hey, you can call me r. im in my 20's and use it/its pronouns. this is a sideblog i made bc im too shy to be horny and unhinged on main.
asks are open for requests, discussions, or fantasies - literally anything as long as it's sam/anthony-centric. please make sure you read my guidelines first before sending anything in.
asks are still open even if im not taking requests! just bc im not writing fic doesn't mean im not willing to hear your thoughts or fantasies. plus, you might be the spark that fuels my next drabble 👀
i strive to make everything i post as accessible as possible. if any of my posts give you or your accessibility tools trouble, please let me know and i'll try to fix it as soon as possible.
Permanent Moorings (Teen and up)
Sam Wilson x GN! Reader - You and Sam finally have a chance to reconnect when he returns to Delacroix for the first time since picking up the shield and the mantle of Captain America.
summary: Mr. Terrific rarely loses his cool. But then he shows up at the door bleeding, and suddenly you’re both forced to admit just how much it would hurt to lose each other.
warnings: mentions of blood/injury, one (1) superman reference, reader is a physician's assistant, probable (definite) medical inaccuracies, mini make out sesh, swearing, michael being his usual smug self.
word count: 2.5k
pairing: Mr. Terrific/Micheal Holt x gn!reader
author's note: went to watch superman and was not expecting for my heart to be completely stolen by this man. i've watched it twice in theaters now and i might go back for thirds. i haven't written anything worth reading in a long ass time so this might be complete dookie but 🤷🏾♀️ anyways enjoyyy
The apartment smells like garlic and tomatoes—a warm, homey scent that doesn’t quite belong in Michael Holt’s sleek, minimal space. It’s not unusual for you to be here; two and a half months in, you’ve reached the point where dropping by isn’t an event anymore. Still, this is his apartment, his meticulously ordered world, and you never forget that. With every stir of pasta sauce in his kitchen, you wonder if you’re a convenient distraction or something he actually likes.
The pot simmers softly in front of you, with the timer ticking down as your "chilling at home" playlist hums through his home speakers. You imagine his face when he walks in: eyebrows lifting by a fraction, maybe a small exhale that translates to excitement in his language.
The door code breaks your thoughts. Beep-beep-beep, then the click of the lock. Relief hits first. Then something else—an instinctive shiver under your skin.
The sound that follows isn’t his usual steady stride but something heavier. Then the first audible breath comes out. It's controlled, sharp, but it drags like sandpaper.
You turn, spoon clattering against the stove.
“Um, Michael—”
His name dies in your throat.
He’s framed in the doorway, mask still on, top part of his uniform torn and streaked with blood. Not all of it is his—you know the difference—but enough of it is. A dark smear blooms just below his ribs, soaking through the precision-engineered fabric.
The warmth of the kitchen plunges into ice.
“You’re bleeding,” you manage, voice tight.
His head tilts slightly, like your observation is nothing worth commenting. “Technically , it's just a superficial laceration.” His body betrays him though; the skin on his knuckles are drawn taut as he stumbles forward and grips the back of the armchair in the living room, while his other arm is wrapped around his torso.
Irritation bubbles up through the concern you have for his current state. “Technically,” you shoot back, already yanking the first-aid kit from under the sink, “you’re bleeding through your damn suit. Sit. Now.”
He hesitates, not out of defiance but out of habit. Michael doesn’t take orders in his own home. But then his gaze catches yours in the soft glow of the stove light: the sharp crease between your brows, the way your hands grip the fabric of the first aid kit like it's the only thing tethering you to reality. Something shifts in his face, almost imperceptible, but enough.
He sits.
You set the kit on the floor beside him, your motions brisk and precise—except for the tremor you can’t quite shake. The clinical part of your brain catalogues everything: jagged tear along his side, blood slow but steady—venous, thank God. His breathing’s even, posture upright, no signs of shock. Yet.
“How bad?” you ask, struggling to cut away at the thick fabric of his suit with a pair of scissors.
