I don’t give consent for my work, translated or used in parts to be posted on any other platform, even if I am ‘credited’ for it.
I write:
Angst / Fluff / Smut
Drabbles / One shots / Mini series /Long chaptered fics.
Original Female Characters / Female Reader Inserts
Notes
All fics are completed (unless otherwise stated)
Fics will be on multiple master lists (e.g characters and/or bingo/challenges etc.)
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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.”
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Summary: You rescue Bucky once again.
Author's Notes: Fluff; A teeny bit of hurt/comfort; Collab with @princessmisery666; A sequel to Wet-nosed Houdini
Word Count: 841
Characters: Bucky Barnes; Reader; Alpine
Word of the Day: (May 22, 2026) - Vocal
Graphics: Made by me.
Master Lists: Word Of The Day
The yowl is so loud it makes your heart stop. Although the war has been won, as all residents are allowed one pet under 25 kilograms, Denise will likely put in a noise complaint.
Dropping the pen onto the open notebook, you stand so quickly your chair rolls halfway across the room. Once again, hearing the pitiful, heartbreaking howl of an animal in distress, you rush through your apartment to the door across the hallway.
Not quite pounding on it, you call, “Bucky, open up. It’s me.”
There’s a brief worrying silence, and then he shouts, “It’s open, come in.” Even though it's muffled, you still hear his frustration.
Slowly opening the door, you jam your leg in the gap. Alpine has a habit of running out and causing havoc in the corridors. Bucky has had to repaint three walls because she fancied herself as Spider-Cat.
Checking for flashes of white, you step inside and quickly close the door. “What on earth?” The entrance rug is folded in on itself and shoved against the wall. The vase on the small sideboard lies on its side, wilted flowers dangling over the edge as water trickles to the floor. “Bucky?” you anxiously call.
“In here.”
You assume he's in the kitchen as the clang of metal follows his response. Setting the vase upright as you pass, your eyes widen upon seeing the destruction in the living room. The sofa cushions are askew, and the lamp and books that normally sit on the side table are now strewn across the floor.
Bucky is no longer in the kitchen when you peek in, but a pot lid is still wobbling on the counter, and a decorative pattern of cat food from Alpine's overturned bowl dots the floor. Righting a dining chair, you follow the path of fur, plant soil, and what appears to be pillow feathers, to find Bucky sitting on his bed, head in his hands. A cat carrier and tattered pillow frame his feet. A fresh set of scratches runs from his elbow to wrist, trickling blood.
"Hey."
Exhausted eyes look up at you. "Hey." The single syllable carries irritation and defeat. “Tried a practice run for the vets tomorrow."
The explanation is unnecessary, but you give him a sympathetic smile. “Let me guess, she doesn’t want to go in?”
As if to answer you herself, Alpine bawls from somewhere in the room.
Bucky shakes his head. “She’s being very vocal. Violent about it, too.”
“I heard." Trying to lighten his mood, you tease, "I thought you were murdering her.”
“More like the other way around.” Clearly offended, he twists in place and tilts his head to show you the scratches on his neck.
“Ouch.” You wince. “Come on, let’s get you patched up.”
Bucky sits on the edge of the tub as you swab his injuries with alcohol. They'll heal quickly enough, but after the chaos of the last half hour, it feels nice to have you fussing over him.
You're putting away the first aid kit when the little demon slinks into the room. Of course, Alpine ignores him and winds herself between your feet. Laughing, you scoop her up and turn to face Bucky. Scratching between her ears, you whisper, "You're so adorable."
"More like a traitor," Bucky scoffs as she nuzzles beneath your chin.
With a wink, you head back into the bedroom. "Come on. I have an idea."
Bucky sighs. "I'm not letting you try. I don't want you getting hurt." Though he doubts Alpine would ever attack you.
"Wasn't going to."
Now he's curious, but it turns to confusion when you pull one of his t-shirts from the laundry basket and toss it to him. Purring loudly, Alpine hasn't moved from her position of resting on your shoulder.
"Drape it over your hands. Kind of like a hammock."
The gears click. He knows what you're going to do. With slow, steady steps, you come closer as he follows your instructions. Alpine only wriggles a little when you place her on top of the makeshift sling and then wrap her into a cocoon. Bucky holds her against his chest, and within seconds, she's sound asleep.
"Now what? She has to be in the actual carrier when we go."
Reaching for the tiny pink caddy, you open the small door and hold it up. "Put her in."
"Really?"
"Just take your time."
Bucky feels that his hesitation is warranted considering recent events. All he can picture is his favorite shirt being torn to shreds. Yet your encouraging smile gives him hope. Trying not to pass his nervous tension to the sleeping kitten, he gently places her inside the cage. She doesn't even flinch when you flip the tiny latch to hold the door closed.
"See." Setting the carrier back on the floor, you give him a triumphant smile. "Just wrap her up in something that has your scent. It's comforting and familiar.”
Bucky's so grateful that he doesn't even think before leaning in to kiss your cheek. "Thank you."
I don't have a MCU tag list, so adding a few peeps that I know like Bucky.
Summary: Sometimes your conviction is too heavy to carry alone.
Warnings: A bit of angst
Pairing: Dean Winchester x Female Reader
Word Count: 640
Graphics: By me
Author's Note: Collab with @princessmisery666
Word of the day (May 15, 2026) - Creed // Master List: Word Of The Day
Everything hurts—arms, legs, back, hell, even your fingernails have a heartbeat beneath them.
It went sideways. Fast. It always does lately.
Still shaking with adrenaline, you sit on the edge of the bed, attempting to wrap gauze around your forearm.
The bathroom light buzzes like a dying fly. The A/C splutters every couple of seconds. Still, all you hear are the screams.
Dean paces, each heavy footfall a tiny jolt to your senses. It's doing nothing to lessen his anger. Instead, it's winding him up to the boiling point.
“You wanna tell me what the hell that was back there?”
Not looking up, you expel a breath. “I had to try.”
“Yeah?” He barks a laugh with no humor in it. “You almost got yourself killed.”
It was supposed to be a simple case. A milk run. Then you heard crying from somewhere below and charged in before there was a plan.
His hands fist with your shrug.
“You went in alone.”
“I knew you'd follow.”
“Seriously?” his voice cracks like a gunshot.
Giving up on the bandage, you finally raise your head to take him in. Tired eyes, flannel shredded to the point he'll have to throw it out. Drying blood, your blood, stains his neck and collar from when he half-dragged, half-carried you out. Beneath the anger, there's fear. Visible only in the slight twitch of his lip.
“Hunting things, saving people, the family business,” he bitterly mutters. “What if I couldn't save you?”
Your jaw tightens. “That’s your family creed.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
Pain flashes white-hot through your ribs as you quickly stand, but you ignore it. “It means I’m not leaving people behind!”
“Nobody said that.”
“You did when you pulled me away.”
“Because the damn building was collapsing.”
“There were still people down there!”
“And there would’ve been one more if I hadn’t dragged you out!”
He looks sick at the thought. Silence breathes, furious and contemplative.
