Cole's Recs

Supernatural | Mayans MC | Sons of Anarchy | Peaky Blinders | Marvel | RPF | 18+

[colereads]

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[hederasgarden]

Silver Tongue

Summary: After a petty quarrel, Gwayne offer his apology in an unexpected way.  Pairing: Gwayne Hightower  x F!Reader  Word Count: 1.4.K Warning: 18+ only, explicit sexual content. Oral sex (female receiving) and Gwayne being sassy.  A/N: Thank you to @aninhatatu and @writercole for looking this over.  Please comment or reblog if you enjoyed this and want to see more. Or scream at me in my inbox. That always makes my day.

Masterlist

You watch Gwayne’s reflection in the mirror as you prepare for bed. Your husband sits at his desk, shoulders drawn tight beneath the weight of whatever burdens his thoughts. Parchment lies scattered across the worn wood, ink staining his fingertips. The groove between his brows deepens as the quill in his hand pauses its frantic pace, something clearly troubling him.

Normally, you would have been beside him, helping him work through his correspondence, but not tonight. Despite the way you kept your hand tucked into the crook of his elbow and danced with him at Lord Tyrell's feast earlier that evening, you were still angry over his careless remark that morning. The sting of it had yet to fade despite his efforts, and you were not ready to forgive him, not that anyone else would have guessed anything was amiss tonight. 

"Are you still cross with me, little wife?" he asks, catching your attention through the mirror. 

A small half-smile tugs at one corner of his mouth, roguishly charming as always. Your own brows draw together in annoyance, and you purse your lips. Your lack of response is more than enough to answer his question.

He stands, clad only in his breeches and a half-tied tunic, the loose fabric hanging open just enough to reveal the hard planes of his chest. Flickering candlelight dances across his skin, casting shifting shadows that accentuate the lean muscle earned through years of training. You draw a slow breath through your nose, your fingers curling against the edge of the vanity as your gaze lingers on him for just a heartbeat too long.

“So angry you can’t even speak,” he muses. “Or does something else still your tongue?”

“I will let you know when I wish to speak to you again,” you reply airily, busying yourself with arranging the jewelry you wore earlier inside its carved wooden box. You fuss with each piece far longer than necessary, nestling rings and bracelets into place to keep your hands occupied. 

So lost in thought, you don't hear his approach. Instead, the clean scent of him, threaded with sandalwood and cedar, surrounds you moments before he comes to a stop behind you. His long fingers trails lightly over your collarbone and heat seeps through your thin dressing gown where he rests his hands against your shoulders. 

"Should I apologize again?" he asks, deliberately dropping his voice to a low, velvety murmur, close enough that the words fan over the shell of your ear.

You do not give him the satisfaction of looking up, though he can certainly feel the involuntary tremor beneath his hands and hear the subtle hitch in your breath. Offering only an indifferent hum from the back of your throat, you close the lid of the jewelry box and busy yourself straightening the row of perfume bottles with deliberate care.

“Perhaps more than words are needed to show you how contrite I am,” Gwayne continues. 

Before you can react, the chair scrapes against the stone floor as he moves it – and you – away from the vanity, stepping into the empty space. He lowers himself, one knee and then the other, looking up at you with such exaggerated seriousness that you almost resent the way it threatens to make you smile.

“I am at your service, my lady.”

There’s a secret kind of thrill to seeing a knight of the realm kneeling before you, hands bred for steel and battle made soft just for you.

Though you do not speak, your chin lifts the slightest fraction, the unspoken invitation all he needs to part the robes of your dressing gown. Roughened fingers curl around the back of your calf and he guides you to spread your legs for him. There is something endearingly annoying in the way he watches you from beneath his golden lashes, utterly certain that, given enough patience, your resolve will crumble.

You give him nothing and he smirks, pressing a kiss to the inside of each thigh. Distracted, you miss the moment he cups your hips and drags you forcefully forward. The unexpected movement draws a startled little sound from between your pressed lips. Left precariously perched on the edge of the chair, you instinctively reach for his shoulders to steady yourself.

He looks up at you with a smirk and urges you to spread your legs until you are on full display. Only then does his gaze drop to the most intimate part of you. The blue of his eyes deepens, his lips parting as though he has forgotten to breathe. You squirm despite yourself, the cool air grazing your skin in sharp contrast to the warmth of his hands.

Gwayne does not put his mouth on you like you expect. Instead, his fingers trace the length of your inner thigh, his touch deft and unhurried. Goosebumps rise in their wake, and a shuddering sigh escapes you when he finally reaches your core. There he finds that delicate bundle of nerves and rubs slow circles with the pad of his thumb. Your sensitive flesh catches on the roughened edges of his calluses, the sensation enough to make you seek more. 

You tilt your hips forward and he rewards the movement by teasing your entrance with two of his fingers, a slow, deliberate exploration of your warmth. His blue eyes remain fixed on yours until you can bear them no longer. Your gaze slips to his forearm, following the play of muscle and flexing tendons beneath his skin as he works. 

“Eyes on me,” he whispers, though it sounds less like a command than a plea. “My beautiful wife.”

Heat blooms in your chest at the quiet praise. You hate how easily those three words soften your resolve, the reason for your anger growing hazier and hazier with each passing moment.

“Am I yet forgiven?” He questions.

When you do not answer he crooks his fingers, sending a sharp pulse of pleasure through your belly.  Words fail you. Your lashes flutter closed, breath catching in your throat as you hover on the precipice, so achingly close. Without thought, you raise your hips, seeking more until the deliberate scrape of his thumbnail over your bud tears brings you back to the present.

“I need an answer, if I am to continue my apology” he whispers, his voice rough with want. 

“Yes, gods, please Gwayne,” you keen.

He smiles, victorious, but the faint flush creeping across his alabaster skin tells you you are not the only one so affected. 

“Please,” you beg a second time, unashamed and needy. 

“Whatever my lady demands,” he agrees, removing his fingers. 

You have only a moment to mourn their loss before Gwayne buries his head between your thighs and his tongue deep in your cunt. As in all things, he is relentless in bringing you to your peak.

One hand remains braced on his shoulder while the other falls to his head, fingers threading through his hair. You’re unable to resist the need to anchor yourself to him, as if he could abandon you in this moment of any other.  

He devours you as though your taste is the very air he needs to breathe, the water that sustains him. It is enough to undo you. Ribbons of pleasure unravel inside your belly, sweeping up into your chest and washing through you. 

Your fingers tighten in his hair, nearly painfully so, yet Gwayne only answers with a deep groan, the sound sending another wave of aftershocks through you. He stays between your thighs for a moment, content to worship you further. Only when your hand slips from his hair does he finally draw back. His blue eyes are bright, his cheeks warmly flushed, and a sheen of perspiration clings to his brow. He looks utterly undone,

“I am worried, my lady,” he says with feigned sincerity, “that I have not apologized sufficiently.”

“Gwayne,” you begin, trying to gather your wits, but he is quicker. A grin tugs at the corner of his mouth as he catches your hand and gently draws you to your feet. Your legs are less steady than you would like, and he slips an arm around your waist.

You feel utterly spent, and whatever argument had sparked this morning's quarrel is little more than a distant memory now.

“I must apologize more thoroughly,” he continues, reaching to loosen the ties of your gown. 

The rich fabric slips from your shoulders, pooling at your feet. Gwayne's gaze lingers on your naked form, so full of hungry devotion that it fans the embers of your desire.

“I am quite cross,” you lie, slipping your arms around him and drawing him close. 

You rise onto your toes and kiss him, slow and lingering, your fingers curling into the front of his tunic. Perhaps, you think with quiet amusement, you ought to quarrel with your husband more often.

If you’d like to see more drabbles about Gwayne or Ormund Hightower, feel free to drop ideas in my inbox!

[colereads]

I don't even go here but this has my knees weak. I love it, Ivy girl!

[princessmisery666]

Another Wednesday

Summary: Jake’s too focused on making the night perfect that he’s forgotten the most important part.

Warnings/Genres/Troupes: angst, fluff.

W/C: 1,713.

Pairing: Jake x reader.

Notes: sequel to The Right Choice

Word of the day (July 14, 2026) - Steak

Betas: @deanwinchesterswitch

Graphics: title card design @deanwinchesterswitch 

Master Lists: Word Of The Day - July 2026 // Main // Beyond Repair-verse

Jake is really trying. Trying to act normal. Trying to hide that he misses you already, even though you’re sitting across the table from him. Trying to pretend that his heart isn’t in his throat, which is probably a good thing because otherwise he might beg you to reconsider, and not leave.

He knows it's not about him. You aren’t leaving him. Still, it hurts. You made your decision. You’re going to Colorado. You contacted the company last Monday, and they were eager to get the ball rolling. They gave you two weeks to get things sorted, and so you’ll be gone on Friday. It’s Wednesday.

“How’s your steak?” you ask, focusing on cutting your own.

It’s probably delicious. It’s expensive enough that it should be served with a gold bar on top and have someone cut it for you, but all Jake can taste is the bitter bile of loss.

How is this supposed to work? How is he supposed to prove he deserves the second chance you gave him when you’re two states away?

Somehow, this feels worse than when he walked in on you packing up your life, because at least then he hadn’t seen it coming. This time, helpless to stop it, he watched it happen one cardboard box at a time. Hell, he helped you pack this time. He isn’t pretending to be the supportive boyfriend; he’s super excited for you, but not excited about you being gone.

“Jake,” you say, softly, looking up at him.

He’s taken too long to answer, and from the sympathetic look you give him, you know he’s stuck in his own head.

“Sorry.” He tries to smile, but it feels like a betrayal of himself. He isn’t happy, and there’s nothing to smile about. Not right now. “What was the question?”

Gently, you set your knife and fork on the plate, steak half-eaten, fries barely touched. “Can we get out of here?” You ask.

Confused, he frowns down at your plate. “Is something wrong with the food?”

“No,” you say quickly, “It’s fine. I’m grateful you took the time to make a reservation and spend some time with me. But…I’ve only got two days left to be with you, and I don’t want to be sitting in a fancy restaurant where I can barely reach you.” As a way of demonstration, you stretch your arm across the table, and Jake immediately gives you his hand.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbles. He’s getting it wrong. He’d wanted tonight to be special. Instead, he’s somehow turned it into a wake.

“I wanna be at the Hard Deck with our friends.” You start to babble, your words tumbling over each other. “I wanna drink a beer with Nat. I wanna listen to Bradshaw and you shoot barbs at each other. I wanna mock Reuben for burning his uniform with the iron, again. I wanna listen to Mickey and Bob debate if Star Wars or Star Trek is better. I wanna watch Javy pine over Nat and give him shit for being too scared to say anything. And I want us to sneak off to the beach to have a make-out session that goes way too far before we realize we’re in public. I wanna do it all before, before I...” You cut yourself off and avert your gaze.

“Before you can’t anymore.”

“It’s not forever,” you say.

He’s not sure if you’re trying to convince him or yourself.

“I know.”

“I negotiated extra paid leave and working remotely, so if you get deployed, I can be closer when possible.”

“I know.”

“This isn’t the end.”

He doesn’t have a response because he’s not certain of that. Instead, he motions to a waiter and asks for the bill.

The restaurant buzzes around you, wine glasses clink. Someone at the next table laughs. A birthday is being celebrated in the corner, a sparkler fizzing above a slice of chocolate cake. The whole room keeps moving, but Jake is frozen.

“I’ve been treating this like,” he searches for the words. Sighing, “like we’re saying goodbye.”

“We’re not.”

“But it feels like I am.”

It’s your turn now, “I know. But you’re trying so hard not to waste the time we’ve got left that you’ve forgotten to enjoy it.”

Holding hands, you walk silently to Jake’s truck, neither of you quite sure what to say. He kisses you softly as he opens the passenger door. “Your chariot awaits.”

“Thank you, kind sir,” you smile, sliding into the seat. Jake rounds the front of the truck, and you watch him heave out a deep breath before he opens the door to climb in.

“So,” he says, pulling out his phone as he gets behind the wheel. “Music?”

“Do I get to pick?”

“Absolutely not.”

“Dictators always think they’re right.”

“History supports me.”

“You’ve got questionable taste, Seresin.”

He clutches his chest dramatically. “I’ve never been so insulted.”

“Please, you’ve been insulted far worse.”

“True,” he chuckles, scrolling through his phone as he turns the key to start the engine.

“I see you skipped my playlist.”

“I saved us both.”

You shake your head as Fleetwood Mac begins to play, and Jake puts the truck into drive. “I’ll allow it because Fleetwood Mac are objectively excellent.”

He shoots you a sideways glance, putting his foot on the brake a little too hard as the truck rolls. “Objectively?”

“Yes. Fleetwood Mac is objectively excellent.”

“You're using ‘objectively’ wrong.”

“Objectively, I'm not. Queen is better.”

“Okay,” Jake nods, “You’ve got until we get to the Hard Deck to convince me.”

By the time the Hard Deck comes into view, you’re both loudly singing the last chorus of Bohemian Rhapsody together, completely off-key. Jake kills the engine, and the music fades, leaving the muffled sounds spilling out of the bar as background noise.

Jake stares at the familiar weathered building through the windshield. He gives himself to the count of ten before he gets out, holding back a grimace. Selfishly, he doesn’t want to share you with his friends. Not tonight.

You turn when he opens the door, but don't step down. Instead, you grasp the front of his shirt and pull him to you, parting your legs so he can stand between them. Instinctively, he slides his hands up your thighs to rest on your hips.

“You know I don’t care about fancy dinners, right?” Wrapping your arms around his neck, you add, “I don’t care where we eat. I don’t care if it’s steak or gas station sandwiches.” Your thumbs brush the ends of his hair. “I just want Wednesday.”

He laughs once. It’s barely more than an exhale. “I know. I’ve been trying so hard to make everything perfect,” he sighs, annoyed at himself for trying too hard.

“And you have,” you nod. “But you’ve forgotten you’re my favorite part.”

His breath catches. “Fuck. You always know how to undo me.”

Your smile is smug, biting your bottom lip to stifle it doesn’t work. “I know.”

“You’re getting cocky,” he shoots back.

“I’ve been spending time with you.”

“You should ask for a refund.”

“Jake, shut up and kiss me.”

So he does. Before he can think of another joke, another deflection, another attempt to be brave, he kisses you.

Slowly at first, tentative. Then you kiss him back. Everything he’s been trying so desperately to hold together comes apart in the space of a heartbeat.

The kiss is anything but careful. It’s hungry desperation. Days of pretending everything is fine. It’s a goodbye and an ‘I miss you’ and months of wondering if he’d ever get the chance to kiss you like this again. He’ll never not take the opportunity.

His hands slide from your hips to your waist, pulling you closer until there’s little space left between you.

It’s relief and longing. It’s hurt and desire. It’s painful and soothing. It’s every conversation you haven’t had because saying goodbye out loud somehow makes Friday arrive faster.

When you pull apart, he’s breathing just as hard as you are.