“I told you, it's superficial,” he repeats in a poor attempt to downplay the situation. “One and a half, maybe two inches. Missed anything vital.”
"How do you know that? You have a portable x-ray I don't know about?" you retort.
"Technically, yes. A human one," he replies. You know exactly who he's referring to and you have fight to not roll your eyes.
“You didn’t answer my question.” Your tone sharpens as you peel the material back. Heat rushes under your skin—not because of what’s revealed (though the sight of him, bare from the waist up, is hard to ignore), but because this isn’t a patient. It’s him.
The mask comes off next, set neatly on the counter. For a second, you just stare at each other. His face is calm, yours anything but.
“Tell me what happened,” you say, tearing your gaze away from his to snap on a pair of blue latex gloves.
“Does it matter?”
“Yes,” you bite out, meeting his eyes. “Because if you’ve managed to get yourself bleeding internally, I swear I'll take you out myself.”
Something like wry amusement flickers in his eyes. Still, he answers. “Explosion. Some shrapnel from a secondary blast. It grazed me when I moved to cover—” A pause, jaw tightening, before he finishes: “Someone else.”
Your stomach clenches, but you keep your voice steady as you click on a penlight and angle it over the area around the wound. “Are they okay?”
“Who?” he says, gaze following the smooth efficiency of your hands. He wants to tell you how beautiful you look like this—focused, lip pulled between your teeth, hair grazing your forehead—but judging by the steel in your voice, that feels suicidal.
“The person you dove to cover.” You move the light between his eyes, quietly relieved to see his pupillary reflexes are still intact. You press the flashlight into his hand, freeing yours to dig through the kit for a pair of tweezers.
“Yeah,” he says finally. “They’re okay. It was… a mom and her little girl.”
Your teeth catch the inside of your cheek and a breath sticks in your throat, but you force it down, sterilizing the tweezers with an alcohol pad before holding out your light for him to take. “Hold. I need to check for fragments.”
He obeys without a word, angling the beam so you can see the wound clearly. No shrapnel embedded—thank God. You grab gauze and antiseptic wipes, hands steadying as you fall deeper into routine.
“When I press here,” you murmur, applying gentle pressure near the wound, “does it hurt?”
“It’s not exactly comfortable.”
“Michael.” Your tone is sharp, but your voice cracks like a shard of glass.
A beat. Then, with infuriating calm: “…Five out of ten.”
“Thank you,” you mutter, applying the antiseptic around the gash.
The sting makes him suck in a slow breath, but he barely flinches. When your fingers skim the heat of his skin, something inside you trembles—and of course he notices.
“You okay?” he asks quietly.
You swallow hard, taping the gauze with more force than necessary. “No. You scared the shit out of me.”
For the first time since he walked in, Michael Holt doesn’t have an response. Instead, he watches you instead silently for a few moments before he decides to pivot.
“How was your day?”
You pause mid-motion, eyes flicking to his with raised brows. “Seriously?”
“You’re the one who said distraction helps the patient.” There’s a ghost of a smirk on his mouth.
You shake your head, half a laugh breaking through the tightness in your chest as you finish the last strip of tape. “Yes, as in you're the patient and I'm supposed to be distracting you. Unbelievable.”
You get up to throw your gloves away and rummage through his medicine drawer, cursing yourself that the strongest pain reliever he has on hand is some rapid-release ibuprofen capsules. You bring the bottle over to him along with a glass of water. Adrenaline is still humming in your veins, but the worst of it is over. He’s patched up and he’s alive, and that’s what matters.
“Take these,” you say, screwing the top off and shaking out two pills into his hand. “Try to keep pressure off that side and go slow when you transition from sitting to lying down and vice versa. No heroics for at least seventy-two hours,” you say pointedly as you return the the pills to the kitchen.
“Define ‘heroics,’” he says dryly, carefully getting up from the armchair and following you.