Swallowing your own anger, you take a moment to compose your thoughts. “My m …before every hunt, my mom would say, 'Save everyone you can, avenge the ones you can’t'.” Briefly closing your eyes, you heavily sigh. “She believed if somebody died while you stood by doing nothing, their blood stained your hands forever.”
“And what?” Dean shot back. “Yours gets clean if you die trying?”
Ready to fire back, your mind fails to provide the words, and he rages on.
“You run into every hunt like you’ve got something to prove.”
He's right. You've been ignoring the fact that somewhere along the line, you stopped caring if you made it out. “I’m trying to save people," you weakly reply.
He steps closer, voice deceptively calm, but still tight. “You’re trying to punish yourself.”
“That’s not true.”
“I know what it looks like when somebody’s got one foot off the cliff already.”
Feeling too seen under his scrutiny, you drop your gaze.
“You think I don’t get it? You think I don't have the same thoughts?” Voice cracking slightly, features hard, watery eyes seemingly stare into your soul, as he breathes, "If I just bleed enough, hurt enough, maybe it balances the scales.”
“It never balances. It’s never enough," you softly reply.
“No, it’s not, but we fight like hell to save the ones we can."
“It’s not fair.”
“I know.” Rough fingers tentatively caress your uninjured arm. “My entire life has been one long horror movie, watching people die. I can’t... I can’t lose you, too.”
It feels like a gut punch. The words hit too deep. Your chest tightens, squeezing your heart.
The anger is gone. Pain and uncertainty remain, filling the space between you. Dean's hand falls as he turns, but you quickly grab it, moving forward to hold it against your heart.
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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Jake forces himself to finally clean the disaster zone his apartment has become. The place looks like he feels—barely functioning. Flight manuals precariously stacked on chairs, lesson plans strewn across the table, empty coffee cups seem to be breeding on every surface, and a laundry pile that looks about ready to start moving itself to the machine.
The cleaning helps him outrun the silence. Silence is the enemy because it gives him a place to wallow.
Silence reminds him that he can't call to hear your voice. There isn’t an email with venue choices waiting to be answered. No cute little notes taped to the fridge or the smell of his favorite meal cooking because you wanted to surprise him.
Silence reminds him of everything he lost.
Standing in the bedroom, he looks around. The apartment is clean, but it's empty …dreary. No colorful blanket is draped over the end of the bed, the single plant on the kitchen windowsill you left behind is beyond saving, and the bookshelves in the living room are nearly empty. He smiles, thinking about your meticulous organization process for them, but it makes his chest tighten. The traces of your life here may have been erased from the apartment, but his mind recalls them in vivid detail.
He's not ready to deal with it.
Yanking open the closet door to grab his gym bag, a box crashes against his shoulder, contents spilling onto the hardwood as it lands at his feet.
"Shit!" Rubbing his shoulder, he stares down at the mess and shakes his head, choking back a laugh. In his attempt to escape the memory of you, the box he’d packed with the things you'd forgotten physically assaults him.
He had scribbled “STUFF” on it in sloppy, angry writing, shoved it into the closet, and blocked it from his mind.
Crouching, he picks up a bottle of lotion with hair ties in various colors stretched around the bottle, then a paperback with dog-eared corners, a magnet he found while sweeping the kitchen, and several small trinkets. All get shoved back in the cardboard container. Your favorite purple hoodie taunts him from a few inches away, but a glint distracts him as he reaches for it. Resting against the floorboard is a tiny gold hoop.
He stares for a moment, then picks it up and stands. The memory hits him before he has a chance to toss it in with the other items. Flipping it between his fingers, he sinks onto the edge of his bed.
He'd found it tangled in the sheets and had torn apart the room when you realized its match was missing as well. You’d laughed at him the entire time.
“Babe, it’s just an earring, not a search and rescue operation.”
These aren’t forgotten items. These are the proof of the life you tried to live with him.
His eyes land on the hoodie, and before he fully thinks it through, it’s in his hands—a terrible idea because it smells like you.
Jake closes his eyes, “Damn it,” and lies back on the bed with the garment covering his face.
Though you don't feel quite ready, you agree to meet him. Neutral ground of a coffee shop halfway between your new place and base. Ironically, you moved closer but are so much further apart.
He's almost unrecognizable, not different, but tired …defeated. Jake Seresin is always put together, hair perfect, shirt pressed, cocky grin loaded and ready to fire. Today, he looks rough, as if someone had pulled a string to fray the edges.
Forever the gentleman, despite his normally smug armor—or whatever this is—he stands when you approach and waits for you to sit before sitting back down.
“Hey.”
You hate that your heart still squeezes at the sound of his voice. “Hey.”
Silence follows the greeting, like an awkward third party.
Jake eventually clears his throat and gestures to a chair nearby. “I have some of your stuff.”
“Oh, thanks.” You stare at the box, unsure of what else to say.
“The place is pretty empty." He tries to laugh, but it turns to a sigh as he scrubs a hand down his face. "I didn’t realize how much of you was there, and how little of me.”
Not able to meet his gaze, you fumble in your pocket for a moment. “I have something for you, too.” Pulling out the engagement ring, you slide it across the table.
“No.” Jake stares at it and looks like he might be ill.
Suddenly, breathing feels weird, and you want to take it back.
“Jake.”
“No.” When his eyes finally meet yours, panic seems to bloom in their depths. “It's yours. I don't want it back.”
You spent months twisting the ring around your finger while you ate dinner alone. While you slept alone in an empty bed. While you waited for calls. Your throat tightens, deep down, you didn't really want to give it back, but it's the right thing to do.
“You know what kills me?” He's averted his gaze back to the ring. “I kept thinking you left because you stopped loving me.” His jaw tightens. “You didn’t, though, did you.”
It's not a question, and even if it was, you aren't prepared to answer. “Jake.” You don't want to do this anymore. It feels like a jet is sitting on your chest. It hurts.
Jake continues as if you hadn't spoken. “You were building a life for us, a home, and I was too damn busy acting as if we’d always have time.”
It takes a conscious effort not to reach for him. It's exactly what you’d been begging him to understand. You didn't need flowers or promises. You just wanted him to be present. To give input on the small, mundane decisions that help create and sustain a partnership, like what color to paint the walls, choosing a fabric for the curtains, or picking a couch that you both like.
Tears blur your vision. “I wore it because I loved you, Jake. I took it off because I needed to love me too.”
His shoulders sag further, his features shifting into a numbness that's almost tangible, and you blink back tears. Jake cautiously picks up the ring, like he's afraid it might cut him.
Sliding his hand across the table, he stops short midway, fingers curling back. “I don’t know if I missed my shot,” he hoarsely whispers, “but if I did, I need you to know I finally see it. I see you.”
The words cut deep because six months ago, they would have prevented this exact scenario.
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Summary: An offhand remark unites the unlikely team.
Warnings/Genres/Troupes: banter, implied threats of violence/death.
W/C: 727
Characters: Rick Flag, Harley Quinn, Bloodsport, Peacemaker, King Shark, Amanda Waller.
