i wish i knew how to curl my hair

Darling Kara,

You don’t ever have to apologise for not being there, more often than not I’ve been the absent party. Please know what matters is that you were ever there in the first place. I’ve learned recently how hard it is to miss what you’ve never had. I’m just glad to have you, in whatever way you’re available to me.

I don’t know what I expected when you finally came barrelling through the balcony windows, a whirlwind of flowing cape and bouncing curls. There have been times, as I skimmed over when we talked, that I thought I might not survive this recent nonsense with the shooting. So I should have been worried my casual atheism was being disproved, that I’d been sent an angel, but we both know I’m far too cynical for thoughts like that.

I just wish that you’d found me whole and well, and functioning at full strength. I wish my hair had been styled, no matter how much you seem to like running your fingers through my unruly natural curls. I wish I’d applied more than a perfunctory swipe of makeup, the better to hide the years and the ravages of recovery from those amazing eyes of yours that miss nothing. For weeks I’ve felt nothing like myself, scared to look too closely or touch for too long.

A few minutes in your company and I felt beautiful again. Maybe more than I ever have. I wish I knew how you did that.

I remember you carrying me, Kara. Even half-asleep I can’t ever forget it, because the safest place on this Earth is in your arms. I’ve built an empire of glass and steel, wrapped myself up in the finest fabrics as armor, and for most of my days I’m surrounded by armed bodyguards. That’s protection, yes, but it’s not safe the way I am with you.

I wasn’t kidding about how much more we’ll have to talk about this.

About what it means, on different coasts, with lives to juggle and my sons to protect. I’m still wary that you should be wasting your time with someone closer to your age, but then the very thought of someone else being the one you hold like that, the one you so politely ask to kiss, uncoils a very jealous streak inside me that I suppose won’t be much surprise to you.

You’ve always been mine, Kara. I just didn’t ever dare speak that claim out loud until now. See? You’re not the only one who’s been terrified and holding back. As always, we’re more alike than we’ve ever been able to admit.

I don’t want to end this on doubts and misgivings. I want to end this (for now, very temporarily) on asking if kissing is also in your arsenal of superpowers? Is there something in our yellow sun that makes you very, very good at it? I’ve always considered it a precursor to more interesting things, but while I’m still technically out of commission, I find that kissing you is something I could clear an entire day to do. Hell, let’s think big and find a whole weekend.

Hurry back.

Behind The Story | S2 - Pt. 1

Summary: They say things never go as planned and oh were they right. When you are giving a second chance in life, you’re only just begun to live. A baby girl came to the world but it doesn’t mean their road is over yet. The story about their relationship and family while shooting Supernatural and attending Conventions continues…

Author: deanwinchester-af

Characters: Jensen, Reader, Jared and Cast Cameos.

Pairings: Single!Jensen x Actress!Reader

Words: 2.2k+

Warnings: Fluff.

Beta: @waywardlullabies (thank youuuu!)


Tittle: Baby, it’s Cold Outside.

Songs: Wild Mountain Thyme & Baby, it’s Cold Outside.

A/N: MERRY CHRISTMAS Y’ALL!!!! This is my gift for y’all, BTS IS BACK!!!! I’ve missed this series soooo much. I’m so excited for y’all to read the first chapter of season two. Please leave feedback ? Happy Holidays! Xoxox.



Originally posted by christmas-winter

The accident shifted your perspective of life. You’ve always been grateful, but having a near death experience made you think more about how you were living. The thought of not being able to witness your daughter grow or seeing Jensen’s smile every day haunted you sometimes. The accident was a wake up call for you; it was the universe saying ‘life is short, are you living it correctly?’.  Some nights the thought of not being able to experience the little things in life infected your thoughts and drained you. It was the little moments that gave sense to your life. You wouldn’t trade the sound of your daughter’s small giggle or Jensen’s soft voice when he says ‘I love you’ for anything in the world.

Your recovery was truly a miracle from the doctor’s perspective.  Waking up from the sleeping spell after being unconscious for three days was shocking for some who didn’t give you more than a day, given the dire situation. Trauma was a reality not only for your skin and limbs but your organs as well, several bruised as your body tried healing itself. You kept fighting though, raising from the list of soon dead and waking up to one of the most beautiful visuals. Jensen singing a lullaby to JJ while he fed her being the first visual your eyes took in after being in the dark. You wanted to cherish that moment forever. After all these months, your daughter was finally here and all you wanted is to have her in your arms.

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Distracted - (Bucky x Reader)

(gif credit to owner)

Fandom: Marvel, Avengers

Pairing: Bucky x Reader

Word Counter: 744

Warnings: Very fluffy

Requested by anonymous

Request: Can you do a Bucky x Reader one shot where they are cooking and later on they snuggle up on the couch and he plays with her hair? Major fluff! Please thanks dear!

I was in my apartment with my boyfriend, Bucky. I was wearing one of his shirts that was way too big and pyjama shorts that I really didn’t need because the shirt went almost to my knees.

I was cooking breakfast on the stove. I was making an omelette, because that’s what Bucky asked for, and I was happy to oblige. Bucky had both his hands on my hips and was resting his chin on my shoulder. It couldn’t have been comfortable for him seeing as I’m almost a foot shorter than the super soldier.

“Is it almost done?” he asked. I could feel his breath against my neck.

“Almost.” I said as I fiddled with the egg in the pan before turning around to face my boyfriend.