“You know what I mean.” You reach for the pot on the stove, flicking it on to reheat the pasta sauce that had been sitting idly for the past several minutes. It feels almost absurd going back to dinner after all that, but the normalcy helps—an anchor in the brief moment chaos. “Sit. I’ll grab you a plate.”
He moves slower this time, lowering himself into one of the tall chairs at his kitchen island. Your eye drifts over to the blanket draped over the back of the sofa—your blanket, one that you brought over and forgot a couple of weeks ago. You head over to the living room to grab it and return to the kitchen to wrap it around his shoulders before he can argue.
The faintest quirk tugs at his mouth. “You know I’m not freezing to death.”
“You’re half-naked and lost a decent amount of blood,” you say, ladling sauce over his plate of pasta. “Humor me.”
His gaze lingers on you longer than usual, something softer sliding beneath the sharp lines of his face. He doesn’t argue.
You set the plate in front of him, then grab another for yourself before you turn to his liquor cabinet. “Wine?” he questions as you set a bottle down and reach for the corkscrew on the bottom shelf. His brow arches. “Is it safe for me to drink alcohol with the painkillers you just gave me?”
You pause, giving him a look that could cut glass. “Who says the wine is for you, Michael? You’re not the one who had to interrupt your cooking because someone was—oh, I don’t know—bleeding all over the place,” you continue, waving the corkscrew at him accusingly.
His lips twitch, almost a smile. “Touché.”
You pour for him anyway, because you’re terrible at telling him no. His glass gets a conservative half-pour. Yours is generous.
“Don’t even start,” you warn when you catch the amused glance he throws at your glass.
He raises his hands in mock surrender, then picks up his fork. “Smells good.”
You slide onto the chair beside him, and he lets the blanket slip so it covers both your shoulders now. A soft, quiet little cocoon that stands in contrast with the sharp, calculating lines of his modern kitchen.
For a few minutes, the only sound is the clink of forks and the low hum of music. It feels almost normal—almost.
You glance at him as he twirls pasta with methodical precision, like even eating is a calculated act. “So,” you start, the silence starting to buzz in your ears. “I offered a distraction earlier. You still want one?”
His eyes flick to yours. “I’m listening.”
You lean an elbow on the counter, resting your chin on your hand. “Had a patient today come in convinced she broke her wrist. Swore up and down it was shattered. Turned out to be a mosquito bite.”
That earns a huff of air—a laugh by Michael’s standards.
“She wanted a cast. A cast, Micheal.” You laugh, shaking your head. “I had to spend fifteen minutes explaining why that wasn’t exactly medically necessary.”
He watches you as you talk, steady and focused, like you’re the only thing in the room that matters. It still rattles you sometimes, that kind of attention—even after two and a half months. Something warm curls low in your chest, equal parts nerves and something dangerously close to love.
By the time you finish your story, both plates are empty, and the tension that gripped your shoulders earlier has eased. Just a little.
Your palms brace the island as you stand to clear the dishes, but his voice stops you. “Leave them. I’ll take care of it later.”
When you turn, he’s already stacking your plate on top of his like he means it. You press a quick kiss to his temple, smile tugging at your lips. “Is this you trying to be sweet, or you trying to find a loophole around me telling you to rest?” He doesn’t answer—just smirks when you steal the plates from his hands and load them into the dishwasher yourself.
You both end up on the couch, not that either of you admits how much you need it—you, to keep from pacing a hole in the floor; him, because staying upright after losing that much blood isn’t in the cards, no matter how indestructible he likes to think he is.
The blanket follows you, draped across your laps. A movie hums low from the screen, something he put on with a flick of the remote before leaning back, muscles taut under too much composure.
You tuck yourself into the far corner of the couch, knees angled toward him. The bare skin on the good side of his torso is pressed against your thigh beneath the shared throw, heat sinking into your bones. It’s ridiculous how aware you are of every inch of him—every slow breath, every shift of muscle—and his fingers idly dragging up and down your calves isn’t helping the tingling sensation running through your body.
