PrincessMisery666 Library (18+)

Hello and Welcome😄 All fics, and only fics, all the time😛by @princessmisery666 Master List - Supernatural, Marvel, Top Gun Maverick, DC and more.

[princessmisery666-library]

PrincessMisery666 - Master List

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.)

Tag Lists Open - Fandom tag lists and individual character tag lists available. Please complete this form. You don't need a google account to fill it in.

Fandoms:

Top Gun: Maverick

Jake ‘Hangman’ Seresin

Bradley 'Rooster’ Bradshaw

Mickey ‘Fanboy’ Garcia

Robert ‘Bob’ Floyd

Supernatural

Sam Winchester

Dean Winchester

Marvel 

Bucky Barnes

Steve Rogers

Sam Wilson

Erik Stevens

DC

Rick Flag

Clark Kent

Chris Evans Characters

Steve Rogers

Andy Barber

Chris Evans RPF

Other Fandom’s

The Gray Man

The Witcher

Outer Range

Outer Banks

Sons Of Anarchy

The Walking Dead

Chicago PD/Fire

Any Fandom Goes Bingo - Round 1 - Round 2

Round 1 Prompts - BINGO (all filled & posted)

Any Fandom Fluff Bingo

Any Fandom Angst Bingo - requests open

[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.

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.

Alternatively follow my library blog @princessmisery666-library - I only post my fics.

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

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

[princessmisery666]

The Right Choice

Summary: What flavor of Ice Cream to have is not the only choice that needs to be made.

Warnings/Genres/Troupes: angst, fluff.

W/C: 2,160

Pairing: Jake x reader

Notes: sequel to Dagger Mission

Word of the day (June 27, 2026) - Scoop

Betas: @deanwinchesterswitch

Graphics: title card design @deanwinchesterswitch 

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

Sleep refuses to come.

The blue glow of the alarm cuts through the darkness—2:18 a.m.

Rolling onto your back for what has to be the fifteenth time in ten minutes, the sheets twist around your legs, and the pillow is warm no matter how often you flip it over. The slight breeze from the open window does little to cool the room, and the strange quiet that only exists in the middle of the night presses against the walls.

If you concentrate, you can hear the ocean, but as soon as you start to drift off, your mind wanders to the second first date with Jake and then the intervention. The way Jake had actually looked nervous and answered with an earnest “Copy that” to Phoenix’s threat.

Laughing quietly, you twist to look at your phone on the nightstand and resist the urge to text him. That was just two nights ago. You’re supposed to be taking it slow.

He’s probably asleep anyway.

Another attempt to shut off your brain and drift into darkness fails miserably. “Screw it.” Kicking at the covers to untangle your legs, you reach for your phone.

You: You awake?

The screen begins to dim, and just as you're about to toss it onto the mattress, it lights up, illuminating your face.

Jake: I am. Jake: Can’t sleep?

You: Can’t turn my brain off. You: You?

Jake: I think I forgot how to sleep.

Speech bubbles appear. Disappear. Appear. Gone again. You hum, feeling the same uncertainty about what to say. Then finally...

Jake: Ice cream?

A smile tugs at the corner of your mouth.

You: Are you trying to solve insomnia with dairy?

Jake: It’s worth investigating.

Your laugh echoes around the room, making it feel empty. Neither of you should be awake at this time of the morning. You each have responsibilities tomorrow. Which is why ice cream sounds perfect.

You: See you in 20.

Jake’s alarm will be ringing in a little over four hours, his apartment still smells faintly of the pizza he’d forgotten to throw away after getting home from work, and every sensible part of his brain is telling him a late-night ice cream run isn’t going to fix the fact that he’s spent the last three nights sleeping in restless twenty-minute bursts.

He ignores those sensible thoughts.

Instead, he finds himself parked outside your apartment building, ten minutes early, which means he definitely broke at least three speed limits getting here. Leaning against the door, he crosses his ankles, trying for casual, though the way he stares at the building's door is anything but.

It’s ridiculous. He’s flown combat missions with his pulse steadier than this.

