, sucking on it softly.

Then, without a warning, he pulled you upright again, his lips brushed against your ear. You shivered as you felt him—hard and pressing insistently against your core.

"You shouldn’t have taken off that dress," he murmured. "Would’ve made it so much easier for me to fuck you."

A soft bite into your earlobe made you whimper, and you decided you’ve had enough.

"Damn you, James," you hissed, yanking your leg down and stepping away from him.

While doing so, you grabbed his hand and pulled him with you—straight to the restrooms.

The moment that you were out of sight, your back slammed against the wall, and his lips were on yours again.

"Bucky—" you moaned as he kissed his way down your throat, his teeth grazing over the soft skin of your neck. "Please—"

A low chuckle rumbled from his chest as he pulled back slightly. "So now you get needy?" he asked, amused, his lips brushing against your ear as he inhaled sharply. "You damn little tease."

"You damn Super Soldier," you breathed, your fingers already working at his belt as your lips met his in another desperate kiss.

A whimper escaped you as he bit down on your bottom lip, sucking it slightly into his mouth.

As soon as his belt was undone, you wasted no time, tugging his jeans and boxers down in one eager motion, freeing his already hard cock.

"You really think I’ll give you what you want after you were such a tease?" he mused, raising an eyebrow.

Your eyes widened as he gently pushed you down onto your knees.

"Better hurry, sweetheart. Don’t know how much time we have before someone walks in," he murmured, watching as you licked your lips.

His cock stood thick and ready before you, precum already glistening at the tip. You pressed a soft kiss against it, making him hum in approval.

There was no time to waste. You dragged your tongue along the vein on the underside, feeling him twitch under your touch while your fingers closed around him, slowly moving up and down.

Bucky let out a low grunt, his fingers threading into your hair, gripping it tightly. "Damn, doll," he muttered as you liked up the curve before pressing another kiss to the swollen tip.

Then, without hesitation, you took him into your mouth—deep, all the way until you could feel him hitting the back of your throat.

"Fuck—" Bucky let his head thud back against the wall, his breath hitching as you gagged slightly, tears pricking the corners of your eyes.

Your nails dug into his things, making him hiss and buck his hips foward. A strangled sound escaped him—one you had never heard before—and you moaned around his length, sending vibrations through his body.

You set a steady rhythm, bobbing your head, and felt him against the back of your throat with each stroke.

It wasn’t long before Bucky lost control. His grip on your hair tightened, his hips moving on their own, mindlessly fucking your mouth.

"Oh god—" he groaned, and without any warning, his release spilled hot down your throat.

You swallowed every little drop he offered you, holding onto him as he trembled, his grip finally loosening from your hair.

As he caught his breath, you licked your lips, and got back on your feet again while Bucky pulled his boxers and jeans back up.

"You are really somethin’ else, you know that?" he murmured, a smirk playing on his lips. Gently, he took your face in his hands, wiping away the tears that had streamed down your cheeks from the force of getting fucked in the mouth.

You bit your bottom lip, looking deep into his steel blue eyes, just as the restroom door swung open.

A young woman stepped inside, freezing mid-step. Her gaze flickered between the two of you, her face turning red before she hurried to the ladies’ room without a word.

A little smile was on your face when you looked back at Bucky, then you both burst into laughter.

When you had calmed down again, you found his gaze on you—soft, yet laced with something dark. Something promising.

Before you could say a word, he leaned in closer, his voice dropping to a husky whisper against your lips.

"Don’t think this was all. Just wait until we get back home."

𝐃𝐎𝐍'𝐓 𝐅𝐎𝐑𝐆𝐄𝐓 𝐓𝐇𝐀𝐓 𝐋𝐈𝐊𝐄𝐒, 𝐑𝐄𝐁𝐋𝐎𝐆𝐒 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐂𝐎𝐌𝐌𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐒 𝐀𝐑𝐄 𝐀𝐋𝐖𝐀𝐘𝐒 𝐀𝐏𝐏𝐑𝐄𝐂𝐈𝐀𝐓𝐄𝐃 𝐓𝐎 𝐒𝐔𝐏𝐏𝐎𝐑𝐓 𝐖𝐑𝐈𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐒. 𑣲

© 2025 notreallythatlost

[losers-clvb]

rebound ex-boyfriend!sam winchester x female!reader

content: toxic!sam, language, smut, oral sex (fem receiving), fingering, clitoral stimulation, manipulative sam, mentions of cheating, phone call during sex, some light dirty talk, non-consensual voyeurism (i think it classifies anyway), weirdly some fluff (maybe?)

word count: 3.4k

note: thank you to my lovely jen (@xoswiftieprincess )for indirectly inspiring me to write this fic. also, this is unedited because i wanted to get it out before i went to work, lol.

m.list

“Fuck Sam Winchester!”