Your smug grin is back. “That,” you whisper, “is all I wanted tonight.”

Jake smiles, resting his forehead on yours and closing his eyes. “I can work with that.”

A knock on the driver's window makes you both jump. You spin around to see Javy with the biggest grin, pointing at his watch.

“You two planning on coming inside? Or should I tell everyone the make-out session started early?”

Jake groans. “Say the word,” he whispers, just for you, “and I’ll take you home to finish this properly.”

You laugh, pecking his lips. “Try to behave for one hour.”

“No promises.”

“I heard that,” Javy says, now on the other side of the open door.

Jake doesn’t take his eyes off you, holding your hand as you jump down out of the truck. “Mind your business, Machado.”

Javy snorts, throwing his arm over your shoulder. “The last time you told me to mind my business, Seresin, the three of us almost got banned from the Hard Deck because you two got ‘locked’ in the store cupboard.”

“The door was stuck,” You quickly defend. Neither of the men brings up the fact that you had no business being in there in the first place.

Jake catches up and takes your hand as you walk, arguing, “If you’d been a better lookout, Coyote. We wouldn’t have come close to getting caught.” Jake winks when you meet his eye.

Javy stops and turns to face you both, looking down at your joined hands. “I like this,” he smiles, “you two look like you again.”

That stops Jake short, and he has no snarky remark because Javy is right. The last few months have been filled with forced smiles, careful conversations, and pretending everything was okay.

Tonight, you’d fought about music, shared a steak you barely ate, and made out in his truck like two teenagers. Somewhere between the restaurant and the Hard Deck, Wednesday had stopped feeling like a countdown.

It had simply become another Wednesday. Jake squeezes your hand.

Friday is still on its way. The distance isn’t any smaller, but now he isn’t thinking about the miles that will be between you. He’s thinking about the hour ahead. For tonight, that’s enough.

A/N 2: I’m sure I’ll be exploring more of these 2 in the future so be sure to get on my tag list so you don’t miss it.

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Master Lists: Word Of The Day - July 2026 // Main

[colereads]

Excuse you.

How dare you get my hopes up SO HIGH only to dash them like a balloon in a cactus field.

[princessmisery666]

Dagger Mission

Summary: The dagger team proves their expertise in stealth tactics.

Warnings/Genres/Troupes: flirting, concerned family, threats, banter, emojis.

W/C: 1,762

Pairing: Jake x Reader

Notes: Sequel to Faded Souvenir

Word of the day (June 19, 2026) - Emoji

Betas: @deanwinchesterswitch

Graphics: title card design @deanwinchesterswitch 

Master Lists: Word Of The Day- June 2026 // Main

It had been a long day at work, meetings that could have been emails, phone calls that should have been meetings, colleagues asking stupid questions, so the 3 pm text from Phoenix had been a welcome distraction.

Phoenix: Drinks tonight? 🍸🍹

You: Absolutely, but I need🥃

Phoenix: Hard Deck @ 7.

The location wasn’t a surprise, but you're still standing outside the bar, staring at the door long after the cab has driven away.

The date with Jake had been a success. Maybe a little too successful. It’s been three days, communication has kept up, but there’s still an underlying tension, and there’s been no talk of a second date. You'd like to go on another one, and you're fairly certain he does too, but the fear of rushing into things is apparently holding both of you back.

The Dagger Squad may not know specifics, but they know something has been off.

A wave of noise hits as you pull the wooden door open—music, laughter, pool balls cracking together. It’s familiar and comforting, yet for the first time since meeting the team, you feel like an imposter.

That is, until you see Phoenix and Bob waving you over to their table.

“Heeeey,” Phoenix says, standing up to give you a one-armed hug, while Bob waits his turn.

The greeting is enough to ease whatever doubts you had about coming. This isn’t about you and Jake. It's about being with your friends.

Phoenix slides a glass in front of you as you settle in the seat next to her. “One whiskey on the rocks.”

You smile. “Oh my god, you are an angel.”

Your lips are still around the rim when your phone vibrates—apologizing as you pull it from your pocket and unlock the screen.

Jake: 🥃. Bad day?

You don’t need to search the room. You know exactly where he is. Leaning against the pool table, cue in hand, talking to Coyote, or pretending to because as soon as your eyes meet, he smiles, bright and wide.

Idiot.

Coyote turns to see what he’s smiling at, and you lift your glass in greeting to them both.

Within a second of locking your phone and setting it down, it buzzes again.

Jake: Rude.

You haven't quite finished your first drink when Rooster whistles for attention. “What're you all drinking?” he calls when you look at him. “Make it expensive, it’s on Jake.”

Phoenix and Bob exchange a look but say nothing. Instead, they hold up their bottles to show their order, and you do the same with your glass.

Another message pops up.

Jake: 👀

You don’t look over.

Jake: 👀👀

You hug Rooster as he joins you at the table.

Jake: 👀👀👀. Two whiskeys? Who do I need to kill?

You roll your eyes, typing a reply.

You: Stop. I’m fine. I’m switching to beer.

You rejoin the conversation and focus on the story Rooster is telling. Jake goes back to playing pool, a new contender to beat. Then two minutes later, your phone lights up again.

Jake: Rooster isn’t that funny.

You bite your lip to keep from laughing at the message, but can’t fight the smile, a mistake because now Jake knows he’s got you.

Jake: 😍 I’ve missed that smile.

You: Focus on your bet, Seresin.

You chance a glance his way, and of course, he notices and gives you a cheeky wink.

“Why are you smiling at your phone like that?” Phoenix asks.

“Nothing.”

No one believes you.

Jake: 😉

You ignore it.

Then more follow.

Jake:😍

Jake:🥺

Jake:😭

Jake:💔

Jake:⚰️

Jake:🪦R.I.P Hangman. Died waiting for his girlfriend to text him back.

You snicker, unable to control it.

“Oh my god,” Phoenix says, “what is going on?”

“What?”

Her eyes narrow. “You’ve been giddy for like the last hour.”

“That’s suspicious?”

“Recently,” Rooster says, “Yes.”

The trio follows your line of sight as you sneak another look at Jake, who makes the mistake of looking away too quickly.

“There, that!” Bob says. “That right there.”

“That look,” Rooster joins in.

“There’s no look, I’m just looking at Jake.”

“Yeah, but you haven’t been looking at Jake lately,” Phoenix says, softly. “We all thought...”

Another message buzzes through.

Jake: 🚨. Are they onto us?

You: Seeing as the stealth pilot seems to have lost his poker face, YES!

You see him read the message, shoulders shaking with laughter.

Jake: Not sorry. 🤷‍♂️ Jake: You’re cute when you’re plotting my murder. ☠️

You roll your eyes and shake your head, watching as Fanboy, Payback, and Coyote surround him, like hunters cornering prey. Jake actually steps backward until his back hits the high top.

Three sets of expectant, concerned eyes stare back at you as you bring your attention back to your tablemates. Realization hits, it’s an equal split, three on one. It makes sense now why no one suggested combining the groups and why they’ve been weirdly nostalgic, reminiscing about group vacations, game nights, and beach days.

“Wait, is this an intervention?”

Phoenix shakes her head no as Bob and Rooster simultaneously say, “Yes.”

“Subtle guys, real subtle,” Phoenix admonishes.

Jake: The kids are upset.

“We knew something was up, and we just wanted to help,” Phoenix says.

“And if that means murdering Jake for whatever he did, we’re in,” Rooster adds.

You chuckle. “No murder necessary.” Then sigh, “Really, it’s nothing.”

“It’s something,” Phoenix says, “you're not wearing your engagement ring. You haven’t been wearing it.”

“It’s be...” you start.

“Being polished,” Bob interrupts.

“Or is it being resized, as Jake claims?” Rooster adds.

Busted. You should have gotten your stories straight.

You’ve been doing your best to avoid this conversation and know they won't drop it until they have a believable answer. You could try to lie, but you don't want to. These are your friends now, too.

“Hangman has been working like he wants Employee Of The Month. You bailed on a Beach Day, which you haven’t done since we met you. You left Rooster on read about Game Night.”

You give Rooster an apologetic smile and take a deep breath. “We broke up.”

“How long?” Phoenix asks, gently.

“Couple months.”

Three identical expressions of horror appear.

“Months?” Rooster exclaims.

“I moved out.”

“You moved out?!”

“Bradshaw,” Phoenix grits.

“I’m sorry,” he says, holding his hands up in surrender, “I’m processing.”

Across the room, it looks like Jake is having a similar conversation. Fanboy is shaking his head, Payback has the I’m-not-mad-I’m-just-disappointed expression, and Coyote looks relieved he’s no longer the gatekeeper of the secret.

“Why didn’t you tell us?”

“Because I didn’t want to put anyone in an awkward position,” you sigh. “I was the one who made the decision to change things. It was on me.”

“Bullshit,” Bob scolds.

All heads snap to look at him.

“Sorry,” he shrugs, but doesn’t look sorry. He shuffles forward in his seat and holds your eyes. “You’re family, both of you. When something happens to family, we should know.”

“He’s right.” Phoenix nods. “You shouldn’t have had to go through any of it alone.”

“I didn’t,” you say, wistfully looking over at Jake. “He was actually there for me.”

Jake is still getting an earful, fingers pointing, a smack to his shoulder as he’s texting.

Jake: How bad is it?

You: Phoenix-level intervention. I bet there were snacks.

You see him laugh, and Coyote, having seen Jake’s phone, looks over and nods once to confirm there were, in fact, snacks.

A new tone sounds, a group message.

Hangman> Daggers: There’s a traitor in your midst. Coyote knew.

Everyone reads the message.

Coyote > Daggers: 🐀

Hangman > Daggers: Can I approach, or am I still under investigation?

Phoenix > Daggers: Negative.

Rooster > Daggers: The pattern is full.

You > Daggers: Nerds.

Fanboy > Daggers: I feel attacked.

“You don’t have to keep us separated,” you laugh.

“Yeah,” Rooster says, cracking his knuckles as he stands up. “Let’s go get him.”

Payback > Daggers: Movement detected.

Coyote > Daggers: 🐀

Hangman > Daggers: Stop doing that.

Bob > Daggers: Rendezvous point - pool tables.

You weave through the crowd, the others following like an aggressive Conga line.

Jake watches the approach with a smile until he realizes Phoenix, Rooster, and Bob peel off in different directions.

At the opposite end of the table, you hear him nervously ask, “Why do they all look mad?”

“Because you’re in trouble,” Coyote answers.

“Helpful.”

“You deserve it.”

“Also helpful.”

You walk directly to him and kiss him softly, tucking yourself into his side, and he slips his arm around your waist, the other still holding the pool cue.

“Hey,” he whispers, only for you.

Then you feel the warmth of bodies, and break your focus to see the circle has closed. Fanboy. Payback. Coyote. Phoenix. Bob. Rooster. You're surrounded. No exits.

Phoenix punches the arm still holding the pool cue, hard enough that he drops it. Coyote catches it before it hits the floor.

“OW!” Jake yelps, “What was that for?”

“You made her move out!”

“She left me!”

“You didn’t tell us.” Rooster accuses.

“I told Coyote.”

“Hey,” Coyote objects, “You swore me to secrecy.”

“Now, who's the rat?” Jake jests.

“Still you,” Rooster says.

“Without question,” Payback agrees.

“Guys,” Phoenix scolds, “we’re getting a little off track here.”

There’s no winning this argument because there are six people who care about both of you, who have, evidently, been building a case, and now they’re presenting evidence. They aren’t angry or taking sides. They don’t need the reasons why. They’re offended they weren’t trusted with the heartbreak.

“Look,” Jake says, “I’m sorry I only told Coyote. It wasn’t about shutting you guys out. I wasn’t ready to accept it.”

“Wait, I’m confused,” Fanboy says, pointing to where Jake’s arm is around your waist and you're turned into his side, “You don’t look like you're broken up.”

“We were. We are,” Jake corrects, squeezing your hip as an apology. “We’re working it out. Slowly.”

“Together,” you add.

“Damn it,” Fanboy grumbles. “There goes half my theories.”

“Half?” Bob asks.

“You had an unhealthy amount,” Rooster agrees.

Fanboy puffs his chest. “Most of them were excellent.”

“One of them involved witness protection,” Payback says.

“With Jake’s ability to piss people off, it was a solid working theory!” Fanboy defends.

“That’s fair,” You agree.

The group erupts into laughter.

Phoenix waits for it to die down before fixing Jake with a stern look. “Just so we’re clear,” she says, way too calmly. “If you mess up again, you won’t need witness protection. It will look like an accident and they’ll never find the body.”

The laughter evaporates.

Jake swallows hard. “Copy that.”

A/N 2: I’m sure I’ll be exploring more of these 2 in the future so be sure to get on my tag list so you don’t miss it.

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Master Lists: Word Of The Day- June 2026 // Main

[colereads]

AAAAHHHHHHHH YESSSSS

[navybrat817]

No Expiration Date

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Female Reader

Summary: Apparently, you're too old for your hobby. Bucky disagrees.

Word Count: Over 2k

Warnings: Purely self-indulgent, reader has kids, mention of fanfiction and anon hate, writer positivity, age positivity, swearing, Bucky Barnes (he's a warning, okay?).

A/N: I had to this, okay? ❤️ Not beta read and written on my phone, so any and all mistakes are my own. Please follow @navybrat817-sideblog for new fics and notifications as I no longer do taglists. Comments, reblogs, feedback are loved and appreciated!

You were sitting on the couch, scanning the words on your screen. You read them once. Twice. Part of you wanted to smile at the terrible grammar that dared to grace your inbox, and the rest of you was stunned by the sheer audacity of what you saw.

Screenshot. Blocked. Done.

Bucky walked in with a mug in his hand and took a seat beside you, which brought a small smile to your face. He liked being close. You were one of the only people he let into his personal space bubble.

“You okay?” he asked when you set your phone down. “You’re being quiet.”

“I’m quiet sometimes,” you tried to tease.

He tilted his head. “No, this is a different kind of quiet. Something happened,” he said because he knew you so well. “And I want to fix it.”

You smiled again. Of course, he wanted to fix it. That was the kind of man he was. 

“Apparently, I’m too old to have hobbies,” you stated.

An adorably confused look crossed his face and you wanted to kiss him for being so cute. “You’re… what?”

“I got some anonymous ask on my blog basically telling me to stop posting fanfiction because I’m too old and I should do something my age,” you explained, showing him the screenshot.

Bucky stared at the screenshot, his fingers twitching before they curled into fists. He didn’t say anything. It didn’t even look like he was breathing.

The cold that filled his blue eyes told you he was about two seconds from somehow climbing into the internet and finding this person.

“And before you asked, I didn’t respond. I blocked them,” you explained, keeping the phone out of his reach. “They’re just trolling or trying to get a reaction.”

One of the wonderful things about your blog was that you could curate it for your own experience. If you didn’t want to respond to rude asks or messages, you didn’t have to. If you wanted to, you could. It was that simple.