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The trick to holding your breath longer underwater is to think that you won’t die. It was from an unreliable source, and it was meant to be hilarious, but I still did it anyway. And surprisingly, it worked. The moment I was no longer breathing air, but counting the seconds I’ve got left until I had to go back in the surface, and I was floating in what felt like a hug from you; the water was warm around me, my body surrendered its gravity therefore losing control, it was also the moment when I got scared that I would run out of time, and I might be in too deep in the water to have enough of it to duck my head out, gasp, and renew my supply of oxygen.

It made me realize instead of living I wanted to swim. I wanted to breathe water instead of choking on the blurry images of our future they kept shoving in my logic with their hasty opinions. I wanted to stay there in the water, and let my hair strangle my heart that pumped slower to stabilize whatever grip your hands had around my waistline no matter how strongly they hooked me to their fallacies. I wanted my hands, my feet, every part of me to move away from their rigid, island of wrong thoughts about you. You see, I thought I was fine out there, under the sun, under the ray of life, I thought I was breathing what it meant to be alive. But all I was doing out there was drowning. I was anchored down from my own happiness. I was suffocating to how unfair it is that out there, the water got into my nose, covered my brain, and filled it with idealisms that you and I weren’t supposed to be waves collecting seashells on our lips, but we are dead blue out there where the world pointed out every vein I twisted around yours to cut the connection off because they believed you are the stain in my system, where every strand of your hair contained layers of lies, where every word you bred was a death wish of an impending goodbye, where every single touch was an electric chair that only knew how to sting my skin of you being never good enough for them to have the permission to love me. Tell me why does it have to be so unfair that I’d prefer to be under water where I wanted to be a mermaid, where I wanted a tail that slapped their faces which knew only of I told you so’s. I wanted to flip away their fingers curled into a fist to punch me the truth that you are not the one. I wanted to sing them to sleep so they can know you are my only dream. I wanted to show them that with you I felt like I was swimming. Our world was under water, always waving goodbye to the doubts they filled our heads. And I can still feel myself breathe the hydrogen filling my lungs so I can exhale my own reasons of not letting you go.

Because everything was silent. My thoughts grew quiet, there was only the hum of my pulse, and my heartbeat, and whispers of the tomorrows we believed in. It’s calm down there. My only thoughts were about the time I’ve got left before I was forced to leave again. So I let my fears go of dying, of running out of time. I held my breathe until my chest could no longer contain the burn of your name. I held it in although I knew it could take my life away, but if they took you away from me they would also take my life away. I don’t care about the surface, I don’t care anymore of what they think will kill me. So I stayed down here, instead of up there where I’ll reach for the edge of the pool where I am expected to swallow a sea of my pride and say my apologies for not believing them. But I believe in you. In us. In this. I believe they should hold their breaths and see for themselves that you won’t drown me.

So I stayed, because I am not afraid of dying. My fear of it all evaporated into bubbles when I knew I was falling for you. The only death I knew was not losing the capacity of my lungs, but it is of losing you; my reason to live. It was now just me holding my breath; it was me holding on because I’m not afraid of loving you.

—  holding on // s.c

I was eleven
& she had a heart-shaped face.

She was in the eighth grade,
mixed race, 
hair curling to her waist; 
she was already fourteen
and walking miles ahead of me
hips swinging
softly swinging
every road led to me
even when she didn’t know it:
Now I wasn’t a poet
back then
but I knew the power of a pen
and I was on it, piecing together sonnets
sonic solemn odes to the home
I wished she and I could share
love notes to her flat-ironed hair
sloppy-sounding soliloquies about how much I cared
delivered to my pillow at night
when I had to fight to close my eyes
because thinking of her
was like staring into the sun
and made my whole body hum
with electricity:
My first trip and fall into love wasn’t good to me.

She graduated grade eight
and stayed straight
(or so she claimed)
and I filled two notebooks with her name
pushed against my name
as if merging our signatures in miniature
would make us the same
or help me win whatever game she never agreed to play
I thought love
meant obsession and I drank deeply;
she moved on, never reciprocating
how I felt even after I wrote it in felt tip
pen ten times
on my arm and then showed her.

What did I imagine would happen?
Of course she wasn’t laughing
but I hadn’t anticipated the hatred
that flashed
my first flash-forward of how homophobia would look
and act, a fact
I couldn’t comprehend yet, regrets
I formed at eleven years old
without knowing why
the rib-cracking realization that a single glare
could make me cry
and I told her, “I’m just kidding.”

Kidding about daydreaming of day-kissing
kidding about how she replaced pieces
I never knew were missing
kidding about crushing and loving
which would have been sinning
as if saying, “I’m kidding” could make her fade away
as if saying, “I’m kidding” could erase
confusion and pain.

That year, she moved away
and we haven’t spoken in a decade
but part of me will always want
to call her up and say hey,
to see if anything’s changed
or if she ever learned my name;
the feelings took years to evaporate
but they’re gone now
leaving me a couple memories
and about a week’s worth of words
for my poetry
and I no longer feel anything:

We all know a woman who has kicked us in our gut, 
we remember her only when we drink
and we call her our first love.

Sometimes when I fuck with my hair it ends up curling in on itself, making this sort of liberty curl type thing in my hair and I wish I knew exactly how I do it cuz it looks sick and I’d love to have it as my every day hair style ft. all the bumps on my fivehead