Your best friend, Mason, had been cursing the man’s name for over two hours now. She was finding way too much joy in you finally breaking up with him, but that’s just what her friendship was like. She’s always supported you, even when you made the stupid choice to stay with Sam after the fourth time he’d come home to you with a lipstick stain on his neck.

But, seems fifth time was the charm, because you had forced him out of your life. Though, that could have been more about the fact that this time he’d left his phone open to show a text thread between him and the lady who delivered the mail. The fucking postal carrier. He’d chosen her over you.

That was all in the past now, or, it was supposed to be, but now the entire bar was cheersing to Sam’s downfall.

“Fuck Sam Winchester!” They all echoed out Mason’s words. Even the elderly veteran that lurked in the corner raised his beer to the sentiment.

You rolled your eyes and tried to swallow down the hurt of losing Sam, using your very strong cocktail as a chaser. You were the image of pure badass feminism. Who needed a man if he was gonna treat you like trash?

The truth of it was much more embarrassing. You missed Sam.

He could be sweet, when he wanted to. Bring you home flowers, never your favorites, but they were still flowers. He would wrap his arms around you while you made dinner, lips working on kissing your neck while you hummed. The thing you missed the most?

His ability to make you come over and over.

It was truly astounding the amount of times he’d make you come in a singular night. It was the only time he wasn’t a complete selfish asshole. He’d eat you out until the sun rose, ignoring your babbling about how you couldn’t handle another. You knew the safe word, you just never used it.

Oh my God, and his cock? It was impressively--

“Can you stop thinking about him for once?” Mason huffed out, sipping from her own drink. She could read your mind like no other, and it most times lead you to trouble.

“I’m not thinking about him.” You were lying straight through your teeth. You knew it, and she definitely knew it, if the glare she cut at you meant anything.

“You’re a horrible liar.”

You cringed at her words. Not because of what she meant behind them, but because Sam had told you the same thing, word for word, when you screamed at him how much you hated him.

They were both right. You were lying.

“I can’t just stop loving him.” You whispered. Mason still caught it over the hum of the bar around you.

“You need a rebound! Best way to get over someone is to get under someone else, right?” Mason was already scanning the bar for her perfect victim.

“No, Mase, I can’t-,” you started to protest, but she cut you off.

“Him!” Mason jabbed a finger in the direction of a man. He looked around your age and he wasn’t exactly unattractive. The problem lay in the simple fact that he was nothing like Sam.

His jaw was set in a different way. His hair buzzed down to his scalp. He was too… muscular, like a bodybuilder rather than the lean, toned build of your Sam. And he was short. Only an inch or two taller than yourself. You liked it when your men towered over you. Or, maybe you just liked it when Sam towered over you.

It wasn’t as if you were now a born-again virgin. You would work your way up to hookups, you assumed. But right now you didn’t know if there was anyone who could make you feel as good as Sam had, and you didn’t want to be disappointed.

“He’s perfect for you!” Mason insisted, wrapping her fingers around your wrist to drag you over to him.

“He’s nothing like Sam…,” you almost whimpered, your mind always going back to the man who constantly broke your heart.

“Exactly.” Mason smiled wickedly, stomping up to Not-Sam and his group of friends.

After some very convincing arguments with Mason, mixed with the overwhelming fear that you would never get over Sam, you agreed to take Not-Sam home with you.

That’s where you found yourself now, pressed against the wall, Not-Sam’s hand inching under your skirt.

You were trying to enjoy this, you really were, but he was making it difficult.

Not-Sam was a very bad kisser, and his hand? His hand was somehow cold and sweaty at the same time. Oh, and turns out he was part of the male population that couldn’t find the clit, because he was now rubbing just north of it with far too much confidence.