A downside of the website was that some people seemed to forget to curate their own experiences, like simply unfollowing or blocking blogs and tags if they didn’t like, agree, or want to see them.

“I am reacting,” Bucky said in a quiet voice tinged with building rage.

“I noticed,” you said, not flinching when he set the mug down with a little more force than necessary and took a deep breath.

“That… is one of the dumbest things I’ve ever read, and I’ve read a lot of stuff.”

You almost laughed, but he was dead serious.

“Does this…” He gestured to your phone and flexed his fingers again. “Askhole really thinks that there’s an expiration date on hobbies? Because there isn’t.”

You shifted and tucked your legs underneath you, giving him your full attention.

“That’s so fucking…” He let out a bitter laugh. “People collect baseball cards into their seventies. Eighties. They paint miniature trains. Build model airplanes. Knit. Garden. Fish. Hunt.”

“They do,” you agreed, running your fingers through his hair just because you could.

He closed his eyes at your touch before he continued. “People go to comic cons and cosplay. They play D&D. Video games.” His voice was starting to rise and your nails touched his scalp again. “And what about grown ass men paint their faces and spend entire weekends yelling at sports games?”

“You sound personally offended.”

He looked at you incredulously. “I am personally offended on your behalf.”

You snuck in a kiss because you couldn’t help yourself. You felt some of the anger leave his body when your lips touched. It meant a lot that he cared so much.

“Don’t distract me,” he whispered.

“I’m not,” you whispered back, smiling when you pulled away. “You just have very kissable lips.”

“So do you,” he said with a smile before he frowned. “But I’m still not happy because they’re acting like people writing stories is somehow less respectable because what? Other people read them online and not from a book?”

You shrugged a little. “It’s fanfiction,” you said softly.

He shrugged, too. “So?”

“So…” You tried to find the words. “Some people think it's an inferior form of writing and a waste of time.”

His brows pinched, something sad filling his eyes. “I think creating something that makes you happy is one of the most adult and superior things you could do.”

You were quiet for a moment. “Really?”

“Really.” He opened his arms for you to move close. “You have two kids who love and adore you and vice versa, and they’re busy with so many activities that you have a calendar to keep it all straight. You make sure they’re never without.”

Your heart swelled. Your babies. No matter how old they got, they would always be your babies. And you wanted them to thrive in life. That was one of the reasons you worked so hard to give them not just a nice home, but a loving one.

“You work 40 hours a week. Sometimes more,” he said, his lips brushing the top of your head. “You pour so much of yourself into that job and your teammates that it wears on you by the end of the week.”

Mist filled your eyes. You did put a lot into your job because your parents taught you the value of hard work. And as frustrating as growth in your job could be, there were perks to your job and you had a great team. That wasn’t easy to come by.

“And when you aren’t pouring yourself into the kids or work, you have a pretty amazing husband who always wants your attention,” he teased, tilting your chin up with a tender smile. “Seriously, I can’t keep my hands off you half the time.”

Heat filled your cheeks and a laugh bubbled up. It amazed you after so many years how your husband still wanted you. Still admired you. He was an amazing partner and father.

You couldn’t ask for anyone better.

“And when you aren’t dealing with a handy husband.” He smirked a little. “You’re paying bills, handling responsibilities, and checking on others. Online and offline.”

Your heart sank a little. Messages sometimes went unanswered. Asks got buried. Comments got late replies. Not on purpose. Never on purpose.

But you felt guilty just the same. It didn’t feel like enough some days. There wasn’t enough time. There wasn’t enough of you to go around. 

“I try,” you said sadly.

“You do your best, and people see that,” he said proudly. “And after all that, you write.”

“Yeah.”

You wished you could write every single day. Life rarely gave you the opportunity to do so. You accepted that.

“I’m in fucking awe of you,” he said so seriously that your mouth fell open. “And not just you, but the community you all have online. They may not have your same kind of life or schedule, but they have their own struggles and they still find the time to create and share. You all help keep fandoms alive.”

Everyone had a life and a story to tell. Everyone had their hardships. That was one of the reasons so many of you gravitated to certain characters and communities. Life was tough enough. Building connections helped.

“I guess we do,” you said, much softer.

“Does that piece of shit askhole realize that your creations have touched people? Helped people?” 

“I haven’t-”

He silenced you with a deep kiss, the words dying in your throat.

“Don’t you dare say that your writing hasn’t touched or helped at least one person because it has,” he said fiercely, cupping your cheek. “Fluff, smut, angst, soft, dark. There’s something for everyone.”

You did your best to provide a variety of stories, and you adored your readers. They were cheerleaders, supporters, and friends. You wanted them to feel loved and cared for. They deserved that. 

“And some coward.” The word tasted bitter in his mouth. “Hiding behind a button doesn’t get to treat you like you don’t belong in your own space because of your age.”

Your eyes burned again. “Bucky…”

“Not to mention, you do this for free in the very limited free time you have.” He brushed his thumb along your cheek. “I’m glad you blocked them. You don’t need that trash in your inbox.”

“I’m glad, too.”

It wasn’t the sort of energy you needed in your space, and blocking them helped take your power back.

“And look at me? I’m over a hundred years old. I’m an old fucking man, and I still have hobbies.” He smiled when you snorted. “Like jumping out of planes.”

“You take after Steve,” you joked. 

That beautiful man could be reckless in the best way.

“I like old records.”

“And we dance in the kitchen while listening to them.”

You always felt cherished when he held you close.

“I read,” he said, nodding to the chair where he usually sat to read.

“I should get you reading glasses,” you mused.

Even if he didn’t need them, he’d look sexy in them.

“I’m a science nerd,” he stated proudly.

“I still want to get your glasses.”

Because nerds were sexy as hell.

“I like fixing motorcycles.”

You sighed dreamily. “And you look good on your bike.”

Maybe he could take you for a ride later… in more ways than one.

“I bake with Sam’s nephews.”

You sighed again because the man looked good with kids. “They do love when you add extra chocolate chips to cookies.”

“Extra chocolate chips make it better.” He winked. “And I’m still saving the world every so often.”

You put your hand over his. “My hero.”

“So, if I can still have hobbies at my age, why can’t you?” he asked rhetorically. “If this person really thinks people should stop once they hit a certain, they’re going to live a sad life. If anything, people get better at their hobbies because they’re getting more experience which happens with age.”

You didn’t disagree.

“I don’t care if you’re in your twenties, thirties, forties, fifties, whatever age,” he promised you. “If it brings you joy? If you love it? Then don’t stop creating. Don’t stop writing your stories.”

You closed your eyes when he kissed your forehead. “Even the self-indulgent ones?”

He smiled against your skin. “Especially the self-indulgent ones.”

“Even if I write about other characters?” 

“I’ll support you,” he promised.

“What if someone else says I’m still too old?” you asked.

“Then I’ll remind them, once again, that I’m over a hundred years old and they can get fucked.”

“You look very good for your age.” You giggled when he playfully growled and managed to grab your phone. “Hey!”

“You look very good for your age.” You giggled when he playfully growled and managed to grab your phone. “Hey!”

“Forget about them,” he ordered, tucking the device away. “And talk to me about one of the next ideas brewing in that beautiful brain of yours.”

An almost shy smile appeared on your face. Almost. He knew better.

“It might be better if I… show you.”

He leaned back against the cushion and helped you straddle him, his eyes dark as his hands settled on your hips. “I like the sound of that.”

You stopped him before he could pull you down for a kiss. “Bucky?”

“Yeah, sweetheart?”

You gazed at the man who brought so much light into your life. He helped you connect to others. He fueled your creativity. 

You felt very lucky.

“Thanks for loving and seeing me,” you whispered.

His eyes softened. “Thanks for loving and seeing me, too,” he said, meeting you halfway. “And if some askhole bothers you again, send them my way.”

“Yes, sir,” you teased, letting him kiss you.

So, yes, you’d keep posting your stories on your blog.

The self-indulgent ones. The ones you struggled to tell. The ones you put your blood, sweat, and tears into.

You’d joke about the writing process. You’d apologize for late updates. You’d keep on doing what you were doing.

Because there was no expiration date on creativity and hobbies.

And anyone who thought there was?

Well, they didn’t need to read your stories. 

Yep. I'm a mom. A wife. A friend. I work. I adult. Fanfiction isn't just fanfiction, lovelies. It's community. Keep doing you. Curate your own experience. Love and thanks for reading. ❤️

Masterlist ⚓Bucky Barnes Masterlist ⚓ Ko-Fi

[colereads]

My love, my beloved, my darling mutual, my wonderful friend...

I love and appreciate you more than you know. And I do think about you often.

Keep writing your stories. I love them. I love you. ❤️

[princessmisery666]

Settled

Summary: A shift in dynamics opens a path for confessions.

Warnings/Genres/Troupes: fluff, mention of being buried alive.

W/C: 1,602

Characters: Steve Rogers, Mob boss reader. OMC.

Notes: sequel to Buried Feelings.

Word of the day (June 18, 2026) - Entry

Betas: @deanwinchesterswitch

Graphics: title card design @deanwinchesterswitch 

Master Lists: Word Of The Day- June 2026 // Main

“Rogers,” Dante nods as Steve approaches your office door.

“Dante,” Steve greets, already putting his arms out for Dante to pat him down.

Despite a modicum of respect Steve earned by helping to save your life, Dante still doesn't trust the former Avenger, so he does what he's paid to do. Finalizing the inspection, the brute of a man straightens. “She’s down the hall in a meeting.”

“Shouldn’t you be with her?”

“She’s good,” Dante chuckles. “Apparently I’ve been hovering,” he says with full air quotes. “She wanted me to meet you.”

“Do you know why I’ve been summoned?” he asks.

Dante shakes his head, pulling a key card from his pocket. “You can wait inside.” He swipes the card and holds the door open while Steve passes through.

“Thanks.”

The lock engages as Dante closes the door behind him.

He likes your office. It’s grand, but not in a flashy or stereotypical crime boss movie way. It would fit in an upscale New York law firm. Floor-to-ceiling windows—bulletproof, of course—showcase the city you rule over. It’s lived in, not just for show. He knows you well enough now that nothing is for show.

The worn leather armchair and alcohol cabinet in the corner are the only remnants from your father's era. Still, they fit well with the other decor, and Steve knows it's where you like to sit with your thoughts and a glass of whiskey after a long day.

He wanders over and pours himself a drink. You summoned him here with little explanation. He knows Dante is still looking for the man who had you taken and buried alive, Matteo Maddox.

Walking to the window, sipping from the tumbler, Steve assumes this meeting is to acquire his assistance with Matteo’s elimination. Steve looks over the city, wondering if Maddox is out there counting down his days, or if he’s smart enough to have run as fast and as far as he can.

He hears the beep of the key card on the door and turns, watching Dante hold the door for you before closing it with a soft click.

Your eyes flick to the drink in his hand, and your lips quirk slightly. He shouldn’t be this comfortable helping himself to your things, but he is, and you don’t seem to mind either.

“Thank you for coming,” You say, slipping out of your heels by the door.

“You make that sound like my attendance was optional.”

“Everyone has a choice, Steve.” Strolling over to the desk, you smile, “But I’m sure curiosity got the better of you.”

You're right. His partial smile indicates you both know it.

"Let me clarify." Reaching into the top drawer of your desk, you pull out a leather-bound notebook. “As of today, your attendance is optional.”

His brow furrows with confusion as you walk toward him and hand him the book. “The marked page,” you instruct, taking his empty glass as you pass to the alcohol cabinet.

Steve opens the book to where the ribbon page marker separates the pages. Maddox's name at the top of the page immediately has his attention.

There’s a transaction of increasing value on every line—debts owed. Except the last entry is written in your neat, precise calligraphy style handwriting. Eliminated.

Curiosity killed the cat, or so they say, and so Steve turns the page.

Another name. Another list of debts, some crossed off, some with a plus sign, and more values. Interest. He reads more pages, skimming over details, and then freezes.

Rogers, Steve.

Beneath his name is a list of items you've provided for him and his team, and each one is crossed through with a perfectly straight line.

At the bottom of the page, in bold capital letters, is the word, SETTLED. The date written next to it is immediately familiar. The day he tore through earth and wood with his bare hands to free you from an untimely demise.

“Why?” he asks.

Shrugging, you hand him a glass as you step nearer. “Because it was paid.”

“You said it wouldn’t clear it.”

“I changed my mind.”

He can tell you're sincere. It's not a misleading ploy or manipulation.

Taking a sip of his drink, he scans the ledger again. “You keep track of everything?”

“Of course.” You chuckle. “I find my method works better than yours.”

“My method?”

“You do favors and then forget they happened.”

Steve can’t help but smile. “That’s usually how favors work.”

“Not where I come from.” You carefully take the book from him, as if you think he might resist, and place it on the table.

“So I don’t owe you anything?” he asks, mind buzzing with the prospect of what this means. The relationship is no longer transactional. There is no imbalance of power.

You hold his gaze. “No,” you answer. “The safe house is yours for as long as you need it, but there are no debts owed. No favors to pay back. No obligation to me.”

Something flickers across his face, relief, hope, something infinitely more dangerous, desire.

“Don’t look at me like that, Rogers.”

“Like what?”

You almost laugh because the answer is humiliatingly simple. You’ve been looking at each other like that for months. Every time he showed up unannounced. In his voice, every time you called to check in. Every time he smiled at you like he had forgotten who you were beneath the reputation and blood on your hands, it got a little harder to ignore.

You drop your gaze and set your glass down. “In my world,” your voice is quiet like you're telling him a secret and the office could be bugged, “Nothing is free. Nobody does anything without wanting something in return. Except you.”

“If I see a situation heading south, I can’t ignore it.”

How many times has he said that to justify his actions? And how many times has it led him directly into another situation heading south?

“I’ve noticed,” you give a small smile. “But actions have consequences, Steve.”

He takes a small step closer, filled with intention. “I can live with that.”

You hold his gaze for a heartbeat and then, reluctantly, step back once before turning your back. “I kept thinking eventually you’d ask for something. A deal to write off your debt. Something I could understand.” You continue, leaning against the front of your desk. “And then you rescued me, and I realized you weren’t ever going to ask.”

“No, I wasn’t,” he agrees, “and I think you know I’d do it again, without adding it to any ledger.”

“That’s what I’m afraid of.”

That catches him off guard. The admission is a rare thing. You’ve never said you were afraid of anything. Not when you were in a shallow grave, or the one time you ‘checked in’ unannounced at the safe house, Dante-less. You never said it, but it was obvious there had been a threat, credible enough that you’d run and hidden yourself until Dante took care of it.

“That's why you never let me get quite close enough to do something about this.”

He understands now. All the times you were close enough for him to reach out and touch, you’d back off. It wasn’t about protecting your investment. It was about not trusting that it wouldn’t come with strings.

“There was never supposed to be a this.”

He closes the distance you created. “But there is.”