Word of the day (May 23, 2026) - Chuck
Betas: @deanwinchesterswitch
Graphics: title card design @deanwinchesterswitch
Master Lists: Word Of The Day // Main
Mission briefings reminded you of a high school assembly—a special form of psychological warfare. The missions were always a shit show. Run toward danger, take out the target or grab the intelligence, and don’t die in the process. The briefings, however, were the real battlefield.
Task Force X, the self-appointed ‘cool kids’, sat as close to the back of the tiny auditorium as physically possible, as if they were expecting the room to suddenly fill up and force them into assigned seating, when in reality it was only ever them.
The place felt like a morgue. Didn’t smell much better either. The screen at the front of the room glowed with maps and satellite images nobody was paying attention to, because the Suicide Squad collectively possessed the attention span of six caffeinated toddlers locked in a toy store.
Harley sat upside down in her chair, chewing gum and popping bubbles obnoxiously loud. King Shark was eating something out of a paper bag that you wisely decided not to ask about. Peacemaker and Bloodsport were quietly arguing over which one of them had the better kill count.
And at the front of it all stood Amanda Waller, looking perfectly composed and calm as always.
“...failure,” Waller continued, clicking to the next slide, “is not an option.”
Translation: failure means you die. Whether that was from the mission itself or Waller getting bored and pressing the button on her phone, currently clutched in her hand, was mostly a technicality.
You stared at the screen, then at her, then back at the screen. She’d spent the last twenty minutes explaining a mission that involved armed mercenaries, secret underground tunnels, and intelligence that looked like it had been gathered by someone throwing darts at a conspiracy board.
This wasn’t a mission. It was a group project with explosives. You clenched your jaw.
Seated next to you, Rick noticed your tension. He leaned in, fist pressed against the side of his mouth, to hide it from Waller. “She’s not worth it.”
“I didn’t say anything,” you said through clenched teeth.
“Didn’t need to. Your face is saying it for you.”
“How would you know what my face is saying?”
“I pay attention.”
Waller continued, “If any of you deviate from the mission parameters...” She trailed off as she held up her phone.
You felt your blood pressure rise. The threat, the show of power, was ever-present.
“One day somebody’s gonna chuck a chair at her,” you hissed under your breath.
Silence. Then Rick made a strange, almost inaudible choking sound, and his shoulders shook with the effort of restraint. He had mastered the art of not overtly laughing, which somehow made it worse.
It wasn’t funny. Okay, it was. As threats go, a chair was not all that scary.
“You good there, Colonel?” Bloodsport asked.
Rick coughed, “Fine,” sitting up straighter.
Harley’s voice came from directly behind you, “Hypothetically,” closer than she had been a second ago. She’d moved three rows without anyone noticing.
She was leaning between your seats, eyes wide with interest, as if someone had just whispered ‘crime’ three times into a mirror. “Hypothetically,” she repeated, staring way too intently at Amanda. “Are we talkin’ folding chair? Office chair? One of those little metal WWE-lookin’ ones?”
Rick's eyes widened. “No. No Chairs.”
“Hypothetically, though?”
“No hypotheticals.” Rick spat in a whisper.
Harley looked offended. “You’re no fun,” she pouted.
“Yeah, Colonel,” you agreed. “Way to crush creativity.”
“Are we throwing for distance or accuracy?” Bloodsport asked.
“Spin matters,” Peacemaker added.
“You want good aerodynamics.” Harley nodded.
“Why do you know chair aerodynamics?” you asked.
“Why don’t you?”
You bit down on your lip, looking at your desk. Do not look at Rick. Do not make eye contact. If you made eye contact, you were done for.
“Is there a question?” Waller asked.
Nobody moved or breathed.
The world's longest ten seconds passed. Waller made pointed eye contact with each of you in turn, then returned to the irrelevant slideshow.
Rick leaned toward you. “If I die today, I’m haunting you.”
You looked at him, feigning innocence. “You laughed.”
“I hid it.”
You scoffed quietly. “Shoulders don’t lie, Colonel.”
Harley tutted, “Ugh, just kiss already.”
Rick closed his eyes and shook his head. “I hate every single person in this room right now.”
“Aww,” King Shark said, “group bonding.”
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Summary: You rescue Bucky once again.
Author's Notes: Fluff; A teeny bit of hurt/comfort; Collab with @princessmisery666; A sequel to Wet-nosed Houdini
Word Count: 841
Characters: Bucky Barnes; Reader; Alpine
Word of the Day: (May 22, 2026) - Vocal
Graphics: Made by me.
Master Lists: Word Of The Day
The yowl is so loud it makes your heart stop. Although the war has been won, as all residents are allowed one pet under 25 kilograms, Denise will likely put in a noise complaint.
Dropping the pen onto the open notebook, you stand so quickly your chair rolls halfway across the room. Once again, hearing the pitiful, heartbreaking howl of an animal in distress, you rush through your apartment to the door across the hallway.
Not quite pounding on it, you call, “Bucky, open up. It’s me.”
There’s a brief worrying silence, and then he shouts, “It’s open, come in.” Even though it's muffled, you still hear his frustration.
Slowly opening the door, you jam your leg in the gap. Alpine has a habit of running out and causing havoc in the corridors. Bucky has had to repaint three walls because she fancied herself as Spider-Cat.
Checking for flashes of white, you step inside and quickly close the door. “What on earth?” The entrance rug is folded in on itself and shoved against the wall. The vase on the small sideboard lies on its side, wilted flowers dangling over the edge as water trickles to the floor. “Bucky?” you anxiously call.
“In here.”
You assume he's in the kitchen as the clang of metal follows his response. Setting the vase upright as you pass, your eyes widen upon seeing the destruction in the living room. The sofa cushions are askew, and the lamp and books that normally sit on the side table are now strewn across the floor.
Bucky is no longer in the kitchen when you peek in, but a pot lid is still wobbling on the counter, and a decorative pattern of cat food from Alpine's overturned bowl dots the floor. Righting a dining chair, you follow the path of fur, plant soil, and what appears to be pillow feathers, to find Bucky sitting on his bed, head in his hands. A cat carrier and tattered pillow frame his feet. A fresh set of scratches runs from his elbow to wrist, trickling blood.
"Hey."
Exhausted eyes look up at you. "Hey." The single syllable carries irritation and defeat. “Tried a practice run for the vets tomorrow."
The explanation is unnecessary, but you give him a sympathetic smile. “Let me guess, she doesn’t want to go in?”
As if to answer you herself, Alpine bawls from somewhere in the room.
Bucky shakes his head. “She’s being very vocal. Violent about it, too.”
“I heard." Trying to lighten his mood, you tease, "I thought you were murdering her.”
“More like the other way around.” Clearly offended, he twists in place and tilts his head to show you the scratches on his neck.
“Ouch.” You wince. “Come on, let’s get you patched up.”
Bucky sits on the edge of the tub as you swab his injuries with alcohol. They'll heal quickly enough, but after the chaos of the last half hour, it feels nice to have you fussing over him.