This is the part he wasn’t prepared for—the waiting. Getting you back isn’t about grand gestures like fancy dinners, long, albeit heartfelt speeches, or dramatic airport chases like in the movies. It’s waiting to see if you text first. It's giving you space so you’ll choose him tomorrow after choosing him today. Being offered a second chance is one thing, but living like he deserves it carries much higher stakes.

He misses you, misses the things he took for granted, the cute notes on the refrigerator when you left before him in the morning, the funny texts that flashed on his screen at the worst possible times, the late-night talks about nothing while eating cold pizza slices, the way you curled into him while watching horror movies, the flash of your smile over the edge of your book when he walked into the room.

The door opens, and he straightens, thoughts now solely in the present. His smile widens as he sees what you're wearing. Nothing fancy, sweats, sneakers, and a hoodie. His hoodie, which makes his pulse hitch a little.

Your expression softens into a smile when you spot him. Not the polite one you’ve perfected over the last few months or the brave one you’d worn while moving boxes out of the apartment. This one reaches your eyes.

It hits him then. He’d spent months wondering if he’d ever be the reason for that smile again. Now it’s walking toward him.

He pushes off the truck, forcing every ounce of nervous energy into something that resembles effortless confidence.

“I’ve been looking for that,” he nods toward the hoodie.

You smile, tucking your hands into the kangaroo pocket. “We established a long time ago that it now belongs to me.”

“Fair.” He huffs a laugh, opening the door for you.

“Is anywhere going to be open at this time?” you ask, moving to slide into the truck.

“I know a place,” he shrugs.

“Of course you do.”

The little ice cream shop sits tucked between a laundromat and a surf shop, its neon OPEN sign humming against the otherwise dark row of beachfront stores.

“You weren’t kidding,” you mutter.

“I rarely kid about dessert.”

“Only everything else.”

The bell above the door jingles as Jake holds it open for you. “Obviously.”

It’s clearly been a slow night because the young man behind the counter looks like he’s smoked one too many joints and has a line of chocolate sauce above his top lip.

“Evening,” he says as you approach.

Jake checks his watch. “Morning.”

“Whatever.”

You don’t even check the menu, and Jake is already shaking his head. “Don’t start, Seresin.”

“It tastes like toothpaste.”

“It’s fresh.”

“It’s dental hygiene.”

“I choose what I like,” you shrug. “You choose chaos, like a teenager who’s been left alone with a credit card.”

“Not today,” he winks, pulling a crisp one-hundred-dollar bill from his pocket. “It’s on Rooster.”

You roll your eyes, “Was it a dangerous or immature bet he lost?”

Jake shrugs. “Bit of both.”

“I’ll take a scoop of mint chocolate chip, please.” Tilting your head toward Jake, you sigh, “And I’m sure he’ll take whatever monstrosity you can pile into one tub.”

Jake stares you down while he orders. “I’ll have strawberry...”

You look surprised.

“With brownie pieces...”

“There it is.”

“...Hot fudge sauce...”

“It’ll be a melting mess.”

“...and Caramel....”

“Can’t forget the caramel.”

“And whipped cream.”

Five minutes later, he walks out carrying a heart-attack-inducing tower while you gently lick at your single scoop cone.

Walking side by side, you wander toward the beach without really deciding to. The waves roll lazily onto the sand, silver beneath the moonlight, and gulls begin to wake for dawn.

He’s forgotten how much he loves doing absolutely nothing with you. No plans, no destination, nowhere to be, just walking.

You finish your cone before he’s managed half of his, and sit on the driftwood someone took the time to carve into a bench. Jake watches intently as you drag your finger through the concoction he's holding, grimacing as you lick the digit clean.

“Oh geez, Jake, that’s disgustingly sweet.”

He smirks, “But delicious.”

Shaking your head, you rest your elbows on your knees, watching as the approaching blue hour blurs the horizon where the sky meets the sea.

For a while, neither of you says anything. The silence settles around you like an old favorite blanket, comfortable enough that neither of you feels obligated to fill it.

“Wanna know something embarrassing?” Jake eventually asks, expertly throwing his empty tub into a steel drum acting as a trash can.