“Rogers,” you warn, putting your hand on his chest to push him back, but he plants his feet. He holds your wrist, keeps your hand pressed against him.

“I know who you are. I know what you’ve done. I know all the rumors are true. There’s probably a hell of a lot more I don’t know.” His eyes never leave yours. “And none of that has ever been what keeps me awake.”

The room goes perfectly still. Even the dust motes seem to freeze. He’s fought Nazi’s, aliens, and gods. You’ve ordered executions, negotiated ceasefires of rival gangs, stared down armed men who wanted you dead, and somehow neither of you was prepared for this.

It’s not about resources or influence. It’s gone beyond protection.

“And for the record, you’re wrong,” he says, softly. “I do want something from you.”

Your breath catches, and your gaze drops briefly to his mouth. A mistake, a terrible, wonderful, beautiful mistake, because now he’s certain you’re thinking the same as him.

He leans in, cupping your face with his hands to prevent you from pulling away, and draws you into him. It starts soft, tentative. A press of lips as if he’s afraid Dante will burst in and kill him on sight for having the audacity to touch the untouchable.

Until you softly exhale into him, body melting against him as you tiptoe to slide your hands up his chest and over his shoulders to wrap around his neck. He moves his hands from your face to your waist, pulling you even closer.

It deepens, months of longing distilled into a warm and rich kiss. tongues sweeping, hands firm and certain, holding the other as close as possible without force.

You’re the first to break it, breathless, but Steve steals two more before you’ve completely dropped down to the flats of your feet.

“I didn’t want to do that when I owed you something.” He admits, “Didn’t want you to think it wasn’t real or it was just another transaction.”

You smile, then bit your bottom lip. “That’s going to cost you, Rogers.”

“I look forward to it.” He grins before kissing you again.

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Master Lists: Word Of The Day- June 2026 // Main

[colereads]

YAAAASSSSSSS

[navybrat817]

There You Are

Pairing: Clark Kent x Female Reader

Summary: Clark goes out for a drink and unexpectedly meets you.

Word Count: 300

Playlist Prompt: Therefore I Am - Billie Eilish / “I don't think I caught your name”

Warnings: Drinking, a touch wholesome, "fake dating", Clark Kent (he's a warning, okay?).

A/N: Day 6 of the June Jukebox Scribbles Challenge by @societynsoelsscribbles and I am slowly but surely catching up! ❤️ Not beta read and written on my phone, so any and all mistakes are my own. Divider by the talented @saradika-graphics. Please follow @navybrat817-sideblog for new fics and notifications as I no longer do taglists. Comments, reblogs, feedback are loved and appreciated!

Clark wasn’t sure how Jimmy talked him into going out for happy hour. It wasn’t like he couldn’t tune out the sounds from the bar, but it was still a lot. Still, it was nice to really be human for a short time, enjoying the company of his coworkers and friends.

He was nursing a drink, one that wouldn’t get him drunk anyone, and nodding along to the chatter when heard you.

“There you are!”

Clark’s eyes widened when you sat in the empty seat beside him and smiled. His heart flipped. And flipped again. Golly, you were beautiful.

So beautiful.

“Oh!” he exclaimed when you went in for a hug, keeping his hands in a safe place as he returned it and glancing at an amused Jimmy and Lois. “Um…”

“This guy at the bar won’t stop bugging me, so I told him I was meeting up with my boyfriend. I’m sorry,” you quickly whispered.

That caught Clark by surprise.

Even with his height and build, he always did his best to look unintimidating and unsure of himself when he wasn’t Superman.

Why would you choose him to be a fake boyfriend out of everyone there?

“I can go if you want,” you offered when you pulled away.

Clark’s eyes narrowed behind his glasses when he saw a guy staring at you from a few feet away, his protective instincts flaring up.

“No. Please, stay,” he said, slipping an arm around you and giving you what he hoped was a charming smile. “But… I don’t think I caught your name.”

You giggled and leaned in again to tell him in his ear.

He repeated it. “I’m Clark.”

“Nice to meet you, Clark.”

And who knew?

Maybe being a fake boyfriend tonight could turn into a real thing later on.

Golly, he’s adorable. Love and thanks for reading! ❤️

Masterlist ⚓ Clark Kent (David Corenswet) Masterlist ⚓ Ko-Fi

[colereads]

So much sweet! Now I need to go counteract it with some dark...

[navybrat817]

Under His Watch: First Meeting

Pairing: Stalker!Benjamin Poindexter x Female Reader

Summary: An act of kindness puts you in Dex’s sights.

Word Count: Over 550

Warnings: Soft!Dark tone and vibes, stalking, obsessive behavior, Benjamin Poindexter (he’s a warning, okay?), Dex's POV.

A/N: Okay, lovelies! Inspired by a nonnie. We’re going to call this AU Under His Watch. ❤️ Not beta read and written on my phone, so any and all mistakes are my own. Divider by the talented @saradika-graphics. Please follow @navybrat817-sideblog for new fics and notifications as I no longer do taglists. Comments, reblogs, feedback are loved and appreciated!

Stalker!Dex who noticed you not because you’re beautiful (which you are in his eyes) or because you flirted with him, but because of something small. The woman in front of you had forgotten her wallet, embarrassed and stammering out apologies, and you paid for her order without hesitation.

Stalker!Dex who tilted his head when you comforted the woman and didn’t expect anything in return. It wasn’t performative. You even smiled when you told her everyone deserved a bit of kindness and to pay it forward to someone else.

Stalker!Dex who spent a good portion of his life seeing the worst in people. Lies, manipulation, violence, selfiness. Always a catch for helping others. But seemingly not you.

Stalker!Dex who felt his heart stop when you turned to leave and smiled right at him. It almost blinded him because no one smiled at him like that.

Stalker!Dex who breathed in a bit too deeply when you walked by him, the gentle scent of your perfume filling his nostrils. It unsettled him how much he liked it.

Stalker!Dex who didn’t mean to follow you out of the coffee shop, but he did. He had to make sure you got to wherever you were going safely. That was all.

Stalker!Dex who maintained a safe distance so you wouldn’t catch on. He almost smiled when he caught the small bounce in your step, like the darkness of the city didn’t taint you. It was… fascinating.

Stalker!Dex who stopped when you did, watching as you took a snack from your purse and handed it to a homeless man. Once again, it wasn’t for show. You were just being kind.

Stalker!Dex who lingered when you crouched down and whispered to a stray cat like it was an old friend. He didn’t understand how someone could be so gentle to a creature that hissed at everyone else that walked by.

Stalker!Dex who felt something twist in his chest when you laughed at the cat’s grumpy meow before it brushed against your hand. It sounded so bright. He wanted to hear it again.

Stalker!Dex who kept following you to make sure no one with bad intentions got too close to you. He didn’t have bad intentions. He was a good guy.

Stalker!Dex who stared hard at the building you walked toward, already scoping out the flaws in the design. It was safe but not safe enough. Anyone could get in and that wasn’t good.

Stalker!Dex who watched you hold the door patiently for an elderly man, letting him take his time. You even offered an arm like it wasn’t a big deal in case he needed it.

Stalker!Dex who let out a breath when you went inside safely, his heart racing unexpectedly. He didn’t like that you were out of his sight. Not at all.

Stalker!Dex who didn’t fully understand. He didn’t know you, but he could tell you were soft. Trusting. Good. The kind of person the world liked to chew up and spit out.

Stalker!Dex who decided then and there he should keep an eye on you. Learn your routine if you had one. For your safety, of course. Nothing more.

Stalker!Dex who was lying to himself because you were already under his skin. You just didn’t know it yet.

What do we think, lovelies? What do we want to see? Love and thanks for reading! ❤️

Masterlist ⚓ Ko-Fi

[colereads]

If my stalker had been Dex and not the creepy kid in high school, things might have turned out differently.

[bellaxgiornata]

No Chance in Hell 1:| I See Hell in Your Eyes

Pairing: Jax Teller x fem!fitness instructor!Reader Word Count: 3.6k [Series Masterlist] [Jax Fic Masterlist]

Warnings: 18+; gym rat!Reader, enemies to lovers, opposites attract, sexual tension, forced proximity, smut, arrogant Jax, canon typical violence

Summary: You'd loathed Jax Teller from the first time he'd catcalled you. Unfortunately working at Iron Pulse, the gym located across the street from the Sons of Anarchy's compound, meant run-ins with him were inevitable. After nearly a year of his harassment, you immediately assume the death threats you begin finding are Teller's idea of a prank–until you're forced to stay at the Sons' cabin in the middle of nowhere.

a/n: I've been craving an enemies to lovers series with Jax, so here we go! Feedback (reblogs/comments/likes) is always appreciated!

Blowing out a tired breath between your lips, you bent over and picked up the black gym bag which you always stored in the breakroom during your shifts. With a slight grunt of effort, you slung the strap over your shoulder, your biceps and upper back muscles burning from overuse. You’d squeezed in a grueling workout after you'd completed your last training session for the day with Miriam–the sixty-eight year old woman who happened to be your favorite member of Iron Pulse.

Sidestepping the little café-style table in the breakroom, you bypassed the vending machine and small fridge as you headed towards the door which led back out to the gym. With every slow drag of your gold Nikes over the tiled floor, the ice in your protein shake made a quiet thunk thunk against the side of the shaker bottle you carried. Tuesdays were always your longest days.

Stepping back out into the gym, you became once more entrenched in the heavy clank of weights hitting the rubber mats as multiple men loudly grunted and groaned in exertion over the music playing on the speakers–Wade’s playlist now that you were done for the day. Breathing in the pungent odor of stale sweat clinging to the rubbery floor mats and leather benches, the distinct smell overpowered the strong disinfectants used to wipe everything down. The front door, which was always propped open in an attempt to ventilate the space, never did much to eliminate the smell, but you'd long since grown accustomed to it.

A light sheen of sweat coated your forehead, and you raised your free hand up, dabbing the back of it along your skin as you headed past the row of squat racks positioned along the wall. Bringing the shaker bottle to your lips, you drank down the tangy strawberry kiwi drink that you’d been looking forward to post-workout, the cold liquid helping to cool you down. But as you strode towards the exit, each of your limbs lagging at the effort, you could feel eyes following you through the gym, the pressure of them lingering against your backside.

There were very few female lifters that visited Iron Pulse–though truthfully there were few which even lived within the boundaries of Charming–but you also happened to be the only female employee at the gym. Which meant you’d grudgingly accepted that the eyes of the men here often followed you through the mirrors which lined the walls whenever you were at work. It was impossible to get through a single set of squats or Romanian deadlifts on leg day without multiple sets of eyes attempting to discretely watch your ass in whatever shorts or leggings you wore. 

It was something you'd always hated about gym culture–women's bodies were generally treated as if they were intentionally on display. You'd never joined the gym all those years ago looking for attention, it was something you'd done solely for health and a hobby, a hobby which eventually turned into your passion. It was unfortunate that “gym bros” often made the opposite sex feel so uncomfortable and unsafe to simply step a foot into a gym let alone venture anywhere beyond the treadmills at the front. 

Continuing past a group of dip stations and ignoring the heads which tracked your progress towards the exit, you found Wade leaning his thick forearms along the front desk. His dark blonde head was bowed over as he stared at something on his phone, finger absently scrolling across it. When he caught your approach from his peripheral, Wade tipped his head back and looked up from his screen, greeting you with a friendly smile. 

“Finally heading out for the night?” he asked. “Thought you'd never finish your workout. You were goin’ at it for a while.”

“I added a few new sets into today's rotation,” you told him. Readjusting the strap of your bag along your shoulder, you stopped in front of the desk. “My Tuesday routine started to feel stale.”

“Been there plenty of times myself,” Wade commiserated. His green eyes flickered to your right, the corners of his lips curving in disapproval. “You should watch out, though. We got a murder of them outside right now,” he warned you.

Slanting his head towards the front windows of the gym where his attention was focused, your gaze followed the movement to where he'd gestured. Loitering around on the lot across the street were a handful of Sons, each of them smoking cigarettes. Those of you who worked at Iron Pulse had long since started referring to them as crows, the term derived from the way they often called themselves SAMCRO. It was a way to throw their name back at them, and it seemed rather fitting since the group of them did commit murder together–allegedly. 

The Sons’ muffled voices and laughter carried through the open door of the gym on a warm breeze, the deep rumble of it causing your shoulders to tense. In the late afternoon sun you spotted a flash of gold hair outside, and your stomach instantly dropped to the floor beside your Nikes. A scowl settled onto your face as your gaze locked onto their president, watching him take a drag on the cigarette in his fingers. A long trail of smoke blew past his lips as he clapped one of the men beside him on the back.

Asshole.

You despised Jax in particular. You had ever since that day you’d first started working at Iron Pulse. When your shift had ended and you’d been heading out to your car parked on the street, ready to make your way home after a long day, he’d shouted some obscene comments at you that he stupidly thought sounded flirtatious. His crude remarks were then followed by a handful of lewd ones directed your way from a few of the other Sons that’d been outside with him, which he only laughed at. 

In the almost year since your unfortunate first encounter with him, you’d grown tired of the inappropriate and insolent way he continued addressing you. His eyes always shamelessly roamed over your body in a way that made your skin itch, and you hated how he took you in like you were no different than all those loose women that hung around at their clubhouse. As if you were some sex toy to be used for his pleasure instead of an actual person standing in front of him.

“You want me to walk you out?” Wade offered. “Help keep them at bay for you?”

Glancing back at Wade where he was still leaning against the front desk, you took in his slightly larger than six foot frame. He was broad chested and muscular, chiseled from all of the hard work he put in at the gym himself. But despite his upper body being as thick as a tree trunk, you knew he wasn't going to do much to intimidate and deter Teller from harassing you. Those men had egos larger than their list of criminal activities.

“No,” you declined. Offering him a half-hearted smile, you already felt exhausted at the prospect of yet another fuckboy Teller encounter on the horizon. “I can handle the bottom feeder on my own, I just wish I didn't have to deal with him at all.”

“It's because he likes you, Princess Peach,” Wade teased. 

A dramatic roll of your eyes met the ridiculous remark. “Fuck off, don't be gross,” you admonished. “He's a sleazeball with the emotional capacity to rival my coffee maker. The only thing that guy likes more than loose women, cigarettes, and alcohol is his right hand.”

Wade cracked a grin as he pushed away from the front desk, straightening up and pocketing his phone in his sweatpants. “You use that one on him yet?”

“I've used plenty of insults on him,” you told him, attention traveling back towards the window in annoyance. Jax was impossible to miss among the group of Sons outside, and your scowl deepened when you easily found him again among the sea of leather. “Yet somehow the idiot won’t stop harassing me. If only the feds would come pick him up and give him a nice, long vacation in Stockton.” 

“One can only hope,” Wade wistfully agreed.

“I'll see you tomorrow,” you said, lifting your protein shake in salute at him. Reluctantly turning towards the door, you muttered miserably, “Assuming I survive the walk to my car.”