You're putting away the first aid kit when the little demon slinks into the room. Of course, Alpine ignores him and winds herself between your feet. Laughing, you scoop her up and turn to face Bucky. Scratching between her ears, you whisper, "You're so adorable."
"More like a traitor," Bucky scoffs as she nuzzles beneath your chin.
With a wink, you head back into the bedroom. "Come on. I have an idea."
Bucky sighs. "I'm not letting you try. I don't want you getting hurt." Though he doubts Alpine would ever attack you.
"Wasn't going to."
Now he's curious, but it turns to confusion when you pull one of his t-shirts from the laundry basket and toss it to him. Purring loudly, Alpine hasn't moved from her position of resting on your shoulder.
"Drape it over your hands. Kind of like a hammock."
The gears click. He knows what you're going to do. With slow, steady steps, you come closer as he follows your instructions. Alpine only wriggles a little when you place her on top of the makeshift sling and then wrap her into a cocoon. Bucky holds her against his chest, and within seconds, she's sound asleep.
"Now what? She has to be in the actual carrier when we go."
Reaching for the tiny pink caddy, you open the small door and hold it up. "Put her in."
"Really?"
"Just take your time."
Bucky feels that his hesitation is warranted considering recent events. All he can picture is his favorite shirt being torn to shreds. Yet your encouraging smile gives him hope. Trying not to pass his nervous tension to the sleeping kitten, he gently places her inside the cage. She doesn't even flinch when you flip the tiny latch to hold the door closed.
"See." Setting the carrier back on the floor, you give him a triumphant smile. "Just wrap her up in something that has your scent. It's comforting and familiar.”
Bucky's so grateful that he doesn't even think before leaning in to kiss your cheek. "Thank you."
I don't have a MCU tag list, so adding a few peeps that I know like Bucky.
Summary: Nothing is ever easy with Task Force X, you should have known better.
Warnings/Genres/Troupes: peril, danger, canon type situation. W/C: 538. Pairing: None.
Word of the day (May 21, 2026) - Agree
Betas: @deanwinchesterswitch
Graphics: title card design @deanwinchesterswitch
Master Lists: Word Of The Day // Main
Amanda Waller had said it was a simple “Reconnaissance mission.” Surveillance. Observation from a safe distance. Harmless spy work with a fancy title.
The term 'simple' should have been enough of a warning, because nothing is ever simple when it involves Task Force X.
‘Easy’ was the word Rick used. “An easy recon mission.”
Apparently, you are surrounded by liars.
The two of you are currently crouched behind a crumbling stone wall near an abandoned warehouse. “I still don’t understand why I had to come,” you hiss.
The place is like something out of a post-apocalyptic nightmare. Rusted metal beams jut into the dark sky like fingers reaching for the heavens, to escape the hell within. The room you just escaped from was grimy with dust and substances you really don't want to think about, covering every surface. It was thick enough to write your last will and testament in, and the way things were going, you might need to.
Rick spares a glance at you, “Because you’re good at recon,” then picks a chunk of something off your cheek.
“Mm.”
“And you wanted more field experience.”
Narrowing your eyes, you chastise, “That sounds suspiciously like you’re using my own words against me.”
His mouth twitches. “I would never.”
He loses the battle with the smile as you continue to stare him down. The audacity is breathtaking. You’ve known Rick long enough to recognize the signs. The way his features subtly shift—the almost smile, eyes creasing slightly at the corners, the lower pitch of his voice— when he knows he's winning an argument.
“Don’t look smug.”
“I’m not.”
“You are. Your face is doing a thing.”
“My face is not doing anything.”
His face is absolutely doing a thing, but before you can continue your very reasonable argument, Harley’s voice comes through the comms.
“Soooo.” She pauses. “Tiny issue.”
Rick's sigh is immediate, chin hitting his chest, as his head drops with a shake. “Here we go.” This man, who has lived through several wars, dealt with loss and destruction, and suffers through countless battles with Waller, finds Harley Quinn more stressful and exhausting than anything he's ever been put through. “What did you do?”
“I may have pushed a button.”
A brief moment of dead silence, and then Rick tilts his head back with a groan. “Harley...”
“In my defense, it was a very pushable button.”
Seconds later, a cacophony of dissonance fills the night, like an orchestra without a conductor. Sirens scream, metal doors screech, voices shout commands, truck engines roar to life, all against the backdrop of flashing red lights and bright white search beams.
Rick taps your arm and tilts his head to indicate direction.
“No!" you growl.
“No?” he huffs back.
Rick's expression morphs to the same one he uses when dealing with Harley, and it stings a bit. “I didn’t agree to this.”
He's done talking. "You did," he gruffly states, as he secures his gun, preparing to stand.
“I agreed to recon.” Gunfire erupts on your left. “I agreed to observe. To binoculars and note-taking!"
Rick grabs your arm and pulls you up with him, commanding, “MOVE!”
Covering his back, you angrily shout, “I DID NOT AGREE TO THIS!”
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Summary: The danger has passed but emotions are still running high.
Warnings/Genres/Troupes: bit of angst, bit of fluff. W/C: 845 Pairing: Bradley x Reader.
Word of the day (May 20, 2026) - Wreck
Notes: Follow on from Chaos In The Clouds
Betas: @deanwinchesterswitch
Graphics: title card design @deanwinchesterswitch
Master Lists: Word Of The Day // Main
Despite the personal relationship with Rooster, you have to remain calm and confident and finish your job. Assessments have to be taken, reports have to be written and filed, and now there is an unscheduled meeting to attend.
Emotions will have to wait. Besides, you aren't sure whether you want to slap Bradley upside the head or kiss him stupid for scaring you like that. Either way, it's probably best to delay seeing him. A full-fledged breakdown in front of the team and your commanding officers would not be professional.
As soon as you're dismissed from the meeting, you head straight for your office. Leaning against the closed door, your carefully crafted composure finally drops. Body trembling, you breathe deeply to keep from hyperventilating. When your wobbly legs allow, you grab your keys from your drawer and speed-walk to your car.
The pilots had been released hours ago, so you know they are at the Hard Deck by now. After narrowly missing being involved in a car wreck, you make it safely into the parking lot, the car bouncing as you slam it into park.
Upon entering, your eyes immediately zone in on the pool table area. It's where they always gravitate to. Relief is expelled on a deep sigh at seeing them all together, smiling and joking like any other ordinary day. Only, this hadn't been an ordinary day, and you are still feeling the aftershocks.
Fanboy spots you first. “Here comes the lady of the hour,” he calls.
With a tight smile, you tease, “Sucking up will not earn you more points, Fanboy.”
Catching Bradley's eye and seeing the firm set of his brow despite the smile, emotions begin to surge. Apparently sensing the rising tension in you, he broadens his smile and proudly quips, "I deserve extra points for style.”
“Negative, Rooster,” Hangman says, pocketing a ball on the table. “I think you lose points for almost becoming a cautionary tale.”