For a while, neither of you speaks. You're both looking at the TV, but the movie isn't really being watched.
“You don’t have to worry about me,” he says suddenly, voice a smooth rumble in the quiet. “I’m Mr. Terrific, after all.”
The words pull a sharp laugh from you. “Yeah. To everyone else.” Your voice softens, the weight of the truth anchoring every syllable. “But to me? You’re Michael. My Michael. And I couldn’t stand it if something happened to you. I don’t… I don’t know what I’d do with myself. Honestly."
Your confession hits like a fault line cracking. His jaw tightens, eyes darkening—not cold, but heavy with something you’ve only caught glimpses of before. Then his hand moves under the blanket, warm fingers curling around your thigh, steady and sure.
You suck in a breath you hope he doesn’t hear. He does. Of course he does.
His head dips, close enough that you feel the ghost of his breath along your temple. “Nothing's gonna happen to me,” he murmurs, voice brushing your skin like velvet. Then his lips graze the curve of your neck—a soft press, more gratitude than hunger, but it sets fire to your nerves all the same.
You close your eyes for half a heartbeat, let yourself feel it, then pull back just enough to meet his gaze. That look—the one that says exactly where this could go if you let it—burns low in his eyes.
“Mikey…” Your voice breaks on a whisper, rougher than you meant. “We can’t.”
His thumb traces an idle pattern against your thigh. “Can’t what?” he asks, feigning innocence.
“Don’t—” You cut yourself off with a shaky laugh, pressing your palm to his jaw, thumb brushing the edge of his cheekbone. God, he’s warm. “You just got sliced in half, for Christ’s sake. Take it easy, horndog.”
Michael shrugs, shooting you a lazy grin. “Worth a shot.”
"You're impossible," you say, unable to fight the grin flashing across your face.
“No,” he corrects with faux seriousness. “I’m terrific.”
You groan, reaching for the jar on the coffee table labeled "Terrific Tax" without missing a beat. “That’s a quarter.”
He shakes his head at you, digging a crumpled bill from his pocket. “Highway robbery.”
“House rules,” you shoot back with a smile, setting the jar back down on the table.
You laugh softly, dropping your chin on his shoulder so you can look up at him, and that’s when his lips brush your forehead—a featherlight kiss that sends a shiver racing down your spine. He steals that opening to properly kiss you—slow, careful, but deep enough to make your pulse stutter. His hand stays anchored on your thigh, not pushing, just grounding you there with him as his lips part yours like a secret.
When he finally eases back, his forehead lingers against yours. You feel his breath, warm and steady now.
“Pretty sure this still counts as taking it easy,” he murmurs against your lips.
You roll your eyes, fighting a smile. “Mhm. Don’t push your luck, though.”
“Stay,” he says. His tone shifts into something less playful but still sincere. Not an order. Or a question. Of course, you’re happy to oblige.
Neither of you move from the couch for the rest of the night.
MR. TERRIFIC had yet another late night with the Justice Gang, flying into your shared apartment at the ungodly hour of 4 AM.
Despite setting down his things with the utmost care to avoid making noise, you stumbled out of the bedroom with a yawn. You obviously just rolled out of bed, throwing on the closest shirt over your undergarments.
"You're back," you smiled tiredly, blinking away the sleep to see him clearly. From the look on his face, you knew exactly what he was going to ask. "Don't start. I was already up."
"Mhm," he gave you a knowing smile, shaking his head. His voice was low and gritty from the long day, sluggishness evident in his tone. "I told you to stop waiting for me. It's not good for your health."
You rolled your eyes as you approached him, leaning over the kitchen island as he pulled off his gloves. "You coming straight to bed?"
"Mhm."