As soon as you stepped outside onto the sidewalk, you could feel the palpable shift in the air. It wasn’t just the late afternoon heat or the sun blazing down from overhead in contrast to the air conditioning you’d felt inside the gym, there was a buzzing in the air heightened by the Sons’ raucous laughter and chatter coming from across the street. The hair at the nape of your neck bristled in response, but you fought the urge to duck your head and shrink yourself in their presence. Because that was exactly what Teller would’ve wanted, and you refused to ever give him a crumb of what he desired. Instead, you confidently strode down the sidewalk towards your silver Toyota at the end of the street, drinking your protein shake as if you were completely unbothered by the notorious bikers just thirty feet away.

Except you weren’t. They made you uneasy no matter how well you hid it when you interacted with them. They were dangerous criminals. You’d heard plenty about each of them through the rumor mill around town. Even Teller’s mother, Gemma, made you wary, though she’d never done more than offer you what seemed like a genuine compliment at the grocery store once. Despite how you held your ground whenever Jax goaded and insulted you, deep down you were terrified of the day that you might finally encounter the monster lurking beneath all those arrogant smirks and dirty comments. 

Their booming voices drifted across the street as you counted down the distance between you and your car with each of your steps. Twenty-five feet. Twenty feet. Fifteen feet. It wasn’t until you were just three cars away from the back of yours that you heard the high-pitched, distinct whistle tear through downtown. Grip tightening around the purple shaker bottle in your hand, your lips pursed together in frustration. 

So close. You’d been so close to just getting in your car and going home without a confrontation. But no, he couldn’t give you a single ounce of peace, could he?

With a slight turn of your head, you saw Teller sauntering across the street, flicking his cigarette carelessly over his shoulder. The corner of his lips were drawn back into a sordid grin that made your gut twist in disgust, but it was the fact that he was making a straight line towards the driver’s side of your car that made your body ignite with irritation. It only meant that he had every intention of blocking your escape, forcing you to endure another unwanted interaction with him before you could end your day.

“Lookin’ good, Peaches,” Jax called over to you.

Raising your chin indignantly at him, your jaw tightened at the way he always called you that. Princess Peach was a joke nickname that the guys you worked with at Iron Pulse had given you around the time you started. It was only due to the fact that you did two leg days a week, both heavily glute focused, and because you were obviously more feminine than them. All of you had nicknames that you playfully referred to each other as at the gym–Wade was generally known as Dorito because of his small waist and thick upperbody–but Jax had found out yours and purposefully turned it into something filthy.

“And you’re still looking like a fuckboy, fuckboy,” you countered coldly.

Jax laughed off the insult, his eyes dancing with mischief as he sidled over to your car and leaned his shoulder against the driver’s side door. His gaze openly trailed up and over your body, taking in the skin revealed by the olive green set you were wearing today–biker shorts and a fitted top with a low neckline. Your lips drew back in aversion as you stopped by the trunk of your car, feeling as if it was his hands roaming over your body instead with how he was looking at you. When his attention lingered on your bare thighs, you saw the slow roll of his tongue between his lips and you glanced down at the half-finished protein shake in your hand.

If this didn’t cost so damn much, I would douse you in it, jackass.

“Can you fuck off already?” you snapped. “I’m not really in the mood for egotistical bastards tonight. Or any night, really.”

His tongue gradually ran the length of his bottom lip as his gaze continued to wander up and over your breasts, leisurely taking his time and intentionally making you uncomfortable. Your teeth ground together as your frustration mounted, anger sparking inside of you at his openly vulgar behavior. When he did finally look up, he met your glare with a look of indifference. His head casually dipped to one side as his lips quirked in amusement, enjoying your irritation.

It shouldn’t be illegal to smash his stupid, smug face through a windshield. That should be considered a civic duty.

“What’s the rush, Peaches?” he quipped. “Got somewhere to be?”

“Yeah,” you agreed bitterly, gesturing your drink at him. “Anywhere that’s far away from the walking cancer in front of me. Move.”

His brows rose marginally upwards, but his arrogance remained intact. “Walkin’ cancer now, huh?”

“You smell like lung cancer,” you shot back, nose faintly scrunching at the scent of him. “Standing in your vicinity probably gives people lung cancer.”

Jax stared at you, shifting against the side of your car as if he was settling in for a bit. Shooting a quick glance across the street, you saw the other Sons had grown quiet. They were all still hanging around and smoking on the lot beside their clubhouse, but now they were silently watching what they could of the exchange occurring across the street with their president. Which only meant that Jax was going to act like a bigger prick on purpose, always needing to show off like he was some big shit. 

Your eyes narrowed further when you spotted a familiar shaved head across the street–Juice. He’d started coming to Iron Pulse recently, having just started training with you the other week. Admittedly, you thought he seemed like a nice guy during your sessions, and you had no idea how he’d wound up involved with all these assholes. But the fact that he ignored Jax’s treatment of you had you questioning your judgement of the younger Son. 

“Y’know,” Jax drawled, catching your attention again, "I guarantee you’d be less of an uptight bitch if you got properly laid. You seem overdo for a tune up.”

Eyes turning into slits at the words ‘uptight bitch’ passing over his tongue, you wished you could set him on fire with just a glare. It wasn’t the first time he’d called you that, but it never failed to make your pulse thrash in your throat and fury burn like wildfire within you. 

“Someone needs to fuck the attitude outta you, Peaches,” he continued, tipping his chin at you. “It’s a shame that body is wasted on such a high-strung prude.”

“And you’re disgusting,” you spat back. “All of you are. Any self-respecting woman would never let a gross prick like you anywhere close to her.”

“That so?” he pushed.

“You’re more used up than all of the women you guys pass around combined,” you shot, squaring your shoulders. “You're a neon sign advertising STDs, Teller. There’s not a shred of you worth wanting because you’ve already given yourself to half of northern California hundreds of times over. You’ve got nothing I’d ever want.”

The condescending smirk finally vanished from his lips, and something darker and unfamiliar passed over his features instead. Jax pushed off the side of your car and you hesitated, surprised at the sudden shift in him. Normally when you both exchanged insults, he'd throw them confidently back before eventually sauntering off with a sleazy grin while leaving you internally fuming. But something felt different this time.

He took three slow, deliberate steps forward as he closed the small distance between you both. Advancing on you like a mountain lion, he moved with languid, calculated steps, giving the distinct impression that he was preparing to launch himself at you and attack. Your spine stiffened at his approach, pinned down by his weighted stare and the flicker of something heavy in it. It wasn’t until the toes of his Nikes nearly met yours that he stopped and leaned forward, intentionally invading your personal space. The scent of leather, smoke, and body spray–something warm like cedarwood–hit you hard as his face hovered directly in front of yours, making it impossible to avoid the dangerous glint in his eyes. 

With your lips pressed firmly together, you glared unwaveringly back at Jax, attempting to maintain your outward composure. Though you could feel your heart wildly beating inside of your chest while your breath kept catching in the back of your throat. He'd come so close that his own warm breath fell past his parted lips, dancing over your cheek with each exhale. You could see each faint fleck of darker blue embedded in his stormy eyes as the apparent threat lingered coldly inside of them.

“You’re lucky I let you talk to me like that, darlin’,” he warned in a low rasp. “Ain’t a lotta girls who’d be stupid enough to say shit like that to my face. Even less would get away with it.”

You raised your chin again, hard stare meeting his in a challenge as you ignored the erratic thrum of your heart. “And what’re you going to do about it?” you questioned in a low hiss. 

Jax shifted, and with his nose so close to yours, you couldn’t tell if the tip of it had just brushed against yours or not. You ignored the uncomfortable flip in your stomach, fighting to keep your voice level as you continued to hold your ground. The last thing you’d ever want to do was show Teller a shred of fear to latch onto, even if you could feel it running through your veins. 

“Are you going to shoot me in the middle of downtown Charming, Teller? Right in broad daylight?” you pressed. “All because I won’t stand here quietly and let you objectify me like every other girl in your path?”

His nostrils flared with a sharp, irate exhale that made your heart jolt straight into your throat. Jax had never gotten this visibly pissed off before, but his anger was written in the tight lines around his eyes, the downturn curve of his lips, and the ever twitching muscle in his cheek. It appeared this time you'd finally and unexpectedly pushed on a nerve, and while satisfaction warmed your chest, a pinprick of fear squirmed in your stomach.

It didn't take much to figure out that Jax wasn’t used to being challenged by a woman, especially one who kept shooting down his advances and meeting him verbal spar for verbal spar. One of these days, you wondered if you’d push your luck fighting back against him just a little too far and he’d finally lash out at you. He was known to have a temper, and with what you were currently glimpsing, you didn't doubt the truth of that. 

“Didn't think you were that sensitive.”

The jab slipped out of you before your brain to mouth filter could properly kick in and prevent you from continuing to push him. When he moved, you swore your heart stopped as all of your muscles pulled taut in anticipation of what was coming. Swallowing thickly, you felt your knees lock, but he simply leaned in even closer, his mouth hovering beside your ear before a deep warning rolled off his tongue and straight into it.

“Better watch yourself, Peaches.”

A cold chill ran through you, goosebumps lightly dappling your forearms at the whispered threat. He intentionally smacked his leather-clad shoulder right into yours as he started to make his way back across the street and towards the Sons’ compound. Stumbling back a step at the rough impact, you slowly released the quivering breath you’d unintentionally been holding. Your skin tingled with adrenaline at the shoulder check, your body reacting to the slight shove more than it had to any pre-workout you’d ever downed. 

Turning your head over your shoulder, you tracked his swaggering gait as he moved across the pavement, and the urge to throw an insult at his back bubbled inside your throat. But you bit your tongue, holding the thoughts inside and resisting the desire to have the last word. It wasn't just that Jax was a waste of your time, or that arguing with him was a poor use of breath, but this confrontation with him had been a little different from the others. He'd never gotten quite so visibly riled before, and you wondered if you’d finally stopped toeing the line with him and accidentally crossed it.

Series tag list: @kmc1989 @lycanbeks92 @catswonderland @magic-sprinkled-daydreams @shiggynuggiez @rayray0171

[colereads]

Oh this is GOOD.

[princessmisery666]

Faded Souvenir

Summary: An object from the past may be the catalyst for a new beginning.

Warnings/Genres/Troupes: post-break up, angst, flashback, hurt/comfort.

W/C: 1,816.

Pairing: Jake x reader.

Notes: sequel to The Last Time.

Word of the day (June 17, 2026) - Token

A/N: I’m cheating a little bit because I already had the road trip scene in my drafts and it just fit perfectly for these two.

Betas: @deanwinchesterswitch

Graphics: title card design @deanwinchesterswitch 

Master Lists: Word Of The Day- June 2026 // Main

The late afternoon sun spills through the windscreen, drenching everything in a glimmering golden hue. It's annoyingly cinematic, and you know Jake will take credit for it if you say anything.

The road trip was his idea, a few days off from the academy that he wanted to make the most of. Though he refused to share the details of the destination, you trust him enough to know it won't be horrible.

He glances over, one had loose on the wheel, the other tapping to the beat like he’s conducting an invisible orchestra.

Since he's driving, Jake declared that you could be in charge of the playlist. However, it seems he can't bring himself to relinquish the task fully.

“You’ve skipped almost every song I’ve put on,” you accuse, arms folded as you sink deeper into the passenger seat.

“Because your music taste is,” he tilts his head, pretending to consider it carefully, “how do I say this nicely...”

“Awesome.”

“...a cry for help.”

Your loud, dramatic gasp of offense fills the air. “That was Sleep Token, Jake.”

“Exactly.”

“You have no taste. You lack… enlightenment.”

“I have standards. And I lack nothing,” he shoots back, flashing that grin that should come with a warning and a government-issued permit.

While you aren't truly mad, you try to pretend, but then he starts singing. Purposely loud and off-key, twisting the lyrics into something ridiculous to make you laugh.

Absurdly, it works.

By the time you stop for gas, you’re not speaking to him. Not because you’re actually mad, but because he knows he’s charming, and you refuse to reward that.

You lean against the car while he pays, scrolling your phone like you’re deeply invested in something.

He comes back with snacks. “It was the last one,” he says, holding out your favorite chocolate like he’s presenting a tribute to a mildly hostile queen. “Peace offering.”

You don’t take it.

He raises an eyebrow. “Still doing this?”

“I don’t negotiate with men who insult Sleep Token.”

“Alright,” he nods thoughtfully, "but I didn't insult them. I just chose not to listen to them." With a smug grin, he unwraps the chocolate and takes a bite.

Your head snaps up. “You did not!”

“Oh, I did,” he says, chewing slowly. “And wow. This is really good. Shame you’re missing out.”

You snatch it out of his hand so fast it would impress a magician.

He laughs, head tipped back slightly, sunlight catching on his sunglasses, a bead of sweat on his throat drips down into the collar of his shirt.

It hits you, sharp and inconvenient. You like him. Not just in a ‘this is fun’ casual way. You like him in the 'this feels dangerous and real' whole-lot-terrifying way.

Great. Fantastic. Brilliant timing.

You shove the chocolate into your mouth like it will choke the realization.

The teasing settles into something softer once you're back on the road. Windows down, music lower, the world stretching out in long, lazy miles.

You’re turned slightly toward him, one leg tucked up under you. He has one hand on the wheel, the other on your knee, loosely holding your fingers while his thumb smooths over your knuckles.

“You’re staring,” he says casually.

“I’m not.”

He glances over, smirking. “You’re doing it right now.”

You look away immediately. “Shut up.”

“Make me,” he challenges.

You hesitate, just for a second, but it's enough for him to notice because usually you’d accept the challenge by kissing him to stop the charm and smugness from leaking out.

His demeanor shifts, no longer teasing, but curious. “Something on your mind?”

“Just thinking,” you shrug.

“Dangerous.”

“Please. I think all the time.”

Jake chuckles. “And I usually end up in the dog house.” He pulls your hand to his lips and kisses your knuckles. “What’s on your mind?”

You don’t answer because the truth is sitting right there, heavy and impatient at the back of your throat, like a tickle that you can’t clear away but has decided, inconveniently, that now is good enough.

You should ignore it. You should swallow it down. You should absolutely not say anything while he’s driving seventy miles an hour.

So naturally you say, “I think I’m in love with you.”

The car jerks to the side, but only slightly. Years of training keep him in control, but the mood shifts.

Pulling your hand from his, you clap it over your mouth like it will physically grab the words and shove them back in.

“I,” you start, voice muffled. “I didn’t. That just...”

He’s too calm. “You’re in love with me?” he repeats, not looking at you.

“I didn’t mean to say it like that.”

“Like what? Out loud?”

“Jake.”

Finally, he glances over, the look on his face isn’t panic or confusion, it’s warm and soft, and it makes your stomach drop in an entirely new way.

“You picked a hell of a time,” he says.

“I know,” you groan, dragging your hands down your face. “I was going to be cool about it. Maybe wait until we weren’t in a moving vehicle. Face to face.”