Of course, the teasing doesn’t stop. The worry they all carried released in their taunting jabs. Silently, you agree with Hangman, though you’d never say it aloud.
Rooster rolls his eyes, then focuses back on you, still getting one last taunt in. “Jealousy doesn’t look good on you, Hangman.” He gives you a subtle nod toward the back door.
“Someone’s still high on surviving,” you tease, trying to sound amused.
Hangman smirks. “He’s been insufferable for three hours.”
“Three?” you ask, moving toward the back door.
Fanboy snorts into his drink. “Three hours, twelve minutes,”
“And seventeen seconds,” Phoenix adds as if they’d rehearsed it.
Holding the door open for you, Rooster points at her. “Nobody asked you.”
The evening air outside is cool, and you welcome the crisp ocean breeze and the soft sounds of waves rolling onto shore—a backdrop to the now muffled laughter spilling from inside. It's a little surreal. Life would have carried on even if today had turned out differently.
Bradley is here, flesh and blood. You could reach out and touch him, gaze into those soulful eyes, but you don't. Those terrifying moments are playing on a loop in your mind, churning up all the 'what ifs'.
Sliding up next to you, he shoves his hands in his pockets. “So,” he says carefully.
“So.”
A beat passes.
“You mad?” The incredulous look you give him makes him bob his head. “Right. Stupid question.”
“Affirmative,” you huff, crossing your arms over your chest.
“Oh crap," he stands up straighter, "you’re using the voice.”
“What voice?”
“That voice.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
Except you do. It’s not his fault, but seeing him drinking and laughing with the team after struggling through the rest of the day with the weight of what could have been is overwhelming. He’s had hours to process it, move past the fear, and get to the point of being able to joke about it. While you've had the same amount of time, you've had to hold it in, stay disciplined, and stoic.
Walking to the rail, you wrap your fingers around it and squeeze until it hurts.
“Babe?”
“Lieutenant Bradshaw.”
He’s at your side immediately. “Lieutenant Bradshaw?” he repeats.
You nod, completely serious. “Do you have any idea how much paperwork I had to do because you decided to audition for Survivor: Naval Edition?”
“I didn’t...”
You poke a finger into his chest. “I’m not done!” Pressing his mouth closed, he stands nearly at attention. “You disappeared. You went quiet. Hangman could see you, and then...” You jab him again. “You said I love you, and then you were gone. I thought...” Your throat closes around the rest because you can’t say it.
You feel the tears well, and take a deep breath to try to find some control.
“You gave me a heart attack.”
“I know.”
Bradley holds out his arms, and you finally surrender, falling into his chest, letting him hold you until the tears stop.
Master Lists: Word Of The Day // Main
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Summary: A joke-filled training session takes an unforeseen turn.
Warnings/Genres/Troupes: bit of angst, bit of fluff. W/C: Pairing: Bradley x Reader.
Word of the day (May 19, 2026) - Dusty
Betas: @deanwinchesterswitch
Graphics: title card design @deanwinchesterswitch
Master Lists: Word Of The Day // Main
The Pilots are in rare form today. As usual, routine training exercises have turned into unofficial competitions, and today is no different.
You’re in the control room, headset on, eyes moving between monitors and the long runway outside the tower window where fighter jets scream into the sky and descend back to earth. It’s easy laughter and endless trash talk from a group of people who trust each other enough to be relentless.
Fanboy set the challenge. Hangman set the record. Phoenix beat it minutes later. It’s somewhat controlled chaos, but of course, you have to play referee.
“Phoenix, you’re cheating.” Rooster jests over comms.
Phoenix cuts in instantly. “How exactly am I cheating, Rooster?”
“I don’t know yet, but give me time.”
You smile, pressing a button on your console, and taunt, “Are you questioning my integrity, Lieutenant Bradshaw?”
“Yeah, Rooster,” Fanboy joins the melee. “Are you questioning your lady’s integrity?”
“Bradshaw,” Hangman drawls, his voice carrying that infuriating grin you can practically hear through the radio. “You being slow doesn’t mean the rest of us are cheating.”
You roll your eyes. Like a shark sensing blood in the water, Hangman is always waiting for opportunities to antagonize Rooster.
“I’m sorry,” Rooster fires back, “didn’t Phoenix just leave your ass in the dust?”
“Okay,” You interrupt before it turns into the predictable back-and-forth bickering. “Let's lock in pilots.”
They descend into kindergarten warfare, but they listen to the instructions they are given. Phoenix beats her own record, and then it all goes south.
“Control to all aircraft. Weather pattern change.” Petty Officer Parker’s voice suddenly cuts through.
What? It was clear seconds ago.
You stand up, looking for the issue. Your stomach drops. On the horizon, closer than it should be, moving with terrifying speed, is a dust cloud that temporarily blots out the sun.
One by one, the pilots report in, Phoenix and Bob, Fanboy and Paycheck are directed to return and land. Hangman reports he’s behind the cloud, following it in.
Shit.
“Control,” Hangman says. “You have approximately three minutes before you’ll be blind.”
“Rooster.” You whisper-shout into your mic. He’s the only one who has not checked in. “Rooster.”
Nothing. In the stillness, it feels as if everyone is collectively holding their breath.
Inhaling sharply, you shake your hands out to dispel some of the anxiety as you watch Phoenix land. “Does anyone have a visual on Lieutenant Bradshaw?”
“I got him," Hangman calmly relays. "I can see his tail. He's …” The pause feels like a lifetime in a situation where seconds count. “It's gone.” This time, there's a bit of reticence in his tone.
A lump clogs your throat. It’s not your job to keep an eye on the weather, but it’s something you find yourself doing regardless, because Rooster's a pilot. Because somewhere along the line, weather patterns, wind shifts, and cloud formations stopped being data on a screen and became something that could take him away from you.
Except today.
Today you’d been distracted, mind up in the clouds with him. This morning, Bradley stood in your kitchen, sunlight spilling over him while he stole your coffee and smiled at you over the rim of your mug. He’d looked at you with soft eyes and sleep-rustled hair and said the three words you didn't expect to hear.
I love you.
The universe feels cruel enough to make it the first and last time.
NO!
Slamming your finger onto the microphone button, you try again. “Control to Lieutenant Bradshaw. Report.”
The sand-filled gust hits the tower, and the sunlight vanishes. Glass rattles as dusty debris scrapes against the windows.
It’s over as quickly as it started, and as he said, Hangman has followed it in. From your position, it looks as if the nose of his jet is nudging it forward. It wouldn’t surprise you, he likes to flirt with danger.
Silence fills the room as the storm moves beyond the field. Seconds tick by—a minute passes. When your legs refuse to hold upright, you collapse into your chair.
Then comes a triumphant, “Woohoo.”
He made it!
His laugh, loud and breathless, has everyone cheering. Still, beneath it, you hear the tiny tremor in his voice. “Holy shit, that was close.”
There's still no visible sign of him, though. “Rooster. Location.” You need to see him to believe your brain isn’t playing tricks.
“I’m righhhhhhhhht here!” he shouts, a split second before buzzing the tower.