“That feel good?” He asked in what you could only classify as the worst sexy voice you’ve ever heard.

“Umm…,” you didn’t know how to answer. “Yeah, that’s sooo good” in your best attempt at non-sarcasm? Or maybe, “No, it really doesn’t” as a way to finally stand up for yourself?

Thankfully, you didn’t have to make a choice, because there was a knock on your door a second later. You all but pushed Not-Sam off of you, scrambling to answer the door. Maybe it was Mason coming to her senses and saving you from this. Or maybe your neighbor Verna who sometimes participated in late night baking. Or--

You opened the door to reveal none other than Sam. He looked the same as he had three days ago when you pushed him out of this very door. Well, same other than the quickly bruising right eye.

“Oh.” You breathed, not knowing what else to say. You felt a flux of emotion. Hate, regret, love, lust, heartbreak. Most of all, you felt sorry for him.

You felt sorry for your shitty ex because he has a black eye? You could hear Mason’s voice in your head already, scolding you.

It didn’t stop the pull of your heart when he offered you a crooked grin.

“Angelcakes, who is it?” Not-Sam asked, peering over your shoulder. You winced at the pet name. He insisted on calling you that despite your physical aversion to the name.

Sam furrowed his brow, flicking his eyes from you to Not-Sam a few times before they finally landed back onto you. He didn’t look jealous. He didn’t need to be, he knew nobody compared to him.

“Can I come in?” Sam leaned against the doorframe in the way that always had you swooning. His hair fell perfectly into his eyes. He could see the moment he hooked you back in, a smirk pulling on his face at the sight.

“Actually-,” Not-Sam began.

“Yes.” You answered at the same time, stopping Not-Sam in his tracks. You would have seen the scowl on his face if you weren’t so enamoured with your ex-boyfriend in front of you.

“What?” Not-Sam spat, crossing his arms.

Sam dragged his gaze from you to Not-Sam, raising his eyebrows.

“Guess you’d better get going.” Sam spoke with the same inflection you would use with a child, soft and syrupy like medicine. And just like a child to medicine, it made Not-Sam sneer with disgust.

“We were in the middle of something, Gigantor.” Not-Sam tried, and failed, to pull you out of the trance Sam had put you in by nudging your side.

“It’s okay. You can go.” Your words flowed out embarrassingly quick, and you saw a twinkle of something in Sam’s eye.

Not-Sam scoffed, pushing past you and Sam with a mumble about how you were a bitch he didn’t need. You paid no mind to it, not when Sam was gathering your hand in his own.

His skin was warm, a warmth you had missed after the whole of the three days away from him. He brought the back of your hand to his lips, kissing it like he was the prince in those fairytales you loved so much.

“I missed you.” He mumbled against your hand. You didn’t know if it was true or not, but you wanted to believe it was, and that was all that mattered in the moment.

Your head was still a little fuzzy from the drinks Mason had shoved at you. Yeah, that would be your excuse for anything that was to happen. Drunk, not stupidly in love with a sadist.

“Sammy…,” you sighed, jutting your lip out in a frown. You wanted to kiss him. You wanted to cry.

“Baby…,” Sam sighed back, stepping into your apartment. It smelled like home, cinnamon and sugar. That must have been why he couldn’t get you off his mind, even after sleeping with Stephanie from the bakery down the street.

“You shouldn’t be here.” You turned away, suddenly feeling nervous in his presence. He was gonna hurt you again, you knew it, but it didn’t stop the wanting to wrap your arms around his neck.

“Maybe.” He agreed, softly pushing the door closed and turning the lock until that click that told him no one would be getting in to interrupt what he wanted to happen. “But you’re my baby, and I needed help.”

You turned to face him again, eyes stopping on his injury. You could see the few spots in his eye where the blood vessels had burst. Whoever hit him, hit him hard.

You reached up to cup his face with your hand, Sam leaned down to meet you halfway. You brushed a thumb carefully over the bruising.

“What happened?” You met his eyes again.

“That’s not important.” You didn’t need to know that Stephanie had a husband, one who had been trained to throw a punch during his time in the military. “Can you kiss it better? Like you always do?”

Like you always do. He knew you too well. You would give in, he wouldn’t even have to beg for it.