“Bold strategy.”

“Shut up.”

He huffs a quiet laugh, then looks back at the road. A beat passes. Two. Three. You brace yourself for the deflection, the gentle letdown.

“I was going to say it first.”

Your head snaps toward him. “What?”

He shrugs, like he didn’t just casually rearrange your entire emotional framework. “Been trying to figure out when. Didn’t think blurting it out at the Hard Deck or between gas stations was the move, but...”

"You’re kidding.”

“I don’t joke about stuff like that.”

“You literally just ate my chocolate out of spite.”

“That was different, that was war.”

Despite yourself, you laugh. A small, disbelieving, half-hysterical laugh. “You’re serious?”

“I’m serious.” He reaches over, his hand finding yours, giving it a steadying squeeze. “I love you.”

Your heart tries to somersault out of your chest. “I love you too.”

Jake smiles at you. “You’re still not touching the aux,” he adds.

"Hey," you protest, "I just confessed my love...”

“Doesn’t mean I trust your playlist.”

“You’re unbelievable.”

“And you’re in love with me,” he shoots back, grinning smugly.

You roll your eyes, but your fingers tighten around his anyway. “Yeah, unfortunately for me.”

Jake laughs, and you turn to hide your smile.

You stopped at the same gas station on the way back to Fighter Town, and Jake had emerged with a magnet of your favorite chocolate bar. It lived on the fridge in the apartment you shared with Jake until you left. Now it lives on your fridge.

Hugging a coffee mug, you stare at the faded souvenir, wondering how it all came to this. Funny how a cheap magnet could become a token for a life you no longer have. You kept it because throwing it away felt too much like admitting your relationship was over.

“Hey.”

Jake’s voice startles you from your reverie, and you twist to see him leaning against your bedroom door. Shirtless and beautiful and rested. The dark circles and redness his eyes had worn last night are nearly invisible.

“Morning.”

His eyes move beyond your shoulder, and when that boyish smile appears, you know he's seen the magnet and had a brief flash of the same memory that sent you spiraling into the past. His smile fades faster than yours had, and the silence that follows is heavy, filled by the hum of the refrigerator and the distant sounds of the city waking up.

Neither of you can pretend last night didn’t happen, and neither of you knows what happens next.

Jake scratches the back of his neck. “I still think Sleep Token sucks.”

You shake your head, laughing despite yourself. “You still have no taste.” You take one last look at the magnet, then move to grab another mug from the cupboard.

“Do you regret it?” Jake blurts at your back.

“What?”

He’s at your side before you’ve set the mug down. “Do you regret it?” he asks again, “Not last night or this morning or whatever.” He frowns, shaking his head like he’s trying to shake his thoughts into order. “Us. Do you regret us?”

“No,” you say softly, “I don’t regret any of it.”

“Okay,” he says, nodding. “I know last night doesn’t magically fix anything, and I don’t expect it to," he winks, "although I was in top form."

You roll your eyes, chuckling, “There he is.”

“Seriously,” he sighs, taking your hands, “can I come back tonight? Or tomorrow maybe?”

“Jake.”

“I don’t mean,” he gestures vaguely toward your bedroom. “Well, okay, maybe I mean that a little, but that’s not what I’m asking.” He takes a deep breath. "I’m asking if I can come back and have dinner with you? Can I call you when Rooster does something stupid today? Can I send you videos of dogs doing cute stuff? Can we go to dinner and you steal my fries when I specifically told you to order your own?”

Your eyes well with tears because you miss all of those seemingly trivial things. “Stolen fries taste better.”

He chuckles but brushes his thumb over your knuckles, and it seems to ground him. “I know we can’t just pretend nothing happened. I know I hurt you, and there are things we need to talk about. What I’m asking is,” he smiles weakly before dropping his gaze to where your hands are joined. “Can we start over?”

“Start over?” The hitch in your breath draws his attention back to your face.

“Not all the way over." The gravity in his tone contrasts with the glint in his eyes. Lifting his chin toward the refrigerator, he asserts, “I’m not sitting through the Sleep Token phase again.”

“It wasn’t a phase.” Your attempt at sterness is thwarted by the involuntary curl of your lips.

It seems to ease the tension in him. The urgency in his voice is gone. “I don't want to erase how this began or pretend we haven’t loved each other,” he sighs, “or ignore that I screwed this up.”

He squeezes your hands, searching your face as he seemingly searches for words. The vulnerability in his expression is so rare that your body reacts with a sharp stab in your chest.

“We’ll go slow this time, like normal people.”

“We’ve never been normal people.”

“That’s true.” He grins. “Just... let me take you on a date tonight?”

“A date?”

“Yeah. It's been a long time since we've done that. So let me take you on a real date.” He rolls his eyes, smirking, “I’ll even let you pick the playlist.”

You gasp. “Wow”

“I know. Huge personal growth.”

Your laugh feels lighter than any you’ve managed in months. Jake watches, hopeful and terrified.

“One date,” you agree.

His grin arrives slowly, bright as the rising sun.

A/N 2: I'm sure I'll be exploring more of these 2 in the future so be sure to get on my tag list so you don't miss it.

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Master Lists: Word Of The Day- June 2026 // Main

[colereads]

GOD I needed this today. It's been a shit show.

I love them so much.

[princessmisery666]

The Last Time

Summary: The first step to move forward is sometimes painful.

Warnings/Genres/Troupes: post-breakup, heartbreak, grieving a relationship.

W/C: 880

Notes: sequel to 2AM

Pairing: Jake x ex-reader.

Word of the day (June 13, 2026) - Quell

Betas: @deanwinchesterswitch

Graphics: title card design @deanwinchesterswitch 

Master Lists: Word Of The Day- June 2026 // Main

Anything that happens after midnight is a bad idea. Now is no exception, but Jake doesn’t realize it until it’s too late.

Walking into your apartment is a gut punch he’s not prepared for. It’s nothing dramatic like expensive furniture or bold colors. It’s a blanket draped over the couch, an open book face-down on the coffee table, a half glass of water abandoned beside it. It’s a space that’s lived in. It’s you. Everywhere.

It’s the home you were trying to build with him, and as he sits at the kitchen table, he sees you’ve built it anyway without him. That’s the gut punch. It hurts. It really fucking hurts.

Still, he manages the faintest of smiles when you set a steaming mug of coffee in front of him.

You sit across from him, and he knows you feel just as awkward as he does as you stare into your coffee mug.

This was a bad idea.

He should have driven away—shouldn’t have stopped in the first place. Still, he makes no move to leave, even though it would be best for both of you.

“Rooster texted me yesterday,” you say, casually, “reminding me it’s our turn to bring snacks for game night next week.”

Our turn.

He feels sick. The Dagger Squad doesn’t invite people in out of politeness. Fanboy’s squeeze of the week isn’t invited. Rooster’s new girlfriend hasn’t passed the test yet because they only invite people they love. It’s more than a squad, it’s a family. Jake isn't the only one who's lost you. They have too. They’ll never forgive him. He’ll never forgive himself.

“I assumed they knew.”

“Coyote knows.” Jake sighs. They probably all know by now, but he has neither confirmed nor denied. No one has asked him directly because he hasn't been around to let them. He isn’t hiding the breakup, but not talking about it helps him keep the illusion that it isn't real. He takes a sip of his coffee, and his chest tightens. It’s perfect, exactly how he takes it. It’s not been long enough for you to have forgotten, but something about the fact you remembered cuts deeper than it should.

You chuckle, trying to lighten the mood. “Afraid they’d uninvite you?”

“They would.” Jake huffs. “They tolerate me. They love you.” He pauses, biting his tongue, but decides he has nothing to lose and says it anyway. “We all do.”

“Jake, don’t.”

“Don’t love you or don’t say it?” he asks.

The regret hits hard. A moment ago, he thought leaving would be best for both of you. Now, he's afraid you’ll make him go.

You close your eyes. “Please don’t.” The plea in your voice is worse than anger. He can survive anger because it means there is somewhere for all this hurt to go, but you just sound tired.

“It took me months to build the courage to leave.” A tear slips free, landing on the rim of your cup. “Then weeks of fighting the longing not to.” Your eyes finally meet his. “None of this is easy, Jake.”

“I know.” He rubs a hand down his face. “But I won’t apologize for how I feel either.”

You sigh, wiping the dampness from your cheek as you stand. Moving to the kitchen, you busy yourself with washing out your mug, a way of gaining some distance from him.

With your back to him, voice nearly inaudible, you state, “I haven’t told anyone either. Saying it out loud made it too real.”

His eyes flit around the apartment, at the life you're making. “If I’d known…,” he says just as quietly, staring at the book, “If I'd known the last time I kissed you was gonna be the last time. I would’ve taken more care.”

You turn and lean against the countertop, tears flowing freely, as he looks back in your direction. His vision blurs, and the first tear slips from the corner of his eye. “If I’d known the last hug was the last one, I‘d have held on a little longer.”

The sound you make is heartwrenching.

He blinks to clear his vision.

Your fingers flex around the counter's edge. Your lip trembles.

“You can h-hug me now.”

Jake swears his heart has stopped. Wondering if he misheard or if he’s just so desperate that he’s making it up, he remains still.

“P-please,” you say a little stronger with a watery, nervous laugh.

Jake stands so fast his chair nearly tips over. He rounds the table, and you take a step to meet him. The moment his arms wrap around you, everything in him breaks. “I miss you.” Voice cracking, he laments, “I love you, and I’m sorry.” Squeezing his eyes closed, he tightens his embrace. “I’m so fucking sorry.”

Weeks of denial, of regret, of trying to quell the ache by pretending it wasn’t there, vanish. This is all he needed. You. He buries his face against your neck as your fingers curl tighter into the material of his shirt.

For the first time since you left, neither of you is pretending you’re okay. It won't magically mend what was broken or spontaneously forgive the mistakes made, but it's a beginning.

A step forward to move through the grief. Together.

Part 5 - Coming very soooooon

My tag lists are open. If you want to join please complete this form. You don’t need a google account to fill it in. Using the form makes it easier to track.

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Master Lists: Word Of The Day- June 2026 // Main

[colereads]

[princessmisery666]

Buried Feelings

Summary: When Steve learns you're missing, he doesn't hesitate to join the search for you.

Warnings/Genres/Troupes: peril, danger, abduction, blood mentioned.

W/C: 1,272.

Characters: Steve Rogers, Reader, OMC, Wanda.

Notes: sequel to Trust.

Word of the day (June 14, 2026) - Sepia

Betas: @deanwinchesterswitch

Graphics: title card design @deanwinchesterswitch 

Master Lists: Word Of The Day- June 2026 // Main

Steve waits on the porch. The state-of-the-art security system warned of the breach long before the armed man came into view.

Wanda steps up next to Steve, eyes warily looking over the man, Dante, your head of security. "He looks like a mountain put on a suit."

Steve hums at the hushed statement, "I told you to stay inside," keeping his eye on the man—the way his feet shift, finger twitching on the trigger. Dante knows a bullet won't take him out, but Steve can sense his anger as well.

“I can take care of myself,” she smiles, red mist swirling around her fingers.

“Where is she?” Dante bellows.

Steve frowns. “Not here.”

“We left a meeting hours ago. I followed her here as far as the gas station. She sent me on another errand.” His voice is dangerously calm. “She hasn’t checked in. Nobody has heard from her. Where is she?” Jaw flexing like he's grinding metal, Dante looks like he wants this to end with someone's funeral.

Icy realization hits Steve. “She’s missing?”

Dante barks a humorless laugh. “I’m not leaving here until I find her.”

Steve pulls Wanda out of the way of the charging brute, lumbering up the steps. “You’re wasting time,” he grits out.

“Rogers, I swear if you did something.”

“She isn’t here. Hasn’t been here in over two weeks.”

“When did you last speak to her?” Dante questions.

“Last night,” Steve answers. He warned that the meeting could be a trap, she'd laughed, and he could picture the eye roll that followed. “What happened at the meeting?”

“Nothing. Went to plan. It was simple. Easy.”

“Too easy?” Steve asks.

Dante purses his lips. “You think it was a setup?”

“They could have followed you. Waited until you peeled off, and she continued. Caught her off guard.”

Dante’s ringing phone halts any further theorizing. He answers with a curt, “Yeah?”

Steve focuses, wanting to hear the full conversation.

“We got the car and a body.” Steve’s heart stops until the caller adds, “It’s not one of ours. Looks like she put up a fight.”

A grim relief calms him for a moment, one of your enemies but not you. Hearing the location before Dante hangs up, he declares, “I’m coming with you."

Dante hesitates for a moment before growling. “Fine.”

The first one to fall is a low-level soldier. The second was killed execution style after refusing to give up information. The third body to drop finally gives them the secondary location where they took you.

Steve’s already moving before Dante gives the order to his men.

Rain hammers against the windshield. The countryside blurs in streaks of green and brown. Every second feels stolen, every mile feels impossible. He keeps hearing your voice, confident and amused.

“I’m not made of glass, Rogers, and my men are tough.”

God, he hopes you are too.

The windshield frames a farmhouse collapsing in on itself, surrounded by overgrown fields. Steve is out of the vehicle before it stops rolling. Fresh tire tracks lead around the back. He doesn’t wait for the others, rushing into the house, eyes scanning for anything out of the ordinary—any sign of you.

Nothing.

Reaching the back of the structure, he glares through a broken window pane, contemplating his next move. An animal darts across his line of vision, drawing his attention to a trampled area of grass, surrounding a rain-soaked patch of recently overturned dirt.

His breath falters, and he hisses out a strangled, “NO,” as if he can change reality through sheer refusal. Breaking into a run, the door doesn’t survive the collision—wood and metal explode outward from the force of his shoulder, the rotted wood wall crumbles as the ceiling caves in on itself.

Steve doesn't even notice, shouting for the others as he drops to his knees and begins to dig. His bare hands tear through earth, mud cakes beneath his fingernails, and stones rip skin from his knuckles. He doesn't hear the others, doesn't slow his pace even as more hands join the fray, because his world is washed in a sepia haze, like the old silent movies.

Minutes stretch into a lifetime, but not far beneath the surface, a thud sounds… hollow wood. The outline of the box emerges from the dirt—a crudely built coffin.

For one terrible second, nobody moves, nobody breathes. It’s been hours. Have you been trapped all this time?

Then Steve lunges forward. Pressing the tips of his fingers between warped slats, he yanks a board free. Wood groans and splinters as he continues his assault on the container. The opening frames your pale, tear-streaked face. Despite the noise of the box being destroyed and the shouts of your name, you remain motionless, and he fears that he’s too late.

Then a gasp, a cough, and a wheezing intake of breath as you frantically scramble upright.

Steve makes a sound somewhere between a relieved sigh and a laugh. Pushing the hair out of your eyes, he cups your cheek, thumb brushing a streak of dirt from your chin. “Hey, hey, look at me.”