A deafening roar, and everyone ducks as the building shakes. Someone yells, someone else curses. Laughter erupts.
Opening the comms, you smile as Rooster's jet circles back to land. “Phoenix, he just beat your record.”
Master Lists: Word Of The Day // Main
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Icy cold rain pelts the pavement, stinging where it hits his face. The brown paper bag of groceries is nearly soaked through. He's certain it will crumble to nothing at any moment.
Bucky picks up his pace to nearly a sprint. As he passes the alley beside his building, he's assaulted by the smell of garbage, made worse by dampness.
Just a few steps from the entrance and warmth, the storm worsens, sending a torrent of water and wind down on him. He barely catches the small, pitiful cry that pulls him to a stop.
The tiny mewl happens again, and he abandons all thoughts of quickly escaping the weather and turns back to the alleyway.
Eyes scanning, he focuses his hearing, waiting for a sound to give him direction. Turning at the angry cry, as if it were shouting at the falling sky, Bucky spots the bedraggled white kitten.
“Hey, little guy,” he coos.
Distracted from the pointless war with the weather, the feline presses tighter against the wall, eyeing him suspiciously, before rushing toward him. Bucky squats and scoops her up just as the cat reaches his feet.
“What are you doing out here?” he asks, holding her up to his eye level. “Oh, little lady, I apologize.”
Shuffling the grocery bag, he tucks her under his jacket and hurries into the safety of the building.
Apparently, having been there a while, the kitten smells like a landfill, so Bucky bathes her. The scratches on his arm from her distaste for the process are worth it to see the fluffy white furball she becomes.
After setting her on his bed, he finally changes out of his wet clothes. She yowls the entire time. He keeps his voice low as he speaks, trying to calm her, but she persists until he picks her up again.
"I’m not keeping her," he mutters for the hundredth time. Still, he wraps her in a kitchen towel and carries the tiny cat burrito to the living room.
“Okay, that’s better,” Bucky says, dropping to sit on the couch. As he lightly strokes between her ears, the little fluff ball begins to purr. The bath time betrayal apparently forgiven. “Now we’re both dry and warm.”
Her eyes begin to droop as if she’s fighting sleep.
“It’s okay,” he soothes, “You can sleep, you’re safe now.”
Almost immediately, her eyes completely close, as if all she needed was his reassurance.
“Oh crap,” he sighs. “I’m keeping you, aren’t I?”
A knock at the front door startles him, and he freezes, making sure he hasn’t disturbed the tiny creature. But she’s too warm and content to notice.
Gently placing her in the corner, behind a cushion so that she won’t roll off.
A groan escapes as he looks through the peephole and sees Denise Livingston, the president of the HOA, and his downstairs neighbor.
“Miss Livingston,” he says, pulling the door open.
Forgoing a greeting, Denise snaps, “Do you have a cat in there?”
“No,” he answers immediately.
“I heard something screeching.”
“Television.”
“Where did you get those scratches?”
“Uhm, not that it's any of your business, but I was helping a friend with landscaping.”
Eyes narrowed, she tiptoes to look over his shoulder. “The bylaws prohibit pets, Mr. Barnes.”
“I know,” he says.
“Breaking the bylaws is cause for eviction.”
“I know,” he smiles, wide, too wide. “Good night, Miss Livingston.”
He slowly closes the door, giving a little wave.
Leaning against the closed door, he whispers, “Shit.”
Bucky has been smuggling cat supplies into his apartment like contraband for almost a week.
The former assassin who fought aliens and survived Hydra is now being psychologically outmaneuvered by something the size of a sock and Denise Livingston, first of her name, protector of the Bylaws!
Alpine is six pounds of mischief, chaos, and affection.
It’s the first time, in a long time, Bucky has found himself laughing out loud at anything. The fiesty attacks on his shoelaces, the dramatic sideways hop before pouncing, the way she insists on supervising every single thing he does like a tiny, furry chaperone, elicit warm, comforting emotions he thought he'd never feel again.
Until the one time it isn’t funny anymore.
Two minutes. Maximum.
Two minutes while he was in the bathroom, and now she’s gone.
Silence. No purring, no patter of tiny feet. No suspicious rustling. No tiny white butt sticking out from beneath furniture before she launches herself at his ankles.
The kitchen is empty. He checks the fridge, just in case, because panic apparently destroys his critical thinking. Under his bed. The closet. In his boots by the front door.
She’s gone.
“Okay, Alpine,” he tries for stern but lands somewhere closer to desperate. “Not funny.”
He throws the cushions off the sofa, more frantic with each one.
“Alpine.”
The only answer he gets is a quick succession of three knocks on his door. It almost sounds conspiratorial.
Bucky freezes.
Denise.
Fuck. Denise finally found the cat, and now he’s going to be evicted because of a wet-nosed Houdini.
He opens the door cautiously, already preparing a lie, only to find you standing there in sweatpants and an oversized hoodie.
“Hey,” he says warily.
You reach into the front pocket of your hoodie and pull out Alpine like a magician revealing the world's fluffiest rabbit. “I think this belongs to you,” you whisper.
Relief floods through him a second before the panic replaces it. “I can explain.”
“It’s a cat, not a body,” you chuckle.
Alpine chirps happily at the sound of his voice and immediately stretches toward him.
“She came through the vents, heard her cry because she couldn’t get out my side.”
“Right, yeah, sorry.” He takes Alpine carefully, like she’s made of glass. “She’s apparently committed to ruining my life.”
You grin. “If all the laughter I’ve been hearing is you, I don’t believe that for a second.” You reach out and scratch under the cat's chin.
You hear it at the same time, the ping of the elevator arriving. You exchange the same look of immediate horror.
Bucky shoves Alpine toward you on instinct. You shove the cat back. Alpine mewls.
“Help me hide her,” he panics.
“In my hood, quick.”
You spin around, and Bucky carefully settles Alpine against the back of your neck, pulling your hood up over your head, as he tucks in her tail.
“What if she moves?” he whispers.
“She won’t, she’s already snuggled up.”
“She likes you.”
Denise turns the corner, and without thinking, Bucky grabs your wrist and pulls you into his apartment, positioning himself between you and the doorway as Denise marches over.
“I heard it again,” Denise complains.
Neither of you responds.
Denise elaborates. “I heard crying through the vents.”
“Sorry,” you say quickly. “That was me.”
Denise squints. “You were crying through the vents?”
“We were playing a game,” Bucky adds.
Denise’s eyes narrow further, features full of disbelief. So you fully commit. “A sex game.”
Denise goes scarlet.
Bucky cough-laughs into his fist so hard his whole body shakes.
You smile brightly. “Very immersive.”
Denise looks moments away from passing out. “Well,” she splutters, clutching her necklace. “Keep it down.”
“Let me guess,” you mock, “there are Bylaws about that?”
She nods once, “Indeed,” before turning and speed-walking back toward the elevators.
Bucky slowly closes the door. The second the latch clicks, you both burst out laughing.
Alpine pokes her tiny head out of your hood at the commotion.