“Always.”

“I almost texted four times before you texted me.”

You chuckle. “Why didn’t you?”

“Didn’t wanna seem clingy.”

“You sent me like fifty emojis today. “

“Fifty-nine. I counted.”

That earns him another laugh. God, he’s missed that laugh and being the reason for it. Quicker than he likes, the sound drifts off with the wind. The waves approach and recede, the breeze ruffles your hair, but you remain still.

“I miss talking to you,” Jake says.

You turn your head, resting your chin on your shoulder, and give him a small smile. “Me too.”

“No,” he smiles faintly. “I mean, really talking. The pointless conversations. All the ones I took for granted because I thought we’d have years to do it. I miss the arguments about music, the debates over whether cereal counts as dinner. Which, it absolutely does.”

You laugh, leaning back to put your palms flat and stretch your legs out. You look relaxed, which was his aim. “It absolutely doesn’t.”

He smiles. “Speaking of talking, you never did tell me why you were drinking whiskey on a Tuesday night.”

You avert your gaze to look at the ocean. “It’s a long story.”

“Well, my alarm, that is conveniently at home, isn’t due to go off for,” checking his watch, coaxes the return of your smile, “two and a half hours. So I have time.”

You sigh, shuffling closer to him, and instinctively, he lifts his arm to put around your shoulders. “Can we just enjoy this, be in the moment?”

He kisses the top of your head; it’s so natural it almost hurts. “We can.”

He knows what you're doing, though. The tiny crease between your eyebrows, the anxious way your thumb rubs at the sleeve of his hoodie, lets him know that instead of enjoying the quiet, you're hiding inside it.

He says your name softly, a question.

You take a deep breath. “I got offered another promotion, a division of my own.”

“Congratulations?” He frames it as a question because if it were something you were excited about, you’d have told him sooner.

You huff a humorless laugh. “Thanks.”

He doesn’t ask whether it pays more, has a fancy new title, or what other perks it might offer, because only one question really matters.

“Where?”

“Colorado.”

The word hangs. Far enough away to make spontaneous ice cream at two-thirty in the morning impossible. Far enough that weekend visits would be difficult, and military leave and unpredictable schedules suddenly matter. Far enough that it changes everything.

“I’m assuming the whiskey on a Tuesday and a midnight ice cream run mean you’re conflicted.”

“I promised myself I wouldn’t put my life on hold again.”

The surf almost drowns out your words. Jake closes his eyes for the briefest second against the pain, but still, he understands.

“I’d be lying if I said I want you to take it, but you have to do what’s right for you.”

“What if I don’t know what that is? What if I choose wrong? What if I mess it up?”

“I don’t know.” He keeps his voice carefully neutral because this isn’t his decision, no matter how desperately he wants the answer to be that you stay.

He stands up, paces two steps away, and then turns. You look up at him, tears pooling in your eyes, and he hates how conflicted you look.

“Let’s make it simple. Do you want the job?”

You hesitate for only a moment, and he knows it's because you don’t want to hurt him.

“Yes. It’s everything I’ve been working for.”

“And you’ve worked your ass off,” he agrees. “You not only deserve it; you’ve earned it.”

“That doesn’t make the decision any easier.”

He swallows hard, the ice cream churning in his stomach. He can feel you slipping away. “Wh-” his voice catches in his suddenly dry throat. “When do you have to give your answer?”

“Monday.”

He nods like it's okay, but it’s not. Four days isn’t enough time to say goodbye. He moves to kneel in the sand, taking your hands in his, because it seems like a waste not to touch you when he might not be able to soon.

“I love you,” he says quietly, as if he knows he shouldn’t say it. “Selfishly, I want you to stay.” A sad smile tugs at one corner of his mouth. “But I understand that it’s something you need to do for you.” Bringing your hands to his lips, he kisses your knuckles. “This only works if you choose me because I’m the right choice, not because I’m the closest one. I don’t want you to wake up ten years from now wondering what would’ve happened if you’d taken it, and I sure as hell don’t want to be the guy you blame.”

“I hate it when you’re the emotionally mature one.”