Your eyes flickered up to meet his, which were already trained on your figure. Heat dotted your cheeks as you matched his charming smile; conversation wasn't exactly required to catch up when you knew each other so well. It took a long time to get to this point, but it was worth it.
You rounded him, dragging your hand across the expanse of his back slowly, feeling the lettering of his alter ego underneath your fingers. Curling them around the edges of his jacket, you tugged twice. He got the idea and rolled his shoulders, shrugging it off.
You spared a glance to appreciate his skin-tight suit before turning your attention to the jacket. An idea popped up in your head and you slipped your arms through the sleeves, sighing contentedly at the rush of warmth over your skin and his smell flooding your senses.
You gingerly made your way over the cold tile to the long mirror propped up in the living room. The jacket hung heavy on your shoulders, the hem of it cutting off just under your underwear, and the sleeves spilled over your hands.
You turned, looking over your shoulder and catching the cursive TERRIFIC across your back. The heat on your face grew. His name looked good on you.
He stepped into frame with a gentle hand on your waist. His eyes traced the contours of your body in the mirror—meticulous, as usual. Over time, you got accustomed to his calculating stare and rarely shrink when he studied you.
"It suits you."
"Do I look terrific?" You teased, a sweet smile on your lips as you peered up at him.
He chuckled deeply, pressing a kiss to your forehead. "Yeah, baby. Keep it." With a parting squeeze to the fat of your hip, he left for the bedroom.
You frowned, following him into the room. He was already turning on the shower when you entered. "You only have one, though?"
"Since when does that stop you from taking my stuff?" He countered.
True, you conceded. But, "I never take your hero stuff."
"I have replacements."
You stared at him for a moment, a grin spreading across your face. You crossed your arms, or at least tried to with the excess of fabric hanging off your limbs. "Why are you lying? I sleep right next to your closet, baby, you do not have another jacket." You giggled.
He leaned against the doorway of the bathroom, towering over you as he considered your words. "You think I can't get more? It looks good on you, so keep it."
"I—"
"You can keep arguing with me, beautiful, or you can take the win. Either way, it's already yours."
A retort was waiting on your tongue but you swallowed it down with a smile. A big smile. You pulled the jacket wings closer together, getting comfortable in your newest addition to your collection. "Mm," You hummed. "Fine. You win."
He rolled his eyes lightly, a cocky little smirk on his lips. "I always do." His fingers gently raised your chin to meet his lips, kissing you slowly. "I'm sorry it's always late like this," he murmured against your mouth.
Your arms circled his waist, pulling him closer. "As long as you're coming home, I don't care what time it is."
He hummed in acknowledgement as he captured your lips again, tilting his head to press deeper into you. His hands snaked under the jacket, then under your shirt to grasp at your skin and pull you closer. If the jacket was warm, his battle-worn hands were hotter. Your mind spun as you inhaled his scent with every breath, blissed out as he overpowered your space.
You didn't even realize you were moving; he was walking into you, guiding you back to bed.
The mattress hit the backs of your knees, causing you to drop onto your ass. You gazed up at him, half-asleep and half-drunk on the heat of him.
He smiled proudly at your dazed state before retreating back to the bathroom, turning off the lights. "Go to sleep."
first time writing for him, might be ooc but yeah i adore this man sm
writing x male!reader fic is truly like. im going to fuck that man raw until he cries, since canon is too cowardly to do it for me. i am going to worship him and love on him and break him down and hold him together the way he deserves - and no one can stop me.
anyways, e-rated sam wilson x male!reader fic coming soon!
Sam Wilson x Lawyer!Reader (gender-neutral, second person).
Courtroom drama / legal references. Slow burn tension. Mutual pining. One party scene.
Minor Thunderbolts* post-credit scene spoiler.
English is not my first language. I search a lot of words.
More of my work.
Legal Briefs and Heartbeats
You are the best lawyer in the country. Or at least, that’s what Sam Wilson has been told.