Bucky points accusingly at her. “You are a menace.”
The kitten blinks at him innocently.
“Okay,” you say, reaching up and stroking the kitten. “We need to find a way around this stupid bylaw.”
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Summary: The decision has been made, and Jake is helpless to stop it.
Warnings/Genres/Troupes: angst, break-up. W/C: 900. Pairing: Jake x Reader (you - no descriptions of body type or ethnicity).
Word of the day (May 16, 2026) - Mover
Betas: @deanwinchesterswitch
Graphics: title card design @deanwinchesterswitch // image from fancaps.net
Master Lists: Word Of The Day // Main
Jake almost trips over the box labeled BOOKS in thick black marker sitting by the open front door of your shared apartment.
He stares at it from the hallway for a second too long, grocery bag hanging from his hand, duffel slung over his shoulder. Somewhere outside, a car alarm chirps into the afternoon heat, almost like a warning.
Deeper into the apartment, something scrapes across the hardwood. Another box slides into view, this one says KITCHEN.
Jake’s stomach drops clear through the floor. For a second, his brain tries to invent another explanation—spring cleaning, donations, you're reorganizing.
Then he sees the movers. Wearing shirts with the same logo as the van he passed outside. Big guys in matching black shirts carrying your dining chairs out like pallbearers.
One of them gives Jake an awkward nod on the way past.
“Careful with that one,” he hears you call from inside. “The leg’s loose.”
You sound calm, steady, maybe a little excited. Somehow that's worse. He reluctantly moves forward, dodging boxes, pulse hitching with each step like walking through the aftermath of a crash site.
Faded shapes dot the walls where pictures and decor once hung. The refrigerator's surface is bare. No longer cluttered with Polaroids and old notes suspended by kitschy magnets. Cabinet doors stand open, hollow like spent missile shells, void of the very thing that gave them purpose.
In the middle of it all, you're bent over a box, smiling, his old Naval Academy shirt hanging loose on your shoulders. Tape dispenser in your hand like a gun, shooting directly into his chest at the screech of sealing boxes.
“Hey.”
Hey. As if he’d just come from work to find you reading your favorite book, like there wasn’t a man currently carrying your life down three flights of stairs.
Jake drops his duffel to the floor and cautiously sets the groceries down on the counter—bread, beer, the coffee creamer you like—ordinary things.
“What’s all this?”
The question comes out rougher than intended. The way you delay a response, securing the tape with the heel of your hand, tightens his chest.
Still not looking at him, you move to seal another box, then finally reply, “You know what this is.”
Jake laughs once under his breath. Short. Disbelieving.
“No. I don’t.”
You lay the tape gun on top of the box and finally turn your attention to him. He wishes you hadn't. There’s something devastating in the fact that you don’t seem angry or upset. You look tired.
“I took the job, Jake. I signed a lease three weeks ago.”
Three weeks. How had he not known? Because, of course, he didn’t know. He’d been gone more than he’d been home. Training, deployments, he’d accepted a teaching job too.
“You could’ve said something.”
Your eyebrows lift slightly. “I did.”
He remembers now. Every “Not now, baby.” “I’m sorry, baby.” Every promise to talk later that dissolved into another deployment schedule or another night when Jake pretended he didn’t see the distance growing between you.
“You decided to do this while I was away?”
“You’re always away lately.”
“You knew I was coming back today.”
You shrug. No yelling or theatrics. It's worse than if there were screaming. “The last seven times, seven, you said were coming home, you called to say something else had come up. A day turns into a week, a week into a month.”
He looks around the apartment again, really looks this time. He doesn’t recognize the coffee table beside the armchair where you like to read or the lamp atop it. How long had that been there? How long had it been since he’d been home?
The empty bookshelf. The missing pictures. The absence of you is everywhere because he’d never lived here, not really.
A slow horror starts crawling across his skin. This isn’t impulsive. This isn’t a fight.
Another mover shuffles through the scene, carrying more boxes. He wants to yell at them to stop, for everyone just to stop and give him a damn minute, but he knows it's futile.
You’re already gone.
“So this is it? You’re not even gonna fight for us?”
You shake your head, looking up at the ceiling, and he knows you're fighting back tears. “That’s just it, I have been. I’ve been fighting so damn hard, but I can’t keep begging you to notice me, to put us first, just once.” Sighing, you angrily swipe at the falling tears. “I’m tired, Jake. I’m done.”
It's not the leaving, or the boxes, not even the tears, it's the exhausted sigh, because he’s never seen or heard that before.
Jake crosses the room before fully thinking. “You want me to notice you?” he says, voice sharp with panic. “Baby, I see you. I’m here.”
“No,” you whisper. “That’s the problem, you’re always halfway out the door even when you are here." Holding up your left hand, you look him square in the eye. "You put this on my finger, but you’re always too busy to take the next step. I’ve tried...” Your voice shakes. “I passed up two promotions to be here with you. I’ve put my life on hold for you, for us. I can’t anymore.”
Jake stares at your hand while the truth swirls in the air along with the dust motes.
He loves you. Everyone knows that. Hell, you know that. But love unattended starts to warp and rust, like an unkept engine. Until it finally breaks beyond repair.
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Summary: Confidence begins to waver under the desire to please.
Warnings/Genres/Troupes: fluff, implied smut. W/C: 775. Pairing: Bradley x fem!Reader (you - no descriptions of body type or ethnicity).
Word of the day (May 14, 2026) - Waver
Betas: @deanwinchesterswitch
Graphics: title card design @deanwinchesterswitch
Master Lists: Word Of The Day // Main
Frankly, there should be laws. Laws against a man looking like that in the morning.
The sun spills through the kitchen blinds in warm golden stripes, catching on the broad line of Bradley’s shoulders, the faded gray Navy tee stretched across his back, bare feet planted on your kitchen tiles like he’s lived here for years instead of spending the night for the first time.
One night. One spectacular, sleep-lost, heartbeat-stealing night.
And now the man who can land a fighter jet on a moving aircraft carrier is standing at your counter, absolutely losing a war with a slice of sourdough.
You lean on the doorframe, arms folded. “Need me to call in reinforcements?”
He glances over his shoulder, hair sleep-ruffled, mouth still swollen from kissing you senseless hours ago.
Your knees file for resignation, but you shake it off by taking a step forward.
“I’m fine,” he says.
The bread springs out of the toaster, startling him enough that he nearly drops the knife.
You snort.
He points the butter knife at you, smiling. “Don’t.”
“Oh, I’m going to, you’re being beaten by breakfast.”
He turns back to the counter with the grave focus of a man defusing a bomb. His hands, tanned and capable enough to make your skin remember things instantly by just watching him work, drag the butter across the toast in uneven trenches.
And there it is again. That tiny shake. That little waver in his hands.
Barely noticeable if you hadn’t watched those same hands confidently guide steel through the clouds, gentle at your waist, reverent against your skin in the dark.
“Bradley.” You step close.
“Mm?”
“You’re nervous.”
It happens again, the slight shake of his hands.