“I know.”

“It’s deeply inconvenient.”

A tiny smile finally breaks through. “For the record, if you move to Colorado, I expect unlimited visitation rights.”

You laugh through tears.

“But also,” he strings out the last syllable, "and no pressure,” he smirks, “but Phoenix did threaten to kill me if I mess this up.”

This time, your laugh is deep, the emotion melting away some of the apprehension. “I’ll be sure to let her know she doesn’t need to move you up on her hit list.”

“Appreciated.”

Sitting curled into each other, you silently watch the mesmerizing tapestry of blues and golds as the first rays of sunlight hit the waves. Neither of you has found the answer, but somehow neither of you feels quite so alone looking for it.

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.

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.

Alternatively follow my library blog @princessmisery666-library - I only post my fics.

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

/ @imjess-themess / @justagirlinafandomworld / @leigh70 / 

@letsbys-library / @shanimallina87 / @wildbornsiren / @writercole / 

@xoxabs88xox / @dempy / @atarmychick007 / @kmc1989 / @novagreen04

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

[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

[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

[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.

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

[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

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

[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

[deanwinchesterswitch]

Childish Behavior

Summary: Sam intervenes as you and Dean devolve into petulant children. Author Notes: A collab with @princessmisery666, and a continuation of She's Perfect Word Count: 590 Characters: Dean Winchester, Reader, Sam Winchester Word of the Day: (June 11, 2026) - Testy Graphics: Made by me. Word of the Day Master Lists: June // May

"What'd I miss?"

You and Dean simultaneously huff…

"Ask her!"

"Ask him!"

Sam looks between the two of you, waiting for an explanation.

Dean looks like a grieving widow, while your smile is tight, and you can feel the pressure of tears welling in your eyes. It's a trait you hate. Exhaustion always makes you weepy over the dumbest things.

“You two look like somebody died."

“Just Dean’s sense of humor,” you mutter.

Dean lets out an offended scoff. “It wasn’t funny.”

“You’re just testy because you're tired and hungry.”

“No! I’m pissed because you were being disrespectful.”

“Oh, c’mon! You compared alloy rims to a hate crime.”

“They should be.”

Sam pinches the bridge of his nose. “Does someone want to explain?”

“She suggested racing stripes!” Dean spits, lightly running a hand over Baby's hood.

"Did not! Gary did." You don't care that you sound like a petulant child.

Pitch louder and more aggravated, he throws his hands in the air, "W-well then the purple mica velvet whatever!"

"Hey, Velvet Purple is sleek and dark. It also looks awesome with that bit of shimmer added." Your level of snark rises to match his overblown outrage. "Would you prefer Envy Lime or Alta Orange?"

Before either of you can say more, Sam intervenes.

“Okay. I’m sorry I asked."

You hadn't realized it, but you and Dean have been shifting closer to each other with each heated exchange.

Moving to be a buffer between the two of you, Sam questions, "Who is Gary?"

"The mechanic!" Dean and you shout, each aggressively pointing toward the shop next door.

"She agreed," a finger jabbed in your direction again, "when he said I could make improvements to Baby!"

Sam raises an eyebrow, looking in your direction. Crossing your arms, your response is an eye roll and a huff.

Dean continues undeterred. "Said I should lower her suspension!" The icy glare is the last straw.

Angrily dropping your arms, you take a step forward, lean around Sam, and shout, "IT WAS A JOKE!" as Dean puffs his chest and sets his stance.

"SLANDER!" His fingers flex, and his jaw clenches tight enough to snap teeth. You have a fleeting thought that it's probably good that Gary isn't within striking distance right now.

"OK. Whoa!" Sam raises his hands to keep you separated while quickly looking around. "Let's, uh, let's go to the rooms before one of you commits a felony.”

Placing a hand on your back and one on Dean's shoulder, Sam practically shoves the two of you away from the entrance and down the covered walkway, apologizing as you pass an elderly couple staring from the doorway of their room.

When he stops at a door further down and pulls out a key, you spit. "I'm not sharing a room with him."

"Yeah, well, right back at ya!"