Another choked breath, eyelids fluttering and squinting. “S- Steve?”

It's barely above a whisper, voice hoarse, but the hit of relief loosens his chest. “Yeah, it’s me. I'm here.”

Placing a shaky hand over his, you lay your head on his shoulder, whispering. "Thank you."

By the time he lifts you from the mess of wood and mud, the rain has eased to a drizzle. Someone drapes a blanket over your shoulders, Dante presses a bottle of water into your hand, then hovers close by.

Steve sits beside you on the open tailgate, one hand fixed firmly on the small of your back. The other rests on your thigh. Dried blood paints the creases of his knuckles, dirt still packed beneath his fingernails, evidence of how he saved you.

You've been staring at them for a while now, a finger lightly drawing shapes on the back of his hand. You haven't said much other than to order a hit on the person who ordered the one on you.

“You need to see a doctor.” He frets.

“I will.” You sigh, taking another sip of water. “How’s my hair?”

A few of your men bark surprised laughs, but Dante's quick to reply, “It’s terrible, boss.”

Steve shakes his head. “You were buried alive, and you’re making jokes?”

Your shoulders lift in a weak shrug. “When you say it out loud, it sounds worse.”

Dante’s phone rings, but he sends you a worried look before answering, “I gotta take this,” he says, slowly edging away, “I’ll be just over here.”

“I’m good, D.” You give him a weak smile.

“I got her,” Steve says, nodding for him to go.

Dante answers, his expression immediately changing with a promise of violence in the tense greeting, “Give me something."

Steve responds in kind when you squeeze his hand. “Thank you.”

“You already said that, but you're welcome.”

There are too many eyes, and you release his hand far sooner than he wants. If he thought you'd let him, he'd carry you to the passenger seat, drive you back to the safe house, and take care of you for the rest of the evening, or maybe a few days.

With a freer intake of breath, you plaster on a smile. “I told you so.”

Steve frowns. “Told me so?”

“I told you having the infamous Steve Rogers owe me a favor would be good for business.”

Steve chuckles. “Does that mean I’ve paid back my debt?”

“Not even close.”

“Didn’t think so.”

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Master Lists: Word Of The Day- June 2026 // Main

[colereads]

WHO IS RESPONSIBLE FOR THIS.

WHO DO I GET TO MURDER.

SOMEONE. ANYONE.

[princessmisery666]

Trust - sequel to Good For Business

Summary: A simple exchange is more than it seems.

Warnings/Genres/Troupes: mob boss reader, flirting.

W/C: 948

Word of the day (June 9, 2026) - Wharf

Notes: sequel to Good For Business.

Betas: @deanwinchesterswitch

Graphics: title card design @deanwinchesterswitch 

Master Lists: Word Of The Day- June 2026 // Main

The air is dank. A storm had hit earlier, speeding the last vestiges of light into blackness and leaving behind a humidity that clings like spiderwebbing to the skin. Fog is slowly rolling in, swallowing the reflection of twinkling stars dancing on the water's surface. A cargo ship's horn sounds a mournful note in the distance.

On your orders, the wharf is deserted. The city glitters behind you, alive and restless, but here the world feels quiet…lonely. It's the perfect beginning for a noir-style thriller, ripe with low paranoia and fatalism.

It's why you chose it.

You don't bother to turn when the warped boards announce his arrival. As agreed, he's alone, though you know the rest of his team is nearby. Hidden in the shadows, the same as yours.

“I'm curious,” Steve says as he comes to stand beside you. “This place is pretty out in the open for a meeting spot.”

Murky water laps at the pilings, a soothing background to a tense situation. “Public places are safer.”

“For who?”

Your lips curve, but you don’t give in to it. “I haven’t decided yet.”

That earns a chuckle, and you finally look at him. Dressed in simple dark clothing with a baseball cap pulled low over his face, it's a poor attempt at anonymity for anyone who dared to look close enough.

“You look disappointed.”

Steve leans against the railing beside you, casually, as if meeting a friend. “I was hoping for a more private space.”

“For any particular reason?” you tease.

He grins and doesn’t hesitate to answer, “The company and conversation.”

You'd find that kind of confidence insufferable from anyone else, presumption bordering on arrogance. Instead, his sincerity makes him dangerously charming.

You remind yourself to tread carefully. Emotions beget recklessness. Recklessness leads to mistakes. Mistakes ensure downfall. Before the conversation can wander into precarious territory, you pull a set of keys from your pocket and toss them to him.

“That’s it?”

“That’s it.”

He straightens, stepping closer…much closer than necessary. “No instructions?”

“The gray Honda in the parking lot. The location address is programmed into the GPS. Memorize it, then destroy the GPS before you leave.”

“And the car?”

“Yours.”

The wind whips a lock of hair across your face, and seemingly without thinking, Steve tucks it behind your ear. His finger slowly traces the shell of your ear and along your jaw. It's intentional, but you don't flinch away. The contact lasts a heartbeat too long.

The slight widening of his eyes notes the realization of what he's doing. Clearing his throat, he quickly drops his hand, as well as his gaze.

You remain silent. Mercy seems appropriate—at least this time.

“What’s the catch?”

“None.”

“For now,” he adds for you.

You gift him a small smile. “The house is off-grid. Only one other person knows of its existence.”

His brow lifts. “A house?”

“One of my private residences. If it were only you, I’d have given you something smaller. However, the women in your party deserve a little luxury.”

“The other person?"

"Someone I trust with my life."

Brows pulled together, he asks, "Luxury?"

"Crime empire."

“Crime empire," he repeats with a chuckle.

The joviality between you is comfortable and unexpected. It will become a problem if you don't stop it now.

“What do I owe you?” His eyes flick to your mouth, there and gone, but not fast enough.

“You’ll know when I decide to collect.”

“That sounds ominous.”

“It was supposed to.”

“You practice these lines?”

“Comes standard with the crime boss starter kit.”

This time, his laugh is warm and unrestrained. It catches you off guard. You know that Captain America is a persona he wears for the public, and this isn't the public figure. This is Steve Rogers. This is the man behind the superhero. A man out of time, carrying too much weight on his shoulders and trying to help his friends.

His laughter fades, but neither of you moves to end this clandestine rendezvous. The harbor stretches endlessly before you, and for a moment, you contemplate how easy it would be to slip into the shadowy depths and let the weight you carry be swept away by the fog.

“I should go,” Steve mutters, breaking through your thoughts.

He seems reluctant to actually take action, so you encourage his exit. “You should.”

The broad smile and perfect teeth are infuriatingly stunning. Attraction is dangerous. Personal involvement with a client is deadly.

“Minimal contact is best,” you state, tone back to stern professionalism. "You have my direct line should something arise that needs my attention."

"What if I just want to talk?" His face is unreadable, his tone matching yours.

"Unadvisable."

"Will you visit?"

The hint of hope is fleeting in his eyes, and you bite back a cheeky remark. Instead, asserting, "My time is money, Mr. Rogers. If needed, I will be there, but there will be a cost."

The nonchalant shrug is exasperating. “I’m starting to enjoy being in your debt.” He doesn't turn to leave, but slowly walks backward, eyes hidden beneath the hat's brim.

“Then clearly I’m doing something wrong,” you scoff.

He steps into the dim halo of an overhead post lamp, which highlights that infuriating yet endearing smile. “Not from where I’m standing.” Another step, and the fog engulfs him, leaving you, once again, alone on the wharf.

The purpose of the meeting was to finalize the deal. A place for him and his team to lay low for a yet-to-be-decided favor. Somehow, it feels as if something far more invaluable took place.

His acceptance when you handed him the keys was also an exchange of trust.

Tags: @alexxavicry / @deandreamernp / @deanwinchesterswitch / @fandom-princess-forevermore / @foxyjwls007 /

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My tag lists are open. If you want to join please complete this form. You don’t need a Google account to fill it in. Using the form makes it easier to track.

Master Lists: Word Of The Day- June 2026 // Main

[colereads]

What is it the kids say? Gnawing at the bars of my enclosure?

[princessmisery666]

I’m old - is that a good thing? 🤣

[colereads]

I think...I meant it as a good thing!

[princessmisery666]

Trust - sequel to Good For Business

Summary: A simple exchange is more than it seems.

Warnings/Genres/Troupes: mob boss reader, flirting.

W/C: 948

Word of the day (June 9, 2026) - Wharf

Notes: sequel to Good For Business.

Betas: @deanwinchesterswitch

Graphics: title card design @deanwinchesterswitch 

Master Lists: Word Of The Day- June 2026 // Main

The air is dank. A storm had hit earlier, speeding the last vestiges of light into blackness and leaving behind a humidity that clings like spiderwebbing to the skin. Fog is slowly rolling in, swallowing the reflection of twinkling stars dancing on the water's surface. A cargo ship's horn sounds a mournful note in the distance.

On your orders, the wharf is deserted. The city glitters behind you, alive and restless, but here the world feels quiet…lonely. It's the perfect beginning for a noir-style thriller, ripe with low paranoia and fatalism.

It's why you chose it.

You don't bother to turn when the warped boards announce his arrival. As agreed, he's alone, though you know the rest of his team is nearby. Hidden in the shadows, the same as yours.

“I'm curious,” Steve says as he comes to stand beside you. “This place is pretty out in the open for a meeting spot.”

Murky water laps at the pilings, a soothing background to a tense situation. “Public places are safer.”

“For who?”

Your lips curve, but you don’t give in to it. “I haven’t decided yet.”

That earns a chuckle, and you finally look at him. Dressed in simple dark clothing with a baseball cap pulled low over his face, it's a poor attempt at anonymity for anyone who dared to look close enough.

“You look disappointed.”

Steve leans against the railing beside you, casually, as if meeting a friend. “I was hoping for a more private space.”

“For any particular reason?” you tease.

He grins and doesn’t hesitate to answer, “The company and conversation.”

You'd find that kind of confidence insufferable from anyone else, presumption bordering on arrogance. Instead, his sincerity makes him dangerously charming.

You remind yourself to tread carefully. Emotions beget recklessness. Recklessness leads to mistakes. Mistakes ensure downfall. Before the conversation can wander into precarious territory, you pull a set of keys from your pocket and toss them to him.

“That’s it?”

“That’s it.”

He straightens, stepping closer…much closer than necessary. “No instructions?”

“The gray Honda in the parking lot. The location address is programmed into the GPS. Memorize it, then destroy the GPS before you leave.”

“And the car?”

“Yours.”

The wind whips a lock of hair across your face, and seemingly without thinking, Steve tucks it behind your ear. His finger slowly traces the shell of your ear and along your jaw. It's intentional, but you don't flinch away. The contact lasts a heartbeat too long.

The slight widening of his eyes notes the realization of what he's doing. Clearing his throat, he quickly drops his hand, as well as his gaze.

You remain silent. Mercy seems appropriate—at least this time.

“What’s the catch?”

“None.”

“For now,” he adds for you.

You gift him a small smile. “The house is off-grid. Only one other person knows of its existence.”

His brow lifts. “A house?”

“One of my private residences. If it were only you, I’d have given you something smaller. However, the women in your party deserve a little luxury.”

“The other person?"

"Someone I trust with my life."

Brows pulled together, he asks, "Luxury?"

"Crime empire."

“Crime empire," he repeats with a chuckle.

The joviality between you is comfortable and unexpected. It will become a problem if you don't stop it now.

“What do I owe you?” His eyes flick to your mouth, there and gone, but not fast enough.

“You’ll know when I decide to collect.”

“That sounds ominous.”

“It was supposed to.”

“You practice these lines?”

“Comes standard with the crime boss starter kit.”

This time, his laugh is warm and unrestrained. It catches you off guard. You know that Captain America is a persona he wears for the public, and this isn't the public figure. This is Steve Rogers. This is the man behind the superhero. A man out of time, carrying too much weight on his shoulders and trying to help his friends.

His laughter fades, but neither of you moves to end this clandestine rendezvous. The harbor stretches endlessly before you, and for a moment, you contemplate how easy it would be to slip into the shadowy depths and let the weight you carry be swept away by the fog.

“I should go,” Steve mutters, breaking through your thoughts.

He seems reluctant to actually take action, so you encourage his exit. “You should.”

The broad smile and perfect teeth are infuriatingly stunning. Attraction is dangerous. Personal involvement with a client is deadly.

“Minimal contact is best,” you state, tone back to stern professionalism. "You have my direct line should something arise that needs my attention."

"What if I just want to talk?" His face is unreadable, his tone matching yours.

"Unadvisable."

"Will you visit?"

The hint of hope is fleeting in his eyes, and you bite back a cheeky remark. Instead, asserting, "My time is money, Mr. Rogers. If needed, I will be there, but there will be a cost."

The nonchalant shrug is exasperating. “I’m starting to enjoy being in your debt.” He doesn't turn to leave, but slowly walks backward, eyes hidden beneath the hat's brim.

“Then clearly I’m doing something wrong,” you scoff.

He steps into the dim halo of an overhead post lamp, which highlights that infuriating yet endearing smile. “Not from where I’m standing.” Another step, and the fog engulfs him, leaving you, once again, alone on the wharf.

The purpose of the meeting was to finalize the deal. A place for him and his team to lay low for a yet-to-be-decided favor. Somehow, it feels as if something far more invaluable took place.

His acceptance when you handed him the keys was also an exchange of trust.

Tags: @alexxavicry / @deandreamernp / @deanwinchesterswitch / @fandom-princess-forevermore / @foxyjwls007 /

@imjess-themess / @justagirlinafandomworld / @katbratsupernaturalwhore / @leigh70 / @letsbys-library /

@stoneyggirl2 / @wildbornsiren / @writercole / @xoxabs88xox /

@dempy / @kmc1989 / @figurantedefilme / @biaswreckedbybuckybarnes

My tag lists are open. If you want to join please complete this form. You don’t need a Google account to fill it in. Using the form makes it easier to track.

Master Lists: Word Of The Day- June 2026 // Main

[colereads]

What is it the kids say? Gnawing at the bars of my enclosure?

[princessmisery666]

2 AM

Co-author: @deanwinchesterswitch - as always Kym took what I had and made it what you see here.

Summary: Jake can’t sleep, autopilot takes him to the one place he shouldn’t be.

Warnings/Genres/Troupes: angst, post-break-up.

W/C: 786

Pairing: reader x Jake

Word of the day (May 26, 2026) - Couch

Notes: sequel to I See You.

Song Inspiration: UR HEARTBEAT (WHO DO U THINK ABOUT AT 2AM?) by Jessie Reyez

A/N: Yes it's late but the muses weren't playing ball until now. Plus, I make my own rules! 😂

Graphics: title card design @deanwinchesterswitch 

Master Lists: Word Of The Day // Main

The apartment is quiet. Not peaceful or relaxing, the kind that presses against Jake’s ears until it's a sound all its own.

2:01 a.m.

The glowing numbers on the bedside clock glare back at him.

Rolling onto his back, he drags a hand down his face.