“You hurt me.” You whimpered, eyes dropping.

“I know. I’m sorry, baby.” Sam was actually half-sincere with his apology. He was sorry that he hurt you, but it was just so easy when you always let him come back.

You swallowed and huffed, still looking down. Then he said those magic words.

“I love you, it’ll never happen again.” You’d heard them far too often, and believed them more times than that. They never ceased to melt away any residual anger you felt toward Sam.

You looked up, a small smile gracing your face.

“I love you too.” You answered.

“I know you do.” Sam nodded, tilting his head down just the slightest bit in order to brush his lips against yours.

You leaned into him with a sigh, muscle memory taking over while you kissed him. It was soft and passionate at first, but quickly spiraled into something more.

Sam was hungry, and you were the only thing that could satisfy him. He knew it. No matter how many girls he tried to replace you with, he could never find one like you. None of them loved him so wholly and eternally like you did.

You wrapped your legs around his waist when he picked you up. You clung to him like a koala on a tree, chest flush with his own.

Sam carried you to your room, bending down to place you within the nest of blankets you called a bed. He never once broke the kiss, not until you were settled onto your back.

He worked his way down your face, kissing your jawline, nipping at your neck. The dress Mason had picked out for you worked to his advantage, giving him perfect access to kiss the tops of your breasts.

The moment he had pulled away from your lips you had tangled your fingers into his hair. You knew where this was going.

“I missed these.” Sam muttered, licking his tongue over the skin of your chest. You only hummed in response.

He continued his way down, fingers looping around your panties before his face ever reached then. He pulled them down, slow and tantalizing, watching the way the lace scraped against your thighs.

There it was. Sam’s own personal heaven, nearly dripping from the way he had you all worked up.

“Sammy…,” you encouraged. He knew what you were asking for. He was happy to deliver.

Sam kissed your inner thigh, relishing in the warmth that increased with every inch closer he got to your center. After just a moment’s pause, he kissed down onto your clit.

The breath was knocked from your lungs when his tongue joined in.

You were pitiful. He’d barely touched you, barely put any effort into his movements, yet you were moaning out his name like it was a prayer. You’d regret this later, maybe, but right now? You weren’t thinking of much more than Sam’s mouth working away at you.

“Mmm, baby, I missed this.” Sam hummed. He brought his thumb up to your clit, just the slightest pressure to get you whining.

“Sammy…,” you huffed. You dropped your hand from his hair to the side of his forehead, cradling his head while he watched your reactions to his movements.

“You’re perfect, you know that?” Sam breathed out, sucking onto you. “That’s why I can’t let you go, you’re perfect.”

You let your eyes flutter shut, throwing your head back. You loved it when he talked like this, when he praised you. It made you feel important.

“You’re perfect for me.”

A primal noise left your throat and you rolled your hips into him.

Sam smirked against you. He knew you would never leave him, not really. All he had to do was come back begging, promise to never do it again, give you a kiss as a way to tie it all together. He’d done it hundreds of times before, and he’d do it hundreds of times more.

You always took him back with open arms -- or, in this case, open legs.

A buzzing from your nightstand broke him from those thoughts.

Your eyes shot open and you tilted your head to the side to look at the device.

“Mase <3” was displayed on the screen.

“It’s-,” you reached for your phone, meaning to hit the volume button to stop the vibrations so you could get back to letting Sam pull you apart. You paused when you felt Sam’s fingers flex into your thighs, catching your attention.

“Answer it,” he ordered, voice just as syrupy sweet as it was earlier. His eyes flashed with mischief. He knew Mason hated him, she’d told him as much each time they saw each other. He didn’t care, not when you would be hanging onto his every word and following him around like a lost puppy. But, it was fun to mess with her.

“What? No.” You wanted to wait for her to find out about all of this. She would be disappointed in you, mad, even. You could see her trying to come over to your place with plans to beat Sam’s ass in her mind. You didn’t want to deal with all of that right now.

“She’s just gonna call back again.” Sam told you. When you still looked hesitant, he placed a gentle kiss on your thigh. “C’mon baby, I’ll be good.”

You melted under him, giving in. You always gave in.

You swiped up your phone, tapping the answer button and holding it up to your ear. You immediately heard the low din of the bar. It was late, but Mason was known for closing the place out every Saturday night.