And when Captain America personally shows up in your office, flanked by government reps and weighed down by months of diplomatic red tape, you don’t exactly argue the title. You just gesture toward the empty seat across from your desk and say, "So. Who do we have to sue?"
Sam doesn't smile, at least not at first. He sits with his spine too straight, eyes unreadable behind his aviators, the shield leaned gently against your wall like it's more symbol than weapon.
“For what I’ve been told they called themselves Thunderbolts before. But now…,” he says, voice low. “Now they're called the New Avengers. Public’s confused. Government’s letting it happen. I’m not.”
You nod, already spinning through precedents, trademark law, unauthorized branding cases, the legal identity of the Avengers Initiative. You tap your pen twice against your notebook, then start writing. Names. Dates. Leverage points. You don’t flinch at the idea of going up against a rebranded black-ops team with government funding and enough power to level cities. You’ve done worse.
Sam watches you like he’s studying a battlefield, but you’re used to it by now —clients who think they're sizing you up, not realizing you already know how to win before they’ve finished the first sentence. But there's something different in Sam’s gaze, it is less calculation and more curiosity. Respect, even.
“You're not what I expected,” he says eventually.
You raise a brow. “Let me guess. Less suit, more cape?”
He huffs a short but genuine laugh.
It starts professional, strictly so. Sam sits across from you every morning, fresh coffee in hand, legal pads between you, the future of the Avengers name hanging in the balance. You talk strategy. You break down federal loopholes. He listens —really listens— and sometimes smiles when you get heated about superhero IP law like it's a sport.
There’s courtroom drama, of course. The New Avengers' legal team is ruthless, all smoke and mirrors, but you’re sharper. Sam watches you dominate the room, motion after motion, cross-examining files with the precision of someone who sees through every PR-smoothed lie. After one particularly brutal hearing, he catches your arm outside and murmurs, “Remind me never to get on your bad side.”
Long nights bleed into longer ones. You’re in your office at 2 a.m. drafting rebuttals when he texts you: Still awake? You answer with a photo of your desk and he shows up twenty minutes later with takeout.
Somewhere between the briefings and witness prep and those slow, simmering moments where his knee brushes yours under the table and neither of you moves —it changes. You start noticing how he always brings you tea without asking, that he never takes off his jacket, that he carries the weight of legacy with a quiet kind of grace. He notices how you fidget when you're thinking, that you whisper arguments under your breath before court, that you make notes in two colors —red for attack, blue for defense.
Then you meet Joaquin Torres.
He swings by the office one afternoon with a coffee run and a grin as wide as the Mississippi. Sam introduces you as “the reason we haven’t lost this case yet”, and Joaquin doesn’t miss the way Sam looks at you. He teases him for the rest of the afternoon.
Weeks pass. The case nears a verdict and everything feels heavier —stakes and silence and unspoken things. You don't know what to call what’s building between you and Sam but then Joaquin’s birthday rolls around, and he corners you outside court with a smug grin.
“You’re coming Saturday,” he says.
You blink. “To what?”
“The party. Duh.”
You start to protest, but Sam’s already looking at you across the parking lot, half-smile pulling at his lips like he hopes you’ll say yes. So you do.
You show up that Saturday night, later than most, nerves disguised under your best outfit and a smile that’s a little too sharp. The music thrums beneath your feet when you step inside. Warm lights cast soft shadows on familiar faces —Joaquin’s already halfway through a story in the kitchen, and Sam’s nowhere in sight at first. But when he finds you —he does find you— he stops mid-conversation, beer bottle dangling forgotten at his side. His gaze moves over you like you’re a closing argument he wasn’t ready for. It makes your stomach flip, but you smile, steady as ever, and offer him a quiet “hey.”
He blinks. “Hey.”
The party stretches on. You talk to Torres and accept a drink (just one). You laugh when someone tries to set up karaoke in the living room and watch Sam shake his head with a fond eye-roll. You don't hover and neither does he but somehow, you always end up in the same room —always find each other again.