Exhaustion from long days of teaching or training used to allow him the freedom to deflect his thoughts, dragging him into slumber almost as soon as his head hit the pillow. But recently, a shift in the pattern was triggered. Around 2:00 every morning, eyes still closed, he reaches across the bed, searching for the warmth of the body he used to pull close.

When his senses register the cold, empty space next to him, his eyes snap open. Breath hitching, he feels like he's in a freefall. When his pulse begins to slow, fingers tightly curled in the sheets, he exhales an angry breath. He hates that a primitive part of his brain still expects to find you there.

The memory of you curled beneath too many blankets, snuggling into him, hits harder every time. You'd steal his pillow, so he’d end up resting his head on your chest, listening to your heartbeat.

Sleeping on the couch doesn't offer an escape. It only reminds him of the times you'd fall asleep on him watching a movie you insisted you absolutely positively were not going to fall asleep during.

“Damn it.”

Squeezing his eyes closed, he tries to push the memories away, but not even ten minutes later, the silence wins. He throws on some sweats and an old t-shirt, grabs his keys, and slams the door on the way out.

The roads are empty at this hour, and with no destination in mind, he rolls the windows down, letting the cool breeze soothe his heated skin, as he meanders around the town. Not sure how long he's been driving and barely paying attention to traffic signals, he's startled at the next turn to find he's on your street.

Parking across the street from your apartment complex, he lets out a humorless laugh. “You're pathetic, Seresin."

This is ridiculous. He wonders if he's crossed into stalking territory. Yet, instead of leaving, he sits there, staring at the warm glow of lamp light through a tiny crack in the partially drawn curtains.

Most of the other windows are dark. Their occupants are likely asleep, like most normal people would be at this hour. You might be too. He lost track of how many times he would find you asleep with a book draped over your lap, or lying open on the floor where it fell.

He remembers a time when you couldn’t sleep unless he was home. Nestled on the couch, you'd be half asleep, fighting your exhaustion, waiting for him. He'd carefully scoop you up, and you'd curl into his chest with a sigh. It was always the same conversation on the way to the bedroom.

"Why didn't you go to bed?"

"It's too quiet without you. I need to hear your heartbeat."

Maybe that's why he can no longer sleep. He no longer has the comfort of not only your warmth, but the slow, steady rhythm of your heart under his ear when he needs it.

Jake white-knuckles the steering wheel and beats his head against the headrest, trying to dislodge the memory. His next thought only increases his frustration. You might be sleeping better without him and the disappointment he brings.

With a disgruntled huff, he grips the gear shift, but the buzzing of his phone makes him freeze. He dumbfoundedly stares at the notification when he pulls it from his pocket. There's a text message …from you. It's short enough that he doesn't have to unlock his phone.

Can’t sleep?

Heart hammering in his chest, he looks up at the building. Even if he didn't know which apartment you lived in, he would know the familiar silhouette watching him, haloed by light.

He continues staring until another message appears.

You used to have a problem with showing up.

He did, and apparently, now he has a problem with leaving. This isn’t helping either of you, and the last thing he wants is to cause you any more pain. He unlocks his phone, trying to formulate a response, but those three tiny dots appear before he has a chance. So he waits.

You’re a stealth pilot. Sitting with your headlights on is a rookie move, Lieutenant.

The laugh escapes him before he can stop it.

Come upstairs, Jake.

He can practically hear the sigh in the words as the next text drops.

Doors unlocked.

This time, there's no hesitation in responding.

On my way.

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Master Lists: Word Of The Day // Main

[colereads]

OKAY MUCH BETTER. THANK YOU.

[princessmisery666]

It’s progress 💋 and I have ideas 💡

[colereads]

This is the best news ever.

[princessmisery666]

Good For Business

Summary: Steve needs a favor and the last person he should trust is the only person who can help.

Warnings/Genres/Troupes: mob boss reader, flirting.

W/C: 984

Word of the day (June 8, 2026) - Mafia

Notes: Set between Civil War and Infinity War.

Betas: @deanwinchesterswitch

Graphics: title card design @deanwinchesterswitch 

Master Lists: Word Of The Day- June 2026 // Main

Reports filter in every few seconds now. The Falcon and his flying contraption are in the adjacent building, no doubt scanning images through the walls. The Winter Soldier is on the roof of the opposite building, with a clear line of sight despite the rain painting streaks down the floor-to-ceiling windows.

You don’t blame them. They’re being smart. Respectful, even, because they take the threat you pose seriously.

Though not officially closed, patrons and most of the restaurant's staff were made to leave a half hour ago.

Lights cast a warm glow against the dark wood surroundings, and music still plays softly through hidden speakers. A busser remains, moving between tables, clearing up after a busy dinner service. The chef waits in the kitchen for your order.

You're armed, as are the men in your employ located throughout the space. You doubt the need for violence will arise, but it pays to be cautious.

The swish of the door opening announces his arrival, and he patiently allows himself to be patted down before being escorted to your table.

You don’t bother to stand when your guest arrives at your table. Money talks, but wealth whispers, and power, real power, doesn’t grovel for attention.

Steve Rogers. The golden boy. Except these days, the shine has diminished. Exhaustion caresses his demeanor like a second skin—drooped shoulders, dulled blue irises, and the beard that has replaced the clean-cut image plastered across newspapers suggests sleep has become a luxury rather than a necessity. You're surprised he showed up.

Fingers tracing the stem of your wine glass, softly you accuse, “You kept me waiting.”

“Traffic.”

Interesting. The corner of your lips curls upward, but you keep the smile in check. Without hesitation or waiting for permission, he pulls out the chair opposite yours and sits.

Your father would have hated him immediately. You find yourself admiring his confidence.

“You’re staring,” you say.

“I’m observing.”

“That’s a polite way to put it.”

His lip twitches, but as you did, he restrains the gesture. “So is ‘business woman.’”

You softly laugh, “There it is.”

“What?”

“The judgment of my character …my reputation.”

Steve leans back in his chair, seemingly relaxed, as if he's meeting an old friend, but the tension he carries is palpable. “You're the head of the biggest Mafia organization in modern history. I’d assume you’d want a reputation.”

“My father built the empire.” You pause and shrug. “I run it. Reputation follows.”

Steve’s expression shifts, not fear or surprise, more like acceptance. “I heard rumors.”

Now you smile. “So you came to see for yourself.”

Rich amber liquid lightly swirls as you push a glass toward him. He doesn’t immediately reach for it.

“Expecting poison?”

“No.” Eyes briefly flicking between you and the glass, he smoothly replies. “You wouldn't waste good whiskey.”

“True.” You take a sip of your own drink to hide your growing admiration. “So, Mr. Rogers-"

"Steve."

The slight arch of your brow is the only indication of your surprise. "Steve. Why are you here?”

If you were anyone else, his steady gaze would be disconcerting. Instead, you hold that contact as you lean back in your chair.

“Needed to see for myself if the stories were true.”

“What stories?”

He takes his time to respond, leaning forward to rest his arms on the table. The action makes the room feel smaller, more intimate.

“About your intelligence.”

"Exaggerated, I'm sure,” you deadpan, knowing full well they are not.

“Your ruthlessness.”

“Depends on the circumstance.”

“Your beauty.”

The word lands softly, effortlessly, as if he isn't currently sitting in the lion's den while complimenting the lioness.

Rain patters against the window, refracting light from the city below into a glittery haze. The gentle sound fills the momentary weighted silence.

Crossing your arms, you lean forward to rest them on the table. “You flirt with all the crime bosses?”

Steve flashes a devastatingly handsome smile. “Just the beautiful ones.”

It appears to please him when you laugh at his reply. “Careful, Rogers…Steve,” you correct when he raises a brow, “my father used to feed men to the sharks for less.”

“Good thing you’re not your father.”

You will never admit it aloud, but you are entertained by the man. No one seems to understand, except, apparently, the super soldier who's quietly challenging you. Your father ruled through fear. You rule through loyalty. Your father demanded respect. You earn it. Steve neither fears you nor is loyal to you, yet despite going against all he believes in, he respects you.

Standing, you take another sip of wine before moving toward the window. The city, your city, sprawls below your feet. A kingdom built on secrets—a throne made of whispered threats, owed favors, and corrupt deals.

Steve joins you. Not close enough to touch, but near enough to matter.

“You know,” you quietly say, “most people prefer to actively avoid being in debt to me.”

Steve’s gaze drops briefly to your mouth. The movement is quick, barely noticeable yet impossible to miss. “I think I’ll survive,” he states, “besides, I know you're intrigued.”

“Having the infamous Steve Rogers owe me a favor would be good for business.”

Though he outwardly remains stoic, you know he's smart enough to know the consequences of what his request means for him and his teammates. Still, he doesn't hesitate. “We just need a place to lay low.”

“Half the planet is out looking for you. It won’t be easy…or cheap.”

“You seem like you can handle the challenge.”

You give him a calculated, flirty smile. “Alright, Steve, let’s discuss details over dinner.”

The charming smile you receive is slow but certain, making you wonder whether you're dealing with a future ally or a formidable opponent.

For the first time in a very long time, you're uncertain if the most powerful person in the room is actually you.

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Master Lists: Word Of The Day- June 2026 // Main

[colereads]

I need four books, three movies, and a TV series STAT.

[princessmisery666]

Furry Assassin Disaster

Summary: Alpine strikes again.

Warnings/Genres/Troupes: fluff, shenanigans

W/C: 1,061

Word of the day (June 7, 2026) - Thumb

Betas: @deanwinchesterswitch

Graphics: title card design @deanwinchesterswitch 

Master Lists: Word Of The Day- June 2026 // Main

Bucky discovers he has a green thumb by accident.

It started with a handful of houseplants scattered around your apartment. They’d all been gifts from well-meaning friends who apparently believed that the mere act of owning plants would somehow magically teach you how to keep them alive.

The poor things have been hanging on by a thread. Leaves are yellowing, stems drooping, and one particularly dramatic fern looks like it has already accepted death.

After an evening of looking up the types you have and their basic care instructions, he starts with a little extra water for the peace lily, a brighter spot by the window for the jade plant, and a shadier spot for the spider plant. When he notices they're improving, he dives deeper into research.

Within a few weeks, they are all thriving. The fern makes a miraculous recovery, the peace lily is flowering, and the pothos has begun to trail down the table leg. Sitting at your kitchen table, coffee mug in hand, Bucky stares at the lush foliage now decorating your apartment, feeling genuine surprise at his own success.

Then he smiles, and that is the beginning of the end. Because now he has a new hobby.

Which is how you find yourself standing in the gardening section of a hardware store with multiple packets of seeds, three large bags of soil, and a tiny watering can decorated with cartoon bees in the shopping cart.

“You don’t even know what half of those are,” you point out.

“I read the labels.”

“You read one label.”

“I read enough.”

He shrugs like it doesn't matter. You know him well enough now to know that he will be researching for hours when you're not around, and inwardly smile. It makes you happy that the brooding man from a few months ago in the apartment next to yours seems to be happier these days.

“You don't have room for this many pots.”

His mouth curves into a smile. That smile. The one that somehow still catches you off guard when it happens. Warm and charming and just cocky enough to be dangerous.

“No,” he agrees, “but if you’d be so kind as to loan me some of your balcony space, I’ll make you dinner with whatever grows.” The wink is the final blow. He somehow knows you won't refuse him.

“Deal,” you sigh and look away before you do or say something you shouldn’t.

Three weeks later, your balcony looks surprisingly good. There are colorful pots of all sizes scattered about, way more than the original batch that was purchased. Between your space and Bucky's, it looks like a mini botanical garden, filled with vegetables, herbs, and a few flowers for a splash of color. Everything is thriving.

It wasn't as big a jump as you thought it would be to go from house plants to cultivating actual food. Still, you half expected Bucky to lose interest at some point.

Instead, he’s become alarmingly invested. Not only does he bring home stacks of books from the library about urban gardening, but he's also joined online gardening communities. Every morning before breakfast, he diligently checks each plant.

“You need more sunlight.”

The comment drifts through your open balcony door one morning.

You pause halfway through making coffee and call out, “Are you giving advice to a plant?”

“No.”

“You absolutely are.”

“I was just talking to myself.”

You softly laugh at the total lie. It's hard to deny the contentment you feel knowing the hobby brings joy to Bucky, or that you revel in the serenity of sitting on your balcony in the evening, watching the sunset among the lush foliage and heavenly scent of the garden he's created.

It's beautiful and peaceful until the White-furred Assassin Disaster.

You return from the grocery store, arms full of shopping bags, and immediately notice two things. One: the balcony door you'd left closed is now open. Two: dirt everywhere. Not the normal type of dust tracked in from your daily routine, but clumps of dark soil litter your floor and furniture.

“Bucky?”

Silence.

Setting the bags down, you follow the trail outside and find the culprit. Alpine. The now tan-streaked menace is sitting proudly atop a turned-over pot that, up until recently, held flowers.

“Oh no.”

A muffled voice comes from Bucky's balcony. “Don’t laugh.”

Making your way over to where the two spaces nearly meet, you ignore his request and immediately start laughing. Bucky is kneeling, carefully placing an uprooted plant back into its home. He looks as if the empty bag of soil next to him was poured over his head—hair nearly matching the color of the dirt sprinkled in it, streaks of brown litter his jeans, and a tiny leaf is plastered to his cheek. His once white shirt is covered in tiny dark paw prints as if she’d been using him as a climbing frame.

“What happened?”

“I was re-potting the basil,” he sighs, “A butterfly caught her attention, and when she jumped, she landed in the bag of soil.”

“Mm-hhhmmm.” You press your lips together, trying your best to keep the laughter contained while he finishes his explanation.

“She panicked.”

“Reasonable.”

“When she launched herself directly at my face, I tripped, and we both fell. She climbed the railing and then hopped onto your balcony. I came over to get her, and then the butterfly returned,” he sighs heavily, “and honestly, I lost track after that.”

You lose the battle, but still try to maintain control, and end up snorting.

“It wasn’t funny,” he groans, but is fighting his own grin. He points at the tiny terror, “There were claws,” who blinks innocently.

Your shoulders shake.

“I may have screamed.”

You double over.

“She’s a criminal.”

“No jury in the world would convict her.”

“I’m wearing the evidence.”

With a final chuckle, you unnecessarily state, “You both need a bath.”

Alpine, clearly having understood, leaps from the pot and scurries into the apartment, trailing a new line of dirt.

“I want it stated for the record that she’s doing this on purpose.”

From somewhere inside, a crash sounds.

“I’ll take clean-up duty. You get bath duty.”

He stands, and dirt falls from his clothing like raindrops, pattering on the metal flooring.

With a resigned expression, he dramatically huffs, “Take care of my plants when I’m gone.”

Master Lists: Word Of The Day- June 2026 // Main

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[colereads]

Your honor, as Foreman of the jury, we find Alpine not guilty of all accused crimes.

Further more, we find in favor of the defendant for additional treats and cuddles.