"Fine." Sam's pinched face and clipped tone leave no space for discussion. "But we're all three going in this room before someone calls the cops on us."

Neither you nor Dean moves, and Sam snaps. "NOW!"

Feeling slightly chastised, you stomp into the room, immediately taking up occupation on the bed closest to the door because you know that it's always the one Dean prefers, and watch through the doorway as they have one of their stupid silent conversations.

With an exaggerated eye roll, Dean finally trudges inside. Neither of you has time to react as Sam tosses the room key onto the table and orders, "Figure it out," slamming the door closed as he leaves.

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[deanwinchesterswitch]

She's Perfect

Summary: When it comes to the Impala, there's no joking. Author Notes: Humor; Offended Dean; A collab with @princessmisery666, she came up with the idea. :) Word Count: 1,178 Characters: Dean Winchester, Reader, Sam Winchester Word of the Day: (June 4, 2026) - Alloy Graphics: Made by me. Word of the Day Master Lists: June // May

It's another dingy motel, next to a worn-down gas station slash auto shop, in another back-end-of-nowhere town. Dean has been driving for hours, and though it's still early evening, you've all grown road weary and agree it's time for a break.

Sam offers to get the rooms, so you and Dean take the opportunity to stretch your limbs while waiting outside. Peering through the large front window, you can tell it will be a while before Sam returns with the keys. The clerk is chatting him up, and his relaxed stance shows he's enjoying the conversation.

The faded blue bench out front has seen better days, but it is a more welcome option than getting back into the car. At least the weather is nice. Dean chose to lean against the trunk, staring at the abandoned barn in an otherwise open field across the street.

Tilting your head back against the wall, you're about to close your eyes when you catch movement to your right. Sitting upright, you watch the portly man, whom you assume to be the shop's mechanic, make his way over to Baby. As he wipes his dirty hands on an already grease-filled cloth, your eyes dart to Dean as you silently recite, "Don't touch the car. Don't touch the car."

With an admiring gaze and a slight lisp, the man offers, “She’s beautiful.”

Dean turns, puffing his chest as he straightens, “Damn right she is.”

The mechanic—'Gary' according to the name tag stitched to his shirt—slowly circles the Impala, nodding and humming approval while, thankfully, keeping his hands to himself.

Gary mentions his appreciation for the classics, and you sigh as Dean gets looped into the fanboying, discussing craftsmanship, performance, and the dedication and devotion it takes to keep them running. It's easy to see the moment Dean decides he likes the guy.

“Original wheels too."

Dean nods, "Yep," grinning widely as if he’d made them himself.

“That’s rare. Most people modernize them.”

“Not this one.” He lovingly pats the Impala's roof.

Sighing, you look over your shoulder. Sam is now leaning on the counter, face turned enough that you see his smile. Not interested in being involved in either conversation, you decide you're going to take an extended walk around the hotel, when Gary pipes up.

“Well, sure, but you could make a few improvements.”

Oh, shit.

You know exactly how this is going to turn out. A quick glance at Dean finds him open-mouthed, wide-eyed, and momentarily speechless. Deciding this will be much more entertaining than a walk, you take a couple of steps closer to the front of the car.

Dean blinks, finally muttering, “Improvements?”

Gary gestures toward the tires, “Yeah, you could swap those for some nice alloys.”

Dean stares, body stiff. The mechanic smiles, looking to you when you mumble, “Oh no.”

Gary's smile fades seeing you shake your head. “What?”

“Did you say alloy?”

“Yeah,” he stretches the syllable out with uncertainty, looking between you and Dean. "What's wrong with that?

“You want me,” Dean slowly utters, “to replace her rims?”

“Well ...”

“Factory rims.”

“Sure. Why not?” Gary laughs, but with nervous hesitation.

Dean looks personally wounded. “On purpose?”

“Dean,” you caution.

“No." He shakes his head and wags a finger at you. "No. I wanna make sure I understand.”

Gary shrugs as he looks to you and daringly pushes on. “You know, better performance, less weight.”

“You think she needs to lose weight?!” Dean shrieks, horrified.