“I am not.”
“Your hands are shaking.”
He tries for casual, but it falls short. “That is slander.”
“You’re buttering toast like you’d waterboard Hangman for pissing you off.”
You move beside him, hip brushing his. He stills immediately.
The great Bradley ‘Rooster’ Bradshaw, king of easy smiles and laid-back confidence, is suddenly very interested in the countertop again.
You soften. “Why are you nervous?”
He exhales once through his nose. “Because.”
His pause is too long. “Compelling answer.”
“Because,” he says again, quieter this time, “I really like you.” He keeps talking, eyes glued to the knife in his hand. “And I know I’m supposed to be cool and casual this morning, maybe even charming or say something funny.” He sets the knife down. “Instead, I’m in your kitchen with my hands shaking over dairy products.”
You stare at him. Then you laugh, not at him, but from the sheer unbearable sweetness of it all.
His head drops. “And now she’s laughing.”
“I’m sorry,” you say. “You’re just unbearably sweet, and I don’t want to mess this up, so now I’m nervous.”
His head lifts at that, surprise chasing the embarrassment off his face.
“You?”
You huff a laugh and step between him and the counter. “Yes, me. Shocking development, I know.”
A smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. He’s trying to fight it, but it's slow and warm and dangerous to your ability to think straight.
“I thought you were the calm one.”
“I was, right up until I saw you standing in my kitchen looking like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like a problem.”
That earns you a real grin, the confident, bright enough to rival the morning sun smile. “A problem?” he asks, sounding a little too proud.
“A serious one.”
He steps closer, crowding into your space until your back presses into the counter behind you. His hands settle at your waist, no waver remaining in his touch. “Good,” he mumbles. “I’d hate to be the only one having a crisis before coffee.”
He dips his head, nose brushing yours, giving you every chance to pull away, but you don’t. This kiss is different than the ones in the dark.
Last night had been heat and hunger, months of stolen glances snapping under pressure. This is slower, softer, the kind of kiss that says this isn’t fleeting, this is the real deal.
He makes that sound again, the same rough one from last night that ruined you as he moves from your mouth to your neck.
The toaster pops a second slice into the air, and you both jolt.
Bradley groans into your shoulder. “I hate that thing.”
“You’ve flown combat missions, and you're letting breakfast defeat you.”
“Worth it,” he says, lifting you onto the counter before kissing you again.
His hands are steady now, roaming and exploring again.
The toast goes cold. The coffee never gets poured. Neither of you is troubled by it.
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Summary: Jake's concern grows with each tick of the minute hand.
Warnings/Genres/Troupes: angst, language. W/C: 245. Pairing: Jake x fem!Reader (you - no descriptions of body type or ethnicity).
Word of the day (May 12, 2026) - Clock.
Betas: @deanwinchesterswitch
Graphics: @deanwinchesterswitch // image in title card taken from Top Gun Instagram.
Master Lists: Word Of The Day // Main
The clock ticked over, carving away another hour.
That made three.
Three brutal, excruciatingly long hours with no news.
No news is good news.
So they say.
Whoever they were had clearly never had to watch you eject at four thousand feet with an engine on fire. Jake had seen the chute deploy. He knew Search and Rescue were out doing their job. None of it did a damn thing to calm his accelerating heart rate.
He’d been grounded, ordered back to base to wait.
“But I saw where she went down, I know the exact spot!” Jake argued with Admiral Simpson earlier. With his growing frustration, he almost forgot to add the “Sir.”
“And you relayed that information accurately to Search and Rescue, Lieutenant. They will find her, and they will bring her back.”
Another minute ticked by, and Jake made his decision. To hell with Search and Rescue. He’d find you himself.
“Hangman,” Phoenix warned as he pushed off the couch.
Ignoring her, he sidestepped the foosball table just as the common room door swung open.
Cheek bruised, scratches streaking your arm, one knee of your pants torn and bloody, you limped through the entrance.
Seeing Jake, muscles taut, and features set in a mix of anger and worry as he stared you down, you gave him a cheeky wink and a smile. "Did you miss me?"
“Fuck,” he breathed, folding at the waist, hands on his knees, and chin tucked.
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Warnings/Genres/Troupes: fluff. W/C: 500. Pairing: Dean x fem!Reader (you - no descriptions of body type or ethnicity).
Word of the day (May 11, 2026) - Newly.
Betas: @deanwinchesterswitch
Graphics: title card + dividers @deanwinchesterswitch
Master Lists: Word Of The Day // Main
“I’m ready, Sam,” you state, walking into the library.
“Where you going?” Dean interjects before Sam can reply.
“We’re running into town,” Sam explains, “the next book in the series I’m reading has been released.”
“And I have some packages to collect.”
Dean’s brow raises high. “Another package? Your Amazon habit is getting out of hand.”
“Hey,” you pout, “everything I buy is practical.”
“Except the Highland Cow plushie dressed as a hot dog.”
“Don’t act like you don’t love him too, Winchester.” Narrowing your eyes, you tease, “I’ve seen you smiling at him!”
“I’m not smiling at him. I’m smiling at you, smiling at him.”
Sam loudly claps, putting a stop to the game of back and forth before it escalates. “Okay, let’s go.”
Dean grumbles at your newly purchased car accessory. “You are not putting that thing in Baby!”
Pouting, you stare at the box containing a sleek black car caddy. You specifically chose black over the bright purple one you really wanted, hoping he might be more willing to install it. It makes perfect sense for you to have one. There are holders for pens, a book, your travel mug, and your phone. Plus a tray that folds down to hold your laptop. Sure, it will stick out a little bit, even when folded closed, and maybe it's a bit ugly, but it's practical, and you need it.
“Come on,” you plead. “I’m almost always relegated to the back, and I get neck cramps trying to read with a book on the seat and juggling my computer in my lap. I don’t have anywhere to put my things, so they don't roll all over the place. It's a matter of health and safety.”
“No.”
“So you don't care about my health or the possibility of one of us being knocked out by a flying thermos of coffee?” Yes, it's an exaggeration. No, you don't care that it's never happened.
“No." Noting your shocked expression, he tries to correct. "I mean, yes, I care about your health, but nothing defiles Baby. I’m not letting some cheap plastic crap mar her beauty.”
“Fine,” you shrug, “then I’ll send your present back, too.”
Though he tries to hide it, his eyes light up with intrigue as you start repacking the items. “Sam would hate it anyway.”
Dean slides up beside you. “What would he hate?”
Slowly reaching into the larger box the delivery had come in, you quickly scan the area to ensure the younger Winchester isn’t around, then pull out a small box and hand it to Dean.
Surprise slinks over his features as he reads the description. “Bring your favorite songs to life with this mini cymbal for cars." Eyes now wide, he finishes with a head bob, "Fixes to the air vent."
Choking back a laugh, you reach for the gift. “But, nothing defiles Baby.”
Dean twists, holding the item out of your reach. “Maybe we can give them both a go?”
“Mhmmm. I thought so.”
Master Lists: Word Of The Day // Main
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