“How’s it going with the gentleman?” Mason asked cheekily. She usually held her alcohol well, but it didn’t stop the slight slur peeking through in her voice.

“Good.” You weren’t technically lying. It was going good, maybe better than good, but it wasn’t with the man she had set you up with. Then again, if Not-Sam had stayed, you were sure it would have been a very unsatisfying night.

You kept your eyes locked onto Sam. His brown eyes were soft, and you swore you saw love in them, but that may have just been you twisting things. No, he did love you. Just not enough to stop finding himself in other women’s beds.

He stuck true to his word, for about the first minute of your phone call. Your eyes widened as he slowly sunk down, pressing his tongue flat against your center.

“He’s pretty hot, right?” Mason continued. You tried to keep your breathing steady.

“Yeah, super hot.” You agreed. Sam never broke the eye contact he held with you, and you didn’t dare to look away. He wanted you watching him. You knew how bratty he became when he didn’t get what he wanted. You didn’t need him doing anything more to give you away to your babbling best friend.

“And he knows what he’s doing?” Mason questioned. You could see her in your mind, giddily awaiting your answer while she sat at the bar.

“Mhm,” you hummed, biting your lip to stop a moan. You shivered when Sam groaned into you, earning him a narrowing of your eyes to him. Thankfully, Mason didn’t seem to pick up on the noise.

“Well, I’ll let you get back to it, but I want all the juicy details in the morning, kay?”

“Of-,” you started to answer with an “of course, bye!”, but that was when Sam pushed two fingers into you, causing the rest of the sentence to be replaced with a moan.

“Oh my gosh, are you doing him right now?” Mason asked, voice a mix of shock and pride. She’d hope this meant you were coming to your senses, finally leaving Sam in the past.

“Kinda.” You managed to bite out, praying she would just end the call already. It hadn’t occurred to you that you could be the one to end the call, not when Sam was steadily pumping his fingers into you.

“You dirty girl!” Mason exclaimed, giggling. At the same time, Sam spoke, making sure his voice was loud enough to be heard through the phone.

“Such a good girl,” he purred, sucking onto your clit.

“Wait-,” Mason’s voice was scarily sobered up and you nearly withered away in preparation for the impending lecture. “Who is that?” She hoped she had heard wrong, hoped you weren’t stupid enough to be in the position she knew you were in.

“Uh-,” you tried to think of a way out of this, a way to get her off your back, but Sam’s fingers -- the ones not currently inside of you -- wrapped around your phone. He pulled it from your hand effortlessly.

“Hey Mase,” he greeted. He was far too cocky than he usually would be, but the situation was just too perfect. Mason hated him, yet she could never get you to fold the way he did. It did immeasurably amazing things to stoke his ego.

“Fuckin’ Sam.” Mason growled. Seems all the alcohol still couldn’t stop the hatred for the man.

“We’re trying to have a good time, you’re kinda ruining the vibe.” Sam continued his work with his fingers, putting light pressure onto your clit with his thumb.

“Just leave her alone, asshole. Haven’t you hurt her enough?” Mason knew there was no hope in reasoning with him, but she would still try.

“I’m not hurtin’ her right now, promise.” Sam hummed, eyes dragging over your heaving chest. With the phone in his possession, you’d fallen right back into your pleasure. Your head was buried into your blankets, breathy moans leaving your lips.

“You’d better be gone by the time I get there.” Mason warned, and Sam could hear the smack of a door slamming shut.

“Mmm, I don’t think so.” Sam smirked when you clenched around his fingers. He knew you were close. He knew everything about you, down to every twitch of your muscle. He heard the line disconnect, a beep signaling that Mason had ended the call.

He was sure she would be here, banging on your front door, within the next half hour, but that didn’t stop him from taking his time with you. He watched you fall apart on his hand.

“You’re my perfect girl.” Sam rewarded you with after you’d relaxed, a sweet kiss finding its way onto your hip bone. You could only nod and pull him into your arms.

This was the best way to get over a breakup, you’d decided, even if it was with the person who’d broken your heart in the first place.

everything taglist : @littlesoulshine @sacr1ficialang3l @blossomingorchids @plasticflowersinahistorycemetery @mostlymarvelgirl

sam winchester taglist : @hobiespick