Okay, now it's getting funny, and you have to bite your lip to hide your grin.

“What? It’s just a car. All I'm saying is, you'd get better handling, and if you made some additional modifications …” Gary lifts a hand as if to run it along the hood, and you quickly clear your throat to get his attention and vehemently shake your head. Finally realizing that he may have stepped into a minefield, he weakly finishes, "You could turn her into a show car."

“Just a car!” Dean gestures wildly toward Baby. “She’s perfect!”

You snort, quickly putting a hand over your mouth to hold back the laugh that wants to follow.

“I’m just saying alloys have advantages.” The smile that tugs at his lips hints that Gary knows that he's riling Dean up, and he's getting a kick out of it now.

“Her rims are awesome!" Dean looks like he's ready to throw fists as he huffs, "And …and they have the advantage of character!”

You lose the battle and laugh out loud.

“Actually, Dean,” unable to stop yourself, you tease, “Dude has a point. Chrome alloys might look nice.”

His head whips around so fast, you're afraid he might have given himself whiplash. “SERIOUSLY?”

“I’m just saying.”

“NO!”

“Maybe lower the suspension a little.”

“Stop. Talking.”

Voice deadly calm, he wears the same demeanor as when he's plotting something's demise. You hesitate for a second, thinking that you pushed him a bit too far. After all, you'd stopped early because you had all reached your limit of exhaustion and polite, confined coexistence.

Then Gary, who looks delighted that you agree with him, tosses another log on the fire. “Exactly. Maybe some racing stripes.”

Screw it. This is the most fun you've had in weeks. “Or …” holding out your hands like you're framing Baby for a photo shoot, "a Velvet Purple Pearl Mica paint job.”

Dean clutches his chest and croaks out, "You people are sick."

You're about ready to toss out another one, but see Dean's chest heaving. He looks like he's about to hyperventilate or have a stroke. You've definitely gone too far now, but Gary hasn't caught up yet.

“We’re just…what do you kids call it…" he looks to you questioningly, then snaps his fingers, "brainstorming.”

“You’re committing crimes! People have been killed for less,” Dean spits.

Lightly touching Gary's forearm, you grab his attention and shake your head with a conspiratorial smile. He gives another glance to Dean and then turns back to you with a knowing wink. "Well, I'll let you folks get back to your evening.

You walk over to Dean as Gary walks back into his garage. "Hey."

He jerks away when you reach for him. "Leave me alone."

"Dean, come on," you plead. "We were just joking."

"Yeah, well, it wasn't funny."

Turning his back on you, he runs a hand over the Impala's roof, murmuring reassurances that she's perfect, and no one is going to change anything about her.

Putting on your best pout, you whine his name, "Deeeeeeean," but he ignores you.

Sam steps out of the lobby a moment later, two keys dangling from his fingers, "Hey, is it okay if you two share a room tonight?" His grin is hopeful, but quickly fades as he assesses the situation. Dean is bent over the hood, arms spread wide, cheek resting on the now-cooled metal. You stand a couple of feet away, hands on your hips, and a sad frown on your lips.

"What'd I miss?"

You and Dean simultaneously huff…

"Ask her!"

"Ask him!"

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Reminder that I will be using the new tag list beginning July 1, 2026.

[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.

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

[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.

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

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

[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

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

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[deanwinchesterswitch]

Tiny Terror

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.

@impala-dreamer // @justagirlinafandomworld // @wayward-and-worn

[princessmisery666-library]

Collaboration with @deanwinchesterswitch

[deanwinchesterswitch]

Burden of Beliefs

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.

"What if we promise to save each other?"

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[princessmisery666-library]

Collaboration with me and @deanwinchesterswitch

[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

[princessmisery666]

I See You

Summary: Jake returns a box of your belongings.

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

W/C: 1,122

Pairing: reader x Jake.

Notes: Follow on from Beyond Repair

Word of the day (May 27, 2026) - Stuff

Betas: @deanwinchesterswitch

Graphics: title card design @deanwinchesterswitch 

Master Lists: Word Of The Day // Main

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.

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.

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

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Master Lists: Word Of The Day // Main