You’re slipping your coat on when Sam catches up to you near the door.
“Leaving already?”
You glance back. “You know lawyers. We don't party—we schedule decompression.”
His smile grows. “Can I walk you home?”
You hesitate. It’s late, but he’s warm and you're tired so you nod. “Sure.”
It’s quiet outside, the city softened by night. You walk side by side, shoulders brushing now and then, talking about nothing at first —the case, the music, Joaquin’s cake. Then silence stretches, long and full of something unsaid.
He clears his throat. “I meant to say something earlier.”
You glance over. “Yeah?”
He stops walking. You stop too.
“Joaquin didn’t ask you to the party for himself,” Sam says, voice low and honest. “I mean, he did, but… He hoped you’d come for me too.”
Your breath catches in your throat.
He huffs a laugh, running a hand over head. “Man, that came out more pathetic than it did in my head.”
You recover enough to tease, just a little. “Might need to work on your closing statements, Captain.”
He smiles, then looks away. “Yeah, well. I’m better in court.”
You shift your weight, heart picking up speed. “Why, though? Why’d you want me there?”
You search his expression. There’s no defense in it, no shield. Just Sam. Looking at you like he has for weeks —but finally brave enough to say it.
“Because I like being around you. And not just during case prep. Not just late nights at the firm, or walking out of hearings. I like the way you talk. I like how smart you are. How you challenge me. I like the way you look at me when I’m being stubborn as hell.” He pauses, swallowing. “I didn’t think I’d feel this way in the middle of all this bullshit. But you came in swinging, all calm and clever and somehow steadier than half the people I’ve ever trusted.”
Your heart is a riot in your chest now.
He shifts a little closer. “I’ve been trying not to cross a line. Trying to keep it professional. But I think I’ve been falling for you since our second meeting.”
You laugh —soft and stunned. “That’s funny.”
Sam blinks. “Funny?”
“I’ve been trying not to flirt with Captain America for two months straight.”
The look on his face crumbles into pure relief—relief, and something warm and disbelieving that makes your chest ache.
He takes another step toward you.
“I’m gonna take you out,” he says. “For real. Not a briefing or paperwork. Just… a date.”
Your lips part. “I want that.”
His smile is slow this time. And when he leans in, giving you every chance to stop him, you don’t. His mouth finds yours, gentle and sure and a little breathless, and the world hushes. Like even the city knows something just changed for good.
honestly it's so validating to see the calls for more sam x male reader fics bc i've been working on this for over a week now, but i wasn't sure how much of an audience it would have. shit, now i can't wait to get this finished and posted!
ik i haven't really been giving updates on my sam x male!reader fic so i just wanna say that it's still chugging along!! i do feel a lot better having started from scratch and im super excited to share it with fellow sam lovers 🫶🏽 spoiler: i hope yall are ready for your wedding night 👀
guys not to hate or anything but don’t tag your bucky barnes x reader fics under sam wilson x reader. i’m like begging you. I shouldn’t go on sam wilson x reader and just see a bunch about a whole other dude.
honestly it's so validating to see the calls for more sam x male reader fics bc i've been working on this for over a week now, but i wasn't sure how much of an audience it would have. shit, now i can't wait to get this finished and posted!
lol experienced some insane imposter syndrome and deleted the whole thing, but im gonna start from scratch and try to get smth out that i can actually be proud of.
862 words into the rewrite and i already feel so much fuckin better about this story. those are crazy numbers for me, too, since like 500 is usually a good day for me. FUCK yeah!!!!
honestly it's so validating to see the calls for more sam x male reader fics bc i've been working on this for over a week now, but i wasn't sure how much of an audience it would have. shit, now i can't wait to get this finished and posted!
lol experienced some insane imposter syndrome and deleted the whole thing, but im gonna start from scratch and try to get smth out that i can actually be proud of.
